Sweet Puppy

Chapter 11

In the early hours of the morning, Snape returned. He was followed through the door by a worse-for-wear Draco Malfoy.

“What is the meaning of this, Snape?” hissed Remus, descending immediately upon the other man as soon as the door was closed. Snape raised his chin defiantly while Malfoy looked around the room, his face contorted with disgust at what he considered meager dwellings. Without being invited, he sat down at the table, perched on a rickety chair as though trying to put the least amount of weight upon it as possible.

“Where else would you have me take him, Lupin?” asked Snape softly. “He has been in hiding with his mother – I checked on them while I was gone. She is… indisposed at this point.” Snape broke off for a moment, his teeth clenched behind his lips before continuing, “I could not leave him. I doubt Dumbledore would have wanted me to abandon a student.”

Remus stepped back. “No,” he murmured, his eyes losing their fierceness. “No, I suppose not.” Remus looked over at the son of Lucius Malfoy and inwardly sighed. Snape was right; Dumbledore would never abandon a student if he could help it. If Harry’s account of that dreadful night was correct, it had been Draco Malfoy who was supposed to have killed the headmaster. Remus leveled his gaze at the fair-haired young wizard and said gently but firmly, “You may stay here, Draco. But don’t think we won’t be watching you. Your actions must be punished – but now is not the time. You are still in danger, I’m sure.” Remus glanced at Snape as he said this, who nodded in affirmation. “Right,” said Remus briskly, clapping his hands together. “You will room with Snape. His room is the farthest down this hallway.”

Draco’s expression had ranged from scorn to panic to resignation. He nodded jerkily as Remus pointed to the hallway door, then stood and walked quickly from the room. Remus let out the breath he’d been holding and sank into a chair while Snape stalked over to the enchanted food cabinet and pulled out a crystal jug and two glasses full of Odgen’s Old Firewhisky.

“This is not going to go over well with Harry,” muttered Remus, covering his face with his hands. He opened his eyes at the sound of the jug and glasses hitting the table and eyed Snape skeptically.

“Is this really the time for alcohol?” he asked, one hand still on his face.

“There couldn’t be one better,” said Snape, bringing a glass to his thin lips, his eyes distant.

*          *          *

Harry traipsed into the sunny kitchen followed by Ron and Hermione, their arms full of scrolls and parchment and quills. They had just finished taking notes from Regulus Black’s journals, jotting down what they considered to be viable clues as to where the Horcrux locket was hidden, and they were in need of lunch. They were stopped short by the sight of an uncharacteristically strained looking Snape, his head in his hand and his elbows on the table while the rest of the adults were all sitting around him talking quietly.

“What’s going on?” asked Harry immediately – for it was clear from the looks on their faces that something was going on.

“Did someone die?” asked Ron, his casual voice wobbling.

“Who knows,” said Snape, his mouth twisting bitterly.

“We don’t know anything yet, Severus,” said Remus gently. Harry raised an eyebrow – something bad must have happened for Remus to be calling the man ‘Severus’. Remus turned to Harry, Ron, and Hermione.

“Snape went to check on Draco Malfoy while he was getting the ingredients for the Wolfsbane potion.” Harry tensed and he felt Ron stiffen beside him as well.

“His mother could not care for him anymore – her whereabouts are unknown. Draco is here now.”

“WHAT?” exploded Harry and Ron simultaneously. Snape lifted his head from his hand and sneered at Harry.

“I knew he would act this way, Lupin – thinking only of himself, content to hold onto frivolous grudges, just like –”

“SHUT UP!” Harry screamed, his face livid. “Stop making everything about you and my dad!”

“Harry, enough!” shouted Remus, lifting his hand as though blocking Harry’s voice. Harry turned and seethed at him before whirling for the door and striding out of it, slamming it shut with a bang. Snape made a disgusted noise and rose from the table, somewhat less composed than normal.

“I have a potion to prepare, Lupin,” he said, sneering down at them all. “Keep him out of my way.” Snape spun on his heel and swept from the room, leaving them all to confer without him. Ron, like Harry, was also rather furious looking while Hermione merely frowned in thought. None of them went after Harry.

Outside, Harry quickly spotted Fenrir, who was sitting with his back against the nearest tree. He appeared to be sharpening his nails against a rock, but upon a closer look, Harry realized he was filing them. Fenrir looked up at his approach and grinned.

“I realized something last night,” he growled, his eyes feral. “I can’t finger you with these claws, can I?”

Harry’s rage immediately left him and he stared in shock as Fenrir continued to grin, showing off his pointed teeth. Suddenly, Harry let out a choked laugh – trust Fenrir to get rid of his beloved claws for sex.

“Did you spend all night thinking about that?” asked Harry, sitting himself down next to the werewolf. If Harry hadn’t still been thinking about Snape and Malfoy, he would have noticed Fenrir’s eyes become shuttered before returning to their natural gleam.

“Sure did,” murmured Fenrir, licking his lips, his eyes hooded. Harry squirmed, then remembered his reasons for coming outside.

“Malfoy’s here,” he said without any introduction. Fenrir paused, the scratching sound of his nails ceasing abruptly.

“Malfoy –”

“Draco Malfoy. Lucius Malfoy’s son. The one who –”

“Was supposed to kill Dumbledore,” finished Fenrir. There was no specific expression on his face. His eyes were searching Harry’s.

“Yeah,” said Harry, wrapping his arms around his legs and resting his head on his knees. He suddenly remembered that Fenrir had been up in that tower with him. He had even offered to kill Dumbledore. ‘I’ll do it,’ he had said. Harry shivered… that was all in the past now, wasn’t it? It had to be… or else he’d go mad. He couldn’t associate Fenrir with the Death Eaters or Voldemort. He just couldn’t. Dimly, Harry was aware that Fenrir had resumed the filing of his nails.

“So?” he asked quietly. “What do you think?”

Fenrir made a vague huffing sound, examining his progress. “Sounds like Voldemort got pissed that the runt couldn’t carry out his order. He has no where to go now.”

“So we’re just going to forgive him?” asked Harry, his voice rising. “He tried to kill Dumbledore!”

“I know,” said Fenrir. “But you forgave me, didn’t you? I hurt your Weasley friend’s brother – mauled him, more like.” Harry looked at the ground. “I made Lupin what he is. Yet you let me do this,” Fenrir brought a hand up to grasp Harry’s chin and he moved forward, licking the corner of Harry’s mouth. Harry sat still, not knowing what to think as Fenrir’s tongue continued to map his lips. This went against every sensible thought in his head – but his body took over and he parted his lips and sighed as Fenrir’s tongue slid into his mouth.

For a few moments, Harry was able to stop thinking about Malfoy or Snape, or even Dumbledore. All that mattered was that Fenrir didn’t stop kissing him. Soon Harry was clambering into Fenrir’s lap, tangling his hands in the man’s hair. The kiss was short-lived, however; Fenrir pulled away and growled, “Go back inside – before I start using these fingers.”

After Harry walked back into the cottage, he expected he would have to speak to Draco Malfoy at some point. But Malfoy might as well not have been there at all – Harry didn’t run into him once. He didn’t eat with the group, and Harry never bumped into him when using the bathroom.

Unfortunately, the same could not be said for Snape. Harry saw him almost constantly, as he had set up the Wolfsbane potion in the kitchen fireplace – it was the only hearth available for such a project. Foul smells kept Harry up at night, and if they weren’t bad enough, Snape’s constant stream of mutterings and pacing around did the trick. Harry tried Silencing spells, but he could still see the outline of Snape through the curtains around his makeshift bed, and that was enough to keep his temper boiling. Of course, Snape threw him a sneer as often as he could, and Harry gave as good as he got. The rest of the occupants in the cottage walked on egg shells around them, not wanting to set off what seemed like an inevitable showdown. Remus tried to reason with both of them.

“You have to have understanding, Harry,” he had said. “Draco has lost possibly both of his parents – we have no idea. His father in hiding, his mother… well, Snape won’t tell me any details.”

Of course not, thought Harry.

Two days later, the potion was ready. Harry had been counseled against seeing Fenrir at night, as the full moon was fast approaching. Harry agreed – Fenrir was rough enough as it was during the day, although they had only been kissing. The night the potion was completed, Remus and Fenrir took their first dose of the Wolfsbane potion. The concentration was heightened as they had not started the doses as early as they would have preferred. Harry had watched anxiously as Fenrir swallowed in one gulp. He immediately gagged, but did not vomit.

“Tastes like Hippogriff shit,” he had spat.

“You know what that tastes like?” Ron had asked incredulously. Fenrir’s resulting look was enough to shut Ron’s mouth tight.

For the next two days after that, both Remus and Fenrir took two doses each day of the Wolfsbane potion. Each time, Fenrir consumed it in one gulp, then stalked away into the forest for a few hours and each time, Harry felt guilty. He knew the potion wasn’t pleasant – and this was entirely Snape’s fault of course – and he hoped it didn’t make Fenrir sick. He wasn’t used to magic or potions… maybe they would affect him differently? Maybe… maybe Snape had altered the potion somehow and was plotting against them?

“Of course not,” Hermione had sniffed. “You thought he was trying to poison Remus before, didn’t you? And you were wrong.”

“But this is different, Hermione,” said Ron with a furtive look at Harry’s glowering face. “He’s making it for Greyback now – and, well, maybe he thinks the Ministry will forgive him if he takes out a major werewolf like him –”

“Oh, you’re completely ridiculous, both of you!” snapped Hermione, shutting one of the many Black journals. “Scrimgeour wouldn’t go near Snape except to shackle him to a wall in Azkaban!”

As much as Harry wanted to continue talking about Snape, he soon had other worries on his mind.

“Harry, can I talk to you for a moment?” asked Remus that night after dinner. Tomorrow was the full moon, and he seemed particularly desperate for peace, so Harry stifled his anger about the whole situation and waited patiently for Remus to talk.

“Tomorrow night, as you know, both Fenrir and I will change,” said Remus, looking exceptionally grave. “I won’t be with you, Harry. I will stay in my rooms. I have spoken to Fenrir, and we have come to the agreement that he will remain outside – as long as he does not return to the cave.”

“You cannot see him tomorrow night, Harry,” said Remus sharply. “I forbid it, do you understand?”

Harry nodded. He knew the risk – even though Fenrir would keep his mind, there was too high a risk that the moon would drive him to bite a human.

“And you must stay out of the moon’s light, Harry.” Remus leaned forward as though his mere presence would convince Harry to obey. “This will be your first full moon since – since you were Scented.” Harry shifted awkwardly. “The moon will affect you too – I can’t be there to protect you, Harry. Keep out of the light.”

            And so it was with great trepidation that Harry peered out of the window the next day, watching the sun’s steady descent behind the horizon. The forest turned dark as though a light had been snuffed out and Harry sucked in a breath, pressing his face to the glass, desperate to watch Fenrir. Ron and Hermione had been strictly told by Remus to stay in their rooms as well, as Harry’s behavior would no doubt be unpredictable. It was the result of being alone that led Harry to keep the curtain up as he watched for a sign of Fenrir. At the first sign of the moon, Harry tensed, prepared for a sudden onslaught of feelings – but they did not come. In fact, he felt a sense of calm…. And there, out on the grass, stood Fenrir. He had his face turned to the sky, his arms outstretched as though accepting some sort of sacred blessing. Then, with a low, almost wounded howl, Fenrir fell to his knees and began to shake.

Harry stared out of his window at Fenrir’s changing body. He watched, transfixed as Fenrir’s hair seemed to cascade down his back. Muscles were bulging and twisting visibly under skin that had turned a strange, pale color. Everything about Fenrir was changing, and he watched in an awed sort of horror as Fenrir opened his still mostly human mouth to make room for his rapidly growing teeth. He heard a roar from somewhere inside the cottage, and he spun around to look behind him; somewhere, Remus was changing too, though he had chosen to do so inside. Two of them… and somewhere relatively close by, hundreds…. Harry shivered. He heard a howl and he turned back to the window to see a massive, grey werewolf. It was Greyback.

            No, it’s Fenrir, Harry reminded himself furiously. He couldn’t let his own fears get the better of him. That was Fenrir out there, he had taken the potion… he wasn’t dangerous….

            Outside, Fenrir howled again, arching his neck, his snout pointing to the sky. Harry shifted restlessly. Oh no, he pleaded, glancing at the pearly white moon. Not now….

            Harry couldn’t believe it. He was getting hard from looking at a werewolf.

            Harry bit his lip, a furious battle raging in his head. He knew he should cover the window like Remus told him to. He should cast a Silencing charm to block out the howls, or he could even hide under the bed. Anything, Remus had said, to ignore Fenrir. But… he didn’t really need to, did he? After all, Fenrir had taken the potion… he had his wits about him. And he did look so handsome in the moonlight….

            Wait, WHAT?

            Harry shoved himself away from the window, where he had unknowingly been pressing his face against the glass. No, he did not just think that. He did not just think that an animal was attractive.

            But… well, it wasn’t wrong to appreciate the strength of a werewolf, was it? After all, that’s what he was gazing at, Harry argued, pressing his face to the glass once more. The moon was glancing off the powerful shoulders and head of the wolf. Harry had the sudden desire to be in the moon too, to bask under it. Maybe he and Fenrir could walk under the moon together, maybe even go swimming in the stream. His fur looked so thick and soft. Of course, Harry would give Fenrir a pat. Harry wondered if he liked his ears scratched like Fang. Or maybe he liked his belly rubbed. Harry flushed darkly, realizing that if he were to rub the werewolf’s stomach, he’d no doubt see something else on the beast’s underside. What would it look like, down there? Oh, god… would Fenrir want him to touch it?

Harry stuffed his hand in his mouth to stop from whimpering – he had been rubbing himself through his jeans without even realizing it. His thoughts strayed back to the werewolf’s body without his consent.

Harry fleetingly remembered that he has seen Fang erect once… would Fenrir’s cock look like that: red, shiny, and slick? Harry wondered how big it would be. Harry licked his lips, panting against the window, leaving clouds of steam that vanished and reappeared. Maybe Fenrir would let him lick it… what would it taste like? He hadn’t done that to Fenrir yet… and oh, how he wanted to….

Harry unbuttoned his jeans and slid his hand into his underwear, gripping his cock. He could hear Fenrir outside. A flash of Ripper, the old bull dog, raced through Harry’s mind; once the dog had tried to mount Aunt Petunia’s leg. Would Fenrir do that to him? Gasping now, Harry began to jerk and squeeze himself, moaning as images of himself spreading his legs, letting Fenrir’s long werewolf tongue lick inside him, filled his mind. The wolf would cover his body with his…hot soft fur would press against his back, a brilliant white moon would beat down on them. Maybe Fenrir would growl in his ear, maybe he’d howl, or make that incredible roaring sound…. Harry could barely keep himself standing as he imagined Fenrir sliding into him, rutting hard and fast, licking his neck. He could see it in his mind as if it were happening – then, just before Fenrir came, the wolf would sink his teeth into the crook of his neck and bite down hard – Harry’s orgasm hit him like a freight train. He collapsed onto his bed below the window. It wasn’t until he could think properly that he gasped in horror over what he had just imagined – Fenrir biting him. Remus was right. Harry leapt up to the window and pulled the curtains shut, blocking the treacherous moon from sight before grabbing his wand and ridding all traces of his corrupted thoughts from his body. 

*          *          *

Fenrir stared down at his paws. He was pleased to note that the earlier filing of his nails didn’t affect his claws. This was his first conscious thought as a werewolf, and he was suddenly so taken aback by this notion that he whined. He turned around, moving his head from side to side, taking in the image of his body. When he was in his werewolf form, his only thoughts were hunt, kill, eat, and mate. But now… he looked up and took in the vision that was the mother moon. He bent his nose to the ground and sniffed the grass. The wind blew and he shook himself in pleasure as the breeze ruffled his fur. His ears pricked at a nearby sound… Yes, he thought. Time to hunt.

Fenrir sped off into the forest, relishing the sensation of his muscles stretching and flexing. Everything seemed larger somehow, amplified – and he could appreciate the beauty of the forest – his forest. He was high on the aromas all around him.

It didn’t take long for him to pick up the scent of a deer. Bending low, his shoulders rippling, he advanced on the unaware creature. His tongue hung out, saliva falling to the ground. The deer looked up, ears pricked. Fenrir launched into the air, landing squarely on the back of the deer and he sank his teeth into its neck and wrenched it to the side, snapping it in one motion. The deer lay motionless beneath him, its eyes glassy and unseeing. Fenrir was so engrossed in the overpowering smell of fresh blood that he did not pay attention to his surroundings – it came as a complete surprise when he heard a low growl behind him.

Whirling around and snarling, Fenrir took in the sight of a sleek, dark brown werewolf. It was Amaryllis Longfang. A stream of thoughts battled for priority in Fenrir’s mind. Could she tell that he was under the influence of a potion? What would happen if she could? When she awoke the next morning, would she alert the others? Would she remember their encounter? Fenrir knew from experience that memory was limited after a full moon, but some impressions stayed in their brains. Seeing her alpha drugged on Wolfsbane would surely be one of those impressions.

That can’t happen. Harry.

Fenrir decided in one quick second that she could not live past the hour.

The wolf in front of him licked her teeth, her eyes on Fenrir’s. Fenrir could smell her arousal and it disgusted him. She smelled nothing like Harry.

The female began to approach him. Fenrir snarled, his hackles rising along his back. Instead of instantly crouching and allowing Fenrir to cover her nose, Longfang growled back. She always was a troublesome whore, thought Fenrir, preparing to leap. But he was too slow, laden down with thoughts. Longfang sprang forward suddenly, her jaws snapping and claws outstretched. Fenrir rushed to the side, but she managed to drag her claws down his flank. Fenrir howled, more in outrage than pain, and he spun around and snapped at her. He missed – she was already leaping for him. Why was he fighting so poorly? As soon as he wondered, Fenrir knew the answer. Longfang was fighting with her natural instincts. Fenrir had never fought without his, not in this body. All of his moves were thought out, planned. Longfang was whirling like a tornado, her teeth flashing and dripping with spit. There was no thought behind those eyes – only a mindless killing machine. It was only Fenrir’s pride that spurred him to new heights of violence. He would not lose, not to this whore.

Fenrir dove at the she-wolf with open jaws, his upper lip pulled up. The only sounds that could be heard were the furious growls and snarls of both werewolves, each fighting with all their strength. Longfang landed twice the amount of blows as Fenrir, but Fenrir’s were more devastating. Every time his teeth closed on her, he would lock his jaw and shake, sometimes feeling a bit of flesh left in his mouth after pulling away. It was when Fenrir pulled away with a piece of her neck that Longfang paused in her attack. This was all Fenrir needed – he lunged forward and ripped out the front of her throat. Longfang was dead in an instant.

Fenrir stared down at the mangled body of his former pack-mate. He could taste her blood in his mouth and his breathing was rapid and labored. He felt his vision swim. He needed to go back. Fenrir turned and trotted weakly in the direction of the cottage. It took longer than he expected to make it back and before he could clear the trees, his legs buckled. I taught her well, Fenrir thought bitterly. His eyes rolled back into his head and he collapsed on the forest floor, the moon wrapping him in her arms. He wasn’t discovered until the morning when Charlie found him and levitated him into the house.   

*          *          *

Fenrir opened his eyes blearily. His first conscious feeling was of deep pain as he registered the damage to his body. He was covered by a blanket, and he was in Harry’s bed. Everyone save for Harry and Lupin was sitting at the table, observing him apprehensively or suspiciously, depending on the person. He moaned, then swallowed the sound as Harry’s face came into view. The boy looked concerned, his brows furrowed and lower lip trembling. Fenrir felt a strong desire to erase that look – he tried to reach up a hand, but Weasley, the dragon lad, bustled over and pushed it back down. Fenrir growled at him, but didn’t fight. Snape also appeared in his line of vision, holding a goblet.

“No more potions,” groaned Fenrir, his stomach roiling.

“It’s water,” said Weasley.

Fenrir groaned and hauled himself into a sitting position. Harry grabbed the goblet from Snape and perched on the bed, his hands holding up the water for Fenrir to sip. Fenrir heard Snape sneer, but he ignored it, watching Harry over the rim of the goblet. The boy was positively stricken, his eyes wide and face pale. His lips looked red – the boy had been biting them. Fenrir pushed down the urge to grab him by the hair and shove his tongue in his mouth. Perhaps Lupin noticed this, for he coughed and started talking.

“What happened, Fenrir?”

Fenrir wanted to shove his tongue so far down Harry’s throat that he couldn’t breathe.

 “Fenrir! I know those wounds were inflicted by another werewolf! What happened?”

It was Harry’s worried eyes that prompted Fenrir to mutter, “Longfang.”

There was a short silence, as nobody seemed to know what this meant.

“Don’t worry,” said Fenrir, mostly to Harry. “She’s dead.”

An expletive “What?” came from all sides. Fenrir shook his head at their horror-struck faces. “I had to. If she figured out that I was not – myself… it would have been bad. And I’m not sorry,” he growled as everyone’s expressions seemed to have dimmed. “Neither should you be. She was a nasty whore, and the world is rid of her.”

Complete silence met this statement. Finally, Lupin broke it, saying, “How will this affect your… position?”

Fenrir grimaced. “When they find her, they will smell my scent. They’ll know I killed her. They shouldn’t question it – but some might.”

“Why?” asked Bill.

Fenrir decided not to mention the possible mutiny just yet, and instead said, “Let’s just say if I hadn’t Scented Harry, I would have been fucking her instead of killing her. Some of the pack might wonder why I killed her.”

Harry was suddenly not at all sorry that this Longfang woman was dead.

Fenrir noticed Harry’s suddenly closed look and he drank it in hungrily, ignoring the awkward silence that had filled the room. Snape coughed.

“Perhaps we should discuss this further when Greyback is – ah – in better spirits.” There were murmurs of agreement. Snape stood and looked disdainfully down his large nose at Fenrir and gave a delicate sniff, adding, “It would be wise to bathe, Greyback. Soon you will attract flies.”

Fenrir looked up at Snape, but did not respond. Snape sniffed again, then turned and strode out of the room as though the smell had caused him so much disgust that he felt the need to leave. Harry was not fooled – if Fenrir had looked at him like that, he would have started running for cover too.

Fenrir looked around at the assembled group, one eyebrow raised archly. “Well,” he growled. “Want to give me some space so I can bathe?” There were several screeching noises as chairs were hastily vacated by their occupants, followed by the sound of hurried footsteps retreating after Snape. 

“In here?” asked Harry, who had been the only one to stay. “What about –”

“I’m doing it in here,” said Fenrir, throwing a sharp glare at the doorway, where there appeared to be a fight to get out of the room. He continued to watch them, his eyes narrowed and calculating, until finally Ron and Hermione had crossed the threshold and entered the magical hallway leading to their rooms. As soon as they were out of sight, Fenrir met Harry’s eyes. “It’s not safe at the stream anymore,” he said simply.

Harry continued to watch him, his face pale. “Why not? That fight didn’t happen at the stream –”

“It might as well have,” Fenrir muttered darkly. “A werewolf could track me there – wouldn’t take much, with the way I smell right now.” He bent his head and took a whiff of his skin, then growled softly. “So I have to do it here.”

“Well,” Harry began hesitantly. “There are cleaning charms, but –”

“No magic,” said Fenrir instantly.

“I know,” said Harry shortly, annoyed that Fenrir thought him insensitive. “I was going to say that we’d have to use the sink… I could help, if you want.”

Fenrir looked at him appraisingly, a smirk breaking through his formerly gruff expression. “Of course you’re helping, boy. Werewolf kings don’t bathe themselves.”

Harry flushed and muttered, “You’re not a king,” before standing up and bending to pull some towels from beneath the bed. Fenrir pushed himself out of the bed, letting the blanket fall to the floor. Harry stood and gasped.

Blood was smeared across Fenrir’s broad chest while several scratches were still dripping dark red. Dirt streaked his entire body, and there were grey, gravely marks on various parts of Fenrir where he had apparently been pressed against rock. Fenrir looked down at Harry, his face betraying no concern for his injuries. He glanced at his body and made a vague, dismissive sound.

“Don’t give me that look, puppy,” murmured Fenrir, running a hand down his chest, tracing a scar. “They are proof of my strength, not of my weakness. Just as yours is.”

Harry flinched, taken aback. Fenrir had never talked about that night when Voldemort killed his parents, or the fact that Voldemort still wanted to kill him. It was strange to hear Fenrir speak of something that they both tried their hardest to ignore.

If Fenrir noticed Harry’s reaction, he did not mention it. Walking around the table and towards the sink finally prompted Harry to move after him, and Harry let one towel fall to the floor to provide a sort of mat while he picked up a smaller towel and held it under the now-running sink faucet.

“Tell me if it hurts,” said Harry quietly, focusing on the towel in his hand. He didn’t know what sort of soap to use, so he used none. Maybe he could ask Snape for some sort of salve later and convince Fenrir to use it….

Fenrir let out a hiss as Harry gently swabbed at the deepest looking cuts on Fenrir’s right shoulder, a set of marks that looked like they had been made by claws. Harry watched the werewolf’s face apprehensively. He wondered briefly what Fenrir had done about his injuries before, then banished the thoughts and continued to wipe the blood away. He felt a strange sense of duty – this was his mate, his lover… he needed to tend to him, no matter how disturbing it was to see him in pain.

Fenrir allowed a small groan that could have been mistaken as a pleasurable sound and leaned his hands against the countertop, letting his head drop to his chest while Harry moved to wash his back.

“When I’m done with this, we should wash your hair too,” said Harry, eyeing Fenrir’s scraggly, dirt-ridden mane.

“What a good little wife you are,” muttered Fenrir, but there was no force behind it.

Harry snorted and stuck the rusty red towel under the sink, rinsing it thoroughly before bringing it back to Fenrir. The werewolf hissed as Harry pressed it to his side.

“It’s cold,” he growled in response to Harry’s concerned stare.

“Sorry,” Harry muttered, wiping the towel as gently as he could against the angry looking scratches. He was so absorbed in the sight of the wounds that he did not notice Fenrir’s eyes raking his face.

“I think I’ve got it as best as I can,” said Harry, surveying Fenrir’s wounds a half an hour later. Fenrir bent his head forward and sniffed at his forearms then his legs. Harry stood back, his eyes taking in Fenrir’s strong but damaged form. Fenrir had really been hurt… the idea was so strange. Had it been the potion’s fault? Would Fenrir have been better off without it? He had wanted Fenrir to take it… but was it really the right thing?

“Hey.”

Harry started as Fenrir butted his nose against Harry’s cheekbone.

“What’s got you looking so sad?” Fenrir’s eyes were bright and piercing.

Harry looked at the floor, unable to hold his gaze. He brought an unsure hand up to Fenrir’s chest and lightly traced the edges of a gouge across the werewolf’s right pectoral muscle.

“I did this,” he whispered.

Fenrir stepped closer to him and pressed his mouth to Harry’s ear. “I wish you had,” he rumbled, before bestowing a sharp nip to the skin below. Harry gasped and his arms flew up to Fenrir’s shoulders. Before he could respond, Fenrir pulled back, his eyes gleaming wickedly. “Now wash my hair.” 

Harry goggled for a moment at Fenrir’s abrupt change in mood, then snapped back into action, turning to the sink once more. He felt Fenrir’s breath on the back of his neck and Fenrir’s arms came down around him, grasping the counter once more. Harry couldn’t help but grin a little. This was Fenrir’s flirtatious side, if it could be called that – Harry was beginning to recognize certain patterns.

“Put your head under the water,” said Harry, ducking out from beneath Fenrir’s arms. Fenrir smirked at him, then moved forward and bent over. Harry reached under the faucet and threaded his fingers through Fenrir’s matted hair.

“This is what my Aunt Petunia used to do to me,” said Harry conversationally. “Well, a lot less gently,” he added with a soft laugh. Fenrir grunted in response and brought his own hand up to help. It took quite awhile to get the dirt and dried blood – mostly the other werewolf’s – out of Fenrir’s hair. As soon as he was finished, Harry sprinted down the hall to the bathroom and fished Hermione’s thick comb out of her toiletries basket. Sitting Fenrir down on a towel covered chair, Harry began to run the comb through the wet tresses, fighting with the tangles. He moved to the front of Fenrir, standing between his knees as he worked on the top of his head. Fenrir seemed thankful to sit down after standing for so long, and he moved his head forward, resting it against Harry’s stomach.

Harry didn’t pay him too much attention until he felt Fenrir’s mouth press against him through the fabric of his shirt. He continued to comb for a few more moments, then stopped when he felt Fenrir grasp him around the backs of his knees. The werewolf’s large hands began to travel in a slow, possessive way up the backs of his thighs before resting just underneath his arse. Harry dropped the comb to the table and brought his hands down to Fenrir’s wet head as Fenrir nosed Harry’s shirt hem up, and he sucked in a breath as he felt a lick to his lower stomach. Fenrir’s hot, heavy tongue traced his navel, then the shallows of his hip bones, leaving Harry breathless and gasping. 

“I wanted you so bad last night,” rumbled Fenrir, nuzzling the taut flesh of Harry’s stomach. Harry shivered and stroked Fenrir’s wet hair, trailing his hands down to the werewolf’s broad shoulders. He was careful not to touch the angry red marks.

“Did you want me too, puppy?” Fenrir asked. Harry moaned as he felt Fenrir’s hot breath across his skin, leaving goose bumps in its wake. He couldn’t believe Fenrir was doing this in a house full of people. Fenrir growled when Harry moaned again, and he pulled Harry closer, moving his hands up to grasp Harry’s arse and giving it a harsh squeeze.

“What did you want, puppy…you wanted this old wolf to come take you away, didn’t you?” Fenrir gave a sharp nip to Harry’s hipbone as punctuation and Harry whimpered, his cock becoming hard in his jeans and his hips surging forward. Fenrir pressed his face to Harry’s crotch, inhaling the arousal he could smell there. Nuzzling the growing cock beneath the boy’s jeans, he rasped, “You wanted me to fuck you, Harry?” Harry gasped and threw back his head. Fenrir’s voice had reduced to a gravely hiss. “You wanted this old wolf to mount you, didn’t you? You wanted him to fuck his bitch.” Harry whimpered again, and with a sudden ferocity, Fenrir yanked Harry’s jeans apart and dove at his cock, licking all over. Harry cried out and doubled over Fenrir’s head. With a heady moan, Harry found himself whispering, “Tell me.”

Fenrir paused and drew back, looking up into Harry’s flushed face. “Tell you what?”

Harry sucked in a breath, then licked his lips and whispered, “Tell me – what you wanted.”

Fenrir grinned widely, his eyes reflecting something like pride. He pressed his face forward once more, and began to speak between rough licks to Harry’s cock. “I wanted – to fuck you, baby – fuck my bitch – oh I wanted – to breed you, puppy, breed you good –”

Harry cried out as he came while Fenrir swallowed the head of Harry’s cock, catching the results of the boy’s orgasm and gulping hungrily. Harry whined and slumped forward. Fenrir’s hands left their former position and he wrapped his arms around Harry’s legs, supporting him. Still reeling from his sudden climax, Harry blindly pressed his face to Fenrir’s neck, gasping against it. That had been… unexpected….

Suddenly, Fenrir pushed him away and began to tuck him back into his jeans. Harry made a noise of protest but Fenrir gave a short warning growl, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Harry was just about to voice his annoyance at being so rudely treated when he heard a loud gasp. Harry spun around on the spot. Draco Malfoy stood in the doorway, looking horrified.  

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