i.
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Broken tile, shattered glass. His reflection off the flooded tile, water swirling around his ankles. Why did he look so horrified? Something dark slithering, swirling—snake! Nagini? No, no, not a vision—a dark, fluid something poaching the clear water and turning it bright red as it swirled. Oh god, don't let it touch him, snake—no, no, that's not right. Oh god. Blood! Blood on the water, creeping towards him, and now he could see the body, pale where the water was dark. No, no, he hadn't meant—he didn't want—! Face-down; white hair dipped in red; long, delicate fingers curled and limp, stretched out as if reaching for him. No, no, no—the water suddenly rising, whirlpooling, sucking him down into the void, he could hear a voice screaming at him, murder, murder in the bathroom—!
Harry gasped awake. Almost immediately, his face twisted up in an expression of guilt and anger, and he pounded a fist against his bedding. Damn it! Wasn't it enough to have visions of Voldemort and nightmares of Sirius and Cedric and his parents' deaths? Now the universe wouldn't let him forget he'd nearly killed Draco bloody Malfoy in the 6th-floor boy's loo.
Harry sighed, and grasped for his wand. "Tempus," he muttered, and discovered that he'd only been asleep for about an hour—it was still evening. Judging from the lack of snores he heard from the other side of his four-poster bed, neither Ron nor Seamus had yet deigned to come up for the night. No doubt still stressing over that DADA essay ...
Not really in the mood to try and fall back asleep, Harry drew back his curtains and got up, padding softly over to the window and sitting on the ledge. He tucked his legs up underneath him and rested his chin in both hands, sleepily taking in the twilight haze that had fallen over the castle. The sun had set, but the moon had yet to rise—or perhaps it had, it was cloudy and hard to tell. Astronomy had taught the discerning wizard to be aware of the various celestial bodies around him—so Harry knew that if he managed to catch a peek of it through the cloud cover, it would be full. Thoughts lazily curled around in the space between his ears. Pieces of memories, ones that he'd reviewed many times over and over ...
Stooped awkwardly under the Invisibility Cloak with Ron and Hermione, watching a nervous yet superior Draco Malfoy bully a fearful Borgin, lifting his sleeve and showing off his left arm to cow the man. It was the Dark Mark; Harry was certain. What else could make a seedy man like Borgin bend before a teenager? Not to mention Malfoy casually dropping names of his Death Eater pals ... Ron and Hermione could argue all they wanted against Voldemort making sixteen-year-old kids Death Eaters, but Harry knew that's exactly what the madman had done. For whatever reason, Voldemort had trusted Malfoy with an important task—so didn't it make sense for him to give Malfoy the mark of a trusted follower?
His autumn months had been marked by a quest to catch Malfoy with his sleeves up—if he could just get a glimpse of the Dark Mark, he could finally prove to Ron and Hermione that his suspicions about Malfoy were warranted. And maybe get the pointy little prick expelled, as a bonus. Unfortunately, craning his neck in Potions class and spying through the branches of various poisonous plants in the greenhouse proved fruitless—not because he didn't catch Malfoy rolling up the sleeves of his robes, but because Malfoy had taken to wearing long-sleeved shirts underneath, which remained unrolled and untouched. He was constantly wincing and favouring his arm as if it pained him. And really, if that wasn't a sign of his guilt than Harry didn't know what else was!
Hermione had remained unconvinced. "Harry, I know you're dead set on Malfoy being a Death Eater, but has it occurred to you that maybe he's just cold, or being fashionable, or—"
Harry'd interrupted her swiftly, irritated. "Never mind. I'll catch him out some other way."
Harry shifted on the window ledge. Seamus had come into the dormitory, and he exchanged a pleasant goodnight with the Irish boy.
Turning back to the window, Harry thought about the time he'd first discovered Malfoy's excursions to the Room of Requirement, and all his subsequent patrols of the 7th-floor corridor, waiting for a glimpse of that white-blond head or a whisper of what he was up to. He thought about how the Map had found a permanent home in his inside pocket, which he pulled out and spent countless minutes pouring over several thousand times a day. His friends called him obsessed. They were annoyed and worried about his habits, but Harry only scoffed. He was not obsessed with Draco Malfoy. He just didn't understand why his friends ignored the danger that the Slytherin posed. He was Marked, he was doing some unknown task for Voldemort, and he was spending all his days and even some nights in the Room of Requirement—so much time that Hermione had heard his perfect marks were slipping. He. Was. Up. To. Something and Harry wouldn't give up until he found out what.
He still felt horrible for using Dark Magic on the Slytherin, even though Malfoy had been about to Crucio him. It gave him nightmares, like the one he'd just woken from—blood on the water, swirling and flooding forward in impossible red waves that drowned him while Myrtle screamed bloody murder. But even crushing guilt was not enough to deter his attentions, to stop him from checking the Maurader's Map every few hours, or from following a pale head as it travelled around. Especially that last one. His eyes did that one a lot.
Even with his recent new relationship with Ginny, even when the redhead pressed against his side in the Great Hall, or sat against his legs in the library, or strolling along hand-in-hand with Harry around the grounds—if there was even so much of a flash of white-blond, Harry's eyes strayed. There was almost like a supernatural awareness of Malfoy, a sharp drawing power that had Harry's head turning north like the south end of a magnet. He didn't understand it and was only glad that Ginny didn't notice, or didn't care. She might make the wrong assumption, and Harry wouldn't be able to explain himself. He already was incapable of making his friends understand; he didn't need that with Ginny too.
Harry sighed, scrubbing a hand over his tired face. Maybe he was obsessed. He didn't want to think about it anymore. But even as he thought this, his hand had automatically reached inside his pocket and drawn out the Map as it did whenever Harry thought about Malfoy, and he checked it.
He jolted, suddenly wide awake. So far, Harry had never been lucky enough to catch Malfoy going in or coming out of the Room of Requirement. But as Harry looked on, Malfoy's tiny dot was making its way slowly and evasively towards the 7th-floor corridor, taking back staircases and doubling back as if to throw off pursuers. Not only that, Harry was shocked to see that he was accompanied by none other than Severus Snape. Had Malfoy finally relented and let the greasy professor help him in his task? Most importantly—if Harry left right this second, could he beat the Slytherins to the Room, and be waiting invisibly when they arrived?
Tonight was his chance. He could finally figure this out! Harry flew off the window ledge, snagged his Invisibility Cloak (which he hastily covered himself with so as to avoid questions from Ron) and was out of the portrait hole before anyone could say "scheming slimy Slytherins."
He ran. He was sure his feet were visible beneath the flapping Cloak, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Finally, finally, Harry would have the proof he needed to bring Malfoy's activities to light! He kept the Map out and checked it every few seconds, determined to beat those two little dots to their respective destination. Harry needn't have worried—he was there in record time.
He was briefly at a loss as to where to stand—he didn't want to be too far away that he couldn't dash into the room after Malfoy, but Harry also didn't want to stand anywhere where he could be brushed against and discovered. Taking the nature of the room into account, Harry pictured the spot where the door usually appeared and stood off to the left of it.
Voices were soon heard, hushed but growing nearer.
"...Shouldn't have waited so long," said the oily voice of Snape. Just as it had been the night of Slughorn's Christmas party, it was softer and vaguely paternal.
"Almost summer. Days are long. Moon isn't up yet. Doesn't matter." Malfoy's voice was hoarse and uncharacteristically short. He usually favoured long, dramatic whinges, but it almost sounded to Harry like every word was costing the Slytherin boy tremendous effort.
"It does matter, foolish boy! What if a student—one of your Housemates—saw you in this state? Distraction has caused you to be careless."
"It's ... near the deadline. 'Course I'm distracted," Malfoy grit out.
The pair rounded the corner, and Harry fought not to gasp. Malfoy looked like death warmed over, grey and drawn and feeble. He was being supported by Snape, who half-carried the blonde over to the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy and gently leant him against it. Judging from the sweat on his greasy brow, Snape had been lugging him around for a while.
"Regardless of long summer days, it is now firmly night, and the moon has risen. You should have long since taken the potion and been in isolation. Do not be so careless again; it's tedious. You are fortunate that it is cloudy, and we have successfully avoided windows."
Harry was lost. What did the moon and a potion have to do with the task given to Malfoy by Voldemort? Were there Order members patrolling outside, forcing the devious pair to avoid being seen through the windows? Were Malfoy and Snape about to attempt some ritual, one that required the consumption of a potion, and would be ruined by moonlight? He gripped his wand tighter under the Cloak. Perhaps that was why Malfoy looked ill and had been losing weight. Testing potions on himself, trying to find the right recipe?
Snape felt Malfoy's forehead with the back of his hand and scoffed gently. "I remind you that I made a vow to keep you safe; I won't appreciate it if your distractions get us both killed."
Malfoy batted his hand away tiredly. "Never asked you to. You and Mother ... are interfering. I won't appreciate it." He hissed suddenly, his face screwing up as he clutched his left arm. Harry braced himself, expecting his scar to flare up, especially if Voldemort's presence was as near as Draco's Dark Mark. But it did not, and Harry watched on with confusion.
"Your mother is devastated, lost, and more afraid for you than she lets on. But that's enough; we're done talking about this. There's not much time left." He dipped a hand into his robes and pulled out a potion bottle. He unstoppered it, and immediately a blue steam seemed to rise out of the bottle. Harry narrowed his eyes at it. It seemed ... familiar somehow.
"I dare not ask whether you have been taking this in the past seven days as prescribed, as I am certain I won't like the answer. Drink." He shoved the potion in Malfoy's limp hand and then began pacing in front of the Room. He didn't say anything out loud, but his eyes were sharp and focused. No doubt he was quite specific in his request.
Malfoy threw back the potion, sputtering and coughing after he swallowed. "Ugh." The door to the Room had appeared—Harry was surprised to see a solid, heavy stone door instead of the usual wooden one. It was smaller than he expected and difficult to discern from the surrounding rock. Snape wasted no time; he pulled Malfoy away from the wall and hauled him over to the door. He spelled the door open, and both figures disappeared inside.
Harry didn't waste a second—he dove in after them.
Inside was more like a prison cell than a room. Besides a pile of comfortable cushions in the corner and a long, skinny window, it was just a small chamber of rough-hewn rock and feeble torchlight. Harry crept as quietly as he could to the nearest corner, for the first time feeling like this had been a mistake. There was nothing here, no Dark artefacts or ritual preparations, no alchemical setups or ancient runes. If Harry was discovered, there was nowhere to run or hide.
Snape helped Malfoy lower himself to the cushions, and stepped far back. "I will wake Gregory and send him over with Pepper-Up and breakfast in the morning. I wish you an easy night." With a last look at his godson, who grunted and steadily avoided eye-contact, Snape sighed and left, shutting the door behind him.
It was just Harry and Malfoy now. Harry didn't pretend to know what was going on, but he could only think of this chance as a blessing.
He pulled the Cloak off, revealing himself. "Expelliarmus!" He had the double satisfaction of seeing Malfoy jump about a foot in the air and catching his hawthorn wand before he'd even thought of drawing it.
"Potter!" Malfoy's jaw hung open, chest heaving, pulse racing. "What—how—"
"It's over, Malfoy! I know you cursed Katie Bell; I know you poisoned Ron! I know you're working on a task for Voldemort, something that will threaten all of Hogwarts. You're going to tell me everything."
Malfoy was extremely panicked, more so than Harry had ever seen him (and for the numerous times Malfoy had shown his cowardice, that was saying something.) His gaze snapped between Harry and the sky outside the slit window, and he seemed not to have heard Harry's words at all. "Oh, Merlin. You can't be here," he nearly begged, taking Harry off-guard. "You have… t-to get out. Get out now!"
"You're disarmed," Harry insisted. "There's nowhere to go, and no one here to help you out of this, Malfoy. I have questions, and you're going to answer them!"
"Potter, please. You can't..." he winced, clutching his left arm, sentence unfinished.
"That's rich. A Malfoy said the 'P' word. What lovely manners you have! Does the Death Eater starter kit have an etiquette manual, how to murder people politely?"
"D-death Eater? What are you … talking about?"
"That lovely little stain on your arm that keeps paining you. You may keep it hidden, but you're not fooling anyone. I know exactly what it is."
Draco looked briefly incredulous, and then his eyes flashed with pain again, and he looked away, gripping his arm tightly. "Y-you don't know … anything," he gritted out. "Leave."
Harry took a threatening step forward. "I know you have it! Voldemort replaced your loser father with you when he gave you this task!"
Draco briefly snarled in anger, but his eyes darted to the window again. "Listen, you idiot. I don't have the Dark Mark. You need to go. This is something … personal. Leave, p-please." He gasped out loud, left arm spasming in pain, and he swayed. "Now! Go now!"
Harry's blood pounded in his ears. If the Mark was hurting that badly, something big was about to happen. Not thinking clearly, he rushed forward and snagged Malfoy's arm.
"What are you—no! Stop!" But it was too late. In one rough motion, Harry yanked up the sleeve of Malfoy's robe and tore the shirt underneath, exposing the pale skin. He braced himself for the snake and skull and the confirmation of his suspicions.
He got a scar instead.
"What ...?"
Where there should be black, there was only red, gnarled and twisted and inflamed. Harry's eyes widened at the nasty scar, which looked only partially healed. He could see the deep gouges of teeth marks, follow the obvious patterns of canines and incisors, and perfectly imagine what the massive jaws would have looked like clamped to that white arm.
"Fuck you, Potter!" Malfoy spat, ripping his arm out of Harry's grasp with surprising strength. "You had n-no right! You had no right at all! Get out!"
Harry just stared at him, frozen. "Malfoy," he breathed. His world had shifted sideways. Everything slotted into place with terrible clarity. Why Malfoy's arm had been paining him. Why he looked so ill all the time. Why the moon very much mattered to him. Why that potion had seemed familiar ... after all, hadn't he seen Remus Lupin drink it countless times?
"You—oh Merlin. You're not a Death Eater. You're a werewolf."
Liquid silver light poured in from the narrow window; the moon had finally broken from the cloud cover. It draped like silk over Malfoy's white skin and caused him to buckle and fold. Harry jumped back and watched in horrified fascination as Malfoy whimpered and writhed, bones and muscle shifting under his skin. With what Harry guessed was his last vestiges of strength, Malfoy fought the change long enough to look up at Harry, his eyes desperate yet fierce.
They shone brilliantly gold.
"GET OUT!" Malfoy roared. It was not a human sound.
Harry turned and fled.
I am a subscriber to the whole "Draco was not a Death Eater, he was actually turned into a werewolf" theory (seriously, Google it, it's very compelling.) I was inspired to write my own story about it when I failed to find many satisfying fanfics with werewolf!Draco in them. Hope you enjoy.
Warning: sporadic updates. I am a slow writer, and a very busy woman. I do what I can. Be patient with me! Posting here from A03 because I'm looking for further feedback and a wider readership. Thank you in advance for reading.