A/N:

So this is my new story. I don't know what to say besides the basics. This is a veela fic. It will probably be a slow-burner. Probably a bit dark and angsty. This is also going to be Ron/Draco. You know, slash. Probably Mpreg, though not certainly and not for a while. If any of these things do not float your boat, you have been warned.

I'm kind of making this up as I go along. I make no promises, but I hope it will be enjoyable for y'all, fair readers. It will be largely compliant with through DH, so spoilers will occur. I may take some liberties as I see fit, and we're all just gonna pretend that little "Epilogue" at the end of DH never happened, capisce?

I also claim no ownership of the characters in this work, unless I happen to make some up. But feel free to use those too. It's all like, whatever, man.

...

He awoke, startled.

Outside, the late stars hung in the sky, with a half moon slung lazy and phosphorescent over the honeysuckle. Perhaps now and again the wind might flutter the grass gently Perhaps now and again an insect fluttered out into the sky, crossing the face of that white, low moon, silhouetted or a moment and then lost again to the infinite darkness.

The sheets clung to him, sticky with the ever-present heat and the lingering sweet wetness of late August, the kind of wetness that thickened the air. His heart beat in his head. To startle in such weather; well, one must take note of such things.

It was the eve of the boy's birthday. He would be turning seventeen. He propped himself on one elbow, ignoring the creaks of the mattress, to gaze out a window with curtains drawn to that big moon. Something sat in his stomach, a heavy, unmoving weight of unease. How he slept at all, after the war, was anyone's guess.

Perhaps some demon waited outside his door. Perhaps some dementor clung below the windowsill. If he could hear it's breathing, he would know. But no; all was quiet. Except for the crickets every now and again, all was quiet.

Draco allowed himself to settle again, having looked his fill at the slow darkness. Spread-eagle on the bed, he closed his eyes for a moment, as if willing himself back towards sleep. But no; he was awake for good now. He gazed around the room.

The mansion seemed much larger now that his father was gone.

Out to Azkaban. Not that he didn't deserve it.

He lifted his left arm slowly, and rubbed at the scars on his chest, left over from the time Potter attacked him with that curse in the bathroom; it had never fully healed. He remembered Severus telling him just how lucky he was to be alive. Another thirty seconds and he would've lost too much blood. He would have shuddered at the thought, but Draco had come at least that close to death too many times to count since then. He wasn't used to the idea; no one is ever used to the idea, but it failed to surprise him anymore. Still, when those scars ached, their long pink lines sinking teeth into his body, he couldn't help but think of dying.

Over in the corner of the room, next to the fireplace with it's grate drawn shut, unused for five months straight, sat his trunk. It had once belonged to his great-grandfather. Imbued with the magic of changing hands so many times, it had almost taken on a little bit of each of its former owners in the way it stood, in the way the clasp at the far left stuck every now and again. Now it was full with school belongings.

Another year. He couldn't believe that he would be going back for another year. He sighed and half rolled over, dragging the blankets with him. Another year before he could get his diploma and move the bloody hell on. Another year with bloody Potter, the boy who, as it turns out, DID live. Well, no one could have predicted THAT. He let out a petulant huff towards nothing in particular.

Draco thought a lot about the war nowadays. After all the sacrifices, what did it get him? A father in prison, five or ten good scars, three dead friends, uncountable enemies, and another damn year to go. He let out a bitter breath he had been holding into the sticky air. Part of him couldn't care anymore. He would go back, he supposed, but the excitement was gone.

Not that he wouldn't be in good company. When Hogwarts sent out offers for an eighth year, Draco half-expected that no one would be dumb enough to do it. As it turns out, a good three quarters of students, or those who could afford it, were making the extra lap around the track. Of course, when the news broke, the first one the press ran to was the Golden Boy, avec entourage. He said it would be nice to finally have an uninterrupted year of school.

When he read it in the paper, Draco had not laughed. Of course. He had been hoping against hope for a Potter-free year, even if he knew the likelihood was practically nil. The hope was dashed upon the rocks the moment the article came out. Draco sighed again, in remembrance.

He rolled his wrist. Yep. There was that ache that came in hot weather. He couldn't believe it, at seventeen, he had chronic pain. Shaking his wrist in anger, he felt himself frown. All that blood, all that struggle for the Dark Lord, just to turn tail on him in the end. Draco had never sworn allegiance to that man, but he couldn't say he had fought all that hard against him, either. Not until the end, not until it was his own and his mother's life on the line. But that was the thing about a war; it wraps everyone up in it, no matter what.

Enough! He was done clawing at himself for all those old wrongs. At least, he was done for the night. Tomorrow night, again the old wounds would come back, to fill his throat with bile, to fill the backs of his eyes with that slow, creeping terror of the night. But that was tomorrow night. It would come when it wished.

With nothing left to think about, his thoughts returned to the weight in his stomach. It felt to be growing, gaining mass at a crawling pace. He rolled over again, and closed his eyes, counting backwards from ten, willing himself towards sleep. And slowly, its haze descended, and he was whisked away into the unquiet darkness.

. . .

He was burning up when he awoke. Putting the back of his hand, he almost gasped at the temperature. His joints ached, and each movement felt tied down by a thousand little pains. He licked his dry lips, and with an effort like never before, he lifted his head from his pillow. The light shone through his open window, creating four patches of light that stretched over the middle of his four-poster. Stomach pains came and went at random. He clenched, afraid to move when they came, and moved again only once they had passed.

He heard a knock at his door, and it rang loud in his head. With effort, he moved his parched lips.

"Come in."

Narcissa Malfoy pushed open the door with hesitancy, and slid her body through the entrance once it was wide enough to permit her. Slowly, she turned to face him, her hand held together over her waist. Aside from a string of pearls around her neck and a simple white sleeping gown, she bore no pretense of the wealth that had encompassed her life since the day she was born.

"Is it that bad?" She asked.

Draco could only nod.

"Oh my son," she began, and her voice faltered. Bringing a fist to her mouth as if about to bite her finger, she stood very still for a moment before continuing.

"I should have told you long ago."

With that, she walked towards his bed and sat herself on the edge, running a hand through her son's damp hair. He tried to shake his head and let out a muffled groan of protest and eventually, he choked out a few words.

"I don't want to get you sick."

Narcissa chuckled, but her eyes were shining.

"Oh my dear, you won't get me sick. I promise."

She looked over her shoulder, almost longingly toward the door, but there was no one beyond it and she knew. Eventually, she sighed, and looked back at her son. He let out a strangled sort of moan. As if anticipating the question, she spoke.

"I'm afraid there's nothing I can do for you. You must ride this out. Once it's over, you will be glad."

He looked at her with dazed eyes. How he could ever be happy for this, he did not know. The aches were only growing now, and his bones felt heavier than stone in his body. His fever broke every now and then, while he had cold sweats, and then returned. And moreover, an aching had settled in his heart, he tried not to think about that feeling, growing worse as the moments passed, for thinking made his sluggish brain want to panic. After what felt like hours of his mother's hand upon his forehead, she began to speak again.

"You know that your father and I have always told you that you are special."

He narrowed his eyes as he stared at her.

"I have not lied to you, Draco. You are special indeed."

She moved her hand down to pat his shoulder through the blanket that rested upon it.

"Do you remember seeing the veela at the Quidditch World Cup?"

His eyebrows furrowed, but Draco nodded his head, His thoughts would not move in his brain! She was alluding to something, but he could not understand what or why.

"Those girls?" he choked out.

"Yes," she said, as she continued to massage his shoulder. He grunted, and with a great effort, rolled over on his back. She massaged his back, now with both hands, and he let out a sigh of relief. The touch of his mother erased some of the ache that had found its way into his body.

"They aren't just girls, though. Veela can be of either gender."

"I don't. . ." he began to protest, but she cut him off before he finished a sentence.

"Hush, my dragon, and hear all of what I have to say." She paused again, collecting herself, before she spoke again. "These veela, they have interbred with wizards for centuries. Those girls at the games had no wizard blood in them, but most veela living today are also wizards or witches."

Draco's head was still fuzzy, and it did not appreciate the history lesson. The aches in his body were only intensifying as they spoke. And his mothers own hands, though gentle, seemed to be almost slightly itchy against his skin. He shivered involuntarily when she pressed down now.

"I tell you this because of a secret that has been held by your father from you. The Malfoy family line has veela blood."

"What?" Draco spluttered out. "But we are purebloods!"

"For centuries, society did not consider the presence of veela blood to be an impurity. Only in the time of the Dark Lord did it become something even the purest of wizards came to revile."

"But. . ."

"Hush my dear, I must finish and I haven't much time." She continued to massage him, but the little pricks her fingers left were becoming worse and worse. The aches in his body grew, along with the ache in his heart. She spoke again.

"The Black line has veela blood as well. We have never wavered in our pride of that fact. " She paused, and the space grew until Draco gazed up at her. There was an all-consuming fire in her eyes. She looked at him fiercely, and, finding his hands under the blankets, she gripped them with a force that was almost crushing. "You must understand that having such blood is not shameful. It is only your father who thought so of it, and he was wrong."

"Why are you saying this?" Draco felt his head spinning.

"I tell you because you, my son, are a veela."

A silence hung in the air. Then Draco spluttered again.

"But that, that's impossible! You and Father were not veelas! How could I be one?"

Narcissa smiled almost wistfully. "That is not how it works. The veela . . . condition, for lack of a better word, is a recessive trait."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning that, in order to be a veela, one must receive the trait from both your mother and father. Both myself and your father had only one veela gene, and we are only carriers. But you, our son, you are different."

Draco's thoughts were whirring now.

"So that means?"

"It means that you will become a veela in full, now that you are growing. Veela gain their true form when they reach their inheritance. This happens at a veela's seventeenth birthday. That is, for you, today."

Her hands on his back were becoming intolerable. He tried to shift away from her, and she slowly withdrew her hands from him.

"I see it has started already." There were tears in her eyes. "After your transformation, I will no longer be able to touch you, now will anyone else. Not until you have found your mate. And I'm afraid I have dawdled so long, I have missed the opportunity to hug my only son once more before he becomes a man."

Draco heard her voice warble at the end, and there was a pang in his half-gone heart. He dragged himself from the bed, and, once sitting, held out shivering arms. "Mother," he began. ""I would be honored."

She didn't waste a second, but enveloped him in a hug. The pricks throughout his body made him wince, but he grimaced into her shoulder. He felt the wetness of her tears fall onto his arm. "Thank you." She spoke. "Thank you. My son," she pulled away, "you will make a fine young man." She smiled through her tears at him. He smiled back.

Wiping her eyes with her index fingers, she threw her hair back from her face in one sweeping gesture. Draco sank back into his bed. Only now could he contemplate what she had told him.

"My mate?"

"Yes," she said, still wiping at her eyes. "Veela are creatures of love. They have chosen mates, soulmates. One who is perfect for you, my Draco."

"How will I know?"

"It is said that veela have always known by smell, by sight, and by touch the identity of their mates. He will be the only one who can touch you at first, until you have bonded with him."

Draco flushed. "How do you know it's a him?"

She smiled again. "You shivered when I put my arms around you. That can only mean that you will be, for lack of a better term, submissive. And no submissive male veela has ever been born with a female mate."

Draco was flushing even in his fever. Submissive? He felt a lurch in his heart, but his head was too fogged to be able to process much of anything. She saw and there was the pain in her eyes again. "it is nothing to be ashamed of, my Dragon. A veela will love who he loves, and there can never be anything wrong with that."

"How do you know all this?"

Again she chuckled, but Draco sensed the bitterness. "It used to be, every pureblood family told the stories of the veelas, taught them to their children, and, if they were supremely lucky, cherished the veela blood that ran in theirs. It has only been in your own generation that such stories ended." She looked aver her shoulder again. "And there are always books."

"Do not think," she added with a smirk, "that your father prevented me from reading what ever I chose."

She stood from the side of his bed, and Draco felt the panic set in. There was too much he didn't know, and too much that sacred him silly. "Don't go!" and his voice broke.

She turned back to him. "I was only standing," she reassured him. "I have collected all the worthy books in this house on the subject. I suggest that, as soon as you are able, you read them."

"This ache I have, is it because of. . . my mate?" The word felt funny in his mouth, but just saying it sent trills of warmth down to his fingertips.

"The ache of the body will subside after you have transitioned to you true form. The ache in your heart," she paused. 'I'm afraid that will only subside once you have found your mate."

Draco let his head fall back on the pillow and let a long, ragged breath out of his mouth. He didn't know if he could stand it, this feeling of being split in half from the heart. Not for very long, anyway.

"But my mate, he could be anywhere! How many billions of men are there in the world!"

Narcissa shook her head. "The fates have never been so cruel."

Draco shook his head to himself. The fates certainly didn't seem to mind screwing HIM over personally, so he didn't see why they should stop any time soon. He ran a hand through his hair, which was still sticking to his forehead. Instead, his thoughts turned to the coming day.

"Will it get worse?"

Narcissa nodded her head gravely. 'I'm afraid so. You have not even begun the physical changes yet. They will likely last for the next ten to twelve hours at least. And then, you will come into the full range of your magic."

"The full range?"

"Yes. As a veela comes of age, he gains the full stores of his capabilities. Some of these are physical. . ."

"Such as?"

"Your appearance will change. You may find yourself casting balls of fire at will when angry. There will be other changes, but. . ." She paused. "There will be time to speak of these things tomorrow. I can see the transformation is taking greater hold of you. There will not be much time before it completely takes control."

He stuck out a hand as he felt his body lurching from his own control. "Stay? Please?"

She was crying again. "I'm afraid I cannot stay. The transformation must take place alone. No other magic can risk interfering with it. But oh, my dragon, if you only knew how much I wished I could stay." Her voice was shaking again. "I promise you, it will only last a little while. Before you know it, you will be as you were always meant to be."

Draco could only nod his head. He was thunderstruck, and for a moment, even his fear had been blown from his body. She stood, a distance from him, with her arms wrapped around her middle, as if trying to hold herself together. Her face gleamed with wetness. She turned to leave him, but stopped and stared at him with pleading eyes. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but nothing came out. Steadying herself, she tried again.

"I am so sorry to have only told you now. I can give you no good reason, except that your father commanded that I never speak of it. I can only tell you that I love you with all of my heart, and I can only ask this: that one day, you can forgive me."

And with that, she was gone. It was only moments before Draco sunk into the whiteness of the change.

Draco awoke with a gasp in his throat and an ache in his heart. His fever was gone, and the pains in his body had left him, Groggily, he rubbed his eyes with his fists. Pushing back his sheets, he saw that it was early in the morning. The sun appeared through the window across the room, filling the room with glowing orange light.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood upon them, stretching and cricking his necks. Were it not for his heart, he felt better than ever. Slowly, he pulled himself from his stiff position and ambled towards the bathroom that adjacent to his bedroom. Pushing open the door, he drew himself a bath. As the tub filled with hot water, he gave a sigh of relief. Even in August, nothing felt better than a warm bath.

Sitting on the edge of the tub, he contemplated all that had happened just a day ago. Now he was seventeen. According to wizarding law, he was now an adult. He could now legally perform magic wherever and whenever he pleased, not that such rules had stopped him in the past. He gave a slight "hmm" of appreciation of his new position. So now he was a man. It didn't feel that different.

Not that he had ever felt like much of a man. He had always been relatively tall, though he had topped out at what he referred to as "a respectable five foot eight." It was bloody well taller than Potter, and that was all that mattered. But that height had never gained him any muscle mass, and he remained at best what might be called "svelte." The manliest thing he had ever procured was hair on his legs.

With that thought, he looked down at his legs. His mother had said to expect physical changes. Part of him hoped against hope that all of yesterday had been but a fever dream. Still, looking down, he almost gasped. His legs were now sparsely covered with short, almost invisible hairs, like peach fuzz. Bloody hell, it looked like he had shaved his legs! He stood and walked over to the full length mirror.

He kept his eyes squinted until he was standing in front of it. Throwing caution to the wind, he tore his t-shirt from his body, keeping his eyes screwed shut. If he was ugly now, he swore to Merlin, someone would have hell to pay!

He gave himself to the count of three to open his eyes. One. Two. Three!"

He opened his eyes and nearly fell to the ground in surprise. Changes, his bloody fucking ass! More like bloody continental SHIFTS! He stared at his reflection, mouth agape. The boy in front of him had the same milky skin, the same white-blond hair, the same grey eyes. But so much had changed. The boy in front of him was all curves where Draco knew himself to have angles. Much of the muscles in his shoulders and arms seemed to have melted, leaving them appearing softer and more delicate. Where as Draco's ribcage traveled in an almost straight line down to his hips, this boy's narrow waist blossomed out into the curve of healthy hips.

Even his bloody nipples seemed a little larger. They were definitely pinker and softer, and whatever semblance of chest hair Draco had once had was gone from this new boy's chest. This was just great. On the day he became a man, he seemed to lose his attributes to the same name.

Suddenly a fear filled his chest. What if? He was afraid to look. With a rallying breath, he pulled the band of his shorts from his body and looked down. He let out a powerful sigh of relief. Hips or not, a dick between the legs was a dick between the legs.

He returned his eyes to the mirror. The vision was not as shocking the second time, but he began to notice the smaller changes in his form. His face seemed slightly fuller now, correcting for any supposed pointiness in his features. His skin had always been clear, but it seemed even clearer now. His hair, thankfully, was unchanged.

It wasn't until he really examined his chest that he fell to his knees. Those scars over his heart, they had vanished some time in the night! He felt tears well in his eyes. No more pain! No longer an invalid. His chest was heaving with the sight of himself. He knelt before the mirror, smiling at himself in spite of the hot tears on his cheeks. He should have hated himself for such a brazen display of emotions, but all he felt was a deep and binding gratitude to the fates above him.

He felt water seep under his feet.

"Fuck!" he had forgotten to turn of the water. He rushed over and twisted the nob all the way off. Almost unthinkingly, he waved his hands over the water on the floor. It disappeared almost instantly. Huh. That brought a smirk to his face. He had never done wandless magic before. Maybe this veela thing wouldn't be too bad. He turned back to the mirror.

He sighed. He could get to the new look, he supposed. Now that he saw himself again, it wasn't bad. Not bad at all. In fact, had it not been him in the mirror, he would have found the bloke quite shaggable, thank you very much. He stood there for a few more minutes, making faces at himself, just to see what it looked like. It looked good.

He turned away, once he had his fill. Peeling his clothes from his body, he settled himself into the warm water and moaned in pleasure. All the little aches in his body began to leave him, as he grabbed some soap and began to go over his new body, exploring each and every inch.

His skin was much softer now, and his hands sliding over his chest felt almost buttery. Almost experimentally, he rubbed his legs together in the water. They felt silky as they slid against each other. Draco led his head roll back. Yes, he could most definitely get used to this. He brushed a hand over his nipple, and gasped aloud this time. They were much more sensitive now. Well, that was something to note.

Before long, his fingers were becoming wrinkled. He rose from the water, and accio'd a towel to his hands with neither word nor wand. Wrapping it around his waist, he stepped out of the bathtub and released the drain, stepping over to the sink. Walking by the mirror, his breath hitched.

He had a body one could get lost in. From the high alabaster cliffs of his collarbones down to the soft shores of his hips, he shone with a captivating beauty. His long, delicate arms were like the legs of a fawn taking young steps on the grass. Long slender legs took similarly hesitant steps upon the tile of the bathroom floor. So this was who he was always meant to be.

Before long, he entered his room, and put on a few old clothes. His jeans did not fit over his hips! He sighed in frustration before pulling on a pair of shorts with an elastic waist. They would do until he could go shopping. His shirts were too loose at the shoulders and kept riding up over his waist, but he could not be bothered.

Before long, there was a knock at his door.

"Come in, " he said, almost without thought.

Narcissa Malfoy entered the room and let out a small gasp, her hands brought to her lips. Draco did a slow twirl in front of her, with his arms stretched out. "What do you think?"

"Oh my son," she said, shaking her head. But there was a smile on her face. "You've never been so beautiful."

Draco bounded over to her and threw his arms around her but withdrew them almost immediately, wincing in pain. It was like he had been burned. "What?" he began, but could not continue. The hurt and confusion swirled in his grey eyes.

"Did you forget, my dragon, what I told you yesterday? You belong to your mate now, just as he belongs to you. Only he will be able to touch you until you have bonded with him."

Draco shakily nodded his head.

"But do not think that because I cannot reach out and touch you, that I love you any less. I have always loved you, with all my heart." She paused. "You will find love just like it for your mate."

"I'm not sure how I feel about all this."

"She nodded at him. "That's understandable, my dragon. You don't have to know just now. Give it time, and you will understand."

He looked off at the doorway over his mother's head, but said nothing. She followed his gaze for a moment, almost longingly. Nothing was beyond it but for an empty house. She sighed.

"Now, if you will follow me, dear, your education can truly begin."

Beckoning with her hand, she walked out of the room. Draco followed his mother, with a dazed look on his face. It was going to be a bumpy ride.

. . .

Author's note:

So there's part one, guys. Tell me what you think. Love letters, constructive criticism, hate mail, whatever you got. Reviewers are like candy; they make me happy. Also, they rot your teeth. . . wait.

OH. Important author thingie! Umm, in case you haven't noticed, a lot of people die in DH. I'm thinking I might pull an: "oh, so and so just LOOKED dead, at first glance," if you know what I mean (you know what I mean.) But I haven't decided whom should be saved. So I'm thinking, maybe a vote? Please note that this is only an IDEA, and it may not make its way into the plot.

I guess what I'm asking is, which of the deaths in DH (or hell, in all the books,) felt the most contrived? Which one was just a waste of a death? Well, dear readers, advise me!