Notes - Curly Wurly Me asked a really good question. This story takes place in seventh year. The war happened halfway through sixth year and is mentioned a few times.

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The only reason he had gone to the school broom shed was because he'd run out of polish. Coote had no idea how to take care of his broom properly, as if it being magic was enough to keep it in the air and in one piece, and Robins had brought the wrong type, so Harry had been sharing his own stuff with them. Ordering a new jar would take at least a few days. The handle of his Firebolt was looking worn, so he had decided to risk whatever the school had managed to provide.

Draco was there already, papering his broom to prevent the wood from splintering.

It both surprised Harry and unsettled him.

"Potter," Draco said in greeting.

Unsure of what to do, Harry lingered in the doorway. When Draco looked at him oddly he stepped into the shed, rummaging through drawers to find what he was after. At least half of the containers had to be older than him. Several had labels in other languages. Harry pushed them all aside and settled finally on Ellerby & Jewkes' Traditional Recipe Broom Polish. He'd at least had the sense to bring his own cloth. He sat down on the bench across from Draco, quite aware that he was getting stared at.

"I wish they gave us better materials."

"Huh?"

"You'll see what I mean in a minute. That polish is too thick, it takes a long time to spread it evenly. Then it wears off the next time you fly in the rain. A few galleons makes a big difference. With brooms you really can't afford to go for the cheaper option."

Harry watched with disgust as the polish oozed onto the cloth, so slowly he had to turn the container upside down to get anywhere with it. He thought that he could hold it over his head and not get polish in his hair for a few minutes, at least.

There was a soft chuckle from Draco. "It's really that bad. I've only ever used it twice – I bought some polish from Bletchley, once, just so I wouldn't have to. I was here for half an hour before you came in. Far from being coarse, this paper's so soft I could wipe my nose with it."

His broom wasn't showing the work at all. It was an older model and would need a lot more maintenance than Harry's own Firebolt. A Nimbus 2001. Draco had been using it since second year. "I've been meaning to ask..." he trailed off, not knowing how to say what he wanted to.

"Ask me, then."

"Why are you still using that broom? Your parents could have bought you a better one by now. It must be a bit of work-"

Draco sighed, quietly but it made Harry feel as though he had done something dreadfully wrong. "I love Quidditch," he said.

"Do you?"

"I do. When Montague stepped down and I became captain it was like a dream come true. I was happiest when I was playing. It was safe. No words or politics. No glares and insults from people I didn't even know. I didn't have to think about the war at all. What happened... There were rules, goals. That made it all so much easier. I didn't know what I was doing except when I was on the pitch."

He ran a hand gently across the broom resting in his lap. "Now, it's different. People have gotten used to me again. I can graduate and get a job. The world isn't as frightening as it was half a year ago. When I was struggling Quidditch kept me focused, kept me sane, made me happy. And it was something that I started selfishly. I never would have joined the team if it weren't for the brooms my father bought for all of us – Nimbus 2001s. I keep it now to remind me that I can make something beautiful out of the terrible parts of myself. And to remind me not to act so foolishly, so selfishly again. I replaced a boy as Seeker who might have enjoyed Quidditch just as much as I do. I..." Draco looked at Harry. "I regret that."

Harry didn't know how to respond. The polish came out of the container all at once, sliding thickly off the cloth and onto Harry's leg. "Shit!" He tried to pick it up with his fingers but the gooey mass slipped away again, making even more of a mess. He kicked his Firebolt away and tried to grab the container, but it flew out of his hands like it wanted nothing to do with him. "Argh!"

Draco was laughing the way he had at dinner. It was a nice sound and Harry stopped to listen to it. Polish oozing through his fingers and running over his thigh, cloth bundled on the bench beside him, too coated in polish to be of any use, he just forgot all of this about himself and looked at Draco.

Whose laughter slowly stopped as he looked back.

There was something there between them.

Harry wanted nothing more than for Draco to walk over and kiss him.

His lips looked soft...his cheek too...and his hair...Harry wanted nothing more than to touch all of him that he could see. His heart beat quickly. He felt dazed, but electrified at the same time. Polish dripped from his fingers to the floor.

Draco stood, slowly, and that alone sent fire moving through Harry's body. He breathed out and Harry had never heard anything as mesmerising. His heart was beating so quickly that Harry thought he might die. A step forward, and then another, and then...!

A hand in his hair. Harry pushed up against it. Nothing felt as good as Draco's fingers in his hair, his palm pressing against the top of Harry's ear. Just that felt amazing. What would it be like to kiss...he really, desperately wanted to, and now...

Draco was trembling slightly. Harry wanted to soothe his fear away, take his face in his hands and comfort him, touch him...but his fingers were covered in that polish. He couldn't touch Draco, could only wait to be touched by him. It was disappointing and felt somehow wrong. He wanted to give just as much as he was given, if not more. And he was not able to...

The polish container clattered to the ground.

Draco's hand drew suddenly away.

He turned, took his broom, and left.

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The office had changed since Professor McGonagall had moved into it. There were bookcases stretching up to the ceiling, filled with neat rows of dull-coloured books, blues and greens and browns and greys. The furniture was all made from the same medium-brown wood. The desk stretched around a chair with a gap in it so you could get in and out. There were huge scrolls of parchment piled on top of it, with quills and inkpots scattered between them. The chairs were full and red with golden trim. An elaborate rug lay across the floor, again in Gryffindor colours. The image of a lion was engraved into the platform beneath the stairwell. It appeared that even as headmistress McGonagall still had a fondness for her old house.

Seeing this, and her kindly smile, Harry felt at ease. He didn't know why she had asked him here but it couldn't be anything too serious. He hadn't gotten detention once since Voldemort had been defeated – which made him wonder at any connection...

"There is a very important business, Mr Potter," McGonagall started by saying. "And I'm afraid that it concerns you."

"Me?"

"Yes, Mr Potter. Regrettably."

Harry stood up quickly. "Is it about Vol-"

"No! No, no, no, no, no, sit down! The Second Wizarding War is over and always will be. No, what I am talking about are the visitors that we have to the school. They have come here to meet you. Their circumstances are very...unique. It is a young girl and her guardian. The girl is a Veela, I trust that you have paid enough attention in Professor Binns' classes to understand what that means?"

"Yes, Professor McGonagall," Harry said as the gears in his mind whirred and clicked.

"Then you will know that a full-blooded Veela has only one mate in their lifetime. On their twelfth birthday they are presented with an image of that mate. The Veela then has to seek out that person and partner with them – in a physical or a romantic sense – at which point they will come into their full magical ability and their lifespan will lengthen to that of the average wizard's. If they fail to partner with their mate, what happens?"

It was like he was in class. "They die, Professor McGonagall."

"Yes... Very tragic. In any case, this girl has come here to retrieve her mate. And that person, Mr Potter-"

It all suddenly made sense.

"No," he whispered.

"-I'm afraid, is you."

"No, it can't be."

"I'm sorry to say that it is." McGonagall was both concerned and sympathetic. "Now, it remains your choice whether to partner with the girl or not – as you are not a Veela yourself, you will neither gain nor lose anything by doing it – and I want to make it very clear to you that you do not have to do it. The girl's family understand the risks associated with her birth. You are not killing her if you refuse, and it will not do well by either of you to accept just for the sake of accepting. I will, however, encourage you to meet with the girl before making your decision. I am led to believe that you are single at present?"

The words wouldn't come out. Harry just nodded.

"Well. There might be a chance of happiness for both of you." McGonagall sat back in her chair. "Her name is Adeline du Maurier. The man who has travelled here with her is Gaspard, a distant cousin. He, at least, speaks English fluently. Do you know any French?"

Harry shook his head.

"That is a shame. I wonder if perhaps we could teach it here, as English is taught at both Beauxbatons and Durmstrang..." For a moment McGonagall was lost in her thoughts, but she soon shook them off. "Well. We will arrange a meeting. For now please act as you would normally. This is not a burden that you have to bear. It is just another event in an extraordinary life."

It was just another thing that Harry hadn't asked for and gotten anyway.