As the night creeps closer to midnight, the inky darkness of the Forbidden Forest is pierced only by pale beams of moonlight. Heavy in the sky, the nearly-full moon watches over the cloaked figure that waits patiently in a small clearing. The visitor to the enchanted place bides his time by watching the clouds pass over the celestial body and counting the stars. As he remains on his perch, a long-fallen tree trunk, the cloaked individual appears to be completely at home in the lair of some of the wizarding world's most sinister magical creatures.
One of these creatures, a lone grey wolf, watches the trespasser with rapt attention. The abnormally-large canine is shrouded in the protective shadows of the ancient trees, perfectly blended into its ominous environment.
"You're late, Fenrir," replies the visitor after a few moments pass. Raising his hood, none other than Harry James Potter stares back into the eerily-calm darkness that surrounds the small clearing. "Do you plan to just watch me all night?"
With a huff of amusement, the werewolf approaches Harry at his own confident stride. The moonlight glints off the silver strands that usually remain hidden in the wolf's dark grey fur and highlights the graceful power in the creature's movements. Fenrir's eyes lock onto green ones as he nears the wizard. His heavy paws make no noise as they pad across the forest floor. Once he is close enough, the large canine leisurely begins to circle around the Saviour of the Wizarding World—the alpha wolf taking his time to savor the unique scent that is Harry Potter. The lycan ignores personal boundaries as he buries his nose into the vulnerable curve of his companion's throat, his tongue lapping the delicate skin over the wizard's pulse. A shiver escapes Harry as he rakes his own hands through the wolf's thick fur.
If it were physically possible at the moment, Fenrir would be grinning.
Once he completes his scenting of the wizard, the werewolf turns and silently leads the way into the depths of the forest. Harry follows dutifully, his legs moving before his brain issues the command to do so. Meandering between age-old trees and ancient rock formations, the auror keeps pace with the large wolf. A weighted, yet comfortable, silence settles between the two as they make their way. Above them, the moonlight continues to trickle between the branches as the forest comes alive with the natural harmony of its inhabitants. Yet, the werewolf and the wizard remain silent as they continue their trek.
Out of the vast darkness of the Forbidden Forest, a familiar cave appears. The contentment that settles into Harry's scent makes another amused huff leaves Fenrir's muzzle—unbeknownst to the wizard beside him.
The wolf stands to the side of the cavern, waiting until Harry enters. Ducking low to avoid bumping his head, the wizard makes his way into the hideaway, his memory guiding him better than his senses. The den is pleasantly warm inside despite the cool autumn wind that still manages to blow through the wizard's robes. Harry mutters a soft "Lumos" to illuminate the end of his wand, a flick of his wrist creates a constellation of light points that linger above them. Now bathed in the soft artificial starlight, the wizard takes in the interior of the cave. Thick furs, that look like the pelt of some rather impressive bears, line the ground and provide a soft bedding. Breathing in the earthy scent, a wave of fondness passes over Harry's face as he remembers past nights of passion spent on the surprisingly-luxurious pelts.
Caught up in the memories, the wizard is surprised when two heavily-muscled arms wrap around his body. The warmth of the bare chest behind him, radiates through Harry's clothes, dispelling the chill from the forest. Trapped in the strong and possessive grip, a deep chuckle reverberates through out the cave as the wizard subconsciously leans back into the man now standing behind him.
"Hmm, it seems like my pup has missed me," comments Fenrir with an audible leer.
The wizard rolls his eyes at the blunt words. However, he makes no effort to contradict the statement or remove the thick arms wrapped around him.
"Let me enjoy this for a moment, then you can start being your usual charming self, Fenrir," replies Harry, his fond tone far from matching his harsh words.
"Funny, I don't remember any complaints before."
"Well, usually we don't talk much when we meet up, now do we?"
At the cheeky reply, the werewolf grins as he tips Harry's head back. Exposing the long column of the wizard's throat reveals his claiming mark that still stands out against the pale flesh. Fenrir rumbles in deep approval of his past handiwork as he reclaims the soft lips offered to him. Harry moans into the intense kiss, his hands reaching up to tangle into the man's thick, grey streaked hair as Fenrir ruthlessly teases the sensitive roof of his mouth.
That first, deeply-satisfying taste of his mate, especially after so long apart, is always the werewolf's favorite part of these intimate rendezvous.
Eight months ago, Fenrir Greyback would have never expected to be mated to the wizard that is currently in his arms, whimpering as the werewolf moves to slowly lick the length of his throat. The very same wizard that is removing their clothes with a practiced maneuver of wandless magic and encouraging the rough, entitled way Fenrir's calloused palms maps out his nude body.
The pair topple to the soft pelts lining the cave, their combined scents filling both their nostrils as Harry and Fenrir follow their frenzied desire. After all, it was never meant for moon-destined mates to be separate from each other, straining their bond. The werewolf considers this in passing as he maneuvers his eager mate into position, encouraging Harry to raise his hips and press his bare chest to the furs.
It would also explain the desperate groans that leave the wizard's throat as the man's large hands spread his cheeks apart to prepare him for their coupling. Fenrir takes his time working Harry open, sliding his tongue into his mate's tight entrance and lubricating the hole that is to receive him. On a whim, he reaches around to apply slow, yet sure strokes to Harry's hardening arousal. A satisfied growl rumbles in Fenrir's chest as broken gasps tumble out of the wizard's lips, the werewolf taking his sweet time to draw out Harry's rising pleasure.
Spoiling the pup sets a bad precedent, but Fenrir has truly missed tasting the yielding, fluttering entrance. Almost drunk on the heady scent and taste of his mate, the wolf doubles his efforts. He can rationalize the moment of weakness later—maybe chalk it up to the unusually long time since their last tryst.
His trance-like state is broken as Harry whines impatiently. Deeming him sufficiently stretched, Fenrir pulls back. He coaxes his own straining arousal along the welcoming heat of his mate's cleft, the werewolf languidly gliding his length between Harry's firm cheeks.
Arching into his teasing thrusts as if he was born to do so, Harry is far from a timid lover. The wizard raises himself up to flush his back to Fenrir's furred chest, a satisifed grin crosses his face as he feels the broad expanse of his mate behind him. Harry encourages the bites to his throat and shoulders, as he reaches back to direct his werewolf's arousal into his opening. Both Harry and Fenrir groan as their bodies finally connect intimately. Sinking down onto his mate, the wizard surprises the wolf by taking his time. Fenrir prepared him well enough, but Harry always seems to enjoys the initial stretch. He revels in the unique girth of his mate as he slides inside him. The bruising grip of the werewolf's hands on his hips and snarls of frustration at the slow descent makes Harry chuckle.
If he were a different man, a better man perhaps, Fenrir would overthink these trysts that he shares with Harry. Hell, he might even put a stop to them.
He isn't given long to ponder such thoughts, as Harry starts his own tortuous, retaliatory pace. Fenrir reaches down to take the wizard's arousal in hand again, his steady pulls addictively counter the salacious grind and bounce of Harry's eager hips.
"Shh, I've got you Potter," murmurs the werewolf as he changes positions. He brings both of them down to the warm furs, on their sides. "No need to rush it. We've got all night."
But Fenrir Greyback, is not an ordinary man, in all honesty he isn't even an ordinary werewolf.
As Fenrir lifts one of Harry's toned thighs, he resumes the achingly-slow pace. He rocks into his mate, undulating his own hips in a smooth, deep roll. The rhythm drives Harry crazy, but the pup just looks so good flushed and panting, driven into ecstasy as each of his deepest spots are stimulated simultaneously. The werewolf smirks at the frustrated grumble that tumbles out of the wizard's lips. However, playing with his hardened nipples earns him a delicious whine as Harry reaches back to connect their lips in a lazy kiss.
It is common knowledge that the moon rules over every werewolf, no matter how powerful that individual werewolf may be. She dictates the primal transformation every moon, blessing her followers with the advantages and strengths, that comes from such a connection to ancient,primordial magic. Unless of course, they attempt to fight her gift or insult her by trying to destroy it with the blasphemy of Wolfsbane potion. Such heretics became an sickly amalgamation of wolf and man, no more than instinct-driven creatures that terrorize the night.
However Fenrir Greyback, perhaps one of the moon's most devout followers, does not fall into either category.
Fenrir is one of the few humans that have fully embraced the gift of lycanthropy. He never resisted the gift, it has always felt natural to give into this primal instinct. And by wholly accepting the moon's influence, he benefits from it in ways that the world has never seen before. The alpha werewolf has the ancient spirit's protection. He is impervious to most spells and hexes(as found out by any wizard or witch foolish enough to attack him) and heals quickly from any physical injury. The moon keeps him safe, even when others of his kind have been felled by silver or weakened by Wolfsbane. Even rarer still, he can shift from wolf to man by mere will.
So, for the most part, Fenrir goes along with the will of the celestial body—the instincts she instills in him, he follows with little question. After all, he sees no reason to go against Mother Moon, as the celestial's decrees are generally in line with his own plans.
Fenrir roars as he finds completion in the willing body of his wizard. Harry moans in answer as he reaches his own peak, reaching back to grasp a thickly-muscled thigh—wordlessly insisting that his mate remains inside him. The werewolf rumbles in his chest as he renews his claim on Harry in every way possible, covering his mate in his scent and his warmth. His inner wolf preens at the content scent emanating from the boneless heap that is currently his wizard.
As he recovers from his own peak, Fenrir languidly licks along Harry's throat. He grins as the action creates shivers that rack his over-sensitized body.
The only time the werewolf has ever truly questioned the moon, was on the night she led him to his mate. For the first time in his life as a lycan, Fenrir doubted the will of the celestial body, his only true master, that he has faithfully served for so long.
He really should have known better.
"What are you thinking about, Fenrir?" asks Harry, as the werewolf places reverent kisses to Harry's pale shoulder.
The simple question interrupts the wolf's train of thought. Looking down, Fenrir sees that Harry has turned onto his back to stare up at the large werewolf. Dark hair is a complete mess(more than usual, in any case) and inquisitive eyes stand out even in the soft starlight provided by the wizard's wand. A rumble of approval escapes the man's throat as his gaze takes in Harry's nude body cushioned by the bear pelts that Fenrir himself had hunted. His eyes narrow into a leer as he proudly inventories the new claiming marks and bites that his mate has acquired in the last few hours. They stand out quite beautifully on the pale skin.
"I was just thinkin' about that night we first met here in the Forbidden Forest," grumbles out the werewolf. "I didn't get it right then, but the moon was in my favor that night."
"What do you mean?"
"You didn't notice did ya? I guess that's because you aren't as attuned to her as we werewolves are," comments Fenrir, running his hand through his own hair as the burly wolf rolls onto his side to stare directly at Harry. "Still, she was on yer side too. As I was considerin' to either turn ya or at least make an example out of ya. But, the moon revealed somethin' that made me reconsider."
"Oh? And what did she reveal?"
"Your bravery. She came out from behind the clouds that night just as you were tryin' to glare me down."
Basking in the surprise on the young wizard face, the wolf props his head up as the other large palm settles on his mate's soft belly.
"The moon thought I was brave?"
"Why else would you stand your ground against a fully-transformed werewolf on your own? Foolish bravery, but yeah, bravery," Fenrir retorts, chuckling at the unamused glare his favorite pair of green eyes shoot at him. "It's annoyin' on most wizard's, but, on you, Potter. That confidence is arousin' as hell."
Harry's eye roll is one for the ages. Yet, he doesn't move out of Fenrir's embrace.
"Anyway, she was tellin' me to spare you, 'cause you'd make a good mate for me."
"And what exactly," inquires the wizard, as he stretches with a distracting arch of his back, "makes me a good mate?"
"Besides our mutual sex drive and disregard for authority? Fuck, if I know."
"You're such a romantic, Fenrir."
Rolling his eyes, Harry is surprised when he feels the rough swipe of Fenrir's tongue on his skin. The werewolf makes his way along the curve of Harry's neck once again, savoring the hitch in Harry's breath as he finds one of his sensitive spots. The taste of the wizard's sweat paired with the natural scent of his supple skin creates a delicious fusion as Fenrir continues his ministrations. The werewolf's teeth graze over the oldest claim mark on his mate, the gesture is a silent reminder of how it got there in the first place.
"You didn't let me finish, pup. I may not know all the reasons why the moon chose you to be my mate, but I can tell ya' why you remain my mate if ya' want."
"Alright then, tell me," murmurs Harry as large hands grip his hips.
"I like that yer strong-willed yet you submit only to me. My mate's a powerful wizard, yet he lets me do as I wish with him," the words are rumbled into the wizard's ear as Fenrir spreads Harry's toned thighs. "He's still a pup himself, yet he protects me—even though I'm more than capable of doin' far worse than anythin' he could ever protect me from."
During his speech, the alpha wolf lowers himself between Harry's open legs. The man presses himself tightly against the lithe body that welcomes him in the soft furs. A low moan escapes Harry's throat while his arms circle around Fenrir's thick neck. The simple, yet trusting, action makes a fond smirk cross the man's features.
"Not to mention, you're drawn to danger and I'm just about as dangerous as they come."
Harry can't stop the blush that rises to his cheeks as the werewolf slowly removes the bear pelt draped over him, the only thing hiding his nude body from the werewolf's intense gaze. The wizard shivers as the heat of his aroused mate presses intimately and insistently against his own arousal.
"Y-yeah, yeah, you're the 'Big Bad Wolf' and I guess that makes me 'Little Red Riding Hood'?"
Laughing at the moniker, Fenrir chuckles.
"I'm not gonna deny that. But perhaps we save the role play idea for next time, hmm? You would look ravishin' in only a red cloak, pup."
Bending down, the wolf starts to nip the along Harry's throat.
"What is it?"
"What actually drew you to me that night?"
"You mean besides the scent of a wayward wizard in my territory?"
"Be serious, please."
Pulling back for a minute, Fenrir stares down into the earnest, yet flushed face of his mate.
"I dunno. I just decided to roam the forest that night. I thought I was just goin' to inspect my territory and come home. But, as the moon would have it, I stumbled across the Harry Potter out for a stroll. She kept urgin' me to you, insistin' that I claim you. I didn't over think it."
"You didn't resist it? You didn't take a minute, or even a second, to make up your own mind?"
Fenrir leans down to kiss the confusion off Harry's face before he answers.
"The moon has guided me most of my life, why would I start disobeyin' her now?"
"Oh," replies Harry, seeming to be satisfied with the answer. "That must be nice."
"Yeah, it has to be reassuring to have a constant in your life. Something that you can trust so implicitly to always be there and watch over you no matter what. She, the moon, is almost like a mother, right?"
"She can be a ragin' bitch sometimes, but I trust her ancient wisdom. Her guidance has saved my life more times than I can count."
His response startles a laugh from Harry.
If Fenrir is truly honest with himself, he questions the Moon more often then he cares to admit. After all, what good could come out of mating him to the Saviour of the Wizarding World? He is the fiercest werewolf that the Wizarding World has ever known, the "unhinged monster" that prejudiced parents warn their children about.
Yet one pair of vibrant, green eyes have the power to make him as harmless as a trained puppy. One whiff of Harry's addicting scent has the power to make the infamous Fenrir Greyback, well, docile.
But, in all honest, the werewolf doesn't really mind this. The realization why was a quite the shock.
Because, even if it make him appear soft, his mate, his wizard, needs him.
Harry Potter has been famous his entire life, and for most of it he was completely, perhaps even blissfully, ignorant of his fame. But now, it defined Harry, at least the part that he showed to the world of wizards.
Yet Fenrir knows a different side of the Saviour.
Harry is unflappably loyal. If he deems you his friend, you hold that position for life. However, if you betray him, you will never gain that same level of trust again.
Harry is fearless. Not just in the annoyingly, plucky "hero" type of way. Harry approaches everything with a bravery far more mature than his years. Even if he doesn't know the risks, sometimes in spite of them, he faces everything head on. Fenrir imagines that being the target of the darkest wizard of all time would have that effect on a person.
Harry is also compassionate. With all that happened in his youth, the wizard could have easily developed a valid hate to all those aligned with Voldemort. But instead, he has risen through the ranks as an auror due to his compassion regarding those individuals(Fenrir included) that chose to repent. He is even helping to raise the son of Remus Lupin, something most wizards would never do, regardless of the deceased werewolf's affiliation. This teenager takes the responsibility(as well as the stigma) of raising a werewolf's son, head on and without complaint. Often consulting Fenrir for tips and advice on raising the cub.
And like Fenrir, Harry is resilient. He knows the never-fading pain of loss, how it can still throb and manage to completely eviscerate you no matter how much time passes. Yet, he doesn't let it destroy him.
Although the thing that impresses Fenrir the most about his mate, is his intelligence. In particular, the intellect that he displayed on the night that their bond was made.
Harry was smart enough to know not to try to outrun a fully-embraced werewolf that night. Especially under the influence of the full moon.
He was smart enough to know that he should make himself appear as non-threatening as possible as an alpha werewolf approaches and scents him.
And perhaps most of all, he was smart enough to know that when said werewolf transforms into one of the most wanted criminals - Fenrir Greyback, you know your wand will be of little help to you.
Thinking back on that night, specifically the physical events that solidified Harry as his mate, Fenrir smirks.
"What are you smirking about now?"
The question only makes the werewolf's smirk widen.
"I can't just be happy to spend the night with my mate? If you had it your way, we wouldn't even have these rare meetings of ours."
At the unfortunate truth that mars the sarcasm, Fenrir continues to explore his mate's body. He distracts himself by sliding his palms down the slim torso underneath him, his thumbs playing with the sensitive buds to hear the moans that tumble out of Harry's lips.
The alpha wolf is enviously unburdened by the turmoil that their relationship, specifically the discovery of their relationship, stirs up in Harry's mind. The wizard sighs as he reaches a hand up to rest atop Fenrir's head.
"I probably shouldn't keep coming here. It's only a matter of time before Ron or Hermione start getting too curious and I can't hide your marks forever."
Despite the pointed remark, Fenrir works on yet another hickey along Harry's throat to be contrary.
"You keep comin' back, though."
"T-that doesn't mean anything," the wizard argues, slightly defensive.
The man's bark of laughter is obvious in his contempt of the control Harry desperately tries to maintain.
"Oh pup, it means everything."
Leaning down, Fenrir noses the area of skin just behind Harry's ear. The scent that greets him holds the werewolf and continually draws him to Harry every time he sees the pup. It's the very same scent that slowly drives him insane when the two are unable to set up their clandestine meetings and late-night rendezvous. The slow torture of not having his mate in his arms every night is excruciating, only outweighed by the pain when they inevitably must part for another indefinite stretch of time.
Harry doesn't move as rough fingers harshly grasp his chin, raising it to meet the wolf's gaze. Piercing blue eyes lock onto the wizard as Fenrir searches for traces of fear in the young wizard's gaze.
He finds none, but then again he never does. Only gorgeous, fearless, and fathomless green.
"What is it, Greyback?"
Fenrir smirks at the use of his surname, Harry only does it when he's cross.
It only makes him want to provoke the wizard further.
"Nothin', just admirin' what's mine."
"You don't own me," Harry snaps. "Would you like it if I said I owned you?"
"Don't matter if I like it. Fact is fact. You're mine, I'm yours. Vice versa and all that bullshit."
"I envy your easy acceptance of things, Fenrir," the wizard replies dryly. "Truly, I do."
The resigning sigh(and grin he tries to hide) that accompanies Harry's words has the werewolf rumbling in amusement.
"Just accept this. She wouldn't have pressed me to claim you if she thought we wouldn't be compatible."
"The moon, again?"
"Yes. She controls all of us werewolves, even I can't escape her."
"But, I bet you still tried," jokes Harry with a fond smile. "Still, it doesn't explain why I am under her influence, why I can't stand being apart from you for long period of time. I'm not a werewolf."
"True, maybe her pull ain't just limited to wolves."
"I guess so. But I still don't get why she would put us together. Doesn't it get to you? Besides the rather fantastic sex, we don't have a lot in common."
"I stopped questioning her ages ago," admits the werewolf, his voice dropping a few timbres to an arousing growl as he begins to kiss along the sensitive slope of the wizard's collarbone. "There's no point, really. You can't fight her, not without being cursed by her anyway. All you can do is surrender to the moon's grace and enjoy it for as long as you can."
With a sound of agreement and a smirk, Harry uses his long legs to pulls his werewolf closer and continue their earlier activities. With a harsh tug, Fenrir removes the bear pelt that dares to separate him from his mate. The harmony of a breathy moan and and a possessive growl fill the cavern as naked skin meets naked skin. For the rest of the night, both the wizard and the werewolf are more than content to enjoy the limited amount of time they have together.
That night, eight months ago, Harry James Potter was just as surprised as Fenrir when he woke up mated to the most notorious werewolf known to man and wizard kind.
Then again, life has never really been fair for the young wizard. His entire existence, Harry has been involved in a war that he had wanted no part of, and lost so many friends and family—too many, to be honest. And most of the time, Harry isn't sure if it was worth that sacrifice.
Thinking back, it had made an odd sort of sense, really.
At this point in his life, Harry should really expect the unexpected. For others, it was paranoia. For him, it is just prudent planning.
So, when he had crossed paths with Fenrir Greyback that fateful night, Harry made a decision.
"The-Boy-Who-Lived" could have dueled and possibly killed the dark werewolf that was a loyal servant of Voldemort during the war. The man was guilty of many crimes, Harry was no under no illusions. After all, it wasn't as if anyone would have particularly missed the infamous wolf. At the very least, he could have captured him and turned the lycanthrope over to Azkaban with the other remnants of Voldemort's followers.
But Harry made a different choice.
He let the wolf live—not that Harry could eloquently explain why.
That night, all he knew was that killing, or even just imprisoning, Fenrir Greyback would be a mistake.
Maybe it was the fact that Harry didn't want any more blood on his hands.
Maybe it was the fact that Fenrir's wolf form had vaguely resembled Padfoot.
Or maybe, it was the fact that a werewolf child was now in his care.
Whatever the reason, Harry was compelled to another course of action that night. He didn't back away when the werewolf approached him or fight the overwhelming scenting Fenrir instigated. The wizard had encouraged it with a tilt of his head, exposing his throat to the man that he had no reason to trust.
Harry may not have known all the consequences of his tryst with Fenrir that night, but even now, he still can't scrounge up an ounce of regret.
That first night had been rather spectacular.
As he recalls that evening, Harry absently traces over the scratches he's left on Fenrir's back. Some are old and some are new. They compete with the myriad of scars and silver burns that others have inflicted on Fenrir—a visible testament to the wolf's feral prowess. Frowning as he feels a new welt, Harry sighs. He has long stopped questioning such additions as the werewolf never gives a straight answer. It is a lost cause, really. Instead, Harry caresses his own marks on his mate's strong form as the wizard indulges in a scenting of his own. His eyes close as the scents of pine and fresh earth meld with Fenrir's natural musk and the wolf melts into his embrace.
Harry enjoys the wild ferocity that is tempered in his embrace.
Perhaps, Fenrir had been on to something in regards to his innate draw to danger.
"You think too fuckin' much."
Opening his eyes to stare at the werewolf above him, Harry is startled from his thoughts. The werewolf hasn't stopped his ministrations, his large hands exploring the wizard's body as he kisses and nips his way down Harry's chest. Rutting his arousal against Harry's own, the two men grind in tandem as they chase the slow build of pleasure this time.
"Just accept that you're mine. That ain't changin'. It can be here in our den or in the middle of the fuckin' Ministry of Magic, I'll always come reclaim you."
"Always," growls out the werewolf, leaving no room for argument. "If anythin', you should know by now that I don't give a shite about any wizardin' laws. Nothing gets between a wolf and his mate—not Ministry bullshit or even the doubts of the 'Saviour of the Wizardin' World' himself."
The gruff statement is met with silence at first, before a large smile overtakes Harry's face. For a few moments, he simply runs a hand through the man's wild hair as his eyes travel the rugged features that make up Fenrir Greyback. Harry's gaze then meets the penetrative stare coming from the werewolf above him.
"I can live with that."
"You don't really have a choice, pup. Neither of us do."
"Because of the moon, right?"
"If that helps you accept it easier. She's powerful and all that, but she only illuminates what's already there. The moon projects a strong suggestion, but it ain't mind control."
It takes a moment for Harry to fully process the man's words, he blames the mental lag on a rather distracting roll of his mate's hips. But when he does put two and two together, the wizard rests a hand on Fenrir's bearded cheek.
"So, you choose to be here? You actually want me?"
"Wolves mate for life."
At the completely, unromantic fact leveled at him, Harry grins anyway.
"I want to be here, too, you grumpy old wolf."
Leaving it at that, the two share another passionate kiss as they completely surrender to each other.
Both the werewolf and the wizard are unaware of the moon above that has started to shine just a bit brighter at her handiwork.