AU, taking place in Harry’s 5th or 6th year. Harry/Draco. Kinda like the overdone Veela fics, but with an Enchanter twist. Just read it and review it, please.

Oh, and I don’t own a bit of it, I just wish I owned Draco.

---

“Ow!” Draco hissed.

The house elf said nothing as it continued to rub astringent smelling balm over the aching slits beside his shoulder blades. It stung and bubbled, eating at the already present throb where they threatened to burst through.

Draco quieted, however, the moment his father stepped though the door.

The house elf skittered away, terrified, job only half done.

Lucius Malfoy did not spare it a glance. “How are they?”

“They’re fine. . . father,” Draco murmured through clenched teeth.

“I think,” said Lucius conversationally, “that they have taken far too long already,” he finished, stepping into the room and shutting the door firmly behind him.

Draco flinched at the noise.

“Perhaps I’ll just… hurry them up a bit.”

Lucius’s fingers stroked along the carved hilt of a long, sharp dagger lying like a falsely docile feline upon the bedside table. His fingers curled lovingly around the familiar ivory and he went to sit behind his son.

Draco braced himself, gripping the armrests and locking his jaw so hard it hurt, but he was still far from prepared.

He drew in a long, shuddering breath and his father placed a hand upon his back. A silent sob of anticipation wracked him as the flat side of the blade glided across his skin. Without warning, the point was dug into the slit on his right shoulder blade.

Tears welled and spilled over the closed lids of the slate gray eyes, but no sound escaped the tightly pursed lips of Draco Malfoy.

The blond boy could feel the knife searching diligently, till it brushed against something inside, causing white flashes of light to press against the backs of his eyelids. The pain was exquisite, searing, and then gone.

Something wet and sticky lay against his back, an extension of himself.

So caught up in slowing his breathing, Draco did not notice the knife until it was digging into the other slit. The search this time was brief, the pain no less agonizing, but not prolonged. Finally, Draco could relax.

He collapsed forward onto the desk. He attempted to move the muscled extensions that lay damp against his back, but they screamed from abuse and effort, and Draco gave up and into unconsciousness.

Draco rotated his shoulders, trying unsuccessfully to ignore how cramped they were. His mother stroked his back comfortingly, fingers skipping softly over the bindings.

“Find out who it is soon, and write us,” she said gently, tucking a few stray hairs behind his ear.

Draco nodded, kissed his mother on the cheek, and boarded the train without a backwards glance. He hurried to get a Prefects’ compartment to himself, and locked the door behind him. He peeled of his leather duster and black T-shirt, and then tenderly removed the bindings that lashed them down. He sighed as they stretched, then brought one forward to examine it. It was small still, but soft and downy. White with silver undersides, they nearly matched his hair. He lounged about on one of the benches, content to stretch after the long ride in the ministry car.

He pulled out a school book, not really paying attention to which it was and started idly flipping through it, taking long breaks to trail the tips of his wings against the pages or examine more closely the silky soft feel of them.

A harsh rap at the compartment door jerked him out of his admiration. “Who the hell is it?” he snapped.

A sarcastic voice answered him. “Your loving godfather and potions professor.”

“Shit!” Draco opened the door to admit Snape.

The corners of Snape’s lips twitched, but he did not actually smile. “Your wings are growing nicely,” he commented.

Draco frowned. “They’re still too small.”

Snape shook his head, smirking. “Don’t worry about them. Even if you don’t find her, your wings should be fully grown by the end of the school year.”

Draco sighed, folding one silvery wing in front of him to preen it. “I look ridiculous,” he said sulkily.

“You will say no such thing,” Snape said firmly.

Draco scowled. “I hate it. I hate these!” he hissed vehemently. “Ever since I turned sixteen, it’s all been turned inside out!”

“Things will right themselves,” Snape said soothingly. “And you needn’t worry about anyone else because I’ve arranged separate rooms for you.”

Draco smiled humorlessly. That’s what he had been afraid of, all the Slytherins, and even the rest of the school seeing him as some beast unfit to live with.

“It is unworthy of you to think it of them, or of yourself,” Snape said.

Draco smirked. More proof Snape could read minds.

His godfather gave him a small, rare smile. “We’re nearly there. Let me assist you with your bindings.”

Draco sighed and handed Snape the silk wrappings. “I wish they had never come out. All they are is an inconvenience.” He lifted his arms for Snape to adjust the bindings more easily.

“An Icarri is born only every one hundred years—”

“One from each of the two surviving Icarri bloodlines. Unfortunately, the other line died out, so there’s no one left to repopulate the ancient Icarri homeland. I know.”

“It won’t be as bad as you seem to think it will be. It’s not like it’s been kept secret, either, so it won’t come as a shock to anyone. You’ll probably be even more famous than Mr. Potter,” Snape said maliciously.

“Dumbledore’s Golden Boy? Why do I doubt it?”

“Ow, Ron, don’t poke my shoulder. It’s sore,” Harry grumbled from within another compartment.

“Did you strain a muscle, Harry?” Hermione asked concernedly.

“Uh. . . yeah,” said Harry, glad for once for his baggy clothing which hid the weird feathery growths on his shoulder blades from being too obvious. The last thing he wanted was Ron and Hermione to find out about him. He was sure it wasn’t normal.

Luna Lovegood entered the compartment. “Don’t lie, Harry,” she said slowly, blinking at him. “It’s so obvious.”

“What’s obvious?” Ron asked around a mouthful of treacle tart, spraying crumbs all over Luna and Harry.

“That they’re wings,” she said simply.

“What?” gasped Ron, choking on his treacle tart.

“Ooh, Harry! Let me see!” squealed Ginny.

“But you couldn’t be—” started Hermione.

The compartment door slid open and she trailed off. “Couldn’t be a what, Mudblood?” Malfoy sneered.

“Sod off,” Ron snapped. Harry, Hermione, and Ginny made noises of assent.

But Luna said, “Aren’t you an Icarri, too?”

Draco looked taken aback. “What do you mean by ‘too’? I’m the only one!”

“Tell that to Harry’s wings!”

“What?” Draco snapped. “Let me see!”

“Get off!”

“Come on!”

“Let him be!”

“Impedementa!”

“Dumbledore, there is no getting around it! The boy had wing buds!” Snape was shouting. Harry sat next to Draco and his family, having no clue what was going on. Draco’s face was buried in his mother’s hair, and Narcissa herself looked severely upset, her mouth a thin line. Lucius was livid, his hand in his robe, presumably gripping his wand. Finally, he spoke.

“I won’t have it!” he hissed. Draco began shaking.

Dumbledore frowned, took off his glasses, cleaned them with a bit of robe, and set them back on his long, crooked nose. “Well, if Harry is indeed from the supposedly ended line of Icarri, then I can’t see what you can do not to have it.”

“No!” shrieked Narcissa. “I will not give my child up to that!”

Harry was confused.

Dumbledore continued. “You have no choice. It is. . . fate, so to say. Though I would not have thought fate would have such a twisted sense of humor.”

Lucius stood, looking fit to cast the Cruciartus Curse.

“Mr. Malfoy, please, the bond will be formed whether you approve of it or not.”

Harry dimly noted that the look of fury changed from Cruciartus to Avada Kedavra worthy. But Lucius merely turned on his heel, snapped, “Snape,” and left. Snape followed in a swish of black robes.

“Narcissa—”

“I won’t!” she said, breathing heavily, clutching a trembling Draco to her.

“There is nothing to be done about it, Narcissa,” said Dumbledore patiently.

“But. . . him!”

Harry assumed Mrs. Malfoy was talking about him and found himself wondering how well she and his Aunt Petunia would get along. They could probably spend hours discussing how much they hated him, Harry thought, though without much feeling.

“It will be best, I think, to leave this matter to tomorrow. It will all seem much simpler, I’m sure, once we’ve all had a pleasant rest. I will escort Draco and Harry to their room—”

“What?” Harry gasped, speaking for the first time all evening.

“I’m sure Draco can describe the situation better than I can, if you care to ask him.”

Draco’s pale fingers spasmed slightly, his nails scraping at the lavender robes his mother wore.

Harry found himself detachedly wondering why everyone seemed to have gone mad.

---

Okay, I remember that someone, not a short amount of time ago, mentioned that this chapter was a bit confusing, mostly about Draco and the ordeal he had to go through to get his wings. deep breath Draco’s wings would have eventually come out on their own, I do believe I mentioned that he had “slits” on his back, BUT. . . Draco’s father is by no means a patient man. So Lucius decided to. . . hurry it up a bit. I suppose their would have been a chance that he could have done some permanent damage to Draco’s wing buds with that knife of his, however nothing else was sharp enough to get into Draco’s back and forcibly extract them. I suppose magic might have been a better way to go about it, but whatever. Any reason to give Lucius a knife in a story suits me just fine. :)