Okay, this is what happens when I talk with reviewers. I get the idea for other stories. So the idea for me to write a veela-fic goes to abbily.1428, who, with Couture Girl, is doing a range of beta-ing for it. A chapter will always get passed by one of them before posting. And because I'm an impatient bastard who's going to be forced through several hours of swimming tomorrow morning, I am posting this now and will edit it when Abbily gets back to me because Cee looked it over. So there. /Childish stomping

This story may become M later on, but not because of lemons, because I don't write those. (Sorry, citrus-lovers in the audience)

I will only disclaim once, as they take up space: I do not own Harry Potter, this is a work of fan-created fiction made and distributed for free. It is not in any way endorsed, associated with, or other such fancy terms by J.K. Rowling. I am, as the term goes, playing with her toys.

Draco had been vaguely aware for years that there was something different about his family.

He was not talking about the war. No, what he was talking about was the Quidditch World Cup in fourth year when young, Malfoy-blonde women with good figure had filed onto the field. Draco noted that they were pretty nice-looking, but couldn't quite reconcile it with the murmurs around expounding the women like they were the most beautiful things on earth. Yes, they looked flawless from a distance, but up close, surely they had a few scars or the youngest among them might have acne somewhere.

Then they set about dancing, which Draco watched with a bored expression, trying not to put his hand in his chin or slouch.

"The one on the end is a few seconds behind," his father pointed out. The other men around, all famous in one way or another, and most unknown to Draco, had snarled at him. To his credit, Father never twitched once, as if he expected it.

Then Draco looked up from pinpointing the girl fallen out of step and realized half the audience was trying to dive onto the field.

That was how Draco discovered his veela immunity.

That day was also how he discovered sex, when after the match he went looking for a toilet and found a young guard and a veela enthusiastically going at it in the entryway to the loo. That was not to say that Draco hadn't heard of sex before that-babies had to come from somewhere, and there had been the quiet and highly embarrassing conversation from his mother in the summer before third year, but before that sex had been something he hadn't quite figured out and wasn't sure he'd wanted to.

The Quiddich Cup had been a lot of firsts for Draco. His first taste of the war, by all accounts, when tents had been burned and muggles tormented. The taste of compassion, even if it wasn't meant to be so, when he told Scarhead and Weasel to get Granger out of there-it had been more of a want for a chase, like a dog letting a rabbit get a few feet ahead before running it down. A bitter tang, of unadulterated, collective fear.

The year had been even more firsts, things and people and events...

Draco shifted on his bed, staring at the ceiling with squinting eyes. He was hungover, as was common for him nowadays, but that wasn't what bothered him.

He was sober. Fuck, he hated when he was sober. Memories, like right now, came to attention, or worse-they sprang to life as he slept and twisted themselves into nightmares. That was what had woken him, an attempt to not scream and announce to anyone within distance that all was not right.

He scrabbled around in the dark, keeping his mind firmly focused on the rather gentle memories of fourth year as he searched for a bottle of alcohol-firewhiskey, brandy, or whatever that odd mix he had been drinking last night was. It had been an interesting party, and an overzealous sex-drive had meant that more-drunk-than-usual Draco had shagged at least two girls before leaving with a third. Draco wasn't sure why wizards and witches still invited him to social events, he hadn't been sober in three months anyway so it had been impossible to mull over. Right at this painful moment, he suspected humiliation that bounced right off because he couldn't stop grinning. Ever.

Draco groaned, wanting to stand up but knowing he would puke if he did, and feeling thoroughly humiliated for himself from the last few months of his life. He wondered if he was in the newspaper...

Finally managing the task of finding a bottle in a sea of them, Draco raised it, flicked it slightly to hear the swish from the liquid inside and raised it to his lips.

It burned as it went down, the taste of phoenix-vodka thick on his tongue. Firewhiskey, phoenix-vodka, there was magical (And much more potent) versions of many muggle alcohols. It was warm, and tasted unpleasant because of it, but it went down easy and did its job. As he slowly swallowed down the half-empty bottle, the memories in his head began to fade, hiding in the shadows of his throbbing skull, away from where he could see them.

It was that little time before dawn when everything seemed at its darkest-the stars were gone, but the sun had yet to come up. Nightshifts were home and day-workers had yet to leave. Streetlights fading out one by one. Draco managed to heave himself out of bed to the window, watching.

The bedroom of his flat faced north, the better to keep wretched sunlight away, so the sunrise was lost to him, but the view of the streets, dark, and the city, slowly being touched by the creeping gold, was not. He stared bleakly for a few moments before pulling the curtains on the window, kicking a bottle aside as he made his way to his bed again. The sheets still smelled just a little feminine, she had left her address on the bedside table.

He picked it up, wondering what the hell made her think that he would owl anyone. If he was so intent on getting someone, why was he consistently drunk, why was his flat a wreck, why was he shagging random girls at a party?

The paper burned between his fingertips. He sipped the last of the phoenix-vodka, watching it disappear in a spiral of smoke and ashes.

He rolled over and buried his head under the pillows. He wasn't going to go to work today. His mother could do it. She liked doing it. (He thought so, anyway. He hadn't seen her in a while) It kept her busy.

He shamed his mother enough by drinking anyway. Why make it worse by doing it in front of her?

Falling into a drunken stupor, a strange ache in his back prodded lightly at his attention. He ignored it and passed out.

. . .

Malfoy was in the news again, his small column in the back. Hermione, who always read the Prophet front to back, tapped her nails on the wood of her table as she read it. Then stopped herself, before the noise echoed. One of her war-vices: paranoia. She was terrified that someone with cruel intent would hear or see her and would attack.

Now holding both her hands in her lap, carefully holding her wand between her fingers, she kept reading.

It was her laugh of the week, usually, though sometimes it was her laugh for a few days (He might pull some stunts several days in a row), to read this column. Not because she found Malfoy particularly amusing-anyone drinking themselves into oblivion was far from funny-but because of the writer. In the same sentence that Vane called him a horrendous drunk, she called him charismatic, handsome, and on this fine occasion, nicknamed him "veela-boy."

The image that it conjured, with the only image she had of a full veela (The dancing mascots of the Quidditch World Cup of '94), melted together. Malfoy, in the skimpy dancer's costume, his long hair grown to his waist.

She held back giggles to look all around her tiny kitchenette before erupting into laughter, while the image inside her head snarled, leathery wings unfolding from his back and skin pulling back from his nails to turn them into talons, face becoming a bird head.

It was still funny.

She rocked with laughter, head thrown back with it, for several minutes, struggling to catch her breath. When she finally calmed down, she tore the article out and then washed her coffee cup, setting it back in its cupboard. Her kitchen was truly tiny, there wasn't room for a drying rack on her counter, but Hermione was devoting herself to research, so a large place to live was not a priority.

She researched many things. She worked in the auror department in the backgrounds, piecing clues together and digging up facts for the aurors in the field. She worked in the Magical Research Department. If she could get it, she worked on it, developed cures and potions and collected facts and tested things, whatever she could. Hermione liked to work and she threw herself into it. Sometimes she didn't even come home for days-Crooks lived with Harry and Ginny now because of that, sadly. She'd given her precious cat to them since there was always someone home, if only for ten minutes. She visited sometimes.

Stuffing the article in her pocket and brushing off her women's trousers (Skirts were not practical for her department, but everyone was expected to dress professionally at the Ministry), Hermione held her wand at auror rest-position (Handle in one hand, end in the other, arms straight) and pivoted on her heel, apparating.

With a quiet pop, Hermione was standing on the tile of the Ministry entrance. As always, she was braced for the sight of anyone who shouldn't be there, eyes scanning the crowd before she put her wand in her pocket. She waved to familiar faces on her way to the elevator (There was Harry, jittery over Ginny! And Ron, with his sad smile and half-empty eyes... Scamander, scowling slightly today. Had something happened with Luna?) and waited impatiently for the golden-caged elevator.

A hand touched her shoulder gently. She whirled around, grabbing and twisting the wrist attached to it every so slightly.

She had the sense to look apologetic as she let go of Kingsley. "I'm so very sorry, Minister Shacklebolt, I need to talk to my therapist again, I know."

The tall man gave her an understanding look, gently patting her shoulder. "Yes, I would," he said, deep voice quiet. "The Auror Department requires you today. Would you be willing to come by later? I know you are busy."

"I have a few minutes before I need to get up there, I can come now. Is it urgent?"

"Urgent would depend upon the perspective," he intoned. The elevator, with a rattling clang, opened its doors. Wizards and witches packed in, many faces grumpy and sleep-deprived, others the obvious morning people getting shot looks of distaste. Hermione packed herself into a corner, swallowing air so she wouldn't panic. An enclosed space, no room to raise her wand, anything could happen...

Kingsley practically yanked her off at the stop, and she took a moment to regain her composure as she always did, brushing her clothes, checking her wand, a whispered finite incantum. When she was done, he gave her a nod and walked straight into his office. Hermione looked around twice before shutting the door with a click.

"We have a job for you, a slightly odd case, one which, while we are aware you don't like field work, we think would quickly be solved through your skills."

Hermione leaned forward slightly, almost glancing at the sparse desk to see if there was a sign of the notes. She wanted to get started, she didn't care if it was counting vampires of Bulgaria!

"You need to find Draco Malfoy."

A smile twitched at Hermione's lips. This had to be a joke. There was no way-a giggle slipped through. "Have you tried checking the newspaper, Minister Shacklebolt?"

He managed a slight smile. "I shall be more specific, then. His mother wishes to know where his current residence is, why she cannot contact him, and wishes our helping in bringing him home."

"Why hasn't she tried our help before now? He's been in that tacky column for over a year."

Kingsley shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "The secretary until now has been dismissing her, it took an extensive bribe, and she will be paying us two million galleons for our help. We are assuming that if she is unable to do this herself, it is a difficult task."

Hermione nodded slightly, sitting back in her chair.

"I am aware that you and Malfoy do not share a pleasant history, but you are, among our best aurors, the one best at setting aside differences."

"The two mill-"

"Can finish the rebuilding of Hogwarts, many wizarding communities that have been cleaning up sluggishly until now, and can help out in many other ways."

Hermione nodded. Already two years since the war, but things were so far from normal, with a half-dead economy, and broken souls everywhere, still sweeping out for Death Eaters running and attempting to capture them. Malfoy had spent six months in Azkaban with his father. Malfoy younger had been released. Malfoy senior was still in there. His stay wasn't over for another year.

"Will you do this, Miss Granger?"

She sighed. "Yes, sir."

He reached into his desk and handed her a file.

This will be more than just a Veela!Draco fic. I never manage simple, straight-forward plots. They bore me. This will be a touch complicated, and while the main characters will be Draco and Hermione, other characters will be able to stand up, add their strands of plot, and eventually we will reach some puppies-and-rainbows happy ending. Till then, you can entertain yourself scanning for foreshadowing :P