Chapter Text
We have not touched the stars,
nor are we forgiven, which brings us back
to the hero's shoulders and the gentleness that comes,
not from the absence of violence, but despite
the abundance of it.
- richard siken, crush
*
He thinks he might be lying on the ground - the surface beneath him is hard and cold, a rough scratch like dry leaves underneath his hands instead of a blanket. Harry doesn't remember going to sleep on the ground.
Somebody is pacing around him in slow, careful steps. Their breath is a small rasp, air catching in their throat on the way in.
"What the fuck, Louis. We can't just leave him here," somebody is saying in a thick accent, voice indignant. A rush of wind breaks against Harry's face. He's curious now, tries to open his eyes, but his eyelids feel too heavy.
"He's not our responsibility," another voice answers, calm. Steely.
"Then just take him in for the night, I doubt he's got anywhere to go. Fuck's sake."
Finally, Harry wins the intense struggle to show signs of life. He curls his fingers, hisses at the painful pull of his numb skin.
Everyone quiets – even the steps by Harry's head come to a halt. Something pokes his arm.
"Mate?"
"Yeah," Harry rasps, breath leaving him in a rush. Just then, he realises he's shaking with cold.
"Oh thank fucking God, he's alive," the accented voice says again, coming closer. A warm hand touches Harry's face, then forcibly opens one of his eyes.
"Hiya," an incredibly blurry person with a shock of blond hair says from above him, "What's your name then?"
Harry swats the boy's hand away, immediately freezing when he realises what he's done. For all he knows, he could be lying in a ditch somewhere, and the strangers arguing about taking him in could be a pack of serial killers.
"Um," he says eloquently when he finally manages to open his eyes. The world comes into focus slowly, tall trees looming above him, reaching for a night sky full of stars. When he left home, it had been nine in the morning.
"Wh—" Harry huffs, trying to lean up on his elbows, "What time is it? I need to be home before—"
"Jesus," somebody interrupts him. "You can't be fucking serious."
Another man – boy? – emerges from the shadows, a hood obscuring his face, his lazy stance a sharp counter to the cutting way he speaks. Harry should probably be scared, but he's more hurt than anything. He's confused; doesn’t know what he's done to deserve someone speaking to him like that. "Excuse me?" he says. He can see better now, a pair of eyes glinting underneath a hood and a concerned-looking blond boy kneeling at Harry's feet, studying him with his head cocked to the side like a dog.
"Ignore him," he says cheerfully, "I was talking to you first."
"Right," Harry says, slowly as he does, but he finds it very difficult to tear his eyes away from the rude person hiding in the shadows. He'd think that someone so brave with their words would like to deliver them up close. "My name's Harry. Harry Styles."
The blond gives him a blinding grin. "Nice to meet you, Harry Styles. I'm Niall Horan, and that miserable sack of shit over there is Louis. Zayn's the one standing right behind you, don't get creeped out, he likes to do that."
Only then does Harry remember the person circling him, and he immediately turns his head to look over his shoulder; follows dirty leather boots to dark skinny jeans to a black shirt to the most beautiful face he's ever seen on a human. After Harry stares for a good ten seconds, Zayn drops the stony expression, quirks his lips to the side and gives Harry a wave, cigarette smoke trailing after his hand. He only looks a little bit like a Greek God.
"Anyway, Harry Styles, what the bloody hell are you doing laying about the forest unconscious?" Niall expertly pulls Harry's attention back to him.
"Um. I'm not sure?"
"What's the last thing you remember?" Zayn asks, walks around him to sit down next to Niall.
"Leaving my house, I guess? I was going to go to the train station... " Harry trails off, trying to recall anything of whatever happened to him. It makes pain bloom behind his eyes, and little else. All he remembers is a flash of red, bright spots dancing beneath his eyelids like the taillights of a car. "Did I get run over?"
Zayn snorts, smoke coming out of his nostrils. Niall thumps him on the back of the head.
"I don't reckon you did, but you never know. Do you really not remember anything?" he asks, smile finally dimming a little, the crease of a frown settling between his eyebrows.
Harry sits up straighter. "No. I mean, I remember something bright red, like lights? But the rest is—"
"Where are you from?" The man in the hood – Louis – asks.
"Do you make it a habit to interrupt people when they're speaking?" Harry quips. He's not usually so rude, but he thinks he can be excused in this particular situation. And if Dark and Broody is planning to kill him, well, at least Harry would've given him a lesson in manners.
Louis steps closer, ignoring Niall's loud cackle in favour of turning his gleaming eyes on Harry. Even the air around him screams derision, and Harry could almost imagine him raising his eyebrows if he had an idea of what he looked like.
Nobody says anything. Harry stares at Louis for so long he imagines electric blue eyes flashing at him from the dark, a trick of the light.
"Fair enough," Louis says, in the end. "Do go on."
Harry coughs. "I was actually just gonna—um. I don't remember anything else." Louis snorts. "And I'm from Holmes Chapel."
"I have no idea where that is," Niall says.
"Cheshire, obviously—wait, what do you mean? Where are we?" Harry feels panic slowly start to bubble deep inside his gut. The unpleasant feeling he'd had before multiplies tenfold, and he feels his surroundings rush in suddenly, like someone's pulled a blanket off his head; the cold in the air, the damp of the forest floor, the rustling leaves and strange smells. He shivers.
"Um. A little while outta London?" Niall tries, seemingly the only one willing to not be mysterious and provide Harry with information, and. Oh.
"London London? As in, the capital of England London?" he asks, just in case he'd misheard.
"No, the other London," Louis laughs, low and biting. He comes closer finally, the moonlight just enough to reveal a sharp-cut jaw and pale skin. "Sorry, Pup."
Nobody's ever called Harry a "pup". Frankly, he finds it quite insulting, but he lets it slide to try and comprehend his current crisis.
"Do any of you know how I got here?"
"Nope," Zayn says, finishing his cigarette and putting it out in the dirt, "we just found you here. We smelled—"
"Thank you, Zayn, that's enough," Louis interrupts, again. "Listen, Harry. How about we lend you a few quid, get you out of here and back to Holmes Chapel, Cheshire? We can forget this little incident ever happened and we'll all go on our merry way." Something is different in his voice. His tone has shifted, almost pleading. Harry should probably be rational – take the offer, get to a phone, call his mum so she doesn't worry and jump on the first bus he can find. He should probably report three strange boys traipsing about in the woods, just in case.
Harry is also Harry.
"Not until you tell me what happened to me," he says stubbornly, crossing his arms, then uncrossing them because Gemma once told him it makes him look like a three-year-old. "You're obviously hiding something."
Louis laughs. It rings incredibly fake in the tense atmosphere. "Honestly, Harold. That's ridiculous. Are you sure you didn't hit your head—"
"You were bitten," Niall says suddenly, looking at the ground with a determined set to his jaw. Louis makes a warning sound in his direction; if Harry didn't know better, he'd almost call it a growl.
"No I wasn't. Nothing hurts. I don't have any marks."
"They've healed."
"That's impossible," Harry says. He's very, very scared. Only a little of it has to do with Louis, who's standing not ten feet from him and positively vibrating with rage.
Zayn smiles at him, a small, genuine smile that holds all the sympathy in the world. "I'm sorry, mate. Look at your shirt."
Harry does, panic rising higher and higher in his throat until it threatens to choke him. He pulls and twists the fabric frantically, trying to breathe when he doesn't find anything on the front and moves to check on his left side, sure he's going to wake up and find out this is all a dream.
Then, his fingers skim over damp, jagged edges of tears more than half a foot long and come away stained dark. He doesn't need daylight to tell that it's blood.
It's no wonder he was so cold; the shirt is tattered, barely hanging on him. Yet the skin underneath is perfectly smooth, looking the same it did when he got dressed that morning.
"What," he whispers, so quiet he can barely hear it himself. Desperate tears spring into his eyes. His head is spinning, thoughts clouding over as he tries to keep a hold of himself, to stop the air he's breathing from turning to water in his lungs, from drowning him. "What happened?"
Louis heaves a defeated sigh. He steps closer, bends down to touch a hand to Harry's face. Harry tries to recoil, but his muscles are frozen. The warmth spreading from Louis's palm is more than welcome. He focuses on that one point of touch, feels for a moment like he's swimming upwards, head just barely breaching the surface of the water. He makes himself focus on Louis's eyes, so blue from this close, and everything else falls away.
"Niall just told you," Louis says, soft and gentle and so unlike his previous words. "You were bitten. I'd give you the old spiel about how the bite is a gift to make you feel better, but I know what it's like and I wouldn't wish it on anyone. I'm sorry, I really am."
Harry shakes his head. "What are you talking about?" he asks, but somewhere, in a corner of his mind he doesn't dare admit exists, he thinks he already knows.
Louis takes a step back. From underneath his hood, his eyes flash again, more than a reflection of the sky; then they light up. Like water underneath moonlight or Christmas lights on a tree, they shine a bright, paralysing blue. Zayn blinks his own eyes, long lashes keeping them shadowed before he turns them on Harry – a deep, rich gold, so much more than could ever be attributed to the low lighting.
"A werewolf, Harry. You were bitten by a werewolf," Niall sighs. "And these two like their theatrics."
The world turns black and falls away for a moment. Harry thinks he should probably pass out, but even when he hangs his head and closes his eyes, he remains painfully aware.
There is no such thing as werewolves, he wants to say. You're all mental and I'm calling the police, he wants to say. Most of all, he just wants to cry.
"Why did the bite heal?" he asks. He knows why, but he rejects the truth before it can be spoken out loud. He forces his mind to stop spinning, forces all his focus on the words he's saying instead of their meaning.
"Because you were turned," Louis speaks. Harry refuses to look at him, but from the corner of his eye, he can see the blue flame still burning bright. "You're a werewolf now."
Harry's hands are shaking, folded in his lap. "But I—I can't be. I'm not a—"
"Monster?" Louis laughs without mirth. He runs a hand over his face, sits down next to Zayn and finally, finally pulls the hood off his head.
Harry is momentarily struck silent by the stunning man staring back at him. Zayn's model face is background noise compared to Louis's soft hair and ethereal features, traces of stubble and mesmerising eyes; when he finally sees him unveiled, with no protective shadow to hide behind, Harry can't look away.
"We're all monsters, mate. Comes with the job, really."
Niall reaches around Zayn to flick Louis on the ear, frowning. "No you're not. Stop being a dick."
"To be honest, I was just going to reject the whole idea of being a—a—what you guys are," Harry interrupts the exchange, voice trembling, but always watching on, curious. "Don't you need to be all mysterious and stealthy and stuff? 'Cause, I mean, I tripped on the bathtub when I was getting out of the shower this morning. I can't exactly hunt for innocent bunnies when I get a craving for blood, or whatever."
Niall laughs. The corner of Louis's lips quirks up, too. "That's vampires, vampires get cravings for blood. I'm sorry to say that I've only eaten a rabbit once, and it wasn't something I fancy repeating."
"You seem to be taking this well," Zayn quips, lighting up another cigarette.
Harry shakes his head mutely. His thoughts are a mess, pictures of werewolves in fairytale books mingling with what am I going to tell mum. "I don't think it's sunk in yet. It's—I keep expecting to wake up."
"It won't be real," Louis says, "Not until your first full moon."
"When's that?" Harry asks, looking up at the sky. The night is cloudless, the moon well on its way to round, and it makes dread pool in Harry's stomach.
"In a week," Niall tells him, voice grim. "You'll need to find somewhere to go."
"How? I don't even know what to expect, I don't know anything—"
"We can't take care of you," Louis interrupts, eyes on the ground. His voice is suddenly cold again. "We have other things to worry about."
Harry feels the sting of tears finally climb up his throat, claw at his eyes until he has to blink. Breathing gets more and more difficult as desperation settles heavy in his chest.
"Well what am I supposed to do then? I didn't even know werewolves existed until ten minutes ago! I don't know who bit me or how I got here, I don't even know what any of this means! How am I supposed to find someone to tell me what to do?" The tears are welling up in his eyes now, escaping down his cheeks despite the strong front he tries to put on. He feels more vulnerable than he ever has; he doesn't want them to see him cry.
"Louis," Zayn says, looking after him as he stands up and turns his back to them all. His voice is deliberately calm, so soothing even Harry feels himself settle down a little. "We can show him how to make it less painful, at least. Liam could give him some books."
"No," Louis answers, voice shaky but sharp. Zayn pulls back immediately, almost like he's been burned.
"You can't tell him what to do," Niall interjects, face stony. Around him, the forest rustles unsettlingly. ”If he wants to help, there's fuck-all you can do about it."
"It's my house."
"But you're not his Alpha."
Louis's shoulders slump. The tension visibly leaves his body. "Niall, please—"
"No, listen to me. You can't keep doing this. Look at the kid, he's scared out of his mind."
To Harry's surprise, Louis actually does turn to look at him. His nostrils are trembling, almost like he's sniffing for something, and his eyes roam over Harry's face slowly, like he has all the time in the world. He almost looks feral. Harry feels self-conscious under the scrutiny; his fingers itch to wipe away his own cooling tears.
"Feeling alright, Harry?" Louis asks, out of nowhere.
"Um. No?"
With a small smile, Zayn stands and reaches out a hand to help Harry up. Everything spins for a while as he's hauled into an upright position, forest floor and trees blurring together, the stars imprinting on his vision and blinking back at him from the dark.
Niall sends Louis a loaded look.
“Alright. Alright, come on then," Louis sighs, voice soft and defeated. Harry doesn’t much like the sound of it.
"I could just go, if it's that much trouble," he tries. Bizarrely, he doesn't want to make Louis sad; he has a face that should always be laughing, Harry thinks.
He already feels safe under all three of their watchful gazes, and maybe he could remember them and carry that safety with him when he walks out into a life he'll know nothing about. Still, on the inside, he wishes with every cell of his being that they'd take him somewhere warm, somewhere where he could calm down and try to untangle his thoughts.
Louis's eyes never leave his as a small, amused spark comes to life inside them. "It's fine, Pup. Let's go."
They walk slowly, enveloped in the sounds of the forest beneath a tangled mess of branches. Louis walks ahead, alone with his head bowed, while Niall hangs back and tries to make conversation. Harry answers in amicable noises and monosyllabic words, watches Zayn kick a rock along the forest floor, lost in his own world.
In less than ten minutes, the forest starts thinning out; Harry can hear the ever-present noise of traffic and the zap of cars passing at high speed. For the first time, it occurs to him that he has no idea where Louis is leading them.
"Where are we going?"
"To our underground lair, obviously," Louis mutters. "We live in a house, just like normal people do, Harold."
Harry lets the strange nickname slide as he looks around. He can barely see ahead, but they're all walking like they know where they're going.
Sure enough, it's only a few dozen more steps before the looming silhouette of a house emerges from the dark in front of them. It's a tall building, with a big porch and a fence, the roof a sharp, dark slope. A warm yellow light is on behind one of the ground storey windows.
"Welcome!" Niall shouts into the night, throwing his hands out like he's presenting a grand prize. From up close, Harry can see the paint on the house peeling in several places, spots more than one gaping hole where railings should be in the porch fence. The drainpipe is bent every which way, the front door scratched so badly he can't tell what the original colour was, and one of the attic windows thumps and rattles as the light night breeze courses through it.
It's a bit of a ruin. Inexplicably, Harry feels drawn to it.
Louis goes in first, opening the door and spilling light onto the porch. The inside of the house looks marginally better, all thick, fluffy rugs and antique wooden furniture. It mostly smells like a combination of boy and buttered popcorn, but when Niall closes the door behind them, Harry feels a little safer from the world.
"Hey!" an unfamiliar voice shouts from somewhere inside the house.
Just seconds later, a boy with big brown eyes pokes his head into the hall. His eyebrows look like caterpillars crawling closer to each other concernedly as he frowns at Harry.
"Oh, hello."
"Hi," Harry waves and tries to put on a convincing smile. He's saved by Niall, who thumps him on the back.
"Harry, this is Liam. Liam, Harry. We found him in the forest."
"What were you doing in the forest?" Liam asks solemnly. Then, his gaze travels down Harry's torso to stop at his tattered t-shirt. "Oh. Who bit you? Is there a new Alpha around? Should we call Bobby?"
"Calm down, Payno. We don't know who bit him, he's from Cheshire."
"Oh, I see. Quite a long way you've gone, then. You're probably hungry, aren't you?"
Harry decides that Liam is a little strange. Considering the night's events, strange might not be so bad.
"Starving," he says and realises he's not even lying; the last thing he'd eaten was a piece of toast for breakfast.
"We need to go and kill you a rabbit then," Louis grumbles, but when Harry looks at him, he's already turned away. Liam ignores them and makes his way back into what Harry assumes is the kitchen.
"Sorry we don't have anything proper, I'm not much of a cook," Liam says, setting out a box of cereal and a bottle of milk. Despite himself, Harry is a little endeared.
"It's fine," he mumbles through the handful of Coco Pops he's shoving into his mouth dry, then pours a bowl full of them, splashing milk generously all over his dinner and the table.
It's only when his gaze lands on the chipped red clock on the wall that he remembers it's the middle of the night and his mum's probably out of her mind with worry back home. When he searches the pockets of his jeans for his phone, he finds it dead, a prominent crack in the screen that hadn't been there hours ago.
He looks around. Behind him, Liam and Zayn are huddled together in hushed conversation. Niall and Louis are nowhere to be seen.
Harry clears his throat.
"Um. Do you have a phone I could borrow?" he asks politely, wiping off the milk running down his chin as an afterthought.
Liam seems distracted when he looks back at him, brow still furrowed. He reminds Harry of a grumpy old dog.
"Sure, mate, here," he hands over a beaten down touchscreen. When Harry pushes the home button, it lights up to a picture of Louis wrapping a pink feather boa around Liam's neck, holding what appears to be a dog toy shaped like a chicken in his other hand.
Harry doesn't say a thing.
As soon as his mum's number starts ringing in his ear, Harry's palms start sweating terribly. He hasn't thought far enough ahead to make up an excuse for why he hadn't shown up to the promised pleasant evening of red wine and Scrabble. Somehow, he doesn't think telling his mum he's back in London would be the smartest idea; she still hasn't warmed up to the thought of him being a uni student, all alone in the city, and insisted he stay home until Sunday instead of getting a Saturday train to beat the rush of students returning after reading week. It's Thursday now – he absolutely cannot pretend he just went back to hall on a whim.
"Hello?" his mum's voice sounds distrustful, the same way it does every time an unknown number calls her, and a little breathy and stressed underneath. Despite being with her just that morning, fresh tears spring to Harry's eyes. He wishes she was here to give him a hug and tell him to watch out next time, just like she'd done every time he'd come home with scraped knees and red-rimmed eyes.
"Hey, Mum, it's me," Harry says eloquently.
"Harry!"
"Um, yeah." He thinks he can hear her sniffing a little bit. He instantly feels terrible, even though none of this is technically his fault. "I'm sorry I didn't call sooner."
"I was so worried, baby, where are you? Are you okay?" She's walking through the house, slippers shuffling across the tile in the hall. Robin's voice rumbles in the background, asking if Harry's on the phone. Harry's heart clenches at the worry he hears.
"I'm alright, Mum, don't worry. I just, um..." Think, he tells himself. He can already feel a terrible excuse forming on the tip of his tongue, but if he could at least try to lie, just this once in his life—
"I got drunk?”
The silence on the other end of the line is overwhelming after all the worry. Harry closes his eyes bitterly, cursing himself, and ignores Zayn's unceremonious snort. It's not polite to eavesdrop on other people's conversations, and if Zayn had any manners, he'd know that.
"Harry," she says in her best Strict Mum Voice. Harry knows what's coming after this – it's the soft-gazed, quiet disappointment that always makes the bottom drop out of his stomach.
"Mum. I'm really, really sorry—I met Jonny on the way, he didn't know I was back for the week, and I really didn't mean to, he just invited me out for one drink, you know how I get—"
"It's okay, love," and there it is. Harry knows she never means to make him feel so guilty he can't sleep under the weight of it, but that's just what it does to him, hearing her sound like that and knowing he caused it. Disappointing his mum is number one on the list of things he'd never do again, if he could help it. "You're an adult, I can't exactly tell you off for drinking with your friends."
"But I really wanted to be there. I'd read through a crosswords dictionary and everything, I was completely prepared to beat you."
She laughs a little, watery, shaky. "You can still try tomorrow night. Afraid Robin and I drank all the wine, though."
"I'll buy some more then," Harry answers, hopeful.
"That you will." Then, "When are you coming home?"
Harry has to lie again, like it or not. He very much doesn't. "D'you mind if I come tomorrow evening? I need to sleep it off a bit."
"That's fine, baby. Just make sure you look after yourself."
Harry paws at his eyes like a child, embarrassed to be tearing up again after the night he's had, just because his mum is so so wonderful.
"I will, Mum. Love you."
"I love you too, baby. See you tomorrow," she hangs up with a click, the last soft string of her voice lingering in Harry's ear.
He breathes out, deep and even, unsure. Air flows into his lungs a little easier now. He stares at his Coco Pops, now gone big and soggy just the way he likes, the milk in the bowl slowly going brown. Harry turns and gives Liam his phone back, raises an eyebrow at how obvious both Liam and Zayn are being about staring at him.
"Alright?" Zayn asks, a throwaway question more than anything, but Harry thinks he can hear a little bit of concern behind it. He nods wordlessly, picking his spoon back up.
Ten minutes later, just as Harry's trying to puff up the cereal box to make it look like he'd eaten less than he actually has, Niall quite literally leaps into the kitchen and heads straight for Liam, who begrudgingly opens his arms and lets Niall in for a hug. Niall then lets go, walks over to the table and sits down across from Harry. Zayn quite obviously doesn't find any of it strange.
"Hello," Harry says, only a little baffled.
His voice seems to startle Zayn and Liam into action. With an ear-splitting scraping sound, both of them sit down at the table and turn to Harry, perfectly in sync.
The air suddenly becomes heavy, and Harry knows what's coming.
"So," Liam starts, leaning forward with his hands clasped on the tabletop, eyes still annoyingly earnest, "you need some help."
Harry feels like he should be affronted; that Liam's suggesting he's a weakling or something. He quickly realises that yeah, he really, really does need help.
"Probably. It's a bit scary, you know."
"I do," Liam smiles at him sadly, "Look, Harry. The first thing you need to understand is that there is no cure for this. You're going to be like this – be a werewolf – for the rest of your life."
Harry still isn't sure he can comprehend the enormity of what everyone's been trying to tell him, but Liam's words drive a point home – however many things have changed, they've changed forever. Harry arms himself with the knowledge for later, for when the desperation comes.
"I understand," he says. He doesn't quite, and he hopes that they know that, too.
Liam nods at him amicably, willing to go along with the illusion. "You haven't started changing spontaneously yet, probably because you were knocked out for so long, but it's only a question of time."
"What's going to happen to me?"
"It's going to be a bit, uh...out of control for a while."
Harry gulps.
"Nothing too bad, but—it tends to hurt the first time. The whole," Liam waves a hand, "getting used to having your bones rearranged, growing fangs and all that."
"I'm going to grow fangs," Harry deadpans.
Zayn nods on Liam's right, looking almost excited. "Claws, too. Your ears will go a bit longer and you might get a bit of fur—"
"Where."
"All over, mostly, but it's not really that bad unless you turn full wolf, I don't think," Zayn's grinning sheepishly, like he's not sure it's okay to. Harry is getting increasingly confused.
"Wait—what do you mean full wolf?"
"Well, it's a bit...complex," Liam starts stroking his chin, looking very pensive. "Basically, once you learn to control your shifts a little – shouldn't take long, mind you, it's all very instinctive – you can either turn into a sort of a wolf-human or an actual wolf, walking on four legs and everything."
Harry blinks. Then he decides to leave it for later. "Is there anything…good about this?"
Niall snorts, "You only get superhero powers."
"Which superhero?" Harry frowns. Zayn, inexplicably, beams at him.
"What Niall is trying to say is that you'll get superhuman hearing, sight and smell,” Liam supplies helpfully.
"How does that work?" Harry asks, not sure he wants to know. He doesn't think any of his senses have gotten any sharper.
"You'll be able to tell people apart by how they smell," Niall says. "And smell strong emotions," Zayn picks up.
"And track prey," Liam finishes grimly. "You'll be able to see better in the dark, you'll hear other people's hearts beating if you focus properly, you can eavesdrop on conversations you're not supposed to be a part of," he says the last one while glaring at Zayn.
"Oh," Harry says. "But I...I don't feel any different?"
"Don't worry about it," Liam waves a hand, "it takes a while. Are you feeling alright, by the way? Looks like it was a huge bite."
To his own shock, Harry realises he's completely forgotten about the actual bite, and about the fact that, despite the blood and the gaping holes in his shirt, there isn't a single mark on his skin. "What about the healing? Is that part of it, too?"
Zayn nods. "You're not, like, immortal or anything, but if all your limbs are attached and there's nothing inside the wound, most things will heal."
"Good thing I won't need that," Harry mutters, standing up and carrying his bowl to the sink, in dire need of a break. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Niall shoot Liam and Zayn an amused look. He doesn't want to know what it's about. He doesn't care if they fight actual real-life vampires or just do dangerous things out of a long while.
Harry wants absolutely no part of it. None.
*
"So," Liam begins, looking so perky Harry wants to punch him a little, "as far as we know, you haven't transformed yet. The changes are going to take a lot longer to set in if you leave it be, and it could be dangerous to let the wolf control you, so. I'm gonna teach you how to transform back and forth."
Oh.
"Um," Harry says. He looks uncertainly at the first person in his line of vision, who happens to be Niall. The only reassurance he gets from him is a thumbs-up. "Okay."
Liam motions for him to come closer. While Harry tries to make his way to him without falling into a hole, Zayn hot on his heels, Niall gives them all a wave and heads towards the house. "Reckon I'll leave you guys to it, then. Good luck, Harry!"
"Wait—not that I—I mean, aren't you going to help as well?" Harry stutters.
"I wouldn't be much help, mate," he laughs, genuinely amused.
"Why?"
Niall raises an eyebrow, "Because I can't grow fur on command?"
"Oh, you mean you're not—"
"Nah. 'M, like, a hunter, I guess. I'm supposed to be on lookout for these terrifying furballs and shoot them if they're up to no good, but. Well. You know.”
Harry doesn't, but he nods to show he understands. Somewhat. Niall is supposed to kill werewolves; he hangs out with them in the middle of the night instead. Nothing difficult to understand there – it seems very much like Niall, from what Harry's seen of him so far.
Once Niall is gone, Harry is left alone with two werewolves. This is now his life, apparently.
He can barely make out two silhouettes standing in the garden with him. The moon, stars and lit up windows are the only real sources of light this deep in the forest.
"Ready?" Zayn asks, again in that soft, gentle tone of his. Harry reckons he probably isn't, and never will be.
"Ready," he nods anyway. "What do I do?"
Liam shrugs, "Just let it go, really. Try to close your eyes and relax a bit, imagine—I don't know, imagine something wolfy."
One of Harry's eyes, already closed, opens again. "Are you sure you know how to do this?"
Zayn snorts and steps closer, light painting yellow shadows on his face. "It's been a while since we've had to do this for the first time. Try relaxing your muscles, breathe evenly, then look me in the eyes."
Harry's a little taken aback, but he does what he's told. It takes him a while to get his breath to even out, heart jackrabbiting in his ribcage, expanding and stealing space meant for his lungs. He becomes suddenly aware of every breath of cold air he's pulling in through his nose. Once he feels like he maybe won't throw up if he tries hard enough, he opens his eyes. He's met with Zayn's burning golden gaze.
Zayn's face does have fur coming out of it, some along his jaw and his sideburns, some sprouting around his eyebrows. It makes his face look a little grotesque. There's nothing funny, though, about the teeth Harry can see peeking out, pressing down on Zayn's bottom lip. He looks equal parts terrifying and powerful and Harry gets distracted, trying to see everything, assess and memorise every single change.
"My eyes, Harry," Zayn tells him, voice still kind, still human. Harry startles.
He does as he's told, stares right into Zayn's irises. He focuses so hard the colours start to change, warm gold into a bright yellow, taking on an orange hue and going back. He barely registers when the tingling in his whole body starts, spreading up his arms and down his back like spider feet. It makes him shiver.
Slowly, blink by blink, the garden stretches out around him in hues of blue and grey, abandoned beanpoles and a rusty wheelbarrow as clear and sharp in front of him as they would be in daylight. Something itches underneath his fingernails; when Harry brings them up to his face, they've turned into long, pale claws. The tingling intensifies on his face, the back of his hands, his chest and back – he doesn't have to check to know it's fur, making its way out of his still human skin. Harry's teeth press down on his tongue, sharp enough that he can taste blood in his mouth.
Harry's heart beats in his ears; the world narrows around him to that one sound, shivering through him. New smells invade his nose, things he's never smelled before and can't identify, too many of them at once; wet soil, dry leaves, rotting wood, Zayn and Liam's unique smells probably tangled somewhere in the mess.
The headache that blooms behind his eyes is unexpected in its force, feels like something's broken inside his head while trying to cope with the sudden changes. He tries to speak, but his tongue feels heavy, too big for his mouth. Harry's head is pounding, the rush of blood in his veins so loud it swallows every other sound, and his vision goes red around the edges.
He hears a low growl, then belatedly realises it's coming from him. If he was still human, it may have passed for a groan of pain, but as such, it's terrifying on a whole new level. Harry's thoughts, a jumbled mess ever since he'd woken up in the middle of an unfamiliar forest, untangle a little; his worries fall away without care. The only thing he wants right now is for the pain to be over, to stop stop stop.
It's a little too late to realise what he's doing when his own voice, yelling, gets to his ears; his claws are already on their way to his abdomen, fingers curled and poised for attack.
The first draw of blood is intensely relieving. The nerves screaming inside his head quiet down, focus the pain into the four long scratches he's given himself.
He thinks he gets what 'the wolf' Liam had mentioned is, now – in these eyes, everything seems simpler, more primal, instinctive. Harry doesn't want to bother with complicated thoughts again.
As the sting fades and the pounding behind his temples resumes, Harry drags both sets of claws through his clothes, destroying precisely sewn seams with the flick of a finger. He's looking for a good spot to strike, just a little, just so that some more hurt would go away.
Two pairs of golden eyes come closer to him, too close, until it feels like looking at a sky with four burning suns. They're shouting something, but he doesn't understand, can't hear them because of his blood, because of how loud it is.
He thinks he catches a glimpse of vivid, icy blue for a moment. His heart pounds faster, he can hear it and feel it trying to make its way out of his chest, but the rush in his ears, the pressure on his temples, the pull on his eyes eases, bit by bit, until everything feels soft and fuzzy and tender.
Harry feels fingers on his skin, thinks dejectedly about the hot blood on his hands, and faints.
*
"What happened?" he groans, disoriented.
"Not much, mate. You did your little transformation thing, you passed out, we brought you in. And you slept for," Niall pulls a phone out of his pocket, "eleven hours."
Harry groans again, runs his hands over the bed he's laying in in search of a pillow to smother himself with. When he finds none, he digs his fingers into the bedspread.
Then, he remembers.
He sits up abruptly, cold sweat immediately breaking out on his forehead. When he lifts his hand, it looks perfectly normal, but the ghostly image of claws stained with blood replaces what he's seeing. Memories flicker to life inside his head, darkness and shades of grey and bright flashes of werewolf eyes.
The room they're in is furnished in light colours, white and cream and beige, everything tinted orange in the morning sunlight, soft in the way only mornings can be. It's calming, to be somewhere so comfortably bright, and it's the only thing that saves Harry from going into a full-blown panic attack.
He can feel Niall watching him, now. Maybe he's looking out for a change in Harry, anticipating the quick slide into a feral monster. Maybe he's waiting for the moment Harry loses it and waiting to run.
The worst thing about it, Harry thinks hysterically as he checks his bare abdomen for scratches that are no longer there, is that he doesn't feel all that different. There is a slight shift, a feeling becoming more prominent the more awake he is. He can't quite think of words to describe it; he still feels like he controls himself, but there's something bright red and wild that's sleeping inside his chest, ready to be awakened at a moment's notice.
"If it helps any, yours definitely wasn't the worst one I've seen," Niall offers. Harry flinches, wraps his arms around himself.
"Right," he mutters, looking around in an attempt to locate his shirt. He doesn't find it, and he's not surprised.
"Seriously. It's a lot to take in, a lot of people deal with it way worse than you have."
"It was just..." Harry shakes his head. He has no words to describe it; his head is completely empty save for monster, overwhelming and bright like a neon sign.
"Try not to worry about it, mate. You did good," Niall says, throws his balled-up crisp bag at Harry’s head, and takes his leave. The door shuts behind him with a soft thud. Harry is left in sudden, terrifying silence.
He doesn't want to think about it any more than he has to, he really doesn't. But his first full moon as a werewolf is in a week, and the way it stands now, he's at serious risk of hurting himself – or worse, somebody else.
Harry's heart thuds in his ears, unusually loud. He only just remembers how overwhelmed he was when all his senses heightened so suddenly, the pain of his headache whiting out some of the memories. Now, if he listens closely, he can hear Niall whistling quietly and opening cupboards downstairs; the drip-drip-drip of the crooked drainpipe, Zayn's heavy boots walking circles into the back porch, the attic window whistling in the wind.
It's fascinating, it really is. Harry would give it back in a heartbeat.
After about ten minutes of staring at the wall and trying to cope with the thought of living with this for the rest of his life, he figures it's been a bit too long and he should probably go outside. He's torn between thanking everyone for their hospitality and running until he's off the planet, and begging them to please teach him everything they know, to please tell him that he will feel at peace with himself eventually.
That he'll deal with being able to kill with his own bare hands.
There is no shirt to be found anywhere in the room, but Harry himself has no qualms about nudity. He finds his way to a rickety set of stairs. The halls of the house are surprisingly bright, warm and smelling of old wood.
As he's walking down carefully, he hears conversation in the kitchen. He can't quite make out what they're saying, though; the hum of his own blood is still too loud.
The door is standing ajar, open in invitation. From inside, Harry smells tea and burnt eggs.
When he steps in, he's frozen on the spot by four pairs of eyes. Harry can't help himself; he immediately looks to Louis, the most vibrant presence in the room, who seems like he's trying to be subtle as he drags his eyes down Harry's torso. He catches Harry staring immediately. Still, he doesn't seem angry, or patronising, or like he wants to laugh in Harry's face for being weak. It’s... strange.
Harry thinks he remembers something from yesterday, as he looks into Louis's bright blue eyes. A flash, a warm pair of hands.
"Morning," Liam says. Harry barely registers him, lost in his thoughts. He's desperate to conjure up a proper memory, remember what actually happened, if what he's thinking about is even possible.
"Morning," he replies eventually. Liam's looking at him all calm and supportive, nothing but sympathy written on his face.
Harry can't quite believe it.
"I'd offer you breakfast, but, um."
"You burned it?" Harry tries to guess, rubbing his nose to chase away the smell that only gets more prominent when he steps closer to the table.
"Not me!" Liam almost shouts, affronted. "It was Zayn's turn to cook today."
Harry looks over at Zayn, and gives up on fighting his first smile of the day. Instead of furrowed brows and moody eyes, Zayn's pouting at Liam like a child.
"Have you guys eaten at all?" he asks, then blushes. This might be a great time to start curbing his motherly instinct, as his mum insists on calling it.
None of them bat an eye, though. "I had crisps," Niall says, smug. On the other side of the table, Liam shrugs noncommittally.
"It happens."
Screw it. "I could make you something, if you want?" Harry suggests, already halfway to the fridge.
"You can cook?" Zayn's eyes light up. Niall stretches his hands out to the heavens, Liam sits up straighter, and even Louis, unaffected as he tries to look, gets an interested spark in his eye.
"Um," Harry scratches his hair, "yes?"
"Oh God, please," Liam says, face begging.
When Harry opens the fridge, he's tempted to ask if he's got the wrong door. The massive space is half-empty, half filled with things that don't look fit for human or werewolf consumption; Harry spots an open carton of juice, a half-drunk glass of milk that's turning green on top, and two garlic cloves. Despite Zayn's attempt at eggs, though, it seems that there's still an entire carton left. Harry grabs it, then stands on his tiptoes to dig deep, and manages to come up with a small stump of butter, two spring onions, a few spoonfuls of yoghurt and a string of cherry tomatoes.
When he sets the ingredients on the counter, a strange silence settles over the room.
"What are you gonna make out of that?" Niall asks, voice dubious.
Harry suppresses a laugh. "I was thinking scrambled eggs?"
"With tomatoes."
"Yes. Veggies are good for you," Harry sing-songs as he raids the cupboards for a pan. Just the thought of cooking makes him feel better instantly.
With a loud scrape across the floor, Louis pushes himself back to lean on the hind legs of his chair. When Harry looks at him, he’s put his arms behind his head, a smirk in the corner of his mouth that makes his face twist. "Well then, boys. An attractive, shirtless man is cooking us all breakfast. I feel like I’m in a porno.”
Harry breaks an egg and ignores him.
*
Harry looks up from his own plate to look at Niall who, by the looks of it, is lost in the throes of passion with his forkful of egg.
"He's right, Harry, this is fantastic," Liam says enthusiastically, biting into a roll that Harry dug up in the dark, mouldy corners of the freezer. "I didn't even know you could make something this good with what we have in the fridge."
"Yeah, about that," Harry starts, because he's concerned for other people's health and wellbeing, thank you very much, "When's the last time you went grocery shopping?"
Zayn snorts. Liam tries to kick him under the table, but he accidentally gets Harry instead.
"I was just going to go today or tomorrow," he says unconvincingly. "It's sort of my responsibility?"
"Do you have a list?"
"Uh...no?"
How does one shop without a grocery list, Harry doesn’t know. "You should make one," he says, trying to appear experienced and wise just the way his mum had when they'd spoken about managing his groceries for the first time, just before he'd moved away for uni. "It helps."
Louis laughs, startling everyone, including himself. He claps a hand over his mouth in a move so endearing Harry's heart actually clenches. In that one split second, Louis looks soft, carefree, so different from the boy hiding under the hood, the one who refused to take Harry in,the one who looked at him, smirking, like he was a lesser life form.
Harry might have some kind of strange fascination with Louis and his unbearably pretty face. He has bigger problems at the moment.
With Louis unwound, if only for a second, the mood around the table relaxes. Zayn has a soft smile on his face, looking between Louis and Harry. Niall is still devouring his breakfast with laser-like focus.
Harry likes this, cooking for someone who hasn't yet seen all the magic he can conjure up at the stove, someone who seems to enjoy what he puts on the plate so genuinely. He likes cooking for people; he likes to care.
Naturally, Zayn has to go and ruin the mood.
"So, Harry," he starts as he wipes his mouth with a napkin, "how are you feeling?"
Harry almost recoils at the harsh slap of reality. He'd been able to forget, for just a little while, and he'd felt so content for those short few minutes.
"Alright," Harry tries. He sounds shaky even to his own ears.
"You don't have to pretend, mate," Louis says. He's back to sounding cold, but a spark of warmth lingers in his eyes. "We all know it's bad."
Harry smiles a little ruefully, gathers everyone's plates and takes them to the sink. "Yeah. It's fine, though."
"I promise you'll get used to it," says Liam sympathetically, the only one actually looking at Harry. To his right, Zayn is tracing a ridge in the tabletop with his fingernail, pushing a little too hard, if the sound of splintering wood is anything to go by.
Harry tries to pretend he's not miserable as he sits heavily back in his chair. He probably fails. To his horror, a lump rises in his throat. It's difficult to breathe, here in a strange house in the middle of the woods, surrounded by very helpful and somewhat incompetent strangers. Harry's not panicked, not in the way he was last night; this is more desperation, bitter tears lodged on the back of his tongue. For a moment he wants, more than anything, to find whoever bit him and hurt them, the rage flaring red and hot. None of this is his fault, and yet he's the one whose life is probably ruined forever.
"How?" he asks finally, and his voice comes out broken. Liam's mouth quirks in sympathy.
"Slowly," Louis tells him, eyes intense. "It's going to be hell for a while, but you'll get through it. I promise."
It's seems so uncharacteristic, this resolutely kind side of him. His face is open enough that Harry can get a glimpse of him underneath the front he puts on.
He shakes his head – half to see what Louis's reaction will be, half because he feels truly, honestly lost.
"Listen to me. We didn't tell you this before, you were freaked out enough as it was, but the bite? It can kill you. If all that power that you got hadn't found something to latch on to, a strong enough spirit, it would have destroyed you. There's a reason you made it through, and don't you dare give up now. If you need us, we can help you, but you can't live your life scared of yourself. You can be powerful, Harry, you will be, but you need to take this the way it is. Don't try to be someone you're not."
Harry blinks at Louis, at the fire that's suddenly alight in his eyes, at the fading ring of electric blue around his irises.
If you need us, we can help you. That's what Louis had just said. The same Louis who snapped no at the idea of Harry even coming into his house not twenty-four hours before.
Harry's stomach clenches with desperate hope. Maybe they're not going to send him on his merry way with no idea what to do. Maybe if Louis, the cold, pessimistic one, can believe in Harry, Harry can believe in himself too. Maybe the monster inside him can be tamed, bent to his will.
"You were there, weren't you?" he asks, even though he didn't mean to. It's so clear in his mind's eye now, Louis's face with the sharp features of a wolf, Louis's hands reaching out to hold his face in a grip so strong it could easily snap his neck.
Louis looks a little startled, but he faces Harry head on. "I was."
Harry wants to investigate a little; ask why it'd been necessary to have three people hold him back, why Louis didn't just ignore him like he seemed so intent to do; why now, when Harry's about to leave, he suddenly doesn't mind him being around.
"Thank you," he says instead.
*
The walls are covered in shelves upon shelves of books, more bookcases lining the floor in neat aisles, a pandemonium of faded colours. Several plush armchairs sit pushed tight against the walls, tall windows light dust motes in the air, and the melted candles on low coffee tables lend the library an air of age and wisdom. It looks very old but very well taken care of, with red carpets bright and windows gleaming.
"Sure is," Liam says, stroking the back of one of the chairs absentmindedly. "We don't really go here much, to be honest. It's got some great werewolf books, though."
He motions for Harry to follow him, and Harry does so without question. He's more than a little overwhelmed, trying to take everything in.
He'd never even dreamed of a place like this – a house hidden in the forest, old and run down, looking like it belongs in a different century; and four strange, strange boys in it, as mysterious as they are wonderful. It feels a little like an adventure, a little like being inside a fairytale, to be allowed in their small world, if only for a while.
They stop in front of an isolated shelf, all the way down a long aisle. The wood it's made of looks darker than the other furniture, and the books in it are a muted palette of browns and greys.
"I've read all of these," Liam says, sounding very satisfied with himself. "Had to use a dictionary, though."
"All of them?"
"Yep," he reaches to take a small brown paperback off the shelf. The words J. C. Silsbury's A Complete Guide to Life With Lycanthropy shine dully across the front. "This one's the best. Written by an actual werewolf, too - a lot of these are people who have never seen an actual wolf, let alone one of us, and it's mostly fairytale bull – and here's some myths and legends, if you're interested." He pulls out book after book, loading them happily into Harry's hands. "There's a few medical ones, too, but I swear those are half in Latin."
"That's fine," Harry huffs, trying to keep his balance. "These are enough, I'm not that fast of a reader."
"Sure," Liam chirps, "Just, hold on—oh, here it is." He pulls the only red book off the shelf to Harry's right. The cover says nothing, decorated only with a silvery etching of two wolves sitting across from each other, and Liam blushes suspiciously as he hands it to him.
"Thanks, Liam," says Harry, and is answered with a smile.
"It's really not a problem," says Liam, "These have far more than we could ever tell you, and a lot of things we'd probably forget about. Werewolf stuff is very individual," he says seriously.
On Harry's insistence, they take a little more time to walk around the library. Liam's fingers absently trace the spines lined up on the shelves. After some strategic prompting, he tells Harry more about the house – build in the 1800s and Louis's now, inheritance from some long gone relative. He's careful about it, reluctant, and Harry doesn't push any more when he steers the topic in a different direction. Instead, he tells Harry about the Dutch family who built the house, the stories of their ghosts who wouldn't rest because they wanted to return to their homeland.
Harry doesn't believe in ghosts, but he can't help finding himself completely fascinated. Just thinking about someone walking this library floor a hundred years ago sends pleasant shivers down his spine.
The sudden noise of a door opening has them both turning around, leaning over to peek in between the aisles.
"Liam?" Zayn's voice calls out.
"Over here," Liam shouts back. Underneath the tall ceiling, their voices echo.
"Hey," Zayn smiles from the other end of the aisle, "I'm going. Just wanted to say bye."
Harry almost coos, but he does manage to hold himself back.
Liam grins happily, jogs to Zayn's side and gives him a hug, then pats down the shoulder of Zayn's leather jacket.
Harry suspects this is half the reason he likes these people so much already – there's a lot of hugs to go around. According to Gemma, Harry himself is insufferably tactile, and people usually tend to get annoyed with his constant touching.
"Where's he going?" asks Harry, relaxed as he collects his books and stacks them up. It takes him a few seconds to realise he's very much a guest in the house, and inquiring about Zayn's whereabouts might be crossing the line by a lot.
"He's got work," Liam answers, without hesitation, pleasant as he leads Harry back to the doors. "He lectures art history."
"Oh, cool," Harry says, honestly impressed. Teaching has always been something he thought he'd like to do, particularly with small kids, but he'd balked as he was filling out his uni applications. The thought of so many people depending on him to teach them, to direct them towards the right course in life had been both exciting and terrifying, and the scared half of him had won in the end. "I'd wanted to be a teacher."
"Really?"
"Yeah. I wanted to teach kids, though."
"So does Zayn," Liam says, then frowns to himself.
"Why doesn't he, then? He has the qualifications, right?" Harry asks.
"Yeah, but I guess he's comfortable with where he is now," says Liam. Harry isn't consciously listening for it, but he still hears Liam's heart speed up. He lets it slide; he doesn't actually have any right to know about their personal lives. "Anyway, what about you?"
Harry shrugs. "I'm in uni. Sociology."
"What uni?"
"UEL," Harry says.
"Oh, so you live in London?" Liam perks up again. Harry would easily peg him for some kind of puppy shapeshifter, with the eyes and the excitability.
"Yeah. I was visiting my mum when I...when I got here."
"You're really close to us, then. We should hang out together!" Harry is going to pretend it's Liam's puppy eyes that have him nodding enthusiastically, not the terrifying thought of being a freshly bitten werewolf in the middle of London.
When they emerge back in the dusty hall, the clock tells Harry he'll need to go if he wants to make it to Holmes Chapel at a reasonable hour. He asks Liam for bus connections, and is promptly sat in front of a laptop with the schedules already pulled up. On the other side of the kitchen, Liam helps himself to leftover scrambled eggs.
"There's one that goes to the city at noon," Harry mutters, mostly to himself. "Then I can take a train home at one."
"From King's Cross?"
Harry glances back at the computer screen. "Euston."
Liam nods. "Don't worry about the bus to London then, we can drive you."
Just then, Niall pokes his head into the kitchen. He clutches his heart theatrically when he sees the website Harry's on.
"Leaving us so soon?"
Harry fights a smile. "I'll be back."
Nial pumps his fist, Liam chuckles, and Harry gets up to go get dressed before he remembers that his shirt is no more. He looks down at himself and back up, lost.
"Right," Liam says suddenly, "forgot you're half naked."
He disappears down the hall a little faster than Harry thinks is humanly possible. He's back within a minute, handing Harry a black band shirt and a soft woolen jumper.
When Harry raises a questioning eyebrow at it, Liam crosses his arms. "It's cold out. Put it on."
While Harry's trying to make the clothes – a little small for him – work, Liam magics up a bag and stacks the books he's lent Harry into it. Harry locates his shoes in the cupboard by the door, packs his broken phone in with the books, and rustles through all his trouser pockets for some money. He only has fifteen quid, but he's determined to make it work.
Then, there's nothing left to do except say goodbye. To Harry's surprise, Niall hugs him without joking, warm and firm, exactly as great a hugger as Harry had thought he'd be. Liam takes a pair of car keys from a bowl in the hall and calls out to Louis twice, but he doesn't show.
Harry is not at all disappointed.
To Harry's surprise, there are two cars parked a little ways down the road under a haphazardly made wooden shelter; he must've missed them last night.
Liam points him to the sliver Toyota, a pretty, small car. Inside, they immediately crank up the heat and the radio, and Liam engages Harry in idle chitchat to the sound of Bastille.
From behind the windscreen of the car, the forest around them is beautiful in the noon light. Autumn finally seems to have come, leaves flying around them coloured in hues of orange and yellow and red, sunlight setting them ablaze. Harry leans back, looks at the nature surrounding him, and stretches his fingers out to touch the air vents, sighing happily at the warmth.
The path starts sloping downwards and turns into an asphalt road. Just as the wall of trees breaks right before them and opens into a road full of cars passing by, Harry catches a glimpse of something bright in the foliage.
He turns to his right, leans forward to see better over Liam in the driver's seat, and then he spots it – a wolf. The biggest wolf he'd ever seen, probably, and so ethereal-looking Harry thinks for a moment it might just be an illusion.
The animal's fur is a very light grey, darkening around its muzzle and enormous paws. Harry doesn't even think of being afraid – the wolf is just sitting there, looking at him somewhat pensively.
Before Harry can point it out to Liam, the car tyres shift beneath him as the hum of the motor intensifies, meaning Liam's found a gap they can fit into. Harry doesn't let his gaze waver even when he has to turn around in his seat. The wolf looks back at him, unblinking.
Just before the trees cut off Harry's vision, he glimpses a flash of electric blue in its eyes.
A trick of the light, he tells himself.
*
Harry usually loves the hustle and bustle of the station, all of the big city congregating into a hive of rush and noise and eccentricity, but right now, all he wants is to get home and hug his mum. Despite only waking up a few hours ago, he's exhausted.
Thankfully, Liam, bless his puppy-eyed little soul, waits in line with him, probably out of solidarity more than anything else. When Harry finally secures a ticket, blushing profusely when Liam hands him the rest of the money he needs to pay for it, it's well after noon and he only has half an hour before his train is set to leave. It's a different platform than usual - Harry, reluctant to take any chances, decides to find it as soon as possible.
Liam follows him, sticking close to him like a shadow, and Harry can unconsciously hear his heartbeat getting faster as he takes everything in. Harry himself sniffs a little, curious to see if he can distinguish anything in particular. The smell of iron and dust and sweat is what hits him first, less than pleasant, before he starts to recognise the subtler scent of burgers and doughnuts, of paper and smoke and washing powder. Every person passing them smells a little different, and the constant change is exhilarating. Looking looking up at the concrete ceiling, Harry thinks he understands Liam, just a little.
"That's it, right?" Liam points to the left from where they're standing. There's a train already waiting at the platform, purring softly as people load in their luggage.
Harry consults his ticket. "Yeah, platform five."
Liam grins and leads the way, past the customer information stand and a currency exchange place. Harry doesn't question him still sticking around.
Once they're a ways down the platform, standing outside a compartment that looks sufficiently empty, Harry looks at the train longingly. The plush seats seem to be calling to him, even if the entire train probably smells like piss.
He lifts a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug when he turns to Liam, "Guess I better go. If I want to, you know, grab a place to sit."
He doesn't plan on being so awkward. His toes scrunch a little in his shoes as he tries to balance himself, swinging his arms awkwardly. The bag of books he's been carrying is digging uncomfortably into his collarbone.
"You do that," Liam is still grinning. It's as lovely as it is annoying. It makes Harry feel like he has something on his face.
"Alright," he nods, making an aborted motion with his hand. He grinds his teeth so hard they ache. "I'm going, then."
Liam, bless him, smiles a little softer and steps closer, arms snaking around Harry before he has a chance to react. He's not sure if it's a werewolf thing, or if both Liam and Niall just happen to be fantastic huggers—either way, Harry feels the awkwardness seep right out of him, some of the tension in his muscles easing. He hugs Liam right back, holding on a little tighter than would perhaps be appropriate after only just having met someone, but he thinks their situation allows for it, just this once.
"Thanks for everything," he barely remembers to say. That's quite appalling, honestly, seeing as Liam and the others are the reason he hopefully won't go on a killing spree under the closest full moon.
"It was no problem," Liam says into Harry's shoulder before he pulls back. "We were happy to help."
Harry grimaces at the memory of Louis's cold, dismissive face when Harry shouted at him absolutely terrified. He says nothing.
"What about these?" he asks instead, lifting the canvas bag in his hand, all spiky from the book corners.
"Don't worry about it," Liam says, smiling again, "You can give them back the next time you're around."
Harry recognises it for what it is; a promise that, if he decides to show up again, he will be welcome. He fights the feeling all the way, but the words still warm him all the way down to his toes.
Finally, when he's said all his goodbyes, Harry steps onto the train. The air is pleasantly warm inside, heating cranked up, and he sighs in contentment when he finds an empty seat and sinks into it. The doors start closing as he's pushing his bag under the seat; when he looks up, the world outside is just starting to move. Like a light in the middle of the sea, Harry's eyes immediately meet Liam's – the werewolf is standing on the platform, waving to Harry like a few other people around him are doing.
Harry waves back until he can't see the platform anymore. Then, he closes his eyes, leans back, and softly sinks into sleep.
*
The little window in the front door winks at him with warm yellow light as he knocks. Mum is probably waiting by the door and throws it open in under two seconds, but Harry doesn’t feel like saying anything.
She looks at him quietly with her hand on the door handle, trying and failing to look stern. She must see something in him; in the slump of his shoulders, or the shaky downward tilt of his mouth, in his interlaced fingers or the toes of his shoes scuffing the ground. She must see something, and the first movement she makes is to draw Harry into her arms.
"Hi, Mum," he just about manages to breathe before his throat closes up. I'm home, he adds in his head, a little thing they've started to say sometime after his dad and before Robin, when it was just the three of them in a big house.
"Hey, baby," she answers, voice soft like silk and sweet like honey, happy and soothing at the same time.
As Anne's hands card through Harry's hair, he takes his time to expand his senses again, to try and see how much more of his home he can take in now. His mum smells like the washing powder she uses, like apple shampoo and dish soap and cinnamon, like her perfume and something that's just her; something that makes Harry think of cozy evenings by the fireplace, of Christmases spent helping her in the kitchen and summers when she'd let him and Gemma sleep in a tent in the back garden and they'd give her a hug each in thanks. He commits the smell to memory immediately, carves it into his heart, desperate not to forget, no matter what happens.
Harry is a mess; he doesn't realise he's actually started crying until his mum's sweater starts getting wet underneath where his face is resting, head on her shoulder like she's still taller than him. He pulls away a little, wipes his face with the sleeve of his borrowed jumper, tears and snot and all.
"Sorry," he croaks out, voice rough like he's not used it in days.
"Don't apologise, baby," she takes his hand, pulls him in so she can shut the door. "Are you okay?"
Harry doesn't think it's all that hard to tell exactly how not okay he is. He wants to tell her everything, just spill, pour his heart out, and then maybe cry some more, but he can't, not yet. There's a whole bag of books lying kicked in the corner that he needs to read, to figure out more about who – what – he is now.
"I'm fine, Mum. I was just, uh. Really looking forward to coming back home," he says, so slow and stilted he knows it has no hope of passing as a real excuse. "I'm sorry I missed game night."
"It's alright, darling, don't worry. You should lie down for a while, you look exhausted."
She runs her fingers lightly over the bags underneath his eyes, tutting quietly to herself. Harry feels on edge, not tired at all after sleeping for the entire five-hour train drive. Still, he feels uncomfortably exposed in the light of the foyer, thinks he could do with a while alone, where he can prepare for his mum's curious eyes going after his secrets. He's completely out of his depth here; he doesn't keep any secrets from her, he never has.
"Sounds good," he manages to smile. She smiles back.
"Wonderful. Come find me when you wake up, I'll make you a cuppa."
She's looking at him fond, as soft as always, but the small wrinkle right between her eyebrows, the one that appears anytime she's worried, is still a prominent ridge in her skin. Mum kisses him on the cheek, pulls her cardigan tighter around herself, and goes to the kitchen, slippers shuffling across the floor.
Harry gathers his books and his dignity. He walks up the stairs uninterrupted, thanking his lucky stars that Robin hasn't come home from work yet.
Harry's room is just the way he left it - down to the last wad of paper he'd crumpled up and thrown on the floor after a failed attempt at homework on Wednesday morning – ages ago.
Immediately after he sits heavily down on the bed, Harry knows he won't be able to sleep, keyed up as he is. Instead, he tugs on the comforter to wrap it around himself, and stacks Liam's books on his side table into a neat little chimney. He leaves the small, brown one – A Complete Guide to Life With Lycanthropy – on the bed, the mysterious red book right underneath.
Harry settles down and opens the paperback, fingers gentle on the frail, yellowing paper. The very first page has a stain on it, something that looks vaguely like jam, and the corners of various pages throughout are bent down in huge dog ears. It look well-worn and well-read, just the way books should be.
He skims the first chapter, the contents of it a little overwhelming, a slew of historical facts and years dating the first records of lycanthropy. The second one describes things he's already been through – being bitten, dealing with immediate aftermath and the first transformation. There, a short paragraph catches his eye.
Feelings of anger and heightened negative emotion are very common in new werewolves. The Wolf needs time to settle in and become part of yourself, and fighting it will only make you agitated. In those confusing, sleepless nights, I have found it useful to try and reach inside me to find the Wolf and calm it down. It is vital to focus on the positives of your new identity, and to find people you can trust with the information of what has happened to you. As evidenced by the many recent and historical events described in the previous chapter, we can all be a force for good. It is my sincerest hope that this book will be a stepping stone on your path to self-discovery. Keep it at hand. Use it. Tear it apart, if that's what calms you down.
Harry feels uncomfortably like he's reading a flowery psychology book, but the information he finds keeps him turning the pages. There are separate chapters on the werewolf sense of smell and sight, one about their heightened strength and how to channel it and get it out, one comparing wolf behaviour to that of a werewolf. Harry learns a lot about scent marking and territory, and about how he could, apparently, easily lift a car if he wanted.
It's not a thick book, and it only takes Harry an hour to read through to the last chapter, titled The First Full Moon. He shifts uncomfortably upon seeing the words, glancing out of the window at the dark sky. He'd snagged a look at the lunar calendar hung on the wall of Louis's kitchen in the morning – the nearest full moon is on Wednesday. Wednesday is in six days. Harry doesn't feel up to it, and he isn't ready in the slightest.
He reads on. The words pain and full transformation and superficial wounds swim and blur into one in his vision. Possible danger to animals and people alike. Unpredictable. It is recommended to seek advice from experienced werewolves.
Harry knows that surviving and waking up with the knowledge that he hasn't hurt anyone is the single biggest challenge standing in front of him right now. The book tells him to keep calm and think positively, then turns around and orders him to lock himself up somewhere secluded. There are recommendations for the best metal to use for cuffs and chains.
It ends with a few notes of encouragement, throwaway words about the full moon having little to no effect on mature werewolves, but things like that seem like the far-away future, impossible to reach.
Harry closes the book, shoves it on the bedside table with the others and brings his hands up to his temples, desperately digging his fingers into his hair. He lets out a low sound, a guttural whine he's never heard himself make before.
Desperation and fear are clogging his thoughts, painting his vision black, and he so desperately wants to run to his mum, clutch her skirt and cry like he did when he was a little boy.
He sinks a little deeper into the bed, pulling the corner of his blanket up to wipe his face. He can't even count how many times he's been near tears in just the last twenty-four hours, and he hates feeling like this. His emotions are on a roller-coaster – one minute he's up, feeling the thrill of the unexplored, the power, new smells hitting his nose at every corner and blood pounding in his ears; the next, he's lying curled up into a ball, hugging his knees and trying to breathe through the panic constricting his lungs.
For a moment, he wishes he could just get the full moon over with. He'll know for sure, after that – whether his entire life has been thrown away on an October morning on a street in Holmes Chapel, whether he'll have to go into hiding and become that monster children whisper about.
Slowly, even through the nightmare visions of himself with red eyes and blood on his hands, Harry sinks into a restless sleep.
*
It's dark in the house now, every light shut off, everyone asleep. Harry, perched on his chair in the kitchen, sees everything in razor-sharp detail. As intrusive as he feels, he strains his ears to hear the sounds of his family's soft breathing upstairs, a source of calm and assurance that they're alive and nothing bad's happened.
Despite himself, Harry now has the small red book propped up on his mug in front of him. He's hesitant to open the cover, the colour of the desks still evoking a memory of blood he'd never shed. It’s the small, silvery etching on the front of the book that convinces him.
Right on the first page, the title is printed in big block letters. Mates, it says, a Guide for Werewolves and Their Lovers. Harry is equal parts appalled and confused, but the further he reads, the more he understands Liam's blush as he was handing the book to him. The beginning chapters are innocent enough, talking about helping your partner understand that being a werewolf is not a Terrible Thing, but it keeps getting increasingly graphic. At a section of the book called Knotting – myth or fact? Harry stares at the complicated drawings until his eyes water with the focus, turns his head every which way, but—well. When he gets to the end and finds out that it is, in fact, a myth, he doesn't think he's ever felt bigger relief.
It's not like Harry would even know how regular sex works, at least not the kind of sex he would like to be having. He doesn't understand why Liam would give this book to someone like him, so obviously and painfully awkward and out of his depth - especially so now, with the wolfiness and all.
On second thought, Harry does tend to get very flirty when he feels comfortable with someone, but he's not so great on the follow-through. He's horrible on dates, falling all over himself to please whoever he's out with, and he's even worse at anything that goes beyond.
Harry is not a virgin, is the thing, he is not. He's had sex plenty of times, with long-term girlfriends and random strangers alike, but he's never liked it all that much, never felt comfortable letting go and enjoying it himself, instead of just trying to make it enjoyable for the other person. He doesn't like to talk about it much. It's a bit embarrassing, really, which is why, having just started his second year of uni, he has yet to end up in somebody else's bed but his own, with somebody that's not Ed, high as a kite.
As he reads a little more, nibbling on his toasties to have something other than werewolf sex to focus on, he doesn't find out much. It's somewhat disappointing to realise that being a werewolf won't actually make him any better in the art of lovemaking, but. He'll take what he can get.
The last few pages, true to the actual title of the book, are dedicated to mates. That's something that Harry, foolish as he is, is actually interested in, and he decides to leave it for when his thoughts are less all over the place.
He watches the headlights of the passing cars paint blurry pictures on the kitchen wall, comforted by the stillness of the house, happy to be alone again, left with just his newly-hatched demons.
When Harry runs his eyes over the dirty glasses lined up by the sink to be washed, he vaguely remembers promising his mum wine. Even though all he's wanted just a few hours ago was the warmth of his house, being outside in the crisp air for a while sounds nice, too.
Harry stands up, puts on his boots, and heads to Tesco’s. It’s four miles one way, but if there’s something he can use, it’s time to think.
*
When he enters their flat, he's immediately hit with the smell of weed, stronger than he’s ever smelled before. Ed's leaning out of the kitchen window, talking to somebody a floor down, lazily dragging on a spliff. He waves to Harry when he sees him walk to his room. Harry waves back. They've never used all that many words to communicate, really, him and Ed – that's what's always been great about their friendship.
Harry's room is just the same, too. H doesn't know why he keeps expecting everything to be different, to find his room messed up like a small tornado has torn through it, emulating what's happened to Harry's life. He can't believe it's really only been a week since he's left the student life behind for some quality family time, and that tomorrow, his eight o'clock lecture is waiting for him bright and early. That life goes on as usual; and that Wednesday is getting closer. He tries hard to not think about it, and walks to the kitchen to survey the contents of his shelf in the fridge instead.
On Monday, he gets up and goes to school; sits through two hours of Sociological Theory, goes to the shops, buys some groceries, calls mum, calls Gemma, and reads another one of Liam's books cover to cover. He barely eats and declines George's invitation for a few pints at the pub later that night.
The apprehension is filling him up like a solid, like the air he breathes is turning into stones that drop into his stomach and weigh him down. The moon shines down on him calmly, cool and distant.
If Harry could, he'd reach up and pluck it from the sky.
*
Nobody's awake yet, the flat dark and quiet even to Harry's heightened senses as he limps to the kitchen and makes himself tea. The kettle is so loud it rattles Harry's bones, the clinking of mugs in the cupboard sounding off like gongs in his head. The tea is too strong, the low light he's turned on too bright, and the cigarette ashes in the ashtray irritate his nose so badly he starts sneezing and doesn't stop.
When he goes back to bed, stomach rolling, he knows he won't go back to sleep, but he makes the effort. Covered with a blanket up to his chin, the room is almost unbearably hot, pulsing all around him, but it makes him feel a little safer; far away from the kind of monsters he can ward off.
After seven, he listens to the flat waking up behind his door. Ed and Jesy are yelling at each other over coffee, just like they always do, and Perrie's banging around the kitchen, probably trying to make breakfast for everyone. That's usually Harry's job, and he feels bad for not being up to see them all and wish them a good day, even though his first class of the day is not due to start for another two hours.
At eight, the door closes for the last time, and Harry is alone. It's a weight off his shoulders, to know that if he were to go crazy now, nobody will be in until late afternoon. It's so many less people he could hurt.
At half past nine, Harry gives up. His State and Society lecture is already well underway – he bets that if he strained his ears a little, he could hear the professor’s voice in the next building right through the wall, senses on edge as they are. He gets up eventually, hoping that some of the pain has gone away from five hours of lying and senselessly staring at the ceiling, but the first few steps prove him wrong. His limbs feel like they're on fire, burning heat licking up the insides of his forearms, trickling down the backs of his thighs. Harry clenches his teeth to keep from screaming, pushes himself to go to the bathroom and take another shower. His skin stings, itches, but it distracts from the pain that’s settled deeper inside.
Afterwards, he drags himself to the kitchen, sits at the table and hisses when the cool wood of the chair connects with his legs. The hands on the clock are moving at a snail's pace, ticking down to moonrise slowly enough to make Harry want to tear his hair out. It's an elaborate form of torture, everything in him burning up, intensifying slowly and deliberately.
He's been near tears since the early morning, eyes pulsing with the temperature that's been steadily climbing higher. He lets them leak out, finally, heaving a dry sob as he drops his head to the table. The shiny tabletop cools him for a little while, slowing down his racing thoughts, lending him a moment of rationality.
He can't do this alone; he can't. He'd been so determined to wake up early, to continue his fruitless search for somewhere to go. He'd wanted to go out and chain himself up, as terrified as it made him, to just do it, get through his first full moon and prove to himself that he could, that nothing was lost.
He'd failed, and he isn't surprised.
Groaning, he gets up. He throws on a jumper and an old pair of trackies, half-heartedly gathers his phone and keys and wallet and leaves with a long glance back, just in case he never sees the flat again.
Outside, the sky is grey and bleak, promising rain. Harry tries to find his own way first, gets on a bus to Euston and tries to navigate by memory, but his legs refuse to carry him. He slumps to the ground in a back alley, hood pulled down low over his face. A dozen passersby accidentally kick him. None of them apologises.
Defeated, Harry calls a cab. The driver looks at him suspiciously, doesn't miss Harry flinching as waves of pain wash over him when he folds himself into the front seat. Harry's not sure he knows where he's going - he gives the directions as they go, watches the numbers on the meter go up as he fights feeling like a criminal in a spy film. The radio is playing elevator music and the cabbie doesn't try to make conversation as they're wont to do. Just this once, Harry wishes he had something, anything, to distract him.
Finally, when the traffic around them thins out and Harry thinks they've probably gone in the wrong direction, a familiar forest of bare branches rises just outside the window. It looks like any other grouping of trees outside the city, and he could be completely wrong. He pays his fare and gets out anyway.
As soon as the tangled shadows fall on him, Harry knows, feels that he's in the right place. He's barely dragging his feet, sweat beading on his forehead and running down his temples. He doesn't have a slightest idea where to go—there are no signs, no marks painted on the trees, no traces of the path Liam drove them down last week. He thinks he could howl now, maybe, but his lungs collapse with a cough as soon as he breathes in. Smell is his only option now, and for a moment, he's absolutely frozen in fear. He shouldn't have come out here, not like this, completely lost. What if he can't find them, what if he's still stuck in place by the time the Moon goes up.
He tries to focus all his energy, everything he has, into remembering the scent of the house, of the people in it. He's trying to catch traces of it in the air, low at the ground, leaning against tree barks. It's instinctual, the way he shifts into a hunter, the way he goes after prey; like his very survival depends on it.
Maybe it does.
He barely registers walking forward, slumping on all fours to get closer to the forest floor. The flaring, burning red inside him expands all the way to his fingertips, the wolf taking over, taking the pain away. Harry can tell that this is what the wolf wants from him; to be free, to reign over his body, to not be contained and suppressed; to be an animal. He refuses to let it.
He's focused on helping himself, getting himself somewhere that the human side of him has ties to, somewhere he can be sure Harry won't be lost forever.
He flows along the ground like a river, swift and liquid, running like water in a rush to get to the sea. His control slips every few seconds, but in those brief moments in between, he feels in control in a way that's completely intoxicating. The world is in the palm of his hand like this.
Finally, finally, as he pushes off his hands and gains speed, he catches a scent that is unmistakably Zayn. Harry hadn't focused on trying to take their scent in for the few hours he was staying with them, but it rings familiar inside him, like the stroke of a well-played chord. He follows the trail as well as he can, the scent getting stronger, then weaker, then overwhelming him completely when it's joined by Louis's. His surroundings seem more familiar, now, something in the tilt of the trees that seems to show him the way. He's completely exhausted, doesn't even know how much land he's covered, how much time has passed, and when he shifts back to his human form, pushing at the wolf until it surrenders control, his knees buckle. He catches himself on a tree, just in time, and walks on determined.
When he actually does see the house, his heart soars, throat closing up in disbelief. He's made it here, in the end, and he finally allows himself a little hope that everything will be alright. The windows shine like a lighthouse by the shore of a dark sea; the last few steps to the door are easy as breathing. Finally, he knocks and leans against the door frame, the muscles of his shoulder twinging. He feels a little lightheaded, weary and weighed down, eyelids falling shut of their own volition. He can feel sweat drip down his back uncomfortably, doing nothing to cool the radiating heat of his skin.
"Harry," the door opens, Zayn's arms already reaching out to catch him when he inevitably trips over the threshold. "Wow, mate, you look rough."
Harry coughs, weak breaths that do nothing to make him feel like he isn't drowning. "Yeah."
"Louis!" Zayn shouts, just as Liam comes jogging in to lend another pair of hands. Harry feels him grip his shoulders firmly, overwhelmed at the comfort a touch brings him, a touch from somebody who knows and still doesn't hesitate. He lets the tension and the pain leave him little by little and closes his eyes.
"Hey, hey, you're okay," Zayn's hands are soothing on his face, cool fingers on flushed cheeks.
"M'not sure, actually," Harry chuckles drily.
"Wh—ah. Shit."
Harry recognises him immediately. Even as exhausted as he is, his heart lurches.
"Hey, Louis," he says.
"Hey, Harry," says Louis, in that gentle voice, the same one he'd let slip with Harry that very first night. It's nothing but softness, a rasp that's like honey to Harry's ears. "Come on, let's get you lying down."
They stumble in the direction of what Harry vaguely remembers to be the living room. There is a sofa there, soft like a cloud when two pairs of hands lay Harry down on it. He feels a touch on his forehead, gentle fingertips. Taking his temperature, probably.
"Holy shit," somebody says. Harry thinks it might be Louis. ”Wow."
Harry is not quite lucid for the next part. They open the window and smother the flames in the fireplace, bring Harry a cool, wet towel to put on the back of his neck, and Liam sits him up to get him to drink some tea. He lets himself be moved around like a doll, relaxed after days of being on pins and needles. Even the pain that's been fighting its way to the surface calms a little, nothing more than a gentle crash of waves against shore. He feels Zayn come and sit down on the floor next to him. His smell is achingly familiar now, the one thread that connected him to this place and kept him going.
Harry smiles.
"Good Zayn," his mouth is saying suddenly, without any prompting from his brain whatsoever, "I like Zayn."
"I like you too, mate," Zayn chuckles, laying a hand on Harry's arm.
Harry's tongue feels heavy in his mouth. "Did you give me drugsss? You shouldn't do that."
"You should get some sleep," answers Zayn, expertly avoiding his question. Harry hardly notices. "It's gonna be a rough night."
Harry sees nothing wrong with that plan. Sleep sounds absolutely wonderful right about now.
"A'right. Night, Zaynie," he murmurs, stretching.
Within seconds, he's out like a light.
*
"I did no such thing."
"You slipped something in the tea you had me drink. Don't lie to me, Liam."
Louis snorts from where he's perched on the window seat. Zayn chuckles, too, and Liam sends them both glares that could potentially wither flowers.
They've all ended up in the kitchen again, somehow - Harry had been positively ravenous after sleeping for three hours. He is most definitely fucking up his sleep pattern, but all he cares about is the ham sandwich currently dropping crumbs into his lap.
"It was plain tea, Harry."
"It does say Calming on the box," Louis quips, evidently amused. Harry resists the urge to throw a napkin at him, simply because it's Louis, and Harry can't for the life of him figure him out. And because napkins don't generally fly far when thrown.
"And he did call me Zaynie," Zayn reminds everyone helpfully, for the fifth time in the last fifteen minutes. Harry hates him a lot.
"Honestly, Harry," Liam starts again, bringing the puppy eyes out full-force. "It's just herbs. You may have gotten a bit high off of them, it could be a werewolf thing."
"Or you could have drugged me."
"You're not letting this go, are you."
"No?"
Louis sighs. "I put a drop of lavender in it, for the love of God. It was me."
Harry frowns. "Lavender?"
"Helps you sleep," Louis says amicably, hopping down to refill his mug with tea. "It actually is a werewolf thing."
Just as Harry is about to respond with something very rude, his shoulder cramps so tightly he forgets to breathe. Automatically, he looks outside.
The sky is glowing a faint orange. Harry knows the moon is supposed to be up just before five, but he'd been hoping that it would only have effect on them after it turns visible.
"Oh," Liam breathes, "already?"
"My joints are feeling a bit creaky," Zayn assesses, turning his arm every which way. Another muscle twitches violently in Harry's leg.
"Do you guys have somewhere I could go?" he asks. He could probably hold on for a few more hours and ignore the occasional pain, but there’s no harm in locking himself up early.
"You don't have to, Harry," Liam turns to him. "Between the three of us, we can keep you out of trouble."
"No. I want to—do you have a place or not?"
"Sure," Zayn lays a calming hand on his shoulder. "We have a basement, you'll be fine there, but it's a lot more painful if you're contained like that. You sure you don't want—"
"I'm sure," Harry says. "Can you show me where to go?"
Wordlessly, Zayn and Liam stand up, leading him out of the kitchen. They open one of the doors Harry hasn't been through, right at the end of the hall. Cold air rises towards them as they climb down a set of damp, slippery stone steps, making the hair on the back of Harry's neck stand up. The walls are made of the same ice-cold stone, providing no leverage where he's desperately trying to catch on and not break his neck falling down into the darkness.
Once the floor evens out, Harry focuses on cranking up his eyesight, everything around him bathed in shadow. He can see a single door on the other end of the small, square room, and a rickety table propped up against the wall. Everything else is bare stone.
"Wow."
Zayn laughs. "Yeah, it's not exactly the Hilton. Through here, come on."
Behind the door is one more room, slightly bigger. It makes Harry feel uneasy with how much it resembles a cell—a small barred window near the ceiling and a pile of rusty chains in one corner. The walls emanate cold, and Harry shakes. There is a dull, throbbing pain in his right calf, reminding him that soon, it will be time.
"Harry. Are you sure about this?" Liam is looking around, gaze travelling over the neatly-laid stones in something like disapproval.
Harry realises, for once since this whole circus has started, that he absolutely, definitely is sure. This is the one thing that he can do to prove himself to himself.
"Yes. Just. Tell me if there's something special I need to do."
He barely notices Zayn's arm snaking around his shoulders. He feels the warmth emanating off the other werewolf, so intense it warms Harry down to his bones, calms his racing heart. "There's chains, but you really, really don't need those. You should leave your clothes outside, though."
Harry nods. "Are you gonna lock me in?"
"We don't—"
"Does the door have a lock?"
Liam's shoulders slump; his eyebrows furrow. "Yes."
"Good. Please lock it, yeah?"
Liam and Zayn watch Harry mutely as he goes about stripping out of his clothes. He's slow at it, the movements of his muscles reluctant. He's lost his modesty ages ago, really, he doesn't care about them seeing him naked; it's the desire to stay warm that makes him want to hold on to his baggy trackies and thick jumper.
He gets his necklaces off, too, folding them carefully into a pocket so they don't get lost. He dumps it all on the table in the first room, not bothering with folding anything. Liam and Zayn avert their gazes politely when he walks back in. It makes Harry smile a little.
As soon as he sits down in the corner opposite the chains – just in case – he feels his skin stick to the stone, spikes of icy cold latching onto his skin. He feels it in his joints and muscles, too, imagines himself covered in ice crystals from head to toe. His teeth start chattering within seconds, quivering arms wrapping around bony knees to preserve some warmth.
"I don't want to leave you like this," Liam says, miserably. Harry tries to grin at him, but it comes out a grimace.
"I'll be f-fine."
"Whatever you say."
He steps out of the room then and comes back with a tattered piece of cloth. Once upon a time, it may have been a blanket. Despite Harry's protests, Liam wraps it around his shoulders, tucks it against the wall behind Harry's back and into the crooks of his arms. "I promise you can totally tear this apart."
Harry nods, closing his eyes. He has a headache coming on, slowly but surely. Bizarrely, he remembers something looking into Liam's solemn eyes.
"I d-didn't bring you b-books back. 'M s-sorry," he says, teeth chattering.
"No worries, " Zayn answers him, "You can bring them back whenever."
It's another invitation, another welcome extended to him, and Harry wants to cry a little with how grateful he is. He doesn't have the time or the ability to voice any of his thanks right now, though.
Liam and Zayn leave him, with pats on the shoulder and sincere whispers of "good luck" and a "see you in the morning". Harry focuses on listening to them fumble behind the closed door and doesn't settle until he hears the heavy click of the lock.
Alright, then.
*
He's shivering from both pain and cold now, fingernails digging half-moons into the skin of his calves. From time to time, his entire body cramps, making tears spring into his eyes out of their own volition. His skin is so cold he can barely feel where the tattered blanket is touching his shoulders, fingers gone numb where they're curled around Harry's legs.
When the moon finally comes out properly, glowing so bright in the sky it even shines down on Harry's miserable form, he feels it down to his bones. They shift, somehow, creak and hurt and move restlessly underneath his skin. The sound of his blood overwhelms him once again, heart jackrabbiting against his ribcage. He doesn't remember any of what he's feeling from his first transformation; those sensations have been almost pleasant in comparison, soft tingling on his skin and a whole new world opening in front of him. Now, his skin burns and itches so bad he wants to let his claws come out, rip and tear until it's all gone.
Breathing deeply, Harry rests his head against the wall. He's rocking back and forth slightly, his body's unconscious reaction to the onslaught of pain. He's holding on to himself with everything he has, refusing to let the wolf take over before he absolutely has to. Maybe that's what's tearing him apart, bit by bit. He doesn't care.
It's building every minute, the pressure inside him, like he's too big for his own skin. He's growling quietly, making sounds almost like the purring of some bizarre, gigantic cat. It makes him angry, hearing it, so angry.
He's not sure where it's coming from, anymore; surely he wouldn't torture himself like this?
He snaps at nothing with his teeth, long and sharp as they collide with the frigid air. He can feel his claws growing in, too, sinking deeper and deeper into flesh. He doesn't pull his hands away, instead focuses on the pain, on how it grounds him, tethers him, pleases him.
He's so, so alone down here. He's sent them all away, told them to leave him alone – why had he done that? What had been the point?
He's so alone, so alone wherever he goes. He doesn't even have a pack, does he, doesn't have an Alpha because his Alpha didn't want him. All he has are three strangers, kind, kind strangers that want to help him but what if they're not enough or what if they're too much what if he kills them what if—
Harry blinks, face sweaty, breathing ragged. He's having trouble forming coherent thoughts, thoughts that don't revolve around prey or hunting or pack. His claws are still extended, long and pale and so utterly inhuman. He knows that, if he looked in a mirror, his eyes would be yellow.
He doesn't quite know why he does it – it's not him as Harry and it's not him as the wolf. It's some intrinsic need, something deep in his gut that's settled there and won't leave, and he's becoming too exhausted to resist. Calmly, evenly, he raises his head, straightens his neck, and howls.
The sound reverberates inside his skull, every ounce the terrifying howl of a wolf in a Grimm fairytale, just before the pack moves in and tears a man to the ground. He howls and howls, and thinks he can recognise something human in the sound; he pours the pain, the cold, the exhaustion all in it, and strangely, it helps.
Harry howls again. The wolf's come closer now, right there in his subconscious, ready to break out and claw its way through the stone wall of the basement. It amazes him, the fact that something so raw, so wild, so genuine can come out of his mouth. He howls for long seconds, screaming his throat raw with everything that he couldn't possibly say.
He howls for his mum, and how much it hurts, keeping this from her. He howls for Liam and Zayn and Niall and even Louis, howls all his words of thank you, his goodbye before he becomes something beyond his control. He howls for himself; for the life he had, for the whole other life he'll lead if he survives tonight.
He barely hears the door slide open, lost as he is. All he sees in his mind's eye is the moon, round and ominous, luring him outside, to run free through the forest and chase the wind. It's freedom that the wolf craves. Harry thinks he understands, but, vindictively, he's glad he'd insisted on staying locked up. He wants to turn against the wolf, in the corner of his mind that he doesn't like visiting. He wants to smoke it out, choke it and make it feel trapped, make it leave. It's not possible, and he does know that.
He just hurts, hurts everywhere, so badly. He wants to sleep, to sink, to die.
"Harry," somebody says, suddenly. He knows the voice, of course he does.
Small hands touch his face and card through his hair, so lovely and soothing. Harry leans into them and opens his eyes.
"Hey, love, hey," Louis is saying. "You have to stop. You have to let it go." His own eyes are blazing blue fire, canines long and sharp, claws almost elegant as he runs his hands down Harry's wrists and intertwines their fingers.
This is unusual, Harry thinks sluggishly, but he doesn't have the presence of mind to figure out why. All he knows is that Louis's touch grounds him, brings him back from wherever his mind has gone off to. Yet, he's still slow, unfocused, floating; he wants to sleep. He squeezes Louis's hand.
"Just let the wolf take over for a bit, come on. It's hurting you."
Louis has a nice voice, Harry observes. He thinks it would be nice if he sung Harry a lullaby. He's scared, still, scared that this is the last he'll see of the world through human eyes. The wolf's power is unpredictable, Liam's books have said.
A tremor shakes Harry's chest, pain cutting out his thoughts.
"Come on, sweetheart, I've got you, I promise I've got you. Stop fighting, please stop," Louis is saying. His voice is high and breathy and shaking a little, lacking his usual composure. Maybe it's got something to do with how Harry feels like something is ripping him apart at the seams.
"The d—door," he manages to choke out. His vision is a little blurry, but he does see Louis look back over his shoulder and oh, there's Liam, looking wholly human, standing with his hand on the door handle.
Eyes determined, Louis seems to have come to a decision. There's an air of authority about him as he turns to Liam. Even Harry's wolf perks up in attention, stops trying to claw its way out of his mind for a second.
"Close it," Louis says. Liam looks like he's going to argue, but no words actually pass his lips. With a flash of bright yellow eyes, he's gone, turning the key behind him.
"There. Just you and me now, Pup," Louis turns back to Harry, still exuding that invisible authority but softer, somehow. His eyes are kind. Louis might be the kindest person Harry's ever met. "How about we shift at the same time? Make it a competition for prettier fur. Have a little fun."
Harry smiles, a little, he thinks. He feels himself slipping, knows he's going to let go. Having Louis here makes him feel safe, protected, almost. Nothing bad can happen, right?
“No, it can't," Louis shakes his head. Harry hadn't realised he'd spoken out loud. "I'm here with you, and I'm awesome. There are two more werewolves in this house. You're the safest you can be."
Harry nods and closes his eyes, lets his head fall back against the wall. He's right, he tells himself, Louis is right.
"Okay."
"Okay," Louis smiles, taking Harry's second hand in his own, all their fingers intertwined like poison ivy leaves. "Let's do it."
Harry breathes out and clenches Louis's hands tight. He focuses on the tension he's holding in every tendon of his being and letting it out like he's letting out air. It doesn't take long at all; his skin starts itching again, bones rattling and moving and feeling hollow. Strangely enough, he doesn't feel any pain.
"There you go, love, you're doing so well," Louis is murmuring to him, quiet and faraway. Harry gives in.
Louis's hands fall away when Harry's fingers shorten. Short stubs covered in fur grow in their place, sharp claws glistening on the tips like gems. His shoulder blades seem to jump around a little, going up towards where his neck should be, and when he hangs his head, he sees his knees turning inside out.
His vision shifts into monochromes, and he can see fur everywhere on him, now, deep browns and pale greys blending into one. The corners of the room are dark, damp on his paws, but he leaps from one to another for a while, just because he can, just because he feels so inexplicably, suddenly free. He stops thinking, gradually, worries and apprehension falling away, and focuses instead on putting his nose low to the ground and sniffing everything, because there's so much to discover. He thinks he can hear a mouse scuttle by him, but he misses when he jumps after it, paws sliding as he falls on his side.
A bark distracts him from where he's grumpily licking at his paw. On the other side of the room, a pale wolf is sitting, very familiar, but Harry doesn't quite know where from. The slump of his back is calling Harry to play play play, and who is he to deny strange wolves with blue eyes.
They tousle and chase each other, claws clicking on stone. The wolf catches Harry by the nape, makes him submit a few too many times, but Harry doesn't mind, doesn't feel the low vibe of hostility or anger or pain he maybe should when somebody strange is trying to be his Alpha.
They pull on a chain that one of them dislodges from the scary pile in the corner, dragging it around and enjoying making it rattle. It's carefree, and comfortable, and wonderful and safe. Harry can smell the animals outside in the forest, the humans beyond, and all he wants is to invite them to play as well, look at this strange friend of his, who won't stop jumping around like he's been stung by a bee. Harry, the wolf, had been yearning for freedom, but he doesn't understand now, how a forest full of trees could ever be better than this.
After a while, Harry gets bored with being chased, and turns around. Accidentally, he touches his nose to the other wolf's and makes him sneeze. Then they're off again, pulling on each other’s tails, nipping at the other’s heels playfully, an endless circle.
The moon above them makes its way across the sky slowly, forgotten.
*
Once he blinks sleep out of his eyes, he almost doesn't recognise the miserable, small room he'd been locked into last night. The walls are flooded with sunlight, bright and orange, welcoming the new day. It glints off the damp stone and makes spots dance in front of Harry's eyes.
First, he thinks that maybe he'd done something to himself, punctured a lung that hasn't quite healed, and that's why it's so hard to breathe. He turns his head around slowly.
Sprawled across his chest, paws haphazardly thrown on either side of Harry's body, is a familiar wolf. Harry remembers from last night, and he remembers from a week ago, blue eyes saying goodbye as Liam drove them into traffic.
He doesn't know how, but Louis still looks like himself, even as a canine. His fur is a beautiful light grey, a colour Harry's never really seen, face wide and wise and just a bit mischievous. Harry takes one of his enormous paws in his hand. It's the size of a dessert plate, fur silky soft, long legs caging him in in a way that doesn't make it feel like he's trapped at all. Louis's tail flutters every time he breathes out, a warm, smelly breath that fans across Harry's chest to bathe him in warmth. Harry hasn't even remembered everything from last night yet, but it still makes his heart clench pleasantly, that Louis is here keeping him warm. The phantom touch of his teeth burns on the back of Harry's neck.
He's chasing memories of blue eyes turned on him, soft and reassuring, a fleeting feeling of a touch of hands, when he feels the wolf stir. Harry looks down, following a long, elegant snout to its wide face. He smiles.
Louis wakes up slowly, adorably, looking every bit like a puppy. He snuffles, sneezes, bring up a paw to rub his face against, before he finally looks around. His eyes, even when they're not glowing, are blue, pale and otherworldly in the morning sun.
"Hello," Harry says, and it occurs to him that, had Louis been in human form, the position they've woken up in would have been significantly more awkward; especially as Harry realises, just then, that he’s naked. The thought doesn't peeve him out as much as it should - one could even theoretically say it doesn't peeve him out at all, quite the opposite.
Louis yawns, blowing morning wolf breath right in Harry's face, and if he could, he'd probably raise an unimpressed eyebrow. Then, he shimmies up Harry's body like a big, furry blanket, creating some mildly awkward friction, and licks his nose. His ears perk up, eyes alight with mischief and Harry likes him so much, like this. Although. That might be a bit of a weird thought, seeing as Louis currently weighs a good two hundred pounds and dons a full-body fur.
"Um. I'm naked," Harry says, uselessly. Louis happily barks in his face. "Alright. Are we just lying here, then?"
Louis barks again, setting his head down on Harry's collarbone. It's heavy, thick animal skull and all, but Harry doesn't even think about complaining. It's peaceful, really, waking up with Louis's wolfy body half on top of him. For once, nothing hurts, and nothing inside him feels like it's trying to pull him apart.
"Hey, Louis?" he breaks the silence. Louis huffs in acknowledgement. "I, er. Thank you." It comes out less sure than he means it to, but Louis apparently doesn't care when he's a wolf; he stretches his neck and rubs the side of his face against Harry's cheek. It chafes a little, but it's so soft, so affectionate, makes Harry feel so good. He considers turning back into a wolf, grabbing Louis by the ear and making him run away together just so he could get mornings like this.
He's lost in his thoughts for a while, trying to make out every detail of how wolf Louis put wolf him on his back and weighed him down with heavy paws on his chest. He'd felt so free then, all parts of him, with nothing to hold at bay, nothing to cause him pain.
Louis dozes off again, eyes rolling behind his eyelids, sparse lashes fluttering. After a few minutes of nothing but their even breathing, the heavy iron door creaks open.
"Lads?" Niall is asking, and really, why is Niall always there when Harry is inconvenienced in some way and just waking up.
"Morning," Harry croaks. Niall comes in and sniffs the air cautiously, chewing gum like a herd of cows. Strangely enough, as soon as he steps foot into the room, the light painting the walls seems to become just a little bit brighter.
"How's it goin'?" He laughs when he spots them on the floor, coming over and kicking Louis's tail gently with his foot. He appears to be wearing grandpa slippers.
Too late, Harry remembers that, despite being mostly covered in wolf, his dick is still very much enjoying the slight draft in the room. He makes an aborted attempt to cover himself up, but then realises he doesn't want to wake Louis. He'll survive.
Niall, of course, immediately catches on to his efforts and cackles. Louis twitches on Harry's chest and his breathing changes as he wakes up.
"Shut up," Harry hisses in vain. Niall reaches into his back pocket, pulls out a squished granola bar and offers it up to Harry.
Harry can't even remember what the last thing he'd eaten was, besides Liam's wretched drugged tea. He grabs the bar and tears the wrapper off happily, sighing in pleasure when syrup-drenched oats touch his tongue. Louis makes a noise that sounds like a canine snort and finally stands on all fours, shaking himself off. He nudges Niall's knee with his snout, which Harry immediately interprets as a greeting. Niall beams down at Louis's big, furry head and scratches him behind one ear.
"How was the night, then?" Niall steps out of the room, voice echoing underneath the high ceiling, then returns with a pile of Harry's clothes. Harry takes it from him gratefully and starts a fight with his boxers. Beside him, Louis is quietly picking apart a neat chimney of what seem to be his own clothes folded in the corner. With a strange, swishy sound, the warm fur against Harry's side disappears, replaced by Louis's flushed skin.
"This idiot is the most docile wolf I've ever seen," Louis quips before he can even speak properly, tufts of fur still fading into his temples. "All he wanted to do was play all fucking night."
Niall leers. "What kind of play are we talking about, here?"
Harry glares at him, and Niall looks sufficiently intimidated. He's only a little proud.
"The kind where he wiggles his hairy arse in my face to get me to chase him," Louis quips as he battles his socks. He's not looking at Harry, but there's a little crease by the corner of his mouth, and Harry thinks that if Louis let himself, it could turn into a smile.
Which is why, as he pulls his shirt over his head and shakes out his hair, he extends his leg and pokes Louis in the belly with a bare toe. Louis's offended face is absolutely hilarious, and the crinkles that explode around his eyes when he fails to hide a grin warm Harry's heart. Louis should be smiling always, he thinks, with a face like that.
"If you two are done," Niall says, a little too loud, "We made breakfast."
Louis raises an eyebrow.
Niall sighs. "Zayn and I went to get muffins from Mickey D's. Whatever, same thing."
Louis nods. "Let's go, Pup,” he says to Harry, brushes off his trousers and stands up.
Harry doesn't even blink, his body moving automatically to answer to the nickname. He's not sure when that happened.
Niall leads the way out, shouting something at Liam, who's waiting upstairs. Harry's too content and warm and pleasantly morning-sluggish to try and eavesdrop. They struggle up the steps with a lot of huffing and puffing, muscles Harry didn't even know he had aching. It's a pleasant ache, though, much in the same way as being sore after he’s run five miles.
Liam is literally waiting up stairs, watching them come closer with worried eyes.
"All good, Payno," Louis shouts. Harry shoots Liam a thumbs-up.
As it turns out, the daylight is a bit much for Harry's eyes to handle. The house is bright and beautiful, vibrant and full of sparking energy, with windows thrown open to let in the morning breeze. Harry needs to lean against the wall and close his eyes for a bit, his world having shrunk to a dark, small room. When the bright spots in his vision finally disappear, Liam and Niall have gone and Louis is just closing the basement door behind him. The scent of egg and bacon is wafting in from the kitchen, curling around Harry's nose. Louis sniffs the air, too, and brushes past Harry to get closer.
"Nice fur, by the way," he murmurs as he passes. His hand sneaks to Harry's nape and squeezes.
*
"No, Li, look," Zayn points to a page in an old, wrinkled, soil-stained gardening handbook, "This is the one you're supposed to pull out. The thing you're holding is a wildflower."
Liam looks at the miserable tuft of greenery in his hand, throwing it over his shoulder in a fit of infant rage.
"I didn't know it was a wildflower. It’s October, Zayn, there are no flowers.”
Zayn sighs and tugs his gloves on. He drops to his knees, pulls Liam to kneel by his side and starts showing him what to pull.
Harry hides a smile in the crook of his elbow.
"That wasn't so bad then, was it?" Niall walks outside with sunglasses on. He surveys the various soft surfaces strewn around the porch – a garden swing, a sofa, a ratty beanbag – and plonks himself down on the floor right by Harry's feet, stealing a corner of his blanket.
"What wasn't?"
"All the, you know," Niall waves a hand towards the sky, "full moon business."
"Oh." Harry bites his lip. It's an instinctual reaction for him to freeze and tense up just thinking about it, but the thing is, Niall's right. It hadn't been bad at all – in fact, it may have been the most pleasant part of Harry's entire werewolf extravaganza experience. "No, no it wasn't."
"I knew it," Niall says smugly and takes his glasses off. "If I'd been here, I would've told you."
"Where were you?"
"Home. Me dad says it's safer for me there on full moon nights, just in case, so I usually sit there bored out of my fucking mind," he grimaces.
Harry watches Zayn thwack Liam over the head with a tiny spade. "He's just worried about you, isn't he."
Niall grumbles. "Course he is. Doesn't mean he doesn't think my mates are monsters lusting after blood that lose control whenever the moon comes out."
"Does he hunt werewolves, too?"
Niall looks up at him a little startled, like he doesn’t remember telling Harry. "Right. Yeah, he does. Old family tradition."
"That's fascinating," Harry says honestly.
"Meh. It's not as glamorous when you grow up being fed shit about how dangerous werewolves are and how you can tell them apart from normal humans because they walk hunched over and look at everyone like they want to kill them. And then you turn around and find out that the only three people you know who don't secretly think you're weird all have a furry problem."
Harry blinks, clutching his mug tighter. ”What did you do?"
Niall shrugs. "I made them show me. Asked 'em to shift in front of me, so they did, and then we played fetch all afternoon."
Harry laughs at the visual. He can see it in his mind's eye, Niall sitting cross-legged on the grass like the boss of everything, three wolves dropping plastic balls and sticks and small dead animals at his feet.
"Weren't you scared?" he asks.
"Nah," Niall smiles, "Had my bow with me."
Harry smiles at him softly, observing the way he's looking out into the garden. Zayn and Liam have started throwing handfuls of dirt at each other, and Niall is watching them with all the fondness in the world.
"Still, that was brave," Harry says, poking Niall in the side with his foot. "You're a good friend."
Niall's grin is blinding when he turns it to Harry, sparks alive in his eyes. "I know that, Harry Styles. I'm awesome." His voice is a little subdued, though, just this side of soft, and if Harry knew him better, he'd dare say Niall's touched, or something.
"Anyway. What about yours?"
Harry frowns in question.
"Your mates. Told them yet?"
"Oh," Harry laughs, "no. No."
"Why not?"
"It's—I mean, it's a pretty ridiculous thing to tell someone over breakfast, you know? 'I got bitten by something on my way to the train station. I can turn into an animal now, and also if something happens and I go crazy I could kill you with my pinkie finger'."
"They'd get used to it," Niall shrugs.
"Yeah," Harry says a little sharply, taking a sip of his tea. It's only lukewarm now. "Or they'd have me locked up somewhere in a padded room. Werewolves are not an everyday reality for most people, Niall."
"It's not that hard. You're still the same person, aren't ya? What the hell does all this matter to somebody who loves you?"
Harry is a little amazed, if he's honest. He can't believe Niall is a person he found after he’d randomly wandered into a forest. "Am I the same, though?"
Niall frowns now, turns around until he's looking up at Harry with eyes burning. "Yes, Harry, come on. You heard what Louis said, about what you were like last night. I've seen a transformation or two now, and the one thing they do better than anything is expose who you really are. It's always the angry and troubled people that go rogue and kill innocents. Some people resist the wolf so hard they break. You got through it perfectly fine, without a scratch. That's gotta tell you something."
"I was resisting, too," Harry says contemplatively. "I could feel it trying to take over, but I wouldn't let it."
"I heard," Niall says, "You were really loud."
Harry hides his face in his knees. "Oh God."
"Harry, listen. I like you, you seem like a perfectly alright lad to me, but you're a little thick. You didn't want to turn because you didn't want to hurt anyone, right? That's more than most new werewolves ever think about. It's all me me me, what am I gonna do, how do I become a world-renowned doctor now. So do me a favour and don't put yourself down, you don't deserve it."
"But what if I'd held on? To staying in my human form, I mean. You said people break, would that have happened?"
"Dunno, to be honest. Maybe. But you hadn't."
Harry shakes his head. "Louis came," he says, like that explains everything. To him, it sort of does.
"Good thing he did," Niall nods. "He's really good at werewolf things."
A question has been in the forefront of Harry's mind for hours now, one he's itching to ask and know the answer to – how did Louis become a werewolf. Harry feels like the story there is very different from his own; there's something about Louis, the way he carries himself, the way everybody in the house seems to listen to him, obey him, almost.
He thinks Niall might tell him, if Harry really tried, but it doesn't feel right. He doesn't want to overstep boundaries, for one. He's still the outsider. He also doesn't want to pry just like that, all curious and insensitive and clambering to know everything like a big clumsy puppy. For some reason, Louis had decided to help him when he most needed help, and Harry's not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.
"Now, about your friends," Niall starts again. Harry groans. "No, hey. I know it's hard, but you need to take a little leap of faith. The sooner you do it, the better, or it's gonna start killing you."
Harry looks intently at his fingers, nails of one hand slowly picking apart the wicker frame of his armchair. "I'm not sure I have people I trust that much."
Sure, he does have Jonny, but they're not as close as they used to be. They burn bright when they’re together, parties and film night and popcorn fights, but then Harry goes back to London and Jonny drives to Sheffield and they lose contact for the next five months.
He has Ed, too, and Ed's been an amazing friend to him for as long as they’ve known each other. But he's in his last year of uni, focused on his music and making it big, and Harry doesn't want to burden him any more.
In an incredibly true imitation of a dog, Niall puts his chin on Harry's knee. "Well, you have us now. Until you figure out who you can trust, at least."
Harry smiles shakily, looks into Niall’s scarily blue eyes, then out into the garden again. Zayn is sitting in the middle of an untouched patch of grass, reading his handbook, and next to him, Liam is building what looks like a crooked ant house out of dirt. From the inside, Louis shouts something at them, laughing loud and bright.
Harry grins and scratches Niall behind the ear. Maybe he’s not that much of an outsider, then.
*
There's some sort of party at the campus bar, a happy hour sort of thing that lasts the entire night, and everyone Harry knows had invited him. He'd gone to check it out, too, all ready to start drinking at six and get trashed by eight and have a little fun, but the second he'd stepped foot in the pub, a blinding headache forced him right back out. It had been a sensory overload of the worst kind, loud music and flashing lights, the usual soft hum of conversation replaced by shouting, people trying to talk to each other over the pounding bass.
So he'd excused himself and put himself together and ordered pizza that has to last him until the end of the week if he wants to make rent. And he's here. And he can hear somebody walking up to the door.
"Harreh!" Niall shouts, exaggerated and loud. The left side of his hair is sticking up in an impressive cowlick, but he looks bubbly and happy and excited. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"
"Um," Harry says eloquently, and honestly, he used to be the most popular boy in school once. "I brought pizza."
"Yes you did," Niall beams, tugging the boxes out of Harry's arms. "Good boy."
Harry shakes his head and takes the open door as an invitation to come in.
"Hey, Harry," Zayn says, leaning over the armrest of the sofa to peer into the hallway. He's smiling, too, a relaxed air about him.
"Harry!" Liam joins, walking in from the kitchen.
"Liam," Harry grins back.
"Harryyyyy."
"Liam?"
"Louis," Louis says, unimpressed as he walks by, huddled in a hoodie and barefoot.
"I smelled you brought pizza," Liam says as he leans against the wall, the only one willing to wait while Harry takes off his shoes.
"Niall's got it."
"Naturally. How did you know?" he asks, finally noticing the bottle of Coke Harry is trying to dislodge from under his arm and helping him get it out.
"Know what?" Harry frowns, again, and promptly tells himself off.
"That it's film night, obviously!"
And yeah, now that Harry's closed the door behind him and taken in his surroundings, he does detect a fading smell of popcorn and Doritos. "I didn't. Do you guys actually have film nights?"
Liam snorts and waves Harry into the living room. Harry barely stops to think about the fact that none of them – not even Louis, his brain adds – gave a second thought to him just showing up at their door. They took the gifts he came bearing and invited him in, and now it looks like they're letting him tag along to what seems like a household tradition.
The living room is different to the last time Harry's seen it. The sofa is still there, but instead of a coffee table, what can only be described as a nest of blankets and pillows is sprawled all over the floor. Various empty bowls and packets are strewn all over, and Niall is currently performing an elaborate dance of stepping over them as he carries a pile of plates in. The armchairs are pushed closer to the sofa to close off a little half-circle. Louis is reclining in one of them, miming something that looks vaguely vulgar with a bit of stretchy pizza cheese.
It looks like absolute perfection, honestly; Harry is even reminded of home, of pillow forts and watching telly from behind the living room door with Gemma when they were both supposed to be long asleep.
"Thank you for this, my good man," Louis nods to him, waving a slice of hawaiian in the air. Harry is only a little pleased at the fact that his favourite seems to be Louis’s, too.
"My pleasure," he grins in return, slowly coming closer. Zayn and Louis both look like blissed-out sloths, stretched out with long limbs and happy eyes, and Niall's just settled on the floor with his head in Liam's lap. Harry's not sure where to fit himself; on second thought, he's not even sure he's been invited.
"Well get over here, we need to finish arguing about what film to put on," Niall says, reaching as far as he can and grabbing Harry by the wrist. He's sat down on the floor, has a blanket draped over his shoulders and a pizza slice in hand before he knows what's happening.
Niall plops down right in front of him, DVD cases in hand, and everybody leans a little closer. "So," he says with an air of immense importance, "we've narrowed it down now. Will it be the running champion, Iron Man? Or will the arrival of a new member of the jury swing the vote in favour of the no good, horribly soppy Love Actually? Or," he takes a deep breath, "will justice finally prevail, and let us lay eyes upon the timeless classic that is The Godfather? The fate rests in your hands, young Harry," he looks at Harry seriously.
To Harry's left, Liam is desperately trying to muffle his laughter in a pillow. Louis has started throwing pieces of a pizza box at Niall's head.
"Wait," Harry says, "who voted for Love Actually?"
Save for Liam, who has now moved on to hysterical cry-laughing, there is a suspicious silence in the room.
Then, "Why do you care?" asks Louis.
Harry shrugs, studying the DVD cases in front of him. "Just asking. It's my favorite film," he says. Zayn snorts. Harry ignores him in favour of poking Niall in the chest.
"You should just close your eyes and pick one.”
“Oh,” Niall says, then smiles, “that's—"
"You know,” Zayn interrupts, chewing lazily, "this might be more fun if we ever voted for something other than our favourites."
"The Notebook," Louis says, immediately. Harry's eyes shoot to him involuntarily, because hey, that's another of his most beloved films.
"Or our other favorites, Lou," Zayn chastises fondly. "We should all pick one we haven't seen, or something."
"Not one that Niall's watched already," Liam cuts in, "he spoils."
"I do no such thing!"
"Yes you do," Liam protests, crossing his arms, "You were the one who told me Ellie was gonna die and Carl was going to become a depressed old man."
"That was eight minutes into the film," Louis says helpfully. Liam turns to glare in his direction. Harry is happily floating somewhere above the conversation, because he's hanging out with people who watch Pixar unironically.
"We should watch Finding Nemo," he says thoughtfully, biting the back of his finger. It seems like a perfectly sound choice to him. Harry does love his animated films, and if he can find an opportunity to spread that love around, he'll get in there before his fellow film watchers can say "fuck off with that".
"Finding Nemo," Louis and Zayn say in unison.
"Why?" Niall asks.
"Oh," Liam beams.
"Cause, I mean—it's a good film? It has fish? What else could you possibly want?" Harry asks, incredulous.
"Yes, I vote yes, can we watch Finding Nemo please," says Liam, regressing into what seems to be his five-year-old self. Niall gets up grudgingly, cradling the case with The Godfather to his chest, and grumbling picks out a sea blue case instead; a testament to how hard it is to resist Liam's puppy eyes.
They have the film in the shelf. That's all Harry needs to know.
Ninety minutes and two pee breaks later, Zayn and Harry are passing a packet of tissues with no shame. Louis looks like he's wiping his nose into the pizza he's still eating, and Niall is trying to cheer them all up by speaking along with the characters in his best whale voice. Liam, for his part, seems to be particularly enthusiastic about the turtles.
"He can't just leave her there," Harry pouts when Marlin swims off, even though he's seen the film twenty-two times, and he knows that Marlin will. She'll be floating there in a pan-out shot, confused and sad and alone, miles away from home. Fucking clownfish.
"It's okay," Niall pats him on the shoulder consolingly, "they make up."
"See, you're doing it again!" Liam hisses.
"It doesn't count as spoiling if you've already seen the film, Payno.”
Finally, Marlin hears Nemo calling to him through the torrent of fish. Harry is still sniffing, because it's a beautiful, emotional moment.
Well. It would've been.
"Hey," Louis says as the film transcends into the last ten minutes, leaning forward conspiratorially, "did you know that if one clownfish in a pair dies, one of its children will change sex and go on making babies with the other parent? Reckon that explains why he needs to find Nemo so badly."
Harry glares at him with all the intensity of his ruined childhood. Niall chortles, reaches behind him underneath a sofa cushion and takes out a handful of stale popcorn to throw at Louis's head.
"That's gross," Zayn says, without emotion. Harry wonders if it's because he's used to being around Louis, or because he secretly agrees.
When the end credits roll, Harry refuses to move. He sprawls out, limbs everywhere like a starfish (haha, starfish, ha), and closes his eyes. He's lost any energy to pretend to be orderly and polite sometime around Niall elbowing him in the dick when he was crawling to the loo.
"Hey," Liam pokes a toe into Harry's hair. "Don't fall asleep yet."
"Motivate me," Harry grumbles.
"We could always play truth or dare," Liam says contemplatively, like he's actually considering it, "or never have I ever."
"Oh, I am not playing that with you lot," Niall says as he falls down right on top of Harry. Harry doesn't even mind. "Much as it pains me to admit it, being Irish has nothing on being one of you furry things."
"Wait," Harry opens an eye, "we can't get drunk?"
"We can," Liam hums, "it just takes a lot more booze, so we generally don't bother. We play drinking games with juice, and whoever has to go to the loo last is the winner."
Harry expects him to laugh and brush it off as a bad joke, but Liam keeps staring solemnly at his hands.
"You're serious," Harry groans. "Oh God."
"Sometimes they get me drunk and bet on what crazy shit I'll do," Niall offers, placating.
"We don't do that anymore."
"Please, Payno."
Just then, Zayn walks back in, smelling overwhelmingly like cigarettes. "I heard something about never have I ever," he says, conversationally.
"You heard every word," Niall says. Zayn shrugs in response.
"Do you honestly still play that? At—however old you are?"
"Twenty," Zayn chuckles. "Well, Lou's twenty-two, but he doesn't like to be reminded."
"I heard that, Zaynie-poo," Louis sing-songs from the kitchen, "and I hate you."
"Anyway," Zayn continues, ignoring the plastic fork that goes flying at him and misses, "yes, we do. It's fun. You actually learn new things about each other."
That's the story of how Harry ends up sprawled on his stomach in the living room, having the time of his life playing a ridiculous teenage game and drinking grape juice. He admits to stupid things like having sex with more than two people and kissing boys, and to serious things like stealing a fresh scone off the tray once, back when he worked at the bakery, because he'd been hungry.
"Never have I ever," Zayn starts, jovial, "rescued a scorchingly handsome, freshly-bitten werewolf from a forest."
Harry watches in fascination as Louis rolls his eyes, smirks and takes a drink. His Adam's apple bobs in quite a gorgeous way, and Harry catches himself staring a little too late.
Well. At least he hadn't lied when he drank his entire mug at 'never have I ever found a man attractive’.
*
Mum laughs into the phone. Harry doesn't find it funny.
It's Sunday, almost a whole twenty-four hours since Harry had left after sleeping over, and he's in the house alone. It's absolutely terrifying, if he's honest with himself, all these empty rooms that could have supernatural creatures hiding in them, for all he knows.
It happened quite suddenly, the him being alone part. Zayn and Louis have gone out to run (they've actually just disappeared into the forest yelling something, but Harry's giving them the benefit of the doubt). Liam took his car to drive for groceries, and Niall's busy with some sort of family thing. Harry had been over, just wandering around and bumping into things, mostly, and nobody had minded him; in fact, Zayn and Liam both engaged him in friendly chitchat and helped him right whatever he'd dislodged. Then, all of a sudden, with a few murmurs of "you'll be fine on your own for a while, won't you?", he was alone.
Harry's still waiting for them to turn around and notice that oh, there's this kid that's wandered in and hasn't left yet, but now they apparently trust him to not burn their house to the ground or steal all of their shit. Harry doesn't quite know how to deal with that kind of niceness with no obvious ulterior motives.
When he doesn't know how to deal with something, he cleans.
Which brings him back to the conversation he'd been having with his mum. Wood. Right.
"Baby, are you sure you should be doing things with an axe?" she giggles.
"Mum."
"I don't know how to split wood," she says something to someone away from the phone, "Neither does Robin. What on earth would you need to do that for, anyway?"
Right. Hadn't told her about his furry problem, or about the people who saved his life. He'd almost forgotten.
"I'm at a friend's house and I'm trying to make a fire," he says, honestly. The empty fireplace is staring back at him, a little less depressingly sooty after he gave it a short scrub. He bets they don't even know that a dirty chimney can kill you.
"In a fireplace, yeah?"
"Obviously," Harry rolls his eyes. He gets up and walks to the back garden, right where he'd discovered a pile of wood and a friendly looking chopping block with an axe.
"I don't know, maybe you should leave it to whoever lives there?" He doesn't miss the slight curious undertone, but decides to play dumb.
"I'm just gonna try and, like, swing at it from the top," he muses aloud.
"Harry, please be careful."
"I will, Mum. Love you," he says and hangs up.
The axe which, for some reason, is bright yellow, is staring at him with its handle stuck in the air provocatively. Harry grabs the widest log he can find, just in case he misses, and puts it on the block like a man on a mission.
"Alright," he says under his breath, to no one in particular. Then, he raises the axe.
It's quite exhilarating, really, the thrill he gets from waving a heavy thing around and hitting other things with it. He lets the momentum of his swing carry the axe down and watches, fascinated, as it splits the small piece of wood right in two. It's not quite through the middle, but. Holy crap, he just did that.
Full of ambition, he grabs another log, and another, and another. Soon, he has a nice little pile of perfectly acceptable split wood and aching arms, but he actually did it. He feels very, very accomplished.
He carries the wood inside in a wicker basket, loads the pieces into the fireplace like he'd seen people in films do – smaller on the sides, bigger towards the middle – and lights one of those gigantic matches on the fourth try. Soon enough, the small flame is spreading, licking up the rough tree bark. It looks awesome.
Satisfied, Harry puts the basket away and surveys his surroundings. He'd done pretty well, if he does say so himself – the entirety of the living room, kitchen and hall is dusted and vacuumed, sofa cushions fluffed up invitingly, dishes clean and put away, both porches swept clean of fallen leaves and dust. He'd polished the windows, cleaned the fireplace, wiped down the kitchen table and beat out the ratty 'welcome' mat. The crackling fire gives it all a nice, homey feeling that leaves Harry feeling happy and satisfied; he doesn't remember the last time he'd done something like this, certainly not for people he'd known for a little more than a week. Burning wood mixes in with the scent of cleaning product, and it's a lot more harmonious than Harry would have thought.
He puts away all the cleaning supplies under the sink where he’d found them, and just then, as if sensing it's safe to come in and get mud all over the clean floor, Louis and Zayn come back in, all giggly with tousled hair. Their cheeks are red from the wind and the chill outside. Harry thinks he should've made tea.
"Harry!" Zayn shouts, accent strong, and hugs him like they're long-lost friends. Meanwhile, Louis is standing by the back door with a cute little scrunch to his nose, looking back and forth between the porch and the hall.
"Something's different," he announces, turning to Zayn.
The thing is, Harry has no idea what Louis's thing is. He's not on the receiving end of glares or twisted smirks anymore, even spots a small smile aimed in his direction sometimes, but the only time Louis will talk to him civilly is when he has all the other lads around. Harry had seen so many glimpses by now, slips in Louis's indifferent exterior, and he desperately wants to know how to get Louis to be like that around him – happy and carefree and bitingly sarcastic, but fond. Louis had called him love, called him sweetheart at full moon, and it had tugged on Harry's chest in the best way; and they'd been so great, so friendly to each other in the morning. Most of all, he wants to know what he's done, and he's very, very close to asking. As it is, he doesn't know how to fix it and really, he just wants. Harry wants to see Louis's eyes crinkle because of some silly joke he said.
Anyways. He'll figure it out later, he will. Harry Styles is nothing if not determined.
Zayn looks around, eyes laughing. "Have you cleaned?"
"Uh," Harry says. He's going to learn how to speak again, one of these days.
Louis crouches down, long fringe obscuring most of his face, and swipes a finger over the wood floor. It squeaks.
"Holy shit," he says. "It's clean."
Harry thinks that Louis's fascination is a very sad testament to the state the house had been in. He hadn't really noticed before, grateful and fascinated and terrified as he was, but when he'd sat alone at the kitchen table, the mug stains started driving him mad immediately.
"Yeah, um, I swiped a spot or two."
"Oh my God," Zayn pokes his head into the living room, "is that the actual colour of the fireplace?"
"Z, I can see out of this window!" Louis shouts as he bounces on his tiptoes like a little boy. It's adorable, and it hits Harry that much harder that he's standing right there and Louis won't even look his way. Maybe he could pretend to be a chair, so Louis would sit on him.
"Harry, did you do the dishes?"
"No, I put them away dirty," Harry quips in a rare moment of lame sarcasm.
"That's awesome," Zayn says, honest. Honestly, why couldn't Harry's obsession with how pretty he is have continued after that first night? Zayn would be an awesome person to not-quite-crush on. "You didn't have to do that."
"I know," Harry shrugs, "But I was alone and bored, so."
"If this is what you do when you're left alone for two hours," Louis says, still not looking at Harry, but quite obviously addressing him. Harry's heart leaps. "I would love to know what you could do with a whole day."
Harry is absolutely certain he doesn't imagine the flirty tone. Except he's a tongue-tied dumbass who cleans things for fun and wears tie-dye, so maybe he's not a very reliable source.
"I have some free time, you can find out if you want," he bites his lip. Oh God.
Zayn snorts. He seems to do that a lot. Walking out of the kitchen, he comes closer to Harry and tugs on one end of the bandana he's tied around his head, pulling it teasingly like a cat. "And what are you wearing?"
"It's a hairband," Harry pouts. "You know, to keep my hair out of my eyes while I was vacuuming in the dark corners where no one ever dares to go. Honestly, do you know how much shit was behind the sofa cushions?" Zayn raises an eyebrow, questioning. "Half a garbage bag of wolf hair, for starters."
"Louis," Zayn groans. "I fucking told you not to go on the sofa."
Seamlessly and gracefully, right in front of Harry's eyes, Louis turns into the now-familiar pale wolf. He barks at Zayn, leaps out the back door and disappears in the forest.
"Excuse him, he's a dick," Zayn says to a transfixed Harry, grabbing his elbow and tugging gently to get him to come sit down on the sofa. "I could go for a cuppa. D'you want some?"
"Yeah, two sugars and no milk, thanks," Harry nods absentmindedly, watching the flames dance and flicker. There's a prominent spot of soot that's clung on through Harry's scrubbing.
He listens to the kettle boil as Zayn putters around, opening cupboards and clinking mugs. The aroma of tea starts wafting in as soon as Zayn opens the box, and Harry revels in it, courtesy of his werewolf supersenses.
Zayn turns on the telly after he hands Harry his mug, some would-be comedic show with a host Harry's never heard of. He spreads a giant blanket over both of them, shuffling over until he's so close it could easily be considered cuddling. Harry likes the warmth of his body, the long searing line of him along his side. Zayn is pretty great all-round, honestly, and he would probably be a great cuddler, too.
They sit in silence for a while, listening to one shitty joke after another. Then, Zayn nudges him gently in the side.
"Hey," he says, looking contemplative, "you're always welcome here, you know."
And Zayn's just gone from awesome to creepy. Maybe it's a secret werewolf power, mind reading. Maybe Harry could learn it so he could crack Louis's code.
"Okay," he answers. Zayn looks at him shrewdly.
"I mean it, Harry. Don't mind Louis, if you do, he'll come around, just—you don't have to repay us or whatever, you know? We're happy to help, and I can tell you appreciate that, so."
"I didn't clean to repay you, I don't think. I just like doing it."
"We might have to keep you, then," Zayn chuckles. He's quiet again; sips on his tea a little and seems to think about what to say next.
Against his better judgement, Harry opens his mouth and instantly regrets it. "You left me alone today."
"I'm sorry about that," Zayn turns to him, earnest. ”Louis wanted—"
"No, no," Harry interrupts him quickly, "that's not—no, I mean, you left me here alone even though you barely know me. I could've stolen all your precious China."
Zayn laughs. "Not much to steal here. Honestly, we're all more than happy for new faces around here. We tend to get a bit isolated."
Harry just. Looks.
"And it helps that you seem pretty great. "
"Aaaw."
Zayn pokes him in the shoulder, hard, then gives it up and slumps against Harry's side comfortably. They sip tea and watch telly without really watching it, calm and settled.
"You know," Zayn says, when the comedy show ends and a news segment comes on, "you're really comfortable. I should be preparing a lecture for Tuesday, but I kinda don't wanna move."
Harry chuckles. "Right, forgot you're an educator."
"I'm a lecturer, Harry, I don't even have a PhD. Speaking of, though, a little bird’s told me that you were thinking of being an educator, too."
"Does Liam tell you everything?"
"Yes," Zayn answers, dead serious.
Harry ponders his options, now. He remembers his conversation with Liam well, remembers seeing him clam up for the first and only time when he'd asked about Zayn. He knows he shouldn't pry, and maybe if he stays friendly and nice and cleans often, eventually, he'll become someone they would all tell their secrets to. But Harry is a curious creature by nature. He wants to know now.
"He said you wanted to teach kids, though," he says, and closes his eyes, not knowing what to expect.
Zayn is still relaxed and warm beside him, not tensing up or moving away, but his hand is shaking as he puts his mug back on the table. He chuckles humourlessly, leans back, and wraps his arms around himself.
He look so sad, just then, so different from the bright-eyed Zayn that teases Louis all the time, or the kind Zayn that apologised to him for something he'd had no part in. Harry hates that it's him who made Zayn look like that.
"I do," he says, eventually, just as Harry is about to take his question back. "But I can't."
"Why not?" Harry asks, tentative.
"I wouldn't trust myself around children. I mean, a lecture hall full of adults know how to get themselves out when there's danger, but kids just—they'd want to help, you know? They wouldn't understand that I'm dangerous."
And—oh. Oh no.
"Zayn," says Harry, already on his way to teary-eyed. "You're not dangerous."
Zayn shakes his head. "We all are, under the right circumstances. I have the wolf under control completely, but there's no telling what could break that control. I can barely stand to walk out the door every day as it is."
Harry sniffles, and feels incredibly selfish.
"I've never even—my only full transformation was at my first full moon. I haven't been a wolf since then. I'm not at peace with it, and I never will be, but I'm trying to cope, you know?"
He brings an arm up, slowly, giving Zayn time to move away. When he doesn't, Harry pulls him closer, closer still, until he can rest his head next to Zayn's. He inhales the scent of the other werewolf, cinnamon and sandalwood and Zayn himself, kind, kind Zayn. Harry is a little bit in awe.
"I'm sorry," he murmurs, an empty apology that he so desperately means. I'm sorry that I asked. I'm sorry that you feel like this.
I'm sorry I can't help.
"Not your fault," Zayn chuckles, voice throaty.
"Yeah," Harry answers.
They sit in silence again, watching a car being pulled out of a ditch on the TV screen. It's comfortable, despite what just happened, and Harry's brain is staggering to comprehend the enormity of Zayn actually trusting him with this under no pressure, just because he thought Harry was a person who deserved to know. He feels welcome, and trusted, and important – and once again, selfish, because he is not important in any part of this, Zayn is.
More than anything else, all of it makes Harry wish he could do something, anything.
When he's leaving, after Liam's come back and they helped him stock the fridge, Zayn stops him in the doorway and hugs him for a long time. Harry can't remember the last time he'd felt so comfortable in the arms of someone who wasn't his mum.
As he runs home through the forest, wind lashing at his hair, he sends several reproachful looks to the Moon out of sheer helplessness.
*
He's finally got Liam's phone number, and he sends off a sorry :( after Liam says it's a shame Harry can't make film night. He'd only been once, but Harry thinks it's a shame, too.
He brings the conversation to a close soon, trying not to glare at the spotty teen that keeps looking at the screen of Harry's phone over his shoulder. He chews gum and listens to Snow Patrol the entire three hours it takes for the train to stop in Holmes Chapel.
Through the empty square and streets with sturdy brick houses, Harry walks home slowly, subconsciously trying to delay the conversation he knows he's going to have to have. He thinks of the last time he'd been here, happy to find out he feels different now; better. At the house, he stops and gives himself a moment to take it in the way it is now – he refuses to admit it to himself, but there's doubt forcing itself into his thoughts, eating away at his calm arguments and rational explanations. He knows there's no way his mum will be anything but sympathetic, but…but.
"Harry? What are you doing standing out there, love?" his mum asks suddenly, looking at him shrewdly through the open kitchen window. Harry blushes, runs a hand through his hair and jogs down the garden path in a familiar dance, avoiding the flowerpots. She meets him at the front door.
In a movement that's eerily reminiscent of two weeks ago, Harry dramatically falls into her arms. He's not near tears this time, at least, but he's shaking with nerves, with apprehension, with anticipation.
"Come on in," she tells him, patting his cheek fondly. She doesn't ask why he's home so soon, and Harry knew she wouldn't – she knows that sometimes, he gets a little overwhelmed, and needs to be with his family. Her and Gemma tease him about it sometimes, too, but he knows they love it.
Wordlessly, mum hands him a cup of tea, made just how he likes it, and sits him down at the kitchen table.
Harry swirls his spoon in the dark liquid and ponders. He should probably get this over with now, before he has an aneurysm. If only he knew how to start this conversation. How in the world is he supposed to say I'm a werewolf to his mum. With a straight face.
"Baby," Anne says gently, touches his face with just her fingertips from where she's sitting opposite him. "Is there something you want to tell me?"
Harry splutters, too-hot tea burning down his throat. "What."
"I've been a little worried," she admits, looking at him softly. "You seemed a little on edge the last time you were here, but I didn't want to ask—"
"No, you're right," he interrupts, figuring this is as good an opener as any. "I…wasn't myself."
"Okay. What's wrong?” There's a slight frown creasing her forehead now, a stiff set to her jaw, no doubt determined to find out what it is that Harry's been hiding from her.
"Um. You know how I didn't come home after I'd gone to Cranage?" he asks, uselessly.
"Yes?"
Harry closes his eyes and sucks in a breath. This might the most difficult thing to say, really, even worse than admitting to his furry problem. "I lied."
"Darling," Anne says, eyes full of sympathy, "I already knew that. I'm your mum."
And Harry's figured, really. "Why weren't you mad?"
"I told you already. I was worried. And if something was bothering you, I was hoping you would come to me."
Harry nods and reaches for his mum's hand, like he remembers doing through all the important things in his life, and she meets him halfway.
"Harry, you're scaring me," she tries to smile, but it's wan. He's only about to scare her, Harry thinks.
"I, um…something happened to me. When I was on my way to the train station. I don't really remember much of it, to be honest?"
She's looking at him with wide eyes, and, right. What he's just said sounds all kinds of terrifying.
"I woke up in a forest outside of London when it was already dark—oh God, Mum, don't cry, I'm okay, I promise."
Mum's wiping her eyes with a kitchen towel. Harry can't bring himself to even imagine what's running through her head; he does know mums, and she's probably thinking of him lying half-dead, hidden in a pile of fallen leaves.
"I was—this is going to sound really strange. I was bitten." Here it is, then. Moment of truth. Harry tries to take a breath, but no air gets in. "I was bitten by, um…by a werewolf."
"Harry," she says, and actually lets go of his hand. He can see his own hurt mirrored in her eyes, like she couldn't believe he'd do this to her. His heart is hurting, beating out of time, and he's frozen, for just a second.
"No, Mum, listen. I know how it sounds, but I—"
"What makes you think it's okay to joke about things like this? I was worried sick, and you—you—" she's speaking calm and low, if frantic, and somehow, it's even worse than if she'd shouted.
Harry knows he only has one option. Shaking and terrified, he calls on the wolf, a call that's becoming more comfortable and familiar every day. He welcomes it, channels it, and focuses it to let the gold in his eyes shine through.
He's slid his hands off the table and into his lap, now, playing with his sweat-slick fingers as he looks at her. He burns, inside and out, with fear, with emotion.
His mum is looking at him in absolute shock, face frozen. He's gone through the denial himself, but he has no idea what she has to be feeling. When he can't hold her gaze anymore, tears threatening to fall from the corners of his eyes, he blinks, and the wolf is gone.
"What," she gasps, so soft it's only thanks to his wolf senses he hears her, "what was that, Harry, I don't understand."
Harry thinks he might have to just shift all the way, here in the kitchen. He doesn't like the half-human, half-werewolf thing that he can turn into, thinks it makes him look like a monster from a storybook. He doesn't want his mum seeing him like that.
"Mum, please don't be scared? I promise it's okay, I'm not going to hurt you," he says, and thinks he already has, just by having to say those words.
Then, he stands up, closes his eyes, and focuses on the rattling in his bones as they shorten and rearrange. He's practiced the shift a few times, in the forest just behind the house, with Liam watching over him. He's nowhere near as smooth as he's seen Louis be, but he'll get there someday.
Still, slowly but surely, he feels his clothes loosening and falling off, his joints hurting until he drops on all fours, and then he's a wolf, sitting there in a sad puddle of loose jeans and shirt on their polished kitchen floor. The world is a little more monochromatic, and the fur sits heavy on Harry's back, but his mind is clear. He looks at his mum, steady, and wills her to understand.
"Oh my God," is all she says, holding a hand to her mouth. She's pale and still, like a moment suspended in time, and the cold rising off the tiled floor is freezing Harry's heart. He listens to the beat of hers, frantic, rushing so fast he wants desperately to hold her hand again, just to calm her down.
When nothing happens for long minutes, Harry unlocks his limbs and moves a little, tugging his shirt every which way with his teeth until he gets it off. He steps out of the dark pools of his jeans, taking a step closer, and. Oh.
He can smell her fear to where he's standing. He's only learning to recognise emotion slowly, but this one rings in his nose clear as day, strong and unmistakable, and it strikes right in his chest, takes all his breath away. On some level he understands, of course he does, but the one thing he'd always thought his mum would never be is afraid of him. It burns, like a black hole expanding in Harry's lungs and sucking in all his air. He lets out a whine, and if he could cry, he would.
Tentatively, he takes a step closer, just one, claws clicking on tile. The air has gotten difficult to breathe, heavy with tension and unspoken things. Silently, the only way he can, he prays. Please, Mum. Please.
"Who did this to you?" she says, finally. She's crying, but she barely notices, pushing her fingers into her lips so hard they go white.
Harry shakes his head, hopes it communicates a somewhat decent I don't know. He's been trying to remember, thinking he was ready to face it, but he's still drawing a blank - just darkness and red eyes.
"Can you—could you please turn back?" she asks, and Harry complies immediately, covers himself haphazardly with clothes, all clumsy teeth, and lets the wolf retreat in peace. She turns away while he gets dressed, and he can see the shake in her arms getting worse, hears in a whisper he isn't supposed to hear, I can't look at you like this.
"Mum, I—" he has to clear his throat, voice gone tight and raspy, "I'm still me." He feels like the five-year-old him, now, criss cross applesauce on the kitchen floor. All that's missing is Gemma smugly telling him she’s going to rat him out for sitting on the cold tile.
"Why would anybody do this to a human being?" she asks, equal parts sadness and anger, and oh, Harry maybe hadn't been expecting that.
"I don't know," he says, honestly. "Some of us—"
"Us?" she hisses, unkind, "Harry, you're not a—a monster!"
"No, I'm not," he agrees.
"There has to be a way to turn this around, it's absolutely ridiculous—"
"Mum."
"Harry, be rational about this. What you just did…"
"Is not normal, I know," Harry says shrewdly. "But, Mum. I'm coming to terms with it. I'm going to be like this for the rest of my life, and it's not all bad." He tries to be reassuring, even with how badly his voice is shaking.
"It's only been two weeks—oh God. Did you—on the full moon—does something happen?"
Harry drops her gaze, curling into himself. "Yeah, it's, yeah. The first few full moons are usually rough, until you learn how to control it."
"Did you…" she swallows, crying so hard she's blinking constantly, "did you hurt anybody?" she almost whispers.
"I didn't," Harry smirks a little, humourless, still proud that he can say it, now, that the worst of his worries has been extinguished, at least for the moment. He has nothing to be proud of really, because Louis is the one who pulled him through, stayed with him and made sure he didn't get hurt, but Louis would probably throw that back in Harry's face.
"How did you—how do you know all this? Where did you go?" Mum's getting that fire in her eyes back, just a little, that curious spark that Harry's inherited.
"I—um. I found some friends? Friends who are—like me. Werewolves."
She scowls.
"No, Mum, I swear they're amazing. They found me in the forest and fed me and gave me a place to sleep, and they let me come by whenever I want. One of them, Liam…he gave me some books. So I could learn as much as I could."
"Were you with them for the full moon?"
Harry nods, "I was locked in the basement. No, don't do that face, I asked them to."
That seems to stop her for a minute, softening back into the way Harry likes her best, into the expression that always soothed Harry's scraped knees. "Oh, baby," she says, and the last, lingering trace of fear that had been irritating his nose is gone.
"I'm sorry I kept it from you," he says, voice full of tears. "I just didn't…I didn't know how to tell you something like this."
"Oh, no, darling, it's okay. I understand," she says, and then she stands up. She's across the kitchen with two steps, meeting Harry where he's stood up and wrapping her arms around him. He's sobbing into her blouse, with happiness, with sadness, with relief. "I'm just so glad you had someone to help you. So glad."
"I'm sorry," he apologises, again, just because.
"No, Harry, this isn't your fault," she says, and Harry cries harder. There's something about it being his mum who absolves him of guilt, who tells him what he's known all along in the no-nonsense voice he's always listened to.
"Okay," he says.
"Okay," she answers.
She holds him for what seems like a small eternity, never wavering, even though her arms are probably hurting by now. It's just what Harry needs, and everything, everything just washes away, like a heart drawn in the sand at high tide. It's peaceful.
Later, they sit down on the sofa with tea and sandwiches. She asks him questions, and he answers, and he doesn't lie.
He tells her about the forest and the house, rustling leaves and creaky old wood, worn furniture that feels like home.
He tells her about Niall, and how honest he is, and how full of life and enthusiasm. Tells her about Liam, his unwavering support and quiet contemplation and empathy. About Zayn, with the sparkling eyes and all-knowing smile and quick wit.
He talks about Louis a little more than he should, probably, omitting anything and everything about how fascinated (obsessed, shut up) he is. Harry talks about Louis. Talks about how he knew exactly what to do when Harry was falling apart on the full moon, and about how gentle he's been with Harry, always. He mentions the jokes, and the childishness, and the way he sparkles when somebody makes him laugh. He talks about Louis as a wolf, about the cheek and affection and the adorable shaggy tail.
Throughout it all, his mum smiles at him, soft.
*
"Oh shit," he says, and all heads turn to him, "It's a bad time, isn't it. I'm just gonna—"
"No, actually," Zayn motions for him to join them, "Li was just about to call you. You should know about this."
Harry steps closer, tentative, not quite sure he wants to know. Niall grabs him by the shoulders and sits him on one of the dirty front steps.
"So, listen," he turns to him, an air of seriousness and authority about him, "there's this family of hunters, right off their nut, everybody calls them the Swifts, nobody knows where the fuck they came from. They did some right insane stuff a few years ago, burned down a few werewolf lairs and the like, and then they disappeared. We thought we got rid of them, but, well—"
"They're back in town," Liam says grimly. "There aren't many werewolves left around here, and if they're here to hunt, they're going to get to us sooner or later."
Harry gulps. "B-but…what about Niall's family? Can't they, like, take you under their wing or something?"
Louis chuckles drily. "The us includes you, Pup. They're most likely to do a search for new werewolves, actually, just to see how many of them they can take out – and no, Bobby does enough for us as it is. No one in their right mind would go up against the Swifts and tell them there are nice werewolves living here."
"For the record, my family aren't like them. We follow the Code."
"Which is?" Harry asks, confused, trying to recall if he'd read anything about hunters in Liam's books.
"Well, basically, if you haven't killed anyone, you're good with us. Dad's thinking of going out of business anyway, so we just go after the rogue ones now. Like the one that bit you, you know, dangerous ones."
Thinking about Niall, always cheerful, excitable Niall, shooting at werewolves with a bow, eyes cold like a soldier, makes Harry shiver unpleasantly.
"I should be on the lookout, then," he says grimly.
"Yeah," Zayn says, "maybe it'd be better if you didn't come here for a while." Hearing him say that hurts, even if Harry knows it’s for his own safety. "So they don't see you, obviously. Come on, Harry, I told you you were welcome here whenever you wanted, and I meant that."
Louis looks up at Zayn sharply, which only serves to help Harry realise that Louis had not been in on that particular piece of information. It makes Harry want to retreat somewhere dark with his tail between his legs; he doesn't want to intrude in their friendships, such beautiful, intricate things.
"He's right," Liam says sadly, "If they're getting back into hunting, this is the first place their people will go. It used to be full of us, there were four packs just on this side of the forest.”
"Four packs? And they killed them all?" Harry asks incredulously, not quite capable of imagining that kind of cruelty.
"They're not playing around."
Harry nods silently, picking at a fraying seam in his jeans. "I'm gonna miss you guys."
"Harry," Niall says with an exaggerated pout. "We'll miss your ugly mug, too. And the food."
"It's not going to be long, okay? We'll take care of them," Liam says.
"Take care of yourselves first and foremost," Harry scowls at him. "Don't go traipsing into danger just because." To Liam's left, Zayn is watching him with a soft expression, and Louis is smiling into his lap.
Niall wraps his arms around Harry like a particularly clingy koala, obviously trying to not be obvious about ogling Harry's paper bag. Harry gives it to him, and relishes in the look of joy on Niall's face.
"I can stay today though, right? I don't have any classes tomorrow," Harry says hopefully, like they're his parents and he needs permission from them to stay up late.
Zayn raises an eyebrow at him.
"Cupcakes," Niall screeches the pitch of a very excited little girl, grabs three for himself, then passes the bag around.
Louis actually laughs when he peers into the bag, looking at the results of Harry's sleepless night of baking – chocolate cupcakes, pink frosting and a stick wolf drawn on each one in sloppy black lines. It's that laugh of Louis's, with the crinkles and the sharp little teeth and the sparkle and oh God, Harry is in trouble.
"Oh," Liam says, fascinated, "Did you bake these?"
"Yeah."
Niall says something that sounds vaguely like awesome, gracing everyone with a view of what the inside of his mouth looks like full of half-chewed baked goods.
Harry, though, is still laser-focused on Louis. He probably looks creepy, the way he's been told he does when he concentrates on something intensely, but there's something hypnotising about the huge bites Louis takes and the obnoxious way he chews.
"Hey, Harry," Zayn reaches out a hand, "give me your phone."
Harry doesn't even question him, just pulls the phone out of his jacket pocket. Zayn taps on the screen with one finger, fingers jumping from button to button, then passes the phone to Niall. Niall nods thoughtfully, copies Zayn, and leans forward to give it to Louis.
Louis glares at the phone distrustingly, looking up at Liam with the slight frown of a child that doesn't feel like brushing their teeth. They have a silent conversation with their eyes, which Liam seems to win, and Louis, resigned, picks up the small device.
When Harry's phone is handed back to him, he has three new contacts: Zayn's name with some sort of emoji he's not too sure about, a Nialllll, and an absolutely hilarious Louis Tomlison. Harry hadn't actually known Louis's last name, but he thinks it's pretty, just like the person it belongs to. He chuckles, endeared and amused at the same time.
"Now," Niall announces, brushing crumbs off his trousers, "Who's up for FIFA?"
*
Niall and Liam are keeping him updated through texts, saying things like nothing so far sorry .x and did some tracking today theyve def been round and dunno how much longer. Harry writes back asking if everyone is okay, and always receives the same answer. Yes, Harry, don't worry.
The thing is, he can't help it. It's ridiculous, truly, that he's known them for less than a month. It seems like a lifetime ago, that night in the forest, and it feels like he's made a lifetime of memories, too. They're just young lads like him, but he looks up to them a ridiculous amount, wants to be around them to soak up bad jokes and werewolf trivia and all the little nuances of their relationships.
To pass time, Harry gets a job babysitting. It's not like he couldn't use extra money, now that he traipses around forests and brings baked goods every time he goes; and it's only for a while, until the whole mess with the Swifts is fixed.
It's for Ed's friend's friends, a couple named Lou and Tom, who are as tattooed as they are fun, and their daughter is a riot. The first time Harry had come around, Lux immediately took him by the hand, sat him down in a plastic kiddie chair and dressed him up for a tea party. He loves her already; he's always loved children, always thought about having kids of his own, one day when he actually knows how to do grownup things.
As he leans against the doorbell now, waiting for somebody to come get the door, he looks up at the pale moon in the late afternoon sky, a slight nervous stirring in his stomach. It's growing in, slowly but surely, and he's not done much to learn how to control himself since the last full moon. The boys have promised to teach him, once he was sure he'd mastered shifting when he wanted; but now, with things the way they are, he wonders if he's going to have to find somewhere to lock himself up. The thought terrifies him as much as it did the last time, all alone in some dark basement, with nothing to take his wolfish frustration out on but himself.
"Haz!" a tiny voice says as the door opens and light spills onto the front stairs. Lux is clapping happily in her father's arms, tiny hands reaching out for Harry.
"Hello there, Princess," he grins at her, stepping forward to let her wrap herself around him like a monkey. "Hey, Tom."
Tom nods his head at him, amused, and goes back to the hallway mirror to fix his tie.
"Tha's not Tom," Lux chastises gently, patting Harry's cheek with condescension a three-year-old should not be capable of. "Tha's Daddy."
"Of course," Harry nods solemnly, trying to take off his shoes. "I'm sorry."
“Is okay.”
Lou comes down the stairs then, decked out in an impressive cocktail dress, all tall pumps and sparkly eyelashes.
"Mummy!" Lux screeches excitedly, clambering to get out of Harry's arms and running to her mother on short legs. "So pretty!" she coos as she takes the shimmering fabric of the dress between her fingers. Lou waves a greeting at Harry, then bends down to kiss Lux’s hair, and in a few minutes, they're leaving – some posh dinner with friends of theirs who've just come back from China. Lux sniffles a little, but promises to be good for Harry and put lots and lots of tiaras on him.
They settle down in the living room, with a big blanket, toy ponies, a foldable stroller and all of Lux's dolls, all of them. She has days when she wants to play with cars and robots, but today, she'd left all of that in the toy box.
"Okay," she claps her hands when they put everything down, strewn from one end of the living room to the other. "Pick a pony now."
She lines up all her My Little Ponies in a neat row, and Harry realises he can actually name all of them now.
"I'd like Rarity, please," he says, sitting with his legs crossed, the way he'd been ordered.
Lux pouts. "I wanted Rarity."
"Okay," Harry retreats immediately. "May I have Rainbow Dash, then?"
"You as-ked nicely," Lux assesses, "You may." She picks out the biggest version of Rainbow Dash she has, a big plastic thing, and hands him a heart-shaped brush.
"She is goin' to the ball. She needs to look pretty," Lux raises a finger to emphasise. Harry nods, picks apart the remnants of a braid in the pony's hair, and starts brushing.
Opposite him, Lux does the same with her pony, singing something softly. Just as Harry is moving around to the tail, black jeans covered in plastic rainbow hair, his phone starts vibrating in his back pocket.
"Um, Lux?" he asks tentatively. She doesn't take kindly to playtime being interrupted.
"Yes?"
"I need to, uh, use the bathroom for a second, okay?"
She tilts her head. "Are you gonna go pee-pee?"
"Exactly," he grins. At her nod, he speeds out of the room, tugging the phone out and frowning at the screen flashing Liam. None of them had called him before, and Harry has to lean against a wall to stop panicking.
Breathe, he reminds himself. Breathe.
"Liam?" he asks when he picks up, breath heavy like he'd just run a mile.
"Hi!" Liam answers, voice tinny and compressed, but cheerful. Harry thinks the sting in his eyes might be tears of relief. "Listen, we have updates, and we need to talk about the full moon, but we should probably do it in person."
Okay. Right down to business, then. "Um, sure, when—"
"Is there any chance we could come to yours? Like, right now?"
"I'm not in hall," Harry frowns.
"Oh. Where are you?"
"I'm babysitting."
"You—nevermind. Okay, well, could one of us stop by where you are, maybe?"
Harry almost says yes immediately, desperate to see them and know what's going on as he is. But Lux is still sitting innocently on the living room carpet, butting ponies together, and Harry remembers that this isn't his house, Lou and Tom's invitation to invite a friend over whenever notwithstanding.
"I'd rather you didn't? I mean, don't take this the wrong way, Liam, I really want to know what's going on, but if there's any risk of danger, I can't have you coming here."
"There's not," Liam says immediately, tone already apologetic. "We really think they're gone, and we can all make sure we're not followed."
"I don't know," Harry bites his lip. "If they're gone, can't I just come over to the—"
"The house is not in the best state," Liam says sheepishly.
"Liam. What happened?"
"Nothing important. We're all okay, stop worrying." The irony of Liam, of all people, saying that to him is not lost on Harry.
"God," Harry pinches the bridge of his nose. ”Fine, yeah. Which one of you is coming?"
"Not sure yet."
Harry heaves a put-upon sigh and gives Liam the address, makes sure that whoever's coming shakes any potential stalkers before even thinking of knocking on the door. Liam hangs up with a cheerful "bye".
Harry goes back to the living room, already feeling bad for leaving Lux for so long.
"I don't wanna play ponies anymore," she declares as soon as he sits back down. "I wanna do princess makeover."
Harry sighs. He should have known.
Together, they go upstairs to her room, and he helps her get nail polish and kiddie lipstick off the highest shelf while she gathers tiaras and hairbands and plastic jewellery.
The first point of order, as usual, is painting nails. Lux still has some polish left on most of her fingers, but she orders Harry to give her a new coat anyway.
"You misst a spot!" she cries indignantly before Harry has even finished the first finger.
"Patience, Princess," he says in his poshest accent. ”All in good time." She giggles.
With his tongue stuck between his teeth, Harry swipes the tiny brush up and down, frowning in concentration. He's actually managing to put most of the pale purple concoction on Lux's tiny nails instead of all around them, and he's a little proud.
"Yours now," she shouts, delighted, when he's finished. She spreads her fingers and puts her hands on her thighs, blowing on them carefully. Harry is overcome with how cute she is for a moment.
"I'm not sure I can paint mine," he says sadly.
"Don't be silly," she hands him the nail polish bottle, and, well. Okay. Harry unscrews the top, sniffs at the polish distrustingly, and starts painting. Fascinated, he realises that the cold feeling over his nails actually isn't all that unpleasant.
Once he's done, he mirrors Lux's pose. "Hey, Luxie?"
She looks up at him and smiles at the nickname. Her cheeks bunch up and dimple and she's incredibly adorable and Harry really likes children, shut up. "Yes, Hawee?"
"There's a, uh, a friend of mine that's coming over in a bit, is that okay?"
"Can your friend play with us?"
Harry thinks on that one for a while, but really, whoever comes by won't have a choice. "Sure."
"Then it's okay," she blows on her nails one more time. "Tiaras now!"
Harry picks his favourite, a silvery one with a pink heart-shaped stone and fluffy pink feathers; Lux says he looks like a proper fairytale king with it on. He helps her put on the three she'd chosen, a bright array of colours that's as lively as the little girl herself.
It's just as he's finished trying to zip her up in her princess dress that the doorbell rings. Harry freezes for a second, not sure how to open the door and tell whoever's come to visit that Lou and Tom aren't home.
"Your friend is here!" Lux claps excitedly, and it’s only then that Harry remembers.
He gets up and walks quickly to the door, not wanting the neighbours to spot whoever's come to talk to him. He can already hear dogs outside going crazy with the presence of a werewolf.
A smile is ready on his face as he starts opening the door, excited to see one of the boys.
Except. Oh.
Of all the people Harry hadn't been expecting, Louis has to be number one on the list. He's leaning against the doorframe, dressed in black trousers and a jean jacket, looking every bit like a male model, and like he'd rather be swimming in a pit of sharks.
"Oh," Harry says, eloquent as always. "Hi."
Louis raises his eyes, cocking an eyebrow as he runs his gaze up and down Harry's body. It's not something Harry's seen him do before, and he flushes red and hot under the scrutiny.
"You're wearing a tiara," Louis says in lieu of a greeting, stepping inside. "And nail polish," he adds, looking at Harry's hands as he closes the door.
"There's nothing wrong with nailpolish," Harry immediately tries to defend himself, turning to scowl at Louis, when a thing happens.
Now, Harry prides himself in being able to keep his composure in most situations. He goes through things internally and gets emotional about them into his pillow at night, but nothing could have possibly prepared him for this.
The thing is, just as Harry turns away from the door, ready to fight Louis about serious stuff like gender norms, Louis spots Lux, and. Jesus Christ. Shit. Fuck.
Louis's face does the most magical, beautiful thing Harry has ever had the pleasure to witness. The slightly pinched expression he almost always seems to wear around Harry disappears completely, the creases in Louis's forehead smoothing out; he smiles so wide all his teeth poke out, eyes almost disappearing in a pleased squint, and the crinkles around them explode like fireworks. He tilts his head to the side, eyebrows jumping up as he completely transforms.
He looks gorgeous; Harry can't breathe.
"Hello," Lux speaks first, and Harry is grateful, because his ability to form words has been severely compromised.
Louis, still absolutely radiant and looking like an embodiment of happiness itself, crouches down. "Hello, Your Highness," he says, in a voice Harry's never heard him use, "what's your name?"
Lux giggles and presses her hands to her face, pleased at the title she's been awarded. "I am Lux," she says, trying for serious, and Harry's tasting sugar in his mouth. When Louis smiles even wider, puts his hand on his chest and lowers his head in an imitation of a bow, Harry realises he's in serious, serious trouble. He can't get it out of his mind's eye, really, the picture of Louis smiling like that at his own children, playing with them when they're little babies, rolling around in the grass, and Harry's there too, for some reason, and he's smiling down at them and leaning over to Louis and—
Christ.
"It's a pleasure," Louis amps up his accent, grinning. "I'm Louis."
"Louwee," Lux repeats excitedly, running forward and grabbing him by the hand. "Do you know how to play with Barbies, Louwee?"
"Why, of course," Louis answers, and lets himself be led back to the living room. In the foyer, Harry has to lean against a wall and breathe for a minute. He follows them once his legs stop feeling like jelly.
In the minute he'd not been there to supervise, Louis and Lux have managed to pull all the pillows off the sofa, making them into Barbie beds, and are currently undressing all of Lux's dolls. Harry, knowing he's going to be the one who'll be putting all the microscopic clothes back on, heaves a fond, if put-upon sigh.
"Okay," Lux is saying, waving a naked Barbie in the air, "Theresa is goin' to have a night-mare. You're mummy, you have to tell her everythin's gonna be OK."
Louis takes the Barbie that Lux is pointing to indulgently, mile-wide smile still stuck on his face. His fringe falls and obscures his face when he leans down to talk to the doll. Harry wants to touch him, run his fingers through Louis's hair and just…breathe him in.
"There, there, Theresa," Louis is saying, in a voice that's probably Harry's kryptonite, judging by the way it makes his heart clench. "Mummy's here, there's nothing to be scared of."
Lux looks him up and down critically, then nods in approval. She starts rearranging the dolls, planning a different scene Louis will have to act out for her pleasure. In the meantime, Louis picks up one of the abandoned tiaras, running a finger over the plastic diamonds with a smile. Lux notices and snatches it away immediately.
"Lux," Harry says, and Louis startles a little, like he'd forgotten Harry was in the room. "That's not very nice, is it. Louis was just looking. Don't tell him this," he lowers his voice into a perfectly fake whisper, "but I think he's a little bit jealous that you have so many pretty things."
"Oh," Lux nods slowly, like she understands. Then, she turns around and hops to Louis, setting the tiara on his head ceremoniously. "I'm sorry you don't have a lot of pretty things. You can have some of mine," she says solemnly. Harry's heart melts, and Louis beams.
"Thank you," he says, looking genuinely pleased.
Lux kisses him on the cheek, then draws back giggling. "You're scratchy!"
“Oh. Yes, I suppose I am. Sorry, love," he giggles too. Giggles. Louis Tomlinson is giggling within Harry's range of hearing and his nose is all scrunched and his shoulders are all the way up by his ears and it's so hopelessly endearing and Harry really wants to find out how exactly Louis's stubble scratches.
He immediately scratches the last thought, because no. There is a child in the room.
Lux goes back to putting several naked Barbies in her Barbie car and strapping them in. Harry watches as Louis touches the tiara on his head, but doesn't take it off. Harry moves closer and fuck it, really; if he's a planet somewhere in the solar system and Louis is the Sun and Harry wants to orbit him forever, who cares.
"You're really good with kids," he says, tentative despite wanting to climb Louis like a tree.
Louis startles again, tears his gaze away from where Lux is appears to be in the process of breaking the tiny steering wheel. His eyes seem a little surprised when they land on Harry, open and honest without the usual walls on guard. "Yeah," he answers softly, looking down. "Sisters."
"Oh," Harry says, perhaps a little too excitedly - he's learning something new about Louis. "How many?"
"Four," Louis is smiling, soft and private, but still a smile. "All younger. I don't see them much, nowadays," he says with an air of finality, ending the conversation before Harry can start inquiring like the curious idiot he is. He doesn't have much of an instinct for these things, but it's obvious that this is a sore subject, and he'd rather bite his tongue before he'd do something else to make Louis be cold with him.
Still. "I'm sorry," he says, not quite knowing what he's apologising for.
To his surprise, Louis looks back at him, one corner of his mouth quirked up, with something akin to understanding.
"Done!" Lux announces and pulls Harry off the sofa, sitting them all in a circle to have a good view of the Barbie car getting lost in a tunnel made out of two pillows propped up against each other. Louis gets into it like he's seeing actual, real life events playing out in front of him, gasping in all the right places, looking close to tears when the car drives in and doesn't drive out, and clapping when Lux reaches in and triumphantly saves the car from the monsters lurking in the dark. Harry can do little more than look at him in fascination over the mound of pillows, watch the sparks in his eyes and listen to him laugh, a windchime on a spring morning.
Soon enough, it's bedtime, and Lux pouts and pouts until Louis promises to tell her a story before she goes to sleep. Harry doesn't even think twice when he leaves them together in the living room to get Lux out of her dress, and goes upstairs to get her bath ready. As he's fiddling with the tap and reading labels, trying to figure out which of her five different bubble baths he's supposed to put in, their peals of laughter drift up to him, warming him more than the steam rising into the air ever could.
Once the bath is full almost to the brim, mountains of bubbles standing tall, he goes back down to get updated on the current situation. To Harry's surprise, all of the toys are put away, tiaras stacked on the table, and the dress neatly folded in half on the sofa. They've turned on cartoons, and Louis is sitting leaning back on an armchair with Lux perched in his lap, chirping about this and that while Louis provides running commentary to Spongebob.
For a moment, Harry leans against the doorframe and lets himself enjoy seeing Louis the way he is, and seeing Lux so happy and comfortable.
Eventually, he clears his throat. Two smiling faces turn to look at him, and Harry is almost blinded. "Bath's ready."
"Oh," Lux frowns, obviously reluctant to go.
"Come on, Princess," Louis lifts her and puts her gently on her feet. "You can't go to bed dirty, can you now?"
Lux shakes her head, sporting an impressive pout. "Can you come with me, Louwee?"
Unsure, Louis lifts his eyes to Harry's. Harry grins, holding his gaze and willing him not to look away. "Course he can."
And up they go. Louis and Lux stomp on the stairs like a little herd of elephants, giggling and making ridiculous noises. In the bathroom, they squeal almost identically when they see the bubble apocalypse; Lux doesn't even run around the bathroom trying to get out of undressing herself like she usually does. Louis takes her under the arms and lowers her into the water, beeping like a crane, and it's the actual cutest thing Harry has ever seen.
Once she's settled down comfortably on the baby seat inside the bath, Harry's arm extended towards her in case she slips, she starts babbling on about her day in kindergarten. Harry knows the names of all her teachers by now, knows that Oliver is the one who always pulls her hair and Susan never sleeps after lunch and wreaks havoc instead. For Louis, though, it's all brand new information, and he seems so genuinely interested it makes Harry's heart hurt with fondness.
"What about the evening, then?" he asks when she's done. She cranes her head to look at him, runs a wet hand through Louis's fringe and leaves behind traces of bubbles like shiny snowflakes.
"Aw-some!" she grins, cheeks red from the warm water. "I like Louwee," she announces, patting him on the cheek. Harry feels his face scrunch up helplessly, and it takes everything he has in him not to coo. Personally, he thinks Louis could stand to hear things like that a little more often.
"What about me?" he gasps, holding a hand to his heart like he's mortally wounded. If she wasn't three years old, Harry could swear Lux rolls her eyes at him.
"I like you too," she concedes, "but you're less fun."
Louis laughs at that, a loud bark that sounds almost wolfish, and immediately claps a hand over his mouth. If Harry asked right now, Louis would probably attribute the red flush on his cheeks to the steam in the room.
"Oh well," Harry says, pretending to be sad, though he feels like there's a bursting supernova inside his chest.
"Tha's okay," she looks at him, only a little bit condescending. "Louwee can teach you how to be fun."
Harry can't help looking at him then, he really can't. Louis isn't looking back, but the smile that's threatening to overtake his face is unmistakable in his pinched mouth and the crinkled corners of his eyes.
"I'm sure he can," Harry answers.
As all baths do, theirs, too, ends with a bathroom covered in bubbles. Unsurprisingly, it had been Lux who started it, smothering her hands in them and blowing them right into Harry's face, soon joined by Louis, and by the time the water goes cold, the mountains of suds are all over their clothes and the room.
Sitting on the edge of the bathtub, Lux is clapping in delight. Meanwhile, Harry is trying to rustle up some towels inside the cabinet under the sink, Louis's presence burning hot right behind him, probably waiting for something to dry himself with too.
Finally, Harry finds two red towels folded neatly in the very back, and straightens up to hand one to Louis. He's standing closer than Harry had been expecting - so close he'd have to tilt his head back to look Harry in the eye.
"Here," he says, trying for a friendly tone. Almost in slow motion, Louis reaches out, short, delicate fingers just about closing around the towel Harry is holding towards him. In the last second, Harry moves his hand, and their fingers brush. He prays that he isn't the only one that feels the crackling, exciting electricity pass through him.
It's a bit ridiculous, really, trying to get someone to touch hands with him when he's had said someone lying on him while he was stark naked, but a lot has changed since then. Harry is content with baby steps, confident that eventually, they will get him somewhere.
Turning to the mirror, Harry ruffles his hair a few times, trying to get the worst of the moisture out. It's already curling in the back, little springy ringlets tickling his neck and ears, resembling the poodle-like mess he had on his head when he was seventeen. Behind him, he hears Louis drying himself, and when he turns around, he sees him putting the towel lightly over Lux's head and quickly pulling it up, just to make her giggle. He's making faces, too, crossing his eyes and sucking his lips in. Harry is a little bit in love.
When they're all somewhat dry, Harry helps Lux brush her teeth. Then he hoists her up in his arms and carries her to her room, where he tries to wrestle her into her Rapunzel pyjamas. It's a futile task, really, what with Louis tickling her randomly and trying to make her laugh any way he can.
Finally, when she's all tucked into bed and has her star-shaped nightlight plugged in, she kicks him out with a gentle pat on the cheek, a kiss, and a pacifying assurance of "Louwee can tell better night-night stories". Which he probably can, to be fair; Harry knows very few people who need as much time to think about what they're saying as he does. He's been trying for years to prove to everybody he knows that he's actually fairly smart; it's just that there are too many words in his brain, and picking the right ones to string into sentences is challenging.
As he's closing the door, Harry is tempted to stay and listen to Louis's bedtime story. He knows, though, how surprisingly personal fairytales can be. He'd be intruding.
He smiles instead and, feeling light, walks downstairs to put the kettle on for tea. There are still conversations to be had.
*
"She's asleep," he says quietly, pulling on the sleeves of his newly exposed t-shirt, jacket drying in the bathroom.
Harry smiles in acknowledgement, nodding his head towards the still-hot kettle. "Tea?"
"Yeah. Milk, no sugar, thanks."
Once they're both set, steaming mugs warming them in the otherwise cold house, they go back to the living room. On the TV screen, Spongebob has been replaced by Rugrats.
It's floating in the air above them like a storm, the conversation that Louis actually came here to have, but Harry hopes that the rain will never come. It's supposed to be good news, but the evening is suddenly bleak around them, painting tired shadows on Louis's face, and regardless of the outcome, Harry can see the toll the past days have taken.
"So," Louis says in a no-nonsense voice as he huddles himself in a blanket, "about the hunters."
"Yeah." Harry straightens up and turns towards him, giving him every little bit of his attention.
"We think they're gone for now. They came to the house a couple of days ago, and we chased them all the way out of the forest."
"How do you know they're not gonna come back?" Harry frowns, worry settling in his gut again.
"We don't," Louis shrugs and takes a sip of his tea. His upper lip glistens hypnotisingly with the moisture. "We've heard from other packs around London, they haven't tried for any of them, and the house they've been staying in is empty again."
"That doesn't make sense."
"Yeah, I know. The last time they were here, they stayed for a long time, tried to get rid of us all, but now…we have no idea, really. Bobby's been calling people and asking around."
Harry nods, thoughtful. "Do you think they could've been seizing the target? You know, seeing how you respond to attack, observing your daily routine, that kind of thing?"
"Well, to be honest," Louis pulls his legs up, curling into a ball, "that's the number one theory right now. We'll obviously understand if you don't want to come by anymore now that it's potentially dangerous, but we can't afford to live in constant fear of them."
He sounds rehearsed, almost the way he used to be with Harry in the beginning, but the ice is gone from his voice.
"No," Harry says empathically, "I mean, I've been bored out of my mind and going mad with worry, I'm probably going to show up and never leave."
Slight and almost imperceptible in the dark, the corner of Louis's mouth twitches.
"Has anybody been hurt?" Harry remembers to ask, now that the worst of his worries have gone.
Louis shrugs. "We heal quickly."
"That's not what I asked," Harry fires back, fuelled by sadness, more than anything; sadness that Louis, and probably the rest of the boys, pass over being injured just because the immediate evidence, the scratches, the blood, disappear so quickly. Harry's dad, before he left them, grabbed Harry's wrist so hard he broke it, one time, and the bone may have healed in three months, but the wound still hasn't.
"Nothing too bad," Louis concedes, recognising the challenge in Harry's voice. "Zayn took an arrow to the shoulder, Liam was blind for a half hour. I broke my back."
Nothing too bad, he says. Harry feels so angry he could crush the cup in his hand with the strength of it, the sound of his blood rushing now familiar in his ears. He decides to breathe through it, though, reminds himself that being selfish won't get him anywhere; he may have been sitting around, biting his nails and worrying, but at least he'd been safe, because they warned him. The worst pain he'd experienced was burning himself on the stove, while his friends were getting torn up by people with weapons.
"Are you—no, sorry. You're obviously okay," he stutters, spoon clinking against the side of the cup as his hands shake.
"Yes, Pup, I'm just fine," Louis looks right at him for the first time, light blue flames dancing in his eyes. "Why are you so worried?" he tilts his head to the side, genuinely curious.
Harry stares at him incredulously. He'd though he'd been just about the most obvious idiot on the planet. "I care about you," he says, then, "All of you. Obviously."
For a few seconds that stretch out like hours, Louis looks at him, just—looks. Studies him. Looks so deep Harry can feel him in his soul. His eyes look liquid in the blue light, like the surface of a moonlit sea.
"Fair enough," he says, in the end, turning his gaze back to the steam rising from his tea. "About the full moon."
"Can I come?" Harry asks immediately, the only question he can think of asking. He needs to learn how to control the shifts, regardless of what state the moon is in, and if he's going to have time to do so, he needs to survive next week.
"You should be able to, yeah."
"Can you show me how to control it while I'm there?"
Louis blinks at the ceiling, contemplative. "I'm not sure it'll come that easily. But yes, sure, we'll show you. Do you want to be in the basement again?"
"Wouldn't that be safer? With the hunters around, and all."
"We could just stay inside the house," Louis shrugs. "Besides, I could handle you just fine last month."
Despite himself, Harry blushes. "Yeah," he croaks, and Louis chuckles at him. It’s wonderful.
"We'll see how the rest of us feel on Friday, how about that? Some full moons are worse than others."
"Oh," Harry says. "How do you mean?"
"They're painful, sometimes," Louis shrugs, "Or if the pull of the moon is stronger, your control can slip. Oh, don't look so terrified, I've had maybe one of those in my entire glorious career of being a werewolf."
"Which is…how long?" Harry asks, a little scared, a little daring.
Louis rolls his eyes. "Eight years."
Harry doesn't know what number he'd been expecting, really. A part of him had though Louis was born a werewolf because of the grace with which he carries himself in his wolf form, the meticulous control he seems to have of the wolf's every action, and the way he uses it to his advantage. He exudes the power, almost, exudes confidence, and he comes off positively magnetic as a result.
"Wow. I hadn't even been in this for eight weeks," Harry says, sheepish. Louis looks at him with kind eyes.
"No worries, Pup. You'll learn. I reckon you'll end up being better at this than I am."
Inexplicably, Harry blushes. He remembers Niall telling him he could be strong, too, but he couldn't really tell how much sincerity was behind it then.
(It could also be the fact that this is Louis essentially complimenting him, but Harry refuses to engage in that line of thought.)
"Why is your heart beating so fast?" Louis asks, amused. Harry is absolutely mortified.
The thing is, he'd been introducing his heightened senses into his everyday life slowly, trying to get used to hearing water rushing in the pipes and smelling coffee that the people in the neighbouring flat make at five in the morning. He tends to forget there are uses for it in interpersonal communication as well - listening to the others’ heartbeat; the different, nuanced smells of feelings and emotions that are so complex they give him a headache.
"I don't know," he answers, and it's not a complete lie.
"Bollocks," Louis almost grins, grins, "it just kicked up another notch."
Harry takes a deep breath and prays for patience. "'S nothing. Thank you for the compliment," he says sincerely, holding Louis's gaze. The half-grin on Louis's face stutters, then falls, and is replaced with a small, soft smile, one that looks private and gentle and is actually for Harry. He barely dares to breathe in fear of breaking the moment, just looking, hoping against hope that Louis won't go back to barely acknowledging him after today.
Louis watches him back, silent, and the air in the room gets suddenly thicker.
Harry clears his throat, trying to breathe through the images of lazy weekend evenings that Louis lounging on the sofa evokes in his mind. "And, uh…thank you for helping. With Lux," he nods towards the upstairs. "You didn't have to do that."
“Oh come on," Louis says, voice brilliant, teasing. "It wasn't a problem. She's fantastic."
"She is," Harry smiles. "And she only agreed to let you come if you'd play with her, so you didn't have much of a choice, anyway."
Louis laughs. Harry is still not used to it.
"Why did they send you, by the way?" Harry tries to be inconspicuous, voice deceptively light, breathing evenly to slow his heart. He can't not be curious, really, about what could be so terrifying it would get Louis to come meet him voluntarily. Louis raises his eyebrows, but doesn't comment on Harry's sudden questioning.
"Meh. There was a lot of tidying up to be done. I'm not a fan."
Harry tries to placate himself - at least he's the better alternative to cleaning.
"And I didn't feel like being stuck in the forest again. This is a nice neighbourhood," Louis continues, nodding appreciatively out of the window. Harry strains his ears a little, and underneath their combined breathing, he hears Louis's heart race.
"Well. Thanks for coming. Again."
Louis clears his throat awkwardly, setting his mug delicately down on the coffee table, short fingers catching the rim. God, why had Harry not noticed how small his hands are before.
"I should go, actually. The living room's probably alright to watch footy now."
It's on the tip of Harry's tongue, the invitation to stay, Lou and Tom have three hundred channels, I'm sure every single footy league in the world is on there. It never leaves his mouth.
The heavy air evaporates and is replaced with awkwardness all around them like sticky molasses, but Harry will take it over cold, unbreachable space. Louis walks to the foyer and starts putting his shoes on, while Harry leaps upstairs three steps at a time to get Louis his jacket. It's dry now, and warm, and it smells a lot like him; smells so good Harry seriously contemplates smuggling it back to his flat and keeping it forever.
"Here," he extends his arm before he's even completely off the stairs, handing the offending object to Louis lest he loses the fight with the urge to bury his face in the soft lining.
"Thanks," Louis answers, puts the jacket on and pats down his pockets. He looks in the mirror, ruffles his hair a few times, and turns to Harry. "I'm, um. I'm going, then," he says – stammers – and points a thumb at the door. Harry almost trips over his feet in the rush to open it for him, not wanting to keep Louis waiting.
"I'll see you next week?" says Harry, and it sounds like a question.
"Yeah," Louis answers distractedly, looking somewhere behind Harry's shoulder. He reaches out to the dresser, picks something up, and before Harry knows what's happening, he feels fingers in his hair. Oh God oh God oh God.
Louis is reaching up, standing on his tiptoes like the personification of everything adorably cute and unfairly sexy Harry has ever seen, tongue poking out as he concentrates for a second on placing something cold in Harry's hair. Heat is radiating off his palms, so close to Harry's cheeks, and if Harry wishes Louis would just grab his face and pull him down and snog him senseless, well, he's only human. Werewolf. Whatever.
Stepping back to survey his work, Louis grins. With a single finger, he pushes the – is that a tiara – around a little more, and when he's finally satisfied, the smile on his face could power cities.
"There. That's better," he says, quiet and soft and so utterly gorgeous. He's looking at Harry from ten inches away, with a fondness, a gentleness in his eyes that's never been aimed at him before. Harry's knees almost buckle.
"Thanks," he says, just low enough for it to be heard in the minuscule space between them, a breath rather than a word. Louis is so close, if he just—
Louis hops up on his tiptoes again, brings a hand up to Harry's face, and kisses him. On the cheek. Harry's world zaps and short-circuits and fries to a crisp.
"Bye," Louis says, still quiet but mischievous, and he's out of the door a millisecond after Harry manages a dazed "bye" back.
On autopilot, he closes the door, turning to the mirror. The tiara he'd worn before is sitting perched on his head, curls artfully falling over and around it, and his cheeks are burning. He looks like somebody's dirty fantasy, and thoroughly fucked on top of that, and all that happened to him was a peck on the cheek. Jesus.
He can still feel the exact spots where Louis's fingers touched him, low by the corner of his lips, high on his cheekbone, just below his jaw. They're burning with a vicious fire, eating him alive, and the imprint of Louis's lips has probably left a permanent brand. Harry's never even had sex that made him feel this hot under the collar.
Self-conscious to feel like this in a house that's not his own, he pads to the living room slowly and bundles up with a blanket, right in the indent that Louis's gorgeous little body has left on the sofa. His scent is still strong on the corduroy fabric. As Harry settles and leans back, tiara still tangled in his hair, his thoughts race so fast he has no hope of trying to comprehend any of them.
He leaves any potential existential crises for tomorrow, and instead busies himself with watching the news.
*
Niall greets him before Harry has a chance to walk up the steps to the porch, as he runs out the door to tackle Harry to the ground within seconds, shouting his name at an ear-splitting volume.
"Hey, Ni," Harry laughs, patting his friend on the back as he inconspicuously moves his limbs to check for broken bones. "I've missed you."
"We missed you too!"
Harry chuckles and shoves Niall off of him, trying to brush dirt and leaves off his clothes as he stands up. "How have you been?" he asks, offering Niall a hand as he splutters something about rude werewolves.
"Not much happening," he shrugs, starting back towards the house. "I failed a class, Louis burned a pot. Nothing about the Swifts."
Inside, the house welcomes Harry with the familiar smell of boy and stale pizza. Said boys are all lying on various surfaces in the living room, eyes dead as they watch infomercials.
"Hiii," he says, waving. Liam perks up a little as his gaze warms, and sends Harry a wave. Zayn doesn't move the arm he's slung over his face, but he does call out a "hi, Harry". Louis, closest to the door with his eyes closed, ignores him completely, but the smirk on his face is all Harry needs.
"Are you having a wake?"
"Nah," Niall answers him, still loud as he walks in with a bowl of popcorn, "they just woke up. Losers."
"It's nine in the morning, Ni, please go fuck yourself," Louis quips, voice lacking its usual bite.
Niall shakes his head. "Harry said he was coming at nine! You should've been waiting for him at the door."
"That's really not necessary," Harry laughs, feeling warm even in the breeze coming through the cracked window. "Do you want breakfast?"
Niall hugs his giant bowl protectively, but the rest of them visibly perk up – Liam even goes as far as sitting up and saying "yes, please".
Breakfast it is – Harry gives his all to make a full English worth getting out of the living room for, and he gets what he's been hoping for; an adorably sleepy, stumbling pile of werewolves and one hungry-looking human shuffle into the kitchen and take a seat at the table.
Louis immediately steals the entire plate of bacon, piles seven slices up into a crooked little tower, then steals eggs and tomatoes right from under Zayn's nose. He's only stopped when Liam, who’s pouring himself a mug of tea, narrowly misses stabbing him in the hand with a fork.
Harry eats leaning back against his chair, surveying the picture in front of him. He loves being domestic, has since he was a kid, and he can't help imagining more mornings like this, cooking breakfast for his mates to enjoy.
(And maybe he's thought of an alternate version, too, where nobody's awake yet and he puts breakfast on a tray and carries it to his bedroom, except it's not his anymore because it's theirs—and he may have thought of a person he'd like to fit into that blank, human-shaped space. Except that might not work now, because who he has in mind is not quite human, but. He'd make do.)
When everybody's sufficiently awake, after tea and coffee and dessert consisting of old winegums per Louis’s request, Niall takes his leave. He goes around the table bumping fists and kissing heads and hugging, and Harry gets all three. They all go stand on the front porch to yell byes after him and wave until he gets lost between the trees. It's lovely.
Harry spends the day, joining everyone in their holy mission to watch every single episode of Cupcake Wars in one sitting. It’s lovely and comfortable and so, so familiar, but there’s a restlessness buzzing right underneath Harry’s skin, a mix of fear and anticipation that intensifies every time he looks out of the window. The sky goes from pale morning white to the bright blue of midday as the sunset gets closer, as an ache settles deep in Harry’s bones. He can’t put it off any longer.
Eventually, just as the horizon is starting to bleed orange, Harry clears his throat.
“What is it?” Zayn asks, buried somewhere on the bottom of the puppy pile.
“I, uh. Any chance you could help me with, you know - werewolf stuff?” he asks awkwardly.
Louis snorts. Liam, looking scandalised, whacks him upside the head.
“Right,” says Zayn, and disentangles himself with a lot of effort. He looks meaningfully at Louis and Liam, and the three of them have a conversation with their eyes (werewolf mind-reading powers).
Finally, Zayn grabs Harry and, holding hands, they walk out into the back garden. Harry can't help being at least a little bit excited when he notices Louis following.
"Okay," Liam says once they've all settled on the ground, looking at him. ”Harry, you probably found this somewhere in the books I lent you. The shift from human to werewolf and back is not that difficult to master on ordinary days, but on the full moon, the wolf tends to take over no matter what, without permission."
Next to Liam, Louis rolls his eyes. Harry narrowly stifles a giggle.
"To get the same control over you full moon shifts, you need to find an anchor," Liam says next. Harry perks up.
"What kind of anchor?"
"It can be anything, really," Louis takes over, and everyone quiets to listen to him. "A physical thing, a person, an emotion, a memory, literally anything. It just needs to be something strong. You're anchoring the human part of you, so that you don't lose the connection and let the wolf take over completely."
"Okay," Harry nods slowly, mind spinning. "Any advice on where to start looking for one?"
*
If he's completely honest with himself, Harry has no actual idea what it is that's keeping him anchored. He hadn't even noticed the moon come out, too caught up in watching people bake on the telly and moaning about joint pain with the boys. By the time they pulled the curtains open, the sky was already an inky black and Harry still had two legs, even though he hadn't had any time to focus on finding an anchor.
They're playing cards now, switching from snap to poker with magic stars instead of chips, and Niall is Skyping in, moaning loudly about how he doesn't get to have any fun. According to Liam, this is what they usually do on a full moon – have a quiet night in, then head to bed early. It seems surreal, in a way, that this is easily what they could've been doing last month while he was down in the basement, at war with himself.
Bizarrely, Harry is a little excited by the thrum of power in his veins, hungry for freedom, contained and shut away until he calls on it. He's drunk on it, on the strength of his will, even if he doesn't know where it came from. The human part of him is shouting at him to be rational, full of anxiety and apprehension, and he decides to push it away, just for tonight, just until he's ready to take it all on again.
As the night goes on, they get a little tired and a little feral; their eyes flash at each other in the dark like marbles, shiny and invincible. At one point, Liam catches Zayn's nape between his teeth, voice a low growl as he tells him something about grocery shopping, like what they're doing is an everyday occurrence. The tabletop gets scratched, a cushion loses most its stuffing in an unfortunate accident that involves a bet with Niall, and it is, all in all, not the night Harry had been expecting.
And when Louis leans over to him, sharp teeth on display, blue eyes alight and mischief in his voice, Harry can't remember anymore why this is a bad, bad idea. Wordlessly, he gets up and follows, letting the wolf rise to the surface as a new sun, a better one, rises over him and Louis. On the back porch, the night is cold, but each other's presence is enough to keep them burning. Their paws fall simultaneously in the crisp leaves, start a slow, languid pace as they tease and string each other further, deeper.
Down at the very end of the garden, they're so far away the house is barely visible. Harry wants to howl and leap for joy; it's just him and Louis now, just the two of them under the endless blanket of the night, and he can't fathom why he'd ever thought that scary. Louis is so warm, so wonderfully inviting, he smells like the woods and everything that Harry wants to be close to. It's all so simple, now, that he can, and he will.
He takes a step, then another, and puts his head on Louis's nape without a sound, neck wrapping around neck, heady pulses colliding. Louis huffs a warm breath into Harry's fur, relaxing and setting his head down, too, a pleasant weight against Harry's shoulder.
Harry is the first one to nip, a small one with just his front teeth, but enough for Louis to round at him, growl and leap playfully, happy fire burning in his eyes. It's easier to read him as a wolf, somehow.
They chase each other up and down the garden, breakneck speed sending leaves flying behind them in a flurry, until Harry’s feeling exhausted and entirely too human. Louis, furry and so hot he has steam rising off of him in the night air, slumps against him as Harry shifts back, barely aware of the cold ground biting into his naked arse. Louis covers him like a blanket, covers him in heat and scent and for a few seconds, Harry feels his.
That's what he wants, he thinks; to be marked, to belong, to have nobody question his loyalty because his scent has interwoven with Louis's and he can no longer tell them apart.
"Look at how beautiful the stars are," he murmurs, lying back and stretching, body aching in a pleasant reminder of their game. On the off chance that Louis would be short with him again tomorrow, all Harry would have to do is flex his muscles, and he'd remember being right here, right now, in a moment frozen in time with how peaceful it is.
Louis listens, turning over onto his back, paws folded close to his chest. His eyes are awake and alert, and so, so human.
"My gran taught me some of the constellations," Harry says. Louis rumbles in response.
"That's the Little Bear, see?" Harry moves impossibly closer, tufts of Louis's fur brushing against his naked side, and raises a hand to point. His thumb covers the small rectangle of stars and stays there, a part of the sky for a small while, a part of the reflection in Louis's eyes. "And that's the Great Dog. Looks just like you."
Louis's nose nudges him in the cheek, cold and wet.
"Oh, look, that's Cassiopeia," Harry continues unperturbed, happy to spot the familiar little zig-zag of stars. "Andromeda. And the Pegasus," he goes on.
The stars stretch above them like a blanket, lending Harry a sense of safety as he launches into the tale of Queen Berenice and her hair. Next to him, Louis's ribcage trembles with every breath he takes, and he's so undeniably, unmistakably real.
Later, when they trudge back in, muddy and tired, Harry will try to head to the guest room, and Louis will block his way. With damp fur and bright eyes, they'll curl up on the living room carpet, just for a while until Louis relents, and the morning will catch them bright and warm with their hands in each other's hair.
*
Still, Harry is happy to be given free reign, and spends half an afternoon digging up and dusting off any useful equipment he can find, hidden well in nooks and crannies all over the house. Then, he sets his sights on the back porch first, and calls his mum to ask for renovating tips.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" Zayn asks him, two days after he's started putting the steps back in working order. His foot had fallen through the rotten wood at least a dozen times before he'd gotten used to avoiding all the holes.
"Of course," Harry mumbles and looks up at Zayn confused, several nails held tight between his lips. He's got his hammer poised to strike. "Why wouldn't I?"
"No reason," Zayn answers, sitting down on the creaky garden swing (that one should be next, Harry thinks). "It's really nice of you."
Harry shrugs, tensing for a moment before bringing the hammer down, a sure stroke that drives the nail right in. "I'm here a lot, if you haven't noticed. It's not like I won't get anything out of this."
"True," Zayn says. Then, after a beat of silence: "Louis really appreciates it too, you know. He's never liked this place much because it was so run down, but he never felt like fixing it, so."
"Okay," Harry drawls, breathing shallow because he won't let his pulse quicken at the mere mention of Louis's name, that's pathetic. ”I mean, I'm glad he appreciates it. Why exactly are you telling me this?"
"Just thought things changed a bit between you two."
Liam chooses that moment to finally come outside from behind the glass door where he'd been eavesdropping. He sits down quietly next to Zayn, looking for all the world like he's been there the whole time.
"I guess," Harry says, not wanting to talk about it, but at the same time feeling like he's going to burst if he doesn't tell someone.
"I mean, you were sleeping together after the last full moon. On the ground. Naked."
Harry pouts. "I thought nakedness was a natural werewolf thing."
"It is," says Liam, giggling, "but we don't sleep piled all over each other while naked."
"We weren't piled all over each other," Harry says lightly, trying to line up his next plank. "We fell asleep. We shifted during the night. We kept sleeping. The end."
"What did he say when you woke up?" Zayn asks, genuinely curious.
"Um. Good morning?"
For some reason, this sends them both into a fit of laughter. Harry frowns and goes about assembling his step.
"Did he actually?" Zayn asks eventually, wiping a an actual tear from the corner of his eye.
"Yes," Harry shoots back a little sharper than necessary. "It's the polite thing to say."
"Listen, Harry, be honest with me," Zayn leans forward, chin resting on his interwoven fingers like he’s a detective from a bad TV series. "Do you want to get into Louis's pants?"
Harry sits back on his heels. Thinks, shrugs. "I reckon yes." He doesn't even have a reaction, which is a testament to how far he's come in his late night thinking/wanking sessions.
"You reckon yes?" Liam's eyebrows furrow.
"Well, I mean, that's not the primary goal."
"Okay…" Zayn drags out, waiting for Harry to elaborate.
"I just think it's great when he's happy, you know?" Harry indulges him with an absentminded answer, lips quirking up at the ghost of Louis's smile that always lingers in his memory.
"Oh my God, you can't be serious."
"What?"
"You think it's great when he's happy," Zayn repeats.
"What, like you don't?" Harry counters, giving up on concentrating. He plops down in the damp grass instead, looking up at Zayn curiously.
"Sure. But you'd like to make him happy and get in his pants. That's some pretty serious stuff right there," he says wisely, barely holding back a grin.
"What do you want me to say?" shrugs Harry. "I really like him. I think about snogging his face off a little too much. There's not much more to it."
"Oh, I think there is," Liam says, smiling just this side of mysterious. "You need to keep us updated on this."
"I don't need to do anything," Harry quips moodily. He takes the hammer back in hand and starts tapping it against the newly laid wood. "Besides, Louis can speak. Why don't you ask him invasive questions?"
"He's not the best with serious conversations, to be honest," Zayn says, like it's news.
"There's a lot of things I don't know about him, right?" Harry asks, and Liam gives him a look, like it's impressive that Harry isn’t holed up in his room making friendship bracelets. Harry does have common sense. He realises that Louis and he aren’t all chummy now just because they spent a night rolling around on the floor naked. He totally does.
"Yeah," Zayn says, gentle, "but it's not—he's hard to understand, Harry. He doesn't keep things to himself on purpose, he just forgets he has somebody to listen to him."
It leaves Harry with an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach, the idea that Louis forgets he's not alone when surrounded by people like these. "You don't have to explain, Zayn, I get it. We've only just started talking like civilised people, I doubt he's confiding his greatest secrets in me anytime soon," he says instead. "Or ever."
"Don't talk like that," says Liam and frowns. "You could be exactly what he needs."
"Needs for what?"
"I don't know," Liam shrugs. "To be happy, for once in his life."
Harry has an answer defending Louis on the tip of his tongue – how some people have things that weigh on them so heavy they just can't let themselves be carefree, and how Louis seems to be coping well enough, but then he realises the boys he's talking to have been Louis's friends for years. It's safe to say Louis doesn't need defending in front of them.
"That's sad, though," Harry says, when the contemplative silence becomes too much. "That he'd have to depend on a person for happiness. Especially a person like me, I mean…"
"You're fixing up his house just because you feel like it, Harry," Zayn says. "I don't think you're the worst bloke around."
"That wasn't the point."
"Yeah, I know," Zayn sighs, picks up one of Harry's spare nails and twirls it between his fingers at mind-boggling speed. "But it's better than him staying miserable forever. Just," and he looks up at Harry with an urgency in his eyes, almost pleading, "try not to give up on him when he's a shit, yeah?"
"You haven't," Harry points out. "What makes you think that I would?"
Liam smiles at him, sparks of laughter exploding in his eyes like sunlight. Zayn reaches out and ruffles Harry's hair.
"We really like you," he says. "Please stay around."
"You just like the food," Harry says, smiles. He feels settled and calm, like he fits in. Like he's found a niche for himself in the world, a place where he belongs without feeling guilty for taking up the space.
"We do," Liam confirms, reaching down to his feet to hand Harry a new plank. They watch him work in silence, conversation rising and petering out again, warm and comfortable like embers in a fire, until dusk starts falling and Harry has to get back to the city.
*
Harry's amateur renovations are still going on. He's painting the banister on the back porch now, before it starts snowing in earnest, he still babysits Lux, and he keeps writing essays last minute and losing sleep, but he always, always finds time to come up to the house. It's the most important thing in his life, really, that place and the people in it, and he'll be damned if he lets his focus on that slip. Harry likes himself, and wants to take care of himself and keep himself happy - this is his way of doing just that.
"Alright, downward dog now," Harry says, breathing out and changing positions smoothly. Next to him, Liam staggers a little on his toes before he bends over and puts his palms on the mat.
"Straighten your—"
"Back, yeah, I know," Liam huffs, trying to do so. "Hinders good breathing."
Harry is pleased to see all his little pieces of advice taking root, the same way he flushes and stutters when Liam thanks him over and over again because his back pain is finally gone/he feels so much more energetic/he can bend in half and put his palms full on the ground, now. If Harry's honest with himself, he's not used to people taking him seriously in yoga, much less thanking him; he'd taught a yoga class to pre-schoolers, the summer before he went to uni, and there, it was all about running around and snack breaks. He'd absolutely loved it, guiding them through imaginary trips to rain forests and the bottom of the ocean, but there's something intensely validating in teaching yoga to an adult.
It's also a lot of fun, because Liam's coordination is about as bad as Harry's.
They're holding the pose, Harry breathing evenly and Liam dripping sweat next to him, when somebody wolf-whistles from the doorway. Harry opens his eyes to a view of an upside-down Zayn. When their ten seconds are up, he turns around and gives him the finger.
"Mountain pose," he calls out to Liam, who nods and scrambles to stand up. He's been getting better, and his balance doesn't waver at all now. Harry mirrors him, balancing on his feet, closing his eyes and listening to his own breathing, to the pitter-patter of rain against the windows.
“So," he says conversationally to Zayn, "any particular reason you're wandering around ogling your mates' bums on this lovely Sunday morning?"
Zayn has the decency to flush, but he doesn't comment. Harry does wonder about him, sometimes. "I'm picking Louis up from work," he mumbles, bringing the set of car keys in his hand into Harry's view.
Guiding Liam into a tiger, Harry sends Zayn a thumbs-up and a wink, and watches him, blushing, walk out the door.
"That was mean," Liam huffs, face red. Harry throws a spare headband at him.
By the time Louis and Zayn come back from the bookstore – because that's where Louis works, Harry has learned – he and Liam are lying down in the middle of the living room, trying to breathe, and Niall has shown up to cackle and throw grapes at them.
Louis's face is fond as he looks over the scene in the room, a smile tugging at his lips as he takes off his jacket. Zayn comes in to steal bits of Niall's breakfast, and when Louis leaps like a monkey and lands straight on Harry's chest, nobody finds it the least bit strange.
"Get off, 'm sweaty," Harry mumbles through a mouthful of Louis's hair, and the smaller boy giggles and plops right next to him, the line of his body still pressed against Harry's side.
"Bloody yoga bears," Louis shakes his head, trying to sound stern, but his expression gives him away. Harry's been getting used to seeing that face, all flush-cheeked and crinkly-eyed, and knows that past him was right when he'd thought that Louis should always smile. It suits him like nothing else does.
"Piss off," Liam says good-naturedly, and gets up to head into the shower. Harry thinks he'll do the same, once he musters up the will to move.
“I can’t believe it’s fucking raining again,” Niall grumbles when silence falls over them. “I wanted to go out.”
Louis opens his mouth, presumably to fondly point out that none of them get out much. Before he can make a sound, though, he freezes and stares, dumbfounded, at the window.
There is water still trickling down the pane, but behind it, the sun is suddenly coming out from underneath a layer of dark grey clouds. The rain is gone.
Niall blinks, a little startled, and looks down at his hands where they’re buried in the fruit bowl. Harry stares at him; Louis is still gaping with his mouth open and Zayn stands frozen in the doorway, a bottle of water halfway to his lips.
After a long, excruciating silence, it’s Niall who speaks.
“So," he clears his throat. “It’s a beautiful day, apparently. What are we doing?"
They end up mucking about in the forest. Liam chases squirrels. Harry and Louis chase each other. Niall walks through the mud with Zayn, foggy breath and thick scarves the picture of a long-suffering couple taking a morning walk with their unruly family of canines.
That's how December starts, and Harry, quite naively, thinks all of it is going to be fairy lights and happiness. He's wrong.
*
Harry is walking through the frozen forest alone, on his way to the house. It's early, even for him, and all he can think about is lighting a fire in the fireplace, putting the kettle on for tea and frying rashers upon rashers of bacon. One could say that he's lost in his thoughts, really, which is why what happens doesn't even register with him for a good ten seconds.
He doesn't feel the pain, just an odd pull on his jacket. There's a strange dark spot on his left shoe as he stops and looks down, and small beads of red melting the frost on the ground, smudging into the dead foliage underneath. Harry realises what it is, and then realises he can't breathe.
There's a single set of footsteps approaching him, coming in from the left, and he wants to turn and investigate, see who the unfamiliar scent belongs to, but as he tries, the white-hot agony finally explodes behind his eyelids. He looks down—down to an arrow that’s somehow embedded in his side. Removed, he has time to think about the pretty white fletching and the beautiful, slick black material it's made of.
"Well, well, well," a voice says, the worst of film clichés, and he rotates his entire body to meet whoever's shot him head-on.
It's a woman, tall and beautiful, with a face as cold as the morning around them. She's wearing sleek black clothes and a woollen hat, a few strands of blonde hair escaping to tangle around her ears, and lipstick as red as the blood she's drawn.
"Look who we have here," she says, a mocking smile on her face, and lowers her bow. It's a formidable thing, tall and dangerous-looking, and reality starts to sink in with Harry. She shot him. She shot him. She shot him.
"You shot me," he says, voice impassive as the second wave of pain hits, a hit to his knees so strong he has to lean against a tree. He gasps, and tries to remember what he knows about werewolf injuries. He recalls a line he'd read in a book exactly, remove weapon if stuck in the wound, remembers what Liam had told him his very first night of being a werewolf. All of it just comes and goes with the blood that rushes through his brain, and he can't focus on anything. Not on being alone, not on thoughts of running or attacking; of the werewolf lair that's just around the corner, the one that he can't let her know about.
"That I certainly did," she says, raising a perfect eyebrow at his hand that's shot up halfway to his wound and frozen. "I'll be honest, I thought it would take more than one little arrow to put you down." Belatedly, Harry realises that her accent is distinctly American. His first and only bizarre thought is that Louis would laugh at how pretentious she sounds, and Harry would elbow him and remind him of his own accent, and then they'd laugh, and oh. Louis. The boys. The house. That's where he'd been going.
Finally, blessedly, Harry wakes up. The forest comes to him in a flurry of blinding white frost and rusty blood, noises and smells surfacing to paint him a complete picture. Despite the pain every movement causes him, he grips the shaft of the arrow as tightly as he can and yanks.
This time, he does fall to his knees. The head of the arrow doesn't budge an inch, but it hurts everywhere, lighting up nerve endings Harry didn't even know he had. The arrow is lodged right underneath a rib, a professional shot, and Harry is sick to his stomach thinking of this sleek, icy woman and how good she is at shooting people.
"Honey," she laughs, a sound like glass breaking and cutting into skin, and comes closer, boots sinking into the soft forest floor. Harry looks up into her cold, cold eyes. "Come on. Who do you think I am? Unless you're going to cut yourself open with your little baby claws, you're not getting it out."
She knows he's a werewolf, and it doesn't surprise him at all. "Who are you?" he grits out, breath heavy and white, clouding his vision. "What do you want?"
"You may have heard of me," she raises a delicate hand to her eyes, frowning at a chipped nail. "My name is Taylor. It's a pleasure, Harry."
Harry grunts in response, looking for escape routes behind her back. His only option is to try to run the way he'd come, towards the city, but he's not sure he can get up, and she's blocking his way.
"Now, now. Don't be upset. You should calm down, otherwise the wolfsbane will spread that much faster," she looks at him amicably, laughing at him like he's a child that doesn't yet understand the world.
When her words register, Harry freezes. Wolfsbane, meaning one of the only things that can kill him if he gets too close, and he reckons having a poisoned arrow release it into his bloodstream is plenty. He's stuck between a rock and a hard place, now; he needs help from someone who knows what they're doing, but the only ones who could help him he can't call on.
"I'm guessing you're not calling your little pack yourself," she frowns a little, a harsh line across her delicate brow, and crouches down to look deep into Harry's eyes; his vision is blurry with sweat and tears, but the hatred aimed at him is still painfully clear. Taylor reaches out, small hand bypassing Harry's as it grips the shaft of the arrow, and smiles as cruel as Harry's ever seen. Then, she twists.
Harry tries to stop the howl of pain, but the wolf, too, is struggling to break free and defend itself. The sound is loud, like a gunshot in the still, bright morning, startling birds out of their nests. Please don't come, Harry thinks desperately, please leave me. He's going to die without their help, he knows now, but the vision of any of them stumbling in surprise as an arrow lodges into their chest only makes him more determined. He's shaking from the pain, muscles quivering, and all his warmth is leaving him rapidly.
"That should do it," she says, satisfied, and sits on the ground opposite Harry, looking bizarrely innocent, like kindergartener at story time. "Now we can have a chat before your precious Louis comes by to save you."
Harry's heart twists, gripped by blind panic, but the adrenaline is not enough to get him off the forest floor. "N-no thanks," he coughs, and stains his hand with blood. He can feel it trickling out of the corner of his mouth.
"Oh come on, don't be like that. I've been curious about you for months."
"What?" Harry slurs, a metallic taste drowning his tongue.
"Of course you haven't noticed," she laughs, sharp like shards of broken ice. "You poor idiot. I've been watching you since you were bitten. A little pet project, if you will. I knew they'd take you in, and I knew it'd only be a question of time before Louis accepted you as his own. He really wants to be an Alpha, did you know that?"
Harry shakes his head, chest heaving. He's teetering on the edge of a panic attack, it's all your fault like a mantra running on repeat in his head.
“I guess that's irrelevant anyway. He's never going to be one unless he lets go and realises that killing others is a necessary evil. Like you, poor, pretty Harry," she runs an ice-cold finger across his cheek. "You're going to die, and he'll blame himself. Maybe he'll go crazy. Who do you think will go first? My bet is on the Horan boy, he always lets his guard down around werewolves. What an idiot. We've offered him a place with us several times, you know, he's really good with a bow, but he said he'd rather die than betray his friends. Friends, Harry, how laughable is that? Like any of you are even remotely human," she sneers, and the look she gives him is one of pure hatred.
Somehow, through the weight of guilt that's settled on his shoulders and the haze of pain that makes his vision go black around the edges, Harry has a moment of clarity.
"You're one of the Swifts, aren't you," he says, and it isn't a question.
"Well, yes," says she, taken aback, "I thought that much was obvious."
Harry musters up the energy to laugh. It's a hollow sound, bitter and void of any joy. She seems delighted to hear it.
"Are you excited? I'm excited. Imagine taking down Louis Tomlinson, the most composed werewolf in all of England, the one that gives everybody the slip. I'll be the star of every party. Mom might even let me hang a trophy of his head on the wall."
Horrified, scared and dying, Harry calls on every ounce of flickering power that his wolf can give him. With an inhuman growl, he lets it take over, claws shooting out, and lunges.
She shrieks at first, surprised when she falls on the ground under Harry's weight. His hands are still human where he's pushing her into the floor by the shoulders, but he can feel the golden fire burning in his eyes. He bares his teeth, poised to close around her neck, but he knows, feels down to his core, that he can't do it. His mind is full of images – blood, arrows and knives, Louis falling to the ground screaming, and still he's hovering, hesitating, and it costs him.
Taylor pulls out a short dagger from beneath her belt, back to being composed as ever. It glistens darkly for just a moment, a flash of the future that Harry is powerless to control, before she drives it into his other side, down to the hilt.
Harry whines, the strength going out of his limbs as he slumps to the ground again. The arrow moves uncomfortably when he reaches for the dagger and pulls it out, and finally snaps off with a crack when Harry crushes it in his fist. He's dying, covered in frost and feeling the life drip out of him; he'd like to do it with a little bit of dignity.
"Pathetic," she hisses behind him, getting up and checking herself for injuries, looking petulant. Her voice pulses like the poison rushing through Harry's veins, and he belatedly realises that nobody's come, still. Maybe they haven't heard, maybe they've abandoned him, and he wants to cry with happiness and pray that that's the case. There's no helping him now; they’d be coming to their deaths. Please stay away. Please forget about me. Louis, please.
"I've had it with you," Taylor says, closer this time, looming above him as she turns him on his back with the tip of her shoe. "You're obviously not as important as I thought, and you're only causing trouble. I think I'll go find them on my—"
She never gets to finish. Right in front of Harry's eyes, in bizarre slow motion like he's in a bad action film, she's swept to the ground by a heavy canine body. The grey fur shines brilliantly with ice crystals, a light in the darkness that's overtaking Harry's world. Louis.
Harry can't talk through the panic gripping him as he lies there, completely fucking powerless. He can't shout to him, can't tell him to please run and leave him be, that he's not worth it, he can't do anything but turn his head and watch.
The usually beautiful, serene face of Louis's wolf is twisted into an angry grimace, growling right into Taylor's face. She looks manic, arms moving like a grotesque snow angel as she tries to get a hold of one of her weapons. She manages to escape, somehow, throwing Louis off and running for the trees, where her bow had been. She's right within Harry's reach, he could just stretch his arm and she'd stumble, but he can't move.
Louis chases after her, eyes virtually blazing. His paws are heavy and slippery on the mud and leaves, stealing his momentum as he tries to yank the girl back by her jacket. She gets there first; she picks up the bow with trembling hands, loads in an arrow and sends it flying before she's even aimed properly, anywhere that Louis is after her like a ghost.
When Harry concentrates, he can hear the shaft as it spins through the air, now. If the arrow had been flying all the way to him, he could dodge it; Louis can't. It hits him straight in the shoulder, light grey bleeding red, but doesn't even seem to notice, like the chase is the only thing on his mind. He looks deadly, and absolutely terrifying as he stares her down, chasing away the victorious look she'd been sporting after she hit him. He has saliva pooling at his mouth like a wild animal, steam rising off of him where he crouches low to the ground, feral, stalking his prey.
"You wouldn't dare," Taylor says quietly, less than a breath. "They'd hunt you down and kill you all."
Louis barks in response, nothing like the peaceful, playful wolf Harry is used to. The sound comes out of him like he's being torn apart from the inside, saturated with a desperation, a thirst for blood. Taylor takes her bow and bolts.
Harry can't keep up as they run in circles around him, running away until all of their sounds fade, then running back like visions from the fog. After the third time they disappear, Louis comes back stained with blood, two more arrows sticking away from his body at a sickening angle. He can't run anymore; he stops in front of Harry instead, chest heaving, and locks his legs, standing splayed wide and protective. Harry is losing the fight for consciousness, losing his grip on reality and on life; but when Louis looks at him over his shoulder, bleeding out just to keep Harry safe and keep him alive, it ignites a new fire, a last call for Harry to stand up and go down fighting.
The wolf roars inside him, blood red rage, and Harry shifts like today was just another day. His bones rearrange, wounds stretching, an arrowhead moving sickly in-between his ribs, but he manages to stand. He plants his paws wide and strong, and stands shoulder to shoulder with Louis. They must make a pitiful sight, covered in blood and trembling, but Harry's never felt stronger.
When she finally catches up, Taylor has a halo of blonde hair flying around her head, hat gone, and shallow, long scratches that run across her thigh, trousers slit. She grins in victory at the sight of Louis, and raises the bow, one last arrow pointing right at his heart.
Time and space narrows down to the tip of the arrowhead, a shining point of focus as Harry digs his claws into the dirt and leaps, one last time. She lets the string go in surprise, arrow shooting straight out where Harry is gunning for it from the side. He doesn't care about her and her knives, focused on the sound the arrow makes as it slices air. It's easy to pin it down, know exactly where it will be when its trajectory collides with Harry's. He only has that one chance, completely exhausted, blank and bled-out as he is, but he's standing between Louis and death. Failure is not an option.
Slowing and letting his paws slide smoothly through the slippery dirt, Harry opens his mouth just a little, cold air hitting his teeth. One more step takes him right where he needs to be; he listens, focuses, and clamps down around the shaft of the arrow. It tears at the inside of his mouth, slices coldly across his tongue – and stops.
"No!" Taylor screeches, so loud Harry's entire world resonates with it, but he doesn't care for the pounding in his head. Limping, in excruciating pain with every step he takes, he walks back to Louis and drops the arrow at his feet. Then, feeling satisfied, he slumps to the ground and lets go. For a moment, he feels like he's looking at the world from outside himself.
Taylor is reaching for her boot, to pull out another dagger, probably – but she doesn't get to. Another arrow flies with perfect aim, clean and sharp through the air, and embeds itself in her calf. More blood graces the ground and soaks in like rainwater.
Floating as he is, Harry looks in the opposite direction, and what he sees steals his breath clean like a punch. Niall is just stepping out from behind a tree, planting his feet sure and firm, a bow taut in his hands. He's shaking, vibrating almost, but his hands are steady where they're holding back another arrow.
To Harry's surprise, Niall doesn't look like a soldier at all; his eyes are the furthest thing from cold. From across the space, they burn bright like supernovas, with a fire like Harry had never seen before. It's protection, and love, and Niall blends into the forest so seamlessly he looks like a vision, a ghost maybe, a knight that's come to save the day. He holds himself tall and proud, quick and lethal, and Harry is so grateful to see him he could cry.
With poorly contained sobs of pain, Taylor hurls the dagger at Niall with everything she has, but she misses. The blade flies widely by Niall and stays stuck fast in a tree, a final period after the story.
"I'll kill you all," she warns, pale and defeated for the time being. She gathers her bow and slings it across her back, turns around and starts limping away, little cries of pain accompanying her exit through the trees. As soon as she's gone, a still silence settles over them. It feels like shock.
Harry watches the world around him flicker, like somebody was playing with the light switch. Everything gets darker, and even in the brightness of the morning, it looks like night. Hazy, Harry watches Niall drop the bow without a second thought and run over to where they're lying in a pile.
They probably look pitiful, Harry thinks; Louis's legs have given out, and he's taking shallow breaths with his eyes closed – Harry is stuck somewhere between life and death, and keeps flickering in and out of his body.
Just as Niall falls on his knees next to them, hands running over wounds that are long past being helped, Louis shifts, and Harry's body, like the lost, confused puppy he is, follows automatically. It wakes him up a little, enough so that the light comes back into his eyes, and he can get a better view of Louis's life leaving him. On his other side, Niall is moving him as carefully as he can, getting ready to carry him, and Harry. Harry knows there's no time.
He throws his head back, rising on his trembling arms, and howls with everything he has. He's calling his pack, he realises, even though they're just a bunch of rag-tag wolves with no Alpha and no order. He's calling home.
“Harry, fuck. Thank God," Niall is saying, face pale and drawn, the fire in his eyes flickering. He's taking them both in, the wounds and the blood and the tremors, and he looks like he's on the verge of crying. Niall should never look like that.
With a sudden fit of coughs, Louis comes back to them, if only for a while. He fists his hand in Niall's jacket, and his other one crawls across the frozen ground until it finds Harry's. Their fingers intertwine, and it's warm enough to melt everything around them.
"Harry," he rasps. Harry's heart is pounding in his ears, so loud he can barely hear, but. He never wants his name to sound like that, especially not on Louis's lips.
"M' here, Lou," he whispers, all he can do as his lungs start failing him. He thinks he may have imagined it, but he knows what he sees right then, delirious as he is – Louis smiles, weak but genuine. He squeezes Harry's fingers.
"I know," he says. "I'm proud of you. You did so well, Pup."
Harry didn't think he had it in him to cry, not anymore, but his eyes burn and so does his face and his ribs are on fire.
"You did well," Louis repeats. It's the last thing he says before his eyes close again, and he stops breathing.
Harry is still holding on, kept awake and alive by sheer panic. His eyes meet Niall's over Louis's prone body, and Harry thinks, I can't let this happen. He's the one who's supposed to die, the one who should already be dead. He'd wished, even, for a while, to just close his eyes and be carried away, cradled in the softness that unconsciousness offered him.
Now, though, before he goes – and he has no doubt he will – he needs to do some carrying first.
There's no time, absolutely none, they've run out and turned the clock around a hundred times already, and they need to go, they can't wait anymore. Harry's world is bleeding red and black when he takes Louis, just takes him in his arms like he weighs nothing, stands up, and starts running. He won't make it far, will probably fall down right around the bend, but. The closer he gets Louis, the better his chances. He can feel the arrowhead rattle against his bone, and his only thought is that he doesn't care. If he could give his life just so Louis could take another breath, he'd probably do it, right now.
He ignores Niall shouting after him, focused on cradling Louis so that he doesn't move, so that his injuries don’t get worse. He makes it to where the forest floor starts sloping up, can almost smell the scent of old wood and home, and he spurs himself forward, one more time. His hands are cold, and so are Louis's.
Harry runs, and thinks he can hear Liam and Zayn running, too. He hears Zayn shout, and the growl of Liam's wolf, and Niall's terrified yelling. Before his vision goes completely black, he sees them round a dense group of trees, sliding towards him in a rush of frost and ice-cold panic. Niall finally catches up, calloused hands supporting Harry where he's leaning and falling backwards, and in front of him, Zayn and Liam are taking Louis from his arms.
As he finally, finally sinks into the darkness, all Harry can think is I made it.
*
"I can't just leave them."
Voices are the first thing that registers with Harry where he's lying on something heavenly soft. It's Zayn and Niall, and they both sound tired and upset. Harry wrinkles his nose and frowns. He can smell blood in the air, so much blood, and something cloying and dark, like poison. But, as he slowly comes awake, he smells the fire, too, and hears the familiar crackle of it where it burns in the fireplace. The scents of the house are wrapped around him like a blanket, calming him, letting him know that everything is alright, and he's so, so comfortable. He's not at all sure what happened, and not at all sure that he cares.
"Harry?" Niall's voice says, shaky and echo-y in the still room.
"I'm awake," Harry confirms, trying to open his eyes. His lashes feel stuck and sticky, lids heavy. Waking up is hard work.
"Jesus, yeah," Niall answers as he comes closer, a warm hand running across Harry's forehead, then gripping his wrist like he's afraid to let go. "How are you feeling?"
"Really comfy, actually."
"Can you open your eyes?" Zayn asks from somewhere above him, and Harry frowns. Of course he can, and he does.
His surroundings come to him in a slow blur of shadows, all darkness and heavy, warm colour, and he needs to blink a lot before anything comes into focus. There's Zayn, hair drooping sadly over his forehead, standing right above Harry and looking at him with apprehension. He recognises the shadows around him as the living room, bathed only in the warm light of the fire.
"I think so," Harry answers, once he's made out where he is. He's not sure, but he thinks he sees Zayn's eyes glisten suspiciously where he meets them with his own, a little more alert.
At his other side, Niall sobs. It's a desperate sound, absolutely gut-wrenching and irreconcilable with Niall's happy attitude. Harry immediately turns his head, hand shooting up to tangle in Niall's hair.
"Hey, no," he says lowly, confused and worried. "I'm fine, you're fine, we're all fine, it's all okay."
Niall's face is red with equal parts tears and embarrassment when he raises his head to meet Harry's eyes. He's wiping at his cheeks with his free hand.
"Can I please give you a cuddle," Harry says, hands itching to comfort Niall in any way he can. He hates seeing people cry, and he hates seeing Niall cry even more. It shouldn't happen, not ever.
Wordlessly, Niall moves closer, snaking his arms in-between Harry's neck and the pillow he's lying on. He buries his face in Harry's chest, voice still loud and shaky with tears. Harry holds him the best he can, so, so confused. From above, Zayn's hand cards through Harry's hair comfortingly, rubbing in small, affectionate circles.
"We were really worried, Haz," he says, and Harry moves a little to look up at him. Niall sniffles in agreement.
"I don't remember what happened," he says, and a deafening silence answers him. Niall stiffens and pulls back, holding the corner of Harry's comforter to his face, and Zayn holds on to Harry's shoulders.
"Nothing?" Niall asks, voice strangled.
"No."
"You…Harry, you were attacked."
Harry frowns, trying to pull up a memory, anything. "What? How? When?"
"Yesterday morning," Zayn says, walking around the sofa to join Niall on the floor. He rests a hand on Harry's chest, right above where his heart is beating, loud and steady. His eyes are big and liquid in the absence of light. "You were shot."
And—oh. Harry thinks there's something, in the back of his mind. A quick sound, something slicing through the air, like—
An arrow. It comes back to him in terrifying flashes of blood and desperation. He starts shaking, but he doesn't care as he shoots up, bracing himself on his arms.
"Where's Louis," he says, trying to catch his rapidly escaping breath. Zayn and Niall are looking at him, crestfallen and gentle, and Harry thinks he's going to pass out. "Where is he? Please tell me he's okay. He's fine, right? I ran—I carried him all the way—"
He physically can't go on, has to lie back and focus on pulling enough air back into his lungs. Everything is trembling, like all the world's an earthquake.
"No, Harry, God," Zayn runs warm fingers over Harry's face. "Louis is right here."
He doesn't say anything about him being fine. Harry notices, but doesn't comment, not right now; he needs to get up, start breathing, he needs to see.
"I need to—" he starts, gesturing wildly with his hands, but Niall and Zayn are already moving to help him prop himself up. His gaze is searching every nook and cranny of the living room, frantic, through a pile of torn, bloody clothes and the crackling fire and—
There he is. He's lying right next to Harry, on a fat mattress running horizontal to the sofa, and he looks—he looks dead.
"Is he—," Harry breathes, with trouble.
"He's alive, Harry. Please don't pass out."
Harry nods, and itches to come closer, to touch and smell and watch Louis's chest until he can see it rise with a breath. "Why is he like this?"
"Well, he did take three arrows," Zayn says drily. As if sensing that Harry needs it, needs a little help and reassurance, he stands up and goes to Louis. He puts a strand of hair behind his ear gently, pulls his blanket higher and rests a hand to his chest, just like he'd done to Harry. "Laced with wolfsbane."
"Right," Harry remembers. "Fuck."
"Yeah," Niall agrees, still crushing Harry's wrist in a death grip.
"Is he going to wake up?"
"We don't know," Zayn says sadly, coming back to them. "We weren't sure you would."
"I didn't—was it that bad?"
"You had seizures. You kept saying that you're going to die, and that you can't see anything. We thought you'd be blind if you woke up at all."
Harry remembers, the thoughts of dying and letting go, but he can't recall anything past meeting Zayn and Liam on the hill and sinking into the blackness. "Am I okay?" he asks.
"You should be, in a few hours," Niall says. "We countered the wolfsbane and your werewolf mojo is doing the rest."
It's only now that Harry thinks to check himself for injuries. He's shirtless under the blanket, and the room is cold despite the roaring fire. When he runs a hand down his side, he only feels a small scar. Above his hip, where the dagger was, he's met with smooth skin.
"I thought we didn't scar?"
"We don't," Zayn says, distracted, looking out into the kitchen. "It's the poison."
Before Harry can answer, Liam is stumbling into the living room with a steaming mug in his hands, beaming.
"Harry!" he calls, obviously overjoyed, and Harry can't help his answering smile. "I'm so glad you're awake, here, drink this," he's handing the mug to Harry, hands only shaking a little. He seems more animated than usual, and a little nervous, eyes darting from one side of the room to another.
"Li, calm down," Zayn takes Liam's wrist with a touch so gentle it's barely there, and Liam haves a heavy breath.
"Yeah, yeah," he's chuckling as he sits on the floor, completing Harry's wall of personal guards. "I'm just—" he waves a hand around his head, "you know."
"It's good to see you," Harry tells him nonsensically, but means it with all his heart. The way he'd felt when he saw Liam's wolf run towards him still throbs in his chest, a gratitude so great is hurts a little.
"You too," Liam smiles. "Drink."
"What's in it?" Harry sniffs suspiciously at the steam. He smells tea, but also a mix of foreign scents, heavy and aromatic.
"Just some herbs," Liam answers. "To support healing, help you relax, that kind of thing."
"You mean knock me out," Harry quips, even as he raises the warm ceramic to his lips.
"You need it!"
"Yeah, I suppose," Harry says, feeling the hot liquid slide easily down his throat, spreading through his limbs all the way to fingertips. It's immediately calming, and Harry marvels at the magic. "Wow. Where did you learn to make these?"
Face half-hidden in the shadows, Liam blushes a little. "It's really not that difficult. Louis taught me."
With the mention of his name, the mood in the room shifts rapidly, as if everyone's just remembered. They all watch Louis quietly for a while, holding their breath whenever his chest stops its lazy movement of up and down.
"Lads," Niall says, so quietly Harry thinks he's probably relying on their werewolf ears to pick it up, "what are we gonna do without him?"
Liam frowns quite violently, and Zayn reaches over and smacks Niall on the head.
"Stop it," he says, stern like Harry rarely sees him. "He's going to be just fine. Thinking anything else right now is gonna drive us all crazy."
Niall nods and looks down at his hands. Harry realises he's forgotten something vitally important.
"Niall," he says, and waits for the other boy to look up at him. "Thank you."
"Don't mention it," Niall says, a bitter smile twisting the corner of his mouth. "I didn't do much."
Oh, Harry thinks. It makes a lot more sense now, Niall crying at the sight of him awake, the way he's been avoiding everybody's eyes.
"You saved our lives," Harry nods in Louis's direction. "Neither of us would be here if you hadn't shown up when you did."
"I should've been there sooner," Niall mumbles, and Zayn's hand moves to rest on his shoulder in silent support. "Louis called me, told me to come as quick as I could, but he didn't explain and I wasted time trying to find out what was happening, I should've—"
"Niall," Harry says, gentle, sets his mug on the ground and puts warm hands on Niall's face. "I was going to die. I saved Louis from that last arrow, and I couldn't bring myself to do anything else. I couldn’t—I could barely breathe, I couldn’t do anything, but then you showed up and you gave us hope, okay? I never would have stood up again if you weren't there. She would have killed us both."
Niall's eyes are big and hopeful and almost pleading, the flames from the fireplace playing on his face. "Louis wouldn't be like this if I'd been there sooner," he says, almost imperceptible.
Harry shakes his head. "Louis wouldn't be like that if I'd never shown up here. It's more my fault than yours, so just…please try not to blame yourself, okay? Louis will tell you the same thing when he wakes up."
Niall nods, and reaches up to hug Harry again. Harry holds him, calm and steady, trying to somehow reassure him that everything is okay despite not feeling that way at all. It breaks his heart to see Niall like this.
"Harry," Liam says quietly when they let go, atmosphere still somber. "You said…you said you saved Louis from an arrow. What actually happened down there?"
Startled, Harry remembers that none of them were actually there, except for Niall, at the end. He's not quite sure he feels up to retelling the story, but somehow, it's so, so important that they all know what Louis did. How brave he was, how he didn't question protecting Harry for a second, how readily prepared he was to face down a woman armed to the teeth to protect Harry when he was helpless. How they pulled each other through until they couldn't.
"She's been…oh God," Harry gasps, the details of Taylor's terrifying monologue coming back to him. Guilt slams into his chest like a freight train, and he finds he can't look at any of them. "She's been watching me ever since I was bitten," he whispers, shock thrumming through his veins, the expected mantra of it's your fault settling comfortably in his head, latching onto his every thought.
"Why?" Niall sounds like he's frowning. Harry closes his eyes, knows that if he doesn't say it, they'll figure it out anyway.
"She wanted to get to Louis. Said something about taking down the famous werewolf, she wanted to kill him and was waiting until she was sure he'd come help me if I was attacked." Tears sting in nose. "I fucked it all up," he says, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes, making spots dance in his vision like fireworks, happy and carefree in a way he might never be again.
"No. Harry," Zayn is saying, firm fingers circling his wrists, bringing them down and revealing Harry's tear-stained face. "No. You're so good—you're the best thing that's happened to us in a long time. Don't you ever doubt that."
"He'd be fine, though. If I wasn't here, he'd be fine," he says, copying Niall's words almost exactly.
"And he'd be a miserable bastard," Niall counters, some of his familiar determined fire sparking back up in his eyes.
"Yeah," Liam agrees, and next to him, Zayn is nodding thoughtfully.
"You may not have noticed this because you don't live with him," he says, "but he's been…different. Happier."
“That doesn’t have to be because of me," Harry points out, dabbing at his damp face self-consciously with the corner of his blanket.
"Don't be ridiculous. He literally perks up every time you enter the room. Last week, he just watched you fix the garden swing for an hour before he came out to talk to you. He's never sat that still for that long, for as long as I've known him. You're good for him, Harry, alright? God knows he wouldn't admit it, because he's a stubborn little git, but he likes having you around."
"Maybe," Harry concedes.
"For sure," Zayn jabs him in the chest as hard as he dares. "He's not as lost in his head when he's around you, and we've all wanted that for him for a long time."
"Good. Now that that's done, please continue with the story. If you want,” Niall says, scooting closer, and runs his hand through Harry's hair in support. Harry really likes being touched.
"There's not much to tell," he shrugs. "She shot me, then she made me howl with pain, and, uh…she talked about killing Louis. I got really angry and got her on her back, but I didn't do anything. She stabbed me, and that's when Louis showed up."
"What did he do?"
"He jumped at her, took her down," Harry frowns as he tries to clear the image in his memory. "She shot him, too, and he chased her through the forest, I'm not sure what happened, I couldn't see—and he came back with two more arrows in him. He couldn't run anymore, so he stood in front of me, to protect me, and she was gonna fire another arrow, so I just—I don't know. I thought I couldn't let her kill him, so I shifted and I caught it."
"The arrow?" Liam asks incredulously.
"Yeah," Harry frowns, "It wasn't that hard, I could hear it pretty clearly."
Zayn and Liam are both looking at him silently, inscrutable, and Harry doesn't like it at all. He fidgets, nervous.
"He did, I saw that," Niall says suddenly, smiling at Harry. "Snatched it clean out of the air like it was nothing."
Harry coughs. "And then we both collapsed. Niall showed up, shot Taylor in the calf, and she ran. That's it, pretty much."
"What about after?" Zayn asks, curiosity written over his face. "We were waiting for a signal from Louis, but we heard you instead."
"Y-yeah, I. Um. I don't know. Louis shifted, so I did, too, and it gave me a bit of energy, you know? I thought there wasn't time to carry Louis all the way to the house, so I called you, and I picked him up and I ran."
"Nearly gave me a fucking heart attack," Niall grumbles.
Harry smiles at him, "Sorry."
"Nah, it was—you did the right thing. A minute later and he would've been dead for good, and I could never have carried him as fast as you did."
"A minute later?”
"You cut it pretty close, Haz," Zayn tells him, gentle as ever. "Once the wolfsbane reaches the heart, there's not much you can do. When we got you here, you were both dead, we had to bring you back."
"Didn't really think we could," Liam says quietly, eyes trained intently on the floor. Zayn takes his hand, fingers interlacing, and squeezes. Harry takes a moment to be eternally grateful for him, the eye in the middle of a storm.
"But you did," Harry smiles. His heart beats that much stronger, knowing how easily he could've been gone. "Thank you."
"No, thank you," Liam smiles back, voice a little unsteady. "You saved him, and yourself. I don't know what we'd do without either of you."
Everything inside Harry feels soft with love, quiet and content and calmed with the presence of his favourite people in the world. It feels temporary, but he’ll take it anyway.
”Any chance we could have a cuddle?" he asks, and the grins that meet him light up the room.
They pile onto Harry's sofa, all of them, a wild tangle of limbs and smiles and affectionate pats. Niall is breathing right into his ear, and Liam's leg is wedged under his quite uncomfortably, but it's the most peaceful he's felt in a while. He never stops thinking about Louis, lying there looking so, so cold, and vows that, whenever Louis deems it appropriate to wake up, he's going to hold his hand and never let it go.
*
Often, all of them just sit there, spread on the window seat or the armchairs, holding Louis's hand sat on the carpet and kissing him on the forehead; wiping their faces when they think the others aren't looking. On Friday, Harry comes over with an overnight bag and stays up all night in the living room, trailing his eyes over Louis's deathly pale skin.
When the house is as quiet as it gets in the night, Harry lays his head down on his folded knees and cries. It's disgusting, really, all salty tears and snot, and he wastes an entire box of tissues while he tries to calm himself down. He's just so sick of it, is the thing. Sick of worrying constantly, and not sleeping, and of the black hole that expands in his chest a little more every time he looks up to Louis's eyelashes still resting on his cheeks. In his less rational moments, he's angry at Louis; angry at him for being dumb and heroic and trying to save Harry’s miserable existence.
It's a rollercoaster, and it's too much to keep inside, and so on Saturday, his second night with no sleep, he starts talking.
"Hey, Lou," he says as he crawls across the carpet, exhausted, and takes Louis's hand. It's as cold as it was back in the forest, the last time Harry had seen his eyes, and he misses them so badly it makes his voice cloy with tears all over again.
"You know what they say about coma patients? How they can hear what people tell them even though they're unconscious? I mean, I don't know if you're the same, maybe you're just sleeping off the poison, but if you hear me, I have something to say to you."
He takes a shaky breath, wiping his face. It feels like he hasn't stopped crying yet, not since an arrow punctured his bubble and brought down his entire world.
"If you can hear me, wake the fuck up. I swear, Lous, I'm—" he sobs, loud and desperate and not held back at all. "We all miss you. We—I miss you so much. It's so dull here without you, and I hate seeing you like this. You'd hate it, probably, you look horrible, mate."
He chuckles, watery and weak, and there's no conviction behind it, no joy the way there would be if Louis just opened his Goddamned eyes.
"You saved my life, you know?" Harry's voice softens, barely audible as he looks down at their intertwined hands, at Louis's limp fingers between his. "You—I don't know why you'd do that, really, I was annoying the shit out of you just a few weeks ago. You'd probably laugh in my face if I called you brave right now, but—well. I'm crying over you like we're in a soap opera, I reckon I'm allowed to say what I want. Unless you feel like waking up and talking to me, which you're welcome to do."
Silence answers him, and he's not surprised in the least. He wants to reach into Louis's mind, or his heart, wants to pull him out with sheer force of will.
"Louis, I—" he stops, again, and cries, still. Thinks that this is the best occasion, really, with nobody there to—to be. To sympathise with him and put a consoling hand on his shoulder, because it makes him feel selfish for wanting Louis back just as much as they do. "I just really want you back here with us. I want to see you laugh – I compared your laugh to fireworks in my head, once, did you know that? You get those crinkles around your eyes, like you're the happiest you could ever possibly be, even if I've just said something stupid."
"I've always wanted to meet someone who laughs at the giraffe joke," he huffs, remembering. He had finally fixed the garden swing on the back porch, touching the ground with just his tiptoes, swinging them back and forth, Louis's feet flying next to his completely off the floor. It had been like magic, making Louis laugh with a joke he'd made up as a fourteen-year-old. He'd felt himself fall a little, then, and he was powerless to stop it.
"And you owe it to me, you know. You owe it to me to wake up. I'm not done getting to know you yet," Harry smiles, runs a finger down the elegant slope of Louis's nose. "I'm not done cooking you a full English for dinner whenever you feel like it."
It's been raining outside for hours, big drops of rainwater pelting the windowpanes. It's the only sound in the room as Harry breathes, uselessly trying to compose himself.
"Just. Wake up, okay? For me. Am I allowed to ask for that?"
Louis's face is cold and impassive, but looking a little healthier where the orange light of the fire Harry's got going hits it just right. He doesn't answer.
Out of words, Harry bows his head, leaning his forehead against the rough fabric of the sofa by Louis's hip. The usual warmth that radiates off of him is muted, almost gone, and Harry wants to take those last pieces of it and cradle them close.
Louis's hand is still in his, veins on the inside of his wrist pulsing with life. Harry is too exhausted to hold on to consciousness for much longer. He makes himself get up, check on the front and back doors, turn off all the lights and make sure that Louis is as comfortable as he could possibly be. They've turned him on his back for the night, and Harry has an easy job pulling the blanket higher to cover his pale, naked shoulders. When he's done, he settles back down right by the sofa, head next to Louis's where his breath ruffles Harry's hair, alive; a reminder that Harry needs for when he inevitably wakes up from a nightmare.
He laces their fingers together again, letting himself be hypnotised by how right they feel, slotted together like this. When sleep starts clouding his brain, tuning out the sound of crackling wood without his permission, he sighs and gives in, bracing for the impact.
He's woken up hours later, fire gone out, but it's not a nightmare that has him jumping up in a panic. It's movement. The hand that's wrapped around Harry's is squeezing in staccato bursts, small muscle twitches. When he strains his hearing, Harry thinks he can hear Louis's heart pick up pace, and his sunken cheeks gain a little colour.
He gets up on his knees, turns around to touch Louis's face. He's not imagining it; it's warmer.
"Lou," he says, nothing more than a reverent whisper, and watches Louis's eyes start rolling in their sockets. Louis's eyelashes tremble, rise and fall back down, and it's the most movement Harry's seen in him through the entire week.
"Lou," he repeats, a little louder, hoping that maybe, if Louis is somewhere close to the surface, he might hear, might listen, might come back. "Hey, Louis, it's me."
Louis squeezes his hand, so tight Harry hears his own bones creak. Tears of pain spring into his eyes, but it's a good thing – Louis still having superhuman strength, even when unconscious, is a good sign.
As Harry kneels there with baited breath, nothing more happens. Louis's eyes calm down after a while, still and hidden beneath his eyelids again, and his taut muscles relax back to let his body sink into the cushions.
His skin is still warm, and a little blush has risen high on his cheeks. The hand that's still in Harry's doesn't let go.
*
Harry is jostled awake when Louis starts moving in earnest, like he's just waking up from a particularly long nap. His first instinct is to squeeze Louis's hand, groggy as he tries to wipe the fitful sleep out of his eyes, and it takes him a second to realise what's happening.
"Louis," he near gasps, free hand flying up to clamp over his mouth.
"Mmrf," Louis responds.
Harry feels like he's been standing underneath a tsunami wave for days now, unable to move and waiting in suspense until it crashes down on him and sweeps his entire world away. The feeling of watching Louis come out of his too-long sleep is the water, finally falling down, cold over Harry's head, drowning him and moving through his body with enough force to make him shake. It spreads down to the tips of his fingers, the cold, and it sets him ablaze with a flame that feels blue. He cries, or maybe it's just the water on his face.
"Louis," Harry rasps again, trying to hold his head above the water. "Hey."
In a gentle sweep Harry had thought he'll never see again, Louis's eyelashes rise. The shadows on his cheeks retract, making way for light as Louis opens his eyes. His gaze stays fixed on the ceiling for a while, pupils dancing wildly, and he looks frozen, like his body hasn't quite caught up.
"Har—" Louis starts, but his voice gets caught, and a dry cough racks his entire body. He looks so small, so gaunt and fragile, and Harry wants to shield him from the world.
"It's me," Harry says, his entire body trembling as he runs to the kitchen to get a glass of water. When he comes back, Louis is looking around, confused, eyes slow like he doesn't know where he is. Harry doesn't have time to worry about what the wolfsbane may have done to him; he needs to take care of Louis, make sure he's comfortable and settled and has everything he needs. He needs it for himself as much as he does for Louis.
"Here," Harry tells him softly, fingers wrapping gently around the back of Louis's neck, raising his head. "Drink this, you'll feel better."
Wordlessly, Louis feebly leans up on his elbows, and lets Harry bring the glass to his lips. Harry watches his Adam's apple bob as he drinks, tries to take all of Louis in at once. The fact that he's moving, slow but animated, makes Harry want to never stop crying.
Once the water is gone, Louis lies back down. His eyebrows perform an elaborate dance on his face, like he's trying out all his facial muscles, then he turns his head to look curiously at Harry. He looks a little like a small animal in the ZOO, bug-eyed and terrified of its surroundings.
"What the fuck happened to me."
Harry can't help it, he really can't, and he quickly wipes at his face as more tears fall when he grins at Louis. He hadn't fully realised before, how all-encompassing the emptiness had been, how much it was tearing him up inside, watching Louis prone and lifeless.
"Are you feeling okay?" he asks, resting his hands on the sofa, as close to Louis's body as he dares come right now.
Louis scrunches up his nose and wiggles his fingers. "I think so? I feel like I slept for a year."
"You slept for a week," Harry corrects, and observes the startled look on Louis's face.
"Seriously?"
Harry nods. "You had a lot of wolfsbane in you."
"Wolfsbane? What—" and then his entire face changes, mouth falling and settling into a thin line, brows furrowing above dark eyes. "Oh. Shit. Wow. That actually happened?"
Harry tilts his head, considering. "Yeah."
In a show of strength Harry wouldn't have thought him capable of, Louis puffs and huffs until he's sitting, leaning back against his pillows. He's looking at Harry the entire time, his eyes pleading, somehow.
"Harry," he whispers, saying something Harry doesn't understand.
"Yes?"
"Harry. Fuck. I—" he bows his head, hands running through his hair, frustrated. "Thank you." They're strong words, with worlds of meaning behind them, and Louis looks so genuine, so insistent as he stares straight through to Harry's soul.
"Thank you. You're the reason I'm here right now," and Harry needs to stop crying, he really does, but it seems like the only logical thing to do. His feelings are a hurricane, picking up speed and leaving confusion behind.
To his entirely genuine shock, Louis takes Harry's left hand in his, intertwines their fingers like it's the most natural thing in the world, and maybe it is. He shakes his head softly, a small smile on his face. "I meant what I said, you know. Back in the forest. You did such a great job looking after yourself, and I'm proud of you."
Harry's vision blurs. "Lou," he murmurs, and he doesn't know what he's doing, but. His face is buried in Louis's chest, somehow, and he's sobbing so hard he's shaking down to his bones. Louis is saying Harry's name softly above him, small hands running through Harry's hair, but he's just—so embarrassed. And so comfortable, and so, so happy.
Louis surrounds him, anywhere he turns. His scent is filling up Harry's nostrils, rubbing off on his clothes, and it feels like something is breaking, small cracks that run through Harry like spiderwebs. His heart hurts.
"Shh, hey, come on," Louis is saying, Harry realises when the sobbing tapers off into sniffles. His death grip on Louis's shirt loosens, but he doesn't let go, doesn't think he'll find it in himself to let go ever again.
"'M sorry," he mumbles where he's pressing his face against Louis like he can't believe he's real.
"No, love, it's okay, nothing to be sorry about," Louis sounds like he understands. Harry has a small, small hope, burning bright deep inside of him, that Louis just might. His hands are on Harry's cheeks, his neck, everywhere that's flushed and damp with tears, drawing gentle circles to soothe him. It works, and Harry settles down, breath by breath.
"Where is this coming from?" Louis asks, impossibly quiet, like he wants Harry to open up, to talk.
Harry shakes his head. "I was really scared."
Finally, he peels away, looking in shame at the big, wet blotches on Louis's shirt. He can't, won't meet Louis's eyes, and there's something fragile between them that he has trouble figuring out.
Louis's fingers snake along the sides of Harry's face, tilting his gaze up until he meets Louis's. His eyes are glistening, too. "I'm sorry I scared you."
"Not your fault," Harry sniffs, rubbing his aching nose with his sleeve. "I'm sorry for—this."
"Don't be," Louis says again, simple, and his hand finds Harry's. Harry feels so inexplicably close to him, now when he could just reach out and touch any part of him.
"Okay," Harry says. Louis rewards him with a smile, all canines and crinkles.
"Okay."
They sit in silence for a while, just looking at each other. Harry is looking because he can't quite believe what's just happened, and that Louis is alive, and that this is Harry's life. Louis has probably found something between Harry's teeth.
Eventually, Louis clears his throat.
"Um. I, uh, understand if you don't want to talk about this, but…" Harry squeezes his hand, a silent encouragement as well as a reminder. "What happened after I passed out?"
"Oh," Harry recoils a little with the icy slap of reality. "Not much. I, uh, I called Liam and Zayn and carried you a little ways up to the house."
"You carried me," Louis repeats, raising a skeptical eyebrow.
"Yeah," Harry says, a little defensive, a little playful.
"Harry, you were…" his gaze travels down Harry's body (and Harry flushes, yeah, whatever) to his side. "You had a broken arrow sticking out of you."
Harry shrugs. "Adrenaline."
"You idiot," Louis says, and it sounds so incredibly, irrepressibly fond, "You coud have killed yourself on the spot. You could have punctured a lung."
"But I didn't," Harry replies, holding fast and brave against Louis's imploring gaze. "And the boys said we got here just in time, so."
Louis raises a hand, small in Harry's periphery, and smiles at him the way he rarely ever does. His features are soft, almost blurred, like he's looking at Harry from behind a milky pane of glass. His fingers are small and nimble where they run over Harry's forehead, tangle in his hair and stop to cradle his face in dry, warm palms. For a few seconds that feel like years, Louis's blueblueblue eyes hold Harry's captive, a gaze that's filled with crackling electricity and overflowing with emotion. Harry wants to kiss him so badly it hurts.
What he gets instead is Louis leaning forward, eyes closed peacefully as he kisses Harry on the forehead and lingers. His lips are soft and crackled; they're the best thing Harry has ever felt.
When they pull away, something has changed between them for good. Harry feels it in the air around them, a shift in the atmosphere and in the way they look at each other, with things between them that only the other will ever know. It's a warm spring shower of rain where there was ice, a sunrise after a night that lasted for too long. It's familiar, and gentle, and so very welcome.
"So," Louis says, sitting up straighter and trying to work the kinks out of his back. "I'm assuming the others are having a jolly good time sleeping."
Before Harry can answer, there's a shaky voice coming from the doorway. "Not quite, dickhead," Zayn says, and Harry is not surprised to see his eyes brimming with tears. He still hasn't stopped crying himself.
"Zaynie-poo," Louis says, blinking exaggeratedly, but the smile that lights up his face is almost grotesque with how wide it is. Harry watches the crinkles etch themselves into his face as he shuffles to the side to give Zayn some space. He smiles at Harry gratefully, then crosses the living room in three steps and falls into Louis's arms.
Liam and Niall aren't far behind, brought downstairs by Zayn's swearing and Louis shouting affectionate nicknames. Somehow, they all dissolve into a sobbing mess, piled all over each other on the sofa with Louis on the bottom. Somebody's tickling him, and he's yelling right into Harry's face and gasping for breath; Zayn has a hand wedged in Harry's crotch, Niall is crying all over Harry's hair, and Liam is uselessly trying to kick them all off so he can check on Louis.
Soaked with tears and snot and love, Harry can't help thinking that this is exactly the way it's supposed to be.