I LOVE THE YAOI!
WHO ELSE LOVES THE YAOI?
Narcissa always kept bowls of rose petals scattered all over the Manor. The petals came from magical roses, which grew in all seven shades of the rainbow. Narcissa wanted more. Whenever she could not be found in one of her opulent parlours, she was guaranteed to be in the conservatory. She could pass hour upon hour brewing concoctions to strengthen colour, dilute colour, change petal shape or sharpen thorns. Her unique strains ranged from tiny blooms with petals no bigger than the pink crescent of her nail, to mammoths larger than hyacinths, larger than her head. The stalks of these were so weak that they never survived more than one day. “What a day, though!” was her excuse. All life, all work, culminating in one day of perfection that she struggled to achieve over and over again. Draco took it as a lesson, as he’d learned to do since the first time he’d scraped his knee and was told to endure the pain and conquer it. When he went to his father for comfort, Lucius had looked at his sobbing child over the top of a large book, and inquired genially if that was the best he could do?
The temper tantrum Draco threw then earned him a coveted toy broomstick.
Draco had once asked his mother when he could expect his own day of perfection. He’d been ten years old. She had looked down at her hands: alabaster smudged with earth, like a buried Greek sculpture.
“When you stop wanting it,” she said, “when you forget that you need it.”