A Handsome Man Saved Me From The Monsters

Warnings: Violence, Bloody Scenes, sort of Pre-Slash (HPDM), Cursing

A/N: This is a story that does not dwell into the past. There will be no details about how Voldemort was defeated or so on. It's just about the present day, about how Harry the Auror and Draco the Hermit finally meet again. I just have a thing for stories with those two boys confined in a small place together.

This has three chapters in total and all of them are complete and beta'd, so I shall post them quite soon.

Oh, and the title from the story comes from the TV-show Angel. "A handsome man saved me from the monsters" was the first thing a character called Fred said to the vampire Angel. Love the show to bits and pieces.

Beta'd by Ms. Camille aka purplerawr. Thank you again for being so fast and cheering!

Chapter 1: Terrors of the Woods

"Thomas, where are you?"

Harry swore under his breath, stumbling over a set of thick, gnarled roots that lay in the middle of the moss and ferns. The whole forest was a bloody jungle, full of impenetrable shrubbery and clusters of trees, and Harry hated it already – it was impossible to see clearly in the dark, even with a subtle Lumos. His robes looked like a wild cat had attacked him and there were stinging scratches on his face, not to mention his poor boots that had gradually been filled with so much mud and water Harry could hear the nasty squashing every time he moved.

And now his partner had gone missing. A few hours back, Thomas had caught whiff of a feral werewolf gathering and dragged them both out to the woods to check the situation, and now the newly trained Auror was traipsing somewhere alone, probably too excited to wait for the careful assessment Harry preferred.

Even I wasn't that reckless when I first started. True, Harry had finished his Auror training merely two years before Thomas, but he was certain his first partner didn't have to fear that he would lose him, Harry, in the woods.

Harry's robe got caught in a viciously thorny bush and he cursed again, impatiently wriggling himself free. I'm going to strangle that rookie once I see him. He's too enthusiastic for his own good.

"Thomas! Get your arse back here this instant!"

When the rustling of leaves was his only answer, Harry let out an annoyed huff of breath and prepared to do a locating spell to find his juvenile partner. A sharp howl nearby, however, made him halt.

"Nox," he quickly whispered and darkness fell around him like someone had thrown a blanket over his eyes. Holding his breath, crouched on the ground, Harry listened. The first trickle of uneasiness and fear for Thomas' safety made his spine tingle as the second howl pierced the otherwise deathly silent air.

Harry could have recognized the sound a werewolf from miles away.

Shite. Where is that boy? We need to get out of the forest or at least get some reinforcements.

Quietly murmuring the spell under his breath, Harry started to move as stealthily as he could, following the persistent tug of the locating spell. Yet another howl, savage and rough, rang out and Harry clutched his wand tighter in his hand, painfully aware of the werewolves' better sense of smell, hearing and sight even in the darkness and even in their human form.

The tug got more relentless, indicating that Thomas would be somewhere very near. "Thomas?" Harry murmured and warily poked his way through an exceptionally thick shrub. "Thomas, are you -"

The coppery scent of blood that attacked his nose made him freeze to the spot. Slowly, Harry looked down and found his partner on the ground, barely illuminated by the weak light of the stars. The younger Auror was sprawled across a plush collection of ferns and his head was in a wrong angle, bent to the side. Blood dripped from a gash near his hairline, the red liquid falling into his lifeless eyes. There was no question about whether he was dead or not.

Harry fought the urge to throw up. He covered his mouth with his hand and looked away for a second, trying to get his fluttering feelings under the rein. Hot flush of guilt and dismay made him ball his hands into fists – he was Thomas' senior partner, he should have looked after him better. He should have never left him alone at all.

Harry reached a hand and closed Thomas' eyes, taking a deep breath to calm himself down. The air, however, was not as fresh as he could've hoped for; it was heavy and nauseating, clinging to his tongue like a thick layer of grime.

Oh, Merlin.

A new round of howling made him snap back to focus. He crouched protectively over the body of his partner, squinting in the darkness. It was obvious something strong had killed Thomas – a werewolf, most probably.

I need to get us out of here.

There was a vacuum of certain kind of magic in the forest that prevented Disapparating – they had arrived by brooms that were too far away now-, so Harry started patting his pockets to find the emergency Portkey. His fingers curled around the silver brooch he found and he grabbed Thomas' limp arm with his other hand, starting to push out his magic to activate the Portkey -

A snap of a twig was the only warning Harry received before something large and brutal slammed into him like a huge bag of bricks. He was sent careening straight into the nearest tree and the fierce impact knocked the very breath out of him while sharp spasms of blinding pain flooded his head and back that had been smacked against the unyielding trunk. But even in his half-conscious state, Harry knew he was in grave danger and stumbled to his feet, dazed and disoriented to the point of nearly keeling over again. By some miracle, his wand was still in his hand and, rather shakily, he aimed it at the shadowy figure growling at him.

"Diffindo!" he weakly cried out and the figure, a large wolfish man, fell back with a startled bark, vanishing into the undergrowth as if the moss had swallowed him whole. Harry blinked rapidly, staggering on his feet as he strained to regain his senses and track down the rapid, wispy movements that made the bushes around him crackle and shake. Feeling desperate, he blindly shot another spell towards the shrubs and there was a pained yelp and a crash as something big went down.

Harry attempted to reach Thomas again, throwing himself to the ground with his arms spread out. His fingers merely brushed against the cool silver of the Portkey before he was harshly yanked away, but the small touch of magic was enough for Thomas to disappear in a swirl of colours. Not enough for Harry himself to flee to safety, however.

At least they can't do anything to him anymore.

"Wand, take the wand!" someone shouted and Harry whirled around, his heart wildly thumping in his heart – he knew he was completely surrounded by a pack of werewolves who, despite their human form, were lethal and way stronger than him. But Harry wasn't going down without a fight, oh no.

Shaking his head clear, he transformed a broken twig into a silver arrow and duplicated it in a flash. In a way, Harry regretted that he had Portkeyed Thomas away, since the younger man had been armed with the usual anti-werewolf package Aurors carried around, whereas Harry had left the spikes of silver and other useful items into his office. Transformed silver was not as effective as the real thing, but Harry learned it worked well enough as he sent an array of the transfigured twigs into the twilight and multiple howls of agony echoed in the forest.

But the werewolves were fast, faster and so much stronger than him, and they knew the territory. Harry lost the advantages of his experience as an Auror and his magical strength as he repeatedly faltered in his steps, stumbling on the uneven ground. It was impossible for him to watch every direction and soon enough, someone sneaked up on him from behind and an arm wrapped itself around his throat, chocking. Harry gasped, wriggling furiously, and viciously jabbed his elbow into the soft flesh behind him.

He was released and he attempted to spun around, raising his wand high, but a hand shot out from nowhere and grabbed his arm, twisting it with such viciousness Harry heard the dry crack of a bone. He cried out from the sudden pain and the wand fell from his lax grip.

No!

His feet were kicked from under him and he crashed to the ground like a rag doll, landing on his aching belly. A heavy weight settled on top of him, a weight that relentlessly pressed him against the moss and ferns. Harry struggled weakly, his broken hand hurting like a bitch from where it was bent under him, but when the weight became so overbearing he could barely get enough air into his lungs to keep consciousness, he unwillingly halted, panting.

"And so falls the great Harry Potter," a rough voice whispered into his ear and Harry shivered. He knew that voice.

"Greyback."

The werewolf chuckled. "The one and only, Potter."

Harry felt a hot surge of hatred that made him grit his teeth together. Fenrir Greyback was one of the few remaining Death Eaters that had not been caught after Voldemort had been killed, and the werewolf with his feral pack of followers was responsible for several, bloody acts.

"You scumbag," he spat out, craning his neck to see Fenrir, who was, apparently, sitting on his back. He got a glimpse of grey, matted hair, yellow eyes and sharp teeth, and shuddered. The werewolf reeked of sweat, blood and dirt. "Did you kill Thomas?"

"You sweet little partner? I left him for one of my boys." Fenrir leaned closer, his foul breath tickling Harry's ear in a mockery of lovers' intimacy. "He was so easy to kill, so young and tender."

Harry snarled, straining under the werewolf. His breath came in short, painful gasps that each sent spikes of agony throughout his body. "You shut your mouth about him, you -"

Fenrir laughed. "Or you'll do what? Spat at me?" He snatched Harry's injured arm and gave it a squeeze that made Harry nearly choke on his tongue as he clenched his jaws to keep himself from screaming. "You're nothing now, little Potter. Nothing." He let go of Harry's arm and the weight shifted on top of him a little, as if Greyback was looking around. "Who has his wand? Orion? Good. Break it in two."

Harry's eyes flew large and he all but stopped breathing. His wand. Before he could say anything, he heard the telltale crack of wood, and a backlash of power hit his body like a wave of electricity. Then there was a feeling of hollow numbness, like something was missing from his body – as if he had lost a limb.

He stared at the green moss his face was pressed against, shocked beyond being able to form coherent thoughts.

The werewolves laughed jeeringly around him, barking and yapping. Harry couldn't find the will inside him to fight as Fenrir yanked him up and slung over his shoulder, still trying to cope with the sudden loss of his wand.

It had been three days.

Or had it?

Harry wasn't that sure. He must've hit his head pretty bad during the fight and he found himself slipping in and out of consciousness – sometimes, it was night when he was awake, but he had seen the sun at least once.

Feeling restless, Harry got up and padded across the small cage he inhabited, wincing as his broken and now grotesquely swollen hand brushed against the wooden bars when he moved. With his healthy hand, he grabbed the bars to keep himself from swaying – his muscles were stiff as hell and he had received very little food and water during his short captivity, making him feel weak and light-headed.

The wood was rough under his hand and he trailed his fingers along the multiple bars. They may have looked fragile, but Harry had tried and tried breaking them with every ounce of strength he had left, to no avail. He couldn't help but wonder whether the cage had been built to contain a werewolf; maybe someone from Fenrir's pack had been exceptionally violent and had had to be restrained.

Pressing his face against the bars, Harry peered out from his small prison. The cage was at the outskirts of Fenrir's camp and it had the perfect view over the small, trampled meadow and the massive crags with caves on the other side, the thick forest on the other. The dark and damp-looking caves Harry knew were used by the werewolves to sleep.

The meadow itself was littered with fireplaces, small rounded stones to serve as benches and some sort of wooden racks to hold meat. Harry tried his best to avoid looking at the nearest red, bloody thing that seemed to be a skinned wild boar, waiting to be roasted or eaten as it was.

Harry shuddered. He had seen some of the werewolves consuming raw meat, their sharp teeth cutting into the squishy flesh enthusiastically enough for the blood to drip down their chins. Not a very attractive sight whatsoever.

Someone let out a high-pitched yap nearby in the woods and Harry cocked his head, listening. The pack had been gone for a couple of hours now, presumably hunting, and Harry had been blissfully alone. The worst of the considerably large pack was Fenrir, of course, with his obnoxious attitude and lust for killing, but Harry detested each and everyone of the wolves.

He had nothing against werewolves in general – Remus, for example, was one of the most gentle persons Harry knew -, but Fenrir's pack was full of bloodthirsty men that had the sickening stench of old blood covering them at all times. They were feral, having completely embraced the deathly nature of their inner wolf, and they enjoyed slaughter and carnage as much as Remus enjoyed reading and studying magic.

No, the wolves here bore no resemblance to Remus. They were merely savage beasts that cast a dark shadow over every werewolf out there, struggling to accept themselves. And they had killed Thomas, who had done nothing to them – he had just been in the wrong place in the wrong time.

"Hey there, pup. Finally awake again, I see."

Harry startled, whirling around so fast he nearly lost his shaky footing and had to grab the bars for support. Face burning, he straightened to see Fenrir leaning against the cage with a leery grin that showed off his sharp teeth. Harry felt a shiver of disgust running down his spine.

"Are you going to let me out already?" he rasped out, wincing from the pain in his throat. "They're looking for me, you know, and it's only a matter of time when they find this place -"

Fenrir threw his head back and laughed. It wasn't a pleasant sound; it was grating and rough, like sandpaper. "This place hasn't been found for years, pup, and it's not going to be found now, either." A splash of yellow as he grinned again. "Even though your people would walk the woods in search of their lost hero, this camp is so deep within the forest they would never find it."

As the werewolf leaned closer, Harry took a step back, attempting to escape the smell of stale blood. "Then what are you going to do with me?" he demanded, defiantly glaring at Fenrir as if to prove both the werewolf and himself that he was not afraid.

If possible, Fenrir's grin spread even wider. "Haven't you noticed? It's full moon tonight. You know what happens during full moon, don't you?" The werewolf sucked in a pleased-sounding breath. "We get hungry, little Potter. And luckily for us, we're going to have a feast tonight."

Harry stared. "You wouldn't -"

"Oh yes, I definitely would, pup. I mean, here we have the sweet Golden Boy on a silver platter, right in our hands." Inhumanely fast, Fenrir's hand shot out from between the gap in the bars and Harry was unceremoniously yanked closer. The werewolf's breath was hot against Harry's cheek and he struggled, whimpering as his broken hand smashed against the bars. "We all yearn for a taste, you know. I bet there is nothing left of you once the sun rises again."

With a choked cry, Harry jerked himself free and quickly backed up as much as the cage allowed him to. Nursing his seriously hurting hand against his chest, he sent a withering glare towards Fenrir. "Over my dead body," he spat out without thinking and Fenrir laughed again.

"Exactly, pup, exactly."

Finally.

Feeling elated, Draco crouched down and picked up the small plant from the ground.

I thought I'd never find this bloody thing.

Slipping the fluxweed into the small pouch dangling from his belt, Draco knew he should be grateful that he had found the extremely rare plant from his very own home forest. A client had ordered a batch of Polyjuice Potion that required fluxweed that had been collected during full moon – if he had had to order the plant from somewhere, it would have cost him a pretty Knut.

The abundance of rare plants needed for potions in the forest was one of the reasons Draco had moved into the middle of the woods to run his business. The other reason was the silence and the absolute solitude the forest offered; after the war, the name of a Malfoy was held in high regard no more. Draco himself had been acquitted of all charges since he had been forced to become a Death Eater and had not killed anyone, but he still had come in contact with harassment and threats.

Draco didn't really mind being a hermit. After all, with his parents long dead and childhood friends either in Azkaban or otherwise perished, he had no-one out there anymore. No-one he missed or who would miss him. In addition, the Ministry had seized most of the Malfoy fortune, including the Manor. Making potions, often quite complex and dangerous in nature, and selling them to certain clients and the black market in general by owl mail provided Draco both something to do with his life and the money he needed for food.

He was alone most of the time, leaving his cottage only for trips to the nearest town for everyday supplies, but Draco felt he really needed no-one. He was a solitude creature, always had been.

Draco inhaled deeply, the fresh air cooled by the night making him feel content and whole in the inside. A lingering howl in the distance didn't startle him; he knew there were werewolves in the forest, but they had made an unvoiced deal – they never bothered him and he never bothered them.

It's not like I'll ever even run into them.

Something came barrelling from the darkness then, all the sudden, promptly knocking Draco down. The bewildered blonde lay on his back on the ground, dazed, as that something fell heavily on him. What in the name of -

"Please," came a wheeze, rough and laboured, and Draco froze. With swift movements, he firmly grabbed the person who had collided with him and lifted them both to their feet.

"Lumous," Draco whispered.

In the magical light, he stared at the man he held up. He was half-naked, wearing only a pair of battered, black trousers, and covered in blood and dirt. Scratches and bruises covered his grimy body, as if he had rolled around in heap of mud and razors, but the most prominent damage on him were the four deep gashes across his face, running in a slanted manner from his left temple to the right corner of his mouth. The cuts had missed the eyes just barely, the eyes that seemed somehow... familiar.

Draco's own eyes widened. "Potter?"

Weak hands fluttered against his chest, digging into his robes. "Help me," Potter whispered with a broken voice, seemingly not even recognizing Draco. "Please, help me."

"What the bloody hell is going on here -"

A sharp bark interrupted Draco and he jumped slightly, looking over his shoulder just as Potter let out a terrified squeak. A massive wolf stood just behind him, its yellow eyes threateningly gleaming as it took another silent step closer. From the wolf's shaggy, grey mane, Draco knew it was Greyback – he had seen the werewolf plenty of times during the short war, and he had despised the foul half-man from the start.

So it's his pack that's been running around in this forest. I should have known.

There was quiet padding, cracks of twigs, and numerous wolves stepped forward from the shadows, circling them. Draco tracked their moments warily. "What do you want?"

Greyback barked again and pulled his lips back in a wolf-like smile, his sharp canines showing. He pointed towards Potter with his muzzle, letting out a commanding growl. Potter whimpered, his eyes wide with terror as he tried to burrow deeper into Draco's robes.

Draco looked at the mass of wolves surrounding them, all of them snarling and grimacing, ready to pounce and maim. Then he looked at Potter, or rather, the trembling shadow of him.

Greyback growled again, and Draco knew it was only a matter of time when the werewolf would attack both of them. Attempting to be both gentle and firm, he carefully disentangled Potter's bruised hands from his robes and averted his eyes to avoid looking at the horrified look on Potter's mangled face. "I'm sorry, Potter, but I'm not going to risk my life to save yours."

But despite his fierce efforts, Draco couldn't resist glancing at Potter as Greyback pounced on him. Raw, naked fear and disbelief was all over Potter's face, but he didn't say anything, even as Fenrir closed his jaws around his upper arm. Potter merely stared, his eyes dark and dead.

His wand limp by his side, Draco watched as Fenrir dragged Potter away, kicking and screaming. The rest of the wolves quickly followed, yapping excitedly as they went, and then silence fell again, thick and forbidding.

Draco stood stock still for a moment, staring after the wolves, then made a sharp whirl around and stalked back to his cottage. Mechanically, he went through every cabinet and cupboard and collected every piece of silver he had in hand, then transfigured them into sharp objects such as knives and stakes. His lips tightly pursed, he packed everything into a small bag that he slung over his shoulder.

The haunting image of Potter's eyes never left his mind, and Draco swallowed.

He better appreciate this or I'll throw him right back out.

Draco knew the way to the wolves' camp. He had stumbled on it once, by accident, and hastily retreated before he had been noticed. He had never cared much for werewolves' company.

Carefully parting a wall of shrubs, Draco peeked into the open area behind it. He had used a complex spell to mask his scent, so he knew he wouldn't be tracked down by his smell – not that the wolves would actually notice him, the way they were gathered into the middle of the field, yapping, barking and howling, as if they were laughing.

An anguished scream pierced the air, a human scream full of pain.

Potter.

Sure enough, as Draco squinted to see better, slowly advancing, he saw a stumbling figure among the wolves. Potter kept trying to run, desperately twisting around, but each time, a wolf leapt on him, biting and scratching in a casual manner.

They're playing with him, Draco realized with a sick feeling in his stomach, just as another wolf pounced and Potter went down in a tumble of limbs. Didn't their mothers teach them not to play with their food?

His mind set in grim determination, Draco reached into his bag and pulled out a long, silvery knife. Aiming carefully, he hurled it through the air. A surprised yap later, a smaller wolf at the sidelines collapsed. None of the other wolves paid attention, so focused they were on Potter, just as Draco had thought they would be. With a satisfied twist of his lips, he continued taking out the wolves that were low in the rank, thus left outside the main circle around Potter.

The werewolves weren't blind, however, and after four smaller wolves lay on the ground, twitching, Greyback let out a sudden howl and the rest of the wolves froze. Suddenly, Draco felt the weight of dozens of yellow eyes trained on him.

He crooked a smirk. "A nice party you have here. It's quite unfortunate I'm going to have to interrupt this lovely occasion, but I really wouldn't like you to kill Potter."

Greyback growled, a low sound that vibrated even inside Draco's chest, and bared his teeth, long, white and slick with saliva. The werewolf looked like he was prepared to order his pack to attack, so Draco did his best to beat him to it. Throwing a cluster of small silvery objects into the air, he shouted out a spell and the objects violently exploded into hundreds of tiny pieces.

The werewolves threw themselves away from the range of the deathly shower of silver, just as Draco had planned, creating disorganized chaos not even Greyback's furious barking didn't help to calm down. Swooping in, Draco quickly snatched Potter from the ground, cast a hasty charm on him to make him weigh practically nothing, and ran.

He ran as if he had the hell hounds on his heels – and judging by the sounds, the wolves had realized their dinner had been stolen and were in infuriated pursuit. Draco threw volleys of curses over his shoulder as he ran, clutching Potter in his arms as hard as he could possibly squeeze him.

Never mind his injuries, it would be less than amusing if I dropped him now.

Something attempted to nip at Draco at his ankle and he cast a hasty Reducto, sending the pursuer back with a sharp yip. Shadowy forms were everywhere at his sides, jumping through bushes and leaping over fallen trees, all gleaming yellow eyes and snapping jaws. Draco's lungs felt as if they were in fire and he was scratched from head to toe by the merciless branches and shrubs, but he kept on running as fast as he could.

Just a few hundred yards now. I can do it.

He nearly tripped over a rock and stumbled, but the feel of a wolf's hot breath on his bare skin gave him the extra spur he needed to quicken his pace. Sweat prickled into Draco's eyes and his vision became blurry from fear of being caught and pure exhaustion – but there was no way he could give in now, not when he was so close. He blasted away the werewolf snapping at his robes again.

Just around that tree, over that stream, across that clearing. Draco doubled his efforts, mentally whipping at his tiring body. Just a few more -

Never had the dim lights of his cottage looked so welcoming.

Draco shouted out the last blasting spells behind him – two wolves let out pained howls – and dove inside his house, banged the door shut and immediately warded it against physical attacks. A second later the door rattled as something large and heavy slammed against it, repeatedly.

Shaken and panting, Draco rose to his knees from the floor he had fallen onto, hastily rolled Potter on the rug, and strengthened the wards protecting his cottage. The few windows were unbreakable, but Draco flicked his wand and thick curtains swished over them, preventing any peeking inside. He even sealed his fireplace and made the ground underneath the cottage impossible to dig in.

After he was absolutely certain no-one could break in using physical power, all Draco could do for a moment was to sit on the floor and breath, trembling as the adrenaline slowly exited his system. Every intake of breath hurt like there was acid in his lungs and his feet seriously ached, but to think of what would have happened if the wolves had caught him...

Draco shuddered. There was ireful howling and barking all around the house, and scratching and booms as the werewolves circled the cottage, trying to find a way in.

Good luck with that.

Then a weak moan stole his attention, and Draco looked down.

Potter looked terrible. He had acquired more bites and scratches since he had barrelled into Draco, and he was practically covered with blood and grime. His hand, his wand-hand, was dark purple and so swollen it barely resembled a human hand anymore. Dried blood and dirt matted down his usually bird nest of a hair. Some of the more shallow scratches were probably from the sharp pieces of silver Draco had thrown in, but Draco doubted Potter would mind.

"Potter? Can you hear me?"

His eyes were tightly squeezed shut and he shivered, his limbs occasionally twitching with spasms. No, obviously Potter couldn't hear him.

"Right," Draco muttered to himself, climbing to his trembling feet. "Well, I got you here and you aren't going to die, Potter, for all the trouble I went through to save your arse."

Ignoring the growls and howls from outside, Draco levitated Potter into his bedroom and softly dumped him on his bed. He grimaced as blood immediately stained the sheets, but there were no other bedrooms in the house. Just one bedroom and the bathroom attached to it, the joint sitting room and kitchen and Draco's working place upstairs in the attic. Very humble and un-Malfoy-ish, but unnoticeable and comfortable nevertheless.

Draco hesitated for a moment, wavering, but banished Potter's mangled trousers. Screw modesty. After applying several cleaning charms, the whole extent of Potter's numerous injuries were revealed to him and as Draco gazed at the bleeding teeth-marks around Potter's torso, he realized for the first time that he had brought a werewolf-infected person into his house.

Dear Merlin.

Draco had the sudden urge to sit down.

Potter's going to be a werewolf.

As if he had heard him, Potter whimpered on the bed, a grimace of anguish on his torn face.

That is, if he survives this.

Pursing his lips in determination, Draco nodded to himself and rushed out of the room into his potions laboratory. Deciding to worry about Potter being a werewolf after he was not on the brink of death, Draco collected a few vials from the shelves and retuned to his bedroom. He was not a Healer by nature, oh no, but he had picked up a few tricks along the way and Potter should be satisfied he'd even try. And besides, there was no-one else at the moment to help him – there was no Disapparating and Flooing, and even walking out the door was a suicide mission for now.

Mildly annoyed by the way Potter kept twitching and mewling, Draco put him into deep slumber in order for him to heal the git properly. As Potter's anxious movements subsided and his distorted face went lax, Draco fed him a Restorative Potion to keep him alive long enough for a diagnosis, and ran a wand over his body to categorize the would-be werewolf's injuries.

To his relief, he found no serious internal damage. Potter's broken hand was the only bone broken, as far as he could tell, and he healed it to the best of his abilities, wrapping a thick layer of bandages he had conjured around the limb. Draco wasn't sure whether Potter would ever use the hand since the bones had been crushed at least three days ago and there was evidence of further abuse to the hand, but at least he wouldn't lose it.

I wonder how long he was Greyback's visitor. And how the bleeding hell did he even manage to get captured?

The bites covering Potter's torso were a whole different thing. Marks left by a werewolf were hard to heal in any case, and Draco had limited knowledge of treating a patient mangled by animals. He carefully cleaned the numerous wounds and patched them up with bandages, dabbing some of the worse ones with a salve of his own making that helped flesh to regenerate.

He had left Potter's face last in purpose. Thank Merlin he's asleep.

A flash of Potter's eyes, wide with terror and then accusative, and Draco shivered, shaking his head to banish the image.

Reluctantly, he stared at the deep gouges that went across Potter's gaunt face, probably left by a paw with sharp nails. They looked horrible and he knew they were going to scar.

He just can't help but get his face scarred every time.

Sighing, Draco cleaned away the mud and dirt from Potter's face and carefully spread the salve over the cuts. Let's hope that they'll fade even a little.

After he was sure Potter wouldn't bleed out on him, Draco checked his vital signs again. Potter's heart was beating weakly and his breathing was shallow, but Draco supposed there was nothing he could do for them now. He force-fed his patient a couple of vials of Blood Replenishing Potions, gently massaging Potter's throat to get the liquid down, and some other potions meant to heal Potter's concussion and to keep his strengths up.

There.

Draco leaned back and swiped a tired hand over his forehead.

That should keep him alive at least this night.

Outside the cottage, frustrated howls still rang out from time to time and Draco crept to the closest window, taking a cautious peek. It was still rather dark, but the stars were fading in the sky – sunrise was not far away. Draco could make out the shadowy outlines of the wolves still stalking around the house, growling and snarling, and he let the curtains slide shut again.

A sudden wave of exhaustion washed over him, then, as if every ounce of energy had been forced out of him, and Draco found himself slowly sliding to the floor, his back against the wall. He stared at the unmoving body on his bed, absent-mindedly thinking that he should cover Potter up.

I have a naked, half-dead Harry Potter in my bedroom.

The insane hilarity of the situation struck Draco like the bat of a Chaser and he had to bite down on his tongue to keep himself from bursting out in hysterical laughter.

Good grief. I'm going crazy.

Forcing himself to calm down, Draco held his aching sides and flicked his wand, swiftly conjuring a thick blanket over Potter's torso. Thinking a moment, he conjured some underwear on him, as well. He was then left eyeing what was left bare of Potter, the stubborn blood stains and the badly scratched skin on his chest, the grotesque bite on his shoulder. The marks on Potter's face stuck out like whip marks, precise but still somehow ragged. They made Potter look distorted, unfamiliar now that his eyes were closed.

I wonder if I did him a favour, after all. Draco reached a hand from the floor and rearranged the blanket better. If he survives this, it's not the end to his suffering. Not only is he physically mangled now, there's bound to be scars on the inside, as well.

Draco sighed and laboriously clambered back up to his feet. It was becoming silent as the sun gradually rose, the growls of the wolves vanishing into the disappearing darkness like retreating mist.

They'll be back, though.

He was certain there was someone outside even though it was deathly quiet, hiding in the shadows and keeping an eye on the house in case Draco was stupid enough to open the door.

They must know that the only way out from here is through that door and though the forest. No Apparating, no Floo. Even if an owl comes knocking, I can't open the bloody window or some of the wards will fall and the wolves can attack.

Of course, Draco could try making himself invisible and mask both his scent and any sounds he made and sneak out, but he knew the sensational senses werewolves possessed even in human form. He just couldn't take the risk, especially since he would have to drag Potter's unconscious arse with him because if Draco left the house, the certain wards keyed to him personally wouldn't hold and Potter, all alone in the house, would be killed in a minute. Draco knew he could destroy or at least subdue about ten of the werewolves if and when he would be noticed if he stepped a foot outside, but then there would be another dozen left to rip out his gut and feast on his entrails.

Gross.

All kinds of questions were running around Draco's mind, making his head spin nauseatingly, and he sank down onto the armchair next to the bed.

How did Potter end up with the werewolves?

How the hell are we going to get out of here?

He felt his head nod forward, his eyes heavy and itchy. Feeling dead tired, he twitched his wand and mumbled out a monitoring spell that would alert him if there were any noticeable changes in Potter's breathing or heartbeat.

Why do I always get involved in such messes? Merlin damn you, Potter.