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Balaur	By : T-W-O Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 25216 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 3
Disclaimer: I own nothing of HP nor do I profit in any way from these missives. I almost own the laptop I'm writing this fanfic on, tho'.

Chapter List
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- 12
Seconds after his release, Draco and Kreacher appeared in Hermione’s bedroom to a scene he never wanted to see again in life.

Her belly shook as rock-sized lumps moved across it. Trapped by their son’s panic attack, Hermione howled in pain and begged the baby to forgive her for forcing his father away — which only increased Bali’s kicks and protest. The assault left ugly bruises over a third of her body and thin cuts where his magic burned and stung her. Around the bed, Molly and Narcissa fought the child’s magical shield to place cooling gels and healing salve on her injuries with no significant success. Helplessly, Healer Armstrong flanked Midwife Ivona wearing the same horrified expressions at the sight of child magic gone berserk.

Sprinting to her bedside, Draco seethed in anger at the actions leading to this moment. Without Ronald-the-Bully’s revenge play he’d have been here for her hours ago. And Potter needed to get smarter faster the next time or, Draco was sure, Hermione would suffer some unnecessary hurt. Without his own violations of her, the tiny tantrum-maker mauling her this minute would not exist; of course, given the circumstances and Fenrir, the same fate would almost certainly have been true for Hermione.

The world should have seen her as the hero she was to him, defending a world she often had only a toehold in. She should have been off with Weasley revamping the Ministry’s antiquated pure-blood preference laws in between squatting every year to drop another ginger half-idiot into whatever hovel Weaselbee could manage for them. Deserving of so much more from those who benefitted daily from Voldemort’s demise — including himself and his parents, she’d have made the best of the situation and found contentedness with the underachieving Weasley.

Instead, she’d taken stock and tried to make her way as a diploma-less single mother: once more in a world she hadn’t prepared to be part of.

In all those weeks together, both before and after Bali’s conception, that’s what he’d figured out: Hermione excelled at making the best of situations — good and bad — and did so without the petulant bitterness or perpetual self-pity Draco used to express his “Woe is me!” dissatisfaction with the status quo.

His attention to her increased third year at Hogwarts when he’d noticed her pluck and resilience. During the long nights of unrelenting erections in his early adolescence (the nights before the girls decided to visit the boys and attend to their own “needs” together) he’d emptied himself more than once to the ghost sight of her riding him or the imagined whisper of “Draco…” in his ear as she released beneath him and gave him permission to follow.

When he’d begged her at the Manor to let him show her what their coming together should’ve been, she’d consented for his sake. And he’d loved her as no one else would, having learned her body so well when trying his damnedest not to harm her more than necessary.

A more determined Draco decided then and there to tell her the truth about his son and heir. Bali was neither a shameful nor unwanted result from a poignant act of love between them. He was, however, a very frightened baby — a born empathic Legilimens (an extremely rare magical mutation, by Dumbledore’s later reckoning) — who desperately demanded the unconditional love of both his parents for himself and for each other. What they “felt”, the child felt: without the shielding of experiences to protect his outsized heart.

“Leave! Now! I’ll handle this!”

Small signs of relief and satisfaction broke through Molly’s expression of concern. The mother of seven children suspected more about the magic her adopted grandson displayed than she’d let on to his family (thanks to deep conversations with dead people’s portraits in old castles). Only under unusual circumstances and special joining would a child with Bali’s prodigious gifts be conceived, according to Dumbledore.

“Let’s give them some privacy,” Molly suggested while bustling Charlie, Vlad and an unsettled Lucius Malfoy towards the bedroom door. Narcissa followed with the healers flanking her.

Each step closer by Draco slowed the assault on Hermione’s exhausted body in tiny amounts.

“We’ll be downstairs if you need anything,” Molly informed the young father as she corralled the lot away from the family. Kreacher, never comfortable in mawkish situations, popped into the nursery, snapping his fingers to close the door behind him.

Without a word Draco stripped to his boxers and climbed into bed behind her, as they’d slept that single time it had been her choice.

“Imi pare rau, Balaur; -ul pa-pa este rău…” he cooed, stroking her belly to calm all of them, “Taci, băiete blând. Te doare mama ta. Ea te iubește, fiule. Vă rugăm să opriți rănești. Nu e folosit pentru a Malfoy comportamentul neadecvat [I’m sorry, Balaur; your pa-pa is sorry… Hush, gentle dragon. You’re hurting your mother. She loves you, son. Please stop hurting her. She’s not used to Malfoy misbehavior] —”

A tiny scoff interrupted the hitched sobs that quieted as the baby did.

“De ce crezi amândoi mă răni, Draco [Why do you both hurt me, Draco]?”
“Because you keep running away from us — pushing us away. We’re both pissed about it and we’re both tired of it,” he answered in English.

Larger circles of his hand lightly skimmed the low curve of her fuller breasts and just below the elastic in the waistband her maternity panties.

“I’m not ‘running’ anywhere — I can’t! I have a baby to care for!”
“I’d have thought — sh-sh-sh, Balaur” he crooned as the child reacted to Hermione’s loveless statement of obligation.
“If that’s how you feel about him, give him to me.”
“I bloody well WON’T!”
“Why not? If all you feel is the burden because you’re carrying him, then give him to me. I’ll love him.”
“You don’t know the meaning of the word ‘love’!”

— and she struggled to escape his arm, which never broke its soothing rhythm despite her movements.

“I may be a fucked up mess, but I know who I love, Hermione. I love our son. I love my parents — whose bloody mistakes are why we’re even having this conversation. And I’ve come to care for you. Balaur knows this. You’re too much of a swot not to realize he wants us together. Damnedest thing Armstrong’s ever seen, but there it is.”
“Draco — we don’t have a — AHHH!”

The pain struck before she could once again deny their relationship.

“He’s hurting you because you’re hurting him, you know.”

That brought her protests to a halt.

“He senses you don’t love him, Hermione. Not completely.”
“I do love… him. I’m scared for him.”
“Scared that if he looks like me you won’t love him? Or scared he’ll always remind you of the rapes?”

Truth turned her on her back to stare at him like a trapped fox during a hunt.

“Let me correct your first genius mistake, Granger. He’s not the product of my raping you. See this?” he asked as held held up the hand rubbing her stomach.

Overwrought and overwhelmed, she merely nodded.

“That ‘Malfoy heir indicator’ wasn’t there during or after the Battle of Hogwarts. You should know; you put Dittany on the cut on my hand yourself when I got back to the Manor. Did you see it? Would you like to use the pensieve to enhance your recall?”

Beneath his hand, the baby stilled.

“I saw your memories, Draco! Your mother brought them here and I saw them!”
“But you never saw that one, did you? Because Mother collected those while I was unconscious — passed-out drunk because the one time I tried to care for you — love you — I got a child on you and only remembered that little insult when sober. Not quite a fair exchange for the gifts you’ve given me, was it? I meant what I said: I’ll never regret our son or that you’re his mother. I think it rather an advantage for him and for me.”

That look she gave him brought it all back — the capture, the violations and the losses. Having had extensive practice dealing with her dread, Draco dove into the torrential terror she floundered in.

“So let’s deal with your real fears. First, you need to stop worrying that you won’t be able to love our son if he resembles me — and he will resemble me a great deal; already does if that temper is any indication.”

His hand, the one sporting the notice that an heir’s arrival was imminent, regained it patterns across her abdomen. Bali’s quiet continued while Draco labored to make things right for them all.

“You’ll love him because that’s who you are. You forgave me, Hermione. The coward who forced himself on you again and —”
“Draco — stop! Your mother and I —”
“SEE? There it is! You get angry but honest hatred just isn’t in your nature. That clockwork calculating machine in your head is controlled by your heart. You’ve never held it against me that I chose rape as the only way to save Mother or you. You’ve done everything you could to make this easier on me.”

Instinctively his hand palmed even larger circles on her that now encompassed more of the swollen breasts and ducked well beneath the waist of her “pantaloons”.

“Where did you go?”

The non sequitur caught him off guard.

“Go???…”
“When you left after our… Where did you go — and why,” she added after taking her first good look at him, “are you covered in burns, cuts and bruises? Were you fighting?”
“I went to the Leaky — the private drinking room — where Looney Longbottom promptly sent me home to my pregnant partner. As to the bruises, let’s just say I ran into a bludger between the Leaky and the apparation point.”
“Did the bludger have red hair?”
“And brown and black and possibly a blonde — but that looked more like a glamour spell.“
“They ATTACKED you!?”
“Granger, we’ve got enough to work through without a rehash of one of my less than stellar magical moments. If you want details, ask Potter tomorrow. Would apologizing for leaving in the first place speed our getting back on track?”

Underneath his father’s broad palm, Bali finally dropped into an exhausted drowsiness leading to sleep.

“It wasn’t all your fault, Draco. Don’t think I don’t realize that that particular topic makes you angry.”
“Murderously so. I’m a Slytherin for a reason. Have I EVER lied to you or broken my word to you since my half-hearted attempt to kill Dumbledore?”
“No…”

Soft words left room in her confused brain to acknowledge that he’d done nothing but protect her (in his own violating way) since the snatchers captured the trio the first time.

“Then why in Merlin’s name will you not accept the fact that I’m not GOING anywhere!?”
“I’ve told you why! The Malfoys can’t have a half-blood bastard as an heir!”

Quietly he slipped that hand inside her bloomers to rub the lower half of a very distended tummy.

“I’ve been reading your histories of muggle Britain. Seems the — ‘royals’ you call them? Seems they place a great deal of stock in bloodlines, inheritance and proper breeding — similar to pure-bloods.”
“What’s that got to do with —”
“Too many gingers and too many blondes, Granger.”
“What???…”
“The paintings. Inheritance says that gingers and blondes come from gingers and blondes unless magic’s involved. There are too many gingers and blondes in the history of royal muggle Britain.”
“Meaning?”
“So you’re not a genius after all?” he teased, “Meaning more than a few children conceived out of wedlock have inherited royal titles. And royal Britain survived.”

Even baby brain couldn’t delay the realization that he was right. No family on Earth was pure by any of the definitions they held dear.

“Were we to return to Britain, after a suitable time of your choosing, married and with Bali — the world, the Malfoys and the Blacks would go on. In fact, it’s more likely I would be harassed than you. You are, after all, the true ‘saviour’ of the British wizarding world. Potter may have had the scar and the soul ‘sliver’ but you had the brains.”
“So you’re saying?…”
“I’m not going anywhere, Hermione, because I don’t have to! Balaur’s magic proves he’s my heir. I don’t care one wit about his so-called heritage except that he’s yours — the son of the witch that saved the world from becoming a very dark place! What better pedigree could the next Malfoy heir have!?”
“Just another manipulative transaction to you…”
“Isn’t that what you’d prefer? You’ve made it painfully clear you have no desire to explore my feelings for you — or yours for me.”
“Gods! I must be completely mental having this conversation with the man who spent weeks raping me whilst I was held hostage in his dungeons.”
“I would have freed you if I could’ve done so safely…”

The roving hand tickled the thick thatch poking out in wild strands between her softened thighs and that gigantic belly. Slow, rhythmic ripples across her expanse communicated their son’s blissful sleep.

“I won’t leave you and I won’t let you goad me into going away again — not at the risk of another other-worldly encounter with your lunatic barmaid friend. Is that clear enough?”

Had Hermione’s head come with an opening, the gears turning inside would have made audible “clicks” with a rapid meter.

“How do I know I’m not feeling dependent on you because I’m terrified of dealing with this — the baby, my life here, some way to support the two of us, and you — alone!? What if I do come to hate you when life settles?”
“Afraid you might have feelings for the Death Eater?”

Little feet slowly started up again, swishing through the cushioning fluid they floated in.

“I don’t know what I feel…”
“And that’s your most pressing issue. You’re not in control of this. You're afraid you might actually care for me and it doesn’t make sense in that excessively busy brain of yours. You’ve finally out-thought yourself — you forgave me and then got to know me and I’m not as bad as you expected.”
“It’s pregnancy hormones…” she lied to them both.
“It’s more than that. But even if it were hormones, don’t we deserve time together to figure it out? To heal together? Why do you insist on disbelieving that I care for you? And for the record? I do. Have for some time.”

Everything in the room took on a fuzzy patina as Draco’s fingers tugged her thighs apart and combed through the curly covering he found there, grazing parts of her he’d long since memorized.

“Make me prove it to you, Hermione. Force me to show you and Bali every day that you matter to me… That I’ve grown up and realized that nothing I’d been taught was enough to defeat the brightest witch in Britain…”

She considered the genuine risk to Bali of being emotionally mishandled by an off-kilter maternal casualty of the “Second Wizarding War”. Comparing herself with her parenting partner, Draco’s head start on dealing with the war made her own progress difficult to see.

“I can’t be with you that way… yet,” and his hand immediately returned north to more platonic climes.
“I only wanted to help you relax.”
“That would do it, alright,” she chuckled through her exhaustion.
“You have an interesting sense of humor, Granger. When you’re ready, I’ll be here. Can you manage not to wake our little dragon while I grovel with Charlie and Vlad for a room?”

A yawn obliterated her answer.

“I promise to be quick.”

Tenderly he covered her using his own hands (and not magic) before placing his lips to her forehead for a long moment.

Since the war gained intensity, and she’d helped Harry win but lost everything of value to her — her parents, her future, her virginity, her youth and her fearlessness, the reality of her new life intruded in ways that interfered with restoration. In the moment, Hermione promised herself to return to her (updated) original life plan from the time when she’d naively thought victory could happen without losses so great.

“I’ll be here…” came sleepily from her drowsy mouth as she drifted off.
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- 12
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Balaur