Chapter Text
Chapter One: Subtile Violence
Dark Angel, with thine aching lust
To rid the world of penitence:
Malicious Angel, who still dost
My soul such subtile violence!
NOW – OCTOBER 2004
Everything—absolutely everything—depended on how well Blaise navigated this conversation. It was essential that she take the bait. If Blaise succeeded at nothing else for the rest of his life, he would be content if only she said yes—if only she would agree to this.
He sat tentatively in front of Hermione Granger’s desk, waiting patiently as she furiously scratched her quill across a memo. “Please forgive me, Blaise. I won’t be a moment longer.”
“You’re absolutely fine, Hermione. I arrived early for our meeting. Take your time,” he said in his deep voice, conveying a calmness not mirrored inside of him.
She flashed him a small, shy smile, the one he sometimes felt she saved just for him, then with a furrowed brow, continued her missive.
Blaise began to worry the ring along his pointer finger, spinning it nervously as he so often did when his mind was unsettled.
Hermione’s office was quiet, no sounds but her quill and the ticking of her clock, but all he could hear were the voices in his head—his mother reminding him of his duty, Theo and Pansy warning him not to fuck up—but mostly, he heard the quivering desperation of Narcissa.
You have to save him, Blaise. Please. Save my son.
Hermione pulled out her wand and tapped her recently finished memo. It expertly folded itself into an aeroplane then zoomed out of her office, her door closing behind it with a soft click.
“Alright, then.” She folded her hands in front of her on her desk and gave him a wide, welcoming smile. “Blaise, it’s so nice to see you! It’s been an age! What brings you to Magical Creatures?”
She seemed genuinely happy to see him, and his heart twisted a little in his chest. He had created space between them since their eighth year at Hogwarts, their interactions limited to quiet moments on a shared lift ride, a cordial chat when they ran into each other on the Alley. She still looked at him the way she had for years, soft, warm, a faint blush when he gave in and and let himself flirt, just the tiniest bit. But it could never be more, so he did what he could to limit their interactions. It was for the best, he knew, but it felt like it never got easier.
Blaise refocused on his task. It was imperative that he did this right. He remembered his speech—the trick was to make it sound like it was the first time giving it.
“To begin, I am here not just to say hello and catch up, but also because I require the foremost expert in magical beings, specifically, Veela. You, of course, realise that I could travel the world over and would be hard-pressed to find someone more knowledgeable than you—an impressive feat for so few years out of Hogwarts.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly, her lips pursed.
Damn. Pansy had warned him not to hit the praise too hard. He had almost forgotten how perceptive she was.
“But more importantly,” he quickly continued, “I have a very curious case—one I am certain you will not have heard of. My own research has come up with absolutely nothing like it.”
She cocked an eyebrow. He would need to lean into the intellectual curiosity of it all and abandon the flattery. Straight to business—he respected that.
“Well, I’ll admit your letter piqued my interest, Blaise. And now hearing you say that, you have my full attention—I was under the impression that if there was a secret to uncover, you would be the person to find it.”
He dared to give her a slow smile, keeping his eyes guarded. “Then you’ll believe me when I tell you that this case I am bringing to you—and to you alone—” he added with a raised brow, “is singular.”
She bit her lip—almost as though his words ignited something inside her. A heat simmered behind her eyes.
Fuck.
Focus, Blaise.
He tore his eyes away before his thoughts ran wild and reached into his briefcase. He slid a folder across her desk containing as much information as he could gather, carefully redacted to retain anonymity—after all, he didn’t want to scare her—and folded his hands patiently in his lap as she tore into it.
“Unmated Veela, mid-20s, male—” she gasped. “It’s been years since I’ve heard of a male Veela so young—” She flipped through the pages carefully, then gasped again, this time in concern instead of excitement. “Permanent transformation? What—that’s not possible!”
“He has not permanently transformed…yet. But it’s taking longer and longer for him to return to his human form. I fear if this continues, there will be no going back. And unmated, well—you understand the seriousness of his fate.”
She nodded gravely, then pulled out a piece of parchment and began taking notes. Blaise could practically hear the wheels spinning in her head.
“There’s something more,” he added carefully.
This was it—the key to getting her to agree to come with him to the Black Forest. If she declined, then there was nothing else to be done. Nothing else he could possibly fathom that would end this misery—for everyone involved.
He reached into the breast pocket of his robes, thumbing the soft feather tucked inside. He hesitated, glancing at the large painting she had behind her. It was a picture of a young Veela, a female, her bright white feathers wrapped gently around her mate, one hand on his jaw, pulling him into an embrace. The painting didn’t move which Blaise found odd—it was strange to see something so magical be painted as if it were mundane.
Hermione turned her gaze to follow his. “I commissioned this painting. It’s a Muggle artist which is why it doesn’t move—I didn’t want it to. I love this moment, when a Veela finally finds her mate—”
“Or his.”
“Of course, or his. I don’t know if I’ve ever told you. I’ve always been fascinated by them—Veela. I couldn’t exactly explain why I’m… I don’t know, drawn to them, I suppose? They’re beautiful creatures but pose such an interesting duality—captivating in their human form, but truly frightening when transformed. I always imagined how it must feel for the mate. To be so close to something so perfect, but so terrifying. Like their love is balanced on a razor’s edge—” She cut herself off, clearing her throat. “I’m so sorry, you were going to say something more?”
Blaise studied her carefully. He wondered if she had ever questioned why she was so drawn to Veela. Did she have any idea, any inkling of what her fate held in store?
The inevitability of it all sometimes made him so angry. What would she do if she could walk away without hurting anyone—without getting hurt?
In another life, Blaise could be selfish. He could tell her to write him a report of her recommendations and leave it at that. Then, before he left through her door, he would turn back and ask her to dinner.
She would say yes, he was sure of it.
He felt the edge of the feather he was thumbing in his pocket prick against his finger. He winced a little at the sting, but set his jaw.
“One more thing, yes.” He pulled the feather slowly out of his pocket, flinching slightly at the expression of despair crossing her face at the sight of it.
Instead of the brilliant white, almost translucent appearance of a typical Veela feather, the one in his hand was black—so entirely dark that its absence of colour almost seemed to suck the light from the room.
Hermione’s lips parted in wonder. “Is that…?”
“Like I said—it is an exceptional situation. Singular.”
She reached out her hand tentatively to hold the feather. Blaise’s heart was pounding—with anticipation, with the sorrow he would continue to hold secret inside himself, with the grief he had to avoid at all costs.
He had to time this just right.
“Will you help him, Hermione?”
“Why? What has happened to him? I—I don’t understand.”
“Nor do I, not fully. But I do not say this lightly when I say you are the only person who can help. If you agree, we will leave straight away. The Veela’s been hiding himself in Germany—in a secluded part of the Black Forest, not far from the Rhine. We would leave from Stuttgart—” He cut himself off. Rambling would not help. His eyes darted back and forth between hers. “Please say yes.”
“Blaise,” she said softly, her voice full of concern now. “Who is he? You know him, don’t you? He means something to you?”
“Please, Hermione.” He could barely speak now, duelling needs inside him caused the words to catch in the back of his throat. The feather quivering in his grasp mirrored the quake in his voice.
“I–I’m not sure I can help—”
“You can, I know you can. You will.” He held out the feather to her, knowing she would have no choice but to take it. “You must.”
Her eyes stayed on his for a moment longer. Then as if pulled by an unstoppable force, her gaze dragged to the pitch-dark feather. She raised her hand tentatively, only a hair's breadth away.
“Alright,” she said softly.
The moment her fingers grazed the feather, Blaise watched in astonishment as a very subtle glimmer of magic moved over her body, raising the hair on her forearms ever so slightly. He wondered if she noticed. Did she know now why it had to be her?
She held the feather reverently in her hand, goosebumps covering every bit of skin he could see.
“Blaise,” she whispered. “Take me to him.”
Because of thee, no thought, no thing,
Abides for me undesecrate.
BEFORE — TEN YEARS EARLIER
Draco’s fifth year at Hogwarts was going to be his best yet—he was sure of it. He was certain that nothing was going to stand in his way.
He had arrived at Platform 9 3⁄4 with his typical smirk, looking down his handsome nose at the other students milling about with their trunks, pet enclosures, and other detritus their nonexistent house elves couldn’t manage for them.
This was going to be Draco’s year. He was a Prefect, the Slytherin Quidditch Seeker, second in his class—and really, top of his class of the people that actually mattered.
Not only was he the sole heir to wizarding UK’s richest, most influential family, he had an inside track to the Dark Lord’s return. They were planning something. Something big. If he was lucky, Potter, his idiotic sidekick, and the filthy bushy-haired thorn in Draco’s side would be nothing more than a footnote in the history books in a year’s time.
But he had another secret—one deeper, exceptional, more fundamental—a secret so important that not even his father was aware of it.
The first time he had transformed had been a few weeks after his fifteenth birthday. He had woken early—the sun had not even risen—noticing a strange tension in his stomach, a feeling of dread and anticipation. His heart was pounding abnormally fast, and a burning, tingling sensation rippled down his spine, along the backs of his legs and arms, then across his chest, squeezing and tightening his torso until he felt he couldn’t breathe.
The first time his wings sprouted out of his back he had screamed at the pain. His mother had come running—and when she laid her eyes on her son, giant blinding white feathers sprouting into an impressive wingspan across his king-sized four-poster, she had locked and silenced the door, then called for her most trusted house elf.
Narcissa had stayed by his side until he had completely transformed back into his human form, tears streaking down his cheeks, the skin of his back raw and red. She had rubbed Essence of Dittany into his shoulder blades, then along his knuckles and across the cuticles where his nails had sharpened into horrifying talons. He had fallen back asleep as she gently hummed an old lullaby while the first rays of the early summer sun slivered through his curtains.
His mother looked into it right away. How was it possible that she had a Veela for a child?
She hired the most discreet person money could buy—Bianca Zabini.
Blaise’s mother had a particular set of skills, incredibly valuable skills, that meant there wasn’t any secret she couldn’t uncover if given enough resources. Bianca had already been press-ganged into becoming a spy for the Dark Lord’s cause, but things in that regard were still moving slowly. She had plenty of time, and plenty of galleons quietly transferred into her Gringotts account, to look into this.
As it turned out, the heritage of the magical beings in the Malfoy line was a well-kept secret. Not even Draco’s father was aware of his ancestors’ Veela origins. It had laid dormant in the Malfoys for over two hundred years. For it to show itself now—and in a male, no less—could only mean one thing.
He had already met his mate.
Furthermore, she was powerful—possibly the most powerful witch in an age. That alone made Draco’s chest puff out in pride. Only the best for a Malfoy. It was practically expected.
Bianca had cautioned Narcissa in soft, nearly-whispered words, that Draco must be careful. Draco had been eavesdropping, tucked tightly into a hidden house-elf hallway off of his mother’s preferred sitting room. Blaise was next to him, his long legs folded up in the cramped corridor. And at the words of warning, Draco had pressed his ear a little tighter to the small wooden door.
“If Draco is presenting, pulling this recessive trait to the surface, then this connection with his mate will be incredibly strong. You must ensure that they bond before he grows too old.”
“My concern, Bianca, is that I have no control over who this person is,” Narcissa had hissed. “She could be highly…unsuitable.” She had spat out the word, and Draco knew exactly what concern she had. What if his mate was a blood traitor? A half-blood? Or, gods save them—a mudblood?
He rejected that last possibility out of hand. This mate of his—she was supposed to be formidable. The most powerful witch of her age. She must be pure-blood; there was no other possibility.
“Narcissa, listen to me. If he doesn’t bond with his mate, if he fights it in any way, regardless of her background, there could be dire consequences.”
He had exchanged a look with Blaise. What exactly did that mean?
Blaise and Draco spent the next weeks exchanging owls speculating who his mate might be. Draco hoped it was one of the Beauxbaton girls he had met during the Triwizard Tournament. Blaise responded that with his luck, it would be someone obnoxious—like that Weasley girl who drooled over Potter.
Draco transformed seven more times that summer—they came on erratically and without any noticeable pattern, each time his wings pushed out of his tender shoulder blades as painful as the first. He learned to grit his teeth and bear the pain, to stifle his screams, digging his nails and then his talons into his mattress as his entire body seized in agony.
The last time he transformed, the night before he left for Hogwarts, he had opened his bedroom window and jumped, stretching his wings as far as he could, letting the warm late summer air lift him higher as his wings pumped powerfully for the first time, his body flexing and stretching in brand-new ways.
It was then, falling through the soft moonlight, that he understood the gift he had been given.
That was also the night of his first hunt—just a rabbit, small and skittish, its white fur easy to spot in the dark shadowy forest behind the Manor. As a Veela, instinct overtook him—the urge to seize, to squeeze and snap its small bones as easily as twigs, to sink his talons and then his teeth into its soft flesh, letting the little animal’s hot blood pour over his tongue and down his throat. And as the satisfied feeling filled his stomach, and he licked the last drop of blood trailing down his forearm, he understood it wasn’t just a gift—it was destiny.
So, on September the First, the Hogwarts Express steam filling the air, Draco strutted across the platform, his held his head high, his Prefect badge in place, a smirk of inside knowledge across his face, a certainty in his gut that this was going to be his year.
A new professor’s placement would weaken Dumbledore’s position whilst the Dark Lord grew stronger. He would play his part—they all would—and soon, they would reap the rewards.
As calm and confident as Draco felt as he strode across the platform, his mother was the mirror opposite. Wan and agitated, she looked as though she had not slept well in several nights. Draco knew she had fretted and planned and strategised, ensuring one of her house elves could pass back and forth into Draco’s dormitory without issue. He needed to be careful, she emphasised over and over. Only Blaise was allowed to know the truth of it. They would keep it a secret—at least until they had a chance to identify his mate and ensure the two of them could properly bond.
Discretion was essential. They needed to protect him from the Dark Lord…from Dumbledore.
He bade a farewell to his father in the form of a brief handshake. He allowed his mother to pull him into an embrace, ignoring her hurried whispers of worry—be careful, be discreet.
With the last call of the conductor, Draco sauntered onto the train with one goal—find Pansy Parksinson and make sure she understood she could go fuck right off. If he knew anything about his potential mate, he knew one thing for certain—Pansy wasn’t her. Her magic was far too weak. Hell, she could barely tie her shoes without help. Not to mention, he felt next to no attraction to her. Their previous connection had been purely political. As necessary as the conversation was, he wasn’t exactly looking forward to her reaction to the news.
He was halfway to the Prefect compartment where they had planned to meet up when it hit him.
First, the smell—the intoxicating scent that made his head spin, his mouth water, his skin buzz and itch. His shoulder blades twitched, his wings begging to transform, and he knew she was near.
Second, was the sound—a voice he had heard a hundred times before, one that used to make him cringe, like nails scraping along a chalkboard, the shrill ring of an alarm bell waking him from a deep sleep.
But now—her voice tinkled across the air like the most beautiful harp, like the warmest notes of a cello, the breathy dance of the sweetest flute.
He froze, breaking out into a cold sweat as he heard as much as felt her drawing nearer.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck—
“—and besides, Ronald, we need to take our Prefect duties seriously. It wouldn’t be fair to the other students if we give Harry special treatment just because he’s our friend.”
Another voice joined in, this one just as jarring and obnoxious as ever, growing louder as the pair headed closer to where he stood—immobile at the threshold of the compartment door.
“Oh, come off it, Hermione, it’s not like—Oi!”
They were standing right behind him now. He could practically feel her heart beating, pulsing slightly faster now that a confrontation was imminent.
“What the hell are you doing here?” the freckled fuck asked.
He rolled his neck as he willed his body to obey, then took a deep breath to calm himself. It was a mistake because all he could smell was her. Soft, warm, and fresh—the spearmint of her toothpaste, the lavender of her laundry soap, the vanilla of her shampoo, then the earthiness of just … her, taunting him, making him want to grab her close, bury his face in her neck and—
He turned slowly, his sneer carefully pasted across his face. “Do my eyes deceive me or are the pickings so slim they had to appoint Weasel as a Prefect. Pathetic,” he spat, then turned to look at Granger. He nearly choked at the sight of her deep chestnut curls, wide doe eyes the colour of honey, full, cherry-red lips.
He deepened his scowl, letting his frustration over his predicament fuel the charade of his disgust. “And, of course, the arse-kissing mudblood. Don’t get used to being in a position of power, Granger. Times are changing.”
“I’m sure you would know all about that, Malfoy,” she responded—his heart sang at the sound. “Daddy sign you up for Death Eater duty yet?”
Gods.
He clenched his jaw as he closed his eyes, and turned away abruptly. He could feel the effect she was having on him drifting somewhere lower—somewhere more base—a primal need growing urgent.
He hurried into the compartment and sat next to Pansy, his hands clenched in sweaty fists, grinding his teeth, while the Head Boy and Head Girl ran through the important information for the first day of term.
He didn’t hear a single word.
He was breathing through his mouth by the end of it, trying to limit the smell of her from across the compartment invading his senses. But soon enough, her presence permeated the small room—he could taste her, and that was a million times worse.
“What the fuck is wrong with you, Draco?” Pansy muttered in his ear. He couldn’t even bring himself to respond, but counted backwards from a thousand, then recited every rune he could think of, then listed ingredients to his favourite potions. He did anything he could to keep his mind calm—to stop himself from transforming into his Veela form, grabbing Granger around the waist, then jumping off the train into the cold Scottish air, then laying her down and ripping off her stupid oversized uniform, and—
“And that’s all you need to know for now. You can go back to sit with your friends, but remember to help us corral the first years toward the boats when we arrive at Hogsmeade,” the Hufflepuff Head Girl finished, and Draco immediately stood, slammed the compartment door open so hard he heard the glass shatter behind him, and ran down the hallway.
He kept running until he reached his usual compartment where Blaise, Theo, Greg, and Vince were all sitting. He ignored his friends, and Pansy’s screeching voice behind him, and wrenched open the window. He put his entire head through it and breathed in the fresh air—waiting for his pounding heart to calm down.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck—
****
He was staring. He was absolutely transfixed and there was nothing that could stop him as he watched her through the entire Start-of-Term Feast.
He knew he was supposed to ingratiate himself with their new professor—some saggy-jowled bitch called Umbridge—his father had been very insistent on that. But all he could do was watch her, discover every detail of her and find the matching parts in his soul.
The way she pulled her curls back into a bun before she took her first bite, the prim way she cut her potatoes, fork in her non-dominant hand face down, eating slowly and methodically as if every morsel was worth her complete attention.
He imagined what it would feel like to receive such careful observation, how she would take him apart bit by bit. Would she savour him? Would she swallow him whole?
He snapped out of it when Pansy elbowed him sharply in the ribs and pulled him away from his uneaten dinner. He followed her lead as they gathered the new crop of first years and led them down the dark spiral staircases, past the Potions classroom and Snape’s office, past the walled-in catacombs, until finally they reached the Slytherin common room.
Draco let Pansy do the talking, or rather, after she tried to get him to contribute several times and he simply stood there slack-jawed and tongue-tied (having not heard a single word from their Prefect meeting on the train), she grumpily finished their orientation, then glared at him before leaving him standing in the cold, green light of the common room.
He waited until the room was empty before heading into his dormitory and pulled Blaise out of his four-poster.
“Draco, what the hell! I had just fallen asleep.” Blaise rubbed his eyes and reached for a jumper at the foot of his bed.
“We need to talk.”
His tone was all the explanation Blaise needed. He hurried up, pulling on his shoes, and the two of them snuck out of the Slytherin common room and out through the secret entrance near the pitch, broomsticks in their hands.
He didn’t say anything until they were in the air, flying above the trees of the Forbidden Forest. He would have preferred to fly as a Veela, but as it was, only his mother and her house elf had been allowed to see him transformed.
Further, he wasn’t sure he trusted himself to be in Veela form. He had a strong urge to fly to the Gryffindor Tower, break in through her window, curl himself behind her, wrap his wings around her and—
“Fuck.”
He hadn’t even realised he had said anything out loud until Blaise responded.
“What’s going on, Draco? You look, I don’t know…off. Flushed. You’ve been acting strange since we left London.”
“I found her, Blaise. My mate—she’s at Hogwarts.”
Blaise grinned. “That’s great, Dra—“
“Actually, it really fucking isn’t.”
Blaise’s smile dropped slightly at Draco’s sharp tone. “Shit, who is it?”
“One clue, one guess: she’s in our year.”
Blaise’s eyebrows furrowed then widened. He pulled his broom to a stop. “Fucking Granger?!”
Draco pulled up beside him, rolling his neck at the sound of her name. Salazar, if even her stupid bloody name sent shivers over his body, he was in deep fucking trouble.
Blaise let out hiss of disbelief. “I can’t believe it! I knew she was a swotty try-hard, but how can a mudbl—How can you tell? I don’t underst—”
“I don’t fucking know, Blaise, but she is! It’s her, okay? I…” He ran a hand through his pale hair. “I can feel it—being near her is so intense, like my Veela wants to come out. And, gods, her stupid fucking voice… I can bloody smell her and—”
Blaise burst out laughing.
A sizzle of rage boiled under Draco’s skin. Blaise had no idea what he was going through. Draco could barely be in the same room with her after ten minutes of realising she was his mate. And the connection was supposed to grow stronger—the force between them would become nearly irresistible until they completed the bond.
“This isn’t fucking funny, Blaise!”
“I mean, it’s a little bit funny. At least, you can admit it’s rather ironic—”
“It’s an unmitigated disaster!” Draco shouted. He must have transformed slightly as the anger overtook him—Blaise’s eyes turned scared, his broom began moving slowly backwards.
“You’re right, I’m sorry,” Blaise said, his voice tense and unsettled.
Draco looked down at his hands. His fingernails had partially protruded into sharpened talons and were scratching deep grooves into the wood of his broom. The skin of his cheekbones felt tight and hot.
Blaise was a good ten feet away when he spoke again, this time his voice was low, as if he were trying to calm an agitated animal. “I’m sorry, Draco. I’m so sorry—really, I am.” He rubbed the back of his neck, looking out across the grounds. Draco could tell he was already thinking of everything and anything that would help.
Draco used the moments of quiet between them to calm himself. He hissed under his breath as his talons retracted. He would need to soak his hands in Murtlap Essence before he went to bed otherwise they would ache for days.
“Professor Snape,” Blaise said, his eyes tracking a trio of hippogriffs diving into the Black Lake for fish. He turned back to Draco after watching one snatch a fish between its claws. “You need to tell Snape.”
Draco shook his head. “I can’t. Mum said no one but you can know. Even then, she made your mum cast a tongue-tied jinx on you. This cannot get around.”
Seeing Draco was back in his regular form, Blaise flew closer again. “No, Draco, listen to me. This isn’t just asking for support from a ‘trusted adult,’ or some shit. Professor Snape knows magic that can help you—how to control emotions, to hide your feelings.”
Draco was confused. Was there some kind of potion he could brew? Something like Wolfsbane? A hundred questions about the possibility bubbled to the surface of his mind. Instead, he simply asked, “How do you know he can help?”
Blaise’s eyes were back on the three hippogriffs. Two had found their dinner and were flying back to their paddock to eat while the third continued to circle above the dark water of the lake, searching.
“Just…promise me you’ll consider it. Your mum might even agree, if you need to run this past her—“
“Fuck, no! I’m not telling her what’s going on. She’ll have a bloody mental breakdown.”
He let out a dark chuckle at the thought, the ridiculousness of being mated to a fucking mudblood—Potter’s mudblood, no less. His laughter only grew louder, slightly hysterical, and Blaise soon joined in. It was stupid, an inconsequential moment that wasn’t really even funny. But the nervous laughter rolled out of them, growing until they were wheezing, doubled over with the absurdity of it all.
“Fucking Granger. Unreal. At least she’s fit, eh?” Blaise said with a wink, he took off like a shot on his broom. Draco leaned forward on his own broom hot on his tail like a hunter narrowing in on the kill.
He laid in bed that night and remembered, with a bit of reckless hopefulness, that the last time Blaise said…her name, his body hadn’t reacted.
Maybe he just needed more time to get used to it. Get his head screwed on right and focus on his studies and his friends. Quidditch practice started next week, and then he had to find time to brown-nose the new professor. Maybe there was just enough on his plate to keep her off his mind.
For now.
****
The foolish optimism he had felt before falling asleep that first night back at Hogwarts did not last long. That tiny bit of hope drained away before he had finished his first cup of tea the next morning in the Great Hall.
He had slid onto the bench between Greg and Theo and a moment later Pansy was across from him pulling out her tarot cards. Draco exchanged a judgey side-eye with Theo as she spread the cards on the table in front of her.
“No divination at breakfast, Pans, please!” Theo whined. “It puts me right off my kippers.”
Pansy ignored him and gave Draco a serious look. “After yesterday’s dismal performance, let’s make sure you’re not in for a year of misery, shall we, Draco?” She indicated the deck with her manicured fingers. With a sigh he pulled a card and placed it face up in front of him.
“Nine of pentacles. What does that mean?”
“Ooh, this is a good one. Nine of pentacles, facing upright, means luxury and wealth—”
“Oh, shocking news to the heir of the wealthiest wizards in Britain. Draco, can you believe it—you’re gonna be rich!”
“Be quiet, Theo, you’ll get your turn. It also symbolises self-sufficiency and independence—” she flashed a challenging eyebrow at Theo, “which suggests you’ll make your own way in the world. It can also mean solitude and affinity with nature, though the idea of you doing anything outside other than fly on your silly broom…”
Pansy’s voice faded into the distance of his mind as all of Draco’s senses suddenly became sharper—enhanced, almost, but in one specific direction—the Gryffindor table. Specifically, about one-third of the way down, nestled between Potter and Longbottom.
She was in her skirt and sweater, her mary janes swinging under the table, chatting animatedly, emphasising her words with her curls, it seemed, as they bounced to and fro in a way that captured his undivided attention. Draco narrowed his eyes as he watched Potter put his arm around Granger, giving her a squeeze while she poured them both a mug of tea and one for the Weasel who sat across from them.
Draco felt his incisors sharpen against his lower lip he hadn’t realised he had been biting. The warm and bittersweet flavour of iron filled his mouth and he tongued the cut.
“Draco! You’re bleeding!” Pansy’s alarmed voice cut through the haze of sensations in his brain.
Licking his lip, Draco stood abruptly from the table, then headed to the Front Hall, keeping his head low.
He leaned against a stone wall, breathing deeply, trying to calm his beating heart. He barely registered his classmates as they filtered out of the Great Hall toward their first classes of the term, his eyes squeezed tightly shut.
But suddenly, she was there. He could smell her, he could feel her, and the creature inside of him was screaming to be let out—it was somehow twice as difficult as their moment on the train, and with each passing second, it was only growing worse.
“Malfoy, there you are. McGonagall’s posted the Prefect hall monitoring schedule. You and I have been assigned for this Wednesday.”
He kept his eyes shut, his fists clenched at his sides.
“Malfoy! Are you even listening to me? Gods, you are infuriating.” He heard her shuffle her bag, possibly moving it from one shoulder to the other—he didn’t dare peek. “Listen, I know you hate me and, believe me, I don’t particularly like you either, but do you think you’ll be able to set aside our differences for thirty minutes every other week?”
He couldn’t speak, he couldn’t move, and he could barely breathe.
“Malfoy! Answer me!”
“Draco—there you are.” It was Blaise. He was pulling Draco away, his arm wrapped around his shoulders, heading toward the dungeons. “Don’t mind him, Granger. He’s just nursing a bad hangover.”
He heard her click her little tongue and he tried to rip himself out of Blaise’s arms and rush to her. He needed to see that tongue, to taste it, to feel it move over his skin. Blaise responded in kind, and his grip on Draco tightened.
“Hungover on the first day of classes. Very classy,” he heard her huff. Finally, she was walking away, and the tension in Draco’s chest lessened infinitesimally. “Bloody Slytherins,” she muttered under her breath as she left.
The farther away she moved, the easier it became to breathe again. Blaise held onto him tightly until they reached the lower dungeon levels. Draco finally managed to gasp, “Snape. Take me to Snape.”
Blaise let him go, and Draco opened his eyes. They were standing outside of the Potions Master’s door.
“Do you want me with you?” Blaise asked, his eyes full of concern.
“No—no, I’m alright.”
Blaise nodded, then turned to leave.
“Blaise.” Draco gave a small grateful nod. “Thank you.”
“Anytime.”
***
Draco sat across from Snape’s desk, watching somewhat impatiently as the man scratched at his lesson plans. He knew better than to interrupt, however. The fact that he was willing to meet Draco outside of his office hours was already a favour—he wouldn’t take it for granted.
A few more scratches of his quill and he set it aside, giving Draco an assessing look.
“What can I do for you, Mister Malfoy?”
“Professor Snape… sir. I need help with something. Something serious.”
Another look of scrutiny later, and Snape’s wand flicked scarily fast, locking and silencing his room.
“Go on,” he said slowly.
“It’s…it’s not what you think. It doesn’t have anything to do with…well, you know.”
Snape’s shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly, and he waited with a neutral expression for Draco to continue.
The words felt so impossible. He moved instinctively, lifting his hand to the middle of the desk, then let his creature reveal his talons, the sharp claws pushing painfully through his tender cuticles for just a second before they retracted back into his hand once more.
Professor Snape was quiet for a moment, his face still completely passive. “I see.”
“No one can know.”
“I understand. But I’m not sure how I can help. I’m afraid there isn’t a potion that can stop this. Nothing short of death will prevent you from this fate, Draco.”
Draco swallowed heavily. “There’s more. My mate. She’s at Hogwarts.”
He looked up, his eyes almost pleading. Please don’t make me say it.
Snape’s eyes softened, and Draco felt a soft stroke of magic against his forehead. As soon as it was there it was gone.
Snape’s face turned grave. “I see.”
“Please, Professor Snape, what the fuck am I supposed to do?!”
“I would normally dock house points for such vulgarities, Mister Malfoy.” He paused, considering him. “However, under the circumstances, I’ll let it slide.” Snape rose from his desk swiftly, then moved across his office, his dark robes billowing behind him.
“Stand, please, Mister Malfoy, and face me.”
Draco did as he was told, his legs a little shaky underneath him.
“I will attempt to invade your mind again; however, this time you will resist me.”
“What? How? What is the spell?”
“There is no spell, Mister Malfoy. There is only discipline, concentration, and force of will.” He raised his wand toward Draco, and without giving him a moment to prepare, he cast the spell, more intentionally than before. “Legilimens.”
Once again, Draco felt the intrusion of Snape’s magic—sharper this time, almost like a thin blade, peeling back a layer of his mind, seeking—no, forcing entry into his thoughts.
Visions of his transformation flooded to his mind, the painful feeling of feathers forcing their way through the tender skin of his shoulder blades, his shrieks in agony as his wings formed behind him—
Then he was flying, soaring through the moonlight, his strong wings pumping powerfully, sending him higher—
Another moment, he was feasting, the soft, warmth of the rabbit’s flesh giving under his teeth—
Finally, he was on the train, hearing her, smelling her for the first time.
Draco didn’t want his professor to know the extent of it—it was too intense, too primal—practically depraved. With a shove of his magic, Snape was forced out of Draco’s mind, and sent backwards against his office wall with a nonverbal knock-back jinx.
They were both breathing heavily. Draco felt cold sweat running down his back as he grasped his knees to catch his breath.
“What was that?”
“You employed a branch of magic called Occlumency, Mister Malfoy. It counteracts the mind-reading spell of Legilimency—something at which the Dark Lord is exceptionally adept.” Snape strode back to his desk and gestured to the chair in front of it. “I can tell that you’re a natural Occlumens, your agility no doubt enhanced by your designation, but you will need to be disciplined. What you need to attempt to accomplish is not for the faint of heart. To be perfectly frank, it is unheard of and quite likely impossible.”
“What is that? What do I need to accomplish?”
Snape’s voice was serious but softer now, as if he was imparting terrible news. “You must mask the bond. You must wrap it up tightly in your mind, Draco, shield it and protect it so no one can ever know it’s there.”
“W-will that help me control my…when I’m near her, Professor…it’s fucking unbearable.”
“It will help, yes. To what extent, I am not certain. And there are risks. Any time a creature fights its bond—well, I’m sure you understand—”
Draco ran his hands through his hair in frustration. “But if I don’t—I cannot bond with her. You-Know-Who will…I’ll be killed.”
“She will be killed,” Snape corrected, and Draco’s gut seized in anguish at the mere idea of it. “The Dark Lord may let you live. But that is not an existence I would wish on my worst enemy.”
“You will help me?” Draco felt desperate and frightened—cornered and without a choice.
“I will try.”
Dark Angel, ever on the wing,
Who never reachest me too late!
NOW
The forest was quiet. No birds, no movement of animals stepping through the fallen leaves, no wind rustling through the branches of the dense wood. The silence was impenetrable, as thick as the fog that curled around the base of the trees. It seemed like the forest was holding its breath—waiting for someone—or something.
Dusk had arrived. The witch had only had a few minutes before it would be so dark not even a lumos would guide her home. She would need to hurry. She was in a part of the Black Forest she usually avoided, and for good reason.
She had heard the rumours from the old drunks in the village, retelling their same stories year after year about the things that haunted the deepest part of the Black Forest, a few miles north of Gerbach.
But it was more than that. She had seen the bones scattered across the forest floor when she ventured too close to the lake. Heard the rustle of branches high above her on windless days—felt eyes on her but with nobody—no body around.
The witch hurried her footsteps. She knew there was a good patch of mugwort farther down the trail. The young woman she had been tending was weeks, maybe days from going into labour—she would need it on hand for the delivery. She shook the uneasiness beginning to creep up her spine and moved deeper into the forest.
Around the bend of the twisted trail was a small clearing. She would have to bushwhack to reach it—only a few metres and she would be able to harvest enough mugwort for the next dozen births.
The branches cracked under her feet as she stepped off the trail, the sound of it echoing through the otherwise silent forest. Her cloak snagged a little on a bush and she paused to untangle it.
A branch far above her made a low creaking sound, as it was moving slowly under the weight of something settling upon it. Startled, she quickly ripped her cloak from the branch it was caught on, tearing the fabric.
Her heart was beating wildly in her chest, her stomach tight with unease, but she hurried forward toward the mugwort. A minute later, she reached the largest patch and crouched in the tall grass. Using her wand, she made small, gentle cuts close to the stems of the plants, taking the unopened buds and placing them carefully into her satchel.
She worked quietly. The silence of the forest returned, wrapping around her like an oppressive blanket. Her breath sounded loud in contrast to the hush of the wood, ragged and uneven, as she hurried to fill her bag as quickly as possible.
A few minutes later, and her satchel was nearly full. She saw another patch across the clearing. She knew the lake was just on the other side of the copse of trees that ended the glade. She hesitated, but only for a moment.
She had nearly lost all of her light. It was time to go. Lighting her wand, the witch made her way back toward the trail, the feeling she was being watched growing stronger with every second.
She hurried her footsteps, tripping over a vine as she reached the trail and landed hard on her hands and knees, scraping her wrist on a jagged rock. As she struggled to her feet, she noticed she was bleeding and looked on the ground for her wand to heal it.
When she turned, instead of her wand, she found a tall man bathed in shadow, standing so close she nearly screamed. Her body froze as she took in his intimidating appearance, her eyes roving over him in panic.
He wasn’t a man, she realised, but something entirely different—something preternatural—something dark.
His hair was blinding white, and much of his skin as pale as the moon, but his hands—no, not hands—his claws were black as midnight. Darkness stretched up from his black talons weaving up his arms like poisoned veins, then disappeared into the inky tattoos of ancient protection runes that criss-crossed his skin.
His eyes were entirely black—no whites surrounded the pupils. Instead, only darkness stared at her—unblinking. His face could have been handsome but it was pulled into an almost demonic expression, cold and twisted.
Without a word, he reached out an arm, her wand tight in his hand, extending it to her to take. But she couldn’t move. Her heart was tripping over itself, her limbs seized with adrenaline.
He moved closer and grabbed her arm, placing her wand in her open hand. Understanding hit her at the last moment and she managed to grasp it tightly rather than letting it fall back to the forest floor. She began to pull her arm out of his grasp, but his head tilted—as if he caught a scent—and he squeezed tighter. He pulled her arm higher, and the blood from the gash on her wrist dripped down her bare forearm, coating the talons that wrapped around her.
He looked at her once more—a rumble emanated from deep in his chest—and large pitch black wings spread out wide behind him.
She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out.
He pulled her arm, and she tripped roughly toward him. Suddenly her wrist was against his mouth—he was licking, sucking, consuming her as she stood helpless before him, quivering and frozen in fear.
She flinched as she felt a sharp graze of his teeth against her skin, and a painful gasp slipped past her lips. The sound of her yelp sliced through the quiet night like a knife. He dropped her arm as if it had burned him, then took a slow step back.
“Run,” he said, his voice low, dark and dangerous. She wanted to run, she wanted to scream, she wanted to Apparate away, if only the magic of the forest would allow it. Instead, she stared at him—mesmerised by the terrible creature in front of her—as petrifying as he was strangely beautiful.
“Didn’t you hear me, little rabbit,” he whispered, the sinister sound of it curling around her like a net. “Run.”
He launched toward her, and the spell broke. She was running, sprinting as fast as her legs could carry her, clutching her wand, her half-open satchel strewing mugwort across the forest floor as she fled.
She heard the powerful whoosh of wings above her, occasionally landing on a branch, watching her run, almost toying with her as she rushed along the twisted path. She heard an echo of cold laughter when she tripped, falling once more, mud coating her skin, mixing with the blood dripping down her arm.
But she didn’t stop. She ran and she ran and she ran, not stopping until the tall, dark trees rose up behind her, the lights of the village visible in front of her.
Only then, when she heard the soft tinkle of a bell belonging to a cow in a nearby pasture and a sigh of the gentle mountain wind soothed her heated brow—only then, did she fall to her knees and catch her breath, wiping the tears that streaked her dirty cheeks.