Fine Print

Every man loves to fuck a beaten woman. No matter how noble, kind or chivalrous he may profess to be, I assure you he loves the taste of cowed cunt. Like sharks to blood, they are drawn to a surrendered female. It is one of their greatest weaknesses.

My son is no exception. Daft boy. He seems to forget there's a brain in the body he makes his sowing grounds.

Will he learn? That there may have been no clause in my marriage contract to protect me. But often the fine print is unwritten - a sinister addendum dwelling within.

Draco made me his concubine. His hand maid. He seeks sickly to plant within me his Malfoy heir. And I've no choice but to allow it. But... Well, Slytherins make poor victims. And if the boy has a use for my womb, then I have a use for his seed.

I have the means to craft his destruction with his absolute sanction.

"Narcissa. Come to bed."

She sighed at her reflection in her vanity's looking glass. "Yes, son." Son. I will always remind you... With an air of formality and worn routine, she approached their bed. Allowed her dressing gown to form a careless pool upon the Persian rug. Naked. How he preferred her.

And he waited - a grinning lecher. Already erect. Already pawing. Already pulling her into octopus arms. "Should be a good night," he murmured. He squeezed her swollen, tender breasts and took in her grimace. He'd learned her every intimacy, her every secret. Knew her menstrual cycle as if it was his own.

"Yes, son." Always. She reached above her head past piled pillows and took hold of the head board's thick cherry spindles. He could have her body, but she'd be damned if he ever saw her pleasure.

Only it was there. Much though she despised it, it was there.

Making me as sick as he. And on this night, like a beast in heat with a womb hungry for seed, the pleasure...

His finger dipped before his mouth, pushed into the bloated tissue. She grunted. It was the barometer, the forecaster of success measuring her temperature. "Merlin, you're hot tonight. Definitely good."

She hissed when his tongue parted her clinging cleft, made the first stroke of the evening. He chuckled and hatred fueled a flood for his greedy throat. Sometimes, he made her come this way. Teased and demanded her surrender with a skilled, killing, gloating mouth. After the inevitable orgasm, he fucked her through the wet-cheeked shame, laughing as he licked her tears.

Forever, it seemed... He had the stamina of any man-boy, and once her body was lax and pliant, he arranged her a multitude of ways and pounded her like an alchemist studying a smelt; what made her squeal, bubble, pop or harden to a solid. And if she was too loose for his tastes, he spat in her arse and fucked her there.

It was an insult added to an already intolerable injury. He wasn't producing another wizard. He was simply reducing a mother witch.

And Narcissa would bite her pillow and think of revenge.

But it would not be that way this night, she knew. This night she was ovulating and ripe for fertilization. He would not let her come under tongue or finger. It was necessary for her to come round his cock. To milk every precious drop. He would accept no less than the toe-cramping, body-quaking shudders only he had ever produced in her. (Though he would certainly never know that. She would die before he knew that.)

Sure enough, once she was wet and tight and gasping despite herself, he took her. He knew angles like an arithmancer, tilted her hips in harsh hands and fucked her with a tender purpose. He watched her face as she fought against the pleasure in the shallow, paring thrusts. He spoke with his rhythm, a song of war. "That's it. Good girl. Come now. Let go. Cissa. Cissa. Cissa. Narcissa."

And her body keened so strongly tonight, wanted so wildly that she answered him on the first overpowering rush. "My son!"

He rode out the waves, bore the tremors of her body and then raised her legs, crossed them onto one shoulder. He stroked her as she relaxed. Kissed her ankle. "Very good," he cooed. "Rest now." He patted her belly affectionately.

Narcissa swallowed bile. Caught her breath and released her numbing grip on the headboard. He would hold her like this for a time, letting his seed settle. "Draco."


"If it doesn't work this time-"

"Stop it."

She bit her lip. He refused to speak of their recent failure. The blood in the bathwater. The one that got away. "I'm just concerned, son." Her voice was gentling.

"It will work this time." His eyes were dark determination. "You shall simply have to take it easier. No more gardening. Especially with the weather turning cold. And I shall acquire another elf. No cleaning. Or cooking of any sort." He rubbed her hips and thighs. "Besides. You're losing weight. And we can't have that."

Her lips tightened, but she nodded. Argument would only serve to sour the cream of her own cool contrivance. "Draco?" She stared past his shoulder, over her own toes into the dimness.


"What if it's a girl?"

Again he tensed. "It won't be."

Still gentle, hesitant, like one hedging toward news of death, she whispered. "But if it is."

She frustrated him. He sighed and dropped her legs, moved roughly away. "I need an heir, witch. A boy. Can't you fucking do that much?" He snapped. Dropped off of the bed and stalked toward the en suite.

Narcissa sat up and stretched. Watched the shadow of his flaccid cock knock against his thighs. "I'm afraid I won't be able to carry another," she admitted loud enough for him to hear, but soft enough to carry a hint of shame. Over the echoing ring of his urination, she continued. "That I will...disappoint you. Again."

There was a silence. She plucked at the duvet, waiting for his reaction. Waiting to learn her next strategy. Water ran in the sink. Splashing. Then the patting of his feet on tile, then hardwood, then softening on the rug. She didn't look up when he sat near her on the bed.

His hand hesitated before settling on her calf - a comforting touch. Her stomach churned at it. "If it's a girl..." He shook his head as if the very idea was ridiculous. "Fuck, I don't know. What do you want? To be shut of it? Fine. Plenty of wizarding homes would take it."

Now she did look up. Called on every muscle of her face to portray horror and let the heat in her sinus breed tears. "Draco!"

"Then what?" He demanded. "Surely you wouldn't keep it! You don't want it in the first place!"

"I do!" She gasped. Slapped her own mouth closed behind her hand as if the revelation was a terrible accident and he lunged for the blood as predictably as any hungry shark would.

Her wide eyes watched him grin. "You do?" A soft chuckle and he kissed her raised knee. "Yes, you do, don't you?"

The silken tears left silken trails down her face and she remembered reading somewhere that muggles gave awards for acting. "Of course not."

He touched her chin, tilted her to face him. "Tell me the truth."

She crumbled like chalk carelessly cracked. Rubbed clumsily at her snotty nose. "I can't give it up. Please don't make me, Draco!" Now she reached for his hand, kissed it. She scrambled toward him in the moonlight. "I was never a mother to you. Never really. I wasn't allowed. If I had been..." She shook her head as if dismissing errant fantasy. "But that doesn't matter now. Oh, Draco please let me love it! Let me have it!" And now she lunged, threw herself at the shark and hugged it to her, sobbed and earned a hundred muggle awards.

She felt his satisfaction. Felt it swell in his chest and radiate through the arms that held her. Felt it tingle in the fingertips that feathered her back. "Of course you can keep the bloody thing. If that's what you want." The spoilage was a high price for him to pay, she knew. But he paid it just the same. Bought his slave's willingness for the pittance of a few words.

"Oh!" She gripped him harder. Let the snot and mess muck his shoulder. "You promise?" She sniffed into the crook of his neck. Pitiful. Beautiful.

He stroked her hair. "Very well. Ridiculous woman. I promise." He pried her arms from him and took in her hopeful, weeping face. "Hormones," he muttered wryly.

She tried a breathy laugh. Looked down embarrassed and collected herself. "I'm sorry."

"It's alright." He took a deep breath. Stared at her feet curling into the duvet. "And you won't...disappoint me. That's nonsense. If it is...a girl... We shall simply try again. Keep trying. And if you still can't..." He swallowed and rubbed the back of his neck. "Then I suppose some arrangements could be made to -"

"Draco." Suddenly, her voice was strong and clear. Its usual deep mellow tone. He looked at her and it was her turn to stroke his face. "Perhaps...if I can't have your heir..." She paused, considering. "Well, perhaps... She could."

He didn't understand. Of course. "She?"

Narcissa allowed the small hopeful smile to grow. Only a centimeter or so. "Our daughter."

Silver turned to steel. He blinked at her slowly, then quickly. Finally realized. "Are you suggesting -"

But Cissa's fingers silenced his lips. "It could be perfect!" She hissed. "She would never even have to know you were her father! She could be...a bloody foundling! It doesn't matter! Don't you see?"

He did see. He was nodding, watching her as though she weren't real. "Mother, I'm not certain -"

"Blood of our blood, Draco. Malfoy blood!" His uncertainty didn't interest the plotting witch leaking his seed. "She could be everything that I'm not. Young. Strong. Built for motherhood." She spoke quickly, aware her hold was tenuous. "Made for you, Draco. Better than me."

"Never better than you!" He spoke vehemently. "Don't you say that!" He rubbed at his face, considering her heavy words, her heady proposition.

"I would teach her," Narcissa added. "How to mother. How to please you." How to kill you. "I would make her exactly what you require." She reclined in the darkness around the pillows, letting her words settle in his ears as his hopes settled in her womb. He was quiet and very still. "Only if it is a girl, of course."

His face finally turned to her, eyes seeking her sincerity but finding only shadow. A long moment passed. Then.

"Only if it's a girl," he whispered. He left the bed. Grabbed his dressing gown from the wardrobe near the door and paused. "Clean yourself up," he instructed. "We should try again tonight."

She sat up. He can't be serious. "Draco...please, son...perhaps tomorrow? I'm very tired!"

He shrugged, cinched the satin swiftly around his waist. "I didn't say I needed you conscious. But clean is nice." He left the room. Narcissa heard his feet slap down the corridor then disappear.

Fucking bastard. She hated him. But she had her victory for the evening, so let him have his.

She smiled and folded her hands protectively across her belly. She offered up her first prayers - first promises - to the goddess above.

"Mother!" A giggle. "Mother!"

Narcissa smiled and swept down the corridor, her red cotton skirt scraping a rough patch of wood. "Where are you, you imp?" She swung around a marble column just in time to see a swath of yellow silk suss into the drawing room. Quietly, muffling her own laughter behind a hand, she followed. Pounced into the drawing room, and -

It was empty. Cissa's smile fell. Almost petulantly, she sighed. Where had the bloody girl gotten off to? She gathered her skirts and turned to leave.

"RAHHH!" A blur of yellow, black and white and peals of unhinged laughter.

Cissa screamed a genuine scream and clung to the shaking shoulders of her attacker. "Elektra!" She shook the girl affectionately. "You scared the life out of me!"

Hands cupped her face, the fingers small as hers, nearly duplicates in fact of Narcissa's. "Oh, mother! I'm sorry."

"No, you're not." Cissa pressed a hand over her hammering heart. But she couldn't contain a smile at the glimmering silver-blue eyes that flashed such mirth. "And you've torn your frock!"

Elektra laughed still. Pink lips parted on a devilish grin. She ran her tongue over her top teeth in a gesture so reminiscent... She lifted the torn black sash hanging from her waist. "I'll use the mending charm you taught me. Don't fret!" The girl pulled Narcissa into a hug, swaying with her. "I love you so, mother."

Tears stung the older witch's eyes. She tugged playfully at her daughter's thick silken curls - some black, some flax. "I love you, too my darling." Even their heartbeats kept the same pace, slowing from their chase.

Elektra drew away first, eyes wide and locked level with her mother's. So similar they were. "Mother..." A thumb brushed Narcissa's lower lip, made her blush.

"Elektra." They kissed, lips barely brushing. The sweetest suction. Tongues mischievous.

Only the slamming of a door above them pushed them apart. They both looked up guiltily, cheeks matching shades of pink. Narcissa's brow furrowed - the only time wrinkles marred her face. Elektra scowled. "Draco," she said.

"Yes." Narcissa stepped away. "He'll be seeking us out for lunch."

The girl's lip curled further, but then a most frightening, troubling smile replaced the gesture. She took hold of Narcissa's hands, twined their fingers. Raised the digits to her lips. "Soon, mother," she murmured. Bit an index finger to hear the resulting gasp, then licked to hear the resulting moan. "Soon...I shall free us both."

"Mother? Elektra?" The call echoed down the hallway.

The girl-imp faded to young lady. The young lady drew her wand, repaired her dress with a brisk whisper and drew her thick fall of hair over one shoulder. In the doorway, she turned to a frozen Narcissa. Practically staring into a mirror. "Coming, mother?"

Some strange sensation. Narcissa tried to ignore it. She was expected, after all. "Yes, yes. In a moment." She watched the girl leave, then closed her eyes a moment. When she opened them...

Darkness. And the unsettling feeling of waking from a dream too real. Narcissa pushed up onto her elbows, recalling every vivid image. She winced at the soreness between her legs, then swung over the edge of the bed. Crossed the room naked.

"Lux." In the lav, she lit the sconces and closed the door. Over the sink was a potion bottle. She retrieved it and sat on the toilet. Humiliating, treating the chafed and tender tissue.

But worth it this evening? She recalled the dream the goddess had sent, the words of the girl. "Elektra," she whispered, trying the name. It was odd. Beautiful, but not at all soft. Strong. Familiar.

"Soon...I shall free us both."

Before the mirror on the opposite wall, Narcissa stood and turned. She cupped her hands over the pooch of her belly, imagined it swollen with child again. It felt warm to the touch, and she knew magic was inside it, forming.

She let genuine tears slide free. She'd not felt happiness in so long. "Elektra," she whispered again. The mother's mind made up. She already loved the tiny entity inside her - her savior, her witch warrior, her babe, her student and someday-sin. "Elektra."

Her freeing, fighting, unfettered fine print...

AN: Well, this story is undergoing some major changes. Namely it is now a chaptered piece but with only one more to go. Short and sweet, I say. Well... Maybe not so sweet. This chapter an early Valentine for the Nerea. She asked for it... And thanks to my chained-up-in-the-e-basement Britpicker SilverTonguedSlytherin for the very quick on-demand read through. Spit-spot, old chap. If you've got flames, that's all fine - but you might want to hold onto them until the end of this one...

AN2: Those of you familiar with neo Freudian psychology will need no introduction to my Elektra (here a disambiguation of Electra), but if you're curious, the Electra complex is a fascinating piece of theory. And she's a damn fine play by Sophocles.