Current mood:	excited
Current music:	Dirty Vegas - Days Go By
Entry tags:	author corvidae9

Fic: Days Go By (H/D) - R
Title: Days Go By (1 of 2)
Author: corvidae9
Rating: R
Word Count: ~14,120
Summary: After a grievous miscommunication that leads to five years apart, Harry has difficulty keeping his life together in the face of Draco's revenge tactics. The fact that he manages to succeed only makes Draco more intent. (Veela!Draco/Werewolf!Harry)
Warnings: More shredded fandom clichés, references to past major character death, crackful premises, needless woe and angst, happy endings, etc.
Author Notes: Heeeeeeee. Born out of swtalmnd's assertion that she'd never seen well-done veela!draco, and knitmeapony's professed weakness for werewolf!harry. Then it all went astray. I've no idea if I've done justice to any of that, but I'm proudly submitting this for the serpentinelion H/D-oween fest. Yay Creature!fic! :D Ever many thanks to juice817 for the readthrough. Title from the Dirty Vegas song of the same name.

August 2, 2004 : full moon + 2

Draco knew that face.

It was older and beginning to look more lined, but that damn scar was still showing in clear relief against his skin even at the distance of fifteen meters or so. His hair was still an inky, disgraceful mess, but it showed every appearance of beginning to be shot through with grey, and Draco sniffed, feeling rather superior.

A Wizard should not look so old at twenty-four. Perhaps Draco's father had been right. Perhaps Muggle blood did distill Wizarding. Not that he'd taken a chance with the Malfoy bloodline-- he'd very publicly married Pansy after the War, given her a couple of brats in quick succession and then very publicly divorced her due to irreconcilable differences. (Mainly consisting of the fact that Draco kept beating her to all of the most toothsome of poolboys.)

Draco, on the other hand, was nearly perfect. He did in fact concede to 'nearly' only because of the few and fading scars he had crisscrossing his back, arse and upper thighs from... unpleasantness during the war. He never talked about it - there was no point.

Standing at the end of a breezeway in Diagon Alley, Draco watched Harry Potter carry an impossibly large crate from the back of an old-fashioned carriage and into the back of the Leaky Cauldron, returning for several more trips before presenting a clipboard to Tom, waiting for a signature, shaking hands with him and finally accepting a take-away bag with an easy laugh.

Though he looked too aged for his years, Potter obviously was possessed of admirable upper arm strength, and was still grandstanding in that he hadn't used magic to levitate the crates.

Show-off.

Draco couldn't help but remember the last time he'd actually said a word to the gloryhound. Had it been five years already? It had. As Draco had practically crawled from where he'd landed in a crumpled heap under the rubble of a collapsing manor in the dark, hearing coughing and crying from all directions and someone shouting that Voldemort was dead.

He had come across Potter limping away holding his side, bloodied and looking almost mauled and had redoubled the effort to move forward to catch up, taking hold of Potter's sleeve and bracing his own hand on the wall to keep from falling over.

The look on Potter's face had been pure disgust when he'd shrugged Draco's hand off, telling him to get away for his own good.

Of course. Of course it had to have come to the famous Saint Potter threatening the Evil Malfoy again once it was all over. It wasn't Draco's fault he'd gotten involved with the half-blood to begin with after all; he blamed it on the stresses of the war, on close proximity, on Potter's need to be the center of attention and his obvious obsession with Draco. But now that his usefulness to the Boy Who Lived was at an end, damned if he'd let Potter hurt him.

Draco had let him go with a quiet swear, lifted his chin though it sent a spike of pain down his spine, and walked away. He hadn't looked back. He might not have been able to, it's true, but if he'd wanted to, he'd never admit it.

And as such, Potter had disappeared off of the face of the earth with nothing but occasional post --or what was it called? 'me-mail'? Draco needed to get it, if that was the case-- to his old friends. Draco didn't go out of his way to find out, of course. He heard things.

Draco had gone on to live the life to which he'd been born, sans stark raving Dark Lords. His life was sweet-- a reward richly deserved. Better, Narcissa's great aunt Cecile had come to stay at Malfoy Manor not long after the final battle - supposedly to bolster her 'last living male descendant' in his time of grief and recovery.

That had been the most entertaining of his rewards for choosing the ultimately winning side and managing to survive it all. Aunt Cecile had the whitest-blond hair he'd ever seen, her eyes the clearest pale blue and though she was old even by Wizarding standards, she carried herself with a grace and poise that caused men of all ages to fall over themselves in an attempt to get her anything she could want or need.

Ah yes. Aunt Cecile was a Veela, as were Draco's grandmother and great-grandmother, as it turned out. Once Aunt Cecile had explained this sufficiently and had been pleasantly surprised to find that being swarmed by men would not pose a problem for him, she'd had the honor of performing an awakening ceremony as her gift for Draco's twentieth birthday.

The feathers were a little weird, true, but those only made a rare appearance-- he was, after all, only one-fourth veela. The pheromones more than made up for it... and explained how he beat Pansy to all of the poolboys. Even the purportedly straight ones.

And Potter had missed it all for being a great, egomaniacal prat and a drama queen to boot. His loss. But now... Draco smirked and shifted a little further away from the wall as if he was crossing the breezeway ever so slowly, putting himself in Potter's path. He was going to get a little measure of revenge; it was his turn to show off his utter perfection to that haggard-looking peasant and he was going to make Potter feel it to the ends of his tiniest toe.

Potter pulled the carriage short and waited politely (fucking boy scout), and Draco looked up with a gracious, nonchalant wave, reveling in the visible stiffening of Potter's limbs and neck. Feigning ignorance, Draco smiled and called out, "Thank you! Have a good day!" as he concentrated on making Potter want him.

It should have been an easy enough task as it was. Wasn't as if he'd not had him Before - but with the Veela charms... he was going to leave Potter in a drooling heap and walk away. And this time not look back because it was his choice not to.

"Dra-- Malfoy?" came Potter's pathetic reply and Draco had to fight to keep from smirking, instead looking surprised.

"Potter? Is that you? Well! This is a surprise," Draco said, cheerfully. "Should have run me down while you had the chance."

Potter looked down, and Draco had the first indication that something had gone wrong. That wasn't an embarassed flush of sudden, inexplicable lust. That was embarrassed hurt; the feeling of wanting the ground to swallow you whole to save you from yourself or anyone else. Frowning slightly, Draco tried harder, focusing on making Potter want him. Want him more than anything he could ever want.

"Yeah. Is. It's.. um. yeah," Potter said, tugging at the reins on the beast pulling the wagon. Even though his face was downcast, Draco could see that though he did look aged beyond his years, the ever-attractive sheen of innocence clung to him. His glasses were askew on the bridge of his nose and he shoved them up as he continued, never quite meeting Draco's eyes. "You um. You look good. It was good to see you. Take care."

With that, he clicked the reins and started forward and Draco stood dumbstruck as Potter drove past and onto the main thoroughfare, staring until the carriage was out of sight.

Bloody well inconceivable. Draco's birthright had had no effect on him-- none. Not that any of his birthrights ever had, but this one was different. This should have made him stutter and beg; make an arse out of himself trying to apologize and offering his company. Should have given Draco the satisfaction of walking away and leaving him rejected and forlorn and bloody well beating his chest.

Draco set his jaw and walked away, swearing at the first bystander to accidentally come anywhere near him.

###

The night Voldemort died for good had been a full moon, and Harry had in fact been mauled within an inch of his life by a werewolf that had taken him down just as he had cast the killing curse. Harry had used the curses Remus taught him to repel and finally kill the werewolf with the last of his resolve, crawling out from under his still-mutable form, but it was too late for him. As he barely walked down the hall holding the shreds of his shirt and side, he'd known he was cursed, his body fighting him every step.

When Malfoy caught his sleeve, all of the relief that Harry had felt to see him alive had been washed away by a deep-seated urge to kill-tear-attack-rend, and when he told Malfoy to let go and get away, he hadn't meant 'and never come back'.

But some things just shook out the way they did, didn't they?

Harry had stuck around town for long enough to find a reliable source of Wolfsbane and then went underground for almost three years until he had the routine down; until he'd come to face it and learned to live with it. He begged, pleaded, and finally guilted Hermione into promising not to make him a champion for the 'werewolf cause', and then slipped back into town quietly, pointedly not registering with the Ministry. After several failed odd jobs, he took the job delivering for Sclera Brothers Distribution, currently managed by Seamus Finnigan, who knew Harry's story and didn't ask questions before, during or after full moons. Harry didn't bother looking anyone else up. His hair began to gray prematurely and he lived in a basement flat far removed from anything remotely resembling Grimmauld Place and when he ran into people he used to know, he was friendly, inquired after their lives and then went back to his own life on the fringe.

The day Malfoy showed up in front of the delivery wagon, Harry's stomach dropped into his shoes and all he could do was stare at his own hands. He couldn't handle the haughty disdain, or the obvious, gleeful disgust; especially when Malfoy had barely changed, all white gold hair and sharp cheekbones and even sharper tongue.

He hadn't wanted to see it in person, but Harry rarely got the things he wished for, and so he had done his best to brush it off and finish his rounds. Then he'd gone home and had too much to drink, which of course this close to the Wolfsbane gave him the worst sort of hangover in the morning. Still, he'd managed to soldier through and go about his business.

He always did. It came with being the now-lycanthropic savior of the bloody Wizarding world.

August 3 : full moon + 3
Draco fumed. He'd turned the Charms up on several unsuspecting bystanders as he walked away from Potter, just to prove it still worked. Sure enough, he had been followed about, bought drinks and fought over, and it hadn't been nearly as entertaining as it should have been. He'd left both admirers behind, gone home, had too much to drink and passed out in a sprawl only to wake calling for the house elf and demanding a Hangover Potion.

Sodding Potter back to haunt him all these years after walking away just because his job was done. Making Draco's life miserable again just by existing.

Eyes narrow and full of righteous indignation, Draco sat up, then groaned and fell back down against the pillows again. Fine. He could be just as full of rage from a prone position for a bit until the potion kicked in.

The point was, Draco was going to find Potter and find out why his Charms hadn't worked. And in the meantime, he was going to set about deconstructing Potter's pathetic life. It wasn't as if there was much to deconstruct after all-- it should make a satisfying side project until he found something new to distract him.

August 4 : full moon + 4
A well-placed firecall had arranged for a large delivery of alcohol to a dinner club belonging to one of Draco's associates from none other than Sclera Brothers Distribution.

Another discreet firecall had given him the address of a basement flat in a far and relatively dingy corner of an offshoot of Diagon Alley.

Draco sat back with a smile. They had been such small favors to call in.

August 5 : full moon + 5
Harry knew the new client was going to be a pain in the arse when the tall, balding contact smacked him in the shoulder with the warehouse door on his first trip in and did nothing but scowl and bark orders, cigarillo clenched between his yellow teeth.

With a grumbling sigh, Harry did his best to comply and by two deliveries later had for the most part put the tall man and bruised shoulder out of his mind.

August 6 : full moon + 6
Seamus called Harry in to the office and showed him a Howler that had come in from the new client - something about the delivery person being rude, scaring a customer, not using magic to move the products and putting them in the wrong place even when asked to do otherwise. Old man Sclera had given the club owner a retroactive discount, but was worried that he'd make good on his threats to call his friends and share his tale of godawful service if he was not satisfied and if the delivery person in question wasn't discharged immediately.

Harry furrowed his brow and pointed out angrily that the contact had been mad, rude, pushy, made him move the crates four times and then tried to underpay the invoice on the spot. Regardless, Seamus had been tasked with giving Harry a warning and talking the club owner down with an owled bottle of scotch and a promise that the employee in question had been talked to.

Furious, Harry declared himself on a break and slammed the office door, setting the lights on the entire floor flickering as he passed.

August 7 : full moon + 7
Harry arrived home to a note on his door from the building manager. Apparently, there had been a complaint about the smell coming from his flat, and if the problem had not been cleared up in twenty four hours, the manager was going to have to enter the premises and deal with the potential health hazard.

Swearing under his breath that there was 'no bloody smell', Harry turned the key in the door and was hit full in the face with the miasma of rotting meat that had pointedly not been there before he'd left for work.

For two hours, he searched the flat and could find nothing that could be responsible. He tried any relevant counter curses and revealing charms he could come up with and none helped. Instead, he scrawled an answering note, effectively telling the manager to be his guest in digging through the flat, and if he worked it out he was also free to deal with it.

He packed an overnight bag and went to Hermione's flat to beg use of her guest room.

August 8 : full moon + 8
Hermione, of course had been more than willing. She fed him to bursting, entertained him with tales of the Beast and Beings Division, bored him with stories about the ridiculous administration and inquired after his health in a predictable order. Harry was perfectly fine with that as by the time they got to the boring and/or meddlesome bits of the conversation he'd usually had enough beer not to be annoyed by it.

Eventually bundled in the fresh, crisp linens and soft blankets of her guest bed, Harry sighed and tried to sleep, fighting against the quiet of her suburban neighborhood. The distant traffic noise was very little and far between, the sounds in the building nearly nonexistent.

At last check, it had been two am on Sunday morning before he finally lost track of the time. His portable alarm went off at five am and he scrubbed a hand through his hair, popped out of bed and went straight for the shower. Once washed and dressed, he grinned at the muffin and coffee left out on the counter for him and slipped into Hermione's room to drop a kiss on her forehead and rush off to work.

The coffee was gone before he'd even Apparated away.

He came back and spent Sunday night with her, too. It was strange some days, the routine the two of them could fall into without it being obvious they were missing a third side until details were closely examined. Dinner would be made, but salad forgotten as the designated tomato chopper had been gone for five years now. The two of them would sit on a sofa together and always made room for a third person that wouldn't be sitting down. One or the other would forget and set out three mugs, and take one back quickly before the other noticed, unaware of the fact that the other had done the same with the dinner plates.

He loved her, it was true, but he couldn't be her roommate, no matter how often she asked. He spent another sleepless night at her flat, determined to go home after work on Monday afternoon.

August 9 : full moon + 9

Mr. Potter,

I entered your flat today with the plumber, however we could not find the source of the stench either. I then contacted the Department of Magical Law Enforcement - I do hope you're not offended, but with the stories one sees in the paper, it seemed like the thing to do. The officers finally found a kneazle caught in the upper chamber of your Floo connection; poor thing must have strayed into a grate somewhere along the line and gotten caught. I understand it happens quite a lot.

At any rate, I apologize for the scare, as well as any mess there may have been left behind in the wake of the DMLE's search. They were rather... thorough.

-E. Dillingham, manager

Harry looked at the mess of scattered papers and knick-knacks, emptied closet, sofa cushions astray and a (badly) magically-patched hole in the wall and crumpled the note with a growl. The room still smelled of dead things and his stomach churned. It was a stench he could have gone his entire life without smelling again.

He charmed the things to begin righting and repairing themselves and went into the kitchen to find a drink.

August 10 : full moon + 10
Tuesday had been as terrible as Monday, and Harry flinched as Seamus clapped him on the back and tried to be encouraging. Said the crazies were just out this week and a drink could fix it up.

Harry decided that he'd been drinking too much lately. And then he went to the pub with Seamus anyway.

August 11 : full moon + 11

My darling Draco,

In response to your question, there are in fact two types of men immune to the Charms of a Veela:

1) Those that are deeply, truly in love with someone other than the Veela in question

2) Dark Creatures and mortals no longer quite human. How and why they are affected vary according to their affliction - Vampires for example are immune during the night only, werewolves vary by the lunar cycle, their immunity waxing and waning with the moon.

Either way, if you've met someone that is immune to your powers, darling, listen to your aunt. Stay far away.

Having been young once myself, I realize that these three words may as well be encouragement to try your luck, but it is my duty to make the attempt. Learn these lessons for yourself if you must, beautiful one, and know that I am here for you should the need arise. What this old woman may do in your defense is limited by age and geography, but I am still here.

With love, and wishes for your continued safety, good luck and well-being,

Cecile

Draco stared at the elegant, spidery handwriting and felt his blood grow cold, unaware of the fact that his eyes had dilated to slits and his hackles were raised almost to the point of sprouting plumage. Potter was no Dark Creature, and therefore had to be 'deeply and truly' in love with someone else. Jaw set, he crumpled the message and tossed it into the fire, following it closely with a handful of Floo powder to call in yet another small favor.

August 12 : full moon + 12
The delivery cart pulled away from the Leaky Cauldron, Harry's traditional take away bag in the seat next to him. The week had been terrible, it was true, but he could always count on a delivery to Tom's to start a day right.

Of course, that was before the day Draco Malfoy crossed his path, and like some sort of albino black cat had cursed him with his very presence. Today turned out not to be an exception after all. Sally suddenly stumbled as she turned the corner into the narrow side alley on the way to his next delivery to the Black Heart. She whinnied and reared up, jarring the cart with the effort, prancing in place and favoring her left front hoof. Harry waited until she seemed to calm a bit, holding the reins tightly as he hopped down and walked up to her, murmuring soothingly though secretly cursing the Wizarding need to cling to the old-fashioned and outdated. He bent to inspect the hoof and something blunt and heavy landed across the base of his skull.

Face first on the cobblestone street and dazed, the notion occurred to Harry that it was a shameful thing indeed that The Boy Who Lived would be the victim of a common robbery, right before he passed out to the tune of smashing glass.

August 13 : full moon + 13
Old man Sclera himself questioned Harry even at St. Mungo's, wondering loudly if he'd been perhaps not paying close enough attention to his charges or the horse; or perhaps that he'd done the damage himself and passed out in a drunken haze afterward. Harry finally was aware enough to pull the memory forth for the DMLE, who confirmed that it had not been altered and filed the report along with issuing a warning to Diagon Alley merchants.

The insurance would pay for the damage, and Sally was sent off to recover from her injury. The Hogsmeade stables sent a surly thestral affectionately referred to as Deathwish in a temporary exchange and Harry was sent home with an admonition to get some rest. Reluctantly, old man Sclera told him to take the weekend off.

Unpaid, obviously.

August 14 : full moon + 14
Harry stood in the flat that still carried a hint of an odd odor and had no idea what to do with himself and his now only slightly aching head. 'Get rest', they'd said, and he had. Eventually, he did go back to bed and managed to sleep most of the day away, interrupted only when Hermione arrived with a paper sack that smelled a lot better than his flat had before her arrival.

She let herself in, served the curry in his plain yet sturdy dishes and sat on the edge of his bed. Holding a plate under Harry's nose until he stirred, she complained loudly that she'd had to hear what had happened from Seamus and that if he didn't want to hack her off further, he should damn well sit up and eat.

After their impromptu picnic, Hermione charmed the dishes to scurry back to the kitchen and wash themselves. She then crawled up and curled into Harry, pointedly not talking about how scared she was of losing him, too.

August 15 : full moon + 15
So.

Granger had spent the night at Potter's flat. It was entirely possible that she was the person he was 'truly' and buggering well 'deeply' in love with, but knowing what he did about Potter's predilections, he doubted it. Highly.

His drinking mate, Finnigan, was by all anatomical accounts a more likely prospect, but given what he'd seen of his method of delivering to Granger the news of Potter's... accident, it wasn't him, either.

Draco decided to watch Potter more closely himself. When the silent sensor wards he'd set on Potter's flat went off (he'd set them when he planted the kneazle, naturally)(and it had been dead to begin with - Potter wasn't worth killing over), Draco Apparated to the shadows of the building across the lane. He waited to see if he heard the crack of an Apparation, but instead, he saw Potter leave the building on foot, heading in the direction of Diagon Alley proper. He followed far enough behind to not be noticed, all the way to the last club on the corner of Diagon Alley and Sensation Alley; a bar Draco knew all about. Eyebrow raised as Harry was waved in without paying cover, Draco waited outside just long enough to charm his clothing to be more appropriate, to show a little more of the shape of his body, a little more skin.

Running a hand through his hair, Draco walked up to the window, paid and went in, heading immediately for the nearest bar. Casing the club would be easier and less suspicious drink in hand, though when the bartender handed him the short, squat glass, Draco slammed back the bright orange vodka drink and asked for another.

With his third drink in hand, paid for by the older gentleman across the bar, Draco finally stood and began to circle the dark room, searching out someone he should be able to find in the half-dark with his eyes shut. He had, in fact, had this skill at some point in time, but it was probably long gone in the years since Harry Potter had decided he was too good to be seen with Draco Malfoy in a post-Voldemort world. The thought fueled Draco's righteous fury and he wound his way to the second floor bar with the tiniest of sway to his hips.

As he surfaced from the dark stairwell to a low, appreciative whistle, his eyes immediately slid to the bar nearest the DJ booth. There of course, was the dull, useless face he'd been looking for. Potter was sitting next to a bloke with cheap store-bought blond streaks who was clearly trying too hard to chat him up. Worse, the way Potter eyed him sideways as he tipped back the remainder of his beer made Draco think that the idiot might be falling for it.

Surely that bloke was not the love of Potter's life. Surely not. But if he was, Draco was going to fix that.

Shoving aside the whistler with an unconscious flash of teeth and a reedy hiss, Draco circled the bar and took the stool next to the vacant-looking bloke. It didn't matter that it had been occupied - all it took was a smile and the tiniest bit of persuasion for it to not be. Purposefully bumping Vacant Bloke with his knee, Draco flashed a brilliant smile.

"I can't seem to get the bartender's attention, and I seem to be--" Draco held up his glass of ice and shook it, quirking his lip, "--dry."

Vacant Bloke nearly knocked his stool over as he stood and flailed wildly for the bartender, promising to buy him that drink while he was at it. Draco smirked at Potter around the bloke's back. "Fancy meeting you here."

Potter had the grace to look as though he might reach out and throttle him. "Imagine that," he bit off, and Draco smirked again. Vacant Bloke sat back down and apologized profusely for the delay as he handed Draco a very large drink and Draco flashed a smaller smile as he took a sip, followed by a grimace as he licked his lips. Eyes darting to Potter, he leaned up and whispered to Vacant Bloke that these drinks were much better from the downstairs bar, and if he could go get it there, Draco would be very grateful. Possibly grateful enough to do more than squeeze his thigh, as he was pointedly doing now.

The bloke was on his feet and down the stairs in a heartbeat, and Draco grinned maliciously as he slid over and onto his barstool. "You boyfriend isn't the faithful type, is he, Potter?"

Potter narrowed his eyes further. "I've no idea who that kid was, but he was fucking annoying. Good luck."

With that, he made to leave and Draco scrambled for something to say, automatically turning his Charms up a notch or ten. "Oh? Not yours, then?"

Skin flushed, Potter licked his lips and paused mid-motion, grumbling, "No."

Draco cracked a hint of a self-congratulatory grin. Surprised, yet ever so gratified, and cranked up his Charms again, regardless of the small crowd he could feel watching him. "Seemed tacky enough to be your type."

Potter turned to face him with an indignant noise that died away into a little groan that Draco interpreted as longing and was not far off the mark. "I don't do tacky. You should know."

Moving in for the kill, Draco tilted his head and leaned. "How would I know? Haven't seen you in five years."

Clearly uncomforable and unable to look away, Potter did manage to pull his head back, shaking it slightly. "You did that, not me."

Draco was uninterested in talk, even less in lame excuses. He was here to hopefully find and destroy the great and intense love affair that was hampering his efforts at leaving Potter in an agitated state and walking away. Fortunately, by his reactions it appeared that Potter had done a good enough job of destroying it himself. Perhaps it had been Granger and perhaps she'd left him for Finnigan. Who knew? Who cared? It was now time for the working up and walking away.

His voice was a low and quiet rumble, Draco pressed closer. "Does it matter?"

Potter half-shook his head again as if trying to clear it, his hand creeping toward Draco's knee. "I--"

Flushed with impending victory, Draco's gaze flicked from Harry's mouth to his eyes and back... and then back to his eyes and buggerall, he'd just thought of him as 'Harry' and faced a very real danger of losing sight of his goal. There was one way to fix this. He shut his eyes, cranked the Charms up to an unsustainable level and closed the distance between them.

Unconsciously sighing into the kiss, Draco's hands found their way to Harry's chest as he parted his lips, fingers straying up the side of his neck and face. He leaned as close as he could, tilting his head to get even closer still, thumb stroking Harry's cheekbone and nearly jumping when Harry's hand landed on his hip and slid toward the small of his back.

It didn't fix anything. It was in fact so much worse, being forced to remember where these kisses should lead; forced to recall with clarity the sounds that Harry made when he--

"No."

Harry blinked, his eyes half-hooded, sliding his hand up Draco's back. "Nuhuh. Sorry. You didn't have to--"

Sorry. Draco didn't care how addled he was causing Harry's thought processes to be or what twisted paths his own were taking, 'sorry' would never be enough. It added steel to his spine, and he set his forehead to Harry's in a cruel imitation of a long-gone tender moment. Smirking, his breath wafted across Potter's cheek as he whispered right up close, "I'm going to walk away from you, Potter. And I won't look back."

Draco got up and did just that, trailing at least four other men in his pheromone-soaked wake, and knew Potter's mind would begin to clear in direct relation to the physical distance between them.

Too far. Draco had taken it too far. He'd wanted too much. That had been his mistake.

This was not a setback. He'd learned his lesson.

August 16 : full moon -14
The clock turned over Monday and Harry was still staring at the ceiling over his bed, still feeling Malfoy's hands on his face, his chest; still feeling the press of his body and seeing all of the hurt and hate in the roiling gray of his eyes. It was too easy to remember the days when Malfoy's eyes held more, and Harry didn't want to think about it.

He especially did not want to think about how there was a spark of something left that almost didn't feel like hate or hurt. Harry's stomach churned with anger at Malfoy's irrational rejection so many years ago, at his need to suddenly rub his face in just how much better than Harry he was, and at the same time he would have given a lot to have that very moment in the club all over again.

That was the worst part, probably.

I'm going to walk away from you, Potter. And I won't look back.

What else was new?

###

Draco sat in the overstuffed chair of his study well into the wee hours of Monday with a glass of scotch in one hand and a small vial of bright yellow potion in the other. The combination was guaranteed to put him into a pleasant stupor in which he would be free to forget Potter's hands on his back and hip; Potter's breath hot on his neck, his eyes glittering green in the dark as he finally finally responded to Draco, and for a brief moment, Draco didn't care that it had taken bloody buggering Veela magic to make it happen. For a brief moment, he'd been convinced he didn't need revenge, just more of Potter's hands.

Perhaps that was the part that made him the most angry. He'd slipped into the gents with the prettiest of his trail of suitors and let the boy suck him off right there on his knees on the faded linoleum, and then Disapparated before he had any other bright ideas. It hadn't helped.

Draco took another sip of scotch and continued to stare into the cool vial.

You didn't have to.

Yes, he had.

August 17 : full moon -13

Mr. Potter,

I'm afraid I've received yet another noise complaint from your upstairs neighbor. Although no one has seen what it might be that makes these noises, the assertion has been made that it sounds as though you've 'a herd of wild animals stampeding past'.

Please note, in the clause 4, paragraph 16 of the terms of your lease agreement, pets are not allowed, nor is the temporary housing of beasts magical or otherwise.

Barring recent events, you've been a model resident and I would hate to see you go. If your lifestyle continues to disrupt that of the other residents, however, I'm afraid we will have to ask you to leave. Do keep this in mind?

Thank you yet again,

E. Dillingham, manager.

Harry's eyes were narrowed to slits, jaw clenched so tight, it hurt. It took every ounce of restraint he possessed not to immediately write back and let the manager know what he could do with his notices and his wild animals.

Instead, he wrote a calm, terse note stating that he had assumed the noises that he had also been hearing every night this week so far were coming from the upstairs flat, but he'd had the decency to try and shrug them off. Moreover, he had no animals, wild, magical or otherwise, in his flat and Mr. Dillingham was more than welcome to come see this fact for himself.

He tacked the note to his door with more force than he had intended, which was quite a bit, given his condition. Adding a post script to apologize for the damage to the door, Harry cringed as he added that he was more than willing to cover the repair cost.

August 18 : full moon -12
Harry felt like utter shite. He almost called in sick, and yet in the absence of actual symptoms, managed to shower, dress and walk up to his workplace. Upon arriving, Seamus grabbed him by the arm and dragged him past the reporters that had begun to swarm him and directly into his office.

"What the hell?" Harry heard himself say, still oddly tired and detached.

Seamus sighed and shoved The Daily Prophet at Harry, folded in half such that the bottom headline on the front page was showing. After the second it took to read it, and another to let it sink in, Harry picked up the paper and began reading the article, mouth set in a scowl.

"Thefuck. Is this," Harry murmured, his lips moving as he read. "I'm WHAT?! A 'tragic reflection of the hero I used to be'? 'Volatile, rude, unreliable and nursing a burgeoning drinking problem'? I 'frequent disreputable nightclubs'?!" He looked up at Seamus, who shrugged and scratched the back of his neck.

"Dunno, mate. This showed up this morning, that lot out there showed up just after. Old man's not pleased. Havin' a right fuckin' fit."

Harry pointed at a particularly offensive line. "'Involved in questionable business practices'?! I deliver alcohol!"

Seamus pressed his lips to a thin line. "Harry. He wants me to let you go. They named the company in the article and he says he doesn't need the bad press on top of everything else that's happened."

"Yeah well, maybe then I can focus on not having 'the DMLE summoned' to my flat for 'repeated domestic calls of a disturbing nature'!" Harry fairly shouted, tossing the paper down onto Seamus' desk and standing fists clenched. "Because God forbid Harry fucking Potter be left the hell alone for once."

"Harry!! Calm down, alright? I'm working on him. Just give me a few--"

"No." Harry shook his head, hand in his hair. "No, I'm gone. I can't-- no. You've done enough." He paused and held a hand out to Seamus. "Seriously, man. Don't worry about it."

Seamus bit the inside of his lip and stared at the offered hand before taking it, stepping in for a tight, one-armed hug. "I'm sorry, mate. I don't know how..."

"At least they didn't out me, yeah? Imagine the headline the day someone works out I'm a werewolf?" Harry's attempt to make it sound more amusing than it was fell flat, and Seamus exhaled hard as he released him.

"Here." Seamus reached around and pulled a medium-sized pouch from the top drawer of his desk. "It's your severance pay. Old man nearly had an aneurysm, but I insisted."

Harry took it, weighing it in one hand. "That's more than a week's worth."

"Two plus a bit of a bonus. Think he felt worse than he let on."

With a snort of forced cheer, Harry made to tuck the bag in the pocket of his jacket, giving up when it didn't quite fit. "Must have. I won't argue."

Seamus' mouth was set in a grim line. "Mate, if you ever need anything--"

"I know," Harry nodded, trying to look more cheerful than he was, suddenly wondering if this is what Remus' life had been like. When it came to it, Harry supposed he was a little better off, but the thought failed to cheer him. "Same here, yeah?"

He nodded again by way of an excuse and Dispparated where he stood.

August 19 : full moon -11
Draco was still unhappy.

Oh, he'd heard about Potter's lost job-- the article had been a stroke of genius that had cost him very little to be published in the grand scheme of things. Potter's name was on the public's tongue again, only this time usually in conjunction with 'tragic' and 'waste' and always said with a disapproving cluck or a sad headshake.

He should have been thrilled by this. He should have been ecstatic over the spectacular dump at the club-- that was what he'd wanted in the first place, after all-- and yet he was inexplicably not.

Obviously, he had not been ambitious enough.

August 20 : full moon -10
On impulse, Harry showed up at Hermione's flat with a brown paper bag filled with groceries - simple things with which he could put together a dinner of pasta and bread, ice cream and inexpensive wine.

Seamus answered the door sporting an inside out t-shirt, hair more of a mess than Harry's. Harry rolled his eyes and grinned, handed him the wine bottle and called his good night to Hermione over Seamus' shoulder. Her muffled giggle and 'thank you same to you' was cut off as Seamus mouthed a 'sorrythankyou' and shut the door with a shrug.

Back at home, Harry stashed the uneaten food in the refrigerator, leaving out only the sausages, unsurprised by his craving for meat given the waxing moon. Once cooked, he took them and settled in the armchair with his plate and a book that he wasn't really reading, depending on the sounds from the street to quell the quiet.

August 21 : full moon -9
Having a lie-in lost much of its charm when one had done it often enough in their life. Most people didn't believe that, but Harry knew it for a fact. He'd spent the first year or so of his life as a werewolf not rising much before noon most days.

Leaning on the kitchen counter with a mug of tea early Saturday morning, he made a list of people he could go to for a job and a second list of places that wouldn't look too closely if he claimed a chronic illness. He wasn't above Knockturn Alley - hell, he was one of the Dark Creatures people tended to worry about. Now if he could just lose the sodding scar and glasses, they might not look closely at him at all.

Luna at The Quibbler was at the top of his first list, Nightshade & Company at the top of the second.

The last thing he needed was to be in a lion's den of reporters when everything about him screamed, "Hello, I'm a werewolf," but for all of his bravado, deep down he wasn't quite willing to resort to Knockturn just yet.

Which reminded him-- he'd have to make a stop at Gringott's to make sure he had enough in his personal account to cover both the bank draft for the rent and the cash for his potions on the very real chance he didn't find a job this week. Frowning, he took another sip of his tea.

August 22 : full moon -8
Hermione was at his door first thing Sunday morning wearing a stupid grin for the first time in... ever? Seriously, when was the last time that Harry had seen Hermione grin as though she was just a stupid kid who'd managed to pull?

Oh.

It wasn't as if she'd never done it before. The sex, that was-- but she'd never in her life been a stupid kid, and that grin... yes. It'd been more than five years.

She shoved him into the flat, handed him a cup of coffee and a box of pastries and proceeded to give him details. Just enough so that he give a qualified opinion, not so many that he would never be able to look Seamus in the eye again.

At the end of it, three things were settled: 1) Hermione was happy. 2) Seamus knew what Harry would and could do to him if he hurt Hermione and was therefore doubly motivated to be on his best behavior and 3) Harry was happy for her.

They stayed in for the rest of the morning and afternoon watching reruns of a BBC nature documentary and ate the ice cream from his freezer and for the first time in days, Harry did not hear, "I'm going to walk away from you, Potter. And I won't look back." echoing through his head.

Wait, no. There it was.

He hadn't told Hermione about Malfoy and so he didn't say anything. But when he suddenly looked up and realized she'd been calling his name and he hadn't heard her, the expressive furrow of her brow demanded to know why.

"You're not angry, are you?" she asked.

"No!" Harry sputtered. "God, no. Hermione, you... yeah. You should be happy."

"You should too, you know."

"Hermione--"

"And I know I agreed not to talk about things like lost jobs, but Seamus told me what happened and he feels just awful, but--"

That, however, was the clarion bell that signaled the end of this line of the conversation.

"Look, Hermione," Harry said, pointing at the screen with his spoon using a very deliberate tone, though he smiled as if it were a joke. "Orcas."

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Part Two

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