Title: Desire as Dark as a Panther's Fur
Pairing: Harry/Draco (past Harry/Ginny)
Summary: Harry blames the book. It put words in his head; sweet twisting tempting words that made everything seem ok. That made him rationalise that which should have been challenged and condemned. He blames the book for everything. But he knows he wouldn't change anything.
Warning(s): dubious consent
Beta: the darling ebonyflames who helped me through the technical difficulties
Disclaimer: This piece of art or fiction is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros. Inc. No money is being made, no copyright or trademark infringement, or offence is intended. All characters depicted in sexual situations are above the age of consent.
A/N: This was written in response to Prompt #30 at the do_me_veela Valentine Fic Fest over on Livejournal. There are some great fics on there - go check them out. The original prompt was: Draco's a veela who has come into heat, but he doesn't have a mate to help him get through it. He's trying to hide his desperate need for sex, but in his distracted state he's not doing a terribly good job of it. Harry figures out that Draco is "up to something" and spies on him in animagus form. He sniffs out Draco's problem and takes advantage of a seemingly willing-and-desperate veela. He doesn't find out until afterward that they're now bound together as mates.
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Harry blames the book.
It put words in his head; sweet twisting tempting words that made everything seem ok. That made him rationalise that which should have been challenged and condemned.
He blames the book for everything. But he knows he wouldn't change anything.
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It starts with a dusty mirror propped up against a wall in an abandoned classroom; or rather, it starts with the reflection in the dusty mirror. Apart from the green eyes, solemn rather than spring fresh, there is nothing in the reflection that Harry Potter can link to himself. Even the tell-tale scar, now little more than a blemish, was hidden – just another dark mark in the inky fur. Harry had hoped, wished, prayed that a dog would face him when he finally completed the Transformation – or even a wolf if the fates were feeling benevolent – some tangible evidence of where he comes from and what he's lost; but as he stares at the compact, well-muscled form that gazes back at him, Harry feels the bile rise in his throat.
He is not a dog – nor a wolf – as he so desperately hoped; but a sleek panther, composed entirely of coiled power and deadly grace and even the inherent nobility of the cat – a tenuous link to his father's majestic stag – is marred by the razor sharp canine teeth that hide under his jowls.
He tries to accept – really, he does – and he takes to wandering the hallways of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, moving in and out of the shadows like ink, exploring forgotten rooms and damaged corridors in an effort to accustom himself to his form. He tries to love the gentle swish of his tail and the whisper of his paws as they pad across the stone, the deadly claws sheathed. He tries to become excited over the pinpoint precision of his vision and the superlative state of his hearing. He tries to enjoy his nocturnal excursions in his new form.
But all he finds in each room are the ghosts of the Carrow's tenure that linger in the stale air, lurking in the darkness that his new vision pierces. His presence pushes them back, but the scars of Voldemort seem to linger everywhere he wanders and though, with each door he opens, he ushers in the new era of peace that has settled over the wizarding world nothing seems to ease.
Because what he is really doing is mourning.
With each step he moves further from his past, further from his parents and their beloved friends and he begins to fear that he has left them behind in the Forest. It even feels as though he is moving further from his friends – he has yet to tell them that he has done this, tried this, because he knows what they will say. Hermione will lecture him on irresponsibility and worry will creep into her eyes, suppressing the recent joy he has been seeing. Ron will be hurt; angry that Harry has not included him in this latest adventure and jealous that Harry has yet another thing that Ron does not. And Ginny… well Ginny will make a pretty picture, with her long red hair and pretty heart shaped face, but she will look at him with that look that has haunted her since they returned in September and he will turn away, unable to bear the clenching of his stomach.
So he hasn't told them and has embraced this new journey alone, and even though he cannot understand it or even love his new form, he guards it jealously. It is his, something that belongs only to him and that he doesn't have to share with Ron and Hermione or get after Dudley has already broken it.
It is his.
And somehow that makes it easier to bear.
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It's the morning after this realisation that the book appears beside his bedside table. It is heavy; thick vellum pages, bound in ancient, butter-soft, leather that gives slightly under Harry's exploring fingertips. The pages creak and crack as he turns them, so he moves slow – terrified that he might tear one. Harry tries to ignore the fact that the words have not been printed on the page and are not made of ink because he has seen enough blood to last him a lifetime and those scratched characters and letters are in a very familiar shade of dark, dried red.
But it is not how the words were created that scares him, it is what they say. Harry wonders, time and again, if Dumbledore sent the book – death was hardly an obstacle to a man that had long ago mastered omniscience – and then he wonders why? What had Dumbledore hoped to accomplish by sending him the book? He had to have known Harry would try to follow the Marauders but Harry couldn't understand what Dumbledore was trying to teach him.
He understands and is comforted when he reads that the jaguar – and thusly the panther, for it is merely a melanistic version of the same cat – represents power, ferocity, and valour; and has the power to face fears, and confront enemies. Even Harry can see the parallel to his own life in such a creature.
There is even a paragraph discussing that a jaguar can warn of disaster, just like Harry did for many years – even when no one wanted to listen.
He understands all that, and that is fine. But there are other things, troubling things, that make him fear what he has become.
He has learned from the book that the Mayans, Incans and Aztecs believed in sacrifice and split blood rather than tears and these people would have worshipped him for what he could do. But they would have worshipped the Snake god first and, for Harry, it is too like Voldemort for his comfort.
It just isn't enough to make him give up the book though because one sentence rattles around his head like a loose Bludger and Harry doesn't know why. He doesn't know why, whenever he opens the book, he always searches for that one little line.
A person who can achieve the act of becoming half man, half panther can finally act on hidden desires, free finally of cultural restrictions and inhibitions.
Harry wonders what desires he has, what his subconscious urges are, and then wonders if he doesn't want to know – after all, he had almost enjoyed watching Amycus Carrow twist and writhe under his spell.
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It is a cold November lunchtime in the Great Hall when the world stops revolving around Harry's secrets and someone else's overtake his thoughts.
"The Ferret's awfully twitchy today," Ronald Weasley, better known to his friends and legions of fans as Ron, observes from his place at the Gryffindor table; breaking Harry's musings on his book and its pervasive words.
Though they've been best friends for over seven years, and have witness many horrific things side by side, Harry gratefully turns away from the sight of half-masticated beef sandwich rolling around Ron's mouth and the thick onion gravy dripping down his chin, and casts his gaze towards the Slytherin table. He has not paid much attention to Draco Malfoy since their return to Hogwarts in September and perhaps, Harry realises as he watches the other boy, that had been a huge mistake.
Malfoy is different.
He has changed over the months since the war ended. Gone are the razor sharp lines that made his features pointy as a child. Instead, there is a new softness to his face, as if he has been moulded out of wet clay rather than cut from stone. It makes him seem vulnerable somehow; an illusion steeled by how slight he appears when Harry compares him to the other boys in the Eighth Year, all strapping young men on the cusp of adulthood.
His hair is longer than it has ever been; brushing his shoulders and sweeping behind his ears, no longer slicked back with gel or charms. His skin is still pale, still starkly white against the black of the school robes, but not sallow or unhealthy. It is moon-touched, with the faintest taints of rose on his high cheekbones.
Yet there is something lurking underneath Malfoy's new appearance that reminds Harry of Sixth Year. His movements are small, almost birdlike in their caution, and his eyes never fix on any one thing. He isn't still, almost like something defenceless waiting on a predator.
"Oh, honestly," Hermione Granger sighs, raising her head from her Arithmancy text book. "It may have escaped your attention but I have a test after lunch."
"So?" Ron says, swallowing around his sandwich. "You'll pass."
Hermione raises an eyebrow coolly, infinitely displeased that Ron has to even articulate such a thing. She knows she will pass. "That is beside the point."
Ron shoots Harry a bewildered look, though Harry has no idea of what his best friend is attempting to say. It is something he expects her boyfriend to understand better than him. He is just Hermione's best friend now.
"Um," Ron tries – a faint note of panic entering his voice as he nervously toys with a chip – "Good luck?"
Rolling her eyes, Hermione plucks the chip from Ron's fingers and swipes it through Harry's ketchup. Harry wonders if she is picking up Ron's table manners or whether living rough for a year has relaxed her rigid stance on table manners. Either way it is nice to see her relaxed.
"Malfoy happens to take Arithmancy and this test accounts for a quarter or our NEWT marks. I wouldn't be surprised if he was nervous."
Harry glances around the Great Hall, studiously avoiding the areas where he'd seen Remus and Tonk's bodies laid out. Many Eighth Years – and a few of the Seventh Years – have their text books out, their quills scribbling furiously over well-worn parchment.
He looks back at Malfoy and his eyes narrow. Harry knows Malfoy better than to think he is worrying about a test.
"I've been studying for this since September," Hermione continues with the air of confidence that has settled over her since the War. She is still obsessive about her homework and class attendance, but tests no longer seem to faze her. "Perhaps he hasn't read through Quentin Tallbrook's theories on reverse numbers and the polarising effect on magic."
"It's the Moonsnappers," a lilting voice drifts down as Luna Lovegood settles herself beside Harry at the Gryffindor table as though belongs there. Ginny is behind her and takes her seat next to her brother, smiling at Harry briefly.
The autumn sunlight dances over her red hair, and highlights the gold flecks in her eyes. She is beautiful, but Harry feels numb looking at her and so turns back to Malfoy.
His palms itch.
"The what?" Ron asks.
"Don't talk with your mouthful," Ginny scolds her brother, digging him in ribs.
"Alright Mum."
"The Moonsnappers," Luna says again in her strange, musical voice. "They've tangled around him and he can't get out."
Hermione snorts but refrains from saying anything, for which Harry is immensely grateful. Luna – out of everyone – deserves a bit of fantasy after her time as Voldemort's prisoner.
"Moonsnappers don't exist," Ginny snaps and Harry glances back at her.
She is angry, her face pulled into a waspish expression that doesn't suit her. Her eyes flick to him and then away again quickly, as if she doesn't want to see him watching her. Harry wonders whether she is angry at him.
Luna is unfazed by her fit of pique and merely smiles, somewhat indulgently. "That's what they want you to think. It's how they lure you into their webs."
"They have webs?" Ron asks in a voice that is trying not to be tremulous. His skin is paling rather noticeably and he has set his sandwich down.
"Oh yes," Luna says, staring straight at him, "big webs of spinning silk that glow like unicorn hair."
Ron turns, almost frantically, to his girlfriend who is smiling into her books. "Hermoine?"
"Yes Ron," she hums, as though she is not listening to the conversation around her.
"Hermione," he whines – no longer a war hero, merely a boy with a terrible fear of spiders.
Hermione shakes her head, her curly hair flying everywhere. "Luna? Have you read Tallbrook?"
And just like that, the image of spiders leaves them and Luna is engaging Hermione in a spirited discussion about polarised magic and proving exactly why she was sorted into Ravenclaw.
And Ginny is watching him, worrying holes in the sleeves of her jumper as she does so.
He smiles at her, feeling his mouth force itself to take shape, and she pointedly looks away. He doesn't know any more. He doesn't know how to make it right or even if he should try.
Harry looks back to the Slytherin table, just in time to see Malfoy shy away from the friendly hand Blaise Zabini places on his shoulder and te beast that was his obsession with the other boy rears back to life in an instant and the rich flavour of his lunch turned to ashes in his mouth.
Malfoy is definitely hiding something.
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He follows Malfoy on and off for days, waiting to catch him playing whatever new game he is playing. Part of Harry hopes that it is something that will send Malfoy away from him forever – he has never liked the part of him that reacts to the Slytherin.
But another part of him desperately hopes that Malfoy isn't doing anything stupid. That he isn't going to throw away the second chance Harry begged for him to have.
The only problem is that the other boy's routine is frighteningly monotonous. He moves, almost on automatic, from the Slytherin dormitories to his lessons and meals and then back again. Occasionally, he veers off to the library, pulling dusty books off shelves and methodically making his way through his homework.
He never does anything out of the ordinary; he doesn't even leave the safety of the Slytherin Common Room after dinner. It is as though he is walking a tightrope and dare not set a foot wrong and Harry has no reason to follow him at night.
Instead, he wanders alone, pushing further into the parts of the castle that are still suffering from the ruin of war.
It is in one such corridor that the faint chinking of metal against stone catches Harry's attention. It is too soft, too high, for human ears to pick up and certainly not on the same corridor as Harry. His small ears twitch left, as Harry cocks his head, trying to identify where the noise is coming from.
His nose twitches; the faintest hint of something musty and almost sweaty dances on the night air and it titillates Harry's senses.
The sound comes again, ringing like a bell and Harry's head snaps round; following his ears as they swivel to the right.
The corridor gets darker to the right; some of the rubble still waiting to be cleared cast long shadows that twist over the stone flags. Harry's eyes, sharper in this form than they have ever been as human, fix on a tiny crack of light near the very end.
Slowly he pads forwards, following the faint chiming noise that reminds him of the wind chimes Aunt Petunia had hung on the apple tree because everyone else on Privet Drive had them in the garden. His tail softly swishes from side to side as he slinks down the corridor.
He can feel his muscles tensing, shifting involuntarily as though he is stalking some sweet prey – even though Harry is only following a sound that has caught his attention.
Just short of the open door he stops, and lowers his head, his muzzle wrinkling and his tongue lolling out. The pungent smell of used socks and stale mint hits the roof of his mouth like a burst of ozone.
His body shudders; a rippling warmth rolling through him like a surge of electricity, pushing his heart into overdrive. Breathing out a purr, Harry rolls his head, and shifts his shoulders before stalking through the open door.
Harry's eagle sharp eyes follow the moonlight as it glimmers over the finely wrought silver chains and pearlescent skin of Draco Malfoy's back, highlighting the beads of sweat that were rolling down the dip in his spine like dew drops.
Malfoy's face, pressed against the stone and half hidden by his angel-fine hair, is twisted into a desperate expression somewhere between rapture and wretchedness. His eyes are screwed shut and his mouth is open, softly panting. His body is rocking gently, up and down, rolling like the ocean against the wall, straining against the bonds that hold him tight.
Harry prowls forward, rumbling with pleasure as the scent that calls to him so very strongly drips off Malfoy's skin like warm butter. He snuffles his nose into the soft cotton of Malfoy's blue-striped pyjama bottoms and shudders as Malfoy moaned sweetly.
Saliva pools in his mouth and heat curls in his belly as the sound and scent push him and pull him and twist him up. He wants to roll on the floor, rub his fur against the cold unyielding stone. He wants to sink his fangs through flesh, all the way until it hits bone. He wants blood.
He wants heat; the warm musky heat of another body and the ecstasy that trips along with that warmth.
The shuddering grows stronger, ripping through him like an earthquake powering through concrete, until he shakes off his skin and is suddenly a man, with his face pressed tight against the back of another boy's firm thighs.
He waits, one beat and then the next, for the panic to surge but it never comes and all he smells is catnip and valerian. Words roll around his head, words that aren't his but that he knows and they call to something deep inside him. They roll like a Dionysian chant, powerful and surging, encouraging Harry to do and be and feel.
Above all that, he hears permission. A blessing for something he didn't even know he wanted.
The arch of Malfoy's body is too tempting to ignore and Harry slowly climbs to his feet, desire driving him. Compelling him to push himself tight up against Malfoy.
"Please."
It is a whisper, little more than a breath on the air, but Harry hears it.
"Please what?" he growls, pressing Malfoy into the wall, revelling in his power over the other boy.
Malfoy pushes back; small jerky movements that make Harry's rapidly filling cock twitch with excitement. He has never done this before but his body knows what to do. It knows how to push and pull and twist and rock with Malfoy, making best use of the way the other boy is already writhing. It knows how to chase what it wants.
"Touch me," Malfoy begs, his voice tight. His fingers flex against the wall, scrabbling for purchase, straining against the bonds that hold him tight.
Harry worms a leg between Malfoy's thighs, even though they are already spreading; opening like a flower under the sun. His hands trail up, skimming over the soft trousers and up over Malfoy's heaving ribs, tucking under his arms and curving over his shoulders. Pinning Malfoy.
The other boy struggles for a second, thrashing wildly, but Harry holds him, gritting his teeth as his cock is rubbed over and over and Harry wonders if he can hold on against the pleasure. Then suddenly, just before it all becomes too much, the fight leaves him and Malfoy sags becoming boneless and pliant in Harry's arms.
Harry rocks into him gently, panting against Malfoy's damp neck, holding him in place against the wall.
"Please," Malfoy breathes brokenly into the wall. "I need it."
"Need what?" Harry murmurs, letting his hands trail back down Malfoy's front, brushing over taunt nipples and gently defined muscle.
Malfoy groans, trying to push back. But Harry keeps him pinned, proving his mastery and presses an open mouthed kiss to Malfoy's neck. The skin is salty and faintly sweet and Harry drags his tongue roughly over the skin, lapping up more and more of the rich nectar.
"Need what Malfoy?" he asks, his lips so close to Malfoy's ear that they brush over the dainty whorls. Malfoy moans.
"Draco," he purrs, his fingers tracing little patterns. "What do you need?"
He knows the answer. He can feel it in his bones. Malfoy needs sex, his body is starved for it and Harry wonders who cursed him. Who was it that thought that turning Malfoy into a wanton mess of a wizard, would be amusing?
Part of Harry wants to hate them for doing this to the other boy but another part, a darker part, really wants to thank them. Because he wants Malfoy, he really wants Malfoy, under and around him and making more of those breathy little sounds that are making Harry's blood boil. He's always wanted Malfoy somehow, it's why they've revolved around each other for so long, dancing like magnets pushing and pulling.
Now, there are words in his head that tell him he can have this and Malfoy certainly isn't saying no.
He shucks his own clothes quickly, with no finesse, leaving them in a crumpled heap at his feet. He takes his time though with Malfoy's bottoms because he wants to savour the moment, he lets his hands linger as they follow the elastic waist-band down over his lean legs, feeling the downy hair underneath his fingertips. The moment the bottoms are off, he stands, slowly, his nose skimming along the porcelain skin as he drinks in every inch of Malfoy's form.
He is beautiful; an exquisite thing trapped somewhere between the hard, lean lines of a man and the gentle grace of a woman. His skin is as smooth as it looks and soft, silken even, and Harry could just stand there stroking over Malfoy's hip bones for the rest of his life. But Malfoy is whimpering and trembling with need and it makes Harry want him so very much.
"Please, please, I need it."
He presses forward, skin on skin for the first time – with anyone – and Harry groans. His cock is pressed into the tight valley between Malfoy's buttocks and he knows that he needs to push further, harder, to seek out that hidden part of Malfoy that no-one should ever see.
Malfoy is still panting, still whining, into the wall and Harry hasn't even thought to recognise that he has yet to open his eyes, yet to react in any way to the body behind him. He moans and arches into each touch and his eyelashes flutter like butterfly wings against his cheek. But his eyes never open and he has yet to say anything other than beg for release. He doesn't even object when a slicked finger worms into him, he merely rocks back into it like he's been waiting for it all his life.
Harry doesn't care though, he can't see anything beyond his own wants and what he wants is to be inside of Malfoy.
He almost screams as he pushes past the guardian ring of muscle at Malfoy's entrance and is enveloped by the crushing fire of Malfoy's body. He is so warm, so tight, that Harry feels like he is going to explode. He jerks forward, unable to hold himself back and wrenches a sharp cry out of Malfoy's throat. Harry wonders whether, being balls deep inside the other boy, he should start referring to him as Draco.
Draco, and the name feels strange in Harry's head even though he has spoken it before, is jerking and his mouth is open in a silent scream. Tears leak from the corner of his eyes but Harry can't stop. He has to keep moving and pushing towards that peak.
His hands take a bruising grip on Draco's hip and he nudges his way round to find Draco's mouth, plunging his tongue inside and pillaging the warm, wet cavern. Draco kisses like he flies, fast and furious but with finesse and a little natural flair. Harry's fingers tighten and he knows that the tips will be white from all the pressure he is exerting.
They try to find a rhythm, or at least, Harry tries to guide them towards one, but it is futile. There is too much need and want for anything other than the almost violent way they crash together. Draco's fingers dig into the cracks between the giant stone blocks, as though he is grounding himself and Harry pushes him up, relying on Draco to have the good sense to hang on. He levers one of Draco's legs up and bends it back over his thigh and Draco screams.
Harry grins ferally and rocks harder, chasing the tightening heat that is blooming deep inside of him. He bites at Draco's lips, not letting him retreat from a kiss for very long, and tastes the sweat that has gathered on Draco's upper lip.
Draco's channel is spasming around his cock and he's fairly vibrating now, pushing back into Harry like he's trying to hurt himself – or Harry – using his fingers to push and pull and his chains are clinking like wind-chimes in a storm. Harry wonders whether he wants a hand around his cock, it's hard and heavy with blood, oozing a steady stream of precum that glistens on the wall. But instead, he winds his fingers through Draco's and hangs on as Draco starts to fall apart around him.
"That's it," he gasps. "Come on, Draco."
Draco stiffens suddenly, his eyes flying open as he reaches his peak. His come splashes across the wall and his fingers clench around Harry's and it is that, that desperate grip, that sends Harry plummeting into the depths of his own orgasm.
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It takes him three days to realise that he hasn't seen Malfoy since that night. He hasn't been at lunch or in lessons and Harry is only noticing because Hermione mentions the Arithmancy test and that Draco cannot have done that badly – he'd come second in the class. She'd come first, naturally, but Harry isn't listening. He is looking for Draco.
When he doesn't find him, he looks for the next best thing – Zabini and Parkinson. Whilst he was following Draco, when Draco had company, it was inevitably Harry's two least favourite Slytherins. He may dislike Parkinson because she tried to hand him over to Voldemort, but it is Zabini's lazy insouciance and apathy towards the horrors that really makes Harry angry.
They are talking as they walk towards the exit of the Great Hall, presumably off to their next lesson, and their faces are drawn with worry.
Harry gets as close as he can without them noticing and strains to hear what they are saying. Their voices are pitched low and Harry knows they are talking about Draco.
"But why won't he?" Parkinson asks, her voice a nasal whine.
Zabini's jaw clenches and a little muscle in his temple twitches and Harry wonders how many times they've had this conversation. "He hopes he'll come back. That if he waits long enough, he'll come back."
"I don't like it."
"You don't have to. That's the way it is."
Parkinson's face screws up and Harry wonders if she is going to cry. "He can't have a Mate."
"Are you saying that no one would want Draco that much?" Zabini asks, his voice silky. "Have you looked at him recently? He's beautiful."
"No," Parkinson says, hissing a little like a cat and swaying closer to the tall boy. "I'm saying that no one wants him with that much desperation. I'm saying that I doubt there is anyone in Hogwarts that has Draco Malfoy as their deepest desire and even if there was, they wouldn't have the strength to take him."
Zabini snorted, "Except, he was trussed up like a fatted calf ready to be spitted."
"That's vulgar."
Zabini raises a shoulder in a lazy shrug, "That's what happened. Someone found Draco, overpowered him and fucked him against the wall before leaving him." His hand clenches around his bag strap and his shoulders tense. "At least they had the decency to take off his chains so that he could Pine away without being bound to the wall.
"If I ever find out who did this," Parkinson vows, "I'm going to rip their balls off and stuff them down their throat.
"Now who's being vulgar? And no, you wouldn't. Draco would kill you for trying."
There is something morose in his tone and Harry isn't the only one to notice. "Will he be ok?"
Zabini heaves a sigh and for a moment, Harry thinks he cares. "If the bastard that calls himself his Mate goes back to him. Yeah, he might."
Harry stops listening then as the meaning of their words crash down on him.
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When Harry finally arrives at their room, Draco is curled in the exact spot Harry left him three days ago, pining away for a Mate he does not know, and Harry blames the book. He blames the book as Malfoy's tears hit the stone floor with soft splashes and bursts of salt. He blames the book when he sees Malfoy's wings, still streaked with blood from where they've burst through. They are bent and bedraggled and pathetic. He blames the book for Draco's gaunt looks and his unhealthy pallor and the faint shivers that are wracking his body. He blames the book and he hates whoever wrote
But it doesn't stop him from following it's advice and padding forwards, his paws slipping easily over the stone, towards the broken boy and curling his powerful body around him. Just because he wants.
Malfoy stiffens for a moment, before sighing and leaning back, his fingers weaving through the thick black fur. Harry's body rumbles with a purr and his tail twists itself around Draco's
"I knew you'd come back."