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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 the four months following her son’s conception Hermione stabilized her life and began rebuilding a future — albeit one vastly different than her dreams of 17 years had envisioned. Balaur, the name brought forth when Molly charmed their welfare onto the Weasley clock, proved to be a happy fetus making for an easy pregnancy — except for his size. The young mother never questioned the name, proof in and of itself that pregnancy hormones made women loopy. The Roma mid-witch predicted his birth weight would top ten pounds, a fearful undertaking for a petite witch having her first child — alone. As nothing could be done (she very well couldn't put the child on a diet or stop eating for two), Hermione left that worry for later.

In the interim she moved into the large farmhouse with Charlie and his partner, Vlad — a burly mountain of a Roma whose quiet demeanor and wicked sense of humor perfectly balanced the zany ginger. Charlie’s connections got her immediate employment as a bookkeeper until Vlad observed Hermione’s skill at charms and potions as she made their house a home, patched them up after dragon taming “accidents” and prepared meals for them in self defense. The requests for custom charms and potions started slowly, eventually allowing Hermione to leave her accountancy position entirely and work from home. The gentle giant never mentioned his role in her success, though it became harder and harder to hide as the majority of her first clients were Roma (a persecuted ethnic group that tended to keep to their own). For relaxation there was music on Fridays, easy hiking on Sundays and visitors on Saturdays.

When visitors, not customers, arrived midweek, Hermione’s stability teetered on the brink.

“Miss Granger, I’d like to speak with you — if you have the time.”

No planet was big enough to escape the Malfoys.

“I won’t kill my baby. And the wards on the house won’t allow you to kill him.”

It had been Vlad’s idea. He understood how ethnic cleansing worked.

The door slowly swung towards closing until Hermione noted two important things —the look of horror on the aristocrat’s face at the accusation of possible infanticide and the tears running unabashedly down the grandmother's cheeks.

“While we did not protect you as we should have, please know I could never murder my grandson.”

The door reopened in small creaks. Narcissa’s knowledge made an impression.

“I won’t give my son up.”

“You’re his mother, Miss. Granger. I wouldn’t expect you to and I won’t ask you to.”

“What about your son? I’m sure he isn’t prepared for a mudblood to carry his eldest child.”

The flinch on the haughty woman’s face moved the door open a tad faster.

“My son is why I’ve come. May I speak with you? Please?”

Hermione moved away to leave space for what turned out to be two “guests”; behind Narcissa Malfoy came an unusually quiet Molly Weasley.

“Hello, dear. Oh! Look at you! He’s a healthy one I’ll bet,” and the mother of six living children had her hands on Hermione’s modest bump the instant she crossed the threshold.

“He’s quite active; must sense your mood. I — We’re sorry to arrive unannounced but old Errol nearly killed himself trying to get to you.”

“The post have to be addressed a certain way to reach me.”

The wards only recognized mail for Hermione labeled “Virator Fermă” — “Messenger of the Grange”.

“Ginny told you where I went?”

“Don’t be angry, Hermione. I promised not to come unless there was an emergency. After speaking with Narcissa…” Molly hesitated with a pensive glance at her traveling companion, “I’ll leave you two. When will Charlie and Vlad be back?”

Charlie hadn’t mentioned his mother’s knowledge of his sexual preference. Molly read her hesitancy to expose more than Charlie and Vlad wanted exposed about their private lives.

“He’s my son; mothers keep an eye on their children’s welfare no matter how old they get. When you hold that little one in your arms, you’ll understand. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me, getting dinner on,” and the motherly whirlwind left without further ado.

“I can’t foresee the emergency that would require contact with me, Lady Malfoy.”

Unwilling to waste an instant when she could get bounced out the door on her arse at any moment, Draco’s mother went straight to the point.

“Draco’s dying, Miss Granger.”

“Not to be insensitive,” the formerly compassionate Gryffindor began, “but what does that have to do with me?”

“I will not make light of what’s happened to you, although I will not lie and say I’m unhappy to gain something as precious as a grandson from all your misery and pain. But my son suffers as well. Did you mean what you said in that letter?”

Hermione considered for more than a few minutes whether she’d written the note for Draco or for herself. In the end, she sussed out her own true motives and answered.

“I wrote that letter for Draco. He was trying to protect his family.”

“And protect you, Miss Granger. Do you have a pensieve?”

Hermione started to rise from the sofa she’d flopped onto; her guest’s hand on her arm stopped what would have been an awkward ascent.

“Let me. Accio Pensieve!”

The soapstone bowl floated over to the sofa table and was quickly filled with an Aguamenti charm. From her purse, the worried mother retrieved a vial — chock full to the cork.

“These are Draco’s memories. Molly and I retrieved them this morning. I’ll leave you to it; it shouldn’t take long.”

Elegant as always, Narcissa abandoned the sofa for the window seat facing the lovely front garden. She’d just decided that the forsythia were her favorites when a gasp and a sob drew her back to the sofa.

“His depression deepens each day along with his drunkenness. He doesn’t bathe and barely eats. What happened to you… What he did to you he relives every day. Now h-h-he cries because he wants to be a father different than Lucius and he thinks he won’t be.”

“I can’t… I can’t…” Hermione hyperventilated.

“Just speak with him — however you feel safe —”

Routine “coming home” noises interrupted Narcissa's well-practiced plea.

“Hey, ‘Mione! Smells like Mum’s shep— What the fuck is she doing here!?”

“Charlie? Join me in the kitchen,” came from the selfsame room in Molly’s “mother voice”. No child had ever disobeyed that voice and survived unpunished.

“She was there! She watched them —”

To prevent more harm, Molly rushed from the kitchen, looking to Vlad for help corralling her righteously indignant, ginger-flushed eldest son. A loving but firm hand on his shoulder steered Charlie away from further confrontation. With the commotion contained, Narcissa rewound and replayed her request.

“Please, Miss Granger. You uprooted your life to keep your child safe —”

“I’m his mother! That’s my responsibility — I love him!”

“And I love Draco. He’s killing himself with regret and grief… I don’t want my son to die from despair. Just speak with him, that’s all I’m asking… begging… of you.”

“I need time to think…”

Absenting the sofa, the Malfoy and Black matriarch reclaimed her composure. Reaching in her tiny clutch she withdrew a card and passed it to the unsettled war heroine.

“Floo me once you decide and we’ll set a time and date; I’d prefer Draco be presentable when you call. Regardless of your choice, you have my deepest gratitude for considering my request; most in your circumstances wouldn’t have. Draco’s correct — you are a remarkable witch.”

Hermione tried once more to accompany her “guest” to the door.

“Rest while you can. I’ll see myself out — just let Molly know I’ve left. I’m sure she’ll enjoy catching up over dinner.” and with a balletic quarter-turn Draco’s mother apparated from the porch of the farmhouse.

Shock from the visit gave Hermione a more arhythmic gait than her expanding belly usually caused as she made her way to the kitchen with no appetite. Charlie bolted from the table to escort her to her cushioned chair.

“Is that blonde bitch gone?”

“Charlie!” went round the table very quickly.

“She has no right to bother Hermione — especially with a sprog coming! Vlad, get her a plate. You need to eat, luv.”

“Actually just a cuppa will suffice; I’ll get a nosh later on.” the focus of all the attention deflected.

“Good idea, dear. Best to take things in small steps.”

In trite fiction the quietude of a normally chaotic Burrow would be described as the calm before the storm. Cliche’d though the phrase had become by the time Hermione stepped through the floo, she observed no indication of the next traumatic change in her life that would cause said life to imitate fiction; fiction never seemed to “catch up” to her reality.

“Mrs. Weasley?”

“Come in, come in! Goodness! — that baby’s grown so much since I saw you — what was it… Three weeks ago? Must be almost five months now. Going to be big, this one.” the rock of the Weasley clan gushed in the hug.

“He is and I’m dreading my time,” the normally brave Gryffindor admitted as she made her way to the well-worn sofa.

“Don’t fret over it. It’s good he’s healthy. Have you decided on a name?”

The mother of seven gave Hermione’s tummy an affectionate rub to confirm the child’s welfare herself.

“Balaur Baiat. You named him, actually — when you spelled us onto the old clock. I like how it sounds and no one would think…”

…that he’s Malfoy’s bastard…she finished mentally.

“I wonder where that name comes from? No one in the family I can think of?”

“Charlie and Vlad told me it’s Romanian. It translates to ‘Dragon’s Egg’ or something similar. Your son expects to have my baby ride his first dragon before he can walk.”

“Better Charlie than the twins or Ron,” Molly countered, as if she still had twins, “Georgie and Freddy would throw the poor child between them while flying their brooms — and your boy would love it and them for the excitement. Ron, Merlin have pity, might drop him. OH!”

A shock ran through Hermione’s abdomen as Molly snatched her reddening hand away.

“He’s a powerful wizard, this one! Must be the dragon magic in your town. That child spelled me to get me rubbing another spot, cheeky thing.”

“Why so quiet today?”

Saturday afternoon at the Weasleys never sounded this empty despite Molly’s promise that her friends and acquired family would have no knowledge of her visit.

“Ginny’s at tryouts —”

“I thought she made the team?”

The Prophet announced the newest member of the Holyhead Harpys alongside another Golden Trio article speculating on the whereabouts of the muggle-born who’d helped the Chosen One end the occupation of magical Britain.

“They’re choosing starters today. Harry and Ron are there. The store’s running a ‘two-fer’ sale — George bragged it was your idea — so he’s busy and Bill’s giving Fleur a break with little Victoire. We’ll have the afternoon to catch up.”

Not known for hemming and hawing, Molly plowed into the reason for her invitation.

“Have you considered Narcissa’s request?”

Hermione’s Dragon’s child radiated small shocks of magic in response to the question regarding his breeder. Draco’s invisible interference in her life had her fighting panic attacks daily. Her new “family” fought each other when they thought she couldn’t hear them, Charlie vowing to dragon-torch the Manor to rid Hermione of this lingering threat and Vlad softly imploring his partner to think whether a father deserved to know his child.

The fiercely gentle Roma reminded his irate ginger boyfriend that were they parents and living in Britain, their rights — and the custody of their own children — could be challenged.

“This happened to the Roma, amant. They tried to destroy us — taking our children and giving them to ‘good’ non-Roma families to raise. You have to know your own, Charlie…”

Amant, the most intimate Roma term for “lover”, softened but did not dull Charlie’s hatred of the situation or the man responsible. Hermione tried to avoid the intellectual arithmancy her predicament brought forth: did keeping Draco’s heir from him balance the propitiatory sacrifice she’d made when he’d stripped her of her innocence?

“Do you want to see Draco Malfoy dead?”

Weighing the trade-off of “defiler” for “descendant” required frequent recalibration to remove her growing rage at being stuck in a situation where innocents would again be victims. In her mind, innocence died during the war.

“No.”

Her tiny dragon calmed his magical outbursts.

“Do you harbor anger or resentment towards him?”

“Resentment?… No… Bill’s situation ‘educated’ me rather rapidly about lycanthropy. Anger I’m not sure about.”

“I’m sorry, Hermione… Dumbledore and the rest of our lot left this burden on you youngsters. What a mess we made of it all! Neville with no parents. Harry a horcrux and abused by those awful muggles — sleeping under stairs, for Morgana’s sake! My Freddy… The Order should’ve finished it before you or Draco got caught up…”

The young versions of themselves moved behind Molly’s staring eyes, guilt obscuring the reality that fate dictated Voldemort’s end, not the efforts of a ragtag group of youths called to “Order”.

“You’re not squeamish so I won’t belabor the point. I’ve seen the boy, read his thoughts. Draco won’t last the month without some contact with you. He needs to know you’re better and moving forward. He wants to believe you’ve truly forgiven him but he’s desperate to understand why you would. You can talk to him or not. You’ve earned the right to walk away, my dear. Whatever his reason, what he did violated you in the most shameful manner.”

“What a mess! Shall I trade peace and security for my son with the death of his father at my hands? What would that make me, Mrs. Weasley?”

Holding only her hand, Molly gave the adult answer to the recent 18 year old.

“Human, dear. It makes you human.”

The desire to run warred mightily with the need to be polite and kind to someone who knew the whole truth and provided emotional support to Hermione and her child. A craftier muggle-born, tempered in the fire of war and rape, shifted mentally through the list of reasons staying on Molly’s good side mattered — a list that would have had only the word “love” on it before Draco shattered her personal security.

“What should I do?”

The teapot’s screaming laughter accompanied Hermione’s easy walk to the kitchen table and its easier-to-reach seating.

“If you’re up to it, you can floo him from here. He’d know you were at the Burrow and he’d know you weren't alone; I’ll be with you…” she trailed off in deference to the tears lazily falling into the beaker before Hermione.

“I want to get this over with. Now. Is that possible?”

“Let’s see.”

A hand on her shoulder pushed the pregnant war hero back into her seat to enjoy more tea. Half the beaker disappeared but the moment of truth seemed to arrive in seconds.

“Draco and Narcissa are ready.”

A casual hand movement and a pinch of floo powder added another tumultuous moment to Hermione’s too interesting life so far.

“Narcissa? It’s Molly. Hermione’s here visiting today.”

“Good… afternoon, I guess it is. Miss Granger, I do hope you’re doing well. Draco and I are here together reminiscing about old times. Say ‘hello’, darling.”

Facial outlines shifted in the heaped coals of the too-warm Burrow’s multi-purpose fireplace, giving Hermione the opportunity to note how similar the faces of mother and son were and to wonder how much like her rapist her son would look.

“Granger. You’re okay?”

Molly showed no surprise at the inhalation and exhalation her adopted daughter calmed herself with. What caught her off-guard came from the babe — magic swirled and sparkled like an aura from the child as soon as his sperm donor spoke.

“No, Malfoy, I’m not in any sense ‘okay’. But the baby’s healthy and I seem to be as well, so I won’t complain.”

Sobbing preceded the change of speakers and silhouettes in the ashes.

“We’re glad for that, Miss Granger, and thank you for the call. Molly — we’ll catch up later, if that’s acceptable?”

Coded language poorly hid the reasons for the foreshortened “call”.

“Let me call you,” Molly wisely suggested, “my house will be quite lively for most of the evening. We’re off!”

As the two inhabitants of the leaning house stood, a pot floated over (magically sealed) full of Brown Windsor soup.

“The boys will love this and it’s good for that cheeky little one of yours — has a bit of wine to help build the blood. It should travel well by portkey.”

The desire to avoid the extended Weasley family’s return couldn’t tamp Hermione’s curiosity to hear Molly’s thoughts.

“What do you think happened?”

“Can’t say for sure…” the older woman spoke low and contemplatively as she steered Hermione out the rear door, “If I were to venture a guess, he’s surprised that you were civil. And he wants to be involved with his son. Did you feel the magic from little Bali when Draco spoke?”

A woman who loved nicknames christened her unborn son “Bali” as easily as she’d named him on the Weasley clock. Charlie would ensure the ridiculous moniker stuck. “Bali the Beater” was unavoidable now.

“I did. I assume it’s some pure-blood failsafe, to ensure they know who fathered the child.”

“It is and it does — never known it to work when the mother wasn’t a pure-blood. Something to consider as you move along, dear.”
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Balaur