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Bad Blood

By Calanthe
Summary: Draco Malfoy is not the man he used to be. In fact he barely feels human at

The forest is its domain. It is neither the biggest nor the most voracious creature, but it is
the most dangerous, the most feared. Since the wolf has hunted this woodland, the
other inhabitants have learned to dread the full moon; so many have fought for their
lives, so few have survived. The white wolf is king of the night, and it is a despotic, callous

It is a twisted, malformed aberration, an insult to its canine heritage, although its

legendary vicious nature must surely stem in greater part from its humanity. No other
animal is so cruel or bloodthirsty, and the wolf enjoys this knowledge as it sprints
through the confusion of trunks and bushes, bearing down on the kill.

The wolf doesn’t care about the smaller animal, the bitter February cold, or the
graveyard beauty of the leafless trees; it is completely absorbed in the hunt, hyper-aware
of its surroundings yet utterly focused on its single goal. As it runs, it cannot shake the
feeling that the ground is moving while it remains stationary. The world tilts on its axis to
move this tree or that rock from the wolf’s path, and like a compass locked on magnetic
north, it barrels headlong towards its destination, ears pricked, hearing perfectly attuned
to the scuffling of its quarry.

Its muscles strain to achieve maximum extension, devouring great distances in the blink
of an eye. The other animals of the forest freeze or fall back into the shadows as the wolf
streaks past, fearful of finding themselves in its sights and see their own demise in the
black mirror of its eyes.

The beast scents the acrid stink of its prey and one other, a predator of the skies, and
lunges through the brackish undergrowth. It doesn’t try to mask its progress because
nothing can outrun it, and it likes its victims to recognise their imminent doom so that
their blood runs thick with terror.

The wolf likes to play with its food.

It howls its fury, ripping the winter stillness to shreds and announcing itself with a blood-
curdling fanfare. Crashing through the bordering swathe of desiccated scrub, it uses the
nightmarish strength of its hind legs to spring into the clearing, a gigantic blur of teeth
and claws, and long, powerful limbs, to terrorize its breathing meal.

The wolf assesses the multi-coloured zinging of the duel already in progress in a split
second, gloriously satisfied with the odour of adrenaline-fuelled perspiration that fills its

The man-creatures pause from their private battle and marvel at its size, its
overwhelming presence, and in that tense momentary lull, the wolf turns its back on the
one it recognises in the very core of its being.

Green. Gold. Soaring.

It bares its teeth, drinking in the rictus of fright and the stench of urine from the one it
will kill, and it growls from the depths of its massive chest, already tasting the feast in its

It tenses, tight as a spring.

It parodies a grin and howls exultantly at the moon.

It pounces quicker than lightning, knocking the man-creature to the ground hard enough
to break bones and burst the rubbery sacks of tissue so feebly protected inside. The food

tries to scream, but its face is swallowed as the wolf clamps its giant jaws on either side
of its head and shakes hard, piercing the eggshell skull with its razor sharp incisors. The
wolf knows that an attack to the face is the most brutal and traumatic of torments, not
enough to kill, yet sublimely suited to ending any hope of survival. It could snap its jaws
and burst the head like a jelly-filled balloon, but it does not. The man-creature still has
strength enough for a few minutes’ more abuse.

Amidst the thrill of the butchery, it feels the feather-light caress of a hex bounce
harmlessly off its hind quarters, and as it gulps down the first gush of bubbling blood, the
wolf forgives this other man-creature, the one who conjures a unique flicker of calm from
its pitiful soul. It recognises an affinity at the cellular level, something unknown and
uncharted brought to life from within its baser functions. The wolf only knows that it
wants this man-creature for itself, that it respects his hunting ability.

When the body in its grasp starts to jerk violently, limbs kicking and thrashing uselessly
against the wolf’s powerful body, it is tossed high in the air easily as a discarded rag doll,
its graceless landing filling the clearing with the sound of bones snapping, loud and
brittle as kindling. The broken man-creature rasps out a wet gurgle as he fights
pointlessly for life, driving the wolf closer to frenzy in its all-consuming hatred and
slavering hunger.

The wolf circles the misshapen pile of skin and cloth, breathing deeply of the mouth-
watering scents of spilt bodily fluids. The full, clear moon stage-lights the massacre,
turning the rich red blood purple-black, the wolf’s almost-monochromatic vision
bleaching the background white in stark contrast to the pulpy lump of its victim.

Satisfied with its supreme display of hunting skills, the wolf respectfully eyes its audience
over the quivering pile of meat before administering the killing blow. With a single snap
of its teeth, it bites clean through the prey’s throat, swallowing the chewy skin and
stealing the final death rattle as the heavy arc of arterial blood sprays out and patters to
the ground like the bloated droplets of a summer rainfall. It is sure it feels the flesh pulse
its final beat inside its gullet. The smooth knuckles of bony spine gleam yellowy white for
a fraction of a heartbeat before drowning in the inevitable colourwash of blood.

It was a good kill, a fine demonstration of its potency and prowess, and the wolf knows
this as it settles onto its belly and tears into its feast. Its eyes constantly dart across to
the dazed man-creature resting heavily against a tree, a funny stick clutched tightly in his
bloodied hand. The wolf’s brain seeks the glitter of gold there instead, although it
doesn’t know why.

The wolf seeks approval, acceptance, with its display of virility. However, it doesn’t
recognise such feelings in the human context, only its primal urge to secure a mate. It has
never required companionship before, but from the first haunting scent on the breeze of
the man-creature now in its sight, unfamiliar hungers have clawed to the fore. A mish-
mash of conflicting memories and impressions skitter through the wolf’s mind,
impossible to comprehend other than by the weakwolf trapped and inactive, for the time

being, inside it. It does not trust the weakwolf despite their enforced symbiosis; it trusts
only its own instincts, the same ones which assure its upper hand whether it is in the
ascendant, or dormant, no more than a caged shadow but one with presence enough to
force its will.

It gazes thoughtfully at its special man-creature. Instead of lingering over the delectable
pleasure of slicing into the mangled chest cavity and splintering the last few remaining
ribs, the wolf is lost to a vision of swooping gracefully through sunny skies, an
overwhelming sense of euphoria and the race to the prey invading its every cell. This and
more is encapsulated within a single whiff of the man-creature’s distinct and
recognisable smell.

The wolf caves in the temple of the fractured skull with a careless bat of its paw, allowing
the ruined brain to slide out. It prods the organ sharply with its muzzle, flicking it up into
the air and snatching it into its mouth before the gelatinous matter can flump back to the
ground. The brain is bland, lacking the metallic tang of blood in its tissue, and the wolf
does not even bother to chew it. The broken, bony limbs are only good for a post-feed
gnaw so it commences next on the torso, where the wolf’s favourite treats can be found.
The sickly wet sound of ripping flesh precedes the sharp, echoing shatter of twig-like ribs
as the wolf creates room to delve into the steaming offal.

The wolf turns its focus back to its intended mate, wondering how best to secure favour.
It knows it can easily take what comfort it wants with barely any of its enviable force, but
it knows that would be wrong. No, it needs to woo its mate with food to establish its
ability to provide.

Using its teeth and a paw, the wolf hacks at the innards, spilling out coils of intestines,
swollen and wormlike, and the heavy brown lump of the dead man-creature’s liver. The
stomach sack is no good, already punctured and seeping foetid, partly-digested sludge
into the body cavity. The only real option, the tastiest, most delicious morsel, the prize
beyond prize, lays peacefully, no longer palpitating, but firm, meaty, and shot through
with the honeyed sweetness of the best blood in the body: the heart. Even the wolf
understands the significance of gifting the heart, and it tears the restraining veins and
tissues as carefully as it is able to remove the treasured organ intact.

Cupping the tough little package in its mouth, the wolf rises and pads around the
carelessly dissected corpse to lay its offering before its intended. The hypnotic fragrance
grows stronger with each step taken until at close quarters, the wolf feels almost
paralysed with an emotion it cannot understand.

The man-creature’s link to consciousness is tenuous; his eyes are glazed and without real
focus, and the stifled whisper of the weakwolf within supplies confirmation of a battle
injury, although the wolf is powerless to comprehend such complicated information or to
act on it.

It opens its jaws and allows the heart to quietly plop out onto the ground at the man-

creature’s feet. It waits for a response, but receives none. It nudges the morsel closer,
inviting examination of its gift, and is rewarded with a jerky spasm from the man-
creature’s hand. He drops his twig and uses his hand to push himself into a more upright
position against the tree trunk. The wolf cannot tell if the man-creature is scared – its
senses are drowning in the pleasure-wash of being close to him.

The man-creature stares at the heart, although his expression is indecipherable to the
wolf. His breathing is erratic, sometimes slow, sometimes dragged in with difficulty and
pain, and the wolf experiences an emotion akin to concern for the very first time in its
existence. The man-creature who flies - how does the wolf know he flies? - shivers, and it
could be shock or it could be the cold. The wolf understands all about shock; it has seen
its effects many, many times in its victims. But it does not really understand cold because
its own body burns with the heat of a furnace freshly stoked and fed, radiating waves of
a temperature high enough to turn frost to steam. It has never felt the tickle of a
snowflake on its body because they always disintegrate long before landing. But its man-
creature is wearing a speckled cloak of white, the tiny flakes settling sparsely on his body
coverings and glittering brightly in the moonlight, a stealthy, beautiful killer of
unconscious animals.

The wolf snorts loudly, plumes of scorching breath shooting out of its nostrils like smoke
from a dragon. It shakes its body out, flexing every mobile muscle from head to tail,
before sinking slowly to the ground, moulding its body as closely to its injured mate as it
can, sharing its considerable heat and protecting him from any other who might seek to
claim him for themselves. It nestles its muzzle close to the man-creature’s thigh and
rumbles its satisfaction deep in its chest.

Its eyes are barely more than slits, but it studies the transformation of the scattering of
snowflakes from tiny, lacy flecks to transparent crystals to wisps of evaporation with
pride, content to offer shelter to its man-creature. The man-creature makes a sound, his
own kind of growl the wolf supposes, before falling silent and slumping heavily against
the wolf’s body.

Nestled close, they sleep.


The wolf is alerted to its man-creature’s recovery by a sudden movement against its
flank. When it raises its head to survey the surroundings, it knows it has reverted to its
weakwolf form, although it is grateful that it has time yet before its thought processes
succumb as well. It hates the pathetic frailty of its other self, and it fights long and hard
for every second of outright control over its shared body.

Its man-creature gasps aloud, his face scrunched up tightly as he eyes the weakwolf
form. The wolf spies recognition in his face, and it begins to understand that there is
some sort of link between the man-creature and its hated other self. It pushes itself up
and back onto its haunches to better study the man-creature, and out of the corner of its
eye it sees that its muscular limbs and fur have melted away to leave nothing more than
spindly extremities and bald flesh, and it feels disgusted at its loss of physical power.

The man-creature is jabbering away now, using his hands to test his body for pain. The
wolf notes that he places tentative touches on a lump on his temple, clearly the source of
the most discomfort, so it leans forward and sniffs at the injury, smelling nothing other
than warm flesh and peace, before licking it better with its tongue. The man-creature
jerks back and bangs his head against the tree trunk, but the wolf simply adjusts its
position to straddle him and continues its nursing, taking the opportunity to revel in their
closeness and the wonderful sense of calm. Without a lengthened nose and its long
tongue, the wolf adapts clumsily to the limitations of its weakwolf form, and its licking is
not as effective as it would like. It buries its head close in to the man-creature’s neck,
inhaling slowly, savouring every breath, and nuzzling up against the exotic and precious
pulse so close to the surface. It ignores the hands shoving roughly but uselessly against
its chest, recognising the struggle as the first steps of their mating ritual, ingrained deep
down inside the wolf’s psyche yet recalled in a flash.

The man-creature wriggles and shoves in earnest against the wolf’s body, and it plays its
part, crowding its mate and smothering him with its weight. It yips triumphantly when its
man-creature is knocked flat to the ground. The wolf wastes no time in crawling over him
and exploring the various intoxicating smells and the strength of his limbs, inferior to its
own yet perfectly adapted to sky-hunting.

Removing the cloth coverings is taxing for the wolf in the absence of its sharp teeth and
claws, and more so as its mate moves so violently and unpredictably. It takes a very long
time to stretch and shred the materials using only its weakwolf teeth and paws; it does
not have the fine motor skills to operate its strangely extended forepaws properly, so it
has to rely on wrestling its mate to the point of exhaustion to assure it completes this
stage of their mating ritual. It is happy when their respective uncovered bodies can touch
freely, transferring scents from surface to surface until they are each marked by the

The thrill of the intimate combat swells the wolf’s previously unused reproductive organ,
and it rushes towards completing their coupling, bristling with excitement and a sense of
perfect purpose. It discovers the best feast of all is its man-creature’s body, and the wolf
insinuates its tongue into every crease, fold and orifice in its exultant exploration of the
only being it will ever call its own.

The wolf memorises every remarkable sensation, every different taste, from the tickle of
tiny hairs on its shrunken muzzle to the pungently tasty hole it will plough with things
other than its tongue at the conclusion of their coupling.

Finally, the wolf’s nose informs it that its man-creature is sufficiently aroused to progress
the ritual to its inevitable conclusion. It laps at the solid meat of the man-creature’s
length, rubbing the salty-slippery fluid all over its face, proud to be chosen and marked
by its mate for every creature in the forest to know. It nips playfully at the heavy, hairy
sac for just a moment before flipping its man-creature onto his belly and dropping its full
weight onto the body below.

Its unsheathed penis ruts frantically against the man-creature’s rump and it growls in
frustration as it tries and fails to achieve penetration. It uses the strength in its hind
quarters to force the man-creature’s legs apart, feeling more elated at its success than
when it brings down a great beast for the kill. Using the pads of its paws to pin the man-
creature’s arms down, the wolf lunges with its pelvis, breaching the muscled barrier in a
single thrust. They howl in unison, both bodies rigid with pent-up tension and restrained


The wolf, its face tilted skywards, pumps vigorously into its mate, marvelling at the
constriction and the friction along the length of its erect organ. As it sates its natural
urge, the wolf senses the battle drain out of its mate and draws strength from his
submission, knowing it has fought for, and won, the body and soul of its cherished man-
creature. The man-creature appears lifeless, but the wolf can see a single eye glistening
moistly in the dappled moonlight, and his barely parted lips wobble with some
unfathomable emotion.

The tiny passage slackens by increments yet the wolf derives no less pleasure from their
copulation. It feels less frenzied, more at leisure to savour the sensations, but it knows it
must achieve orgasm to cement its prowess in the mind of its cherished, most kindred

In short order, the wolf approaches climax, drawing out its strokes to maximise their
pleasure. It stares at the human profile, filled with want and need for this uniquely
compelling man-creature, and as the wolf’s heart cracks open and lays itself out naked
for the taking, a white fire burns in its loins and it fulfils its purpose, flooding its mate
with the seed of their predestined union and howling its victory to the stars.

Collapsing momentarily, the wolf feels the manic heartbeat of its mate reverberate
between their bodies, and it nips its man-creature’s shoulder with affection before rolling
onto its side and drawing the quaking body against its own. It hooks a fore leg and hind
leg over its mate, instinctively mimicking a human embrace, and rubs its stubby muzzle in
the man-creature’s hair, enjoying the way the strands tickle its face.

The wolf could easily fall asleep in the heady afterglow, but its mate is unsettled, moving
rhythmically and breathily against its chest, performing some sort of mating activity that
the wolf’s brain doesn’t recognise. The familiar scent of its man-creature’s body in heat
permeates the still night air, making the wolf consider a second joining even though its
brain insists it has fulfilled its role. It moves its head to inspect the movements and sees
the man-creature’s hand travelling rapidly up and down his stiffened penis, manipulating
it with enviable dexterity and producing a reaction similar to the wolf’s own during their
coupling. The wolf is fascinated by the unusual endeavour and pays rapt attention to the
progress, experiencing mild surprise when its mate’s organ spits gobbets of aromatic,
viscous fluid over his belly and the flattened leaves underneath him before he gasps
quietly and relaxes back into their clumsy embrace.

Overcome by the exotic and appealing fragrance of the ejected fluid, the wolf uncurls
and moves to examine it more closely. It timidly licks its mate’s belly, testing the flavour
and texture of the cooling ejaculate, and once satisfied that it does indeed taste as good
as it smells, the wolf laps its man-creature clean, suckling enthusiastically at the shrinking
length to ingest every last drop. It moves on to the tiny puddles spilt on the ground,
foraging through the decomposing leaves until it is certain that none remains, jealously
collecting every last remaining smear.

Its mate lies quiet, his eyes unfocussed, full of dreams. The wolf knows it must fend for
the man-creature now, that their bond, whilst unusual, is for life, that there will be no
other, so every care must be taken to ensure no opposing hunter sets their sights on
taking him away.

Curling up once again, nestled close to the comforting presence beside it, the wolf closes
its eyes and dreams about the lengths it will go to for the sake of its mate.


The low winter sun fires dazzling rays through the bare branches of the tree canopy,
blinding Draco as he awakens and squints painfully at his surroundings. Even the smallest
movement is agony, his every muscle and bone complaining angrily at the abuse meted
out by the lupine squatter that shares his body. With painstaking sluggishness, he checks
his skin for injuries, gratified to not discover any wounds or scabs. There will be one less
potion to swallow once he is safely returned home, he thinks.

Steeling himself for the inevitable monthly clean-up operation, Draco finds himself
double- and triple-checking the clearing for the human cadaver that his nose tells him had
met its end there, but there is no sign of even a speck of blood although the ground has
obviously been disturbed. Puzzled, and not unconcerned about the missing evidence,
Draco rolls onto his hands and knees and drags himself to the spot where the smell of
blood is the strongest. Pressing his face into the damp and rotting vegetation, he is
frozen with confusion to discover that his victim has already been buried with skill and
care, and all proof of his murderous activity has been eradicated, down to the finest
spotting of blood. He knows the wolf does not care about discovery, so he simply can’t
fathom what has occurred here while he slept. He sits, naked and scared, in the white
sunlight, wondering when the Aurors will come for him, their case signed and sealed, to
lock him away for the rest of his days.

It takes several minutes for the second human scent to cut through his panic, and as he
inhales, separating each definable element from the whole, he is stunned to discover
what has taken place during the night, and with whom. The wolf has taken a mate; the
signs are unmistakeable, right down to the thin caking of dried semen adhering to his
pubic hair. Draco has never had any inkling that such a thing is possible, not in all his
years of living this dual life, and certainly not with a human, never mind this particular
one, which complicates absolutely everything.

Who on earth would willingly consort with the wolf? Surely no one would. Which must
make him a rapist as well as a murderer. Amidst the ruins of his overloaded brain, Draco
isn’t sure which of the two options is worse.


His earliest memories of his curse are fractured and nonsensical, his brain having quickly
lost the battle to draw reason from such untamed and uncontrollable rage. What remains
with him from those days are general impressions of helplessness and panic, and the
horrific realisation that the wolf could prowl his conscious mind and torture him with its
presence regardless of the lunar cycle. Every moment of every day he is at war with
himself, and Draco is bone-tired of fighting. Sometimes he fantasises about his own
death, imagining a blessed silence and a peace he has long since lost. He wishes he could
find a foolproof way to end his existence, and then he wishes again for the courage
necessary to take his own life.


Draco never had the time of day for Remus Lupin while he was alive, but since the
execution of Voldemort’s punishment, infecting him with the same dreadful affliction, his

old professor is the source of his only comfort and solace.

Draco sometimes wonders if his bitter loneliness is, in fact, worse than the thing residing
inside him.


Draco hates his father with a virulent passion closely akin to the wolf’s heightened
emotional responses. The casually distasteful manner in which his father brushes off
responsibility for Draco’s predicament eats away at him; Lucius’ primary concern is the
shame Draco can bring down on their family name if his condition is ever discovered.
More than once Draco has shouted and raged at his father that no shame could be
greater than condemning a dwindling bloodline to eternity as Death Eaters, but the
words have no discernible effect and serve to further isolate Draco from the only two
people who know. The wolf urges Draco to kill his father and be done with it, but he
knows that the strain of enacting their elaborate charade would be too great for his
mother alone, so he does nothing.

He recalls an old conversation, one amongst many, but this particular ‘chat’ with his
parents comes to mind almost every time he lays eyes on Scorpius. The notion of this boy
being his son remains an alien one. On the increasingly few occasions when he is called
upon to play the role of father, he has to focus completely on every word and gesture he
makes to ensure he gives no clue, especially not to Scorpius or Astoria, about this one
particular Boggart in the Malfoy family closet.

His father was the one who had informed him in clipped and impersonal tones that he
would never be permitted to sire the heir to the family name. His tainted blood was not
to be allowed to leave any lingering blemish, imaginary or otherwise, on the carefully
managed genealogy of their ancient family tree. Lucius, of course, would fulfil the duty
on his behalf when the time came, and Draco detested his father’s thinly-veiled smug
superiority at the announcement, although in truth, he expected little else from the man.
His mother’s stoic acceptance, her complete lack of emotion, provided the most hurtful
revelation – it was clear she was in harmony with the decision, and it led to Draco’s first
realisation that he had become less in her eyes. The recognition that to them he was a
wolf first and a man second hooked into Draco’s deepest insecurities and from that
formative point he practiced a certain detachment in all his relationships. The only place
to turn was inwards on himself, and as much as the wolf was the destroyer of his hopes
and aspirations, it also became his crutch, his strength, the one swiftly decisive influence
always on hand to take charge or share the overpowering strain.


He visits Lupin’s grave to talk. Not aloud, of course, but silently, in his head, so that his
imagination can supply the responses, always in Lupin’s calming, measured tones. The
direction of their conversations often disturbs him, and he refuses to examine too closely
those things he doesn’t want to hear, the significant differences that made Lupin’s life
bearable where Draco’s is not. Draco does not wish to brood on Lupin’s earnest assertion
that friendship and love made his survival possible, because they are things he does not

What he wants most of all is mastery of the beast. Or, at least sufficient control to be
able to function as a human being without the constant impatient roaring that makes it
so hard to think and leaves him with blinding headaches and no kind words for anyone;

he has no idea how Lupin ever managed to teach children. He’s not even free to be
whatever passes for himself in his own home thanks to his wife and ‘son’s’ ignorance of
his true condition.

Draco and the wolf have never shared any meaningful communication. The wolf
demands, Draco complies. That is all.

Draco envies Lupin his pathetic Gryffindor friends and his freak of a wife, people who saw
past the curse to the man inside. No one bothers to look for the good in Draco – he’s too
far gone for that.


When the time had come to select a wife Draco had purposely chosen the most vacuous
and irritating woman of those presented by his parents, purely with the intention of
making the task of procreation an odious one for Lucius to perform. While not repugnant
to look at, the woman was shallow and lacking the subtlety and refined nature that
Lucius would find genuinely appealing. Thankfully Astoria was also easily diverted by
expensive trinkets and social standing, and she adapted immediately and without fuss to
the separate lives Draco insisted upon. His brief sojourns into his wife’s company prove a
strain on both parties, and during their time together, the wolf is always closer to the
surface, making Draco argumentative and quick to anger, with the threat of violence
never far away. But for the fact that he might kill her during any one of their unavoidable
encounters, Draco would happily permit the wolf complete control over his human
faculties, if for no other reason than to blot out any memory of the time he wastes on

This self-imposed separation from his wife does, however, facilitate two necessities quite
neatly. Firstly, of course, is the incalculable benefit of not having to suffer her company;
their single bout of sexual congress to consummate the union was more than enough for
Draco and proved equally distressing for the wolf. It bucked and raged inside him
throughout the perfunctory coitus, trying furiously to re-establish the supremacy of the
hunt, the kill, over and above such wasteful physical exertions. They were all relieved
when it was over, and the butchery on the subsequent full moon was particularly vicious,
an exemplary demonstration of the wolf’s capacity for cruelty which left Draco in a state
of physical infirmity for several weeks following.

The second benefit, the one less important to Draco, is that the lack of any notable
relationship with his wife permits others to play his part with little fear of discovery.
Draco has never calculated the amount of time each of his parents spends disguised as
him, and he can’t bring himself to care. The wolf prevents any normal human functioning
for several days either side of the full moon, and it is at these times that his parents
undertake to transform their appearance with Polyjuice Potion to fulfil Draco’s
engagements and provide the meanest level of conjugal visits sufficient to keep his
farcical marriage alive. He finds it macabrely amusing to know that his wife is in fact
married to three people, but is somewhat dismayed to acknowledge that even a third of
a wife is too much for him to deal with.


Whenever Draco looks at Scorpius he sees his father and not himself, although many
people, his wife included, frequently comment on their sibling-like similarity, the irony of
which is not lost on him. On the day he put his half-brother on the Hogwarts Express for

the first time, he regurgitated the lofty speech Lucius had given him, heavy with the
weights of duty, comportment, and taking the rights of his privilege without waiting for
them to be offered. He felt no sense of loss over Scorpius’ departure from the manor,
but neither did he wish the boy ill. He will, no doubt, excel in the house of his forefathers,
becoming the heir Lucius will be proud of, one of whose paternity he will not be

Paternity is an interesting concept to a man with two separate consciousnesses and two
different forms. When he thinks of himself as he has been for his entire adult life, Draco
considers Fenrir Greyback, the father of the wolf, to be the greater familial influence, not
that he rejoices in the thought.


In the early days of Draco’s visits to Lupin’s grave, he used to hide deep in the tree line,
never actually approaching it for fear of being seen and his purpose somehow

A surprising variety of people visit Lupin’s grave year on year, but none of them provoke
Draco’s interest as much as Harry Potter. On Lupin’s birthday and the anniversary of his
death, Potter appears with a group of people, always tightly clutching the hand of a child
who transforms over the years into a young man. The group exchanges the same trite
and saccharine words at the grassy bump of earth before fading away again, taking their
maudlin thoughts and their self-pity with them, and allowing Draco to resume his
conversation in peace.

It’s Potter’s other visits that pique Draco’s interest the most, though. After a year or two
of attending in secrecy, Draco knew the comings and goings of all the regular mourners,
and he grew used to Potter’s erratic appearances, or lack of, thanks to that bloody
Invisibility Cloak. The wolf’s nose is better than its eyes, and Potter’s smell is distinctive
and instantly recognisable to Draco thanks to this enhancement. His improved hearing
permits him to eavesdrop from a distance, and it amuses him that Potter is stupid
enough to talk aloud when he so obviously seeks privacy.

Potter talks about the boy, Teddy, and Ginny and Albus and Tonks, but mostly he
expresses his regrets that he didn’t better understand Lupin’s hardships or use his money
to help the man through the thinnest years. As if Lupin would ever have accepted charity.
The thought is preposterous.

Potter blabs with varying levels of coherency about his dad and the Shrieking Shack and
Snape’s potions, demonstrating a level of understanding of the difficulties of life with
lycanthropy to the point that Draco often finds himself shivering with shock as the words
strike that bit too close for comfort. He usually feels at his loneliest after these visits,
experiencing a dull anguish that he has no one to talk to about it except a man who will
never be able to answer him back.

Over the years, their roles have switched, and Draco has grown in confidence such that
he permits Potter to spy on him rather than the other way around. He never says
anything aloud, of course, but Potter consistently monitors his entire visits anyway,
sometimes standing apart, sometimes creeping dangerously close under the imagined
safety of his precious Cloak. There are times when Draco wants to reach out and touch
Potter, but to do so would give too much away, so he studiously keeps his hands to


Draco develops an attachment to ‘secretive’ Potter and misses him when he’s not there.
He doesn’t admit it to himself, although Lupin often lectures him not to devalue the
unusual ‘bond’ formed during their schooldays. Which other Seeker did you ever trust so
much that you would fly only a hairs-breadth apart from him at fatal speeds? he once
asked. Draco didn’t reply. He didn’t need to because Lupin stole the answer straight from
the locked-up part of his brain anyway.


The memories and impressions of years upon years of taking this one scent, this one man
for granted makes Draco confront some awkward and complicated feelings. He spends
the days after what he’s come to think of as ‘the incident in the forest’ alternately
waiting to be arrested, entertaining preposterous possibilities, and berating himself for
daring to hope for something as meaningful as a companion.

Hope is such an evil emotion; it makes his self-imposed isolation drag interminably.


His retreat occupies the left-hand rear corner of the manor house’s ground floor. It had
once been an overflow library of sorts before he had commandeered it for his private
office, choosing it specifically for its outlook onto his very own Forbidden Forest. The
dense trees which once encroached some distance up into what are now the formal
gardens start abruptly just past the buxus bush labyrinth, and Draco often walks along
the perimeter of the uniformly straight tree line, the wolf prowling round and round
inside his body, fantasising about being able to hunt there.

In the first few months of coping with the new affliction, the wolf ached to make the
forest its own, to mark the boundary of its territory with its body scent and fluids. But
Lucius was firm; one did not shit where one ate – not his words, but his sentiment
nonetheless. And to ensure the wolf complied, a series of wards were set around the
forest which emitted an ear-splitting alarm, high-pitched enough that the wolf couldn’t
get across the lawn never mind steal into the trees. Draco was forced to seek other
locations further afield, but no forest is as enticing as this one, so close yet so out of

His reading chair is set close to the window so even on the few occasions he is able to
concentrate long enough to absorb the words on the page, the ever-changing colour
palette of the trees is still visible above the parchment horizon. The woodland proximity
pacifies the wolf to a certain degree, so Draco spends most of his time every day in the
room, taking his meals separately from the rest of the household, generally grateful for
the solitude.

He discourages visitors to his room as much as possible, because re-marking every

touched piece of furniture and every square inch of floor covering tires him out, but the
wolf howls and shreds at his internal organs until the task is completed. Everything must
smell just so; Draco submits to the wolf’s will on such matters, because he has never
grown accustomed to the heart-stopping agony dished out so freely when he tries to
fight. It has been a lesson hard learned, that the wolf is incapable of accepting defeat,
and so Draco has had to learn to decode the explosions of anger inside himself, until he
has become completely adept at translating the wolf’s desires and enacting the correct

solution to soothe it.

As the years pass, he fights the wolf’s demands less, and he senses his humanity
diminishing commensurably.

Sitting in his favoured chair, eyes locked yet again on the irregular line of the tree tops a
stone’s throw away, Draco contemplates his losses and the inevitable conclusion to a
half-life such as the one he suffers. Everything is set to change again. He hears every
single grain of sand drop through the bottleneck in the hourglass as he awaits his arrest
for the most recent murder. He wonders idly how his parents will respond; he hasn’t
bothered to tell them what happened in the forest. He talks as little as he can get away
with these days, because stringing coherent sentences together is very hard work.

It wasn’t his first murder, not by a long shot. Draco has always wondered if his luck would
run out one day, because the wolf has never selected victims with care, merely taking
whichever poor souls happened to find themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time.
He has no idea who the wolf has killed over the years; he tries not to think about them as
people with names and families and responsibilities. It’s easier if they remain food. He
sleeps better at night that way.

But he can’t sleep now, not since his secret slipped out. He’s left survivors before, but
none of them have seen his human form until last week. The fact that the wolf felt safe
enough to sleep and to reveal its weaker self tells Draco more than he wants to know
about its bond with its mate. When will they come to take him away? He just wants it to be
over. Succumbing to his unconscious nervous tic, he twists a clump of hair in his fingers
and feels the strands snap or pull free at the root. He watches several long, pale hairs
float down and mar the impeccably clean surface of his robes before grasping another
chunk and repeating the destructive little habit, not even registering the flare of pain in
his scalp. It’s so small in comparison to all the others.

The hammering at the door makes him jump out of his skin even though he’s been
anticipating it for so long. Now that the moment has arrived, he feels debilitated by
nausea, and he can’t even speak to invite entry. Frozen, gripping the arms on his chair to
gain some small level of focus, Draco watches the door literally burst open, flying back so
hard it bangs into the wall behind. Potter, looking windswept and wraithlike, stands on
the other side of the threshold, his wand arm outstretched, the final syllable of his
explosive-packed Alohomora still shaping his lips.

God, the smell! Even from across the room Potter’s scent hits him like a fist, and the wolf
rears up and howls and howls, desperate to get to its mate. Draco is paralysed, at a
complete loss as to what to do. The wolf is so close to the surface, tearing chunks out of
Draco’s composure with its teeth and claws, and the pain is blinding, worse than he’s
ever known it. This is the end of something, and he wonders if he is dying.

As Draco rises weakly from his seat to face Potter, the man crosses the threshold and
enters the room, sealing the door behind him with equal force, cutting off the
approaching, furiously shouting figure of the shrew, Astoria. Potter waves his wand and
shouts out incantations that Draco can barely process in his almost subhuman mindset.
Someone thumps the door repeatedly from outside and shouts out loud in anger, but
Potter ignores the furore, pacing slowly into the room with his wand still held on Draco.
His lips are moving and sound is coming out of his mouth, but all Draco can hear is white
noise, a brain-melting static hum that drowns out the wolf’s incessant excited yipping as
well as Potter’s emotional tirade.

Potter circles the room across from Draco, his aim faltering as he shapes his words with
both hands, gesticulating wildly, obviously trying and failing to adequately convey
something very difficult. Eyes sliding closed, Draco feels himself slip out of reality and
into sensory heaven, surrounded by their softly mingling fragrances, comforting and cosy
as a blanket. It is worth being arrested and sent to prison just to experience this
wonderful warmth a final time.

Draco and the wolf smell Potter’s anxiety and his fear, and the wolf is beside itself to try
and get free and provide comfort and shelter. It doesn’t really comprehend that it is the
cause of the heightened mood, because it’s too busy swamping Draco, its weakwolf self,
and attempting to force the change without the moon to trigger it. The brush of fur
tickles the insides of Draco’s skull as the wolf rocks back and forth, back and forth,
hungry to re-establish its territory over the foreign stink of the outside world soiling its
mate’s skin.

The wolf is vibrating with anger at Draco’s inability to free it, and his limbs start to
tremble until he is shaking so violently that standing up is almost impossible. Cracking his
eyes open even a tiny slit costs him a huge amount of energy, but he needs to see Potter,
finally recognising his slow-burning desire, the one that’s been building over years and
years of visits to Lupin. Potter has the capacity to understand as no one else ever has,
and Draco just wants to stop feeling like a freak and being so fucking alone. There has to
be hope. Didn’t Potter hide the body? Surely there’s some hope.

Potter is standing in the middle of the room, his arms at his sides, shoulders rounded in
defeat. He appears distraught, perhaps voicing some sort of plea for Draco to hand
himself in, but of course Draco can’t hear him. Watching Potter is like staring down into a
lake and seeing something moving sluggishly far below the surface, the barrier of the
water creating a separation that is complete, final.

Eventually, in transparent desperation, Potter lunges and grabs handfuls of Draco’s

robes, pulling their faces close together. It’s almost too much for the wolf to bear. It
stares out of Draco’s eyes and sees Potter’s flushed face carved deeply with emotions it
doesn’t understand. It drowns in green; glassy, vivid, compelling, and it stills totally,
soothed by the nearness of its mate and the imaginary whistling of wind past its ears.

Draco resurfaces from inside himself and feels his overstretched composure crumble.
The look on Potter’s face is so eloquent of a misery that’s hard to spell out aloud, but it’s
something Draco understands without question. He knows that if he doesn’t take this
one chance, the rest of his life will be lived in regret and longing. He raises his hands
slowly, taking care not to startle Potter, and places them gently over Potter’s own,
smoothing the tight, white knuckles with the pads of his thumbs. Potter’s chest hitches,
his hands grip more tightly, but he doesn’t try to shake Draco off.

The wolf registers the smell of tears, salty and oddly sweet, long before they prick its
mate’s eyes. It permits its weakwolf form to prevent it from licking its man-creature’s
eyes, and it is probably the first time it has ever acquiesced to its other self. It is learning
to trust; anything for the sake of its mate.

Potter stares wordlessly as Draco traces a path down to his elbows and back up his arms,
and he allows Draco to pull him fractionally closer when the hands curl around his
shoulders. Their noses are almost touching, and this is the only time since he was
afflicted that Draco has wanted to kiss anyone. He cups Potter’s cheeks carefully, barely

touching the skin, just holding the face to fix a permanent image of it in his mind in case
it’s the last time he ever sees it.

It is Potter who closes the gap and presses his lips over Draco’s.

Draco forgets to breathe.

And then Potter presses harder, and the tip of his tongue wets Draco’s mouth. It’s like
being kissed for the first time; confusing, and scary, and god-I-just-don’t-want-it-to-stop.
Draco pulls Potter’s head closer, pushing his fingers through the short, soft hair at the
back of his neck. He opens his mouth and Potter responds in kind, letting out an audible
huff of nervous anticipation.

The wolf understands tongues, and it nudges Draco’s consciousness aside so it can
explore its mate’s mouth. It feeds there in a way it hasn’t ever done before, experiencing
a moment of understanding that its weakwolf form does, in fact, have certain beneficial
aspects, and it instantly accepts that it would be wise to share their one body henceforth
rather than continue its attempts to overpower the other.

The wolf feels playfully maddened by the scents emanating from its mates body, and it
knows with certainty that it absolutely must couple with him again if only for the sake of
its sanity. It feels relieved that for once its weakwolf is in complete agreement, and it
thinks it is fitting that this one mate can bring harmony to a previously fractured and
unbalanced cohabitation.

When Potter nips his lip, Draco breaks the kiss and presses their foreheads together
while he simply breathes and attempts to adjust to the surprising amity between himself
and the wolf. He is astonished, both by the wolf’s sympathetic behaviour and by Potter’s
unexpected advances. What a terrible risk this man is taking for him, and Draco feels
disgusted that beneath his desire sits a pathetic well of gratitude, because he does not
want to think about how lonely he’s been all these years, not now.

Potter touches his face, bringing him back to the moment. A fingertip traces the line of
his lips, and that one innocent gesture swells his heart with an embarrassingly intense
emotional reaction. Tears don’t collect in his eyes, but he feels them burning inside his
head, another indication of his vulnerability to Potter’s subdued charms. Acting with an
uncharacteristic lack of reserve, he plants another kiss on Potter’s mouth, not a gentle,
exploratory one, but a demanding, hungry, almost panic-stricken one. Potter clings to
him in a shockingly needy manner, one Draco would never have expected, and appears
to revel in the ravaging, offering himself up to Draco for the taking.

The wolf settles back on its haunches and studies the way Draco manipulates his
forepaws to undress their mate. It notes that the men undertake the task with the exact
same level of fervour that it would, all flailing limbs and enthusiastic impatience. The
scent of man-flesh and arousal excites the wolf, but instead of picking a fight with its
other self it enjoys the build-up, imagining the hasty unveiling is like a special sort of hunt,
one where both parties play the predator and the prey. For the first time in its life it
understands it doesn’t have complete control over what is happening, but in this
instance the observation is freeing rather than frightening. Its mate has proven himself
as much a protector as the wolf itself, and it flirts with the notion of equality between
them, a new concept, since it has always considered itself the superior species.

Potter kicks his shoes off because they’re trapping his trousers and underwear below his

knees, but it is Draco who lowers himself to the ground to drag the clothing over his
ankles and dispose of it. Potter is still struggling to get rid of his shirt, trying to yank the
thing over his head without undoing the cuffs, and from his lowered position Draco can
look up the length of the naked body unwatched, taking the time to enjoy the way the
half-hard prick bounces and wobbles and the understated musculature flexes. Is it wrong
to want to lean forward and bury his face in Potter’s crotch? Favouring action over
thought, he places his hands on Potter’s hips and captures the cock in his mouth. Potter
cries out, but all Draco can think about is eating the flesh down so that his nose is buried
in the curls of black pubic hair.

Having human meat in his mouth – willingly and without murderous intent – helps Draco
understand why the wolf craves it so much. The vitality, effervescent and hot and utterly
responsive, sums up everything about the unique value of life that he needs to recognise
before he can begin to live instead of merely survive. The way Potter’s body responds to
him, as if he doesn’t have a choice because the swell of desire is so strong, helps him
accept that there is, after all, something inside him worth cherishing despite the horror
of his condition.

Potter’s hands twist painfully in Draco’s hair to keep his head in place, a quite
unnecessary gesture. He wouldn’t relinquish Potter’s erection without a fight because
feeling the texture of the skin change inside his mouth, to feel the transformation from
something soft and harmless to something altogether different – bigger, more
intimidating, angrily demanding – is an absolute pleasure. Potter’s cock leaks slowly as he
sucks it, and he savours the flavour as the wolf savours heart blood, smearing the salty
discharge and saliva all over his lower face to map the boundary of Potter’s territory.

He doesn’t know if he’s supposed to, but he uses his teeth as well as his tongue to graze
the tightly-stretched skin at the crown of Potter’s erection, and a flicker inside his brain
imagines him sinking his pointed canines in and biting down so that he can taste blood as
well as semen when Potter eventually comes in his mouth. But he won’t hurt Potter; the
bond is too fragile, too unexplored for the airing of such potentially disturbing games.
The play teases the wolf though, and it butts Draco with its muzzle just to remind him it’s
still there.

Potter thrusts hard, repeatedly, making Draco gag on him. He stinks of desperation and
Draco revels in it, loving the fact that he can prompt such a loss of control. Potter
babbles words that might as well be in another language; they don’t register for their
meaning, only for their tone, and Draco knows that Potter is going to come. He tips his
head back and tries to make a straighter channel for Potter to penetrate, a nice, loose,
wet one that’s about to get significantly wetter. He digs his fingers into the roundness of
Potter’s backside and manhandles the flesh roughly, picturing himself fucking the hole
hidden between the cheeks.

With an admirably animalistic cry, Potter explodes into orgasm, shooting thick ropes of
heavy cream down Draco’s throat. The wolf is always hungry, but Draco can’t remember
a time when he’s wanted to swallow something quite this much. The way the semen rolls
over his tongue and wets the underside of Potter’s cock as it continues to jerk in and out
is definitely addictive, and he senses that he’s going to be spending a lot of time between
Potter’s legs enjoying this and other equally pleasurable activities.

Their movements still in the aftermath, and Potter’s barely-softened prick plops out from
between Draco’s lips and leaves a stringy trail of spit and semen to dribble down his chin.
As Potter drops to his knees to face him, Draco raises a hand and wipes the mess back

into his mouth, sucking suggestively at the side of his hand to eat it all down. Potter’s
eyes are wide and wild, and Draco senses that he hadn’t intended to do any of this.
Perhaps Potter had come to warn him, or even to arrest him, but not to give in like this,
to take both Draco and his wolf on and tame them with his body.

When they kiss again, Potter stands his ground, giving as good as he gets under Draco’s
enthusiastic assault. They wrestle Draco’s remaining clothes off between them and lie
down together, two nude and beautiful men, and the ever-present shadow of a great
and fearsome wolf who owns them both.

Draco takes Potter on top of their hastily discarded clothing. He enjoys Potter’s body
fully, nibbling at all the soft areas and nipping at the ticklish ones until Potter writhes like
a slut, Draco’s very own bitch in heat. Potter takes everything Draco dishes out from the
tongue that tastes his private parts to the fingers that invade him. Draco looks down on
Potter’s sweaty body, admiring the way the tendons in his neck stretch in response to
the steadily increasing exploration of his hole. He’s never done any of this before, but to
Draco, every caress, every step past Potter’s limits, is instinctive, something that fits
seamlessly to fill the gaping hole in his life. Everything about it is completely right.

When Potter spreads his legs and invites him between them, Draco thinks he might die
from the thrill of it. He looks down at the sparsely-haired divide, noting the dull sheen of
his own saliva drying on the pale insides of Potter’s thighs. The wolf smells its destination
even though it can’t be seen, and it urges Draco on, desperate to feel its mate again.

It’s growing difficult for Draco to know where his own urges stop and the wolf’s begin. It
doesn’t seem so important to separate the two anymore.

Potter lifts his legs and exposes himself lewdly and without hesitation. Lowering himself
into position, Draco watches Potter’s face as he pushes slowly inside and gently forces
enough space for himself in the warmth. He expects that the show of emotions in
Potter’s eyes mirror his own, and he feels a pain in his chest at the sudden intensity of it.
The wolf loans him the confidence to continue and the strength to hold back so that their
coupling is worthy of such a momentous change in all their relationships with one

Potter’s body feels tight and virginal, and the twinges of pain evident in his expression
tell Draco what he wants to know, that they are equally inexperienced. The thought
somehow makes Potter’s acquiescence all the more meaningful, so much sweeter.

They move together, restrained, near-silent, the understated, faintly familiar way in
which they fit together and complement one another amplifying the slow burn inside
Draco. The wolf puffs itself up, extending its presence out until its own limbs, its own
torso, press against the inside of its human skin so that it can be as close to the surface as
possible. It experiences its mate as it can’t possibly do when it inhabits its own form, and
it wonders at the calming bliss in this subtler, less urgent mating ritual.

It’s impossible to last long. The combination of scents and sensations are fatal to the
stamina of both the wolf and Draco, and when Draco finally concedes to the rapidly-
building tension, he watches Potter’s lips form his name and he melts, spent and
shattered, into the welcoming, accepting body below his own. He wants to hold Potter
close and keep him. The wolf wants to curl up around him, and feed him and protect him
and keep him warm. But Potter is a free spirit who will do as he wishes, and the two of
them have to accept that. They know, both of them, that Potter will be back for more.

The wolf has managed to infect him in its own way, not through the blood, but through
the soul.

It’s peaceful lying on the floor, all dishevelled and sticky and happy. They lie together like
that for a long time, mostly silent, completely content.


The final kiss, the chaste, reassuring one before Potter steps over the grate and drops his
pinch of Floo powder, silences both the wolf and his own cart-wheeling brain. Draco
continues to stare at the empty spot long after the flames have disappeared. He is dully
aware of his wife shrieking in the echoing hallway and resolves to Obliviate her the
moment he can be bothered, assuming one of his parents, observing from the upper
landing, doesn’t get there first.

Eventually he turns his head downwards, mulling over everything that has happened in
the last week. The black marble floor is glassy, its glaze pristine and unblemished. He
studies his foreshortened reflection until he stares directly into his own eyes. The wolf is
in repose, patient and strong inside his head. Its unfamiliar contentment ought to take
some getting used to, but Draco knows he has already adjusted to the new equilibrium.
He reaches out an imaginary hand and runs it along the - his - coarsely-haired spine,
taking the time to memorise its sizeable knobbles and bumps. His wolf arches into the
touch, welcoming the confident intimacy. Together they exhale, their heart rates
harmonious, as they share treasured memories of naked bodies and snow and the blue
Wolf Moon.

Finally, finally, they are one.