Chapter Text
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It is the evening before Ricky’s eighteenth birthday and yet he sits curled over a desk in his dormitory, shivering slightly with nerves or cold. Milky blue light falls through a nearby window and turns his hair true silver so that he glows even in the night; Ricky sometimes wishes that the Slytherin dorms were in a tower so that he could gaze at the moon and stars, but tonight he is too preoccupied to notice.
His fingers curl tightly around a snowy quill but he does not write, hovering it over a blank notebook instead. He is waiting, frozen in place, his feet tucked up on the chair and his sharp chin propped on his knee as he stares and stares at the page.
Around him he can hear the soft snores of his roommates, velvet emerald drapes drawn around their beds as they dream, but sleep eludes him tonight. He is too anxious, too excited, too filled up with emotion to settle his mind or reach the land of dreams. Ricky has been preparing for tomorrow since childhood and yet still he does not feel ready, even as he longs for the hours of this last night to speed by.
His frozen figure gives a little start, ripples spreading through him, as upon the blank notebook page words in a curly script appear. Ricky bends closer, using the black-blue light from the window to read by.
Do not fret, darling, the notebook tells him, the handwriting as familiar to him as his own because his mother has been writing to him since his first day at Hogwarts. Your mate will match you perfectly and will love you for exactly who you are. They will see your beauty, inside and out, and adore you wholly. It is nothing less than you deserve.
Ricky exhales softly, something tense in him going loose, and traces a fingertip over the words. He can practically hear them in his mother’s voice, can smell her jasmine perfume and the soft tickle of her white-blonde hair against his cheek. How he wishes she were with him for this most momentous day.
Thank you, mother, he writes, his own words just as curling and intricate. I cannot wait. I only hope you will adore my mate as deeply as you care for me.
The reply is much quicker this time and Ricky can sense his mother’s amusement in her words. We love them already, darling. Your mate will belong to our family and thus we eagerly anticipate welcoming them home. Your Finding will be spectacular, sweetheart. Sleep now, and know that we watch over you.
Comforted at last, his remaining worries soothed away by his mother’s words and the reminder of his family’s love and support, Ricky closes the notebook with a little smile. His head feels lighter, less burdened by anxieties, and now only bubbling golden champagne races around his body. He glances at the grandfather clock standing against the far wall, noting that the tiny hands point to a crescent moon– almost midnight, then.
When he wakes, he will be transformed. Ricky uncurls himself from the chair and pads towards his bed, eyelids heavy now that no more barbed fear remains in his belly to snap at him. He turns his thoughts only to his mate, the match to his soul, and the red string of fate that will materialize in the morning and lead him to them.
Settling under his soft blankets, Ricky lays his head upon the fluffy pillows and closes the drapes with a swish of his ash wand. He doesn’t realize how truly exhausted he is until he closes his eyes and then, suddenly, he is drifting on the brink of sleep.
Tomorrow, he thinks blearily, curling his fingers under his chin and almost imagining they are already tipped in silvery claws, it all begins tomorrow.
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Ricky wakes suddenly, violently, his whole body jolting upright. There is none of the exaltation he had expected, none of the glorifying light his mother has always described to him when she speaks of her own presentation. Around the closed drapes of his bed other boys dress and chatter, the door swinging open and then closed again, but Ricky feels only— pain.
A terrible cramping ripples in his belly and shoots tendrils of pain up his spine and down towards his hips, his shoulder blades as hot and sensitive upon his back as if he has been burnt. The tips of his fingers are red and swollen, incredibly painful as he tries to uncurl them, and even his jaw hurts; a kind of aching, never-ending pulse of pain in his mouth that makes Ricky want to never breathe again.
He hisses air out between his teeth instinctively and then doubles over, regretting it, unable to even clutch his head or rub his throbbing stomach because everything hurts. His bones are made of liquid pain and his nerves are being scorched to nothing in an endless burn, then reignited by acid. It’s a terrible feeling, as if he’s survived a thestral attack but now must suffer the effects without any healing potions.
Ricky moans slightly and flops back onto his pillows, swallowing down a tiny scream at all the muscles in his body that protest his sudden movement. He knows only a moment’s relief before he is thrashing upon his soft mattress, his shoulder blades so sensitive that he feels as if he is being stabbed by twin blades in his back. The pain forces him to roll to his side, relieving the pressure, and there he pants lightly, his arms limp on the bed and his swollen fingers curled towards the ceiling as he waits for death to claim him.
This is unbearable. Ricky cannot understand what is happening, cannot understand why his body is forcing him through this torture when his mother has assured him time and time again that presentation is painless, is as gentle as a rainstorm. This, what he is feeling now, is a hurricane of misery.
Gradually the dorm quiets as his roommates finish dressing and grabbing their books and push out the door, likely headed down to the Great Hall for breakfast. Ricky had intended to go with them, had intended to show off his new features to his friends, but now he doubts he will ever leave this bed again.
He will die here, he is sure of it. His parents will be summoned to Hogwarts by Headmaster Lim and they will bury him in the family cemetery, perhaps under that weeping willow he’s always liked. His little sister will grow up without him and he won’t ever get to graduate Hogwarts, won’t ever meet his mate or travel to America or figure out what, exactly, the purpose of a rubber duck is.
Ricky resigns himself to his fate, only a little sad because he truly cannot bear the pain and he will take anything that makes it go away, and closes his eyes. He pants lightly, trying to breathe around his painful teeth and swollen tongue, and hopes only that death arrives quickly.
Yet in a flash the pain pulsing at his fingertips crystalizes, sharp as a knife piercing his skin, and Ricky has time only to whimper at the sensation before his hands start to cool. The pain is gone, from his fingers at least, and as he tentatively cracks his eyes open he is greeted by long, silvery nails sprouting from his hands.
His claws are sharp, wickedly so, and yet Ricky cannot help but admire them as he turns his hands over, admiring the gleam of light on silver. He has seen his mother cut down a tree with her own talons, has watched her score marble and slice through a sword, but he has also grown up with her cupping his face in her claws with all the tenderness in the world. He knows his claws can be instruments of pain or sweetness but, for Ricky, he cares only to use these new silver talons in defense of his mate.
Just as he is slicing through the corner of his blankets, testing out his new claws, the pain in his mouth crystalizes once more. This hurt is worse, brighter, but when Ricky finally opens his eyes and stops holding all the air in his chest, he finds that another part of his body has changed.
He carefully runs his tongue over newly sharpened teeth, his canines lengthened into small fangs that are dull enough not to cut his own mouth yet strong and pointed enough to pierce skin if necessary.
Ricky is pleased at this change, already anticipating all the ways he can gently mark his mate as his own mother has marked his father all his life. When Ricky was little, and too tired to run through their estate yet not quite ready for bed, he would curl up in his father’s arms and trace tiny, fascinated fingers over the pretty marks decorating his skin. The reddish-purple circles faded with time and Ricky felt like it was a fun scavenger hunt, trying to find new ones, but there was one mark that always remained.
His father bears a silvery scar high on his throat, just above his pulse, that never fades or disappears. Ricky always liked to reach for it with his small hands, liked to press his tiny palm against it and hear the story of how his mother and father fell in love.
He wants a love story with his own mate, wants to sink his newly sharpened fangs into his mate’s throat or wrist or wherever they will allow him to. He wants to mark them as his, wants to tie himself to his mate for forever, and cement the thrumming bond of love that he’s watched glimmer between his parents all his life.
Even as he bows under the weight of his pain, even as he presses his palms carefully against his cramping stomach, Ricky is pleased. He won’t die now; he is going to survive his presentation, no matter how tormented he is, because each pain equals a new attribute that will be used in service of his mate.
When the ache in his stomach swirls, heightens, Ricky squeezes his eyes shut and swallows his moans of pain even as he eagerly awaits this next change. Cool relief sweeps through him after several agonizing moments and though there is nothing visibly different, nothing he can see, Ricky feels the difference. His magic, always so steady, feels– wild. Dangerous, untamed, as fickle and impetuous as any kelpie or storm demon.
Ricky breathes in smoke and burnt sugar and the wild rushing of wind, inhales crushed flower petals and the faint glimmer of pixie dust. His magic is a living stallion inside him, stomping across his ribcage and thundering through his veins, lighting up his insides so that every part of him is painted in wild lightning.
He feels electrified, alive, burning wildly bright with a feverish kind of power that he doesn’t understand how to manage. Ricky cannot care, though, cannot pay mind to the roiling in his chest and belly because the pain of his swollen shoulder blades, already so heavy, has turned oppressive.
This is the worst hurt of all, the most torturous, and as his shoulders throb and ache and pulse in time with his skipping heart, Ricky can do nothing but try to stay afloat. He presses his newly sharpened teeth into his tongue until he tastes copper and he claws his bedsheets into ribbons and he thrashes so violently that any spectator would think he was truly dying.
There is a horrible building pain in his shoulders, the throbbing pain mounting and mounting in a horrible wave that will surely drown him, and then that pressure flashes so bright and white hot that Ricky’s skin can do nothing but split open. Two lines of fire scorch down his back and he screams, silently, because this must be how Lucifer felt when he fell from heaven.
The horrible burning lasts only for a second or two and then there is a new sensation, completely foreign, a new awareness awakening in Ricky’s brain as crumpled wings push through the wounds in his back. It is as if he is experiencing his own birth, though only for parts of himself; he can feel the wings as they emerge from him, can feel the muscles and bones and length of them as clearly as he can feel any other part of his body.
Ricky thinks and the wings twitch, try to extend, then crumple uselessly again. The burning in his back and the pain still radiating up and down the length of his spine fades in comparison to this new strangeness, these two new parts of his body that he has carried all of his life and yet somehow never once felt. Ricky thinks, again, and this time the wings half open before flopping back against his sheets.
Opening his eyes, huffing up at the ceiling, Ricky cannot dampen the excitement and joy roaring through him as wildly as his magic. The two feed one another, twisting higher and higher, and so soon he thrums where he lies atop his bed even though his skin is glossed in sweat and he can taste copper on the back of his tongue.
Ricky has informed his professors months in advance of today’s importance and so he has no obligation to attend classes, no responsibilities for the day save his mate and the Finding. His presentation has not been at all what he expected, none of that gentle transition from human to Veela, and yet Ricky’s joy cannot be tamped down.
Finally, today, it is his birthday. At last he is eighteen, at last he is transformed into his true self. He imagines he can feel the ghosts of his ancestors all around him, their hands on his shoulders and their luminous smiles aimed at him as he takes up the mantle of their family legacy. It feels good, right, heavy in the way that all the best things are.
Ricky’s chest swells with pride and he chirps without meaning to, a tiny sound of pure happiness that he’s heard his mother make many times. He’s never produced such a sound himself, however, and he almost claps his hands to his mouth in excitement before he remembers his new razor claws. His wings twitch against the sheets, unconsciously, and this time they almost manage to unfold.
Ricky blinks his blurry eyes until they focus and then tips his head down, staring furiously at his chest for any hint of red. No string leads from his chest off into the distance, though, and he tries to console himself even as his spirits and magic both fall.
He knows that the string of fate could appear at any hour of his birthday, knows that it takes both time and magic to materialize and so he must be patient. The string is an incarnation of the bond he has shared with his mate from birth, made visible on this day and this day only, and Ricky is incredibly eager for it to appear so that he can follow the pull of the universe towards the other half of his soul.
He has only the twenty-four hours of his birthday to find his mate and, as he has so often worried about to his mother, if his mate lives on the other side of the world he will have to employ all manner of magic to reach them. Ricky knows he can do it, knows that his family is ready and waiting to assist him in this most important of treasure hunts, yet still he cannot help but to feel impatient.
If he only has a scant few hours to find his mate then he wants the string to materialize as quickly as possible, wants to follow that pull in his chest towards the person he will love for the rest of his very long life.
Now that the pain in his body has mostly subsided, or at least cooled to a manageable degree, Ricky decides to prepare himself for his mate.
The Finding– the journey he will go on to search out his mate and then present himself to them as their match, their other half, their soulmate— is the most important thing he will ever do and he wants to look impeccable. He stumbles out of his bed, almost falling under the unfamiliar weight of his wings, and ends up dragging them inelegantly across the cold stone towards the showers.
Ricky sheds his ruined pajamas and steps under the spray of hot water, wincing at the feeling of water pounding down on his wings and back and still aching torso. His magic is a wild ball in his chest, spinning fast as a cyclone, and without meaning to he begins to heat the water to such a high temperature that it vaporizes. Clouds of steam fill the shower, billowing around his feet and the pinkish water swirling down the drain, but Ricky doesn’t notice.
He is trying too hard to figure out how to wash his hair and face with his hands tipped in long, lethal claws, the silvery strength of them even brighter under the water. He tries desperately to open his bottles of soap and then eventually gives up, frowning down at his nails and wondering how, exactly, to retract them. He’ll have to ask his mother soon– Ricky is not willing to give up on washing his face.
With wandless magic he rubs soap into his pale hair and lathes bubbles over his body, covering himself in the deliciously tart scent of yuzu until he feels completely clean. His skin quickly turns red and wrinkled under the boiling water but Ricky likes it, allowing the spray to work over the painful muscles of his back and soothe some of the cramps in his chest from his newly unleashed magic.
His bare feet almost slip on the wet tiles as he steps out of the shower and Ricky feels his wings flare instinctively, great feathers unfolding to catch the air and keep him upright. It’s incredibly strange, and a little frightening, but as he swipes his palm over the foggy mirror he can’t wait to finally glimpse his transformed self entirely.
Ricky has grown up with a Veela mother and so he knows what she looks like in her transformed state, is incredibly familiar with the soft downy feathers of her inner wings and the glitter of her talons and her sharp, pretty teeth. He knows the strange things she can do with her magic and the improbable feats she can accomplish if Ricky or his sister or father are ever in danger.
And yet– and yet his reflection is wholly different, somehow, when he stares through the steam and vapor at himself. The mirror, silver already, shows him a person so brightly glowing and luminescent that Ricky can’t believe the truth of what he sees.
He has always been beautiful, yes, but now he is— radiant. Ricky is a morning star made human, liquid mercury poured into skin and bones, and he finds himself entranced by the being who gazes back at him with icy gray-blue eyes that are too pale and light in his already pale face.
His skin has taken on a pearlescent sheen, almost glowing with an inner light, and his hair has changed from blonde to true snow white. The claws at his fingertips glitter as brightly as true silver, long and dangerously sharp, and when Ricky bares his red lips in something that might be a smile he sees his little fangs. His face is sharper somehow, more sculpted, as if every ounce of baby fat or softness has been stripped from his skin and bones.
Best of all, feathery white wings arc above Ricky’s shoulders and press softly against his bare back and calves because he still hasn’t figured out how to hold them up. He twists away from his reflection, glancing back at the appendages that feel so foreign and yet fill up his senses. The feathers of his wings are wet, almost a little bedraggled, and it irks him badly to see them as anything less than glorious and perfect.
A Veela’s wings are their greatest shield and strongest weapon, perfect for escaping or berating an enemy with powerful gusts of wind. Their feathers are impervious to magic and all but the sharpest of weapons, thick as steel, and it’s with their wings that they protect their mates and fly away from danger and experience the world. His wings are his pride and joy, his most beautiful feature, and though they are reserved only for his mate and family still he wants to display them, wants to preen and strut and show off to everyone just how fiercely beautiful they are.
Wings are a mark of beauty, of elegance and powerful magic, and so Ricky wants to see his in all their glory.
He wants, also, to wrap his mate up in the softness of his feathers and sing them to sleep. He wants to catch his mate up in his arms and take to the skies with them, wants to fly through sunsets and sunrises through them and shield them from any harm with his wings.
He dries himself and dresses in dark trousers and a crisp white shirt before slipping on silvery robes that have been specially made for today, threads of real metal running through the fabric so that he glitters with each shift of movement. Today is the most important day of Ricky’s life and he is determined to make a good impression upon his mate; they could be anyone in the world, could be magical or muggle or even a creature like his Veela ancestor yet still he will pretty himself for them.
Whoever, or whatever, they are, Ricky is resolute that he will woo them from the moment they meet and capture their heart entirely– his mate, the other half of his soul, will be the greatest and only love of his life.
Careful of his claws, he slicks his white hair back from his face and admires the newly emphasized angles of his face, the sharp cut of his cheekbones and jaw in contrast with his full mouth. His eyes are striking in their paleness, almost glowing, and yet Ricky cannot find it within himself to be upset about this additional change.
He sees only beauty when he gazes into the mirror and it pleases him greatly; his magic swirls happily in his chest, anticipating his mate’s reaction to his glorious appearance.
Ricky’s wings slowly dry as he dresses and fixes his hair and slips shining silver hoops into his ears, little diamond studs climbing up his lobes. He, as all Veela, has a penchant for glittery pretty things and so his jewelry collection is vast but he especially likes his earrings, likes the feel of them brushing against his neck and jingling when he turns his head.
It’s only as Ricky steps out into the large chamber that holds their beds, standing before the full-length mirror to inspect his reflection, that he glimpses something new. His reflection is a painting of silver and white from his head to his toes and yet, in the center of his chest, lies a vivid splash of crimson.
Ricky’s fingers twitch and involuntarily he reaches up, pressing his palms over his red string of fate; the connection to his soulmate made solid. He cannot feel it under his fingers but there is a vibration in his chest, a warm thrumming that feels as alive and real as any pulse.
Ricky’s blue eyes fill with sudden tears, his gaze locked on the little scrap of red that leads into his chest on one end and fades off into the distance on the other, disappearing through the door to their dormitory. He can’t believe this is real, that it’s finally happening– as much as he’s waited for and dreamed of this moment he still can’t quite understand that the time to find the other half of his soul has finally arrived.
He has been dreaming of this love all his life, has gorged himself on stories of his parents’ fairytale sweetness and so now he is hungry, is starving, is ravenous for his own enamoration of another person to begin.
Involuntarily his wings rise up behind him, almost fully flaring under the onslaught of emotions. Ricky’s magic is churning as wildly as ever and little skitters of pure white electricity slip across his skin, harmless to him but painful for anyone who would dare to approach. His wings are dry, now, and the snowy feathers are sleek and shiny and gorgeous as his wings extend to either side.
Ricky is an angel on earth, glowing beautifully with his magic and his own inner light and with the strength of his happiness. His face is alight with joy, eyes luminous and full mouth curved up in a smile and even the claws at his fingertips, wickedly sharp, cannot dull his beauty.
“I’m coming to find you,” Ricky whispers to the crimson thread caught between his fingers, gazing down at it as if it is the most precious thing in the world because, to him, it is. “Wait for me, my mate. I will find you.”
His heart rattling around wildly in his chest, so loud and quick he can hear blood rushing in his ears, Ricky skitters over to the trunk at the foot of his unmade bed and unlocks it with a wave of his hand. He has no need of his wand today, or ever again if he so chooses, and now all his energy must be poured into making haste at finding his mate.
He kneels on the cold stone and tears carelessly through robes and blank notebooks and extra quills, tossing it all aside in search of the black box he had so carefully brought from home. At last he finds it and he cannot resist opening it, cannot resist taking a moment to gaze upon the beauty of the gift he has chosen to present his mate with in order to finalize the Finding.
Ricky sighs softly as he presses the tip of one silvery claw against a shining opal, admiring the play of palest pink and green and lilac-blue beneath the white surface of the gem. The necklace is beautiful and ancient and incredibly valuable; perfect for his mate, for the other half of his soul. Ricky had chosen the piece of jewelry from their family vaults after a week of searching, shifting through rubies as big as his fist and golden crowns and ancient, bloodied swords as he sought the perfect gift for his Finding.
He has always loved the inner fire of white opals, the pastel beauty of them, and he can think of no gift more resplendent for the mate of a half-Veela from one of Britain’s richest and most powerfully ancient wizarding families. Ricky is assured of his mate’s acceptance and future adoration for him when he looks at the necklace and so he closes the box and carefully tucks it under his arm, standing and striding towards the door.
He’s ready to find his mate, wherever they may be. This day has been eighteen years in the making and, now that he has his wings and his claws and his fangs, Ricky is finally eligible as a mate. He is proud of himself, proud of his heritage and his magic and of the kindness hidden under his pale skin, and more than anything else in the world he is sure that he will love his mate with his entire heart.
Ricky throws open the door to his dormitory and quickly descends the stairs, blowing through the empty common room in a blur of feathers and silver fabric. His luminous face glows, eyes bright as stars, his entire being focused on the red thread emanating from his chest and the faint pull he can feel on the other end of it that leads towards his mate.
Ricky ducks through the common room door out into the cold, musty hallways of Hogwarts’s dungeons, wrinkling his nose a little as he always does. He’s never been able to understand why the house that values pride and appearance over all others has been relegated to the depths of the castle, but his appeals to Headmaster Lim for Slytherin to be given a tower have been consistently denied.
Eagerly he climbs the many staircases towards the higher levels of the castle and the Entrance Hall, his mind completely consumed by thoughts of where in the world his soulmate could be. He hopes, wherever they live, that they speak English, though of course Ricky will learn any language in the world just to confess his love to his mate. He hopes they are warm, wherever they are, and hopefully not too shocked when he appears.
He hopes they like him. He hopes they think his wings are pretty, and that they don’t like spicy food, and that they will love him back as desperately and fiercely as he already loves them. Cradling the precious crimson thread between his fingers, ever so careful not to brush it with his claws, Ricky climbs higher and higher through the marble levels of the castle.
Hogwarts is quiet, almost eerily so, but then again most students have probably made their way towards the Great Hall by now for breakfast. It is a random Tuesday in May, just another day for Ricky’s peers, and yet today is the most momentous and important series of hours he will already live. He can feel an invisible clock hovering over his head, counting down the time he has left to find his mate– he needs to go, needs to leave the school grounds and fly out into the world to find his soulmate.
Ricky had, for a while as a fourth year, entertained the idea that his soulmate might possibly be at Hogwarts. There was a seventh year Ravenclaw boy he saw often at art club who was very pretty and very good at enchanting his paintings to life, and Ricky had been desperately infatuated with him. Even though he was still far from his presentation back then, he’d hoped and dreamed of finding his mate within the grounds of the castle.
How sweet that would be, how wonderfully and softly easy. What a lovely, romantic story they would be able to tell their children and grandchildren one day.
But his mother had gently dissuaded him of that idea, reminding him that the world was a very large place and his mate could be anyone, could be anywhere.
She’d told Ricky again of her own desperate flight to China to find his father, told him of the hours slipping away as she raced over seas and continents and cities guided only by the glowing red thread at her chest. They’d found each other just in the nick of time, Ricky’s mother swooping down before his father just as her birthday ended, and she didn’t want her son to have any unreal expectations about an easier Finding of his own.
He feels a little like he’s floating as he finally reaches the corridor that leads to the Entrance Hall, even as the tips of his enormous wings drag softly over the marble floors. Around him paintings stare and whisper, which surely means news of his transformation will have reached the whole castle by lunch, but Ricky doesn’t much care.
His friends and professors are well aware of what today means for him and he won’t spare a thought for the general Hogwarts population; he is entirely focused on his mate, on following the tugging sensation that leads to his heart, desperate and excited to meet the person who lies at the other end of this red string of fate.
Ricky takes a steadying breath, vaguely aware of the loud chatter and clinking of plates coming from the Great Hall and the occasional shifting of gems in the House hourglasses, but mostly staring down at the thread between his fingers. The sensation in his chest seems a bit stronger, more insistent, and for some reading the thread curves to the left instead of leading out through the massive double doors of the Entrance Hall.
Ricky’s heart is hammering so quickly in his chest, urged along by his wild magic, that he can’t really think rationally and so he simply follows the thread in his hands, clasping his fingers around it even though it has no substance besides color and feeling. He isn’t even blinking with his sharp eyes as he strides across the empty entrance hall and through the open doors of the Great Hall, dragonskin boots soundless on the marble.
The sky of the Great Hall is perfectly blue, crisp and pale and everything that means a beautiful spring day lies ahead. Candles glow very faintly against the ceiling, casting a golden sheen over the chattering students as they crowd around the four long House tables to eat. Ricky, concentrating solely on the thread in his hands and the tugging that has turned from a trickle to a stream to a river, is being pulled along without much of his own effort.
He doesn’t think he could stop walking forward, even if he wanted to, but he doesn’t. He’s breathless with anticipation, trembling with nerves and fear and giddy excitement, completely blind to the students who go silent and turn to stare at him as he passes.
Ricky is a well known figure at Hogwarts, famous for his beauty and his wealth and his high social status. His family is very ancient, and very good at what they do, and also famously protective. Ricky has been one of the most sought after students in the castle since his very first year, at first because of his circumstances of life and then, later on, for his artistic talent and sly humor and skill at magic.
He has a tiny circle of friends who are as effortlessly cool and beautiful as he is and though they are polite to everyone they meet, endlessly so, there is no chink their in friendship for anyone else to slip themselves in.
Still, Ricky is admired and revered and gazed after wherever he goes. Girls and boys alike swoon over his beauty and deep voice, professors praise his schoolwork and talent in Charms, and Headmaster Lim quietly accepts the large donations his parents make to Hogwarts each year. He is looked to wherever he goes, constantly invited to games of Exploding Snap and dates in Hogsmeade and late night strolls down by the lake.
Ricky, oblivious to the effect he has on others because he simply does not care, denies them all with equal politeness. He is crisply efficient in his good manners, almost brutally so, and he leaves a trail of brokenhearted students in his wake without meaning to. He cares only for his schoolwork and his friends and his family, dreams only of magic and flying and the mate he has not yet met but already adores.
He passes the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw tables, following the insistent pull of the crimson thread, and leaves only silence in his wake. The yellow and blue banners cease to flutter, students turning to stare at the sight of Shen Ricky striding down the Great Hall in glittering silver wings, his hands strangely cupped to his chest and enormous, pure white wings arching from his back.
It would be incredibly strange, were it anyone else, yet rumors have circulated the school for years that Ricky is at least part Veela because of his unnatural beauty and magnetic draw and, now, those rumors have been confirmed. It is still a wild way to begin a Tuesday morning, a bundle of kindling only waiting to go ablaze with gossip, yet as the students gaze after Ricky’s luminescent figure they are too shocked and entranced to begin to whisper yet.
The time for gossip will come later and so, for now, the students of Hogwarts sit and watch, silent sentinels to Ricky’s Finding. It is an ancient thing, the most intrinsic ritual of Veela society, and were anyone to interrupt Ricky on his quest to find his mate he would tear them to shreds with his silvery claws without even pausing to consider.
Ricky approaches the Gryffindor and Slytherin tables at the far end of the hall, stepping through a beam of sunlight that makes his robes glitter and his wings glow all the more brightly. A little sigh goes around the Great Hall, many exhales of love breathed at once, yet he takes no note. The crimson thread attached to his heart is pulsing like a living thing yet not in time with his own blood; no, it rushes to the beat of his soulmate’s heart.
They are so close that Ricky can practically taste them and he feels dizzy with it, like he is about to overbalance at any moment and only the flaring feathers of his wings keeps him upright. He cups the thread between his fingers, more precious than any vein or string of rubies, and strides decisively forward, now searching the faces on either side of him.
The Slytherins, dressed in green and black, stare back at him with solemn faces and wide eyes. Many of them hale from older families, those who keep the traditions and ancient stories alive, and so they know what a historic and rare thing they are bearing witness to. Veelas are rare already and the process of a Finding is incredibly personal, incredibly vital; Ricky is racing time to find the other half of his soul and it is a wild, noble, beautiful thing.
The Gryffindors, brash in their scarlet and gold, turn more slowly to watch him and do not give him the respect of silence. They whisper behind their hands or shy away from him in fright, ancient prejudices between their two houses still buried deep. If Ricky had the time, if he had the presence of mind, perhaps he would roll his sharp eyes at them and their terrified faces.
He glimpses his friends as he makes his way slowly down between the tables, Hao’s face alive with pride and happiness, something in his dark eyes as he inclines his head to Ricky that bolsters the younger boy. Taerae, beside him, is visibly grinning and holding himself back because he knows how much this day means to Ricky, knows that this is the crux of his existence that will determine the entirety of his life.
Ricky is nearing the end of the Gryffindor and Slytherin tables and the thread anchored in his chest, pulsing and vibrating wildly, as bright as freshly spilled blood, no longer fades into the distance. Ricky pauses for a moment, gazing down at it between his fingers, and then slowly lets his hands drop to his sides. He curls his silver talons into fists just once, breathing shakily through the hammering in his bloodstream, and then forces himself to relax.
He can see that his thread leads to the Gryffindor table, towards a group of boys sitting huddled together at the very end who are somehow, incredibly, still turned away from him. The entire Great Hall seems to take a collective breath in as Ricky decisively steps forward, stalking slow and smooth towards his mate where he sits at the table.
Ricky’s wings unconsciously sweep up behind him as he closes the distance between himself and his mate, arching high and proud for all the students and professors at their higher table to see. His wings fully unfurl at last, stretching to their great height, his fingers blinding in their snowy perfection and sheen of magic.
The string anchored in his heart is vibrating and pulsing so wildly that Ricky’s body trembles with it, though perhaps that is purely his own nerves. The beating of his heart has changed to match the rhythm of his soulmate’s heart and the match between them, the confirmation of the truth that they belong together, is sweet as burnt sugar on his tongue, wild as his seething magic.
At last the boys, a trio, realize that Ricky is approaching and start to turn towards him.
The first Ricky recognizes, another seventh year with pretty features and sparkly eyes, but nothing in Ricky’s blood sings when he looks at him and he somehow knows that this is not his mate. The next boy is shorter, his face round yet angular, and he manages to look cute even as he squints at Ricky. He, too, is wrong, unable to match the shape and terrain of Ricky’s soul.
The last boy does not turn until Ricky reaches out and ever so gently touches his shoulder, a mere brush of silver claws against robes and yet already that is enough to have his magic exploding inside him.
Yes, Ricky thinks, something in his chest settling even as his magic swirls higher and higher, a maelstrom of chaotic underpinnings of the world that he does not understand rearing because of this boy. Yes, this is him. This is my mate.
And then the boy turns to look at him, a slow swivel of inky hair and a softly curving cheek and wide, shining eyes and all Ricky can think is, oh, of course. Of course it’s you, of course you’re my mate, it was always meant to be you.
He doesn’t know this boy’s name, or anything about him, but really it doesn’t matter. They will have all the time in the world to know each other, to become acquaintances and friends and lovers, to build a family and an entire lifetime of fairytale romance and sweetness. Ricky needs only to look at this boy– his mate’s– face to be sure that he is the other half of his soul, the missing piece he has no idea how he’s managed to survive without for eighteen years.
The crimson thread anchored in his chest has disappeared at some point but it does not matter, is no longer of any consequence to Ricky because he will be able to find this boy, his mate, anywhere in the world. This is his soulmate, his first and last and greatest love, the person he cherishes above all others.
Ricky’s magic roils high and powerful around them, gusting out the candles that float against the perfect blue ceiling and whipping back the hair and robes of everyone save for his mate. His magic will always instinctively protect this boy, his mate, because he is part of Ricky and so the Veela can never, ever harm him or even speak ill of him.
And even if he could, Ricky would never desire to. He would slide a sword into his own chest before ever raising a finger against his love.
His silver claws still resting lightly on the boy’s shoulder, Ricky inclines his head and drops to his knees, kneeling below the shocked looking boy even as his wings rise higher to protect his back, protect them both and block out the curious faces all around them. This moment is private and so his magic silences the space around them, creates a shield to keep out prying eyes from this most sacred of rituals.
“Mate,” Ricky says clearly, his voice deep and almost hypnotic with magic as he gazes and gazes up into the sweet, perfect face of his other half. He is so beautiful. “My mate. I found you.”
The last words are a croon, almost slipping into song, and his mate’s dark eyes are a little glazed as he stares back at Ricky. Veela allure will not work on him, not when is the intended mate of one of the race, but still he is not immune to beauty and Ricky is very, luminously beautiful.
Ricky curls his silver claws ever so lightly around his mate’s shoulder, wishing to feel the silk of his skin instead of the flimsy material of his robes. With his other hand, which still trembles slightly even as his soul sings a triumphant song of finally being made whole at last, Ricky flips the black box he carries open and proffers it reverently to his mate.
The opals of the necklace gleam prettily under the blue sky and the students around them, though they can’t hear and can only vaguely see, goggle. The jewels are set in a delicate silver filigree and joined by tiny diamonds so that the whole necklace shines and sparkles; it perfectly fits Ricky’s mate, his status and beauty and the precious position he holds in the Veela’s life.
“My mate,” Ricky repeats, drinking in the beautiful boy’s long lashes and pink mouth, dropped open in surprise or confusion, the little golden snitch pin on his crimson tie. He is lovely, gorgeous, perfectly crafted in every way to exactly fit Ricky’s soul. “I offer you this gift in the hope that you will accept me as your mate. The Finding is complete– the wild magic has led me to you.”
He can’t help chirping a little as he finishes speaking, so overflowing with joy and happiness and the lovely, golden feeling of a complete soul that it’s impossible to hide the sound. It’s a mark of his strong emotions, of how pleased he is, yet his mate’s lovely face creases and his pink mouth snaps shut.
Ricky instantly tilts his head, concerned, his magic stretching out long fingers across the Great Hall as he searches for anything that could have upset or threatened his mate. He finds nothing but the weak magic of wizards and a few spiders, but no sign of what is causing this perfect boy to frown so deeply at him that his forehead puckers.
His mate drops his glossy eyes to the box Ricky still proffers for him, the opal and diamond necklace shining enticingly upon the bed of velvet, and then flicks his eyes to Ricky’s silver claws on his shoulder. Gently, almost painfully carefully, the boy lifts his hand and slides his fingers around Ricky’s wrist.
For one beautiful, pulsatingly sweet moment, Ricky believes his mate is about to hold his hand and then the boy does something even worse. His fingers braceleted gingerly around Ricky’s wrist, he pries the Veela’s silvery claws off his shoulder and places Ricky’s hand back in his own lap so that they are no longer touching.
Ricky’s magic protests the separation vehemently, surging around them more wildly so that the ceiling of the Great Hall flickers from perfect blue to a stormy, inky indigo color, clouds skidding across the arched stone. The students around them gasp and murmur yet quickly grow silent again, all straining to hear through the bubble of magical silence.
Ricky’s mate looks down at him, frowning, his shining eyes and pink mouth crinkled with some unpleasant emotion that makes the Veela want to rip and tear and shred whatever is making his mate feel so unhappy. His chest thrums with the need to fight for this boy, his magic rising up in tandem, and yet he can find no enemy to shed the blood of. Concerned and beyond belief, Ricky tilts his head again and makes a questioning little crooning sound to his mate, his icy blue eyes liquid with worry.
He starts to reach out again, silver claws aimed for his mate, but the boy raises a soft human hand and stops him, his frown deepening. His pulse is jumping at his throat and Ricky can feel his own heart beating in time to it, much too fast, but if he can’t touch his mate there is nothing he can do to calm or help him.
His mate only has to say yes, only has to agree to Ricky’s offer and he will be instantly granted a lifetime of affection and incredible care and wealth.
He will be pampered, spoiled, will be cared for in a way that no one has ever been cared for before. Ricky will drape him in diamonds and opals and sapphires, will crown him in a different tiara every day and buy him whatever he desires and feed him only the finest foods. He will shower his mate in love every waking moment of the day and compliment him each morning, will hold him close and listen to whatever he has to say and look for him first in any room he enters.
If his mate would only reach out and accept the necklace, complete the Finding, then Ricky could gather him up in his arms and fly him away from here. He could build them a nest of silk and his own softest, downy feathers, could sing his mate to sleep and give him the sweetest of dreams. Ricky could protect him from anything, could feed him from his own hands and drape his mate in magic until his skin glowed silver too.
“I don’t,” his mate says at last, sweet and low and hesitant. His shiny eyes are incredibly wide and he has his hands clenched in his lap, most of his body still angled away from Ricky like he doesn’t want to be here. It makes the Veela’s heart ache, painfully bright, and he sees his mate wince in response at the hurt. “I don’t know who you are. And, and I don’t know why you think I’m your mate?”
Ricky’s sharp eyes widen and his mouth, which has been curled up in happiness this entire time, drops. His roiling magic crests higher, practically a wave, ready to fight off whichever enemy is making his mate so uncomfortable and unhappy but there’s no one to fight save Ricky himself.
He’s watching his mate’s lovely face so intently that he sees the very moment the boy makes his decision; his shiny eyes harden a little, his pink mouth setting firm and straight, and his shoulders lift back even though he’s clawing at his own hands. Ricky’s mate shakes his head a bit, silky hair brushing his forehead, and gives Ricky a look that is devastatingly polite and confused yet still kind.
“I’m sorry,” his mate tells him, flickering his eyes between the gleaming necklace and Ricky’s beautiful, luminous face. “I can’t accept this gift. Whoever you’re looking for, whatever you think I am to you– I’m not.”