[one-shots]: Glory Be, R, H/D, 2/4

[lomonaaeren]

*

The way to a Gryffindor's heart is through his friends.

Not that Draco intended to ask them. Granger would give him tomes on Veela law that Draco already knew, and Weasley would cast first and ask questions later. Or he would try to persuade Draco to buy one of his brother's ridiculous practical jokes. Not that Draco would disdain that if it gained him what he wanted. He would put the joke in a place of honor on the mantle and glance at it now and then, to admire the object that had helped him win his chosen.

But he wanted to hear about the way they normally interacted with Potter, and what it was that had kept them together since their Hogwarts years, particularly as Weasley wasn't partnered with Potter in the Aurors anymore. Had they known about his deceptions, concealing his power and pretending to be nothing more than a research-obsessed scholar? Or were they part of the audience Potter was trying to fool?

Draco took a moment to hope, with sweetness running and flooding through him, that they were part of his audience. It would be a coup indeed to have been the only one to see behind his chosen's facade, to understand why there was someone here to love and honor. And it would reduce the competition for Potter's attention.

He waited until a Saturday, when Weasley had gone to work at the joke shop and Potter had gone in to work as he always did. He seemed to have no holidays. Draco looked forward to giving him those, as he looked forward to giving him a bed with silk sheets and any other present he desired.

Even time alone, if he needed it. It was the hardest thing for a Veela to give a chosen, but Draco also wanted to demonstrate his difference from other Veela, like the one who had apparently taught Potter that spell.

Draco Apparated in, like a normal wizard, and walked into the joke shop with his wings retracted and a glamour on. He paused when the bell rang above him as he opened the door, expecting a shower of confetti at the very least, but perhaps the Weasleys had now passed into some sort of Zen joke space where such efforts were remedial. Nothing happened except that two interested ginger heads turned towards him.

"Can we help you, sir?" It was the surviving twin--George, Draco remembered with a convulsive shake of his brain. He stepped around the counter and beamed at Draco. "We have a new variety of the Tongue-Breaker, if you'd like to try it."

"Oh, goodness, no." Draco affected a simpering accent and peered nearsightedly at the shelves in front of him. "But do you have a, a Wheeze that would make someone feel loved and appreciated? Someone special, someone who hides the majority of what he is away from the world because he is afraid the world may judge him for his past?"

No recognition in the Weasel's face. He only nodded enthusiastically and bounced around the shelves, pointing out crystals and necklaces and mirrors to Draco. Draco admired and hesitated and hummed and finally said, "Nothing here is quite right. Do you--do you have anything you keep for special customers?"

Weasel and his brother exchanged a glance. Then George nodded and picked up a key from behind the desk. "You could say this is confidential," he said, and winked at Draco. "So we'll ask that you not tell anyone else. Otherwise, we might have to have winged monkeys rip your intestines out your arse. You know how it is."

Draco was confident George, at least, was capable of coming up with something that would make him feel like that, if not actually suffer it. "Oh, I promise!" He let his voice quaver, and looked up at the ceiling.

"Then I reckon we can show you this," George conceded, and unlocked a door at the back of the shop. It was well-hidden enough that Draco would have needed to go full Veela to find it.

Beyond was a room that smelled musky-sweet, rather like mildew, and Draco flinched back and clutched his gloved hands together. But George went in and brought out a box with silver hinges that he flipped gently open.

Inside lay a single potions vial, sparkling the exact green of Potter's eyes. Draco clapped his hands and took another risk. "Oh, that's brilliant, as you young people would say! It would match his eyes."

No suspicion, still, from Weasel. Draco hid an inner snort of contempt. No, they have no reason to suspect that Potter is hiding part of himself from the world.

He had to admit that that might be a consequence of Potter's Unspeakable job, rather than because he wanted to keep his friends in the dark. But it was a consequence that he would be happy to take advantage of anyway.

"You don't even know what it is yet." George balanced the box on his hands but exchanged an amused glance with the Weasel. "Are you sure that you want to buy it?"

"It still matches his eyes." Draco tried for his persona's defiant glare, and made both of them grin more widely. Good. The more different he looked from the confident assassin he was in reality, the less of a connection he would make in their minds between this glamour and his chosen's new mate.

"That's true," George said. "What you do with the potion, though, might change your mind. You should give it to him under a full moon. It'll make him see things through your eyes for a few minutes. Perceive himself the way you do him, for instance. Or if you show him a Pensieve memory, he'll know exactly what you were thinking and feeling at the time, not only see the expressions on your face and your actions." He grinned. "It's great for pointing out all the stupid things someone did while they were drunk."

Draco's hands itched. That invention was indeed brilliant, and he longed to steal the secret and sell it in contexts where it could do far more business--and far more damage--than the Weasleys knew.

But because it was also perfect for what he wanted to do with Potter, he nodded. "How much?"

After his persona had clapped his hands to his heart over the price and staggered around a bit, Draco gladly paid the required Galleons. He allowed the Weasleys to wrap the vial in Bubble Charms; it wouldn't do to show that he knew more sophisticated spells. He left the shop with the potion in its original box, tucked under his arm.

When he reached home, he put the box on a shelf in his most protected cupboard and dispelled the glamour. He was fairly sure that Weasley knew nothing about the way Potter had sealed off part of himself in a protected bubble. That left Granger.

*

"I hate to sound suspicious, Mr. Taedeson, but why have I never heard of you before?"

Draco leaned back in his chair and sighed a little. He was playing a wealthy businessman with more to do with his time now, and that required all sorts of different signals and clothes and mannerisms from the silly old man he had chosen to go for in the Weasleys' shop. "Fair enough, Mrs. Weasley-Granger." He had taken pains to learn Granger's married name before he came to see her. "But if you're going to refuse my aid simply because I prefer to be a bit reclusive, then we have nothing more to say to each other." He began to stand.

Granger stretched her hand out towards him, then frowned and snatched it back down to her side as though it had risen without her permission. "I didn't say that. I simply prefer to know the provenance of all the money that comes into the House-Elf Trust."

"You wish to know how I made it?" Draco raised his eyebrows and sat back down. "Could you not simply say that?"

"You said you were wealthy." Granger watched him, not moving away now but also not moving closer than her elbows, which were planted on her desk. "That usually connotes an understanding of how these things work."

"Have you often had wizards donate to you under false pretenses, Mrs. Granger-Weasley?"

For the first time, Granger flushed a bit. "Not so much false pretenses as wishing to say they had done so when they didn't want to benefit house-elves at all."

"I don't understand," Draco said, and let a bit of his natural contempt through to color his voice. "If you can use the money to benefit your cause, and they give you the money, and you do so, then why does it matter what their motive was for donating?"

"We don't send out publicity materials featuring the names of prominent donors and praising them for their gifts. You should know that, before you sign over any money to us."

"Ah." Draco nodded. He was more satisfied than ever that coming to Granger to check up on Potter was the right choice. She would be more likely to understand Potter's desire to keep away from the world, assuming she knew anything. "Well, it so happens that that fits with my personality. I prefer to stay away from the public."

Granger didn't blink, the same way Weasley hadn't as Draco ambled through his shop and dropped hints that could easily lead him to think of Potter. "Good," she said. "And how many Galleons were you planning on donating?"

Draco named a number that was ten more than he wanted, but from Granger's tiny nod, it was just within her parameters. She wrote down the number and the false contact information (well, not entirely false, but any owls sent to him there would wait for a long time before he picked them up) he gave her and accepted the pouch he handed to her with equanimity.

She did nothing else, however, and once again, Draco decided that he would have to risk a more direct gambit.

"You have the right to question me," Draco murmured as he stood up. "I don't begrudge you that. But I did think you would have some more sympathy for the desire to avoid the public gaze, considering Harry Potter is your friend."

Granger gave him a measured stare. "Harry chose to be an Unspeakable because he loves protecting people from Dark wizards, not because he thought it was a career that would cause the public to ignore him. If anything, they've been more curious than ever since he chose it."

Draco let himself blink a little. "But I had heard that he no longer lets anyone even tell the story of how he defeated You-Know-Who, attributing it to his mother instead."

Granger laughed. "That's known as truth, Mr. Taedeson, not anything else. Harry really isn't as powerful as everyone wants to think he is. That's ridiculous hero-worship fantasies." She let her hand rest on his bag of Galleons. "The same way that everyone wants to think house-elves are really willing servants all the time, and there's no way to make them more comfortable. They deal with what they want to be true instead of what is, and it ensures they never grow up--"

"I understand that," Draco said, and met her eyes, and let a hint of his true character through as he curled his lips in a tiny chiding smile. "Would I be here, donating to you, if I didn't understand that?"

Granger stopped, and put a hand over her heart as if she really thought that it might hammer its way out of her. Draco, with his superior Veela senses, could have told her that of course that wouldn't happen, but that would have meant revealing that he had those senses. "I'm sorry," she said. "I forget, there are so many people who need the lecture."

Draco gave a tiny shrug to show that she was forgiven. "Well, that makes Mr. Potter's motives more understandable, I suppose. But I would have thought a better end for his fame and power was to use them the way you have, to show people who strive against his goals that there is merit in meeting them instead."

"We all had our fame from the war. He chose to deal with it in his way. I choose to deal with it in mine."

Draco bowed, knowing when he had overstepped his lines, and retreated. He wondered if Granger would tell Potter about his asking after him, and then dismissed the notion. Even if she did, Potter knew Draco had chosen him. He had yet to face up to the implications of that choice, but it was hardly a surprise.

So. Neither Granger nor Weasley seem to understand the choice Potter made, and how it hides him away from everyone.

There is one more person who might know.

*

"I..." Draco's mother had always said that being able to blush on demand was a useful skill he should cultivate, and so it proved here. Draco, under another glamour, this time of a sandy-blond wizard considerably younger than he really was, ducked his head and looked up from under his fringe. "It's not really for me. It's for my little brother. Can you sign it to Daniel?"

Ginny Weasley smiled at him and swung her broom over her shoulder as she bent down to sign the napkin Draco had pressed on her. "Of course." Her face was still shiny with sweat from her successful game, but she took her time to talk to a random brat who wanted an autograph. Draco told himself that to maintain his mask as a respectful, adoring fan instead of leaping out with wings and claws on someone who had touched his chosen before he had. "Does Daniel want to be a Quidditch player himself someday?"

Draco grinned and answered in the bright tone that someone his apparent age and status might have used. "Very much, madam. And he'll be so honored you asked!"

Weasley laughed and finished signing her name with a flourish. "What position does he play?"

"Seeker." Draco blushed and corrected himself. "Well, he wants to play that, but I think...I think his glasses get in the way, madam. He can barely see the Snitch!"

"Call me Miss Weasley, please." Weasley fluffed her red hair out, and Draco stifled the urge to tell her she wasn't going to attract anyone here. "Madam makes me feel so old. And are you remembering that Harry Potter was the most successful Quidditch player of modern times, and he always wore glasses?"

"Well, I heard that he'd become an old recluse after the war." Draco gave his head an arrogant little toss. "How could someone like that be one of the most successful Quidditch players?"

Weasley straightened up. "He's my friend, he saved the world, and I'll thank you to speak of him with respect," she said quietly.

Draco cowered on the outside, while inside he wanted to snarl. So he once chose someone determined and defensive of him to be with. Why can't he give me the same chance? I would imitate Weasley's better qualities, but of course in a much nobler fashion.

"I'm sorry, ma--Miss Weasley," Draco said, and rubbed his hands together. "I didn't mean to ruin the autograph for Daniel. It's just--I've heard other people say the same thing about Mr. Potter, but I never saw him play, and it seems like--like anyone who loves the game wouldn't just give it up like that, you know?"

Weasley went on watching him for a while, then nodded and said, "Yes, I can see where that impression comes from." She was still far more distant than she had been at the beginning of the conversation, and Draco knew he had pissed her off. Well, maybe that was good. It might mean she was less likely to tell Potter of this conversation. "But he had more important things on his mind than the game."

I'm sure he did. Like making sure that none of his so-called friends would ever find out about this magic he's so desperate to conceal.

But the boy Draco was playing wouldn't say that, so he just widened his eyes and nodded gratefully, even as he said, "More important things than Quidditch?"

Weasley laughed and reached out to ruffle his hair. Draco endured it. It was for his chosen, after all. Then she handed him the napkin with the autograph and said, "Tell Daniel that I hope he gets the chance to become a Quidditch player, but I also hope that he focuses on something else. The game is wonderful, but we all have to retire someday."

"Is that why Mr. Potter became an Unspeakable?" Draco asked, beaming at her and trying to look as if he would faint at the same time, the way he probably would have looked if he was a teenager and one of his favorite Quidditch players had touched him like that. "Because he didn't want to have to retire?"

Weasley watched him thoughtfully. "Maybe," she said at last. "But I don't know everything about him even if I am one of his best friends, so don't go repeating that."

As if I would. Draco had to remind himself, again, that Weasley was dealing with what she saw in front of her, a young and apparently obsessed fan of herself, not Potter. As though Weasley's flying skill was anything to write home about compared to the way Draco soared during his kills and the way he remembered Potter flying.

"No, madam, I won't!" Draco said, and bobbed his head, and darted off, leaving Weasley to roll her eyes and look amused.

Draco waited until he was a good distance from the Quidditch pitch to drop his disguise and Apparate. His body was humming, and his brain set up a corresponding hum, as if they were two wheels connected on some deeper level.

He had learned enough to be fairly confident that Potter's friends didn't know what was happening with him, and that he had kept his magic a secret even from them. Draco wanted to know why, of course, but that was something he would hardly discover by asking them. Time to show Potter that he valued this choosing business seriously.

Time to go back to his chosen.

*

This time, Draco chose the morning instead of the evening for his confrontation with Potter, hoping the morning light would make Potter a little more charitable and welcoming, or at least less suspicious. Potter stepped out his front door and saw him waiting beyond the wards, rolled his eyes, and didn't abate one moment of the time he normally spent locking his door.

Draco leaned as close to the fence as he dared and continued to watch him. No, he hadn't made a mistake in his choosing. Potter's full strength wasn't visible as his hands flashed through the locking spells, but he was graceful, and quick, and he faced Draco with a complementary stubbornness to Draco's own glinting in his green eyes.

Good. We wouldn't want this to be too easy.

Draco spread his wings and stepped back a little from the fence, enough that Potter could get safely through his own gate. "I brought you a gift," he murmured, and held up the vase he had clasped out of sight beneath his left wing until that moment.

Potter stared at the plants in the vase for a solid moment, then looked at Draco. "And you think I wanted roses?"

Draco sniffed. It was a good thing Potter had other qualities, because Draco's choosing him for his observational ability would have meant he was disappointed. "You haven't looked beyond the obvious, have you?" he asked, and turned the vase to the side. The "roses" spilled over the sides, and nodded heavy heads towards the ground. "Cast a spell at them. It doesn't matter what spell, so long as it fits in the category of hexes or curses."

Potter watched him in silence. Just when Draco thought the temptation to make juvenile commentary would overcome the temptation Draco had offered him, he cast, and the spell sped towards Draco, opening wide wings, becoming a pulse of blue lightning that landed in the middle of the roses.

They spread their petals and snapped up the lightning. It took a moment, blackening their stems and veins along the way, but normal color returned in the time it took both Draco and Potter to blink. Then they looked like normal flowers again, perhaps a bit plumper than before.

Draco looked at Potter and opened his mouth to explain, but Potter's mouth already gaped, his body leaning forwards so that he was on his toes. It looked as though he could break into flight at any second. The grace stole Draco's breath, so he couldn't respond before Potter said, "Defense roses. I didn't think anyone knew how to breed them outside the Department of Mysteries."

Draco half-bowed his head, and said, "I take it that's why you don't have any here? Because they would be useful but also give away the kind of secrets you're into?"

Potter looked at him this time, and his eyes were as hard and shiny as mirrors. "You needn't act as though you have any concern about that, Malfoy," he said. "You discovered my secrets by accident."

"Memory Charms don't work well on Veela." Draco didn't back away, but turned towards Potter instead, holding out the vase of defense roses. "That's the only reason you haven't used it on me so far, right?"

"I have certain principles you don't need to hear about, and wouldn't understand anyway," Potter said, his voice low and charged and his arms folded. "You can give me the defense roses if you want, but that doesn't mean I'll be open to dating you. I don't have a view of debts and obligations in the way you would usually understand them, either."

"But you want them," Draco said, and turned the vase to the side again, purely for the way Potter's eyes followed it.

"Yes, I do," Potter finally said. "I don't see any harm in admitting that."

Draco half-bowed his head and held out the vase. Potter had to take it from his arms, so that at one point his hand came close to brushing Draco's elbow. Draco's breathing quickened, even from such simple contact, and he would have laughed aloud if he had been alone. Yes, he had made the right choice.

But laughing would drive Potter away, or at least make him think Draco held a much lower opinion of him than Draco really did. That was something to be avoided at all costs. Draco bowed his head and moved further back. "I hope you enjoy them," he said. "If you do want to thank me, then you might consider meeting me here." He drew out a piece of parchment with his address written on it and laid it carefully and ostentatiously on the ground.

Potter shook his head. "Meet you on ground that you know well and where you would have dozens of traps and defenses? No."

"I will lower my wards for you," Draco said, and reached up to pluck a feather from his wings. He had prepared for the gesture all morning; the anticipated pain hardly made him wince now. "I swear it by this feather." The plume glowed golden in his grip for a moment, then stilled. He threw it to Potter, letting it fall at his feet the way the parchment had.

Potter gaped at him. It made him a little less attractive, but Draco graciously conceded that his chosen couldn't have every advantage and virtue that would have occurred to him. He shut his mouth soon enough, anyway, and looked at the feather. "But a Veela can't break a vow sworn like that," he whispered.

Draco nodded, pleased Potter had got it without further prompting from him. "Exactly. Now do you see that I'm serious about taking you as my chosen?"

"I dislike the word taken." Potter's face had gone distant and still, as though listening to the ritual chanting of enemies. "That's what everyone thinks they'll do with me, take me and lock me up somewhere, or take me and prevent me from causing trouble, or take me and fuck me."

Draco grinned. "I'd like to do the last, but believe it or not, I am capable of controlling myself."

Potter considered him some more. Then he said, "You promised me more information on my enemies, and protection from them." When Draco nodded, he added, "How soon do you think you can get the information to me?"

"I could tell you more right here, but then I don't think you'd have the motivation to visit me," Draco said, and cast his eyes down with false modesty that he knew made Potter grind his teeth. He smiled a little despite himself. He wanted Potter to like him, but he also wanted to rile him up, challenge him, keep him interested. "I'll be home all day and tomorrow, Potter. Come visit me whenever you like."

And he spread his wings and fled into the sky, pleased with himself. He had intrigued Potter, he thought, and also shown himself gentle and willing and pliant.

For a certain definition of all those words, of course.

*

Draco felt the soft tremor of Apparition when Potter arrived at the spot in front of his door that evening, and stepped back with a smile, glancing around the room he'd told the house-elves to show Potter to. He thought it would be the best one: small, comfortable, without the horrible amount of gold and gems that his ancestors had sometimes thought themselves compelled to deposit on every single surface. The chairs were the sort you could sink into, the fire large, the room round and simple, without corners or angles where enemies could hide. Draco sat down in his own chosen chair and waited.

Potter came into his room shortly afterwards, and stopped.

Draco leaned his head back and smiled lazily at his chosen. He knew what he looked like ordinarily, but he had made a special effort tonight, just the way he had with the room. His wings draped and sprawled along the back of the chair at the bottoms, but rose in angled curves above his head. He wore pale robes that made him look like a sparkling statue in most places, and emphasized the slight rosy hue of his cheeks and eyelids. His hair shone soft as clouds around him when he stretched out a hand. "Harry," he whispered. "May I call you that?"

Harry's head came up, and Draco felt the sensation of a door shutting in his face. "You should know that I'm not susceptible to the allure."

"Even better." Draco kept his hand stretched out and his voice gentle. "Then when I earn a reaction from you, I can be sure it's genuine. Will you sit down?"

Harry watched him suspiciously for a single moment more, and then crossed the room and took the chair across from Draco. Draco inhaled in soft delight. Harry smelled like sweat and salt and ink and dust. A long day, then, and he would appreciate the comfort of what Draco could offer him all the more.

"I don't need a place like the Manor to be happy."

Harry must have seen some of Draco's wishes in his face, then. It was a risk, when a Veela was open to his chosen. Draco still didn't move, his hand or his expression or his body. "I know that. But you might want it. That's one of the reasons I'm ready to offer it to you."

"The Veela I've known in the past didn't care that much about my future wants." Harry shook his head. His face was lit by the fire in some wonderful and strange ways, like the sparks of light that seemed to glow deep in his eyes. Draco swallowed his delight. "They just wanted to have fun, and that was it."

Draco smiled pleasantly, and wondered how he could find out the names of those Veela from Harry, so he could rip them apart. He probably couldn't actually, because it would upset Harry, but he really wanted to, nonetheless. "They hadn't chosen you. I did. Yes, Veela can play about if they want to, take multiple lovers. But a choosing is different."

"If it's my power, you ought to know I only get that strong when I'm angry." Harry gave him a pleasant smile in return, making Draco want to know all the thoughts it hid. "So I would disappoint you most of the time."

"I think I have the power to make you angrier than you think. And what about when you feel desire?"

For some reason, Harry turned pale. He turned his head away in the next instant, as if he sought to conceal his change of color in the red light of the flames, but Draco wasn't fooled. His hands twitched, wanting to reach out and turn Harry back, but he refrained. "I don't think you'd learn about that," Harry said casually. "Since we aren't going to get to that point."

"You showed your magic in bed," Draco said. "Maybe more than once. And someone got frightened, didn't they? The useless bastard. Or bitch," he added, after a moment of thinking. It could have been either one.

Harry flinched. But he had a practical side, it seemed, and wouldn't bother denying the truth after Draco had already guessed it. He faced Draco instead, his expression cool and distant, like a hawk's, and driving Draco's desire to insane levels. "It was a Veela I frightened, actually. So don't give me some load of bollocks about how you'll be above it all and not scared by anything I do. You can be."

"Again, that Veela hadn't chosen you." Draco leaned forwards in the chair and let his wings spread, fanning a delicate breeze of perfume towards Harry. He didn't know exactly what Harry smelled, because after a choosing a Veela's scent changed to become pleasing to the individual, rather like the scent of Amortentia did. From Harry's expression, though, it was enough to make his throat bob. "I have."

"You still haven't told me what that means, other than making you want to do things for me." Harry squinted at him. "And apparently making you smell like treacle tart."

"You picked up on that?" Draco felt his own pulse soar when Harry merely glared at him as if he was stupid. Yes. You're intelligent. Yes. I can work with that. "Of course you did. Listen, Harry. This is what it means."

He had never done anything like this for anyone, bared everything he was thinking and feeling, but then, he had never had a chosen, either. He felt as he had the night the wings had come bursting out of his back and he realized that his distant Veela heritage had manifested in him after all. This was the beginning of a wind he would have to ride.

"It means that I'll do anything you want, as long as you want it," Draco said, holding that green, firelit gaze. "It's about desire. It's about wanting to show myself off to you, because your attention is the most important thing. It's about you being the center of the universe for me, wanting to guard you from pain, wanting to make you writhe in pleasure."

"That sounds like obsession," Harry said flatly. "Which I've had more than enough experience of, in both Veela and humans, to know that I don't like it."

Draco shook his head. "Obsession means someone does something they like, even if you don't--"

"The way you're doing, haunting my house and inviting me here!"

"I have to ask." Draco spread his hands. "I can tell what you're feeling, but I don't know, instinctively, what you'd like. I can promise that I didn't compel you to show up here. You showed up because you were interested, curious, wary, or all three. I can give you someone to share your power with, someone who can't be frightened. I can give you someone you can trust your whole being to."

Harry shook his head again, but at least it looked as though he was a little more thoughtful than before. Draco leaned back with his hands around his knees this time, his wings drooping down, and waited, and hoped.

"I can't think about reordering my life for someone's whim," Harry said at last, as if he had given serious consideration to the whole of Draco's offer and that was it for him. "Giving up my job, trusting you with my secrets, enduring the outrage of my friends. I like my life the way it is now. There's no reason for me to change."

Draco stared at him, so many thoughts swimming through his head that he didn't know how he was supposed to pick one to address. In the end, he went with the most pressing. "What makes you think you would have to give up your job?"

Harry frowned and pushed his glasses up on his nose with an adorable gesture that made Draco want to shield him in his wings and not let him go. "Because it's a dangerous job, at least in the way that it exposes me sometimes to Dark magic and artifacts, and you wouldn't want me to do it? Don't most Veela not want their--mates in danger?"

"I would fight beside you if other assassins came after you." Draco spread his wings again, hoping that Harry was admiring the white, edged feathers along the tops, feathers that could cut like knives if he willed them to. "I would help you defeat Death Eaters. I can stalk and kill your enemies--"

"I wouldn't let you."

"No, but that's one of those fantasies that's nice to dream about in bed sometimes." Draco gave him a wistful smile. "The point is, I know you'll be in danger most of your life, simply because of who you are and who you irritate. I want to stand at your side. Not prevent you from facing your enemies."

Harry's head bobbed for a moment, and he swallowed, but he also spoke the next words through a clenched jaw that proved Draco hadn't won yet. "And what about my friends? You can't think that you'll get along."

Draco curled his lip. "For whatever reason, the company of those ridiculous friends is something you want. I can give you my tolerance and my silence, and my inevitably gracious response when one of them does something ugly that upsets you. Not to mention my comfort." This time, the gesture he made with his wings was more enveloping, and Harry turned red.

"You would still change my life by being there."

"Anything could change your life. Stepping out your front door in the morning could do that. Do you hate and resent the rest of the world for it as much as you seem to resent me? Or does your resentment come from something else?"

It was hard to look away from the demanding glitter of Harry's eyes, and equally hard to lower his own voice. Most Veela would court their chosen in a different way, more gently, with delicate touches to the crowns of their heads and offering them gifts that were softer than the defense roses Draco had given Harry.

But Draco couldn't do that, and he didn't see why he should be obliged to. He was panting instead, his head burning with the force of his own argument. Yes, he wanted this, and he was sure it was the right way to court Harry.

"You won't fit into it the way even an accident could." Harry's voice was low, precise, and the flush on his cheeks had changed to something that Draco thought more resembled the way he looked when he was angry. "I don't want you."

Draco winced and touched his chest for a second. Those words had gone home like a shard of ice in his heart.

But he wouldn't faint or whimper or do any of the other embarrassing Veela things until he was convinced that his chosen didn't want him, and at the moment, his body was still not convinced of that. He kept his voice down, mild. "Really? Then why not get up and walk out of my house right now? Why not refuse my gift?"

Harry glared at him.

"Because you're more practical than that. You wanted the defense roses to protect your home, and you intended all along to accept them despite the fact that it was me offering them." Draco spread out his fingers and began to count on them. "Because you have secrets, and hide them, and despite everything, it's a relief to talk with someone who knows the depth of your power. Because you can meet me on an equal level that you can't with your friends."

"Equal?" Harry's snort seemed to reach down into his stomach. "And you think you'll ever share my principles, or my adventures, or my courage?"

"I think those things aren't the only important things about you, or even the heart of you," Draco replied. He folded his wings tight to his body now and stood up. Harry remained sitting where he was, and his glare didn't change, which Draco thought were both hopeful signs. He circled gently around Harry, not taking his eyes off him. "If they were, you wouldn't have hidden things from your friends."

"You will harp on that, won't you?"

"I think it's important," Draco began, but he could tell from the way Harry's jaw had set that he would, quite possibly, not get anything more out of Harry than that, and he didn't want to alienate him, so he retreated to another subject dearer to him. "Why haven't you walked out of my house yet?"

"I'm not afraid of you." Harry did stand up to face him, but he had never looked less like he was about to retreat.

Draco inclined his head and smiled at him. "It pleases me to hear you say that."

"Because you think that'll make it easier to trap me, trick me?" Harry asked. He edged nearer, and Draco only wished it looked as if Harry was about to pounce on him. "I don't care for your tricks, Draco. You've said that you chose me, but you've also talked a great deal of nonsense. I still don't know what you want other than to have sex with me."

"To fight beside you, and give you the information I promised you." Draco picked up the piece of parchment lying on the table beside him. "This contains all the information I can remember about the people, and the place, where I was hired. I hope it might be useful to you." He held it out, but Harry didn't take it.

"What price do you want for your aid?" Harry asked. His voice came out as harshly as though he was gearing himself for battle right now.

"Nothing." Draco gave a polite little bow, still standing with the parchment extended, and tried not to think about how ridiculous he would look to several of his friends. Then he thought about Harry instead, and nothing else mattered.

"I insist that you let me pay you something." Harry tugged at the parchment--he was near enough to do that--and met Draco's eyes with that same determination not to flinch. "All the other Veela I've been associated with in the past let me."

Draco wanted to kill, but that wasn't productive right now. He pretended to consider the request from every angle, as though asking for the most he could, while Harry rocked back and forth on his heels and waited.

Then he said, "All right. A kiss."

Harry gaped at him, and then looked at the parchment, and his jaw thrust forwards. Draco wanted to laugh, but he was too hard. He moved in and let his fingers hover over Harry's shoulder at the same second as Harry nodded and said, "All right. I agree."

Draco swept Harry up with arms and wings, bringing him closer with the same strength he had used so often to break legs and crush windpipes. Harry gaped indignantly at him, but Draco was already kissing him, and lifting him off his feet, and the gape only made it easier for him to slide his tongue into Harry's mouth.

The sense of rightness was almost better than the warmth and the taste and the way that Harry's fingers curled around his own shoulders like talons, but not really. Draco knew he was where he was supposed to be, though, and kissing the person he was supposed to be. He had made the right choice. He wanted to crow.

Veela didn't do that, though. Veela kissed, and pressed with their wings delicately on their chosen's neck and back until they found the spots that made him groan, and they kept the pressure on, resisting the temptation to back away and leap up and down.

When Draco finally pulled away, his hair was in disarray from Harry tugging on it. Harry lowered his hands and stared at him.

"It didn't feel like that before," he whispered.

Draco gave him a merely pleasant smile, as much as he could, while his blood screamed for height and wind and the way he could have Harry with him. "Of course not. Those Veela hadn't chosen you. I told you that."

Harry closed his eyes for a moment, and then wrenched himself away abruptly. Draco let him go, just watching him as he moved around the room. This had not truly lessened his impatience--of course it hadn't--but he had had a taste, and that made him better able to put up with not having Harry in his arms.

"It's a trick," Harry said abruptly, spinning around to face him.

"Excuse me?" Draco kept his face blandly inquiring.

"You admitted you were hired to assassinate me." Harry pointed one trembling finger at him, noticed the finger was trembling, and snatched his hand back to his side. Draco let his smile deepen. Harry ignored that. "What is this but more--more of the same? Trying to get close to me, trying to disarm me around you, trying to show me that you've chosen me." His voice arched upwards, becoming so much uglier that Draco winced. "I was stupid to come here. Of course the information you gave me was a fake. You only wanted to get me relaxed enough that you could kill me."

Draco spread his wings and flew across the room at Harry, his arms extended.

Harry raised a snapping shield that clung tight to his skin, spitting sparks and anger everywhere, but Draco had halted far before that. He spread his arms, showing Harry the way he was pressed flat against the air several paces from him.

"I can't attack you," he whispered. "A Veela can't attack his chosen. That precaution is part of our nature. Otherwise, yes, there are some of us who might attack the people we desire in an attempt to force them into bed, or out of jealousy that they chose someone else. But we're held back. If I'm going to win you, it's with desire and patience, not because I get to force you."

Harry lowered his wand slowly, but the shield remained. He glared at Draco, and Draco looked back, calm and sober and gentle, but not yielding, either.

It frightens him to be seen for what he is.

"You don't know me," Harry whispered. "You may think you do, but you have no idea who I am, the kinds of things I've suffered, what I've gone through to secure a future for the wizarding world and my friends." Then he shut his mouth, hard, and seemed to squint at it, as if he was astonished to hear those sentiments coming out of him.

"I want to know you better, that's true." Draco spread his wings again, but this time to catch Harry's attention, to let him see the shimmering silver edges of the flight feathers and all the magnificence Draco could command, rather than trying to impress him. "Does that mean that I know nothing about you right now? No. I've already proven what I do know."

"I don't keep secrets from my friends," Harry whispered. "None that my job as an Unspeakable doesn't require me to keep."

Draco nodded. "But even an Unspeakable needs someone to talk to, someone to unload his burdens on. And I don’t think you have anyone."

Harry laughed, a sound that seemed to boom off the walls with more echoes than strictly necessary. "You have no idea what an Unspeakable does, Malfoy, or you wouldn't say anything so stupid."

"I know that you keep silent about the job," Draco said. "But I also know, from some of the contracts I've had in the past, that the Ministry is concerned about the sanity of the Unspeakables if they say nothing to anyone. I don't think you say anything, do you? Not about your job, but about your magic, and your life. Do your friends even know that you dated a Veela at one time?"

Fire flickered around Harry, rising in delicate tongues of blue and white flame, filling the drawing room with the shadow of their being. Draco inhaled in delight, and found himself unable to take his eyes from Harry.

"They know as much as they need to know." A step forwards. Harry had his wand leveled at Draco's chest. "They don't say that I dated a Veela because the arrangement was much more casual than that." Another step, and this time it was obvious that Harry's wand was leveled at Draco's heart. "They know more about my past, my life, my future--"

"Not enough about right now, in other words," Draco said, and shook his head. "Really, you ought to be thanking God I chose you, Harry Potter. How would you have gone on without me, without becoming mad and burning down the Ministry one fine day?"

Harry was right next to him now, and because Draco didn't intend to harm him, even in play, they were touching chest to chest. Harry was glaring into his eyes, and Draco felt the subtle motions of his chest, and the motion of blood beneath his skin. He could have reached out and cupped Harry's chin. He didn't.

"Who are you now?" Draco whispered to him. "The Hero I thought I knew would never have hidden his magic, never become an Unspeakable, never had casual fucks with Veela. I can see him resisting me, but not with the words and for the reasons that you have. Who are you, the Harry Potter who lies to his friends?"

Harry fell back a step and lifted a hand as though smashing a wall down in front of Draco. Draco waited. Motion or not, he thought he was closer to knocking down Harry's walls than he ever had been.

"How I changed," Harry said at last, his voice as thick as tar, "is none of your business."

"I've made it mine by choosing you," Draco said. "And I want to know everything. You can't tell me enough. You won't weary me, won't make me back away. I want to be there." He snapped his wings open and shut. "And I'm a skilled assassin, too, you know. In addition to defending you from the people who wanted you dead, if there's someone you want dead...point me at them, and fire me."

Harry's gaze snapped to him, and Draco stared, enthralled. Harry--

Was considering it. And stricken, and sickened with himself, for considering it.

He turned away in the next instant, but there was no barrier between them now, created by Draco's magic or anything else, and he could go up to Harry and squeeze his shoulder. "Tell me who it is," he whispered. "Was. I'll assassinate them for free. You're my chosen. I choose to do this."

Harry shook his head, staring at the floor. "I shouldn't even have thought of it," he whispered. "It's horrible, the way I did."

Draco snorted. He had nothing to say to that, although he knew it might be hard to talk Harry out of that view. He turned Harry around and held him in his arms. Harry looked him in the eye, but looked as if he wanted to do a whole-body flinch that would carry him out of Draco's reach.

"Everyone has horrible thoughts sometimes," Draco whispered. "I think you have them, and know you have them, but you've kept them from your friends and a lot of other people who knew you in the past because they wouldn't understand them, or want to hear about them." He rubbed his chin against Harry's forehead, his breath quickening when the rough skin of the lightning bolt scar passed under his. "I won't judge you. I want to hear about them because I want to know everything."

Harry reached up and framed the side of Draco's head with his hand for a moment. Draco half-turned towards it and then froze, a bolt of paralyzing sweetness traveling through him.

"But I shouldn't encourage thoughts like that," Harry whispered, dropping his hand. "Yes, I have them sometimes, but I could do a lot more damage than a lot of other people could with them, because of the power I wield."

Draco opened his eyes and smiled. It was the first time he had heard Harry acknowledge his power. "If I offer to do something for you, a love-gift, how is it encouraging them?"

"I'm not going to let you kill people for me, Malfoy."

Draco's wings rattled. "I don't like it that you call me by that name. Could you use my first name? Please? As a courtesy to me?"

Harry moved slowly away from him, and Draco let him go because the only other option was restraining him, and that just wouldn't happen. He hadn't looked away from Draco, and Draco was able to stop his wings from moving with that. But he still ached and burned in his chest, under his heart, as though someone had splashed acid there.

Harry nodded slightly. "Draco. Fine." He checked, probably because of the smile that had spread over Draco's face, and added in a bemused tone, "That really--you really like it when I do that, don't you?"

"Of course I do," Draco whispered, and moved a stalking step forwards despite telling himself it wasn't a good idea, because he had to get close. "I told you. I want you. I love you. I chose you."

"Those things have to come after a long time." Harry's body was bent like a bow to get his head and chest away from Draco, but his feet hadn't moved.

"Not for a Veela," Draco said, and waited.

Harry's eyes widened, and went on widening. Draco could see the moment when belief arrived in him, as searing as the first signs of plague. Draco opened his wings and crooned softly, willing to welcome Harry in close and soothe him if he needed it. From the signs of his face, he probably did.

Harry turned and ran.

It took a massive effort, including grabbing and tugging on his own wings, but Draco managed to let Harry go. He stepped back and waited until he knew there was no longer a chance he would take off into the air and hunt Harry down. His past as an assassin was working against him here, in accord with his Veela instincts. It seemed like the most natural thing in the world to swoop above Harry, to snatch him up, to bind him to Draco's chest and lower his head--

Draco shook himself. Thinking about it would make it more likely to happen, and at the moment, Harry needed some distance to think about it.

But what Draco understood now was that Harry wasn't a coward, however much he had changed in other ways. He would come back to face the revelation, if only to try and dissuade Draco and get him out of his life.

Draco hummed and went to check how the house-elves were doing with the new room for Harry's wing. He still didn't know all Harry's favorite colors or the way the furniture would be arranged, but at least he could do measurements now to render the furniture comfortable, having held Harry in his arms.

And especially the bed.

*

It took two days for Harry to come and confront him again--less time than Draco had expected, more than he had hoped for. He had refused to go by Harry's house in that time, or watch him on his way out of work, or do anything other than think of his chosen and put out a few feelers into the shadows so he would know if the people who had hired him sent another assassin after Harry. He would protect from a distance, watch over his chosen from a distance, but Harry would have anything he wanted. Including time.

Then the Floo chimed while Draco was frowning over some investments that hadn't worked out the way he wanted them to, and he looked up to see Harry's face floating in the flames.

Draco felt the relaxation start in the ends of his wings--which remained out all the time now, because he might need to fly to Harry's aid or hold him any time--and he slumped in the chair for a second before he sat up. "What can I do for you, Harry?" he asked.

"The information you gave me proved dangerous," Harry said shortly. "Someone had anti-Apparition wards up all around the Ministry when I came out this evening, and they delayed me until everyone else who might use this route had already left. Now seven or eight of them are after me. I ducked into a shop that's still open to use their Floo, but that won't hold them back for long."

Draco sat up again, and smiled. "I can reach you," he said, and spread his wings in silent answer when Harry stared at him. "Tell me which shop you're in. Which alley." His words came out clear and sharp and strident, and he felt as though his teeth were sparking.

Harry watched him one second more, then said, "I didn't call you because I wanted your help. I didn’t even call you because I want to come through the Floo. That would leave them behind, and God knows when I’d have a chance of catching them again. I called you because I thought you might know more about them than I do."

"Harry." Draco kept his voice tolerant. "Which shop? Which alley?"

Harry finally sighed and said, "Tidy Tweeds. Off Potions Alley."

Draco nodded and soared straight up from his chair, through the broad-beamed drawing room, towards the roof, calling for house-elves to shut the Floo down as he did so. He reached the roof, squeezed through a window that he'd redesigned when he first came into his Veela heritage, and wheeled up high and dizzy towards the stars.

And then he set his wings and began to really fly, towards his chosen, who needed his help. The wind blurred around him. The cold stroked him. All his blood rushed into his flight muscles first, and then relaxed and circulated throughout his body, flooded with adrenaline, readying him for battle.

Part Three.