My obligatory Veela fic, part 1

[rurounihime]

So, I am just under the wire! I really worked to get this fic finished and up, seeing as Deathly Hallows will most likely blow my plot out of the water (actually kind of hoping it will, as the plot is pretty dark). This is my official Veela fic.

Title: The Bedtime Story (1/2)
Author: rurounihime
Pairings: H/D, H/G, D/various
Rating: hard R for violence, sex, language, and adult themes
Summary: Once upon a time there lived a boy in a castle. He was not a very nice boy. He was arrogant and selfish. But this boy had a beautiful name.
Warnings: Okay. This is dark-fic. Creature fic, contains character death (major and minor), blood, violence, hate-sex, dub-con. Not a happy story. Lastly, let me issue a general warning for Coffeejunkii and Enchanted Jae. Seriously, I don’t recommend this one to you two. :(
Disclaimer: The HP characters do not belong to me. I just get hankerings to put them through the worst moments of their lives, apparently. I do not make any money off of them or this story.

Dedicated to Fire, my beta, and my wonderful mentor in all things Ebil.

A/N: Well, I felt it was high time I did my obligatory fandom Veela fic! ^_^ Alas, this fic is also my “Wow, that’s wrong, even for you” fic. Believe it or not, I was drafting the majority of this story while writing World’s Edge. The resulting multiple personality issues I had to put up with in my own brain were appropriately bizarre. *laughs*

Some important things: HBP compliant, but… This story is NOT DH compliant. This story is NOT a reference to any spoilers that may or may not be floating around online. This is not my prediction of what will happen, nor is it what I hope will happen. Just to be clear.

Last but certainly not least, this is probably the most dysfunctional relationship I have ever written. It’s also possibly the most true-to-canon Draco (and Harry?) I’ve tried. But I will see what you all have to say.

Lovely artwork of Draco by leemarchais. Thank you so much, Lee!

ETA: Now available as a podfic!!!! The Bedtime Story (Podfic), read by leemarchais. Go, go now and listen!! ^___^

...

The Bedtime Story, Part 1


What?

A fairytale? But I’m afraid I don’t know many. And you’ve heard them before.

Hmm?

Of course I know some fairytales. Don’t be silly. It’s time for bed and you should not be filling your head with such— What? Oh no. No, no, no. They aren’t nonsense, that’s not what I meant. Fairytales are just as real as you make them to be.

No, not always. They’re all based on truth. But not everything about them is true.

Well… perhaps I do know one, then. If you promise to go to sleep right after, and not nag me with questions? Alright then. Lie down.

Once upon a time there lived a boy in a castle. He was not a very nice boy. He was arrogant and selfish. But this boy had a beautiful name.

He lived with his mother and father, and they loved him very, very much. They gave him everything his heart could possibly desire.

But this boy had also been given a terrible curse. A magical curse, set to change him when he reached adulthood, into a monster. There was only one cure: to find the one person who would see him as a monster, and still love him.

His family searched far and wide, across their kingdom and the next, and the next after that, to find a suitable companion. But there were none that were right, none that were strong enough.

Now, my little one, let us call this boy the Prince of Snakes, for to say his real name is older magic, and dangerous. When the time for his transformation drew near, the Prince of Snakes’ parents sent him to the last kingdom in the land, the Kingdom of Stars. And in that kingdom, there lived another boy… who also lived with a fearsome curse.

Long ago, the Kingdom of Stars had been ravaged by the Lord of Night. This lord was a vile thing that crept in the shadows and held the people of the land under his mantle. He had cursed the Prince of Stars years ago, weaving their destinies together.

What?

Of course it does. Silly creature. How do all fairytales end?

Exactly. Now, are you ready for me to go on?

It took a long time; the dark magic of the Lord of Night made the two boys hate each other, and they fought and quarreled every day. Indeed, the magic of the Lord of Night was spreading again through the land, twisting everything in its path. But one day the Prince of Snakes discovered that the Prince of Stars was the one he had been seeking, the one who could lift his curse.

Ah but… You know, I do not think that is the best way to tell this story. I have forgotten what really happened. Perhaps, just this once, you mischievous imp, I shall let you stay up late, and tell it again?

Alright.

* * *

Once upon a time there lived a boy in a castle. He was not a very nice boy. He was arrogant and selfish. But this boy had a beautiful name. He lived with his mother and father, and they loved him very, very much. They gave him everything his heart could possibly desire.

But this boy was also given a terrible curse by the oldest ancestors of his family. A magical curse, set to change him when he reached adulthood, into a monster. There was only one cure: to find the one person who would see him as a monster, and still love him. His family searched far and wide, across their kingdom and the next, and the next after that, to find a suitable companion. But there were none that were right, none that were strong enough.


Draco Lucius, of the house of Malfoy, knew his curse, possibly before he even knew his full name, though he did not recognise it for what it was at the time. It was a burn in his body. It rent through him in hot, spiteful shards and carved words into his innards, Wait, it said, wait for me, go where you will go, but know that I will find you out there. It was a soothing voice, a protective voice, or it was a damnable, thirsting rasp, he could not remember, being so small at the time. But that confusion of fourteen years’ waiting was ended one windy August night as he sat deep in a silver velour chair in his father’s study.

Lucius Malfoy stood in front of the fire, hair gleaming in molten strands in the flames’ light. Despite his disclosure of a moment before, his eyes still held a hint of secrecy that Draco both wanted and did not want to be privy to.

“Do we seem so inhuman to you, Draco?” His father’s hand trailed over the back of the velvet couch beside him, drifting across the shoulders of the other person seated in the room. Draco’s mother’s eyes never left his face, and he could feel her taking in his every response to the news her husband had so directly imparted to him. Taking it in, and filing it wherever she placed her thoughts.

Draco looked at his father. “Not inhuman, no. I think I always suspected.”

“That, Draco Lucius, is the power of the Veela. To be human, and yet not. Still, we bridge the chasm between, and that you must always remember.”

“You are Veela, Father?”

Lucius cast him a shrewd glance. “Only part. Your mother has the same blood running through her veins as well, though not in the same quantity.”

Draco looked down at his own lithe hands, his white skin, the way the firelight played over the contours of his body. “We are not pureblooded?”

An irate hiss snapped in the silence. “Do not place the Veela alongside Muggle filth, Draco Lucius.”

Draco continued to study his own skin. “How old will I be when it manifests?”

“You mistake yourself, Draco, and your inheritance. It is not a question of years, nor of days or nights, of dates and times. You are your own person, a sentient being still capable of some control. It will come in its own time, and you will know it immediately.”

Draco shook his head and smirked a little. “And what if I choose to be without it?”

His father’s eyes met his steadily. “Oh, I assure you, Draco… your heritage will be impossible to resist. Even for you, my stubborn son. And you will not wish to give it up so easily.”

“I’ll be more powerful, then.”

“Beyond words.” His mother’s voice. It settled gently on the still air. He looked at her, waiting, but she said nothing more. Draco’s father stepped toward him, passing between them.

“Think of it simply as an extension of yourself, for that is what it is. You will wield it as easily as breathing, given time, and it will assist you in absolutely everything you set out to do.”

Something dropped into his tone and Draco looked up. Both of his parents were eyeing him like predators having sighted a curious glimmer of movement in the darkness. Expectant… Waiting.

“Everything?” he murmured. Lucius lifted his chin. His hand came to rest on the back of the couch, fingers brushing gently against the nape of his mother’s neck. A small smile twitched her elegant lips.

Draco’s stomach jumped the tiniest bit.

“In this, and this alone, do we allow the inhumanity of it to slide through, Draco.” His father’s voice moved through the room, rich and lustrous. The tapestries absorbed it, softened the sound.

“A mate,” Draco whispered.

His father nodded curtly. “It is your birthright. The Veela is a sexual creature by nature. It succumbs to the frailties of its own bestiality. There is nothing I can say, nothing either your mother or I can do, to prepare you for what is coming.”

“And what is that, exactly?”

“Oh, it is not unpleasant, my son. Far from it. But it is lasting.” Lucius met his eyes and Draco stared back. Something roiled within his father’s irises, dark and sharp. Then it was gone. “Once a moon, Draco. For five nights you will be reminded of your baser elements.”

His father paused. “And on one of those nights…”

The air quieted. Except for the fire, the room was a motionless tableau. Then Lucius looked at him sharply. “Make no mistake, Draco, you will choose your own mate. And you will know when you have found someone worthy of such a choice. However, it is no guarantee, your choice, and it can be overridden. First and foremost remember that the mind is ultimately more powerful than the body. We are human beings, not lesser creatures. It is the difference between Veela and common, detestable beasts. Do not forget that.”

“I won’t know my mate instantly?” Draco asked.

His father stopped. Dark, firelit eyes narrowed. “Don’t be obtuse, boy.” The twist of disgust and disappointment on his father’s features stung. “This is not some silly fairytale.”

Draco raised his eyes at last, fixing his father with a calm stare, and spoke low. “Then I can have whomever I want?”

Silence. The thin, slow smile that spread over his father’s face told Draco his intentions had been well understood. He nodded.

“And what if my mate does not return my feelings?” Draco ventured. His mother’s eyes flickered briefly. The fire spat, igniting resin, and cast her face into shadow again.

“My son,” his father intoned, “when you fully realise what you are and all that it entails, none will have a chance of resisting you.”

* * *

Let us call this boy the Prince of Snakes.

When the time for his transformation drew near, his parents sent him to the last kingdom in the land. And in that kingdom, there lived another boy who also lived with a fearsome curse.

You remember the curse, my darling? Good. Then I shall go on.

Long ago, the kingdom had been ravaged by the Lord of Night. This lord was evil, a vile thing that crept in the shadows. He had cursed the kingdom’s prince, the Prince of Stars, years ago, weaving their destinies together.

You must understand, my love. The evil magic made the two boys hate each other, and they fought and quarreled every day. Indeed, the magic of the Lord of Night was spreading again through the land.


Draco’s first heat came early, in May of his sixth year, spurred into existence by the seventh year Ravenclaw boy who found him in the Room of Requirement hallway and pushed him up against a thick oaken door in a breathless, keening, confused moment of incoherency. The hands clutching his hips, sliding over his chest beneath his clothing, touching the still visible scars on his face and torso, sparked a fire in his gut. With each helpless gasp, each pant, each twist of fingers in his hair, the burning rose and licked at Draco’s innards, searing, pulsing, pounding pounding pounding until Draco spun the boy and slammed him back through the door onto the floor.

Hands on his face… clenched teeth and ridiculous whispers of “love” and “can’t” and “gods” were all Draco recalled hearing afterward. It was his first experience with sex, and it twisted with the magic-soaked voice of his first partner, who reeled in the aftermath for days. Draco had never known such peace as he knew in those five days.

It was on the last of those days that he discovered the solution to the suicide order placed on him the previous summer.

And it was within two weeks that he left Hogwarts forever.

* * *

The Lord of Night came and snatched the Prince of Snakes away. The prince tried in vain to escape. But his parents were under the sway of the evil lord, and they locked him inside their castle and bound him with magical spells and signs, and he could not get free.

There, in the darkness of the castle, he changed at last, and became the creature he was destined to become.


The bowels of the dungeons in the north were deep and moss-ridden. It was cold. Sunlight had never once touched the stones at the very bottom, a foundation built in the roots of darkness.

The Dark Lord sat on his dais and beckoned Draco forward. Draco knelt, sweeping his black cloak aside, scattering dust.

“You come of your own free will, Draco Lucius Malfoy?”

Draco met red eyes steadily. He raised both arms, rolled the left sleeve carefully to his elbow, and held it out before him. “I offer my flesh as proof, my lord. Given willingly, by a loyal servant.”

“And do you understand this sacrifice, Draco Lucius Malfoy?”

“I understand fully, my lord.”

Voldemort stood, cloaked in the blackest and finest of velvet. His curled fingers hovered over the pale skin in front of him. Draco felt the Dark Lord step into his mind, and stared unblinkingly as his memories ceased to be his own.

“Your trial task, you have accomplished, Draco,” the man-thing said softly. “For you, the ends do indeed justify the means, however different they were from what was foreseen. Your efforts will not go unrewarded.”

He placed three long fingers against the skin of Draco’s arm, and Draco chewed through his lower lip to stop his screams from erupting into the air alongside the singe and smoke of his flesh.

He left the hall afterward, barely holding back until reaching his room, where he vomited on the floor, tried to forget what he’d just done, tried not to wonder why he’d gotten off so easily for such a plain and obvious failure.

His second heat was slow to arrive, but quick to burn.

* * *

It wasn’t planned; Draco hardly desired to spend the afternoon in a sudden stalemate with the Weasel in the dilapidated grime of a ramshackle cabin. Weasley’s blue eyes were wide and furious, his wand steadier than it should have been, and Draco breathed hard, feeling time creeping up on him, itching to throw the first spell and have done.

It wasn’t planned. He’d planned for Potter instead, like last time, and this complicated matters.

“Drop it, Malfoy,” Potter hissed, coming through the door at last. His wand was trained on Draco’s chest. Draco lowered his arm immediately, perhaps a bit too fast; Weasley jumped.

“At last,” Draco exhaled. “Someone I can have a civil conversation with.” And then he laughed at the very idea.

“What are you doing back here?” Potter hadn’t moved. His face was hard and shivering around the edges. As if he didn’t like what he might have to do, but had come to terms with it anyway. Draco calmed the twinge of fear in his chest and smirked.

“Send your troll away.”

Weasley shot forward with a hoarse cry, only to be restrained by Potter’s free arm. Never taking his eyes off Draco, Potter leaned over and whispered something into Weasley’s ear. Draco thought he heard “…not the time…” before Potter fell silent once more.

“Fine… Malfoy.” Potter squeezed Weasley’s shoulder and nodded ever so slightly. “I’ll play. He’ll go. And you will say what you have to say so we can all be done with this again.”

Draco was quiet as Potter checked him for magical tracking devices. He felt the magic sting at his arms and face, ruffling through his clothes like some errant serpent. Now that the time had come, it was difficult to voice what he intended.

The door closed behind a grumbling Weasley and Potter looked at him carefully. Draco met his gaze, and saw the other man’s mask falter. Potter blinked, licking his lips. “And what the hell might you want now?” he bit out. Draco saw his eyes flash and felt satisfaction like some strange elixir coursing through his bloodstream.

He wished he didn’t have to answer, and even more so that he didn’t have to tell the truth this time. Being here was humiliating enough, despite his motives.

“I need your help.” It was out. And Potter’s lack of surprise infuriated him.

“Again, Malfoy?” Such blandness. Draco bristled.

“What, Potter?” he snapped, turning away against his better judgment. The room’s dampness and its moulding walls were hardly enough to distract from the shame of such a request. “Your generosity has limits? Monday all is well, we’re good to go, but come Wednesday, oh, pack your bags, the Saviour of all Wizardom hasn’t the time.”

Potter rolled his eyes, but there was nothing playful about it. Only exasperation, and extreme distaste. “Stop your stalling or I’ll choke you with Veritaserum again.”

Well, well. The boy had grown up. Draco spread his arms and summoned a smirk. “Whatever you need to do to feel safe, Potter.”

The other man moved toward him so fast, so suddenly, that Draco could not help himself, and jerked back toward the window. A strange little smile crossed Potter’s face. “Now. What do you want?”

Draco took a deep breath, already loathing the four musty walls and the dank darkness outside the cracked windows. “Protection,” he gritted out. “Your incomparable protection.”

“And you expect to get that with your winning personality?”

Draco smiled finally, a real smile. “Give it time, Potter. I have my moments.”

Harry Potter did not look amused.

* * *

Oh, my love, Veela are extraordinary creatures. Do you know they can change shape? From one to the other, just like that! And a true Veela’s wings stretch nearly the height of two grown men. No, my darling, no feathers. They are not angels, after all.

But the most important thing is that a Veela is not susceptible to the incompetence of human magic. Only the oldest spells have any effect, and there is no potion on earth that cannot be filtered out by the Veela himself.

But to continue, because it is already growing so late.

There was one last chance: If he could find his true love and perform the spell, they would be bound forever, and his curse would be no more.

The Prince of Snakes knew of such a magic, and he had never felt the call of another soul until he met the Prince of Stars. One night, he broke out of the castle and began to search for him.


It was the twelfth night since Draco had arrived at the safehouse, and Potter hadn’t moved. His face held all the blankness of a granite slate, and yet there was a steady tickle in the air. Potter’s barely contained magic rolled about the room in sleepy huffs. Midnight air. Draco ignored the odd lurch in his innards and sneered.

“Come now, Potter. You could be entertaining, at the very least.” It was almost enough just to have Potter glare at him. He’d gotten quite good at amusing himself at the Boy Saviour’s expense.

Potter waited in the center of the room, eyeing him as he had every night for the past week. Always the unwilling guardian. But tonight felt off. Standing there trying to find his center, Draco felt strangely jumpy, as if his skin were skittering away without him.

Potter stared at him, and Draco was struck again by the lack of malevolence there. Only a slow, simmering anger just beneath the surface. Harry sighed and rubbed his eyes suddenly. When he raised his head again, he looked old.

“Malfoy?”

Draco curled his lip, fighting with the jumping of his nerves. “Don’t you dare pity me, Potter.”

Potter’s eyes flickered. He looked away. His shoulders shivered once and when he looked back, the cold, tightened anger was clearer than ever. “Why in the world would I bother? You come here for sanctuary. Don’t expect me to care.”

“Ah, but you do care, don’t you? You have to care about everyone.” Draco took several deliberate steps around Potter. Night was coming on fast; he could feel it, and he was uncomfortable. It suddenly wasn’t his body, even with the words he knew, the familiar dance they had engaged in every night since his first arrival nearly two weeks ago. He leaned in close and hissed between his teeth. “Even Snape.”

Potter’s backlash was startling. He whirled, eyes sparking in his face, and shoved Draco hard with one hand. “I want him dead. You understand?” Potter’s body was shaking. He advanced too quickly, was suddenly a foot away from Draco. “I should kill you for what you did.”

Draco blinked and snarled. His skin felt stretched. “Then do it, you spineless excuse for a Gryffindor. I obviously deserve it.”

Potter’s body shuddered again inexplicably. Draco took a deep breath. Potter pursed his lips, reining in emotions that were stinging the nerves under Draco’s skin as if they were tangible things. “I don’t know what you deserve,” he ground out.

Draco stepped closer, suddenly angry in his own right. “Not the help of the Boy Who Lived, I see,” he spat. “Tell me, Potter, who does get your help? Without strings attached?”

“Shut the fuck up, Malfoy,” Potter answered in a lethal tone.

But Draco moved closer. He felt as if he were seeing things through a film, making the motions but not understanding them. “Which people, Potter? Your friends? Maybe just your little Order. Not those who come to you for help.”

And then Draco wanted it back. He didn’t need help, he wanted… No. Did he even want help? Suddenly he couldn’t be sure. The shadows were crawling up the walls, his skin was crawling, he couldn’t stay still.

Potter’s body shook, the tangle of his magic vibrating through the air and striking Draco’s skin. It was tantalising and furious. Draco stretched out and Potter came forward with a soft hiss. Fear struck low in Draco’s belly. He backed up.

“You don’t deserve my help.” Harry’s eyes were wide, blazing, his voice weaker than before. “I should throw you back to your master.”

“Why don’t you,” Draco whispered. He felt filled with heat, and night was sweeping up, darkening the walls of the room, throwing Potter’s face into a twist of blues and grays. His muscles throbbed, aching, hurting.

Something slithered through Potter’s expression. Eyes grown dark widened and contracted again into narrow slits. “Because, you— you—”

Draco suddenly saw where it was going, like a thunderous wave crashing over him. “I what?” He was inches away now, and he wanted to rend and tear and clutch, and Potter’s eyes spit sparks at him.

What happened after was painful. Potter was angry and Draco… Well. He was in his fourth heat. It was a terrible, glorious time for sex.

Draco found the entire idea degrading. To be in heat, like some lower species of animal. It was what fueled him, however, the rake of Potter’s nails down his back a forgotten buzz, the scrabble to merge with his chosen partner for the night blazing through his nerves. The agony hung just on the edge of his senses, driving him, spurning him. Lifting him above the pains of the flesh until afterward. But he ended the encounter with the knowledge that he had both fucked, and been fucked by, Harry Potter.

Look what you’re doing, Potter, delivered with a smile, his back scraping against the cold, rough wall. Potter looked him directly in the eye.

I know exactly what I’m doing.

Draco’s climax felt wildly elated because he too knew what he was doing. His sleep several minutes later was deep and uncontested.

* * *

The next night, Draco went back to the frozen dungeons in the north. He retired to an empty chamber with one stone table and wrote by guttering candlelight all that he had seen and heard, but nothing of what he’d done. When the first candle flickered out, Macnair stood in the doorway, gray-black hair drifting, thin frame a beacon on the second of his five nights.

Macnair spoke in a low voice that Draco wanted to silence. And there were more urgent flares to quench. He stood, stretching his fingers out, curling them, and the man was on him, hands scrabbling, panting. Eyes rolling. Draco licked every drop of need from the air, his own body a twitching, seeking mass beneath his skin, knowing that in this case at least, possession was not a question.

Draco fucked Macnair long enough to understand that the man was nothing more than an outlet to sate his desires. Macnair grinned up at him, howled when he came, and watched heavy-lidded as Draco rose from the table and righted his clothing. Draco felt dirty, yet cleansed at the same moment, and did not grace Macnair with more than an instant’s glance when he spoke.

“I’ll expect you back for the rest of the week until this ebbs.”

“Kitten, am I your—”

“Do not sully the idea with your own image.”

Macnair did not speak anymore during their trysts, not even when Draco thrust into him until the man came, whining in his throat like a wounded dog. But the hopeful look in his eyes told Draco the idea had not died in Macnair’s mind. It made him laugh long into the darkness when he left whichever room he’d chosen for their activities.

* * *

Draco wondered often if falling into the bed of his master’s arch nemesis had really been what the horrible, twisted man had in mind. The information he brought back precluded it, eclipsed it in the deep shadow of something much more favourable, and Draco hardly felt the need to be bothered with such details. As it was, he could only tell his lord so much; whatever else he might be, Harry Potter was no fool. He kept Draco well enough at arm’s length, and there was barely a time when Draco actually met anyone else in that safe house. They were all there, surely: the Weasel and the werewolf, a plethora of faceless Aurors, a disgustingly familiar girl with changeable hair and a Black’s heart-shaped face, and that horrid Mudblood. Sometimes he even saw the youngest Weasley, come to slouch into Potter’s arms for an exasperating moment of whispering and hateful sapphire-eyed glances toward his shadowy corner. Draco hated the Weaslette, but enjoyed the way she cringed under his glare and then railed back with furious trembling. Oh, how he hated her.

Voldemort was furious enough at the lack of anything concrete. Something to mould into a plan of attack, but really, Draco was beginning to believe there was nothing there in Potter’s glorious Order except for penetrating glances and nights full of absolutely agonizing almost-ecstasy. On the days he did manage to work his way into the cold, damp room to wait for Potter’s scowling face, he was much too self-contained to relish the solitude of it. To admit that he liked it.

But there was little need for Macnair often enough now. Others were drifting into the Dark Lord’s circle, young and old, scarred and lively with the mistaken ease of new power, or simply frightening with their hollowed-out eyes and glittering stares. Those ones, the older ones, saw him for what he truly was when he entered the room, and shied away, gazed in awe, but never, ever let him leave their sight. Voldemort cherished the information of his older servants above all, save one; Draco’s presence in his merry little band was the only thing that held higher worth.

It danced delicately in Draco’s brain during the nighttime that he still did not know why he should be so favoured, why his paltry excuse of reconnaissance should be given precedence over the much more useful and direct information of Ministry spies and twitchy Death Eaters wearing the cloaks of the First War.

But watching them watch him, feeling their shudders rippling through the air like some invigorating breeze across his very nerves, Draco was beginning to suspect the reason.

* * *

What, my love?

Something scary? Is this story not scary enough?

Oh, well, alright then.

A Veela is a very powerful creature. It does not think like you and me. It sees in light and darkness, with eyes that glow like hot stars. But the scariest of all is when a Veela Rises.

You see, my love, when a Veela Rises, it comes just before death. Not always the Veela’s own death, but death in some form.

But the white light burns hottest when it is the Veela who is dying.


There was no one to hear his arrival at the ramshackle house, no one but Potter left to look up from the weak fire he’d been tending in that horrid little room. Draco sneered at the cold, the soak of rain through his clothes and hair, the preposterous inclination to come back on this night of all nights.

But there were secrets to be discovered.

“Well, well. All alone, Potter?” He flung his pack right into the middle of the floor, kicking aside the other man’s as he crossed the groaning boards. The curtains of the four-poster hung wilted and half shut, and Draco could see the tangle of unmade bedding in the shadows they cast. So Potter had been here for at least a night already.

The other man glowered at him, not even bothering to rise from his patch of worn floorboards. “Thought I changed those wards.”

Draco leered at him, leaning close enough to brush his knuckles over the top of Potter’s hair as he passed behind him. “Would it make you feel any better if I said you had?”

Oh, but he was feeling careless tonight. The darkness did not seem as heavy as it usually did and damn it all, but the blasted room was warm. At the very least. Harry Potter scowled and Draco felt the hysterical urge to laugh. He swiveled on his heel and came back, crouching just behind the other man, not an inch from his rigid back.

“And did I ruin your quaint little evening alone?” he purred.

Harry rose with a jerk, distancing himself and leaving Draco staring up at him. One of Potter’s hands clenched into a fist and relaxed, then clenched again. Draco watched impassively, noting the keen curl of Harry’s fingers with sharp interest. Now when had that become so intriguing?

“Where are all your little friends?”

Potter seethed beneath the surface but admirably kept his voice low. “Because I would tell you, of course.”

It made him angrier than it should have, but Draco counted it as part and parcel to the passage of the month and dismissed it with only an instant’s pause. It was his fifth night, and the light at the end of the tunnel was drawing closer by the second. It didn’t matter what the form of emotion was at this point; he would drink it all in and convert it to what he needed it to be: the solace of five nights, and at least this time it wasn’t the degrading presence of Macnair.

It took them less than an hour to begin circling each other. Draco lashed his tongue like a whip, striking Harry’s flesh and thoughts with whichever barbs popped into his mind first. He hardly remembered any of them, just the feel of the sounds flowing over his tongue and the delicious crackle of Harry’s energy, spiking at each insult. It was like blood to a vampire, forgiveness to a dying man.

But he never counted on the moment when he lunged at Harry.

He’d nearly bitten through the other man’s lower lip before he realised where he was. Draco pushed himself back, blinking through the odd haze. When had he… And why? How had Harry let him get so close?

The strangest: Harry was not pushing him away.

“Well, Malfoy,” he murmured, so close his breath was warm over Draco’s forehead. “Wasted all that time. You can just ask, you know.”

Just beg. Draco snarled and lashed out, snapping Harry’s wrist into his grip and jerking him into a bruising kiss. That terrible thing inside him reared its head interestedly. Clawed its way into the kiss and whispered, laughed, strained there. Harry tore his mouth away and shoved him backward, at the same time grabbing his muddied shirt collar and yanking it free of its threadbare strands. Draco felt it tear and snarled again, less out of anger and more because it felt right, as if it were scripted and he only waited to be given his cue. And there was still plenty to hate about Harry Potter anyway.

Plenty of fuel for either means.

“I hardly need to ask when you do it so well already, Potter,” he hissed. Harry’s body stiffened; his eyes flashed an acidic green. If Draco were a mere human, he might have fallen. But he doubted Potter knew his own power.

His answer, if not verbal, was just as forceful: capable hands gripped the hem of Draco’s shirt and jerked it over his head. Draco staggered but still managed to return the favour, and they fought for an endless moment over nothing that felt like everything, though in the end it hardly mattered who had shed the final piece of clothing.

Harry’s fingers pressed into his flesh. He pushed Draco onto the bed and straddled him. Draco thrust up and Harry’s eyes sparked. His hips ground into Draco’s in a slow, creeping roll. “You get awfully excited at night, don’t you?”

Draco sneered at him. “Just the nights I’m feeling lucky, Potter. Nothing to do with you.”

Harry’s grin was strange and empty. His hand wormed between them and Draco’s air left him in a rush. Harry ducked his head and bit his collarbone. Draco clenched Harry’s hair and pulled him into a kiss he knew would leave his lips tender. He could taste the blood pulsing just beneath Potter’s skin, tantalising and just the other side of sweet. His body was filling with heat, spilling over into twitching muscles and screams in his head.

“Potter, if there is some sort of problem, may I remind you I am not that fragile tart you spend your time with—”

Harry snarled. “Don’t talk about her.”

“Perfect topic for this moment, isn’t it?” Draco drawled. Harry’s eyes snapped as he jerked Draco’s head forward again and punished his mouth with his own. Draco’s entire body hummed and Harry’s body convulsed. He lifted his head, looking dazed.

“What…” He stared at Draco.

“Does she do that for you?” Draco murmured. Harry’s eyes darkened so suddenly that Draco blinked. Then his legs were being lifted, Harry was on him, in him, and Draco felt something inside him give way. It pulsed into his ribs, his brain, his groin and stomach, the tips of his fingers and hair and eyelashes, now now now NOW NOW

Draco gasped and wrenched himself away from Harry’s mouth. He blinked at the ceiling, clutching fistfuls of dark hair. His body rocked hard with the other man’s thrusts, bunching the sheets up beneath them. He could feel teeth at his throat. Harry’s smell overwhelmed him and he felt darkness sweeping over him.

Was this… was this?

For one instant, time froze, and then Draco cast the thought away in a cloud of fear. He sought Harry’s mouth and lost himself there, feeling the other man come apart inside him, the ephemeral aches and cuts welling through the waning heat of his own body. For a breathless moment, his body tried to go somewhere else, to do something else. But Draco was too far gone to see it for what it was.

It wasn’t until Harry rolled away from him, and sleep was jerking at him with insistent, sated fingers, that he figured out what had very nearly happened.

* * *

Now, Veela are very peculiar creatures. Forget all those stories you have heard about the one true mate, the soul bond. It is not very well known, but Veela can mate again and again, with or without their bonded partners. I am not saying it is a pleasant experience. The bond is strong and often precludes any mating with anyone else. But it is not impossible.

A true bond, however, can only happen once a moon. Each Veela is different. A Veela chooses his or her mate, and then allows for the bond to occur; encourages it to occur. It must be thought through, made to happen, accepted, or a Veela will go unbound to the end of its days.

Well. The story. The Prince of Snakes searched far and wide for his one true love. But the journey was perilous. There were thorn forests and pits of fire. And there were evil beings trying to keep them apart.


The sky was bloody red. Draco dropped the dead Muggle into the dust at his feet. His nerves sang with the scent of rust. Perhaps the sky was bleeding.

“Gods, Draco…”

Draco turned and saw Blaise Zabini. The man flinched, averting his eyes. He shuddered, and one hand twitched uncontrollably at his side.

“I’m going,” was all Draco said. Zabini called after him, his voice a hovering plea, fingers already stretching toward him, but Draco could feel night drawing up.

Make no mistake, Draco, you will choose your own mate. And you will know when you have found someone worthy of such a choice. However, it is no guarantee, your choice, and it can be overridden. First and foremost remember that the mind is ultimately more powerful than the body. We are human beings, not lesser creatures. It is the difference between Veela and common, detestable beasts. Do not forget that.

Draco Apparated away from the smouldering village and away from the echo of his father’s words. He took his report to the chamber of the Dark Lord and waited on bent knee for twenty minutes before Voldemort turned hemorrhagic eyes on him and lifted his hand.

“The village has been destroyed, my lord.”

A single, hissing breath. “And Zabini?”

“Burning the bodies.”

A satisfied murmur. The thin hand rose again and Draco got to his feet. Glittering, inhuman irises stared right through him.

“You suit us well, Draco Lucius Malfoy.” The man-thing straightened, settled back in his chair. “Find what you require for the night; your services will not be needed for the next five days.”

Draco nodded, waited until he was dismissed, and went down into the winding dungeon corridors. He would find who he required. But the night stole up and when Draco pressed a gasping Adrian Pucey facedown into his mattress, drinking in his throaty moans of pleasure like an elixir, he did not know if he had actually found that person.

* * *

The safe house was dark, and the sunset was a pale orange glow through tattered curtains. The little fire popped and cracked feebly, warming the room. Draco sat on the bed. He felt on edge, but strangely subdued. His mind was clear of the fog his heats usually brought upon him. He watched Harry tug his clothing off.

Nervousness did not befit a Malfoy. It felt wrong in his chest, hanging limply against his sternum and trembling with each beat of his heart. Veela chose their mates. It was natural, and the mate in question could hardly not be equally enamoured. Draco knew his charms were insurmountable, should he wish them to be. If he thought hard enough, felt hard enough, he could bring Potter to his knees right there in the middle of the floor, bathed in white light, body shuddering through his unassisted climax.

“What’s wrong with you?” Harry eyed him, brows knit. “Would have thought you’d be all over me, as usual.”

Draco curled his lip. “Oh, if only you knew the things I could do to you.”

Harry approached, stalking like a dark jungle cat across the room. “Well, do them, then.” He crawled onto the bed, snaking his head over Draco’s throat. His breath fluttered across his skin. One hand insinuated itself under Draco and up to rest in a warm knot against the small of his back.

“Why are you here, Potter?” he asked.

The other man looked at him keenly. “Going to make me say it this time?”

Draco glared back stonily. Harry laughed.

“Because, as you are so quick to point out, she doesn’t give me what you give me.”

What you give me. Draco breathed. Harry smirked at him and Draco smirked back.

“As if I ever gave you a thing in your life, Potter.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. He began to move his body, slowly at first, then speeding up, breath coming faster. His fingers fumbled with Draco’s shirt, wrenched at his trousers. Draco beat them away and relished the harsher movements when they returned. Draco grabbed him and rolled him, but Harry was stronger. He shoved Draco up and away, and was on him in a flash, yanking the clothing from his body. He darted his head down and plundered Draco’s mouth, and Draco felt the first tangle of that strange, obscene heat stir in his gut.

He grabbed Harry’s hair and pulled. Harry bit his chest lightly, clawed at his bare skin. He could feel every scrape like a raw slice drawing blood. His heart thudded in his throat, but he managed to get the words out. Breathless, right at Harry’s ear.

“Take me.”

Harry stiffened and jerked up. His body glistened orange in the firelight. For a long moment his expression twisted into uncertainty. One hand lifted and hovered over Draco’s chest. “Is this some kind of… What did you say?”

Draco squirmed against Harry’s hips and scowled. “Don’t think I can’t make it hurt you just as much as usual, Potter,” he spat.

Harry’s eyes gleamed. He lowered his head and inhaled deeply, his nose and lips centimetres from Draco’s chest. Draco shivered. Harry rose up and looked him right in the eye.

“Make it hurt, Malfoy.”

Then he was moving, tongue deep in Draco’s mouth, jerking him up into his lap. Draco hissed as Harry’s fingers breached him. He locked his legs around the man’s waist and raked fingernails over his shoulders. Harry wrenched his head back and sucked on his throat. Draco’s neck ached. The heat was rising in his body, tight and curling, searing into every limb. It was different, gods, it burst and pulled and twisted. Harry’s hands found his hips and lifted his body. A flash of green irises in the lamplight, and then he was pushing into Draco, sliding him down over his length. Draco’s mouth fell open. He heard the suck of air as his nails clenched into Harry’s back. The heat billowed and sparked and Harry gave a low, helpless groan. He sagged; his mouth latched onto Draco’s, senseless words passing his lips, and he thrust up wildly, pulling Draco against him so tightly his ribs ached. Draco clung to him, hips beginning that swift, dangerous roll that only Harry was privy to. He bit and clawed and fell hard against the head of the bed, Harry’s weight shoved up against him, inside him, through him, his body was burning holes within itself, and when the voice climbed up inside and whispered now now now NOW NOW, Draco squeezed his eyes shut and whispered back.

Yes.

* * *

Harry stirred, chuckling weakly, and rolled off of him, flinging one arm over his eyes. His legs were a dark span of sweaty skin, one propped up to catch the fire’s glow, and Draco was left half against the old headboard, trying to sort out what had not happened.

And what had.

His hand shook where it rested against his bare thigh. The slightest of tremors. He’d felt nothing different, no flash of fire, no wondrous coupling spark. By all rights he should not have expected it; he’d known since the dawn of his change that It would not feel special.

It was the feeling afterward that made him tremble.

It climbed through his limbs on lithe claws and settled like a purring, monstrous cat inside his belly, heavy and thick and full of razor edging. Harry’s laughter spun in his ears like a whirlwind, ringing. He could hear it so much better, and only that was clearer: the sound of Harry, not the pop of the fire or the rush of wind outside. He could taste Harry in his mouth and feel him surging over and over inside his body as if he were still there.

He reached, and pulled his wandering hand back before it could find its target.

“Enjoying yourself, Potter?” he muttered. His bedmate stirred, sweat-glossed abdomen still rising and falling with each harsh breath. Draco watched, entranced, and was reminded yet again of why he was now so interested.

“Fuck.” Harry’s foot slid a long, slow arc over Draco’s shin. The raggedy edge of a toenail prickled. “That was fucking good, Malfoy. You’ve got talents I never dreamt of.”

Draco managed a scoff he didn’t feel remotely close to. “Tut, Potter. I do believe that was a compliment.”

“I don’t care if it was,” Harry sighed carelessly. Draco dragged his eyes down the long length of the body beside him, the same body that gave an uncontrollable shiver from shoulders to toes. Green eyes hooded. “Tell the world.”

“And give you the importance you’ve been craving? Perish the thought.” His body felt raw, opened like a door in a storm. Draco felt for pain and found none but the hinted edge of it, in every muscle, every bone. Harry was still in him, ragged and sobering and far too familiar now. Draco felt hollowed out, uncomfortably so, touched in all the wrong places and all the right ones, but they were the same places, and Harry had done it, split his seams like this and left them dangling in the void.

Harry rolled with a grin that left his eyes dark and feral, and stroked one hand lazily down the slope of Draco’s chest, setting off a flurry of tingling that faded almost immediately but was entirely new, entirely. He mouthed the side of Draco’s throat in a wet kiss, more a suckle than a brush of lips. Draco felt the slick edge of Harry’s tongue and stopped breathing at the sheer difference in the touch.

“I’d like to say we should do it again, but I’m afraid,” and here Harry’s chuckle returned, quivering against Draco’s neck, “that I haven’t the strength.”

The possibility was suddenly there and Draco had never been more irrationally afraid of anything in his life. This time his hand found Harry’s arm and gripped, stopping the shift of the other man’s body toward the side of the bed. Harry halted and looked at him, nonplussed, and Draco loathed the already-dissipating betrayal of his body. Why had he grabbed Harry anyway?

It had felt vital to keep Harry there.

“If you’re worn out,” he said as silkily as he could, “or broken, Potter, then you should sleep.”

Harry stared at him for a moment, and then cocked his head. The sound of his laugh was a harsh bark. Only humour, and anticipation. “Quite right. I’ll wake you in an hour and we’ll see who breaks first.”

He turned onto his side, his back to Draco, and promptly fell onto the mattress, snatching at one of the scattered pillows. Draco let him move to get comfortable, adjusting himself in time until he could excuse the contact their bodies made, his own front flush with Harry’s back. The rush of the first full inhalation he felt from his bedmate filled his body, soothing the strange uncertainty that lingered. Draco pressed his chin into the hollow of Harry’s shoulder and shut his eyes, wondering how one could feel so disrupted and so fulfilled all at once.

* * *

Snape was there when he returned, standing with his arms crossed in the folds of his cloak. The man’s eyes were trained on him in the darkness. “Where were you?”

Draco’s breath hitched. He turned slowly and leered at Snape.

“Do you really need to know where I was on the fourth night of my five, Severus?”

Snape’s scowl was as dark as the shadows swallowing the candlelight.

But he left.

* * *

Other princes and princesses tried their hand at comforting the Prince of Snakes, but alas, he could find no one who made him feel well again, no kindhearted maiden or dashing lord to quicken his heart again. Soon, they all left him to his lonely darkness and went away.


Draco reached forward and touched the girl’s face. She shied back as far as the chains would allow. Her cheeks were streaked with grime, and he could see that she knew what he was in the wide hollows of her eyes. She had no word for it, but on some instinctive, primal level, she knew he wasn’t like her, and she was aware of why she was there.

He grabbed her around the back of her neck and jerked her into stillness. She swallowed; her throat rippled against his hand. Draco frowned and leaned forward. He could feel Marcus Flint watching him and suddenly hated it. He wanted to claw the man’s eyes out, throw him against the wall and batter him into it until the eyes left in his head could not see anything at all.

The girl smelled of sweat, of fear, pooling in every droplet of perspiration, sliding down the slender arch of her neck. Dirt there. Peaches, the sweet, toxic scent of lotion rubbed into her skin a day ago, perhaps the night before. Draco bent and slid his gaze over her torso, her small breasts and curved hips under filthy clothing. Shoulders heaving with each indrawn breath. She quivered as he moved up and down her body, staying remarkably still. He had not touched her save for the hand at her neck, until he rose and met her gaze once more. Her eyes were wide, lashes clumped together with barely shed tears. Tendrils of honey-brown hair swooped down her forehead, clinging and shifting in the slight draft.

His stomach began to hurt.

Draco reached up and stopped, hand several inches from her face. She stared at it, then him, and he could see exhaustion there, pleading with him to explain to her why she was being put through this, why he made her feel so alive, and yet so frightened, why she could not reconcile what her body was telling her with what her eyes took in. He touched her cheek, breathing some of his heat into her skin. Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped into a round “o.” She stared at him openly. He felt her body relax, rippling the air between them. Her scent changed almost imperceptibly— arousal— and he wondered how much of the real him she had been allowed to see in that instant.

It was all wrong. The smell was wrong, the planes of her body were… wrong. Draco’s chest clamped tight and he struggled with himself for a long moment. The heat was refusing; yes, it was rising and rising as it was wont to do, but it was sour heat, not right, and it bent his nerves in the wrong directions, plucked at his veins with insistent talons. He jerked his hand from the girl’s cheek and she sagged, still staring at him through dazed eyes.

“She’s not going to work.” The strange tightening in his chest made his voice flat.

Flint stirred, glancing at the girl, then turning to Draco. His eyebrows pinched. “What the fuck are you… Malfoy, it doesn’t matter, does it? Just take her when you need her. That’s how it works, right?”

Draco ground his teeth. A dull ache was pounding in his bones, both recognisable as well as not. “You know so little about anything that I’m surprised you’ve survived in the company of the Malfoy family for as long as you have, Flint.”

The girl was still looking at him. Her eyes had lost some of that luster, but the curious hurt in them was still there. Draco grew angry. He knew that look. He’d seen it before.

“Get her out of here.”

“But then who are you going—”

Draco spun and slammed his fist into the wall beside the man’s head. “Get her out of here.”

Flint took a minute to compose himself, and then started for the girl on the wall. Draco heard the clink of chains and smelled the change in the air. She was afraid again, cowering against the moisture-slick stones. He heard Flint pull her toward the door; she stumbled and the sound struck Draco as completely wrong all over again. He closed his eyes and breathed.

“Don’t worry, love,” Flint was murmuring. “I’m sure we can find uses for you.”

Draco opened his eyes and turned. “Flint.”

The man stopped and looked at him. His captive had pulled herself as low as possible, stretching her tethered arm to its limit. She stared at Draco through the shadows made by her hair.

“Obliviate her and send her home.”

Flint’s sound of shock passed through the room. “What?”

The girl’s eyes were wide again, lower lip quivering. Something darted there, pushing against him with feeble fingers. His stomach lurched and he snapped his gaze to Flint’s furious scowl.

“Flint,” he whispered. He let the cold fire consume him, roll up through his body until it flickered against the inside of his skin. The girl let out a ragged gasp. “If I discover you have kept her here or done anything to her, I will show you exactly how it works. How I work. I will see to it that you do not enjoy the experience. Obliviate her. Send her home.”

Flint’s ashen face was the second to last thing he saw as the cell door swung shut behind the pair. The last thing was the girl’s equally pale face. Her eyes were soft upon him as she was pulled away.

Draco took three deep breaths, then slammed his hand repeatedly into the wall until the agony ate up what was left of the hollow sense of wrongness inside. The white light faded.

* * *

What else is there to tell you about a Veela? Ah yes! There is one thing, my treasure. Can you guess? No? Veela are precognitive. Surely you have heard that word before.

Yes, that is it exactly: a Veela can see its own future. Only once or twice, but once or twice is more than enough, don’t you think? Now that is a frightening idea indeed. Would you want to see your future, my dove?


He thought he should have felt it. Surely, surely he would know. But he felt nothing, no wave of white light or keening in the cavity of his chest, not until he saw the bodies with their stunning blond hair and the perfect, porcelain skin of his mother, greying in the stillness. They lay there in the darkness, and he should have felt it happen.

But there was nothing.

* * *

The colours were too vibrant, glowing like lantern lights. Draco made it all the way onto the bed, feeling the void closing behind, the knotted sheets digging into his back and Harry rigid above, eyes blissfully half-shut as he rode him. Draco could see the golden curve of bare flesh and the thin trails of sweat glistening down the firm arc of Harry’s sides. He could see nothing beyond the bed but black. Hollowness echoed in his own ears, the tight tingle skating through his loins and shattering off the walls of the empty space. Draco pressed up with one knee, grabbed Harry’s waist and rolled him over, flattening Harry to the bed with one tight, hard thrust of his hips.

It was seeing Harry beneath him that did it, muscles taut and green eyes fixed and looking up, beyond the dark heat of Harry’s face. Draco’s tiny ball of pain exploded and he reared, snapping Harry to him, hearing the ragged hiss and witnessing the grimace on Harry’s familiar features. He clawed at the other man’s chest with both hands. Beating fists.

“Fuck! You bloody shite, how could you do it— Potter, you fucking— fucker—”

Harry’s hands tightened over his shoulders. His thighs squeezed Draco’s hips, framing and quivering. Harry stared at him, grim-faced. “Draco. It wasn’t me,” he said in a soft voice. It was the first time he’d used Draco’s first name.

Draco smelled iron and saw the salt of his own tears dotting Harry’s cheeks. He shook his head, shook it, and then just shook, and dropped across Harry’s chest, heaving and gasping and hating. He felt hands curl over his shoulder blades. Harry’s legs tensed around his waist. His lover breathed quietly and rapidly, turned his head to rest it against Draco’s hair.

For a moment, it was alright to break.

Draco woke to shafts of dusty, grimy yellow light stabbing through the holes in the curtains. The bed was empty beside him and the air smelled of nothing but forgotten age. He couldn’t remember if he’d been alone. If he’d dreamt it or done it. If his parents were dead or not.

...

Part 2