Silver Claws and Cat Tails

Abby Ebon

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Disclaimer; I do not own Harry Potter. I do not own X-Men.

Note; amusingly, I am seeing a pattern with what I write and what I've long ago read. I was thinking of the Xander/Spike fan fiction "Irony" by LitGal, where in Xander is captured by the Initiative and later caged up with Spike. Great fun, that story, very dear to my heart. … thanks goes to L'autre Monde for the new summery!

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Creatures-Of-Magic-May-Be-Flying-By

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"You're sure this is the place?" A soft voice whispered above the wind, to either side of her wings rose and fell with silent grace. There was little sound; anything that might have escaped was muffled in the rolling fog that swirled about them. If anything, the weather only aided them, for they did not need to see to know where they were going.

"Yes, little witch, we are quite sure. We will wait for your signal to appear." There was a feeling of going downward, though the only truth was that when they landed she no longer felt the muscular torso tense and relax with the rhythm of wing beats.

Arms unwound from behind her as she felt the weight of the silent being that had road with her slip to the ground at a crouch. Wary eyes took in the sight of the land, a tongue wetted plump lips, but Hermione only relaxed fully when the slender woman straitened, presenting a hand to her to ease her own way off.

"Take care, the air is wary." Those hoarse words would not have made since to someone who did not know the truth of what the fair skinned woman was in truth, a wisps of hair fluttered, caught by the wind, which seemed to play with the strands. Rather then be annoyed at the little air mischief makers, she was amused. It was the first time Hermione had seen her smile.

"I will be careful, but your sure Harry is here?" Hermione twisted her hands nervously together, only then looking to the lighted cabins, clustered together. It did not seem like such a nice place. The great head of a serpent rose to take in the sight, nostrils inhaled the moist air, and then a great silvery eye that reflected her and the mist that hung about looked at her.

"He was - if he is not anymore, he will be again." Hermione gave him a small smile, for he had been kind to her – riding over the air gently and taking care not to jar her. The woman, lovely and strange in her own way, patted Hermione's arm gently – as if to offer comfort, even as her scantly clad body pressed against hers offering warmth in touch, before she skittishly clambered up on the winged serpent like a child.

"Thank you both!" Hermione cried out, waving as they climbed into the air easily – as if tossed, she only knew that they had heard her when the cry of the woman echoed back to her, howling through the sky like the wind, a true banshees scream of delight. There would likely be battle, she had every right to be eager for what her kind and the winged snakes had often hungered for.

In the old tales of fairy that she had read as a child, forgotten mostly by wizards and witches – but never by mortals – there had been the legends of the fabled Wild Hunt, a whisper of the ancient fear of the dark. She had rode on the backs of the last ruminates of the ruined Wild Hunt; she would not soon forget that Harry had been trained in "the art of war" with them.

For their kind, it truly was an art.

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

Harry had never had a phobia before. Oh, sure, he was afraid of a few things. Yet, until now, there had been nothing as bad that he froze with a memory from it. He'd known before he was caged and put on display for a sadist scientist, but, he could have counted – if he so desired – the number of times he had ever been injected by a needle, or had had some blood taken. It had been a very nice nonexistent number.

He imagined by the time he left this third-step-to-hell known as "torturing 101" he wouldn't be able to keep count of how many times he had seen a needle, let alone have it dig beneath his skin sniffing for a vain. He hated the doctors, but he hated them at least in a way he could understand. Harry would kill them if he was given half a chance. It was what they used so casually that gave him chills.

In some part of his mind he couldn't dismiss that it was the doctors that had him captive, but the needles that tortured him. With that glimpse of a cylinder tube with its hollow needle sharp end, came the chills, his skin pricking up as if he was suddenly cold, then he'd feel sick and oddly weak, then his chest got tight. Only about then had he realized that he was panicking, that he was past reason and logic or attacking and defending. He only wanted to get away.

He only wanted to be left alone.

It would have been too easy if that had been all it took. They didn't give him a choice in the matter; instead gas rolled out of the vents, the last thing Harry saw was the white coats smug smirk.

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

Logan woke to his headache –as if something was clawing its way out of his head, and words the tugged him to consciousness. He had never been let awake before when they took them from the cages to do their tests. He knew he wasn't supposed to be awake when he saw the pitiful restraints they'd put on him as a precaution.

"It's all very… interesting..." A voice Logan hadn't heard before mused. It worried him, that he did not know how many people were responsible for his capture. He didn't like it. Not knowing how many he might have to deal with to drag his sorry ass out of this mess if there were too many. He couldn't count on help. He didn't know where he was. If he ran, guilt would eat at him if he didn't take the kid they'd thrown in with him.

"What is?" This voice, at least, was somewhat familiar – and loathed. It was the man who taunted him. Who's mocking and sarcastic ways grated on Logan as if the words warped past flesh and blood to clash against the metal frame work of his body; it was a voice well hated - one which he would never forget.

"The boys blood, like nothing I've ever seen…" There was a sick awe to be heard, as if the man couldn't wait to scrape off the flesh and well up the blood, likely he wouldn't be content with even that. He'd be the sort to want to know the how and whys. He'd cut up a living screaming thing, if only to see how it breathed. He wanted to do that to a kid. Logan thought he might be sick.

"He's only a mutant." Lectured the man, hissing the words, he had heard the hint of awe. That bit of curiosity. Logan for the first time was grateful to his tormenter; he was a possessive a-rate asshole – who, though he didn't know it – might save them with his ill tempered and clinging ways. If all Logan had to put up with were prissy comments and threats, well, he thought he and the boy might survive this without a scalping or unnecessary surgery or two.

"I don't think that is all he is – or all he could be." The other argued he hushed the room; no one spoke as the mulled over the possibilities. Logan wanted to pummel the kid. It hinged now on their regular captor; goading them on like this. Logan didn't know why he wanted to protect the boy – he didn't even know him, really, but there was something Logan felt was familiar.

He'd gotten a familiar scent off the boy – he hadn't had time to place it before their tormenter had strutted in. He had smelt like a cat, sunlight and grass – but there had been something of the night as well, natural like. It was a strange scent to be sure. He could understand the uniqueness of the kid, if it came down only to that bare fact. It didn't of course; there was something else to him. Something…

"Quit your yammering… there is still work to be done." Snarled the tormenter; funny, really, that Logan didn't know his name – didn't know any of their names, but would know their scent in his sleep. That bit of personal scent would be their deaths if they came close again while he wasn't drugged up to his eyeballs with his sense of smell acting as if it could be in fifty different places as once. Confusing drugs, these new ones, still, that scent off the boy tugged at him…he knew it. Knew it like he knew the mansion, like little Rogue who'd gone off with Pyro when the Swamp Rat…!

Remy! The boy knew Remy! He'd bet that this was the boy Remy had been crushin' on, bet it with his smokes and his beer. What, though, was he doing out here? Remy wouldn't have let him wander about all alone; he'd fight for that kid. That meant one of two things – Remy was here, or Remy was…was getting help. Maybe. Could be a false hope, but it was, at least – hope. There was a reason to fight the drugs and these dicks after all. A damned good one, too – even if it was for Remy...

"Sir, I think this one is waking up…!" Logan could have cursed himself; he heard the nervous one that smelt of sweat and too much junk food. Like a nervous little rat. There was no use hiding that he was awake now, he opened his eyes – and wished he hadn't. He had wondered why they'd been leaving him alone – he had an answer now.

Remy, they had tubes and shit hooked up to the kid, laid him out like a damned lap rat – arms and legs spread away from his torso, only a shitty little pair of blue boxers that Logan knew Remy would never ware of his own free will.

They'd stripped him, only to dress him up again. At least they had that much decency. They had cut his chest open, like he was dead. Logan worried for a moment, then, that maybe they had killed Remy. He held his breath then, only letting it out slow like when Logan saw Remy take a breath; shuddering like it hurt as he did so.

"Can't have that, can we Wolverine?" Purred the sadistic asshole, pleased like, as if he had planned to bring Logan's hopes up like this then rip them down- to give him that much credit, well, Logan couldn't do that. It couldn't be true that he'd been manipulated like that. Only Jean and the Professor could scrap a little at his surface thoughts, the rest was buried; for sure no tweedy scientist could do something like that.

"Sick fuck…." Logan growled, showing his teeth in a manner that was less then friendly. Logan saw the rage in those cold eyes creep up, like ice frosting on the window. There was no fire in this man, only the slow sort of rage that rotted inside as easily as it lashed outward. There was no escaping death in those eyes, you could only hope to outlive him – and then you might stand a chance.

"We'll see who will be fucking what, soon enough…." Hissed the man, his cold eyes narrowing in deep loathing, he apparently didn't like being called names. Bad luck, that, given that his chosen career was as an inflictor of pain.

Then he moved, fingers tapping against a glass tube, the movement on purpose. The liquid like substance within – it was familiar – it had been created in the last lab Logan had spent a few unwilling weeks in. It looked like amber piss. It wasn't though; it would smell like burnt sulfur.

It was made special for him too, made because of a sick curiosity of how similar animals were to animal like mutations. They'd got an answer, though Logan would do anything to have resisted.

It stole control, made him want things he didn't often desire with just anyone. It would make him want to fuck, just as the asshole had said. There was a movement, he took it in – they were injecting him with a sleeping agent – but not before they let him see the tube connected to the line that would pour the shit into his blood and flesh. He felt sick.

He was being used so these sick fucks could get their jollies on, and compare notes about "sub-mutant animal mating habits" – fuck, he almost wished they'd killed the kid…

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

Sabertooth left bloody treks in the snow. He couldn't slow down though – couldn't even cover them up – he had to get to the camp and tell Megaton it'd all gone so damned wrong that he was lucky to be alive. He wouldn't be, he knew, if they had thought they hadn't killed him with a shot. He'd be a lab rat just like Remy and Harry, that wasn't the sort of fate Sabertooth would wish on even the worst of his enemies.

As it was, he was having doubts to his own survival. It was bloody cold, and that was the problem – his blood, warm and free flowing, and the icy cold of the snowy mountains. It would be better the sooner he got down to the valley. He had to keep telling himself that, or else he might stop – might give up and lay down to rest.

It was the sort of rest you didn't get up from, Sabortooth knew that damned well – it was what kept him going. Kept him walking, one step at a time – if he stumbled and fell – he had to get back up. He always said he was a survivor. Always said he'd outlive that damned Logan; couldn't do that if he was in the grave.

His feet dragged, his breathing was hard. It hurt. Like little pricks of ice was digging up viciously under his flesh, chilling the blood and cutting him up inside as he walked and his heart pounded – what kept him alive was killing him that was one of the harsher ironies. He'd freeze to death soon; he was dying as he walked, a little at a time. Logan, that ass, could survive this. He'd come back from it even if it took till the world thawed as the sky turned hellish red with a dying sun.

That anger helped. He had a goal. He could reach it. He would. There was no choice – no middle ground. He had to live. Had to survive, just till he reached the valley where the cabins were. Just till he could call Magneto, tell him that something big had gone wrong. Somehow, his plans had unraveled – that didn't happen by chance – someone had spilled. Someone had wanted Magneto handicapped.

There was a traitor in the ranks; someone other then the kids who hadn't known shit until they came here. It was something almost unthinkable, but it had happened – had been planned. He had to live – if only to get revenge.

He only wished who could have done it, could have hunted that rat down and ripped the flesh away by bits – just as the lab boys were doing to the people he had been responsible for even now – dying slower then Sabertooth. That was no way to go. He had to live, if only to get help.

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"Someone dies beneath our wings; his mind is bloody for revenge – survival – the hunt." A voice that echoed in the bones mused then, it would have terrified a lesser being, which had not grown up with voices of ancient likeness whispering lullabies and soothing hurts with bloody joy of the hunt.

She did not shiver in the cold, for to her and her companion, this was only another challenge to overcome. She should have been cold, for her clothing was sparse – only leather wrap about her chest and hips. Her companion had scales, though those were warm with an inner fire.

"He is worthy of us." She answered the not quite question, though no one would have heard it as it had been phrased. There is one like us, do we save him? Was its translation, though her kin and kith had learned long ago that the sky weavers did not speak nearly so simply of things…most especially not of choices.

To them – well, even she was mortal, for they had lived since times forgotten by the fairy – these were ancient gods, lessened only a little with the passing of time. How her people had gained such loyalty, they did not know – all the same they were forever grateful.

Still, it had puzzled her people, when a mortal child had come to the sky weavers and asked for training he could not likely survive. They had been dazed when the child had been taken in by their companions and treated as a lost hatchling of their own ancient nature. It had taken time, but that child had gained even her peoples trust. There was something about him that they could not deny.

Now he was lost. Now he might die. She had seen him survive too much to die so easily. Maybe it was a false feeling, but this one the sky weaver spoke of could know something – and, well, if he did not, her kin and kith would have use for him nonetheless.

"As you claim, so it shall be." She could not help but tense, hearing that voice speak after so long a silence – as if her very thoughts had been understood. She said nothing, merely tensing her thighs as she felt the dip in movement that signaled a spiral landing. They would save this one, and perhaps learn what had become of her little brother…

She was Grwy of the Wild Hunt, companion to the sky rider Wyrd. She would keep her word to the little witch, the life of her brother depended on it – she would not fail. For the wild magic the Wild Hunt sung with had its own nature – it could being back the dead, and keep them as ever living as her own people.

If it came to that, there would be no questions.

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

Hermione heard voices – she cling to hope, that these people would know Harry, even as she felt fear settle in her belly. There would be questions, how she had gotten here – well – not even she truly knew, save by air. She took a calming breath, reminded of the beings that lingered in the darkness around her – those of the ancient and feared Wild Hunt – teachers to Harry.

He had never really said what they were, when he came back – no one had asked. They had been magical creatures, and the magical community was ignorant enough to think he had only relearned what they already enough, arrogant enough to believe that they were more powerful then magical beings Harry had learned a few tricks from.

It tore at her that she had not thought to ask anymore then that. There had been a war, surly enough, but that was not reason to ask no questions afterward. To only accept. Hermione felt her heart shudder, and her eyes felt misty. She blinked, looking upward to the starry sky. It seemed bright – alive, as if the Wild Hunt stirred life to even things far flung.

It was time to act. She raised her hand; wand raised level to the door, and spoke but one word. It was enough.

"Alohomora…"

The door flung open, the voices had ceased.

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Note; there are only going to be three more chapters to this story. Then, well, I'm pausing while my nattering bunnies calm themselves long enough not to spew out something a little more understandable…

Yay! Harry/Logan sex in next chapter (maybe)! We will also find out what happened to Harry, what is going to happen to Sabortooth (I mean, he's not gonna take being saved by a girl laying down, right?) and how exactly the Brotherhood will react to finding a witch looking for their Harry. I mean, if they mistook her for a foe, well, all the more fun, huh? We will also finally find out who the hell Remy and Harry got caught for (what, did you think it was Logan?) and what they've done to MY Harry –sniffs- …and let us not forget the Council and its Ministry are right at their heels….with the Wild Hunt soon likely snarling for proper blood payment…

Stick around, just 'cause it's nearly "the end" don't make it any less fun.