Bitter Moon

Draco sat on the edge of the bed, his hands trembling as he braced them against his knees. Every breath he took was too loud, every beat of his heart a deafening roar in his ears. The heightened senses were unbearable—his own body betraying him, amplifying every sound, every scent, every flicker of light. Even the faded wallpaper seemed sharper, its once-muted patterns twisting and shifting under his strained gaze.

He dug his nails into his palms, trying to ground himself, but all it did was remind him of the claws he knew were waiting to emerge. He hated it. Hated the wolf, hated the vulnerability, hated that he didn’t know how to control any of it.

A knock at the door snapped him out of his spiraling thoughts.

“What?” Draco snapped, his voice harsher than he intended.

The door opened, and Harry stood in the doorway, arms crossed and an unreadable expression on his face.

Draco’s heightened senses flared, catching everything in sharper detail. The sharp tang of mold lingered in the air, but beneath it was something else—something distinctly Potter. It was warm and clean, like rain-soaked earth and the faintest trace of something sweeter. The scent clung to Harry, grounding and infuriatingly comforting all at once. Draco froze for a split second, unnerved by the unexpected pull it had on him. He clenched his jaw and shoved the thought aside, refusing to dwell on why it made his wolf instincts settle, even briefly. This was Potter, for Merlin’s sake, not some balm for his frayed nerves.

“You’re eating less,” Harry said bluntly.

Draco sneered. “Observant as ever, Potter. Perhaps you’d like to write that in a report for the Order?”

Harry ignored the jab. “I’m serious. You’re pale, and you look like you haven’t slept in days.”

“Maybe because I haven’t,” Draco shot back. “But don’t let me interrupt your fascinating insight into my health. Have you considered a career in healing?”

Harry’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, it seemed like he was going to argue. But then, to Draco’s surprise, he took a step inside the room.

“What do you need?” Harry asked, his voice low and wary.

Draco blinked, caught off guard by the question. He opened his mouth to fire off another sarcastic retort but stopped himself. He was too tired to keep up the act.

“I need to talk to Lupin,” Draco said finally, his voice quieter. “I don’t know what’s happening to me. I’d like to be prepared.”

Harry hesitated, his green eyes narrowing as if searching for some hidden angle in Draco’s request. “Why should I trust you with him?”

Draco’s temper flared, and he shot to his feet, his fists clenched. “Because I don’t trust myself, Potter! Or haven’t you noticed that I’m one full moon away from turning into a monster?”

The silence between them was thick and tense. Finally, Harry nodded. “Fine. I’ll bring him over. But if you try anything—”

“Save your threats,” Draco interrupted, collapsing back onto the bed. “I’m not in the mood.”

-

Draco paced the small room, his steps uneven and sharp against the creaky floorboards. The confinement grated on him, a constant reminder of how little control he had. The walls seemed to close in, heavy with the knowledge of what was happening to him.

His heightened senses picked up everything: the distant murmurs of conversation somewhere below, the faint hum of magic reinforcing the door that kept him locked away, and the steady rhythm of his own breath, which felt like a shout in the silence.

He hated it. All of it.

Draco slumped onto the edge of the bed, running a hand through his hair. His reflection in the cracked mirror on the far wall caught his attention. Pale, hollow-eyed, with a sharpness in his features that hadn’t been there before.

The wolf wasn’t just restless—it was relentless, its thoughts fixated in a way that made Draco’s stomach churn. It was Potter. Always bloody Potter. Every time the idiot walked into the room, the wolf perked up, alert and eager like a dog waiting for its master. And the scent—Merlin help him—the scent was the worst part. He dedicated hours trying to pinpoint the exact flavour of it. It wasn’t just Potter’s soap or the faint musk of his skin. It was something deeper, something primal, a pull Draco couldn’t ignore no matter how hard he tried. It disgusted him, terrified him. Why Potter? Why the one person he couldn’t stand? His fingers tightened on the mattress as the wolf growled low in his mind, not in anger, but in yearning. Draco felt his control slipping, and the sheer absurdity of it nearly sent him spiraling. Get it together, Malfoy. It’s Potter, for Salazar’s sake. This is not happening. But the wolf didn’t care. It never did.

A knock at the door startled him. Speaking of the devil…

“What now?” he muttered, rising to his feet.

The door cracked open, and Lupin stepped inside. Harry stood behind him in the hallway, his expression cautious as he locked eyes with Draco. “I’ll wait outside,” Harry said to Lupin. Then, with a final glance at Draco, he shut the door.

Draco crossed his arms. “So, I’m allowed visitors now? How generous of you all.”

Lupin gave a small, tired smile as he took a seat on the chair by the desk. “I thought it might help to talk.”

Draco snorted. “Let me guess. You’re here to tell me that being a werewolf is just a minor inconvenience. That it’s all in my head.”

Lupin leaned forward slightly, his voice calm. “I’m here because I understand what you’re going through. And because you asked for help.”

The remark stung more than Draco cared to admit. He looked away, his jaw tightening. “Fine. Start talking, then. What happens next? Am I supposed to howl at the moon, or do I just wait for the bloodlust to kick in?”

“It’s not as simple as that,” Lupin said. “The transformation only happens during the full moon. At least until you gain the skill to transform at will. But the heightened senses, the emotional volatility, those are things you’ll have to learn to live with. They never really go away.”

Draco scoffed. “So I’m supposed to ‘live with’ feeling like I’m coming apart at the seams? That’s comforting.”

“It gets easier,” Lupin said gently. “Wolfsbane potion can help during the full moon. It won’t stop the transformation, but it will let you keep your mind.”

“Great,” Draco said dryly. “So I’ll be fully aware while my body tears itself apart. Can’t wait.”

Lupin’s gaze remained steady. “It’s better than the alternative. Trust me.”

Draco faltered, something in Lupin’s voice making him pause. He shifted uncomfortably. “I feel like I’m losing control every second. I hear things I shouldn’t. Smell things I don’t want to. It’s maddening. What about… the rest of it? The anger, the…” He gestured vaguely, struggling to find the right words.

“The instincts,” Lupin finished for him. “They’re part of you now. You’ll need to learn how to control them, to separate what’s you from what’s the wolf.”

“And how exactly do I do that?” Draco demanded.

“It takes time,” Lupin admitted. “But it starts with self-awareness. You’ll have to know your limits, recognize when you’re about to lose control, and step back before it happens.”

Draco hesitated before bringing up the one that had been nagging at him. “So, about these… heightened senses,” he began, trying to sound casual. “The smell thing—it’s more than just picking up on regular things, isn’t it? You… associate people with certain scents?”

Lupin raised an eyebrow, his expression thoughtful. “Yes, that’s common,” he said. “Scents can carry a lot of meaning for us. Familiarity, comfort, even attraction. It’s all heightened. Why?” Draco waved a hand dismissively. “No reason. Just curious.” But the uncomfortable twist in his stomach returned, and he quickly changed the subject.

For a moment, Draco said nothing. Then he looked up, his expression a mix of defiance and vulnerability. “I don’t want this,” he said quietly.

“I know,” Lupin said, his voice gentle. “But you have it. And the way you handle it will define who you are—not the wolf.”

Lupin rose, nodding once to Draco before leaving the room. Draco didn’t move as Harry locked the door behind him, sealing him back in solitude.

-

Draco paced the small room like a caged animal. He told himself he wasn’t restless—he was simply bored. That was all. Not the wolf clawing at the edges of his consciousness, frustrated by confinement and lack of stimulation. Not the rising tension in his chest that he couldn’t shake. No, it was boredom.

Meals had been appearing at regular intervals—silent and impersonal, left just outside the door when he wasn’t looking. At first, he assumed Potter had finally learned some semblance of tact, but the longer the day stretched on without so much as a snide remark or a glower through the crack of the door, the more certain Draco became that Potter wasn’t here at all.

He pressed his forehead against the cold glass of the window, staring at the same dreary London street he’d been staring at for days. His reflection glared back at him, pale and worn, the shadows under his eyes deeper than ever. Being locked up was bad enough, but the wolf inside him chafed at the confinement. It was like an itch under his skin, a constant, restless energy that no amount of pacing could settle.

And then it hit him.

The smell.

Metallic, sharp, and fresh.

His head snapped up, his nostrils flaring as the tang of it saturated the air. It carried on the faintest breeze seeping through the cracks in the old house. Draco’s heart began to race, his wolf stirring with violent intent.

The scent intensified, curling around his senses like a chain. His mouth went dry as the wolf surged to the forefront of his mind, snarling and clawing at his control. Potter. It had to be Potter’s blood. The wolf was certain of it, a relentless mantra pounding in Draco’s head: Fight. Keep him safe.

“Potter!” Draco yelled, his voice hoarse and raw as he banged on the door. His hands trembled as he threw his weight against it, the wolf howling in frustration at the barrier. “Potter, what the hell is going on?”

There was no answer, only the sound of his own ragged breathing and the furious thud of his heart. The smell was driving him mad, each inhalation feeding the wolf’s frenzy. He banged on the door again, harder this time. “Open the bloody door! I know you’re hurt! Potter, answer me!”

The minutes dragged on like hours until he heard it: footsteps on the stairs, slow and hesitant. The sound of the doors unlocking was almost deafening in the stillness. Draco stumbled back as the door creaked open, revealing Potter standing there, pale and disheveled, his wand in hand, his expression wary. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he asked, irritation clear in his voice.

Draco didn’t answer immediately. His eyes darted over Potter, scanning for injuries. There was no blood on him—at least, not his own. The realization didn’t calm the wolf. Instead, it left Draco trembling with a volatile mix of relief and rage. “Where were you?” he demanded, his voice rough, barely controlled. “Are you hurt?”

Harry’s eyes narrowed, his frustration evident. “I’m fine. And it’s none of your bloody business. Why are you shouting like a lunatic?”

Draco’s hands clenched into fists as he tried to steady his breathing. “The blood,” he spat. “I could smell it. I thought you got injured!”

Harry blinked, his expression shifting from irritation to realization. “It’s Ron,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “He got splinched. Hermione’s patching him up downstairs.”

The words barely registered. Draco was still reeling, his body trembling as the wolf’s instincts clawed at his mind. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to smell blood like that and not know? To think—” He cut himself off, shaking his head violently.

Harry frowned, stepping closer. “Why are you—” He stopped mid-sentence, his eyes narrowing as he took in Draco’s state. The sweat on his brow, the tremor in his hands, the barely contained wildness in his gaze. “What the hell is going on with you?”

Draco let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “What’s going on with me?” he echoed, his voice rising. “I’m a bloody werewolf, Potter. That’s what’s going on. My wolf reacted to the scent, and I couldn’t stop it. It’s like—it’s like trying to fight against your own skin. The more I tried to control it, the worse it got.”

Harry’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t interrupt.

“And this,” Draco continued, gesturing around the room, “this isn’t helping. You can’t just keep me locked up like this. The wolf… it wants out. It wants freedom. Every second I’m stuck in here, it’s getting harder to hold it back.”

Harry’s expression darkened. “So, what? You want me to just let you roam around the house? Around Hermione and Ron? Are you insane?”

“I won’t kill your precious sidekicks!” Draco snapped, his voice breaking on the last word. “But you don’t understand what it’s like. The wolf doesn’t care about your bloody rules, Potter. It’s not just in my head—it’s in my blood, in my bones. It’s tearing me apart!”

For a moment, neither of them said anything. The tension hung in the air like a storm about to break.

Harry finally exhaled, his shoulders sagging slightly. “I… I can’t deal with this right now,” he said, his voice quieter. He stepped back toward the door, his eyes darting between Draco and the threshold. “I’ll… we’ll figure something out. Just—fucking calm down, okay?”

Draco glared at him, but there was no real heat behind it. “Easier said than done, Potter,” he muttered as the door closed and the lock clicked back into place.