Real Tragedy
Of all the things Draco expected his father to say, that particular phrase was fairly low on the registry. In his mind, it ranked probably somewhere between being informed that he was Harry Potter's twin brother, and learning he's been betrothed to a unicorn. What Lucius said should have been preposterous. The scholarly world had never believed that a male Veela could exist. There was a commonly accepted truth that Veela blood in a witch was an extreme rarity, but that due to chance or fate or magical tragedy, there had never been any proof of any male Veela in existence. He should have been able to predict it; of course Draco's life would defy the natural laws of the world. Then again what was ever normal about any occurrence in the wizarding world?
The bloodlines of the Veela were so dilute. The historians were very flippant about the eventual tragic demise of the race. According to every textbook Draco had at his disposal, they were a magical species barreling headlong down the road to becoming extinct due to their inability to produce male offspring. Of course the fact that there had been a few centuries of persecution did not help population growth either. However, no one wants to ever embrace the blame for questionably inhuman laws. There was even some speculation that Veelas were actually the mythical sirens of old. Therefore, of course Veelas could only be females since mythology only referenced deadly temptresses. Draco liked to believe this assumption epitomized the stupidity of bookworms and their inability to think of anything not found in a reference book. It seemed perfectly obvious to Draco it was possible for male Veelas to live. He knew he was a man. He did not need to double check this fact.
Draco had been cloistered up in his room under the pretenses of the most ingenious lie his parents could concoct. He'd contracted Vanishing Sickness and had ghastly allergic reaction to the potion a healer administrated to him. It was a near death experience for him that demanded he rest for weeks, or so the story went. In a way, Draco felt that he really had died that night. He could no longer be called a pureblood. His blood-work revealed he had the strongest amount of Veela blood ever to be documented in any one. When the family Healer tested Draco for Veela heritage all were flabbergasted to find that Draco, without a doubt, was a full Veela. Draco was sure the Healer cursed himself for taking an Unbreakable Vow to keep Draco's condition a secret. There was no doubt in Draco's mind the Healer probably considered breaking it just to receive the eternal glory of discovering and treating the first male Veela in recorded history. However, there is no satisfaction if one couldn't wallow in personal glory. Plus, the Healer probably thought not even death could save him from the retribution the Malfoy clan would deliver for the betrayal.
For clear reasons, he desperately needed a cover, and Vanishing Sickness was a good ruse. It kept Voldemort and his brute squad out of the manor, for fear of contracting the disease themselves if nothing else. The Malfoys preferred the bubble of solitude that blanked the Manor for the coming weeks. The lie did almost a better job keeping Draco hidden from anyone who might take interest in Draco than the wrought iron, stone and complex wards probably ever had. However, the excuse had reached its expiration date all too quickly. To celebrate Draco's return to glorious health, the Dark Lord saw it fitting to have the meeting take place at Malfoy Manor. It felt like it was more like another reminder that there was no escape from the nightmare that was his fate: swearing eternal allegiance to the psychotic killer.
Draco shook his head violently, trying to physically banish his thoughts from his skull. He glared at pristine room where the newest addition to his life taunted him. The bright turquoise bottle on his desk seemed to jeer back, fully accepting the challenge thrown down from Draco. He had no choice but to follow orders, the potion won by default tonight. It would be consumed.
Those who had more time then sense apparently preferred to research the absolutely pointless. One such research study focused on the effects that the Draught of Peace had on patients adjusting to Veela changes. It appeared to Draco certain Healers share the same complex. They all just had to focus on the impossible, like diminishing the difficult reactions of failed Veela courtships, instead of actually trying to save lives on a normal basis. The research illustrated that a careful requiem of the brew could keep the Veela nature dormant. When Lucius heard of a few patients having extended period of time to woe their mate, he had secure a steady supply of the draught and the pricey ingredients. Snape cautioned Draco's family to try let Draco accept his nature before starting the requiem, however those warnings fell on deaf ears. Draco had been cautioned against abusing the potion; he hoped that there were not any long term effects from so heavily relying on the Draught of Peace. As long as he didn't start drooling in the middle of the meeting like some beast, he would be satisfied. He could not hide the physical changes that he went through, but other explanations would also justify the transformations. Seventeen year olds did tend to have rather large growth spurts. It wouldn't be completely out of the question that Draco just happened to grow several centimeters in a summer.
The excuses coupled with the potion should have allowed him to keep his true nature hidden from people who would seek to destroy Draco, (the Order of the flaming fools) or aspire to exploit his new powers, (he who must not have a brain). Draco was lucid enough to realize that it might be the other way around. Team Harry with their soft hearts beating with all things noble might seek to recruit him if they heard his pathetic situation and Team Voldie might see him as more of a threat than a weapon and try to eliminate any possible threat to the status quo. Either way, it didn't change Draco's lot in life. Regardless of the actions his foes might actually take, he could not afford for the truth to come out at one of these Voldemort angst sessions.
The way Draco perceived the situation; he was already in a countdown to his eventual death no matter what happened. If Voldemort found out the truth he was dead. If the Order learned about it he would have a larger target on his back. If he couldn't find his mate he'd surely waste away. If the mate refused his love he'd suffer a pitiful demise. If she died in this war he would instantaneously expire. With all those things in consideration, his odds for surviving this war were merger at best; less than a fourth year (other than Potter) surviving and winning the Triwizard Tournament. He would try to hold out as long as possible—because he still retained some semblance of pride, not because he believed in lovey dovey immature faery tales to explain sex under the allusion of romance. Well, for now he had to only endure through the meeting. He could dwell on his depressing survival prospects later.
Draco uncorked the vial and looked down at the shimmering turquois liquid. He knew the time for dawdling had pass. So with complete apathy he tossed it back in one gulp. The Draught of Peace left a sickly sweet after taste that burned his heightened palate. Ordinarily, Draco would have had some witty but sarcastic remark on peace floating caustically about his head, but he was overwhelmed with the initial rush of tranquility. He longed to do nothing more than to stay here quiet and complacent in his room. However, he still maintained enough sense to know he could not do such a thing. It was time for him to descend to the hellish assembly of Death Eaters.
Drag—a verb which means to draw hence with force, violence, or roughness; to draw slowly with difficulty.
This meeting was the very definition of dragging. The force of course originated from the ever lovely Dark Lord of everlasting stupidity. The difficulty rested on Draco's ability to bear the evening as stoically as possible. However, even with the Draught of Peace in his blood system his nervousness and the nausea left him feeling like he was on trial yet again. Voldemort was droning on about world domination and the eventual execution of Mister-Boy-Hero himself. There was some death to be had, but mostly the topic du jure was mayhem. And one couldn't forget the humiliation that was on the itinerary for Voldemort's macabre pleasure. He'd robbed his father of his wand, which was the most emasculating thing one wizard could inflict on another. The family had already lost their honor with the high quality time in prison Lucius had already endured. So, why not add insult to injury? They had to just grin and bear it. It is too dangerous to acknowledge the shame.
The meeting seemed to go on and on until, like shadows passing in the night, the Lord of idiocy and his band of masked monkeys left the Manor. On the bright-side, Draco had been given the pristine honor to be chosen to be lead minion for the junior ranked brute squad. Previously, Draco would have been overjoyed to hold the position. Now, he was wiser; this was just yet another way he and his family could be continuously watched. This was not a reward but test for Draco. Voldemort wanted Draco to prove his worth and get his hands dirty.
Last year was stressful enough and that was when he thought he was perfectly 100% human, Ha! Instead he was living the dream of the average 10 year old girl; he was a rare mythological creature destined for a soul mate. Well, if the average brat with pigtails really wanted this botched reality, they could bloody well have it. He would rather go back to his days of having a slew of beautiful witches at his disposal. That had been entertaining. Plus, he had been very proficient with dealing with their wants and needs. He had often been informed how greatly he performed. Yes, he knew eventually he would settle down, marry, and produce a Malfoy heir himself, but he had several good years he had planned on wasting with a large quantity of beautiful broads. Now, his choices were "bond"—he refused to say mate, he didn't like the connation of being like an animal—or death. It would appear that Draco was in need of a quality relationship much sooner than he ever thought in his hellish nightmares. His future spouse better not be a hag because the last thing he wanted was to wish for death after the fact. According to the minimal research he had been able to stomach reading about the mating section of his condition, a Veela's mate was the very epitome of perfection. Draco personally was tired of the obsession with the quest of perfection. It was impossible to ever achieve perfection. His entire life had been a quest to be perfect. Now, he was stuck in a world dying to find his perfect match.
For days Draco would do everything in his power to lose himself in the confines of the Malfoy extensive library. However, even with the mountain of materials available to distract him, Draco felt uneasy. He had entered the market of trying to buy any and all books about Veelas, he could not shake the overwhelming feeling that he was missing something important. Oh, not in the sappy way—he wasn't desperately pleading for his mate. He luckily hadn't matured enough to be able to long for his mate yet. No it is that annoying sense one gets when they know information is being withheld. Draco was an intrepid advocate for full disclosure. He'd never been a fan of surprises, or being left purposely ignorant. It made a man look daft when he was the only one lacking the truth, and Draco had never reveled in the joys of playing the fool. He did his best with what he could to educate himself on his condition, but he only had the supplies housed in the growing Malfoy library. It was filled with the rarest and sought after books, but not every answer in life can be found within ink remnants of previous generations. Especially when it came to a creature as increasingly rare and private as a Veela.
Draco self-imposed solitude was interrupted abruptly by his godfather's appearance. Severus certainly had a flare for the dramatics. He appeared at just the right moment, when Draco was fully emerged in his research. He had learned from an early age his mentor's ability to silently appear in the most annoying moments. Most students would quake with fear at the grave grace Snape exuded, but then, most of his peers were still bumbling along trying to master their own two feet without becoming a clumsy sideshow. No, Draco had honed the art of being a true Slytherin long ago. So when Snape appeared seemingly out of thin air at his side and lingered in the empty chair, Draco was not at all flustered. However, this did not mean Draco was in the mood to have a discussion with the older man.
"May I help you?" Draco assumed that the rest of his evening would be another wonderful lecture on his responsibilities.
It was simple to conclude that Draco wasn't looking forward to it. So why not at least goad his opponent? The thrill of wit and banter was his eternal pastime. Severus's face clearly expressed his annoyance at the sass in Draco's delivery.
"This is not the time for portraying the attitude of a petulant teenage girl." It was apparent that both men were prepared for such sparring match. There was a flicker of amusement in Snape's eyes as he spoke. Draco only sneered back in response. He rather did not enjoy being compared to the likes of Brown. The annoyed teen elected not to dignify that slanderous statement with a response. Instead, he headed over to decanter by the fireplace. He poured himself a little Blishen and offered Snape his own glass. He had a feeling this conversation would need a glass or two to survive through.
"Draco, there is no simple way to have this conversation." Snape began anew as he as he took the offered firewhiskey. Draco was content to stare into the glass as he swirled the potent beverage to watch the way it reflected the light and danced within its glass prison, waiting for his godfather to continue. "Draco, it is undeniable that you have been asked to do many egregious things at far too young of age. You have witnessed many terrible things."
"I sense a 'but' coming," Draco drawled, trying to resist the urge to fidget. It was an unbecoming habit he'd taken pains to remove from himself at a younger age. Since the transformation he felt he had regressed waiting for Snape to get to the heart of his lecture only seemed to heighten Draco's agitation.
"Perceptive as ever," Snape allowed. "I know you think you have had all your choices stripped from you, but you do still have choices." Snape's supposedly enlightening comment sparked a scoff to ripple out from its recipient. Draco had already studied his wonderful choices and he saw no hope at all for his situation.
"Death or more death. How very pleasant, I think I will pick—"Draco sarcastically intoned.
"Do not be flippant with me; we are in a war." Severus was deadly calm, signaling to Draco should cease with the immaturity.
"I didn't ask to be a Veela. I didn't ask for any of this." Even Draco couldn't deny that his own voice sounded too much like a dejected whine.
"Wake up, Draco. None of us ask for this. No one asks for their personal challenges. No one asks for the hardships of war to come crashing down on them. Unfortunately, our lives will only get more difficult and challenging once we return to Hogwarts. I believe you have the fortitude to do what you must for yourself or you wouldn't have earned the honor of being Head Boy. You are far too clever to let anyone take what you want out from under you." Severus put the green badge on the side table.
Draco didn't want to think about the truth of those words. Draco had always wanted to be Head Boy. Even though he had always bested Potter academically, Draco had resigned himself to accept that the Gryffindor would swoop in a claim the honor. He had become very acquainted with Potter's modus operandi during his time at Hogwarts. By the time Draco had overcome his conflicting emotions he realized that Snape had already disappeared into the night. The conversation was over, without a doubt. However, the words that been said were still reverberating within his mind.
"But I am afraid I don't know what I want." Draco whispered to an empty room.
We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light~Plato