HP Tyger Tyger Chapters 12-18
XII
Mr. Zabini knew a sure thing when he saw it—and Death was staring him right in the eyes, grinning like a veritable Cheshire. Double-vision, really, except that one big cat seemed but the ghost of the other—and even though he knew for certain that Draco Malfoy would no more harm him than he'd kill Parkinson or Nott or Bulstrode, Crabbe or Goyle, he knew that 'Draco' wasn't there right now and the Veela was. The enraged beast before him was all Veela, and Veela would do anything necessary for the sake of their precious mates—no matter who or what might be caught in the crossfire. It was fortunate for Blaise, then, that all this time he'd been counting (one thousand one, one thousand two and so on), from the second he'd downed the specially quick-spelled Animagus Polyjuice (QuikPoly™) to the moment the ghost-pale Siberian sidled and hunched and gathered himself to launch into that killing crunch to the spinal cord— and thus Zabini knew, too, precisely at what moment he'd Change back and lose his ability to Mage into a Animagus tiger. It would be a very close shave, Blaise knew. Like a stropped razor blade. Burma, even. Oh, the things he did for Pans.
When it happened, Blaise was already whispering the words to summon the Portkey safely hidden in the snow just to the left of him, right by the tree where he'd pissed a deliberate challenge earlier. When it zipped to his grasping and fortunately gloved fingers—they'd made leaps and bounds on the efficacy of some potions since the war, they had—the tips frozen to icicles even through the cashmere lining, he grasped at the tattered woolen mitten same as he'd lunge for a lifeline in a tsunami and gratefully Apparated the fuck out of there—not a hair's breadth too soon. Sharp white teeth slammed together on waft of cologne-scented breeze Zabini left behind him, but Harry and Draco, with the enemy abruptly neutralized and then altogether removed, now had eyes and ears only for each other.
If Draco had thought of it—and he did, he did—he'd have thought that if he and Harry ever managed to connect at the right place and the right time and in the right manner, it'd be a bloody conflagration. A bonfire of sheer physicality—a pyre of too long-restrained desire, too oft-denied lust. It'd happen right where it started, be it public or private, curb-side or restaurant or Draco's townhouse foyer, and it would be downright explosive, with no time to think about social delicacies or 'ever-afters'—nor anything other than getting cock into arse tout suite. So he didn't expect Harry's hushed 'whuff' of a question, nor the slide of those glorious cat eyes across his still-charged Veela body, all alight and burning from within with some excessively un-Siberian-like emotion, nor to be randomly nuzzled and butted, with quick, petting touches soft as the bats of a kitten's paw, as Harry paced quietly in ever smaller circles about him, till finally they leant all their great weights against each other, panting; nose to tail, tail to muzzle, flank to flank, and rubbed pelts and ruffs and whiskers ever so gently—for tigers, that is—marking each other with unique scents and steaming dribbles of saliva. He hadn't thought to be herded 'round to face the direction Harry had arrived in, nor led off to a sheltered lee a mile or so from the open expanse of disturbed snow in which they'd confronted the stranger, chivvied all the way by chirrups and small shoves to keep him in motion, nor that Harry would purr.
Harry's chest rumbled with the vibration, the pale frosted fur trembling, and Draco could only join in with a higher, lighter chorus of his own, now and then allowing tiny mews and squeaks of delight and confusion to escape his desire-dry throat as they padded on, following the stony ridge Harry had erupted over just a short while before. He'd gone from 'killer instinct' to 'Veela lover' in too short a time to process all this; Harry had him beguiled more than ever and Draco could only go 'whither thou goest'.
In no time at all they'd arrived at what Harry must've been aiming for: a long deep gouge dug straight into the rocky hillside, scraped out perhaps by the clutching fingernails of a retreating glacier, and carpeted with packed-down powder at the entrance. It showed signs that a Siberian had spent at least some considerable time there: boar bones cracked for marrow, stray tufts of excess fur, dried blood, the overwhelming odor of rutting male tiger. The sliver of an entryway was narrow and marked all about with yellowed spots of melt and stench; Draco shied at it and lifted his massive head to eye Harry inquiringly. He wasn't one hundred percent convinced of his welcome just yet despite the Veela imperative and tigers weren't particularly forgiving when it came to private spaces invaded. But Harry just urged him forward, waiting politely whilst Draco added his own contribution to the marks.
The late morning light reflected a watery value to the cave's interior, shading it in gradations of greys, pewters, and steely blues, with darker pockets where the granite was sheared and cracked. A thin bed of mosses and scraped lichens was laid out across the majority of the tiny floor space, with flattened leaf litter making up the majority of the cushion; there was barely room to turn about with both of them crammed inside but Draco figured that made sense as a sort of warmth-maintaining measure.
Once inside, settled gingerly on the very edge of what had to be Harry's bed and nervous as a veritable virgin bride on 'The Night', Draco allowed himself the still retreat of silence. He'd have assumed Harry would've Changed back by now; that he would, if nothing else than to allow them the more familiar skins of the bodies they'd been born with to shag in, but Harry showed no signs of wishing to do so. It was puzzling at the very least—Draco the Veela, wanting only to consummate his ritual binding to his mate, was terribly pleased by Harry's tacit choice of tiger form; Malfoy, the heir of the Manor, was perplexed and ill at ease when his stubborn schoolboy crush seemed to prefer the Veela over the Slytherin. But in truth, Draco wasn't sure which he would ask for: if Harry were human, he might say something to ruin this; if Harry stayed stubbornly in Animagus form, it might be solely animal instinct he was responding to and nothing more. There was no way for Draco to know, short of precipitating exactly the confrontation he didn't dare risk.
So, it eased the marginally awkward situation a great deal when Harry matter-of-factly laid his bulk down beside Draco and commenced smoothing down his staticky mane with that great prickly tongue of his. A paw the size of a platter knocked Draco sideways after Harry-tiger had Draco-tiger's mane in precisely the condition he apparently preferred—satiny with repeated strokes and very elegantly angled back and away from Draco's exquisitely pale features—and rolled him abruptly to his stripy back to get to the rest of him. The Veela's long sharp whiskers were meticulously cleaned as he lolled there, front paws dangling, his ears damped down and licked in tufts, and all Draco could see in his mind's eye was his own childish habit of slicking his blonde hair back off his forehead and the scorn in Potter's eyes when he'd glanced right past him at the Sorting Feast.
It hurt, that memory. So many of the memories he shared with Potter did; Draco wondered if this one would too, later. But for now, at least, Potter seemed happy enough to mate with him and that was all that ultimately mattered. So a quiet Draco groomed Harry in return, the way he'd wanted to for day after lonely day spent fruitlessly searching, his raspy tongue wending all over Potter, everywhere he could reach, until Harry's pleasured purr was literally shaking his body and his back legs were pushing up and treading in place of their own volition, hips rotating with a flirtatious little twist that was damnably curious for a creature who weighed more than a baby erumphant. Lumbering to his feet at last from the tangle of tiger they'd gotten themselves into, Draco rose to the siren call of his sex and twisted his sinewy mass 'round in the tight space, levering hips and cock behind a still mostly recumbent Harry, and Draco was so stiff and full of want, he was bowlegged and keening.
The first touch to the head of his bulbous cock was excruciating; Harry was tighter than fuckall and his sphincter was completely unforgiving. The angle was wrong; there was nothing to soothe his way in. Draco couldn't get situated and male Siberians weren't meant to be in this subordinate position in the first place and Harry obviously knew that—Draco thought he'd bolt for a heart-wrenching spilt-second; was certain his mate would throw his scrambling forepaws off and slam him hard into the rough ribs of metamorphous stone that encircled them like a womb. But… he didn't, oh, he didn't—Harry did not, those goldy-green eyes half-closed and blinking slowly with what Draco fervently hoped was at least some small measure of pleasure— and Draco managed with effort to insinuate his engorged prick another inch or so; slowly, so slowly, his own smoked grey eyes stretched far too wide open and dry as he was gripped in an agony of pressure.
Merlin bloody Merlin, but it hurt to be inside Harry, even a Harry who seemed to want him there. Draco'd always known that, to be sure. On some metaphysical level, he'd pay for this privilege, even if it hadn't ever appeared to be even the faintest of possibilities looming on the far-distant horizon, for not one of his lurid teenaged fantasies had wrapped themselves completely around the image of Harry desiring him in return.
But a Veela could do it—and did. A Veela had seductive power, of a sort nearly unimaginable to the average Wizard. A Veela was driven by instinct and knew no boundaries when it came to his mate—and that was Harry, and Harry was it. The 'real' thing; right here, right now, and there were a few tricks a horny Veela had up his proverbial sleeve to captivate and pleasure his mate that a mere Animagus tiger did not. A silvery trail of Veela lube instantly spread its sticky mess all over Harry's quivering, too tightly stretched entrance and Draco's rigid tackle, the excess leaking copiously down both their straining hindquarters, shedding magical sparks and lighting up Harry's cave like an infestation of fairies as it did so.
There was a sound, tolling so deep it echoed their rapid heartbeats and framed them, so entrancing it smoothed away all the Malfoy performance anxiety like a magical eraser. It had no place there, mundane worry, plebian regret. This was all about affirmation.
There was an odor, and it was purely wonderful: Amortentia Potion squared; concentrated sex pheromones fired up to their fastest molecular speeds and zooming, straight into feline braincases hardwired for mating, short-circuiting any human frailties that might have lingered unwanted.
Blind to all else that might exist outside their shared retreat, Draco took a mouthful of Harry's wild mane, tugging it, and snarled imperatively, thrusting with the full force of four hundred plus pounds of meat over bone. He sank the very tips of his fangs into Harry's smooth shoulder and Marked him with angel-wing traceries, a swipe of his tongue healing the skin-deep scratches to a silver glaze in the shape of a sideways-scrawled Malfoy 'M'. A dazed Harry dropped his bulk down on his front paws and muscular forearms like a shot at both the sound and the pain, his furry arse finally fully exposed in all its glory, and that's all there was to it—Draco's cock was in free and there was no more resistance.
Salazar-Salazar-Merlin-so-tight! Cried the less primal bits of Draco's brain, those that still spoke the Queen's English.
Love you, Harry—Love. You. So. Much, Harry— Stay a while—please— My mate!
My mate!
The Veela in Draco roared in triumph at his conquest and took advantage of the swirl of not-so-subtle Magick in the air, seducing Malfoy farther into that tight-hot haven, as far as his barbed pecker could penetrate. His shaft swelled beyond bearing and clung to the phenomenally soft walls that surrounded it, causing them to roil and shimmer, tightening. Harry yelped when Draco first drew back, and Draco dug his carefully sheathed claw tips into the Animagus's flanks, and watched Harry moaning and shivering in every muscle with a certain slit-eyed satisfaction, loving every roll of Harry's well-formed head across the fragrant litter of forest lichen and desiccated fern, every purrup and muffled growl of pleasure. Draco couldn't kiss his lover as he would've liked, but he could rub his stiffened whiskers and heavy jowl across Harry's twitching rump—almost as good as, really—and allow the scent of Harry's excitement to pour into his flared nostrils. It was intoxicating: Draco snarled joy and rammed himself to the root.
Their balls knocked together, rocking warm and wet. Harry hissed and whined on the foreshortened return thrust and then every one after, his rope-thick tail listing off to one side to give Draco better access; shallow, sharp, painful jabs they were in the beginning, confined by his cock's peculiarity, but building up to a shuddering pressure of immense proportions. Draco was alive with it as it pumped through his chest, his gut, centering in his sizzling hot groin. He felt his testes gather and the answering tightness in Harry arse and knew he was nearly there.
One moment to the next and his comfortable hide was suddenly too hot to hold him; he was scalding inside, throbbing with it; Harry was a fucking inferno that devoured. Draco had nothing to live for but this—this fiery, heart-stopping, death-defying moment—and the inchoate cloud that surrounded them, humid and fragrant with feline sensuality and the layered intricate bonds of strong Magicks, echoing subsonically with their moans and growls, the merging of infrasound decibels only they could hear and decipher: swelling, trembling, powerful enough to rattle tiny pebbles off the cavern walls and send the leaf litter swirling into tiny dust devils.
And it was done—Draco screamed and roared and screamed again as he came and Harry followed him, his larger lungs offering up a basso profundo note in a crescendo.
And it was complete—they went down together in a massive heap of jittery limbs and tiny breathless mewlings, Draco still draped across Harry, wheezing; Harry twisting as he fell to get a huge forearm wrapped haphazard 'round Draco's arctic white ruff and grey-striped forequarters; Draco's blunted muzzle burrowing wetly into Harry's cream-colored chest and shoulder, seeking to always have Harry right there to be touched.
And it was final—there would be none other for the Veela in Draco. There would be no one but Harry in this lifetime for Draco, either, and Harry—Harry would be—
XIII
Harry, it turned out, would be interested in more shagging. As an Animagus, thanks so very much. And it was Draco's turn to get down and dirty with the scratched scrabble floor of Harry's cave.
Not that he minded.
They'd napped and indulged in a bout of furious mutual grooming and Draco had been just starting to think about hunting up a meal when Harry roughly nudged him face first into a blind corner, eyes bright. Draco had nearly lost it when he felt the first lap of raspy tongue across his backside, looping under the base of his long, slinky tail and all around, circling in finally to pierce him, but he'd borne up manfully and took it. Took Harry's cock, too, and the Veela magic was no less potent the second time. Draco learned a valuable lesson: topping a tiger—or bottoming for one, as the case might be—wasn't exactly a stroll in Hyde Park but it was certainly satisfying.
Every hour, it seemed, there was less and less of the insidious fear that had dogged Draco's pawprints relentlessly since 'Mr. Wizard'—Harry, as he now realized—had skived off on that second and far more depressingly momentous occasion. Constant shagging helped matters, and simple touch. Harry always had a shoulder against him; somewhere a thigh connected, a paw; his tail, his nose, his tongue rubbing—his cock, sawing in and out like a ruddy jackhammer. Draco didn't believe they'd been out of physical contact for more than two minutes together since the instant the rogue male had literally vanished from his and Harry's territory.
It made the Veela in Draco happy, so very happy. Fulfilled and nigh on complacent, though the Malfoy aspect was a tad less accepting of such an easy turnabout of fortune. But Malfoy 'forgot' under the heady influence of his own Veela nature, and worked hard to do so every moment their interlude continued, till the light faded into dusk and they reluctantly emerged to hunt and then returned bumping companionable shoulders many hours later, be-gored with deer blood and slinky silent in the light of the moon.
He forgot, when dawn inevitably followed night and they shagged again, Harry hunched beneath him and panting like a locomotive. He didn't remember or care to when it came up on three full days later and he hadn't so much as noted the unusual lack of SOS post owls or annoying administrative assistants. A languorous five days passed them by in a flurry of shared kills and hip-knocking, deliriously amusing scrambles through the snow and long, tender bouts of nuzzling, and he'd stopped his anxious count of moonrises altogether and concentrated only the smell of Harry in him and on him and the reassuring odor of himself mixed in with his mate. The cave reeked of it; for Draco the hollowed out scrape in the glacial boulders now defined 'home' far better than his boyhood rooms at the Manor ever had.
But Harry evidently decided he was weary of his bolthole after a few more days passed. They set off again one early February twilight at his nudging insistence, having divested the immediate area of its red deer population for the foreseeable future. Draco took his time marking the cavern's entrance once again with his urine before they ambled off, though, and quelled any last little vestiges of his brain that muttered dark things about 'taking advantage of the circumstances' and 'it's only the Veela in me Harry's attracted to'. He was not thinking, right?
He'd keep that up forever if it meant Harry stayed with him.
After two days journey, they'd reached the northwestern perimeter of the area Malfoy had originally been assigned. There were tracking charms tied to both his movements and the borders, set in place by the SOS Wizard staff, and presumably tied to Harry as well, which would indicate if they'd strayed into another Siberian's turf. That was an eventuality to be assiduously avoided, as both sexes of P. tigris altaica were quite chary of intruders and the only real enemies such large predators had to be concerned with in the wild were each other and perhaps the larger bears, fighting over resources. But the Amur was kind—it boasted plenty of space and the assorted prey animals that went with a taiga habitat. It was very sparse when it came to Muggles, too, and further, had been tenuously warded even by their pitiful skills against poachers and big game hunters.
They turned true north on a Sunday and seemed to simultaneously remember the real reason why they'd been stationed in bloody fucking nowhere. Harry was most definitely on high alert at this point and Draco found himself catching his lover's excitement, constantly scanning the horizon for alien Siberians as if they were huge, furry Snitches. In all their time in the Amur they'd caught sight only of the previously known bordering females and two of those had shown signs of being mid-estrus cycle, whilst one had already been expecting. Except for the rude and inexplicable male who'd inextricably shown up dead center in their territory—and Draco had his doubts as to that—they'd not caught wind of another male prowling anywhere near their vicinity. It was a crying shame, Draco decided; such wondrous beasts as the Amur tigers should be plentiful in this protected region and yet they were not, their population still recovering from the devastation of years of indiscriminate hunting by all and sundry.
Still, the entire incident with the other male tiger had positively screamed of 'set up' and further, of Parkinsonian machinations—at least to a Malfoy and a Slytherin. Draco was not in any way dense; he could sniff out a subplot from miles. It'd be just like Pans to blithely toss him into a 'situation' with Potter and let Draco's Veela take over. Had he been in her Ferragamos, fed up with years of listening to her best friend whinge hopelessly about his boyhood crush, he'd've done the same, without a qualm.
He'd lay odds the Bengal had been a Wizard, likely Blaise or one of Pansy's other paramours, and even more Galleons on it actually being Zabini who'd finally forced the issue between him and Potter—though as far as Draco knew, his old dormmate was definitely not a Siberian tiger Animagus. Whatever—there were plenty of ways and means to get around those little details. Slytherin ruled when it came to manipulations of that sort—and he'd have a few choice words with his old friends as soon as he returned, naturally, no matter what the outcome between him and Potter. None of them particularly pleasant to hear.
But all this speculation wasn't terribly helpful for Draco's cause. It impeded forgetting, a task at which Draco was actively beavering away. Truth was, he was flat-out terrified he'd double-jinx himself if he questioned too closely what was happening between Harry and himself—the emotion that bound them, so warm and convincing and real. A morbid self-fulfilling prophecy, it would be, playing fast and loose with this wonderful gift he'd been given, and once again there'd be no one to blame but himself for the failure. So Draco kept both his reluctant peace and his Veela form, no matter how much he desired an opportunity to run his human fingers through Harry's unkempt hair or gaze into eyes that weren't slit-centered or put his eager tongue into a mouth with considerably smaller eyeteeth.
XIV
Harry was living dangerously and quite aware of it. Reckless for once—hah! Reckless with his heart, more like; he'd finally shed all his earthly inhibitions and allowed himself to wallow in Malfoy's attentions.
Draco, his silly, romantical heart whispered. Draco, who wants me. That was undeniable and brilliant and not something Harry wished to ruin with mundane explanations. No doubt there'd be some, and they'd be cruel or petty and hurtful, and he didn't want to hear a word of them, not just yet. He didn't do well with talking about how he felt or what he wanted; his experiences with Ginny had proved that, over and over, and his whole previously skewed relationship with Malfoy, so…So. Maybe it was all that time spent with the Dursleys, maybe it was the fact that he'd never once managed a normal relationship with anyone, not even Sirius, much less a romantic one. Whatever—it was hard enough to just accept this chance as a sort of bonus for surviving; he couldn't expect it to last. Couldn't bring himself to say aloud what he wanted when he knew what the answer would be without even asking.
No, no. Much better to be pounced on playfully by an oversized kitten, ghost-white and gorgeous and only barely discernable from the snow in certain lights. Far easier to be offered the choicest bits of brown bear and mule deer by a mate who obviously adored him, and allowed for his every desire. Much safer to shag and be shagged until he couldn't think straight, couldn't breathe without gasping, couldn't concentrate on anything but his cock and Draco's and how excellently well they went together. It was Harry's newly improved definition of 'all he ever wanted ' and he had it all to himself till the 14th of February, the day they'd both be Magicked back to pumpkins and hearth ash and his idyllic hours of love and lust would cease.
He knew they would; there was no question in his mind about it. Malfoy had hated him from day one. Why would that change just 'cause they'd shagged? Blokes shagged all the time and it didn't make them soulmates—or even mates. Malfoy might be just horny or he might be under some sort of Imperio or curse—one that made Draco gag for a good arse-reaming and deliver up the same in return—and Harry wasn't about to delve too deeply, for once. He didn't need to know, did he? Maybe Parkinson had slipped Draco a lust potion for kicks, or Zabini was being his usual devious self or whatever—it could even be the result of a dare—who knew, really, what Slyths got up to in their spare time but fellow Slyths? The fact was, Malfoy and Parkinson were nearly as good as married and he, Harry, didn't stand a chance with Draco Malfoy in normal circumstances. Not a damned snowflake's chance in Hades. So he'd take what he could get and be grateful, as it was far more than he'd ever dreamt of before.
And he had just three days left to completely convince himself of this unalterable Truth and stuff his inner Gryffindor back into its hole. Which he would, of course. Confrontation was not the answer; not this time. Harry had ever faced up to the more uncomfortable bits of reality. Eventually.
XV
"So, Severus."
Snape blinked slowly at the determined face of his fellow educational professional and Headmistress, and that was all the startled reaction she received.
"Another missive from our intrepid young hero, Minerva?"
McGonagall poured, her hands on the teapot deft and sure. Today was a specialty blend of double bergamot Earl Grey Cream tea, prepared by the elves at Wizarding Taylors of Harrogate, and paired especially well with vanilla scones studded with candied citron and dried cherries. Snape acquired two of the piping hot baked goods immediately and proceeded to slather them liberally with clotted cream and lemon curd.
"Not at all." Minerva took her time adding the precise two dollops of table cream to her tea and one lump of sugar. Stirring with barely a clink, she pinned Snape to his armchair with a grim stare.
"Have you heard from your dear, departed young Slytherins, Severus?"
"Ah, you refer, I assume, to Ms. Parkinson and company? I have, as a matter of fact," Snape hurried to report. "Mr. Zabini was successful in his mission and is, indeed, still amongst the respirating."
"Excellent. And the SOS tracking spells are all still in place?"
"They are, to my knowledge."
"And the two of them are due to Portkey to SOS headquarters in London three days hence, at midnight Greenwich?"
"As you're well aware, Minerva. That is the plan."
"So, tell me, Severus—do we simply allow them to do so?"
Both of Snape's rather severe eyebrows rose at that pointed question.
"You are implying they should not be allowed ingress, Minerva? Surely, that's a bit extreme, even for young Potter—"
"Nothing of the sort." McGonagall pinched her thin lips all the tighter. "I'm only mentioning this now as we have no factual way of determining whether or not we've been successful. There's no set rubric established, Severus, and that's not at all acceptable. Not to me, at least."
"We should, say, administer a test?" Snape's tone was very dark and rich with stifled amusement, rather like Belgian chocolate disguising tiny chunks of toasted hazelnut. Minerva frowned at his levity immediately—or rather, her previously established frown grew, like Topsy.
"Not that either. I simply do not wish to have the exact same scenario repeat itself ad nauseum, as it has for the past five years, Severus. Longer. Harry uselessly mooning about and lurking, doing nothing truly useful with all his potential; Malfoy practicing his dying-swan act and being interestingly pale and morose at every D.A. gathering and end-of-war celebration is not the outcome we've all worked so hard to achieve. "
Snape allowed himself an empathetic nod.
"Sadly, Minerva, I know of no actual way of ascertaining as to whether my unfortunate godson and the equally miserable Potter spawn have successfully managed to extract their collective heads from their arses, short of asking them to account for themselves outright. Which I, for one, will not do."
"Then Floo Ms. Parkinson, Severus, why don't you?" McGonagall snapped. "I'm sure she's on the up-and-up and can jigger a workable plan if you can't. Slytherin, isn't she?"
The crisp crunch of Snape's almond biscotti breaking in half was quite sharp in the tiny little silence that followed.
"…Why, of course, Minerva. Why didn't I think of that?"
And Snape smiled. Harry would've recognized that evil curl of the lips immediately.
XVI
"Bugger. Now we've gotta have fucking proof." Millie pouted, which really didn't change her stolid expression at all. She was a big girl; had always been, and time had not added to the expressiveness of her somewhat plain features.
"Blasted stupid Snape," Blaise contributed, but he didn't sit up from his lounging pose on the overstuffed sofa, where his dark head was comfortably ensconced in Pansy's lap.
"Not so stupid," Parkinson noted and tugged sharply on a hank of silky dark hair in retribution. "And not unexpected. Some of us do think ahead, peoples."
Millie frowned at Pans, intrigued. Blaise didn't bother, merely heaving a sigh that indicated his reluctant willingness to be educated.
"Veelas leave a mark, you know. Well, it's more like a 'Mark'—very important ritual part of the whole Binding with the Mate process. Think capital letters; it's that crucial. Potter'll have one by now, I'm sure, so all we need to do is confirm it. Floo the Creevey's, Millie. We'll need a photo."
Blaise sighed again and raised one eyebrow in a symphony of sardonic inquiry. For the record, all Slytherins could perform a similar eyebrow action but some excelled, while others were merely adequate. Zabini's eyebrow fell into the former category.
"And, as they tumble through the netherspace at midnight on Valentine's Day and land on the SOS atrium carpet, we simply order the Golden Boy to drop his skivvies and our pet Gryff takes a picture of his bum, Pans? Like that would go over just swimmingly," Blaise sneered. He'd gotten 'O's' in Slytherin Sneering as well as 'eyebrows'. He was what is known as a 'natural'.
"Pish. Non-believer." Pansy whapped her on-again, off-again lover across the pate rather sharply. "It'll be on Harry's neck or shoulder; somewhere visible. Veelas want everyone to know who they've been poking, Zabini, unlike you."
Millie, ever practical, was already in the midst of Flooing Creevey and going over the particulars.
"Hold up, Colin," she told the wavering greenish visage framed by two elaborate serpent-shaped andirons.
"Pans, he wants fifty percent cut on the profit of sale before taxes, as well as the negs. Sounds like highway robbery to me," she casually threw over her shoulder, safe in the knowledge that the Floo was equipped with an auto-mute spell the moment one's attention shifted.
"Greedy little bugger. Tell him no more than fifteen percent max and a hold on further release to other rags till after the SOS sells the first 10,000 copies of their Celebrities for Siberians Calendar—that's the only deal I'll offer. We know Potter's Mark will pay for itself a hundred vaults over, Millie—that's a great deal of genuine tiger piss, if you please, and cartloads more in personnel salaries and future promo campaigns. Tell him that's how we play or no go."
A Quick Quill completed the standard contract Pansy had summoned almost before she'd finished her threat. Bulstrode snagged it out of the air.
"Colin," Millie turned back to the Floo, jerking her wand impatiently at the cast-bronze Art Deco snakes that guarded it. They opened their fanged mouths wide and once again the elder Creevey could hear her.
"Colin, you beastly wanker. No dice on your counter-offer. This is an exclusive of the like you'll never get whiff of again. These are our terms and they are more than reasonable; take them bending over like a good little Potter Fan Club devotee or I'll Floo Finch-Fletchly instead and you and your brother'll miss out altogether on the op."
"But—but—Justin's just an amateur!" Colin squealed, already well aware he was beat. "You can't do this to me!"
"Quit your bitching, Creevey. You know we can."
"Damn, damn, damn! Just bloody damnit! Alright!"
XVII
"Didn't you say you were going to Owl Harry, Hermione?"
"Mmm. I did."
"When?"
"Last week. Friday, to be exact."
"Well? Did you hear from him?"
Ron's nearly brand-new wife didn't look up from her notebook, where she was jotting the occasional line in red ink.
"No."
"Huh? Herm—"
"And I'm not at all surprised, either, Ron," Hermione interrupted his whine. "He's in Siberia and he's in Animagus form for a full month. He's a bad correspondent in the first place. All of which we knew. He'll only Owl if he remembers…perhaps."
"Huh," Ron huffed quietly to himself, less than half his attention on the telly. Ice hockey was no substitute for Quidditch, really, but he'd gotten used to it over the last two years—had even picked a specific team to root for and boned up on player stats. And Montreal wasn't all bad as a place to hang his fedora, especially as his Mum wasn't there to boss him around daily.
Speaking of which…
"Hermione, did you make that side wager with Zabini like I asked you to? The one for Charlie and Oliver?"
"What, the very long shot? Yes. Thirty Galleons, wasn't it?" Hermione stuck the end of her biro in between her front teeth and chewed on it meditatively, eyeing a notation on a formula. After a moment, she corrected it and moved her intent gaze to a different line.
"And the odds are?"
"Still quite long. Pansy's mildly hopeful, at least enough to do something constructive about it; Snape feels that they've been arses since Sixth Year and it's pointless to expect that to change and Ginny's going about assuring everyone who's interested it's a sure thing. Same old."
"And what's Professor McGonagall have to say, then?"
"Fifty-fifty and she won't budge off her fence. Millie Flooed yesterday and told me she wanted proof positive the plan had worked or she wasn't going to ante up a pence. Had her meager retirement funds to consider and I quote."
"Well, sure," Ron waggled his ginger eyebrows at the screen, watching the tiny players circle, circle, snag the puck and then lose it again. The telly people said 'Boo!'
"I would, if I were in her position. I mean—I do. It's not like we've money to throw away."
"Mmm."
"Be nice to know what Harry's thinking, though," Ron said thoughtfully after another quiet few minutes had ticked away. A tinny roar of approval sounded from the Muggle television as Vancouver finally scored. Ron raised his beer in lagging, half-hearted salute. "Make it a lot easier to call this one."
"That's cheating."
"Yeah? So? We're his friends, Hermione. Gotta use whatever advantage we've got, eh?"
"Hum…Fine. I'll Owl Harry again, just in case, Ron, but don't expect anything. He's not going to tell us first even if something were to actually happen—you know that. You'll be the very last one to know, likely."
"Sodding Malfoy," Ron frowned and drained his beer, crushing the can for recycling just as his wife had asked him to do. He looked only mildly murderous. "Of all the blokes for Harry to be fixated on, it had to be a pillock like him."
"Mmm-hmm. And it's not as though we didn't see this coming a long time ago, Ron, so stuff it. Harry can fixate on whomever he wants and you can just lump it."
"'S'not even that, Hermione—come on!" Ron leaned far forward enough to snag another brew from the conveniently charmed-to-stay-cold six-pack resting on the coffee table. "It's not personal anymore—it's just that the blighter's so bloody difficult. Harry doesn't need all this angst-schmangsty crap over and over again. Gets old."
"Huh. Really."
With one final note in flourishing red ink, Hermione slammed her looseleaf shut and laid it aside, along with the neatly capped Muggle pen. She sat back in her matching faux leather lounge chair and waved her wand at the low-slung glass table positioned before them.
"Accio can. I knew you'd say that, Ronald. You're a broken record when it comes to Draco and he's so much better now than he was. Give him a chance."
"No—no, Hermione. S'not that—I told you." Ron waved his wand and muted the tiny screaming people on the beer commercial. "Malfoy's alright, I suppose. At least he's not got shite for brains and he's not looking for a payoff—better than that Goldstein fellow who outed Harry for the Prophet. It's just that it's not our plan, that's all. I don't think it's got a snowflake's chance in Hades of working—they just don't know Harry like we do."
"Professor McGonagall bought into this one, Ron—not just Snape. First time that's happened in ages. And Slyths are known for their scheming, I believe, and proud of it. Besides, I happen to think Pansy's on to something good here. Plus, the opportunity to set it up practically fell into their laps—it's like Fate finally wants it to happen… this time."
A violently red brow went up skeptically and Ronald Weasley turned his flaming head away from the flashing screen and gave his wife of three months a long, calculating stare.
"You bet against me, didn't you? Me and the dorm? How much, Hermione?"
Hermione Weasley neè Granger flushed ever so faintly at the accusation and took a sip of her Canadian brewski. It wasn't her preferred butterbeer by a long shot, but in Rome, well…
"Fifty Galleons. And I'm hardly the only one, Ron," she protested. "Neville did, too!"
"That tosser! Jeez! A little grudging help in NEWT-level Potions from Malfoy and he's bloody rolling over for life!"
"Ronald! It's not like any of us Gryffindors have managed to do better—have we?"
"…Point."
"Right, then."
"Well…Owl Harry again. Maybe he'll have remembered to take a quill and some parchment with him this time, the sod."
"Merlin, yes. We can only hope."
XVIII
Two days left—just two days. Harry battened down his heart and closed his ears to the internal dialogue that had raged in his head for what seemed like forever and just felt.
It was brilliant.
He hadn't even imagined Malfoy—Draco—could be so very loving. And no, there was no other word for it. All the intent stares, the constant glances, the attention, the unexpected touches to his ears and ruff and flanks—even hours spent meticulously grooming Harry's paws till they were satiny smooth, nails neatly trimmed and gleaming. It was a sensual pleasure he couldn't wrap words around, having Draco Malfoy worship his body: every inch, it seemed, was of interest, every line flowing into every other and Draco following them all with that raspy tongue, those velveted paws. And in this form, at least, Harry was perfect—no hideous scars, no flaws to repel such a fastidious man as Malfoy, no sullen reminders of his turbulent past or his uncomfortable present. There was nothing between them to ruin it. There was no 'Harry Potter', really…that's what he was trying to tell himself. No 'Harry'.
Just an animal, a beautiful wild animal. Just a faceless, nameless Wizard who it seemed an Animagus Malfoy happened to desire.
And that was enough. It had to be, just as the entire interlude would be enough. Malfoy would never realize it was Potter he was shagging if Harry had anything to say about it; never know, and thus never be disappointed, and that way Harry would have something good to remember later.
Forty-two hours left. He didn't much want to bother with sleeping—didn't want to hunt; he begrudged the time wasted on necessary activities, except that perversely he enjoyed them. Much better to have a partner, someone close by his side who seemed to instinctively read his every move and gesture. Life was good indeed…when it was shared.
Thirty-six hours. Harry shivered and thrust his silent count-down to the very back of his mind. There wasn't much sensible occupying it at the moment, what with Draco buried in him, grunting and purring, and the drag on his insides as he was pummeled into bonelessness. Harry tried to get his arse up higher on shaky hindquarters to take full advantage of the seeing-to Malfoy was giving him. Tried to not think about how many more times they could manage this before they had to go.
Twenty-seven hours and the insatiable hunger was satisfied, at least for the moment. He panted and pulled out, flaccid, flopping down heavily at Draco's side, and proceeded to lick Draco's fur back into submission, soothing saliva over the minute scratches on those exquisite stripes, that silky hide, those singularly lovely tufts that perked up from Draco's pointed ears. They hadn't budged an inch from his cave since arriving back late yesterday, having completed the full tour of the western leg of their perimeter. No other Amur tigers had been sighted; there was no but them for miles. The females in estrus must have found other, more willing males of the species, perhaps deep in the south or the east, or gone without this year—Harry didn't care.
Didn't care, didn't care. Twenty-four hours and then he'd have to sort out a way to distract his temporary lover, scare up his wand and his pack and his Portkey and leave all this winter wonderland well behind.
Twenty-three hours, and Harry Potter twitched restlessly in his sleep.