The Chimera

I often ruminate (in my quieter moments) that I have, in fact, three sons.

Now. If you know me – but no. You wouldn't know me. Not at all. You may know me as dot dot dot. There is a difference, you see. You may know me as Narcissa Black Malfoy. Or 'the Malfoy Widow.' Or Bellatrix Lestrange's sister. Some younger ones know me as Draco's mum. And there is always my personal favorite: The Witch Who Lied.

That is what Rita Skeeter entitled that odious collection of stable sweepings she called a biography, is it not? Embarrassing, really… I mean, more embarrassing for her than for myself, at least after the settlement. Yet still… An embarrassing fiasco all around.

And proof positive of my point.

You don't truly know me.

And you won't.

But, I suppose time takes its toll on a witch. And peace (amongst other things) loosens the tongue. So two years after being frozen like a lost age, pinched in the walls of this manor as if between the walls of a fjord, I find myself…thawing.

Oh, it's a slow process. One can't expect a veritable vomit of inner truths or a sudden exposition of the vast Black family demon collection.

If that's why you're reading, I fear I shall sorely disappoint you. You see, I'm selective. Some might call me neurotic, even. Or particular. Or…a bitch.

Call me what you will. I intend to reveal only one secret in these writings. Only one concealment in this copy… And with that set forth, we return to the beginning. To the moment when I said, "I often ruminate (in my quieter moments) that I have, in fact, three sons." Because that is the moment when I should have continued by stating, "But if you know me [and here I must reiterate you do not know me] at all, you know I in actuality have only one son."

And that son is why I write today. He is Draco. And you know of him, too – of him. Here is what you know: he is 19, the son of Lucius Malfoy, tall, a graduate of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry where he was a proud Slytherin; he is blonde, silver-eyed (and tongued, when he's a mind of it) and he has a fading tattoo he keeps quite hidden from sight; he is an accomplished quidditch player, has a keen wit.

Here is what you do not know: Draco is a chimera.

You scoff. Wait.

He is most evidently a man. (Despite the fact I prayed to the goddess and offered up blood in the pursuit of a girl. I'm not ashamed. I wanted a daughter. It's natural for a witch to attempt to pursue her ends to the best of her abilities. I simply have to assume Lucius wanted a son more…and perhaps made better offerings. Not that I regret having Draco. Particularly not now. But more on that later.) He has all the trappings of manhood. All the trappings. Some trappings more…difficult to escape than others.

And, of course, he is a wizard. Meaning he is a magical man. And powerful, if I must say so myself. Something in his blood, I imagine… I'm of old magical blood, myself – no 'nouveau witch.' And Lucius had his moments, I suppose.

But Draco is also a snake. Listen and mark me!

He is cunning and quick to strike. Can be as cold as ice…or I. Slytherin to the core. I have seen it become even more evident after his father's death. How he…maneuvered himself into Lucius' various seats of power. From the Ministry of Magic to the dining table, Draco commandeered and restored every lap Lucius ever sullied. Including mine.

But more upon that later.

The revelation that would send him blushing and protesting? He's a goat.

Perhaps only I see that aspect of him – the bucking buck on his broom, braying over breakfast at some heathen joke he's made, frolicking in my garden… Or in my bed.

Later for that, though.

My trickster, my pan, my faun. Mirth dances in his eyes. Privately, he makes me flush. He makes me laugh. He leads me with his lute to pleasure. He leads me to sin. The naughty thing… Oh, how I encourage him!

But I digress. It is not always frolicking. There is an intensity in this lair. It surrounds its master – the dragon.

And you know how they are.

Brooding. Stomping. Sulking and breathing fire.

He has regrets, you see. And if he spots them in a mirror, staring back at him, he smashes that mirror. If his wine does not satisfy, he throws the glass to the floor for the sheer appreciation of the shattering. When he is impatient, he huffs. When he is affronted, he casts aspersions. If his authority is challenged, he perches atop the opposition's castle and intimidates them into surrender. What he desires…he takes. And he takes most passionately.

(More on the passion later, though.)

He snaps sometimes. He hoards his possessions as if afraid another will snatch them. He guards this house – his cave. He guards me. He is impenetrable. And terrifying. He roars and crashes about when his emotions threaten to reveal his heart.

And a dragon's heart is not a thing to handle lightly. It is a beast of an organ. It beats frightfully loudly. It pumps the hottest blood. But it is more fragile than it appears. It requires more care and attention than the rarest orchid.

I can tell you this because I own a dragon's heart. It beats for me. It is my pride, my shame, my obsession and my revelation.

If, that is, you care to hear how I obtained it. Like any good fairy tale, the tale is not for the weak or squeamish. It involves war and death and magic and sex. And dashing and daring and deviance. And a snake and a goat and a dragon and a wizard and a man.

Oh, and a woman. Or in this case – a witch. Me. And you'll know a little something of me once the tale is told. A little something, at least.

And if the truth of it turns your stomach, think of it as a simply delicious fiction…

When I was a girl, I was far from the polished pureblood princess I have come to be viewed as today. Believe it or not, I was a bit of a roughneck. I tore my frocks in tomfoolery with Bella and I yanked on Andy's braids when she passed me. I chewed with my mouth open and would just as soon spit as cast a sewing spell.

On my eighth birthday, I announced to all the visiting sour-faced family that I intended to become a dragon-tamer someday and promptly smashed an antique mace into my elaborate (and pink) cake.

My father was amused. My mother was horrified. By the time I was ten, I was tightly controlled by her pursed lips and stinging hexes. I admit I am grateful now for her guidance in making me a lady. I would not be half the frost queen I am today without my mother's past disapproval. Goddess bless the dead bitch.

But I suspect I never quite let go the dream of taming dragons.

Draco was born in 1980 – a year I understand to have been filled with bright colors for muggles. For me, all was blue and black. The healers had blocked all excess light from the manor, you see, believing it to be harmful to my delicate constitution. (I'd been sick for the duration of my pregnancy.) So between the dark hangings on every window and Lucius' obnoxious celebratory boy-color décor, I was like a pimple in the midst of a bruise – poxy and swollen to bursting.

I was fat and miserable with an arse for a husband who could give half a damn for my comfort or happiness so long as I bore him his heir.

And on a night of screaming and storming skies, I did just that, holding the squalling, appalling creature in my arms and wondering at its clear, shining eyes. He'd stared at me like he knew he would never know me as a mother. It was odd.

But it was true. Lucius forbade everything; no breastfeeding, no coddling, no sleeping in the same bed, no spoiling. I'd lain awake at nights listening to Draco's wavering cries, breasts heavy and aching with milk, hating my husband.

I disobeyed when I could. Sneaked down the hall to the nursery. Offered my nipple in a secretive shaft of moonlight. The relief I felt when his tiny mouth suckled greedily and his tiny fists kneaded sweetly… kneaded.

I was needed.

I cooed at him and rocked him and he played at my hair and smiled. His sounds were each symphonies. Oh, my baby son…

He grew into a thing I could not touch. His father's reach extended. I watched the boy emulate every Malfoy mannerism. I grew accustomed to the taste of bile in my throat.

Through the Dark Times, I lingered on a precipice overlooking murder or suicide. I felt that, depending which way the wind blew, I might kill my husband or myself. And I watched Draco crawl down the cliff face to wave-crashing oblivion. My darling little Death Eater…

Damn you, Lucius. Hell isn't hot enough.

But who survived? Who did what was right? Despite his missing mother, my boy triumphed over evil, in the end. Well, I may have helped a little…behind the scenes. But ultimately, Draco made the right choices. And so did I.

(They always ask me: Why did you lie to the Dark Lord? I rarely answer. I rarely turn my head or lift my eyes or lower my chin. But here. Would you care to know once and for all? I lied for my son. And I lied to make this world one we could live in – one where I could watch him live and grown and learn and flourish and become the better man. And if that happened to benefit the rest of the wizarding world… Well, fine.)

The day of Lucius' final sentencing to Dementor's Kiss, I watched Draco's face. Other than a miniscule curl of his lovely top lip, he made no significant reaction. My heart swelled with pride. That was my son.

We did not attend the execution.

We sat at home – our home. Warm before a glowing hearth. My lap was full of tatting and Draco's held a book. When the magical clock chimed the moment, we smiled at each other.

Draco immediately began to assert himself as man of the house. I had no cause to challenge him. Besides, he offered me freedoms Lucius never had – freedoms to hide, to be silent, to avoid. In fact, Draco and I seemed to both languish in solitude.

We were…happy.

A year passed. It was with each change of season that I noticed some change in Draco. His long looks became less figuring and more possessing. He often stared at me through open doorways. I would feel his eyes on my body almost like sparks from a poked fire. But if I turned and looked back, he would steal away as a miscreant would. I would wonder what he'd taken, feeling strangely bereft as I did.

Sometimes his inner faun would escape. He would open a sweet vintage from the cellar and sing along to the wireless. In such easy moments, I could laugh…until he danced. His body moved – not the stiff automaton his father had been. Draco's youth fueled loose, indulgent undulations and harsh, sudden hip snaps. If he forgot I was watching, he closed his eyes and brushed his cheek against the music.

I envied the music.

Gods…Draco dancing. Here. May I show you a pensieve memory? Just bend over this bowl. There. I apologize if my hands are cold…

She looked up from beneath her lashes, not wanting him to know she watched. He might stop if he knew she watched.

His head lolled on his black-clad shoulders, hips swayed to the slow rhythm. One arm straightened from his side as if to balance the lithe, graceful steps he took. His other hand held an empty wine glass in impossibly light and long fingers. How did he not drop it?

There was something insidious and sinister in the song. The beats were devious, forceful. And Draco knew the words, sang along with the breathy, straining male voice as if the words were his own.

It's still getting worse after everything I've tried
What if I found a way to wash it all aside
What if she touches with those fingertips
As the words spill out like fire from her lips?

Suddenly, there were fingertips in her face. His. Her eyes tracked up his arm to his face, to his slit, darkened silver eyes. He was inviting her to dance. "Son," she chuffed. She found her throat was dry. The fingers plucked a cord of lace from her hands. His insistence was irresistible. He pulled her to her feet.

If she says come inside, I'll come inside for her
If she says give it all, I'll give everything to her
I am justified, I am purified, I am sanctified inside you

His singing was a whisper in her ear, like poison being poured there. He pulled her against one hip, arm slung low around her slender waist. She smelled wine off his breath. "You dance well, mum."

"This is hardly dancing," she replied. She knew the flush on her face made her appear weak, embarrassed. And she had no wine to blame.

He merely chuckled at her comment, insinuated a leg between her own and tilted her back. She gasped. He sang.

Heaven's just a rumor she'll dispel
As she walks me through the nicest parts of Hell
I still dream of lips I never should have kissed
Well, she knows exactly what I can't resist

Damn her body, her ill desires. When the tempo increased, she felt an answering sway in her own hips. A dip in her abdomen. The backs of her thighs burned. Draco stopped singing. She heard a crash, shattering glass. Then his other hand was tilting her head back, tangling in her loosely bunned hair.

And if she says come inside, I'll come inside for her
And if she says give it all, I'll give everything to her
I am justified, I am purified, I am sanctified inside you

He kissed her. Owned her mouth with his. Her hands scrambled at his shoulders, his forearms. She couldn't find a part of him with any give. The dragon wouldn't surrender its prize. She groaned, felt the fight leaving her, the lean, hard length of her son and her son's cock pressing against her. Inches and inches she couldn't fathom all mingling and lingering and tingling and still that damned song played.

I'm just caught up in another of her spells
Well, she's turning me into someone else
Everyday I hope and pray that this will end
But when I can I do it all again

She decided he could have her. A familiar ache crept into her breasts. They swelled and warmed for his touch. Her nipples hardened, yearned for his mouth – so different from his baby mouth. This man/goat/dragon mouth tasted of grapes and vice. His fingers bruised where they gripped. Slowly, wetly, he separated from her face.

He watched her glassy eyes dilate, felt her tremble like a colt. His own blackened. He smiled like a snake and let her go. Stepped away. "Mother."

She chilled at the word and the lack of his touch. A hot lump formed in her throat. "Draco…"

And if she says come inside, I'll come inside for her
And if she says give it all, I'll give everything to her
I am justified, I am purified, I am sanctified inside you
I am justified, I am purified, I am sanctified inside you

He backed out of the room, never taking eyes off of her. The shadows swallowed him whole, and she sank to her knees, hands holding her throbbing bosom. Unfair. The last words of the song spoke to her, mocked her. She pulled her wand and aimed it at the infernal wireless.


Oh, my. A rather disconcerting feeling, I know. Emerging from a pensieve is like…leaping into a hot pool from a cold one. It will pass.

One of my more destructive moments. I wanted you to see, though. To understand how I came to understand. It had to be me.

I learned the hard way. As wilfull as a dragon can be, it is still a mother's beast. And I think I may have been the only human Draco ever truly respected in this world. Because I never tried to challenge him. I let him have his way – his right. And if he wanted me… Well, he could have me. Who was I to deny him?

I certainly couldn't gasp, "Scandal!" It didn't feel scandalous. I knew – I know – I'm his mother. True, I birthed him from these loins. I carried him in this belly.

But I was never that creature's mother. Not in any proper sense. And he yearned now for what he'd lacked. Like any animal would. He was wounded and hurting and mature and the new dominant. I pitied his confusion. He wanted my submission and my guidance. How difficult for a man of such complexity to want a mother and a lover in one…

See… Blood longs for blood. It sings like a frog til it hears a like answer. And Draco's blood sang for mine.

Answering, however, was not so easy. It was weeks of avoidance – not so difficult in a house such as ours. Just painful. He'd melted a layer of ice away with his dance, tempted me to a heat source. He'd awakened want in me.

But as much as I pitied his confusion, I empathized. For I, too was torn like a bridal gown. I wanted the man, feared the dragon, shied from the pan and leapt o'er the snake. I knew he could destroy me. I envied his control.

I had to numb myself with potions to escape the desire to…mate with him. To offer myself up like a virgin. And in his presence, I felt virginal again – nervous, a frippet. Stupid and vacuous. He alternately made me want to giggle or cry. I wanted to punch him or fuck him. I was a fighting strumpet.

I reasoned over reason, in the end. Sleepless nights and unsatisfying self-gratification struck the death knell for sensibility.

Of all nights it was a Tuesday. I prepared for bed in greater detail than usual, subconsciously plucking, smoothing and moisturizing moreso than I had for some time. I moved across my carpeted floor with a luxurious purpose, in no particular hurry, and stood naked before my opened wardrobe. The air was chilly. I examined my body in the mirrors alongside me.

(At the risk of sounding extraordinarily vain, I know I'm a beautiful woman. I've maintained a spritely body these years – despite carrying a child. I'm shapely. Firm and soft in the right places. I know what wizards want to touch, and many times I've been tempted to let them. I missed touch. For a very long time…)

Satisfied with my pristine paleness, I selected a long silver satin nightgown. I'd worn it perhaps twice, attempting to lure my husband to more than three minutes of thrusting. And while the luring had been successful, the prolonging had not. But I doubted the son would require the same measures as the father.

I left my hair down. Dried naturally, it fell over my shoulders in liquid white curls. I looked a seductress, a temptress. Good. I'd wanted my intentions clear. The satin sussed around my legs as I walked the hallways, seeking out my son. My skin goosepimpled.

In Lucius' old rooms, I encountered the snake. He lounged on the black velvet settee. Lounged. He wore only grey linen sleep pants, low on his straight hips. I could see the beginnings of his abdominal 'v' and swallowed. His eyes were slits, the blacks of them following me lazily and warily. He stretched his arms across the settee's sloping back. "Silver," he whispered. "Splendid."

"Son." My fingertips stroked the arm of the settee.

His thumbs stroked the material, too. I imagined them on my thighs. Seconds passed. "Strip," he said. "Slowly. I want to see your skin."

As if in a trance, I obeyed him. Reached into the gown's slit to tug down the slip of knickers I'd selected. When one leg was free, I propped the other on the settee arm and worked the lace down and off. Draco watched every motion, coiled but not striking.

I pulled a strap off of one shoulder, then the other. My hair flicked forward, covered my breasts. I wiggled my hips just enough to encourage the satin to fall heavily over my legs. It pooled around my ankles.

Finally, Draco reacted. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. He gestured with one elegant hand. "Closer." I stepped forward and his nostrils flared. "You smell sweet." He bit his lip.

His desire and restraint were intoxicating. I felt powerful, took another step forward. "Touch me, Draco," I murmured. I gave him my permission. His eyes flicked up to mine. His tongue darted to moisten his lips. The snake struck.

It was an awkward capture, but a complete one. One hand snatched at my thigh, while his arm wrapped round my hip. He slid to the edge of the settee and my knees hit it either side of his thighs. I gasped, steadied myself by gripping his shoulders. His sculpted chest pressed to my belly. His lips caressed my breasts.

It was an overwhelming feeling. A relief I can't describe with words. So I whimpered, let my head fall back. My hair followed and revealed my tender, aching nipples to his hungry mouth. My whimpers turned to groans as he suckled me. I grappled with his hair. "Draco… Draco…" My cunt tightened, gushed new wet. His fingers explored, sought to sample the hot stickiness. Oh, they were long and wrong, parting my folds and delving. "I – I –"

A popping sound as he released my breast. "You what, Narcissa?"

"I want you!"

"Yesss," he hissed, rising suddenly. In the same second I was off my feet and on my back on the bed I once shared with my husband.

But the glorious creature folding my body to his designs was far from my husband despite any inherited genes. This dragon was mine and mine alone to tame – at last. Childhood fantasies came full circle.

Even struggling free of his sleep pants, Draco was graceful. His eyes devoured my body. His jaw was slack. I reached for him and he came to me, kissed me and gathered me to him like a precious thing. "I love you," he murmured. "I love you."

I bit at his shoulder, enflamed his passion. Played with fire. "I love you, too, son."

He nipped everywhere he kissed, even the ticklish hills of my ribs. I cried out, scratched at his back, dug nails into his sensitive arse cheeks. He grunted and growled – the devil I wanted. I rolled us over, straddled his thighs and stared openly at his cock. He keened when I took it in hand, hefted the weight of it, spanned its length with my open hand. My thumb at the base, pinky finger not quite reaching the tip. "Oh," I gasped.

"Tease," Draco accused.

I dipped my head and stilled his tongue.

"Ugh! Muh…" His hand fisted my hair, just holding. But his hips bucked and his length filled my mouth. I sucked and he bucked harder. My hand spread across his abdomen, pressing to control him. "I'll come," he panted. "I can't – can't help…"

I sucked harder, caressed his impossibly tight sac with my free hand. He didn't lie. On a pained animal's exclamation, he unloaded hot seed into my mouth. I swallowed all I could – it was as much me as it was him – and let the rest dribble to my chin. I wiped it away as I rose over him, prepared to gloat.

But the goat bucked and landed on my arse. He was smirking. "I was…unprepared for that," he said, tugging my knees over his elbows. "Let's see how well you fare with a wicked mouth on your candied cunt."

I was…unprepared, as well. He knew each slit, crevice and fold as if he'd mapped it from boyhood. Perhaps it was some distant memory? And when I wasn't screaming pleasure, or begging for his merciful fucking, he was requesting instruction. Taking my hand, spreading my fingers over the thin thatch of blonde scratch. "Show me," he growled. "Like you touch yourself when you think of me."

"Draco!" I was helpless to resist, flicked my clit beneath it's monk's hood. He watched, eyes darting in the firelight, then assumed the task like the quick study he was.

How I would that my fingers were five tongues as perverse as my son's… He flicked, then sucked, then kissed. He dipped a finger to gather my wetness, pinched the bundle of nerves he'd discovered, sucked, kissed and flicked. "Rougher," I managed. "Now! More!"

As if by instinct, he slapped my cunt swiftly – once, twice, twice more. I bucked and screamed the sting was drowned by the orgasm – the hard wave catching me up and dimming me. I groaned the way I'd groaned when I birthed him. This pain was bliss.

A final sweet kiss and I was flipped. I struggled to my elbows, looked over my shoulder to see how a chimera takes its mate.

It hooked my thigh further up on its elbow, bent the leg around its sharp hip. Its free hand urged me open, then took its alien cock in hand. I whined when he positioned himself within the glistening reddened lips of my pussy. "Draco? Please?"

He didn't meet my eyes. He was staring down at the juncture of us, the joining on the cusp of completion, the eclipse of the son and moon. "Tell me," he said. "To come inside…"

My eyes squeezed closed. "Come inside, Draco. Fuck me!"

His force was expected, but still astonishing. I gaped, pushed forward into the sheets. "Shite!" I whimpered. Pain, wonder and pleasure. The dragon's cock pounded me into the feather bedding. The snake's body slithered atop mine, side-winding and undulating amoral hips. The billy goat bucked and brayed in my ear. The man stroked sweaty strands of hair away from my face, kissed and comforted me even as he burned my resistance to ash.

And the wizard's magic mingled with mine. It's tendrils reached and wound round my every organ. "Look at me," he said. I could barely open my eyes. Again, he flipped me. His hips snapped fast between my legs, arms held straight alongside my head, he watched my wide eyes, and a smirk formed. "Good?" He managed.

I grunted. He grunted in return. "No? Well, then." We were upright of a sudden. Cradled by his thighs, I balanced on my knees.

"Yesyes!" There – there was the spark. I shifted, dipped my hips. The tip of his cock stroked it and again I keened. "Oh, dragon!"

"Good," he whispered. He was slipping, sweating, straining. His arm tightened around my hips, the other acting as a buttress. "Just like that, mother – just like we danced."

I rode him rough, falling hard and rising fast. It burned, but it was rapture. I held his face in my hands, bit his pouting bottom lip and came on a string of damning confessions. "I need you, darling! Draco. My son, my snake, my faun. Oh, gods dragon!" The spikes of pleasure culminated in a flash of bright heat and a spiraling tickle.

Extra heat. Extra wetness. My son had come inside me. I felt his balls contracting against my cunt. We kissed. Relaxed. I breathed in the smells of our sex.

"We're lovers," Draco said, wonder in his voice. He took us back into the soiled sheets and skewed pillows. "You're my lover."

"I'm your mother," I responded hoarsely.

"I know." His head dipped. He kissed my nipples, suckled at them. I sighed as his hand kneaded the thick flesh.

I was needed… And if you've ever known need, or been needed yourself. Then you may say you know something of me in truth. Something more than a salacious tale of incest. You may even say you know what drives me, what keeps me alive, what keeps me in his arms, his bed, his eyes.

The need of a chimera-man-child – a tri-fold, torrid necessity. You know?

AN:This is a response gift fic to Narcissa's Dragon's lovely The Altar of my Birth. If you haven't read it, and you love Dracissa, go and do so now. I bow to you, Dragon...