A/N: I've had an itch to try my hand at a Severitus and a Draco!Veela Drarry for a bit, so this fic is going to be a mix of both. I have no specific idea where it's going, so it might end up as quite an interesting tale by the time I'm through. I am quite a fan of Lucius and Snape, so be warned. :P Please read the warnings below and if it's not your cup of tea, then hope over to my profile and find something else to read. ^_^

Summary: AU. Few canon elements, if at all. An abused Harry transports himself to the Malfoy Manor during summertime and is found by Lord and Lady Malfoy and promptly adopted by their Veela son, Draco, who is inexplicably drawn towards the quiet, shy boy, with strong 'good' magic. Severus Snape is roped into the role of a father when the Malfoys aren't quite sure how to raise a missing Harry Potter without raising a ruckus. Chaos. Fluff. Drama and Family Bonding occur through this ridiculously off-kilter fic.

WARNINGS: This fic contains SLASH(meaning m/m) and multiple pairings as well as some mentions of child abuse. If you disagree with any of this, please find something else to read. Current Pairings include : ( and DracoxHarry)

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing, Harry Potter and his world belongs to J.K. Rowling, I just like playing with her characters.

"Severus?" Lucius stuck his head around the doorway of the potions laboratory. It didn't take his silver eyes long to settle on the tall, composed figure hovering over no less than five simmering cauldrons bearing potions in various stages of completion.

There was an answering grunt from his favorite Slytherin Severus Snape, Potions Master, as the man barely moved from his favorite place—directly at the center before a table bearing enough cauldrons filled with decidedly complicated potions to keep his hands humming and busy as well as his mind.

"Were you going to stop by this weekend, after this batch finishes, of course?"

There was another grunt.

"Draco's home from the Zabini's. He'll ask for you."

"He usually does." Severus acknowledged, stirring one pale colored potion a half-dozen turns clockwise.

A comfortable silence settled over the room.

Severus worked with a graceful, quiet efficiency that the blond man could appreciate. Lucius lounged comfortably in the doorway, making no move to enter his mate's domain. He'd learned—quickly—just what buttons to push and which ones were absolutely forbidden. He could step down onto the first step and no further into his beloved's domain.

When he grew tired of balancing in the doorway, he stepped into the laboratory and braced against the doorjamb, his feet planted firmly on the first step.

Several long moments later, the Potions Master ladled the finished potions into vials, corking and waxing them appropriately. His distinctive spidery scrawl appeared on the blank labels with a careless wave of one hand. There was no need to use his wand for something that was so second nature.

A pale blond eyebrow arched neatly in a wordless acknowledgement of the silence between them and the finality of the evening as Severus finally wound his way from around the potions tables and started towards the doorway.

The visible shiver from the younger wizard caused the faintest twitch of the Potion Master's lips as he approached, dark eyes raking over the formerly relaxed figure. "Lucius." He greeted, backing the man up the first step and into the hallway as he mentally ordered the lab to close and ward itself.

A faint whine left the blond's lips as Severus leaned closer, but not close enough.


"Yes, Lucius?"

The delightedly dark tone in the older wizard's voice sent another wave of enjoyable shivers down the younger man's body.

"Will…you…come?" He managed to gasp out as those lovely pale fingers slid beneath his robes and began to toy with the body beneath. "Cissy will be glad to see—no!" The whimpered protest came as the hands stilled at the mention of Lady Malfoy. "Severus."

A powerful wave of gentle calm washed over the blond and a the hint of fire slowly tapered off as the dark-haired Veela drew his mate close. "And did Draco want to see me or…Narcissa?"

"She loves you too." Lucius pouted—the expression adorable—his own Veela nature slowly coming into play. "She let me have you."

Severus gave a rather undignified snort. "She doesn't let you do anything." He said, briskly, disentangling himself from the initiated contact. "I haven't the time to spare this weekend. Things have come up."

"Things always come up." The whine was shifting more to a hurt tone. "You hardly come home, Severus. You spend every minute—almost—here at Hogwarts. We miss you." He swallowed. "I miss you."

The darkened figure straightened, imperceptibly and turned on his heel, heading down the hallway from the basement lab towards the upper dungeons and his private quarters. "I cannot spare the time now." He said, stiffly.


A backlash of raw anger crackled through the bond between the mated paired and Lucius shrank back against his own will. Rarely did Severus ever draw on his dominant status, but when he did—inadvertently or not—the younger wizard knew to obey the very reasons ingrained in his being.

There was an abrupt sigh from the end of the hallway and Severus turned, rubbing his head with one hand and then pausing to pinch the bridge of his nose. He took in the injured expression on Lucius's expressive face and then the dejected, defensive slump of his mate's posture. He had been the one to cause that.

His Veela instincts had already begun to pester him to right things through some overly sappy way of public affection in a rather physical way. Severus merely ground his teeth tighter together, until he could mentally snap up the reins of his rampant Veela genes and barely existent emotions.

He could not afford to take time off from the Potion Brewing regimen—not when it had been ordered by Albus Dumbledore on behalf of the Order of the Phoenix—and not when there had been such recent rumors of the Dark Lord surfacing.

Already, the few scant years of almost-contentment he'd had now seemed scarcely enough to carry him through the rest of his life, if the nightmare he lived as a spy of Light were to suddenly become an open an available position.

Of all the things in his life that bore worthwhile regret, this was one of the few that Severus Snape accepted and acknowledged.

He'd never have taken the Dark Mark if he knew.


A sniffle at the end of the corridor had him whirling in a spectacular swirl of his teaching robes and he barely managed to temper the glare he nearly fixed on his sniffling mate.

"Lucius?" He forced his voice to be softer than the lovely silken drawl that it usually was.

There was no answer.

"Lucius." He tried again. "I didn't…" He hesitated. No, Severus Snape was not a man who apologized and therefore, saw no real reason to begin now than he ever had in the past. Even when his suppressed instincts were all but screaming bloody murder in the back of his mind. "Luce?" He tried, this time, even lower and softer.

The bowed head of blond slowly lifted, shimmering silver eyes meeting dark, onyx orbs. With rather dramatic ceremony, the younger wizard stalked forward and flung his arms around the taller man, hugging him fiercely.

That, the blond thought smugly, he knew he could get away with.

He was right, of course.

Nothing happened.

Nothing happened while Severus Snape, brilliant potions master, a master of mind arts and bonded Veela allowed himself the common compulsion of thinking on the level of ordinary wizards.

Nothing made sense.

While nothing made sense, Lucius continued to hug him and pretend cry into those lovely, soft robes and Severus found himself tracing abstract shapes on the man's shoulders and back in some befuddled attempt to calm him.

Severus did realize—belatedly—when he stared down into shimmering silver orbs that his mischievous mate hadn't really been crying after all. (To his knowledge, the silver-eyed beauty had only cried three times in their years together and every single occasion had been for sheer relief or joy.) The eyes sparkled merrily up at him and the strong arms locked around his waist tightened even further.

"Come home to Malfoy Manor, Sev." The blond Veela literally purred, nuzzling his face against the soft, black robes. "Stay the weekend." He began to return the favor of tracing figures up and down the Potion Master's back. "You know you miss me." He whispered. "You know you want me…"

Severus swallowed hard.

"You've been ignoring me." Delectable pink lips curled into a half-pout. "There'd better not be anyone else—mmph!"

The accusation was interrupted to the best of Severus's expert ability. He rectified the situation in short order, by capturing the head and shoulders of said mate and drawing him close enough to kiss the man senseless.

Happiness flowed freely through the bond in the next few minutes that followed as Severus gave and took freely from what was his.

Lucius quite happily returned the favor.

When Severus did pull away—albeit reluctantly (and somewhat breathlessly, if one must be accurate)—with only slight difficulty he managed to sooth his distressed mate with promises to come 'soon' and reassurances that there was absolutely no cause for jealousy. The only other thing occupying his current expanse of nearly unlimited free time (Hogwarts was out of session after all) were his precious potions and that idiotic Headmaster.

"So you'll come?" Lucius prompted, again. He almost hadn't come—after all, two could play at this game—but he knew Severus and the older man would most likely turn grey before he ever admitted anything about the true depth of their bond and what prolonged absences could do during such strange times. He'd been so restless around Malfoy Manor that his darling wife had kicked him out with a sweet smile and direct orders to go and find Severus.

The lovely lady hadn't said what to do after he found said Potions Master, so Lucius had gladly improvised when his Veela instincts began to surge to the forefront. He really had been away from Severus for too long and it showed in rather embarrassingly obvious ways. He hadn't found himself this—ruffled—in quite some time.

One half of him was rather pleased that in spite of his outward protestations, Severus hadn't made any real moves to push him away, instead, the dark-haired man had merely seemed to relax even further into the 'forced embrace' and when the snogging had started, well, Lucius wasn't about to protest.

He did try—when Severus reluctantly pulled away—but the blond could see the lingering traces of regret in his mate's eyes and knew that whatever reasons the older wizard held close, they were important enough for him to respect them—so he did.

Of course, he had made sure to prompt his forgetful and sometimes annoyingly unflappable wizard to promise to come and meet them soon, being sure to remind him that his beloved godson would be present.

Severus had shooed him off with muttered grumbles of hexes and curses that would never, ever, of course, be cast, but were simply said for the normality of it all. Lucius had all but floated out of the dungeons and to outside the Hogwarts wards where he could apparate properly to Malfoy Manor.

In the disturbingly cheerful house on Number 4 Privet Drive, one scrawny little boy hunched, sobbing silently into his skinny arms in the darkened corner of the cupboard under the stairs. A trickle of dried blood had dribbled down one corner of his face and his head throbbed something awful as the poor thing attempted to expel the sorrow of his young body in the only way a human could—tears and raw anguish.

The heart-breaking sight was more so for the sole fact that nary a sound even existed in that dark domain of a cupboard. The injured boy bawled quite openly and dejectedly, a final attempt to ease the burden on his young shoulders, but no one had even noticed.

No one had heard.

No one had come.

No one would come.

It had been many years after all—at least, very many, to the little boy beneath the stairs in the cupboard.

No one had ever come before, so this time, would be no different than the others.

He would simply be destined to life his imperfect life at the hands of the cruel relatives that saw nothing wrong with treating him like the freak they claimed he was.

The cries subsided after a while—much sooner than one would think—and then the dark-haired, green-eyed boy began to coax his weary mind to wander with the only pastime he had—his imagination. He bid himself to dream of things he could never have—would never have, after all, freaks like him didn't deserve such privileges—and he was certainly a prime specimen of a freak.

But in his child's mind, that wonderful imagination was like magic—good magic—especially since Uncle Vernon all but when to pieces when the word was mentioned, so it was probably because of bad magic, because good magic ought to be good and therefore not hurt anyone or cause any trouble and to do good things.

Good things like rescuing children and giving them a second chance—even if they were horrible freaks who didn't deserve a second chance or food or clothes or toys or anything, really. In the mind of this tattered Harry James Potter, good magic was good. It simply was.

And even good magic would help a freak, if that freak tried their very best to be good, wouldn't it?

The more he thought of it, the more his imagination liked it and so little Harry let himself dream. He dreamed of where he could live in a house so big, that he'd never have time to explore every single room. He'd have someone to play with—maybe, if they were nice, but then again, with good magic, he would only meet good people, yes? With his good friends, they could explore the house and they could have fun together. They would eat good food and wear nice clothes without stains, holes or tears in them. They would be able to smile without mean people thinking they were causing mischief by allowing the tiniest of smiles to show through.

And perhaps…perhaps, Harry thought, he might have a Mummy and a Daddy, just like his precious cousin Duddikins did. Harry wrinkled his nose for a moment, the good imaginations coming to a temporary pause as he thought about that and then shook his head.

He wanted a real Mummy and Daddy, not like how his Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were always fawning and crooning over Dudley. Harry suppressed a shudder. No, he just wanted a Mummy that would hold him if he fell down and scraped his knee—to kiss away the horrible ache in his head that was really starting to hurt—and to fix him snacks and give him stickers for doing his homework, if he ever had homework to do besides chores.

Harry hiccupped softly, the imagination playing out so beautifully in his mind that he yearned with every little fiber of his being to leap right into such a precious reality. If only…! The thought lingered and teased and taunted him in his poor, throbbing head.

If only he could have someone to love him. Someone that would love him forever, that would care—really care—and would never let anyone hurt him. Harry squeezed his eyes shut even tighter, his head really did hurt far worse now that it had before.

He chewed one dry cracked lip, before realizing that action brought more pain than good and then worry began to crowd the good imaginations away. Harry sucked in a soft gasp of air. No! He didn't want the good imaginings to go away, he wanted them to stay, to stay here with him!

But the elusive picture of the enticing home wrought with 'good magic' was now beginning to fade quite nicely into the dulls of his mind as Harry felt a peculiar stab of pain in his head and his chest at precisely the same moment.

A squeak of pain escaped.

The little boy gritted his teeth together, repeating the mantra over and over in his head, the special words that usually made everything seem not quite so bad.

It could be worse. It could be worse. It could be worse. He chanted over and over in his head. It could be worse. It could be worse. It could be—oh, OW! That did hurt!

The throbbing eased somewhat, when Harry stubbornly set his face in a scowl and tried desperately to bring the happy mental images back to him. The fight began to exhaust his already overstressed body and he sagged, limply, into the awkward corner of his cupboard bedroom.

The pain in his chest grew worse, until he began to cry again, great shuddering sobs that made his nose stuffy, his head hurt all over again and just well—everything hurt after that and when the good magic images began to fade, Harry desperately clung to them.

If only, if only! He thought, frantically.

I wish. He sobbed. I wish I lived with them!

And then, there was a soft, quiet pop and the miserable little lad in the cupboard beneath the stairs, disappeared without a trace.

Quietness continued in the rest of the house of Number 4 Privet Drive and none of the other occupants knew a thing. They never even suspected that such a thing could be possible, after all, only freaks could do such things, right?

A/N: Ah, things will get better for Harry soon. I hope this is off to a good start. I just needed to get this plot bunny out of my head so I can focus on the mountain of homework before me...argh...Review if you like and let me know what you think! ^_^