Pride of the Dragon

Narcissa Malfoy leaned over her young son, observing for perhaps the fifteenth time the way the pale blond sheet of hair tumbled into pale grey eyes, the way the nose turned up just so at the end, the way the mouth was pretty and pouting and beautiful... Her son was beautiful.

She knew, now, why the women who married Malfoys never had more than one child. It wasn't because they didn't like their husbands, as so many asserted, or because they didn't want a multitude of children clamoring about their knees... It was because their children were too beautiful to even consider having another one. Surely nothing could be this perfect... Narcissa knew that this would always be her baby, for as long as she lived. Any other child would necessarily be less favored.

Yet surely any other child would be just as beautiful as this one? Especially a girl... she couldn't bear to take the time and attention away from any child of hers.

The young master Malfoy giggled, and Narcissa smiled. Had she seen herself in a mirror, she would have seen the soft look in her eyes, and been aware of the way it made her face shine. She would have seen the kindness implicit in the smile, and known that it made her look like an angel. And when she picked the child up, she would have known that she looked like the most idealistic "Madonna with the Christ Child" that ever a painter made.

She didn't have a mirror, and so saw none of that.

She did not see that her body softened into a shrine of motherhood when the infant Malfoy was on her hip. She did not see that her hair, pooling as it was over her sons body, looked like the spun gold of the Miller's daughter, so horridly tricked by Rumplestiltskin. She did not see that there was a motherly glow to her that no man, vows of chastity or holiness aside, could possible have resisted. In short, she had no idea that she was as beautiful as a Goddess.

She cooed at her son, and placed him again in his cradle, then went upstairs to change. She was, after all, an implicit part of his Christening, and she had to look her best.

Golden hair, blue eyes, and clear skin... what ever should she wear? Blue robes, the same periwinkle as her eyes, she chose, and aurum bangles for her ears and neck, wrists and fingers. Beneath her robes a gown of lace, with cuffs of embroidery so intricate as to make it seem that it was truly a solid fabric. All was of satin, of course, except for the heavy belt, so traditional at these, which was of velvet. How ironic, that the traditional Malfoy garb for the mother at a Christening was a long, long belt, which in olden times implied great chastity... Sapphires lined her throat, as well, and glistened from golden settings on her fingers.

White, gold, and blue... all was of those colors.

Now what did that remind her of...?

Her son, nameless still but not for long, would be wearing pure white clothing, which when he received his name would turn a dark green. Her clothing was carefully chosen to match, but not match, his.

Again, a faint hint of a familiar thought... what ever was she being reminded of...?

There was a tradition in her family, a tradition that Lucius had fought, long and hard, against having continued in his ceremony. On all else, Narcissa had given in; on this she remained firm. The child's name would be chosen by her and her alone, and no sooner than the moment when she had entered the Christening chamber.

Yet, it was important to have all that she knew of the child in her mind as she chose the name. She must consider carefully all her experiences with the giggling burden in the nursery below, holding all in the front of her mind as she entered the chamber - after all, it wouldn't do for her to choose a name inappropriate to her child, would it? Equally unacceptable was a failure to create a suitable name before she was asked for it. No, all her thought must be bent to finding a name as soon as she entered, and when she had found it, she must bend all her thought to remembering it.

With this in mind, she walked, slowly, back down the stairs, entering her as-yet unnamable child's bedchamber. The sashes of his cradle, elegantly created, hung in pale perfection, and the pewter supports gleamed coldly in the dim light.

Something caught in Narcissa's throat and she stared at the scene before her, seized by the sudden conviction that she would find nothing there. Surely that was ridiculous - it must be! - but nevertheless, she had to force herself to take a step towards the cradle.

And another.

And another.

Her son's smiling, gurgling face beamed up at her, and she breathed a sigh of relief before picking him up.

~~~~~~~

It was considered, in the Malfoy family and in her own, to be a bad sign when the child gurgled in the way to the Christening chamber, before the Holy Water was poured on its head. It was considered a sign that the sin in the child was strong, and that the demon in the child knew what was coming and wished to avoid it.

It was with considerable apprehension that Narcissa carried her wailing child down the hallway. He cried, and he gibbered, and he implored her in every way given to his feeble body, not to be taken down this hall.

Narcissa closed her eyes, and prayed. Prayed that the child would be silent - still he wailed - prayed that the child would not embarrass her - still he wailed - prayed that the child would at least gain the pride to know that he was embarrassing himself!

And as she entered the Christening Chamber, her as-yet-unnamed son was, instantly, silent.

How odd! said Narcissa to herself. How peculiar! Well, at the very least she would know this of her child: he would have the pride inherent in the Malfoy name. That, at least, would ring true.

Ah, but would he know the proper places to cry during the ceremony? Not as he entered the chamber, no, nor as the priest said the Benediction. Nor as the gifts were given unto him, even as they were the Christ child long ago - how horrid, to cry as one is given presents! Such dreadful bad manners. But when the Holy Water was poured over his head, when the Demon was supposed to be driven out - would her child cry there?

Would he?

He did not.

Did his Demon not depart, not cause her child the pain of separation? Was the Holy Water not, in fact, Holy? Or was her child simply too stoic to admit to that pain? Did he understand, even now, that at certain occasions, it is better to sacrifice manners than the appearance of strength?

Or was it, perhaps, that her child simply did not know that he was supposed to cry when he was in pain?

Her son had not the pride of the Phoenix - he had not the knowledge of self that made possible that beautiful grace, nor had he the strength of bearing the made the release of tears not only acceptable, but admirable.

Had he, perhaps, the pride of the Dragons? The pride that made them bellow only in anger, not when in pain? That made them cry only falsely, when tempting victims, and never when hurt? The pride that was as much a weapon as any true ability to inflict pain?

All this Narcissa thought of, as - looking for all the world like Mary, Mother of God, holding a babe who would eventually act as if he thought that was who she was; gold hair glistening, earbobs gleaming gold; blue eyes sparkling, neck glinting blue; white skin radiant, wrists glowing with pristine lace; acting every inch the queen she appeared to be - she stepped slowly in front of the Christening Altar. And when she was asked what she would name her child - and he was her child, and would always be her child, sharing a beauty, a capacity for joy, and a hidden moments of softness in relationship to the other whose root could only be found in her - she replied, without hesitation, "Draco..."

"... for he has the Pride of Dragons."

~~~~~~~

~finis~