Disclaimer: Don't own Harry Potter. If I did, you would know.

Warning: contains slash. Don't like, don't read.

Shangri-La

Harry Potter wondered through the thick, dark fog of sleep. He knew he was asleep, though he did not know how he knew, and it was for this reason that the absolute clarity of his thoughts and feelings disturbed his so thoroughly. Harry waded deeper into the miasma and slowly a strange sense of anticipation was added to his inner musings.

He was searching for something. He peered intently through the thickening fog and the need to find what he was searching for quickly became a want, then a hunger, and then, finally, a need so desperate that it was akin to the need to breath.

"Where are you?" He heard his own voice, trembling with desperation, break the stagnant silence. And then, as if only waiting for his summons, a shadowy figure appeared. The being remained draped in mist and moved like a storm cloud; ominous but graceful and strangely inviting. Harry did not hesitate to follow that cloud. He knew then and there that whoever that shadowy figure was, he would follow them to the ends of the earth.

Harry…A soft, lilting voice whispered through the darkness. Where are you, Harry? He moved toward the voice and the figure, willingly enraptured by its beauty. He wanted to call back to it but found his throat frozen and constricted as if incased in a block of ice.

Harry. Again that voice called out to him and he reached his arm out towards it, hoping to grasp something tangible. But to his horror, the figure did not come into his arms as he had hoped but began to fade slowly into the ever present mist. The figure was almost gone and Harry was beginning to cry from the knowledge that he would never know who this breathtakingly perfect creature was, when the fog began to clear. The figure reached out to his with as much desperation as he felt. The creature's pretty, perfectly manicured hand covered with skin so pale, it could have been moonlight.

Harry! The being whispered, with a hint of urgency and its reaching motion became more frantic. Harry, in turn, made a renewed effort to reach toward it.

Harry

Harry

Harry

Harry!

Harry was thrown into a sudden state of wakefulness by his best friend, Ron Weasley, who was looking down at him with an overly annoyed expression.

"Wake UP!" Ron hissed harshly under his breath.

"Hhhmmmuuphh," was his intelligent reply. He was still half-asleep after all.

"Wake up, genius. You've woken up half the dorm room with you stupid sleep-talking. You're not even saying anything entertaining. Only, 'Where are you?' and 'Don't go, don't go!'"

He looked around the dorm and found that what Ron had said was true. He had woken up half of the room's residents. Neville smiled at Harry reassuringly, no doubt convinced that he had had another bad nightmare about the war (The war with Voldemort which was, thankfully, over and had been so for almost half a year.). Seamus smirked at Harry from the farthest bed to the right, who Harry could tell was wondering which Hogwarts student he had been dreaming about, and Dean who lay limply in Seamus' arms and looked frankly too tired to care. Harry gave an apologetic look to his three other dorm mates and threw a half-hearted glare a Ron while stifling a yawn.

"What time is it?"

"'Bout 3:00 am"

"That was the weirdest dream."

"Was it prophetic? Well, no matter. You can tell us about it in the morning." With that, Ron put out his wand and rolled over, falling asleep almost immediately. The rest of his dorm mates followed suit. Harry was not at all surprised with his best friend's easy dismissal of his prophetic dreams. Back when Voldemort was still in power, Harry's prophetic dreams, or dream visions, almost always had to do with the dark lord and naturally were taken very seriously. However, after the dark lords death at Harry's own hands the visions had become much more varied, sometimes important and urgent but more commonly pointless little bits of some random persons life, somewhere in the world.

This dream though, had definitely not been random. However, Harry was hesitant to call it prophetic because it did not have the same feel as a vision but also felt too significant to be just a dream. No, it had felt more like a conversation through a veil. An attempt at communication with him by that amazingly perfect and beautiful…person? Could he really call that amazing creature a person? They had been far to enchanting for such a shoddy title.

Well, those were thoughts for the well rested, which he certainly was not. At that, Harry snuggled into the covers and fell into a light but restful sleep.

Draco Malfoy sat bolt upright in his four-poster bed at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, panting and in a cold sweat. It was the night of his sixteenth birthday and what he had long thought would be the happiest moment of his life. Oh, how wrong he had been.

It was a little known fact that the Malfoy line was wrought with absurdly strong Veela blood. A fact that was both a well kept secret within the Malfoy family and an infinite source of pride.

Veela were known to be able to find their mate after their sixteenth birthday. They were said to be able to identify their mates by smell and sensing. This, of course, was absolute stupidity. The truth was that every Veela has a dream the night of their sixteenth birthday in which the identity of their mate is revealed to them. This dream also acted as a trigger to awaken the Veela instinct, which then resulted in being driven crazy by the smell of their mate, amongst other things.

Draco had just had that long awaited dream. And who was his mate? Who was he destined to spend the rest of his life with? Harry-fucking-Potter. Draco buried his head in a pillow and let out a muffled scream.

"Draco, shut the fuck up," grumbled one of his dorm mates and best friend, Blaze Zambini. He let out a pathetic, un-malfoyish whimper in response, which had Blaze up and at his side in two seconds.

"Drake? You okay?" All Draco could do was nod dully. Thankfully, Blaze understood his lack of desire to talk and left him in peace. Harry Potter was his mate. The-Boy-Who-Wouldn't-Fucking-Die. He couldn't possibly spend the rest of his life with Potter. Even with the war over, Voldemort dead, and his father in Azkaban, it went against everything he had ever been taught. Harry Potter was the enemy. And you do not sleep with the enemy. And yet, the Veela in him hummed in pleasure at the idea of doing just that. Having his body pressed up against Harry's, kissing those soft lips, staring into those sparkling emerald eyes that so often had been full of hate but now shined with love…and then it hit him. Not only would he happily spend the rest of his life with Harry Potter, he also knew that there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell that Harry would feel the same way. Whether he liked it or not, Draco now knew that he only had a short time left to live. After all, a Veela who is rejected by their mate experiences a painful but rather quick death. He felt tears well in his eyes but wiped them away furiously. Malfoys don't cry. But no matter how hard he tried to calm and how many tears he wiped away, they just kept coming. Eventually Draco gave up his attempt at maintaining his dignity and cried himself to sleep. Something told him it would not be the last time.

"Wake up"

"Hmmmphh"

"Wake up!"

"NUuuu"

"WAKE UP YOU LAZY BITCH!"

"Holy shit!" Draco sat bolt upright in bed, looking around frantically for the source of the frightening noise. Finally, his eyes landed on Blaze Zambini, who sat perched on the end of his bed with his wand against his throat for a voice magnifying charm and a smirk firmly in place.

"Uh oh. Never tickle a sleeping dragon."

"What the hell do you want, Zambini?" Draco ground out, trying to look as menacing as he could with sleep reddened eyes and bed-head.

"Nothing, Sleeping Beauty." Another glare from Draco. "Just thought you might want to know that you've missed breakfast and classes will be starting is twenty minutes."

Harry strolled leisurely toward the dungeon with his books under one arms and a half eaten apple in the opposite hand. He was pleased to know that for once he might be a bit early to potions. After all, the last thing he needed was another detention with Snape. It was while his mind was occupied with the image of a gaping Snape, staring at Harry Potter, who sat in the empty dungeons ten minutes before even Hermione that it happened. He ran into something very soft yet quite solid. Or rather, he fell on top of it.

It was then that he saw a sight that he doubted any other Hogwarts student could boast seeing. Draco Malfoy…with bed-head. He looked down at Malfoy who was obviously out of breath but still managed a rather scathing glare.

"Potter, if you would kindly get off me. I do have better things to do with my time than lay on my back in the middle of the hallway." Why did the idea of Malfoy on his back sound so delicious? Why did his tousled hair and shortness of breath make Malfoy look, dare he say, fuckable? Sure, Harry knew he was gay but, come on. Malfoy?

"Potter!" Harry shook himself out of his musings to look down into steely grey eyes that flashed with anger, and passion, and…nervousness? Why would Malfoy be nervous? And then, everything changed. Now, his eyes flashed in a different way. No longer was there anger and hatred but instead, determination. And, oh god, what was that wonderful smell? He felt his mind become hazy with the enchanting scent. And then…

Harry. That voice! The beautiful creature from his dream! But the words were coming from Malfoy's mouth and he realized that the voice did sound quite a bit like Malfoy's. He felt Malfoy's hand reach upward and caress his cheek, pulling him down slightly toward him. Oh my GOD! Malfoy was going to kiss him. And he found that he didn't want to pull away. In an instant, their lips were together in a fiery kiss. No longer did it matter that this was Malfoy. No, now this was the other half of his soul. The kiss was passionate yet gentle, it was perfect. He heard Malfoy's voice in his mind, muttering possessively. Mine. My mate. Harry tore away from the kiss immediately. Mate? And then reality came crashing down. He had just kissed Draco-bleeding-Malfoy. His school rival for almost six years. Did Malfoy really think that he could just prance up to him, kiss him, and he would forget all that bad blood between them? Was he really so arrogant that he thought Harry would just jump into bed with him at the first chance? A angry yes echoed in his mind. This was, after all, Malfoy. The most arrogant git on the face of the planet. Well, Malfoy had picked the wrong in-the-closet gay savior of the wizarding world to screw with!

"Who the hell do you think you are?"

"Listen, Potter." In Harry's opinion, he sounded a little bit too serious given their current position on the floor in the middle of the hallway. "This isn't easy for me to say, so I'm only going to say it once. And I warn you now, however you react to this better be how you really feel. It's actually a life or death situation."

Harry looked anxiously at Malfoy. No matter how much of a git Malfoy was, he was still making Harry curious, as well as invoking his hero complex with the life of death thing. Malfoy took a deep breath as if to compose himself.

"Harry Potter, I'm in love with you."

He's laughing! The bloody bugger was laughing at him after confessing his undying love for him. How dare he?! Who cares if Potter was his mate, he was going to kill the bastard. Draco whipped out his wand and pressed it to Potter's jugular with every intention of hexing the boy wonder halfway to London. Well, it sure got Potter to stop laughing.

"My God," he said. "You're bloody serious, aren't you?" Draco nodded his head slowly and looked up at Potter through his lashes, secretly horrified with the blush of embarrassment he knew stained his cheeks.

"Yes, I want you to go out with me." He knew that from the moment the words left his lips that he didn't have a chance. Draco lowered his wand to his side, a resigned smile on his face. He recognized the look on Potter's face. It was the same look he forced onto his own features right before he rejected a girl that he did not particularly want to hurt.

"Just get it over with Potter. If you're going to reject me, I would much rather have it straight out." Potter's shoulders slumped and he ran his hand through his already tousled hair, giving it that 'just fucked' look. It was a nervous habit that he had developed sometime during third year.

"Listen Malfoy," Draco bristled at the impersonality. "You're good looking and all but we're rivals. We've hated each other since we were eleven. Now, all of the sudden, you love me? You want me to ignore all those years of spite? I'm sorry, but I don't think I can do that. The answer is no." He had been expecting this, of course. Potter's body language had screamed out the words before they had left his mouth. But for some reason, the foreknowledge did nothing to ease the sudden pain. And immediately he knew what this feeling was. Death. Everything his father had told him about Veela mating and the possibility of rejecting was true. He had anywhere between two to five days to live.

"The answer is no." Saying such cruel words felt so wrong, even if this was Malfoy. Nor did the other boy's defeated expression help to ease that guilt. Malfoy's head dropped down to his chest and if Harry didn't know Malfoy better, he would have thought the other boy was crying.

"Harry," croaked the broken voice of the other boy. Malfoy swayed dangerously on his feet and he moved forward instinctively to catch him. Malfoy's head shot up at the unexpected touch and Harry for his eyes locked with stormy grey. And Harry was faced with a disturbing and terribly familiar sight. A dimness that he had seen time and time again during the war. Resting in the recesses of Malfoy's beautiful eyes was the shadow of death. Slowly those shaded eyes began to slide shut and Harry was overcome with panic.

"Malfoy, don't you dare die on me!" He shook the other boy into wakefulness. The blond looked at him with a phantom amusement and leaned gently against his chest. Harry let him, not wanting to ruin what might be the other boy's last moments.

"Don't worry, Potter. I'm not dead yet. Still have a day or so till-"To his surprise Malfoy wrenched himself violently from Harry's arms and threw up on the floor. Malfoy trembled visibly from the strength that standing up on his own required. He turned back to Harry with a sad but disturbingly tranquil smile.

"Oh, Harry my love. I guess I never had a chance." And the slytherin fainted right into his arms.