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Harry felt wolfish. That was the only word he could use that sounded right in his own head, as much as he hated it. Of course, he felt wolfish, he was a werewolf, after all.
It was difficult to ignore, more difficult than he would have expected it to be. How Remus had managed to restrain himself from clawing all his skin off and running into the night due to sensory overwhelm, Harry will never know.
He feels constantly uneasy now, vulnerable in a way he’s never experienced. Harry has been vulnerable many times in his life, physically vulnerable to the kicks and shoves of school children and his cousin Dudley. As well as mentally vulnerable to wizards, like during his failed occlumency lessons with Snape, or when Voldemort had invaded his mind.
Harry is quite accustomed to the feeling of vulnerability, grown used to the knowledge that he is in constant danger. But this, this is distinctly different from all those other times. Harry feels the need to prowl, to stalk the very edges of his territory while bearing his canines and growling fiercely to warn off any potential threats.
He feels the need to make his house a home. To fill it with soft colorful blankets and quilts. To stock up on all the best foods, and treats, and herbal teas. His wants to make his living space inviting, comfortable enough to make one want to sit down and stay for a while, stay for a long while, maybe even forev-
No, no, no. Harry’s not going to let himself fall down that spiral of thoughts. He’s already been spending all of his time and energy lately trying to do anything to fend off the odd mix of yearning, fear, and anticipation that has settled stubbornly in his chest, right over his fast-pounding heart.
It's times like these that have Harry cursing the way the magical world, more specifically the magical education system, is set up. There are very limited resources available in all of the ministry of magic that document the life cycle and instinctual urges of werewolves that is not written from the perspective of a hunter tracking one down to kill.
Harry had tried to use what was given to him, to glean even just a bit of information about his condition from these accounts, but the writing just made him feel sick to his stomach. The single-minded focus and determination of the hunter, the blatant blood lust evident in his descriptions of what he calls “The Beast”. Even when the werewolf is just a man, in the eyes of this hunter, he is merely a beast in disguise.
He couldn't bring himself to keep reading on his own, and he didn't want to subject anyone else to this. Even Hermione who would jump at the chance to learn information on a subject that is not available to the general wizarding public, closely guarded files that had to have two aurors assist in their transport from the archives in the basement.
Imagining her big, sad, brown eyes gazing up at Harry with unhidden sorrow and compassion, like she looks at so many creatures and people that she deems worthy and in need of her care and protection, it makes Harry want to pull her close and tuck her under his chin where he can nuzzle his face into her bushy coiled ringlets until she stops smelling so sad for him.
And there was that thing again, that reason that he was driving himself half out of his mind.
He had too many senses. He could smell everything. Not just the roast that Molly was cooking two floors down at the burrow when he stayed there over the holidays. Or the smelly socks that Ron takes off and leaves all over his place every time he visits, only for Harry to find wedged between his couch cushions several days later.
He could also smell things that humans should definitely not be able to smell. And it wasnt that Harry could actually smell people's emotions, that would be ridiculous, no, he can just smell the small physical indicators of most emotions. Like the clean salt sting of tears when someone close to him is trying not to cry, for example. Or how he can nearly feel the heat of skin when someone else is angry, flushing with emotion and setting off his newly highly sensitive senses. Or, and this was certainly the most embarrassing one to discover, the heady thick scent of fluid arousal as it leaves someone's body.
And it wasn’t just his sense of smell that had changed, oh no, lots of things changed. Like his eyesight, he didn't need his glasses anymore, but now everything seemed to be ultra sharp, hyper pigmented, permanently zoomed in tunnel vision. It was extremely disorienting, and even nauseating at times, especially in those first few weeks after his transformation.
He was stronger, faster, seemed to pick up muscle now like it was second nature, like it was what his body wanted to do, like it was preparing for something important and physically strenuous.
He was hungrier, but he was also more…forgetful. He could go hours upon hours not eating anything, losing himself in tasks such as chopping firewood, or picking plants in the forest that could be used in various healing and regeneration potions.
He was perfectly fine ignoring every physical need he had in those hours, but as soon as he got back in the house and sat himself down at the table, it was like he suddenly remembered that food existed and he was famished. He would gorge himself every meal, eating about three times the serving that he used to, and sometimes even that wasn't enough to satiate the burning, ravenous hunger brewing in his gut.
Harry also had a different sort of hunger, these days. He had always been a fairly healthy man, when it came to desire, it came and it went as it is wont to do, and Harry has never felt much shame in regards to his sexual preferences, whether that be his sexual affinity for the male persuasion, or his personal fantasies.
But now, now Harry almost felt frightened by his own need, both its intensity coupled with its steadfastness, as well as the specific things he longed for. Harry wanted to grab on tight, dig his fingers in and leave behind purpling marks, he wanted to hold him down and nuzzle and rut and purr and growl and bite until he was all his, Harry wanted to possess, with his whole being. Every ounce of him needed it like a dying man needed water in the middle of the Sahara.
So, he invited Malfoy over.
Not to do anything weird, obviously. Malfoy just happens to be a very skilled potioneer and he and Harry are friendly enough these days that it's not odd for Harry to invite him over. And perhaps Malfoy could suggest a potion that he thinks might help with whatever is wrong with Harry. Malfoy is an expert in these things, after all. He was very knowledgeable, he would make a wonderful teacher. A good mentor, someone to look up to, a good fath-
And that was a knock on the door, perfect timing.
Harry sprinted to the door on quick feet, yanking it open with perhaps a bit too much force if the way the hinges squeak in protest.
For some reason Harry didn’t say anything, instead he just watched, watched Malfoy with what he knew without having to see was a hungry gaze heavy with intensity. It feels a bit like he could burn a hole right through the other man if he really concentrated. He doesn’t do that, instead he lets himself drink in Malfoys appearance, soaking him in like fresh water on a painfully parched tongue. Malfoy looked amazing, his skin was a glow, pale and unblemished but for the pale pink settled over the tops of his cheeks and the tips of his ears, and oh what cute ears they were. Harry had never thought much about ears before, but now standing before Malfoy and his utterly adorable ears he had a strange sudden burning hope that their children would have his ears.
Uh oh.
“Ahem” Malfoy finally broke the stretched silence between them, clearing his throat in a way that managed to be both delicate and clearly expressing his awkwardness at this moment.
Right, he invited him over, Harry almost forgot. “Please, come in.” Harry’s voice was deep and surprisingly gravelly when he spoke, sounding less like he was inviting a friend inside his home and more like he was pleading with a higher power to let him have something, just this one thing all to himself.
Harry was actually surprised when Malfoy complied with his lascivious plea and walked inside, having a moment to look around and notice Harry’s new ultra comfy surroundings before Harry was practically pushing him towards the sofa with too many pillows piled on top of it. He shoves Malfoy down into the fluffy masses, immediately throwing a deep maroon blanket over his lap that Molly had knitted for him a few years back, just before he moved out to live on his own.
Harry let himself take a moment to smile proudly at the sight of Malfoy on his couch cozied up with his blanket just like he should be.
“Do you want tea?” Harry asks suddenly, having an intense urge to provide, to prove he can take care of the other man and be an adequate partner.
“What?” Malfoy asks, blinking up at him in bewilderment, looking like he was mostly still trying to figure out how this blanket got on him.
“Tea” Harry says again, bustling into the kitchen quickly to gather up all the jars of various leaves and spices he’s been steadily collecting, he knew they had a purpose, Harry puffed his chest up proudly at the thought. “I have quite a few kinds so you can choose to your liking, perhaps something soothing?” he calls back to Malfoy, quite unsubtly suggesting that he relax and stay for a bit. Or maybe longer than a bit. A very long bit. Hmmm yes that sounds good, something in Harry’s head rumbled delightedly.
Harry begins on making a ginger snap and apple cinnamon tea without waiting for his reply, he’s hoping it will make Malfoy feel so warm and content here that he will have no choice but to stay.
Harry brings the mug back to Malfoy where he is still obediently sitting on the sofa, not a limb out of place since the last time Harry looked at him. He was perfect. Harry pushes the cup into Malfoys hands, who fumbles a bit before stabilizing and somehow managing to not spill the drink.
He sits himself down on the couch right next to the other man, perhaps a little closer than he would normally think is appropriate between friends, or at least him and Malfoy. Harry has always intentionally left a little bit of distance between himself and Malfoy, especially if they were alone, now Harry’s wondering why in the bloody hell he ever thought that was a good idea, because this is absolutely better.
He presses his side into Malfoy, nearly tipping him over with the strength he unintentionally puts into the motion. Like this he gets to feel every shift and breath from Malfoy, feel how he rubs up against him, how their skin is so very close to touching.
“Harry!” Harry startles back from whatever trance he had briefly slipped into. Malfoy is staring at him with wide perplexed eyes and not a small amount of wariness in his expression. He had set his steaming mug of tea down on the nearest table at some point while Harry was out of it, and was now angled more towards Harry, hesitantly reaching out his hands as if not sure he should touch Harry right now.
He couldn't help himself at that point, he was so so very close and just barely reaching for him, how could Harry not reach back? He snatches up Malfoys hands before he can take them back and cradles them close to his chest, leaning forward so his forehead brushes against Malfoys in intimate caress for something so physically innocent. Harry felt vulnerable again, so so vulnerable. But he wanted to be vulnerable with him, wanted to show Malfoy all of his deepest little crevices and smush him into those spots so he could keep him there with him at all times. To carry around pieces of Malfoy in the darkest parts of himself suddenly sounds like the definition of belonging.
“Harry, what's going on?” and though his voice was steady and sure, Harry could tell that he was a bit afraid of the answer based on how quiet and calm the words were.
“I-I just…” Harry whined in the back of his throat, frustrated with himself for not being able to say the words that he desperately knew were true. He was his mate, Draco was his mate, he was sure of it.
Draco caught Harry’s reluctant eye, forcing him to let him see him. He could obviously tell that Harry was overwhelmed and distressed because the muscles in his jaw and forehead softened, rigid lines melting into something smooth and curving that just made Harry want to run his fingers all along the expanses of his face in reverent strokes.
“Tell me what you need.”
Harry’s breath caught in his chest, he doesn’t mean…he can’t really be letting Harry have this, can he?
“Touch you,” he manages on a gasp after air finally returns to his lungs. “I need to touch you, please.”
Again, Draco shocks him by accepting easily, nodding his head once to signal his consent.
Harry dives in, desperate and clinging, starting by rubbing his face viciously into Draco’s neck, happily leaving a pink rash from his scratchy stubble.
While his hands take their time languidly sweeping up and down his sides, under his sweater and over the hem of his pants over his thin hips, that he takes a moment to appreciate in his grip, thumbs pushing into the bones firmly, like he could make permanent indents there simply by willing it.
He lays his entire body over Draco, curling in a bit to accommodate for his newly acquired height and bulk. He’s probably crushing him a bit but the man under him doesn’t say a word, just sinks his long skillful hands into Harry's hair and holds.
Whether he’s holding Harry where he is or holding onto Harry is unclear, but either way he feels a purr pick up in his lower vocal cords at the implication that Draco needs to hold on to Harry as close and tight as Harry needs to hold him too.
He likes feeling like he’s not alone in these thoughts and sensations that have been plaguing him recently, like maybe he’s not some savage brute that only knows how to take and take and take until there's nothing left. Maybe he could give too, he could give all of himself over to Draco, and just maybe that would be enough to let him keep this, to have this solid, anchoring connection in exchange for Harry’s soul and all of his most vital secrets. Seems fair.