Author's Note: I'll just shut up and not say a thing in the hopes of escaping the yelling that is bound to follow my deleting Made to Be, shall I not? Never fear (okaymaybesometimes), voila the replacement. I doubt it's as good as the original.

Disclaimer Warning: Nope. Slash, potential mess-ups.

Pairings: Wouldn't you just like to know, hmm? ^.-

Yin and Yang

(or How One Does Not Mess With Fate. Nor A Nundae. Nor A Veela.)

Harry frowned in his sleep, body curled to fit in to the one tiny bed he had. Apparently, Fate couldn't care less that he was about to turn 17 in a few minutes. He had intended to count the seconds to his birth hour, but had fallen asleep thanks to the chores he'd had to do all day.

Yes, how very fun.

All was darkness behind Harry's eyes. A sky appeared, dark and stormy. A cemetery appeared around him by way of a background, headstones sticking up everywhere. There was no order whatsoever to the place.

A loud cackle sounded from seemingly nowhere; Harry whirled. "Voldemort."

Indeed, Voldemort it was, gliding to him, wand twirling in one hand.

No, seriously. This was all very fun.

"Yesssss, it is I, the Dark Lord, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. You people think I don't know what names you give me?"

"Aren't you dead?"

The Dark Lord stopped short. "No I'm not. I feel fine."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Yes you are. I remember it. We were facing off, and then we both said Avada Kedavra at the same time, so the curse was negated, and then you said Expelliarmus, and then my wand stabbed you in the heart, and then – "

"SILENCE! I kill you!" Voldemort interrupted; Harry gave him a dry look.

"You're dead. You can't kill me. And before you cackle about your horcruxes, lemme remind you that you were on your last one. And what's with the accent?"

"I'm not dead."

"Are too."

"Am not."

"Are too."

"Am not."

"Are too."

"Am not."

"Are too. I can't believe –" Harry was about to mutter something about the stupidity of the whole thing, but one cannot exactly mutter properly one is suddenly floating horizontally off the ground, shrouded in white light, now can one?

And so Voldemort – or Voldiekins, as people so loved calling him now – was ditched in a cemetery while Harry met his parents.

When I said Harry met his parents, I meant that literally. The cemetery fell away, and a clearing appeared in his sleep. There was a couple sitting on one of the rocks surrounding the quiet waterfall nearby. Spotting him they came near, and when he could see them he would have jumped if he weren't floating, for they were the notorious Lily and James.

"Mom? Dad?"

"The one and only, bitch! Dattebayo!" crowed his father, until Lily whacked him upside the head. "If you're not going to behave I suggest you shut up or sleep on the couch." She turned to Harry – and about time, too, thought the Boy-Who-Just-Aruged-With-Voldiekins, because what the hell is happening to me?

"You're coming into inheritance, honey." The voice of his mother answered his thoughts, "My father's father's mother's father was a Nundae, and the gene skips generations. It's going to be okay, dear."

"Yeah," chirped James, "it's just gonna be hell at first. Actually, it's gonna be hell, period. I read it in a book." Lily shot her husband a death glare, even as they began to fade. It will be okay, came Lily's reassurance again. But by then Harry could no longer see them. The clearing gave way to blinding white behind Harry's eyelids, then darkness.

- - - abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyz - - -

It was dawn, and the moron freak wasn't up yet. Vernon rolled his mass up the stairs, up, up, pant-pant-pant, up, up, up.

"BOY!" yelled the man, ham of a fist breaking the worn door down with three, four, five 'knocks'. What he saw startled him into silence: the freak stood tall, taller than him, his hair having grown at least six inches. It was up in a high ponytail, secured with a white ribbon (1).

He didn't want to know what happened.

"Draco, I'll be out on personal business for a while, don't burn down the house!" After the defeat of Voldemort, his mother had definitely become more… open, mused the Slytherin.

"I'm sorry I have to be out on your birthday, but I'll be back ASAP, okay?" continued Narcissa. Yes, open, and strangely immerse in Muggle acronyms, Draco decided.

"Yes, mother – MOTHER do I really have to kiss you, fine, here you go, I love you too, bye!" And the Lady Malfoy swept out, leaving Draco to his devices.

It was half past nine in the evening, which meant that there were three minutes left before he was officially seventeen years old. Already he was bored.

Shrugging to himself, he went to the study – his new favorite room, along with Pansy, who visited often – to pick a book of the shelf. Julio and Romiette (2), read the cover: it was a Muggle forbidden romance novel. For a moment Draco made to throw it over his shoulder, but then he thought meh, couldn't hurt (though of course with a more elegant language), drew up a chair and began reading.

Two and a half seconds ticked by unnoticed to the Malfoy heir, so absorbed was he in the plot already. Two minutes forty-five… two minutes fifty… two minutes fifty-five…

Three minutes. A spasm sent Draco off the chair; upon landing he doubled over.

Now, I am quite close to absolutely sure that none of you have ever experienced a failed attempt to grow wings, but if you have, then you can very well imagine this. The same goes for a tail.

Draco's shoulder-blades hurt like hell. It wasn't the muscles, mind you, but the bones. At the base of his spine there was a sharp jab, a jab that soon grew to be unbearable along with the shoulder-blades.

Then it was over.

Draco stood up, breathing heavily. Something was different about him. He would ask Mother when she came back.

End Note: Meep meep. Brother wants the laptop :P

- ~'Vrele