The Ugly Duckling (1/2)
Mar. 3rd, 2013 01:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
icmezzo_archiveHi, lovelies! Now that the delightful Valentine's Fest is over at 
do_me_veela, I thought I'd post my contribution here on my own journal. I'm sure many of you have already read it, but if not (and you have a desire to laugh like a loon), go check it out! <3
Title: The Ugly Duckling
Author
icmezzo
Prompt: #001. Draco is an ugly Veela, a condition which is abnormal for those born with Veela blood. Harry loves him anyway but Draco's much too insecure to see that.
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco
Word Count: ~16.5k
Rating: NC-17
Warning(s): Horny owls, impressive cocks, Grey Goose, and jokes that aren't actually funny.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: Dear
appleling, I am so, so sorry. I don't know what happened. Somewhere along the way this delightful little prompt became the completely ridiculous story you are about to read. I'm quite certain I should be begging for mercy right about now...
Thanks to the mods for hosting this fest, and endless gratitude to my prereaders, my Brit-picker, and my beta:sapphirescribe, twilightmundi, omi_ohmy, and arcadianmaggie, respectively. You chickadees are flocking fantastic. ;)
Summary: Draco is all atwitter when he wakes up on his birthday with a few unexpected feathers. Suspecting foul play, he enlists Harry to help him get rid of his unfortunate birden—er, burden.
Smirking, Draco squared his shoulders as he looked into his favourite mirror. He peered in closer and was pleased to determine there was not a wrinkle to be found—even though he was officially a year older.
Merlin, his new moisture cream was really doing wonders for his skin. If he didn't know better, Draco would have said his skin was practically glowing.
Not too shabby, he preened, turning to the side to examine his appearance from a different angle.
He ran his tongue over his teeth and smiled into the mirror, looking closely. He'd have to thank Pansy for sharing that new tooth whitening spell as well the moisturiser recipe. His teeth had never looked brighter.
Straightening back up, he was brushing imaginary lint from his robes when he saw it: a small feather rested atop his head.
Well, that was odd, wasn't it? Perhaps it came from one of the owls that had stopped by to deliver birthday gifts. He'd been getting quite a few, as was entirely appropriate for the occasion; a wizard didn't turn twenty-one every day, now did he? Draco reached up to brush the feather from his head before it further ruined his carefully styled hair.
He frowned. The feather was a stubborn little bugger; it refused to come loose. In fact—ouch!—it seemed—ow, ow, OW!—rather stuck—fuck!—to his head.
Bloody hell. Draco grimaced, got a nice firm grip on that little feather and then yanked as hard as he could.
MOTHER OF—FUCK!
Tears sprang to his eyes at the sharp pain. Merlin's most ancient saggy arse! That HURT!
Draco rubbed his head and examined the feather he'd pulled from his scalp. It was off-white and mottled with light browns and greys. Why in Salazar's name was such a horrid thing stuck to his head? Had he accidentally gotten some potion on his scalp? He'd been brewing the day before—just more of his standard eye cream—but perhaps in its unfinished state, it had interacted with his styling pomade, and...caused a feather to grow? Hmm. Perhaps not.
Well, he didn't have time to figure it out just then, did he? His friends were due to arrive in mere moments. He shook his head and set the feather down on his bureau, wincing as the pain blossomed once more.
Fuck.
Now he'd have to do his hair all over again.
~oOo~
Draco knew it was bad.
Very, Very Bad.
What was he going to do? Not six days after his twenty-first birthday and he could no longer deny that his life was officially over.
At first it hadn't been too terrible. The morning after his birthday he'd had two ugly little feathers stuck to his head. Concerning, of course, but he'd torn them from his scalp and gone on his way once the pain had subsided. The same with the third feather, which had sprouted from behind his ear just before tea.
The morning after, though, there were eight, and plucking them all had become nearly unbearable, not to mention, the wounds weren't healing well and Draco anticipated they'd leave him with hideous scars.
Completely unacceptable.
After every attempt at Vanishing the feathers had failed, he'd spent the day in his father's abandoned study, searching for potion side effects and unintended reactions to over-application of moisturisers. He'd have asked his father directly, but it took months to cut through the red tape necessary to contact a prisoner in Azkaban. And he refused to bother his mother as she continued her slow recovery at a health spa in a remote French village. Draco remembered how easily she'd become too attached to certain potions for her frazzled nerves after the war, and he refused to worry her further.
By the fourth morning, Draco had more than a dozen feathers growing out of his head, poking out from between clumps of his blond hair. Worse, one or two were beginning to emerge from his back, just behind his shoulders. As he was no longer able pull out all of the feathers himself, he had ordered one of the house elves to pluck them while he bit into a pillow and tried not to scream like a little Hufflepuff.
On the sixth morning, however, his problem had substantially escalated. He was in trouble. Very Serious Trouble. Draco winced at his reflection in the mirror.
Feathers continued to appear on his head, sticking out at odd angles, but now his back had a number of feathers sprouted as well—long and thick, ugly brown in colour with even uglier grey spots, and they seemed to emerge from just behind his shoulder blades. Meanwhile his chest had patches of light down, covering it in uneven tufts and awkward clumps. And his legs! They were—well, no, those were the same actually. They'd always been rather birdlike.
Birdlike?!?!?
Draco couldn't breathe. He was turning into a bird.
He must have been cursed, had to have been. He ran to his father's study; he certainly couldn't go out into public in such a state, and no one had a larger collection of tomes dedicated to curses and dark arts than his father did anyway.
There was nothing to help him in his father's books, though, and after hours and hours of searching, he sat back in his chair, and realized he had only one choice: To throw particularly large tantrum and get sloshed out of his tailfeathers.
~oOo~
Draco awkwardly crawled over to his Floo, swaying as he made is way while gripping the nearly empty bottle of vodka in one hand.
“Potter,” he spit out. “Potter!” He waited a few seconds for a response before collapsing in a fit of giggles. Merlin, he'd forgotten to open the Floo connection. Salazar help him, he was becoming as stupid as a—hic—bird. Well, as stupid as—hic—an unfortunately feathered manbird filled to his eyeballs in Grey Goose was, any—hic—anyway.
And now he had the hiccups. Hic. Bloody fantastic. He swigged the last of the alcohol and half-heartedly tossed the bottle aside, ignoring it as it rolled across the rug until it clunked into the base of his mother's favourite settee. He then wrapped a scarf around his head to cover the feathers sticking out from his hair.
Imagine. Needing Potter's help. Again. He needed another—hic—drink.
Opening the Floo, he tried Firecalling again. “Potter! Pott—hic—Potter!”
Potter popped into view, running his hand through his hair. “God, Malfoy, what's the matter this time? It's nearly midnight!”
“S'bad, Potter. I don't—hic—dunno what t'do.”
“Malfoy, you can't Firecall me every time think you have a problem.”
“I don't! I didn't, last week—hic—when my trousers were inexplicabitally stoo—er, too—tight after I ate all the birthday cake. And I left you alone—hic—when Bitsy ran away. She came back, by the way. I forgot I sent her for more—hic—cake. I mean, lip balm. I mean—hic—cake.”
Mmm. Cake.
Harry groaned. “I've got to start shutting my Floo.”
“Look, Potter. Just this one last thing. Hic. I need you to Unspeakable something for me. And you can't unspeak of this to anyone.” Draco shook his head; that wasn't right. Unspeak? Speak? Hic. “Just don't tell anyone, okay? I know you think you finished Unspeakable-izing the Manor—”
“Six months ago, Malfoy. I finished my assignment six months ago. There are no more curses or dark magic around the Manor. None.”
“Pish posh, Potter. Hic. Then how do you explain this?” Draco said, drunkenly crawling through the Floo into Potter's sitting room. He peeled off the scarf and shook his head free.
Harry's green eyes widened.
They widened still further when Draco stood up and began to take off his robes. “Uh, Malfoy? Look, I know we agreed to put the past behind us, but this is a bit more than—” Harry trailed off, blushing furiously, when Draco spun around to show him the feathers that were growing from his shoulders.
“Fuck!”
“I know! I've been cursed. Just look at me! I'm turning into a bird! A bird!” Draco squawked. “I'm a birdman. A giant ugly feathery birdman. My life is ruined. Merlin, A.K. me now, just do it. Get it over with!” Draco collapsed to onto Potter's recliner in dramatic fashion, his arm draped tragically over his eyes, hiccuping twice in the process. “Please? For me?”
Sighing deeply, Potter ran a hand over his face. “Fine, fine. I'll help. But this is the last time.”
Draco closed his eyes and curled up in the chair, suddenly very tired. He smacked his lips. Water too, that'd be good. He wondered if Potter had any wa...
“Malfoy? Are you asleep?”
“Hmm? What was that?” Draco blinked and started getting to his feet. “I'll be going now. S'late. And, you know, the early bird...gets rid of his wings.” Hmm, that didn't sound quite right, did it? Eh, no matter.
Stumbling en route to the Floo, he grabbed Potter's arm to stay upright. “I'll let the elves know you'll be by tomorrow to get started.”
Potter just nodded dumbly and Draco proceeded the rest of the way to the fireplace without substantially losing his balance.
“Er, Malfoy? Your robes?” Harry picked them up off the ground and held them out to Draco. “And it'll have to be tomorrow evening. I’m already snowed under at work as it is, and Kingsley’ll have my arse if I start taking on extra cases,” he added as Draco snagged the robe and wrapped it around himself, suddenly shy under Potter's gaze.
“Don't look at me, Potter. I'm hideous,” he said, tossing a handful of Floo powder into the hearth and stepping back into the Manor. The last thing he saw was the thoughtful look on Potter's face.
~oOo~
Harry joined Draco the next evening after dinner, which led to Potter casting numerous diagnostic spells over Draco's person, leaving him feeling entirely more vulnerable than he would have liked. Didn't help that Potter kept staring at his plumage, either. But while Draco wished he didn't always have to enlist the help of the socially inept Potter, he didn't know any other Unspeakables, especially ones willing to pop by the Manor, and even less so to solve an unofficial case.
And, as Draco grudgingly admitted when the yellow diagnostic haze around his head turned iridescent, Potter was relatively good with a wand. Unpleasant as it was, Harry was sure to find a way to save him from his repulsive feathered state; he was definitely Draco's best bet. At least he wasn't entirely unpleasant to look at these days, if one liked such things as famous scars and thick glasses and extra eyebrows.
Still, Potter was taking his time, wasn't he? They'd been at it for hours now. Potter was getting sweaty with the effort and even Draco was glistening (sweating, of course, being for Philistines).
“Huh,” Harry said then, looking curiously at Draco and flicking his wrist as he muttered another incantation.
Draco arched an eyebrow. For the love of all things pureblood...Maybe Potter wasn't so adept after all. Why he using that spell anyway?
“What, Malfoy?” Harry asked testily.
“What?” Draco asked, the model of complete innocence.
“Whatever you have to say, just say it.” Potter pushed his glasses up his nose.
“I was merely wondering why you were attempting to Levitate me.” Draco smirked. “Besides, it's Wingardium Leviosa, Potter. Obviously. Not Wingardia Revelio. Any first year knows—ohhh—Ohh!” Draco's eyes went wide as he felt a jolt of electricity shoot through his body, down to his toes and out to his fingertips before returning to his chest. No, not his chest, precisely, but more like his back.
Fuck.
Draco pinched his eyes shut and tried to deny the fact that the feathers behind his shoulders had tripled in quantity, doubled in length, and were now entirely flappable.
“Well, look at that,” Harry mused.
“Potter!” Draco growled. “YOU GAVE ME WINGS!”
“Well, no, it appears your parents gave you wings. Technically.”
“What?” Draco bristled. “My parents did not curse me.”
“No, they didn't. Being part Veela isn't a curse, after all.”
“What?” Draco screeched.
“I assume your father never mentioned—”
Draco shot him a scathing look. “He was apparently too busy trying to cater to the Dark Lord's every whim to have that heart to heart. Bloody hell! How is this even possible? My parents never had wings.” Draco flapped his new appendages.
“I'm actually not sure.” Harry looked thoughtful. “I'm no expert on Veela but I could talk to Fleur or some of the other Unspeakables—”
“Absolutely not. Not a word,” Draco reminded him. He would die if anyone found out. Absolutely die.
Potter hesitated. “I'll do my best. Your privacy is ensured, of course—I am an Unspeakable—but I may have to consult with a few experts.”
Draco shook his head. “No; no one can know.”
Harry looked pointedly at Draco's wings. “Do you want me to figure out what's going on here or not? I'm assuming you don't want wings for the rest of your life, but I have plenty of other cases to keep me busy if you'd prefer to figure this out on your own.”
Huffing, Draco glared at Potter. His options were few and he knew it. “Fine. Do what you must,” he said after clearing his throat, hating how his voice cracked a little regardless.
“Right then. I'll Firecall you in a few days when I know more,” Potter said.
“Yeah, I'll just be here. Building a nest or something.” Draco attempted a smile with limited results.
Potter nodded and headed for the Floo.
“Uh, wait. Potter? Aren't...well...aren't Veela supposed to be...you know.” Draco gestured to his various clumps of oddly dappled feathers. “I mean, just look at me.”
Furrowing his brows, Harry asked, “Supposed to be...?”
“Ugh, you know. Beautiful...and...you know...gorgeous. Handsome, perhaps,” Draco clarified, his face reddening.
Potter snorted. “Bye, Malfoy,” he said, stepping into the Floo. “I'll be in touch.”
After Harry disappeared, Draco wandered over to the mirror in the entrance hall and stared at his reflection, cringing when he saw the ugly mess of feathers sticking out in all directions. What was he going to do?
~oOo~
Potter owled Draco later that week suggesting that they meet again at the Manor after work to discuss some of his findings and ideas. Draco accepted. He was, after all, a bird, and so far as he knew, the creatures weren't expected to have particularly full social calendars. Merlin knew he wasn't going out into public in his state, and he'd told Pansy and Blaise he'd contracted chicken pox (close enough, he decided), so his friends were perfectly content to let him recuperate in private.
Regardless, Potter had terrible timing. Draco had been mid-meltdown when the house elf had shown him in. Potter had looked at him with those wide green eyes full of something akin to sympathy, and despite himself, Draco's eyes watered anew.
He tried to explain then, because of course Potter had asked what was wrong, so they sat there on his mum's favourite loveseat as Draco sniffled and explained how that very morning he'd noticed his nose appeared pointier than normal—a concerning trend, he insisted, as it meant he was almost certainly growing a beak!—and then in the afternoon he'd taken his broom outside to go flying and as a result he had very nearly eaten a worm.
By accident, of course. But still. A Worm.
He transfigured a stray cushion into a handkerchief and blew his nose on it, honking loudly, before peeking over to see Harry's reaction.
Potter looked doubtful. “You ate a worm.”
“Yes!” Draco insisted. “Well, no. Technically, I didn't. But I almost did.”
“How? You said you were flying.”
“I was. Just...very low to the ground.” Draco bit his lip.
“Low. To the ground.” Harry frowned.
“Fine, Potter, I wiped out,” he admitted. God, anyone would break under such intense interrogation.
“You wiped...How...You have wings, Malfoy!” Potter snorted.
“Yes; I know,” Draco said hotly. “I fell off my broom when a sparrow flew too close and I landed in the gardens and almost ate a worm and...and...the soil was all dirty, Potter. And I have giant, ugly wings and possibly a beak. Thanks for reminding me!” Draco wailed.
“Er...I never mentioned the beak bit,” Potter offered.
Draco blew his nose again in response.
“Look, Malfoy, you don't have a beak, and you might have wings, but they're not ugly in the least. You keep saying that, but it's really not true. And we'll find a way to get rid of them anyway. And as for the sparrow, well, I'm sure it was quite small and—”
“Are you calling me fat?” Draco gasped.
“What? How in Merlin's name? No! Malfoy, no. Bloody hell, you're gorgeous. How in Godric's name can you not see it? You were always handsome—okay, well, not always. When we were little you were a pointy git—but then you were handsome and now you're gorgeous—Merlin help me for telling you—but anyway, I know you hate it, hate the feathers, hate the Veela bit, and I get it, I do, but I personally have never seen anything more beautiful in my life. So there. Now just...please stop. Stop tormenting yourself. Ugh!” Harry groaned and sat back hard against the back of the sofa. “I'm so going to regret saying that, aren't I? I really should think before I speak.”
Draco side-eyed him. “Don't mock me, Potter.”
Harry opened his mouth to respond when Draco's owl, Pierre François, swooped in. It landed on Draco's shoulder and hooted peculiarly before flitting over to Draco's other shoulder, hooting again. Pierre then began cocking his head and showing off his white underbelly feathers.
“He keeps doing that,” Draco muttered as Pierre glared pointedly at Harry. “I can't figure out what—” The owl interrupted yet again by fluttering its feathers once more and tucking his head into Draco's neck, cooing spectacularly. The whole thing caused Potter to burst into laughter, earning another glare from Pierre.
It was only then that Draco realized. Pierre was...“Oh hell no.” Draco stood up abruptly, throwing his hands in the air and waving off Pierre, who flew off hooting. His owl was flirting with him. “I give up.”
Harry continued to laugh his arse off, so Draco flipped him the bird. “I'm glad you find this so funny.”
“All right, all right,” Potter said, taking a few deep breaths, his face all red from laughing. “Don't worry about it. Seriously. We'll figure this out.” Harry stood up. “Look, clearly it has been a rough day. You better go make amends with Pierre. I'm going to go. I'll just Owl you tomorrow instead.”
“Yeah. All right.” Draco nodded and led Harry to the front door so he could Apparate home.
“Oh, and Malfoy? They really are...nice. The wings.” Harry reached out and, after Draco nodded once in permission, stroked his hand along the top of one of Draco's wings. “They're pretty. And soft.”
Draco rolled his eyes as Potter waved goodbye, ignoring the way the simple words had warmed his belly. Sighing, he then went about locating some of Pierre's favourite treats. Clearly they needed to have a little talk about the birds and the—er, not quite entirely birds.
~oOo~
Draco refolded Harry's letter and sighed.
Stress triggered, Potter had suggested. As if Draco didn't know Veela turned into mad Harpies when they got angry. But unlike Draco, none of them stayed that way, did they?
Draco read through Harry's suggested stress management techniques: plenty of sleep (as if Draco could fall asleep knowing horrid feathers sprouted from his flesh as he slumbered), carefully monitored diet (Harry didn't actually think Draco was eating worms, did he?), and even sex (Merlin, Potter'd grown rather forward)!
Except, of course, Draco wasn't exactly getting any of the latter, nor did he seem about to any time soon, a thought which only only depressed him further. How exactly did Potter think Draco would be pulling when he looked like a largely denuded avian?
He responded to Potter, explaining as much, but Harry had only written back, Go out. Use glamours.
I don't think so, Draco scrawled after plucking a stray feather from his shoulder to use as a quill (the still jealous Pierre had flown off with his original). Thinking for a moment about the rumours that circulated about the Saviour's preferences, Draco decided to take a risk. Wizarding establishments won't present any opportunity that might interest me, he wrote.
Harry promptly responded. Hmm, in that case, I'll pick you up on Friday at eight. Birds of a certain feather...
Absolutely not, Potter. I want no part in this. Draco scribbled this last note and sent it off. He'd heard Muggles had locations specifically for those who shared his proclivities, but he wanted no part of such shenanigans. Muggles made him nervous. What exactly did one say to them? Accio here often?
Harry's return owl landed in his lap just then, so Draco smoothed out the note it carried.
Chicken?
Draco gripped his quill so hard it snapped. Fortunately, he had a ready supply close at hand. Very carefully, he sharpened another, dipped it into his ink.
No fucking way, you muppet. Half eight. I'll be the one in the feathers.
~oOo~
“I'm not going.”
“C'mon, Malfoy. I'm sure it's not that bad,” Potter said, calling through the door to Draco in his dressing room.
“It's worse.” Draco stared horrified at his latest glamour attempt as reflected in his full length mirror.
The glamour spells he knew clearly weren't strong enough to hide all of the feathers and applying them in layers had led to his current state; one of his wings was invisible while the other remained largely unaffected except for a triangular chunk towards the middle that had become jet black. Not to mention the feathers on his head had lost their soft barbs, leaving only the stripped shafts sticking out of his scalp. And, sure, the down on his chest had nearly disappeared, but so had one of his nipples and his right ankle was looking inexplicably blurry. Draco burst into hysterical laughter. It was that or cry—again—and he refused to add red eyes to his already hideous appearance.
“That's it, I'm coming in.” In less than a second, Potter burst through the lock. Draco quickly tightened the towel around his waist before catching Harry's eyes in the reflection of the mirror.
Cringing, Harry looked him over. “Well, we could...hmm...”
“I'm not going. It's hopeless.”
Walking around him, Potter took in the damage. “Actually, I have an idea. There may not be a glamour strong enough to hide the wings, so we'll just have to work with them. Do you have a house elf I can borrow?”
Draco nodded warily and called for Lipton, and then watched curiously as Potter whispered in her overly large elf ear. “Can you do that?” Potter asked the elf and she nodded furiously before Apparating away with a pop. He looked at Draco then. “By the way, that was Bitsy, not Lipton. Anyway, close your eyes.”
Draco hesitated.
“Trust me, okay?”
Rolling his eyes, Draco nodded and shut them tightly. He soon felt Harry's magic wrapping around him as Potter whispered words to untangle the existing glamours and adjusted them to his liking. He felt exceedingly self-conscious, standing there half naked with his eyes closed, and he quickly found himself covered in goose bumps while he pondered whether Potter had yet made his right nipple reappear.
His eyes flew open and he yelped when he felt Potter's wand tip against his hip, transfiguring his towel into a smoother cloth, though at least that remained knotted tightly around him.
He blinked at his new appearance in the mirror.
“I know you don't like your head feathers, so I focused the glamour there and on your chest. I think that's more sustainable this way.” Potter looked pleased.
Draco studied his appearance. Sure enough, his chest once again looked smooth and his hair was long around his face, no longer disturbed by the feathers that he knew were actually still there. Potter had transformed the towel into a white wrap that draped artfully over and around his form, like the robes that wizards wore in ancient times.
He squared his shoulders. His giant brown and grey wings were still there, of course, framing his appearance. But still...it wasn't completely terrible.
“I'm not going barefoot,” Draco said, just to be difficult.
Harry smiled a funny little half smile, seemingly amused by Draco's predicament. “I know that, you git. Do you have sandals?”
“You're lucky they're in season, Potter.” Draco disappeared into his closet, emerging several minutes later with a pair that he judged would be adequate. He was putting them on when Bitsy reappeared, carrying an ornate golden bow and a small quiver of arrows.
“Excellent.” Harry looked pleased as he took them from Bitsy and handed them to Draco. “I'd hoped Firenze would lend these to us for the evening.”
Draco put the quiver over his shoulder, feeling foolish, but Potter just grinned at him. “The Muggles won't question the wings?” he asked doubtfully.
“It's near enough to Valentine's Day. They'll think you're brilliant, dressed as Cupid. They'll eat you up.”
Draco looked at him horrified and Potter laughed. “No actual biting. Unless, of course, well...ahem.” Harry cleared his throat and shifted awkwardly. “Just...they'll think your costume is great; that's all.”
Mollified, Draco nodded before looking back in the mirror. He supposed he could pass for a winged god for an evening, provided the glamours held. Draco felt a rush of confidence. He could do this. Besides, the possibility of finding a way to make his wings disappear certainly outweighed his discomfort regarding their plans. A little physical release couldn't hurt either. He looked at Harry then, his unexpected companion for the evening, and realized Potter was dressed in denims and a plain grey tee with a faded Muggle logo across the front. “What are you wearing?”
“This.” Harry shrugged, blushing slightly. “Doesn't much matter. I'm not there to—I just want to have a drink.”
Flicking his wrist at Potter, Draco cast a standard fitting spell. It was the least he could do in return, he decided, smirking at the improvement. At least now it was evident there was a man beneath the threadbare garments. A fit one at that, Draco couldn't help but notice—if one liked men who were on the short side, with trim waists, and broad shoulders, that is. He most certainly didn't.
Harry huffed but his eyes were dancing. “Are you quite finished?”
Given the opening, Draco lifted his wand to cast a shaving spell to clean up the Potter's significant scruff, but Harry just blocked the spell and grabbed Draco's arm. “I don't think so,” Harry laughed. “Ready?”
Draco nodded as the warm arm held tight to his and Harry barely hesitated before Apparating them away.
Muggles may not have known magic, but they brewed many an effective drink, Draco soon discovered. He slowly sipped something bright red in colour and watched the myriad of men surrounding him as they drank at the bar, mingling and writhing in small groups on the dance floor. Harry seemed content to stand beside him as they watched, his back to the bar, occasionally sipping his own concoction.
Draco was getting many looks, but most of them seemed appreciative and he was never one to mind a bit of attention. He winked at a passable Muggle who had been eyeing him.
“You can dance if you want,” Harry said then, without looking at him.
Draco studied Harry's profile. They'd been standing by the bar for a while, and he did kind of want to. He wasn't familiar with the Muggle style, but it didn't seem particularly challenging, though he might have to adapt slightly due to his wings. The music's throbbing beat beckoned him.
He thought about asking Potter to dance with him, so he wouldn't be left alone at the bar, but the words got stuck in his throat. Instead, he just asked, “Are you sure?”
Harry nodded and flicked a glance Draco's way before returning his gaze to the dancing masses. Taking a drink from his glass, Harry crunched on some ice, and Draco watched as his throat bobbed accordingly. His eyes stayed on the dancing Muggles, though as far as Draco could tell, he wasn't watching anyone in particular.
“All right then.” Draco set down his own drink on the bar. “I guess I'll—”
“Have fun,” was all Potter said, wordlessly motioning for Draco to hand over his bow and quiver. “I'll hold it.”
Draco handed off the bow before making his way through the crowds of sweaty Muggles that parted naturally before him, receiving some good-natured comments along the way, teasing him for his appearance, but no one came close to guessing his secret. Soon enough, he found himself lost on the dance floor, in synch with those pressed close around him, masses moving as one in a mating dance as old as Merlin. Sometimes he danced alone, other times with other men who approached him, allowing a few of them who piqued his interest to pull him closer, run their hands over his chest.
Draco was warm, hot bodies around him, moving in rhythm together. But there was a heat in his stomach that he couldn't deny was caused by something else entirely: every time he looked up, he found Potter staring at him.
Again and again Potter's green eyes held his across the crowded space. Draco felt his body grow warmer until his skin felt on fire and it had nothing to do with the Muggles pressed against him.
“Shit,” Draco whispered, shivering despite the plentiful bared flesh surrounding him. He felt his cheeks flush; he was certainly as red as those drinks they were serving. And maybe it was the damned drink, but he couldn't deny it; he liked it. He liked Potter watching.
The man he was dancing with ran his hands unapologetically over Draco's body until they landed on his ass and pulled them tighter, and Draco could feel the man against his hip.
He glanced up again to find Potter still watching. It was very distracting.
Biting his lip, he returned his attention to the man with him, just in time to feel him drag his mouth along Draco's neck as he jutted his hips and stepped in time with the foreign Muggle music.
It wasn't as though his dancing partner grinding against him wasn't attractive; he was actually fairly handsome—tall and all dark eyes and olive skin and even his hair met Draco's exacting standards. His lips were spectacular, the sort of lips that made men imagine extremely dirty things, and he twisted them often into a smirk that Draco had to admit was extremely effective.
But instead of staring at the lush red lips or concentrating on the hand that gripped his hip, Draco looked up again for what had to be the twelfth time, drawn by an urge stronger than his own will, glancing at the bar to find Potter once more.
However, Harry was nowhere to be found. Bereft, Draco scanned the crowds; Potter was shorter than most of the other men in the crowd, but Draco somehow knew he'd be able to spot him anywhere. Except here, apparently. Potter was gone. Unless—
“The loos,” Draco choked out, stepping back from the man attached to him. That's where Harry had to have gone.
“Fuck yeah,” the man groaned. “This way.”
“I, oh, that's not—oh!” Draco squeaked as his dancing partner grabbed his arm and tugged him toward the loos, weaving through the crowds and pulling Draco with him.
But Harry wasn't there, nor in the dimly lit hallway leading to the lavatory. Draco felt the heat drain out of him.
“I should g—” Draco started to say as he looked around the dark space, but the man simply pressed his mouth to Draco's and then dragged his teeth along his jaw before pushing him against the wall of the hallway, his wings spread open behind him.
Oh. Right. Somehow between the drink and the green eyes that had bored into his, Draco had forgotten that he'd come here to find a bloke to shag. That had been the point, hadn't it? Well, needs must, then. Draco began to kiss back, ignoring the nagging sort of feeling tickling at his brain. It had been Potter's idea, after all, stress management via sexual release. It had sounded good in theory, and the Muggle certainly seemed interested. Any third year could have guessed what would come next and soon the man slid his hand down Draco's chest and began palming Draco's cock beneath his robes as they snogged there against the wall.
Draco's interest grew but couldn't quite believe the bloke wanted to do such things right there in the hallway with all of the other men passing through, even if it was dark. He discreetly reached for the wand he had tucked away in his robes and whispered a quick privacy spell so everyone else would ignore them, and murmured a quick protection spell as well, just in case. That taken care of, Draco bit back at the luscious lips that pressed against his own before leaning his head against the wall behind him as the other man fell to his knees and freed Draco's prick from his robes and pants. The bloke ran his open mouth along Draco's length, hot and messy, dragging his tongue and red, red lips along his dick. Those lips begged to be wrapped around a nice cock and Draco hardened further as the man teased him, drawing gasps from Draco before he finally took him in his mouth. Draco's toes curled in his sandals.
The sight of the cocky mouth wrapped around him put Draco's imagination to shame.
Fuck. So good...
The man was talented, even for a Muggle, he had to admit. Lost in the moment, Draco absently ran his hand along his chest but was startled as his fingered tangled slightly in the feathers that were really still there, only glamoured to be invisible.
Bloody feathers. His stomach clenched at the painful reminder that the man wasn't on his knees because he found Draco desirable, but because he liked how the glamours looked under the dark lighting. The Muggle just wanted to suck off some Greek god, not Draco Malfoy, feathered and decidedly unfabulous. If the man knew what Draco really looked like, he'd never be interested. Draco wondered if he'd ever get laid again without his body completely disguised by spells and costumes.
It was nearly enough to kill his hard-on. Nearly. The Muggle was pretty damn good, after all.
Draco reprimanded himself; his line of thinking was entirely counterproductive so he shoved it into the back of his brain and focused more intently on the bloke on his knees before him, the handsome man who was sucking him thoroughly as he tightened his hand to stroke the base of Draco's prick.
Bobbing his head, slurping and sucking, the Muggle swallowed him hungrily as Draco dragged his fingertips along the bloke's scalp. It was dirty and messy and wicked enough that Draco could force himself back into the present, all spare thoughts disappearing completely as his muscles tightened in response.
He groaned as he was swallowed deeply, and a few quick strokes of the man's hand and Draco's release swept over him. Pulling him up afterwards, Draco snogged him as he brought him off with his fist.
He left after, tired, slightly agitated and more than a little grumpy that Potter had deserted him—all alone in Muggle London, too. Draco was lucky he hadn't had but one drink hours earlier; otherwise, Apparating would've been a problem. As it was, he barely found the concealed Apparation point, but from there, at least, it was only a short crack to the front steps of the Manor, and two flights of stairs to his waiting bed.
Maybe in the morning his feathers would be gone, or at least fewer in number.
~oOo~
It didn't work.
Perhaps it was because Draco couldn't sleep after he got home; Potter had said sleep was important. But all he did was toss and turn and cast cooling charms when he was hot and warming charms when he got cold. He got a drink of warmed pumpkin juice—or rather, made the house elves get one for him—and went to the bathroom to splash water on his face. He counted pygmy puffs jumping over fences, tried to recall the names of all the Malfoy peacocks, and then started listing each of the unique ingredients in a batch of his favourite hand lotion—all eighty three of them, in reverse order of usage. He'd even gone ahead and tried to wank, but right in the middle he'd accidentally gotten his no longer glamoured head feathers caught in his headboard and had to call the house elves to help him get free. He hadn't much felt like wanking after that.
Draco's eyes required extra moisturising cream the next morning to make up for the damage of the sleepless night and then another special serum after that to counteract his hysterical sobbing fit that commenced when he realized he was just as feathered as the day before.
He explained all of this to Potter in a lengthy missive that he wrote over the breakfast table, hoping for additional advice, but Potter didn't respond at first. In fact, it wasn't until Draco sent Pierre out with a fourth message that Potter finally owled back.
Not now, Malfoy. Researching. Go take a nap or something.
Draco frowned and grabbed a fresh piece of parchment. Should I go back and try again? Maybe I need regular shagging now that I'm part Veela.
Harry's return owl showed up only minutes later.Yes. No. Maybe. I don't care, Malfoy. Do what you want.
Chewing his lip, Draco thought for a few seconds.
Come with me, he wrote on impulse, sending Pierre away with the note before he could second guess his invitation.
Can't. Busy.
Draco frowned. Well, fine then, he decided. It wasn't as though he needed Potter. He knew how to get to the Muggle establishment now. He sent Lipton and Funky out to get some Muggle money and then retreated to his rooms.
After spending hours getting ready, using the glamours as Potter had and making sure they were perfectly in place once again, Draco Apparated to the club once more. He quickly swallowed the contents of another brightly coloured beverage and threw himself out onto the dance floor.
It wasn't the same, though, and while the Muggle men seemed to like the pout that Draco couldn't seem to erase from his lips, Draco would have none of their attention. He felt fake, empty, even a little bored. As much as he hated to admit it, it wasn't fun dancing without Potter's eyes following his every move.
When some stupid man spilled a pink drink on Draco's robes and he couldn't just Vanish the stain in a room full of Muggles, he decided he'd had enough.
He was home and in his bed before eleven but sleep eluded him still.
~oOo~
Draco stared in the mirror in dismay. He couldn't make enough moisture cream to correct the dark circles under his eyes after yet another sleepless night.
He sighed. What was the point? Who would even notice his tired eyes when he had masses of horrid brown and grey speckled feathers popping out in all directions? Fuck, it was just his luck to be the only Veela with seemingly permanent plumage, the hideous feathers disfiguring and repulsive.
He stared at the myriad of products littering his dressing table. He picked up a jar of one of his favourite lotions, opened it and looked at the thick cream inside. Its smell reminded him of his mother—she'd taught him to brew it when he was younger, telling him it would one day protect him from the evils of sun damage.
Useless. Why hadn't she taught him a potion that would protect him from the Veela running through his own bloodlines?
His impulse was to throw the little jar at a wall, shattering the container and rendering its contents unusable. Instead, he closed the lid tightly and carefully gathered up some of the other creams and salves into his arms. He took them to his closet and, finding space all the way in the back, tucked the various little containers onto a dusty dark shelf. Then he went back for more of his lotions and moisturisers and ointments and gels and other products that had been part of his regimen, picking them up and hiding them away with the others.
It took seven trips, but eventually all but the most basic toiletries were put away and Draco was left looking across his now empty dressing table into the mirror at himself, raw and imperfect.
It was horrifying.
He just was deciding whether to burst into another fit of tears when he heard an owl pecking at his window. Potter's owl. Draco didn't know how he felt about that—resigned, perhaps—but he let the creature in and fed it a treat before sending it on its way, figuring he'd send Pierre out with his response instead of having Potter's owl wait. There were more than enough birds in his house as it was without Potter's pet, and Pierre's jealous streak still raged—Bitsy and Funky had tried to serve roast duck the evening prior and envious of Draco's rave review, Pierre had flown in and carried away the cooked poultry. Funky had later reported finding it shredded into small bits by the rosebushes lining the Manor's largest fountain.
His life had become completely and utterly absurd, he decided.
He shook his head and opened Potter's letter. Perhaps Harry had some advice.
Possible Veela triggers:
White lilac blossoms
Bee stings
Mooncalf milk
Almond extract
Hydrangea roots
Peanut brittle
Ostriches
The toenails of a righteous squib
-HP
Draco rolled his eyes. Hello to you too, Potter, he groused. Had he somehow managed to piss off Potter too? Ugh. Stupid git. Taking a steadying breath, he studied the list carefully. Nothing rang a bell—protective spells ensured he was never stung by bees and he didn't even like ostrich. In fact, he was positive he hadn't recently eaten any of those items. They couldn't be the cause of Draco's constant feathered state. Sighing, he moved on to the postscript at the bottom of Harry's note:
PS. Blood tests came back. Your father is 4/9ths Veela and your mother is 5/16ths. Not sure how 4/9ths is possible, really, but there you have it.
So it was true then. He really was...he paused to consider the maths...well, more than half Veela. He knew it was possible, of course; Potter's diagnostic spell had indicated as much. But now it was real. And if neither of his parents was more than half Veela, maybe that's why they never had exhibited any of the traits. But between the two of them, there was more than enough running through his veins.
And all that time claiming they were pure bloods. He wondered if they even knew.
If it had been a curse causing him to grow wings, perhaps they'd have been able to break it. But being Veela? That was permanent.
Letting the Potter's note fall to the floor, Draco returned to his bed, shed his fuzzy slippers and robe, and crawled back under his covers. He'd come out when he was ready, and not a moment sooner.
Read Part 2.
do_me_veela, I thought I'd post my contribution here on my own journal. I'm sure many of you have already read it, but if not (and you have a desire to laugh like a loon), go check it out! <3Title: The Ugly Duckling
Author
icmezzoPrompt: #001. Draco is an ugly Veela, a condition which is abnormal for those born with Veela blood. Harry loves him anyway but Draco's much too insecure to see that.
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco
Word Count: ~16.5k
Rating: NC-17
Warning(s): Horny owls, impressive cocks, Grey Goose, and jokes that aren't actually funny.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: Dear
Thanks to the mods for hosting this fest, and endless gratitude to my prereaders, my Brit-picker, and my beta:
sapphirescribe, twilightmundi, omi_ohmy, and arcadianmaggie, respectively. You chickadees are flocking fantastic. ;)Summary: Draco is all atwitter when he wakes up on his birthday with a few unexpected feathers. Suspecting foul play, he enlists Harry to help him get rid of his unfortunate birden—er, burden.
Smirking, Draco squared his shoulders as he looked into his favourite mirror. He peered in closer and was pleased to determine there was not a wrinkle to be found—even though he was officially a year older.
Merlin, his new moisture cream was really doing wonders for his skin. If he didn't know better, Draco would have said his skin was practically glowing.
Not too shabby, he preened, turning to the side to examine his appearance from a different angle.
He ran his tongue over his teeth and smiled into the mirror, looking closely. He'd have to thank Pansy for sharing that new tooth whitening spell as well the moisturiser recipe. His teeth had never looked brighter.
Straightening back up, he was brushing imaginary lint from his robes when he saw it: a small feather rested atop his head.
Well, that was odd, wasn't it? Perhaps it came from one of the owls that had stopped by to deliver birthday gifts. He'd been getting quite a few, as was entirely appropriate for the occasion; a wizard didn't turn twenty-one every day, now did he? Draco reached up to brush the feather from his head before it further ruined his carefully styled hair.
He frowned. The feather was a stubborn little bugger; it refused to come loose. In fact—ouch!—it seemed—ow, ow, OW!—rather stuck—fuck!—to his head.
Bloody hell. Draco grimaced, got a nice firm grip on that little feather and then yanked as hard as he could.
MOTHER OF—FUCK!
Tears sprang to his eyes at the sharp pain. Merlin's most ancient saggy arse! That HURT!
Draco rubbed his head and examined the feather he'd pulled from his scalp. It was off-white and mottled with light browns and greys. Why in Salazar's name was such a horrid thing stuck to his head? Had he accidentally gotten some potion on his scalp? He'd been brewing the day before—just more of his standard eye cream—but perhaps in its unfinished state, it had interacted with his styling pomade, and...caused a feather to grow? Hmm. Perhaps not.
Well, he didn't have time to figure it out just then, did he? His friends were due to arrive in mere moments. He shook his head and set the feather down on his bureau, wincing as the pain blossomed once more.
Fuck.
Now he'd have to do his hair all over again.
~oOo~
Draco knew it was bad.
Very, Very Bad.
What was he going to do? Not six days after his twenty-first birthday and he could no longer deny that his life was officially over.
At first it hadn't been too terrible. The morning after his birthday he'd had two ugly little feathers stuck to his head. Concerning, of course, but he'd torn them from his scalp and gone on his way once the pain had subsided. The same with the third feather, which had sprouted from behind his ear just before tea.
The morning after, though, there were eight, and plucking them all had become nearly unbearable, not to mention, the wounds weren't healing well and Draco anticipated they'd leave him with hideous scars.
Completely unacceptable.
After every attempt at Vanishing the feathers had failed, he'd spent the day in his father's abandoned study, searching for potion side effects and unintended reactions to over-application of moisturisers. He'd have asked his father directly, but it took months to cut through the red tape necessary to contact a prisoner in Azkaban. And he refused to bother his mother as she continued her slow recovery at a health spa in a remote French village. Draco remembered how easily she'd become too attached to certain potions for her frazzled nerves after the war, and he refused to worry her further.
By the fourth morning, Draco had more than a dozen feathers growing out of his head, poking out from between clumps of his blond hair. Worse, one or two were beginning to emerge from his back, just behind his shoulders. As he was no longer able pull out all of the feathers himself, he had ordered one of the house elves to pluck them while he bit into a pillow and tried not to scream like a little Hufflepuff.
On the sixth morning, however, his problem had substantially escalated. He was in trouble. Very Serious Trouble. Draco winced at his reflection in the mirror.
Feathers continued to appear on his head, sticking out at odd angles, but now his back had a number of feathers sprouted as well—long and thick, ugly brown in colour with even uglier grey spots, and they seemed to emerge from just behind his shoulder blades. Meanwhile his chest had patches of light down, covering it in uneven tufts and awkward clumps. And his legs! They were—well, no, those were the same actually. They'd always been rather birdlike.
Birdlike?!?!?
Draco couldn't breathe. He was turning into a bird.
He must have been cursed, had to have been. He ran to his father's study; he certainly couldn't go out into public in such a state, and no one had a larger collection of tomes dedicated to curses and dark arts than his father did anyway.
There was nothing to help him in his father's books, though, and after hours and hours of searching, he sat back in his chair, and realized he had only one choice: To throw particularly large tantrum and get sloshed out of his tailfeathers.
~oOo~
Draco awkwardly crawled over to his Floo, swaying as he made is way while gripping the nearly empty bottle of vodka in one hand.
“Potter,” he spit out. “Potter!” He waited a few seconds for a response before collapsing in a fit of giggles. Merlin, he'd forgotten to open the Floo connection. Salazar help him, he was becoming as stupid as a—hic—bird. Well, as stupid as—hic—an unfortunately feathered manbird filled to his eyeballs in Grey Goose was, any—hic—anyway.
And now he had the hiccups. Hic. Bloody fantastic. He swigged the last of the alcohol and half-heartedly tossed the bottle aside, ignoring it as it rolled across the rug until it clunked into the base of his mother's favourite settee. He then wrapped a scarf around his head to cover the feathers sticking out from his hair.
Imagine. Needing Potter's help. Again. He needed another—hic—drink.
Opening the Floo, he tried Firecalling again. “Potter! Pott—hic—Potter!”
Potter popped into view, running his hand through his hair. “God, Malfoy, what's the matter this time? It's nearly midnight!”
“S'bad, Potter. I don't—hic—dunno what t'do.”
“Malfoy, you can't Firecall me every time think you have a problem.”
“I don't! I didn't, last week—hic—when my trousers were inexplicabitally stoo—er, too—tight after I ate all the birthday cake. And I left you alone—hic—when Bitsy ran away. She came back, by the way. I forgot I sent her for more—hic—cake. I mean, lip balm. I mean—hic—cake.”
Mmm. Cake.
Harry groaned. “I've got to start shutting my Floo.”
“Look, Potter. Just this one last thing. Hic. I need you to Unspeakable something for me. And you can't unspeak of this to anyone.” Draco shook his head; that wasn't right. Unspeak? Speak? Hic. “Just don't tell anyone, okay? I know you think you finished Unspeakable-izing the Manor—”
“Six months ago, Malfoy. I finished my assignment six months ago. There are no more curses or dark magic around the Manor. None.”
“Pish posh, Potter. Hic. Then how do you explain this?” Draco said, drunkenly crawling through the Floo into Potter's sitting room. He peeled off the scarf and shook his head free.
Harry's green eyes widened.
They widened still further when Draco stood up and began to take off his robes. “Uh, Malfoy? Look, I know we agreed to put the past behind us, but this is a bit more than—” Harry trailed off, blushing furiously, when Draco spun around to show him the feathers that were growing from his shoulders.
“Fuck!”
“I know! I've been cursed. Just look at me! I'm turning into a bird! A bird!” Draco squawked. “I'm a birdman. A giant ugly feathery birdman. My life is ruined. Merlin, A.K. me now, just do it. Get it over with!” Draco collapsed to onto Potter's recliner in dramatic fashion, his arm draped tragically over his eyes, hiccuping twice in the process. “Please? For me?”
Sighing deeply, Potter ran a hand over his face. “Fine, fine. I'll help. But this is the last time.”
Draco closed his eyes and curled up in the chair, suddenly very tired. He smacked his lips. Water too, that'd be good. He wondered if Potter had any wa...
“Malfoy? Are you asleep?”
“Hmm? What was that?” Draco blinked and started getting to his feet. “I'll be going now. S'late. And, you know, the early bird...gets rid of his wings.” Hmm, that didn't sound quite right, did it? Eh, no matter.
Stumbling en route to the Floo, he grabbed Potter's arm to stay upright. “I'll let the elves know you'll be by tomorrow to get started.”
Potter just nodded dumbly and Draco proceeded the rest of the way to the fireplace without substantially losing his balance.
“Er, Malfoy? Your robes?” Harry picked them up off the ground and held them out to Draco. “And it'll have to be tomorrow evening. I’m already snowed under at work as it is, and Kingsley’ll have my arse if I start taking on extra cases,” he added as Draco snagged the robe and wrapped it around himself, suddenly shy under Potter's gaze.
“Don't look at me, Potter. I'm hideous,” he said, tossing a handful of Floo powder into the hearth and stepping back into the Manor. The last thing he saw was the thoughtful look on Potter's face.
~oOo~
Harry joined Draco the next evening after dinner, which led to Potter casting numerous diagnostic spells over Draco's person, leaving him feeling entirely more vulnerable than he would have liked. Didn't help that Potter kept staring at his plumage, either. But while Draco wished he didn't always have to enlist the help of the socially inept Potter, he didn't know any other Unspeakables, especially ones willing to pop by the Manor, and even less so to solve an unofficial case.
And, as Draco grudgingly admitted when the yellow diagnostic haze around his head turned iridescent, Potter was relatively good with a wand. Unpleasant as it was, Harry was sure to find a way to save him from his repulsive feathered state; he was definitely Draco's best bet. At least he wasn't entirely unpleasant to look at these days, if one liked such things as famous scars and thick glasses and extra eyebrows.
Still, Potter was taking his time, wasn't he? They'd been at it for hours now. Potter was getting sweaty with the effort and even Draco was glistening (sweating, of course, being for Philistines).
“Huh,” Harry said then, looking curiously at Draco and flicking his wrist as he muttered another incantation.
Draco arched an eyebrow. For the love of all things pureblood...Maybe Potter wasn't so adept after all. Why he using that spell anyway?
“What, Malfoy?” Harry asked testily.
“What?” Draco asked, the model of complete innocence.
“Whatever you have to say, just say it.” Potter pushed his glasses up his nose.
“I was merely wondering why you were attempting to Levitate me.” Draco smirked. “Besides, it's Wingardium Leviosa, Potter. Obviously. Not Wingardia Revelio. Any first year knows—ohhh—Ohh!” Draco's eyes went wide as he felt a jolt of electricity shoot through his body, down to his toes and out to his fingertips before returning to his chest. No, not his chest, precisely, but more like his back.
Fuck.
Draco pinched his eyes shut and tried to deny the fact that the feathers behind his shoulders had tripled in quantity, doubled in length, and were now entirely flappable.
“Well, look at that,” Harry mused.
“Potter!” Draco growled. “YOU GAVE ME WINGS!”
“Well, no, it appears your parents gave you wings. Technically.”
“What?” Draco bristled. “My parents did not curse me.”
“No, they didn't. Being part Veela isn't a curse, after all.”
“What?” Draco screeched.
“I assume your father never mentioned—”
Draco shot him a scathing look. “He was apparently too busy trying to cater to the Dark Lord's every whim to have that heart to heart. Bloody hell! How is this even possible? My parents never had wings.” Draco flapped his new appendages.
“I'm actually not sure.” Harry looked thoughtful. “I'm no expert on Veela but I could talk to Fleur or some of the other Unspeakables—”
“Absolutely not. Not a word,” Draco reminded him. He would die if anyone found out. Absolutely die.
Potter hesitated. “I'll do my best. Your privacy is ensured, of course—I am an Unspeakable—but I may have to consult with a few experts.”
Draco shook his head. “No; no one can know.”
Harry looked pointedly at Draco's wings. “Do you want me to figure out what's going on here or not? I'm assuming you don't want wings for the rest of your life, but I have plenty of other cases to keep me busy if you'd prefer to figure this out on your own.”
Huffing, Draco glared at Potter. His options were few and he knew it. “Fine. Do what you must,” he said after clearing his throat, hating how his voice cracked a little regardless.
“Right then. I'll Firecall you in a few days when I know more,” Potter said.
“Yeah, I'll just be here. Building a nest or something.” Draco attempted a smile with limited results.
Potter nodded and headed for the Floo.
“Uh, wait. Potter? Aren't...well...aren't Veela supposed to be...you know.” Draco gestured to his various clumps of oddly dappled feathers. “I mean, just look at me.”
Furrowing his brows, Harry asked, “Supposed to be...?”
“Ugh, you know. Beautiful...and...you know...gorgeous. Handsome, perhaps,” Draco clarified, his face reddening.
Potter snorted. “Bye, Malfoy,” he said, stepping into the Floo. “I'll be in touch.”
After Harry disappeared, Draco wandered over to the mirror in the entrance hall and stared at his reflection, cringing when he saw the ugly mess of feathers sticking out in all directions. What was he going to do?
~oOo~
Potter owled Draco later that week suggesting that they meet again at the Manor after work to discuss some of his findings and ideas. Draco accepted. He was, after all, a bird, and so far as he knew, the creatures weren't expected to have particularly full social calendars. Merlin knew he wasn't going out into public in his state, and he'd told Pansy and Blaise he'd contracted chicken pox (close enough, he decided), so his friends were perfectly content to let him recuperate in private.
Regardless, Potter had terrible timing. Draco had been mid-meltdown when the house elf had shown him in. Potter had looked at him with those wide green eyes full of something akin to sympathy, and despite himself, Draco's eyes watered anew.
He tried to explain then, because of course Potter had asked what was wrong, so they sat there on his mum's favourite loveseat as Draco sniffled and explained how that very morning he'd noticed his nose appeared pointier than normal—a concerning trend, he insisted, as it meant he was almost certainly growing a beak!—and then in the afternoon he'd taken his broom outside to go flying and as a result he had very nearly eaten a worm.
By accident, of course. But still. A Worm.
He transfigured a stray cushion into a handkerchief and blew his nose on it, honking loudly, before peeking over to see Harry's reaction.
Potter looked doubtful. “You ate a worm.”
“Yes!” Draco insisted. “Well, no. Technically, I didn't. But I almost did.”
“How? You said you were flying.”
“I was. Just...very low to the ground.” Draco bit his lip.
“Low. To the ground.” Harry frowned.
“Fine, Potter, I wiped out,” he admitted. God, anyone would break under such intense interrogation.
“You wiped...How...You have wings, Malfoy!” Potter snorted.
“Yes; I know,” Draco said hotly. “I fell off my broom when a sparrow flew too close and I landed in the gardens and almost ate a worm and...and...the soil was all dirty, Potter. And I have giant, ugly wings and possibly a beak. Thanks for reminding me!” Draco wailed.
“Er...I never mentioned the beak bit,” Potter offered.
Draco blew his nose again in response.
“Look, Malfoy, you don't have a beak, and you might have wings, but they're not ugly in the least. You keep saying that, but it's really not true. And we'll find a way to get rid of them anyway. And as for the sparrow, well, I'm sure it was quite small and—”
“Are you calling me fat?” Draco gasped.
“What? How in Merlin's name? No! Malfoy, no. Bloody hell, you're gorgeous. How in Godric's name can you not see it? You were always handsome—okay, well, not always. When we were little you were a pointy git—but then you were handsome and now you're gorgeous—Merlin help me for telling you—but anyway, I know you hate it, hate the feathers, hate the Veela bit, and I get it, I do, but I personally have never seen anything more beautiful in my life. So there. Now just...please stop. Stop tormenting yourself. Ugh!” Harry groaned and sat back hard against the back of the sofa. “I'm so going to regret saying that, aren't I? I really should think before I speak.”
Draco side-eyed him. “Don't mock me, Potter.”
Harry opened his mouth to respond when Draco's owl, Pierre François, swooped in. It landed on Draco's shoulder and hooted peculiarly before flitting over to Draco's other shoulder, hooting again. Pierre then began cocking his head and showing off his white underbelly feathers.
“He keeps doing that,” Draco muttered as Pierre glared pointedly at Harry. “I can't figure out what—” The owl interrupted yet again by fluttering its feathers once more and tucking his head into Draco's neck, cooing spectacularly. The whole thing caused Potter to burst into laughter, earning another glare from Pierre.
It was only then that Draco realized. Pierre was...“Oh hell no.” Draco stood up abruptly, throwing his hands in the air and waving off Pierre, who flew off hooting. His owl was flirting with him. “I give up.”
Harry continued to laugh his arse off, so Draco flipped him the bird. “I'm glad you find this so funny.”
“All right, all right,” Potter said, taking a few deep breaths, his face all red from laughing. “Don't worry about it. Seriously. We'll figure this out.” Harry stood up. “Look, clearly it has been a rough day. You better go make amends with Pierre. I'm going to go. I'll just Owl you tomorrow instead.”
“Yeah. All right.” Draco nodded and led Harry to the front door so he could Apparate home.
“Oh, and Malfoy? They really are...nice. The wings.” Harry reached out and, after Draco nodded once in permission, stroked his hand along the top of one of Draco's wings. “They're pretty. And soft.”
Draco rolled his eyes as Potter waved goodbye, ignoring the way the simple words had warmed his belly. Sighing, he then went about locating some of Pierre's favourite treats. Clearly they needed to have a little talk about the birds and the—er, not quite entirely birds.
~oOo~
Draco refolded Harry's letter and sighed.
Stress triggered, Potter had suggested. As if Draco didn't know Veela turned into mad Harpies when they got angry. But unlike Draco, none of them stayed that way, did they?
Draco read through Harry's suggested stress management techniques: plenty of sleep (as if Draco could fall asleep knowing horrid feathers sprouted from his flesh as he slumbered), carefully monitored diet (Harry didn't actually think Draco was eating worms, did he?), and even sex (Merlin, Potter'd grown rather forward)!
Except, of course, Draco wasn't exactly getting any of the latter, nor did he seem about to any time soon, a thought which only only depressed him further. How exactly did Potter think Draco would be pulling when he looked like a largely denuded avian?
He responded to Potter, explaining as much, but Harry had only written back, Go out. Use glamours.
I don't think so, Draco scrawled after plucking a stray feather from his shoulder to use as a quill (the still jealous Pierre had flown off with his original). Thinking for a moment about the rumours that circulated about the Saviour's preferences, Draco decided to take a risk. Wizarding establishments won't present any opportunity that might interest me, he wrote.
Harry promptly responded. Hmm, in that case, I'll pick you up on Friday at eight. Birds of a certain feather...
Absolutely not, Potter. I want no part in this. Draco scribbled this last note and sent it off. He'd heard Muggles had locations specifically for those who shared his proclivities, but he wanted no part of such shenanigans. Muggles made him nervous. What exactly did one say to them? Accio here often?
Harry's return owl landed in his lap just then, so Draco smoothed out the note it carried.
Chicken?
Draco gripped his quill so hard it snapped. Fortunately, he had a ready supply close at hand. Very carefully, he sharpened another, dipped it into his ink.
~oOo~
“I'm not going.”
“C'mon, Malfoy. I'm sure it's not that bad,” Potter said, calling through the door to Draco in his dressing room.
“It's worse.” Draco stared horrified at his latest glamour attempt as reflected in his full length mirror.
The glamour spells he knew clearly weren't strong enough to hide all of the feathers and applying them in layers had led to his current state; one of his wings was invisible while the other remained largely unaffected except for a triangular chunk towards the middle that had become jet black. Not to mention the feathers on his head had lost their soft barbs, leaving only the stripped shafts sticking out of his scalp. And, sure, the down on his chest had nearly disappeared, but so had one of his nipples and his right ankle was looking inexplicably blurry. Draco burst into hysterical laughter. It was that or cry—again—and he refused to add red eyes to his already hideous appearance.
“That's it, I'm coming in.” In less than a second, Potter burst through the lock. Draco quickly tightened the towel around his waist before catching Harry's eyes in the reflection of the mirror.
Cringing, Harry looked him over. “Well, we could...hmm...”
“I'm not going. It's hopeless.”
Walking around him, Potter took in the damage. “Actually, I have an idea. There may not be a glamour strong enough to hide the wings, so we'll just have to work with them. Do you have a house elf I can borrow?”
Draco nodded warily and called for Lipton, and then watched curiously as Potter whispered in her overly large elf ear. “Can you do that?” Potter asked the elf and she nodded furiously before Apparating away with a pop. He looked at Draco then. “By the way, that was Bitsy, not Lipton. Anyway, close your eyes.”
Draco hesitated.
“Trust me, okay?”
Rolling his eyes, Draco nodded and shut them tightly. He soon felt Harry's magic wrapping around him as Potter whispered words to untangle the existing glamours and adjusted them to his liking. He felt exceedingly self-conscious, standing there half naked with his eyes closed, and he quickly found himself covered in goose bumps while he pondered whether Potter had yet made his right nipple reappear.
His eyes flew open and he yelped when he felt Potter's wand tip against his hip, transfiguring his towel into a smoother cloth, though at least that remained knotted tightly around him.
He blinked at his new appearance in the mirror.
“I know you don't like your head feathers, so I focused the glamour there and on your chest. I think that's more sustainable this way.” Potter looked pleased.
Draco studied his appearance. Sure enough, his chest once again looked smooth and his hair was long around his face, no longer disturbed by the feathers that he knew were actually still there. Potter had transformed the towel into a white wrap that draped artfully over and around his form, like the robes that wizards wore in ancient times.
He squared his shoulders. His giant brown and grey wings were still there, of course, framing his appearance. But still...it wasn't completely terrible.
“I'm not going barefoot,” Draco said, just to be difficult.
Harry smiled a funny little half smile, seemingly amused by Draco's predicament. “I know that, you git. Do you have sandals?”
“You're lucky they're in season, Potter.” Draco disappeared into his closet, emerging several minutes later with a pair that he judged would be adequate. He was putting them on when Bitsy reappeared, carrying an ornate golden bow and a small quiver of arrows.
“Excellent.” Harry looked pleased as he took them from Bitsy and handed them to Draco. “I'd hoped Firenze would lend these to us for the evening.”
Draco put the quiver over his shoulder, feeling foolish, but Potter just grinned at him. “The Muggles won't question the wings?” he asked doubtfully.
“It's near enough to Valentine's Day. They'll think you're brilliant, dressed as Cupid. They'll eat you up.”
Draco looked at him horrified and Potter laughed. “No actual biting. Unless, of course, well...ahem.” Harry cleared his throat and shifted awkwardly. “Just...they'll think your costume is great; that's all.”
Mollified, Draco nodded before looking back in the mirror. He supposed he could pass for a winged god for an evening, provided the glamours held. Draco felt a rush of confidence. He could do this. Besides, the possibility of finding a way to make his wings disappear certainly outweighed his discomfort regarding their plans. A little physical release couldn't hurt either. He looked at Harry then, his unexpected companion for the evening, and realized Potter was dressed in denims and a plain grey tee with a faded Muggle logo across the front. “What are you wearing?”
“This.” Harry shrugged, blushing slightly. “Doesn't much matter. I'm not there to—I just want to have a drink.”
Flicking his wrist at Potter, Draco cast a standard fitting spell. It was the least he could do in return, he decided, smirking at the improvement. At least now it was evident there was a man beneath the threadbare garments. A fit one at that, Draco couldn't help but notice—if one liked men who were on the short side, with trim waists, and broad shoulders, that is. He most certainly didn't.
Harry huffed but his eyes were dancing. “Are you quite finished?”
Given the opening, Draco lifted his wand to cast a shaving spell to clean up the Potter's significant scruff, but Harry just blocked the spell and grabbed Draco's arm. “I don't think so,” Harry laughed. “Ready?”
Draco nodded as the warm arm held tight to his and Harry barely hesitated before Apparating them away.
Muggles may not have known magic, but they brewed many an effective drink, Draco soon discovered. He slowly sipped something bright red in colour and watched the myriad of men surrounding him as they drank at the bar, mingling and writhing in small groups on the dance floor. Harry seemed content to stand beside him as they watched, his back to the bar, occasionally sipping his own concoction.
Draco was getting many looks, but most of them seemed appreciative and he was never one to mind a bit of attention. He winked at a passable Muggle who had been eyeing him.
“You can dance if you want,” Harry said then, without looking at him.
Draco studied Harry's profile. They'd been standing by the bar for a while, and he did kind of want to. He wasn't familiar with the Muggle style, but it didn't seem particularly challenging, though he might have to adapt slightly due to his wings. The music's throbbing beat beckoned him.
He thought about asking Potter to dance with him, so he wouldn't be left alone at the bar, but the words got stuck in his throat. Instead, he just asked, “Are you sure?”
Harry nodded and flicked a glance Draco's way before returning his gaze to the dancing masses. Taking a drink from his glass, Harry crunched on some ice, and Draco watched as his throat bobbed accordingly. His eyes stayed on the dancing Muggles, though as far as Draco could tell, he wasn't watching anyone in particular.
“All right then.” Draco set down his own drink on the bar. “I guess I'll—”
“Have fun,” was all Potter said, wordlessly motioning for Draco to hand over his bow and quiver. “I'll hold it.”
Draco handed off the bow before making his way through the crowds of sweaty Muggles that parted naturally before him, receiving some good-natured comments along the way, teasing him for his appearance, but no one came close to guessing his secret. Soon enough, he found himself lost on the dance floor, in synch with those pressed close around him, masses moving as one in a mating dance as old as Merlin. Sometimes he danced alone, other times with other men who approached him, allowing a few of them who piqued his interest to pull him closer, run their hands over his chest.
Draco was warm, hot bodies around him, moving in rhythm together. But there was a heat in his stomach that he couldn't deny was caused by something else entirely: every time he looked up, he found Potter staring at him.
Again and again Potter's green eyes held his across the crowded space. Draco felt his body grow warmer until his skin felt on fire and it had nothing to do with the Muggles pressed against him.
“Shit,” Draco whispered, shivering despite the plentiful bared flesh surrounding him. He felt his cheeks flush; he was certainly as red as those drinks they were serving. And maybe it was the damned drink, but he couldn't deny it; he liked it. He liked Potter watching.
The man he was dancing with ran his hands unapologetically over Draco's body until they landed on his ass and pulled them tighter, and Draco could feel the man against his hip.
He glanced up again to find Potter still watching. It was very distracting.
Biting his lip, he returned his attention to the man with him, just in time to feel him drag his mouth along Draco's neck as he jutted his hips and stepped in time with the foreign Muggle music.
It wasn't as though his dancing partner grinding against him wasn't attractive; he was actually fairly handsome—tall and all dark eyes and olive skin and even his hair met Draco's exacting standards. His lips were spectacular, the sort of lips that made men imagine extremely dirty things, and he twisted them often into a smirk that Draco had to admit was extremely effective.
But instead of staring at the lush red lips or concentrating on the hand that gripped his hip, Draco looked up again for what had to be the twelfth time, drawn by an urge stronger than his own will, glancing at the bar to find Potter once more.
However, Harry was nowhere to be found. Bereft, Draco scanned the crowds; Potter was shorter than most of the other men in the crowd, but Draco somehow knew he'd be able to spot him anywhere. Except here, apparently. Potter was gone. Unless—
“The loos,” Draco choked out, stepping back from the man attached to him. That's where Harry had to have gone.
“Fuck yeah,” the man groaned. “This way.”
“I, oh, that's not—oh!” Draco squeaked as his dancing partner grabbed his arm and tugged him toward the loos, weaving through the crowds and pulling Draco with him.
But Harry wasn't there, nor in the dimly lit hallway leading to the lavatory. Draco felt the heat drain out of him.
“I should g—” Draco started to say as he looked around the dark space, but the man simply pressed his mouth to Draco's and then dragged his teeth along his jaw before pushing him against the wall of the hallway, his wings spread open behind him.
Oh. Right. Somehow between the drink and the green eyes that had bored into his, Draco had forgotten that he'd come here to find a bloke to shag. That had been the point, hadn't it? Well, needs must, then. Draco began to kiss back, ignoring the nagging sort of feeling tickling at his brain. It had been Potter's idea, after all, stress management via sexual release. It had sounded good in theory, and the Muggle certainly seemed interested. Any third year could have guessed what would come next and soon the man slid his hand down Draco's chest and began palming Draco's cock beneath his robes as they snogged there against the wall.
Draco's interest grew but couldn't quite believe the bloke wanted to do such things right there in the hallway with all of the other men passing through, even if it was dark. He discreetly reached for the wand he had tucked away in his robes and whispered a quick privacy spell so everyone else would ignore them, and murmured a quick protection spell as well, just in case. That taken care of, Draco bit back at the luscious lips that pressed against his own before leaning his head against the wall behind him as the other man fell to his knees and freed Draco's prick from his robes and pants. The bloke ran his open mouth along Draco's length, hot and messy, dragging his tongue and red, red lips along his dick. Those lips begged to be wrapped around a nice cock and Draco hardened further as the man teased him, drawing gasps from Draco before he finally took him in his mouth. Draco's toes curled in his sandals.
The sight of the cocky mouth wrapped around him put Draco's imagination to shame.
Fuck. So good...
The man was talented, even for a Muggle, he had to admit. Lost in the moment, Draco absently ran his hand along his chest but was startled as his fingered tangled slightly in the feathers that were really still there, only glamoured to be invisible.
Bloody feathers. His stomach clenched at the painful reminder that the man wasn't on his knees because he found Draco desirable, but because he liked how the glamours looked under the dark lighting. The Muggle just wanted to suck off some Greek god, not Draco Malfoy, feathered and decidedly unfabulous. If the man knew what Draco really looked like, he'd never be interested. Draco wondered if he'd ever get laid again without his body completely disguised by spells and costumes.
It was nearly enough to kill his hard-on. Nearly. The Muggle was pretty damn good, after all.
Draco reprimanded himself; his line of thinking was entirely counterproductive so he shoved it into the back of his brain and focused more intently on the bloke on his knees before him, the handsome man who was sucking him thoroughly as he tightened his hand to stroke the base of Draco's prick.
Bobbing his head, slurping and sucking, the Muggle swallowed him hungrily as Draco dragged his fingertips along the bloke's scalp. It was dirty and messy and wicked enough that Draco could force himself back into the present, all spare thoughts disappearing completely as his muscles tightened in response.
He groaned as he was swallowed deeply, and a few quick strokes of the man's hand and Draco's release swept over him. Pulling him up afterwards, Draco snogged him as he brought him off with his fist.
He left after, tired, slightly agitated and more than a little grumpy that Potter had deserted him—all alone in Muggle London, too. Draco was lucky he hadn't had but one drink hours earlier; otherwise, Apparating would've been a problem. As it was, he barely found the concealed Apparation point, but from there, at least, it was only a short crack to the front steps of the Manor, and two flights of stairs to his waiting bed.
Maybe in the morning his feathers would be gone, or at least fewer in number.
~oOo~
It didn't work.
Perhaps it was because Draco couldn't sleep after he got home; Potter had said sleep was important. But all he did was toss and turn and cast cooling charms when he was hot and warming charms when he got cold. He got a drink of warmed pumpkin juice—or rather, made the house elves get one for him—and went to the bathroom to splash water on his face. He counted pygmy puffs jumping over fences, tried to recall the names of all the Malfoy peacocks, and then started listing each of the unique ingredients in a batch of his favourite hand lotion—all eighty three of them, in reverse order of usage. He'd even gone ahead and tried to wank, but right in the middle he'd accidentally gotten his no longer glamoured head feathers caught in his headboard and had to call the house elves to help him get free. He hadn't much felt like wanking after that.
Draco's eyes required extra moisturising cream the next morning to make up for the damage of the sleepless night and then another special serum after that to counteract his hysterical sobbing fit that commenced when he realized he was just as feathered as the day before.
He explained all of this to Potter in a lengthy missive that he wrote over the breakfast table, hoping for additional advice, but Potter didn't respond at first. In fact, it wasn't until Draco sent Pierre out with a fourth message that Potter finally owled back.
Not now, Malfoy. Researching. Go take a nap or something.
Draco frowned and grabbed a fresh piece of parchment. Should I go back and try again? Maybe I need regular shagging now that I'm part Veela.
Harry's return owl showed up only minutes later.
Chewing his lip, Draco thought for a few seconds.
Come with me, he wrote on impulse, sending Pierre away with the note before he could second guess his invitation.
Can't. Busy.
Draco frowned. Well, fine then, he decided. It wasn't as though he needed Potter. He knew how to get to the Muggle establishment now. He sent Lipton and Funky out to get some Muggle money and then retreated to his rooms.
After spending hours getting ready, using the glamours as Potter had and making sure they were perfectly in place once again, Draco Apparated to the club once more. He quickly swallowed the contents of another brightly coloured beverage and threw himself out onto the dance floor.
It wasn't the same, though, and while the Muggle men seemed to like the pout that Draco couldn't seem to erase from his lips, Draco would have none of their attention. He felt fake, empty, even a little bored. As much as he hated to admit it, it wasn't fun dancing without Potter's eyes following his every move.
When some stupid man spilled a pink drink on Draco's robes and he couldn't just Vanish the stain in a room full of Muggles, he decided he'd had enough.
He was home and in his bed before eleven but sleep eluded him still.
~oOo~
Draco stared in the mirror in dismay. He couldn't make enough moisture cream to correct the dark circles under his eyes after yet another sleepless night.
He sighed. What was the point? Who would even notice his tired eyes when he had masses of horrid brown and grey speckled feathers popping out in all directions? Fuck, it was just his luck to be the only Veela with seemingly permanent plumage, the hideous feathers disfiguring and repulsive.
He stared at the myriad of products littering his dressing table. He picked up a jar of one of his favourite lotions, opened it and looked at the thick cream inside. Its smell reminded him of his mother—she'd taught him to brew it when he was younger, telling him it would one day protect him from the evils of sun damage.
Useless. Why hadn't she taught him a potion that would protect him from the Veela running through his own bloodlines?
His impulse was to throw the little jar at a wall, shattering the container and rendering its contents unusable. Instead, he closed the lid tightly and carefully gathered up some of the other creams and salves into his arms. He took them to his closet and, finding space all the way in the back, tucked the various little containers onto a dusty dark shelf. Then he went back for more of his lotions and moisturisers and ointments and gels and other products that had been part of his regimen, picking them up and hiding them away with the others.
It took seven trips, but eventually all but the most basic toiletries were put away and Draco was left looking across his now empty dressing table into the mirror at himself, raw and imperfect.
It was horrifying.
He just was deciding whether to burst into another fit of tears when he heard an owl pecking at his window. Potter's owl. Draco didn't know how he felt about that—resigned, perhaps—but he let the creature in and fed it a treat before sending it on its way, figuring he'd send Pierre out with his response instead of having Potter's owl wait. There were more than enough birds in his house as it was without Potter's pet, and Pierre's jealous streak still raged—Bitsy and Funky had tried to serve roast duck the evening prior and envious of Draco's rave review, Pierre had flown in and carried away the cooked poultry. Funky had later reported finding it shredded into small bits by the rosebushes lining the Manor's largest fountain.
His life had become completely and utterly absurd, he decided.
He shook his head and opened Potter's letter. Perhaps Harry had some advice.
Possible Veela triggers:
White lilac blossoms
Bee stings
Mooncalf milk
Almond extract
Hydrangea roots
Peanut brittle
Ostriches
The toenails of a righteous squib
-HP
Draco rolled his eyes. Hello to you too, Potter, he groused. Had he somehow managed to piss off Potter too? Ugh. Stupid git. Taking a steadying breath, he studied the list carefully. Nothing rang a bell—protective spells ensured he was never stung by bees and he didn't even like ostrich. In fact, he was positive he hadn't recently eaten any of those items. They couldn't be the cause of Draco's constant feathered state. Sighing, he moved on to the postscript at the bottom of Harry's note:
PS. Blood tests came back. Your father is 4/9ths Veela and your mother is 5/16ths. Not sure how 4/9ths is possible, really, but there you have it.
So it was true then. He really was...he paused to consider the maths...well, more than half Veela. He knew it was possible, of course; Potter's diagnostic spell had indicated as much. But now it was real. And if neither of his parents was more than half Veela, maybe that's why they never had exhibited any of the traits. But between the two of them, there was more than enough running through his veins.
And all that time claiming they were pure bloods. He wondered if they even knew.
If it had been a curse causing him to grow wings, perhaps they'd have been able to break it. But being Veela? That was permanent.
Letting the Potter's note fall to the floor, Draco returned to his bed, shed his fuzzy slippers and robe, and crawled back under his covers. He'd come out when he was ready, and not a moment sooner.
Read Part 2.