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Feasting on Rabbits	By : midnightpanther Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Fenrir Views: 23434 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own or have any claim on Harry Potter. This fanfiction is solely fanbased and is in no way being used to make money.

Chapter List
- 4
- 5
Feasting on Rabbits

Under the Fur: part three

It was
delicious. The incredulous look on Potter's face as he dropped the firewood
before Fenrir. Shock, self-betrayal, disappointment and acceptance. Delicious.
Fenrir had been eating and snacking whenever Potter was unconscious or when he
let the bunny 'out of his sight', which wasn't as true as Potter would have
believed.

�

So while Potter was famished, Fenrir had
maintained his energy. He knew exactly what plants he could munch on, what
berries wouldn't give him diarrhoea, what game was easy to hunt in the forest.
Potter had only his mouthfuls of water at the river.��

Fenrir
didn't want to lose the stricken look from Potters face; without knowing it he
was memorizing the way the little bunny's eyes widened, mouth falling just
open. Though tempted to make a comment about how helpful the brat was being
Fenrir held his tongue. This was a game: did he want a darker scowl with
narrowed green eyes? Or did he want obedience? Obedience.

�Good.�
Fenrir acknowledged and dismissed in the same breath. �Have you ever lit a
fire, boy?� Fenrir hid the stirring of a smile as one stricken look transformed
into another, clearly not what Potter had expected him to say. This look didn't
hold shame, but something else, something close.

�Of course
I do.� His head rose, defiant. But why? Didn't want to be anything less than
useful now that he knew Fenrir was a werewolf? Shame that, Fenrir had thought
what he was had been apparent. He was Fenrir Greyback. The most feared Werewolf
of the century! And Harry Potter didn't recognize him. It was a slap to the
face. Harry Potter was to wizards what Fenrir Grayback was to werewolves.

A king
might well have greeted another while thinking the man a pauper.

�If you want to eat, start the fire.� That distracted
Potter; Fenrir could see the hunger flash in his eyes. No snippety comment,
just concentration. He wanted the food. Fenrir hovered, his large presence
looming; he couldn't be ignored.� You can't breathe without me knowing. He wanted to ground that fact into the boy.

It quickly
became apparent that Potter hadn't the slightest idea how to start a fire. He
was rubbing two sticks together with the bark still on. The concentrated look
on his bunny's face stopped the comment from Fenrir's lips. The boy wasn't
playing or stalling. He was serious. Not that he cared, but Fenrir asked, �You
ever gone camping, boy?�

The sticks
kept rubbing, Potter didn't look up. �Camping?� Fenrir repeated. The sticks
rubbed uselessly. �Answer me! Your aunt or uncle, cousin or guardian, did they
ever take you?� Fenrir heard wizards tents were at the least ten sizes bigger
than they appeared, at the cheapest make. Which meant they likely had other
conveniences than just a comfortable living space. Fenrir's lip curled at the
thought of a fireplace.

�Can't make
a fire without your precious stick?� Fenrir goaded.

Fenrir's
father had been a real woodsman. He'd taken Fenrir camping throughout his
childhood, had taught him how to build a fire, prepare a tent, make easy stews.
By the age of six Fenrir had made his first kill to add to the pot, never mind
that it had been a squirrel that had gotten into the food-sack or that Fenrir
had taken it out with a cast iron pan (and at that age it was damn heavy). The
kill provided meat. His father had sat and painstakingly prepared the rodent
and Fenrir never forgot the taste of that victory.

The boy
dropped the sticks in disgust. �So what. So what if I can't? Let's see you do
better.�

Fenrir
shrugged. He piled the sticks in a design, something Potter would have done had
he known what he was doing. Then reached under the tepee of wood and lit some
leaves under small sticks with the lighter in his pocket.

�That's
cheating!� Oh, the outrage in his voice.

�There is
no such thing as cheating,� Fenrir growled. �There are those smarter and those
more prepared than you.� Potter was about to argue the merits of that. �Can you
light a fire without your wand? No. Can I? We have fire don't we? Or did you
want to eat the bird raw?�

�I'd rather
have pork chops,� he mumbled and looked away.

�Oh, I'll
get right on that, Prince Potter.�

Fenrir
didn't suppress the smirk as narrowed green eyes snapped on him. He didn't
suppress the laugh when Potter obviously bit back a cutting remark, his lips
pressing against each other in a thin line.

�Do you
miss your family?� Fenrir leered. �You want to be coddled?� Another flash of
green and Fenrir guessed even the temptation of food wouldn't be enough to keep
the rabbit silent.

Fenrir was
plucking the bird as the fire took hold, then thought better and tossed the
animal to the boy. �You wanna eat? You pluck.� Instead he sat back and watched.
There was a little tick happening on the side of Potter's neck that truly
enticed Fenrir. He could remember the taste, pure and strong, sweaty but clean
of that neck. The tick pulsed by the mangled flesh Fenrir had turned from
sun-bathed golden to a dark and tempting splotch.

Mine.

�I�ve never been
� �

�Yeah,
that's great.� Fenrir remarked, no longer paying attention to whatever the
conversation had been. �I gotta take a piss.� Fenrir glowered at the boy, to
intimidate and stay, but his busy little hare was mumbling something under his
breath and plucking with more force than necessary.

Fenrir
relieved himself but that wasn't why he left. He needed air. Something was
wrong with him. He felt warm and if he was even a bit honest then something
felt... not tingly... heavy? Definitely heavy, like a weight on his chest;
pressing and squeezing. Fenrir tried to concentrate but green eyes suffocated
him.

Did his
little bunny slip him anything? Was his body a drug?

Fenrir
growled out, took a few breaths then stomped back into the clearing, expecting
his bunny to have bolted. He hadn't. He was plucking away with dangerous
concentration, sitting cross-legged on the ground with his head bowed and pile
of feathers beside him on the ground.

�I'm not
Harry Potter,� He said to the bird.

Fenrir
blinked. Before he could respond Potter's head jerked up and twisted green eyes
pinned his lips shut. �I am not Harry Potter.� He repeated and Fenrir opened
his mouth but not fast enough.

�Whatever
you think you know about me, scrap it. You know nothing. I am not who you think I am.�

�Really?�
Fenrir said. �You aren't the baby who nearly killed the Dark Lord all those
years ago?� Fenrir didn't wait for a response. �You aren't the same baby-brat
who destroyed so many dreams and ambitions witlessly? Because I think you are.�

�Dreams!
Are you... � Potter dropped the half-featherless bird, � � delusional! Death
Eaters and Voldemort's followers are all low-life scum who like to watch
innocent suffer!? What's wrong with you, why would you become a murderer just
to say your blood is better?� Potter was heaving now, breathing heavily but
Fenrir barely noticed.

�What!?� He
snapped. �Whose inferior blood do you think made me? Yours? The Dark Lord's? Purebloods? WHO DO YOU SPEAK TO?!� Fenrir
pushed the brat down with ease. �Don't insult me. You're all worthless. Do you think
I mourned the loss when you ripped that dark power away? I didn't. I moved on.
I continued being who I am, and I am terrifying all on my own!�

Potter, who
had held his own until Fenrir's voice had rose so loud the trees shook from
birds flying away, now seemed subdued. Frightened. Did he just realize how
dangerous it was to piss off your captor while buried deep in the woods?

Fenrir took
a few steadying breaths before he began to pant in anger. How dare he, how dare
Harry Potter tell him blood rank was
ridiculous! The nerve, the gall, the absolute duplicity. How could he not know,
how could he not have figured it out. Was Fenrir a beast on a leash in need of
a Master to give commands before he could act? Of course not! How dare Potter.
How dare he imply Fenrir's bloodlust was nothing more than pureblood dribble!

�Do you
know what I'm going to do with you?� Fenrir cooed, his mood switching from
disappointment to amusement so fast he knew Potter wouldn't be able to keep up.

A pause,
unwilling to say it, to admit it, but knowing the answer all the same.
�...Bring me to Voldemort.� Dead tone, accepting of the fate, expecting no
less.

�And why
would I do that?� Fenrir would tear away
everything from this person. Every delusion.

Potter
blinked, looked unsure. He shrugged, unwilling to set Fenrir off again by
saying the wrong thing.� Not saying
anything was saying the wrong thing.

�You see
the Dark Mark on my arm?� Fenrir asked and didn't wait for the answer. �No.
Because your lot consider us foul half breed�s with no sense of humanity left.
That's how werewolves are painted, that's what you wanted us to be. And that,�
Fenrir smiled a toothy grin, �is exactly what I became.� The undertone of Fear Me couldn't have been clearer.

�Who...?�
Potter asked but Fenrir wasn't finished.

If there
was any way to squeeze the slightest amusement from life it was to wrap
humanity away and let the wild side roam. He'd do it with Potter, but until
then he would amuse himself with a different type of cruelty. Human.

"Let's
play a game," Fenrir cooed. �After all, if you survived the Dark Lord, you
can survive me, hmm?�

�

Harry
wasn't in the mood for games, but he could see that whether he was in the mood
or not � he was going to play. The man had changed moods so fast Harry was
unsure if this 'game' was a good thing... or bad. Likely bad. Rather likely
bad.

�Oh,
goody,� Harry mumbled.

�This game
is different from the others we've played.� He said and Harry wondered what
other instances Fenrir was referring to. Almost letting Harry get to Hogsmead
was the cruellest, how he herded Harry in the right direction then let him get
so close... 'I control your every
breath', Harry shook his head to clear the thought away.

�I'm not
playing your game.� He wouldn't let himself bend. He wouldn't.

�Oh?
Delightful that you think that. Now sit down.�

Harry
didn't comply, he was standing, had been seething before he'd forgotten whose
company he'd been in and made the blood remark. A Death Eater was a Death
Eater. The ideals are the same. It might not be that he thought his blood
superior or inferior than anyone else's, it was that, to him, blood rank
existed.

�Sit down.
Pick up the bird. Finish plucking.� A command. His tone invoked absolute
seriousness, and a threat.

Harry
obeyed, not because he was intimidated, but because he was hungry. And holding
the bird gave him something to do and somewhere to look. A game not like the
others? Harry sat crouched, waiting to be hit, ready to move even if his energy
level was incredibly low.

His captive�s voice moved around Harry, pacing noisily, coming out angry. But Harry was
angry too, he was mad at his circumstances, that no one had looked for him,
that he was stuck with this man, that he didn't know what was going to happen
to him. That he'd be forced to play a 'game'. Harry glared and pluck pluck plucked �the bird.

�Aw, don't
be like that. This game won't hurt ya, you just gotta participate using words
is all.�

The bird
was plucked; Harry glared at it in his hands, blaming it for being featherless.
Words? What would a Death Eater know about using words? Harry almost said that
aloud but caught his tongue. No matter what this man said words wouldn't hurt
him, Harry gave a grim little smile at the naked bird in his hand.

�Let me
tell you something so we don't cloud your delusions any further. I have my own
goals which have nothing to do with the Dark Lord.�

That caught
Harry's attention. He looked at the burly man to see him staring back in turn,
waiting for Harry's head to look up.

�Think I'll
turn traitor, don't cha? Think you can convince me to let you go?� He let out a
bark of a laugh. �I bet you even think you're safe because I'm gonna deliver
you to your worst nightmare and woe to me if I damage you first?�

Harry
didn't know how to respond to that. �Aren't you?� He said, confused.

�No, no, boy.� He closed the distance between them and Harry
couldn't help but wrinkle his nose at the breath and body's stench that he
couldn't get used to. �When I said you are mine. I meant: You. Are. Mine.�

�Fingers of dread crawled up Harry's legs, over
his torso and squeezed his chest. No
Voldemort? He should have been relieved, was, but the man was staring at him in such a way Harry could take
no pleasure from the information.

�

�Then... where are we go...�

�Oh, that's
not part of the game. You don't get to know.�

Harry
didn't like sitting while the man towered over him. Made him feel small,
inconsequential. But he didn't dare stand. �Here.� Harry held up the dead bird
and the man's lip quirked but he grabbed the bird and turned to the now roaring
fire. Harry didn't pay attention to what he was doing; all he knew was when the
man turned back around the bird was skewered over the fire at a decent height.

�Feel
better? You don't look relieved. Let me guess, 'Then what are you going to do
with me?' right?� the gruff laugh made Harry's stomach drop. �Easy enough to
figure out once you put all the pieces together.�

�Pieces?�

�Well,
that's the game isn't it? Figuring out the answer.� He gave Harry such a long
stare that Harry wondered if he had dirt smeared across his face, or maybe his
neck. Definitely his neck, Harry rubbed (ow, maybe a bruise) but he couldn't
tell if he was successful or not and he wasn't going to ask.

�Well, come
on, boy,� the beast of a man sat not but four paces from Harry. �Ask away.�

�Ask what? �You won't tell me
who you are.�

�I told you
I'm werewolf.� Yeah, Harry thought, as if there was only one.

�That's not
the sa...�

A grin, �It
is.�

�And you
won't tell me what you're gonna do to me.� Which would be nice since he felt
compelled to let Harry know they weren't visiting ol' snake-eyes.

�Ah, but
you'd get that answer if you got the first.� The man looked pointedly at the
cooking bird (that even now began to smell delicious) and proceeded to lay on
the ground, outstretched arms as a pillow, eyes closed.

Damn him!
He knew Harry wouldn't leave. He had to eat, he'd never get far, never be fast
enough if he didn't... not that he'd done well in the past. Maybe he could take
the bird and run...? Well, no, if Harry ate while running he'd be too slow for
sure. Should he play the game? The man was giving him the ability to ask
anything and get an answer in turn (or at least, he hoped that was how it would
go).� Better to find a sharp stick and
stab him. Of course then there'd be no answers. And Harry would be alone in the
Forbidden Forest. ....which seemed fine enough in the daytime, but at night?
Better alone than captive, right? But Harry didn't look around for a suitable
stick.

Harry
didn't have any questions he wanted to ask. He didn't care about his captive.
He wasn't curious. Except that he was. Remus was meek about being a werewolf,
he'd rather people not bring it up so much. Harry and members of the Order were
an exception, of course, but Harry had never thought Remus anything less and
had difficulty understanding why there was such a crux.

It seemed
to Harry this man felt the same way as Remus, but on the opposite end of the
mentality. Where Remus was meek, this man screamed acceptance. Where Remus
regretted being turned, this man... actually, Harry didn't know. He thought it
would be hard to ask a decent question but now he knew what it would be.

�When were
you turned? No, how? How and when were you turned?� Harry asked, suddenly
curious. A Death Eater's answer, if it was honest would prove a tale worth
telling when Harry got back. Likely to be mocked. I was bad-ass in my fifth year and went into the Forbidden Forest where
I tried to wrestle some dark artefact from a man who turned into a werewolf and
bit me after I ran like a girl!

The man
peeked an eye open then closed it and leaned back, getting comfy. He really was
going to tell Harry? Harry had been sure it was a trick, now Harry was at a
loss. No. Of course he wasn't going to answer, whatever he said would be a lie,
right? Harry wouldn't trust him � Death Eater � but he was curious what line
would be fed. Maybe he turned into a werewolf just to serve Voldie? Well,
likely not...

It was apparent when he started talking that the man knew
what Harry was thinking, when he began with: �Once upon a time,� Harry felt his face heat
just a bit.�...there was a young boy who secretly knew his mother was a witch.
In his innocence he thought her most special, treasured her and loved her
immensely; together they kept the secret from the boy's father. He grew up with
tales of castles and magic, dragons and vampires. Was told that one day, too,
he would experience those things.�

�Hogwarts,�
Harry mumbled under his breath, the castle was Hogwarts. This Death Eater
werewolf was, of course, a wizard, though he hadn't yet produced a wand, maybe
in fear that Harry would steal it and escape? Harry began putting pieces
together, he was sorted into Slytherin, his father had a fit when he learned
his family was magical, maybe, like Harry's relatives, the father hadn't
accepted magic and never accepted his son. Though in Harry's case he never had
a close bond with his family anyway...

�Yes.
Hogwarts.� The word came out a growl. �A school for the magically gifted.� He
turned his head and spat.�

Harry was
aghast. Hogwarts was the best place on the planet! His happiest memory was
receiving the owl that would take him away from his Aunt, Uncle, and cousin.
All the people he loved Harry had met within those walls, all the bonds of
friendship and love was because of
Hogwarts.

Harry
couldn't believe that anyone would
curse or rue such a place. He'd never been so insulted to see someone spit!
Why, he might as well have spat after eating Red Vine's!

Heedless of Harry's thoughts, the man continued. �The father, in his ignorance, loved
his wife and child. He was a practical man who would rather do things by hand
himself then buy something from the store; hunt his own meat, build his own
house, take care of his own with his own strength. The mother loved him because
he was capable and strong; she had been a halfblood and those qualities
mattered to her. The child loved the father because he was an excellent
teacher, a patient father and a man who knew right from wrong and lived by that
code.�

�But when were you turned?� Harry asked, not so much
interested in the back story as the juicy part. After all, if he had no
intention of handing harry over to Voldemort, Harry thought the Dark Lord would
see that as treason. How long would he live?

A feral
smile ghosted his lips. �Ah. What a shame, to ask questions without ears.�

Harry
didn't quite understand what he meant (he made Harry ask!) but sat up to show
he was listening.

�Very well.� Story time was over, Harry sensed that much as
the man sat up and looked Harry in the eyes. �The first time I killed anyone I
was in my beast form, wild and uncontrollable. I killed my father.�

�Oh.� Harry stammered. �I don�t know what to � oh. I�m...
that�s horrible.� Harry couldn't think of anything more horrific, he wished
fervently year upon year to have a father, that maybe he hadn't died, that
maybe a stranger would show up to claim him and explain that he hadn't been in
the car that night. That hope died when he learned his parents had been
murdered and it was their deaths more than anything
that made Harry hate Voldemort. To be the one to kill the father you loved...

The man
tilted his head sharply as if considering Harry's words of regret and was
confused by them. �You misunderstand. That bastard deserved it.�

�But...� Harry was confused; he had just said his father had
been a decent man. Harry looked into amber eyes and wished he hadn't. Far more
humanity stared back at him than Harry thought he had a right to see.

Then he
broke eye-contact and Harry was staring at a fully grown man who told a story
with nonchalance, as if the words meant nothing. As if what happened was
nothing. As if he was talking about the sun rising in the morning. �My father
tried to kill me.�

Harry
wanted to say: 'That doesn't give you an excuse to kill others.' It didn't. He
wanted to say those words. But he couldn't.

Harry had
been wrong. Worse than waking up one morning with your father's blood on your
hands would be to wake up with your father dead and the knowledge he wanted
that for you.

Harry had
been set on not believing him, but there was a pain in his non-nonchalance that
Harry didn't buy. But why say any of this to Harry?

With no
words to reply, Harry was shocked to hear himself say, �My Aunt and Uncle
wanted me dead, but they just stored me in a cupboard under the stairs so I'd
be out of sight, out of mind.�

He laughed.
�You don't say.� A thump to Harry's back. �Harry Potter, under the stairs.
That's good. You mind if I sell that to the newspapers?� Harry had a feeling he
wasn't actually asking, but for some reason Harry was relieved to hear a real
laugh from the man.

�They were
from the muggle side of my family. Hated magic. Wanted to wring it from me
before I received my letter.� Harry continued, not knowing why the words left
his heart so easily and dismayed that he felt compelled to explain.

�That's a
good one kid.�

That he
didn't believe Harry hurt. �No, really.� Harry was glaring now, mad from the
hurt. He was about to have a pissing contest with a Death Eater on whose
childhood had been worse. How twisted was that?

�My
parent's � �

�...Were
killed by the Dark Lord when you were a child. Boy did you ever get screwed,
there would have been a thousand magical families who woulda taken you in and adored you but you got placed
with magic-haters? What brilliant guardian handed you over to that life?�

Harry's
mouth was hanging open. That wasn't... �I had
to go to family.�

�Did you?
Was it worth it? Was there really no other way?� He took the bird from the
flame and ripped a piece off to put in his own mouth, heedless of the heat. �No
other family? Or did this person even know what hell you would face, isolated
and mistreated.�

�I never
said I was!� Damn, but he was hungry... it smelled so good.

�But you
were, right? That's why you said you weren't 'Harry Potter', because everyone
has their ideal on your life that stretches too far from the truth.� He ate
another piece.

�Well. At
least I don't go around killing people!� Harry said, miffed at being so
carelessly pegged, miffed that his eyes followed the meat. Dammit Ron!

�You
should. If I was you I'd take out the Dark Lord.�

Harry's
eyes widened, the food out of mind. �You want Voldemort dead?� He was a Death
Eater!

Seeing
Harry's face the man laughed. �No. He's vital to my own ends. But then, he's
never taken away my most precious
things or screwed my life over.�

�If he did,
you'd kill him?� Harry asked.

There was
no pause, only the immediate reaction. �Yes.�

Silence
fell between them for a minute; two. It stretched.

Harry
wasn't thinking about the twisted view of this Death Eater. He trusted
Dumbledore, knew that there had been no other way. Harry didn't listen to his
baits, didn't consider there could be another way, another childhood. �

Sirius.

He'd been
wrongly accused of murder and locked away, while this man admits freely to
bloodlust and walked free.

�Why do you
do it? Why do you kill?� Harry couldn't keep the edge from his tone, the hunger
from his stomach as it echoed Harry's words. He hoped they were still playing
the game but didn't know what the purpose was.

�What a
wasted question. Because I enjoy it.� Was there a limit to what could be asked?

�But why?� Harry really wanted a piece of
that bird.

�They
deserve no less.�

�But...�
Harry blinked. They were the victims... Then his eyes widened, he wanted to eat
with a murderer!? Harry reached for a piece of the bird but the man pushed
Harry back down and ripped off a small chunk that went into his mouth.

�Look. My
father taught me to hunt and it's a skill I know and do well. Only now I
understand both man and beast. I am the perfect hunter.�

�People
don't deserve to die because your father tried to kill you.� Easy to say now.

He
shrugged. �What's the difference between an animal's life and a human's? I have
been both and therefore are neither. Tell me, my little bunny, what am I in the
eyes of humanity? Do I deserve slaughter, am I exempt from the taboo of being
killed by humans.�

It took
Harry a moment to realize he was serious. �You do deserve death. You're a
murderer.�

�And the
only murder you know of was self-defense. Or because I was a beast the fact no
longer applies?�

�No. You're
one of Voldemort's werewolves. You've killed others.�

�I'm not
'one of', I am THE werewolf.�

�Harry remembered another conversation with
Remus. About the man who could command and terrify other werewolves, despite
that they generally kept to themselves. 'He
specialises in children... Bite them young, he says, and raise them away from
their parents, raise them to hate normal wizards. Voldemort has threatened to
unleash him upon people's sons and daughters; it is a threat that usually
produces good results.'

Crap. Harry
looked at the tall beast of a man, with his massive broad shoulders and
whiskered face. That would be bad. This could be bad.

�When were
you bit? You never did say...� Harry asked.

He took a
bite from the bird, eyed Harry curiosily but said,�When I was young. Young
enough to adapt and marvel at what I was, to realize something Witches and
Wizards grown never do: that being bit is a gift.�

�Oh no.�
'He regards it as his mission in
life to bite and to conta�minate as many people as possible.'

�You... you
want to share this gift?� It was ridiculous but despite the horror Harry still
wanted the food. His insides squirmed from hunger. But Remus's word's still
echoed in his head. 'He wants to create
enough were�wolves to overcome the wizards.'

�Of course. Who said being a Were was a disease? Do wizards
deserve life more than us? They think so. They want us to be less than what we
are.��

�So you
want a society where werewolves aren't victimized?� Harry reached for the meat
and got pushed back again.

�Bah. Those of us who are victimized allowed it. Why should I liberate them?�

�But...� Harry was now confused, he just said...

�'Voldemort has promised
him prey in return for his services.'

�You sold yourself to Voldemort to do murder?!� Harry asked,
hesitant to ask, fearful of the answer.

�Ah. You've finally figured it out, have you? Say it. Say my
name.� Harry's mouth had gone dry; this was the worst situation he could be in
that didn't involve Voldemort himself. This was bad. Very bad. Where were his
friends? Were they dealt with when Harry was unconscious? When Harry had tried
to escape only to be reunited later?

�Say the name.� He held up the meat, the bird half there,
half bone.

Harry didn't want to say it. Didn't want to make it true.

The man's eyes flashed.

�You're Fenrir Greyback.� Harry's mouth felt like chalk,
even as the bird got tossed at him and foul breath sauntered closer just so the
man could whisper, right against Harry's body...

�Damn straight.�

�
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Feasting on Rabbits