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Completely and utterly resigned, Harry made his way to the Headmistress’ office. He, of course, had no idea what this meeting was about.
That didn’t mean that he had no suspicions, however.
Two days previously — and one week after his defeat of Voldemort — he was handed a small stack of books by Professor McGonagall.
“Be sure to read these as soon as possible,” she had said.
He snorted at the memory.
The books were all on the same topic, and it wasn’t one that filled him with happiness.
‘A Guide to Veela Romances’, ‘So You Want To Be A Veela Mate?’ and ‘True Love: When A Veela Chooses You’ were just some of the absurd selections that pointed to the purpose of this meeting.
A veela had, supposedly, chosen him as a mate. Unfortunately, since Fleur was married, and Gabrielle too young for it, he really had no idea who it could be.
And he was singularly unimpressed with the idea.
He had learned three main things whilst reading those ridiculous books.
One, was that he would be expected to fall head over heels in love with the veela. Two, that his free will would be essentially taken away from him, as far as his romantic life went at least. And three, that the veela would apparently die of a broken heart if rejected. But that nobody ever rejected them.
He snorted. There’s a first time for everything, he mused silently, then shook his head.
The entire situation was absurd. He wasn’t ready to resume his relationship with Ginny — not even sure that he wanted to — and certainly wasn’t prepared to date a stranger with the implication that they’d be married soon.
Especially one that was reported to be jealous, and clingy, and suffocatingly protective, and —
No. Just no.
He reckoned that a funeral dirge should be playing as he passed the gargoyle and walked up the stairs.
“Come in!” Minerva called.
For, of course, she had requested that he use her first name. Now that he’s defeated Voldemort. (Again.)
He was sure that he might even manage to call her that. Some day. (But not today.)
Opening the door, he froze in place as his brain stuttered to a halt.
Hopefully this wasn’t about Veela, after all?
“Please, come and take a seat Harry. The Malfoys have something rather important to speak to you about.”
Oh, fuck.
“I don’t believe I have anything to say to them,” he said shortly.
“Please, Mr Potter,” Narcissa said, standing up. “While we have not been introduced formally, I would like to offer my personal apology to you on behalf of our family for any pain we may have caused you and your family or friends, both directly and indirectly.”
“Mr Potter, though a series of unfortunate events we have been at odds. I sincerely regret that I caused you pain and distress on more than one occasion through my actions,” Lucius added.
“You regret it,” he said flatly. He met the eyes of both Narcissa and Lucius — who had remained sitting — then looked at Draco, whose eyes were on his hands in his lap.
He shook his head at the half-hearted apology. “I’m afraid that your repeated murder attempts will have to go unforgiven, Mr Malfoy.”
Draco, he noticed, blanched at this before a blush crept up his cheeks. “That’s not fair,” the young man said softly. “He apologised, and you should accept it in the spirit it was given. As for me, I also apologise for the way I’ve treated you, and have sent letters to Weasley and Granger stating the same thing.”
Letters. He sent them letters.
He rubbed his forehead and resisted the urge to snap at the miserable prick, instead saying, “How very gracious of you.”
Turning to McGonagall, he asked, “Headmistress? What’s this about?”
Minerva cleared her throat awkwardly. “Of course. Tell me, did you read those books I gave you?”
He nodded.
“Excellent. Narcissa, if you would?”
“We are pleased to inform you that my Draco has presented as a veela, and that he has chosen you as his true mate.”
He snorted.
“Bully for him.”
“It is a great honour!” she insisted.
“No, it’s really not,” he said bluntly. “There’s two problems with the idea. The first is that your son is a malicious cunt, and the second is that he doesn’t have one.”
He paused, then grinned. “Actually, wait. There’s a third reason — he’s a marked Death Eater slave. Complete turn off, that. Especially since, as I said earlier, I don’t fancy blokes.”
“He was coerced...”
“And that gives you the right to try to coerce me?”
“Harry...” Draco said pitifully, and Harry turned his furious glare on him instead of at his mother.
“You’re a racist, cowardly arse Malfoy. Piss off.”
“I don’t think you understand,” Lucius said abruptly. “A veela that is rejected by their mate dies.”
“I’m afraid that I couldn’t give less of a fuck.”
“Mr Potter, please watch your language. I understand that this is a trying conversation, but—”
“I’ll invoke the life debt,” Narcissa interrupted coldly. “I saved you, in the forest. I’ll claim the debt if you continue to reject my son.”
He gaped at her.
“You can’t be serious,” he laughed. “Go ahead and try. Well? Go on!”
She drew her wand, and he crossed his arms and waited, a wide grin plastered across his face.
“You don’t seem concerned,” Lucius said.
“Of course not. If it works, the public will crucify you for enslaving their saviour. But it won’t work, because no debt exists.”
“I could have had the Dark Lord murder you once more!”
“And in payment, I killed your husband and son’s master.” He looked pointedly at her wand, then back at her expectantly. “Well, get on with it then if you’re so sure.”
"Only you, mate," Ron chortled.
They were sitting in front of the fire at the Burrow, and he had just finished explaining what McGonagall had wanted.
He made a face. "I can't believe they thought I'd agree to that."
"Well. It's just that— it's you, you know? You are known for second chances."
Harry grimaced. "I'm trying to do better," he whinged.
"Course you are. And now, Mr Saviour, you've been added to the history books again," Hermione said.
"What?"
"Survived the killing curse as a baby," She started to list, counting each point with her fingers. "Killed a basilisk at twelve, a patronus at thirteen, winning the Triwizard Tournament at fourteen, defeating a dark lord at seventeen? Old news. Now they're all going to be gossiping about how you rejected a veela."
He rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand. "Well, fuck."
"Language!"
"At least ferret-face is out of our hair now," Ron offered.
Yeah. At least there was that.