all_not_well: (veela fire)
[personal profile] all_not_well
Just archiving my veela fest fic here, don't mind me...

Title: Resistance
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: R
Warnings: Dub-con...ish...
Summary: Something has changed, something deep and fundamental inside himself, making his blood burn like molten steel in his veins.

Author's Note: Written for the 2012 Valentine's Veela Fest at [livejournal.com profile] do_me_veela, for prompt #64, by [livejournal.com profile] blackhemlock. Beta'd by the lovely [livejournal.com profile] paean_sf, without whom this fic would never have been written.

--

"Trouble in paradise, Potter?"

Harry's bent over the sink in the prefects' bath, splashing cool water against his puffy eyes. But at the sound of that voice (and of course it's Malfoy, it's always been Malfoy, who else would turn up at a time like this), he uncurls his hunched back, straightening up to stare into the ornate mirror.

Malfoy's face looms just beyond his right shoulder - a little paler, a little leaner, all traces of his youth scrubbed away. Much like Harry's. Malfoy's eyes are haunted, and there are lines of weariness etched at the corners of his mouth.

"You look a bit lost," says Malfoy.

Harry spins on his heel, wand in hand before he's even thought about drawing it. The tip of his wand (the black wand, the Elder Wand, and why didn't he bring his own instead?) aims precisely between Malfoy's arched brows - really, does he pluck them? They're thin and delicate, like a girl's. Pretty, even. As eyebrows go. And why Harry's thinking these things now he doesn't know, except that he can't keep his thoughts in line, and really, he doesn't want to hurt Malfoy, and--and--he wants--

--it takes him just that long to realize that Malfoy's words don't have the hard, mocking edge that Harry's used to hearing. His voice is quite soft, actually. Almost…sympathetic. And though he's clutching his own wand in a white-knuckled grip, he hasn't actually pointed it at Harry. Not yet.

"It's none of your business, Malfoy," Harry mumbles. Because that's his line, isn't it? In their little play. Though he doesn't know why he bothers to keep to the script. It's not like Malfoy won't find out tomorrow, anyway, when the rest of the school catches up to Gryffindor gossip.

Queer. Poof. Pillow-biter. Ginny's bitter words still echo in his head. He shouldn't have told her. He should've just--given in--and let her--

"Why don't we put the wands down," Malfoy murmurs. "The war's over, Potter. I'm tired of fighting."

Tired. Yes. Aching with weariness. Harry sags back against the sink, propping his arse on cool porcelain, heedless of the splashes that seep through his denims. He's so fucking tired of fighting. Fighting what he wants, what he can't have, what he shouldn't be.

He closes his eyes and presses the palm of his free hand against them. Red and black sparks explode behind his eyelids, dark and dazzling.

"Potter," Malfoy says sharply. "Put your wand down." His stuttering, gasping breaths echo in the cavernous room, bouncing off the tiled walls. "Please," Malfoy adds, in a voice thick with fear.

Harry's hand is cramping, burning, his nails biting into his palms, but he can't unclench it. As much as he wants to, he can't release the wand.

He opens his eyes in time to see something building at the tip of the Elder Wand - a blue-black light coalescing, like sunlight through the membrane of a thestral's wing.

"Protego!" Draco screams.

The protection spell explodes from the tip of Malfoy's wand, a shimmering silver strand of magic, and is met by the blue-black light from Harry's. They swirl and mingle between Harry and Malfoy, writhing together like snakes mating. The blue-black is clearly dominant - it's overwhelming Malfoy's spell, it's taking it over. And whatever happens when blue-black finally subdues faint silver, Harry knows that it won't be good.

"Stop this," Harry whispers, though he's no idea who or what he's talking to. Himself? Malfoy? He uses his free hand to try to pry his fingers off the wand. His nails dig in, drawing blood, but his wand hand is stuck. He can't let go.

Malfoy is screaming, Protego, over and over, his voice raw and ragged. The silver light pulses each time he casts, but it's no good. The Elder Wand is too strong for him. And Malfoy's wand… Malfoy's wand is Harry's, still. It won't, it can't, protect Malfoy. Not from Harry.

"Stop this," Harry says on a sob. "Make it stop."

The Elder Wand resists.

And Harry can feel it, resisting.

It's dark, it's strong, and it's hungry for power. It didn't choose Harry - it's only loyal so long as Harry's power holds, and if--when--that fails, it will seek another, more worthy Master.

But it's tired. As Harry is. Of war, of struggle, of strife.

It wants to rest.

It has a plan.

Harry realizes all this in the space of a heartbeat, the knowledge settling over him like a cloak.

And then his world explodes in a blinding, black-and-silver flash.

--

--someone is screaming, and he's on fire, he's burning up from the inside out, his blood is boiling in his veins--

--it hurts, oh god, it hurts, make it stop make it stop make it stop--

--

Magic coalesces around him, seeping into his skin. His hand, clutching a burnt and broken wand, is inky black and shimmering. He can see the silver tracing of his veins, the shadow of his bones.

The magic slowly sinks deeper, settling in Harry's body, the black fading to leave streaks of soot in its wake. The pain fades with it. Harry unclenches his fist and lets the ruined stick fall from his hand.

The last thing he sees, before he loses his tenuous grip on consciousness, is Malfoy's face looming over him - chalk-white, lips trembling, eyes wide and wet and gleaming silver.

--

It's the scent that wakes him. Thick and rich like dark chocolate, sweet as treacle tart, with a faint, crisp note like fallen leaves in autumn - yet better than all of those together, more potent, more pure. He's reminded vaguely of Amortentia, but this is heavier in his nostrils, lingering, tripping all the way up into his brain to flick a hidden switch he never knew existed.

Want.

It's not a thought but an instinct, overriding all else. This scent will be his, whatever the source. He will find it, he will own it, he will wrap himself up in it and wear it like a second skin.

He breathes deep as the currents of moist air around him shift in sluggish patterns - and takes a moment to marvel that he can feel those currents, this sensation, this knowing that's all so strange and new. Something has changed, something deep and fundamental inside himself, making his blood burn like molten steel in his veins, making his flesh quiver and crawl, opening up doors inside his head so that new instincts and new knowledge can surge to the forefront of his mind.

Then the air currents shift again, and the scent is stronger still, completely blocking out the higher functions of his brain. He feels the presence looming over him, the origin of that marvelous scent. Without thought he moves, shifting, reaching, rolling until the source of the scent is writhing under him, thrashing and sputtering and cursing.

"Potter, what the fuck? Get off me! Let me go!"

Harry opens his eyes.

Malfoy, he thinks as he looks into frightened, furious grey eyes, but it's a fleeting recognition.

Mate, his new instincts scream at him, and heat pools in his groin as he settles himself more securely atop Malfoy.

"Be quiet," he says softly, his eyes still locked with Malfoy's. He focuses all of his will into his voice. "Be still."

His will is considerable. Malfoy stops moving at once, his tirade cut off mid-sentence. The fury in his eyes fades, then transmutes into longing as he stares dazedly up at Harry.

"I…" Malfoy wets his lips with the tip of his pink tongue. "Please," he whispers. He relaxes under Harry, his legs parting eagerly, allowing Harry to settle into the space between. Malfoy's hands come up to rest lightly on Harry's shoulders, his touch a cool and pleasant contrast to Harry's burning skin.

"Yes," Harry murmurs. He presses his nose against Malfoy's neck and breathes deeply, rocking against Malfoy as the scent overwhelms him. Their cocks rub together through the barrier of Malfoy's clothing. Malfoy gives a soft and ragged moan, canting his hips toward Harry's.

"Want you," Harry croons into the hollow of Malfoy's throat. He gives the salty skin a slow lick, savoring the taste of Malfoy on his tongue. "My mate."

"I want you, too," Malfoy says softly, shyly, sweetly; and the scent of him, his want, his readiness, is all-pervading.

Harry lifts his head and smiles in satisfaction. Malfoy's eyes are wide, his pupils blown, leaving only a thin ring of grey visible. Gone from fury to desire in mere seconds, all with the power of Harry's voice.

It's a heady feeling, and Harry revels in it.

All is well; all is perfect; all is exactly as it should be. His mate is under him, accepting him, ready to be claimed. Harry's new instincts approve whole-heartedly.

He sits up, resting on his heels in the V of Malfoy's legs, and grips Malfoy's shirt in one hand to haul him upright. Malfoy complies easily, his hands sliding down to grip the arm that holds him in place. Harry lifts his free hand and calls on his magic, sharping his nails into talons so that he can shred the fabric of Malfoy's shirt to ribbons.

Harry's gaze rakes over the pale form revealed as Malfoy's shirt falls away - the flat planes of Malfoy's chest, the taut pink nipples that await Harry's touch. His fury burns hot at the sight of the long, silvery scars that mar his mate's skin, until he abruptly remembers that he, himself, is the cause of them. Though that memory seems more a distant dream, now - something that happened to someone else, long ago.

He pulls his arm closer to his chest, bringing Malfoy with it, intent on staking his claim over every inch of Malfoy's skin - starting with those plump, kissable lips.

He's disrupted by the thud of wood against stone as the door is thrown open.

"Harry?!"

Harry flicks an irritated glance at the door of the Prefects' bath. Two figures stand prominent, though there are others behind them, trying to push their way through. All with wands at the ready, mouths gaping wide in astonishment. Intruders, disrupting his claiming, ready to take his mate from him.

He calls forth a fistful of flames - but memory wars with instinct, staying his hand. Ron,, his memory whispers. Hermione.

Friends. Family. Not to be harmed.

"Out," he snarls in their direction, and flings his handful of fire to scorch the wall beside them. A warning only, not to harm, but to make them cringe. Close enough that they would feel the heat of his rage. "Get out!"

Malfoy's grip on his arm abruptly loosens - and then Malfoy is scuttling backwards, away from him, the mating trance broken. Harry shrieks his frustration. His talons rake empty air as he reaches in vain for his fleeing mate. His wings burst through the skin at his shoulders, and his skull begins to shift its shape.

This is not how things were supposed to go.

"Stupefy!" comes the sharp cry; and Harry, his attention diverted, can do nothing to avoid the spell. He feels it strike his shoulder, hard and heavy as a Bludger, forcing one last shriek from his throat as he falls into darkness.

--

"But I keep telling you, it's impossible! He simply can't have changed species. It breaks every known law of transfiguration."

Hermione's high, shrill voice is a spike of pain straight through Harry's temples. His head hurts, his shoulders ache, and his mouth is gritty with the residue of a half-dozen different potions meant to keep his baser instinct at bay. The chains at his wrists that bind him to his bed in the hospital wing (for his own safety, he's told, and he doesn't bother to dispute the lie) rattle ominously when he lifts his hands to rub at his temples. His muscles tense at the sound, tightening across his neck and shoulders.

Abruptly his wings flare, quite without his permission. Blue-black feathers rustle in agitation. Ron grunts as one wing-tip catches him solidly in the chest.

"Sorry," Harry says with a sigh, awkwardly reaching up to fold the wings back into place. He tries, yet again, to focus on making them recede altogether, but without success. Apparently the ability to control his wings is tied in with the rest of his new instincts - now dulled to a faint whisper at the back of his mind, just beyond his reach.

Still, even if he can't control his wings, it's better than the alternative. Or so he's told.

"S'alright," Ron wheezes, just as soon as he has enough of his breath back to reply. He rubs at his chest with one hand and scoots his chair back, well out of range. "At least it wasn't flames this time. That's progress, right?"

Hermione's hands rise automatically to smooth down her singed curls - a good deal shorter now than they were when Harry first woke up from the Stunner she'd cast on him. Harry bites his tongue to stifle yet another apology for that particular incident - especially since a part of him, that deep-sleeping instinctual part, doesn't feel the least bit sorry for having repaid her for the Stunner. For disrupting his claim.

"There's got to be some sort of explanation for this." Hermione glances longingly at the pile of books on the bed next to Harry's, for all the world as though one of them might just leap from the stack and flip open to reveal the very explanation she requires. "It's just not possible. You can't have just arbitrarily changed into a Veela. Even if there was a spell for it, no one would have a strong enough magical ability to pull it off."

"With the Deathstick, they would," Ron points out. "Obviously. Since Harry's done it."

"But even with the Elder Wand - there's no spell. Harry's said himself he never cast one--"

Harry easily tunes them out. It's a familiar enough argument by now - they've only been going over this for days on end, and they're no closer to answers than they were on that first day, post-transformation, when Madame Pomfrey first gave them the results of her diagnostic charms.

Full-blooded, one-hundred-percent Veela. The first male Veela ever on record, in fact. There is not even a trace of human blood left in Harry's veins.

And no hope of reversal, either. He glances at the blackened, splintered remains of the Elder Wand on his bedside table and wishes - not for the first time - that he'd had the strength to do what he'd said he would, to hide the wand in Dumbledore's tomb.

He closes his eyes and lets the noise of his friends' argument crash over him and through him, drowning out the babble of his own morose thoughts.

Until a particular scent tickles his nose. Teasing. Tempting. Tantalizing.

Harry's scrambling onto his knees before he can even think about it, his eyes locked on the double doors that lead out to Hogwarts proper. He yanks hard at the chains, barely feeling the pain as the metal digs cruelly into his wrists.

His mate is near.

"Harry, mate--"

Harry hisses at Ron, though he doesn't take his eyes away from the doors.

"Right," Ron says hurriedly. "Right. Sorry."

"Harry, please calm down," Hermione says, in a tone that's clearly meant to be soothing but isn't, and Harry hasn't missed the pale flash of her Patronus darting through the wall on its way to Madame Pomfrey's office. He should feel betrayed by that, he thinks. It's another disruption, another attempt to stifle him, to thwart him - but he can't focus. He can't think about anything other than his mate, somewhere on the other side of those doors. The scent eddies and swirls on currents of air, drifting in through the crack under the doors, growing stronger by the second.

"Malfoy," Harry calls out. His voice is hoarse, wielding none of his power, and he wants to scream in frustration. But he keeps his voice calm and steady. Even without access to his magic, he still holds some sway over his mate. "Malfoy," he says again, "come here. I want you."

There's a thump on one of the doors, and a scuff of boots against stone; the scent builds, intensifies, sharp and bittersweet. Harry groans and yanks once more at his chains. Metal creaks as the rails on the bed begin to give way.

Then the scent of his mate abruptly fades, overwhelmed by a cloying flowery stench as Hermione's wand swishes through the air. A freshening charm. Her magic sizzles against Harry's skin, ruffling his feathers and making his hair stand on end.

Harry grits his teeth against the shriek that wants to build in his throat.

"You're hurting yourself," Hermione tells him. "You need to calm down. Please."

"Don't talk to me," Harry snaps. He turns his face away from the kicked-puppy look on her face.

His mate is gone, well beyond his reach. Harry drops back onto the bed, panting a little from his exertion.

"Harry--" Ron's voice drops like a stone into the brittle silence.

"Don't," Harry says again, and it's more screech than speech. He swallows hard and tries to regain some semblance of control. "Just go." He scrubs at his face with shaking hands. "Please," he tacks on, because the part of him that still thinks he's human believes that he should.

"Visiting hours are over," Madame Pomfrey states briskly as she bustles into the room, her arms laden with a tray full of potions. "You two had better return to your dormitories; it's very nearly curfew."

--

The familiar scent of his mate brings Harry surging to full wakefulness, shaking off his potions-induced slumber. It's late, the moon is high, and his mate is near. He can feel his blood heating up, burning off the poisons that pollute it. He tugs once more at his chains in a futile effort to break free, to go to his mate and finish what he started in the prefects' bath.

"Be still," says Malfoy, very softly. He steps out of the shadows, into the pool of moonlight that pours through the high arched windows. "Please don't hurt yourself."

His blond hair gleams in the silvery light. His skin is pearlescent, his eyes softly shining. He's wearing a ridiculously high-necked cloak pulled tight around him, covering him almost to the knee; but below the cuffs of his trousers, his feet are bare. Harry's entranced by the curve of Malfoy's long, slender toes, by the high, delicate arches, by the flex of tendons as Malfoy takes another step closer to Harry's bed.

"Malfoy--"

"Don't," says Malfoy. His voice cracks on that single sharp syllable, if just barely. "Don't - take me over, not yet. I'm not ready for that."

"Can't, anyhow," Harry tells him. He's still staring at Malfoy's feet, so pale and vulnerable. "They've given me potions for that."

"The potions aren't always reliable."

Harry shrugs one shoulder; he can already feel the truth of that statement. His senses are beginning to wake as the potions burn off - instincts flexing like unused muscles, tensing and trembling, ready to run. His wings flare out, knocking the pieces of the Elder Wand off the bedside table; they skitter across the flagstones, disappearing into darkness.

"Why are you here?"

Harry doesn't mean the question to come out quite as harsh as it sounds to his own ears, but Malfoy doesn't even flinch.

"Why do you think?" His lip curls, a shadow of his old sneer creeping into his expression. "I wanted to talk to you. Idiot," he adds. His tone is almost fond.

"No," Harry says. He shakes his head, trying to clear his thoughts. "I mean," he adds, and he's not really sure what he means, except, " what took you so long?"

"Ah," says Malfoy, lightly. "That."

"Yes. That."

Malfoy's laughter is a soft and pleasant sound - not a hint of mockery, not a trace of maliciousness. Such a stark contrast to Harry's memories of him.

"I'm a Slytherin," Malfoy says. "And a Malfoy. I'm not exactly in the habit of leaping straight into anything, never mind something as serious as a Veela mating ritual. Especially not directly following one of the most traumatic experiences of my life, might I add. Worse than V--" He breaks off, his face flushing. "Than everything else," he amends. "I just needed to think things through first. Consider my options, such as they are."

"You're mine. There's no option."

Again, it comes out harsher than Harry intends. This time Malfoy does flinch, the smile slipping from his face.

"Even so," he says quietly.

The realization makes Harry's burning blood abruptly cool. He's been so certain. Malfoy's scent can't lie - even now, through dulled senses, Harry can still taste Malfoy's desire, his readiness. But he's got it all wrong somehow, focusing too much on the physical cues his instincts have picked up.

"You don't want this."

Malfoy licks his lips and looks away.

"You don't want this," Harry repeats with even more certainty. His wings tremble, feathers rustling, a soft susurrant whisper. He wants to fold them around himself, to block Malfoy from his sight, but they won't respond to his bidding. He bites his lip, hard enough to taste blood, unwilling to keen his sorrow while Malfoy's still standing there, watching, listening.

"Did you know," Malfoy says conversationally, his gaze fixed at a point somewhere beyond Harry's left shoulder, "that the most prominent pureblood families have a Veela mating somewhere in their bloodlines? The Blacks. The Lestranges. The Malfoys. To be a Veela's soulmate is considered the highest mark of purity there is." He looks directly at Harry once more, his eyes cool and distant. "Because Veela aren't crossbreeds, you see - not like other creatures. Veela are born out of pure magic." He licks his lips. "Needless to say, my parents are ecstatic at this turn of events. Even if it is you."

Harry's head is spinning with too much conflicting information, Malfoy's parents' opinions notwithstanding. "So…you do want this?"

Malfoy's expression goes blank. He takes a step closer - then scowls, pulling his cloak even tighter around his torso. "I did ask you not to do that - that trance thing. I'm not finished yet."

"Can't help it. I want you."

"And you've no fucking subtlety at all, have you?"

"If only because you've too much of it. Can you please get to the point, so we can get to the f--"

Harry breaks off at Malfoy's glare.

"My point," Malfoy says acidly, "is that you had to have your humanity die in a fire before you could want me. Whereas I've spent years begging for every little scrap of attention you would throw my way, and - and - wanting you, and wanking myself raw over you, and you - you wouldn't even want me if this hadn't--"

Harry snaps his wings back against his shoulders, deliberately disrupting Malfoy's hysterics. He smiles in satisfaction as the wings sink seamlessly into his flesh, feathers drifting to the mattress as they're shed in the process. Finally. He's back in control.

"The thing about humans," Harry says as he focuses on his fingernails, watching them sharpen into talons, "is that they spend a lot of time worrying about what they think they should be doing, or what other people think they should be doing , and not nearly enough time going after what they want - what they know will make them happy."

He calls up fire in his hands, curves his fingers inward, and waits while the fire heats his talons to cherry-red. He smiles at Malfoy over the dancing flames cupped in his palms. "I think I'm finally ready to be done with all that."

"That's all very nice, Potter," Malfoy drawls, "but do try to focus: we're talking about me, here."

"I'm sensing that's a pretty big theme with you."

"I'm a M-malfoy. Remember? We put ourselves first."

Despite his bravado, Malfoy's glittering, fear-filled eyes are focused on the flames in Harry's hand. He licks his bloodless lips; a glistening line of sweat trickles along his jaw. Harry wants to lick it up, to trace the path of that droplet with the point of his tongue.

He squeezes the flames in his fist, stifling them. His heated talons slice through the chains like butter.
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