Thank you for the reviews! This is the second and last part.

Chapter Two

Harry walked slowly into the immense stone room where Yaxley had made his last stand. They wouldn't have found it at all if Yaxley hadn't died. Suddenly two old, retired Aurors had owled the Ministry saying that they remembered the location of a manor house where they'd tracked Yaxley during the first war with Voldemort. It must have been under the Fidelius Charm for them to have forgotten it. And Yaxley had been the Secret-Keeper.

Now he wasn't. Now he wasn't anything anymore.

Harry knelt down next to Yaxley's body and stared at him. He'd never faced the man in battle. He'd come to know his face from photographs and newspaper articles and files and wanted posters. But after hearing about the Muggleborns Yaxley had helped to torture and imprison during the second war, he'd wanted to arrest him just as much as he wanted to arrest the Lestranges. And he'd come close to it, with Yaxley firing curses at his back several times but then Apparating before Harry had a chance to get there.

Now Harry couldn't do that anymore, either.

Harry reached out and slowly traced the bloody edge of the cuts with one finger. Something had slit Yaxley, all up and down his body from his collarbone to his groin. The slashes were made with claws, not a spell, and still as thin as the claws themselves. It would have taken Yaxley a long time to die.

Harry felt a small drop of saliva start to work its way out of his mouth at the smell of the blood, and he took a sharp step back. He was not going to drool at the smell of a dead human being. Keeping his head averted, he moved towards the door, the nearest place where the scent of meat—

Flesh, damn it.

—wasn't strong enough to overpower all other smells. He began sniffing the stone and the wood, the carpets, the corners of the doorframe that someone might have brushed with a foot, the steps outside, and the corners in each of the rooms.

It didn't take him long to locate the scent. Veela. Heavy, feathery, meaty—the nearest smell Harry could compare it to was a vulture's.

And he knew this particular Veela's scent well, from finding it around other crime scenes.

They'll have to listen to me when I tell them about this. They'll have to. No one else here, and the scent, and Yaxley being killed with claws? Yes, they'll have to listen.

Harry poured himself a glass of the thick, magic-enhanced water that was his preferred drink now and flopped down on his couch. It was in front of the fireplace, and often that fireplace would be humming with calls about new cases, even this time of night.

It didn't now. Most of the Hit Wizards and Ministry officials who might have called him were busy at the party he'd fled.

Harry held the cool glass of water against his forehead and waited for the flush to calm down. Then he shook his head. "You're insane for even considering Malfoy's offer," he announced to himself. "Just because you haven't had a lover since you became a werewolf doesn't mean…"

He let his voice trail off, because he could lie to himself when there were other people (and Veela) around, but it was harder when he was alone.

It wasn't the offer of sex that tempted him, no matter how well Malfoy could kiss. It was the offer of someone who could understand him, who wouldn't shun him or stare at him in disapproval for being unable to avoid Greyback's teeth.

Harry flung the glass of water down his throat, almost satisfied when he choked.

It's understandable that they want to avoid me, he told himself as he leaned back and waited for his eyes to stop streaming tears and his throat to stop spasming. They don't like werewolves. They're wary of what I might smell on them. They're unhappy with the notion that I could infect them. I do look scruffy since I was turned.

And they like Malfoy because Veela are pretty and charming. Literally. It's nothing to do with the people. Malfoy isn't right about them. It's to do with stereotypes and perceptions of Veela and werewolves.

He told himself that, and he knew it was true. He could feel his body relaxing as he thought about it. Malfoy wasn't right to condemn the whole of the wizarding world for not catering to Harry. That was the way things were.

Which did nothing about the loneliness.

Harry stood up and stalked into the kitchen. When he felt like this, raw meat was pretty much the only cure. Luckily, there was a butcher he'd found in Muggle London who didn't ask questions about why he wanted practically whole sheep and pigs.

"You don't need to worry about Rabastan anymore."

Harry started, and nearly slammed Malfoy back into the wall of the alley he was standing in. When he realized from the feathery smell who was there, he whirled around and did it anyway. Malfoy went with the motion, not resisting, his eyes shining like the moon.

"You don't have to worry about him," Malfoy repeated in a croon, and ran his hand up the side of Harry's neck. "It will be all right."

Harry shot a quick glance at the flat he was spying on. It remained dark and silent. If his quarry hadn't taken a Portkey out, then she was still there. "What the hell are you doing?" he hissed at Malfoy. "Bothering me at an observation post?"

"I wanted to reassure you right away about Rabastan. That you didn't need to track him anymore. He's done." Malfoy leaned forwards to nuzzle at Harry's neck, and Harry smelled the blood on his breath.

He leaned in and snarled right next to Malfoy's ear. Malfoy froze. Satisfied that he'd at least made him concerned, if not frightened, Harry said with as much intensity as he could, "If I find out that you had anything to do with this—"

"You haven't managed to convince the Ministry to arrest me yet. What makes you think this will be the magic number?"

Harry growled in frustration and released Malfoy. He knew from experience that he would get in a lot more trouble than any other Hit Wizard for throwing a suspect around. "You practically confessed—"

"I said that he wouldn't bother you anymore. I didn't say that I had anything to do with it."

Harry felt a deep quiver in his stomach. That was true. This information wasn't evidence enough for the Ministry, except the scent, which they wouldn't trust because it couldn't be put in a Pensieve. "Go away, Malfoy. God, I don't know what kind of sick game you're playing. Why you want to murder people—"

"I like to make sure that inconvenient people are out of the way." Malfoy's eyes were practically slits. "And I want you to know that some people get excited when you growl that way, instead of upset."

Harry licked his jaws. No, his mouth. He was in human form. He wasn't going to play into whatever game Malfoy wanted him to. He took a step back and deliberately focused on the flat in front of him.

"I have a job to do."

"I know. And I'll be here when you want to stop pretending that you're only a human."

The fleeting slide of a warm hand on Harry's back, and he was gone. Harry ended up staring at the flat with an unblinking gaze until morning.

Harry closed his eyes as the memory danced in his head and then vanished. That had been similar to what Malfoy had done to him at the party tonight, only then he hadn't known he was Malfoy's mate. No, he'd thought Malfoy just wanted to mess around with him the way he would have done in Hogwarts.

And of course putting that incident in a Pensieve hadn't helped, either. The Ministry didn't care enough about what happened to Death Eaters. Or they didn't care enough when it was a werewolf bringing in the evidence.

Cheer up, Harry, he told himself sardonically as he tore another piece of meat off the sheep's leg he'd taken out of the stasis charm. It could always be both.

He lowered his head into his hands. He had to stop thinking like this. Ron and Hermione cared about him. The Weasleys cared about him. Fellow Hit Wizards didn't flee the room when he came in. He was still invited to those Ministry parties that he despised beyond measure—

But he had overheard the whispers from fellow Hit Wizards wondering nervously if he would infect them. And the invitations to Ministry parties happened only because of his past fame, he knew. The people who sent them didn't want to look bad in the eyes of the part of the public that still worshiped the Boy-Who-Lived.

Malfoy had said something about the laws governing Veela and their mates being different from what Harry might think they were.

Although it was nearly one in the morning, the Floo into Harry's office was always open from his home. He stood and reached for the powder in the bowl on the mantel. He wanted a look at the law books.

Harry leaned back from the heavy tome in his hand and wished alcohol still tasted good to him. Yes, there it was, in black and white. He might even have looked at it before now, except that he'd had no idea Malfoy's murders could have something to do with his mate.

A Veela is entitled to do anything he wishes to protect his or her mate, provided the people the Veela attacks have previously attacked the mate. He or she will not be arrested or tried unless those attacks happened upon provable innocents.

And all seven of the Death Eaters Harry had hunted and Malfoy had killed had had a shot at him at one time or another. Yaxley had fired those curses at him from behind. Greyback had turned him. Rodolphus had wounded him so badly that he'd ended up in hospital. Rabastan had nearly cut his arm off. And on and on. The injuries they'd given Harry were a matter of public record, and Malfoy could call upon those records if he needed to defend himself.

Malfoy had stalked and killed the people who threatened his mate.

Harry licked his lips and closed his eyes. He didn't—he didn't want to feel the way he did right now, to feel the thing welling up inside him.

But he did.

He felt courted, far more than he had known he could. He felt flattered. He could imagine Malfoy ignoring the Death Eaters until he knew Harry was his mate—and that probably hadn't happened until after Harry's transformation into a werewolf—and then stalking them, carefully, devotedly, making sure that he planned for times when they were alone.

He knew all along there was no chance of the Ministry punishing him. But he still didn't confess outright until now. Why?

There were two possible answers. One was that Malfoy had taken pity on Harry and wanted to let him play this out without discovering exactly how little the Ministry was going to care about a Veela killing for his mate.

Another was that Malfoy had enjoyed the game. Enjoyed making Harry run in circles and chase after him and growl at him and trail after him at parties.

Harry knew which one he thought was more likely, especially given that Malfoy had tried so hard to prejudice him against the Ministry.

He swallowed and drew his wand. He focused intently on a memory of the dinner he'd had with Ron and Hermione last week, when they let him hold little Rose and only took her away because her screams were piercing to a werewolf's keen ears, not because they feared letting him near her.

Harry conjured a Patronus with ease, and the silver stag cocked its ears at him after finding out there were no Dementors in the room. Harry licked his lips and met the creature's eyes.

"Tell Draco Malfoy that I'd like to talk to him," he said. "Tell him I'm in my office at the Ministry, too." He didn't want Malfoy to go to his home, not only because it would waste time but because there were some fairly nasty wards on his home that would cripple anyone trying to enter with a Dark Mark on his arm.

The stag bobbed its head and then turned and raced through the wall. Harry leaned back and settled in to wait.

"Hello, Potter."

Malfoy came through the door looking the most disheveled Harry had ever seen him, his hair matted and sticking up in several places on the sides of his head. Harry hoped that meant he'd rolled out of bed the instant he received Harry's Patronus.

Harry stood up. He shook his head. "You knew all along that you wouldn't get prosecuted by the Ministry for those murders, didn't you?"

"I knew it," Malfoy said. "Well, I knew it once I knew you were my mate, which was after you were turned into a werewolf and your scent changed." He let the cloak he must have donned hastily slide to the floor and took a long step towards Harry. "If that hadn't happened, I wouldn't have had any motive to kill them in the first place."

Harry could feel his nostrils flaring. Malfoy's scent was stronger than it had been a minute ago. "So it's my fault."

"No," Malfoy said, and his voice was incredibly soft. He stretched out a hand to stroke Harry's cheek. Harry just stood there and let him, remembering all the while that those hands had sprouted the claws that had killed Yaxley. "It's circumstance. You were the catalyst. And you know they would probably have been given the Kiss anyway, Harry." His voice turned low and rumbling. He was reaching across the desk, but Harry had the distinct impression that wouldn't last very long. "Not for their crimes against you, but for everything they'd done during the war."

Harry nodded slowly. "But they still should have had a trial first."

"I'm sorry," Malfoy murmured. "I can't bring them back to life, but I am sorry. If I'd realized how badly it was hurting you, I would have stopped."

Harry cocked his head. "And you won't surrender yourself and ask them to prosecute you anyway."

"No," Malfoy said. His eyes were bright and alien and wild. "First of all, they'd decline. Second, shutting me up in Azkaban would mean I was too far away from you." He slid to the side, so that his hip was leaning against the desk. "I'm sorry I hurt you. I'm not sorry I hurt them."

Harry nodded slowly. His mouth was full of saliva, and that scent that didn't smell like a vulture's anymore. "Fine, Malfoy. But this ends now. I don't care how legal it is for you to attack someone who hurt me. You're not going to do it again."

Malfoy nodded in silence, his eyes never leaving Harry's face. Harry felt a strong, surprisingly heady surge of pleasure. He was the one in control now. He wasn't uselessly chasing a murderer around anymore, or trying to fit in at the Ministry and knowing he'd never succeed.

Malfoy was right. I want to change the rules.

He reached out and poised his nails at the side of Malfoy's cheek. Malfoy immediately breathed in and didn't let it go. "I want to know if you were lying about Veela being immune to the werewolf infection," Harry murmured.

"No. I wasn't. I just—" Malfoy tilted his head to the side, not quite enough to bring himself in contact with Harry's nails. "God, Harry, do it. Touch me. I want it so much."

Harry smiled and let his nails rest against Malfoy's jaw.

Malfoy let out a strangled screech that ended up with white feathers curling down the side of his face, and claws forming on his hands. He flung himself at Harry, who caught him easily and wrestled him backwards. Malfoy was inhumanly strong, but so was he.

It was just that Harry hadn't spent as much time using that strength, not wanting to let it out. Not wanting to remind people that he was a werewolf who could shatter a stone wall or a glass window with a punch.

But Malfoy—Malfoy was open-mouthed and yearning before him, his pupils so wide they'd swallowed up his eyes, and Harry was going to indulge himself. He kissed that wide-open mouth and forced Malfoy onto the desk.

Malfoy went with a complete relaxation and stretching of his arms, and he didn't object when Harry shredded and ripped his clothing off instead of merely removing it. He never took his eyes from Harry; Harry wasn't sure he blinked. Harry scratched him a few times, and he only breathed louder.

"Aren't you interesting," Harry said, the words close to a snarl, and Malfoy moaned and stretched his legs open.

It was long enough since Harry had had a lover that he had to pause and think of the spell that would conjure lube. But soon enough, he had it and he was smearing it all over Malfoy's arse. Malfoy lifted his head and blinked a little dazedly at him.

"You're still wearing robes."

"I might be a beast," Harry said, snapping his teeth near Malfoy's ear in a way that made Malfoy look as if he'd like to swoon. "But I'm going to be dressed like a man when I take you, Malfoy."

From the next moan after that, it seemed Malfoy heartily approved. Harry smirked and lined himself up, smearing lube over himself with a careful touch so that he wouldn't come right then.

The first thrust into Malfoy's arse was punishingly tight and hot, and wonderful. God, Harry had been waiting to do something like this for years. He'd watched Malfoy parade around Ministry ballrooms and through the corridors and into lifts and thought about picking him up and driving him through the floor or into the wall. He never had, because that would only prove he was a violent, terrible animal.

But Malfoy didn't care. Malfoy wanted him that way.

And Malfoy was hooking his heels together behind Harry's legs and hissing and snarling at him now, urging him faster and faster. He wasn't even using words half the time. Harry's thrusts had already driven him beyond that.

Harry found himself smiling. He shut his eyes and let his legs and his arse flex and do the talking. There was heat around him and a man desperately crying out beneath him on the table who he couldn't hurt and couldn't infect.

Malfoy grabbed his arms. Harry planted his hands on the desk and kept thrusting in and out of Malfoy.

Papers flew everywhere. The gold inkwell that Harry had received as a special award right before Greyback bit him rolled over and off the desk, probably in a way that would dent it on a corner. Drawers banged open and shut with their movement, and Malfoy grabbed for him and missed, Harry's hips were so covered with thick, swaying cloth.

"I—I needed this," Malfoy said, and choked on Harry's tongue as he leaned over and kissed him.

Harry nodded, too worked up at the moment to speak. He fucked Malfoy again, and again, and again, and the desk hit the fireplace hard enough to topple the bowl of Floo powder off the mantel. Malfoy only laughed as green powder dusted his hair.

Harry felt the buildup to his climax long before it happened. He leaned over and kissed Malfoy again, ignoring the way Malfoy's teeth closed on his tongue. He had sharper ones.

He could take more punishment than a human. He would heal faster. Wasn't he a goddamn werewolf?

The thought made him come.

Through the white sparks and the pounding of his cock and the melting of his spine, Harry had his hand poised to reach out to Malfoy's cock, but it turned out that was unnecessary. Malfoy cried very loudly and came the instant Harry did. He managed to thoroughly soak the few papers that remained on the desk.

Goddamn Veela, Harry thought, through the muzzy film in his head. Can probably feel his mate doing it, and that's all he needs.

He held himself up easily after the moment passed and both he and Malfoy were gasping messes. A human man would have collapsed. Harry pulled back and raised one eyebrow at Malfoy, considering him.

"If you ever murder someone again," he said, "you'll never get to experience that again."

"You couldn't have found a more effective threat."

Malfoy grinned up at him, dazed, and then abruptly became serious, reaching out to trace down the front of his splattered, sweaty robes. "But I'll never do it again because you told me not to. That's enough."

Harry studied him, then nodded shortly. He supposed, if Malfoy was to blame for not telling Harry that he was his mate earlier and the Ministry was to blame for having that stupid law on the books, he was to blame for not investigating it and figuring out that sparing the Death Eaters' lives would have been as simple as telling Malfoy to stop.

"I was running so hard from what I was," he muttered, and withdrew himself from Malfoy's body with a groan. "I never bothered to think about whether you were just tormenting me or not. I thought of course you were."

"Tormenting you can be fun." Malfoy winked as he sat up and looked at his own bruises and scratches with perfect complacence. "But I never wanted to do it that way."

"Very well," Harry said. He sank down into the chair next to the desk and reached out to stroke Malfoy's stomach. "And in the meantime, we're going to discuss what your future role is going to be in the Ministry and at those parties. You can start by serving an actual good cause."

Malfoy nuzzled at his fingers, his face twisted into a mask of contentment. "I'm not always going to do what you want, all the time," he muttered. "But keep me happy, keep me satisfied, and it's going to be that way more often than not."

Harry rolled his eyes. He should have seen that coming. How many times had he thought over the years that Veela were creatures of pleasure and the short term and nothing else?

Malfoy opened one eye. "And you? Are you going to stop acting all anxious every time someone voices a bad opinion about werewolves? I hate the way they make you cower from what you are."

Harry gave another slow nod. "Yes. I think—I think I could have been doing more to make things better for werewolves long ago, but I was too busy bathing in denial and assuming things would change if I was just polite enough. They won't change. So—"

"We'll make them."

Malfoy's voice was almost a trill, almost a song of triumph. Harry stood up and caught his mouth in a hungry bite, and Malfoy went still and singing beneath him, giving him back tongue for tongue and breath for breath.

His life wasn't perfect, Harry thought, as he got Malfoy into a position to go a second round. But it was a hell of a lot better than it had been earlier this evening.

They couldn't change the past. They would do their best to change the future.

The End.