Chapter 1
Draco came into his creature inheritance when he was seventeen, in a Manor full of Death-Eaters. Apparently there was veela blood running through the Malfoy family, carried for centuries before suddenly it became active. The wings sprouting out of his back, breaking through his skin, hurt almost as much as the Dark Mark that burned into his skin the year before that but the worst part was hiding it from the Death-Eaters, and suppressing the veela allure in a place where men already eyed him in unsettling ways for his elegant and delicate features.
Professor Severus made him potions, taught him how to make them himself too. It was the only reason Draco made it out unscathed.
Veelas also had mates. Draco knew who became his, sat in the back of a broom with his arms clinging tightly to a waist and his cheek to the back of a shoulder, eyes clenched shut as they flew over the blazing fires licking up towards their feet.
It was a cursed life for veelas that were rejected by their mates. It was not supposed to be death exactly for veelas but the effects that occurred often led veelas to their death anyway, either by suicide or the toll it took on them psychologically so much that it impacted their physical health until eventually it killed them.
It was made clear that that was the life Draco was going to get when he spoke to Potter after his trial.
"Potter! Potter, wait!" Draco called, out of breath as he caught Potter's shoulder. He bent over for air with the other hand on his own knee. He had all but run across the vast space of Wizengamot just to get to him at the exit.
It was a pathetic thing that he had been imagining, over and over, ever since he sat in the seat of Wizengamot frozen with terror upon seeing Potter, certain that it was over for him with the Golden Boy himself speaking against him, only to realise suddenly that that was not the case, that Potter was speaking for him.
Potter was speaking for him.
It was a pathetic thing. Draco had imagined himself running to him just like this, and catching Potter by the shoulder just like this. His hope is bright and fluttery in his chest; the same hope of a snooty eleven-year version of himself that thought he could impress him into becoming his friend.
He imagined Potter turning to look at him, just like this.
And Draco would say -
"I just wanted to say..."
Draco couldn't get the words out, though. They were two words. Thank you. But Draco had never really said thank you to anybody before and meant it.
He imagined Potter nodding at him, maybe even a small smile. Draco held out his hand and Potter took it in his; strong and thicker than his own, and they shook it, an olive branch extended between them.
Maybe they would become friends. Maybe this bizarre image and hope is only fueled by veela instincts, fantasies that wouldn't have seemed as possible to him if it weren't for the violent, almost sickening pull in his chest towards Potter, as if a threat in his heart is tied to Potter's ribcage.
Maybe they would even...
"What do you want, Malfoy? Spit it out already."
Draco faltered at the irritated gaze. But it was fair. He had time to think about things, hours alone in his room of the Manor, living in terror; hoping Potter would find a way to win so he and his family could be saved.
"Thought we could start over," Draco said and held his hand out.
Potter stared at him flatly.
"I want nothing to do with you, Malfoy," Potter said. "I want to get through the last year of Hogwarts seeing as little of you as possible, actually."
Draco couldn't be imagining the grey feeling that took over him, that the thread in his heart had just withered. Something had gone dead.
Potter walked past his shoulder. Draco turned and watched him go.
He waited for the familiar hatred and anger to come, the armour that protected what was underneath that ever since he was eleven when his hand was left suspended in air as he stared into Potter's cold and unimpressed eyes, a weakening, shrivelled emotion that tightened his chest until he couldn't breathe.
Hurt.
Fear.
That feeling of, I was not good enough for him.
All Draco was left with now was that weakening, shrivelled emotion. There was no anger and hatred left to protect him from the truth.
He had never been good enough for Harry Potter. Perhaps he never would be now.
He could see it in all the ways he was not. He had had a lot of time to think.
Draco didn't exactly have the face to ask Potter for help anyway after everything he did. Even if Potter had that saviour complex, Draco had good reason to doubt said saviour complex would apply to him. Nevertheless...
Perhaps it was the damned veela instincts that made him think the way he did. It came with the whole mate package thing: the desire to prioritise your mate's happiness or whatever.
Perhaps Draco did grow the sense himself, too... but he did not want to force Potter to spend any energy and time on him when it would clearly make him miserable. Draco also didn't want anything from him if it would only be out of pity, something artificial.
It seemed that was the most he would get anyway, and neither of them would be happy with that.
And so the best course of action was that Draco would stay out of Potter's way until they go their separate ways, just as he wanted, and bear whatever was to come.
At least one of them might be happier that way.