Summary: There will be 31 days of mayhem, but I'm not sure there will be 31 actual stories. That would require more brain than Corvus has.

Beta Love: Dragon and the Cold Water Bottle Torture, Dutchgirl01 the Busiest Bee that Ever Buzzed, Commander Shepard the Winter Soldier

A/N: Each story will be a separate chapter to feed my laziness and desire not to post that many new stories for the same event.

On a Wing and an Otter

Love is like an onion. You peel it off one layer at a time, and sometimes you weep.

Carl Sandburg

Prompt: "Being with you feels like coming home."

It was a curse, they said, at least on parchment.

In truth, no one knew.

All I knew was that one day, Hermione Granger had disappeared, and an adorable miscreant showed up in our lives like she'd always been there.

She wore thick fur as an armour against the elements and identification—but we knew.

We knew because she was ours from whiskers to tail tip and every squeaky inch of her.

Mihail thought she was the best distraction we'd had in well over a few thousand years, and maybe—

Okay, well, as usual, he was right.

I hated that he was always right.

Smug bastard.

Whenever I was being an arse, Hermione would curl up on Mihail's chest, shove her furry head against his neck, and squeak most happily.

Sanguini, much like every century I'd known him, enjoyed my social frustration, but it wasn't like I gave him hell for not paying attention to brewing.

That was MY area.

His had always been the more socially suave sort that easily manipulated kings and kingdoms, artisans, politicians, and builders—

In many ways, he was the Illuminati incarnate— only he was but one vampire and not a secret society.

And he did get us this private beachside property that was perfect for a wiley Ottermione and my antisocial needs.

One could say that Mihail was enough all on his own. The only one that could bend him to her will was Ottermione—she could squeak ever so cutely, and he would do absolutely anything for her.

Not that I was immune to those warm brown eyes—no, not really.

She was the weakness I never wanted but found I couldn't un-live without.

I did wonder, however, if she'd chosen this life or was forced into it. Being a familiar to two vampires was—not exactly what any sane person would choose.

It was eternal for one—

And she had to put up with me forever.

Mihail was by far a more easygoing sort, even if his alter ego was the assassin of our kind—disposing of those that betrayed our people to the outside world or broke our more sacred laws.

Our people feared him as much as they respected him because his voice was velvet and his demeanour at ease—until it wasn't.

That was our old master's fault—our Sire.

He had made him a seducer of men and women—and his tool to end lives.

He had made me into an Emperor once upon a time and then Turned me upon my deathbed.

Sepsis they call it now.

Back then—it was the insidious death.

I'd served my purpose, and my Sire had Turned me to "reward" my service—service that continued until—

Ottermione squeaked imperiously as she tugged on my robes, and I picked her up, cradling her in my arms as she snuffled my face with her whiskers.

I drew one claw across my neck and let her take her breakfast. Pre breakfast—whatever it was.

Our Covenant to her—our blood, our bond.

It was only right, really—

She'd destroyed our manipulative Sire—quite by accident.

It was so comical and ludicrous that the Sang didn't even have laws for it.

She'd bashed her food against the side of his boat, and he'd gotten angry and tried to grab her and destroy her, but he'd forgotten that otters have teeth. Their fight caused him to fall off his oh-so-beautiful yacht into the ocean, where he sank into the deep water and was torn to pieces by hungry sharks.

He had never learned to swim despite his penchant for living the high life aboard a boat.

I felt sorry for the sharks.

That's when we'd found her, resuming her bashing of her breakfast against the yacht's blemished paint job. Sanguini lured her into his arms with a squid, and we've been stuck with her ever since.

I grimaced. Willingly even.

She was a benevolent overlord compared to our Sire.

Some of the Sang even wanted to give her a medal.

They settled with a sea-pool construction that continuously refilled itself with tasty seafood befitting a hungry otter. And an ever-replacing hull of our ex-Sire's prized yacht to bash her food on.

Seemed legit.

Despite our "private" location, vampires from around Britain would make a pilgrimage to our location to thank the otter that had destroyed our Sire—

He'd been a true fount of evil in the eyes of many.

He'd enslaved countless vampires to his will—

Sanguini told me to just go with the flow as the Muggles say—it wasn't like Ottermione changed for all the offerings. She was still that cheeky little mustelid that preferred Mihail and myself to whatever worship she was getting from random visitors. She would still curl up between us and sleep like it was her most favourite place ever.

Even my rather bony body.

Yet—

I couldn't shake the feeling that coming back to our home wasn't the same without her.

In so many ways, she had become the home we carried with us—curled around our hearts and souls like a Venomous Tentacula's tendrils—and perhaps just as defensive of us.

But, I couldn't help but wonder why she remained an otter after so many years. Had we condemned her to an eternity as an otter by binding her in blood to our bloodlines? Had we taken away her choices?

Our blood should have cured whatever curse befell her—

The vampire "curse" was always stronger than any other thing that could befall a mortal. Stronger than the werewolf curse, most assuredly.

There were many post-werewolf vampires who gleefully exchanged monthly furriness for blood drinking rather than lose the control that hurt their loved ones three times a month.

And the Sang didn't care what your reasons were as long as you were of sound mind and body and followed the rules of their society. If you lost control as a vampire, Sanguini would visit, and it would not be—a pleasant social sort of call.

But Mihail insisted that the bond she had with us could only be willing in nature. No one wanted a resentful familiar for life. It would hardly be beneficial.

Perhaps, I was—insecure.

CHOMP!

Ow.

Hermione was glaring at me from down below, having taken out her frustration with me with sharp mustelid teeth just above the calf of my boots. Had she been anyone else, I would not have responded well. Lesser fools, I had ground to dust. A time long ago, when my anger was far greater—and my rage exponentially proportional to my inability to do anything against my hated Sire.

We had both been—so carefully moulded into monsters.

I picked her up and snuggled her squeaky self, pressing my lips to the side of her muzzle. "I love you too."

I meant it.

I really meant it.

Having her in our lives was like coming home.

There could be no life without her, unlife or otherwise. Without her, we would wither and become bitter—bored, or all things in between. Worse, we could become like our Sire had been—

Manipulative.

Cruel.

Unconcerned by the lives of mere mortals.

Suddenly, I had my arms full of otterwitch, her hair a bushy mix of ottery fur, thick and shiny, her brown eyes wide with surprise, her skin pale as milk.

"There you are, love," Mihail said with a pleased rumble, taking us both into his arms. "Has he finally confessed his undying love to you?"

I glared at Sanguini.

But I had—

In that moment, I had realised that she was everything I wanted in my life, and I didn't care if we could never be together in the way I would have preferred. I was willing to have her, curse and all, an otter forever if that was what I could have—

And I loved her all the same.

She burst into tears and hugged me tightly, sinking into our joint embrace with silent celebration.

"Hermione," I said hoarsely.

I blinked. My voice—

My hand went to my neck where Nagini had so kindly tried to tear out my throat but settled with my vocal cords.

I had my voice back.

Mihail's smile was radiant. He'd always loved my voice. He'd made me read a dictionary once. He'd won that bet— I'd learned since not to bet against him, the bastard.

There wasn't much talking after that—mostly. We made sure to mate her into boneless oblivion very, very thoroughly as the blast of her curse shattered its way through the air like the sound waves of Krakatoa—

Whatever happened now, we would face it together—

And far, far away, in a place known as Ottery St Catchpole, Arthur Weasley was stunned to discover that half of his family had inexplicably turned into a pack of Chinese Crested dogs with no teeth and bright orange head fur hanging like shredded curtains about their heads.

"Don't look at me, dad," George protested. "I prefer dogs that reach past my knee and aren't half naked."

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "I'll go floo the Department of Mysteries."

The pack of yipping, snarling dogs promptly piddled and tore out the front door—

George forked a plump banger and bit into it with relish. "Who knew Sunday family dinner could be quite so exciting?"

Bill and Fleur silently sipped their tea, but the soft whisper of "Mon Dieu," escaped Fleur's lips as their children giggled and chased after the panicked dogs.

Harry, who was staring blankly at the engagement ring on his finger, twirled it with his fingers and left it on the table. "I think I'll pass on marriage if you don't mind, yeah?"

George passed him the platter of bangers with a flourish. "Wise choice, mate."

And the startlingly orange-headed Chinese Cresteds were never seen again.

Nestled in the warm bed in their home by the seaside, three vampiric otters curled up together in the middle of the duvet in squeaking happiness, content to let the world forget they ever existed.

And they lived fishily ever after.

Squeak.