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His name is Kier Warden, pureblood, white as fucking snow, with big blue eyes and an arrogant tilt to his chin. He's got soft blonde curls and a winning smile, straight white teeth. He's perfect for the Wizengamot, the picture of abashed contrition whenever anyone turns to look at him.
"Sorry, Mr Potter," he says. "I don't know what came over me."
Except Harry knows. Because he heard the low murmur right before Warden bit him, the foul insult followed by the open disdain. He bit Harry because he can't stand that the Wizarding world loves someone who isn't perfectly white. He can't take the way the Wizarding world seemingly worships the ground Harry walks on.
Kier Warden hates him, that's why he bit him.
"We must forgive," the Wizengamot says.
Harry sees no pity. Just red robes, bringing out the red flushes on all those white cheeks. One lone black witch in the back raises her hand for a conviction. He knows some of the others are Latine like him, but passing. They hesitate but, in the end, even they raise their hands against him.
-
Dying is like falling asleep, a terrible battle that Harry knows he's going to lose long before he closes his eyes. He can feel the sting of the bite on the side of his thigh, the slippery flow of blood that covers his trousers. If he concentrates, he can still feel the heat of Warden's mouth against him, that almost gentle caress on Harry's face before he sunk his claws in.
His heart beats like a wild thing in his chest as he lays on the leaves in the Black Forest.
Once, long ago, Aunt Petunia told him a story that took place in a dark forest by the edge of a gurgling river. "La llorona," she said.
A mother who drowned her children in a stream or a river or a well. Somewhere cold and wet, with the same buzzing Harry hears now, that low humming song of a moving body of water. He can hear the rustling of the overheard branches as he lies on the cold forest floor and bleeds to death. If he closes his eyes, he can hear Aunt Petunia's long O's that felt wrong even though Harry has no memory of what they're supposed to sound like.
"She loved a man," Aunt Petunia said. "And when he left her, she killed his children. To punish him. Because she was selfish and horrid."
Harry closes his eyes and feels his heart beating rapidly in his chest, feeling the cold air in his lungs. The burns and stings on his body turn into overwhelming heat. He imagines he can hear the cry of a lone woman in the distance, a faint trembling sob that gets lost in the whistling wind.
"Selfish people must be punished," Aunt Petunia said once, as she locked Harry in his cupboard. "That's what the story of la llorona is about. Punishing the selfish and cruel. For their own good."
Harry inhales and cuts off mid-breath as a stab of pain runs through his chest. It feels as though hundreds of fingers are digging their way into his chest, nails biting down to get to his heart. He can't explain the way the heat turns to cold, then to sudden unimaginable pain. He can feel his consciousness slipping, and he holds on even as he hears the rush of water at his side.
He never imagined that dying would be so difficult. Not after the first time. Not when it was as easy as breathing in that blinding white light at King's Cross. It would have been so easy to just get on the train and not come back, to disappear into the vastness of eternity. But he'd thought of Ron and Hermione, of the Weasleys, of everyone who waited for him at Hogwarts.
They don't wait for him anymore. Everyone has moved on post-war. There's nothing that requires Harry's immediate help. He could close his eyes, could give into the numbness. With or without him, the Wizarding world will keep on turning. And at the end of the day, that's what he was always fighting for. What his parents died for. What Sirius and Remus and Tonks and everyone else wanted. He could rest now. His only regret might be that he never explicitly told Ron and Hermione to pray for him.
No.
Not pray.
He wants them to remember him, to honour him, to set out his offerings every November first, to kneel at his grave and place bright orange marigolds on his tomb. He wants them to remember his parents, his grandparents. But he supposes Aunt Petunia has that covered. She always remembered her parents.
Every November first, she placed the little altar in front of the saints and lined up the pictures of her parents among the orange flowers. In the leftover spaces, she placed minced meat pies, little lemon tarts, small pies, cups of cocoa. Sometimes, if she got lucky and found the right kind of chili peppers, she made mole. The whole house smelled like spices on those days, fragrant and almost sweet, until Aunt Petunia roasted the garlic and the sesame seeds. Harry watched her from whatever corner he could find, watched the way the sweat beaded on pale her forehead, the way Aunt Petunia's hands moved as though she'd been born to make mole on Dia de los Muertos.
She never ate what she made, always put the mole on the centre of the altar and stepped away so that she could pretend Harry didn't see her wiping her eyes. He understood her best in those moments, could swear he felt a kinship with her tears, with her reverent fingers as she wiped the edges of the bowl clean. He could almost feel the cloth under his fingers as she smoothed down the creases on the altar, the smooth slide of the glass as she wiped the picture frames.
Aunt Petunia never said anything on November first, not about her parents, not about how neither Lily's nor James's photographs ever made an appearance. For the longest time, all Harry had growing up were the pictures of his grandparents that he saw once a year. He lived for the end of October and the beginning of November, for that sense of belonging that washed over him whenever he saw his grandmother's deep creases by the sides of her mouth. She had honey brown eyes, crescent moon eyes, with monolids and barely-there eyebrows. The streaks of grey in her dark hair almost appeared burgundy in the right kinds of lights.
Harry’s grandfather was taller than her, with dark brown skin, thinner and prouder. He was the one with the green eyes, with Harry's eyebrows. They were beautiful, every curve of his grandparents' faces, their wide noses, their eyes, their brown skin. Every year Harry saw those pictures and felt seen, felt connected, as though some part of his grandparents lived in him. As though he could feel the roots of their ancestry in the downturned corners of his own mouth.
Aunt Petunia never put up Lily’s picture, never laid out an offering for her, never spoke her name. But Harry saw her anyway, once he was old enough to know what she looked like. Lily lived on in her mother's smile, in her father's green eyes. She was there despite Aunt Petunia, every inch of her present in those pictures that Aunt Petunia cleaned so diligently. Lily was Harry. Lily was her parents. She existed despite everything. Despite Aunt Petunia's attempts to erase her. So even though Lily never made it onto Aunt Petunia's altars, Harry knew she was there, brown and beautiful, with her father's green eyes and her mother's strange blend of brown and deep red in her hair. Nothing like Aunt Petunia, who was pale down to her lips, who burned and never took on any colour in the summer.
Every year, Harry looked at Aunt Petunia's altar and saw his grandparents and his mother. And every year, Aunt Petunia stood in front of the same altar, the one she put together so carefully, and Harry knew, the way some people just know, that she couldn't find herself. He feels sorry for her even as he lays dying in Schwarzwald, trying to remember whether he ever told Ron and Hermione to set out an altar for him.
Maybe they'll do it anyway. Maybe Ron will remember the way Harry sets out his altars, how he starts on October twenty-eighth, the day for violent deaths. His death will be violent, so at least he won't come back alone. At least when it's time, his parents will be with him.
-
Harry doesn't kill the man. Even wolfed out and hungry, starving beyond anything he's ever experienced, he doesn't hurt the man. He wouldn't. Ever. But the story they tell the next morning outs him: Chosen One. Werewolf. One Man Down. Skeeter says he's responsible for the death of the man in Glasgow, says it was because Harry didn't take his potion. Neglect. He's at fault.
He's a fool, honestly. He thinks they're going to treat him differently and he's surprised when they don't. They call him a murderer, no mention of forgiveness. They send a team of Aurors, dozens of them, because they think he won't come quietly. His trial is a farce: the same red robes, the same flushed faces that let Warden go.
"I didn't kill him," Harry says.
"Your magic signatures were all over the body," they say.
"I didn't kill him."
"No, Mr Potter, not yet. He's in St. Mungo's, recovering from the attack. He's not likely to make it."
"See," he says. "I'm not a murderer."
"No," the witch at the front says. "But you will be."
She has Umbridge's squirrely face, her pink cheeks and blue eyes.
"It's too dangerous for you to be free. And understand where we're coming from, Mr Potter. Our heroes can't be above the law."
"Warden went free," Harry says. "We had proof he bit me and he went free."
"Different circumstances," they say. "Different outcomes."
The sole black witch in the back meets his eyes, her mouth pulled into a thin line. She's furious. Harry can smell the anger on her, hot and vibrant. It stirs something in him, a sense of understanding and belonging. She knows this isn't fair. She might be the only one.
"Okay," he says. "Fine. I get it. Let me at least pack my stuff."
"Only because it's you, Mr Potter," the witch at the front says. "But we'll send an Auror to escort you."
Harry scoffs. "It's Auror Potter," he says. "I haven't been fired."
She doesn't say anything else, but Harry can see the yet clear as day in her eyes.
-
Harry knows he doesn't stand a chance. He's a werewolf and he looks like his mother's son. He has her green eyes and her brown skin, the downturned mouth, the high cheekbones, every inch of him screaming where her family came from. He carries a little bit of his dad too, in the shape of his nose and the frizziness of his hair. That he looks like them makes it worse and he doesn't know what to do with it.
He can't help but feel bothered by his sudden hunger, by that need to have and take and want. It runs deep in his bones, all wolf. It isn't him. It's the bite and the curse, the desperation, the growling, the possessing. He hates it. He hates how he fits into stereotypes because of it, confirms that people who look like him are dangerous and violent.
He isn't monstrous. He isn't a savage. He's newly turned and afraid, and he hurts deep in his soul at how lonely he is. So fucking alone in this fight. He can't ask anyone to give up more than they have. He can't ask Hermione to run away with him. He can't ask Ron to leave her unprotected. He can't take Dean from his happy life, his ever prosperous climb up the Auror ranks. They made it, got themselves good jobs at the Ministry, worked their way up the ladder slowly to get to positions of power. Hermione is aiming to be Minister for Magic and Dean's trying to head the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. He can't ask them to give that up. He can't even ask Fleur because she doesn't deserve to go on the run. She has children and he won't make more orphans.
Besides, he'll need allies on the inside.
But the loneliness stings. It simmers underneath his skin and reminds him of all those cold nights with the Dursleys, the way he would crawl into bed and close his eyes just to see a different kind of darkness. He walked the school hallways by himself, all the other children too afraid of Dudley to talk to him. Even when Dudley went to a different school and Harry went to Hogwarts, every summer he came back to that house, he was alone. Aunt Petunia was so close, the last link to his dying family, and still further than anything else in Harry's life.
When he said goodbye to her for the last time, when they stood across from each other, her brown eyes meeting his green ones, both of them knowing they would never see each other again, he felt a part of him die. He knows what that feels like now, knows that horrible emptiness, that agonizing pain like nothing he's ever felt before. Aunt Petunia left and took his grandparents with her, took her stories, no matter how cruel, and took Dudley with his sharp cheekbones and his barely there eyebrows.
Harry has nothing now. No friends he's willing to drag into his new mess. No family. Nothing but Dawlish beside him, refusing to look at Harry, but with his wand held high.
"They're passing a new Regulation Act," Dawlish says, as they turn down Grimmauld Place.
Harry left his trunk upstairs near the foot of his bed this morning. He'd been unpacking the last of his clothes from his trip to Germany, fighting against the roiling need in his stomach. If he stopped what he was doing for too long, he started thinking of Ginny, of her warm mouth and her soft hands, of Cho and the way she liked to pull on Harry's hair when she kissed him. He even thought of Cedric, how he'd touched Harry's shoulder during their fourth year, how he'd pressed up against Harry during the final task, how hard his muscles had been under Harry's hands. He can't help it, can't help the way his control leaves him. The wolf lives under his skin, in his body, and it wants.
Harry can smell the apprehension on Dawlish, how he both wants to speak and stay silent, and that indecision sparks something in Harry. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps this white man standing next to him is going to prove Harry wrong.
"The voting is tonight, expedited because of your unfortunate case," Dawlish says, twirling his wand once before raising it higher and aiming it at Harry. "Creatures are going to be classified as Beasts or Beings on a case-by-case basis. From what I understand, Keir Warden will be classified as Being based on his remorse for what he did to you. Creatures who fought at the Battle of Hogwarts, unfortunately, will be classified as Beasts. There was a very convincing explanation from the Head of the Department for Magical Creatures. Something about needing to follow orders...laws... especially in times of great stress. The regulation applies to anyone who fought in the Battle of Hogwarts, even if they weren't a creature at the time."
Dawlish lets the sentence hang and Harry thinks of Lavender, of the deep gashes in her stomach as she fought for life on the dirty floor of the Entrance Hall. He wants to ask about Bill Weasley, but he thinks of handsome Bill and his boyish grin, his red hair and freckles, and Harry knows Bill will have no problem in this new world. At least Victoire will be safe. At least Fleur will be safe.
"Beasts don't have rights," Harry says, more to himself than to Dawlish.
"Nor any stake in Wizarding matters," Dawlish agrees. "They're lucky enough to only need to be concerned with following orders."
Anger sits heavy as stone in Harry's stomach. He can feel heat rising to his chest. He shudders as the night air blows over him, inhaling through his rage. He can smell Dawlish's satisfaction, a faint trace of fear, and a thick current of something that could almost be arousal. Harry presses his lips together, fighting back the growl that grows in his throat. Dawlish likes that he has his wand pointed at Harry, that Harry's helpless to fight back, that he has the upper hand.
"Be careful what you do, Potter," Dawlish says, motioning to the fist curled at Harry's side. "Law fifteen B. Any attack by a magical creature who is deemed to have near-human intelligence and, therefore, considered responsible for its actions, carries with it a penalty of death."
"That's not what that law says," Harry says, baring his teeth at Dawlish.
They've stumbled closer to the Number Twelve, the front steps materialising in front of Harry even as Dawlish remains oblivious.
Dawlish laughs, but it sounds forced. He darts his eyes to the right, at the cluster of trees in the park across from Number Twelve. Harry doesn't turn to follow his gaze but he can smell the other Aurors hiding in the shadows. He tries to think of who might have been sent on this mission and wonders whether it'll be many or just a few.
"They wouldn't kill me," Harry says, knowing that they would.
His name wasn't enough to save him from his sentencing. His name will not be enough to stop his execution. He may be the Chosen One. He may be The Boy Who Lived. But at the end of the day, he is his parents' son. His skin and his features, and the wolf that lives in his chest and hungers for chaos, will undoubtedly be his undoing.
But he is his parents' son and if nothing else, he will not go down without a fight.
"I won't go quietly," Harry says. "There are enough people in Britain who believe in me."
He thinks of Dean Thomas's grandmother, standing at the gates of Hogwarts, her dark eyes looking past the crumbling castle to Harry walking out of the Forbidden Forest.
"Messiah," she said, crossing herself.
He thinks of Ron and Hermione. Of Dean Thomas. He thinks of that black witch sitting in the last chair during his trial, and the futility of her rage. He thinks of Lavender Brown, of Teddy. Of Remus. Of Sirius, cast aside despite his name.
Remus had it harder than Sirius, even though Sirius was also a pariah of the Wizarding World. At least Sirius was forgiven, a hero when the truth came out. Remus never got the chance, never fit into the incredibly narrow mould the Wizarding world left him. He was Latino and looked it, golden brown skin and high-cut cheekbones, with eyes so dark Harry always thought he could see himself in them. There was never a chance, not even post-war, it seems.
"Don't do this," Dawlish says, lifting his wand, bending his wrist.
Harry holds out his left hand, his right still closed into a tight fist. "Accio wand," he says.
It comes flying from the direction of the park, whipping through the darkness to land in Harry's outstretched hand. They're fools for bringing it with them, for giving him this weapon.
"I won't let you do this," Harry says, raising his voice for the rest of the group. "Not after everything."
Then, with a flash of bright light, he's gone.
-
Harry picks Draco because there's no one else. Because Draco deserves it for all that he's done, because Harry couldn't care less what happens to him. Because he has no qualms about leaving Draco to this fate. Besides, what does Draco have to live for but a shitty job taking cases no one else wants.
"Let me go," Draco says.
It's their second week on the run, and like all the other days, Harry sits in the centre of the Weasleys' tent, on their plush vibrant orange carpet, while Draco perches on the edge of the bed, his wrists locked in chains. The whole place reeks of fear, something warm that flows through Harry like water. He can smell Draco in everything: the sting of his spicy cologne, the sweat that pools on his neck, the heat of his unwashed body.
Harry has no plan aside from making sure that Regulation Twenty-Eight doesn't pass. He left with a bang, left his mark on the front of the Ministry steps in bright red letters, the colour so vibrant it was almost blood. Let them brand him a monster. Let them call him a savage. Let them think that he will tear apart anyone who displeases him. He wants them to fear him. He wants them to know he's coming, that he will break down the Ministry with his bare hands. Not revenge, but a renaissance. A rebirth. They're building a new world, even if he has to force it into place with violence.
"Are you going to hurt me?" Draco asks.
He asks the same question every day, and every day, it sounds more assessing, as though Draco might be able to see through Harry's fake bravado. The truth is, Harry's tired down to his bones, revolted by the things they've written in the papers. They say he tore apart a Veela who was only doing her duty by reporting him. They say he buried his claws in a wolf pack leader who didn't want to join his desperate crusade, his vile gang.
The only thing that's saved him so far is that no one seems to have noticed that Draco's travelling with him. It means that he can take Polyjuice without worrying, hurrying down to clandestine meetings in dirty alleys. He saw Hermione two weeks ago, the last communication he's going to have with her for a while. Twenty werewolves and a group of vampires turned up dead in the Forest of Dean a week after Harry left. Lavender's gone into hiding and Andromeda took Teddy to the countryside. Slowly, the wolves are leaving. The merpeople haven't been seen since the confrontation with the Aurors the day after Harry went on the run. He can't remember the last time anyone mentioned the centaurs.
"The full moon is coming," Draco says.
He has Harry's attention even though all Harry does is lean back on his hands, legs splayed open as he looks at the ceiling of their tent. They'll head to the Forest of Dean once everything is ready, once Harry gets word from Dean that the time is right.
"It'll be October twenty-eight in two days," Harry says, conversationally.
He's restless already. Even if he didn't keep track of the moon's cycle, his body would let him know. Every smell is sharper. His skin is more sensitive. A mere brush against something makes him shiver. Draco is so close, the confined space of their tent doing nothing to mask his scent.
Draco smells like everything Harry's ever wanted, like home and peace, like desire and want. His smell calls to the wolf in Harry, to that raw unashamed need that has made a home in Harry since Warden bit him. But Harry hasn't touched Draco. He won't. No matter what he might feel, no matter what the wolf wants, Harry will not be like Warden. He won't lose control. He's not a monster.
"Where are you going?" Draco asks, as Harry springs to his feet.
"Out," Harry says, reaching for the flask in his cloak.
He reaches out a hand and Draco already knows. He leans into Harry's touch as Harry runs his fingers through Draco's hair. He makes a fist at the back of Draco's head, pretends he doesn't hear Draco's sharp intake of breath as Harry pulls on his hair. He takes a single blond strand, drops it into his flask, and waits for the potion to stop bubbling before he takes a drink.
Once the transformation is over, he leaves without a word, pretending that he can't still smell Draco's arousal, thick and honey-sweet in the back of Harry's throat.
-
Harry sets up his altar on the twenty-eighth, using the pillowcases as tablecloths. He places a picture of his mother on the left side, says her name, greets her as he lays lilies around her photo. He couldn't find marigolds, and it's not wise to stay out longer than he has to. Someone is bound to notice Draco missing eventually, and then Harry will have to be even more careful.
"I'm sorry," he tells his mother, knowing Draco can hear him, as he arranges the pastries he's brought and a single orange. "I only have water this time, and there were no marigolds. But I found coconut."
He turns to the right side of the table, to where his father's picture winks out at him, one hand raised in farewell. He doesn't know what his father would have liked to eat, but he asked Parvati once and she told him he can't go wrong with dosas and coconut chutney.
"Unless you're allergic to coconut," she said when she handed him the recipe.
"I couldn't cook anything this year," Harry says to his father. "And the Indian restaurant I went to didn't seem authentic. We're on the run, you understand. Can't afford to go too far. I promise I'll have something better next year."
His father nods and Harry wonders if the spells on the photographs are wearing off, keeping his parents from speaking to him. Or if, perhaps, it's him. Perhaps his parents don't wish to talk to him. Perhaps they can sense that he's a werewolf.
He pushes the thought away as soon as it comes, ashamed that he doubted his father. He never abandoned Remus. There's no reason his father would abandon him either. But Harry thinks maybe his parents understand that this moment, the altars and the offerings, require a certain silence. Moments of remembrances must come with quiet to allow room for the memories, for the pain and the laughter, for the longing and the loss. Harry needs the peace of a frozen moment.
He watches his father go to the edge of his frame to look at the dishes Harry's laid out. He sees his mother's approving smile, his father's mischievous smirk. He didn't bring his father marigolds either. Instead, he surrounds his father's photograph with red hibiscus and a single white lily. In the centre of the table, he places his favourite photo. Then he leans back to take in his work.
When Harry first saw a picture of his father, he wept openly. He's his mother's son, he thought, but maybe he does look like his father. Maybe the colour of his dark brown skin comes from James as well. Maybe that unruly black hair is James's too, just a little. Just enough.
He knows neither the Indian part of his heritage nor the long-forgotten Latine one. But he looks at his parents in his favourite photograph, twirling under the falling Autumn leaves, and he sees himself in them. He's their legacy, a boy who saved the world and had it turned against him. He can't even begin to imagine what his parents faced, what cruel things Lily had to brush off, what James avoided because of his money, his privilege.
Harry is their son.
He will make them proud.
-
In the end, giving in is easier than fighting. Harry would know. He spent years fighting the Dursleys, fighting so that Aunt Petunia's loneliness didn't eat him alive. He knows that fighting takes energy and time, and he can't afford to be distracted when the time comes to fight back. He promised the Veela in Brussels that he would do everything in his power so that her children wouldn't grow up orphans. He promised that he would protect her from the Ministry of Magic. He failed her.
He will not do so again.
"You want me," Harry says.
They've been on the run for four weeks now and the full moon lingers in Harry's body, making him bold, making him honest. He can smell the way Draco reacts to his words, and Harry doesn't bother stopping the curl of warmth low in his stomach. He can almost taste Draco's hot skin under his mouth. He doesn't need to imagine what Draco sounds like when he comes. The chains have long since been put away and Draco has needs, things he handles quietly when he thinks Harry's asleep.
Draco is a distraction, a most unexpected but prominent one. He's got into Harry's head. The way he moves, the way his hair falls over his face, the way he inhales a little too loud whenever Harry gets too close. It's dangerous to desire Draco this much, especially when the moon is so close, when Harry feels the need deep in his body, when he wants nothing more than to close the distance between them and take Draco right where he sits on the floor.
Harry made promises, and there's word that the giants are coming, that the goblins have left Gringotts. He can feel the beginnings of an uprising in every whispered exchange in every dark alley he's been to over the last few days. There's work to be done, things to prepare for when Dean gives the word. He doesn't have time for Draco, for the way he wants, unrepentant. Besides, an itch scratched is an itch no more, and what better way to get rid of Draco Malfoy than to have him.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Draco says, but his voice wavers.
He says nothing when Harry steps forward, when he places his hand on Draco's throat.
"I want you," Harry says.
Honesty is easy when it's just him and Draco, when he can smell the truth of his own words. There's nothing to fear in the tent, in this part of Britain. There's only Draco and the way he doesn't flinch, the way he moves his head back when Harry digs his fingers into his throat. Harry runs his thumb up Draco's Adam's apple, watching the red his fingers leave behind on Draco's skin, listening to Draco's quiet almost-whimpers.
There's nothing to fear. Nothing but Draco on his knees as Harry presses down on his shoulders. It's only Draco with him. Draco who has nothing, who nobody misses. There's no one else who Harry can trust with his secrets, no one else who is as easy as Draco, who smells exactly right. Harry has the power here, so it's safe.
"It's okay," he says, as Draco looks at him, his grey eyes wide and his mouth slightly open.
This is what Harry has to offer, reassurances and promises he can't hope to keep. There is another war coming, months on the run, days filled with Draco's smell, with his red lips and his soft pants. This is all there is for either of them.
"I've got you," Draco says, his words soft but his voice unwavering.
His hands rest on the band of Harry's trousers, asking for permission, waiting to see what Harry will say.
Harry has work to do, but he reaches down anyway, his fingers tangling with Draco's as he unbuttons his trousers.
"I've got you," Draco says again.
There's nothing else for it, Harry thinks as Draco finally puts his mouth on him. Nothing to do but wait for the right time. Nothing to do but trust this man because aside from Draco, who else is there? Without Draco, what does Harry have left?