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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In a Weasley household, a couple frantically closed their three businesses — shooing the last of their customers out the door with offers of free merchandise. The shooing and the locking up were accomplished by the husband as the wife quickly gathered up most of the equipment and paraphernalia needed to keep a small, mischievous boy entertained at his grandmother’s and grandfather’s house for the weekend.

“Let me get that. You’re bigger than our rooftop sale sign now. Get off your feet, luv.”

Hormone surges at his crack about her size couldn’t overcome her chuckling at the affectionate teasing from a man who made a profession of laughter.

“Be glad I’m not blaming you completely for this. I wanted to wait for the next one.”

“Sorry, luv. Wasn’t willing to give up sleeping in the same bed with you,” he grinned like the bad boy he’d been. One of a set…

“Alright Gred, let’s see how much we can stuff in that ugly nappy bag of your mother’s before the seams burst. Blimey but your Aunt Hermione has a deft hand with extension spells, she has.”

Three-year-old Fred Weasey (the 2nd) energetically launched his best-loved toys and tricks into the open satchel, imitating the basketball players his Uncle Harry watched on the “tee-vee” at Grimmauld Place (and banking many of the heavier items off his father’s face into the carry-all).

“Should I pack nappies? Had to sleep in his wee the last time.”

“What do you think, Georgie?” she sent with humor and love from her cushy chair.

“One gross of nappies coming right up. Freddy? Don’t know how you can wee so much — there’s more wee than you!”

This late in her pregnancy, Angelina tired from moving much after being on her feet nearly all day working with her lover.

They’d almost missed each other that day within a year of the war’s end when she’d wandered in to buy a souvenir from home to take on her journey.

After wrangling a scholarship to the magical branch of Oxford, Angelina Johnson found herself victimized by the collapse of the post-war economy in and around magical Britain. Desperate for an accountancy position, she’d cobbled together six months of living expenses and the price of a one-way portkey to Wilmington, Delaware in America to try her hand at landing a position in the U.S. capital for magical businesses. Having never been further away than Hogwarts, the unconventional beauty treated herself to an inexpensive memento of a place the war’s ongoing impacts forced her to leave.

The last customer on the last day of the month saw a frustrated and solitary George Weasley struggling to enchant updates into his daily ledger. He’d barely kept up with the joke shop; the new and improved “Fortescue’s” registered three times the transactions of “WWW” every single day.

“Take what you want. I’m not putting another tally in this book tonight,” he shouted without looking up from his desk behind the counter.

“How do you make a profit if you give everything away at the end of the day?”

“Ange!? Welcome to my prison! Pick out something for yourself; I mean it.”

Lazily perusing the stacks, she found herself drawn to the love potions and charms section of the store. They’d dated seriously until Delores Umbrage, the war and the deaths sent them to separate places for solace and healing.

“What’re you up to?”

“Read for arithmancy, for all the good it did.”

“Don’t understand.”

Evidence of George’s plight hit her like the train to school. Not a single joke made it’s way to her from the man who used to be nicknamed “The Ginger Joke Machine”.

“I’m an accountant. Got my license and everything. No positions. Too many more experienced bookkeepers out here and not enough shops open.”

“What’s your plan? You’re a smart girl.”

“Leaving tomorrow,” — she spoke as she picked up a snow globe with a replica of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes inside —“got a one-way portkey to the States. Maybe I’ll have better luck there.”

George, standing now at the checkout next to the closed till, drank her in as she approached and placed enough on the counter — from her nearly empty purse — to pay for the snow globe.

“Can’t take your money, Ange. Till won’t open.”

With a sweep of her hand, the enchanted drawer shot out, hitting its lying owner in his gut.

“Seems to be working to me. Not a charity case, George. I pay my own way.”

“But I am. Look… if I pay you in snow globes will you take a look at my books? Always been crap at them — Fred handled ‘em… Selling all that ice cream’s about to put me under. Don’t know if I’m making galleons or losing ‘em.”

“Sure, I can give you two hours. For a snow globe,” Angelina smiled at the emerging hint of the man she used to enjoy spending time with.

She never left; when Hermione and Draco Malfoy approached George to run the Diagon Alley retail location of Hermione’s very popular and very successful owl-order potions business, it was Angelina who saw the potential to combine George’s own research for the joke shop products with Hermione’s.

To say they were a success was beyond an understatement. George and Angelina went from making it to well-heeled. The Burrow got a complete renovation — on the inside, as no one wanted a single thing changed on the outside — making it possible for George to regularly visit his parents without leaving in pain from grief at his perpetually missing half.

In between they shagged like rabbits (sometimes because they enjoyed it and sometimes to drive away remembrance) in their little flat above the joke store where her lover’s mirror image once lived too.

Working and shagging defined their routine until the day Angelina piped up during inventory checking —

“I think I’m pregnant, Georgie…”

“Not surprised,” he’d answered without looking up but sporting a naughty smirk, “you’re getting it put to you right by a Weasley and there’s no shortage of Weasleys in the world.”

“Prat!” whooshed out in a laugh as he grabbed her into him.

“That would be ‘Daddy Prat’, eh?”

“If it’s alright with you, I want to name him ‘Fred’…”

Joy and pain would move into the next generation, but mostly joy.

“Thank you…” the man who healed through hard work and hard love sobbed softly into her neck.

“Need to make space for a nursery, ‘Daddy Prat’.”

To date, the George Weasleys still lived in their larger flat that extended over the joke shop and the ice cream shop (but NOT the potion shop). Angelina refused to test the wards protecting their home from damages caused by George and Draco’s experimentation.

Turned out to be a good choice. At the least, their home was safe…
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Balaur