Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Here, There Be Drackens	By : DonalGraeme Category: Harry Potter > Threesomes/Moresomes Views: 14655 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 5
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. J.K. Rowling does. I in no way profit from this. All characters that aren't originally mine were either created by J.K. Rowling or StarLight_Massacre.

Chapter List
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First off, I very much love and respect Starlight Massacre. I am NOT trying to plagiarize and rip-off a gimmick or anything here. I was genuinely inspired by their ideas and this story is the result. I will try to pay respect and remain true to all facts I borrow from TROTD, as that is the ‘canon’ this fic is based on. That being said, this is a fic, so forgive me if I take a little creative license.
Second, this is a BI story. Harry’s harem will include a female Dominant, and there will be hetero and pure homo scenes for side characters. If that makes you, the reader, uncomfortable, the obvious solution is to just not read.
Third, while the aforementioned Starlight is content to make theirs mostly a smut/family story, I’m going to add a little more action to mine. Hopefully that’s a good thing and keeps you all interested and adds another layer to the fiction sundae, but let me go if it’s a hat on top of a hat or seems shoehorned in or something.
Finally, important point. If Harry mated to Blaise on Halloween and his first heat started December 14, then his heat cycle is actually 45 days, not two months. A little oversight that can be ignored considering the magnificence of the rest of my source material, but one I’m going to play havoc with to keep with my own time-table for events. It’s actually key to a twist I think everyone will appreciate. Assuming I get that far.
On to the fic, then.

The sun rose pale and thin on July 31st, the English summer deciding the most it would concede to the stereotypical image of its season that day would be the lack of rain. Otherwise, it was as grey and gloomy and cool as late fall. The weak rays shone down on Big Ben and St. Paul’s with a familiar reverence and the more recent skyscrapers with glittery enthusiasm. They also wormed their way through the curtains of an open window at 12 Grimmauld Place, a townhouse that no one else on the London street seemed to know existed. They peeked through into what appeared to be the bedroom of what was either a reasonably messy adult or oddly neat teenager. As if by providence, the little bits of light landed on the lightning-shaped scar of the room’s sleeping occupant. For one brief moment, nature shined a literal spotlight on the mark that cursed the young man to be constantly hounded by its metaphorical cousin.
Little did he know that later that very morning, certain changes would occur that would net him exponentially more attention of an even more disconcerting variety.
It was a shame really. He’d endured more than his fair share the past few weeks.
Precisely 43 days prior, Harry James Potter had been tricked into going to the Hall of Prophecy within the British Ministry of Magic, after receiving a false vision through his odd mental link with his parents’ murderer that his beloved godfather was being tortured there. Luckily for Harry’s survival, unluckily in the boy’s opinion and those of several adults, he’d dragged five of his friends along with him. After retrieving the prophecy regarding himself and Voldemort from its bespelled perch, the six students had been confronted by a gaggle of the Dark Lord’s lackeys. Through a combination of luck, independent study, and the arrogance of the entitled, they managed to survive until the grown-ups arrived. The tide quickly turned in their favor, until, in a moment of reckless abandon, Sirius Black managed to get himself murdered in front of the eyes of his godson, whose resume of suffering and loss already made him a front-runner in the Interdimensional Tragic Hero Quarterfinals.
Harry took off in pursuit of Sirius’ killer, his own cousin Bellatrix Lestrange. When offered the level to sink to her level, however, something held him back. He then suddenly found himself caught in the crossfire in a duel between Voldemort, aka Grindelwald 2.0, and Albus Percival Wulfric Brian George Jacob Gingleheimer Schmidt Dumbledore, who’d been playing hooky from his role as Headmaster of Hogwarts for the past few months due to the small issue of him being on the most wanted list.
Harry got a small glimpse of the difference between a schoolyard squabble and the kind of battle they write songs about, before Voldemort made what he probably thought was a clever maneuver, but would ultimately result in his utter destruction. The creature that was less than a man tried to take possession of Harry, in theory forcing Dumbledore to either kill the boy that had bested him time and again, or allowing the snake to off the only wizard he worried was stronger than him.
But it was as Voldemort dived more deeply into Harry’s mind than he ever had before, tried to seize control of his very soul, that he learned what Trelawney foretold as ‘power the Dark Lord knows not’.
Love.
It sounds trite, sophomoric, like something out of a kiddy novel, but it was the harsh truth. Voldemort had been born to a father that hadn’t wanted him and a mother too weak to keep him. He’d been raised by tired people in a depressing place surrounded by children made bitter and callous by a world that seemed determined to put them down. He’d learned that the only thing you could count on in this world was yourself, and everyone else was either a resource, a pawn, or an obstacle. Love was something he’d never had, and by the time he could understand it he’d been starved for so long he convinced himself he didn’t need it. He settled for the next best thing, hatred. He had immersed himself in it, sunk so deep that all the world would have to burn to satisfy him.
And then he brought his very essence in contact with Harry. A boy who’d also been denied love. Who had seen other people enjoy happiness, closeness, trust, bonds, and wonder ‘why can’t that be me?’ But whereas Voldemort had written it off as a weakness, Harry became more determined than ever to make what relationships he did have count. He was full to bursting to love, and it was spread as thickly as it was wide. He forged a bond as strong as brotherhood with the first boy to talk to him on a train, and adopted himself into the family when he wasn’t immediately rejected. He risked his life for a girl he barely liked and supported her as much he could with his debilitating maleness and kinesthetic learning style as opposed to her book osmosis. He bonded with Neville over being awkward, Dean over Muggle things, his Quidditch team was like a group of cousins, the DA somewhere between friends and children, the little firsties he met in the halls like little siblings to nurture and protect, Remus and Sirius uncles he never got to see but treasured all the more for the brief encounters.
For Voldemort, it was like a snowman sticking his hand in boiling water. It repelled him, made his whole being ache, it was everything he was not. How could a man who saw people as objects to use understand the hollow agony of losing a relative? A man who thought only of his own desires what it was to put others’ needs before yours? One who’s greatest fear was death someone willing to die in place of another? Darkness, the light?
The thing that was once Tom Marvolo Riddle recoiled, trying to abandon his plan. Anything that hurt that much just wasn’t worth it. But you can’t force your spirit into someone’s body without them feeling it. Harry sensed fear and pain through the screaming piercing burning wrong coming from his scar. And if there’s one thing you can always count on a Seeker to do, it’s to not be afraid to take the dive.
Harry shoved everything he was through the link. He thought of how much he cared for Ron, no matter how stupid or stubborn they both might get at times. He thought of Hermione’s bossiness and how it was because she cared, and how proud she was when it all paid off. How it felt to caress Hedwig’s feathers in the summer and share the solidarity of being the only magical creatures in a sea of mundane. Hagrid’s bumbling and terrible cooking, the twinkle in Dumbledore’s eye, the way McGonagall’s thin mouth would quirk up at the corner when she thought no one was looking. Getting Fred and George to laugh instead of the other way around, verbal sparring with Ginny, Mrs. Weasley’s hugs and Christmas treats, Mr. Weasley lighting up at Muggle trivia. The stumbling longing for Cho, the peck and giggle from Luna to ‘keep away the Nargles’, the way his cheeks had burned and his stomach had dropped when he’d first heard Cedric mention the Prefect’s Bath. Passion. Trust. Intimacy. Care and devotion without strings, because you knew you could count on the other to do the same. Sometimes handed out too quickly or in the wrong way, but always striving to come out, because it’s what makes us human.
You know.
Love.
Harry could never actually remember what happened next. It came back to him in pieces, but he never got a clear recollection of the events that were described to him over and over until he was tempted to learn some kind of Deafening Hex and cast it on himself. For him, the only thing that really stood out was the pain. That seemed like too small a word for what he experienced. In comparison, Crucio was a paper cut. Imagine getting thrown into a wood chipper, remaining aware of every single shred, having them dunked in pure alcohol, set on fire, the ashes scattered until you feel utterly lost and without form. Then just as you think you’re going to go mad from the numbness and the fear, every atom gets crushed into a cube the size of a pea with the force of a pneumatic press, before getting stretched back into the approximate shape you started out with, still feeling adrift and without the anchor of being. Then, just as you start to panic, you’re electrocuted back to life, extremely violently, as in, violent contortions that break all your bones, which you can just feel over the stabbing full-body pins-and-needles. And then, before you can puke your intestines out or cry out in joy that you aren’t not anymore, the whole thing starts all over again.
That’s what Harry felt as he rode shotgun to every shard of Voldemort’s soul self-destructing as it came into contact with it anathema, pure love. First the main one that had regained corporeal form, and then every Horcrux he created as Harry’s love, guided by the instinctual push he’d last consciously given, chased down the thin bonds connecting the body to the parts, for how could they anchor him if they weren’t connected to the ship in some way? It finally ended with the shard that had resided in Harry’s own skull, the true source of the mental bond and scar.
Harry had a vague memory of collapsing into Dumbledore’s arms after the torment finally ended, but really, he didn’t become aware again until he woke up in the Hospital Wing three days later. The whole thing was like a bad dream to him. In fact, he’d kind of been hoping that was what happened, that he’d hit his head during his History of Magic O.W.L. and the whole thing had been a potion-induced nightmare.
Whatever everyone else saw (apparently, not only had the Order and Harry’s volunteers entered the Atrium near the end of the duel, but so had Minister Fudge, half the Auror Corps, and no less than five photographers from the Daily Prophet) was a bit less dramatic than dying and resurrecting 7 times. But in some ways, it was even worse. Harry screamed out with two voices. Then Voldemort appears at his feet and Harry grabs his skull. They scream at each other, foreheads touching, until Voldemort seems to dissolve into ashes. Harry looks up, scar bleeding like a faucet, eyes glowing bright enough to see in the dark. “It’s done.” he says in an empty voice. He’s not even holding his wand. And then Dumbledore sweeps him up and Disapparates, leaving pandemonium in his wake.
Harry had all this explained to him by a very contrite Dumbledore in his hospital bed, who made of point of making eye contact. The old man seemed to finally realize that keeping secrets from Harry about his own life would just result in him acting on what little he had anyway, often with disastrous results. Plus, listening to everything that Harry had learned from his brief time sharing Voldemort’s mind, it seemed safe to say that any innocence the young Gryffindor had was now dead and gone. Obscene rituals to gain power. Revels with the Death Eaters. Dealings with creatures so dark they didn’t have a name. All of it written indelibly onto Harry’s brain, for he couldn’t annihilate Voldemort with light without absorbing some darkness as well.
Harry was feeling an odd detached calm, which Dumbledore recognized as the calm before the storm of the temper that Lily Evans had used to cow the rebellious 15-year old Marauders. Harry asked what the big deal was about the Prophecy that had started this whole mess. Dumbledore had explained the full circumstances, leaving out no detail. It was a rather odd experience for the supercentenarian. Quite liberating, actually. Maybe he should be more honest.
Harry had stared at him with dull, unblinking eyes when he finished. After two minutes, Albus started to wonder if he should go fetch Poppy, before the boy finally roused himself. “Let me get this straight. You’re telling me that my parents DIED on the partial word of a sherry-pot, incense-snorting, insult-to-clichéd-fortunetellers-everywhere great-granddaughter of a seer, relayed by a greasy-haired, bitter, still-hung-up-on-a-schoolyard-grudge-almost-twenty-years-after-the-fact, poor-biased-excuse-of-a-teacher, alleged ex-Death Eater, whom was still loyal at the time I might add? Not only that, but because both you and Mr. “Ooh, my filthy muggle name makes a pompous French anagram” believed it?”
Dumbledore gulped. Put that way, it did seem rather silly… and pathetic… and dear god, could those eyes shoot Avada Kedavra if he got mad enough? “Harry, my dear boy, you must understand, there is a long, detailed history of prophecy, you saw the size of the hall yourself, and Sybil exhibited all the signs of a genuine trance…”
“Yes. Or. No.”
Where was Fawkes when you needed him? “Yes, Harry. They died bravely, loving you, but that’s why they died.”
Harry nodded. “I see. Well, that does it. I’m quitting.”
Dumbledore frowned. That wasn’t the explosion he was expecting. “What do you mean, Harry?”
“I’m quitting the wizarding world.”
Dumbledore was never more afraid that he was having a heart attack. If it weren’t for the timely intervention of the Calming Draught-infused sherbet lemons he kept on his person at all times, he might have met his end right there. As it was, he was sure that it wasn’t helping his caring image that his reaction to that dragon was to eat some candy. Might help the mysterious one, though.
“I beg your pardon, Harry. What do you mean, you’re ‘quitting’?”
Harry gave a grin that set off every alarm bell Dumbledore had. “You didn’t see Ron leaving as you came in, did you? Well, he gave me this whole diatribe about how much of a freak I was, how I was keeping secrets from them all, how I must have been secretly studying dark magic the whole time to actually beat Voldemort, even though everyone seemed to just expect me to be able to even though he’s fifty-something and a self-trained killer and I’m just a school student. How Dumbledore’s Army was actually me setting up my own Death Eaters. How I was now a murderer and how Fudge should chuck me in Azkaban now before I go bonkers and start killing off purebloods and elect Dobby Minister for Magic. That I was evil and would never be loved and should find a hole to die alone in. There were a few comments about my mother and reproductive organs too, but I chose to ignore those because I still respect Mrs. Weasley, and I don’t think she’d forgive me if I castrate her youngest son.”
Dumbledore was appalled. “He told you all that, in your condition? After what you’ve been through?” The old Headmaster felt his eyes tighten. He’d been very lenient on discipline recently, not wanting to drive any Slytherins that could be salvaged from their upbringings towards the Death Eaters and, honestly, trying to preserve some of the innocence of childhood before it was ripped away by another war. But as Harry had taken care of that, however traumatically, it was time to put his foot down.
But Harry was waving his hand. “Don’t bother. It’s my own fault for sticking around him this long. He’s shown his true colors multiple times. He’s always been more of a ‘fair weather friend’, as they say, but as the same time he resented and had that damn inferiority complex about my stupid ‘fame’. Plus, he’s as bad as the Dursleys, in his own way. He rejects anything that doesn’t fit in his own little box. I’m better off without him. Really.” Then Harry sighed. “Just hope he doesn’t take Hermione with him. She’s fancied him forever, God knows why.”
Dumbledore sighed. “Harry, I can see how Mr. Weasley’s behavior could be very hard for you, but I still don’t see why you feel you have to, uh, quit.”
Harry’s eyes settled on Dumbledore like two laser cannons eager to go off and vaporize all in their path. “Are you kidding me? Everyone in this world either wants to kill me, hates me over some stupid lie in the paper, or is obsessed with me because I managed to survive a terrorist attempting to kill me. I’ve come close to dying at least once each year, the whole government is so rotten that known terrorists not only get off scot free, they get to vote in the equivalent of the House of Lords, and the whole society seems frozen in the Muggle Dark Ages in regards to rights for anyone or anything that isn’t a Pureblood male wizard. I looked it up, Hermione can’t even vote unless she gets a sponsor since she’s Muggleborn. Even if she were Pure as Malfoy, she’d only get to vote if she were married, and even then only in the stead of her husband. She didn’t believe me until she cleared out the whole law section of the library. She was taking points for walking loudly for a week, she was so mad. And don’t get me started on creatures. They’re freaking sentient, they have feelings, they’re as much people as you or me, yet everyone treats them all, from goblins to centaurs to house elves like slightly-above-average-intelligence chimpanzees!”
Harry took a deep breathe. “This isn’t spur of the moment. I’ve thought of this off and on for years: is being a wizard worth it? I just never had a choice in the matter. Well, now I do. I’ve killed Voldemort, the war is won, the dumb prophecy fulfilled, you don’t need me anymore. I’ve completed my O.W.L.’s. Technically, I don’t have to take my N.E.W.T.’s. I’ll move into Grimmauld with Remus, tuck my wand into some drawer to be forgotten, maybe dye my hair and buy make-up to get rid of this stupid scar, get a simple job at a supermarket or something, fade into obscurity, and live a boring, ordinary life.”
Dumbledore opened his mouth and closed it half-a-dozen times, trying to think of some way to convince the boy otherwise. It physically pained him to think of James’ and Lily’s son, the bright, eager boy who’d been so enamored with magic, fleeing from it all to live out his days as a muggle, denying his heritage. “You’re still underage, Harry. You need a guardian. And much as it pains me, Remus doesn’t count due to his, er, condition.”
Harry narrowed his eyes. “I’ll apply for emancipation. The ministry should be feeling pretty warm towards me. And if Fudge hasn’t already been tarred and feathered out of office and tries to stop me, I’ll cry foul to every paper I can reach and scandal it out of him. And since you’re not head of the Wizengamot anymore, you can’t influence that. And before you say you’ll take it back, you really should have a few less jobs. I mean, being in charge of the legislative/judicial branch of the government, basically the mail-in executive until Fudge went barmy, representing our nation at the ICW, and running the school? You might want to dial it back, sir. You’re not 83 anymore.”
Dumbledore had no comeback to that. It was a sound strategy. And the boy did have a point at the end there. “Are you sure you can function without magic Harry? Keep in mind that means no more Quidditch.”
“It’s not really the flying I like, it’s the freedom. And I’ll have plenty of that once I’m out from under the weight of being the Harry Potter. And it’s not like I’m some 47-year-old wearing a kilt with a paisley trench coat. I’ve been able to cook, clean, and launder since I was five.”
Dumbledore was getting desperate. “Harry, I can’t let you live at Grimmauld. It’s the Order’s Headquarters. Besides, there’s still the Death Eaters to consider. Who knows how they’ll react to their master’s death? You really would be best off going back to your aunt’s house, at least for the summer.”
Harry would later blame the audacity for his next move on the strong pain relieving potions Poppy had been administering intravenously. He’d been feeling floaty and not-all-there the whole conversation. So he didn’t think he could be held accountable for what he did under the influence. No matter how many times Dumbledore assured him there was no harm done, Harry still considered it the stupidest, most embarrassing action of his entire life.
He grabbed Albus Dumbledore, Grand Sorcerer, and defeater of Grindelwald, revered throughout the Wizarding World… by the beard.
“You listen to me, sir, and you listen good. Let? Who the bloody hell do you think you are? You are not my grandfather. You are not my keeper. You are not my fucking publicity agent. You are my school headmaster. You’re supposed to be in charge of my education. No more, no less. In fact, I’m sure a court or Skeeter might find it interesting just how closely you’ve paid attention to my personal life. As for the Order, they will just have to move house. Maybe to the Burrow. Or, hell, maybe you could stop using everyone else like pawns and offer up your own home for use? The Death Eaters are a snake without a head; there’ll be some random acts of terror, swiftly cleaned up, and they’ll all be Dementor food by the time my year graduates. And let me spell things out for you regarding my home situation, since your eyesight seems to be even worse than those dumbass glasses would indicate. Which sounds safer to you? A townhouse in the heart of London, under the protection of the Fidelius Charm, with you as the Secret-Keeper? Or a suburb a ten minute drive from the nearest police station, where I would spend half the day outside in plain view taking care of the garden, protected only by blood wards that only you seem to know about, where I’d be verbally and physically abused? Who knows, maybe this year will finally escalate to the point where Vernon manages to kill me or I get depressed enough to do it for him!”
Harry would also blame the potions for his candor.
Dumbledore was admittedly dazed. No one had ever confronted him quite like this. “Harry, I’m sure you’re exaggerating. They’re your family—”
“Oh, spare me the rose-tinted glasses! Plenty of families are total crap, you can’t possibly be that naïve after almost a century in a school! And would you grow some balls and just admit you know by now?! Pomfrey’s seen my scars! You’ve had Figg spying on me since day one! And I’ve swallowed it and kept my head down each year since I had no other choice and I rationalized you probably knew better and it really was the safest option. But like hell I’m going back to that house now that the noseless wonder is dead!”
Harry was panting. His eyes closed against his will, his grip slackened, and he fell back into an exhausted sleep. Dumbledore just stood there, staring at the boy who’d been through more than he could imagine, feeling more like a failure than he ever had before.
He stood there, trapped in his thoughts, until Madam Pomfrey came bustling, alerted by one of the silent alarms charmed to each bed. “Albus, really, what were you thinking confronting him so early? Everything he went through that night, shame on you, I told you he needed rest!”
Dumbledore finally roused himself. He didn’t want to believe what Harry had just said, but if there was one thing that age had taught him, it was the perils of denying your own imperfection. “Poppy… have you ever had any concerns that young Harry was being… mistreated by his relatives?”
She turned to him, a look a savage relief on her face. “I’ve waited years for you to ask that. As you know, the vows I took when I took my post as Matron Mediwitch here prevent me from disclosing any details of my patients’ conditions without their express permission… unless I am directly asked by either their guardian or the current headmaster.”
Dumbledore braced himself. “I’m asking, Poppy.”
“Based on the stomachaches and vomiting he gets for the first two weeks every year, not to mention the permanent damage to his growth from malnutrition, it’s safe to say he’s starved. He usually has a serious vitamin D deficiency as well, so probably locked inside as well. His bones have so many hairline fractures it’s a wonder he doesn’t get a break walking down the stairs, let alone twisting through the air like he does. There’s signs of more serious injuries, as well. A cursory scan shows that his eyes have been collapsed multiple times and there are signs of at least one crack on his skull, as if a large fist or blunt object hit his head or face. Probably why he needs glasses in the first place, he probably inherited Lily’s vision as well as her coloring. There’s a burn scar on his back of a crucifix, almost like a brand. It’s slightly malformed, almost like it stretched with the skin. This suggests he got it when he was very young. A major ligament in his left knee was torn violently, suggesting it was bent out of position, possibly by a kick to the side. There’s probably even more, but his magic healed most of it. Actually, half his core at any time is spent just holding him together. If he were raised properly, he’d probably be on a level with you by now, Albus.”
“Well, it’s not every boy that can cast a corporeal Patronus at 13,” Dumbledore said weakly. He was stunned. Never could he have imagined this. Harry always seemed so… well, maybe not happy, but certainly not so battered. He was horrifyingly reminded of what happened to Ariana. “And he never told you why he was being hurt? Not even the slightest hint you could use to circumvent your vow?”
She shook her head sadly. “The boy was always silent as a statue. When it came to his school injuries, it was usually obvious what the cause was so I didn’t need to ask. But if a problem arose because of this, not one word. He’d just ask for a potion, and if I refused, he’d just turn and leave.”
Poppy suddenly gained a look of such ferocity that Dumbledore was reminded just why a Badger was considered an apex predator. “Albus, I must admit that I’ve lost a great deal of respect in you. Minerva warned you just how horrid those muggles were. Did it never occur to you even once to even check up on him? I mean, at first, I held out hope that you would find out like you seem to know everything and put a stop to it. Then I had a mad moment where I thought you knew and allowed it to happen anyway, as if his health meant nothing as long as you got to keep your precious weapon in the war against You-Know—oh, sod it, Voldemort! But then I realized that you’re just a man like the rest of us mere mortals and you honestly didn’t know. Then it became even more unbearable as you watched him with such pride as he overcame all these challenges and you had no idea that the real threat was the one he had to return to at the end of each term.”
She shook her head and leaned down to feel Harry’s forehead. “Well, no more. I heard him from my office, you know. And he’s right. We’ve asked more than enough of him for a lifetime. He should be free to do what he wants. Let him have some peace for once.”
Dumbledore had no response. He just took a moment to look at the boy that had failed more than he could have ever imagined, then turned and walked away.
Harry spent what little remained of the year feeling like a plague victim. He was allowed visits outside for fresh air and social interaction, but was under strict orders to return to the Hospital Wing every night to see if there was any lingering damage from his confrontation with Voldemort. Not that Harry was very tempted to leave, no matter how much he disliked getting fussed over or being forced to drink ghastly potions. Students parted around him like the Red Sea before Moses, closing behind him with whispers louder than screams in his wake. People seemed torn between calling him ‘Savior’ and ‘Executioner’. Slytherins reviled him, blaming him for the death of their Lord and/or the arrest of their parents; suddenly the Ministry was much more interested in the list mentioned in the Quibbler article. Ravenclaws either studied him from afar or went right up to him and asked him probing questions on the exact method he used to vanquish the Dark Lord. Hufflepuffs seemed grateful that he’d avenged their fallen champion, but seemed both uncomfortable that he was getting all the credit considering others were involved and jealous that no Hufflepuff members of the DA were invited.
His fellow Gryffindors were the worst disappointment. People normally treated Ron on a tantrum as so much hot air. But if he betrayed the Boy Who Lived after what most would consider his greatest triumph, then there must be some weight to his accusations, right? It was helped along by Ron throwing the fact that Harry was almost sorted into Slytherin in the face of anyone who would stay still enough to listen. That was really the nail in the coffin of their friendship. Harry might have been able to forgive the rest as Ron’s big mouth in the wake of the worst night of the redhead’s life. But betraying that secret, told in the strictest of confidence that proved to him that Ron had really turned his back on everything he’d thought they’d had together.
The irony made Harry want to cry, really. His brotherly love for Ron was part of what let him beat Voldemort. The moment he won, the bastard turned on him and became an enemy worse than Malfoy, because each fresh wound was touched by the sting of treachery. Life really was out to get him, wasn’t it?
What was worse, Hermione did follow on Ron’s coattails. He saw them snogging in the library when he’d gone there hoping to find her. When Ron noticed and went off on him, Hermione just kept her eyes down and mouth shut. So that was a little salt on the wound, but Harry was almost numb to any more pain at that point.
About the only consolation was that Umbridge was in St. Mungo’s recovering from ‘undisclosed injuries’ at the hands of the centaurs. When Harry had asked Firenze what that meant in a moment of morbid curiosity, he’d gotten a smirk and the comment “There are certain ways a stallion can break a mare.” The resulting mental imagery had made Harry want to ask Snape if there was such a thing as brain bleach, but had pleased some small, sadistic corner of his newly tainted soul. The scars on his right hand twitched whenever he thought of the deranged pink-wearing woman.
Harry had never been lonelier than he’d been on the train ride to Charring Cross that year. It was final, because he truly didn’t intend to return to Hogwarts, his second home, at least not for learning purposes. Also, because he had the whole compartment to himself and he didn’t anticipate any visitors. Neville was too timid, who knew what Luna was thinking, Ginny might actually be bullied by the newly emboldened Ron, and everyone else had abandoned him. Hedwig he had sent ahead, wanting her to get one last chance to stretch her wings before she was confined to a limited nocturnal schedule in an urban landscape.
He spent most of the trip mourning. Sirius, whose loss finally had time to sink in. Ron, the friend who had revealed himself as anything but. His parents, lost before they could watch him grow because of the foolishness of two old men. The idea of Dumbledore as the infallible hero, now revealed as just as stupid as every other guy at times. All those who’d lost their lives in both wars because of the dogma and hatred of those in power and the madness of one charismatic leader.
And he mourned for a little orphan boy sorted into Slytherin, who might not have grown into a monster if he’d had just one friend or person who’d gone out of their way to show him kindness.
When he arrived, he almost wished that he’d dug out his invisibility cloak. Reporters from what looked like every paper and magazine in Europe were crowding the platform. The families they were hoarding space from might have been more annoyed if most of them didn’t seem as frenzied to see him.
He was debating whether he wouldn’t rather have another go against Lucius Malfoy or Macnair than face the mob when Remus Lupin entered his compartment. The two had stared at each other for a second before they’d rushed into each other’s arms.
“It’ll be alright, cub. Everything will be alright,” the man grey before his time whispered into the boy’s hair.
“I’m so tired, Moony. I just want to rest. That’s not too much to ask, is it?”
“No, not at all. Just… why Grimmauld? There’s other places. There are so many bad memories there. Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer somewhere fresh?”
Harry sighed. “It’s protected. It’s familiar. And… I’m not going to just give up on it. That’s what went wrong with Voldemort. Besides, I want to make it a happy place. If it wasn’t so damn depressing, maybe Padfoot wouldn’t have been so eager to get out of it.”
Remus gulped. “Harry, you mustn’t blame yourself. Voldemort has fooled and manipulated better men than you. And you’re so young.”
“I was supposed to learn Occlumency. I’m the one that took Kreacher’s word for it. I’m the one that forgot fucking Snape was in the Order. And I’m the one with the damn saving people thing that made me go off half-cocked from Scotland to London instead of leaving it to the adults like a good little boy.”
Remus shook his head. “Enough of this kind of talk. Let’s get you out of here before there’s a riot or Molly kidnaps you from me and force feeds you her latest recipes.”
Harry tried and failed to hide a shiver. “You mean… she still wants to see me?”
Remus pulled back and looked at him like he was crazy. “Why wouldn’t she?”
“Well, Ron’s been a right prat, saying how I’ve gone dark and should be put down like a dog. Hermione’s either on his side or not stopping him, and Ginny didn’t come to see me so…”
Remus shook his head. “That boy. Well, Molly will ream him out for his behavior, I’ll tell you. I don’t think you realize just how much you mean to her, Harry. You save her daughter and her husband. And she knows you gave Fred and George their seed money. She’s become much more supportive once their shop matched Zonko’s within three months, and they keep telling her it wouldn’t be possible without you. You’re like another son to her.”
Harry’s throat was suddenly very tight. “Oh.”
Remus shook his head. “Look, let’s just get out of here. You can deal with everything in your own time. There’s no rush now.”
Harry nodded dumbly.
Remus hefted Harry’s trunk, his thin arms deceptively strong, one of the subtle signs of his curse. Then he wrapped his nephew in all but blood in his arms and twisted them through space towards their new home.
When the appeared in the hallway of 12 Grimmauld with a pop, it was to find Kreacher huddled at the door, looking oddly diminished. “Werewolf and Halfblood boy have returned,” he muttered to himself. Harry genuinely didn’t know if he thought they couldn’t hear or if he just thought aloud.
Harry sighed. It would be so easy to hate Kreacher for the role he played in Sirius’s death. But it wasn’t really his fault. He’d been brainwashed from birth. And Sirius hadn’t been the best of masters. “Kreacher, I’m really not in the mood for this. Could you please just stay in your nest and I’ll promise to stay out of your way?”
Kreacher stared at him as if he couldn’t comprehend being spoken to in such a kind tone. It occurred to him that Harry had never addressed Kreacher except for that evening in the fire. Then he wrung his hands. “Is… is it true that boy has slain the Dark Lord?”
Harry hesitated. He’d seen how Dobby had lain Lucius on his ass. He wasn’t sure how Kreacher would react to this news. He kept his hand on his wand. “Yes. Yes it is, Kreacher.”
Remus laid a hand on Harry’s shoulder, his eyes narrowed on the wrinkled servant.
What the elf did next, neither of them could have possibly predicted.
He broke down in sobs, huge wracking cries that shook his entire hunched frame. He knelt down at Harry’s feet, but when Harry went to check on him in worry, he was shocked to see the biggest smile he thought possible on Kreacher’s mouth.
“Thank you,” Kreacher gasped. “Thank you.”
The noise seemed to annoy the resident portrait, and Walburga Black began to raise an unholy racket. “WHAT IS THIS CLAMMOR?! HOW DARE YOU DISTURB THE HOME OF MY FATHERS?! MUDBLOODS, FILTHY CREATURES, UNFIT TO WALK THESE HALLOWED HALLS!”
What happened next would forever change how Harry saw house elves.
Kreacher turned to the portrait that he had lovingly cared for and obeyed for decades, eyes bloodshot, face a rictus of fury as whatever moment he was having was ruined.
“MISTRESS WILL BE QUIET!” he roared from his tiny throat.
Then he snapped his bony fingers.
Where once a portrait of the Black matriarch hung, which had defied the efforts of Dumbledore to be moved, silenced, or destroyed, was now just a patch of blackened wall.
Harry and Remus stared in shock, while Kreacher just sniffled.
“Mistress was Kreacher’s Mistress, but she was always making Master Regulus miserable.”
Harry and Remus shared a look. It was clear that there was a whole lot to the elf that they had never known.
They managed to pry the whole story out of Kreacher over cups of tea, which Kreacher had been too upset to pitch a fit over him not making. Turns out, while Kreacher had worshipped the ground that Walburga had walked on, he had adored Regulus as some odd cross of parent, son, and best friend. And since Sirius had decided to ditch his duties as firstborn and rebel, all the weight had fallen on Regulus. So of course he’d become a Death Eater, whether he’d wanted to or not. And when Regulus had learned that Voldemort had used Kreacher to hide a Horcrux, Regulus had to do something. Though for reasons Kreacher never understood, Regulus had Kreacher take the Horcrux and run, sacrificing himself to the defenses instead of letting Kreacher die as was his duty.
At that point, Harry reached out a hand and laid it over Kreacher’s. “It was because he loved you, Kreacher. He didn’t want you to have to die. And maybe he thought he wouldn’t live long with Voldemort after him, so he might as well die nobly, protecting another.”
Kreacher shook his head, but he didn’t move to shrug off the hand. “It was Kreacher’s place to die. Master Regulus still had life to live. Master Regulus did not even have an heir. Neither did nasty Master Sirius.”
Harry grimaced. “Guess that means Draco inherits you.”
Lupin shook his head. “As firstborn son of the first heir, Sirius’s will takes precedence over simple line of succession. If he didn’t name you as his heir Harry, I’ll eat my robes.”
Kreacher looked up then. “Harry Potter triumphed over Dark Lord. Harry Potter avenged Master Regulus. Harry Potter may be Kreacher’s new master.” He looked down. “Kreacher has been a bad elf. Kreacher will take clothes like good elf and leave.”
Harry sighed. “Everyone deserves a second chance, Kreacher. Just stop with all the crap about mudbloods and we’ll get along fine.”
Thus struck up one of the oddest friendships Harry ever had. From that day forward, Kreacher seemed like a new man, er, elf. He doted on Harry so much he made Molly Weasley look negligent. His cup was always full of honey tea, just how he liked it, pillows always fluffed, and every successive meal came closer and closer to Harry’s idea of perfection. When Kreacher came forward with the Locket, now a burned husk, and Harry said Kreacher could do what he wanted with it, the elf looked ready to kiss him. When Remus returned from the will reading and revealed Harry was indeed the sole benefactor of the entire estate, Kreacher all but did a jig.
The month of July was spent trying to form a routine in the aftermath of the world-shattering events of June 18. Harry woke up each morning, enjoyed breakfast in bed, which never ceased to be a novel experience. He’d endure the barrage of headlines, at least 80% of which seemed to involve him in some way. He’d then answer any letters he’d gotten, which took a surprising amount of time. Mrs. Weasley proved to not have given up on him in the slightest. Fred and George wanted to consult their ‘primary investor’ almost daily. Ginny thought he wouldn’t take Ron seriously and seemed determined to make up for her lapse in judgment. Luna delighted him every other day with ‘helpful hints’, ‘food for thought’, and requests for another exclusive, which he was almost tempted to grant. Surprisingly, he’d gotten a thank-you note from Daphne Greengrass for taking down Voldemort. As she explained it, anyone that put any effort into the research knew that he’d been a Halfblood, and the ‘more respectable’ Pureblood families had considered it a disgrace how the rest had allowed themselves to be branded like cattle by a ‘lesser being’ for the sake of greed and the excuse to act on baser urges. He’d answered back as best he could, adding in a few compliments for good measure. She’d written back, responding to his compliments and commenting on the surprising number of faux pas he had committed in a six-inch letter, and they’d had a stilted correspondence since. Hedwig was certainly kept busy.
All that letter writing usually lasted until lunch, enjoyed in the kitchen, which was much less like a cave now that it was properly ventilated and new windows installed. Kreacher had moved, at Harry’s express order, into a bedroom, though he’d compromised on it being the smallest. All the Black heirlooms that Sirius had scorned and Kreacher treasured were now hung with pride in the elf’s room, and the water heater mysteriously seemed to double in capacity overnight. Harry noted that the house looked better within a week than it had in a year of the Order trying to make it livable. He wondered if it was because Kreacher had been secretly sabotaging them or because the house was being treated with love instead of being treated like a rabid animal to be tamed.
Remus usually spent lunch looking at the job listings, not that Harry knew why. Sirius had given him a big enough endowment to live frugally for a decade. They often chatted, sharing stories. It became swiftly clear that Harry had really known very little about that man. He’d known him in the abstract as a teacher and a friend of his parents, but he quickly became a person. He learned what foods he couldn’t stand, his history, what made him laugh. They truly bonded. It cracked him up when he learned that while Sirius’s Animagus form had scared him as a baby, his favorite stuffed animal had been a wolf gifted to him by Remus. The man-child had pouted for a month at that. “Dogs are descended from wolves, what’s the bloody difference?!” he’d whine. Out of Harry’s earshot, of course, Lily would tear his tongue out if he’d sworn around her baby.
After lunch, Harry usually holed himself up in the Black family library, reading up on magic. Don’t get him wrong, he was still determined to leave it all behind. But he was no fool. Just because he wanted to leave it, it didn’t mean it would leave him. There might come a time where magic might be needed to save his life, as someone from that world came after him. And hell, if ever a situation arose where someone he loved could be saved but he needed to use magic, he knew what choice he’d make every time. His request for emancipation had been processed the same day, so at least he was allowed to practice despite not being seventeen yet. That was one of the few times he was glad he was famous.
The books were of a distinctly more… ‘open-minded’ authorship than the texts used by Hogwarts, but that generally meant they were filled with tons of interesting tidbits that were usually censored out rather than full of blood supremacy or instructions on how to become a Lich. Harry found himself getting genuinely interested in the material. And since there was no homework and no deadlines, he was free to take breaks to play a game or wander the house.
After dinner, Harry would usually tuck in early with a novel. He’d been getting tired more easily recently. He didn’t realize his magical core was saving up a little each day for the surge that would come on his sixteenth birthday. But every now on then, Harry would tuck his hair under a beanie, put on some jeans and a t-shirt, dab concealer on his scar that was still with him after the soul fragment behind it had died, and hit the town. Well, not really. He didn’t find a fake ID and go to a teen club or anything. He’d just wander the streets, always staying with crowds and being smart, just absorbing the atmosphere and seeing the sights of nighttime London. Maybe step into a coffee shop a sit in the corner, listen to the music and people watch. Surprisingly, even though he had no muggle money, half the time he got a drink. Usually from waitresses with big-sister eyes, twice from men with easy smiles, and once from a girl with wandering feet that had made Harry’s face so red it was probably visible from space.
There were only two breaks from this comforting cocoon. The first was the first Saturday, where Harry had been summoned to the office of Amelia Bones, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. He’d been a nervous wreck, convinced he’d be convicted of murder and chucked into Sirius’s old cell. But instead, he’d gotten a handshake, a cup of tea so strong it could hold a spoon vertical, and been asked to give a statement of the events of that night. She’d been firm, no-nonsense, but not unkind. Harry got the distinct sense that if she’d been in charge instead of Barty Crouch, Sirius would have definitely gotten a trial.
The second was infinitely more mortifying. On the 24th, exactly a week before his birthday, he’d been dragged kicking and screaming to an award ceremony. His, to be exact. Despite his sincerest efforts, including literally begging on his knees to Dumbledore, he would have to publically accept the Order of Merlin for his defeat of Voldemort. When the old wizard had mentioned he’d been approached about possibly getting a chocolate frog card on his behalf, the boy had given him a look of endless grief. “Do I even need to tell you what I think of that?”
It had been torture. He’d had to endure three hours of listening to strangers give speech after speech extoling his virtues, sweating to death in his stiff, rented dress robes. When he’d finally been called up to grab the gold-and-crystal star from a simpering Fudge, he’d very nearly bolted. He’d tried to keep his grimace as small as possible as he shook hands with the coward, and walked right back to his seat before anyone could even suggest he make his own speech. Fudge took the opportunity to do a little grandstanding of his own. When he’d called out “Consider it an early birthday present, Harry m’boy!” Harry wondered if his newly acquired public favor would pardon him attacking the minister in front of witnesses.
Ron made what he’d thought of the whole affair very clear. Harry wondered where he’d gotten his hands on Howler parchment. If he’d stolen it from his mother, he’d either learned a thing or two from his twin brothers or he was stupider than Harry had thought in his most ungracious moments. At two Galleons a page, the mother of seven would definitely not appreciate the loss.
Well, at least Kreacher had another thing to polish. He relished the activity the way most boys did time alone with dirty magazines.
All of which brings us back to that grey summer morning. Harry Potter had gone to sleep the night before expecting no great surprises for his sixteenth birthday. Maybe Kreacher would bake a cake, and Remus would be a bit more sentimental, but he’d told them in advance not to make too big a deal. Blame on his poor treatment at the hands of the Dursley’s, but Harry saw his birthday as just another day of the week. Besides, it was just the three of them in the house, so why go to all the effort? A party should involve so many people you couldn’t keep count. And he wasn’t comfortable enough to leave his sanctuary just yet, so a quiet affair it would be.
Whether he liked it or not, though, there would be a great deal of noise. For this was a rather special birthday.
Harry roused himself, grateful he hadn’t had any nightmares. He blinked. Scrunched his eyes. Opened them slowly. No, not a trick of the light. His vision was perfect. Actually, it was better than he’d pictured perfect to be. Which is to be expected, maybe, since the feeble human imagination surely couldn’t capture the divine, but we’re getting off topic. Where just yesterday his own hand was a blurry mess unless it was two inches from his face, he could now see the wrinkles, ridges, and subtle shifts in color and tone in the wallpaper directly above his head as if looking through a microscope. He slowly lifted his head. It was a bit jarring. He was aware of a macro image of his room like he was used to, but at the same time he could zoom in on every detail, down to the individual grains of the wood on the floor or the fibers that made up each thread of the jumper he’d folded over his desk chair. Dust motes danced a three-dimensional opera through the morning air. After being helpless without his glasses as long as he could remember, it was pretty cool. But still, he was cautious.
‘Whoever said to not look a gift horse in the mouth hadn’t been screwed over as many times as I have’ Harry mused. ‘Okay, Harry, don’t panic. Walk slowly and calmly to the bathroom, look in the mirror. Make sure your eyes haven’t doubled in size or anything.’
Harry tiptoed over to the bathroom on that floor. He was glad Remus hadn’t been the kind to hover. He wouldn’t have been able to handle that after the stifling attention that last week at Hogwarts. Harry made it to the small washroom and looked in the mirror, luckily not the kind that talked back. His new and improved eyes instantly noticed the new additions to his face: scales. White as snow, melded seamlessly with his skin, in a pattern around his eyes, cheeks, and nose like a masquerade mask. As he blinked, he caught a glimpse of them on his eyelids even. He saw them trail down his neck. Hesitantly, he pulled off his t-shirt and saw they didn’t stop there. They flowed over his entire torso. He turned and saw them go down his shoulders and back, even his bum! He even noticed a few on his legs.
As Harry examined himself in mechanical efficiency, he realized that what the scales covered was a bit different than he was used to. His face was less gawky and more angular, his nose thin and straight, his lips poufy. His eyes were still the same size, but his lashes were so long he half expected to poke his own eye out each time he blinked. His hair, usually a rat’s nest, flowed to mid-back smooth as silk. He was maybe an inch taller, but all his proportions were thrown off. He was… curvier? His waist was trim, his hips rounded, and dear God, had someone inflated his bum? His legs seemed to go for miles, so why was he still so short?
Then Harry noticed the most important thing. His skin. What little that wasn’t covered by the scales. It was clear. Creamy as milk too, but utterly unblemished. Unmarked. Virginal. Wiped clean. He ran a finger over his right hand, the inside of his elbow, his side. Nothing. No sign that he was ever hurt. That anyone had ever touched him.
That was almost enough to make him not care whatever caused this.
Harry shook himself of that foolish thinking.
‘Okay Harry. First off, don’t panic. Panic won’t help anyone. Think like Hermione. Think like Hermione. Approach the situation logically.’ Harry turned possible scenarios over in his mind. ‘An extremely delayed reaction to the basilisk bite? Last laugh of Voldemort? Did Fred and George slip me anything?’ The date suddenly clicked in his mind. ‘Sixteenth birthday. A creature inheritance? No one ever said anything about Mum or Dad, but I guess it could be recessive.’ Harry looked himself up and down. ‘Not to toot my own horn, but I’m pretty enough to be a Veela. They have feathers though, not scales.’
Harry looked at the scales at his arm. He tried to pick at one, hoping to see it up close. There was a sudden itching sensation in his fingers, and suddenly he had inch-long claws. ‘Huh. Less snake, more lizard. Maybe I’m part-dragon, but I don’t have wings.’
Wings was the magic word, apparently.
Harry collapsed in pain as something literally burst out of his back. He let out a scream, only instead of a human voice, it sounded more like a squawk, like a bird of prey in pain. He managed to stand up just as Remus and Kreacher crashed into the room.
Harry froze.
Remus, face filled with worry, dropped his jaw in shock. Kreacher’s eyes seemed like they were going to pop out of his skull.
“Remus… I-I-I don’t know what happened” Harry stammered. “But-but-but it’s not going to be a problem. I’ll find some way to fix it.”
“Beautiful…” the werewolf whispered.
Harry paused. That was not what he had been expected.
He risked a glance out of the corner of eye at the mirror.
True, they were covered with blood and what looked like some kind of membrane. But his wings were quite something. Stretching maybe a dozen feet, they were the same perfect white as the rest of his scales, only much larger. The began from the base of his neck to the middle of his rib cage, and taken with the rest of him, the image was that of a savage creature of elemental grace. Harry suddenly felt confined in the large-ish bathroom. He should be flying high above the clouds, hunting for prey, looking for a worthy mate to give him strong chicks—
Where the bloody hell had that come from?
Harry’s odd biological clock freak out was interrupted by a sudden rush of frightening pleasure that seemed to bypass every barrier in its way to head straight for his groin.
He hissed and curled within himself, shouting “Don’t do that!” before he realized what had happened.
Remus pulled back, retracting the hand that had brushed his wing. “Sorry. Couldn’t help myself. Not used to them?”
Harry slowly shook his head, resisted the urge to be sick on the floor. “Sensitive. You’re not allowed to make me feel like that.”
Remus looked horrified. “Right. Duly noted.” He sighed. “Okay. Alright. I wasn’t prepared for this when I woke up this morning.”
Harry rolled his eyes. “You’re telling me? I’m the one with the unknown creature inheritance!” Harry swallowed. “You’re still okay with me living here, right?”
Remus grabbed some of his hair and pulled, giving Harry a ‘what am I going to do with you’ look. Then he crouched down and gave him a strong hug, wings, scales and all. “Silly boy. First off, it’s your house. I’m the one living with you. But more importantly, I love you, Harry. You’re my cub. I’ll be with you, no matter what. Whether you believe me or not.”
Harry sighed and relaxed into the arms of his Uncle Moony. “Thanks. I needed that.”
“Whatever the birthday boy wants, he gets.” Remus pulled back and scratched his head. “Though I’m not sure I can help with this. I have to admit, I haven’t the slightest what you are. James wasn’t a creature, I’d bet gold to donuts, and it’d be extraordinary for a Muggleborn to also have creature blood. Plus I don’t recognize these features from any book.”
“Idiot werewolf,” Kreacher muttered.
“Kreacher, we’ve talked about this,” Harry scolded.
“Kreacher apologizes, Master Harry,” Kreacher forced, visibly trying. “It is just that the answer is so obvious.”
“Wait, you know?” Remus asked.
“Of course, Kreacher has met many of Master Harry’s kind.”
Harry rolled his eyes. “Well don’t keep us in suspense, Kreacher. Tell me what I am!”
Kreacher grinned. “Of course, Master Harry. You are a Submissive Dracken.”

That should do for a start. Let me know what you think. Please? Pretty please?
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Here, There Be Drackens