InsaneJournal

11.

“Oh, shit…”

Harry looked back at Draco, and almost echoed his exclamation as he saw the snapped rope. He could hardly believe he hadn’t noticed it himself - his anger at Snape, and at yet another trail going cold, was no excuse for letting his guard down.

But there was no time for self-recrimination - whether the kid had been found or had escaped, the alarm had surely been raised…

Harry grabbed the cloak from Draco and headed for the window and the broomstick. “Move!” Draco blinked. As Harry clambered out of the window, he broke the grip of whatever thoughts had been keeping him still and staring at the rope, and hurried to follow him.

The door was flung open.

As it slammed into the wall, and daylight flooded into the room, Draco virtually leapt for the window. Harry caught his arm and tried to haul him through, but the room was suddenly filled with people, and there were other hands on Draco, trying to drag him back, and Harry with him. Harry gagged at the overwhelming smell of old blood and unwashed flesh, but he braced his feet against the windowsill, even more determined not to let go. He pulled out his wand and sent a couple of stunning spells into the crowd.

For a moment, Draco was free, and the cotton of his t-shirt caught and tore on the latch as he tried to pull himself through.

“Behind you!” Harry twisted around, and saw dark figures creeping across the tiles. He pointed his wand at the nearest one; it ducked out of sight behind a chimneystack, and a sudden jerk on his arm as Draco was dragged back sent his hex flying wide. His foot knocked against the broomstick; it rolled across the tiles and disappeared off the edge of the roof.

“Potter!” Draco had broken a couple of fingernails resisting that last attempt to get him inside, and his straining fingers were leaving streaks of blood on the window ledge as he was slowly pulled back. His eyes were wild with panic, but his voice was steady as he said, “you’re above the main doors, Potter - do you understand?”

Harry didn’t. He couldn’t see how that particular fact was even interesting, much less useful. He’d lost the broomstick, he was losing Draco, and he knew damn well where he was - out on the roof, being stalked by werewolves.

“You’d better fucking come back for me,” Draco said, and let go of his hand.

Draco disappeared, but Harry didn’t have time to wonder why, after fighting so hard, he’d just given up, because, without Draco to pull against, Harry was falling, all the force he’d put into hauling him free suddenly working against him.

His back and head hit the tiles with painful force, and the sky span above him as he slid down the roof. He flailed about with his arms, trying to catch hold of something - anything -

- for a second, Harry managed to hook a couple of fingers in the guttering, and in that one moment of not falling, he realised what Draco had been trying to tell him - and just how mad the other boy was.

Visitors came to the Manor’s front doors - that was the only place apart from the walled garden that the wards allowed Apparition. But if Draco thought that Harry could Disapparate in mid-air, then he really was insane. Apparition was hard enough standing on solid ground with time to think…

His fingers burned with pain - he had to either let go of the gutter or let go of his wand to get a better grip - and there was a man in tattered robes crouching on the edge of the roof, reaching down to him.

He repeated Destination, Determination, Deliberation to himself like a mantra, and let go of the gutter.

*

Draco swung the portrait like a club, trying to buy some time and space to get to his wand. He heard Cassiopeia’s horrified squeak as the frame splintered against someone’s head, and then he was down, overwhelmed by sheer numbers. Long fingernails hooked in his t-shirt, tearing it to get to the wand tucked into the waistband of his trousers.

Draco had seen a man disembowelled - the memory of that, of his skin opening, organs flopping out, intestines pouring out of his body like he was giving birth to gory snakes, merged with the scrape of those long, sharp nails against the soft skin of his belly… He whimpered, and mentally slapped himself.

He told himself to get a grip, and it seemed to work - for about ten seconds, until he felt a nose pressed up against his stomach, breathing in his scent. Someone else sniffed at his hair, another sniffed at the sensitive inside of his elbow, a face was buried in his neck and his t-shirt was ripped further as the other werewolves tried to get skin to smell.

The fear froze his internal organs and wiped his mind blank of everything but panic.

“Nice of you to come and join us, pup. I was starting to think I’d have to hunt you down.”

The amused voice belonged to Fenrir Greyback. And isn’t that just the rotten cherry on top of the nightmare sundae? He felt anger well up inside of him and almost revelled in it.

“Get them off me! Now!”

“They’re just being friendly,” Greyback said, a hint of reproof in amongst the amusement.

“Well, I was brought up not to be rude.” Draco heard the icy contempt in his own voice and was both shocked and proud. Swinging erratically between cold fear and blind fury - how could he sound so calm? “But I was also brought up not to let people sniff at my armpits. You see my problem?”

Greyback’s laughter boomed out in the tiny room. “Let him up.”

Draco let himself breathe as the werewolves got to their feet. Without their heat and weight and smell holding him down, he felt suddenly light, even if his skin was still trying to crawl off his body. He hauled himself to his feet, and it took every inch of self-control he had to stand there in the middle of the room, head held high, rather than cowering in the corner.

“I’m on a mission for the Dark Lord,” he said, forcing himself to meet Greyback’s eyes. “If you interfere he’s going to very angry.”

Greyback licked his lips. Draco recognised the theatrical gesture for what it was - done purely to make him uncomfortable - but the knowledge didn’t stop his stomach twisting. “Now, what kind of ‘mission for the Dark Lord’ could possibly involve Harry Potter?”

“A very secret one.”

“Really?” Draco had forgotten just how fast Greyback could move. Before Draco could react, he was right up in front of him, hand clamped around the back of his neck, nose pressed against the curve of his jaw. “You lie so easily. Your mouth lies, your face lies, your eyes lie, even your posture lies - but your scent doesn’t. It can’t. You’re terrified…”

Greyback’s grip was too tight, and he smelt worse then any of his minions. Draco squirmed in his grasp. The room seemed much too small to hold all those people. Draco looked around the circle of werewolves. Thin faces, square faces, handsome faces, ugly faces, young faces, old faces - all different, not all of them gloating, but all of them Greyback’s followers, and all, at that moment, monstrous.

*

Harry coughed and spluttered and tried to wave away the cloud of chalk dust thrown up by his rather uncoordinated Apparition. He slumped down in the middle of the White Horse and, shaking, started to check his body for anything that he might have left behind. He had a bad moment as he looked down and saw that his left arm was cut off at the elbow.

As his heartbeat finally started to slow, and he unwrapped the invisibility cloak from his arm, he felt a strange exhilaration creep over him.

I did it. I’m alive, not splinched, and I fucking did it…

He collapsed back against the chalk. The ‘Hell, I’m good’ feeling was tempered by cold facts - he had to go back for Draco (he’d just saved Harry’s life again, even if Harry could have been killed or splinched or broken every bone in his body in the process) and he knew he was miles away from the house. And back outside the wards - god knows if they’ll even let me back through…

The werewolves came in through the garden door - I’d be pushing my luck to Apparate back there. The front doors…

There was a certain rightness to the thought of just Apparating straight to the front doors of Malfoy Manor, especially after all the sneaking around he’d been forced to do. Not that he planned on marching straight up and ringing the bell - even if he felt like doing just that.

His brain came up with another Draco-voiced note of caution: Even if you managed to Disapparate in mid-air, that doesn’t make you some kind of super-wizard. There’s loads of them - even if you haven’t seen any of them using magic, it’s still seriously bad odds.

Harry shook out the cloak and wrapped it around himself.

Fine - more sneaking about it is then.

*

The sun had sunk to the level of the trees, and shadows of great magical beasts stretched out across the grass from the sculpted topiary. The manicured lawn where Draco’s mother had once held court, taking tea with her friends, now held a bonfire, which the werewolves gathered around in friendly little groups.

Just as long as they’re friendly a long way from me.

Draco was being ignored by practically everyone. Not something he was used to, but he was grateful for it. He sat on the grass and tugged on the rope binding his wrists behind his back, trying to get it to loosen, wondering why involuntary magic only happened at embarrassing times, rather than when it was actually needed.

Greyback was trying to order the werewolves about, and getting quite a bit of good-natured disagreement - so much disagreement that Draco had to stop thinking of them as Greyback’s minions. No true leader would have such poor control over his followers. Eventually four of them loped off into the woods, apparently to get food, which made Draco wonder what had happened to the Manor’s house-elves.

“How’re you planning to break them? Are you going to use magic?” Draco twisted around, and saw the little boy - the book-destroyer and escape-artist himself - crouched down beside him. The boy peered at him, malice warring with curiosity in his eyes. “Only mum says wizards are helpless without their wands. You certainly look helpless.”

“You need to work on your Schadenfreude, kid - you’re not gloating half as much as you should be.”

The boy frowned. “What’s shady-freud?”

Draco sighed. He was tied up, apparently about to be doing dinner with a pack of werewolves, and he refused to think about what Greyback might have planned for him later - explaining German words to a kid who couldn’t even read was not the best use of his time. “You taking pleasure in my misfortune.”

“You did tie me up,” the kid said quite reasonably. “And you called me names. You’re Pack too - why did you do that?”

Draco stared at him in disbelief. “I am not part of your ‘Pack’,” he spat. How the hell am I supposed to explain what Greyback’s done to me to a nine-year-old kid? How do you tell a kid that he’s a monster?

Draco’s respite was over, however. Greyback loomed over them, and the smile he gave them both would have been benevolent if it hadn’t been for the size and sharpness of his teeth. And how do you get teeth like that, anyway? A enlarging spell and a file?

The kid got his hair ruffled and he gazed up at his leader in awe and admiration, as if he could only hope to grow up so big and dirty and hairy. Draco got his hair used to yank him to his feet; he used his considerable vocabulary to insult Greyback’s looks, parentage, personal hygiene and sexual practices. He could see the little boy watching him, wide-eyed and obviously taking notes, and would have been proud if it hadn’t all been bluster, just a way to prevent any humiliating cringing or whimpering.

“Didn’t I tell you?” Greyback roared at the other werewolves. “The Dark Lord will give us all that we want!”

It only took one yank on Draco’s much-abused t-shirt for the last threads to give way. The whole thing dropped off his shoulders and slipped down his arms, draping over his bound wrists. He tried to suppress the sudden burst of fear with a quick dose of logic. He’s showing them the bite - nothing more, nothing less. It didn’t help, not with Greyback’s bulk and heat at Draco’s back, the hot breath in his hair seeming almost as much of a threat as the nails scraping against his scalp.

There were only a few women among the werewolves - fewer women than children - but it was one of them that spoke up. “He certainly gave you what you wanted, Fenrir.” Tall and lean with a thin, tired face, she looked at Draco with disapproval. “Tell me, how does Lucius Malfoy feel about his son being used as a reward?”

There was a sudden burst of conversation around the bonfire. Draco felt a flicker of annoyance that none of them had recognised him. But they’re not exactly moving at the heights of Wizarding society, are they?

“How does he feel about his old pile of bricks being our new home, Hel?” Greyback asked. Hel just frowned, and he raised his voice to cut through the chatter. “Lucius Malfoy is nothing - no longer a man to be feared! The Dark Lord punishes those who fail him, and rewards those who do not! He promised us that he’d break the ties that bind us to the moon - and he has! With this boy!” All conversation ceased, and Draco found himself the centre of attention. Not the most comfortable thing to be, in a circle of werewolves. He dug his fingernails into his palms, focusing on the pain, grimly refusing to shrink back as they closed in around him. Shrinking back meant getting closer to Greyback, anyway - and that was a real frying pan or fire choice…

Hel was the first to touch him. Her fingers were gentle, brushing lightly over the scar on his shoulder, but Draco couldn’t stop his reflexive flinch. When she spoke, her voice was full of wonder. “Can it be true?”

“He designed the ritual himself, performed the spells himself - and his choice of subject says everything about his intentions. Would he sacrifice one of his precious Purebloods to an experiment he didn’t expect to work?”

Draco didn’t understand what they were talking about, but he was being touched, light fingers moving almost reverently over his torso, and he was surrounded by bodies, and he couldn’t breathe, and how the fuck could he be feeling claustrophobic outside?

“The Dark Lord wanted to punish my father and Snape, while still keeping me alive and useful. Giving me to you wasn’t a great symbolic gesture - he was just chucking you a bone! And stop touching me! Please.” The last word came out involuntarily, and so softly Draco didn’t think anyone had heard him. But Hel, who’d given him a sharp look on the ’bone’ line - probably trying to decide if it was a deliberate jibe - stepped in front of him.

“The hunting party’s back,” she said cheerfully. “Go eat - you can all fawn over him later.”

The crowd dispersed. Draco remembered how to breathe, and gratefully sucked in great gulps of air as he watched the ‘hunting party’ drag three deer over to the bonfire, their fur glittering in its light. One of them was a big stag, and as its head flopped its alters left furrows in the lawn. The estate’s Silver Deer were rare and valuable and hadn’t been hunted for over a century - at this rate, they’d be wiped out in a few weeks, gone the same way as Draco’s books and what seemed like every ancestral portrait.

“Why are you wasting your pity on this one, Hel?” Greyback asked, sounding genuinely curious. “You hate the Malfoys.”

Hel looked at Draco. He looked back, at her matted hair and lined face, and tried to work out why she reminded him of his mother.

“Lucius can burn in Hell,” she said calmly. “And when he does, I’ll dance on his grave. But I don’t have any reason to hate his son - not yet, at least.”

She seemed reasonable - much too reasonable to be following Greyback. A possible ally? “The Dark Lord won’t give you what you want,” Draco said quickly. “You’re weapons to him, nothing more - just another set of Dark Creatures to do his bidding.”

“He’s a wizard,” Hel said. “Treachery and bigotry is all we expect from him. We’ll get what we want by our own sweat and blood. We’re weapons to him? Well, he’s a just a tool to us.”

“Well said.” Greyback rested his free hand against Draco’s neck, gently, not even actively touching him. It was far from being a threat, but Draco’s entire body tensed up. The fight-or-flight reflex seemed almost like a mockery - he was tied up, how could he do either? As the sun dropped further in the sky, and the western horizon was suddenly ablaze with colour, Draco tried not to think about another sunset, watching the sky burn through the slit that was the cell’s pathetic excuse for a window, trying to look resigned and obedient as the chains were looped around his neck, his wrists, his ankles -

A handful of steaming meat was suddenly thrust in front of his face. “I got the liver!” Wolf-boy, destroyer of books and, apparently, dissector of dead animals, said proudly. “Do you want some?”

Draco shook his head slowly, watching the blood dribble down the boy’s stubby little fingers.

“Don’t eat it like that, Rolf!” Hel said sharply. “I’ll cook it for you -”

“Cook it?” Greyback echoed. His laugh rumbled through Draco’s body. “What are you, Hel - a warrior or a Muggle house-wife? Let the boy eat!” His hand moved from Draco’s neck, but that wasn’t necessarily a good thing, because Draco had to watch him ruffle Rolf’s hair again, and this time it was softer, slower, almost like a caress… “He’s going to grow up big and strong…”

“Rolf!” Hel caught hold of the boy’s arm and pulled him away. “Stop bothering Uncle Fenrir.”

“Oh, mum…” Suddenly Rolf didn’t seem quite so alien. Even chewing raw meat, blood around his mouth, he was just a little boy being embarrassed by his mother.

“He’s not bothering me at all, Hel,” Greyback said.

Hel looked at him, expression hard but eyes almost pleading. “Play with your trophy, Fenrir.” She didn’t say anything else, but her meaning was clear. And leave my son alone.

Which of course was throwing Draco to the wolves - literally. Stupid woman - couldn’t you have let Rolf divert him for just a little while longer?

“You shouldn’t eat raw meat,” he said, hoping to stir the disagreement into open conflict. “You can catch all kinds of things - and why would you want to, anyway? You’re not animals.”

“Not animals? You really believe that?” Greyback snorted with laughter. “Listen to the boy lie, Hel, and tell me he’s not his father’s son.”

But she was no longer paying attention. Instead she delicately sniffed the air, and Greyback followed her lead; Draco felt him take in a great big gulp of air. Then he roared with laughter, and Draco had a sudden suspicion - both horrified and hopeful at the same time. He looked over to where Cassiopeia’s portrait was laying on the grass, discarded by Greyback after a couple of perfunctory questions. As he watched, the portrait disappeared - as if someone had slipped it underneath an invisibility cloak…

Greyback made a quick gesture, and there were no disagreements now - silence and stillness spread out through the Pack with miraculous speed. Almost as one, they turned to look at the patch of grass where the portrait had been. The sudden silence was broken only by the crackling of the bonfire - and the sound of the dry grass crunching under invisible feet.

Greyback finally let go of his hair, and Draco pulled away, pathetically grateful for even that little bit of distance. Then he saw Greyback slip his wand from his robes…

*

Harry tucked the portrait under his arm. Cassiopeia seemed aware of the danger, and thankfully kept quiet. But that was the easy bit. He looked over to Draco, wondering how the hell he was going to get to him, much less get him away. He could hardly pick him up and slip him under the cloak.

Greyback finally let go of Draco’s hair, and some part of Harry abruptly relaxed. He was surprised by the depth of his relief - after all, he’d hardly been holding a sword to his throat, had he? What kind of threat was a hand in his hair?

Harry suddenly became aware of the silence. In it, his heart beat sounded like a bass drum being pounded by an overenthusiastic drummer.

“Look out!” Despite his bound hands, Draco lunged at Greyback. Harry saw the wand - but it was too late to do anything but throw up a shield charm…and completely give away his position.

The other werewolves moved. He got off three stunning spells before there was weight on his back, bearing him to the ground. The cloak was torn from his body; a foot stamped down on his hand, forcing him to release his wand. Then he was flipped over onto his back, and the werewolf who had originally taken him down straddled him. Harry felt the prick of her long fingernails against his cheek, remembered Bill’s fate, and froze.

“Good boy,” she said, readjusting his twisted glasses. Her face came into focus, all kindly smile and hard eyes. “Play nice and I won’t infect you - how’s that for an offer?”

Harry couldn’t even nod without getting scratched. He found his eyes focusing on something that swung free of the neck of her robe - a broken piece of wood, something bright and silver gleaming at its core. He recognised it as the snapped-off tip of a wand - but why was she wearing that around her neck?

“This had better be part of a cunning plan, Potter.” Draco came into view, dragged over by Greyback, the werewolf’s hand now clamped firmly around his pale throat.

God, I really wish it was…

“Isn’t that obvious?” Harry said, trying to sound confident. “You’re so smart - work it out.” Draco wouldn’t be able to work out a plan that didn’t exist, of course, but he was smart - he might be able to think of something. Of course, if Draco did have an idea that got them both out of this, then he’d be well ahead of Harry in the life-saving tally… It was a stupid thing to worry about at a time like this, but it made Harry rack his brains for a plan.

“He doesn’t lie as well as you,” Greyback said to Draco. Harry noticed the way he was leaning away from the werewolf, trying to get some distance, and felt a sudden stab of anger. Bruises were blooming on Draco’s cheek, and someone - probably Greyback - had gone for the ultimate sacrilege and bust open his lip.

“That’s just part of Potter’s cunning,” Draco said. “He’s pretending to lie.”

“Really.” Greyback put his wand away, and Harry felt a flicker of hope - quickly squashed as his hand dropped onto Draco’s shoulder. All he did was give it a light squeeze, but Draco flinched. The sight made Harry feel even angrier. Greyback’s hands were filthy, every line and callous black with grime, and Draco looked so fragile…

- and yes, Draco did have all those scars to show he wasn’t fragile at all - that he’d survived worse than being groped by a werewolf, but it didn’t change the way Harry felt. It was like watching a tramp cooing over a fine piece of porcelain, knowing any second it could shatter in his clumsy fingers.

“So, he’s pretending to want you as well, is he?” Greyback virtually purred. His fingers moved downwards, nails raising red welts on Draco’s fair skin. “Pretending to be jealous?” Harry wasn’t jealous. Yes, he would’ve gladly put his hands where Greyback’s were, but he would never want Draco to look at him like that, revulsion, pain and hatred all mixed together in a particularly venomous cocktail. “He’s good.”

His fingers moved lower, dug into Draco’s belly so hard that those dirt-encrusted nails drew blood, peeled back skin… Harry’s captor slammed her hand down around his throat, as if guessing a mere threat wouldn’t be enough to keep him down now. As he fought against her grip, Harry saw the look of open disgust she threw at her leader. “Help us,” he hissed. The only response he got was the tightening of her fingers around his throat.

Greyback slipped his fingers under the waistband of Draco’s jeans. The female werewolf flung her whole weight on top of Harry to hold him down - and whispered in his ear. “Offer us a hunt. Talk yourself up - make it impossible for Fenrir to resist.”

Draco gave a sharp cry of pain. When Harry looked up, he saw Greyback holding up a couple of almost translucent curls up to the light of the fire. They still had a little tag of flesh attached, and Harry winced and felt the urge to cross his legs in sympathy. “I wonder,” Greyback said, sounding almost friendly, “will your pelt will be white when you change?”

“You know what,” Harry said loudly. “I am good. Maybe not at lying, but I can fight my way out of anything - just ask Voldemort.” And that was a good one - Harry had always been embarrassed by his reputation, but maybe finally he could put it to some use. “You only caught me because I was being careless.” He managed a shrug. “I underestimated you. It won’t happen again.”

“Damn right it won’t,” his captor snarled, but her fingers squeezed into his shoulder. He took it as encouragement. Greyback was staring at him, his attention finally diverted from Draco.

“It’s ridiculous, really - I’ve gotten away from Voldemort so many times. How did I get captured by a bunch of scruffy werewolves? It had to be my own carelessness.”

“And fucking arrogance,” Draco said. His voice shook, but as Harry met his eyes, he caught a familiar gleam.

I should have known he’d catch on quick. Come on, Draco, help me with this.

“It’s not arrogance,” Harry said, trying to sound as arrogant as he could. “I could take any of you.”

“Really,” Greyback said.

“I could prove it to you - but, obviously, you’re not going to let me.”

“You fucked up, Potter - grow up and deal with it.” Draco still had Greyback’s hand around his throat, but he managed a smirk for Harry. “Do you really think they’re going to let you go just so they can have the pleasure of chasing you around the grounds, dodging hexes? Werewolves are supposed to be good at hunting, but not that good.”

“They’re just scared of me.” Harry glared at Greyback, who was looking amused. “Last time I fought that one, he came off worse.”

“You think a simple body-bind is worse, little boy?” Greyback bared his teeth. “I’ll show you worse…” His voice dropped. “I’ll break your body, scar your mind - you’ll remember me for the rest of your life… Let him stand, Hel.”

“You’re not seriously considering hunting him, are you, Fenrir?” she said, and if Harry was any judge, that little tremor of worry and disbelief in her voice would be just the thing to -

“Let him stand.”

“But, the Dark Lord -”

“Need never know.”

Hel stood up, and Harry scrambled to his feet. “Draco too,” he said, and when Greyback hesitated, he moved his face into what he hoped was a convincing sneer. Draco’s sudden snort of laughter - hurriedly cut off - told him that it wasn’t. “Come on - don’t you want to make this interesting?”

“You really think you’re going to get away,” Greyback said slowly. Then he laughed and flung Draco towards Harry; Harry staggered as he caught him, and fumbled with the bindings on his wrists. “Enjoy his company while you can.”

There was a flash of red light and both the bindings and the torn remnants of Draco’s t-shirt dropped to the floor, smoking. Hel looked at the wand in her hand for a moment, the expression on her face almost wistful, then offered it to Harry. She snapped her fingers at one of the other werewolves and gave him a long glare; he grudgingly offered up Draco’s wand. Draco snatched it off him.

“Hel! What are you doing? If this is your idea of a challenge -” Greyback’s rage was awesome to behold; Hel just met his glare and shrugged.

“Not at all. It’s their only defence, Fenrir - it’s only fair.”

“Fair?”

“Surely you’re not afraid to even the odds?” Hel said quietly. “You can’t be afraid of two young wizards.”

Greyback looked around at his wolves; Harry watched him forcibly swallow his anger. There’s more going on here than just a difference of opinion…

“Then, ’to even the odds’ -” he ground out the words with contempt “- the entire Pack should join in the hunt.”

“As you wish. It’s a good idea, actually - those stupid deer barely provide us with exercise, much less a challenge.” Harry watched Hel’s face brighten up at the thought of the hunt and realised that there would be no more help from that quarter. “Louve, Leikn - go to the front doors. Quirinus, Lucan - the walled garden.” She caught hold of Harry’s arm. “Do you truly count Remus Lupin as a friend, despite his nature and yours?” The sudden change in both the subject and her attitude made Harry’s head whirl, but he nodded. “And you desire this one?” She waved a hand at Draco.

Why is it suddenly everyone’s fucking business? Harry’s cheeks burned, and he carefully avoided meeting Draco’s eyes as he nodded again.

“Then you’re truly an unusual wizard and I wish you luck.”

Luck is nice, but I’d rather have some more help…

But as she stepped away, taking her place among her people, Harry realised that she’d already done more than he had any right to expect.

“Despite everything Remus said about hating wizards, it was clear he held you in great regard, Harry Potter. We’ll give you a ten minute head start. Fight well. Make him proud.”

Harry looked around the circle of werewolves. Ten minutes head start - it had taken them that long to get across the estate on a broom. The werewolves were faster, stronger, knew the estate, and were presumably very good at tracking.

On the plus side, he had his wand back, and he had Draco - who he hoped knew the estate even better than they did.

He Accioed over the invisibility cloak and the portrait, and was dimly aware of Draco going into his fighting stance beside him.

“Your time is already running out, pup,” Greyback said. He looked at the wand pointed at him as if it was a minor thing, hardly worth his time to notice. “Try to kill me or run with your little friend - you can’t do both.”

Harry looked around again. Every single gaze except his was on Draco, the air was thick with tension, and Harry got a sudden glimpse of the future.

The Dark Mark on Draco’s arm seemed to flex and wriggle as he slashed his wand through the air. Harry flung himself at him, caught hold of his hand; he was almost blinded by the flash of green light, and the sound of the spell in flight was like a thousand bad memories rushing through the air.

“What are you doing?” Draco shook himself free of Harry’s grip. “Why -”

“You’re better than that!”

Harry’s interference had sent the killing curse wide of its target, but Greyback had thrown himself to the floor anyway. He spat out grass and glared up at them both. “Fuck the head start,” he growled. “Run. Now.”

Did severely pissing Greyback off count as a plus? Probably not.

Despite his apparent desire to kill Greyback, Draco didn’t take much dragging into movement. A few strides and he was ahead, actually pulling Harry along. Harry thought uncharitably that running away had always been something Draco was good at.

*

Draco had poured most of his anger and fear into the failed killing curse; there was very little of either left to cloud his mind as he sprinted across the lawn.

If we’d had more time, we could have covered our tracks, used that cloak of Potter’s and a bit of lateral thinking, and maybe made it to the edge of the wards. As it is, there’s only one way out now…

Their way appeared blocked by a long hedge. Draco caught hold of Potter’s arm and ran straight towards it.

Behind them, someone started to howl. Draco was sure he could hear running feet pounding across the grass, but he dismissed it as his imagination - how could he hear anything over the staccato throb of his pulse in his ears?

The hedge rippled, opened up for them, and, there, they had some space. The maze would open up for the werewolves just as readily, but deposit them in a different place.

The sun was too low; hardly any of its light found its way through the hedges, and its absence turned the quiet pathway into a trench of gloom and deep shadows. Potter looked around at the walls of holly surrounding them. He ran his hand over the prickly leaves, hardly out of breath. “This should even things up a bit,” he said calmly. “Are we trying to get to the centre, or trying to get them lost?”

Of course, this will be old hat to him, after fourth year. This maze was a toy compared to the one Potter had had to navigate then, designed for lazy summer afternoon wanderings and moonlight trysts. The forbidding-looking hedges were all for show - they’d try hard enough to stop you from getting to the centre, but would also let you out easily enough if you got bored.

“The centre, definitely, but trying not to get lost ourselves would be a good start. Reperio centre.” A thin line of light shot out of his wand, cutting through the gloom and disappearing off around a corner. Potter looked at it, and then Draco; one eyebrow disappeared beneath his messy hair. “I could never see the attraction of just wandering around.”

“I thought you said you liked puzzles,” Potter said as they started to follow the light. “I ought to have known you’d cheat.”

They rounded the corner. “It’s not cheating.” The hedges rustled around them, and promptly moved so that the line of light ran straight into a solid wall of leaves. “See? It’s just trying for a tiny little advantage.” Draco cast the spell again; this time the light ran straight into a very solid werewolf.

Potter’s stunning spell cut it off in mid-howl.

Draco was really starting to appreciate Potter’s presence in life-and-death situations.

The hedge beside them rustled and shook - as if someone was trying to climb it. Another howl went up, sounding much too close. He reminded himself that they stood a better chance in the maze than out on the open ground, but that didn’t change his feelings about the confined space. The pathway seemed to be getting narrower, the shadows on it seemed like living things; Draco broke into a run.

With every step, he begged the old maze not to impede their progress. A dark shape burst through a hedge in front of him; he stunned it without even thinking, without even slowing down. The howls were coming from all around them now, and when he repeated the locating spell, it was with more than a touch of panic. His brain said they’d been running for just a few minutes; the tightness in his chest and weakness in his knees said more like a few hours -

They rounded a corner, and he was suddenly blinking in light and rejoicing in open space. The little folly at the centre of the maze was set in its own little garden, surrounded by flowers that nature intended to only grow on cliff tops, but Draco ignored the beauty of the scene. The flowers weren’t important, the way the warm light of the setting sun lit up the folly’s delicate marble pillars wasn’t important. What was important was what lay inside the little ‘temple’.

Their way out.

Draco could smell the sea as he climbed the steps. He heard Potter comment on it nervously, but ignored him too.

He picked up a smooth black stone from the floor of the folly and touched it to his bloodied mouth. There was movement beyond the pillars; a quick glance out into the garden showed about five werewolves loping through the flowers. Draco caught Potter’s hand. The stone felt icy cold between their palms - a cold that burned, sending numbness creeping through skin.

His body felt as if it was being stretched like elastic - then it was released, every molecule snapping back together at their destination.

“Well, that was different.” The stone dropped as Potter released his hand. “What was that? Some kind of Portkey? And where are we?”

He heard Cassiopeia pipe up with a delighted “the seaside, silly!” her voice somewhat muffled by Potter’s arm. Draco didn’t look at him.

They were safe. They couldn’t possibly have been followed. Hell, even Draco’s father didn’t know about this particular property of the folly - the werewolves certainly wouldn’t either.

We’re safe. His brain knew it, but his body didn’t seem to. He was shaking, and he could still smell the werewolves, and all he could think as he looked around the cave, at dripping, much-too-close walls and pools of water looking like blood in the rays of the setting sun, was that this would be a hell of a place to get caught in an ambush…

He pushed past Potter, almost running for the ruins silhouetted in the mouth of the cave. Out there probably wouldn’t be any safer, but there was light, and open space, and -

Draco felt seaweed squelch under his foot, that foot slid out from beneath him, then - with a splash and the painful impact of his arse against stone - one leg was thigh-deep in water.

Salt-water, warmed to almost body heat by the afternoon sun, turned the scratches on his arms and torso into a mass of wonderful, cleansing pain as he let himself slide down into the rock pool. Some creature with too many legs scuttled out from beneath him as he hit the bottom, curling up to get his head under the water. He closed his eyes, let his nostrils fill with water, tried to imagine it washing the grime of all those touching, grabbing hands from his skin…

*

Harry felt his heart beat gradually slowing down, his body acknowledging the end of the chase. He had no idea where he was, or how they’d been transported from the little folly in the maze to this cave by the sea, but he decided he could worry about that later, when he’d come to terms with his good luck.

As he moved into the mouth of the cave, past the few spikes of worn stonework that were the last remains of what could once have been a great building, he let himself be lulled by the sound of the surf breaking on the beach. The sea sparkled under a sky that seemed almost on fire, and Harry stared at the beauty of it. Malfoy Manor and the werewolves - hell, even the war - all seemed very far away.

Draco pushed past him. When he slipped and half-fell into the rock pool, it should have been a chance for both of them to have a laugh and relax - but Draco slid down into the water. His head disappeared under the surface.

Harry carefully put down the portrait and the cloak, and tucked his wand into the back pocket of his jeans. He clambered over the rocks, careful not to make the same mistake, half expecting Draco to surface at any second, laughing at Harry’s concern.

He didn’t. When Harry got to the pool, Draco was curled up in a ball beneath the water, eyes tightly shut.

“What -?” Harry reached in to grab at his arm; Draco reacted as if he was being attacked, frantically batting Harry’s hand away.

What the hell’s wrong with him?

Trying to drag Draco out of the pool got Harry a elbow in the face and a mouthful of water for his trouble, but he refused to be put off. What’s he trying to do? Drown himself? He caught hold of a handful of Draco’s hair and pulled his head out of the water.

Even coughing and spluttering and trying to gasp in air, he was still fighting. Harry ducked a wild swing and grabbed Draco’s arms. It took all his strength to haul him out onto the rocks, and even then he was trying to knock Harry’s hands away, rubbing at his body as if to wipe away every trace of his touch.

God - he’s shaking… “It’s me, for fuck’s sake!”

“Can still smell them,” Draco muttered.

The werewolves? I know he was scared, but - “They’re gone,” Harry said. He didn’t know what was going through Draco’s head, and a hug was probably the last thing he wanted, but Harry wrapped his arms around him, and held on despite the struggles. He felt Draco’s body shake, and listened to his gasped breaths, and had never felt so helpless in his entire life. “We’re alone. You don‘t have to be scared.”

Draco went still for a moment, then he laughed - a bitter, painful laugh that had no humour in it. He buried his face in Harry’s neck and took a deep breath, as if he was trying to suck the very scent of him down into his lungs. “Maybe you should be,” he whispered. The brush of his lips against the sensitive skin behind Harry’s ear sent a sweet little shiver down his spine. “I might be able to wash Greyback’s filth from my skin, but it’s inside me as well - in my blood.” That caused a shiver of a completely different kind, and Harry jerked away before he could help himself. “That’s right, Potter - get well away.”

Harry’s gaze was irresistibly drawn to the scar on Draco’s shoulder. He stared at it in sick fascination. God - why didn’t I realise? That must have been what Draco and Lupin were arguing about… And Greyback’s been all over him tonight, virtually mauling him - no wonder he’s shaken up…

“He bit you?” Harry said slowly. The shock and horror were burned away by anger, as hot and hard as any he’d ever felt. It fizzed in his brain, telling him to strike out and destroy. “Attacked you?” I’m going to kill him…

Draco curled his lip. “You can tell Lupin that I’m no longer in denial. I’m sure he’ll be pleased.”

“Tell him yourself.”

“Surely you don’t still want me around? You’ve seen what I’m going to become.” He put his hand up to Harry’s face. His fingernails dug into Harry’s skin, deliberately echoing Hel’s earlier threat. “Or do you think it’s sexy? Knowing just one accidental scratch or bite could make you a freak even amongst the freaks? Not changing, but still thinking and feeling like a wolf -”

Harry took hold of his hand, looking at the long, deceptively-delicate fingers. “You mean I’d still look human, but inside I’d be a good-natured, social creature who only kills for food?” Harry said, as calmly as he could manage with the anger still burning inside him, begging him to go back and confront Greyback. “That doesn’t sound so bad.” He gave in to temptation and kissed Draco’s fingertips with all the gentleness he could muster. They tasted of salt-water. “And you could never be like them.”

Draco snatched his hand back. “I don’t want your fucking pity,” he snarled.

Harry blinked and stared at him in confusion, some of that anger switching targets. For once, Draco wasn’t trying to hide his emotions - he looked hurt and angry. What the fuck did I say? I was just trying to be comforting!

“Good! Because you’re not going to get any!”

Draco slid away from him, scrambling down over the rocks onto the sand. Harry stared at his retreating back, trying not to let his eyes follow the hollowed valley of his backbone down to where the extra weight of the water was causing the denim to slide down over the curves of his arse. The scar on his back was livid and painful-looking, and Harry focused on that instead. He’s fucking impossible. Even when I’m being nice he treats me like I’m a complete bastard.

“I’m only trying to help!” Harry jumped down onto the sand. A couple of long strides and he caught up with Draco next to one of the broken pieces of stonework. He grabbed hold of his arm and swung him around. The sand and the bleached stones were tinted with the same gold and red as the sky, and the dying sunlight cast its warm colours into Draco’s hair and softened his sharp angles and hard lines with golden highlights and soft shadows. And maybe it was all fake - the sunlight making him seem beautiful, just as Harry’s curiosity and need for an ally made him seem like a fascinating, if infuriating, friend - but, right at that moment, it didn’t matter.

Harry caught him in his arms - and narrowly avoided a head butt that could easily have broken his nose.

*

Draco found himself shoved hard against the stonework, Potter’s fingers digging into his bare shoulders, messy, open-mouthed kisses being pressed against his forehead, his cheek, his mouth, his chin, his neck…

“Does this seem like pity to you?” Potter said. The heat of his breath against Draco’s damp skin, and the reaction it got - every inch of skin on his body suddenly, humiliatingly, hyper-sensitive and tingling, his muscles tensing, his heart trying to pound its way out of his chest, his cock straining against wet denim - made the words almost irrelevant. One hand slid up over his shoulder, palm caressing the line of his neck, and he threw his head back, pathetically eager for the touch. Potter followed it with his mouth, his lips lingering over the pulse point in Draco‘s neck as if he could taste the blood thundering beneath the skin. “Does it?”

Draco buried his face in hair that was all tufts and waves and randomly-placed spikes that tickled and prickled his skin. Potter’s scent might be a mix of blood and sweat and arousal, but it was totally human. Potter was human - stupidly, painfully so, his body hard and warm and trembling, his breathing laboured as he demanded again, “does it?” He was warm, and hungry, and scared, and strong - and just another pawn in the game, that fragile human flesh so easy to break, scar, destroy… Greyback could tear Potter apart with one blow, the Dark Lord could snuff out his life with one curse…

“Does i-” Once again, words were cut off by a kiss. This time it hurt; Draco’s scalp burned as Potter tugged at his hair, pain to match that in his swollen lip as their mouths slammed together.

The sky was vast above them, the sea merging into it at the distant horizon - all the open space Draco could ever need…and he closed his eyes against it. He leaned into the kiss, lips parting eagerly at the first tentative touch of Potter’s tongue. Then he caught hold of Potter’s hands and moved them over his body, until Potter finally got the idea and started touching him, touching him everywhere, clumsy and hurried, much-too-hard fingers and calloused palms. One kiss became two, became three. And Potter was moaning into his mouth, hoarse, desperate sounds that he could almost feel deep inside his body. The rock he could feel grinding into his thigh was Potter’s erection. In retaliation, Draco shoved one of Potter’s hands down to his crotch.

He had a sudden moment of shamed clarity as Potter froze and pulled back - of course, I should have fucking known - then fingers were fumbling at the buttons of his fly, and Potter’s lips slammed back against his, and his damp trousers were suddenly sliding down over his thighs. The hand that closed around his cock felt almost possessive -

Potter jerked against him, his grip tightening until it was almost painful. Draco swallowed Potter’s startled whimper, felt the denim against his thigh become suddenly wet, and broke, his body jerking like unravelling elastic as he just…let go…

He opened his eyes, and saw the flaming colours of the sky reflected in Potter’s glasses and the wide, wonder-filled eyes beneath them.

“God, god, god.” Potter collapsed against him, flushed and panting. He kissed Draco’s shoulder, and ran slick fingertips along his collarbone. And suddenly, with all the speed and force of a rogue bludger, reality hit. He was naked - ok, so his feet and ankles were still covered, but that hardly counted as ‘clothed’, did it? - and he had Harry fucking Potter draped over him like an extremely scruffy cloak, hand still on his cock, mouth smeared with Draco‘s blood. They were out in the open - only half a mile from the castle and Voldemort.

And he’d just let Potter get him off. Not even ‘let’, really - more like demanded; Potter had seemed happy enough to oblige, but - did it count as surrender if he’d virtually forced Potter to touch him?

The old stonework was rough against Draco’s back and arse, and showed no sign of conveniently opening to swallow him up. Potter’s shirt was starting to stick to his chest - and wasn’t that a disgusting thought - the two of them stuck together like this forever…bound together by dried come…nice…

Draco felt sick, but his cock twitched hopefully.

“For fuck’s sake!”

He shoved Potter away from him.

*

Exhaustion trickled down Harry’s limbs. Part of him just wanted to go to sleep, wrapped around Draco’s warmth. Part of him wanted to keep touching, to run his hands over Draco’s damp skin and feel him come back to pounding, passionate life.

Draco cursed and shoved him away. His knees still felt weak, and he staggered and collapsed onto the sand.

“Well, that was short and sweet.” One sentence, delivered with just an edge of contempt, was enough to chase away the lust. Harry sat there, suddenly mortified, as Draco retrieved his wand from the sand and cast a quick cleansing spell on himself.

Maybe I did come too fast - but he was right behind me.

Draco pulled up his trousers, almost shaking with injured dignity. “We’ve wasted enough time,” he said, his voice cold. “You should clean yourself up before we go. You can’t turn up at a ‘Grand Hotel’ with come-stains on your shirt - it’s just not done.”