Archive of Our Own

The wing thing has only happened once so far. It was horrible.

Fortunately, he was home with Mother, living out the final days of his house arrest. Because she was beyond reproach as a parent and took seriously the politesse of her upbringing, she made very little mention of it.

She simply gazed at Draco over her morning tea, taking in the tattered remains of his silk pyjamas and the grand iridescent wings that overshadowed his frame. The wings had appeared during his mid-morning wank, ripping his clothing like paper and wrenching his shoulders with bone-grinding pain. Still, he maintained his posture because Mother accepted no less in her morning room.

“Ah. Your Veela inheritance. You’ll need suppressants for school.”

“Mother—”

“I’ll take care of it. I expect you need some tea.”

“Yes. Quite.”

Draco ignored the ache in his shoulders and the shivers that rolled down his spine when he ruffled his wings. He awkwardly arranged his wings over his favourite armchair and took tea, as he always did, with his mother. He nibbled at a croissant. He wasn’t very hungry since his shoulders itched and stung, and he felt wretchedly empty and needy and utterly distraught.

Still, he didn’t let it show.

The wings disappeared after a fitful midday nap that culminated in a wet dream about being opened up and fucked while his wings were spread wide, ruffling as he was relentlessly pounded. (His imaginary lover was short, dark, and undeniably handsome despite the horrible glasses.)

After he bathed, he was somewhat less shaky. When he returned to his bedroom, Draco found a selection of books on his nightstand, diverse in colour, age, and heft: a glossy, red book entitled So You Sprouted Wings: Surviving Veela Puberty with a Smile (1983 Edition); Fluff and Frustration, which appeared to be some sort of romance novel with a muscular man on the cover; Charmed and Dangerous: My Daring Dance with a Veela by Gilderoy Lockhart, tacky and glittery as ever; and two of Abraxas Malfoy’s worn, grey journals from the years of 1921-1922.

Draco perused the puberty guide. The information was decent and varied: a list of Charms that would keep his clothing intact, several remedies for itching, and a fascinating chapter on a Veela’s increased need for ‘healing sexual touch.’

Feather this in mind! As a new Veela, you will experience a deep, growing need for physical closeness, including healing sexual touch. This is not just about desire but about exchange of energy and comfort. It’s a sacred aspect of your Veela nature, meant to nurture both you and your partners. Be aware! Sexual connections can be explosive during the early phase of your life as a Veela. Accidental mating is common, but easily spotted in these three steps!

Draco skimmed the bits about mating—he was only eighteen, for fuck’s sake. Instead, he perused the in-depth explanation of Veela allure, which was quite a bit more engaging. Draco had always been attractive; now he could use that to an even greater advantage, if he could ever control it. He could turn his allure on and off, direct his charms at potential mates, and try each one on for size. The book said it was easy.

Tweet tweet! The nascent Veela can control their powers with these simple techniques. With practice, wings can appear on demand to enhance sexual attraction, heighten sensation, and activate a trance-like state in lovers. Be aware not to use your powers for manipulation! But these attributes can be useful when winning friends and charming potential mates.

“That’s fairly fucking overwhelming, though.” A leaden weight hit his stomach. What if his connections were only because of the allure? The idea turned him on and repelled him in equal measure.

Draco binned the Gilderoy Lockhart drivel and skimmed several disturbing passages from his apparently slutty Veela grandfather’s journals. Abraxas had wooed women and men alike and had quite a randy time of it in 1920s London before all the fascism started eating his brain. Briefly, Draco wondered about young Tom Riddle and his apparently “close” relationship with his grandfather. He slammed the journals closed and Banished them to the library.

Fluff and Frustration was the best of the lot, though he’d never admit it to anyone apart from Pansy. The characters were unfortunately heterosexual–so much of the world was unfortunately heterosexual–but the romance was splendid. If he closed his eyes, he could easily imagine himself as the powerful Veela, luring the roguish, bespectacled hero to his tower and keeping him there for the rest of his days.

In Fluff and Frustration, the Veela heroine had her rogue on a short leash. He frothed at the mouth to meet her demands, attended to her carnal pleasures when and how she instructed. Cooked and cleaned for her, pampered her and brought her gifts. Yes, Draco could imagine that very easily.

Perhaps being a Veela wouldn’t be all that horrible. He could learn to control his charms, seduce a boy here and there, and bring out his wings in painless, graceful splendour when and how he wished.

Armed with his Veela puberty guide, Draco returned to Hogwarts on the first of September for his eighth year.

***

“You look fit.” Pansy narrows her eyes at him. “What happened to you over the summer?”

They’re all crammed into the new 8th year common area as McGonagall announces roommates for the year. Merlin. Roommates. With just anyone. Slytherins not guaranteed. A nightmare.

“Trial. House arrest,” Draco whispers. “Father went to prison. Mother started dating a French Muggleborn wizard before the ink was dry on the divorce papers. And she somehow did it while she was also on house arrest.”

“Those are things that happened to your family. Why are you fit?”

“I was always fit, you hag.” Draco rolls his eyes. Other eyes are on him, he notices. Michael Corner looks at him hungrily. The Irish Gryffindor keeps sneaking glances. Is this his life now?

Draco curls in on himself. His stomach feels fluttery and buzzy, the same way it did the week he first got a spot on his chin. He wants to sink into the floorboards and hide. Possibly hibernate. Then have a wank about all the boys looking at him and one or several of them fucking him.

Like human puberty, Veela puberty can come with its own pitfalls. Uh-oh! Is that a mood swing? Veela hormones are twice as strong as their human counterparts, so you may find yourself dizzily cheerful in the morning and despairing your wretched existence in the afternoon. Don’t worry. It’s all normal. It’ll smooth out over time. Healing sexual touch can help!

“No, but you’re, like, really fit. You look like you’re glowing. Your hair is thicker. Your eyes are still that alarming shade of grey, but it’s far less creepy.”

“Gods. You’re horrible.” Draco takes a shuddery breath and straightens out his posture. He’s a Creature, certainly. But he still has dignity.

“Pansy Parkinson and Hermione Granger,” McGonagall calls.

“Oh, Merlin’s left tit,” Pansy says. “Tell me what’s wrong with you before I have to go sleep with the enemy.”

Draco breaks out in a wild fit of laughter, which attracts even more attention. Michael Corner looks like he’s ready to leap across the room, pin Draco to the ground, and eat him whole. What the fuck. Oh, what the fuck. He needs to leave here. Go back home and–

His Creature inheritance news sits on the tip of his tongue, but he can’t say it aloud. Mother told him it isn’t proper to share such things in public.

“You’re going to have to apologise and make nice with Granger,” he says instead, affecting his usual snarkiness. “I hope I get Blaise–maybe he’ll suck my–”

“Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter.”

There’s an exasperated groan from the Gryffindor side of the room, followed by the unmistakable guffaw of Ron Weasley. The Irish boy is still staring at Draco. His friend—boyfriend?—elbows him and he turns back to the sea of Gryffindor heroes. They’re all loathsome little bores.

Potter. He can’t room with Potter. Not with—not with how he feels. How he’s always felt. How he can’t seem to stop dreaming about him. And with his allure. No. This is an unmitigated disaster.

Pansy lets out a squeal. “Oh I expect I’ll be bonding with Granger over this. You precious little arsehole. Serves you right for laughing in my direction.”

From across the room, Draco catches sight of Potter’s glare. Blaise and Greg are giggling uncontrollably. It’s very possible one or both of them smoked Gillyweed before this. And, of course, Draco’s plight is so hilarious.

Flutter with intention! With your Veela charm on the rise, you may attract more attention than usual. It’s important to stay grounded and remember that your worth isn’t tied to others' admiration. Surround yourself with supportive friends who appreciate you for who you are, wings and all.

“Oh, Merlin’s dirty arse.” Draco curls in on himself and sticks his head between his knees.

***

To no one’s surprise, Draco’s roommate relationship begins with a hefty dose of animosity. He and Potter nearly come to blows the first week after Draco has an epic, hormonal meltdown about Potter stealing his lavender-lemon soap.

“Mother gave me that, you insolent, twisted fool! It’s from Paris! And you used it to wash your stupid, ugly hair!” Draco has two spots on his forehead. They hurt like hell. Fortunately, they’re covered by his fringe.

Potter pushes him against their dorm room wall and puts his hand on Draco’s neck, both of them heaving and panting and red-faced.

“Yeah? Am I supposed to use it to wash my arse? I’ll do that next time.” Potter squeezes his neck and very nearly growls at Draco. His pupils are huge. His lips are red and covered in spittle.

Draco goes limp and blinks back tears. He doesn’t even know why he’s upset over something so insignificant. And why he’s simultaneously so turned on.

Weaselby comes by just as Harry’s grip tightens and calls him away for some sort of Gryffindor gathering, and Draco is left with his treacherous thoughts and his hard cock.

Be forewarned, winglets! Sometimes, your growing charm will attract the adverse attention of potential mates. Some may show aggression, anger, or frustration. These encounters may be unpleasant, but rest assured, their foul behaviour is not about your fowl identity. Positive relationships will blossom over time.

Draco, of course, tells no one that he wanks about Potter pushing him against a wall. Repeatedly. His wings come out accidentally in the shower just after he streaks the wall with his spunk one morning. It happens again the next day and the next. He cries for an hour the third time it happens, to the point where Potter asks him what’s wrong.

“What’s crawled up your arse?”

“If you must know, I’m fucking miserable. My body hurts all over. And I miss–I miss my mum.” He hasn’t said ‘mum’ since he was eight. He flinches when Potter comes closer to his bed and raises a hand like he’s going to touch Draco. “Don’t hurt me. I can’t take it right now. Please don’t.”

“I’m not.” Potter looks stricken. “Feel better.” He says this loudly, like it’s a command. “Erm. I mean. Do you want a Chocolate Frog?”

Draco sniffs and looks at Potter suspiciously. “Yes. I always want a Chocolate Frog.”

“They help me feel better.” Potter puts one on Draco’s bed and makes a quick exit.

The card, of course, is Gilderoy fucking Lockhart.

***

Draco’s wings go entirely dormant the following week, and there’s nothing he can do to coax them back out. But Potter lightens up. So Draco will accept that as a small win amidst the horrid frustration and constant need to toss off.

Potter’s a decent roommate after that, all things considered. He’s a tad messy, but not as messy as Blaise. He twirls his hair and chews his thumb when he’s studying and can never manage to sit still for more than thirty seconds at a time, but he hasn’t hexed Draco or threatened to throw him into the lake in quite some time.

Draco expected continued annoyance, at the very least. Instead, Potter seems… well, mostly neutral. In quiet moments, Draco often catches Potter staring at him. Probably plotting Draco’s demise, but Draco will take that for the time being.

It can’t be the Veela thing, Draco tells himself. Yes, boys are staring at him more frequently. Michael Corner tried to kiss him after Transfiguration last week, but he was a wanker long before Draco was a Veela. Draco doesn’t even have reliable wings. Just a terrifying, secret horniness about his roommate. So his allure can’t be all that strong, can it? Not strong enough to affect Harry Potter.

By your second month as a Veela, you should be able to control your wings with ease. Great news! You may have heard that sprouting wings continues to hurt each time, but that’s an unfounded myth. Your wings should obey you, not the other way round. If you’re having problems, it may be your own fault.

Try as he may, Draco is utter shit at being a Veela. The book says so.

***

Towards October, Potter starts chatting to Draco, asking his thoughts on potions ingredients. Prodding him about his favourite Quidditch team. Laughing when Draco makes a joke. He acts pleased when Draco falls in beside him after class. When he sits nearby at dinner. Potter even tells Weaselby to be nice to Draco after a particularly ill-timed joke about his father.

The staring ramps up not long after that. Potter gazes at him during Quidditch practice. During lunch and dinner. When Draco goes into the bathroom. When Draco comes out of the bathroom, steamy from a shower. When Draco puts on his woollen socks. When he changes his clothes most of all.

“Enjoying the view?” Draco asks one day while they’re sprawled on their beds, each of them studying their Potions notes. Potter’s eyes won’t leave him. Circe, Draco is going to need relief. He certainly can’t practise his allure on Potter. Weaselby will toss him off the nearest cliff. Or Draco will fuck it up, and Potter will accidentally kill him.

Besides, he’s probably making it all up. There’s a section in the puberty book called ‘Flights of Fancy: Veela Maladaptive Daydreaming and Chronic Masturbation.’ He thinks Potter probably falls into that problematic category.

“No.” The word comes out a touch too forcefully. “No. I was looking out the window.”

“Alright. Look out the other window, then. You’re being creepy.”

Potter’s too powerful. Too bloody fit. Too straight. Even if he makes a show of tolerating Draco, he would never… would he? It would be a good thing, if Potter wanted him. Good for his besmirched family name to have Potter trailing after him like a lost Crup.

Life doesn’t work like that for Draco, however. Potter is a flight of fancy. Nothing more. It’s dangerous to think otherwise.

If Draco made Potter his pet woodland rogue and locked him in a high tower, the Aurors would certainly take Draco to Azkaban, regardless of the Ministry’s new-age fondness for Creature inheritance.

***

Autumn settles in, and Draco has grown mostly used to Potter’s passive attentions. He’s also learned to direct his allure at specific boys—other ones, not Potter—even though his wings are nowhere to be found. Given that Draco is too fucking horny to exist since living in a room with the only perfect specimen of boy he’s ever seen, he sets his eyes on a first mark.

He needs to get his cock touched, or he’s going to end up on the Janus Thickey ward with Gilderoy.

Instead of bothering Potter, Draco focuses his burgeoning power on Terry Boot. It works. Finally, something works. Almost too well.

“Boot, will you carry my books? I’m going to study in the empty classroom by the Astronomy Tower.”

“Y-yeah. Please.” Boot is nothing compared to Potter. But he’ll do for an experiment.

Boot totters along behind Draco, his arms full of spell books, right into the empty classroom.

“Are we studying?” Boot looks around like a golden retriever looking for a ball.

“No, Boot. Put the books down. Come here and kiss me.”

Terry snogs like it’s the very first time he’s ever snogged, but it’s rather charming. Draco enjoys it, especially since Terry doesn’t call him a dirty Death Eater, which Michael Corner had done after his attempt to kiss Draco hadn’t worked. No, Terry is easy.

When Draco asks him for a handjob, Terry complies with a smile and a lick of his palm. It’s slick and hot and brilliant, and Terry groans when Draco comes all over his knuckles.

“Clean up after me, darling,” Draco says and kisses him again. “You can wank in your room later, thinking about this.”

Terry thanks him, which is adorable and quite hot. Draco likes it especially when Terry licks his come-covered fingers.

A growing Veela craves sexual touch and attention, the book tells him. And Terry seems to quite like Draco. Perhaps a good source for release.

The next day, Draco wants another handjob, so he pulls Terry into an empty hallway and plies him with kisses after Charms class. Draco turns on his shine, ultra-bright, and tells him to come to the Quidditch locker rooms after dinner. Draco even promises Terry his very own handjob, which Draco figures is a fair trade. Terry seems ecstatic about that and even more excited when Draco tells him he’ll get to clean up again.

Draco’s half-hard when he watches Terry go. High on the sheer power more than anything else. But he supposes he’d like to grant poor Terry an old-fashioned handjob. Draco’s never done it on someone else before, but it can’t be that difficult. Terry managed it, after all.

“Are you alright?” Potter appears out of fucking nowhere, like he’s been lurking in a shadow the entire time Terry was feeling him up. Draco nearly topples to the ground.

“You’re like a bloody cat popping out of the night. For fuck’s sake, Potter.” Draco leans against the cool stone of the wall and makes an attempt to gather himself. His head swims and he blinks rapidly.

It’s a frightful state, having a bulging cock and a rapid heart rate. Peering into eyes greener than a summer sea. Draco shivers. Fuck but he’s pretty. So much prettier than Terry. Circe, but Draco wants to touch him.

Baby Veelas, glow with caution! As you grow into your Veela powers, you might start feeling a unique connection with someone—a sense of familiarity, comfort, and undeniable attraction. Trust your instincts, but take your time. Veela bonds are powerful and lifelong, so it’s important to ensure that your feelings are genuine and mutual.

“What were you doing with him?” Potter bites his lip. “I mean–”

“Snogging.” Draco goes for cool and unaffected, but his cock throbs, and a shiver rolls down his spine. “Why?”

Potter’s cheeks are stained a dark pink. He smells like sin, too. Like grass and wind and early autumn air, mixed with a hint of leather. And an underlying aroma of sweat that Draco likes in a man.

Draco can smell Potter better than he can Terry. It’s like Terry is a fuzzy channel playing decent classical music on the Wireless. But Potter rings crystal clear, a darkly addictive song that won’t leave Draco’s mind.

Potter is silent for a beat too long. “No reason.” He mumbles something and rubs his hand over his plush mouth.

“What was that?”

“I didn’t want him bothering you.” Potter’s eyes are sharp. Almost angry. “I don’t like the way he was looking at you.”

“How masculine of you.” Draco turns on his shine, just a little, like he did with Terry. It feels less controlled when he aims it at Potter, like a Lumos bouncing all over the place. When Draco inhales, he can smell something far more than Potter’s skin scent. Something darker. Muskier. Draco puts his hand on Potter’s shoulder, brushing his thumb along a cord of muscle. “You’re jealous.”

Draco feels a jump beneath his skin, an ache in his shoulders. A shift in the air around them. Draco ignores it because–

–he has Potter. Oh, yes. Draco knows he does.

Potter doesn’t respond. His scent, however, grows thicker. It’s sweeter than Terry’s arousal. Deeper and roomier. Like Draco could slip inside of it and swim for a spell, bask in the roomy, starlit spaciousness of it. Come up for air, refreshed and renewed.

Keep your common scents about you! For a budding Veela, scent isn’t just about attraction—it’s a form of communication that goes beyond words. Trust your nose, but proceed with care; such powerful connections should be explored thoughtfully!

Gods. Draco is hot and cold, sweat prickling over the back of his neck. The same as when he had the Muggle flu, but far hornier. His nipples pull tight; a light pulse hits his cock.

“You realise I’m just as strong as you are. Taller. My magic is precise and powerful. I can fend for myself easily.” Draco’s voice is hoarse. He slips his hand to Harry’s cheek, and another achy wave of need hits him.

Birdies! As your Veela allure strengthens, you might notice a surge in your confidence. This is a natural response to the power of your charm, but it’s important to know your wings and stay grounded.

Potter’s mouth falls open. His lower lip is red and plush, and Draco presses a thumb to it. Lets it pop back into place. So bouncy. In need of a kiss.

“I know,” Potter says hoarsely. His pupils are dilated. The air around them, normally filled with the horrid noise of students clomping through the halls, is thick and quiet and slow as treacle. “I can feel your magic. Like a heartbeat beneath my skin.”

Draco lets out a soft, slutty moan. He slides his knee between Potter’s legs, drawn to him like a bee to a bright flower, ripe with sticky pollen.

“Is it hot in here?” Draco tugs at his collar and undoes the top button of his shirt. Potter watches intently as Draco loosens his tie.

“Yeah. M’hot too. You look so pretty. Like you’re… radiant.”

Several things happen in quick succession: Potter puts a hand to Draco’s waist, which sends a full-body shiver through Draco so intense that he nearly loses his footing. And pain–searing, white-hot pain–hits Draco’s shoulders.

“Oh, Merlin. It’s happening.” Draco wrenches himself from Harry’s grasp and bolts for the eighth year dormitory.

Harry’s voice trails off behind him. “What’s happening?”

It melts away from Draco’s ears until all he hears is ringing, and all he can feel is the great, ripping, rending of flesh. Last time, it had hurt enough that he’d expected there’d be blood, and there hadn’t been. But there surely is now because his back is splitting in half. He barrels through their door and hurls himself toward the bathroom, sobbing and retching as his wings rip through his clothing, expanding around him in their awful hugeness.

There’s water on the floor from where Draco somehow cracked their sink. Blood on his hand from a broken piece of porcelain. Humiliatingly, there are tears trailing down his cheeks.

Draco still can’t hear anything—or rather, he can hear everything all at once. First: the castle magic crawling through the walls, the whispers of portraits in the hallways, the percussive stampede of feet across hallways, up and down stairwells. And then: the tick-tick-tick of his own overfast heart, the faint ruffling of his feathers, the sizzle of wild magic, new and terrifying, in his blood.

Be alert, darling feather-bearers! During Veela puberty, your senses may become much sharper. You may notice scents or sounds that others can’t perceive. This new sensitivity is a gift, but it’s important to learn how to filter. This should be easy to manage, even for Veelas who are inept at controlling their wings or emotions!

He hears a sharp intake of breath and smells the fresh scent of autumn wind. The musky-thick flavour of aching need, followed by lime-bright shock. It was supposed to be sensual, his winged reveal. A sweet dance shared in the night as Draco released his full allure and surrounded a pretty boy with his wings.

It was supposed to be fun. Fluff and Frustration made Veelas sound dashing and romantic. Like Draco’s creature inheritance was some secret to making the universe work for him. The guidebook says it’s easy if he’s cautious and attentive.

Instead, he’s crying on the bathroom floor with Harry Potter staring at him. He doesn’t have a very good track record with that particular situation.

He lets out a hoarse laugh. “Wings,” Draco says. “I’ve got them.”

“I can see that. They’re” —Potter takes a shuddery breath— “big.”

Draco sniffles. “They’re supposed to come out when I want them to. That’s what the book says.”

“The book?” Potter looks woefully lost. Gawking painfully at Draco, his mouth opening and closing like the maw of a particularly handsome fish. When Draco’s breathing slows, he can hear Potter’s heartbeat. Patter-patter-patter.

Vulnerable, Draco’s brain supplies. Easy prey.

Stop it—

“The book on Veela puberty. My mother gave it to me.” He shakes his wings experimentally. A strange, hot shudder rolls through him, and he lets out a pained sound.

“Puberty? Christ.” Potter licks his lips. He’s staring at the crests of Draco’s wings with palpable hunger. “Do they hurt?”

Draco nods. He wipes his tears away with one long finger. “They hurt. They fucking itch.”

“Does anything help?” Potter kneels in front of Draco and casts an Episkey for his hand, a mending Charm at their sink.

“I made a salve. I didn’t think–I thought I’d be able to control them by now.”

“Here.” Potter offers his hand to Draco. There is no wand pointed at his throat, no scowl on Potter’s face. In its place is curiosity, mixed with something more primal. Lust, perhaps. But it isn’t only that.

Draco lets himself be lifted. His knees wobble disconcertingly. His wings weren’t this heavy before. Not that he could recall. But they’ve only ever popped out in the privacy of his own home or in the heat of the shower.

“Shirt’s fucked, isn’t it?” Potter fingers the material, where it’s ripped at the shoulder.

Draco nods. His throat feels thick, like he’s swallowed several mouthfuls of spun sugar. The taste in his mouth, too sweet. A sticky lump when he swallows.

“I’ll take it off, yeah? Going to have to slice it up.” Potter’s eyes rake over him. His chest, his open collar. And again, his wings.

“There are other shirts,” Draco says, trying to keep his voice steady. He balls his hands into fists to keep them from shaking. “This one isn’t even that grand.”

“Mm,” Potter says, like he’s not even listening to Draco. The sort of grunt of a response he gives to Weaselby or whomever else when he’s off somewhere in his handsome trainwreck of a mind.

“Potter!”

Potter’s eyes fix on his. His pupils are blown wide, only a small ring of green visible. When he speaks, his words are slow and deliberate. “I’d like it if you called me Harry. It would look nice on your lips.”

“Oh. Well, Harry.” Draco swallows again. That same sugary feeling hits him again, except it sits deeper than his throat now. In his bones, his blood. The tissue of his lungs. His face is hot, searing. “You said you’d help with my shirt.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I did.” Harry raises a careless hand and flicks his fingers. Magic slices the fibres of Draco’s shirt, and it falls in ribbons around him.

Circe’s tits.

Draco hisses when the cool air hits his skin. His nipples pebble. “It’s better this time, meeting you in the bathroom. Slicing my shirt to shreds instead of me.”

A flicker of emotion passes over Harry’s features, but it’s gone quickly. All that’s left is his bare, open hunger. There’s no doubt that this is because of the Veela, making itself known.

His winged self has always wanted Harry, even when his Creature inheritance was dormant. Tucked away. Hidden beneath fine silk shirts and trousers with complicated fastenings. Wrapped up in robes and a sneer.

“I can put the salve on. If you’ll let me.” Harry’s gaze falls on Draco’s throat; follows the thin, silver scars on his chest.

“Please.” The word comes out high and thin. When Draco swishes his wand, his hand shakes. He hopes it’s not enough to notice. “Accio Gossamer Glide.” The silver tin flies into his palm.

“Sounds like Muggle lube.” Harry grins. Cocky. Arrogant. All directed at Draco.

Draco swallows around the hot, sharp feeling in his throat. He hands the tin to Potter. Their fingers brush, which makes the hairs on Draco’s arms stand on end. A spark of wanting travels down his arm and settles low in his belly. Draco’s wings ruffle reflexively.

“Get your mind out of the gutter, and put this on my back. Between my shoulderblades.”

“Right where the wings come out.”

Draco nods shakily. “Where the wings come out.” Draco turns and faces the sink. He can see Harry’s face in the mirror just above his left wing. “My wings are very sensitive. You must do it lightly. Light pressure–oh–”

Draco’s mouth falls open when the salve hits his skin. It’s cool, so cool. Like silver-toned water, falling on his shoulders, soothing the itch and ache of his change. The scent is jasmine and sage and something sharply aquatic, like saltwater. Like ocean air hitting his tongue.

Harry’s hands are–Merlin–just as he’d always imagined; strong and firm, but deft. When Draco closes his eyes, he can hear Harry’s heartbeat. Can feel it, rapid, where Harry’s fingertips meet his skin. Draco lets out a long, low moan when Harry’s nails scratch the worst of his rapacious itch.

“There. Just there. Lower. Oh, gods.”

“Feel good?” Harry’s voice is thick. Draco can smell Harry’s lust, too, mixing with the scent of the salve. Harry’s desire is hot and present, a caged animal thing slinking between them. Held back, but just barely.

It’s a reckless, senseless idea to poke a wild thing, just to see what happens. But Draco had to be careful through an entire war, even more careful upon his return to Hogwarts. He done with it.

“Yes, Harry.” Draco licks his lips. They’re bright pink in the mirror, like the bud of a flower. “It would feel even better if you touched them.”

Harry pauses, eyes wide.

Nota bird-e: Any human under a Veela’s allure will know that a Veela’s wings are inherently erotic, intended to attract a mate. While most humans are never lucky enough to come into a Creature inheritance, many turn quite feral when faced with a Veela’s wings.

Harry’s fingers are hesitant at first. A stroke on the long shoulder of one wing; a simple, light press against the downy feathers. A shiver rolls down Draco’s spine, a pulse of heat to his cock.

“Has anyone else ever touched them?”

“Only you,” Draco says.

He whimpers when Harry caresses his wing again and trails his fingers in the opposite direction, back to his spine. When Harry does the same to the other, Draco nearly sobs. He leans forward to clutch the counter so his shaking legs don’t make him fall down.

“Lucky me.” Harry’s breathing goes heavy when he touches Draco’s feathers, when he drags his fingers in between to touch his suede-soft skin. The sound of his touch is like a whisper, like the rustle of leaves on an autumn stroll. Hypnotising. Sensual. The tingling sensation starts in the tip of Draco’s wings, rolls down his back, spreads through his arms and the tips of his fingers. All the way down to the curl of his toes. His cock fattens up, trapped against the counter.

Draco cries out when Harry places a timid kiss to the nape of his neck. Again when his hot tongue flicks against Draco’s skin.

“You’re so pretty.” His words are a silky murmur, a susurrus against his skin. Harry mouths at the space between Draco’s shoulders, lips brushing against one wing and then the other. “No, you were always pretty. Now, you look like a god.”

“Merlin. What have you been doing since May? Chatting up every boy and girl in your path?”

He shrugs. “Yeah, maybe. Here and there. None of them make me feel like I’m going to lose my fucking mind.” Harry wraps his arms around Draco’s waist and kisses each wing in turn. “Makes sense you’d make me feel like this. You’ve always done that, haven’t you? In one way or another.”

Draco can only respond with a gasp because Harry’s hands are on his fly, making quick work of his buttons.

“Probably shouldn’t,” Draco manages. “Shouldn’t fuck.”

He can’t especially remember why they shouldn’t, but he knows they oughtn’t. Harry’s thumb grazes the head of his cock. A needy, heavy ache spreads through his hips and thighs. It reaches his wings, which need as well. Mouth and hands and the tip of Harry’s tongue.

Harry undoes one more button and cups Draco’s cock. Harry’s lips are on his neck, followed by a soft, hot tongue on the juncture between shoulder and wing. “I just want to see you. If you’re as gorgeous as I imagine under all those buttons.”

Fair warning to all our new winglet friends: if the target of your allure has an obsessive personality, those traits may multiply in your presence. Your chosen partner may exhibit possessive behaviour, intense jealousy, and sexual audacity. Some Veelas may find these qualities attractive. The act of copulation with such matches is particularly rewarding. But, please, dear Creatures, proceed with caution!

“Prettier.” Draco sweeps his hair to the side and offers his neck to Harry. His blood buzzes with the command to do it, let him. It feels like the same sweet rush of relief he felt with the Gossamer Glide when Harry kisses him there, chest pressed tight against Draco’s wings. He feels his trousers and pants being pushed down his legs. Draco’s breath comes quicker when his half-hard cock meets the cool air.

“Want you naked.” Harry murmurs a spell. Draco’s trousers and pants vanish. “That’s better.”

“I’m cold. Fix it,” Draco says, imperious. His teeth chatter. His nipples are painful little points. He could move. Shove Harry off. Skip dinner and tuck himself into bed. But the pull to Harry is stronger than it’s ever been. A long line of achy, sinful desire runs the length of his body and settles at the base of his cock.

“Hush.” Harry shushes him like he’s a child and he casts a series of warming Charms that make Draco sigh in relief. “Is that better, your majesty?”

“Y-yes. Keep touching me. S’so good.”

Harry whispers another charm, then mouths Draco’s wings. Draco’s so distracted by the waves of sensation rolling through his wings that he’s shocked when Harry cups his cock again. This time, bare skin on skin. Oil on his fingers, coating his length. Harry slips a finger beneath his foreskin, pulls it back, and coats the hot, sensitive head.

All the while, his mouth and free hand are on Draco’s wings. His thumb kneads the knots between Draco’s wings and sifts through his feathers as Harry plays with his cock. His foreskin, dripping now, glides over his tip. Harry’s fingers find the sensitive spot of his frenulum and worry it until Draco is making choked sobbing noises and thrusting into Harry’s hand.

“So hard. All pink.” Harry pulls his hand away and Draco nearly weeps at the loss.

“No, no, no. I want to–need to–I need to come. While you’re touching me.”

Certain sexual partners may exhibit mild to moderate personality changes before the act of intercourse. This may include greater-than-normal confidence, increased magical prowess and accuracy, improved flirtation skills, and a high degree of proficiency in intimate language use. In other words, a verbally clumsy partner may become ‘smooth’ or skilled at so-called ‘dirty talk.’ Such wiles may be tempting to a lonely, untouched Veela!

“You will. I’ll make you come.” Harry’s belt buckle slides open. His stupid Muggle fly unzips. There’s a rushing, filling sound; a rhythmic swishing. Draco realises it’s Harry’s cock, fattening up. Pulsing in time with his heart.

Holy fuck. This certainly didn’t happen with boring old Terry Boot. He’d be suffering his way through tossing Terry off right now, if it weren’t for Harry.

Harry squeezes Draco’s arse. Kneads it. Squeezes it again and spreads him open. “God, yeah. It’s all pink and shiny. You lubed up already? Is that what you were going to do with Terry sodding Boot?”

The jealousy shouldn’t be hot. It’s objectively shitty and terrible. But Draco moans and presses his arse back into Harry’s hands. “I was just going to wank him–oh, fuck–”

Harry’s fingers slip between his arsecheeks, and it is slippery there. Achy and sweet-feeling and wet when Harry circles his hole.

The more you know! Male Veelas who prefer to be the receiving partner (the ‘bottom,’ in common parlance) may experience self-lubrication before or during penetrative sex.

“It’s a feature.” Draco’s words roll together: it’s-a-feature.

“Oh, fuck.” The more Harry moves his fingers, the wetter Draco gets. His fingertips slip over sensitive skin, and one dips a little ways inside. A shck-shck-shck sound enters Draco’s awareness, followed by Harry’s grunts, and the dirty-wet sound of Harry playing with his arse, dipping and rubbing. “Looks tight.”

“Yes, it’s–I’ve never–” Draco makes a choked sound when Harry thrusts a finger all the way inside. His feathers shake and ruffle, and his poor, neglected cock jerks. A large drip of precome forms at his tip.

“Don’t want it too loose. I just want it open enough to get it in.”

“Nrrghhunh,” Draco says, because there’s a finger moving in his arse, and his own verbal capabilities have exited the 8th year dormitory. It burns and stretches and it feels wonderful and terrible, and he wants more. He wants it all, and he can’t remember why this was a bad idea. Something about Harry hating him or the Aurors coming for him. Or Weaselby and a cliff.

Be forewarned, feathered friends! There is still a stigma against Veelas of all varieties. Many people think a Veela’s admirer has no choice in matters of the heart. This antiquated way of thinking has been proven wrong, time and time again. They may, however, be amorous!

“Gonna fill it up.” A second finger joins the first. They plunge inside, and it aches, oh it aches. “I’m going to fuck it full. Tomorrow, I’m going to taste it.”

Harry is apparently on an ‘intimate language’ murder spree, and his intended victims are Draco’s brain cells. Draco’s eyes flutter, and he sticks out his arse.

“Fuck’mmm, put-it-in-me. Now.” That’s all that’s left of the English language in Draco’s mind. For now, he has no regrets about it.

A third finger enters him. Harry’s movements have become clumsy, uncoordinated, and it burns. And fuck if that isn’t ludicrously, deliciously filthy. Very suddenly, though, Draco is no longer full. His feathers shiver and shake again, and he shoves his arse back at Harry. When the hot, round head of Harry’s dick nestles against his rim, Draco realises he hasn’t even seen it, this cock of his dreams–he doesn’t even know how big it is.

It’s big. It’s big, it’s big, it’s big–it feels big. Draco keens. It’s too much, too quick, but he can no longer speak. He’s not even sure Harry would hear him. A litany of filth falls out of Harry’s mouth–

“It’s like silk. Hot. Wet. Oh fuck. Fuck! Never felt anything–so fucking tight–Merlin’s tits, you’re so good.”

Harry seats himself fully inside Draco and bucks hard. Pulls out and slams in again. No preamble. Just Harry’s hips slapping against his arsecheeks and grunting in his ear.

“Gorgeous. You feel gorgeous inside. Like fucking into heaven.”

Draco responds with a low mewling sound. The relentless, pounding stretch of Harry’s cock makes him feel like he’s sprouting wings again, like he’s being split in half. His body is so tight that Harry has to use force to keep fucking him. Draco’s cock is quite interested, however. It’s hard and wet and bobbing as Harry fucks him. When Draco looks in the mirror and sees the harsh jolts of his body and Harry’s rapturous expression, he makes an awful mewling sound and grinds his arse against Harry.

“Fuck, you need it, don’t you? I’ll give it you” –he punctuates his words with a hard thrust– “whenever you need it. Fill you so full you can’t walk.”

“Yes, yes. Yes!”

“You’ll have to–oh, my God–fly instead.” Harry chuckles at his own joke and fucks him harder. “Show everyone how delicate and sweet you are, and they’ll know I’m the one who gets to–”

Draco laughs– “You’re fucking crazy, Potter” –and lets out a high pitched sound that drives Harry faster. The pain is gone, melted away. Replaced by a sweet, tender fullness. The awareness of Harry’s hands on his hips. The nuzzle of his face against Draco’s wings. The persistent bobbing of Draco’s cock, its occasional bump against the counter. The flares of mounting pleasure with each brush against his prostate.

“Turn your head and fucking kiss me,” Harry says. “Kiss me before I come inside you.”

The kiss is awkward and rough, teeth clacking and noses bumping as Harry fucks into him. Harry’s chin bumps one wing, and Draco’s neck is wrenched terribly. But, oh. How long he’s wanted this. His wings shiver and flare. Pleasure rises and crests. He can feel it in his hair, in the roots of his fucking teeth.

Harry must sense it because he wraps a hand around Draco and strokes in a slick, fluid motion. “Want to feel it. Feel you come. Fill it up. Such a slutty Veela, all full of my come–ah–”

Draco feels it first not in the pit of his belly nor the line of his cock. A prickle hits in the tips of his wings, expanding beneath his skin, down the lines of his fine, hollow bones, sweeping past the ache in his shoulders. Tension settles in his hips; pressure builds. Draco is full and fucked open, his thighs wet with his own slick. Like his dream.

“Close,” Draco says. “Harder. Hold me.”

Harry pistons his hips. His other hand slips to Draco’s neck, just enough pressure to make him feel held. “Come for me, little bird. I know you need to.”

“Oh, fuck.” Draco focuses on the steady tick of Harry’s heart, watches his face in the mirror, green eyes turned dark, cheeks flushed. All for Draco. The tension inside of him snaps.

It’s white-hot, incandescent, when Draco comes, cock jerking and spilling over Harry’s hand, hitting the bathroom cupboards and dripping to the floor. There’s so much; his cock jumps with each spurt, arse clenched hard around Harry’s cock. He shakes, whimpers. His knees buckle. He thinks wildly that he’s held up only by the grace of the gods and Harry’s cock in his arse.

“Look at you. Y–you’re glowing. So fucking beautiful, oh shit.” Harry mouths at Draco’s neck and fucks him rough and fast. Just as Harry’s hips begin to shutter, Draco glances in the mirror to see himself sparkling, wings dancing with pastel iridescence.

“Would you look at that.” Draco’s words are vacant, punctuated by Harry’s groans. In the mirror, Draco’s glittering form shakes like a ragdoll, more violently than before, tossed about and used by his big, strong woodland ruffian.

His mate, he thinks. My mate.

Draco’s eyes roll back in his head, and he keens.

Harry comes with a shout, hand pressed hot to Draco’s throat. When he pulls out, come drips down one of Draco’s thighs. Harry spreads him apart to look at it, even as Draco shakes and whimpers.

“I can’t believe we just did that. I came in you so much.” Harry laughs and gives Draco’s arse a squeeze. When he steps back, Draco does, in fact, almost fall. Harry catches him by the elbows and nuzzles into Draco’s wings like he can’t help it. “C’mon. Let’s get you to bed.”

Dazed, Draco lets himself be walked to their bedroom. Harry casts a spell and their two small beds knit together to form a large one.

If he had his wits about him, Draco would say something tremendously bitchy. But he doesn’t. Instead, he collapses onto the sheets and lets his rogue take care of him. Harry cleans him up and casts more warming charms. He massages Draco’s arse and hips and the backs of his thighs. Every once in a while, he kisses Draco’s wings. Just before Draco drifts to sleep, Harry leans close to his ear, hands buried in Draco’s feathers.

“Mine,” he says. “All of this is mine.”

Draco’s wings are gone when he wakes. He expects Harry to be gone as well. Off to tell Weaselby or set the Aurors after Draco. Merlin. He feels like he’s hungover, mouth dry and pasty, head pounding. But Harry is curled around him, mouth pressed to Draco’s shoulder.

Draco attempts to extract himself from the pile of sweaty boy, but Harry won’t let him go. Gods but he smells incredible. Like salt and sex and that waft of outdoors. Draco wants to sink into him and never let go.

“Morning.” He kisses Draco’s neck, which makes Draco feel things and want things and need. Again. His cock twitches.

No. Down, boy. You just seduced The Chosen One.

But he keeps kissing Draco’s neck, biting along his collarbone. He even grabs a luxurious handful of Draco’s sore arse and jiggles it. “Fuck. You’re so fucking gorgeous.”

Draco stomach twists. Maybe his allure is still set to on, and he doesn’t know how to press the off button yet. “You’re not angry? Not kicking me out?”

Harry yawns and presses a lengthy kiss to one of Draco’s nipples, which makes his stomach twist for a very different reason.

“No. Why would I be angry? I only just got my hands on you. If I let go, some other bloke will take my place.” Harry slips his hand to Draco’s cock and squeezes lightly. “Not happening. This belongs to me.”

Draco gasps and pushes into Harry’s hand. “What? My allure–”

“Felt so fucking good. I felt like I was high. I’m never that good at sex. Or talking. I mean, I do alright. But you came loads. It was so fucking” –Harry nips his earlobe– “dirty.”

“I’m not still glowing, am I? Am I still alluring you?”

“No. But the glowing was brilliant.” Harry cups his cheek and drags him into a kiss. Soft, then biting. He pushes Draco back on their newly expanded bed. “I still feel like I’m still going to be good at sex if I try right now. I think we should try right now.”

“Are you in your right mind?”

“Mostly.” Harry kisses him again. “You make me feel really fuzzy. But I like it. Couldn’t figure it out. Then, the wings. Made sense. And I–mmm–” Harry gets distracted nuzzling him and pushing his hard cock against Draco’s thigh. “Your wings are so fucking hot. Can I come on them sometime?”

“Can you what?” Draco’s ears get very warm very quickly. He’s likely got splotches of pink forming all over, which he always thinks is so unattractive.

“You heard me. Since they’re not all big and ruffly right now, maybe I could suck you off. I’m not bad at that. I bet you taste incredible. I want to try everything with you.”

“Merlin. Harry.” Now Draco’s cock is exceptionally interested, and his brain is threatening to fall out of his head again. “Tell me. Tell me you can fight it. If you want to. The allure.”

“I can. But I don’t want to. Just wanna feel good. Make you feel good.” He kisses his way down Draco’s neck and licks a stripe down the line of his abdominal muscles. He puts his tongue in Draco’s navel. “Shouldn’t we get to have a little fun? Shouldn’t we get to feel as good as we like?”

Draco thinks on that as he threads his fingers through Harry’s hair and pulls. He thinks about the war and house arrest and his father’s life sentence. He thinks of all the time they wasted hating one another.

Last night, all of that disappeared and stayed far away when he woke up in Harry’s arms.

“Fine. Attend to my carnal pleasures, rogue.”

“What?”

“Put your mouth on my cock and swallow it down. Make me come. That’s your job now. Do it right, and I’ll let you come all over my face.” He shoves Harry downward, and soon, his cock is breaching soft lips and supple, wet warmth. His shoulders pulse, and he feels a tad glowy in the morning light.

He’s sure there’s something about that in his guide, but it’s probably in the terrifying section about mates. He wipes the word from his mind. There’s all the time in the world to think about that later.