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The Thin Line	By : Gemma Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Ginny Views: 2885 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own any rights to the Harry Potter series, or any of the characters associated with it. This story is purely for entertainment, and no money is being made from it.

Chapter List
- 1-Awakening
- 2-Realizations
- 1
- 2
Author's Note: This story is rated M for sexual situations and language. Please be aware, because of magical situations there may be cases of dubious consent.
This is my take on the Veela!Draco trope (I know, I know). If you do not like it, don't read it.
This is my first story, so please read, review, and critique. Pretty please?
Story Notes: This story is compliant with cannon up through the middle of HBP, and then AU. Dumbledore survived that night on the astronomy tower, Hogwarts closed while the war raged against Voldemort, and now the survivors have returned to Hogwarts to pick up their education where they left off.
The Thin Line
The pit in the bottom of Draco Malfoy's stomach continued to grow. When the feeling had first appeared, he'd worried that the stress was finally getting to him. If Hogwarts had been bad before the war, being back as the son of a disgraced Death Eater unbearable. He'd thought about asking Madam Pomfrey for a calming draft when it had first begun, but rejected the idea. Only homesick first years took calming drafts.
But then the pain had continued, and he began to realize he wasn't just cracking up under the pressure, which had been simultaneously relieving and disconcerting. It had been days now, of this dull, hungry ache, and it was getting worse each passing moment. He was sweating, he realized, and that settled it for him. If there was anything Draco hated more than looking weak, it was sweating. So with a resolved sigh he began to walk to the hospital wing. His feet were oddly heavy, like he was trudging through water, and his vision began to blur.
In the infirmary, Madam Pomfrey was bandaging the arm of a rather disgruntled second year, lecturing him about the dangers of horseplay in the potions dungeon.
"Madam Pomfrey," Draco said.
She glanced back at him, and sighed heavily, turning back to the second year. "Mr. Malfoy. What are you dying of today?"
Sure, he didn't like going to the hospital, but that didn't mean it didn't have its uses. He'd successfully skived off more classes than any other seventh year.
"I'm not sure," he answered, with difficulty. He was having a hard time standing.
Madam Pomfrey tisk tisked, but didn't glance back at him until the second year nervously pointed out that he'd fainted.
"Draco?"
He woke slowly, in a bed that wasn't his. He rolled over slowly and found himself looking into the muted blue eyes and half-moon spectacles of Albus Dumblerdore. The head master smiled at him, as he pulled himself up and took inventory. He was in a hospital gown, and the curtains around him were drawn closed. His chest ached, but softer now, and he suspected the pain in his stomach were actual hunger pains this time.
"Mr. Malfoy. How are you feeling?"
"I don't know," he admitted. He his head had the foggy feeling of having slept too long. He wondered how long he'd been in bed.
Dumbledore chuckled, "From what I've been told, it would have been a more promising sign of your recovery if you'd said you were in agony. But you do look well enough to walk, yes?" Draco nodded. "Well then I would request you get dressed and meet me in my office. I'm afraid we have much to discuss and I prefer to do so privately. I'll give you a few moments to get washed up."
Dumbledore disappeared behind the curtains, and Draco stood up. All things considered, he still felt awful, but at least the dizziness and the sweating were at least gone. He found his uniform folded at the foot of his bed and quickly got dressed and washed his face in the basin. Madam Pomfrey appeared with a small vial of pepper-up potion, and told him in no uncertain terms that he was not allowed to go anywhere, not even on the headmaster's orders until he drank it. He drained the vial in one gulp and made his way to Dumbledore's Office. He didn't know the password, but the moment he stopped outside the door, the gargoyle swung aside granting him access.
"Please sit," Dumbledore invited, and the chair across from him eagerly scooted out from under the desk. "I know you must want to know what happened to you. I believe I may have some answers for you, but first I wonder if you would be so kind as to tell me what you experienced leading up to this episode."
Draco told him. About the pain in his chest, the feeling of his insides being squeezed in a vice, the feeling of hunger and thirst that was never sated. Dumbledore listened carefully, nodding occasionally, but did not interrupt until he was finished.
"So I've been cursed?" he concluded.
"Why would you think that, Draco?" Dumbledore asked, staring evenly at him across the large oak desk.
Draco shrugged. There were more than a few people who would want to curse him. "I wouldn't be sitting here if it were just a touch of dragonpox."
The headmaster smiled kindly. "No, I suppose you wouldn't. But to answer your question, I don't believe you've been cursed, but I do strongly believe that the cause of you illness is magical in nature. I'm sure it comes as no shock to you that the Malfoys have some veela ancestry?"
Draco nodded. His father had always vehemently (and sometimes violently) rejected the suggestion. He didn't tolerate anything that could bring the purity of their bloodline into question, but it was hard to look at a Malfoy and not see the connection.
"I have had reason to suspect for a while now, that your father had a particular fascination with his veela ancestry, even if he denied it. Veelas always had an alliance with Voldemort, but like the giants and the werewolves his control over them was tenuous, at best. They could not be fully controlled and they lacked the finesse Voldemort preferred in his followers. They are…unpredictable. Tremendous warriors, of course, but not much use to him outside of the battlefield. How much more valuable would they be if he could fully control them? If he had a contingent of followers so charming they wouldn't even need the Imperious curse? They could get whatever they wanted from a man, simply by asking."
Draco could not see how this history lesson could possibly be relevant. There were a lot of things his father had been wrong about, but the fact that Dumbledore was stark mad and going madder all the time was not one of them, in his opinion. Brilliant as they came, but mad nonetheless.
"Did you know that veela must seduce humans? It's in their nature. Starved of human intimacy, they die. Can you see at all where this is going, Draco?"
"Not in the slightest." You barmy old tosser, he added mentally.
"You've been asleep two days, Draco. Every healer from St Mungos has been in to see you, and aurors specializing in cursebreaking, as well. There was no sign of a curse or jinx, or hex, or poison. No medical ailment, magical or otherwise, could explain what was wrong. With rest and strengthening potions you improved, but no one knows for sure what happened with you."
Draco's eyebrows were knit together in bemused concentration. Two days? "I'm not sure I understand, Headmaster."
"About eighteen years ago I heard a rumor from an Order informant that your father was snatching up every blackmarket supply of veela blood. And now, eighteen years later, his child sits in front of me complaining of thirst water can't quench and hunger food can't fill- coincidentally, exactly how it is rumored to feel for a veela who is deprived of human intimacy."
Draco stared at him, incomprehensively, "Are you implying that he… what? Somehow turned me into a veela?"
"I'm implying that your father was a very dedicated man with vast resources. I'm implying that there is not much your father would not have done, even to his family, if the Dark Lord ordered it. Do you disagree?"
He did not say it unkindly, but they both knew Draco couldn't disagree. Lucius Malfoy had personally tried to strangle him after he refused to take the dark mark.
"There's one rather glaringly large hole in your theory, headmaster. While I am devastatingly attractive, it may surprise you to learn I am not a woman. And veela are, as I recall, uniquely, definitively female."
"Yes, I had considered that," the headmaster replied wryly. "But as we don't know exactly what your father may have accomplished or how he did it, we cannot assume that the usually rules apply to you. We are in uncharted territory."
Draco thought about this for several moments. He had suspected for a while now that whatever was happening to him was serious, but this? This was mad.
"So what now? Are you- are you telling me I'll…die?" He steeled himself to look up from his lap and into Dumbledore's eyes. His headmaster smiled kindly at him.
"Let us not get ahead of ourselves, Mr. Malfoy. For now, everyone agrees your current condition is stable. How do you feel? Are you in any pain?"
Draco considered this. His chest still hurt, but it was a dull ache, not the crushing pressure he'd experienced the last few weeks. His head was somewhat clear for the first time in days. He considered his options carefully. They'd kept him at Hogwarts rather than confining him to St Mungo's mostly, he suspected, because with his father dead and his mother in hiding, there was no one to take responsibility for him. If he played up his pain too much, however, they would likely have no choice. No, that was not the way to go. Batty old man that he was, Draco was sure if there was anyone who could figure out what was wrong with him, it was Dumbledore. He wanted to stay nearby.
"Yes," he answered honestly, "But it's bearable."
"For now, I suggest a return to normalcy as our best course of action. We still don't know what triggered your episode. It could be as you age, the veela blood becomes more active, or it could be the result of some trigger we do not yet recognize. It could very well be, as magic often is, a total fluke. We will track your…symptoms. You will continue to get a strengthening draft from Madam Pomfrey, in the meantime. And you will report immediately to her if your pain becomes worse. The password to my office is 'treacle tart' if you should ever need it. But if we have any hope of sorting this out, I'm going to need your promise of absolute honesty with me. Do I have your word?"
Draco nodded his ascension.
"Good. In exchange, I will give you mine. You may not like what I tell you. We may not be able to come up with a solution, but we will do whatever we can, Mr. Malfoy. Now, would you like me to tell you more about your father?"
One would think that finding out your father may have experimented on your pregnant mother and turned you into a magical monster might buy you the slightest bit of leeway with your transfiguration homework, he thought, bitterly.
But McGonagalll, the old bat, had insisted on two rolls of parchment on the mechanics of animating inanimate objects due by the end of next week. It had been two days since he'd left the infirmary and returned to classes. Each morning he'd woken up with two fresh vials on his nightstand- a strengthening potion, and something to dull pain. The potions seemed to be doing their work. The pain was kept at bay- a small background noise in his otherwise normal routine. But there was also something new. His body seemed to be humming, constantly on edge, like a tiny electric current was flowing through his veins. He wondered if it was the potions, or something else altogether.
His dormitory was mostly empty. Hogwarts had closed for a year during the war, and after the final battle where Voldemort was defeated, most of the students came back to pick up where they had left off. Slytherin, however, was noticeably sparse. Many of the sixth and seventh years had fought on Voldemort's side and were hiding from the aurors. Some of them were dead. Most couldn't bear coming back to Hogwarts in disgrace.
Everyone knew Draco had betrayed Voldemort at the last minute. The details of his deal to betray the Death Eaters' meeting places in exchange for the Order protecting his mother were widely known. He hadn't wanted to return to Hogwarts either, but there was nowhere else for him to go. Malfoy Manner was, by all rights, his now, but the Aurors were still sorting through the assorted nastiness that was his father's personal dark arts collection and he would not be permitted to return until they finished their investigation. His mother was still in hiding, at his insistence. She had tried to contact him when the war ended, but too many of Voldemort's followers were still out there for her to be safe. He'd ordered her to stay hidden. He wasn't really safe either, at least outside of Hogwarts, and so he'd begrudgingly returned. He'd been most worried about the reaction of his fellow Slytherins, almost all of whom had lost parents or friends in the war. But for the most part, they didn't treat him any differently. He'd lost his father in the war too. If anything, they had been more understanding of his predicament than any of his other classmates- if there was one thing Slytherins understood, it was putting your own self-interest first.
The rest of the school had been emphatically less gracious. The sorting hat's song this year had been all about mending walls and repairing friendships and school unity, but that didn't stop the poor first years who had been sorted into Slytherin from being booed mercilessly, and it didn't stop the boots from appearing anonymously in the hall to trip him, or the time that all of the Slytherins' food in the great all had been transfigured into live, writhing earthworms.
It didn't matter much though. He only had one year left. In one year, the investigation would be over, the remaining support for the Dark Lord would be either rounded up and serving time in Azkaban or driven underground, and he would have his NEWTS. He could last a year.
At least, that had been the plan. He didn't want to think about what Professor Dumbledore had told him. Love was not encouraged in the Malfoy household, but he had always held his father in great esteem. His father was powerful, and incredibly accomplished at getting what he wanted. He had been the perfect example of everything Draco himself wanted to be. Until, of course, Draco had told him he had reservations about getting the Dark Mark and Lucius had said he would Imperious him and make him kill his mother with his own hands if he ever even hinted at something so traitorous again.
That was the moment Draco had begun plotting against him. He felt guilty about his father's death, but he'd at least had good memories of his father. He could tell himself his childhood had been the result of if not love, at least mutual respect, and that the end had been the last ditch efforts of a desperate man. But now- if Dumbledore was right, then his father had never cared about him at all. Not even as the heir of Malfoy. He'd been willing to experiment on his own wife, injecting her with veela blood while she slept, slipping it into her food.
Dumbledore speculated he must have stopped the moment he realized the child was a boy- an unlikely veela. He never probably never even suspected it could have worked.
Draco put the lid on his inkwell and rolled up his parchment. He wasn't going to get any more work done tonight.
He had strange dreams that night. Dreams of warmth and sunshine, glimpses of red, and something that smelled like orange blossoms. He woke up the next morning somehow surprised to find himself alone. The room felt strangely cold, and he noticed with dismay that the hungry feeling in his chest was growing. He downed the vials of potion on his nightstand, and felt his head clear a little and the pain retreated to the back of his mind.
He ate breakfast with Blaise Zambini- the only other seventh year Slytherin boy who'd returned- and Millicent Bulstrode. From the head table, Dumbledore caught his eye and gave him a reassuring smile, but Draco did not feel reassured. He listened to the two sixth year girls next to him chatter away about Frederick Costa, a famous chaser. They didn't know what team he played for, but Draco did learn he apparently had a very fine arse.
Blaise had just asked him to pass the pepper when a familiar scent wafted through the air. Orange blossoms. He inhaled deeply and the smell sent a jolt of pleasure through his whole body that settled pleasantly between his legs. He whipped his head around looking for the source, but saw nothing unusual in the sea of faces.
"You- er- you alright, mate?" Blaise asked, staring at him in surprise. "You feeling sick again?"
"No," Draco answered, struggling to keep his voice level. "I just thought I saw something. I was wrong."
Blaise didn't press him. The smell was gone, but Draco's whole body was tingling now. The jolt that had passed through him was electric. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and gooseflesh prickled his arms. Worst of all, Draco realized with embarrassment that he was half hard. What the fuck was happening to him?
He sat quietly a few more minutes, forcing slow even breaths until he could stand without letting the rest of the Great Hall see what an eventful breakfast it had been for him.
The rest of the day passed without incident. He wondered that night, if he should tell Dumbledore. This was, after all, clearly related to whatever was happening to him, but he dismissed the idea almost as quickly as it had come to him. There was no way in hell he was writing to tell his headmaster the smell of orange blossoms had put him at half-mast.
The dreams returned that night. He recognized the smells, the warmth, as the same, but the dream was also different, more turbulent. This time there was no sunshine. He woke up just before midnight, choked with anxiety and gasping for breath. He barely paused to pull on a robe as he ran out the door, Blaise making loud unhappy noises as he slammed the door behind him.
The staircases were on his side, and he made it to the headmaster's office in only three minutes at a dead run. He yelled out the password as he ran straight toward the gargoyle, who only barely had time to slide out of the way in time to let him pass. Behind him, it fluttered its stone wings in annoyance. Dumbledore looked up at him in surprise and then snapped to attention.
"Draco-"
"She's crying," Draco interrupted, doubling over, his hands on his thighs as he gasped for air.
"Draco are you okay?"
The force of Dumbledore's concern caught him off guard. "Yes, yes- I'm fine," he waved a hand dismissively, "But she's frightened! We have to find her!"
"I pride myself on knowing a great many things. And yet I find I haven't the foggiest what you're talking about," the headmaster replied cheerfully. He put his hand on Draco's back and guided him down into a chair. "Now, if you would be so kind as to enlighten me. Who is crying Draco?"
"I don't know!" Draco almost screamed in frustration. "Her! The girl from the dream! She was crying somewhere."
"I'm afraid I still don't understand."
Draco explained about the dreams. About the sunshine and warmth and happiness and the smell. About smelling it the next morning- although not its effect on him. And then tonight, when he'd woken from the darker dream with an absolute certainty that whoever he had been dreaming about was panic-stricken and crying.
The portraits on the walls were glaring at him. He had obviously woken them up. Dumbledore's office was the first place he'd come, but now that he was truly awake he was surprised he'd succeeded in finding him there so late.
"So this girl in the dream, do you know her?" Dumbledore asked.
"No. I never saw her. I just- just sort of sensed her."
"And you have no idea who she may be?"
"No."
"Do you think she's a student here?"
"Yes. She's nearby," Draco answered immediately, surprised by his own conviction. He had no idea how he'd known that, but the moment the words left his lips he was certain they were true.
Dumbledore considered him quietly. His frustration was palpable. "Draco," he asked thoughtfully, "Can you tell if she's still crying?"
Draco thought about it. He pictured that scent, that warmth. He thought he saw a hint of red. And then he hissed in obvious relief, and he felt his face flush in embarrassment. "No," he said, "I don't think she is."
Dumbledore nodded. "Then I think it might be wise for you to return to bed. It is very late."
"What is happening to me, Professor?"
"I wish I had an answer, Draco. But I don't know that there's ever been anyone like you before. For now we'll just have to wait."
The next morning, a third vial had found its way onto his nightstand. The label read 'Dreamless Sleep' and someone had scrawled beneath it 'use as needed'. He pushed it aside and emptied the other two vials.
He took a long shower, and he found his mind drifting to the girl from his dreams. He couldn't see her, couldn't picture her face or her body, but he felt like he could feel her. Her warmth writhing beneath him, surrounding him, her smell thick in the air. The hunger in his chest flared and he let out a groan. He found himself painfully hard. He set about to taking care of the problem, and a few moments later he'd had his release, but the pain in his chest hadn't subsided at all. The potions should have been working by then.
He got dressed and made his way towards his first class of the day. Classes hardly seemed to matter much these day. Everyone knew that they were just going through the motions. Most of them had just fought in a war, it was hard to take NEWTS seriously. Today, though, he was relieved to have something to take his mind off of all of the weirdness. Classes felt reassuringly mundane.
He was almost to charms when he stopped dead. Weasley and Granger were talking loudly about Harry-Bloody-Potter.
"He's missing an important lesson- that's all I'm saying," Granger was saying defensively.
"Hermione, he's just saved the world," Ron sounded exasperated, "If he wants to skive off one bloody lesson, I say good on him. He'll be back tonight, anyway."
It wasn't the conversation that stopped him. Everyone knew that even though Potter had supposedly returned for his seventh year, he spend most of his time traveling back and forth with Dumbledore doing Ministry business. There was nothing new or remarkable about that. Instead it was the smell.
Draco took two large strides and he was chest to chest with Ron Weasley. He inhaled deeply.
"The fuck, Malfoy?" Ron stumbled away from him in surprise.
"Why do you smell like that?" Draco demanded. Ron's face flushed bright red.
"Merlin's beard," lamented Hermione. "I thought we were through with this."
Draco stepped forward and closed the distance between him and Ron once again. "Why do you smell like that?"
Ron was shaking with anger and was about to respond, when Hermione moved subtly between them. "Oh, I know, because he grew up in a pig sty. Or because the spots on his face make it look like a dung bomb exploded on him? Or, oh, maybe it's me? Maybe he smells like a filthy mudblood. Really, Ron. You know better than this. He. Is. Not. Worth. It."
She pulled him away, casting one final disgusted look at Malfoy as she went. Ron let her do it, but sputtered the whole time. "May not be evil, but he's a right slimy bastard. He'll get what's coming to him one of these days."
"What?" Draco called after him, quite recovered, "Fame and fortune? Oh wait, I already have those!"
They were gone around the corner and he sighed. Really, there was no point in baiting them anymore- not even Potter. Insulting the savior of the world really had a way of making a man look petty. He hadn't meant to start anything with Weasley, but he had smelled like orange blossom. The wave of jealousy he'd experience had been literally uncontrollable. If Granger hadn't stepped in when she did he'd probably still be beating the Weasel Kings face bloody. The idea of anyone else touching her, being near her when he couldn't filled him with rage.
But, the smell hadn't been as strong as the other morning, and the only thing that stopped him is he'd realized Granger smelled faintly of it too. Maybe it was just her shampoo. It was probably just a coincidence. But the thought of what he might have done scared him. He was losing control over himself.
He couldn't stop shaking through all of charms. Whatever was happening to him was not getting better. His chest ached. His head felt light. He should go to Madam Pomfrey. He'd given his word he would. But then what? Dumbledore pretty obviously had no idea what was happening to him. They would send him off to St Mungo's where he'd go mad dreaming about sunshine and orange blossoms. He was already going mad.
Charms ended, and he didn't realize it until Professor Flitwich tapped him on the shoulder to ask if he was alright. He mumbled an apology and gathered his things. The hallways were mostly empty when he stepped out into them. He decided to skip the rest of his classes. He would go back to his room, take that potion for dreamless sleep, and rest. Maybe sleep would help. He was almost back to his dormitory when he smelled it. Goddamn orange blossoms. It was strong, and it was close. She was close. Like the morning in the Great Hall, the smell lit his body on fire. Suddenly he was bright and alert. The fog from moments before had cleared. His limbs felt lighter than they had in days. And the hunger in his chest smoldered and settled further down. His cock stirred. This time he was going to find her.
He followed the scent up the nearest staircase and made a sharp left turn. He was on the third floor, somewhere near the arithmacy classrooms. He was getting closer. Another left and a flash of red and she was right there in front of him. Her lips had just formed a small 'o' of surprise when his came crashing down on them. He pushed her back against the wall, pressing her against him. Her thighs, resting between his, her breasts crushed against his chest. Everywhere their skin touched burned. He wanted more. He ripped the hem of her shirt out of her waist band and slid his hand under it so that he could touch her hips. His other hand snaked further back, feeling the small of her back, just above the generous swell of her ass. And her hands were on his chest too, balled up in his shirt.
His tongue prodded at her lip, begging access. He growled in satisfaction when they parted.
She bit down hard on his tongue. Hard enough to draw blood. He jerked his head back, but his body stayed firmly in place. He looked down at her. Ginny Weasley stared back at him, her round brown eyes wide and her expression unreadable.
He realized belatedly that her hands on his chest hadn't been the passionate response he'd imagined- she'd been beating her fists against him trying to get him to let go. With her arms pinned between them, she'd been unable to get any leverage. A noise to their right started both of them and they each turned to look. A third-year was staring at them, mouth slightly open.
"Go get Dumbledore," Draco told him.
The boy didn't move. "Go get Dumbledore now." The boy turned and ran.
Draco looked back at Ginny. "I'm going to let go now. The instant I do, use Stupefy on me. Understand?"
Her eyes darkened, "WHAT THE FUCK, MALFOY? WHAT-"
He interrupted her. "Shut up, Weasley. I let go and you curse me or I swear to god I'll tear your knickers off and fuck you right here. Now. Do. You. Understand?" he asked, annunciating each word. And as he did, he ground his hips against hers to prove his point. She nodded.
He braced himself, steeled his resolve, and stepped back. Moving faster than he could have imagined, her freed hand snatched the wand from her robe pocket and he felt himself falling helplessly to the floor.
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The Thin Line