A/N:

So here we go. The same warnings apply. Enjoy.

. . .

Ron sank onto the couch with a sigh, putting his feet up on the coffee table. The dishes were done, people were out on the porch, and he had the living room to himself for the first time all day. He could hear the laughs through the door. The Weasley family was playing wizard snaps. After five straight losses in a row, he had bowed out. He popped a candy into his mouth and chewed with pleasure. Yup. It had been a good summer, the first one without you-know-who, the first one where he could do magic, the first one with an actual kinda-sorta girlfriend. And, with school starting in a week, he would be seeing that kinda-sorta girlfriend and his best friend a lot more.

He hadn't really been thinking of taking Hogwarts' offer of an eighth year and a diploma. I mean, what kind of idiot signs up for extra school? He figured if fighting in a civil war didn't give you the skills you needed to succeed in life, what did? Besides, would it have been that hard to find a job as a member of the golden trio? Not that Ron liked the idea of using his fame to get him places, but you gotta do what you gotta do. And if all else failed, there was always a standing offer for a job at Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. It's not like he would have become some layabout. But his mother spent the summer hounding his heels about the importance of a degree, how she and her husband had not worked their fingers to the bone to give their children the opportunity to get a proper education for NOTHING, now did they? And Hermoine joined her soon after, as well as Ginny. What with that kind of pressure, who could have resisted? And, all in all, it wouldn't be too bad. Take a few easy classes, some quidditch, some snogging. The works. All the things his seventh year SHOULD have been, but for the bloody fucking war.

The deaths weighed heavy on him. He didn't think there would be a day when they didn't. But some days were better than others. Some days stung like needles, and other days just ached.

Ron sighed. He couldn't go a few hours without thinking about it. And once those images of the final battle came into his head, they would not leave him for hours. Image after image rolled before his eyes, and he heard the pained cries as if new again. That hollow ache would settle in his stomach and he contemplated how final that final goodbye was. How terribly, utterly gone. He would remember until he was heaving, sick to death with loss. He found himself lying on the floor, his eyes red and his throat raw; he never noticed his moans until after they happened.

He couldn't let himself sink that deep right now. Those moaning days were gone. In their place came a stony silence, so that each of his limbs felt like marble, and the spirit in his body shrank to just a shiver. His strength pooled around him on the floor, and all he could do was look at his hands, so heavy in his lap. He didn't cry anymore. There wasn't much left in him to cry about. Sometimes Ron wondered just how much of him got left behind on the castle floor on that fateful day, like a ghost, doomed to wonder without him for eternity.

Ginny spent days after the battle, letting those big, silent tears fall from her eyes. She made no noise, and she walked like a ghost. Even her hair barely had color. His mum walked from room to room, her eyes wide and disbelieving, wringing a rag in her hand, and stopping like she had forgotten something. His old dad, he would just sit and stare. And Ron, he went into the woods and he smashed stick after stick after stick into the dirt, over and over until he rubbed his hands raw. Some days he went from the morning until the stars were coming out and he heard his mother call his name, over and over, into the night.

But the summer, damnit, the summer was better. He refused to let it stay as evil as it meant to be, as low down and dark as his heart wanted it to be. They had played card games each night, playing them until someone could crack a smile, until someone could tell a joke again. And it was better. He could sit out on the grass, those late summer evenings, and sometimes if he closed his eyes, it was like there was nothing there in the whole world, and he had never felt a better feeling than that. He didn't feel that ache everyday anymore. And they were learning how to laugh again, the whole family!

Today had been one of the good days. It started with a bright sun on his face, and led to a good, healthy breakfast, and a day of work weeding and de-gnomeing the garden. Hard work, work in the dirt; that was the answer. And all these bloody years, he never knew what all that work was for. And he had a good lunch, and the food tasted like food again! And Ginny, he sat with her all afternoon, just reading pages from a book aloud, and he didn't even mind that it was one of her sappy romance novels. And tonight, he was sitting, popping candy. In a week, he would see his friends and Hermoine. Life was looking up, for once in so long, he had forgotten what it felt like.

He sighed. Still, he wasn't sure about a lot of things. What was it going to be like to see all those people again, knowing who each of them had lost, seeing so many of them fall around him? What could he say to half the people he knew? And all the slytherins, those who had turned "to the light" in the last moments? What would he say? Could he keep from spitting in their faces?

Then there was the whole Hermoine issue. He liked her. He was fairly certain he liked her. After all, it's not like there was anything wrong with her. The family liked her, and she was smart, and funny. Ok, well maybe not hilarious, but she was funny in a Hermoine-ish sort of way. So it's not like he had any reason not to like her. Everyone certainly THOUGHT he should like her. He huffed at no one in particular. And, she had plenty of other things going for her.

Ron thought that a lot of what kind of a man you are comes down to that fundamental question: boobs or butt? Now, with Hermoine, she didn't have the world's biggest you-know-whats, but Ron was fine with that. Because Ron was a butt kinda guy. And Hermoine had a nice behind, there was no question of that. Then there was the kissing and, let's be honest, a little more than kissing. Not much more, of course, because Hermoine wasn't "that kind of girl!" And the kissing had been, well, good, he supposed. Wet. Not as wet as Lavender, but still, sort of, wet. Wet was good, right?

And he had kissed her in a warzone, in the middle of the climactic battle! There was no going back after something like that! You can't just turn away and say, sorry, I'm having second thoughts (or third thoughts or fourth thoughts. . .). There are things one ought to keep to ones' self. It's not that Ron didn't want it to go anywhere, because he did. He sincerely wanted to love Hermoine. At least, he wanted to want to love Hermoine. And he did.

Mostly.

But the last time they were together, they walked hand in hand around the edge of the lake out front of Hogwarts. He felt the warmth in her fingers, the gentle way they felt when they were near each other. They were almost at the point where they would turn around; they reached the parting of the wildlife where a stone rested as a seat, which overlooked a quiet cove. And Ron thought to himself: it was going to be awfully hard to kiss her. He knew he was supposed to kiss her, he knew he SHOULD kiss her, but it had taken all his effort to kiss her that day on the battlefield. He didn't have enough energy. A part of him knew that if he told Hermoine this, she would understand, but he also knew that it would be cruel. So he kept his mouth shut. And when she leaned in hesitantly towards him, he let his lips brush the side of her cheek. He saw the hope fall from her eyes and he almost kicked himself for not doing right by her. On the walk home, he thought about trying to fix it, trying to kiss her right and good, but he could never get farther than a preemptive parting of the lips.

That night, he lay awake, his mind reeling. He couldn't do it. He couldn't make himself do it. And by the sinking in his chest, he knew that something wasn't right, and the rational part of him knew it never could be. Such a wide chasm had opened between them while they slumbered. For one day, he had awoken to see himself on one side, and the girl he had loved so, so far away on the other. Standing on that precipice, he had felt cold, colder than he had ever felt in his life.

He would try to fix things. Ron was not the type of man who ever gave up the goat, and he refused to let another flicker of life die out right under his nose. So when Hermoine came, he would embrace her, and let her know that, no matter what, they would get through this. He would move heaven and earth to feel the things he was supposed to feel. Because, after all, she deserved happiness, and so did he, and he would find it wherever he damn well pleased!

He put the bag of candies down on the table in front of him. It wasn't that he was full; he was never full. In fact, his appetite started to come back a month ago, and now he felt that ravenous, delicious hunger around mealtimes. His body missed the memo that six feet tall was good enough for him. Always tall, he now stood well over his father. The lankiness of his long limbs gave way to wide shoulders, a narrow waist, and quiet, confident muscles. His face, as freckled as ever, held more definition in the hollows of his cheeks. Though he felt he would never have any facial hair to speak of, he felt he certainly looked appropriately more mature. He was thankful for it.

Now, according to the world around him, he was a man, and he now had a man's burden. At least he looked the part. Some days he surprised himself with his own strength, with the springiness of his steps and the easiness of his movements. He felt his quickness and his agility grow, as if he could have done a million things if he wished, and he was only waiting for the inspiration. Even his magic felt stronger. Sometimes it coursed through his veins, pulsing with his heartbeat. If he concentrated hard enough, he could almost see its outline around his fingers. This strength, it filled him with a giddy happiness, but he couldn't mention it to anyone, just in case it was unusual. Ron figured it was high time something good happened to him, no strings attached.

He let his head lull back onto the cushion. The long day tired him out. He pressed a hand to his forehead, before letting it slide down his face haltingly. A yawn escaped his lips. Yep. He was exhausted. But upstairs was awfully far away. Sighing, then stretching, he swiveled on the couch to rest his head against the arm. Before he knew it, his eyes fluttered shut and he drifted away to the sound of distant twinkling laughter and the occasional snap and flicker of the cards in the night.

. . .

"I've collected all the books I'd recommend you read on the subject of your change," Said Narcissa, with a wave of her hand towards a table covered in books. Draco raised his eyebrows. Sure, he wanted to know more about himself, but that was a LOT of reading. Heh. Maybe he could outsource it to Granger. Heheh. That was pretty funny.

He shook himself back into focus. "I've read many of these myself." Narcissa motioned towards the chairs in the library to which they had come. Draco sat in one, and she sat in another, facing him. "Now," she began, with a sense of authority in her voice, "I figure this process will work best if you ask me questions, rather than me just talking endlessly."

He nodded, but already busy wracking his brains over their previous conversation. "You mentioned. . . other physical changes, that might happen to me?"

"Certainly. For one, and I'm afraid there is no simple way to say this, other than what I am about to do: you shall have the ability to sprout wings."

Other than raising his hand to his lips, Draco showed no obvious signs of shock; his breeding prevented him from reacting too boldly to any information, surprising or otherwise. Once he had collected himself, he spoke. "How?"

"Veela have magical wings, which they can produce or retract at will. Actually, this is a slight overstatement. But I will explain. You may have noticed this morning, two lines between your shoulder blades?"

Draco raised his eyebrows. It had never occurred to him to look at his own back. Reaching a hand over his shoulder, he felt under his skin and shuddered visibly when his fingers grazed the two slightly raised nubs. Apparently his wings were erogenous zones. He would have to keep that in mind. "Yes, I feel them."

"They mark the space from which your wings will sprout when you call them. However, your mate, by touching those nubs, will also be able to call out your wings. If this happens, you will not be able to retract them without the right touch from your mate."

Draco gulped. This did not sound good. He didn't like the sound of another person having so much control over his body. And what if his mate and he were not on good terms? His mate could do whatever he liked to him. There was a sinking feeling in his stomach. Could his mate incapacitate him at will? There were too many easy ways for his partner to control him. An anger in his stomach rose to meet the fear. No, damnit! He was a Malfoy, a Black! He would not surrender so easily.

"So once I find my mate, what will happen?"

A smile bloomed on Narcissa's face. "Veela courtship is a wonderful thing. At first, the bond is created when you and your mate touch. Your mate must then accept you. A loving touch from your mate will activate. . . well, I will tell you in a moment. Then, the bond will be completed by, so to speak, making love." At this point, her face colored. Draco smiled just a bit at this, before he recalled what she had just said.

"What will my mate's loving touch activate?"

"It will," Narcissa paused. "Well, you should now, my dragon, that as a submissive male veela. . . The veela as a race are very family oriented. Little is more important to a veela than starting a family. Thus, children become a prime concern for veelas. And, nature in her infinite wisdom, has made it so that there is always a carrier in veela couples. Thus, submissive male veelas will, after the first touch from their mate, begin another set of physical changes that will result in. . ."

"In what?"

"In a womb."

That was too much.

"In a bloody WOMB?"

Narcissa winced. "Please Draco, do not cuss. It is so vulgar."

"No. No way is this happening! Why are we even sure that I'm a submissive? What if I'm actually the dominant? Shouldn't I be? I AM a Malfoy, after all?"

"Draco, dear, I've told you, there is nothing wrong with being submissive."

"But I don't WANT to be weak! I refuse to be a slave to anyone!"

Narcissa sighed. "Just because you are submissive does not mean you are weak."

Draco felt a desperate anger growing in him. "I'm NOT submissive!"

His mother just stared at him. Draco breathed hard. He was so angry he could not speak. Narcissa's face contracted into a frown of exasperation.

"Fine. You may believe what you wish for now, Draco, and you may play whatever role you like. But rest assured that once you meet your mate, fate will settle things. I will not fight you if you are determined to be stubborn."

Draco refused to look at her.

"I understand that this is a lot to take in at once, and for that I am sincerely sorry. But there is nothing to be done about it now."

"It's just," Draco began, but he could not continue. Something bubbled up in his throat and he almost let tears leak down his face. "I didn't as for this." He cursed the shake in his voice as he choked out the words.

Narcissa's face softened. "I know, my son. I know."

He sighed. He couldn't be angry with his mother, no matter how nice it would have felt. It wasn't her fault that fate had screwed him over yet again. But no matter; he had dealt with worse before.

A weak smile crossed her face. "Shall we continue?"

He nodded.

"After a womb is produced, it shall remain 'cold' until the mate has given it a loving touch, which indicates his readiness and agreement to have children. After that point, a veela is considered 'warmed.' The desire for children and the completion of the bond will become paramount. Time without one's mate will become almost physically painful. Usually," Narcissa continued, "the bonding process is completed very soon after this step."

Draco's head was spinning.

"As a submissive, you will be most vulnerable after being 'warmed' but before completing the bond, so you will have to be careful."

"IF I'm a submissive," he corrected her.

She sighed. "If you are a submissive. . ."

He nodded his head in silent thanks, though he still could not meet her gaze. Draco stared off into space. He had to watch himself. He might become a brooder if he were not careful.

"I'm not a girl."

"I know you're not, my Dragon."

"So why is this happening to me?" His face looked about to crumple into angry tears. He held on, just barely, to whatever calm he had left in his body. Narcissa felt any frustration leave her.

"To me, you will always be my son. Regardless of what you look like, sound like, or what your body can do, you will be considered my son for as long as you consider yourself the same."

"But I don't want this! I don't want any children, at least not this way!"

"Nature throws many things at us. We are colored by her hand in ways we do not comprehend, that nevertheless make us who we are. Your case is no different, my Dragon."

Rage broke out over his face again. When he spoke, he spat out the words, and could not keep his lower lip from quivering. "Where's the humanity in that?"

Narcissa smiled weakly. 'Where's the humanity in love?"

Draco just stared at her.

"Surely no man, wizard or otherwise, is foolish enough to think that he controls love. There are forces outside of us that shape our lives Draco, be they love, or disaster, or luck, or inheritance."

"I refuse to be an instrument!" Draco's shoulders trembled.

"Just because a man does not control all does not make him weak. The strong man is defined by his reactions as much as by his actions."

Draco nodded his head, but it did not stop the heaving of his chest. Huddled upon himself, he felt smaller than he ever had in the past, frozen and alone in his distance from all he knew. He clutched the clothes he had around his waist, but even that could to stop the cold, the overwhelming cold that settled itself around him. When he spoke, it was a whisper.

"I want my mate."

Narcisssa could only nod her head, but he was not looking at her. Eventually, she spoke, though it was painful and stuck.

"I know."

She wished to pat him on the shoulder, to hug and to hold him in her arms. She reached out, and her hand hovered over his shoulder. She knew it would only cause him pain, but she ached for him as only a mother can.

"Soon, you will return to school, where you will likely find your mate."

"But what's the chance of him being there?"

His mother smiled again, and this time, he met her gaze with his own. "Very rarely are veela bound to ones they have not met before the change. "In fact," she sighed as she rose from the chair, "often veela have been pulled towards their mates before the change. Their body knew their mates before their mind ever did."

"He might not even be in Britain!"

"Draco, while I understand your fear, you should know that the situation you are describing has never happened before."

'Why not?'

"I'm not sure. But never before has a veela been unable to find their mate. Such is the power of the bond. And do not forget, that your mate will also be searching."

Draco raised his gaze quickly at this.

"Most mates feel the subconscious pull to seek out their veela mate. So with two people searching for each other with that much fervor, it's no surprise to me that veela have always found their mates."

"But not all veela live with their mates."

She sighed. "That is unfortunately the case. A veela can live without their mates, its true, and sometimes they do, but many will end their lives from the pain."

"So without a mate, my life is worthless?"

"I did not say that."

"Still, is it true?"

"Do you know, my Dragon, how often a couple who have been together for forty, fifty years, when one of them passes, the other follows in months? And who would blame the latter for what he'd done?"

"I would." Draco spat, not looking at his mother.

"That's cruel."

"Yeah, well, that's how I feel."

"You will find, Draco, that love can give us meaning that, once gone, cannot be easily replaced."

"So we should just give up?"

She gave a sharp exhale and her nostrils flared. "It is not what I would do myself. But," she added with a shake of her head, "I would not blame those who do."

He stared, with narrowed eyes into space, trying not to move, though he quaked with an involuntary shiver from the creeping cold.

"Let me find you some blankets, Draco, and I will leave you to your reading."

Draco grunted in acknowledgement. She turned and left the library, skirting the circumference of the large table upon which the books were neatly stacked. Draco looked up at the vaulted ceiling, wishing he could see through it and up into the sky. Nothing made sense anymore.

Somewhere in his heart, a pull took residence. It made him ache, sometimes a little, sometimes so much he could barely bear it; he ached to be with his mate. Somewhere out in the world, he thought to himself. Somewhere, under the same stars, he's waiting for me. Just the thought filled him with a little bit of warmth that settled in his stomach. Somewhere out there.

All of the mysteries in the world seemed a great unfairness, reigning down upon him. With a bitter laugh he recalled all those blasted predictions of Trewlawney, of death and disaster and disease that would haunt all of them. Perhaps there was something to her talk of doom and gloom. He couldn't deny that the universe appeared to take a perverse pleasure in back-handed gifts. Nothing good came without strings attached.

And what was he to do? What if his mate didn't care for him? The thought filled him with a deep, cold sorrow from the pit of his soul. He wrapped his arms around his shoulders, as if attempting to stave off the feeling. He wanted that warm body promised to him by the universe beside him now, to ward off the loneliness. A mate who was his match.

Draco had never believed in soulmates. Not in the traditional sense. He thought that, perhaps in the world, there was someone who was best fit to a person, but only slightly better than a million other matches who were almost as good. This was different. Someone who would fit him best, in body and soul. Someone with whom he was meant to be? No matter how it made his heart soar, he could not stave off the doubt from entering his mind. It seemed so unlikely, so improbable in the messiness of the vast universe that any two souls could align in perfect harmony. Disease, death, misery, these things plague all people. And here was perfection in two souls that are joined by the heart? It was too good to be true.

Or was it too horrible?

Did he have a choice in the matter? Draco rose from the chair and meandered over to the window, and sat in the chair beneath it. From there, he could contemplate the high cirrus clouds of the August days, those that clung like wisps to the edge of an overheated sky. It was so bright and clear in the gardens today. From his window he looked out upon the flowers, upon the immaculate lawn, to the border of the Malfoy estate, ringed in hedges. Pressing his hand to the window, it opened and he was met with a gust of sunny warmth from the breeze.

If Draco was mated, like an animal, where was the choice? It was so base. He could not help but feel a simultaneous stirring of his heart for the primal, along with a revulsion of the mind. He was a man, not ruled by his lower desires like the common creatures of the earth! Where was that nobility of living that so often took root in his own soul?

His heart swirled sitting by the window. He was a creature after all. Not entirely human. Outside the sounds of bumblebees buzzing over the hedges, drifting up and the down as if carrying much to heavy a burden. The sweet smells of the flowers drifted towards him, and the sunlight fell upon his milky arms. He leaned his head upon the top of his wrist, with his elbow on the windowsill. From there, he lost himself as he stared at the place where the trees met the heavens, as if wishing for the murkiness in his mind to clear like that clean line between earth and sky.

Where was his mate? He felt the pull upon his heart, lulling him to action, to search for what was promised him. He shook himself. He could not fall into melancholy. Though that ache was present always, and though his questions remained unanswered, he could not help but hope. A small, lilting hope, but still, hope. He imagined it floating out the window, like a bumblebee with its heavy burden of wishes and dreams.

He would just have to look. Slowly, he rose from the seat under the window, and rubbed his legs. It felt he had been sitting there for hours. Gingerly, he took a few steps to the table in front of him and picked up a book. You have to start somewhere, he sighed to himself.

. . .

So there it is. The second chapter, all done!

I PROMISE, we're getting to some actual interaction between our two main characters in the next chapter (I hope). In all fairness, I warned y'all that this would be slow-moving.

To the reviewers, I just wanted to say thanks (to all three of you, at the time of this writing.) It's nice to know that somebody's actually following along. Remember, reviews are fun for all! You get to tell me what you really think! I get an ego boost! Woo!

In other news, Imma try to stick to a Friday update thing, but this may or may not pan out in the long run. At least it's true for TODAY's post. Anyhoo.