Title: 'Fear of Flying'
Author: tigersilver
Beta: demicus*
Prompt: #Don't know the number, sorry; link below.
Gift to: dirty_darella
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Word Count: 15,800
Summary: Life isn't all a bed of roses for Draco Malfoy, recently bloomed Veela. It's bloody full of thorns, actually, and the worst thing is those great damned widgety wings that stick out of his back, flapping uselessly. He must learn to use them properly…but it's not anything like Quidditch, and it's not at all easy for a boy used to a sturdy broomstick. Enter Harry Potter, who seems to want to be of help.
Warnings: Kissage. Scant mention of possible mpreg. UST; Draco POV.
Author's Notes: Half of this fic effort was a Lightning-Write, practically the moment I read the prompt (which I adore; it's the bestest prompt!) The other took a bit longer to craft, and I hope I didn't lose the urgency or delight that sustained the first bit. In any case, it was my very great pleasure to write and I do hope my dear prompter finds it likewise, to read. Also, I've taken liberties with Draco's ancestry. He has a Veela grandmother now and a French one at that! Oh, and Harry's not an idiot, either.
Disclaimer: This piece of fiction is based on characters and situations created and owned by J. K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros. Inc. No money is being made, no copyright or trademark infringement, or offense is intended. All characters depicted in sexual situations are above the age of consent.
The prompt:
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Era: EWE
Additions: Feathers on the ground, reluctant for help!Draco
Scenario: Draco's learning to fly without a broom. Harry's there to catch him, just in case.
Squicks non-con, dark or death fics/art
Maximum Rating: NC-17
The First Night:
"Bugger!"
The ground below the Astronomy Tower was very far away. Fathoms, likely. Acres.
Draco eyed it with gut-wrenching unease and wondered if perhaps he'd bitten off more than he could chew. A pure white feather, just tinged with smoky pewter grey, fluttered past his face and blew out and over the sill of the window.
"Bollocks and blast!"
For a moment it floated, tumbling, and then began the inevitable descent. Draco's gaze followed it with a certain amount of terrified fascination.
Fantastic. Now he was moulting, and likely from nerves alone.
"Why the bloody Hades must I…?" he grumbled under his breath. Peered down. And down, following the lazy path of his feather with trepidation. Ewww…it looked to be, er, hard down there, where the base of the Tower met its surrounds; solid and unyielding. Very much not up. "Why is it always so…?"
Yes, well, Draco huffed sourly. Likely the Astronomy Tower wasn't the best possible choice of venue from which to begin his first flying attempts. Even he wasn't foolish or arrogant enough to assume he'd managed to even have begun to have effectively sorted out those fucking feathered projections of his (ruined all his shirts and two sets of school robes already, the beastly things, springing out without notice) and actually fly. Without a broomstick or any sort of propping spell beneath him.
Foolishness, this.
"Ahem," a faintly amused cough sounded behind him. Draco whirled and there he was, the bloody Hero of the century: Potter. "Hi."
"What?" he sneered automatically and lurched backwards, so his spine (and his stupid useless wings, all seven feet of them, whuffling into a nervous flutter) were pressed uncomfortably up against the rough stone and wood of the window frame. Draco had kept them well hidden, mostly; his wings. They were oddly… shameful, for all that he'd loved his Grandme're's version. Hers had been, ah…dainty. Lady-like, just as she'd been. His were huge and sleek, to suit his height and vastly different frame, and were not nearly as snowy-white as Grandme're's, either. Stained with ashy tips, they were just as he was—Marked.
"What d'you want, Potter?" Draco growled, his sneer mutating into a form of fixed grimace. He sneered from habit, and because he expected not much at all from this unexpected encounter. And why should he? He and Potter had barely spoken to one another since the last great battle had ended, months ago. Potter, Draco had decided glumly, despite his briefly-considered potential as a bright light on Draco's event horizon, was likely a wash. Potter had spent the weeks since school started ignoring him. And not even with intent, which made it far worse, in Draco's humble opinion. Just…vastly not interested, Potter.
Potter only grinned cheekily, his teeth a brilliant swift slash in the dim light of Draco's wavering Lumos.
"What, Potter?" Draco demanded again, growing testy, fighting the urge to bring his wings forward; conceal his telling flush and the clench of his fist on his wand. If Potter was planning on dropping by for quick jeer for old time's sake, he wasn't getting any. Draco could always try out his stupid wings some other September evening. One not populated by sudden Potters.
"Draco, I think it's a bit much, really, here. This place." The other boy flapped a hand 'round at the interior of the Tower, with nary a comment on Draco's attitude. It was shadowed space, private and illuminated only by intermittent moonbeams and Draco's tiny Lumos. It was also eerie. It screamed of 'high places' and 'vertigo'. Er, lousy memories, too. "Er, start smaller, maybe," Potter was saying, with a tiny flex to his eyebrows, "build your way up, yeah?"
"Pah!" Draco expelled the air in his lungs fretfully. Why would Potter care?
Harry Potter—the new, improved Harry Potter, the one who'd kicked the Dark Lord's mostly-dead arse to smithereens and fixed up the entirety of the known universe—was staring directly at Draco, his seal-dark slashes of eyebrow raised enquiringly. Which was something he'd not bothered with since term started, despite plenty of chances to engage stares.
Well…not at Draco, precisely, but more at his wings. Those giveaway appendages of Draco's; the ones that proclaimed his condition-his Veelaness, for want of a more suitable descriptor. Draco shifted beneath Potter's gaze, uneasy, and feeling more so with every passing moment. Folded his feathery, inherited baggage more tightly against the line of his spine, until they cramped, the pestilent, horrid things.
Why would Potter care?
"Um…p'raps," the prat added, when Draco said nothing in reply, only stared at him, bemused, "maybe…a running start, at first? From the ground? On the ground, actually?"
He pointed downwards with a thrusting thumb, and Draco's wings gave a small involuntary twitch at the quick gesture, rustling. Another errant feather peeled off, loosened by his incontrollable reaction to the wretched tension building in his gut.
Flying now—before Potter? Potter witnessing this debacle? Oh, no!
No, non, nyet, natch, negatory! Not on!
They were pretty enough things, his appendages; even Draco admitted that. His horrid, lovely wings. Smooth as liquid silk, soft as…as down, damn it, yes; brilliantly pure in their non-colour, excepting naturally those telltale smoke-grey tips, which matched his eyes exactly...
He inhaled sharply. Snorted through his flared nostrils at Potter, jerking his body so it pressed even more closely against the splintery window frame.
"Don't you agree, Draco?" Potter was bloody artless, the bugger, all wide eyes and encouraging half-grins, coming and going like the moonlight. "Er…Draco?"
Oh, yes, very lovely they were, too—on someone else! Draco's sneer didn't slip; in fact, it may have carved deeper grooves on his startled face.
On a woman like his Father's mother, for example, who'd had the innate elegance and grace to carry them off with style. Not him—just not him! Last thing Draco needed in his altered existence was freaky magically-powered propulsion devices; not now, please Merlin, when he was (for once) attempting to blend into the social wallpaper; to become a virtual nonentity. Huge ruddy things they were, too, designed for lifting a full-grown man's form high into the empty sky and bearing him aloft over vast distances. Working wings, and no disguising it, with the attendant muscle mass sprouting from his shoulders, and the burn-and-strain of their extra weight and drag, for all their hollow-bird bones and Veela magic. They were a burden, the idiot monstrosities. He'd been forced to discard his proper robes when he revealed them, donning instead a modified tunic instead of his comfortable, acceptable button-down; loose and unhampering, that improper garb—chilly, too, as it was Scotland. And then they practically clamoured for his constant attention, the wretched things, demanding preening and smoothing and regular exercise. He'd walked miles in the last few months, all by his lonesome, first 'round the grounds of the Manor and then here at Hogwarts proper, making his path gingerly along the edges of the Forbidden Forest and the Lake shore, simply flapping them about in an effort to maintain their health. All of which was directly contrary to Draco's compelling inner urge to tuck them well of out sight and maintain his unfortunate condition far below the radar of his fellow students.
Potter wasn't the only one who didn't seem to see him.
"Go away," he commanded firmly, eyeing Potter with determined dislike. Always barging in, was Potter. Unnecessarily.
It was none of Potter's affair; Draco was better off ignored. No, he'd cut himself a fine figure should it became widely known he had them—or that he was newly Veela and thus mate-seeking. Skeeter would lambast him in the bloody Prophet (Malfoys weren't all that popular a species, either, not right at the moment); his fellow students would have a virtual field day, what with variously laughing their arses off over his fumbling efforts to adjust to his magical creature status and his newly perceived and admittedly urgent need to meet that 'someone special'.
Bah. This whole situation was needlessly, endlessly humiliating. Last thing he needed was a nosy Potter, tripping along with bags of brilliant 'heroic' spotlight to spare and exposing him to the avid eye of the public in the backwash.
"Naff off, Potter," he snorted, unmoved by any and all schemes his Nibs might suggest and added, though only—only—because Draco was just the slightest bit curious, despite himself, "and what's it to you, anyway? Why're you up here? It's well past curfew."
"Well," Potter smiled at him confidingly, advancing in slow steps and lifting a casual shoulder, "I really don't want you to fall, Draco; we all know how that goes, yeah?—and also, I'd like to see them in action. Your, ah, wings. They're astounding, don't you think? And the chance to fly without a broom? You're very fortunate."
"Wait!" Draco blinked rapidly, confused. "What?" There were any number of things quite wrong vis-à-vis this current scenario, but first and foremost was Potter's inexplicably matey attitude. He and Potter had never been 'matey'! "Why're you addressing me by my given name, Potter? We don't—I can't—you've no earthly reason to do so! We're not exactly close friends, in case you've forgotten." Draco frowned imperiously, tilting his chin. "Ah! Is it spell damage, then? You should go see Pomfrey, Potter—" he advised, but Potter had interrupted him, the rude git.
"Because, Draco—and you should really shut that lovely mouth of yours, mate, because it will attract the odd Nargle—that's your given name and I wish to use it and, by the by, mine is Harry." The other boy folded his arms and sent Draco a Look, and he was so close by—also inexplicably—that Draco could literally smell him. Tapped his foot, too, the git did, and seemed vaguely impatient at Draco's understandable gawp. "And you may address me as such, Draco. Harry. Hah-Ree; very simple to say, see? I won't mind it."
"Hah! As if!"
Draco huffed—and bridled—and shied, ready to skitter (in as much as a tall man with an impressive wingspan could skitter) off and away from his precarious perch on the ancient windowsill. All to express his deep indignation at Potter's infernal butting-in-ness; which was really quite a normal, everyday feeling, at least in regards the topic of Potter, or had been, in the recent past. For example, Potter appearing just now like a bolt out of the clear blue was par for the bloody course, it being just when Draco was hovering on the very cusp of attempting an action that would likely turn out to be not wise and not nearly as well thought out as he'd supposed it was, in the first overweening flush of triumph over his own cleverness…and the persistent and bloody overwhelming urge to use these dreaded units he was afflicted with. Draco—after months of being groundbound, was feeling claustrophobic; yes. He longed to fly, to leave the confines of Earth behind him…but, inexplicably, he was terrified of it, rather. And Potter—inconvenient Potter—just had to possess the acid gall to show up uninvited, when he'd finally worked up his courage to attempt it. And he couldn't conceivably understand Draco's confused urges.
Oh, snap! That, too, was something so very normal in Draco's life to date—even expected: Potter hanging 'round, conveniently available to witness him fall flat on his arse like a prat. Or p'raps go 'splat!' on the forbidding, miles-down pavement, which was even more likely odds, really. Plus Potter had never cared a fig for Draco 'ere now…well, mayhap the once, but that was just Potter being his usual Gryffindor self and come over Saint-like.
In any event, Draco wasn't bloody well flying with Potter looking on like a bloody Quidditch spectator—that was so not on, it was insulting!
"I don't think so, Potter!" He was insulted, too. Aggrieved, even. To the point of setting his newly Veela-broadened shoulders in a grim, hard line and rearing back to give Potter a better view of his perfectly natural scowl. He'd a fine scowl; best to use it on the deserving.
"Oh, but Draco—" Potter began, moving closer yet again. "I really do believe you should rethink this one, alright?"
…However, the windowsill rose up only to a certain height—just short of his waist when standing—and Draco was rather precariously balanced, half-astride it, one foot a'dangle in the velvety night air. Which was likely what caused the one loosely mortared stone he'd noted earlier to finally leave go of both its crumbly ancient mortar and its magical bindings and tumble off into space all at once, without prior notice. It couldn't possibly be that Draco was trembling violently where he sat—from fear; with preternatural awareness of Potter's presence—and with Wild Veela Magic, shimmering over his goosepimply skin like an unseen nimbus—no!
"Oh, fuck!"
It seemed a very long time before he heard the 'thunk!' of it, smacking like a peal of doom onto an audibly unyielding surface. It could be that Draco's long arms windmilling about like mad dervishes and his brain shrieking 'Fall! Fall! I'm going to-!' had something to do with stretching each passing second like so many worn-out elastic bands, sproinging. He was never so grateful as he was when Potter barreled closer still, a scratched-and-grubby hand at the ready to stay him.
"Draco!"
"Fuckity-fuck-fuck-fuck!" Draco, reacting, clutched the edges of the frame with both hands and flapped his unwanted wings for balance. His Lumos winked out, flickering in the moment of terror, and his wand hit the floor of the Tower with a gay little bounce, rolling away. "Fuck!"
"Whoa! Careful, nitwit!" Potter growled, snagging Draco firmly by the nearest elbow, righting him. "Jeez! Gotcha', though! You're alright-you are!"
"Potter!"
Draco gasped, struggling for breath in the face of near-disaster, his wings fluttering frantically—and of no earthly use to him, stupid things! It was the Fiendfyre all over again—and, once again, irksome Potter was first responder! He'd nearly followed the unlucky block of Giant-hewn granite…which he could hear very faintly and far off below, tumbling and slamming with decided thumps into the flags of the courtyard as it continued to roll, arse over teacup.
Draco's stomach churned, and it wasn't just the ghastly noise of granite, shattering. His skin burned beneath the cloth, where Potter still had hold of him.
"You're not exactly ready for the Olympics, Draco, so no freefall just yet, alright? Take it easy! Um…easier, at least. Start small, mate," Potter advised him seriously, shaking his head. Draco wanted to slap him—or maybe grab him and snog him silly, just to shut his trap. Either/or would work, at this crucial moment.
"Oh—oh—oh, for fuck's sake, Potter!"
Draco, gathering his wits about him finally, was appalled, across the board. He flushed with temper, with excitement...and some small amount of shame, for being seen to be foolishly incompetent by bloody Potter. Why must it always be him? What had Draco done to upset the universe so—murdered Crup puppies in a past life?
Oh...oh, yes. He'd been a reluctant Death Eater, that's what.
"Merlin! Just leave me alone, will you?" he begged hurriedly of Potter, who still clutching at him.
That had been an accident, only—and very nearly the end of him—and it would've been a bloody, grisly and ick end, too. Gross. Not to mention hopelessly humiliating (if he'd survived it) and the harbinger of additional rotten recollections for later on (to join the legion of nightmare visions he already boasted of, stuffed any which way in his aching head).
"Look, just go away, will you?" he pleaded, eyes rolling at Potter's idiotic expression of concern. Always, always the eternal Gryffindor, wasn't he? "Be off with you, Potter! Take your arse out of here. I don't need you here, taunting me; telling me what to do or not do! It's not my sodding fault I'm a Veela, Potter—I can't help this, you know?" Draco babbled. "It was Grandme're's fault. And that slit-nosed bastard's, for terrorizing me into it! If it wasn't for him, I'd—"
"I know that, Draco," Potter intoned calmly. He grinned, but he didn't let go of Draco's elbow. "I've read up on you Malfoys, now I've had time to myself to do it. You're all over the history texts. Binns likely worships you, not that you'd notice it."
"Hey!"
"And the Pureblood claim? What a joke."
"Oi!" Draco inhaled furiously.
"But…a fascinating woman, your maternal grandmother," Potter went on, inexorably, grinning in that intriguing way he had; the one Draco daily told himself not to see. "Pity your bastard-arse of a skiving father didn't take after her in more than only the Veela bits—Veelas are a fairly decent lot, eh? And why she married your horrible grandfather Abraxas I couldn't say, but there's no accounting for taste—and at least there's you, come of it. That's alright, in my book."
"Oh! Oh, shut up about my family—and my father, Potter!" Draco retorted, furious and still shaken, and in the barrage he almost didn't absorb all of what Potter was babbling back at him—wait! Had that been a compliment, buried there in the jibber-jabber that spewed from Potter's well-cut lips? Unthinkable! He must've misheard him, the twat. "He's safely in Azkaban now and good riddance to bad rubbish, alright? And I don't recall asking for you to barge in to gape at me, either! I'm not a circus sideshow, git! Get off me!"
While Draco wasn't shouting directly at Potter's curiously friendly face as of yet, he was perilously close to that abandoned state, even if it was well after curfew and loud noises were a decided no-no, this being a boarding school and under the strict thumb of a learned Scotswoman, battle-hardened. However, he did manage to bite back the remainder of the sharp, hot torrent of abusive words gathering on the tip of his tongue, settling instead for a more suitable hissing.
"Go away now," he insisted vehemently, peering left and right and all about for encroaching caretakers, who could assign detentions even to adults. "Stop your gawking, Potter!"
"I'm not gawking," Potter interjected, simply. He seemed so...so absurdly harmless, standing there with the moonlight dappling his features, but Draco knew better. "I'm here to help. I want to, Draco."
"No!" Draco squawked, going pink-cheeked and wild-eyed. There was no way he'd ever allow—it wasn't to be thought of, failing at something as easy as flying with Potter watching the action from the bloody front row! Birds did this all the time; Hades, the peacocks had even been known to have a little spin 'round the gardens at home...but that was no guarantee Draco could manage it. What was guaranteed; no, more set in stone, was that he'd not want Potter watching him, ever!
His one eyelid twitched a bit. Well...perhaps there was a very atom of him, a particle, that could stand to have Potter's gaze upon him. Maybe just the singular fraction, yes. But that only in a casual, fellow-student sort of way. Not in any other manner!
Not with pity, certainly-or Gryffindork goodness of heart, by Salazar. That, he did not need!
"I don't need your help, Potter!" First off, he didn't, and that had to be made clear. "I didn't request a celebrity audience, Golden Boy, nor do I need any of your assistance with something as absurdly basic as flying!" Draco hauled in a calming breath, struggling for a semblance of his usual rationality—of the ingrained Malfoy control, which used to be so effortless, once. When had he begun unraveling like this? Last year? Two years ago? At the start, on the blasted Express? "I'm perfectly capable, sod it," he went on, through clenched teeth, stuffing all errant thoughts of Potter's recently discovered sexual effect upon him well back in his mind. "Of flying. Flying is natural, damn it. I've flown all my life; it's not something one simply forgets, alright? So, really, Potter, go back to that lion's aerie of yours and leave me the bloody hell alone! I'm perfectly well off by myself! I don't-repeat, don't-require help."
"Now, Draco," Potter actually had the gall to reach that grossly inappropriate hand of his out (the same one that had clamped down on Draco's wheeling arm earlier, 'helping', 'saving') and smooth it down the nearer of Draco's anxiously fluttering wings. His palm was both hot to the touch and yet gentle, perhaps a little dampened from reaction. Draco's shoulders flexed towards Potter's form without his conscious volition, bobbing and jostling his deep-rooted pinions. They ached in reaction. "You're overreacting. You should calm yourself—settle down now; you'll come to harm if you use those gorgeous wings of yours when you're clearly out of sorts. So, erm-cool it, okay?"
"What?" Draco began, no less infuriated. "How dare—?"
"And of course you're capable; I never said you weren't, did I? Not questioning it, either. I've only suggested you begin on ground level, that's all. Very reasonable. Control your variables, yeah? For, er, a start, at least. And only till you have them sorted, these pretty things you've got. My… but they are soft, aren't they? Almost like…velvet. And so...long. Long and pale, just like you are. Funny, that."
He stroked them, his fingertips finding their way to the taut skin between each separate feather, and Draco shivered in reaction. Heat was building in his groin; a telltale sign of arousal. He was no stranger to being aroused by Potter; he faced up to that failing months ago. He was also no fool, either. Potter had not shown a single flicker of interest that way—not for Draco, at least.
"Nhn!" Draco had not a single reasonable word at the ready, so he only stared. And stared some more.
"Yes," Potter murmured, expression pensive, nodding to himself. "Exactly like. Lucky you, Draco."
"Bosh!" The sound exploded from Draco's tongue in a brilliant burst. He flinched under Potter's foreign touch, throwing it off, and resumed his glare, right where he'd left off, only more so. "Piss off, Potter—it's not like that!"
Besides, Draco thought, now he could think again, Potter likely had droves of willing, interested candidates for his bed—and his affections. And, knowing Potter, the git likely wanted someone along the same order as himself—a Witch or Wizard he could be proud to have hanging off his arm. A trophy for the Hero. Not a neophyte Veela with something of a besmirched reputation. Oh, no; never in a million years.
Why-oh why-was he even entertaining such a strange topic? He must, Draco decided, be somewhat addled yet by his near-death moment. It was more than time to revert to sane, though. Potter was just a bloody aberration, really. If Draco continued to insist, Potter would eventually go away, as desired.
"I am only," Draco hissed, drawing himself up to his highest height he could manage while still perched atop a windowsill and fretfully jerking his wingtip out away from the git's grabby fingers, "examining the prospects, Potter. That's all. Clearly, this Tower isn't suitable; far too high, for one thing—" He raised an admonitory forefinger.
"Damned straight, it is," Harry smiled gaily, his grin a charming glint of reflected moonlight. "Much. Let's go down to the Pitch, alright?"
"And crumbly—" Draco persisted, raising another finger and gallantly not thinking about Potter being so close to him; right up his elevated nose—practically climbing into Draco's nasal cavities, the pestilential twat! "Damaged and not reliable," he added for good measure. "And highly visible to the staff."
Draco halted in his explanation. Full stop.
For Potter had laid that evil petting hand upon Draco's blasted wing once more and was absentmindedly stroking: long, silken sweeps that radiated pleasure all through him, unasked for-likely undeserved. He should feel quite so good, should he? For he felt as though he were shimmering and seething beneath that careless set of digits; every single Veela cell Draco possessed had gone abruptly into full active awareness.
Was this what it was like to finally find that mate-person Grandme're had always sworn was so necessary for a happy life? This—this vacuous, enthralling wave of mindless bliss?
"Oh, yes, I agree," Harry added to Draco's litany of the inherent evils of the Astronomy Tower for a launching pad, with a sharp nod for amiable emphasis. "Too high, too old. Too stupidly difficult." Draco found himself nodding along, though he certainly had no intention of it—even as he edged away from the dubious joy of Potter's fingertips. "Dangerous, this place. Very. As we both know, yeah? But the Pitch—the Pitch is an excellent idea, Draco; I'm so glad you've suggested it—"
"For anyone in their right mind to even think about taking wing, er—as it were—from here, safely." Draco swallowed; he'd rather lost the page. What was it he was saying again? He blinked, dazed, and examined anew his situation. There was Potter's hand upon his previously inviolate person; the source of a sensual heat he'd not even conceived existed. And…even in the dim light of the intermittent moon and stars he could see the shine of Potter's challenging and peculiar eyes, which were currently shaded a green so dark they were nearly obsidian. All pupil, in fact, and fixed solely on Draco, meeting his own searching, obviously puzzled ones, and paying heed to nothing else. "The…Pitch? What about the Pitch, Potter?"
"We should go there, er...now. Please."
Which was…pleasant, Draco freely admitted, wits awander and well away from any old Astronomy Tower. Potter never glanced in Draco's direction these days; he'd rather missed it, the obvious stalking. Because Potter had once stalked him, the nosy git. He'd always felt him watching, wherever he'd gone and no matter what he was doing. It was—it had been oddly brilliant, to know he'd captured Potter's full range of interest, back then. Not that he'd been the recipient of it since after the last battle—no, Potter had been civilly uninterested in whatever Draco found himself getting up to, this final year at Hogwarts.
Not that he'd ever breathe a word of the latter-day abysmal lack of anyone's interest in his life to anyone, either. No, never. He'd no expectations there. Not a fool, even if a Veela, he.
"Please, Draco?"
"Oh, er. Ergh!"
He'd grudgingly admitted (only to himself, and only late at night when he couldn't sleep because his new wings were itching the smooth skin of his back something fierce) that Potter wasn't half-bad. To look at, was all—other than that aspect, Draco couldn't say. But camping over hither and yon and fighting Dark Lords had done wonders for his previously scrawny physique. Not that he wasn't still scrawny, or that he wasn't still a stumpy little bugger, his slim form only rising to the height of Draco's chin, but—he was a slight and toned scrawny, stumpy bugger and Draco had also noted (unwillingly, yes, but how could he help it? Potter was always close by, physically at least, in classes and bloody elsewhere, the infuriating little bu—arse!) that Potter's messy mop of sooty tangles would fit nicely into the curved hollow between his own sculpted jaw and his collarbone, if the little prick would just get close enough and bend his handsome, very inviting neck accordingly. Draco had had the inexplicable urge to mark that neck recently; he couldn't understand it.
He huffed; not likely, that! That actually was a very bad idea...as was this stupid Tower! It irked him mightily that Potter would even consider this was Draco's first choice of venue, too!
"Naturally I was planning on visiting the Pitch next, Potter," he announced stoutly, for that also be made clear. "I was only just…surveying this area. Down below, I mean, where it's flat. From overhead, as it were, for—for possible obstructions!"
"Uh-huh. Sure you were, Draco. Riiight."
Potter nodded at him, not a hint of sarcasm anywhere evident. More like...more like how Draco had glimpsed him acting towards the Weasel, actually.
Not that Potter would ever (clearly) and not that Draco wanted him to, either. That was but a silly-arse pipedream and only because there wasn't exactly a great selection of fit boys his age at Hogwarts nowadays. No—not thinking about the whys and wherefores of that! Besides, Veelas were known to be prone to sudden passionate fits, even before they met their so-called life mates. And Potter was fit—powerful—fascinating—and, er, apparently kind?
Not precisely pitying...they knew each other too well for that-but kind.
The hand upon him, that stroking, stoking, marvellous array of skin webbed over bone and tendon—it hadn't lifted once. Draco, to his utter humiliation and sneaking delight, was indeed being petted, like a bleeding kneazle. Which was indeed humiliating—no other word for it! (he rather wanted to lean into the petting, too, even though he knew full well he shouldn't!) but was also…also—very.
"Er, ah," Draco waffled, shifting anxiously. "You, um." He wanted more of this sort of Pottery humiliation; he wanted it to stop, contrarily, before he committed some atrocious crime upon Potter's straggly, foreshortened person. But…Potter only smiled at him in a kindly avuncular way and kept up with those long, sweeping strokes. It was pure, unadulterated Nirvana for Draco's Veela bits. He'd a stiffie; his pants were like to rend at the flies. Draco gasped and sighed, his eyelids sinking shut in a sea of sensation. "Ummm…ahhh," he muttered, helpless. His skin was too tight; he felt squirmy and…and...
"Why...is it? Exactly?"
"Come on, Draco. Say you will," Potter coaxed, never letting up on the torture. "The Pitch, remember? We were on our way there."
"I. I—er."
Draco blinked himself into a semblence of full awareness, valiantly fighting the urge to simply close his tired eyes and allow Potter to pet and pet him, non-stop. So what if he resembled a kneazle? So what? Kneazles had it good, didn't they?
But…But, his Slytherin bits whispered insidiously, a certain degree of civility between them would be…acceptable. Perhaps not petting, but...some form of friendship? He, after all, had gone out of his way to apologize publically to Potter for his part in their unfortunate boyhood brangles and even thank him kindly, as was proper, for the rescue that night, from the Room—er, rescues, actually, as there'd been two. And his wand, back again. He'd even—nobly—refrained from pointing out his own prior actions to save Potter's scrawny, stubby, waif-like but admirably toned bum, when the idiot had gotten himself and his pals Snatched, as it went against the grain for a Malfoy to go hunting for—for any sort of measly, skimpy and likely grudging gratitude from Potter, of all people. Gratitude, he thought, was the last thing he'd ever required from the git.
'Gratitude' didn't cut the mustard, no. Watery emotion, that one. Not worth the time it took up, feeling it; better to say he was appropriately pleased the even level of favours exchanged had been restored to balance.
Besides, he wasn't certain, still, why he'd gone and done what he'd most certainly done, that one unforgettable day—practically handing over all those wands to the unfortunate git before him and turning a wildly rolling and slectively blind eye to an unforgettable face, no matter what execrable condition it had been spelled to by a cerebral Granger. He'd known it was Potter; he'd know Potter any where, at any time, in any guise. He should've leapt on his chance to out Potter—and normally he would've—but something deeply instinctual had shouted 'No!', quite firmly and insistently (more like 'NOOOO!'), and he'd found himself literally at point non plus, unable to admit that yes, this was him, the Potter, right here, Auntie Bella—meet Mr. Golden Boy. Let's hand him straight over, alright? To Master?
No. Couldn't do it. Could. Not. Do. It.
And then, later? After Potter and his little gang of miscreants had scarpered off with that interfering House Elf, leaving him stuck with an angry madwoman and no wand to speak of? Draco had found himself feeling horribly, inappropriately anxious over the lucky idiot, of all unimaginable outcomes—overwhelmingly concerned that Potter hadn't Apparated quickly enough to safety. Stupid mental Aunt Bella and her stupid hexed dagger! Or that he'd been recaptured—likely mortally wounded, too—and this time Draco would be helpless to...to—well. Best not to recall any of that. That time he had certainly been addled.
It had been mental, all of it. A fit, he decided, that had briefly come over him, for no apparent sane reason. For no good reason. Potter bore no love for Draco Malfoy; never had.
"Please?"
He'd been broody already (what with his house taken over and his parents practically pissing themselves and awful, barmy-as-shite Aunt Bella, who was fucking creepy to the max) and then to have that happen? Worrying over Potter, he'd scoffed miserably, scuffing his feet all the way back to the relative safety of his room after the event; fretting over Potter? Oh, dear demigods and fishes, what a sad, pitiful place to find himself! A nightmare landscape!
Couldn't sleep a bloody wink that night and then had woken up the very next morning with these bloody wings stuck on him—and an incipient beak, ragged talons and so forth: the whole kit-and-kaboodle of his vaguely recalled memories of Beauxbaton's finest examples of Veelish pulchritude. Grandme're's legacy. The whole seven leagues and ruddy hell, but Mum (when he'd burst into his parent's suite moments later, practically hyperventilating and screeching bloody murder) had only nodded wisely and said she'd been expecting it, what with all the stress of having the Dark Lord planted in his childhood home and Grandme're. His father—blast him—had gone white as the linens, the Veela-ridden arsehole of giant proportion, and said not one single helpful word to his own son and heir!
Bastard. Unfeeling bastard. Bugger him!
Potter, of course, had had to save him. Later. In the Room. He'd not known how to fly—not then and not now, either. His Veela attributes had been so far receded in fear for his actual life—and Potter's as well, gods help him—they were off whimpering pathetically in a dark corner, the lot of them, good for absolutely nothing. He'd not been able to lift a wingtip to help them escape, either; nor do anything at all, except be grateful to Potter: to Potter's boundless Gryffindor benefice—to Potter's amazing skill on a broom. And what use was all this gorgeously wide wingspan he'd inherited—this opportunity to soar without a broom to worry over—all completely of his own free will, under his own speed, if…if he didn't even know how to go about it?
Well, he still didn't know how, did he? And it was more than time enough to learn, yeah? Oh, and blasted Potter was still blathering on, wasn't he?
"Really, please? 'Cause I think you should take it easy, Draco, at least to begin with," Potter remarked, nodding wisely. He moved closer yet, his warmth rolling off him in fragrant waves, and Draco inhaled sharply, startled into freezing in place, still as the casual fingers that rested comfortably spread across his pinion feathers. "Start, er, smaller. Not that you couldn't do it," he added hastily, when Draco's expression went a bit pointier in the chin region and the cords of his neck went taut in the ever-changing half-light, "beginning from a considerable height like this," he gestured about him, his wave indicating the wind whipping through the windows, the nosebleed-inducing height, "but, you know, this flying shite takes time as well as bollocks. To grow accustomed."
"And what would you know about it, Potter?" Draco demanded furiously, whipping that emotion up to a fine froth. Furious was something he knew and understood in re Potter; soothed into rapt attentiveness to Potter's every suggestion was decidedly not!
He pulled himself away from the wall and the perilous window, bringing his leg back over as if dismounting a hippogriff, and stalked a stiff and ominous step towards the abominably interfering Potter, who'd stepped back in turn to give him room. Draco flapped the feathery items in question irritably in the face of such irritating nosiness. "Where the hell do you get off, actually, giving me advice on flying—with wings? You're not a Veela—I would've known it by now! Like calls to like, Potter!" he curled his thin upper lip snidely. "You're no Creature, you're just a bloody hero!"
"Oh, as to that—" Potter shot back, unfazed by gluts of classic Malfoy vitriol, spilt at his feet. Draco stopped, lips parted, blinking rapidly.
Oh, now, that had been petty of him, he decided, vaguely horrified. Why exactly was he lashing out like this, again? He'd no sane nor sensible reason to do so…other than the fact Potter always sent him up. And it was not at all in his best interests, being sent up. not when this unusual blip was likely the result of Golden Boy's overflow of bonus Gryffindor goodwill. Potter was in the habit of poking his beak where it didn't belong; it would behoove Draco to keep that in the forefront of his mind.
This meant nothing. Potter's interest in his troublesome wings meant nothing, either. And no, he should just send Potter packing, politely. The git hadn't done anything—much—wrong, really, except to lay all too familiar hands upon Draco's person and insert his nicely cleft chin into what was solely Draco's concern.
"Er, sister-in-law," Potter explained, shrugged slightly, an eyebrow soaring high. "In a manner of speaking," he added and Draco bobbed his moon-bright head, as if he'd the faintest clue what Potter referred to—which he didn't. "Um, er, come on then; let's go down to the Pitch, yeah? Shall we, Draco?" Potter stuck out an stray elbow, which brushed Draco's ribs through the sheer tunic. It seared right through the bone. "Please?" he continued, and it was oh, so appealing to simply take a moment to gaze like a mooncalf down at him—just the perfect height for a cuddle, Potter was, Draco succumbed. "We'll be noticed if we stay up here, I'm sure of it—McGonagall's got eyes everywhere—and I didn't think to bring my cloak, sod it," Potter fretted. He nudged Draco's side again, insistently. "We need to go. Now, preferably."
"Er—what?" Draco stuttered, momentarily confused by Potter's proximity. Potter's proximity had had that effect on him, always, derailing his thought processes to other destinations entirely. He should be well accustomed...but then, the effects upon his person seemed far more disproportionate that they had been. His head was swimming with roiling gobs of lust; Potter really needed to back off a bit so Draco could inhale properly. "What are you talking about, git?" he questioned, fidgeting and flushed. "Go where?"
"Running start, mate." Potter eyed him as if Draco were mental; that could indeed be true, Draco thought. Could be. "On the Pitch, remember? From the Pitch, rather. You've just now admitted you thought that was a good idea, Draco. I agree, totally. Much better than a falling one. Hah-ahaha. Hah." Potter's laugh was strained, but he was laughing. Well, snorting a little. "Er…falling start, that is. Yes? Get it?"
"Yes, " Draco echoed blankly, seduced by that laugh. It was a nice laugh—more of a combination puff of air and a grin, but also with a bit of rumble to it, like a growl.
"Good." Potter—blast his immortal soul—made the sound again. "Let's go, then."
And not an unkindly one, for once. Could even be considered a bit…engaging, that muffled sound. It rang in Draco's ears like a Pavlovian bell, calling him inexorably into submission. The part that instinctively dragged its heels at any possibility of such was, ah…losing ground.
He shook his head; the moon, now revealed, was brilliant. It illuminated Potter in all his toned, scrubby glory; made his green eyes glint dark diamonds.
Intoxicating, that.
"Ah!" Draco sucked in a breath; now, what was happening? What was he supposed to do, again? "Er," tacked on, at a definite loss. "…Yes?"
"Draco?" Potter spun away, a hand held out expectantly behind him, and cocked his head enquiringly. "Come on along; it's really late, already. We should make a start, yeah? Get you in the air, at least."
"Well, fuck you, too, Potter!" Draco grumbled, but he went, trailing after Potter and stomping his booted heels to indicate he was deeply perturbed by Potter's interference. And maybe—just perhaps—his fingers brushed Potter's fingers as he swept on past regally, his wings elegantly folded tight and flat, nearly invisible in the darkness that lingered near the doorway. "Right, right. Certainly!" he added, making the best of a bad situation. Far be it from him to contradict Saint Potter's so-sane advice. Besides, he'd just been thinking he'd visit the Pitch next, anyway. He was doing nothing more than following his own inclination, right? "In the air—I can do that. Let's not waste any more time, then—oh, and you're dawdling, idiot. You'll have Filch down upon our arses if you're not careful. Causing a ruckus, as per usual. I'm not at all surprised."
"Okay then, Draco," Potter smiled, his eyes soft with the smile that lurked in them, teasing Draco's attention away from his understandable annoyance. "You go; I'm right behind you. Lead the way, you barmy git."
"I am," Draco shot back, and did so, and all down the winding spiral stairwell he flat out refused to consider why he was following Potter's orders—or why Potter would give a fig whether he did or didn't. "Naturally."
Draco hadn't a clue why he was simply going along with this strange—but sensible—suggestion of Potter's. Falling in with Potter's wishes—even if he'd let on the idea was his. Which of course it wasn't. Potter wasn't fooling Draco—oh, no! He wasn't planning on being caught out by any underhanded heroic subterfuges. He didn't need fixing, nor minding, nor schooling, either! He'd just go along for now and flap his wings a bit, half-heartedly, for Potter's delectation; perhaps try out the wind currents at ground level and satisfy that damnable Gryffindor curiousity. Act as if he were sincerely planning on launching himself into the great unknown, but not really follow through. Well…not as such. He might just…hover. That would show Potter his wings weren't merely oversized ungainly decorations.
He could do…that…at least, right? Better than nothing, eh?
Mum had given him a book on it; a very simplistic one, too, aimed at what amounted to the pre-school Veela. Surely he could do as well as little Veela children did? Toddlers with baby wings?
Surely!