Title: Honey from the Lion

Beta(s): SassenachStarbuck and Verity Grahams

A/N: This is a muggle AU; there will be heavy amounts of taxidermy, the Drarry will be slow-burn, James and Lily Potter are alive, and everything else will be explained later on; thank you!

June 3rd, 2008

My father had first inaugurated me into the unpalatable art of taxidermy when my Chinchilla, Mantis, drowned in his water bowl. I had been distraught by his insouciance as he forced me to watch him decorticate and skin him free of his pelage, mould his flesh against wood wool, and disregard his body to the wolves when he finally got the mould he approved of. Mantis was set to rest on my bedside table, forever in an eternal sleep.

Yet, it had been strange, the ballooning compulsion to watch my Father dissect woodland voles and possums, shoot down magpies, and construct taxidermy animals. I found myself beguiled by the craft of arranging skin, giving the dead the gift of uncanny, faux beauty. It wasn't long before I decided to seek out taxidermy schools and as my profession began, be esteemed as one of the youngest pet taxidermists.

Working with lamented pets was a dreary process, the owners mostly in melancholy, saturnine blues, wanting their once friend to be just as they were before. Some would gripe about the expensive price, some are nettled by the extensive wait that could last for days on end, and others are nescient of the putrefaction cycle. But what kept me from inquiring the prospect of better pay was the lachrymose pulchritude of the mounts. Animals that were pushing up daisies were given the chance to be a stagnant atrocity with zoetic eyes, a form of honour that people are keen to avoid.

The diurnal course of my days was dedicated to stuffing mounts and skinning the pelts from cherished pets, noting the anatomical structures and key feature placements, washing grotty skin, and airbrushing the finer details on a creature's coat. It was rather pathetic to be so deeply enamoured with your work, hone in on every single detail, remain lethargic even through three cups of muddy brew. But, I enjoyed the fatigue, the ambition to toil to eminence, no matter how many sacrifices I made. I was to be what my Father had become.

I had been called on Wednesday by a client whose golden retriever was to be put down that day. His voice was deep but narcoleptic, the benumbed lift of his tongue slurred in his cough syrup stupor. He was asking me what he must do to hinder the inevitable decomposition of his flaxen friend and when I answered, he laughed a sober man's laugh. And if I wasn't the one with mammals in his fridge, I would have joined him.

The package he carried as he walked into my studio was bigger than his and my torso combined, a rain jacket secured around his waist, his denim button-up matched with a pair of ashen-coloured jeans. I wouldn't say he was attractive, but he wasn't unsightly either. He was fair to middling, vanilla, the pencil I'd consign to oblivion. He was my client, and I respected that.

Dark, jet-black hair was matted to his forehead, glasses dotted with liquid sunshine, the faint green colour of his eyes barely recognizable. He smiled hesitantly, stumbling over the birdlime cement floor, admiring the mounts on the alabaster wall. It's then I recognized him. "Oh," I didn't bother catching his eye, lowering my head to peruse the registered appointments, "If it isn't Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Saves."

"The one," he placed his packaged, dead dog on the counter, and I grimaced as he clutched the paper with his spindly digits, "and only."

"Do you usually ask your customers to put their dead animals in their fridge, Malfoy?" He tore at the paper with a caustic chuckle, the canine's golden tail spilt over the counter, and Potter ran his fingers through the xanthous fur as it swung back and forth. "My roommate's girlfriend went up in hysterics about how unhygienic it is, no thanks to you, I assume."

"You asked me what you needed to do, and I told you. Don't blame me, Potter." His eyes narrowed, and I quirked a snide smile towards his general direction. "Anyway," I started, taking the retriever into my gloved hands, "Does the dog have a name?"

Potter crooned, it was a sweet sound. "If I had my way, he would have been named Fido, but he only responded to Jake."

"Fido? What a stupid name. Of course, you'd think that is a good name, wouldn't you, Potter?" The canine's pelt was smooth and pristine; it reminded me of Mantis. "What kind of position would you prefer him to be in?"

"He usually slept, so, probably sleeping," he answered after a short moment, his emerald eyes never leaving mine. I shuddered as my fingertips graze the hand that had yet to leave the amber weald, the glove doing nought to mask his satin skin.

I sucked in a deep breath and pulled my arms to my stomach; I was warm. "Whatever, Potter. How long had you had him?"

"Not long, he was abandoned by his previous owners, but I loved him despite only having him for a few weeks." He looked at the ferret mount on the counter, "Of course, Malfoy. Your fetish for ferrets never did end in Hogwarts, did it?"

I snarled. "Still can't go one day without saving someone can you, Potter?"

"At least I never had a ferret down my pants," he retorted venomously, and I glowered at him. It had been years since I had thought about him, but I detested him just the same as I did the night of graduation, the same day he instigated the ingenious idea to shove a ferret down my slacks.

"It's a client's pet, Potter. I don't have a fetish."

"You sure enjoyed it clawing at your crotch," Potter smirked, and rested his elbows on the glass counter, "You were screaming the whole time."

I shoved him off the counter, and he smacked his jaw with his thumb. I pointed to the red sign next to me, "Do not rest on the glass, Potter."

I grabbed the retriever and started to the backroom. I could feel Potter's breathy laugh on the back of my neck even as I was behind the wall, "you didn't deny that you enjoyed it, Malfoy!"

"I will contact you as soon as he's mounted, Potter!" I said as I pulled on a new pair of rubber gloves.

"Don't you ignore me, Malfoy!" he yelled.

I didn't answer.