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Fool Moon

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Nobody ever told Harry that becoming a werewolf makes you stupid. Yes, being a werewolf gets him fired; yes, parents keep their kids away from him; yes, crowds smell awful. Everything that Hermione has told him when she began to participate in meetings of the Fund and Aid for Lycanthropy, Lycanthropic Individuals and Communities has come true. 

But there was no one to sit him down, pat his back and inform him that his wolf-self would turn out to make the dumbest decisions one could ever settle on. 

Presently, that means waking up after the full moon to an unfamiliar ceiling, on a carpet that is too comfortable to belong to Harry, next to what looks like a bed. Harry goes to touch it; the sheet feels very soft under his fingers, a thread count that’s much too high for him. 

He groans, feet and hands cold, body aching. He mildly hoped that everything was a very active, very surrealist dream made up by his canine mind. But no such luck. 

As if on cue, Draco Malfoy pops his head from over the bed, looking barely awake, cheeks creased by his pillowcase. 

They stare at each other. 

“You’re very naked,” Malfoy says. 

Harry flushes, feels the heat spread from his collarbones to his forehead. Too late, he goes to cover himself with his hands and only gets an eyebrow raise from Malfoy. He’s got half the mind to turn back into a wolf if only to gather back the shredded pieces of dignity, but he’s fairly certain that’s not possible, even this close to the full moon. He should not trust his canine self anyway. He makes questionable choices. 

Harry clears his throat. 

“Could I use your Floo?” he asks through gritted teeth. 

Malfoy looks amused; he smiles, and it sits a bit mean on his face. 

“Sure. You know the way?”

Harry picks himself up and doesn’t answer, squirming to not give Malfoy an eyeful. Malfoy doesn’t seem concerned by matter and placidly watch Harry stumble to a standing position and fly from the room. 

Malfoy’s roaring laughter follows him to 12 Grimmauld Place. 


In the sweet shadows of his house, Harry tugs a robe over his shivering shoulders and collapses on his couch, pushing his toes between two cushions in an effort to warm them up. 

He knows how the events of the preceding night brought him to wake up on the floor of Draco Malfoy’s bedroom. He wishes that he didn’t, but he remembers with great clarity downing the bitter potion that would ease the fury of the wolf, shedding his clothes off and letting his fur take over. He remembers the panting pain of bones breaking and hair pushing through his skin and the deep loneliness of his wolf, pack animal bereft of companionship. He remembers the chime of a Floo call, and he remembers pushing his muzzle through it and then being sucked into the fireplace and there, there! A human! A friend! 

Malfoy had big hands which, Harry had learned, were great ear scratches and belly scratches and most especially scratches at this place right at the bottom of his spine. Harry remembers whines and happy pants and tail thumping. So many things that should have been prevented by human embarrassment and understanding of social decency but that his wolf was just too happy to do without.  

And so Harry is left to moan into his cushion for a swift death or the end of the world. 

 


 

He only realizes that he’s asleep when Ginny wakes him up by poking his feet with her long frigid fingers. Harry shudders and pushes them away from her prying digits. 

“Are you dead yet?” she asks. 

“I wish,” he says fervently in the cushions. He turns to look at her; she’s blurry and he tries to blink her back into focus, before remembering that his eyesight-correcting charm must have worn off. “Glasses?” he asks hopefully. 

Ginny throws them at his face. 

Harry sits up and pushes them up his nose. Ginny sits herself in an armchair in front of him in an ill-fitting shirt and smart trousers. 

“What are you doing here?” he asks, still bleary. 

Ginny wrinkles her nose. 

“Can’t check on my ex-boyfriend with a furry problem now?” 

Harry rubs at the skin between his eyebrows. 

“Yes you can, but you usually don’t.” Harry sighs. “Hermione asked you?”

Ginny makes a face. 

“Really, Harry, you closed the wards off to her.” 

Yes, because if he didn’t, he would begin to properly hate her. 

Harry exhales heavily, rubs his face with the heels of his hands, displacing his glasses. His back aches, nerve endings firing on a loop, making everything twinge along his spine. 

He doesn’t understand why he cannot be alone with his thoughts for a week or two. Why everyone panics when he stops responding to letters. His friends want him to use his new status as leverage in the fight for werewolf rights; Harry doesn’t. He doesn’t understand why they still bother him when he already said no. 

“Listen, I really don’t want to talk about it right now.”

Ginny looks at him unimpressed. 

“You never want to talk about it. You’ve not wanted to talk about it for six months now.” Her mouth thins in a line. “Listen, Harry… Hermione is only trying to help.”

Harry closes his eyes and swallows his initial response; he would have screamed if given the choice. But Ginny is worried and certainly doesn’t deserve the worst of his ire. She’s already been through a lot with the public outrage their break-up sparked. 

“She doesn’t help,” he says, too sharply. Harry takes a pause to consider his next words. “I… I just want to be left alone.” 

It’s a half-truth, but Harry cannot voice what he really wants. Pack is not a thing Ron and Hermione can understand. He doesn’t either, not really. He knows that there’s strength in numbers and that his wolf is at his happiest when surrounded by the warm touch of others. But he doesn’t know how this new part of him can translate to their friendship, which seems so brittle now that Ron and Hermione are engaged. 

Harry licks his lips and feels himself sagging. Ginny doesn’t say anything. 

“I’m exhausted. I’m going to bed. You know the way out.”

Harry doesn’t listen to her sharp intake of breath and the ringing silence that follows his departure. He climbs the stairs clinging to the banister, joints aching and collapses on his bed. 

Hopefully, no one will be here to bother him when he wakes up. 

 


 

Malfoy Floo calls him the next day by appearing in his fireplace with a hand over his eyes. 

“Are you decent this time?”

Harry growls something mean under his breath and settles on the carpet with his morning cup of tea. 

“Are you only waking up now?” he asks when he finally sees Harry. “Well, way to let go of yourself, Potter.”

“Shut it,” Harry answers, but it lacks bite.

Malfoy just raises both eyebrows. 

“You were really a lot more friendly the other night.”

No, Harry refuses to talk about that. 

“Why did you call me?” he asks instead. 

“Well, I would have expected a bit more enthusiasm when I told you that I had found your guy.”

Harry tenses as one. He leans forward, eager. 

“You have? Really?”

Malfoy narrows his eyes at him. 

“I wouldn’t lie to you on that, Potter.”

Harry gapes at him. 

He remembers the dark evening that led him to ‘Malfoy’s Private Investigation’, wan and tired from yet another full moon spent raging against the man who had done this to him. The bite was a deliberate attack on him—a clear-eyed wolf charging through the group of Aurors and knocking Harry down with sharp teeth at his shoulder and disappearing just as fast. 

Malfoy had taken in the deep blue creases under his eyes, a sharp contrast to himself, gleaming in his dressing robes, looking rich and untouchable, and he had promised to look into it. Harry had hated the pity, but he doesn’t regret getting Malfoy involved. It’s his job, after all. 

“I sent it all to the Aurors when you came through the other night. I told you then, but you did not seem receptive to communication,” he adds. “The suspect is in interrogation as we speak.” 

Harry scrambles up, still bent over the fireplace. 

“Gotta go.” 

“Alright then, Potter.” 

Harry makes to turn around, but stops, takes a breath. 

“Thank you, Malfoy.”

Malfoy tips his head in acknowledgment, and Harry closes the connection. He hurriedly leaps up the stairs to get ready. 


He shows up at the Ministry in a scourgified shirt that might be a bit too creased and trousers that might not be as clean as he had initially assessed. People turn around as he walks through. It might be because he’s Harry Potter; it might be because he has not bothered washing his hair in a few too many days. 

He goes to Ron’s desk. 

“Where is he?” he asks, without a greeting and Ron startles upright. 

“Harry? What are you doing here, mate?”

“Ron, where is he?” 

Ron blinks a few times, but seems to finally get on with the program. He stands up and goes to coax Harry along with a hand, but withdraws it at the last moment. Harry tries not to bare his teeth at him. 

Ron clears his throat. 

“Interrogation room, come on.”

They go and Harry does his hardest at ignoring the pointed stares of his former colleagues. They had almost been family once; now he can only see the aborted disgust on their face, the pain and pity of being in the same room as a beast. This is why Harry doesn’t go out in public anymore. 

Ron leads him to a room with a huge window that allows them to look upon the interrogation room. Harry expected the werewolf who had attacked him to be big and frothing at the mouth, a terrifying horror. The person sagging in the seat on the other side of the glass is gaunt, waxed white by the artificial light, creased by hunger and fear. Harry falters in his steps and stares. He expected a man. 

“Maybelle Purplestock,” Ron says quietly next to him. “She confessed to everything. She was with Greyback and the other wolves during the war. She resented you for the dissolution of her pack; that’s why she attacked you. She didn’t care what happened to her, so she bought wolfsbane with all she had and set up the attack.”

Harry has a knot in his throat the size of America. He clears it with some difficulty. 

“And what is going to happen to her, now?” he rasps. 

Ron pauses for a second. He is not looking at Harry when he answers. “A trial and probably Azkaban after.”

Harry nods, hands in fists at his sides. He wants to rage at her, scream in her face and tear her throat with his blunt human teeth (so much sharper since she bit him), but he has nothing to take from her. She’s already lost everything. 

“Are you alright, mate?”

Harry blinks and is surprised to find his lashes wet, sticking to each other. He turns away from Ron. 

“Yeah, I’m alright.”

He can taste the lie as it rolls off his tongue. 

Ron makes a dubious noise but doesn’t correct him on it. 

“You know, Harry, we worry about you. You don’t talk to us anymore.” 

Harry clenches his teeth; they grind loudly in his mouth. 

“I’m fine,” he bites out. “I’m going home.”

And he does, without letting Ron say another word. 

 


 

Harry sits on his couch and tries not to think. He had expected the knot of fury and indignation in his chest to disappear after his aggressor got arrested, but instead it just squirms on itself, pulling tightly at his heartstrings as he follows the proceedings of the trial in the Prophet. 

In a matter of days, Maybelle Purplestock is sentenced to life in Azkaban. Harry doesn’t know how to feel about that, but he knows what he doesn’t feel: relief. 

So Harry sits on his couch and reads and thinks and tries not to.

One morning, no particular to any other in any way, he simply decides to learn wandless magic. It seems like something to do and occupy himself with, so he gets a few books about it from the Black library and settles down in front of the fireplace to study. 

Hermione would have been proud to see him study like that, but he doesn’t think about it too much. 

 


 

Wandless magic is easier that Harry expected. Everyone had made a big deal out of it, but after two weeks of nonstop practice and too little sleep, he has his dishes washing themselves with the swish of a hand. It makes him wonder if he would not have been actually good in school if he had been a little less threatened by Voldemort. 

This line of thought has a sourness bloom in his mouth and he turns back to his book. He wonders what he’ll be able to achieve if he continues on like this. 

 


 

On the next full moon, Harry is careful. He locks the doors and windows with charms, cuts his floo connection to everyone including himself and goes the extra-step to manually lock himself in his room. There he unwraps the posh and soft paper the potioneer always sends his Wolfsbane potion in and winces through the taste. 

He shakes it off, casts his Good-Eyesight charm and then, finally, he sheds his clothes and his human skin. The wolf comes barreling in, pulled out by pain and cracking bones. 

 


 

Wiltshire is one of the most inconvenient places Draco could have chosen to live in. Far from everything, including work, the daily commute through the Floo network is a nightmare. But Draco bears it gracefully for the sole reason of seeing the sun set over the grounds, blazing everything in warm light. 

He watches it wash everything in fire-bright orange through the windows of his library and takes a sip of his cup of tea, enjoying the first warm day of spring, closing his eyes on it. His fingers follow the edges of the book in his lap, and he preemptively savours the time he will spend reading it. His evening is shaping up to be quite pleasant. 

So of course, it’s not even two hours later that he’s bothered, mid-chapter. The barks are sharp and demanding, filtering in through the drapes. Draco first dismisses it as the old man living at the village walking his particularly rambunctious dog, but when it doesn’t fade away in the settling night, he pauses. Draco goes to his window and leans over, scrutinizes the grounds and the driveway. 

At the gate, a large braying wolf stands on its hind-legs, forelegs resting against the gate and Draco freezes. 

“Merlin’s saggy balls, is that…”

Draco pushes away and through the halls, until he’s bursting outside and walking with great purpose to the gates, his robe clutched around himself in flimsy protection. 

Without much surprise, Potter is the one excitedly barking at his approach. 

Wolf-Potter is still big and impressive, a canine taller than usual wolves. His dark coat makes him even bigger in the night, shuffling on his four legs, eyes piercing. Even though their last encounter involved significantly more petting than Draco would have ever anticipated, he's still acutely aware that Potter could easily chomp his head off in a clean bite. 

Instead of doing that, Draco sees him wag his tail. 

“What are you doing here?” Draco hisses, holding his wand in front of him. It feels very small in his hand, almost brittle when faced with the great animal that is Potter in this form. 

Draco expects something to happen, but only watches Potter trying to push against his gate, whining. He has to bite back a smile despite himself; he shouldn’t find the situation funny, he has a werewolf on his hands. A rather sedate (and, from experience, cooperating) werewolf, but a werewolf all the same.  

“How did you arrive here?” 

Potter obviously doesn’t answer. 

Draco is at loss. Last time he saw Potter under this canine form, he hadn’t let him in by choice and Potter had categorically refused to leave, tagging along with Draco everywhere, pushing at his hip with his muzzle. He has half a mind to forget that anything happened and go back to his book, but he cannot leave a giant werewolf pacing in front of the Manor, sending pebbles through the gates with the agitated shift of his front paws. Not when the closest muggle village is, in fact, too close. Who knows how Potter reacts to muggles. 

Draco, with trembling fingers, decides to be brave. He tucks his wand in the pocket of his robe. 

“Right,” says Draco. And he repeats it once more for courage. “You better not bite me, or else…” He takes a deep breath. “Harry Potter, I welcome you once more at Malfoy Manor.”

The gates open and Potter comes barreling in, aggressively sniffing Draco’s crotch in greeting. Draco pushes him away with a horrified gasp. 

“Morgana’s tits, you’re never hearing the end of this.”

Potter only looks at him, panting and an ear cocked towards him hopefully. Draco sighs heavily, tries to slow the wild pulse of his heart. Potter is overtly non violent, he can absolutely do this. 

He pats at Potter’s head, very carefully. The wolf sniffs his hand but doesn’t bite him. Draco feels incredibly stupid. 

“Come on, let’s go inside,” he says mildly. 

He takes a firm hold of Potter’s scruff and tugs him along. Potter happily trails next to him. Draco is conscious that Potter wouldn’t move if he didn’t want to. 

The Manor greets them with warm candlelights and Draco makes his way back to the library, a great shadow pushing at the back of his knees and almost making him trip. He plops himself back in his chair with a book and Potter immediately sees the opportunity to worm his head into his lap. 

Draco looks at him, teeth gritted. 
 
“I’m really not comfortable with how close your teeth are to my nether regions.”

And Potter moves to give him a bit of space, rests his muzzle on Draco’s knee.

“So you do understand me,” he says warily. 

Potter whines in answer. He doesn’t stop until Draco goes to rub his ears. 


Having a grown werewolf making himself at home in his lap is not catastrophically bad. Surprisingly. Draco would probably find it enjoyable if he did not have the omnipresent knowledge that a human being hides under its fur. 

As it is, Potter rumbles low in his throat, pushing against Draco’s hand until he’s properly scratching at his head. 

“You’re going to hate yourself tomorrow,” Draco comments, voice low in the calm of the library. 

Potter’s warmth and small noises of contentment have lulled Draco in a state of serenity and he feels himself drift in his chair, completely boxed in the soft prison of velvet. He pushes at Potter’s flank with his foot and is immediately alarmed at his own ease with a murderous creature. 

Draco grits his teeth. 

“Come on, let’s go to bed,” he says and ignores the way Potter rubs himself against his legs when he stands up. 

Potter tags along as Draco spells the lights off and makes his way through the cavernous Manor, ignoring the muttering of the portraits. 

Draco is mildly tempted to take another shower before bed but the idea of wrestling with Potter (who would probably get separation anxiety from how the things are faring) is too exhausting. He would lose any way, he knows it, he already tried it once. 

Draco simply toes off his slippers and his robe and turns up his sheets. Potter looks suspiciously calm from his seat at the end of the bed. 

“If you try to climb on the bed at any point during the night, I’ll maim you, Saint Potter the Werewolf or not.” 

Draco slides between the cool sheets and sighs in relief at the bone-deep relaxation that settles over him. He turns on his side to look at Potter and repeats slowly, “No bed.” Potter seems agreeable enough to the idea and lets himself fall on his side, stretched in his entire length on the carpet. 

Draco is a bit wary to spell the lights off and close his eyes with a werewolf in the room. But he’s already done it once and he’s too tired to think about it. He drifts. 

His father comes to mind. For a brief moment, Draco wonders what he would say of the situation. Probably something unpleasant. He snuffs this line of thoughts in the bud and turns on his back to fall asleep. 

 


 

There are worse things than being turned into a werewolf, consequently losing one’s job, friends and general social life. There’s being turned into a werewolf, consequently losing one’s job, friends and general social life, and waking up in Draco Malfoy’s room for the second time. 

Harry keeps his eyes firmly shut, but his nose alone tells him where he is. Malfoy keeps a large array of lavender-scented products and it sits heavy on Harry’s tongue. 

He turns slowly to his side, pushing himself away from the carpet until he’s seated, naked and hangover, jaws aching. Malfoy is, thankfully, still asleep, looking unperturbed. Harry would like to say that Malfoy looks ugly in sleep, but that’s not true; he’s just as poised and elegant in rest as he is usually. 

Harry carefully picks himself up and hobbles down the halls of the Manor, up until he’s outside the Manor’s gate, feeling even more naked under the blue open sky. He apparates back, feeling himself burn crimson by both sun and shame.  

 


 

Harry spends two days on his couch, embarrassed and miserable, before deciding to do something about it.

He does a load of laundry and makes his drying cords float with a wandless incantation, puts clean socks on, and apparates in the back alley behind Malfoy’s office. 

The sign on the door is a curved band of gold writing ‘Malfoy’s Private Investigation’ and Harry takes a short breath in, lets it sit in his chest until he aches with it and knocks on the exhalation. 

He waits all of five seconds before the door opens, and he’s left standing at the gaping entrance of an empty hall. Harry takes an additional five seconds to steel himself and crosses the threshold. He feels the shimmer of wards go over his head. 

He walks down the length of the corridor, rasping his knuckles on the walls as he goes to ground himself. Everything is very dark, but Harry is still able to follow the dust motes rising under his steps. He sneezes. 

There’s only one door at the end of the hall. Harry knocks on it, his heart a wild beast of anticipation in his chest. 

“Yes?” Malfoy says and the door swings inward, giving to Harry the view of Malfoy at his desk, bent over a letter, an unruly strand of hair falling over his forehead. 

Harry clears his throat but doesn’t move from his position on the landing. 

Malfoy looks up and startles. 

“Potter?” he asks, surprised and he hastily puts his quill down to stand up. 

Simply looking at Malfoy makes Harry flush; he feels the heat of it on his cheeks. Harry has the distinct memory of Malfoy’s hands splayed over his skull and sinking into his fur. It makes Harry’s wolf shiver in anticipation. 

“Yeah, erm. Hello,” he says, helpfully, instead of falling to his feet and burying his head in Malfoy’s stomach. 

Malfoy blinks at him, fiddling with the papers in front of him. 

“Well, I can say that I did not expect you here again. Any issue with my investigation?”

Harry shakes his head. 

“No, no. That was… I mean, you were right, thanks.”

Malfoy nods. “Of course I was. I wouldn’t be in this line of work if my connections weren’t useful.” He takes a breath to look at him, really look at him, head tilted in assessment. Harry feels naked under his stare; he wants to whine. “What can I do for you then?” 

Harry clears his throat, pushes his hands in the pocket of his jeans. 

“Listen, about… The other night.”

“Ah.” Malfoy sits back down and gestures at him to do the same. “I thought your policy was to not talk about it.”

Harry sits in the large chair in front of the desk. He sinks a little bit into the leather cushion, engulfing him comfortably. It brings him close enough to smell the amusement on Malfoy, a new wave of embarrassment settles over him, hot and red. 

“I… I’m not sure why I came to you.”

Malfoy raises an eyebrow at him; he used to do that all the time, since he first mastered it in third year. On his adult face, it looks unfairly attractive. 

“No,” Harry amends in a rush of breath, “I know why I came to you, the first time around. I’m just not sure why I came back to you.”

Malfoy licks his lips; it makes Harry’s blood sing. He looks away and closes his hands into fists, feels his too sharp nails sink into his palm. 

“Why did you come the first time then? I almost hexed you when you came through.” 

Harry nods and fidgets, flushed with shame. 

“I just wanted to… Listen, I don’t want to get into details but the wolf just wants company alright?”

Malfoy frowns. 

“And you don’t have any of your golden Gryffyndors with you when it’s around?”

Harry winces. 

“It’s not a pleasant experience for anyone.”

Draco takes a sharp breath in. When Harry meets his gaze, it’s cloudy with anger. He smells of betrayal. 

“Oh, I see.” Malfoy articulates slowly. “My life is worth less than theirs? I wouldn’t have expected this kind of discrimination from you.” 

Harry feels himself tighten like a bow, rigid with tension. The conversation is getting out of hands and he doesn’t know how to steer them to clearer waters. 

“You weren’t risking your life,” he says sharply. “That’s not how I meant that.” Harry deflates, takes a long breath in to settle himself, to swallow back his defensive anger. “It just… hurts. The transformation is loud. I don’t… I don’t want anyone having to sit through that.”

Malfoy doesn’t answer him; he looks back at Harry speculatively. Harry wants to bend his head and lets Malfoy rest his hand at his nape, an echo to simpler communication. It’s a show of trust that Harry is not sure is warranted but that he wishes to give all the same. 

“Listen, I don’t even know why I’m here. I’m just… I’m sorry for scaring you.”

He stands up and goes to turn away, leaving Malfoy’s piercing stare behind and the need to get closer that pulls at his sternum. 

His attention is caught by a Prophet’s clipping pinned to the wall and Harry falters in his steps. 

“Is that the Greenhand affair?” he asks. 

“Accident,” corrects Malfoy and Harry looks back at him alarmingly. “The Aurors in charge of the case ruled it as accident. His daughter asked me to take another look.”

Harry frowns, feels the dip of his mouth. “I was the Auror in charge.” Harry closes his eyes on the fresh wave of hurt that washes over him. “For a short time,” he corrects. 

“Ah.”

Malfoy stands and comes closer. Harry’s hair stands on end on his arms; he has to fight himself not to lean in Malfoy’s space. He resolutely squares his jaw and crosses his arms in front of him, not looking away from the clipping. 

“I would not have ruled it as an accident,” Harry says, mostly to distract himself. Malfoy smells familiar and it’s both strange and comforting. “The door was tempered with.”

There’s a shift in Malfoy’s heartbeat; Harry had not registered that he was so attuned to it until it changed. He clears his throat. 

“That wasn’t in my notes,” Malfoy says. 

Harry squirms, both uncomfortable and too comfortable with Malfoy’s proximity. He’s got the weirdest urge to get closer and smell the pale length of his throat. His rational mind reminds him of basic decency and makes him want to fling himself across the room, to escape the temptation. 

“Then you have very little of importance in your notes,” he rasps. 

Malfoy looks back at him speculatively. 

“Well, would you like to look them over?”

And Harry does. He’s terrified of what Malfoy does to him, but he does. 

 


 

Harry remembers slapping the report on his desk right before he had been called out, confident that he would look it over later. The nauseous pull the memory causes is not enough to have him relax in his seat. 

Harry has spent the last two hours surrounded by Malfoy’s scent; it’s a heady note traveling in the space between them. 

Harry has locked the joints of his shoulders and hands, firmly cramped around Malfoy’s notes, to ensure that he wouldn’t unconsciously do something ridiculous like take a sniff of Draco’s skin. 

His scent dangerously appeals to him. Harry tries to read but the words are swimming in front of him.

The reality is that he missed Malfoy. Harry had not felt such comfort as he had when Malfoy had ruffled his head and scratched his spine with his short nails. He’s almost ashamed to have taken advantage of his canine appearance to bask in the comfort of human touch. Almost

Harry is just a lonely, miserable man, who would take anyone’s unassuming attention. 

Malfoy doesn’t act like anything is amiss, but his gaze trails to Harry every few minutes and remains here for a handful of too long seconds; Harry feels them ticking by as his face burns, his stare like a physical brand. He keeps his head down and tries to look like he has no idea that Malfoy is doing it. 

After long distracted minutes, he finally gets the courage to look up and say, “Can I take this back home?” because he actually wants to read it and have the occasion to close this case. He cannot do it with Malfoy so close even if leaving has him ache everywhere. 

Malfoy looks back at him; there’s still this strand of hair that Harry wants to push back falling over his forehead. 

He purses his lips; Harry wants to do something stupid and feels the leather give under one of his nails. 

“I’m not in the habit of divulging my client’s private information.”

He seems to think about it. His expression is doubtful and has Harry swallow back a whine; there’s something in him, rolling in his chest, that wants to please Malfoy at all cost.  Harry feels embarrassed and flushes with it. 

“Listen,” he rasps, voice too rough, “You know what? I’ll just go. We can talk about it later.” 

Harry abruptly stands up but cannot get himself to walk away yet. His wolf feels settled like it never does, not even at home. Malfoy’s office is a place to rest and Harry is terrified by the reality of it. He wants to go, lest he does something mortifying; yet, he can’t bear to leave. 

Harry, out of his conscious willpower, extends a hand. Malfoy shakes it with a dubious turn to his mouth, but it’s enough to send Harry aflame. It’s enough for a bit of Malfoy’s scent to transfer to his skin and for Harry to bring a piece of him home. He’s dizzy with the idea of it. His wolf pants excitedly. 

Harry walks into the door when he goes. His shoulder smarts but he doesn’t even try to justify himself to Malfoy, he simply bolts out of the building. If he doesn’t, he would sink to his knees and wait for Malfoy to comb through his hair. 

 


 

Harry is debating between beans on toast or fried eggs for dinner when someone knocks on the door. 

For a long moment, he stands unmovable in the center of his living room, a cup of tea in hand. He’s barefoot, toes rasping against the worn carpet and doesn’t know what to do with this new development. Then the knock rings again across his house and Harry has to do something. 

He puts his cup down on a tower of unread books and strides to the entrance hall, feels the chalky scrapping of dust under his feet. If he strains, he can hear a heartbeat that is neither Ron’s or Hermione’s. His own sink into his chest.

With growing dread, he opens the door. Malfoy looks back at him. 

“Listen,” Malfoy says with a quiet wince. “I hate to admit it, but I need help on this case. I’ve been stuck for the better part of six months, and I refuse to drop it.”

Harry doesn’t know what to say, so he keeps quiet, lips firmly pressed against each other. Merlin knows what kind of pitiful noise would get out of his mouth if he didn’t. 

“I brought some cognac,” Malfoy says and raises a bottle in front of him. It looks expensive. 

Alcohol sounds like an excellent idea to Harry, a good distraction to his canine desires. He cannot really get drunk unless he empties the bottle (and a few others) all by himself, but he won’t be unaffected. 

And he’s not sure he can refuse Malfoy even if he ever wanted to. 

“Yeah,” rasps Harry. “Sure, come in.”

Malfoy looks exasperated and it takes a minute for Harry to catch why. 

“Oh—Draco Malfoy, I welcome you into my home.” Harry feels the wards shimmer around him. 

“Thank you,” Malfoy says, clipped, before pushing the bottle of said cognac in Harry unwaiting hands. 

Harry’s heart does a somersault at the proximity, and the almost-brush of Malfoy’s fingers with his own. He swallows thickly and turns his back (and his nose) to Malfoy to lead the way. 

They pass the section of wall that is only drywall and torn wallpaper from where Harry had ripped away the portrait of Walburga Black. Malfoy raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment further. 

They end up in the living room and Harry has an alarmed moment of flailing before he spells away the mess of the last few days. The mugs accumulated over the week bob happily back to the kitchen. 

Malfoy stares at him. Harry feels himself flush and takes a step back to put further distance between them. 

“So the case?” he asks. 

“Right.” Malfoy says and puts his messenger back on the couch. He riffles through it for a second before handing the file to Harry. “I have everything here.” He takes a fortifying breath, “I was hoping that you could tell me what you saw at the crime scene.”

Harry tries not to squirm under Malfoy’s gaze, tries not to step closer. He shifts his balance, feels the drag of rough carpet under his feet. 

“Well,” he clears his throat, “I already told you that the door was tempered with, but according to our investigation nothing was stolen. The body was… Well, I imagine you know what a Strangler does to a body.”

It covers the mouth and nose, tightens around the jaw and throat. It’s a long drawn-out death that leaves the body red and blue

“Yes,” Malfoy says, lips thinning. “They’re usually enjoyed in an erotic setting.”

They stand for a moment with the innuendo; Harry feels the air thicken between them. He has the unyielding desire to lean toward Draco and take a deep breath, see if he smells of distaste. He bites his tongue instead. 

“Alright, erm, drinks.” Harry says, resolutely and strides out of the room. 

He brings back two clean glasses that are decidedly not cognac glasses, but Malfoy only purses his lips for all of five seconds before pouring a knuckle of alcohol for them. 

“Right,” Malfoy says after he has settled on Harry's couch (and doesn’t that make him warm, seeing Malfoy makes himself comfortable in his own scent), “according to my investigation, the Strangler was his own.” 

Harry makes a face. 

“He had a room, full of… recreational artifacts,” Malfoy elaborates.

“Right. So there’s the possibility of an accident.”

Malfoy tips his head in ascent and takes a sip of his drink. He hums around his mouthful. 

“I’m not excluding it, but that always seemed a bit weird to me. From what I saw of his room, he knew how to use it. He had experience with such dark artifacts. It’s not hard to get out of one, they’re not meant to trap you.” 

“Unless someone made it impossible.”

“Unless someone made it impossible,” Malfoy repeats. 

Harry looks at the bottom of his glass, makes the amber liquid twirl against the sides. He takes a sip of it and meets Malfoy’s eyes. 

“Was the Strangler tempered with?”

“You’ll laugh, but the MLE has lost it before an expertise could be conducted.”

Harry winces and Malfoy continues. 

“My source tried to dig up what happened, but nothing came up.”

Harry snorts. 

“Your source… You asked Parkinson for the info.” 

Draco turns up his nose to him. 

“I would never reveal the name of my source.” 

Harry rolls his eyes and sprawls more comfortably in the armchair. The alcohol doesn’t really have an effect on him, but he likes the warm weight of it in his stomach. 

It’s a bit easier to be in the same room as Malfoy, now that he’s settled in his seat, further away. 

Harry rubs at his mouth. “Right, so… It is suspicious. You think someone tried to bury the case.”

Malfoy nods. 

“Greenhand was rich and mean. He had no friends, his wife passed away ten years ago and he was in France during the War,” Malfoy lists on his fingers. “That doesn’t make him very popular with anyone.”

“What about his daughter? He has one, right?”

Malfoy nods. “She seems properly stricken and desperate for justice as a loving daughter would be. She admits that they had a difficult relationship, but he was still her father. I can… Understand.” 

Harry doesn’t have an answer; he wants to do something stupid like offer the comfort of his fur. The mention of Lucius Malfoy should never translate to to this kind of reaction. He sips his drink. 

“Right,” he says, when the silence has stretched for too long between them. 

Malfoy shakes his head and tightens his fingers against his glass. His heartbeat is still a steady thrum despite the pause.

“Anyway, I don’t have many suspects, or rather… I have too many suspects,” he admits wryly. 

“Right.” Harry sits silently with it for a while. “What about family? Cousins that would inherit?”

“Everything goes to the daughter.”

Harry nods. 

“Could I talk to her then? I never got to with the…” he trails off awkwardly. It feels impossible to finish with ‘the incident’. That’s what Hermione calls it and Harry hates it with passion. 

Malfoy understands the subtext. He nods. “I thought you would want that. I already wrote to her. She’s waiting for us tomorrow.”

Harry sends a surprised look to Draco. He is seated here in his couch, unknowingly rubbing Harry’s scent all over his clothes and it suddenly doesn’t feel as innocent as it was. 

“You did not need to come here then. You could have written.”

Malfoy’s smile is self-deprecating. He hides it behind the rim of his glass. 

“I could have. I wanted to… You’re…” He settles back on the couch, as to ponder more carefully on his next words. “Your wolf is friendly. With me.”

Harry takes a sharp breath in, his heart speeds up in his chest. 

“I did not think you would be,” Malfoy continues when Harry doesn’t answer. 

Harry very carefully breathes out, closes his eyes on the indignation that rises in his throat. 

“I take wolfsbane,” he says slowly, gripping the arms of his seat. There’s the hint of claws at his fingers and he takes a fortifying breath to retract them. It doesn’t help; Malfoy is here, very close. 

He opens his eyes to check that Malfoy did not come forward. He hasn’t moved. 

“I know that. That’s not what I meant.” Malfoy smooths the fabric of his trousers in a nervous tick. Harry tries hard not to stare at his hands. 

“You smell really good,” Harry says thickly, because it’s true. He regrets it immediately. 

Malfoy blinks at him; his eyes go from Harry’s face to the grip he has on his armchair. 

“Oh.”

Harry swallows again. He can hear Malfoy’s heartbeat and it’s now a loud drum reverberating through his skull. 

“I think you should go,” Harry says very slowly. He’s two breaths away from dissolving into a heap of unspeakable desires. 

Malfoy stares at him for a long second. His fingers twitch in his lap. Harry takes a sharp breath in. 

“Yes. Alright.” He stands, gathers his bag on his shoulder. For a second, he pauses, to look at Harry, watches his face like he’s looking for something. Harry doesn’t know if he finds it. 

“Good night, Potter. I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

He’s gone before Harry has exhaled. 

 


 

When Harry wakes up the next morning, there are two owls hanging out of his window. The first he recognizes as Hermione’s. He grunts at it in annoyance. He doesn’t want to bother with yet another migraine-inducing request to consider getting on the board of the Fund and Aid for Lycanthropy, Lycanthropic Individuals and Communities. 

The second is elegant enough for Harry to take a wild guess and say that it’s Malfoy’s. He opens the window for this one and shoos the other away. 

In Malfoy’s neat script, there’s an address and the time of the meeting. Harry has an hour to get ready. 

He stands in front of his dresser and wishes for the formality his Auror robes would automatically provide. He had liked the layers, like an armour against the world. In red, he wasn’t Harry Potter, but another protector. Someone everyone could turn to in need. 

Now, he fishes for his cleanest dress shirt and a pair of jeans that is not yet torn at the knees and hopes it’s enough. 

When he looks into his mirror, he feels naked. He still apparates away. 

 


 

Malfoy is right on time, apparating next to Harry in a ringing crack. 

“Hello,” he says. 

Harry nods, tongue-tied. Malfoy is very close, looks awfully good in the rigid cotton of his shirt, angular and sharp. Harry is a bit scared to cut himself if he ever touches him. He wants to try. He pushes his hands in his jeans pockets instead. 

His wolf is suspiciously quiet. 

“Alright,” Malfoy says, adjusting the pleat of his coat. “She’s waiting for us, let’s go.”

Malfoy leads the way to the front door, climbing the front steps; Harry tries to look anywhere but at him. 

They knock; Harry strains to hear beyond the door. He catches the shuffle of feet and braces himself to look polite and invested as the door opens. 

“Hello Mrs Bruegel,” says Draco with a picture-perfect smile, “Thank you for receiving us today. This is the associate I talked to you about.”

Harry tries to make himself taller, more charming. 

“Harry Potter,” he says and extends a hand. 

Mrs Bruegel’s eyes fall on him, and she retracts her politely offered hand with a spasm. She holds her wrist as she has been burned. The gesture cuts sharp on Harry’s tongue. He can almost taste copper. 

No one wants to touch a werewolf. Harry grits his teeth, but doesn’t say anything and pulls his hands behind his back, nods instead. 

The silence falls over them, thick and breathless. 

“Can we come in?” asks Malfoy, sweetly. 

Mrs Bruegel startles and looks away from Harry. 

“Oh, yes, of course,” Mrs Bruegel says and steps aside to let them in. 

Malfoy steps in, and Harry follows under her wary gaze. She seats them in a beautiful blue parlor, with ceiling-high windows and wrings her hands as she looks anywhere but at Harry. 

“My husband will join you shortly,” she says with a pinch to her mouth before disappearing to get water boiling. Too polite not to offer something to drink but obviously not happy with a werewolf in her house. 

Harry refuses to exhaust himself by being outraged at the usual lack of human decency. 

He occupies himself with details instead. His sharpened senses are much better at picking up details; Harry is conscious of the room, the touch of fabric against his hands, the granny quality of light going through the window and the knowledge that one of the glass panes is dirtier because of it. 

 Harry tries not to stare at Malfoy. He cannot help but feel on his tongue the citrus scent of his soap, and the lavender cream he puts on his hand. It’s not just the raw smell of him  and it’s a relief to have a part of his scent obscured, hidden under cosmetics. 

His ears prickles at the sound of steps coming; Harry naturally turns to them. 

“Hello gentlemen,” says a man striding in. He doesn’t falter when he sees Harry seated here, but his heartbeat trips and startles into a breakneck rhythm. 

“Very nice to see you, Mr Bruegel,” says Malfoy and rises to shake his hand. Harry doesn’t bother. 

The man’s lips thin into a straight unhappy line. 

“Do you have new information about the investigation?”

Malfoy, ever polite, gently shakes his head and seats himself, leaving the man in a standing position of power. 

“We would simply like to discuss some details with you and your wife. My partner, here, might offer some new insight to the situation.”

“We’ve already told you everything we had to say,” Mr Bruegel says in clipped tones. 

“Oh, come on, Peter, Mr. Malfoy is simply doing the job we’re paying him to do,” says his wife as she strides in with a tray. 

She shares delicate china cups and scones, almost doesn’t falter when she holds out Harry’s, before settling down on a couch. Her husband stays standing, looking at them with his back to the window. 

“Right,” Malfoy says. “Potter, do you have any questions?” 

Harry clears his throat and straightens in his seat. 

“Yeah, sure.” He looks at Mrs. Bruegel and she uncomfortably stares back at him. “Your father had many enemies. Do you remember if any of them said anything in particular? Death threats? Even threats of violence?”

She takes a careful sip of her tea and looks down at her hands with a wry smile. 

“Well, not as such.” She purses her mouth. “My father was not a good man in any way and he was awfully bad-tempered, but he never did anything vicious enough that would warrant a response of the sort.”

Harry hums.

“Do you agree, Mr Bruegel?” 

He doesn’t startle, but his heartbeat kicks up alarmingly. 

“Yes, of course. My wife knew him best,” he says placidly. 

Harry listens to the pulse of his heart, high with adrenaline, flight or fight response in his ribcage. 

“Why do you not believe in an accident then?” he turns his question to the wife. 

“Well, I thankfully knew nothing of my father’s sexual proclivities,” she says it with a grimace, “but I knew him well enough to know he would never leave before his time. He found too much satisfaction in making everyone around him slightly less happy.”

Harry nods and ponders on it. Malfoy slowly sips at his tea next to him, looking at the room over the rim of his cup. 

Harry waits for the silence to settle before turning to Mr Bruegel. “Would you say that you’re an anxious person?”

His wife scoffs. “Peter? No I wouldn’t say, no.” She waves a hand at her husband. 

Harry hums again. He feels Malfoy’s stare against his face, like a change of pressure in the air. 

“Then, there must be something that scares you in this room?”

Mr Bruegel finally flinches. His fingers spasm at his sides and he crosses them in front of him, sets his jaw in a hard line. The aggressiveness is a rigid tension in the space between them. 

“Maybe the beast seated on my couch!” Mr Bruegel growls, trying for menacing. The sounds of his heartbeat has him landing on desperate instead. 

“Peter!” his wife cries, genuinely scandalized even if she thinks similar things about Harry. 

Harry pacifies her with a wave of his hand. “I take no offense, ma’am. But I don’t think that’s it.” He takes a breath and leans forward, elbows on his thighs. “Where were you on the day of Mr Greenhand’s death?” 

Mr. Bruegel goes red and blotchy, expands with indignation. “I won’t answer to you!”

Malfoy puts his teacup on the table, folding his hands in his lap. Harry knows that he’s poised for action, careful tension in the line of his shoulders. “Then, I’m the one asking. Where were you?”

Mr. Bruegel gapes at him.

“Peter?” Mrs Bruegel asks, frowning anxiously at her husband. 

“I was on a business trip to Paris!” he exclaims, too dismissive to be genuine. 

Harry stands, feels the trip of his heartbeat as his own. He doesn’t have to think about it; that is the sound of a lie. 

“No you weren’t.”

Mr Bruegel raises his wand. Harry is prepared for it, sees the spell flash toward him and bounce against his wandless Protego. 

It takes him all of five seconds to disarm Mr Bruegel and have him on the floor, writhing in bonds, throwing uncreative insults at Harry. Mrs Bruegel hasn’t even stood from her seat. She gapes at Harry. 

“I’ve called the Aurors,” says Malfoy, standing at Harry’s elbow. “They’ll be here in a moment.” 

Harry nods. Shortly after, the cracks of apparition ring outside. 

 


 

Harry is seated on the steps outside, looking over the bustle of the streets and the curious onlookers trying to take a peek of the source of the commotion when Malfoy finds him. He hands a cup of tea to him. 

“Reheated, but it should still be drinkable.”

Harry takes a deep breath over his cup and tries to focus on the notes of bergamot rather than Malfoy’s proximity. He can hear his heartbeat, a steady and comforting thrum close enough to ease the adrenaline out of him. 

“I wouldn't have pegged you for a reheated-tea kind of bloke,” comments Harry, but he takes a sip of it. It sits on his tongue, sweet and warm. 

Malfoy huffs a breath. 

“I’m not the one drinking it, am I?”

Harry snorts but doesn’t comment further. They look over the pavement and the scorn of Aurors trying to keep onlookers away. There’s a new rhythm to Malfoy’s pulse, and Harry naturally turns to him.

Malfoy smiles, a tad self deprecating. 

“We can’t say that you’re not efficient. Not even twenty-four hours on this case and you’ve probably solved it. You should work for me.”

Harry shrugs. “Maybe I should.”

Malfoy turns to him, eyes wide. He opens his mouth to say something, but Ron steps up to them. Malfoy doesn’t speak. 

“Harry. Malfoy,” he nods at them in turn. 

“Weasley.” 

Harry tries to not seem amused by the polite exchange. Today, he cannot even muster his usual irritation at having to deal with other people and their well-meaning, but inevitably dismissive advice. 

“Right,” says Ron and looks like he doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands. “We’re taking him in for attempted assault, but Malfoy here told me that I should open a closed case?”

Malfoy huffs impatiently, evidently miffed that Ron has to ask for a second opinion on the matter.

“Yeah,” Harry says. “Greenhand incident. He’s the son-in-law. The evidence is circumstantial, but it should be enough to get approved for Veritaserum.”

Ron sighs. “Alright. I thought I had stopped doing unnecessary paperwork for you, but it looks like I was wrong.”

Harry shrugs, drinks his tea. It’s still warm and settles on his stomach pleasantly. 

Ron stands in increasingly uncomfortable silence, looking between Harry and Malfoy. 

“Right,” he says after a while. “I’ll need your deposition, Harry.”

“Sure,” Harry says agreeably. He hands back his teacup to Malfoy, who is startled but takes it without a word. Harry stands up, dusting his jeans as he goes. “To the MLE department?”

“Yes,” says Ron and he offers his elbow for side-along. Harry stares at it and waits for Ron to retract his offer. A minute goes and he doesn’t. 

“Well,” Harry says uneasily. “See you later, Malfoy?”

Malfoy waves at him from his seat, looking puzzled at how he got into this peculiar predicament. 

“Sure.”

And Harry disapparates with Ron. 

 


 

Malfoy knocks at his door when evening bleeds into night. Harry opens it in the same jeans and shirt he was wearing this morning. He feels underdressed in front of Malfoy’s gleaming worry about his appearance. 

“Celebratory drinks?” Malfoy asks with empty glasses in his hand; cognac, probably. 

“Sure,” Harry says, but doesn’t move. There’s something in Malfoy’s expression that prevents him from doing so. 

They look at each other. Harry breathes shallowly, knowing that he will bend and take a lick of Malfoy’s throat, right over his Adam’s apple, if he gets any closer. 

Malfoy bites his lip; Harry wants. 

“When you said I smelled good… Did you want to eat me?”

Harry takes a sudden inhale. 

“No.”

Malfoy looks as affected as Harry feels. He opens his mouth and exhales slowly, doesn’t speak for a long moment. 

“Do you want to have sex with me?”

Harry feels a knot in his throat; it tightens in his airway and he has to push the words out, almost desperate. 

“Yes,” he rasps. 

Malfoy pushes him inside and slams the door behind them. There’s a moment, when they simply look at each other, a silence while the storm is brewing, close enough to share warmth. Harry touches Malfoy’s elbow, tries to be gentle about it and not as brusque and desperate as he feels. Malfoy smiles at him, strained and wanting, and Harry cannot wait anymore. 

When he kisses Malfoy, it’s burning and tastes of tea. 

The glasses are dropped to the floor. Harry has just enough presence of mind to send a cushioning spell their way. He doesn’t check to see if they broke. 

Harry would let Draco tear through him, bite his way inside with his blunt human teeth if he ever asked for it. He opens his mouth to him and lets him try, containing his shudders by pushing his hands in the soft giving texture of Draco’s clothes. 

“Naked, naked, naked,” chants Draco against his mouth. 

Harry nods on a choppy exhale. 

“Bedroom,” he answers, and swallows Draco’s response with a biting kiss. 

He pushes at Draco’s hips and slithers his hands under the shirt that rides up here, almost falling over with the shiver that shakes him and the feeling of warm skin under his bare hands. The scent of Draco’s arousal might kill him. Harry presses his nose in the curve of Draco’s jaw, where he smells of need and enthusiasm and wants to live here, never go anywhere else. 

“Bedroom,” Draco chokes out and Harry bodily lifts him against his front and wrestles him into walking. 

The bed is unmade and even easier to fall into for it. Harry pushes his shirt over his head and hears it rip over his shoulder; he’s too mad with lust to care, and the distant thought of torn seams is replaced by the need to get closer to Draco, join him on the sheets. 

Harry falls in Draco’s open arms and feels like he would drown without the desire Draco is pushing under his skin. He’s buoyant with lust, floating over his usual worries and sinking into Draco’s flesh. 

“What do you want?” asks Draco, and Harry pushes his fingers in Draco silk-soft hair to kiss him. 

Everything, he wants to say. He tries to breathe it in each of his kisses. 

“I need you to fuck me,” Harry says finally and it settles solid and palpable in his stomach as he voices it. Becomes even more true as it leaves his mouth. 

Draco blinks up at him and flips them over with a push of his hips, bites at Harry’s mouth with the full burning extent of his desire. Harry feels scorched by it; he opens his arm to the incandescence. 

Draco straddles him to shed his coat and shirt and Harry laughs at his desperation, fumbles with the buttons until Draco tugs sharply enough to be free of clothes. 

They roll around, pushing at their pants desperately, until everything ends up on a heap at the side of the bed and they’re not laughing anymore but angrily consuming each other. Harry feels the bite of sharp nails at his biceps and he strains against it, pulls Draco closer with a mad scrambling that translates his eagerness. 

Harry rolls onto his stomach, lets Draco pin him like that, spread over him with all his weight. There are hands at his ribs, the sharp prickles of teeth at his shoulders and the burning length of Draco against him, dragging silky-soft against his skin in small aborted movements. Harry feels close to combustion. 

“Please,” he asks and reaches to call for lube. The bottle jumps into his hand and he reaches back for Draco to take it. 

“Muggle cream?” Draco asks as he takes it, voice gone so low it makes Harry shudder. 

“Lube, better than the one you summon.”

Draco makes a dubious noise, but opens the cap in a pop. Ten seconds ago, the idea of Draco opening him up slow and steady was appealing, but now, the wait suddenly becomes unbearable to Harry. He grits his teeth, bunches the sheet in his fists. 

“Just use a fucking spell,” Harry bites and Draco goes away for a second, leaves Harry naked and alone, until he’s back, and he feels the shiver of magic brushing into his flesh, making him relaxed and pliant. 

Draco presses him in the mattress, laying on top of him. 

“Yeah,” he breathes out, as Draco pushes into him, smothers him under the weight of his body. 

“Alright?” Draco asks, and Harry pushes back, almost imperceptibly with his lack of leverage. 

Draco makes a strangled noise in answer. “Yes, alright,” he says and pushes forward, in a slow, tortuous grind. Harry gasps into it. 

Harry doesn’t have room to move and lays there, panting open-mouthed against the sheets, hands scrabbling to find purchase. Draco is a giant wave that crashes upon his shores in long continuous strokes and Harry struggles to breath through it. 

He would be flung beyond the limit of his body if not for the firm hold Draco has on him, circling his wrist and the round curve of his shoulder, keeping him there, bones rattling. Harry is only perception. He feels the burning breath of Draco at the curve of his jaw, wet and warm and turns his head on instinct, steals an open-mouthed kiss. Tastes the want on his lips. 

The build is slow, pulling Harry toward his orgasm in small increments. Harry feels it. It builds and builds and builds, pushing at his organs to leave room for the fire that burns in his loins. Harry almost fears that he will explode; he reaches for Draco, takes a hold of his hand and bites, not viciously, but with intent. Draco moans a strained song in his nape. 

Harry whines, hears himself distantly, as he pushes against the mattress for more friction, licks at Draco’s skin and tastes the salt of his efforts. Everything smells of want and need and Harry sets his nails in the sheets, pulls to hold himself back, just a little bit longer. 

“Come on, Potter,” pants Draco, and Harry comes. 

 


 

After, Harry buries his nose into Draco’s throat and breathes there, damp and hot. He expects Draco to shove him off, but instead he curves a hand around Harry’s skull, nails sharp against his scalp. 

Harry hums. 

“You’re not scared of me. I did bite you.” 

Draco tugs softly at Harry’s locks, passes his fingers through his hair. 

“We both know that werewolf bites only have an effect on a full-moon. And you’ve done scarier things than being a werewolf.” At Harry’s silence, he adds softly, “I was talking about killing Voldemort, not…” he trails off. “Sorry.”

Harry doesn’t say anything, buries closer into Draco’s scent and tries to ignore the memory that wants to resurface. There’s a tone of embarrassment in Draco’s emotions, and Harry licks at his skin to taste it. 

Draco pinches him in retaliation and sighs when Harry doesn’t react. He lets himself sag in the mattress. 

“Part of my probation was to help with the Fund and Aid for Lycanthropy, Lycantropic Individuals and Communities,” he says to the ceiling. “I met a lot of werewolves and it was… It was good, honestly.” 

Harry is silent for a long moment. He props himself on his elbow to look down at Draco. 

“I didn’t know you were involved with FALLIC,” he says, straight-faced. 

Draco wrinkles his nose and pinches at the sensitive skin of his ribs. Harry yelps and throws himself away. 

“You know it’s called F.A.2L.I.C, don’t you?” he says, pushing back into Harry’s space and pining him to the mattress with a leg thrown out, going to straddle him. 

Harry doesn’t bother to answer and steadies him with a hand at his hip. He lets Draco sink into his lap with his full weight, and feels the twinge of muscles deep in his legs from their earlier efforts. Draco looks down at him, his sharp nose taking a royal tilt as he settles himself. 

“Hi,” Draco says, with false shyness. 

“Hello,” Harry answers and cannot stop the grin that spills over his face. 

Draco hums, trails his hand over Harry’s chest. 

“Again?” he asks. 

“Yes,” Harry answers without an ounce of hesitation.