Author's Note: This is a bit of fun written as a gift for the lovely Blood Faerie. It will be a multi-part ficlet, most likely. Just to warn you, it may be a little edgier than what I usually write. Enjoy, and let me know what you think!

She should have known. That was the only thing that kept going through her head. She should have known. But she could never say no to a book, could she? Of course not, even when that book would get her into trouble, as this one inevitably had. It wasn't the first time in her career as a rare book dealer that she'd made a poor decision.

It was just too good to pass up…even if the book belonged to one Lucius Malfoy. He was a git, but he'd been a quiet git since the end of the war. Five years and she hadn't heard a peep from any of the Malfoys. They kept to the fringes of polite society, made sure they gave money to the right people and organizations, and went on as if the entire ugliness of the war had never happened. Their standing had almost recovered fully. It disgusted her.

Damn the man for having one of the most extensive libraries in Britain. And damn him for offering to trade a second edition of Most Potente Potions for, of all things, an obscure volume on Veela lineage. It had crossed her mind before, what with the Malfoys' pale, deceptively angelic features, that there might be some Veela blood in their family. But they'd never mentioned anything outright, and that would have been a source of pride for them. They weren't the sort that kept quiet if they had something to brag about.

So what did Malfoy want with this book? 'Krasa a Pomsta: Dejiny Vila', it was called, which roughly translated to 'Beauty and Vengeance: History of Veela'. Beauty and vengeance, indeed – she doubted Malfoy could read Czech, so unless he knew some very advanced translation charms (which were notoriously pesky for those Russo-Slavic languages) he would get nothing out of it. Oh, but what did she care what he wanted with it? A second edition of Most Potente wasn't a first edition, but it was much more valuable that her current best, which was an eighth edition. She couldn't find a better deal if she tried. And some tiny, rational part of her brain had warned her of that.

Malfoy could have offered her something less for the Veela book. Most Potente seemed disturbingly like a trump card; she couldn't say no to it. She couldn't say no to a trip to Malfoy Manor under these circumstances. She'd hoped never to visit again, but that damn book…

So here she was, nervously seated in a small sitting room off the foyer. She had to admit that the house felt different. Anything would feel different, though, when the dark presence of Voldemort was banished from it. She thought they might have redecorated, and if they had she could scarcely blame them.

She'd thought about it a lot whenever she saw an article about them in the Prophet or Witch Weekly. The Dark Lord had all but castrated Lucius in the last year of the war. Taken his wand, his house, held the lives of his wife and son over him…it had been just the sort of bitter lesson the elder Malfoy needed to realize he was throwing his lot in with the wrong people. She had forgiven Draco a long time ago; he'd never wanted to do any of what he'd been forced into, even if he was comfortable spewing the poisonous rhetoric. And Narcissa, well, she had saved Harry's life. That was almost enough to forgive her for looking the other way when it came to her husband's crimes.

So Hermione was not as uncomfortable as she might have been sitting in the entranceway of Malfoy Manor. But she was still relatively wary of dealing with Lucius; the man was a snake and that would never change. Though some snakes were more agreeable than others…

He brushed into the room just then. He looked the same as she remembered – perfect, pale hair, aristocratic features, piercing blue eyes – but he bore a look of exhaustion and slight wear that set her mind wondering. He was also smoothing down the sleeve of his expensive robe without enough haste to fully conceal what was obviously some kind of wound.

"My apologies, Miss Granger, I was caught up with something."

She stood up, brain overburdened with questions about the bloody gauze on his arm and the less-than-pristine state of his person. "Is this a bad time?" she heard herself ask. "I can come back if this isn't convenient." Oh, Merlin, that was the last thing she wanted to do.

He waved a hand distractedly. "No, no, you are here now and that is fine. Do you require anything? A beverage or perhaps the ladies' room?"

She shook her head, confused by his politeness. This was a level of cordiality that she'd never been deserving of before, not in his eyes. "No, thank you," she added, feeling compelled to be just as polite in return.

"Right. Please follow me, then."

He turned without another word and began to walk out of the room. Hermione had no choice but to follow, else she'd be left behind. Which, in the grand scheme of things, might be better than following Lucius Malfoy into the depths of his mansion, but she was what she was. She'd do damn near anything to have that book. He probably knew it. That was what worried her.

He was walking at a rapid pace, like he was on some sort of mission. She was always being left in the dust by tall people and Lucius Malfoy was no exception. Hermione scurried through the winding hallways and rooms as best she could. Was the man on a schedule? At last, when she had nearly lost him, she spoke up.

"Mr. Malfoy?"

He stopped and turned, his face inquisitive. "Yes?"

"Can you please slow down?" I don't enjoy trailing behind people like some sort of indentured servant, she added mentally, wishing she had the courage to say it to him out loud. He'd probably have some snappy retort ready about servants knowing their place.

"Certainly," he responded coolly, and proceeded at a slower pace.

Now she was actually walking next to him, and that felt stranger than being five feet behind him. Now there was the possibility of conversation. Would she never cease to shoot herself in the foot?

"I would like to show you something before we close the book trade," he said suddenly. "It is just ahead."

"Mr. Malfoy - "

"I assure you, it will be to your interest, but if you'd rather not…"

Time to shoot herself in the other foot; she caved to her curiosity, buoyed by his politeness and seeming lack of murderous intent. "Lead the way."

He nodded once and led her a little further, careful to match her pace, she noticed. He only strode in front of her when they reached their destination. It was an ornate door, the wood elegantly carved and inlaid with the family seal. She hadn't seen the full seal before; it was actually quite nice. Too bad most of them could barely claim to have done their line proud.

"In here," he nodded, opening the door and stepping aside.

Would wonders never cease? She was walking into a dark room, willingly, with Lucius Malfoy at her back. He closed the door behind him and then flicked his wand. A half-dozen small chandeliers lit, casting soft light upon a long wall. And there, stretched out in an opulent sprawl, was the Malfoy family tree.

It was much like the Black tree she'd seen at Grimmauld Place, but larger and a bit more tasteful. Generally, she couldn't complain about the Malfoys' sense of style; they always looked good and there were no troll leg umbrella stands or severed house elf heads on display in their corridors.

Her eyes traversed the long and tangled branches. Near the end, to the far right, were Lucius and Narcissa. A braided vine ran from them to Draco; she noticed with some surprise that he wasn't married yet. Then again, neither was she, and she'd thought that by now she'd be blissfully bound to Ron. Life was not so certain, after all.

"I think perhaps you can better appreciate my neuroticism about the bloodline now," Lucius said from the other side, the origin of the tree. "When purity is maintained so long and with such pride, no one wants to be the one to break it."

"I didn't come here to talk blood politics with you," Hermione said flatly.

"Indeed. Nor did I bring you in here for that purpose, though no doubt it would make for stimulating conversation."

This time she did give voice to her thoughts. "Conversation? Let's be frank, Mr. Malfoy, it would probably end with us hexing one another."

He tilted his head to the side, a smile tugging at the left corner of his mouth. "You do not consider that stimulating? It would only result in a duel if you allowed yourself to become angry."

Already he was making her angry with his smug serenity, but she was keenly aware that he was partially right. She couldn't control what other people thought. She could, however, control how she reacted to it. So, schooling herself into a slightly belligerent calm, she replied,

"No one likes to be told they are wrong, you included."

"That is true enough. Perhaps we'll save the debate for another time."

She gave him a critical glance. He was being civil to her, even giving her a backhanded compliment or two. Either he had seriously mellowed out, or he had an agenda that required tolerable behavior on his part. He raised an eyebrow at her scrutiny.

"Well, Mr. Malfoy, what are we in here for, then?" she asked, diverting her eyes from him and back onto the family tree. "I have another appointment after this, so I can't linger." That was a lie, she had no other appointment; she'd kept the rest of the afternoon clear because she knew she'd be unable to resist scouring the copy of Most Potente immediately after acquiring it.

"No doubt you're curious as to why I am so interested in Veela literature," he stated, coming to stand next to her, which was a little disconcerting. He was very tall and a solidly built man; she'd never noticed before, not in the way she was noticing now. It was hard to miss how imposing he was. It was, however, possible to miss the sheer, magnetic masculinity that draped across his shoulders like a cloak. Hermione frowned and willed herself not to breathe through her nose. This close, she could smell him, and it wasn't a bad smell by any means. She refused to find him attractive.

"It had crossed my mind," she responded, poker-faced.

After a slight pause, he took four steps to the left. It put him around the region of his great great great great (was she counting correctly?) grandparents. He looked over his shoulder expectantly. With a sigh, Hermione moved toward him. It took her six steps to cover the distance he'd done in four. Satisfied that he had her attention, he raised his hand to the intricate tree.

"Here. Marie-Claudette Amourelle du Chegny. She was a full-blooded Veela, or so they say."

Hermione looked at the elfin woman that Lucius was indicating. She definitely looked like a Veela; her face was symmetrical and perfect, her skin like porcelain, with eyes that pierced even from the two-dimensional embroidery. And that hair, goodness, it cascaded in pale blonde waves, impossibly long and smooth.

"I suspected there might be Veela blood in your family," Hermione said noncommittally.

"Yes. Its power had mostly faded by the time my father was born, though. He never felt any mating imperative, nor did I or Draco, though we have retained the traditional looks…and some say the charisma," he smiled wryly.

Charisma, indeed. It fairly radiated from him. She was smiling back before she knew what she was doing. What the hell? So this was the infamous Malfoy charm…no wonder people caved to it so easily.

"Do you have a collection of Veela literature?" she asked, trying to steer the conversation into safer territory. Perhaps this trade was more understandable if he was an avid collector of these kinds of books.

"I have started to put one together, yes." He appeared thoughtful. "There truly is not much known about Veela."

Hermione nodded. Their beauty and magnetism was legendary, as was their propensity for wrath and their reputation as jealous lovers. Other than stereotypes, some Slavic myths existed about them and their mating imperatives, but the knowledge ended there. Fleur Delacour was the only Veela she knew, and she was only a quarter. Fleur was beautiful, definitely a bit haughty sometimes, and one of the only people in the world brave enough to compete with Molly Weasley, but otherwise she was a normal woman.

"Do you know the translation spells necessary to read the book?" she asked, suddenly interested in the book's content. She hadn't read it, one of the few in her possession to earn that distinction, mostly because of the utter pain in the ass it would be to translate.

"Yes, I looked them up and made sure I could do them before I contacted you. No point trading if I get nothing out of it." The smile had faded from his lips and the look in his eyes made her feel slightly uncomfortable. It was not threatening, but it was acknowledging; he was looking at her and actually seeing her. In previous encounters his eyes had always grazed over her as if she was something inconsequential. Not so now.

She resisted the temptation to do the same to him. He had never been inconsequential to her, for obvious reasons, but he wasn't someone she wanted to be caught looking at. Sliding her eyes over his frame seemed like a betrayal. To whom, to what, she wasn't sure of anymore.

"You wish to read the book," he said.

"I am terribly predictable when it comes to books," she replied. Strangely, responses came easily and naturally around him. Perhaps it was because she didn't have to think about whether or not someone less intelligent than her could understand what she was going to say before she said it.

He peered down his long nose. "I have a hard time believing that you can't do the translation spells."

"I never learned them. This is only the second book I've dealt with that was in any sort of Eastern European tongue. Those bastards in Budapest always beat me to them…" she was thinking aloud, and cut herself off.

"I assume by 'those bastards' you refer to Zigmund and Kovacs?"

Her eyebrows rose. Lucius knew of her main competition, the Hungarian rare book dealers Markus Zigmund and Konrad Kovacs. She had to admit, it raised him a few notches in her view of his worth as a person.

"Yes. They make my career interesting, to say the least."

Lucius was looking at her curiously again. "Are they outselling you?"

"They've been established for thirty-five years. Of course they're outselling me."

His lips quirked upwards; he looked like a shark scenting blood. "Not for long." He turned and moved toward the door, walking slowly, his hands laced behind his back.

Hermione stared at his retreating figure. What the hell did that mean?

"Mr. Malfoy?"

"Come. I'll show you the translation spells. Then you can read the book. It's not long, so you will finish quickly…and then, we can complete the trade, if you desire."

Buggering fucking hell. He seemed to be oblivious to the impact he was having on her. In reality, she knew that Lucius Malfoy was rarely oblivious to anything. That had to be why he sat close to her, grazed his hand against hers – the man was flirting with her. Or worse, seducing her. Good lord, why?

And he could get away with it, too, under the guise of teaching her the translation spells. One had to be close for that. She might have been learning something if it was at all possible to pay attention. Honestly, it hadn't been that long since she had male attention…was she so deprived that Lucius was turning her to goo?

She had to admit, watching him out of the corner of her eye, that he could probably turn 99 of women and a fair percentage of men into goo quite easily. Especially when he appeared studious, but perhaps that was her own fetish. She found it inexplicably hot to watch his eyes fairly devour the materials in front of him, his lips forming a slight pout, and his brows furrowed in concentration. Like this, one could almost forget he was an elitist wanker. Why had there never been any people like him in school? If ever there had been a male classmate who studied a book the way he did, Hermione's fate would have been sealed. She would have been shagging that boy in the dark recesses of the library. God, that sounded sexy.

"Do you think you have it?" he asked, interrupting her thoughts. She looked up at him. She was in a library with plenty of dark recesses. Her mind wouldn't let go of it.

"Yes, thank you," she forced out, giving him a tight smile.

"I will leave you alone for a few hours, then," he murmured. He brought a hand up to massage his forehead. He suddenly looked tired, and she remembered the wound on his arm. She wanted to ask if he was ill or hurt, but contained the urge. It wasn't her business.

"You may stay for dinner if you like. If you need anything, call for my house elf Tesla," he continued. Then he pushed back from the table and stood. Nodding once, he turned and meandered out of the library.

Hermione let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. What the hell was going on here? She couldn't make heads or tails of it, except to conclude that perhaps Malfoy had changed. Or perhaps he was still trying to butter her up for something…

With him gone, though, her intellectual curiosity won out and her attention returned to the now-translated book about Veela. The style was a bit halting and antiquated, but it wasn't a difficult read.

Narcissa watched her husband sleep. Lately it seemed like he could never get enough rest, but she knew why. She knew why both her son and her husband were changing. She sighed and sat carefully next to him on the bed. She had never been able to resist playing with his hair and when he was this tired, it wouldn't wake him.

She thought as she toyed with the silken strands. It never ceased to amaze her how soft his hair was; she could never get hers to be as perfectly smooth. Then again, she was lucky her hair would lay flat at all, considering the gene pool she came from. Straightening charms were a godsend as far as she was concerned.

There was a myth that if you plucked even one hair from a Veela's head, it would kill them. She separated out a pale strand of Lucius's hair and contemplated the way it laid against her finger. There was a time when he would have considered death better than what he was getting himself into. And there was a time when she would rather have killed him than let him do this mad thing.

She was silly. Tugging out his hair wouldn't kill him. Nonetheless, she let the strand fall back in place with its compatriots and stood, smoothing her clothing before she strode over to the floo. Yes, her husband was changing…but so was she.

Draco turned restlessly in his bed. His mind was clear now, not like this morning. But still something buzzed on the edge of it, making him feel like a caged animal. And why shouldn't it? He was caged. He hadn't seen the sun, but for a few stray rays beneath his heavy curtains, for days. It wasn't that he couldn't go out; he could, but he had no purpose. The promise of nothing wasn't enough to propel him out of the Manor.

On top of the restlessness there was guilt. He had been stretching his family to the seams. His father chanced death or worse for him constantly. His mother was losing both of them and putting on an awfully brave face about it. He was tired of things going wrong. It had been good for a while, but then…

He closed his eyes and remembered.

"Malfoy! Malfoy!"

He could hear his partner, Jerome Quinn, shouting for him. He couldn't shout back. He'd been hit, hard, and there was no air in his body. He couldn't see, either. It was dark because that was when most stealth missions took place. Unfortunately, no one had known that these sons of bitches had vampires on their payroll. If they had known, well…perhaps they would have gone in for the metaphorical kill during the day.

Air trickled back into his lungs and he tried to gasp for breath as quietly as possible. He was not only separated from Jerome, but from the rest of the team. This was dangerous. He had to get the hell out of here.

It might surprise people to know how often auror operations were utterly fucked. This was one of those times. This was one of those strikes where people died. And he would be one of them if he didn't get his arse back to the rendezvous point.

At that exact moment, someone stepped into the room. Draco lay still, knowing his best hope was to play dead. However, it seemed that his visitor didn't even notice him; he had fallen next to a long chaise and was partially obscured. The dark would do the rest. Draco cracked an eye open and tuned his ears.

"The aurors are falling back."

"Good." A low, rough voice emitted a chuckle. "I wager we gave them a good surprise."

"Yes," the second voice agreed, "and adrenaline makes blood taste so sweet…"

Draco gave himself a quick once-over. He wasn't bleeding anywhere that he could detect. It was a good thing, because if he was the vampire would smell him. His prime location would be given away and he was as good as dead.

This was his chance. He could no longer hear his comrades. They had been driven back by the vampires. He was the last one with a shot at taking down the man who wanted to be the next Voldemort. Draco's lips twisted in a silent growl at the thought. There would be no more crazed despots, not on his watch.

He very carefully extracted a slender peg from his robe. This had been one of Kingsley Shacklebolt's smarter ideas. It was an emergency portkey that automatically took whoever the peg was given to (or stabbed with, as was often the case) to a holding cell in Azkaban. The portkeys had identifiers and trackers on them, so they would know which auror had been responsible for the capture and where to find him or her.

Now, if the stupid vampire lackey would move, Draco would have an unimpeded path to his victim. Early on, some aurors tried to shoot the pegs at their targets, but that gave them too much time to react. Many an auror had found himself in that holding cell in Azkaban back then. Now it was generally the practice to use the port pegs as a last resort, and to do everything possible to jab the thing into the person directly. The peg was the best way to go; even if he could get this sleaze alone, he wasn't sure he could win the duel against him. That was why it had taken so long to catch him; the man had already taken out four aurors and Draco wasn't ready to be number five. However, he wasn't willing to give up, either.

A distraction was in order. Draco raised his wand. This always worked. He mouthed 'expecto patronum', willing the patronus to appear at the door, and a moment later the room was softly illuminated by a glowing shape. He could never keep himself from wincing when he saw it.

Words couldn't describe his mortification when he'd first discovered the form of his patronus. He'd been hoping for something cool, a dragon, perhaps, like his namesake. But no. It was a goddamn ferret. When he'd admitted to his father what it was, the man had laughed until his sides hurt – and then proceeded to show Draco his own patronus. It was a peacock. Draco felt vindicated, and the two of them had spent the rest of the evening drinking too much scotch and musing over embarrassing moments. It was one of his fonder memories of his father; before that, he had never admitted to imperfection out loud.

The patronus was having the desired effect. The two men snapped to attention.

"The aurors are looking for survivors!" the vampire barked. "There must be someone still in here."

"Find them!" the leader ordered. With a slight flick of his wrist, Draco sent his stupid ferret gamboling down the hallway. The vampire fell for it in spectacular fashion and went after the moving ball of light. Draco was left in near-darkness with his prey. He licked his lips and smiled.

It was an excruciating play of patience and risk, but he did it. He approached the man undetected. He was only a few feet away. Schooling his breath, Draco uncapped the port peg.

Just before he struck, the vampire strode back in.

"Master!" the dark being shouted.

Knowing he was sighted and therefore screwed, Draco lunged. He had only a moment to be satisfied when the peg sunk into his enemy's shoulder and the man disappeared mid-howl. The vampire was coming. Draco didn't bother with his wand; they were mostly useless against the creatures of the night. Instead he went for the knife at his belt. His parents had given it to him several years ago. Its blade was made of silver, because in his early days as an auror their main problem had been with renegade werewolves. Those days seemed so far away now…

Fuck, the vampire was fast. He was on the floor, assaulted by searing pain in his neck, a meaty hand pressed viciously into his cheek. So that was what it felt like to have your jugular opened, or maybe it was his carotid…it could be deep enough to be his carotid…

Draco smelled his own blood, but he smiled. His blade had found its way into the vampire's left side, between the ribs. It was as good as a stake from the front. The vampire screamed, his face smeared with Draco's blood like macabre slashes of makeup. Then he fell, dead and cold, atop his victim.

Draco closed his eyes. He could feel the blood rushing out of him in great, hot spurts. He was dead. He was dead. Hell and heroism, he was dead.

After that it had been a patchwork of hazy memories, faces, voices, the walls of St. Mungo's. His mother, always crying, seemingly held up by Aunt Andromeda. Shacklebolt, telling him nonsensical things about an Order of Merlin. His father, grave and silent, but unexpectedly tender, feeding him mush, holding cups of water to his lips, brushing his hair. Pansy Parkinson, his once upon a time fiancée and still his friend, with her little coffee-skinned daughter - Blaise's child. Blaise himself. Snape, of course dumping potions down him and arguing with his healers. Harry Potter, who saucily told him he had a hero complex before he, too, accosted the healers and made some demand or other.

There had been others, many of them. But only one mattered.

Astoria.

He was supposed to marry her. Two months from the night of the mission, exactly. Everything was all planned out. He actually loved her, too. He had given up Pansy because she loved Blaise and never regretted it, not after becoming closer to Astoria, but now it was like a knife to the gut.

The bitch had left him. Snuck into his room and put the ring he'd given her in the cup by his bed while he slept, so that he damn near swallowed it when he went to take a drink the next morning. And that was how he found out he was no longer engaged.

That was the first thing that propelled him out of bed. That was also the first real emotion he felt. And when he came back to himself, he was on the floor in a body bind with a very large orderly on top of him, and there was blood everywhere. Only, it wasn't his blood…

He would never forget the sight of his father on his knees, bowed over in pain. His face was bruised, a deep slash opened over the pale skin of his forearm, punctuated by matching perforations in his wrist. There were two badly shaken mediwitches behind him.

It came together in Draco's head quickly. In his blind rage, he'd attacked the two mediwitches, who were only there to help him. His father had intervened. But rage made him strong and immune to some of the disabling spells. And worst of all, he had bitten him. He had bitten his father.

"Father?" he whispered.

Lucius's eyes darted up from their appraisal of the wounds on his arm. "It's all right, Draco."

"No," he moaned. "I bit you. I'm one of them. I bit you…" And grief and shame and guilt tore at him, along with the knowledge that he was a monster. The only thing he could do was let misery envelope him.

"Mr. Malfoy," one of the mediwitches whispered, "we should treat your wounds."

Lucius shook his head.

"Mr. Malfoy - "

"No," he said firmly. Then he looked at the orderly that was sitting atop his son and said, "Get off him."

"Sir?"

"He is calm, now get off him." His father's voice was hard, flinty, the old, all-too-familiar tone that no one would argue with. The weight upon him eased as the orderly scrambled away.

"We should…we should sedate him and send an order down to the blood bank…"

"No," his father repeated.

"Mr. Malfoy, he's - "

"I know." He watched out of the corner of a blurry eye as his proud father made his way across the floor to sit next to him. "There is no point. I'm already bleeding."

The mediwitch stood and put her hands on her hips. "Mr. Malfoy, I must insist that you let us do our jobs!"

"Do them," he snapped, "and let me do mine." And then he proceeded to completely ignore the other people in the room. He leaned over to touch his son's pale hair. "Draco," he said softly, "Draco, is this what you need?" Blood had pooled in the palm of his hand like an offering, running in twin streaks from the wrist.

The smell of blood hit him, and so did an insatiable craving. It made him sick. But oh sweet gods, he couldn't resist it. He needed it.

"Take it," his father said. "Drink." And he sounded fearless, but when Draco's lips touched his hand he could feel the slight tremor there. Oh, but it all became inconsequential when the taste of his own sire's blood hit his tongue.

And that was how it had been ever since. The healers weren't exactly sure what he had become. He didn't require blood all the time, but when he did, he needed it. He could go out during the day; the sun didn't burn him, but he tired quickly and felt penned in around too many people. And the dreams…

Nothing was predictable anymore. Like this morning. When he had awakened, he felt fine. But by the time he got out of the shower, he had been trembling with the need for blood. He'd never felt so guilty as he did then; his father's morning was chock full of appointments, the majority of which he was forced to cancel. Watching him sit and leaf through his papers with one arm posed over an old-style bleeding bowl, the vein at his elbow open and flowing, was painful.

Draco hated being a burden. His father assured him he wasn't, that it was fine, he would rather cancel a bunch of dull meetings to assist his son any day. But he saw the exhaustion in the older man's face, the pale tint to his lips. They said that there were no leftover impacts from Draco's accidental bite in the hospital, yet he wondered. He wondered if there was something his father wasn't telling him.

Lucius had dismissed himself, saying that right now he had an appointment he couldn't miss. And that was the last he'd seen of his father for the a few hours; his mother had ducked in briefly, but otherwise the house was silent. Why, then, was he so restless? Why?

Draco sighed and picked up a book. And then he put it back down…because it reminded him of her.

Hermione had finished the Veela book. It contained many interesting facts and anecdotes; she was glad she had read it before trading it off to Lucius. Actually, it had been very nice of him to let her. Most people wouldn't have the patience. Imagine that, a Malfoy setting a precedent of generosity with anything other than money…

She shook her head. Maybe he really had changed; mistakes could mellow a man. They said a leopard couldn't change his spots, but she supposed he could rearrange them. If there was a new Lucius Malfoy on the horizon that was just as well.

She had expected him to be back by now. At least fifteen minutes had gone by in which she had nothing to do. And having nothing to do in a library was very dangerous indeed. Unable to control herself, Hermione stood up from the small desk she was at and began to wander among the stacks.

A knock at his door made Draco's heart leap into his throat. He had been sitting there, tense and preoccupied, a victim of restlessness. He wanted to crawl out of his own skin. Maybe someone had at last come to engage him.

"Come in," he said.

The doorknob turned and his father poked his head in. He looked better; the color was back in his face and he was standing a little taller. Draco knew that giving his blood made him tired and sometimes weak. The slight displacement of his father's hair told him that he'd been napping.

"Feeling all right?" he asked.

Draco offered a feeble smile. "I should be asking you that."

"I'm well, Draco. Are you?"

"Yes. Just a little bored."

Lucius nodded, looking thoughtful. He stood there silently for a long moment. Then his lips curved into a smile.

"I may have the cure for your ennui. Come down to the library in twenty minutes."

"Father?" Draco asked, curiosity already eating at him.

"You'll see," was all he said before he disappeared, the door closing with a click in his wake.

Hermione nearly jumped out of her skin when Lucius came up behind her. She started and in the process of bringing her arms up defensively, accidentally flung the book she was reading at him. He reacted instinctively and caught it just before it could slam spine-first into his jaw.

He looked at the book in his hand, and then at her. A raised eyebrow was his only commentary.

"I…um…nice catch," she said weakly.

"Well, I was a seeker for my house team," he shrugged, "until someone took a potshot at me with a bludger bat."

"That ended your career?" she asked, wondering if he'd deserved the so-called potshot. Regardless, both Harry and Ron had been hit with those stupid bats multiple times, and though they left some nasty bruises, neither had ever been seriously hurt.

"No, my mother did." A sardonic smile twisted his lips. "I was hit in the groin and she forbade me to play after that, for fear that I'd never be able to do my familial duty of reproducing."

Hermione blinked. "Are you serious?"

"Regretfully." He examined the book she'd reflexively thrown at him. It was a tome on controversial spells, most of which were controversial because they walked the line between light and dark magic. "Going to confiscate this?"

She flushed. Not only had she been caught snooping in his library, but she'd been caught reading something that was outside the boundaries of appropriateness. "No. I know I shouldn't have wandered, my apologies."

"None are required. A little curiosity about dark magic is perfectly normal, and you shouldn't feel ashamed of it." He stepped closer while he said it. Instinctively, Hermione flattened herself against the bookshelf. He kept moving towards her and her stomach did a somersault. In the end, though, he only reached over her to place the book back on the shelf.

She was keenly aware of how close he was when he did it. There were mere inches between his body and hers. He could have put the book anywhere, but he chose to put it right above her head. It wasn't where she had taken it from. He was back to his flirtation games.

Why the hell was he flirting with her?! She found her voice and a little sense.

"That attitude gets people in trouble."

He looked down at her, still very close. "Are you so puritanical?"

For some reason, that offended her. "I…no! It's just that when people indulge another's interest in the dark arts, it gives them license to practice them. It's classic enabling behavior."

"Enabling behavior?"

"You know, when a person encourages or allows another person to do something unhealthy even though they know they shouldn't."

"Ah. Well, I apologize for enabling you." He smirked. "I shall try not to do it again."

Hermione could barely keep her eyes from bulging out of her head. He was…almost playful. What in the hell…? She had to get out of here.

"Erm, thanks. Now, if you don't mind, Mr. Malfoy, could we complete the trade? I do have another appointment to get to."

His eyes were still fixed on her face. The cool blue irises said that he'd poked holes all through her excuse of having another appointment; after all, she'd just sat there for two and a half hours reading in his library. That wasn't the itinerary of someone who had another place to be.

"Before we do, may I ask you a question?"

"…Yes." Hermione braced herself.

"Was there anything in the book about the interaction of vampires and veela? Or anything about the possibility of two veela having the same mate?"

Her mind slipped easily back into its analytical mode. "There was a small section about vampires and veela. I believe it stated that if a veela was bitten by a vampire, it would gain the vampire's need for blood meals, but with lesser frequency. Otherwise the veela would not be affected. It wouldn't gain any other vampiric traits."

"Interesting," he said. He was still too close for comfort; there was slightly more space between them, but she wouldn't be able to step around him without significantly brushing up against him. "And the other question?"

"I don't recall anything about two veela having the same mate." It was an intriguing question, she had to admit. "Maybe it just doesn't happen. I wish I knew how veela mates were selected…there must be some rhyme or reason to it…" she was lost in an intellectual fog for a few moments, and then snapped back to attention. "Why do you ask?"

In retrospect, she would seriously regret asking him that question. She was not at all prepared for him to tell the truth.

"Well, you see, Miss Granger…about eight months ago my son, who is an auror, managed to capture Ivan Seregetov."

She nodded. "It was in the papers. He got an Order of Merlin, if I'm not mistaken."

"Indeed he did." He tilted his head to the side. "What wasn't in the papers was that he was bitten by a vampire in the process."

Hermione gasped. "Oh!" It fell together in her head. Draco had veela blood, and he'd been bitten by a vampire – that was why Lucius asked about it. "Is he…?"

"Changed? No. Courtesy of your explanation, I now know that the veela blood spared him."

Another puzzle piece locked in. "But he needs blood meals. Your arm…"

Lucius nodded. His brow knitted slightly, but other than that his face remained neutral.

"Is he able to continue working?" she asked, suddenly concerned for a person she hadn't given much thought to in the last few years. Harry and Ron had grumbled about Draco's Order of Merlin, but they all knew he deserved it, and Hermione finally allowed herself to believe that Draco Malfoy had grown into a decent man.

"No," he shook his head, the ends of his blond hair sliding across his shoulders. Her eyes tracked the movement across the contrasting black of his shirt, seemingly of their own accord. "There was an…incident at the hospital after it happened."

"What kind of incident?"

"His fiancée rejected him. The little chit didn't even have the decency to speak to him face to face. She just left the engagement ring in the cup by his bedside. He nearly choked on it. Pleasant way to find out your wedding is off, yes?"

"Exceedingly," she spat, her eyes narrowing at the woman's cowardice.

"He was distraught. Anyone would be, in the position he was in." Lucius sighed, and for the first time his eyes dropped from her face. "He lashed out. I attempted to stop him and he bit me. It has not happened again, but the Ministry believes that he is too dangerous, too unstable to continue working as an auror. It's killing him."

"He…bit you? Does that mean you--" Hermione couldn't help focusing on that. Questions were exploding in her head.

"No. I have felt no need for blood." He lifted his eyes back to her face and a spark of mischief lit in them. "Aside from what was already present."

It was a joke, a self-deprecating, slightly too accurate joke. Hermione felt the corners of her lips pulling upwards. He looked pleased that he had drawn a smile out of her.

It faded a moment later as she remembered the second question he'd asked her. "Why did you ask me about two veela having the same mate?" The strange comfort his honesty had lulled her into was evaporating as her gut told her that something was missing.

"You had no answer for me," he murmured, closing the distance he'd allowed her. "Am I obligated to provide one to you?"

"No," she squeaked, once again flattening herself against the bookshelf. The urge to escape was returning, and powerfully.

"But I will," he breathed, leaning even closer, if that was possible. There was an inch between their chests, at most, and maybe three between their faces. Her skin tingled with his nearness, in that way it sometimes did when she anticipated another's touch. "For a price."

Anger flared in her. The git! The sexist, manipulative git! She hadn't managed to hit him with the book, but she wouldn't miss with her hand. She raised it to backhand him for his presumption.

She would have landed the blow and escaped if not for his seeker's reflexes. He caught her hand. And then, to her great shock, brought it to his lips. They softly probed her palm, warm and feather-light. Then they traveled down the length of her thumb and the side of her wrist. Hermione's breath caught in her throat.

It felt…good. His lips were like silk and they sent little tingles cascading up her arm. They gained momentum in her chest and then spread warmly through her body, like balmy waves. She was almost sad when his mouth left her forearm – almost.

"You are determined to hit me, aren't you," he purred. It wasn't a question.

"This…this isn't appropriate, Mr. Malfoy. You are married."

"Is that your only objection?" he asked.

Her mouth fell open. "What? That…that is a pretty important objection!" she sputtered. "And furthermore, do you expect me to believe that you harbor any kind of benevolent feelings for me? You've probably been given a bet by your elitist friends that you can't get in the mudblood's knickers. I'm not stupid, you know!" She tried to pull her wrist from his grip. "Let go of me!"

"I see the years have done little to blunt your high opinion of me," he muttered sardonically.

"You had a good strategy, Malfoy, buttering me up with this book trade and then making me feel all sympathetic by using your son's misfortune. Is there nothing too sacred for you to exploit?"

"Is there nothing too incredible to dent your cynicism?" he returned.

"Oh, and there's another trick, trying to turn the argument onto the other person. You're good, Malfoy, really good, but I wasn't born yesterday and I know how you operate. Now release me!"

"I can't," he said. "If I do, you will flee."

"You're exactly right," she confirmed coldly.

"You can't until you've heard me out."

She gave another tug at his hold. It didn't yield in the slightest. He was serious. Hermione pursed her lips and glared at him.

"Start talking, then. I don't have all day."

"Impatient witch," he said under his breath. "It is quite simple. I asked you about two veela sharing a mate because I believe I have found a case of this."

In spite of how her curiosity was sparked, she clamped down on it. "And?" she demanded.

"And it is Draco and me. We have both been having dreams and yearnings consistent with the veela mating imperative. As near as I can tell, the vampire bite somehow re-energized Draco's veela blood, activating the mating imperative, and his bite did the same for me."

All Hermione's anger drained away. This was too fantastic to believe!

"Who is she?" she blurted.

Lucius gave her a bemused look. "She is relatively short, with curly hair that is brown, and eyes the color of honey. She has freckles across her nose that you can't see unless you're up close…and a hell of a left hook, should she ever land it…"

And that was when Hermione put two and two together. Lucius was not just describing his mate…their mate. He was describing her.