a/n: This does not align with canon really very much. Also it's very strange, but that should be expected at this point.
Pairing: Fenrir/dark!Harry
Warnings: violence, weirdness, sex.


Supposing the scene should be set, Harry would describe her night like this: the Shrieking Shack threaded through with green lights, shredded clothing, torn flesh and fresh blood coloring the dusty floorboards like spilled punch. It's a party, all right, a wild one. Someone has seduced Harry into this revolting trade—biting, tearing, retching. A cycle that makes her life spitefully spent. She drags herself from an overturned sofa, its cover plastic melted in places and stretched with bite marks. Next to it, a man lies on his back with his eyes on the ceiling. He's breathing raggedly, clutching at a wound on his neck, but not dead.

"You are disgusting," the man on the floor tells her.

"I know," she says quietly. I know very well.

"To think you would turn out like this," he says, and there's an edge of finality to it. Like he's closing the curtain on her life story. It ends with a cruel act. His words burn.

"It's not like I wanted it to end this way!" she hisses, and the man on the floor scoffs between shallow breaths.

"Yet here you are, doing his work."


He wore plaid flannel and he smelt like mothballs. His hair shot from his scalp like goose-wings on either side of his head–it was gray, and his whole body was gray. His belly was round, full of god knows what, his voice hungry and soft as he spoke to her.

"Welcome to the pack."

Did he mean it sardonically? Surely he wouldn't. It was his pride and joy.

Her hands crumpled into fists in her robes. They were wet with someone else's blood. She didn't know whose.

"Am I?"

"What do you mean 'are you'?"

"Welcome?"

"Of course."


There is a pecking order, she should have known, and she dedicates her first few weeks in the underground bunker to sniffing it out; the few women who live there are unscrupulous, careless and greying with premature age. She can't say much for herself because she sees a rapidly changing demeanor and the creature inside her stirs more strongly with impulse every day. It hurts to think too hard about her other life, it hurts to think much at all, and here is her new home, of wonders and horrors denied to principled mankind.

He sends her an owl–(how inappropriate it seems, but he was human once, or a wizard, and it would be unseemly to communicate otherwise). The message simply says see me.

"Glad you came," he says from his doorway. His bedroom, a dingy affair with an ancient mattress and box-spring directly on the dirty wood floor, has that scent of mothballs too. His shirt hangs open, his gut spilling over his trousers and thick gray hairs dusting his chest and stomach. He's unabashed, however, and walks toward her easily, gathering her with an arm around her shoulder like an ordinary human man. His breath, hot on her cheek, intimates that he might have brushed his teeth for the occasion. Who knows, he shits in a hole.

"You have to know how bad I want you," he says. "Not just as a comrade..."

"I know," she says quietly.

He seeks her mouth out with his own, harsh and prickly from his beard. Her tongue runs over his teeth. They part with a slick sound.

They fuck on his mattress. Afterward, her back hurts and she wonders if they have any medicinal potions around. If anyone still retains that shred of humanity.

There's a cupboard next to his bed. A vial of candy-colored potion sings to her. She chugs it quickly and tosses the vial on him, looking down at him while he sleeps.

She has other things to do.


The man on the floor is eventually able to stagger up and retrieve his wand. She sits on a chunk of yellow, blistered ottoman, looking out at the waning moon.

"I'm pleased that you were able to come to your senses," he says, breathily, "but there will be consequences to your actions."

"I know," she says.


Three guesses as to who the man on the floor is.