Disclaimer: The Harry Potter universe and its characters belong to J.K. Rowling. I make no money with this story and mean offence to anyone.
Author's Note: Yes, I said my next story would be a Sirius/Harry one, but I really don't like it, and it still needs a lot of work, for which I just didn't have the time recently. This is my "I should be studying"-story. So I guess, good reviews mean bad marks, and bad reviews mean good marks #grins#. What should I hope for now? I'll post every weekend since that worked so well with the other story, but don't expect any 40 chapters or so. This Basic Needs has 5 chapters, and I'll really try to keep it that way. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it...
Warnings: slash, attempted rape, mentions of abuse, rape and torture, graphic descriptions of sexual activities. (Surprisingly few for my standards.)
Beta: jharad17, sorry for the many weasel words that weaseled themselves into this chapter and thanks for your help!
Special thanks also to: Bindie, who suggested I write a story where Harry is not quite so submissive. I think I've done so with this story, but you'll be the judge of that. #grin#
animehpgurl, for nagging me constantly and annoying me so much that I just had to post something #lol#. Please don't do it again, yes? Even if it worked.
Fenrir stood facing the small barred window that allowed him a limited view on the night sky and at the waning moon. Just barely had he survived another full moon, and he was still debating if he should celebrate the fact or despair at it. His muscles ached, but his wounds and self-inflicted injuries had already closed and healed, leaving him an impressive figure. He was tall and muscular, with broad shoulders and a face too rough and edgy to be called handsome. Nonetheless, he had a striking appearance, and every reasonable person would think twice before messing with him.
It still gave him a small amount of satisfaction to see the guards and other prisoners shy away from him. They were all afraid of the big bad wolf. Even after all these years. A slow smirk spread over his face, but before it could reach his golden eyes, it faded away into nothingness again. Happy thoughts were still short-lived in here, even though most of the Dementors had been replaced by human guards once the Dark Lord had risen again. But for Fenrir, this relief, as the other prisoners called it, was hardly worth mentioning. His problems weren't the Dementors or guards; his problem was being locked in a dingy cell, being surrounded by silver - custom-built for him - and being all alone without his pack. He hated it.
He looked disdainfully around his small, seedy cell, at the broken cot which had given out under his weight, and a bit of straw that served as his bed for the night now; not that he ever found sleep on it. The walls were heavy blocks of stone, too strong even for him, and were additionally warded and protected by magic to keep them together. Other than that, he had only a jug with more or less clean water and a pot to relieve himself. The silver bars on his window and door glimmered maliciously at him. He hated it in here.
He tilted his head to the left, his long grey-silver hair whispering against his bare back, and listened to the murmur of voices coming closer to his cell.
Two guards, dragging something or someone. He recognised their voices: Patrick Berg and Shawn Duren. One a self-righteous prig who thought he did the world a huge favour by treating the prisoners like the lowest scum, and the other, a little pervert who had no problem watching weaker prisoners being raped in the showers.
Fenrir's upper lip curled into a snarl. How he would like to rip out their intestines and watch them bleed to death on the dirty floor. He listened more closely to make out their words. Anything to distract himself from the all-consuming loneliness which threatened to overwhelm him completely, like it had done with so many of the other prisoners. But he was stronger than those weak, prejudiced creatures; their stupid wand-waving and magic tricks counted for nothing in here, and they lost themselves, mourning for magic they could never have again and begging for mercy they should by now know would never be given. He would never give up or lose himself in despair.
"...with the rest of them, I say," Duren said. "He can get used to his new life right away. Why should we give him special treatment again? He's the worst scum of a traitor, and he deserves everything he gets, Patrick!"
"Not arguing with you over orders. Law is law, and he's not of age yet, so we'll put him into solitary," Berg replied with the air of someone who had said the same thing at least three times already.
"Saw pictures of what he did, Patrick? No child could do something like that, and the sooner he learns his lesson the better. Better get rid of him now before You-Know-Who comes for him, if you ask me."
Fenrir stepped a little closer to his cell door, careful not to come into contact with the silver bars, so that he could see them walk past.
"But I'm not asking you, Shawn. Now help me get him into his cell. I'd rather not deal with him when he's conscious."
"Dementors done him good, didn't they?" Duren snickered. "Maybe we should put some of them on guard in front of his cell. I could watch him as well."
"That's an idea," Berg agreed. "Extra caution's certainly not amiss when dealing with someone like that."
They were so close now Fenrir could smell them. Two old, repulsive scents and one new, fresh, enticing. The new prisoner smelled young and male and hurt. Fenrir's wolf slobbered at the sweet smell of fresh blood, and he closed his eyes to keep in control.
Wand light flickered into the corridor that he could see, and soon the two guards appeared in his line of vision. They dragged their prisoner between them, but Fenrir couldn't make him out clearly. It was as if his contours were blurred, and Fenrir could smell the magic that surrounded him. Concealing Spells. Interesting, why would they want to keep the prisoner's identity a secret? And the youth of the prisoner was curious as well. This was the high-security ward, after all, for the worst of the prisoners: Death Eaters, murderers, rapists, something in between, or everything combined. He wondered how a child could reach that level of immorality and depravity. Then again, wizards had no standards to begin with.
He could no longer see the two guards or the new prisoner, but his hearing told him everything he needed to know. Their steps faded until they finally came to a halt. The short silence was interrupted by the jingling of keys, then a heavy door was unlocked, and it creaked open. A thin, light body was shoved to the ground, and Fenrir heard the distinctive noise of a boot slamming into someone's unprotected ribcage. There was no whimper or cry of pain, so the new prisoner must be still unconscious. The guards shut the door and locked it, both mechanically and magically, and after a minute, the two men made their way back.
"I'll bring him some water later, when I assign the Dementors to their new posts and check in on him," Duren stated, and Berg grunted in agreement. They both fell silent as they passed Fenrir's cell.
Fenrir turned back to the window, the new prisoner already forgotten; he wouldn't last long anyway. Fenrir stared at overcast moon and fell back into his indescribable state of longing and depression. Sleep would not find him in here, never, for Morpheus did not come to Azkaban. No one did, if they could at all help it.
Pain. Desperation. Agony. Had it ever been different? Fenrir wasn't sure anymore, and for the first time in his life, he dreaded the rise of the moon, the painful transformation, the loss of control. He had always been in control of his wolf, but now he couldn't keep from throwing himself against the silver bars of his cell, chomping at them until his gums bled, then biting and scratching at his own body when the beast inside him realised it couldn't get out of the prison. His human mind cowered from the fury of the wolf, from the frantic need to get out or die trying.
Once again, snarling, he hurled himself at the door with teeth bared, but the door didn't give. He angled his body so his shoulder slammed into the silver bars, burning his fur and the skin beneath. The werewolf howled in pain and anger, but the door hadn't budged. After a careless lick over his bleeding side -- he had too many injuries to do them all justice -- he attacked again. And again. And again, until his fur was coated in blood, and his legs threatened to give out under him. Stop! His wolf ignored his human side, and his beast reared up to charge the door again.
Unnoticed, a white shadow slipped into his cell. Just as Fenrir twisted to throw his shoulder against the bars again, the shadow intervened, cushioning the impact with its own body. Surprised, Fenrir took a step back to get a better look at the small, crumpled form which now lay against the door.
Another wolf? The beast in him almost summersaulted with joy. A cub, a companion. Someone!
But something irked him about the other werewolf, and he studied the creature more closely. The other wolf was more than just slender; the span of his shoulders was barely half of Fenrir's own, and thus he had easily slipped past the bars. His fur was the brightest white, leaving only the tips of his ears and the fur around his eyes pitch black, as if someone had thought it funny to make him up. Fenrir couldn't see the wolf's eyes; they were still closed. And then it struck him: the other wolf was slumped against the silver door. No werewolf then, but how could a real wolf have come into Azkaban?
The other canine's eyes fluttered open and immediately focused on Fenrir, offering not a hint of submission in the green depths. Fenrir growled warningly, and the other wolf ducked down, his belly pressed against the cold floor, but he didn't lower his eyes, still staring at Fenrir, who growled again, this time receiving a small yip and tail wag in reply.
Fenrir was still contemplating how to respond to such a strange behaviour when the white wolf suddenly rose. The wolf then butted his nose against Fenrir's and licked at a long smear of blood running from Fenrir's shoulder to the base of his tail. Fenrir allowed it, though he couldn't explain why. He also didn't complain when the smaller wolf -- compared to Fenrir, he was tiny -- made to clean his other wounds as well.
When the new wolf was finished with one side, he dived under Fenrir's belly to reach the other side. However, that brought the silver door back into Fenrir's line of vision. The door to freedom. He growled angrily, meaning to make another attempt of escape, but once again, the cub intervened, jumping between him and the door, then growling deeply, crouched in preparation to attack.
Startled, Fenrir hesitated, but freedom's call was relentless, and he charged the door again. He had wanted to make a clear jump over the smaller wolf's form to reach the door, but at the last moment, the other wolf rose onto his hind legs, blocking the way. For the second time, Fenrir crashed full force into the other canine. This time, the small wolf went down with a sharp cry.
Fenrir saw his chance and rushed the door once more. Before he made it, sharp teeth sank into his hind leg, not too deeply, but enough to be distracting. With a growl and bared teeth, Fenrir spun around, and when the new wolf didn't duck fast enough, he sank his teeth deep into the cub's soft, white hide. The young wolf whimpered in pain and fell to the ground again.
A wave of guilt washed over Fenrir, causing his wolfish side to retreat. He gently nudged the cub's belly, receiving another small whimper, and then carefully took him by the scruff of his neck, to carry him to his bedding. He put his new companion on the straw, then laid down next to him. To his surprise, the little wolf didn't seem to want to stay still, but began to lick Fenrir's wounds clean again, heedless of his own injuries.
Finally, though, Fenrir felt he was sufficiently clean, and his wounds had already begun to close. He pulled the white wolf down next to him, soothingly butting noses with him, before he licked at the bite he had inflicted. The wound was still bleeding. With a pang, he realised he had bitten down harder than he had intended. At least the wound wasn't near any vital organs. He licked the wound clean, while the cub remained calm and relaxed, his head resting on Fenrir's front paws and lying so close Fenrir could feel the soft up and down of his breaths. It felt good to have company, and such cute company as well.
Fenrir's eyelids grew heavy while he continued to nuzzle the smaller wolf, his own wolf whining happily on the inside. The urge to run and obtain freedom was forgotten, when his wolf sensed the prospect of leading a pack again, however small it may be.
Fenrir awoke in his human body, and he woke alone. Traces of the white wolf's smell lingered, and the straw next to him was warm, but the wolf was gone. Fenrir scowled darkly, baring his teeth. How dare the cub leave?! He belonged to him now!
After he was done cursing his disloyal pack mate, he cursed himself for falling asleep. He hadn't even properly claimed the other wolf with his scent, and though Fenrir was sure that the white canine smelled as much of him as the other way round, it was an oversight he surely wouldn't commit again. If he ever got the chance.
Damn the cub!
Three month later, Fenrir was almost giddy as he paced his cell, impatiently waiting for the moon to rise. Soon he would see his cub again. It was the fourth full moon since the white wolf had first appeared, and he still hadn't figured out how a wolf managed to get unseen into Azkaban, nor why his cub seemed to be uncommonly intelligent for a normal wolf, but he didn't care anymore. The only thing that still annoyed him was how the wolf always slipped away, come morning. The cub struggled and twisted out of his arms, bit him even, pretended to give in or panted so heavily Fenrir feared he was suffocating the thin creature, but as soon as he loosened his hold just minutely, his cub was gone.
At least he always came back.
A soft, questioning yip greeted him as the white wolf entered his cell.
A smile spread over his own bearded face as he dropped to his knees to scratch the cub behind his black-rimmed ear. "Hey, there, my little beauty. You are not scared of me, are you? I'll soon be just like you remember."
The cub's green eyes seemed to sparkle with laughter as he skipped around Fenrir, teasingly snatching at the man's silver hair or licking his hands.
Fenrir laughed at his antics, but stopped when he felt the telltale tingles of the transformation. This time, he barely felt the pain. His body morphed smoothly into his second form. Soon enough, he was playing with his white companion, scuffling with him, giving warning shallow bites when the other canine got too cheeky, and rubbing himself against the agile little wolf to mark him with his scent as one of his pack.
Later, they laid together with the cub snuggled into him and panting softly, seemingly tired out from their little tussle. Fenrir thought it a pity his little wolf wasn't a real werewolf. Else, he would have made the perfect addition to his old pack - and to his bed. Even so, Fenrir would make sure to keep him with him for a long time, and this time he wouldn't let the white wolf get away when the sun rose.
So... What do you think? Good marks? Bad marks? Question marks?