Balaur

In a Weasley household, a couple made from the damage of war enjoyed the chaos of preparing for the events to come.

“Alright you two — bedtime! The daddy-monster’s coming to get ya!”

Squeals and giggles resounded from the badly chosen hiding place of two adorable imps with their father’s sense of humor.

“Let’s see… Are you… under the chair?” — and he yanked the front of the chair up to reveal a space far too small for even his two young sprites.

Magic sparkled as his children tried to apparate to a new location without wands or knowledge.

“Now we’ll have none of that. Your mother will spank us all if she sees that… blame me for teaching ya.”

“Teaching them what?” Hannah queried her husband of three years with a half-frown/half-smile on her full face.

“How to hide from you,” Ron lied — unsuccessfully, because toddler Hugo yelled out from behind the sofa —

“No, Dada — how to app-rate!”

“SHHHH, HUGO!,” Rose hissed at him, “he’ll FIND us!”

Hannah tapped her foot whilst her arms crossed themselves.

“I‘m sorry, babe. Had a Dragons’ game to get to. Bloody Oliver Woods came back a game early and Draco wanted to offer him a contract before he’s a free agent. Didn’t know the little snitch was watching. Just for that you’re flooing to the Burrow by your ankles. Get ready to hang!” and Ron took off chasing his rowdy pajama-clad brood towards the fireplace (in his new tuxedo).

“Ron — be careful! Don’t mess up your…”

Upon realizing they were gone, Hannah chuckled to herself and returned to applying her makeup. Life had been great since she reconnected with Ron at St. Mungo’s. Draco kept him on after Ron shattered his knees as he fell, unconscious, through the ring he’d been defending. The conversation about Ron’s new position with the Cannons occurred the next day in the hospital and came down to one key qualification and one key reference:

“Weasley, no one but you recognized Bali was a seeker. You never wavered and Merlin knows you were right. Potter says he’s going to be faster and better than both of us once we find a broom that can lift him. You got that kind of skill? You should be scouting, not getting your valuable brains scrambled up there in goal. Hermione agrees.” 

— and Ron became head scout for the team at a considerable (and comfortable) salary.

When Rose came four years ago, Hannah left her job to care full-time for her family. She’d worked at St. Mungo’s since graduation, keeping patient records up to date. Seeing that Weasley in the residential unit, she’d feigned needing an updated signature to force a visit.

Ron wasn’t happy to see her or anybody else for quite some time.

The human craving for company not wearing a Healer’s coat eventually broke his surly silence with her. The kind young woman established a schedule and routine for visits, often bringing him treats and sneaking his favorites in from his mother’s kitchen when the hospital food suited neither his tastes nor his quantities of consumption.

Her even, easy disposition (and, frankly, much less challenging intellect) won him over. 

When Ron asked — “You know I’m mental, right? Why d’you come see me?” — Hannah answered simply:

“Because you make me laugh. You’re a good man, Ron. Can’t have been easy being with Harry and all, worried sick about your family the whole time. You’re not mental; you have to find your bearings after the war is all.”

There'd been two relapses: the first when his Cannon friends celebrated Rosie’s birth, ignoring the effects of fyrewhiskey on the recovering addict. The practical new mother had prepared for that possibility by arranging an involuntary few days at hospital through her former work contacts. 

The second relapse stealthily entered their home and shook their marriage to test its resilience. Only Hermione considered the temptation that placing Ron in the midst of Quidditch trade prospects night after night would pose. Little by little the angry, aggressive Ron returned until months of backsliding climaxed the night he’d forced himself on Hannah on his return from signing Victor Krum to a long-term contract. 

“Down here, Hannah! Now! Service your master!”

“Coming! Ron, what’s gotten — OW!” she cried out as he jammed two fingers into her unprepared sheath.

“Get that ratty sleeping rag off so I can fuck you proper — AND BE QUICK ABOUT IT!”

“Yes, Ron. Let me clean up a bit and put on some of that lovely perfume you gave me for my birthday. I’ll just be a minute, baby, I promise,” and she dashed into the upstairs bathroom before his sotted brain thought through her request.

Her wand swinging in efficient and small arcs, Hannah sealed off the nursery from the house and transformed the window in Rose’s room into a door. A patronus quickly followed the securing of her daughter; a female Jack Russell terrier carried the message to Ron’s Healer to come quickly and to bring Hermione Malfoy to see to their child. Swallowing two potions in rapid succession, Hannah transfigured her simple nightdress into a more alluring gown and placed dabs of perfume where Ron would notice them.

By the time help arrived to escort him to the hospital for a thorough drying out, Ron had exhausted himself twice on Hannah, with her compliance and her loving understanding. The eventual knowledge that Hugo came from his awful treatment of his wife that night served as a shield: Ron’s reputation as a teetotaler became legend in the Quidditch world (in a good way). 

Hannah’s gamble that night saved her family. The pain potion allowed her to focus on her love for her husband even in his state of wretchedness; the fertility potion she’d been saving for some future time ultimately provided the motivation to keep Ron sober.

Humming the lullaby her children loved, as she prepared to join her family at the Burrow, Hannah Abbot Weasley smiled happily at her reflection and the good news she’d be telling Ron at the event. He’d already delivered his: effective Monday he’d go to monthly (instead of weekly) therapy visits at “St. M’s”.

Unconditional love has amazing healing properties.