Dark Times for Draco Malfoy

Spoiler alert: This chaper deals with occurences in the book Deathly Hallows.

Tottenham Court Road.
Draco Malfoy held on tight to his wife's hand, afraid she'd might slip out of his grasp. it wasnt the drunken men on the other side bellowing and whispering at her. It wasn't the fact that they'd just escaped from descending Death Eater's at The Burrow. No. This was Hermione's world. She was back in the game as a member of the Golden Trio fighting Voldemort. And she loved it. The way her eyes glowed was uncanny to Draco. She seemed more a fighter than a mother to be. Draco was concerned she'd might have forgotten about her belly. Hermione took the lead and ushered them to keep walking. A quick discussion made them head for a shabby café. Inside, the interior was worn down and in dire need of refurnishing. It smelled of piss, old coffee and fast food. Draco felt nauseous. He tried to focus on the discussion going between Hermione and Harry, but all Draco could see, was the waitress behind the counter and three possessed Muggles sitting in a corner farthest away from the front door. The waitress sidled over, but Draco couldn't hear her asking them for an order. He could only hear Melchior's voice resounding in the back of his head. Draco's hair were stanidng on end. Blinking, he had to look twice at the party of three sitting in the corner. One minute human, the next their faces distorted into ugly masks, their eyes glowing devilishly red. The entities inside of the bodies, were at attention. Draco reached down and hoisted up the right leg of his pants. Undoing the Demon's Bane from its sheath, Draco slowly pulled it loose. The demons followed his every move, sitting like frozen statues. Just then, two workmen walked into the café.

Draco saw the workmen out of the corner of his eye. He instantly recognized them. Thorfinn Rowle and Antonin Dolohov. They stared at him with eyes wide open, apparently recognizinghim as well. Their surprise blew their cover. Harry Potter saw Draco holding the dagger, turned his head to follow Draco's gaze, and found the threesome sitting at a dirty table some metres away. With Harry being invisible beneath his cloak, Draco considered their options. For once he had to let the demons go. The Death Eaters represented a much bigger threat to Hermione, unless - ! He saw Rowle and Dolohov act simultaneously, bt Harry - who also had understood the difficult position they were in - was quicker. Rising from their seats, Harry and Draco shot their spell simoultaneously. Draco used his left hand to hold his wand. He had practised, and while Harry shot Stupefy, Draco launched Avada Kedabra.He missed Dolohov by a millimetre. The shocked man tumbled backwards. Harry and Draco ducked the incoming Expulso, but Ron was hit by a Body- Bind curse. The leathery ropes tied him from head to toe and he fell stiffly to the floor. Hermione raised her wand and cast a Petrificus Totalus, hitting her target dead on. She then turned and cast Diffindo at Ron, severing the ropes. By the time she turned to see where Draco was at, she saw him plunge The Demon's Bane into the chest of one of the guests. A cloud of black smoke was rising from the man. The man screamed, as if he was on fire. Then he collapsed. Draco wasted no time, lunging for the neighbour who was getting to his feet. The man, a tall lean gentleman with long greasy blond hair, hissed like an animal at Draco. Draco buried his dagger into the man's forehead, all the way to the hilt. Black goo started to sputter from the wound, from the man's mouth and nose. His eyes watered over with black tears. Spinning on his heels, Draco aimed for the demon which had escaped from the first man's body. With fluid movements, the former Slytherin jumped and plunged his dagger into the entity which was attempting to float away. The demon exploded, leaving Draco beneath a shower of fouls-smelling black matter. It covered him from his head and to his waist, but it didn't stop Draco. The third person who was possessed, had climbed on top of the table. Draco heard Hermione cast Obliviate on the Death Eaters, while he watched the third demon - still in possession of someone's body - hop from the table, twirl around and then land on hands and knees up side down from the ceiling. The person - or rather the demon - snarled at Draco, shouting and mumbling incoherently, looking far from friendly. It sped ahead, took a leap and aimed for Draco.

Hermione watched, horrified as the rather heavy-looking man in the ceiling hurtled himself at Draco, hitting him and knocking him off his feet. They landed on the floor with a heavy thud, sending chairs and tables flying. The dagger had been between them. But had it been pointing in the right direction?

Obviously. The bigger man crawled away from Draco, huffing and coughing, guttural noises coming from his throat. He began to puke, and a beam of dead, black demonic matter stood from his mouth. Finished, the large man collapsed, moaning and whimpering. Draco got to his feet. His breath had been knocked from his chest for a moment. Hermione hurried over, but she didn't know how to help him for he was covered in goo. Harry sorted the mess, sending the demonic stuff into nothingness with Evanesco.

Leaving the café in a hurry, they kept on walking until they found a deserted small alley.
"You should go to Grimmauld Place, Harry" Hermione said, sounding regretful. She wanted more than anything to join him, but Draco's dealings with the demons had awakened her. They said goodbye. She gave Harry a long big hug, but refrained from doing so with Ron. It was an awkward moment. Draco and Hermione watched Ron and Harry Disapparate, before they did the same. It whisked them back to The Lighthouse Farm.

She brought him to the bathroom. She peeled off his clothes as if he were a child. The Death Eaters fresh in her memory, along with three demons, Hermione had in the blink of an eye realized just how many dangers there were. Coming back to their safe haven, she needed to exert love and to feel love in return. Wriggling ot of her dress, she joined Draco in the shower. She cleaned him with soap, his hair, his torso, kissing his lips and clinging to him, their skin gliding against one another, gresed up in soap. The hot steamy water was soothing, and Draco was welcoming her in his arms, kissing her passionately and worshipping her swollen belly. Five more months and he would be able to gaze into the infant eyes of their offspring. Would it have her eyes or his grey ones? Would it be a boy or a girl? Hermione clung on him tighter. She got the feeling she couldn't get close enough. The belly was in the way, it was between them. Sandwiched by either parent, the unborn baby was sheltered. Protected. Then her thoughts wandered back to Harry and she felt herself tensing up again. She pictured Harry to be a lost child on the run. Would he be all right? How would Ron and Harry fare without her? She was the walking library, she knew so much which they didn't. Feeling divided, Hermione let out a frustrated sigh. If she could have split herself in half, she would. Harry needed her. Draco needed her.

"I am going to ask your master if he will give Harry sanctuary here." She met Draco's gaze. Those grey eyes drilled themselves down to her very soul.

"If you must." Draco replied quietly, not showing any particular emotion. He was hard to read sometimes. It was difficult for him to convey to her his complex relationship to Harry. There was no denying the growing bond between them. Draco saw it - nay, experienced it first hand every time he met the emerald gaze of the Gryffindor. He guessed that Harry also had figured it out. Demon nature, Melchior had called it. They would be depending on each other in the future. Their very lives would be hanging by a thread, and they needed to be bonded as close as brothers. And Demon nature dictated that the best way to create such a bond was through a sexual intercourse. Through mutual attraction. It didn't get any more intimate than that. Still, two months had passed and Draco still shuddered at the thought of being in bed with Harry. He was so totally beneath the Chosen One. He couldn't get it. Why him? Harry Potter would go down in history as a hero. Draco would - well, he'd be lucky if his own family would acknowledge him as a member. Who would want to admit they were the child of a criminal? A lowlife? A demon's lover? It didn't matter, Draco had concluded. The Malfoy name was soiled forever because of Lucius and his ties to Voldemort.
He took Hermione to bed. She tossed restlessly for ten long minutes before settling into his arms, spooning. he wasn't sure who she was trying to comfort, if it were him or herself. He heard it on her breathing, could feel it on the way her body was tense, slowly relaxing in his arms. Mentally, she had gone to a world where Draco couldn't reach her. She worried about Harry. Her strong commitment was disturbing. He stayed awake and listened to her fall asleep. Draco disentangled himself carefully and left the bed. Standing by the window overlooking the courtyard, he saw that the lights of Port Royal were out. Melchior wasn't at home.

Malfoy Manor.
He didn't know how he had gotten there, and it frightened him to know so. Lucius stared with rigid face at the narrow slit of a window. It was a window to freedom, as he himself was far from it.

"I will dominate all of you! Your son, yourself and your wife. No one shall escape me" the eudaimon whispered seductively into Lucius' ear."The Malfoys shall be subdued" the enthralling voice kept on. Lucius shut his eyes and swallowed hard. Lines of sweat dripped from his forehead and down on to the cold stone floor of the tower room. his muscles already ached from the strain of having been tied behind his back and then elevated forcibly by a rope through a ring attached to the ceiling. Lucius remembered playing here as a child once. Then he'd seen an apparition and fled. He had been six years old. Now, he wailed into his gag as he wriggled to escape the razor-sharp nails which caressed his backside.

"Oh yes. Sing to me, my dear. I only wish you could have heard the screams of your son. Such exquisite noises he made every time I raped him. Let us see if you can best him, shall we?" the eudaimon purred. Parting the Death Eater's buttocks, he quickly found what he was looking for. A trembling, puckered entrance just waiting to be enjoyed. Undoing the cloth concealing his demonhood, Melchior positioned his throbbing erection at the entrance. Lucius sobbed through his gag, pleaded for mercy and wriggled frantically to avoid what he knew was just seconds away from happening. Melchior clutched large chunks of blond hair and forced the Slytherin's head backwards until Lucius ceased to squirm.

"You know your son is alive. You have seen him. And it is either you or him. There is no excuse for what you have done. You sealed your son's fate the moment you became a Death Eater. You could have walked away with honour. You could have spared him the horrors I have poured on him. All of that is forfeit now. Your bad judgement has led to the ruin of your only child, and your so-called Dark Lord is far from appreciating your efforts on his behalf. You're a failure, Lucius Malfoy. A failure."

Melchior's stern growling voice echoed through the tower room. Lucius whimpered. He felt the tip of the erection press gently as if it probed the puckered landscape. As it began to press inwards, pain flared up and it didn't stop. It went on and on, until the muscle gave way and the erection plowed itself inside. It felt huge, and Lucius tensed up with pain. He screamed in his gag, not knowing what to do with himself. The pain was so intense it immobilized him. All he could do was to keep his balance, fight the unwelcome intrusion with every muscle in his body and pray it would be over soon. But that was before the eudaimon had begun to pump in and out of his orifice. The pain Lucius initially had felt seemed to triple in intensity, as the huge cock rubbed against his insides. A strange sensation of lust was mixed with the pain, but it almost drowned in the intensity. Long minutes passed. The eudaimon pressed on, not heeding the Death Eater's sobs. Blood smeared the entrance, alleviated the pain a little. Melchior took a bruising hold of the man's hips and pumped in and out with as much strength as possible. Lucius' sobs ceased and melted into one long scream. He was no longer begging incoherently, simply just screaming. He was uncommonly conscious of what was happening, feeling everything including the way the length inside him rubbed against his walls, the touch of thigh against thigh, the nails digging into his hips. His arms ached incredibly, forcing him to bend forward. Sweat poured down his forehead, dripped into his eyes and blurred his vision. Snot ran from his nose and fell to the floor not far from his toes. The sensation in his rectum was unbearable yet he had to endure it. There was no escape. He had no idea of how long he hung/stood there with the eudaimon pounding into him from behind. Everything lost its meaning. Lucius just wanted to get away. He was ready to give up everything. Voldemort, everything!

The eudaimon bided his time. After having pounded hard for some time, he suddenly paused and lessened the way he pumped. Lucius' orifice was now slick with blood and slime, and instead of pure pain, Lucius now experienced a sensation mingled with lust. It was horrible. He felt filthy. His legs were trembling from the effort of standing erect, and his back was stinging with pain from the strain. his head hung down, covered in masses of blond thick hair. The way the eudaimon moved behind him, told Lucius that he was now being toyed with. This foul act was going to last for a long time.

When the eudaimon finally ended it, he did so with a growl. The pouding subsided somewhat in strength. In stead, he made sure to push in and then withdraw his full length, making sure Lucius was aware of the sheer size. The orgasm swept over him and he shot his load deep into the older Malfoy. Withdrawing, he saw that blood was smeared between the human wizard's legs. Lucius Malfoy had been broken well and thorough. He gazed through the slit of a window overlooking the horizon. The sun was just rising.

"No hope!" Lucius mumbled, tossing from side to side in his bed. Narcissa was standing over her unrestless sleeping husband, eyeing him curiously. She grasped his shoulders and shook him awake. Lucius opened his eyes, stared into his wife's face and inhaled sharply. He struggled to get up and embraced her, kissing her lips passionately.

"It was just a dream!" he gasped into her ear. "Just a dream!" Never before had he been so grateful to be awake.

Somewhere in England
Harry and Ron struggled through September and October. The conversation between them seemed to diminish to an absolute minimum. Apprehending the true locket had been a temporary triumph. All though they both knew what it did to them, it was hard not to succumb to its influence. Whenever it was Harry's turn to guard it, he would lay down and hide in his sleeping bag. There, he would dream of Draco Malfoy. He conjured up the image of the blond former Slytherin everytime there was no other light in his tunnel. When Harry had doubts about Dumbledore, frustration over Snape and his apparent betrayal, he would simply picture the blond bloke laying next to him and the cruel reality would be forgotten for a while. Wearing the amulet gave Harry many a wet dream, and his dreams often took venues he'd never even considered in reality. One dream which kept reoccurring these days was one which started off at a Muggle night club.

Harry had no idea why he was there. He kept looking for someone. Someone blond. Tall or short - if they were blond, they attracted his green-eyed gaze like a magnet. He kept looking for that boy. It was someone particular for whom he had ambivalent feelings. He so hated everything the boy stood for, but he loved the body. The volume vibrated through the crowd and the bass pumped through the floor, sending shivers up through Harry's legs. It was a sensual, demanding rhythm which beckoned every body in the room to sway its hips. The beat was simply irresistible, and the studio was packed with fertile, gorgeous looking men of all flavours. But no one could outshine the divine creature which revealed itself a couple of metres from Harry. He was swaying his hips to the beat, unaware of Harry's presence. The blond was grinding his groin towards the groin of the man he was dancing with, there was no mistaking the chemistry between the two. his lean, slim body moved elegantly, fluidly and seductively. Harry could only stare. Many men kept interrupting. They attempted to take the place of his partner, but his partner kept fending them off. Returning to his partner, Neville Longbottom gazed into the grey orbs of his dancing lover, losing himself in their depths once more. They had eyes only for each other.

In Harry's dream, Neville had changed. He was no longer the slightly whimsy and very clumsy Neville the quiet herb-lover. The chubbiness was gone. Neville's hair fell into his eyes, shrouding his brown eyes. His smile was cunning and confident, and he cupped Draco's chin with tender authority, making sure Draco was focusing only on him. In Harry's dream, they were equals, as if Neville somehow had conquered Draco the Demonslayer. Even from a distance, Harry could see the evident bulges in their jeans. They never let go off each other. Their arms stayed wrapped around their waists. Their eyes never left the stare of the other. The premises were packed with kissing couples. Men kissing other men passionately, grinding their hips together, partaking in a seductive dance with one aim only: To find a partner to take home for the night.

Harry watched Neville plant his lips onto Draco's, kissing passionately, tenderly. Drawing breath, he rested his forehead against that of Draco's, the tips of their noses touching slightly. Not knowing how he'd come by the information, Harry knew that they were bonded for life. When everything was over, when everyone had passed away, Draco and Neville would still have each other. And Harry? What of Harry?

He watched them fondle each other's clothed groin, the palm of their hands impatiently rubbing the fabric. Their kisses were long, passionate and brimming with restrained desire. Their manner shifted in time with the change of music. The whole room was filled with the sensous waves of a lovesong. Everywhere around them, fingers entwined, crotches ground against each other and the air was filled with the thick, unmistakable scent of sex. The crowd was waiting as if for a signal. Who would take the first step and undress? As with every time Harry had this dream, he felt the anticipation rise across from floor to ceiling. People kept lifting the hem of their shirts, hand roamed beneath them. Harry locked his gaze at Draco and Neville. Draco's fingers were roaming the buckle of Neville's belt. They wanted access - they wanted to demolish the wall of fabric and leather in their way. They wanted to get into his breeches, to caress Neville's manhood - to make promises of desire fulfilled - of paradise achieved - if only - if only Neville would come home with their master. With Draco. Harry watched as Draco undid the buckle and opened Neville's pants. Still, people clung to false modesty, hiding away open flys and hands roaming in indecent places. It was only a matter of time before it all exploded in one giant orgy. Harry felt dread rise in his heart. Draco had to belong to Neville!

It was the same every time Harry had this dream. The fear of someone else claiming Draco - of someone else's cock but Neville's into Draco's orifice. Draco didn't seem to care who he was with. He was there for anyone. Harry watched in fright as the highly erotic scene unfolded infront of him, but he could feel no arousal, only fear. It was as if Draco couldn't be trusted to any one else but Neville. Neville and Harry both knew that Draco had to be sheltered. But Harry couldn't move. He couldn't speak. He could only stay nailed to the floor and watch, putting his trust in for Neville to hang on to Draco. He watched the lovers move to the bar, kissing and fondling. Neville had opened the buttons of Draco's shirt and was lapping at his nipples. Pleasure was painted all across Draco's face. He batted his thick lashes and curved his neck backwards, exposing his Adam's apple. A faint smile played across his lush lips. His mouth was half open, and his eyes were narrow, seductive slits. Harry had seen their equal once. Harry had once seen a poster with Marilyn Monroe. It was the exact same manner. The same tease. The same seductive expression of face. Having made their way over to the bar, Neville opened Draco's jeans. He wasn't wearing underwear, and that put Harry completely off his end. It was agonizing to watch how accessible Draco was. No underwear! What was the boy thinking? Virtually anyone could just rip down his jeans and have a go at him. Neville dipped his hand into the open fly. Draco's eyes widened and a smile spread across his lips. People were fondling each other openly. The song shifted to a faster pounding beat with heavy bass and arabic rhythm. The floor was a mass of moving bodies, ripping of shirts, zipping down flys and heavy moans. The first step had been taken.

Draco and Neville were oblivious to the rest of the crowd. They were kissing feverishly, stroking each other off with parallel moves. Their eyes closed,and their faces were the embodiment of lust. The beat of the music rippled through the dance floor which was stacked with people who were getting bolder by the minute. Harry couldn't comprehend why Draco and Neville wanted to be a part of this madness. He watched them as Neville boldly pulled down Draco's jeans. The attention of his half-nakedness was immediate, and the neighbouring couples stared. A man put a hand on Draco's chest. The hand caressed his pale skin across his neck, past his ear before the fingers combed seductively through the blond strands on his head. Draco only looked at the man, his eyes veiled with lust.

This was the critical moment! Why wasn't Neville doing something?! Harry's heart skipped a beat. He was on the edge of the seat, he wanted to leap over and fend the man's hand off! Neville, you must see what's going on! Harry pleaded in his mind. He couldn't get the words past his lips, couldn't get his jaw moving!

Neville was busy. He had taken Draco's erection into his mouth and his head was bobbing up and down aggressively. The stranger was still caressing Draco's hair, and the blond arched his back as his eyes rolled to the back of his head because of the way Neville administered down stairs. The stranger wouldn't stop. He ran one chubby index finger down Draco's temple, past his nose and to the edge of Draco's lips. It was a lean, tall man, and he was wearing the robes and mask of a Death Eater. The last thing Harry wanted, was to see Draco seduced by a Death Eater again. He wanted to move his legs, but they remained glued to the floor. He opened his mouth and screamed at Neville but no noise came. No voice. No nothing. The dream always occurred so, that just when the Death Eater was about to enter one finger into Draco's mouth for him to suckle, Draco would pull at Neville's head, and Neville would stop his administrations just in time to come face to face with the enemy. And the enemy would fall back and not bother them any more. Nevertheless, it compleetly unhinged Harry every time. It was the same terror to watch the scene unfold just to be stopped by Neville at the last minute.

Then, the dream continued to unfold in the same manner as it always did. Neville turned Draco around. The blond stepped out of his jeans, spread his legs wide and awaited impatiently the greatness of Neville's aching cock. And it was huge, about as thick and hard as a grown man's wrist. Draco looked down at it from across his shoulder. He shuddered in childish pleasure at the sheer size of it and the expectation of having it inside. Neville dipped his fingers in a vacant glass half empty with cherry liqueur. With it, he coated his erection, before he aimed it at Draco's orifice. The former Slytherin arched his back, shooting his arse backwards and higher, giving Neville better access. The way Neville entered into Draco's entrance told Harry that they weren't strangers. They'd done this before. They were seasoned lovers. Still, Harry's heart ached for them. There was something fragile about their union. And as with every dream, Harry felt as if he part-took in the intercourse, hoping desperately with every thrust that it would be enough for Draco to remember Neville and choose no one else! As if the way he pounded would embed everlasting memory into Draco's body. Harry wasn't even sure why he felt this way. Why he was afraid that Draco for some reason would forget Neville and what they had together?

Neville raised Draco's right leg to rest it partially on the bar. It gave Harry an uncensored view of the goods, and this was the point on from which Harry got aroused. It was the magical point in his dream when Draco actually looked across his shoulder again, and this time gazed into Harry's eyes. As if he was silently telling the Gryffindor that: 'I see you. I know you're there.' Neville was always oblivious, focused only on hammering away at Draco's backside, coming as deep inside the former Slytherin as possible. His breath hitching, Harry felt himself grow hard. It was an instant hardness. It was a moment in his dream which he shared only with Draco. And Draco would accept Neville's ministrations, never deviating his gaze from Harry.

"You're not alone in this" Draco would some times tell Harry in his dream, with Neville still thrusting away at his orifice. The longer this part of the dream kept on, the slicker, swollen and more inviting Draco's entrance became."Have patience. I'll be there for you when you need me the most."

The words of wisdom or consolation or whatever didn't match the setting at all. And that was the frightening part. It was the part of the entire dream which made Harry wake up every time, with his hand inside his trousers, his cock rock hard and aching for release. And Harry would be shivering with cold sweat, and he knew in his mind that this was more than just a dream. This was the eudaimon playing his game with them all. And most of all with Draco. It was a message which Harry found most disturbing, knowing the words to be true. The eudaimon was watching from the sideline. And when the time was right, Draco would be his pawn once again. It seemed as if there was no hope at all of turning the situation around. The one entity with enough power to take down Voldemort and prevent Harry from dying, was content to be sitting on the fence and play tricks with their minds.

No hope. The words sang through Harry's mind as he once again sat up after having one of those dreams. No hope of surviving. All Harry ever could see in the horizon of his life, was Voldemort.

The Lighthouse Farm
Peter Drinkwater was nearing the finale. On the morning of September 1st, he was nearly there. Having spent the night in the bathtub dealing with moderate labour pains which saw to the opening of the birth canal, Peter was growing weary. It didn't help to know hat he was still in for the worst. He had stopped listening to the insistent pleas outside the closed bathroom door, a long time ago.
Being in labour was something special. It was a critical moment in time for father and child since the father's body from nature's side wasn't sculpted with the intent of bearing children. Giving birth could literally be the last thing he ever did. Peter had the advantage that he'd given birth twice before. The children had ploughed their way through the temporary birth canal, widening his hips and remodelled his joints. He knew the routine, he knew the various stages and he was familiar with what needed to be done afterwards. But he also knew his place. He was the slave of an eudaimon. And he could not expect any help.

Being in labour meant that he would be defenceless. So Peter had locked the door. He had started off with wet, hot towels on his abdomen to ease the ever increasing pain, writing down the minutes between each throe. Then he had proceeded to fill the bathtub, knowing he was on a point where the pain soon would overcome him. He had packed lunch, and he ate it in silence, breathing through his nose once another throe bloomed in his abdomen. He had been in there for about two hours when someone had tried the door handle. Peter had jumped. He was sitting in the bathtub, and he listened with his heart caught in his throat, to the demanding tone in the voice of Malachi, who had understood what was happening. Awaking because he had to take a piss, he had gotten up only to find Peter gone. He had stepped into something wet, and upon turning on the lights, Malachi had discovered a trail of thick, pink fluid which led to the bathroom. The initial fear in Malachi's voice woke the others. Andrea and Stephen had stepped out of their bedrooms, sleepy-eyed and wondering what the ruckus was all about.

Being in labour did something to the mind. And Peter was confident that he had to protect not just himself but also the life which was in the process of being born, from the threats lurking outside the bathroom door. The responsibility for the unborn life combined with an untold rush of hormones made him paranoid. Thinking they would take the baby away, Peter set his heart on fighting to the very last. He knew a simple lock on the door wouldn't keep them out. In response to Malachi's demands of the door to be opened, Peter sobbed: "You - you do not have my permission!" Paranoia had wrapped itself around his heart completely, slowly choking him while the labour pangs grew in strength. Malachi had once sworn he would never enter into a room without Peter's permission. The word of an eudaimon as unbreakable. A Peter had never used it as a weapon against his master before. He could not tell where this anxiety came from, other than that it had been bottled up for some time. It was a rebellious emotion which had sprung into life at the same time as the blond Draco Malfoy had arrived at the Lighthouse Farm.

Peter both knew what he was doing but at the same time he didn't have a clue. He was in the process of giving birth. That - he could handle. But at the same time he was rebelling against Malachi. He was taking charge of his own life, shutting the eudaimon out of an important event which should have been joyous. He was saying no. He had barricaded himself in the bathroom, determined to have this moment to himself. Knowing he'd made that choice and that there was no turning back, scared the living daylights out of him. He thought about the two previous times he'd given birth. First off, in Hell. In front of John Sparrow himself. Secondly, at the Lighthouse Farm, and Malachi had been by his side all of the time, watching him, observing every move, every tear of sweat pouring down Peter's forehead. And Peter had been frightened. He had felt vulnerable and been ashamed to be in such a position. He had been unable to read Malachi, he had harboured a desire to escape his dark eyes and brooding manner. Malachi had looked angry. Like the calm before the storm. The birth had come as a surprise, and it had happened quickly, and the entire experience had been overshadowed by fear of retaliation at any moment. Peter had no idea why Malachi had been so angry. Or perhaps it had been something else. Sadness? Worry? In the months which followed, Peter had given this a great deal of thought, concluding that Malachi must have thought him incompetent and clumsy. He had felt dirty after the second birth. There had been a lot of blood. A lot of sweat and silent tears. Malachi had seen him in a lot of compromising positions. Staying prudent and honourable had been a lost cause. Peter had only whimpered. He had not dared to scream. The sensation that Malachi probably thought him undeserving of the privilege it was to be carrying demon children, had haunted him through the entire labour, and it had stained it and made it an unhappy experience. Sebastian had been born, much to the delight of the eudaimons, but to Peter, it had been a disappointment. Mostly over himself and his inability to behave the way he thought Malachi wanted him to behave.

In the present, Malachi's initial fear had altered into anger as he realised that Peter would not let him in. He was thinking about the outcomes, about the hazards of giving birth all alone. There were so many things which could go wrong, and he vividly recalled how fatigued Peter had been the last time. in his mind, Peter was acting selfish, not caring about the consequences, that in a worst case scenario, the child could die before he mustered the strength to unlock the door. As minutes crawled away, Malachi's mind painted one gruesome image after another. What if Peter went off the edge and killed his own baby - Malachi's baby - once it was born? He was already acting erratically since he had locked himself into the bathroom. It happened from time to time, and Malachi's panic was growing as he remembered the last time Peter had a fit. It was as if the man's mind went on overload, and Peter seemed to lose contact with reality, ignoring everything and everyone around him. Scared out of his mind, Peter would lock himself in some room or wander about the grassy fields, tears streaming from his face. He would be looking lost and aimless, his face would be the face of a man without hope. And should Malachi attempt to approach him during such fits, Peter would burst out screaming and run. Tumbling between anger and bottomless regret, all Malachi could do, was to watch from a distance until Peter settled back to his old self. The morning on September 1st, Malachi regretted more than ever of his past behaviour towards his husband. All the signs of another fit were there. And Peter was in labour. And the baby was all alone with him, just hours away from being born, behind a locked bathroom door.

Malachi would not make threats. He told himself so time and again. He had to avoid spurring Peter's madness any further. Instead, he pleaded. He put his shaky hands palm down on the surface of the door, rested his forehead against it, and pleaded and promised. He spilled it all - swearing on the lives of their sons that he would not harm Peter. He only wanted to be there for Peter and the baby. He tried appealing to Peter's conscience - that the child ought to have both parents present when it was born. That Peter had to think of all of the things which could go wrong. He wept as he talked to the door, declaring his love to Peter over and over again. It was heartfelt, raw and honest. Malachi would give anything, if Peter just could open the door. He heard Peter rummage around. He heard the laboured breaths, the heavy steps and he imagined Peter moving around with his ripe belly. Slow, deliberate movements in case he should fall. The unmistakable sound of water draining out of the tub reached his ears. he hoped against hopes that Peter was on his way to unlock the door. Nothing happened. He heard Peter breathe, heard the man's breath hitch, and he recognized the deliberate way he breathed. It were the controlled, focused breathing during the final stage, at the birth itself. Malachi threw himself at the door and wailed quietly. He understood now that Peter would not open. The man was determined to go the distance alone, and Malachi was left with the realisation that he was facing a new era. Peter had begun to shut Malachi out of his life. He was reinforcing the invisible wall between them, silently telling his master that there was no hope of reunion. The love - or whatever, which Peter once had declared to him by writing on a a scrap of paper - was dead.

Malachi sank to his knees, his face sliding along the surface of the door, leaving a trail tears. He could only hold back the sobs for so long. Sebastian and Alexander had awoken also. Coming out into the hallway they saw their eudaimon father dissolved in tears. Andrea and Stephen were quick to scoop them up in their arms and carry them back to the bedroom, hushing and softly explaining in a simple way that their brother was about to be born, and that their father was a bit worried.
Squatting, Peter bit down on a towel as he came face to face with the near unbearable pain as the head of the newborn forced its way through his opening. Peter felt the flesh stretch, felt the nerves howl out in warning. He quickly drew another deep breath and pushed on, determined to endure the pain and to fight it by pushing against it. His knees shook from the effort, and his hands trembled. The pain dulled somewhat as the head was all the way out. Looking down between his legs, he could see it. It was a wrinkled, red and bloody little thing. Peter braced himself and took another deep breath, still biting down on the cloth. This was his moment. he was all alone. And everything depended on him. He was all alone to do as he pleased in the way he saw fit to do it. he liked the emotion, ,liked the way it empowered him to see it through. He pushed once more, focusing on using the right muscles. The birth canal stretched once more, and seeing the child being slowly squeezed out of him made him give a little extra. Sweat poured from his forehead, and suddenly - so suddenly, he felt the pull of gravity as the baby slid out of him. In a blur, Peter looked down. It had wings. It coughed and opened its eyes. Moments later, the familiar tug began, and Peter set in an effort to push out the placenta. He was grateful when it slid out of him in a pulp next to the baby. He was free. He had his body to himself once more. He was free!

Malachi sat up and glued his ear to the door in order to verify what he thought he just heard. He blinked away the tears and listened intently. There it was again! The wails of a newborn! his heart began to pound frantically, and he felt both panic and joy as he realised that his third son - a third dragon - had been born. He pleaded again with dry lips, the words getting caught in his throat. He pleaded and pleaded, digging his nails into the door and clinging to it, scratching at the surface as if it would help him inside.

Peter arranged a number of clean towels between his legs. He wrapped the baby in another, softer towel and picked it up on his arm. Father and child were tired, but happy, and his mind sucked in every detail of the moment, revelling in the pure happiness Peter for once felt. This was his moment! This moment belonged to himself and his son. No matter what happened afterwards, they would forever have this. After a while, a new voice suddenly caught his attention. It was outside the door. And it belonged to Draco Malfoy.

"I'm going to Apparate inside to you, Peter" Draco told him loud and clearly through the door. Seconds later, a loud POP announced Draco's arrival. The blond was looking sleepy, his eyes red-rimmed, narrow and his hair tousled. He was wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, and he held his wand in his right hand. He opened his eyes wide as he took in the initial images of crimson against the white tiles of the bathroom. Tucking his wand away by the hem of his trousers, he sat down to come level to level with Peter. "Peter", Draco said softly, "there's a lot of worried people outside this door. They are concerned that you may not be doing so well. I was just wondering. How long do you intend to stay inside this bathroom? Don't you want to lay down and rest?"

Peter looked at Draco for a long time before he replied with hoarse voice: "He's - he's going to kill me ..! I'm not ready - to part - with the baby just yet."

"Malachi isn't angry. He is afraid that there is something wrong with you. And he is eager to see his child." Draco put as much softness and calm as he could muster, into his voice. He had been warned that Peter could lose it at any moment. He waited for a reaction, but none came. Peter fell silent, cradling his child. His eyelids kept falling down. "What are you thinking, Peter? What is it that you're thinking about?"

Peter opened his eyes and gave Draco one long stare.

"I don't want to be a part of this – any more" he whispered. His brows drew up in fear, and Draco could discern black rings around the man's eyes. "I - I can't do this any more!" Peter's whisper ended in a cracked, high-pitched tone. His eyes watered, and tears dripped down on the soft towel of the child. "Did - did Malachi send you?!" he wailed quietly, biting back the sobs. His entire frail-framed body shook in silent sobs. He was so tired he shivered from head to toe. He was halfway laying, halfway sitting against a tiled wall, and Draco could easily see how worn he was. Draco observed Peter's face. He recognized all too well the desperate expression of face, the vacant, apathic stare and the body language which screamed for someone's help.

"No one sent me. Andrea - he, uh, came knocking at my door. said I had to come quickly. And when I saw them outside the door I figured you needed a hand. A hand only another human being could give" Draco explained softly. He had troubled tearing his eyes from the pulp on the floor. he had trouble understanding what it was. His gaze followed the cord which veined from the pulp and disappearing into the towel wrapped around the baby. Comprehension set in. Draco's thoughts wandered to Hermione, and he wondered if there was such a thing inside her as well.

"I - you must help me cut the cord" Peter said. He was regaining his breath and his wits. Logic and experience told him this was necessary so he could start to think of a way out of there. Perhaps there wasn't such a way? "Draco? The demons. Do they have access to your home? Have you ever invited any of them inside?" He stared intently at Draco. The unasked was obvious to Draco.

"You're really serious. You're really leaving him? What about the children?"

"I - I" Peter hesitated, not really knowing the answer. "I just can't live like this any longer. It's all your fault, by the way. You .. you awoke something in me. You made me realise how miserable I am." Peter paused. "Thank you."

"I'm glad I could be of help. will a pair of scissors suffice?"

"You'll need to clean them. Thoroughly."

When the deed was done and the cord cut, Draco took a deep breath and unlocked the door. Shutting it behind him, he steeled himself as he faced the eudaimons waiting impatiently outside. Malachi jumped to his feet. They all waited for Draco to speak. Malachi paced back and forth, eyeing the door time and again.

"Peter has asked if he can stay with me and Hermione at the Dragon's Lair for now."

"Is the baby all right?" Malachi only said, ignoring Draco's statement.

"I don't know."

"It should be checked by a proper physician. Would you agree to allow a doctor into the Dragon's Lair if I got hold of one? It's the same physician we've used for Alexander and Sebastian" Stephen asked. He was addressing the matter with a soft, civil manner, conveying to Draco that he was ready to cooperate.

"Only if it's all right with Peter" Draco responded. Stephen was about to reply when the air went cold. From nowhere came an icy breeze, and Draco insatntly realised that another eudaimon had arrived.

"Uh-oh" Andrea said, gazing down to the dark staircase. "It's John. And he is not pleased." Andrea looked over to Draco. "Do you have a fast way of moving Peter? You ought to have, being a wizard and all" he commented with a lopsided grin.

"I can Apparate us back to the Dragon's Lair" Draco answered swiftly.

"Then do so. You mustn't let any eudaimon into your house. We can't enter your threshold unless you give us your permission, understand?" Andrea spoke swiftly. Draco didn't reply. He heard footsteps. The sound of the steps and the familiar silhouette of the long hair and the bandanna keeping it in place, made Draco's heart beat faster. He was about to defy not only his master but Satan himself. Feeling slightly nervous, palms sweaty and somewhat afraid of what the imminent future would bring, he knelt by Peter, took his arm and told him to hold on.

The bathroom door was wide open. The smell of blood, birth and newborn baby was as thick as butter, clinging to the walls. He found them gathered in front of the bathroom entrance. John Sparrow had known something was wrong from the minute it had been revealed to him that the child was being born. Business in Hell had kept him. Already annoyed because he had been delayed, the annoyance now turned into deep irritation. The bathroom was empty save the blood and the placenta on the floor which was quickly drying up. The scent of Peter lingered, yet he had just moved seconds earlier. Malachi was no where in sight, and John cursed inwardly. The boy always screwed it up when it mattered the most. he ignored his peers and walked out into the hallway. Looking ahead, he could see the door open to Malachi's bedroom. There, he found Malachi sitting on the bed together with his two sons, Alexander and Sebastian. Had it not been for the presence of the children, John would have flung himself at his son and given him a thorough beating. The children clung to their father.

Sebastian's and Alexander's appearances were often confusing. They were children but not children. Being half demons, they shared the collective state of mind of the Sparrow demons. It meant inheriting knowledge passed down through generation after generation, starting with vague memories of a life lived by an ancient prince consort to a long dead demon king. A collective mind meant access to information on how to make war, on how to dominate and to be a leader. At the age of two, Sebastian already knew the incantations which would bind any demon, human or animal to him. It was there, available to him, yet others had made the experience and learned the formula before him. He could simply tap into the sphere and make use of it. But as a human being, he had to learn all over again. As a human being, with human emotions, he was still a two year old.
The children knew through demon instinct that their human father had left them. They felt their family being split apart, and they both knew why. They had seen it. They had lived with it each day, watching their fathers live in fear of the great shadow which watched them from a distance. Through the collective mind, they both knew that their grandfather John had once punished Malachi severely for his mistakes towards Peter. The memories of living in terror aboard the Crimson Lotus, facing rapes and abuse each day, weaved into their dreams at night. During the day they watched the frustration between their parents, felt the tension and the unresolved issues between them because they both lived lives neither wanted. In the midst of this, the children did the only thing they could do. They tried to be human children, playing and bringing sunshine into their parents lives. But the unspoken remained unspoken. Alexander had watched them grow apart. Draco had been the catalyst, and all though the blond was to blame, Alexander was also greatful that someone finally shook things up. Both as demon and human, he had no experience in resolving such domestic conflicts. There was also another factor which made the situation difficult: Demon rank. Alexander was a third generation half demon. And a child. He could not speak against John, and neither would he be heard. Only Peter seemed to hear him, and about a year ago, Alexander had begun to realise just how much power he held over his dad.It made him feel sad, because he had realised that Peter was beginning to look at him much in the same manner as he looked at Malachi.
"You have your father's eyes" Peter had once told him softly after he'd tucked the boy in after bedtime. They'd had a row, and Alexander had thrown a fit. He'd gotten so angry he'd accidentally put the curtains on fire and nearly changed into a dragon. And that's when Alexander realised that in his father's eyes he was beginning to change: The demon was awakening. Peter was beginning to lose his dear little boy.

"Your eyes you mean" Alexander had answered, smiling, attempting to cheer up his human father.
"I meant that you have Malachi's beautiful eyes" Peter had softly corrected him. He had kissed the boy good-night and then left.

They had gotten married because John had wanted it so. They had settled at the Lighthouse Farm because John had told them to, and they had arranged their lives the way they had because John had influenced it that way. John's greatest concern was Peter's safety. And the safety of the children. That argument was always thrown in their faces when either Malachi or Peter dared to debate the arrangements. And if Malachi spoke against his father, John would appeal to his guilty conscience and remind him of his crimes against Peter and how Malachi had been punished. And each time they met, John took care to remind Malachi that he was not a stranger to the idea of having Peter all too himself. If he didn't watch out, it might just be that he would have to endure watching Peter give birth to John's children instead of Malachi's.

The more Malachi tried to be civil against Peter, the more he attempted to rebuild their relationship, the crueller the threats towards him became. John's eye seemed to be upon him constantly. There was nothing he could say or do in the presence of Peter, which John didn't find out. It was a clear back-draw of being the son of Satan. For Satan saw everything. Malachi suspected that John had hexed the walls of the house. They probably functioned as recording machines, taping everything being said and done between them. John wanted complete control. He had no trust in Malachi whatsoever. In the end, Malachi gave in. It was easier to just stay quiet, to avoid the conflicts between himself and Peter. To avoid talking at all. During the course of five years in the main house at the Lighthouse Farm, Malachi had been given no choice but to watch the love between himself and his husband die. If it had ever been there in the first place.
He sat on his bed, embracing his children, and he thought back at how he'd entered into the marriage with Peter thinking there was hope of re-establishing feelings between them. It had been a simple ceremony. No dress robes, no fancy dinner or party. Just the ceremony and the exchange of rings. Peter had been silent, eyes cast down, but strangely excited. Almost happy. He had admired the ring for a long time, and often did so during moments when he thought no one saw him. Malachi knew it wasn't the ring itself. Though it was pure gold, it was the symbolism of it which mattered. Peter had wanted the marriage. He wanted a family, and the only words he'd spoken the entire day, were during the 'wedding night', when Malachi had felt it necessary to fulfil the marriage rituals. Peter had promised to stay a good slave. The words had sounded revolting in Malachi's head. And he'd lost every bit of motivation to go through with it. It had been the word 'slave'. Not 'husband'. Or 'wife' for that matter. Not 'companion' 'life partner' or 'lover'. Not 'friend' or 'colleague' or 'associate'.

"You must learn to think of yourself as my husband" Malachi had told him. He had rolled over on his side of the bed and pretended to go to sleep, deeply slighted all though he understood that Peter had only meant to show his subordination. And perhaps that was the problem. Malachi had evolved immensely. From being a cold-hearted wretch of an eudaimon he had gone into becoming a down-to-earth powerless eudaimon with too much guilty conscience. Peter's evolution seemed over. Going from self-satisfied top-of-the-world small time crook to house slave and sexual toy and left Peter an emotional and psychological wreck. It was as if he didn't understand that Malachi was on the defence, that he now had the opportunity to flourish and take charge. Not until now, five years later, when Peter had met himself in the doorway in the shape of a sixteen -year-old blond wizard who waltzed into their lives wearing the Demon's Bane in hand and a bloody wand in the other.
Malachi looked at his father who stood before them, hands crossed above his chest, his orange eyes simmering with restrained anger. Whose side was Malachi on, any way, Malachi thought to himself. It was a peculiar thought, but it occurred to him that he'd never really been on Peter's side. He'd never really supported his husband. He had only obeyed his father. He looked John in the eye. The warlord, one of three mighty siblings once born to the Prince Consort of the Demon king of the Seventh Plane of Hell, didn't move a muscle. His face was unreadable. Normally, the colour of his eyes were golden. Now, they burned like the flames of Hell. John had always been about protecting the family and increasing the number of Sparrow eudaimons. It was crucial in the grand plan when thinking in terms of an apocalypse. But John had a way of losing perspective. His thinking was simple in many ways: Put an eudaimon and an attractive young man in the same cage, and the attractive young man would sooner or later be pregnant. The very basis of demon nature. He didn't see that breeding children weren't enough. It took time to raise them afterwards, and if they were to become decent eudaimons, they needed a decent upbringing. And a decent upbringing can only be provided if the parents are happy and are given the means to bring the children up. In his mind's eye, Malachi could see how John's hand - or rather his interference - was squeezing the life and happiness out of both of them. His desire for more offspring - more fighting Sparrows - had gotten out of control. John failed to see the reason for Malachi's inability to make the marriage a place for Peter to thrive. And Malachi - in his frustration over this - had taken it out on Peter when he really just wanted for Peter to help him deal with it. Malachi was the kind of man to always resort to violence first before thinking. He worked on changing those impulses every day. Most of the times, he succeeded. Other times, he failed. He was under the impression that Peter only saw his failures and not his successes.

"Time for breakfast, boys" Malachi told the children. They leapt from his arms and past their grandfather, relieved to be told what what to do. Malachi listened to their eager footsteps as they ran down the stairs. As he was passing, John took hold of Malachi's arm.

"Breakfast? Let Stephen handle that while you make sure Peter returns to his bed. His place is in this house!" John told his son through gritted teeth. He let go off his arm but followed out into the hallway and down stairs. Stephen just got off the phone. He had contacted the family doctor, who was currently on his way. John quickly relayed his order to Stephen. Stephen glanced briefly at Malachi, understanding the situation he was in. Hesitantly, he agreed to mind the children.
Crossing the courtyard, Malachi saw that also Melchior was joining them. They arrived in front of the Dragon's Lair at the same time, and Melchior nodded curtly at his father. He crossed his arms and waited in silence.

The front door opened, and Draco Malfoy stepped out, holding the Demon's Bane in his right hand and his wand in the left. He eyed them from left to right; Melchior, John and Malachi. John eyed his son Malachi expectantly. Malachi took a step forward.

"The doctor's been called. He's on his way" he told Draco. It wasn't quite the piece of information which Draco had been waiting for, and he was surprised by the apparent good-natured tone. Malachi seemed composed yet anxious. John gazed at his son in wonder. This was obviously not what he had been expecting. "Please tell Peter that I am happy for him" Malachi swallowed. "That I am anxious to see our newborn. And that - that I respect his choice." Malachi looked down into the frosty ground. "If he - if he needs anything, clothes or stuff - ...!"

"- Draco Malfoy, you will open your doors to me right now. I demand entrance into your house! Peter's place is not with you" John Sparrow nearly growled. He crossed his hands above his chest and eyed the blond with a sour face.

"Peter has asked for sanctuary for himself and his child. I have given it to him, and I will NOT be intimidated by your crude behaviour, Sir" Draco responded after a brief pause. "Neither of you are welcome into this house!" Draco drew a deep breath and tightened his grip on the dagger. He was shivering slightly in the cold of the morning. Having been thrown into the situation, he tried to keep prepared for a fight. Most of all, he wondered how Melchior was taking this.

"You will surrender to me, right now! Do not forget your place! You are a slave to my son and a future Child Bearer!" John snarled, taking a step closer.

Draco looked to his master for help. Standing up to this creature, this half-blood which was more demon than man and Lord of Hell's planes, was heart-wrenching. Draco felt his knees go soft and his will slowly bend like melting iron. He knew this influence. It was the demon working his power to get in control. Draco forced his knees straight, straightened his back and tilted his head slightly backwards the way his father always did, claiming an air of nobility. Draco would not budge. Jack Sparrow had told him a thing or two about handling eudaimons and demons alike, and he remembered very well how the former pirate spoke of 'faith bein' yer strongest defence of all'. It sounded corny at the time, but the meaning of it had seeped into Draco's mind just in time to use it. Integrity of mind - belief in one's ideals - formed an invisible wall as strong as any mountain. It wasn't the words, Draco knew. The words telling them they were not welcome - that wasn't it. It was Draco's will and integrity of mind - his belief in that he was doing the right thing for someone else, for Peter, which was the true obstacle for the eudaimons. They could simply not get past his wall of good intentions. It rendered them powerless.

"Melchior" John said, turning to his other son, "I order you to regain control of your servant."

"Why? I think he's doing fine on his own."

"It's as I feared. You have given him the means to defy us. A human - ...!" John told his son. His voice brimmed with contempt.

"– don't play your mind games with me, father!" Melchior suddenly bellowed, showing his true colours. "Don't think I haven't sorted you out! I know what you can do, I know what you're capable of! Frankly I'm just waiting for my turn to become the next black sheep of the family! How long is it going to take before you come up with an excuse to destroy my relationship with Draco as well?! How long before you decide I am no longer worthy my powers and then strip me off my dignity as well?! Well, let me tell you this: I am glad Peter has finally awoken and left Malachi. I am glad he is regaining power over his own life. And rest assured, whatever you do to me, I won't care, because I've taught Draco to stand on his own two feet. Should I crumble at your toes, he at least, will remain in control. So eat shit and die, father!"

Melchior was so angry he was shaking. He put one hand on his jutting belly and eyed Draco. He crossed his hands above his chest. The distance between father and son grew and Melchior paced away from John. Malachi cleared his throat.

"I've said all I have to say. Perhaps - perhaps later on, it would be possible for Alexander and Sebastian to - to have a look at their new brother?"

"I'm sure we can come to some sort of arrangement" Draco replied. He looked at John expectantly. Melchior was trotting off to Port Royal. He too, had apparently said all there was to say. For now. There was a hint of dejection on Satan's face. As if he'd been sucking on a lollipop and then been robbed of it by someone bigger than him. And now he couldn't understand why it was gone.
Back in the guest room which was opposite the main bedroom, Draco stood by Hermione. They watched Peter nurse his infant son. Breathlessly, they watched the tenderness on his face, an unbridled love which made Peter glow. Hermione and Draco hadn't bought a cradle yet. Neither did they have a perambulator. It was high time, Draco thought. High time he went shopping with Hermione. He took Hermione by the hand, guided her back to their bedroom. There, he sat her on the bed and then walked over to his wardrobe. Lifting out his drawer of socks, he emptied it on the bed. Hermione followed his idea at once and disappeared into the bathroom, emerging moments later with soft towels and bedsheets. Together, they arranged a make-shift cradle for the baby. She couldn't help but to steal glances at him. His blond hair fell down in his eyes. He'd cut his hair a little differently, lately. His bangs had grown down just to touch his eyelashes. He kept his neck and by the ears closely cropped as always. And it didn't matter if a strand of hair was out of place. Draco had become less posh and more wild. She liked it a great deal. He noticed that she was staring at him. Stopping, he turned his head and smiled at her. Shifting his gaze down to her lips, he dropped what he was in the middle of. He had a quizzical look on her face, as if his mind had suddenly switched over to some dirty thoughts. He leaned over and kissed her. Not stopping there, he lay his weight against her, feeling the growing belly between them. Landing softly on the bed with her underneath, he took care not to put too much weight on her stomach. He put his right hand on her belly and looked her deep, so deep into her eyes, suddenly afraid he would lose her and the bliss she offered to him. He held it all, Draco thought, right here in his arms. Hermione rested her head against his left arm. Their noses were so close they almost touched, and he gazed - no he dived into her brown pools. This was his life, his future! He was holding it right here, right now, in his arms. He looked into her eyes. He would not become like Peter. He refused to become so. The unspoken would not remain unspoken. Not in Draco's marriage. He would not allow it.

"Do you ...?! You know, right? You know I love you?!" he told her, his lips gently brushing against hers. "You're everything I ever wanted" he told her quietly. "Back at Hogwarts, I never dared believe I could ever achieve something like this...! I never thought" he went on, "that I was going to make it. To continue living, I mean. I thought I was destined to cease this existence without hope, without knowing love again. Seeing Peter in there, with the baby ..., it's - it's not long now, before it's our turn to be that happy!" he smiled shyly at her. Hermione did not answer. He could see her eyes watering, and she smiled, her eyes speaking volumes, asking him if he really meant these soft and tender words. Her own dark wizard. Draco lifted his hand from her belly and gently ran one finger down from her forehead to her left temple, moving away a stray lock of brown hair. His passion for her always took her breath away, even when it was unspoken.

"I love you too" she said. "With everything else crumbling around me, it's such an infinite consolation to have you - who represent all known things of the wizarding world - so close. And I'm so endlessly touched by all the things you're willing to do for me. For us. There's so much more about you I want to get to know." They kissed again, and Draco was reminded of the fact that even if they were married, they lived in separate worlds these days. Harry Potter and his problems seemed so very far away to him, yet for Hermione it was reality every single day.

They went to Peter with the drawer, and he was touched with their care for him and the baby. The baby went asleep right away. Draco helped Peter off to the bathroom. Peter had grown tired and hungry, and Hermione went downstairs to make him something to eat. looking out of the kitchen window, she spotted a car which drove into the courtyard and stopped by the main house. A man with a doctor's bag stepped out, and he was greeted by Malachi. The eudaimon pointed in the direction of the Dragon's Lair, and escorted him over. Hermione drew in a deep sigh and opened the front door before they had a chance to knock at it.

It was a man in his mid-forties, presenting himself as Doctor Langhurst. She shook his hand and smiled. She looked from Malachi and to the doctor, and said: "You must swear that you're - you know - human. no eudaimon can enter here."

Doctor Langhurst eyed her seriously before he said: "I am unfortunately fifty percent French. And fifty percent Scottish. How does that fare in your book?" His face turned a quizzical one and he gave her a lopsided smile.

"Quite well, actually" Hermione responded, somewhat ashamed of herself. She allowed him inside. Malachi remained on the outside.

"Does he need anything?" he asked Hermione in an almost desperate tone as she was about to head back inside. "Is he - is ...!" Malachi dug his hands into his pockets, losing his words.

"The baby's asleep. And he's having some food. Right now. The baby - needs some clothes."

"I'll get it" Malachi said eagerly, managing a faint smile. He trudged back to the main house, relieved to be of use, relieved to be met with civility. Hermione was relieved to be rid of him. She went back inside and shut the door.

Malachi found a bag and began to sort through the paper box stuffed with infant clothes which Peter had prepared weeks ago. It had been standing in one corner as some silent omen about the fore-coming birth. Packing it half full with clothes and nappies, Malachi hesitated. He felt tears press on, felt the morning's tension and conflicts force their ways to his eyes. Forcing himself to go to the closet, he steeled himself. He picked out clothes for Peter. Tears dripped down on Peter's favourite sweatpants, socks, t-shirts and sweater. Malachi put it all inside the bag, and when doing so, he felt as another bond between them was being severed. He was packing Peter out of his house. Out of their bedroom. Out of Malachi's life. Only when the tears turned into blood, did Malachi stop. He hadn't cried blood in years, not since long before he'd met Peter. It were the tears of a demon. A sure sign of his heritage. A cursed heritage.

Draco went to Port Royal at the evening the same day. It was about nine o'clock. It had been a long day, and he had no idea what Melchior had in store for him. he'd begun to dread walking over to Port Royal like this. he stepped inside. The living room was lit, the fire ablaze in the fireplace. Melchior was lying on the floor, on a soft piece of blanket. He didn't look up as Draco entered, but said:

"Strength of character, Draco Malfoy. I never doubted you for a second, today. You've made me proud again. And you exceed my expectations. And once again I am forced to come face to face with my errors. This child of yours" Melchior said, putting one hand on his belly, "is getting to me. It's a burden to bear, I tell you. And I'll be very glad when it's born. I'm afraid I'm not father material. I want you to talk to your wife about raising him as if he were yours. And hers. And remind me next time I feel inclined to let you mount me, of what a wretch I have been to you lately." Melchior sat up. He looked up at his servant and said: "I don't regret it. Nothing of what I've done to you. It's been necessary. Character building. This offspring - is my reward to you. He will be your family's protector. The strongest of all the offspring you will give me when the time comes. The true lord of Malfoy Manor." Melchior rose to his feet. He walked over to Draco and reached for him. Grasping him gently by the neck, he pulled the blond to him and kissed him carefully, as if he was kissing the petals of a rose. "I admire you your evolution. And I regret my repeated mistakes against you. When I lose faith in you and think that you can give me no more, you take what's bad - and turn it into something good. I understand you have come to terms with the killing."
"I took the advice of Severus Snape and got over myself" Draco replied quietly, his gaze never leaving Melchior's. A smile curled its way across the eudaimon's lips by the mention of Snape's name.

"Ah, yes. He comes in handy. I hope you reward him well for his efforts, poor thing. Caught, like in a fox-trap, between two ... evils."

"What do you mean? Reward him?"

"Well, if you don't,then I will. In my own way" Melchior smiled teasingly. Draco instantly knew what his master referred to. In Melchior's eyes it would be a reward. To Snape ... who wasn't particularly bi-sexual, it would be a nightmare.

"Perhaps you should leave it to me, my lord."

"Perhaps I will." Sensing he had lost the debate, Melchior was content to lean in for another kiss. As their lips connected, Draco parted his in order to allow Melchior's tongue access. As the foreign tongue entered his cavity, he felt a familiar tingle in his groin. He pressed his hips against Melchior's. The belly was ludicrously in the way, and Draco sighed. "Ignore it, please, ignore it."

"Where ever I turn these days, there are pregnant bellies and babies ...!" Draco moaned into the kiss.

"Frustrating, I know" Melchior said, breaking the kiss for a second. "A few more months and I'll give you a thorough pounding again ...!" Melchior kissed Draco's lips until they were swollen.

"No! Make love to me, Melchior! Treat me like a human being ...!"

"I – am – treating you like a human being" Melchior corrected him. Draco continued to kiss him while he contemplated over the double meaning of those words. Demon standards and human standards. Draco felt his erection fight for freedom. Melchior felt it as well. He smiled cunningly as he dropped down on his knees. His big belly brushed Draco's front as he slid down. Without ceremony, the eudaimon began to undo Draco's pants. Draco was quick to stop him in the process. The eudaimon looked up at him questioningly. "Are you - disobeying - me?" the eudaimon asked quietly. The only audible noise was the creaking of burning wood.

"I – I just don't want to be turned out into the cold once you're finished, still wearing my pants around my ankles and probably with a carrot up my arse or something ..!"

Melchior pushed his hands away and continued to demonstratively undo the zipper. He pulled the black pants down to the boy's ankles and beheld the aching erection hiding beneath the black boxers. Leaning in, he caressed its length with his nose, drawing in the smell of Draco's manhood.
"Ah" he sighed, "so sweet a smell. So soft yet so hard ...!"

"Oh spare me the romantics, just do something to me. I can't bear it!" Draco sobbed. He refrained from acting on the impulse to tear his boxers off and stuff his cock down the eudaimon's throat.

"Impatience, Malfoy, is - not- a virtue ...!" Melchior gleefully answered. Pulling down the hem of Draco's boxers, he revealed a proud and prancing, rock hard cock. It virtually showed itself off, it's dome glistening with pre-cum, and it twitched slightly in happy reunion, ready to serve. Melchior beheld it with a playful smile on his lips. His smile broadened into a kiss, and he began to search Draco's trousers. Fining his Hawthorn wand, he disentangled it from its confines and looked from it to Draco's erection with thoughtfulness. "Hmm" Melchior began, "I wonder -...!"

"Oh please, not the wand, please!"

"Mister Malfoy? Have you grown afraid of your own wand?

"Unfortunately, yes ...!"

Melchior slid it's length through his tight palm, feeling the surface of the wood rub gently against his skin. Again, he smiled secretively.

"Carrot, you said?"

"No! Oh no! No no no!" Draco gasped, struck by sudden horror. Before his mind's eye he could see Melchior's plan. Immobilizing Draco in some way, then fetch a carrot from the kitchen. Use the wand to enlarge it beyond any measure, then insert it into Malfoy's orifice ...! Oh no! Draco stumbled backwards, frantically pulling his pants upwards. Fumbling, he managed to get them over his knees. He made it to the front door, and wriggled until he got his jeans over his hips. Safe, he was almost safe. He reached for the handle, but then an unseen force grabbed him and pulled him backwards, away from the door, away from freedom. Draco howled in panic. He saw Melchior disappear into the kitchen. The blanket in front of the fireplace came alive. Rising up through the air, coiling around itself until it reached the resemblance of a cobra, it proceeded to hover above Malfoy's head for a brief second until it plunged down at its prey, engulfing his head and upper body. Draco wriggled and shouted. The blanket tightened its grip, leaving his head in the clear so he could breathe. The rest of his torso including his arms, were locked tight and it soon got very hot. Draco stiffened in odd and excited trepidation, as his eye fastened on Melchior. The eudaimon had re-emerged from the kitchen, holding before him a carrot the size of a stallion's erect cock. Baring his fangs in an evil and mischievous smile, the eudaimon said: "Now, Mister Malfoy. Let's see just how - flexible - you are!”