Zigster

Arrrrgh-ie maties! Wherrrre’s ‘de wench? I mean, ‘de birthday girl?

Nicole, I’m so sorry. This thing started out as humorous, then got weird, then got crackish. I hope you enjoy it, regardless. I mean, it’s meant in the spirit of a gift, and it’s the thought that counts, right? lol.

Have a happy birthday, hon. *hugs*

Hugs to my PF as well. She beta’d.

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“Huzzah!”

“Huzzah!” a chorus of echoes sounded throughout the camp. Draco groaned and dropped his head in to his hands.

“They do that every five fucking minutes.”

“Language, Draco!”

Draco rolled his eyes and watched as the strange Muggles in the strange clothes walked past their tent, some peering in with keen expressions of interest at the objects on display.

“Look at their clothes,” Draco whispered in disgust, waving his one hand about. “They’re dressed like Wizards but the fabrics...” he reached down and rubbed his fingers through a trailing scarf off a little girl’s pointed hat—who was looking at a bracelet laid out on the table before her, “. . . synthetic.” He sat up with horror in his eyes. “Mum, they’re synthetic!”

Cringing away from the tiny customer, he slunk back into the shadows of the tent, appalled. Synthetic fabrics were about as frightening as a rabid Werewolf in heat at full moon. And just as unpredictable. Merlin knew what those things could do to one’s skin.

Both werewolf bites and synthetics, respectively.

“Draco, get a hold of yourself,” Narcissa scolded, giving the curious child a sweet smile as she handed her the bracelet for purchase. “A lovely choice, little one.” The girl clapped with glee then ran to her father in a flouncing, polyester shirt and tugged on the poofy sleeve.

“You ready, princess?”

The girl nodded.

“How much, m’lady?” The Muggle said, bowing to Narcissa with an overly dramatic flourish. Draco rolled his eyes as the transaction was made, scowling at them from his corner.

“Your son is great at staying in character,” The Muggle said, leaning in to whisper at Narcissa.

“Yes,” she grimaced, “he is, isn’t he?”

“My foot-ith, hurt-ith. . . ith,” Draco drawled and propped his leg up on the arm of the chair.

The Muggle man cleared his throat. “Well, we’ll be off then. Thank ye oh, gracious, and beautiful lady.” He bowed again and ducked out of the tent, the little girl’s trailing synthetic scarfs following in their wake.

“Why on earth are we here, mother?”

“Oh please,” she paused momentarily as the crowd outside the tent chanted huzzah! again. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath to regroup before continuing. “Draco, you know very well why we’re here.”

“Yes, mother, but a Muggle Renaissance fair? Really?”

“Really,” Narcissa hissed, effectively ending the discussion. Draco grumbled and pouted, slouching in his seat on purpose. Narcissa shot him a sideways glance, looking upset. He knew why; slouching was so very middle class.

A loud thud of jangled coins hitting the table top made them both look up. Before them stood a very average looking Wizard—yes, a real one—wearing glasses and sporting a slight paunch under his robes.

“How can I help you, sir?” Narcissa questioned, staring at the sack of money with a desperate need.

“You can give me him.” The man pointed at Draco, and Draco blinked back him, nonplussed.

“I don’t understand,” Narcissa said, wringing her elegant hands slightly. The coin purse looked heavy, heavy with Galleons.

“Was I not clear? I want him.” He pointed again.

“I’m not for sale, you guttersnipe,” Draco snapped, and walked into the backroom of the tent, incensed.

Really, the Malfoy’s may be in a wee bit of financial ruin, thanks to Draco’s blasted father who went off and conveniently died, leaving behind scores of debts to settle in his wake, but selling Draco had never come up for discussion.

The heavy drape behind Draco swung open, and he turned, expecting his mother. What he got, instead was a wand to the face and a crazed Harry Potter in too large robes staring him down.

“What the hell is this, Potter?”

“My lucky day, apparently.”

“What?” Draco looked Potter up and down, taking in his haggard appearance, and skeletal frame. His hair hung long and wild around his face and prominent cheekbones, and his cloak lay across his shoulders as if nothing more than a hanger were supporting it. In short, he looked a fright, and decidedly like his godfather. How unsettling.

“Answer the question,” Draco demanded when Potter remained silent.

Instead of explaining, he merely narrowed his eyes and turned his wand in his hand, as if sharpening his aim.

“I tried to make this easy.”

“What on earth are you on about, you nutter?!”

“I’m sorry,” was all Potter said before Draco felt his body seize up into paralysis.

Potter! he tried to yell, but his mouth wouldn’t move.

Before he knew it, strong arms were wrapped around him tightly, and black, soft hair covered his face. In a snap and a pop, Draco found himself standing in a rather small sitting room, positively engulfed by books. They were on shelves, piled in corners and on end tables, chairs, cushions, everywhere.

“Harry!” A familiar voice cried.

“What?” Potter asked, looking guilty.

“You petrified him?”

“Just to get him here.”

“Harry!” Draco heard the stomping of a foot, and figured that Granger was angered on his behalf. It was nice to know, but certainly didn’t help his situation. “That is not what I told you do.”

“How else was I supposed to get him here?”

“A myriad of ways, Harry! We were going over them just last night.” Draco listened as Granger mumbled a spell, and suddenly, his arms and legs, and vocal chords were freed from their petrification.

“What the actual fuck, Potter?” Draco rounded on the right idiot before he could throw a single disarming spell at him and they toppled to the floor.

“I’m sorry,” Harry shouted at him as Draco pulled his hair and kicked his shins.

“Too late for that now!” They rolled, knocking over a pile of books. Hermione gasped in horror as the tomes cascaded too the hearth carpet in a heap.

“I needed to talk to you!”

“So glamouring yourself and then kidnapping me was your only option?”

“Yes!”

“Bullocks!”

“Boys!” Hermione scolded as another pile of books went flying.

“What did you do to my mother!?”

“Nothing! She’s fine.”

“If you’re lying, Potter, I swear on Merlin’s left nut—”

“She’s fine!”

“Take me back,” Draco demanded.

“No!”

“Take me back, now!”

“NO!” Harry cried—desperate and broken—and suddenly, all fighting stopped as Harry’s limbs latched themselves around Draco’s torso so tight he could barely breathe.

“Oh bugger, it’s starting,” Hermione sighed, and drooped her head in her hands.

“What is?” Draco asked, throwing his head back to stare at her.

“The bond.”

“What bond!?” Draco screeched.

Hermione just shook her head and sat down on the chesterfield, watching as her best friend held onto Draco Malfoy for all his withered limbs and sad, emaciated form was worth.

“I tried to tell him to talk to you sooner. For years.”

“Years?”

“Yes. He’s been suffering for so long. Can’t you see?” Hermione said, gesturing to Harry’s obvious weight loss.

Hermione seemed resigned and solemn on the sofa above them, and it terrified Draco down to his perfectly coiffed hair. What on earth was she on about?

“What does him looking like he’s spent the last four years on hunger strike in Azkaban have to do with me?”

She sighed again. “You’re his mate.”

“I most certainly am not!”

Harry whimpered and held Draco tighter at his words, and he grimaced at the deceptive strength of Harry’s sinewy arms.

“You are, Draco. Look at him. He’s dying. It’s probably why his reaction to you today was so strong.” She paused for a moment and then added, “That and. . . well, it’s the equinox, you see. And there’ll be a full moon tonight.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“The change of the seasons and moon cycles affect magical creatures in strange ways.”

“Magical creatures?” Draco repeated, alarmed. “Potter’s not a creature!”

“Well, yes, you’re right. He’s only part creature.”

“Part what?!”

“Veela.”

Draco struggled in vain to rid himself of the crazed, wasted thing that was holding him so tight, not accepting his current situation as reality. No, he had not been kidnapped by Harry Potter; and no, he was not his mate; and most definitely no, he was not allowing this ridiculous bond business to continue.

“Draco, you’re hurting him.”

Draco paused and stared down at Harry, whose wild mass of long hair was itching at his chin as he buried his head in Draco’s neck, emanating strange, pitiful sounds.

“Then why doesn’t he let go?”

“He can’t.”

“Come again?”

“Draco, please. I know, somewhere deep down, you can comprehend what I’m telling you.”

“I most certainly do not! And I do not appreciate the condescending tone, you frizzy-haired book monger.”

Hermione sighed for what seemed like the twentieth time in the past ten minutes and rolled her eyes, moving to sit next to where Harry and Draco were tangled on the floor. “Look,” she gestured at Harry’s shaking form, “he’s not conscious. He’s not aware of anything but his mate, which is you, and syphoning your energy to help balance his.”

“He’s taking my energy?” Draco’s anger doubled. How dare Potter take from him! As if selling off his finest robes to Muggle fools in factory made, hideous synthetic ensembles wasn’t taxing enough, now Potter was stealing his energy. The nerve!

“No, he’s using it. Not taking it.”

Suddenly, everything fell out from under Draco, and he closed his eyes at the vicious hitch his stomach made in his body. The sound of rustling feathers and huge bursts of air breezed past him. He dared a peek out of one eye at whatever the hell kind of a apocalyptic thing was happening around him.

“Granger!” he shouted. “Why on earth are you so small?”

She merely folded her arms and tapped her foot on the hearth carpet beneath her scuffed Oxford. The same carpet he’d just been rolling around on not a minute ago. So why was he now. . . he looked around him, seeing nothing but an extreme expanse of glossy black wings, whose feathers glinted indigo in the waning light streaming in through the curtains. Piles of books fell from the shelves as the massive wings flapped in the tiny space. Draco heard Hermione scolding Harry as she magicked her books back into place, tutting about having them perfectly organized before all this mating business occurred.

Gaining enough courage to actually look Potter in the face, Draco turned his head towards the man he thought he knew to be entirely wizard and not part freak of nature, bird-type thing. To his utter astonishment, the haggard fellow from before, was gone, replaced with a glowing, radiant doppleganger, who vaguely resembled the once, somewhat average looking Potter.

Gone were the premature age lines and streaks of silver in his hair. Instead, a still gaunt but perfect face of alabaster skin greeted him, with piercing green eyes and shining, flowing black hair which rustled in the wind created from Harry’s flapping wings. There were no dark circles beneath his eyes, nor any red forks of exhaustion streaking through them, no sign of fatigue at all, just pure, dominant beauty.

Draco was utterly terrified.

“Granger!” he squealed, trying to look away from the floating angel, but too hypnotized to do so. “Explain!”

“Well, you see, that whole energy exchange before? That’s what caused his allure to break forth, along with his wings. He’s in his mating skin now, if you will, he’s trying to attract you as best he can.”

“It’s working! Make it stop!”

“I can’t. You’re actually the cause of it.”

“How!?”

“It’s your body’s biological reaction to his. It’s all rather scientific if you ignore the magical aspect. This was bound to happen eventually. You should feel a surge of electricity in a few moments.”

“A wha—” but Draco couldn’t finish his question since a shock of intensity vibrated through his body, rendering him speechless. He flailed inelegantly in Harry’s arms, much to his annoyance—how very un-Malfoy like, Mother would be appalled—before shaking like a leaf and almost passing out from the sheer exhaustion of such a magical force. His head lolled and his eyes rolled into the back of his head as white sparks tingled over his skin and collected at where his and Harry’s body connected, sending shivers down his spine.

“Merlin,” he mumbled, incoherent and dazed.

“Yes, that,” Hermione added.

“Not. . . helping. . . book. . . sl-sl-slu-slut.”

“Draco, you’re stuttering.”

He just nodded, too out of it to do much else. His feet touched the ground and he looked around, his eyes landing on the glowing Adonis before him. When did Harry Potter become so attractive?

“He’s always been attractive, Draco, honestly.”

Had he asked that out loud?

“Yes, you did.”

Hermione was walking around them, waving her wand and casting what sounded liked diagnostic spells, no doubt taking copious amounts of internal notes. When her brow furrowed and she tapped her wand to her chin, pondering deeply, Draco quirked a lazy eyebrow in concern.

“Wut?” he slurred.

“Something’s off. You’re not reading as normal.”

Draco smiled in a sloppy way, his head falling onto Harry’s shoulder. Of course he wasn’t normal. Normal was for common folk, and Draco most certainly wasn’t common.

A soothing trilling noise interrupted his internal monologue, coming from Harry’s lips, and he echoed the sound, hearing it harmonize in the air above his head, the overtones casting an aura of light about them.

Hermione gasped.

The trill multiplied and cascaded about the room, filling Draco’s soul with warmth and contentment as he felt it reverberating in Harry’s chest. He opened his eyes and saw green staring back him. He smiled.

“Oh shit. Oh shit, shit, shit!”

Draco went to turn his head to ask Hermione what the Dickens her problem was, but his back suddenly arched and twisted without his permission, and a keening howl erupted from his throat. He saw Harry’s beautiful face crease with worry before him as he felt something rip forth from his very core, and he opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came.

An explosion of white, glistening feathers enveloped him as he fell forward into Harry’s grasp, begging with his eyes for the pain the cease.

Harry’s hands ran over Draco’s hair, and breathed out soothing, trilling sounds of reassurance to him in hushed tones. Within seconds, the agony ended, and all that remained was the feeling of weightlessness as he lifted into the air with Harry in tow.

Beneath them, Hermione flitted about the room, flipping through book after book, muttering about latent Veelan genes in the Black’s family tree, and the damage two part-Veela mates could cause when both were in heat. “They’re not supposed to be in heat at the same time. Oh, this isn’t good.”

Heat. Yes. Violent, raging heat, coursing out through Draco’s very fingertips into Harry’s skin, and reflecting back into his blood stream through the intensity of Harry’s eyes. Yes, heat. That’s exactly what Draco was in. He pulled Harry closer to him, watching the worry fade from his perfect face and morph into something much more base and primal. Just the way Draco liked it.

Not that he knew what he’d liked five minutes ago, but that was neither here nor there.

“Oh, sweet baby Merlin on a Firebolt,” Hermione exclaimed from below. She eyed the two flying men above with exasperation, suddenly grateful that she had high ceilings. Five days they’d be in heat. Five sodding days. And once the cycle began, it couldn’t be interrupted. It’d be disastrous if it were even attempted. Which meant, her precious books were in a great deal of danger. Her entire flat, too!

Thinking quickly, she expanded the room utilizing Wizarding Space and cast a protection bubble around the boys, large enough to accomedate their impressive ivory and ebony wingspans. Hermione would have taken the time to appreciate the symbolism of yin and yang, but being entirely preoccupied with saving her books, she couldn’t.

After putting temporary sticking charms on all of her shelves and book piles, she marched stoically to her bedroom to pack a bag for the Burrow. There was no way she was staying under the same roof as those crazed, literal love birds.

“They better not leave any spunk on my books, that’s all I’m saying,” she rambled to herself as she folded her panties into perfect little triangles and rolled her socks into spirals that would fit nicely into the mouths of her Oxfords and Wingtips. “I mean, really. I wanted to help the poor guy, he’d been suffering for so long, but did he have to bring out Draco’s dormant Veela tendencies in my flat?! After all I did to help him. Ugh! Boys!”

With a snap of her trunk—and a quick shrinking spell—she was ready to go, and grimly made her way back out to the living room where the only fireplace in her flat resided.

The protection ball vibrated with ancient, earthen magic as the culmination of the equinox, full moon, and the rare coupling of two male part-Veelas in heat bonded above her. Their equal halves would create the perfect whole, an infinite circle of bound magic. She didn’t dare look, lest she got distracted by the boy pretty and couldn’t leave. She didn’t have enough crisps stored up for a five day sit-in, so the Burrow really was her best bet.

She tossed a hand full of floo powder into the hearth and stepped in, sparing one last glance in the direction of the glowing, vibrating, bond bubble floating in her sitting room. Trousers were resting at the bottom of the sphere and she shook her head from the tiny tingles of the Allure she felt trying to latch onto her before spinning away towards the countryside.

When she stumbled into the Weasley’s living room and promptly saw a pale, white rear end bobbing before her, she shrieked in shock, only to have George and Luna Lovegood scramble to cover themselves while uttering a massive amount of apologies—from Luna—and expletives—from George—back at her.

“I should have owled. I’m sorry.” Embarrassed beyond words, she stomped off up the stairs, grumbling, “can’t a girl catch a break!” under her breath the entire way.