How the fuck did I get here?
That was the only thought running through Harry Potter’s mind as he tripped over yet another branch in some unnamed forest. Behind him, he could hear the jeering of his attackers as a group of New Death Eaters all bit herded him toward a destination he wasn’t allowed to know in the middle of a dark, thick forest.
He probably should have known, but it had been hard to keep his bearings while blindfolded and tied up on the back of a broomstick.
Harry stumbled over another rock, pitching forward enough that he landed hard on his hands and knees, palms opening under the rough terrain as he tried to ease his fall. Not for the first time, he cursed the fact that he hadn't bothered to learn wandless magic. He had the power thanks to the Elder Wand, but the drive had never been there.
Too late for regrets. Harry picked himself back up and continued his dash through the trees. He knew he couldn't keep up his pace forever, but it wasn't in him to just give up. He hadn’t when fighting Voldemort, and he wouldn't now that he was an Auror.
A howl rose through the silence and Harry stumbled to a stop, bloodied hands catching himself on a tree.
Oh.
Of course.
That was probably why he had been brought here. There was one forest in the world where the werewolves had moved to after the war and the ministry left them alone as long as they didn’t attack anyone in the nearby villages. It was a compromise that took months to happen, helped along by Harry and the cooperation of Fenrir Greyback. Most didn’t trust the feared werewolf, but Harry knew better. Harry knew what the man was holding close.
He found himself smirking before turning to face his captors, no longer afraid. Some looked confused as they closed in on him, but their leader just looked smug. Asshole.
"Finally get tired, Potter?" he asked, wand held out in front of him. "Ready to face your doom?"
"Mighty boring doom," Harry said casually. "Werewolves were your play?"
"It is a full moon. Oh, and look! Your robes are red... I hear they like that color."
"Little Red Riding Hood," another said with a laugh. "Caught and eaten by the big bad wolf."
That had made absolutely no sense and Harry couldn't help but laugh. “That’s pathetic.”
“We aren’t the ones who will die tonight,” the leader snapped. He raised his wand. “They will come for you.”
Harry shook his head. "I wouldn't throw me to the wolves if I were you."
"And why is that?"
Another howl sounded, closer this time. Harry raised his chin. "They come when I call."
Harry let out a sharp whistle before saying a single name, hoping that he was right.
Fenrir.
-----
It all started the moment Harry’s name fluttered out of the Goblet of Fire. Searing pain tore through his hip and he was so distracted by trying to see what burned him that he actually didn't hear his name the first time Dumbledore called it across the room. It was only when Hermione shoved him that Harry realized what was going on and had his fate sealed.
Later, alone in the showers, he was able to get a look at his hip. Almost like a black brand, a handprint with what looked like claw marks going diagonal across it sat proudly on his skin. Confused didn't begin to cover what he felt, so Harry had turned to the only person he knew that would know - or find out - what the hell happened.
And that was how Hermione Granger introduced Harry to soul marks.
Soul marks began appearing on a wizard after they reached their majority. Or, in Harry’s unlucky case, whenever the wizard was legally marked an adult. As the tournament contract stated only of-age participants would be allowed, Harry was now considered an adult.
What fun.
The soul marks only appeared if both parties were of age, so that at least told Harry his partner was older. Since no student came forward to claim themselves (it would be obvious it didn't happen overnight right?), Harry assumed his partner was an actual adult and out of Hogwarts.
More fun.
Remus had been Harry’s first thought since it looked to be the claw marks of a wolf. He had seen plenty of examples on the shack walls, but none of them came close to exactly what seared onto his leg. Hermione said it mattered, but that only made Harry wonder what his symbol looked like. Would it be obvious it belonged to Harry Potter?
Either way, Remus confirmed later that his soul mark had been on his lower back since he turned seventeen. When Harry told Remus why he was asking, the werewolf grew quiet before excusing himself and disappearing for a few days. Harry never asked where he went, but he had a suspicion that Remus knew who had Harry’s mark.
Harry would find out later, as he camped in the forests on the run from Voldemort, just who his match was. Standing on one side of Hermione’s barrier, listening to Fenrir Greyback simply insist he couldn’t smell them, was enough proof. When the wolf turned to lock eyes with Harry before disappearing, well, Harry figured he might as well roll with it since life liked to throw oddities at him.
After the war, when the Ministry began to round up the Death Eaters, Harry was openly approached by the man. Kingsley raised his wand, but Harry shook his head, letting the werewolf say his peace. Fenrir simply apologized and asked for mercy when dealing with his kind.
“Were have been persecuted for being what we are,” he had said. “We did what we needed to do to survive the war.”
Harry understood that at least, though he knew public opinion wouldn’t agree. It was a hard political battle, only helped because Fenrir allowed himself to be arrested until the agreement came into place.
The mark on Fenrir, the now-familiar symbol of the Deathly Hallows with Harry’s familiar scar down the center, was never exposed to anyone but Harry himself. Harry saw it late one night when it was just the two of them. With the cell bars between them, Fenrir lifted his shirt and exposed his side.
“I am yours,” he told Harry as the young wizard stared. “I understand you are not mine, but this I can promise you. If you need me, I will come.”
At the time, Harry knew Fenrir was right. He didn’t belong to the werewolf, couldn’t think about letting someone like that have him, but the words always stayed with him.
Even now, years later, the words stayed. And Harry was glad to use them.
Fenrir’s name barely escaped his lips before he felt he felt the brush of fur race past him. Two wolves snarled and tackled the nearest wizards, jaws closing around their flesh. They were barely able to scream before more wolves joined the fray -- but not the one Harry called.
A cold nose nudged against Harry’s hand before a tongue darted out to lick the blood away from his cuts. Harry felt himself smile and he looked away from the carnage in front of him to focus on the massive white wolf at his side. Even though he had never seen Fenrir in wolf form, he knew exactly who stood next to him. It could be nobody else.
“Thank you,” he said as the last of the screams died down. “I’m sorry it took me so long.”
Fenrir’s tail wagged back and forth before he reached his head forward to nudge Harry’s stomach. Harry found himself laughing at the gesture and he leaned forward to place a kiss to the top of the fuzzy head.
“I’ve been an idiot and I’m sorry. Take me home?”
If only a wolf could grin. Instead, Fenrir sat back on his haunches and howled loudly into the night. The others soon followed suit and Harry had never felt safer than he did at that moment.