Thank you very much to my betas, Esrinthly and Bewildered Muse, who looked this chapter over very carefully and gave me extremely good advice about everything from grammar to characterization.
Chapter Three: Of the Ignoring of Facts
"You're sure that's all there is?" Harry tried to keep his fingers from rapping out a nervous rhythm on the edge of the table in the Black library, but he couldn't help it. Hermione sat back and gave him the calm, annoyed look that she'd apparently perfected in the year they searched for the Horcruxes. At least, she looked much more serene than the memories Harry had of her from sixth year. Harry wondered where the girl who'd set canaries on Ron when she was exasperated with him had gone.
"I'm sure, Harry," she said. "Half-veela are just what Mrs. Malfoy told you, and I'm sure they don't die if they can't find their mates in a year. Even if they are male."
Harry sagged back in his chair with a sigh of relief. If Malfoy wasn't going to die, then Harry didn't see why he had any obligation to let the git know he was his mate. He might suffer from depression, but, as his mother had said, he would like that better than being bound to the rival he'd hated for seven years of his life.
"Of course, there are a few things she didn't tell you," Hermione went on. She flipped open the book in front of her, eyes shining. Harry recognized that look from the days before his eighteenth birthday celebration, when she'd helped the Weasleys plan the party, and became wary. "Half-veela do find the people they want and need, but their mates find what they want and need in the half-veela as well."
Harry blinked for a moment, then chuckled. "Pull the other one, Hermione."
"I'm completely serious," said Hermione, and pushed the book across the table to him. Harry took one look and glanced away, blinking. All the sentences he'd tried to read were at least eighty words long, and so laden with conditional clauses that he didn't see how anyone was supposed to make sense of the exceptions.
"Well, that still doesn't mean I want to give my life up to him," Harry said. "I love Ginny."
Hermione's silence was telling, perhaps because she was so rarely silent. Harry shot her a grumpy glance. "What?"
"You loved Ginny, Harry," Hermione said gently. "I know that you fell in love with her over the past year. But you told me you can't remember that. I'd just hate to see you deceive yourself, and Ginny."
"I didn't—" Harry closed his eyes and ran his hand through his hair. Other than the sheer fact of his amnesia, that was what bothered him the most about the past year. He'd apparently had a wonderful girlfriend whom he'd been completely in love with, and he couldn't remember a whit of it.
"I may not feel exactly now what I did then," he said, forcing his eyes open. "But Ginny's still my girlfriend, Hermione. And she's your friend. I can't believe you would seriously suggest that I walk up to Malfoy, of all people, and—"
"I'm not suggesting that, Harry." Hermione's face had turned a bit red. "The original topic of conversation was about what Mrs. Malfoy didn't tell you, if you remember." She reclaimed her book. "'Some people are naturally resistant to a half-veela's gaze, which needs eye contact to work, and reaches into the mind to pull out the dominant impressions of the possible mate's wants and needs,'" she read. "'There is a potion that can be brewed from the hair of such resistant people which makes it possible for the mate to block access to his or her mind. It is not often required, because few sane wizards and witches wish to refuse a half-veela who will grant them what they want and need.'" She frowned at Harry.
"I reckon I'm just lucky," Harry said lightly.
Hermione studied him intently for one moment more, then sniffed and went back to reading. "'The bond between mate and half-veela is never consciously completed until the recognition of the mate, but may be unconsciously revealed, via dreams and the transfer mechanism—'"
Harry sat up. "What's a transfer mechanism?"
Hermione went on by way of an answer. " 'The bond will seek other means to establish itself in those rare cases where the mate's mind may be naturally resistant to the half-veela's gaze or where some other interference, such as blindness on the part of the half-veela, renders the usual means incapable of working. Often, this transfer mechanism will be something which affects both partners and symbolizes their prior relationship. Common examples are weather—as in the case of a Black half-veela in 1692 whose magic was too weak to permit her to recognize her mate, and who eventually recognized him by constantly being caught with him in the middle of cold rain showers—spells, and body fluids. In the case of a violent or antagonistic prior relationship, chaperones may be required, as the most common form for this transfer mechanism is hexes, jinxes or curses.'" She paused for another meaningful stare.
Harry shook his head, partly concerned but mostly confused. "I don't understand, Hermione. So Malfoy and I curse each other. What happens then?"
"The transfer mechanism strengthens the bond, Harry," said Hermione. "It pulls you closer together. It increases the chances of recognition, even if you're taking the potion. That doesn't mean it's inevitable that Malfoy will recognize you as his mate if you curse him, because your transfer mechanism might be something entirely different, but do you really want to take the risk?"
"God, no," Harry muttered, and shook himself. "If this is your way of telling me to stay far away from Malfoy, Hermione, I'm hearing you."
He could feel his distaste at the idea creeping across his skin like cold slime. Why did the half-veela magic have to happen, anyway? Malfoy would survive without him. He would be as horrified at his blood's choice of a mate as his mother would; Narcissa had said so. And even if Harry had had a martyr complex, he would make himself and Malfoy and Ginny miserable for the rest of their collective lives. The price wasn't worth it.
"I think it's the best idea, Harry," Hermione said, with a firm nod. "The only reason he might seek you out anyway is to reclaim his debt from you. We're not children anymore. We ought to be able to put these grudges aside."
"Yeah, well, it might help if Malfoy wasn't such a sadistic wanker," Harry muttered.
Before Hermione could reply, the Floo connection downstairs sparked, and Harry heard Ron's loud, cheerful voice calling Hermione's name and then his. "Harry? You aren't seducing my girlfriend, are you, mate?"
Hermione giggled, putting a hand over her mouth. Harry watched and told himself that he wasn't envious. He was happy for his best friends, and what they had. Just because they could remember the love they'd found over the past year and he couldn't was no reason to be jealous of them.
Yeah, and Malfoy wants you to move into a palace in London with him, Harry thought. He shifted restlessly Ron came in. It helped that Ginny was behind Ron, and that she made eye contact with Harry and smiled right away. Harry stood and went around the table to kiss her. Ginny returned the kiss enthusiastically, then wrapped her arms around his waist and leaned her head on his shoulder with a soft sigh.
Harry stroked her back, and told himself to stop feeling awkward. Ginny remembered the past year even if he didn't, and she was happy to tell him all the stories he wanted to hear. She understood about the amnesia. Sometimes she got angry or frustrated, and who wouldn't grow angry or frustrated, sometimes? But she always calmed down again and told him that she would wait as long as necessary for him to fall in love with her again. Harry would fall in love with her, and marry her, and have children, and live near Hermione and Ron, and be an Auror, and visit Mr. and Mrs. Weasley every week for dinner, and have a completely normal life.
Nothing else was going to happen, because he wouldn't let it. Voldemort was finally dead. He could stop being a hero, stop surviving and start living. That was all that was going to happen.
OOOOOOOOOOOO
"You're going to make me study for NEWTS the moment we get back to school, aren't you?" Ron teased Hermione. She could hear his smile even if she couldn't see it, since he had his head currently buried in her bushy hair as he stood with his arms wrapped around her.
"Why would you think I'm waiting until we get back to Hogwarts?" she answered him smartly. "I thought we could use this afternoon to study."
"Hermione."
Hermione laughed and leaned up to kiss Ron's cheek again, but her eyes, and, she had to admit, half her concentration, were on Harry and Ginny. Ginny had her eyes closed and looked soft and perfectly content. Harry looked as he almost always had since he returned from destroying Voldemort, his face lost and half-desperate, trying frantically to remember what he had lost.
Hermione didn't know if he would ever remember, and, more than that, she didn't know if what he'd persuaded them all to do—act as if the return of his memory was inevitable, and that its loss had never happened—was the best thing, for him or for Ginny. Ginny was her friend, and Hermione would hate to see her hurt.
But, more than that, she wondered if Harry would truly go on growing in the direction the last year had seemed to promise. The person he'd become through the Horcrux hunt was a wonderful friend, and Hermione would mourn him if he was gone forever. But he wasn't the boy who stood in front of them now, the one who seemed to believe that he could change in the direction he wanted through sheer willpower.
I wonder if Harry even knows what he wants anymore.
"Some attention would be nice, Hermione," Ron pointed out.
Hermione tilted her head back for a kiss, glad that, at least, the things she'd won from this last year had not all departed.
OOOOOOOOOOO
"Remember that you're more than welcome to owl me at any time if anyone harasses you, Draco," Narcissa said softly, rearranging his robes so that the Slytherin crest stood out.
Draco smiled at her. "Of course, Mother," he said smoothly, and was rewarded with a beaming smile in return.
The last few weeks had been wonderful, he thought. He should have started deferring to his mother and pretending to be her mindless little puppet before this. When Narcissa thought he agreed with her on his half-veela blood, she became immensely more pleasant to be around. Draco had to remember to put up resistance on other matters, of course; a complete change to passivity would have made her suspicious. But by the time September first and the trip to Hogwarts came, she seemed to accept that he thought five years of depression a mild punishment for the horror of being bound to an unacceptable mate.
Draco had also confirmed that there was no book at all in the Malfoy library that might give him a way to get around the utterly unacceptable will his father had inflicted on him.
There is Hogwarts, he thought, and leaned up to kiss Narcissa on the cheek. They were standing on Platform 9 ¾, but Draco didn't care about the stares. A Malfoy creates reality, he reminded himself. At least, any Malfoy worth his salt does. If they are staring, I must tell myself they are stares of homage. Anyone can dismiss and despise me. What is important is the way I react, what I think, not what they do.
"I'll owl you anyway, Mother," he said, and briefly clasped her hand. "I shall miss you."
Narcissa gave him a regal nod, and turned to glide back through the barrier. Draco flicked his wand, and floated his trunk towards the Express.
The stares lingered, but this time they changed from curiosity about a young man of eighteen kissing his mother to disgust. Draco knew that came from his father's name, the Mark on his arm, and the remembrance of what he'd done to the school, and to the Headmaster, in his last year there. Some of them might even think he'd killed Dumbledore, and assume that the Ministry was so susceptible to corruption they'd let him return to Hogwarts anyway.
Draco didn't intend to disillusion them. He would influence and change their perceptions of him when it suited his agenda. For now, this mixture of fear, curiosity, and disgust would do.
He made his way through the train in a rippling wake of silence, and seated himself in the old Slytherin compartment. Millicent Bulstrode, the only one there so far, looked up from a book and grunted at him.
"Morning, Bulstrode," Draco said. He could feel his eyes beginning to shine, and the light reaching out from them towards Millicent's mind. Well, best to get it over with. "How's the aftermath of neutrality?" Millicent's parents had avoided the war by the simple expedient of taking an extended holiday to Spain the day after Headmaster Dumbledore died.
She frowned at him, and Draco's beams of light reached the limit of her face—
And rebounded.
Draco staggered, biting his lip to keep his shock silent. He felt as if someone had picked up a stone wall and dashed him over the head with it. Mother did say some people were naturally resistant to a half-veela's gaze. I suppose Millicent's one of them.
He looked up to find Millicent on her feet, her wand pointed at him.
"I don't know what you did, Malfoy," she said, calm tension poised in every line of her body. "If you do it again, I'll curse you. No questions asked."
"Calm down, Bulstrode," Draco muttered. Millicent might have gone with her parents to Spain, but she hadn't been idle. He could feel the magic crackling under her skin, ready to be released. "I'm a half-veela. My magic takes everyone that way, looking for my mate. I can't see your wants and needs because you can resist the gaze. That's all."
Millicent studied him for a moment longer, then slid her wand up her sleeve with a sharp nod and resumed her place. "Just as long as you understand that I won't put up with nonsense from you this year, Malfoy," she said. "None at all."
Draco studied her in silence. It seemed that Millicent was determined to either ignore his usual place as unofficial leader of the older Slytherins, or challenge him for it. True, most of the time she hadn't been a mindless follower anyway, but she had done what he told her to do when he told her to do it. That had changed.
And why not? She probably either despises me as a Death Eater, or despises me for not being enough of one. Draco had never been entirely certain where Millicent's sympathies on the blood issue lay.
He looked up as the compartment door opened and Pansy and Blaise came in. Pansy paused when she saw him. Blaise did the same thing behind her. It didn't escape Draco's notice that Blaise's hand rested on her shoulder. It seemed that Pansy wouldn't be running her fingers through his hair so freely this year after all, Draco mused.
The half-veela magic reached out quickly to both of them, and as quickly dismissed them. Blaise's wheel of light, in particular, refused to mesh with Draco's own wants and needs. Draco hid his delight with a cool mask. Either of them as his mate, while it would have made his mother very happy and his own life considerably easier in a few ways, would have unsettled relations in Slytherin. And it was clear, now, that he would need to fight to retain control of his House.
"Zabini," he said. "Parkinson. How—pleasant to see you." He nodded and slipped past them into the corridor, letting them chew on that welcome, or lack of it. In truth, his game would be determined by theirs, as well as by the responses of the other returning Slytherin seventh-years, Theodore Nott and Daphne Greengrass, and those former sixth-year students who would join them. But they didn't need to know that. Let them chew on his neutral words and the ambiguous pause, and worry about it for a time.
He moved slowly up the corridor, enjoying the startled looks that appeared on several people's faces when Draco made eye contact with them and had their minds suddenly revealed to him. There was only one other person who managed to rebuff him, a Ravenclaw fourth-year who showed signs of having been at Occlumency. Draco was learning to see advantages to this. At the very least, knowing what other people want is going to be useful.
He walked past a compartment door just as it slid open, and a laughing voice and a laughing person intruded into his private space simultaneously. "I really don't think that—ouch!"
Draco turned to glare down at the person beside him, and found himself locking eyes with Ginny Weasley. He froze, which was an undignified thing for a Malfoy to do, but he couldn't help it. Oh, please not a Weasley, I couldn't bear that, not her, anyone but her, Potter would be better than her—
But it wasn't her. Her wants seemed to consist mostly of Harry Potter, her needs for someone who would treat her gently and considerately. Draco relaxed as he slid out of her mind, and she stepped away from him with a cross-eyed look, drawing her wand as she went.
"Are you bothering my sister, Malfoy?" came the predictable bull's bellow a moment later.
Draco rolled his eyes and leaned around the compartment doorWeasley had been sitting with one arm around his Mudblood girlfriend—whom the Daily Prophet was often conspicuously silent about calling a hero; Draco had heard rumors that some rift between Granger and Rita Skeeter was to blame—and was now rising threateningly to his feet, face flushing.
Not Weasley, and not Granger, who was staring at him with some interest. Draco supposed it was possible she might actually recognize what he was, given the shine around his hair. If there was anyone who knew more about half-veela than the half-veela themselves, it would be her. She probably knows all the little details about the bonding that I had no idea existed, Draco thought grumpily. She could even advise me on the best ways to recognize the transfer mechanism, if it exists.
"Of course I'm not bothering your sister, Weasley," he said at last, turning to face the corner of the compartment, and feeling his heart beat just that little bit faster. "Why would I bother with a little piece of red-headed fluff that blows from boy to boy when one of them isn't sticky enough for her any more?"
Weasley, predictably, bellowed in rage again. Draco ignored him, too intent on watching Potter. It would be entertaining to see what he wanted, what he needed, and to remind him of the debt that he owed Draco, because Draco had saved his life in the Dark Lord's labyrinth.
It was childish of him to resume his rivalry with Potter immediately on arriving on the train, Draco had to admit. But he deserved some childishness, damn it. His last year of life had been far too adult to suit him, long before he was ready for it.
Potter raised his eyes to Draco's face.
And Draco bounced from them, even more quickly and efficiently than he'd bounced from Millicent's. He shook his head, feeling disoriented, and, a moment later, grudgingly respectful. Who knew that Potter could have mental defenses that strong?
"Stop insulting Ginny, Malfoy," said Potter, who looked utterly bored. He reached out and gently gripped the Weasley girl's wrist, forcing her wand down. "Unless you have an addiction to the Bat-Bogey Hex."
And then he turned back to the book spread open on his lap, calm as one pleased.
Draco stared, stupefied. The last time he had seen Potter, he had been retching and ill, true, but he had still managed to glare when Draco reminded him that Potter now owed him a life debt. He shouldn't simply have turned his back on that as if nothing had happened! Even if Potter had grown beyond their rivalry, he should have resented the hold Draco had over him. And Draco didn't believe he could grow beyond it. Potter would be a child believing in impossible ideals until the day he died.
He didn't care, apparently, and that was infuriating.
"Why, Potter," he said, cocking his head and widening his eyes, while keeping one on the Weasley growling in the corner, "I didn't expect you to have such a calm reaction to that kind of insult. Unless you're used to it, of course. Does she share? I imagine that some cock might go a long way towards compensating for how busy her cunt always is."
Potter whipped to his feet.
Draco felt a moment's smug triumph before the shine in Potter's eyes, like a vicious jungle cat's, reminded him that the boy in front of him had killed two people, while Draco hadn't been able to bring himself to kill one. And Bellatrix Lestrange had died messily. And Draco had heard Voldemort's dying screams, even if he hadn't been there to witness their source.
Potter's magic was filling the compartment, and it made tears start to Draco's eyes. He pressed himself carefully backwards, never taking his eyes from the holly and phoenix feather wand pointed directly at him.
"If you insult Ginny again, Malfoy," Potter said, his voice steady, "I'll simply assume that you want to use that debt I owe you to be tortured instead of killed. Leave."
Draco left. He knew when he was beaten. Potter had even brought the debt up himself, denying Draco that pleasure.
That didn't mean he would be defeated forever, of course.
Interesting that I can still madden Potter that easily. And perhaps I can find a use for his debt in winning free of my mother, or finding my mate. He felt a faint smile widen across his face, and used it to block out the memory of his terror when he'd stared into Potter's eyes. Or, if I'm extremely clever—which I already know I am—both.
OOOOOOOOOOO
Harry sat down, put his wand back in his pocket, and picked up his book. He was aware of the silence in the compartment. Ron stared at him in awe, Ginny in consternation, and Hermione in concern. Harry didn't meet any of their eyes. He had to close his own to calm himself down.
God, for just a second he'd felt himself back in those moments he did remember from the war, the moments of killing. He'd been on the verge of cursing Malfoy, which was a horrible idea for so many reasons. The git's half-veela status was the least of them.
Well, at least it told me two things, Harry thought humorlessly. There's no way in the world I'm going to tell the wanker I'm his mate. And the potion works. All I have to do is take it for nine more months, and then Malfoy can lead his merry depressed life, and I can go back to mine without worrying about him.
"Harry?" Ginny whispered. "Are you all right?"
Harry forced a smile and looked up. "I should be the one asking you that question," he said, taking her hand and drawing her into his arms. "I'm sorry he insulted you like that, Gin." He knew he'd used the nickname more and more often in the last year, and from the bright smile on Ginny's face, it was just the right thing to do now.
"It's all right," she said, and leaned against his chest. "They're just words. I'm almost sorry he turned tail and ran, though. I'd have liked to show him what hexes can do when you mean them."
Ron laughed, and Harry forced himself to join in. And then Ron was telling him he'd been brilliant, and he felt able to nod with a smile.
Hermione's gaze stayed on his face as if nailed there.
Harry avoided looking at her. It's fine. I didn't curse him, even though I was ready to try, and it's not as though Malfoy's going to try that again. He might be an idiot and a torture-happy prat, but he doesn't have a death wish.
He would just ignore what one of Hermione's books had said about the half-veela blood trying to draw them closer together and force either conscious or unconscious recognition. He had to.
I am going to have a normal life. He closed his eyes and buried his face in Ginny's hair. Because that's what I want.
