Chapter 1: A birthday party

An unusual accumulation of shrieking girls answering to pretentious names, vomiting from too much firewhisky, and wearing flimsy nothings that come at the cost of top-of-the-range tournament brooms.

And a pissing contest for the guys.

"It's Draco Malfoy's birthday party," the girl behind the counter stage-whispers over the music as she hands me my ginger butterbeer. There's a glimmer in her eyes that isn't really PC now that being a pureblood, and ancient wizard aristocracy, isn't supposed to be even a category anymore. Let alone a reason to be drooled over. "Draco Malfoy? Only son of the Malfoys? People say he has just moved to London to start working with the Ministry! And he'll be twenty-one next Friday, and this is his party!"

Whose else would it be.

A purple-faced Pansy Parkinson pumps her hand down the front of Draco's trousers, pulls his wand out, and holding it to her throat announces in an ear-splitting, magically magnified screech, "And the winner of the Flying Pumpkin long distance pissing finals is… Draco Lucius Malfoy!"

Who else would it be.

"Why would anyone celebrate their birthday a week early. And why does he have to choose the Flying Pumpkin of all places to throw his upper class orgies," I grumble, rolling my eyes at Hermione and Ron. The Flying Pumpkin is our usual hang-out, it has been ever since the three of us moved to the capital after college and started working. Over a hundred different flavours of butterbeer, great Muggle music, nice, mixed crowd.

Totally not Draco Malfoy's scene.

I haven't seen him in three years, not since the Dark Lord went down. All I've heard of Draco Malfoy is that he studied at some fancy college, then started managing the family estate for his father when his mother died. Yeah, he basically disappeared from my life after the Battle of Hogwarts. And that was fine by me.

Really, I don't know why he doesn't keep to his oversized manor in the backwoods and do his partying where I don't have to see it. The Malfoys are still one of the richest families in the wizarding world. Some things just don't change it seems, even though we are all supposed to be equal these days. So there's absolutely no reason for him to apply for a job as an intern with the Department of Magical Development. And even less reason for me to endorse said application.

Yeah, it landed on my desk right this morning, with an audio-post-it attached to it asking me to preside over the selection panel. I hate everything admin. But it seems with everyone being equal and stuff, everyone has to do their part when it comes to time sinks like staff recruitment, even a top-ranking Ministry exec and former war hero like me. No class-consciousness here, but I'm an Auror, and I chose to be one because I'm good at duelling. Not to sit in some frigging panel and discuss whether or not one Draco L. Malfoy, born June 5th 1980, juvenile offender in resocialization, five N.E.W.T.s marked Outstanding, meets our criteria for internships in the Potions Section of the DMD.

I turn to my butterbeer so I don't have to watch him getting deep-throated by Pansy Parkinson. Her tongue is freakishly long.

"They say all Slytherin girls have tongues like that," Hermione says, reading my thoughts, and as usual using them as an opportunity to spout some of her limitless wisdom. She didn't get a permanent position as a professor for maginetics at the London University of Magic at age twenty for nothing.

"Might be because of residual snake genes," she continues, settling back in her chair. "Okay, alien genes. I'm sure you've heard that a considerable portion of the wizarding community is assumed to be carrying gene snaps of non-human creatures. But did you know there's a theory the Sorting Hat is really a special kind of gene analysis tool? Okay, the Sorting. It's really old magic, so no one has ever been able to explain conclusively how it works. But contrary to common belief the Sorting might not be based on the hat reading people's minds, but really on hair samples, and…"

"If it's snake genes that make someone a Slytherin, then why would they affect just the girls' tongues, what about the boys' tongues," I sullenly interrupt. I'm not really in the mood for one of Hermione's Muggle style lectures.

"Yeah, Hermione, what about the boys' tongues, Harry here would want to hear all about those, obviously, the old fairy," Ron says. He pauses, hoping I'll take the bait. I don't; I'm not in the mood for that, either. Also, he's been giving me shit like that for three whole years now, ever since I broke up with his little sister and came out. He knows perfectly well verbal gay bashing isn't any more pc in today's wizarding world than an avid interest in the private affairs of purebloods. But for a Weasley, there has ever only been one rule, and that's family loyalty. I can live with that.

Across the room, there's another burst of drunken laughter. Apparently Malfoy has stripped some item of clothing off Pansy Parkinson. Next thing I know, an oversized jewel-encrusted stiletto zooms past my head to crash into a bowl of Sangria on the table right behind me. Everyone around is spattered with wine. A tall wizard in a ruined dress suit who's looking like the victim of attempted murder gets up from his chair and furiously demands who the fuck is responsible for this shit. Over in the part of the bar that's occupied by Malfoy's party mob, half a dozen burly guys, their dress robes in wild disarray, assemble into a sort of fighting formation. I recognize Marcus Flint at the front. He hasn't changed much since the days he used to send people off to Hogwarts' hospital wing by shoving them off their brooms as captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team. He's still looking like he's half–troll.

"Oh no, this could turn into a full blown bar fight," Hermione murmurs, "let's leave."

"Leave? Now? Are you fucking crazy, woman?" Ron exclaims.

A slender boy gracefully sidesteps the thugs, directing them to fall back with a bored wave of his pale hand. His gelled hair gleams in the torch light like goblin gold.

Draco L. Malfoy.

Oh no, definitely not leaving.

"You there, did you just throw that shoe?" the man in the dress suit demands, glaring at Malfoy, adopting a threatening stance.

Malfoy walks up to him, his trademark arrogant sneer firmly in place. The man stumbles backwards. I don't understand how Malfoy does it, he isn't using his wand or anything, but the man retreats, his attitude combusting.

"All of this is just a disgrace," he mumbles, folding into his chair, gesturing at the mess around.

"I'd have to agree, sir," Malfoy says. "It truly is a disgrace, all this Muggle stuff that's around these days. Dress suits. Drinks called Sangria." He turns his back on the man, dismissing him, and motions at Hermione. "Dentists' daughters."

Next to me, Ron flares up like a Chinese Fireball.

Magic isn't allowed in the Flying Pumpkin. House rules. So Hermione and I are reduced to snatch his wand from his hand and kick his shin, respectively, to remind him he'll lose his job if he gets arrested for affray yet again. Now that Ginny's dating again, he's got a lot of guys to examine and, apparently, give a piece of his mind. It seems he hasn't grasped yet that as a police officer with the Ministry's Department of Law Enforcement, he's supposed to defend the rules, not break them. All he came up with when his own boss asked him why he wrecked Ginny's new boyfriend's flat by unleashing her set of Quidditch balls in it was, "Isn't it legit for people to watch out for their family", his standard excuse. Anyway, he really can't afford to Avada Kedavra anyone at the moment.

His face goes as red as his hair with the effort to keep his cool. Malfoy hasn't spared him even one glance. The fact is, he hasn't been looking at anyone but me during the whole scene. Now he moves over towards our table, a subtle stutter in his step betraying how drunk he is.

"Behold, it's the Saviour," he coos. "With his two funny friends. One a fox half-breed and the other one the daughter of a dentist."

With a roar of rage, Ron flies from his seat. Discreetly flipping her wrist, Hermione performs a neat covert Half Stunning Spell. Ron slumps back into his chair, his expression transitioning to relaxed cluelessness. Hermione levelly says, "Two dentists."

"Dentists," Malfoy repeats, apparently stuck on the term, but still looking only at me. "Forever the third wheel, aren't you, Potter? How come you can't get yourself a date? Doesn't the Saviour get any offers to get laid these days?"

His gaze is bleary, his looks are corrupted by the puffy redness of skin and dark circles under the eyes that come with too much alcohol and too little sleep.

"Happy birthday, Draco," I say softly. "And congratulations." I motion in the direction of the piss bucket. "What's all the competition. It's supposed to be a chill night out for you, isn't it?"

He doesn't answer, it's like he's listening. I don't know why he'd listen to me, but I'm going to use the opportunity. I get up. When I step up to him, I'm towering over him. He must have stopped growing at seventeen while I didn't. I'm a head taller than he is and almost twice as broad. It feels good. Right.

"Why are you still trying so hard, Draco. What is it that you need to prove to me," I say, my voice so low only he can hear me. "Tell me, Draco. What do you want from me?"

He sort of breaks at that moment. His lids come down over his cracked eyes and he turns away, his shoulders twisting. It almost looks like he's suppressing a sob. He can't be. He's just walking away because he's too drunk to come up with one of his snappy retorts and doesn't care to lose face.

"Harry, man, you so rule," Ron yelps. He's rubbing his eyes, he only just came round from getting half-stupefied. "That was better than when you aced the Dark Lord, man!"

He clinks his beer mug against mine as I sit down again. I grin back at him and take a swig from my mug, but something has happened to that butterbeer, it tastes like the contents of the piss bucket. Putting the mug down, I observe Draco as he weaves his way through the crowded bar, back to his party friends, away from me.

I register his pretty build and his special way of moving, ever graceful even though he's drunk and stumbling. Yeah, and his beautiful white-gold hair. People say he's of Veela ancestry, and fuck, I know he is. I've got to rearrange my junk in my jeans just from watching him in those old-fashioned, tent-like robes from behind. I wish I was wearing one of those myself. I shouldn't have caved to Hermione's claims that Muggle fashion is a statement in favour of diversity, plus can do magic setting off people's assets.

"Harry?"

It's Hermione.

On no account can she be allowed to read my thoughts now.

"They say he's part Veela," I say hurriedly, "Could he be? Aren't Veela supposed to be female only? What do you say, Hermione?"

She pounces on that like a tarantula on a mouse. Thank Godric for her obsession with scientific facts.

"Okay. Back to witches and wizards who carry non-human genes. The degree to which the condition affects appearance and personality will vary depending on the percentage of the alien genetic heritage, obviously, but in all cases, while some characteristics will be present from birth, the full individual phenotype only manifests itself at the age of maturity which is still twenty-one in the wizarding world. Meaning, " she takes a gulp of breath, then goes on, "meaning that it'll be much clearer a week from now whether the general assumption that Draco Malfoy is a Veela gene carrier is actually correct. All we can do for now is speculate. Okay, Veela. Theirs are the only non-human genes that are considered acceptable among purebloods, even desirable. Just as a footnote, the species considered the worst in this context are trolls, for obvious reasons, and fairies, because of their lack of wit and obscure sexuality. Okay, the Malfoys. Narcissa Malfoy's model looks have often been attributed to Veela ancestry, though it has never been officially confirmed by the family. I'd say her hair matches Veela hair in colour and texture, but let's not forget she's the only one of three sisters with this special characteristic. Also, we've got to take into consideration that Lucius Malfoy's hair is very similar to his wife's, but he's most definitely not Veela. His hair and air aside, he's got the appeal of a vacuum cleaner sales rep. The question we've got to ask ourselves in the case of Draco Malfoy is, is the Veela hair gene dominant or is it recessive…"

"My own," Ron says. She throws him an exasperated glance, but he can do it, he can shut her up, just by saying that pet name. As good as.

"To sum things up, Harry," she says, turning her back on Ron, "It's too early to pass a final verdict, but yes, male or female, Draco Malfoy might in fact be part-Veela." And then she adds thoughtfully, "Only then he would be likely to have a pull on all the girls, wouldn't he."

"He has, can't you see?" Ron gestures sullenly at the girls crowding Draco and trying to take advantage of the fact Pansy Parkinson isn't hanging off his neck for once. She has retrieved her shoe and is busy with trying out cleansing spells. Apparently the last one turned the Sangria on her stiletto into something brownish and smelly.

"Can't you see," Ron repeats.

"He doesn't have a pull on me, and I'm a girl, too, can't you see?" Hermione snaps, leaving Ron with his mouth hanging open as he gropes for an answer. It's always a treat to see my best friend getting flattened like this by my best friend forever. Bffs, that's what Ron has called Hermione and me ever since I told the two of them I'm gay. He insists I call him my pal friend when I introduce him to people these days, not my best friend. Because best friend might be abbreviated to bf, which could be mistaken for meaning boyfriend.

As if I'd ever go for him.

I'm still looking over at where Malfoy just extricated himself from his girl fans to go to the loo. I wonder why he needs to go there, with all the contest pissing he has done. Not that I've actually seen him in the act. I wonder if I shouldn't go take a piss myself and make up for the missed opportunity. And I've got to cut that line of thought this second.

When I turn back to the table, I meet Hermione's gaze. She's looking at me like I was a bug under her microscope. I don't like that, I don't like that at all. And there it comes.

"Harry, does he have a pull on you?"

I take a sip of butterbeer and start coughing. When I'm done, Hermione continues seamlessly, "I mean, with you being, you know, you should feel those Veela vibes, shouldn't you? It would only be logical."

It would. It is. Totally. Hell.

Hell, I don't want to talk about Draco Malfoy and his pull, not with Hermione, anyway, or with Ron. Or anyone.

"I mean, he's extraordinarily good-looking, from a strictly objective point of view, yeah, Ron, I'm sorry, but I won't deny the obvious facts, not even for your sake, so, Harry…"

"Don't you remember anything of our time in Hogwarts?" I say heatedly. "I've always hated him, and he hated me right back."

"Yeah, sure, but it's a truth universally acknowledged you can strongly dislike a person and still feel sexually attracted to them," she retorts smoothly, unperturbed.

It's funny really, all of Ron's offensive talking hasn't once made me feel half as uncomfortable as Hermione's utterly relaxed approach to the fact I like guys. The fact I'm sexually attracted to them.

By Godric, I wish she was just a tiny bit prissy. Like normal girls who don't use terms like sexually in polite conversation.

Ironically, it's Ron who saves me.

"Would you stop talking about Harry wanting to stick his wand up Malfoy's fat Death Eater's ass for a minute, please," he growls.

I would have been grateful for a different kind of phrasing, but it does the trick. I'm off the hook.

For now.