Mistakes of Animagus Proportions

Abby Ebon

Disclaimer; I own nothing of Harry Potter. Be wise; we are glad for this.

Warnings: Slash. Draco/Harry/Blaise. Harry(animagus)!Chihuahua. Beast, if you squint to see past the "awww, how warm-fluffy-cute" scene. I'm very blunt with writing my man-on-man-on-man sex. You won't miss it.

Author Note; Or "Why Abby Should Not Talk To LynnGryphon About "Chihuahua", "Harry Potter", or "Animagus", In The Same Sentence. Most Especially If The Words "Mini Vibrator" Are Ever Used." In Other Words, Abby Really Should Have Known Better. Luckily, She Does Not.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Some Things… Just Aren't Worth It

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Harry knew what he was doing – he was this doing for Sirius Black. It was habit, these attempts. It was reassuring, therapeutic even – that he was doing this for his dead godfather rarely crossed his mind. It took all his attention – all of his effort and magic. He was helpless like this.

Alright, so it wasn't something exactly healthy. Still, it was a way to remember, or a way to forget.

Sirius had told him how to become an animagus, the process. It took months of retreating into someplace else (because Harry wasn't sure if where he went was within him, or a somewhere all wizards and witches could reach if so determined) until your body no longer felt like it was yours.

It itched, like a bad skin rash. It was annoying. Worse, Harry knew that all he had to do was stop; he only had to let this go. He could not. It had been a promise (if only to himself) – that he would remember Sirius by following his example. Harry would become an animagus. He knew it was dangerous and foolish.

He knew Sirius had meant to do this with him. He knew Sirius hadn't done this alone – there had been Remus and James –his father – and even the rat to help him. To, in the least, offer advice. Harry knew though, that not even Ron would go along with something like this – and that Hermione would not approve. So he would do this, alone. With, or without them, he was determined that, in this much, he would follow in the path of his father – his godfather. It was the one thing he could do –by himself, privately - to remember them by.

It would alter him; change him, doing what he intended. It frightened him, but he knew he had to do this. It was marginally better – his loneliness - if he thought of it as honoring Sirius – that while he was doing this, he was being watched out for by him; vaguely it came to him once in a while, the thought always encouraging – even his dad might be proud.

Everyone has a certain expectations of him, his aunt and uncle and cousin expected him to fail and come crawling back to them – his friends expected him to be noble and honorable and true – his enemies expected for him to lay down at their feet when he was bloody and beaten – his mentors expected him to rise against the odds – the wizarding world at large expected him to act the part of a shinning shield, to stand while he lived between them and the dark, unmarred.

Harry only expected that he would do this. He would succeed. He would not accept failing.

Harry kneeled slowly down on the Owlery floor, his back to the rounded stone wall. Fluttering wings stilled, shrill calls and soft clicks and sounds hushed. He felt as if hundreds of eyes were watching him, waiting. With the sensation thick on his mind, he closed his eyes and went someplace else – aware that the itching of his skin had become something more like painful sunburn.

This time, something would change.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Harry opened his eyes; then blinked. A feather – caught in mid fall though the air – caught his eyes. Things around him had stopped. He wondered if he had done something wrong. Was the someplace else he had stumbled across (he thought with a large bit of sarcasm and a bit of curiosity- and a lesser amount of bitter irony) the "power the Dark Lord knows naught"?

Dumbledore thought it would be love, but Harry felt that the someplace else was like nothing he had ever known. It was confusing, and he barely knew himself when he came back to his body. His body, in fact, always felt wrong.

Which, this time, it did not…

Was he still within the someplace else?

Whatever had caught the feather (had stopped a swooping owl…?) that had stilled and stopped the sounds around him – violently lurched time and motion and place back into proper normalcy.

Harry yelped, as if in vengeance – everything was loud (he didn't think that to be his imagination as the still-soundless moment might have been; he could hear the rustling of feathers and felt as if every noise was invading and echoing within his skull, determined to be acknowledged – as if for the first time in his life the sounds knew he could hear –it hurt), he was could smell (bird poop, blood, and worse – why had he not noticed the stench?), and see (the vivid threads of color that he had buried his head into in hopes of dulling his other senses – instead they seemed to intensify as if mocking him with the irony), he could even taste the "scent" of his musky, sweaty shirt. It was filthy. He didn't think it was entirely his imagination that he smelled Dudley (even though these clothes were his, and had been for years) worse was the feeling, his sense of touch was sensitive –everything felt harsh and as if it meant to hurt him – he was so cold; he shivered and tumbled in the cool cloth of his garments, why had he picked the Owlery of all places?

It didn't take too much of a leap of logic to know that somehow – his determination had paid off. He was changed. He was an animagus. He wished he was not. He had no idea what he was, but whatever it was didn't feel like a very pleasant creature to be. Still, it seemed a waste of time to go through with all this, and then not even bother to find out what he was before he went to the someplace else (he was fairly sure that doing so would change him back to normal) to become himself once more.

He wiggled a little bit backwards into the shirt that had fallen around him, it felt as if he was walking on his hands and feet at the same time- so he guessed he was four legged, he was cold though – yet he didn't feel sleepily – so he knew he was not a reptile.

Thank Merlin – I'm not a snake.

He was sure little though. He yipped, the fear taking him; was he a rat?

He spun around quickly to see his tail. It was nothing naked and ugly like a worm – instead, his gut twisting, Harry saw that it was furry and wagging…he had hair – not feathers, so he would not be able to fly – it was just as well, he did that well enough on a broom.

Was he a cat?

He was too little…he ducked his head down to get a look at his "feet" – they were paws, the little nails (sharp, he saw with relief) dug carelessly into the black robes.

Oh, Merlin, no…

Was he a ferret? He wiggled again, trying to see how flexible he was – he ended up falling onto his belly. He wasn't a ferret (and couldn't remember any other small mammals with tails that he might be) this time, the sound he made startled him – a vicious little annoyed growl.

A…dog?

He would have thought he was too little to be that – but he remembered Aunt Petunia raving about "new" models with small dogs. Those were coming back into fashion, he remembered, because of the old paintings of noble ladies with the little lap dogs….he only hoped he wasn't one of those short haired ones that looked like rats. Or the ones that looked shaved, but were born with some sort of mutation of the genes. He was fairly certain he wasn't though – his fur of his back end and tail and legs and paws had been thick soft-looking and black. It hit him then, what he was – a lap dog.

Harry curled his lip in distaste, he would have closed his eyes and would have went swiftly and willingly into the someplace else ….if he hadn't heard the footsteps coming quickly up the stairs. The pile of clothes would have been noticed, he knew – more so, would a naked Harry Potter in the Owlery.

Harry really didn't want to have to deal with such rumors and gossips and questions in his last year of Hogwarts. So he huddled into the pile of clothes (it was a little bit warmer, though he was still shivering) and hoped the shadowed corner would hide him well enough.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Millicent Bulstrode expected her owl (a proud black barn owl with a blue-gray crest and sharp silver eyes) to land on her shoulder as she (called "Reverence") had been trained when Millicent came into sight as she stepped into the Owlery. Millicent did not like such places, and liked waiting or lingering within them she liked even less.

She had made a careful study of when Reverence came and went on her hunts, so as to avoid such inconvenience. Millicent knew then, when Reverence had to be called to her from her perch (Millicent would have said her owl seemed spooked, if the notion had not been so silly) that something had shifted from the normal routine that Reverence had kept to for seven years.

Millicent knew she would have to look into it, if only because it had – after all - inconvenienced her. Still, she tied the letter to Reverence's leg and –perhaps because of her annoyance - or alerted by the fact that something had changed and owls were very particular about the Owlery, Millicent lifted her arm and expected Reverence to fling herself into the daylight sky and be on her way.

Instead, she lifted and hovered over Millicent protectively – as if threatened, or hunting. Millicent looked quickly to the corner of the Owlery which Reverence was wary of. There was nothing there – still, curiosity had gotten the better of her – she walked to the rounded off corner, only to walk into the pile of clothes that had been left carelessly behind.

Millicent pressed her lips together, eyes narrowing. She knew that an owl would – given the chance – eat such things, thinking to ease their digestion. It was a fool thing to do, letting the whole Owlery the chance of sickness or worse. It was careless – yet, the clothes had not been left behind long – there was no dust on them, or tearing. Still, she would not leave the things here even if there was the possibility of someone coming back to claim them.

Millicent reached down, noticing the black student robes – and wondering if there was a badge to go along with them. Reverence shrieked and swooped – and Millicent nearly screamed when the cloth moved and leaped and struggled so near her hand. Her heart beating in her throat – Millicent yanked her wand only to feel weak in the knees and silly when a little black puppy struggled free.

Caught by such surprise she laughed, and then became slowly furious as she put what pieces she had together. Cloths left oh-so-carelessly behind – an abandoned puppy huddling in them, frightened – and owls that would see such a small pup as prey. Her own owl, acting as if she was on the hunt….

Boldly, thinking nothing of the little pup and its tiny teeth – Millicent checked the robe where a badge might be.

…Gryffindor.

She curled her lip, thinking she might as well have guessed.

Startled, the pup had yipped at her hand – so close to it – and then froze as if undecided about what to do about the stranger. Millicent forced herself to relax, letting her hand fall loose – the pup could think that a fist would mean being hurt (she would not put hurting even such a adorable puppy beyond a Gryffindor, even if they meant to kill it by abandoning it in a Owlery and avoiding getting their oh-so-noble hands bloody) as if not-quite-sure of what to do, the pup came closer – sniffing her fingers, its little nose was cold.

That, Millicent knew, was not the best of signs to its health. Too quickly for the pup to do much but yelp his surprise, she had plucked him from his "bed" of abandoned clothes and let him fall in her robe pocket. It was with some satisfaction she burnt the abandoned clothes – keeping only the badge. It would be evidence, if only proof that the pup had not been hers originally. Still, she intended to keep him – the smell of the burning clothes reminded her that supper was near – and the pup, even if he had only been here since lunch, would be hungry.

Millicent knew that she would be missed by her fellow Slytherin housemates. There was no choice in the matter – she had to go to supper…and take the puppy with her, if only to see him fed. It was worth the risk.

So decided, Millicent reassuringly patted the little budge that was the puppy in her , she knew if she were caught – she would take the part of the hero and scoff dirt onto the "noble" and "true"Gryffindor reputation.

Her lingering smug smile was not at all a pleasant. It was a promise of vengeance to come.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Note; …. I think this was supposed to be for LynnGryphon's birthday… if so, this is likely some large number of months off. Uhm, oppsie? This has actually been creeping about in my head for a year – or at least since January '08…