Chapter Text
Fenrir Greyback has been known throughout the entire magical world as the werewolf of all werewolves(the very personification of the monster that goes bump in the night), for most of his adult life. Then again, Fenrir has worked quite hard to achieve this infamy.
Yet, contrary to his monstrous reputation, Fenrir Greyback has never been a stupid man.
Vicious, yes.
Bloodthirsty, at times
Dominating, certainly.
But never, stupid.
So, after the fall of Voldemort at the Battle of Hogwarts, the werewolf had immediately went to work making sure he and his fellow werewolves had a place under the new magical regime.
Fenrir's position as Lycan Lord may have been self appointed, however it is a role that he takes with utmost seriousness. The savagery that the alpha wolf has always been known for was originally cultivated for a purpose—protecting his packs and the others that follow him. Survival, of himself and his kind, has always been second nature to the man. Fenrir's past method of turning children, while controversial, has achieved his goal and brought back Europe's werewolf population from the brink of extinction. Lycanthropy, once regarded as an affliction has now been properly classified into a group of people that could no longer be ignored, no matter how vehemently certain members of the Ministry of Magic fought to do so.
But, instead of siccing his packs on the wizards of England as expected, Fenrir surprised them all. He offered their assistance in the post-war Wizarding World, quid pro quo, of course. With his acumen for striking deals(A skill he may or may not have picked up from the Dark Lord), Fenrir Greyback narrowly avoided Azkaban and execution while simultaneously helping to rewrite the laws regarding the rights of all werewolves. The wizarding world's persecution, discriminatory policies, and "Kill-on-sight" orders regarding werewolves(and by extension other "dangerous" magical creatures) are now history.
And at the moment, the lycan is on his way to meet with the Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, himself.
Walking through the hallowed halls of the Ministry, Fenrir's imposing figure doesn't quite fit into the polished wizarding institution. The man's worn leather coat stretches across his broad chest, the heavy fabric swaying behind him with each stride. His piercing blue eyes size up the witches and wizards that quicken their pace as quickly as possible in the opposite direction from the notorious werewolf. A smirk appears on Fenrir's face at the discomfort his presence instills in them. Yet, despite the fleeting entertainment of scaring Ministry employees, the man quickens his steps. The wolf inside the man has always hated the oppressive building.
Navigating the world of wizarding politics is as deadly as the dense forests Fenrir's packs call home at times, even with the changes being made to the rigid Pureblood policies. The bureaucracy and underhanded manipulations emanating throughout the building always sets Fenrir's instincts on edge as they directly clash with the straightforward pack dynamics he's known most of his life. With a grumble to himself, the werewolf continues his journey through the torch-lit marble corridors.
Upon reaching his desired location, Fenrir walks right by the sputtering receptionist. The witch pleads to let her warn her employer of his arrival, but it falls onto deaf ears as Fenrir marches right into the office of the Minister of Magic. His lips curl into an amused grin and expose a hint of fang.
"Hullo, Minister."
At the mocking tone of the greeting, the man looks up from his paperwork. Minister Shacklebolt full lips are set in a firm line as he looks over the werewolf.
"Fenrir Greyback, to what do I owe the pleasure?" greets Kingsley, his deep eyes taking in the creature before him.
"Thought you'd like to know that those upstarts in the Black Forest you were worryin' about are no longer a problem."
"Already? You only left a few days ago."
Rolling his eyes at the honest surprise written on the other man's dark face, Fenrir makes himself comfortable in one of the chairs before the Minister's desk. The infamous werewolf not caring one bit that the furniture was a hand-carved gift from the Silvan elves before resting his feet on it.
"You wanted 'em gone, right? You should be grateful you won't be losin' anymore of your precious aurors."
"I am grateful," The Minister acquiesces. "Pardon my surprise at your efficiency. It took some of our best aurors an entire month just to pinpoint the location of their base of operations."
"When will you wizards learn not to send an Auror to do a werewolf's job? That was always Voldemort's problem. You lot depend too much on your sticks and yer schemin', which do you shite much good in the depths of a dark forest. That's our domain," states Fenrir, his words turning into a growl. "My betas are taking them to Azkaban as we speak."
"Excellent," remarks Shacklebolt, impressed by the werewolf's productivity. "If the public wouldn't have my head, I'd start recruiting some of my aurors from your packs."
"Get this straight, Minister. We aren't your errand boys. We're Werewolves. Those bastards were havin' their little meeting on pack territory. Yer lucky there's enough left of 'em to take to Azkaban."
As part of the treaty between the werewolves and the Ministry, Fenrir and those that follow him have been almost exclusively tasked with rounding up the last remnants of the Death Eaters and their supporters. The Auror Department is stretched rather thin as it steadily recoups it's numbers after the war and is unable to squash all the uprisings on its own. Fortunately, werewolves make excellent Death Eater bounty hunters with their heightened olfactory senses and natural immunity to most hexes. And since many of Voldemort's supporters fled into the dense forests or the old ruins of ancestral wizarding homes, the task is not difficult for an alpha werewolf and his beta wolves(Then again, even a year-old pup would be able to track down the strong, unmistakable scent of a wizard). Fenrir simply finds it amusing that he gets to hunt down the Pureblood wizards that used to look down on him, even though they were all supposedly on the "same side". For the alpha werewolf, it is even worth the annoyances of having to report to the Ministry of Magic.
Sometimes.
"It is in both of our best interests to help each other, is it not?" The Minister counters, pulling the alpha from his thoughts. "In any case, I do have some good news for you today. I have it on good authority that we at the Ministry have one last job for you to do and then you and your pack will be left to their own devices. Keeping in mind that you all adhere to the terms of the treaty, of course."
Between the two men, the air sizzles with tension. Fenrir is irritated to be reminded of the freedom that the Ministry often dangles before him and his pack yet eager to finally be at the end of this arrangement. Kingsley however, is loathe to admit that the werewolves are actually a huge asset to his Aurors. He hadn't been joking in his earlier remarks, it is an idea that the minister makes note of to run by the young Head of the Auror department once he returns from his well-deserved vacation.
"I'm listenin', Kingsley."
At the gruff prompting, the wizard leans forward and rests his folded hands on the desk. He meets Fenrir's intense stare with an even gaze.
"The Forbidden Forest."
For a moment, nothing is said. Then, Fenrir simply cocks an eyebrow.
"Are you serious?" begins the larger man, a dark smirk on the wolf's face. "The Ministry really wants me and my pack around your precious students at Hogwarts?"
The scoff lacing the wolf's words makes the Minister of Magic lean back into his chair.
"The Forbidden Forest is a dangerous place," Kingsley begins again with a firm tone. "Too much of it has remained uncharted for far too long and the Ministry wishes to change that. After all, many parents would feel much better about sending their children away to Hogwarts if we all had a better idea of the terrain as well as its residents."
"I was under the impression that the Forbidden Forest was supposed to be dangerous. Isn't that's why you lot all call it 'Forbidden', Minister?"
Catching Fenrir's sarcasm and complete disregard for the Ministry's plight, Kingsley's expression quickly becomes one lacking amusement.
"Well, if you and your pack can take away a bit of that mystery, it would ease a lot of uncertainty and questions about the school's security. The forest was too much of a liability during The Dark Lord's return as well as the war."
The werewolf takes in the information as he reaches up to scratch the stubble on his chin. After a moment of silence between the two, Fenrir levels a look of unimpressed boredom at the man across from him.
"That all?"
It takes a considerate amount of effort for Minister Shacklebolt to not react. He simply sighs and continues his briefing to the alpha wolf.
"The Ministry wants it done before the next school term, so you have until then to complete this assignment. We'll also be sending a team of Aurors with you to help map out your findings."
"Don't need 'em."
"Still, they will be accompanying you, anyway."
Rolling his eyes, Fenrir crosses his arms.
"Then make sure you send ones that can keep up and contribute. I ain't some babysitter."
"You'll also have use of one of the Ministry homes just outside Hogsmeade," continues Kingsley, seemingly ignoring the werewolf's comments. His wand and attention busy transforming a iron key into a portkey. "This will take you to your temporary residence. My patronus will be keeping tabs on you and you may also use it to convey updates on your progress."
With a grumble, Fenrir stands up and takes the offered portkey before quickly stashing it in the folds of his coat. The lycan turns on his heel and heads towards the door. But before he leaves, Fenrir stops and turns back around.
"The Forbidden Forest is a place that won't welcome intruders. And some of the residents won't take kindly to the Ministry pokin' around. Make sure that your Aurors aren't lackin' in their manners, they'll want to make a good first impression."
With that message and a cruel barking laugh, the werewolf leaves the office and heads straight for the Floo Network that brought him there in the first place—Fenrir Greyback fully intent on making his next stop a place low on wizards and(if possible) stocked with a good brew or two.
Downtown London is alive with the nighttime crowd, couples of all types are on romantic dates and groups of friends fill the hip eateries and taverns. In a small pub known for its locally-brewed ales, Harry Potter(Savior of the Wizarding World and the youngest Head Auror for the Ministry of Magic) is using the graffiti-ridden payphone in back. The dark-haired wizard is currently doing his best to hear the person on the other end of the conversation over the din of the packed tavern.
"I know Hermione, but I'm not ready to tell Ron, quite yet. Ginny and I just broke up and we'll both tell him when we're ready . . . Look, I'll drop by the house and we can have a long talk about it. . . . No, not tomorrow, I have to see Minister Kingsley about a new assignment first thing in the morning. I really have to go now, it's late enough as it is. . . Alright. Bye."
Hanging up the payphone, Harry turns to the line of patrons waiting for the bathroom. He sighs in defeat. As always, it is impossibly long.
And unfortunately, Harry really has to use the facilities.
Seeing a gap near the front of the line, the wizard smiles in relief. Green eyes don't notice that the reason for this particular gap is the intimidating man occupying the bulk of it. The stranger's own eyes are more focused on staring into space than any particular subject in the rowdy tavern. Taking advantage of his distracted gaze, Harry attempts to nonchalantly sneak into line. It isn't something he would normally do, but the young wizard had a pint before the phone call he just made and it apparently traveled right through him. Harry walks past the stranger as unassuming as he can muster and slips into the empty space right in front of the tall man. Once situated, Harry releases the breath he had been holding.
"Cuttin' in line, are we?"
Wincing at being caught, the wizard arranges his features as innocently as possible before turning around.
"Er, no. You see, I was here first actually. I just had to use the telephone over there. But, er, before I could end my call the line moved, you see."
For a moment, the man regards the youth with an amused grin. Sharp blue eyes take their time to appraise the lean body before him, lingering on the features he seems to like most about Harry. The intimidating stranger clearly seems to have no issue with how uncomfortable his appreciating gaze makes the green-eyed wizard. If Harry didn't know any better, he would swear that the man was relishing it.
"I think I'd remember waitin' behind you."
The deep timbre of the voice that leaves the man's mouth does things to Harry that no voice should be able to do. His widened eyes focus instead on the vaguely-familiar features of the man's face. Intense eyes stand out from the stranger's ruggedly-handsome features while traces of old scars stand out on the tan skin. The man's thick, grey-streaked hair is pulled back into a short ponytail, though the urge to run his fingers through it crosses the wizard's mind more times than he'd like to admit. The large body practically blocks the rest of the pub from Harry's view, almost forcing green eyes to rove over the muscle on display(even though it is partially hidden beneath the man's clothing). And while the wizard is still at a complete loss for words at the stranger's implication and grin, Harry is oddly flattered.
"Er, thanks, I guess?"
"Oi! Back of the line, Scrawny! We've all been waitin' here to use the loo! You can't just cut in!"
Jolted from their private conversation(flirtation?), both Harry and the stranger turn to the blonde man that had shouted at them. The wizard opens his mouth to apologize, but is surprised when he is interrupted.
"He's with me. You got a problem with that, whelp?"
The question isn't asked loudly, however the subtle, yet inarguable dominance in the stranger's voice shuts the blonde up immediately. Seemingly pleased with the submission, the large man returns his focus to Harry.
"Thanks, you didn't have to do that," the wizard offers with an amused, yet grateful, smile.
"I wanted to," the man rumbles, closing the distance between them with a teasing grin. "After all, it's not everyday I get to enjoy the company of the Harry James Potter. I wasn't gonna let some rude muggle interrupt us."
At his full name, Harry's attention snaps immediately right back to the man's eyes. The high-level Auror is a bit happy that the man before him is no muggle, he knows how to handle wizards and magical creatures much better. Harry is instead focused on whether confirming the man's accurate identification of him is a good or bad decision in such a public place.
"Who are you?"
"I'm hurt, boy. We've met before. You'd think someone would remember meetin' a werewolf. Especially one of my caliber."
The last bit is whispered into Harry ear, and he can't tell if the resulting shiver is from the information or the man's proximity. Harry has only ever been personally acquainted with two werewolves in his life. The first being the late Remus Lupin, one of his father's best friends and father to his adorable god-son, Teddy Lupin. Pushing the emotions that stirs aside, Harry focuses his attention on the werewolf in front of him now. His eyes slowly widen in horrified recognition as his mind makes the connection to that intense, piercing-blue stare. It has been a few years and a completely different situation since he's faced him last, but even cleaned up and in different clothing, the werewolf's intimidating aura hasn't changed.
"Fenrir Greyback?"
"Aye, that's my name."
Harry is unsure how to react. Whatever initial twinges of interest he felt are hurriedly pushed away as his mind bombards him with all he knows about Fenrir Greyback. He had read some time ago in the Daily Prophet that the werewolf was working for the Ministry(Hermione had mentioned the man's surprisingly successful campaign for magical creatures). The young wizard has even assigned some Aurors to his detail once or twice. However, actually meeting the dangerous man in the middle of a muggle pub in downtown London is beyond surreal. Part of Harry is defensive as Fenrir is the one that turned Remus as a child and permanently scarred Bill Weasley, not to mention the countless others he had infected with lycanthropy. Another part of Harry is embarrassed that he hadn't instantly recognized the werewolf and even flirted with him. And yet, another part of Harry is a bit fearful of the man that had been there when Dumbledore died, Fenrir had even volunteered to do the deed himself! The werewolf had been working directly for Voldemort, as an enforcer of sorts, though technically he was never branded with the Dark Mark. Taking a look around the pub filled with vulnerable muggles, Harry narrows his eyes as he firms his voice.
"If you even think of turning anyone, I'll-"
"Calm down, pup and put the wand away," interrupts Fenrir, instantly noticing the wizard's fingers move towards his pocket. "Neither of us are going to do anythin' surrounded by all these muggles, now are we? Besides, I'm just here on my way to official Ministry business. I've got no interest turnin' anyone, anymore."
Realizing that it would do neither of them good to start any trouble, Harry relaxes a bit. He straightens himself to his full height, not that it would do any good compared to the mountain of a man that is Fenrir Greyback. Still, it gives him a bit more confidence.
"Well then what exactly are you doing here? Last time I checked, the Ministry doesn't conduct 'official business' in muggle pubs."
"I just came to get a drink, like yourself. I can't stand that 'Butterbeer' you lot like to drink. Muggles could teach you wizards how to brew a proper dark ale."
At the unexpected reply, Harry is surprised to find himself laughing. The sound makes a warm grin appear on the werewolf's face.
"Hey, lovebirds, the line's movin!"
Throwing the blonde near the end of the line another withering look, Fenrir turns his attention back to the wizard.
"After you," offers the elder, his hand pushing the 'Savior of the Wizarding World' forward.
Following the man's nudge, Harry hurries into the loo, eager to hide his reddening face at the comment. However, the wizard pauses for a moment before disappearing into the bathroom.
"Um, thanks again for letting me skip in line. When I come back out, I'll treat you to a pint."
"I'll hold you to it."
A bathroom visit and a few drinks later, Fenrir and Harry find themselves sitting across from each other at a lone table in the pub. They are in an isolated corner so that their words won't be heard over the sounds of clinking glasses and multiple conversations around the room. The two make an odd pair, yet the alcohol has relaxed them both enough to enjoy each other's company.
"This is so weird," Harry murmurs after a deep swallow of rich ale.
"What is?"
"You and I, Harry Potter and Fenrir Greyback, having a chat over a pint. A photo of us right now would probably make the front page of The Daily Prophet."
"You care too much about what others think."
The statement causes a tight laugh to leave Harry's throat.
"Easy for you to say, Greyback. I'm either 'The Boy Who Lived' or 'Savior of the Wizarding World'. Everything I do becomes every wizard and witch's business, apparently."
"Doesn't have to be that way. You're young, still got plenty of time to make your own name for yourself if you like. Besides, soon enough, they'll find somethin' else to talk about. You gotta remember that now that Voldemort's gone for good, the news ain't as interestin' as it used to be. Not that I'm complain', a little boring is appreciated every once in a while."
Considering the man's point for a moment, Harry finds himself grinning. A moment passes by as both men take a sip of their beers, the warm liquid flowing pleasantly down their throats. Harry flicks out his tongue to clear off the remnants of thick foam that has lingered on his lips.
"What about you?" asks the wizard, oblivious that he managed to transfix the powerful werewolf with a mere gesture.
"What about me?"
"You're Fenrir Greyback. That's a name with it's own problems, right?"
Recovering a bit, Fenrir leans forward in his seat. His features set as they regard the wizard before answering the rather loaded question.
"I'm not ashamed of the choices I've made, if that's what you're gettin' at, Potter. Bein' a werewolf isn't an easy life. Our kind have been hunted by both muggles and wizards alike and we've been treated like pests rather than respected for what we are, like any other magical creature. I refused to live in fear so I put terror into those that would hunt me for their own self-satisfyin' needs or simply to hang my pelt on their walls. Question my methods if you wish, but I made it so that we werewolves could no longer be ignored. At the end of the day, I'm no wizard and I'm no muggle, so I don't see much sense tryin' to live up to either of their standards. I live my life the way I choose."
As Harry listens to the man, an odd understanding resonates through him. He can't condone the werewolf's past actions, yet it has an odd logic to it. "The Boy Who Lived" knows all too well what living in fear is like, then again being the target for one of the darkest wizard of all time does change one's perspective. Remembering the pain and persecution that Remus encountered in his own life for something that wasn't even his fault causes an incongruous sense of respect to tinge Harry's opinion of the infamous werewolf.
"I can respect that I guess."
"You, on the other hand," begins Fenrir as he looks over the wizard before him. "Are lettin' other people define you. In my experience, that never ends well."
At the man's blunt words, Harry eyes narrow indignantly.
"I don't let anyone define me. I just know it's useless trying to change whatever "perfect" image of me that everyone else seems to already have on a proverbial pedestal. So, I just don't bother wasting my time. It's not my fault that I don't match their idea of who Harry Potter is supposed to be. Now that the world is finally and completely Voldemort-free, I'm finally going to live my life, the way I want to."
"Now that, Harry Potter, I can respect."
As Fenrir takes a final swig to empty his glass, Harry uses the opportunity to once again study the large man before him. Now that he is in this odd conversation with Tom's former enforcer, the wizard can fully take in the werewolf features in the light of the now almost-empty pub. Harry is surprised by the conclusion that if they had met in a different situation, without the past hanging over them, he might have actively pursued their earlier flirtations. Fenrir is an undeniably attractive man, in both physical attributes and his allure. However, Harry's eyes appreciate the man's raw strength, knowing that if he chose to, Fenrir could demolish the table they are now sharing with ease. It is impressive regardless of the man's history. For some reason, the aura of raw power emanating from the alpha werewolf is both appealing and strangely comforting.
"Like what you see, boy?"
At the teasing tone directed at him, Harry scoffs. The wizard finishing the last of his own ale with an amused smile.
"You wish."
"Alright boys, the pub is about to close," interrupts the bar maid as she collects their now empty glasses and puts down the tab. Without looking at the bill, Fenrir hands her some cash to cover their tab.
"Keep the change."
"Thank you, sir," the woman replies, Her smile widening with the rather large tip. "Have a nice night, gents."
"I thought I was supposed to treat you?" asks Harry as the waitress walks away.
"You bought the first round, it's only fair I buy the last ones."
Standing up to put on his jacket and check the time, Harry's eyes widen as he realizes that it is now well into that period of time that is simultaneously very late and very early. Two o'clock in the morning is later than he planned to stay out tonight. Still, Harry's surprise that he has been civilly conversing with the werewolf for almost three hours manages to overshadow the late hour.
"Damn it, I was supposed to catch the Underground. It's going to take at least an hour to walk back home," comments Harry as he and Fenrir walk out of the closing pub together. "And there's no way I'm taking the Knight Bus again."
"Just apparate. You have your wand."
"I barely like doing it when I'm sober, I'm not going to risk it when I've had a few," Harry informs, as he looks around hopefully for a taxi. "Knowing my luck, I'd end up splinching myself."
Adjusting his own coat, a thought crosses the werewolf's mind as the weight of Minister Shacklebolt's parting gift shifts in his pocket.
"Then come with me, I've got a house on the Ministry's tab with plenty of room. The Minister himself gave me a direct portkey to it. You can apparate back home when you've slept it off."
The streets aren't as filled as they were earlier that evening, however the wizard and the werewolf walk close to each other as they make their way along the London street. The muggles around them none the wiser of the magically-inclined individuals.
"Thanks, but I don't think that's a good idea, Fenrir," Harry replies, seemingly comfortable being on a first-name basis with the man. "Sharing a pint is one thing, sharing a room is quite another."
"Afraid of the big, bad werewolf?"
Harry once again finds himself smirking at Fenrir's dry humor as he shakes his head.
"Not really, I know how to transfigure wood into metals. Specifically silver, if the situation calls for it. Besides, I can take care of myself."
"Oh, I know. The entire wizardin' world is well aware of that. But what kind of gentleman would I be if I left 'The Boy Who Lived' up to his own devices? After all, who knows what trouble your pretty face would get into, eh?"
Weighing his options, Harry considers Fenrir's offer. It's nowhere near the full moon so it's not like the lycan can turn him, even if he does bite him for whatever reason. And oddly enough, the wizard doesn't feel threatened by the werewolf. The man before him bears little resemblance to the beast he met the night Dumbledore died or during the war—not that the innate wildness isn't still there. Fenrir Greyback is a man(werewolf) that exudes danger, no matter how tempting he looks at the moment.
Turning to face Fenrir directly, Harry's emerald eyes lock with the alpha wolf's intense blue ones. With his decision made, the wizard speaks.
"If I go with you tonight," the wizard begins cautiously. "No funny business, alright?"
Raising an eyebrow, Fenrir steps closer to Harry, having no issue invading the wizard's personal space. Harry assumes it must be a werewolf thing—an odd, yet deeply-rooted need to establish his dominance over him. Admittedly, he doesn't quite hate it.
"What exactly is it that you think I'll do to you, pup?"
Harry is frozen in place by the intensity of Fenrir's stare. The last time he had felt so immobilized by a stare alone, the wizard had been fearing for his life. However, this warm feeling now settling in his belly is far from terror. Harry finds himself inexplicably drawn in by the unwavering gaze as his body subconsciously leans into the larger one.
"Fenrir, what's going on here?" whispers Harry, his eyes darkening as they return the werewolf's stare.
Raising a hand to cup the wizard's cheek, Fenrir's thumb lazily traces the seam of Harry's parted lips. The texture of the rough pad is a dizzying contrast to his lips. Harry finds himself enjoying the intimacy of the gesture as a soft moan tumbles out of his mouth. A shiver travels through the wizard's body as Fenrir answers it with a low, possessive growl.
"I dunno, but let's get out of here. I'm up for findin' out if you are."
" . . . Okay."
Tugging the wizard into the nearest dark alley, Fenrir pulls the thin body flush to his own before activating the portkey. Seconds later, after a whirl of magic, Harry and Fenrir are standing in a simple cottage on the outskirts of Hogsmeade. The quaint yet comfortable décor of the house goes completely ignored as the two find themselves once again simply staring at each other. Harry is still in Fenrir's arms as neither the wizard nor the werewolf truly want to distance themselves from the other. The only real distance between the two is the few inches separating their lips.
Perhaps driven by his seemingly-innate need to tempt Fate, Harry is the one that leans in first to close the gap.
The instant his lips make contact with Fenrir's, the young wizard finds himself engulfed by the strength and power that he has been admiring for the last three hours or so. Yet instead of the raw passion he expected, he is met with the control of that power which proves to be even more arousing. An experimental grazing of lips quickly evolves into an intense exploration of each other's mouths as Harry can't help but try to break the werewolf's control with every soft swipe of his tongue and nip of his teeth. Overwhelming passion fuels them both as each man takes their turn switching control. Threading his fingers into the werewolf's thick hair, Harry tilts his head a bit to deepen their kiss. The wizard moans lightly in approval as low growls rumble in Fenrir's throat.
Without an exchange of words, Harry is effortlessly lifted up from the ground. His lean legs instinctively wrap around the werewolf's waist as the angle of their kiss changes. And despite the urgency of their current passions, both men still take their time to savor the kiss. The two can't seem to get enough as their mouths move in tandem against each other. With a playful squeeze to Harry's bottom, Fenrir holds the lithe body tightly to him as he walks them both over to the bed.
The two continue kissing passionately while their shirts are carelessly ripped off their bodies and tossed out of sight and out of mind. Tanned, battle-scarred skin finally meets soft, pale flesh as the werewolf and wizard topple into the surprisingly-comfortable bed on the far side of the cottage. It is quite some time before Harry tears himself away from the intense kissing, rather reluctantly, to catch his breath. But as he lies there panting on the bed of Fenrir Greyback, the influx of oxygen manages to clear his mind of the thick haze of lust, even with the man's distracting caresses of his body.
"W-wait, mmm, wait, Fenrir! This is a bad idea-"
"You were the one that kissed me first, Potter," growls out the wolf teasingly as he leaves the wizard's mouth to start kissing along the curve of Harry's throat. A whimper escapes the young wizard's lips as Fenrir's sharp canines graze his skin. "Now you have to deal with the consequences."
"Y-yeah, I know that. But kissing and this are two different things."
Fenrir pauses in his teasing touches to level a confused stare at the young wizard. He is silent as he awaits the wizard's explanation, which only makes Harry more anxious.
"I don't do things like this, have sex with people I've just met in pubs. Not that there's anything wrong with it, it's just not what I do. I especially don't do it with-ah!-other men," Harry rambles, before he is temporarily cut off by his own groan as Fenrir restarts his ministrations. The werewolf obviously pleased to discover a sensitive spot on the wizard's neck. "B-besides, I just broke up with Ginny-"
"I really don't give a shite about your past shags right now," states Fenrir bluntly. The large man is situated between Harry's spread-out thighs, his hands on either side of the wizard's head. The werewolf's grey-streaked hair is disheveled from Harry's eager, exploring fingers. "This is your call, pup, but if you don't stop me now, I can't guarantee I'll be able to stop later."
Harry stares up at the wild man above him as he turns over Fenrir's words in his mind. The lust-darkened eyes of the werewolf are focused on him, making the wizard heat up even more with their unwavering intensity. Hands that have done Merlin-knows what, slowly map out his body with a dual reverence and possessiveness that alights every nerve within Harry. And despite the glaringly-obvious reasons why he shouldn't continue this, it doesn't take long for the young wizard to come to a decision.
With his mind set, Harry reaches up and wraps his arms around Fenrir's thick neck. With a gentle tug, the larger body is once again comfortably-settled on top of the wizard's lean one. Harry's hands travel down the man's chest and the toned abs, enjoying the feel of the werewolf's body hair and firm muscle. Hesitating at the waistband of Fenrir's pants for a moment, the wizard slides his hands back up the man's torso. The heat emanating from Fenrir is intoxicating enough, but the pure masculinity pouring off the aroused werewolf makes it an almost hallucinogenic combination. Harry's eyes lock with blue ones as his hands frame the man's face. After a heated moment, a soft whisper escapes Harry's kiss-bruised lips.
"I don't want you to stop, Fenrir."
And with those words, the dark-haired wizard is immediately overwhelmed by another smoldering kiss.