Title: Beyond the Labyrinth
SummaryPost War, Post HBP, Veela!Draco. The old story, but this time Harry knows he's Draco's mate, and with help from Narcissa, who does not want Harry Potter as a son in law, he's determined to keep Draco from ever finding out.
Disclaimer: The recognizable characters, settings, and objects in this story belong to J. K. Rowling and her associates, not me.
Warnings: Slash, violence (in flashbacks), language.
Author's Notes:This is an attempt at a Veela story—hardly a new idea. But I'm changing the rules a bit, in ways that I hope will make the story more interesting. For one thing, Harry is not a helpless victim of fate with no choice but to surrender to the Veela attraction, and neither is Draco. For a second, this is not really a romance; Harry is still dating Ginny at the beginning of this story, and does not want Draco as a life-partner. There are also no secret crushes on Draco's part.
I currently don't have a beta, but if anyone would like to volunteer to help with that, or to be a Brit-picker, or both, you'd be more than welcome. Also, this will be updated irregularly, when I get a chapter finished. I don't plan to abandon it, but updates may well take a while depending on what happens.
Chapter One: Narcissa's Disturbing News
Harry stared into space. He'd become quite accomplished at that. Now and then he blew air at a feather on his nose, which tumbled up, trembled, and settled back into the same place thanks to a spell he'd put on it.
If Harry closed his eyes, Voldemort was dying behind them. He preferred to keep them open for right now.
Well, Voldemort wasn't always dying behind them. Sometimes Harry was killing Bellatrix. And sometimes he lay panting and vomiting on the ground outside the labyrinth that had surrounded Voldemort's last hidden lair, with, of all people, Draco Malfoy beside him. Harry couldn't remember the escape through the labyrinth, but he'd been told that Malfoy had saved his life, and Harry now owed him a debt similar to the one Snape had owed his father.
Harry had only those three memories of the entire war. Nothing about finding and destroying the Horcruxes—though both Ron and Hermione assured him he had. Nothing about the secret kisses that he'd apparently sometimes stolen with Ginny at the Burrow. Nothing about how he had finally summoned the pain and the love necessary to kill Voldemort.
Nothing, nothing, nothing.
It rather pissed him off.
Harry closed his eyes and rotated his neck with a slow pop. If Ginny was there, she might have exclaimed in concern and offered to massage his neck for him, or arched an eyebrow at him and told him to stop lying around in bed and do something. Harry still didn't know her well enough to say for certain. For him, there were the few sunlit weeks they'd shared at the end of sixth year, and then long stretches of blankness, Bellatrix, Voldemort, the end of the labyrinth, and his memory beginning to work perfectly again.
It was late summer. He'd turned eighteen a few days before to the accompaniment of a loud and cheerful party with the Weasleys, as they all attempted, seemingly, to make up for not just a year of his life vanishing but also all the other birthdays he'd had that had gone unacknowledged. Harry appreciated that, he really did. He appreciated everything about his life now, he told himself at least seven times a day. Even the ridiculous adulation from the Daily Prophet; Rita Skeeter had apparently discovered a fondness for finding out how many times she could put "hero" and its variants in a headline. It was preferable to the idea that he'd have to face Death Eaters in battle tomorrow. And he was even going to get to return to Hogwarts; the Wizarding Examinations Authority had offered all the students who would have been seventh-years after Dumbledore's death and hadn't gone back to school a bargain, that they complete a normal year of classes as if they were still seventeen and then take their NEWTS. Hermione had looked as if she might break down crying when she'd heard.
Harry appreciated all of it.
But he still wanted to spend the last few weeks of August by himself in Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, and think, and brood, and try to get used to the idea of having so few memories.
It was the perfect place for brooding. Ron and Ginny tended to drag him to the Burrow when they wanted to see him, not intruding on the silence and the dimness here. Harry almost never saw Kreacher, who probably spent his evenings doing disturbing things to socks, and so long as he didn't speak, Mrs. Black's portrait tended not to wake up. Harry could spend the days lying on his bed, brief times down in the kitchen for meals, and his nights sleeping and reliving the same three memories over and over again in his dreams.
And trying to get used to the ghosts, too, he supposed. Sirius and Dumbledore—and the ones who had died during the war but whom he didn't remember dying. Snape, who of course had been playing for the Light side all along, depriving Harry of even the satisfaction of hating him. Neville, dead in a Death Eater raid Bellatrix had led.
Lupin.
Harry closed his eyes and swallowed. The grief that drifted through him was never the same twice in a row—sometimes angry and bitter, since he didn't even have the memory of seeing Lupin die when he'd been right there as it happened, and the werewolf had died practically in his arms; sometimes gentle and gray, as he reflected that at least it had been quick; sometimes entirely detached, because it had happened to someone else, in another life he'd only read and heard about. That was probably the hardest emotion to bear, just because it refused to stop changing.
The Healers at St. Mungo's said Harry had taken no physical injury to his head that would keep his memory at bay. There was no trace of a Memory Charm—no trace, in fact, of any spell that affected the mind. Ron and Hermione had given Harry solemn promises that his memory still worked right when they destroyed the last Horcrux, Nagini herself, and Harry had Apparated to the labyrinth to face Voldemort.
It seemed that Harry was simply going to have to get used to the idea that a part of his life was gone, and it was easier for him to do that in solitude.
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
Harry might well have lain there all afternoon if not for something that hadn't happened at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place for the fortnight he'd been living there. He heard the roar and whoosh of a Floo connection, followed by the excited squeals of Kreacher as he fell all over himself to welcome whoever had come through.
Harry stood up stiffly and reached for his wand, which lay on the bedside table, then paused to wipe at his glasses, which had got covered with drifting dust. He could only think of a few people Kreacher would welcome, and none of them were good news. Lucius Malfoy had died in Azkaban, and Harry knew Bellatrix Lestrange was dead, eliminating the worst possibilities, but that hardly meant he had any wish to talk to Draco Malfoy.
He made his way slowly down the stairs to the kitchen, shifting his feet so they made no sound. The kitchen door was half-ajar, and Kreacher's voice shrill enough that Harry could distinguish the words when he was still halfway up the staircase.
"Oh, yes, Kreacher promises that Mistress is welcome—"
Harry blinked. Mistress? But I don't think he would welcome Tonks or her mother, and that leaves—
"Yes, yes, Kreacher," said a woman's cold, impatient voice. "You have convinced me of the house's hospitality. Now, fetch your master."
"Kreacher does not like his master," the house-elf complained. "Kreacher would much rather live with and serve beautiful Mistress Malfoy, and Master Draco, who is a very good boy!"
Narcissa Malfoy. Harry felt as if he were a Kneazle, all his fur standing on end. He hadn't seen the woman at all during the war—at least that he remembered, or that Ron and Hermione had told him—and she had apparently taken no part in it, having hidden in France, but that hardly meant Harry liked her. She had played a role in Sirius's death. He would not forget that.
He aimed his wand at the kitchen door, and then at Kreacher as the house-elf appeared on the stairs in front of him with a deafening crack.
Kreacher scowled up at him and shook his head. "Mistress Malfoy is wanting you in the kitchen," he muttered. "Kreacher does not know what bad master has done to deserve such good fortune."
Harry stepped past him, keeping a sharp eye on the treacherous thing, and strode to the kitchen. Narcissa Malfoy was sitting at the table inside, staring around the room with a deep look of disapproval, as if everything inside it smelled of dung. Harry aimed his wand at the side of her face before she even noticed.
"Why are you here?" he demanded.
If he had startled her, she refused to show it. She turned to face him, and Harry vaguely realized she wore black robes, possibly for mourning. He shrugged impatiently. He didn't really care. The sooner she told him what she had come about, the sooner she could hurry up and get out of his house. He hadn't realized the Malfoys would still be able to access it. He would see about keeping them out tomorrow.
Narcissa examined him as if he were an insect. Harry glared back. Yes, the woman was pretty, but that continual look on her face as if she smelled something foul rather diminished the impact of the prettiness. And Harry didn't owe her anything. Hermione had assured him that Draco Malfoy was the only one who could collect on the debt Harry owed him, since he was of age.
"Mr. Potter," said Narcissa, with an abruptness that reminded Harry of a striking bird. "What do you know about veela?"
Harry blinked, and then shook his head, his mind filled with memories of fourth year and the Quidditch World Cup. "They're pale, usually," he said shortly. "They can change into birds when they're angry. They—affect people." It was as much as he was willing to say about the idiocy he'd suffered when they were around. "I know a part-veela girl named Fleur Delacour who married Bill Weasley. She has the hair of a veela in her wand core."
Narcissa nodded, eyes fastened intently on him.
"That's it," Harry pointed out.
Narcissa closed her eyes. "Give me patience," she murmured. "And you call yourself a wizard?"
"Get out," Harry said, his temper simmering up again as he thought of Sirius, and the fact that if one Black sister had killed him, another had helped send him to his death. Ron had told him he'd mostly got over missing Sirius during the last year. But without the memory of it, with only the knowledge that he'd laughed when he killed Bellatrix, Harry didn't feel calm and with his mourning in the past. He felt rattled, wanting to be out of Narcissa's company as soon as possible.
"No. Not until you listen to me, you stupid child." Narcissa leaned forward. "My son is half-veela. Do you have any idea what that means?"
Harry shrugged impatiently. "That you're a veela?"
"No," said Narcissa quietly, and she appeared to have followed her own advice, growing patience even as it diminished in Harry. "Half-veela is more a technical term than a descriptive one, at least when the trait reappears after a time long dormant, as it did in me." She touched her blonde hair. "I am the only one among my sisters to carry this hair, the only one in the Black family for several generations. I am called a half-veela not because one of my parents was a veela, but because generations ago one of my ancestors married one, and then had only sons with her. The trait retreated underground, to appear in an appropriate daughter. If I had had a daughter, she would have been quarter-veela, like the Delacour wench. But I had a son, and now he has manifested as a half-veela. His eighteenth birthday was earlier this summer."
Harry concealed a yawn, badly. "Fascinating."
"This concerns you," Narcissa told him. "Half-veela have mates, the one wizard or witch—or veela, of course—who can give them what they most need and want. They can match their needs and wants, mentally, with people around them until they find their mates. They have a year, from their eighteenth birthday until their nineteenth, to do so. If that year passes without their finding their mates, they will lose the ability to look into others' minds, and be happy with a spouse their parents choose for them."
Harry cocked his head, studying her. "So Lucius wasn't your mate?"
Narcissa curled her lip. "Fate was not that kind," she murmured. "No, my mate was—someone else. I never knew him. Or her. My parents kept me in seclusion for my eighteenth year, until the madness had passed and I could marry Lucius. I had the best life possible with him." Harry expected to see a shadow of grief in her eyes at that, but saw only coldness. Well, she would hardly spill intimate emotions to him. "And fate has not been kind to Draco, either."
Heartbeats passed in endless silence, while Harry tried to decide if he should laugh or cry. He decided not to do either, in the end. He wouldn't be able to stop if he started.
"I'm Draco's mate," he said.
Narcissa nodded.
"And he doesn't know, but you do?" Harry frowned. "How did that happen?"
"Sometimes a half-veela's unconscious mind will know, but the conscious revelation never happens until he can look into his mate's mind and see his needs and wants satisfied," said Narcissa. "I heard Draco murmuring your name in his sleep. I might have doubted it was you, but he said your full name. And I have asked him in the full light of day. He does not know."
"I don't want to be his mate," Harry pointed out.
"And I don't want you as a son-in-law," Narcissa replied with icy precision. "That is why I will help you escape him."
"If he's returning to Hogwarts and he looks into my mind—"
"He will not." Narcissa touched her robe pocket, and then lifted out a tiny glass vial, while Harry kept her warily at wand-point. The vial sparkled with a liquid that looked like molten silver. "This potion is rare, and not often made because there is not much demand for it, but it will block him from accessing your mind and seeing that your ability to answer his needs and wants matches what he longs for."
"I should trust you and drink that?" Harry regarded her skeptically.
Narcissa shook her head. "I have no need or desire to kill you, Mr. Potter. You owe a debt to Draco that can serve him well in the future. I owed no loyalty to the Dark Lord before the end, not with what he had done to my husband and son—and to the man who had sworn to protect Draco." Harry nodded tightly; Hermione had told him about the mess with the Unbreakable Vow Snape had sworn to Narcissa, which they'd accessed in one of Snape's Pensieves after he died. "And there would certainly be a full Ministry investigation if the hero of the wizarding world perished now, even if it looked accidental. I will not risk going to Azkaban."
"I killed your sister," Harry reminded her.
"A sister who was largely responsible for the fact that Severus had to swear an Unbreakable Vow, and for a good portion of Draco's danger," Narcissa snapped. "I do not mourn her, Mr. Potter, except in ways that you will never understand. The potion is trustworthy. I will send you more of it throughout the term. You need only take it until June. Draco's ability to sense his mate will fade then, when he turns nineteen."
"Won't he be suspicious if mine is the one mind he can't access?"
Narcissa shook her head. "There will be other people he can't look at, people with naturally strong mental defenses. And why should he glance for long in your direction? You are hardly his picture of the ideal mate."
Harry snorted. "Why'd his veela blood choose me, then?"
"I do not know, Mr. Potter. I do not care." Narcissa leaned forward. "He will have a normal life. His veela blood may believe that a life with you would be best for him, but that is not the case. What we want and desire at eighteen changes dramatically by the time we are twenty-four, or thirty, or thirty-five. I will not have Draco bound to you for the rest of his life, in intolerable misery, because of a mistaken, childish decision."
"I don't exactly fancy it either," Harry pointed out. He hesitated. It was the fact he was a Gryffindor that made him ask the next question. Sometimes he loathed his House. "And nothing will happen to him because of this? He won't die?"
"Do I look dead to you?" Narcissa asked.
"I was just wondering if it was different for male half-veela and female ones," Harry muttered, feeling his face heat up. "Since you did say male half-veela were unusual."
Unexpectedly, Narcissa smiled at him. "In fact, it is different," she said. "Female half-veela suffer perhaps a year of unexpected tantrum tempers and mood shifts when they cannot find their mates. That happened to me. Male half-veela suffer five years of deep depression."
Harry stared at her.
"But it will not be fatal," Narcissa went on coolly, "and I assure you that he will thank me—and even you—for this someday. What is five years of depression against a lifetime with someone he loathes?"
"Are you sure he would—"
"I know my son, Mr. Potter, as you do not, and never will if you simply play your part." Narcissa tapped the vial full of the silvery potion. "I assure you, what he wants is the life he has been trained from childhood to want. The normal life, with a wife and children and the social circles you cannot even aspire to. He was his father's son, and mine, long before his veela blood became active and chose you. Yes, he will want this."
After a long moment of consideration, Harry nodded. And really, it wasn't as though he'd throw the rest of his life away to save Draco Bloody Malfoy, would he?
He Summoned the potion vial and caught it as it zoomed over to him. "How much do I take, and how long does it last?" he asked.
"Five drops on your tongue at morning and evening," Narcissa said, standing. "Use the first dose this evening. It is unlikely Draco will meet you before Hogwarts in any case, but we must not take chances."
Harry nodded. He couldn't help but feel a tiny bit grateful towards Narcissa Malfoy, even if she was only doing this because she didn't want him to be her son's mate. "Um, Mrs. Malfoy?"
She turned to look at him as she bent over the Floo.
"Thank you."
Narcissa laughed coldly. "The pleasure is entirely mine, Mr. Potter, I assure you. Lucius would turn over in his grave to know that his son was bound to his Lord's destroyer." She cast the Floo powder into the flames, said, "Malfoy Manor," and stepped through.
Harry turned, shaking his head, and went upstairs. He met Kreacher at the top, rubbing his head lovingly against the banister.
"Kreacher's head may hang here someday, if beautiful Mistress Malfoy is kind," the house-elf murmured rapturously.
"Oh, go clean something," Harry muttered, and strode past him. He'd ask for Hermione's help analyzing the potion before he drank it, of course, and also researching half-veela. But he wasn't going to encounter Malfoy for at least a week and a half, and he had the time to think about this.
It wasn't until he was rifling the Black library for books on veela that he realized this was the most alive he'd felt since the end of the war.
Harry paused when he had the thought, then shrugged. And with any luck, I'll continue feeling this alive, because there is no bloody way that Draco Malfoy is going to find out I'm his mate.