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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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In a place Hermione never thought she’d return to — much less live in — two blonde children, very close in age, fought using talents rarely seen in ones so young.

“Give it back, Prima!” Bali screamed down the long hall where he chased his younger sister.

I will when I’m done with it, Prima thought at her brother, next year.

“You’re lying! I can see it in your empty head! Give me back my broom — Uncle Harry said you’re too young for a modified one. MUMMY!”
“Snitch! You always tell on me!” the five-year-old accused as she sped by again — this time in the opposite direction.

Prima’s voice raised in pitch as she sped towards and past her slower moving brother.

“Because you’re always taking my things! MUM!”

You can’t ride it without falling! You’ve come in with cuts and bruise 94.826 percent of the times you ride - came roaring back at Bali through their sibling “channel”.

“Why can’t I use it!?” Prima shouted aloud.
“Because. It’s. MINE! MUUUUUUUUUUMMMMM! Tell Prima to give me back my BROOOOOMMMM!”

Sighing, Hermione climbed the remaining stairs. Gene pool probabilities hadn’t been kind to the war hero. Both her children resembled their father in appearance and behavior. The younger of the two (by roughly a year and a half) ceased grinning when her high-speed racing up and down the long hallway in the family wing ended abruptly as the broom bolted to a stop and stood on its end under the none-to-gentle control of her brother’s telekinesis. Prima found herself dumped unceremoniously onto the thick Persian hallway carpeting.

“Stop mucking with the BROOM, BALI! That’s not FAIR, MUM! He could have HURT —”

In plain view of all, the contested broom disappeared as Prima held it.

“Prima Narcissa Malfoy!," Draco commanded, "Watch that tone with your mother, young lady,”

The progenitor of all this misbehavior stepped gracefully around his irritated partner to grab their daughter before Hermione blew a fuse.

“THANK you,” a smug Bali smirked, snatching his now visible broom.

That Prima’s temper hadn’t vanished the entire west wing of Malfoy Manor and left them all stark naked in the evening chill of the manicured garden showed the vast improvement in her emotional and magical control.

“Not so fast, son. Prima’s right about you falling off that broom. Want to explain?”
“I-I-I…”
“He’s been sneaking out on your broom, Pa-pa," Prima tattled through a smirk, "and disillusioning it!”
“NOW who’s a SNITCH — you little SNITCH!”
“That doesn’t explain why… You’ve been standing on my broom while you fly, haven’t you?”
“Unchuil Hari [Harry] told me he beat you to the snitch with that move and Gryffindor won,” Bali hastily explained in Romanian-spattered English.

Hermione — who’d interfered more than a little during that game’s broom tampering by Quirrell and Snape — coughed to hide her laughter.

“Cobb was the git who lost his bottle and pulled up,” Draco corrected with a hint of scorn at the memory, “I replaced him.”
“He said it’s the coolest way to catch a snitch!" Bali continued without acknowledging Draco's innocence in losing to Harry Potter for the first of many times, "Like surfing!”
“What in Merlin’s name have indentured servants to do with flying???” Draco puzzled out.

Unable to avoid the melee, Hermione dove in to settle the confusion so they would be on time for the evening’s engagements.

“Wrong spelling — ’s-U-r-f’," the Muggle-born corrected, then continued her mini-lecture, "It’s a sport where you ride a flat board on ocean waves. Prima — apologize to your brother and stay off his broom until your father buys a new one for him.”

The elder clone chuckled.

“Don’t look so satisfied, Dragon. Your son rides like you. Honestly, I don’t know why Harry bothered giving him a training broom.”
“Because you wouldn’t let me get him a real broom for Christmas or his birthday,” Draco muttered under his breath to avoid her wrath turning away from the children.

Hermione — who hated repeating herself — repeated herself to her oppositional daughter:

“Apologize to your brother, Prima.”
“Bali, I’m sorry you can’t ride like Uncle —” Prima tried.
“Apologize, Prima. Correctly,” her mother — a stickler for rules in a household allergic to them — clarified.
“Sorry…” slowly dripped from Prima’s mutterings.
“Apologize for taking your father’s broom without permission, Bali.”
“But-But-But Pa-pa —”
“You heard your mother,” Draco interrupted unexpectedly.
“But I —”
‘Balaur…” Draco commanded sternly.
“Sorry, Pa-pa.”
“Alright, you two blighters,” Draco finished up, placing a hand on the shoulder of each little Malfoy miscreant, “get cleaned up for dinner. Rolf and Wolf will be here any minute.”

The familiar walk of the remorseless down the hall once again gave Draco time to consider the unusual gifts of his progeny and the witch who made them possible.

To his left, his hazel-brown-eyed clone marched down the hallway every bit the Malfoy heir. Standing well taller than Draco’s hip at only six-and-a-half years old, Healer Armstrong predicted the boy would be as tall as Draco when he entered Hogwarts as a boarding student. Draco mused how his old professors would manage a child capable of plucking the answers directly from their heads: Balaur’s emotion-reading skills expanded daily towards full wandless Legillimency — true telepathy — as the boy matured. Fortunately for his parents, something about his mother’s brain wiring blocked most of his attempts to sneak a peek from the parent closest to him emotionally. Fatherly anger blunted any thought-stealing from Draco’s head, a fact Bali lamented whenever he got caught in the act of being a Malfoy. Brilliant beyond even his mother’s talents, Minerva and Molly turned the young prodigy into their personal project shortly after his birth: his ability to cast shield charms, knock Harry over a table, blast a drunken Ron Weasley and read minds made him a very rare and very dangerous young wizard.

Grumbling just loud enough to slow their progress towards a bath and clean clothes for dinner, the Narcissa clone shuffled her feet in protest. The natural beauty, and absolute apple of her smitten grandparent’s eye, recalculated (to five decimal points of accuracy) the probability that her newest strategy for getting possession of her brother’s broom permanently would work. Sporting long, loose blonde curls around her full face and aquamarine blue eyes, Prima inherited her mother’s brain version 2-point-0. They’d been forced to hire private tutors for her when the three-year-old “discovered” how to cast simple but dangerous spells — without leaving her porta-cot. She’d nearly finished her first year courses in Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, Charms and the history of Hogwarts, nipping the academic heels of her genius brother. And Prima exhibited highly developed Disillusionment Telekinesis — the ability to make objects disappear or change appearance (without a wand) or to move objects under her control. When her control actually worked…

Lucius and Narcissa, who doted on their grandchildren, “retired” after Prima’s birth to a smaller 15-bedroom “cottage” on the estate and supervised Bali and Prima’s daily “activities” while their parents worked — work that now included the responsibilities of being Lord and Lady Granger-Malfoy.

Narcissa herself taught them how use their special “gifts” to duel other children (from the eldest Malfoy’s former social circle) who name-called at the playgrounds she preferred to take them to. Bali and Prima (whose celestial name from the constellation Capricorn meant “Bonus”) developed their own methods for dealing with the unkind and unrepentant children of pure-blood (diminishing) privilege.

Spoiling them rotten included Lucius’ personal tutelage on Quidditch and riding racing brooms — well before each child turned two years old. Prima’s maneuvering instincts made her a chaser — that and her bloodthirsty willingness to fly her way through any obstruction to chase down her brother during family games at the Burrow. Balaur would best Harry as the youngest seeker in the history of Hogwarts — and would do so sooner than Ron predicted.

Both children inherited Draco’s tendency to push a broom — and their mother's patience — to its (unsafe) limits, to their mother’s perpetual dismay and frustration.

Escorting them to their rooms kept the bickering to a minimum and brought Draco back sooner rather than later to the suite he shared with his wife and business partner.

“Have your parents arrived?” Draco murmured into a kiss to her sleek neck.
“Mm-hm,” Hermione mumbled around her application of lipstick, “Mum’s taken over the kitchen and given the house elves the evening off with pay. She’s cooking a proper Sunday roast for Dad and the children. Rolf and Wolf apparently love ‘Granny Granger’s’ suppers.”
“Your mother enjoys being a grandparent to our friend’s children way too much.”
“Neville introduced Mum and Dad to his parents while they were having their memories restored. Mum wants every child to have grandparents and Neville’s parents may never get better.”

Draco’s intervention (without Hermione’s knowledge or permission) meant the Grangers could lead mostly normal lives. While neither could return to their former occupation due to irreparable brain lesions resulting from the obliviation reversal process, they led full lives back in their London-area home surrounded by the growing group of babies. Most days found Hermione's parents minding one or more little ones from the Thomases, Zabinis, Weasleys-Weasleys-and-Weasleys, Longbottoms and Potters. Weekends were reserved for the Malfoys — where they badgered Hermione and Draco for more grandchildren.

"Tired?” a concerned Draco quried.
“A bit,” she groaned as she stretched to relieve the tightness in her back, “I’m not sure I can undo whatever you and George fouled up in that formula. I’ve made no progress in months. Probably wiser to advertise it as a fertility potion. If we sell enough doses I may forgive you for this.”

Turning from her makeup table to ensure she had her Dragon’s attention, Hermione aimed a pointed finger at her belly and its contents.

“I’ve said I’m sorry — what else do you want, witch!?" Hermione's mate growled in irritation, "I’ve groveled. I’ve pleaded for mercy. I’ve begged for forgiveness. I’ve waited on you like a house elf, for Merlin’s sake! We made an honest error.”
“Ha! You’ve been at me for another since Prima levitated those sweets of yours into her cot at 9 months old!”
“I would never force that on you for reasons you’re well aware of!” her Dragon shouted in shame before lowering his volume, “Hermione, I swear on our children’s lives — George and I tested that potion with every creature known to magical Britain and NONE of them conceived. We thought it would work for witches and we’d make a fortune. Luna agreed with us!”
“Instead, you, George, Harry, Ron and Neville got to shag your arses off when your wives effectively went into heat for weeks and all got pregnant! It would serve you right if YOU had to deliver this one seeing as this child could weigh 12 POUNDS at birth! And Luna’s not the potions expert — I AM. You should have brought it to me for testing.”
“I did,” he reminded her with a lecherous grin.
‘BEFORE you guilted me into SWALLOWING it.”

The intended contraceptive potion had exactly the opposite effect on the test “victims”.

Always up for a new experience, Luna quaffed the contents of the vial while George and Draco were still explaining its purpose and ingredients (and without mentioning to Neville, George or Draco that she’d already begun a fertility potion regimen recommended by the new “Remarkable Remedies” columnist on the “The Quibbler” staff) and thus conceived second.

Angelina, unable to withstand George’s incessant begging for a human lab rat to replace Fred, “volunteered” four weeks earlier than Luna and would, therefore, be delivering four weeks earlier than Luna.

Hermione also surrendered over time to Draco’s bruised ego regarding her trust in his potion inventing skills (because she really was better at potions than he). His pouting, constant sighing and sullen moods overcame her well justified caution; she swallowed the potion and was predicted to give birth third — only a few weeks before Ginny Potter.

Well versed in the experimentation damage inflicted by her brothers on their unwitting volunteers, Ginny gave it two weeks after Hermione caved to see any nasty side effects. When nothing went visibly wrong (the period of “being in heat” lasting two additional weeks), she gulped down the vial and stood to deliver fourth.

Hannah, who clearly had more sense than her friends, shelved the experimental nightmare until she was certain of its repercussions. Once Luna’s, Angelina’s, Hermione’s and Ginny’s pregnancies were confirmed, she planned a date night with Ron and added the potion to her sparkling (non-alcoholic) cider with the goal of achieving her third pregnancy in record time. Sometime during this evening’s festivities, she planned to tell Ron about the newest Weasley.

“You have to admit, Heemione, this one’s been well behaved for a Malfoy.”
“Thank, Morgana! Probably has brown curly hair,” the almost 24-year-old wife and mother laughed lightly.
“Seriously, let me help you get ready.”
“If you really want to ‘help’, get us out of these clothes. We have over an hour before Neville and Luna arrive.”

Draco’s hand wave disappeared their clothes. Hermione tumbled them onto the bed and made short work of navigating them both to a suitable position. The pregnancy protocol, established with Prima, ensured orgasm after orgasm for his sexually ravenous wife.

Stretched out on her back as she rested against his side, Draco spelled her with his top secret “Granger” charm that turned every touch into a warm tingling throughout her most sensitive parts. Aware of their limited time (even though he suspected the Longbottoms would be fashionably late for the very same reasons) Mr. Malfoy licked and flicked Mrs. Malfoy’s tender nipples like a man starved. Snaking a slender digit between the plumper flaps covering her perpetually pregnancy-swollen lower lips, the man who knew her body like his own strummed her to a chain of explosions.

“Baby — I need more… More, please...
“You’re insatiable, kitten,” he chuckled around the breast in his mouth.
“Blame that defective potion for — DRAGON!”
“You were saying?” he teased as she coated his still active hand with her juices.
“Merlin — you’re too good at this! I’m almost glad I swallowed that crap you and George botched.”
“So maybe a couple more before we stop?”
“You’re such a Slytherin — you bring that up now? Does it really mean that much to you?”

Her hint of a smile hid the fact that (before potion hell broke loose) Hermione’d already planned to speak with Draco about slowing their life pace enough to produce another Malfoy. Having subjugated him after that disaster of a “potion field test”, she’d decided to keep him servile and apologetic a while longer before admitting she really wasn’t that upset about the outcome.

“Yeah… Maybe four more? After this one?”

His signature smile — a mixture of openness, seduction and cunning — had its usual affect on her.

“Alright, Dragon. Maybe the next two will be more ‘Granger’ than ‘Malfoy’. Starting with this one. Time to finish you off,” and with that warning, she rolled them both into girl-on-top position.

Perched atop his pelvic girdle, Hermione felt his readiness reshape her soft flesh as he felt the cascade of her lubricants baptize his silky nether hair. Short moments of foreplay transitioned quickly to Draco’s rod impaling his pregnant wife in a manner that brought tears of pleasure to her eyes.

Draco had to be mindful of her breasts, so sensitive yet requiring his attentions for her complete satisfaction. Hermione cast the spell that handled the physics of their encounter, keeping them in a pleasing position without fatiguing her legs and hips. With ample depth to accommodate his size, Draco found himself quickly on the road to release. As usual in these encounters, his brilliant wife beat him to that destination three times over.

The Bequest’s magic dictated how they managed the pre-natal nurturing of each new Malfoy, a pattern the stubborn war hero finally surrendered to months before Prima’s birth. From now until her delivery, Hermione would pine for Draco two or three times a day until she went into labor. Any suppression of this obsessive desire for release interfered with her concentration and her sleep. The physical joining cemented their magical commitment to each other and reinforced contentment in the child nestled inside her belly. This brief interlude would suffice until after the celebrations tonight when he’d fuck her brains out and collapse with her into a satisfyingly exhausted sleep.
Draco loved his wife — especially during these last two pregnancies.

“I’m aware," the sated Gryffindor yawned before catnapping for 20 minutes, " that you gave Bali permission to ride your broom, Draco. You owe him an apology…” .

Having been "outed" once again, Lord Draco Malfoy drowsily considered the possibility that the number of natural Legillimens in his immediate family remained unanswered...
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