My take on the "Draco is a veela" trope! Hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: JK Rowling rules all.

When Draco Malfoy was six years old, his parents sat him down and told him that he was special. He had friends - Pansy, Blaise, Theo, Daphne - but of all of them, he was the most special. He took it to heart and believed it all through his childhood.

When he was ten, his father sat him down, and told him that because of his ancestors on both sides of his family, his specialness meant that one day, he would meet someone who was made for him. A soulmate. He talked about veelas, latent magic, and destiny - all things a ten-year-old thought sounded both exciting and overwhelming.

When he was eleven, Draco boarded the Hogwarts Express, excited and not thinking at all about the veela magic his father had told him about. He walked with the friends his father had chosen for him - Crabbe and Goyle - and was set to head to a compartment near the back when a brief flash of frizzy brown hair caught his eye. There was nothing special about the hair - it was utterly ordinary - but when he saw it, he felt a tingle in his fingers. He wanted more than anything to touch it.

He left Crabbe and Goyle and followed the tingle. The girl attached to the hair was going from compartment to compartment, asking about a toad.

After a time, she turned, looked him in the eye, and asked, "Have you by any chance seen a toad?"

"No," he said, his voice clipped. He wanted to say more, but all he could do was observe her.

Her eyes were like amber stones, multifaceted and sparkling. She wasn't pretty, not really, but he couldn't take his eyes off of her face - the freckles that were spattered across her nose, the creamy quality to her skin, the way that frizzy, coffee colored hair sat wild and free atop her head. Her gaze was fierce and, even for an eleven year old, she like a force to be reckoned with.

His parents had told him he was special, that there was a person out there, special enough to be his soulmate. And he'd just found her.

"If you do, it belongs to a boy named Neville." She walked past him, the scent of her shampoo - green apples - walked past and filled him up. His soulmate.

Draco wrote his parents the following morning. He told them about the girl he'd met who he knew was his soulmate. He was excited. He wanted to know how to tell her, the proper way to court her. He was only eleven, but he knew there was an order to these things. He couldn't wait until they were older. He needed her to know now.

His father wrote him back and told him that he was mistaken. He told him that it was a trick. A mudblood - a word Draco had only heard a handful of times - could not be a pureblood's soulmates. He told him what to say to her, how to treat her, what to do to clear his mind. He told him never to speak of her again in letters, and not to mention her at home.

Draco was a small child, and so, for seven years, he did. Every time he had the urge to touch her hair, he sneered. Every time he had the urge to tell her how he felt, he called her a mudblood. Every time he had the urge to kiss her, he hurt her in any way he could. And every time he did any of those things, it felt like a dagger in his ow heart.

There was a brief reprieve when Voldemort, his father's Dark Lord, tried to come back from the dead. Lucius was nervous and excited, and Draco was able to ignore the pull of his soulmate as he sorted out his own feelings over this. It felt wrong, but his father told him it was right. He was torn.

Before Voldemort could fully come back, Severus Snape - former Death Eater and professor at Draco's school - killed him. In an uncharacteristic act of bravery that shocked the wizarding world, Snape sought out his former Lord, convinced him to trust him, learned that he had horcruxes hidden everywhere, and then poisoned him. With the help of Albus Dumbledore, the horcruxes had been destroyed and a second wizarding war was avoided.

After, Draco went back to obsessing over the girl he knew was meant for him, but who he wasn't allowed to love.

It was June, nearing the end of Draco's seventh year, and while Draco was supposed to be at Hogwarts, his parents had gotten special permission and brought him home. His birthday was the next day. He'd be eighteen, and while wizards came of age when they were seventeen, his veela nature wouldn't come to full fruition until this birthday. He would be the first Malfoy or Black in centuries to manifest, and he was excited and overwhelmed.

At midnight on the night o his birthday, Draco woke from troubled sleep with a burning pain in his chest. He had just a moment to wonder what was wrong when the pain increased beyond reason. He screamed, and even though his parents were in another wing of the Manor, they heard him and came running.

"Draco!" Narcissa yelled, but Lucius held her back as their only son writhed. Draco screamed as pain ripped through his chest and down his back. His fingertips were on fire. It felt like being ripped apart.

His skin glowed like the light of a full moon, his screams ripping from his throat in a way that had his parents clutching their own throats. He lifted off the bed, floating, arms and legs extended, his back bowed painfully.

And then, as swiftly as it started, it was over. Draco fell back to the bed, drenched in sweat, clutching his stomach.

Narcissa ran to him. Her fingers hovered over his no-longer-glowing skin, anxious to touch him, but afraid to.

"Mother," he said, his voice hoarse. "I'm alright." His voice was deeper than before, though not drastically so. He'd slept in only drawstring pants, so it was hard to tell, but he seemed bigger than before. Taller. Thicker. More muscular.

Narcissa placed her hand on his shoulder while Lucius stood in the doorway, arms crossed. "How do you feel?" she asked, brushing hair back from his forehead.

Draco closed his eyes. He took stock of his feelings. His body wasn't that much different, but everything else was.

He could smell the room - his mother's rose perfume, the firewhiskey his father had had at dinner. He could sense the dust particles in the air, smell his own sweat, and something else. Something that called to him and made his blood hum.

His mother squeaked as he threw his covers up and stood, inhumanly fast. He crossed the room to the bag he'd brought with him from school. He sniffed, looking for the scent that was stronger than anything in the room. It was apples mixed with a scent that only belonged to one person.

His fingers closed around the item and he pulled it out. A fluffy, golden yellow scrunchy. He brought it to his nose, inhaled, and sighed as his shoulders slumped in a relief he hadn't known he needed.

"Who does that belong to?" Lucius asked, his tone harsh.

Draco's fingers tightened around the piece of cloth as he turned to his father. He kept it tightly in his fist. "My soulmate," he growled.

"You've found her?" his mother asked, hand over her mouth, tears shining in her eyes. "Finally?"

Draco's eyes shot to his mother, and a sniff of the air showed him her surprise. He looked back to his father, a growl in his throat. "You never told her," he said, his voice deadly low.

Narcissa's eyes shot back and forth between the two. "Told me what? We've been waiting since you went to Hogwart's, hoping you'd find her, but you never said - "

"I found her on my first day," Draco said, glaring at his father before he turned to his mother, his gaze softening. He walked toward her and sat next to her on the bed. They were all only lit by moonlight. "I wrote you about her, and Father said - "

"Enough," Lucius said, striding into the room. "You've found nothing."

"Lucius!" Narcissa said, standing between her son - who was growing ever angrier - and her husband. "What's happened? Why did I not know?" She spun to look at her son, her normally pulled back hair loose from sleep, framing her face and giving her an appearance of innocence. "Who is she, my dragon?"

Draco stared at his father, his new senses raging at being kept from the girl he belonged with for so many years. Every unkind word, every moment he knew he'd made her cry, had made her ache, reverberated in his chest. He felt hollow inside as all of those moments rushed back, and he gripped her scrunchy more tightly in hands that now shook.

He felt the tears in his eyes, felt them fall down his face, and didn't move to wipe them away. He dragged his gaze to his mother's face. "Hermione Granger."

"The muggleborn?" she asked, and when he nodded, his mother fell to him, sobbing, while his father stood, angry in the doorway. Draco held his mother, his resolve firming.

"You told me I was wrong about her," Draco said, his voice growling in his throat. "You told me to call her a mudblood. You told me to be cruel to her!" He was holding his mother tightly, but loosened his grip on her shoulders when he heard her whimper.

"She cannot be your soulmate. She's not part of our world," Lucius said calmly, his nostrils flaring, showing his anger.

Draco gently squeezed his mother's shoulders before he stood, stalking to his father. He was taller than Lucius now, and there was a hint of fear in Lucius's eyes as he approached.

"The first time I saw her, I knew. But I was so young, and you convinced me I was wrong. But now, the veela inside me is singing for her with just this!" he thrust the yellow scrunchy toward his father's face. "It doesn't matter who her parents were, or who mine are, she is my soulmate. And thanks to you, I can't just go tell her." His heart started to hammer behind his ribs as the veela part of him began to panic. "I can't just - just tell her. Because - " he was hyperventilating now, "because she hates me." He choked out the last bit, falling back onto the floor. He looked up at his father. "You made her hate me." His skin was crackling with magic as panic overwhelmed him. "My soulmate," he whimpered.

Narcissa joined him on the floor and stroked his hair, making shushing noises, all while she glared at her husband, angry tears rolling down her cheeks. "Just go to bed, my dragon. We'll figure out how to fix this in the morning," she said.

He nodded, numbly. He slipped the scrunchy onto his wrist as he climbed back in bed. He curled away from them, nose and mouth just beside the scrunchy, as he inhaled her scent deeply.

He heard his parents leave. He heard them talking, even through the walls, and he was both grateful for and resented his new senses as he eavesdropped.

You will fix this, his mother said to his father, her voice icy.

How? his father asked sharply. He could smell the firewhiskey as he opened it and poured a glass. Maybe he will imprint on someone else if we - if we kill her.

Draco sat bolt upright, ready to go and attack his father at the just the possible threat t his mate, but the sound of his mother's hand slapping his father's face reached his ears and he stopped. He relaxed a little, straining to hear his mother's whispered words.

If you touch her, if anyone touches her, I'll leave you and I'll never come back. Draco could feel his heartbeat in his throat. His mother was on his side. She hadn't known, but now that she did, she would help him. She's our son's mate. His perfect counterpart. Your antiquated prejudice will not stand in the way of that.

Draco quit listening at this point. His head was swimming. Since he was a baby, he'd been told being a pureblood was important. He'd been told muggleborns were no better than muggles, that muggles were like animals. He'd gone to school, believing this, until he'd seen her. He hadn't known she was muggleborn at first, but once he learned it, he realized without a doubt that muggleborns were no different than purebloods. She was brilliant and strong and fierce. He may not have been allowed to say any of that, but he felt it. He knew it.

As he drifted off to sleep, he remembered all the unkind words he'd said to her. Every time he'd called her a mudblood. Every time he'd made fun of her hair, her teeth, her intelligence. Every memory was like a knife to his heart.

He closed his eyes tight and forced himself to remember the other things. He hadn't listened to his father completely. After that first year, when being cruel to her had hurt so badly he could barely stand it, he'd taken to sending her things - little anonymous gifts. He'd watched her get them, open them, and smile. He stored away each smile. He imagined he could hear each laugh. He'd given her books, candies, stationery, and he'd planned to give her a locket next.

As sleep took him, a plan began to form in his mind. His father forgotten, he smiled as he fell asleep.

Draco returned to Hogwarts the next day, choosing not to stay the day with his parents. His mother was sad, but he couldn't spend a moment in the presence of his father.

He arrived early, apparating with his mother to Hogsmeade before the sun was up, and was in the Great Hall for breakfast. He made sure, as always, to face the Gryffindor table. And when the school owl landed in front of Hermione, when she opened the package, he felt warmth in his chest as her eyes brightened and her mouth opened in a smile.

"Have a good birthday?" Blaise asked as he shoveled a forkful of eggs in his open mouth.

Draco smiled, making sure not to sit up too tall, in case someone noticed his change in appearance, "I'm working on it," he said, smiling as he glanced at Hermione again. The locket was around her neck. She fiddled with it as she talked to her friends, and Draco smiled.

"Why do you look so happy?" Pansy huffed as they trudged into the potions classroom a bit later. "While you were out yesterday, Snape assigned us partners. From Gryffindor." She rolled her eyes as she sat her bag at a table near the back. "I'm with Weasley." She gagged.

"And me?" he asked, heart pounding.

"The know-it-all." Pansy rolled her eyes and Draco nodded, finding it hard not to smile. Snape would have assigned partners based on grades, and he and Hermione had the highest marks in the class.

Hermione walked in then. She saw Draco and Pansy and stiffened, lifting her chin. Without a word, he fell into step beside her, fighting the urge to put his hand on her lower back, to lean closer and smell her, to take her in his arms. This was going to be harder than he thought.

"So, we're partners," Hermione said, sitting her stuff down at a table in the front. She seemed nervous to be around him, and anger toward his father welled inside, but he pushed it down. He had to focus.

"So we are," he said with a nod. He put his things beside hers, grateful he'd gotten here early. "I wanted to - " he cleared his throat, nervous. "I was thinking - " he tried again, the words sticking in his throat. Veela were supposed to be suave, not awkward. "Granger," he tried again.

"Yes?" she asked, watching him with a strange expression. He could see the locket he'd given her glinting from the hollow of her neck and it gave him courage.

"I'd like to call a truce," he said, turning to face her, hoping his cheeks weren't as red as they felt. "I know it's out of the blue. But a conversation with my parents over my birthday made me realize some things." He cleared his throat and tried not to get lost in the amber depths that were her wide eyes. "I've been cruel to you," he said, lowering his voice as other students came in the room. "And I wanted to - to apologize."

Hermione stared at him for a long moment as his heart beat wildly like a caged animal trying to escape.

With a small smirk, she extended her hand - so small compared to his - for him to shake. He took it and the veela in him roared forth, begging him to kiss her skin, to stroke her knuckles, but he restrained himself. They shook once, and she pulled away from him almost shyly.

"Truce," she said, eyes narrowing slightly, but that small smirk still on her face. "And - " her smirk transitioned into a grin. "Happy birthday, Malfoy."

He felt a grin slip onto his own face and he didn't try to hide it.

The rest of the class, Snape talked about their upcoming projects - a potion that would take until the last day of school to brew. Draco took notes, listened, responded when asked questions, but half of his attention was always on the girl at his side.

The next day at breakfast, Hermione opened the first letter he'd ever sent her. Her favorite poet was an American poet named Mary Oliver, and so, in the most careful penmanship he could muster, he'd copied down a poem and mailed it to her, unsigned.

The Journey

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice -
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do -
determined to save
the only life you could save.

He watched her read it, but rather than the joy his gifts usually gave her, she looked confused. She glanced at Weasley, seated next to her, then back at the poem, her brow furrowed. He felt his heart plummet. All this time, all these years, she'd thought the gifts were from Weasley. She looked back at Ron, and shook her head.

Draco looked away as she began scanning the Great Hall. He focused on his food as her eyes landed on him for just a moment before flicking away.

After potions, Hermione packed up her belongings and crossed her arms over her chest. "So, does our truce still stand?" she asked, eyes squinting slightly.

"Of course," he said, trying for nonchalance, still upset that her poem hadn't given her a better reaction. "Why do you ask?"

She shifted and a waft of apples assaulted his overly sensitive nose. "I know Snape hasn't assigned any homework yet for this potion, but it's our last one before we graduate, and I was hoping to get some pre-research done in the library." She took a deep breath. "As my partner, I thought I'd invite you to join me."

His heart leapt, but his expression didn't change. "Yeah. Sure. After dinner, then?"

Her eyes popped wide and she nodded with a slight smile. "I'll see you then." She turned on her heel and left. He inhaled deeply - apples - and left the room, a smile on his face.

In the library that night, they read silently, sharing a table. They'd pulled books on the history of this potion and it's creator. They each took notes, looking over what the other had written regularly, but rarely commenting, sharing what they found on paper.

When Madame Pince came by and told them they had ten more minutes until curfew, Draco sighed and began packing up. Hours together, and he'd said barely five words. Why was he so bad at this?

"This was sort of nice," Hermione said as she gathered her books. She leaned forward and her locket fell forward. "Sitting. Reading. Not arguing." She gave him a small, lopsided smile and he nodded.

"I'm sorry I ever called you names," he blurted, his face heating as she stopped and stared at him. "I never really apologize, and - " he pushed his hair back, face red. "I should never have called you names."

She stood up straight and tucked a curl behind her ear. "I forgive you," she said, her voice quiet. "Besides," she shook herself lightly and continued to pack up her things, stacking the books to be returned on the table neatly. "You've turned out to be quite the study partner. I'd hate to muck up the potential for a goog grade." She grinned at him, and he realized she was joking with him. Flirting. Maybe.

He found himself smirking back as he put the last book on the stack. "I'd hate that, too," he said. "Grades are so very important," he added, flirting a little on his own. Inside, the veela part of him preened when he saw her cheeks grow pink.

"Well. See you tomorrow, then." She smiled at him and gave a little wave as she slung her bag over her shoulder and left.

"See you tomorrow," he said to the empty space.

He sent another poem the next day, again by Mary Oliver. This one had taken longer for him to pick out, longer to write, but he was happy with it as he watched her open it over the rim of his mug of coffee.

Starlings in Winter

Chunky and noisy,
but with stars in their black feathers,
they spring from the telephone wire
and instantly

they are acrobats
in the freezing wind.
And now, in the theater of air,
they swing over buildings,

dipping and rising;
they float like one stippled star
that opens,
because for a moment fragmented,

then closes gain;
and you watch
and you try
but you simply can't imagine

how they do it
with no articulated instruction, no pause,
only the silent confirmation
that they are this notable thing,

this wheel of many parts, that can rise and spin
over and over again,
full of gorgeous life.

Ah, world, what lessons you prepare for us,
even in the leafless winter,
even in the ashy city.
I am thinking now
of grief, and of getting past it;

I feel my boots
trying to leave the ground,
I feel my heart
pumping hard. I want

to think again of dangerous and noble things.
I want to be light and frolicsome.
I want to be improbably beautiful and afraid of nothing,
as though I had wings.

She read it once. Twice. Three times. And when she was finished, a small smile was on her face. She didn't look around this time, but carefully re-folded it and excused herself from the table. It took everything he had in him not to rush after her.

A couple of hours later, he was sitting beside her in Potions, and she was vibrating with energy. It set his veela senses on fire.

"Everything alright, Granger?" he asked, keeping his tone light.

"What? Oh, yes." She blushed. "It's just." She sighed, and looked around the room. "Nothing." She fingered the locket around her neck.

"Come on, then," he said, leaning forward slightly. "We're friends now, right?" She nodded, hesitantly, and he smiled. "What's on your mind?" His veela was vibrating with the want, the need, to know.

Just then, Snape walked in and all students turned toward the front. Draco looked at Hermione out of the corner of his eye and held in a sigh.

They didn't talk again until after dinner, studying in the library. Draco was unable to keep it in, and did his best to sound casual as he asked, "So, earlier, something was on your mind."

"What?" Her face screwed up in thought as she thought back, then her expression opened up and she smiled. "You'll laugh."

Sitting up straight, he crossed his finger over his heart and with his most sincere face said, "I won't."

She laughed lightly. "Well," she sighed and leaned toward him, even though they were the only people in this part of the library. "Please don't laugh, but it seems I have a - a secret admirer." Her cheeks were pink and her eyes were bright as if she were waiting for him to mock her.

"Why would I laugh?" He asked with a smile, clearing his throat, forcing himself not to lean even closer, to brush his lips against hers.

"It just seems so far fetched that I would have one," she leaned away and shrugged. "Someone has been sending me little presents for years. Trinkets. Chocolates. Books." She smiled. "I always just thought it was Ron, trying to work up the courage to ask me out or something."

"It wasn't?" he asked before he could stop himself. She shook her head, and he made himself say, "I'm sorry."

"Oh, there's no reason to be sorry." She sighed again. "I mean, I love Ron - " the veela inside him bristled and he gripped the tables edge where his hands were. " - but I love him like I love Harry. Like a brother. I've never been attracted to him. So, knowing it wasn't him was a relief."

Draco relaxed, hearing his witch didn't want to be with Weasley. "How do you know it isn't him?" Draco asked, making himself lean away from her. Making himself stay in his seat, stay calm.

"Whoever it is has started sending me poems," she said, her cheeks blooming crimson. "Ronald Weasley has never read a poem in his life." She laughed and Draco laughed with her.

"How are you going to find out who it is?" he asked. Inside, his veela was screaming, Ask if it's me! Just ask!

"I don't know," she said, fingers going to her locket.

"Did whoever it is send you that locket, too?" His heart was pounding so hard he was sure she would hear it.

She nodded, smiling lightly. "Yes. It's beautiful, isn't it?"

He nodded, hands shaking. "You should write him back," he said, surprised his voice was calm.

"What would I say?" she asked, a little breathlessly.

Draco swallowed, his fingers tingling, begging to touch her hair, her skin, her lips. "Most recently, he sent you poems?"

She nodded.

"Send him one back." He shrugged.

She stared at him for a long moment and nodded with a smile. "If he sends anything else, I will." She smiled. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it," he said, nodding in return, before forcing himself to turn to the books they'd gathered. "And by the way," he said, keeping his eyes off of her, "it's not far-fetched - someone admiring you. Not at all."

He didn't look at her, so he didn't see the smile that spread across her face.

The next morning, Draco was more nervous than he had been in a long time. For today's poem, he'd only copied a portion of one, and he'd added a small note at the beginning, something he'd never been brave enough to do before.

For the amazing witch who weighs reason and feeling with equal consideration:

An excerpt from The Ponds

Still, what I want in my life
is to be willing
to be dazzled —
to cast aside the weight of facts

and maybe even
to float a little
above this difficult world.
I want to believe I am looking

into the white fire of a great mystery.
I want to believe that the imperfections are nothing —
that the light is everything — that it is more than the sum
of each flawed blossom rising and fading. And I do.

He watched her read it, watched the smile that spread over her face like the sun breaking through a storm cloud, and felt the veela inside him bask in it. Hurriedly, she reached into her bag and retrieved a scrolled piece of parchment. She tied it to the leg of the bird who'd delivered her note, and Draco was grateful he'd made sure the bird would take any responses to his room, rather than the dinner table.

With a hoot, the bird flapped and took off, heading out the window. Hermione's face fell when the bird didn't go to someone in the room, but she quickly hid it, instead lifting her chin, before she opened the poem and read it again, her smile returning.

"Did he send you anything today?" Draco asked as they sat for Potions. He kept his eyes on his things as he placed them around the table. They were preparing ingredients today. If he focused on that, he'd be less likely to do or say something embarrassing. This close, he could feel her joy.

"Another poem," she said, a little breathlessly. "I sent one back," she squeaked.

He looked at her then, and saw how wide her eyes were. She was nervous. "Granger, are you nervous?" He took a deep, quiet breath, and knew she was.

She was quiet for a long moment, but before she could answer, Snape walked in, and Draco turned toward the front. The veela was clawing at his mind, begging him to touch her, to comfort her, to do something to ease her anxiety, but he didn't. Instead, he calmly chopped and sliced and ground ingredients alongside his partner and held his tongue. It was the longest class of his life.

They didn't meet to study that night, and Draco felt like ripping out his hair. It was hard enough being away from her for most of the day. He lived for the moments they were in class together, the few times a day he could sit near her, speak with her. But she'd made plans with her hapless friends and he was left to return to his room and try to keep the beast inside him at bay.

When he arrived, an owl was sitting on the windowpane. The same owl he used to send her messages each morning. It hooted happily and held out its leg.

With shaking fingers, Draco took the parchment and offered the owl a treat. It flew off with a happy hoot.

Draco went to his bed and drew the curtains, throwing up a shield and a silencing charm, just in case. He unrolled the parchment, heart stuttering, breath shallow, and read.

Thank you for all the gifts you've given me over the years.
I don't know who you are, but one day I hope to.

The Uses of Sorrow

(In my sleep I dreamed this poem)

Someone I loved once gave me
a box full of darkness.

It took me years to understand
that this, too, was a gift.

Draco stared at the note, at the familiar loops and strokes that made up her letters. A gift. He smiled as he carefully re-rolled the note and placed it the small box he had stored under his bed. Inside was her yellow scrunchy, a quill she'd broken and discarded, and a photo of her from the Prophet. He put the lid back on, charmed it to appear empty, and replaced it beneath his bed.

He let himself fall asleep repeating the words of the poem she'd sent over and over in his mind. That night, he dreamed of her, and he rested well.

Over the next few days, they sent poems back and forth. He was getting braver, sending only fragments of poems, including more of his own words, working up the courage to tell her who he was, how he felt. But then, whenever they would meet in class, or to study, he would chicken out. She was so happy with her mystery person, he couldn't ruin it by sharing that it was him.

On the plus side, she seemed to be getting more comfortable with him, asking him questions about his childhood, his family. He told her what he could without revealing the one thing he didn't know how to say.

"Never?" Hermione asked one evening as they sat in the library, books forgotten. "What about Pansy?"

"Just a friend," he said, leaning back into the wingback chair, crossing his arms so he wouldn't reach over and touch her hand like his fingers itched to do. "Until I find someone I want to court for marriage, dating isn't really an option." He swallowed past the truth.

"Oh," she said, looking thoughtful. "I only ask because Blaise Zabini dates. So does Theo Nott."

Surprised, Draco looked at her, eyebrows raised. The veela roared forth jealously. Had she dated one of them? He couldn't stand it if she had. "How do you know that?"

Hermione shrugged. "Girls talk. Zabini is dating my friend Luna. And Theo is in Gryffindor all the time. At first I thought he was after Ginny Weasley, but then I realized - " she leaned forward, a playful smile on her face, "he's after Harry."

Draco stared for a second and then laughed. Knowing Theo, that made sense.

"So, if they can date, why can't you?" She looked up at him with wide-open eyes and he curled his hands into fists as the urge to stroke her face became nearly unbearable.

"I guess," he said, heart pounding in his throat, "I'm just waiting for the right witch."

Hermione looked at him for a moment, then sat back with a nod, her face almost sad.

It had been weeks since the poems started. School would be over in just a few days. The potion Snape assigned was nearly finished. In other classes, N.E.W.T.s had been scheduled, and still, Draco couldn't tell Hermione that the gifts, the poems, were from him. He was nearly out of time.

This morning, he sent a poem and a note that made him so nervous, he could barely sit still. He watched her unroll it, unable to be subtle and hide his gaze. He watched her lips as she read it silently, unable to take his eyes away from her mouth.

I want to tell you who I am, to sit with you, to talk with you. To tell you a secret I've never told anyone else. But, I'm afraid.
I'm afraid that once you know who I am, you won't want me.

In Blackwater Woods

Look, the trees
are turning
their own bodies
into pillars

of light,
are giving off the rich
fragrance of cinnamon
and fulfillment,

the long tapers
of cattails
are bursting and floating away over
the blue shoulders

of the ponds,
and every pond,
no matter what its
name is, is

nameless now.
Every year
everything
I have ever learned

in my lifetime
leads back to this: the fires
and the black river of loss
whose other side

is salvation,
whose meaning
none of us will ever know.
To live in this world

you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it

against your bones knowing
tour own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it
go
to let it go.

He waited as she read his note. He hoped she understood - he wanted her to choose him, he wanted her to want him, but he would never force that on her. She read it and her forehead creased. No smile. She just stared.

The owl was waiting for her response, and as she had every day for the last few weeks, she pulled a parchment from her bag. This time, she wrote while she sat - something new. She'd always had it prepared ahead of time before.

He wanted to read her words now. Her response made him afraid. He didn't want to wait until the end of the day.

He watched her quill moving quickly across the parchment. She looked at it with that same, blank expression, blew on the page to make sure it was dry, and tied it to the owl's leg.

Before the owl could fly away, Hermione leaned forward to scratch between its ears and said something to the bird that Draco couldn't make out, even though he'd gotten exceptionally good at reading her lips.

Draco watched the bird take flight, but instead of flying toward the windows, as it normally did, it flew straight toward him.

No. No no no. What are you doing? She'll see.

The owl landed in front of him and held out its leg with outstretched. Draco's hands shook as he untied the string, unable to look at her, unwilling to see the horror on her face.

Inside was the poem, Wild Geese, by Mary Oliver. And at the end of the poem, it said:

We need to talk. Meet me in the library at our table.

Draco's head snapped up to where she was sitting, but she was already gone. It was Friday, which meant his next class wasn't until just before lunch. His hands shook as he carefully rolled the parchment, ignoring the conversation around him, and left the Great Hall.

He walked when he wanted to run. She was waiting for him in the library. Had she figured it out? Or did she just wanted his advice on the next poem? His mouth was dry as he opened the library doors and made his way past Madame Pince, past the shelves of books, toward where he could feel her.

She was facing him, hands clasped on top of the table, her expression unreadable.

He sat in his usual chair, her note clutched in his hands, and waited.

"So," she said. "First things first." She looked at him, and her eyes were wide. "It's been you, all these years, sending me gifts. Hasn't it?" Her voice was hopeful. He was taken aback by just how hopeful she sounded. He nodded, and she smiled, then looked at her hands.

"They started in our second year."

He nodded again, his heart pounding painfully.

"I didn't put it together at first," she said, looking up at him, tears settled into the corners of her eyes. "But after I realized it wasn't Ron, I started to think about when I'd gotten the presents. It was always after you said something mean, or did something cruel. And the meaner it was, the more thoughtful the gift."

He closed his eyes in shame only to have them pop open when her hand landed on his softly. It took everything he had not to jump over the table to hold her. Instead, he sat perfectly still, trying to memorize the way her skin felt against his.

"Until this year. You haven't been cruel this year. Not once. And after your birthday, the presents changed. The locket," she touched it with a smile. "The poems. The notes."

"I'm sorry," he choked out, the combination of her kindness mixed with her touch were too much for him, and he flipped his hand to grip hers with both of his. "For being cruel. For all the horrible things I've said and done." He was horrified to realize he was crying, but she didn't look put off by it. Her tears still rested in the corners of her eyes.

"Draco," she said, squeezing his fingers as her other hand held both of his. "I noticed a change after your birthday. You look different," she said as she stroked his fingers. "But more than that, you just were different. You were kind. Thoughtful."

He felt all of this about to crumble. He had to tell her he carried veela blood, that he was destined for her and her alone, and she would leave. It wouldn't be fair to not give her all the information. She needed to have a choice. "Hermione, there's something else - " he took a deep breath.

"You're a veela," she said, wincing slightly. "I know."

Draco was speechless. Inside, his veela was screaming for him to do something, but he couldn't. She knew, and she was still here.

"How?" he croaked out. At this, Hermione blushed a deep red and he wanted nothing more than to press his fingertips to her crimson skin to feel that heat.

"I researched you," she said, clearing her throat. "I - I don't like to not know things, and when we became friends, when I realized - " she squeezed his fingers. "When I realized how I felt about you, I needed to know more. About you, your family. I'm a muggleborn. You're a pureblood. I thought if I could look back into your family tree far enough, I'd be able to find where someone in your family had fallen in love with someone like me." She sighed.

"Hermione - "

"But I didn't," she said, interrupting him. "Not once. Every recorded relationship was between purebloods." She swallowed. "But I did find veela in your ancestry. Blonde. Pale. Piercing eyes. Beautiful." She looked up at him and blushed again. "So I kept digging. I looked at your mother's family. I did the math, and I figured it out. The veela blood on both sides of your family, the way you changed over your birthday, the fact that you'd never dated. It all just made sense." She shrugged and took a deep breath, looking sad. "Draco, when I found out you were a veela, I was crushed."

It was like a weight had been dropped on his chest. She didn't want him.

"I had been so sure the letters, the gifts, were from you. Or, I'd hoped they were. And when I learned that you were a veela, then you'd have one mate, it seemed impossible that they were from you after all." She took a deep breath and looked at him as if she were afraid.

"Hermione - "

She squeezed his hands as the first tears fell from her eyes. "And then, I started to feel it." Her voice was a whisper. "When you would walk into a room, I knew it without looking up. When I was away from you for too long, it hurt. Here." She put her hand over her heart. "And I thought, maybe. Maybe you were a veela and you had been sending me these wonderful things, because - " Her eyes drifted closed and her mouth shut.

"Because you're my soulmate," he finished, his voice low, his tears gone. "Hermione," he said, releasing one of her hands to cup her face like he'd always imagined. The veela inside soared when she leaned into his touch.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she asked, eyes still closed, her cheek pressed into his hand.

"If you were ever going to be with me, I wanted you to choose me. I didn't want you to feel guilty when you learned that without you, I'd never have anyone. I didn't want you to be with me so I wouldn't be alone. Because I know that that's the kind of person you are."

She opened her eyes then, and new tears shone there, but she was smiling. She looked at him, and he felt as if he might burst into flames his desire for her was so strong. The veela was clawing, begging him to take her right there, to make her his. But he just sat, his hand cupping her cheek, staring into her amber eyes, cherishing the witch he'd loved since he was eleven.

"You wanted me to have a choice."

He nodded, and repeated words from the poem he'd sent her that morning. "To live in this world, you must be able to do three things: to love what is mortal; to hold it against your bones knowing your own life depends on it; and, when the time comes to let it go, to let it go."

Hermione took his hand, the one cupping her cheek, and pulled it away from her face to kiss his palm. His nerves were on fire with the brush of her lips. That tingling feeling he'd felt the first day he met her, that urge to touch her hair, exploded outward. She kissed his palm and pressed her cheek against his knuckles.

"Did you read my poem to you this morning?" she asked, standing and closing the distance between them. He turned toward her in his seat as she sat across his legs, taking his face in her hands. He nodded. She smiled, stroked his cheeks, and recited from memory:

"You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting –
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things."

He stared up at her, his heart raging against his ribs.

"You gave me a choice, and I've made it," she said. With a slowness that was almost painful, she leaned down and pressed her soft lips against his.

His body reacted of its own accord. He was thankful the veela didn't take full control, that the man was just as in love with her as the magical beast inside. He wrapped his arms around her, her green apple scent everywhere, and pulled her against him. Her body was soft and when he opened his mouth to deepen their kiss, she pressed further into him.

It was long minutes later that they pulled apart, lips swollen, his arms still firmly around her waist, hers now around his neck toying with the soft hair at the nape.

"I want you to know," he said, his voice husky as he tightened his grip around, his forehead pressed to hers. "The veela in me wants you so badly I can barely think straight, but - " he sighed into their shared space, "but I want you too. To be mine. Not just because my veela blood has claimed you. But because you're you."

She kissed him again, pressing a smile into his closed lips. "My beautiful veela," she murmured, causing goosebumps to break out across his body. "I'm yours," she said as she kissed him again.

Draco was moments away from kissing her again, from forgetting their classes and their responsibilities, when two people stumbled toward them, so wrapped up in kissing and gripping one another that they didn't realize they had an audience.

"Harry?" Hermione asked and the couple sprang apart. "I guess we both have something to talk about," she said with a smirk, her fingers still playing with the hair at the base of Draco's neck. Draco sat up straighter when she leaned into him in the face of her oldest friend.

In front of them, Harry stood, shirt and hair askew, glasses crooked, eyes opened wide, mouth gaping.

"Yes, yes, it's all very interesting," Theo Nott said as he took Harry's hand and began dragging him away, fingers laced together. Harry's face was red, but he just sheepishly grinned at Hermione. "We can all chat later, alright?" Theo pulled Harry behind a bookcase and they heard them stumble away, laughing low.

"Well, I told you Theo was after Harry," Hermione said, and against her Draco laughed. He pulled her into his chest and tucked her head beneath his chin.

"That you did," he said as he gave in, finally, after years of waiting, and reached up to run his fingers through her hair. "I've learned, over the last few years, that you're rarely wrong," he said, his fingers tingling with the contact.

"In that case," she said, lifting up to turn toward him, "as much as I don't want to, we should probably start making our way to class."

Draco visibly deflated. How could he not hold her now that he had her? She leaned down and kissed him, pulling his bottom lip into her mouth gently. "We only have a few days left here," she said, kissing the corner of his mouth, "but we have the rest of our lives together."

His heart soared and he smiled stupidly up at her. She slipped off his lap and offered him her hand. He took it, her fingers intertwined with his, and for the first time in seven years, for the first time since he saw her on the train, he felt settled.

As they left the library, he thought back on the last seven years. "Do you remember the first time we met?" he asked a she rubbed her fingers in between his.

She nodded and looked up at him, puzzled. "On the Hogwart's Express, our first day. Why do you ask?"

"I just never knew...did Neville ever find that toad?" he deadpanned.

There was a beat of silence, and her laugh rang out and Draco was sure, in all his life, he'd never heard a more beautiful sound.