Title: Are You In Love Yet? Part 1
Author: Constant Vigilance
Status: FIN
Email: tirel@pcnuthut.com

Website: https://www.angelfire.com/tv2/firebird_ascending/
Rating: PG-13—Language mostly.
Pairing: Draco/Neville
Spoilers: AU. Post Hogwarts.
Warnings: Slash, Mpreg (for a bit)
Disclaimer: I own nothing. JKR is God.
Summary: Draco is cursed. Neville teaches him to save himself.
Notes: This story is an entry in Misconceptions: Harry Potter Mpreg Fuh-Q-Fest Wave 2 (http://hpmpregfqf.design-of-decadence.net/)

Challenge #274: Incorporate plot elements of the fairy tale Beauty And The Beast into an Mpreg fic. (Submitted by Turquoisia Xenia)

Draco snorted in disgust and took a step away from Pansy’s outstretched hands. “You have got to be out of your mind, Parkinson,” he stated drolly. “There is no way in the seven levels of hell that I will ever marry you. You’re hideous and nasty and you make my skin crawl.” He didn’t even try to hide his sneer as her hands dropped to her side and the tears began to fall.

“B-but I can give you an heir,” she tried her last card.

Draco rolled his eyes. “I’m won’t marry you to get an heir. Hell, I wouldn’t marry you even if I got you pregnant. There’s just no way.”

Pansy turned and raced out of the house, only years of familiarity with it allowing her to make it out the front gate without the ability to see past the tears in her eyes. “Fine, Draco Malfoy,” she sobbed. “If you don’t want me, that’s just fine! But I’m going to make damn sure that you have to work for whoever it is that you do want.”

_________________________________________________________________

2 months later…

Draco seated himself on the divan, crossing his legs. “So, Pansy. What do you want now?” he asked lazily. The spurned woman just smiled. “I came to offer my condolences on your father’s untimely demise,” she said quietly. “And on your mother’s departure from England.”

Draco chuckled and moved to stand. Pansy saw the direction his eyes moved in and she waved him back down, choosing to pour Draco his whiskey herself. Draco dropped back into his chair. “I couldn’t care less, actually,” he said. “I have all the Malfoy power now, and no one I’m forced to share it with. Thank you,” he nodded as he took the snifter from her hand.

“That’s quite the sad life view, Draco,” she pointed out.

He rolled his eyes. “I’m sure it is for fools who live to fall in love, Parkinson. However, for those of us who live in the real world, its just business.” He took a swallow of his whiskey and his eyes widened. They shot to Pansy’s face…Pansy’s smirking face. A cramp shot through his lower abdomen and he bent over it. “What the bloody hell did you do, bitch?” he growled.

Pansy shrugged. “Sharing your life with someone shouldn’t be a duty, Draco,” she said, primly smoothing her skirt down as she stood. “It’s a privilege. One which you will not have until you realize what a bastard you are and make a move to rectify that.”

“Pansy, you bitch!” he snapped as another pain rocketed through his gut. “What did you do to me?”

Pansy smiled. “Several things actually. First, I found a dark ritual that serves to transform you into something as ugly outside as you are inside. But what you’re feeling right now? That’s your punishment for refusing to take love even when it’s offered from a child. From your child.”

He blinked rapidly, trying to focus on the three Pansys in front of him. “What?” he managed to slur.

“You’re pregnant, Draco,” she stated serenely, gathering her bag up. “It’s not a bad thing, really…the pregnancy. You’ll never change, Draco. I know that. Never. And so, you’ll never find true love and happiness. Giving you a baby was an act of mercy. That child will love you unconditionally, despite your horrid appearance. At least you’ll know some love in your wretched life.”

She headed toward the door. “Do think about naming it after me?” And the door shut behind her.

_________________________________________________________________

Neville rolled over on the uncomfortable twin bed in the guest room and sighed. Of course, with the emergence of guests from the woodwork, the only possible thing to do was move Neville from his own room and ensconce him in the crappy closet that passed for a guest room. He rolled back over and stared out the window at the stars.

Morgan Dietrich LeBeau, son of Amelia Longbottom and John LeBeau, had shown up on Gran’s porch three nights ago. Apparently ‘Mummy’ and ‘Father’ thought there might be some eligible ladies (or even gentlemen) of refinery nearer London than their own home in Versailles.

Neville allowed a small snort, one that couldn’t carry through the thin walls to his ‘perfect’ cousin’s ears. Refinery? What the hell was he thinking? The snort became a grin as Neville remembered the look on Cousin Morgan’s face when he realized that the ‘guest house’ was actually the main house and that the old servant woman was actually Gran. Cousin Morgan couldn’t set quill to parchment fast enough, demanding that his parents bring him back home this instant.

Unfortunately for Morgan, Amelia and John were off on A Vacation. Neville had covered up the snicker, put clean sheets on the bed in his room, moved all of his required belongings to the guest room and lugged Morgan’s crap upstairs. It took Morgan a bit longer. Eventually, Gran snagged him by the ear and tossed him on the couch explaining that A Vacation was a nice way of saying “you’re staying here, sonny-boy, so stop being an arse.”

Three days hadn’t done much for his mood. Mostly, Neville avoided the other boy. Morgan was the epitome of perfection. He was blonde, blue-eyed, well built and tanned. He was an accomplished wizard from a highly accredited school (Beaubaxtons) and had ‘plans’ for his life. Apparently, that included leeching off of Gran until he either found a suitable spouse or got to go back home to Mummy.

Neville didn’t like him. Of course, Morgan didn’t like Neville much either. Neville was from the wrong side of the family. He had the misfortune of not having parents to provide for him, of having to live with his grandmother, of taking after Gran in looks and personality and of being practically a squib. Needless to say, Neville was everything Morgan wished to avoid.

Too bad he chose not to. He poked at Neville as a child with a pointy stick would torment a three-legged dog. In the past three days, Neville had broken more crockery than he had in the last six months (dropping it when Morgan continually apparated into the kitchen to scare him). He’d fallen out the window (trying to hide from Morgan) and had to be taken to the mediwizard in town. He’d been the recipient of some interesting hexes that he was sure were not taught in Beaubaxtons any more than they weren’t taught in Hogwarts.

In short, Neville hoped that The Vacation would either be cut short, or by some miracle of Merlin that Morgan would suddenly find true love and move the hell out. Merlin answered Neville’s hopes a few days later…sort of.

Morgan had been complaining for days about how boring the house was and how nothing exciting ever happened. He also happened to mention something about the being in the middle of nowhere. Neville wanted to smack him and tell him that was Gran’s point, but decided it probably wouldn’t do any good.

So, he settled for warning Morgan that exploring the lands around the house more than likely wasn’t a good idea and left it at that. He figured that if Morgan were stupid enough to go roaming around the countryside with just a broom and his wand then Neville certainly wasn’t going to argue. After all, it allowed him to stop hiding like a frightened six year old.

Morgan merely sneered at Neville and ignored Gran’s stern look. He then kicked off into the sky, heading toward what would become Neville’s destiny.

_____________________________________________________________________

Morgan wrinkled his nose and spat the foul tasting water out. He wiped the back of his hand over his mouth and pushed himself to his feet. Glancing about the darkened forest, he allowed himself a single, small, frightened moan before straightening his back and heading off again. He had to find shelter. Or at least some fresh water that didn’t taste like a hippogriff shat in it.

He’d been wandering in what he could only admit in the silence of his head was circles for the last two hours. He’d been flying at treetop level, looking for some sign of civilization, when he’d gotten distracted by a dive-bombing hawk. By the time he’d chased the thing off and ducked down where the thing couldn’t swoop at him anymore, he’d lost track of his path and hadn’t been able to pull up fast enough to avoid the huge cairn of rock.

He’d slammed full tilt into it, crashing and rolling to the bottom. When he’d regained consciousness, it was getting dark. He’d discovered his broom shattered into kindling. Flying was out. So he decided to apparate. Unfortunately, his wand resembled his broom. So now he was lost, in the dark, no mode of transportation and no wand for apparation/calling for help/food/water/shelter.

“Bloody hell!” he screamed, slapping at the leaves of a tree he passed under. “Why is this happening to me? I just want to go the hell home!” In the process of his rant, he didn’t notice the faintly glowing fairie light until he’d flung himself to the ground again in frustration. The light winked gently and he frowned at it, watching it coalesce into a line. A line leading off through the forest.

“What the…?” he pushed up again and followed. The light led him around bushes and away from dangerous footing as though it could sense his inability to follow it into precarious places. He kept his head down, not daring to look away for fear the light would disappear and he’d be left alone in the dark again. He followed it right up to a set of huge iron gates.

His eyes widened at the sheer size of the gates and the stone wall they attached to. Then, his desperation overcame his interest. He began pounding on the gates, first with his fists and then with a good sized rock he spied lying nearby. “Hello the manor?” he bellowed. “Let me in! I need help! Open up in there!” There was a slight ‘pop’ and a diminutive house elf stood directly in front of him.

“Can we’s help sir?” the elf bowed.

“Yes!” Morgan sighed in relief. “Tell your master that I am in need of food and shelter and perhaps a floo home.”

The house elf cocked its head. “Master doesn’t like guests, sir,” it ventured hesitantly.

Morgan’s handsome features slid into an angry scowl. “Sir doesn’t care right now. I am in need of assistance. It is your duty as a house elf to assist those in need. Do you refuse?”

The elf wrung its hands together and looked quite distressed, but in the end, the gates swung open and Morgan stepped inside. “If sir would just step into the portkey portal,” the elf murmured nearly in tears, pointing to a small circle to the right of the gate. Morgan did so and felt a familiar tugging in his gut. A moment later, he stood in the most elaborate foyer he’d ever seen.

He curbed his desire to gawk like a plebian muggle and lifted his chin. “I require a bath, some fresh clothing and some dinner,” he demanded regally. The house elf bowed sadly and led the way through a veritable maze of hallways to a suite of rooms. Morgan barely managed to keep his lower jaw against his upper as he passed more riches in those few hallways than he’d seen in most museums.

The elf bowed again and gestured to a door off to the right of the room. “Sir can bathe in there. We’s will have clean robes laid out on sir’s bed when he is done. Just call for Gillum when sir is ready for dinner and we’s will take sir downstairs.” Morgan waved the elf off distractedly, already eyeing the huge bathtub with a covetous glance. The house elf apparated away with a sigh.

Nearly an hour later, Morgan imperiously summoned Gillum back to the room and then followed the elf downstairs for dinner. He found himself in a distressingly large dining room. The table was as large as the length of his Grandmother’s kitchen. He shuddered at the thought of returning to that hovel. Rubbing his hands together, he sat with a smile and prepared to be served, as he was accustomed.

Halfway though his meal he heard a disturbance from the hallway. “Ah, perhaps that is the master of the house,” he muttered, pushing away from the table to stand in preparation for greeting. What burst through the dining room door, however, sent him back into his chair in horror.

The…thing…was nearly six foot tall. It was covered in pale fur and had…horns? The thing that really drew Morgan’s attention, though, were the huge hooked claws extending from the paw like appendages on its arms and the dagger like teeth that protruded from its snarling face. The monster advanced on Morgan and the human fell out of the chair in terror. He began scuttling backwards, babbling incoherently.

“No! Nonononono…. please! Someone…someone help me! Help! G-Gillum! Gran! Mummy! Someone…no! Please, stay away! Please…” he crawled under a small wall table and curled up into a ball, shivering. When nasty claws did not rend his flesh and horrid teeth didn’t tear at his limbs, he peeked out through the shelter of his arms.

The monster was standing with its arms crossed, staring down at him. “Who are you and what the hell are you doing in my home?” It demanded.

Morgan gaped. “Y-you t-talk?” he stuttered.

“Of course I talk, you bloody fool!” the monster roared at him. Morgan gave a tiny shriek and huddled back in on himself. “I’m cursed, you nonce! I’m not a beast. I’m not going to eat you.”

Morgan peeped back out from his arms. “C-cursed?

“Yes.” The monster continued to glare down at Morgan, but now, Morgan could see the glint of human intelligence in the grey eyes. “Who are you and why are you in my home?” the creature asked.

“M-my name is Morgan LeBeau. I’m…I was lost,” he managed. “M-my broom broke when I c-crashed. A-and my wand too. I wandered f-for hours before finding a light that led m-me here.”

The monster sighed and let its arms drop to its sides. “And you bullied my house elves into letting you in by slighting their hospitality, didn’t you?” Meekly, Morgan nodded. The monster growled slightly and turned away, moving toward the table. As it did so, Morgan noticed a long supple tail attached just above the monster’s arse. When the monster had seated itself…gingerly, Morgan noted…it waved a brusque claw in Morgan’s direction.

He crawled out from under small table and went to seat himself again at the larger table. “So,” the monster stated gruffly. “You demand entrance. You bathe in my bathroom; wear m- robes which do not belong to you; order my elves to prepare you food and, from what I can see, plan to spend the night in one of my rooms.” Morgan flinched. It sounded so…crass when put that way.

“Y-yes, sir,” he whispered.

“Do you not feel that I am owed some sort of compensation for this?” the monster sneered.

“O-of course you do!” Morgan hastened to agree. “W-what would you like?” he continued carefully.

He could have sworn the monster raised an eyebrow at him and smirked. “Perhaps I should require that you stay and keep me company.”

Morgan’s eyes widened to the size of saucers as he took in the innuendo. “No,” he whispered. “Please, anything else. Please, I beg of you.”

The monster snorted. “I already tire of your whining,” it growled. “Very well. I will permit you to leave in safety provided—“

Morgan swallowed heavily. “Provided, sir?”

“Provided that you find someone to take your place,” the monster finished with a leer.

“T-take my place?” Morgan stuttered in shock. The monster nodded and before Morgan could agree, the monster waved a claw and murmured a phrase under its breath. He felt a tingling move through his body and he shuddered. “What did you just do to me?” he demanded, a quiver in his voice.

“I have ensured that you will comply,” was the answer. “I have placed a geas on you. You either provide me with a replacement, or you will be drawn back here.” The monster smirked at him again and stood in one swift movement. “Do have a good night, Morgan LeBeau.”

And the monster was gone, leaving Morgan sitting alone and suddenly not very hungry anymore. He sat for nearly an hour before a devious smile began to grace his face. Provide a replacement, eh? He could do that.

_________________________________________________________

“Mon Dieu! It was horrible!” Morgan wailed. “I thought I was to be killed, perhaps even eaten! Oh, Grandmere, what do I do?” he dropped to his knees in front of the old woman, clutching at her wrinkled hands. “I must go back if I can’t find someone who will kill the horrid thing,” he reiterated, not really sure if the old bat had forgotten that important part.

Gran, however, twisted her mouth wryly. “Yes, Morgan. You mentioned that at least three times already,” her ancient voice croaked at him. “Well, we could put a call in to the aurors,” she cocked her head thoughtfully. “They’d probably take care of something like this fairly quickly.”

Morgan sat up a bit, all the better to let his tears fall artfully down his cheeks. “We can’t wait, Grandmere,” he shook his head, eyes wide. “The horrible thing said it must be today.” Well, perhaps not. However, the old bat would never let her precious Neville out of the house knowing help was coming soon.

Neville sat in a chair in front of the fire, alternately rolling his eyes and snorting quietly. He rather hoped that Morgan didn’t choose a career in acting. He sucked at it. Oh, there was probably a monster. And maybe it even cursed him with something. But the whole ‘must be today’ shtick? Bollocks. And wanting to eat him? Complete crap. Why would a monster that planned to eat the idiot let him go on about his business finding a replacement eatee? More than likely, the ‘monster’ was forced to listen to Morgan whine for 30 seconds and was willing to do anything to get rid of him.

It was an interesting idea. Neville wasn’t quite into the whole having sex with a monster thing, but maybe that’s not what the monster really wanted. It could have just wanted some companionship. Or maybe someone to break whatever curses it was under. Morgan always had an over inflated opinion of his own arse. He watched Morgan fawning over Gran and wanted to smack him.

He was very clear on what Morgan was doing. He knew that the idiot was out to get him killed by this monster, or at the very least lost and starved to death in the woods. What Morgan didn’t know was…Neville was planning on going without an argument. He’d seen what Morgan had been doing the last few days tearing Gran apart. She might have thought Morgan was a dolt, but she did love him. And he was the better choice for inheritance anyway. He could bring something to the Longbottom name that Neville never could.

Gran knew that. Neville knew that. But Neville also knew that Gran would fight tooth and nail to give Neville what she thought of as his birthright, even if it meant driving the Longbottom name into the ground. He smiled fondly at the old woman. Merlin, he loved that old lady. Giving a sigh, he sat up a bit.

“All right, Morgan,” he drawled. “I think we get it. I’ll go. Stop with the hysterics.”

Morgan glared death at Neville but, for once, Neville wasn’t scared. It was now a choice of staying and letting Morgan kill him eventually or running off and letting some unknown thing kill him. He grinned, slightly disconcerting Morgan. Gimme the unknown killing every time, Neville thought. “I’ll just go pack and you can give me the general directions to this House of Horrors.”

He rolled his eyes and headed upstairs, ignoring his Gran’s worried look and Morgan’s satisfied sneer.