Notes: All right…this is my second Harry Potter story thus far…I liked the pairing of Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy as well as the HP/SS, so I wanted to write a story using this pairing. I'm using the whole Veela scheme—with a slight twist:

1. This takes place after Hogwarts, i.e.: they're all grown up.

2. Voldemort's dead and all that stuff. Don't know if I'll include Sirius' death (as the fifth book dictates), just because I'm not overly fond of said book…

There is another twist with the Veela thing, but that takes place in the story proper, and I don't really want to spoil it.

Warnings: Shounen ai/yaoi/slash/two guys in love—with each other. (gasp) The horrors! Anyways, if this isn't for you, go elsewhere.

Disclaimer: Not mine. Never will be mine—quite frankly, I don't want it. All the publicity and deadlines and…Ahem. Harry Potter belongs to J. K. Rowling and all those lovely publishing and movie companies—and anyone else that I haven't listed.

Pairings: Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley…and anyone else I might throw in later.

Dedication: This chapter is dedicated to my wonderful beta Lena. You rock, girl!!

And Forever…

By Rosethorn

Chapter 1: In Which a Bad Day Happens

Harry Potter was not having a good day. "Not having a good day" being a definite understatement. He currently was standing on the side of a street, dripping wet and shivering, waiting for said street to clear enough so that he could cross. About ten minutes or so later, he managed to cross the—rather busy—street over to a local pub (muggle, thankfully). On the way, he reflected on the days "events" that had managed to so utterly ruin his day.

First had been that incident with that Death Eater faction. Oh, it had started out innocently enough. He had insomnia left over from the rather gruesome battles with Voldemort all those years ago, and it was nothing strange to find himself sitting in an armchair reading a book. However, this rather domestic scene (although at an odd time), was interrupted—rather rudely, Harry thought—by said Death Eater faction.

For all that Voldemort was dead—killed a year after Harry graduated—many of his followers were not. Since he was the "lucky" one to "top the Dark Lord", the now "leaderless" followers conveniently targeted him.

'Leaderless. Right. As if today wasn't planned. Leaderless or no, I don't see those fools gathering around saying "I'm bored. Hey! Let's go try to kill Harry Potter again!" "Yeah! That's a terrific idea!" Sure. They had my flat address for Merlin's sake! That thing's impossible to get, unless Ron and 'Mione went Death Eater on me…' The green-eyed man thought derisively. The attack had taken place when most sane people would have been asleep—1:00 a.m. Harry however, never being one to suffer from sanity, was wide awake, wand in hand, hexes on the tip of his tongue. The trio of wizards—Voldemort's finest, Harry had commented dryly as they were being taken away—were a bit…"surprised" to see their target definitely able to defend himself against the attack.

He had cheerfully informed them that "insomnia" did mean that one did not sleep—at all. Period. He then proceeded to knock one unconscious and disable the other two (although he did lose half the flat in the process. So much for telling the landlord that he was a quiet man.) After calling Ron through the floo system—and having the very irritable auror come, rant at the Death Eaters for picking an ungodly hour to attack, and then rant at Harry for living in a "bloody muggle city", then grumble his way back to the Ministry (Death Eaters in tow)—Harry sat down on an over-stuffed chair…only to have it collapse beneath him, causing his head to hit the floor rather painfully, giving him one hell of a migraine.

While trying to fight off said migraine, he decided that he might want to restore the walls and ceiling to his main room and kitchen (thank heavens he lived on the top floor!), as the flat might be a bit less drafty that way. After completing that task, he set up new wards around his floor and, making sure there were no other attackers, went back to his bedroom to finish his book, which had been spared any damage, although he was a bit peeved to see that he had lost his place. After finding his place in the book again, he read for a few minutes, only to find that he was falling asleep.

He was rudely awakened around seven by his phone. His boss at the local grocer was calling, wondering where he was, as his shift had started an hour previous. The green-eyed man quickly explained that he'd had a break-in last night and had consequently gotten to sleep late. His boss, a woman in her late 30's, being the caring and understanding woman that she was, told him that she understood completely, but if he didn't get his butt moving, there would be hell to pay. He thanked her, hung up, and dashed to the washroom. 20 minutes later, he was showered, dressed, and out the door—just in time to miss his bus. Resigning himself to the 30-minute walk (in the rain no less), he made his way over to Betty's Grocer. Betty, his boss, smiled at him and inquired about his welfare before sending him off to the back rooms for inventory—as punishment for being late.

Harry left the grocer around four and absently noted that it had stopped raining. Making his way down the street, a rather un-courteous driver managed to soak him thoroughly when the vehicle drove through a puddle—though the puddle was out of the way of the car, he had reflected ruefully. Needless to say, the "Boy-Who-is-Now-the-Man-Who-Lived" was not having a good day.

'What next,' he thought to himself sourly, as he sat down at the bar and ordered himself a pint of brandy. He began to take a sip when a muffled curse—the muggle variety—to his right caused the now frustrated man to pause. Glancing over in the general direction of the cursing, he managed to spot a head of dark brown hair with a startlingly familiar eye color…staring right at him. The eyes held recognition, disdain, and a touch of fear.

'I had to ask,' he moaned internally. 'But wait…Draco had…blonde…' Harry's thoughts swam in confusion. The eyes, the silver eyes were the same…but dark brown hair? He cautiously made his way over to where the other man was sitting, ignoring his mind's frantic screaming to run the opposite direction and move—again. He had been planning to move to New Zealand at some point anyways, right? In any rate, he finally reached his destination—only to find that his quarry had vanished. Dis-apparated, most likely.

'Lovely.' No, Harry Potter was not having a good day. Quickly finishing his brandy, Harry walked towards his bus stop—just in time to see the back-end of said bus turn the corner. Sighing he trudged onward towards his flat. After getting splashed again by what Harry swore was the same driver, he finally reached his flat. He climbed the many stairs (as the lift was naturally broken), he fumbled around for his key before realizing that he'd left it at the grocer. He definitely wasn't having a good day. He walked back down the stairs and back towards the grocer, taking a rather dim view on the fact that it had started raining again. By some miracle, his keys were there, but a note was also attached to them.

"Potter," it read. "Meet me at Claire Park tomorrow. Three p.m. Try not to be late. DM" Pinching the bridge of his nose to stave off another headache, Harry groaned inwardly.

'And now it would appear that tomorrow will be hellish as well." Taking the note and keys, he walked back to his flat noticing that while the rain had stopped, a rather suspicious car was coming up the street. Sure enough, he was quickly drenched again. 'Today really isn't my day.'

ooOOooOOoo

Draco apparated into his flat, leaned on the front door, and sighed. All that ran through his head were thoughts of the familiar features of one Harry Potter. Appearance-wise, Potter hadn't changed overly. The only drastic changes were of his height—about five feet, eleven inches (compared to Draco's own six foot, two inches)—and that Potter had filled out some. Naturally Draco had observed much of this during their years at Hogwarts, but it was one thing to see a person every day and only subconsciously register the changes. It was another thing entirely to see someone after a decade or so and actually see the changes.

Merlin only knows that Draco, himself, had changed. His blonde hair, fair complexion, and silver eyes not only marked him as a Malfoy, but a Veela as well. During the long war with Voldemort, many Veela flocked to him because of their persecution from "ordinary wizards", thus giving Veela a rather dark reputation—particularly with the "light" side of the war. Part-Veela, like the Malfoy family, were not excluded either (although they weren't exactly popular to begin with).

Not wanting to be subservient to a lunatic, (and seeing a losing battle for Voldemort), Draco decided to seek asylum from Dumbledore, who granted it—in exchange for information on Voldemort, his father, and anything else that might help the Order, which made Draco ever-so popular with the Death Eater crowd. As the war ended, he became more and more persecuted for his heritage (Malfoy and Veela), on one side, and for deserting what was considered to be his "destiny" on the other. Finally, after being near-missed three times in one day, Draco decided to magically change his appearance so that he looked as un-Veela and Malfoy-ish as possible. The only thing that marked him as either now were his eyes, which could not be disguised by magical or muggle means.

Speaking of Veela…"it" had resurfaced, "it" being the Pull. All Veela and part-Veela experienced the Pull sometime after their sixteenth birthday, though the more diluted the blood, the weaker the Pull. The Pull was the feeling that occurred when a Veela would find a candidate for his or her mate. Contrary to popular belief, Veela had maybe three or four possible candidates for a mate—though once Mated, the Veela's eyes would never wander, as Veela are unfailingly devoted to their mate.

Although his years after his sixteenth birthday, while at Hogwarts, Draco had felt the Pull, though not at its full, devastating effect. For the most part, he could ignore it, but every so often it got the better of him, forcing him to hole up in his dorm room until it had passed. He didn't want to worry about a mate with all the uncertainties with Voldemort.

'Not to mention that the candidate appeared to be from Gryffindor, which was not my favorite house…not that they would even talk to me,' Draco thought to himself with a sad, ironic smile. 'Though the "Golden Trio" and I had made a truce by the middle of seventh year.' Which was how he knew that one of his candidates was from Gryffindor, since the only time he felt the Pull was when he was "interacting" with Granger, Weasley, and Potter.

'And after this evening, it appears that the candidate was Potter. Fate has a strange sense of humor. I never liked irony.' The Pull to Harry had been the only occasion he'd ever felt it, which was unusual.

'But then, when has anything involving me been normal? Or Potter for that matter!' Running a hand through his hair (and noticing it was trembling slightly), he winced as he discovered a knot. After untangling that, he decided that the best thing for his nerves at the moment would be something to distract his hands, so that he could think. The piano would do. He sat down in front of his "piano", which was really an electric keyboard, considering that first, he didn't have the room, and second, pianos were rather expensive, and he didn't dare use any money from the Malfoy account, as his persecutors either thought him dying or dead. Draco felt it kinder—to him at least—not to disabuse them of either notion.

'Staying alive is nice…' His mind then drifted back to the note he'd left for Harry on his keys. 'Which was pure luck that his employer is such a gossip…' He had seen the other man's owl, "Earwig" or some similar name, going to the grocer. Following it, he had, upon arriving, overheard the manager of the store complaining about Harry leaving his keys behind again. Getting a small smile on his face, Draco decided to leave a note for his ex-rival…one that he would be certain Harry would see.

'Now all that's left is to get ready.' Soon finishing the piece he was playing—Bach's "Toccata and Fugue in D Minor"—he got up and noted that the light on his answering machine was blinking. Draco raised an eyebrow before pressing the button.

"Draco!" the panicky voice of one Blaise Zabini filled the air. "Where are you?! Damn you, this is no time for playing games! Oh hell. I'll call back later." The machine beeped. There were three more messages similar to the first. Draco stood, a bit shaken.

'The normally unflappable Blaise panicked? I think I need to sit down.' Blaise had been, up until that point at least, a rather calm, unshakeable rock that Draco could depend on. Rarely would anything it seemed, got to Blaise. For the man in question to get upset meant something dire must have happened. Hesitantly, the now brunette picked up the phone and dialed. It picked up on the first ring.

"Zabini," came the curt response. Draco swallowed.

"Blaise?" There was a sharp intake of breath. Draco braced himself for the storm.

"Draco?! Thank the gods!" Draco's eyebrows flew up higher.

'And now he's acknowledging divine beings—who are you, and what have you done with Blaise Zabini?'

"Where the hell have you been?!" Blaise sounded furious now. Draco winced.

"At the pub down the street, why?" Draco could almost see Blaise's left eye starting to twitch, as it was wont to do when Blaise got agitated.

"The pub," Blaise stated flatly. "You're telling me I got the whole bloody department worried because you were at a pub?!" Draco winced again. His friend had quite a temper, and although it normally never frayed, when it did…

"Well, if you'd tell me what has happened…"

"What has…" Blaise trailed off, as though not believing what Draco was saying. "There was only a Death Eater faction attack on a muggle flat two blocks from you! That's what bloody happened!!" Draco swore, before grilling his friend for details. An hour later, he hung up the phone, relieved by the fact that at the present time he didn't need to move—again. Although he had been looking at New Zealand as a nice getaway…

'Thank Merlin that I don't have to move there just yet. I've just gotten everything unpacked too.' Flopping down onto a chair, Draco's mind returned to the note he had left for one Harry Potter. A small, smug smile graced his lips.

'Despite the Death Eater bit, today has been a rather good day…Tomorrow looks to be interesting as well…'

ooOOooOOoo

All for now! I'm working on chapter two as we speak. Let me know what y'all think!!

Cheers!

Rosethorn