A/N: Hey, guys. THANK YOU to all my reviewers...they light up my dayyyy. A quick word about updates: I can't promise I'll update every week. Sometimes I'll go on a writing frenzy and you'll get two updates in a week, sometimes I'll be supremely busy and you'll have to wait. I won't take more than a month, I promise! I try to keep a certain number of words ahead of you, so sometimes I forget if I've already posted something, or one section is particularly hard to write. For this chapter, it wasn't really hard to write, but I'd followed it up with Draco and his mate (okay, we all know it's Hermione) meeting up and talking and all that...but I scrapped it, and so had to rewrite a couple thousand words! That's my excuse to you.

Anyway, here's another chapter. About 6,000 words. Enjoy, and if you did, drop me a review or PM! I lovelovelove them. If you didn't enjoy it...review anyway :) Don't worry, I won't withhold chapters for lack of reviews, but they DO motivate me to work faster. This is, again, unbetaed and I'm awful at proofreading, so I apologize in advance for any errors.

Thankya!

Sunday

11:30, Malfoy Manor

Draco sat at the long dining table, half-an hour early, inspecting the layout critically. He was at one end and she on the other, so conversation would be hindered by the distance. Excellent. Food was already at the table, heated and ready with the help of Tipsy and a few Statis charms. He had his Veela research lined up, as well as the names of a few "Ministry Researchers" Daphne had given him. This would not be a casual meeting, no. He had followed Theo's instructions and made this as business-like as possible.

He cracked his knuckles, sitting up from his reclined position. He re-arranged his plate and goblet so the silver settings would block his view of her face, but returned it to its original spot, dismissing the idea as petty and childish. He would face her head on. Still, he poured himself wine and pointed his wand at it, running through spells in his mind until he decided on a concealment charm, so it looked like water. He was drinking entirely too much alcohol lately, so a Sobering charm was next on the list. Minutes ticked by without any sign of his mother, and he stared at his reflection in his goblet. Should he comb his hair back, or leave it mussed like he wore it now? She'd last seen him with gelled hair, and that alone was enough for him to leave it falling into his eyes. He'd changed, and she should be well aware of that fact.

Draco was dressed in a smart dark green long-sleeve shirt, a silver tie complimenting the outfit. He'd originally left the collar standing up, but realized he looked too casual, and quickly smoothed it down. He was wearing slacks and dress shoes, forgoing traditional dress robes. Nobody under the age of thirty wore them anymore, and Muggle clothing was rather "in," according to Daphne. This made sense, he supposed, as many jobs required contact with them. It wouldn't do to show up to a meeting in robes. Not to mention his mother would undoubtedly be wearing them, and Theo advised he appeared as different as possible from the Draco that Narcissa remembered.

Taking a deep breath, he started to clear his mind, remembering his late godfather's instructions. Severus Snape had taught his prodigy well, and within seconds his mind was clear and locked, protected by a shield nobody around him was competent enough to break.

It was just on time, too, as Tipsy appeared in the dining room. "Master Draco," the elf said, "Your mother is here."

"Does she look well?"

Tipsy hesitated. "Better than before, Master, but not as she did when you were young."

He'd expected as much. No doubt she had used a complicated mirage of spells to create a balance between looking too sorrowful and looking revitalized. "Send her in."

Tipsy nodded, ears drooping as she bowed. "Yes, Master. And Master?"

"Yes?" Draco answered, wondering what the elf wanted. It wasn't like them to speak up.

"You look very nice."

"Thank you, Tipsy, now fetch her," Draco replied, taken aback by the compliment from his oldest elf. Tipsy had changed his diapers and played with the lonely boy when he was young, and had been freed ever since Draco had been six and wanted to dress up as Death Eaters and Aurors, forcing Tipsy to wear a dark sheet around her like he'd seen hanging in his father's closet.

"Draco…" the voice came, quiet, whispered into the air from the doorway. Draco did not tense as she surely wanted, instead silently turning to face her.

She looked well, as Tipsy had said. Her thin face had filled out, regaining some of the beauty she'd once had. Her hair was longer and thicker, still a shining white, and the stress lines that marred her forehead were magicked away. Her face was pale, however, and her lips turned down in sadness. She was wearing Malfoy robes, and the sight caused him to inhale deeply, but other than that he showed no emotions. "Mother," he greeted her, refusing to rise in traditional respect.

She noticed this, he saw, and slumped ever so slightly before regaining her posture. "How are you, Draco?"

"Wonderful," he replied, voice laced with sarcasm. "I'm doing quite brilliantly. Please, sit, so we can get this fabulous meeting over with."

"Pansy's been getting to you with her adjectives, has she?" Narcissa tried to joke, but stopped at the cold fury Draco allowed to cross his face. Instead, she hurried to sit at the other end of the table.

"Do not mention that vile woman," he hissed, clenching his fist. Pansy had thought she meant something to him, and had tried to seduce him many times. Affronted by his less-than-satisfactory response to her advances, she'd become bitter and jealous. She'd sold out Potter so Draco would notice her, and when he didn't she slept with Blaise Zabini as if her supposed 'betrayal' would mean anything to him.

"She isn't one of those two friends?" Narcissa questioned, nervously sipping her water. Hide your emotions better, Mother, for I can read you quite easily.

"Of course not," he replied, resisting the urge to spit out, "And if you were here you would know that, wouldn't you?"

"Who are they, then?"

"Daphne Greengrasss and Theodore Nott." His answer was curt.

Her surprise was obvious. "You never liked Daphne when you were young, and I remember you teasing Theodore quite horribly."

His only answer: "Things change."

"So they do." Narcissa was quiet, refusing to look at her son. Instead, she served herself some chicken and passed the dish along the table.

"Why have you returned?" He asked, spearing a bite of chicken but not eating it, so intent on the answer.

She sighed. "Must we talk about this now? I wish to catch up with you, my son."

"If wishes were horses, beggars would ride," he answered instead, noting the way she bit her lip in frustration.

"Oh, stop this, Draco, you're being childish." She withdrew her wand and so did he, but he didn't disarm her, curious to see as to what she was to do. She didn't hex him, instead shortening the table so they were merely a few feet away from each other. "This is much better. I've always loathed that table."

Angry that his plans had been thwarted, he deflected the attention from him. "Tell me about Italy and France." He didn't care in the slightest, but he needed time to re-evaluate the situation before he begun business.

For the remainder of the lunch, she went on and on about her five years there. He didn't comment but once or twice, which she received gratefully. He busied himself gulping down the heady wine, body tensed in the seat. He felt inexplicably happy, and knew the emotions hadn't originated from his meeting with his mother, as seeing her cool face did nothing for his mood, but from his…mate. Grimacing at the word, he glanced at his mother, who had finished eating and was gesturing with her fork as she explained the "delights" of some Italian spa treatment. Draco had the oddest urge to leap from the table and Disapparate somewhere, though he didn't know where. Again, he assumed this came from her.

"Draco," Narcissa said sharply, eying him with shrewd eyes that only a mother can posess. "You are not listening to me."

"Ah, I can see why your husband married you," he shot back, the reply rolling curtly off his tongue. "He particularly enjoyed it when one stated the obvious, do you recall?"

Narcissa winced, and Draco felt no little satisfaction, knowing she was remembering a rather gruesome time when he had been ten and had, as he'd put it moments earlier, "stated the obvious." This had displeased Lucius greatly, who'd taken it upon himself to Crucio the habit out of him. "He is your father, Draco," Narcissa said heatedly when Draco raised an eyebrow in silent challenge. "and I demand you address him such."

"That madman?" Draco laughed, heart racing, "He's no father of mine." And it is not your place to demand anything of me.

"He contributed to your birth and upbringing–"

"Yes, I was particularly fortunate to be born into such a fabulous, kind, loving family," he drawled, voice laced with sarcasm. His fist was clenched again, and the urge to leave was nearly overpowering him. He wasn't sure of the origin, but guessed it came mostly from his mate. "I am rather bored by this conversation, and I have somewhere to be. Let us meet on Wednesday for lunch, one o'clock, and bring all you can about this Veela nonsense."

Narcissa stood. "We are not done here, Draco," she said, and he remembered her using that tone on him as a child. But he wasn't scared anymore, wasn't willing to follow other's bidding, and the command rolled off his back like water.

"I rather think we are," he replied, and disappeared from the Manor.

He reappeared in a Muggle square, thankfully behind a tree so his sudden appearance wasn't noticed, and frowned in thought. He hadn't ever seen this place, so his earlier suspicion that she generated these urges was strengthened. He scanned the crowd eagerly, heart suddenly thumping painfully. He could see her, see his mate for the very first time. He stepped out from behind the tree, closing his eyes briefly as he searched for her, trying to locate the pull from inside himself. He was sure he looked ridiculous, but they were only Muggles after all – though his future, dare he say it, wife may be one of them – and he didn't care what he looked like in front of them.

There! He felt the pull, as strong as was during the day, and opened his eyes eagerly, only to see a sweep of brown hair as the woman disappeared into a store. He ran after her blindly, breath echoing in his ears as he pushed through the door and froze. There were millions of brown haired woman in the store that held food (he supposed this was where house elves fetched food for dinner, except for Muggles) and he looked around desperately. He'd lost the pull and after a few minutes of fruitless searching exited the store. He glanced around once more hopelessly and crouched behind the trees once more, Disapparated with a small crack.

This time, he appeared in his flat. He threw himself on the couch, staring at the cream colored ceiling. He'd almost saw her! He knew that if she was his mate they'd have to lay eyes on each other, but he never actually envisioned seeing her.

She has brown hair.

Brown hair. That was odd; he'd thought she would be a blond. All Malfoy wives were blond, as far back as he could remember. This was to ensure good genes. He closed his eyes again, picturing her hair spread over his white pillows as she slept on, her warm body waking up next to his, a smile curving her lips as she leaned over to kiss him –

Angry at himself, he muttered an expletive. What was he doing, thinking about love and all that nonsense? Disgusted with himself, he grabbed a sheath of graph paper and spread them out over the table. He peered over it, distracting himself with thoughts of angles and lengths.

He was struggling with the awning for the French Ministry building. He envisioned it as being grand and graceful, the swooping of eagle's wings (for eagles were the French Minister's favourite animal) spread out. But, no matter how many times he drew and redrew the diagram, two meters of roof were missing. He couldn't extend the roof or it would fall in the middle, nor could he bring in the wall because he'd have to reconfigure the entire west wall.

He cocked his head, erasing the Muggle charcoal pencil he used to draw his figures. He'd started out drawing with Muggle pencils after the war when he'd got them from Diagon Alley five a galleon as opposed to expensive quills. Cheap quills were barely worth the time it took to weed them out from among the gleaming feathers, so he'd hardly bothered with those.

Draco had been quite rich, but for a ridiculously long time he'd been too afraid to go in Gringotts. The last time he'd seen a goblin was the one with Scar Damage locked in his basement, and he'd heard goblins held grudges. He found, to his surprise, charcoal pencils were easy and fun to work with, and very cheap. He'd spent hours drawing buildings in Diagon Alley, eating free ice creams in exchange for making advertisements and pictures for what's-his-name, Florean For-something. That's where Leon had found him – Leon was an old man who'd donated many of his old architecture diagrams to the younger blonde. He'd died a short while after.

Hmm…Draco traced the tip of his wand along the outline of the back wall, the marks erasing after the wood passed over it. He fixed the wall so it came in at a 30° angle, a slant that met nicely with the awning up front. Success!

Pleased with himself, Draco continued drawing, banishing the thoughts of his mate out of his head.

Monday

7:00 AM

Draco walked into work, clutching his drawings proudly. He passed through the lobby, nodded a hello to Theo who was arranging a press conference on his phone – Draco didn't see the point of the Muggle objects – and took the elevator instead of Flooing directly into his office. He passed Daphne, who was sitting in front arguing with a squat man about something, and into the main hallway. Sleeping Dragon was a large, U-shaped building, with four floors. The top floor was him and his team, their offices stretching around the U with his in the middle. The floors under him went from VIP (4th Floor) to Nobody-Gives-A-Shit-About-You-Or-Your-Job-So-You-Better-Preform-Well-Otherwise-Draco-Will-Fire-You-Without-A-Second-Thought (1st Floor).

He spotted Daphne immediately and raised his eyebrow fractionally, letting her know to gather Theo and meet in his office. He gently drew his bottom lip between his teeth, as if he was about to say the "f" in "five," to let her know he expected them there in five minutes. His message passed on, he continued walking and greeting others cordially.

"Mr. Draco!" A pretty young woman, Gabrielle Jenkins, said hello enthusiastically. "You look fantastic, for somebody who was sick."

"You look entirely too happy for somebody who suffered without her utterly charming boss for the past couple of days," he responded instantly, smirking as a few people nearby laughed. Gabrielle pouted at him, and he inquired, "Has the company gone to the dogs since I was…indisposed?"

"Hardly the dogs, more like the puffed up baboons of the Ministry," Nicholas Brown said in disgust. Draco had been hesitant to hire the cousin of the vapid Lavender Brown, but Nick had proven himself five times over. Not to mention he'd gone to Durmstrang and was personal friends with Viktor Krum. "They were investigating, convinced you were off conducting some evil plan, especially since, well…"

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Since?"

Nick smoothed his face over. "Since you're a Malfoy."

"Nice excuse, but I am rather good at spotting deception, wouldn't you agree?" Draco said mildly. He was impressed with the other man's facial control, and that pride softened his voice slightly.

"Since your mother returned to England," Theo said from behind him. Draco's face didn't change, though he wanted to spit out a vulgar curse. No doubt she had hired a reporter of Rita Skeeter's ilk to print a favorable review of her return. "Now, Nick, Gabrielle, Mary and Brett, I'm sure you're pleased to see Draco alive from the dead, but Daphne and I have to catch him up. We'll be having a Top Floor meeting in thirty minutes, so be prepared to present."

The four of his employees scattered, and Theo walked with Draco the few steps to his office, where Daphne was waiting outside. As soon as she saw him, Daphne began reporting on the Ministry's investigation. "Fudge's disciple and Kingsley himself were here yesterday…"

The three entered his office and immediately Daphne stopped talking. She'd fill him in later, but now she wanted to hear about the meeting. "Well?"

"I'm meeting her Wednesday," Draco muttered. "We didn't get anything done."

"She did," Theo commented. "She manipulated you, Draco, into meeting again."

Draco cursed as he realized it was true. He remembered her sipping the water nervously, shortening the table, and the odd gleam in her eyes as she mentioned his father. It had all been to surprise him! "Dammit," he said again, with feeling. "The sly bitch."

Daphne didn't chastise him for his slur towards his mother. She was looking at him thoughtfully. "Why do you even have to meet your mother?" She held up her hand when Draco began to speak. "Wait, let me finish. You only need her for the Veela information, and honestly, a good Researcher can find that out in a jiffy. Owling her would be so much simpler and you wouldn't even give her a chance to manipulate her again."

Theo frowned. "I don't suggest doing that, Draco. She'll think you're distancing yourself and advance her efforts to worm her way back into your lives. Remember what Lucius always said? 'Let the enemy think he's winning, and only then shall you take control.' It's that situation now."

"Yes…" Draco trailed off thoughtfully. "That is a good idea. So was yours, Daphne," he hastened to add, "but just when she believes she's ensnared me in her web – I'll pull the plug."

"It will leave her angry,"' warned the sole female member of the group. She then smiled maliciously. "Let her get mad; we can handle her."

Draco hardly heard. He was busy categorizing his mother as The Enemy, something that was surprisingly hard. Never assume somebody fits into one role, he told himself firmly, ignoring the fact that he was indeed quoting his father. He added The Mother to Narcissa's list of roles. After a beat, he included The Reconciler, something he was sure she wanted to be. Everybody has multiple roles; the challenge is to decipher each and counter them with separate attacks. Can you do that, Draco? Can you disarm them, son?

"Yes," he whispered. "I can."

Monday

9:30 AM

(Jamie Callagher's P.O.V)

Mr. Callagher,

Your position as Main Editor for the Daily Prophet isn't given to anyone, I'm sure; the fact that you achieved this position in only twelve years speaks volumes for your intelligence, and that shrewdness is what I'm writing to you about now.

I'm sure you have heard of my mother's return to England. I have it from an inside source that she has planned to bribe one of your reporters to write her a positive article in your paper, and if that fails, try Witch Weekly. I trust you understand why this wouldn't do well for either paper, especially as I am prepared to finance an investigation to discover whom I should sue.

I am confident that you know what to do with this information, but in case any of your employees need valid proof: let it be known that I, Draco Malfoy, do not want to see an article announcing my mother's return that has a positive tone. I will investigate and sue for libel, as a positive review of her is undoubtedly negative for me. This missive will disappear if you try to show it to anyone not working at The Daily Prophet, such as a lawyer, for security reasons.

Sincerely,

Draco Malfoy

CEO, Sleeping Dragon Architecture Firm

Head of the Malfoy family

Head of the Black family

Jamie looked up from the letter and wiped his brow, knowing perfectly well that he'd given the 'OK' to one of his lesser employees to accept Narcissa Malfoy's bribe only half an hour ago. He wondered how Malfoy had known, and then reasoned that stories of his cunning and intuition were known, and he probably had sources in the Daily Prophet at this instant.

"Beth!" Jamie yelled for his secretary, who appeared in an instant.

The twenty-something woman gave him a seductive smile. "What can I do for you, Boss?" She questioned, clearly certain this was one of those "Shag-My-Boss-On-His-Desk" moments. Her smile disappeared quickly when he ordered all of his employees - "Every single one, Boss?" - to be gathered in the conference hall.

Beth left to do his bidding, and Jamie collapsed in his chair, scrabbling for the handle of his desk drawer. His fingers found purchase and he pulled it open, taking a pill bottle and screwing it open, shaking a few orange circles into his hand. Jamie tipped all but one back in the jar, dropping one and breaking another but not noticing in his panic. He chewed the Muggle pill slowly, and the nausea in his stomach dissipated with every bite of the orange-flavored medicine.

An out-right threat from Draco Malfoy was bad.

It was absolutely disastrous. Jamie was quite well-versed in the manner of business, and he knew that Malfoy knew with certainty of his acceptance of Narcissa Malfoy's money. He also was aware that Malfoy wouldn't hesitate to act on his threat; a lawsuit for the Daily Prophet would be the end of his career and lose them millions of galleons. He was not prepared for that, especially not over a stupid article.

Shooting up in his chair suddenly, Jamie waved his wand above his head, trying to search for listening devices embedded in the room. Malfoy had a spy in the company, he was sure, and was probably owling his lawyers as the seconds passed.

Tearing a sheet from his Muggle notepad, Jamie started writing, his letters shaky out of fear.

Dear Mr. Malfoy,

Duly noted. Thank you for the advance warning. I have taken care of the problem.

Sincerely,

Jamie Callagher

Editor of The Daily Prophet

Wednesday

12:25

He was there thirty minutes early, simply because he knew she would arrive twenty minutes early and he wanted to beat her there.

With his mother, it was always ten minutes early, which was precisely why he suspected her to now appear twenty minutes before. She would be counting on him to go fifteen minutes ahead of schedule to stake out the territory, only to find her sitting there primly, sipping chamomile tea.

Of course, he'd had the entire restaurant staked out since Tuesday. Arriving earlier was only a precaution. He was dressed similarly to last time, in slacks and a nice collared shirt. His hair was artfully mussed, and his face was a mask of stone that had taken nearly forty minutes alone to perfect with his friends' help.

12:30 saw him choosing a table in the bustling restaurant. In the back, near a window, secluded, without giving her the impression that they were having a private conversation. Knowing secrets gave one power, and he wanted to let her know that he did not care who knew of the Veela business.

However, Draco cared quite a lot, and that was one of his reasons for arriving early. He constructed careful privacy wards that would not be felt, all the while under a strong invisibility spell. His wards were simple, only hiding their conversation and masking their words from eavesdroppers. Under his wards, his hair appeared black to those without Black blood (his little joke) and his eyes black as well. Narcissa would match his appearance. After a moment, he tied a Relaxation charm into the wards, keyed to Narcissa's presence, so her guard would drop. Satisfied that his precautions were good, he exited, dropped the spell, and entered again.

Sitting at the table, he ordered a water with a lemon slice. It appeared on his table nearly a second later, and he sipped it nonchalantly as he watched around him for signs of action.

There – he saw a ripple. He was relatively positive it was Narcissa but looked casually away as he pointed his wand at her under the table, ending her spells. In the reflection of the window, he saw his mother flicker before she recast the spell. Satisfied with himself, he muttered "Accio" and watched as the ripple moved towards him with dizzying speed.

Narcissa ended her charm herself, patting down her hair. "Draco," she said sternly, but without much venom. "That was childish."

"Sit down, Mother," he replied. "You're causing a scene."

She entered his wards and a barely noticeable softening moved across her face. It wasn't much, but her lips raised a hint and the wrinkles on her forehead were less pronounced. He mentally cheered. He looked over at the waiter, who was watching him curiously – Draco had promised him three fivers if he'd get them their food, fast, and come when summoned. He raised an eyebrow, and the boy immediately sped towards them.

"I'm Johnny, what may I get you this afternoon?"

"Grilled chicken," he ordered crisply. He looked over at his mother. "A salad, I presume?"

If his accurate observation fazed her, she didn't let on. Narcissa smiled charmingly at the spotty boy. "Yes, as my darling son pointed out, I would like your Chef Salad."

Draco gritted his teeth as the waiter bowed and left. "Mother," he said, remembering his speech. "Tell me all you know about this family curse."

"Blessing," she corrected, raising one pale eyebrow. "It is dominant through females, which is why you have it when all direct male descendants are gone. I'm sure you remember the Delacour girl, from your fourth year?"

Talk about being put on the spot. Fourth year...the Tournament. Oh, what a year that was. It had been going quite excellently - who cared if Potter was succeeding, he'd recently acquired a girlfriend and found that other girls in Slytherin found him irresistible - until the Dark Lord had returned. Draco searched his memory for the name and came up with a stunningly gorgeous girl, who'd made all the boys (Weasley, especially) act like fools. He'd heard rumors of her being a Veela, but hadn't given them any more thought. "Yes, she was part Veela. Through her grandmother, correct?"

His mother looked faintly impressed at his memory. "Yes. The Veela gene sometimes skips a generation, and when it does, it is a certainty that it will be manifested in the first born child. I managed to pass it on to you."

The small amount of pride in her voice made his face darken. He sipped his water carefully, his gaze settling outside the window where common people were going along on their day. He took in their appearances and positions and amused himself by guessing their next actions while his mother looked at him. The man in the atrocious purple suit who was gazing longingly at a snobby woman across the street - he didn't have the balls to approach her, Draco thought to himself. He'd Apparate away. Two seconds later, he did, and Draco smirked to himself in satisfaction.

"I remember that smirk..." Narcissa's voice was wistful.

He snapped back to attention. "Continue, Mother. I thought the Veela line started in France; why do the Italian Blacks have the genes?"

This made the older woman incensed. "France? France? Why, the French stole the gene from us! Centuries ago, a witch by the name of Vedette Rossi, was given to a Frenchman of noble blood as a form of payment to fulfill a debt."

"Let me guess: she was the first Veela?" He played with the rim of his glass.

"This is not a fairytale, Draco," Narcissa rebuked. "Vedette was a Veela, yes, but hardly the first. Her child was declared the first French Veela, and she was auctioned off to another man when she was fourteen to produce another Veela child. Nearly all of the Veelas in France are related to that child, and records of Vedette Rossi have been lost."

Draco examined his nails. "How do we know of her, then?"

His mother's expression was alight with something, pride, or maybe honor. "She is your relative, Draco."

He filed that thought away. "Please, enough story telling. Is that all the information I need to know about the curse?"

"Blessing."

"Get on with it, Mother."

She shook her head. "It is possible to live without a mate. It requires a sacrifice; I sacrificed my freedom, Bella sacrificed her sanity."

This got his attention. "Bella? Aunt Bella? She wasn't a Veela, she was..." he trailed off with a shudder. His Aunt had been insane, ugly, disfigured with madness and Dark Magic.

"A victim," Narcissa supplied in a soft voice. "She never knew who her mate was, or if she did, she never told me. She married Lestrange in order to strengthen our family's position with the Dark Lord, and because our father ordered it."

He wouldn't tell her, but he was starting to get afraid. "How old was she when she turned insane?"

"It happened shortly after her marriage. She was twenty three, I believe."

Of the three ice cubes in his glass, one was melting, and the other two were perfectly intact. His mother's glass was condensed more than his was, and three out of seven drops of water were trailing down one side. He focused his eyes on one of the droplets, willing his voice to remain steady. "I am nearly twenty three."

"That is why I returned now."

"Is that it, then?" Draco looked up, met her eyes for the first time. "Am I to go mad in the next year?"

"No, Draco," she said, shaking her head. "But unless you meet your mate, you will be forced to sacrifice something."

"Is there no way to get out of it?"

He wished desperately for her to answer. If this was fiction, she'd look guilty and reply, "Well...there is, but nobody has ever tried it," and thus would begin attempts to try this ancient cure. He'd battle death and fall in love - either with his mate or his researcher - but not before the cure worked.

This wasn't fiction, however, and she only shook her head. "I don't know," she said in a whisper. "No cure has ever been found."

Thursday

7:02 PM

"Vedette Rossi?" Draco lit his wand and looked around in distaste. This attic really had gone to the dogs. After the war, he'd been so sick of his family that he'd ordered all portraits to be unceremoniously tossed in one room. It looked like the house elves had taken his requests literally, and there were portraits upside down, under tables, everywhere. "Is anyone here named Vedette Rossi?"

One portrait, with aristocrat features, raised an eyebrow just like Lucius. "Ah, the Malfoy heir. Listen, boy. No portrait in this room will help you unless you place us all walls - with gold plaques with our names." A chorus of assent rose from the other pictures.

He was certainly a Malfoy, but so was Draco. He lifted an answering eyebrow, and summoned fire out of the tip of his wand. "What's to stop me from burning any portrait that refuses to help me, Draco Potere Malfoy?"

"A pretentious sounding name, that," snorted the painted man, not afraid in the slightest. No Malfoy would burn history. "What is your middle name, boy?"

"Potere; it means 'power,'" Draco said coldly. "Now, listen to me. I will have all of you cleaned and mounted - without plaques, that may come after you do something else for me - but you have to swear that you will do anything to help me. in my quest." He briefly thought about ordering them to obey future generations, before deciding his children could fend for themselves.

"No."

"Incendio," he said, almost lazily, and watched in amusement as the painted man shrieked and ran away from the burning corner of his frame.

"You are destroying history!"

"No," Draco said coolly. "You are destroying history. All you have to do is help me find a cure for the Veela curse. And be quick about it, the flames have almost reached the canvas."

Voices raised in chorus: "Help him, Arectus! He is a Malfoy! He'll burn you to a crisp! Your pride isn't worth it."

Arectus Malfoy sighed in defeat. "I'll help you find a damn cure, if you uphold your side of the deal."

Draco cancelled the spell and smiled in satisfaction. "Excellent. Now, point me to Vedette Rossi."

Five minutes had his elves transporting portraits out of the room to be cleaned, and Draco sitting in front of a picture of a beautiful blond woman who looked about his age.

"Potere," she said quietly, licking her painted lips. "It suits you."

He lounged in his chair. "Vedette. A sentry, yes? A scout."

She looked to be impressed with his quick translation. Truly, his mother had let that slip, but who was she to know? "I think we shall get along excellently, Potere."

"Draco."

Vedette laughed, her long blond hair shaking behind her painted body. "Draco is your human name," she said softly. "Potere is what your mother named your Veela side."

He gave her a quick look. "I don't have to change my name now, do I?"

She laughed again, and the sound was musical. The poise she excluded even by sitting as a portrait was astounding. He found himself captivated, and could only imagine what she would have been like when alive. "Hardly, Potere. I shall call you it, as it fits you. Although, you are a snake that fights with fire, yes? A dragon."

He eyed her cautiously. The metaphorical talk was a little too abstract for him. "I suppose so," was his safe answer.

She appeared to recognize that he didn't want to talk about his name any longer. "I presume you don't know who your mate is?"

"You presumed correctly; I believe she is a Muggle, though."

She shook her head. "Impossible. A wand chooses a wizard, yes? It's the same concept. A Veela's magical core seeks out a matching magical core. This doesn't mean your mate is a Pureblood, however."

"What, so do we have the same wand?" He didn't actually believe that to be true, but it was just an idle question to busy her while he calmed himself. His mate was magical! He wanted to rejoice. He wasn't so opposed to Muggles anymore - he employed some Muggle techniques to great effect at Dragon, like telephones and Muggle pens - but he didn't want to introduce somebody to a world they would never belong in. He couldn't dream of marrying somebody without magic.

"I shall assume that was an inconsequential question and won't answer it." He chuckled as Vedette regarded him with a regal eye. "I will assume, however, that you want to find a cure."

"Correct."

"Don't," she said bluntly. "You will be infinitely happier if you just exist peacefully with your mate. She doesn't love you, not yet, and there's no guarantee that she will. Nothing, not even ancient magic, can completely control a human's will. Expend your energy on making her fall in love with you."