Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Veela-Struck	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 52830 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, and I am making no money from this writing.

Chapter List
- 1-Veela-Struck
- 2-Changed
- 3-Thought-Through
- 4-Met
- 5-Challenged
- 6-Snapped
- 7-Struggled
- 8-Lost
- 9-Dazed
- 10-Worried
- 11-Shamed
- 12-Hidden
- 13-Dazzled
- 14-Astounded
- 15-Marked
- 16-Damaged
- 17-Chosen
- 18-Shuddered
- 19-Broken
- 20-Spoken
- 21-Influenced
- 22-Gifted
- 23-Promised
- 24-Distressed
- 25-Held
- 26-Tempted
- 27-Warded
- 28-Rumored
- 29-Fought
- 30-Flayed
- 31-Identified
- 32-Practiced
- 33-Enchanted
- 34-Blazed
- 10
- 11
- 12
Thank you again for all the reviews!

Chapter Eleven—Shamed

            “Where are you going today, Draco? You are positively buzzing with excitement.”

            Draco smiled as he bent down to kiss his mother’s cheek. He had stopped by for a swift breakfast with his parents before he accompanied Harry to Owen and Lucy’s house. “Going with Harry to see Owen King.”

            His mother drew back with a little gasp, but it was his father, at the head of the table, who voiced what Draco knew she was probably thinking. “Is that wise? If he reacts to the sight of a Veela he knows in such an extraordinary way—”

            I hope his reaction will be extraordinary in other ways soon, Draco thought, but he wouldn’t let himself hope too much. This was only the first of several steps to heal Harry, and it might not work. “Lucy won’t be there,” he reassured his father. “She’s agreed to stay away so that Harry can meet Owen in private.”

            Lucius’s eyes narrowed. “I must say, Draco, I find these efforts to coddle Potter and protect him from whatever he is suffering ridiculous in the extreme. Is it too much to hope that you will be able to do as you please at some point?”

            He doesn’t know what happened to Harry, Draco reminded himself. And I can’t tell him yet. He was able to speak pleasantly then, once he had got past the temptation to spit or grind his teeth. “I am doing as I please, Father. I was the one who came up with the idea of visiting Owen. Harry came close to refusing, but he agreed in the end.”

            Lucius raised his eyebrows and tapped his fingers against the cane. “I also find myself more and more curious about whether the effort that Potter puts you through can find its equal in any gift that you might receive from him.”

            Draco gave a little smile and lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “You aren’t Veela, Father. It’s hard for you to understand.”

            Silence, as Lucius evidently considered whether he could allow that to pass, and then nodded. “Yes, well. Do not back yourself into a corner, Draco, and do not attach yourself too strongly to this one choice. There are others out there who would battle for the honor of your choice, instead of making you do the battling.”

            Draco bowed and left without another word, but his mind was buzzing with all the things that he could have said in retort to his father. That’s exactly why I don’t want them. They would be fighting for the honor of possessing my beauty, or at most the cachet of dating a Veela, and I want someone I can take care of, who needs the care, and who will give back to me in other ways than smiling in a superior fashion at others.

            “I am keeping an eye on the sacrifices I make, Father,” he said, and kissed his mother one more time before departing through the Floo. He and Harry had agreed to meet at Harry’s house, and the only thing that could have made Draco happier than that gesture of trust was a chance to come with Harry into the house and roll about in the bed until it was clearly marked with their two scents twined together.

            His nails twisted, but Draco focused his thoughts sternly on what was possible right now, and the twisting stopped. He would not rush too far or fast and lose what he wanted because of that.

*

            “Hello, Harry.”

            Harry smiled and nodded at Draco. He couldn’t speak for a moment. He had to remind himself that Draco wasn’t going to spread his wings and enfold him in them. Just because he had spread them once didn’t mean he would do anything like that again. Or at least he would only do it because he was protecting someone dear to him.

            And it wouldn’t be an issue if I hadn’t lost my temper in the first place.

            Guilt loosened the clutch of panic, and Harry said, “Hullo, Draco. How far away do Owen and Lucy live?” He leaned firmly against the locked door and waited for an answer, trying to ignore the way Draco’s eyes flickered over his body. He knew Draco was looking for the effect of the wounds, not just sizing him up as a sexual plaything the way Laurent used to.

            Draco finally smiled at him and stepped forwards, holding out an arm. “About two hours from here,” he said, “and they don’t have a connection to the Floo network. They tried, but too many of Owen’s old patients contacted him and insisted that he come back and help them, even when Lucy specifically forbade it.” Draco rolled his eyes. “People outside a Veela partnership rarely understand how it works.”

            “Laurent didn’t keep me from work,” Harry said quietly, concentrating on his words to distract himself from the necessity of laying his hand on Draco’s arm. “I reckon he thought it would be too noticeable.”

            Draco reached out, pausing along the way so that Harry could see the touch was coming, and stroked his hair. His expression was full of wonder, which made Harry glad that he could permit the caress, though he had to hold his breath. “I wouldn’t try to keep you from work,” Draco said. “I know that it’s necessary to you, and you’re still young, while Owen is old enough that it was getting dangerous for him to be under that much stress. But I do wish that you took care of yourself more in the line of your work.”

            Harry sighed, relaxing a bit as Draco removed his hand. “I do what I can. But chasing Dark wizards is inherently more dangerous.”

            “There are things you could do to make it less dangerous,” Draco said, staring at him so commandingly Harry had to look away. “Stay at the Ministry and work on reports the days that Weasley can’t be with you, for example.”

            Harry tensed, and then told himself that he didn’t really want an argument with Draco. Besides, what he was saying was a lot more reasonable than the high-handed orders Laurent would have given. “But that means that I’m out a day on a case, Draco,” he said quietly. “There are people who need my help, whose lives might end because I decided to take a holiday.”

            “If that was the case,” Draco said, so firmly that Harry blinked, “I’m sure Shacklebolt would send you out with another partner.”

            “He doesn’t, usually,” Harry said, thinking as he did so that it was strange. He hadn’t bristled at Draco’s firmness the way he’d expected to. “He trusts me to handle whatever they throw at me.”

            Draco opened his mouth, then frowned and leaned in to study Harry. Harry saw his nostrils flare to draw in Harry’s scent and had to glance away.

            “It’s not that I don’t trust you,” Draco whispered. “But I want you to find a balance between your own safety and doing your job. At the moment, I think the balance is tilted towards your job so much that you can’t be objective about your safety.”

            Harry shrugged. “My job helped a lot after—you know. It consumed so much of my attention that I didn’t have to spend as much time thinking about him.”

            “Yes,” Draco said softly. “But I’m here now.”

            Harry sighed. “That’s going to take a long time to make a difference.”

            “As long as you try.” Draco sounded more peaceful as he held out his arm again. “Come on, Harry. I have to Side-Along Apparate you. I know Lucy and Owen’s house well, but the coordinates tend to change when someone they haven’t invited before tries to memorize them.”

            “How does she do that?” Harry asked, trying to marvel at such a complicated spell rather than worry about his dependency on Draco. He clamped his hand down on Draco’s arm. Draco winced, and Harry muttered an apology and tried to relax his grip. He didn’t really think Draco would Splinch him, but he had to lean on him, and it was just—it was just not right. “I haven’t heard of any magic like that.”

            “It has to do with her and Owen’s magic combined.” Draco drew Harry closer with a pull of his arm, but Harry gave him a warning look when Draco started to wrap his cloak around him. It wasn’t as though he didn’t have a Warming Charm. Draco dropped the cloak, but looked more than faintly wistful. “There are many things Veela and their partners can do that they don’t share with others.”

            “And which I probably never learned about,” Harry muttered.

            Draco turned towards him suddenly and stroked his face so fast that Harry didn’t have time to feel afraid. “Among the worst of the crimes that Laurent committed,” Draco whispered, “I count his keeping those gifts from you.”

            Harry blinked, stunned, and then smiled a little. “Thanks,” he said, though he really wasn’t sure what he was thanking Draco for. For feeling affection? For not touching him too much? Harry didn’t understand his own motives sometimes.

            That he didn’t know didn’t appear to matter to Draco. He ducked his head, and a bright, pleased smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “It was my pleasure,” he murmured, before his hand tightened and they Apparated.

            Harry, pondering what had just happened—how happy Draco was with a few words from him—completely forgot to be frightened of the Apparition until after they had landed.

*

            “Young master Malfoy. How wonderful to see you.”

            It sometimes disoriented Draco that Owen used the same form of address that his house-elves did. However, Draco would never have dreamed of thinking Owen servile. He was too serene, too poised, too grand. His white beard flowed down his chin to stop just short of his chest, and his long white hair hung around his head, unbound but nearly combed, and he wore a circlet of silver that contained it. His brown eyes were calm and bright with wisdom. Draco often thought that he was what Dumbledore should have been, or at least that Owen was better-suited to be Headmaster of a school like Hogwarts than Dumbledore.

            He saw Harry and smiled slightly, extending one hand. “This is the famous Mr. Potter, then,” he said. His voice was deep and rang like someone knocking on a brass bowl. Draco could have listened to it for hours. “I did not think that I would ever meet you. Your problems usually fell outside my purview, and since my dear one diagnosed my weak heart, I do not often leave the house.”

            Harry’s jaw tightened, though he smiled as he shook Owen’s hand. Draco could practically hear what he was thinking. His Veela keeps him confined?

            But no one could have told those thoughts by Harry’s tone of voice. At some point, Draco thought, he’d either got training or learned not to express everything that crossed his mind. “Hello, sir,” Harry murmured. “Thank you for agreeing to talk to me.”

            Owen ushered them further into the sitting room he’d walked out of. The room was wide and abundantly open, with windows and glass doors everywhere that let swirling breezes crisscross the space. The scent of the sea came from beyond the nearest door. The walls were white on the bottom, deep green near the top, which led to the impression of standing in a thick, old forest. The furniture, too, was white and green, and Owen took a seat on the nearest chair with a long sigh. “I would have talked to you in any case, if Draco had informed me of your existence,” he said, fixing his eyes on Harry’s face. “It seems that you are reluctant to choose your chooser for reasons different than existed in my case.”

            “Yes,” Harry said, twisting his hands in front of him. He looked up at the dark green portion of the walls, though, and seemed to relax. Draco, sitting across from him, smiled. It was hard to escape the soothing influence of this room even if you tried. “I was made Veela-struck by the last Veela I dated. He’s in prison now for what he did to me while I was under his influence, but I’m not eager to get involved with someone who could do that to me again.”

            Owen frowned. “This must have happened some time ago? At least a few years. I cannot see the fever in the back of your eyes that being Veela-struck often causes.”

            Harry nodded and pressed back into the cloth of the chair. His hand on the far side of his body, away from Owen, had clenched into a fist and drummed regularly on the arm. Draco had a hunger-like ache urging him to reach across and touch it, but he couldn’t have done that without revealing Harry’s nervousness to Owen. “Yes, sir. I broke free of it after I’d been under it for—maybe three days…” His voice trailed off and he stared at the glass door through which the sea roared. Then his eyes shut.

            “Harry?” Draco whispered.

*

            He had been so willing. That was the hardest part for Harry to remember afterwards, and it didn’t matter how many times he told himself that Laurent had wanted him to be that way, and as long as he was in control, that was the way Harry would be. He hadn’t chosen it. He hadn’t wanted it.

            But that only made him more sick to his stomach, until he had to stop thinking it. Guilt was easier to deal with than helplessness.

            Laurent had fucked him and then left Harry lying in the middle of the bed, panting, his arse leaking semen, his body trembling in every limb, while he went to clean himself up. Harry usually took a shower after they were done having sex, no matter how tired he was. He liked the feeling of being clean; he hated waking up with liquid dried and stuck to his skin, whether it was blood or something else.

            But with Laurent in control, that simple desire had been destroyed. Instead, Harry wanted what Laurent wanted, which was to sprawl across the bed and look decadent and debauched.

            “Look at you.” Laurent’s voice came from the direction of the bathroom. Harry got up on all fours and looked coyly over his shoulder, because he knew Laurent would like that.

            Laurent stood with one hand on the doorframe, eyes fixed on Harry’s arse. Harry wriggled again, and sighed in bliss when Laurent stepped across the room and brought his wings down around him like great feathered fans, lightly tickling Harry’s sides.

            “You’re leaking,” Laurent whispered, and although Harry knew he was referring to Harry’s arse, not his cock, still he instantly got hard. Laurent ran a hand over his hip, found his erection, and laughed fondly, his fingers running back and forth, but nowhere near hard enough to provide satisfaction. “Oh, my beautiful Harry, no one else is ever going to have you. No matter what happens after me, you’ll always remember this, always remember how perfect you were for me and with me, and know that no one else can touch that.”

            Harry whimpered and wriggled, empty the way Laurent had told him to be after they fucked, wanting something in him, and then sighed as Laurent’s fingers slid home.

            “Always mine,” Laurent whispered, and then replaced his fingers with his erection and grasped Harry’s shoulders to yank him backwards and inflict long scratches with his claws. “Never anyone else’s…always the same…never forget…”

            And no, he had never forgotten. The three days didn’t blur together. They were separate, long stretches of time in Harry’s head, and he remembered them all.

            He hated that his own mind still essentially did what Laurent had told it to.

*

            “Harry?”

            Harry dragged his mind out of the morass by main force. It had been a long time since a memory had simply ambushed him like that in front of other people, and it had never happened in front of a stranger. He knew his wand was drawn, but at least he kept it down at his side, instead of pointed at anyone, and nodded reassuringly to Draco.

            “I’m all right,” he said.

            “Forgive me, but you are not,” King said, leaning forwards in his seat. He fit his name, Harry thought abstractedly, given that silver, crown-like band on the top of his head and his concerned gaze. “I see the sheen in your eyes now. You are still fighting the effects of being Veela-struck, though you had managed to hide them well. How long ago was it now?”

            “Two years,” Harry said. “Almost three.” It was done. He was with friends, and Laurent was in prison. Harry wished he was dead, but if he had ever been going to do that, it would have been in the first few moments, and he had chosen his integrity instead. He slipped the wand back into his pocket.

            King sucked in a breath. Then he said, “He raped you?”

            Harry nodded tightly. “Among other things.”

            King nodded back, as though Harry’s face had told him more than words could have. “And how did he die?”

            Harry smiled grimly at him. He would enjoy surprising King with this revelation, at least. “He didn’t. He’s still alive.”

            King clasped his hands together and bowed his head as if in prayer. Then he looked up and said, “I am sorry. I understand now why Draco wanted me to speak with you. I imagine that what happened has left you with very little good feeling towards the Veela.”

            “I can stand being around Draco,” Harry said. “He was my friend before I knew about his Veela heritage.” For the first time since he had opened his eyes from the memory, he glanced at Draco. The flame of worry and desire in his face made Harry glance away again immediately. “But when I saw him spread his wings to protect his family, I had to retreat. I thought I wouldn’t be able to see him again. It says something about his persistence and his strength that he kept talking to me until I agreed.”

            King sighed. “You have strength of your own, or you would not have agreed.” He was silent for some moments, rubbing at his forehead, and then asked, “Do you wish me to tell you of my life with Lucy?”

            Harry licked his lips. He wanted to ask a question that Draco hadn’t said he could ask, and he didn’t know if he was being too pressing, or if it was too personal. But King was the sort of man who would probably forgive him asking and simply refuse to answer the question if it was. “I want to know how you stand her allure,” he said. “How do you live with someone who has that much power over you?”

            King nodded, his eyes showing nothing but sadness and understanding. “She never used it on me until after I had accepted that I wished to be with her,” he said. “And then it helped me, because I was under too much stress from day to day. I considered it my fault if one of my patients died, or if someone was so dismayed by their creature heritage that I could not persuade them to accept it. The allure made me feel—far away from the world. When I came back to it, I could deal with the emotions better than if I had been left to recover on my own.” He cocked his head to the side, perhaps puzzled by the expression on Harry’s face. “The allure is not so different, when used on a Veela’s chosen, from the measures that you must take to recover from stressful cases. What do you use?”

            Harry shook his head. “My superiors insist that I take short holidays if I’m wounded,” he said. “Otherwise, nothing.”

            King studied him gravely. “If you will excuse my saying so, Mr. Potter, that is wrong in and of itself. I know the sort of work that Aurors do. When I was still working, it was Ministry policy that Aurors speak to Mind-Healers every few months, to clear their heads and make sure that they were not brooding on vengeance or blaming themselves too much.”

            “I can’t trust any Mind-Healers,” Harry said bluntly. “Not that I could anyway, because of my fame, but when they were treating me after—after, they didn’t believe I could recover. But I did my very best to heal myself. And I didn’t have to retire from my job or spend the rest of my life behind wards or do anything else that they said I would.” He lifted his chin, because King watched him with wonder and pity, and he hated that second emotion. “I didn’t do it perfectly. Draco’s shown me that. I have a longer way to go than I thought I did. But there’s no reason that I should cower and whimper and let Laurent affect my life for the rest of my life.”

            “Without taking time to deal with your wounds,” King replied, “you are ignoring some of their effects. Some of the work I did was with humans who had inherited the traits of magical beings without realizing it, and it could take them years to realize that their instinctive desires and needs were simply part of them. There were many young Veela who hated the idea of compelling someone with their allure, for example. But unless they paid attention to it and gained control of it, then they were likely to subtly influence others into giving them promotions, money, or other rewards they sought. It is always better to know the truth and use it to help you in your healing, rather than ignore it.”

            “But what can I do?” Harry asked harshly. He drove his fingers into his arm. He felt dirty and ashamed, the same way he had when Draco had spoken to him through the fire about the Mind-Healers. What he did wasn’t good enough. It would never be good enough. But all of the suggestions other people gave him were impossible.

            “Calm down, for one.”

            Harry looked up, startled by the dryness in King’s voice, and then realized that subtle ripples were running through the walls from his magic. He smiled sheepishly and concentrated on soothing his temper back into place. He really had spent too much time agitated lately, he thought. It wasn’t good for him, or for anyone around him.

            King waited until the pictures on the walls had settled back into their proper places. Then he leaned forwards and stared into Harry’s eyes from a short distance away, so close that Harry twitched. Draco caught his gaze and smiled at him, and Harry relaxed before he could think about how weird it was, that Draco was the means of him doing that.

            “Yes,” King said, half to himself. “You are still under the influence of the Veela allure, though it has sunk so deep that it is near fading away. I would not answer for your behavior if you came too near the Veela who enslaved you again.”

            Harry shut his eyes and focused on his breathing. He wanted to destroy things.

            “What’s the cure?” he asked. His voice did not shake. He was proud of that.

            “There are mental disciplines you can train yourself to that would assist in its departure,” King said. He spoke slowly, reluctantly. “Occlumency, for example. But that would take months, and I do not know if your job is conducive to your learning them.”

            Harry shook his head. “I’ve tried a few times,” he admitted. “That was one of the things the Mind-Healers said that sounded sensible. But I was too upset most of the time, and it was better for me to work.”

            “Or you could allow someone to enter your mind and use Legilimency to destroy the remaining effects of the allure,” King continued. “But that would require a trained Mind-Healer.”

            Harry let his silence speak for him.

            “The last solution,” King said, “is the most effective. Allow another Veela to exercise his allure on you. The influence of the one who struck you is faint enough now that another exposure to something similar but different—the same magic as wielded by another—could clear it away, like fresh air blowing out stale.”

            Harry sat still, numb. Then he opened his eyes and whispered, “How could you ever suggest such a thing?”

            “I suggest it because it will work,” King responded, also in a whisper. “I suggest it because you are much more wounded than I thought you were, and you have a Veela companion already, near at hand, who will stop at nothing needed to make you strong and happy.”

            Harry made the mistake of looking at Draco. Draco’s eyes were enormous, and Harry had the feeling that he was working hard to keep emotion out of them, but there was hunger there. Of course there was.

            “Stop wanting me,” Harry told him, his voice unsteady. “I can’t put up with people expecting things of me.”

            “But that is ridiculous,” King said.

            Harry spun to face him, glad that he had someone who wasn’t Draco to take out his frustration on. “What do you mean?” he demanded. “Of course I should be able to walk around without someone trying to rape me, or subdue me, or turn me into their perfect boyfriend with the Imperius Curse, the way that’s happened sometimes—”

            “You should be free of such actions,” King said sharply. “But no one can be free of expectations. You expect certain things of your colleagues, do you not, that they will back you up on your raids instead of turning traitor and helping the Dark wizards? And you expect certain things of young Master Malfoy, including that he will restrain himself instead of exercising his instincts and that he will do his own soul damage, because he sees the one he has chosen suffering and cannot help him.”

            Mortified, Harry looked at Draco again. The hunger in his eyes was dimmed, but there was still a yearning that reminded Harry of the kind he had felt when he was eating for the first time in thirty-six hours after a particularly long case.

            “I’m sorry,” Harry said. “I didn’t know—” Well, no, that was the problem, he had. He had learned enough from Laurent and the books to realize that Veela suffered when they couldn’t touch, comfort, defend the people they chose. “I didn’t realize,” he corrected himself.

            “I’ll survive,” Draco said softly. “But any small concessions that you can make would be appreciated, Harry. And as long as you realize that it’s normal for people to want something of you, if not to let their desires run away with them, then I’ll be happy.”

            Harry took a deep breath, and tried, really tried, for the first time since the rape, to think of someone wanting him with something other than horror.

            It was an odd feeling. Against the fear that desire might mean the use of more allure appeared his picture of Draco sitting beside the barrier in the Ministry, talking to him for hours and never showing any impatience or stress, or passing him the potion and never claiming more than a delicate touch to his palm.

            There was no way that he was ready to let Draco use the allure on him yet, if ever would be. But—

            “I trust you,” Harry whispered. “And I’m sorry. Your wanting me isn’t a horrible thing or an imposition.”

*

            Draco moaned in relief as a certain tension he had carried in his shoulders for days faded. Then he stood up and reached out for Harry’s hand.

            Harry let him take it, looking at Owen with an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry that we took up the time in other things that had nothing to do with learning about you,” he said. “I don’t try to do that, usually.”

            “You can come again,” Owen said. His eyes lingered on Harry’s and Draco’s clasped hands, and Draco knew that he didn’t imagine the smile of soft satisfaction curving his lips. “You will be more than welcome.”

            And they left, with Harry walking closer to Draco than he had when they arrived, and not protesting when Draco took his arm to Side-Along him back home. His earlier words hummed in Draco’s head like a great bell.

            I trust you.

            When they reached the door of his home, Harry paused, and sighed, and curled his fingers into the doorframe while he looked over his shoulder.

            “I didn’t realize Laurent’s striking me that way still lingered,” he said. “I’m going to work to get rid of it. I don’t know if I’m up to the allure, though.”

            Draco nodded. “I’ll put up with it if you aren’t.” He was so thoroughly sated at the moment that he thought he could promise anything, anything Harry needed, and live with it.

            “I’ll try meditating tonight,” Harry said. “Every little bit helps.” He hesitated, then added in a rush, “But if I was going to let any Veela do that to me, it would be you.”

            Draco purred in spite of himself, a vibration that broke through his lips and into the air in sweet sound. Harry gave him a strained smile and then fled into the house.

            Draco sighed, entertained two momentary fantasies—one of tearing Laurent apart, one of touching Harry with the allure and watching his eyes shine—and then went home.



*

            SP777: Draco may go into full Veela mode later in the story.

            Well, Harry does want that. But he’s also convinced that it wouldn’t really help him, because murdering Laurent is not what he wants to do. But Draco agrees with you!

            polka dot: Harry doesn’t have much of a personal life in this fic that doesn’t involve Ron and Hermione.

            thrnbrooke: Thanks!

            Dragonsnurse: The Mind-Healers weren’t evil, but they weren’t used to dealing with what had happened to Harry, since most Veela don’t rape their partners.

            Almost certainly what happened at the Dursleys’ made what happened to Harry worse. But he doesn’t want any help with it even now.

            luvlustblood: Thanks!

            mrequecky: Thank you!

            Night the Storyteller: Oh, Harry does share some things, such as the happiness Ron and Hermione feel when Rose is born. But he doesn’t share the burden of caring for others. He thinks that he should be the only caretaker in any partnership.

            K-chan: Well, thank you! I do hope you have time for your own writing. I hope you continue to enjoy, though.
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