Chapter Text
“Oh Harry, darling, what happened?” Narcissa asks, striding over to where Harry is sprawled out at the bottom of the marble staircase by the front hall, his face smushed into the thick plush of the carpet.
“‘Stumbled,” Harry slurs as he attempts to stand, his hand vaguely on the carpet to press him upwards, though he ends up pitching more sideways than up.
“No, no,” Narcissa coos as she rushes over, the heels on her house slippers softly echoing when they hit the hardwood until she reaches the carpet herself. “These stairs are so steep, and in your condition…” She tuts.
“‘M too drunk,” Harry says into the carpet as Narcissa pulls him up. He’s heavy, especially in this state, but she’s strong as a mother, and she manages, even as he wobbles in her grip.
“Nonsense,” Narcissa insists. She’s the lady of the house, and she decides what’s real and what isn’t. She decides the truth of Malfoy Manor, not anything as pesky as blood alcohol levels or reality. “You’re not well. Let me help you to the sofa.”
Between the two of them, they manage to get Harry to the sofa in the drawing room. He plops down, head rolling against the backrest before he manages to sit up properly, though he still sways a bit.
Narcissa stands over him. She reaches out to grasp his chin with soft fingers, and her long nails press at his skin as she inspects him, looking into glazed green eyes. “Did my son get a little lax with his dosing?”
Harry shrugs as his eyes flicker closed behind his glasses.
Narcissa sighs, a dramatic, overwrought thing, causing the bust of her robes to rise and fall. “No matter. I’ll speak to him later.” She caresses his head and inspects. “Any bumps or bruises?”
“No,” Harry murmurs, eyes fully closed at the pleasure of his head being rubbed and scratched.
She tuts again and draws her wand. Suddenly, there’s a glass in her hands, which she holds up to Harry’s lips.
He opens his mouth about to drink, but then he wrinkles his nose.
“It’s water,” Narcissa says, patiently explaining the obvious to a child. “We’ll get you your potions later.”
“Don’ wan’ water.”
“But water is what you will have,” Narcissa informs him. “We take good care of you here. Now drink.”
After that momentary protest, Harry, her good, little, black-haired boy, obeys. He drinks the whole glass, throating bobbing with the effort, little rivulets of water running down from the corners of his mouth.
“Good boy,” Narcissa says, as has been her custom with Harry since Draco brought him to the Manor, rescued from those awful Muggles. Harry saved her son’s life. He deserves to spend the rest of his life indulging if that’s his wish, and it very much seems to be his wish. She can make sure he gets his wish safely, in the comfort of the manor, not risking his life with whatever a Muggle might serve him in his vulnerable state.
“Now, how do you feel?” she asks as she uses her thumb to clean up his chin.
“‘M tired.” His eyes are closing again, and he very nearly tips over on the sofa. Narcissa reaches out a hand to steady him.
“Of course you are tired. You’re not well,” Narcissa informs him. She sits down on the sofa, smoothing out her robes. “Now place your head in my lap, dear.”
Harry, good boy that he is, obeys her immediately, if a little gracelessly. That’s alright. She has plenty of grace for both of them. Harry only needs to rest and be taken care of. Her good boy.
Narcissa runs her long-nailed fingers through his thick dark hair. She’s groomed him and bathed him dozens of times at this point, and Draco’s tried dozens of products on him and that hair always defies them both. The hair might defy them, but the boy does not. He might be a brat every once in a while when denied a drink or a treat, but he always obeys eventually. He requires a firm but gentle hand.
“I’m a mother,” she intones as her hands move down his neck. “I know what’s best.”
Harry nods into her thigh. He’s long accepted the truth of her statement.
She lets her hand move towards his plump, pink cheeks. He’s grown softer in his time in Malfoy Manor, as he should. He’s a boy who needs his drinks and his potions and his sweets in great amounts. He’s a boy who needs to be protected from the stress of decision making. He ought never to feel a moment of stress or effort again. He only needs to consume sweet, delicious, intoxicating things at Narcissa and Draco’s discretion.
“Wan’ a drink,” Harry mumbles into her lap.
Narcissa smiles and gives one of those lovely cheeks a little pat.
“Darling, you can’t be trusted to decide for yourself,” she says. “Remember what used to happen?” She cannot imagine Harry can remember very well, not in his state. So many of his memories of the past were awful. The more he has trouble remembering, the better he feels in the present. “You need me. You need us.” She’ll allow the ‘us.’ He also needs Draco and what Draco can offer which she cannot. A boy benefits from a friend his own age. A boy benefits from the type of care Draco enjoys providing, and she knows just how much Draco enjoys providing to Harry. She only very rarely watches them together. Of course, she believes in the importance of privacy. She does not overstep.
And she prefers this kind of touch anyway. A gentle mother’s touch. Of a boy who will always be a child.
“Need you,” Harry murmurs.
“Yes, darling boy,” Narcissa responds softly, petting him. “You do.”
Maybe if he’s a very good boy, she’ll allow him another beer. At least a few sips. She cannot get too cross with her son for misjudging Harry’s dosing or allowing him free range of the Manor. Harry’s just too darling and too charming, and he clearly needs the drinks so badly. Who is she to deny the boy who saved her son anything?
She strokes down his side.
He’s their little pet with his dangerous habit, which only they are able to manage. Only she and Draco have the skills, resources, and care to manage him properly. He might hurt himself if they let him go. Drink himself to death. Get involved with some dangerous Muggles. She won’t ever let him go.
She feels Harry’s breathing slow as he relaxes further. Maybe tonight after dinner she’ll hand feed him treacle tart before she gives him back over to her son for his own play with him.
“Such a good boy for me,” she murmurs as she returns to running her fingers through his hair. “Such a good boy.”
Harry lets out a little hum at that. He’s not yet fully asleep.
“And what does my good boy want?”
“”M beer.”
“Will it make you feel better after that terrible fall?”
He nods vigorously into her knee.
“Oh, darling,” she says. “Only a little though. I’m afraid Draco already gave you too much today.”
With his head between her legs, Harry shakes his head equally vigorously, which tickles.
“And this is why we cannot allow you to decide,” she says fondly. “You don’t know when to stop. You don’t know anything at all.” She snaps her fingers for the house-elf, who appears with a cold glass of light beer on a tray. Even after all this time in Malfoy Manor, Harry’s tastes run plain. Plus, it’s practically water anyway.
She thanks the elf with a nod and takes the beer off the tray. She taps Harry on the side. “Darling, sit up for me.”
Knowing what’s to come, he pushes himself up clumsily and quickly.
“So excited,” she observes. Narcissa holds the glass to his lips. Harry knows better than to expect he’ll take the glass in his own clumsy hands. “Just a little,” she instructs, as she tips the glass slightly. “There, that’s enough.”
“More,” Harry slurs.
“No, not yet. And don’t ask again. Naughty boys don’t get treacle tart after dinner.” He perks up again at that. So sweet, her boy, she thinks as she ruffles his awful hair. She knows him so well.
She sets the glass on the table next to the sofa and rubs his back. “Now, why don’t you take a nap before dinner, and no more roaming the Manor.”
She places a kiss to his cheek and settles him back to the sofa before pulling a blanket over him and taking his glasses and placing them on the table. She kisses him again on his forehead and prepares to leave. She does have some correspondence to write today, which she had planned to complete in her study. Harry’s hair falls into his face as he lays on his side on the sofa.
Or she can complete her writing here.
Soon, with the aid of the elf, she is sitting on the sofa with Harry’s head in her lap and her parchment floating before her.
She hears her son before she sees him.
“We’re in here, Draco,” she calls out. Harry stirs on her lap, but she runs her fingers through his hair again, which puts him back to sleep, and he continues dozing contentedly.
“I’ve been looking everywhere –”
“I found him having fallen down the stairs. You need to be more responsible with him.”
“Is he alright?” Draco asks, stepping closer to get a better look at Harry. “He said he’d stay in my room!”
“Oh, you know he cannot be trusted like that.” Narcissa sets aside her quill and returns to stroking Harry’s softly sleeping form. “When we discussed keeping him here, I explicitly asked you –”
“If I was responsible enough to take care of him,” Draco finishes. “Yes, I know. I brew his potions –”
“--Except when I brew them.”
“Mummy, do not pretend that you don’t enjoy his presence just as much as I do.”
So cheeky, her son.
Narcissa scratches behind Harry’s ear, and he offers back a little hum.
She cannot deny it.
“He’s a lot of responsibility,” she says fondly. “Especially in his delicate condition.”
“Yes, I know,” Draco insists, dragging out the last word. At least he may never grow up fully too. He’ll always be a child with her.
He might be cheeky, but she knows the way he looks at Harry, and she knows just how much her son cares for him. She’s still in the process of finding a potential wife who might tolerate such an arrangement, while being very discreet in her inquiries after the debacle of a year previous when Draco’s availability ended up in the papers and poor Harry took the news so hard he ran off with some Muggles. Horrible.
She’s confident, however, that she will find a woman from a good bloodline who would be interested. Many witches would prefer a husband who is otherwise distracted, and Narcissa considers herself excellent company, and the Manor unparalleled amongst houses in Britain. Any stain of any previous guests of ill repute has been thoroughly scrubbed, and her redecoration has rendered any unfortunate past history thoroughly irrelevant.
“Well, then why don’t I complete my work in my study, and I’ll let the two of you have your fun before dinner.”
She stands up very carefully, placing Harry’s head softly on the cushion. He stirs again, half-waking. Draco can decide how to respond to him. He really is very good with Harry, even if he forgets sometimes just how much care and attention a boy in Harry’s condition requires. And how unlikely he is to stay in a room when he’s been told to.
Her son has the high pink blush of desire, and Harry smiles up at him sleepily, his eyes slowly opening as he wiggles on the sofa, arching his back in anticipation of what Draco may offer him. They will have a good time before dinner, and she really must finish answering these letters. A mother’s work is never done.