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In Fond Remembrance	By : T-W-O Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 22794 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to the very witty and very rich JK Rowling. I do not make any make any money - from this story. I do own the computer this was typed on.

Chapter List
- 14
- 15
- 16
At the six week point, Lucius morphed into Head Case #1.

Days, evenings and nights the hysterical (and overly-dramatic) Malfoy head wandered the Manor expressing his love to the vases, tapestries, textured wallpaper, candle nooks and other inanimate objects he would have to abandon when they lost the estate. Narcissa spent major portions of every day bent over Lucius’ desk as he worked out his fear of being homeless and destitute while embedded deep inside her.

Lyra, observant child that she was, asked Rachel why her Pépé Luc didn’t come to play with her at the cottage anymore.

In between sexual marathons with her mentally deranged husband, Narcissa made carefully timed — and Slytherin subtle — inquiries about Hermione’s progress, never failing to add healthy doses of confidence that all would resolve itself to the Malfoy’s benefit. This unrealistic optimism did not stop the Malfoy matriarch from placing key assets from the Manor in her Black family vault at Gringott’s in the hope that the protections placed on the vault by her seriously psychotic and murdering sister, Bellatrix, would shield the assets from collection by Astoria and the Greengrass family.

Observing Narcissa in the dining room packing the china set they’d eaten from not ten minutes earlier, Hermione couldn’t fault the women for having a backup plan.

Shortly thereafter Hermione’s lover assumed the role of Head Case #2.

Draco vacillated between helpfulness and helplessness, interspersed with a lot of sexual healing. Hermione allowed him full access to her, stopping whatever she was doing to soothe him in the only manner that worked. For a full week, Draco Malfoy functioned as normally as one could when they expected to be a penniless vagrant very shortly.

Hell’s fury didn’t break loose until Hermione banished Draco from their suite and from the library for two whole weeks.

With nothing but preparation to be managed, Hermione set her course.

Unwilling to place all her eggs (literally) in one basket, Hermione tapped George Weasley for potions assistance. After explaining her predicament, George agreed to do anything to help Lyra become a big sister. Hermione’d come away from Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes with a box loaded with helpful liquids and magical instructions to ensure she didn’t make an error.

Hermione also visited Dr. Saffron’s office, pleading with the physician’s aide for the next level of intervention. Despite his misgivings, the compassionate assistant prescribed 13 hypodermics of one medication, 13 hypodermics of a different medication and two hypodermics to take between the series.

While Hermione managed the impending crisis, Narcissa managed Hermione.

Nutritious meals and snacks arrived, charmed to ensure Hermione actually ate them. No slouch in the spell department herself and far more skilled in the use of house elves, Narcissa kept close tabs on her daughter-in-law (in all but name), adjusting the young witch’s choices and instructions to keep her on her feet but ready to conceive.

When Hermione requested Narcissa and Lucius take Lyra away for a four-day holiday, Narcissa understood enough of Hermione’s plan to agree unreservedly and to promise Lucius time with the bondage equipment in the dungeons of their home in the Loire valley if he left her alone long enough to pack and retrieve their granddaughter for the trip.

During these last weeks before the hearing, Hermione prepared the venue where the fight for the Malfoy legacy would be staged.

She set wards, with Narcissa’s assistance, to prevent any male from entering her suite or the private library without her express permission. When they were done, Hermione, Narcissa, Lyra, Rachel and the house elves could enter; Draco and Lucius could not. Anticipating a tantrum when her wizard realized he’d be celibate, mother and mate padded the access points and attached soft fabric to the walls to keep Draco from hurting himself.

Their precautions were justified: the young heir destroyed everything in his path when he discovered he’d been placed back on a “sex diet”. Worse — no amount of stimulation (self-initiated) brought arousal or release. His cock mourned the loss of Hermione by playing dead; his balls loaded up in sympathy. Overnight Draco found himself trapped in a world of déjà vu where every day relived his sex non-life with Astoria.

Inside her fortress, Hermione refined her hypothesis with the benefit of 90 generations of Malfoys — not that some ground rules weren’t required. The necessary portraits dating from the 1700’s onward required convincing to cooperate: Hermione approached the reluctant canvases in a friendly manner with a welder’s torch and threatened to send them to the Veil in a ring of flames. In a day or two she had almost everyone’s cooperation.

The difference in responses from the older portraits, compared to the more recent, supported a hunch she’d formed since reading the Malfoy history Lyra’d helped her with. The eldest of the Malfoy ancestors worked tirelessly (given they were dead and in portraits) to assist her while the others were pure Malfoy…

“Abomination! Revealing the family secrets to this unnatural creature, this… MUDBLOOD!”

The shrieking shrew was none other than Morella Malfoy, Draco’s paternal grandmother and Abraxas the Purist Jackass’ wife. Nearly every portrait painted in the last 200+ years muttered in agreement with Morella’s castigation.

“Abraxas! Deal with that mouthy harlot of yours! ’Tis no time for your shite — the lass will save our line and keep us from the fires!”

If the Ministry emptied the Manor for Astoria, the battle waged by the Malfoy portraits in their ancestral home would rival the war against Voldemort. Unlike most death portraits, Malfoy portraits retained the ability to cast some vicious spells into the living world. Two millennia of wild, raw or dark magic would assault the aurors — including Hermione’s best friend Harry Potter and her ex-husband Ronald Weasley. To gain the upper hand, the Ministry would burn the library, consuming dead Malfoys and a priceless treasury of rare books in the magical flames.

“I would burn before seeing her vomit more filth from her accursed and polluted womb. You would have served the family better to consider your own choice, Aloysius. My wife speaks truth.”

Hermione felt sympathy for Lucius; with parents like these two he hadn’t a choice of turning into a purist prat. But for the fact that the bonding ritual required their “presence” (if not their cooperation) she’d have torched all but one of Abraxas and Morella’s paintings and placed the last in the attic in perpetuity.

“So ye defend that magpie ye bedded against blood, do ye?” Aloysius growled in low country dialect, “Then prepare for a lesson, ye ignorant whelp — I’ll teach ye to respect your elders.”

In a scene reminiscent of the Weasleys at holidays, a virile and enraged Aloysius Malfoy barreled through the portraits on a direct path to his descendant’s hanging place, murder flaming in his slate grey eyes.

“That ‘lady’ of Abraxas' could use another ‘conversation’ on speaking ill of my kin,” Lilith informed Hermione before lifting her skirts to assist Aloysius.

What followed had Hermione shaking with laughter on the divan.

Abraxas’ confidence lasted until he realized his sympathetic pure-blood ancestors had abandoned their own painted homes lest Aloysius stop off to “educate” and “discipline” them as well. Unlike the more recent dead, the eldest Malfoy portraits were painted in their robust youth and not their elder statesman periods: Aloysius had 30+ years of youth and strength on his side.

For ten full minutes furniture crashed and Malfoy ancestors either laughed (those dead over 300 years), yelled, screamed or begged to be spared as Aloysius made his way towards his unrepentant great-whatever grandson.

In the opposite direction came Lilith, her country-born determination evident as she stared down generations of her children to force their capitulation while she made her way to Morella. Ignorant of the violence headed her way, Morella continued to spew venom at Hermione and Lyra.

“I have seen her in the Manor, that Malfoy bastard with her dirty blood. How in Merlin’s name she came to look so much — LILITH!! By Merlin’s beard STOP!! I only speak —”

The seventh child — and only daughter — of a seventh son, Lilith knew a fair bit about fisticuffs. The traditional open-handed slap of pure-blood “ladies” was not in evidence; Lilith hauled back her fists and let loose a left-right combination that sent Morella backwards out of her own portrait and into the back of Abraxas. It couldn’t have happened at a worse time for Abraxas.

Disbelieving that any Malfoy would side with a blood interloper over family, Abraxas stood his ground whilst explaining again why Malfoy blood must be saved from contamination. Thus he paid no heed to the well-timed assault by Lilith or its outcome — Morella spinning and stumbling out of control behind him. When she landed against Abraxas in his portrait, he’d not prepared himself and fell forward into the meaty fist of a Malfoy who’d worked with his hands and his head to build an empire. Aloysius’ punch rocked the younger-but-older dead Malfoy’s head back and laid Abraxas out, like the corpse he was, at the bottom of his framed enclosure.

“Any others to speak against your elders and betters!?” the Malfoy progenitor roared as his own wife made her way to him, stepping none to carefully over a dazed Morella and an unconscious Abraxas.

About 20% of the portraits emptied in seconds for safer locations in the Manor…

In the weeks between the plan and its execution, no one in the Malfoy household escaped the stress —

Each day of the two-week sexual hiatus, Hermione swallowed the correct potion, injected herself with the right syringe and refined her plan for the day when her dragon would be admitted to the lair she’d prepared for them both.

Each day Lucius Malfoy shed tears of frustration for the suffering of his most precious child. When his son could no longer do so, Lucius patiently tended a distraught Draco, unwashed and uncaring so long as Hermione shut him out — feeding the man-child as he’d done forever ago when Draco worshiped his father unconditionally.

Each day Draco howled and brayed at the walls outside their suite — breaking nails as he clawed at the shields, scraping knuckles when he punched the unyielding plaster, bruising his forehead as he beat it against the door while sobbing lamentations and apologies for whatever he’d done to cause Hermione to abandon him.

Each day Narcissa Malfoy secreted her own emotions and cared for her family — soothing her perceptive grand-daughter who missed her mother and feared for her father, comforting Lucius who blamed himself for not dealing with the inheritance issue after the heartrending loss of each unborn child and supporting Draco who drowned in loneliness and longing for his mate.

Each day Hermione cried, missing her Dragon with a pain that nearly incapacitated her —

— and each day the unrelenting ache confirmed to her that her choices for them both were correct.

____________________

Two nights before Hermione’s only option, considerable argument still remained about the best choices…

“Do you agree, Aloysius?”

“Aye, Hermione… Lilith’s put a finger to it. Hadn’t considered that one of my heirs would bond with someone they couldn’a marry.”
“Forgive my Aly, daughter; I’d been at the stubborn goat on my deathbed to modify that charm. No man can tell what fools his kin and kith may be come the future.”
“Will you accept my apology, lass? I ne’er meant to lay this strife on you.”

Tears welled in the eyes of the Malfoy responsible for their present predicament.

“Ancient father,” Humfray Malfoy, a more recent heir, addressed to Aloysius, “’tis my fault as well. When my son, young Cuthbert, advised that our blood should be protected from those who were unacceptable, I let myself be swayed.”

With that admission Hermione now had a name to give to the git who turned the Malfoys into blood purists. Fortunately for Cuthbert, he’d called Hermione “impure and ignorant” one time too many and she’d banished him to the attic days ago (and thus he avoided being burned to a dead crisp). As Abraxas and Morella would witness the event, they sat — bound and gagged — in their portraits until needed.

“Not a brain in that blonde head of yours, as I oft warned your father! I birthed you but I’ll never understand Xandrius’ reasoning for placing the burden of the legacy on you when any of your brothers would better serve. Did you not read that diary you wrote in every day?” his mother, Druscilla Malfoy, asked in weary frustration from her painted throne.

Xandrius Malfoy, Humfray’s missing father, had been permanently “deceased” by Astoria. Objecting to his comments concerning her lack of an heir — Druscilla having had five tow-head sons by her 21st birthday, Astoria lit a bonfire of the vanities using Xandrius’ portraits for fuel (and turning Druscilla into one of the few true Malfoy widows).

Had Hermione had more time, she’d have researched Xandrius’ low intelligence.

“Mother,” Humfray answered, “my role in this miscarriage of intent is clear and I would relive my own death if it would put all to rights; but I cannot and it will not.”

Nothing would be gained by flogging the dead Malfoy idiot so the kindly Gryffidor sought to soothe his genuine guilt for his part in her disaster.

“I appreciate your offer, Humfray. Getting back to the problem — we have two issues here: Draco and I are bonded by the Malfoy magic but we’re not married. Because of that, Draco’s having trouble producing an heir of either sex.”

“That sums it quite well,” Mariell Malfoy, a petite auburn-haired beauty, a few generations older than Humfray, confirmed.
“You’ll have to overcome that to get a baby. Draco cannae produce a male heir until his magic can claim you outright and you him.”
“Based on what you’ve told me and what I’ve read, I’m planning for Beltaine.”
“Would be a right fine day, it would.” Gwynddh Malfoy agreed. The resident expert in producing Malfoy heirs, she currently held the record for the most Malfoy progeny at 22 live births.
“Not day, lass; night. Beltaine night. At midnight, the start of the magical day.” Aloysius corrected.

Hermione’s brow furrowed at Aloysius Malfoy’s quizzical correction.

“Ye cannot marry yet, child; his marriage vows will prevent it. But ye must bond and you’ll need powerful help to do so. Not for the legacy, but for love of your man; half a bond — a bond of obligation or pity — will weaken him with time.”

Great. Now Draco’s well-being depended on her cracking the last of this pure-blood puzzle. If they survived this mess, the Hermione in the memory vowed, Draco would become her personal house elf for three lifetimes.

“Do you love him, daughter?” Lilith asked quietly.

What a question…

Did she love him?…

She’d co-opted her business for him; let him barge his way to head of her household; broken her pledges to never return to Malfoy Manor, never let Lyra near her Death Eater grandparents and never live in anyplace where she’d been tortured.

Did she love him?…

She’d given him a daughter. She’d fought (like a spouse) to save his birthright and his fertility. She’d moved beyond most of her own prejudices about pure-bloods and their families thanks to the dead people in this room. She’d sacrificed her own desires to serve his future, compelled to protect him by something more than her abhorrence of injustice or her Gryffindor propensity to run towards danger.

“Yes… I love him…”

“Never doubted, daughter, but it’s important to tell him.”

A true Malfoy, Aloysius interrupted the moment of sentimentality between his wife and their newest family member-to-be.

“The bond magic will strengthen for three nights, starting at the stroke of Beltaine. Your blood will summon the help you’ll need. ’Tis the season of renewal.” Aloysius explained.

“And now we have it — my eldest sire has just handed the kingdom to a mudblood!”

Johannus Malfoy (necessary to the plan as ten generations must witness the ceremony and he represented the most “tolerable" of his generation) managed to incite that hair-trigger temper Hermione’d witnessed in Draco and Lucius.

“Daughter,” Aloysius inquired of the Gryffindor, “might I borrow that joining torch? I’m sure one of my kin in the attic will gladly replace this cur.”

The cowardly Johannus — who shook in terror at Aloysius’ threat — reminded Hermione of no one so much as Lucius.

“Calm yourself, husband, or we’ll be too busy soothing your temper together to help our Hermione,” the mother of all Malfoys smirked at her still livid husband.

“I will follow your counsel, witch, if you promise to care for me when we’re done. Skin’s afire in all these clothes.”
“Have I not always cared for you — even with a belly ripe to popping?”

So that’s the source of the smirk and that Malfoy sex drive…

“Don’t tease, wench, or my desire will overcome my sense. ’Tis what I rerget most about dyin’, your belly full to bursting at my doin’,” the old young man chuckled.

Hermione's humor vanished as her subconscious worked through a last important discovery.

Abraxas’ scathing words — “You would have served the family better to consider your own choice, Aloysius.”…

“Lilith — you’re muggle-born!?”

Confusion replaced the sensual smile on Lilith’s lovely face.

“Muggle — non-magical.” Hermione clarified.

“If you ask were my kin magical, daughter, the answer is ‘no’. I was special.”

Hermione stared at nothing, eyes darting back and forth as she mentally reread every document describing the Malfoy trust’s magic.

No wonder she and Draco conceived Lyra… Late December in Crete… “Special blood”… And that Malfoy “tingling”…

Finally, it made sense.
- 14
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- 16
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In Fond Remembrance