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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
- 16
- 17
- 18
At the two-year anniversary memorial of the Battle of Hogwarts, intentionally scheduled on graduation day, the attendees sat in silent musing listening to speakers who spoke eloquently of the dead but pretended the maturing trees and lush green grass to their left didn’t cover a funeral mound.

Two years after the war arrived at the gates of the beloved school in the Scottish hills, the slow steps back to the new normal saw an ancient ritual return: the time-honed tradition of graduation.

Hermione Jean Granger completed her education at Hogwarts, earning Egregia Cum Laude honors and taking longer to do so than planned. Her education in returning to the post-war world she’d fled continued indefinitely at St. Mungo’s. In the end, her obsession to accomplish her pre-war goals drove her past it all; that and the love of two blondes who milled about the grass as she stood to speak.

If anyone thought to question her attendance (at this auspicious post-war occasion) with Draco Malfoy as her escort, to ask more than politely about the tow-headed child with soulful brown eyes toddling around his legs — or to ask why said child now pointed her direction, joyfully yelling “Mama!” as she approached the podium — the ripple of magic and the silent stare (from a man who tolerated no animosity aimed towards her) shut down the static.

Potter looked the other way when Draco avenged Ron’s treatment of Hermione. Apparently, evidence of assaulting a pregnant war heroine didn’t sit well with the manly squad of beaters and chasers on the Cannons. Draco’d purchased a controlling interest in the team to vindicate her — then forced Ron into residential medical treatment (with the full cooperation of the Weasley family) by making trauma and substance abuse treatment a condition of his continued employment.

In this, as in many of his more recent actions, the new family head channeled the underserved kindness he’d received in a letter from a very special witch.

“More than a year ago,” Hermione began her valedictorian’s speech, “I found myself on the precipice of a new life, a life forced on me by the actions of Voldemort. Today, I humbly accept this diploma and these honors not because I’ve earned them but because they are proof that we can each rebuild ourselves. The path we desire — the life we desire — can be achieved if we accept help along the way. And if we are open to the unexpected variations that might occur, we may find — yes, sweetheart; I see you,” the proud mother inserted to acknowledge the child cheering her on and the man who held his hand (the audience chuckling at the precocious child’s “Mama, come pway!”), “we may find greater happiness than we could imagine.

“Thanks to my friends, the healers at St. Mungo’s and in Babadag, my professors, my family — and especially my partner and my son — I’m moving past a very dark time and starting life over again. I urge you — seek help if it all becomes too much. St. Mungo’s Fund for War Survivors makes it possible for all to get the assistance they need to get better. Thank you.”

The rather large contingent of “Hermione fans” made their way after the ceremony to the pavilion Draco had arranged. The spelled flap admitted only those Hermione truly wished to spend time with; feeling out of control could shake her ability to handle the here-and-now. He desired nothing more than for his partner to enjoy an accomplishment long delayed.

“Mama!” brought Draco back from reverie as Hermione slipped close to take the baby.

Absolutely no one doubted who’d fathered the child — not that Hermione could care less.

“Have you been behaving for your pa-pa?”

A mischievous Malfoy head nodded vigorously to the familiar word pattern.

“I doubt that,” she laughed.

“Get something to eat; I’ll carry the little bludger around so he doesn’t get away. Not like he misses many meals.”

“Merlin, no! He weighs a ton. Do you want something?”

“For you to enjoy yourself. We’ll be over at the family table.”

“Has Bali eaten?”

“I’m not a complete idiot, Hermione. He’s been in and out of this tent at least ten times with me stuffing his face.”

“With greens, not sweets?”

“It’s a party, Grang—”

“It’s Malfoy. Or have you forgotten?”

More work remained on removing fear of abandonment as a trigger. The thoughts outlined her large milk-chocolate-brown eyes in ill-concealed anxiety.

“No,” he smiled and eased her heart, “I like ‘Granger’. It suits when you’re being a swot — or an over-protective mother.”

“You’ll pay for that later. I’m starving,” and she spun purposefully, her tailored robes swirling around her, to make her way through the well-wishers to the never-empty buffet.

“Unchee Harr!” Bali squealed into Draco’s delicate ear, not quite wrapping his tongue around the Romani "Unchiul Harry”.

“Hey, Malfoy. Let me have Bali.”

Harry reached out to yank his godson and felt the full weight of a solidly built baby hit his arms.

“Oi! What’re you feeding this kid? He’s not 2 yet!”

“It’s Hermione’s side of the family. Can’t wait to get him on a broom — if one will lift him. Really, though, Potter; I’ll take him if he’s —”

“Go. Spend time with your wife. Take a break; I’ll chase him for a while. Wear him out before he wears us out.”

“Careful, Potter. Chasing a baby whilst your girlfriend watches will accelerate the inevitable,” Draco poked, observing the moon-eyed, giggling females surrounding Ginny and pointing at Harry.

Stunned guests stared through the translucent tent sides from outside the pavilion, their blatant commentary blocked from hearing by the faculty enjoying the feast within. Most of the uninvited spread sordid tales of how Gryffindor’s Princess ended up wedded to Slytherin’s Prince — ranging from “Ministry mandated” to “dark deal with the Devil himself”. The truth, including the sequence of “baby’s birth” before “bridal bouquet”, remained a tightly guarded secret among those who’d made the journey with them.

Thankfully, Ron (wheresoever he’d landed) kept his gob firmly shut.

At a special group of tables, arranged in a square inside the pavilion, places were set for the war hero and her family, her memory-restored parents, Neville and a pregnant Luna Longbottom, Vlad and the Weasley family, “Auntie” Ivona — the midwife, Minerva McGonagal, Filius Flitwick, Pomona Sprout, Horace Slughorn and a number of pure bloods — the elder Malfoys (who’d appropriated their grandson from his godfather), a reconciled Andromeda Tonks with her rainbow-haired toddler grandson Teddy, , Blaise Zabini, Astoria Greengrass (a newly-hired Malfoy Enterprises employee with designs on Blaise) and Theodore Nott.

A “Hey, ‘Mione” slowed her progress towards sustenance, but she didn’t mind.

“Ron!” she shouted, turning to hug him tightly.

“Got a day-pass from my Healer. Always knew you were too much of a swot to pass up a diploma. Brilliant as ever.”

“Swot, is it? I’ll forgive that since you came. Have you eaten yet?”

“C’mon, ‘Mione, I’m not that mental. Nice nosh Malfoy puts on, by the way. Guess I should’ve expected that.”

“To which Malfoy are you referring?” she asked, testing the strength of their bridge back to friendship.

“Luna told me you two got married. The hospital intercepted the invitation… Wasn’t ready yet…”

“We missed you…”

“Yeah, well… Glad I made it today,” he spoke earnestly, a lopsided smile (that was so Ron) accompanying his genuine good wishes.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

“Butter beer’s fine. Letting the fyrewhiskey go for a while… keep a clear head.”

“Sounds like a great decision.”

“This is for Bali.”

Hermione accepted the small box that quickly lost focus in her dampening vision.

“Mum said Bali’s got special magic. Not sure why, but I think your Little Bludger’s a seeker — not a beater. Biggest bloody seeker in the history of Quidditch, if he plays.”

“With you, Harry, Charlie and Draco around,” she laughed aloud, “he won’t escape!”

Happy tears blazed a trail as she removed the engraved snitch from the box. The writing read simply:

To Baby Dragon From Uncle Ron

“Bring ‘im to a game! You and Hannah can come down to the locker room before. She… We’re kinda seeing each other.”

The edges of Hermione’s smile moved further apart with the news. It’d been a hell of a year after a hell of a year.

“I’ll get her to explain all those Cannon Quidditch cheers to me,” Hermione laughed again, grateful to be enjoying her friend.

“Not sure what to say…” he started, never eloquent when he’d screwed up royally.

“You’ve said it, Ron. We’re all getting help and that’s what matters. Thank you…” and she grabbed his hand, dragging him towards the repast.

At the table’s head, Dumbledore’s portrait presided over the festivities with a knowing smile. The deceased former headmaster of Hogwarts readily admitted to his closest friends (living and in portraiture) his own culpability in the rape and reproductive impacts of and to Hermione Granger. At the same time, the “Old Manipulator” reveled in the shock and sympathy their story sparked in the magical community once it became public (absent the rape details and the unusual magical gifts of one not-so-small baby).

“Miss Granger — or should I say Mrs. Malfoy — congratulations! I had no doubt you’d find your way back to us,” — to which Hermione laughed mirthlessly:

“I did, Professor.”

“You’ve always proven level-headed. Time was all you needed. Minerva tells me your son is quite brilliant — casting charms on his own.”

“He’s quick, that one. Draco and I have our hands full.”

“Then we shall make sure his place at Hogwarts is reserved early. I can’t say I’ve seen a born Legilimens with Balaur’s skill or sheer power in over 100 years — before my death, of course. It’s good he’s such a loving, sensitive child. I’m happy to assist with him; feel free any time to bring him to my office to play. I’m sure he’ll enjoy a lemon drop or two,” the benevolent conniver put before her, “In fact, I think he would benefit greatly if you were to consider teaching here at Hogwarts. What are your plans?”

A year ago that inquiry would have stymied her. Panic would have claimed her as surely as fear would have followed. Instead she grinned, a shield against uncertainty.

“Now that I have my NEWTs and my potioneers’ license, we’re coming back to Britain. I’m going to re-open my shop as a owl-order business in our home.”

“I’m sure you’ll succeed as always — but why, may I ask, are you not opening a shop in Diagon Alley? I’m sure Lucius would assist readily.”

Magic landed around her as Draco steered their son — who’d exhausted his patience with waiting for his mother’s lap — then steered himself into the chair next to his bride of one week. The old, dead romantic in the portrait noted the look that passed between the two before he received a partial answer.

“I want to be home with my family for a while longer. Maybe in a year —”

“Or three. Let’s not rush things,” — and Draco planted a kiss on her ear that raised her color and her temperature.

“Says the prat incapable of casting a proper contraception charm… twice…”

Around the family table, magic shimmered and sparkled as the very newest Malfoy gently tickled her mother’s still-flat belly from the inside.

Finis
- 16
- 17
- 18
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