Fanfiction ► CHIMAERA (Harry Potter) [CHAPTER 6 OUT NOW!]

[scubasteve]

Re: CHIMAERA (a Harry Potter fanfic) [CHAPTER 4 OUT NOW]

i'm kinda confused. do time turners work like this? i know they're not really explained in full detail in the books because time travel is risky business, but... it doesn't ruin my enjoyment of the story. i'm just sorta curious.

 

[Delsan]

Re: CHIMAERA (a Harry Potter fanfic) [CHAPTER 4 OUT NOW]

Heya, folks. Just passing through to let you know that I am working on chapter 5 and that it will be the chapter in which something major happens -- so keep on your toes! Hah! To give a few spoilers -- there's about 7,000 words right now and it's not even close to being finished. Might end up at around 10,000 words like the last chapter yet when I do my second, third (and fourth, maybe) edits, that wordcount could go up or down.

So did you just forget or...?

 

[Ehres]

Re: CHIMAERA (a Harry Potter fanfic) [CHAPTER 4 OUT NOW]

So did you just forget or...?

Not at all. C5 is ALMOST DONE, Y'ALL.

and thanks steve xoxo

 

[Ehres]

Re: CHIMAERA (a Harry Potter fanfic) [CHAPTER 5 OUT NOW]

v: as a lion i advanced

--x--​

Harry couldn't sleep.

His eyes went past the starry fixtures in the canopy of his four-poster bed, but no amount of darkness could send him on his way to his dreams. All the lamps had been extinguished, and the lake was lapping quietly at the window, and even if Harry had chosen to down a mug of hot chocolate there would still be that terrible gnawing feeling of being trapped.

He had chosen to stay a Slytherin as per Dumbledore's wise words. That choice alone was brave of him which Harry very well knew but there was that niggling sensation that he was going to regret tomorrow's event. It worried him far more than the prospect of meeting his parents for the first time when he thought of it because at least he knew his parents if only in theory; this event was unknown, a sphere of mystery to him which he could not pierce regardless of how much time he spent guessing. He supposed, he thought, that he could act when it came to it, do the don't-speak-unless-you're-spoken-to thing. He might make a few mistakes, cause a few hiccups, but he could put it down to nerves. They'd expect natural nerves of Malfoy, wouldn't they?

What really terrified him was the feeling of the unknown which in turn created a sense of being cornered since he had no idea in Hell what was in store for him. He supposed it wasn't bad enough that he couldn't handle it since Malfoy had been giddy and gleeful about it, but that was Malfoy and Harry was always under the opinion that if he himself didn't like something, Malfoy would love it.

He took it with a pinch of salt, and turned over uneasily when Malfoy himself strode in around quarter to eleven. Harry supposed he might be tipsy, even a bit drunk, but despite the bottle of Firewhiskey he'd been hugging he looked surprisingly sober. Harry sat up to say hello but saw the careful, guarded expression in those steely eyes. Something was working behind Malfoy's mask.

"You all right, Draco?" Malfoy sat on the edge of his own bed to pull off his shoes. "You look a bit ill."

"Yeah… No…" Malfoy's voice was small. "Just been thinking about tomorrow. It's sort of hit me a bit." He bent down to line them up and push them underneath the bed. "I've been excited for a while but… I don't know. Maybe it's just been nerves." When he sat back up his eyes went out to the window, where he stared for a couple of quiet minutes. Harry chose not to disturb him, more out of curiosity than respect. "While you were gone I was thinking. Blaise, Ishmael, Pansy… even Crabbe and Goyle—tonight's the last night I'm going to see them in a while, and most of them are none the wiser. I was thinking that nothing's going to be the same after this. I used to think that was all right and I was cool with it, but it creeps up on you—that feeling, I mean."

Harry nodded. He was sure Slytherin Harry would've shared Malfoy's sentiments; anybody their age would've because it sounded like a terrifying deal. It had him wondering just exactly what it was—what the worst it could be. Were they going to be put under some sort of test? Were they going to be mutilated, disfigured, tortured? Placed under the Imperius curse? Made to fight each other to the death? Harry had to prepare himself—and though he knew he was prepared, Slytherin Harry at least, he had to admit that his usual lion's courage was very lacking at that moment. He had to go on for Dumbledore and for the greater good: that's what he kept telling himself.

"I choose not to think about it," said Harry, "just get it over and done with once we're there. Then it's old news and there's not much we can do about it but live with it."

"But I thought you would've been freaking out, too—or, you know, thinking it over twice."

"We've made the deal, it's set and ready to go, and tomorrow's waiting for us like… like a prophecy. What do you suppose we could do about it, anyway?"

Malfoy went still, dipping into his thoughts. Harry watched the way he became like a marble statue, stone legs locked around the edge of the bed. Against the green hangings, Malfoy looked strangely out of place: the way he procrastinated, considered—it was a side of Malfoy Harry had never before seen. It almost made him seem… human. Which he was, of course. He was completely human—just a misguided one at that.

Malfoy's shoulders went tense. His lips became a thin line, and then he undressed and pulled on his sleeping boxers quickly. When he was finished, he frowned in Harry's direction and gave him a stern nod.

"There's nothing to do," he said thickly. "Everything will be perfect. We were meant for this, Harry. Me and you. Malfoy and Potter. Draco and Harry. We'll be fine."

Harry supposed that Malfoy, behind that brave charade, really was as scared as he. The way he acted and moved and spoke was unnatural. He wasn't at ease at all, now suffering from last-minute panic which Harry didn't even have the freedom of expressing in front of his best friend—his faux best friend. There was definitely something fearful behind those eyes, however, something that made him just as human as Harry himself. Perhaps even more so, without the lion's valour.

Harry thought he could put forth the effort to refer to him as 'Draco'.

—x—​

"Professor Snape's going to slit our throats."

"I agree."

Harry's jaw was on the floor as he surveyed the Slytherin common room and the wreckage left from the party; Malfoy—Draco—was stood next to him, gaping in his own way. To him it looked as if someone had sent out an invitation to a herd of African elephants: to Harry it appeared as if another mountain troll had stomped its way over everything capable of breaking; if the common room had been an atmosphere of casual laidback chic last night, it was now a dumping ground emitting strange, strangled noises. Harry suspected the Christmas tree to be one of them, whose branches were lying bedraggled at the foot of the mantelpiece onset by a nest of pixie hatchlings, but he couldn't be sure if the decorative tapestries had been bewitched to sing hymns in a robotic tone or not.

That was to say nothing of the state of the walls, or the floor, or the stains dirtying every bit of fabric the eye could see. Where there were off-colour splotches of Firewhiskey there were also burn marks like the entirety of Slytherin house had been enjoying a jolly good cigar before they came to the unfortunate realisation that there were no ashtrays. Harry spotted that a large pile of the required fourth year books had been completely ruined; where the pages had been, painstakingly scrawled by hand, there were now leaves infested with black and yellow caterpillars. A pair of tawny owls in the corner was fighting over the largest one of them while a fat, white, cross-eyed cat batted a dead spider about in its paws.

Good, Harry thought, not only is the common room a mess, it's also now an insect enclosure.

He shook himself quickly, though; he had bigger things to worry about. The others would come down soon after having slept off a couple of terrible hangovers and they'd clear the mess up if they had any sense to not want to piss off Snape—who, from several low mumblings, was getting more catty than ever. Harry understood why: it wasn't easy after all to keep up a squeaky clean persona when underneath you were as evil as evil gets with the exception of Voldemort.

"C'mon," he said to Draco, "let's get breakfast. L-rd knows we'll need it."

Draco nodded, yet his face was empty. Ironic, wasn't it, how he seemed to be getting colder feet than Harry in this affair? Perhaps the whole thing was going to be terrible—which Harry already knew by instinct—or perhaps Draco wasn't as brave as he made himself out to be. Either way, Harry didn't blame him. With a somewhat regretful pat on the back, he headed towards the Great Hall with a solemn Draco at his heels.

—x—​

Breakfast lasted a few hours, which Harry supposed was nice, and they sat together with a slow stream of Slytherins. Word went around the Hall that there had been a massive party down in the dungeons to celebrate the Quidditch success of the day before so naturally the Gryffindors were in a sour mood. Ravenclaw weren't too bothered by it as they were confident they'd secured their place for the Cup, and Hufflepuff were both positively livid and positively irked at the same time. Harry's threat must've gotten out into the ranks, which wasn't exactly what he'd intended but he saw that Zacharias Smith give him a feeble smile that made his mouth turn a little less down and a little more into a thin line.

As they chomped through slogs of bacon and toast, beans and eggs, tea and pumpkin juice, Harry dissolved into his own little bubble. He couldn't help but feel the absence of usual breakfast-time clatter from the Gryffindor table, so kept looking over at them and kept having his heart stabbed repeatedly every time he did. He sighed sadly when he saw Ron and Hermione sweep past like nothing had ever happened last night but it was for the best he thought. No longer would he be the freak that tried to befriend them, just the freak that taunted and bullied them.

Ron shot Harry a particularly venomous glare at which point he moved on to look at Ginny's head of hair. His heart softened a little before he realised that she was no more accommodating than her brother, and after everything that had gone on so far and was about to go on Harry couldn't bare looking at anyone else besides the people at his own table. He made idle conversation with Goyle, purposely avoided Crabbe who he thought would blurt out their secret, and then joined in a game of exploding snap when the both of them left together.

When their spaces were vacated, Harry was very aware that there was an hour until doomsday. His hands, much like Draco's, were clammy and unsteady to the point that Blaise forced him to put down the cards so as not to burn himself should they involuntarily explode. When the clock chimed—or sang in Bulgarian much to Dumbledore's amusement—both Harry and Draco slipped a fizzing toffee into a cup of tea and drank.

They both immediately turned an unflattering shade of pale, sickly green; bags came under their eyes and they broke out into a sweat. Draco's stomach rumbled which made Harry feel quite ill, but he too jumped up when the other boy ran off out of the Hall. There was a scape of confusion as the boys left in a hurry, but Harry heard Blaise comment that they'd both been sporting terrible hangovers since the early morning and the food must have set them off. As Draco yanked him to the side on a deserted corridor next to the fourth floor staircase, Harry couldn't have been more grateful.

"That was disgusting," he panted; he saw his sickly face reflected in one of the tall windows overlooking an ominous patch of squirming cabbages. Draco nodded in agreement, yet began tugging at the edges of his jumper enthusiastically: the silver cloth of the invisibility cloak tumbled onto his hands—well, Harry assumed so because his hands disappeared. He gawked incredulously. "You went through my things?"

"Oh really, Harry," retorted Draco, "don't you think we have other things to think about? Come on, get under. We've got less than five minutes to meet Snape and I don't fancy sprinting my way up to the seventh corridor. Haven't the stomach for it."

Harry checked his watch (it was a Muggle make, Omega, powered by magic since the batteries presumably went haywire at Hogwarts—Slytherin Harry really was a rich git) and realised that Draco was right. He scooted closer to the other boy and allowed him to throw the cloak over the both of them. Despite the severity of their situation, it was quite comical to have to crouch down so that the cloth covered both their ankles. They were both very obviously nearing six feet—or at least Draco was because despite being lanky Harry had never been very tall.

When they got to the fifth floor without any hiccups, Harry was rather pleased. Actually, thankful was a better word. Only the L-rd knew where Peeves was but if Harry was any sort of Slytherin then he should be glad the Bloody Baron had the poltergeist under his jurisdiction. Perhaps he could turn a blind eye to the ghoul's rather cutting snarls next time.

Draco's breathing was heavy and laboured next to him: was it really that much of an effort? Or perhaps he was panicking; perhaps his heart was seizing up, sending tremors through his body so that he felt sick and dizzy. Harry frowned, stuck his head around the corner of the arched passage to see if the next staircase was properly aligned yet, and then froze when he came face-to-face with Neville Longbottom.

Harry almost called out his name in surprise, or relief, and yet his heart sank when he took in his former friend's face.

Gaunt, emaciated: not the Neville he knew from last year, the chubby Neville with the hamster cheeks and rabbit teeth who struggled with the simplest of disarming spells. This was a Neville who towered over him and was as thin as a rake with knees that seemed to knock even as he stood perfectly still. He paused in front of Harry, frowned underneath his shock of untidy brown hair, and then sighed.

It was as if he were a Dementor rattling out all the sadness he thrived on. Harry's heart panged painfully as he realised that not even twice in the past couple of days had he given thought to his friend. So wrapped-up in his newfound euphoria had he been that he'd neglected the fact that this loyal friend of his was now carrying what had been his burden. For a moment Harry felt that pressure sit back on his shoulders and he almost cried.

He wanted to pat Neville on the shoulder and tell him how very sorry was and that yes, he could empathise with him—but this wasn't the time, or the place, or the reality. If Harry had been a menace to Ron and Hermione he could only envision the things he'd said and done to poor Neville. The look in the Gryffindor's eyes was battered and bruised, an iron ship of crushed happiness. Or maybe he'd never been happy in the first place: maybe he still found it difficult to make friends as he did back in Gryffindor Harry's world?

Harry felt the air brush against the cloak as Neville swept by and began to descend the staircase. He tried to catch a glimpse of the boy's forehead, but Neville kept his gaze to the floor and mumbled apologies as a gaggle of students bumped its way past him. A clammy hand caught his arm and reeled him back around the corner as the students passed to enter a sixth-floor corridor above.

"Don't," said Draco. "Now's not the time to cast a hex at him. We've got to go. We've got two minutes, and I don't want Snape to be any crabbier than he already is."

Ah, yes, of course. Harry's momentary lapse receded to the shadows of his mind and quietly he snuck up the last two staircases with Draco in tow until they stood before an ornate door wreathed from iron and wood. A quick glance around told them there were no students hanging around and carefully they went past the door and gave a small sigh of relief when it snapped shut behind them. It could have been a ghost for anyone who had seen the door opening and closing by itself.

The corridor was just as Harry remembered it: bright, stone walls, a gallery of paintings dominated by sleeping figures and chatting children, brackets of torches giving that sort of gloomy fireside glow to little alcoves and notches in the corridor's walls. Smaller arches lead off to other parts of the floor; at one end there was a large door, smaller than the one they'd just passed through, which Harry knew to lead through to the Gryffindor corridor (he had traversed not long ago, after all). The other end of the corridor made a bend, curtained by thick windows and overhead vaults in stone as ancient as the castle itself. It was down there they had to go.

Draco made a strange noise behind him; Harry looked to see that he was looking increasingly nauseated. He didn't foresee Draco bending over to puke all over his shoes but he gave him an encouraging pat nevertheless. He didn't care much for Draco personally, after all: it inconvenienced him that Draco was losing the steel nerve of yesterday in favour of jelly-legs but he could understand it. Or could he? Hadn't he had a personal audience with Voldemort several times? And hadn't Draco also sat in the same room as him, dined at the same table, kept the same company? Surely he should been idolising the Dark Lord, not looking pale and sickly at the thought of the task ahead.

Unless it really was that bad.

Harry pulled him along after getting a quick look at the time; he was slow to walk, but if Harry could accredit him anything it was that he seemed to understand the consequences of his actions and therefore his duty. With a weak stride in his step he kept pace, and only stopped when they both stood before the lengthy expanse of stone wall that Harry had visited to access the Come and Go Room.

He knew the drill only too well—and so did Draco, it seemed. That worried Harry quite a bit.

They walked past it three times: to one end of the long corridor, then back, then to the other end, and finally back at the stone wall opposite the Barnabas tapestry in which trolls were attempting graceful pliés with little success. They gave each other one final look, to see Snape striding to meet them, and watched as the wall created a wide set of doors through which they entered. This alone gave Snape the signal that they were there and though he seemed a little miffed that they were not already inside waiting for him he said nothing as they shed the cloak and moved into the belly of the secret room.

It really was nothing to how it had been last time: not small, compact, room enough for a class of students to practise spells inside as Harry remembered it. Not equipped with wooden dummies or a hearth or mirrors: it was simply filled to the brim with old bits of junks and lost treasures. Some distance away, which may have been a football pitch in length or maybe five or six miles, was a gargantuan mountain of furniture looking set to topple at any given moment, and next to it a sky of paper cranes hanging solemnly on strings. Somewhere to the right there was a screech which sounded all too familiar to Harry, but he had no time or worry for Cornish Pixies at the moment; there was a plethora of other junk hidden away in the room separating them, and he thought it would be unfitting to fret over something so relatively harmless as blue pixies.

The three of them trailed a winding path to the left and stopped at a crossroads. On one corner there was a vicious looking contraption, a pyramid cabinet with two sweeping doors meeting at a devilish point. It stood on three legs, which Harry thought might make it rickety and unstable were in not supported by magic, but its sleek black face gave it the air of old power and strength. He understood that it was nothing to be afraid of—its only crime was the place to which it would lead or so he presumed.

Snape craned his head backwards as he took the invisibility cloak from Draco's hands. Harry felt a sharp twinge of discomfort; that was his possession and the only heirloom from his family. He eyed it for a moment before he heard the teacher point his wand in all directions and give a prompt, "Homenum revelio." The search returned no results besides the pixies, about which Snape seemed pleased. Harry, on the other hand—and Draco, he was sure—wasn't quite so happy with this development. What he wouldn't now give for someone to come bursting from that old moth-eaten rack of fur coats at his side and rescue him from the task he had to perform.

"We're alone," came the professor's unflattering drawl, "which means you have succeeded where Crabbe and Goyle did not." Harry and Draco exchanged a look of alarm, yet Snape cut past. "A student followed them into the room, so a memory charm was in order. You should both be thankful that this student will only recall tripping over a trap laid by Peeves and hitting her head on the floor. Should you both see Hestia Carrow, do refrain from performing any questionable activities which may jog her memory of the events this afternoon."

Harry and Draco gave quick nods: surely Snape was irked behind his ever-disgusted mask. Harry had been revising even in his sleep the outlines that Snape had delivered yesterday. He was supposed to enter first, and Draco after him, and all of that had been ruined (all the more by the snooping Hestia Carrow). Would this have created any complications? Were these painstakingly-formulated plans now ruined? Harry hated to think of the consequences. He looked sharp as Snape opened the doors of the cupboard.

It was a crawl space inside, not much smaller than the chute leading to the Chamber of Secrets. Harry knew it was he who had to enter first; he slid onto the sturdy shelf inside, tucked in his legs, and took one last look at Hogwarts. Draco's face was pale; he really did look as if he was going to shed the contents of his stomach this time. Whether Snape was impassive or not was beyond him but he knew from the way things had been spoken yesterday that much hinged on this endeavour and for that he knew Snape to be concerned.

Draco offered him a weak, empathetic look. "See you, Harry." And then Snape gave a flick of his wand, and the doors cast Harry into complete and utter darkness. A moment later, he felt the shifting of atmosphere, and a blast of stuffy air came his way.

—x—​

"What's that?"

"Dunno, could be 'im. Snape said it'd be around this time. Get out your wand."

Harry gripped the insides of the cupboard as his head span: it felt very much as if he had just been pushed through a tiny tube and his body had been stretched out like a flimsy piece of spaghetti. He patted his chest and felt the hard shape of his wand, and then squinted when the doors of the cupboard opened and his vision was filled with the greasy, unwashed face of a man he only knew to be the shopkeeper of Borgin and Burkes.

"You—are you Harry Potter?"

The shopkeeper's putrid breath made Harry scrunch his face, but he nodded firmly and attempted to slide himself forwards and put his feet on the floor—but a wand stopped him, and Harry had to pause. Never had he liked Borgin (it was said Burke had disappeared years ago for reasons unknown) and now that he was face-to-face with him he could only think of his encounter in the second year during which he'd accidentally landed in Knockturn Alley and listened to the dark, questionable conversation between the owner and Lucius Malfoy.

"Of course I am," said Harry. He took a stab in the dark and raised a well-groomed eyebrow. "Is your memory really that poor, Borgin, or don't you value the business of pureblood families like my own? I don't think my father would like your attitude."

Borgin's lip went to curl into a little snarl but he collected himself and gave a bow. Harry knew it was too risky to do what he'd just done, but it was worth it. Dumbledore's request that he play the game meant that this disguise was essential. If he couldn't even fool this shopkeeper into thinking he really was the callous Slytherin he purportedly was, then he had no chance with the real Death Eaters. Harry stared past him coolly and caught the eye of Borgin's associate.

"Mister Potter," came the ambling voice, "so nice to see you. We been anticipatin' your arrival, sir."

"Really?" Harry's brogue was bored. "Draco's yet to follow. When we're both here, I trust you know what to do—" a clear threat "—I've had enough of your idiocy, and I wouldn't want to think you'd be a spanner in the works. I knew this place was going to the dogs, but this level of customer service is awful."

Harry wasn't sure what he'd just said, exactly, or what he meant by it, but it sounded villainous enough. He caught the look exchanged between Borgin and the dark-skinned associate and wondered if that was really how Slytherin Harry was: a dick in every sense of the word. A mumbled apology came from the associate, thick with his cockney tone, but Harry was already caught up in the wares of the shop to give a reply.

Dark and dingy as usual, definitely due a decade's worth of spring cleaning. The grimy windows, from the outside, were perhaps a reflection of the nature of the things inside; things you didn't want to touch or get close to for fear of being sullied. Had Harry still been scarred he thought it would've been prickling with the buzz of dark magic in the air; things in here were the sort of artefacts you'd only read about in books or imagine in your dreams. If the stacks and stacks of marked skulls were the norm, then the rows of gnarled, rotted hands would be considered strange—and Harry knew their power. His fingers stung painfully at the memory.

There was a rattle behind him, which he guessed to be Draco passing over through the cabinet, yet something else caught his attention: something was missing from the shop. He understood that with Voldemort's return, more and more of his followers were selling off their dark artefacts which could only account for the rather increased inventory of the shop—that and the fact that it would be rather foolish to purchase any dark objects at such a period. So why then was the cursed necklace gone from its cabinet?

Harry remembered looking at it in his second year before he'd had to zip into the iron maiden to avoid the curious eyes of Draco and his father (as well as Borgin). He remembered it being black and blue or somewhere thereabouts: blue opals? He couldn't remember the exact stones but he knew that they were cursed; he could only imagine the horrors that came from touching it. So who on Earth would buy something so dangerous and illegal at a time when the Ministry would be rising up to jail any and all followers of Voldemort? It curdled Harry's thoughts—but only until he heard the kerfuffle as Draco hopped onto the floor and straightened himself out.

"Mister Malfoy," Borgin was saying, "good to see you, sir. And yer fath—"

"Not the time or place, Borgin," retorted Draco, "ask him yourself."

"Of course, of course," came the dejected reply.

The low candles illuminating the place created halos of light where the windows blocked the little sunlight that peeked over the hills of roofs and growths of chimneys of the other buildings alongside; Draco's face was not only pallid and sallow now, but exaggerated. The circles under his eyes were beginning to deepen as if sleep hadn't given him refuge in a long, long time and if the toffee had made him sick before, his current demeanour was positively beset with pneumonia—which was the excuse they were to give to any enquiring persons as per Snape's orders. Harry's stomach rumbled uneasily despite being filled with the usual breakfast time bits and bats, and gave an unhappy flip as the associate closed the door to the cabinet and rounded on them both.

"Now," he said, and his black gums popped out from behind his top lip to showcase a toothless mouth, "Mister Malfoy, Mister Potter, allow me to introduce meself as Shacklebolt. Déchuel Shacklebolt, but I mostly go by Dec." Shacklebolt? As in, Kingsley Shacklebolt? "Now, you probably 'eard o' me brother, Kingsley, but no matter, no matter. All me allegiance is to the Dark Lord, as is yours, so consider me somethin' of a haven for articles you might not want to be found on yer person—" he caught Harry's curious expression "—not that you'd 'ave items of dubious nature on yerselves, o' course, but just in case yer found yerself to be in a compromisin' position…"

"Yes, yes, Dec, 'urry up," hissed Borgin. He was ogling a large, ugly clock on the wall anxiously. "You ain't 'ere to promote yerself. You know 'e don't like to be kept a-waitin'!"

"Yes, o' course, o' course…" The back of Dec's large, dark hand came to wipe the spittle from the corners of his mouth. He sucked in a breath through his decayed gums, prompting the image of a hungry Dementor. "Yer both a couple minutes late, but not to worry, not to worry… Get yer wits about ye, wands an' all, and we'll be off in a jiffy once yer both nice an' ready."

Whatever 'nice an' ready' meant, Harry was not it; his stomach was in funny little knots as the realisation came over him that he was mere moments away from meeting the Dark Lord as not an enemy but a king and master. That was a hurricane of feelings in and of itself but now was not the time to procrastinate; he'd given Dumbledore his word and if there was anybody in the world he would never betray it was Dumbledore whether life or death. He gave what he thought was a firm nod, looked around once more (the necklace cabinet slipped past his vision), and touched Dec's arm tentatively. Draco did the same, and a moment later they were Apparating.

Not the nicest of things, really, being forced into a tiny test tube and shooting out the other end again, but it had to be done. Bile rose up in Harry's throat as his feet found firm ground once again, and he closed his eyes and sucked in new air as he righted himself. That was his first time Apparating and hopefully it would be his last this year (though he knew one of the sixth year electives was Apparition lessons which he had a strange feeling Slytherin Harry was undertaking as a part of his timetable) since it created such an uneasy feeling in just about every bit of limb he owned.

He was just thinking about emptying his guts when there came a voice which cancelled out every scared, lonely or sad feeling Harry had ever felt. It was soft and mellow, floating on the wind like a rhythm of silk; and it was familiar even though Harry was sure he'd only heard it once or twice…

The graveyard. His mother.

His heart lurched and he had to control himself ever so well to prevent that inevitable spinning around. So badly did his body ache to see her in the flesh, touch her for the first time in conscious memory, and yet he knew it to be out of place and suspicious and probably a sign of embarrassment to whomever else might have been present. He inhaled deeply to temper his rapid heartbeat—a long moment later, he turned around and looked, for the first time, upon his mother's face.

She was as perfect as they all said she was; as he imagined her. Pale skin as if a moon were lit underneath her face, soft features, a cascade of red hair framing two pools of rich green as verdant as spring pastures. She was the image of the siren, holiest of holies, and she was small and timid, and she was his mother. His throat began to tighten and he knew if he didn't look away from her he would burst into an uncontrollable fit of tears.

His father's face was next, sort of like a pit-stop on the track of raging emotion that his mother brought about. Strong, tall, handsome in a way that wasn't ethereal or excessive. Others would've said his mother could've done better, but Harry disagreed; he thought they complimented one another. His father was tall, angular, a sharp ship of iron on a calm sea. He, too, was free of spectacles, yet unlike Harry he was a tad unkempt with his hair. A beast, almost, cold and grey yet not lifeless. A thin smile fought at the corners of his thin lips in a playful kind of manner but he understood the company and the mood and so he kept all expression at bay.

Harry looked at both of them together and understood immediately why his mother had fallen for his father. A good girl always liked her vices, they always said, and that vice was usually a man of disagreeable morality if only in her darkest desires. He was a perfect mix of that—Slytherin Harry, he meant—unearthly in face and cutting in manner.

The angel is a beast, and all that malarkey.

"Draco."

The taut, heavy tone of Lucius Malfoy turned Harry's head: and what he saw shocked him.

Beauty—but untelevised. It wasn't makeup, that much was certain, but there was a sunny shimmer to Lucius Malfoy's face that didn't really belong to anybody normal. His features were smooth, and unblemished, and not even when his face was turned out in the bright shine of the expensive glass lamps did any bags become highlighted or any grey hairs show their faces. All of it was completely natural like Lucius Malfoy was a particular fan of anti-aging potions; for someone in his mid- to late-thirties, he looked exceedingly good and very much alive with his sparkling eyes of grey. How all that was possible while he stood still, Harry could only begin to fathom; he had a very precise lean on his walking stick (a holster of sorts for his elegant black wand), and his river of hair was ever a constant part of his stance as the muscles holding up his strong body.

Draco gave a stiff nod to his father—was he eager to shun away his ill look in front of his sire?—but relaxed considerably when his mother, Narcissa, leaned to press her lips to his cheek. Her pretty pink lipstick completely contrasted with the white pallet of her face; the only other thing that stood out was the shocking blue of her eyes, oceans to themselves, for even her hair matched the stark shade of her skin. Like Lily she was smaller than her partner, yet framed her sleek body with a tight, champagne-coloured dress which just about covered her ankles. She shared Lucius's strange shimmer and beauty.

"I trust the journey was smooth," came Lucius's difficult voice.

Draco nodded firmly. "There was a small hiccup but Professor Snape took care of it. Crabbe and Goyle, not us."

Harry's father barked out a laugh. "Those two were never the brightest little blighters, eh, Lucius? One of them knocked over dear Narcissa's prized vase here—" it was an ugly Greek affair "—but Lily put it right." It was strange to hear his father talk. He retained all the familiarity of his youth while encapsulating the menacing and gruff with effortless ease. "It's a scary task tonight, but you boys are ready, aren't you?"

Harry gave an automatic nod; the Malfoys looked expectantly at their son and loosened up when he gave his confirmation, too. The parents quickly rounded on the boys and hushed them through a tall, arched doorway opening out into an impressive lobby and staircase. Harry looked around in wonder at the Gothic look of the place, and almost tripped when he was ushered up the carpeted stone steps. He caught Draco's hand reflexively and found it to be clammy—he was still as nervous as Harry felt.

It was strange, though: why were they being rushed, and why were their parents so calm? Perhaps it wasn't as bad as he made it out to be… or perhaps they simply had balls of steel that Harry did not. He shivered as he turned the corner of the stairs, and mounted the last few steps which opened up onto a sweeping hall of ebony oak. Really he shouldn't have been surprised to behold the spectacle that was the… sitting room? dining room? game room? of Malfoy Manor yet in all honesty he was so used to waking up to the lively, homely humdrum of The Burrow that he'd forgotten what stately elegance looked like.

Well, if Ron's house lacked this level of neatness and financial expression, Draco's home lacked the warmth and life that the Weasleys had in abundance. He instantly preferred the home of his best friend—Ron, that was, not Draco—and wished more than anything that this was actually a bad dream and that he'd quickly wake up to the smell of eggs and bacon on the stove and Mrs. Weasley shoving a pot of tea and a rack of toast under his nose because he'd woken up so late on Christmas morning that he'd completely missed the mini-feast of English breakfast.

It also occurred to him that Malfoy Manor might be his home for Christmas, and that was a depressing thought indeed—yet he tried not to think of it given the current situation. Instead he absorbed the long, dark table which could easily seat a king and his court. Thick, padded chairs flanked its sides, each one comfortable enough to support a lordly head of house; a few were occupied but others were mostly tucked away. A house elf ambled along with a silver platter in hand, balancing crystal wine glasses which refilled as soon as they were empty. The sorry state of the poor thing tickled Harry's sympathy and instead of donning his cruel disguise—which Slytherin Harry undoubtedly wore—towards the creature he simply said nothing and took in the occupants of the room.

Next to the crackling fire was the woman that Harry despised more than any other woman in the world; more than any other person in the room. Her dark, springy hair tumbled down her back; it trailed haphazardly over her shoulders, was pinned here and there at the sides to keep it away from her face. She was pale and sickly unlike the Malfoys, and her eyes were bright and wild like those of a child. Her small mouth, previously clasped shut, broadened into a repulsive smile that exposed her cracked teeth—a smile burned into Harry's old, imperfect retinae and carried over to new, keen memory. The hot flash of vomit tumbled in his stomach, and yet the thing that sickened him most of all was the fact that he had to return her smile with loving eagerness as she went over and took both him and Draco into her arms and gave them tight, firm hugs.

"Draco," she cooed, "Harry, I've missed you both. Harry, you've stopped writing to me. Last letter was fifth of October and now look at the date! We'll have to rectify that, m'boy."

The affectionate tenderness of Bellatrix Lestrange was even more disturbing than her psychopathic madness. Harry knew both of them: the latter more than the other yet in spite of Sirius's death he'd rather it remain that way for a long, long time. Bellatrix was disgusting enough to look at; he didn't want her hugs or her kisses, her doting attention. He didn't want to know the feeling of being pressed against her bosom like a precious diamond. He was none of that to her...

"Harry," said Lily sternly. She clearly read his stiff body language. "Aunt Bella hasn't seen you since August. Do be a little more receptive."

Harry paused, and then coiled an arm around Bellatrix's slender shoulders and gave her a tight squeeze. A little too tight, actually, but that was on purpose. Any pain he caused her was nothing next to the amount of pain he'd like to inflict upon her under the Cruciatus curse. A dangerous consideration took root in his mind for a fleeting second and yet he understood that around him were a dozen or so witches and wizards that would rip him limb from limb if he tried anything so bold. And really? Dumbledore would say that Bellatrix wasn't as bad as Voldemort so there really was no reason for Harry's coldness—at least she had been kind to Slytherin Harry, right?

Dumbledore, Dumbledore. He had to think of Dumbledore.

"Ooh," she remarked, "getting strong, aren't we?" Her wicked eyes flashed around at the others. "Not as strong as tonight though, eh?"

Lily gave a polite laugh; James beamed. Their animation dwarfed the minimalism that the Malfoy couple expressed; their faces barely moved an inch and yet they were laughing, too. Quite like china or glass, Harry thought—fragile somehow, elegant. Bellatrix released him and moved in to pat Draco's cheeks affectionately. Well, at least she hadn't touched his face; he'd still be scrubbing himself later, though. Knowing her fingers homed the wand that tortured poor Frank and Alice Longbottom to insanity was reason enough to make Harry seethe.

"Thanks, Aunt Bella," mumbled Draco; much to Harry's surprise it seemed Draco wasn't too keen on her, either. Talk about crazy aunts.

She let him go, too, and then gave a wide berth with her arms. Harry turned his attention to the other folk in the room, some of whom he recognised and some of whom he didn't. There was Crabbe and Goyle stood in a corner with their fathers and appearing every inch as stupid; a small, weedy, Albanian bloke Harry remembered from the scene back at the Ministry of Magic mere days ago named Antonin Dolohov; the traitor Peter Pettigrew, as fat and balding and scummy as ever; a straw-haired blond man Harry had seen in the Daily Prophet under the moniker of 'Yaxley'; a tubby, red-haired woman with pale, round features whom Harry did not recognise—but a woman who was undoubtedly the antithesis of his mother despite their common colouring; a beefy beast of a man, covered in hair with a face that wasn't quite human, by the name of Fenrir Greyback—this had been the werewolf to attack Professor Lupin; and finally, a hook-nosed, dog-eyed wizard with a broad chest and a deadpan glare whom Harry had never seen before, though he noted that he and the red-haired witch both wore the same clothing design.

It was slightly surreal to stand among these people: in the real world, these people were his enemies. Every single one bar his parents would have grabbed him at the first chance and presented him to Voldemort as a lamb for the slaughter. Crabbe Sr. and Goyle Sr. along with Lucius Malfoy and Peter Pettigrew had watched Voldemort's resurrection; they'd also clapped and jeered as Voldemort placed a finger on his scar, and as they duelled. Greyback would have done the same—would have bitten Harry given half the chance, too. And now Draco, Crabbe and Goyle were his friends, and Bellatrix Lestrange was some couth family member behind closed doors. And his parents? Loyal to the enemy who would kill them given a single fleeting reason. He didn't know why they did it—why didn't they choose to run away? Voldemort couldn't find them all. Without followers he was a weakling of an individual. A killer, yes, and dangerous, yes, but surely not undefeatable. Nobody was immortal.

Sadly that wasn't the reality so for now Harry had to make do. He offered a firm nod to the rest of them as if he felt the tiniest inkling of respect for them. The looks they returned were not familiar but they were not hostile. Admiring. Something like that. It made Harry feel uncomfortable, so instead he looked back to his mother and said the first true thing since his arrival in his new world:

"It's good to see you, Mum. I missed you."

Her expression melted a little, and like a shy schoolgirl she looked away. She looked young, he realised, but not unwise and unlearned. She stepped forwards and clasped him to her as if she would lose him forever. Her heart thudded vibrantly, and he knew that she had missed him with the passion of a thousand burning suns, too.

She smelled like lavender and roses, and expensive perfumes which had never really left the clothes she wore no matter how much she washed them. It created a little bubble that was individual to his mother. She smelled complete, and whole, a real, corporeal person that he'd tried all his life to imagine—and now here it was. Death Eater or not, it didn't matter. She was his mother. She was all he needed.

He pulled away before tears could form, and he looked to his father. He was shorter than his sire, naturally, and of less build—but by all other accounts he was definitely a little James. There came a wolfish smile from his father that Harry returned with vigour, and then that moment of reunion was ended when Bellatrix made a little coughing noise much like Dolores Umbridge had done at the start-of-year feast. Everyone turned their eyes to her, and she took count of everyone there, and when she was satisfied she pointed her gnarled wand to the space above the table and conjured a picture of a glowing, white orb.

"Now," she began, as if she were suddenly a Ministry official, "now that we're all here, let's take stock of the plan. Vincent and Gregory arrived on time, boys—" she said this to Draco and Harry "—and made the necessary preparations. Bedrooms have been prepared. Unfortunately, due to the nature of the plan, you won't be staying in your usual adjoining bedrooms." She gave Harry a sad look. "So, m'boy, I'm sorry to say the Jacuzzi will be out of bounds during your stay. Instead you'll be moving to the bottom floor of the house, in the north-east-most bedroom."

Her voice went out to Draco. "Draco, you'll be on the top floor, south-west. All your belongings have been moved, but only for the holidays. You understand why." Draco gave a feeble nod. "It's still early afternoon so you boys can still mingle, but at six o'clock dinner is to be served. At seven, you are both to bathe and get ready for the evening. At eight o'clock…" Her voice trailed off; her breath was excited and trembling. "At eight o'clock, the Dark Lord is to arrive. And nine o'clock, everybody will congregate in the garden foyer, and the task shall begin." She looked around pointedly at everybody. Nobody disagreed with her plan of action. "Nobody is to be late: we all understand why."

Everybody's silence was the affirmation Bellatrix needed. Harry looked around at them to search for any cases of jamais vu, of confusion, of second-guessing or simply absolute bewilderment because that was his internal territory on the matter at the moment—but nobody's brow was creased with questioning or misunderstanding. They were all as prepared as Slytherin Harry—as he, Gryffindor Harry, should have been.

He got that feeling he often remembered getting back in Muggle primary school. What was now an easy piece of arithmetic would back then have been a mountain of numbers and symbols; everybody in the class but him knew how it worked and he dared not ask the teacher for help for fear of drawing embarrassing attention to himself. The only difference here was that this was now a matter of life or crushing death, and so with nothing but the twitch of his lip, Harry remained silent.

"Good."

Bellatrix dismissed them all then, and Harry wasn't sure which direction to go in. Far away from the Death Eaters, that was clear, but into the arms of his parents or the comfort of Draco's nervousness he didn't know. He was about to suggest something to the other boy, some half-witted joke in light of the awkward dissipation, but Draco was already curling away with his parents. That left Harry alone with his mother and father—the safest place for him.

But still. His mother and father.

He felt his father's firm hand on his shoulder before he heard his mother's soft exhaling; inwards he turned to look upon familiar features disturbed by unfamiliar circumstances. He caught his mother's eyes, then as if by some telepathic connection they guided him out of the room and down a short labyrinth of corridors and passageways guarded by snooty paintings and many curiously empty glass cabinets. A simpleton could guess what was once in those confinements.

It was a comfort, though, to know that his parents knew the secrets of this house almost as if it were their own. Strange; that seemed to say that they were close pals with the Malfoys, but then again—if Bellatrix was admiringly referred to as Aunt Bellatrix... He didn't dwell on it. There were more pressing issues to be dealt with.

"Well, here it is." His mother's quiet tone brought Harry from his reverie. He took stock of the darkened corridor, illuminated by bracketed fires and dim lamps, and then read the newly-polished golden plaque on the door before him.

Messer Potter.

He gulped. This had all been well-planned in advance. He went to touch the shiny gold doorknob before him when his father batted his hand down and shook his head. "Not yet," he said in response to Harry's curious touch and then locked his own fingers around it.

No wand, no magic, no nothing. The door simply gave way and swung open to reveal a majestic room in tones which were a tad too depressing for Gryffindor-wrought Harry. It was as long as it was wide, a perfect square in loving proportions with annoyingly symmetrical furniture: two cabinets at either side of the bed, two drawers, two doors, a bookcase which was sat precisely atop the midway point of the far back wall. His belongings were already mounted at the foot of his bed, his dark green chemises and deep grey Oxford bags not much contrast against the underwater shades of the room. There were, he noted, no windows in the room as if the depressing Slytherin vibe hadn't already been enough.

Then here was a ruffle of heavy feathers and a pierce of ochre eyes at which Harry gave a sudden, sharp gasp. His owl. His eagle owl. His brown eagle owl handsomely speckled with cream. His owl who was not Hedwig.

He felt his lip begin to quiver, felt this might be one step too far for him—it was, after all, Hedwig whom had grown with him, suffered with him, loved him during his wizarding years. Hedwig whom had been gifted to him by his old, wonderful friend Hagrid. Hedwig whom was now replaced by this gorgeous, stately and hopelessly Slytherin Harry bird; and Hagrid by murderous psychopaths daring to call themselves family members like some tacked-on addition to his life. Into the room he moved, slumping against the edge of the bed, and wrenched out his wand.

He stared at it angrily, cursing the red streak that ran through it. Anger and flame were suddenly beset in his belly like a button somebody could press to alter his moods.

Oh, yes, even far away from Hogwarts and the comforts of the Gryffindor common room something had to taunt him about his old life. Something had to remind him that he did not belong here no matter how much he was trying. He made a struggled noise and threw it across the room where it skittered across the floor and came to a solemn halt at the foot of the owl's stand. Said owl gave a screech and look at its master disapprovingly.

He felt the thick silence between his parents, automatically knew they were looking at one another. Hadn't even been around them for more than five minutes and he already knew their reactions; but he was surprised to feel the heavy dip of his father next to him and his mother's slender form sidle next to one of the posts of the regal bed. It was, if nothing, a small and personal comfort to simply know they were there. He would have to get used to it.

"We know it's scary—" began his mother carefully, interrupted by James as if he was finishing her sentence, "—but you've done ever so well so far. And not just at school, either. You've excelled at your physical tests, and Severus tells us you're doing very well in Occlumency lessons—" Oh, so he was still taking those, was he? Fat lot of good they'd done him against Snape's oily nose. "—You've really nothing to worry about."

Except he had, except this was all terribly, horribly daunting and now more than ever there was no way out. For whatever he had purportedly trained, he was completely unequipped. He knew nothing about anything, his Occlumency skills were down the gutter, and he was in a den of snakes. With Voldemort as the lord and master of his parents. And Dumbledore hadn't yet any idea on what to do.

He sighed from exhaustion. He really just wanted to sleep. Skip dinner, he didn't care. Show up at nine o'clock and do the darn task, get whatever snake tattoo he'd seen on the others, return to Hogwarts a dirty Death Eater. He just wanted answers. He just wanted it over with.

There was a poignant moment of quietness between the three of them (the four, counting the bird). Harry stared at his wand, unblinking, wondering why on Earth this had to happen in his alternate life. Why couldn't he have landed in a world where he was a Hufflepuff and none of this would happen to him. For once he wanted a break.

"You know," said Lily calmly, "you were the talk of the town when we brought you home with your wand. Everybody was shocked that you got a Split." Split? "But there it was, ninth wand you tried. First eight were either utterly useless or blew poor Ollivander's socks to smithereens." She turned her moonish eyes to Harry. "Then this one just came right into your hand, and you turned to me and said—"

"—it feels like home."

Harry surprised himself when those words came from his lips. He almost looked at James to see if it had been him, but sure enough his own throat had produced the sounds. And it felt like some deep-seated knowledge buried like a seed in his soul, a red string connecting him and Slytherin Harry together. He knew he was right; Lily smiled in confirmation.

"Your grandmother was expecting acacia or ebony or something thereabouts. It was quite a shock when you came home with a Split. It's true what they say about chestnut owners, though—too fond of material things. She almost fainted when she saw the colour of it." Her eyes wrinkled merrily. "She eventually came around when she got a closer look at it. Pine wood, dragon heartstring, eleven inches, red Split. A fine wand, she decided. Powerful, loyal, courageous. I think even she got used to it, the idea you might be in Gryffindor—"

Harry's heart thudded nervously. Might be in Gryffindor? That was what the red streak in his wand symbolised? That he had a chance to be in Gryffindor? That underneath his Slytherin home values there existed a sense of determination and valour? That made him both happy and angry: happy because somewhere deep within Slytherin Harry resembled Gryffindor Harry; angry because all the wonderful friends and people he knew because of Gryffindor house were erased from his life. He had been so close.

"—but, you know, she was over the moon when we got your letter. Lucius and Narcissa were ever so pleased, too."

It sparked a question. He pulled at the fabric of his pants and spoke tenatively.

"What if... I had been put into Gryffindor?"

"Things would be the same. You'd still be Harry." This was James; Harry smiled to himself. "But it goes to show, son. You've always been brave. Reckless, yes, but nothing I wouldn't do. You've got the sheer gall to do this. We wouldn't be here if you didn't."

So this thing with Voldemort, this task, was an elected choice?

"But no more of this. You're tired." Lily went over and picked his wand up from the owl's base to pass it back to him. "You should have a nap. Think of something to wear." Over the top of Harry's head, her and James's eyes met. "Spend a bit of time with Draco while you can."

While he could? Was something going to happen—were they going to be separated? Draco had made it sound as if they were coming back together in January. He didn't understand... but they did. They caught his concerned, surprised expression. Deer caught in the sudden headlights. James got to his feet and moved to the doorway with Lily; their looks were those of sorriness.

"We've got all the time in the world together, son. But Draco—you understand. Say your goodbyes."

Goodbyes? What?

"I don't—"

"—Harry, really, it's fine. It's best if you do it while you still have the chance."

"But—"

"—I mean, it wouldn't be safe afterwards. For neither of you. We know you're well-prepared, but we don't want to take any chances." Chances? Of what? "I mean, it'll be hard enough on your end of things, but him... Poor boy." His mother pressed a faint hand to her heart as if saying a prayer. Harry turned his head, not daring to really say anything odd or strange. Not now, not now. "Lucius and Narcissa will keep an eye on him. Perhaps it's best if you keep your distance from them, too. Your father will have a hard enough time of it tonight. There's no knowing what you'll do, Harry." He really did not understand—and it was written all over his face. Fear. Confusion. Panic. A myriad of feelings scribed into his features. He began to tremble, really, very regretting this now. "They're feral creatures after all, you know—"

The next word came like a sucker punch to the gut. He could not compute its implications, but he knew it made him feel sick. Queasy. Unreal. Time seemed to expand, curling around him and sweeping him away to a place where emotions were sickeningly slow, sickeningly precise.

"—werewolves."

The word reverberated endlessly. Slowly. Excruciatingly. This was why they had put him in the basement, as far away from Draco as possible. This was why they were assembled at a point in the country far away from any other people. This was why there was a strict timetable, meticulous processes. All of it was because of this, because of that one single word.

Werewolf.

Fcuking werewolf.

--x--​

Author's notes: Finally, right?

You can read the fanfiction from the start on its FF.Net page or you can hop straight to chapter five right here. Otherwise, you can look at what other fictions I have to offer on my profile.

 

[DMrayZ]

Re: CHIMAERA (a Harry Potter fanfic) [CHAPTER 5 OUT NOW]

Fucking werewolves.

Gah! It had me on edge the entire time, I don't even know what to say, but brilliant, every chapter, every paragraph, every word, pure brilliance!

1000000000000000/10 It's just so gooooood!

 

[Ehres]

Re: CHIMAERA (a Harry Potter fanfic) [CHAPTER 5 OUT NOW]

Haha, some goon left this in his review.

"And your so called "creative purposes" don't impress me either. Crap like Merlin was a Slytherin. The legend of King Arthur/Merlin plays the 5th/6th century, so before Hogwarts existed."

I'm dying of laughter. Merlin was a Slytherin, asswipe. Call yourself a HP fan, get on Pottermore and check the facts for yourself.

 

[Orion]

Re: CHIMAERA (a Harry Potter fanfic) [CHAPTER 5 OUT NOW]

I.
Wait.
What.
NO.

DAMMIT NO DON'T STOP THERE

YOU BUILD THE ENTIRE CHAPTER UP SO WELL TO THAT POINT

AND THEN YOU HAD TO CUT IT SHORT FOR THE NEXT ONE GAAAAAH

(but im loving it if you hadn't guessed)

 

[scubasteve]

Re: CHIMAERA (a Harry Potter fanfic) [CHAPTER 5 OUT NOW]

Haha, some goon left this in his review.

"And your so called "creative purposes" don't impress me either. Crap like Merlin was a Slytherin. The legend of King Arthur/Merlin plays the 5th/6th century, so before Hogwarts existed."

I'm dying of laughter. Merlin was a Slytherin, asswipe. Call yourself a HP fan, get on Pottermore and check the facts for yourself.

if you want legit criticism of your work or want to actually talk to a normal person, then fanfiction.net is probably the last place you should go

good update 8 cedric diggorys out of 9

 

[Ehres]

Re: CHIMAERA (a Harry Potter fanfic) [CHAPTER 5 OUT NOW]

sick steve thanks...

might get ya own CAMEO in chapter 6 EH BOY how'd you like those perriwinkles

 

[scubasteve]

Re: CHIMAERA (a Harry Potter fanfic) [CHAPTER 5 OUT NOW]

make me a ravenclaw i am soooo ravenclaw

 

[Delsan]

Re: CHIMAERA (a Harry Potter fanfic) [CHAPTER 5 OUT NOW]

MORE! MORE!

I don't want to wait like three months again :/

 

[Ehres]

Re: CHIMAERA (amazing Harry Potter fan-fic) [CHAPTER 6 COMING SOON!]

vi: with courage i prepared

--x--​

It was a dead-end situation if Harry had ever known one, and the difference was that there was little he could do without serious repercussions for his parents, even if they were parents vastly different from his own canon. He looked down between his feet and stared for some time at the floor, wondering if it would open up and swallow him into peaceful oblivion any time soon.

The feeling of helplessness was entirely new to him—because in the past though he had struggled plenty a time there'd always been Ron and Hermione there and plenty other Gryffindor friends to see him succeed where he thought he might not. There was a distinct lack of that as Slytherin Harry; his supposed confidant, Draco, was in the same boat and happy about it in some deep part of him behind that mask of terror. He'd been happy about it for the longest time, really.

What he'd give for Sirius's advice now. For a bit of untidy, hurried scrawl telling him to keep his nose clean.

He lay back with a feeling of all-consuming dread and considered his options as his eyes bore into whatever bland item of money his line of sight happened to find. He could sneak out, he supposed—or at least try to. If his father was a werewolf and tonight was the full moon... Well, Harry knew that werewolf senses were at their sharpest on nights like this; he'd be caught making too much noise clambering out the window. There'd be a lot of explaining to do to a beast like Greyback.

There was a sudden loud banging on his door. Harry almost shot a mile into the air as his heart started. He gripped his wand to his chest instinctively, then realised there wasn't really anybody in the house who would willingly hurt him, so then tucked it away and went to open the door tentatively.

He could almost smell the pheromones as Greyback's massive, garish face came into view on the other side of the door. Speak of the devil. Harry stood there stupidly for a split second, wondering what on Earth Greyback was doing at his bedroom, and then caught himself and told him to come in. Slytherin Harry was probably stupid enough to do that.

"Your heart," came the werewolf's Cockney boom, "you oughtta calm down. You'll be attractin' other creatures of the deep." Harry didn't know what he meant by that so offered a confident smile and nodded like an imbecile. Greyback went on. "I come to visit you to see you were all right. I weren't expecting your father to give you the most practical advice so I takes it upon mysel' to 'ave a chat."

"Yeah," Harry said flippantly, sinking back onto the edge of the bed, really thinking that Greyback was the last person he'd take advice from, "avoided the subject, really. I was sort of hoping you'd come by and, er... give a bit of spiritual advice or whatever you lot – I mean, er, your kind – call it." He cursed himself internally. Back in his world Greyback was known for his fierce demeanour, and he didn't expect it to be any different in this reality.

"Spiritual?" Greyback barked a laugh. "We're not a pack o' tree fairies, lad. We're beasts is what we is. True predators, stalkers of the dark nights. Our nature is our blood, an' the killin' is the art form. Do you get where I'm coming from?"

"Oh, right. Yeah, I suppose I do when you put it like that." Too doubtful. "I mean, yeah, I never thought of it that way before. Well, I have, but it's just—"

"—the nerves, I know. Wouldn't really know 'ow that goes, of course, being the way I am but I can sympathise—" That's highly fucking unlikely, Harry thought "—I mean, there's the rush, the heart beatin', the whimpers of the little blighters when they feel that powerful wolf's venom penetratin' their blood."

The way Greyback talked about it was like it was erotica—the hunt, the blood, the infamous child hunting. Spittle sat on his lips, his eyes glazed, tongue wagging and hungry—and in between his legs what was a guilty bulge. Harry averted his eyes quickly and brought up something else that didn't involve this particular werewolf's sick, sexual excitement.

"Does it hurt?" he asked. It was more childish than he intended, but vital. Nothing could be more painful than getting stabbed by the fang of a basilisk but he hadn't really experienced werewolf life... maybe Slytherin Harry was prepared for it, so maybe it might not be as painful. Pre-prepared placebos and whatnot.

"Like fucking Hell." The werewolf's mouth opened into a grimy, gritty smile that would make anybody sick to the stomach. There went his meagre hopes. "Oh, yes, it hurts but it's a rewarding pain. Imagine a woman – a slag – giving birth, and holding that baby for the first time. Imagine that agony and that rush of love afterwards. That's what being a werewolf's like, only more. No baby could add up to the feelin' of the beast, Harry, none."

Well, that was comforting. Not only was Greyback a psychopath, he was also a misogynist: and also apparently a close family friend, co-worker and advice-giver. Slytherin Harry really was in the thick of it; his Gryffindor self almost pitied him...

"Right, well, I best be off, yer father'll be thinkin' I've gone down off to the villages for a pre-dinner snack—" code word: child "—and he'll be whinin' at me. No, Harry, don't look so petrified. It's not so bad after the first time, and it's not like it's permanent. You just gots to be asking for rare meat, is all—and if they don't do it, there's the Forbidden Forest full o' critters for you to get your teef into."

With that Greyback retreated from the room, leaving Harry to his own violent turmoil of thoughts. He first noticed that he felt sick to his stomach now his fears were reaffirmed and so emptied his Hogwarts breakfast into the toilet bowl at the thought of what would soon be happening.

It was all a fucking shambles, in complete honesty. Giving up a Voldemort-chased life with dead parents and godfather for this experience? Harry was beginning to think he hadn't exactly gotten what he'd bargained for. And plus, did all time-turning explorations have this disastrous an outcome? He'd have to ask Hermione... except that, oh yes, she was also now on 'the other side' and he was, especially after this Christmas, forbidden from becoming friends with her.

He flopped down onto his bed after washing his mouth and face and buried his head into his arms. He was frustrated, hurt, lost, confused: all of this for Sirius? All of this crazy, nonsensical bullshit for Sirius? Was it morally bankrupt of him to want to trade Sirius's life in for this tragedy? Or was it the Slytherin in him bucking out of the more courageous, painful option to save its own scaly hide?

It was time to visit Draco.

—x—​

"Are you sure, darling? We can have Dobby bring up some sandwiches if you'd like. We've got pickled onions somewhere, too. I know they're your favourite."

Narcissa's voice was silky in a manner that it was tantalising but Harry's stomach wasn't strong enough for even a small onion soaked in vinegar. He shook his head for the third time.

"It's all right, Cissy. Honestly."

"Well, all right." She gave him and Draco, who was perched next to him on the bed with his legs drawn to his chest, a concerned look before turning to leave the room. She pressed a dainty hand to her husband's shoulder as she passed him in the doorway; there was a split second of silence, and then Lucius gave a random nod and fixated both his eyes on the pair of them. Being alone with this ethereally beautiful man did nothing to ease Harry's shaky nerves.

"As I'm to understand it, Greyback talked to you." How does he know that? "I offer my condolences." He flashed a row of pristine, white teeth. "Greyback has the manners of a pig at slaughter, but listen to him, Harry. In times when you feel alone and outcast, his advice will be valuable."

Odd enough to be getting advice from the eternally stoical Lucius Malfoy, but for the eternally stoical Lucius Malfoy to endorse the words of the savage Greyback was unheard of—back in his own world, anyway. Harry had been under the impression that anything non-humanoid and non-magical didn't possess the qualifications to be treated as a living person, never mind respected or revered in any fashion. He'd sworn he'd heard Draco yapping on back during their stint in the second year under the influence of Polyjuice Potion that his father had been so angry about Harry and Ron not getting expelled for flying the Ford Anglia that he'd kicked one of the residential mutts so hard up the backside it had had to consume a mouthful of Skelegro.

"Greyback isn't the first person I'd turn to in a time of need," he murmured to himself under his breath; Lucius gave a polite laugh – really, how did he... – and moved to the doorway to leave the boys alone for one last afternoon together, or something like that. "Well," said his ever-receding voice, "I'll send up the elf with some drinks if you don't help yourselves."

Draco gave a deep sigh and moved to close the ornate door of his bedroom. Slytherin Harry had probably slept in here at some point during his life but it was hard not to gawk at the sheer size. A fireplace bigger than the Dursley's own living room, his own personal corridor to his own personal set of rooms: a library, a bathroom, and a small kitchenette of sorts where he could fix himself a drink if he needed, as well as a padded room for duelling practise and another room for his impressive collection of (mostly designer) clothes. He didn't know where to look that didn't make it starkly obvious he was really a total newcomer to the vision of inherited wealth.

Draco's back, apparently; the other boy bypassed him completely to move off to the kitchen. He returned with some water for the both of them and sat in a grand armchair in the corner of the room, fiddling with his wand absent-mindedly. It was Harry's voice that brought him from his reverie.

"Hmm?"

"I said are you nervous?"

"Oh. Yeah. Yeah, 'course. But we've been preparing for this for so long, Harry. Feels sort of cowardly to just go back on all those promises we made. In front of... well, the Dark Lord."

"Yeah... I'm nervous, too. Didn't really think about it properly until now—" that wasn't exactly a lie "—'till Greyback came in, gave the talk. You know what he's like."

"'Least you've got someone else to talk to. And it'll only be once a month on your end of things. It'll just be constant for me. I won't even be able to talk to you like this without wanting to rip your face off. Or anyone else's apart from Mum and Dad's and they do my fucking head in most of the time." His face hardened into a scowl and he turned to prodding his glass until the water inside turned blue. "Draco, do this, Draco, do that. Don't you dare make friends with the Gryffindors or Hufflepuffs, Draco. Ravenclaws are second-class Slytherins, Draco. Draco, why didn't you get an O on your test? Draco, you know how important it is to eat and exercise well before Christmas-time."

Harry hadn't considered that aspect. He knew from his own world that Lucius Malfoy had been anything but reasonable when it came to social perfection so the strains on his 'Hogwarts representative' Draco must have been phenomenal. And what did Draco mean, 'constant for me'? Wasn't he undergoing the same transformative experience? Harry decided to play it safe.

"Surely it won't be that bad—there'll be others like us, too. I mean, there's Greyback and then there was Lupin from third year. I mean, I know it's Hogwarts and everything but we're allowed to go to Hogsmeade at weekends and then there's the Easter holidays... There's no reason why we can't just high-tail it out of school for a bit to cool off."

Draco gave him an ugly look and levitated his glass of water over to the bedside table with so much concentration he looked to snap his wand in half.

"That's easy for you to say," he snapped. "The school's seen werewolves before. At least Lupin was a werewolf all the way through. They knew how to handle him from a young age. Mum and Dad were just... normal back then. They don't know how to deal with..." He gave a sigh just as he was about to say the word, at which point the glass tumbled from the bedside table having been placed a tad too far on the edge, and Draco hissed in frustration. It was after a snap of the fingers that Dobby appeared to clean the mess up, giving no heed to Harry.

Of course, he didn't know Harry as the kind-hearted equalist who'd befriended him in his second year. Harry was probably simply another one of his tormentors; and there was nothing Harry could do about that. He could only follow Draco down the personal corridor to the duelling room, which very much took after a squash court. He plucked his wand from his breast, which he'd replaced after his mother had passed it back to him down in his own bedroom, felt its weird echo of familiarity in his mind, and pointed it towards Draco much like it was a sabre.

Slytherin Harry was probably that much of a toff, anyway: a keen fencer who more than likely circle-jerked to Olympic events on television (if indeed his family even possessed such a contraption). Draco took a similar stance, narrowed his steely eyes, and lashed out with a silent spell.

"Protego!" Harry couldn't stop the word coming from his mouth but it did its job well. He assumed by now in their current position in the sixth year that wordless incantations were all the rage in the curriculum. He sucked in a breath as the red streak bubbled and frothed against his pearlescent defence, and felt his arm ache uncompromisingly when Draco shot a jinx at his foot. He flung the shield low enough just in time for the spell to ping away and smash into one of the blank walls; Draco laughed suddenly. "What?"

"Nothing," came the hoot, "I was just remembering... First year when we had that duel outside Transfiguration. You hit Stephen Mruzik in the head with a Knockback Jinx. McGonagall went mental!"

That sounded like something Gryffindor Harry would accidentally do. How many times had he sent Ron scissor-kicking across the room in their more amateur years?

"Haugen lost her nut," continued Draco, "tried poisoning you in Potions, I think. And to think—" he nodded towards the Split in Harry's wand "—you were that close to being sorted in with a bunch of nutters."

"Don't." It was a mistake; Harry clasped his hand over his mouth as Draco gave him a look that was both perplexed and angered. He really did hate Gryffindors—but his features softened when Harry corrected himself. "I mean, don't remind me... Grandmother near enough disowned me at first... First it's Dad marrying Mum, then it's Mum dragging Dad off to meet Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia – pair of arseholes if I ever knew any—" that wasn't a lie at all "—and don't even get me started on Dudley. Then Dad gets the infection... Grandmother would've popped off if I ended up in Gryffindor. Only sending me presents this year because I'd signed up."

"But I thought she didn't like werewolves."

"Oh, she doesn't. She whistles for my dad whenever she wants him for something—but my pledge or whatever more than made up for the Gryffindor issue. I think she overlooks the werewolf thing even with Dad for the most part. She's always going on about his honourable oath and stuff—" here he was grasping at straws, but whether it was a long-shot he did not know "—even if it is for eternity."

The last word made the laughing, joking Draco recede back into his shell, and instantly Harry regretted it. Why, he wasn't sure, but it did. Probably a side-effect of whatever fusing was going on with his Gryffindor self to his Slytherin silhouette. Draco sighed again and went back to the bedroom, Harry on his tail, and both of them flopped on the bed.

"I'm sorry," came Harry's half-mumbled apology. He sucked in his cheek. "I didn't think."

"No, it's all right. I've got to face up to it at some point. No point wallowing around in misery. I made this choice like you did. I should be a bit more enthusiastic. I've seen loads of cool stuff Mum and Dad can do. They say it's like listening to somebody's lungs half the time. You can hear the air go in and out of people. And then they can smell stuff we can't, like perfume from ages away, and cigarettes and just general things we don't pick up on. Then there's the speed and the gymnastics and whatnot... It's just weird. I remember seeing Mum with a shattered leg when I was young, and now that doesn't even cross her mind. She can... scale the walls without worrying about falling off."

That made Harry think. In all his years of Defence Against the Dark Arts classes, even last year when he taught Dumbledore's Army, he'd never come across people who could climb walls and move lightning-fast and perform amazing acrobatics. From the way Draco spoke of his parents Harry knew the Malfoy couple was not human—but they lacked the burly build of Greyback and his father, and Lucius was far too elegant to ever attain James's level of natural... beastliness. Were they another form of werewolf? Were-mice? Were-spiders? Did things like that even exist? In his Hogwarts textbooks there had never been any mention...

"Well, at least you'll be able to do that stuff as well. Me? I'm doomed to turn into a dog every thirty days. Probably snooping off to piss on Hagrid's cabbages or gnawing on rotting centaur legs or something."

Draco snorted. "Don't let Greyback hear you say that. He'll be scratching at you before your dad does."

"Yeah..." It wasn't something he was exactly willing to think about with happy or excited abandon. "So, who's going to do you? Your mum or your dad?"

"Dad." The reply was instant like it was a decision firmly drawn in the mud. "Like I was telling you, I wasn't sure who it was going to be but we talked about it a lot. Couldn't eat my dinner because of it, really. Mum turned him, so... they figured it works out better if Dad does it so there's a firm hierarchy in place. Mum'll still have control over me through Dad even if it's weaker. It's just easier for... well, You-Know-Who. Mum doesn't have to wrestle with us both competing against one another; she'll still have power over him and he'll have power over me. And the Dark Lord will have power over all of us. That's the way it's been planned."

So it was a power scheme; it was a method calculated in Voldemort's favour to give him some advantage over the other side. Well, Dumbledore had mentioned that during the First Wizarding War Voldemort had recruited all manner of monster for his cause; this time he'd be grasping at straws to the point of infiltrating Hogwarts, it seemed. He would stop at nothing. It was a lot to take in: it also meant that his werewolf deal was a contract drawn from nails and blood that he, Slytherin Harry, had willingly signed knowing that he was a weapon and informant.

A killer.

It made him seethe. He was going to kill. He had to tell Dumbledore but there was no way out of the situation. He had to become a werewolf first, and then—well, Dumbledore could create the concoction stewed for Lupin in the third year. His mind whirred as the basics of the blueprint came together: He'd slip off into the woods on the night of every full moon so as not to arouse Snape's suspicion, and then he'd take his potion and... well, wait it out. He could stay around the back of Hagrid's hut so he wouldn't alert Fang to his presence. No doubt he was not exactly in Hagrid's best books, either.

"That makes sense," came the feeble reply, passing off as thoughtful, "but... won't it be obvious? I mean, your mum and dad aren't exactly inconspicuous. If I were anybody but myself—" ha, ha... "—I'd notice their differences. You know, the glowing skin, vinegar preservation and all that."

Malfoy shot him a funny look. "You're a strange one," he said, before turning his eyes back to the details of his eloquent four-poster. "It'll be obvious, yeah. But some of them know. Snape, you know? And one or two of the Slytherins... They'll help propel the rumour that I cut my hand open on a Christmas present and Dad went nuts. The Ministry's not exactly given Dad the sack because of his condition. He's a very highly valued employee. They'll extend the gratitude to Hogwarts—and the best part is that Dumbledore will be forced to comply, the fool." Harry raged quietly as Malfoy sneered the word. "He'll be helping with my upkeep, playing right into Snape's hands. I could be picking off the students one by one and he would have to put up with it, protect me from 'the Dark Lord's invisible influence on non-humans'. He's got too much morality about killing children."

Harry lay in stunned silence. Malfoy had thought this out very thoroughly, and he knew his Slytherin self had, too. If he thought he was a git from the way others treated him he knew it was nothing akin to the real portrait underneath his unblemished, seemingly perfect skin and dazzling smile. He was evil to the core. It said masses about his parents and the company they kept.

"Morality, eh?" Malfoy had none. In spite of his little tiff, his quiet mourning for the nature of events the past few days when he really thought about it, he'd bounced right back to square one—not giving a shit about anything else other than himself. Harry wanted to Crucio some common human decency into him right then. "Morality's just... holding us back." He sat up abruptly, and forced himself to wheel out his next words: "Well, morality can piss off. I've a werewolf to become." The grin he faked nauseated him. "And you a lightbulb."

Malfoy threw a pillow at him.

"Yes, dog."

—x—​

According to Bellatrix's timetable, which Harry had turned over very vigorously in his mind, there was still an hour and a half to go before the six o'clock dinner. It would probably be appropriate to change out of his Slytherin robes and don something quasi-formal for the last feast; something to show off the last contours of his human shoulders before they became loaded with the bulk of muscle and his face took on an entirely different definition of 'facial hair'. A chance to present himself to this small, wicked world inside the manor as a boy who was about to become, metaphorically, a man.

He felt more Gryffindor than ever, and yet he was more afraid than he had ever been. Didn't they say a man could only be brave when he was scared? A useful mantra to reassure himself, but no doubt it would fail come time for the task. Come time for Voldemort's eight o'clock arrival, actually.

He drifted around the house after more inane chatter with Malfoy, whose confidence had managed to buckle right at the tail end of their time together. His mother had said they should cherish their last moments together but none of the words exchanged had brought any sort of sense of catharsis. It only made him want to get away from Malfoy more. If their divide – werewolf and whatever Malfoy's parents were – drove a wedge between them, then so be it. He needed to be as far away from the crazed community of evil as he could. Knowing Voldemort would be playing puppet master to his impulses was sickening enough.

Down by the portrait gallery the Malfoys apparently boasted, Harry found his parents chatting amicably with Greyback and the chubby red-haired woman who, though she stood solemnly and quietly, threw in a comment here and there which his parents felt were very funny. Both his father and Greyback drew in a slow breath through the nose and turned to greet Harry; James patted Lily on the shoulder and she turned around with wide eyes.

"Harry..." the inflection of surprise "...aren't you spending time with Draco?"

Harry felt the tubby redhead's eyes on him like burning fire; he gave her a look of indifference and shrugged. "We're not attached at the hip. I have to put up with him enough at school as it is," he drawled, and his father and Greyback guffawed, "and I thought—well, you know. This is the last time you'll see me like this. Like a memoir or something."

Lily's eyes began to water immediately; she pulled Harry to her breast and sobbed quietly into his hair, overwrought by the honesty of her son's sweetness. James rubbed her shoulder lovingly, and Greyback and the redhead stood back awkwardly at the exchange. "Don't say it like that," she hiccuped, "you make it sound as if you're going off to die."

"Don't be so silly," came the redhead's deep voice, "he's off to become a man. James and Fenrir'll have his back before anybody else can get to him. Heads will roll."

"Yeah—" that was Greyback "—heads will fuckin' roll if one of my pack is targeted. We're a family, Lily. Wolves never move alone."

Lily exhaled into Harry's hair and retreated from her hug to dab her eyes on a handkerchief she kept in her pocket. "Well, yes," she sniffled, pressing away marks where her mascara had run, "I know—but he'll be ever so alone at Hogwarts." She witnessed James and Fenrir exchange a knowing, grinning glance. "Oh, put off it. I don't want him attacking anybody at school! It'll be confusing enough for him as is with the impulses and the newness of it all. I don't want him suffering through the responsibility of offspring just yet." Her eyes became glossy with tears once more. "I've tried so hard to bargain with the Dark Lord already but he's adamant he won't wait until Easter before Harry starts..."

Starts killing people. Eating and consuming human flesh. Turning his friends into monsters. His lip quivered as his mother moved closer to her anguish; he put a strong hand on her arm and gave her a firm look of the eyes. Green met lovely green, and his heart stuttered: it was a simple look but it grounded him. He had come from his snippet of softness that was his mother. Though she had Death Eater allegiances, there was still familiarity somewhere. He could source valour from that alone.

"It'll be fine, Mum. I wanted this. I'm loyal. I'm doing it for you and—" was it safe to make the admission here before Greyback and the other woman? He had to make sure "—Dad and the Dark Lord. Dad and Fenrir will take good care of me, and I'll be back to normal in no time. Just like you want."

"Yes..." she sniffed. "I'm sorry. It just terrifies me. So many things could go wrong... What if—what if your father can't—" Her eyes swivelled to his father, but it was Greyback who interrupted her worries.

"It's carefully mapped out, Lily. James is a weaker wolf; he can't keep away the transformation as long as I can—" well, Greyback's prowess as a werewolf extraordinaire was clear by the sheer amount of body hair that streaked his skin "—so I'll be there to watch him turn 'Arry, and then I'll watch 'Arry turn, give 'im a bit of encouragement and the like, and when they're done we'll be free to roam as a pack." His cracked teeth glinted horribly in the low light as a smile tugged at his lips. "And no pansy Malfoy creature will be able to stop us."

"Not so fast," cut in the redhead sharply. Her lips were pursed as she scrutinised him none too fondly for his comment. Harry thought she was about to jump to the Malfoys' defence but he was mistaken. "The Dark Lord will be making his inspections, and it will be your duty to keep a tab on Harry."

"Ah, yes." Harry watched him carefully—but there was no sign of insubordination towards her. He was, for all intents and purposes, leashed by her words. Was Voldemort the only one to whom Greyback submitted? It was a terrifying thought. "You're right, Carrow. It will be a cause for celebration, and 'Arry will celebrate well with his new family." He turned his grin towards Harry questioningly, and he had no choice but to oblige him with an eager nod.

Carrow, however, fixed him a furrowed glance with pursed lips. She crossed her chubby arms over the black padding of her plain robes, and played with the end of her wand which was woven between each of her sausage-like fingers. "You're awfully quiet, Harry." Harry met her questioning eyes with careful abandon, understanding that among this small group of individuals, Carrow was the one he had to look out for—doubly so because he purportedly knew her in his family's circle of friends and couldn't betray his lack of intel; secondly because he simply didn't know her mannerisms or what not to do around her. She seemed tightly-strung enough.

He gave a shrug of the shoulders, passing off nonchalance as if it was casual stance. He figured his Slytherin self carried the aire du cool, and in Slytherin language that meant impassiveness yet sharp wit—a dagger tongue lazing inside the mouth. His tone came out as a drawl as if the werewolf matter were nothing to be worried about at all. "It's a scary thing," he confessed, sweeping a hand through his perfect hair, "I'm only human."

"But you've been ever so excited, Harry." What was up with her? Why the questions, the accusing tone? She couldn't have known... "Aren't thinking of backing out, are you?"

"And even if I was," came the snappish Gryffindor tone, "what would you do about it?" He felt his mother tense; his father was struggling not to smile—Greyback's expression was indeterminable. "I took the oath and swore myself to the Dark Lord. I'm bound and I couldn't get out of it even if I liked—or do you think that an oath means nothing? I took the oath in fear knowing that I'd have to become stronger, and that's what I've done. And, yes, I know very well that backing out will mean the Dark Lord will punish me. But you know what they say, a man can only be brave when he is afraid."

Carrow narrowed her eyes, her glare venomous as if she couldn't believe he had the audacity to tell her the truth when she was scrutinising his every move. She should have known, of course; lions snapped when they were cornered, attacked and went into that heated self-preservation mode. Harry was no different.

"You should have been a Gryffindor, Potter," she said thinly, "much too brash for your own good."

"The Sorting Hat thought I would have made a good Gryffindor, too," he remarked acidly. "It's not an insult."

She pressed her lips together as if to bite back, but Greyback held an arm across her chest to tell her to stop. Harry's eyes were deadlocked on her pudgy face, and some insanely irrational part of him wanting to let rip a snarl and spit in her face. He'd never felt that strongly about an individual before—and it wasn't because she was a Death Eater. His mother's hand at the small of his back calmed him and she turned him away from Carrow into a concerned smile.

"Come, sweetheart," she mumbled, "now's not the time for anger, is it? You've dinner to dress for, and I hear the house elves have prepared your favourite—" lasagne? "—lasagne." His Slytherin self had good taste. "You wouldn't want to miss it, would you? It's ever such a special occasion."

"No, Mother," he said. With dinner on his mind, Carrow was almost entirely forgotten and he liked it that way. Both his father and Greyback slapped strong hands down onto his shoulders and he had to try his hardest not to buckle; James curled him under his arm and turned with him away from the gallery. "Back to your room," he said, "and wear something nice for your mother. Do you still have those old robes from Tattings?"

"Er—I think so."

—x—​

Back in his windowless bedroom, Harry was pacing. His drawers – filled with the clothes he didn't remember bringing – were topsy turvy, half-hanging from the polished wood with their contents spilling onto the floor like the piece of furniture had drunk too much and spewed their contents out. He'd thought about having a shower but there wasn't enough time, and plus, Bellatrix's timetable allowed for an hour of preening before...

He couldn't process the thought without feeling dizzy and wanting to throw up. The emerald velvet of his robes pooled around him as he sat on the edge of the bed, focusing on the monstrous owl that he owned; there was a silver brooch pinned to his breast, a snake with actual emeralds for glittering eyes, and beneath the robes he wore a simple white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, tucked into a fancy pair of high-rising, grey Oxford bags. His feet were kitted with shiny, black, pointed affairs, and at his wrists were serpent cuff-links with the same green eyes as his pin. For all intents and purposes he was immaculately dressed having figured that it really was the last time to show himself off to the world as a proud, brave, and human Harry.

He also hoped it wasn't the last time he showed himself off to the world as a Gryffindor Harry.

The feeling of wanting to vomit rushed up his throat again as he fingered his wand. It took a clasped mouth to stop himself, and he knew he couldn't manage dinner like this. Suspecting that Draco wouldn't be eating much, either, he supposed that the negligence of the rumoured lasagne would not be a big issue. Even though they were Death Eaters they also had human impulses—most of them, anyway. They'd all been children once, afraid of at least something.

Afraid of Voldemort.

"Oh, bloody hell," he gasped as he made a break for the bathroom to throw up into the toilet. The owl eyed him much like a vole as if it knew something wasn't quite right. Good thing owls couldn't talk, then.

He just finished brushing his teeth when there was a knock at the door. The noise was hollow and slow like time was ballooning out all around him, and he was getting sucked into its black core. He tucked his wand away into the little pocket inside his robes, fiddled with his brooch shakily, and then opened the door. Standing there was his mother in a gorgeous evening gown in burgundy, cut down to the knee. She covered her bare shoulders with a golden shawl; Harry noted that she'd curled her hair out into tight ringlets of natural red, and when he took a look at her on the whole he understood that his mother was a Gryffindor.

That came as a surprise. He'd expected her to be a Slytherin queen.

"You look beautiful," he said. He could shower her with a multitude of other compliments but that one summed up his thoughts pretty well. Maybe having never known his mother contributed to his misinterpretations of her – well, the one that used to exist in his world – but he had never thought she would be so gentle. Not fragile, exactly, but soft and wise. Her fiery, lion-proud outfit therefore took a more profound effect. She smiled warmly and returned the words as they walked to the dining room.

It was as Harry imagined it: long, sweeping, completely decadent with newly-erected diamond set-ups adorning the corners of the rooms, the windowpanes, the table in bowls laid out in intervals of every two chairs. Why someone would keep a stock of perfectly-cut diamonds as table decorations to pour into glass goldfish bowls like beads wasn't in Harry's understanding but they did look rather nice as they glittered and shone in the army of candle lights hoisted across the sleek walls. With a fire roaring at the end of the room, the radiators bewitched to a healthy temperature and the sweeping curtains drawn, the place actually looked quite homely.

All that was needed were Christmas decorations streaming the ceilings, but Harry assumed the Malfoys thought they were above such tacky riff-raff. Well, as it happened he quite liked the Weasleys' jolly festive efforts. He sucked in his cheek as he peered around at the place, hoping his seat – one of the few remaining – was near the fireplace. Since it was the winter season, the sun set early and the coldness descended even earlier; or perhaps it was his nerves making his skin prickle like that.

Others were already there, stood behind their high-backed chairs. It was the same group of Death Eaters from before but they'd slipped from their evil-doing robes into material of sophisticated wealth. Even Carrow looked decent, though her pinched mouth returned when she saw Harry at the threshold with his mother. Next to her was the man who'd been wearing the same robes earlier – a family member, perhaps? – in a set of fancy robes, and next to him was Greyback decked out (Harry's eyes popped) in a slate grey suit that stretched over his bulging shoulders and arms with a white shirt unbuttoned at the neck. He'd combed his hair into a low ponytail, but the rest of him was still undeniably terrifying with his thick fur, cracked teeth, and inhuman eyes. He gave Harry a playful whistle as Lily lead them both over.

"Good boy," came the thick Cockney, "representing your mother and father well." His eyes moved to Lily's face... and despite Harry's well-placed assumptions of misogyny, Greyback didn't peer at her bust or her slender legs. He cocked a brow to himself, thinking, Well, would you look at that. "And you look beautiful, Lily," he said politely. He was attempting to erase some of the eastern London hardness from his tone. "Godric Gryffindor would be proud..." his mouth widened into a grin as he looked to the door through which they'd come through "...which is more than I can say for that prat."

James sauntered up to them, giving Greyback a firm pat on the shoulder. Harry inhaled sharply when his father turned around to face his family: his eyes were high, cold blue. It must have meant the moon was in the sky – Harry hadn't checked – and the transformation was close. He noticed the room, almost full, had quietened its chatter at his father's arrival; James held his arms out wide, the red folds of his silken robes flapping as he did so.

"Not yet, folks," he said merrily, "no need to be so tense. As long as there's raw steak on the menu, I won't be eating any of you for the time being." There was a series of chuckles. James turned to peer at his son. "Looking handsome, son. Nice brooch." He leaned in closer. "Could've left it out, though. Carrow dislikes ambiguity." Greyback laughed at his side.

Pissing off Carrow wasn't exactly on his list of priorities right now, but it was nice to know there was a sense of humour somewhere up the line. His father had turned to his mother and was giving her an endless stream of compliments, which frankly embarrassed Harry so he took a seat two away from Greyback – to allow for his parents – and watched Bellatrix come in wearing a plethora of dark skirts as he stood.

The Malfoys were the only ones yet absent, Draco probably pacing in his room Harry thought. In their absence he noticed that despite James's reassurance, a greasy Pettigrew was twitching uncomfortably in the corner. That, Harry couldn't care about: with any luck the little scum-bag would have a fit and die. He was still very much bitter about his murder of Cedric Diggory.

"Harry, look," his mother said. She nodded to the doorway at the opposite end of the room, the one without the fireplace. Draco was walking in, his fit frame adorned with a pearlescent green three-piece suit and polished black shoes; his hair, reminiscent of years one and two of Hogwarts education, elegant as it may be did nothing to smooth out the look of sheer ill-health that created niches beneath his eyes. Harry saw him look around nervously, almost shiftily, and take a place behind the chair to the immediate right of the largest chair in the room—that of Lucius Malfoy, probably.

Next came the Malfoys themselves—and it shamed him to say it but his parents were little to nothing in comparison to the blond couple. It was as if they were living statues, hooking you in with such intensity at the eyes that you didn't notice them gliding towards you. Lucius Malfoy's hair was pulled into a medium ponytail that tugged at his powerful cheekbones and made his eyes glimmer like actual diamonds instead of their unafflicted grey. His skin looked to absorb all the warm light the candles cast at him and retain it; in comparison with the dark pallets of the room he was a glowing beacon of light.

And finally, Narcissa Malfoy. Whatever Draco's parents were, Harry (jokingly) refused to believe they weren't Veela. Narcissa simply looked too resplendent in the mocha coloured bodice that gave birth to a small halo of a dress extending down to her ankles. Her shoes were beige pumps, yellow diamonds making a skin for the heels; her hair poured down her back like water cascading from the vases of effigies of Hellenistic gods. Twined in with the white were strands of actual silver which only served to make her stark blue eyes pop even more. She widened her mouth into a welcoming smile, clasping her hands together at her shell-shocked guests to signal for them to sit.

Harry was second from the end, Goyle next to him with Goyle's father seated at the head, so he purchased warmth from the crackling fire. Lucius sat at the opposite end of the table, tucking in the long coattails of his grey dinner jacket; he snapped his fingers and the plates before them turned over to reveal an underside of delicious abandon much like they did at Hogwarts.

This was a much stricter affair, however—or more sophisticated like a Muggle restaurant, he supposed. There were no large bowls and plates set out in the middle so you could grab whatever you wanted, but each plate carried a sufficient meal and considering there were werewolves at the table Harry assumed it wouldn't be impolite to ask for more. This was, after all, an affair that resembled family or something to that effect. On his own there was the promised lasagne, thick folds of pasta lovingly lathered with cheese sauce, vegetables and mushrooms—but looking at it made him ill. He didn't feel he could eat, having lost his appetite, his mind stuck like a record on the events that would unfold in but hours.

When Lucius Malfoy told them all to dig in, Harry instead sat with his hands on his lap, looking anywhere but at his food. He glanced around at each of the people surrounding him, and some glanced back. None said anything about his neglect to eat, but Carrow gave a pinched frown, and Peter Pettigrew scrutinised him with his beady eyes. It was only when Lily nudged him gently did he pick up his fork, his food still piping hot, and start the monotonous process of eating something he knew he wouldn't be able to keep down.

"Oh, wow," he said as he took the first bite. Despite his hesitance, he couldn't deny that it was cooked to perfection; this was what his Amortentia probably smelled like. The first gulp was thick, heavy, but not too creamy; cheese sauce, mushroom, sweetcorn, green-beans, peppers: they created a heavenly cuisine, and soon Harry was starving. It was perhaps some conspiracy for him to eat his fill so he was strong enough for the rest of the night, and suddenly the thought of not eating the beautiful pasta was almost repulsive. He knew it was some sort of magic, but he didn't want to think about it. It was as if his mind had encountered a glitch and chose to forgo that small detail.

It felt like he hadn't eaten in a century but in all actuality it had been just under twelve hours. Still too long, though; so taken with the gorgeous taste that he completely forgot why they were dining in the first place. Next to him Goyle was tucking into a dinnertime rendition of the English breakfast while his mother helped herself to her Indian cuisine and, next to her, his father and Greyback tackled large mouthfuls of slightly-cooked meat. Harry guessed it was steak.

Draco, however, was eating a good lot of nothing. There was some cool vegetable dish on his plate but he pushed his fork around it with a sullen expression; Lucius was leaning over to murmur something to him quietly as Narcissa made pleasant conversation with Bellatrix. Neither of the Malfoys had anything in front of them; Harry frowned. Either they weren't hungry or they didn't eat. He could guess which.

He kept glancing over at Draco as the half-hour ticked by, and saw the gradual but steady consumption of food. Whatever his father had said to him made Draco determined to put the food inside his mouth, chew it and swallow it: he was probably under the spell, too. When it came time for desert – Harry's was treacle tart, a favourite, while his mother enjoyed an Asian sweet called gulab jamun with mint ice cream – Lucius allowed his son to leave the small apple pie prepared for him. Yaxley, who had raced through his spotted dick, took the pie in his stride and patted his belly in satisfaction as Lucius rose to his feet, an empty glass in the air.

"Ladies and gentlemen, if I may have your attention—" the talk quietened down "—thank you. We gather here tonight as a farewell to familiarities. We stand as a group of friends, not just co-workers, but allies and families. We work together for the common rightness, and that rightness is spearheaded by the great and powerful Dark Lord." The name was repeated loudly. Harry said it weakly. "As we all know, it is but over an hour that His Lord shall arrive, and we have all preparations to make. We know what must be done, and we will do it with precision and pride." His eyes went around to each and every person, lingering on Harry the longest, and completely missing Draco. "And I must not, of course, neglect to mention the two here among our number who will swell our ranks. Months ago they made the vow, but today it shall be realised, and should loyalty prevail, so too will the satisfaction of the Dark Lord. There is no greater honour than serving the greatest wizard of our age!"

His glass was held high at this point and applause thundered around the room; Bellatrix shoved her own chalice into the air and said, "The greatest wizard of all time!" at which everybody roared and downed the contents of their silver. Lucius and Narcissa, their cups empty, simply nodded their heads in agreement; Narcissa went to her feet as her husband settled back into his chair.

"Speaking as a mother – oh, Fenrir, lose the sneer – and mentor, I would like to offer words of courage to my Draco, and my Harry. I know dear Lily shares the same sentiment. Overcome the pain, boys, and the fright, and the terror, and the desire to be out from all of this, and tomorrow you shall awake as men. You shan't be boys any longer, but champions. And know that you are never alone." That was funny, thought Harry, because he didn't recall there being any other students at Hogwarts who transformed into mindless, hairy beasts every twenty-eight days. He sat there and nodded with a smile when everyone cheered his and Draco's names.

He thought maybe Lily would get up and say her piece but Harry knew how she felt. She seemed the private person, proud in a way that was entirely personal and safeguarded from the prying eyes of others. She squeezed his hand as both his father and Greyback got to their feet, laughing. Greyback swilled something in his cup – he was completely at ease not knowing the werewolf's preference of beverage – took a sip and then turned to Harry quickly and said with a booming laugh, "Welcome to the pack!"

It took him a moment to realise that Draco was the only one with a solemn face.

—x—​

He thought about going to see Draco one last time, but it was already seven thirty-five and there was no chance he'd sneak through the house without his father and Greyback knowing. The full moon was almost on them and their senses would be harrowingly precise, he assumed. That would explain his father's shocking change of eye colour. After the meal they'd taken him to one side and expressly told him to scrub himself until his skin was raw, for the Dark Lord expected nothing short of perfection. There wasn't time to check on Draco; he'd only just started the bath after a good half an hour of retching and lying on his bed, trying not to think about what was to come.

It made him feel the coward. Hadn't he always faced his problems head-on before? Why the sudden shying away now? Was this some part of Slytherin Harry acting out? Was Slytherin Harry a Slytherin because he lacked sufficient braveness – recklessness – to wear the Gryffindor colours? Or was, oh, he didn't know, becoming a werewolf a step too far for even his Gryffindor self?

He thought back to seeing Lupin under the full moon. The clouds rolled lazily across the sky to let the fat moon bathe the Whomping Willow in its pearly, lazy light; an arm came out from somewhere – Sirius's, yes – and he and Hermione halted right there and then. He remembered just looking at Lupin, watching the bizarre scene before him as the professor went taught and still like a corpse, and then began to lengthen, each and every one of his bones growing and cracking, and his organs reshaping and bloating and shrinking to fit his new form. He remembered very precisely watching a snout come from Lupin's nose area, and Hermione said something about a potion, and then Sirius had told them to run. "Run," he whispered."Run! Now!"

Even now in a parallel reality, it was just as terrifying. It was a black stain on his mind: he remembered the feeling of pure terror. Everything had been going just fine, Snape was comatosed before them and Pettigrew had been under Lupin's command as they'd been making their way to the safety of the looming castle—and then things had just changed. It was so sudden and so unexpected that Harry thought he had been going to soil himself. He hadn't been prepared for it back then, and he wasn't prepared for it now.

He thought about finding a window to escape from but there were none in his room and there was no way he'd get past his father and Greyback without alerting them. Or maybe they'd be so busy with last minute preparations for the arrival of Voldemort that they wouldn't notice. Harry couldn't hear what was going on in other parts of the house but surely they were moving things around and making a lot of general noise, right? He could slip out of the window, shimmy down the drainpipe or otherwise. He'd always been very good at climbing and had the right type of scrawniness for it. Even with this 'improved' version of himself he knew he could still do it if he tried...

But then if he didn't do it, he knew where the blame would go. Voldemort would pin his disappearance on his parents, and if he was anywhere near as unforgiving as Harry knew him to be then he'd murder them for their disobedience. And if not James, then it would definitely be Lily to show his father a lesson. Harry couldn't do that. He'd lost them once already.

Perhaps he did have lion's courage after all.

—x—​

It was eight-forty five, and the Dark Lord had been inside the manor for almost an hour. Harry hadn't heard his arrival, and neither had he felt it, but he knew from looking at the clock. He'd swallowed thickly and gone on with his bath, but it didn't escape him that he didn't feel the odd prickle at his forehead that usually accompanied Voldemort's general presence in the area. By all rights his scar should have been whining uncomfortably for the best part of an hour, but he no longer owned that scar. It belonged to someone else now, and he intended to discover just exactly whom.

As he marched down the hallways and corridors accompanied by Antonin Dolohov, he took in steady breaths. He told himself that if he just breathed then it would be easier. He was well-dressed by all accounts with smart trousers and shoes, and a long black robe. He wore a crisp white shirt buttoned high and fastened with a silken tie of green and silver. He knew to honour Salazar in Voldemort's presence. Voldemort was, after all, the heir of Slytherin. His hair was carefully pruned, eyes steady and dry of panicked tears, and he was sweating only a little thanks to a charm he'd cast on himself. He wanted – needed – to appear calm, confident and dedicated. Voldemort had no room for the weak.

Breathe, think, absorb, he told himself. Voldemort was the first hurdle; the transformation was the next. They passed through the dining room which was now set only with low lights and none of the lingering warmth from their dinner, and to a large drawing room which featured a pair of French doors. Draco was waiting there already, also dressed similarly. He had drawn aside his blond hair neatly, and his eyes were forward-facing and emotionless. He was pale and cold steel.

Dolohov told Harry to stand next to Draco and not speak. He chanced a glance at Draco one last time but his friend carried a look of determination that blocked out everything around him. Harry could only attempt to emulate it.

Through the glass sat the family's garden, a long and sweeping affair stretching out for seeming miles and bordered by immaculately-shaped trees that stopped quite a way down; a high wall of trimmed hedges rose to at least twice their height, topped with patrolling peacocks; before them was a stone patio set with priceless statues that tailed off into two curving staircases; a gravelled frontier there lay beyond, cutting into the well-kept grass of the garden, and lead straight through the middle of the garden as a path which gave birth to a mini piazza of sorts.

It was there that they were all congregated in a large circle around two tall cages of gleaming silver that winked softly under the passing moonlight. And in the middle of the gathering there strode Voldemort.

Looking at him made Harry's heart skip too many beats. He couldn't see well from his position but he made out the smooth, pebbled head peaking out of a long river of flowing, dark robes. He could imagine what was there, too: a gnarled white wand in hand, clasped between glass-like fingernails, and bare feet flattening the grass. Had that been anybody else, Lucius Malfoy would have sworn to high Heaven, but as it stood Voldemort was not just anybody else, and so Lucius Malfoy would not make a fuss about even the long and daunting snake whose slick underbelly was tickled by his grass.

The moment dragged on forever. Voldemort moved back and forth, pointing and smirking and speaking to the snake. Once he tapped on the cages with his wand, looked up at the moon with a grin that showcased his grimy teeth, and then his eyes went to both Harry and Draco. Harry's knees almost knocked, but he shook gently instead—it took immense self-control to do just that, but his nervousness was evident in his heartbeat.

He was about to become a werewolf and one of Voldemort's weapons. He was about to join Voldemort's league.

His fingers trembled as Dolohov opened the door with his wand, leading them both out. He went down the left side, so Harry went after him with Draco trailing behind. His own breathing was much too loud in his ears, and he thought he was going to piss himself from sheer terror really, and his head went light and a tonne of other horrible things. Draco's footsteps down the staircase boomed heavily in mind like the decisive sway of a pendulum clock. Harry knew he was doomed with no way out.

His mother. Had to think of his mother.

It was her well-being – and absolutely his father's – that kept him walking on behind Dolohov. The column they made was uniform; though he didn't know it from the outside he looked fearless, determined. Almost excited, maybe. Moonlight caught on his eyes and set them aglow but that would be nothing in comparison to the shocking blue he'd soon have when the moon sat high in the sky at its cyclic peak. The only sign of any sort of inflection he made as they arrived at the circle, which parted to admit them, was the slight pressing of his lips into a thin line.

Voldemort had been facing away, talking down to his snake in low hushes, but he turned, his robes billowing out around him, and met Harry eye for eye. His mind blanked as he hitched in a breath, wondering of all things the social protocols of superiors and inferiors, but realised that this was a test. He peered lightly into Voldemort's cloudy, greenish-blue eyes and then bowed his head. He hoped it had been long enough, and not too long: he wanted to show absolute fidelity, and then submission. Voldemort had always liked submission he recalled, things being in their proper place. He liked the strong and the smart, those who had mountains of potential but knew to bow down to a superior wizard. He wanted to have done well.

Voldemort did the same to Draco, moving across a couple of inches. Harry was hyper aware all of a sudden. Not of the cages, the people around him or the fact that there were two werewolves nearing the peak of their twenty-eight days but of Voldemort himself. He moved with precise elegance: he was not shabby, and he was in control. He was absolutely the best of the best and Harry knew that notion bled through into his subconscience, relaxed his muscles and affected the way he even blinked; he drew up his wand lazily and touched the side of Draco's face with his fingertips. Harry heard him stifle a sharp intake of breath, the moment hanging, but then it was over.

Voldemort lowered his wand, put his back to the both of them in order to address the others, and said loftily: "Begin."

Harry's jaw quivered, heartbeat went through the roof and reverberated through his every bone. His fingers began to shake again as he saw Greyback give a bow to Voldemort, who moved to stand at the head of the circle, blocking Crabbe's father's view, and then approach Harry slowly. Greyback's suit was gone, replaced instead by a robe fastened along his chest with nothing else underneath; his feet were bare, his toenails disgustingly gnarled as he padded across the grass. These were a few of the subtle changes in his stance and appearance that signalled the reins he held over his impending transformation, his eyes the most obvious of them all.

His pupils were dilated in pleasure. Did he view Harry as meat? Harry rose his head as he came closer but ultimately Greyback towered over him and it would've looked obnoxious had Harry attempted to keep looking him confidently in the face. The hair spanning his hands and face was thicker and darker than usual, teeth so sharp that small welts about his lower lip and gum were beginning to form. Harry dared not chance one last look at Draco, whose breathing was taking a prolonged hiatus.

"Keep your eyes open, son," said Greyback lowly. He turned to the side away out of Harry's view, holding him in place at the shoulder as he saw his father pass his own set of robes and wand to Lily. Nobody seemed to be embarrassed by James's nudity but it was something Harry could have done without seeing. Yet he watched his father intently as Lily charmed the thick padlock on the cage to hold fast, and saw that there were strained ridges of bone and muscle about his spine, fingers and knees. He turned to Harry once, giving him a nod, and then went to face Voldemort. What his facial expression was, Harry would never know.

The quietness was broken by Greyback's low boom. "Ten," he started, "nine..." Harry's eyes went wide as his father gave a pained howl, doubling over. Hands clasped at his stomach, the pale moonlight shining over his back which was bursting into a mat of course, dark hair very slowly. He fell to his knees as the countdown went on, reared his head back at one point to blink at the roof of the cage as if in desperate prayer, and then when Greyback's silent zero came, James cried out like someone was lashing him with the Cruciatus curse, and fell forward onto his stomach.

"A-AAAH!"

His screams rose high into the air; the peacocks squawked and dashed away, but Harry was completely transfixed. He witnessed as each and every vertebrate shot from its position, forcing the man to arch off the floor in a painful curve. The bottom of his back swelled, hips and pelvis making a terrifying crack; his skin split where his body widened, blood pouring down to make way for the thick chords of muscle to support the skin where it had fallen in. Hair seemingly sprouted from every pore his body had to offer as it went on with the bones of his upper legs crunching unattractively to lengthen, ripping the muscle apart as they went, and allowing the werewolf venom (this was Greyback's term) to repair the damage. Thighs bulged at the knees, which collapsed under the stress of his animal weight only to reform once again in tandem with the breaking and angling of his calves. Harry's throat was jammed with fear as he watched his father reach forwards among his screams to pull himself towards the bars, but what his face was doing Harry couldn't see.

"See the pain he endures!" bellowed Voldemort. His voice was unnaturally human next to James's, which was gradually shifting to a wolfish snarl. "He endures it in my name!" The others agreed with claps and shouts: the environment was electric. Harry's eyes met those of Draco but before he could really take in the alarmed expression Greyback was ushering him towards the cage and ordering him to remove his clothes. For a blind moment he was dumbfounded as the cries of his father reached deafening levels, but his fingers eventually found the buttons of his robes and shirt and he began to undress himself.

He would have been uncomfortable in his nakedness had it not been for the extremity of the situation at hand. He so badly wanted to back out right now, feeling the tears of terror build, but the look his mother gave him from across the ring was too sad. He could not sadden her further. He had to do this without question. Dumbledore would fix it just as he fixed everything. Dumbledore would find an answer.

His mind was screaming so loudly his father's transition seemed to take no time at all before him. He wished it lasted longer to put it off for but a few more seconds, but Greyback had wand and clothing in possession now, handing them over to someone else, and then he was marching Harry forwards to stand before the cage where his father – or what had been his father – stood, sniffing at the air in the initial moments following his change. It was undoubtedly Harry's harsh breathing that made him wheel around with roaring, howling ferocity.

What was there was not human. His eyes were charcoal black and soulless: Harry found himself staring into his own personal abyss. He was about to die, he thought, irrationally – no, rationally! – his heart aching to leap out of his throat and make a quicker job of it: but Greyback held him in place once more, disallowing him the time to reel back or reconsider or beg for mercy, and then his father's long, hairy arm was thrusting between the bars and raking its glossy, heated nails across his skin.

And that was it. Greyback pulled him back instantly, and Harry waited for a split second, dazed, before he felt it.

It.

Fire exploded across his skin like the sharpest of stings: it was like a raw wound stuffed with salt at first but then it become something else entirely. He keeled over, looking to latch onto something to prevent the fall but found only the ground. Hands shook as he grasped the wound that was blackening, deep and hot like Hell across his flesh, killing off the skin and rotting his body. He screamed both out of panic and agony: the anguish gripped his belly, squeezed at his ribcage and pulled him upwards with its grasp. His back gave a terrible shudder before he too curved upwards, fire spreading to his shoulders and arms and groin and thighs: something stirred inside him, that fire diving deep into the marrow of his bones and turning it into ash; his nerves screamed; he began to convulse uncontrollably, jaw locked. Blood spurted into his mouth as he bit off the tip of his tongue: it fell back into his throat, clogging it; he couldn't swallow, restricted by the flames that were ravaging his every sense and making his entire body rigid; he was choking!

He would have tried to scream had he been able, but he couldn't even think of it. His mind was blank, taken and swept with the agony. He didn't recognise his own choking but knew it only added to the overall torture. Head went light, body drove deep into an entire new circle of Hell: something was crawling through him, piercing his every tendon, capillary, layer of skin. Had he been coherent in mind, he would have rationalised it as venom. As it stood he didn't have that virtue and so instead could only wallow in the cruel and endless torment.

Well, not endless. It stopped abruptly, but for how long or why or how long since it began Harry couldn't answer. He blinked, certainly feeling no different, ripped opened his mouth and coughed up the nasty, congealed blood and bit of tongue jammed in his throat. It came out in thick, dark globs that glistened darkly in the moonlight. Propping himself weakly on an elbow he looked around, shivering and shaking. Everybody was dead silent: Lily was weeping, hands pressed up to her eyes. And then Greyback came down, scooped him up, and locked him in the other cage.

Hadn't that been the transformation? No, no, he was still human: his legs were hairier he saw, definitely with more of a muscular bulge about them, but otherwise nothing was really different. Not until he swivelled onto his back and looked through the bars right into Greyback's dark pupils. There, perfectly cast, was his own image. He could see himself in Greyback's eyes from the distance spanning between them.

As soon as it hit him as dizzying, his eyes seemed to zoom away and give him back his periphery. He made a low moan of illness in his throat, turned onto his side as the last of the fire subsided, and met his father's werewolf face. There was nothing violent there when their eyes connected: James cocked his head briefly, whinnying. He stuck his snout through the gaps to get a better sniff at Harry whose hand drifted, now on his knees, across the space between them and touched his fingers to his father's muzzle as if tantalised.

Then the moment was broken when Greyback tossed his robes to one side and called Harry's name. The sound was loud and clear in his ears: he could hear the individual tones and cadences that made his name. It was a good sound, he realised, very beautiful. He said it himself, testing, murmuring his name as Sirius had done back at the Ministry.

Beyond the veil. Harry was completely beyond the veil now.

He watched the others retreat, all save Voldemort. His snake wound its way up his arm and across his shoulders as Greyback turned to him to offer quiet words—words Harry could hear like whispers in his own ears. Voldemort replied, nodding, agreeing to whatever Greyback was saying; Harry was more focused on the sounds of the syllables than their actual meaning. His eyes trained into the hair follicles of Greyback's wide, blackened shoulder blades, wondering what came next, when it hit him again.

It wasn't the seeping fire this time: it was an explosion. It came from his core, deep in his soul it seemed, and fanned outwards to send him sprawling spread-eagle against the hard cage floor. Eyes rolled upwards, threatening to go deep into the back of his head, but he glimpsed Greyback falling to his hands and knees before Voldemort as the change overtook him, too. What came next could not be described as fathomable. If James had been screaming, Harry was beyond description. His body was new and unaccustomed to the pain of transformation whereas his father was witness to many moons: everything seemed to break at once, sending his body into a hundred directions.

It was the worst at his spine. That snapped, hot liquid seeping down and soaking his bones: things grew, shoved other things out of the way, bruised and split and gashed. It felt like somebody was taking a thousand knives and stabbing them into him willy-nilly all at once with no clear-cut direction as to method. He felt his liver swell to painful proportions then return to its normal size before shrinking: either that or his kidney or a bit of his intestines. All of it hurt and he could not think. His cries became gagged squeals as his jaw popped from its locket and broke in eight different places: bone shifted, crashed into other bits of bone, his gums split and bled and popped a collection of teeth onto the ground with nerves still attached. He went to grab at himself again to try and hold at least some part of his breaking body, but his fingers were broken backwards, nails spitting out onto the ground. Hair bloomed in thick, shaggy layers.

He started to fit once more as the fire shot through his nerves and smashed at his muscles, tearing them from bone and skin. Fat chunks of blood blocked his veins and made them burst, sending liquid life splattering underneath his skin. His toes snapped, the little knuckles pulled apart and held at width as the fire formed some sort of support between them—and then came the legs. His femurs groaned as they cracked and split from within, mushrooming outwards to better support the new hulk of weight above his pelvis: and they lengthened to give him an extra couple of inches in height... but then were the calves, and they were sheaved clean in two. Harry yelped pleadingly but could only weep as some new joint was formed to create and support the new bend in his lower leg much like that of a cat or a dog.

He would have wondered when it would all be over and when he would find refuge or mercy. It didn't come to him that there would be no sense of humanity when it was all done, and that he would take to the night with the ravenous lust of a newborn pup. He could already feel the desire come in his throat: a quiet kindling at first but then as unbearable as the rest of it. His organs amidst their reshaping ached for nourishment and the hot spatter of blood over his teeth as he diced and consumed succulent flesh.

It was that hunger that dominated all, and the transformation didn't seem so bad as the cognitive, human parts of his brain slowly shut down. His morals were compartmentalised and sealed away quickly now that the transformation was giving the last verse of its performance, stretching out his tongue into a dagger-sharp point... and then he was gone.

Harry – werewolf Harry – blinked. Strange colours sat around him, different shades of grey. Where his sight was colourless, his smell was saturated. He could smell something metallic, copper or steel he did not know or care about, and then sweetness somewhere. Somewhere up. He glimpsed with his wolfish, blackened eyes a fat white pearl of heavenly nature, and he stepped towards it to see what it was.

When he did see it, his heart wrenched. It was a physical iteration of beauty's definition: pocked by craters but wholesome and world-filling. It blinded everything else in his vision and for all the flesh and game in the world he couldn't consider anything more gorgeous. It was the moon, and it became animated. As its rays shimmered down he could feel it pulsing like a heart. His own pulsed in tandem, and he knew instantly that it was his mistress.

There was a howl next to him, sharp and defined. He turned to see another like him: from there he smelt pheromones that he smelt on himself, and then from a source behind him. That other, and the one behind him, were creed. He was smaller than the other in the second shining confinement, and completely dwarfed by the free one, but he joined in on the howling and together they created a sonata for the mistress, an ode of obedience and unending appreciation.

Voldemort stepped forwards. The snake was pressed closed to him, suppressing its hisses as he talked to it in Parseltongue, careful to not let any part of its long body touch Greyback. The largest werewolf ignored him completely: he stepped into Harry's sight and said something to him. What it was Harry didn't know or care. Now he looked at Voldemort he saw something unfamiliar, but it wasn't repulsive. He didn't feel the need to attack or defend himself.

The cloak shifted as he stepped forwards to look into the werewolf's face. Harry stared right back at him almost curiously, going from eyes to riddled veins to flat nose. The snake peered at him cautiously, but then Voldemort was gone and Harry was free to admire the moon again, smelling nothing but the stench of snake and human on the grass. And magic, of course: magic had its own particular sizzle, and the snake man was practically dripping with it. Harry, however, couldn't find it in him to care. He heard the latch of his cage break, and he bowled out to crouch next to Greyback and his father.

Not that he knew who was who by name: the largest, Greyback by far, was simply the one that commanded the most attention. Harry whined and pressed his head low to the ground then touched Greyback's collarbone with his nose. Greyback eyed him as he did so, but there was no violence. Only a low, accepting roll of thunder from his throat that signified him as the alpha welcoming a new pup into his pack. He watched as Harry did the same to James, with equal reverence, and then they were all howling again, hunger settled deep in their bellies.

Harry wheeled around, catching a last glimpse of the moon. It soothed his urges momentarily, but Greyback's hulking figure pounding off deeper into the garden caught his attention, and the hunger was on him again. The moon could watch over its new son as he gorged himself on his first kill, and his new family could watch over the child protectively. What Harry caught between his teeth didn't matter: it would start his new life either way and draw him closer to both his father and Greyback.

Away he sped with the manor at his back, completely unaware that Draco's heart was eddying to its final beat.

--x--​

Author's notes: Shout out to Slytherin Steve & GRYFFINDOR Elle! Yes, Haugen, here's looking at you.

You can read the fanfiction from the start on its FF.Net page or you can hop straight to chapter six right here. Otherwise, you can look at what other fictions I have to offer on my profile.

 

[Orion]

ahaha take that steve

ALSO NO WHAT'S BEFALLING DRACO asfasflhasfljafljartlj

i still don't get how you can so well balance the ratcheting-up of the fear/tension/mystery while still moving along at what should otherwise feel like a snail's pace