The Discovery
After a long but peaceful summer—peaceful by Harry The Boy Who Lived Potter’s standards, at least—he was back on Platform 9¾, staring up at the Hogwarts Express. It had been a strange few months, filled with excruciating body changes, hospital checks, and long nights spent studying everything he could about his newfound nature. Because as it turned out, he wasn’t just a wizard. He was a Veela.
It should have been overwhelming. Should have been terrifying. But compared to the things he’d already faced in his life, discovering he had Veela blood barely ranked on the list of traumatic experiences. Especially since it meant he didn’t have to go back to the Dursleys. Instead, he’d spent his summer at Grimmauld Place, free from their suffocating presence.
Now, though, as he stepped onto the train with his trunk in tow, he could feel the weight of change settling over him. His letters had warned his friends about what had happened—about the transformation, the allure, the shift in his magic. But letters couldn’t prepare them for reality. Not that Harry could blame them; he knew his new appearance, and the magic that clung to him now, would make heads turn—more than it had ever done before.
“Harry! You look so different!” Hermione breathed, taking in the sharp angles of his face, the way his presence seemed to hum with something almost tangible. “And I can sense it—your magic, your aura! If I hadn’t studied it after your letters, I wouldn’t have recognised you! Are you alright?”
Harry chuckled lightly, a small smile on his face. “Yeah, I’m fine, Hermione. Just a little different now, I guess.”
Ron, on the other hand, was still gaping, eyes scanning Harry from head to toe. He’d changed—drastically. Taller, leaner, his features sharper yet strangely captivating. His movements had a natural grace to them, something entirely foreign to the Harry Potter Ron had grown up with. If Ron wasn’t straight, he’d be feeling a lot more than just intrigue…Was this what Hermione had meant by allure?
“Bloody hell,” Ron muttered, still staring.
Harry sighed. “I knew this was going to be weird.”
Ron finally seemed to shake himself out of his daze, rubbing the back of his neck. “Nah, it’s just…well, you’re still you, right?”
That made Harry smile. “Yeah. Still me.”
Ron grinned back, finally relaxing. “Alright, good. Just making sure.”
“So,” Ron said, breaking the silence again, “how do you feel about all this? I mean, about being forced to love someone. I don’t know… I’d feel pretty trapped.”
Harry’s smile turned distant as he thought for a moment. “Well, from what I understand, it’s not really forced. It’s someone who is meant for you, someone you would fall in love with, no matter when you meet them—whether it’s the first time or after twenty years of knowing them. It just makes it easier, connecting us like this. Honestly, I just want someone who’ll make me happy and help me build a calm, loving family.”
Hermione, ever the inquisitive one, leaned forward. “Except for the physical changes, what else should we be expecting?”
“Not much,” Harry admitted. “Not until I meet or “sense” my mate, at least.”
“Sense?” Ron repeated, brow furrowing.
“Yeah, it’s… weird,” Harry said, struggling to explain. “From what I understand, our magic and souls are linked. I’ll feel them before I even see…them?”
And as if on cue, his breath hitched.
Something inside him pulled, sharp and undeniable. His body tensed, every nerve suddenly hyper-aware as a scent—intoxicating, familiar, his—hit him all at once.
“Don’t look for me.” Harry shot his friends.
“What are you…?”
Before Ron or Hermione could react, Harry was on his feet, his legs moving on instinct, pushing him out of the compartment and down the corridor. He didn’t stop to think. Didn’t question it.
Because he was here.
He followed the scent, his steps quickening as his body urged him forward. He barely even registered the moment before he was suddenly face-to-face with the person his soul had been calling out to.
“What in the—Potter?!”
The voice was unmistakable, but Harry barely registered it before he was already acting. His body crashed forward, arms wrapping tightly around Malfoy, his face pressing against his neck. His mate. His mate. His mate. His arms moved almost involuntarily, pulling him tighter.
“What the hell—” Malfoy stiffened in his hold. “Potter, get the fuck off me—”
But the second he tried to push Harry away, something hit him. The same pull, the same overwhelming rush of recognition.
Malfoy froze.
Neither of them moved for a moment, the entire train fading into the background.
Of all the people in the world… it had to be him? Harry’s heart sank in dread, panic flooding him. How could Draco Malfoy be his mate? Was he going to be rejected by someone who hated him? Harry’s thoughts spiralled, a deep sense of desperation clawing at him. All he wanted was a happy, loving marriage, not this. He was doomed.
Then, Malfoy spoke, his voice filled with something close to despair.
“You’ve got to be joking,” he muttered, sounding almost pained. “You can’t be my mate. This has to be some cruel joke…”
Harry’s heart nearly shattered, but then he noticed something—a flicker of recognition in Draco’s gaze.
“…You’re a Veela too?” Harry asked, hope seeping into his voice.
Malfoy let out a sharp breath, his hand gripping Harry’s arm tightly.
“Yes,” he admitted, voice calmer now. “It’s not surprising to have magical beings blood in a pureblooded lineage.” A pause. Then, softer, “I guess we have a long talk ahead of us.”
Harry swallowed. Yeah. That was an understatement.