HD 'Tyger, Tyger' domeveela Fest 2010

Title: Tyger, Tyger
Author: tigersilver
Pairing: Draco/Harry
Prompt #: 135
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 31,321+/-
Warning(s): AU; EWE; five years post-Hogwarts; minimal flangst; absolute crack; probable OOCness; distinctly higher survival rate for secondary characters & general lack of canon bloodshed. NC-17 for language and not-bestiality. No, really, it's not. Just a little furry 'round the edges, that's all.

Notes to Prompter:
Oh, wonderful winnett, the moment I read your prompts, I thought 'tigers!' and then when I added in the other requirements—'body transformations into something not typical, licking, snowflakes; scenario: the typical bonding veela mate thing complete with territorial nature, marking, almost animalistic protectiveness; squicks: submissive men, feminized men', I knew this must be not only 'tigers' but Siberian tigers. It was a blinding revelation, as if Dumbledore himself had handed me a lemon drop and said, 'Suck on this, Anon. It'll do the job.' Whether it did or not remains to be seen, but, gosh, I had a spiffing time penning it! I hope with all my heart it pleases you and the prompts you provided, winnett, to the utmost of its very poor ability.
Last but not least, a huge debt is owed to this wonderful fic,* by alaana_fair, which features tiger Animagus, and is one of the many worthy, deeply buried (in hyperbole) inspirations for my inexcusable bout of silliness. There are a great many other fantabulous fics referenced, plus cartloads of genuine H/D cliché, which is why, only halfway through, I realized this could only be crack and nothing earnestly serious or original.
Beta: lonerofthepack
Disclaimer: This piece of art or fiction is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros. Inc. No money is being made, no copyright or trademark infringement, or offence is intended. All characters depicted in sexual situations are above the age of consent.

*'Secret Heart' by alaana fair

Part One, Chapters 0-3: 'Roses Are Obviously Red, Git'

0

For once in his misbegotten life, Harry exulted, he'd landed on all four paws. The other Animagus was right fit—hotter than a blistering bonfire in Hades, to be blunt. All lean, defined muscle mass and perfect conformity to the classic Siberian profile, but with that rarest of Amur tiger coloring: snowy white with darkish thin stripes and eyes of the purest silver tinged blue. And male, oh, so gloriously male!

He must be a natural blonde, this other Wizard—like Malfoy, that pretentious twat—which was fortunate, really, as Harry had a marked 'thing' for blonde blokes, especially ultra-fit elegant ones with light-colored eyes. Leftover from his idiotic schooldays crush, no doubt, but Merlin, blondes were his weakness. Especially this one. He even smelt good.

Too, the other Wizard must be a very strong Animagus, because Harry never once glimpsed him reverting to his natural human form in all the two days he'd stalked him through the whip-thin birches and the pine scrub, waiting for the idiots at SOS to alert the poor fellow he'd been assigned a new partner. It was odd, in Harry's experience. Most Animagi he knew maintained their Transfigurations for only so long—hours, maybe, or a day or two at the most. Pettigrew had the sole exception. This gentleman—and he was one, considering the way he obsessively groomed himself, the ponce—was unusually gifted in the longevity of his form. And pretty, Harry had to admit, his green-gold eyes relentless on the white ghost barely visible upwind.

Very pretty. Sexy. Alluring. 'Come fucking hither', even. Harry fancied the arse off the chap and he might just take his Golden Boy chances and check this pretty boy out on a more personal level without waiting about for that damned SOS letter to be delivered—in Animagus form, naturally, so he wouldn't be mauled to death by accident.

I

…And this was not at all where he wished to be, Draco concluded fervently.

No, of course not. It was damnably cold, for one thing (not that he felt it, but the crystalline edge to the air would've burnt the sensitive insides of his nostrils had he been in his human form), and there was little to do in the Amur region (which wasn't true either, as there was now another Animagus in the vicinity and unfortunately a male at that, so there were of course the constant scuffles for territorial dominance and the pissing—and more pissing!— as well as the usual feline napping and the ritualized pacing of boundaries and all that other instinctual rot that went with Siberians in spades) but scuff about aimlessly till the next Owl from Pansy, Severus or Millie. All in all charity work was not what he'd been expecting when he trotted blithely into the London office of SOS those many months ago, looking for a good cause to visibly donate some of his indecent riches to. Urgently seeking, as well, a bolthole from the Press and his much-vaunted Veelism. But Draco wouldn't think too hard on that bit.

Every decently sized tree trunk for miles and miles had been torn up by that rogue Animagus bastard—like there were that many real trees, here in the bloody frozen wastelands of scrub and brush— and his nose! His poor bloody nose, scratched to pieces where the bastard had clawed it in passing—oh, the insult! His smooth and perfectly groomed flanks would be next if he wasn't sufficiently agile in avoiding the fuckwit and it wasn't as if the ninnies in charge of the fledgling SOS Organization had a surfeit of Animagus-trained Healers in their back pockets, readily available! And he was pants at Healing Charms for tigers; who knew if an Episky would even work on a Veela-Transfigured body? Draco hadn't dared, not wanting to expose himself any further than he seemed to be already, at the bleeding mercy of that great nasty git, day and night! He'd had to rely solely on his newfound genetic abilities to restore himself to his proper unmolested state and even that had occurred at a rate much slower than he'd expected, which was also unusual, as he was now set up to be only truly vulnerable to his 'fated' mate, as per the scads of Veela lore Parkinson had forced him to scan and digest. A tidbit which Draco also wasn't about to dwell on.

Still, Draco's personal pains and humiliations—and there were many, were he to recount them, beginning with that fateful robe fitting at Madame Malkin's—were an insult only to be overborne by the fact that the other male had several stone on him—and an equivalent number of inches, tip to tail! The git was broader than Draco at the shoulders and haunches and, worse than that, sported a vile, volatile disposition, meaner than a junkyard dog after midnight at times, plus a nearly visible chip on his scruff the size of a boulder about something—when he wasn't contrarily slobbering all over his unwilling opponent instead, rubbing whiskers, nipping sharp at Draco's handsome silver mane, even shoving him down muzzle first into the packed snow with all his considerable advantage in paw size and then lording it over Draco like some bully in the schoolyard!

Bloody schizo—just what Draco needed in a partner, not!

And, ugh! Orangey-gold with reddish stripes and the yellow-green eyes, the Animagus looked like every other common-garden variety of Siberian out there, hues frosted over and dulled with a muted sheen courtesy of the perpetual Ice Age of this Merlin-forsaken region's winter. The wanker was absolutely nothing special when it came to the species, either—no redeeming features whatsoever, not that Draco had actually seen any Amur tigers other than the two of the several females who were said to roam closely adjoining territories, and they were substantially smaller than both himself and his pestilential rival and obviously lacked this other male's superior abilities when it came to hunting boar and bear and deer.

Not only that—and as if that all weren't quite enough, thanks, being roughed up whenever his over-grown weed of a compatriot was feeling a tad tetchy or whatever—Draco's co-SOS Wizard hadn't the common courtesy to make himself known in any civilized manner, instead simply muscling in on Draco's region without so much as a by-your-leave. Oh, he'd leave a fresh kill somewhere in Draco's vicinity—rather like bringing a hostess gift on a call—but there'd been no formal 'How-d'you-do, I'm—' or 'Nice to meet you. My name is—'. Instead, Draco had learnt the asinine fellow was both a vetted Animagus and the last-moment emergency replacement for Miss Peony Grimshanks, his previously assigned paired monitor, only by way of a suspiciously vaguely worded SOS Owl he'd received nearly two full days after the great prat mauled him the first time.

Constant teasing and tormenting by the other tiger had followed that initial tumbling rush of an attack, until Draco was sure the sod must have some deeply disturbing psychological issues of his own, which was why he'd volunteered to be stationed out here in bloody nowhere with the rest of the bleeding-heart, do-gooder SOSers. A prickly Draco, hounded unmercifully and in an increasingly evil temper, had batted the unfortunate Organization messenger straight out of the air and nearly devoured it as a light snack, but then that was the instincts of a natural-born predator for you. And he was that, thanks to Great-Great-Granme're's highly unfortunate Russian ancestry.

Well…there was also the git's sparkle. Draco had to admit it existed, though he didn't care to think too deeply about it. Fact of the matter was, the other Siberian gave off this rather intriguing incandescence that no feline of Draco's acquaintance had ever displayed. Must be the Animagus Magic that caused it, though he'd never noticed any residual glitter hovering 'round his own beautiful hide when he'd Transformed, despite the Veela additions to his pureblooded genetics. Nor with Professor McGonagall either, when she'd demonstrated her tabby form for their class in Third Year. Nor with any other Animagus Draco was on speaking terms with, though there weren't all that many of those.

No, it was only this one, and it had to be, didn't it? A fit and healthy male Siberian specimen, with eyes more green than gold—just like that stupid Potter's—and right up Draco's nose all the fucking time, just when he was gagging for it. Just when his Veela form—got in one, a Siberian tiger—was also gagging for it, mate-wise. It was almost fucking February, time for the Amurs to get amorous. And the resultant highly animalistic level of attraction brought on by all this roughhousing about and offerings of extra protein was positively the last thing poor Draco needed, stuck out here in a perpetual deep freeze and forced to be well-nigh virginal for six whole months before arriving.

To remark that Draco Malfoy, mostly unwilling rookie volunteer for the Save Our Siberians! Organization and mutant Veela-in-hiding, was both irate and morose was to be stating the obvious. If only the damned authorities hadn't been so grimly determined to keep their monitors paired off for safety's sake, he'd be more than happy enough to slink about (lumber, really—Siberians were the largest of the large), snag the occasional prey beast, nap sporadically and keep a weather eye peeled for the real thing: the elusive Panthera tigris altaica. If only he'd just the usual Veela issues to contend with—feathers, beak, blue skin, overwhelming sex appeal—even that wouldn't be so bad, but no, he'd had to be a poncing pouf of a tiger—an endangered species, blast it—and an oddball albino one at that! It was a sodding death-knell to Draco's hopes to just get on with the crapshoot he called Life these days—find his Mate, shag his Mate, produce Malfoy Heirs with his extra-special Veela-ish powers—which was a nice perk, actually. But what self-respecting male Wizard worth his salt would ever want Draco when he was like this: gay as a blade and all Magical Beast-ly abnormal and weighing a mean 450 lbs. even on a no-carb diet? And how in Hades would he ever meet up his damned 'soulmate', whoever that might be, parked here in bloody backwoods Russia with nobody decent to shag for a thousand fucking miles?

If only he hadn't listened to Millie. The bint had a strongarm that should've been at the service of Ringling & Bro's European division years ago, impressing silly Muggles—instead she used it unmercifully in the guise of benefice on unsuspecting old Slytherin classmates and backed it up with Professor Snape's inimitable blessing on Draco's unwanted adventure into volunteer work. Oh, if only he'd just stayed closeted up in the Manor, and let his mother handle the intricacies of locating an appropriate mate.

But no, t'was not to be. Draco cursed his blasted lousy luck and yearned for midnight on the 14th of February, the end of his proscribed tour of duty and the first day of his triumphant return to civilized life—and shagging. Bloody, blissful shagging. Maybe he'd skive off to New York or Amsterdam instead of bothering with a Veela soulmate—at least overseas he wouldn't be so terribly well known to the infernal Press.

II

There weren't too many places one could escape to for privacy when one was a Hero with an already immensely huge public following. Fewer still if one had just been outed by a former classmate in delicto flagrante, trou' 'round his admittedly knobbly knees and mid-blow job in the Men's. His iconic green eyes were still reeling from the unending pop of flashbulbs; his much-photographed pate addled with a blur of randy and increasingly personal headlines. Still, Harry Potter was fairly sure Professor Snape had suggested this short working holiday in Siberia in February as a joke, however feeble. Pity that Parkinson had pleaded in all seriousness with him to fill in for a damned AWOL Animagus, batting damp lashes wildly and whinging soulfully about endangered species and how he, the Saviour, should help save them. Pity that Professor McGonagall had chimed in with her two pence about it being such a spiffing excellent idea, Harry going abroad at this uncomfortable time after the widespread revelation of his sexual preferences. Pity as well that SOS's preserve was possibly the only guaranteed Skeeter-free portion of Earth left available—and the only one blessedly empty of hordes of fans, sycophants, irate detractors and members of the Press trailing after him with cameras and microphones and Quik Quills 24/7, shouting out their lashings of intrusive questions, offensive offers of gratuitous sex and derogatory commentary. There were no subscribers to the Prophet, nor even the less-circulated but far more tolerable Quibbler in the vast Amur region; no great crushes of humanity all seeking a piece of Boy Hero—or Boy Hero's tail—there were no people at all. Scratch that—there were the very few other poor sods stuck out here selflessly monitoring Siberian tigers for the SOS, but short of the Gobi (and that was out because, well, because), this was one of the least populated places on Earth.

Except for bloody Malfoy.

Bloody attractive Malfoy, who pressed every button Harry had and then installed a few more red shiny ones on his mental dashboard marked 'Danger!' when Harry wasn't looking. Bloody fucking sexy-as-all-Hades Malfoy, who was fit as a man and fit as a Siberian, and the only Wizard male for mile upon trackless mile—eight hundred of them in their assigned territory, if their SOS nanny was to be believed—that he'd have any sort of contact with for the next month.

Bloody impossible Malfoy, whom Harry hadn't even recognized when he first come upon him out here, though he certainly should've, what with that mercury-striped white fur and those icy, sky-tinged eyes, so wondrously unusual—so very Malfoy. But, oh, Merlin, that arsewipe Malfoy was just so very, very alluring—there was really no other word to describe it. Well, 'shaggable' was one, or 'shaftable', or even the be-all and end-all of bloody knob-jockeys, but Harry wasn't quite accustomed to his own shift in preferences just yet, much less all the specific jargon that seemed to go with.

Merlin, as if life weren't difficult enough already! No wonder he'd mortified himself practically pouncing on the nasty little git, given his prior history. But he hadn't been able to stop himself for some reason—whom did he think he was fooling? There were a great many stellar reasons why he'd gone all gobstruck at the sight of that amazing white tiger, most of them dating back years. Most of them purely physical and relating solely to his cock. Now, Harry could only hurry along the days till his nominal volunteer shift was done with—then perhaps he would visit the Gobi. Or Antarctica. He'd heard penguins were amusing. But only after he'd murdered that git Snape for once and all.

And Parkinson. And bloody fuckable Malfoy, on principle.

But not Professor McGonagall, of course. She was pretty much indestructible—and inviolate.

Plus, she'd meant well.

III

"Tea, Severus?"

"Why, thank you, Minerva."

"Shortbread biscuit?"

"Don't mind if I do."

"Kippers?"

"Oh, yes."

Suitably anointed with the components of a proper Scots high tea, the two long-time compatriots got down to the business at hand: managing Harry and Draco.

"Any word from Potter, Severus?" the Head of Gryffindor and Hogwarts inquired politely after the requisite five minutes of polite sipping and nibbling had passed.

"As a matter of fact…" Snape smirked evilly. There was a certain pleasure in torturing Potter, even if it was from a distance. Even if the boy had somehow managed to insinuate himself in Snape's stingy good graces over the last few years. Potter was still Potter, although 'Harry' had matured into a somewhat more tolerable young man. Barely.

"I have. He's quite annoyed with me. And Miss Bulstrode. And, for that matter, the entirety of his current circumstances."

"Hmm. No doubt there'll be some period of adjustment. Have he and young Malfoy run across one another yet?" There was another lost little lamb to watch over: Draco Malfoy, almost-orphan and reformed cad, newly outed Veela and, from all accounts, a right mess. Except his parents were hale and hearty and his Veeladom had long been suspected. Still a cad, though admittedly charming.

It was more than fortunate that she and Severus still had some influence extending beyond the walls of Hogwarts. Particularly over the Parkinson-funded, Bulstrode-managed Save Our Siberians! Organization, the party responsible for the protection of the highly endangered and crucial-to-the-Wizarding-Women's-cosmetic-industryP. tigris altaica.

How quaint that it should be that genuine Siberian tiger urine served as a base for such well-known beauty aids as Sibylline© Wrinkle-Free™ and the Wizarding divisions of Lauder's and Lancôme's feminine age-concealment products? How serependitious was it that the Parkinson fortune was in large part now based on the wholesale trade of such an important base ingredient as Siberian tiger urine? And how delightful had it been to discover dear Severus still had some considerable sway over the doings of such bright young things as Miss Parkinson and her friend Millicent Bulstrode, the latter now the Managing Director of SOS? Little Millie had always had such an ability to manage—and young Malfoy practically cried out for it.

It was a plan conceived in haste, of course, and cobbled together in a twinkling, but still Minerva liked to think of it as a stroke of genius, worthy of dear Albus, may he rest in Avalon. Two young men, both hounded unmercifully by the Press, both of the 'alternative' lifestyle persuasion and both in desperate need of some real honest-to-Merlin companionship, unencumbered with Hero worship and Veela glamour. Both sporting signs of lingering mutual adolescent crushes desperately visible to heads older, wiser and sadly much greyer than theirs.

What could be more obvious than throwing them together in some isolated location and letting old Mother Nature take her course?

TBC…

NB: This fic is completed. This is even more beta'd version, posted in bits to allow for loo breaks in between. The fic is a MONSTER and will eat all your spare time.