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Nature of the Beast	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 48976 -:- Recommendations : 3 -:- Currently Reading : 5
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I am making no money from this story.

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Title: Nature of the Beast
Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling and associates own these characters. I am writing this story for fun and not profit.
Pairing: Harry/Draco (eventual), Ron/Hermione, Lucius/Narcissa
Warnings: Creature fic (Draco is a Veela), angst, some violence
Rating: R
Summary: Draco Malfoy knows how the world is supposed to go; he is a dominant Veela, with a submissive mate. It’s rather a surprise to find out that his mate is Harry Potter. It’s much more of one to find out that Harry, having been raised by Muggles, does not know how the world is supposed to go.
Author’s Notes: This story is going to be probably somewhere between twenty-five and thirty chapters.
Nature of the Beast
Chapter One—Medallions and Mates
            Draco slowly turned around and looked down at the center of his chest, where the heavy silver medallion that was the first gift to his mate hung. He knew it looked handsome—his mother, watching him with intensely critical eyes, would have told him already if it didn’t—but he wanted to make sure one more time.
            Yes. The medallion was made of solid silver except for the faceted crystal in the center, which was shaped like an eye. Gentle, wavering rays, carved grooves, led from the crystal out to the sides of the medallion. Finally, a fine net of cloth of gold studded with more tiny crystals floated over the top of the medallion, connected to the gold chain that bound it around Draco’s neck and protecting the center from any shattering fall.
            “It looks magnificent,” said Narcissa, with a long, slow nod. “You look magnificent. I don’t know how Potter could resist.”
            “Well, some token resistance is traditional,” Draco allowed, and then smiled and spread his wings. They had been a nuisance at first, manifesting on the thirty-first of July, his mate’s eighteenth birthday, along with the knowledge of who his mate was, and not going away ever since. But it was September now, and Draco had got used to them. Besides, under ordinary circumstances they would have been here a year earlier, when they both came of age.
            Draco was…rather glad that there had been one way in which his mating would defy tradition.
            His wings were three times longer than his body, long, narrow, and pointed like a gull’s, but glinting with soft silvery light from the inside. Draco touched the largest feather on the edge of his left one, and shivered. They were sensitive to his touch. He could barely imagine what would happen when his mate caressed them.
            “But such beauty is not,” his mother replied, and that silenced some of his doubts.
            Draco smiled more broadly and looked down again. Yes, the medallion was ready. Yes, the courting costume, a set of white robes with a long drape of silver cloth in front and a broad gap in the upper back for his wings, was ready. There was really nothing lacking but a sufficiently noble and dramatic moment for Draco to claim his mate.
            Draco had thought and thought about that, turning possible moments over in his mind, and rejecting most of them. Harry Potter had lived through more high drama than ninety-nine percent of the wizards his age. It wouldn’t be easy to impress him.
            Of course, once Draco really staked his claim, Harry would sink to his knees, trembling with desire and abjection, but Draco hadn’t done that yet.
            Finally, the news had made his decision for him. The Ministry was giving Harry his Order of Merlin, First Class, for “incredible services to the wizarding world” in the Atrium this morning. Draco had had two days to get ready, and now it was an hour away from eleven, when the ceremony was set to begin.
            “Yes, magnificent,” his mother reassured him again.
            “I hope so.” Draco turned to face the large mirror he had installed in the wall of this sitting room two days earlier. “Because I have someone magnificent to claim.”
*
            Harry scratched at the collar of his dress robes. The Ministry official who was in charge of him until the Order of Merlin was officially presented immediately began to fuss around him, checking, Harry thought, both the hang of his robes and the proportion of gleaming silver thread in his hems and cuffs against some regulation rule she had in her head.
            “I’m sorry if they’re uncomfortable,” she said. “I told you to go in for a fitting more than once.”
            Harry managed to shrug and settle the heavy, forest-green robes more or less properly, so that they only dragged at his shoulders and arms instead of his whole body. “It’s okay, Lantha.”
            “Don’t say okay, and don’t call me Lantha. You remember what you’re supposed to say when they present the Order to you?”
            Harry grinned at her instead of answering, which made her sigh and stalk over to the entrance to the little anteroom off the Atrium where Harry had been told to wait. So he just grinned at her back instead. Amalantha Highdream was the Ministry official who was apparently in charge of everyone’s robes and positioning on important occasions, and Harry thought it was driving her crazy to have just one person to shepherd.
            For all that, she wasn’t so bad. She did care about whether he was comfortable, and her scolding reminded Harry a lot of Hermione. She was one of the few pure-bloods he’d met who seemed convinced that anyone could be pure and righteous and beautiful. They just needed her help, most of the time.
            “All right, it’s starting,” said Amalantha abruptly, in a hushed, reverent voice that made Harry shift his weight again. She turned around and smiled at him, but there was still a trace of anxiety on her face, which was long and thin enough to remind Harry of Aunt Petunia’s. Luckily, her eyes, big and blue and kind, killed a lot of the resemblance. “You’re sure that you remember what you’re supposed to say?”
            “Do you want me to recite it?” Harry asked. “You know, just to make sure.”
            “No time, here they are,” said Amalantha, and towed him out of the anteroom, leaving Harry to chuckle to himself.
            Once they were in the Atrium, of course, Amalantha let him go and turned to stare at Harry expectantly. Harry knew why. He had trained and let other people coach him, but he was the one who had to make the people here believe that he wanted the Order of Merlin, First Class.
            And he sort of did. It was just that it would make other people happy, and open some doors, but it wouldn’t bring the dead back. It wouldn’t end the threat of those few Death Eaters who were still free. It wouldn’t settle the boiling of the wizarding world back into peace.
            It was something that could do some good, though. So Harry arranged his mouth in a smile, and walked forwards.
            The Minister, Kingsley Shacklebolt, stood at the very front of the line. Harry could tell he wanted to smile madly himself, from the way his mouth twitched, but he managed to hold a distant expression. Not many other people did. Head Auror Robards was very nearly smug, since most people knew that Harry wanted to become an Auror someday, and Amalantha stood behind Robards with her hands clasped and her mouth moving in what looked like silent prayers, and Hermione and Ron were grinning and waving from the line of “lesser” important people. They were going to receive the Order of Merlin, Second Class, when Harry was done with his.
            Harry thought they deserved the First Class, but there were some things that people wouldn’t listen to him on no matter how loud his voice was in the wizarding world in general.
            Further down the Atrium were the ordinary spectators who for some reason had their hearts set on seeing Harry get the Order of Merlin. Amalantha had said that the ceremonies were usually small and private, but Harry saw at least a hundred wizards there, and probably more.
            Harry grimaced. He understood the reporters, of course, but he didn’t understand the people who would wait all day for just a small glimpse of him getting a pretty ordinary medal pinned to his chest. People were weird.
            But even that, he was learning to deal with. He really wanted peace. He knew that he couldn’t get it alone. Other people would have to help. So he was doing some of what they wanted, and speaking out when reporters interviewed him, and all the rest of the political game. If it got some attention paid to causes he was passionate about, then he could pay that price.
            He turned to Kingsley, who shook his hand. Kingsley’s own prepared speech was first, and all Harry would have to do was interject the thanks and the acknowledgements in the right places. He prepared to let his mind drift a bit.
            Then there was a disturbance from the one of the fireplaces, and Harry whirled around, his hand falling to the wand at his belt. Had a Death Eater just Flooed in? They’d got threats to disrupt the ceremony, of course. Fenrir Greyback liked to threaten people.
            A bunch of Aurors immediately swooped in around Harry, meaning he couldn’t see. He tried to crane his neck to see over Robards’s shoulder, but Robards shook his head and backed towards Harry.
            “It’s better if you’re safe,” he called back.
            Harry frowned, unimpressed. Yes, he could understand that, but he probably had more battle experience than a lot of the Aurors did. He could at least help. Or, failing that, he needed to see what was going on so that he would have a chance to move towards the right exit or stand his ground and fight, instead of just moving around blindly.
            This time, it seemed that the person who had come through the Floo was confusing the Aurors. Harry heard murmured questions, most of which seemed to center on the question, “What’s he doing here?”
            Not Fenrir Greyback, then. But it left a lot of other questions as to who it could be, from someone recently pardoned to Rufus Scrimgeour back from the dead. Harry saw a gap between Robards and the tall Auror next to him, and wriggled forwards, finally managing to stick his head out and look at the Floo.
            He felt his mouth fall open, and not because he didn’t recognize the figure who was walking slowly down the middle of the Atrium.
            It was someone recently pardoned—Draco Malfoy, whose trial had been less than a month ago. Harry had pleaded for mercy because Malfoy hadn’t betrayed him to the Snatchers, and while he was a Death Eater, he was so incompetent that he wasn’t that much of a threat to anyone. The Wizengamot had listened to him and granted Malfoy his freedom, with the provision that if he was found to have committed another crime, he would go immediately to Azkaban.
            Malfoy had seemed pretty normal then, if quiet. And he had stared at Harry intently all the way through his trial. Harry had put it down to Malfoy resenting the life-debts he owed Harry, and the fact that now he owed his freedom to Harry as well, and shrugged it off.
            Now, he wondered if Malfoy had begun the process of going mental during the trial. It would explain the clothes he was wearing now, and the slow parade he was making down the middle of the Atrium, one hand clasped over the huge amulet around his throat. Harry noticed that some other wizards were drawing back and murmuring. Maybe it was a catching madness, he thought, and the amulet was the sign of it. Or the completely white clothes were. Or the huge eagle wings sticking out of his shoulders.
            Harry blinked. He had to admit this was entertaining, and not exactly threatening, or the Aurors would have struck before now.
            He was amused until exactly the moment when Malfoy halted in front of him and turned slowly towards him. Until then, he had been gazing straight ahead, his eyes fixed on some distant horizon, but having them locked on him, Harry bristled. Malfoy looked at him like he was property or something.
            “Harry Potter,” Malfoy whispered. “I have come to claim you as my submissive mate.” His hands rose to the golden chain around his throat that linked to the amulet and unhooked it via some clasp Harry couldn’t see in the back. Then he moved towards Harry, his wings spread, holding out the amulet.
            That settled it: Malfoy was mental.
            Harry didn’t wait until Malfoy actually dropped the amulet over his head, because unlike some people, he didn’t need any prompting to defend himself against crazy bastards. He whipped his wand out and held it towards the amulet, which halted, swinging, in midair, while Malfoy stared at him like he’d been Stupefied.
            “Put that thing down,” Harry said coldly. “I think someone’s Confounded you. What’s this nonsense about me being your mate?”
            Malfoy blinked, and for the first time, his wings, which had been held straight and trembling out to the sides, fell down and just dangled around him like silly robes. He looked back and forth. Harry didn’t know if he was looking for allies that should have accompanied him, and which would maybe drag Harry forwards and force him to kneel. He didn’t wait to find out.
            “Finite Incantatem,” he said, as clearly and loudly as he could. Let everyone see that he hadn’t hurt Malfoy, even though he had come up and acted strange. Times were different now that Harry didn’t have to constantly look over his shoulder for Voldemort. He could assume that even Malfoy was an innocent victim of a prank.
            But nothing happened other than a shimmer or two of magic fading from the medallion. Malfoy looked perfectly furious a second later, though. Harry relaxed. Maybe the Confundus Charm had been subtle, and wouldn’t break visibly.
            “I made that for you,” said Malfoy, nodding at the medallion. “The way a Veela claiming a submissive mate should.”
            “I still have no idea what you’re on about,” Harry told him, but he could feel a faint sinking sensation in his chest. It seemed that he had leaped straight into the middle of another strange situation where life was going to turn on him because apparently he tasted that good to bad luck. “Veela, submissive mates. You’re not a Veela and none of them I ever saw ran around with wings and medallions like this.”
            “Harry, I know something.”
            That was Hermione, of course, pressing up next to him. Harry opened his mouth to tell her that he was glad someone knew something, but a second voice interrupted Hermione a moment later.
            “You don’t. Not enough to tell Harry what to do now.”
            Ron walked up and stood next to Harry. He had his arms wrapped around his chest and he was hunched over as if he was cold. Harry stared at him; Hermione gaped at him. But Ron paid no attention to either of them, instead meeting Malfoy’s eyes as though this was a secret shared between them.
            “Growing his wings like that means he’s the dominant Veela, the one who’s supposed to be able to fly and protect his vulnerable, earthbound mate.” Ron grimaced a little, but still didn’t look away from Malfoy. “And he’s the one who makes the gifts and begins the courtship process. If he’s dominant, the person he’s courting must be submissive. That’s the way it is. Gender doesn’t matter. Blood doesn’t matter.”
            He turned to Harry and shook his head. “Sorry, mate. But that’s the way it is. You’re submissive.”
            “Really?” Harry asked, his gut beginning to churn and his voice coming out a lot colder than he had ever spoken to his best friend. “Even though I don’t feel any urge to crawl on my belly or kiss his feet?”
            “I would not require that of you,” said Malfoy, his wings fluttering now as though he was trying to pick something up with the tips. “Not immediately.”
            Ron finally seemed to wake up. Color flooded his cheeks, and he blinked. “Really, mate? Nothing?”
            “Nothing,” Harry said, and gave a short laugh when Ron stared at him. “When have I ever submitted to anything tamely?”
            “Not ever,” said Ron, and frowned. “I didn’t think—” He glanced at Malfoy. “But he’s a dominant Veela. Only the dominants ever have wings like that. And that means that you have to be the submissive. He wouldn’t be mistaken about who his mate is, either. Veela always know.”
            Harry shrugged, uncaring. “Maybe they can be mistaken sometimes. The only thing I know is that I’m not attracted to him, and I’m not submissive, and you’re the only one who’s allowed to call me mate.”
            “I would never have come to you if I was unsure,” Malfoy broke in, his cheeks a furious pink. “You are my mate, Potter. And what Weasley said is true.” He lifted his wings, and the light reflected from them the way it would from a silver Shield Charm. Harry blinked. “You should be—you should want my protection. You should know the rightness of becoming mine the instant you look into my eyes.”
            Harry lifted his head and stared into Malfoy’s eyes. It went on and on, until Malfoy expelled his breath in a ragged pant. Harry realized he’d been holding it.
            “No,” said Harry at last. “Sorry. No urges to give up my will or my wand or my independence or anything else. Find someone else, Malfoy.” He turned away, shaking his head, wondering what the papers would print about this tomorrow. Yet another thing he had never heard of, like Horcruxes, that wanted to doom him. Except, this time, there was no prophecy that said he had to be Malfoy’s mate.
            He got two steps away when the shadow of wings fell across him. He didn’t have time to duck before Malfoy, with a furious screech, swooped down on him.
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Nature of the Beast