The Spring of the Satyr

5 Years Later


“But mommy!” Said the little boy, stomping a tiny foot in temper. “Why can’t I have my own broomstick? Livia Wood already has two and SHE’S only four, and a GIRL!”

Hermione looked at her son’s pale, animated face and smiled indulgently. “We’ll discuss it with your father later, at home.” The boy smiled, ice grey eyes, cherubic cheeks and curly white-blonde hair giving him an angelic quality that always melted her heart. If only his temperament could always match his looks! He ran off through the park, towards a small group of children, lined up for the slide. Hermione glanced down at the book in her lap and smiled contentedly.

“Damien Lucius Malfoy!” Called a loud, boisterous voice from across the park.

Hearing her son’s name, Hermione looked up and smiled exasperatedly. It was Draco, still dressed in Quiddich robes and carrying a small, toy broomstick. Oh damn it! They’d discussed spoiling the boy - many times! He smiled at her in greeting, holding the broomstick behind his back sheepishly. She raised her eyebrows. “Just couldn’t help yourself could you?” She asked sardonically.

“Nope.” He answered, laughing as the small boy threw himself into his arms. He hugged Damien tightly, looking over his shoulder at Hermione. “Would it help if I told you I brought you a present too?”

Hermione looked skeptical. “Maybe.”

He set Damien down and rummaged through his bag, coming out with a neatly wrapped stack of books in Flourish & Blotts wrapping. “I know how rarely you get to Diagon Alley. I thought these would keep you busy,, for a day or two.”

Smiling, Hermione accepted the package graciously. “You’re forgiven Draco.”

“Draco, DRACO!” Damien tugged at the man’s robes in impatience, trying desperately to reach the broomstick held out of his reach. “Give it to me!”

Draco held the wand over his head and smiled at his baby brother in affection. “I’ll tell you what.” He said in mock seriousness. “If you are fast enough to catch me, I’ll give it you – along with a galleon of your very own.”

Hermione snorted in amused disapproval as Draco took off running, her small son chasing behind gamely, his short chubby legs pumping comically, determined to catch up.

**

As she turned the corner, nearing her home, Hermione felt her steps quicken excitedly, as they always did. She held her sleeping son in her arms, face cradled under her jaw. She climbed the steps to the flat, opened the door, and handed his sleeping body over to Mrs. Foster, the wonderful, elderly nanny she’d hired to help her.

Removing her coat, she tip-toed into the front parlor and stopped in the doorway. Her husband sat where she’d left him, hair tied back, new reading glasses perched on his nose, pouring over the plans to their future home, which was to be built next year – in Bath. He frowned distractedly and erased a bit of his design, drawing it again. She studied the beloved planes of his face and felt the familiar surging of blinding emotion in her heart. To think, she’d come so close to losing him!

Her eyes shut tightly as she remembered that horrible night five years ago. As soon as Lucius had left, she’d pleaded with Draco to take her from the room, hide her somewhere, and help his father. He’d picked her up, taken her up the hidden passage, and deposited her on the couch in the ruined study. Straining to hear any clue to his parents whereabouts, he’d been rewarded by a faint, distant scream. With a last glance at Hermione, he’d torn up the staircase, pausing at each floor and listening. Finally, at the very top, he’d heard his mother’s loud, fanatical laughter and sprinted up the stairs and outside onto the rain-soaked turret. He stopped just outside the doorway, horrified as he watched his mother ram his father over the side of the wall. He ran to the edge, a convenient bolt of lightning illuminating the scene below. Draco wailed in agony, thinking he’d lost them both. Apparating to the ground, he surveyed the bloody picture in horror. His gaze found his mother’s face, lying at an odd angle under her husband’s body. Her eyes were still open to the rain, frozen in a terror-filled expression. She was definitely dead. He bent to take his father’s wet wrist, searching for a pulse. He’d jumped a foot when Lucius coughed, spouting blood from his mouth. He was alive, barely, but alive! Weeping uncontrollably, Draco knew he hadn’t the strength to risk Apparating the man to St. Mungos. Instead, he’d put Lucius’ hand back down and apparated himself – bringing back help.

It had been close, almost too close. Along with both legs, Lucius has broken several ribs – one of which had punctured a lung. As she’d lain in her own room down the hall of the hospital, refused admission to his room, Hermione had thought she would go mad. On the fourth day, when he’d finally regained consciousness, she’d been allowed a wheelchair to go and sit by his side. Their reunion had been joyous, full of tears, laughter and whispered words of eternal love. When a stern-looking nurse came in, insisting that Hermione return to her own room, they’d both stared her down, daring with blazing grey and chocolate eyes ANYONE to try and separate them again.

They’d married less than three months later, a small ceremony attended only by several unknown witnesses. Hermione thought that Draco would have come if they’d told him about it, he’d grown more and more comfortable with the idea, but she didn’t really want to hurt him any more than she already had. He’d find out soon enough. Two months later she discovered she was pregnant. She couldn’t have asked for a happier or more considerate father-to-be. Some weeks before her delivery, she’d convinced Lucius to take her to Manchester, to finally break the news to her parents.

Oh, the look on her mother’s face when she’d introduced Lucius as her husband! Hermione nearly giggled at the memory. It had been a tense and uncomfortable couple of days before, in the face of their daughter’s beaming happiness, they gained a grudging semblance of acceptance. Now, presented with such a lively and beautiful grandson, they acknowledged Lucius, if not really as a son-in-law, at least as a full member of the family.

Hermione snuck across the edges of the room quietly until she stood behind her husband’s chair. She made to reach out her hands to cover his eyes then squealed as he turned with a jerk and pulled her onto his lap.

“I always know it when you’re near.” He whispered, kissing her neck seductively. “I feel you.”

She grinned, growling passionately as his lips moved over her ear. Even without the magical binding, he still had the power to excite her more than she could stand, the power he’d always possessed, undiluted and undiminished. She reached a soft hand to caress the quickly growing bulge in his trousers. Her power over him seemed intact as well. Several years ago they’d discussed returning to the spring – renewing the bond between them, and had decided against it. For the time being, their love – and lust – were all natural. Hermione liked it that way. Lucius had reserved the right to discuss it again, many years from now, if his “abilities” were to ever wane. Hermione agreed.

“Take me to bed Mr. Malfoy.” She purred into his ear.

“Gladly, my love.” He answered.