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When he jolted awake from a dream of moonlight and pain and darkness, he sensed light beneath his closed eyelids, and he felt the softness of a thick rug beneath his naked body. Curled up on the rug, he smelled burning firewood and leather. He was warm, feverish. The delirious heat drove him a little mad. His body felt wrong, as though he were wearing clothes that did not fit, as though he were wearing someone else's skin. There was a leather collar around his neck, and it fit him just right, not too loose and not too tight.

He opened his eyes. The room was painted in shades of yellow, blue and grey—yellow firelight, blue wallpaper, a grey door and a grey chair in the corner. Fire crackled behind him, its heat licking every inch of his back. He was burning up, his body craving for relief, for freedom, for gratification. He could hear the wind whisper secrets in the woods; he could hear night creatures scuttling in the dark; he could hear him.

He perked up his ears. A loose floorboard creaked. Light footsteps came ever closer to the door, to where he was kept, a secret locked away on moonlit nights. He shut his eyes and sniffed the air. He could smell him—cedar, musk, Earl Grey tea—and he drooled, hungry for the one who was standing outside his door.

A chain rattled, a lock turned, and the door glided open. Soft footsteps approached him, slowly, cautiously. The irresistible smell of cedar and musk and Earl Grey tea wrapped around his senses like invisible tendrils. His restraint was unravelling, one quick heartbeat at a time. He stayed still and kept his eyes closed. There was a rustle, and someone settled down beside him on the ground. Only then did he open his eyes.

Draco was lying beside him, facing him, watching him. He smelled good, a delicious scent like an appetising gourmet, like a potent love potion. Draco was the moon, calling to him and drawing him in. He was salivating, panting. He was a mass of impulses and instinct. He wanted Draco, and he could not decide whether he wanted to eat him or shag him.

He did not move an inch; he must not move an inch; he dared not move an inch. It was the rule, a spell—a geas he had cast on himself. After watching him for some time, Draco reached out and stroked his fur. If he were a cat, he would have purred. Instead, he whined and wagged his tail. A ghost of a smile played about Draco's lips, a smile as faint as the new moon.

He wanted to lick Draco's lips, Draco's face, Draco's neck, Draco's hand, Draco's body. (To show his affection, to sate his hunger, to pleasure his lover.) It was in his nature and in his blood—to lick, to taste, to bite, to mate. And Draco's scent was inviting him to lick, to taste, to bite, to mate.

He curled up tightly in a ball of limbs and fur. He had gotten used to his body, to the strange and feverish impulses, to the hunger. The feeling of wrongness had faded, soothed away by Draco's hand, a hand that was tempting him and tempting fate. One bite, and it would be over. One bite, and Draco would be his. One bite, and Draco would be turned like him.

(One bite, and he would lose Draco forever.)

The collar tightened around his neck, choking him, warning him, reminding him of his vow. As if he could read his mind, Draco rested a hand on his collar and gazed into his eyes. "Harry," Draco said to him. Harry—that was his name, he remembered. "It's all right."

With that the collar loosened, and it was a perfect fit around his neck. He did not speak; he could not speak. His tongue was made for licking and tasting. His teeth were made for biting, ripping, eating. His mouth was not made for human speech. He panted for several beats, his tongue hanging out and his eyes fixed on Draco. The moon was in Draco's eyes—and he was Draco's wolf.

"Go to sleep, Harry."

Surrendering himself to Draco's words, he closed his mouth and shut his eyes. He could feel Draco rub his cheek and nuzzle his nose, a gesture of affection. Draco's scent filled his body and his mind. The hunger was still there, a throbbing thing like his cock and his heart. He could hear Draco's breathing, Draco's heartbeat, Draco's voice.

"I'll see you in the morning."

When he woke up from a wolf's feverish dream of moonlight and desire, he found himself curled up on a thick hearth rug by the fireplace. He was naked, covered in a blanket. He was tired and cold, and his body ached from rearranging itself back to his human form. Out of habit he touched the leather collar around his neck. It was a perfect fit, not too loose and not too tight, and its presence comforted him.

Even though there were no windows in the room, he could tell it was morning. A fire burnt and crackled in the hearth, giving him the warmth and light he needed. His clothes were on a wooden chair in the corner of the room, neatly folded. Wrapping himself in the blanket, he got up and stumbled towards the chair. Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot—he felt as if he had forgotten how to walk on two legs and was now relearning the steps.

Letting the blanket fall to the ground, he reached for his clothes and stopped. For a moment, he wondered if he should go upstairs as he was now, wearing nothing other than the collar around his neck. (Like a wolf, like Draco's wolf.) When he felt a touch of chill prickle his skin, he thought better of it and got dressed. He picked up the blanket and folded it up. After putting out the fire, he left the room and walked barefoot up the stairs.

The house was silent and still, the corridor awash in the blue-grey shadow of dawn. A trickle of lamplight spilled from the kitchen and into the corridor. Drawn to the warm light, he padded down the corridor and into the kitchen. Draco was sitting at the table, reading. There was a cup of tea and a pack of cream crackers on the table. A faint whiff of cedar and musk lingered in the air.

When Draco looked up at him, he caught a flicker of emotions on Draco's face, a flicker that was too quick and too subtle for him to decipher. "Good morning, Harry," Draco said.

Harry—that was his name, he remembered. "Morning, Draco," he said, and with that he became human once more. "You're up early."

"It's half-past seven." Draco marked the page with a piece of parchment and stood up. "Do you want breakfast?" Harry nodded. "The usual?" He nodded again.

Draco took out his wand and worked his magic. Eggs cracked themselves in mid-air and fell into the sizzling pan, followed by sausages and strips of bacon. Draco took out a knife from the drawer and sliced a tomato in half. A pleasant aroma wafted the air, stirring up Harry's appetite. His stomach grumbled. He did not realise how hungry he was till now.

Harry sat down at the table. He drank lukewarm Earl Grey tea from Draco's cup and munched a biscuit, occupying the space that Draco had occupied a moment ago. The ghost of Draco's warmth lingered in the empty space, possessing him. He stared at Draco's back, his eyes roaming over Draco's figure, tracing his silhouette in the lamplight. He could not breathe; he forgot to breathe. He was possessed—he was in love.

"Did you come down last night?" Harry asked.

"I did." A beat. "Sorry."

Harry fell silent. It was stupid and dangerous—there was no need to tell Draco that. As though he could detect the meaning behind Harry's silence, Draco spoke up. "You won't hurt me."

Harry's heart skipped a beat. "You don't know that."

Draco slid everything from the frying pan onto the plate. Dropping the greasy frying pan in the basin, he turned around and leant against the counter. His eyes, grey and solemn, were fixed upon Harry, gazing at him, through him, into him. "You are right. I don't. What I know is that you didn't do anything last night. That's good enough for me."

The ghost of his hunger reared its head, like a wolf. He was warm, warmer than usual. He was hungry, not for food but for Draco. Unlike last night, however, nothing would stop him from reaching out for Draco other than Draco himself. Submitting himself to his impulse and desire, Harry sprang out of his chair and went to Draco, who remained where he was, calm and unafraid.

"And if I can't hold myself back?" Harry asked.

Draco reached out and fiddled with Harry's collar. Harry could feel the pull, the pull of the night and the pull of the moon. He could smell Draco, a scent he would recognise anywhere. He could see the hint of a smile on Draco's lips, a curve ever so wry. He could taste a hint of bergamot on Draco's breath, and he breathed in the air Draco exhaled.

"I'll hold you down," Draco replied.

It was a spell, Harry knew, a spell to bind, a spell to reassure. He was bound; he was reassured. There was nothing he needed to do but to submit himself to Draco's words. He was Draco's wolf, and Draco was the moon, strange and fickle and wry. He reached out and slipped his arms around Draco, who sighed and relaxed.

"Let's have sex," Harry said.

"Your breakfast will grow cold."

"You can keep it warm for me."

With a quirk of a smile on his lips, Draco caught him by his scruff and kissed him. As he tasted Draco with his tongue, Harry thought about the empty room downstairs, and the grey door that was locked and chained on moonlit nights. He pictured Draco lying beside him, naked and feverish like him. He pictured Draco mounting him, riding him, mating with him on the rug—the wolf's dream bleeding into his reality, and he knew tonight he would be dreaming of wolves and moonlight.