Draco and Dragon's Blood

He dwelled all day. She'd shooed him from the lab, needing to 'concentrate' on some project. He was a little put out. Took to walking the snowy grounds. For weeks now all they'd had was each other, had needed each other. But now she had this obsession. This thing. Bloody perfuming. Or whatever it was called.

And it was captivating. Mysterious. Powerful. And not magical at all, it seemed. Simple garden flowers. Roots. Leaves and petals and oils and ground up stones… Confounding! How these things - compost - could create the addictive and necessary sin no doubt dabbed delicately on that fragile wrist.

Very clearly he saw those wrists - doll's wrists - wrapped in his own ungainly hands and thrust above her head as he himself thrust above her. He imagined her mouth; pink lips parting on a cry, opening like the flowers she boiled for their fragrance. He imagined the musk of her. Her thighs over his hips. The hot smell of her breath on his face.

He ducked into the greenhouse as though he could hide from his rampant imaginings. Leaned against the green glass door and breathed deeply. "Fuck," he whispered to himself.

She had been here. Recently. The damnable scent lingered. Here, it was at home. Her magic warmed fertile soil. The smell of leaf and bloom loomed. He could not escape. And perhaps, he considered, he didn't want to.

Wandering the rustic tables of the greenhouse he found cuttings. Discarded for whatever reason. He lifted a twine-wrapped tuft of bright green and sniffed. Mint. He squeezed the leaves, heard the stems snap and crush. The aroma became an assailant. The scents assassins to his sense.

His constitutional was not helping his condition. He stuffed the crushed mint into his pocket and made way back to the manor.

She did not appear at tea. He tossed a biscuit to his saucer. Surly.

Nor did she appear at supper. He picked at his salmon. Sullen. The bint. He pushed away from the table so harshly his chair upended. He left it for the elf and hardly noticed the crash. Snatched up a plate and a wine bottle. Enough of this.

The cellar was alight and awash with the most intriguing odor. Draco slowed when he entered it. He couldn't discern if the peculiarly strong warmth emanated from the floo or the fragrance. But closer to her workstations - all flaming, bubbling, diluting or… something - he realised the warmth came from the many burners.

"Mother?"

"What?" She stepped from behind a massive copper vapour chamber and Draco's breath caught.

It was obviously over-warm to her, as well. She'd shed more attire than a summer slag. The thin silk slip was moist with her sweat and had gone sheer in some places. He tried to avoid those places. His lip trembled with the effort. Hand holding her supper shook. "I…" His voice was quite hoarse. He cleared his throat. "I brought you something to eat."

She was too close. He stepped back. She followed, reaching for the plate. "Have I missed supper?"

"Uh…" When she took the plate, his empty hand worked. He had to physically restrain it with his other hand. He longed beyond reason to touch her.

"I'm sorry, darling." She straddled a workbench and set to work on the salmon hungrily. There was only one fork, and even though it was the wrong fork, the witch soldiered on with it. She also drank directly from the bottle of sauvignon blanc.

This was how he could tell she wasn't in her right mind. Well, that and the fact her hair was an absolute mass of shocking curl and frizz. It begged for his fingers. He wandered to the table beside her, studied the copper orb with fascination. "What are you working on? You look…" Fuckable? "...bloody mad."

She was unmoved by his insult. "I'm done." She spoke with her mouthful. Wiped on her arm. "I've made you something."

"Made me something?" His hand stretched of its own accord. His fingertips barely stroked the soft cotton halo of her black/white mane.

"Yes." She turned to him abruptly, flinched when his fingers nearly poked her eye. "It's there." She nodded. "On the table. The red one."

If she noticed his hand retreating guiltily to his pocket, she didn't mention. He looked at the table she indicated. A phial - small and simple - sat waiting. The fluid it contained seemed to swirl, a red Martian dust storm captured in her genie bottle. "This?" He lifted it.

"Yes." He heard her fork drop. Heard her shift on the bench. "Smell it."

He couldn't explain his hesitation other than to say so far her creations had left him sick with incestuous lust and completely brain-addled. He worried her new obsession had made him insane.

She was frozen by anticipation. A glance showed him her glistening chest rising and falling slowly with her measured breaths. Her lips just slightly parted. She was waiting.

So he lifted the glass stopper. The cellar seemed dreadfully quiet, as if even the bubbling and hissing had stopped to witness this moment. The tiny clink of glass releasing glass was deafening.

But the scent released was a symphony. It shut his eyes and brain.

It was iron and fire. The hot earth left beneath the bonfire. The burning cedar Draco loved. It smelled like the blood he knew poured through his veins. Like the passion that flooded his gut and wanted a wrong wild-haired witch. His mouth worked complex compliments but all that emerged was: "That's good, mum."

"Do you really like it?" She took the vial. He opened his eyes to see her maneuvering it. She tugged at his arm. Shoved at his sleeve. Then her finger pressed the scent just inside his elbow. "There's a rather large lot of dragon's blood in it. I wasn't sure how…" She'd brought his arm to her nose and simply - stopped. "Uh."

Draco blinked. He'd never heard such ineloquence from his aristocratically tongued matron. "Mother?" Her warm breaths tempted the fine hairs on his arm, urged the flesh to pimple.

Her nostrils flared. Eyes narrowed. Almost angry, she pushed his arm away. "It's good, yes." She spoke hastily. Turned away in a fluster. "Works...better than I anticipated." She leaned on a nearby table, bare and sticky back facing Draco. "Go upstairs." Her shaky voice bade. "I've more work to do here."

Draco was unsettled by her abruptness. Her entire shift in demeanor. "Mother -"

"I said go!" She snapped. Her tone cracked and she put a hand to her mouth. "Take it and go. Please."

Bloody peculiar. Draco bristled. But she seemed disinclined to his furthered company. He pressed the stopper back into his fragrance and whirled away. Let her rot in her damned lab, the weird bint.

On the stairs he paused. Weird as she was, her dismissal stung. He just wished he understood...both her, and himself.

Narcissa wiped her watery eyes. Took a deep breath. There was rose tincturing, and fig leaf, vetiver and bergamot. But all she could smell was Draco.

How stupid she felt! Such a simple brew. The heavy earthy things that so spoke of Draco's secret self; cedar, fir, patchouli, black pepper, amber, teak and tonka. Cinnamon and cardamom. And the dragon's blood - a scent she'd always equated with magic and mysticism.

Always different in the bottle. So safe. So clinical. It was stupid muggle science in its purest form. Then the skin got involved. And the person inside the skin. A damnable complication. Particularly in this case. Apparently her son heated up base notes like a hellfire.

Had she outscented herself? Had she revealed so much of his secret? That last note had been something she'd not expected. Not something she'd added. Her heart hurt.

Because while she may not have harvested that particular fragrance, she knew it. It had been a ghost in her life for many years - a thing occasionally remembered, then suffering a scolding for the memory. It was a hot shameful note. A hard one to procure.

Lust.

Perhaps she was better at this than she'd given herself credit.

A bit weak-kneed, she sank to a work bench. Was this the oddness she'd felt between them? These last weeks… Draco had seemed so distant, then too close. Or was it her?

Chewing her lip, she looked to the stairs. But again, Draco was gone. She'd sent him away, after all - too terrified of her own creation, her own burgeoning want.

Unacceptable.

A tuft of green caught her eye. Lying on the floor a few feet away. She rose heavily, picked up the foliage. The scent hit before the sight. Mint. She looked at the crumbled leaves curiously. They were warm, oils flowing freely. Fresh from fingers or a pocket.

She looked again to the stairs. Draco. Her son. Dragon's blood lingered in his wake, moved through the mint. Her own fingers tightened on the bundle. Eyes clenched tightly.

The mint emanated brightly. Brought some brand of sense, if an uncommon one. Re-focused for the moment, she opted for distraction, and reached for a cutting board.

It was very late when she finally stumbled - utterly exhausted - to her bed. She'd decided earlier this would be the only way she would sleep. Her mind simply had to be unable to turn any further.

She was sticky with sweat and smelled like everything on earth, but she couldn't be arsed for a bath. That, she could attend to in the morning, along with the letter she intended to write to Sansborough. And the issue with Draco… Well. Perhaps in time, she could attend to that, too.

So she let her filthy slip fall to the floor and climbed naked between her cool sheets. She took her wand from the night table and fired an incendio into her floo. The lab had her overheated, but she knew the night would bring its chill. Out of habit, she lodged her wand beneath feather mattress and flopped into her pillow fortification. Sleep…

But she wasn't sleeping. She was chopping mint. Again. Didn't I do this earlier? And why is it so chilled in the lab? She looked down. Oh! She was naked. Well. That explains the chill, I suppose.

She shrugged. Strangely comfortable preparing her ingredients starkers. So she set up a rhythm with the sharp chopping knife, and looked down at her working fingers.

"Hello, Narcissa!"

"Hm?" She paused, seeking out the tiny voice. "Oh my gods!" Knife clattered to floor and the naked witch stared - stymied - at the little pile of mint that had spoken.

The mint had spoken because its leaves had tiny faces. The furls of frond had formed eyes and mouths and they were...smiling. "Hello," they repeated cheerfully.

"I've gone mad." She muttered.

"No. You're dreaming!" The mint giggled.

"Ohhhhh," Narcissa groaned, rubbing her forehead. "That's even worse. I hate odd dreams."

"Well," the mint reasoned. "You've had worse."

She couldn't argue that logic. "True." She flapped a hand impatiently. "So what's this about then? More regrets from my youth? Another message from beyond from my dead mad sister? Or is it the other sister? How many times do I have to re-visit that regret?" She mostly mumbled to herself, then was struck with a particularly unsavory thought. "This isn't more of the Death Eater stuff is it? I can't take that right now."

"No, silly," the mint answered. "This is about your son! About the incest!" More tinny laughter.

"Oh, that." Narcissa sat on the bench beside the articulate foliage. "I don't really want to talk about that, either."

"Oh, come ooooon!" The mint cajoled. "We have a sooooong about it!"

"A song?!" Narcissa looked stricken. "Please gods, not a song…"

But the mint had been practicing, apparently, and would not allow its talent to languish. With a quick tuning of mi-mi-mi-miiiiiiii, it sang:

Sometimes a mother has to take a little lover

Sometimes her lover is a gift from his father

And sometimes there can simply be no other

Fighting what you feel can make you utterly ill

So why would you even bother?

The song was dreadful. The singing itself was worse. Narcissa laid her head on the table, looking away from the mint. Waiting for the dream to end...or at least the song.

You have to let him stroke you (stroke you)

like a silky lap bitch

Let him suck you (suck you)

like a raw oyster from its sheeeee-eeell!

That was enough. "Alright, that's quite enough," Narcissa announced, sitting up.

Let him fuck you (fuck you)

because he'll do it weeeeeee-eeeell!

She was scandalised. "I said that's enough!" She shouted at the mint, flushing with anger and...something else.

Just tell him not to stop (don't stop)

when he pins you to the wall with his cock (with his cock)!

"That's it!" She slapped desperate hands over the leaves, muffling their song. "You filthy little pile of shit. I'll -"

"Mum?"

She froze. Eyes bulging. The dream had turned to nightmare. "Draco?"

"Yes."

"You're behind me."

"Yes."

"Am I still dreaming?"

"Yes."

"Did you hear the mint singing?"

"I think so."

"Oh dear gods."

"Mother. Why are you naked?"

She squeezed her eyes closed, praying for this mad dream to end. "I'm not really certain."

"Hm." Then there were cool hands on her bare arse. They rubbed up and over soft flesh, cupping, til they took hold of her hips. "Convenient." The smell of hot dragon's blood enveloped her. She felt him press to her back, his lips insistent on her neck.

"Oh, Draco…" She surrendered. The mint giggled beneath her flexing fingers…

And she woke on a gasp.

"Ah!" She shot upright in her bed. Panting. Her fire had died to barely a crackle and grey morning light was cold. "Mint bastard," she whispered.

She felt hair dried to the side of her face and neck. "Disgusting." She pushed a hand into the tangled mass of frizz and stopped short. The hand smelled fiercely of mint. "Aaargh!" The witch hurled her duvet away and made naked and cold for her lavatory. A bath. Before anything else this damned day - a bath.

AN: Narcissa's fragrance for Draco (how disturbingly like a Nicholas Sparks book title is that?) is based strongly on the lovely HiM by Hanae Mori. A delicious woodsy, spicy, sweet and all around fucking addictive sex-in-a-bottle smell that makes me think about smut. The mint's singular serenade is by...me. Hope you enjoyed it. Next chapter is minty fresh.