Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“It’s not physical, Draco.”

“But...It has to be.”

“No, it doesn’t.” The Healer sighs, placing the papers down on the desk between them. “We discussed this being a possibility, given what you’d outlined to us as the problem in your first appointment, your symptoms. Your pre-existing…condition.” He folds his hands, delicately, rubs at an ink smudge on his knuckle. He smiles, and it’s meant to be kind, understanding. Draco’s lip curls, his fists clenching.

“It has to be something physical.”

“Oh, don’t bare your teeth at me.” The Healer laughs, and Draco wishes he could remember his name so he could curse it. “No, we’ve got the results of last night’s examination, and all physical function is perfectly normal,” he smiles again, the patronising fucker, “which means the cause of your problem is mental.” He taps the side of his head with one finger, as if Draco might not understand what he’s saying, and Draco is ready to snap. He was ready before he sat down in this sterile and medicinally bland room and Mr I Think You’re a Dumbarse is not helping.

“So,” the Healer continues, fixing Draco with his soft brown gaze, “it is now my pleasure to refer you to someone else, who can help you with this situation.”

He hands Draco a card, small and embossed with a name and floor, and before Draco can reply he’s ushering him out the door and into the elevator.

“Mind Healer,” Draco reads unhappily when he arrives at his floor, as he stands in front of the white door. “Fucking hell. This is not what I came here for.”

He turns and is about to leave, when he stops. He thinks of Pansy’s worried face as she made him swear to find out what was wrong with him, after he passed out in the shop’s small bathroom in summer. He thinks of the heavy bags under his eyes, the sleepless nights, the worsening fatigue. He thinks of his mother, urging him to take care of himself, even though she doesn't really understand, and still tears up whenever she remembers what he is now. It’s hard for her, born and raised with the idea of blood purity as being so important, and precious, to reconcile that with what her son is now. She still hasn’t really come to terms with what Fenrir did to him. His father can’t even say the word out loud, his lips pursing on the ‘we ―’ before they pinch together, as he stares into his drink and they all change the subject.

Sometimes, Draco suspects he hasn’t really come to that good a terms with it himself, but he’s still miles ahead of the pair of them. It’s less easy to pretend it doesn't exist, he supposes, when he’s staring up at the moon longingly and downing a pint of Wolfsbane each month. It’s been nearly eight years, after all.

It’s even harder to ignore when he has to deal with the urges ― the ruts ― that happen four times year, like sweaty, randy clockwork. The last one was the worst he’s had yet, the aftermath taking him off work for a week, and leaving him unfortunately unable to hide how unwell he was from Pansy. The downside of working with his best friend, he knows now, after nearly three months of her pestering him to get properly checked out. After she threatened to tell his mother how sick he really was, Draco finally caved. He’s due for another rut in a fortnight, and perhaps the Healers can give him something to knock him out, so he can hibernate through this one. Hello Autumn, he thinks wryly. It always used to be his favourite season.

Regardless, loitering in a hallway at St Mungo's like a pilchard isn’t helping matters. Draco puffs his cheeks out, turning on his heel and taking the three steps back to the Mind Healer’s door. He raps on it sharply.

She’s nicer than he expects.

“Draco, is it?” The Mind Healer extends one hand, and he shakes it. “Take a seat. My name is Olivia,” she introduces once he’s sat down on the chair opposite her. There are no desks in here, in an attempt at informality, and the windows are open, potted plants on the sills and standing by a far wall. It’s bright, and comforting, and Draco doesn’t like it, the smell of Autumn’s arrival wafting in through the open windows and making him antsy.

“You’ve been referred to me from Healer Fitzpatrick,” she says, looking into his file and nodding as she reads. “How did you find him?” she asks.

“Horrible,” Draco replies honestly, and she nods again without looking up.

“Yes, he’s got the bedside manner, as we say, of a troll.” She meets his eyes, smiling sharply and Draco wonders if this is an empty attempt at currying favour, at earning his trust before she gleans his dark and humiliating secrets, but it doesn’t seem like that. He finds he quite likes her, even though her office is too bright and cheerful, and the fact that there is a Self-Inking Quill poised to scratch out her analysis on the parchment on her small table to the left. He lets himself smile, wanly.

“Yeah, total prick,” he mumbles, sitting back in his chair. “So, what’s wrong with me?” he asks bluntly before he can get too comfortable. He feels tired, not well rested, even after a night spent in St Mungo’s magical sleep lab as they took his magical readings, and then deduced, annoyingly, that he was fighting fit. He’s frustrated by the morning he’s wasted with this Fitzpatrick fellow, the smarmy git.

“You lost consciousness in a bathroom at your place of work last season,” she replies equally as bluntly, marking something off on his chart, and Draco is suddenly reminded of Pansy. He frowns.

“No.” His frown deepens at her raised brow. “Well, yes, but it wasn’t as bad as you make it sound, I just ― ”

“And again, in spring, and three months before that. After the turn of each season,” she says pointedly as she taps at the page with a short and brightly painted ― fuschia ― nail. “It says you were dizzy, disorientated and non-responsive when you were brought in, requiring IV fluids and overnight observation, before you discharged yourself.”

“Yes,” Draco smiles, but it feels like more of a confused grimace, “because I was feeling better.”

“And before? In what way were you unwell?” She flicks him a piercing look. “Did something happen during your rut?”

Draco shifts against the soft black leather of the chair, unwilling to answer. She knows anyway, it’s in his sodding chart. “I don’t see how the events at the turn of the seasons,” he licks his lips, feeling a flush of embarrassed colour spread over his cheeks, “are really pertinent here.”

“No. But I do.” She puts the chart down, fixing him with a keen look. “It’s all connected.” She folds he hands over her lap. “Which brings us to the matter at hand. And, I’m afraid, some rather personal questions.”

They are both silent for a long moment: the Mind Healer, searching Draco’s face, and Draco, unsure of what the hell he should say. He doesn’t like being stared at.

“Do you have any trouble achieving orgasm?” she asks, soft and abrupt.

“Merlin.” Draco looks at her, then away again quickly. “No, that. That’s all fine.”

“Good.” She hums. “And when was the last time you were sexually active with another person?”

Draco folds his arms, unfolds them again. “Not recently,” he replies defensively.

“How long ago is not recently?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

“Fine, bloody ―” Draco runs a hand over his jaw, as he thinks, his face heating. “I think, roughly ten months.”

“And your partner,” Olivia crosses her ankles neatly, one behind the other, “were they lycanthrope, or ―”

“Human?” Draco interrupts with a sneer.

“That wasn’t what I was going to say,” she replies, her voice carefully even, devoid of emotion. But Draco can see that she’s taken note of that response. The Self-Inking Quill scratches something furiously against the parchment and he stares at it, balefully.

Unresolved issues regarding transformation, he imagines it might say, resentment towards magical medical personnel and terminology. Really, any Mind Healer worth their salt shouldn’t be surprised by that, though. After the slew of bites and recently turned werewolves, that were left after Greyback and his companions’ rampage after the war and before they were captured, wizarding kind had to adapt to a significantly increased lycanthropic population. They had gone from a small and mostly ignored minority, to a...well, larger and now mostly accepted and supported minority, but that came slowly, and there are still many pockets of society who were reluctant to get on board with that, with accepting the newly bitten and turned. It seemed the older, the purer the blood a person perceived they were in possession, and the less association they wanted to have with those in possession of a lycanthropic problem.

Draco being turned was a slap in the face to his parents ― and a deliberate one from Greyback, at that ― and had all but ostracised the Malfoys from the self-declared eliter parts of society. Draco didn't mind; he wanted nothing to do with them, anymore, and if those who had quietly supported He Who Must Not be Named with their silence wanted to now shun Draco, he was all the gladder for it. It wasn’t as if his family was on high society’s Christmas card list anyway, after their actions in the war, as Draco had once yelled in his father’s face during a particularly bad post-bite fight. He’d busted his stitches, during that one, he recalled, the large wound on his side splitting open as he threw his glass at the wall. His mother had all but pulled him to bed, after that, glaring wordlessly as Lucius’s stunned and silent face.

His father hadn’t brought it up again, at least, Draco’d thought with wry pleasure as he’d let his mother redress his ribs. Merlin, everything about Greyback had to be over the top; even his bite wounds took forever to heal, resisting even the sturdiest of healing spells. His mother was quite deft at them, though, and proved marvellously resilient as well when Draco participated in an interview with the Prophet about werewolf rights, and their place in society. He’d hated every second of it, but he felt he ought to at least try and do something to make life a little easier for those who, like him, had been affected ― just in case anyone out there might be listening. The words I am not a coward, became his mantra as he answered question after question, as he made himself do this one brave thing, as he ignored the sting of the healing teeth marks in his side.

Just one brave thing.

“Are you trying to read my notes?” Olivia asks, snapping Draco back to attention.

“Yes,” he admits, trying to wrongfoot her with the truth. It doesn’t quite work.

“I’m afraid they won’t make sense, unless you know Magi-wizard shorthand.” Her smile is tight, professional, but her eyes are glinting with humour.

“They were not turned,” Draco says quietly after a moment, too tired to keep up his glaring match with the quill. “My last sexual partner.”

“And your ruts?” She asks, gently adjusting her glasses. “How many would you say you have a year?”

Dracos’s jaw tightens, as he slides a little lower in his chair. “The normal amount.”

“Seasonal?”

Draco nods.

“And what do you do during them?”

Draco looks up sharply, then shrugs, pursing his lips.

“You do nothing?” She furrows her brow, but her expression isn’t surprised. It’s all in his charts; she’s just teasing the information out of him. “Management is important, Draco.”

“I manage them,” he says, defensively, and he knows it’s only half of a lie. “I take the prescribed potions, and I wait them out, what else am I supposed to do?”

“You need to knot, Draco.”

The room is filled with sudden, thick silence, as Draco tenses. “I can’t do that,” he says hoarsely. “Which you know, because it is in that sodding chart I filled in yesterday, along with every other detail of my personal life down to, I don't know, my favourite bloody colour!”

“You can’t knot, or you refuse to?”

“Can’t!” he snaps. “But that’s not why I’m here, getting those tests, which are all useless anyway because Healer Fits-prick found nothing wrong with me ―”

“Physically, nothing is,” Olivia confirms. “The symptoms are physical yes, but the cause is not. Physically, you are quite healthy. Mentally and magically, on the other hand?” She looks at him seriously. “That, I believe, is the source of the malady.”

Draco inhales, shutting his eyes and trying to steady his racing heart. Frustration, anger, and a just a little bit of I told you so! from his inner Pansy mingle inside him as admitting out that doing that one basic thing that all Alphas do ― knot their partners ― is something he is incapable of.

“Draco. As an Alpha, you need to knot. The emotional, hormonal and chemical release is important for all aspects of your well being ―”

“Look,” he interrupts, moderating his tone, “that’s all well and good, but it just doesn’t happen.” He leans forward. “It has never happened, with anyone, or not since ―” He breaks off, then looks away, flushing slightly. Olivia's eyes narrow.

“Not since...?” she prompts, staring at him intently from behind her wire-framed glasses. “What about on your own?” She glances back at the chart sitting open next to her. “You were turned at seventeen, sexually mature. You would have presented immediately, the change of the seasons affecting you as it does all werewolves. So, something….happened?”

Draco’s mouth presses into a tight line, and he folds his arms across his chest, crosses one leg over the other.

“Yes,” is all he replies, refusing to elaborate. He doesn't want to talk about the night at the Manor, the sweat, the fever he’d woken up with, the pain in his side and the wonderful throb between his legs. Most of all, he doesn’t want to remember the blind panic he’d felt when it happened, when he’d slipped his hand down beneath his sheets and wrapped his fingers around his cock, and then around ― that.

As if he hadn’t felt like enough of a freak, like damaged and inhuman goods, already.

“I can tell by your face that you don’t enjoy recalling this,” Olivia says, pouring a stream of Aguamenti water into the tall glass by Draco’s left side.

“It’s fine,” Draco lies. “It happened once,” he confirms, “but hasn’t happened since. It doesn’t happen,” he emphasises. By the time he’d come to terms with his new status as a werewolf, his cock, it seemed, had lost all interest in knotting. Rut, no rut, it didn’t matter; it never happened.

Olivia hums thoughtfully

“I’ve had partners,” Draco goes on to say, running a hand through his hair in frustration, “wolf, non-wolf, Omega, Beta, even bloody Alpha, and it just does. Not. Happen.”

“And during a rut?”

“No.” Draco sits back. “No, I don’t,” he licks his dry lips, reaching for the water. He takes a long slow sip while Olivia watches him shrewdly. “I don’t have sex during those.”

“Never?”

“No.”

“Do you masturbate?”

“If I must,” Draco croaks.

“So, you rely heavily on the suppressants in the days leading up to and on the night of a rut?”

“Yes.”

“And you have done so for eight years?”

“Yes.” Draco jiggles his foot impatiently.

“And then when you inevitably burn out, exhausted and magically depleted, right after these unfulfilled ruts, you tell yourself it’s not connected, and you’re just unwell?” Her voice is not unkind, but it is far too honest, and Draco momentarily hates her. He glares.

“I don’t see how that has anything to do with knotting.”

“No.” She smiles. “That’s what Magi-Medical personnel are for, though. Making these connections.”

Draco’s lip twitches as his eyes narrow further. Olivia just smirks back at him.

“So knotting would fix this?” he asks petulantly. “That’s the miracle cure, is it?”

Olivia simply looks at him, then stands.

“What prompted you to finally come forward?” She moves towards two tall filing cabinets at the back of the room, a large potted fern standing between them both. The quill and parchment follow her, still marking off indistinct symbols on the page as it hovers at shoulder height.

“My,” pain in the arse friend, “co-worker suggested it,” Draco says with a shrug, over-simplifying the situation.

“Miss Parkinson, is it?” Olivia continues to rummage, leafing patiently through file after file as Draco watches her.

“Correct.” After a moment he adds, “we run a store together.”

“A bookshop, yes?”

“Yes.” Draco frowns as she nods, finally retrieving the file she was after. “She’s...my friend. My oldest friend.”

“That’s important,” Olivia says sincerely, sitting down once more. The quill and parchment faithfully trail behind her, fluttering to a still and settling against the cushioned seat. “People who support you are important.”

Draco fights not to roll his eyes. From her smile, Olivia looks like she can tell.

“So. You’re due for another rut in two weeks,” she pronounces, and rolling his eyes starts to sound like an even better idea for Draco.

“Yes, I know.” Honestly, as if he didn’t know that already.

“It’s important you don’t spend it alone,” she says, her voice growing quieter as it grows more serious. “It’s important you don’t use suppressants this time.”

Draco spreads his hands, lets them hit his thighs in exasperation.

“If I don’t use the suppressants, then I’ll ―”

“Yes,” she interjects kindly. “You will need companionship.”

“No,” he shakes his head, “no, I spend ruts alone.”

“And it’s bad for you.”

“I’ve never spent one with someone.”

“And it’s bad for you,” Olivia repeats. “The desire to mate won’t go away, Draco.”

“I don’t want to mate,” he hisses vehemently, wiping his sweating palms on his trousers.

“As an Alpha, biologically, you do,” she insists. “You’ve ignored it this long, but never knotting, never spending a rut with a compatible Omega, it’s...” she shakes her head, and her expression is sympathetic. “That’s what your body does four times a year, it needs that now, and your altered magic is right on board with it. The longer you ignore it, the more it damages you.”

Draco swallows. “But, suppressants ―”

“You can suppress it for so long, but not indefinitely.” Draco sighs, and looks away, defeated, as she continues to talk. “It’s making you ill. You need the release ―”

“Release,” Draco scoffs.

“ ― magically, emotionally, mentally.” Olivia smiles. “You are physically capable of knotting, but you need to spend a rut with someone who is compatible, who you are comfortable with.” She spreads her hands. “And knot them.”

Draco groans, frustrated ― at her, at the task, at his own infuriating biology for causing this. “And who, exactly, is going to provide that for me during this unsuppressed rut, huh?” He pushes his hair back, smoothing it away from his face. “Got a friend in mind, an Omega sex doll, what?”

He looks away, face burning, but looks back when she hands him something. It’s a small card, no name. Just an address, a Floo number to contact, and a description of the services offered.

He looks up at her with incredulous eyes.

“A Heat Companion?” Draco’s mouth turns down as he reads off the card. “You want me to see...a prostitute?”

For the first time, Olivia laughs, and the sound is light, and sweet. “Merlin, no, it is not that. Heat Companions provide a valuable and discreet service, for this very kind of situation.”

“Werewolves with broken cocks?”

Olivia laughs again. “You’re not broken, Draco. You just need...a little help. I’d like you to meet with this person,” she goes on. “They’ve retired, but ―”

“Oh,” Draco scoffs, shaking his head. “Got a favour to call in, do you? I’m a favour?” he finishes unkindly.

“No.” She tilts her head, eying the file on her lap intently. “Not like that. He’s very good ―”

“He?”

“Yes.” She looks up quickly, her brown curls around her face. “Is that an issue? Your chart said…” She stops as Draco swallows, a little curl of shame trying to unwind inside him, but he shoves it away.

“They’re very invasive, aren’t they. The questions we ask,” she says softly. It’s not an apology, but it is something, and Draco suddenly can put his finger on who she reminds him of, other than Pansy; Granger. Figures he’d get saddled with a Mind Healer who is a combination of the only two women he’s ever been properly scared of. He’s expecting the Weaslette to burst in any minute now.

“No, it’s all right. He is...He is preferable,” he says quietly. She smiles, and it’s genuine.

“Good. I can arrange an initial meeting, for three days time.” She rests her elbows on her knees, looking at him until she has his full attention. “As I was saying, he’s not really Companioning anymore, he’s retired mostly, but this is not a favour I’m calling in.” She straightens. “I’ll offer him the job, and he’ll want to help here. He likes helping.” She smiles at Draco’s doubtful look. “He’ll want to help you.”

“Why?” Draco asks skeptically.

“Oh, you’ll discuss that with him.” Draco looks like he wants to argue, but she cuts him off. “Draco, you are under no obligation to engage his services, or that of anyone like him. I’d like you to go to the initial meeting, but that’s all. Don’t misunderstand me, this is the best and most effective method for dealing with this, but of course, if you’re not comfortable with it.” She clasps her hands together, then stands. “Then we’ll find other arrangements, other treatments.”

Draco looks down at the card. “Three days’ time?”

“Three days’ time,” she repeats as Draco stands. She extends her hand for him to shake it, and he does so, cautiously. “And you’re not locked into anything,” she adds, seeing his still wary expression. “You’ll discuss it all with him.”

Draco lets go of her fingers, scheduling another time to meet her before he leaves. His heart feels heavy, his head light, as the steps into the lift taking him back to the Apparition points. It’s the early onset of the lead-up to a rut already making itself known, and he’s used to this. He rubs his temple, eyeing the small bin in the corner of the lift as he considers throwing the card away. It’s stupid; he doesn't want to hire someone to fuck, and even if he did, it wouldn't help. He doesn’t knot. His body can’t, won’t, whatever it is. Any time he’s felt like it might happen, something's stopped him, held him back. Why the hell would an Omega Heat Companion change that?

Draco runs the pad of his thumb over the embossed letters, stepping aside to let a woman and young child in. As the lift doors slide close in front of them with a gentle hum, Draco slips the card back into his pocket.

“A Heat Companion?” Pansy stirs her tea. “Circe’s soggy drawers, I didn’t even know that was a thing.”

“Blessed is the innocence of the unbitten,” Draco replies, as he slips his last book into its place, then steps down from his wooden ladder. “You lead such untroubled lives.”

“Oh, come off it, Saint Malfoy.” Pansy sets her tea down next to the till, folding her arms. “You didn’t know it was a thing either.”

Draco sniffs. “No, true.” He flicks her an amused gaze. “I still don’t think I do.”

“So it’s someone who has a heat with you, while you have your quarterly…” Pansy waves her hand, then thrusts her hips in a lewd gesture. Draco makes a face at her.

“I’m so grateful I have such sensitive friends.”

“I know, I'm a treasure.” She cups his cheek as he walks past, picking up another book form the pile of new stock they received. “That’s what it is, though, yes?”

“Correct.” Draco sighs, taking a sip of Pany’s tea. He grimaces ― too sweet ― before he undoes the top button of his robes, exposing his throat. “Something like a sex therapist, I gather.”

“Very hands on kind of therapy.”

Draco laughs. “Quite.” He rubs at his neck, his shoulder a little sore. “He’s retired, apparently.”

“Wait, so,” Pansy spins on the spot, leaning against a shelf, “he’s old?”

“Merlin, I hope not.” Draco laughs again.

“Ageist,” Pansy quips, grinning.

“You shag him, then.” Draco looks up at her from under the fall of his hair. It needs a cut, just a little on the too long side, but he’ll do that in Autumn proper. He’s too agitated for that this week.

“Darling, I don’t need to,” she leers, “my cock works just fine.”

“Oh, you have a cock now?”

“Yeah, top drawer.” She grins, and it’s salacious. “Bigger than yours, I’d wager.”

“I thought Millie was looking especially well-fucked these days.”

“Pfft,” Pansy rocks on her heels. “As if I need a cock for that.”

She winks, and Draco picks up a copy of Bezoars and Belligerence then tries to whack her on the arse with it. She giggles, and spins away.

“So, when are you going to go and meet your geriatric paramour?”

“Merlin. Tomorrow, unfortunately,” Draco replies heavily.

“Don’t look so glum, my love.” Pansy steps closer, heels clicking on the bookshop’s wooden floor. “Perhaps it really will help?” She looks at him sincerely, and Draco pats her hand. He still feels a little bad for scaring her last season, when he collapsed in the upstairs bathroom.

“Yeah.” He smiles, standing and kissing her forehead as he Summons his cloak. “I’m going to head off. Get my beauty sleep before ―” He stops as the door to the stop jangles.

“We’re closed!” he and Pansy both yell in unison. The figure at the door laughs.

“It’s only me! I’ve come to talk with you about the encyclopedias we discussed the other day.”

“Oh, shit,” Pansy frowns faintly, tossing her hair back. It’s just long enough to skim her shoulders. “It’s Ellie. I think I was drunk when I said we would stock her ― No, don’t leave!” she pleads as Draco stands, heading towards the back of the shop.

“She’s your friend,” he says in a deep, you brought this on yourself, tone. He continues walking backwards, to where he knows the Floo is, as Pansy glares at him.

“Fine, abandon me. Go get your beauty sleep for your Heat Grandpa.” She chuckles as Draco rolls his eyes, before he flips her two fingers. He would normally stay, have tea and an admittedly weird chat with Ellie, but he’s tired, anxious, more apprehensive about tomorrow’s meeting than he’d like to admit. The rut is bearing down on him, getting closer and more tangible with every day, and he’s more than aware that if it doesn’t work out then he’s up shit creek for the coming week. He’s never weathered a rut without suppressants, and he’s never been around an Omega in heat. He knows they follow the same seasonal phases as Alphas, four heats a year, that their desire to be fucked is as intense as that which Alphas feel, in reverse. At least, Draco assumes it is; he usually spends his ruts doped up to the eyeballs.

He’s stepping into the flames before Pansy has the door open, falling into bed as soon as he can. He lies awake still, after a restless hour’s contemplation on who this Companion might be, what they’ll be like. Will they be tall, young, old, friendly. Handsome, or funny? He’s dying to find out, and terrified at the same time, some instinct within him flexing its claws at the idea of an Omega while the rest of him tells it to shut up, and sit down.

He curls onto his side, wraps his arms around his pillow and imagines what it would be like to have company in a week’s time, to share his bed with someone. He’s twenty five, and he’s got his friends, his shop, but he knows he also has a scar the size of a dinner plate on his side, a plethora of others on his chest, and enough emotional baggage to cover a whole table in the Hogwarts Great Hall. He’s known for some time that he’s getting by rather than getting on with his life, and he’s mostly okay with that; after living through the war, he’ll take dull, and a bit lonely with the occasional fainting spell, any day. But he can’t help but think the Healers are onto something, that more than anything the physical contact with another person, another wolf, might be nice.

As Draco finally falls asleep, he knows that a not insignificant part of him is hoping that he and the Companion will be compatible.

Of course it’s Potter.

Draco stands out the front of the cafe for a full thirteen minutes, reeling from the sight of that messy dark hair, the familiar glasses, as Harry sits in the window seat of The Picnic Table, the East London cafe Draco was told to arrive at. Harry’s wearing jeans, a grey t-shirt, his hair a little on the too long side and as wild as ever, and Draco wipes a hand over his mouth, realises his fingers are shaking and stuffs them into his pocket. He takes a step forwards, then immediately takes another step backwards, his stomach churning with something like anger, like humiliation, like queasy surprise. The rut hormones are in there too, making him jittery, flighty, tense. He wants to Disapparate away right now.

Of course it’s fucking Potter!

He shakes his head angrily, the wilting summer sun making him just a little too warm in his Muggle cotton shirt, his thin trousers. More than angry, than surprised, he’s furious with himself for letting his hopes rise, for imagining something might happen here. It’s Potter, and for whatever reason he’s agreed to do this. Is he claiming his life debt, in some fucked up way? Is this revenge, seeing Draco at his lowest, a cowering dog that can’t knot, can’t stay on its feet, hasn’t learnt its new tricks?

Potter’s a werewolf too, idiot.

Draco stops, bringing himself out of his anger. It’s true, as his subconscious knows; Harry was bitten not long after Draco was. Maybe six months, a year? He brought down Greyback himself, while still only in Auror training, still in the ugly, grey robes of the not-yet-graduated. Draco remembers that day, how he’d crowed inside seeing Fenrir’s face as he was carted off to prison, and then how he’d visited his mother. She wasn’t there, only Lucius, and when Draco had burst into surprised, horrible, relieved tears on the Manor doorstep, his father had offered him a rare hug, held him tight and smoothed a broad hand over his head like he used to when he was little.

Draco hasn’t thought about Harry since that day. Not really. Not in any tangible way, anything worth remembering, he tells himself.

Draco knows that if Harry is working ― or did work, at least ― as a Heat Companion, then he’s coping with what he is better than Draco. He suddenly remembers Olivia the Mind Healer’s insistence that Harry would want to help him, would take his case on even though he doesn’t do this work anymore. Draco sneers, a further curl of annoyance inside him.

Fucking Saint Potter and his charity cases. Draco’s damned if he’ll be one. He finally makes himself walk inside.

“Potter,” he spits, as he stands before him.

“Hi,” Harry says, looking up, and Draco is momentarily taken aback by the hue of his eyes, the intensity of them. He’s not sure why he expected them to have faded, like his memories of Harry have somewhat, but they’re as bright as ever, as quick. Draco fights the urge to take a step back; he always feels oversensitive before a rut, to bright colours, loud sounds. They don’t upset him but elicit responses that he might otherwise overlook. Harry doesn't seem remotely surprised to see Draco, but of course he isn’t; he’s the one holding all the cards here. Draco’s ire rises again.

“I don’t know what kind of sick game you’re playing here ―”

“I ordered us both cake,” Harry interrupts, “but then you were late, and I ate mine.” He looks at the other, also empty plate, and Draco follows his gaze, slightly lost for words. “And then I ate yours too,” Harry admits sheepishly, “because I wasn’t sure if you were going to actually come in, or just stay out there.” He gestured towards the window, at the street Draco had been standing in, before he stands, pulling out Draco’s chair for him.

Draco feels a mortified flush creeping over his cheeks at Harry having known he was there. He tries to hang onto his anger from before, but it’s slipping away, and he drops down into the chair, lets a waitress pour them both some water.

“Everything okay?” she asks. Her name badge tells Draco her name is Larissa, and he nods.

“Yes, my friend is just,” Harry smiles apologetically, at her, and then mostly at Draco, “I surprised him.”

“Ah,” Larissa tilts her head understandingly, in the practiced way of those who work in hospitality and are accustomed to helping smooth over tense social interactions. “Can I get you anything more?”

“Tea,” Draco croaks quickly, determined not to let Harry order for him. “Peppermint, if you have it, please,” he adds, remembering his manners.

“We do.” She smiles, and Draco decides he likes her. She leaves them to it, bringing them both a large pot to share, and a biscuit for Draco, on the house she tells him, and Draco suspects Harry has arranged it somehow. He breaks a corner off, dusts the crumbs off his fingers, then fixes Harry with a stare.

“What are you...What is this?” Draco asks, unable to keep the bitterness out of his tone.

Harry looks at him openly. “It’s exactly what Olivia told you it would be.”

“She didn’t say it would be you!”

“Should she have?”

“Wha ―” Draco laughs, the sound caustic in his throat. “You knew it was me,” he retorts, and Harry picks up the teapot, then decides to let it steep a little longer. He smiles.

“Yes,” he meets Draco’s eyes, “that's why I took the job.”

Draco flexes his fingers in his lap, sits a little straighter. He wants to be sick. “Why?” he asks, and it comes out in a hoarse whisper. He braces for the answer, for the slap it surely will be, but Harry just looks at him again.

“Because I want to help you,” he responds easily, and it doesn’t sound like a lie, but Draco knows that doesn’t mean it isn’t. He folds his arms across his chest.

“Why?” he repeats, louder and more pointedly, and Harry’s smile turns a little wry. He leans his elbows on the table, doesn’t answer for a moment.

“I read your interview,” he says after the silence stretches on slightly too long. Draco doesn’t know what Harry is talking about, and he almost snaps as much, until all too quickly the pieces slot together. He feels his lip curl.

“Ah. My interview,” he says dryly.

Harry’s eyes are serious as he nods.

“Done your research on me, have you?” Draco looks away, pouring himself some tea to have something to do with his slightly shaking hands; he manages to only spill a little on the table. “I imagine it’s not too hard to dig that old rag up,” he mumbles, feeling oddly exposed.

“I’ve had it since it came out,” Harry replies.

“Had?” Draco frowns, setting his teacup in front of him.

“Yes,” Harry smiles. “I’ve had a copy since it came out,” he reiterates, pushing his hair back behind one ear. HIs fingers are long, his arms slightly tanned, and Draco doesn't know what to say.

“When it came out...” he says, too surprised to remember he’s angry. “That was years ago.”

“Seven years, yeah. Or seven and a half, I guess,” Harry sighs, heavily, and his breath lifts a curl of hair which has fallen back across his forehead. Harry sweeps it back. “It helped me.”

Draco opens his mouth, eyes wide and mind whirring at a thousand beats a second.

“Ho ―” Draco rubs his jaw, then his cheek. “How?” he finally manages to ask, softer and more sincerely that he’d intended.

“It helped me tell people,” Harry says again, in that easy and open and utterly genuine manner. Draco feels floored by it.

“No, but you weren’t,” Draco clears his throat. “You weren’t bitten at the time. Not until a year or so after I did that stupid interview. You...Greyback, you were in training, and you got the fucker, and that’s when you were bitten, turned.” Draco frowns, but Harry just twists his mouth, mouthing the word nope.

“No,” Harry says out loud, sitting back, “it wasn’t stupid, what you did. And no,” Harry nods again, “I just didn’t tell anyone ‘til after Greyback. After I left the training program. After you.”

Draco’s mind is reeling. He feels almost dizzy with the knowledged that Harry was bitten around the same time he was, and then didn’t tell anyone for nearly a year. “You hid it? Why?” he asks before he can stop himself.

Harry shrugs, the movement fluid while his face is tense.

“Honestly? Shame.” Harry sighs. “One of the bravest men I ever knew was a werewolf, and I looked up to him. I thought he was so strong, invincible, indestructible. Even when he died, I thought of him like that. But there were times, when I,” he bites his lower lip, “I judged him, and harshly. I never told him what I thought of him, never took the time to ―” He stops, inhaling and puffing out one cheek. “Anyway, that’s another story.” He looks back at Draco, his eyes a little bright. Draco realises he’s holding his breath, the whistle and hum of the cafe seeming to fade out behind them.

“And then I got bitten, and I just…” Harry raises his brows. “I hated myself. Instantly. I hated transforming, I hated the potions, I hated the stigma. I hated the person who had done this, that they hadn’t looked after themselves better, hadn’t sought help to manage the moon.” He rests his cheek in his hand. “I thought, I’d been through so much already, and now there was bloody this to deal with. What kind of system of fairness is that?” He looks at Draco wryly, and Draco swallows, wonders if he should answer. He doesn’t think he can. He inclines his head, motioning for Harry to go on.

“Then I got over the self pity,” Harry says, “which was surprisingly not as bad as what came next. Which was the self-loathing. And the shame,” he makes the word sounds so heavy. “I felt like such a fucking hypocrite. Nearly his whole life, and Remus had been fighting this, fighting off this Dark Magic, and I never really appreciated it. I even thought he was a coward for running from Tonks, from bringing a child into this, and then,” Harry swallows, thickly, “then it happens to me and I wanna throw myself off the first building I see. The empathy was bad enough, but god, I just, hated myself for not being more okay with it, for being so angry, and then I had my first heat and that was like the icing on the already rotten cake, so I just….kept it hidden. People close to me knew, but only a couple of Healers, and I planned to just keep it that way. Stay in the Aurors, pretend it never happened, tell no one.” He shrugs, and his smile is brighter than Draco thinks it should be, at contrast with this slightly watery eyes. He doesn't say anything for a moment, only presses his finger onto the end of his spoon, raises it slightly.

“Shame’s gross, huh?” Harry says, as though this is something Draco might understand, and Draco still doesn’t know how to answer. His heart is thumping, his chest tight.

He swallows, setting his cooling tea down. “And then?” he asks hoarsely.

“Well.” Harry smiles, and his teeth are white and straight, his eyes fierce. “Then some blond prat I went to school with did an interview with the Prophet, holding his own against a reporter who clearly had a bias against him, and who had even more reason than me to hide what he was now.” Draco’s stomach lurches as Harry keeps talking quietly. “And I pulled my head out my arse, and started telling people too.” His smile quirks up to one side. “Well, took me a few more months, but I did it.”

“You…” Draco closes his eyes. “Because of me?”

“Yeah.” Draco opens his eyes to see Harry watching him, almost kindly. “It was brave of you. Inspiring.”

At that, Draco manages a laugh. “I find it very unlikely that I inspired you,” he croaks around the lump of emotion in his chest. Fuck, he hates the week before a rut. Everything seems to hit him ten times as hard.

“Weirder things have happened, Draco.”

Draco laughs again, inclines his head in concession. Harry’s got a point there. “Why are you telling me all of this?”

Harry makes a face, almost embarrassed. “I’m...annoyingly honest these days,” he says, grinning self deprecatingly. “Especially, um. In these kinds of scenarios. It’s good to be direct, forthright.”

Draco raises his brows at the reminder of what they’re here for, at the motive behind Harry’s candor. He wants it to rankle him, but it doesn't.

“I hated doing that interview,” he abruptly admits. “I wanted to leave, as soon as it started.” He isn’t sure why he feels compelled to say this, whether it’s to shatter any idea Harry might have that he is brave, or worthy of any stock Harry has put in his character, or if he just feels like he owes Harry some kind of equally bone-deep honesty.

“But you did it anyway.”

“Yes.”

“And do you regret it?”

Draco furrows his brow. “No. Not at all.”

“That’s brave.” Harry takes a sip of tea, makes a face when he finds it only lukewarm, and Draco almost smiles. “Staying and doing it even when you want to bail.” Harry raises his teacup. “That's the only kind of bravery I know, anyway.”

“Maybe I just couldn't find the exit?” Draco raises an eyebrow, trying to break the spell, the tension between them. It’s not bad, but he wants to snap it anyway. “Or a window to jump out of?” Harry laughs.

“Still brave. I won’t be talked out of it,” he says definitely. “You didn’t jump out a window, I didn’t jump off a building, and now here we are.”

Draco crosses one leg over the other. “And tell me, where are we exactly?”

Harry laughs again. He does it a lot, Draco realises.

“In a Muggle cafe, discussing sex.”

“We’re not discussing sex, Potter.”

“We’re about to.”

Draco quirks his lip, as Harry raises his brows at him. “Down to business, then, is it?” His tone is dry, but Harry doesn't seem fazed.

“I imagine you have questions,” he asks, offering the floor up to Draco. Draco sits a little straighter, rests his hands on his knee.

“How is it you came to be a prostitute?” he asks bluntly. He doesn't mean it to be cruel, but he’s dying to know. And okay, a little bit of him does mean to be cruel, to pull Harry’s metaphorical pigtails. Some habits are hard to break.

Harry only laughs, giving him a sharp but fond look. “I’m not a prostitute.”

“No?” Draco looks down and then back at Harry’s eyes. “Retired prostitute?”

Harry’s laugh is louder this time. “No. Retired freelance sex and intimacy therapist,” he corrects. Draco blinks.

“That’s quite a job title, Potter.”

“Tax time was a nightmare,” Harry agrees, and Draco huffs in amusement. He can’t tell if Harry’s joking or not, can’t remember if he used to be this funny, or quick-witted, back at school. He certainly always gave Draco a run for his money. Harry’s sitting back in his chair, his t-shirt pulled tight over his chest and a smile on his lips, and Draco feels something stir inside him. Attraction. He looks away, but he knows Harry’s seen it, maybe even scented it. Omegas are more attuned to that than Alphas, more able to pick up scents. The closer it comes to the rut, the more Draco will be able to scent too, but for now, he can only faintly pick up Harry, his cologne, and something else underneath it. Something heavier and lighter at the same time, stronger and yet still tantalisingly far away.

The attraction stirs again inside him, and Draco tightens his fingers on his knee.

“How do you know Olivia?” he asks.

“Ah.” Harry stretches, and Draco can’t stop himself from watching the movement. He feels hot, hotter than the weather would explain. “That’s a long story really. We met...a while ago. Before I was working.”

“She was your Mind Healer,” Draco states, thinking quick. Harry wrinkles his nose.

“Sort of, yeah.”

“And she got you into this work?” Draco can’t stop the distaste from entering his voice.

“No, no.” Harry shakes his head, and then his hair out of his eyes. “Those two things were not connected. I’d stopped seeing her, when I started Companioning. It was about a year later, we bumped into each other and she asked how I was going with everything, and from there I told her. I kind of thought she’d think it was weird, but she said it was great for me. I mean. What she actually said was that it showed I was both accepting what I was now, and helping other people in a way that soothed my persistent saviour complex in a productive manner.” Harry smiles wryly, eyes crinkling at Draco’s expression. “And then I reminded her she should stop bloody diagnosing me, considering we were both off the clock and in a pub.”

“I like Olivia,” Draco says quietly, and Harry laughs sharply.

“Of course you do.” He rubs a hand over his chin. “Anyway, from there she started referring people to me. Well, she used to, when I was working properly, before I stopped.” He leans forwards, rests his elbows back on the table as he looks at Draco evenly. “And stop making that face. Which, yes, you are making,” Harry laughs. Draco opens his mouth, taken aback by Harry’s directness but he doesn't look angry. “It’s a legitimate job,” Harry continues, “being a Heat Companion. You need to be certified, accredited, before any Healer or Mind Healer will refer clients to you.”

“But you...You don’t do this, this Companion thing anymore?” Draco asks quietly, slightly chagrined.

“No.”

“Why not?”

Harry takes a moment to think. “It can be...tiring. Emotionally, mentally. Heats are only four times a year, but there’s a lot more that we do. Building rapport with clients, working through emotional problems, physical ones too. I took a step back, just briefly, and then I,” Harry shrugged, “found it hard to step back in.”

“And during heats?”

Oh,” Harry’s smile is lopsided. “I just do what everyone else does. Lock the door, block my Floo, hide my phone and wank myself raw.”

“Block your Floo?” Draco asks as a flush blooms on his cheeks. “Why?”

Harry shakes his head slightly. “Um, embarrassing really. So I don’t contact anyone, ask them to. You know. I can be a bit, um, insistent, and, well….” Harry’s mouth turns down. Draco’s eyes widen and Harry waves his hand again, a little bit red in the face himself. “That’s not relevant right now though, that’s a,” he clears his throat, “a conversation we will have if you decide to do this. If you want me.”

Draco swallows, heat rushing through him at Harry’s words. “So why have you agreed,” he weighs his words, “to discuss taking on this job?”

“You, you mean?” Harry’s look is searching, warm. “Why have I agreed to take on you?”

“Yes,” Draco confirms quietly. Harry leans even closer.

“Because I want to help you. And I can,” he says sincerely, emphatically. He holds a hand up before Draco can protest. “Liv ― Olivia,” Harry qualifies at Draco’s frown, “she referred this specifically to me, because she knew I would want to take this, and that I’d be good at it.”

“Is this a regular day’s work for you, then?” Draco can’t stop the bitter snap that creeps into the tone of his voice. “Specialising in impotence, broken Alphas who can’t knot?”

He winces, immediately regretting what he’s said. Sure, both of them know that's what this is, but he hadn’t wanted to fucking lay it all out there, just like that. He’s glad, at least, that they’re by the far window, away from any other patrons. The staff seem uninterested in them, in Draco’s somersaulting emotions.

Harry, on the other hand, is staring at him intently. His brow furrows slightly.

“How do you want me to answer that?” he asks quietly, and Draco feels worse for a moment, before he gives up.

“Honestly,” he forces himself to say, and Harry nods, a deep bow of his head.

“Okay.” Harry takes a deep breath. “Yes, this is the kind of stuff I do, or did, so I guess it was a regular day’s work as you said.” Draco feels himself withdrawing, and Harry’s expression falls slightly. He continues talking anyway. “No, I don’t specialise in impotence, or knotting issues. I don’t specialise in anything, except,” he tilts his head, and his hair falls over his glasses before he swats it away, “intimacy. Which is the actual issue here.”

“That’s your professional opinion, is it.” Draco ties to make professional sound dirty, but he’s too on edge, his hackles raised.

“Yes. It’s mine, and Olivia’s.” Harry’s smile is kind, but there’s something in his eyes which is tentative. “Touch is important, Draco, and you’ve not let yourself have it for a long, long time, not really.”

“And one night with you will fix that, will it?” There’s a plaintive note in his voice under the barb. “Is that all it usually takes for your clients, one rut and they’re back on the streets, packing steel between their legs?”

Harry’s eyes soften as he watches Draco. He worries his lower lip before he replies. “I don’t think you actually want to talk about past clients, Draco,” is all he says, and Draco runs his hand over his mouth. He nods, embarrassed at being called out, at being read so easily. He doubts it was hard at all.

“Well,” Harry looks at the teapot in between them, “I think now is as good a place as any to leave it.”

Draco looks up sharply, Harry’s decision unexpected. “Already?”

“Yeah.” Harry tucks away that errant curl of hair once more. “From here, it’s up to you. If you want to go any further than this,” he clarifies. “You can owl me, or Olivia with your decision with a simple yes or no. We have time but I would say no longer than two days. We’ll need to meet again before the turn of the season hits. To discuss specifics.”

“Money, you mean?”

Harry shrugs noncommittally. “Sure, money, generating compatibility, everything. Sex, of course. What can happen, what can’t.” Harry smiles. “The contract.”

“Merlin,” Draco breathes, and Harry holds up a hand.

“That’s to worry about next time, if you want to.”

They lapse into silence, as Harry seems to get ready to leave, waiting for acknowledgement from Draco first. Draco himself feels odd, panicked, the morning having slipped away so quickly, before he’d even noticed it. He should let Harry leave, should make a decision later, but he thinks he already knows what he wants. He knew it on some level as soon as he walked in, sat down, as soon as Harry opened his mouth. Saying it, however, is a different matter.

“I’d like,” Draco straightens his posture, uncomfortable but determined, “to engage your services.”

It’s overly formal, stiff and awkward, and he sounds like he’s asking Harry to come and clean his Floo, but Harry doesn’t look put out, or like he’ll laugh.

“Really?” Harry smiles, once, a brief and brilliant flash of white teeth. “Right, um, that’s.” He grins again, vibrant. “Great. So, I’ll have Olivia draft up the contract, she always handled that for me before. Then she’ll send it to you, and then we should meet again asap to go over it. Before um. Before the big night,” he finishes playfully, lips quirking. It’s unexpected, and Draco smiles before he realises it.

“For heaven’s sake, don’t call it that.”

Harry laughs once, almost silently. “How about, before I get you out of your rut?”

“No, that’s fucking dreadful, Potter,” Draco laughs softly too, despite himself. “I changed my mind already.”

“Nah,” Harry stands, pats his pockets down to make sure he has everything. “You won’t change your mind.” He looks almost hopeful, happy, and Draco doesn’t know what to make of that. “Right, well. See you soon.”

Draco inclines his head in a polite nod, even though his insides are doing a jig. Harry smiles one last time, causing another flash of heat in Draco’s belly, his chest, before he leaves.

Seven minutes and one cup of cold tea later, Draco leaves too.

The contract arrives faster than Draco expects.

It’s early, the day after their first meeting on Draco’s morning off. He doesn't like leaving Pansy alone in the shop, but he has to concede she’s easily as organised as he is, in her own scattered way, and she’s better at handling the Muggle inventory these days. Most of their clientele are Muggle these days, their bookshop straddling both worlds ― literally, as it has one entrance of Diagon Alley, and another on high street. It’s a complicated Charm, but one for which they fought for approval, and it’s the only way they can survive as a business. Not enough wizards would buy from them to keep them afloat, and not enough Muggles buy books full stop, but between them both Flowers and Dragons is keeping afloat.

The parchment is stark white, the kind St Mungos uses, and he doesn't recognise the handwriting on it, until he suddenly does ― the Self-Inking Quill, from Olivia’s office. The tawny owl taps at the window of his bedroom, rousing him, and he curses it, grumbles as he get up to let it in. With a squawk and a flurry of feathers the bird flaps past him, settles on his bedside table and watches him with large, expectant eyes.

“Good morning,” Draco says grumpily, still muddled with sleep. He’s shirtless, wearing only thin pyjama bottoms. The weather is still more summer than autumn, and it’s not cold. He pads downstairs, the bird hopping along the bannister next to him as it waits for a treat and Draco smiles. He’s never seen an owl do that before, he thinks, as he watches it hop after him, claws scratching without leaving marks against the polished wood, wings extended. The letter on its ankle rustles against the wood.

“You’re very odd,” he says to it, as he fetches the owl treats from the kitchen drawer, hands it one, and then two. It hoots softly, sticking its leg out again, and Draco sighs, then unwraps it with a lurching stomach. The owl watches him with avian curiosity, turning its head this way and that the way only an owl can, and Draco realises it will be waiting until he replies. He stops, unaccountably nervous about this whole thing, before he sighs, then makes himself a strong pot of first flush Darjeeling tea. Once it’s steeped and ready, he sits at the kitchen counter stool, puts on the glasses he pretends he doesn't need and begins to properly read.

It’s more formal than he expected it to be.

Everything is drawn up in the vein of a business contract, the expectations and obligations of both parties outlined clearly, and Draco takes a moment to be surprised by that before he realises it makes sense; this is a business contract. His lips twists slightly, something stirring inside him, but he pushes it away. It’s good that this is formal, controlled. If there’s one thing Draco can respect, it’s that.

He reads the three pages twice, as well as the letter form Olivia’s office explaining what to do. Initial each page, indicating he understands the terms, except for two sections he should leave blank: section C.3, indicating that all ‘events of the heat will be pre-discussed and agreed to between client ― D. L. M ― and Heat Companion ― H.J.P ― in accordance with their mutual needs, preferences, and desires, and with the understanding that consent can be withdrawn by either party at any time’, and section C.4 ― something titled the Voluntarily Involuntary Full Disclosure Agreement.

Draco makes a face at that, the contradiction of it baffling him. He isn't sure which one sounds more ominous, the fact that he’s doing to have to negotiate with Harry what he wants in bed, and then be told what he needs, presumably, or the fact that there’s an entirely blank section dedicated to some kind of disclosure he will have to make. He’s beginning to feel not only second, but also third and fourth, thoughts, when he notices that there is a small note stuck to the back of the page, in a different handwriting. It’s messy, untidy, and somehow incredibly familiar.

“Don’t panic about this bit, it’s not as bad as it sounds. I’ll explain it all properly, without the legalese, when we meet up. Does tomorrow at ten sound good? I’m technically an unemployed layabout, so can do whenever. Let me know.

H.P.”

Draco sets the small note down on top of the contract, smooths a hand over it. The owl trips a little closer, still walking with that strange hop-gait it has, and Draco scratches it behind the ear, deepens the caress as it tilts its head happily.

“Are you his owl?” he asks softly and the owl hoots again.

Draco hums, not sure why he finds that idea so comforting ― why Harry’s note has settled his nerves. He didn’t write the contract, but he must have checked it over, looked through Draco’s copy and sent it from his house, with his own strange and endearing messenger. He must have known that it would be baffling, confusing, a jumble of unfamiliar terminology, and perhaps he did this for all the clients he met with. Draco’s stomach twists a little at that thought, and he takes another sip of his tea. It doesn't matter whether Harry has done this for others, he tells himself. Draco likes that he did it for him, and he lets himself have that, the little spell of warmth in his chest at the sight of Harry’s friendly, messy scrawl.

He writes back ― “Yes. You choose where.” ― and sends the note with the owl.

He spends the rest of the morning in his garden, reading, or trying to at least, but he’s restless, keyed up. He feels anxious about meeting Harry tomorrow, but it’s an excited kind of anxiety, one he’s felt before. The night before dates, before birthdays, before Christmas morning arrives. It’s confusing, and worrying, and he can’t concentrate on the words on the page before him as he sits partly in the shade, and partly letting the sun warm his shoulders, kiss them with its sting. The Full Disclosure Agreement is bothering him, because he suspects that will terminate the contract. There’s bad blood between them, between himself and Harry, some of it literal too, he thinks as he recalls the way the water turned red around him as Sectumsempra sliced open his chest. He wants to be angry about that, but he never was, not even after it happened; there was too much else to be terrified for, and he strangely found himself believing Snape when he told him he didn’t think Harry knew what the spell did. Harry’s face, the brief glimpse of it Draco had seen, didn’t look like the face of someone who had wanted to hurt him like that. He looked horrified.

He looked different when he’d come back for Draco, pulled him out of the flames. He looked like that had been done on purpose.

Draco snaps his book shut, drops it onto the grass by his feet and then pulls them up onto his wicker chair. He scrubs a hand through his hair. And what about what Draco had tried to do, with Dumbledore, by helping the Death Eaters get into the school? Harry won’t have forgotten his part in that, he thinks, as a lot of people won’t have. He won’t have forgiven that, Draco thinks, or Draco for the people he lost. Draco hasn’t forgiven himself, not entirely, for the people he lost during that, too. They can't pick and choose what parts of their history to remember, can’t gloss over it, and ―

And Harry agreed to this.

Draco flexes his toes against the unyielding frame of the chair. He rests his chin on his knee, forces himself to calm down. More than that, Draco tells himself, Harry wants to do it, and he was perfectly candid about why. Perhaps, in the end, Harry’s not as stuck in the past as Draco thinks he should be, or is himself.

Draco sighs, cracking his stiff neck and standing up and out of the slightly too hot sun. Either way, that’s enough internal bloody self-crucifixion for one day, he decides with determination, heading for the shower. He’s not sure if it’s the surprise of finding out the Companion is Harry, or if this is how it feels this close to a rut, but he feels emotional, raw, introspective and slightly volatile. He’s usually taking suppressants by now, upping the dosage each day, and supplementing them with his own cocktail of other potions. It reminds him of the lead up to a transformation, but it’s not quite the same. He’s not angry, sore, but he does feel disorientated, hyper aware of those around him. Everything is starting to smell more vibrant; the orange he had for breakfast, as he rolled the firm fruit against his cheek, made his tongue almost tingle with its zest, and the scent of the jasmine in the garden borders now on overwhelming.

His body feels more sensitive too, as the water from the shower sluices over his skin, massages over his scalp. It’s nice, warm, and he feels his cock thickening between his legs, hanging hard and heavy as he threads his fingers through his hair, pressing them just on this side of too hard as he lathers the shampoo. He runs one hand down his chest, avoiding the edge of the bite scar as he skates his fingers over his ribs, his belly, to his erection. It thickens further under his touch, and he braces one hand against the wall of the shower, moves his fist in a slow, firm pace. He keeps his mind a careful blank.

It takes only moments to bring himself off, coming in thick spurts over his fist as he rests his forehead on a cold section of tile. He sighs, licking his lips as the last of his orgasm ebbs away, and he feels better for it. There’s a tension that leaves him, as he washes himself off, dries himself with quick sweeps of his towel.

He’s late for work, in the end, stepping through the door as Pansy taps her watch pointedly, pretending to glower. He smiles back, handing her a danish and a peach he picked up on the way, its flesh soft and perfectly ripe, as an apology. He smiles even wider when she beams at him ― he knows they’re her favourite ― and splits the fruit easily with a tap of her wand, offering him half. The juice slips over his thumb, down his wrist, and he licks at it, curls his tongue around the heel of his hand, then back up to the peach.

The flavour bursts on his tongue as he bites into it.

Chapter Text

Harry chooses a different cafe for the second meeting. It’s smaller, and no less quaint than the first, but when he arrives, Draco sees Harry is standing outside, rather than waiting for him with a table.

He’s also holding two takeaway cups.

“Worried I wouldn't come in again?” Draco makes himself say, and Harry only smiles, his eyes unreadable behind his dark, prescription sunglasses. He’s wearing jeans, trainers, and a thin black jacket over the top, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms. It’s not as hot as the day before, a little bit of a cool breeze, and Draco wore a t-shirt himself. The faded Mark is still visible there, and he sees Harry’s eyes flick to it, but if Draco’d been expecting Harry to be shocked, he isn't. His smile doesn't leave his face once.

“Nah,” Harry replies casually, offering Draco one of the takeaway cups in his hands. “It’s a nice enough day, so I thought we could walk and talk. And sign,” he pulls the side of his shirt away to reveal his own copy of the contract tucked into his jeans. “It’s not exactly the kind of conversation we want people to overhear,” he adds conspiratorially.

“Ah.” Draco takes the offered cup, nodding in understanding. “Is that why you keep choosing Muggle locations?”

“No,” Harry replies, starting to walk towards a park at the end of the street. “That’s because I don’t want to be seen.”

“With me?” Draco snaps, and Harry stops, looks at him.

“No, no, I mean seen at all.” He lifts his sunglasses, searching Draco’s face. Draco can see his eyes, and without the usual frames, they seem even brighter than they were the other day. It’s such an unusual green, the colour that Harry has inherited, such a vibrant hue that Draco’s never seen on anyone else before. Right now, those eyes are staring at him intently.

“Seriously, I just.” Harry licks his lips. “People recognise me, in Diagon, or Hogsmeade. But we can go there, if you prefer, instead of ―”

“No, it’s. No.” Draco bites his lip, annoyed with himself. It doesn’t look like Harry’s lying, but either way, Draco didn’t want to reveal that what Harry might be thinking bothered him. He looks away and then back again. “People recognise me there, too.”

“Right.” It’s another moment before Harry lowers his glasses, the tinted black covering up the green. “Shall we, then?” he says, and Draco nods as they begin to walk towards the park once more.

They walk half of the way in silence, each sipping on the tea Harry procured them. It’s peppermint again and Draco is quietly pleased that Harry remembered what he took last time. He’s also far too polite to mention it’s not his favourite; he doesn't want to make Harry uncomfortable, or feel foolish. That’s certainly a new feeling, he realises with a wry smile. He puts it down to the phase of the season, and the general bizarreness of this whole situation, but he knows that’s not really the truth.

Another few steps, and Draco says, “I thought you couldn’t see without them.” He gestures towards Harry’s eyes, and Harry’s lips quirk as he steps aside to let a woman with a pram pass him.

“Oh, I can see your face fine.” Harry gestures with his cup. “That sign over there though? Couldn’t read that to save my life.”

Draco makes a contemplative sound. “Let’s hope your life never depends on finding your way to Bennetts Street, then.” Harry laughs, softly, and Draco likes it. Bloody hell, has the world gone mad? “So where are we going?” Draco adds, and Harry points at the park.

“It’s nice in there. Little bit of a lake, not that many people this time of day. Thought we could go over any questions you had, get to the finer points of the contract.” They wait at the lights for them to flash green, their elbows almost touching and the sun causing Draco to lift his hand and shield his eyes a little. The lights change, beeping gently but entirely too loud, and Draco hurries across the street, Harry by his side and thoughts of contracts ― negotiations ― swimming in his stomach along with the slightly bitter mint tea.

“Over there.” Harry leads them away from the crowd, and into the park. It’s larger than Draco expected, small pockets of people sitting around and he follows Harry onto a pebbled pathway, flanked by some trees. There’s less people, and Draco breathes a sigh of relief he hadn’t known he’d needed as he steps into the shade, the quiet.

“Same,” Harry says, quietly, and Draco frowns. “Can’t handle crowds this close to the turn,” Harry elaborates, and Draco almost wants to protest that that’s not what this is, that he just needed a bit of quiet, but Harry might be onto something. He does immediately feel calmer once he’s away from the sensory onslaught of the busy street and the chattering clatter of the city-goers.

“This is all slightly new for me,” he confesses, and Harry doesn’t look surprised. “Mind you, I’m not a fan of busy streets at the best of times, so perhaps it isn’t such a novel experience.”

Harry laughs. “There’s a gazebo up ahead. Little bit of a botanical park. We can talk there, assuming it’s not occupied.” He crosses his middle finger over his index in a hopeful gesture, and Draco suddenly wishes he could see his eyes. They continue walking in mostly companionable silence, Draco’s brogues and Harry’s trainers crunching in tandem against the small stones of the path.

“Is this the kind of thing we should be discussing in public?” Draco asks, after another moment of internally debating whether he should or not. “The contract,” he clarifies needlessly. Harry makes a pensieve sound.

“Some of it, no. And therefore we won’t.” He tips his sunglasses onto his head, pulls them off and then replaces them with his regular lenses. Draco finds himself, again, comforted by the return of Harry’s visible eyes, his easily readable expressions, to the conversation. “I think we should go to my house, or yours, for those sections, if that’s okay with you. But some of it is much better done somewhere...less private.” Draco furrows his brow in confusion but Harry doesn’t elaborate. Instead, he says, “I also just thought this would be a nice place.” Harry smiles, and it’s a little bit tired. “I kind of really needed to get outdoors, get some fresh air, if I’m honest.”

Draco’s frown deepens as he registers the light purpling smear of lack of sleep under Harry’s eyes, the slightly feverish pink of his cheeks. “You’re unwell?” he asks, feeling genuine concern build inside him.

“No.” Harry shakes his head. “Not exactly. No more so than you are.” He rubs at a spot at the top of his shoulder, grimacing as his fingers move to the base his neck.

“I don’t feel unwell,” Draco says absently as he watches Harry’s fingers work over the same spot, methodical and soothing. From just under his t-shirt, at the base of Harry’s neck, Draco can see the tip of a faint scar on his collarbone. He wonders if that’s where the bite is, and he looks away, feeling his face heat. It’s strange, the feeling of worry that hits him ― at the idea of Harry not feeling well, at the sight of what might have been the bite that turned him. Draco clenches his fingers into a fist then releases them, fanning them out. He finishes his tea, then discreetly pulls his wand out, shrinks the empty cup and places it in his pocket.

When he turns back, Harry is watching him, his own cup put away too. Draco manages a smile, and he suspects it looks exactly as forced as it feels. “Perhaps I don’t feel all that well, actually.”

Harry’s returning smile lights up his face, and Draco has to look away again.

“Here we are,” Harry says, hopping lightly up the small steps to the gazebo. Its metal frame was painted white at one time in its life but it’s mostly peeled away to reveal its bare bones, now. Draco wrinkles his nose as he follows Harry towards the small table in the centre, takes a seat opposite him on the long concrete bench. It’s small, their elbows almost touching as they both rest them on the metal table.

“Nice isn’t it?” Harry says, looking around.

“Not really, no,” Draco replies honestly, with a smirk, and Harry makes a face at him.

“It has charm,” he counters, but his eyes are crinkling with laughter.

“It’s falling apart.”

“Charmingly falling apart.”

“Potter, I’m sitting on a concrete bench under a pile of impending tetanus,” Draco enunciates, looking up at the rusting roof of the gazebo. “As far as crumbling charm goes, it’s hardly the Colosseum.”

Harry laughs, deep and loud. “Beauty can be more than skin deep, Draco.”

“Yes, but it does still need to be there in some form.” Draco looks around at the peeling paint, the exposed metal, the leaves littering the floor. It’s a good cover for trying to hide his smile. Harry laughs again, sitting back and pulling out his copy of the contract.

“Well, I think this place is charming,” he insists in a low voice, and Draco swallows, feeling a little flushed. It’s warmer with the canopy of leaves above them, he thinks. That must be what it is.

“Well, first things,” Harry says. “We’ll start with item one.” He looks at Draco seriously. “The events of the heat,” he says in a faux ominous voice, his slight smile betraying him.

Draco pauses as he unshrinks his own copy from his pocket, then raises an eyebrow, his face heating a little. “I would have thought that was the part we might not...have out in public.” Draco carefully unrolls his parchment. “Should we not start with this Full Disclosure business? That seems quite ―”

“No.” Harry shakes his head. He twists his lips, tucks some of his hair behind his ear before he retrieves a quill from his pocket. “No, that is item three on today’s agenda, Mr Malfoy.” He’s using that tone again, the pretend-professional, and it’s cutting through the awkwardness quite nicely. “Trust me, you don’t want to do the Disclosure here.”

“Oh?” Draco doesn’t like the sound of that. “And that is because….?”

“Because,” Harry scratches his head, drawing out the word. He smiles up at Draco through his fringe, “we are starting with this one.” He taps the parchment with his finger and Draco snorts, unimpressed.

“Merlin, that makes no sense.” Draco folds his arms, sitting back slightly and staring at Harry's messy hair. Harry only shrugs, glances back down at the parchment and doesn’t elaborate on the subject, and Draco rolls his eyes. “Fine, off we go then, Mr Potter,” he mutters petulantly.

“Anal sex,” Harry states without looking up, and Draco chokes.

“Pardon?”

“Well, I assume anal sex is okay with you?” Harry flicks him a glance, fingers splayed on the parchment of his contract. He looks slightly amused. Draco blinks, taking a moment before he replies.

“Yes, that is fine,” he says stiffly. “I’m quite flexible in that regard,” he adds after a moment, somewhat unnecessarily. He swallows, feeling his face colour a little. “Not that that really matters here,” he says, feeling a little bit wrong footed by the questions. Surely it’s a given that will happen?

Harry, though, just shrugs. “It all matters.”

“Potter,” Draco scoffs. “I’m not going to be able to knot if I’m balls deep in the air while you fuck me.”

“Aren’t you?”

Harry’s question takes him aback, and Draco stares, nothing around them but the quiet sounds of the far off park goers, the rustle of the wind in the leaves above their heads. “I wouldn’t have assumed so,” Draco says, after a moment.

Harry shrugs again, eyes never leaving Draco’s. “You’d be surprised.” He smiles, and it's slightly heated, amused. “But I think in this instance, given the fact that I’ll be...well.” Harry scratches his ear. “I’ll be quite insistent on certain things,” he says, and it’s almost a mumble. Draco’s heart beats a little faster at the thought of what Harry’s referring to. “And that brings us to...Fingering?” Harry says, and Draco blinks, then nods, flushing further. Merlin, but Potter’s questions are certainly… forward, for want of a better word.

“Of course. I quite enjoy it,” Draco replies, and then, not one to be outdone by Harry’s directness, he adds, “I'm good with my hands.”

Harry’s smile widens, showing his teeth. “Great.” He stares at Draco for a moment. “I'm good with my tongue.”

Fuck.

Draco laughs, and he knows he’s flushing even pinker. “Touché, Potter.”

“You can call me Harry.”

“All right, Potter.” Draco smiles to show he’s joking. Mostly. Harry looks back down at his contract, at the list there now. Draco sees one has formed on his own.

“So I can assume from that exchange, that oral sex is okay,” Harry says, marking something off.

“Yes,” Draco responds, distractedly as he reads the slightly eye-watering list of sexual yeses and nos, his brows lifting. “Any kind of mouth action is fine by me, and I'm not exactly delicate about where mine goes.” When Harry doesn't respond, Draco looks up from his slightly wide eyes reading; the list goes over onto the next page, for Merlin’s sake. “What?” Draco asks, as Potter flushes a little, looks away.

“Nothing.” Harry shakes his head, looking slightly sheepish at being caught. “I just didn't expect that.” At Draco’s raised brow he adds, “that you would do those sorts of things.”

“I'm a broken Alpha, Potter, not a puritan,” Draco says, slightly bitterly. “I don’t live entirely devoid of touch, despite what you might think.” He knows he’s being petty, and at the look on Harry’s face he immediately regrets it. Harry’s brows knit together.

“That’s not what I meant, when I said that. And you're not broken, Draco ―” he starts.

“Moving on,” Draco interrupts. “Harry,” he adds to soften the rudeness. It oddly looks like it works, as Harry’s scowl eases, his expression softening a little. Draco clears his throat, then turns his contract around, pointing to it with one long finger and drawing Harry’s attention to it. “Do we need to go through all of these?” he asks, a little disbelieving. Harry shakes his head, but it’s not quite a no.

“It’s standard procedure, to negotiate everything that happens before we. Y’know.” Harry’s lip quirks up slightly. “Before the heat.”

Draco’s mouth drops a little. “Are we going to do all of this?” He looks back down at the list.

“No, god.” Harry runs a hand through his hair. “Well, not unless you want to. And if I want to. That's the point of this discussion.” Harry licks his lips. “So we both know what is okay, what isn't, before anything happens.”

“Salazar,” Draco mutters. “Well, I mean.” He sits up a little straighter. His eyes skim over the list once more. The words Bondage, light impact play, prostate massage, orgasm delay, blare back up at him, along with a plethora of other things. It's making his mind race. “To be frank, there’s nothing here I object to, or don't enjoy, but I think…” He stops, worrying his lower lip. Harry moves his fingers, prompting him to go on. “I think I would prefer, just. Something less…”

“Overwhelming?” Harry offers in an understanding tone. “Same, really. Honestly, that’s what I would have suggested here from the beginning. This is more for… longer term arrangements.” Draco looks away, something in his chest tightening at that. He doesn't know quite know what to call the emotion. “But anyway,” Harry goes on, “it's the way the contract is done up, so best we go through it.”

“It seems an odd list,” Draco croaks, to cover how strange he's suddenly feeling. Longer term arrangements. He isn't sure if he’s put out Harry has had them before, or that Draco isn't one of them. It’s… unexpected, he decides, putting a name on an emotion he would usually call ‘jealousy’.

“Oh?” Harry asks, eyes glittering with something like humour again. “How so?”

“It’s just an odd assortment.” Draco shrugs. “There’s no connecting link here.”

“Sure there is.” Harry sticks his tongue in his cheek. “Me.”

“You?”

“Yeah. This is all stuff I like.” Harry grins. “Well, chose. There’s a massive list they give us, it’s a bit bonkers really, and we choose what we’re into. And I'm not going to include stuff I don't personally like, am I?” He makes an unimpressed face. “Saviour complex’s not quite that bad yet,” he adds self deprecatingly, and Draco finds himself laughing again, a sharp and surprised sound.

“No.” He can’t help but smile at Harry. “I’d rather you didn’t do things you don’t like.”

He means it to sound off-hand, to continue the joke, but it comes out more sincere than he means. He considers adding something else, something cutting, but he changes his mind at Harry’s look. At the end of the day, Draco reasons, he does mean that. The idea of Harry doing anything he doesn’t enjoy, with him or otherwise, feel instantly and distinctly repugnant to him.

“Good,” Harry replies softly. He’s not smiling, but his expression is warm, intense, eyes focussed intently on Draco from under the light shadows his hair casts over his eyes, his cheeks. Draco shifts a little uncomfortably in his seat, reminding himself that Harry chose to accept him as his client. That Harry wants this ― him. “Don’t worry, though.” Harry does smile now. “You’d hear about it. If anything happened which I didn’t like, that is.”

“Has it?” Draco asks quickly, something strange churning in his stomach. He clasps his hands in his lap, thumbs pressing tightly together, as Harry frowns then shrugs one shoulder as he realises what Draco is asking.

“No. Well, not really,” he qualifies, pushing his hair back away from his face and not quite meeting Draco’s eyes. Draco can feel his knuckles turning white as he tightens his fingers.

“That’s not no,” he says, and he’s surprised by his own voice, how low it is. He’s even more surprised by the tight and angry feeling in his chest, by the lurch in his stomach. By the look on his face, Harry is too.

“Oh no, nothing like that,” he says quickly. “It was nothing I couldn’t handle, or resolve, um, quickly,” he says with a huffed laugh, tucking that errant strand of hair away again. It keeps falling over his glasses, over one eye. Draco’s been watching it. “It was just one guy, and….” Harry trails off, staring at Draco in concern. “Should I keep talking about this?” he asks carefully, searching Draco’s expression. Draco shuts his eyes.

“Yes, please,” he grits out, feeling like a complete idiot. He can’t help it, though. He doesn't want to know what this prick did, what Harry’s idea of ‘resolving things quickly’ is, but at the same time he knows it will drive him mad if he doesn’t find out what it was. The feeling is solid, horrible, in his stomach, his chest, constricting his lungs. It’s anger, but it’s something deeper too, and it’s not on his behalf ― it’s on Harry’s. He can’t remember the last time he felt such a sudden surge of emotion. He suddenly misses the numbness of the suppressants, and at the same time doesn't at all.

He hears Harry’s sigh, the parchment rustling slight. “Well, it was during a heat. An Alpha I was helping, only he had trouble with… boundaries,” Harry says after another a moment. He’s choosing his words carefully, Draco knows, and he’s grateful for it. It infuriates him. It's Harry’s story; why should Draco be the one so affected by it? Still, he keeps his eyes shut, tries to regulate his breathing. “And I terminated the arrangement,” Harry says, voice quiet.

“Why?”

“Draco ―”

“Why?” Draco repeats, eyes still carefully closed. “Unless you don't want to tell me, I would.” He lays one hand over his knee, then does the same with the other. His fingers ache from being clenched. “I would like to know.”

Draco can hear the wind in the leaves again, can hear the splash of waterfowl in the lake on the other side of the park. Distantly, he knows that’s not normal, that he shouldn't be able to hear that well, to smell the scent of the last of the white wisteria flowers as they drop their petals onto the water below. It's too far away, he knows that, but his body doesn't thinks so. It feels lit up, the way that’s been slowly building for days now. He knows if he concentrated on Harry he could scent him, could count the eyelashes that brush his cheeks as he blinks, could measure the beat of his pulse from here. He wants to, and it terrifies him. He focusses on the flowers instead.

He’s counting the petals on the ripples of the lake, when Harry finally answers him.

“He tried to bite me.”

Draco’s eyes fly open. “Bite you? Where?” he snaps, but he knows the answer already.

“I think this is upsetting you,” Harry says, genuine worry tinging in his voice.

“Lit fireplaces upset me, Potter,” Draco snaps, breathing harshly. “Doesn’t mean I avoid them. Draco shuts his eyes, takes a moment to choose his words as his mind reels, and to avoid the stricken look on Harry’s face. “Are you telling me,” another laboured breath, a shaky exhale, “that someone tried to make a...to bond with you?” Draco finishes on a sibilant hiss.

“...Yeah,” Harry says after a moment, and Draco’s visions swims. “He wasn’t successful.”

His words are measured, and Draco is again aware than Harry’s not doing it for his own sake. It's Draco that Harry is worried about, and Draco wishes he felt ridiculous about it. Instead he feels murderous, incensed, by what Harry is indicating almost happened.

“Fucking hell,” he croaks, looking away and massaging at his chest, at his diaphragm, where he imagines his lungs meet his ribs. Maybe then he can get the bloody things to work properly.

Draco knows what a bond is, how it happens; take an Alpha, an Omega, and a possessive bite on the neck, et voila. They’re not unbreakable, but they are ― to Draco’s mind at least ― terrifying. The idea of one being made without the Omega being fully willing, of an Alpha doing it in the frenzy of a rut, has caused him more than his fair share of sleepless nights, before he’d pushed them down into the deepest recesses of his mind. He hadn’t thought about that, hadn’t even factored that as a risk, but now. Now the idea of it is making his blood boil, and freeze at the same time.

“Does that happen often?” he manages around the nauseous lump in his throat.

“No,” Harry says quickly, looking relieved that Draco is talking again. Whatever insane emotion Draco is feeling about hearing this story, Harry is feeling something different, but he doesn't look unaffected. There’s a blush on the tops of his cheek, his eyes bright as they watch Draco intently. “Not before, and not since.”

Draco breathes out in a rush. The relief feels like a burst of cool air over him, but it doesn't absolve him entirely of the gnawing feeling in his chest, crawling up his neck.

“What happened?” he asks, hand still massaging the peak of his ribs. He presses the heel of his palm against it, using the point of contact to centre him.

“With him?” Harry shrugs again, distracted as he looks at Draco's jaw. “Nothing much, until he thought he’d try it on. Unluckily for him, I wasn't so out of my head I could figure out what he was doing,” Harry’s smile is wry, but there all the same, and Draco realises he missed it. He’s glad he kept his eyes open this time. “Tried to spin some crap about being so far gone on me he couldn't help it, but that didn't really ring true.” Harry’s looking at him pointedly now, and Draco presses his hand harder against his chest. “I don’t think that’s really how it works, not from the Alphas I’ve spoken too. Once an Omega has made it clear they don’t want that, then unless they change their tune, unless they ask. Well.” Harry still hasn't broken eye contact. “The urge will be there, for any Alpha, for you, but you won’t act on it. Not unless you choose to.”

He raises his brows, that curl of hair hanging over one, and Draco knows Harry is answering a question right now ― one that Draco didn't want to ask, but that Harry knew was there. Once again Draco is grateful, and infuriated by that feeling. He doesn't like being easily read, but he presses what Harry has just told him as close to his chest as his hand is pressing now. He needed to know that, that he would have control of that still. He feels something loosen in his chest, some fear that's burrowed deep inside sighing away, and he finally eases his hand from his chest. He runs his fingers through his hair.

“And you… resolved it quickly, you said?” His voice has regained its usual timbre, and he’s fighting not to feel embarrassed. Something good just happened; he doesn't want to lose it in the fog of self-consciousness.

Harry laughs, and it’s loud and relieved, and genuine. Draco feels so glad to hear it he can’t even muster to energy to wonder why.

“Well, I’d like to say I did a daring feat of magic, but I actually just,” Harry rubs a hand over his jaw, “elbowed him in the solar plexus, swore a lot, and then left. He’s working his shit out with someone else now, and before you ask, yes, there are ways to prevent an Alpha from being able to try and make a claim like that.” Harry looks away. “I just didn't have them implemented.”

“Why the fuck not?” Draco can’t stop himself from blurting.

Harry’s lips twist as he tries to contain his smile, but his eyes are lit up with it. “I’ve been told I can be a little bit reckless.”

Draco’s laugh is silent, almost a wheeze of a sound as it gusts out of him. Fucking Potter. Of course he would overlook something like that. Draco finds the familiar exasperation comforting.

“I have to ask, then.” He carefully lets his hands lay on top of his contract again. “Why that’s not mentioned in here?” He flicks his eyes down to the contract, and then back up again. Harry sighs, puffing his cheeks out.

“Good question. But I already told you the answer.”

“Because you don’t think it’s a risk?” Draco asks, and he can hear the slight disbelief in his voice. “You don’t think I'm a risk?”

“Yes, in a way.” Harry tilts his head to the left. “Mostly it’s because I trust you.”

Draco can’t respond to that. He wants to, but it’s a full fifteen seconds before he can get his voice to work. “Is that wise?” he manages after another three seconds of shocked gaping. He can’t think of a single reason why Harry should trust him, and any number of reasons why he shouldn't. Harry, though, doesn't look phased in the slightest. His expression is unyielding, confident and pleased, and he folds his arms in something that could almost be a challenge.

“I think it’s wise, yes,” Harry says, picking a leaf off the table and throwing it on the ground casually. “I thought it was before today, and I’m certain of it now.”

Draco opens his mouth, closes it again. He scratches at his shoulder, let's his nails slip under the sleeve of his t-shirt and rake gently over the bump of it. “All right,” he mutters, still slightly poleaxed by Harry’s declaration, and more than a little warmed by it. “Just do me a favour and keep your elbows ready, though?” he half jokes, half implores. Harry might trust him, but Draco’s never done this before; he’s not sure he fully trusts himself, yet, but he suspects, for the first time, that that’s been most of his problem all along.

“It’ll be okay, Draco,” Harry says and Draco almost shivers at the tone, the familiarity of it. “But if it makes you feel better, I’ve got the quickest elbows in London.”

Harry’s smile is lopsided and Draco nods, buoyed by Harry’s confidence. He’s about to reply, to think of something to say that will snap through the startling affection he’s feeling for Harry, but Harry suddenly stands. He quickly walks around to the other side of the table, then sits again, legs straddling the stone bench beside Draco. Draco blinks, lips parting as he turns his body to better look at Harry.

He can’t think of a single thing to say that isn’t either redundant, insipid, or the word ‘um’. Wisely he says nothing, only raises one eyebrow at Harry’s unexpected change of position.

“Okay, so,” Harry starts gently, almost bashfully. He reaches out, tapping the tips of two fingers to Draco’s contract. “I think we’ve actually covered the section that was up next,” his smile is open, easy, “which was item two on the agenda ― the hard nos. I feel like we’ve been pretty comprehensive about that?”

He looks questioningly at Draco, who is still a little too taken aback by the sudden proximity to register he needs to reply. “Oh,” Draco looks away and then back again. He smiles back, and it's not as open as Harry’s but it’s getting there. “Yes, I think so. No biting,” he says.

“No biting,” Harry taps the side of his neck with his index finger, “here,” he corrects softly. “Other places are okay.” Draco follows the movement of his fingers slowly, letting his eyes track slowly back up to Harry’s mouth.

“Okay,” he says breathily, then swallows, surprised by his own voice. He shifts a little, then impulsively swings his own leg over the seat until he’s straddling it too. It gives him something to do, at least, and Harry certainly looks surprised by the move, as Draco's position mirrors his own.

“What’re we doing, Harry?” Draco asks in a conspiratorial whisper, and Harry laughs. Draco likes that even more.

“This is item three on the agenda,” Harry mumbles, looking at Draco’s mouth and then back up to his eyes. Harry’s cheeks are a little pink again, that faint blush creeping over them again. It makes his eyes look bright, almost feverish. Draco likes it. He’d be lying if he said he’d never noticed Harry was good looking before, but he’s never looked at him up quite this close up, never registered exactly how attractive he is. Or perhaps, Draco wonders, the difference is that he’s never let himself properly notice how attracted he is to Harry. Either way, he feels he is… permitted to notice it now. He licks his lips, feels a little warm himself when he sees Harry’s eyes follow the movement.

“Item three is face each other on a bench?” Draco asks quietly, somewhat facetiously. He’s finding himself curiously thrilled every time Harry laughs, every time Draco makes him laugh.

“No. Ah.” Harry’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “It’s to assess our compatibility.” He doesn’t bother with the faux professional tone this time, but Draco thinks they don’t need it, anymore; there’s a tension between them still, but it’s different now.

“Oh,” Draco clears his throat, frowning a little. “How exactly does one test for that?”

“There’s a pretty effective way.”

“Oh?” Draco prompts, pretending to be focussed on brushing a leaf off of his shoulder but really, he’s hanging off of Harry’s every word.

“Kiss.”

Draco looks up sharply, the leaf slipping from his fingers. He lets his hands drop down to his lap, sits a little straighter. Whatever he was expecting, it was not that. He makes himself meet Harry’s eyes.

“Here?” he asks, trying to focus on the practicalities of the situation and not on the dizzy feeling creeping over him at the idea of kissing Harry. Harry nods, and he looks as though a little of his composure is slipping. Not out of embarrassment, Draco surmises, and not exactly nervousness, although Harry does look a little jumpy, and a little wired. Draco thinks this is the same energy that made Harry want to get outdoors, away from the sensory overload of the crowds.

“Here is good,” Harry says a little absently, rubbing his palms over his denim-clad thighs. “If you, if that’s okay with you, that is,” he adds, exhaling shakily. “I mean, there’s other ways, but this is...pretty bulletproof.” Harry trails off.

He moves his hand to his shoulder again, rubbing over that same spot as he had earlier, and Draco watches the motion, then looks around. There’s no one nearby, not that he can see, and when he closes his eyes and focusses, he finds he can’t hear anyone either. He wonders if that would stop him. He's never kissed a man in public before, never really thought too much about why that is. He lets his eyes open, glances back at Harry, who is still gently rubbing over the same spot at the base of his neck, and staring at Draco’s collarbone.

“Here is fine,” Draco agrees quietly, feeling a rush of adrenaline as soon as he’s said it. Harry looks up at him, dropping his hand back to his thigh as though he’s only just noticed what he was doing.

“Oh, good,” Harry breathes, and Draco leans a little closer. He has no idea what he’s doing, but Harry responds to it, their knees bumping against each other and his brows furrowing as he watches Draco’s face. Draco leans a little closer still, until he can almost brush his lips against the corner of Harry’s mouth.

“I assume we don’t need to negotiate this?” he mumbles, and he can feel Harry’s breath gust over his mouth as he laughs, roughly.

“No, this is,” Harry’s lips catch on Draco’s as he talks, his head tilting as he leans into Draco, too, “just like any kiss.”

The words are faint, trailing off, as Draco presses his lips softly against Harry’s bottom lip. He does it again, feels Harry sigh against his mouth as he pulls at his lips softly with his own, and then again. It’s softer than Draco thought it might be, gentle but not tentative. He can feel Harry’s somewhat shaky breaths, the rise and fall of his chest as Draco lets the knuckles of one hand rest against his ribs, but still they move at the same slow pace.

Draco can feel his heart, still thumping with adrenaline, as it beats in his chest, can still smell the wisteria petals on the lake, the leaves as they rustle above the gazebo, and something else, now, too. He can feel Harry’s pulse, a staccato rhythm, against the backs of his fingers as he brushes them over Harry’s t-shirt, feels the heat of his skin underneath it. It’s rhythmic, intoxicating, and Draco wants to kiss Harry harder, wants to pull him against him, but he doesn’t. Instead, he lets himself just feel it. His head is spinning slightly, that scent he can’t place making him furrow his brow, open his mouth distractedly as Harry’s lips move more insistently against his own.

It’s familiar, the scent, something Draco has been aware of all day but hasn’t known how to place it, how to acknowledge it, and he inhales sharply when it finally hits him. Harry, he thinks, moving his lips faster to match Harry’s pace. It’s Harry.

“Fuck,” Draco mumbles, letting his free hand rest against Harry’s thigh, against the warm denim. Clean, he thinks, Harry smells clean, and warm, and like something else. Something that reminds him off vanilla, of fresh cut grass, of burnt sugar and cold limes muddled over alcohol. Draco lifts his hand from Harry’s thigh, move it to his shoulder, and feels Harry shiver as he rubs over the spot Harry had touched earlier.

Almost immediately, the tension bleeds out of Harry’s shoulders, his brows furrowing as he distractedly pushes his glasses up onto the top of his head and deepens the kiss. He makes a soft sound when Draco’s tongue touches his, moving one hand to Draco’s collarbone, to the neck of his shirt. Harry hooks them there, the first hint of what he’s holding back, and his knees press against Draco’s insistently as he rises up slightly, fingers pulling at the neck of Draco’s t-shirt.

Draco leans into it, gasping slightly. He suddenly thinks he could pull Harry into his lap, could slide his hand up the back of his shirt and feel Harry’s skin against his bare palms, his body against his own, and he groans. He could do it, he thinks, feeling Harry’s juddering heartbeat against his fingers, Harry’s mouth insistent against his own. He could do it, but Harry said this would be just like any other kiss, and so Draco slides his hand over Harry’s chest, up to his throat, and gently, with forefinger and middle, pushes him back.

Harry’s eyes snap open immediately.

“Oh, holy shit,” he mutters, blinking and resting his forehead, his nose against Draco’s. “Sorry,” he says emphatically. “Shit, sorry. That was not meant to be like that.”

“It’s fine.” Draco’s voice is rough and he clears his throat. “It’s more than fine,” he whispers. “I assume that was what you meant by...effective?” he mumbles.

“God, that was ― yeah.” Harry laughs shakily. “Aren’t you glad we did that here?” he mumbles against Draco’s lips. Draco tilts into it slightly, frowning.

“Why?” he whispers.

“Because we can't do anything more than this.” Harry’s lips move against his own, before he drops his head to Draco’s shoulder with a soft groan. “Not that I apparently didn’t try.”

Draco makes a sound himself, resting his cheek against Harry’s head. His hair is soft, the curls against the stubble at his jaw, and Draco stares out at the park behind them. He lets that scent settle over him again, as he waits for his heartbeat to settle, for Harry’s breathing to even out.

He’d always imagined an Omega’s scent would be overwhelming, overpowering, but it isn’t. It’s sweet, in a way, and rich, almost like the way new earth feels. He inhales again deeply, watching a middle-aged woman and a man walk past. The woman looks at them and Draco glances away quickly. He stiffens, wondering what kind of a sight he and Harry might make, but it’s hardly obscene. Harry’s breathing is still uneven, rough, but the couple can’t see that; all they have is a view of two people, in a slightly haphazard embrace.

When the woman looks back at them Draco holds her gaze. He’s amazed when she simply smiles back, and as he watches them meander further up the path, Draco can’t help but laugh.

“What?” Harry says, tensing. His voice is a little strained, and he starts to lift his head, but Draco impulsively smooths a hand over Harry’s back.

“Nothing,” Draco says. He cards his fingers through Harry’s hair, then rests them at his nape. At Harry’s soft sigh, he rubs over the spot. “Is this what you’ll be like?” he asks gently, curiosity and warmth running through him. Harry hums, then nods.

“Something like this, yeah,” he says shakily. “We should...We should head off now.” He starts to lift his head again, and Draco lets him this time. He can’t stop the wave of disappointment he feels; he isn’t quite ready to leave this yet, he finds. Something of it must show on his face, and Harry smiles as he settles his glasses over his slightly-too bright eyes.

“Item four on the agenda,” he explains gently, still looking a little dazed. Draco forces himself to look away from the mesmerising bloom of red on the apples of Harry’s cheeks and down at the contract. He’d managed to almost entirely forget about that.

“Ah. The Full Disclosure,” he mutters, moving his hand towards the dotted line that needs his signature. “Can’t we just ―”

“No, don’t sign it here.” Harry’s fingers are warm over Draco’s as he pulls them away from the contract. He releases them again, after a moment. “We should sign these somewhere,” he looks around them, “somewhere a little more private.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s Charmed. It will, well. We need to be honest with each other, about any mitigating circumstances, about any way this might negatively impact either of us.” Harry looks apprehensive, and Draco nods.

“You mentioned your house?” he replies softly, and something in Harry’s posture relaxes.

“Yeah.” He breathes out. “Yeah, if you don’t mind? We could go to yours, of course, but I’m...” Harry trails off.

“You’re?” Draco prompts. Harry laughs, self-deprecatingly. His cheeks are still red, his voice a little hoarse.

“Stupid really. This close to the heat, though, your place. It will be full of you, your things, your scent, pheromones.” He licks his lips, a flash of pink tongue. Draco can’t stop himself from staring at it. “It will be better if we go somewhere where I’m less likely to not be able to control myself.” He laughs again, that slightly bashful sound. “I mean, it’s good in the sense that compatibility is clearly not going to be an issue. Not remotely.” He shakes his head in slight wonder, then bites at the side of his lip. “But you're kind of driving me mad, and it hasn’t even started yet. ”

Draco blinks, taken aback. In all the time he’d imagined being near an Omega during their heat, he’d never thought about losing control being an issue for them. He’d always pictured himself, the beast lurching inside his chest and clouding over his mind, taking and taking and taking, but he’d never stopped to consider it might be the same on the other side of the coin. He thinks of Harry, the feverish tension of that kiss, the urge Draco had felt to pull Harry into his lap ― and Harry’s near attempt to do it. Draco realises he was the one to stop that, to pull back when needed. He clutches at that thought, wrapping his mind around it, and for the first time since this began, since he was bitten perhaps, he feels like perhaps he has more control of himself than he ever realised.

It’s a good feeling.

“Shall we walk there?” Draco offers, and Harry hums again, nodding. His face is still flushed, but he looks like he’s regaining his composure, slowly. Draco can’t even quantify how much he likes knowing that he was the reason for it, that kissing him, being close to his scent, has affected Harry like this. The rush it brings him is almost enough to make him dizzy, and he makes a soft sound of wonder at that. Harry’s right; it hasn’t even started yet, and yet Draco feels more alive, alert and aroused, than he has in longer than he can recall.

“I’ll lead the way,” Harry says, standing and gathering up the contract. Draco follows suit, following Harry out of the quiet and shade of the latticed gazebo and out into the sun.

Harry’s house has a rather splendid garden, but item four, Harry informs him insistently, is best done indoors.

“Somewhere safe, and quiet,” he says, as he opens the back door then leads Draco inside.

Harry’s house is not what Draco expects. His living room, which leads to the back garden, is large, nicely furnished ― and also absolutely cluttered with a family’s worth of detritus.

“You have a child?” he asks, stepping around a stuffed toy. There are drawings pinned to the walls, childish and bright and hung with the kind of reverence parents reserve for the creations of their children. Draco remembers seeing his mother, his father, treat his own scribbles this way, as they wobbled on spindly legs across his Charmed parchments. These ones are better than his, though. They’re even not half bad, for clearly being done by someone under ten.

“What? Oh, no,” Harry laughs, picking the stuffed toy duck up off the floorboards and throwing it into a small wicker basket by the sofa. Draco sees it’s full of other toys, colourful wooden blocks and plush animals. “No, just godchildren.” Harry rubs his hand over his jaw, then keeps walking into the adjoining kitchen. “Teddy is the artist,” Harry waves a hand at the wall, a note of pride in his voice. “And Rose is the fan of ducks. She’s mad for them, really. It’s sweet.” He smiles at Draco’s polite confusion. “She’s Ron and Hermione’s daughter,” he explains. “I babysit a lot. And I spoil her. Both her and Teddy,” he adds, with that same note of pride, of happiness, creeping into his voice, and a little bit of defiance too. I spoil my godchildren and just try and stop me, Draco thinks the set of Harry’s jaw is saying, and he wonders slightly why it means as much to Harry as it clearly does.

“Well.” Draco breathes out, manages a smile. “Little children should be spoiled.” Harry laughs, and Draco braces for the cutting remark about him, his own parents and his rotten behaviour back at school, but it doesn't come. Harry just looks a little pleased with himself, but there’s something fierce and somewhat sad in his slightly bright eyes.

“They should,” he croaks, then clears his throat. “They should be loved. And know it,” he says quietly, and Draco knows there’s something more there, but he doesn’t feel it’s his place to ask.

“Teddy...Lupin?” he asks softly, and Harry inclines his head in a yes. “There’s a familial relation there,” Draco adds, somewhat uselessly. Harry would know that, already, but Draco’s fishing for a change in conversation, feeling Harry’s slight discomfort as keenly as if it was his own.

“Yes, he’s your second cousin I think.”

“First cousin once removed,” Draco corrects, smiling a little wider at Harry’s surprised expression. “When you come from a family like mine, you learn how to calculate relations rather quickly,” he explains quietly. He doesn’t really want to talk about his family. He suspects it will end in a fight, especially as he can’t quite read the meaning behind the set of Harry’s jaw. “It’s the best way to avoid any accidental incest,” Draco adds, and Harry laughs, sudden and sharp.

“Don’t want any Malfoys with seven toes?” he says, his tone lighter than before, and Draco shakes his head curtly, trying not to smile.

“Perish the thought.” He purses his lips, then adds, “It wouldn't be the first time it’s happened, though.”

Harry laughs again, setting the kettle to boil with a flick of his wand as they enter the slightly cleaner kitchen. It’s decorated in cool whites and yellow, and Draco likes it. He never expected Harry would have good taste.

“That all falls on your shoulders, yeah?” Harry says, fussing with tea bags and mugs; Draco nods when Harry lifts one in an offer. “The production of future Malfoys, with the correct amount of toes,” Harry continues. Draco looks away.

It’s asked lightly, nothing in it but genuine curiosity or perhaps a desire for a polite change of direction in the conversation, but Draco feels an icy trickle down his spine.

“I’m sure seven toes would be preferable to some people in my family than any child of mine, considering they would be less than entirely human.” He swallows, thickly, hating himself for that answer, and for the truth in it. He isn’t sure how his father would treat any children he had, although he’s sure his mother would love them. It would always be there, though, that disappointment that they aren’t the grandchildren, the future of the lineage, that they wanted. It makes Draco almost furious to think of it. The anger disappears as soon as he looks up and sees Harry’s expression.

He looks like he’s been slapped.

“Do… Do you feel like that?” he asks, an almost frantic note in it. Draco before he responds, taken aback by the emotion he sees in Harry’s eyes, etched across his face. He looks worried, upset, and Draco feels awful for being the cause of that. The rush of empathy is unexpected, and unpleasant. He licks his lips, knowing his answer obviously means something here, and he tries to think of what he should say, but he quickly discards that notion. He goes for honest.

“I couldn’t give a flying fuck what they were,” he says, folding his arms. “If I’m ever lucky enough to have a child, then,” Draco folds his arms tighter, feeling oddly exposed, “then they could be green for all that I’d care,” he says with feeling, and he means it. He’s never talked about this with anyone, but he’s always wanted children. Heirs, sure, he and Pansy used to gloat about how they were going to produce heirs, but Draco never really cared about that. It was all lip service to what his parents had drilled into him was important. As he got older, he realised he didn’t care so much about carrying on the Malfoy bloodline; he just wanted to be a father, to raise a child. He wondered if he’d be good at it. He wondered if he’d ever get a chance at it. It made him furious to imagine his own father, or mother, might not treasure a child of his because of what Draco was now. He finally forces himself to look up and gauge Harry’s response to his answer.

Harry’s frown hasn’t eased, but his shoulders relax, tension ebbing out of him as he sighs. He nods, looking as if that answer meant more to him than Draco can reasonably fathom. He blinks down at ther tea mugs, shaking his head when he realises he’s left the tea bags in too long. His hands shake as he tries to open the carton of milk, and he spills a little, then gives up. Draco hasn’t had the heart to tell him he takes his tea black. He feels unaccountably unhappy at seeing Harry upset.

“Remus was a werewolf,” Harry says, handing Draco a mug of the slightly oversteeped tea. “As you know. That doesn’t mean. Teddy’s not...he’s not less than human,” Harry says, his voice thick with emotion, and Draco nods, chagrined.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” he says, setting his tea down and feeling his stomach flip uncomfortably. He suddenly feels awful for what he said, for the carelessness of his words; he’d completely forgotten about Teddy’s father, and as well, how much Teddy and his parents’ memory must mean to Harry. “I should perhaps go before I can ―” clumsily stick my foot any farther into my own stupid mouth, he’s about to say, when Harry interrupts.

“No!” Harry sets his hand on Draco's elbow, urging him to stay where he is. “No, no, please stay, I’m not upset. Well, I am, but not with you, anyway. I always feel…” Harry shakes his head. “Just more, around this time of the season. It’s not bad, it’s just...hard to hide when something bothers me.” He looks down, and then up at Draco through his fringe. “Maybe you can relate?”

Draco tilts his head. He considers admitting that he got turned on by a peach the other day, that he felt murderously angry at just the idea of someone doing something Harry didn’t like, but he’s aiming for at least a little bit of self-preservation. Instead, he lets himself say, “Yes. I can empathise with that.” He waits a beat, then quietly adds, “I’m sure your godson is a wonderful child.”

Harry sighs, shakes his hair away from his face. “Shall we…?” Harry gestures for them to head to the small sitting room which adjoins the kitchen. There’s a sofa in there, large with soft cushions, coloured a deep, dark blue. Draco sits next to Harry, nursing his tea. It tastes a little bitter, but he savours it all the same, glad he hasn’t messed something up too badly. He’s glad Harry doesn't want him to leave, that the silence between them feels charged but not angry, or uncomfortable. He waits until Harry speaks again.

“That’s how my aunt and uncle felt about me, you know,” he says softly. “I think it would have been preferable for them if I’d been anything other than what I was. Well. Maybe not. They might have disliked having to look after me no matter who or what I was. But either way, they very much didn’t want me, and didn’t bother to hide it.” Draco blinks, taken aback, by the words, and as well by the matter of fact way in which Harry says it. There’s little to no emotion in it, just a kind of deep resignation that makes Draco’s chest ache; for all his parents’ flaws, he always grew up knowing he was cherished. He can’t really imagine not having had that as a child.

“Me not being their kind of normal,” Harry continues, tapping his finger against the mug. “That bothered them. And now, I don’t. I don’t like the idea of people thinking about Teddy like that, or any…” He pauses, sucking on his lower lip. “Any kids I would have, or you would have.” He takes a sip of tea, swallows with some effort. “Children should be loved,” he says, echoing his earlier sentiments, and Draco looks away, staring down into his tea mug.

There are a thousand questions stirring inside him, about Harry’s family, about why he hasn't had children of his own given he clearly adores his godchildren so much, but he doesn't voice them. It feels too personal a thing to ask, and Harry might ask him the same. He doesn’t think, though, that Harry wants sympathy from him, or platitudes. He suspects Harry is just being honest. Still, Draco doesn't really want to talk about that, not just now at least. Strangely, he can imagine talking about it with Harry someday. The realization is bizarre to say the least, but he likes Harry’s bluntness, his determination not to avoid the less than pleasant topics that come up between them. Once upon a time, they would have dissolved into a fight at the first hint of a differing opinion, a misused word, and Draco knows they still easily could. He finds that now, though, that while they know where each other's buttons are, how to get a reaction out of Harry, he doesn’t want to make his temper rise. It’s as satisfying, if not more so, to make him laugh, see his cheeks flush. He suspects Harry is doing the same, using the same desire to rile the other up that they’ve both been carrying since they were eleven to different effect now. It’s unexpected, and rather refreshing, exhilarating. Draco runs his finger around the lip of his mug, runs his tongue over his teeth in contemplation.

“For what it’s worth.” He turns to Harry, finds him watching Draco with that avid stare. “My parents, their attitudes. They’re...somewhat old fashioned,” he says quietly. It’s as close as he can get to saying outright that he doesn’t share their world views anymore. He feels his cheeks warm when Harry smiles at him.

“That’s a very diplomatic way to put it.”

“Yes, well,” Draco takes a sip of tea, crossing one leg over the other. “I’m too polite to call it what it really is.” He allows himself a small smile, delights in the lopsided grin it earns from Harry.

“You are many things, Draco, but I’ve never thought of you as polite.”

Draco sniffs. “Fuck off,” he drawls, feeling his heart rate kick up a little at the fondness in Harry’s eyes. “I’m impeccably polite. You just haven’t always appreciated my manners.”

Harry laughs, and then exhales, the last of the tension easing out of him. “Well. That was an unexpected turn of conversation,” he says, smiling a little wryly.

“Yes,” Draco replies, pursing his lips. “Shall we add that to a list of topics to delicately skirt around?”

Harry shakes his head. “That would just make it even more necessary for us to talk about it, don’t you think?” He rests his head back against the sofa, something a little tired in his expression. He doesn't look upset anymore, and Draco feels such a rush of warmth at that that he can’t quite explain it. He sits back against the sofa himself, his tea delicately placed on pack of cards on the coffee table, given there are no coasters. He magnanimously doesn’t chide Harry about this entertaining faux pas.

“Merlin, you are determined to be abominably upfront, aren’t you?”

Harry bites his lip, setting his own mug on the floor. “Yep.”

“A sort of perpetual full disclosure, then?” he offers softly, and Harry’s lips twitch. “It’s terribly un-British of you,” Draco murmurs, lifting one brow. Harry’s smile widens.

“Yeah,” he laughs. “Guess that’s sort of how I live my life now.”

“I’ve noticed.” Draco pulls his contract out of his pocket, if only for a reason to look away from the warmth in Harry’s expression. “So, I still don’t think I entirely understand what the purpose of this is.” He unfolds the parchment. “Or why you’re dreading it, considering you’re quite bloody open about everything else?” he suggests lightly.

Harry pulls a face. “It’s just a little invasive,” he admits, lifting his hips off the sofa so he can pull out his own copy from his jeans pocket. “It’s charmed, I think I mentioned. It will make me, and you, disclose anything mitigating, anything that could jeopardise a successful and healthy working arrangement. Sex is…” Harry shrugs. “Intimate. It’s best that we know all there is to know about each other and anything that might negatively impact us. The contract will, when you sign that section, it will make you say it. Involuntarily, anything I need to know. Anything that would mean we should stop here and not go any further.” Harry sighs. “I hate it,” he says lightly.

Draco looks at Harry, stunned. “Is that why you’re not looking forward to it?” he asks, and Harry nods, nose wrinkled.

“Mmm.” Harry shifts against the cushions, pulling one over his lap and hugging it to himself. “Because I suspect I know what I’m going to say. And I’m not looking forward to it.”

Draco slowly turns back to the contract. “Is it going to be a succinct summary of our entire history together?” he says, apprehensively. “Because I’d hazard that would all come under ‘negatively impacting us’.” His voice sounds a little hollow, mirroring the feeling in the pit of his stomach. He’s suddenly quite certain that this is going to be end of their arrangement, before it’s even begun; even if it’s all been relegated to water under the bridge, of a sorts, there is still a lot of it there.

Harry though, doesn't look quite so bleak. “No, it’s not. It’s not quite like that.” He sits up, unrolling his parchment, and Summoning a quill to sign with. He taps the feathered end against his wrist. “We already know all about that, don’t we?” he explains. “That’s all on the surface, as it were. What this,” he taps the feather against Draco’s contract, “will do is make us confess things to each other that we don’t already know.” He sniffs, then brushes the feather against his chin. “All you have to do is sign, and then anything the Disclosure Charm thinks I need to know will just...” he sticks his tongue out, miming something falling out of his mouth.

“Do we sign...together?” Draco asks, still apprehensive and baffled. “Or shall I go first?” he offers, itching to get this over with.

“Oh, yes, of course.” Harry hands him the quill, his fingers brushing against Draco's as he does so. “If you like, you can go first.”

Draco tightens his fingers against the quill, pressing the nib to the parchment. He steadies it against his knee, signing as quickly as he can. He wants to get this over with as fast as humanly possible. He can’t stop the sinking feeling in his gut that whatever this is going to make him say, isn’t going to be good, but it’s more than that. Today has been nice, more than nice in places. He doesn’t like the notion that he’s about to blurt something out which will change whether this happens again, and he really, really doesn’t want to hear what Harry will say in return. He finishes signing his slightly wobblier-than-usual signature with a flourish, then sits back. He braces himself for whatever he’s about to confess.

Nothing happens.

“Well,” he clears his throat, continuing in an unimpressed tone, “I don’t think that worked at a ― I’m scared I won’t be able to knot you.” He blinks, looking down at his lap, but he’s talking again before he can really process what’s happen. “I’m scared I won’t be able to knot you, and terrified about what will happen if I do, how it will feel. I’m also far more attracted to you than I feel comfortable admitting, and I’m confronted by the way that you make me feel better about myself. I like it. It confuses me.” Draco licks his lips, feeling his face start to colour with humiliated stains of red, one high on each cheekbone. “And whenever I feel like that, in the past I usually lash out, which I know is defensive and hurtful, but I do it anyway.” Draco opens his mouth, refusing to look at Harry. He feels like an idiotic goldfish, his eyes wide and his mouth half-open, as he waits to see if the Charm wants to dredge any other mortifying admissions from him. He’s furious when he hears what he says next.

“I don’t like people seeing the scars on my body, not only the ones you put there and the stupid one I let Him put there, but the bite scar as well, because they make me feel weak, and on top of the kidney damage it caused it just looks awf ― fucking hell!" Draco cuts himself off, clenching his teeth together.

It’s only through merit of being raised to be incredibly well-mannered that Draco doesn’t grab the cushion off of Harry’s lap and cram it into his own mouth. He folds his arms instead, glaring at the contract, and internally daring it to make him say anything else. He wants to rip the stupid thing up.

“And I don't want to lose control, bite you, hurt you,” he grinds out through gritted teeth, feeling the last of the compulsion to speak ebb away when he adds, “during the rut.” He opens his mouth one last time, testing whether he has full control over what comes out of it, then clacks his teeth together.

“That had better be bloody it,” he snarls, turning belligerently to Harry. He looks away again quickly, cringing. “Oh Merlin, don’t look at me like that!”

Harry’s expression, stuck in one of shock and sympathy, twists into a kind of guilty confusion. It’s everything Draco has been dreading since he heard himself mention the scars.

“Draco,” Harry starts sincerely, “I’m so sorry about Sectum ―”

“No,” Draco interrupts, cheeks flushing again, but this time angrily, indignant on not only his own behalf but also Harry’s. “You don’t need to apologise, we don’t need to do this ―”

Harry holds his hand up, his expression earnest.

“I really didn’t know what that spell did, I know it’s no excuse, but I really didn’t ―”

“No, Potter, Harry, this is ridiculous!” Draco interrupts again. He sits up, flinging his contract onto the coffee table, and watching it slide almost to the opposite edge. “I don’t care that bloody much about the scars!” He angrily rubs his jaw. “And even if I do, there’s no reason you should know about that. I mean is there?” He turns furious eyes onto Harry. “Because from where I’m sitting, all this has achieved is to make me feel awkward as all bloody hell, and make you feel shit about things that happened, by accident, eight sodding years ago!” Draco lets his breath out in a furious rush, shaking his hair out of his eyes. “We don’t need a stupid legal document to guilt trip you about using that curse. I know you didn’t do it on purpose,” he declares, and he means it. Of all the things the charm decided Harry needed to know, he can’t fathom a single positive thing coming out of this one, and whether or not he doesn’t like the fact that his upper half looks a little worse for wear is something for Draco and his own vanity, regrets and self esteem to grapple with. Not for Harry bloody Potter to beat himself up about.

Harry looks gobsmacked. He turns away, lips twisting into an odd expression, a combination of surprise, relief. “I had...I had rather thought you would end up yelling at me about that, instead of on my behalf.”

“Oh, god, it’s,” Draco shrugs one shoulder, “what would be the point of that?” He runs his fingers through his hair. “I yell at you about a few scars, then you yell at me about, what, the first half of your life? It’s hardly very fucking productive, is it?” He sighs. “I wasn’t exactly a saint at school,” he finishes, a little quieter but with no less conviction. “And the others marks, they’re...well those’re my fault,” he mumbles.

Harry’s brows crease into a small frown. He opens his mouth, as if to protest, before he stops himself, thinking better of it. In the end he asks softly, “How bad is it?” He gestures with two fingers. “The bite scar.”

Draco sighs, then scratches his ear. He shrugs, noncommittally, then drops his head back to rest against the sofa. It’s surprisingly comfortable. “Could have been worse,” he mumbles.

“What does that mean?”

“It means the Healers weren’t sure if the fucker was trying to turn me or eviscerate me,” Draco replies, a little snappily, “so considering all I lost was the full use of one kidney and gained in its place the directive to take good care of myself and moderate my alcohol intake, I repeat, it could have been worse.” He turns to Harry, and raises one eyebrow at his slightly startled expression. “Besides, it looks like I’m doing a fabulous job of ignoring Healers’ orders and not looking after myself properly, so it’s all rather a moot point. And I was never that partial to drinking anyway,” he adds lightly.

Harry licks his lips, holding eye contact. He looks like he’s choosing his words, his eyes still a little unfocussed, the way they have been since they kissed. “No?” Harry mumbles after a moment.

“No,” Draco tries to smile, and finds it actually feels sincere. “It makes my cheeks pink. Very undignified,” he quips.

“You do actually blush really easily, yeah.” Harry grins, and it’s toothy and real. Draco realises he’s missed it, and before he knows it, he’s grinning back.

“Fuck you.” Draco tries not to laugh. “I do not.” He feels some more of his discomfort over the things he said, and the aftermath of it, easing away.

“I don't think you need to worry,” Harry says suddenly. “About how the bite looks. I mean, I know that’s not how that works, that me saying this doesn’t change how you feel, but.” The corner of his mouth slips up into a thoughtful smile. “You’re very attractive.”

Draco feels his cheeks start to colour, flushing with confused and pleased warmth. “Well. Um,” Draco clears his throat, beyond flustered as he tries to think of a suitable response. The compliment is making his insides feel fluttery and uncooperative, and he’d like to blame that on the hormones currently dizzying up his system, but he suspects Harry calling him fit would take him off guard at any time of the year. “Thank you,” he manages.

“You’re welcome.” Harry’s eyes crinkle as his grin widens, the position of his head against the sofa making his glasses sit slightly askew. He looks younger, all of a sudden, a bit more like the boy Draco knew at school, and entirely different at the same time; Draco never saw Harry look at him like this back at Hogwarts. “And you do blush easily,” Harry repeats, almost cheekily. “Which is also very attractive.”

Draco barks a surprised laugh, running one hand over his hot cheek. “You’re drunk on hormones right now, aren’t you Potter?” he says as blithely as he can, but his voice comes out a little scratchy. He forces himself not to look away.

Harry shakes his head, hair catching against the back of the sofa. “No. Mildly tipsy, at best.” The light glances off his glasses as he turns away, obscuring his eyes and making them hard to read. “I’ve noticed how you look before now.”

Draco makes a dismissive sound, hoping his face isn't still looking as warm as it feels.

“Well, thank you for validating my appearance. I feel so much better about myself knowing that the great Harry Potter approves,” Draco drawls, ignoring the little voice inside him saying, admit it, you kind of do though. “You’re not so bad yourself,” he mumbles, wishing he had something to do with his hands.

Harry clicks his tongue, running it over his teeth then pressing it into his cheek. “You already mentioned that, actually.”

Draco blinks, confused, then cringes. His eyes flit to the contract, then back to Harry’s grinning face. He groans.

“Bollocks.” Draco laughs wryly. “So I did.” He glares at the contract on the table. “I can see why you hate that bit, now,” he says with feeling. Harry’s lips slant back up into that fond smile.

“You know, it’s kinda nice that,” Harry’s expression turns earnest, “that I make you feel a bit better about...this.” He waves a hand at Draco’s sides and Draco groans again, resting his elbow on the arm of the sofa and his head in his hand.

“Oh for Circe’s sake,” he picks the quill up, flings it at Harry, “can we do you now? I’d love to share some of this humiliation around.”

Harry laughs, catching the quill as it hits his chest. He bites his lip, then shrugs. “Guess we’d better.”

He continues to chew at his lip, teeth worrying at the side of it, as he quickly scribbles his name in a familiar, untidy scrawl. He lays the quill down, sighing heavily and covering his mouth partly with his fingers, a smear of ink on one of them. His voice is a little muffled by them when he speaks.

“I used to want to have sex with you back when we were at Hogwarts.” Harry takes a deep breath. “In sixth year. Possibly a bit before then, but I didn't really know what sex was or have much of an interest in it. But by sixth year, definitely. First guy I ever thought of like that, really. I… I’m not sure what exactly I wanted, but it was sex, in so far as I knew how sex worked. I wanted to sleep with you. Do something with you. I still wanted to punch you in the face half the time, but the other half. Well.” He shuts one eye, looking embarrassed. “It was weird.”

Draco waits. Harry looks at him sheepishly from under the fall of his slightly too long, and always too messy, hair.

“Wait...That’s it?” Draco wonders softly, when another minute passes and Harry says nothing.

“Yeah,” Harry says quietly, still looking a little coy. “God.” Harry shakes his head, fingers still partly over his mouth. “I knew that was coming, I mean. I was pretty sure that was what I was going to end up saying. But it still.” He makes a face, stick his tongue out briefly. Draco spreads his hands indignantly.

“What, no embarrassing body image issues, or, I don't know,” he searches for something, “apprehension about what it will be like, whether I’ll be able to, you know,” he blanches, “actually knot, because I'm pretty bloody sure you should be concerned about that. Just…You liked me back at school?”

“Oh no. I didn't like you at all,” Harry replies quietly. “Which I don't think will surprise you. I was attracted to you,” Harry explains. “Like I said, it was pretty bloody confusing, and a lot of the time I was just angry with you.” He shrugs. “But, still. Thought about shagging you.” He purses his lips, then scratches at his ear. Draco continues to struggle to process any of what Harry has just said.

“Why is that even an issue?” he eventually asks.

Harry exhales heavily. “Well, it might not be. But it's been bothering me.” He settles back against the sofa, pulling one foot up and resting his forearm against his knee. “The same way the stuff you said has been bothering you, albeit on a pretty subconscious scale.” He looks pensive, a little uncomfortable, and yet determined as he tries to choose his words. “It's been bothering me because it makes it seem like this is opportunistic,” Harry says quickly, seriously. “That I'm only doing this to…”

“Get a leg over?” Draco suggests softly, and Harry nods, once.

“Yep.” He scoffs, shaking his head. “I wouldn't be surprised if you thought that.”

“I don’t,” Draco replies honestly. “I'm slightly too shocked by this information to form an opinion, I confess.”

Harry laughs, meeting his eyes again finally. “Well, it's not opportunistic. For what that’s worth. I'm doing this for the reasons I told you I was,” Harry says, and it sounds heartfelt, his voice almost a little imploring.

“You just also felt compelled to tell me that you thought I was fit roughly nine years ago?” He keeps his voice light, wanting Harry to know he’s not antagonising him.

“Yeah.” Harry closes his eyes, face tilted up towards the ceiling as he settles against the cushioned back of the sofa. “Just felt like something I ought to be upfront about, considering what we’re doing now.” He licks his lips, then adds, “I wasn’t even sure if things would get this far, to be honest. Didn’t really expect us to have much chemistry, you know?”

Draco nods, internally agreeing with a kind of baffled vehemence. He shakes his head, feeling a bit overwhelmed, too much new information and honesty swimming around in his head. It's not unpleasant, but he does feel like he’s done an emotional relay here.

“It’s because you’re much less annoying now,” he says, and Harry barks a loud, relieved laugh, tilting his head to look at him fondly.

“Yeah, you too,” Harry agrees. His face is a little pale now, the bags under his eyes visible, and he stifles a yawn with the back of his hand.

“You’re tired,” Draco states softly.

“I am knackered,” Harry agrees with feeling.

“Well, I should probably be going,” Draco says as he stands. “And I assume we’ll be in contact before...” He stops himself from saying something self-deprecating like, before the big disappointment. In the surreal pleasantness of their afternoon together, he’d managed to forget about the whole reason he’d been advised to seek out Harry’s services. He feels forcibly reminded of it now. Harry looks like he can tell.

“It's not an issue, you know,” Harry says abruptly, his knees clicking slightly as he stands too. “If you don’t knot.” He steps forward, almost chest to chest with Draco, looking up at him from his ever so slight height disadvantage. “It won't be an issue for me,” he repeats.

Draco swallows thickly. “It doesn’t… I’ve never,” he shakes his head in frustration. “What if it doesn't happen?” he asks in a low whisper.

“Then we’ll do other things,” Harry replies easily. “To make you comfortable. Until it does. Until you’re ready.” He pulls his lower lip into his mouth, then releases it again. His eyes are unwavering as he regards Draco, and Draco feels pinned to the spot by them. “And when you feel ready, when you want to and it feels right. Then it’ll happen.”

Draco swallows again. He wants to protest that that's stupid, that if it were that simple it would have happened already, but something about what Harry says resonates with him. He’s deeply relieved by it, too, but the apprehension about what’s going to happen is still hard to shake.

“Will it hurt?” he asks, his earlier admission still playing on his mind.

“You?” Harry frowns, and Draco shakes his head.

“Will it hurt you.” Draco worries his lip, not wanting to elaborate. He feels silly, inexperienced and out of his depth in a way he hasn’t felt for a long time, and he doesn’t like it. He knows the technical details of what will happen, but he knows startlingly little about the rest. He’s always suppressed all of it, locked himself away for the night of the rut, and sweated out any urges he’s felt during. He isn’t sure what he’ll actually be like, what Harry will be like, and he hates the unknown.

Harry’s brows lift in understanding. “Oh. No.” Harry touches the back of his hand with his fingertips, just briefly. “It feels good. Trust me about that,” he adds at Draco’s sceptical look.

“I just don't want to....” the words ‘hurt you’ are left unsaid.

“You won't,” Harry assures, then laughs once. “Have you ever hurt anyone?” he asks, searching Draco’s face. Draco feels his stomach lurch as he watches the smile slip away from Harry’s face, replaced with a small frown of concern.

“What an incredibly loaded question,” he mumbles around the lump in his throat. He feels Harry’s fingertips return to his hand, a little firmer this time. He’s glad Harry doesn’t refute it though, doesn’t challenge him. Some things, Draco knows, just need to be accepted. Oddly, he feels a little closer to that himself.

“I should go,” he mumbles again after a minute, flicking his eyes back up to meet Harry’s avid gaze.

“Okay,” Harry says quietly. “You’ll be able to Disapparate from here,” he mutters, and Draco nods, watching Harry's mouth.

“I’ll see you soon,” Draco breathes.

“You will.” Harry licks his lips, and Draco inhales again, deeply, feeling suddenly awkward and flushed. He isn't sure how to leave a situation like this, what the etiquette would be. Should he shake his hand, should he offer the address to his Floo, or should he just leave? He stands still, weighing his options up, as Harry watches him with that same intense, slightly heated gaze.

Impulsively, he leans forwards and kisses Harry’s cheek instead.

It’s meant to be quick, intended to be nothing more than a brief peck, but Harry's face is warm, soft, and he makes a soft sound like a sigh as Draco’s lips meet his cheek. Draco inhales again, to try and steady himself, and catches that scent again. Citrus, again, and salt, and something underneath so sweet it makes hims shut his eyes and clench his fist lest he slip his fingers over Harry’s bare wrist. Draco turns his face into Harry’s cheek, pulling back a little, and he can hear rather than see Harry opening his mouth to speak, his fingers brushing the hem of Draco’s shirt. Draco wants to kiss him again, to bury his face in his neck and breathe that scent down until it’s all he can think about, and he opens his mouth, brushes his lips over Harry’s skin once more.

He steps back again quickly, clearing his throat and nods at Harry’s dazed expression.

“I should really go,” he says, and Harry inclines his head in slightly frantic agreement.

“You really, really should,” he says with feeling. “Because I really, really don’t want you to.”

Draco’s stomach flips, heat blossoming in his chest, over his collarbone and up onto his neck. “See you in two days, then,” he manages, and it sounds wobbly and breathy even to his own ears.

“You will,” Harry says, and it sounds like a promise.

Draco takes a deep breath, and Disapparates with a soft pop.

It's only when he’s home, heating up some leftover supper and resting one shoulder against the wall as he stares absently into the pot, that he realises that that didn’t feel much like a contract negotiation ― it felt an awful lot like a date. Which is… more than a little confusing. Perhaps that’s how it always felt between Harry and the clients he used to have. Draco frowns, itching his ribs, and then absently trailing his fingers over the slightly raised skin of the bite scar on his side. That doesn’t seem quite right though.

He flicks his wand, watches the ladle stir the leek and potato soup, and thinks back on their conversation. The kiss, under the gazebo, and then again when Draco left. It all feels surreal, and incredibly, impossibly, nice. His body is aching already, his limbs a little heavy and tired, and he knows he’ll be feeling wired soon enough. Everything seems brighter, louder, more potent than usual, and he wonders if Harry’s scent has lingered on his clothes, or if it just feels like it’s still around him because he can’t get it out of his head. For the first time, the fact that he hasn't taken the usual cocktail of suppressants doesn’t worry him.

He only realises he’s smiling about that when he catches sight of himself in the reflective surface of his kitchen window, and he scrubs a hand over his mouth, trying to wipe the giddy look away. He heads to the dining room to eat, alone. Impulsively, he puts on a record, the soft sounds filling the room for the first time in what feels like months, possibly even years; it's been an age since he’s felt like listening to music.

When he catches his mouth twitching up into a smile again, this time he lets it.

They agree that Harry will arrive the evening before his heat is expected.

“It’s pretty clockwork, you know?” he explained via the Floo, earlier in the week. “But there’s always the chance it’ll come early, and having me in your house, familiar to you, might help when you. You know.” Harry waved a fiery hand at Draco’s general vicinity. “When you, uh. Respond to me.”

“Respond to you?”

“Okay, when you want to fuck me,” was Harry's reply, heated and playful in equal measure. “The heat is usually a little earlier than a rut would be, and when it hits. Well. You’ll want to fuck me.”

His voice was a little muffled by the flames, but the words went right to Draco’s groin, making him shut his eyes and and turn away. He was useless for the rest of that afternoon, distracted and trying to will his half-hard erection to go away, to no avail. He’d ended up wanking in the kitchen, sliding his hand into his trousers and feeling his cock thicken fully in his fist as he slipped his shaky fist up and down the length of it. He was an average size, he thought, or perhaps a little on the longer end of things, and he ran his fingertips over the moisture collecting at the head, hissed at the feel of it. He pulled his t-shirt up to his armpits, letting his knuckles skate over the ridge of his scar and jerked at the jolt of sensation he felt there. It wasn’t exactly pleasure, but it definitely wasn’t pain, reminding Draco instead of something in between. It made his cock jerk in his fist, his breath hitch, and he ran his fist down to base of his cock, imagined what it might feel like to be buried deep inside Harry, to feel him clench and writhe underneath him and for his cock to thicken further, filling Harry up and ―

Draco came suddenly, in the middle of the day in his sunlit kitchen, with a strangled groan. He laughed shakily, rinsing his hand under the tap and then spelling away the mess on his floor.

He was half-hard again by the time he finished.

The day that Harry arrives, Draco tries to keep busy. He wakes up late, the tension in his body feeling like it‘s strung even more taut then ever, and his stomach growling. Of all the things he wasn’t expecting, the sudden appetite truly takes him by surprise, as he works his way through a bowl of muesli and then half a loaf of bread. He feel ravenous, and overheated, as if he has a fever, except he doesn't feel ill in the slightest. His body aches a little, as if he’s been for a slightly too long run, but he’s not lethargic. He feels alert, the room around him illuminated a little as he becomes aware of scents he’s never noticed before. The newly turned earth in his garden, the presence of the small ginger tomcat that visits him every now again. Draco can tell what path the cat took, as it tiptoed over his fence and over the fallen autumn leaves from his maple tree, as they litter the grass. He crushes one as he drinks his tea, holds it an arm’s length away from himself and delights in the strange tang as its scent fills the air. It's wonderful, bitter and thick, and Draco isn't sure if he’s only able to pick these things up now that the rut is a day away, or if he’s always been able to and has been suppressing that he suppresses a lot of what he feels. He lets the crumpled leaf fall to the ground, near his bare feet, and wiggles them against the grass. Whatever it is, he can sense it now.

He remembers again that Omegas are more sensitive to scents than Alphas, and he suddenly wonders what it’s like for Harry. He’s aware that he can't wait for Harry to arrive, and is hellishly nervous about it at the same time. He’s looking forward to having some company who can relate to how he’s feeling; Pansy and Millicent were fabulously crude and unhelpful when they came around the previous evening, and Blaise was refreshingly uninterested when he Floo’d. Draco hasn't tried to explain to any of them what the barrage to his senses is making him feel, nor who exactly his heat companion is, no matter how much Pansy has tried to cajole him into it. It's silly, he knows, but he likes that he’s excited about seeing Harry, that the memory of the times they’ve met and spoken make him feel warm and nervous, and he doesn't want that to be spoiled by Pansy’s predictably unhappy reaction. He knows this is a contractual agreement, that Harry is providing a service, but it doesn't feel like that to Draco. He isn't sure if it’s wise or incredibly idiotic to foster those feelings, the startling attraction and even budding friendship and affection he feels towards Harry, but he can’t be bothered trying to pretend he doesn't feel it. If it comes back to haunt him then he’ll deal with that when it happens. At the least, he trusts that Harry will let him down gently, and honestly, when it comes to him packing his bags and tearing up the contract. He doesn't want to think about what happens after the heat though, in a rare moment of not indulging in his finely cultivated pessimism.

He thinks, instead, back on that kiss in the park, the feel of Harry’s lips against his, the way he’d pressed forwards ― of Harry’s scent.

Draco leans forwards, swearing lightly as he fists his rapidly swelling cock through his joggers. He rests his other hand on the guest bed he was setting up for Harry in the spare room, fists the light blue sheets between his fingers. Draco hasn't been able to stop thinking of his scent, even impulsively buying limes and creme brûlée when he went to the markets the previous day. It's not the same, not remotely, as he ran his fingers over a vanilla pod, then cracked the burnt sugar top of the creamy dessert last night. It reminds him of the way Harry made him feel, though, and that’s enough at the moment to set him off.

He doesn't come as quickly this time. He pulls the soft material of his pants down, until it rests just under his balls, and pulls himself off with long slow strokes. He hits his eyes, a shiver running up his spine to his neck, over his throat as he trails his fingers over it and he pulls his t-shirt over his head, lets it drop carelessly to the floor. He looks down the length of his chest.

The scars are faint, thin, even wispy in places. Some of them are barely visible. He’s pale himself, and always has been, and he wonders if they would stand out more if he had a darker complexion. They crisscross his torso, down to his stomach, and he runs one hand over them, lets his fingers stop as he reaches the thicker but no less pale werewolf bite. Again, the jolt of pleasure-pain is startling, another reminder that this is no ordinary scar. The Sectumsempra curse meant that the scars never fully healed, the lingering malevolent magic burned into his skin, and the werewolf bite is again something different. The magic behind that is dark, runs deeper than any curse; it's in his blood, entwined with his own magical core, and will never heal, the damage it caused permanent. He traces the line of it with the tips of his fingers, gasping gently as he moves lower, to the slight jut of his hips. He ups the pace of his fist, moving along the length of his cock in smooth and certain strokes, faster and then faster again, feeling the pleasure build and then peak. He gasps, spreading his knees as wide as he can while trapped in the material of his pants as he comes in warm, wet pulses over his fingers, onto the bedspread beneath him. His head falls forward as he pants, hips rolling and thighs clenching, as he lets the final waves of his orgasm skitter along his nerves. His fingers still stroke his oversensitive cock, his come making his grip slick and almost soothing.

After a moment he sighs, then exhales roughly in a loud puff of air. He shakes his head, then his hair out of his eyes.

“This is ridiculous,” he mumbles, standing up and righting his clothes, then Summoning his wand and cleaning the sheets. Merlin’s tits, he’s as bad as a teenager again, he thinks as he moves to peel the sheets away so he can replace them. He can only wonder what it would be like for Harry, given he’ll be on the verge of a heat and likely to be even more susceptible than Draco to the scents around him. He rubs his fingers over the untucked corner, wondering what his scent must be like for Harry, if it would linger in the room. The idea of it sends a thrill down him, and he impulsively retucks the corner of the sheets over the edge of the mattress, stands and leaves before he can think better of it.

Then, he waits for Harry.

Harry arrives exactly seven minutes late.

Draco knows, because he was avidly staring at the clock, unable to think of anything else to do with the nervous, antsy energy running through him. He manages to stop himself from actually standing by the door, but it takes no small effort. He can't remember the last he was this nervous about something, or this excited.

It's dark outside, but even before Harry steps in the door Draco can see he’s dressed incredibly casually, in blue jeans with a fraying rip in the knee, a black t-shirt and an unzipped hoodie. He’s wearing those familiar wire lenses, his face a little pale underneath them, and when he lifts them off his eyes Draco can see that they're even brighter than the last time he saw them, shining with what at any other time Draco would assume was a fever. He’s also carrying a duffel bag, and the sight of it makes Draco’s pulse quicken. He isn't sure why, but the battered overnight bag precariously balanced on Harry’s shoulder makes it seem real, inevitable.

They stand at the open doorway for a long time, Draco barefoot against the cold floorboards, and Harry’s cheeks slowly blush a faint pink.

“Hello, Harry,” Draco makes himself say, trying to remember his manners, along with how to function like a reasonable human being. It's hard when he can't stop staring at Harry’s cheeks, at the line of his collarbone just visible above his t-shirt neck.

“Hey,” Harry croaks, clearing his throat. He inhales softly, then frowns, making a small sound. Draco can barely hear around the thud of his heartbeat, and he quickly steps aside and waves Harry in. He takes a steadying breath, trying to clear his head, and then groans as he’s suddenly hit by Harry’s scent.

It's the same as before, only brighter somehow, louder, and Draco shuts his eyes, feels his knees almost buckle with it. He concentrates on breathing steadily as he waits for his mind to clear, for his reaction to dull. He moves one hand to his stomach, spreads his fingers wide against the soft material of his t-shirt. It helps, somehow, to ground him and he slowly opens his eyes, braced for Harry to surely be watching him like he’s completely lost his mind. He’s not prepared for what he does see.

Whatever Harry’s looking at him with, it's not disdain, or amusement, at Draco’s brief lapse in control. He’s barely moved from the doorway, standing just opposite Draco, and his bag has slipped from his shoulder to his elbow, pulling his t-shirt aside and revealing the line of his shoulder, and then the ridged edge of a healed yet jagged white scar. Draco doesn't even know how to categorise the rush of emotion ― protective, angry, aroused, protective ― he feels at the sight of that.

“Christ,” Draco mutters vehemently, and Harry groans, then nods.

“Yeah. You smell…” He tilts his head back against the wall with a soft thud, then visibly shakes himself. “Fuck.”

“Is this…” Draco starts, pushing his hair up and away from his face. “Are you ―”

Harry grunts, then puffs his cheeks out, eyes still closed.

“Nope. Just,” he waves a hand then laughs. It sounds somewhat incredulous. “You smell fucking incredible.”

Draco reaches out, touches the hallway wall. It's cold against his fingers, and he leans his weight against it, willing his erection down.

“So this is just…us,” Draco tries, “being ridiculous in the fucking hallway?” he finishes with deep conviction. He certainly feels like an overstimulated prat. He drags his eyes away from Harry’s throat.

“Yeah.” Harry laughs, finally opening his eyes as he leans forwards. He nods, then scrubs his hand over his face, almost swaying a little bit.

“Right.” He shakes himself briskly again. “I'm good. We’re fine.” He jangles his arm, the bag on it making a heavy sound. “Where can I… Can I put this somewhere?”

“Oh, yes of course. Sorry.” Draco starts down the hallway, thankful he put on a loose-ish pair of trousers; they conceal his half-hard cock well, although he does walk a little stiffly.

He stops at the spare bedroom, then clears his throat. He gestures for Harry to enter.

“Please, make yourself at home.”

“Is this your guest room?”

“Yes, I. Well, I wasn't sure if… if you would sleep here, or in the master, with me.” Draco can feel himself turning red, and he lingers in the doorway then finally steps into the room after Harry. “So. I set it up for you anyway.” He clears his throat.

Harry carefully drops his bag on the chair by the small window. “This is nice,” he mumbles distractedly, flicking Draco a gaze and then peeling his hooded jumper off. “Thank you.”

Draco looks away, adjusts a book on the shelf to his left to stop himself from staring at Harry’s exposed arms, at the brief flash of his stomach when he peeled his hoodie off.

“Do you sleep in here?” he asks breathily and Draco frowns as he considers the question. Before he can answer, Harry’s shaking his head, breathing out roughly. “Stupid question. Course you don’t.”

“Why do you ask?” Draco folds his arms over his chest.

“Ah.” Another shaky laugh from Harry. “Scents’ just. It's strong in here.” There's a small frown between his brows, as he rubs his hand over his mouth and then up into his hair. It's neater than usual, at least it was until Harry distractedly teases his fingers through it.

“My scent ― oh.” Draco isn't sure what Harry means, until suddenly he is; the room would be filled with Draco’s scent, his earlier indiscretion cleaned away but not so much that Harry won’t be able to tell.

“Is that a problem?” he inquires, as evenly as he can around the strange rush of emotion inside him. It's not embarrassment, as he thought it might be, nor humiliation. He can't think of a word for it, but pride might cover it, which is startling enough. He feels an odd sense of proprietary pleasure in knowing Harry can still sense his presence among the sheets, and his prick begins to harden once more.

“No.” Harry rubs one palm over his jeans, and Draco stares at his eyes, refusing to track the movement of his hands. Refusing to look down. “No, it's not a problem,” he says in a hushed tone.

His hair is sticking up a little from where Harry was careless with his fingers, his lower lip reddened from being worried by his teeth. Draco wants to kiss him, to run his lips over his jaw. The desire is at once stark, urgent, and moderated at the same time. His head swims with it, like the rush that comes from holding his breath too long, and it leaves as quickly as it comes. He sucks his own lip into his mouth instead, delights in the way Harry watches him do it. He’s never seen someone mirror his own arousal like this, so plainly and so in sync with what he’s feeling himself. There’s a tug of war between them, a rope that’s ready to snap tight, and Draco knows that he could tip the balance now. He could pull Harry to him, kiss him soft and then hard, take him in here like he fantasised about earlier. His body is thrumming with the desire to do it, the sentiments echoed by Harry’s tight posture, by his avid and hungry gaze. But Draco also knows he can wait, that it will happen between them, and happen soon. He doesn't need to tip the balance at all; it's tipping on its own, with a gentle inevitability. Draco knows that he can wait.

He feels almost dizzy with the feeling of power it brings him. And then again, as he watches Harry gaze turn heated once more.

“What's my scent like?” he suddenly asks, stepping closer to Harry. Harry sighs, staring at Draco’s mouth.

“Your scent,” he repeats, looking away. He rubs the back of one knuckle over his cheek. “I don’t know. Like a lot of things, familiar things, but not like them at all at the same time. I don't know how to describe it.”

“Try.”

“All right.” Harry fixes him with a piercing gaze. “You smell like sex.”

Draco inhales sharply, licks his lips as Harry now takes a step forward. They’re standing almost toe to toe, Harry’s trainers nearly touching Draco’s bare feet.

“Your scent is like mint, like wood.” Harry’s voice is low, a shock of dark hair falling over his glasses. Draco’s fingers itch to touch it. “Like rain when it hits warm concrete. But mostly.” Harry draws in a shuddering breath, then shuffles backwards. He brushes that hair away from his face, and Draco lets his fingers relax. “Mostly you just smell like sex to me.” Harry turns and starts to unzip his duffel bag. “Which is…”

“Incredible, and driving you mad?” Draco suggests, after Harry doesn't finish.

“God, yes.” Harry straightens. He pulls a pair of joggers from his duffel, then a soft white t-shirt. Draco can smell the laundry detergent on it. He weighs them slightly in his hands, lips twisted in thought. “I’ve missed this, you know.”

“This?”

“Talking to someone. About how this…” He folds one corner of his shirt down, then flips it back. “How it feels. Right before it happens.”

Draco tilts his head to the side. He toys with a cushion at the end of the bed, then sighs, throws it up towards the headboard. “This is all a bit new for me.” He focusses on how much he likes talking about this, instead of the jealousy he feels at the idea of Harry being with other people. He forces the unwelcome feeling away, smiles at Harry. His expression turns quizzical when he sees Harry regarding him now with a strange look. Open, maybe, even more so than usual, and perhaps a little vulnerable.

“This feels a bit new to me as well, to be honest.” Harry licks his lips, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. Draco’s smile softens, even as the whirring feeling inside his chest quickens. He tries to think of something to say, a way to ask what exactly that means, but he stops himself. Instead, he flexes his fingers then reaches forward and brushes that errant curl of Harry’s away from his glasses. He tucks it behind Harry’s ear, lets his fingers trail over Harry’s cheek. He doesn’t imagine the way Harry turns his face into the touch as Draco draws his hand away.

“I’ll leave you to unpack,” Draco says quietly as Harry nods. “The bathroom is through there.” He points to the door directly to Harry’s left. “It adjoins this room, and my bedroom is on the other side.” he crosses his arms over his chest again. “There are towels, toiletries. I imagine you brought your own, but nevertheless. Make wildly liberal use of whatever you want to while you’re here.”

Harry laughs. “Wildly liberal use of your toothpaste?”

“If you must.” One corner of Draco’s mouth tilts up. “Yes.”

Harry laughs again, much softer. “I do need to take a few potions.” He makes a face at Draco’s confused frown. “They’ll take about four hours to kick in, and I’m not due until the morning, but. Better safe than sorry, if anything happens in the night.” He puffs a laugh, but Draco only shakes his head, his hair tickling at his cheeks.

“Sorry, I’m not following entirely. Is it… For the heat?”

Harry looks at him sideways. “Yeah,” he says slowly. “For… Well. For the obvious.”

Draco raises both brows. Whatever Harry’s referring to, it’s not obvious to him. The usual potions he took for his ruts involved a mild sedative, a pheromone and hormone suppressant, another which helped with fertili ―

“Oh,” Draco mumbles, rubbing his palm over his chin as Harry’s meaning dawns on him. “You mean contraceptives.” He breathes, suddenly feeling overwhelmingly hot.

“Did that not occur to you?” Harry says kindly, tilting his head forwards to try and better gauge Draco’s expression.

“Not,” Draco clears his throat, fiddles with the neck of his t-shirt, “Only in the abstract.” He feels his face growing even hotter, his neck and collarbone flushing too. He isn’t quite sure why he’s reacting like this, but he’s somehow not really connected the idea of Harry and fertility before now. It’s silly of him; it’s the purpose of the heat. The Healer’s words ring through his head. “Your body wants to mate, Draco.” Of all the things Draco has never had even the vaguest interest in, it’s always been that at the top of the list. He’s stunned, now, by the wave of emotion surging inside him. Mating, fertility, conception. He swallows, looking away. He knows he’s gone right past pink and flushed a deep crimson.

“Draco.”

“Give me a minute,” Draco croaks, eyes fixed determinedly at the wall. He’s going to ride this weird reaction out.

“Okay,” Harry says softly. “Should I perhaps give you some space?”

“This is your room.” Draco’s pleased to hear his voice has returned to a slightly more normal timbre. He suspects his hands are still shaking, though. He shakes them out, risks a look at Harry.

“God,” Draco looks away from the confused and concerned warmth in Harry’s gaze. “My apologies. I think I should.” He tucks his hands into his pockets. “I should leave you to settle in,” he utters.

“All right.” Harry coughs into his fist to clear his throat.

“I’ll probably try and get a bit of sleep,” Draco says, slightly redundantly. It’s ten pm; he’s usually sound asleep by now.

“Yeah.” Harry tilts his head from side to side, cracking his neck. “I’ll aim to sleep for a bit, too. Before….” He puffs his cheeks out, mimes an explosion with his hands. The gesture is childish, and overdone, and Draco laughs, a little too loud and far too genuine. Harry grins at him, looking relieved to hear Draco’s laugh.

“Night, Draco.” He looks relieved, tired, a little unsteady on his feet, and impossibly, breathtakingly handsome, and Draco wants to kiss him again. He thinks he probably can, but he knows he’d have trouble stopping, so he lifts two fingers in a wave instead.

“Good night, Harry,” he says instead.

He walks through the adjoining bathroom to his own bedroom.

Chapter Text

Draco is in the potions classroom.

The room is dark, dimly lit, and his classmates sit around him, focussing on their slowly heating cauldrons.

Harry is sitting on the desk in front of him. He swings his bare feet, his heel hitting the table leg with a rhythmic thump. He’s smiling, his red and gold tie undone and his shirt rolled up to reveal his forearms. Draco can’t make sense of it. Potter never smiles at him.

Draco doesn’t understand what he’s doing here.

The room is hot, stifling. His shirt feels like it's smothering him, the air thick and cloying. No one else seems to have noticed though, to be bothered by it. Sweat trickles down Draco’s spine, his armpits, dampening his shirt. His trousers feel too tight, and he glances down briefly, then away again in embarrassment. He thinks he’s getting hard, and he hopes no one has noticed. But then again, why would they, considering they also haven't noticed how fucking hot it is in here. And why has Snape not told Potter to get off of Draco’s desk? Draco purses his lips.

“Sir, he’s ―”

“It's all right, Draco,” Snape drawls, turning a page of his book. He doesn’t look up. “He didn't do it on purpose.”

“What ―”

“Superficial wounds heal easily.” Snick. Another turn of the page. “But Dark Magic leaves its mark.”

Draco glowers down at his lap. He isn’t sure what that means, but it sounds familiar. He wants to ask Snape more, to shove at Harry’s knee, but he frowns as something brushes against his calf. Draco sits up straighter.

It brushes over his calf again.

It’s soft, furred. Draco’s skin prickles. Danger. He swallows around the lump of fear, listens for the faint clack of teeth. He feels it again, the brush of a warm pelt, of bristled fur against his legs, and then the heave of a large animal as it rests near his feet. He hears its jaw click as it yawns, feels its wet nose bump against his hand. Danger, he thinks again but it's different. He feels the rough lick of a smooth tongue over his fingertips. There's no danger here. Draco curls his toes against the wolf’s soft pelt.

He looks back up at Harry.

Thump. Harry’s heel hits the wood. Thump. Thump.

Thump.

“Potter, why are you being so weird?” he hisses, but Harry's smile doesn't waver. The hair on Draco's skin standing on end, and he shivers as a trickle of sweat runs down his spine.

“Wake up,” Harry silently mouths, and Draco frowns. He is awake, already, he’s awake and in class. He’s not meant to be here though, he’s meant to be in the Room. He’s meant to be in the Room, repairing the cabinet, not here with Harry bloody Potter sitting on his desk. Harry who is smiling at him, and how can he even see Draco without his glasses?

“Bennetts street, boy,” Snape says in a bored tone. “Do pay attention. Fifteen points from Slytherin.”

“Wake up, Draco.”

Harry's teeth are visible as his smile widens, pointed canines bumping against his full lower lip. Draco curls his toes again at the sight, frowning harder. He tightens his hands against his thighs, then presses his legs together. He can feel his erection growing. He can feel the wolf stirring.

He can feel the room getting hotter.

Wake up, now.

Draco lurches upright with a start.

The room is dark, and silent, except for the shuddering sound of his breathing, and it takes him a moment to remember where he is. He blinks in the darkness, letting his eyes adjust, and easily makes out the scant furniture of his room, the shape of his wardrobe and mahogany dresser. He sits forward, hunching forward and holding his stomach. It rolls again, strange and queasy, but he doesn’t feel sick. He feels hot, intensely so, and out of breath like he’s run a marathon, had a nightmare. He hasn't though, he thinks, half-remembering the strangeness of his dream. It’s not even close to the weirdest thing that’s ever popped into his head during the night, and it wasn’t remotely frightening. He gasps again, as he remembers Harry’s persistent, fond smile and the strangely alluring smells of the cauldron fumes. An odd spike of sensation runs up his side.

“What the fuck,” he mutters, desperately untangling his legs from the wreck of his sheets. He kicks them away, growling in frustration when his heel catches on a corner before he manages to finally fling them away from his body and onto the ground. He rests his head back, staring at the ceiling as he waits for the dizziness, the disorienting buzzing feeling in his head, to subside, but it doesn't. He scrubs a hand through his hair, then tries to smooth it down. It’s messy, tangled, the usually neat strands damp at his nape and he suddenly realises he’s covered in sweat. His skin is tacky with it, his t-shirt cloying and clinging to him uncomfortably, and he pulls it over his head. It catches on his ears and he grunts again in annoyance, then in relief when he manages to pull the material free. He bunches the t-shirt up, runs it over his body, then shivers as he feels the cool air of the room meet his overheated skin. He gasps when the material brushes over the bite scar on his side, his cock jumping. He drops the t-shirt, leaning forwards as he rides the surge of pleasure to its plateau, waits for it to ebb away again like it has previously in the last few days.

Again, it doesn't.

“Shit,” Draco mumbles, stilling as he properly makes sense of what’s happening. He runs his fingers over his ribs, down the jagged expanse of the bite scar. He closes his eyes, bites his lip. “Shit,” he repeats emphatically as another overheated shiver runs over his prickling skin.

The dream woke him up, but now Draco knows it's more. His mouth falls open on a sigh, twisting into a low and strangled groan. The scar on his side throbs, deep and insistent, and his heart is beating a steady rhythm inside his chest. His cock aches, his head spinning, and when he inhales deeply he catches it. Scent.

Omega.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Draco mumbles frantically, as he staggers upright from the bed. It takes him two tries, and he has to press his hand to his bedroom wall, swaying a little on the spot as he breathes heavily. He needs water, he thinks desperately, to cool down, to get a grip. He rubs his hand over his face, over the stubble at his jaw. He knew this was coming, knew this was going to happen. He’s still somehow not prepared for it, though, wasn’t entirely braced for the reality of what’s happening to him now, unhindered by potions and running rampant through his system. It’s stupid, he tells himself, but even though it feels good, exciting, it’s riddling him with anxiety. He wants to wake Harry up, he thinks, to ask him about it ― to ask what he’s supposed to do, how he should act, what happens from here. Harry will know, he thinks, as he heads towards the door to the adjoining bathroom. It’s difficult to walk with his erection thick and heavy between his legs, and he laughs thickly, unhappily, at how ridiculous this all is, at the sight he must make. He wants to go back to bed, to pull the covers over his head and lock the door until the feeling goes away, but he doesn’t let himself. Harry, he thinks frantically, just bloody go and get Harry. He feels his skin prickle pleasantly at the thought, his cock jumping, and he grips the door handle, trying not to think too much about how much of an idiot he’s going to make of himself, waking Harry up at 1am with an erection and a cold sweat. He makes himself twist the door handle, easing it open.

He isn’t expecting Harry to be already up and waiting for him, on the other side of the door.

Draco opens his mouth to speak, to say something, but he can’t manage it around the dual waves of immense relief he feels at seeing Harry, and the frightening spike of arousal at being in his presence that follows. Harry is shirtless, his hair damp and pushed back as if he’s wet it, pushed it back from his forehead with his fingers, more than once. It sticks up in awkwardly tangled waves, and he’s left his glasses by the bathroom sink. There’s a little mark on either side of his nose where they would usually sit, both slightly whiter than the rest of his face, which is flushed and ruddy. His posture is tense, his fingers clenching and unclenching at the material of his grey joggers and his breathing shallow. He’s standing close enough to Draco to touch, evidently having been waiting on the other side of the door. His eyes are even more startling than before, somehow unfocussed and yet focussed intently on Draco at the same time, and Draco forces himself to look away, down the length of Harry’s body. He tries to remember what he was going to ask, but his cock twiches, his neck and chest flushing with heat as he see the trail of dark hair leading from Harry’s navel into the line of his joggers. Draco can see the shape of his erection there, and he inhales sharply, eyelids fluttering as he shakes his head to try and clear it. He looks away, eyes drawn to the pale line of the scar on Harry’s shoulder, so different to the one on his forehead. It’s not as big as he thought it would be, not as pronounced as Draco’s own, and he shivers at the sight of it. His skin prickles again with that strange and proprietary longing. His cock throbs.

Draco groans, then claps his hand over his mouth, muffling the sound, but it’s too late. He sees Harry’s brows furrow, one shoulder lifting as he worries his lower lip and runs a sweaty palm over his the thigh of his joggers as he stares at Draco’s chest. He clutches the material in his fist.

“Draco,” Harry starts, then stops. He opens his mouth, makes a sort of vague gesture with one shaking hand, then gives up and drops his head to Draco’s shoulder with a groan.

“Thank fuck you’re awake,” he says emphatically into Draco’s skin, leaning almost his entire weight on him as he inhales deeply. Draco grips the doorframe, trying to keep them both upright. He clenches the fingers of his other hand, not sure what to do with them

“You were waiting?” he whispers, not trusting himself to speak any louder. He doesn't want to hear the way his voice cracks, can’t imagine what it would be like if he aimed for a normal tone. Harry nods, hair tickling at Draco’s jaw, and Draco swallows down the breathy sound he almost makes.

“How long?”

Harry shrugs noncommittally, his shoulders tight. “Dunno. Hour. Maybe longer. Haven’t… Couldn’t sleep.”

“Fuck,” Draco mumbles, slipping an arm around Harry’s waist. He moans again through tightly pressed lips as his fingers brush over Harry’s hot skin, and he feels Harry’s shiver, his breath warm against his shoulder. Harry turns his face into Draco’s neck.

“‘S waiting for you to wake up,” he mumbles feverishly, and Draco moans again, this time open mouthed and loud.

“You could have woken me up,” he mutters, running his fingers over Harry’s spine, turning his own face towards Harry’s hair. He brushes his lips over it, presses the heel of his other palm against the doorframe. He feels Harry's lips move against his skin as he speaks.

“Would’ve been rude,” he answers, and Draco huffs a laugh. The sound is sudden, loud, echoing through the quiet bathroom.

“What?” Harry asks, raising his head from Draco’s shoulder. His cheeks are red, the pulse point in his neck fluttering as his chest rises and falls rapidly with the pace of his breathing. His brows are furrowed in confusion, his expression open and heated. Draco shakes his head again, presses his fingers more firmly against Harry’s back.

“I was coming in here to wake you up,” he explains softly. Harry’s breathes out in understanding.

“Because you have no manners,” he says playfully, his voice thick and low, referring to their conversation from a few days ago. Draco groans again, warmth and fondness running through him, and he pulls Harry closer to him before he even really realises what he’s doing. Harry steps forward easily, sighs shakily when his chest touches Draco’s.

“God.” He moves his own hands around Draco’s waist, tries to angle his hips away, to stop his erection from touching Draco’s thigh. “You smell so good,” he moans.

“Harry.” Draco inhales deeply, shakily. “What do we do from here?” he asks. His voice is shaking, some of his anxiety having ebbed away after being simply in the same room as Harry. Harry moans against his skin.

“What do I do, Harry?” he asks again, more insistently, and Harry groans. He kisses Draco’s throat.

“What do you want to do?” he says breathily, lips moving again as he kisses up to Draco’s jaw.

“I, god,” Draco feels Harry’s hands at his hips, pushing him backwards, and Draco lets him. He lets his hand fall away from the doorframe. “I want you to tell me what to do.” He tilts his head to the side, mouth parting as Harry pulls his earlobe between his teeth, then sucks on it gently. “Tell me what you want me to do,” he grinds out as he feels Harry’s erection press against his hips.

“What I want,” Harry repeats absently, his voice low and almost distant as he moves one hand to Draco’s neck, kisses distractedly at it again. “What do I want?” he asks, pulling back to search Draco’s expression, then kiss at the corner of his mouth.

“You tell me,” Draco replies. Harry’s hands paw at his waist, slipping under the hem of his pyjama bottom as he grinds himself against Draco’s thigh, and Draco tightens the arm around Harry’s middle. He can smell it, he realises, smell Harry’s escalating arousal, as easily as he can see the vacant expression creeping into Harry’s eyes, the way his body shivers and trembles against his as he rolls his hips against Harry’s legs. “You tell me what you want, Harry,” he insists .

“I don’t, ah, I don’t know.” Harry rolls his hips again, shaking his head as he tries to concentrate, he rubs at one eye. “Just, touch me?” he says, looking at Draco imploringly. He kisses over Draco’s neck again, insistently walking him backwards towards his bed. Draco cards his fingers into Harry’s hair, tilts his head back slightly. He licks his lips, then brushes them over Harry's mouth, the rush of blood loud in his ears.

“Anything else?” he whispers, feels Harry sigh into his mouth. He shakes his head frantically, lips moving in a light kiss as he mouths the word ‘no’ against Draco’s mouth. “Just touch you?” Draco repeats hoarsely, pulling back when Harry tries to deepen the kiss. Harry moans, more urgently than before.

“Yeah. Touch me.” He rolls his hips again as Draco stops, his legs hitting the side of the bed. “Please?”

“God.”

“Please?”

Draco sits down, adjusts himself in his pyjama bottoms and keeps his other hand on Harry’s thigh to keep him standing. He kisses over Harry’s stomach, his ribs, massaging his own cock through the thin material. He groans as he slips his fingers below his waistband, then grips himself. His cock feels like a hot brand against his palm, and he tightens his fingers when he hears Harry moan above him.

“Ah.” Harry leans over him slightly, fingers tangled in Draco’s hair. “God, yes, that.”

“Harry,” he whispers, fingers gentle, shaking, as he traces them over the line of Harry’s erection through his joggers. Harry makes another whimper-moan of frustration, hips rolling forwards against the air. His body jerks when Draco gently rubs his palm over his cock, presses the heel of his hand against it.

“Oh, fuck,” Harry gasps, and Draco does it again.

“Harry.” He rests his forehead against Harry’s stomach.

“Fuck.” Harry gasps again. “Draco,” he chokes out. “I need you to, please, can you ―”

“This?”

Harry nods his head frantically, his voice high and breathy as Draco moves his hands up to cup his arse. He fits his palms around the rounded globes of it, feels Harry push back against them.

“I want you,” he rumbles, kissing the line of his abdomen again. He moves his hand, gently parting Harry’s cheeks. His cock throbs against his joggers, and he aches to feel Harry’s skin against his.

“God.” Harry’s voice shakes, ends on a groan as he drops his head down, cants his hips forwards. “Yes.”

Draco takes a steadying breath. “Can I ―”

“Yes.”

Draco eases Harry’s joggers down.

Harry’s skin is smooth and feverishly hot, as Draco runs his hands over it, rests the waist of Harry’s joggers just against the top of his thighs, exposing his cock and arse. He kisses the base of Harry’s stomach, then his hip. He hears Harry moan as he does it again, and Draco curls his toes, rolls his own hips up against nothing as he grips Harry’s arse cheek. He moans again, guttural and loud, as his hands run over the bare skin. Draco can feel his thighs trembling, can barely think around the overwhelming wave after wave of the scent that fills the air. It curls around him, fills his senses, and he feels Harry shiver as Draco kisses, open-mouthed, at the base of his cock.

“Ah!” Harry moans again, little mewls of sound as his hips roll forward, searching for friction, for more contact, against his cock. “Fuck, I need,” Harry spreads his legs wider, stretching the material taut as he pushes his arse back against Draco’s hands, his prick bumping against Draco’s chin. “I need, Draco please.”

“Mmm.” Draco moves his hands again, still kneading at Harry’s arse. “You want me,” he mumbles incredulously into Harry’s skin, and Harry cants his hips again, fingers tight in Draco’s hair.

“So much,” Harry moans, “so fucking much.” He’s breathing as if he’s in pain, fast and loud, and Draco blinks the hair out of his eyes, shaking his head as if in disbelief. He kisses Harry’s stomach again, then the base of his cock, runs his lips over the trail of hair low on Harry’s belly, inhales the scent there and groans so loudly he’d be embarrassed if it was with anyone else, in any other scenario. He returns his hands to Harry’s arse, spreads Harry wider still, panting himself now, and feels the glistening slick there as he moves the index fingers of both hands to Harry’s hole.

“Draco.”

“Fuck,” Draco groans, low and guttural, swaying forwards before he even really registers he’s doing it, he licks a long stripe over the tip of Harry’s cock. He does it again, listening ecstatically as Harry almost shouts with relief, as he sucks the head of Harry’s cock into his mouth. This close the scent is overwhelming, maddening, on his tongue, his lips, and he swirls his tongue around the slit of Harry’s cock. He does it again, moaning almost uncontrollably. He can feel Harry’s skin trembling, the muscles of his thighs trembling as he fights to keep still, his hips twitching back and forth. He’s trying not to thrust, not to push his cock further into Draco’s mouth, while at the same time trying to shift Draco’s fingers inside him, and Draco inhales his scent again, feels Harry’s fingers pull on his hair. He pulls back, lips resting on Harry’s cock as he swirls his tongue again, runs the tip of one finger over his hole. Wet, he thinks dizzily, Harry is so wet. His hole contracts against Draco’s finger, and Harry gasps again, high-pitched and loud, when Draco slips his index finger inside then flicks his gaze up to look at him.

“Oh god, fuck.” Harry draws in a breath, pushing his tangled and sweaty hair away from his face. “Fuck, can you ―ah!” He groans as Draco twists his finger, moves it deeper. He kisses down the length of Harry’s cock, open mouthed and wet, as he withdraws his finger. He rolls the slick on it between forefinger and thumb, feels another wave of arousal over him, then pushed two fingers back inside Harry.

“Good,” he mumbles against Harry’s cock, pulling his joggers down lower with his other hand. “This is good?”

“Ye ― ah, god, yes.”

Draco pulls his fingers out, then presses them back inside in a slow, deep glide. They slide in so easy ― so good and right ― and he bites his lip, fucking them into Harry slowly at first and then faster, deeper. Harry’s body is shaking, thighs tense as he raises his weight onto the balls of his feet, moves his hands to Draco’s shoulders. He’s bent almost double over Draco, nails digging into Draco’s skin as he gasps a near constant stream of breath sounds, high-pitched and desperate. Draco moves his fingers faster, feels the slick run down his fingers, over his knuckles. He moves his other hand to the back of Harry’s thigh, can feel the wetness there too, and he leans forwards, moves his mouth back to Harry’s pelvis. Draco kisses the base of his cock again, rubs his overheated cheek over it. He groans at the way Harry shivers at that, then rests his forehead against Harry’s quivering belly, feels the muscles of Harry’s stomach jump as he moves his fingers faster, feels Harry buck against him.

“Draco, can, ah,” Harry’s knees buckle slightly, and Draco grits his teeth, wraps one arm around Harry’s leg.

“What,” he asks, rubbing his forehead over Harry’s skin. “Tell me.”

“More,” Harry gasps, fingernails leaving dents in Draco’s shoulders. “More, please, anyth ― oh, fuck, fuck.”

Draco feels almost dizzy with the rush of warmth and arousal running through him as he pulls his fingers back, then adds a third. He closes his eyes and twists them, groaning as Harry makes another low, guttural moan. It sounds half like relief, like frustration, as Harry moves his hips back and forth, forcing Draco’s fingers in deeper and searching for contact against his leaking cock. Draco slides his tongue along the length of it, moves back and brushes his lips over the head. The salty taste is sharp on his tongue as he grips Harry’s cock with his other hand, moves his fingers down it in a long, slow stroke.

“Fuck,” he whispers hoarsely, “listen to you,” he chokes out roughly. He moves his fist faster up the length of Harry’s cock, listens to his breathing growing louder and louder still.

His own cock is heavy and aching, full, and he’s desperate for relief, but more than that he feels dizzy with want, with need, to feel Harry come. The scent is filling the room, setting Draco’s nerves on fire ― he can feel Harry’s escalating arousal, in his body and in the changing pulse of his scent. His slick is on his fingers, his knuckles, and Harry clenches around his fingers, trying to draw them deeper, push back against them. The sound of his fingers as they move inside Harry is loud, wet and maddening, and Draco groans, moving his other hand faster over Harry’s cock. He swipes his thumb over the head, fist moving in swift movements as he gasps against Harry’s skin, forehead brushing over the wiry curls at the base of Harry’s cock.

“Fuck, you can, ah.” Draco pulls back, licks at the head of Harry’s cock again. “Come, Harry,” he groans frantically, “you can come.”

“Uh!”

“I want you to come.” Draco looks up at Harry desperately through his fringe, his own hips pushing up against nothing, as Harry stares back down at him, wide-eyed and open mouthed. “I want you to come, now, on m ― me, fuck.” He breaks off on a groan, huffing a shocked laugh. His fingers are aching, the angle awkward as he pumps them inside Harry, and he’s surprised by his own words even as he moves his hand faster over Harry's cock, as he realises how true it is. He wants Harry to come, so badly he feels on fire with it, wants to feel it, to hear him, to have that scent fill the room. It’s all he can think about, the needs of his own aching cock taking a backseat to the sudden and urgent desire to make Harry feel good, to feel his scent around him, on him. He tightens his fist, straightening his shoulders as he feels Harry clench around him one last time before he comes with a shout.

“Yes,” Draco hisses, as Harry’s cock spurts warm and wet against Draco's chest, his collarbone and neck. Harry gasps, high-pitched and loud as Draco’s fingers continue to work him over, and Draco moans as Harry pulses again, and again. His back is prickling with sweat, his hands aching and his cock hard and leaking a damp patch onto the front of his pyjama bottoms and he can feel Harry’s scent over him as Harry’s cock spurts one last time, against Draco’s throat and chin.

“Fuck,” Draco moans. He moves his wet fist down the length of Harry’s still hard cock, before he releases it. Harry whimpers, fingers digging hard into Draco’s shoulders as he sways, knees buckling. He pants hard as he rests his full weight on Draco.

“Fuck,” Draco repeats, running a shaking his hand over his chest and smearing the come there over his collarbone, his Adam’s apple. He can barely think properly, and he shuts his eyes, exhaling roughly before he inhales that intoxicating scent again. Harry, he thinks. Sweat, and skin, and vanilla, and Harry. Draco inhales again, his cock jumping as he withdraws his fingers.

Harry whimpers at the loss of contact, and Draco opens his eyes, looks down at his fingers. He sees the glistening slick on them, feels Harry’s eyes on him, and without thinking he slips them into his mouth. He looks up at Harry’s face when he hears his sharp intake of breath, feels his nails dig into his shoulders as Harry watches him, eyes glassy and wide. His cheeks are flushed a deep, ruddy red, his mouth open. His cock is still hard, glistening with his own come, and his lips curl into a grimace of arousal as Draco moans around his own fingers, pressing them against his tongue.

He shoves Draco roughly onto his back.

“Off,” he growls, pulling at Draco’s pyjama bottoms as Draco blinks up at him in surprise. “Get these off.” He roughly pulls them to his ankles as Draco does his best to kick them away, to help. His legs are shaking, though, his cock hard and aching and the scar on his side throbs in time with each steady rush of blood as it pumps through him.

“I need you, need you to fuck me.” Harry kicks his own remaining clothing away then straddles Draco’s waist. He drops his head to Draco’s neck, mouthing frantically over his jaw. He bites it gently.

His lips part on a shattered groan as Harry grips his cock, pressing it against his hole. He breathes out thinly through his teeth as he eases himself down, letting Draco’s cock slowly split him open.

“Ah,” Harry’s whole body shivers as Draco’s cock slips inside him, inch by slow, perfect inch. “Je ― Jesus,” he laughs. “You have no idea how g ― good that feels. How bad I need ― ah!”

“Fuck,” Draco grinds out, eyes open wide and back arched. He feels Harry’s hand on his chest, nails over his skin as Harry closes his eyes, mouth open as he smiles, gasping out in ecstatic relief as he settles fully over Draco’s cock.

“Yes.” Harry drops his head to Draco’s shoulder, knees skidding against the bedsheets as he begins to move in short, quick snaps of his hips. “God, yes,” he moans again, when Draco moves his hands to Harry’s thighs. He grips them tightly, moves his hands around to Harry’s arse, to where he can feel his own cock pressing inside him. His balls are tight, drawn close to his body and Draco lifts his shoulders off the bed, mouths at Harry’s collarbone. He can barely speak, the pleasure so big it feels like it’s choking him, like every muscle in his body is strung taut and ready to snap and he mouths over Harry’s neck, over his chin to his lips.

He feels his cock jerk, beginning to spurt as soon as Harry’s lips meet his.

“Fu ― ahh!” he gasps nonsensically against Harry’s mouth as Harry keeps kissing him, running his mouth over Draco’s in rough messy kisses. Draco’s toes curl, hips lifting off the bed as far as he can as he comes in an overstimulated rush, his cock pulsing inside Harry. He grips Harry’s arse, moves his fingers closer to his hole and feels the slide of his own come as it runs down the length of his cock.

“God,” Harry mumbles, pushing back against Draco’s fingers. “God, you feel so good.”

Draco’s head drops back against the bed, Harry still kissing him and Draco slowly begins to kiss him back properly as his breathing evens out into something less frantic. He sucks Harry’s lower lip into his mouth, feeling his cock press against his belly, and he’s not sure if Harry came, if he’s hard again, if he ever went soft. Draco’s stomach feels wet, and his head is spinning and he kisses Harry again, deep and soft, moves his lips down over Harry’s jaw.

He waits for the pounding in his head, in his body, to subside as his lips move languorously over Harry’s hot and salty-sweet skin.

“Fuck,” Draco rumbles against Harry’s neck, his cock still twitching inside Harry. “I should,” he starts, beginning to move Harry’s hips so he can pull out. He stops when Harry shakes his head.

“No, no don’t,” Harry says feverishly, clutching at Draco’s shoulders. “Stay inside me,” he whispers, running his lips and then his tongue over Draco’s jaw.

“Aren’t you, ah,” Draco breaks off on a moan as Harry rolls his hips slightly, then sits up, Draco's cock slipping deeper inside him. He can feel his come slide down his balls, feel how wet Harry is now, and Draco runs a hand through his ruined hair. “Aren’t you sore?” he asks, looking up at Harry.

“No,” Harry shakes his head, grinning almost euphorically as he rolls his hips again, Draco’s still half-hard cock beginning to thicken once more.

“Oh, shit,” Draco mumbles, smiling faintly in surprise, in overheated delirium. “Merlin, I’m hard,” he says. “I’m hard again.”

“No, still.” Harry smiles down at him, licks his kiss-swollen lips. “You’re hard still.” He roll his hips again. He bites his lip, his frown deepening as Draco’s cock swells to full hardness inside him once more. “God.” Harry’s head drops back, one hand trailing down Draco’s sternum as he cants his hips forwards, runs his other hand over his own swelling cock. “You have no idea how good that feels.” He flicks his thumb over the head. “Having you inside me, after waiting for it for so long.”

Draco’s breath hitches, even as his lips slant into a half-smile. “I thought you were only waiting about an hour,” he rumbles, smiling up at Harry.

“Mmm, well.” Harry runs his tongue over his teeth, then puffs out his cheeks. He shrugs, blows his hair out of his eyes then shrugs playfully. “An hour. Since we kissed in the park. Give or take.”

Draco gasps, his overstimulated cock twitching inside Harry. “That was days ago.” Harry lifts up, the head of Draco’s cock resting inside him, and Draco chokes out another sound. “You weren’t in heat.”

“No.” Harry flicks his hair away from his face, smiles lopsidedly at Draco. “I wasn’t ― oh,!” He sighs in pleasure as he slowly grinds back down, his stomach muscles quivering as a shiver runs over his skin. “Fuck.” His fingers curl against Draco's stomach, nails skidding lightly over the skin.

“You weren’t in heat then,” Draco repeats dizzily, staring at the way Harry’s body moves, at the tense and release of his muscles and the sheen of sweat over his skin. Harry lets his head drop forward as he smiles slightly, then leans forward and kisses Draco, deep and dirty. He pulls back, lips inches from Draco’s own.

“Still wanted you to fuck me so badly I couldn’t sleep,” he whispers against them. His grin widens at Draco's groan, and he pulls away, sitting back up when Draco tries to deepen the kiss. Draco laughs breathily, then groans again as Harry runs his fingers over the thin, pale scars before moving them to the thicker bite scar. His cock jerks, elbows twitching up off the bed.

“Fuck, why....” Draco takes a moment to wait for the surge of pleasure-pain to subside. “Why does that feel ―”

“Like you’ve developed a new erogenous zone?”

Draco huffs a laugh, ending on a moan as Harry rocks his hips and simultaneously rubs the pad of his thumb, hard, over Draco’s scar. “Yes, that,” he gasps out, back arching. “Why?”

“Not totally sure,” Harry mumbles, watching Draco avidly as he continues his run his fingers in light and then harder strokes over the oversensitized area. “Mine always feels sore, at first. Hard to ignore.” He licks his thumb then brushes it over the area where the scar reaches Draco’s ribs, and Draco moans. “Doesn’t make me react quite like...this, though,” Harry mutters, eyes a little wide as he watches Draco’s face. “But mine always feels sensitive, kinda turns me on. ‘Ve been told by others that it happens to them, too.”

“Others?” Draco says, his voice low and his eyes narrowing. He clamps down on the surge of possessiveness he feels at the mention of Harry with other Alphas, tries to bury it down, but he sees Harry’s eyes cloud over a little more.

“Do you have,” Harry whispers hoarsely, “any idea how hot is it when you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Get jealous.” Harry leans forward, kissing him again. His cock is hot and hard as it presses against Draco’s stomach, leaving a damp smear against the already drying mess on his belly. “I can sense it,” Harry hisses, placing his hands against the bed and riding Draco faster. “Every time it happens it’s like, ah, like your scent gets stronger, thicker.” Harry kisses him again, tongue sliding against his. “In the park, just now. I can sense it.” Another biting kiss, Harry’s lips rough against his own. “When you’re jealous, turned on, when you want me. I can sense it.”

Draco moans, lifting his hips off the bed and knocking Harry off his rhythm slightly. His lips pull up into a grimace as he feels his cock jerk then spurt lightly inside Harry, and he clenches his jaw. His breath whistles out through his teeth.

“What the fuck,” he pants as he lets his head drop back against the mattress. The sheets are rucked up under him, pressing uncomfortably against his lower back, and he can feel Harry’s cock grinding against his stomach still as he buries his face in Draco’s neck, shuddering and gasping hotly as he comes in a warm, wet pulse over Draco’s stomach. He exhales roughly, chest heaving against Draco’s as his rhythm turns languorous once more.

“God,” Harry says, letting his head tilt to the side. He smiles down at Draco lazily. “I forgot what this was like,” he says, his grin turning almost goofy. “Being in heat with someone.” His hair is sticking up on one side, and he rubs the base of his hand over his eyes, still tightening and releasing around Draco. He rubs his eyes again. It’s a tired gesture, absent-minded, and the almost ecstatic smile on his face makes Draco’s overstimulated prick throb. He’s never wanted someone so much in his life, never felt arousal and desire like this, and he feels the jealousy over Harry's other partners rise a little, before something else slips in beside it. He frowns.

“I didn’t knot,” he whispers, frowning slightly. Harry’s expression softens a little, but his eyes are still unfocussed, his cock half-hard and angling away from his body. It’s shorter than Draco’s, thicker, the head flushed a deep and ruddy red. Draco licks his lips.

“Night’s still young,” Harry replies, fisting his cock. Draco tears his eyes away from it, meeting Harry’s.

“What if I don’t, if it, oh.” He swallows as Harry runs his other hand over Draco’s neck, thumb pressing lightly over his Adam’s apple. “If it doesn’t happen.”

“Then we keep doing this until it does.” Harry runs his fingers down Draco’s collarbone, down to one nipple. “Or until the heat ends,” he says, expression heated. He pinches the raised nub, rolls it between thumb and forefinger.

“But what ―”

“Draco?” Harry pinches his nipple again, hair falling over his brow. His gaze is hooded, fond. “Stop thinking so much,” he whispers, lips quirking into a smile.

Draco frowns. “And then it will happen?”

Harry laughs, eyes sliding shut as he continues to roll his hips. “Are you overthinking not overthinking?”

Draco groans, face flushed. “Possibly,” he mumbles. “Yes.”

“Don’t worry, Draco.” Harry flexes his fingers against Draco’s chest. “Just feel.”

Draco starts to reply, to argue, but he sighs as another slide of slick runs down his cock, then his balls. He moves his hands to Harry’s waist, tries to curb the worry that’s gnawing inside him, and focus instead on how Harry's skin feels underneath his. Oddly, he find it works.

“How long will. Will this.” Draco gasps softly, shutting his eyes against the persistently rolling pleasure in his legs, his belly, his groin. “How long does it last like this?”

Harry’s smile widens as he sits upright again, Draco’s cock slipping deeper back inside him. “Until I’m done with you,” he mutters shakily, messy hair covering one eye.

His eyes are still glittering that feverish green, his cheeks ruddy, and Draco’s fingers clench in the bed sheets, itching to touch him. He skates them over Harry’s ribs, down over his thighs, something building in his chest again. He knows he’s just come ― twice ― and that it felt good, but he still feels wired, unsatisfied. There’s something pumping in his veins, along with his blood, something stirring inside him. It’s frightening, new, but not out of his control, Draco reminds himself as he looks up at Harry, at the long plane of his chest. He rakes his nails over Harry’s sides, down to the hair at his belly, then pulls at it lightly. He smiles, baring his teeth when Harry groans, and he pulls at the hair again, harder this time.

Draco grips Harry, lifting him and flipping him onto his back, feels Harry’s full erection as it presses again, hot and stiff, against his belly.

“When you will be done with me?” he says, resting his hands against the bed, his face inches from Harry’s own. When Harry leans up to kiss him, he pulls back and out of Harry’s reach, and Harry laughs dizzily, then groans, settling his head against the haphazard pillows.

“When the sun comes up?” Draco whispers, brushing his mouth against Harry’s jaw and pushing inside him slowly. Harry groans again.

“Maybe,” he says, shaking his head a little in contradiction, his voice hitching on a sound as Draco brushes over his prostate. His hands are on Draco’s hips, his sides, clawing at the small of his back. He looks at Draco, and there’s something in them, something that Draco isn't imagining. He’s never heard someone make the word maybe sounds so much like no, and the feel of it, the implication of what Harry means, thrills down his spine.

“Maybe longer than that?” Draco hears himself ask. His voice is low, his breathing loud as it fills the room and Harry’s eyes slide shut on a low and keening moan as he cants his hips up again.

“Yeah.” Harry swallows, arching his spine. “Oh, fuck, yes!” he hisses as Draco starts fucking him again, moving in and then out in slow and shallow thrusts.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, longer than ― ah!”

Harry’s face creases into a grimace of pleasure, his mouth open, brow furrowed, and Draco’s heart is racing. He’s never been with someone likes this, so responsive, so open. He thinks it’s probably the heat, but then again he thinks that doesn't seem right; it’s not that, not just that. It’s Harry. It’s the way he arches, the way his eyes keep sliding closed then blinking open again as though he wants to keep looking at Draco.

“You want me to fuck you through the sunrise,” he states, upping his pace, and Harry lifts his legs higher, one heel skidding into the small of Draco’s back, the other firm at the top of his thigh. Harry’s nodding, his hair catching on the pillow and his hands shaking.

“Fuck, yes,” he says, and then again. “That, I want that,” he groans, high-pitched and shattered as the bed starts to creak beneath them, gently hitting the wall. Draco lists slightly to the side, leaning his weight fully on one hand, on his knees, as he fucks into him. He runs the fingers of his free hand over Harry’s neck, does it again when Harry tilts it back, exposing the line of his throat to him. Draco presses his thumb gently over his pulse point, imagines he can feels the thud of Harry’s heartbeat against it, before he winds his fingers up into Harry’s hair, over the sweat at the nape of his neck. He licks the line of Harry’s throat, sucks gently at the skin there, breathes that scent down. Sweat and skin and Harry.

The urge to bite, to claim, is rising, but that’s all it does. He clenches his teeth, looks down at the skin of Harry’s neck, at the way the tendons pull. He wants his mark on it, wants to own it, but he won't. Draco’s skin prickles with the desire, the urge, the exhilarating rush of holding back and doing what Harry asked. He feels static thrill over his arms, making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end as he feels magic coiling inside him. It's his, but not his at the same time. It feels like it's coming from deep inside him but whipping around him, like air rushing in his ears, and he rubs his teeth over Harry’s skin, nips gently at it then pulls back. He doesn't remember the last time something, anything, felt so good.

“Yes,” Harry keens again, as Draco's lips graze over his sensitive neck once more. “Yes, Draco, fuck, keep doing that.”

Draco does.

It’s 6am.

Draco’s body aches, throbs, blood thudding through his veins and making a racket in his ears. Harry’s on his stomach beneath him, coiled strength and rippling, wiry muscles. His skin is burning against Draco’s, hot and hot and hot and Draco pushes inside him again, slow and hard and sure.

“Fu ― fuck, Draco,” Harry stammers, moaning uncontrollably now. He turns his face into the pillow, one hand curled under it, the other clawing at Draco’s thigh.

Draco thrusts down again, runs his lips over Harry’s neck then brushes the hair away from his nape. He kisses Harry’s skin, open-mouthed and wet, then gasps out a sound as Harry bucks beneath him, grinding down against the pillow between his legs. He doesn’t know how many times Harry has come, how many times he has himself. He can’t differentiate one rush of pleasure from the next now, the peak and ebb of it blurring into one constant, endless, pulse of sensation. Harry is pliant beneath him, loose and open as he whimpers then bites into the pillow when Draco lifts his knee up higher on the bed, spreading his legs wider. Draco rests his forehead against Harry’s messy hair.

“Harry,” Draco chokes out, “I want.” He kisses mindlessly at Harry’s hair, his overheated cheek. “I want,” he attempts again, not sure what’s he’s trying to say. Harry’s hair catches on the stubble of his cheek as he frantically nods, curving his back and pushing himself onto Draco’s cock.

“Do it,” he whines. “Do it, I want it, so, so.” His mouth drops open on a shuddering moan. “Please, do it.”

“Yes.”

Draco’s side is burning. He can feel every point of the scar, every ridge of it pulling as his muscles work, his abdomen tightening and releasing as he rolls his hips and thrusts his cock inside Harry. Wet, he thinks, Harry is so wet, and Draco’s oversensitive cock slides inside him in easy, maddening glides. He feels on fire with overstimulation, with the need to come, even though he know he has already, again and again. His cock jerks as Harry tightens around him, and Draco rests his weight on one hand, moves the other to Harry’s arse. He grips it, spreading Harry wide. He watches his cock move inside him, gripping Harry’s arse cheek tight, watching the way Harry fucks back against him. Draco feels the sweat prickle down his spine, over his forehead, and his hand skids out from underneath him. He drops down to his elbow, kissing over Harry’s shoulder, over the ridge of his scar, then back to his neck.

“Fuck, Harry.”

“Please, Dr ― Draco, ” Harry says, imploringly, and Draco nods even though he isn’t sure what Harry is asking. Harry must be so tired, Draco thinks absently, so tired and sore, and Draco wants him to feel good. He wants to give Harry what he wants, what he needs. He rolls his hips again, his hip bones grinding against Harry’s arse and his cock still buried deep inside him. Whatever it is Harry’s asking for, Draco wants to give it to him.

“Draco,” Harry says again, low and desperate. “Please, do it, I need,” he breaks off on a choked gasp, hands clawing at the sheets beneath him as he pushes back against Draco. “I want ―”

“Yes,” Draco croaks against Harry’s skin, rubbing his nose over the top of his spine. He feels Harry shiver as he curves his hips down again, his cock stroking into him without really pulling out. He wants to be deeper, he thinks, wants to fill Harry up, but he already is. It doesn’t make any sense, he thinks dizzily, but he doesn’t care. He pushes his hips forwards again, kisses over the bump at the top of Harry’s spine, then moves his lips to Harry’s scar. Harry jolts as if burned.

“Ah!” Harry’s hand flies back to Draco’s neck, to grip his hair, and Draco does it again, harder this time. Harry keens, the sounds growing louder, higher, as Harry pushes back against Draco, searching for more, for something. Draco licks over the scar again.

“Fuck,” Harry pants, “Fuck, please.”

“Yes.”

“Please!”

“Yes,” Draco whispers again, his voice hoarse and raw. He doesn't know what he’s answering, but at the same time he does. He knows what Harry wants, what will end the heat, what Harry needs. He knows. His hips stutter in their pace, as his teeth graze hard over the skin of Harry’s neck, and Harry gasps ― before Draco quickly pulls away.

“Sor ― fuck, sorry,” he mumbles, shaking his hair out of his eyes. “I won’t ―” he starts, but Harry shakes his head.

“This, like this,” Harry tightens the fingers in his hair, pulling him back towards him as Draco presses his chest against Harry’s back, feels his nipples tighten as they brush over Harry’s skin. He kisses Harry’s neck again, hears him moan, and then tentatively sucks at the skin there. Harry mewls.

Draco feels his cock thickening, feels it become harder to pull out with each thrust, each deep grind forwards meeting resistance when Draco pulls his hips back. His knees catch against the sheets, Harry’s legs bracketing them. He can feel his own come as it slips out of Harry, feel the slick as it runs down the inside of Harry’s leg, and Draco burrows his face into Harry’s neck, wraps his arm under him and hikes him up higher. He focuses on that scent, on the feeling of Harry’s hair against his cheeks, of the salty tang on his skin beneath his lips. The rush of arousal builds inside him, rolling up his spine in a sensational and terrifying wave, and he chokes out a sound against Harry’s neck, as he tries to pull out ― and can’t.

“Ah, ye ― yes!,” Harry’s hand flies to Draco’s hip, keeping him still, even as Draco jerks, then tenses. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” Harry whispers frantically. His voice is reedy and unfocussed as his body trembles beneath Draco’s, as he tries to make himself speak; Draco clings to it. “It’s okay, le ― let it happ ― uh ― it’s okay, Dra ― uh!”

Harry gives up, rolling his hips against the pillow beneath him and bucking up against Draco as he shouts, his body tightening around the thick weight of Draco's cock and his cock pulsing onto the pillow beneath his hips. Draco shuts his eyes, slips both arms around Harry’s chest as he jerks and twists. He pulls Harry as close to him as he can, repeating Harry’s half-spoken words inside his head.

Let it happen, he thinks, rolling his hips and grunting at the overwhelming pleasure of it, as he feels his cock swell further, his balls drawing up even tighter. Let it happen, let it happen, let it ―

Draco’s whole body stills. He blinks the sweat out of his eyes, feels his cock twitching and pulsing. It feels like he’s coming, only at the same time it feels entirely different, like an orgasm only every muscle on his body is centred on it ― on the point where Draco’s cock is buried deep inside Harry, where Harry’s hole is stretched wide, impossibly wide around him. Draco makes another sound, trying to speak, but he can’t, can only manage a strangled grunt against Harry’s skin. He feels Harry nod frantically beneath him, “yes,” tumbling out of his mouth as his fingers scrabble at Draco's thigh, as he pushes himself back against Draco. Draco struggles to get more air inside his lungs, to push it out again, but the room is spinning. His lips move over Harry’s neck, the scent of his skin grounding him, stopping Draco from panicking even as wave after wave of dizzying release makes his heart pound, his head spin, makes the air crackle around him.

“Yes,” Harry whispers giddily, “Draco, fuck, yes, that’s ―”

Warm, Draco thinks, rolling his hips and shutting his eyes, he’s warm, and safe, and his body jerks again, his cock aching and thrilling with pleasure at the same time.

“Yes,” he hears Harry ecstatically whisper one last time, fingers tight as they grip Draco’s, before the room slips into darkness.

It’s light again when Draco opens his disoriented eyes, sunlight barely streaming in through the crack of his closed curtains.

He’s thirsty, he thinks, incredibly thirsty, and sore, but mostly he’s warm, and exhausted, and his arms are wrapped around a lean, strong body. Draco hums, nuzzling closer. He doesn't want to wake up yet, he thinks, and he burrows his face further into the mess of hair in front of him, breathes in deeply. He runs his fingers over the back pressed to his chest, before he frowns. He’s lying on his side, he realises, somewhat diagonal across the bed, and he tries to sit up, to right the sheets that someone has pulled half way over his legs. He hisses as the strange jolt of pain he feels, of resistance, when he realises he can’t.

“What,” he whispers in hoarse confusion, trying to sit up again. He looks down his body, resting his weight on one elbow and widening his eyes when full comprehends why he can’t pull away from Harry. “Fuck,” he mumbles, slightly panic-stricken, tensing further when Harry stirs.

“No, s’okay,” Harry mumbles thickly, his hand gripping Draco’s thigh. “’ll go down soon.”

“What ―”

“Shh.” Harry pulls Draco arms around his chest again, rubs his cheek over Draco’s forearm, then kisses the back of his hand. Draco groans at the warmth that blooms in chest at that, as his cock twitches almost painfully inside Harry.

“God,” he breathes out shakily. “Knot,” he murmurs. He chokes out a thick laugh.

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, his tone drowsy. He doesn’t sound tired, so much as dazed, and Draco lifts his head. Harry’s eyes are open, staring ahead, as his fingers stroke the back of Draco’s hand in slow, rhythmic gestures. His chest is rising and falling evenly. “S’weird, isn’t it?” he murmurs drowsily, and Draco bites his lip, then nods. He tightens his hands around Harry, rests his cheek on the side of Harry’s head. He shuts his eyes.

“Does it feel okay?” he whispers roughly, not trusting himself to speak any louder. He feels Harry hum, the vibrations soft against the hand Harry has cradled against his chest.

“Yeah,” Harry replies softly. “Very.” He swallows, throat clicking. “Feels amazing. Full,” he adds after a moment. “Feels almost like I’m high, but I’m not. Like Felix,” Harry mumbles, then dopily puffs a soft laugh, and Draco frowns, not sure what that means. He likes it though, like that Harry isn’t sore, isn’t uncomfortable. He must be though, Draco thinks, must be aching, but Harry only sighs, low and contented as he relaxes further against Draco, his body limp with exhaustion. “Talk more later,” Harry murmurs. “Talk properly later, but now. You.” Harry shifts, then closes his eyes. “Are you okay?” he asks softly.

Draco rouses himself, opening his eyes with some effort. He isn’t sure how to answer that. His body still feels wired, antsy, but it doesn’t feel uncomfortable anymore. He feels good, he realises, right down to his bones, sated and satisfied. He curls his toes, sitting up as far as he can and then finally reaching the corner of the sheets. He grunts with the effort of it, feels Harry stir below him, and Draco runs his knuckles soothingly down his side. He looks at Harry’s profile, as much as he can see. His eyes are closed, now, his mouth slack with sleep. The fingers of one hand twitch as Draco slips the sheets around Harry. It fills Draco with a sudden and striking affection, and he Summons a pillow from the floor and then slips it under Harry’s head. He lays back down, hands around Harry’s waist once more. He slips his fingers between Harry’s own.

“Yeah.” He kisses Harry’s shoulder, then does it again when Harry moans softly. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

When Draco wakes again, they’re no longer tied.

He also feels like he’s been hit by a small train, if not the Hogwarts Express itself. He smacks his lips together, frowning as he rubs his forehead over his pillow, trying to decide if he's properly waking up, or going back to sleep. His bed is ruined, the sheets messy and lying half on the floor, and he thinks he slept half the night without a pillow, given the way his neck aches. He groans as tries to twist it and ease away the knot of pain, when he blinks eyes wide.

Knot.

“Salazar,” Draco mumbles shakily, trying to process what’s happened. He did it, he thinks giddily ― did it, and nothing bad happened. The world didn't end, he didn't feel out of control, animalistic, beset by Dark Magic. Draco smiles, happily and only a little wryly, as he thinks of all those years of dreaded seasonal turns, of the taste of the potions and the Healer visits. And then, of course, the slowly worsening aftermath of the rut ― the dizzy spells, the nausea, and then the eventual blackouts. Draco remembers waking up to see Pansy’s worried face hovering over his own, the feeling of the bathroom tiles cold as they pressed against his steadily bruising cheek. He remembers how tired he felt, how panicked, how wrong. He feels tired now, but it's not the same. There's nothing gnawing inside his gut, behind his eyes. He feels dizzy, but from lack of sleep, and his body aches but this time from exertion. Underneath, he knows he feels good. He knows he’ll have to go back to the Healers to confirm it, will spend the next few days on the lookout for any signs that something is still wrong, and he doubts he’ll be able to escape Olivia’s clutches when he returns. He thinks she’ll want him to talk about it, about the other issues weighing him down, and he oddly doesn't feel that put off by the idea of it. He already feels a little lighter, after a week of disarming honesty with Harry.

Draco presses his cheek against the pillow again, feels a folded corner creasing his skin. His face flushes, familiar and unfamiliar warmth running through him. He hopes he can keep talking about this with Harry, too, he realises. He curls his arms a little tighter around the pillow as another realisation, both surprising and not surprising in the least, hits him properly.

He doesn't want Harry to leave.

Draco starts when he feels a hand on his back, a broad palm curving around his shoulder. He sighs when Harry kisses the back of his neck.

“Draco?” Harry whispers, and Draco grunts in response, exhausted and aching and incredibly, suddenly, relieved that Harry is still here. He breathes out roughly against the pillow, trying to get his racing heart to stop. Of course he’s still here, Draco tells himself. He’s not likely to have run off the second he could; even if he’d wanted to, he's probably too knackered to get very far. At least, that’s what Draco tells himself, trying not to have to think properly about how he feels about Harry ― at least not just yet.

“Y’h?” Draco mumbles, turning so he can look at Harry.

Harry looks exhausted. There are deep bags under his eyes as he leans on one elbow and looks down at Draco. His hair is phenomenally messy, dark wavy strands curling around his neck, over his forehead, and there’s a bruise on his neck. From me, Draco thinks, flushing. From where he’d sucked the previous evening. Draco runs his fingers over his mouth, stares back at Harry’s wide green eyes, vibrant behind the frames of his glasses. His breath hitches a little when Harry smiles.

“Hey,” he says softly. “You're awake.”

“Mmm.” Draco runs his cheek against the pillow. “What an incredibly asinine observation,” he replies.

He brushes his leg against Harry’s to let him know he’s joking, smiles up at him through his own tangled fringe. Harry’s cheek dimples as he returns it.

“Do you want to have a shower with me?” he asks, head rested on his shoulder.

“Oh,” Draco stretches, turning onto his back. Impulsively, he runs the backs of his finger down Harry’s chest, lets them linger over one nipple. Harry shuts his eyes as Draco runs his knuckles over it, feeling it harden under the touch. He exhales on a sound, a sharp little moan. Draco watches his face, the flicker of arousal over it and the flush still lingering on his skin. He leans forward and quickly licks the peaked nub, then sucks it into his mouth.

Harry suppresses another moan as Draco slips his hands between his legs and finds him hard. Draco hums, pulling at Harry’s nipple with his lips before releasing it. He’s not hard himself, and he’s somewhat surprised ― delighted ― to find Harry is. He rubs his hand over Harry’s prick, listens to him hiss slightly at the contact on his oversensitive skin. Draco frowns as a thought occurs to him.

“Are you still ―” he begins to say, but he stops when Harry shakes his head.

“No, heat’s done.” He looks to the side then back again. “For the most part, anyway.”

“The most part?” Draco leans over Harry, forcing himself to sit up with some effort. Merlin, it's unfathomable that he feels this knackered after sex, he thinks. But then again, he’s never had that much, consecutively or otherwise, in any other scenario in his life. He looks at Harry evenly. “That sounds maddeningly vague,” he finishes, and Harry laughs.

“Life as an Omega often is,” he says, with a tone of playful, faux wisdom. Draco runs his hand down Harry’s stomach. He likes the hair there, he thinks, the way it runs along the line of his abs, below his bellybutton and then to his groin.

“So you’re not in heat anymore,” Draco rests his fingers just above Harry’s prick, “just randy?”

Harry’s belly twitches as he laughs. “I am and I’m not.” He sits up, resting his weight on his hands. “It’s like,” he grimaces a little as he adjusts his position, “residual…” Harry’s eyes slides closed as he searches for the word, smiling. Draco can’t stop himself from laughing.

“Merlin, Potter.” He moves his hand to Harry’s thigh, watches him open his eyes. “Are you sure you're okay?”

“Being knotted just feels incredibly good,” he replies, grinning goofily again, and Draco flushes. “My body's kind of… still feeling it.”

“Oh.” Draco clears his throat, cheeks burning. “I. Um.”

Harry’s smile widens. He raises his leg, bumps it against Draco’s side.

“How do you feel?”

Draco bites his lip. Exhausted, wonderful, and like I want to kiss you until you can’t breathe, Draco thinks, but instead he waits a moment, lets the impulse to blurt that out pass him by.

“Sticky,” he eventually says, mouth curving into what he’s sure is a stupid smile. It gets wider when Harry huffs a laugh in reply.

Draco suspects he might look smitten, and it worries him ― or it would, really, if Harry’s shoulders weren't shaking with pleased laughter, his knee still against Draco’s side. Draco wonders if perhaps he’s feeling the effect of residual pheromones from the rut himself, if that’s what’s making his stomach flip. The argument would be much more convincing, though, if he hadn't already felt this impossible fondness beforehand. He thinks that being romantically and sexually interested in someone before, during, and the morning after a night like that means he’s just…. romantically interested in them, raging hormones or no. Draco leans his weight into Harry a little more.

It means he just likes Harry.

Harry laughs again, softly this time. “Come and have a shower with me,” he repeats.

Draco’s forehead creases as he considers it. His legs are sore, his stomach empty. His shoulders ache, and even his forearms hurt, and there's a twinge in his jaw from being clenched.

“Bath,” he says after a moment. “We should have a bath.”

In the end, they compromise, and decide to have both in order of suggestion.

Draco steps over the lip of the tub, letting the shower spray hit him. Immediately he steps back until his shoulders hit the tiles, carefully avoiding the tab. His shower is over his bath, a large white porcelain tub that can easily fit them both, and he lets Harry fiddle with the temperature. He shuts his eyes, sagging a little against the wall, then hums when he feels Harry’s hands on his shoulders.

“Don't fall asleep.”

“I won’t.” Draco snorts. “Not quite fifty yet.”

“Don't fall over, either,” Harry whispers.

Draco laughs, groaning as he turns around. He lets the water run over his head, listens to the sounds of the room distort as the water fills his ears.

“Marginally more likely,” he mumbles. He feels Harry’s arm curve around his waist, then closes his eyes under the spray, dropping his head back to Harry’s shoulders. He moans softly, as Harry begins to massage his scalp.

“If you keep doing that,” Draco hears Harry pop open the cap of the shampoo, then begin to work it into Draco’s hair, “I may actually fall asleep.”

“Mmm.” Harry tilts Draco’s head to rinse the shampoo out, working his fingers over Draco’s neck. “‘M not surprised.” He picks up the soap, then begins to work his sudsy hands down over Draco’s shoulders, his back. “After last night.”

“Why aren’t you? More tired, that is,” Draco clarifies, resting his hands against the shower wall and stretching his shoulders out.

Harry’s hands stop at his hips. He squeezes them gently, leans close to Draco’s ear. “Just got better stamina, I think.” He bites at Draco’s earlobe playfully.

“Oh, fuck you very much,” Draco retorts as Harry laughs, moving his hands over Draco’s chest and letting the suds build over his skin. Draco sighs, almost sad to have the last of Harry’s scent, his come, wash off of him. It’s bizarre, he knows, and he shakes his head at himself, squashing down the laugh that wants to burble out of him. Of all things to get bloody sentimental over, he thinks, as Harry’s hands leaves his body and he begins to wash himself off.

“I’ll crash later,” Harry says after a moment. “If history is indication, that is. I’ll wake up well, then get stupidly hungry, then hit the wall in a few hours and be no good for anything until tomorrow.” He stretches his arm out, washing down the length of it. The movement accidentally brings him closer to Draco, bent forwards slightly and pressed against the wall as he is, and Draco smiles.

“Harry?”

“Yeah?”

Draco bites his lip when he feels Harry’s erection pressing against his arse again. “Are you planning on fucking me?” he mumbles, still smiling. Harry steps back quickly with a shaky laugh.

“Oh, god, sorry. Didn’t realise I ―”

“You can, you know,” Draco moves back, pressing himself against Harry. “I like that,” he adds, when Harry sighs, slipping his arms around Draco’s waist and letting his cock press against his arse cheek. “Or you can just do that.”

“But you’re tired.” Harry kisses the wing of Draco's shoulder blade. “I don’t have to ―”

“I want you to,” Draco blurts, moving his hand to Harry’s hip and pulling him closer. He sighs when Harry’s cock slips between his cheeks, the soap suds making it slide easily.He smiles when Harry drops his forehead to Draco’s shoulder, and begins to rock his hips gently.

“I want you to come,” he repeats, and he means it. He isn’t sure he can come again himself, if he’s even likely to get full hard, but he wants Harry to. He likes the noises he makes, the way his prick feels pressed against Draco’s skin, the way Draco can still catch his scent in the air, despite the spray of the shower and the faint lavender of the soap. He likes that there is no rush to this, the thrust of Harry’s hips almost lazy compared to how he felt last night, and Draco sighs when Harry moves his hand between his legs, touching his flaccid cock.

“You’re not ―”

“I’m good,” Draco says emphatically. “Feels nice.” He sucks on his lip as Harry moves his hand lower, cups his balls. “Merlin, that.” Draco swallows. “Feels nice,” he repeats, with feeling.

Harry kisses his shoulder again, his cock sliding between Draco’s cheeks. He gasps as Draco moves his fingers to his arse cheek, reaching behind him to run them gently over Harry’s hole. He sucks gently at Draco’s shoulder, kissing up to his neck as his pace falters, his hips jerking as Draco moves his fingers over the slick of his abused rim.

Draco bites his lip as he feels Harry’s cock twitch, that scent filling the air again as Harry’s come hits the base of his spine, his arse, before it’s washed away. Harry’s hands tighten on his hips, his mouth open and his tongue resting against Draco’s skin as he kisses him again, then pulls away.

“Fuck,” Harry pants.

“Mmm.” Draco returns his hands to the wall. “What was that about stamina?” he murmurs. He feels Harry laugh, then breathe out heavily. There’s a moment before he replies.

“Might amend that to ‘completely wrecked’,” Harry mumbles, his voice thick and drowsy. He’s leaning more than a little of his weight on Draco, and Draco reaches out, dropping the plug onto the basin of the bath. He maneuvers it into the hole with his toe, letting the shower stream begin to fill the tub, making the executive decision that standing up was not longer something either of them could be bothered with.

“Come on.” He nudges Harry with his shoulder, then turns, sitting down as the tub continues to fill around them. He changes the temperature with a wave of his hand, then pulls Harry back against his chest. He’s pliable again, rubbing at his eyes in what is now a familiar gesture, and Draco rests his chin on his head.

“Too hot,” Harry grumbles, lying one leg over the edge of the tub. Draco tightens his arm around his waist.

“Perfect temperature.”

“Hot,” Harry insists with a laugh, letting his hands float in the water ahead of him. Draco turns the tap off with another wave of his hand, listens to the sudden quiet of the bathroom. The waters swishes as they move, settling comfortably. Draco feels overwhelmingly happy, sated, excited, but there’s something else underneath which won’t quite leave him. He looks at the water dripping off of Harry’s leg and onto the bathroom tiles, the way his chest rises and falls as he breathes evenly. Draco presses his tongue against his teeth, before forcing himself to speak.

“So what happens from here?” he asks quietly. There’s another moment of quiet, before Harry hums.

“Depends, really.” Harry swishes one hand through the water.

“On?”

“On what you want to happen from here,” he says quietly.

“I want.” Draco licks his lips, takes a deep breath. “I want to make you breakfast,” he says into Harry’s hair. He feels rather than hears Harry laugh softly in response.

“It’s late. Well past breakfast time,” he says, a little playful, but there's something else underneath it, that Draco can't quite place. A little hopeful, he thinks, but the kind that Draco's all too familiar with; it’s hope, but hedged with caution, uncertainty. Draco’s own heart kicks up a beat.

“Brunch, then,” he murmurs, brushing Harry’s wet hair away from his forehead. Harry chuckles.

“Okay. Yes. Feed me.” His eyes are closed, his head against Draco’s shoulder. “Then what do you want to happen?”

Draco traces his finger down the line of the faint scar on Harry's forehead. It’s so much paler, smaller than he remembers it being. He wonders if this is why Harry always wears his hair a little on the long side, always lets it flop over his forehead. He swallows, adding this to the ever growing list of things he wants to know about Harry.

“I want you to stay,” he whispers quickly, the words falling out of his mouth in a rush. “Tonight.” he clears his throat, forces himself to ask again, louder this time. “Will you stay again tonight?”

Harry’s forehead creases a little as he sits up. It’s not a frown, more the beginning of an expression Harry can’t seem to contain. Confusion, perhaps, Draco thinks it might be. He tucks his own wet hair behind his ear. “My heat… my heat’s over,” he says quietly, as if Draco might not be fully aware of that, or as if he needs to be sure that Draco knows this.

“I know.” Draco licks his lips, searching Harry’s eyes and trying to ignore the queasy roll of his stomach, the loud thump of his heart. “Will you stay again tonight, anyway?” The waters sloshes as Harry moves again, looking at Draco’s face intently, and Draco starts talking again, half nervousness and half determination to say this out loud, whether his churning insides like it or not. “And can we get tea again?” he murmurs, looking at Harry closely, his stomach fluttering as Harry starts to smile. “Somewhere you choose. Wherever.”

“Really?” Harry says shakily, then nods. He looks happy, surprised, and still a little bit confused, as he adds, “I’d...like that.”

“Yeah.” Draco can feel his cheeks pulling up into a stupid grin as Harry lays down once more, his back against Draco’s chest. “And we can go back to the park,” he murmurs, rubbing his nose against Harry’s cheekbone. He can feel Harry’s cheeks as they slip into a wide smile as well.

“You hated the gazebo.”

“I liked it with you.”

Harry laughs, a little too loud. It’s genuine and goofy, and he moves his hand over his mouth. “And I… can. I can come over again?” Harry stops, pressing his lips together. “We can do this again?”

“Yes.” Draco runs his lips over Harry’s temple. “I want you to come back.”

Harry makes a soft sound, running his hand over his jaw. His mouth moves as he starts to form a question, then stops. It takes another few tries, Harry’s face flushing a soft red before he finally gets the sentence out.

“And it would be. Can.” He takes a breath, turning his face back towards Draco. “Just to be clear that we’re on the same page. I mean I think we are, but. Can.” Harry rubs at his cheek. “Can we do it without a contract?”

Draco laughs, nodding. His nose bumps against Harry’s cheek as Draco slides lower in the tub. His face hurts from smiling. He kisses the line of Harry’s cheekbone, can feel how hot his face is.

“Yes.” He kisses Harry’s cheek again. “No contract. Just...us.” He sighs, then stretches his leg out. His stomach is churning still, but no longer anxiously. It feels like excitement, like happiness.

“Yeah,” Harry murmurs, laughing again. “I’d like it to be just us.” He bends his legs, knees poking out of the water. Draco stares at them. They’re a little knobbly still, a little boney. He feels an incredible rush of fondness, alongside the reminder of who this is, of their shared past. He knows there’s more that they'll have to talk through, that telling people will be difficult, possibly even explosive. He knows that they’ll probably fight as well, the two of them, and that he himself is no walk in the park to date, based on the few people he’s tried it with. He can’t bring himself to care, though. He doesn’t want to overthink this, to sabotage it with uncertainty before it’s even begun. The feeling is nice, and so is having Harry’s skin against his. Let it happen, he thinks, then almost laughs, giddy and stupid.

He traces one finger around the edge of the bite scar on Harry's shoulder, not quite touching it, and lets himself imagine for one dizzy moment what it might be like to have company after the full moon, someone who feels as awful as he does. The thought alone makes his chest lurch with emotion.

He turns his face into Harry’s hair, breathes his scent down easily. Water, soap, and underneath that, vanilla, burnt sugar and lime.

Just let it bloody happen.

Draco sighs, smiling.

“I’d like it to be just us, too.”