Delayed Inheritance
Delayed Inheritance
Delayed Inheritance
Harry’s eyes opened on the morning of his 23rd birthday and he closed them immediately against the harsh light coming in through his bedroom window. He shoved the duvet over his head and then opened them again, this time slowly acclimatising to the brightness.
He rolled over and was once again struck by the sinking feeling of waking up alone. It had been three months since Ginny had left him. After years of him, for some reason, delaying the inevitable marriage and wanting to start a family with her, she had had enough and he hated that he honestly couldn’t blame her.
It didn’t make the mornings any less difficult.
But the empty bed wasn’t the only thing that was heavy on Harry’s mind. As he brought himself around to consciousness, he noticed that he just felt…different. Slowly, he looked down at his body. His stomach and chest, which had been lean but not muscular, were suddenly taut and sinewy. He sat up and the duvet fell to expose the room to him. He looked over at the bright light coming in through the window and realised that he could not only see the window but also everything outside of the window perfectly, despite his glasses still sitting on the bedside table.
Feeling an itch on his back, Harry reached back to scratch it, only to find something feathery in his way. Looking over his shoulder, he let out what sounded like a screech and fell off the bed. His fall was cushioned however by the soft mass attached to his back. He looked up at his wardrobe mirror and his eyes widened.
Okay, he had wings now. That was new.
He looked in the mirror again at them. They were tight against his back but when he thought it, they began uncurling and spreading out so that they were straight across. They had to be at least ten feet from tip to tip and the feathers were a lovely golden brown colour.
What was happening to him? He had never heard of someone just waking up and suddenly sprouting wings. Maybe it was one of those things that happened but people didn’t really talk about, like Harry being a parselmouth.
He padded down to his library and thumbed through some of the books that he could find about creatures that could mate with humans, but couldn’t find anything about them not gaining abilities until later on in life. He thought he had heard before about some inheritances happening to wizards and witches, but it was generally around their late teen years rather than being twenty-three.
He sighed. He was supposed to be in work today, but he quickly penned a note to his commanding officer to say that he wasn’t feeling well. He gave a short laugh at the irony of that as he actually felt better than he had in ages, but there was no way that he could explain showing up to work with fucking wings.
He sat down for a few moments, trying to think of anywhere he could look to figure out what was happening to him, but his mind drew a blank. Then, seeing a letter that Hermione had sent him last week, he stood up so quickly he almost fell over. Of course, Hermione would know something. She was, afterall, the Minister for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, and she was also, well…Hermione. He knew that somewhere in her brain there had to be some knowledge of someone suddenly waking up on their birthday completely changed.
He went back upstairs to throw on some clothes. He stared at his t-shirt for a moment and then looked in the wardrobe mirror again. As if obeying his thoughts, his wings slowly compressed and moved closer and into his back and when he turned around, he could see that they were still there, but not nearly as wide and big as before. When he put on his t-shirt, he could barely tell they were there.
Smiling now, he headed back down to the library to floo to Hermione’s large house just outside of London. He just hoped that he caught her before she left for work. He arrived into her study and brushed himself off before heading to the door and letting himself into the house. He made his way through the kitchen and into the lounge before he saw her sitting on the sofa, watching the morning news and eating some cereal.
‘Hermione!’ he said and she turned around to look at him.
Her eyebrows furrowed. ‘Harry? What are you doing here? And where are your glasses?’ she asked, sounding every bit the mother hen.
He walked up to her and she sat her bowl down on the coffee table and stood up. He put his hands on her shoulders. ‘I really don’t know, Hermione, I just—I woke up this morning and—’ he stopped as he inhaled a breath. His nose was suddenly filled with the most amazing and delicious aroma that he had ever smelled. It was decadent, like dark chocolate and honey. He sniffed again and then looked around. ‘Are you baking something?’ he asked.
She tilted her head in confusion. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Harry, what is happening?’
He leaned forward and sniffed again and found that the smell was coming from Hermione. He couldn’t help himself as he took a long smell of her neck and he felt his whole body go taut from the feelings that filled his chest and his mind.
Mine.
‘Harry?’ she asked again and he pulled back to look into her face. He noticed her nostrils flaring as she took a deep breath in and her eyes changed very quickly from confusion to desire. He could see her pupils dilate and he grabbed her arms in his hands, pulling her body against his as he sniffed her neck again and then gave it a lick. She moaned and he felt the sound penetrate his entire body.
‘You smell so good,’ he groaned and then slowly lowered her down onto the sofa, lying over her as he licked and smelled her neck, feeling himself go hard with the anticipation. Finally, he licked and kissed up towards her lips and she was looking up at him with panting, baited breath.
Ow! he thought suddenly as something slammed into his side, pushing him off of Hermione and the sofa and then he felt himself being pinned to the floor. He looked up and saw fury and rage in the dark grey eyes of the man that had just attacked him. The wizard growled and said through gritted teeth, ‘What the fuck are you doing to my wife, Potter?’
Harry’s eyes widened again as he looked up at the blonde, his senses once again assaulted with a delightful smell that was just as intoxicating as Hermione’s but completely different, like pears and cinnamon.
‘No, Draco,’ Hermione said breathlessly from the sofa, putting a hand gently on Malfoy’s back. ‘Don’t hurt him. I don’t know how but he’s—he’s a—’
Malfoy’s nostrils flared and he looked down at Harry with a strange mixture of knowing and confusion. ‘He’s a Veela,’ he said.
A/N: Hi guys, just a random plot bunny that hopped into my head. Just wondering if the trope has been overused or if it's worth continuing?