Chapter Text
Harry sat back and rubbed a hand over his eyes. He couldn’t quite comprehend that he and Ginny were sitting in a grand dining room in the middle of Malfoy Manor, which they’d been told house-elves had opened specially to receive them, and had been drinking tea for the last ten minutes.
Of course, he couldn’t believe that Malfoy had been civil to them, either, or the reason they were here in the first place.
“I don’t like this,” he said to no one in particular.
Ginny tightened a hand on his arm and glanced at him supportively. Harry smiled at her, then winced as Pansy Parkinson’s—no, Pansy Malfoy’s—nasal voice spoke from across the room. “None of the rest of us are best pleased either, Potter.”
Harry looked across the table at Malfoy. He had his wife’s hand at his lips, but his eyes were narrow and focused on Harry. The mixture of emotions in them made Harry look away again.
The letter they’d received had barely explained anything. The Floo call Harry had immediately made to Malfoy Manor on receipt of the letter had only proven a bit more illuminating. But they were face-to-face now, and it surpassed Harry’s suspension of disbelief that Malfoy would have gone this far just for an elaborate joke.
And that meant it was up to him to suggest a solution. Malfoy was no help, of course. Pansy hadn’t stopped glaring and making nasty comments since Harry and Ginny arrived. Ginny was ready to go along with whatever Harry said—they’d discussed that before they left home—but she had no answer of her own to offer.
“I need to confirm a few things,” Harry told Malfoy, keeping his eyes discreetly averted.
“Confirm away.” Malfoy’s voice was laden with hatred, and something else that Harry was not going to think about.
“You said that you need sexual contact with me or you’ll die,” Harry said. He was unable to keep his voice from sounding disgusted. Well, Malfoy could find some other “mate” to save him if he didn’t like it.
“Yes.”
“What kind of sexual contact?” Harry asked, and turned back again. His face felt as if it were on fire, but he could do this. He had to. “I meant, do we—do we need to have sex with each other, or will—will wanking work?”
For the first time since they’d arrived, Malfoy’s face showed an emotion of some other kind than that stupid combination of loathing and lust. He shot a startled glance at Pansy, who shrugged. Then he turned around again and closed his eyes, as if seeking answers inside himself. “Questioning his Veela,” he called it. Harry wasn’t much more comfortable with the notion that Malfoy had an animal of some kind inside him than he was with the notion that Malfoy would go mad and die if Harry didn’t sleep with him.
Finally, he opened his eyes, which were brighter and glossier than normal, and said, “Wanking—would work. Having sex fulfills the bond, and ties us to each other, which neither of us want, of course. But I’d need contact with you daily for at least two weeks, Potter. Waiting for the turn of the year nearly killed me.”
“And the rest of the time?” Harry asked carefully. “How much contact would it take, and how long until the Veela in you was satisfied that I wasn’t leaving you but still didn’t want to bond, so it wouldn’t kill you?”
Again, Malfoy closed his eyes. When he opened them this time, he looked more certain. Harry tried not to notice that his face had shifted towards beauty, his hair gathering in more light, as if another sun were shining on him. “The rest of the time, about once a month,” he said. “Maybe more often than that, just so I could see and touch you, or be near you to drink in your scent. And then…” He let his breath out and shook his head as if he couldn’t quite believe it. “At the end of a year from now, it should be done.”
“A calendar year?” Harry asked, just to make sure.
“That is usually what a year refers to, Potter,” Malfoy drawled, shooting him an incredulous look.
Harry ignored it. He was working to save both the ridiculous git’s life and his marriage with Ginny. He would put up with worse to do that. “So what about this, then?” he asked. “I come to—help you—daily for the next two weeks, and after that when you need me, until the year’s up. But both of us stay apart other than that. Both of us stay married.” He leaned forwards and stared into Malfoy’s eyes, to convey the seriousness of this. “That will satisfy the Veela, you said, and then we can end it. We can’t stand each other. But I don’t want you to die, and I don’t want to give up Ginny, either.”
“Do we get a say in this?” Pansy demanded.
Harry darted a look of dislike at her, and stood. “Of course you do. I’ll speak about this with my wife privately, right now.” He touched Ginny’s shoulder, and waited until she stood. She was moving slowly, which was always a bad sign, but he wouldn’t know anything until he saw her face.
When they were in the next room, he studied her carefully. She had her chin up, though, and her eyes were bright, and her jaw was set. No matter what her personal hatred of the idea, he knew, she’d managed to subdue it.
“You have to do it,” she said.
“You can’t like the idea of me cheating,” Harry said. Be as blunt as he could, get matters out in the open, and they could discuss it like normal people. That was always the way he and Ginny functioned, and if she was rarely the one to bring the idea out into the open, well, she always discussed it frankly enough with him once he’d done so.
“I don’t,” said Ginny. “But I like the idea of Malfoy dying because of you even less.” She hesitated for a long moment, then sighed. “And it’s not as though I’ll lose you,” she said. “You chose me, not him. This is only Veela magic, and Veela really can’t help who their mates are.” She smiled, though her quivering lower lip betrayed her. “I’ll survive, Harry, I promise.”
Harry stepped forwards and put his arms around her waist. “You’re sure?” he murmured into her ear. “I’d rather go through a trial for conspiracy to murder, or whatever crime refusing a Veela is, than make you unhappy.”
“But your going through the trial would make me unhappy, too.” Ginny rose on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “No, Harry, this is the right thing to do. You always do the right thing.” Her hands squeezed his tightly, and she stepped away from him, apparently so she could admire his face. “It’s the thing I most love about you.”
Harry bent to kiss her on the mouth, but a throat cleared loudly behind him made him turn around. Malfoy and Pansy stood in the doorway between the two rooms—an arched doorway, of course—with their arms entwined. Pansy had her nose slightly lifted. Harry had to shake his head a little. Of course their faces were different, but otherwise, they looked remarkably like Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy.
Or their ghosts.
“Have you decided?” Harry asked, keeping his voice as calm as he could.
“We have,” Malfoy said. “I agree to your compromise, Potter. And so does my wife.” He traded an unreadable look with Pansy, but his eyes were openly spite-filled as he stared at Ginny. “It’s the best way. And the only way to ensure that I don’t die—which of course I don’t want—or that, God forbid, you become attracted to me.”
Harry let his lip curl. “God forbid,” he echoed fervently. He couldn’t imagine anyone finding Malfoy attractive without the Veela beauty. He wondered how Pansy had stood six years as his wife.
“Well.” Malfoy lifted one hand and stroked Pansy’s shoulder, then strode past him. “We’re doing this properly, Potter, in a bedroom. Say goodbye to your wife for right now. Of course, if all goes well, you’ll be seeing her in fifteen minutes or less.”
Harry nodded a swift farewell to Ginny. He didn’t think he should kiss her with Malfoy looking the way he did; Veela jealousy was apparently quite strong if they actually saw their mate touch someone else like that. Then he turned around, quieted his churning stomach, and reminded himself this was for the best. He wouldn’t have the guilt of either adultery or Malfoy’s death on his conscience.
“Lead the way,” he said.
*
Draco hoped that he hid how badly his hands were shaking as he unbuttoned his robes and kicked them off. Behind him, there were no sounds of Potter undressing. But, of course, that wasn’t disappointing. After all, Potter only had to wank him off. The Veela inside him would have been pleased to pleasure its mate, but it didn’t require that kind of sexual contact to live, and so Draco intended to retain that one small measure of control.
If it hadn’t been for the Potions accident at the Ministry—where he didn’t even work, since he played Quidditch; he’d only been visiting Theodore—he wouldn’t be in this position. Something about the combination of potions spilled on him and his own instinctive spellwork to defend himself had awakened the Veela inside him, an abomination that everyone had believed bred out of the Malfoy line several generations ago. The magical theorists Draco had consulted, including several specialists from the Department of Mysteries, had come up with various explanations for how it might have happened, but, in the end, they could only tell Draco three things for certain:
None of them could undo it.
He would die if he didn’t have some sort of sexual contact with his mate.
The Veela that lived inside him now, almost like a separate personality, would tell him what was and was not permitted in the way of obtaining that sexual contact.
Draco had known his mate almost at once. A scent scattered throughout the Ministry had made him pant and caused a tug low in his groin. He’d stumbled through the halls away from the Potions division the first time he returned there, hating his weakness even as he let his body guide him to the one it had picked, because he had no choice if he wanted to survive.
And then he’d found out it was Harry Potter, and for a while he’d thought death would be preferable.
It had been Pansy who talked him back into sanity. Their marriage had been arranged, but Draco had never been so glad of a decision his parents made in his life. Pansy was a woman of fundamental sense. She was the one who made most of their financial decisions. She was the one who managed Draco’s public reputation in the press, including fighting the lingering accusations that he was a Death Eater. And she was the one who suggested he find some way short of the full bond with Potter to live.
Draco had waited as long as he could, until he was shaking in pain and desire each morning, before he’d contacted Potter. Pansy had said his goody-goody Gryffindor tendencies wouldn’t let him leave an innocent person to suffer, and she had been right. Potter had even come up with a compromise.
And now Draco was about to let another man put his hands all over him. The rational part of his mind was completely revolted by the idea.
The Veela inside him was satisfied for the first time since the accident. It could think of nothing but Potter’s scent, Potter’s closeness, and Potter’s perfection. Draco didn’t dare look at Potter, just in case he started to drool. It had been hard enough to retain a calm mask of the sneering hatred his human side felt in the drawing room, and even harder not to explode when he saw him touching his wife as though she meant something to him.
Of course she does, she’s his wife.
But that just made his Veela side snarl, and even the human part of him couldn’t see the sense in Potter marrying a Weasley when he could have had anyone he wanted.
“Are you ready?”
Potter’s voice was cool, but steady. Draco had seen his own loathing more than reflected in Potter’s eyes. At least he probably had even more practice in dealing with difficult situations now than he had at Hogwarts, Draco thought. Potter was an Auror, one of the small and highly-skilled group called the Hermes Corps. Their specialty was situations that required both immense magic and immense speed—mostly dark spells, traps, and wizards left over from the war.
Draco managed to nod, though his neck was so tense he hadn’t been sure he could move his head until it happened.
“Do you want to do this on the bed?”
Draco looked at the bed. It was the centerpiece of the room he’d chosen—certainly not his and Pansy’s own bedroom; he wouldn’t sully that with Potter’s presence. But it was huge, made of black wood, with dark green curtains that swung down around it and shielded most of the mattress from sight. The room itself was dim, made dimmer still by the lack of windows or mirrors or metals to reflect light. Nearly everything here was wooden.
“We might as well,” he said, as indifferently as he could when his cock was rising, stirring, reacting to Potter’s presence. “I’ll sit on the bed, and you sit behind me and wank me.”
He said the word without stuttering. In that, he did better than Potter had, and that restored some of his pride. Without a glance back to see if Potter would follow instructions, he walked over, climbed onto the bed, and sat down with his legs splayed, his face to the opposite, right side.
There was a sigh, and then Potter sat down on the bed behind him. Draco kept his hands still, and if he trembled a bit at the nearness of the other man’s body heat, well, that was a slight motion. Potter would miss it.
One more moment of suspense, when Draco wondered if he would have to taunt his old school rival into this, and then Potter’s capable hand curved around his right arm and down to his erection.
Draco arched his neck, with a sharp gasp. It felt good, of course, because a hand there always felt good. What he hadn’t known was that his human and Veela sides would have different reactions even to this. The human just felt good. The Veela was riding a wave of pure ecstasy, partly physical and partly magical.
He had no choice now. Draco closed his eyes and let the Veela rise to the surface fully for the first time.
The scent and the warmth surrounding him increased tenfold, as did his hunger. He arched his hips, pushing restlessly into Potter’s hand. This was his mate, and suddenly a large part of the world that had been empty and dark was filled with light. He snaked one arm behind him and clenched it around what of Potter’s ribs and side he could reach. He felt cloth beneath his own skin, which wasn’t satisfactory, but would have to do for now. He could feel his beauty increasing, as if he wore a gauzy mask in the shape of his human form that had at last dropped away. He murmured nonsense, mostly his mate’s name interspersed with endless words of adoration and contentment.
Potter remained still for long moments. Then his hand began to move.
Draco threw his head back and cried out in pleasure, surging up to meet Potter’s hand. His own magic rose to the surface of his skin and spread there, intermingling with the edges of Potter’s magical aura. The intensity was like nothing he’d shared with Pansy when they made love. The mere touch of Potter’s hand was like white fire. Every separate brush of his fingers was a lightning strike.
Draco’s cock hardened painfully, his balls drawing up. He heard himself whine, but he was too far gone to be embarrassed about it.
Potter said something. Draco couldn’t tell what it was. He didn’t care. He was thrusting, and then reaching back again to feel his mate’s body, and the scent danced around him like an aura of its own, and there was warmth everywhere. Summer heat, sun heat, love heat, it made him sweat and reach and strain and want more of it. As near as he could tell, he had become nothing but pure, liquid desire.
And then he came, and the intensity of it was enough to make him scream. This, finally, was the right person to be doing this with. This was the reason his Veela side had chosen Potter. It had nothing to do with soulmates or unsuspected personality traits in common or secret destinies, as the magical theorists had babbled about, and everything to do with how good Potter’s hand felt around his cock.
Utterly spent, unable to care about the come dribbling down Potter’s palm or how stupid he must look, he sagged back on Potter’s chest and shut his eyes. He had the uncomfortable feeling he was purring, or making some sound not far from it.
He didn’t give a damn.
He wanted to say something, but exhaustion in the wake of an orgasm so powerful swept over him, and he fell asleep.
*
Harry grimaced and drew his wand from his pocket with his left hand as best he could, then muttered a Scourgify charm to get the mess off his right palm.
If it was never worse than that, he thought, as he pulled away from Malfoy and arranged the other man carefully on the bed, he could live with it.
Handling another bloke’s cock wasn’t so different from his own—nothing Harry would want to do on a regular basis, because the smell was all wrong, and the body he held was too hard, and Malfoy’s voice moaned throatily when it should have sounded breathy, the way it did when Harry slept with Ginny.
But he could do it. He could do it to ensure that they both lived and stayed as free of each other as possible.
He was uncomfortably aware that Malfoy had enjoyed it a good deal more than he did. But, well, he was a Veela now, or part of him was. He was supposed to.
And he would have to do it every day for two weeks.
Harry gave a little shudder, and left the room as quickly and silently as he could to fetch Ginny and Apparate home, leaving Malfoy snoring on the bed.
*
“Was it very horrible, Draco?”
Draco lifted his eyes to look at Pansy, and managed to smile. She’d sat on the other side of the dining table for the whole of this meal, anxiously inspecting him while house-elves went back and forth with the dishes and Draco brooded. He knew she hadn’t eaten much, and he felt a pang of obscure guilt at that.
He couldn’t feel much, though. His human side was consumed with embarrassment, and his Veela side was counting the hours until the time that Potter had promised to return and they could do it again.
“It was—bearable,” he said. He was not going to share with his wife how much he liked having Potter’s hand on him, even though she was his wife, and she had lived with this Veela madness for three months now, just like he had, and she would have understood. He deliberately picked up the glass of wine in front of him and took a sip. “I’ll be so glad when this is over,” he added.
His human and Veela sides understood that statement in different ways. The human side looked forwards to the end of the year, and thus the end of his series of involuntary assignations with Potter, with relief.
The Veela side was content that it would have wooed its mate around by then, and imagined what Potter would look like naked.
But, though it gave him all sorts of inconvenient images in his head, that was quite different from the gnawing, gut-wrenching pain that it had subjected him to for weeks until he finally gave in and owled Potter. Draco could live with this. Potter had provided a way out for them both.
With some surprise, Draco realized he was grateful to him for that. Not that he had to tell him so.
“Draco.”
He glanced up. He knew that tone of Pansy’s voice. She had leaned forwards, eyes going smoky with desire.
“Do you want to…? After dinner…?” She dropped her eyes coyly. She rarely spoke of sex outright, the one feminine frippery that remained to an otherwise very practical woman.
Draco nodded. His Veela side paid no attention at all, which was a change, since for the last week it had cried out violently whenever Draco wanted to have sex with someone who wasn’t Potter.
I can live. We’ll get through this, and it’ll all be over.
*
Harry sighed in relief as Malfoy cried out and came under his firm, patient stroking. This was the eighth time he’d been to the Manor, the eighth day he’d jerked Malfoy off, and while the first seven times had been quick, lasting no more than five minutes each, this time Malfoy had taken forever, as if he were deliberately delaying his own orgasm. But he wouldn’t do that, Harry knew. They hated each other. No, it was probably some new twist his Veela side had introduced.
He muttered the cleaning charm, as always, and then started to lay Malfoy down on the bed, as always. That was when he realized that Malfoy wasn’t asleep. Harry raised his eyebrows at him.
Malfoy smiled up at him, face sleepy and vulnerable, reminding Harry far too much of what Ginny looked like after sex. The Veela had taken over, that was clear, chiseling his features into something stranger and more beautiful, making sharper cheekbones appear as if they’d faded into being, increasing the shine of his hair and skin. It was like and unlike the Veela beauty of the Beauxbatons girls Harry remembered from their fourth year at Hogwarts. It was—well, it was still beautiful, but it was more overwhelming, like the distant view of a snowy mountain suddenly brought close.
He’s focusing the allure on you, that’s all, Harry told himself, and realized he’d hung above Malfoy, staring, for far longer than he should have. He averted his gaze and started to turn away.
Malfoy’s hand closed lightly on Harry’s wrist.
Harry had to close his eyes. All their other touches had been through cloth, or initiated by Harry. Apparently it made a difference when the Veela decided to reach out. Pleasure so keen it stung raced through his arm and torso, and made its way downwards like whips of heat. Harry heard his breath pick up, turning to hoarse, heavy panting, and had to imagine Ginny instead.
“Stay here with me,” the Veela whispered. Harry had to think of it that way, because there was no way Malfoy would ever have asked for something like this. “Come on, Harry. We haven’t ever slept together. Don’t you want to share the bed? It’s warm, while the rest of the Manor is cold. Sleep, and then we’ll wake up, and I’ll make you come, and then we can complete the bond.”
Oh, no. Harry knew what that meant, and the thought of having actual sex with Malfoy was enough to kill most of the desire the Veela was trying to inflict on him, if not all the heat burning beneath his skin. “No, thank you,” he said, so it wouldn’t seem like he was rejecting the creature completely. “Maybe later.” He tried to pull away, but the hold remained firm.
“Just a kiss,” the Veela said. “We haven’t ever kissed, either, Harry.”
Harry sighed. He couldn’t tell which decisions he was making for himself and which he wasn’t. His head was high and hazy, like a city full of mist at noonday, and his heart was full of Ginny.
“Just one kiss,” the Veela said, and hummed. The sound was beautiful, and stirred butterflies in Harry’s stomach like the ones he’d once felt when he caught sight of Ginny.
“Fine,” Harry said, because he didn’t see how he was ever going to get his hand back otherwise, and turned around.
The Veela was already sitting up to meet him, shadowy wings extending from its shoulder blades. Harry closed his eyes, and did his best to pretend he was kissing a woman; that would be easier if he couldn’t see the face.
But the kiss cut through all his defenses. It held the same desire that had pulsed through the hand on his wrist, only redoubled. The Veela laughed, and even the sound was different, neither Malfoy’s laugh nor Ginny’s, deeper and sweeter and scented with a fragrance Harry thought he had smelled once on waking from a dream.
They’re magical creatures, he remembered dimly. It’s probably using magic on me.
He opened his mouth when the Veela pushed out its tongue, and found himself gasping as the tongue stroked his cheeks, his teeth, his gums, and then retreated and licked at his lips again. Harry leaned after it instinctively, and the Veela gave a little laugh of triumph and wrapped its arms around his waist. Its hands remained still for a moment, then shifted, digging at his robes, trying to reach skin.
Maybe it was the second laugh, maybe it was the greater amount of touch, but the spell broke. Harry gasped, then put his hands out and rested them on top of the Veela’s shoulders. It looked up at him, eyes still the color of Malfoy’s, but deeper, with glittering light in them that Harry had never seen in the eyes of anything human.
“No,” Harry whispered. “Not yet.”
The Veela watched him closely for a moment, then smiled, a dazzling smile Harry had to look away from, and let him go. “I agree,” it murmured in chiming tones. “Not yet. But soon, Harry. I don’t hate your wife, you know, or Pansy.” A dark shimmer crossed its face that made Harry wonder how true that was. “It’s simply a matter of fitting together better than they do with us. You’ll see.”
And then it turned over again, and seemed to draw a shadow over itself, and became Malfoy—Malfoy curled on his side, mouth open in a very human way, asleep.
Harry suppressed a shudder and left as soon as he could. Poor bastard. Living with that beast inside him all the time.
*
Draco was on the defensive when Potter next appeared. “Look, Potter,” he said, when Potter gestured for him to take off his robes. “I don’t want you to think I like men. I don’t. The only person I ever want to have sex with is Pansy.”
Potter gave him a blank look for a long moment, which made Draco think he was brain-damaged and had forgotten everything that had happened between them the last time—the way Draco wished he could, instead of having to listen to the Veela repeat the memories over and over to itself in a satisfied manner. Then Potter shook his head. “It wasn’t you,” he said. “It was the Veela.” He raised an eyebrow and glanced at his watch. “Now. I’ve got an appointment at the Ministry in half-an-hour. Can we hurry this as much as possible?”
Draco stared at him for a moment, but at Potter’s second impatient look, turned around and started undressing.
I didn’t—I didn’t expect him to understand—
And he hadn’t. He’d expected teasing, cruel laughter, Potter’s own defensiveness to cover his discomfort as he remembered how eagerly he’d kissed another man, anything but this level of understanding.
It gave him something to think about even as he surrendered to the intense relief and release that Potter’s presence always brought, and later when he woke and found himself alone in the bed, as usual, neatly cleaned and with the sheets tucked around him.
This really isn’t going to ruin our lives—mine or his. We really are going to climb over this and go on.
It wasn’t something he’d believed, at least on the deepest levels of himself, since the Potions accident. Now Draco closed his eyes and did his best not to sob. He was going to be free.
Potter the savior strikes again.
The thought wasn’t entirely bitter. Potter hadn’t been able to save him during their sixth year. He hadn’t saved Draco’s parents. But he’d killed Voldemort, and he’d saved the wizarding world, and he was apparently up to the task of saving both himself and Draco from one Veela.
Draco lay there for a long time, thinking about that, until Pansy sent a house-elf to ask whether he’d fainted with disgust from Potter’s touch.
*
Harry sighed and rolled over to gather Ginny up in his arms. He couldn’t help contrasting his eagerness to be near her after sex with his eagerness to get away from Malfoy. If that wasn’t a sign that he was meant to be with his wife instead of the Veela, what was it?
Ginny gave him a sleepy smile, stretched up to kiss him, then yawned mightily and went to sleep on his chest. Harry lay awake, stroking her hair and staring up at the canopy of their bed.
Tomorrow was the last day of the two weeks, and, hopefully, the last day he’d have to visit Malfoy until February. Harry closed his eyes in relief at the thought. He’d told Ginny about the encounter with the Veela, since they shared everything, and they’d laughed over it, but it wasn’t something he wanted to experience again.
*
Draco was still conscious when Potter finished making him come this time, but though he could feel his Veela side rising to the surface again, he forced it back down. That had become easier and easier to do since it started getting regular sex. It grumbled but subsided, and Draco rolled onto his side to watch Potter carefully cast cleaning charms on his robes.
Potter glanced up. “What?” he asked.
“I’ve never told you thanks,” Draco murmured.
Potter blinked, then smiled a bit. “Thought that was against the Malfoy code of honor.”
Draco narrowed his eyes, but no joke about the absolute lack of Malfoy honor followed. Potter just stood there, politely regarding him, as though he wondered what else Draco wanted to say before he could leave.
“Why did you agree to help me?” Draco asked then. “It’s true you could have been accused of conspiracy to murder a Veela if you refused me and I died, but you’re Harry Potter. They’d probably drop the charges. They need you too much.”
The boy Draco remembered would have stammered and blushed and denied that, or said something insulting. This man just tilted his head and shrugged a little. “Maybe,” he said. “But this wasn’t your fault, Malfoy. People don’t deserve to die for actions that weren’t their fault. And it became easier once I started seeing the Veela. No one deserves to have that living inside them.”
Draco would have thrown something if Potter had showed pity, but the green eyes gazing at him showed only sympathetic loathing.
He didn’t know what it was about that look that made him react the way he did. Maybe just the presumption, the unspoken idea that Potter could ever really feel as he did about the creature he carried inside him. Draco let a bit of the Veela beauty shine through his cheeks and eyes as he said, “I notice you’ve never been aroused.”
“I don’t like men, Malfoy,” was all Potter said, evenly, and then he turned away and strode from the room.
Draco lay back on the pillow, arms behind his head, frowning. Not even the sexual satiation that made his muscles languid could calm his mind right now, or the idea that he was free of Potter for at least a week.
He couldn’t help being helplessly aroused with Potter around, that was true. He couldn’t help the fact that the Veela within him had chosen Potter for its mate.
But that didn’t mean he couldn’t even the scales a bit. Tip the balance, so that Potter didn’t win the contest completely. And since Potter so obviously considered himself unassailable on the sexual front, that was the obvious place to begin.
Draco smirked and sat up. It wasn’t cheating on Pansy, he reassured himself. It was making Potter cheat on his wife. Pansy would think it was a grand joke, once Draco explained it to her.
The Veela inside him purred, a sound that made his ribcage vibrate.
Draco shuddered. He hated when it did that.