Chapter 1

In the aftermath of the war, the magical community at large had done their best to push Draco Malfoy into obscurity. Despite being pardoned, in large part because Saint Potter had spoken in his favor at his hearing, he was still a known Death Eater. There had been no doors open for him once his eighth year at Hogwarts was finished. Which was fine, Draco thought. He'd simply have to open his own doors.

Fortunately for Draco, he had more going for him than his looks, though he was quite certain he could have gotten by on looks alone. Draco Malfoy was, and had always been, fucking smart. His talent for potion making had put him even above Granger in Slughorn's class, and he'd broken his back for good grades despite both the teachers and students of Hogwarts attempting to ensure he failed. He'd spent more than a handful of nights during his eighth year working on his schoolwork through painful boils on his palms. Strangely, Madam Pomfrey always seemed to have just run out of boil cure potions each and every time he came in cursed.

He'd done the damn thing, however, and his N.E.W.T scores had given him two clear career options: Potioneer or Healer.

Draco had things to prove. He wanted to prove to his community that he was not his father's son and that without Lucius's ever-present influence, he could use his talents to be helpful. He would never be able to repair all the damage he'd done, but he could and would help lift the magical community back up. He knew he'd have to work twice as hard as any of his peers to make a life and a new name for himself, and he was ready to do the work.

So Draco Malfoy didn't choose between the two professions. Instead, he had spent the past decade working his arse off to do both. Draco was proud to be an exceptional potioneer and had opened The Apothacary, his brick-and-mortar store in Diagon Alley only four years prior, making potions that were both more effective and more affordable.

He also happened to be the only private practice healer in London, doing house calls that ranged in severity from curing blemishes to treating third-degree curses. He'd built a reputation for being not only talented but also discreet. Once word had gotten around that Draco was a talented mediwizard, St. Mungos had come knocking on his door more than once in an attempt to recruit him. Draco had taken great pleasure in turning them down.

In Draco's opinion, he had earned his quiet, mundane life. He woke up every morning at 6:30 am and had a cup of tea and a light breakfast of eggs and toast. He went for a forty-five-minute run, followed by a quick shower. At 8 am, Pansy Parkinson opened his shop, and Draco went from his two-bedroom loft above the shop into his crafting room in the back to brew potions for his store inventory. At 4:30 pm, he ended off and took any house calls that had been scheduled via Pansy, who was both his shop manager and his assistant. Most days he finished his work by 9 pm, allowing him to eat a late dinner, shower, and finally go to sleep. Draco had worked hard to turn his life into a well-oiled machine, and he was content to endure this mundanity for the remainder of eternity.

Except, that is, on Tuesdays.

Draco was in his crafting room, robe sleeves pulled up, concentrating on the large cauldron in front of him. The purplish tint of his regerminating potion was coming along nicely, the liquid just starting to simmer. It would need to simmer for another fifteen minutes and then be removed from the heat-

Draco's eyes wandered to the muggle analog clock resting on the wall between the sleeping portraits of Priya Treadwell and Vindictus Virdian, two deceased potioneers who loved to give their unsolicited opinions on how Draco could improve his potions. The clock read 3:27 pm.

"Shit." Draco breathed out, pulling his sleeves down unconsciously to cover the faded mark on his forearm and rushing to the star-shaped enchanted mirror Pansy had gotten him for his 26th birthday. Draco fiddled with his hair as a high-pitched feminine voice screeched, "Dashing darling, just dashing!" at him. Draco had to agree with the disembodied mirror voice, he did look quite dashing. It was now 3:28.

"Shit shit shit!" Draco mumbled as he ran to the front of the shop, skidding to a halt right before Pansy turned around to look at him. Her short black bob was tucked behind her ears, making her sharp jawline look sharper. The boredom on her face flickered into amusement.

"Oh my, is it Tuesday already?" She asked in a singsong voice.

"Pansy, my closest and loveliest friend, isn't it time for you to take your break?" Draco questioned through gritted teeth, a horribly fake smile plastered on his face.

"Hmm, I'm pretty sure my break isn't for another half hour. Considering that it's scheduled at 4 pm, and has been scheduled at 4 pm, for the past three years." She responded through her own fraud of a smile.

"Pansy, my dearest, kindest, most special friend. Get the fuck out of my shop or I will switch your next round of birth control potions with fertility potions, and then we'll both have to deal with a tiny, similarly grating version of you, which truly no one on this planet wants. Especially me." Draco threatened sweetly.

Pansy rolled her eyes at him and grabbed her purse from behind the mahogany wood of the checkout desk.

"Are you at least going to ask him out this time?" She asked.

Draco was saved from answering by a telltale chiming from the entrance of the shop, just as the clock struck 3:30. Pansy cocked an eyebrow at him knowingly before making her way through the aisles of potions. Draco heard her mumble a polite, "Afternoon, Auror Potter," on her way out.

Draco nervously ran his hands through his hair one last time and fixed his posture, just as Potter rounded a corner and came into view. Draco's mouth went dry. The last ten years had been especially kind to Harry Potter. He was nearly as tall as Draco, both of them cresting over just six feet. His hair had gotten long and was pulled back into a sloppy bun. He was all broad shoulders and thick thighs in his crimson Auror robes, which seemed to magically billow behind him as if charmed. Hell, maybe they were charmed to give his entrances a more dramatic effect. His sleeves were rolled up, and Draco's eyes fell on the dark hair covering Potter's forearms. Draco was hit with the overwhelming urge to lick them. He didn't, however.

"Potter." Draco greeted him flatly.

"Malfoy." Potter nodded back to him. "Seems I always just miss Pansy. How is she doing these days?"

"Being one of hell's strongest demons is tiring on her, yet she still finds time in her busy schedule to torment me." Draco quipped. Harry chuckled, and something in Draco's stomach flipped.

"She always had a flair for terrorizing at Hogwarts. I'm happy to hear her talents aren't being squandered as your assistant." Potter said with a crooked smile, his emerald eyes locked on Draco's stormy grey, and Draco wondered if this was what swooning felt like. Draco went momentarily dumb and forgot to respond, creating the smallest of awkward silences before Potter broke it.

"So, I have a list of what I need here." Potter fished a large bronzed hand into his robe pocket and came out with a slightly crumpled piece of parchment.

Draco rolled his eyes. "Potter, you've ordered the same batch of potions every Tuesday for the last year and a half. Do not insult me with your silly little list." Draco waved him off, chin lifting haughtily. Harry's eyes crinkled at the edges as his face broke into another soft grin, a line forming around his smile, and Draco allowed himself a moment to appreciate how good aging looked on The Boy Who Lived Twice.

"Of course. My deepest apologies, Malfoy." Potter bowed his head slightly.

"Wait here," Draco ordered, grabbing a box from behind the counter.

This was the part where he allowed himself to be the most frivolous. He knew when Potter was going to come in every week, and he knew exactly what Potter would be ordering. He could absolutely already have the box made and ready to go when he came in, but Draco liked this part best.

Potter leaned against the checkout counter and watched while Draco took his time going up and down the aisles of his shop, forcing his posture to look relaxed. As if his knees weren't close to buckling under the force of Potter's unyielding gaze. It sparked a certain amount of joy in Draco, being watched this carefully by Harry Potter.

Draco gently placed five vials of Pepper Up, seven vials of Dreamless Sleep, seven vials of Bundimun Pomade (Draco took pride in the fact that it was his own pomade mix that had finally managed to tame Potter's hair, if only slightly), and four vials of healing paste. The last one concerned Draco most, but he had made peace with the fact that being an Auror on the field would guarantee Potter a certain amount of cuts and bruises. Draco finished up and carefully set the fragile box on the counter in front of Potter.

Draco cleared his throat, though it hadn't needed clearing, and primly stated, "That'll be ten galleons, Auror Potter."

Harry removed a coin pouch from his pocket, rifling through it. "Has the price increased a bit since last time? You hustling me, Malfoy?" He asked as he placed the ten coins in Draco's outstretched hand.

"I'm afraid the cost of a few ingredients I use in the healing paste has gone up. Why, is the Ministry not paying you well Potter? If you need the money, I could use a stock boy." Draco leaned forward on his elbows, resting his head in his hands.

Potter had to look down at him now. "Who knew you'd grow up to be so generous, Malfoy? Should times get tough, you'll be the first person I call." Potter said with a wink. Draco's lips parted slightly in surprise. The prat had actually just winked at him. "Same time next week." Potter turned around and waved a quick goodbye, disappearing behind the shelves and triggering the bell above the door as he left.

If this interaction between them was a game, Potter had just won this round. Draco would be analyzing that wink for the entirety of the next week. Were they flirting? Had that been a flirtation? Draco had no idea. He and Harry had been civil, maybe even friendly since Potter wandered in a little over a year ago. The first month or so had been awkward, certainly, but he'd kept coming back, and each time got a little smoother. Now he would make a joke or two and sometimes, if he was lucky, Potter would laugh and Draco would inwardly scream and kick his feet.

Draco spent another fifteen minutes helping an elderly witch with an order of Hiccoughing Solution, his mind only half there as he ruminated on The Wink. When Pansy returned from her break, to-go coffee in hand, she took one look at Draco and sighed.

"Please remove your head from whatever cloud it's in and finish up in the back." She shooed him away. "You have a rare evening off, so have fun writing about how lovely Auror Potter's arse is in your diary tonight."

"It is quite lovely." Draco agreed dreamily, floating back to his crafting room. Only to be promptly torn out of his distracted stupor. The room was thick with black curls of smoke.

"You forgot about the regerminating potion you utter fucking buffoon!" Shouted the portrait of Vindictus Virdian, coughing dramatically, despite the fact that portraits cannot breathe.

It was the following Tuesday, and at 4 pm, Pansy strolled back into The Apothecary from her forced break.

"Darling, I'm not sure you've noticed, but there is a literal storm cloud hovering above your head." She gestured towards him with her pristinely manicured fingers. There was, in fact, a stormcloud above his head. "Potter never showed?"

"What the fuck do you think?" He snapped.

"Now now, Draco. You can't act like you've been stood up when you've never even asked the bloke out." Pansy stated, being annoyingly reasonable.

"Of course, I haven't been stood up. Draco Malfoy doesn't get stood up. If anything, I do the standing up!" Draco proclaimed, being somewhat less reasonable.

"My love, in order to stand someone up, you'd actually have to have procured a date. Which is something you haven't done in," Pansy looked at her wrist as if there was a watch there that specifically recorded the amount of time in between Draco's dates, "two years."

Draco scoffed. "I have absolutely gotten dates in the last two years!"

"You got fucked Malcolm Baddock in the Hogshead pub bathroom," Pansy looked at the nonexistent watch again, "A year and eight months ago."

"Pansy, why do you know the exact amount of time since my last sexual exploit offhand?" Draco questioned with a raised eyebrow.

"We all have our hobbies," Pansy answered. The stormcloud started to drizzle. Draco scowled and slapped at the water droplets helpfully.

Draco's shoulders slumped in immediate defeat. "I need to clear this up before my first appointment. Try not to burn the shop down." Draco began moping towards the back room.

"Draco," Pansy grabbed his elbow softly, holding him in place, "I'm sure something just came up. Maybe he'll come tomorrow instead?" She reassured.

"You don't think he found a better potioneer? Someone blonder than me?" Draco tried to make the question sound like a joke, but it mostly just sounded pathetic.

"My love, there is no better potioneer than you, and certainly not one blonder than you." Pansy cupped his cheek, and the storm cloud above Draco's head dissipated. He leaned into her touch just slightly. Pansy Parkinson was Draco's greatest pain in his arse, and absolutely the greatest blessing in his life. He gave her a quick peck on the cheek as thanks before leaving to prepare for his first appointment of the day.

That night, Draco was pulled harshly out of a restful sleep by the sound of the floo in his bedroom activating. Draco groaned and threw an arm over his eyes. Only one person had access to the floo in his bedroom. He detangled his naked body from satin sheets, nearly rolling off his four-poster canopy bed before he caught himself.

"Pansy, what bloody time is it? Who is dying?" Draco called out as he cast a quick wandless lumos, stumbled to the chest of drawers at the end of his bed, and pulled out some Slytherin green sweatpants.

"Draco." Pansy's tone stopped him in his tracks. "I'm allowing someone access to your floo. She'll be coming in to brief you momentarily." Before he could respond, Pansy's disembodied head stated, "I wish I could prep you, but they wouldn't tell me anything. All I know is that it's bad, and requires the utmost privacy. Good luck." His fireplace went dark, but only long enough for him to pull on a soft cream-colored t-shirt. Draco's fireplace sparked to life again, but this time an oddly familiar head of hair began to push its way through.

"Granger?!" Draco's jaw dropped open. Hermione Granger hurried through his floo, brushing off her red and gold pajama bottoms. Her hair was tied sloppily up into a knot on her head, some curls having broken free and resting prettily around her face. Granger straightened, looked around, and her chocolate brown eyes finally rested on Draco.

She wasted no time. "Harry has been attacked." Her words rushed out of her. "I tried to take him straight to Mungo's, but he doesn't want this getting out. He specifically asked for you."

Draco felt a switch in his head flick. Any remaining tiredness was gone. He rushed to his wardrobe and flung open the doors, slipping on some shoes and grabbing his heavy medic bag.

"Take me to him," Draco demanded.

Hermione hesitated for the smallest moment. "He seems to trust that you'll be discreet. You will be, right, Malfoy?" Draco narrowed his eyes. He didn't appreciate the implication, but now wasn't the time to argue.

"No Granger, I'm not going to sell the story to the bloody Prophet. Now take me to him."

If there had been more time, Draco was sure she'd have made him swear an unbreakable vow. He saw the uncertainty in her eyes, but she pushed back her hesitation and grabbed his arm, pulling him back through the green flames of the floo.

Only to tumble unceremoniously onto a hard-tiled floor. They had clearly landed in a sitting room. It was bathed in a soft golden glow from a chandelier above, and Draco allowed his eyes a moment to adjust. The walls were adorned with intricate moldings, and the tall, regal windows were surrounded by gorgeous sage-green velvet drapes. At the heart of the room sat a plush, ivory-colored sofa. It had probably been nice once. Before it was bathed in deep red streams of blood.

Draco's eyes fell on Potter's body and it felt like he'd taken a fist to the stomach. Harry lay on the couch topless and unconscious, allowing Draco to take in how labored his breathing was. Deep, horrid slashes had been dug into his left arm, chest, and abdomen. Draco deduced immediately that the cuts had been caused by a large animal. As he moved closer, devastation began gnawing at Draco's insides. The claw marks hadn't been caused by any old animal attack. These were werewolf marks.

Soft sobs emanated from the corner of the room, and Draco noticed Weasley hunched over in a chair in his auror robes for the first time. Hermione made her way over to him and kneeled, her hands resting softly on his knees, speaking to him in a voice too faint for Draco to hear.

Draco got to work. He cast a quick diagnostics charm, assessing the largest points of damage. One of the cuts had injured Potter's brachial artery and Draco focused his efforts there before the internal bleeding got out of hand. He grimaced. Potter's injuries were more than most healers could handle alone. Part of him wanted to recommend that Granger stick with her initial intuition and call in St. Mungo's team, but a larger part of him wanted to respect Potter's request for discretion. The Chosen One suffering a werewolf scratch would be the story of the century.

And so, Draco focused. For the next six hours straight, Draco worked. He pushed his magic into Potter, carefully casting spell after spell to slowly repair the damaged skin. Granger sat on the floor next to him, quietly awaiting his orders for more warm cloths or blood replenishment potions from his medic bag. After the first few hours, the sobs from the corner ceased, and Draco had to assume Weasley had exhausted himself and fallen asleep. He didn't break his focus to look.

There were brief moments in that handful of hours when Harry Potter started to slip. Draco could feel his own magical core extending to Potter's, forcibly keeping him alive, only to feel the brunette's core flicker like it was about to go out. Draco pushed harder in these moments, well past his threshold. He was keeping Potter alive with carefully crafted talent, yes, but also by sheer force of will.

Sunlight started streaming into the room through the large picture windows, and the last of Harry's wounds closed. For the first time since Draco had entered the living room, Potter opened his eyes.

"Oh, thank the fucking Gods. Granger?" He looked down at his pseudo nurse. Her head snapped towards him but he didn't wait for her to respond. "Make sure Potter stays hydrated. I'm going to pass out now."

True to his word, he did.

Draco Malfoy was asleep in Harry's bed. It's not that Harry had never imagined this before, he'd just never imagined that it would happen like this. Ron and Hermione had assisted him up the stairs of Grimmauld Place and into what used to be Sirius's bedroom, but had long since become Harry's. It wasn't the biggest room in the house by any means, but it helped Harry feel connected to his deceased godfather. Ron had gone back downstairs for Malfoy, intending to carry him to the guest room across from Harry's, and Harry had mildly lost his shit.

Something in the back of his head was screaming at him that Malfoy should be close by, and leaving him passed out in a room alone was not going to happen. Ron and Hermione had shared a worried look, but the two ultimately conceded, not wanting to upset him this soon after his injuries had been healed.

So Harry found himself lying carefully on his side, body still incredibly sore, while he watched Malfoy's chest rise and fall. Harry could still feel Malfoy's magic coursing through his body, and the sensation wasn't unwelcome. It felt familiar, like Harry was in control of Draco's wand again, just as he had been during the war.

Draco's hair was splayed in a platinum blond halo on his pillow, and Harry fought against the urge to thread his fingers through it. Harry never got the opportunity to study Malfoy's face this closely, and he wasn't going to miss it now. Draco had always been sharp. Sharp cheekbones, sharp nose, sharp chin, sharp wit, but he had a softness to him now. A kindness that made his severe features attractive.

It's not that he'd never been drawn to Draco before. No one who was into men and had functioning eyes could avoid feeling attracted to the fair haired man. It's just that now there was an odd pull, a straining in his chest, nearly hidden behind the pain. Harry might have tried to chase the feeling, but he heard the soft pop of his bedroom door opening.

Harry looked over, expecting Hermione to waltz in with yet another glass of water per healer Malfoy's orders, when Ron hesitantly entered holding a cup of steaming liquid.

"Hermione made you some bone broth," Ron said softly, handing the mug to Harry and pulling a chair up to the side of the bed. Ron's eyes were red-rimmed, and his already pale skin had taken on a sickly looking sheen. "Mate, I'm so bloody sorry-"

Harry sat up, stifling a groan as his abdomen twinged, and grabbed his best friend's shaking hand.

"Ron. This was not your fault. You told me to wait for backup and I didn't listen. You tried to play this by the book, I'm the one who got cocky." Harry squeezed Ron's trembling fingers, trying to reassure him.

"But you saved me, your entire life has changed and it's because of me." Ron's voice quivered and his eyes went glassy again.

"And I would do it again. I would do it every time. You have two fucking children, Weasley. If I can prevent you from being delivered to your family sliced into ribbons like I was tonight, what choice do you think I'm going to make? Do you think there was anything you could have done to prevent me from getting in between you and Turner?" Ron's tears were streaming freely now, his head hanging shamefully. It broke Harry's heart that his friend was blaming himself for something that was one hundred percent his fault.

No matter which way Harry looked at it, things happened as they should have happened. The full weight of how his life was going to change certainly hadn't sunken in yet, but Harry didn't have even a fraction of what Ron had. He didn't have a wife and kids, or even siblings. There was Teddy, and it would have broken Harry's heart if Teddy had had to suffer another loss in his young life, but there was a line out the door of supportive people the preteen could rely on.

They were quiet for a while after that, the only noise in the dark bedroom coming from Ron's soft sobs and Draco's steady breathing, when Hermione finally made her entrance. She was still in her Gryffindor pajamas, hair pulled back and away from her delicate face. She came to stand behind Ron, her arms twining around his shoulders. She pressed a chaste kiss to the top of his head before finding Harry's eyes in the dark.

"Harry, I'm so sorry, but Kinglsey is here. He just came through the floo a few minutes ago. I left him in the sitting room." Harry sighed. He knew this was coming, that someone would be sent for him when he didn't come back to give a report after his mission.

"There's no reason to put it off. Help me down?" Hermione and Ron each took an arm, helping Harry back down the winding steps of Grimmauld Place. Harry had spent the last decade of his life making this house into a home. Gone was the black, peeling wallpaper and hanging dismembered magical creatures. He'd focused on adding windows to each room to bring in warm natural light, as well as updating all the furniture and adding plush, gorgeous rugs throughout the house. As the golden trio walked back into Harry's living room, his eyes fell on his expensive Italian suede sofa, and he grimaced. There was no way all of that blood was coming out.

Kingsley Shacklebolt loomed over the sofa, his large frame imposing. "Auror Potter, you might consider replacing this couch." He nodded to the gratuitous amount of blood stains. "Seems you ran into difficulties with your mission?"

"Yes, Minister." Ron and Hermione plopped Harry down gently in a cream-colored chair across from the fireplace.

Kingsley summoned a scroll of parchment which floated next to his head, an automatic quill at the ready. Harry began giving his report, and the quill scribbled furiously.

For years, Aurors had been tirelessly pursuing and neutralizing the remaining members of Greyback's pack, and Dominique Turner had been the last and strongest, avoiding them at every turn. Turner had taken up Greyback's cause, biting and turning children to increase the werewolf population. Unfortunately, Turner's success rate was much lower, with most of the children dying before they made the change.

Harry had gotten a tip that Turner would be hiding out in a small rural town just outside Hogsmeade, and both he and Shacklebolt assumed that Harry and Ron would be more than enough manpower to take Turner down with the full moon being a week out. They'd been staking out the town since dawn on Tuesday, waiting to see if Turner made an appearance.

They'd spotted him, finally, late that night pushing his way through the doors of a basement in the back of a weathered old house. Turner was well into his sixties now but didn't look a day over forty with his wide build and streaks of salt and pepper above his arched ears. Despite their concealment charms, Turner had scented them immediately and bolted. Harry shot a stream of Incarcerous spells after him, which would have hit and disabled a human man. Unfortunately, such spells bounce right off shifted werewolves.

While Remus and Greyback's transformations had been grotesque in their humanoid shapes, Turner was all wolf. The only differentiating factor was his size, being closer to a bear than that of your everyday wolf. His silvery fur looked iridescent in the moonlight.

When Turner shifted, Ron reflexively went to cast his patronus and call for backup. But Harry saw Turner's trajectory, realized he was heading straight for Hogsmeade, and he acted before he thought. Without hesitating, Harry ran and Ron followed, Ron's longer legs taking the lead, and Turner skidded to a screeching halt. When the giant silver wolf had lunged at Ron, Harry had just enough time to cast a hex and blast his friend out of the way, and Turner's claws landed in him instead. Turner couldn't have been on top of him for more than ten seconds before Ron cast the killing curse, but the damage was done.

Ron was at Harry's side immediately, and this time he was able to fire off his patronus, informing the Ministry of Turner's death and giving the coordinates of his body. Harry started sputtering blood, and Ron held his friend tight and apparated them to Grimmauld Place.

Ron set him on the couch and Harry began sputtering blood. He had just enough time to despair about the blood staining his white couch and ask for healer Draco Malfoy before promptly passing out.

Harry finished his retelling of events and the quill ceased its movement. Kingsley was sitting next to Harry now, his chin resting on his fists. Harry held his saddened gaze for a moment. Over the years, he and Kingsley had grown close. Harry never forgot that Kingsley had kept the ministry off of his godfather's tail, giving Harry and Sirius invaluable time together, and Harry respected him as both a friend and his Minister.

But the Ministry didn't employ werewolves.

"Harry…" The older man started, shaking his head somberly. Harry squared his shoulders and opened his mouth to say that it was okay, that he understood, that it was out of the Minister's hands when delicate fingers curled around his shoulder.

"I'll be representing Harry Potter moving forward," Hermione stated. "Harry sustained a life-threatening injury on the field, and he will be taking three months of paid time off to recover, as allotted to all field Aurors by the Ministry of Magic." Hermione's hand was firm on Harry's arm, her back straight, expression schooled into cool neutrality. Harry and Ron had stuck with their childhood dream of becoming Aurors, while Hermione had taken the path that would allow her to make the most change in a world she deemed unfair.

She was a lawyer for creature rights. And Harry found himself potentially being a creature.

Kingsley may have been better than his predecessors, but he still did not enjoy being challenged. His deep-set eyes narrowed at her, his mouth turning into a thin line. "Auror Potter reported a werewolf injury on duty. The procedure states-"

"Procedure states that all witches and wizards who have endured a creature inheritance of any kind must identify themselves as a registered creature after their first shift. Harry, you'll find, has not shifted. There is also the added element of his infection being an anomaly. We do not know why Turner was able to turn into a wolf outside of the full moon, and we do not know how that will affect Harry." Hermione interrupted. "Once Harry's PTO is up, he will return to the Ministry to report whether or not he does in fact have a creature inheritance. I will file the papers and have the proper documentation on your desk this evening."

Harry held his breath, but after a long moment, Kingsley merely nodded. "I'm not sure how long we can avoid the inevitable, Harry. However, I'm not in a rush to let go of one of my best men. Granger, I expect those papers on my desk no later than 5 pm." Kingsley gave each of the trio a curt bow of his head before stepping back through the fire.

The second Kingsley's large back disappeared through the flames, Harry let go of his breath, threading his fingers through his tangled mane of hair. Hermione slumped heavily into the chair Kingsley had just been occupying.

"Gods, I'm tired." She looked it, her face pale and eyes accented with dark circles. "I apologize if I overstepped, but I'm not going to let him fire you, Harry. Not over this. It's so backward, so behind the times." Hermione always came to life when the topic of creature inequality came up, and Harry loved this about his best friend. "Plus, we truly don't know what the outcome of being bitten by a wolf outside of the full moon phase will do, or why Turner was able to shift in the first place." She bit her lip, chewing on it while she thought.

Harry heard a voice emanate from the top of his staircase and startled.

"I think I can help there, actually," Draco called, slowly making his way down the narrow staircase. "These stairs are a fucking hazard, by the way. Are you sure they're up to code Potter?" Draco's scowl came into view and Harry couldn't help but grin. The blond's constant complaining had grated on Harry during their school years, but now he couldn't help but find it amusing. He also couldn't help but notice that Draco's sweatpants hung low on his hips, and Harry got the smallest look at a patch of fine, pale hair dipping downwards. He struggled to look away.

"Apologies, Malfoy, I'd have remodeled if I knew you were coming. I'll make sure to get things in order before I bleed out next time." Now that Draco was closer, Harry felt something odd rattle around in his chest. Was he… vibrating?

"Oi, ferret face. Finish telling us what you know about Turner. You think you know why he could shift outside the full moon?" Ron barked as he came to stand by his wife protectively. Draco knelt by the couch and retrieved his medic bag.

"Is that how you ask for help, weasel? I'm afraid you're going to have to ask nicely." Draco pretended to remove nonexistent dirt from under his nails while Ron fumed. Hermione not so subtly elbowed her husband in his thigh.

"Please." Ron deadpanned, looking irritable.

"I'm not sure if you recall, but I had the pleasure of hosting Greybacks pack during the war. I know Dominique Turner quite intimately." Draco looked like he was trying to be nonchalant, but his eyes gave him away. It was hurting him to talk about this time in his life, and Harry felt a whine start in the back of his throat. He wanted to go to Malfoy, to touch him and reassure him, but he forced himself to remain seated.

"Fenrir Greyback was certainly the loudest member of his pack, and most who encountered him thought that made him the strongest. He was savage and unreasonable, and biting children to increase their numbers had in fact been his idea. Dominique Turner was a quieter kind of evil. He pulled the strings from the shadows, allowing Fenrir to be the face of the pack and the Dark Lord's werewolf representative." Draco let the information sink in before dropping the final bomb with a bit of dramatic flair. "The wolf that weasel killed last night… was the only known alpha werewolf alive."

Harry had no idea what that meant. He met Ron's eyes and they blinked dumbly at each other.

"What?!" Hermione trilled. Ah, good. As per usual, Hermione was in the loop. "You're telling me Harry has been bitten by an alpha werewolf?"

"Scratched, technically, but yes that is what I'm saying," Draco answered. "Unfortunately, we won't know how this will affect Harry, if at all, until the full moon next week." Draco pulled his satchel up over a delicate shoulder. Had Draco always looked so thin? Harry wondered if he was eating enough.

"As fun as this has all been, I have to get back to work before Pansy reports me missing. Potter, you'll be receiving a bill from me in the next 48 hours via owl. Good day." Before Harry could speak, Draco had thrown powder into the fire and stepped through the bright green flames.

"Well, 'Mione, what else can you tell us?" Ron coaxed. Hermione had her thumbnail between her teeth, her eyes taking on a glazed quality that happened whenever she was thinking deeply.

"Alpha werewolves have historically been a myth. The stories say that alpha's can gain mastery over their moon cycles, and that their magic increased in strength both in and out of wolf form. They also supposedly are more in tune with their inner wolf, causing their animal form to be less humanoid and more wolflike." Hermione finished.

"Turner didn't look anything like Remus' wolf when he shifted," Ron stated, brows furrowed.

"Based on your accounts, I think Draco was telling the truth. The question remains, what will being bitten by an alpha wolf do to a wizard like Harry?"

"What's your best guess, 'Mione?" Ron prodded her further.

"Well, I think we have four possible options. First, because the attack didn't happen during the full moon, Harry will be unaffected. He will be able to continue as if nothing happened." Harry liked this option.

"Second, he may be like Bill. He'll have some werewolf tendencies, but he'll never make a full shift." Harry wasn't obsessed with this option, but he could live with it.

"Third and likely the most obvious, Harry will become a typical werewolf, submitting to the full moon once a month and having to live as Remus did. He'd take wolfsbane regularly and manage his symptoms for the rest of his life." Harry could do without this option.

"Finally, the fourth option. Harry is one of the most powerful wizards of our generation, and Turner was the most powerful werewolf of his. It's possible that being infected by a werewolf that strong could cause Harry to be like Turner, without all the murderous rage, of course." Harry had no idea how he felt about this option.

"Well mate… you've always been special," Ron said with an awkward half smile, trying to lighten the mood.

Harry Potter was so fucking tired of being special.