Sweet Puppy

Chapter 15


Harry landed with a harsh thud, and the scent of dust and mildew filled his nose. Angry roars and groans of pain surrounded him before he was pulled to his feet and pushed away against what felt like a wall. His vision was spotty and he felt as though all the breath had been taken out of him, and his heart was still beating frantically.

Get out of the way, get back!

Don’t touch them, don’t do anything!

“Is everyone here? Harry, where’s Harry?

“I’m here!” Harry responded, hearing Hermione’s frightened cry. His vision finally cleared and he sucked in a horrified breath as he took in the scene before him: he was in Grimmauld Place, and Fenrir had the red-haired werewolf in a headlock on the carpeted floor. One entire leg of the enemy werewolf was no where to be seen – he’d been splinched. Harry shut his eyes, but he couldn’t block out the agonizing moans as they wrestled for dominance.

“You won’t win,” the red-headed werewolf choked out. “The Dark Lord will get rid of your lying hide–”

“Not before you die!” Fenrir rasped, tightening his hold. The other werewolf tried to push him off, but it was futile with only one useful arm.

“The pack – is finished,” he gasped, his face turning purple. “– And it’s all your fault–”

Fenrir screamed in rage and twisted his opponent’s neck to the side with a sharp crack. Hermione screamed. Harry felt his stomach jump and he thought he was going to be sick.

The body of the werewolf fell slumped to the floor. Silence except for Fenrir’s harsh breathing overtook the room as everyone stared at the sight before them. Harry watched in awed horror as Fenrir wiped his bloodied mouth with his arm before spitting on the body.

“Get this out of here,” he ordered with a disgusted snarl. 

No one responded. Fenrir looked up at all of their ashen faces and sneered, then turned and walked out of the room, his back straight and his head held high. It was only when he was out of their sight that he stumbled. With a lump in his throat and a heavy weight in his chest, he clung to the wall and dragged himself up a flight of stairs into an abandoned bedroom where he collapsed on the bed, pulling the musty covers over his body. 

           

* * *


Tonks and Remus transfigured the splinched body into wood before incinerating it. Harry watched numbly as he clutched the remaining hand behind him; it was the only part of the werewolf still in existence besides the missing leg.

“What happened?” Ron finally croaked, staring at the pile of ashes on the carpet.

“He betrayed him,” said Harry.

“Who?”

“Devis Bloodjaw,” said Remus hollowly. “I should have known something like this would happen. Greyback should never have stayed with us for so long.”

Harry swallowed and looked at the floor. Fenrir had stayed with them because of him. Fenrir left his pack to the scheming claws of Devis Bloodjaw in order to be with him, and now a werewolf was dead and Fenrir’s pack was in danger with Voldemort. It wouldn’t take him long to discover that one of his Horcruxes was missing – and then he’d know that Harry knew about them.

“Oh, fuck,” Harry whispered. His only hope, the fact that Voldemort didn’t know he knew, was gone forever….

“What?”

Harry looked up to see Bill watching him.

“Just – this sucks,” said Harry weakly.

“Hell yeah, it does,” said Ron.

Harry, not wanting to draw attention to the cup, said quickly, “Where are Snape and Malfoy?”

“Right here, Potter.”

Harry spun to see Snape, skulking in the doorway to the kitchen. “We’ve been waiting for you. I’ve instructed Mr. Malfoy to make you all some tea. You look like you need it,” he finished with a sneer, managing to turn what could have been a kind gesture into an insult.

Harry glared. “I don’t feel like tea just now, thanks.”

“Suit yourself, Potter.”

Concealing the hand and cup in the bundled Invisibility Cloak, Harry muttered, “I’ll be upstairs. I’ll come down later,” before turning and following Fenrir’s path. He knew that Fenrir needed him now.

Ron and Hermione glanced at each other worriedly.

“Don’t go after him,” said Bill.

Remus shifted uncomfortably, watching Harry leave before glancing at Tonks. “Will you help patch them up?” he asked.

“Of course,” she said, smiling gamely. “I’m no Healer, but my Auror training should help.”

“And these little scratches are nothing next to burns – I can heal these nicely,” said Charlie, gesturing for Ron and Hermione to follow him and Tonks to the dining room.

“Your assistance would be helpful, Severus,” said Remus wearily, hoping the man wouldn’t put up a fight. Snape sniffed and nodded curtly before going after the others. Remus watched him go, then ran a shaky hand through his hair and glanced once more toward the stairs.

“Don’t worry,” said Bill from behind him, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Harry will be fine.”

Remus covered his eyes with his hand. “He almost got us, Bill. Voldemort almost got us. And for what? Harry charged into that cave just for Greyback, and almost got himself killed–”

“But he didn’t. He’s alive. We’re all alive. And it looks like Fenrir’s definitely not on Voldemort’s side anymore, so something good came out of all this, right?”

Remus growled lowly, making it clear that he didn’t consider Fenrir’s allegiance a positive outcome.

“Look, just – just go get yourself some tea, then we’ll talk about this, alright?”

Remus nodded and Bill gave his shoulder a squeeze before leaving for the dining room. Remus sighed and headed for the kitchen. He wondered if there was any Calming Draught in the cupboards that he could add to his tea before he crossed the threshold and saw the younger Malfoy facing the stove.

“Is that tea ready?”

Malfoy did not turn to look at him. “Yes,” he said shortly.

Too exhausted to correct the young Slytherin’s tone, Remus walked forward and grabbed a teacup from the cupboard over the boy’s head. He wondered if the cups had managed to stay clean since the last time he’d been there when he stilled. The scent coming from the tea on the stove was – odd.

Remus glanced down at the steeping teapot and sniffed. It smelt of tea leaves, but there was something else there, as though the tea was emitting a sensation as well as an aroma. Quiet sadness and years of loneliness filled his senses and he felt the sudden urge to soothe, to caress, and to comfort. It was utterly bewitching, and he found himself leaning closer to the scent.

“Mr. Malfoy,” he breathed. “What sort of tea leaves did you use?”

Malfoy glanced at the pot, his pale forehead crinkling in confusion. “Just what was in the cupboard. Earl Grey, I think.”

“Are you sure?” asked Remus, opening the cupboard once more and rummaging for the tea leaves. His hand made contact with the cool metal tin and he pulled it down before opening it and sniffing the leaves. They smelt of Earl Grey, and yet the unique scent was still near him, coming from some other source. He wondered for a moment if the boy had slipped a potion into the tea.

“Mr. Malfoy–” he began, turning to look down at the boy, who at that moment had chosen to finally meet his eyes. Remus’ breath caught in his throat.

“Yes?” Remus wanted to shake his head, but he found himself immobile with fear.

Malfoy raised one of his thin eyebrows, his arrogant features screaming with impatience. “Yes?

Remus blinked and put down the tea tin. “I – are you sure you didn’t–”

The boy rolled his eyes. “I didn’t do anything to your damned tea. Not that I didn’t think about it,” he added, glaring up at Remus with steely eyes.

Remus nodded jerkily and turned to the pot, pouring himself a cup with quivering hands. He didn’t know, he couldn’t be sure – he was rather shaken up from the fight – perhaps his senses were heightened to make up for his physical exhaustion? After all, there was no way that the scent could be from this boy – could it?

Remus snuck a glance at the blonde, who had turned away from him once more as he stirred the pot. Remus leaned as closed as he dared and quietly inhaled. Hot pleasure uncoiled in his abdomen and his heart sped up. Remus backed away and his hands trembled so badly that the hot tea spilled over his fingers.

Malfoy turned sharply at the sound of rattling china. “What?”

Remus found that he couldn’t speak.

The boy’s lip curled as he eyed Remus like unwanted dirt under his fingernails. “If you want cream and sugar, get it yourself. I’m done playing house-elf.”

Remus put down his tea and turned away, all but fleeing from the kitchen.

 

* * *

           

The wood creaked under Harry’s scuffed trainers as he ascended the stairs and he paused, listening for any indication that he wasn’t welcome. He didn’t hear any sounds from the room Fenrir had claimed, so he continued, walking right up to the door before pressing his ear to the crack. He could hear nothing except Fenrir’s labored breaths and he pushed forward, wincing as the door scraped against the floor.

“Get out.”

Harry paused at the warning, then strode in anyway.

“I said get out!” Fenrir bellowed, sitting up and pitching a musty pillow at Harry’s head.

Harry batted it out of the air before it reached his face, the Cloak and cup falling to the floor. He bent down and picked up the pillow, holding it to his chest like a shield, ignoring the cup for now.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Harry said quietly, stepping closer to the bed. Fenrir snarled at him, then turned away and pulled the old sheets over his body, grabbing the other pillow and shoving his head under it. Harry was about to comment on his sulky behavior but then he spotted blood stains on the sheets, and his eyes widened.

“You should really let them heal you up. They’re downstairs doing it right now.”

Fenrir gave no response.

Harry took a few more steps toward the bed. “C’mon, Fenrir. You’re bleeding.”

Fenrir grunted and seemed to sink further into the bed.

Harry gritted his teeth and walked right to the edge of the bed before kicking off his trainers and climbing in behind Fenrir, ignoring the werewolf’s low growls. “Stop that,” he said sharply. “If you won’t let the others heal you, then at least let me look.”

“You don’t know a damn thing about healing. Get out.”

“I know more than you,” said Harry, tugging the sheets away. “And I’ve had my fair share of cuts and scrapes and things, so just let me!”

Fenrir sat up and grabbed Harry’s wrist so tightly that Harry hissed. “These wounds are nothing,” Fenrir spat through clenched teeth as Harry tugged against him, “– nothing compared to what they should have been! I’d be a disgrace if I cried for help for these!” He shoved Harry’s wrist away. “Pathetic!”

Harry clutched his wrist to his chest as Fenrir turned his back on him and curled up once more. He wanted to jump to his feet in furious indignation and storm from the room, yell that he wouldn’t help a murderer anyway before he slammed the door behind him and never looked back, but he couldn’t. He didn’t think that was something a mate would do, and it was as simple as that; even if Fenrir wasn’t being the model example of one, at least Harry would be.

Perhaps Fenrir had been expecting the shout and door-slam routine because his back was tense as he lay there, as if waiting for the blow, but it didn’t come. Harry sat cross-legged on the bed, his back against the headboard as he waited patiently for some sort of break in the mood, and he was rewarded when Fenrir finally exhaled deeply and the tension slowly left his muscles.

Sensing that it was safe to move, Harry lifted his hand and gently let his fingers touch Fenrir’s dirty hair. He thought he heard Fenrir sigh, although he may have imagined it before he slowly began to card his fingers through the hair, bypassing the tangles; this wasn’t a time to clean, but to calm. He’d only been stroking for a minute when Fenrir turned on the bed to face him.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he grumbled, not meeting Harry’s eyes.

Harry shrugged; his wrist felt sore, but he wasn’t going to say it because Fenrir already knew that it must still hurt.

“She’ll punish me for that later,” Fenrir muttered.

“Who?”

“The moon,” said Fenrir. “I told you before that she knows when we fuck up.”

Harry nodded, remembering the times when he had felt her power, and he continued to stroke Fenrir’s hair.

“Feels good,” Fenrir murmured, shifting so that he was resting on his back.

Harry made a sound of agreement before he asked quietly, “Why would you be a disgrace if you got these healed?”

Fenrir closed his eyes, and Harry was surprised at the open look of shame on the werewolf’s face. “That battle went all wrong.”

“What do you mean?” asked Harry, his fingertips stroking across Fenrir’s forehead.

“It should have been the most impressive fight of my – no, our lives.” Harry said nothing, and Fenrir opened his eyes to look at his face, then sighed and continued, “He directly challenged my leadership. That battle decided who the true pack leader is.”

“But that’s good then, isn’t it?” asked Harry, his confusion halting his fingers. “You won.”

Fenrir smiled grimly. “But no other werewolves witnessed it. And even worse – it wasn’t a fair fight.”

Harry couldn’t stop himself from becoming angry on Fenrir’s behalf when he remembered the werewolf called Devis Bloodjaw. “You’re right; I couldn’t believe that he used those Death Eaters to help him–”

Fenrir’s throaty chuckle stopped him, and Harry stared in shock as Fenrir said, “Not me, puppy. It was unfair to him. He got splinched, didn’t you see? The moment we Apparated, it was over. Magic is never to interfere. And since I was the one who Apparated, it’s my fault. My doing. To the Mother moon, it was I who cheated.”

Harry stared down at him in horror. “But – no, it was my fault! I made you! I grabbed you when–”

Fenrir shook his head. “You didn’t know. It’s not your fault.”

Harry sat frozen as he took in the defeated and grim expression on Fenrir’s face. “So – what’s going to happen?”

Fenrir’s eyes were distant. “I’m still the pack leader, but I’m the only one who knows it. I guess Vadania will take over – if Voldemort doesn’t kill them all. And I won unfairly. The moon will punish me.”

Deciding to ignore the more serious problem for now, Harry asked, “How much?”

Fenrir shook his head. “I don’t know. Bloodjaw was the traitor first so she may go easy on me. Or maybe not.”

“Could she punish me instead? It was my fault,” Harry pointed out again.

Fenrir shook his head again. “You were innocent to what you were doing, you didn’t know. You’re not a werewolf either – her power over you isn’t nearly as strong.”

Harry’s insides were writhing with guilt. Because of him, Fenrir would get hurt for winning a fight. It didn’t seem fair. And he hadn’t known the rules because he was ignorant to the customs and rituals of the werewolves, which were a lot more complex than he ever could have imagined. This was something that he’d have to correct and soon, lest he get Fenrir into any more trouble. He was startled out of his thoughts when Fenrir sat up against the headboard beside him and twisted his neck so that he could inspect several scrapes on his bicep.

“I guess I can’t afford any more mistakes against the moon,” he muttered. “You’ll have to tend them.”

“What do you mean?” asked Harry.

“It’s another rule,” said Fenrir with a rueful grin. “The victor’s wounds get tended to by a mate or lover.”

Harry’s mouth dropped open, recalling the earlier fight against the Longfang woman. “Why didn’t you say anything before?”

“I didn’t have to last time. You did it on your own. Gave me a bath, remember?”

For some reason, the idea that he hadn’t needed prompting to take part in a werewolf custom made Harry both embarrassed and a little bit proud. He reached for his wand that was tucked into his jeans before he paused, remembering something else Fenrir had said once.

“How – how is it done normally?”

“No magic,” was all Fenrir said.

Harry wanted to grimace. “Last time I just used a wash cloth… isn’t that alright?”

Fenrir gave a one-shouldered shrug. “It worked.”

Harry could sense what Fenrir wasn’t saying. “But it’s not the best way, right? I’m supposed to – to lick them?” Harry tried his best to control his facial features.

Fenrir chuckled. “That’s generally how it’s done. But you’re not a werewolf – a wash cloth is fine.”

Harry fidgeted uncomfortably and looked at the bedspread. “Sorry. It’s just – I don’t think I could do it the other way.”

“I understand,” said Fenrir.

Harry glanced at him, then said ruefully, “Maybe one day.”

Fenrir bared his teeth but his eyes were smiling. “Don’t tease me, puppy.”

Harry chuckled nervously, then got off the bed. “I’ll be right back.”

Fenrir nodded and watched Harry walk quickly out the door.

Moments later, Harry returned with a washing bowl filled with water and some towels, then set to work, gently rubbing away the blood from Fenrir’s cuts and scratches. It didn’t take long for the water to turn a rusty red, but Harry took comfort in the fact that most of the blood was from the other werewolf.

“So… are you going to tell me what was so important about that shiny cup?”

Harry couldn’t help but tense and his hand faltered on Fenrir’s arm.

“It – it’s going to help me,” was all he managed to say.

“How?” asked Fenrir, suddenly not so exhausted. “What does it do?”

Harry was fighting the deep impulse not to tell Fenrir the truth, as Dumbledore had told him not to tell anyone… but Ron and Hermione knew, and Remus and Severus and the others, save for Draco, had found out. It couldn’t do more harm than what had already been done to tell him at least some of the truth.

“It’s got something to do with Voldemort. It sort of belongs to him.”

“Yeah?” asked Fenrir with a raised eyebrow, probably sensing the missing bits to Harry’s explanation but choosing to ignore them for now. “So why could only Bloodjaw touch it?”

Harry resumed his gentle cleansing of Fenrir’s chest, keeping his eyes down. “Dunno. Probably a Dark spell. I’ll have to ask Remus or Snape, they might know. But I’m guessing Voldemort asked Bloodjaw to keep it safe for him, so he made sure only Bloodjaw could touch it.”

Fenrir watched Harry’s hand as he worked. “If I had been there, Voldemort would have given me the cup.”

“Maybe. But he might have been working with Bloodjaw for awhile. He might not have trusted you. He can tell if you’re lying, you know. He’s a Legilimens.”

Fenrir didn’t look too surprised. “Maybe it’s not so bad Bloodjaw took my place. Voldemort would have sensed that I was hiding something – well, you.”

Harry couldn’t help but shiver. “And he would have killed you,” he whispered, his hand shaking.

Fenrir reached down and grabbed Harry’s hand in his own before bringing it to his mouth and nipping the knuckles. “I’m not dead yet.”

Harry swallowed. Yet? He didn’t even want to think about the possibility that he might have to watch Fenrir die. The thought made him feel nauseous. Once again, the enormity of the risk Fenrir was taking made itself known. Fenrir was risking not only the more obvious threat of Voldemort, but also threats from his own kind, and they hadn’t even dealt with anyone from the Wizarding world yet… they would be perhaps even less forgiving….

“Stop it, Harry,” Fenrir growled.

Harry blinked and quickly resumed his task, wringing out the cloth and bringing it to Fenrir’s stomach and rubbing. “Sorry,” he muttered.

Fenrir groaned and leaned back against the pillows. “Don’t be sorry, just keep doing that.”

Harry glanced down and saw with surprise that Fenrir was becoming aroused.

“Recovered already?” he asked with a bit of a laugh.

“Mmm. You have the magic touch,” said Fenrir with a grating chuckle. “Get it? Magic touch?”

Harry couldn’t help but smile, his dark thoughts gone with the sight of Fenrir’s self-satisfied grin. “Proud of that one, are you?”

“Very.”

Harry laughed and dropped the cloth in the basin with a splash. “Who would have thought? Fenrir Greyback, the king of bad jokes?”

“Don’t mock my talent, boy,” said Fenrir, showing off his teeth and grabbing Harry’s wrists. “Now make me feel better.”

Harry unzipped his jeans and shoved them down his legs before climbing between Fenrir’s knees and lowering his pelvis down to meet Fenrir’s. The werewolf groaned and his hands smoothed down Harry’s back, grabbing his arse to hold him in place. Harry grinned and wriggled his hips.  

“Stop looking so smug,” Fenrir growled, thrusting up and groaning.

“Sorry,” said Harry cheekily. “It’s just not that often that I’m on top.”

“You’ll pay for that one – ah – later.”

“If you’re up for it later.”

“Oh, I’m always ‘up for it’, puppy.”

Harry’s laughter soon turned into moans as they moved against each other, each relishing the other’s closeness as much as they dared before they would have to face the chilling reality of what was to come.  

   

 

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