Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Long Time in the Making	By : T-W-O Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 11238 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
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
- 7
- 8
AN: Many thanks to karisma, Cass, Victoria, RevDorothyL and Bookish0926 for kinds words.
Having survived the war and avoided Azkaban (with his entire family), Draco smiled inwardly and smirked outwardly. Making Head Boy hadn’t been expected but, for once, Merlin’s fucked up sense of humor placed him where he wanted — and needed — to be.
Swinging past the pictures lining the staircase reminded him how much he missed the dungeons and their tangled nest of tunnels that snaked everywhere in the castle. A tad out of shape after the occupation of their mansion and a year without fun (much less Quidditch), Draco planned a rigorous exercise routine to replace normal, adolescent activity — when time would allow. Such planning kept his mind off the interminable number of stairs to his destination.
His shift started in less than five minutes and he stood nowhere near where he should’ve been.

His schedule, nowadays, was not his own to control. All acts and choices came with consequences. And not all prisons came with walls and islands.

“Mr. Draco! Youse is late!” a house elf informed him as it apparated to the step above him.

The interruption caused him to miss the stair shift. He cursed Merlin and the elf out loud; the delay would force him to navigate four more flights to the tower, making him more than late.
Contemplating the murder of a house elf (without being caught or punished) distracted the most recent Lord Malfoy sufficiently for the elf to side-along apparate them both to the Head’s tower where the ruckus assaulted Draco’s delicate ears.
He’d been assured by Madame Pomfrey and his mother it wouldn’t always be this… painful.

“DRACO! Thank goodness! He refuses to go down for me. He desperately needs a nap and I have to study for my Herbology N.E.W.T. Please,” came the kind request along with his two-month-old son — the next in line to the Malfoy title and fortune, “take him. He’s eaten.”
“Honestly, Granger, how hard can it be to put a baby to bed? He’s clearly exhausted.”

Young Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy provided his aristocratic father bragging rights amongst the small throng of returnees to the school that ended Voldemort. Hermione’s goodbye at Shell Cottage — remarking that they’d “made something beautiful together” after her torture — turned out to be more than true.
Angelic and beautiful in appearance, the child whimpered through Cupid’s Bow lips set between two pale dimpled cheeks. Gun-metal grey eyes shut down the water works as soon as he found himself where he wanted to be — in his father’s arms. What little of his mother he’d inherited wrapped his head in thick layers of soft curls the color of cornsilk.
Draco wondered whether a two-month-old could actually be as manipulative as the budding smile on his son’s face would indicate; he hypothesized that the boy gave his mother shite on purpose.

Like father, like son.

“Go. Take a nap before you study or you’ll be snapping like a gorgon the rest of the evening and I have no intent on having dinner ruined again.”
“I’m sorry. I’m just so tired and Scorp seems to” —
“Scorpius. His name is Scorpius, Granger,” Draco reminded her as he hoisted the heavy child up to his shoulder, “not ‘Scorp’.”
“Whatever,” Hermione sighed, too tired to fight this particular battle, “and if that’s the case, my name’s ‘Malfoy’ — not ‘Granger’,” she hurled back at him through a yawn.

Bragging rights, thanks to his marriage to the war heroine (Gryffindor’s “princess” AKA THE Hermione Granger), meant that Harry-Fucking-Potter himself testified to Draco’s captivity as did Ron “The Weasel King” Weasley. The Weasleys (except the Weasel-King) — his first cousins twice removed — bled sympathy and forgiveness all over him, anxious to keep Hermione and her husband together (and Hermione happy) once her “delicate condition” became known and obvious.
Had Draco known she carried his heir while dueling in the “Skirmish at the Room of Requirement” (Rita Skeeter’s overly dramatic chapter title in her hastily published war “memoir”), he’d have Avada’d that fiendfyre-flicking idiot Crabbe, yanked “the Scarred One” or Beastly off one of the stolen brooms then flown his witch to the Malfoy property in France and locked her in his suite.
The announcement of their marriage and their impending arrival sent Lucius into an apoplectic fit so severe he remained in a coma in the Spell Damage ward at St. Mungo’s — he’d hexed himself, much to Draco’s vengeful satisfaction.

Morgana’s pity worked in his favor tonight, as it had that extraordinary evening in the forest surrounding Shell Cottage where magical Britain’s future had been planted.

“Master Draco, I’ll be taking the young Master.”
“I’ll see to him, Poppin. Haven’t seen him nearly the whole of the day. Prepare something Granger will like for dinner.”

Vowing he’d never be caught expressing sentiment over his son and heir, Draco threw a quick glance over his shoulder before Accio’ing the rocker from the makeshift nursery and settling into it near their transfigured tower windows. Draco made sure they had a clear view of the Quidditch pitch.

“That’s your world out there, son. You will be the smartest, most powerful wizard in this country. And you will kick Potter’s cross-eyed spawn all over that Quidditch pitch. I’d like to say I made that possible but…”

Another glance confirmed he and the infant were alone (despite the odd sound he thought he’d heard). Granger, he surmised, must be moving furniture in their bedroom with her snoring (as usual).

“Your mother did that. She fought for you before we knew of you. Saved my cowardly arse and your Malfoy grandparents as well — which is why you’re here. I will tear this world apart for you — no one will threaten you or abuse you or keep you from being what you want to be. I love you and your mother more than my own life. But let’s keep that between us gents for now. She can get rather mawkish.”

His emotional confession was met with baby snores (which suited the doting father just fine).

With no pressing demands until his rounds, Draco rose and placed his most precious son in the Granger cradle and set the rocking spell. Hopefully Hermione’s breasts stuffed massive amounts of mother’s milk in the boy’s Weasel-sized belly; he wanted her to get a solid two-hour nap in before everyone in the family ate dinner together. Fatigued himself, the head of the new Malfoy family (and the redecorated Manor) headed to their bedroom to kip with his bride until dinner — or their son — woke them both.
Climbing in behind her, fully clothed, Draco noted the wet spot on her pillow but attributed that to the nightmares both still experienced. Only time would diminish the triggers. In a still unaccustomed motion (outside of sex — which the petite witch swore off for half a century thanks to her lengthy labor with a 12-lb. Scorpius), Hermione’s husband looped an arm over her midsection and tugged her back to his front. A contented sigh settled her against him and she slept undisturbed.
Almost two hours later, Lord Malfoy heard the family’s latest heir and left to let his wife rest a few more minutes.

For this reason Draco missed the transfer of the last known Hallows — the Invisibility Cloak — from his grateful wife to a moderately pregnant Ginny Potter née Weasley (who’d arrived via their bedroom floo) and her tearful recap of Draco’s sweet admissions to their son (all captured on her muggle vidcam).

At graduation — when the sentimental vid debuted to over 600 tearful well-wishers — he’d bellowed (while jiggling his giggling baby) that his lovely wife had been mis-sorted by that accursed, incompetent hat.

Typical of Draco Malfoy’s year, the hat agreed.
- 7
- 8
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Long Time in the Making