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Crup-tion of the Not-So-Innocent

If you thought that befriending Draco Malfoy would be easier than defeating the Dark
Lord you’d be wrong. Harry Potter has to grow another pair of legs and a forked tail
before he can break down the frosty barrier blocking the way into Malfoy’s heart (and his
underpants).

If anyone had predicted to Harry Potter that within ten weeks of offing Voldemort he’d
have a forked tail and open permission to fondle Draco Malfoy’s naked buttocks (albeit
generally not at the same time) he’d have called them ‘bonkers’. That said, Harry was
not known for being the sharpest goblin-forged sword in the bank vault, and a similar
prediction that he might eventually kill Snakeface with a simple Disarming Charm would
probably have been greeted with the same level of gravity as any one of Trelawney’s
many visions about his untimely demise. Which was to say ‘not much’.

Yes, a lot could happen in ten weeks, not least of which was Harry finding himself a
week and a half after his victory living amongst house-elves and magical construction
operatives in the ruins of Hogwarts. In the dungeons more precisely. It hardly seemed
appropriate to him that the House most likely to have fought on Voldie’s side was the
only one whose residential space remained undamaged. But at least he had somewhere
to sleep with no windows, thus preventing a second Boy Hero sleeps in grey
underpants! revelatory feature on the front page of the Daily Prophet. Most young,
eligible wizards would have loved the attention, but sadly the underpants Harry had
been sleeping in at the time had once belonged to Dudley, which made the potential
sexiness of the photo a lot less, well, sexy. But on the bright side, he’d never need to
buy any smalls (or in Dudley’s case, bigs) again, not after the four hundred and thirty-
three and counting pairs he’d been sent by ardent admirers post-publication.

Overwhelming was the understatement of the century when it came to describing

Harry’s life immediately post-battle. There weren’t just the public appearances,
newspaper statements, memorial services and private funerals to think about. There
were also the issues of where he was going to live and how he might spend some
quality time with Ginny. Perhaps unsurprisingly both issues went pear-shaped
remarkably quickly.

Harry grabbed his very minimal sleep at The Burrow for the first couple of nights when
it was all over. Their reuniting snogs had been sheer bliss for both himself and his long-

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suffering girlfriend. However, Harry’s inability to schedule Ginny any time in his
immediate diary went down like a dose of galloping Spattergroit and was not helped in
the slightest by the aforementioned photo of the bare-chested and angelically-sleeping
Harry plastered all over the largest-circulating national paper in wizarding Britain. The
resulting tidal wave of hormonal hysteria left Ginny seething and resentful and ready to
resort to highly risqué behaviour in a bid to secure his undivided attention. Late one
evening as he stumbled out of the fireplace she frog-marched Harry to the broom shed
and pressed both his hands firmly against her braless breasts while she moved her own
attention to his trousers. Little Harry dealt with the shock much quicker than big Harry,
and was already making a break for freedom when the rickety door was yanked open
by a beige dressing-gowned, rollered and hair-netted hostess from hell, who Petrified
them both before bellowing for her husband to come and dish out a good walloping.
After the humiliation of both Mr and Mrs Weasley seeing little Harry at half mast and
cocooned in their baby daughter’s fingers, there was no option but to move out, and
he found himself sadly grateful to be away from Ginny’s accusatory eyes if not her
wandering hands.

Grimmauld Place very quickly proved to be the wrong choice for home. Without the
Fidelius Charm there was no privacy at all, and Kreacher took to indiscriminately
spearing the hoards of gathered hero-spotters with a medieval pike to keep them away
from the door. Kingsley reluctantly suggested Harry could accompany Ron and
Hermione to Australia to repatriate Mr and Mrs Granger, but the deep disappointment
in Ron’s eyes ruled out that option too. George suggested he might return to Privet
Drive, and unsurprisingly Harry offered a concise two word expletive in reply.

He found himself a bed at Hogwarts quite by accident. On returning to the school with
a group from the Ministry to do some publicity about the rebuild, he was struck by the
image of a somewhat unkempt and manic Minerva McGonagall haring about the place,
trying to keep tabs on everything at once. She looked like he felt, and he thought his
old Head of House could probably use the extra hands and moral support. Hagrid cried
like a girl when Harry told him he was moving back in, causing Grawp to growl
threateningly and Harry to hide behind Hagrid’s tree-trunk leg, just in case.

When Harry returned to Hogwarts after putting Ron and Hermione on their flight at
Heathrow he found Kingsley’s personal assistant, Jamie, waiting with case upon case of
clothes for him to choose from. Shopping in Diagon Alley - and even Muggle London for
that matter – was a major no-go thanks to the mobs of people all wanting to thank him
personally for saving them from a lifetime of Hallowe’en robes, sweaty face masks, and
macho tattoos. Having not the slightest interest in discussing the relative buttock-
enhancing values of one pair of jeans over another, Harry delegated the task to Jamie
and went to wheedle a mammoth portion of spotted dick and custard, currently
available to heroes at any hour of the night or day, out of Kreacher. Bugger Hermione
and S.P.E.W.. House-elves ruled.

Harry passed a week at Hogwarts without noticing what he was doing. He slept late,
ate everything put in front of him, and then went and busied himself on whatever was
the clear-up task du jour. The problems started when construction staff began

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bickering amongst themselves and vying to be on Harry’s team, and he was quite
thankful when McGonagall finally put an end to it by asking him to occupy himself
elsewhere.

He spent a lot of time flying until the novelty of having no competition wore off. He
even got bored enough to look at the clothes Jamie had left, which gave him a bit of a
shock. All the T-shirts seemed a size or two too small; they clung to him like a second
skin and showed his nipples and everything! It was so embarrassing! He tried casting a
localised Warming Charm on them both to keep them from getting pokey, to no avail.
In a choice between erect nipples and sweat stains the nipples won. The jeans were
better – a bit baggy – just enough to sit low on his hips but not so low that he’d need to
cinch them in with a belt. The only problem was that the tops of his underpants tended
to show above the jeans, and given their saggy state it really ruined the new look. But
then he found the ‘Jamie-approved’ underpants, selected from the sackfuls received
from Harry’s fan-club. They were certainly a bit skimpier than he was used to, and low-
riding, too. Standing in front of the mirror modelling a pair made him feel very self-
conscious about the smattering of hair that extended downwards like an arrow from
his belly button, pointing the way to the surprisingly tidy bulge encased in the moulded
front pouch. He cupped it experimentally, unable to get over the weird feeling of being
held in by his undies. It felt nice. And they went perfectly under his jeans too, so he
supposed that made them all right. Not at all gay or anything. Because underpants
couldn’t make you gay. Just because Harry couldn’t help imagining what other blokes’
bulges might look like in the same pants did not mean he was a woofter.

Over breakfast in the Hogwarts kitchen one day McGonagall asked Harry what he might
be interested in doing with himself in the run up to the school reopening the following
January. He really wanted to become an Animagus but didn’t want to tell her because
she’d make him register his form, which would ruin all the fun. He had this fantasy
about being a stag like his dad. He gave McGonagall a bland response about brushing
up on some of his neglected Transfiguration skills and smoothly changed the subject.

Later that evening when he returned to the dormitory he’d commandeered he

discovered two books on his pillow, bound together with a thin leather strap: Advanced
Theories of Transubstantial Transfiguration, and, Awakening The Animagus: A Practical
Guide To Human-Animal-Human Metamorphosis. He turned the slim volumes over in his
hands before picking the strap undone. A single folded sheet of parchment slipped out
from between the books and floated down to the bed. In a highly recognisable script
were the words,

Our little secret.

He was quite glad she wasn’t there; he’d probably have kissed her. Instead he threw on
his pyjamas and slid under the covers, reaching for the top of the two books. One page
turned, and another, and then another, until it would have required more willpower
than Harry possessed to put the book down and go to sleep. It ended up being a very

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late night.

Harry skipped going down to breakfast the next morning and reread the two chapters
from Awakening The Animagus that had left a particular impression. The first steps of
the spellwork were simplicity itself, and he ploughed through the preparatory theories
with unprecedented speed. Clearly months in a tent with Hermione had benefited him
after all. The trickiest bits were the practical application of the spells controlling mass
expansion and contraction. Without them it would be impossible to become an animal
with a greater or lesser weight than his human form, and looking down at himself,
Harry realised he’d make a pretty weedy stag if he couldn’t crack the formula. But for
once he didn’t allow his motivation to wane when he couldn’t perform the necessary
incantations correctly the first few times. Becoming an Animagus wasn’t easy; if it was
then everyone and his dog would be doing it.

And so Harry settled into a routine over the next couple of days; study and test himself
during the morning, break for lunch, walk the school with McGonagall, fly for a bit, tea,
and then more study. McGonagall didn’t prod for information on his studies and Harry
didn’t offer any, but every so often she would demonstrate a particular wand
movement and incantation for usually flimsy reasons before going on to explain the
numerous transfigurative benefits of mastering the spell. He took it all in without
saying anything, and within only a few days he knew he was on the cusp of his first real
attempt. The Forbidden Forest was alive with tree felling to build Grawp a sturdy log
shelter, so Harry’s number one choice of venue for his first transformation was ruled
out. If he was going to be a stag he’d need a decent sized open space, and the Slytherin
common room seemed a bit low and oppressive for such a large animal to move about
in. He found, or rather rediscovered, his solution on one of his afternoon walks with
McGonagall. The tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy was gone but there was no mistaking
the corridor or the doorway; the Room of Requirement was the perfect place to go.

After tea it was easy to slide off without appearing suspicious. He headed up the stairs,
running through the series of incantations in his head, full of excitement about finally
becoming a stag. But when he rounded the corner to the Room of Requirement he
could not believe his eyes.

“What are you doing here?”

Draco Malfoy stood staring at a spot somewhere between the wall and the floor just
outside the Room of Requirement. His head snapped round to face Harry, and there
was a bitter anger in his face. There were long seconds of eye contact, accusatory from
Malfoy, resenting from Harry, before Malfoy deigned to reply.

“What’s it got to do with you?” His voice wobbled and it was higher than Harry was
used to hearing. But it wasn’t coloured by distress. No, it sounded much more like fury.

“I’m interested, that’s all,” Harry said as levelly as he could, not that the expression on
Malfoy’s face relaxed as a result. He took several paces forward and Malfoy’s body
tensed.

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“I find that hard to believe,” Malfoy snapped. “You’ve never been interested before.”

Was that disappointment underneath the anger? “That’s not true, Malfoy. But it
doesn’t matter what I say because you’re not going to believe it anyway, are you?”

“Don’t tell me the thought hurts your feelings, oh great and wonderful hero,” Malfoy
railed, his tone tight with venom.

Harry watched Malfoy’s right hand twitch towards his wand. His stance altered
noticeably; he pivoted a few crucial inches until he presented himself side on, making
the potential target smaller. It was clear he’d been practicing his duelling skills. “Okay, I
won’t,” Harry offered carefully. “What are you doing here? Come to visit your friend’s
last resting place?” He meant the comment to be an olive branch, but knew as soon as
the words left his mouth that it was the wrong thing to say.

“Do you think that’s funny?” Malfoy exploded. “Just one more Death Eater wiped out,
isn’t that right, Potter.”

Harry felt the first bubbles of anger in his stomach. “It’s not remotely funny. I know
how it feels to lose a friend.”

But Malfoy wasn’t anywhere near finished. “Oh, spare me your platitudes,” he shouted,
hair flying as he whipped his head forward to emphasise his point. “As if you care.”

“Just because I wasn’t friends with Crabbe doesn’t mean I’m not sorry he’s dead.”

“It’s just one less person to worship you, isn’t it?” Malfoy drew his wand and gripped it
hard, pointing it just up from the floor.

“What is your problem?” Harry asked, lifting his hands in an attempt to diffuse the
situation.

“You. And people like you. Making it impossible for the rest of us to get on with our
lives.”

Wrong thing to say, Harry thought in the split second before he opened his mouth and
let rip. “Your life as a Death Eater, is that the one? The one where you would have been
used and then cast aside when Voldemort discovered you couldn’t kill anyone?”

“SHUT UP! You don’t know anything.”

“I know a damned sight more than you think I do.” He took a step towards Malfoy.

“Are you threatening me? The great saviour resorting to threats now, is he?” And then
Malfoy raised his wand and pointed it between Harry’s eyes. The tip quivered; up-down-
left-right, anywhere but dead centre. And just beyond the wand Harry could see

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Malfoy’s squinting eyes, the ones that meant business but were so full of fear.

“For goodness sake, Malfoy! Are you always this paranoid?” Harry took a risk. He
reached out to take hold of the shaft of Malfoy’s wand, but Malfoy jerked it out of the
way before he could reach it.

“Stay away from me, Potter. Don’t come near me, my mother, my father; any of us.”
Malfoy side-stepped Harry, so close that the hem of his robes brushed against Harry’s
shin, and bolted past him. Harry turned and watched him disappear from view, and
waited for his heart to slow down.

“Shit.” Stupid, stupid, stupid.

He moved to the door and opened it, his thoughts full of Malfoy’s words and the last
time they’d been together, on that fateful night.

It was the smell that hit him first; scorched wood and the lingering, bitter scent of
manmade materials incinerated to nothing more than resinous blobs, with a nauseating
undertone of charred meat. He stood in the open doorway, unable to move. The Room
of Hidden Things stretched out before him, lifeless and blackened, every inch of every
surface coated in a thick, sooty residue. Stacked furniture had toppled during the
inferno leaving a skeletal landscape of jutting table legs and precariously twisted metal
pipes, which had solidified mid-melt to leave grotesque shapes in the place of their
once-crafted forms. Harry couldn’t breathe. The memories of his panic-filled escape
with Malfoy in tow were crystal clear in his mind. And so were Vincent Crabbe’s
screams.

He slammed the door shut and walked away.

Harry took a meandering route to get back to the dungeons. He walked through the
common room and went straight down the narrow hallway to his room. He had a
moment to register that a light was on before he swung the door inwards and stepped
inside.

“What...?” There was Malfoy leaning over an open trunk, his outer robes discarded
across one of the untouched beds to reveal a sweat stained shirt and smart
trousers. What’s all that stuff on my bed? Harry thought.

“Get. Out.” Malfoy stood ramrod straight and ordered Harry in a voice surely learned
from his father. “Sod off back to your tower right this minute and get your filthy,
impure blood out of my House.”

“Oh, for…” Harry began but didn’t finish. He was not cranking it up all over again. “I’m
sleeping here. This is my room now. The tower’s wrecked.”

Malfoy looked aghast. “You’re...?” he said, and then paused as the cogs turned in his
brain. “That’s your junk on my bed? In my cupboard?” The shaking was back, but now it

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was accompanied by a greater degree of confidence. Malfoy puffed himself up and did
his best to appear intimidating. “What else of mine are you going to steal?”

“I haven’t stolen anything!” Harry said, outraged. “How was I to know it was your
bed?” Out of five beds what were the odds on me picking his? he thought.

“Oh, you knew,” Malfoy seethed, approaching Harry slowly, deliberately. “You knew
and you thought you’d push me out because no one would ever dare tell the great
Harry Potter he couldn’t have something. Well you’re not going to bully me. This is my
bed, my cupboard, and you’d better steer clear if you know what’s good for you.”

Harry grew defensive. “It’s not like you’re staying here,” he said, noting with horror a
hint of self-pity in his voice. “I am. I’m living here. You can bugger off to your massive
house any time you like.”

Malfoy looked like Harry had slapped him hard across the face. His eyes and mouth
widened, and it was clear he was lost for words.

And then Harry realised. “You’re living here too now,” he said. Malfoy simply continued
to stare. “Aren’t you?” Harry pressed, watching Malfoy shut down on him, the barriers
clanging into place. “Aren’t you?”

“Move your rubbish and get out of my room.” Malfoy composed himself and pointedly
turned his back on Harry.

“I will not. You move.”

“Hardly. This dorm was mine long before you came along. Find somewhere else.”
Malfoy resumed unpacking his trunk and placing the contents on Harry’s - his - bed.

All Harry could think was that there was no way he was letting Malfoy dictate the
terms. “No.”

Malfoy’s voice assumed an air of bored authority. “As you wish. Don’t leave then. But
don’t touch my things, don’t look at me, don’t talk to me, and don’t you dare snore or
disturb me in any way. Got it?” And with that he flicked his wand and the cupboard
drawers flew open and belched out all of Harry’s clothes, which landed in a heap on the
floor.

“You’re a total arsehole, you know that, right?” Harry replied as he drew his own wand
and rescued his clothes before Malfoy could walk on them. He picked the farthest bed
and re-stowed his clothes, making a bit more noise than he needed to in his anger. They
spent five or ten minutes with their backs to each other before Harry heard curtains
being drawn. He sat down and dared a peek to find that all the clothes were now gone
and Malfoy had retired for the night.

Bubbling with irritation, Harry got into his new bed and tried to get to sleep. It wasn’t

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easy – just a tiny sign of things to come, perhaps?

~*~

They woke at roughly the same time the following morning, and Harry decided to set
aside the bickering and do his best to get on with Malfoy. One of them had to make the
effort and he thought it was more than likely going to have to be him. When Malfoy
returned from his shower Harry said, “We eat meals in the kitchens seeing as there’s
not many of us living here. Do you know how to get there?”

Malfoy continued to comb his hair without turning to look at Harry. Eventually he
spoke. “I recall telling you not to speak to me. Are you so stupid that you can’t even
remember a conversation from yesterday?” His voice was back to that typical, self-
satisfied Malfoy tone.

Harry gnashed his teeth, bit back a snotty response, and left.

At the breakfast table Professor McGonagall stared hard at Harry until he was forced to
look up and acknowledge her attention. “I was half expecting to hear further structural
damage occurring yesterday evening,” she said.

“Why’s he here, Professor?” he asked, and he could hear the whiney tone in his voice.

“For protection, Harry. For the duration of his father’s trial.”

“But I thought he’d go to Durmstrang or something.”

“Hardly a wise move when trying to convince the Wizengamot of one’s eagerness to
renounce an affiliation with the Dark arts.” She sipped her tea calmly and continued to
survey his reaction.

“But,” he moaned, “but he’s a prat!”

“Think what you might have called Mr Creevey once upon a time,” McGonagall said,
“and look how well he turned out.” There wasn’t much Harry could say to that. “I’m
trusting you to do the right thing by the boy, Harry,” she continued, and that’s when he
knew he was lost. McGonagall’s trust was inviolate.

“Okay, Professor,” he agreed reluctantly.

He couldn’t wait to get to the Room of Requirement and spend some time on his own.

~*~

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In two hours of trying to transform Harry had worked up quite a sweat. He’d felt a few
tingles in his limbs, and he was starting to get a headache. He sat down on a grassy
bump and leaned back against the trunk of an oak tree while he caught his breath and
stared up through the canopy of branches to the fake sky above. In the days he’d been
going to the Room of Requirement to practice he’d not seen Malfoy in the vicinity
again. In fact he hadn’t seen much of Malfoy full stop. He was like a ghost, making the
odd noise but otherwise doing his best to be invisible, and Harry was fine with that. It
made him easier to deal with, and it also made Harry a lot less jumpy. He felt like his
transformation efforts had gone backwards since Malfoy had turned up, and he was
only just getting back to the point he’d been at before. He broke off a few chunks of
chocolate and ate them for fortitude before standing up to give it one last go for the
day.

He held his wand loosely at his side while he breathed rhythmically in an effort to
achieve a sense of pure peace. He pictured his human form in his mind, and imagined it
twisting and reshaping itself to reveal the animal form hidden within. He whispered the
incantation under his breath and felt the onset of the now-familiar tingling working up
his fingers and his toes. He accepted the sensation and paid attention to its progress as
it moved up towards his torso and enveloped his chest.

In the back of his mind he knew he’d done it even before his body started to change.
He felt himself become weightless, as insubstantial as a breath of air, and he kept his
eyes tightly closed until the static flow had ceased and he could feel the ground
beneath his feet once more. When he tensed his muscles he was astounded to register
the difference in his centre of gravity and how firmly rooted to the earth he was. He
shook himself and couldn’t believe how sturdy and well-balanced his stance was. Harry
told himself triumphantly that he knew he’d be a stag! It was predestined!

However, when he opened his eyes he immediately knew that something was wrong.
He was much too close to the ground to be a big animal so a stag was out of the
question, unless there was a super-secret pygmy breed native to Britain, which he was
pretty sure was not the case.

Looking around, he was aware of a long nose of some description, and that he had
short, black hair and distinctly canine front paws. He didn’t have to lean forwards very
far before his nose touched the ground, and he thought, Oh, bugger. I’m a bloody
sausage dog! Amidst his crushing disappointment he realised it could have been worse;
he could have been a Chihuahua, which was almost certainly gayer on the spectrum of
gay dogs, of which he appeared to be a new member. For once he was almost grateful
that Sirius was dead.

Accepting that sulking was pointless, Harry set about learning everything to do with his
brand new Animagus form. He bounded around to test the pogo-springiness of his legs
and was filled with a sense of uncomplicated pleasure in his range of movement. He
could feel a tail wagging furiously just above his compact doggy bum, and twisted

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himself as far as he could go and ran round and around in an attempt to catch hold of it
in his jaws. All he could make out in his peripheral vision was its very tip, and he realised
he’d never be able to catch it, but it was such good fun that he didn’t stop trying
anyway. He tried leaps and swerves and running full tilt, and when he’d finally
exhausted himself and was panting fit to burst his little lungs, he sank to the ground.

What a rush!

Okay, so a miniature dog was nowhere near as glamorous and impressive as a stag, but
at least he could change into an animal, and better than that, he’d done it all by
himself! He laughed out loud . He’d be able to use the skill when he eventually became
an Auror because no one would look twice at a puppy scampering down a street, unlike
a stag, which would not be quite so useful on an urban stakeout, although it would be
an excellent makeshift clothes airer on those uncomfortable over-night camp-outs
Aurors had to do.

Having spent half the afternoon in his dog form, he changed back and headed outside
to get a broom from the supply hut and go for a fly. He bounced down the steps as
though on a cushion of air. Close to the hut Harry spotted Malfoy walking with his head
down. As they neared each other, Harry called out, “Hey! Malfoy! Fancy a game of one-
on-one to the Snitch?” His exuberant suggestion was met with a sour sneer and Malfoy
veering off in the other direction. Harry huffed. I’ll take that as a no, then, he thought,
refusing to let the snub dampen his mood. He caught the Snitch twelve times in the
space of a single hour, a new personal best. If any recruiters had been there to see his
performance they’d have soiled their robes in excitement and offered him a contract
on the spot.

I’m an Animagus! I wish I could tell mum and dad and Sirius. And then his mood fell just a
bit. And Remus and Tonks.

Feeling slightly more sober, Harry headed back to the dungeons to shower and get out
of his grubby clothes. The dorm door was ajar, and when he entered Malfoy was only
half-dressed. In the fraction of a second before he snatched up a jumper and threw it
on, Harry got a full and memorable eyeful of Malfoy’s lean upper body; his non-existent
stomach with its tight slash of a belly button, his hairless chest with its tiny, pink
nipples, and his unmarked forearms with their fine covering of silvery hair. Malfoy
looked ruffled and embarrassed at Harry’s intrusion so Harry pretended he hadn’t seen
anything out of the ordinary, despite the fact that Malfoy’s luminously fair skin could
not in any way be described as ordinary. Touchable, maybe – but ordinary? Never.

Harry dug around in his trunk for some toiletries, then kicked his trainers and socks off
and peeled his perspiration-dampened T-shirt over his head, depositing that on the
floor for the laundry too. Without a backwards glance at the silent and unmoving
Malfoy, Harry left the dorm for the showers. Upon his return Kreacher had obviously
been for the washing and Malfoy had gone. Again.

The following day Harry asked the Room of Requirement for a big mirror in his

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imaginary forest because he wanted to get a good look at his doggy body. He was still a
bit miffed about the whole Dachshund thing and had been trying to convince himself
that there were many ways in which it was better than being another animal, say a stag
for instance. He transformed with little effort on his first attempt and it felt as natural
and unforgettable as riding a broom; once you could do it, it was impossible to unlearn.

What he saw when he scampered across the clearing and looked in the mirror was the
source of some confusion. He was definitely a small dog but there was no way he was a
sausage dog. He angled his compact body from side to side to get a good look at his
overall shape and concluded that he was definitely a small Terrier, probably a Jack
Russell, except that his colouring was all wrong. He was jet black except for two big
white patches around his eyes. He padded closer to the mirror and pulled faces at
himself. His eyes were black too, and oddly expressive for a dog, and when he snarled
his lips pulled back and showed a mean, if dinky, set of teeth. His pink tongue lolled out
when he panted and he had to admit he was a singularly cute looking (gay) Terrier.

He held onto the thought for a good thirty seconds, right up until the point when he
wagged his tail and copped an eyeful of his … his … deformity. It was so unfair! Okay,
so he didn’t have a lame white lightning mark in his fur, but why did he have to pay for
that stroke of luck with a forked tail? He looked utterly stupid! Like some pathetic devil
dog or something. Bollocks; he couldn’t even be an Animagus without carrying a visible
stigma. Upset by his discovery, he transformed back to himself and strode out of the
room in a huff.

~*~

After a Wronski Feint or four to kick-start a better mood, Harry headed up to the library
to see what the books on animals could tell him about dogs with two tails. But when he
got there the first thing he saw was Malfoy settled in at a table, surrounded by books
and half-eaten plates of food. He sneered silently when he saw Harry, and annoyed at
the inconvenience of Malfoy’s position directly in line with the row of shelves he
needed to look at, Harry left again.

It was late by the time he made lunch, and the kitchen was empty except for Professor
Flitwick who was busy chatting rubbish at a rate of knots to several scared-looking
house-elves.

“Erm, Professor?” Harry interrupted. “Have you got any books on dogs I could
borrow?”

“Library’s your best bet, Potter,” the cheery professor told him between mouthfuls of
trifle. “There are dozens of books about dogs at the end of theMagical
Creatures section. Long history of involvement with the wizarding world, dogs,” he
prattled on, but Harry had stopped listening the moment Professor McGonagall had
entered the room. He really hoped Flitwick would shut up before she heard anything he

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would rather she didn’t.

Alas.

“You’re interested in dogs, Potter?” she asked as she removed her hat and took the
seat opposite Harry at the table.

“Erm, not especially,” he mumbled. “Just, you know – thought I’d do a bit of reading
about them while I’ve got some time on my hands.”

She steepled her fingers with grace and precision as she fixed him with a penetrating
gaze over the tops of her glasses.

Harry waited for her to speak. Even Flitwick had gone quiet, but mainly because he was
too busy filling his face.

“I like dogs,” he added lamely in an attempt to fill the suffocating silence.

“I see,” she finally said. “And what sort of dogs do you like?”

Fuckety fuck.

“Oh, you know – small ones …”

Thankfully Professor McGonagall’s cheese salad appeared. He concentrated with

unnatural focus on his own plate of food and hoped the conversation was over. After a
minute or two filled only with the sound of iceberg lettuce crunching Harry thought he
was home and dry, which just went to prove thatHarry and thinking did not necessarily
go together with complete success.

“That’s a rather vague description, Harry,” the professor continued as though there
hadn’t been as much as a few seconds’ gap since she had last spoken. The thing with
McGonagall was that Harry found it almost impossible to tell untruths of any kind when
she asked him something. She was like human Veritaserum. “Perhaps if you were to
enlighten me further on the identifying attributes of your small dogs I could suggest a
book. Or two...”

Damn her and her below-the-belt insinuations about how much she’d helped him
already! He stared at her, resignation welling up inside him.

“I thought I saw this dog the other day and I wanted to know what it was.” That was so
lame. If she hadn’t suspected before she definitely has now, he realised.

Her gaze bored into him and the half-truth seemed to fluoresce and take on a life of its
own, hanging in the air between them and flashing, LIAR!LIAR!LIAR!

“It was black and small,” he babbled. “Er, and it had two tails.”

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McGonagall’s eyes popped out of her skull and her glasses slipped so far down her nose
that Harry thought they were going to end up covered in mayonnaise and buried in
shredded lettuce.

“A Crup!” she exclaimed, and Harry thought vaguely that he might have heard of them
somewhere. Probably from Professor Grubbly-Plank because there was no way Hagrid
would have taught them about an animal as gay and tame as a little dog. But there was
no mistaking one thing: McGonagall looked seriously impressed.

She cleared her throat and placed her cutlery across her plate before taking a sip of tea.
“I believe the dog you saw was a Crup, Harry,” she said meaningfully. “Crups are
hunters, you know. Very loyal to wizards. Not so fond of Muggles. Insatiable appetite,
even for things most other animals would find quite inedible.” She paused, and Harry
held his breath. “A black one, you say?” She gave him the once-over and nodded to
herself. “Very rare, black Crups. They say that strain was bred in the sixteen hundreds
by landed families who partook in night hunting, and not always of four-legged animals
as one might expect.” Her tone insinuated more than her words had said.

Oh, bloody great, he thought to himself. I finally become an Animagus only to find I’m the
very embodiment of pure-blood snobbery and Muggle-killing to boot.

She resumed eating and appeared to indicate by her change of focus that the
conversation had ended. Harry was grateful for the quiet and wolfed his meal down as
fast as he could. Just as he pushed his chair back to leave, McGonagall added, “There
was a rumour once upon a time that Lucius Malfoy is an unregistered Crup Animagus. I
suspect it would have been quite upsetting to him that he would have been unable to
overcome his natural colouring. White Crups are ten a Sickle, you see. Common as
muck.”

Harry looked at her and watched the beginnings of a smirk shape her lips, but she hid
the expression by taking another sip of tea.

“Um, thanks, Professor.”

He left the kitchen and wondered how he was going to get his hands on some Crup
books without alerting Malfoy. Crups sounded cool, not least because of the whole
Malfoy one-upmanship thing.

~*~

When he tugged his pyjamas from beneath his pillow that night two books had found
their way into the folds of fabric as if by magic. A Greate British Bestiarie was a slim
volume with a heavily cracked leather cover, obviously aged and well-handled,
and Decoding Your Animagus Form: An Exploration Into Personality Traits And Human

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Transfiguration, which looked to be brand new and not so much as opened once if the
pristine spine was anything to go by. The latter book looked like some of that ‘New Age
claptrap’ Uncle Vernon often complained about, but its cover illustration of a big, burly
wizard shrinking down into a fluffy ball of cuddly Puffskein grabbed Harry’s attention,
and he thought he’d give it a go anyway.

Skimming the books, Harry was amazed by what he learned. McGonagall had been spot
on; Crups were potentially nasty little buggers with an aptitude for mauling and on
occasion killing things much larger than their own size. They were fearless creatures
that wouldn’t back down from a fight, and because of that any wizard who owned
Crups had to have a license from the Ministry after proving they could control the
animal. The Ministry also enforced a programme of tail clipping on all owners who lived
in Muggle-populated areas to prevent any confusion with the common Jack Russell
Terrier they so resembled. One book hinted that some wizarding families refused to
participate in the ‘purposeless maiming’ of the noble Crup, and therefore the only place
you were ever likely to see an un-clipped tail was amidst the packs of hunting Crups
kept by almost all wealthy pure-blood families. Crups were particularly partial to ferrets
(and oh, couldn’t Harry picture the family fun Malfoy and his dad might have with their
Animagus forms...) but would take a bite out of almost any tacklable animal they came
across if provoked enough.

He was interested in the page or two that appeared to indicate that an Animagus who
took the form of a wizarding world creature was always of a powerful lineage,
especially in light of what he’d learned about his connection to the Peveralls and the
sheer size of his magical heritage. He betted that’s what McGonagall’s impressed
expression had been about.

Before he went to sleep that night he lay awake wondering how much Malfoy knew
about Crups, and how on earth he could wheedle the information out of the annoying
wanker.

~*~

“What do you think about Morrison for the new Puddlemere Keeper?” Harry asked
Malfoy the next morning, nodding at the newly-arrived copy ofQuidditch Quarterly lying
open on the end of Malfoy’s bed. If Malfoy’s upper lip curled any more it’d touch the
end of his pointy nose, Harry thought in the extending silence. There was no answer;
instead Malfoy flipped his magazine closed before he picked a sports bag up and
walked past Harry, out of the dormitory.

Harry turned to face the door and snorted in disbelief at Malfoy’s back. He breathed in
deeply through his nose and stretched his arms over his head, just to get rid of the last
of the night’s kinks. And then he smelled it. He sniffed again and realised he’d inherited
a permanent attribute of his Crup’s hunting ability. He could pick up the faintest
background trace of his own smell, and an accompanying scent he registered as

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Malfoy’s, which was all completely fine given that they shared the room. What didn’t
make quite so much sense was why Malfoy’s bag had carried a distinct whiff of Harry
on it.

Seeing a handy excuse for a bit of spying, Harry decided to give chase.

Malfoy went outside, headed to the supply hut to fetch his broom, and then went on to
the changing tent next to the Quidditch pitch. Harry skulked, Crup-like, around the
stands while Malfoy flew alone and ran down the Snitch a couple of times. Harry was
just answering the urge to mark the support struts on the Slytherin viewing tower
when Malfoy landed and headed in to shower. Shaking his back leg a few extra times to
get rid of the last of the drips, Harry trotted in after him.

The showers were already on, the hissing of water hitting tiles echoing out of the
changing area and into the communal area of the tent. Malfoy was wrapped in a towel
and entering the shower stalls when Harry padded along by the bench to reach the
open bag with its outspill of clothes and toiletries. The bag was too high for Harry to
reach even if he tensed his legs and tried to spring higher, but his nose told him for sure
that something in that bag stank of him, and he couldn’t imagine for a minute what
Malfoy might be doing with any of his stuff unless voodoo was real and he was making
a poppet to torture Harry with.

Wary of being caught, Harry edged slowly to the shower area to check that Malfoy
wasn’t going to come out unexpectedly. If the coast was clear he’d change back and
have a root around in the bag to settle his mind. He stuck his muzzle around the
doorway and edged out until he could see into the steamy room. Malfoy had chosen a
shower towards the far end of the room, and he hadn’t bothered to close any of the
curtains to section himself off.

Harry’s doggy jaw dropped open and his tongue flopped out at the sight before him.
Malfoy was naked and stretched tall beneath the broad shower head, his hands
scraping the fine ashy-blond hair back from his face to lie smooth against his scalp.
Harry watched those slender fingers trail down Malfoy’s neck and out across the width
of his shoulders as he tilted his face up, eyes closed, into the heavy flow of water.
Nothing about Malfoy’s body seemed generous; there was no fat on him and his skin
was pulled tight over his tall frame so that his bones were visible in places, but it was
far from unpleasant to see. Harry drank in the details, forgetting about the bag in the
face of Malfoy’s private nudity and his simple pleasure in washing that enviably perfect
skin. For once Harry didn’t worry about rating the gayness of watching another man
wash himself simply because he was too busy forgetting how to think or recall his own
name.

Malfoy picked up his soap and started rubbing the bar across his chest to create thick
lines of creamy lather. The water cut rivulets through the bubbles, dragging them down
his hairless torso and over his stomach to collect haphazardly in the top of his pubic
hair. Harry ogled Malfoy’s crotch with a complete lack of shame; he watched the way
the cock and balls swayed gently in time with Malfoy’s rubbing hands, and when the

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bar of soap finally travelled down and scrubbed firmly in the patch of curly hair until the
area was covered in a thick, fragrant whiteness, Harry thought he was in danger of
swallowing his tongue. Never had he prayed so earnestly for another man to get a
hard-on. He hoped that every stroke of Malfoy’s hand was the kind of stroke meant to
tease his body into arousal, and he felt himself growing light-headed from holding his
breath in anticipation. He watched the way Malfoy’s hand curled around his penis and
washed it carefully before moving downwards to run his cupped palms over the mouth-
wateringly dangly sac between his legs. But no erection was forthcoming, at least not
from Malfoy. Harry, however, felt a distinct tightness between his hind legs and
wondered for the first time about the mechanics of Crup masturbation and how on
earth he was supposed to clean his own mess up before it registered that dogs had a
tendency to use their tongues for that sort of thing. Not that there’d been anything
about that in the books though, and he berated the shoddy research into Animagus sex
undertaken by the authors. It was suddenly incomprehensible how such an important
area of research could have been ignored.

Malfoy turned around and let the water pound against his chest and rinse his front
clean. He leaned his hands against the wall and sighed out loud in contentment, and
the bubbles tripped over each other as they ran down his legs and pooled around the
plug hole. The long, elegantly curving line that mapped the journey from the top of
Malfoy’s spine down his back, around the lean cushion of his bottom and down his legs
was a thing of sheer beauty. It seemed crude and unappreciative to ignore that pair of
legs in favour of what sat on top of them, but in that moment, hidden around the
doorframe in his Animagus form, Harry Potter discovered his true vocation, the single
calling that would give his life purpose and pleasure; he was most definitely an arse
man. And Malfoy possessed the kind of arse that challenged Harry’s ardent fancy. It
was a biteable bottom, a squeezable bottom. A lickable, smackable, fuckable bottom,
and one way or another Harry was going to work through his list of fantasies and play
every single filthy one of them out on that trim, tasty package, preferably to the
accompanying soundtrack of Malfoy’s throaty gasps.

Malfoy washed his hair beneath the steady stream, and as his arms shifted and
stretched to massage his scalp and comb out the tangles with his fingers the rest of his
body moved too. The shampoo foam coated his shoulders before being washed away
by the spray, and Harry imagined himself pressed close against Malfoy’s back, tracing
shapes through the bubbles and writing secret messages in ticklish lines to the sound
of Malfoy’s playful laughter. God, Harry was growing awfully warm. The heavy steam,
his insulating coat, the stifling arousal – he didn’t think he could take much more.

Harry let out the Crup equivalent of a starved moan when Malfoy’s soapy hand reached
behind him and ran the length of his crack before dipping his fingertips inside and
moving rhythmically for long seconds. His imagination ran riot as he pictured those
slippery fingers disappearing inside Malfoy’s body instead of merely washing the skin,
and inside his head he was begging, begging Malfoy to do it. And then the moment
passed and Malfoy stepped out of the jet of water and wrapped his towel around his
waist.

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Move! Harry told his four legs. Bloody move! In the nick of time he managed to clumsily
scuttle backwards into the shadows and press himself against the wall as Malfoy
walked past, a sodden giant in the land of Crups.

Malfoy sat on the opposite bench and commenced drying his hair. His legs were wide
apart and the short towel hid absolutely nothing. The view was even better than
before, mainly because Malfoy’s penis jiggled happily at almost the same height as
Harry’s head, and even through the fresh tang of the soap Harry could discern the
meaty, masculine scent of Malfoy’s body. A long string of saliva dribbled over Harry’s
jaw and made a tiny pattering noise as it hit the tile floor. He panted a bit too loudly as
he tried to stop the slobbering, alerting Malfoy that he was not alone.

“Who’s there?” Malfoy barked. His legs, sadly for Harry, snapped together, his body
just as defensive as his tone of voice. Harry let out a muffled whimper and shuffled
forward just enough that his two front paws left the camouflage of the shadows. He
heard Malfoy sigh in relief, and watched his fair-haired legs as he got up and crossed
the narrow changing room, dropping down near Harry to coax him out from his hiding
place.

“What have we got here?” Malfoy said in the calmest voice Harry had ever heard him
use. “Let me have a look at you.” Malfoy cautiously extended his fingers towards Harry
and held them some distance away, letting Harry sniff him and take his own time to
respond.

Harry crept forward a bit more, poking his muzzle out into the light and flicking his
tongue against the very tips of Malfoy’s soapy fingers. Malfoy chuckled -chuckled! - but
didn’t try to reach for Harry.

“Out you come so I can see you.” Malfoy stood and moved back a few paces to give
Harry the space to come out, before dropping down to his knees. He could see Malfoy’s
face looking into the shadows at him, and he was actually smiling! Harry drew in the
Crup equivalent of a fortifying breath and took several careful steps out into the light.
He watched Malfoy’s face for signs of warning, but all that happened was that his smile
grew more dazzling.

“Well, well, well. What have we got here?” Harry wagged his tail a bit more
enthusiastically than was cool or befitting of his heroic disposition. “Look at you with
your intact tail. To whom do you belong?” Now clearly unconcerned about the
possibility of an imminent savaging, Malfoy reached forward and patted Harry gently
on the head, which resulted in an appallingly eager response from the Crup part of
Harry’s brain. Not the Harry part at all, oh, no. He found himself padding right up to
Malfoy and burrowing his head into the outstretched hand, which prompted Malfoy to
laugh and scratch Harry behind the ears.

Brrrr! Wow, if only scratching Harry behind his human ears could produce the same
effect! He felt tingly all over and his hind quarters swayed from side to side thanks to
the vigorous tail wagging going on. Mmm, you can do that again, he thought, throwing

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his cute, gay Crup self shamelessly upon Malfoy’s affectionate attentions. “Curious – no
mark,” Malfoy said, running his hands over Harry’s rib cage. “Where do you live, boy?
Surely not the forest? Are you going to let me have a proper look at you without
nipping?”

The next thing Harry knew, Malfoy had gripped him around the middle and picked him
up with a skill and confidence that suggested he had done it lots of times before. “Ooh,
you’re heavier than you look,” he continued as he walked back to the bench to sit
down, placing Harry on the flats of his thighs. It’s not my fault! Kreacher keeps force
feeding me and after all those months of eating berries and twig soup I thought I deserved
a steamed suet treat or five!

Malfoy’s hands moved to cup his head and lift it so that they were eye to eye. “Clear
eyes,” he said as he used the heels of his palms to squeeze into Harry’s throat. “Strong
jaw, good set of teeth on you, too. I bet you haven’t chewed too many cauldrons
recently, have you? Now hold still and let me see what you’ve got down there.”

Er, what? Down where? Under his smooth black coat Harry blanched. Sure enough, he
was efficiently flipped over so that his spine lay in the dip between Malfoy’s legs and
his four paws stuck up in the air. And then the thing happened. Malfoy - snobby, pure-
blood, attention-seeker and all round pillock Malfoy - grabbed hold of Harry’s testicles
and gave them a damned thorough grope, rolling the ovals around inside the stretchy
skin sac before unsheathing the tip of Harry’s penis and examining it thoughtfully, his
face but inches away. Harry’s body was frozen in shock but his mind was running fifty
to the dozen. Gah! Malfoy’s a doggy diddler! A mutt molester! A Crup corruptor! A hound
harasser! followed moments later by, Just wait ‘til I tell Ron! and then, Um, perhaps
not…

“Fully formed and nicely separated – you’re older than I thought,” Malfoy said
knowledgeably. “Lucky for you no idiot Mudblood got their hands on you and neutered
you. I should think you’ll make a prolific breeder.” Harry shuddered at the notion
before thinking, Only if you’ve got a set of functioning ovaries at the top of your rectum,
because that’s the only place my fully formed and nicely separated love spuds are
emptying the troops.

The fondling ceased just as Harry had begun to enjoy it, even if he knew it was
unspeakably perverted to think about inter-species intimacy of any sort. It was a pity
that Malfoy wasn’t so eager to get his hands on Harry’s human ‘down there’ parts,
although there was a naughty little thought in the back of his mind about how much
he’d like to jiggle Malfoy’s dangly bits with his muzzle and play tongue tennis with both
blond-fuzzed balls. Maybe Malfoy’d let him? It was impossible to predict what
debaucheries the disgustingly rich got up to behind the warded gates of their country
estates. Maybe Crup copulation was a seasonal activity with a Master of Ceremonies
and prizes for the most effective handling and the most creative non-doggy style
position.

Malfoy popped Harry on the bench next to his bag and returned to getting dressed.

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“But what’s a lone Crup doing here?” he asked as though Harry might be able to
answer. “What an enigma you are.” Yeah, and I’m not the only one, Harry thought as he
snuffled about inside the open flap of the bag and sank his teeth into the carefully
folded bulk of one of his own mildly sweaty T-shirts. He pulled it out and held fast to it
even when Malfoy tried to tug it away from him. “Hey! That’s mine! No eating allowed,
okay, boy?” No it’s not yours, you thieving bastard, Harry thought, although he did let
the T-shirt drop rather than shove fang holes through the cotton.

Malfoy retrieved the T-shirt from the bench and picked it up like it was the most
delicate piece of silk. He refolded it into a perfect square and placed it back in his bag,
right at the bottom.

Malfoy’s got the hots for me! I bet he’s been checking me out from between the gaps in
his curtains when I get dressed in the mornings! Harry thought, followed by, I wonder if
he sent me any undies after he saw my picture in the paper? followed again by, I bet he
keeps that picture under his pillow! Oh, Malfoy, resistance to the Potter charms is futile.
You and your handsome bottom are mere steps away from my indecently intended
clutches.

After that Harry sank, in a particularly self-satisfied manner, to lie on the bench
watching Malfoy get dressed and listen to the outpouring of chatter from a clearly very
lonely young man. He felt a bit guilty then, as though he was taking advantage of
Malfoy’s stubborn rigidity and making him talk, when if he’d known it was Harry in his
Animagus form he would have been absolutely furious.

On the walk back up to the school Harry bounded along beside Malfoy or ran around
his legs in circles, trying to trip him up. He’d never heard Malfoy laugh so much, and as
they approached the school steps that realisation sobered Harry somewhat.

“Off you go then,” Malfoy said, shooing Harry away as he took the steps two at a time.
Harry followed, scampering up the steps in Malfoy’s wake. “No, boy, you can’t come in.
You’re a hunting dog. You live outdoors.” Yeah. Right, Harry thought. It looks like rain,
and it’s nearly lunchtime too. I’m bloody starving regardless of your snide and frankly
tactless comments about my weight.

“Go on back to your kennel or wherever you live,” Malfoy said, exasperated, when
Harry wove a figure of eight around his feet the moment he stopped climbing the
steps. “You can’t come in. Pets aren’t allowed.” Malfoy looked down into Harry’s
doggy eyes and pushed him away gently, although even a completely thick person
could have seen that his heart wasn’t in it. “Crups aren’t domestic animals as you
should well know,” he told Harry firmly. “All the manuals say you can’t be
tamed.” While I’d like to pretend for the sake of my masculinity that’s it’s true I suspect
some regular oral servicing and the odd grope of your bum would have much the same
effect, Harry mused whilst trying his best to look as pathetically puppy-doggish as
possible in the hope of melting Malfoy’s faux-stony heart.

Malfoy huffed and rose to go, causing Harry to play his trump card sooner than he

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would have preferred. He sat down on his hind quarters and lifted his front legs off the
floor to reach out towards Malfoy. Then he looked up at him with pleading eyes and
summoned the most pathetic whimper he possibly could. He whined and shivered and
howled sadly, and he could almost watch Malfoy thawing before his very eyes. Malfoy
sighed heavily and ran his fingers through his hair. “Oh, bloody hell,” he finally said.
“Come on then, before I change my mind. But don’t you dare chew anything or crap
indoors. On second thoughts, you can chew Potter’s things if you want but I’m
standing firm on the crapping business.” Fucking typical, Harry thought as he picked
himself up and skipped after Malfoy’s retreating form. Nice arse though.

It didn’t take long to fall into a new routine. He ‘slept’ in the Slytherin common room,
changing back and sneaking into his own bed once Malfoy had retired, ate breakfast
early every day, and then pretended to have been lazing under one of the chairs when
Malfoy came to find him. He got a second breakfast because Malfoy was a pushover
who would surrender the crispiest bacon rashers after only a minute’s whimpering on
Harry’s part. But the best part of Harry’s day was the ten minute slot each morning
during which he got to watch Malfoy, with his wandering and copiously soapy hands,
take his shower. And there was no hiding any more; he was right out in the open,
running through the jets of water and larking about while Malfoy washed himself and
laughed at his antics. Sometimes in the afternoons Harry wanted to wee on Malfoy’s
leg just so he’d have another shower, but he decided that such a course of action was
fraught with dangers, like being banished outdoors or not given any more tummy-but-
almost-close-to-testicles rubs.

The more Malfoy laughed the more Harry came to realise that what he was doing was a
bit shitty, but he did his best to bury the nasty feeling in his gut under a vast quantity of
porcine meat products and in the hazy pleasure of lots of ear scratching. And then
there were the showers, which he couldn’t face sacrificing for a bit of pointless honesty
and moral fibrosity.

Within a few days of the new one-man-and-his-Crup routine McGonagall pulled Harry to
one side to skirt around the subject of what he was playing at. She reminded him very
forcefully that Malfoy was living at the school for protection, and that such protection
included dangers from within as well as the vengeful masses outside. He responded
cautiously, saying that Malfoy seemed to be happier when he saw him in the dormitory,
and that surely couldn’t be considered a bad thing, could it? She managed to make her
tutted reply sound both stern and threatening, and Harry almost crumbled in the face
of her challenge. It was only by biting the inside of his cheek that he managed to hold
back on the sort of promises that would drain all the fun out of his Animagus
experience.

Fulfilling his end of the original bargain, Harry did not crap indoors because the smell,
you know, not to mention the accidental twin-tail soiling and the smell. Refraining from
chewing stuff, however, was a much more difficult task. Chair legs were particularly
tasty as were the fireside brasses in the Slytherin common room. He grew comfortably
accustomed to Malfoy smacking him on the nose and shouting, Bad Crup!, and worried
that if things carried on in this vein between then he’d be like one of Pavlov’s dogs, and

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the only way he’d get an erection in his human form would be if Malfoy chastised him
similarly. He could almost imagine the scene in his head:

“Take me, Harry. I’m stretched and lubed and ready for your fully formed and nicely
separated trouser package.”

“Er, give me a minute. I’m almost ready…”

“Come here and let me do that for you, my love. I can’t wait to get my perfectly-
manicured and dirty-work-shy hands on you.”

~shuffle-stroke-fondle-suck~

~more ultimately pointless sucking and fondling~

“Um, sorry, Mal-Draco. I think I ate a bit too much bacon today. I’m feeling overweight
and unattractive.”

“Oh, for … You really are the limit! Get on this bed now!”

“Okay, but I don’t see what good it’ll-”

~SMACK!~ “Bad Harry!”

“OWW!! What the fuck?”

~smirk~

“Oh. OHHH… Mmm, yeah. Do that again. No! Not the bloody nose bit you arse…”

Okay, so things probably wouldn’t be that bad in real life, and just because they were
often that bad in fanon wasn’t any reason for Harry to get his free and skimpy
underpants in a twist.

But in truth not every moment of every day was a happy one for the budding if fake
Potter/Malfoy partnership. The worst times were when letters arrived from Malfoy’s
home, and Harry would be unable to distract him at all from his serious thoughts and
furious mutterings. Occasionally Malfoy would read out portions of the letter,
imploring Harry to make sense of the accusations against his father.

“I can’t believe how idiotic these people are! Don’t they know it was Yaxley who put
Thicknesse under the Imperius Curse? They’re all turning against him, and after
everything he did for them! Giving them a roof and food and letting them use the
dungeons.”

It shocked Harry that even in the cold light of day Malfoy continued to demonstrate the
most peculiar, and deluded, set of morals and personal ethics he’d ever heard. He

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started to wonder if it was fair to judge the likes of the Malfoys against normal people
because it was becoming clear that all the generations of inbreeding had affected their
higher brain functions and somehow filtered out any sense of empathy for their fellow
witch and wizard.

Malfoy was apoplectic the day the Prophet headlines declared that Lucius Malfoy had
killed Professor Burbage in some sort of perverted orgy of sex and violence. He
stormed around the common room in circles, waving his arms about in a dangerously
uncontrolled manner whilst bellowing at Harry that the Dark Lord had done it, and why
the hell weren’t any of the other Death Eaters coming forward and saying so? He was
convinced it was a stitch-up, a public humiliation to ensure that even if his father
walked away a free man the Malfoy name would be ruined forever. There wasn’t
anything Harry could do of course, other than sit very still and wrap his tails around his
body to make sure they didn’t get stamped on, and let Malfoy have all the bacon, which
he didn’t eat anyway because he’d been far too angry to have an appetite. But it was
the thought that counted, right?

Harry knew that Malfoy had even been to see Professor McGonagall to make some sort
of furious speech about being let out of the grounds so he could put the stories right,
but he hadn’t been able to hear the conversation, and anyway he knew that
McGonagall had refused the request. He spent several hours hiding in the supply hut
while Malfoy went out to the Quidditch pitch with a bat and two Bludgers and worked
out his fury on them instead.

In a lot of ways Malfoy’s anger was much easier for Harry to deal with than his distress.
He’d seen Malfoy cry before, back in Myrtle’s bathroom when he’d done that awful
thing, but Harry felt both uncomfortable and helpless on the two occasions Malfoy
broke down. And ‘break down’ was what it was. It wasn’t just a few tears and a self-
pitying sniffle, but a full-on collapse of self-control followed by an outpouring of
absolutely horrifying despair. The signs would be there for Harry to see long before the
tears came. Malfoy would read and reread a letter or the newspaper, growing less
agitated and more introverted upon each reading. He would walk briskly to no
particular destination and then appear puzzled when he arrived there before promptly
turning around and heading off somewhere else. Harry would scamper along beside
him but would be for the most part ignored. At some point Malfoy would head back
towards the dungeons and by the time he reached the staircase that led directly to the
common room entrance he would be close to running, the first signs of tears pricking in
his eyes. Harry’s little legs would be working at full capacity just to keep up as Malfoy
crossed the common room and ran to the dormitory, casting a Locking Charm in sobs
as the door slammed behind them with a shocking finality. But it was the throwing
himself on the bed and burying his face in the pillow as he cried that shocked Harry the
most. Malfoy’s entire body would shake and rock with the force of his sobs, and his
gasps for air between cries would sound painful.

Harry would sit next to Malfoy’s bed, staring up at the quivering lump of robes and
wondering what on earth to do. Malfoy was always firm about not letting Harry on the
furniture so he dared not hop up uninvited, and nor did he dare trying to leave. So

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Harry found himself stuck there witnessing Malfoy’s misery, knowing how much Malfoy
would hate him if he knew. Sometimes playing at being the pet Crup wasn’t such a nice
game after all. It was a cruel deceit, an unforgivable intrusion. But Harry didn’t stop.
Malfoy was so alone in the castle; he didn’t talk to anyone if he could help it, he didn’t
eat with everyone else, didn’t watch the rebuilding, share a joke, or even a ‘good
morning’ with anyone. But for Harry’s Animagus form he would have been alone, and
that was the basis on which Harry continued to justify his own behaviour. If Malfoy
tried anything stupid he would be there to stop it, and sometimes he thought Malfoy
might just be capable of doing something he really shouldn’t.

Eventually Malfoy would stop crying and lie unmoving amidst the messy bed linen. He
would turn his head away from the pillow so that Harry would be able to see the
feverish colour blotching his face and the raw-rimmed eyes shrivelling up beneath his
messy fringe. He would stare down at Harry with unseeing eyes, and it was at those
times that Malfoy seemed his most fragile. There was no bravado, no superiority, just a
numb acceptance that he was nothing, no more able to control his environment than a
leaf caught in the wind. They would look at each other for a long time before Malfoy
would eventually reach down and pick Harry up, folding him close to his chest and
hugging the Crup hard. Harry would lick Malfoy’s hand, the best gesture he could offer
to show he cared, and eventually the arms would go slack as Malfoy fell asleep, and
Harry would creep away, letting Malfoy recover his energy in peace. He always felt
troubled after these occurrences, and meeting Malfoy once he was back in human form
felt stilted and awkward, as if he might not be able to hide what he’d seen.

The atmosphere in the dormitory grew worse as Draco’s attachment to the Crup
deepened. Harry experienced Malfoy’s presence as an icy chill slicing the room in half
and over time there were fewer and fewer glares or acknowledgements passed
between them. Harry thought that Malfoy did everything possible to avoid eye contact,
and he wondered if he was inadvertently making it worse by spending so little time in
his human form and thus decreasing any time they might spend together. He had
grown to like Malfoy despite his faults, and just wished they could share even a basic
rapport when Harry was himself. The disparity in Malfoy’s treatment of Harry in his
human and his Animagus form began to affect Harry’s own mood, and the colder
Malfoy grew, the more Harry wanted to force the issue to a head.

He didn’t have to wait long before the situation exploded of its own accord.

~*~

“They have got to be fucking insane!” Malfoy shouted as he swished the heavy, crested
vellum parchment through the air in disgust. “Forty years! Forty fucking years! This is an
outrage! Don’t they know who my father is?” Harry darted out of the way as Malfoy
jumped up out of his chair and proceeded to pace the hearth rug. “Don’t these
arseholes understand that One. Does. Not. Refuse to do the Dark Lord’s bidding? Fine!
They want to punish him for making a mistake in his youth and joining the wrong side,

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do they? Well what about second chances and concessions for years upon years of
living in fear? So much for Perfect Potter’s brave new world of love, freedom, and
forgiveness. Only applies to his side, I’ll wager.”

Then after a little more angry pacing, “I can’t believe Mother and Father are accepting
this … this outrage! How can this be better than going to trial? How is it ‘more sensible’
than a Not Guilty plea? They’d hear Father’s side of the story then.”

And that was the point at which Harry saw what Malfoy did not; if Lucius went before
the Wizengamot he’d be torn to pieces in the cross-examination and likely end up
incriminating either his wife or his son. By pleading guilty he was making the days,
possibly weeks, of evidence hearing unnecessary, and salvaging what public sympathy
he could for both Draco and Narcissa. It was a sacrifice Harry would have sworn Lucius
Malfoy incapable of making, and the man went up in his estimations quite considerably.

Malfoy threw the parchment into the grate and set it on fire in disgust before sweeping
away to the dorm. When Harry trotted companionably into the room, Malfoy was
sitting stiffly on his bed with Harry’s now balled-up T-shirt gripped tightly to his chest as
though it were a teddy bear or comforter. It was enough of a shock that it stopped
Harry in his tracks.

“I wish he’d just …” Malfoy began before stumbling into silence. “Why doesn’t he ever
ask me how I am? Does he hate me so much that I don’t even exist to him?”

He loves you, Harry thought. He loves you enough to go to prison for a very long time.

But then,

“We share the same room and he acts like I’m not here!”

Er, what? That was enough to kill the last wag in Harry’s tail.

“Can’t he see I want to be friends?” Malfoy pleaded.

You ignore me! What am I supposed to do?

“I tried being friends with him once, but he’s always thought he was better than me.”
Malfoy’s hands twisted the T-shirt until the fabric was wrapped around both fists. “‘Hi,
Malfoy, coming to breakfast?’ he could say. Or, ‘Fancy coming for a walk round the
grounds?’, or, ‘How are you holding up, Malfoy? I’m sorry your father’s in trouble’.
But no. Not Harry James Potter . Not selfish bastard Harry Potter with his ‘I’m all right,
Jack’ attitude and his designer Muggle clothes. Not Mr Fucking Perfect Gryffindor, with
his perfect friends and his popularity and his Hogwarts-sized ego.”

WHAT? What the fuck? Malfoy, you’ve been drinking Neville’s Potions homework, haven’t
you? Since when have I ever-

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“Have you ever seen Potter, boy?” Malfoy asked Harry. “He’s never here, is he? Up and
out first thing, and late to bed every night. Avoiding me, that’s what he’s doing. Can’t
stand the sight of me.”

There was a horrible sound from the back of Malfoy’s throat. It was like a gulp and a
cough, both at the same time, and he threw down the T-shirt and shoved it under his
pillow. “I’m going to sleep,” he told Harry. “When the house-elves bring my evening
meal you can eat it all. I’m not hungry.”

Harry watched, confused and forlorn, as Malfoy disrobed and closed the curtains
around himself. He left the dungeons, running full pelt until he got outside before
changing back in a quiet spot. He sat under a tree next to the lake and counted ripples
in the surface until his vision was blinded by the reflected sunlight. “Bollocks,” he
sighed to himself. There was only one way things were going to get sorted out, and he
was going to have to be the one to do it.

When he returned to the dormitory the curtains were still closed around Malfoy’s bed
and there was a congealing plate of chicken Kiev and vegetables on the bedside table.
He stood stock still while he composed himself, taking a few steadying breaths to calm
himself before he started to talk.

“Hey, Malfoy. Your tea’s getting cold.” Nothing. No response, just the faint rustle of
sheets moving as Malfoy turned over. “Look, are you okay? I haven’t seen you all day
and I was just worried that-”

“Sod off, Potter. I told you never to talk to me and I meant it.”

Harry rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. Malfoy was impossible! “McGonagall
told me about your dad. I’m really-”

“Don’t you dare say you’re sorry,” Malfoy bellowed. “Don’t you fucking dare pretend to
care!”

“Bloody hell!” Harry shouted back, his blood pressure starting to rise. “I do care as it
happens, and I think it’s well past time we stopped this shouting and started being
friends.”

There. He’d said it. He couldn’t make it any clearer than that, could he?

“What do you take me for? Haven’t you got enough fawning sycophants to stroke your
ego already?”

“Oh, fuck you, then!” Harry shouted, instantly regretting playing right into Malfoy’s
self-destructive hands. “Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that,” he said more calmly.

Malfoy was silent. There was a total absence of noise from behind the curtains
surrounding his bed, and Harry couldn’t shake the image of Malfoy choking himself on

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silent tears. He reached forward and grabbed the curtain.

“Move that hand or lose it.” Malfoy’s voice was hollow, almost completely lacking
emotion. Harry sighed his defeat and let go. He was deeply troubled, and continued to
be so as he undressed and climbed into bed. Malfoy was such a complicated character.
How was he ever supposed to work him out?

He was woken in the night by a cry, and when he sat bolt upright and listened he could
hear Malfoy mumbling incoherently in his sleep. Shit. He sat for minutes and listened to
Malfoy suffering in the grips of his nightmare before finally deciding that enough was
enough. He opened the curtains around his bed and was transformed into the Crup
before his feet hit the ground. Had it not been for Malfoy’s trunk at the end of the bed,
Harry would have had great difficulty climbing up to the mattress. He nosed between a
gap in the curtains and padded carefully across the mounded sheets and twitching
limbs. It was difficult to see much in the pitch black, but Harry’s Crup eyes discerned a
nice hollow space under Malfoy’s arm where the covers dipped and disappeared
beneath his rib cage. Making himself comfortable with little care for waking Malfoy up,
Harry curled up into a ball and snuggled as close as he could, licking gently at the fine
skin bared on the inside of Malfoy’s arm. The mumbling ceased immediately, and
Malfoy’s body relaxed from the tense grip of the horrible dream. Malfoy’s breathing
regulated to a steady in-out, and he rolled onto his side around the mound of Crup
nestling beneath his arm.

Malfoy’s body was warm and surprisingly soft underneath the thin linen nightshirt he
wore, and the steady beating of his heart lulled Harry into a state of complete peace
and tranquillity.

Despite the best of intentions, Harry drifted off to sleep to the comfortably dreamy
realisation that Malfoy smelled absolutely wonderful.

~*~

He was rudely awakened an indeterminate amount of time later when two hands
centred themselves on his chest and shoved hard.

“You fucking pervert! Get out of my bed!”

Ah. It appeared the books had also neglected to mention the fact that sleeping in your
animal form was not advised for the novice Animagus. “Don’t bloody push me. I’ll fall
out.”

“That’s the idea, you sick faggot.” Malfoy’s voice was high and panicked, and Harry
wondered if Malfoy was wondering who’d win if it went to a wizards’ duel. The pushing
stopped, however, and Malfoy moved as far away from Harry as he could whilst still
remaining in bed.

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“Look,” Harry said firmly as he hauled himself back onto the right side of the drop.
“You were having a nightmare. I could hear you crying and I felt bad for you. I came to
wake you up, but when you wouldn’t wake I sort of, you know, got in, and you stopped
thrashing about as soon as I did.”

While Harry was speaking Malfoy lit his bedside lamp, and they both squinted as the
expanding pool of yellow light burned into their retinas. Malfoy was a bit of a mess. His
hair was matted and there were lines on his cheek and forehead from creases in his
pillowcase.

“You did not get in my bed. I distinctly recall my pet Crup getting in.” Malfoy’s brow
wrinkled in such a way that Harry knew a nasty thought was crossing his mind.
“Where’s my Crup, Potter?” And before Harry knew it, Malfoy had reached under his
pillow, pulled out his wand, and pointed it precisely between his eyes. Unlike the last
time there was no nervousness, just a firm resolution and a sense of purpose. “If you’ve
hurt my Crup I’ll hurt you in ways you can’t even begin to imagine.” For once, Harry
believed him.

“I …” Bugger. What else could he say? “There was no Crup, Malfoy, just me.” Not
exactly a lie, just not exactly the truth either.

“There was a Crup. Right here.” And Malfoy placed a palm flat on the mattress exactly
where Harry had curled up and gone to sleep. “And now you’re there instead so excuse
me for believing you’ve done something to my pet.”

If only you knew, Harry thought. And when you do find out you’ll forget how you’d sworn
to yourself you’d never perform the Cruciatus Curse again. “The Crup’s fine. I’d never
hurt it, believe me.”

“Not good enough,” Malfoy spat, his wand still precisely in position. “I want to see it.
Now.”

Harry took a deep breath and accepted the inevitable. “I want your word that you
won’t harm me in any way, right?” Malfoy’s imagination was running riot; Harry could
see the images forming in his mind. “I’ll show you the Crup but I want that guarantee
first.”

“Show me my Crup.” Malfoy’s lips were white and nothing more than a horizontal slash
in his face.

Harry closed his eyes. He wondered if this was it, if this was how it was destined to end,
with his lifeless corpse sprawled on the floor next to Malfoy’s bed and his killer leaning
over the edge to survey the evidence of his final victory.

In. Through. Out. Harry imagined the path of the oxygen through his body and
transformed its shape. He inhaled his Crup form and let it flow out.

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“Aaaagh!” Malfoy toppled backwards against the curtained side of his bed and fell flat
to the floor with a resounding thud. Harry tiptoed over the tangle of sheets and poked
his head through the gap to check for injuries. “No. No. Please, no,” Malfoy was
jabbering to himself, the full extent of Harry’s peephole into his life focusing into
luridly-coloured detail somewhere just behind Malfoy’s eyeballs. When Harry leapt
down to the floor and snuffled into Malfoy’s neck, Malfoy scuttled backwards like a
spastic crab and cringed in horror at Harry’s proximity.

Almost bitterly, Harry transformed back and stood over Malfoy’s crouched form. This
was the end of everything. He’d wanted them to be friends, to be the friend each of
them needed and couldn’t find anywhere else.

“Do you hate me so much that you had to humiliate me?” Malfoy hissed, and Harry
could tell his throat was tight from the effort of holding his tears in. “Has my suffering
not been enough? Have you had a good laugh at how pathetic I am?”

In the barely there ambient light Malfoy’s eyes looked like glass, the surfaces shining
with tears just waiting for that final wobble before they spilled over and became real.

Harry was lost, so lost. He wasn’t clever enough or quick enough to talk himself out of
this situation and besides, he knew he deserved Malfoy’s worst. “I wanted to be your
friend,” he said, deciding that fancy words had no place in his admission of guilt. “I saw
how it was for you but you wouldn’t let me near. I didn’t know you’d take to the Crup,
honestly. But you were fun and kind, and I thought you liked my company as much as I
liked yours.”

The statement was met with a disbelieving and disgusted snort. Malfoy’s knuckles were
tight from gripping his wand, but his mind seemed so distracted that he’d forgotten he
ought to be pointing it at Harry.

“And then,” Harry began, but couldn’t find the words. It was seconds before he could,
and there was something in Malfoy’s face, a faint sliver of hope perhaps, just enough to
give Harry the courage to go on. “I saw you in the shower.” There. He’d said it. Malfoy’s
mouth was dropping open but there was no suggestion of impending speech. “I hid
and watched you in the shower and I couldn’t think of a time when I’d ever wanted to
touch something as much as I wanted to get in that shower with you and put my hands
on you.” Harry was dying of shame. His face was aflame with the rawest of blushes.
Once he’d said his piece he’d let Malfoy do whatever he wanted to exact his revenge.

“You…” Malfoy whispered through slack lips, uncomprehending.

“I’m sorry!” Harry choked out. “I know it sounds sick but I swear it wasn’t like that. I
couldn’t help myself.”

Malfoy’s body relaxed until he sat in an awkward pile on the floor, just staring up at
Harry with the deepest frown changing the shape of his face.“Why,Potter?” he finally

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said after what must have been minutes of silence. “Why?”

“Because I fancy you! Bloody hell, don’t you get it?” After another lengthy silence
Malfoy started to lift himself from the floor and stand. Harry backed away and said, “I’ll
move my stuff tomorrow, but I’ll sleep in one of the other dorms tonight. I won’t touch
you or anything, I swear.”

“You won’t?”

“I promise.”

“Oh.” Malfoy had sidled closer with the smallest of steps. When Harry’s legs hit the bed
there was nowhere else for him to run to.

“How about if I wanted you to?”

“What?”

“If I wanted you to touch me,” Malfoy clarified as he closed in on Harry. “Would you do
it?” He stopped when they were less than a foot apart and his gaze pierced Harry’s skull
and penetrated his brain so swiftly that Harry didn’t know what had hit him. “Don’t you
know the answer, Potter?” Malfoy’s words were a warm breeze against Harry’s cheek.

“Where would you touch me?” Malfoy’s voice was barely above a whisper yet it echoed
around the dormitory and bounced back in on Harry in waves. Harry was frozen, statue-
like, ensnared by Malfoy’s bottomless eyes and his hypnotic voice. “Would you touch
me here?” Harry watched one pale hand rise slowly and trace a line down the side of
Malfoy’s face, its fingertips following his cheekbone and the line of his jaw. Malfoy’s
eyes demanded an answer and Harry nodded jerkily, his head full of clouds and the
smell of Malfoy’s skin.

“Would you touch me here?” The fingertips continued their languid journey over
Malfoy’s prominent Adam’s apple, into the hollow of his throat and down the centre of
his chest until the touch faded and finally broke contact when it met the fabric of his
nightshirt.

“Yes. I would.” Harry’s stomach clenched and his insides flip-flopped as his mind
processed what it was seeing.

“Where else would you touch me?” the faint voice asked, its filmy smoothness
caressing Harry’s face like a silken scarf. “Show me where you’d touch me.” And finally
Malfoy’s hand stretched out as if in slow motion and teased Harry’s hand away from
the safety of his side, taking it into dangerous territory, so close to the places he had
coveted from afar.

“Would you touch me here?” Both of Malfoy’s hands drew Harry’s towards his barely
covered groin, its indecently rapid swelling marring the line of the nightshirt. Harry’s

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mouth dropped open when Malfoy guided it into contact with the insubstantial barrier,
and he carefully moulded his hand around the delicate contours of the growing
erection and the fleshy, strokable balls.

Harry was too gentle it seemed, because Malfoy ground himself against the hand so
hard that it was possible to feel the skin of his shaft rolling and stiffening and
stretching, and his grip tightened around Harry until all three hands must have been
crushing him, yet all he did was exhale a grateful, excited groan. Harry dug his fingers
into the folds of material until he could finally circle Malfoy’s cock and tug it to full
arousal. “I want to...” he said, but didn’t get any farther before he was shoved
forcefully backwards onto the bed and straddled by a frenzied Malfoy.

Their disrobing was graceless and awkward, with too many sharp elbows and eager
hands doing more to impede than speed up the process. Harry’s hands snatched at the
hemline of Malfoy’s nightshirt and yanked it up, clutching hungrily at the bared bottom
and sliding his fingers into the gap between Malfoy’s spread legs. Even in his
enthusiasm he was nervous when he fingered the crack, wanting to press his way
between the parted cheeks and find the hidden hole. He stroked its length from spine
to scrotum and back again before being rudely interrupted by Malfoy’s brutal
treatment of his pyjama top. The resulting arm-locking held him hostage until between
them they managed to get it over his head, followed swiftly by the bunched up bundle
of nightshirt. They shoved in unison at Harry’s pyjama bottoms, trapping his erection in
the elastic only to have it suddenly released and twanged back against his stomach, just
as the pain tiptoed into unbearable.

Malfoy’s hand was grabbing between Harry’s legs before he’d even kicked his bottoms
off. They stared at each other from less than a foot apart, Malfoy’s hair hanging down
around his face like scruffy curtain fringing. The intensity of the moment was numbing;
Harry’s world was Malfoy’s victorious face and Malfoy’s hot breaths and Malfoy’s hand
wanking him and Malfoy wrenching the most shockingly yielding cries from who knew
how deep inside him. It should have been humiliating to be so exposed, so utterly
naked and begging in every way but words. Should have been, but wasn’t.

Their forearms knocked together arrhythmically as they tossed each other off with
mounting vigour. With his spare hand Harry held a death grip on Malfoy’s bum,
squeezing it in time with his far-from-gentle strokes, inching his fingertips closer and
digging deeper until he felt the pulsing weak spot flare and contract under his touch.
Malfoy’s eyes rolled up into his head and he swallowed hard, emitting a girlish, high-
pitched wail, and Harry felt sure Malfoy’s mouth formed the word dirty, and Harry
rejoiced in the fact that it was and that he was doing it and loving it too. He wished his
finger was his tongue and that he was smothering himself during his oral worship of
Malfoy’s most perfect and wankworthy attribute.

He came loudly, his abrupt shout accompanying the pressurised spurting of his come as
it splattered both his own chest and Malfoy’s, covering his still-busy hand with sloppy
wetness and making Malfoy’s cock piston through his tight fist with lubricated ease.
The harder he squeezed it the more Malfoy huffed and the faster his hips pumped

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forward and back, forward and back, and Harry hung on to Malfoy’s straining body as
all motion reached a crescendo and shattered apart to the sound of a throat-shredding
cry. His come hit Harry’s belly with such force it made a sound, and unwilling to let the
orgasm end, Harry milked the dregs out and wiped them off on his hand, enjoying the
texture and the smell and imagining how it would feel to wear it rubbed all over him.
He hadn’t known how hungry he was for Malfoy until that moment, the rib-crushing
instant when Malfoy’s weight collapsed on him and sandwiched their arms together
amidst their mingled mess.

“Get in the bed,” Malfoy said, his voice crabby and tinged with uncertainty but trying to
brazen it out.

“You sure?” Harry croaked, trying to whisper but finding his throat too dry and ragged
to keep his voice even.

Malfoy didn’t respond in words, but he hauled himself off Harry and tried to pull the
sheets tangled beneath him into some sort of order. Harry helped by lifting his weight
and swinging his legs around, and he nervously positioned himself right next to Malfoy
on the narrow mattress and helped him draw the sheets over them both.

They had to lie slightly on their sides to be able to fit, yet they managed to balance like
that for many minutes, bodies not touching anywhere along their whole lengths,
completely silent and uncommunicative. There was no way the situation was conducive
to sleep, and Harry was on the verge of going back to his own bed when Malfoy huffed
loudly and rolled over, presenting his back to Harry as well as pressing his upturned
bottom into Harry’s hip. With no further invitation required, Harry spooned closely into
the warm body beside him, and they shifted together to find the most comfortable
spot.

Finally, Harry closed his eyes and concentrated on the fresh scent of shampoo, and the
way his lengthening breaths ruffled the fine hairs in the nape of Malfoy’s neck. He knew
he could sleep, knew he would now sleep there in complete contentment, except ...
except for that one missing moment, the one he needed to know for certain where he
stood. He levered himself up and rested his weight on an elbow, staring down at the
silent figure sharing the bed with him. He could only barely make out the dark smear of
Malfoy’s open eyes, but when the head turned towards him in question he didn’t use
words to ask for what he wanted. He lowered his mouth to Malfoy’s and pressed a
tentative kiss against the bow of his upper lip. When his advances were not repulsed he
tried again, this time to be greeted by a shyly enthusiastic response. Malfoy’s arm
curled up to hold the back of Harry’s head in place, and in turn Harry slipped his hand
over Malfoy’s hip and rested his palm against the naked flesh of Malfoy’s stomach.

The kisses grew in intensity with amazing speed, and they were wet and thick with
tongues and mashing lips. Malfoy’s nails dragged against Harry’s skull, each spasm of
his hand pulling their faces closer together until noses were squashed flat against
cheek bones and faces were slick with saliva.

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Malfoy kissed Harry like he meant it, and Harry kissed him right back, not sinking into
the sensation but already sunk and long since drowned in the pleasure. They ate at
each other with no finesse, scratching tongues along teeth and teasing each other with
just the tips until they were panting and breathless, the muffled sounds of their moans
drawing out breathily as they finally slowed. Breaking the kiss was something Harry
didn’t want to do, but maintaining the momentum was impossible, and they eventually
settled down when his arm got pins and needles. Instead of the previous timid embrace
there was a comfortable sprawl of interlocked limbs and hidden smiles pressed softly
against necks and comfortably wandering hands. When he went to sleep it was with a
smile on his face.

~*~

When Harry re-awoke during actual daytime it was to find Malfoy’s bed occupied only
by himself. He slid out and picked up his pyjama bottoms, ready to step into them. A
brisk throat-clearing made him jump and stumble around to track the sound, trousers
around his calves.

“I happened across this book,” Malfoy said from his elegant perch on the end of
Harry’s bed. He waved Awakening the Animagus casually whilst marking his page with
an extended finger.

Harry snorted coarsely and pulled his trousers up and over his embarrassingly apparent
morning glory. Because there’s no way Malfoy would have noticed it. No way at all.
“You did not just ‘happen across’ it. What you mean is you rummaged through my
stuff, without asking, and eventually found the book concealed underneath my
mattress and wrapped in my Invisibility Cloak.”

“What would be the point in covert rummaging if one had permission to do it?” Malfoy
pointed the half open book at Harry as he spoke while using his other hand to re-drape
the gaping half of his silky dressing gown over his thighs until the only bare leg Harry
could see was of the lower extremity type. More’s the pity.

“Fine,” Harry said. “You have permission to rummage through all my stuff.”

“Nice try, Potter,” he said with a smirk. “But since I’ve already seen everything there is
to see I won’t need to rummage in future because I’ll just be able to go straight to
whatever it is I want.”

“Oh yeah?” Harry replied, still imagining Draco having seen everything there was to see
and feeling a bit embarrassed about it. “And you happened to want that book, did
you?” He tugged his pyjama top over his head and shoved his glasses more firmly up his
nose.

There was a definite hint of a challenge in Malfoy’s eyes, but instead of the normal

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glaze of anger he looked amused. “It occurred to me that if you could learn how to
achieve your Animagus form from a book that it must either be the easiest-to-
understand manual ever written or that any prat can do it.”

“Meaning you’re going to have a go.”

“Oh, ha ha. Funny.”

“I try,” Harry said. “But it’s early and I’m hungry, you know how it is.”

“Well, part of you is certainly hungry at any rate.” Malfoy’s gaze lowered to the cotton
tent pitched near Harry’s midriff. If the curve of his raised eyebrow was anything to go
by, Harry thought Malfoy might not be averse to picking up where they’d left off.
Which made his stiffie jerk and Malfoy’s smirk broaden into a tight-lipped grin. Dear
god, if you exist in any way please let Malfoy want to suck me off. I lived in a cupboard for
years and have spent my teenage years being hunted by a madman and his sociopathic
followers. I really think I deserve a blow job for the hardships. With his prick pointing
north and throbbing like it had been accidentally slammed between the pages of a
large, heavy tome, Harry knew he was growing a wet patch through the front of his
top. When a suddenly-serious looking Malfoy stood up and placed the book on the bed,
Harry’s heart jumped into his mouth, making his tongue feel swollen and suffocating.

“I want to see it again,” he said.

Uh? Oh my god! He wants to see it! IT! Harry couldn’t hook his thumbs inside his
waistband quick enough.

“Bloody hell, not that you idiot!” Malfoy laughed, taken aback. “The Crup, man. I want
to see you change.”

“Oh.” Harry stifled a pout. Badly. “Look, Malfoy, this was supposed to be a secret. And
now you know and McGonagall knows, and-”

“Please don’t tell me you told the old battleaxe.”

“She’s not a battleaxe,” Harry said sternly. “And I didn’t exactly tell her. She more just
sort of knows.”

Malfoy ran a hand over his hair and sighed. “Fine. She knows. So can I see it again or
not?” And a few seconds later, “Please?” Now there was a word Harry couldn’t ignore.
He drew in a breath, shaped the incantation in his head and stepped forward.

Between raising his foot and its gravitational fall back to the floor, the tingles
consumed Harry’s body and he shrank into the familiar shape of his Crup. He trotted
right up to Malfoy’s feet and stared all the way up to his face. Malfoy bent down and
tickled his fingers behind Harry’s ear in just the way he liked. Harry shivered all over,
and the movement vibrated its way down his body, right to the tips of his two wagging

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tails.

When Malfoy stood, Harry grew back to normal size. They were standing toe to toe
with only a tiny sliver of a gap between them. Malfoy’s eyes were a warmer shade than
Harry had imagined they’d be. The temptation to lean in and place a kiss on Malfoy’s
lips was huge. Just a peck; no tongues. Well, not unless Malfoy wanted tongues in
which case Harry was fully up to the task and raring to go. So he was deeply
disappointed when Malfoy took a step back and headed towards the door. When he
could unglue his tongue from the roof of his mouth, Harry said, “Where are you going?”

Malfoy’s hand fell away from the door handle and he stood with his back to Harry, the
slightest hint of stress visible in the set of his shoulders.

The fabric of the dressing gown shimmered and shifted lightly before sliding over
Malfoy’s shoulders and pooling on the floor around his feet. He was naked underneath;
naked and long and faintly blushing in all the right places. The air seemed to disappear
out of the room, and Harry could not move. He couldn’t breathe. He stared hungrily at
Malfoy’s body as though he’d never laid eyes on it before, had never once ogled its
angles and contours, before settling his gaze as always on the neat planes of his
compact yet perfectly peachy bottom with its almost invisible fuzzing of the finest
white hairs and the glow of its ripe skin.

“I was going for a shower,” Malfoy eventually replied. His voice betrayed a certain
nervousness, which cut through the fog in Harry’s mind. When he turned his head to
address Harry over his shoulder, Malfoy’s cheek was flaming pink. “I thought perhaps
you might like to come. And watch. Or join in…” He turned his head away and the fear
of rejection was plain to see in his rigid pose. It made Harry ache inside from wanting to
touch him all over and keeptouching him all over, and kiss him, and make him come,
and most of all, make him laugh.

Malfoy turned the handle and held the door ajar. “So are you coming then?”

It was the vulnerability of tone that unstuck Harry’s feet from their spot and carried
him forward, close enough to reach out and cover the sharp ridges of Malfoy’s hip
bones with his warm, eager hands. When he kissed the pattering pulse point on
Malfoy’s neck he heard a moan that was little more than a breath of air, and his insides
turned to liquid at the thought of soaping his hands and running them over every part
of this gorgeous body. And oh, how he was looking forward to that. “Just try and stop
me,” Harry said. “I’ve got you now and there’s no way you’re escaping.”

Malfoy leaned back against Harry’s front and flexed his musculature so that Harry felt it
up and down his body. His erection slotted into the tight groove of Malfoy’s crack as
though the two were made for each other. “That sounds remarkably like a threat.”

“I assure you it’s the best kind of promise.” Harry buried his face in the crook of
Malfoy’s neck and nipped the soft skin at the curve. One hand followed the downward
slope of Malfoy’s hip and slid loosely around the swollen girth of his erection, stroking

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the length gently and tracing lazy circles on its underside with the pad of his thumb. An
uncontrolled buck of Malfoy’s hips forced him to take a firmer hold, and Harry knew
they weren’t going to make it to the shower for a while. Unless Malfoy kept making
those noises and then it was likely to be over in seconds.

He cupped Malfoy with his other hand, balancing the tight weight of the drawn-up balls
against his palm while he insinuated the tips of his fingers into the narrow gap behind,
sampling the damp heat and the faint scratch of wiry hairs, imagining what Malfoy
would taste like there, and what sort of noises such an intimate invasion would
stimulate.

“Is this what you wanted?” Malfoy gasped as he pumped his hips forward and forced
his cock harder into Harry’s grip, circling into the cuff of fingers to get the friction he
needed. “Me wanting you? Is it? Are you happy now?”

“Oh, definitely,” Harry murmured, a sense of elation filling him to overflowing as he

contemplated all the things he was going to do to Malfoy and his greedy cock and
sinful bum, and beyond that in the simple pleasure of getting to know each other and
finally, to like each other. “Yes, I’m happy,” he said, the words muffled against Malfoy’s
neck. “I’m as happy as a dog with two tails.”

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