Scent of a Man

In the dark of the night as Harry lies in bed, his lover spoons up to him, back to front. He leans forward ever so slightly and sniffs. The faint scent of shampoo, the musky scent of his skin with a distinct tang of masculine salt and a hint of sex assails his olfactory receptors. His nose twitches, and he can feel the change begin; the lengthening of his hair, the bone-cracking sensation of his limbs changing, and the tearing, splitting sensation of the tips of his fingers and toes as claws emerge.

He stares at the ugly yellow nails that have replaced his own pale pink ones. The sense of being human is quickly leaving him and he knows that if he is to save the man he loves, he must leave. He must do it now before all is lost and Harry jumps from the bed, his feet heavy on the wooden floor, and he runs to the window, throws it open and leaps.

The air is clean and fresh, and lightly tinged with the smells of night. He lands lightly on his feet, pausing to look up at the window from where he has leapt. It would be so very easy to make his way back inside, his claws could gain purchase on the rough stone of the castle and his strength would allow him to easily make the climb.

But he doesn't. He looks at the moon in its half-fullness and he howls; a gut-wrenching howl of longing and despair for he cannot stay and mate. He must run because if he stays, he will tear the blond-haired man to shreds as he penetrates him. There is no control, no reason to resist other than the fact that he loves him.

He wants him. He needs to be inside him. He can feel the blood rush to his penis and he growls.

And so he runs.

The low-hanging branches of the trees tear at his fur, ripping bits and pieces as he tears through the forest. He leaps over the brush, not feeling the claw of thorns or the searing pain as the sharp branches lacerate his tender belly. He only knows that if he stays, he will kill the man in his bed.

And his last human thought is to wonder if it is worse to run and leave his lover to wake alone in a cold, empty bed, or for him to really know what kind of evil unstoppable creature his boyfriend becomes at the mere scent of him.

The werewolf stops and howls. The howl is long and lonely and full of longing with undertones of regret.

Windows in the nearby village pull shut with a distinct clink. Many of the villagers know that werewolves are merely legend and something to laugh at while telling the wee ones ghostie stories, but the few who do believe, pass the stories on to their young so they know to fear the creatures of the night that inhabit the deep, dark forest.

The werewolf slinks through the foliage, his eyes ever on the full, pale moon. Somewhere deep inside, the tiny spark that is Harry knows that the night will end soon, and the change will reverse, claws drawing in, skin healing over, the disconcerting sensation of limbs shrinking and straightening and he will be as he was.

The werewolf snuffles the ground, sniffing out the scent of rabbits and voles and its belly growls. The night is short and it is starving. Without a thought, instinct takes over and the creature bounds off into the night in search of food.

"Where did you go?" Draco asks, as he studies Harry; the deep scratches across his stomach, the burrs and mats in his wild black hair.

"I needed to get some air," Harry lies, not meeting Draco's eyes.

Draco frowns and then asks a simple question, "Why?"

"I had to," Harry answers simply. For there is no real answer that he can give. He doesn't want him to know how out-of-control and dangerous he can be. He drinks the potion Draco makes for him before every moon turn and it's been effective up until now.

"It wasn't the full moon," Draco starts to say, his fingers light upon the ugly red welts and lacerations, but he stops when he sees the look on Harry's face.

Harry shakes his head and closes his eyes.

"Harry? Are you all right?" Draco asks, as he presses his hand flat on Harry's stomach. The bed creaks at this slight movement.

"Something else is making me change," Harry replies, not meeting Draco's eyes as he pulls away. He doesn't see the concerned look that crosses Draco's face.

"That's not possible."

"How do you know what's possible or not. You weren't bitten by Fenrir. You have no idea what I go through or what it's like," Harry snarls and for one brief moment his eyes flash yellow.

"The bastard ran rampant through my house. I know exactly what he was like," Draco snaps back as he leaps from the bed. His anger has replaced his concern for Harry.

"Sure you do," Harry half murmurs, loud enough for Draco to hear and to be hurt by. He pulls the covers up to cover the multitude of scrapes and scratches that cover his chest and arms.

"Listen here, Potter. You may fuck me and you may live with me, but you will never tell me what I know or don't know. Stay here and sulk if you want. I'm going to Hogsmead," Draco snaps. He has dressed, his shirt stuffed messily into his trousers, his hair finger brushed from his face, but he is still beautiful and Harry's heart catches in his throat for his desire for this mercurial man.

The door slams shut behind him and Harry closes his eyes and lets his head drop back on the pillow.

The next night Harry lies on the sofa. He wants to be with Draco, but the fear of turning overwhelms him and he turns restlessly on the sofa and watches the rising moon through the window.

Even here, on their sofa, he can smell Draco. It is faint, none the less, but still detectable.

The tingling begins, and he feels the change start at his toes as his feet start to change, his ankles arching and lengthening, his toes sprouting claws.

He grabs his wand and spells their bedroom door locked. He knows that Draco can end the spell, but prays that he has the sense not to. He looks at the moon and shudders. The change is creeping up his body and he moans because the pain of changing is great. His body shifts, his body hair lengthens into a coarse black fur and the bones in his back crack and shift.

Harry howls in pain.

"Harry? Harry!" Draco cries from the other side of the door.

Harry hears the sound of his fists against the wood and howls again. He tries to speak but finds he cannot form the words in either his mouth or his head. He stares dumbly at the great yellow claws and somehow knows that he could rip the door apart and reach his lover.

He charges the door and his claws tear great gouges in the scarred and stained wood. He hears the human speaking from behind the door but the words make no sense to his animal mind. He makes to rip the door from its hinges but finds that he can't touch it. The wards are strong and his fingers scrabble over the invisible magic protecting the door.

His howl of frustration is long and soul-wrenching. He turns and throws the sofa against the wall in a fit of anger, his lips curling in satisfaction at the sight and sound of the wood splintering into bits.

He grunts and snuffles a cushion before destroying the rest of the room.

The third night Harry drinks a second potion Draco makes. It is foul and smells like a sewer and tastes even worse, but Draco promises that it will keep the werewolf contained within him. It gags him and he nearly vomits, but feels it is worth it if he doesn't turn.

The bed dips as Harry slips under the covers. His walk earlier has only made him tired, and hasn't given him the clarity of thought that he so desires and his stomach gurgles loudly; the potion is working, he supposes. He can feel the heat from Draco's skin even though he isn't touching him. As he breathes in the faint scent of his boyfriend, his nose tingles. It is a beautiful smell, spicy, yet soft and innocent and fresh. Yet, this simple thing can turn him, change him into a dangerous, slavering animal that will kill and tear without a qualm, because he is a werewolf and that is his nature. He looks at his lover.

Draco had returned only an hour earlier, ignoring him and doing as he was wont to do before bed; washing up, brushing his teeth and hair. It is lovely hair, shoulder length and pale corn silk blond. Harry remembers what his hair smells like, all herbal and clean and soft.

He can hear his even breathing and he knows he is fast asleep. It is still before midnight, before the moon has grown fuller than the night before, and there is hope that Harry will remain human tonight and not change into his darker, animalistic side. Yet, he cannot help himself; he lifts one golden lock and allows it to slide through his fingers, all silky and fine, glistening in the moonlight.

Oh to lie next to him and to want him, but to be so afraid to touch him or to get close enough to breathe in deeply his wonderful scent. Harry tentatively brushes his fingers along the strong line of Draco's neck, the curve of his shoulder blade and down his side.

Draco stirs slightly and turns toward the familiar touch his body knows. Harry studies him and he can feel the way his blood heats at the sight of the man he adores. His breath quickens and he feels it start. The hand that rests so gently on Draco's side starts to change. Harry gasps as the skin splits at the tips of his fingers and the hateful yellow curved claws emerge. The skin on his hand ripples and the slight layer of hair thickens and lengthens. His canines rip through his lip and he snarls in pain.

Draco's eyes fly open and he stares in horror at the half-man, half-werewolf that is staring back at him. It breaks Harry's heart to see the expression of fear and disgust on his face, but as the animal inside him takes hold, he finds that he just doesn't care.

The claws dig into Draco's side and the man smothers a scream, but instead he groans and reaches behind him, his fingers scrabbling for something to gain purchase.

"Dra…co," Harry grunts, his lips and tongue do not work as they should. His teeth are too long and his tongue moves sloppily against the roof of his mouth.

"Harry, stay with me," Draco pleads, his eyes round with fear. His hand grips the paw pinning him to the bed.

Harry shakes his head because he is fighting to hold on to the last bit of humanity that is left inside of him, it feels like he is slipping away and the beast is taking hold. The world has taken on a yellow tint.

Without warning, Draco whips his wand out from beneath his pillow and points it at Harry.

"iPetrificus Totalus!/i" Draco cries, and the spell hits Harry square in the chest.

The beast freezes, and Draco shoves it off of him and onto its back. The werewolf rocks until the soft bed envelopes him.

Draco lowers his wand, his arm shaking and he wipes the cold sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "I'm sorry," he whispers, as he slips off the bed.

Harry can barely see him as Draco moves out of his line of sight, but he returns a moment later. The sharp bite of rope circles his wrists and binds them tight to the bedposts, before his ankles are done up the same. This is what he deserves, because he is nothing but a dangerous animal that needs to be restrained. He wouldn't blame him if Draco locked him away deep, deep in the lowest levels of the castle, chained to the walls and forced to endure darkness and cold until the end of his days.

He hears Draco murmur iFinite/i, and the feeling returns to his body. Harry struggles briefly against the ropes that hold him, but finds that he is trapped. He cannot see Draco moving about and the pounding of his heart in his ears keeps him from hearing him. He can only wait.

Harry starts when Draco returns and climbs back on the bed, climbing over him, straddling his stomach before lowering himself until he is resting firmly on Harry's groin and legs. His weight is welcome, a firm reminder that there is someone who cares about him. It keeps him still, but he knows that if he really tries, he can throw him off with one swift buck and twist. But he doesn't want to. He wants this man to soothe him or to kill him. It doesn't matter which. He wants this torment to end.

"Harry," Draco says softly, his hands on each side of Harry's face. His fingers firm against the fur slowly creeping across his face. The change is slower now; what had taken only minutes before now had slowed to a painful crawl. The fur is a slow creep as it spreads across his body; his nose is painfully slow in changing to a wolf-like snout, his arms and legs changing at an excruciatingly slow pace, his limbs stretching and twisting.

The pain is fierce, but his whimpering snuffles are not unnoticed.

"I love you no matter what you are. The world's great hero or a great furry beast," Draco says, as his fingers card through the dense fur.

This soothing touch effects a change. The slow slide of Harry's decent into a werewolf stops. He is nearly there, but still human enough that he can think and most importantly, he can understand what Draco is saying. That his words are more than meaningless sounds that the pink fleshy creatures scream or moan or whisper as they are killed. It is difficult, but the human part of Harry fights to make the animal understand and because the change has nearly stopped, he succeeds. He lies still, watching, panting.

He hasn't killed yet, at least not humans, only small creatures of the forest and of the night.

Draco's hands shift, stronger as they reach lower. He strokes Harry, his hands almost too rough against Harry's overly sensitized flesh.

"Does that help? Does it feel good?" Draco asks as his hands encircle the hardening flesh. He knows how Harry responds to his touch; he has done it umpteen times before Harry was bitten.

Harry whimpers now. He has changed enough that though he can form the words in his head and mouth, he cannot say them. He shifts slightly so that Draco can touch his testicles if he so desires. He is rock hard and Draco's touch is slowly pushing him over the edge. This madness makes him stronger and he knows he could tear his wrists free from the restraints, tear the wooden bed apart if he so desired, but instead he pushes up so that Draco will do what he wills with his cock.

Draco has been watching as he strokes him and he leans forward, Harry's cock jutting hard against his stomach as he flattens himself on Harry's chest. He rubs his own clothed cock against Harry's and the satiny slickness of Draco's sleep pants makes Harry want to snap and snarl – it's too soft, too arousing… too much.

"Harry?" Draco whispers into his ear. Without another word, Draco kisses the furry cheek, kisses a line of small pecks to Harry's misshapen mouth. The wolf sighs as Draco kisses his lips before he slips his tongue into Harry's mouth; Draco's tongue tentatively explores Harry's canines and then Harry's own lengthened tongue.

It is all he can do not to snap his mouth shut, to bite and tear and free himself, but a soothing hand rests on his stomach and Harry the Werewolf does nothing, but pant.

His smell is intoxicating, clean and vibrant and spicy with the scent of promised sex. Harry inhales and holds his breath. It is like a drug and the effect vibrates through his veins and he howls.

"Harry…shhh, shhh," Draco murmurs, as his fingers rake through the thick fur on Harry's chest. "I can help," he whispers, and to Harry's acute ears, it sounds like a shout.

He touches Harry's knobbed cock and his lips move. A cool slickness spreads over the heated flesh and Harry pants harder. He wants to mate, to send his seed into another. It is the way of nature and has been since the beginning of time. He cannot disobey what is bred into him as either werewolf or human.

Draco smiles at him and Harry watches as the man slowly pulls his silken shirt over his head, wads it up and then tosses it onto the floor carelessly. He lowers himself again and the feel of his soft but muscled flesh is an aphrodisiac and Harry grows harder still. It is painful to feel the man on him, but a pain that he can and will endure. Harry needs him that much.

"This will help," Draco whispers as he slides his sleep pants over his hips and pushes them off his legs and kicks them to the floor. He kneels above Harry, proud in his glorious nakedness, and his hard cock juts from his groin.

Harry howls at the sight of it, his eyes dark and wild and wide.

"Shhh," Draco mouths as he presses a finger against the flat lips of the wolf. "I know you're in there, that you know what I'm saying." He grips Harry's cock and strokes it with rough hard snaps of his wrist.

Harry whimpers and tosses his head from side to side. He feels the wolf deep inside of him straining, digging, ripping to get out, but the touch of his man is keeping him static and still, unchanging in this half-human, half-wolf body. He opens his eyes to see Draco preparing himself, fingers deep in his ass, his eyes closed in concentration as he stretches his entrance.

He cannot look away, it too beautiful for words if he could form them.

"You're ready, baby," Draco whispers. He rises to his knees and positions himself over the hard flesh and slowly lowers himself. He groans as Harry pushes into him, thick and hard and throbbing. It almost splits him open, but he forces himself lower.

Harry howls, long and low and needy. It feels right and perfect and he shifts his hips so that he is deeper into the man.

Draco arches his neck back so his hair lays loose and long across his shoulders, his hands rest lightly on Harry's chest as he rides him. His eyes close and his creamy throat shudders as he fights to keep control. His movements are steady and Harry wants to stay buried in him, not moving, filling him.

It feels different now. He can feel Draco's hands on his chest - the fur is receding.

"Harry," Draco groans as he bends down to kiss him. Harry can feel the soft trail of hair as it brushes his cheek as their lips meet. They fit, not like it was when Draco kissed him earlier, soft full lips pressing to his own flat ones, but now soft lips press soft lips. His tongue slips in and touches Draco's and it is like it was before, before he changed.

Draco's hands hold his face and the fur is nearly gone. His teeth are drawing in and he feels almost normal.

Draco smiles down at him and lifts himself and then lowers his body.

Harry makes to howl and finds that he can talk. "Draco," he moans and reaches for him, but the ropes restrain him.

Draco whispers something and the ropes drop away and the two are melded together like melting candles, hands flowing over each other's bodies, legs wrapped around each other, inside and around each other.

Both are close, and Draco throws back his head as Harry nips at the soft skin under Draco's jaw. Something inside them both breaks and they spiral down into a sated jumble of arms and legs.

Later that night as the waning moon drifts in and out of the clouds, two men lay spooned together, the darker wrapped protectively around the lighter. No matter that the potion no longer works and the scent of his lover turns him, Harry has found that there is a cure, and a cure that is quite capable of keeping the wolf from the door.