Chapter Text
Harry could honestly say he did not anticipate his first sighting of Malfoy in months would be of him standing at the entrance of the Great Hall with cresting, white wings coming out his back and a hippogriff chick sitting pretty by his side.
From what Harry understood, Malfoy and his parents had spent the past few months in self-induced solitude, largely hiding away from the rest of the Wizarding World within Malfoy Manor after their trials in front of the Wizengamot. Lucius, because he had to. Narcissa, likely in some show of solidarity for her husband. Every so often, Harry would hear whispers of Malfoy flitting about the Ministry, but he’d leave as quickly as he’d come, only showing his face for as long as required.
All for the best, in Harry’s opinion. It had taken several lengthy and detailed testimonies from him, Hermione, and Ron to keep all three Malfoy members out of Azkaban — even if he personally thought Lucius deserved at least a few more years behind bars himself, as opposed to house arrest and agreeing to let the Ministry randomly search Malfoy Manor.
But, in the end, the verdict meant little to Harry. He had found himself too preoccupied with dodging the press and speaking with now Headmistress McGonagall about her plans to allow last year’s seventh year students return to Hogwarts for a special eighth year to study and take their N.E.W.T’s. After all, just about none of them had the chance to a proper education; either they were subjected to the Carrows' farce of a curriculum, or they hadn’t attended at all. Harry wasn’t sure who had agreed to return, but, according to Hagrid, it was more than the professors had expected.
That was fine with Harry.
He knew it wouldn’t be the same as before — attending classes, playing Quidditch, studying with friends while bemoaning how many inches they’d been assigned for their latest essay. Nothing would ever be the same. But he loved Hogwarts, nonetheless, still half-destroyed as she sat.
Hogwarts was his home.
So, he was more than happy to return to even the barest semblance of normalcy with his former classmates, including those like Blaise Zabini. Harry remembered him as a Slytherin pureblood who hung around Malfoy, but he never expressed any genuine interest in Voldemort’s ideals. And yet, Harry knew Zabini had been hounded by the media just for being friendly with fellow Slytherin’s like Crabbe and Goyle who had clearly joined the Death Eaters by this time last year.
They sometimes featured Zabini in the Prophet when the news week was slow. He never made the front page, but he was still there, his picture still there, even when doing something as mundane as walking out of a clothing store. Most recently, with a box of sweets in his hands, the reporters had asked him if he was planning to attend Hogwarts for the ‘prestigious, never-before-heard-of Eighth Year.’
Zabini had merely responded, “Of course I do. I know several others are, too, including those from Slytherin, even if everyone wishes we’d simply disappear or publicly off ourselves from shame. Unfortunately, we have too much pride to hide away for the rest of our lives.”
It was interesting, Harry thought, seeing a Slytherin talk so openly about pride , of all things, but he supposed it made sense. Lucius’ pureblood pride had gotten himself and his family into a grand old mess, including having his beloved home overtaken and halfway ransacked by Voldemort.
And Crabbe’s pride had gotten himself killed.
So, as Harry sat in the Great Hall at a bench McGonagall had included specifically for students returning for their eighth year, he found himself idly wondering who from Slytherin would end up sitting in class with him.
But he hadn’t expected Malfoy.
He figured Malfoy would politely decline the invitation in favor of continuing his father’s traditions of playing politics, but smarter and safer this time to avoid having even more of his family’s artifacts for vault savings seized for ‘reparations.’ Maybe he’d even help Hermione in her quest to lobby for more legal rights for werewolves; it’d make him look good to align himself with the cause of one of the so-called ‘Golden Trio’ who helped defeat Voldemort, while also directly benefitting his cousin, Teddy. To Harry’s surprise, Andromeda had sent him a letter a few weeks ago stating that Malfoy and his mother had extended an offer of reconciliation, and had asked about Teddy while doing so.
So, he expected Zabini, Daphne Greengrass as her family had also largely stayed out of the war. Her younger sister, Astoria, was also due to return as a regular student, so there would be no reason for Daphne not to attend.
He also thought Parkinson might return. Her mother had been a fairly infamous Death Eater, but he also heard about how Pansy had suggested they turn Harry in to save them all. Seamus had been prepared to watch Harry throw a fit and curse her out at the news, but he had only felt sorry for her. Really, it sounded as though she was just scared and wanted nothing more for the fighting to end, like the rest of them.
As such, Harry was, understandably, quite taken about by Malfoy’s flashy entrance. Hermione was, too, but Ron’s expression was closer to shock and terror than curious confusion.
“Bloody hell,” Ron whispered as everyone, including Headmistress McGonagall and the professors, all quietly stared at the sudden spectacle. “I can’t believe it. Malfoy’s a fucking Veela .”
“What?” Harry asked. “I thought only women were Veela. Like Fleur and her sister.”
Ron shook his head. “It’s rare, but male Veela do exist. They tend to manifest their inheritance later in life, rather than having their traits being obvious shortly after birth.”
“And what does that all mean?” Hermione asked, and, from the look in her eye, Harry could tell she was itching to hide herself in the library to do some research on Veela. That, and probably owl Fleur to ask for more details, even if Fleur still wasn’t high on the list of Hermione’s favorite people. Oh well, Harry was confident that would all change once Ron finally mustered up the courage to propose to her.
“Well, with the way Malfoy has his wings out with what I assume is a gift by his side, I would say Malfoy’s a Veela, and his mate is somewhere in here, and he’s come to claim them,” Ron said slowly.
Harry and Hermione both opened their mouths, ready to flood Ron with even more questions, but they both snapped them shut after Malfoy began walking.
To be honest, Harry initially figured Ron had been mistaken, and that Malfoy’s display was some intricate glamour. Maybe the Hippogriff chick hobbling by his side was a strange sort of apology gesture for McGonagall, or even Hagrid, for all the grief he’d put them through the past few years.
And Harry could admit it. Malfoy was a handsome young man.
He’d always looked good, all polished and pale with perfectly styled hair and sharp features that had transformed into a jawline so sharp it could cut glass after he’d shed the last of his baby fat. Even in the midst of thinking that Malfoy was the most annoying living thing alive, Harry had admired his physical features. Perhaps the wings, as pale and soft-looking as Malfoy’s hair, was a means to capitalize on his looks to appeal to them. Tools to help display himself to the crowd like those pure white peacocks Harry remembered briefly spotting as the Snatchers had dragged him into Malfoy Manor.
After all, people did dumb, terrible things for attractive people, if the unfortunate story behind Voldemort’s conception was any indication. Forgiving a former Death Eater for being ridiculously alluring was an easy task in comparison.
Because, to be honest, Malfoy looked really good .
The last time Harry had seen him, Malfoy’s cheeks were sallow and eyes haunted, weighed down by bags so deep he looked as though he’d risen from the dead. Even the way Malfoy had walked then, steps halting with his feet dragging across the floor to face his own interrogation, made it seem like his limbs were tethered to invisible strings as someone forced him along against his will. It was an odd scene to witness, compared to the haughty, self-assured boy he’d been a few years ago, but Harry figured that fighting in a war had a tendency to do that to people.
So, Harry tried to tell himself, Malfoy just looked especially good right now because he’d been in such a dreadful state the last time he saw him. A perfectly reasonable explanation.
And Harry tried not to think about how the muggle man he had a brief fling with while sorting out his muggle government documents suspiciously had the same coloring as Malfoy.
Still, it wasn’t as though Harry was the only one who’d noticed. As Malfoy slowly glided across the Great Hall, every single person in the room followed him with rapt attention, their eyes never leaving him for a single second. Strangely, Harry had a sense of deja vu.
“Merlin, this really is just like when the students from Beauxbaton’s came and visited for the Triwizard Tournament,” Hermione hissed, though this time she couldn’t ignore Malfoy the way she ignored those girls before. “The way he walks is even the same!”
“That’s because he’s a Veela. Just like most of the students who attend Beauxbaton’s,” Ron stated, and now he was the one who spoke as if Harry and Hermione were the ignorant ones.
Faintly, from a few seats away, Harry could hear Dean say, “Is it just me, or have we all gone mad? Because I’m personally not into blokes, but looking at Malfoy right now…”
And, while Harry was into of blokes, he couldn’t help but agree — about the mad part, that is.
Malfoy made his way to their table. Which made sense, really. He was here as an eighth year student, so he’d also be expected to sit with them; part of having them all sit together in the first place, regardless of what House they’d been sorted into previously, was to help promote Interhouse Unity, according to McGonagall. That, and she wanted to let the younger students have a proper Hogwarts experience, which she feared would be disrupted with a random assortment of young adults skulking around their common rooms.
Harry also suspected that she didn’t want the younger students to be affected by the lingering trauma of the returning students, but they all possessed enough tact to not say as much out loud.
Finally, Malfoy’s impossibly slow approach came to an end. Most of the other eighth year students had yet to slowly trickle in; they would all come at different times as they were expected to use their own means of transportation to get to Hogwarts, but Theodore Nott was one of the former Slytherin’s to have already arrived. Harry expected Malfoy to sit beside him, perhaps feed his hippogriff a few scraps from the table, before then heading off after the welcoming feast to do whatever it was he’d planned to do with the creature.
He did not.
Instead, Malfoy kept walking, sauntering up to where Harry and his friends sat. Dutifully, the hippogriff followed, and Harry wondered how they’d even gotten to this point in the first place as he watched Malfoy stop in front of him.
“Harry,” he breathed, and Harry nearly choked on his pumpkin juice. He had never heard Malfoy say his name before, except to derisively talk about ‘the great Harry Potter,’ and he certainly never anticipated hearing Malfoy say it in such a tone — as if Harry were a long-lost lover finally returned to him after being forcefully thrust apart by life’s cruel circumstances.
Everyone was still looking at Malfoy. And that meant that, now, they were staring at Harry .
Harry hated when people looked at him.
He’d had enough of it, and he wanted to disappear, fade away in the crowd like everyone else had the right to. Wanted to walk through Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley with his friends uninterrupted, visit George at his shop and try to make him laugh by purposefully letting one of his wares turn his skin a sickly bright, glittery pink before they settled down for lunch together, wordlessly pulling up a third seat at the table for someone who would never eat with them ever again. Harry wanted to find a nice guy to settle down with, start a family with — someone who didn’t know who he was. Or, better yet, someone who knew but didn’t care . A guy who just liked him and wanted to be with him, scar and Voldemort and war and death and loving, untouchable ghosts be damned.
But everyone kept looking at him, trying to talk to him, shoving cameras and quills in his face and claiming that he owed it to them. Harry owed it to them to talk to them, sign their autographs, accept their marriage proposals, tell them why he hadn’t saved their father, sister, children. To prostrate himself in front of the masses and offer his still-beating heart on a pedestal for them to clamor and climb over each other for. Because his life, death, and everything in-between was theirs to demand of in hopes that it would help soothe some of their own aches.
Through his pain would come their salvation. His joy, their sustenance.
And they were even greedier for it all than Voldemort could ever be.
Harry had lived and died for them once before. Could he not just continue to do so?
Malfoy was still staring down at him, but his previously gentle eyes had turned sharp as he studied Harry, and, goddamn him , could he stop looking at Harry like that? Harry’s vision had all but narrowed down onto Malfoy standing in front of him. He was handsome, sure, but his wings were beginning to look more like a curtain come to smother Harry instead of the lovely vision they’d been moments before.
It reminded Harry of the way Dudley used to wrap Harry up in blankets for fun, sitting on him until Harry was sure he’d suffocate or snap under his bulk. Or the way the Snatchers had tied him up, flinging him about carelessly as they hauled him off to Malfoy Manor.
The way an older witch had accosted him in the middle of Diagon Alley a few days after Voldemort’s defeat, throwing a robe across his face, demanding he pay her back for destroying her family’s reputation and her life before the Aurors managed to subdue her. The robe had been enchanted to feel as if it had been drenched in water when wearing it while being completely dry otherwise.
It was meant to make Harry feel like he was drowning, even as he breathed in air.
“Mate, are you alright?” Ron asked, just before Hermione said, “Harry, you need to breathe!”
He needed to breathe. Hermione was right. She always was. He needed to breathe, or he would collapse right here, at the edge of the Great Hall with everyone looking at him.
He couldn’t breathe.
He was drowning again.
“Harry?” Malfoy whispered, leaning forward, head tilted slightly to the sight and silver eyes alight with a fire Harry could already feel burning away at him.
With all the grace of Dudley that time he’d try to learn to swim, Harry shoved Malfoy backwards, leaving him stumbling and the hippogriff chick shrieking, startled by the sudden disturbance.
“I need to get out of here,” Harry gasped, his own heartbeat pounding away furiously in the back of his eyes, blurring the world in front of him. Hastily, he disentangled his trembling legs from the bench and sprinted towards the door.
Vaguely, he registered a series of exclamations and surprised murmurs in his wake. Out of all them, he was able to comprehend a small handful.
“Harry, wait up!” he heard Ron say, footsteps beating rhythmically on the ground behind him. Ron usually walked with heavy steps, Harry knew, which made his clumsy stealth and help during their Horcrux hunt last year all the more impressive and appreciated.
“Harry, wait!” he also heard coming from Malfoy, an echo of Ron’s words. But, Harry didn’t know Malfoy, didn’t understand him the way he did Ron, so he wanted to keep him far, far away.
Thankfully, Hermione did understand Harry, her voice ringing through the fog overtaking his mind. “Malfoy, please, just let him go and explain what’s going on.” Blessed, lovely Hermione who almost always knew how to keep the three of them from falling apart. Except for when it was her turn to weep as she curled herself between Harry and Ron’s, body shaking furiously while the two boys talked about nonsense, trying to overpower the sounds of Bellatrix’s cackling and Hermione’s own screams reverberating mercilessly in her head.
Harry wasn’t sure where his feet were taking him, but, apparently, all the trouble he’d gotten up to over the past seven years left him with a great degree of muscle memory. Before he’d even realized it, he was soon approaching the Quidditch pitch with Ron mere paces behind him.
“ Accio Fire —"
With a leap that Harry would later have to compliment Ron on when he wasn’t so frenzied, Ron quickly bridged the gap between them and tackled Harry to the ground before Harry could finish. They both tumbled to the ground, knocking the air out of Harry’s lungs and possibly giving Ron a mild concussion with the way Harry instinctively jerked his head backwards against Ron’s.
“Sorry about that, mate, but I’d rather do this than Stupefy you. Harry, you can’t go flying like this,” Ron insisted between panting breaths. “I know it helps you clear your head, but do you really think getting on a broom right now is safe? Everyone is at the welcoming ceremony, so if you ended up seriously hurting yourself, there would be no one but me out here, and we both know I’m awful at healing spells. I’d sooner cause your leg to wither off than heal a papercut on your finger.”
Harry shook his head, but he knew Ron was right — about both his healing skills and that Harry was in no condition to fly right now, and he hated himself for the latter.
“Take some deep breaths, alright? It’s just the two of us out here. And I’m sure Hermione and the others are making sure no one follows us out here, at least not for a little while. No one’s looking at you anymore. Especially not Malfoy, the right git.”
That got a small chuckle out of Harry. He knew Ron didn’t really care about Malfoy anymore. Most of them didn’t because what was the point? Maybe George still held a hint of a grudge for what happened to Fred, but they’d all had time to reflect. They’d reflected, talked to each other about it next to low, simmering fireplaces and glasses of Firewhisky, and all came to the conclusion that they’d all been nothing more than frightened children. Children fighting an adults’ war and now left to pick up the scattered pieces of themselves while trying to handle all the other consequences that fell unto their unwitting laps.
Malfoy had been nothing more than a scared child, trying to protect his family from his father’s horrible decisions. Their childhood hatred of him had bled itself dry as the dust of the battlefield started to settle, leaving behind little more than an odd collection of faraway memories and a sense of pity.
But that didn’t mean Harry wanted Malfoy staring at him like that. He thought their prior tactic of staying out of each others’ business as they moved on with their lives served them well.
“Well, that was fucking embarrassing,” Harry groaned. “And in front of the whole school, too. At least it happened before I was able to terrify all the bright-eyed first years who were probably hoping that their older classmates would all be really cool and nice. Not emotionally unstable maniacs who can hardly eat a meal in front of others without losing his mind.”
Ron frowned, glaring as he pushed his face closer to Harry’s. “Don’t say that. That was not ‘embarrassing.’ That was you being a fucking human being, the way you never got to before, especially with the way Dumbledore jerked you around for nearly half your life.”
Harry opened his mouth, ready to argue.
Ron didn’t allow him the chance as he rushed onwards. “And, yeah sure, it was all for the greater good, but what good did any of it do you? Somehow, Snape ended up being the one to try to keep you safe, and he still managed to be an arse to you the whole time. No, you deserve to be a human and do human things and experience human emotions. If that means telling Malfoy to fuck off and give you some space, then so be it.”
Despite his racing heart and racing thoughts, Harry found himself smiling. Ron made it sound so simple, and maybe it really was. Maybe other people had no right making it harder for Harry, for all of them, than it needed to be.
“I don’t really understand what’s going on. Or what just happened,” Harry confessed once he was finally able to catch his breath. “I thought, with Voldemort gone, we could finally have a nice, normal school year. Run around like normal students without someone trying to kill us. But, it already looks like that’s not happening.”
Confident that Harry wasn’t about to throw himself onto a broom the moment he let go, Ron finally released him. Rolling over to lay down on the warm grass beneath them, Ron said, “I honestly don’t know either, mate.” But he said it with that tell-tale shudder in his voice that meant he was lying and trying to convince himself that he wasn’t.
Harry turned to look at him, eyes narrowed and demanding.
Ron held his gaze for a second before caving, face slightly flushed. “Alright, so maybe I have an idea as to what might be going on, but… I don’t think you should hear it from me. We should both calm down a bit and then speak to the others.”
“‘The others’ being…?”
“Hermione. McGonagall and Madame Pomfrey, probably. I reckon Fleur, eventually.” Ron paused, chewing at the inside of his cheek. “Malfoy.”
Harry buried his head in his hands. “Classes haven’t even started yet, and we already have a new problem.”
“Well, look on the bright side. Looks like you’re getting your own hippogriff.”
“What?”
“I mean… let’s just take a breather and then let the more in-the-know people explain what’s going on. Later.”
They spent about an hour outside enjoying the amicable silence and the soft summer breeze before they decided they’d better head back soon, lest McGonagall do something rash, like alerting the Ministry of their disappearance and sending out a search party to track them down. It wasn’t exactly unreasonable, considering the hell that she, too, had recently experienced, but a part of Harry thought she’d grown a little too paranoid since the war.
Nonetheless, he held her in great regard and didn’t want to worry her too much as she adjusted to her role as Headmistress. So, he and Ron hurriedly made their way back to the Great Hall after they’d fully settled down.
As they peeked their heads in, they saw that they’d arrived just in time for the Sorting Ceremony. The eighth year table had also filled up considerably in their absence. As Harry had predicted, Greengrass, Zabini, and Parkinson were now sat beside Nott. Parkinson was stiff, clearly feeling awkward and unsure of herself as she stared down at her silverware. But she was still there, and Harry couldn’t help but admire her for it.
Malfoy was not next to them. Instead, he was sandwiched between Hermione and Seamus. Sandwiched, in the sense that his wings were still present, but now folded up at his sides to keep them from spilling into the food and drink that sat on the table before them. Every once in a while, Seamus looked as if he was about to make a move to touch them. Each time, Parvati shot him a piercing glare to deter him.
The hippogriff chick no longer sat at Malfoy’s side. Instead, it was at the professor’s table next to Hagrid, eagerly eating the handfuls of turkey and apple slices Hagrid generously fed it. Professor Trelawney didn’t look particularly pleased with their feathered guest, but she also didn’t make a fuss. She rarely did, except when it came to tea leaves and crystal balls.
Never in his wildest dreams would Harry have imagined such a scene.
Slowly, so as to disrupt the ceremony as little as possible, Harry and Ron scurried along the edge of the room until they reached their table. Ron promptly took the empty seat across from Hermione that he had occupied prior to Harry’s fit. The seat next to his was where Harry had sat before.
It was the seat directly across from Malfoy’s.
Harry hesitated, standing above the bench as he looked down at Malfoy. Malfoy silently returned his gaze, expression unreadable, but non-hostile. Wonderfully neutral, actually.
Harry sat down, pressing his shoulder against Ron’s, using his solid frame and familiar body heat as an anchor. At that, Malfoy’s silver eyes flashed hot and molten, but he said nothing and didn’t move a single muscle.
Good. Harry did not need Malfoy messing up his life more than he, apparently, was already going to. That meant he didn’t get to interfere with Harry’s friendships.
Malfoy hadn’t been with them while hunting for Horcruxes, or researching Nicholas Flamel and three-headed dogs, or running from a werewolf after discovering Ron’s rat was actually the traitor who’d sentenced Harry’s parents to death, or mourning Cedric’s death, or when they stormed the Department of Mysteries, facing off against Lucius Malfoy minutes before Sirius died.
Malfoy had no right.
The Sorting Ceremony commenced, but Harry didn’t have the energy to pay much attention to it. Things like the House or Quidditch Cup hardly meant anything to him anymore. In fact, from the mood in the room and the largely polite, but subdued way most attendees celebrated each student’s sorting, he was sure everyone felt the same. All that mattered now was that the war was over, and the kids could finally be kids. Nothing more and nothing less.
Afterwards, Headmistress McGonagall began her speech. Harry mindlessly fiddled with his chicken and mash. His appetite was non-existent, but he’d piled his plate with food nonetheless, just to give his hands something to do. Hermione glanced at him, concerned. She kept insisting that Harry had lost an unnatural amount of weight since Voldemort’s defeat.
“Just look at the way your shirt hangs off your shoulders, and the way the crotch of your pants has begun to sag! You’ve lost so much weight in the span of three months that your clothes hardly fit anymore!” Hermione had exclaimed a few weeks ago as she flitted around him anxiously, inspecting his frame from every angle.
Harry had denied it at the time, had been denying it ever since, but he wasn’t blind. He could also tell he was losing weight. He’d dropped much of the muscle mass he’d gained while on the run, and the number of visible ribs seemed to increase with each passing week. Even sitting on hard-backed seats now hurt from the way they dug into his spine.
But he didn’t want to eat anything. Nothing appealed to him, and it was as if the hunger signals in his brain had completely malfunctioned. Every so often, when he got lightheaded from forgoing food for too long, he’d hastily scarf down a sandwich or two, but it was always bland and unsatisfying.
All of a sudden, there was a fresh, still-warm slice of treacle tart sitting in front of him.
Harry looked up and saw Malfoy’s considering expression.
“You should eat something, even if it is just a little treacle tart,” Malfoy said. “And I know you at least enjoy it. Eating something you like might help bring you some comfort.”
“How do you know I like treacle tart?”
Malfoy scoffed. “You’ve eaten it almost every morning since you’ve come to Hogwarts. If you eat it so often without even enjoying it, then I can’t even begin to imagine what’s wrong with you.”
Harry felt some of the tension in his shoulders melt away. This was the Malfoy he was used to — snarky and always desperate to have the last word, but relatively harmless when all was said and done.
“And you think my favorite treat is going to help me feel better?” Harry said teasingly.
Malfoy shrugged, face surprisingly serious despite Harry’s attempt to lighten the heavy atmosphere engulfing them. “You’d be shocked if you knew exactly how sticky toffee pudding I’ve eaten recently to help calm my nerves.”
Harry blinked, wholly unprepared for that answer. Malfoy didn’t turn away from Harry, though, didn’t shy away and try to act like he hadn’t let that bit of information slip. Belatedly, Harry realized that Malfoy was halfway through a serving of sticky toffee pudding at that very moment.
The words to say were lost on Harry, so he chose to say none at all. Instead, he nodded and took a bite of the treacle tart Malfoy had slid over to him. It was delicious, as always, and even if Harry’s stomach rebelled, at least his taste buds were satisfied.
And maybe he did end up feeling a bit better afterwards.
The rest of the welcoming ceremony passed by in a blur. The regular students were all ushered away by their Heads of House, while the eighth years stayed behind, awaiting further instruction from Headmistress McGonagall. She marched over to their table, gathered them all together, and began to list some basic rules while detailing some of their unique privileges.
In order to allow the younger students a conventional education at Hogwarts, none of the eighth year students were going to be official members of any House, though they all already knew that. That also meant that they wouldn’t be able to participate in the Quidditch tournament, but they were free to use the pitch and play informal matches as they pleased. In addition, they would each have individual sleeping quarters on the now largely-abandoned third floor.
McGonagall gave them all steely glances after telling them about their rooming situation. “Now, you are all adults, so it is no business of mine what you do in your private quarters. I simply ask that you act with reason and discretion. As I said, you are all adults. I trust you know what reason and discretion means, in this case.”
Furthermore, as adults, they were freely allowed to come and go from Hogwarts’ grounds on the weekends, but they were prohibited from being involved in any official job during the school year. They didn’t want it to look as though Hogwarts was affiliated with any certain faction or group by having their students involved, she explained. Hermione was initially crestfallen to hear that until McGonagall clarified that volunteer work was still permitted.
“Otherwise, you are all still students at Hogwarts, and we expect you to act accordingly,” McGonagall concluded.
She then led them to their rooms, each one marked by their individual names.
“They are enchanted with wards keyed to each of you individually. Besides the staff, they will only open for yourself and whoever else you key the wards to,” McGonagall informed them. “The staff has discussed the matter extensively, and we all agreed you deserve this privacy.”
Honestly, Harry was surprised but entirely grateful to have his own room. He’d never minded sharing a room with five other boys, exactly, but it had definitely grown increasingly difficult for them to keep the peace as the years passed, with all the raging hormones and partners coming and going.
Not to mention, this arrangement would help prevent him from waking others up in the middle of the night because of the nightmares.
The other students began unlocking their rooms to explore and get ready for bed. Harry turned to Ron and Hermione, getting ready to key them into his wards, only to find the two of them, along with Malfoy and McGonagall, staring at him expectantly.
Looks like they were going to have that talk Ron mentioned earlier right now.
Harry sighed. Exhaustion swept over him, abrupt and heavy, and he wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and wake up the next morning with the knowledge that the past few hours had been nothing but a wild dream. Then, he could go spend his last year at Hogwarts blissfully normal and content.
Sadly, he rarely got what he wanted.
“Alright, let’s get this over with,” Harry sighed.
McGonagall gave him a disapproving look, but it was nowhere near as severe as any she’d given him before, so Harry barely even registered it. With a twirl of her robes, she led them up the stairs until they reached the Hospital Wing. She must’ve been preparing for their arrival because Madam Pomfrey swung the door open right as McGonagall stopped before it.
Damn. Ron really had guessed it right.
Silently, the five of them filed in. McGonagall gestured for them all to sit, specifically pointing Harry towards a specific bed while Malfoy sat down on the one next to it.
“Mr. Potter, you must have a lot of questions,” McGonagall began.
“I seem to always have a lot of questions, ma’am. For some reason, the universe keeps throwing these questionable things at me,” Harry said blandly.
“Yes, I suppose they do,” she murmured. “Madame Pomfrey and I will be here to help answer questions and listen to anything else you have to say. But, for now, I think Mr. Malfoy should be the one to explain everything to you.”
Harry turned his attention to Malfoy. Malfoy was fidgeting with his hands, wings quivering behind him. Harry vaguely wondered if they would always be present, fanning out regally behind him and getting stuck in doorways, or if Malfoy simply kept them out at the moment as a self-soothing mechanism. He did look awfully concerned, after all.
“Harry… No, Potter,” Malfoy began haltingly. “I’ll address you by Potter, seeing as my calling you ‘Harry’ earlier was quite distressing to you.”
Harry nodded, even though it wasn’t really the name that had upset him. Nonetheless, he found some comfort in the familiarity of Malfoy calling him Potter again, just as he always had before.
“I’m not sure if you’ve realized it yet, but I am of Veela ancestry, and I recently came into my inheritance. On the eve of my eighteenth birthday, in fact.”
Harry nodded again. “Yes. Well, kinda. Ron suspected as much, when he first saw you, but I don’t really know what it all means. Or why it has anything to do with me.”
Madame Pomfrey clicked her tongue impatiently, and McGonagall sighed.
“Honestly, what are they teaching you all in class these days if you don’t even know the basics of Veela biology and nature?” Madame Pomfrey demanded.
Not much about Veela heritage. At least, not from the classes I’ve taken so far. Maybe our lessons about them were originally slated for our seventh year syllabus, but we all know how that went,” Harry said easily.
That earned him an unimpressed look from Madame Pomfrey, but Harry was already used to that from all the times he’d been in the Hospital Wing. Not to say that she didn’t still intimidate him, but he had at least enough experience now to pretend she didn’t.
Malfoy used that moment to reign the conversation back onto its original topic. “I know you’ve met female Veela before, Potter. If I recall, Fleur Delacour is Weasley’s sister-in-law now. As I’m sure you’ve noticed, they’re extremely alluring, even when only a quarter Veela like Fleur. They also form very strong and quick attachments to their chosen, but they are always free to choose. It’s rare for their chosen mate to rebuff them, and it typically results in deep wallowing and heartache. But, eventually, a female Veela is able to move past it and search for a new mate, if necessary.”
Harry thought back to Fleur and Bill’s relationship. He didn’t know many details — was never interested in them, to be honest — but he remembered once overhearing Fleur gushing to Mrs. Weasley about stuff like ‘love at first sight’ and ‘simply knew I had to get closer to him.’ The rest was history, and, even if their wedding had ended with not-so-romantic dramatics, they were still happily married and already trying for children.
“Yes, I suppose Fleur and Bill’s relationship did move fairly quickly,” Harry said slowly, “and they seem awfully happy and in love. No wallowing on either of their parts, from what I can tell.”
Malfoy hummed in agreement, despite the fact that Harry doubted he’d had much contact with either of them. “Lovely, isn’t it? Male Veela, on the other hand, are extremely rare. At the same time, when they produce offspring, their Veela heritage doesn’t dilute when mixed with wizarding blood, the way the children of female Veela do. The trait may lay dormant for several generations, but it still equates to that of a pureblood Veela when it does reemerge. Of course, with all things, that comes with a caveat.”
Malfoy paused and quickly scanned the rest of the faces in the room. Harry did the same.
Hermione looked just as perplexed as Harry did, except she couldn’t hide the endless curiosity glossing over her eyes. Ron, on the other hand, looked stunned and a touch sad. McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey remained thin-lipped and resolute.
“I assume I’m not going to be very pleased with this so-called ‘caveat’,” Harry muttered.
Malfoy grimaced, and his wings drooped, the limp tips dragging against the floor like wet socks. “No, I don’t think so. The caveat is that male Veela don’t get to choose who we want to be with. We’re born with a ‘mate.’ Someone we’re destined to be with. According to legend, this person is supposed to be the most compatible person for a male Veela — physically, mentally, emotionally, and when it comes to bearing children. A sacred bond to best ensure that the Veela lineage continues.”
Malfoy looked up, then, and the silver gleam of his eyes was so stunning and wanting that it almost brought tears to Harry’s eyes.
“So, are you trying to say that I’m your mate?” Harry asked.
“Yes.”
“And that’s why you arrived at Hogwarts with wings ablaze and a hippogriff next to you? To show off to me?”
At least Malfoy had the decency to look abashed after being reminded of his loud entrance. “Yes.”
“How do you know? I mean, it doesn’t make much sense for it to be me. We haven’t been exactly friendly over the past few years.”
Harry just about added ‘Not to mention, we were on opposite sides of the war that just ended, and you and your parents almost killed me,’ but he stopped himself right as the words hit the tip of his tongue. It wouldn’t behoove anyone to bring up the past like that when everyone was working so hard to move on.
Malfoy shook his head. “It’s like feeling hungry or tired. I doubt you could truly explain how you personally experience them, but you just know. On my eighteenth birthday, I felt it and just knew .”
“But you mentioned something about your mate being compatible with bearing your children. I don’t know if this has slipped your mind, but I’m a man. I can’t bear you any children. So, it’s impossible for me to be your one true mate,” Harry said slowly. With the wings and whatnot, Harry could suspend his disbelief long enough to trust that Malfoy really was some super rare and mystical male Veela. He could not, however, wrap his head around how Malfoy had forgotten such a detail as important as Harry’s inability to give birth.
Fortunately — or unfortunately, from Harry’s perspective — Madame Pomfrey chimed in to explain. “Harry, male Veela have certain magical gifts that allow for a male partner to temporarily grow the organs necessary for conception. It’s difficult to explain in such a rush, but I’ll provide you with some informational pamphlets on the matter. I’m also sure that your friends, alongside Mr. Malfoy, will be more than happy to help you better understand the physiology behind it once you all have more time to sit down and discuss the matter in depth.”
Ron, too, had a few pieces of information to add, the traitor. “In fact, even two wizards without Veela inheritance can have a biological child together, if they really wanted to. It’s not often put into practice, though, because it requires extremely complex and unpredictable magic. The entire process is highly volatile and dangerous for both parties involved, unless they have a lot of money to hire a specialist to guide them through it.”
Great. Malfoy wanted to knock him up.
“Mr. Potter, I know this is a lot of information to take in at once. At present, we only intend to go over a few basics, for Mr. Malfoy’s sake, but you two will need to discuss this further,” McGonagall declared.
“But why? Couldn’t we just… not be together?” Harry asked. “I know that’s selfish on my part if Malfoy really can’t be with anyone else, but isn’t that still its own option?” From the corner of his eye, he saw Malfoy flinch, and then saw the uncharacteristically sympathetic look Ron shot his way, and Harry immediately knew the situation wasn’t that simple.
Then again, when was anything involving Harry that simple?
“All Veela need a mate,” Ron explained softly. “They are born to love and be loved. Over time, if they go on long enough without one, their magical core will weaken to the point that it can no longer sustain their body or spirit, and then they…”
Ron didn’t have the heart to finish his sentence.
So, Hermione finished it for him. “And then they die.”
“Yes,” Malfoy breathed, impossibly bright silver eyes fixed terrifyingly hard on Harry’s face. “Without my mate — without Potter — I will die.”
Harry drew in a long, deep breath and wanted to cry until he fell asleep from pure, emotional exhaustion. He could already feel the corners of his eyes burning as he stared into a dark, nondescript corner of the Hospital Wing, doing his best to absorb and process the information that had just been rudely thrust upon him.
He had to sit on his hands to keep himself from tearing his own hair out, or from throttling Malfoy to death, or both. Without the distraction of peeling away at his cuticles or chewing at his nails, Harry was left with only his bottom lip to gnaw away furiously at. It was a habit he’d picked up as a kid while still at the mercy of the Dursley’s. Sometimes, after all his chores were finished, his fingertips were already too worn and sore to fiddle with. At least, even in the small, dark recesses of the cupboard, no one could stop him from biting at his lip to distract him from how the walls kept closing in on him.
A gentle voice broke through the simmering memories. “Potter, stop that. You’re hurting yourself.”
Suddenly, Harry returned to himself. It was as if he had ceased to exist for a few moments, his consciousness floating outside himself some distant place, nice and quiet and safe, away from the rest of the world to find him a place he could rest for a bit. When he settled back into the Hospital Wing, he found Malfoy standing before him with the pad of one of his thumbs rubbing coaxingly at the spot Harry had been incessantly chewing at.
Harry released his lip and tasted blood. Saw blood coating Malfoy’s thumb.
“Oh. Sorry about that,” Harry murmured. Distantly, he heard Madame Pomfrey sigh before muttering a quick healing charm. Just like that, the bleeding stopped, but Malfoy kept studying the bright red splotch smeared over his thumb as if it would reveal the answer to one of his lifelong questions.
“It’s fine. I think we should all get to sleep and prepare for the proper beginning of the school year,” Malfoy announced, acting like he was the authority figure here, as opposed to McGonagall. “It’s not like I’ll keel over immediately if Potter doesn’t agree to be my mate. We have some time to sort things out.”
McGonagall ultimately agreed with Malfoy, so all of them save Madam Pomfrey shuffled out of the room. The four students quietly followed McGonagall back to the third floor corridor and made their ways into their respective rooms.
Then, as soon as they felt that she was gone, Hermione and Ron promptly piled into Harry’s room.
“Don’t worry, Harry. We’ll figure this out,” Hermione reassured, running her fingers soothingly through his forever unruly hair. “There must be a book out there that mentions how we can break a bond with a male Veela without causing them any harm.”
“Yeah. It’ll all work out, like it always has,” Ron said, but it didn’t escape Harry or Hermione’s notice that he made no mention of Harry having a future as not-Malfoy’s-mate.
That was fine. Harry didn’t have the energy to think about it any further. Tonight, he was more than content to sleep on the surprisingly comfortable couch in his private quarters while Ron and Hermione shared his bed, safe and secure in their own happy, chosen relationship.