Chapter Text
In a long, long list of things that shouldn’t be Harry Potter’s problem, Draco Malfoy being a veela was probably at the top.
He and Malfoy had barely spoken since returning to Hogwarts after the war – hell, Harry rarely saw him. He wasn’t sure what occupation Malfoy’s frankly ridiculous class schedule could be preparing him for – Arithmancy, Divination, and Herbology? He didn’t know the rest of his classes, barring the one they shared, but those alone threw Harry for a loop. Still, Harry barely saw him outside of mealtimes and the occasional Quidditch match, though Malfoy had elected not to play after the first bludger had been charmed to aim at his head every time it was released.
Sod his bleeding heart, he thought. He glanced uneasily from McGonagall to Malfoy, who was laid out on a lounge, skin sickly and wings tucked around him like a shield. There was something very foreign about him.
“You don’t have to agree, Mr. Potter,” the Headmistress sighed when she happened to catch where his eyes had roamed. “However, you are the only person in this castle I know of who can resist the Imperius, and as it happens, veela allure. I had to ask before deciding to take other measures.”
Harry met her eyes, fighting the urge to nibble on his lower lip. “Before I answer anything, I just – what other measures are there?”
Her stern mouth turned downwards. “There aren’t many, to be completely honest. Suppressants of a sort exist but only do so much for the allure and the heat –“ Harry’s face flamed, but he refused to comment. “- so there’s very little choice but to remove him from the school. He would be mostly isolated until he can control his veela attributes, which he expressed some distaste for.”
Harry sat for a moment quietly. “What all would this entail?”
She sat straighter, getting down to business, but she couldn’t hide the relief in her eyes. She knew as well as he did that he was giving in. “You would be given your own quarters, with two beds and a bathroom, as well as a small sitting area. Unfortunately, we can’t do much about his lessons, and he’d going to have to experiment with self-tutoring and weekly meetings with his professors, because we don’t really want him going out without you.”
“What about my lessons?” he asked.
“We’d ask you to do the same,” she told him. “I don’t want to cause you any inconvenience, Mr. Potter, but I’m not sure how else to keep him at Hogwarts as he’d requested.”
“We can’t just lock him in a tower,” Harry agreed, and sighed. A part of him wanted to be angry about it; he’d spent his entire life doing what was best for other people. He and Malfoy weren’t friends. He wasn’t an innocent, either. And yet…
He turned his attention to Malfoy, and tried to re-familiarize himself with the person about to invade his entire life.
In spite of the sickly pallor, his skin drew attention. Without the glamour McGonagall told him would take weeks if not months to learn, it shimmered ever so slightly in the candlelight with a mother-of-pearl sheen. Harry’d hardly believed that it wasn’t a lotion of some kind when he’d first been summoned to the Headmistress’s office. It made the soft angles of his body more distinct, every dip in his skin characterized by a dulling shadow. Even his hair was different, just as pale but less limp than it had appeared for the past few years. It was thicker and curled at the ends unexpectedly. The tousle of blonde hair just helped the wings give him an ethereal appearance.
The wings, though – the wings were a work of art. His wingspan had to be somewhere close to fourteen feet and their feathers gleamed, dark at the root and bright white at the tip. The longer he stared, the more overwhelmed he was by them. He felt as if he were being hollowed out and filled instead with a growing desire to touch.
He hadn’t realized he was leaning forward until he snapped out of the almost-trance, sniffing irritably at the sleeping Malfoy when it occurred to him he’d been ensnared ever so slightly by the allure.
“Please, Mr. Potter,” McGonagall said quietly. Her hands were shaking, and her eyes were on the glassy side – he hadn’t realized she’d been watching Malfoy with him.
“If he’s okay with it…” He gave a helpless shrug, unsure of what else he could possibly do. He couldn’t refuse; it was a person’s life in his hands. He could condemn Malfoy to isolation, but he knew how cruel a punishment that was – a punishment for something that he had no control over. Like so much else in his life, Harry thought with an almost unwelcome pang of sympathy.
“Thank you,” she said shortly, but not without warmth. Silence reigned for only a moment before a groggy, exhausted Malfoy stirred from his fitful nap.
“Potter?” he grumbled into a yawn. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” he added to the headmistress, before straightening and turning back to Harry. “How long was I out? Did she explain things to you, or…?”
It was only then that Harry noticed the discoloration on his collar, and gaped. He didn’t answer Malfoy’s question in favor of asking one of his own.
“Merlin, Malfoy! What happened to you?”
Malfoy blinked and followed Harry’s line of sight. He grimaced, appearing to realize simultaneously that he was shirtless and that there was a rather large bruise where his collar met his shoulder. “None of your fucking business,” he said snidely. McGonagall coughed, and he winced. “When I… presented, earlier,” he said grudgingly, making an obvious attempt not to be more antagonistic. “I was in the hall on the way to Advanced Runes. A sixth year happened to be too close.” He looked upset about it, his eyebrows furrowed, but a pink flush lit his cheeks and ears.
“Too close how?” Harry asked suspiciously, and Draco’s reaction – a withering glare and the paling of the blush that had lit his cheeks – confirmed what he’d suspected. Happened to be too close, his ass. He didn’t bother to ask whether he’d been harassed again; there was no point in asking a question he already knew the answer to. Some of the older years made a hobby of heckling Malfoy and the other Slytherins, and sometimes they tried getting physical. They didn’t often get away with it, but Malfoy always had been more of a target so Harry didn’t doubt he saw more of it than others.
“Anyway,” he sneered, avoiding the unasked question and by default, McGonagall’s sharp gaze and angry set of her jaw. “He was too close, and when I presented, he got the release of my allure full-blast. Tried to jump me there in the hallway while holding a couple books, and he accidentally hit me with them.” The ‘while trying to climb me like a tree’ was left unsaid, thankfully, but both Harry and Malfoy could feel the weight of it, twin grimaces on their lips.
“Hell of a way to come into a creature inheritance,” Harry said as meekly as possible, understanding how little Malfoy wanted to talk about the treatment he was receiving from their classmates. He hadn’t realized until he’d watched Malfoy sneer at him defensively how little he wanted to deal with that attitude for however long it took for Malfoy to learn how to control his veela attributes. If this was going to work, they needed to get along.
Malfoy seemed to work through that himself after hearing Harry’s mild statement, and sighed heavily. “I seem to have a lucky lot in life,” he agreed grimly. “You didn’t answer my question, you know. About if the Headmistress explained what’s going on.”
Harry nodded. “Sorry. Yes, she did.” He looked to her for help, but she appeared content to let them talk it out, and he bit his lip, turning his eyes back to Malfoy, who seemed as much at a loss as he was. “If you’re okay with it, I’m willing to help.” He didn’t ask why Malfoy was so adverse to returning home for the transition period, but then, it wasn’t his business. He wouldn’t want to go back to the Manor either, where every room would undoubtedly remind him of the evil that had walked its halls.
“Not to be rude, Potter, but I don’t have much of a choice if I want to remain here,” was the dry reply, as if he’d read Harry’s mind. “I can manage to cohabitate with even you for a month or two, I’m sure.”
“You’re really okay with this?”
“Do you think I’d prefer to be locked in a room by myself?”
He backtracked upon noticing how defensive Malfoy’s posture was becoming. “Of course not! I just – it’s nothing. I’m fine with it, you’re fine with it – it’ll be, er, fine.”
The most likely unconscious twitch of Malfoy’s wings into an offensive position settled and he watched Harry’s stuttering with a tired, defeated expression. Harry hadn’t even realized until they settled on him with an unwavering gaze that even his eyes had changed. It was like looking into a pool of silver, his pupil small and his eyelashes a perfect golden frame. When Malfoy bit his own lip in a much more attractive parody of Harry’s nervous habit he noticed that Malfoy’s teeth had changed slightly too, canines sharpened.
Malfoy noticed when he did, but only after making a soft sound of pain and licking his lip in disbelief when he realized he’d accidentally punctured it. “Dammit,” he muttered weakly, and hung his head, covering his face with his hands and appearing for all the world a burdened masterpiece.
“Your rooms are on the fourth floor,” McGonagall interrupted them gently. “Behind the portrait of Geraint. The password is deus ex machina.”
Malfoy looked thoroughly unimpressed with the password, but nodded and stood. “Do you need anything else?” he asked her, his face carefully neutral. When she shook her head, he turned to Harry, who had to remind himself to push away Malfoy’s allure before standing as well. “Come on then, oh mighty knight,” he said with the barest of smiles. “Protect me on our journey.”
“Does this make you the damsel?” he asked, playing along with a teasing smile, making sure that Malfoy didn’t misinterpret his words as an insult.
“Hardly,” was the drawled response. “Try a nobleman. A king, if we’re being particularly ambitious.” He felt stark relief at the wry humor, pleased that the hatred and prejudice of their peers hadn’t killed Malfoy’s fire. It was something he thought about every now and again, how dark and unhappy he looked whenever Harry passed him in the hallway. It almost made him miss the bright, obnoxious child he’d been, no matter how annoying Harry had found him in their earlier years. “We’re going, Headmistress,” Malfoy added over his shoulder, already halfway out the door with Harry at his heels.
“Do try to take care of any riots before they get out of hand,” McGonagall called after them dryly. “I’m putting Mr. Malfoy’s safety in your hands, Mr. Potter.”
He mock-saluted her, but his grin made her expression soften. “Consider it done.”
“Get out of my office,” she snorted, but gave him a small smile in return.
Malfoy was almost to the bottom of the staircase and Harry hurried after him. “You know this isn’t going to work out very well if you insist on running around without me,” he reminded Malfoy archly.
Malfoy glanced over his shoulder at him with a raised eyebrow. “You’re supposed to be the one doing the protecting, Potter, or did you –“
He was cut off as Harry missed a step and physically collided with Malfoy’s shoulder. With a sharp cry of pain as his wing was nearly bent, Malfoy tumbled the down the last few steps, Harry landing on top of him in a jumble of pain and broken glasses.
He groaned, trying to lift himself up and nearly jumping a mile into the air when he accidentally put pressure on one of Malfoy’s wings, which were splayed against the stone at the entrance to the Headmistress’s rooms, making the veela yelp again.
“I’m sorry,” he said as soon as the castle stopped spinning, placing his hand on the stone between feathers as delicately as he could, pushing himself upward. “Shit, I didn’t mean – are you okay?”
He put enough distance between them to make out Malfoy’s face, contorted for a moment in pain, but it mostly only served to give him enough clarity to make out the feathers that surrounded them. For a moment, he could only lay there feeling as if time had lulled to a stop against soft, pale skin and downy wings, a sweet scent making his head hazy.
He pulled back sharply, eyes wide when he realized that his complacency was caused by Malfoy, and shook him a little, trying to wake him enough to get himself under control – or at least attempt to.
Instead, the opening of Malfoy’s eyes only caused his bones to feel a little gooey and he melted ever so slightly, and by the dilation of Malfoy’s pupils, he was feeling it, too.
What he didn’t expect – and didn’t protest – was the way that Malfoy’s wings curled around them, shielding them both. The blonde wordlessly brought his hands up to Harry’s arms, one sliding around to cup the back of his neck, talons Harry didn’t realize he had digging gently into Harry’s neck. There was no pain. Malfoy didn’t speak, but instead made an odd sound – a low rumble that sounded like a purr.
It made him lightheaded and he leaned in, inhaling as subtly as he could, pheromones clouding his mind. The purr got louder, Malfoy’s expression curious and open and even a little aroused. The purr escalated to a soft singing that almost sounded like a bird call, just a few notes, but Harry shuddered at the sound of them and pressed himself closer, needing to be closer –
“Mr. Potter!”
He shook his head, trying to clear it, and reared back when he realized what had happened. “Shit,” he hissed, and scrambled off of Malfoy’s body, ignoring the way that Malfoy’s song – shit, his fucking trill – had dipped in disappointment when Harry had pulled back. “Malfoy, stop it!”
The spoken words were like a slap to the face, judging by the way Malfoy went from pouting trill to terrified in two seconds flat. “What did you do!” he cried, jerking back and up, pulling his wings tightly against his body subconsciously.
“I tripped,” he snapped, and McGonagall cleared her throat loudly, looking unamused.
“Accidents happen, Mr. Malfoy,” she said with a pointed look. “Be that as it may, I think it best that you two try not to get too close. Just because Mr. Potter here can pull himself out of the allure does not mean that he is impervious to it all together.”
Malfoy looked for one moment as if he might cry, but he pulled himself together and stood on shaky-looking legs. “I apologize, Potter,” he said stiffly, his voice the smallest bit vulnerable. Harry wasn’t sure how he felt about it. “I didn’t intend to –“
“It wasn’t your fault,” he interrupted, quiet. Malfoy met his gaze and after a moment, nodded. “We’re going to go to our rooms, and avoid any more accidents. We’ll be fine.” He glanced down at the mess on the stone floor, and aimed a silent oculus reparo at the shards of glass and metal before putting his glasses back on.
McGonagall nodded once, sharply, and turned, ascending the stairs without a look back.
The minute she was out of sight, Malfoy spun and stormed out of the stairway, his wings instinctively ducking through the alcove entrance. “Malfoy!” he groaned, hurrying to catch up with him. “It really was an accident –“
“I’m not upset about that, Potter,” Draco snapped, interrupting him with a stern look. It wasn’t quite a glare, but it was more than the tired glances from before. “I’m – ashamed. And trying to wrap my head around the fact that will be my life for the next few months. I’m entirely unprepared for this, and I don’t know what I’m doing –“
“Malfoy,” he interjected as gently as possible – which of course seemed more awkward than anything else. “We’ll figure this out, yeah? But… did you not know that this would happen? Really?”
Malfoy sighed in defeat. Even his wings seemed to slump. “I was warned,” he grumbled, looking particularly put out. “My mother pulled me aside around my sixteenth birthday and tried to let me know as gently as possible that there was a possibility I would come into a creature inheritance. I didn’t think it would happen, so I never did any research, even though Father’s great-great aunt or something of the sort was a veela.”
“Male veela are rare. I can understand that you didn’t think it was likely,” he offered, trying to help, and to his relief Malfoy just nodded. “There’s always the library. Hermione will be happy to do some research, if you want.”
Malfoy looked like he had something to say but bit it back. Imagining the possibilities, Harry thought privately that it was probably a good thing. “I can do my own research,” Malfoy said slowly, as if debating every word as it passed his lips. Then, he added stiffly, “You probably never noticed, because you always thought I was evil incarnate, but I’m just as good a student as Granger when I apply myself.”
“I never thought you were evil,” Harry disagreed with an eye roll. “And I know you’re plenty smart, Malfoy. I just – I don’t know. Asking Hermione is my default when something needs to be researched.” He shrugged helplessly.
“If you didn't think I was evil, then why did you always hate me so much?” Malfoy asked, then his eyes widened, as if he were surprised by the words.
“Always is a strong word,” Harry mumbled instead of answering, but now that the words were out, Malfoy couldn’t seem to help but ask.
“Ever since I offered you my hand in first year,” he pressed, stepping closer, and Harry realized they were both at a standstill in the middle of the hall. He sent a silent thank you to whatever deity that was listening that the halls were currently empty. “You’ve acted like I was the dirt underneath your shoe! Even this past year, you either ignore me or watch when they fling hexes at me.” Whatever vulnerability that had been in Malfoy’s expression was not in his voice; he sounded furious, as if Harry had personally failed him. And he had.
If he was being honest with himself, he didn’t have an answer. Malfoy’s accusation was the truth – he did ignore it. He rarely gave Malfoy a second glance, even when the most cruel of their class personally punished Malfoy for his part in the war.
Looking at Malfoy now, stony and resigned, he realized just how awful his inaction was. He’d convinced himself that because they were only jinxes and inconveniences, never anything truly harmful, that Malfoy could handle himself. He’d never gotten involved in other people’s squabbles; god knew he’d thrown his own hexes at Malfoy before. The difference, he realized, was that Malfoy had always fought back. He didn’t do that anymore. Harry shifted guiltily. When everyone was doing it, there probably didn’t seem much of a point.
He really didn't have anything against the blonde, not anymore. After the final battle, he'd gotten a quiet apology and an even quieter thank you. One look into Draco's earnest—albeit embarrassed—grey eyes told him that he wasn't just saying it. He accepted the apology and they'd gone their separate way with the exception of a few half-hearted spats littered in between. It was more for a sense of normalcy, and Harry appreciated it, as well, knowing Malfoy probably felt the same way. Even those mild disagreements had stopped a quarter of the way into their “eighth” year, when Malfoy had begun drawing into himself more and more often.
Malfoy searched his eyes, and turned away with a curled lip and gritted teeth before Harry could say anything.
He said it anyway. “I’m sorry.” Malfoy paused and glanced back at him, his mask still firmly in place to hide his real feelings. Harry ran a hand through his hair and bit his lip, trying to figure out how to word what he was thinking. “You’re right; I haven’t… done anything to help. And that’s on me, because if they’re going to listen to anyone about war grudges, it should be me, shouldn’t it? I should have said something and I didn’t. But before this year? It wasn’t just me. You hated me, too.”
“Because you refused my hand,” Malfoy hissed, clearly uncomfortable, glancing around as if waiting for someone to come by and laugh at him. “In public, when all I wanted –“
“Was to ride off of my fame?” he finished with a raised eyebrow, and regretted it when Malfoy’s expression instantly closed off. “You didn’t know me, Malfoy,” he continued anyway. “And the first thing you did was insult one of the few people who’d been nice to me. You did the same thing when we met in Madam Malkin’s! Hagrid was the first person to be truly kind to me and you insulted him.”
“I didn’t know.”
He tensed. He was so sick of that excuse. “You know what you didn’t know? You didn’t know Hagrid. You still don’t, and you don’t know Ron or any of my friends. You don’t know anything about what they’re really like, but you still spent seven years picking fights, didn’t you?” Then he sighed, and tried to relax. “It’s over now, Malfoy. We’ve both made mistakes, and, well, this first semester is mine. I accept that. But we both contributed to the reason we didn’t get on.”
Malfoy was very quiet.
“There’s no reason we can’t try to get along now,” he finished, rubbing at the back of his neck, Malfoy’s silence making him feel even more awkward than usual.
Malfoy finally looked up at met his eyes, peering into them as if he expected to read Harry’s thoughts through eye contact. Finally, he nodded and strode down the hall without a word, leaving Harry confused and scrambling to catch up.
If that was what Malfoy called trying to get along, Harry had a feeling he was in for a long couple of months.