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A Year's Temptation	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 28515 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-A Year of Temptation
- 2-February
- 3-March
- 4-April
- 5-May
- 6-June
- 7-July
- 8-August
- 9-September
- 10-October
- 11-November
- 12-December
- 3
- 4
- 5
Thanks again for the reviews! I’m very happy people are enjoying this story so much (highly angsty as it is).

Chapter Four—April

            “I don’t like it.”

            Harry set the Daily Prophet aside and leaned forwards anxiously. He had told Ginny everything about that evening with Malfoy—the entire truth. She had been quiet for a time in return, then told him she needed a few days to think about it.

            She’d taken five. It was April third now, a month since her accident, and Harry had planned a dinner at one of the better restaurants in Diagon Alley to celebrate her recovery. But it had been hard to tell her about that when she wasn’t speaking to him outside polite necessities.

            Ginny settled herself in her chair and looked back firmly. There had been marks of tears around her eyes, but they had faded, leaving her face washed clean, like a cliff struck by rain. She was under a blanket that covered the worst of her injuries, and her crutches were off to the side, enough so Harry had to turn his head to see them. Despite his anxiety, he nearly smiled. She looked like a queen about to deliver a judgment, the way she had when he came back after the war and asked to take up where they’d left off.

            That worked out all right. Maybe this will, too.

            “You broke your promise to me, Harry,” she said, and his hope faded a bit. “You said you’d do what he needed, but that was—more than what you had to do.” She lowered her eyes and contemplated her hands, folded on the blanket, for a moment. Then she lifted them again and looked at him sternly. “I can bear many things. I’ve had to bear many things, these past few months.”

            Harry nodded.

            “But—not my husband cheating with someone who has no claim on him except the claim created by a magical accident.” Ginny shook her head slightly. “From now on, you can touch him as he needs you to. And he can use light kisses and brushes of his hand, if he absolutely has to. But I don’t want him touching you so that he makes you come.”

            Harry relaxed. It was a simple penance, one that he could pay without feeling he was compromising his duty to Malfoy, and it allowed him to avoid the most awkward and personally hurtful aspect of his last encounter with Malfoy. “I promise, Ginny.”

            “You broke your promise once,” she said, and looked at him. “I don’t know if I can trust you now.”

            “If you’d like,” Harry offered, “I’ll buy a Pensieve, and put the memories of all the times I spend with him in it when I’m done. Then you can look at them and make sure I’m telling the truth.”

            For the first time in the last five days, a smile broke over her face. “Thank you,” she said. “There are some things I won’t want to see, of course, but others—“ She put out her hands, and Harry, recognizing it for the invitation it was, came over and clasped hers with his. “I know, in some ways, that it can’t be helped,” she added. “It isn’t his fault. But, Harry, I’m not willing to let this regrettable thing that’s taken over his life take over ours. I don’t want you making larger sacrifices for him than you would for me.”

            “Which is perfectly acceptable,” said Harry, and kissed the top of her head. “Now. I have a reservation for us at the Dragon’s Claw. Do you feel well enough to go?”

            Ginny needed only a moment to figure out the date. And then her smile warmed and widened, and Harry knew he really was forgiven. “That would be lovely,” she said, and Summoned her crutches to her with a wave of her wand. She’d got much better with them in the last little while, and even when she’d been angry with Harry, she’d trusted him to help her walk.

            Harry felt the last tension leave his muscles as he watched her lever herself carefully across the floor. Yes, it had happened, but it could be jumped over and dispensed with. Malfoy had said Harry couldn’t ignore it. Maybe that was true, but he didn’t have to spend time brooding on it, either.

            “Come help me with my coat, Harry?”

            Harry hurried to do it, wondering what he’d done to deserve such a forgiving, loving wife.

*

            “Writing to Potter?”

            Draco didn’t look up. “Yes, actually,” he said. “Would you like to read the letter before the owl goes?”

            He felt Pansy stiffen behind him, but he didn’t look around. He concentrated on picking just the right words that would convince Harry to accept the invitation. He wanted the git to accept said invitation. It was time that they spent time together without feeling immediate pressure from the Veela.

            Harry had put on his heroic mask every time they’d been together before this. Draco wanted to see what he looked like when he was behaving normally.

            He recognized more than a hint of the Veela’s desire in his own thoughts. He didn’t care. There was the chance—and it was a chance, no more, since so far they’d demonstrated nothing other than sexual compatibility—that Harry could be better for him than Pansy. Draco certainly wouldn’t have considered it without his accident, and it was highly likely not to be true, especially with the nasty reluctance Harry had displayed to even look someone he’d had sex with in the eye. There was also the complication of two marriages.

            But Draco had never been satisfied to have less than the best, and so, if it was true, he intended to check.

            “I would like to,” said Pansy, at his shoulder, then.

            “All right,” Draco said, and leaned away from the parchment, so she could read the neatly inked words. It said nothing more than the fact that the Falcons’ home pitch was free next Sunday—they had no games in April, and so Branwen had lowered their amount of practices for the next few weeks—and would Harry like to meet him there and play a Seeker’s Game?

            “I didn’t know you were calling him by his first name now,” Pansy said quietly, tracing the salutation.

            “I am,” Draco said.

            She turned and stared hard at him. Draco stared back, calm as calm. He had no plans to cheat on Pansy—more than the Veela already forced him to do, at any rate. He wasn’t tired of her. He didn’t love her, but then, he didn’t love Harry, either. He knew she was a good wife for him, a woman he wouldn’t have been able to live life without during the first few years after the war.

            But he would also be a fool to pass something like this up, if the Veela really had made the right choice.

            “You said that you’d avoid seeking him out unless you needed him,” Pansy said lowly.

            Draco laughed. “I’ll be so busy that next week that it would inconvenience me to see him,” he pointed out, “and I won’t wait until the end of the month, considering what happened last time. He might as well meet me that Sunday and do what’s necessary then.”

            Pansy stared into his eyes some more. Draco smiled back, complacent and assured. He meant what he said. Besides, while Pansy had always been good at catching people when they lied, Draco was an awfully accomplished liar.

            “I wish I knew what you wanted,” Pansy murmured, so softly that Draco almost couldn’t hear her.

            “For the accident never to have happened,” Draco said honestly. His life would have been much easier if he hadn’t started suspecting that there was someone out there who would make him happier than his wife, and if that person hadn’t happened to be male, married, a hero, and famous to boot. “But there’s no point in regretting the past. At the moment, I’m interested in making sure I have a choice, that I don’t act like an animal and burn again.”

            And all that was true, too. That not acting under the control of the Veela would also enable Harry to see him at his best was not a motivation Pansy needed to know about.

            She sniffed, then, drawing his attention back to her. “As long as it’s just to meet up with him for that reason,” she said. “Not because you like spending time with him.”

            Draco laughed, genuinely amused. “There’s never been a time when I felt anything but irritation or lust at him, Pansy. Sometimes hatred, back in Hogwarts. No, I don’t like spending time with him.”

            But I want to see if I could.

            She relaxed, then, and patted his hair. “Remember that we have the Martins’ party that evening,” she said. “You’ll have to be back at a civilized hour.”

            “I remember,” Draco said, and then sealed the letter into an envelope and summoned a house-elf to post it.

*

            “I suspected he would do this,” Ginny said, displaying Malfoy’s letter, “after what you told me about his reaction last time.”

            Harry eyed the letter warily. It had come to the house while he was at the Ministry, and Ginny had read it first. While he was glad of that—so she could make up her own mind about what it said and not suspect him of hiding it from her—whatever was in it seemed to have upset her more.

            He took it, read the invitation, and handed it back, baffled. “What made you suspect he would do this?” he asked. “He’s probably trying to fulfill that condition I put on him last time, about our meeting in a place I can Apparate out of if he tries to touch me.”

            “You trust too easily, Harry.” Ginny rapped her fingers against the letter and shook her head while she clucked her tongue, a noise Harry had to admit he found irritating. “And it was what you told me about him calling you by your first name. He seems to have decided that he wants you.” She lifted her chin, in the motion that meant she was in a stubborn mood. “Well, he can’t have you.”

            “Of course he can’t have me,” said Harry, sitting down in the chair beside her and putting an arm around her shoulders. “And it’s the Veela that wants me, not Malfoy.”

            “Then why does he write to you using your first name?” Ginny tapped the letter again. “Unless the Veela controls what he writes, too.”

            Harry had to admit that was strange. And the invitation to a Quidditch game…since when did Malfoy want to spend time with him for its own sake? He shook his head. “There might be a simpler explanation, but I can’t think of it,” he muttered.

            Ginny smiled at him with a triumphant air. “Well, just write back and tell him you can only see him for a few minutes, long enough to give him what he—needs—and no longer.”

            Harry paused for a long moment, wondering if that would come across as too unfriendly. Then he rolled his eyes at himself. Since when did he worry about coming across as too unfriendly to Malfoy? Probably this was just a joke, and if it wasn’t, Malfoy should be grateful when Harry pointed out the way he was slipping, letting the Veela control more of his actions than he should.

            “I will, love,” he said, and stood up to write the letter.

*

            Draco was well-aware that he’d been too quiet for the boisterous dinner party Pansy had brought him to—an election for Minister would begin in a few months, there was a good chance that Scrimgeour would lose this time, and everyone was buzzing about it—but his mind was on Harry’s letter. It had been polite and utterly impassive, offering Draco a few minutes on that Sunday afternoon and no more.

            Idiot. I asked him not to ignore this, and what is he trying to do? Exactly that.

            Pansy wandered over to him and looped her arm through his, smiling. She had been in a better mood ever since she’d seen Harry’s refusal. “So who do you think has the best chance in the next election, Draco?”

            Luckily, he’d already dreamed up his answer and had it poised on the tip of his tongue. “Scrimgeour still has the best chance. Jones is flashy, but he doesn’t have the record to back him up.” He rolled his eyes. He couldn’t believe the other candidate in the race, his gall or his belief that he actually stood a chance. “And Nott? Most people still think ‘Death Eater’ when they hear that name, at least as much as they do when they hear mine.”

            “Hm, true.” Pansy nodded. “I was just telling Millie that I think Jones has a chance after all, but you can be strong in magic and still not be right for politics.” She sipped her wine to, Draco thought, cover her grimace. “Since, in this brave new world, actions mean more than names or blood.”

            “Millicent is here?” Draco asked, grateful to get away from the subject of politics. “Where?” He hadn’t seen her for months, since her work seemed to have a penchant for taking her underground. She either worked for the Department of Mysteries or for a reclusive Dark wizard whom some people suspected of being a necromancer. Her vague answers to his questions could have meant either, and she never denied anything.

            “Over there, talking to Theodore,” Pansy said, nodding across the room.

            Draco picked up a second glass of wine from the nearest house-elf and went to see Millicent, while Pansy turned to address some second-rate wizard whom Draco thought worked for the Daily Prophet. He could hear her speaking as he retreated, explaining how the Malfoys had not really been as Dark as they were portrayed, and most of Draco’s actions during the war had been the fault of youthful enthusiasm.

            She always protects me. Some people might say she was more than I deserve.

            But Malfoy is her name now, too, so in essence she’s protecting herself. I don’t know if I find that flattering.

            Into Draco’s mind came the thought that Harry would never protect him if he didn’t find him deserving. Then he shook his head. The very fact that Harry had agreed to help him with this Veela nonsense proved that he would succor any innocent in distress.

            The word “succor” brought the word “suck” to mind, and Draco tried his best to banish all the unfortunate associations, along with his lasting anger at Harry for backing out on the Quidditch game, as he reached Millicent and Theodore and bowed to them both, handing his extra glass of wine to Millicent.

            “I’m sorry I didn’t bring one for you, Theo,” he said, lacing his voice with false regret. “But ladies claim the greater share of my attention.” He smiled at Millicent, who received his flattery with the distant smile that was her most common expression since the war, and sipped her drink.

            Theodore grinned at him, and reached out to push gently at his shoulder. He wore the green robes of one of the Ministry’s Potions experts, even here; he was proud of his new rank, and showed it off partially to brag and partially to remind people of what he was, now, no matter who his father had been and who his stupid uncle, running for Minister, still was. “Charming as always, Draco.” He glanced around, then leaned near and lowered his voice. “I hope that your little accident a few months ago is resolved?”

            “Resolving itself,” Draco said, wincing and trying not to remember the acid-like burn when the potions had splashed on himself. “No lasting side-effects, at least. Everything should be resolved by the end of this year.”

            Unless I still want to fuck Harry into the ground then.

            And the worst thing about it, he thought with a long swallow of the wine, was that he had to admit he and the Veela wanted the same things. There was no longer the comfort of knowing they were two separate and distinct creatures. Its thoughts blended with his, its wants were his, and its mate was his—well, not a friend, not a lover, but still his, in an odd way. Part of him.

            “What accident?” Millicent asked.

            “Potions accident at the Ministry,” Draco said, as lightly as he could. He would say that he trusted Millicent, but since he couldn’t tell where she would bear the information to, the trust was lessened. “Combined with several spells, and I had a nasty attack of some of my ancestors’ sins.” He grinned and coaxed a light flush to his cheeks, as if embarrassed. “Mostly sexual side-effects. But they’re wearing off, slowly.” He slanted a glance at his wife. “Pansy wasn’t best pleased, of course.”

            Millicent nodded and seemed to lose interest in the matter, though one never could tell.

            “Who do you like for Minister?” Draco asked her.

            Millicent stared dreamily into her glass for a long moment. Then she looked up. “I doesn’t matter who I like,” she said, a momentary sharpness touching her voice. “It’ll be Scrimgeour. It must be.”

            Draco and Theodore exchanged glances. When Millicent said something in that flat, certain tone, it inevitably happened. Draco, though, couldn’t decide if that meant anything magical. It might only mean that Millicent had access to certain tidbits of political information before anyone else did.

            Wherever she works.

            “Whatever you say, Millie,” said Theodore, and patted her on the shoulder. Then he glanced at Draco. “And what’s got you out of sorts? Your mouth’s twisted up to the side the way it was whenever you found out Gryffindor won a Quidditch game.”

            Fucking Potter. Draco let out his breath. “A bit of trouble with the team,” he lied, easily enough; Branwen never let any of the “trouble” she had with her players reach the public, so they had no way of checking on his story. “I’m afraid I can’t talk about it.”

            Theodore patted him on the shoulder in turn. “We understand.”

            Well, you do, at least, Draco thought, and looked at Millicent, who was staring into her wineglass as if it held all the secrets of existence. Perhaps her job had something to do with Divination. She certainly acted as cracked as ever old Professor Trelawney had.

            Theodore moved the conversation elsewhere then, and Draco happily went with it, discussing rival Quidditch teams, the Ministry’s latest tiresome attempts to discourage prejudice against Mudbloods, the scandal surrounding the escape of a Hebridean Black dragon from its sanctuary, Ginny Potter’s accident, and other subjects that did not touch in any way on Draco’s accident.

            Or Harry, damn him.

            Draco noticed his hands were shaking with an almost academic interest. Then he put down the wine, and decided he wouldn’t drink any for the rest of the evening.

            It wasn’t, quite, the Veela need. It was something he didn’t want to feel any more than he wanted to feel that, however.

            It was the urge to talk about Harry combined with the urge not to talk about him. It was the desire to Floo home and send an owl to Harry cursing him for his refusal to meet Draco for the Seeker’s game, and then immediately afterwards send one apologizing and asking again for his company. It was—

            Letting the Veela take over my thoughts, Draco diagnosed himself firmly, and then went, found Pansy, and made himself enjoy the evening. Parties like this had been the second most important part of his life until a few months ago, and even when he couldn’t be the star of the evening, he could always make sly and cutting remarks about other guests and earn attention that way.

            It was an effort.

            How much of an effort it was scared him.

*

            “Ready?” Ralph’s voice was in his ear, so low that Harry had to concentrate to hear him.

            Harry nodded, once, and Ralph’s hand briefly brushed his. “Luck,” he mouthed.

            Harry tried to say it back, but wasn’t sure he managed before Kingsley’s voice rang out in a savage bark from the other side of the house. “Now!”

            Harry raised his wand and put all his power behind the Blasting Curse he used to break the building’s door open. He had to destroy not only the wood and stone but the wards protecting it, and then the magic nearly burned him half to death in the backlash. He was on the ground before then, though, holding Ralph flat with him, and the fire went over their heads. Then he was on his feet and pounding inside, with Ralph right behind him.

            It was dark inside the house—strange, since there had been both magical light shining through the shutters and sunlight from the outside a few moments before. Harry focused, and felt the oily tinge of powerful glamour magic against his senses.

            “Glamour!” he called, so the other Hermes Aurors would know and not waste time trying to cast a light charm. Glamours could only be countered by Finite Incantatem. Harry moved his wand through the appropriate motions and thought the spell as hard as he could, and the glamour fled like a startled hare.

            He had a brief glimpse of a room filled with wooden tables, each one with a cauldron bubbling on it, before someone crashed into him and bore him to the ground, snarling wildly.

            Snarling?

            “Werewolf!” Harry yelled, and then he was twisting and rolling and kicking, doing everything he could to keep the bulky man on top of him from gaining a firm hold on his sides or throat. It was near the full moon—not the day of, or Harry would have to worry about infection—but werewolves’ strength increased as it came closer, and if he could get a moment’s purchase, this bloke could easily strangle Harry to death.

            The snarls continued, so fierce that Harry wouldn’t have thought they were human if he were only listening to them. But then heavy punches slammed into his side, and he gasped and had to stop moving. The hands that gave the punches promptly reached for his throat, scrabbling to his shoulders and squeezing.

            Harry gritted his teeth through the pain and flicked his wand. The Blasting Curse hit the werewolf in turn and flung him away. He crashed into one of the tables and howled as the cauldrons boiling above him overturned and dumped their blue potions all over him. A moment later, the howl became a cry of true agony, and not just frustration at losing his prey.

            Harry spun on one heel and flung a Body-Bind over his shoulder, only consciously realizing a moment later that there’d been an opponent there. The witch had dodged, but the motion had disrupted her own attack, whatever it was, and now they circled each other.

            She was—familiar. It took more than a glimpse of the thick head of blonde hair, but Harry finally placed her.

            “Carrow,” he said, and his voice was a snarl to rival the werewolf’s.

            Alecto Carrow bared her teeth at him, but didn’t waste breath on words. Her wand moved in a dazzling motion that would have taken Harry if he hadn’t seen it before; a number of the former Death Eaters used the exact same motion, since they’d learned under the same dueling master. It was meant to make the curses they cast harder to identify.

            But Harry had been in the forefront of the hunt for the Death Eaters who had escaped Voldemort’s fall, and he knew the whole range of motions they could cast, limited as they were, by now.

            He knew she was casting the Cruciatus, and his instinctive rage made his Shield Charm the most powerful he’d ever cast; the walls shook with the force of it. Her own curse came very near rebounding on her, and she barely dodged it. When she came in a second time, it was more cautiously.

            Harry sensed movement around him, and quickly counted footsteps. Two sets. That made sense. Alecto Carrow never went far without Amycus, her brother, and Amycus had no skill in glamours, which meant there had to be at least one more wizard who’d cast that. Add the werewolf—

            Fenrir Greyback—

            And there were at least four Death Eaters in here, plus whatever company they’d brought. Now that they knew Harry was here, they’d be concentrating on him. They had never forgiven him for the fall of their Lord.

            Harry was breathing hard, but he knew he was doing it through a rictus grin. A savagery he never felt except at moments like this was up and barking in him.

            Let them do it. If they’re hunting me, they won’t be looking at Kingsley or Ralph or Hestia—

            And then another glamour wrapped the room, this time a replica of the battle where Harry had killed Voldemort, with the towers of Hogwarts in the background. Curses flashed, victims screamed and died, and Harry could feel the glamour-maker searching for entrance to his brain, trying to pick out what he’d feared most in this battle and add it to the scene.

            Unfortunately for him, in doing that, he’d given himself away. There was only one Death Eater who had such skill in illusions—so skilled that he’d completely masked the Dark Mark on his arm and never gone to Azkaban after Voldemort’s first fall—and was still running free.

            “Accio Richard Yaxley’s wand!” Harry called, and then something invisible in the green mist of Killing Curses his eyes saw zipped through the air and into his hand. Harry caught it with the skill of a Seeker and then dived, a slight sound that didn’t belong to the battle warning him.

            A curse flew some distance above him, and then Harry banged his head on an invisible table leg and had to deal with that pain. The glamour was gone in the next moment, though, its master unable to maintain his concentration without his wand in hand.

            Someone snarled horribly, and then yelped. Fenrir again, Harry thought, and by the smell of burning hair, I think Hestia got him.

            He raised a leg and broke Yaxley’s wand over his knee, then tucked the broken pieces into his robe pockets and scrambled out from under the table on the other side. He whirled around to see Alecto and her lumpy brother Amycus running full-tilt at him, chanting long, complicated incantations. Behind them, a pale-faced, dark-haired man was sinking slowly to his knees, affected as wizards always were by the sudden loss of a bonded wand.

            One of the cauldrons Amycus had just passed abruptly Levitated into the air and dumped itself all over him. He screamed and clawed at his skin, then began casting spells to get it off him. Harry caught a brief glimpse of Ralph’s victorious face, and then he and Alecto were in a duel and he couldn’t look any more.

            She tried to sling one of the cauldrons over on him in turn, but he had a shield up, and then he tried to light her robes on fire and she blocked that, and then he stripped part of the flesh from her bones on her left hand and she shrieked but threw something at him instead of trying to defend herself, and Harry fell to one leg as a spray of acid struck his right hip.

            He cast the Aguamenti charm on himself, washing off and diluting the acid before it could do much damage, and then looked up to see every cauldron in the place spinning above his head on thin threads of light, ready to dump their contents on him.

            “This is for our Lord, Potter,” Alecto breathed. “Since you killed him, none of us have—“

            The fault of the Death Eaters, Harry thought, had always been that they talked too much. That gave him time, and he had worked the first defensive Transfiguration that he could think of. The cauldrons all shivered, and turned into large birds. Harry hadn’t had much time to concentrate, so they still had round bellies and metallic wings rather like handles, but they soared away from above him, and Alecto gaped after them for a long, witless moment.

            Harry used the moment to disarm her, sweep her feet from underneath her with a more enthusiastic version of the Aguamenti charm, Body-Bind her, and then knock her unconscious for good measure. Limping a bit, he turned and looked after the others.

            Yaxley had fallen unconscious, too. Kingsley crouched over him. Ralph, looking a bit embarrassed, stood by the badly-melted remains of Amycus; no one save Alecto would mourn him, but it was considered bad form for Aurors to kill on the job. Hestia Jones, justifiably proud in Harry’s view, sat beside Fenrir Greyback, who now wore silver shackles and a fixed snarl.

            “Excellent work,” said Kingsley briskly. “Three taken, one killed, and we have a good chance of finding out who was employing them to brew this potion, whatever it is.” He had a gruff tone, and someone would have to know his superior very well, Harry thought, to realize just how pleased he was; it was there in the shine to his eyes and the depth of his voice. The tall Black Auror made a careful scan of Hestia, then of Ralph, nodding a little as if to show his surprise that both had escaped from a confrontation with four dangerous Death Eaters harboring only slight injuries. Then he looked at Harry and shook his head. “How is it that you always end up with the most wounds, Potter?”

            “It’s a rare and unrecognized talent, and the true secret of how I killed Voldemort,” Harry deadpanned, and then started checking himself over. The heavy punches from Fenrir, the bump on his head from the table leg, a puffy and swollen knee he might have sustained at any point during the battle, and the splash of acid on his hip from Alecto’s wand. Nothing that couldn’t wait, though. “None of Greyback’s claws broke the skin,” he added, knowing the confirmation Kingsley was truly waiting for.

            His boss relaxed. “Good. Back to the Ministry with this lot, then, and secure holding cells for them.”

            They Levitated their prisoners—all except Ralph, whom Kingsley charged with remaining behind to gather up Amycus’s body and examine the potion. None of them recognized it, but they had reason to suspect, after the job they’d done of following the tracks, that the potion had been used in several murders in and around Diagon Alley lately. Ralph would have to decide how to Transfigure Harry’s cauldron-birds back into their original form, a task that Harry didn’t envy him. They were currently cooing and pecking on the house’s windows.

            Harry limped as they headed back to the Ministry, the adrenaline worn off. Still, he was satisfied. These four had been the most dangerous Death Eaters remaining free. They hadn’t found the potion-maker yet, but they had done a good day’s work.

*

            Getting Alecto registered as a dangerous criminal took almost no time at all; Harry really only had to pull back her sleeve and show the Dark Mark. And then she went into a holding cell, wrapped with so many wards that it would have taken a wizard of Harry’s own level even to think about magic in it. And Harry, just to make sure, supervised the transfer of Fenrir Greyback into an even more secure cell, while the werewolf snarled silently at him, and stank of burned fur, the entire time.

            All in all, he was in a pretty damn good mood when he limped into his office to start filing the paperwork for the case.

            “Good Lord, Harry, what happened?”

            Harry stopped, staring. Malfoy was leaning against the far wall of the office, behind Ralph’s desk, but swiftly straightening, with a shocked look on his face. “How did you get in here?” he demanded.

            “My famous charm.” Malfoy covered the ground between them in three strides, and then caught Harry to hold him up, even though he didn’t need any help. He smoothly ducked the elbow Harry tried to put in his side. “You just came from battle, didn’t you? You idiot. Has anyone seen that leg—“

            His hand fell to rest on Harry’s right hip and on top of the acid wound, and the flare of pain that followed made Harry almost black out. “Damn it!” he hissed, when he was sure he was conscious, and lunged away from Malfoy and into his chair. That wrenched his knee again, and his ribs and head joined in with loud choruses of pain. Harry rubbed them, and cursed, and thought sourly that he’d been just fine until Malfoy had to try his stupid heroics.

            “Someone’s going to see the leg in a little while,” he said, leaning forward and trying the death glare that worked well on Auror trainees who thought that working with the famous Harry Potter meant they’d have a chance to capture criminals every day of the week. “I have a few things to accomplish first. Now, what the fuck are you doing here?”

            Malfoy folded his arms and looked unimpressed. “Rescuing you, it appears,” he said. He looked at his left hand, then held it up for Harry’s inspection. There was blood on it.

            Harry rolled his eyes. “So it’s an open wound. It had stopped bleeding until you pulled at it—“

            “How did you get it?”

            “Acid, from Alecto Carrow’s wand. Now, will you please—“

            Malfoy changed before his eyes. Suddenly the shadows of wings were unfolding from his shoulders, but they looked like blades. His face flickered and danced like static on a Muggle telly, now human, now beaked like some great bird. Staring, Harry fell silent.

            Malfoy took a few moments more, and then regained control of himself, though his face was white as bone. “So, in other words, you went up against Death Eaters, and nearly died,” he rasped.

            “Will you stop putting it like that?” Harry rolled his eyes. Honestly, Malfoy is such a drama queen. “Three other Aurors were with me. And I’m not so stupid as to ignore my own injuries for hours, I promise. But they can wait for right now, because none of them were werewolf wounds.”

            “None of them were werewolf wounds,” Malfoy repeated, as if that were the stupidest thing he had ever heard.

            “Yes, Fenrir Greyback was there,” Harry said dismissively, beginning to search for his paperwork. Maybe Malfoy would calm down when he saw that Harry was calm, and tell him what he wanted, and then leave. “He was the major danger. But one of the other Aurors took him down, really, even though he attacked me. Anything that’s not a werewolf wound can wait until I’ve signed a few things.”

            “You’re such an idiot,” Malfoy said, softly and fervently.

            “Hmmm,” said Harry, and barely controlled the impulse to use one of Ralph’s obscene gestures. He signed his name once, then looked up. “Now, what did you want? I already agreed that I’d see you for a few minutes on Sunday afternoon.”

*

            Draco was shaking from reaction, and he hadn’t even been in the battle. How could Harry just sit there, looking like the battered veteran of half a dozen wars, and look at him so—

            So fucking calmly?

            The Veela hadn’t had concrete proof before that its mate’s life might be in danger. Now it was shrieking in the back of his head, and Draco only kept from doing the same thing by reminding himself that Harry wasn’t in danger of bleeding to death right in front of his eyes.

            Draco swallowed back a mixture of anger and sickness, and did his best to imitate Harry’s calm manner. Otherwise, he would let the Veela have control again, and it would grow its wings, grab Harry, Apparate him to a private room in Malfoy Manor, and keep him there until his wounds had been thoroughly tended and the Veela itself had seen to every square inch of skin.

            “I invited you to a game of Quidditch on Sunday,” he said, “and you declined. I wanted to know why.”

            Harry paused in writing his name again to give him a sidelong glance. “I’d think that would be obvious,” he said. “We’re not friends, Malfoy. You said that you’d come to me when you needed me, and no other time. But what are broken promises to someone like you?” A moment later, he flushed deeply.

            “Low blow, Harry,” Draco hissed. He opened his mouth to pursue the matter of Harry’s flush, but Harry hissed back at him, his voice holding more than a hint of Parseltongue.

            “Will you stop calling me that? Every time you take down the barriers between us, I have to work harder to put them back up.”

            Draco took a moment to study his face, and with the sight of the shine in his green eyes, the Veela’s anger shifted to lust. Draco went with the impulse, leaning forwards and putting an elbow on the desk. “Call me mad, but I do like to use the first names of people I’ve had sex with.”

            Harry immediately looked away. “It wasn’t sex,” he said. “Just mutual wanking.” His voice gained strength. “And Ginny doesn’t want me doing it again. I can wank you, kiss you—whatever. But no more coming with you.”

            Draco got his first full taste of Veela jealousy then. It wasn’t pleasant. His stomach seemed to have knotted up like rope, and he had a mouthful of poison he couldn’t bear to swallow.



            “And if the Veela needs that?” he asked softly.

            “I can’t give it.” Harry’s voice was resolute, but miserable. “I’ll meet you—it—twice a month, if necessary. But I won’t break my word to Ginny.”

            Draco finally managed to swallow, and then say, “I invited you for a Seeker’s Game because I thought we both deserved the chance to meet on friendly terms, for once. You’re the one who spoiled that.”

            Harry turned to look at him again, eyes wide and incredulous. It was too close to the way he’d looked when Draco first gripped his cock for Draco’s own cock not to throb. “How many times do I have to say this?” he asked. “We’re not friends. You don’t need to call me by my first name. You don’t need to worry about my wounds. You don’t need to give me a thing. As soon as I’ve given the Veela what it needs for the last time, I fully expect you to leave me to my own life.”

            Draco shook his head. “Not good enough any more.”

            “But why?” Harry ran a weary hand through his hair, then winced; he must have touched some wound hidden on his scalp. Draco restrained the immediate impulse to cast a numbing charm. “It should be. And I don’t want to break my promise to Ginny.”

            “Don’t break your promise to her,” said Draco. “But did she really make you promise never to play Quidditch with me?”

            Harry scowled. “No.”

            “Well, then.”

            “You still didn’t tell me why you want to be my friend.” Harry peered at him around the heel of his palm, still on his face. “I’ve done horrible things to you, Malfoy, God knows.”

            “I want it,” Draco said, and waved a hand. “The reason isn’t important.”

            “Yes, it is. Malfoy—“

            “I suppose we could make a bargain,” Draco said, and tapped his lips with one finger. “You can start calling me by my first name, or you can come to the Quidditch game, and I might consider either of those recompense enough for breaking your promise that you wouldn’t try to ignore what happened between us.”

            Harry opened his mouth, then closed it and groaned. “How do I get into these things?” he muttered.

            “Choose,” Draco said, not inclined to be lenient now. The bitch tried to keep him away from me. That Ginny Potter was probably justified in not wanting her husband to cheat on her didn’t matter. She had agreed to this bargain, and now she wouldn’t accept the natural consequences that came with it.

            Harry sighed. “Fine. The Quidditch game.”

            Draco smiled at him. “Is my first name that hard to say, then?”

            “Get out.”

            Harry was beginning to look seriously angry, so Draco thought he should make the most of his chance while he had it. He gave a mock bow and made his way to the office door, which Theodore had been kind enough to find him a key for.

            He did pause to look back, and add, “If you don’t have those wounds treated in the next few hours, Harry, I will give you hell.”

            He shut the door before the gape-mouthed Auror could retort.

*

            “So I suppose what I think doesn’t really matter, then, does it?”

            Harry kept his eyes on his hands as he laced up his old Quidditch gloves. He hadn’t bought a new pair in years, but then again, he hadn’t done much growing since he was nineteen, either. He had suspected the old gloves would fit, and, sure enough, they did.

            “Do not ignore me, Harry James Potter.”

            Harry sighed and brought his head up so that he was meeting Ginny’s eyes. “I told you the bargain,” he said quietly. “Maybe spending more time with Malfoy will ease the Veela’s desire to—please its lover.” He could still feel the heat of the flush on his skin. No matter how many times he said it, he still couldn’t quite get used to the fact that “Veela’s lover” referred to himself. “He said it wouldn’t be enough. I’m hoping that just a few hours in his company will make it be.”

            “But I didn’t want you to go at all.” Ginny’s whisper was as loud as a shout to some parts of his brain.

            Harry moved forwards and embraced her, feeling her hold him back desperately. “To keep that promise to you about not cheating,” he whispered, “I have to spend some time to him. Just playing Quidditch couldn’t be so bad, could it?”

            “I don’t trust him,” Ginny whispered back. “He wants you, and I feel like I’m losing my grip on you. I hate it.”

            He could think of nothing to say, and so pressed his lips to her hair. “I want to stay right here,” he said. “I’ll refuse all the little tricks he’s trying to entice me closer, I promise. I won’t call him by his first name, or let him use me the way he did, or spend the night at his house again. I’m in a place where I can Apparate away immediately if he tries anything more than what I’ve told him he can have. It might be worthwhile to be friends with him, because then he’ll feel some more consideration for me, and he might stop intriguing like this.”

            Ginny gave a quiet little sniffle, but said nothing for long moments. Then she murmured a sentence he couldn’t hear, since her mouth was pressed against his chest.

            “What?” Harry drew back to look down at her.

            “I said that he won’t stop intriguing,” Ginny said, pulling back at the same time. She looked up, and she was trying to smile, but her eyes were bitter. “Why would he? He’s a Slytherin. They always plot.”

            Harry thought of Malfoy’s eyes when he’d seen Harry’s wounds, and couldn’t convince himself that worry was part of a plan. But he certainly couldn’t say that to Ginny. “I’m only doing this to keep him from dying,” he said. “For no other reason. I certainly don’t desire him, Gin.”

            Liar, said his subconscious.

            Harry ignored the traitorous voice in his head. He’d actually spent some time reading about this in February, and the book he’d consulted said that psychological bonds grew between people who had sexual contact, even when they agreed that it should mean nothing. Add Veela magic to that, and it could feel like desire. But it wasn’t. It was a trick of his own mind, and Harry wouldn’t let that destroy his relationship with his wife.

            “Ah, yes. Ever the paragon.”

            Harry’s brow wrinkled as he looked at Ginny. Those words were definitely bitter, and her eyes flashed. “What do you mean?”

            “You can’t stand for innocent people to die.” Ginny folded her arms and stared down at her blanket-covered legs. “Even if it means sacrificing marital fidelity.”

            “Should I have let him die?” Harry asked, his voice going a little rough with anger. Ginny couldn’t know the specific cause of it since he’d never shared the memory of Ron and Hermione’s deaths with her, but she’d heard him say often enough that he’d become an Auror to preserve innocent lives. How could she expect him to turn against that rationale by which he lived his life now?

            “I know you couldn’t,” Ginny said. “You’re too much of a hero for that.”



Harry blew out his breath in exasperation. “Heroism has nothing to do with it. I just—no one deserves to die like that.”

Ginny closed her eyes. “I know,” she said. “How many times do you think I’ve told myself that in the last three and a half months? But I resent that this happened to me so much.”

            Harry put his arms back around her, completely contented with her answer. No, it wasn’t fair, any more than it was fair that the prophecy had picked him to destroy Voldemort. But sometimes things like that happened, and the best way to deal with them was just live, and continue, and then laugh about it afterwards.

            And then he had an idea—one of those little inspirations in dealing with his wife that had often come to him since he married her.

            “Why don’t we have a holiday next month?” he whispered. “Just you and me. A week at least—maybe longer than that. I’m owed time. We’ll go to—to Mexico, maybe,” he said, picking a destination out of Ginny’s very long list of places she’d once told him she would like to visit. “No mention of Draco Malfoy or Auror work or Quidditch allowed. Just you and me.”

            Her eyes opened again, soft. “I would like that very much,” she said softly, and then patted her leg. “This won’t inconvenience us too much?”

            “The last thing you could ever be,” Harry said fervently, “is an inconvenience.” He kissed her on the mouth, then stood a moment longer, smiling at her, before he turned and left.

            She said nothing as he closed the door, but the silence between them was peaceful.

*

            Draco looked up as he saw a broom dart across the sky. He would have opened his mouth to shout whoever it was off the pitch, but he knew at once that it was Harry.

            Funny, really. It had been years since he’d seen him on a broom, but he couldn’t forget that combination of grace and natural skill, as though Harry had been born to fly instead of walk. The Firebolt skimmed in several directions, then seemed to orient on Draco and plunge towards him.

            Draco found himself staring, transfixed. Then he licked his lips and stepped forwards, holding out a hand as if he could catch his mate.

            Its mate, he thought a moment later, but it was getting harder and harder to deny what he’d known for some time now: that the Veela’s thoughts were becoming inextricably mixed with his own, that it was ceasing to be a separate personality.

            Harry pulled up a moment before he would have hit the ground and grinned, swinging off his broom. “Afternoon, Malfoy,” he said cheerfully. “Ready to have your arse handed to you?”

            The openness of Harry’s face surprised Draco, who spent a moment studying him before he replied. He looked perfectly healthy, without a trace of the pain that had marred his expression when they last met. He even held out a hand for Draco to clasp, as if no hard feelings had ever lain between them.

            He recognized the tactic a moment later, of course; there weren’t many elements of manipulation that he didn’t. Harry doubtless hoped that a friendship between them would get Draco’s mind off sex.

            It wouldn’t work, not when Harry was so shamelessly beautiful, but Draco had no problem with banter. He clasped the hand back, and asked, with a smirk, “And who is the professional Seeker here? My sources tell me that you’ve barely been on a broom in the last few years, let alone played professional Quidditch.”

            “And I hadn’t been on a broom before I came to Hogwarts, either,” Harry said calmly. Again he darted a flash of that grin at Draco. “That reminds me. I never did thank you for stealing Neville’s Remembrall and helping me get on the Gryffindor House Quidditch team, did I?”

            Draco narrowed his eyes. Such an insult deserved retaliation, and he achieved it by opening his left hand and letting the Golden Snitch imprisoned there dart out.

            Harry ducked before he realized what it was, and then shouted as he saw Draco surging up on his Comet 2003 and giving chase. A moment later, he was in pursuit, his face grimly set when Draco looked back at him.

            The grimness had a heavy undertone of excitement, though, and Draco felt a familiar tightening in his gut. This was what Harry had looked like during game after game at Hogwarts.

            Those were good memories—or, at least, so old that the sting had faded from them. Besides, Draco was determined to beat Harry this time.

            The Falcons’ home practice pitch was bigger than the Hogwarts one by several times, with stands around it capable of seating nearly a thousand people. And it was a challenging day for flying, with a brisk enough wind that Draco worried just a little about his seat on the broom, and such rapidly moving clouds that a constantly changing dazzle of shade and sunlight passed across them. Draco knew every nook and cranny of this pitch, and he suspected he would capture the little golden ball before Harry did.

            A flash of motion caught his eye, but it turned out to be Harry himself, crouched forwards on his Firebolt, his head turning restlessly from side to side. Draco grinned fiercely at him, though he didn’t think the other wizard noticed.

            God, it felt good to be up here, with a competitor worthy of him. Since Harry had sharpened his senses and clarified his mind, Draco had felt that the normal Seekers in the league were no challenge.

            Together, they circled and darted like falcons themselves, sometimes feinting to make each other think the Snitch lay in a particular direction. Draco felt his breathing calm into a deep, quiet register, which was the exact opposite of what usually happened when he played. Then, he hissed through his teeth.

            But, with Harry beside him…

            He liked this. Just the two of them. He liked it well enough to want to do it again, and again, and again.

            Abruptly, Harry gave a shout and snatched at the air. Draco snapped his head sideways, eyes locking on another flash of motion.

            And then he realized Harry had used the oldest Seeker’s trick in the book, and distracted him into looking one way while he flew another, bent over his broom with one hand grasping at empty air.

            Draco grinned narrowly and unleashed the Comet’s full speed. He shot forwards, and in moments he was under Harry, in danger of receiving a boot in the head. He had seen the Snitch now, too, and from the angle, he judged he would grab it first if he could come in under Harry.

            Harry must have known that, too. He slanted down past Draco, so close their thighs brushed, and then slanted up again like a hawk uncertain of the kill. Now he was slightly ahead.

            Draco flung himself into a twisting roll, and found his broom spinning past Harry. For one moment, his mate’s scent filled his nostrils, and his head swam, and his lungs inflated.

            But along with that came the irresistible impulse to impress his mate. He stretched further than he could really afford, which made his shoulder muscles scream, and then the Snitch was in his hand. It burned cold from its travels through the wind, and its wings fluttered madly.

            Harry’s hand, briefly touching his, burned more.

            Draco pulled up, and tried to laugh. His throat hurt from the air he’d swallowed, and he had to lick his lips several times before he said, “I suppose we know who is the professional Seeker here now.”

            “Beginner’s luck,” Harry said, looking unruffled, unless the deep burn in his eyes revealed anger or eagerness. “Best two out of three?”

            Draco smirked at him. The sun made the Snitch flare as he tossed it free again, and then Harry was past him like some wingless demon and after it. Draco followed, the contentment settled in his stomach like a full meal.

*

            In the end, he caught the Snitch three times, Harry two. They landed on the grass of the pitch two hours later, with Harry’s cheeks flushed from the wind and his voice hoarse from yelling insults. He reached out and shook Draco’s hand that didn’t hold the Snitch the moment it came free from the broom.

            “I take back any comments I may have made about beginner’s luck,” he said. “You really are a good Seeker, Draco.”

            It was lovely to watch the way his face flushed the moment he realized what name he had used.

            Draco gave a low laugh and stepped closer. The Veela had been drugged into insensibility for most of the afternoon by the sheer fact that its mate was close and associating with it willingly, but it revived now like a gold-white heat shimmer. Draco could feel the same tension coiling in his groin. He was already hard.

            He reached out and carefully grasped Harry’s wrist, drawing him in so that he could kiss him.

            Harry made a muffled exclamation as the wings coalesced into being above Draco’s shoulders and swept around them, shielding them from the view of anyone who might be watching—not that anyone would be, since no one else Draco knew was mad enough to practice on a day they actually had off. Draco settled the wings carefully against Harry’s back, and heard him gasp and shiver. And then he relaxed, and closed his eyes, and his voice was full of pleasure.

            “That’s—nice. Really nice.”

            “I thought you would like them,” Draco said, making sure to keep his tone simple and soft and honest, without a hint of smugness. That would probably wake Harry and drive him away. He didn’t want him to wake.

            He waved his wand and murmured the spell that would banish his Quidditch gear, all the while cradling Harry with the wings, a few feet away from him. Then they sank onto the ground, Draco flexing the large primaries so that he could press Harry closer still. He hadn’t been sure this would work, but it seemed he could control these Veela attributes, just like its desires, when he concentrated.

            They landed on the soft grass of the Pitch, Draco naked, Harry still clothed. Harry’s eyes snapped open for a moment, and he gazed down at Draco seriously.

            “I can’t let you touch me,” he said. “I promised Ginny I wouldn’t.”

            Draco smiled at him. “I know that,” he said. “The time you spent with me is an adequate substitute.” Then he stretched up to kiss Harry again, while at the same time rolling his body a bit so that Harry was in a better position to reach down and wrap his hand around Draco’s erection.

            It had never been like this, without a sense of guilt or shame or need so desperate as to almost banish the pleasure. Draco liked it like this, with Harry’s hand slowly but not hesitantly stroking him, with Harry’s face hovering above his, with Harry staring at him as if he didn’t know quite what to make of him.

            The heat built slowly this time, Draco making low eager noises to urge Harry along. The Veela had by this time so joined with him that it didn’t feel separate at all when he arched his back and caught Harry close for a final kiss just before he came.

            Harry closed his eyes and moaned freely.

            That was what brought Draco’s release, suddenly and hard. Almost in surprise, he clutched at Harry with both wings and arms, and cried out as he poured across his hand. And then he let himself sag, the wings falling around them both like a tent, as he panted and tried to convince himself that moving was a good idea.

            The sun shone steadily now, warm on their skin. Harry lay quiescent, seemingly content to be embraced. Draco didn’t want to move, that was the trouble. He didn’t want to stand up and walk away from the pitch, either, and back into a world where Harry barely tolerated him.

            He stroked Harry’s hair, and remained silent. This time, he could think of the inevitable awkward words.

*

            Harry was painfully, embarrassingly, mortifyingly hard.

            He wasn’t sure he could blame it on Veela magic this time, either. From the moment the wings had touched him, he had just—relaxed. The only thing he could compare it to was the sleep he’d had in Malfoy’s bed. Nothing much had mattered, once the wings embraced him. The intimacy between them was only natural, and Harry hadn’t sought for someone to blame for the accident or the fact that Malfoy’s Veela had chosen him as its mate. He had just acted, just done what he had to do, only to find that doing it with a willing heart and hand was—

            Incredibly arousing.

            At last, he swallowed and sat up, letting the moment fall away from them like Malfoy’s wings were doing. That was when he found that it refused to fall away. Malfoy’s eyes studied him, and though he didn’t smile, his face was intense. It was incredibly hard to look away.

            “You won’t deny that, I hope,” Malfoy said at last, softly. “That was beautiful, and you know it.”

            Harry closed his eyes. Then he shook his head, and rose stiffly to his feet. Malfoy scrambled up at once, not seeming to notice he was naked to wind and sun and anyone who might come by, with an exclamation.

            “I thought you’d had your leg healed—“ he said, reaching out.

            “Playing Quidditch like that—“ Harry began hastily, but Malfoy’s hand had already collided with his groin.

            Silence, for one excruciating instant. Harry waited for the mocking words.

            “After lovemaking like that,” was all Malfoy said, “I would have worried about you if you didn’t react, Harry.”

            And then he pulled his hand back.

            Unable to believe he was escaping so easily, Harry opened his eyes. Malfoy gave him an easy smile as he moved to gather up his robes, which lay at a short distance, tossed there by the charm.

            “The Veela’s gone entirely,” he added. “I think what it really wanted was communion with you. True sharing. You shared yourself, Harry, and I doubt I’ll need you again this month. Thank you.”

            Harry ducked his head, his cheeks fiercely stinging, and murmured, “You’re welcome, Malfoy.”

            “And still you won’t call me Draco?”

            The voice was teasing, coaxing, and Harry wondered if there was any way not to feel bad about refusing.

            He still had a promise to Ginny, though, so he smiled, said, “I’m afraid not,” and pretended not to see the other man’s disappointment. As he picked up the Firebolt, he added, with the same kind of inspiration that had prompted him to speak to Ginny about their holiday, “But I am planning to come your game at the beginning of May.”

            Malfoy’s breath hitched. Then he said, “Really,” as if trying to disguise how interested he was.

            “Yes.” Harry looked up and caught his eyes.

            Malfoy was still mostly naked, only his pants and shirt on. He was looking at Harry with keen interest. And what Harry thought when he watched him was, Holy God, he’s beautiful.

            He remained looking, which took more courage than facing Alecto Carrow had. Malfoy tilted his head, and said, “You don’t need to do it just to prove a point.”

            “I know,” said Harry. “I want to.”

            A smile ran around Malfoy’s face like sunlight.

            Harry gave his head a little shake. He’d always tried to do the right thing, but now, he was not sure what the right thing was, other than the course of action that would cause the least amount of pain to the least number of people. Going to see Malfoy’s Quidditch game was a small sacrifice, just as playing today had been, and playing today had enabled him to keep his promise to Ginny. He could get through this. Really, he could.

            A small voice in the back of his head whispered that this balancing act would soon become impossible, but Harry ignored it. Little voices like that were only right about half the time.

            “I have to leave,” he said, and started to nod a farewell, but Malfoy coughed. Harry glanced at him.

            “You have, ah, come on your robes,” Malfoy said quietly.

            Harry flushed, and waved his wand to Vanish the white fluid, listening to Malfoy chuckle with only a little resentment. God knew he had the right to laugh, and going home to Ginny with that on him would have angered her further.

*

            Draco resisted, barely, the temptation to summon his wings back and do a victory dance, still mostly naked, all over the Quidditch Pitch as Harry Apparated away.

            Harry wanted to spend time with him. He wanted it.

            Draco had never felt better in his life. Even the thought of the cold, silent running argument he would return to when he got home, in the form of Pansy’s anger over Harry, could not damp his spirits. He felt lifted and still both at once—utterly exalted and utterly at peace.

            It still might mean nothing. It still might end when the year was over.



            But.

            Someone who could challenge him, someone who could make his own sacrifices in answer to Draco’s, someone who could make him feel that damn good…

            Draco knew he wouldn’t find it easy to let him go.
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A Year's Temptation

Chapter Four—April