Heritage by Seeker. Rated NC17, no copyright infringement intended.

The first time it happened he thought he was hallucinating.

Prolonged exposure to Cruciatus could do that to a wizard, whether on the giving or receiving end of the curse. He’d been involved in more sessions recently, trying to squeeze information out of various ministry officials who wouldn’t be missed and being punished by the Dark Lord when he failed. Some of his cohorts were still torturing Muggles, but Lucius was too busy to engage in such petty enjoyments. That evening he’d failed, once again, in extracting any useful information from a captive, leaving the man a gibbering husk in the corner of a dungeon cell, and Lord Voldemort had made his displeasure quite clear.

It was nearly an hour after the Lord finished casting the curse before Lucius regained consciousness. The hall was dark, the others having long since apparated away, and he was alone, lying in his own sweat and filth, waiting for the strength to return to his trembling body. His breath hitched in his chest; three times in a week was too often to suffer his Lord’s fury. He attempted to raise an arm of lead, and to his shocked horror, when he did, the limb ended in a leathery claw. Unable to hold back a cry, silent as it was since his throat was raw from screaming, he stared at the clenching claws until his eyes blurred.

Blinking desperately to clear his vision, he was astonished to once more see his hand, elegant fingers curled as if tearing at the air, but his hand nonetheless. Rolling over onto his side, he panted for a few moments until he regained enough strength to sit upright. He suffered no further shifts in perception, and eventually shook the unsettling image from his mind.

Until it happened again.

The second time involved a house elf, unacceptable levels of incompetence on the elf’s part, and a customary quick loss of temper. The accompanying shift in reality was not, however, customary in the slightest. The elf gibbered and stammered as Lucius castigated him, when in the space of a moment the world went oddly flat and sepia-toned. The elf let out a shriek of terror and threw itself prone, skinny arms clasped protectively over its floppy ears. Lucius hissed, “You useless piece of excrement!” only what he actually said sounded something like “Kreee-ach!”

At which point Lucius wheeled around to face whatever threat had invaded his hall, only to catch sight of a hideous feathered… creature… in the mirror.

A creature with a sharp, hooked beak, wide open mid-screech, showing a dark grey tongue, and narrowed bright yellow eyes. The hand he’d lowered to his wand was again a leathery claw, complete with six inch talons, and from his back a pair of scaly wings swept agitatedly out to either side of his body.

The insanity of such a reflection coming back at him shocked him profoundly, shaking him from his fit of temper. As he watched, the ghastly raptor faded until his face once again resembled his own.

“Well,” the mirror informed him shakily, “that was one for the books!”

Lucius immediately hexed it into several million tiny shards.

The elf yelped and, with a loud pop, disappeared.

Lucius stood in the middle of the hall, his wand hanging uselessly from his clenched fist, and told himself he had to be hallucinating. Visual evidence to the contrary, he was a Malfoy, a pure-blooded wizard of the highest order; there was no possibility whatsoever that he could have the blood of an animal running through his veins.

For that’s what the Veela were, of course. Like the werewolves and the vampires, the trolls, the muggles and the yeti; not human, not truly magical, fit only to be used as the beasts they were and put down when they became unfit for service or uncontrollably dangerous.

This is what he’d learned at his father’s knee. This was the credo he’d followed his entire life, and what he’d taught his son. The concept of a Malfoy being a Veela was as ridiculous as the idea of a Malfoy marrying a muggle.

Hiding his shock and confusion behind his usual haughty expression, he holstered his wand and went on to dinner. It was an intimate affair, himself and his wife, a quiet change from the rounds of holiday dinner parties of the previous month and the business meetings he’d been hosting since the turn of the new year. There were no gathered brethren or ministry officials or fellow aristocrats to entertain.

Which was just as well, as Narcissa was definitely unwell. Lucius realized this immediately when she rose from her chair, pushed him against the side of the table, then attempted to mount him.

“Good god, woman, what is WRONG with you?” Lucius, unfortunately, yelped in much the same manner as the pathetic house elf had, only he wasn’t able to disappear. He was trapped, one elbow in the salad, hair trailing in the gravy, legs barely holding the combined weight of his spouse and himself, Narcissa’s long nails scratching skin even through heavy velvet as she tore his penis from his trousers.

Oddly enough, or perhaps not given his youthful proclivities and his lifelong association with a variety of powerful sadists, Lucius quickly found himself responding to her rough handling with an erection. Which she promptly sheathed in her body, grinding down onto him like a cat in heat.

“Holy…” Lucius lost breath as well as speech when Narcissa clamped her mouth over his, her tongue forcing its way over his teeth and impeding his air flow. Needless to say, all too soon Lucius was dizzy, barely keeping his feet, his hands clamped on his wife’s hips as she fucked him through the table top.

When it was over and Lucius regained his ability to think, he found himself actually lying atop the table, a variety of foodstuffs smeared over his clothing and exposed skin, staring in near-apoplectic shock at Narcissa, who stared back down at him with a dazed, satiated expression. As he fought to calm his breath, he watched the sanity seep back into her eyes.

“Eek!” she squeaked, then tried to leap off him. Her attempt was foiled by the fact that his softening penis was still inside her, and the abrupt wrench on his tender flesh made him squeak in response and clutch her close to him.

“My most sincere apologies,” she muttered, her voice tight with disbelief and embarrassment.

He nodded stiffly, cautiously unwrapping his fingers from her hips as he slipped the rest of the way from her body. She sighed, then blushed, an unprecedented response from his usually reserved wife. But then, it was no doubt warranted, given her far-from-reserved treatment of him.

Once on her feet, swaying slightly though she was, Narcissa straightened her robes and stared at the mess they’d made of dinner. Lucius covered himself, wincing as the material pressed against the scratches she’d left on his skin, and somewhat awkwardly clambered from the table. His hair was clammy against the back of his neck, sticky with congealing gravy, he had bits of lettuce clinging to his sleeve, a smear of beef grease along the side of one knee and mashed green beans at the small of his back.

And Narcissa was staring at him.

Hungrily.

Feeling all appetite, carnal and physical, flee, Lucius did the same. His wife’s devouring eyes followed him throughout his strategic retreat. It was only when he had closed, spell-locked and barricaded the door of his bedroom behind him that he began to feel safe.

“This… is impossible,” he muttered, stepping into the bath and sluicing off the disgusting remnants of their bizarre tryst atop the dining table. Rinsing his hair for the third time before he had the last of the gravy out of it, he closed his eyes and allowed the cold logic that had served him in good stead his entire life to sort through the facts.

They were not encouraging.

Memories from early childhood returned to him. A father whom he had grown to resemble to an amazing degree, who watched him constantly, drilled him continually in his efforts to instill the essence of what it was to be a Malfoy in the young boy. Cold. Contained. Calculated. Emotionless, except when emotion could be used as a weapon, and then a consummate master at such use.

A mother who had shown no regard for him whatsoever, her manner chill, distant, not an uncommon sort of mother in the circles in which he was raised. Hard blue eyes that seemed to stare through him. At a very young age he’d learned not to go to his mother for comfort; by the time he was four, he knew as well not to reach for his father.

By six, he was completely self-contained, and sincerely believed that the less-well-controlled children he socialized with were simply inferior because they were not Malfoys. By the age of nine, he thought before he acted, thought before he spoke, and was a master manipulator of everyone around him outside his parents. His father still frightened him. His mother completely ignored him. He expected nothing less.

If, on occasion, he felt emotion burning in him, he released it the only acceptable way for a Malfoy – with a violent temper, aimed at inferior beings. House elves were a wonderful means of venting one’s excess energy. So were muggles, or mudbloods, or any other subhuman creatures. By the time he reached his teens, every emotion he’d been taught not to feel had been sublimated into rage.

At seventeen, he was ripe for Voldemort’s picking. The first task he’d completed for his new master had been to poison his father, as the Heir to the Malfoys did not have the prestige and funds of The Malfoy. The absence of fear as he looked down at his father’s corpse was intoxicating.

Smothering his mother in her bed had been easy. That, he’d done for himself.

In the twenty years since then he’d acted as his society expected him; he’d made a good match with a pureblooded witch who was as cold as he himself was. He’d procreated, and spent the first eleven years of his son’s life ensuring that Draco understood precisely what it was to be a Malfoy. Once the boy entered Hogwarts, Lucius had been freed to delve more deeply into his ambitions toward power, and more easily do his Lord’s work.

Until now.

Stepping from the bath, Lucius slowly dried his skin with a thick soft towel, staring at the traces of blood caught on the cotton from the welts still open on his skin. Shaking off his abstraction with a low growl, he threw the towel to the floor and strode over to take up his wand. A moment’s concentration, a murmured spell he’d used often on prisoners but never on himself, and a vivid glow began to emanate from his body.

Arctic blue, as expected, the mark of an ancient lineage, but not pure. Not vivid. Broken. Mottled in places with a vein of diamond that sparkled, deceptively beautiful and absolutely terrifying.

Staring at the aura as it slowly faded away, the Dark Lord’s words rang clearly. “Animals have their uses,” he’d hissed on more than one occasion. “Muggles are a threat to our world, and are fit for nothing but death, the manner of which is best used to spread terror. But the other animals, the ones with their own kind of magic, those we can put to good use. The giants are stupid, but strong and destructive. They shall lay waste for us, or be turned to slaughter one another. The werewolves are mindless, vicious beasts, who fool themselves into thinking they’re human; we can use that as well, convince them that we will champion them, turn them into a weapon against those who would oppose us, then put them down when their usefulness is at an end. Even the lowly Veela have a use; as any good whores, they can confound and confuse our enemies. Once made feeble with lust, our enemies will be easily slain.”

The words echoed.

Animals.

Lowly.

Whores.

Used, then destroyed.

Lucius had agreed with every word.

Until he discovered he was one.

Even worse, at the moment, was the fact that Narcissa knew. She was a highly intelligent woman. She would no doubt have figured out the reason behind her uncharacteristic behavior in the dining room. It would take her a little while to decide what to do with the knowledge, which gave him some breathing room. Although he knew what she would eventually do.

She would go to Lord Voldemort. Her arrangement with Lucius was beneficial to both only so long as they retained equal power; she was a Black, and understood such things. But his revealed heritage had tipped the balance. Now she held the power, and he was merely a pawn. Her ambitions would be satisfied by turning her husband over; both her shadow ambitions in the Dark Lord’s organization and her outward ambition, for if Lucius was declared dead she would retain the title, monies, and land, acting regent for Draco until the boy reached his majority. She would have two years free rein to mold him in her image, and given the teaching Lucius had implanted, it would be easy enough to do.

Her only stumbling block would be the fact that Draco himself carried tainted blood. Carrying the thought to its logical conclusion, as Slytherin craft and coldness demanded, made Lucius shudder. Her best course of action would be to insure that Draco never attained his majority, so would never come later in his life to his Veela heritage as Lucius had done. Once Lucius was gone, into servitude and death at the hands of those he’d led for so many years, and Draco was killed, Narcissa would have everything. Then if she so chose, she could find another husband, create another family.

One not tainted with the blood of an animal running through his veins.

Luckily for Lucius, he was as calculating as his wife, and more used to acting swiftly when a course was decided. He stepped into house shoes, wrapped a thick robe around his body, and crossed to his charmed-locked bureau. From the second drawer he removed a slender silver dagger, cursed until the blade gleamed black. Then he strapped on his forearm holster and placed his second wand in it, before pushing against a particular gargoyle face carved on the mantle of his fireplace. A section of the wall shifted and he moved forward confidently through the darkness.

She never saw him coming. The passageway opened silently into the maid’s room off to the side of her boudoir. He came up behind her as she stood before the chifforobe, poking through the lingerie drawer absently, deep in thought. The blade pricked the base of her spine through the fine lace of her night robe.

As soon as the silver bit, her head came up, her wand leveled over her shoulder, and her lips formed a curse. Before it could be cast, her eyes clouded and her body dropped, dead, at his feet.

He stood watch as the curse from the blade destroyed her corpse. It wasn’t the first time he’d killed. Nor was it the first time he’d killed someone with whom he’d recently had sexual intercourse. It certainly wasn’t the first time he’d removed a threat to his family. It wasn’t even the first time that removed threat had come from within his family. He felt no remorse, but a sliver of regret. She had been an able and appropriate consort.

When nothing remained to show what had happened, Lucius turned on his heel and started back toward the passage. In the morning, he would contact the Ministry and report her missing. That would give him time to conceal anything he didn’t want the Aurors to see in their investigation… one foot into the passageway, he stopped.

Something was out of place.

Turning back to the room, Lucius swept narrowed eyes over the scene. The bed, turned back. The drawer, spilled to the floor. One door of the chifforobe open, showing the neatly hung clothing within. Persian carpet lying pristine, up to the hearthstones of the fireplace, in which roared a healthy fire.

There. On the mantle. The ebony box of powder. Still open, lid leaning untidily against the carved marble, a few grains spilled dark against the silver-veined stone.

“Bloody hell,” he breathed, eyes widening as he stared at the fire. Numb fingers reached for his wand and he waved it twice, in a circular motion, encompassing the entire room. “Oratio oblique,” he commanded.

Voices echoed in the still air.

“You have something of importance for me?” The Dark Lord, an impatient hiss.

“A most unexpected development, my Lord.” Narcissa, voice heavy with restrained excitement. “My husband has been hiding something from all of us.”

“Tell me!” Disbelief, with a thread of anger underlying it.

“He is a Veela, my Lord.” Triumph. That bitch. She’d been faster to act than he’d expected.

“You have proof?”

A light laugh, the tinkling sparkle Narcissa had perfected as a girl and never outgrown. He’d once found it charming. Hearing it now made him wish she were alive so he could murder her again. “Observational charms on the mirrors show he has changed form at least twice. Tonight he lured me into sexual congress with him, drugging me and using me. He is indeed a beast, my Lord.”

“How long have you known this, my dear?” The hiss was silken with threat.

“Confirmed less than half an hour ago, my Lord.” Subservience laced her voice.

“You have done well. Leave the rest to me.” Satisfaction rested heavy in Voldemort’s tone.

The air stilled as the spell dispersed. Lucius stared sightlessly at the fire for a few moments only before his survival instincts kicked in. There was no time. He was revealed, and if he did not act quickly, all would be lost.

Running full speed through the corridor, snapping “Stet fortuna domus” as he went, wand waving with frantic precision, Lucius put a longstanding plan into action that he’d hoped he would never have to use. Powerful magic swept through the Manor as priceless artifacts, books and personal effects disappeared, to reappear far away in shielded vaults with no magical traces left to lead others to them. House elves popped into existence around him, whining piteously in confusion, and he kicked his way through them, ignoring their pleas.

Back in his bedchamber, he muttered a robing spell, and an instant later, fully dressed, took up his cane. He pushed a gilt-edged whorl in the headboard and retrieved a small black box. Flicking it open, he cried, “Tumulus!” then wrapped his fingers around the glistening emerald within and closed his eyes.

The port key whisked him away, and he never saw the walls of the Manor collapse. Didn’t see the Greek fire that ate at the walls, nor hear the agonized screams of the trapped elves, nor hear the echo of the implanted Morsmordre curse, nor glimpse the ghastly green skull etched in smoke above the ruins of his ancestral home. By the time the Aurors arrived, all that was left was a smoldering wreck, for all the world to see, the work of Voldemort.

In a way, of course, it was. Were it not for the fact that the Dark Lord had turned on Lucius, the destruction never would have been needed. So the fact that Lucius himself sent up the Dark Mark made no difference. It was, indeed, Voldemort’s fell work.

Lucius didn’t have the time to appreciate the irony. He was too busy dodging wizard-eating trees and huge spiders and vengeful centaurs, working his way through the Forbidden Forest toward his refuge. He had a son as well as his own life to protect and the only stronghold that could do both was Hogwarts.

Another hungry predator, some sort of multi-legged three-headed carnivore, crashed out of the darkness toward him and Lucius snapped. Instantly shifting into his innate Veela form, he swept out with claws and beak, effectively decapitating the creature before it could hurt him. As quickly he turned back, and looked down shakily at the blood that now splattered his clothing.

Too many shocks, coming too soon, one after another, unsettled him disgracefully. Shutting down his screaming mind and running on instinct, he made it through the Forest with two more close calls, both summarily dealt with via Veela barbarity. In the early hours of the day, dawn still a few hours away, exhausted and in shock, Lucius staggered over the magical boundary of the Hogwarts grounds.

“Who goes there?” a deep rough voice growled, echoed by the low bark of a hunting dog.

Lucius didn’t bother attempting a reply. He saved his breath for the fight to retain consciousness. Unfortunately it was a battle he was doomed to lose. The last thing he saw before the darkness took him was the wild-haired mountain of a half-Giant that was Dumbledore’s pet gamekeeper looming over him.

Perhaps equally unfortunate, the darkness didn’t last. Halfway up the steps toward the infirmary, a way well-remembered from his school days, Lucius woke from his stupor and pushed as strongly as he could against Hagrid’s massive chest. He may as well have been pushing against a stone wall for all the good it did him.

“Oh, for…” he grumbled. “Put me down, you oaf. You reek.”

Large dark eyes peered down at him, suspicious and somewhat hurt, but Lucius didn’t particularly care about the second emotion. At least his words provoked Hagrid into loosening his grip on Lucius long enough for Lucius to pull his sensitive nose away from the stench rising from the various skins and dirty wool swathing the bulky body beneath him.

“Fine, then,” Hagrid grumped, and dumped Lucius to his feet. To Lucius’ mortification, his legs were unable to hold him, and were it not for another strong grip clutching his waist he would have landed flat on his arse.

“This is ridiculous,” he hissed, then stared sideways into Albus Dumbledore’s bright blue eyes.

Which were, for once, not sparkling. “To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure, Lucius?” Dumbledore asked quietly. Thankfully, he didn’t release his hold on Lucius, as Lucius’ knees were still shaking.

“Not here,” Lucius forced out, as the shaking spread throughout his body, beginning to affect his speech.

“Very well,” Dumbledore agreed, then nodded at Hagrid, who swept Lucius back off his feet before he could protest. The bumping motion as he was carted like a sack of oats up the stairs made Lucius so dizzy he didn’t bother trying to speak. As they approached the gargoyle guarding the spiral staircase that rose to the Headmaster’s office, a shadow swooped up to them.

“Albus,” came Snape’s velvet whisper, then a shocked, “Lucius! You’re alive!” cut off whatever he had been about to say.

Dumbledore speared Lucius with a glance before asking calmly, “And why does this surprise you, Severus?”

“Because the Manor was destroyed tonight, and my wife and servants murdered,” Lucius said, his voice echoing his exhaustion.

“And floating in the sky above the ruins was the Dark Mark,” Severus added, his voice a question in itself.

“Oh, my,” Dumbledore exclaimed softly. “Cadbury’s Eggs,” he added, and the gargoyle leapt to the side, displaying the spiral stair. “Please come up, so that we may discuss this in private.”

“I can walk,” Lucius protested, but Hagrid ignored him. Severus smirked once at him, then returned to staring at him, that penetrating black stare that had always made Lucius feel quite naked. Usually he enjoyed the sensation. Tonight, with all he’d discovered and done and endured, it made his skin itch unpleasantly.

Once inside the cluttered office, across the small entryway and down the few steps into the Headmaster’s private domain, Hagrid dumped Lucius into a chair with little regard for gentleness. Obviously his earlier comment had stung more than expected, but Lucius still couldn’t be bothered to care. He had much larger problems than hurting the feelings of a smelly sub-human.

Such as, for example, dealing with the fact that he was, apparently, a sub-human himself. He shuddered.

“Lucius?” Dumbledore asked with unwarranted kindness. “Why did this happen?”

Occasionally the dotty old bastard had a real talent for cutting to the heart of a situation. Unable to find words to describe the indescribable, Lucius silently transformed. Talons curled over the arms of the chair. The world flashed sepia. He clicked his beak and uttered a disgruntled cry.

“Oh, my,” Dumbledore repeated, nearly drowned out by Hagrid’s “How lovely!” and Snape’s snort of disbelief. “I see…” Dumbledore continued, pitching his voice effortlessly to be heard over the others, “you’ve attained puberty.”

Lucius forced himself back to his normal form. Ignoring for the moment the lack of surprise his change had provoked in the old man, he said, “I seek sanctuary.” The words were the most difficult he’d ever spoken.

To his credit, Dumbledore simply replied, “Given,” without hesitation or triumph. Lucius released the breath he hadn’t been aware of holding.

Suddenly from the corner Snape gave a pained gasp. He curled in on himself, right hand clutching his left forearm, face twisted in pain. Lucius raised a brow and glanced down at his own Dark Mark. It was glowing the usual malevolent purple it did when the Lord was angry, visible through the fine lawn of his shirt beneath his torn cloak, but remarkably, it gave him none of the usual agony.

“It doesn’t affect non-humans the way it does full-blooded wizards,” Dumbledore informed him calmly.

Lucius’ mouth was already open to blast the damned fool when it struck him anew that yes, he was something other than human, and no, he could no longer claim the superiority of pure blood that had been his pride the entirety of his life. His mouth hung open in what he dimly knew was an idiotic expression but it still took many long moments before he was able to pull his tattered composure back in place.

“How?” he finally croaked, not expecting an answer. In the background, he heard Snape mutter excuses and start to leave the room. His wand was in his hand instantly. “Petrificus totalus,” he commanded, then followed mercifully with “Stupefy.”

Snape stopped gasping in pain, as his eyes rolled up in his head and his body fell, stiff as a board, toward the floor. Hagrid caught him in one large hand and gently lowered him to the carpet.

Ignoring the commotion, Dumbledore gave Lucius the answer he hadn’t expected. “Your father’s marriage was an arranged one, as was your own.”

Lucius blinked. What did ancient history have to do with his current fix? Before he could ask, Dumbledore swept on, that damnable twinkle that always made Lucius want to hex him back in his eyes.

“Not unlike yourself, your father had other romantic liaisons both before and after his marriage. However, unlike yourself, your father was careless. One such liaison, with a Scandinavian witch of great innate power but no social standing, resulted in offspring. As your father had determined by this time that his wife was incapable of presenting him with an heir, that offspring was brought into his home and raised as his son.”

Lucius blinked again, brain darting in so many directions at once that he was quite dizzy again. ‘His father’s wife,’ Dumbledore said. Not ‘his mother.’ No wonder the frigid bitch never had any time or affection for him.

“What happened to my mother?” he asked, with uncustomary hesitation.

The twinkle in Dumbledore’s eyes dimmed. “She was a full-blooded Veela, and your father was her chosen mate. Your father was unaware of this at the time of their liaison. When he returned to his wife and took you from your mother, she attempted to fight, both to retain custody of her son and to force her way into his affections. No one is quite sure where the final confrontation between the two took place, but four days after you were presented to the world as the Malfoy Heir, your mother’s body was found washed ashore on the banks of the Romsdalsfjord. Since the contesting parent was dead, the Ministry of Magic conceded your father’s right to raise you, and the particulars were never made public.”

Whatever question Lucius might have come up with next was not uttered, as Snape began to throw off the effects of the body bind and blackout Lucius had thrown at him. Dumbledore gave Lucius an apologetic look over the tops of his glasses.

“If you wouldn’t mind, Lucius, please step behind Hagrid for a moment. It’s for Severus’ own good, really.”

It took Lucius only a split second to weigh the options and decide that following Dumbledore’s lead (at least until Lucius figure out what to do next) was his best move. With a gracious nod, somewhat spoiled by the way he staggered when he rose to his feet and the swiftness with which Hagrid caught him in one huge hand, he stumbled as gracefully as deadened legs would allow into the shadow of the half-Giant.

“Lucius?” Snape asked, voice muffled by the spell, although it cleared with each syllable. It was truly remarkable, Snape’s resilience in the face of otherwise debilitating curses and hexes.

“Severus,” Dumbledore said with a strange combination of gentleness and stern command, “obliviate.”

“Albus?” Snape sounded confused.

Lucius found himself unwillingly impressed by Dumbledore’s sneakiness. If Lucius hadn’t already known for years that Snape was a spy, he would have believed that Dumbledore didn’t want Snape to take the intelligence that Lucius was at Hogwarts back to the Dark Lord. As well, should the Lord torture Snape for information, which he thoroughly enjoyed doing, Snape would have nothing to tell. Not that this would save him from torment, but at least it would be shortened as the Lord realized that Snape honestly didn’t know anything about the destruction of the Manor and Lucius’ whereabouts.

“Thank you for stopping by, Severus,” Dumbledore answered quietly. It was definitely a dismissal.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Snape mumbled. Lucius listened to shaky footsteps leave the room, then the heavy thud of the door closing behind him.

“May I come out now?” Lucius asked. In truth, Hagrid’s smell at close quarters was a bit overwhelming, on top of the headache he already had.

“Of course,” Dumbledore told him genially.

Lucius glared as Hagrid ‘helped’ him ham-handedly into the chair. The glare slid off with no discernible impact. Lucius sighed and turned to the Headmaster. “I must see my son. Tonight, before he hears from anyone else what… happened tonight.” He couldn’t help the hesitation. Draco was in for quite a few shocks this evening, but given the shocks Lucius had been through himself, his son would simply have to act like a Malfoy and do what had to be done.

In this case, switch allegiances, keep his skin intact, and not be murdered by his housemates whilst accustoming himself to the concept that he was somewhat less that human. Lucius swallowed. This could be a difficult conversation.

“Hagrid, thank you for your assistance this evening. Please tell the Baron on your way out that I wish to see young Mister Malfoy.”

Dumbledore twinkled at Hagrid, prompting a blush and a great deal of mumbling into the bushy beard covering the man’s face like an untamed hedge. Lucius couldn’t make out a word of it and didn’t try, preoccupied as he was with how he was going to approach his son with the truth. After a moment it struck him that the room had gone quiet. He looked up. Dumbledore and Hagrid were both looking at him, Dumbledore with inexplicable disappointment under that damned twinkle, and Hagrid with patient acceptance.

“What?” Lucius demanded, wondering what he’d missed.

After a moment, Hagrid shook his furry head and gave a chuckle that was eerily reminiscent of the cry of a dying moose. Dumbledore sighed.

“I’ll be seein’ ya then,” Hagrid told Dumbledore, then turned and lumbered out the door.

Giants. Lucius shook his head. He’d never understand the lesser species… he blinked, stopping mid-shake, then shuddering from his scalp to his toes. Dear Merlin, he was one of the lesser species, or at least half of him was.

This was going to take some adjustment time.

None of which he had, as a moment later his son stalked through the door as if he owned the castle. Lucius smiled fondly. That was his boy. Took after Lucius himself more and more every day. He lost the smile. That could be a problem.

“Headmaster, the Bloody Baron came to the Prefects’ common room and told me that – Father!” Draco lost his air of arrogance as he stared, appalled, at Lucius.

Lucius sighed. “Sit down, Draco. I have much I must say to you, and not much time to say it.” For it wouldn’t be long at all before some other scion of a Death Eater found out about it from home and then Draco would be in trouble. Lucius sat up straight in the chair, staring intently at Draco as his son sat across from him.

“I’ll be in the back when you need me,” Dumbledore said, standing and sweeping away into the room behind the office before either Malfoy could respond.

“Father?” Draco asked tentatively. “What happened?”

“Disaster,” Lucius told him bluntly, but with a kind edge that visibly frightened Draco. Lucius was many things. Kind was not one of them. Lucius sighed again. “The Dark Lord commanded me to turn you over to him, for use as a sacrifice,” he lied smoothly. Draco paled until the only color in his face was the red of his lower lip where he bit it. “I refused. He reacted with extreme violence, sending an assault against the Manor and destroying it completely.” He paused for effect, lowering his voice as he continued. Draco leaned forward, caught up in the tale. “I’m sorry, my son. Your mother was killed in the battle.”

Draco swallowed noisily, blinked away the sheen of shocked tears from his eyes, and gave Lucius a suspicious glance. “How did you escape, Father?” he asked.

Quick. Ah, yes, the boy was turning out quite well. “The Dark Lord isn’t aware of all my capabilities, Draco,” Lucius told him with mild reproof. “I kept some strengths to myself.”

His son gave him an approving nod. “Very Slytherin of you, Father.” They shared a grim smile, then Draco reiterated, “So, how did you escape?”

Lucius took a deep breath. “Prepare yourself for some unexpected news about your heritage, son.” He refused to give any sign of the nervousness running through him, beyond the intensity with which he stared at Draco. “As I have taught you, the purity of your blood is a source of pride. As I have held back from you,” not by choice, but his son would never learn that from him, “the… unexpected elements of your blood are your strength.”

“Unexpected elements?”

Lucius transformed.

Draco sat still as a stone as Lucius waited a long moment, then transformed back. Pure shock had wiped the suspicion and grief from his eyes. Lucius waited. Eventually Draco blinked. It looked somewhat painful.

“You’re a Veela?” Draco croaked. His voice cracked on the last word. He winced, looking momentarily mortified before the shock returned full-force.

“Half,” Lucius informed him. “As are you. Well, you are one-quarter. I didn’t tell you for several reasons. Primarily because the information might have gotten back to the Dark Lord, and it was better kept secret until I had need to use it, as the events of this evening can attest.”

“Shit,” Draco breathed. “Sorry,” he immediately apologized.

Lucius arched a brow at him and, considering the circumstances, ignored the slip. “Secondly, your Veela heritage will not impact your life for another twenty years or so, when that species comes to maturity. Given the lesser nature of Veela within you the effects may be quite minor, but you have some years to go before you need worry about it. And thirdly,” he watched closely to ensure Draco understood how important this was, “such information can and would be used by others around you as a weapon against you.” Of course it would. Lucius had taught Draco well, and Draco would be the first to use such knowledge against any other Slytherin. “For that reason alone, you must maintain absolute secrecy about this.”

“Of course, Father!” Draco immediately assured him. Then he added, “But… what about you? Won’t they be looking for you? And what about me? Aren’t I in danger? The Lord knows this, now, and he might try to… use me…” Draco’s voice trailed off and Lucius watched as his son thought through the ramifications of both their Veela blood and the destruction of their place in the Lord’s hierarchy. “What are we going to do?”

“We’re going to do what the Malfoys always do,” Lucius told him strongly. “We’re going to go with the winning side. And we’re going to make absolutely certain that side is not the one with the Dark Lord leading it.”

“Welcome to the Light,” Dumbledore rumbled from the back of the office.

“Oh, god,” Draco whispered.

“Quite,” Lucius agreed.

“Now onto logistics,” Dumbledore said with a disgusting amount of cheer as he sat back down at his desk.

Three hours later, the Slytherin Prefect’s room had a new set of wards, and Draco began the work of subverting the younger generation of Slytherins as his father began the work of selling out the older one. Not that Lucius saw it that way, of course. He was simply doing what he had to do, to preserve himself and his family, and to come through successfully in the end. Every inch the Slytherin. And every one of his fellows would have done exactly the same thing had they found themselves in a similar situation.

Not allowing it to bother his nonexistent conscience, Lucius set a spy-charm and alert-spell to continually monitor his son’s well-being, and turned toward Dumbledore. Lucius was by this time so far beyond exhausted he was seeing double. Dumbledore must have realized his voice was nothing more than the buzz of an insect in Lucius’ ear because he stopped and laughed into his beard. Lucius tried to glare at him but couldn’t figure out at which Dumbledore to direct the glare, and so gave up the attempt.

“There will be time enough for this tomorrow, or should I say later today. Come along, Lucius.”

Paranoia too inbred to give trust unquestioningly, even dead on his feet, Lucius demanded, “Where?”

“A safe place,” Dumbledore assured him.

Lucius concentrated, focused, and stared hard into the bright blue eyes staring back at him. A master liar himself, he could sense it in others, but he sensed no malice in Dumbledore at that moment. “Very well,” he conceded, and placed his hand on the hideous orange sock Dumbledore held out to him.

Disorienting moments later he landed on his knees in a dingy parlor. He reached forward to stop himself from falling flat on his face and found rough tweed beneath his palms. Looking up, he saw the astonished face of none other than Arthur Weasley staring down at him.

“Bugger,” Lucius mumbled. On his knees at Weasley’s feet. Disgusting. Before he could remedy the situation, the events of a very long evening caught up with him at last, and he passed out cold.

He woke in an unfamiliar bed with an all-to-familiar bearded face beaming down at him. He flinched before he could control himself.

“Good evening, Lucius,” Dumbledore chirped at him.

Evening? “What time is it?” he asked incredulously, barely managing not to hex some of the obnoxious cheer out of the old bastard.

“Half six,” Dumbledore said, adding, “I have it on good authority that transfiguration is quite tiring. As your body adjusts to its new abilities they will be less draining.”

Lucius blinked at him. Of course it was merely his body adjusting to regularly turning into a raptor that had worn him out. It couldn’t possibly have anything to do with losing his entire life in one fell swoop. He felt his lips curl into a sneer and forced his features back into his usual expressionless mask. It wouldn’t do to alienate the one offering him sanctuary. Reflexively, he tensed his left arm.

His Mark wasn’t hurting. That wasn’t right.

Pushing back the bedclothes, he narrowed his eyes at the plain cotton night robe he found himself in, then ignored it to concentrate on the odd lack of agony flaring from his Dark Mark. He pushed back the overly long sleeve and stared.

Not possible.

The Mark had faded until it was barely an outline, a dim shadow overlaying the fine thin skin of his inner forearm. “How?” he breathed, incapable of completing the question.

“As I mentioned earlier, it doesn’t affect non-humans and those of mixed blood the way it does purebred wizards,” Dumbledore answered anyway. “There is a reason Voldemort prefers to enslave magical creatures rather than having them as followers. And one of several he prefers his followers to be pure-blooded.”

Lucius tore his eyes from his faded Mark and glanced a question at Dumbledore with one raised brow.

“Easier to control,” Dumbledore informed him.

The instinctive denial caught in Lucius’ throat. Oh, but that made sense, of a distinctly nasty kind. Looking anywhere but at Dumbledore, Lucius abruptly rose from the bed and summoned his clothing. In moments he was fully dressed and ready to face whatever life might throw at him.

“What now?” he asked, taking up his cane.

“As to that…” Dumbledore cleared his throat. “It would be to our best advantage not to have your presence in our fight be widely known at this time.”

Lucius nodded once, to signify his agreement, asking, “What of Weasley?”

“He will maintain his silence,” Dumbledore assured him, then added, “I’ve made arrangements for one of my operatives to work with you, to gather what intelligence you have regarding Voldemort’s plans and share them, through this intermediary, with those who would do most good with the knowledge.”

Another, shorter, nod from Lucius. “Of course your… operatives,” he managed not to sneer, although it took effort, “would have no reason to trust me. Other than the fact that the Dark Lord has murdered my wife, destroyed my home, placed my only son in jeopardy of his life and put a bounty on my head.”

Unsettling discernment shone through Dumbledore’s clear gaze. The words hung in the air. Lucius refused to be the first to break the silence, while Dumbledore appeared perfectly capable of standing there dumb for the rest of the century. Lucius didn’t know what Dumbledore thought he knew, but hopefully, the old man didn’t know the truth and never would. It was a very tense silence.

Thankfully before Lucius could crumble, the door opened and a slight-figured man in a shabby long coat stepped in.

“Sorry I’m late, Albus,” the vision said.

That was all Lucius heard. The instant the man stepped forward into the light of the room, fully into Lucius’ sight, everything else faded to insignificance. A glow surrounded the man, light limning his skin, burnishing him in bronze. His eyes were a shade of amber Lucius had never before seen, catching him as surely as any unfortunate fly. His voice rumbled on in the background, a reassuring baritone rush of words that made absolutely no sense to Lucius, as he had only one thought left in his brain.

Shiny.

The man shone. He glistened. He commanded every speck of attention Lucius could give. Lucius wanted to wrap himself around the man and soak that warm gleam up through every inch of skin he could press against the man. He moved before he was aware of it, coming to a stop inches from the man, eyes caught and held by the play of light over tanned skin, light tangled in the intertwined strands of auburn and mahogany and gold hair, light catching on the faintest hint of moisture as a restless tongue swept across a full lower lip.

“Lucius?” Dumbledore’s voice sounded as if it came from the bottom of a chasm. “You remember Remus Lupin?”

Remus. Lupin. The werewolf. The quiet Gryffindor who used to run in a pack with Black and Potter and the ratty one. Remus. “Shiny,” Lucius breathed.

Amber eyes blinked at him in shock. “Are you all right?”

“Are you hungry?” Lucius suddenly asked. He didn’t know what prompted it, and he didn’t care. He’d never operated solely on instinct in his life, but he couldn’t have stopped himself at this point even to save his life. He wanted to feed Remus Lupin, then he wanted to fuck him. Then he wanted to repeat the sequence of events for the rest of his life.

“Uhm,” Remus dithered, obviously thrown.

In that instant, Lucius leaned forward and rubbed his cheek softly against Remus’ own. Even up close, Remus glowed. He gave off a quality of moonlight, though he was painted in colors of sunlight. Perhaps it was the wolf wrapped in the man that provoked the dichotomy. Lucius didn’t care. He was too busy avidly drinking the man in with his eyes, with his touch.

“Malfoy?” Remus asked. He sounded choked. Then he did something unexpected, at least to Lucius. He pushed his nose against Lucius’ hair and inhaled deeply. “Spiced rum?”

Now he sounded vaguely intoxicated. He continued to scent Lucius, as Lucius absently tangled his hands in Remus’ thick hair. The texture was intriguing, soft to the touch, a little coarse, and amazingly shiny.

“Oh, my!” Dumbledore said, somewhere in the distance. He might have been chuckling, or choking to death. Lucius really couldn’t be bothered to care.

He was too busy kissing Remus Lupin.

Who stood like a statue, breathing ever more heavily through his nose as Lucius ravished his mouth, before he suddenly broke. Strong arms looped around Lucius, pulling their bodies tightly together. Lucius whimpered into the kiss. When Remus immediately loosened his hold Lucius unwound one hand from Remus’ hair and placed it firmly on his arse, dragging him right back where he belonged.

“I’ll just leave you two to… get re-acquainted then.” Dumbledore’s voice faded away then disappeared with the sound of a door locking.

Lucius gave a vague silent thanks to whatever deity finally got the old man out of the room, then tore his mouth away from Remus’ long enough to whisper, “In puris naturalibus.” Neither man noticed as their clothing disappeared. There were times when magic came in very handy, indeed. Times when emotion ran strongly enough the concentrating force of a wand was completely unnecessary.

Times like these.

Remus buried his face in Lucius’ hair as Lucius feasted on Remus’ mouth. The body beneath Lucius’ hands was strong but too slender, reinforcing the instinct to feed him, but that would have to wait. First Lucius had to do some feeding of his own.

On the side of Remus’ jaw, trailing nibbling kisses from his lips to his ear, down the tendon standing along his throat to the length of collarbone too well-defined above his chest. From the pad of muscle leading to the softness of nipple, drawing swiftly to a peak that drew a moan from deep in Remus’ chest as Lucius sucked on it. Some time to play, there, fascinated by the crinkling cinnamon flesh and the dark hair swirling around it, before continuing along the path of softer hair over the concavity where belly met groin then blended to hip.

Heat rose between them, soaking into the sheets beneath them, pausing Lucius in his headlong rush for a bare moment to wonder when they’d made it to the bed. Then Remus moaned again, an aching sound, and pushed his erection against Lucius’ chest, drawing his attention down. The glistening moisture seeping from the head caught Lucius’ eye, attracted his tongue, and Remus tasted as rich as he looked.

Hands combed restlessly through Lucius’ hair, clutching not too tightly but firmly enough, guiding Lucius further down along the length of Remus’ flesh, not that Lucius needed the urging. His own hunger led him quite urgently to lick along the slickness, engulf the contradiction of soft skin and hard muscle beneath his tongue and down his throat. The moan above his head broke into a shattering cry as Remus arched beneath him, and Lucius went with the motion, swallowing deeply as Remus came.

Smoky, dark, salty and bitter, with a sweet undertone; the flavor was instantly addictive. The hands that had been pulling now petted him, drifting affectionately over his shoulders, going along willingly to caress wherever they landed as Lucius moved up Remus’ body. Long thighs, ropy muscles but still too slender, parted for him as Lucius shifted between them.

Relaxed as Remus was, still shaking from his orgasm, it was the work of a moment for Lucius to enter him. Instinct screamed at Lucius to claim, to take, and at the same time, to protect, to worship. Emotions he’d never dealt with buffeted him, tearing away any walls that might still have been standing between himself and his mate, few that they were.

More heat, an inferno, a molten core that engulfed and entrapped him, and Lucius never wanted to be free again. Insistent hands roamed freely over his sides, down to his hips, over his arse, pulling him in, drawing him closer. Strong legs wrapped around the backs of his thighs, and Lucius fell into the embrace, hips moving instinctively, thrusts heavy and unsteady and unending. His own arms encircled Remus’ torso, hands digging into the back of Remus’ shoulders, pinning him, not that Remus made any attempt to escape.

Sweat trickled between them, light breaking in the liquid like diamonds scattered over Remus’ skin, and Lucius moaned, the first sound he’d made since he’d first kissed Remus. As if it was a cue, Remus whispered, “Yes,” and something in Lucius broke. The last few thrusts were wild, hard in, holding as he came, then pumping helplessly, hips jerking in a ragged circle, as Remus held him tightly, and Lucius flew apart.

They lay there for some time together, not speaking, simply breathing. Remus was scenting him again, and Lucius found himself staring, unable to look away. Remus was breathtaking, slick and wet and sparkling.

“Shiny,” Lucius finally managed, his voice muffled as if it was trapped in his throat.

“You smell wonderful,” Remus muttered, sounding utterly distracted.

“You are mine,” Lucius told him fiercely, suddenly, “Unguibus et rostro.” Magic flared between them, settling within them.

Remus looked up from where he’d been rubbing his face against Lucius’ chest. “Goes both ways.” Silver light flickered in his amber eyes, and Lucius shivered.

“Of course it does,” he said more truthfully than he knew at the time. “Now. Are you hungry?” He reached for his wand and used a charm he’d learned when he’d first started courting. A tray of berries and heavy cream appeared on the side table.

Remus was still laughing when Lucius fed him his first bite. With his tongue.

Defeating Voldemort could wait until morning. First, he had a mate to feed. And fuck. And feed again. He smiled. Stamina and self-preservation; Veela and Slytherin. His heritage had been good for something, after all.

END

Latin notes:

Oratio oblique – second-hand report (used as a ‘prior incantantum’ for a conversation instead of a spell)

Tumulus – Burial mound

Stet fortuna domus – May the fortune of the house endure

In puris naturalibus – stark naked

Unguibus et rostro – tooth and nail (literally, with claws and beak)

Veela notes: I’ve based my veela characteristics on osprey, a breed of raptors. They find their prey by sight, as their eyesight is keen (but their sense of smell is nil). Remus, of course, finds his mate by smell, being a form of magical canine. I’ve also upped the age of maturity, as the school-age canonical Veela haven’t yet found their mates.

Osprey are especially abundant in Finland and Scandinavia (hence Lucius’ mother being a Norwegian Veela). Residential osprey populations (as opposed to migratory) breed during the winter months, early December to late February, so I set this story in January. Osprey are primarily monogamous and generally return to the same mate year after year. One characteristic of osprey mating patterns that caught my attention was the use of courtship feeding, when the males feed their mates just before the female lays her eggs. Given that Remus is perpetually underfed in canon, it seemed like an appropriate response from Lucius.

Osprey information gleaned from: http://animaldiversity.ummz.umich.edu/accounts/pandion/p._haliaetus

Osprey (isn’t he gorgeous?)