With Lust's Blood Be Spotted

Harry was able to keep the worst of his anguish contained, whittled to a manageable size by carving off bits of it throughout the afternoon and feeding the scraps to the pet abomination within him. It felt as if pieces of his soul inadvertently went with some of them. Though, Harry found this collateral damage acceptable. The less of it he retained, the easier it would be to do what he had to do. He had not named the beast, but he visualized it. His revenge looked much as he remembered himself from the mirror in the Shack; but somehow more monstrous, less human despite its form being far more anthropomorphic than a typical werewolf.

Hermione did not return. He wondered if he had frightened her or if she was simply distracted by her new puzzle and had forgotten about him. More than likely it was the latter. It made Harry sad. Not that she had neglected him but that he found he didn't really mind that she had. Of course, it was equally possible she simply expected him to be sleeping and then to hunt and would find him later.

He managed to floo to Severus' quarters that evening without encountering Remus on his way downstairs. This wasn't an accident, but Harry was relieved nonetheless. He hadn't meant to linger in the rooms he'd shared with Severus for the past few years, either, but he couldn't seem to help himself. The newly familiar scents clouded his senses and invoked a heady rush of memories. His longing to descend the spiral steps to the lab was almost a physical thing, tugging at his feet like a stiff current, urging him toward the man whose perfume clung to every surface in the room.

Harry resisted, though still paused for a moment to listen to the muted sounds of earnest conversation stumbling up the stairwell as Severus and Hermione discussed the project at hand. Harry closed his eyes, not searching for the words, simply enjoying hearing them spoken. The tone Severus adopted when he explained his craft to those he considered peers was almost musical. There was a sober enthusiasm in it that seemed to stroke the listener, arousing a similar passion whether they truly understood the subject matter or not. He was in no way pedantic when he did this, simply knowledgeable and in his element. If only he could learn to adopt that same tone when speaking to his students, he might find them more receptive. No doubt he found an apt pupil in Hermione, who seemed to be posing an intelligent and insightful question even then.

And then the conversation paused. Harry imagined Severus had sensed his presence in the sitting room. Quickly but reluctantly, Harry seized the floo powder and continued on to Severus' office, and from there made his way out to the forest.

Harry found he was still in love with the outdoors. Troubled though he was, he was not yet inured to its magic. He allowed it to soothe him, concentrating on 'here' and 'now' by separating and cataloguing each scent and sound. He had not penetrated very far into the trees, was still working on his mental tally, when Cobbleshot appeared as if from thin air and fell into step beside him. It was a long while, filled only with the carefully noted crunch of leaves and snap of twigs, before either of them spoke.

"Do you live here?" Harry asked finally, eyes closed, half-preoccupied with determining the direction from which he scented a nearby, as of yet unidentified animal. Cobbleshot simply gave a short laugh.

"I hear there is still trouble in paradise," she said instead. Harry gave up on locating the mystery creature, opened his eyes, and stared stone-faced at Cobbleshot, wondering just how much she knew and how she came to know it. Her expression, though, was equally difficult to read. "Better you're here with me, anyway, Lovely," she said, once again striding forward with Harry following hesitantly. "You won't be singing lullabies to our enemies," she sneered. "It's time someone showed you how real vampires hunt."

Harry didn't answer straight away. He regarded her quietly. She seemed so offended by Severus' methods, and he couldn't imagine why she was so bothered, why it mattered one way or the other. "Why are you always so critical of Severus?" he asked mildly. She didn't slow or turn to him, making it even harder for Harry to interpret her answer.

"Severus is formidable in his own right, when he wishes to be," she admitted. "He held his own against you on the Dark. That was no small feat. You are far stronger than any mere vampire, Harry," she said, stopping abruptly to give him a brief, appraising look before continuing on. "Or any werewolf, for that matter," she said in the casual tone of someone too familiar with such things. "He should have allowed me to help then. But no doubt he did not want to share the intimacy, even if it would have meant sharing the scars, as well. Not that I blame him, really," she added slyly, looking at Harry lingeringly from the corner of her eye. He was growing used to this, however, and ignored it. "Have you told them yet?" she asked, as if intrigued by his lack of response. "What it is you plan?"

Harry didn't answer. She knew he hadn't. Wouldn't. She stopped and turned to him, blocking his path.

"Then what else will you have when you go to do the bloody deed, hmm? We should make ourselves more...familiar," she said with a slow half-smile. Harry's non-expression didn't change. She couldn't be serious. It was just more compulsive flirting. Still, he looked at her closely.

The years had not been kind to the woman. But traces of the beauty Severus had fallen in love with, both in her appearance and her manner, were still evident. Harry could see lingering hints of gold in the dull straw-yellow of her hair and the fineness of the bone structure beneath her thin, pale skin; which was etched deeply in places, but also contoured completely in hair-fine wrinkles. Madness was carved permanently in crow's feet at both the outer and inner corners of her eyes, making even her most benign expression disquieting. But those eyes were still finely shaped and were the muted beryl-blue of a stormy sea, just as Severus had described; as if they were not eyes at all but windows through which to glimpse the tempest that roiled within her; enchanting, even if that storm made them dance in a way that unsettled.

He saw, too, that her madness was simply a veneer for her bitterness, like Severus' stony cynicism; sincere but superficial. Unlike Severus' sardonics, though, which veiled a reluctant stoicism, hers masked a restless discontent, an aggressive disregard. Her whims were only mad on the surface, and Harry was slowly realizing the woman's impulses were far less arbitrary than meets the eye. This woman thirsted for more than just blood; though for what, he wasn't yet sure.

Though her charm was soured, turned sinister by acrimony like vinegar in cream, Harry saw very clearly the wit and vivacity that had drawn Severus to her a lifetime ago. And he saw even more clearly what it had become, and how the contrast would most understandably have driven Severus to defy his sworn lord. What a fine tragedy she was, what an immaculate disaster. Too unnerving to embrace, too fascinating to ignore; like a flower whose fragrance was so heady it had to be appreciated from a distance or else one would be sickened by it.

And this is what he'd thrown himself in with, he reflected with a turn of his stomach; forsaking the unlikely but sublime and undeniable love of two extraordinary men to chase the base impulse for vengeance.

But this woman...this woman made the choice seem not mad but obvious. Inevitable. As Harry looked at her, it was as if he saw so much more than an arrangement of bones and flesh and sinew bound in weathered, lily-white skin. She had an aura of persuasion, almost of seduction. Harry identified his own terminal discontent in her crooked smile and in the crazed gleam of her eye. She somehow managed to make damnation tempting, to make savagery a siren song. They were the same virtues that had perfected this creature that she was; this thing that, despite himself, Harry could neither hate nor dismiss.

He saw then, as well, that her flirtations were not hollow. She threw them at him carelessly not because they were insincere, but because they were inexhaustible and her patience was deep. For the first time that night, her unabashed gaze made him uncomfortable. Though really, it had only been a matter of time. "What about your feelings for Severus?" he asked, judgment gently creasing his brow.

Her expression soured but recovered so quickly Harry might have missed it entirely if he hadn't been so actively observant at the time. "My feelings for Severus?" she asked as if baffled by the insinuation.

Harry smirked. Now she was just being obvious. "You were close before," he pointed out. "Have been ever since you came out of hiding. I can tell you care about him still." She met the accusation with a slightly incredulous look but with also discomfort. "You seem awfully fickle," he pressed further, "pursuing him one day and then tossing him aside the next, whenever and as often as it suits you." In fact, Harry hadn't realized it until just then, but it seemed he'd been harboring some resentment for the woman over that; had been helping in hating her by it since Severus had recounted their story for him so long ago. And suddenly his own hypocrisy burned like swallowed acid.

"Fickle?" she scoffed, bitterly amused. "Me? What has he been telling you?" she muttered with a shake of her head, turning and continuing on into the trees.

"You ran off," Harry reminded her, jogging to keep up. "You left him behind." Much as Harry was doing now. He still felt critical of them, but perhaps if she could satisfactorily explain her actions, it would help him to forgive his own.

"I tried to kill the Dark Lord, Harry," she said, sounding bored. "Tried to tear out his jugular with my teeth. What choice do you suppose I had in leaving? Severus would not come with me," she added. Her voice was still dismissive, but her expression was momentarily sad. "One can hardly blame him," she shrugged, as if trying to convince herself, as much as Harry, that she was not bothered by it. "But no. It was not me who stopped loving him," she said, voice flat, suddenly stopping and staring down at the skeletal leaves at her feet without seeing them, as if all emotion had suddenly vanished from her. "It was him who stopped loving me. When the China Doll broke," she said, looking back up at Harry with an expression of mild, well-matured cynicism, "he mourned its lost loveliness rather than trying to piece it back together. He preferred to grieve for us instead. Our love was cold long before we managed to stumble our way back to The Dark Lord; murdered and wept for, all for a madman's ambition. And not even a serious ambition at that. Did you think I tried to kill the bastard simply because my diet and sleeping habits changed?" she said with a small mirthless chuckle. "You might have noticed, I don't lament what I am, unlike your eternally tortured bedfellows."

Harry wasn't sure what to say to that revelation-wasn't sure, even, how he felt about it-and so he simply remained silent. She was still for a long while, clearly lost in memories, and Harry didn't dare disturb them. "Severus was gentler, you understand," she said softly, almost anxiously; remembering. "Had always been, though most could never see it. Most never bothered to look. When they turned us loose in the woods after the deed was done, we had only ourselves to see us through the Madness. But it almost defeated Severus. And I spent so much of myself in helping him fight, I did not save enough of me to quite win my own battle. And apparently, whatever Severus loved most about me was lost to it. I admit, I am broken, Harry. We all are, really. But you're different," she said after a quiet moment, giving Harry a gently scrutinizing look, as if the reason for it might be tattooed somewhere on his person. "The Madness damaged but didn't shatter you."

Harry couldn't help wondering what she saw, and if she resented him for possessing whatever had allowed him to emerge more intact. She had a will to match his and more. But Harry knew, as he suspected she did too, that he commanded no special strength; that it had been Severus who had saved him...and failed her. Though she seemed to have no intention of acknowledging it.

"Could be that you're just too simple to shatter," she concluded with a shrug. "Oh, don't give me that look," she said, her melancholy falling away to be replaced by deranged irreverence once again. She continued walking, as if leaving her pain on the forest floor behind her. "Lucky for you to be so sturdy. Fewer intricacies, fewer things to snap. Besides, there's a beauty in simple things," she went on, "and only the beautiful can get away with being damaged, Harry. And even then, only if the cracks are superficial; otherwise you stop being beautiful." She smiled in a wry, darkly musing way. "It's always been funny to me how so many can laud the poem that exalts the aesthetic of a person's jagged edges, but so few are willing to risk cutting themselves on the actual pieces. People want to read about broken individuals, Harry," she confided with a smirk. "They don't really want to know any."

Harry was slightly shaken. She'd never spoken to him so intelligibly or for so long in all the time he'd known her. She was still odd, still off-putting, but he was coming to understand the origins of it. Her fractured coherence was becoming more comprehensible. "That isn't true," he argued still, but gently. "I fell in love with Severus. Because he was broken."

"Like I said, you are simple," she shrugged. "Oh, I'm only teasing," she added in response to his scowl. But it wasn't the gibe that galled him. "But look at how long that lasted, Lovely. Only four years and you're already running into the arms of someone more whole. But don't feel bad. It isn't easy to love something so damaged. You were cut," she said understandingly, "and it bled you slowly. You'll understand soon enough. Your cracks widen daily. Soon you'll be the one doing the cutting...But then," she said, stopping to regard him thoughtfully, knowingly, "you know that already. That's why you're leaving. That's why we chase your vengeance instead of setting up house, despite how it will hurt him. It would never have worked anyway, you know," she said, waving away the notion like a pesky gnat. "Your bond with the wolf eats at Severus. Best to leave him to figure out why you forged it and let him forge one of his own. They will be good for one another," she reasoned, nodding to herself. "It is as it should be."

"And you suppose you're good for me?" Harry asked skeptically.

"Oh heavens, no!" she said, a bit of her unpredictable, crazed mirth returning. "I'm going to get you killed. But we both know that's what you really want anyway, Lovely. Though before it's managed, we'll send some of the bastards to Hell ahead of us. It will be glorious," she finished with disturbing relish.

She turned and carried on walking, but Harry did not move to follow. If she noticed, she didn't seem to care. "Why are you doing this?" he asked softly. It occurred to him that Voldemort might not be the only one she blamed for her heartache. Perhaps this was her revenge on Severus: dragging his lover off on a suicide mission, misleadingly under the guise of a quest for retribution. Finally she paused and turned back to him, seeming weary of his continued objections. "Why help me? Why come with me? This was done to me, not to you. Your demon is dead," he said, suspicion tinting his voice.

She was quiet for a long while, a number of emotions clearly fighting for supremacy within her. "That is why," she said finally. There was flint in it. "What else do you suppose sustained me? Let me carve out a life in the wilderness at the edges of the Coven? Life here is easier," she conceded, "but you extinguished my fire, Harry." She sighed, as if she mourned it. "Don't get me wrong, I thank you for it," she rushed to add. "But I lived only to see the fiend die, and now that he has, I don't see much point to me any longer," she shrugged. "I don't intend to simply fade away, though," she said, almost combatively, as if Harry has suggested otherwise. "After a lifetime thirsting for revenge, I'd rather taste some worthy of my sacrifice before I go. I prefer to go out fighting. And yet again, you've offered me my salvation, My Lovely," she said more softly, turning to him with a lascivious smile as if only just remembering her interest; as if that interest was predicated on this opportunity he presented; a concept he found he understood more clearly with each passing moment. "This is a fight worth dying for," she said, sidling closer but not reaching out with anything more than her bright, hungry gaze, "a challenge worth accepting. I happen to think they perfected you," she said, giving him a long, approving look. "But I'm more than familiar with the betrayal you must feel. You were robbed of life hard-won and well-deserved. And for that," she said, her seduction hardening to something more sinister but equally ardent, "we'll make the bastards pay," she whispered through clenched teeth. The intensity in her look forced Harry to step back involuntarily, but it didn't abate, even as he moved further and further away. "Now. Do you remember how to call the Beast, Lovely? Or do I have to punch you again?"

Harry didn't answer. He accepted her explanation, but he was still overwhelmed by it and by the sudden realness of the situation; the settling in his mind of the realization that this was happening. He was learning, practicing, with a purpose; a bloody, immoral, despicable purpose he now saw he had every intention of pursuing, regardless of her motivations.

She seemed to grow impatient with his lack of response and stepped toward him, her hand already fisted at her side, when Harry threw a hand up to halt her. "No, I...I think I can do it. Just give me a moment."

She nodded but didn't relax, making herself ready for his transformation, her hand going to her belt and the Aconite solution tucked there.

Harry closed his eyes. He easily found the beast within him, but then he'd been concentrating on it all day and hadn't yet spontaneously sprouted fur. He imagined the way that felt, remembered as clearly as possible the itch and tingle. With slightly more reluctance, he brought to mind the pain of breaking bones and tearing flesh, but still nothing actually shifted in him.

"Remember our secret, Harry?" she asked, noticing his struggle. "Invite it to come, just like Animus Secretum. Give it permission. Or why not simply try the spell itself? What is your inner self now but the slavering thirst for vengeance?"

Harry cracked an eye to check that she was not mocking him. It was difficult to tell with her. She seemed to be suggesting it in earnest, however. Harry had not cast Animus Secretum since his scar fell dormant. She had taught them that the spell changed over time as they changed within, and Harry hadn't wanted to confront who he might be after the war. But he was familiar with the method still. He'd only ever cast it once with his wand. He knew better than most how to channel without one. Harry took a deep breath, closed his eyes again, and reached. And as she had said, instead of the shadow-wreathed sun he knew, Harry found a creature; dark and ravenous. It seemed he met it on some mental plane floating freely in the void within him, as when he had spoken to Voldemort before. He and the beast regarded one another. Then cautiously, Harry reached for the thing's collar. It bared its teeth at him, causing Harry to hesitate; but then the young man seemed to realize it had not been a threat. The creature was eager for release. Harry unfastened the tether and was instantly flooded with blinding pain.

But he had been ready for it. He'd felt it often enough before that it afforded a hardened familiarity instead of dread; the same he'd seen in Remus' expression on the Full. He had done it intentionally once already and so knew to welcome it instead of fighting it, expediting the process severalfold. He did not concentrate on any one part of it, he simply allowed it to happen all at once and as quickly as possible.

He was actually surprised at the ease of it, and by the self-possession he felt after he emerged. He and the Beast were working in accord, by permission, and Harry only felt a change in the shape of the shell that carried his consciousness, and in the understanding of how much savagery he was now capable of. He felt strong. Animalistic. Not entirely clear-headed, but enough.

Harry regarded Cobbleshot. He was relieved to find he knew her this time. Her scent offended him, but then her person offended him in human form, so the transference and management of the aversion was not beyond him. She peered into his eyes for a long moment, smiling when she recognized the man in the wolf.

"Well done, Lovely," she beamed. Her whole body was on guard, still. She took a careful step to the side, as she had done before. And then another. Harry watched her closely, but she did not circle him this time. She came to a stop at his side but several feet away. Unlike before, the movement did not unnerve him. This thing within him understood that they were allied, that she was the one helping them sate their bloodlust. "Are you ready to hunt, then, Lovely?" she asked with familiar, manic anticipation.

Harry fell forward onto his hands-his paws-and curled back his lips with a low, consenting growl. Cobbleshot's grin split even wider and, eyes dancing with crazed delight, she leapt forward. Harry tore after her, quickly adjusting to the awkward, loping, uneven gait until he was streaking through the trees at her side, finding a strange satisfaction in the way the pads of his fingers and toes spread as they struck the ground, muting the drum of his steps. He liked the way the wind slicked his fur as he ran, the way his claws clutched the dirt and helped propel him forward. It was as exhilarating as his race with Severus had been but in a much different way. It lacked joy but it more than made up for that in sheer adrenaline.

They caught scent of their prey at the same time, pivoting in tandem to follow the trail of its musk. The fragrance seemed to unlock instincts in him he could not have previously imagined. He somehow just knew how to follow the scent, anticipated where it might turn to one side or the other; did so without thought so that his concentration was free to sweep the wood before him, searching for the mighty heart that had marked this path. As vivid as smells had been to him before, now they were so distinct he could practically see them. They shone to his sense of smell like blood glowed to his night-vision.

The great stag sensed them surprisingly early, but then they were not relying on stealth at the moment, though Harry could feel himself capable of it. It bolted through the trees, changing direction several times in a truly impressive display of agility for a creature so large, but it was no match for the both of them. It's heart pumped all the harder in its attempted escape, stoking the beacon they followed effortlessly through the dark. They peeled off to either side of the animal in unspoken synchronicity, but Cobbleshot allowed Harry to make the final bound. Harry cut across the forest prince, turning his head as he passed to catch its throat in his maw, coming away with a mouth full of flesh. The part within him that was still human cringed, but that part was not in control now. The stag crashed to the ground and, in an instant, Harry had turned back to clamp his muzzle like a vise over the rent in its neck, holding the struggling stag in place as he swallowed the gushing fount of its blood.

He growled an instinctual warning to Cobbleshot as she descended on the feast soon after, but he quickly recovered himself. The woman did not flinch, looked at him almost lovingly as she bent to the dying animal as well, avoiding its still kicking legs to attach herself to a bright vein.

Though violent, the stag's death was relatively quick, and Harry lost himself in the glutting of blood until he fell away from the newly silvered carcass, still panting. At some point, he had shifted back to human form, and he hadn't even noticed. It seemed the blood had masked the pain as it flooded him with vitality, healing his muscles even as they tore.

Cobbleshot sat back on her feet and threw her head back, sated and grinning. He saw in her the same wanton fire he had seen in Severus the night before. She didn't touch him, though he could tell she sorely wanted to. He was relieved, because he was so aroused by blood himself, he might not have pushed her away.

"You may not be clever, My Lovely," she sighed happily. "But you are undoubtedly talented. I wonder how far that extends," she said,narrowing her eyes and staring pointedly where she should not be.

Harry felt his face burn. "I knew who I was," he muttered groggily as he sat up, mostly attempting to redirect her train of thought. "And I could think. It's never been like that before."

Cobbleshot nodded, seeming unsurprised as she rose to her feet. "Vampires become hyper-aware when they hunt. Laser-focused. Which is something you had yet to experience as Severus merely strolls through the wood until he runs across something to put to sleep," she said, rolling her eyes. "I suspect that grounds the Wolf. They may be enemies, but vampires and werewolves compliment each other quite well. I wonder if the Dark Lord realized the genius of combining the two when he commissioned Severus to make a hybrid, or if he simply thought it sounded novel and enjoyed testing his Potions Master," she spat bitterly. Harry thought he understood her offense. Voldemort had been arbitrary and cruel, and his mistreatment of their estranged lover was not easily forgiven, even with the bastard's death.

Harry staggered to his feet and looked down at himself with dismay to realize he was practically naked and also covered in blood. Transforming was not friendly to clothing. He made a mental note to remove it next time...and then he realized what that would mean and his cheeks colored. Cobbleshot noticed him notice and gave him a taunting smile, as if she'd been wondering when he'd get around to it. She was not shy in her appreciation, but there was nothing really to be done about it, and so Harry decided against becoming embarrassingly self-conscious. He met her gaze, pretending to be unconcerned and, as if inspired by his confidence, she moved closer.

"I like you like this," she purred. "Have you given any more thought to what I suggested earlier?" she asked coquettishly. Harry was frustrated by the constant battle against her advances. He gave her a fierce look, warning her to keep her distance. But she simply shrugged at him as if to say 'You can't blame a girl for trying.'

"I haven't left them yet," he said firmly, clarifying his scowl.

"But you will," she whispered, drawing closer despite it. He made no move to stop her; didn't trust himself, as they could both clearly see he was still affected by bloodlust. "No matter," she told him breathily, staring at his lips as she spoke. "I've waited for you long enough already. A while longer won't make a difference."

"This is about justice, Loraina," he hissed, angered at both her boldness and at his own inability any longer to completely ignore her wiles. She scoffed at the term. They both knew this was nothing so righteous as justice. "It's not about you and me. I never implied-"

"Not with your words, no, My Lovely," she interrupted, closing the distance between them. "But your eyes speak volumes. When you leave the spring behind, we'll slake each other's thirst, you and I," she said with the authority of an Oracle. "When you've outgrown sweeties and crave something more bracing, when there is nothing more delicate to sustain you, I'll put the fire in your belly." She reached out then and laid a palm on his bare stomach, spreading her fingers across it possessively without breaking eye contact. "You'll need it once your blood turns cold," she whispered in a low, dark voice. "Trust me. I've been where you're going."

Her gaze was mesmeric. Harry wasn't certain if it was a vampire trait or something unique to the woman, but he finally managed to break the spell and snatch her wrist, peeling her hand from his skin and thrusting it away from him. She still didn't back down. "Loraina. Listen to me," he said quietly but sternly. "I'm not interested. And it's not just because I don't tend to prefer your particular bits. We are never going to be...whatever it is you are trying to make us. If that means you won't help me anymore, so be it," he spat. "I'm not going to whore myself to you for a little training and a helping hand, are we clear?"

She smirked at him but eventually seemed to decide this was not the time for this battle and backed away. "Well. Seems Little Harry has finally grown his own 'bits'," she sneered. "We shall see, Lovely," she said nonchalantly, seemingly confident in her eventual victory. "We shall see."