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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
- 6
- 7
- 8
Thank you again for the reviews!

Chapter Seven—July

            “God, Harry, that’s hard.” For a moment, Ralph’s hand gripped his shoulder almost painfully, and then he shook him once and pulled away. “Is there—is there anything that you need to talk about? If you need to talk to a friend, you know I’m available, right?”

            Harry forced himself to smile. He felt weary almost beyond bearing; he’d been tired since Ginny left, as if, without her presence in the same bed, his body couldn’t rest. But he could smile for Ralph, who had borne the news of Ginny’s leaving him without immediately assuming it was Harry’s fault, as much as he adored Ginny. “No. Just—not right now. The circumstances are complicated.” He struggled to hold back a laugh when Ralph nodded seriously. More complicated than you can possibly imagine right now. “Maybe in a little while, I’ll want to talk about it.”

            Ralph actually reached out and patted his hand. “Sure, Harry. Do you think you ought to stay and work today?”

            “Yes,” Harry said firmly. He hadn’t told Ralph about Ginny leaving for three days, and he’d avoided work in the meantime. His desk was piled with reports, files, and news about what their informants thought were possible Death Eater movements. “I need to do this, Ralph. I can’t stop living my life just because she’s gone for right now.” And not because some Veela’s chasing me, either.

            “All right,” said Ralph. He gave Harry a faint smile and tapped him on the shoulder with a closed fist. “Still the best in the Aurors, aren’t we?”

            “I’d like to see those idiots in the Zeus Corps touch us,” said Harry, which made Ralph laugh and sent him back to his desk to work on his own reports.

            Harry faced the mess with a determined expression. It had still taken him three days, as strongly as he felt about Ginny, to decide that he could make conversation that didn’t revolve around her.

            But he would have to. He needed to show her that he was capable of standing up for their marriage, fighting for her, and that would best be answered with a demonstration of strength. If he simply collapsed when she left, what would she think? Probably that he was too weak to resist any invitation from Malfoy, that was what.

            If any invitation did come from Malfoy, of course, Harry didn’t plan on replying to it. He would wait for an owl from Ginny telling him when she felt ready to communicate with him. That was where his primary loyalty lay, had to lie, and he had forgotten it too long in sympathy for Malfoy. Even when he’d yelled at the bastard for being selfish, he’d felt bad about it.

            Not any more.

            He dragged a report towards him and began to read it, correcting slight mistakes in the spelling as he went.

*

            Draco regarded the owl from Theo with a small smile. He’d written to his friend asking for help with Pansy. He hadn’t made the situation that specific, of course; Theo didn’t know how his wife had betrayed him, and Draco planned to keep it that way. But he could brew potions that Draco couldn’t manage without his own lab, and he owed him several favors.

            “Who is that from?” asked Pansy sweetly from across the table. She wore a silver necklace that shone against the pale skin of her throat and her colorless, low-cut gown. She put her cup of tea on the table and smiled at him.

            “From Theo,” said Draco, and snorted with the casual contempt he’d planned as he ripped the envelope open and just barely caught the vial of green potion that tumbled out. He wagged it at Pansy while looking at the letter. “Another damn strength potion. He always wants me to test them for him, so he can find out how they affect a Quidditch player’s stamina. He hasn’t yet learned I have no wish to help him in his illegal little sideline.” Not least because the Ministry’s not as stupid as Theo thinks they are, and they’ll find out who’s supplying the potions to the middlemen sooner or later.Draco never used plans so easily found out anymore.

            “Oh.” Pansy lost interest—Theo had sent potions like this before—and returned to her breakfast and the Daily Prophet.Draco heard her chuckling maliciously over something, probably Celestina Warbeck’s latest scandal. He told himself he didn’t care, and paid closer attention to Theo’s letter. It was more interesting than he had expected, since it included a second paragraph.

            July 4^th

            Draco:

            Here’s a certain potion I think will be useful to you. Please use it as soon as possible; I need to have data on my efforts ready for my superiors no later than a week from now.

            I know you won’t tell me why you’re so damn interested in Potter lately, but you might want to know I’ve heard (from Ministry gossip) that his wife’s separated from him. Not divorced yet, but they’re living apart from each other, and Potter has said they’ve had problems. If you are interested in him that way, you’ll never have a better chance to ask him for it.

            Theo.

            Draco blinked several times. He couldn’t imagine the little Weasley leaving Harry, but then, six months ago, he could never have imagined that matters would come to this pass between him and Harry, either, or between him and Pansy. Perhaps it was best to accept that certain things happened and take advantage of them, rather than constantly questioning them.

            The Veela in the back of his head flooded his mind with daydreams like bubbles, and then abruptly Draco had the strangest sensation—as if he’d overused certain muscles in practice and they had begun to spasm. Unconnected thoughts and magic jolted and shuddered in his body, and then broke apart from him, whirling out like tendrils. But even though Draco kept his eyes open, he couldn’t see them. He slumped against the table with a loud sigh.

            Pansy looked up at once, of course. “Darling? What’s wrong?”

            “The Veela did—something,” Draco said shortly, too shocked to hide the truth. His hands flexed up and down against the table, and he shivered again and again. He did have enough presence of mind to crumple up Theo’s letter and move it into an inner pocket of his robes before his wife could reach him. She ran tender hands up and down his arms, staring into his eyes.

            Draco let her. He had not the slightest idea what had happened himself, so he had no reason to hide it from her. After several moments, she sat back, frowning.

            “Perhaps you shouldn’t go to practice today,” she said.

            Though that handed Draco the perfect opportunity to use the potion, since he knew Pansy wanted to shop for a new set of dress robes today, he shook his head adamantly and sat up. She would think it strange if he didn’t resist. “I have to,” he said. “Branwen’s already tired of excusing me from practice for Veela-related sickness, especially since I have no explanation she accepts. She won’t—“

            “Hush, Draco,” Pansy said, and put a hand over his mouth with a wifely little smile. Draco wondered idly how many people watching the scene from outside would be fooled. No one who was a Slytherin, he decided. Pansy had given up her claim to that title by moving too quickly, too openly, too stupidly, with the pictures she’d taken. And now she seemed to think that he’d listen to her and obey her in all matters, since he’d been forced to wait to act on this one.

            Of course, that wasn’t entirely her fault. Draco had fostered the impression as much as he could in the last fortnight. But that still didn’t excuse her falling for it.

            “I’ll stop in at the field and tell Branwen that you’re sick myself.” She kissed his temple. “Stop worrying. You stay in bed and let the house-elves tend to you.”

            Draco kept up a brave front for a moment, glaring at her as if to say that she couldn’t make him stay off the Quidditch Pitch. Then he abruptly crumpled and dropped his head to his arms with a little sigh.

            “All right,” he said. “Just—just don’t contact Harry, please?”

            That was a large part of his new façade. Pansy knew as well as he did that a Veela could be controlled by a threat to its mate. Draco pleaded for Harry and not himself, and that pleased Pansy, was more believable, and increased her amusement, that he could not be as proud as he had before.

            “If you’re good, I’ll have no reason to,” she said, and swept his cheek with one more kiss before she called a house-elf to care for him. Draco went, his head drooping, his throat voicing pathetic whimpers for the benefit of everyone, and crawled into bed. The Veela in the back of his head went on singing, but the strange expansion of his magic, whatever it was, had drained him. It wasn’t entirely pretense that made his eyelids droop, and he released a deep sigh.

            “Sleep well, darling,” Pansy said, and left.

            Draco stayed in bed, half-dozing, for a good hour. She had done that, sometimes, circled back to see if he really left the Manor for the Quidditch Pitch or to shop. Draco had built up her trust by always doing as he said he would—which was dictated, now, by what she thought he should. This morning, though, was the one time he most couldn’t risk her sudden return.

            She didn’t come.

            Draco stood up and stretched. Then he called a house-elf, and the same one who had put him to bed earlier appeared, bowing and scraping.

            “I want a bowl of soup from the kitchen,” Draco told it. He took out the vial of green potion. “And you need to add a drop of this to every single piece of food in the kitchen which will go into our meals for the next two weeks. Do you understand?”

            “Begging Master Draco’s pardon,” the house-elf said, trembling as it gripped its ears, “but what is in this bottle?” It regarded the vial with a mixture of wonder and distrust.

            “A spice,” Draco said firmly. “I was sick today, you realize that?”

            The elf nodded so strongly that Draco feared for the safety of its protruding eyes.

            “And Mistress Pansy might become sick, too. But this spice will prevent that.” Draco handed the vial to the elf. “So you must add it to every bit of food, do you understand? For a fortnight.” He had no fear that the elf would have trouble with that part of the instructions. They were experts at making limited supplies stretch to fit the needs of more people than poor wizards like the Weasleys could imagine. “And you must not tell Mistress Pansy about this. Not you or any of the others. Do you understand?” He used the tone his father had used when he most wanted to be obeyed.

            “Yes, Master Malfoy,” said the elf, cowed, and took the potion away.

            Draco smiled slightly when that was done. He had asked Theo for a potion that had absolutely no effect on a man, but which would make a woman slightly more suggestible—a variant of a potion once used when it was feared that a prospective wife wouldn’t agree to an arranged marriage. The potion also had contraceptive properties, so that the husband could be sure his wife would bring no lover’s child to his bed.

            The last thing Draco wanted was for Pansy to try and trap him in this marriage with an heir.

            After he ate his soup, he went about ordering books on Veela, from shops that he could be sure were discreet and did not gossip about their clients’ purchases. He really should have done this long ago, but other than reading a few books the magical theorists who examined him sent—which were mostly about their various speculations on why the potions accident might have brought his Veela traits forwards—he hadn’t wanted to do the research. Now, he did. That expanding, stretching, reaching motion he’d suffered this morning had to have an explanation, and the Veela had been so strong in his head at the moment Draco also thought it must have something to do with it.

            There was no crisis or accident in the magical world so rare that only one person had suffered it—with the possible exception of Harry and his resisting the Killing Curse from the Dark Lord’s wand. Draco meant to find out, now, about other people who had become Veela long after puberty.

            When those owls were sent off, and he’d responded to Theo as well, he retreated to bed and took a moment to absorb the emotional implications of the news that the little Weasley had fled, leaving Harry alone.

            The Veela in the back of his head let out a hungry snarl.

            Draco had to do the same thing. His plan to escape Pansy was gathering strength, and though it might take months, he would be free of her. There was nothing to say that he couldn’t chase Harry in the meantime, though.

            He wanted him. He wanted to give to him, too: gifts that would help Harry instead of hurting him, gifts that would make him want to be around Draco, gifts that would answer the accusation of selfishness he’d used against Draco last month. They could not spend all their time in bed, after all, and he wanted to make this a bond that would last through more than sex.

            Theo’s letter had said that Harry and his little Weasley were separated, not divorced. There was still the chance that she would try to win him back, or that Harry, since he was so intent on not falling in love with someone who would be better for him, might wait for her.

            Draco thought he had at least until the end of the year, however, since their original bargain would force Harry to be around him for that long.

            He folded his arms behind his head and lay back with a little smile as he heard Pansy begin shuffling through the house. I will enchant one person legitimately, another against her will. I wonder which will be more fun?

*

            Harry sighed and arched his back. Working at his desk at home should have been more comfortable than working in his office, but it wasn’t.

            He missed Ginny.

            He had never noticed how much of his life she filled up until now. She sighed softly as she watched the fire. She turned pages in her books—and she had read more often since her accident. She required his help, at least in the last few months, for extra blankets, food, and stabilizing her crutches. Now and then she asked him random questions about house-elves, about Muggles, about the paperwork at the Ministry, which Harry thought had a common ground in her trying to decide on something to do that wouldn’t require flying. He had rushed to answer them, and since they hadn’t talked about their strained marriage at the same time, those moments had been perhaps their happiest since March.

            Since March, and Draco bloody Malfoy bringing you off.

            Harry took off his glasses and rubbed his hand across his face. He wouldn’t think about the prat until Malfoy actually owled him. He was trying to think about his own life and Ginny. Malfoy had already taken up enough of his time and attention.

            He pushed the glasses onto his face just as something white lit up the window next to the desk with a blinding explosion. Harry went backwards and joined his chair on the floor, too startled to do anything else. Then he rolled and reached for his wand.

            The hiss of extreme, contained magical energy filled the room. Harry, his wand drawn, arched his neck to look up.

            A ball of lightning hovered over his chest, strands of fire crackling out of the sides. Harry shivered, even though the air admitted by the broken window was muggy and hot. He recognized raw magical power, the kind usually tamed and confined in spells. If it touched him, he would be less than ashes. He tried to dig his elbows into the carpet, then wondered if he should keep still and not provoke the ball into moving.

            It darted downwards, making the decision for him.

            Harry hurled himself to the side, his eyes crossing with pain as he caught his elbow on the desk. The hissing built to a central point, and then simply ended. Harry smelled singed carpet, and when he looked, saw a large portion of nothing where the floor right next to the desk had been. As much as it looked like anything, the nothingness looked like a patch of dark air, shifting back and forth restlessly, a point of magical weakness in the house’s wards.

            Harry climbed to his feet, licking blood from his lips—he must have bitten them and didn’t remember it—and faced the ball of magical energy. It swayed towards him again. Harry flinched in spite of himself.

            There was no doubt his mysterious enemy had sent the thing, and he must be extremely powerful to hold so much magic in abeyance like this. Wild power wanted to strike and dissipate into various magical effects. To contain it so that it would destroy only what he wished it to destroy…



            Well, Harry didn’t have power like that, and he was currently the strongest wizard at the Ministry.

            He knew only one technique to get rid of this much magical energy, and if it worked, it would hurt him and destroy a good portion of his house. It also stood a chance of killing him. But he had no choice, unless he wanted to stand still and admire the lightning ball until his enemy chose to annihilate him.

            Harry braced himself against the pain, reminded himself that the good side of this much adrenaline was that he didn’t have to worry about his personal problems, and said, in a voice that did not shake, “Accio wild magic!”

            The ball flew at him, towards his empty hand. But Harry had tossed his wand into his left hand, so it wasn’t empty anymore.

            The white lightning met the end of his holly wand, and traveled up the phoenix feather core straight into Harry’s skin and body.

            He had done this in small amounts during Auror training, and had braced himself as best as he could to absorb it. But those smaller amounts of wild magic had carried with them a correspondingly smaller amount of pain. Harry fell to the ground, screaming as he hadn’t done since he killed Voldemort.

            His own skin turned transparent in front of his eyes, an envelope of air around a fragile network of crystal bones, shimmering with bucking energy that sought a way out of him, no matter which way it had to go. Then he remembered another lesson and forced his eyes closed. If they had remained open, the magic would have leaped out of them, and he would have been blinded.

            As it was, it leaped out his hands, his feet, his mouth, and his ears instead. Harry shuddered, his screaming reduced to a croak, and wondered if it had burned his wand to ash. He heard something explode in the distance, but he couldn’t care. He couldn’t move. His own magic felt taken up, turned inside out, and shaken violently until he could no more have done a spell than flown without a broom.

            Slowly, slowly, he turned himself onto his elbows, hissing—the bones felt new and bruised—and surveyed the damage. The desk lay in splinters next to the far wall, under the window the lightning ball had destroyed, and of course the paperwork he’d tried to finish had been incinerated. Large points of magical nothingness occupied sections in the floor, and the walls were seamed like old trees that had survived forest fires. The doors to the loo and their bedroom were entirely gone, either burned or smashed apart into tiny particles. The stink of crisped blankets filled Harry’s nose.

            He glanced down at his own hands, and winced. More burns. He stood with some difficulty and stumbled into the loo. Luckily, part of the mirror had survived, though the rest of it bent glassy wings and lunged against the restraint. Harry could see enormous black rings of stinging flesh around his mouth and ears. When he pulled off his robes, more burns mottled his arms and legs.

            Now he had a problem, because he couldn’t go to a hospital without news of a magical attack on Harry Potter spreading into the Daily Prophet within a few hours. And then Kingsley would demand to know what had happened, and Harry would have to confess that he had expected an attack—though certainly nothing like the devastating ferocity this one had had—and he would have guards assigned to him day and night as well as a likely suspension for not reporting that his life was in danger.

            He would have to do what he could with healing spells, cold water, and glamours. The burns didn’t look severe, at least; his home had taken most of the damage.

            He also couldn’t stay here. Fortunately, he still owned Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, though he almost never made use of it. He could go there, behind the strong, ancient wards, and if someone asked him why he’d left his house, it would be easy enough to explain that it had felt too lonely without Ginny to continue living in.

            He gathered up what he’d need for the next few days, using his wand cautiously at first. But it hadn’t burned, and the phoenix feather core had absorbed enough magic to be veritably humming with it; his belongings jumped into his trunk at the Pack! spell, and the glamours that he cast over his face and limbs felt almost solid. When he commanded his trunk to float behind him, it bounced off the walls like a puppy before assuming the right position.

            Harry shook his head as he stepped out the front door and cast a sharp glance around. No sign of his enemy, but then, he’d expected that.

            He did have a smile on his face. Yes, this was dangerous. Yes, both Ginny and Malfoy would tell him that he was being a reckless idiot and he should report the attacks to Kingsley at once, no matter what might happen as a result.

            But on the other hand, he felt most alive when he was most about to die. He needed this. At least it kept his mind off wallowing in grief over missing Ginny—and off certain other things he didn’t want to think about.

            One more glance to scan for threats, and he vanished into the Apparition.

*

            Draco had spent most of the morning reading Veela Courtship. Branwen had canceled practice unexpectedly when her niece went into labor, and Pansy had been sated with the fucking Draco gave her when he returned to the Manor. That gave him time to read the first of the books he’d ordered, and he had to admit, he’d never known Veela were such a fascinating subject.

            The page in front of him, for example, explained far too much about the last few difficult months. Draco shook his head and read it again.

            RELUCTANT COURTSHIPS

            For some Veela, the taking of their mates—which cements the sexual bond and eases the unhappiness of the baser instincts, so that a deeper relationship has time to take root—cannot be accomplished at once. Cases of this have occurred when the mates were Muggle females in past centuries, whose men often kept them astonishingly ignorant and even frightened of sex. (And since many Muggle societies have spent their existence in denial that a sexual relationship between two women is possible, the complications of female Veela paired with these mates become even more delicate). The mate may also be the victim of past sexual trauma, or attached to another.

            Any Veela needs sexual contact with its mate to survive, but in cases such as the above, they will be willing to wait. With shy virgins, the contact may need to be no deeper than intimate kisses. With non-virgin mates, however, the Veela generally demands more.

            The Veela interprets these barriers in different ways, and reacts to them differently. Fear is generally allayed with allure—which may also be used on non-mates, to make them do what the Veela wants—

            Draco smirked, and cast a sideways glance at Pansy.

            —and the touch of the wings, which brings about a gentle trance in which the mate relaxes, trusts the Veela, and is much more easily aroused. In both states, sexual pleasure is much enhanced for both partners, which deepens the claim on the mate and, in turn, helps quiet the Veela’s fears that a reluctant mate may run.

            Perhaps the most interesting situations involve barriers that disappear, such as timid mates who gradually become educated and trust the Veela not to hurt them, or attached mates whose spouses die or leave them. When the Veela senses the disappearance of the barrier, it at once extends its magic in what is called by the rather grandiose name of the Transformation, but in essence is a simple sending of pheromones.

            The pheromones initiate changes in both mate and Veela, preparing them to accept greater roles in each other’s lives. The Veela is enabled to think of other things beyond sex, to value its mate more, and to achieve greater desirability and beauty in the mate’s eyes, thus beginning the true phase of courtship. Its partner, in the meantime, finds himself or herself thinking more of the Veela, growing more easily irritable when out of its presence, and, if a wizard or witch, gaining better control of their magic, though no greater raw strength.

            Both mates will require as much physical contact as possible, in particular sleeping next to each other, a sign of ultimate trust. They can survive without this, but insomnia, nightmares, and increased irritability for both partners will result. They also find the touch of other people actively revolting, in preparation for the final bond that makes any other partner incapable of rousing attraction in them.

            Reluctant courtships must still be carefully handled, even at this late stage, but the Transformation does make things a great deal easier.

            Draco shut the book and smiled at it. Then he leaned his head back against the pillows, closed his eyes, and exulted, silently.

            The little Weasley caused this by leaving Harry. She’ll have her freedom from unhappiness, but at the cost of her husband.

            Harry needs this. He might be prone to resist just because it’s not something he chose, but we have to live with this. Nothing can change it. It’s not something we chose, but it’s better to live with it than resist it when resistance will only hurt us. I might have started to think of him less selfishly only because of the Transformation, but the Veela and I are the same person now.

            This explains why I felt as though ants were crawling over my skin when I touched Pansy, too. Well, if my plan goes well enough from this point forwards, she’ll ask for less and less sex.

            As if she had heard the thought, Pansy’s eyes fluttered open, and she rolled over to sit up.

            Draco turned, fixed her with a dazzling smile, and hit her with his Veela allure. His lip curled as he did—he didn’t want to do it; this was supposed to be saved for his mate—but he knew the effect would be incredible, given the suggestion potion in her food and the small doses of allure he’d been adding to their general interaction for weeks now.

            Her mouth dropped open, and her eyes glazed. “Draco?” she whispered. “It’s as if—you have a crown of light around you.” She reached out, and Draco graciously bent down and let her run her fingers through his hair, even though that seemed to leave a scum of grease and dirt behind.

            “When did you become so beautiful?” she asked him.

            “When I fell in love,” said Draco blandly, and kissed her hand.

            She would assume he meant one thing when he meant another, of course. That was not his fault. A great many things that he would do from now on were not his fault.

*



            “Are you sure nothing’s wrong, Harry?” Ralph trailed him as Harry left Kingsley’s office for their own. His hand reached out and brushed against Harry’s shoulder.

            The sensation was disgusting. Harry jumped, shivered, and yanked himself violently away, spinning around. Ralph held up his hands, his gaze steady and concerned.

            “You just yelled at Kingsley,” he said. “You don’t sleep, from the way you stamp around here snarling at everyone. And now this. This is more than losing Ginny, I know it is. Am I your friend, or aren’t I?”

            Harry closed his eyes for a moment. The skin around his mouth and ears pulled at him with sharp, bright sparks of pain; the glamours hid the burn damage from the wild magic, but Harry hadn’t been able to correct all of it. He felt his frustration course through him like dammed fire. What he wouldn’t give for his enemy to appear in front of him, here and now, so that he could use his magic and give the frustration an outlet!

            But he was in the Ministry, not in an alley, or in his destroyed house. He breathed shallowly and recalled his attention to the present. He had to deal with the consequences of his own actions. He’d been good at that for the years he was married to Ginny; the war had taught him responsibility. Surely the lesson hadn’t faded away overnight because she was gone?

            If it weren’t for damn Malfoy—

            Harry shoved the thought away, violently enough that he would have hurt anyone using Legilimency on him. He had tried to avoid thinking about Malfoy, even though the bastard crept up on him in his head all the time. Ginny was the important one. He had to show her that he could bear up while she was gone, yes. He had to be a tower of strength, not a cringing weakling.

            He looked at Ralph again, and gave him a smile that he knew was strained. “I would tell you,” he said. “But it’s not just my secret. It’s—well, Ginny’s, and another person’s, too.”

            Ralph stared at him, and then his gaze sharpened and he said, “Harry. You’re telling me—you cheated on Ginny?”

            Too close, too close to the truth! Harry would have told him, if only to clear himself of suspicion in his friend’s eyes, but he couldn’t be sure what Ralph thought about Malfoy. He might keep the secret. On the other hand, he might spread rumors of the Veela accident all over the Ministry.

            “Of course not,” he said, forcing a laugh. “Don’t be silly. It’s just a complicated situation, that’s all.” He turned away. “Now, if Kingsley wasn’t pleased I didn’t have my report done, just imagine what he’ll say when he sees that I’m delaying you from completing yours, too. I—“

            “We will not go back to that office,” Ralph said, voice low and precise, “until you tell me exactly what you did to Ginny.”

            Harry felt his temper rise, so suddenly and completely that his vision drowned in red. The burns on his arms and legs, which were healing even more slowly than the ones around his ears and mouth, seemed to add their residual heat to his anger. He only wanted Ralph to stop speaking to him and leave him alone. God damn it, why was this so difficult? Why did others keep trying to interfere?

            “This secret doesn’t belong to you,” he said, trying to warn Ralph off one more time. “I’m your friend and I don’t want to hurt you, but I haven’t been sleeping well or—or doing other things well, you know that. Don’t press me so far that I lose control of my magic. Please.”

            Ralph said nothing for a long time. Later, Harry wondered what would have happened if they’d been left to their own devices, and he was half-sorry that he never got a chance to find out.

            More relived, though, especially when the near soundless motions of an owl’s wings broke their standoff. Harry glanced up, and then moved forwards with a sharp pace when he recognized the black eagle-owl carrying a letter no doubt intended for him.

            “Thank you,” he muttered in high disgust as the owl landed on his shoulder. The bird ignored him, other than to put out its leg so that he could take the envelope. Harry did so, and then tried to shrug the owl off. It dug its talons in, just on the verge of cutting the skin, to indicate that it expected him to read the letter and provide it with a reply to carry back.

            “Who is that letter from?” Ralph asked, in a voice of considerable danger.

            “From someone involved in the secret, and who would kill me if he knew I’d told you,” Harry snarled, and then began trotting stiffly down the hall, trying not to jostle the owl into scratching him more than it already was. He needed to find a private place to read this letter, so that he could burn it—as he was certain he would need to—without anyone worrying about the danger of fire.

            Ralph came up and kept pace with him, though. As persistent as Ron, Harry thought in despair, and just at the wrong time.

            “Has it occurred to you,” his partner asked, “that I want to help you, not just blame you? That I’m your friend, and if you’re in danger from this secret, whatever it is, I think I should know?”

            Harry had to stop and close his eyes. He ran one trembling hand over his forehead, and wondered if he was going to weep. Lack of sleep didn’t normally affect him like this, but this was lack of sleep for five nights running, accompanied by nightmares when he did rest. The nightmares seemed to consist of visions of himself walking across an immense, barren gray plain, alone for the rest of his life—or perhaps forever, the dreams couldn’t decide.

            And now, there was an offer of help.

            “I really can’t tell you yet,” he said quietly. “I meant it when I said it just wasn’t my secret. I’ll talk to—to the other people involved, and see if it’s all right for me to talk to you.” He lifted his head and did his best to smile at Ralph, who now looked alarmed. “And since I have to wait to communicate with Ginny until she sends me an owl, that could be a long time.”

            Ralph studied him with anxious eyes. Then he said, “But you’ll get help from them? If they’re the only ones who can know this secret, then they—they have to know what it’s costing you to keep it, Harry. Promise me that you’ll talk to them, and get help.”

            Harry felt a curl of bitter laughter work its way up his throat. Everyone conspires to force me back into Malfoy’s bed. Except Pansy, of course, and she’s a doubtful ally at best.

            “I’ll talk to them,” he said, because he could tell Ralph wouldn’t let him go until he did.

            “That’s the best I can do, then,” said Ralph, and clasped Harry’s shoulder hard for a moment, the way he had when he first heard the news about Ginny’s departure. “Take care of yourself, Potter. You’re an idiot, but it would be a nuisance having to train a new partner now.”

            Harry gripped the hand back, in acknowledgment, and finally left, in search of that private room. The owl rode along with him, wings spreading now and then in pursuit of balance.

            One of the small interrogation rooms stood empty, and Harry slipped into it and magically locked the door. Most of the time, use of these rooms wasn’t scheduled—Aurors with prisoners to be questioned could return at any moment—so hopefully anyone who knocked would test the door, decide the locking spell was in place for a reason, and search for the next available one.

            The owl took off the moment he shut the door, and flew across the room to sit on the sill of the enchanted window. Harry took the seat in front of the table and tore open Malfoy’s letter.

            Something shining and heavy fell to the floor. Harry bent over and picked it up with a grunt, then stared at it. It was a silver ring, heavy, with a faded inscription—just the kind of treasure he’d think a ponce like Malfoy would have. But wound securely around the ring, and kept in place with magic, was a curl of blond hair.

            As soon as Harry settled the ring in his palm, warmth radiated outwards to his hand, and then traveled up his arm. The aching pain of his burns promptly diminished. Harry felt his muscles relax. If that feeling traveled all over his body, then he would probably fall asleep in seconds.

            Harry dropped the ring on the table, ignoring his pain and exhaustion as they rushed back, and turned his attention to the letter.

            July 19^th, 2005

            My dearest Harry:

            You will have undergone changes in the last few weeks, I know. Forgive me for waiting until now to send the letter that explains the changes, but I feared you would not believe me unless you had felt their effects for yourself.

            You will have trouble resting. Insomnia most of the time, nightmares when you can sleep. You don’t need to tell me what you dream about, for I know. A plain that looks like a volcano exploded on it, with only your own figure striding along for eternity, and a crushing feeling of loneliness.

            Harry narrowed his eyes, wondering if the bastard had cast a spell that ensured he would have those kinds of dreams.

            That describes my own sleep patterns in these last few weeks. Your sleeplessness had increased in the last little while, you’ll find. Since your wife left, in fact. The Veela regarded her disappearance as the disappearance of a barrier keeping us apart, and it caused changes to happen, in both me and you, that should bring us closer now that there is no “legitimate” reason for us to stay apart.

            You’ll have lost control of your temper, on your side, but you’ll have greater control of your magic, so you probably haven’t hexed anyone because of the anger problem yet. You don’t like anyone else touching you. And thoughts of me will intrude all the time, even at the most inconvenient moments, when you want to concentrate on Auror business or your own problems. Am I right, Harry?

            Harry dropped the letter, and buried his head in his hands. It was throbbing. God, at times like these he wanted to go home, draw the blankets up, and lie there until sleep found him.

            Except, of course, sleep wouldn’t find him this time, or not easily, because of what Malfoy’s Veela had done.

            Damn it, damn it, damn it! Why did it have to choose me to be its mate, out of all the persons who would have been thrilled and honored by Malfoy’s little attentions? I’m no prize for it.

            After long moments of sitting like that, Harry sat up. Acting like this wouldn’t complete Malfoy’s letter, which still covered another page of parchment, nor write a reply to the owl, which had ruffled its wings and hooted menacingly.

            I’ve come up with a partial solution to the problem. This ring contains a curl of my hair. Wear it, and it will, technically, fulfill the condition that we should have contact now, just as the limited sexual contact we’ve had so far satisfies some of the Veela’s cravings, enough to be going on with. You can sleep. You’ll regain some of your control over your temper, although not all.

            Let the thoughts of me come, Harry. Please. Your mind needs them. None of the books I’ve read explains why very well, but they all agree that you do, just as I need to be able to give you more control over this strained and tentative relationship we have.

            Harry narrowed his eyes again. Since when does he let me have any control over anything?

            But the rest of the letter might be the only thing that could answer him, so he read on.

            I suppose you might think that the Veela should still see a barrier: Pansy’s marriage to me. However, that was never a barrier of love, and now she has turned against us both. She took photographs of our last several liaisons, and has hidden them in inaccessible places. She planned to release them if I didn’t do exactly as she demanded of me.

            Because of this, I trust her no longer, and I have used the Veela allure to manipulate her so that she will become no danger to us. But she is not completely under my spell—that will take another month as yet, I think—and so we still have to fulfill some of her conditions. Please come to the Manor’s gardens at eight-o’clock again tomorrow night, and this time, please let me reciprocate.

            Harry snorted. “I don’t see that this gives me much control over the situation, Malfoy,” he said aloud. The owl ruffled its feathers and gave him a disgusted glance, then tucked its head under its wing.

            If you really don’t want to do this, then tell me as soon as you can, and I’ll use the allure to convince Pansy to delay our assignation a few days. If you don’t feel that you can stand my touch yet, then tell me that, too, and I’ll use the allure to spare you that, if I have to break her mind to do it.

            Harry blinked.

            He—

            He really is trying to defend me. And make the best of a rather bad situation, I suppose, given those photographs.

            Harry had not thought Draco Malfoy capable of such a thing.

            He set the letter down again, though he still hadn’t finished reading it, and massaged his forehead. The ring on the table whispered welcome and relief, but Harry couldn’t touch it yet. He probably would fall asleep and stay that way for hours, and he had to answer this.

            He thought of saying something about how he didn’t want Malfoy to use Veela allure on Pansy, but then he thought of some of the tactics he had to use as an Auror—the only ways possible to protect and save lives, but which most of the wizarding community would have strongly condemned him for using. Could he really blame Malfoy for using the best weapon available to him?

            Besides, if he did want to spare Pansy’s sanity, he should try to attend the meeting tomorrow so Malfoy wouldn’t need to use the increased allure.

            He looked at the last paragraph of the letter.

            Please, as well, send a curl of your hair back with your reply, so that I can twist it around a ring and use it to spare myself insomnia. If you don’t want to, I understand. With my Veela strength, and the distraction that tormenting Pansy provides, I can probably bear this better than you can.

            Yours from now on, as I hope I may come to call you mine,

            Draco.

            Harry licked his lips and sat back, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. He just—

            He couldn’t throw a gesture like this back in Malfoy’s face. He wasn’t capable of it, no matter what it would mean to his relationship with Ginny.

            Ralph’s words returned to him. He needed to talk to someone, and Malfoy was the only possible choice, at least until Ginny gave him permission to write to her. And could it—

            Damn it.

            He’d just thought could it really hurt to let him touch me?

            Of course it could. Harry had discovered, this year, just how much things he had believed harmless could hurt. Nothing he did was right, and this was another step down the pathway of wrong.

            But—

            Not only couldn’t he throw Malfoy’s gesture back in his face, he couldn’t refuse to respond to the trust and courage implied here. Malfoy could have concealed anything in this letter from Harry, including his mental control of Pansy and why he hadn’t said anything about the symptoms of their mutual change for so long. And he hadn’t. He might still be lying, of course, but Harry thought the chance was small.

            He used the Diffindo spell to cut a lock of hair from his head, and sat down to write his reply.

*

            Draco sniffed ecstatically at the envelope that contained his mate’s letter, and rubbed it against his cheek. Then he took out the curl of hair Harry had sent and wound it around his ear. He could feel his Veela practically purring as it took in the scent and nearness of its mate. He would sleep better tonight, he was sure of it.

            Of course, before he could do that, he would have to make love to Pansy.

            Draco rolled his eyes, but he was feeling more tolerant of the prospect than he had since she confronted him last month. It was only for a time, and he would be able to touch Harry tomorrow. The short letter said so.

            He went cheerfully to find his wife, and sink her a bit further under the Veela enchantment.

*

            Harry stepped uncertainly into the Manor’s gardens a few minutes before eight, and glanced around. “Malfoy?” Summer meant plenty of light here, still, but Harry didn’t like it that no one had emerged to greet him, not even a house-elf. “Are you here? Did something go wrong?” His hand tightened on his wand.

            “Harry. Hello.”

            Malfoy stepped out from under a tree to the side of the path and leaned against it for a moment, giving Harry a chance to look at him fully.

            Desire hit Harry in a hot tide, with no time for him to prepare. Malfoy’s magic had increased—or his height had—or Harry’s sense of his presence had—or something. He could hear himself panting as if he’d run miles. He wanted so badly to touch Malfoy that tears sprang to his eyes.

            He wanted to resist, he did, but this was the first uncomplicated thing he’d felt since Ginny left him. He swallowed, and then saw that Malfoy had extended his hand to him.

            “It’s all right,” Malfoy said softly. “Please, Harry, for once, just let yourself go. I’ll take care of you, I promise. No sniping against your wife, no derogatory comments, no selfish care for my own pleasure and my own pleasure only.” He smiled a bit. “You weren’t the only one the Transformation changed. I would have sent you the technical details about me, but I thought it was easier to let you see for yourself.”

            Harry felt his eyelids droop. He could have blamed that on lack of sleep, since he’d really only had last night to rest well, but he knew it for what it was. Temptation tugged at him with thick reins. He wanted to do this. He’d already said that he’d let Malfoy touch him. Would it really be such a bad thing to let Malfoy do it the way he wanted, since he’d given Harry so much choice in everything else?

            Wait. Did he give me much choice in everything else?

            He couldn’t remember. He was so aroused that the muscles in his groin hurt, and he might start whining soon. He swallowed several times and then moved forwards so that he was a few inches from Malfoy.

            I need this. For once, I just need to feel. And maybe this takes more courage than the other way around, and that’s a fit answer to the courage Malfoy had to feel to tell me the things in that letter.

            “Yes,” he whispered, and clasped Draco’s hand.

*

            The Veela filled Draco’s mind with a blaze of triumph—and then suddenly vanished. Draco didn’t think it had gone. Rather, it was part of him now, bathing him with extra warmth towards his mate and sharpening his instincts with extra instructions to make this experience as exciting for them both as possible.

            Draco reached out, sliding their joined hands up to Harry’s face. God, that face showed so many marks of loneliness and hurt and depression. Draco kissed him carefully, and poured the Veela warmth into the kiss, so that Harry could feel what he meant to both of them, Veela and man.

            Harry gasped, and then abruptly leaned inwards, deepening the kiss of his own free will for the first time. Draco cradled the back of his head, his ears filled with a thin warble of delight that the Veela would have uttered if its mouth weren’t occupied right now, and called his wings.

            They drooped on his shoulders for just a moment before he swept them around Harry. Harry nearly went limp at their warmth against his skin, and shut his eyes. Draco waited. The kiss had broken off, but with his hands full of Harry’s hair and skin and neck, that didn’t matter for the moment.

            When he looked up again, Draco felt a painful throb in his groin. God, those green eyes held the look of someone who was drowning in sensation and liked it.

            “God, yes, I like that,” Harry whispered, and kissed him again, roughly, urging Draco in the direction of the bed. Draco wondered if he had remembered the way to the gazebo from the other two times, or if he could feel it almost as a calling presence, a beacon, the way the Veela could.

            They reached the bed at last, and sprawled on top of it. Draco, drawing his mouth free of the kiss and one hand free of Harry’s hair, used his wand to Vanish both their robes. Harry half-yowled when he felt his bare skin all over Draco’s, and Draco snarled, the Veela flexing in him like claws as he raked his way along Harry’s flanks and chest, down to his cock.

            Pansy did watch them, but Draco had managed to persuade her it would be more exciting if she were behind a glamour and without the camera. After all, Draco was already a slave to her will, he was putting this display with Harry on just for her, so why did she need a camera? Her memory’s eye could contain it.

            After some concentrated blasts of the allure, she had agreed. But she had bitten her lip before she did, and several times her eyes almost cleared. Draco didn’t have complete influence over her yet. He would have to wait some time before he asked her not to watch him and Harry, or to show him the hiding places of the photographs. He would not move too early, as overconfidence had prompted her to do. He could wait for his revenge, especially when it would embarrass her so badly.

            He put the thoughts away from him then. Harry was here, so warm, so hard, and writhing on top of him for the first time in honest yearning.

            And then he moaned, “Draco.”

            Draco’s snarl was deafening, and his wings locked so tightly around Harry’s shoulders that Pansy probably couldn’t see much of his naked form anyway.

*

            Harry felt—strange. As if he had leaped over a cliff, and someone had cast a spell to give him a pair of temporary wings at the last minute. He couldn’t fly forever, and he didn’t know when he would crash.



But so long as he could fly, he felt fearless.

Consequences. He would worry about them later. He had needed this, and he had resisted to the best of his ability, and it still hadn’t worked. If nature and the Veela and Draco and his own body and even Ginny, indirectly, wanted him to go through with this, then he would.

He shrieked as Draco’s hand closed on him, and for a moment he came close to rubbing himself off against Draco’s palm, but a part of him was determined to prove that this had been his own choice, that he hadn’t collapsed into it just because he couldn’t fight anymore. He shook his head and worked his way down Draco’s body, closing his mouth around his cock.

He’d done this twice before, but both times he had wanted to be as perfunctory as possible, to show that he was doing this under protest. This time, he wanted to linger, to appreciate the human warmth and smell and taste of Draco in his mouth. He had enjoyed oral sex with Ginny because it had felt like he could give something to her, something he couldn’t when he was too involved in his own pleasure. And Ginny appreciated it, no question.

But Draco went beyond appreciation. He tried to say Harry’s name, several times, as Harry swirled his tongue carefully up and down and avoided the jabbing strikes of Draco’s hips, but it was useless. Even his moans broke off into cries of abbreviated, helpless joy that had made Harry feel ashamed when he first heard them, but which he rather relished causing now.

Draco’s thrusts became sharper, shakier, harder to contain. Harry relaxed his throat as much as he could and swallowed twice in quick succession, using one hand to fondle behind Draco’s balls.

Draco came then, with a shout, and Harry swallowed for the first time. It still didn’t taste very good, but the notion that he’d made Draco feel good outweighed that. He sat up, pleased with himself.

He had to grin. Draco lay with his head flung back on the pillows of the bed, his face flushed with passion as though from high wind. Harry didn’t mind if he needed some time to recover from an orgasm like that.

Then Draco’s eyes flared open.

Harry gulped. He’d seen passion and sexual hunger before, but nothing like this. Draco’s eyes signaled his very clear desire to devour.

Draco pounced.

*

So now Draco knew what Harry Potter was like when he wanted to make love to the person in bed with him.

It wasn’t to be borne, the idea that the little Weasley had had this again and again, and the pleasure of returning the favor, and Draco had only had it once. It made a wild possessiveness well up in him. God, Harry was his, and Draco would kill anyone who tried to take him away.

He wrestled Harry to the bed beneath him, wrapping his wings securely in place so that Harry moaned and melted and arched his neck and whispered his name and Please over and over again. Draco licked his lips, to restrain the saliva dripping from them, and paused a moment to restrain the Veela’s aggression likewise. Otherwise, he really might spring from the bed and murder Pansy right now.

It had to have an outlet, though.

Draco bent his head and bit the side of Harry’s neck, hard. Harry gasped, but not in pain.

Draco blew his breath lightly over the bite as he pulled back, and it took on the silvery sheen of a claiming mark. There. It was in such a place that, given the shirts and robes Harry usually wore, most people wouldn’t even see it, but Draco would be able to track his mate through it, and tell at once if Harry was in trouble. He had to have something like that, to make the Veela think about having sex with its mate instead of tearing people apart.

Now.

He pulled Harry upright, so that Harry sat with his back against Draco’s chest, and the wings flared around him, rising and falling, brushing Harry’s skin with flashes of that delicious heat and then reeling away again. He left plenty of room so that his hand could creep down and close around Harry’s cock. He was, of course, willing to return the favor and suck Harry off, but if he did that, his mouth would be occupied and he couldn’t say all the things he wanted to say.

“So beautiful,” he whispered. “Do you have any idea how beautiful you are? Maybe you do, but when you see people staring at you, you just dismiss it as their staring at that stupid scar.” He ran his tongue around Harry’s ear and began to pull and stroke him, marveling at the weight, the hardness, the strength. “I’m glad you do. I can make you feel that you’re beautiful, and this way, I’m the only one who gets to see.”

Harry let his head loll back, utterly and completely relaxed, his eyes so far gone that Draco wasn’t sure what he saw. “Please, please, please,” he said. “Draco, I want this, I want you to say things like that to me, I—“ A flush that might have been embarrassment rose to his cheeks, but Draco thought it more likely to be arousal.

“Yes, yes,” he said, and dragged his hand through Harry’s hair, pausing here and there to yank, because he could. His hand sped up. “You need this, you deserve this, do you understand me, Harry? No one else could have done what you did, in the war and in your life and with this. You just face the difficulty and charge it. You take some convincing, sometimes, but you do it. So brave, so beautiful, so wonderful, so close to coming in my arms, aren’t you?”

Harry’s only answer was an incoherent moan and an oblivious stretch of his neck.

“Do it,” Draco growled. His voice didn’t sound human any more, but unlike the screech of the great bird that sometimes replaced his words, he could live with this. He had never wanted to fuck someone so much; it made what he’d once felt with Pansy laughably weak and unenthusiastic. “You have to, you want to, you need to, and I’m making you. No reason not to. You can’t stop, by now.” He purred the final words into Harry’s ear. Pansy and the little Weasley could both have been watching them by now, and he wouldn’t have been able to stop. “Come, now.”

Harry came.

            Draco heard him uttering a stream of low, continuous whimpers as he did, though they were stifled, and Draco more felt than heard them, because he’d locked his teeth in the claiming mark again. He stroked up and down Harry’s side with his free hand while he used the other to feel the pulse of his mate’s orgasm.

The Veela in his head projected a daydream of a cat upside-down on its back near the fire, sated by play and food and warmth and petting in equal proportion, nearly dead of joy.

            Draco had never been so happy in his life—and certainly he had never realized that making someone else happy would be the highlight of it.

            He spelled Harry clean, then licked his claiming mark several times and wrapped his wings around him. “Go to sleep,” he said, just as he had the first time they shared a bed, the time he could barely remember, and Harry gave a little sigh, smiled at him, and went to sleep in less than a minute, obediently.

            Draco stayed like that for as long as he could keep awake, his heart full of sunlight.

*

            Harry bit his lip and eyed the package on the table in front of him anxiously.

            He had avoided Draco—

            Malfoy—

            All right, Draco, since the night they’d slept together. They didn’t need to meet again right now, of course, now that they each carried a curl of the other’s hair. They’d exchanged a few letters, in which Draco talked about ordinary subjects and never tried to press Harry to visit. He did close each letter with a reminder that he was Harry’s and hoped Harry would be his.

            Harry hadn’t wanted to see him again. He had awakened in Draco’s arms knowing, intellectually, that this was a much worse betrayal of Ginny than anything he’d done so far.

            The problem was that, emotionally, all he’d felt was a profound sense of relief. He’d needed that human contact, so badly he hadn’t known it until the moment was past.

            But perhaps it need not happen again, so he had slipped away quietly while Draco still slept and tried to make new vows to himself.

            Yet that wasn’t all of it. The major part was that Harry remembered the nuances of Draco’s voice and touch on that night, and he knew he had never been so powerfully wanted before.

            It made him nervous. It made him feel like the target of a hunter in a way he never had even when Voldemort was stalking him.

            And now Draco had sent him this package, along with a letter that explained he had sent it early in the morning so as to be the first to give Harry a gift on his birthday.

            He certainly was that. No other owls had arrived yet. Harry took a deep breath and opened the package carefully. Draco, he was certain, had chosen the green and silver paper because he just couldn’t help himself.

            Inside lay a book, but a large one bound in soft leather, with no title. Wondering if it was about Veela, Harry flipped it open.

            Inside were—photos. Harry stared at the first one, of a young girl waving madly at the camera, jumping up and down, and then tripping over her robes. She wore a Gryffindor scarf; the air must be cold, though the camera angle showed sunlight on grass and only a few dead leaves. Her smile was exhilarated, her hair bright red, her eyes the same green as his.

            Underneath the picture was written, in neat letters, Lily Evans, September 1970.

            Harry wanted to cry.

            He turned the page carefully, instead. The next photograph was a dark-haired boy clutching the corner of his own Gryffindor scarf and staring at it as if it would turn into a snake at any moment. Then he dropped it and looked around to see if anyone had noticed.

            The handwriting under the picture—Draco’s hand—said, Sirius Black, September 1970. The people I talked to tell me he was rather surprised to be Sorted into his House.

            Harry’s eyes did blur with tears, this time, and he had to hesitate for long moments before he looked on.

            Pictures of his father. Pictures of Remus. Pictures of the Marauders together. More pictures of his mother and Sirius, smiling over books, having mock duels in the Gryffindor common room, proudly holding up completed essays or potions. A picture of Dumbledore, his eyebrows mildly raised as he regarded a young student in front of his desk who seemed to be trying to hide an owl, which was bright green with polka dots, behind her back. More pictures than were in Hagrid’s photo album, more than Harry had ever known existed.

            At last, Harry reached the final page. A photograph of Draco waited there, his own age, staring at the camera. Then he closed his left eye in a slow, flirtatious wink, and his smile burst across his face.

            The “caption,” this time, said: I spent a lot of time writing to people who knew your parents in Hogwarts, or who were in Gryffindor House at the time, or who were professors when they were students. I hope it’s good. No, I hope it’s perfect. And yes, I dare to include a picture of myself here, because I dare to hope that someday I’ll be someone you might come to love.

            Happy birthday, Harry.

            Love, Draco.

            Harry closed his eyes, and tried to think of the time it must have taken Draco, the patience, the sheer concentration, to assemble this.

            The sensation of being intensely hunted—intensely courted—returned again, but this time it was not so unpleasant.

            Damn it, he was crying again.

            Even after the other owls began to arrive, he sat with his eyes closed, his hand resting on Draco’s picture, his body wracked with shivers he couldn’t control.

*

Lady Lynn: The enemy is definitely not Neville!

Nolie664: Thanks! I did mean for Ginny to come off as admirable, or at least understandable, in that last scene.

LupinsLady: It’s someone from the books, but the answer is more complicated than it might seem at first.

Night the Storyteller: As you can see from this chapter, Harry is beginning to admit that he can’t control everything, and sometimes he needs to let himself be taken care of. But only beginning.

Trinity18: I think you could say Ginny’s a victim, but I don’t know if I would call her the greatest one.

Acr1228: Thanks! It is fun writing two different versions of Ginny at once, and something of a challenge.

Emily: Draco will not kill Pansy, but he will embarrass her. Big-time.

Roedhunt: Thank you! I’m trying very hard to avoid character-bashing here, and Ginny has definite reasons to object to this “arrangement.” Of course, her action didn’t necessarily make things better…
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A Year's Temptation

Chapter Seven—July