The Wasted Drunk and the Sorry Whore:

A Love Story

Drunk

There was a cufflink on the bottom stair. Narcissa blinked at it, then bent and lifted it. The matching onyx bauble glinted at her from a few feet away, on the foyer floor. She collected that one, as well, eyes narrowing suspiciously. "Draco?" She called.

Her son did not answer. She moved down the hall, peered into the drawing room. He wasn't there. But his tie lay crumpled on the Persian rug ahead. She draped it over an arm, and looked into the dining room. He was there, slouching in his father's chair, shirt unbuttoned and skewed, one dark-trousered leg bent over the chair's arm.

An empty firewhiskey bottle was overturned before him, and a new one was opened. Narcissa's lips pursed impatiently and she approached. "Suppose I should have known I would find you here." She picked up the emptied bottle.

"Helloooo, mother." Draco grinned up at her, one eye a bit wider than the other.

"You're sotted," she groused.

"You're beautiful," he replied.

She sighed. "Son…" But she trailed off. Helplessly, she dropped into the chair across from him and cradled her head in her hands. The cuff links clattered to the floor and she took a deep breath. "Draco. It's been two months since your father's sentencing. And six months since the…since the battle at Hogwarts." She looked up at him. "It's time to move on. To come to terms and climb out of this bottle."

Draco chuffed at her. "I'm not in that bottle, mum." He pointed to it. "You ridiculous woman. I'm right here in this chair!"

"Yes!" She snapped back. "And a drunken waste! As you have been for weeks now! And I'm tired of seeing you this way."

"Seeing me?" Unsteadily, he leaned toward her. "You see me? There's a bloody shock."

"What?" She tensed.

"You've barely spoken to me these last months," he slurred. "Unless it's to shout at me about my…messy hair or my fucking useless, stupid bollocking wrinkled shirt…" He took a belt of firewhiskey. "Shite. Surely stupid utter priceless shite… Hell, you're hardly even home anymore!"

Her lip trembled.

Draco pointed at her. "Don't do it," he warned. "Don't you fucking bloody cry. I will – I will – I will…I will not hit you, witch." He hiccuped violently. "But I'll shake the hell out of you. Don't you doubt it."

"Oh, Draco."

"Oh, Narcissa." He propped his head on his elbow. "Why am I miserable?" He asked. "Hm? Can you tell me?"

"No!" She wrung her hands. "I don't know!"

"Well, I'll tell you." He blew a raspberry and collected his thoughts. Finally, he spoke very slowly and deliberately, clear despite alcohol's blur. "I don't give…a fairy's fuck…for my father." He shrugged at her wince. "And I don't care…one wilting whit…what the Daily Fucking Faggoty Prophet…says about the Malfoys. Us." He gestured needlessly between the two of them. "I have got…goddamn guilt, yes." He nodded. "But I have got…that goddamn guilt…under my thumb." He pressed his thumb to the table. It squeaked as he wrenched it around. "This thumb, in fact."

He looked at his mother, bleary eyes suddenly somewhat clear. "Now. Tell me why…you are miserable."

"Me?" Her blue eyes widened.

"Don't look so bleeding innocent," Draco drawled. "Yes, you. You are miserable, too." He took another swig of the golden libation and gave not one grimace at the burn. "All day…tottering about all clickety-clack in your…fucking shoes. Telling me to put my pants on. Making your damn…dicking…doilies or what-the-fuck are they, mum?" He looked at her plaintively and made a gesture of crocheting. "The little wee…wotsits that you…" He shook his head. "Never mind. Doesn't matter."

"My son is an alcoholic," Narcissa said.

"My mother is a frigid cunt," he replied.

"Draco!" Her eyes glistened. "You don't mean that!"

"Did you mean when you said I was an alcoholicolic?"

"Well, I –"

"Bitch!" He slapped the table. "You're a hypocrite."

She fiddled with his tie in her lap. "We should get you help."

"We should fuck."

"Dammit, Draco!" She flushed brightly and stood. "This is what I mean. You do this – drink like this – and then you say horrible things!" She pushed her chair in. "I don't have to listen to it. I'm leaving. I hope you don't drown in your own vomit."

"Wait!" He stood to follow her, but tripped himself and crashed to the floor.

"Draco!" She was at his side in a second, holding his head. He'd burst his lip on the floor. "Oh, my son. I'm so sorry!" She stroked his hair, and without thinking, kissed his split lip.

He grinned up at her. "You've pretty lips, mother."

She sighed. "I want you to stop drinking."

"I want you."

"Draco," she spoke firmly. "Show me you care about yourself. Show me you can stop this behavior and we will work together to get well again. Both of us! Just show me –"

"Mum."

"What?"

"Show me your tits." He laughed.

She dropped his head. "We will talk about this later. After you've…slept it off." She stood, dusting her skirt onto him.

"Mother." He pushed up onto his hands. "I promise you…"

"You promise me what?"

He closed his eyes solemnly for a moment. "I promise you…I am going to fucking puke." And he did – all over his hands and the floor.

Narcissa stepped back nimbly from the spreading pool of sick. She watched and waited while he retched four more times. "Good," she said. "That should make you feel a bit better." He groaned. "I'm glad I took up the rug." She pulled her wand from her sleeve and vanished his vomit. "Can you stand?"

Draco rolled to his back and looked up at her with unfocused eyes. "No. Can you lie down?"

She huffed, knelt and took his arm. "Come on. I'm taking you to bed."

"Fucking brilliant." Draco leaned heavily on his mother's smaller frame. Twice he sat on the stairs, head lolling while she caught her breath. When she couldn't pull him to his feet again, she levitated him the rest of the way.

When they reached his room, she complained. "I should let the elf do this. Put my drunken son to bed."

"The elf wants to bugger me."

"I hope it does so."

He snorted.

"You reek," she told him, undressing him on the edge of his bed. "Lie down."

Naked, he complied. She covered him with his plush duvet and produced a potion phial. "Drink this," she thrust it at him.

"What's it?" He struggled with the stopper.

"For hangover," she replied.

"Mm." He knocked the phial back like a champ and tossed it behind his headboard. "Thanks."

She shook her head at his antics. "Expect a very serious conversation when you wake, dragon."

He nodded, already closing his eyes. "Mother."

"Yes?" She smoothed his forehead with a worried hand.

"I love you."

"I love you, too, son."

"Not like a son," he murmured. "Part of my problem, I suppose…"

She swallowed thickly. "That's very complicated, Draco."

"Love always is," he replied. "And a pain in the fucking arse." His breaths grew deep and regular.

"Too true," Narcissa whispered. She blinked away her tears and perched beside him. If liquor was his crutch, he was hers. She shivered, remembering all his flirting words. "Easy to become addicted," she murmured, running a finger down his face. She traced the line of his graceful neck and the sharp jut of his clavicle. "Best to never even taste…" She promptly left the manor.