Draco read in the parlor after dinner. This was how they spent most evenings; Marie and Maite playing some card game or another, himself and his mother reading. Depending on the drinks served with dinner, there was sometimes wizards' chess, but usually the evening wind-down required less concentration.

Tonight, Marie and Maite lounged lazily on a shared chaise, smoking fragrant clove cigarettes and making little secret of their salacious relations. Narcissa toyed with a wisp of hair escaped from her head wrap, vaguely interested in a glossy muggle fashion magazine. Draco peered up from his book occasionally to the grandfather clock, and occasionally he caught his mother glancing at him glancing at the clock. Unsettling.

He intended to escape her watch tonight. Something brewed in his blood, a tumult his mother seemed content to ignore. But the flesh of the swamp stifled it somehow. And his curiosity about his mother's motives for ignoring him - for ignoring what simmered between them - was re-directed into curiosity about the spicy, strange magic in these bayou people.

The book Aizan had loaned him was on Voodoo loa - spirits the Voodoo people revered and called upon. Draco was riveted by the mythologies behind the various demigods and goddesses, mesmerised by the ornate vevés and thrilled by romantic tales of zombies, voodoo dolls and fire dances.

If his mother could adopt this muggle culture, so could he, he reasoned...in his own way. Not to mention he found a freedom in the music Aizan played in the kitchen, freedom in Felix and Caspar's loose, sensual dancing. The motion tapped an energy with no other outlet, unleashed a beast he didn't know dwelled within him. So he looked forward to this evening's escape, to dancing by the river in the moonlight.

The hurricane lamps flickered as Marie and Maite rose together, the sisters' bristling magic staticky in the room's cool humidity. Marie looked down as her sister led her hastily from the parlor. Draco watched them go with a scowl - no doubt off to...do the sorts of things he rather wanted to watch.

Once the sisters disappeared, his eyes flicked back to his book, but caught his mother staring after the departed hosts. She bit at her bottom lip, a sure sign she was troubled by something. He snorted. Not that she would ever reveal such a fact. Cracking her open would be a challenge.

But he welcomed that challenge.

9:33. He stretched. Set his book on the table by his chair. "I believe I'll retire for this evening, mother."

She looked at him gaugingly. "Oh?" Her arched brow was an invitation to mayhem.

"Yes." He coughed. "I'm tired. Will you stay up, then?"

A smile. Too knowing. "Yes. For a bit longer. Sleep well, son?"

"I will." He bent. She tilted her face to his lips. The softness of her cool cheek was a long sip of sweet tea. "Good night," he murmured against the sculpted bone.

"Good night," she whispered back.

He did go to his room, let his feet fall heavily on the stairs over the parlor. He changed his clothes - brown work breeches and his softest linen shirt. He couldn't risk ruining his fine clothes. He was pants at mending charms and knew his mother would ask questions. She paid too much damned attention to what he wore. And too little attention to...

He shook his head. Wouldn't think of any of that tonight. Barefoot, he swung over his balcony railing. He'd given thought to how he would arrive at the bonfire, and decided apparation was simply too loud. So, with practiced ease, he made the short leap to the sturdiest oak branch available - the one whose many limbs scraped the tin roof during storms - and maneuvered to the center of the tree. There, he was able to shimmy down like a marmoset.

He touched down softly on the clammy grass and ducked into the shadows of the house. He thought of the spy in the muggle movies Marie and Maite sometimes watched on the noisy television as he slinked around the corner. He was confidently hidden even from the moonlight and smirked behind a fall of wisteria.

Then he heard giggling.

He froze, certain even his breath could reveal him, and listened carefully. More giggling. Breathy laughter and gasps of pleasure. He scowled. The sisters. Trollops. His scowl turned to a shrug. Curiosity won over enmity. Timidly, he parted the veil of vines.

There, on the hanging swing beneath another great oak, dallied Marie and Maite. Not quite naked, the sisters were pawing and pulling at one another, biting, growling. Playing. Licking his lips, he eased forward just a bit...just to see -

SNAP

He winced at the resulting hush and the sting of stick splintering under his toes. Fuck, he mouthed. And suddenly wisteria was snatched from his fingers.

"You wily little weasel!" Maite hauled him from his hiding place by the ear, ignoring his hissed calls for quiet. "You were wrong, sissy! It was the other cousin!"

"Well, color me surprised." Marie drawled from the swing. She held her dress loosely over her cleavage and chuckled. "Runs in the family, I reckon." A dismissive gesture. "Let him go, Maite. I don't think it's us he's after tonight."

"Why else would he be skulking around like a skink?" Maite was less demure as she shoved Draco non-gently into an antique water pump. She seemed unashamed of her bared breasts. Though why should she be, Draco wondered. They were lovely to look upon.

Marie produced an ever-present hand-rolled cigarette. "I think somebody's sneaking out from under mama's wing tonight."

"Oh?" Maite gave him a curious brow. "We thought you were your mama, you know."

"My mother would hardly be...sneaking about, as you call it. Like you!" The defense was petty, but it nearly covered his awkward embarrassment.

"Well, it wouldn't be the first time she hid for a peep show." Maite insisted. Her bitten lips quirked mischievously and she leaned into Draco's space. "Only tonight...we were gonna give her a first hand experience, so to speak."

Draco bristled, forgot his own subterfuge. "You keep your demented, dirty fingers out of my mum!"

Maite danced to her sister, laughing. Marie pulled her down, boldly cupped a breast. "Calm down...little dragon," Marie's southern slur turned his mother's endearment into innuendo. "We're just teasing." They kissed, tongues lewd and wet, reflecting the moon's light. Marie pushed her sister away only to have her own breasts attacked. "Run along to your dance, now," Marie instructed breathily. "Nobody's gonna seduce your mama..."

Draco scurried past the amorous sisters toward the dense darkness of the treeline by the lane. But he still heard Marie's parting shot echo lowly: "Except for you." The words spoken like a sensual curse haunted him even as he walked the silty trail along the river's edge.

The sound of the water lapping couldn't erase the spell, and the warm satin sand between his toes only reinforced the cousin's connection to his truth. How could she know?

He'd told Aizan, yes. But he trusted the mysterious cook's discretion implicitly. The sound of distant drums beckoned him on. Was it true? Would the Malfoy heir succumb to sickness and seduce his own matron? As the sound of the drums increased in decibel, the sand seemed to increase in heat.

Soon he saw a glow. Fire. His pace quickened. He couldn't be near enough the flame. And he could make out shapes - jerking, crashing, swaying, leaping, tumbling, dancing to that impenetrable drum.

Did he want to fuck his mother? Yes. Painfully. Did it matter? Not hardly. Not right now. Not when the drums insisted he was no more, no less than an animal, reminded him of his place.

Here. He seemed to go unnoticed as he stepped into the circle. Felt welcomed by the inner sanctum. Sweat was instantaneous and before he realized it, he was moving with that crowd, driven by drum and cry. Chanting, singing. Worshiping. He felt the snake wrap his spine, encourage his sidewinding hips; he heard it hissing in his blood, cooling his heart if only for this moment. Damballah, he thought. Help me defeat my desires. Help me douse my fiery lust.

The tempo sped beyond control. He surrendered to it, let his body follow it, let his mind call to it. Damballah. On a final, frantic collective scream, the drums raced to a climactic flourish and stopped. Draco felt hot fire-kissed earth beneath his knees when he dropped hard, exhausted. Damballah. Through the highest flame's heaven licks he saw the moon. Help me have her...


The moon was bright, but Narcissa kept her wand lit and aloft just the same. The extra light of her lumos made clear the tracks she was following. True there were many foot and shoe prints lingering in the soft sand by the river, but she was most interested in the freshest ones. Her son's.

She'd waited perhaps half an hour after his departure before she sneaked after him, taking a far more direct approach than he had. She'd simply left by the front door and made her way to the still warm dirt lane. When the orange glow of the gathering came into view, she extinguished her wand's light with a whispered "nox" and ducked into the thicket of trees opposite the river.

She felt the excitement of stealth as she bent and dodged. Quiet wasn't strictly necessary, it seemed, as the gathering ahead was noisy with drums, chanting, footfalls and merrymaking, but still her soft soled slippers made little noise. Only a few yards from the ritual, she came to rest behind a thick-trunked oak, eyes wide as she peered over bark.

They danced like puppets with uneven strings. Their bodies seemed completely overcome by the quickening drum beats and incessant song. The women threw themselves into the music, skirts swirling loose, headwraps hanging or hair bared. The men were barefoot, shirtless and slick with sweat. Not just the dark skinned Haitians she'd expected, but many varying cultures, all cast together in this cauldron of fire, song and dance.

She pressed cheek to tree, watched the dancers intently. Their eyes were closed, jaws slack. Such abandonment... When did I last feel such fervor? Then she saw Draco, and remembered.

His mouth was opened on a chant, dark eyes glinting as he stomped the trodden ground. Narcissa flushed, remembering those eyes devouring her, that mouth on her neck. His sinewy form jerked into a turn and his unbuttoned shirt flew like opened wings. He leapt and her breath caught. She'd known he was graceful, but hardly imagined him so crane-like and lithe. The hard body she remembered pressing into her had left a far different impression.

The drumbeat shifted and Draco shed his shirt. He was as sweaty as the men who joined him in a loosely synchronized dance. Cissa recognized Caspar and Felix, watched them move fluidly with her son. They're so beautiful.

When had she last danced? She bit her lips. The last time we were flush. She remembered gorgeously outfitted ballrooms at her manor, charmed champagne fountains and coveted goblin orchestras. Lucius still whole, handsome and smiling, silver eyes undressing her. Gowns of velvet, silk and satin shed carelessly for nights of passion.

Her fingers tightened, nails gouging soft bark. And how long since she'd known passion? She watched Draco's hips snap, roll. Watched his glistening belly undulate and his long arms flex in time with the flames. Something fluttered in her own belly. Too long.

I shouldn't have come. She tore her eyes from the dancers, closed them and leaned against the tree she'd come to know intimately. It was possible the image of her son as raw sex in motion might be forever imprinted on her retinas. And she felt filthy for it. What disgusting creature wants their spawn in such a way? And he doesn't know any better.

She thought of the female dancers - all ages, all color and variety. Perhaps one of them would appeal to him, distract him from the wrongness of what had transpired that desperate night. Heat behind her eyes. Tears threatened and she squeezed them into submission. No. That's as it should be. He's a young vital man with the urges that accompany that vitality! It's as sick to be jealous as it is to want.

Her fingers curled in the fabric of her skirt. Let him go, witch. And he'll let you go, too. This is why you came here, correct? To heal, to - "Oh!" She was lurched from her thoughts when hands pulled hers. Her eyes snapped open and she stammered as she was swirled into shadow. "D - Draco!"

"What are you doing here?" He hissed.

"I- I -" But she had no answer, really. And her son's intensity in the knife sharp moonlight was stunning.

He held her wrists too tightly between them and she could see her hands curling impotently before her face. And his eyes, black like the river. "You followed me." His lips were tight. She nodded, lost for words. His nostrils flared, gaze raked her. "Like what you see?"

"Draco," she whimpered. "I was..." Those stupid tears had escaped, sneaked down each cheek. She hated appearing weak - especially if she was weak. "I meant no harm."

His fingers loosened their grip, slid over her wrists until he lightly grasped her hands. "Dance."

She blinked. "What?"

"You heard me." He whirled them, pulling her toward the fire and the raucous gathering. "You're here. You have to dance."

"Wait, son!" But her protests were drowned by the drumbeat, suddenly slowing. And time slowed with it, dancers seeming to freeze in mid-air. Draco dropped to his knees before her, took each calf in hand and removed her slippers. She trembled steadying herself against his shoulders. The sand in the clearing was hot, probably absorbing the warms of fire and feet.

Then Draco rose and before thought - before question or hesitation - his body molded to hers and her heart stopped. He curled an arm around her back, bent to embrace her, and began to move.

His chest pushed against hers, shoulders curling, forcing yield into her her resistance. When his feet marched forward or backward, hers followed instinctively. They blended so easily with the beat, the chant, the heat. The crowd seemed as oblivious to them as they were to it.

Relaxing into their river-like flow, Narcissa folded her arm around his shoulders, used her other as a ballast. Draco's muscles sluiced and seemed to weave beneath her fingers. His eyes didn't leave hers and she wondered if the sweat that had broken sudden and thick across her cleavage was a product of their dancing or the tension melting between them.

When he spun her out, she was loath to leave him. But he held to her hand. "Like this," he instructed. She watched his feet stamp the earth, turn; she emulated. "Looser." Draco leaned toward her to be heard over the music. "Come here."

She oomphed when her back hit his chest, tensed at the feel of obvious animal desire pressing above her bum. His hands folded round her hips. "Move with me," he murmured directly in her ear, raising a shiver despite the heat. His hips dipped, rolled upward, taking hers along.

"Draco." She gasped. He repeated the gesture until it felt natural. Narcissa placed a hand atop one of his, slid the other backward around his neck.

"Good, mother." Dragon's breath against her neck. His free hand slid up, over her abdomen and belly to rest just beneath her breasts. "So good..."

When they shifted again it was Narcissa who initiated the maneuver, turning to face him, cup his jaw and watch his eyes. Their hot breath mingled. Her breasts brushed his chest. His hands roamed her dancing form, clutched the linen of her skirt, then boosted her easily when the drums sped again.

She pressed her forehead to her son's, sweat mixing. Wrapped her legs around his waist and again surrendered to the music. Rode his hips and trusted him to support her when he leaned her back. Her fingertips reached for the fire and she'd never felt so free...or so aroused.

And when the drums dropped tempo again, demanded that intimate dance, the Malfoys delivered. Draco slid Narcissa down his body. She staggered slightly when her toes touched ground, but she fell back into their flow soon enough, not even noticing he was moving them away from the fire.

Then her feet felt grass. The coolness of moist forest earth and shadow lent her sense. Momentarily. The sense left again quickly and completely when her back met tree and her son's mouth met hers.

She kissed him back. Stupid with lust. Cut from sanity and infected with fire and drum, her hands danced over his sticky skin and made no move to stop his rucking her skirt. Night air and moonlight cooled her thighs, but just. He was rough with her slip of knickers, tore the lace. "Draco!" She tried - for a second - to remember this was wrong, but the drums - and the sleek, slithering insistence of her son - wouldn't let her.

"I want you so much," he huffed into her neck, hips shimmying off opened trousers.

"I'm already yours!"

"I know." His fingers delved, touched the wet flood from her cunt. His fingers penetrated and she knew she was revealed for the slattern she'd become - her core as hot as the earth's.

She groaned when the fingers moved, curiously explored her desire. Her body woke, wanted and seized. "Now, Draco!" She leapt a little. He caught her with ease, pressed her into bark, urged her legs round his slimness again and -

"Oh, gods!" Their exclamation was shared, a guttural sound of hunger and satiation. Animal and spiritual. Inarguably destined and sanctified in Voodoo rite, they were initiated.

He felt like hard heaven splitting her open and she needed the pain, the pleasure he offered because it suddenly felt like the only thing standing in the way of certain death. And Draco obviously felt a similar urgency. He clutched her head, tangling his fingers in her loose hair and pulling, making her meet his desperate stare.

So she watched his face as he fucked her. Recognized the abandonment in his features and knew that she mirrored it. Because this was addictive - the burn of his cock stroking her over-eagerness, the rough pump of each snake-like thrust stopping her breath, the scratch of bark at her back.

They kept time with the drumbeat. Steadily increasing pace as the tempo built. And as if they knew, the dancers' chants grew louder, almost urging the private dancers hidden in shadow to surrender to the inevitable. Not that Narcissa needed encouragement - powerless to resist the pleasure, she let it roll over her like the river nearby. She heard the rush of it in her ears and felt the wave of it in her cunt as her son surrendered, too.

Her toes cramped. Thighs trembled aftershocks. She burned and quivered in places long numbed, now awakened. Draco lowered her slowly to the ground, pulling his trousers up after depositing her. He caught himself on the tree behind her when his own knees threatened to give. "Oh!" She grabbed him, helped steady him, and he gave her a shaky, satisfied grin. She smiled in return. Caressed his face. "Draco."

He returned the loving touch, cupping her jaw, moving to kiss her. But sudden snickering stopped them. They looked just in time to see Caspar and Felix darting from the forest's edge. Obviously the two Haitian boys had seen something of the Malfoys' amorous antics.

Narcissa worried. But Draco's placid features calmed her. "It's alright," he murmured. "They mean no harm." Again he took her face in his hands. And this time, the only witness to their kiss was the moonlight.

AN: This chapter dedicated as a belated birthday gift to Narcissa's Dragon, who no doubt knew why when the drums kicked in. Thank you for being a friend, prat in the hat.