Happy Birthday Melusinahp

[regasssa]

Fic: The Little Prince
Pairing: Fenrir Greyback/Draco Malfoy
Rating: NC-17 Lite
Warnings: Non-con, mild bloodplay, transformation, under 18 (just)
Description: The real ending to Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince, obviously.
A/N: I promised I would sweeten the pot. Here's to hoping that the porn just gets better. So here's my gift to you, Fenrir/Draco. Have a wonderful day.

 

 

 

Cold. He was so very cold. Icy rainwater poured incessantly through his already saturated hair. It would have blinded him if fear hadn’t already. This wasn’t happening. It wasn’t. 

 

A bolt of blue lightning scorched the windswept forest canopy immediately above him. The thunder roared in answer to the sky’s fury, and Draco bit down on his fist to stop from crying out in fear. Somewhere in the forest behind him, an animal howled. 

 

He stopped dead, listening. Out ahead of him, much closer, came answering calls, the forest alive suddenly with a riot of yelps and yowls; an animal chorus. The call sounded from behind him again, only now it was getting closer. 

 

Desperation forced his progress. He could no more go toward the howls than he could go back, so instead Draco bolted to the right, stumbling over tree roots in his flight. A fallen tree presented an obstacle, and as Draco scrambled over it, a flash of lightning illuminated the very animal he was trying to escape. 

 

The werewolf was broad shouldered, and his long grey fur was matted and filthy. Shining eyes burned into him, a long pink tongue flicked out to lick at his nose, and then the werewolf approached, drawing his lips away from his sharp, yellowed teeth. 

 

Draco reached up instinctively to clutch at his chest, face twisting into an image of agony as the beat of his heart rose to a crescendo. His knees crumbled beneath him as the panic overtook him completely. Although he tried his best to breathe, it was hard to get all the air he needed when every lungful doubled the agony at his breast. 

 

Heavy breath fell across the back of his throat, and then sharp teeth were nibbling harmlessly at him. Draco wailed, lifting his hands up to protect his neck, hunching his shoulders against that terrifying maw. 

 

What use was he to Voldemort like this? A half-breed! Him! He was a Malfoy; a Pureblood. He’d joined the Death Eaters to keep his family name, to protect his honour, not to destroy it, and now in one terrible moment, because of one hesitation, he would lose it all. Even his parents would be expected to reject him…and that was if he even survived until the morning. 

 

Fenrir snarled, and Draco could almost taste the rotting flesh on his breath. “Don’t hurt me…” he bleated, plaintively. The wolf either didn’t listen or didn’t understand. It put one bear-like paw on his back and crushed him to the sodden ground, where Draco’s tears mingled with the rainwater. 

 

It was stupid trying to bargain with the animal, he told himself, it couldn’t possibly understand. Something hot and wet raked the damp skin on the back of his neck, and then Draco could hear the animal sniffing at him again, the beast’s cold, wet nose pressed against him. Draco shivered – or perhaps simply couldn’t stop shivering. He was so cold. 

 

The werewolf backed away, shaking rainwater out of his shaggy coat. More of them were appearing from the trees now, their ravenous eyes fixed on Draco, and now, as a group, they moved toward him. Draco scrambled back to his feet, slipping on the wet leaves. 

 

The further back Draco went, the more the wolves pressed forward. More than once, when Draco looked around for a route of escape, one of them dived forward to snap at his ankles, driving him back in blind panic through the pouring rain, blundering in the darkness between flashes of lightning. 

 

When, through the trees, Draco spotted a cave, it was already too late. The wolves encircled him now; lines of teeth and fur in red and grey and brown and black.  In the center, Greyback was unmistakeable; he was at least a foot taller than the others, his teeth were larger, and sharper, and even as a wolf he seemed to smile ferociously. There was no way out of the circle, so Draco was forced to move into the cave as the wolves prompted him to. 

 

Inside, the cave was warm and dry. Piles of sheepskin lined the walls, and glowing coals were all that was left of a dying fire. Draco made his way for that, even though he had no idea how to make a fire burn better without a wand. He put the coals between himself and the wolves as they came out of the rain and into the dim glow of the firelight, shaking out the rainwater. His hands shaking, Draco began to poke at the coals with a stick, urgently. When the end of the stick caught fire, he dropped it in shock. 

 

Greyback was coming closer. As Draco desperately covered the coals up with the sticks that lay beside the fire, the werewolf circled behind him, the stench of his wet pelt repugnant. 

 

When Greyback pressed up against him, his body hot even through Draco’s drenched robes, it was hard not to try and run. The cave exit was open, but between here and there were tens of werewolves, hundreds of teeth...and even if he did make it that far, it would be miles through wet forest to reach any hope of safety, and the werewolves could outrun him. 

 

The fire began to crackle, long fingers of flame licking at the dry sticks that Draco had thrown onto the embers, and that, combined with the warmth of the animal behind him, began to make Draco all the more aware of how very cold he was. Where the heat touched him, it felt as though it were so hot his skin should peel. Trying not to make too sudden a movement, Draco reached up to scrub at his running nose. 

 

Snap. Sharp teeth closed around his wrist. The wolf, leant over him now, growled darkly. Paralysed, Draco stared, both at the single bright eye that stared up at him, and at the infected set of teeth, sunken deep into his hand. He could feel the pain, but it was barely registering; only that it was too late now, that there was no going back from this. 

 

Draco yelled, pulling his hand to his chest as Fenrir wrenched away, ripping at the flesh as he did so. As he stood, hurrying to get away from the wolf, Draco barely avoided stepping into the now roaring fire. Fenrir rose too, his tongue rolling out to lap away the blood from his lips – Draco’s blood. 

 

He ran for the cave entrance, but Greyback hit him like a train, knocking him cleanly into a soft landing among a pile of sheepskins. Another wolf moved toward him, but Fenrir responded with the clacking of his sharp teeth; a warning, and the wolf recoiled just as fast, content to leave him be as the larger wolf sat sentinel.

Filthy...he was filthy, and changed and wrong. A disgusting halfbreed. A werewolf. Draco stared down at his hands as though they might start sprouting hair at any second; he could feel eyes on him, not just Fenrir's, but the other wolves, all jealous and hungry. He knew he should be content to be alive, but somehow it didn't make it much better. His hand was bleeding, but Draco held it at arm's length, hoping somehow that he could keep the infection away from him; that holding it to his chest would make it worse, perhaps. And it hurt...Salazar, how it hurt. It wasn't the enduring agony of the Cruciatus Curse, but it was still horrid, as though someone were plunging hot needles into his hand, setting fire to his blood.

He was nothing now. Not a Malfoy, not a pureblood. He had been responsible for Dumbledore's death; irredeemable by the only people who could possibly stand the presence of a werewolf, save for these disgusting monsters here, living in their filthy cave, eating raw meat. Draco couldn't do that...the very thought of it sent his stomach turning, and he lifted his good hand up to his mouth, pressing his palm firmly against his lips. Better off dead...but too afraid to make it happen. It was the story of his life.

The fire was dying and a deep twilight chill had settled inside the cave with the end of the thunderstorm. It crept slowly up Draco's arms and legs, making the needling in his hand even worse, although the blood had finally stopped dripping. When it was quite cold, Fenrir rose back to his feet, huffed, then came closer. Draco did not resist when the wolf's large body flopped over his own, nor even when the tongue began to lap almost lovingly at the wound.

"Please..." Draco whispered, aware of the ears flickering toward him. He couldn't even ask him. He wanted to die, but he couldn't. He couldn't. The wolf was so warm and Draco was so cold. Almost instinctively he leant into the still damp pelt, shivering away the chill that had sunken deep into him. Fenrir dropped one huge paw over him, and Draco lay still, his eyes wide open, listening to the air as it rushed in an out of the werewolf's lungs. He couldn't sleep, though his eyelids wanted to droop. He was frightened, his whole being wronged...

It took the brush of fingers across his cheek to draw Draco's attention back to the fact that Fenrir had changed back. The night was over, and a thin grey light was creeping into the cave. It only barely illuminated Fenrir's shape, casting harsh shadows on his roughly sculpted and bristled features. But the man was very naked, his arms wrapped firmly around Draco where the wolf's paws had been before.

"Good morning, my delicious little prince."

Draco shuddered, trying to pull away, but Fenrir was moving, rolling on top of him. Something hard drove into his hip, but it wasn't a rock as Draco first hoped. As Draco realised, and then responded with an effort to pull away, Fenrir tightened his grip, pushing him down into the sheepskin.

"Oh no," Fenrir growled, darkly. "I've been waiting too long for this. You jumped up little pureblood brat...what did you think would happen when you failed? That you'd go crying back to mummy?" Fenrir let out a bark of laughter, and Draco grimaced, trying to wrench away from the great monster of a man above him. Fenrir wasn't having any of it; one of his hands crushed Draco's wrists together, the other thrusting between them to rip at Draco's fine but ruined clothing. His purple robes, a birthday present, were promptly shredded with little difficulty, and Fenrir's sharp nails snatched relentlessly at his skin before his hand closed around his penis.

"You're made of much finer stuff than I usually keep...I'd normally just eat a runt like you. But you're...ungh...too pretty to use once and throw away..." Fenrir's palm loosened enough to let his full erection slide into place beside Draco's own, then tightened, squeezing. Fenrir growled, but Draco twisted pitifully in the man's grip, trying somehow to wriggle away.

"You can't," he cried. "You can't! I'm Draco Malfoy!"

"Which...is exactly why I can," Fenrir grunted, and then he shifted back and thrust up into his hand, pushed relentlessly against Draco's cock. "Your name means nothing now. You're just werewolf. That's all that matters. You may as well have no name." Fenrir began to move in earnest, for Draco was crying again, the tears pouring down his cheeks. He didn't know what to do, where to begin, how to fight... Draco had never...he'd never even been undressed in front of another man before, and now...this. He knew it was wrong, and horrible, but he didn't know how to make it stop either.

And it hurt. It hurt more than being stripped of his heritage, of his name. It felt as though his world had dissolved around him, leaving him to an eternity of this damnation; to be used...to be owned by this disgusting, terrible man. A murderer. Like Draco had almost become. But Draco couldn't feel any pity for Dumbledore now. If he had only known what would happen, he would never have failed...

Fenrir did not stop for tears; he drove on without care until with one jarring thrust he spent himself, frightening the already terrified boy as he came, spurting hot semen across his chest. Draco screeched, flailing, but Fenrir only laughed and let him go, holding on to only one wrist as he sank off Draco and back into the sheepskin, a heavy and unyielding anchor. Draco span away, his eyes wild, and Fenrir laughed, his head lolling back.

"You will be staying here for a very long time, my little prince," Fenrir rumbled, as Draco wriggled fretfully in an effort to get his wrist free of the werewolf's vice like grip. "And we will have such...interesting nights, won't we? I hope you're ready, Malfoy...I can hardly wait."

Comments

[melusinahp.livejournal.com]

*whimpers*

Oh, hon, you know exactly what I love about this pairing in detail and this fic just hit every single kind. Guh.

"The Little Prince"omg. and "His purple robes, a birthday present." That calls to mind what that day must have looked like and makes the contrast between his current situation so much more dramatic and stark and deliciously horrible.

You illustrated Draco's horror and fear exactly the way I like it, argh, and his horror and bewilderment at having been turned. The whole thing was esquisite.

Thank you so much, lovely. This is a perfect birthday present. *loves you loads*
XXXXXX

[lavillanueva.livejournal.com]

Oh goodness, I loved this so much. The way Draco was so completely scared and alone, and so cold. It was clear he was entirely out of his element, had no idea what to do or where to go. His fear was just palpable.

And the way he becomes resigned to his fate, knowing he can't go back to what he used to be - oh, that makes my stomach go twisty in all the best ways. Part of me wants him to be strong, but the rest loves to see just how far he'll fall, now that he has no where else to go.

This was so gripping and beautifully written and just- wonderful. :D

[vikingcarrot.livejournal.com]

I am unreasonably thrilled by this fic. Draco's helpless terror is so very delicious, as is your Greyback. 8D