Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

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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Stepping off the puddle-jumper aircraft at Tulcea Airport, Hermione bolted towards the vomit comet’s landing gear and threw up on the tarmac. Turbulence, tiny seats and unfamiliar smells kept her belly churning during the too-long 50-minute flight from Bucharest. Another 22 miles of road separated the intrepid Gryffindor from her final destination. Thanks to Dumbledore’s generous and unexplained gift, she could afford to find a modest hotel while she searched for affordable rental accommodations and a position in one of Babadag’s magical businesses. The thought of being jammed in a van on a narrow road as the bus stopped at every tiny hamlet forced her to reconsider her plan. Acceding to the baby’s need for calm and food, Hermione made her way to the airport’s customer service counter to change her ground transportation plans. Thank Merlin her parents had insisted she get her muggle driving permit after fifth year.

Distracted once again with mental updates to her alternate alternate plan, she shrieked in terror as two burly arms lifted her from the terra firma inside the small airport building.

“Let me GO — Charlie!?!?!?”
“In the flesh! Welcome to Romania.”

Tanned — and, in some cases, burned — from his work with dragons, Hermione stared in shock at a familiar face this far from her former life.

“Hold still —” he instructed and a charm tingled over her skin.
“Charlie — STOP! I’m PREGNANT!”

Too late to prevent his well intentioned spellcasting, Hermione ran a casual finger down her abdomen to check on her baby. For once in the last three weeks the child rested calmly, awaiting some nourishment.

“Not to worry, ‘Mione. It’s a translation spell. You and your baby are now fluent in Romanian, Hungarian and Balkan Romani. And I knew you were pregnant.”

The grin left her face in a hurry.

“Don’t get angry — she was worried you’d be somewhere alone when the baby came.”

Tears not completely attributable to her hormones or her predicament welled and spilled, to Charlie’s discomfort. The eldest Weasley son bear-hugged his little brother’s best friend in hopes of preventing a deluge.

“She promised she wouldn’t say anything! She promised!”
“You know Ginny, always buttin’ in when she should butt out.”
“Ginny???…” the confused Gryffindor uttered between breathy hitches.
“Yeah. Said you spent every morning in the loo after you moved into the Burrow. She gave you a sleeping draught everyday so she could search your things and found the air tickets.”
“Plane tickets. That sounds like Ginevra.”
“She’s worried about you. So am I. What’re your plans?”

With gentle pressure on her shoulders he steered her to an uncomfortable bench under a pitiful fan.

“I have a bus reservation to Babadag but I’ve been ill the entire trip; I need to eat something.”
“What a coincidence! I’ve just moved into the town myself. Since you’re going my way, can I offer you a lift?”

Charlie snagged her a chilled Socată, the popular elderberry soft drink with light carbonation, from a passing trolley after tossing a knut into a tin box. With a wave the cap dropped neatly in his palm as he handed over the bottle in hopes of settling her tummy trouble. The stocky ginger laughed easily at his friend’s furtive glances over his public use of magic, fearing arrest by Romanian aurors in her new country.

“Relax. Magic wielders outnumber muggles 7-to-1 here. No Statute of Secrecy.”
“We’re not in Britain anymore…” she whispered the borrowed literary quote in realization, “are we?”
“You’re sure about this?”
“Time to move on, Charlie,” she replied with a melancholy smile, her fear never more evident.

The dragon trainer’s huge hands dwarfed her belly as he gave it an affectionate rub.

“You and the little beater are staying with Uncle Charlie. Got us a nice house in town — can’t have Britain’s most famous war hero delivering my niece or nephew in some forest. You can sort the rest when you're able. Let get home.”

Standing, he extended a hand to help her up.

“I can’t apparate.”
“I have six younger sibs; I know the ‘rules’. You can portkey. Drink this.”

Eyeing the suddenly transfigured cup suspiciously didn’t stop her from tipping the contents into her mouth.

“Fine. Now wh— ”

With his touch to the cup in her hands, Charlie activated their ride “home”.

The courage to seek out his child demanded time to arrive and external motivation. The time? Three months after his last encounter with her. The motivation? Narcissa Malfoy’s decision to address her son’s unrelenting depression.

Repercussions from the Malfoys’ poor political alignments abated when the Wizengamot moved up the date for Lord Malfoy’s trial. Molly Weasley and Minerva McGonagall submitted pensieve testimony establishing the threat to the Malfoy family and the fact that Lucius Malfoy raised his wand to no one during the Battle of Hogwarts, his time (like his wife’s) consumed with locating and protecting Draco. In the end, Lucius received five years probation and mandatory community service within the Ministry. The obligatory transfer of Malfoy galleons to worthy causes went without saying.

Such news should have lightened the atmosphere in the Manor, yet Draco’s labored under melancholy and ennui that saw him in bed all day most days and drowning the remainder of his consciousness in fyrewhiskey. When her son’s reclusive absences surpassed his previous record of a fortnight, Narcissa invoked special magic (as Lady of the Manor) to breach the wards on his suite. Draco never stirred from his unconsciousness, trapped in Part 1 of today’s mental matinee: “Death Eaters’ Follies”.

Wandering the room, the youngest of the last two pure-blood Blacks exploited a devoted house elf to get to the bottom of Draco’s mental collapse. Flopping in a chair in tears brought the unsolicited information she needed; the old curmudgeon of an elf could ne’er abide it when one of the Black sisters cried.

“He’s not been happy, Miss. Not since that letter from that mu— muggle-born.”
“What letter? Do you know where he keeps it, Kreacher?”
“Hides the thing under the mattress, he does. Reads it when he wakes or sobers, Miss. And cries.”
“Could you?… No, I couldn’t ask…”

With a snap of his long fingers the purloined letter fluttered over and into the delicate hands of his former mistress. In contrast to her racing heart and head, Draco’s mother read at a measured rate and rose gracefully to join her son at his bedside. Heartsickness near overwhelmed her as she played with his fringe — soothing him as she’d done every night before bedtime and reading the storm of horrors in his mind. Eyes swimming with memories, Narcissa lifted Draco’s left hand in her own and turned his palm heavenward.

The “M” formed at her grandson’s conception stiffened her resolve.

With a quick goodbye to Lucius and no explanation for her departure, Lady Malfoy announced her intent to “pay a visit on distant relatives” and made her way to the Burrow with an empty vial in her black silk clutch.

That Mrs. Arthur Weasley allowed her unannounced visitor through the door at all reinforced the advantages of blood relations — in their family trees the women shared Aunt Lucretia Black (who’d married a Prewitt) and Cedrella Black (Narcissa’s aunt and Molly’s mum-in-law). Unashamed of having the aristocrat in her humble home, Molly showed her “cousin” to the sofa and started a pot for tea.

“I’ve come to discuss a matter that has only today come to my attention.”

Molly’s calm silence built no bridge to make this easier.

“The matter concerns Draco and Miss Granger. A number of weeks ago, Draco received a letter from her — one I’ve only myself seen today.”
“So he’s the monster who forced that innocent child on her.”

The tea was forgotten.

In an effort to avoid becoming the second Black sister summarily dispatched by Molly, Narcissa slowly Accio’d the vial from her purse. As it floated upward, Lady Malfoy pointed her own wand at her own temple; Molly understood and relaxed, removing the implied threat.

“Do you have — thank you.”

The chipped and well-used memory bowl materialized on the sofa table not quite full of warm water from the crystal spring on the property. Reading Draco’s letter from Narcissa’s memory took Molly only moments; the impact undid her quiet determination and confidence.

“I have no doubt —” Narcissa started, staring down at her uncharacteristically nervous hands, “that madman would have turned her or killed her. How she held out during both captures speaks to her strength… as does this letter.”
“Why are you here? She’s gone; I don’t know where and I don’t want to know.”
“My son,” the cunning Slytherin tried again, the word chosen to craft an impression, “drinks himself into unconsciousness to keep the nightmares manageable. He lies abed the day, barely eating and almost never bathing. This bout of melancholy has lasted nearly 20 days. The ONLY act he performs with daily obsession is to read that letter and to cry until the drinking begins again.”

Shock raised Molly’s ginger eyebrows.

“Of the many mistakes forced upon Draco by his father…” — with a sigh, the guilty mother continued, “and by me, this ‘act’ haunts him as no other.”

The cousin with five living sons felt for the boy suffering from the man’s remembrance of dark burdens.

“Lady—”
“Narcissa, please. Or Cissa, if you prefer. We are, after all, family.”
“Cissa, what are you asking? She’s doing well wherever she’s gotten to — you can see by the clock.”

On the wall, the insane Weasley Family monitoring system noted Hermione’s location — “WORK”.

“Molly — may I call you Molly?”

The owner of the name nodded.

“Draco’s been no saint where intimate relations are concerned. We, in fact, cancelled his marriage contract with that Parkinson whore in fear she’d conceive a child out of wedlock to escape Hogwarts. Not the brightest of pure-bloods. He’s never had to force a woman, but I would imagine that being asked to perform sex on a regular basis should not have caused this malady that consumes him… unless he has feelings for her…”
“So he’s willing and able to rape girls he doesn’t care for. And you want my help to let him at her AGAIN for the sake of his sanity? So you don’t lose your son?”

Not a word came above a whisper, the best evidence that Narcissa’s life lay in the balance.

“No-No-No! My point is the act held no enjoyment for him! The other Death Eaters jeered and bullied him about his reticence with Miss Granger; Dolohov led the chorus.”

Having forced the truth potion down the vile man’s unwilling throat, Molly knew the truth of that statement.

“Miss Granger believes Draco did this to save me. Draco’s guilt and self-loathing prove he did this to save her.”

Minutes ticked by while Molly struggled with what was right, what was needed and what she preferred to happen. The safe movement of two clock hands from “WORK” to “HOME” brought her back.

“I don’t know where she’s gone to and I have no way to contact her. Merlin knows my stubborn sons have sent owl after owl and they’ve all returned with their burdens. Draco will just have to wait until she’s ready.”

Tears darkened the cushions of a sofa that had seen better days long days ago.

“Draco won’t survive that long… He’s wasting away… Committing slow suicide…”

The hand extended to Lady Malfoy’s sleeve-covered arm held compassion in its light grip.

“I’m sorry, truly sorry. Your son’s been as much a pawn as the other children in this war. But I don’t know where she is…”

A body soundlessly appeared (in sections) on the rickety steps of the tottering house: first the feet and legs, then bits of the middle and sprouts of deep ginger hair and finally the shoulders, arms and face. Harry’s cavalier handling of that invisibility cloak would earn him a stern talking to from the Weasley matriarch.

“I know where she is. Put a tracer on her before she left,” Ginevra Weasley announced and inexorably changed Hermione’s life again.
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Balaur