Narcissa Malfoy was many things: the widow of a violent and abusive Death Eater; the mother to a stubborn yet stunning man; a natural blonde, her hair silky soft to touch; an aristocratic beauty with an icicle grace; a snob whose nose was constantly upturned…but one thing Narcissa Malfoy was not, was a fool. She knew her son was besotted with someone, and who could blame him? The War was over, his tyrannical father dead, and Lucius’ oppressive rule had been lifted from the Manor. The Dark Lord was dead and the world was returning to its natural state once again.

He would not share the name of his latest paramour, and, in normal circumstances, that would have been fine with Narcissa, but recently he was different. She’d never heard her son sing during his entire life, and yet the other day she passed the kitchens and heard him rustling about, singing ‘Oh Come Ye Merry Hippogriffs’ at the top of his lungs. Surely this woman - or man, she supposed, though her son’s reputation was enough for her to know it was not a man that was causing him to warble Christmas songs - was someone truly special to him.

She hoped it was a pure-blooded girl. Heavens, she didn’t want to have to make nice with a Mudblood. She had been a neutral party in the War, but it didn’t stop her disliking those whose ancestry was not purest. And in her heart she hoped it was some pretty, girlie, young lady who had blonde hair and blue eyes so that the Malfoy line would continue with their famous looks. Lucius might have fallen at Ronald Weasley’s hand, but Narcissa still had some pride in her family’s history. After all, the Black name was all but destroyed now; Andromeda, Nymphadora, Sirius and crazy old Bellatrix, were all people seemed to recall of the once opulent bloodline. She thanked Salazar that she’d stuck to her married name. Besides, Narcissa Malfoy had a certain ring to it.

So, Narcissa Malfoy, being no fool, called in a private detective. If this woman was having that effect on her son, she was bound to be the witch who was to bear her grandchild…and Narcissa wasn’t going to let her grandchild harbour the blood of someone less than worthy not to mention she would enforce the fact that Draco was not to conceive a child with this woman out of wedlock. Imagine the shame!

And this is why the tall, slender woman sat in her parlour entertaining a man three decades her senior. He was skinny and very unshaven; his clothes left much to be desired as well, but in his eyes shone a youthful light: Edwin Bradley - Detective. He had been tailing Draco for two weeks now and had finally built up a folder on her son and his lady friend.

“This,” he said after gulping down the dregs of his tea, “I think, is what you have been waiting so patiently for, Miss Malfoy.” Irony and sarcasm dripped from the word ‘patiently’, as Narcissa Malfoy was anything but a victim of that particular virtue - she’d hounded him with owls everyday for the past fourteen days.

“Mrs,” she put in sternly as her long fingers encased the folder he was offering to her, not even bothering to grace him with eye contact.

Opening the front of the leather folder she was holding, Narcissa let out a very undignified gasp, closed it again, thrust it on the chaise lounge next to her and put her hand up to her mouth, which was now a nicely shaped ‘O’.

“Please leave now, Mr Bradley. The money owed to you will be sent to your account this afternoon…” And quite forgetting to call a House Elf to take away Edwin, she shooed him towards the door with her left hand while running her right through her neat hair, her large, bright blue eyes wide. The man stood and walked gingerly out of the room, where he was met by a house elf that seemed to have sensed it was time for the man to leave the Malfoy Manor - and not a minute too soon as far as he was concerned. Trailing the beautiful woman’s son had been hard.

It was as though Draco Malfoy was expecting someone to be on his tail all the time. The boy was so discreet at times that Edwin had thought that maybe it was something more sinister than a hidden romance; but no, it had happened on the fourth day of his pursuit. He’d been lurking outside of the Malfoy Industries offices and watched as a short, incredibly slim and petite redhead had walked up to Malfoy, who had been leaning in a would-be casual stance against the wall, a cigarette firmly between his lips and kissed him on the cheek before weaving her small hand up his top and doing Merlin knows what that caused Draco Malfoy to blush and grip at her shirt.

After that it had been simple; it was obvious she was Ginevra Weasley, Harry Potter’s Ex, Ronald Weasley’s sister and Dragon Tamer extraordinaire. Doing research on her had been a piece of pumpkin pie as far as he was concerned - who didn’t know her? She’d been there - at Potter’s side, as he’d defeated the Dark Lord. However, no sooner than a year later the two broke up, separating by mutual agreement, but both still remained friends. And now, seven months after her split, she was gallivanting around with Draco Malfoy, a twenty-one year old who was on the complete other end of the spectrum from The-Boy-Who-Lived.

Meanwhile, back in Narcissa’s parlour, the blonde woman was thumbing through the sheets of paper in the folder Edwin Bradley had given her: photographs, facts, accounts and daily routines. Ugh. This was awful. How could Draco date a…a blood traitor like that? She was short, standing at four foot and eleven inches, according to the profile of her, very slim, border lining anorexic-looking, her curves practically non-existent, her hair was a shock of dark red that appeared to fall to her mid-back, although in every picture it was tied back into two little buns on the crown of her head. Skin was a pale as his, eyes large and doe-like - innocent. She was beautiful. Narcissa had to admit it, but dear Merlin - A Weasley, Draco?

She and her beauty was a drug and he a junkie; never would she have expected him to be addicted to red silk and freckles, milky skin and loud, dirty laughs. Everyone knew drugs were so passé.

Running a hand along her neat white-blonde hair, Narcissa stood and made her way to the decanter of brandy, pouring a small glass of the amber-brown liquid. She swigged a good amount before settling herself back down, kicking her shoes off and tucking her feet beneath her - something the aristocratic woman would never have done if public eyes could have seen her.

Lifting up the folder once more, she began to read over their file; of course, she mused to herself, pawing over a picture of the two eating ice-cream together, it should have been expected of him to be with someone less than satisfactory. He was punishing her for his depression and the pain of his childhood. Ginevra was his rebellion, his home away from home, his something so different and contrasting from the life he knew.

Did she think he’d not have listened to his problems? Did he really have to seek out this redhead? She was so lively, made him act so improper, thought the blonde as she gazed at a picture of the two running through a park, laughing jovially, his hair mussed and his cheeks coloured - no decorum when she was about, apparently. Of course, many would think her callous or sadistic for not wishing happiness on her only child, but that really was not the case. Narcissa Malfoy just wanted the best for her son, and Ginevra Weasley was most certainly not the best for the Malfoy heir.

If they decided to grace her with the knowledge of their relationship, she would instantly see that it was severed - Dear Sweet Rowena, she couldn’t have grandchildren with pink hair.

She had taught him etiquette, manners - everything. Everything that well-bred children should know, anyway. When he reached puberty he had, had one of Lucius’ mistresses teach him the pleasures of the flesh, making him an apt and able lover. He had been schooled in knowing the type of woman that was to be his wife. She was to be blonde. Or have waves of thick ebony hair. To be pale, but not dusted in freckles. She was to have height and wide, childbearing hips. A laugh that was dainty and delicate. A simple, easily pleased disposition. She was to be a girl who agreed with everything - not some fiery redhead with the manners of a --a Quidditch Player. Not someone so short Draco had to crane his neck to kiss her.

Not oodles of energy and certainly not the occupation of a Dragon Tamer -- dear Merlin, had Draco temporarily lost control of his senses? Had his thick head never taken in a word she had uttered?

She blamed herself. And Lucius. They had not been strict enough - had pandered to him too much, had let him cry in public when he was a baby, had allowed him to show his pain…well, to a certain extent, until that evening Lucius had returned home to find Draco weeping over his dead Kneazle. He'd beat him so hard that she had never heard Draco sob until three weeks ago, when she was walking along the East Wing and caught a glimpse of her blond son, his eyes red and puffy, his cheeks streaked. He’d run to her, held her tightly. It wasn’t natural, wasn’t normal and it was all this Ginevra’s fault. Though really, she supposed the blame belonged with Molly, Ginevra’s mother. When she’d been a young girl, she too had been very sentimental, a very wear-your-heart-on-your-sleeve type of breed.

But in reality was it her and Lucius who stunted him - had they driven him to her? They had just been doing their best, trying to be loving, trying to steer him down the path of power and ambition - he hadn’t been in Slytherin for no reason. And now, now here he was a slave to a drug, a drug that Narcissa knew wouldn’t be easy for him to quit.

Two months later, and Narcissa Malfoy sat opposite her son and Ginny Weasley in a traditional little restaurant, Ginny clothed in a dark blue dress made from raw silk, which finished about four inches above her knees, her pale legs covered in translucent black tights and black mid-calf boots, which were clumpy with no heel. Her eyes were lined in smudgy kohl and her lips painted a shocking rouge. Draco, too, looked more casual, and yet just as elegant, in his appearance. Though it was frighteningly obvious to Lady Malfoy that Ginevra had sorted out that evening’s outfit.

The redhead and the Malfoy heir looked happy, both basking in that in love glow. It made her sick. Narcissa, that was. There were so many divine women practically begging for her son’s attentions, but it was as though he were blinkered by Ginevra Weasley. His eyes never even once skated over the bosom of another woman, not even a glance of his mercury eyes had been spared towards the rump of a passing waitress.

She could have accepted it if this Weasley was just a passing phase; every young person was tempted by the promise of a drug-induced high at some point, but Draco appeared to want to remain encased in his buzz. Refused any rehabilitation his mother offered to him. The two were officially “going public” tomorrow, now that they were sure they could withstand the disapproval. Now that they were in love, and had enough faith in their relationship that family prejudice could not split them.

And although Draco had known that Narcissa had known about Ginny, nothing had been said between them until the previous day, where he had invited his Mother to meet the “Love of his Life” - to meet the woman who made him so happy he felt his heart would burst. Internally Narcissa snorted -- it wasn't dignified to do that sort of thing aloud. It wasn’t love that made his heart feel as though it were to swell and burst, it was the rate at which the drug made his blood race. His heart could not handle the potency of Ginevra Weasley. This woman who was so lively and bubbly and intelligent; opinionated, worldly and confident.

Draco had never been educated about women like her, and that was why he felt in love with petite redhead. Because she was so alien, so different from what he knew. It wasn’t love; it was illusion.

“Mother, I know you don’t approve of Gin - no, I know you don’t - but I do. In fact, I much more than approve; I love her. I’m in love with her. So deeply it scares me.”

Narcissa sneered slightly at her son, who knelt on the ground, his face level with hers as she sat in her emerald armchair, her coffee still clutched in her hand.

“When I met her, in that bar, I saw she was a Weasley and immediately ignored her, remained indifferent. But then, I heard her laugh -” His eyes closed briefly, savouring the sound he was recalling in his mind. “It was raucous and unbothered with if it disturbed anyone within a mile radius! I spoke to her, got to know her...she became my best friend. She was so beautiful, inside and out, she was a prize catch to have dangling off of my arm, but soon it stopped being like that.”

“Yes, I sensed she soon became more than a passing fancy.”

Draco blushed slightly. “And I am sorry you disapprove, Mother, but I promise you I didn’t set out to spite you. I never thought I’d get so addicted, never thought she'd have me hooked, but she was just so controversial… so unlike any of the plastic fodder you had lined up to marry me.”

Narcissa sighed. What really could she say?

He left his mother sat in her chair, her hand still grasping a now cold cup of coffee. His final words still resounded in her mind: “I’m going to propose, I’m going to do it tonight!”

Controversial - that had been how he’d described her. Well, she was certainly that. She spoke her mind, didn’t know when to shut up, had the strongest opinions on practically every subject, showed absolutely no common sense, and was unafraid or unabashed when she didn’t know something. How was she ever going to mould into Draco’s world as his wife. The very thought was laughable.

Could he not have gotten into some other type of trend? A more modern, more stylish one? Did he really have to go for drugs? Go for something so haunting? Something so difficult to give up? Tears prickled in Narcissa’s eyes; she was losing her little boy. . .to a woman she knew wasn’t right for him. And yet, if given the choice she would never have married Lucius and he, well he wouldn’t have looked twice at her. Sure, Narcissa Malfoy was stunning, but she had no fire. Lucius had always wanted Bellatrix. Hell, he had admired Andromeda more than Narcissa, and she was - as her husband often said - a blood traitor.

“Oh, Draco, I’d have preferred you to come tell me you were fucking Blaise, than falling in love with that Weasley!” Narcissa squawked to the empty room, her voice uncharacteristically high and her vocabulary unpleasantly course.

She watched from the front of the ceremony, her large clear blue eyes following Ginevra’s deliberately slow walk up the snow-decked track. It was a winter wedding, on the Malfoy grounds. The bride was clothed in an off-white colour; the tight, corset-laced bodice was made of raw silk, the skirt of the dress a thin layer of glossy silk. It was loose, but not too much, as it showed of the muscular shape of her slender legs, alternately, each time she took a step towards Draco. Her long crimson hair was flying free. It looked silken. Within the scalp area small daisies had been woven into it, and from the crown of her head hung a long princess-type veil.

She was reminiscent of a pagan goddess, and Narcissa, though reluctantly, admitted to herself that she was breath taking. It was a bittersweet scene to watch as her son agreed to take the redhead to be his bride, to watch them kiss and gaze longingly into each other’s eyes, seeing so much more than the colour of one another’s irises. She never thought this was who her heir would marry, never thought her children could have freckles and gingery-tinted hair. Never thought they could end up being short and fiery, undignified and opinionated.

And here she stood, a photograph being taken, amongst Weasley’s and Potter and Granger too. In her wildest dreams she’d never dared to think her son would be so very infected by a woman like her. All those he’d dated in school had been. . .Pansy-like. Narcissa-esque. Malfoy-pleasing. She was an addicting aphrodisiac that seemed never to lose its power over him.

Never did she think her child would be junkie, a slave, to the drug that was Ginevra Weasley. It wasn’t Narcissa didn’t like the girl; as a person she was obviously a beautiful individual. . .but for her Draco? She couldn’t be right.

Tiredly, Narcissa sat in the emptying marquee. The reception had been a marvellous hit; no one had gotten too drunk and no one had managed to too badly embarrass themselves in front of the reporters and photographers that had been clamouring for pictures of the Malfoy heir’s wedding. Her hair was falling out of its stylish knot slightly at this point, blonde wisps illuminated by the muted glow of candlelight.

The newlyweds had left an hour or so ago, disappeared off to Japan for three weeks. On their return they would move into a penthouse in Muggle London, near to Draco’s place of work, and Ginny would simply Apparate or Floo out to wherever her career dictated.

Two women took a seat in front of Narcissa, mother and daughter, Margaret and Adeline Proctor, friends of the family. Adeline now worked with Draco, and so they had been deemed close enough to the family to be invited to the wedding. Both were stylish and elegant, both beautiful in a very typical type of way. The family were renowned for their clothing line. They had been running since 1689; in fact, Narcissa was wearing an article of their clothing at that very moment: a dusky blue bodice, embodied with silver lining.

“Mother, that is so passé!” laughed the dark haired, younger witch.

“My Darling, passé, is so in right now.”

Narcissa’s ears heard no more of the conversation; this day so many people had told Draco how lucky he was, how beautiful they both were, what a lovely couple they made, what stunning children they would have. She had never seen her son so deliriously happy, never seen a woman look so in love.

Could it really be right? Passé was in? Had everything Narcissa had been fretting over these past months been for nothing? She had been so blind.

Could it possibly be that heroin was back in fashion?

The drug was chic once more?

Draco’s addiction was elite now?

Ginny was passé. But passé was in. . .

Everything Narcissa had had ingrained within her since birth was loosening. When the couple returned she would make a difference. Rehabilitation was not what her child needed; he needed to keep the high, keep aphrodisiac, keep her. For Draco. For Ginny. For herself.

Ginny was a drug. Her son was junkie. And heroin was so very passé.

Song by the Dandy Warhols.

I loved the lyrics and this was what sprung into my mind.

Beta'd by Lyndsie.

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