Summary: Returning to Hogwarts was not Draco's idea of a good time. Especially not with Veela genes, growing wings, and Potter's new healing obsession.
Warning(s): Switching POV, Flangst, Ginny bashing, Homophobia
Beta: lady_savant and vaporofnuance
Disclaimer: This piece of art or fiction is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros. Inc. No money is being made, no copyright or trademark infringement, or offense is intended. All characters depicted in sexual situations are above the age of consent.

Light hearted and a little fast, hope you enjoy it!

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Today was definitely Harry's day. Christmas eve, it was snowing outside and there was hot chocolate aplenty. He'd spent all morning catching snowflakes on his broom and snowball fighting a few fifth years that had remained behind.

Ron had left with Hermione to spend time at the Burrow and were leaving on Boxing Day via an international port key to spend time with her parents in Australia. The castle was nearly deserted and Madame Pomfrey had given him his Christmas present early that month by allowing him, under careful observation, to help in the more complex cases involving full- and part-blooded magical beings. It was a welcome challenge and a nice change over the oppressive amount of studies and repetitive basic duties he'd been learning from her all through the summer hols and over the year. He'd work directly with several student werewolf victims, a vampire Hufflepuff first year, a few part veela (one being Draco sodding Malfoy) and even the timid half fae Tieanna.

It was worth every minute, he'd felt elated when she'd first replied to his owl on focused studies, having her show of trust was by far the best Christmas present of all. Hagrid had been more than a little enthusiastic, introducing him to the many magical (and terrifying) beings of the forest in addition to the magical creatures there but it was nice to have earned someone else's trust in addition to his friend's. Firenze had also grown more accustomed to Harry's presence during Pomfrey's weekly visits and allowed her to discuss the finer points of muscle and magical fatigue across species while there, occasionally offering vague advice in addition to her ongoing lectures. It was shaping up to be a brilliant year.

Ginny left a polite missive saying that she hoped he would visit the Burrow for Christmas. He had arranged with the Three Broomsticks to use their floo for just that purpose. Harry was optimistic that their friendship might just have survived their breakup. It was a close call, finding Ginny asleep in the arms of Dean after the final battle. That had not been Harry's most joyful moment but it all seemed to turn out well enough after the first few awkward conversations.

He was looking forward to seeing them all, even though he was certain his hands would be regretting it by the end. Hermione, Ron and Ginny had all pitched in and given him "Head and Hands of a Healer: Advanced Theories in Muggle vs Medimagical Treatments" book and oils for his birthday after he told Ron he'd not be joining the Auror program and was dead set on becoming a specialist in the healing field of magical beings. He wanted to be able to help people like Lupin, Bill and Fleur. Ron had been a bit withdrawn and a little squeamish about the gift but Ginny and Hermione's excitement more than made up for it.

Harry sometimes wondered if it wasn't more a gift for herself and Ginny when they cudgeled him into neck rubs cleverly disguised as study sessions but when Tieanna had come down with a terrible cold and couldn't take pepup, he could have kissed Hermione for her foresight. He would never have been able to follow Pomfrey's quick work without that text. There were circumstances where wizard's magic just could not be used or the being's magic might react badly and, in some cases, violently.

Since then he'd steadily expanded his herbal collection of oils and extracts, mostly through exchanged favors with Neville. He wondered if there was another room like the Room of Requirement or an empty classroom other than the dungeon where he could try his hand at mixing and extracts without Slughorn oozing false compliments. He could always ask the Headmistress, but what would be the fun in that? With the map tucked in his pocket and invisibility cloak in hand, Harry set off to explore.

Eighth year's wing looked like a gilded ghost town, fairy lights and ornaments were all aglow. This holiday was definitely better than any other holiday in memory because this holiday he didn't have to fear for the lives of those he treasured or anything other than his NEWTs and with everyone gone there was no one to pester him.

Yes, it was definitely Harry's lucky day and he intended to use it exploring all the corridors of the castle he'd never seen and maybe a few that he had seen but had never had the time for.

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Leaning his head against the cold window glass, Draco watched snow blanket Hogwart's grounds in soft white brilliance that seemed to laugh at his gloom. Eighth year was turning out to be ever so much fun, he thought with a snarl as he attempted to numb his back against the equally cold granite. "Thank you so much Mother," he sneered aloud, spending the holiday at Hogwarts while she 'sorted out the family's affairs' or, in other words, left the mansion to be gutted and purged of the Dark Lord's left over taint was just what he had in mind. Really. He just loved being here in the school he'd never wanted to set foot in again.

With a soft moan, he slid down the window's alcove to sit on the ground, burying his head in his arms and took off his twice damned sliver rimmed specks. It was lovely, just lovely, he seethed, folding up her letter and pocketing it with his reading glasses.

How she had convinced him to face one more year under stares, leering, insults and death threats, he would never really know. Not that anyone that made the threats had anything to be proud of in their part of the war. Most of them swayed with the tides, turning on fresh meat where ever or who ever it might be, forgetting their heroes had been the same people they'd ragged on as fools and madmen. Pride, he suspected, was to blame for bringing him back to Hogwart's drafty halls. Pride laced in with manipulation, topped off with a dollop of guilt, but knowing that didn't make it any easier to stay. He rolled his shoulders against the cold granite again, attempting to relieve the nagging pain. Today was just not his day.

His wings hurt. They burned, brimming with tension as his shoulders and back tried to adapt to their new burden while the skin remained painfully taut itching like mad. Bone and muscle continued to push uncomfortably close to the surface. Barley traceable slits had already made their appearance on his shoulder blades, where once torn flesh had been, with all the sensitivity of newly healed scars. Bone deep aches ran down the length of his back and no amount of stretching could help.

Pansy had cooed and turned doe eyes on him when his wings had first shown signs of breaking through, quoting her veela romance novels full of fluffy first transformations filled with bliss and goodness and heavenly light. What utter rubbish. Whoever seemed to believe magic rending one's flesh open for those first pathways to accommodate new appendages was either far too into pain or had, like Pansy, read far too many magical creature novels for their own good.

When the ungainly things had finally made there first appearance, he'd been alone in the hospital wing after chocking down veela pain potions and screaming himself hoarse behind a silence spelled curtain. He'd never get over the utter humiliation of Potter cleaning his newborn wings. It was simply unforgivable. At least he hadn't said anything about it, he'd been almost decent all year verging on friendly and not even ugly chicken wings had changed that. He couldn't say the same about Pansy, she had yet to learn the art of discretion.

Once he was on the mend, Pansy visited and took one look at him at him before screeching "What the bloody hell are those, those things!" She'd looked rather green around the gills once she set eyes on the pink scarcely feathered masses. She'd set about quickly apologizing once he'd flatly told her they were his wings. She'd gently suggested keeping them in, promising to love him despite his "horrible growths". It'd taken days for them to adjust enough to draw back in after that but he'd refused to leave the hospital wing until they had. Now the unsightly things just couldn't sit themselves comfortably inside were they belonged.

If he'd just been a pure veela, or just less wizard, the change might have come in rapid magical succession, quick though no less uncomfortable, allowing him to slip in and out of his new form instead of teetering on the brink like an awkward toddler while new magics twined trying to reconcile veela blood with a wizard body. It seemed laughable to him that he wished now to be a LESS pure pureblood. For the time being he was merely a part veela wizard, not that purebloods looked down on magical beings. It was considered an honor to be so magically pure that a being born of magic would take the lucky witch or wizard as their mate. Quite a dubious honor, he mused bitterly, as it included hawk-like farsightedness, unstable magic, painfully itchy skin and ungainly appendages among many other 'benefits'.

Lost in thought, he didn't notice anyone approaching until a hand landed on his already aching shoulder.

"'Malfoy, are you alright?" Damn that Potter, he would be the one to chance upon the exact dusty hall that Draco had ducked into.

Potter's grip tightened a little and Draco hissed, "Shove off Potter, does your savior complex include dust bunnies kinks and the invasion of personal space? Of course I'm alright, bloody brilliant actually, never better."

"Just because you're feeling a little peaky doesn't give you the right to be such a bloody git. A polite yes or no would do."

"Peaky? Peaky! Listen you scar faced menace, just because Madam Pomfrey lets you indulge in your little pet project doesn't give you any right to utter a damned word of it out side the hospital wing and I am not 'peaky'." Draco ranted. Potter, the utter moron, had the audacity to chuckle.

"Yes, definitely peaky." Draco glared at him "Are your wings troubling you, looks like you're, umm, smashing them. That can't be healthy." Draco's glare turned positively deadly, he blushed furiously and looked away with a mutter too low for Harry to make out. "Sorry, what was that?"

"I'm not peaky, they're just damned inconvenient, they won't sit right... hurt... and itchy if you must know," he mumbled through gritted teeth.

"Come on, come with me. I'm sure I can do better than the wall. Honestly, crushing them isn't going to make it feel any better."

Draco considered the outstretched hand, eyeing it wearily before taking it and allowing Potter to haul him to his feet. "Don't make me regret this Potter," he mumbled as the prat lead him up a stair in mid swing through the Eighth year's wing and into the solitary dorm room of one Harry bloody Potter.

"Well, let's see the damage." Draco sneered at him and then shucked off his robe, thick gray cashmere jumper, and undershirt. He'd done it enough this year around Potter and Pomfrey not to think twice about what he was doing until it struck him that he was in Potter's dorm, not the hospital wing. His eyes narrowed. "Don't get any strange ideas in that poofer brain of yours Potter, I don't swing that way." He glared threateningly before laying across Potter's bed, presenting his pale white back.

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Harry winced in sympathy, at least it wasn't scratched open anywhere. The poor maltreated back was streaked in angry red lines. Taut, dry patchy skin showed every scratch in stark contrast.

"Wouldn't dream of it, Malfoy." Harry chuckled and he turned and rummaged through his trunk, pulling out a smaller chest and wriggling free the bottle of lightly charmed healing oil as well as a small jar of uncharmed comfrey ointment and then set both beside his bed. He ran a hand gently over the long thin lines where Malfoy's wings would emerge. "Can you bring them out for the moment?" He asked gently. Malfoy was extremely sensitive about showing his wings. None of the other veela blooded he'd met were that way, most seemed very proud of their wings but Malfoy was, well, Malfoy and who knew what went on in that snarky aristocratic head of his.

Growling frustration, Malfoy rolled his shoulders and wings emerged, stretching before settling against his back. Harry had to admit that they were gorgeous, beautifully downy and long feathered. Not that they hadn't been cute when they'd first emerged, pink, smooth, a little scaly and scarcely feathered but now they were breath taking. Harry envied them fiercely, not that he'd ever tell Malfoy that.

With a practiced hand, he ran his fingers over the silky soft feathers, straightening out the crooked and snagged ones, soothingly teasing out loose unshed fluff and smoothing new down. A shiver ran over the young tender wing muscles as Harry pressed gentle, long strokes, encouraging it to relax under his hands. He finished off with the first wing to repeat it all on the next. Malfoy's breath had become deep and even, almost as if he were asleep.

Harry began to wonder if Malfoy had actually dropped off entirely when he was answered with a low moan as he rubbed gentle circles in the wing base. Malfoy went limp under his hand. "Back hurt as well?" A muffled "mm-hmm" answered him and the wings lazily retracted. He bit back a grin. In the month since he'd healed, Malfoy had never once turned down a back rub after a good wing massage.

He reached down and opened up the bottle of oil, smoothing in his hands as he warmed it. Laying his palms flat, he began making the same gentle gilding strokes he'd used on those silky wings. He settled into a smooth rhythm of firm upward strokes all the way to the neck, circling and returning to the other man's lower back, carefully avoiding the spine and tender wing slits. After several minutes he started to work slow wide circles with the heel of his hands, gradually working his way up the sleek, well shaped muscles coaxing out the tension. Malfoy sighed happily and shifted a bit. As unaffected as Harry wanted to be, he lived for those happy sighs. It was the same for anyone he treated really, Malfoy just gave more vocal queues and it was nice being the person that made the Prince of Ice come undone a little.

Harry flattened his hands on top of each other and pushed away and back from the spine working his way up the lower back gliding back and forth, allowing his mind to drift. His palms started to meet friction and he dripped more oil onto his hands before gliding his thumb up either side of that lithe, perfect spine and then worked his way over Malfoy's neck and shoulders, working the more stubborn knots, searching them out one by one.

A low humming much like a purr started coming from Malfoy and Harry made no attempt to bite back this smile. It didn't happen very often that the other man was that relaxed and that sound sent shivers down Harry's own spine. Satisfied with his progress, Harry worked his hands over the back one more time before going back to the long strokes that he'd started with, then wiped off the excess oil and gently palmed in comfrey ointment over the scaly dry patches and where the knots had been most prevalent. He examined the healthy flush of Malfoy's back as an artist would his painting before patting Malfoy's shoulder. "Done. Feel better now?"

Malfoy sighed heavily turned his head and looked sleepily up at Harry. "Yes, well." He got up slowly, stretched, rolled his shoulder and looked vaguely surprised (some how he always seemed surprised at feeling better after Harry's work was done) "Yes. Potter... It's been interesting but I really must be going."

Harry mentally rolled his eyes, Malfoy never said thank you or expanded on "yes". It was irritating but he came back time and again and there were those sighs, so Harry could live with it. He held out the comfrey "Take this with you, it'll help stop itching before you tear yourself up, not that it matters but Madame Pomfrey won't like patching you up again."

Malfoy quickly snapped up the proffered jar. "Good day, Potter."

"Have a happy Christmas, Malfoy."

"Indeed, you as well," he said as he quickly turned and left, shutting Harry's door behind him. Harry sighed happily and flopped back down, spelling his hands clean before dragging over his book, flipping to the massage section. Though he wouldn't admit it out loud, he looked forward to the next encounter and the chance to catch that humming purr again. It was an excellent day and with Christmas tomorrow, things could only get better.

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That night Draco dreamed again of his mate. His hands buried in dark soft hair. Gasps of pleasure as a hot mouth nibbled his ear, his neck, his shoulders, kissing and licking down his spine. An overwhelming sense of comfort, passion, need... He woke up and turned restlessly in his bed, heart beating fast. Hard and wanton. It always ended like that, teasing him. Damn that dream.

Draco reluctantly left his cozy nest of blankets for a nice hot shower and a good wank. When he returned, gray was dipping along the horizon welcoming Christmas at last.

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Harry headed out to the Burrow early that day, excited and bursting with energy. It was a bit sad with out twin trouble tearing up the day but everyone was there together and the joy of it all seemed to brighten memories of those that were missing. For once, it seemed, everyone was celebrating good memories and intent on making new ones.

The Burrow was packed as Ron, Hermione, Bill, Fleur, Charlie and his boyfriend, Andromeda and Teddy, George and Angelina all gathered around the table for dinner. When they all retired to the living room and exchanged gifts, 'special' eggnog began making its way around, which Fleur declined of course. She smiled winningly at Harry and her eyes sparkled as she and Molly waxed on about pregnancy and her steadily growing belly and Harry listened intently with wide eyes before Ron smacked him on the back of the head with a hushed, "Stop giving me mum ideas mate."

Harry began to needle Ron, Hermione joined in and George was close to follow. Soon everyone was laughing and the room became filled with torn paper and heart deep warmth. Christmas went on well into the night.

Boxing day, however, started on the wrong leg and went down from there. Ron and Hermione caught their key and everyone else was either asleep or long departed when Ginny asked Harry if he could talk with her in the living room. He smiled happily and followed her but when a silencing charm was cast as they entered, Harry felt dread pool in his stomach. He tried to keep his tone light, though he was feeling anything but. "Alright Gin, we're alone. What would you like to talk about."

"Well Harry, I heard from Ron that you wrote Kingley off completely and I think you're making a horrible mistake." Harry went cold, it was one of those conversations. He should have known.

"I'm quite sure it's no mistake Gin. That's not what I want, I've been doing it long enough as it is," he replied patiently. "There's more to life than battles and headlines, you know that's not what I want so how does the offer to do both continually sound appealing."

"Look, I think we've all been very patient with your healer kick Harry but enough is enough. You shouldn't turn Kingsley's offer down flat, give it some time!" she insisted. "You'll get over this just like you got over your seeker fancy. Don't dismiss the Auror corp outright. Leave your options open. You can't shirk your responsibility just for some... some... silly delusion." Her hand flopped around expressively as Harry had felt his anger building. She'd encouraged him along with Hermione. He'd prattled on for bloody hours with them both over it and all this time she'd been patronizing him? A feeling of betrayal curled thick and he began to feel ill. "A specialized healer, honestly, you're pants at potions and who specializes in magical creatures?"

"Magical beings," he corrected flatly before trying to tuning her out.

Mere minutes and she began to run out of steam, repeating words but it seemed to go on like that for hours, ranting talks of fighting the good fight, of growing out of his temper which was surely, surely due to the stress of war, growing out of his ever expanding curiosity, growing out of his fancy of the medical field, growing out of men. It was as if he couldn't like anything but aurors, quidditch and girls, as if he had to decide to be that way because it was alright to be a straight all around hero but not to be himself, not to be just imperfect Harry... well that was just about enough of that! His fists balled, knuckles turning white.

Harry knew he wasn't a saint but try convincing Ginny of that. As much as he loved her, he had to admit at last that until Ginny accepted that, he'd have to keep his distance or what was left of their friendship would rapidly turn to ash. He liked both sexes and always had, he had his temper and frankly, he was tired of fighting the "good fight" and dueling until his luck, or his wits, gave out and as the most recognizable auror he would have been all but guaranteed a life of photo opportunities, death threats and uselessness. Maybe he had been pants at potions before Snape's book but he wasn't trying to be a potions master, he had learned to be good at it even if he would never be great and that would be enough to prescribe. Healers had potion masters and apothecaries for a reason!

He thought of Remus, Firenze, Fleur, Hagrid and Bill. Specialist were hard to find and there was so much fear surrounding magical beings that, without one around, treatment was often mishandled or serious symptoms mistaken entirely. How different would Remus's life have been without Snape to brew such a complicated potion as wolfsbane, what run of the mill healer truly understood the effects of Lupin's heritage in Teddy? No, Harry wanted to help. He wanted to heal, he wanted to go were he was needed most, which was definitely NOT the ministry and certainly not the Auror corp.

The noise of Ginny's voice had droned on endlessly. Reasoning hadn't worked, yelling hadn't worked, so with a heavy heart Harry broke hers yet again, hopefully for the last time. Obviously SHE had been the delusional one, waiting for Harry to stop being himself and start being perfect Harry the hero. Rage burned sour in his veins as, in a voice so cold and dark he'd barley recognized it, he bit out the words. "It's over, the war, the obligations, the Order, even we're over, Gin. If you can't understand that, accept that, and accept me for who I am, then I don't think we have anything more to talk about, ever." He walked towards the fireplace.

"Harry, wait. I... I'm sorry it's just been such a shock. I'm really concerned about you. I mean, wouldn't you be if I suddenly turned out liking girls and wanted to... join the frilly dollies club or some such rot?"

The steam seemed to go out of Harry all at once. "I get your point Gin, but you have to see mine as well. If dollies made you happy I'd be for it. Wasn't I understanding with Dean? If someone or something makes you happy, I'm all for it. Why can't you do the same?"

"I'm sorry, Harry."

He paused long enough to pick up a pinch of powder. "I know Gin. Maybe, maybe you just need to let go. Maybe we both do. For what its worth, I'm not. I'm not sorry about how it all turned out. Even if everything goes to pot, it's what I chose. I deserve to choose my own way Gin, and so do you." In a burst of Floo powder and flame, he was gone.

Arriving at the Three Broom Sticks, he walked all the way back but looking at the castle, he just couldn't force himself to go in again. He strode over to the broom shed, took his broom out and flew. Wind whispered in his ears as the sky darkened with heavy clouds but even now, soaked and cold, he just couldn't bring himself to go inside. He flew over to an upper window ledge and leaned against the glass, eyes burning.

Rain began to fall, cold gray relentless rain, streaming in rivets down the window's glass. Harry sat on his broom, braced against the ledge, letting the wind and rage wash through him to dull empty gray. Slushy soup of mud, snow, and rain made up the frozen grounds below him. He could tell himself that it was just the rain that ran down his cheeks, just the freezing winter cold that tightened his chest.

Who was he kidding? It was not the rain and not the cold but for a moment, a brief glorious moment, he could believe it was.

Recklessness stirred in his blood, pain rose in his chest choking him, he felt so hopeless. Ginny didn't care, nobody really cared, did they? He was alone, everyone was alone. Really, weren't they all? How could anyone understand or care? He'd cared for far too long. It was useless, meaningless, and love... Love was a myth for fools and beggars. Even if there was such a thing, who would ever love him? The flawed him not the shining hero. No one... no one. It felt like the storm was singing, crying with him, calling his name and promising him peace. He let go of the window and flew head on to meet it.

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In his dusty little alcove, Draco sat crumpling the parchment in his hand. Missives were not usually Pansy's style but she'd outdone herself with this one.

Receiving a Dear John letter the day after Christmas was the last thing Draco had expected but it seemed she'd timed it just so, the letter spelled for delivery that morning. Such a wonderful gift, brilliant really, he thought grimly. He had to admit, she had made her point well. It was obvious now that he looked back on it. She was right, really, they hadn't really connected since his damned wings sprouted. For all her niceties and insistences that "it didn't matter", it had. She couldn't stand the thought of them and he... he had to admit that he hadn't really looked at her the same since that day either. She wasn't, couldn't be, his mate much as he had tried to believe otherwise. It hurt but it wasn't the crushing hurt of a heart break, just an angry ache for something that would never be.

He threw the letter down following it with a whispered 'incendio' and looked out across the storm sky when a small dash of red caught his eye. Draco's eye's widened "Idiot!" he shot up and ran for the outer doors, not even thinking as his wings tore open his robe's back.

Instinct took a hold of him, driving him across the slushy ground, wings beating and then carrying him up into the storm's heart. Strange music whipped around him but his panicked brain was too preoccupied screaming 'danger!' and searching desperately for the wayward Gryffindor.

There! A flash of red drew his eyes to the rag doll of a man clutching desperately to his failing broom. "Harry!" he cried, fighting against the wind reaching up and up until his hands caught and tangled in Harry's robes. Muscles burned in his back and rain tore at him like needles through the violent winds. He climbed higher, higher, into the rarefied air and out the top of the storm, lungs burning as black crept along the edge of his vision. Frantic, he flew by instinct towards the storm's trailing edge and the forest below, dropping altitude, fighting not to drop the man. Exhaustion took over and he felt the crash of branches, a thud and tear and sickening crunch before blackness coated his vision and he knew no more.