Draco rolled over to the side of the bed, trying desperately to not breathe as loud as he needed to in order to catch his breath once more. He ran a hand through his damp blond hair, catching a whiff of himself and thinking guiltily, Yes, I do need a shower about now. On the other side of the large, emerald bed, lay Dr. Flaura Dilgens, PhD, in an equally tired manner. Her dark red hair laid spread out around her head, framing it in a way that reminded Draco of the textbook pictures of Dementor victims. He snickered quietly at the comparison; however even in his silence he caused a slight disturbance to his companion, who sat up immediately.

"Oh…oh, no…" she muttered to herself remorsefully, fumbling through the bed sheets for her scattered clothes. In the midst of it all, she pulled out her pink blouse triumphantly, tugging it over her head as Draco rested his own back on his folded arms. "Mr. Malfoy…I'm so sorry…" she continued mumbling as she slipped into her black pumps and clipped her earrings back on. "I must suggest that you see another therapist, sir."

Draco let out a hollow, bitter laugh. "After last night, are you still going to refer to me as 'sir', Flaura?" he asked teasingly, purposely using her first name.

She stiffened, her back towards him as she slowly clasped the buckle on her shoe. "Yes, Mr. Malfoy. Last night should not have taken place, you and I both know that."

He watched her with a small smirk on his lips as she twisted her frenzied hair into a bun. She carefully slipped her headband onto her curls, then reached over to the night table for her purse. She snuck a quick look over her shoulder, at the muscular, shirtless blond man who still lay tangled in the covers, before quickly bowing at him and leaving the bedroom.

Mere moments after Flaura had shut the door behind her, there was a small, almost intimidated knock on the rich mahogany, nearly too muffled by Draco's mental turmoil for him to hear. Luckily, he'd been taking one deep, shaky breath to clear his head, and had let it out just in time to notice it. "Enter," he called out carelessly, not worried about any of his old enemies showing up in the manor. Let them come, he thought to himself, though he knew well that they would not show up.

Dipp, his short, shabby-looking house elf with large green eyes and a small, pointed nose, walked through the doorway, trembling, with his hands behind his back. "M-master? Your—your guest, she j-just left." Draco's eyes burst open and he glared at Dipp, whom he knew to have another reason to enter his room. Dipp bowed his head, scared, and withdrew his hands from behind. In them, he held an official-looking letter with the very prominent St. Mungo's psychological department seal stamped on its front. "Master has just been owled," Dipp told him, sounding much more confident as he handed over the envelope. Draco stared at it, unsure as to how to react. "The owl would not leave Dipp alone, Master, Dipp had to…" His eyes became shiny with unshed tears as he mumbled, "Had to tip him, Master, gave him a mouse, because Master dislikes mice. Please Master, do not be furious, Dipp meant no harm…"

"I'm not mad," Draco groaned, used to Dipp's incessant apologies over the smallest of matters. Truthfully, Draco was glad to have found a way of getting rid of the stray mice in the manor. His pet snake had died weeks ago, and he hadn't known what to do anymore. "You may go now, Dipp." With a quick reverent bow, Dipp was gone from the room.

Draco stared at the envelope, turning it over in his hands. It was from Iris Bogham, his therapist from the previous week. He smiled to himself as he remembered the sight of her leaving just as urgently as Flaura had done just now, but then his eyes found the paper once more. He dug through the cabinets for a letter opener and sliced off the top of his envelope, hands trembling ever so slightly as he pulled out the two pieces of parchment contained within. One was in the loopy, girly handwriting of Iris, while the other one was in official typewriter print, courtesy, no doubt, of the laboratories, for the tests Iris had asked him to do.

Mr. Draco Malfoy, Iris's letter began. He smirked at the formal addressing.

As you'll remember, we at the psychology department in St. Mungo's have asked you to undergo several tests and screenings pertaining to your previous diagnosis. The test results, which were promised to us to be delivered within a fortnight, have finally been printed, and enclosed in this envelope there is an exact copy of the original. You may have a look at them now, if you wish.

One of these results is from a blood test. This is the result that is most urgent to your person, as we will need to schedule another appointment with you as soon as possible. Please owl a response by this upcoming Thursday stating the time and date of your preference. Sorry for the inconvenience, and contact Dr. Walter Ignatius if you have any further questions about your diagnosis.

Best wishes,

Dr. Iris Bogham, PhD

St. Mungo's Psychological Department,

London, England

Now Draco was positively disturbed. Why schedule another appointment? Had he, by any chance, contracted some severe disease during one of his expeditions? Bloody Merlin, he swore to himself as, with even shakier fingers, he unfolded the second paper, if it's transmittable through sex, I'd sue all the bloody therapists in St. Mungo's!

He glanced at the test results, skipping over all the ones that basically reassured him that he was healthy, letting his eyes rest on the blood test results. He scanned them quickly, then in disbelief reviewed them once more. He felt all the blood vanish from his face as the trembling in his hands duplicated, then tripled. "No…no…" he muttered to himself, throwing the paper away from him as if it had caught on fire. He looked around, panicking, as if he hoped that someone would jump out from behind a large piece of furniture and shout, "Kidding!" Alas, that never happened.

He could feel his heartbeat quickening, his blood on the verge of boiling through his veins, and he did the only thing he could think of.

"DIPP!" he roared, feeling his hands get hot. "GET ME BLAISE!"

. . . .

"Bloody promiscuous!" Blaise Zabini let out a long, heartfelt laugh at this point. Draco flicked his wrist in Blaise's direction, causing his nose to lengthen well past seven inches. Blaise rolled his eyes and muttered an unkind suggestion to what Draco should do with his wand, then continued skimming through the test results. "Short-tempered, arrogant, no surprise there…Show-off, know-it-all, as friendly as a Hungarian Horntail—"

"That wasn't on the paper!" Draco protested, setting down his glass of scotch forcefully on the table.

Blaise grinned back at him. "Ah, so you are listening. Anyway, mate, these seem to be accurate descriptions of your persona," he told Draco as he read the second page of the results. "I don't see what you'd get so riled—wait a second." He lowered the paper, his eyes widening in disbelief at his best mate. "Draco…this says you're part…part…"

"Veela," Draco spat out in disgust, then immediately wiped his mouth with his sleeve. He then seemed to remember that he'd been drinking scotch, and grimaced at the honey-colored stains now on the white of one of his formal button-down shirts. "Bloody hell, Blaise, what am I going to do?"

"Learn about Veelas, always a good place to start," Blaise told him with a hint of his snarky, trademark smirk. Still, his eyes remained fearful, nervous for his friend.

Draco threw open a cabinet that Blaise hadn't noticed before, or maybe it had just appeared. At any rate, it was filled to the brim with Veela books, from 1001 Famous Celebrities You'd Never Guess Are Veelas! to Veela: An Enchanted Life. "Yes, thank you, Blaise. I got that part covered."

"Oh, hold on," Blaise looked at Draco in sudden realization, then down at the results. "Draco…your promiscuity—"

"I know," Draco answered, interrupting his friend. He'd seen the link too, seconds after he'd sent Dipp after Blaise. He searched through the cabinet, finally withdrawing a book titled, Enchanted by a Veela, the first one he'd read after he found out about his…condition. He flipped it open to the page he'd been dissecting so thoroughly for the past hour. "Look here, it says, 'Veelas have an undeniable attraction that draws the attention of many eligible mates.'"

Blaise groaned, throwing his head back. "Merlin's beard, Draco, this is serious! Stop boasting your"—he raised his fingers in air quotes—"charms. Is there a point to this at all?"

"There is, actually!" Draco snapped, turning the page. He continued to read from the text. "'Unlike many other species, Veelas do not mate for life. A female Veela, the predominant gender of this species, will have as many as thirty mates in a single year, whereas the amount of mates for a male Veela may double. Veelas, due to their charms and depleting population, seek to procreate whenever possible. The more they reproduce, the more their charms are enhanced.'"

"Draco, you whore," Blaise called at him from across the room. Draco snapped back to reality, shutting the book in the process, and realized he'd been pacing. "Sixty a year? Mate, I wish I were a bloody Veela!"

Draco shook his head, absentmindedly running his hand through his ruffled hair. Once again, he was reminded that he should shower, if I'm to charm the pants off sixty girls a year, he thought. "No, I don't think that's right. I'm only half Veela, according to the doctors," he reasoned, sitting back down in his seat. He tossed the book aside, and looked up at his friend. "What do I do?"

"I'd schedule that meeting at St. Mungo's," Blaise answered as he tapped his enlarged nose with the tip of his wand, honestly trying to figure out a solution for Draco. He hesitated before saying, "Also, I'd contact the Department for the Regulation and—"

"The Ministry?" demanded Draco, enraged. "Are you mad? Have you forgotten, conveniently, who my father was? They'll cheerfully send me to Azkaban!"

"Now, Draco, being a Veela is hardly a reason for imprisonment," Blaise tried to reason, cowering in alarm at the slight smoke being emitted from his friend's hands. He went through all the Veela information he'd ever learned, only recalling at the last second their nasty habit of shooting fire from their hands when angered. He tactfully decided not to mention this to an already furious Draco. "But, I mean, if you don't want to…"

"No, no, I'm sorry," Draco sighed submissively, his hands extinguished along with his anger—much to Blaise's relief. "You're right. They have no reason to send me to Azkaban now. I'll send an owl to Iris and her lot, and then I'll set up a meeting with whoever's in charge of magical creatures at the Ministry."

"Good thinking," Blaise nodded approvingly, picking up a book and flipping through it, not really reading. "Merlin, Draco…So all that shit about you being a pure-blooded prat was for nothing?"

Draco raised a finger at Blaise warningly. "Don't," he growled, but Blaise continued anyway as if he hadn't heard him at all.

"Malfoy, a bloody half-blood," Blaise mused, smiling to himself. "Never in a million years…"

"Drop it!" Draco shouted, picking up a book and searching through it for more information about himself. Honestly, he felt kind of ridiculous, researching his own species. Of course, he'd read about human history and all, but he'd never had to read about what happened when a human became hungry—he just knew! In retrospect, he probably did know what happened when a Veela was hungry, but had most likely dismissed it as typical human behavior. From the corner of his eye, he saw Blaise raise his hands in mock defeat, and snorted to himself.

Suddenly, Blaise put his books to the side. Draco noticed and looked up, worried that his friend was already leaving. "I'm sorry, mate," Blaise apologized, standing up and outstretching his arm to shake Draco's hand, "but you know how the wife can be."

Maybe it was the way Blaise didn't say her name, or the look on his face—utter annoyance—but Draco couldn't help but laugh, yet at the same time pity the girl. "If you don't like her, Blaise, honestly…" he began, the conversation one of many about the same topic.

Again, Blaise shook his head as if the notion was too ridiculous to consider. "I love Pansy as much as you do, but the thing is, I'm with her for Elliott, nothing more. It's just…" He ran a hand over his dark face, trying to think of the right way to phrase it. "It's frustrating to not be able to be with other girls because I'm with someone, but I don't want to be with her. Know what I mean?"

Draco hesitated before shaking his head. He knew he was coming off as snarky, but he genuinely had no idea what Blaise meant or was feeling. Blaise took this in a different way, laughing lightly. "Son of a bitch, Draco Malfoy," he told him in lieu of an apology, grabbing his coat off the hanger and making his way to the front door.

"And I would continue seeing therapists, if I were you!" he called out from behind the door. "I'm not convinced that you aren't insane as well as a half-blood."

The bitter sting of smoke reached him as he laughed, knowing fully well what had just happened to the manor's door.

Hermione twirled her quill between her thumb and her forefinger, tapping it occasionally on her cheek as she listened to Apolline Delacour. Beside her immediate workspace stood several scrolls, used and unused, some so worn that they felt perfectly smooth under her touch. She glanced down at the piece of parchment before her, but thus far Mrs. Delacour had not said anything worth writing down. To her other side were books, many books on a variety of species that are capable of mating with wizards.

"…married to this day," Mrs. Delacour finished at last with a flourish, smiling at Hermione winningly. She leaned forward, looking at the blank piece of parchment with a raised eyebrow. "Does zat help?" she inquired, curious as to why the young woman before her hadn't written down a word. "Why is nozing written down?"

"I have an excellent memory, Mrs. Delacour," Hermione lied, setting down her quill as she rose to escort Mrs. Delacour out of the office. "Your input, of course, is appreciated. I will owl if I have further questions." She curtsied before the woman, who seemed pleased with this gesture.

"Yes, please, owl away!" Mrs. Delacour agreed, gliding away as if she were flying, gracefully at that. Once the intoxicating Veela aroma was out of the office, Hermione let out a long-held breath, grateful once more for clean air. Though the smell drew the attention of males, Hermione found it disturbing, especially in such a small, enclosed space.

She shut the door behind her and returned to her chair behind the desk, her head in her hands. This book was taking far too long to write! Yes, she'd known the complications that arose with being an author, especially one on magical beings, but she'd never expected it to be this difficult. The only person that she knew would give the much-needed information was about as useless as her wall at that point!

She quietly flipped through the pages she'd already written in. Centaurs, Nymphs, and other names of magical creatures stood out to her in each chapter's title, until she came across Veelas, the only chapter that remained blank. Even after eight and a half months of travelling widely to interview many half-bloods, she still could not find a half-blooded Veela that spoke English, and was young and smart enough to travel to London with her so she could gather her information. Over two thirds of my free year, gone! she thought, frustrated as she began to put away her materials.

Suddenly, there was a knock on her door. She rolled her eyes silently, annoyed by the fact that she was the only person obeying the rules of absence leaves. They were not supposed to bother her until next January! Nevertheless, she rose to open the door, seeing as her secretary had decided to take the year off as well, Merlin knew she didn't need it.

"I'll have you know, this is my vacation ti—oh, hello Wolbecker!" she said in surprise, startled. A short, pudgy, slightly balding man in his late thirties or early forties stood outside the door, hand frozen in the air mid-knock, as if he hadn't quite believed that she'd open up so easily.

"Good afternoon, Ms. Granger," he wheezed out in his notoriously raspy voice, letting his hand drop to his side. He seemed to have an inner turmoil before he finally pulled out a folder from behind his back, clutched securely in his other hand. Unlike most folders Hermione had been given in the past, this one was only bulging slightly, obviously lacking some papers.

At once, she shook her head. "Mr. Wolbecker, you know that it is my time off! Surely I'm not expected to attend to this?" she asked, a bit scandalized that they'd so blatantly disregard her vacation.

Wolbecker smiled at this. "Oh, Ms. Granger, I'm afraid you do not understand," he answered with ease, having expected the rejection. "We would not be asking this of you if it wasn't important. As it is, this is a very…particular client, in need of counseling. We believe that he is in your area of expertise."

"And what area would that be?" asked Hermione, defiantly raising her chin. Her mind was on the fast track right away, trying to guess what it was. House elf, it had to be a house elf…a half-blood, should she be lucky…

"A half blood," Wolbecker informed her, a small smirk playing on his lips. Hermione hopefully waited for the bit where he added the fact that it would be a half-blooded elf, but to her disappointment (she wasn't even sure those existed) he said nothing more. Her eyes began to roam the room, searching for the telltale ball that was sure to be stuck somewhere.

"I've gathered a lot of information for my book, Mr. Wolbecker. The thought is appreciated, but the fact remains that this is my year off and I'm not going to work," she said finally, with an air of determination she'd previously reserved for O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s during her school years. Although in her mind she'd already settled the matter, her eyes still darted across the room, searching.

"But, Ms. Granger," protested Wolbecker once more, not looking alarmed in the least—in fact, once more he seemed like this was precisely what he was expecting—"we are fairly certain that you need this particular specimen. You see, the half blood in question is half wizard, half—"

Hermione was only paying him slight attention, finally having set her sights on the little spy in her room. As Wolbecker spoke, she walked across the room to her beloved bookshelves and a framed cut-out of an ancient Daily Prophet. She reached over the shelf and pulled out the spy, holding it out to Wolbecker and interrupting him midsentence. "A Mad Eye, Wolbecker?" she demanded, delicately showing him the magical eyeball that was now so popular for security measures in the wizarding world. This one was slightly smaller than the original one that Mad-Eye Moody was known for, but Hermione guessed it was for means of espionage. "I thought the Ministry trusted me more than this."

"—Veela," Wolbecker finished at length, staring at the eyeball. His face had contorted finally as Hermione startled him with her observation. The Ministry had hidden it so well, but they had not been able to place a concealment charm upon it due to the office's anti-magic nature. Hermione had asked the room to be personalized, reminiscent of her parents' Muggle offices, and so it was not possible to perform magic within. "Ms. Granger, the Ministry needs a way of keeping track of you during your year off."

This was obviously, he realized once he let it slip out of his mouth, the worst thing to say. She ran to her bag and shook it, with a loud rattle coming out of it. Among the books and stray, scattered belongings that fell out, was an even smaller Mad Eye, barely larger than her fingernail. "You are unbelievable," she snarled at him, taking both spies and placing them in a small musical box.

"Ms. Granger, your actions during the war—" he began, trying to placate her. He'd heard of what she was capable of, of the reasons why she'd been placed under observation, and the last thing he wanted was for her to be upset near him.

"Are behind me," she finished off for him, resuming her seat behind the busy desk. "You can't afford to not trust me, Mr. Wolbecker. Now, if there's nothing more you'd like to say…" Her voice trailed off as she glared at him uncertainly, daring him to go on.

But Wolbecker was a man on a mission, and the client in question would avada him in a heartbeat should he not find him a proper magical counselor. So he persisted, "There is, Ms. Granger. This client…well, he is demanding, to say the least. But I would not ask this of you on your year off if you did not gain any benefit from it."

"I would be able to interview him," Hermione thought out loud, trying to picture it. She could counsel him; while at the same time gain valuable information. This offer seemed almost too good to be true. She glanced down at the velvet red folder in Wolbecker's arms. "Would the Ministry pay me for this?" Wolbecker nodded; still she was unsure. "And would I be given an extra four months to compensate for this time?"

"Naturally," Wolbecker grunted unwillingly. He'd known it would be too much to hope for that she didn't ask about that, but he still didn't want to deal with that. She was a valuable asset in the new department she'd established within the Ministry, the department of Relations and Counseling for Magical Beings, and as secretary of the Beings branch of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures he was unsure of letting her take more vacation time. Still, he knew it was only fair, because of what he was asking from her.

She grudgingly took the folder from him and lay it before her, running her hand absently over the cover. UNREGISTERED, it read in black ink on the front. She put her thumb under the fold, ready to open it, when she smelled a strange odor…cinnamon…being emitted from the book. Once more she left rage bubble up from within as she stared icily at Wolbecker. "Very good, Mr. Wolbecker. An enchanted folder, I presume?"

He cringed as she tapped her fingers impatiently on her desk, waiting for an answer. He had definitely not been expecting this; the folder had been under a charm to conceal the giveaway smell of the Unbreakable Vow. It was practically an illegal enchantment to place on an inanimate object, but he'd been warned that Hermione might back out once she read into the details of the job. She was the only counselor in the Ministry, and very valuable anyway. "Yes, Ms. Granger. As soon as you—"

"Open the folder, I will be forced to counsel the client until he feels satisfied," Hermione interrupted, sounding extremely bored. "Yes, thank you for the explanation, but I know the nature of these charms. Well," she sighed, to his extreme relief, as once more her thumb fell into place to open the cover, "you've already wasted my day. I might as well just take the job."

"Thank you, Ms. Granger, and you may—" Wolbecker jumped in, excited that she'd agreed to it so peacefully. His boss would be only too pleased!

"You can leave," Hermione said dismissively, cutting him off as she pointed towards the door. After a deal of muttered goodbyes and thank yous and apologies, Wolbecker was gone. She looked back down at the folder, not feeling at all confident as to whether or not she'd be up for the task.

Well, she thought to herself, here goes nothing. As she forced it open—because the enchantment made the choice rather difficult by binding the book more tightly together—she realized the horror of the situation.

And she could barely contain a gasp as a pair of cold, silver eyes stared up at her from the picture.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Cliffy! Edited, because I can't stand short chapters so I've combined chapters 1 and 2. I'll try to keep the other chapters as long as this! Anyway I'm not sure... should I continue this story? Well just review and I'll see.. (:

Love,

TGBW