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A Dance in Three Parts	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 3146 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I am making no money from this story.

Chapter List
- 1-A Dance in Three Parts
- 1
Title: A Dance in Three Parts
Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling and associates own these characters. I am writing this story for fun and not profit.
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Content Notes: Mild angst, present tense, fluff, established relationship, creature fic (Draco is a Veela)
Wordcount: 2500
Rating: R
Summary: Harry wrestles with a Draco who has become a Veela unexpectedly. Well, more like dances.
Author’s Notes: Another of my July Celebration fics, for gracerene, who requested: How about....Harry/Draco, established relationship, one of them gets turned into a creature or realizes their creature inheritance (veela, werewolf, or vampire--up to you!) and how they deal with that together. Squicks are infidelity, H/D death, and major angst.

A Dance in Three Parts

            Draco wakes Harry with a shuddering call.

            Harry rolls over sleepily. He had a long meeting—well, call it an argument, which is what it was—with the goblins yesterday, and he’s a little pissed Draco woke him up now. Just because Harry has somehow become a negotiator between magical creatures and most of the wizarding community doesn’t mean the goblins like him any more for breaking into their bank.

            But Draco is sitting up and shedding long silver-white feathers with every motion of his arms. Harry immediately sits up, too, and reaches out to touch Draco’s arm.

            “Draco?”

            Draco turns to him, and his eyes are bright and vivid and alien, more like a bird’s eyes than a human’s. There’s a ring of bright gold around them, in fact, and more feathers are sprouting everywhere on him Harry can see, and there’s fire collecting around his head and shoulders. He screams once, and then reaches out and pins Harry to the bed.

            Harry blinks, but goes down. He knows what’s going on, from once seeing the way Victoire transformed during a tantrum. Draco has become a Veela. It must have been pretty unexpected, but then, yesterday was Draco’s birthday…

            And now, Harry’s instinctively certain, Draco is taking out his anger that Harry was away negotiating with the goblins instead of there for his birthday party. Harry knows he was huffy about it when Harry came home, but they didn’t talk it out. Draco just went to bed, the way he often does when he’s angry.

            Harry sighs and raises a hand, making sure to move it slowly so Draco can see it all the time. Draco snaps his mouth, which is slightly elongated and hard without being quite a beak. Harry stops moving his hand.

            “I’m sorry,” he says. “What do you need?”

            Draco pauses. His feathers lift and relax and flex. Harry thinks for a second that they’re going to become wings, but they never do. Draco lies down on top of him, and the feathers tickle Harry, who gasps.

            For a moment, he thinks Draco doesn’t notice. Then he begins to move his arm back and forth, teasing Harry. The tickling quickly becomes little lightning bolts of pleasure. Harry arches his back and moves his hips in response.

            He doesn’t feel any of the compulsion that he once did around the Veela at the Quidditch World Cup. He doesn’t think this is any special Veela allure. It’s only Draco.

            Draco snaps his beak and makes a shrill sound when Harry tries to move, so Harry obediently drops his arms back to his sides. He watches as Draco tugs off the simple pants that are all Harry usually wears to bed. He could shred them, as he has claws now, but instead Draco hooks his fingers carefully around them before he pulls them down, and Harry is grateful for the consideration.

            It doesn’t take long for Draco to arrange Harry to his satisfaction, or slick himself and Harry up, or slide inside him, and by now Harry’s glad. He arches his hips and rams his arse down while Draco is still fussing with the positioning.

            Draco promptly moans, still a human sound, and his eyes roll back.

            Then he whispers, “Harry,” and Harry licks his ear, grateful that he still has his voice. Some transformed Veela don’t.

            “Come on,” Harry says, and urges Draco into riding him or himself into riding Draco, whichever it is, in this hunched position, back and forth.

            Draco’s hips hammer, then stagger, and he has to sit up and change position a few times because his feathers are getting crumpled against the bed. Harry thinks this is hilarious. Draco doesn’t, and hisses at him a few times when he laughs.

            But at last the pleasure takes over the way it always does, the way it always did when they were only fucking now and then and didn’t like each other much, and Harry shudders his way through an intense climax. Draco comes only after a moment of muttering in a deep bird voice and working his feathers up and then flat again, and it seems to exhaust him. He slumps on the bed.

            A second later, his feathers melt into his skin and his beak is gone. When he nestles his head into Harry’s shoulder, Harry can see that his eyes are human again, too.

            “What are we going to do?” Draco whispers, his voice thick and distant.

            Harry strokes the back of his neck, feeling a soft bristliness where the feathers, he thinks, have replaced normal hair. “We’ll announce it to people if you want,” he says calmly. “And then we’ll go on living the way we’ve always done.”

            “Even though I’m a Veela?”

            “What does that matter?” Harry asks, astonished. Of course, he works with magical creatures most of the time now, since they seem to think a “unique” wizard will understand them better than ordinary wizards can, and he doesn’t see a Veela as much different from a human.

            “Some people might be upset.”

            “It’s your parents’ fault for giving you that heritage, and I’ll tell them that if they get upset,” Harry says firmly, and Draco laughs with a thread of true happiness in the sound. “Hermione and Ron and the others will accept you just fine, and the public will be unimportant as always. Nothing major has changed, Draco. Go to sleep.”

            Draco does. Harry lies there with his arms wrapped around him, awake for another half-an-hour, and aches pleasantly, and makes plans for the future that involve taking revenge on anyone who’s particularly, publically ignorant.

            He falls asleep in the middle of a happy, intricate plan involving a few Muggle levers and a Whipping Curse, and dreams of soaring with Draco on delicate wings.

*

            “It doesn’t come from my side of the family.”

            Harry raises his eyebrows. He agreed to come with Draco to Malfoy Manor to tell his parents because Draco wanted him to. He had thought the Malfoys might like privacy, but all Draco’s feathers appeared and stood on end and he screeched when Harry suggested that, so here he is.

            He has to admit, though, that he didn’t expect Lucius and Narcissa to get into an immediate argument about whose ancestors’ fault this is.

            “No Black has ever been a Veela,” Narcissa says flatly, and gives her shining blonde hair a toss.

            Harry watches the ends of her hair, and thinks he sees a silvery tinge there. He remembers how dark Sirius’s hair was, and Bellatrix’s, and even the portrait Mrs. Black’s, and a thought occurs to him about whether someone with blonde hair in a family like that might not, technically, be a Black. Maybe with a Veela father she didn’t know about, that sort of thing.

            Harry immediately stuffs the thought into a box at the bottom of his mind. Narcissa has an uncanny ability to know when someone is thinking uncomplimentary things about her, and her freezing stares are worse than Aunt Petunia’s ever were.

            “No Malfoy has, either.” Lucius thumps his cane on the floor to make his point. After a year’s stay in Azkaban, he actually needs it, and his blond hair is closer to white than gold. But Harry would never make that point aloud, either. “I’ll thank you to remember who had the more cousin marriages on their tapestry.”

            “If there was no Veela heritage in the line in the first place, how could cousin marriages concentrate it? And let’s look at your tapestry before we start throwing accusations around, Lucius. Wasn’t there a certain Annabelle Malfoy who didn’t have to change her last name either of the times she married?”

            “Her uncle,” Draco mutters, but so softly that Harry knows his parents can’t hear him. “The first time, anyway. And the second time, her adopted brother. Well, they said adopted…”

            The quarrel picks up, and Harry wraps his hand around Draco’s and squeezes it with a smile. Draco smiles back, and they listen as Lucius and Narcissa progress towards one of those disagreements that will probably end up with them conjuring fragile crystal vases to throw at the walls and then repair and throw again.

            The first time Harry saw one of those, he assumed most of the decorations in the Manor had probably come from the same kind of conjuring, instead of being heirlooms. It was Narcissa who sat him straight, or rather stared at him like the Hungarian Horntail until Harry admitted that he wouldn’t know the difference.

            He still doesn’t know it, come to that.

            Draco draws him out of the room when the crystal vases appear, and Harry manages to tease him as they walk down the front steps. “See? All just as usual.”

            Draco snorts. “Down to the Floo calls I’m going to get tonight, telling me about the indisputable proof that either the Blacks or the Malfoys provided me with the Veela.”

            Harry bumps his shoulder into Draco’s, and leans softly against him when Draco wraps an arm around him. “So they didn’t change.”

            “A volcanic explosion beneath the Manor couldn’t change my parents,” Draco says, and turns his head to preen Harry’s hair with his lips. Since he did that before the transformation and it’s never bothered Harry anyway, Harry is well-satisfied.

*

            “Harry? Watch.”

            That’s the only warning Harry gets after he walks through the front door after another long day of negotiating with the goblins, only to watch Draco unfolding real wings, true wings, around himself. They’re a silver purer than a centaur’s heart, and Harry stands gaping at them for an embarrassingly long time.

            And for an even more embarrassing reason. Harry shifts, hoping the hardness in his pants isn’t as visible to Draco as it feels like, and then moves slowly forwards and reaches out to feel Draco’s wings. Draco shifts them to allow him, so smug that the expression shines through even the feathers and beak.

            “I thought you couldn’t do this,” Harry finally says, his voice hushed.

            “The feathers have been itching more lately, and finally I concentrated on them and told them to do what they willed,” Draco explains, and stretches his wings before settling them back against his body. He’s still smug, Harry can see, and he smiles at Draco and continues his stroking. Draco warbles and arches his back in response. “I went for a few flights. They’re so strong, and so light. They’re effectively casting a permanent Lightening Charm on me.”

            Harry immediately turns his head to the side, flushing.

            “I know what you want.”

            Harry shudders as Draco’s fingers creep up his shoulders. “You can’t possibly.”

            “Veela can sense certain things,” Draco whispers against his ear. “Or maybe it’s only with you that I’m feeling these desires and certain I know what you want. I do know what you want,” he adds, with only a slight quiver of his primary feathers. “I mean, I haven’t mistaken it, right? You want me to mate you on the wing.”

            Harry shivers all over, and Draco nods and chuckles. “It’s strong enough for that,” he says. “Everything I pick up gets Lightened, too. I tried it with the trunks full of books that my mother insisted we take from the Manor library, and I honestly don’t think we have much that’s heavier in the house.”

            Recognizing the truth of that, Harry tilts his head in invitation, and Draco snatches him and breezes out the door.

            Dear Merlin, Harry thinks as they lift. He still flies when he can, and he knows even more about it than he did when he was a kid, thanks to knowing more about the charms on brooms and being able to feel more of their magic. But this is pure, uncomplicated joy of the kind he hasn’t felt in years.

            This is being carried, seized, by a raptor. And yet Harry can put absolute trust in this particular raptor, and he tilts his head back and smiles at Draco in response, getting a dip and waggle of his wings.

            “Come on,” Draco whispers, and they begin to struggle Harry out of his clothes.

            It takes longer than they thought it would, mostly because of stubborn ties and buttons and zippers that Harry never thought would take it the wrong way to be yanked at upside-down or from so close that Harry’s eyes are crossing trying to see them. Draco finally reaches down and rips apart his clothes with his claws.

            Harry pants in response, and then Draco lets go of him.

            Harry falls, so surprised and trusting that he doesn’t even grab for his wand, and then Draco dips down and catches him, repositioning him. Draco has his wand, at least, and he manages the proper spells while Harry pants and tries to get close to him. Draco complains about that in small bird-mutters, looking at him fiercely out of the corner of his eye. Harry only grins back and helps Draco slide home as he’s trying again to position himself.

            They freeze, both of them, for one shivering second, and then Draco beats his wings and they soar to make up the height they’ve lost.

            The air is whippingly cold all around them, but Harry doesn’t care, given the heat beating between their skins. The sweet scent of Draco’s feathers descends and then retreats as his wings flap. It takes him a little while to coordinate his flaps and his thrusts, so that for a moment it’s like riding a bucking pony, but then he does, and it’s—

            Not an experience Harry thought he would ever have.

            The world reels in dizzy glimpses around them. Draco’s face is there and then gone as he lifts his head and sends more power to his wings and his hips. His magic is bright around them, warm, or perhaps that’s only Harry’s awe and desire playing tricks on his perceptions. The lack of a bed is everywhere Harry turns and stretches, but air and feathers are softer than any mattress or blankets could ever be.

            They begin to tumble lazily, linked to each other, as Draco comes. Harry waits politely until he’s done and then takes his turn, feeling Draco’s hands close down harder as he turns to the side and brushes Harry’s forehead with one wing.

            “God, you’re beautiful,” Harry says as he finishes, and the pleasure burns away and he begins to shiver a little.

            “Can you stand to fly a little farther? I want to have you to myself for now.”

            Whether that’s Veela protective instinct or the sheer newness of the experience, Harry doesn’t know, and doesn’t care. He takes the warmth that comes from the brief descents of the wings and the shine in Draco’s eyes, and the knowledge that once they land, Draco will bundle him into bed and fuss over him with hot cocoa.

            For now, there is blue horizon, and silver wings, and Draco above him, inside him, dancing with him.

            As always. For always.

            The End.
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A Dance in Three Parts