Shim
‘Ah, Harry!’
Harry perks up in surprise. He hasn’t knocked yet, and Lupin seemed so invested in his book that Harry thought he had a while to pluck up his nerve. Apparently not.
Lupin’s lost his dreary blazer, revealing a soft-looking cream jumper over a dress shirt and loosened tie. His sleeves are rolled, revealing more long scars cutting through swathes of freckles. His hands are big and knobbly, uneven like the knuckles have been broken before.
‘Hi, professor.’
‘Come in, come in. Cup of tea? I was just about to make some. Goes very well with chocolate.’
‘Sure.’
Lupin smiles at him warmly and Harry’s heart is buoyed. Something about Lupin feels so safe, all it takes is a kind smile to calm Harry’s nerves– and all of his smiles are kind. Harry makes his way over to the teacher’s desk as Lupin sets about boiling the kettle with a quick spell.
‘I’m glad to see you again. I thought maybe you’d be too busy to see your parent’s old ghosts, since you no doubt have your own life. Don’t think you have to see me, either, it’s completely up to you. Still… I’m glad.’
Harry stares at the man. For the first time, he realises that Lupin must be as lost as he is in this situation.
‘I’m sorry I didn’t come earlier. I wanted to, but the first bit of school’s really busy, and I… well I wasn’t sure you’d want me to. Since you’re a teacher, and you have other students, and work, and stuff…’
‘Rest assured, Harry,’ Lupin hums, placing a steaming mug before him and squeezing his shoulder, ‘I’m always happy to see you.’
Harry thrills. He feels less bad about not being able to keep the stupid smile off his face when he sees that Lupin can’t either. He’s so thoroughly distracted by the revelation that he almost forgets what he came here for.
‘That’s right, sir– I did have a question. Um, in our first lesson, with the boggart… why didn’t you let me face it?’
Lupin’s eyebrows jump a little. ‘I thought that would’ve been obvious. I thought it would take the form of Lord Voldemort.’
Harry’s shock must show on his face. Not only has Lupin used the proper name for the dark lord, he also didn’t deny Harry’s accusation.
‘I thought about him,’ Harry says truthfully. ‘But only for a second.’ He’d better not mention the cupboard; he doesn’t want to make his uncle sad. ‘I think I’m more afraid of the dementors.’
‘Well well,’ Lupin hums over his cup, eyes twinkling. ‘Colour me impressed. That would suggest that what you fear most of all is fear itself. Very wise, if I do say so myself."
Harry doesn't know what to say to that, so he drinks some more tea. Lupin offers him a bit of his chocolate, which he happily takes.
"So you've been thinking that I didn't believe you capable of fighting the boggart?" the man notes casually.
Harry ducks his head. ‘Sort of.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. Why should you be any less capable than anyone else? Besides, if you’ve an ounce of your parents in you– and I’ve been assured that you do– the boggart should count itself lucky I didn’t let you loose on it.’ Harry giggles. ‘I’ve been wondering when you’d ask to have another go in private, since you didn’t get your shot in class. You still up for it?’
Harry’s grin widens. He feels silly for having worried at all.
☕️🫖🍫
Severus loves Fridays. All week he toils at the whims of snot-nosed students that aren’t fit to use the delicate ingredients they’re more interested in throwing at each other than respecting, glaring at him for attempting to better them like he’s the devil incarnate. And now he has to stomach that miserable Lupin in the defence position– ha! The irony. And meanwhile, who has to make the potions to keep the wolf from the door? Again Dumbledore’s appointed someone woefully incapable to teach the subject that should rightfully be Severus’, and this time, rather than a bumbling idiot or an agent of the dark lord, he appoints a man who needs to be drugged to be kept lucid! This is the standard of teaching these days, the manner of person Albus entrusts with the care of children? Whether he means to or not, Lupin is one missed dose away from becoming a feral beast in a school full of minors.
But on Friday, Severus doesn’t have to see him. On Friday, Severus doesn’t have to see anybody. He has no classes.
If he can get away with it, he’ll keep the whole day to himself. Otherwise, he’ll tolerate lunch with Minerva. Normally, she’s quite alright to spend time with, but she doesn’t have the day off, so she’ll have to eat with everyone else in the loud crowded great hall. She usually makes it up to him with her company if he really must join her, though. Either way, today will be a significant improvement from his usual suffering.
This is the plan, right up until Draco knocks on his private door.
‘Hello, uncle,’ the boy says. His white dress shirt is splashed violently with black ink, making him look like a Rorschach test. While his pants are black, they are obviously equally drenched, though an effort has been made to air them out. His shoes squelch as he shifts in place. At least, Severus notes, there is none in his hair or face. He raises an imperious eyebrow at his godson.
‘Draco,’ he acknowledges. ‘You’re looking especially… damp, today.’ He steps aside, holding the door for Draco, who manages to squelch inside less miserably than he rightly should. ‘What happened.’
‘I find myself in need of a new wardrobe,’ the boy announces. Severus appreciates him being careful of Severus’ belongings, not getting near anything lest he stain it. ‘Immediately. I require an escort into town. Preferrably to Diagon Alley, but I’ll settle for Hogsmeade to see me through until I can make a proper trip.’
‘A new wardrobe?’ Severus echoes. ‘To replace one outfit?’
Draco looks at him with a little displeasure at the insinuation. ‘No, of course not. All of my clothes have been compromised.’
‘All of them? And how is that?’
‘An unfortunate accident,’ Draco drawls, too dismissive. He looks out the window as he says it.
Severus recalibrates. While admittedly this is exactly the kind of thing Draco would refuse to elaborate on had he been at fault, Severus gets the distinct feeling that isn’t it. In fact, he remembers several occasions when he himself made similar excuses, and the circumstances behind them. But surely, this isn't the same. Severus worried for Draco on occasion, but never that he was in danger of being bullied. Besides, if it was a harmless mistake, he’d surely have gone right to his mother.
‘Can you not have clothes sent to the castle from the manor?’ he inquires.
‘I would rather not bother my parents with this.’
‘But you’re only too happy to bother me,’ Severus sighs fondly. There goes Friday. ‘Alright then. Are you sure you don’t have any one set of clothes that would be suitable so you don’t have to miss class?’
‘Not one. I can’t very well go to class in this state. We must go today.’
‘Very well,’ Severus nods. He crosses shortly to his dresser and takes out a cloak for Draco to cover his unfortunate dress with. It’s far too big, but it’ll have to do for now.
‘Uncle,’ Draco says, meeting his eyes quite seriously and taking the cloak. ‘I’d rather you not bother my parents with this, either.’
‘Your mother would want to know. Your father would definitely want to know.’
‘I know they would.’
Severus keeps his gaze for a heavy moment. It truly is that serious, then. Draco would never come out and ask something like this of him if he had any other option. This is quite the leap of faith he’s taking, relying on Severus. Severus also recognises that it’s a test. Should he fail, Draco will know not to rely on him again.
‘Very well then. In that case, we’ll go straight into London and replace everything. That way there will be no need to send for spares from home. I’ll explain the situation to the Headmaster. We’ll take the day.’
‘Thank you, uncle.’ Severus hears the impact in it and knows he’s passed the first round. He’s glad. He loves Lucius, but this boy deserves someone he can turn to outside of his father’s purview. Narcissa can, at times, fall under that purview, so turning to her can be equally tricky. That’s what Sev is here for.
‘Mother promised we’d go shopping together,’ Draco notes offhandedly.
‘You’ll have to put up with me,’ Severus says, moving to the door to inform the headmaster.
‘Then I’d better tell you something.’
Severus stops. Turns. This is it, then? Draco has been… deeper, more secure in his own foundations lately, and Severus isn’t blind. He knows that’s partly to do with the great change he’s been undergoing, the catalyst of which was his shift from strict pureblood slytherin to the vanguard of a societal reckoning. The Draco of two years ago would never find himself the butt of schoolyard bullying, certainly not at the hand of fellow Slytherins. This one before him now is a different person. If Severus is honest, he respects this Draco far more, even if he might not… approve, of his choice of company. This Draco’s words hold more weight somehow.
Draco regards him closely through sterling grey eyes just like his father’s. He’s every bit as beautiful as Lucius already, and Severus sees Narcissa in the sharp cut of his jaw. Severus hopes he grows up to wield that power wisely. Already, he is a force to be reckoned with.
‘I am part Veela.’
Severus freezes. He can count on one hand the times Lucius has openly spoken about this through all the years Sev’s known him. Each time, it was with great strain and shame. Never this directly. It was an unspoken thing, only to be addressed when absolutely necessary and with great restraint. To hear Draco say it so boldly is startling.
Severus assumed that Draco had been told a long time ago. Narcissa would’ve wanted him to know. Severus thought something must’ve happened– he’d hit a milestone in Veela development, or something– and that was the reason he stopped cutting his hair. Lucius would never allow such a thing without reason. Even if he hadn’t been told as a young child, Draco would need to be made aware before he branched out into his natural power. Draco has, in recent months, come into himself in such a way that suggests the maturity required to know.
Severus knows that Draco isn’t Lucius. He would never have come out and told Sev this way if he was. He does wonder why now. There must be some reason. Skimming through the context of their conversation, though, Severus can’t identify the relevance. He waits for Draco to elaborate. Draco does, with an affectation of great caution.
‘Veela are not traditionally or biologically male or female,’ he begins, watching Severus like a hawk. ‘And nor am I.’
Severus’ lips part in shock, and his eyes widen fractionally. Scratch that, he thinks. Draco may look like his father, but they are nothing alike. This is so far out of the realm of what Severus was prepared for he is momentarily stunned.
Severus knew, in theory. He did his research. But it wasn’t something Lucius would ever, ever recognise. Severus has doubts the man even accepted it in the privacy of his own mind. It had never once, in all the decades they’ve shared, been spoken of. Severus was convinced he’d go to the grave never having outwardly acknowledged this about Lucius, and here is his son, openly declaring it.
‘...I am aware…’ Severus starts carefully. ‘...That doesn’t have to mean anything for you, Draco.’
‘It doesn’t have to,’ Draco agrees. ‘But it does mean something for me. It means quite a lot for me.’
It hits Severus, then.
‘Your parents didn’t tell you,’ he realises aloud. Draco shakes his head.
‘I’m off the potions. I don’t feel the need to be male all the time, and I don’t want to change myself to fit that narrative. I don’t have a solid grasp on what I am yet, but I should have the time and opportunity to figure it out, don’t you think?’
Severus wants to shout YES. Of course Draco should have the choice. He understands why Lucius would keep these particular cards close to his chest– it’s all in Draco’s best interests– but he hadn’t realised Draco was not going to be made aware at all. The permanent effects of his potions start settling in about this age, and once that’s happened, they’re irreversible. Draco should only undergo these changes voluntarily. It’s not ideal, as they can’t wait for him to be of age to start the treatment, but even minors should be made aware of permanent alterations made to their bodies.
‘You didn’t stop the potions all at once, did you? You weaned yourself off safely?’
‘Yes.’
‘You should’ve come to me. Poppy and I will both do checkups to make sure you’re completely healthy and don’t require any mitigations. Don’t try to handle your medications yourself in the future, you idiot! There could be dire consequences!’
‘I’m sorry, uncle,’ Draco says, but he’s smiling. He– is he still he? Would Severus offend Draco by asking? This is not a conversation he ever imagined having. Squinting at Draco through the silence, he feels completely out of his depth.
‘So then, what does this mean for you?’ he asks indulgently, trying to regain his footing. ‘And what, pray tell, does it have to do with clothes shopping?’
Draco smiles like he’s finally asked the right question, and Severus tries not to be too pleased with himself for passing Draco’s test, he suspects, with flying colours.
⚧️👘
The next time Draco sees the goon squad, they all race over like he’s come back from the war or something. It’s as annoying as it is heartwarming. They are so blatant and generous with their care, it’s baffling. You’d think they’d never gone a day without one another. Really, if they were that worried, they should’ve been resourceful enough between them to find out why he wasn’t at school on Friday. Then again, Draco reminds himself dryly, they are Gryffindors.
The looks on their faces to the news that the Slytherins were to blame for the tarnishing of his wardrobe are mildly amusing. Arthur gets a sharp glint in his eyes, and Merlin’s go distant like he’s thinking of the possibilities. Ron hisses and Harry shakes his fist and swears revenge, and Hermione promises to get him a hot chocolate to make him feel better. Which is ridiculous. He’s fine, and if he wasn’t, a hot beverage would hardly fix it. He’s already handled it, so there’s no need for all this fuss.
On Sunday, Draco works up the nerve to wear one of his new outfits that she got from the women’s section. She took the opportunity with uncle Severus to reestablish her style to incorporate anything she liked, for either gender. If she bought them, then she’ll bloody well wear them, she thought– but it didn’t stop her from spending an hour in the bathroom changing her mind.
She’s pretty. In fact, she’s beautiful, if she is to believe her reflection in the mirror. That’s not the issue. She just has the crushing sense that this is forbidden. Even wearing it in private feels taboo. She was so confident when she bought it, but how can she go outside in this now?
She steels herself. She didn’t buy it to collect dust in the closet. It looks good. And it’s not improper– if she were a natural woman, this is the kind of thing she’d be expected to wear to represent the Malfoy name.
She smooths her hands down her front one more time, takes a short breath, and leaves the bathroom.
Draco feels every set of eyes on her as she leaves the dorm. Blaise is the only person she can make herself look back at. He gives her a nod. It’s the best thing he could’ve done, not drawing any attention to the change at all, greeting her no differently than usual. His brow gives away his curiosity, but that’s the only sign, and it doesn’t feel condemning. Draco makes sure her back is straight when she crosses into the common room.
More staring. People don’t pretend not to whisper– it’s expected. She wastes no time on them. In fact, she almost makes it the full length of the room unaccosted– almost.
‘Dray!’ comes a familiar dramatic gasp. Draco prays this is one of Pansy’s good days and turns to meet her.
Pansy Parkinson has on a forest-green flannel today– designer, of course. Two silver studs in each ear, peeking through the flat-ironed curtains of her hair. Paired with a black skirt and boots, the end result is a cosy but well structured look. Draco must admit, the girl can dress. She always wears too much makeup and jewelery though. It makes it look like she’s trying too hard. Her black, heavily underlined eyes rake over Draco’s shirt with all the melodrama of a paid actor. Draco resists the urge to cover herself.
‘What is this?’ she crows. Draco winces internally, only just stopping herself from slapping her hand over Pansy’s fat mouth. ‘You went shopping? What a look…’
‘Was there a compliment in there?’
‘You look good in anything, Dray,’ she admonishes, like it’s a silly question. Her eyes glimmer with a shred of genuine worry though. ‘It’s so unlike you, though. Are you alright?’
‘You wouldn’t know what’s like me, Pans,’ Draco scoffs. ‘ I don’t know what’s like me. I’m figuring it out as I go along, just like the rest of you.’
Pansy smiles. ‘That’s so brave of you to say. Well, it’s lovely. I love the cut. We have to talk style sometime, Dray. I know how… possessive, you are, with your clothes, but keep it in mind.’
Draco nods. Pansy’s not wrong. Draco’s honestly proud of herself for not absolutely losing her shit at her clothes being ruined. It was a close thing– closer than she’d like to admit. The poison ivy she stuffed into Bozzelli’s shoes helped, as did the fearful looks her dormmates shot her when she was fighting down a full-tilt fit of rage. She is still not someone to be trifled with, and they know it.
Draco’s still deciding what to do in response. She has a delightfully nasty list she’s mulling over, and now it’s only a matter of picking her poison.
She’s hardly going to keep a clear mind here, though. With a bit of effort, she manages to detangle herself from Pansy and leave the common room, bag over her shoulder.
Draco knows any number of secret places to haunt in the castle, but now that she’s gotten through the common room, she feels she doesn’t want to hide. In fact, it seems the perfect day to sit out by the lake. So that’s what she does. There’s a certain tree she likes to sit in and look out. She’ll be damned if she rips her new shirt on the first say climbing a tree, though, so she settles under it instead and takes out her book. It’s a retelling of the old Greek classics Draco was made to read as a child, but this lens is completely novel and fascinating to her. She’s desperate to read it, but she should really touch up her transfiguration notes. She suspects McGonagall will give them a test on the subject next week.
She loses herself in work. It’s lovely outside, and this shirt is so light she can feel the breeze even better than usual. Once she’s finished transfiguration she turns to Herbology. Herbology isn't a chore, because it’s mostly diagrams. Draco just turns her brain off and draws. Even better, she’s brought her SingSong, so she can play music in the background. The SingSong has got to be the best Christmas gift Draco’s ever received. She adores music. So many wizards think that without muggle technology, transportable music is unfeasible. What trite. Anything muggles can do, wizards can do better– including music. Good thing, too; Draco gets in a foul mood if she goes too long without a decent soundtrack.
The need to sing along might have something to do with her heritage. There is frustratingly little information published about Veela, so Draco only knows that their voices are magical, and not how. She doesn’t know how to control it, how it will manifest, the do’s and don’t’s. She wants to sing, but she’s not sure if she should. She resists for about half an hour before she compromises and hums along to her music, tracing the lines of the Habfoot root she’s drawn. As soon as she clocks that someone’s headed her way, though, she stops. She waits for them to turn around or head in another direction, but they keep coming, making a beeline straight for her tree.
Marvellous. Just when she was having such a fantastic time– oh, it’s just Harry. Nevermind. He probably can’t see her from there, so she takes the opportunity to look him over. He’s walking with a slouch, arms flailing with every heavy step. There’s those same shoes– he hasn’t worn any others since he got them, Draco’s sure. His golden snitch necklace hangs proudly over his collar, glinting in the sun. Draco thought he’d wear it as an accessory, but she’s pretty sure he hasn’t taken that off since he got it either. He probably sleeps with the thing on. As far as she’s aware, he doesn’t wear any other jewellery, so she was worried he wouldn’t like it. She’d assured herself that he didn’t have to wear it at all then, but clearly she needn’t have worried. His shirt is less intuitive. It looks to be some kind of brown cartoon… thing. It’s got a big smile and a blue collar. She can’t make out the blobby writing underneath it. It’s a strange thing to see Harry in shorts, too. It’s not particularly hot out or anything.
Draco lowers her eyes back to her notebook as Harry approaches. He takes a strangely long time to get here, given the pace he was going at. She chances another look up.
Harry’s slowed down maybe ten feet away and is now drifting closer in something of a daze, wide eyes on Draco. Is something wrong? Draco goes through the possible reasons. Is it the shirt? Surely she doesn’t have to worry about Harry in that regard?
She gives up on pretending not to look, squinting at him in mild concern. He blinks widely back at her. He doesn’t say anything. Finally, he floats down to the ground, settling surreally on the grass and mindlessly crossing his legs.
‘Potter,’ Draco tries suspiciously. ‘You alright?’
‘You’re really beautiful,’ Harry breathes. As Draco’s eyebrows shoot up, he seems to come back to himself a little, fumbling over his words. ‘H-handsome. I mean. It’s hard to remember you’re a real person, sometimes. No offence. Sorry. Nevermind.’
Well. That’s not what Draco was expecting. And coming from Harry, that’s rich. Harry and his thick black eyelashes and devastating green eyes, skin like rich coffee and all the right features to compliment it, dark and soft. His lips are like pink clouds, it’s absurd. He probably never gets the dark circles under his eyes that Draco so hates about herself. Draco has features that wash her out so much she might as well be a ghost, and she’s got the figure for it too– she’s built like a q-tip. So thin and inconsequential. She looks downright unhealthy, and Harry’s going to tell her she’s beautiful?
Beautiful, she realises. Not handsome.
She lets her hair fall forward to hide her delighted smile. When she looks back up, she plasters on a smug look.
‘It’s alright, Potter. I am beautiful.’
‘If you do say so yourself,’ he snorts. ‘Are you trying girl clothes, then? Em has tons. I tried a skirt, but I like pants better. They suit you way more than me, though. I mean, the shirt does, at least.’
‘You think?’ she blurts before she can stop herself.
‘Yeah,’ Harry snorts again, like that’s a ridiculous question. ‘I mean, you’d probably look nice in anything,’ he continues, reminding Draco of Pansy saying just the same thing to her this morning. It feels like so much more of a statement coming from Harry. ‘But you always choose things that just… work. Because they’re you. They’re all fluid and graceful… that probably doesn’t make any sense. They’re just clothes.’
‘I’ll have you know I take great pride in my clothes,’ Draco says a little breathlessly, fighting down yet another smile. She would never have guessed Harry of all people would pick up on the impact of style. He’s wearing a brown blob on his shirt and basketball shorts, for Merlin’s sake. ‘Though it’s mostly lost on you lot. What on earth are you wearing, Harry? And wait, did you say you wore a skirt?’
Harry looks down at his shirt, and back up like a deer in the headlights. He mumbles something, scratching the back of his head and looking away.
‘Speak up if you expect me to hear you.’
‘It’s Scooby-doo…’
Draco blinks, trying to translate. ‘...Is that french?’
‘No, it’s… doesn’t matter. I just got done with a workout, and I’m just beat,’ he sighs, and Draco hears the fact of it. He sounds wrecked. ‘And the common room was so loud. It was driving me mad…’
Draco subconsciously moves to turn the music off. A shame, but it was nice while it lasted. Harry looks up in surprise as it stops, eyes flicking from Draco to the SingSong.
‘Why’d you turn it off?’
‘You just said it was too loud in the common room and you came here to get away.’
‘Yeah,’ Harry says, trailing off uncertainly. He tilts his head back and forth, looking away for the words. ‘But I don’t mind your music. It’s nice. That suits you too, I think. I kind of feel like I intruded on you in your element.’
‘You did,’ Draco says, cautiously turning the music back on a little quieter. ‘But I’m willing to make allowances for certain people when I’m in a good mood.’
Harry sends her a smile and doesn’t duck his head again. He bobs his head at the SingSong. ‘I didn’t know there was a spell for music.’
‘It’s not a spell,’ Draco says. ‘It’s a product. I prefer it to the radio. I can compose my own collection this way, and I don’t have to listen to those mindless radio hosts blather on.’
‘Cool. Can I sit here and listen with you?’
‘You may.’
So he does. Draco goes back to her drawing and Harry closes his eyes and listens. Eventually, he ends up on his back in the grass. He looks so peaceful. Like he isn’t even here. Draco couldn’t have possibly conceived how his features could get any softer, but they do soften, his eyelashes brushing his cheeks as lightly as fairy wings. He’s taken his glasses off and places them nearby in the grass. He looks so different without them on, so unguarded. His hair splays out around him like a fine cloud. His chest rises and falls, and his little golden snitch curls into itself atop him.
Draco doesn’t want to bother him, but she feels there could be no better time to tell him. And she wants to tell him.
‘Harry,’ comes out of her more softly than she intended. The answering hum is equally soft though. After a moment, Harry blinks his breathtakingly green eyes open and turns his head to the side to look at Draco. It makes his hair floof out under his cheek, which should look ridiculous. It does a bit.
‘Do you know what a Veela is?’
Harry frowns slightly into the ground and comes up blank. He shrugs and hums a no, wide eyes back on Draco, ready to learn.
‘They are semi-human magical beings. Little is known about them, as most traditional sects are very reclusive. They are characterised by moon-pale skin and white-blonde hair. To the average man, they typically present as abnormally beautiful women. In reality, their race subscribes to no gendered parameters. None of them are women or men in the way we define them. They can be either, though, as it serves them.’
Harry takes this all in dutifully, chewing through the information. Draco waits for the question.
‘Is that what inspired the outfit change?’ he asks instead of what Draco expected him to. ‘The Veela? They sound interesting.’
Draco nods. She forces herself to get these next words out at a reasonable pace. ‘I recently found out that I am half Veela.’
Harry doesn’t scramble or bawk at once, like she feared he might. He does straighten a little in place. His eyes flick to his glasses, but he decides to leave them off. Again, his gaze turns thoughtful.
‘You do seem to share a lot of the traits you mentioned.’
Draco nods. ‘Veela genetics are strong. Even though I’m only half Veela, a lot of my makeup can be attributed to them. Still, for all social intents and purposes, I’m human. That’s what I was raised, and that’s what I am. Veela culture and communities are closed to any and all outsiders, including those in situations such as mine. No one can know this, Potter, do you understand? I’m a half-breed. In my family’s circles, that is social and political suicide. My family could be ruined by this, and so could I.’
‘I won’t tell anyone,’ Harry swears. ‘I promise. Not even Ron and Hermione.’
Draco eases back against the tree. She hadn’t realised she’d tensed up. ‘Thank you.’
‘Of course.’ A pause. ‘Thank you for telling me.’
‘Mm. Well, it’s been a pain in the arse to deal with alone. See, I’ve taken potions all my life to… make me more human. In the developmental stage I’m currently at, if I kept taking them, the effects would be permanent. I decided to stop taking them. Mother is proud, but I doubt Father will be happy when he finds out, if he hasn’t already.’
‘Why wouldn’t he want you to stop taking them? Are the effects that obvious?’
‘No. I can still pass for human. I haven’t even grown into most of my non-human traits. But Veela voices are high. They present as women. My father needs a boy to carry on the Malfoy legacy, but now that I’ve stopped taking the potions, it will become all the more obvious that I am not a boy.’
Now Harry pulls himself up properly to stare at her.
‘You’re not?’ he says stupidly after a long, nerve-wracking pause.
‘Not always,’ Draco breathes. ‘Or maybe, not only. I’m not only Veela, after all; I’m also human. I’m currently working off the theory that I’m both a boy and a girl.’
Draco can see the gears turning in Harry’s poor, underfurnished head. The poor boy was just asleep, and now he looks to be doing Olympic-level mental gymnastics. It’s almost enough to make Draco snicker.
‘So… do I call you he then, or she? Or hem. Sher. Herm. Sherrrm. Shim?’
Draco blinks at him in disbelief. Shim? What is he talking about?
She doesn’t mean to, but to her utter horror, she bursts out in a big cackle. It’s terrible. Her laugh is something she always endeavours to crush before it makes it out of her mouth, because it is ugly. Inexcusable. Unsalvageable. It’s so loud and brash, and she snorts and honks so much she sounds like half the zoo. It’s a travesty, and she cannot believe she’s just done it in front of Harry Potter.
Harry’s staring at her. A smile tugs unbidden at the side of his uncertain mouth, but his eyes twinkle like he’s wearing a face splitting grin. His smile widens until it matches, even as Draco internally calls herself every ugly name under the sun just to make herself STOP.
‘Don’t laugh at me! I’m thinking!’ Harry cries, and it makes Draco howl. When this is over, she is digging herself a hole and jumping in.
‘Don’t, you-you’ll only h-hurt yourself,’ she manages to eek out between guffaws.
‘Shut up!’
Draco gets a few more seconds to desperately try to wrangle herself back into decent form before she gets hit by something. Her head whips around to stare. It’s a shoe. Gryffindor themed. Harry’s thrown his shoe at her.
‘You-!’ There is no thought as she flies at him in response. Harry squawks unattractively, which makes her feel a little better about the whole situation, and they tussle on the ground like children.
By the end, Harry has her in a headlock. Her shirt is full of dirt and grass stains, and probably Harry’s sweat. Her hair is a lost cause. She’s smiling like the idiots she normally laughs at for smiling like idiots. There probably aren’t words for how ridiculous they look.
For the first time in her whole life, Draco does not care.