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The Wolf in Waiting	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 2672 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I am making no money from this story.

Chapter List
- 1-The Wolf in Waiting
- 2-Chapter Two
- 1
- 2
Title: The Wolf in Waiting
Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling and associates own these characters. I am writing this story for fun and not profit.
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: R
Content Notes: Creature fic (Werewolf Harry and Veela Draco), minor character deaths, mentions of gore, manipulation, mild angst, non-linear timeline
Wordcount: This part 3900
Summary: Harry has been trying for years to link Draco Malfoy to the assassinations that Harry knows he's committed--and fighting his own attraction at the same time. But Malfoy evades all of Harry's searches for evidence and continues to move in polite society, taunting and teasing Harry. Sooner or later, Harry's patience is going to snap.
Author's Notes: This is for an anonymous request that was originally made for Advent, about Harry being a werewolf and Hit Wizard, Draco being a Veela who’s linked to a series of murders, and them being drawn to each other despite themselves. This will be posted in two parts, with the second part tomorrow.
The Wolf in Waiting
"What dashing robes you're wearing, Potter."
There were so many annoying things about Draco Malfoy that Harry had given up on ranking them all, but the way he managed to give out chirpy compliments and smile as if he meant them was up there on the list.
Harry nodded, said, "Thank you," and drifted away. Except when he was actually in the throes of hunting down the man who was a Veela--and an assassin no matter what anyone said--Harry preferred to stay away from him.
But Malfoy followed this time, making Harry wish he had ears he could lay flat in human form. "Don't you think this is a grand party?" he asked, making the sleeve of his pale robe swish as he gestured around the huge ballroom, the flashing floating mirrors in the air, the hundreds of candles, the food tables that were longer than the House tables at Hogwarts, the seven hundred guests making stilted conversation. "Don't you long to join in the dancing?"
"If you'd seen me dance lately, you wouldn't joke about that."
"When you dance, things get broken. I've heard that. But I always figured that they were things that deserve to get broken. Like the hearts of people who don't guard them well enough."
Caught, so angry and something else he couldn't breathe, Harry stared at Malfoy. Malfoy swirled his sleeve again. A snatch of his scent came to Harry. Wilder than anything else in the room, it reminded Harry of pure air above mountain passes.
But he was in control, not the wolf inside him. Harry shrugged and answered lightly, "Or the hearts of people who still think I'm some kind of hero. Can't blame them for that. I'm so dashing, like you said."
"I can blame them."
"Oh?" Harry took a sip of the champagne and grimaced. He had to have a glass, to show willing, but it was too sweet for him. Most alcohol was nowadays.
"For thinking they have a chance."
Harry blinked hard, and in that moment Malfoy loomed towards him. His eyes were so bright that it was like looking at moonlit clouds. They beamed, and the magic beating out from him like he was a sun and it was heat reached seeking fingers for Harry. Harry shivered, even though what he wanted was to stretch out near Malfoy and curl up.
"I know they don't," Malfoy continued in a soft, breathless voice, never looking away from Harry's face. "And I hate watching other people waste their time in a foolish, pointless endeavor. Seeking after things they'll never catch. Resisting things they'll never resist. Not--" His voice dropped, and Harry was absolutely certain no one could hear him now. "Taking what they want when it’s available."
Harry reminded himself he wasn't against a wall or table or anything like that. There was space behind him. He could drift into it. He could get away from Malfoy.
And he did. He felt better when there was room between him and the heat of Malfoy's body, and he even managed a twisted smile of his own. "Well, no one can say I'm not putting in the time and effort to chase you."
"Another thing I despise," said Malfoy, without moving.
"What's that?"
"People trying to fit in where they're not welcome. And never will be."
Harry wondered what in the world Malfoy was on about now. It was patently obvious that lots of people liked him, would invite him to parties and galas, and didn't believe a word Harry tried to say about the people he'd killed.
But then Malfoy lifted his eyes and gestured around the room, and looked back at Harry in what was only partly a blatant once-over. Harry felt his breath catch again. He shook his head. "They stand next to me. They touch me. They're perfectly accepting of the fact that I'm a werewolf," he muttered.
"I don't have to listen to such obvious falsehoods and pathetic lies," Malfoy said, and turned his back.
"And I don't have to make excuses to you," Harry snapped, stalking away. This time, Malfoy didn't follow him.
Regardless of whether it was gauche or not, Harry zigzagged straight over to the table that held the butterbeer. The mugs were cool in a way that the wine glasses weren't, and he needed one right now.
He leaned his forehead against the solid side of the drink, sniffed up the foam, and remembered.
*
"Really, madam, Malfoy was at the scene of that crime. I'm certain of it!"
Head Hit Wizard Yolanda Jane gave a weary sigh and took off her glasses to massage her forehead. Harry ignored the twinge of sympathy that made him remember all the times his scar had ached. He was telling the truth, and Yolanda would listen to him.
Hell, they were in the middle of her office, decorated with Orders of Merlin and photographs of all the criminals Yolanda had participated in capturing or helped interrogate once other Hit Wizards had brought them in. Didn't that mean she should listen to any information that would help her prosecute someone who was blatantly breaking the law?
"Hit Wizard Potter--"
"I smelled him," said Harry, and looked Yolanda straight in the eye. She was a tall woman with blonde hair and dark eyes so weary that Harry hated contributing to the weariness, but he had to tell her this. "A werewolf's nose doesn't lie. It can't."
Yolanda was silent for a long moment. "Perhaps you smelled some other Veela."
"I can distinguish individual scents," Harry said, and tried not to snap. "I know he murdered Rabastan Lestrange just like he murdered Rodolphus. And Fenrir Greyback. And Yaxley. And--"
"The problem with admitting your evidence into court," said Yolanda wearily, "is that we can't put it in a Pensieve. It doesn't matter how sensitive your nose is. Others' aren't. We can't smell it when it's in a Pensieve. And we can't smell it even when Mr. Malfoy is standing right beside us."
"Use Veritaserum on me!"
"The Veritaserum that doesn't work on werewolves?"
Harry flushed. He hadn't known that particular truth the first time someone had doubted him about a crime and he volunteered to use the potion. It was the main reason why no one had asked Remus what he knew about Sirius and his apparent betrayal of Harry's mum and dad. Besides the fact that he was obviously evil and couldn't be trusted to tell the truth on his own, of course.
"No," said Yolanda, with a slight shake of her head. "There is no evidence other than what you say to link Mr. Malfoy to these crimes. No magic used matching the signature of his wand. Tight alibis from other people--"
"His family and friends, who would all lie for him! And how can there be a signature when he didn't use wand magic to kill them?" Harry leaned imploringly forwards. "Please, Madam. I know it's true. Give me a little more time to investigate him!"
"There is no time. The Wizengamot doesn't care enough about the crimes, Hit Wizard Potter. All former Death Eaters? No one cares. You only got assigned to the case at first because we had to be seen to be doing something in response to the deaths. But no one cares now. You'll have one more day to wrap up the paperwork, and then you'll be pulled off."
"They were still people," Harry whispered, wanting to speak his piece even though he knew she wouldn't listen. "They should still have been tried and given a chance at justice, not just murdered."
"I agree, Harry," said Yolanda, and came around the desk to put a slightly flinching hand on his arm. "But we don't have enough evidence to pull him in, or even ask him questions. You know that. Give it up and work on cases that you can bring to a successful conclusion."
Harry only shook his head and left. Maybe some of the cases were too old. Fenrir Greyback had died less than a month after he'd bitten Harry, and Harry hadn't been on the case at the time because he was in no shape to deal with it.
What should I have done? What could make them see that I'm right?
*
“You know I’m the only one who’ll ever deserve you.”
Harry started and nearly dropped his mug. He hadn’t heard Malfoy come up behind him. He hadn’t smelled him, either, because in a room this hectic and bright and swirling, there was no way to isolate one eddy of scent from another.
“I suppose that’s true,” Harry muttered, and sipped from his mug while he stared at the wall again. “Ever deserve my sarcasm, my biting insults, my—”
“I know there’s nothing wrong with your nose. Smell the desire on me. That’s all you need to do. Your nose doesn’t lie.” Malfoy stepped around a heavy witch who’d been lingering as though she wanted to talk to Harry and leaned towards him. There was a subtle light around his face that meant he was using his Veela powers and they would have a huge audience in seconds.
Harry wrinkled his nose. “You expect me to smell anything here?”
“If you come close enough, you’ll scent it on my skin and hair.”
Harry shuddered a little. He could imagine leaning in, burying his nose between Malfoy’s neck and his collarbone, and Malfoy letting him do it, because—
“You’re an idiot,” Harry said harshly, and walked a few more brisk steps towards the entrance of the ballroom. Malfoy promptly came after him. “All I’d have to do is bite down, and then what would you do? Where would you be? Some sort of bizarre winged wolf hybrid?”
“You would never do that.”
The utterly unshakable belief in Malfoy’s words made Harry turn to snarl at him. Malfoy only stood his ground, his eyes widening a little. This time, Harry could smell the arousal that wafted off him.
“You don’t know me. You don’t know the way I itch sometimes when I’m in too big a crowd, how I wish I could stop attending these parties, how—”
“Of course I know that. I know how my skin itches when I’m near my mate. And I only attend these parties to see you. Why not come with me now, and gratify both our wishes?”
Harry’s hand cracked down, and the mug splintered in it. He blinked for a second at the dripping shards, then hissed a sigh and drew his wand. With a swish, the mug and the butterbeer were gone, and Harry aimed his wand at his hand to heal the cut next. It would close soon enough on its own, but werewolf healing wasn’t enough to diminish the pain as fast as a spell would.
“Let me.”
Malfoy moved closer, and he lifted Harry’s wrist before Harry could stop him. Harry stared at his bowed head. Malfoy didn’t act as if he could feel the power behind that stare. He breathed softly across Harry’s wound.
Harry felt as though someone had plucked up a needle and taken to sewing the cut immediately, combined with pouring a Strengthening Potion down his throat. His skin was tingling, his heart was throbbing, and the cut was gone as if it had never been. For a moment, Harry thought he saw a flicker of golden light pouring from Malfoy’s lips across it.
He found his voice where it had gone to hide, and accused Malfoy huskily, “You—cast a spell that enchanted your breath.” It was hard to speak the words when he could smell the arousal on Malfoy, as potent a scent as honeysuckle, but he did it anyway.
“You know that’s not true.” Malfoy sounded infuriatingly calm as he let Harry’s wrist go. “You could smell the magic on me.”
Harry stared at him, and his nostrils flared in spite of himself. Malfoy smiled. It was ethereal and hungry at the same time.
Harry whirled and stalked away. His heart might skitter, his skin might tingle, but Malfoy was still a murderer.
*
Harry blinked his eyes hazily open. He felt as though he was stuck somewhere between clouds, and when he came back to earth, he was going to land with a harsh jolt. But he still remembered a battle, and someone he was supposed to be fighting, and that meant he automatically planted his fists beneath him and struggled to sit up.
“Hush, Potter. Hush. You don’t have to get up yet.” Someone rustled next to him and stood up, leaning over him. Without his glasses, and still drifting lazily somewhere on the far side of pain-relieving potions, Harry had no idea which Healer it was. He summoned up a smile.
“Everyone made it?” he whispered.
“Yes. You were the only one Rabastan Lestrange actually managed to curse.” A long, slim hand smoothed down his side, and the Healer held a flask of some potion that actually smelled nice, like almonds, to his mouth. “Drink. It’ll cushion you against some of the pain you’ll experience. They had to regrow three ribs.” The figure paused. Harry, swallowing some of the potion, raised his eyebrows.
“I was waiting for you to ask why you were the only casualty,” the Healer prompted him.
“Oh. I assumed Lestrange must have Apparated when the others rushed over to tend to me.” Harry couldn’t keep the frustration out of his voice.
“More like because you flung yourself in front of Weas—Hit Wizard Weasley and the others. So all Lestrange’s spells hit you.”
“Oh, yeah.” Harry shrugged. “That happens all the time, you know?” He yawned. His voice was already slurring again. The pain-killing potion must have been more powerful than he’d assumed. The floating feeling was back, and he dropped his head onto the pillows and closed his eyes a little. The Healer was stroking his hair for some reason, which was nice, if strange. It wasn’t something Harry had ever had a Healer do.
“Why do you leap in front of the others?” the figure whispered.
“Because I’m a werewolf, and I heal faster,” Harry muttered. God, that hand in his hair felt nice. Most people since Ron and Hermione hadn’t wanted to touch him since he was turned, either. “Mmmm. You have soft hands.”
The Healer seemed to catch his breath, which would have made Harry stiffen if the potion hadn’t relaxed him so much. He hoped he didn’t have to deal with someone who thought of themselves as a Harry Potter groupie who would “save him from himself” by “loving the werewolf” out of him. Again.
“I’m glad,” the Healer said, which didn’t make much sense, but they didn’t sound like they were about to start lecturing him. “Did you ever think that you might want to stay out of danger more often?”
“Why?” Harry sighed. “I’m a Hit Wizard. That’s what I do. I would be in even more danger if I was an Auror, you know.”
“I don’t like you to be in danger at all.”
“For a Healer, you sound like a fan,” Harry muttered drowsily, and he knew he was already drifting away on the waves of the potion.
“I’m someone who has reason not to want you to be in danger that often. And who’s going to catch up to Rabastan Lestrange.”
Harry fell asleep to the sound of the words. It was too late when, long after, he figured out what part of the motivation behind Lestrange’s murder might have been.
*
“I know you figured out I was doing it for you.”
“I never knew why until now,” Harry said, staring into the second mug of butterbeer he’d retrieved from a side table. A lot of people were staring at him openly now, either waiting for him to leave or for him to snap and start ravening, Harry supposed. “Just that—I figured out the Healer was you.”
“I’m glad.”
Harry flinched at the repetition of those long-ago words, and raised his head to stare grimly at Malfoy. Malfoy was standing a respectable distance from him now, but he was raking Harry with that casually possessive glance that made Harry want to bolt out the door.
“You can’t just kill people,” Harry whispered. “You can’t kill them without trials. I was supposed to bring them in. I was supposed to bring all the former Death Eaters in. That’s why they assigned me to the case of this mysterious assassin in the first place.”
“Oh, but I’ve killed other people, too.” Malfoy shrugged, a motion that looked as if it continued all the way down his body, like a ripple of river water flowing over stones. “It’s just the former Death Eaters you care about most.”
Harry shook his head. “You killed those particular seven because they threatened me after the war?”
“Yes. And Greyback because he turned you.” Malfoy smiled in a different way. “Though part of that was personal enjoyment, I have to admit. He used to think it was funny to torment me with promises of bites, during the war. I savored the expression on his face as he died.”
Harry willed himself to calm down. He had what he’d longed for, now: a confession from Malfoy. He might not know all the other people he’d killed, the Wizengamot might still distrust his nose and just Harry in general because he was a werewolf, but they wouldn’t doubt his memory of Malfoy’s words.
“I don’t want to be with someone who’s a murderer.”
Malfoy only continued to gaze at him, which meant Harry’s declaration didn’t have the dramatic effect he’d hoped for. “But you know they’ll never accept you.” A circle of Malfoy’s arm indicated the people drifting around the room, the witches in gauzy robes whispering to each other as they looked at Harry, the glitter and gilding and gold. “Why not join with me?”
“Because you’re a murderer.”
“And I suppose all the wizards that you killed in the war and the course of your duties were justifiable?”
“I’ve always followed the rules—”
Malfoy began laughing so hard that more people stared at them. Harry saw a wizard in Auror robes move towards them, and then turn around and shake his head in disgust at someone who worked higher up in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Harry stared at Malfoy and waited for the laughter to stop.
“Sorry,” Malfoy said, and he straightened up and wiped something off his lips, probably a fleck of champagne. “But—you and the rules. Come on, Harry. Do you really expect me to believe that?”
His eyes were so fond and bright and warm that Harry blinked. Only Ron and Hermione had looked at him like that since he was turned. Yolanda respected him, but there wasn’t that level of trust—
“You’ve convinced yourself that I’m your mate, fine.” Harry looked away and tried to lower his voice and sound unconcerned. “But that doesn’t mean I need to accept you. Instead of coming to me like a normal person—”
“Veela,” Malfoy said helpfully.
“Whatever, you decided to kill people?”
“That’s what a Veela does when someone’s hurt his mate.” Malfoy gave him another glance that seemed to wonder more about what was under Harry’s robes than what was in his head. “Did you know that Veela are immune to being turned into werewolves? So when you bite and scratch in the heat of passion, you don’t have to worry about infecting me.”
Harry shook his head and walked away. He’d had enough. His head was hammering, and he was going to crush another mug if he wasn’t careful.
Malfoy followed him. Harry paid no attention to him. All he had to do was get outside and Apparate. It wasn’t like Malfoy would know where he had gone, or could follow him. Then Harry could put the memory safely into a Pensieve, and—
Malfoy only waited until they were in the dark entryway where house-elves had hung the dripping cloaks most of the partygoers had worn. Then he acted.
He slammed Harry against the wall, and Harry snarled automatically and lifted a hand, before he froze. He had learned not to lash out, just in case a slight scratch with his nails happened. But Malfoy drew one of Harry’s fingers into his mouth and sucked.
“See? I’m not afraid.”
And Malfoy’s mouth descended on his, and the first thing he did was scrape his tongue against Harry’s teeth, which were too sharp in the back, and laugh in delight as the taste of blood filled both their mouths.
Harry felt his head spin for another reason. He’d been—fixated on blood and raw meat since he’d been turned. He grabbed Malfoy’s arms and leaned into him, pushing him back even though there was no wall behind him, and Malfoy met him push for push, kiss for kiss, too strong to be broken by Harry’s clutching grip, his heart beating as hot and as fast as the flow of his blood.
Harry turned away finally, gasping. Malfoy caressed his hair the way he had when Harry was in hospital and he was pretending to be a Healer.
“Take the memories to them, Harry,” Malfoy said, his voice low and intimate as a lover’s. “I think you’ll find there are different laws governing the interactions of Veela and their mates than you assume there are. And you might learn something else disappointing, too.”
He ran his fingers one more time down Harry’s chin, leaving a slight glow of golden light behind, and stepped back. It was dark in the room, but of course Harry’s werewolf eyes could see well enough to make out his smile.
“And when you get tired of pandering to them,” Malfoy whispered, “pretending that you’re playing by the rules and that their fear doesn’t bother you, I’ll be waiting.”
Harry hated how long it took him to soothe his panting after Malfoy bowed and disappeared into the night.
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The Wolf in Waiting