Draco Malfoy was having a very, very, very bad day.

Oh, he'd had bad days aplenty, most of which, the last few years, had involved Harry Potter. But this – he defied even St. Potter to come up with something this nefarious, this ignominious, this utterly… well, to borrow a phrase from that milquetoast little mudblood Creevy, this utterly craptacular. "You," he informed his mother, "have a sick sense of humor."

"Of course I do, darling, I'm a Malfoy," his mother informed him idly from where she lounged on a velvet-covered chaise in the warm sunlight of the conservatory. "But this isn't a joke. You're seventeen years old today, and today you come into your inheritance as –"

"Yes, you are joking!"

" – as a noble of the Veela Nation," she continued blithely.

"But we aren't Veelas!"

"Yes we are," she said sternly. "I'm three-quarters Veela, which makes you… well, some part Veela, anyway, I never was very good at maths. And there are certain responsibilities that come with the position."

"What, cheerleading at Quidditch games?" Draco shuddered.

Narcissa rolled her eyes. "No, darling, nothing so proletarian. To begin with, you must now assume your rightful name."

Draco slumped in his chair, crossing his arms irritably. "I don't want a new name. I like my name. Draco Michael Malfoy. It has a certain elegant ring to it."

"Yes, sweeting, but it hardly befits your heritage. Your rightful name is Draconinus –"

"What? "

" – Aloysius Cicero Saturninus Apollyon –"

"But – no!"

" – Alexandrin Marco St.John Xander Cyprian Gaudiosus Tarcisius –"

"Muuuum! " Draco wailed, the bitter, despairing wail of a seventeen-year-old boy who has suddenly found himself saddled with a seemingly neverending supply of increasingly asinine middle names.

" – Telemachus Leobard Agrecius Malfoy," Narcissa finished with a triumphant flourish.

"And how in buggery am I supposed to fit that monogram on a suitcase?" Draco grumbled.

"Language, darling," his mother reproved gently. "Also, in order to come into your full Veela powers, you must take a mate."

"But I don't want my full Veela powers. I like the powers I have!"

"Yes, you do want them," Narcissa told him. "Besides, if you don't take a mate you'll die."

Draco weighed death against having to go through life with a name like Draconinus Aloysius Cicero Saturninus Apollyon Alexandrin Marco St.John Xander Cyprian Gaudiosus Tarcisius Telemachus Leobard Agrecius Malfoy. "I don't want too many flowers at my funeral. And don't let Great-Aunt Mildred in wearing that revolting hat with the stuffed birds."

"Draco," Narcissa said between her teeth. "You will take a mate. You will do this because it will make Mummy happy, and when Mummy is happy, her little dragon does not have to worry about exquisitely adorning an early grave."

"But Mum –"

"Draconinus Aloysius Cic-"

"All right, all right, just stop with the names!" Draco exploded. "Fine, I'll take a mate. It's to be Pansy Parkinson, I suppose? Well, all right, she looks like a pug but I suppose she's not too intolerable when she forgets to be coy –"

Narcissa sighed. "No, darling, it's not as easy as an arranged marriage. You'll know your mate when you see her, now that you've come of age. The two of you will instantly form a mystical soul bond that only death can sunder, walking hand in hand through eternity in the blissful ecstasy that comes simply from looking into each others' eyes –"

"Is Dad still sleeping in the South Wing from when he got you a toaster for your birthday?" Draco asked pointedly.

"Yes, and he's going to continue sleeping there until he breaks down and buys me diamonds. That’s not the point, darling. The point is that your one true love, your mate forever, the other half of your soul, will be revealed to you at some point during the coming year, probably fairly soon."

"But what if she doesn't go to Hogwarts?" Draco pointed out. "What if she goes to Durmstrang or Beauxbatons or some uncivilized hut of a school in darkest America?"

Narcissa shuddered. "Don't even joke about America, precious. Let's just keep our fingers crossed that your mate will be a Slytherin of good family."

"With my luck it'll be bloody Granger," Draco grumbled.

Narcissa paled. "Granger? That pet mudblood of Potter's?"

Draco grunted an affirmative. "Or worse, the Weasleyette."

"Well, darling," Narcissa sighed, "if that's the case, I promise you that I won't let Great-Aunt Mildred's hat near your memorial service."

Draco's mum really did love him, he reflected, mollified. She just had a very strange way of showing it.

All things considered, he was not in a happy mood as he stood on Platform 9¾, huddled into his robes with his hands stuffed into his pockets and trying hard not to look at anyone around him lest he find himself accidentally mated for eternity to a Weasley or some other noxious lower life form. He would, he decided, have to stay in the Slytherin dormitories the entire year. Snape would understand. Unless his mate was in fact Snape, in which case at least Draco had his mum's promise about the hat and would probably have time to write out all the details of his funeral service before he died or was forced to do himself in.

A sudden hand coming down on his shoulder made him jump six inches off the ground with a shriek like a train whistle. Clapping his hand over his mouth, he pried one eye open and peered fearfully up at Crabbe and Goyle. No mystic soul bond seemed to be forthcoming, so he relaxed with a sigh.

"'S'matter, boss?" Crabbe asked, brow furrowing in confusion. "You're all jumpy."

"Bad news from home," Draco said shortly.

"But you just left home," Goyle pointed out, brow-furrows matching Crabbe's.

"Yes, well, I got it while I was there," Draco answered testily. "Just… stand there between me and everyone else, would you, and if it looks like I'm forming an eternal mystical mating-for-life soul bond with anyone not wearing a Slytherin tie, club me over the head. Unless it's Millicent Bulstrode, in which case club me anyway."

Crabbe and Goyle looked at each other, shrugged, and said "Okay, boss," in annoying unison. Really, they were worse than the Weasel littermates sometimes.

The train pulled into the station with a whoosh of steam and settled in front of the platform. Doors opened all along it, and students began pouring in. The thought that one of them might be Draco's mate made him feel like he'd overindulged in chocolate frogs and butterbeer. "Well, come on, then," he said irritably. "Maybe I'll get lucky and she does go to Beauxbatons."

"Who?" Crabbe asked.

"Never mind, I'll tell you later. Just come on. And make sure I don't bump into anything, I don't want to open my eyes." Maybe if he couldn't see, he couldn't mate for life, he reasoned, resolutely pushing all thoughts of pheremones out of his head.

Trying to get down the hall with his eyes closed, even with his bodyguards' assistance, was no easy task. There must have been enough first-years underfoot to repopulate a gentrified Spitalfields, and Draco stepped on so many of them that after a few feet he was reduced to simply kicking them out of his way. The pained squeals made him wonder if he ought not to plug his ears too, just in case –

"Hoy, Malfoy! Leave the first-years alone! What do you think you're doing?" an outraged voice demanded from one of the compartments.

Well, so much for plugging his ears. Draco's eyes flew open and he scowled in at Potter. "None of your bloody business what I'm –"

Brilliant green eyes met his own, something snapped in Draco, and the next thing he knew he'd cleared the mudblood and the Weasel in one move and landed in the lap of a suddenly panic-stricken Potter. "Harry," he murmured thickly, yanked Potter's glasses off and tossed them to land who knew where, and slammed his mouth down on the incredibly sexy, inviting lips beneath his.

"Mmm!" Potter protested wildly. "Mph – mmdfgrprh – mmph… mmmmm," he decided, and his mouth softened and opened under Draco's as broad, Quidditch-callused hands slid up Draco's back.

Well, this is promising, Draco thought gleefully, just before a sudden blow fell on his head hard enough to knock him off Potter and nearly knock him unconscious. He abruptly found himself sprawled on his back on the floor, blinking dizzily up as Potter launched himself up off the seat and shoved Crabbe back with enough force to knock that sizeable slab of adolescent boy almost out of the compartment.

"Leave him alone!" Potter yowled, hovering protectively over Draco, so clearly enraged that even his friends inched away in alarm.

Something, it occurred to Draco, was badly wrong with this scenario.

"Sorry, boss," Crabbe said mildly, offended not in the least by Potter's reaction. "It's just you said to hit you if you looked like you were… um…"

"Forming an eternal mystical mating-for-life soul bond with someone who's not wearing a Slytherin tie," Goyle added helpfully.

Oh. That was what was wrong. Draco looked up at Potter. Potter turned to look down at Draco.

Twin full-throated screams of horror almost drowned out the whistle of the train leaving the station.

"Wait, wait, wait! " the mudblood shouted, waving her arms imperiously. "What's going on? Malfoy, why did you kiss Harry? Harry, why in the world did you kiss him back? Crabbe, Goyle, what are you – oh, never mind; Malfoy, what are they talking about?"

Draco sat up, grabbed Granger's school tie in his fist, and used it as a handle to yank her closer, ignoring the Weasel's murderous howl. "Granger," he said between his teeth. "Potter and I are forming a mystical mating-for-life soul bond. Make it stop or I'll turn you into a bad case of genital warts!"

Granger went pale. "But – but I don't know how! I'll have to look in the –"

"We! Do! Not! Have! Time! to get to the fucking library, Granger! Make it stop now! "

"Hermione!" Potter pleaded, one hand kneading absently at Draco's shoulder. At some point he'd knelt down beside Malfoy and was hovering entirely too close to him, and really, it was nothing personal but Draco was going to have to kill one or the other of them.

"Help!" Hermione shrieked. "Professor Lupin! Someone!"

"Oh, that's helpful," Draco snapped scathingly. "Potter, do not touch me! Argh, no, wait, come back! No, get away!"

A soft throat-clearing noise came from somewhere in the vicinity of Crabbe's collarbone, and he and Goyle parted to let Remus Lupin peer through, looking mildly alarmed and as shabby as ever. "Hermione? Are you all right?"

"Remus!" Harry exclaimed like a drowning man being thrown a rope. "Remus, you have to help us, it's some sort of horrible spell and I kissed Malfoy and then Crabbe hit him and I was furious and he's being an utter berk to Hermione and I still want to stick my tongue down his throat and tear off those stupid poncy clothes –"

"Potter! These are Armani!" Draco howled in protest at the same time that Lupin said "Oh. Oh, dear."

"Professor Lupin, do something!" Weasley demanded. "It was awful, you should have seen them, I thought they were going to start shagging right here in the compartment. My eyes feel all manky now."

"You're part Veela, aren't you?" Lupin asked grimly. "And you just turned seventeen."

"Yes," Draco muttered. "How did you know?"

"Well, it's… I'm afraid it's a bit obvious," Lupin said, gesturing apologetically toward Draco. Granger and Weasley turned toward him, looking at him intently.

To Draco's abject horror, they began studying him with a very great deal of interest indeed.

Weasley – Weasley, oh God, Draco's life was over – was eyeing him up and down with obvious approval. "Bugger, Malfoy, you certainly clean up nicely," he purred.

The mudblood was simpering at him and patting that bushy hair of hers, and somehow the top two buttons of her uniform shirt had contrived to come undone. "Malfoy, I've been meaning to ask, won't you help me study for my Potions NEWTs? You're so much better at Potions than I am."

Oh, this was wrong, wrong, sick and wrong! Except for the part where he actually was better at Potions than Granger, but that was hardly the issue at the moment.

Potter growled low in his throat, really growled, and slung his arms tightly around Draco's shoulders. "Mine," he spat threateningly, then blanched. "Wait, no, that wasn't what I meant to – Remus, do something! This is so not on, it's Malfoy, I can't just… Oh, God, I want my mum."

"Well, you'll have to settle for mine, it seems," Draco answered crankily, steadfastly ignoring the fact that he was cuddling ignominiously back into Potter's embrace.

"Yours? Malfoy, your mum terrifies me!"

"She terrifies everyone. It's a hobby."

Remus cleared his throat again. "Well, there might be one chance –"

Draco hurled himself across the compartment and landed on his knees in front of Lupin, clutching unabashedly at the werewolf's ratty trousers. "Anything! Help us!"

Lupin kindly disconnected Draco's fingers from his trouser legs. "If I recall correctly, in order to take permanently the bond has to be… well, consummated. If it's not consummated in the next few days, it might dissolve or transfer to someone else – Harry, really, you're not helping yourself by doing that."

Harry unwound his arms from Draco's waist and stopped licking the back of his neck, abashed.

"Right," Hermione said decisively. "Ron, you're in charge of making sure Harry doesn't jump Malfoy in the middle of class. I'll be in charge of Draco –"

"The hell you will!" Harry and Draco said simultaneously, then glowered at each other. Potter had a rather sultry glower, Draco couldn't help noticing.

"Oh, all right," she said crossly. "Crabbe and Goyle can be in charge of him, then. But Draco, you know, it might help if you did the consummating thing with people who aren't Harry and worked it out of your system –"

"Over my dead body," Harry said flatly.

"Yes, that doesn't seem like it would help matters much," Remus said tactfully. "Crabbe, Goyle, take Malfoy to another compartment and sit on him."

"If you value your balls you will not sit on my mate," Harry informed them. "I mean – oh, bollocks, yes, take him away. Get him out of my sight before I fuck him in half – no, wait, I mean before I beat the hell out of him."

"I'd like to see you try, Potter," Draco said indignantly, then wasn't sure which half of that sentence he was talking about.

He really, really needed to get out of this compartment. He twisted out of Potter's grip, removed his hands from Potter's back pockets (and when they'd gotten there was more than he knew), and ran for it.

There was one empty compartment left, toward the end of the train. Draco tumbled into it and flung himself down onto the seat with a dramatic groan. Crabbe and Goyle slid the door shut and planted themselves stolidly in front of it, arms folded, looking at Draco with a sort of puzzled sympathy but, thank God, no lust. Well, Draco wasn't a chocolate frog, after all.

"I can do this," Draco said aloud, determined. "It's just a matter of not sleeping with Potter. I've spent six years not sleeping with Potter. I hate Potter. Not sleeping with him will be the easiest thing I've ever done."

"Sure, boss," Goyle said kindly.

The Sorting feast was a nightmare.

Potter and his friends had come in just as Draco was preparing to take a seat; their eyes had locked, and the bloody bastard had stopped, raking his eyes down to settle on the erection that had made itself rather urgently known the minute Draco set eyes on the stupid Gryffindor sot. As if that weren't bad enough, the idiot had actually opened that gorgeous mouth of his and run the tip of his tongue over his lower lip, looking as if he had no idea he was doing it. The next thing Draco knew he'd been on top of Harry on the Hufflepuff table, of all undignified things, each of them doing his best to lick the other's tonsils, and the tearful recriminations of the Weasleyette and the scandalized shrieks of a table full of Hufflepuffs had barely registered past that exquisite grinding rhythm their hips had fallen into – and suddenly Draco had been manhandled back to the Slytherin table by Crabbe and Goyle, cursing every step of the way, while a scourge of Gryffindors had dragged a similarly protesting Harry back to his own.

Bloody Potter, I'll get him for this, Draco thought sullenly. It would have to be him, wouldn't it? It couldn't be that Fleur wench, no, it had to be the Boy Whose Arse Is Apparently Like Veela Catnip. He poked savagely at his mashed potatoes and glared over at the Gryffindor table, what he could see of it between the massed bulk of Goyle and Crabbe.

He couldn't deny, however, that it was a very, very nice arse. And prone to wearing Quidditch leathers. And getting hot and sweaty in them. And then taking them off and standing under a long, hot shower rubbing soap all over –

Oh, God, when this stupid ceremony was over Draco was going to go to his room and wank until he chafed.

And worse yet, people were staring at him. Girls, mostly, but Zabini had been giving him the once-over all evening, and that wretched ponce Finch-Fletchley was nearly drooling into his dinner. Pansy draped herself half in his lap, cooing, and had to be fought back with an asparagus stick. Two fifth-year girls crooned "Hello, Draco," in sultry unison and wrapped themselves around his shoulders, distracting him from a really excellent pot roast, and had to be pried off by Crabbe and Goyle. If this was what coming into his Veela powers bought him, Draco thought crankily, then he was definitely going to kill himself, and he was taking his mother with him.

Well, at least the constant smothering must have Potter in a slow boil, he reflected smugly. Unless the Gryffindors were distracting him. Probably with the aid of the Weasleyette, who if she ever made those bloody cow eyes at Draco's mate again was going to wind up –

That was it. Draco actually was dead, and this was Hell. Just as he'd decided to give up on his dinner and make a break for it, the Houses rose to go back to the dormitories, and he was swept out the door and back to the common room without another glance at Potter. Not that he was trying for one, because he wasn't. Feeling that he'd had enough trauma for one evening, he escaped to his room, prying himself away from what seemed like everything of a remotely female persuasion and also Blaise Zabini.

Once safely in his room Draco flung himself down onto his bed, pulled the covers over his head, and prayed that in the morning this would all prove to have been some sort of horrible dream.

Ten minutes later, he booted a negligee-wearing Pansy out of his bed.

Fifteen minutes after that, he slung Millicent Bulstrode out of his bed and aimed a cleansing spell at his traumatized eyes to erase the image of her in a garter belt.

Ten minutes after that he threw Zabini out by main force, put the strongest locking spells he could think of on his door, and finally drifted off, wishing for some way of making himself invisible.

It didn't help matters that he spent all night dreaming of Harry, handcuffs, and whipped cream.

Classes the next day were a sore trial. Half of them were with Gryffindor, which meant with Harry, which meant the two of them staring smoulderingly at each other past the solid ring of people around each of them, intent on keeping them as far apart as possible – and, in Draco's case, seemingly intent on getting into his pants and causing Potter to have an aneurysm.

God knew there should have been enough people there to keep them under control; not to mention the fact that Draco, Veela or no, was still a Malfoy, and therefore should exercise complete control at all times, unlike certain Gryffindors with strange and distasteful scars who seemed to have permanently disengaged their higher thinking processes. Sadly, neither of them were Seekers for nothing; they were strong, quick, and crafty, which resulted in any number of awkward incidents throughout the day. The one in Care of Magical Creatures, for instance, when Potter was bitten by some horrible creature or other and was unwise enough to stick his finger in his mouth, which resulted in Draco materializing in front of him and appropriating the finger into his own mouth. Or the one in Transfigurations, in which the mere act of slumping in his chair, crossing his legs in front of him, and running a hand through his hair earned Draco a lapful of Potter.

And then there was Potions class.

To Snape's vast displeasure, Potter had qualified for, and chosen to take, NEWT-level Potions. But he was clearly having trouble with this particular potion, which was complex enough that even Draco was required to actually pay attention; and after fifteen minutes of watching Potter add the wrong ingredients in the wrong order and become increasingly flustered, Draco gave up in exasperation and left his own cheerfully burbling cauldron to stand behind Potter and catch his wrist just as he was about to add the celery root before the mandrake, not after it.

"Potter, really," Draco murmured. "Can't you follow directions at all? Look at your potion, for God's sake, I don't even know what color that is."

"Um," Harry said sheepishly. "It's sort of bluish-brown, I think." He leaned back, spooning against Draco with a soft purr of contentment.

Draco blinked and tried to clear his head of the Must shag Potter right now! thoughts. "Here, look. I think you can fix it. Add a bit more asphodel. Right, now stir." Draco's fingertips brushed something hard, and he wondered with a sort of absent despair when exactly he'd slipped his hand into Potter's front pocket.

Potter swallowed convulsively. "It's a bit hard to think when you're doing that."

"Don't think. I'll think. You are clearly incapable of it. Just stir," Draco ordered, and watched the potion's color dim a bit toward lavender, trying to ignore the part of his brain that wondered if it was even possible for anything to smell better than Potter did.

"Thanks for – oh, God – helping," Harry managed in a hoarse whisper.

Surely it wouldn't matter that much if Draco just tasted that lovely curve at the base of Harry's neck. That wasn't consummation. It was a very long way from consummation. Of course, what his hand was doing wasn't so very far from consummation, but Draco chose to ignore that fact. "Good," he whispered against Harry's ear. "Mandrake now."

"You smell so good," Harry whispered; and Draco belatedly remembered the whole mating-for-life pheremone thing but didn't quite have enough willpower to keep his fingers from moving a little farther inward into the pocket of Harry's fortunately loose uniform trousers. "Don't stop."

"Mandrake," Draco reminded him, casting a nervous glance toward the front of the room. Fortunately Snape was too occupied marking tests to notice imminent handjobs happening to other people. Harry dropped the mandrake into the potion.

"Good. Now the celery root – no, stir clockwise, not counterclockwise. Yes, that way."

"Looks better," Harry gasped, and ground that very attractive arse back into Draco in a way that made him see stars.

"Looks excellent," Draco told him hoarsely, told himself that handjobs did not equal consummation, and moved his hand to take a good solid grip on that mouthwatering erection.

Harry gulped. "I still hate you, you know. I think. You're a prat to my friends. Even if you are a bloody scorching hot prat and if you stop I'm going to punch you."

Really, Potter was unbearable! Ooh, except when he moved like that. "Well, you're not exactly a bundle of sunshine to mine," Draco informed him crossly. "Now, and pay very close attention, you need to add the chopped newt tongue next. Not the ground newt claws. Got it?"

"Got it," Harry panted, rocking his hips against Draco's and making Draco have rather frantic thoughts about bending him over the cauldron right there in the middle of class. "Listen, this whole mate thing –"

" –is completely insufferable, yes, I know," Draco said, stomping firmly on the part of him that pointed out that Harry loved Quidditch and had a very nice smile, and it could have been worse, it could have been the prig Finch-Fletchley.

"Yes, but –"

"Shut up and add things, Potter," Draco ordered, tightening his grip and giving a firm stroke for emphasis. Unfortunately, the immediate effect of this was to make Potter moan so loudly that even Snape had to look up, and the explosion was immediate and spectacular.

"Potter! Malfoy! May I ask what you're doing?" Snape almost shrieked.

"Um, nothing, he's helping me, that's all," Potter babbled.

"Helping you do what?"

"Make my potion," Potter blurted, grabbed the wrong newt parts, and dumped them in before Draco could either stop him or free his hand from Potter's trousers.

"Oh, bugger," was all Draco had time to say before the potion went up in a slow, messy, gloppy explosion, coating both of them, the desk, and the floor for eight feet around in viscous purple liquid. Empurpled and mortified, the two of them disconnected rather stickily from one another; and by the time the roof finished falling in, the end result was ten points from Slytherin and fifty from Gryffindor and detention, for both of them, on opposite sides of the castle.

Draco had had better days. And the worst of it was that he hadn't even been able to finish Potter off.

It was nearly eleven before Draco finished polishing the bloody trophies, and he headed for the Slytherin common room in no amiable mood. Stupid Potter, being so stupidly sexy and stupidly incompetent at Potions, Draco's fingers were sore and it was all his fault.

He was halfway back to the common room when a sudden flare of distress stopped him in his tracks. Not his own distress, he knew instinctively – Harry's. Not bothering to come up with a convenient excuse, he turned and headed in the direction from which the feeling emanated, following what felt like an invisible thread tying them together. Harry was upset and it wasn't getting any better, and Draco's entire body itched uncomfortably with the urge to do something about it. Really, it gave him a whole new degree of respect for his father, if Lucius could refrain from buying diamonds in the face of this thoroughly uncomfortable feeling. If diamonds would fix whatever was bothering Harry, Draco was fully prepared to roust every jeweler in the three kingdoms out of bed.

This fact rather disgusted him, but there was apparently nothing to be done about it, or at least not right now.

He skidded to a halt at the end of a hallway just off the Great Hall. Harry was standing in a pool of torchlight twenty or thirty yards away, being faced down by the Weasleyette, who had her fists planted on her hips in a manner horribly reminiscent of her mother.

"Well, you just can't, Harry, that's all," she was saying firmly, and the distress emanating from Harry in waves ratcheted up a notch. Draco scowled.

"I don't see why not," Harry blurted, then looked astonished and a little appalled that he'd said it. Draco wondered what in the world they were talking about, and stayed where he was, watching until he had a better handle on the situation.

"Because it's Malfoy! His father wants to kill you, remember?"

Actually Draco's father rather resented being forever sent off to deal with children as if he were an overgrown playground bully, but that was neither here nor there.

"He helped me with my potion today," Harry said stubbornly. "And he loves Quidditch, and he's… well, okay, no, he's not nice, but I think he can probably be really sweet if you catch him in the right mood."

Draco gaped in outrage. What was Potter trying to do, demolish Draco's reputation?

"That's your hormones talking, Harry," the wretched Weasleyette assured him earnestly. "Once this stupid mate thing has gone away you'll be sorry you ever said things like that."

That thought gave Draco a rather sharper pang than he would have liked. He toyed with the idea of turning the Weasley girl into a fungus.

"Isn't the hormones," Harry muttered sullenly, and the unhappiness radiating from him was starting to make Draco petulant and headachy.

"Is so," Weasley corrected him bossily. "And anyway, don't you want to get married and have kids someday?"

"Ginny –"

"Oh, come on, Harry. You just want distraction, that's all. Why don't you come with me to Hogsmeade this weekend? We'll have all sorts of fun."

Right, that was the last bloody straw. Draco saw red, and it wasn't Weasley hair. "Back off, Weasel," he ordered, snapping his wand into his hand as he strode down the hall toward them.

Harry's face lit with pleasure at the sight of him, before Draco's thoroughly pissed-off state registered with him and he darted between the Weasel and Draco's wand. "Draco, wait, it's okay."

"It isn't okay. She's upsetting you. You're upsetting my mate, wench, and if I can still see you when I'm done counting ten I'm going to hex you inside-out."

"He's not your mate!" the Weasel said shrilly.

"Not yet," Harry said softly, diverting Draco's train of thought neatly away from splattering Weasley entrails all over the walls. He closed the distance between them with something very close to a predatory prowl.

"But I think," he said, gently removing Malfoy's wand from his hand and tucking it back into his robes, "that we can resolve that matter fairly quickly."

Draco swallowed hard. "Potter – are you sure about this? Mating for life and all that, I mean."

"I did some reading in the library –"

"You mean Granger did some reading and reported back to you –"

"No, smartarse, I mean I did some reading." The Weasleyette apparently forgotten, Harry slid a hand around the back of Draco's neck. "I found out that if Veelas don't take a mate, they'll die."

"Well," Draco said, "yes."

"And I realized that I don't want you to die," Harry whispered against Draco's jaw.

"I'm not best pleased with the idea either," Draco pointed out, unable to resist sliding an arm around Potter's waist and pulling him closer.

"In fact," Harry said, nuzzling just underneath Draco's ear, "I'd really be upset if you died."

"Harry!" Weasley shrieked in exasperation.

"And, you know," Harry continued, blithely disregarding her, "I have this thing I do where I save the day a lot. Saving Malfoys from dying of Veela-ness is all in a day's work."

"Potter –"

"Plus I get to spend the rest of my life shagging you blind, and that's a hell of a fringe benefit," Harry murmured, and licked the line of Draco's jaw.

Whatever that link was between them, it was pulsing with contentment and heat now, distress soothed away as though it had never been, and apparently Veela powers did not encompass resisting Harry Potter. "Bed," Draco managed to say, though really the hallway was looking like a viable option too.

"Bed," Harry agreed, and the two of them were pulled up short by their clasped hands as they tried to head in opposite directions.

"Not the bloody Gryffindor Tower," Draco stipulated.

Harry took a look at the furious, trembling-lipped Weasleyette and conceded. "Not the Tower. Dungeons, then."

"And you –" Draco began, pointing menacingly at Weasley.

"Never mind, Draco," Harry said in exasperation, yanking him down the hall.

Draco followed obediently, making a mental note to send his mother something nice for her birthday.

"Oh, no," Pansy said crossly on catching sight of Harry.

"Good night, Parkinson," Draco said firmly.

"Well, this is hot," Zabini purred, contriving to insinuate himself between them. "Any chance of making a Seeker sandwich?"

Harry reached out and smacked Zabini's hand away from Draco's waist. "Hands off," he snarled.

"I think we should probably work on that," Draco said dryly. "At some point we'll have to get out of bed and other people might want to talk to us."

"No, it's fine," Harry assured him. "I'll be all right as long as no one ever leers at you again."

"He's a Veela, Potter, good luck," Pansy snorted.

"You say that as if –" Draco began, then cut off abruptly as Harry pulled him upstairs and pinned him against the wall.

"Where's your room?" Harry whispered, and bent to suck fiercely at the curve of Draco's neck.

"Er," Draco managed, taking Harry's hips in a solid grip. "Would you believe right here?"

"No. The reason being, there's no bed right here, and a bed is really kind of imperative right now." Harry unbuttoned Draco's robes with impressive speed and reached inside them to start on his shirt.

It was a bloody good thing Draco could find his way to his room with his eyes closed.

The door slammed behind them with a satisfying crash and they stumbled toward the bed, clothes vanishing who knew where. "God, I've been gagging for you all fucking day," Harry panted. "I thought I was going to go straight through the ceiling when you started jerking me off in the middle of Potions."

Draco pushed Harry down onto the bed, straddled him, and yanked his jeans down. There was a moment of confusion when Harry tried to help, ending with Draco tumbling off him and nearly off the bed and Harry yanking him back. "Potter, I am going to fuck you until you scream," he informed his erstwhile nemesis.

"Hey, who says you get to ohmygodrightthererighttheredon'tstop be on top?"

"I do. I am a Malfoy and always get my way. It can be your turn next go," Draco gasped magnanimously as Harry's tongue did extremely distracting things to his nipple.

Harry dumped him onto his back and dove downward, enveloping Draco's cock with his mouth in one swift move, and he was clearly more enthusiastic than experienced but it didn't matter, not with his tongue doing that swirling thing up and down and that lovely suction that had Draco clenching his fists in the sheets in an effort not to grab a handful of messy black hair and thrust straight down Harry's throat. "Potter, wait, God, I'm going to come if you keepdoingthat!"

"Good," Harry snarled, and nearly got his mouth wrapped around Draco's cock again before Draco hauled him back up by the hair.

"Ow!" Harry protested. "I'll get you for that, Malfoy!"

"How, exactly?" Draco smirked, pushing Harry down onto his back again and reaching for his wand. "Lubricus!"

"I'm going to argh!" Harry's eyes went glassy and he bucked his hips up against Draco's hand.

"Going to what?" Draco murmured smugly, licking his way along the salt-sweet path of Harry's collarbone.

"Going to," Harry gasped. "Um. Fuck you really hard. Ohgodohfuck you won't be able to sit down for a week without thinking of meAH FUCK THERE!"

"The intention's mutual, Potter," Draco answered around the taut skin of Harry's nipple, and bit hard enough to make Harry jump.

"Promises, promises," Harry panted, writhing underneath him.

"Hold bloody still, you wanker –"

" – can't, God, fuck me right now or I'm going to leave you here to wank –"

"Like hell you will," Draco informed him.

"OW!"

"Relax!"

"I've had blue balls all goddamned day and I'm two seconds away from a screaming orgasm and you want me to relax? Have you lost your mind?"

"Bloody near," Draco snapped. "Look, just… shh, there, like that."

"Draco," Harry said between his teeth. "I realize that between your extreme blondness and your Veelaness it's a bit much to expect you to have anything between your ears too, but when I say right now what I really mean is right bloody ohfuckyes!"

"Mm," Draco murmured, dipping his head to lick the inside of Harry's knee. "Good?"

"…ohgodyes…"

"Good," Draco said decisively, pulled back, and slammed into him hard enough to knock the headboard back into the wall with a crash. Potter threw back his head and gave a howl that his mates in the Tower probably heard, and Draco was going to have bruises all over his back but he didn't care because Harry was arching and thrusting underneath him, all heat and gorgeous friction and Draco wasn't going to last, wasn't going to last and couldn't stop anyway because Harry was writhing and swearing and pleading and it might well be more than Draco's life was worth to stop at this point. So good, God it was good, and he was hanging on the edge by his fingernails when Harry came in hot waves between them, crying out Draco's name, and that was more than he could take. One last thrust was all it took, and then he was coming so hard that he ached with it, hard and beautiful and the only thing that mattered in the world was Harry underneath him and around him and clinging to him, whispering breathlessly in his ear as he drifted slowly back down to earth.

They shifted a little – and where the energy to do that had come from Draco had no idea because he was decidedly boneless – and curled into each other, panting and caressing, trying to catch their breath.

"You're very loud," Harry observed after a few minutes, still sounding a bit breathless. "I like that."

"I'm loud?" Draco grumbled, nuzzling into the soft, warm, salty skin of Potter's neck.

"We didn't do a silencing charm, did we?"

"Um… no."

"Draco."

"Hm?"

"I. Um." Potter's finger came up to the bridge of his nose to push nervously at the bridge of glasses that were currently, by Draco's best estimate, somewhere over by the wardrobe. "I might. Sort of love you and all that."

"Of course you do," Draco said smugly. "What's not to love?"

"Well, I could make you a list if you wanted. Starting with your abject lack of humility."

"Humility is so plebeian."

"And you're mean to my friends."

"You really do dwell on that, don't you?"

Harry snickered and lifted himself onto his elbow, leaning over Draco to press soft kisses across his chest. "And you're rude. And impatient –"

"Oh, that's bloody rich, Harry!"

"And you love me too and you won't admit it."

Draco scowled and stayed quiet.

"I told you, I did some reading. The mating bond thing doesn't happen between people who really hate each other. So there must be something else going on, yeah? Besides you being an annoying prat, I mean."

"Listen, Potter, the one area in which you will always beat me is annoying prathood." Draco traced a gentle fingertip over Harry's scar and felt him shiver in response.

"Well, I guess you'll have plenty of time to find out, Your Veela-ness," Harry answered tartly. "Think Zabini's listening at the door?"

"I think he could have listened from the common room. Your common room."

Harry reached for his wand and cast a silencing charm. "There. Good thing we get our own rooms this year. I'd hate to be doing Round Two in front of Crabbe and Goyle."

Draco shuddered. "That's an unpleasant thought."

"Let me give you some pleasant ones," Harry whispered, and bent to kiss him again, long, slow, and sweet.

This Veela business, Draco decided, had definite things to be said in its favor.

And his mother was getting diamonds for her birthday.

End