The Online Haven of Ms. Katonic
|Jun. 21st, 2006 @ 04:52 pm FIC: Greyback Mountain, Harry/Fenrir, NC17|
|The 2nd Annual hpde_smutathon finished today, and the Masterlist is now live!|
Which means that I can now happily reveal that my contribution was annephoenix's gift, Greyback Mountain. And here it is, for your enjoyment!
Title: Greyback Mountain
Rating: NC17. Very NC17.
Pairing: Harry/Fenrir main pairing, other secondary pairings that would spoil the end if I told you.
Summary: No one emerges from the Grey King's halls unscathed. Not even the Chosen One.
Warnings/kinks: Non-con, dubcon, BDSM, master/slave relationship, caning, spanking, violence, blood, breathplay, scarification, collaring, bondage, character death, Stockholm Syndrome, general angst, woe and fucked-upness.
Disclaimer: All characters are J. K. Rowling's. Cader Idris is real though, and the legend of the Brenin Llwyd is no invention of mine. Title is taken from a certain slashy movie that came out a few months ago.
Word Count: 8300, approx.
A/N: Feedback is love, people!
In retrospect, Harry probably shouldn't have gone back to visit his parents' graves three nights in a row. Not at night, certainly. Not on his own. Definitely not when those graves were in the cemetery of a small church in a village in the shadow of Cader Idris.
“I really don't think this is such a good idea, Harry,” said Hermione. “It'll be dark out there soon, and you don't know who might be lurking. You've been twice now; if you were seen, someone might be waiting for you.”
Harry laughed off her concerns. All three of them were sitting in a corner of the village's only pub. It was a Muggle pub in a Muggle village in Snowdonia, at the height of the tourist season, and danger seemed deceptively far away. Huddled around a table, sandwiched in between a group of German backpackers and an orienteering club from Berkshire, the three young wizards could have easily been lulled into thinking that all was safe and normal. Perhaps Harry had been.
“I'll be fine, Hermione. I'll have my cloak with me, and it won't get dark until late. Voldemort's strong, but not so strong he's taken to attacking tourist spots in broad daylight. Besides,” and here he turned pleading eyes on her, “I don't know when I'll get to come back. I might never get to come back.”
Hermione looked torn between hard-headed realism and sympathy at his predicament, but this was Hermione. Realism always won in the end.
“It's far too dangerous, Harry,” she said softly. “You could be killed – half the wizarding world's after you for one reason or another. We've stayed here too long anyway. It's time we moved on.”
“'Sides,” said Ron, looking up from the chicken burger he was tucking into, “It's not You-Know-Who you want to worry about round here. Cader Idris is Brenin Llwyd territory. Everyone knows that.”
“Brenin what?” Harry asked, puzzled. Harry might be a very magically talented wizard, but the intricacies of the Welsh language eluded him.
“Brenin Llwyd,” Ron replied. “The Grey King. He lives up there. On Cader Idris.” He leaned in closer, voice dropping to a whisper. “They say he's more dangerous than any wizard. He lives up there with his army of grey foxes, guarding the mountain. He'll let you up there by day, but if anyone's still there after the sun goes down, they'll come back mad. Unless he likes them, then they'll end up as poets. But then again, most poets are bloody mental anyway, so...”
“Oh for heaven's sake, Ron, you don't really believe that rubbish, do you?” Hermione cried. “Honestly, it's just a Muggle myth. Myfanwy Pritchard carried out an extensive survey of Cader Idris in 1823, involving camping out on the summit for three months, and categorically revealed that there was no sign of any abnormal magical or mystical activity for all of that time. The Brenin Llwyd does not exist!” She sat back with her arms folded, daring the two boys to argue.
“Yeah, well, anyone who signed up to spend three months on top of a Welsh mountain wasn't all there to start with if you ask me,” Ron muttered quietly. Hermione, glaring, launched into a spirited defence of magical anthropology, which precipitated a heated argument that had still not been resolved when they all went to bed.
Still, Harry was grateful for the distraction. It meant no one noticed when he picked up his cloak and stole out of the hotel under cover of darkness, making for the small churchyard that held the graves of Lily and James Potter.
Harry knelt in front of the tombstone, engraved with the names of his parents, rearranging the flowers he'd brought the day before.
“I won't let you down,” he whispered. “I'll do it. I'll take him down, promise. For you. For Sirius. For Professor Dumbledore. Everyone else he's killed. I promise.”
He leaned forward to touch the gravestone, tracing the lines of his father's name with his fingertips... until he was abruptly interrupted by a steel-tipped crossbow bolt flying just inches from his cheek and embedding itself into the stone, neatly obliterating the word “James” as it hit. Harry spun round, reaching for his wand, heedless of the hood of his Invisibility Cloak falling down as he let off a hex in the direction the bolt had come from.
“Who's there?” he demanded. “Show yourself!” It wasn't the first time he'd been in a strange graveyard with enemies on all sides... and he didn't like the way this time was heading either.
The only answer he got was the twang of a crossbow to his right. He spun around, hoping to cast a Deflecting Charm, but his Quidditch-honed reflexes weren't fast enough to beat the laws of physics. The second bolt skewered his arm, the twin bones of his forearm catching it and slowing it down so that just the tip emerged from the other side, that and a fine spray of blood that soaked his shirt and decorated his hair and face. Clutching his arm in pain, his wand falling from fingertips that had lost the ability to grip it, Harry sank to his knees.
Grey-clad figures were upon him in seconds, their faces hidden behind head dresses made to resemble foxes. One set of hands confiscated his wand, another was ripping his cloak off, while still more were trying to grab his wrists and ankles. Harry tried to fight as best as he could, but he was wounded and outnumbered, and he wasn't particularly practiced at fist-fighting. He didn't have a chance. Kicking out blindly, he managed to hit one of his assailants in the groin, causing the man to stagger back, cursing. All it earned Harry though was a boot in the stomach, followed by an uppercut to the jaw. Harry coughed on the blood that suddenly filled his mouth, feeling his stomach lurch as he saw a milky white tooth fly out and land on the grass. He cried out, but someone had grabbed his hair and yanked his head back, the steel tip of a knife pressing lightly into his neck.
“Now, now, brat,” a foul-smelling voice breathed in his ear, a rasping growl that Harry had only heard once before in his life, but wasn't likely to ever forget. “Play nicely. Or I might have to really hurt you, and you don't want that, do you?”
“Fuck you, Greyback,” Harry snarled. Fenrir chuckled.
“Fiery little pup, aren't you?” he growled. “Well, we'll see how long that lasts. They all break in the end.”
Harry struggled in Fenrir's arms, but to no avail. Fenrir had grabbed him by the hair and flung him towards the Potter family grave. Staggering forward, the flowers he'd so carefully arranged crumpling underfoot, Harry fell to his knees, clutching at the marble as his only source of support. His glasses, already crooked, slipped off his face entirely, disappearing into the undergrowth.
“If the filthy little brat doesn't learn to show some respect to his elders, the filthy brat will be joining his sire underground,” Fenrir snarled. “You're in the realm of the Grey King now, whelp, and you're going to do exactly what he tells you... or else.”
“Or else what?” Harry gasped, desperately trying to think of a way out. But with his wand and glasses gone, and none too gentle hands grabbing his hair and holding him in place, his chances didn't look good. The pool of blood gathering at the base of the tomb wasn't a good sign either.
“Or else I'll have to remind you what your place is, whelp,” Fenrir growled. “Where's the boy's wand?”
Wand? But Fenrir had never been able to go to Hogwarts, what on earth would he need a wand for? Harry soon found out. Clawed hands grabbed at his trousers and with one tug, had yanked them down, tearing the fabric and causing Harry to bite back a whimper. He began to struggle in earnest now, yelling and screaming for help. Or at least, he was until Fenrir yanked his head back and shoved a handkerchief into his mouth.
“Enough of that. Don't want anyone interrupting, do we?” Fenrir leered, trailing fingers down Harry's back. “Now. Hold him still, lads. Don't want him wriggling away now. Boy's got to take his punishment like a man.” Fenrir brought Harry's wand down on his bare buttocks, the crack of wood on flesh echoing through the air like a gunshot. Harry bit down on the gag as the pain flowed out across his backside. He almost cried out, but something in him refused to surrender so easily. Fenrir brought the wand down again and again, each blow bringing another wave of stinging agony as it made contact. Until finally, Fenrir threw the wand to one side and prepared for the cruellest blow of all. Fumbling with the robes he was wearing, he grabbed Harry's hips and pulled his buttocks apart.
“As of now, Potter,” Fenrir snarled, “your arse is officially mine!” With no further warning, Fenrir rammed into Harry's arse, tearing tender flesh as his cock forced its way inside. This time, Harry really did scream as Fenrir pounded away inside him, claws raking his hips as the werewolf thrust into him. Harry could feel the blood trickling down the inside of his leg, the warm fluid lubricating Fenrir's thrusts as he began to speed up. I will never recover from this, the thought ran through Harry's mind as Fenrir violated him again and again, causing god-knew-what damage down there. He didn't know how right he was, although the physical harm was nothing compared to what Fenrir would do to his soul. Finally, Fenrir shuddered as the climax hit, claws raking down Harry's sides as he pulled Harry to him. Almost as soon as he was done, he was withdrawing, wiping himself clean on his robes as he rearranged his clothing. Weak from shock and loss of blood, Harry sank to his knees, before his body decided that it had had enough. The last thing Harry heard before losing consciousness was Fenrir snapping “Tie him up and bring him. He's due an audience with the Grey King.”
Harry's mind flickered in and out of consciousness as he was taken who-knew-where. He vaguely remembered being carried uphill, and that it was getting progressively colder and damper, and that at some point he'd been taken underground... but beyond that, he had very little idea where he was. Finally, whoever had been carrying him dumped him onto a stone floor and walked away. One person remained next to him, a single figure standing over him. It smelt like Fenrir. Harry closed his eyes and said nothing, hoping it would get bored and walk away without hurting him any more. The figure dropped to its knees by him, and Harry felt his heart quicken, trying to anticipate where the next humiliation would come from. However, whoever it was, they didn't seem inclined to hurt him. Harry felt clawed hands touch his hair, filthy fingers running through it and hesitating. Then a growl, before the figure got up and walked away, slamming and locking the door behind it. Harry, alone at last, gave up the fight on consciousness once more.
“Well? Will he be all right?”
Greyback? Harry was hovering on the edge, his brain poised between trying to pay attention to what was going on around him and resisting the inviting warm chasm of blissful oblivion.
“He'll live.” Someone else, a black-clad figure that Harry could have sworn he recognised but couldn't quite place, was kneeling by him. Of course, it would help if his eyes would actually open wider than a crack. His eyelids fluttered then closed again. The dark figure was still speaking as he got up, brushing his hands clean.
“Really, Greyback, while I applaud you for acquiring the brat, must you use him quite so roughly? I don't think the Dark Lord would have been pleased to learn that the boy had expired before he'd even had a chance to see him, do you?”
Snape?? A stab of hate went through Harry as he recognised the voice. Not many people he knew talked like that.
“No, sir. Of course not, sir. But, ah-hah, the Dark Lord did only say alive, sir. He never said anything about unharmed, sir.” Fenrir was wringing his hands in a gesture that gave the lie to the leer in his voice.
“He authorised you to use reasonable force, Greyback, not take your pleasure with him,” Snape shot back. “While healing the arm wound wasn't particularly challenging, I can't say the same about the internal injuries, and those scratches on his hip are going to leave permanent scars. If it happens again you are on your own, and if Potter drops dead as a result, you can explain to the Dark Lord why!”
Snape turned on his heel and strode out, the door slamming behind him, leaving Harry alone with Fenrir. The werewolf spat in the direction Snape had left in, before kneeling next to him. Harry tried not shudder as Fenrir's foul breath wafted over his face, and the werewolf's fingers began stroking his hair again.
“What does he know?” Fenrir growled. “The Dark Lord gave Potter to me. To me! And Cader Idris is mine. I'm in charge here, not him.” A fingertip traced the curve of Harry's cheek. “The boy's mine now. Mine!” Fenrir snatched Harry's hair and fisted it, before letting Harry go and walking out. The door slammed shut and locked behind him. It was the last thing Harry heard before passing out.
“Wake up, brat.”
Harry woke to the feeling of being shaken by Fenrir. Instinctively struggling in the werewolf's grip, he tried to break free, but a slap in the face soon cured that. Harry fell back to the ground, rubbing his cheek. Slowly, he became aware of two things that hadn't been the case earlier – firstly, that there'd been a clinking sound as he'd fallen, and that there was a weight around his neck that proved to be a spiked iron collar. He raised his fingers to it and discovered that not only was he collared, the collar was attached to the wall by a solid length of chain that wasn't going to break any time soon. Secondly, and far more worryingly, Harry was naked and faced with a leering Fenrir Greyback.
“About bloody time you opened your eyes. Three nights ago we brought you here, and you've been dead to the world all that time.”
“Three nights...” Harry thought of Ron and Hermione, and how they must have reacted when he'd not come back that night, or the day after. Had they contacted the Order? Did they have any idea where he'd gone? Come to that, where was he now? He didn't even know. He could be anywhere, although he suspected he hadn't been taken far. Werewolves weren't wizards after all, and they couldn't have Apparated him away.
“Where am I?” Harry breathed. “What do you want?”
“As to where you are, you're in Cader Idris now, boy. That's the mountain you were so foolish as to visit three nights in a row to see your parents' grave. You, whelp, are in the palace of the Grey King.” Fenrir sat back, looking rather proud of himself. Harry remembered Hermione's insistence that the Grey King emphatically did not exist.
“But that's just a legend,” said Harry. Fenrir grinned, revealing yellowed fangs.
“I prefer to think of it more as a prophecy. There was no Brenin Llwyd when what's her face did her survey last century... but there is now.” He was positively brimming with self-importance.
“You?” Harry grimaced. Fenrir looked like no image of a king Harry had ever seen. Except maybe King of the Beggars.
“Me.” Fenrir leaned forward, his face inches from Harry's. “I might not look like much to you, but you're in my territory now, and while you're here, you'll learn to call me Master.”
“I'll never call you Master,” Harry hissed. Fenrir laughed.
“No? You will.” Fenrir backed off, grinning in a way Harry did not like one little bit. “As to your reason for being here, you stray too near Cader at night, you pay the price. You were on my land. You're mine now.”
“Yeah?” Harry snapped, pulling his knees to his chest in an attempt to keep a barrier between him and Fenrir. He'd not forgotten what had happened when he'd been captured, and he knew enough about sex to recognise lust when he saw it. Fenrir was a predator in more ways than one, and it seemed his prey was Harry. The scratches on Harry's hips were a still-throbbing reminder that he was defenceless and utterly at Greyback's mercy. And then something Snape had said earlier came back to him. Fenrir was only king of Cader Idris after all. Even the Grey King had a master.
“Won't your Dark Lord have something to say about that? I don't think he'll be pleased to know you're holding back something he wants, do you?”
Fenrir's grin grew even wider. “Oh, but don't you see? He knows you're here, my pet. He's given you to me.” He moved closer, nose brushing Harry's cheek, matted hair against Harry's face as he inhaled Harry's scent. “I've been given the job of breaking you, Harry my lovely. And I take my jobs very seriously. Very seriously indeed.”
Harry flinched away as Fenrir stroked his cheek. Chuckling, the werewolf patted his face and left, grinning at Harry as he opened the door.
“Sleep well, darling,” he smirked, before locking Harry in. Left to himself, with only the light from charmed smokeless torches to keep him company, and what turned out to be a filthy mattress and thin blanket to keep him warm, Harry huddled against the wall, hoping against hope that Hermione and Ron would put two and two together and send the Order to get him soon.
It proved to be in vain. Days, what seemed like weeks passed. Harry soon lost all track of time. There was just the darkness and the torchlight, and the cave, and the uncomfortable bed and primitive toilet facilities... and Fenrir. No one else came to see him. No other voice spoke to him. No one but Fenrir.
Fenrir, who alone marked time for him. Fenrir, by whom Harry was beginning to measure the days. Fenrir, who came three times a day, bringing food, and a bucket of warm water, soap and a towel. The first time he came, Harry refused to even look at him, pointedly shunning what was on offer. He'd rather die than let Fenrir watch him wash, or feed him.
Fenrir just shrugged, picked everything up and left. It was some time before he returned. Endless hours alone in the dark. Endless, lonely hours, during which Harry only grew hungrier, colder and filthier. But still he held out.
“Still not hungry?” Fenrir asked after Harry still refused to look at him.
Harry just turned away, disgusted. Fenrir, leering, leaned in closer.
“You will be, little boy. You will be.”
After a week (or was it longer? He could no longer tell) Harry finally cracked and ate. To his surprise, the food was good: hot, filling, satisfying. Fenrir grinned at the look on his face.
“What, did you think I'd give you the scraps? Hardly. Nothing but the best for my cub!” Fenrir ruffled Harry's hair and ran an untrimmed nail down his cheek. Harry did not recoil as violently as he'd once done. Nor did he turn from the bucket of warm soapy water this time. After god only knew how long in his own filth, Harry was only too willing to be clean again. But the days without food had taken their toll, and the soap fell from his fingers. Fenrir growled.
“Here, if you're too weak to clean yourself.” To his surprise, Harry did not resist as Fenrir lathered his hands and soaped him all over, cleaning him thoroughly. Or at least, he didn't resist until one finger slid down his back and in between the crack of his arse.
Harry yelped, wriggling in Fenrir's grip.
“Stay still, brat,” Fenrir hissed. “You're mine, Potter, and the sooner you learn to live with that, the better, you hear me?” Gripping Harry even tighter, he began to finger Harry's arse, slowly but surely moving inside, gently rubbing the ring of muscle as he probed deeper. Harry closed his eyes, wanting to fight it, wanting Fenrir away from him, but the truth be told, his body was reacting rather differently. His body was leaning in, opening up, allowing Fenrir inside, and his cock had gone instantly hard, desperate to be touched too. Fenrir, seemingly acknowledging Harry's desire, reached around and took hold of him, pumping his cock in firm, rhythmic strokes, holding Harry against him. Harry bit his lip, determined that Fenrir would not have his heart and mind, even if his body gave in. Even so, it was all he could do to keep from crying out as the orgasm hit. Finally, he collapsed, worn out from the struggle. Fenrir, grinning, cleaned him up without a word, and prepared to leave.
“Mine,” he growled, planting a kiss on Harry's forehead. This time, Harry couldn't keep the shudder at bay. Fenrir didn't seem bothered.
“Soon, boy,” Fenrir rasped. “Soon, you'll be begging me to touch you.”
He tried to fight it. He really did. But what seemed like weeks passed, and try as he might, Harry's memories of warmth, of daylight, of laughter-filled days with Ron and Hermione, of firelit evenings with Ginny, faded into nothing. He could barely remember their faces anymore. There was only this cave now, dark and damp as it was. There was only Fenrir now, source of food, of warmth, of comfort, of conversation... and of sexual pleasure. Every time it would be the same. Fenrir would clean Harry tenderly, despite Harry now being quite capable of doing it himself. Then he'd start touching Harry more intimately, sometimes wanking him, sometimes going down on him, sometimes rubbing up against him. Always it would be Fenrir touching Harry and bringing him off; Fenrir would never let Harry touch him. At first, Fenrir had withdrawn afterwards, cleaning Harry up, sitting back and watching him eat in silence, but over time, Fenrir's own arousal had got the better of him, and he'd spend time afterwards curling almost protectively around Harry, stroking his hair and nuzzling against him.
It was a mark of how desperate for human contact Harry had become that he found he no longer minded.
“Why?” Harry asked after one such occasion.
“Why what?” Fenrir murmured, almost purring.
“Why do... this?” Harry indicated his now limp cock. “I can understand you wanting to hurt me; even keeping me captive. But why do this to me? You're not even getting any pleasure out of it yourself. I just don't get why you'd want to.”
Fenrir grinned, a low chuckle coming from his throat. “Who says I'm getting no pleasure out of it? The sight of your young face as you come is enough to satisfy me on its own.”
Harry shivered at these words – but where once he'd have wanted to get as far away as possible, he was now fighting the urge to roll over and let Fenrir have another go at him. His cock twitched at the mere thought of Fenrir leaning over him, licking, nibbling, clawing at him, penetrating him...
“Why me though?” Harry managed to get out.
“Because. You are young. You're fresh. You're here. And you need me. You long for me. You love me and hate me all at the same time, you want to recoil from my touch... and yet your body won't let you. Your body wants me.”
Once upon a time, Harry would have denied any such thing. But that had been a long time ago, when he'd still had his friends around. It had been one thing being locked into a cupboard by the Dursleys, in a time when he'd never known love, and no one gave him any. But to have been loved and to have had it taken away was a different matter entirely. And when you had nothing left, love from any source was not to be turned away. Harry was far needier at heart than he was prepared to admit. And when Fenrir's fingers started tracing the still tender scars on Harry's rump, Harry couldn't stop himself moaning.
“Like that, do you?” Fenrir growled into Harry's ear. Harry could only whimper. It hurt, yes... but it was a good kind of hurt.
“They'll be there forever, you know,” Fenrir murmured. “A little reminder of our meeting. No matter where you go, who you're with, you won't ever be able to escape the fact that right here, right now... you belong to me.” As if to emphasise the point, Fenrir grabbed Harry by the hips and pulled him closer, his erect cock rubbing against Harry's arse. Harry writhed against him, simultaneously gripped by two desires – one to resist Fenrir's touch, the other to lean back into him and give in. Both seemed appealing, but as Fenrir's cock ground into him, the desire to yield took over and Harry found himself backing into Fenrir.
Fenrir's nails began to dig into Harry again as he started to thrust against him. Harry moaned, grasping at the mattress as Fenrir's erection rubbed against his hole, and the rest of his body pinned him down, making it near impossible to resist much even if he'd wanted to. This wasn't helped by the collar dragging on his throat making it difficult to breathe. The torchlight seemed to be getting dimmer, and Harry felt like he was about to faint. Fenrir was thrusting faster now, and blood was starting to flow where his nails were re-opening the scar wounds.
“Give it to me, boy,” Fenrir hissed. “Give it to me! Little... whore... ripe for fucking... you could be anyone's... but you're mine, mine! Mine!”
Harry opened his mouth to scream no, but at that moment Fenrir's hand slapped his arse and Harry found himself howling “Oh! Yes!” instead. Fenrir blinked, not quite having expected that reaction. Raising his hand, he slapped Harry again, causing the boy to cry out again. Before long, blows were raining down on Harry's buttocks in time with Fenrir's thrusting. Harry couldn't help himself. He pushed back into Fenrir, exposing as much of himself as he could, wanting more, much more, as much as he could take. Fenrir gave one final thrust, yanking Harry back as he did so. The collar wrenched painfully against his neck, cutting off his airways completely for the briefest of seconds... and in that briefest of seconds, Harry lost what little control he still had, climaxing with an intensity he could never have imagined in Ginny's arms. Fenrir howled as he came, grinning triumphantly at Harry's surrender.
“Oh yes,” he breathed, watching Harry lie there semi-conscious. “You're mine now, boy.”
From then on, things definitely changed. Fenrir became markedly less guarded around Harry, frequently stopping to stroke, kiss and fondle him. He became more open as well, starting to talk to Harry, telling him about his life, his childhood, what it was like being a werewolf, being shunned by society, and carving out a niche for himself, acquiring power and a role in the only way he could, the only way he knew how.
“There's no place out there for the likes of me,” said Fenrir. “Not for us werewolves. Beasts, they call us. Animals. Monsters. Everywhere I went, that was all I heard. The one who turned me had only recently been turned himself. Didn't even know what he was. He was the family priest – he'd been at me for some time anyway, but I wager even he didn't want to go that far. Ministry got to him, but it was too late by then. I wasn't human any more. I was a demon, a monster. My parents didn't want to know, couldn't cope. They were only Muggles after all. Ministry took me off their hands, sent me to an orphanage for werewolf children. Hah. That went well. It was worse than the nuns at my old convent school, and they were bad enough. At least the nuns had the wellbeing of our immortal souls at heart. At least they were trying to save us from hell. But what happens when you're already there?”
“What did you do?” Harry whispered, curious despite himself.
“What do you think. I wasn't a wizard, didn't have magic, only had about three years of proper school. They certainly didn't bother teaching us anything at that orphanage. Why waste money training a werewolf? No one'll hire them. I put up with it for seven years, before deciding enough was enough. Got good at working with my Beast, I did. Got so good, I got able to control it a bit when I was Changed. Got so good, I was able to use it a bit when I wasn't, close to the moon anyway. Taught a few of the others to do the same. One night, when I was sixteen or so, I led a revolt. We turned on our guards before they could lock us up, grabbed their wands and ripped their throats out. We let some of the others out, and by dawn, every non-werewolf in the place was dead. We let everyone else out of their cages, took what we could, and came here. Plenty of livestock to go for, and the legends of the Grey King and his maelgwn foxes kept our cover safe. And here we've lived ever since. If monsters are what they think us, if demons are what they want us to be, then that's what we'll be. If all I can ever be is the Grey King of Cader Idris, then that's what I'll be.”
“Has Voldemort offered you more than that?” Harry asked.
“Not as such, no. But he'll leave me be in my own dominions... and no werewolf will ever be caged again. That's worth fighting for.”
“You really believe that, don't you?” Harry whispered. Fenrir's fingers clenched Harry's shoulder.
“I have to believe it. It's all I have left.”
When the present moment is all you have, and each moment seems the same, time itself ceases to have any meaning. It had long ago ceased to mean anything to Harry. All there was now was darkness and loneliness, and Fenrir to break the emptiness. Ron, Hermione, Hogwarts, the war, it meant nothing anymore. It seemed like a distant dream that had happened to someone else. Maybe it had been. Whatever, it wasn't part of his life any more, no longer part of his world. The weight was off his shoulders... and Harry welcomed it. He no longer had to do anything, or be anything. Only Fenrir mattered now. Fenrir brought food and warmth and comfort. Fenrir was his sun, his moon, his life. He wasn't the Chosen One any more. Not the Boy Who Lived. Just Fenrir's.
He didn't know when he had started smiling whenever Fenrir entered the cell. But somewhere along the line, he had.
He definitely didn't know when he had started tracing the scars on his arse and remembering how they had got there.
And he had positively no idea when he'd started dreaming of Fenrir giving him more of them. Of giving more of himself to Fenrir.
One night, he could keep those dreams secret no longer. Fenrir was trailing a finger down one of the clawmarks, watching Harry as he quivered and moaned at the touch.
“More,” Harry moaned, too horny to care about things like good and evil any more. “Give me more. Please.”
“More of what?” asked Fenrir, raising an eyebrow.
“More marks,” Harry gasped. “Mark me again. Take me. Make me... yours.”
Fenrir had stopped stroking him. “You... want me to? Mark you again? Claim you?”
“Yes,” Harry nearly sobbed. “Yes. Oh yes.”
Fenrir paused, before nodding, a surprised but delighted smile spreading across his face.
“Then I will.”
Which was how Harry found himself hanging from the ceiling, manacles around his wrists and ankles and a gag in his mouth. Fenrir prowled around him, stroking his skin as if in awe.
“Such pretty skin you have there, boy. So young. So soft. So pale. It'll be a pity to mark it. But you asked me for it.” Fenrir trailed a nail down one of the marks that was already there. “And I am going to give it to you.” Without even pausing for breath, he dug his nails in Harry's quivering flesh and slashed downwards. Harry screamed, trying to get away, but the chains held him fast as the blood trickled down his legs. Before the pain from the first wounds had had a chance to recede, Fenrir slashed him again, marking his other thigh now. Then another set of marks, on his back this time. And another. And another. Harry lost count of the number of times Fenrir laid into him, lost himself utterly in the rhythm of slash, shock, a wave of pain starting off agonising before dying down, and then another slash starting the whole cycle off all over again, all of it punctuated by the slow but steady drip of blood hitting the floor. A haze of pain and adrenaline had enveloped him, and Harry was lost to everything except Fenrir and where the next blow might come from.
And then Fenrir was standing behind Harry, chin resting on his shoulder as instead of random slashes, he began to slowly and methodically carve claw marks into Harry's back in a curving pattern that intertwined in a crimson double-helix, deep scars that would be part of him forever. Harry cried out, his cock twitching at the mere thought.
“Mine!” Fenrir snarled, releasing the bonds on Harry's wrists and catching him as he collapsed to the floor. Harry, dizzy from the blood loss, fell to his knees. Fenrir was behind him, supporting him with one arm while the other reached for a vial of lube and began coating his arse in it, feeling him and stretching him. That done, Harry heard him fumbling with his clothes before feeling the head of his cock prodding at his arse. This time he didn't fight it. This time he backed into Fenrir, relaxing muscles, inviting the invasion. When it came, Harry moaned as Fenrir slid effortlessly into him. Fenrir's cock was stretching him, filling him, and as Fenrir began to thrust into him, Harry closed his eyes and gave up control completely, letting Fenrir take him over, surrendering everything, even his own sense of self and who he was, who he had been, who he ever would be. When he came, he came hard, screaming out Fenrir's name as he clenched around his cock. Fenrir pulled Harry to him, pumping furiously into Harry, claiming him utterly.
“Mine,” Fenrir panted. “Mine, always, forever, mine!”
“Yes,” Harry whimpered. “Yes, yours, all yours... master.”
Fenrir howled as he came.
Afterwards, with healing and blood loss potions having been applied to Harry, they were both curled up on the mattress, covered by a clean, warm blanket. Fenrir had taken off all Harry's chains apart from the collar itself, and Harry, for the first time in ages, had full freedom of movement again. Once upon a time, he'd have taken advantage and escaped as soon as Fenrir's guard was down. No longer. He was spooned up against Fenrir, who was trailing a finger along Harry's still sensitive new markings, watching Harry as he shivered at Fenrir's touch.
“Still sore?” Fenrir asked.
“A little,” Harry whispered. “It's a nice kind of sore though.”
“You're pleased with the result, then.”
Harry nodded. “Yes. Oh yes,” he breathed as he leaned back against Fenrir, feeling his cock harden again as he looked at the shallower marks on his arms and legs, forever marking him out as Fenrir's property. Fenrir grinned, teeth gleaming in the half light as he pulled Harry to him again for another round of lovemaking. That night, Harry was not left alone.
Fenrir didn't leave until the following morning, leaving Harry to his own devices, with a promise to move him to better accommodation as soon as it could be arranged. Harry, too happy to care, smiled as he watched him go. He was owned, loved, protected, and he need never worry about anything again. Fenrir would look after him, take care of him. Whatever happened, he didn't need to worry.
At least not until the shouts and distant blasts of magic woke him later. Harry sat up, alarmed. Werewolves didn't use magic. What was going on? Had Voldemort sent his Death Eaters in to get him? Had he decided Fenrir had outlived his usefulness? Or had the Order finally found out where he was? Neither option sounded appealing.
The sound of footsteps echoed down the corridor outside, stopping outside the door. Then a voice, a female one.
“Harry? Harry? Are you in there?” It was unmistakeably Tonks. Harry didn't answer. Now rescue had come, he didn't want to leave. This cave cell was his world, his home, his sanctuary. Here, he was safe. Outside lay responsibility: a war, a quest, a destiny. Here, none of that mattered. Harry stayed quiet, lurking in the shadows. Maybe they'd get tired and leave? Then came a man's voice.
“He's in there, Tonks. Snape's owl said it was this one.”
“And you trust anything Severus Snape says?” said Tonks, her voice rich with derision.
“Everything else he's passed on to us proved accurate,” the man, who Harry now recognised as Bill Weasley, replied. “Besides, I can smell him. He's there.”
“Right,” said Tonks. “Harry? We know you're in there. Stand back and stay away from the door. We're coming in.”
Harry didn't need any encouragement to retreat into his corner and stay there. Barely moments after Tonks had finished speaking, the door exploded into the cave. Harry looked up as Tonks and Bill stepped in, wands still smoking.
“Harry, thank god,” Tonks gasped as she rushed over to him. She saw the scars all over his body and went pale. “Oh my god, Harry, what have they done to you?”
“Marked him,” said Bill, his eyes cold as he came to see for himself. “Greyback's style all over. The bastard.”
“Come on,” said Tonks tenderly as she wrapped her cloak around Harry. “Let's get you out of here. And let's get that ugly thing off your neck.” A simple Severing Charm later, and the collar had fallen to the floor. Harry forced himself not to cry out at the loss. As Tonks and Bill pulled him to his feet and bundled him out of the door, all he could do was stare ahead in silence. If he spoke, that would make it real. If he said anything or reacted, then he'd have to deal with leaving. He didn't think he could cope with that. Fenrir would get him, Fenrir would stop this, Fenrir wouldn't let him go so easily, Fenrir would intervene, stop them stealing his Harry away...
Except Fenrir wouldn't be doing anything any time soon. As they made their way through various passageways and emerged into the main entrance hall, it seemed the battle had been decided in the Order's favour. The room was littered with the bodies of the dead and injured, and the only werewolves still standing were all in a corner with silver wards penning them, under the watchful eyes of Alastor Moody. But Harry's eyes didn't linger on them. His attention was drawn to the figure lying motionless in the centre of the room, throat ripped out, lacerated by numerous curse scars, with the grim-faced figure of Remus Lupin leaning over him. Fenrir. Dead.
“No,” Harry whispered. “No! NOOOO!” He began to fight Tonks and Bill off, but lack of exercise and light had left him weak. Despite the lashing out and screaming, they had him under control easily enough. The last thing he remembered before Bill Stunned him was the look on Lupin's face as he stared at Harry, or more precisely, his scars.
Harry didn't speak to anyone after they brought him round. The healers at St. Mungo's confirmed that the scars were permanent, and that while he wasn't a werewolf, he might manifest certain lycanthropic traits, such as a liking for red meat, more intense emotions, particularly near the Full Moon, and possibly enhanced senses. Harry had to laugh at the bit about strong emotions – right now he didn't think he'd feel anything again.
Remus Lupin came to him after the healers had finished. He could barely look Harry in the eye, as he showed Harry his own scars and went on about how he knew exactly how Harry felt, after leaving Hogwarts and never being able to keep a job, he'd taken to drowning his sorrows, and ended up being taken by Fenrir after ending up unconscious in a corner of Knockturn Alley. How he'd suffered the same as Harry had, being kept in a cell and brutalised until he'd given in, how he'd even believe Fenrir loved him... until he'd surrendered himself, been let off the leash, and had to watch as Fenrir had taken another teenage werewolf and proceeded to do the exact same thing to them, and how even then, Remus still hadn't been able to break away until Voldemort's downfall forced them all into hiding, and Lily and James's deaths had reminded him who he really loved.
Harry had turned away, hating Lupin and himself more than he'd even thought possible.
Hermione had been next to visit, with her right eye white with a lightning bolt scar in it where once it had been hazel. Destroying Slytherin's locket had cost her the eye in the process, but that had been a small price to pay compared to what destroying Hufflepuff's cup had done to Ron. Destroying that had annihilated Ron so thoroughly there was barely anything left to bury. It seemed Hermione and Ron had been busy indeed in what turned out to have been three months since he'd been captured. The death of Severus Snape in killing Nagini after Voldemort had discovered he'd still been passing information to the Order seemed of trivial importance by comparison.
Still Harry did not react.
And finally, Ginny Weasley came to see him.
“I know what he did to you, Harry,” said Ginny softly. Harry did not answer her. Of them all, Ginny was the first to cause an emotional reaction again. The Beast inside, quiet since seeing Fenrir dead, had stirred once more when she'd walked in the room. “I know what he did, and I know what you're feeling. You wanted a way out, and he gave you one, and what was more, it wasn't your fault. There was nothing you could do but give in. And you liked it, didn't you? You liked not having any worries any more, you liked not having to make the decisions. Didn't you?”
Harry shut his eyes, fighting the tears.
“Shut up,” he whispered. “You have no idea.”
Ginny began tracing the scars on his arm.
“No? You're talking to someone who was possessed for a whole year, I know exactly what it's like. When you just stop fighting because it's easier to let someone else take over and live your life for you.” Ginny grabbed his jaw and forced him to look at her. “But it doesn't work forever, Harry. We needed you. Ron needed you. Hermione needed you. I needed you! Ron might not have died if you'd been there. Hermione might still have both her eyes. And it's not just us – the world needs you.” She tilted her head, her eyes narrowing. “The werewolves need you.”
That got Harry's attention. “Need... me?”
“They need a leader. Professor Lupin's seen as too close to the Ministry and mainstream society. Greyback's gone, and those who were lined up to succeed him were mostly killed in the Order raid. There's no one, just a few leaders of individual packs who have no ambitions beyond that, but who might make good generals for a werewolf overlord. For the new Grey King.”
“The Brenin Llwyd does not exist,” Harry whispered, remembering Hermione's passionate disavowal of the myth.
“He exists in every way but physically,” said Ginny, taking his hand in hers as she perched on the edge of the bed. “And the werewolves need him more than ever before. The Ministry's gone from sidelining them to killing them, all of them, and Voldemort's got better soldiers than the werewolves. He won't help them, not with Greyback gone and Cader Idris compromised. All they have left is you.”
“I'm not even a werewolf,” Harry felt obliged to point out. Ginny just smiled cruelly.
“No... but you could be. Think about it. You're the Chosen One, people will take note of what you say. You're against Voldemort – no one can accuse you of being Dark. You're already known for good things, and you're a natural leader. You're known to be at odds with Scrimgeour, and that'll give the werewolves confidence in you. And you were Fenrir's – that'll give you an in. You have the scars to prove it. Fenrir Greyback went about it all the wrong way, but they need a leader if they're not to be wiped out. You could be that leader, Harry. You could be the leader they need. You could rule in Cader Idris. You could take down Voldemort, strike a deal with the Ministry, and they'd have to give you what you want. If the Chosen One is a werewolf, who will hurt one then? And if the leader of the werewolves isn't a turned Muggle, like Greyback was, but a trained wizard of considerable power, well. You could have whatever you wanted, Harry. You'd never need to worry again.” Ginny stroked his cheek. “It's what Fenrir would have wanted.”
“Lupin says he'd have thrown me over as soon as he'd finished with me,” said Harry.
“I doubt that very much,” said Ginny softly. “Not the Chosen One.” She got up to leave. “Harry, I can't make you do this, but promise me you'll think about it?”
Harry regarded her strangely. This wasn't like the Ginny he knew at all.
“Ginny, why are you asking me to do this? I didn't even think you knew that much about werewolves. How did you find out all this stuff?”
Ginny smiled, and pulled back the sleeve of her robe to reveal scars not dissimilar to Harry's own. “I left Hogwarts after you disappeared, I went looking for you near Cader Idris. Fenrir found me and took me prisoner. I went without a fight. I offered my life for yours. He laughed and said no, but he made a deal of his own. If I gave myself to him, he would reunite us. I was desperate enough to agree. He kept me prisoner, kept me by his side, called me his Red Queen, his Brenhines Coch. At night, he'd take me to his bed, and he'd use me any way he fancied. I hated it; I enjoyed it. I thought of you all the time at first, but as the weeks went by, I got used to it. He treated me well, gave me a position of authority, educated me about werewolf politics. I wasn't just a trophy queen, he actively sought my opinions and included me in things. Within a month, I'd converted, within a week of that, he'd marked me like he had you, and within two months, he'd turned me.” Ginny stared at Harry, bravado disappearing as all the fear she'd kept hidden began to surface. “No one else knows yet - I had the foresight to lock myself in a cell when the raid started, pretend I was a captive. Full Moon had only been a few nights before, and everyone was foolish enough to believe me when I said I'd not been bitten. But the next moon is only a week from now, and I can't still be here then or they'll know I lied to them, and then there'll be questions asked. Harry, they are killing werewolves, it's a capital crime to be one now, Lupin's only alive because he killed Greyback. Now I can rally enough of us to mount a resistance, but I can't deal with the Ministry on my own! Harry, please,” she sank to her knees, clutching his hand, just a frightened teenager really despite all her courage. “Help me. I need you, or they'll get me too. Help me, Harry, I don't want to die!”
Harry watched, feeling numb as several realisations hit him at once: that not only had Lupin been right, but Greyback hadn't even waited to turn him before taking another paramour, and not only that, but his own (ex) girlfriend. A girlfriend who'd handed herself over entirely willingly, and taken the place that should have been his by right, a place he'd never have, a place at Fenrir's side. When Harry looked at Ginny, all he could bring himself to feel was utter loathing. He picked up the wand that they'd returned to him. Ginny watched, alarm crossing her pretty face as her eyes followed him.
“Harry?” she whispered. Harry just smiled as he gave her his answer.