Word from the Author: Sick of those 'Oh, I'm so in love with a Veela, who is destined to be my mate and love me and only me for all of eternity and who will just drop dead if I do so much as reject them... And of course it doesn't matter if they used to hate me, because what is that in the face of pre-determined love and destiny?!'...? Well. I was. For a moment or so, still love a well-written Veela-tale though. Didn't stop me from writing this random reflection on what being a Veela could also mean...

Basically, I just ignore a lot of the 'Veela lore' in existence, and try to start afresh by manipulating certain information from canon... And uh, I hope it turned out okay... Well, please, let me know what you think when you're done with it!

Also, I know this is a fandom I've written for before, but if you think of my 100 fandom goal, the true purpose of the task is to make me write more... SO. Yeah. Harry Potter is fandom no. 5...!

Disclaimer: Is that lawsuit for me? No, I think not! Because I'm telling you now, this isn't mine, and I'm not making anything, fraudulently or otherwise, out of this. Except possibly reviews. But you know, that's not really... payment... per se... ah... Screw it. It ain't mine, so there.

Sins of the Father

You've no doubt heard the stories. The ones of love and grandeur, of devotion and need, the ones which paint Veela in the most flattering of lights that would have you believe that to be loved by one such creature is nigh on a dream come true.

Stories, as they are often are, mix fantasy with truth, to spin tales of wonder, to catch your eyes and hypnotize. You'll have heard, I'm sure, of the glory it is to be beloved to, to be chosen, no, destined, I believe the word they use is, for one such as I.

I won't deny that there is some truth, diluted though it is. What I will say though is that this is no fairy tale, at least not by nowadays' standards – there is no happy ending of which to speak. In fact, if anything, I would describe those last few moments of any Veela's life as rather bleak. Unforgiving, and maybe not just a little chilling, if you will.

The truth is we Veela are not born as humans are born, from the joining of flesh. We are not birthed from the body of another, not pure Veela, anyway. It is true that we are capable of breeding, with others, but that it is all it is, breeding. It's not even sex, not as humans know it, for we derive no pleasure from it, though it is said to be a delicacy for those who dare to try it. That is to say, if they survive it.

Perhaps our lack of interest in such matters stems from the fact that we have no real desire to procreate, and as such we feel no need to partake in such activities of the flesh. At best, we are possessed of our charms, merely to disarm those around us, to make things for us much easier by far.

We have no wish to continue on in this world for much longer than we must – as such, it's an odd occurrence that we should bring into the world progeny, as our parental instincts, for some reason unknown, don't appear to have been completely crushed unlike our capacity to love, tender and true. It is only thus that we sometimes linger, beyond our time, should we come to know what it is to be a bringer of life, instead of death. We are creatures of the dark for a reason.

It is because we are cursed.

We are the manifestation of dark desires, of human lust, greed, sloth, envy, gluttony, pride, wrath – it was through us that the seven sins came to be known to man. We are the result of sacrifices made to those desires, and we exist only until such a time as when the debt must be paid, and the wish's life expires.

We are the collectors, and we are turned, not unlike our vampiric siblings, into what we are.

My story is not all that different, no doubt, from that which belongs to the rest of my brethren. What I'm about to tell you is the barest bones of my life, and how I came to be as I am, no longer of man, but of shadow.

My father is a proud man, one who appears to be forever driven by his desire for greatness. He was greedy for it, and envious of all those who had more of it than he. He is the epitome of cool, sophisticated elegance, until his wrath is evoked, and then he is a beast of fire, not ice. His anger burns and destroys. My father is the one who created me, not simply as the writer of my days, as half the genetic material that spawned me as a human, a wizard. No, he is the one who turned me into this creature of darkness. Though it is out of darkness that we rise as blinding beacons of purist light. Our beauty is a sign of our curse. For to look upon such a beautiful creature, someone perhaps thought long ago, would make it worse, than were it a hideous creature destined to steal from you that which you have bought in blood. Perhaps it was thought by that same someone long ago to be… poetic justice, or some such nonsense. Though I call it nonsense, I suppose I might have agreed originally were it not for the fact that I find myself at the center of this sordid little tale, no way about it.

But as I was saying, this all began with my father, who is a proud man. For all that the Malfoy name carried with it the pride and privilege of purity, in blood if not in deed, during my father's time the Family had little to its claim – little, that is, barring its name, which held some influence still. Our fortune had been squandered generations ago, much like the Weasley's, in petty feuds and squabbles. Some would say that therein lies the beginning of our troubles, but perhaps, had my father been a different man, we could have been happy and poor, instead of rich, unsmiling, and oh, let us not forget cursed.

But my father wasn't a different man and so there is no point in wasting time on ifs and maybes. Just because I am a creature of fantasy does not mean I need let my imagination run away from me. As such, I shall continue.

During my father's time at Hogwarts, or so my mother had told me when I was younger, he was well known for his intelligence, his aptitude for magic and his refined lineage. What he lacked in wealth he made up in, and I scoff now at the words that once passed through my mother's lips, character. To my eyes, for all that my father was once the center of my universe and for all that to exist was to please him, to make him proud, he is now little more than a caricature to my mind, a pitiful over exaggeration of pompous, unfounded superiority. The most pathetic thing of it all is that he chose to make himself thus, and in doing so sacrificed his only son. It is I who was forsaken.

It was in my father's sixth year at Hogwarts that he somehow stumbled across the spell. Though perhaps to call it a spell is a bit of a stretch, more to the point it was a blood ritual, potent and powerful. All it takes is a drop of blood, but as is often the case with rituals such as the one he performed at Winter Equinox that year, more lurks beneath the surface than ever does appear upfront. The reason for this, I tell you now, stems from the fact that it is not simply blood that binds you. Blood is merely the conduit. Through it, the magic gains access to your soul, and steals the smallest of slithers from it. The power of your words as you agree to the price bleeds you dry of the good that once resided, more in some than in others, within you.

And the price, as I'm sure you've realized… To have fulfilled your heart's desire, you must give to the darkness the first child you sire. A small price to pay, I'm certain Lucius would have thought, to obtain all the wealth and prestige that he had forever sought.

Of course the ritual does not speak of the other catch; it would not be a catch otherwise. It is something of which we Veela are forbidden to speak, the fact that I am now doing so being an exception to the rule. But as for why I am an exception; that you need not know. Now, as I was saying, we are not allowed to speak of it, as sworn to the Covenant, lest it mean that people think twice before performing the act which brings us to life, or worse that they should try to break the bounds they willingly choked themselves with in an attempt to revoke their promise, and rescind on the oath they did give. The catch, oh yes, is that all that you've gained will be taken back – or rather, it is you who must be taken as revenge for the child you've forsaken, the monster you yourself created, despite its revelation belated. For the process, the metamorphosis of child into beast, is a slow one. The 'Inheritance' of which people speak is a rare part that holds true. The beginning of the change is an indicator that soon debts will be due, and need be paid in full.

So you see, my father went through the motions, completed the dealing, signed and sealed with my future. He gained his wealth, the power and influence he so desired, and the woman which he had lusted after. As far as I'm aware, my mother would've married my father even without the money. It was never that which had driven her, the name that came along with my father was more a cover, a token. It had been him, simple but true, and that alone would have sufficed. But that's beside the point, at least for the moment, for my father took my mother as his bride, and within months of their union she fell with child, and 'lo and behold I was born into this world as Draco Malfoy, precious heir to Lucius Malfoy and his coldly charming wife Narcissa, née Black.

I look back in fondness at my childhood, and I do admit that I was spoiled. Not so much as to be spoilt, but still, doted upon. I recall family friends referring to me as the 'apple of my father's eye,' whatever that was supposed to mean. Little to nothing, really. But then, in a past that seems so long ago, it was everything to me, to be cherished by my father so. That is, before I learnt he'd sold my soul for trinkets, silver, paper, gold.

Then again, I suppose I could say that many of my life lessons have been learnt through my father. Betrayal is just another aspect of being a Malfoy, hidden behind the smoothest of façades, such that even a child of one's own blood would not realize until it's too late. Though, in truth, ever since the moment that he performed that cursed ritual, it has been too late.

And I am precisely that myself. The war continues to wage, and yet again my father managed to pry himself free of Ministerial grasps that wished to pull him under. Oh no, couldn't have that, now could we? That is, after all, my job. My life purpose. Not to emulate him, or be the perfect son, nor to run off to join a psychotic Dark Lord, or even to turn from the dark and walk into the light.

I sneer at the last part. There is no escaping the dark when it lurks inside you, clawing out from somewhere deep within, threatening to break you open and spill out and taint everything that you touch. The only thing is… everything I've touched has always been nothing more than ashes.

Tonight, I will end things, Father. Dust to dust.

This is the price for your sin.

Finis.

Another Word from the Author: And thus came to be the Fifth. Which, since I'm not as bad at counting as I thought I may be, means ninety-five more to go! Feedback always much loved and appreciated...!