Author secret: This little fic is already entirely written because that's the most reasonable thing to do at 3:30 in the morning, you know. But anyway. It won't take a year to finish this one because that was absurd.
So. Here we go.
He couldn't kill the girl.
His father had been very clear on that one.
He would, apparently, die without her.
Til death do us part, literally, and all that bullshite.
His father underestimated his own suicidal thoughts.
His father seemed to have foreseen this train of thought and added that he'd never be able to lay on hand on her with the intention of harm. The bond wouldn't allow that. He could have minions do it but it would have to be fast because he would be compelled to find her, to save her, the minute she was in danger.
And he'd also kill whoever had killed her.
As long as he didn't die himself first.
It kept coming back to that.
He was still trying to get out of it.
He was flummoxed by pictures of her in the society pages of the Prophet.
"For fucks sake, Draco," his father snarled over the morning jam tray. "She can't carry on with him. Eventually you'll have to claim her as your mate and if they're married you'll kill him."
Draco failed to see what was so terrible about that option.
"She would never forgive you if you let it get that out of hand," his father added, as if Draco had ever harbored hope she would one day forgive him for this monstrosity he was going to inflict on her. "Also, the Ministry paperwork would be a nightmare."
That was the first convincing threat.
He nearly fucked her in the ministry atrium and that was when he knew he was screwed.
Literally and figuratively.
He was crossing the atrium on his way to his father's office when his senses exploded. He could smell her, could hear her—could, Merlin, taste her, somehow—before he could find her and when he did it was almost worse.
She was fucking perfect.
She smelled amazing. Like every joy and hope in life mixed together with a cinnamon stick on top. And she had even tamed that objectionable hair into something presentable, which accentuated her neck. Her ever-so-bite-able neck.
Almost as quickly, he was hit by a wave of revulsion. She was with the Weasel. Her boyfriend. It disgusted him to his core.
That revulsion saved him the awkwardness of throwing her to the floor in the middle of the Ministry atrium, though it did nothing for his erection.
He stood, rooted to the spot, glaring at the people who looked at him strangely, until she and the Weasel disappeared safely out the floor.
He didn't bother knocking on his door. "You knew she'd be there," he growled. "You set me up."
His father looked at him with cool eyes. "You're welcome."
Draco slammed the door without another word and went home for a cold shower.
"I don't know why you don't just tell her," Theo said flatly when Draco relayed the incident.
Draco scoffed. "And what exactly would I tell her?" He began speaking with a falsetto. "Hi, Granger. Just so you know, I'm part veela and you're my mate and we'll probably die within the year if we don't fuck."
Theo laughed. "Tell her that and I can guarantee that you, at least, will be dead within the year."
Being a veela in a lot of ways was like having cancer.
For one, thee were the stages.
Stage one was the best. Stage one was having no symptoms of being a veela. Draco lived the first 19 years of his life like any other wizard. Well, better than any other wizard, for the most part, but in normal ways.
Stage two wasn't half bad. He became hypersensitive and moody. His senses sharpened, much like his talons.
Stage three the wings grew. They were always there, tucked casually around his shoulders like a cat nestled in for a nap. They hurt like a bitch when they grew in. He whined about it for days and his mother—his own mother!—had accused him of being a teething toddler all over again.
Fine for her to say. She'd never had to grow new appendages.
Stage three he also became more sensitive to her. Sharks could sniff a drop of blood in a ton of water; Draco could smell her in a room of people. In an atrium of people.
Stage four his teeth sharpened into permanent but retractable fangs that he could operate at will. That was pretty cool.
Stage four also meant he could feel everything she felt, and he wasn't exactly looking forward to that.
According to the stupid book his father had given him when he had given up on trying to lecture Draco on the importance of mating properly and quickly, he would be able to feel it whenever she had particularly strong emotions, no matter where in the world she was. And if she were hurt or scared or in danger, he would be compelled to come to her immediately.
It sounded bloody annoying.
Stage five and he either mated or died. It was a terminal sentence either way.
His parents were hosting a ball.
Of course his parents were hosting a bloody ball.
They had invited almost everyone.
Probably had, in fact, invited everyone.
His mother had tried to be discrete about it but he had known with just one look at her that she had, in fact, invited Granger, and that for whatever reason, Granger was going to attend.
He hated his mother. This had been her reaction to the Ministry incident? It was as if she were saying "oh, Draco almost jumped her in the middle of a room full of people? Let's repeat!"
For fuck's sake, her neck had been tempting enough when she was just wearing work robes; unless she came to the party in a nun's habit instead of a ball gown he'd be screwed.
That was in fact his mother's point.
He knew the moment she arrived.
He felt compelled to find her that very instant.
He started at a slow run before he even realized what he was doing. He forced a stop and took a breath. He could do this. But he'd have to not be a goddamned bumbling idiot. He stole two champagnes from a passing server for good measure.
He met her at the door.
She was stunning.
His claws peaked out and he nearly shattered the champagne flute.
She was wearing green, of all things. He liked her in green, in this demure green silk gown that hugged her curves and looked fabulous on her but would look better on his bedroom floor.
He wondered if her knickers matched.
He wondered if she was even wearing knickers.
"Granger," he had to fight his voice to keep a normal register.
She looked surprised by him. "Malfoy," her own voice shook a little.
He handed a glass of champagne to her. "Welcome," he said lamely.
"Thank you," her surprise seemed to melt into curiosity.
"Could I borrow you for a moment?" He asked.
"I suppose."
"The rose gardens are very nice."
"That sounds lovely."
He offered his arm to her and she—amazingly—took it.
"Oi!" An indignant Ron interrupted from beside them.
She blushed. "Sorry, Ron. It'll just be a moment." She had only just arrived but already forgotten her supposed beau. Draco took far too much satisfaction in that.
"Just so you know, I'm part veela and you're my mate and we'll probably die within the year if we don't fuck."
He hadn't intended to tell her that way. They had been sitting on a bench in the rose garden under the fairy flights while incandescent magical butterflies floated around them and he was struggling to find the right words to explain it, struggling with his urge not to push her to the grass and explain later, struggling with his erection.
She looked at him with shock and then stood up. He could almost feel her indecision as she fidgeted and her mouth twitched and her hands flinched. Curse him, slap him, or run away? Or try to bloody talk about it.
"Is this a fucking joke," she finally said.
He stood up and tried to look her in the eyes but she wouldn't meet his gaze. He knew she knew.
"It's not a joke." He told her. His voice was low and he kept his distance from her. It was like talking to a feral animal: he was afraid if he made the wrong move she'd bolt. "I know it's not what you would have wanted. I'm really sorry. I wish I were joking."
"How can you even be sure it's me?" She challenged.
He shrugged. "I just am. It just hit me one day. It's the instincts."
She was studying him carefully but not looking him in the eyes. "So now you feel compelled to me."
There was no other way to put it. "Yes."
"But I have no such obligations on you." It was her technical way of telling him to fuck off. It was still a better reaction than he had expected.
"That's only partially true. I've only felt things from this side of it, but I have heard that mates feel the same attraction; it would make things tricky if they didn't. The compulsion may not be as strong but it's there."
"I don't feel any compulsion to you," she told him quickly. He could tell she was lying but she couldn't let him know that. "I'm still not attracted to you."
"It may develop. We're still in the fairly early stages of veela maturation."
"I won't ever be attracted to you," she corrected. "I won't let myself be overruled by pheromones a magical bond that developed without my consent like a parasitic imperious curse." She had begun to talk louder and faster and her panic made him want to hold her and tell her it would be fine. Made him want to do it like a fucking imperious curse.
He wanted to tell her resistance was useless; being his mate now was in her magic. The more she fought it the worse it would be for her. It would be immensely better if she just stopped the struggle now and went upstairs with him.
But he knew enough about his mate to know she would hate feeling coerced. They didn't have a choice in this but he wanted to give her the limited space and freedom he could afford.
"I understand. Being a veela's mates has been compared in some literature to being under the influence of a love potion. It's not a particularly appealing notion of a consensual relationship. I wouldn't coerce into this, and I won't try to force you into anything, but you are my mate, and I can't change that, and I'm sorry."
With immense difficulty, he added, "I think you should go now and think. I'm sure you'll have a million questions and I can try to answer them for you when you're ready. We've even got books on being a veela in the library if you'd like them."
"I… well…" Hermione floundered for words and then simply apparated away.
He had been at Stage Three, which made the whole garden encounter bearable, but he hit Stage Four at around two in the morning.
Revulsion.
He felt revulsion.
He couldn't tell at first that it was hers. He woke up, still a little drunk, groggy and disoriented, and stumbled into the bathroom and was trying to vomit when he realized his revulsion was not his own.
Holy merlin's saggy left ball.
Somewhere, she was feeling absolute disgust and he could feel it.
He was fucked.
He leaned against the wall for support. He was on Stage Four. He needed more time. She wasn't even speaking to him and he needed to fuck her.
He ignored his own horrible realization. He closed his eyes and tried to explore her feeling. She wasn't hurt or scared; if she were he'd be by her side before he could even process it. She was just fully disgusted. Repulsed by something. Mortified, almost, by it.
He sat on his bathroom floor and felt it as slowly her revulsion faded into confusion and then embarrassment.
He tried to dissect it. Had she vomited in her post-gala inebriation? For him, at least, that induced disgust. Or maybe someone else had vomited in front of her—that was even worse.
He tried to seek more from her but the feelings were fading. She was probably going to bed.
Or reading a fucking book.