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Harry wakes before noon and congratulates himself on the early hour, for all that he feels like he's been run over by a truck. Tom's bedroom is blanketed is pitch darkness, but that doesn't bother him.
Beside him, Tom stirs and lifts a slender arm to drag his fingers through Harry's hair, lazy and proprietary.
"Bad night?" he asks, drowsy.
"Mmm."
Tom cracks open a burgundy eye and takes in his haggard appearance, the bags beneath his eyes.
"The full moon's approach drains you," he rightly observes, and resumes the gentle stroking motion as if he can lull Harry back to sleep. He smells like soil, like the rich loam of a forest floor, freshly rained on. Harry presses a kiss to the lovely pale curve of his exposed collarbone.
It isn't always like this. Being in Tom's bed has given Harry some of the best sleep of his life—deep and dreamless and peaceful. It's almost as if having a creature just as dangerous as he is in his bed is somehow comforting rather than frightening.
Harry sighs. These past few days though... But he isn't required to respond, so he doesn't. He extricates himself from the tangle of Tom's arms, and slips out of bed, nudging the canopy to the side.
It is a myth that vampires sleep in coffins, though Tom had told him that he keeps the coffin he was buried in in the basement. For sentimental reasons. They do, however, prefer sleeping in complete darkness. Younger vampires especially are more susceptible to the sun, and Tom is barely in his seventies. Even indirect sunlight makes him unbearably sleepy.
At least daylight means Harry won't feel so compelled by the draw of the moon. It's an intensifying struggle in the days leading up to the middle of the month, his senses heightening and the urge to throw off his covers and go out running in the dead of night reaching its peak.
Alas, he has Quidditch training and practice matches and other ordinary, human things he is obligated to maintain a normal circadian rhythm for. Things he wished his wolf would bloody well understand.
He darts a quick glance back at his lover. Maybe Tom wouldn't mind if he went out running at night once or twice though, he muses. Tom's as much of a creature of the night as he is. Maybe he could even convince Tom to accompany him, though he's loathe to participate in any kind of exercise at all. Surely an exception could be made...
He pulls the blackout curtains apart with a quick snap of his wrists.
Fwoom! The bed bursts into flames, the prone form at its centre catching fire. Tom's eyes fly open, and his lips part with alarm.
"Merlin, I'm so sorry!" Harry yelps, hurriedly yanking the curtains closed.
The fire dies down once the vampire is no longer exposed to direct sunlight, flickering and then extinguishing. Already the charred skin has begun to heal, scar-pink lightening to creamy-white. He's smoking slightly still, looking shell-shocked and singed and grumpy. He hasn't moved an inch.
"Just for that," Tom says, turning over haughtily. "You can bring me breakfast in bed."
#
It's late afternoon by the time they have their first meal. It's a Sunday, so Harry is free to keep the hours he would prefer. He usually sleeps in later than this, but his sleep has been fraught lately. Beside him, Tom has one hand on his upper thigh as he sips from a fine glass of A-negative. He is shielded by the half-parted curtains, his face cast entirely into deep shadow.
His burgundy eyes peer over the rim of his glass at Harry, lazy. A hunter at rest.
"I should probably go home tonight," he says into his protein scramble. If the sausage is bloodier than usual, Tom doesn't remark on it.
"For your full moon run?"
He and Tom have been practically living out of each other's pockets for the past month. Vampires have a poor sense of privacy once they've been invited in—so Tom says—and werewolves have almost none to speak of. Harry's things started accumulating in Tom's elegant, expansive townhouse almost instantly; slowly at first, then all of a sudden they were everywhere, mixed in with Tom's possessions. His overnight bag taking up permanent place atop the dresser beside the bed, his toothbrush in the kitchen, rare steaks in the fridge.
Something about the sight makes an unfamiliar sensation flare up in his chest, hot and possessive.
But tonight's full moon will be Harry's first since they got together.
"Yes," he says, carefully. "I'll be meeting Remus."
Tom hums. "You could stay," he says, each word just as measured. He takes Harry's hand and turns it palm-up, presses a kiss to his wrist. Right over his pulse-point.
His heart jumps.
Still, he shakes his head. "You don't know what you're offering."
Werewolves on a full moon are—well. They are bound by their baser instincts. He is an animal then, dangerous and savage. He wouldn't expect Tom to take care of him, and who knows how he would react to the presence of a vampire?
He stabs his scrambled eggs a little viciously. So that's the end of that.
#
On the third floor of 12 Grimmauld Place there is a door. It can only be opened with a special key, turned counter-clockwise twice.
The doorway is a portal that leads to a remote forest, ringed with wardstones that won't let anyone in—or anyone out. Once he passes through he will not be able to go back, not until the last of the moon's pull passes.
He steps through, as he has a hundred times before.
The moon tears the shift from his body, and he lets it.
#
The moon is past its zenith, and its pull begins to ebb. For younger wolves, the shift is violent and punishing until they can learn to control it, but running with other wolves helps. It socialise them, shows them their place in the pack hierarchy—but he is no longer a pup, and it has been many moons since he was bitten. Now, weary from the exertion, some semblance of human intelligence returns to him.
A snout bumps his side; it's a wolf with a pelt the deep gray of thunderclouds. His fur is scruffy, and he has tired, kind eyes. He feels a deep kinship with this older wolf. He snaps at him, a playful flash of teeth, and then they nose at each other's fur.
Next to the grey wolf is a dog. His black fur is glossy with health, and he possesses a lean, sharp face. The dog has accompanied them on many a moon run; his presence is no longer unusual.
The dog barks at him once and then turns his head so that his profile is on display, and closes one eye. A wink.
Harry huffs, pleased. He tilts his head back and howls, one last time.
The other wolf and dog walk him to the edge of the forest, where two trees bend together and form a passageway. He butts the top of his head against the muzzle of the older wolf, a show of submission, and then bumps his nose with the black dog's snout.
Till next time.
He passes under the trees, and then he is standing on the top floor of a familiar-smelling house, his own scent strong in his nose.
There is another scent outside. A new one, but not entirely unfamiliar.
The wolf covers the flight of stairs in a great leap, then pads over to the back door, which has been left open. He exits, and circles around the side of the house, crouching low on his belly. Sneaky.
Standing at the entrance to Grimmauld Place, so still he could be carved from marble, is a man. His overnight bag rests on the floor beside him. His burgundy eyes are hooded.
"Harry," he says, looking up. The motion is fluid, and with it his entire body seems to come alive, relaxing from its uncanny stillness. The wolf feels a surge of happiness at the sight of him.
"I knocked a few times, then figured you were still out."
Harry comes closer on silent paws, keeping his eyes trained on him.
For once the man's gaze is uncertain. "You told me I didn't know what I was offering. Well, then I want to know. Can you understand me?"
Harry blinks once. Yes.
"Okay." Tom leans down and buries his hands into Harry's pelt. His hands are cool and gentle. His touch is very welcome. "Okay," he repeats.
He strokes Harry softly, almost reverent. Possibly no other vampire has ever touched a werewolf so gently, secure in the knowledge that he will leave with all his limbs intact. Does that say something about the vampire, or the wolf? It's a stark difference from how people have reacted since finding out Harry's true identity.
An astonishment.
At last, he allows the shift leave him. Paws turn back to hands and feet, his spine arches then flattens out. Fur recedes into the messy hair, curling over his sweaty nape.
Tom quickly sheds his coat and wraps Harry in it. Any fabric should feel too coarse on his bare skin, but somehow he doesn't mind this. It smells of Tom.
"You may come in," he says, raspy. Everything around him looks strange and blurry, as if he's seeing things from underwater. All sensations feel dampened, but he feels on the edge of being overwhelmed. Hyper-sensitive.
"Thank you." Invitation obtained, Tom steps past the threshold. He peers around at the recently refurbished interior. "So this is where you live."
Harry leans against Tom as he surveys his surroundings with tired eyes. He had taken out a good chunk of his first paycheck to make this place inhabitable again. His godfather had left it to him, and he wasn't much for sprucing up his living accommodations. Sirius hated Grimmauld Place, and as soon as he could afford it he and Remus had moved out to their cottage in the countryside.
Harry never much cared about what people thought about him or where he lives or how much money he makes—which is nothing to sneeze at anyway; Puddlemere pays its players very well—but suddenly he finds himself hoping this home passes muster. Decades of grime have been purged from every corner, and the heirloom silver has been put in storage because Harry doesn't fancy burning himself every time he so much as trips. The furnishings too have been updated. The furniture is tasteful, modern, and, above all, comfortable, and the place spacious enough. The windows are open to let in the moonlight, lending every surface an almost ethereal, otherworldly cast.
Tom takes his hand, and the movement jars Harry into turning to him. "Tom. Are you sure?"
Tom sets his bag down, and draws Harry into his arms, disregarding his bare feet, his muddy, dishevelled state. His touch is a cool balm, solid and unshakeable.
"You asked me this once before. Have I ever given you any reason to doubt me?"
"No. But you hadn't seen me then. You couldn't possibly have known what you were getting into, and for the most part I could pass as human. I wouldn't... begrudge you... if you decided this was too much. The stakes are higher for you. You have a lot to lose."
"Harry." One hand comes up to cup his grubby cheek. "You can pass as human, because for the most part, you are. I drink human blood to survive. Experts on soul magic tell me my kind don't have one. Just because I don't gambol around the woods once a month doesn't make me any more human than you. I haven't changed my mind."
Harry smacks his arm, half-heartedly chiding. "That's because you're not taking this seriously."
"Oh, but I am. Come on then, where's your bathroom?"
Harry guides him—or he guides Harry, since he's mostly holding him up at this point—to the landing on the second floor. Tom runs the hot water with just a dribble of cold, tsks at the selection of soaps, and then dumps entirely too much bubble bath in.
Then he strips.
Harry wakes up enough to blink in shock, but Tom only steps inside the scalding water—shapely ass momentarily on display—and beckons him over with a half-lidded glance thrown carelessly over his shoulder.
So Harry sheds his borrowed coat and swipes as much of the grass and dirt and twigs from his feet and calves. At a gesture from Tom, he turns so that his back is to him, and then he too sinks gratefully into the water.
He's already pink-cheeked from the heat, but Tom remains pale as ever. Vapour rises up between them. Tom slips closer, and slides soapy fingers into his hair. Already Harry feels more human than before, as if he's being purified, as if he's sloughing off more than the detritus from the run.
Through the wispy fog Tom's eyes seem to flash red. His chest is pressed up against Harry's back now, and he takes Harry's hand and laces their fingers together, causing ripples to arc through the surface. Soapy water slops over the lip of the tub.
"Welcome back," Tom says, gentle.