Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling and her publishers, and I do not own anything you might recognize. This is a work of fanfiction, and I do not make any money off of this story.

A/N: This story was written for the H&V If the Prompt Fits Fest. The prompt I chose was: Draco and Hermione sitting in a tree. Thanks to scarlettcat for the lovely prompt! I really enjoyed writing this story, and I just love it. I will give you fair warning, though, that it's not usually what is expected of a Veela story, but I wanted to tell a lovely little K-rated romance. So enjoy this Hogwarts 7th year, Voldemort-free, Alternate Universe Veela story for what it is, and if you liked it, please drop me a line and let me know!

Part 1

Draco Malfoy had thought that his entire life had been written out before him. The son of a prominent Wizarding family, he would receive high honors at Hogwarts, bringing glory to the House of Slytherin. Whether that glory came in the form of the House Cup, regularly beating the Gryffindors at Quidditch, or scoring exceptionally high on all his NEWTs, he would allow room for a little adjustment as to the details the story would take. But after Hogwarts he would marry a pureblood witch—beautiful, graceful, intelligent—from this there could be no deviation. He would have a child—one remarkable male heir, or possibly even two, even though no Malfoy had produced more than one child in over four hundred years.

The next chapter would involve increasing the Malfoy fortune by taking his rightful place as the head of the family company. After his father had died in the Wizarding War when Draco was just an infant, that position had been held in trust for him and temporarily exercised by his mother, Narcissa.

Draco was convinced that he would do his father's memory proud. He would run the various family companies and their administrators with efficiency. He would take his place as a leader in Wizarding Society. He wouldn't be a well-liked wizard, because rarely do people like those who are superior to them, but he would be well-respected. An invitation to a party at his home, Malfoy Manor, would be highly coveted among all of his business acquaintances. His name would be whispered in the streets of Diagon Alley as others casually moved out of his way when he walked by. Even the Wizengamot would speak his name in hushed tones as they assembled together, knowing that the House of Malfoy was one to be reckoned with in all things.

And of course, all of this he would pass on to his son, at the appropriate time, as had happened for centuries before, generation after generation. He even rather thought he'd already picked out his son's name, according to the traditions of the also highly esteemed House of Black, which was his mother's family.

Yes, Draco Malfoy had seen his future stretching out clearly before him.

*-M-*

He should have known there was something unusual about the way his mother constantly asked him about the girls at school. From the very first owl he'd written home, she had always responded with careful inquiries about every witch that he met. Sometimes she'd asked about one by name, while other times she'd asked for an overview of all of the girls at school.

At home, she'd make comments about each of the girls, things she'd gleaned from conversation with their mothers or things she'd observed herself. "Isn't she lovely?" "What wonderful manners she has! But her family has always had impeccable breeding." "And how is dear Pansy doing?"

Pansy was a particular favorite of Draco's mother. The Parkinson family had been very close to the Malfoy family. Both heads of the house were currently widows who had lost their husbands in the Wizarding War, and so Draco and Pansy had grown up closely together. Draco didn't quite have the heart to reveal to his mother that Pansy was becoming more and more intolerable every year. Her possessive attitude grated his nerves, her lack of attention to her own schoolwork irritated him, and, he was sorry to agree with the prevailing opinion, but her face really did resemble a pug. But whenever his mother asked, he always told her that Pansy was doing well in school, she was well-regarded, and she was growing lovelier every day. It was only the slightest stretch of the truth, and Slytherins had no compunction about sometimes slightly stretching the truth.

His mother asked about the girls he liked, and the ones he didn't like. She didn't particularly seem interested in the girls whose names he couldn't remember.

If there was one topic his mother absolutely hated, though, it was the subject of Hermione Granger, the Muggle-born best friend of Harry Potter.

Draco had thought at first that he and Harry Potter ought to be the best of friends. After all, both of them had lost parents during the defeat of the Dark Lord. Being as how Potter was also distantly related to the House of Black, Draco had considered that they would get on quite famously.

But instead Potter had taken up with the insufferable Weasley family—pureblood but poor, and completely unacceptable as appropriate companionship. Then to make it worse, he'd befriended the Muggle-born, and Draco had been glad that they were not friends after all.

She was irritating, Granger was; she thought she knew everything, and her not even coming from a respectable Wizarding family! Seeing her hand shooting up in the air to answer every question, and seeing her bushy hair bouncing as she nodded rapidly along to everything the professor said, only served to irritate him past all his patience.

Whenever he mentioned to his mother about what she had done, or more to the point, what he and his cronies had done to her and her friends, she always changed the subject rapidly. The first few times he told her about his latest prank, he was surprised that she offered no censure, such as she usually would when he regaled her with stories of how they had brought low some student or other. She was Slytherin enough to appreciate the tactics, but motherly enough to remind her son of appropriate behavior.

But when Draco did something to Granger, like when he switched her pot of ink with combustible jelly and everything she wrote on her parchment smoked and sparked, his mother simply switched topics.

Not a single word would she comment about the Muggle-born, as if Draco hadn't even spoken. And she invariably turned the topic to a different girl. "How are Daphne's grades?" "I saw Milicent's mother while shopping last week." And of course, "How is dear Pansy doing?"

Draco had simply always thought that his mother was doing what every pureblood mother was doing: vetting the current generation for a future bride for his son.

The day he found out the truth about his mother's topics of conversation was the day he felt his future being unwritten.

*-M-*

It was the summer before his 7th year, his trunk was already packed, and he was preparing to embark on his final year at Hogwarts. His usually very composed mother was looking flustered, nervous even, like she was slightly afraid. In all their years together she'd never displayed those traits and Draco was concerned.

With a halting voice, and using slow, deliberate sentences, she revealed a secret that had been hidden within the House of Black:

A Veela had once married into the Black family, her heritage hushed up to protect their status as pureblood. There were some who would consider the magical being to be equally as pure of magical blood, but there were some who would view the marriage as a stain on the family's reputation. So over the generations since then, there were witches born—particularly strong in magic—who would manifest Veela traits. A Veela mother always knew when she had given birth to a Veela daughter. Narcissa alone of her sisters was Veela, a secret kept and hidden despite the animosity between herself and her sisters.

In fact, after finding her mate in Lucius Malfoy and living a relatively quiet life, it was entirely possible most of the family had forgotten about this lingering aspect of their bloodline. She hoped so, as no one would ever expect that the Malfoy family, who traditionally only bred one single male, would produce a Veela child. She had certainly never expected it herself. But a Veela mother always knows.

To say Draco was surprised was an understatement. Distressed, he listened as she explained his hidden heritage and that having reached his majority he would begin to sense stirrings inside himself that were the presence of his mate.

To say Draco was angry was an overstatement. He'd always assumed that he would choose a wife, or have one pre-chosen for him, based on an inflexible set of criteria. He had known the choices would be slim for the wife of a Malfoy, but he hadn't known that his life and future happiness would depend on choosing precisely the one witch who was the mate of his Veela…and ensuring that she accepted.

Narcissa cautioned him that should he find his mate, he must not reveal to her the knowledge of what she was to him. In time, his Veela heritage may become obvious, especially while he was not yet bonded, but it was imperative that the Veela mate not feel pressured or obligated to bond with her Veela. The choice must be freely made, the heart freely given.

More than a little dazed, he left for Hogwarts the next morning. He spent the entire train ride wondering if each girl he saw was the one, and waiting to hear from his inner Veela who was supposed to be just waking up.

After a month, with no discernible changes within himself, he'd begun to believe that perhaps his mother was wrong. Perhaps he wasn't Veela. After all, a male Veela was highly unusual. Or, without discounting his mother's Veela intuition, perhaps his mate simply wasn't at Hogwarts and he had at least another year before he had to worry about finding her.

He settled routinely into his schoolwork. As a Prefect he had authority and a certain amount of freedom, but without the heavy responsibilities of the Head Boy. That title went to Michael Corner, Ravenclaw, and of course his female counterpart was the Muggle-born Who Shall Not Be Named in His Mother's Presence. He understood now that as Granger was not a viable option for the wife of a Malfoy that his mother had wanted to hear as little about her as possible, instead concentrating on the witches who would be potential candidates for being his Veela mate.

He captained his Quidditch team, and though he didn't win as many matches as he'd once originally thought he would, he rather thought he found a measure of glory in the famous rivalry between him and the Gryffindor captain. If he didn't catch the snitch but ran Potter into the ground a time or two, he considered his playing to be quite successful. Most of the team felt the same. Gryffindor team always took a heavy beating whenever they played Slytherin. Once, incensed at one of his team's carefully strategized maneuvers to unseat Potter, the Head Girl herself had marched over and threatened to take so many points from the Slytherins that their house cup would have to invent a token for negative points. They'd laughed at her, knowing she'd never have enough grounds to take points from a match where referees had already made rulings. And she'd marched away, curly head bobbing a counterpoint to her angry steps.

Draco also wrote home, dutifully as always, this time being more detailed about the girls in school—save one of course—and repeatedly telling his mother that there were no signs of his "inner self" showing any preferences.

Late at night, he'd lie in his bed, thinking over the lines that had already been penned in the book of his life. He'd once had it mapped out as far into the future as his mind's eye could see. But lately all he'd been able to see was the next week's quiz that he was sure to ace, or the next day's game of Quidditch.

He tried to write a future that encompassed his new, unidentified Veela mate. He tried to fit her into the plans he'd had, but somehow the picture could never come clear. Was she intelligent and kind? Was she quiet or shy? Was she beautiful? He rather thought she'd be beautiful.

Malfoys often had blonde or white hair, a distinctive family trait. They tended to marry others with light hair, much like Narcissa whose hair had begun to have white streaks even from an early age. He wondered now if that was her Veela adjusting itself to be more acceptable to her mate. Both of her sisters retained black hair as befit the family of Black. But try as he might, he could not envision his mate with light-colored hair.

When he closed his eyes, trying to will her face and her form into view, he got only an empty space. When he tried to force as little as a hair color, blonde or white—or an eye color, icy blue or sea green—into that empty space, he got a feeling that he could only express as a resounding 'No.'

Late at night he played this game, this game of wondering about the future and wondering about his mate.

One night, as he lay there, brooding over that empty space, he felt a fluttering, skipping movement in his breast. He sat up quickly, a hand over his heart, the sensation jolting him out of his meditative state. Breathing hard, he wondered if he was having medical symptoms, and if so, what they could mean. But after a moment of just listening to his heavy breathing, he concluded that he'd imagined the feeling. Perhaps he'd dreamt it. And he settled back down to sleep.

As his mind began to wander and his body slowed down to the rhythms of slumber, he felt it again. A soft, rhythmic feeling skittering around inside his chest. This time he held still, trying to find the source of the light pulsing. His heartbeat had sped up. He fought the same initial surprise he'd felt before, and as he concentrated on the foreign sensation, he felt his own heartbeat gradually slowing. Slowing, slowing, slowing…until…it matched the measured beating.

Amplified by his own heartbeat, it was no longer light and fluttering. It was deep, steady, calming. It produced in him a sense of wonder at the rightness of it. So he lay there, listening to it, feeling it echoing in his chest as his heart beat alongside the slowness of it, and eventually he was lulled to sleep.

The next morning he wondered if perhaps he'd dreamt it. He felt inside of himself for that Other rhythm, but he couldn't find it. Perhaps it was too faint for him to notice in the activity of the day.

The world felt different. The colors perhaps a little brighter. The freshness of the wind perhaps a bit sharper.

He chalked it up to the change of the seasons. Autumn had finally given way to the inexorable winter. It would soon be time for the Yule ball, and then all of the students would go home to celebrate the holiday with their families.

Draco had been dreading returning home and having to explain to his mother that his Veela had not surfaced, that he'd felt nothing to indicate his Veela heritage was manifesting. He knew she was anxious for news, and he didn't want to disappoint.

But whatever he had felt in the night, he was certain it was the sign he had been waiting for.

He went through the day mechanically, absorbed with contemplating this new turn of events, and periodically taking time to attempt, with no success, to recreate the incident of the night before.

And when he finally went to bed, earlier than normal, he lay awake searching for his Veela. In the quiet, and in the dark, he waited for that beating he still wasn't sure he hadn't imagined.

Finally, late into the night, he was rewarded by that flickering sensation suddenly echoing in his breast again. This time his heartbeat slowed to match it immediately.

He sighed. The feeling was clearer this time. It thump-thumped precisely as his heart did. But it was so slow that it made him sleepy.

His mind wandered to that empty space where he tried to envision his mate, and into that empty space he heard loudly in his head the 'thump-thump' of his heart.

No. Her heart. He was suddenly very sure that he could feel her heart. That empty space he envisioned as the place his mate would occupy was no longer empty. It was loud and vibrant, echoing with the sounds of her heartbeat, slow and steady. She must be sleeping, this late at night. That explained why it was always so slow. He could only connect with her when everything was very quiet, and he was very still, and both of them were near sleep.

He had a mate! And she must be at Hogwarts. And…well…the sum total of his knowledge was that she had a very healthy heartbeat. She also did not appear to suffer from insomnia.

Far from being discouraging, it actually made him feel almost giddy. His life was connected to another's—a mate that would belong only to him, and he to her! A warmth spread through his body, like the pleasant low humming in the blood that comes after drinking a couple of butterbeers, if butterbeers were made of rainbows.

He thought he felt the rumbling of his Veela, content and pleased. His mate was safe and she was sleeping.

He should have gone to sleep, also. Instead, he spent an untold amount of time just breathing, and listening to their hearts beating together, until sleep finally won out over the wonder.

*-M-*

The next morning he woke up feeling excited and energized. Despite being far below ground in the dungeons, it felt very bright and sunny to him. For the first time, he was certain, absolutely certain, that he was Veela and that he had a mate. And that she was here somewhere in the school!

In a quiet corner of his soul, he could almost feel his Veela still slumbering. He didn't know how else to describe the new, but strangely familiar sensation of Veela thoughts and instincts surfacing now that he'd connected with his mate. It was a strange mix of having his body house a wild creature and actually being a wild creature. His mother hadn't spent very much time explaining that aspect to him. But what he knew of Veela was that they could be very fierce and very wild when provoked, so he rather thought these feelings were just the first glimmer of what it would be like to become a full-grown Veela.

The idea of such a loss of control would normally have been distasteful to him. Malfoys usually prided themselves on being in control of everything. Perhaps it was his Veela side already beginning to work on him, but he felt only a calming sense of assurance. To take a page out of Longbottom's book, he felt a bit like his inner Veela was a brand new seedling inside of himself, waking up, unfurling, needing attention and nurturing. And needing the sunlight and warmth that came with finding and claiming his mate.

At the thought of her, and the memory of her heartbeat from the night before, he felt his Veela stir. For a moment, Draco could almost see the world around him awash in bright yellows and pale pinks. Almost like the first blush of sunrise. He blinked, and then it was gone, but the alert presence in his mind, remained. His Veela wanted his mate. No, he wanted his mate.

Could he reach her in the daylight? He'd tried and failed the day before, but he was certain their connection was stronger now.

His hands only slightly trembled with anxiety and excitement, as he closed his eyes and laid back against his pillows, trying to find that tiny light inside of him that was their shared destiny and follow it back to her. For several moments he couldn't sense anything and he felt himself growing frustrated. The colors behind his eyelids deepened to oranges, with streaks of disappointing brown.

He sat up and shook his head trying to clear it. He knew she was there; he only had to find her.

He closed his eyes again, his hands clenched around his large quilted blanket, and concentrated on the pale yellow and pink sensation he'd had when he'd first awoken. It had felt light and happy like laughter floating on a summer breeze, like that moment before you open up a gift, like your first bite of your favorite ice cream. He concentrated on those feelings and felt those colors returning, getting brighter and deepening to golds with rosy hues.

And then he found it. That tiny pinpoint of light that connected them. Then suddenly her heartbeat was there, and his own heart was beating hard in his chest. His eyes flew open, looking around him, wondering how everything around him could stay the same when obviously everything had changed.

He jumped out of bed, anxious suddenly to get dressed and go down to the Great Hall. He was sure he would find her today. How could he see the girl to whom the heartbeat belonged, with her own heart echoing against his, and not immediately recognize her?

As he pulled on his uniform and his robes and ascended the stairs to breakfast, he could feel her heart changing to beat at slightly different speeds. A sudden thump here, or a bump there, he was fascinated with all the little changes that signified a real person going through a morning routine. It brought him this inexplicable joy to know that she was nearby and safe, and possibly unsuspecting that today she was going to meet the man she would spend the rest of her life with.

Or meet again, he supposed, since they'd likely already met several times before.

Oh, he was so curious! And impatient! He had to see her. He climbed the last steps two at a time, and nearly burst into the Great Hall.

*-M-*

After-breakfast Draco was much more subdued than before-breakfast Draco. Despite his earlier expectation that he would determine the identity of his mate today, he had so far managed to make it all the way through his first class and was no closer to his mate than he had been upon waking. He could have walked right by her several times today and his Veela hadn't done so much as peep.

Disappointment was a bunch of browns and greys, he'd learned. And there was a pink-purple, blue-black thread that drifted by sometimes, and if he grabbed it, he felt overcome with an impossible longing to hold his mate in his arms. He'd quickly determined it was far easier to just ignore that color and wallow instead in the sepia-toned mush if he was going to at least pretend to pay attention to the professor.

He summoned the feeling of his mate's heartbeat, now secured quietly in a corner of his soul. As his emotions went up and down, he noticed that the connection to his mate grew more tenuous. Every so often he had to clear his mind and concentrate on her presence inside of himself. His Veela enjoyed this exercise, crooning whenever the thump-thumping was firm and strong, and Draco was rewarded with yellows to break through the misty greys, like sunshine through clouds.

Uselessly, he watched as Pansy Parkinson giggled inanely at something one of her friends had said. The professor hadn't yet noticed, and Pansy was trying in vain to get her expression under control. By the way their glances kept bouncing off a Ravenclaw in the corner, Draco assumed they were having fun mocking the girl for something he'd been too caught up in his own musings to notice. Judging by the angry set of the Ravenclaw's mouth, and the way she didn't so much as look the direction of any of the Slytherins, it was clear the girl was well aware of it, as well.

He couldn't help comparing the actions of the girls in front of him to the gentle, even tapping of his mate. She was obviously not engaged in ridiculously juvenile behavior while in class. She was calm and quiet but alert. In the last several hours, he thought he'd become quite adept at interpreting heartbeats.

Pansy's, for instance, would probably be gamboling about as she tried to breathe around her giggles. The Ravenclaw's would probably be slamming hard and angry in her ribcage.

Draco suddenly sat up straight, the movement so abrupt that several around him turned to look to see what had his attention. He quickly turned his eyes to the book in front of him, although he didn't register any of the words on the page.

It wasn't Pansy. It wasn't the Ravenclaw.

Not that he'd had any concerns that it might be Pansy. She was absolutely the last person his Veela could possibly have chosen for him. He almost laughed at the truth of that thought. Even Muggle-born Granger was a more likely choice, although probably not by much.

As he had that thought, the skipping about in his own chest almost caused him to lose his grip on the feel of the heartbeat in his mind.

Carefully, he cleared his thoughts again, and called the connection back. He was very excited! He'd just had a bright white revelation.

He might not know who his mate was, but he could begin to rule out who she wasn't.

In his mind, he envisioned himself holding up the beating of his mate's heart next to Pansy Parkinson. As she giggled and swatted at her partner's shoulder in her mirth, he was completely, without a doubt, certain that the heartbeat could not belong to her.

He felt giddy at the confirmation of something he was already sure of. But it wasn't so much that he was glad he wouldn't be bound for life to Pansy Parkinson, it was that he was sure that he finally had a way to search for his mate. He would compare a girl's actions to his mate's heartbeat. When it was clear that they were in contradiction with each other, he could rule out that girl as a possibility.

He quickly decided that matching the heartbeat directly was not likely, so he'd just concentrate on narrowing the field.

Pleased with his clever thinking, he noticed the browns and greys had been replaced with sturdy greens and blues as he planned out the task before him. He wanted to pull out a sheet of parchment and create a list of all of the girls in the school, but not only was that very difficult, it would be very uncomfortable to explain if anyone else chanced to see him writing on it. Or worse, crossing girls off the list.

It wasn't like he was all that concerned with who it wasn't. He would mentally keep track of who he tested, starting with the girls in this class.

Just as he had that thought, the class ended and everyone started moving. He ruefully thought he'd have to add the Ravenclaw back onto the possible list, because he hadn't gotten to directly test the heartbeat against her actions.

There was some good-natured jostling as everyone got up and started crowding the door so they could get to their next class. It wasn't until Draco was through the doorway that he realized that the heartbeat was still steady and slow. He noticed the contrast when it suddenly beat a little bit faster, much closer to his own, as he was walking.

He stopped in the corridor, a fourth-year Hufflepuff colliding with his back and squeaking before running off. Draco stood there for a moment, puzzling out what that information meant.

She must be walking now, much like he was walking. Which meant she had been sitting before. When his entire class had gotten up to leave, she was still sitting. Her class had not been dismissed yet. Ergo, she was not in his first class.

The grin that appeared so swiftly lit up his face with such unabashed pleasure as to shock the Head Girl as she passed him, nearly causing them to bump into each other.

He effortlessly side-stepped her and her friends, cheerfully heading towards his next class, not even bothering to offer them a snarky comment when they stared at his unusually pleasant mood and mumbled something to which he paid no attention.

As he entered the next classroom, looking around for a likely spot from which he could conduct his experiments, he noted that his mate's heartbeat must have jumped suddenly. It was slowing down again, but in the excitement of his discovery he'd missed the exact moment it had changed.

He reminded himself to pay more attention next time, as it could have been a clue to her identity.

*-M-*

Draco spent the next few days obsessed with his idea of using his mate's heartbeat to discover her identity. Late at night he still stayed up for hours listening to the steady drumming of her heart, and spinning crazy ideas of what it would be like for the two of them as a bonded Veela pair. But during the day he was intent on his goal of narrowing down the possible options.

He was starting to get the hang of his new color-coded Veela senses. The more he became in tune with his Veela, the more shades of colors he began to see. There were shades for his own feelings, interesting blues and blacks and greens and greys, that helped him to reconcile his human magical heritage with his Veela one. He quickly became used to seeing the world in a wash of new vivid color.

Then there were the lovely shades of yellows and pinks and purples and orange-golds that were her. Seeing the streaks, and knowing she was near filled him with the most lovely sense of warmth, like standing in front of a warm fire and feeling the light and the heat on your bare skin. He'd see a lilting stream of violet go by, and he'd stop and look around frantically trying to figure out where she was. He looked at girls he'd never looked at before. Sometimes he stared. Sometimes he backtracked his steps to walk past a girl a second time. In his mind, he held out the bumpity-bump of her heart like a compass that was going to lead him to her.

A few of his friends were beginning to look askance at his unusual behavior. When he held the door open for a 5th year Gryffindor one morning, Theo just about jumped out of his skin in surprise, and that was saying a lot for the usually composed Slytherin. Draco didn't bother explaining himself as there was no sense telling him that the 5th year had the most beautiful brown eyes. They were warm and dark, and gave him a skittering up his spine and what seemed like the echo of amber in his mind's eye. Holding the door forced her to look at him and acknowledge him with an awkward thanks. There was something very right about those lovely dark irises, although he knew as soon as she looked up at him that she wasn't the one.

He was used to the disappointment. The human part of him kept getting his hopes up and then was a squishy grey of resignation when the day ended with her identity still unknown. The Veela part of him refused to get on that up-and-down emotional broom ride, and was perpetually hopeful. She was there, and he could feel her through their connection. It was only a matter of time.

His biggest clue came one day as he was walking through the courtyard, lost in thought. The Yule ball was only a couple of days away, and after that he'd be headed back to Malfoy Manor where he hoped to have a long talk with his mother about Veela mating rituals and other details of his Veela heritage that he'd forgotten to ask when she'd sprung the news on him in the autumn. As he was trying to catalogue his progress in finding his mate, the air suddenly rang with orange-streaked pinks, and he stopped abruptly, looking around him.

There were many students outside enjoying the mild day and the snow that lightly covered the ground. For a moment, his heightened Veela senses had trouble sorting out which sounds were coming from where. He saw a group of Ravenclaws engaged in what looked like an experiment in the freezing rates of various edible foods, but his eyes passed right over them. He saw the Weasel and Potty, with a group gathered around them that predictably included the Head Girl and the She-Weasel and the Loony one. They were all laughing uproariously at what looked like the latest forbidden enchanted toy from the Weasel's family joke shop. He forced his eye away from their merriment, looking for the source of the sudden explosion of color in his mind.

Then he saw her, a small girl on her hands and knees. A bag almost as large as she was sat precariously on her back, and sprawled in front of her was quite a collection of books. He quickly crossed over to her, a sense of being drawn to her blooming in his stomach. She didn't notice him as he bent down to help her gather her fallen books, until he held a particularly heavy tome right under her nose. She automatically reached to grab it, but he pulled it back slightly, forcing her to look up at him.

She had green eyes. He was disappointed, but he hid it quickly, something he was now quite skilled at doing. But there was still something that was drawing his attention. As she stood, carefully balancing her books in her arms, and reached out to add the ones he'd gathered to them, he was transfixed by the sight of her hair cascading down past her elbows. It was just a plain brown, although in his mind he saw rich shades of chocolate and titian and gold superimposed over it. It was mussed after her fall, giving the soft curls a bit of a riotous and wild look that was surely too much personality for the small girl who still hadn't said a word.

Her hand was hanging in the air outstretched, and her expression was confused, as Draco blinked rapidly trying to sort through the strange contradictory feelings of triumph and disappointment that had his Veela both cooing in contentment and sighing it wistfulness.

"Malfoy!" The voice cut through his reverie, bringing him back to the moment. "Stop scaring the second years!"

He looked down at the young girl with the long curly hair that had caught his attention, hair that suddenly seemed a very plain brown indeed. Her green eyes had a wary look in them, like she was concerned he was going to go crazy any moment and abscond with her precious book. Then he looked up at the Head Girl as she stood nearby with her hands on her hips, a ridiculously large Father Christmas hat on her head and an exasperated look on her face.

The others must have walked off to their next class without her while she stayed behind, ever the champion for the smaller and helpless. With a firm, pointed look, she motioned at him to give the books back, and feeling a sluggish and confused maroon, he wordlessly handed them over. The little girl snatched her books, and without taking her eyes off of him, she cautiously backed up until she was standing directly in front of the Head Girl.

The thought flitted by briefly that they could almost be sisters. Not in their features, no, but in that same swotty expression on their faces as they glared at him.

Granger patted the girl on the head and said in a maternal voice, "Run along, Calliope." Then she gave her a smile and added, "Hogwarts: A History is my favorite book, I'm sure you'll enjoy it."

The girl swiveled and tottered off, her rushed gait causing her heavy pack to bounce on her back, no doubt the cause of her being thrown off balance in the first place. He watched her as she ran, or more specifically, he watched her hair as it streamed behind her like a ribbon. He couldn't shake the feeling like there was still something he was missing. There was still something about this specific moment that was escaping his grasp. It was maddening, like the answer was there, just barely out of reach.

"Malfoy." The voice cut through his thoughts, scattering them. He scowled at her.

She just rolled her eyes, uncaring of why he was irritated. "You've been acting strange lately, Malfoy. I've been getting weird reports from people saying you've been uncharacteristically nice."

That was a surprise. Was she really chastising him for being nice? "I'm nice!"

She didn't have to roll her eyes again to convey her disbelief, although he heard it in the way she emphasized, "I said 'uncharacteristically.' You've been picking up books, opening doors, helping people get things off tall shelves, passing the potatoes without complaint." She almost seemed amused when she told him, "It's beginning to scare people. Particularly the little ones. So try not to act too weird, okay?"

She hid a laugh as she walked away, and he stomped off to his next class, feeling 'uncharacteristically' cross.

Later that night, as he lay quietly in his bed, he carefully pulled out from the corner of his mind the cherished picture of his mate. Her heartbeat drummed ever firm and steady. He could almost, almost make out the darkness of her eyes. And shining around it all, he saw a halo of golden brown curls, shifting and shimmering. He watched it as it curled and uncurled through his mind, an ache forming deep inside his heart as his fingers twitched to touch. The Veela inside of him was a lonely grey-blue, longing to reach out to its mate, to be able to hold her and cradle her in his arms. To look into her eyes, to rest his head against her heartbeat, to touch her precious hair. The greys almost felt like they could swallow him alive.

He was close to discovering her identity, he knew it. He should be feeling more hopeful, not less. But the stormy grey of dread hovered in the back of his mind. As he finally drifted off to sleep, he thought he heard the faintest echo of a rose-colored laugh.

*-M-*

The Yule ball was a highlight for most of the school, a reason to dress up in fancy robes, and a pre-celebration of the holiday to come. Draco had been particularly excited all day as he knew that at least all of the 5th years and above would be gathered together in one place. He'd be able to test several of the girls, possibly all of them if he was particularly observant and cunning. As he descended the staircase into the ballroom, he was nearly giddy with the thought that he could find her today. He could really find her today. His inner Veela was excited with strangely appropriate swirls of festive scarlets and emeralds.

As he looked around at the clumps of people gathered together, he saw a flash of brown curl that almost stopped his heart. It was long and cascading from an intricate mass at the top of her head, covering the back of a periwinkle dress. Draco had gotten particularly good at naming shades of color.

There was something about looking at that hair that made him feel all the air had rushed out of his lungs. It wasn't a plain brown. It was chestnut and gold and warm and alive and it was her, it had to be her.

And it was…familiar? He thought he knew that hair. Something tickled in the back of his mind. That empty space that had filled with things about his mate seemed to swell until it tingled in his veins. His heart beat quick and light, but it was so loud in his ears he wondered if it was because it was matched with hers.

Even before she turned, intuition seized him, and the moment of clarity illuminated all of the clues he had been painstakingly piecing together…and apparently simultaneously ignoring. Because he definitely knew that hair.

He'd always known that hair. He'd stared at it, he'd jinxed it, one memorable day he'd gotten his wand, his hand, and a good portion of his arm, stuck in it. But for the first time he was overcome with a longing to touch it. To touch her. To reach out to her and pull her towards him.

And as he had this revelation—the once-empty space suddenly filling in brightly with colors and sounds and thoughts and feelings, creating a picture so bright and vivid he had to blink to make sure he was still seeing what was in front of him—her face turned towards him, showing him the exact match to the image suddenly emblazoned on his soul.

She laughed at something someone in her circle said, and it was yellows and golds and corals that circled the room, trembling in the air, and arrowing right into his heart, which skipped a couple of beats at her nearness.

His Veela was awake—squawking, crowing, roaring—whatever explained this overwhelming feeling of needing to laugh and cry and dance and fly all at the same time.

But he didn't move a muscle. Because there was still a tiny part of him that was just Draco, and it knew what the Veela would shortly learn.

As Hermione Granger—yes, the very one—turned further, it was clear to see that she held Ron Weasley's hand, almost lost in the folds of her exquisite dress. That laugh that had so seared him was because of something Ron had said to Harry. As he watched, trembling with a kaleidoscope of unknown emotions, Weasley leaned down and placed a kiss on her smiling cheek. She blushed a tiny bit, and looked up at him with affection, and they both laughed again.

Fury! Crimsons and ugly, sharp blacks! How dare he! How dare this interloper lay hands and lips on his mate!

Hermione Granger had a boyfriend. Hermione Granger was as good as married off to the Weasel in the eyes of the population of Hogwarts. Hermione Granger…had chosen a mate.

Despair! Soggy greys. Slushy, muddy, suffocating browns. It was inconceivable to his Veela.

He almost panted with the need to run talons across the smiling freckly face and cry Challenge.

But the despair was like a tidal wave overwhelming the fury. He could not win. She would never choose him. Even if there was no Ron Weasley, she would never choose him. She was forever lost to him.

The pain was blinding. He didn't see where he was going, only that he needed to get out of the Great Hall. He needed to breathe, he needed the air across his face.

He was down the stairs and into the courtyard, and then past the courtyard and into the darkness, before he realized where he was. He stood on the edge of the path to the forest, breathing hard, his heart pounding erratically, a cruel reminder of the steady, soft beating he could still feel in his chest.

He needed a broom. He needed to stretch his wings and fly hard and fast into the blackness.

But he didn't move, because the part of him that was still just Draco was afraid of what would happen if he let the Veela control him. So he restrained that inner squawking and crying. Blue and green ropes of self-control wrapped the Veela until he was quiet and Draco could finally hear himself think again.

He was reluctant to step any further into the forest, knowing as he did the dangers it posed to one lone student wandering anguished in the dark. A quick glance around him showed him a large tree with low-hanging branches.

Waving his wand, he sent a Lumos to light it up from inside the dark canopy of leaves. When he was satisfied there were no other inhabitants, he began to climb. It was easy enough for his athletic body to grasp and pull and swing his way up until he was perched in the crook of two large limbs, legs dangling down.

His breathing was rapid and shallow, much as it had been when he'd been running from the castle. His Veela wanted nothing more than to run right back into the ball, but Draco the man couldn't handle it, couldn't handle the overwhelming disappointment.

Not in her, no, never in her.

But he'd thought that simply identifying her would be the hardest part. He was Veela, she was his mate. What could be simpler? But he couldn't tell her. And without that, she'd never—not ever in a hundred years—so much as look at him like that, the way he needed her to, so long as Ron Weasley was around. And maybe not even if he wasn't.

He was filled with this awful, sticky red-streaked charcoal that felt like it was weighing down all of his limbs, as if to drag him out of the tree with despondence. He'd lost. He'd lost and he hadn't even started.

*-M-*

When his mother came to retrieve him at King's Cross Station, she could tell right away that he was unwell. He'd spent the whole trip in a cabin with Pansy and Blaise and Theo and the rest of the Slytherin cabal while they chatted gaily about the ball and who had worn what (mostly Pansy) and who had been seen leaving with whom (mostly Blaise) and, of course, what everyone would be doing over the winter holidays. Draco had done his best to ignore them like so much white noise, and pretend he didn't feel the streaks of rose and pink that were emanating from several cars down. He concentrated on his breathing, and did his best to ignore the little hiccups of hope whenever her heart hammered a pleasant pitter-patter deep inside his mind. By the end of the hours-long trip, he was exhausted.

Narcissa took one look at him and hurried him off home. She couldn't discuss anything with him until they were back in Malfoy Manor and the house elves had all been sent away. Then, when they were sitting quietly on the couch, she gently broached the topic. Draco was surprised to discover that his mother was soothing aquas and teals and creams. The presence of her Veela was unspoken in the air, but he wondered how he'd not ever noticed before the wildly powerful and elegant creature that she kept hidden behind her eyes. Beside her he suddenly felt terribly young and uncouth, like a fledgling who has yet to lose the fluffy, downy feathers he was hatched with.

"Is it supposed to be like this?" His voice trembled, painfully unsure. He longed irrationally for his mother to tell him there was a quick, easy answer to the painful, jarring, breaking feeling in his chest. It had gotten worse since coming home as now he couldn't hear her heartbeat at all, she was much too far away. By now she was home again in the Muggle world, or worse, The Burrow. A quick surge of nausea washed over him in a sickly chartreuse.

"Have you found her, then?" was her quick response, looking at him with suppressed excitement.

He didn't respond, couldn't bring himself to say the words that were so terribly disappointing.

But she could make out the struggle on his face, and her own lit up with a happiness that just made Draco feel worse. She gathered him into an effusive hug, causing him to squawk a bit, the gesture seeming a little silly since he was now so much bigger than she was. But for that moment, the gentle creams and butter yellows that were his mother's love made him feel a tiny bit better, so he didn't pull away. "But that's wonderful, Draco! Truly, I had hoped you'd find her at school, and wouldn't have to conduct a long search!"

"It's horrible, Mother," he finally said, around the lump in his throat. "She'll never have me." His Veela sniffled in sorrow, melancholy now that his mate was out of touch. Saying the words out loud had an awful finality to them. Never. She'd never have him.

"Nonsense. We'll start by inviting her over to the Manor for brunch! Won't that be lovely?" The faraway look in Narcissa's eyes told him that she could see it already: a happy little family sitting around the white wrought-iron table in the gardens with a warming charm like a Christmas snow globe.

He gave her the news quickly, before she had begun to hope too much. "Mother, she's chosen a mate already."

"What?" It was her turn to squawk, and Draco suppressed an almost-smile at the sound of a ruffled Veela coming from his usually very dignified mother. "That can't be! So soon? It shouldn't be possible!"

Her words tickled something in his mind. "So soon? You mean it is possible for her to choose a mate other than her Veela?" Other than me, he meant. He didn't know why that information was important, it wasn't as if knowing it could have changed the outcome.

She answered, distractedly, "Yes. In some instances where it took a very long time for the Veela to find and claim her mate, the mate had already started a family with someone else. It's very rare, as the mate of a Veela usually instinctively knows that they belong to someone already. I've never heard of a young Veela's mate having already been claimed by another. Are you quite sure? Perhaps you are mistaken."

"She has a boyfriend," he stated, morosely.

Narcissa blinked at that, before a look of overwhelming relief crossed her face. "Oh! Well if that's all, you can steal her away with a very minimum of difficulty. Her soul is matched to yours and the heart will follow." A flick of her hand dismissed as inconsequential the obstacle that was insurmountable in Draco's mind, namely, the winning of Hermione Granger's heart.

"It's not that easy, Mother," he groaned, wishing it was exactly that easy. Perhaps if it was any other girl, it would have been exactly that easy. A glance, a flirtation, a concerted effort to woo, and with any other girl, especially his destined mate, it would have only been a matter of time. But try as he might, he couldn't imagine any circumstance in which he could woo the Head Girl without having her hex him across the face. Or laugh. He wasn't sure which would be worse, but having both of them happen at the same time was as equally likely as having one or the other. "Even if I told her she was my mate—"

"Oh no," Narcissa interrupted, "You mustn't do that. It will eventually become easily apparent that you are a Veela, but you cannot tell her she's your mate. It's extremely important that she come to you entirely of her own free will."

"I know," Draco asserted impatiently, "But I'm saying that even if I told her, even her do-gooder heart wouldn't feel inclined to be my mate simply to save me from a lifetime of loneliness." Oh, Merlin, that sounded just awful. His vision suddenly colored with dark grey-green smudges as his Veela felt the echo of an empty future without his mate. He gasped a bit at the pain of it, and surreptitiously rubbed at his chest, at the single, lonely heart that beat there, as he tried to forget the image of his future stretched out before him on page after page of lonely black writing.

"Is she a Hufflepuff then?" Narcissa asked, zeroing in on the single clue he'd given her.

Draco came back to the present and carefully shut down everything in the corner of his soul where the image of his mate lay, wondering erroneously if his mother's Veela could tell what he was doing. He refrained from confirming or denying even his mate's House in an effort to keep Narcissa from guessing her identity.

She huffed a little, exasperated. "You're not going to tell me who she is? I can't help you if I don't know her identity. I can make arrangements with her parents, I can help you pick out the right gifts..." she trailed off seeing the stubborn look on Draco's face. "Just tell me. Is she…a pureblood?"

The look in her eyes told him what he already knew, which is that breeding is particularly important for the bride of a Malfoy. He felt a tiny twinge of dismay at letting down his family in his choice of a bride.

The twinge was quickly overcome by fiery reds and purples as his Veela vehemently denied that his beloved could be anything less than perfection. She was his mate, and that was all that mattered. Blood was just blood, but her soul called to his and there could be nothing more important than that.

He eyed his mother with unease, unwilling to comment on Hermione's parentage. To confirm what his mother suspected would be to imply that his mate was somehow inferior, and his Veela couldn't allow that. But to deny the truth would have the same result. He opened his mouth to speak but quickly closed it again, his jaw clenched rebelliously, the look in his eye no doubt telling her more than his words would have.

Narcissa paled, a stricken look on her face causing the air to shimmer slightly with a metallic hue that put an acrid taste into his mouth.

"Hundreds of years of pureblood breeding, and it ends here," she whispered. He'd expected this reaction, having been raised his entire life to understand the importance of making a careful match with another powerful pureblood family. But what he didn't expect were the layers of color in the air that spoke not just of disappointment, but of shame.

"Mother?" he questioned, confused.

"Your grandmother always said I would destroy this family. She urged Lucius not to marry me. He may have been my mate, but he didn't have to choose me. Or he could have mated me and still married another to bear his heir, someone of truly pure wizarding blood."

Draco's Veela protested. How unthinkable! To share one's mate seemed like it would be an even worse fate than not knowing or not having.

"Like my family, they kept the secret of the Veela blood, hoping that they could keep their pureblood status untarnished. But she never let me forget that I was less than pure, less than ideal. Even her portrait used to hiss at me sometimes in the corridors that I had tainted the Malfoy family line. That my Veela blood indicated the beginning of the end of the prestigious Malfoy family lineage. I never wanted to believe that."

"Mother, that's ridiculous! Your pureblood lineage is just as pure as father's. The Veela blood only makes it more magical."

She half-smiled at him, the burden of those decades of shame like a visible weight in the air above her shoulders. "But your mate's is not."

As much as he wanted to for his mother's sake, he couldn't deny that truth. If he ever married Hermione Granger, it would undoubtedly be the public end of the Malfoy family's vaunted pureblood heritage. All the Malfoy traditions and pride would be swept aside when a Muggleborn became mistress of Malfoy Manor. And his children would all be half-bloods, and Veela half-breeds to boot.

She must have seen the look on his face, because she shook the gloom off of her, and patted his hand. "What's done is done. It's certainly not your fault that your mate is not a pureblood. Although I'd tried to…" she trailed off again, thinking, and then shrugged it off. "Not enough, I suppose," she said, almost as if to herself.

Draco thought about her words for a moment and then he asked her how a Veela chose a mate. Was it simply fated from birth? Was there a binding that had happened and he'd missed it? Was there even a choice?

Narcissa looked at him with steady eyes for a few moments before answering. "There is no sure formula, but it is believed that a Veela's preference is taken into account. It is extremely rare that a Veela is mated to a person they've never met or interacted with before. It's much more common that Veela mate with someone who they've expressed strong feelings for."

At Draco's perplexed expression, she quickly clarified, "It's not as simple as perhaps feeling the blossoming of youthful love. If that were true, every Veela would be mated to her first crush, or her first boyfriend. A Veela mating is a true match of the soul but spending time with someone and growing together is much more likely to yield a compatible mate than someone completely unknown. When I was mated to your father, it seemed to me a bit like there were threads spun between us. There was a web of strings connecting me to everyone. Some for good, some for bad. The Veela responds to passion and excitement, which is sometimes like love and sometimes like hate; the two are not as far apart as people often think. But over the years as we spoke and talked and fought and flirted, more and more threads connected me to my Lucius." She smiled as she remembered those early days at Hogwarts. "And when my Veela finally awoke, it wasn't long at all before I realized that he was the one for me. Convincing him took a little bit longer, but I think he'd always known what was growing between us."

There was a sheen in her eyes as she spoke of her husband that caused a little catch in Draco's throat. His Veela crooned softly, a minty green expression of grief for his father and for his mother's loneliness.

Later, as he laid awake missing the sound of his mate's heartbeat, he thought of his mother's words. He understood now why she'd always pushed him to build relationships with the pureblood girls at school. Beyond the regular designs of a pureblood mother, the Veela mother was trying to direct her son's choice of a mate. She'd hoped if he spent time with Pansy or Millicent or Tracy, he'd develop a tie to one of them. And she'd hoped if she avoided discussion about any of the young women who were not appropriate choices, that they could avoid his Veela spinning 'threads' of closeness to anyone without the proper blood status.

How strange that the very girl who was at the bottom of his mother's list was the one that his Veela had chosen! He felt a tiny bit of guilt. His mother had been counting on him to continue the Malfoy traditions, despite the Veela blood that ran through his veins. Somehow he'd chosen the very girl to break them all.

He searched into the night for her heartbeat, thinking about her suddenly making him miss her something terrible. But no matter how far he stretched his senses, it wasn't enough for him to find her. There was just blackness, with the occasional pinpricks of light, but nothing like the bright beacon that usually called to him.

He thought back through all of the years they spent at Hogwarts together. From the very first day when he'd seen her bushy head, he'd felt something. It was something like irritation. Especially when classes began and she was constantly raising her swotty hand and not allowing anyone else even half of a chance to answer the professors' questions. That buzzing, tickling feeling kept pushing him to do something. He'd yelled at her, hexed her, made fun of her, pranked her mercilessly, and never once stopped to ask himself why.

He told himself it was because she was friends with Potter and Weasley, whom he truly couldn't stand. He told himself it was because of her Muggle-born birth status that made her inferior.

But there had been other girls, now that he thought about it, that had made him feel similarly. He'd sometimes avoided them or sought them out, depending on how he felt. He sometimes teased, and sometimes flirted, and never really wondered why he singled out one girl over another. Perhaps it was his Veela all the time seeking and prodding, looking for the girl who would be the other half of his soul.

He barely remembered the others, only that there had been some. There was only one that stood out to him, one girl who had relentlessly gotten under his skin, drawing his attention time and again, making him shudder with the feeling of being alive.

He closed his eyes, miserably lonely the more he thought of his mate, and he tried to force the thoughts away from his mind until he finally fell into a fitful sleep.

*-M-*

The days of the holiday seemed to pass slowly. Every day Draco felt more and more disoriented, being away from his mate, and feeling less and less hopeful that he would find a way to win her.

He thought he heard echoes of her voice in the corridors, was certain he was conjuring up the pinks and golds from his memories as he went chasing them from room to room, never finding them, never finding her. And always that lonely thump-thumping of his own heart beating all alone.

One day he found himself in the Malfoy Manor library. He felt drawn there a lot, maybe because he knew she loved books. If he ever managed to bring her home, he was certain this would be her favorite room in the whole house. She'd stare at the books, flitting from section to section to find the topic that interested her next. He'd make sure that all the books on Dark Magic were locked up as they'd be sure to offend her sensibilities, but even Hermione wouldn't dare to suggest destroying a book of knowledge.

As he looked around, he envisioned her sitting there. Among the books, it was easy to picture her quietly curled up on a couch, enjoying the company of an ancient author. And as he approached, she would look up at him and smile.

His heart twisted with longing. He wanted her. He wanted them. He wanted what his Veela heritage promised, a mate just for him, perfect for him in every way, his to hold and to keep.

He stared at the empty cushions, the late afternoon sunlight glinting off of the dust motes, futilely wishing for what he knew he couldn't have, until the hole inside of him seemed so large that he would drown in it.

He went straight to bed. Skipping dinner, he closed all of his windows, didn't bother setting a fire, and climbed into the soft welcoming covers of his bed. He forced the tempo of his heart to slow down, ignoring the big emptiness that was usually filled with her heartbeat. She was too far away, his Veela cried. And all he wanted was the oblivion of sleep.

He finally woke to find the curtains had been pulled all the way back and bright golden sunlight was streaming in. He squawked and was suddenly uncomfortable at hearing the undignified sound coming from his voice.

Blinking, he tried to remember what was causing the feeling like something was missing. He noticed one of his arms reaching across the expanse of his bedsheets, curled protectively around air, and his mind populated the barren space with an image of a sleeping head of bushy chestnut curls.

The despair crashed down on him again. His arms were empty. His heart was empty. His life was empty; it wasn't just unwritten, it was unraveled.

How much time passed with him in that state, he couldn't remember. But it was dark again when his mother finally came into his room and shook him out of the bed. When he tried to protest she shushed him and insisted that he eat the warm soup she'd brought him.

As he took sips just to please her, he tried to find the words to explain. "Everything is just so empty. I miss her so much. I feel like I might die without her."

"Nonsense!" she chastised him. "You won't die." Her sharp voice had edges to it that sliced into him like talons so unexpectedly that he almost checked his skin for drawn blood. He remembered a moment later that his mother was Veela and lived every day without her mate, and with even less hope than he had of ever being reunited on this side of the veil.

His instant sorrow was clear to them both, the pain of a more profound loss shaking him out of his self-imposed despondency.

"How do you live with it?" he asked to his spoon, afraid to look at her face.

She didn't answer the question, choosing instead to answer the fear behind it. "You still have hope, Draco. She is out there waiting for you to win her."

"She's not waiting for me, she has someone already," he choked out, trying to blink back that strange darkness that kept trying to eat him.

Narcissa tut-tutted. "She has someone. But he's not the other half of her soul. She'll realize it soon, and the strings that bind you together will soon be clear to her. You need to be patient and not give up so soon. You are a Malfoy after all, and she cannot do better."

Draco cringed. "I think that's probably a point against me. I have done little to recommend myself to her," he admitted, the closest he would get to revealing that his mate was the girl he'd tormented throughout their years in school. "And she has no use for the status of the old families."

His mother just laughed quietly, pleased when he took a healthy bite of the bread that was placed before him. "That she has feelings for you at all is only to your benefit. It is much easier to woo a girl who has given you attention than it is one who has never noticed you."

Draco sighed. "She's noticed me all right." He continued eating, realizing he was much hungrier than he'd thought. He didn't remember the last meal he'd had.

"It does take a bit longer when you need to win her respect in addition to her love. But you have plenty of time, my son. And you have the advantage of knowing her like no one else ever could."

He thought on that as he chewed. It was true that he could sense things about her, from her heartbeat and from his Veela's color senses, but he didn't know how knowing those things could help him.

Narcissa obviously knew where his thoughts were leaning. "Insight into your beloved is a wonderful gift, and a great advantage when courting." Sensing his doubts, she added, "I will teach you. You must learn not just how to use your Veela senses, but how to control that part of yourself. It is clear you've allowed your Veela to overwhelm you, something common among young Veela. But while you are here, we will practice and strengthen your control and your understanding."

She nodded as she called a house elf to clear Draco's now empty plate. "When you've learned to accept all the parts of yourself, it will be that much easier for your mate to see and accept you for who you are."

A/N: This story is three (long) chapters, and it's already completed as it was part of the Fest that I mentioned above. I know the chapters are longer than my usual lengths, and so I plan to post the next chapter in a couple of days to give you all a little time to read it, haha. Drop me a line and let me know what you think of this change of pace! I promise it gets better over the next two chapters, also. (And special thanks to my alpha reader athenaa, who labored over this story right along with me.)