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Chapter Text

It all started after his trial.

Draco Malfoy walked away a free wizard. The gavel had fallen with a finality that left his legs trembling beneath him, but he had managed to keep his back straight, his face impassive. One of the conditions of his probation was clear: return to Hogwarts for his eighth year, complete his education, and—above all—keep his head down and stay out of trouble.

He owed his freedom, in no small part, to Harry Potter and his two insufferable friends. Their testimonies—firm, reluctant, but truthful—had spared him a fate in Azkaban. And, more importantly, their words had kept his mother from being sentenced as well. Narcissa Malfoy had sat like a statue throughout the trial, regal even in disgrace. When the verdict was read, her fingers had trembled as they clutched the edge of Draco’s sleeve. She didn't say thank you—not aloud. But her eyes had found Potter’s across the courtroom, softening just enough for the unspoken gratitude to be clear.

Lucius was not so lucky.

His father, a shadow of the man he once was, had been sentenced to ten years in Azkaban, followed by lifelong house arrest. Veritaserum and the contents of his pensieve had painted a full picture of his involvement in the war. He had confessed without resistance. Some had whispered it was cowardice. Draco suspected it was resignation.

Draco had not visited him since.

Over the summer, he and his mother had thrown themselves into the only thing that gave their days meaning: reparations. Gold flowed freely from the Malfoy vaults as they made amends. Donations were made to charities that supported war orphans and grieving families. St. Mungo’s received enough galleons to rebuild three full wings and expand their trauma unit. Hogwarts was given a sizable endowment for reconstruction, and the family quietly paid to help shopkeepers of wizarding London to reopen after the terror that had shuttered so many doors.

None of it would be enough.

Draco knew that.

No sum of money could replace a lost parent, sibling, or child. No donation could erase the terror he had caused, the cruelty he had turned a blind eye to. There was so much more to do, and so much that would likely never be forgiven.

And he would not blame them for it.

He had made a promise to himself—quiet and resolute—that he would apologize in person to every classmate he had wronged. He would not ask for their forgiveness. That was not his right. He would simply say the words and allow them to do with them what they would.

If they spit at him, cursed him, turned their backs—so be it. He deserved that.

Forgiving a Death Eater, willing or not, was not something easily done.

And Draco Malfoy had no illusions left.

xxxxx

It was time to return to Hogwarts.

Draco stood stiffly on the familiar Platform 9 ¾  at King’s Cross Station, the cool September breeze tugging at the hem of his coat. His mother stood beside him, elegant as ever in her tailored robes of charcoal grey, her pale hand resting lightly on his arm. His school luggage sat neatly at his side, polished and orderly, just as she had insisted.

Around them, the platform buzzed with life—students laughing, trunks clattering, owls hooting from their cages overhead. It was a scene so unchanged from years past that, for a fleeting moment, it felt like nothing had happened. Like the war hadn’t scorched through the world. But then Draco caught the glances, the whispers, the cautious space that people gave him as they passed. And he bitterly remembered. Everything had changed.

Over the summer, Draco had come into his secondary gender.

He had presented as an omega.

It hadn’t been much of a surprise—not really. Part of him had always suspected it. He had never been the type to carry himself with the raw dominance expected of an alpha. And while a small part of him had hoped he might present as one—if only to make his life easier—he couldn’t say he was disappointed. The truth settled into him like a puzzle piece finally locking into place. His androgynous looks as a child, the soft grace in his limbs, the sharp delicacy of his features—they all made sense now. Even his quiet preference for boys over girls, something he had never voiced aloud, seemed less confusing in the wake of his presentation.

He had kept it quiet. Only his mother, his Healer, and Professor McGonagall knew. Omegas were rare—only one in fifty people presented as such—and Draco had no interest in letting that detail become public fodder. Not when the court of public opinion still had him on a razor’s edge.

Looking out into the crowd of returning students, Draco scanned the faces that stood out among the sea of black robes and gleaming trunks. His classmates who had chosen to come back for their eighth year were all a little older now. More defined. He could see who had presented over the summer—alphas stood taller, their shoulders broader, their jawlines more pronounced. They moved differently now, more confident, some even predatory.

The betas, who made up the vast majority of the platform, looked largely the same. A bit taller, maybe a bit leaner, but their features hadn’t shifted as dramatically. Stable, ordinary, unremarkable in the eyes of the world. Safe.

And then, his gaze landed on him.

Potter.

Harry Potter had grown.

His frame had lengthened, shedding the last traces of adolescence. Broad shoulders filled out his dark jacket, and even at a distance, Draco could see how the muscles along his arms pressed against the fabric. His unruly jet-black hair was even shaggier than before, curling slightly over his collar as though it refused to be tamed by wand or comb. And his eyes—those damned, piercing green eyes—shone like polished emeralds beneath the sunlight.

Draco’s heart gave a slow, traitorous thud in his chest.

He swallowed hard and looked away.

"Do you want me to walk you to the train?" his mother asked softly, her voice carefully neutral.

Draco shook his head, forcing his expression into something cool, unreadable. “No, Mother. I think I can manage.”

Narcissa gave a small nod, brushing an invisible thread from his sleeve. “Write when you’ve settled in.”

“I will.”

Draco gave his mother a gentle hug, wrapping his arms around her slender frame and resting his chin on her shoulder for a lingering moment. He breathed in her scent—soft and calming, like gardenia and sun drenched linen. For a moment, the noise of the platform dulled, the anxiety coiled in his chest easing just slightly under the familiarity of her presence.

Narcissa had done everything she could to help him through his transition. When Draco had gone through his first heat that summer, she’d been a steady, composed guide. It had been a dry heat, as was common for newly presented omegas—not nearly as overwhelming as the full cycles to come. Mostly, he had felt feverish and bone-tired, drifting in and out of sleep for nearly three days. His skin felt tight and had ached, and the slightest touch had made him flinch, but it hadn’t been unbearable.

She had sat beside him through it all, brushing his hair back from his damp forehead, quietly reading to him or simply being there. Even before then, she had done her best to prepare him. She had handed him books bound in worn leather, annotated in her own neat handwriting. She’d spoken to him honestly about what to expect—about the biology, yes, but also the emotions, the shifts in instinct, the discomfort of being suddenly different in a society still shackled by expectation.

“I was just your age when I had my first bonded heat,” she had said one evening, her voice distant with memory as she poured him a cup of tea. “Once you have been properly mated, your heats will regulate and become tolerable.”

Draco hadn’t responded at the time, just stared into the fire and clenched his jaw. The thought of being mated made something crawl under his skin. It wasn’t the idea itself, but the way it was spoken of—inevitable, expected, a path chosen for him long before he could speak for himself.

Before the new term began, he had approached her with a firm request.

“Please… don’t accept any proposals while I’m at school,” he had said, eyes cast downward.

Narcissa had blinked once before nodding, smoothing the sleeve of his robe as though to reassure them both. “Of course. You’ll have your year, Draco. No distractions. No pressure.”

It was customary in pureblood society for unbonded omegas to begin the courting ritual once they presented. Formal offers would be made, contracts discussed, and letters exchanged. Though the laws had evolved—omegas could now refuse, break contracts, and hold property in their own name—the expectations remained thick as smoke in the drawing rooms of old wizarding families. An unbonded omega, particularly one of high status, was still viewed as a risk. Draco had read the headlines: Instinct-driven alpha attacks unclaimed omega, or Unmated omega compromises alpha control. The implication was always the same—it was the omega’s fault for being unclaimed.

As a precaution, Narcissa had commissioned a protective collar for him—crafted from supple black dragonhide, inlaid with subtle runes, and layered with enchantments keyed to his own magic. Only Draco could remove it. The design was elegant but firm, protecting the vulnerable scent glands at his neck from any reckless alpha with delusions of entitlement. It rested there now, snug and cool against his skin, its presence both reassuring and suffocating.

“Stay safe, my dragon,” Narcissa whispered as they drew apart, her voice gentle and resolute. Her fingers lingered at his shoulder for a beat longer, smoothing an invisible wrinkle.

Draco gave her a quiet nod, lifting his trunk handle and steeling himself against the hum of nerves in his gut.

“I will,” he replied softly.

Then he turned toward the train, his mother’s perfume still clinging faintly to his robes, and stepped forward into the uncertainty of his final year. Draco glanced down the platform once more, his pale eyes scanning the crowd—until they found him. Potter. Standing amidst the chaos of trunks, bustling students, and the occasional hoot of an owl, Harry’s gaze was already on him.

Their eyes locked across the sea of bodies.

For a breathless moment, the rest of the world seemed to vanish. The sounds dulled, the movement slowed, and it was just the two of them—Draco and Harry—standing on opposite ends of a vast emotional chasm that had only widened with time. After everything they had endured… after everything they had survived, that distance felt deeper than ever. Inescapable.

Draco’s throat tightened. He broke the eye contact first, pretending to adjust the strap on his trunk as if the glance had meant nothing at all.

Without looking back, he stepped onto the train.

He found an empty compartment near the center of the train, neatly stored his luggage beneath the seat, and sat by the window, his reflection faint in the glass. He had just started to lose himself in the rhythm of the platform outside when the door slid open, admitting the familiar figures of Theo Nott, Pansy Parkinson, and Blaise Zabini.

Blaise—taller, broader now—had presented as an alpha. He carried himself with the easy confidence of one, dressed impeccably as always. Pansy was her usual self, not visibly changed at all, her beta presentation keeping her just as sharp-eyed and opinionated. Theo, however, slid into the seat across from Draco with a mischievous glint in his eye.

“Well, well,” Theo said lightly, leaning forward to tug at Draco’s shirt collar. “What’s this?” he teased, pulling the fabric down just enough to reveal the black band wrapped around Draco’s neck. “The Malfoy heir, an omega. It suits you.”

Draco slapped Theo’s hand away, scowling. He yanked his collar back up and started buttoning the shirt fully to hide the collar beneath it.

“So what?” Draco grumbled, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve with stiff fingers. “Is it a crime now for me to protect myself?”

Theo chuckled, utterly unbothered. “Relax. I’m an omega too,” he said with a dramatic sigh, pulling down the neckline of his own shirt to show off a deep brown leather band resting against his throat. “Although I’m looking forward to finding out what an alpha’s knot feels like.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Must you be so vulgar?”

“It’s not vulgar, darling,” Theo replied airily. “It’s biological curiosity.”

Pansy let out a loud huff, already bored. She unzipped her carry-on bag and pulled out a cluster of small glass bottles, inspecting each one before selecting a glossy navy-blue polish. She started laying them out on the seat beside her like tarot cards.

“Hopefully you’re both on suppressants, right?” Blaise asked warily, his arms crossed and his voice calm, though there was a certain edge in his tone. The only alpha in the room, he was clearly aware of it—and cautious.

“Obviously,” both Draco and Theo said in unison.

Draco leaned his head back against the seat and exhaled slowly. In addition to his daily suppressant, he was also taking a weekly birth control potion—his mother’s insistence. As an omega, he had learned quickly that he was far more fertile than beta or even alpha females. A single careless encounter could spell disaster. The potion’s taste was bitter, but the protection it offered was worth it. He hadn’t argued. The last thing he wanted was to be tethered to some uncouth alpha through an unplanned pregnancy. It was a complication he couldn’t afford—wouldn’t allow.

Not now. Not when he’d just begun to rebuild what was left of his life.

xxxxx

Harry’s summer had passed in a blur—like the flicker of a snitch’s wing—after the war trials came to a close. He had stood before the Wizengamot, his voice steady as he spoke in defense of Draco Malfoy and Narcissa Malfoy. His testimony had been clear: Draco had not identified him when the Snatchers dragged him, Ron, and Hermione to Malfoy Manor, even with Harry bloodied and bruised right before him. Harry had described, in careful detail, how Draco had tossed him his wand during the final moments of the battle at Hogwarts—a silent act of defiance that could’ve cost him everything.

And then there was Narcissa.

Harry told them what she had done in the Forbidden Forest—that she had leaned close, asked him if Draco was alive, and when he had whispered yes, she had lied to Voldemort’s face and declared him dead. She could have exposed him, ended it all right there. But she hadn’t.

“If it hadn’t been for the two of them,” Harry had said to the court, his gaze unwavering, “none of us would be standing here today.”

The verdicts came soon after. And not even a week later, Harry presented as an alpha.

It had hit him like a freight train. He woke up one morning aching all over, like he’d run a marathon in his sleep. By the end of the week, he had shot up nearly a full foot in height. His frame had thickened—his shoulders broadened, his chest filled out, and muscles began to define themselves where there had only been wiry tension before. His appetite surged alongside it; he started cleaning his plate, then going back for seconds and thirds, sometimes even picking off Ron’s leftovers.

Kreacher was beside himself with joy. The old house-elf had thrown himself into cooking massive meals every day, delighted to finally have something meaningful to do for his young master. The kitchen table at Grimmauld Place was never without steaming platters, fresh bread, roasted meats, and enchanted pitchers of pumpkin juice.

Even Molly Weasley had been delighted by the news. “An alpha! Oh, that’s wonderful, dear,” she had beamed, fussing over him like a second mother. She had already begun knitting warmer jumpers, her mind leaping ahead to the inevitable: Harry and Ginny, bonded. “You two will be perfect once Ginny presents, just wait and see.”

Neither of them had the heart to correct her.

Their relationship had quietly ended after the war. There’d been no dramatic fallout, no harsh words. Just an unspoken understanding—too much had changed. They had changed.

Ron hadn’t taken the news of Harry’s presentation quite as well. He had been hopeful, maybe even expectant, that he too would present as an alpha. But when his designation came through and marked him as a beta, he sulked for days, his frustration barely veiled.

They had both received crisp envelopes from the Ministry only a few days after—Auror Program applications, fast-tracked for early acceptance. Ron had been over the moon, itching to jump into training, already talking about how they’d be partners, how they’d be the best duo the Auror Department had ever seen.

But Harry… hesitated.

He wanted it, truly—but part of him was just tired. Tired of the fight, of the weight of responsibility. He didn’t want to spend another year chasing shadows and dark wizards. He wanted time—normal time—to be a student, to be a teenager again, even if just for a little while. So, he wrote back and politely declined—for now. He wanted to finish his studies at Hogwarts before committing to a career path.

Ron, after much grumbling, eventually followed suit.

Hermione, who had presented as a beta as well, had been thrilled. “I’m proud of you both,” she’d said, her eyes shining. “You deserve this. We all do.”

For the first time in what felt like forever, Harry felt like the world wasn’t demanding anything of him. He wasn’t The Chosen One. He was just another returning student, with a wand in his pocket and a future to figure out.

In the final days of summer, as the shadows of September crept closer, Harry found his thoughts drifting more and more. The quiet hours between supper and sleep were the worst—his mind wandering to memories of those he'd lost, the weight of names carved into marble memorials, and the uncomfortable truths that had surfaced in the aftermath of war. Not all of them belonged to the battlefield. One memory, in particular, clung to him with frustrating persistence.

It had been inside the Ministry—a fleeting moment as he passed Draco Malfoy in one of the wide, echoing corridors. They hadn’t spoken. They hadn’t even looked at each other. But as they passed, Harry caught a scent—something subtle, sweet, and inexplicably warm. It had lingered in the air like a ghost of sunlight on old parchment. The smell had stirred something inside him, and despite all efforts, Harry couldn’t shake it.

His thoughts kept circling back, latching onto that single moment. He pictured Malfoy again and again—how ethereal he had looked; how much he had changed. Gone was the gaunt, sharp-featured boy who had once spat insults and postured in shadows. Malfoy now held himself with a strange elegance, his features softened, almost serene. There was still that aristocratic poise, but it no longer felt like armor. It felt real.

Harry had always thought Malfoy was pretty for a boy—even back in their first year, though he never would have admitted it. That platinum blond hair had always caught the light in a way that made it hard to look away. His skin had been pale and smooth, almost too perfect, and Harry remembered wondering once, distantly, if it felt as soft as it looked.

Lately, though, those thoughts had taken a darker turn.

He’d been having dreams—vivid, heated dreams where he touched, tasted, and took what he’d never even dared think of during school. He would wake tangled in his sheets, flushed and aroused, his erection insistent and aching. The cold morning showers did little to help. Sometimes, he’d catch himself thinking of Malfoy even afterward, as the steam filled the bathroom and his breath hitched.

It made him angry.

Angry that Malfoy had somehow crept into his head, his body, his fantasies. Angry at himself for letting it happen—for wanting someone who had once been a bully, a rival, and a symbol of everything that used to be wrong with his world. It didn’t help that the nightmares hadn’t stopped. Harry still jolted awake some nights, sweat-soaked and gasping, haunted by the screams of the dead and the sound of spells cracking through stone. He carried the weight of war like an anchor on his chest, and he didn’t know how to process any of it. He didn’t even know where to begin.

Hermione had gently suggested he see a mind healer. “It doesn’t mean you’re broken,” she had said quietly, watching him across the tea table. “It just means you’re trying to heal.”

Ron, ever the skeptic, had scoffed. “Mind healers are just quacks. You don’t need some stranger poking around in your head, mate.”

Harry wasn’t so sure. The idea of talking to someone about it all—revisiting the memories, reliving the pain—felt unbearable. But to appease Hermione, he nodded. “I’ll think about it,” he told her. And he meant it, even if he didn’t believe he’d follow through.

When it came time to return to Hogwarts, Harry made himself a quiet vow.

Stay away from Malfoy.

It was simple. Sensible. Necessary.

But the moment he arrived on Platform 9 ¾ and spotted him—Draco Malfoy standing beside Narcissa, his trunk at his feet—something stirred deep within Harry. Something sharp and visceral. Even from a distance, Malfoy looked... unreal. The golden sunlight filtering through the glass canopy framed his pale hair like a halo, his posture elegant and composed. There was an almost unnatural beauty about him now—refined, quiet, untouchable.

And it infuriated Harry.

He didn’t understand why. But the sight of Malfoy—so poised, so painfully beautiful—made his stomach twist with something unnameable. Anger, perhaps. Resentment. Maybe something far more dangerous.

He turned away quickly, jaw tight, pretending he hadn’t seen anything at all.

Of course, Harry couldn’t help himself.

Even after promising himself he wouldn’t—especially after that—his eyes found Malfoy once more. Across the platform, he watched as Malfoy leaned in to embrace his mother, his arms wrapping gently around her in a rare, tender display. Narcissa held him for a moment longer than expected, her pale hand brushing a strand of silver-blond hair from his face with maternal care.

Harry’s breath caught—Malfoy looked up.

Their eyes met across the crowd, locking in a stare that felt like a slow plunge into icy water. Everything else seemed to fall away—the noise of the train, the laughter of younger students, the shriek of owls—gone. It was just the two of them again, pulled into that strange magnetic silence. Harry knew he shouldn’t keep staring. But he couldn’t tear his eyes away. There was something about Malfoy now that set his entire body on edge. Something infuriatingly graceful, hauntingly composed. So fucking beautiful, Harry thought bitterly. And that made it worse. It made it unbearable.

Why now? Why him?

Why did Malfoy—the pompous, arrogant git who’d spent years trying to make his life hell—suddenly look like something out of a dream Harry wasn’t allowed to have? Blessedly, it was Malfoy who broke the gaze first. He turned without a word, stepping onto the train with the smooth, practiced elegance of someone used to turning their back on the world.

A sharp slap landed on Harry’s back, jarring him out of the moment.

“Let’s go, mate,” Ron said cheerfully, oblivious to the storm boiling beneath his friend’s skin.

Harry nodded stiffly, forcing himself to breathe. “Yeah,” he muttered. He flicked his wand toward his trunk, watching it lift smoothly into the air before floating toward the train. With Ron and Hermione at his sides, Harry boarded as well—shoulders tense, jaw clenched—desperately pretending that he hadn’t just lost a staring contest with a ghost from his past… and hated how much he liked it.

Returning to Hogwarts felt surreal—like waking up in a dream both familiar and haunted.

There was something quietly mournful in the air, a heaviness that the older students could all feel but none dared speak aloud. Those who had fought and survived remembered it all too well—the shattered stone, the echo of screams, the blood on the marble floors. The once-hallowed halls had borne witness to chaos and carnage, and the walls, though repaired, seemed to hum with the memory of what had been lost.

So many lives. So many futures cut short.

Yet despite the unhealed wounds, despite the ghosts that lingered behind every corner, Harry felt something warm stir in his chest the moment he stepped off the train and into the castle's embrace. Hogwarts had always been more than a school. It had been his first real home. The first place he had ever truly breathed freely. The place where he'd forged lifelong friendships, carved out precious moments of joy, and—despite the pain—had known what it meant to belong. Crossing through the vast entrance hall, Harry followed the stream of students into the Great Hall. He tilted his head up out of habit, eyes drawn to the enchanted ceiling above—deep navy and scattered with stars, mirroring the twilight sky beyond. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips, unbidden but welcome.

He didn’t notice the change at first—not until he slid into his usual spot at the Gryffindor table and caught sight of the unfamiliar fifth table that now sat in the middle of the Hall.

It hadn’t been there before.

As the students settled and the golden candlelight flickered gently above their heads, Headmistress McGonagall rose from the staff table, her expression as composed and commanding as ever. The room gradually quieted as she lifted her hands for attention.

“Welcome back to Hogwarts,” she began, her voice strong, with a current of emotion beneath it. “I’m pleased to see so many familiar faces. And I would like to take a moment to acknowledge how far we have come, and how far we still have to go.”

Harry sat up straighter, listening closely.

“As you know, last year was... challenging for us all,” McGonagall continued, her gaze sweeping the room. “Many changes have been made, and many students were unable to attend due to the circumstances we endured. Therefore, to accommodate this year’s additions, I would ask all of our eighth-year students to please take their seats at the center table.”

There was a beat of silence.

Harry felt the tension ripple through the hall—a shared, awkward hesitance among those singled out by the request. Slowly, he and the rest of his year rose from their respective house tables. Some looked uncertain, others resigned. The Gryffindors, Ravenclaws, Hufflepuffs, and Slytherins all converged toward the new fifth table in the middle of the hall.

The Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs moved toward the center, naturally filling the middle section. That left the ends of the table open—for Gryffindor on one side, and Slytherin on the other. Harry slid into his seat at the far left end, barely glancing up as others joined. But his curiosity got the better of him. His gaze shifted down the length of the table until he found him.

Malfoy.

As if pulled by an invisible string, Malfoy’s silver eyes were already on him. There was no scowl. No smirk. Just a stillness. A quiet tension.

This time, it was Harry who looked away first, turning his face back toward the front, ignoring the strange, hollow flutter in his chest.

McGonagall went on, her voice calm but firm. “This year, our first-year class is larger than usual. I expect all of you to be welcoming, and to guide them with patience and kindness. You are their role models now.”

The Sorting Hat, perched proudly on the familiar worn, wooden stool, rippled at the brim before bursting into song. Its verses were gentle this year, absent the foreboding warnings of the past. It sang of change, of rebuilding, of fresh starts. Of healing, and forgiveness. Of strength through unity.

It did not whisper of danger. It did not mourn the coming of war.

It spoke of a new era.

Harry sat motionless, listening.

But even as the hat’s song reached its final note, he wasn’t sure if he was ready to let go of the past. Not entirely. Not yet. Especially not with him sitting at the other end of the table. He kept his eyes forward, resolutely refusing to glance back down toward Malfoy.

The doors at the far end of the Hall opened, and the new first years entered in a nervous cluster, wide-eyed and whispering. Their sorting was about to begin. A new generation stepping into the place Harry had called home. A new beginning.

But for Harry, the past still echoed too loudly.

The welcoming feast had been, as always, delicious. Platters of roast chicken, golden potatoes, buttery rolls, and sweet puddings filled the tables, and warm chatter echoed through the Great Hall from the four house tables. Laughter rang out, and clinking goblets toasted the start of a new year. But the fifth table—occupied solely by the returning eighth years—remained noticeably subdued. The mood was quiet, hushed. Their class had been thinned by war—where once there had been over a hundred, now barely fifty remained. Some had fallen in the Battle of Hogwarts. Others had chosen not to return, unwilling or unable to face the place where so much had been lost.

Their silence stood in stark contrast to the rest of the room. The faculty took note, their eyes lingering a little longer, their smiles dimming ever so slightly. There was no reprimand, no demand to cheer up—just the quiet acknowledgment that this group had lost more than any other year.

After dessert had vanished from the plates and the chatter began to wane, Headmistress McGonagall rose from her seat at the staff table. She offered a few final reminders—curfews, corridor restrictions, and the importance of respect and unity—before dismissing the first through seventh years to follow their prefects back to their respective dormitories.

“All except for our eighth years,” McGonagall added. “Please remain.”

Benches scraped gently as the other students filed out in clusters, still murmuring and laughing among themselves. The fifth table remained seated, their eyes turning toward the front. Once the last student left the Hall, McGonagall descended the few steps from the staff dais, her expression firm but kind.

“Because your year is… smaller than it once was,” she began delicately, “we’ve made a few special accommodations.” She paused, allowing the gravity of her words to settle. “It has been decided that, for this year only, you will all be housed together. Rather than returning to your previous dormitories, you will form a temporary fifth house. This is not to erase your identities, but rather to emphasize unity—across house lines, across old rivalries.” She looked around the table, her eyes softening. “We want to show the rest of the school that healing can happen, even between those who once stood on opposite sides. You’ve already proven that by coming back.”

No one spoke. No one argued.

“And,” she continued, drawing herself up a bit straighter, “I won’t belabor what you all lived through last year—you were there. You know better than most what it cost.”

There was a quiet shifting of bodies. Someone exhaled shakily. Another long pause. No one spoke, understanding of their situation and the reality of their losses.

“Now then,” she said, lifting her wand. “As for your uniforms…”

With a single graceful wave, the change swept across the table like a ripple. Robes shimmered subtly, colors shifting. The solid blocks of red, green, blue, and yellow gave way to a unique tartan—plaid fabric woven with the colors of all four houses: scarlet, emerald, navy, and gold. The traditional house crests faded from their robes, replaced by a new badge—Hogwarts’ school crest, its four mascots united under a single shield.

It was subtle. But powerful.

A visible symbol that they were not just Gryffindors or Slytherins or Ravenclaws or Hufflepuffs anymore. They were survivors. And now, something else entirely.

“Now,” McGonagall said, her tone shifting just slightly into one of practical authority, “I am quite aware that many of you have recently presented your secondary genders over the summer.”

Her words caused a ripple of attention across the table. A few students stiffened. Others glanced down at their hands resting in their laps.

“And so,” she continued smoothly, “I have arranged for special accommodations within your new quarters to ensure everyone's comfort and safety.” She let that sink in for a breath before elaborating. “There will be designated rooms specifically enchanted to assist students during ruts or heats. Should the need arise, you may retreat there for privacy and support. Additionally, omega students will be sharing a room together—for obvious reasons. The doors to your rooms have been warded with enchantments that prevent alphas and betas from entering uninvited.”

The reaction was immediate—a wave of awkward discomfort swept through the group. A few shifted in their seats. There were quiet coughs, the rustle of robes, and some nervous giggling from the end of the table where a pair of Hufflepuffs sat whispering behind their hands.

Harry flushed slightly but kept his expression carefully neutral. He hadn’t gone through a rut yet, but both Bill and Charlie had given him enough warning to dread the eventuality. Their explanations had been frank—grueling, exhausting, and not something one easily forgot. They’d also mentioned, somewhat sheepishly, that ruts were a hell of a lot easier with a partner—preferably an omega. Harry had nodded along at the time, pretending to take it in stride, but the idea unsettled him. The notion of using someone just to ease his own discomfort—it left a bitter taste in his mouth. He couldn't imagine treating someone that way, no matter how 'normal' others made it sound.

Still, the reality of it all hung heavy in the room. This wasn’t the Hogwarts they’d known before. Things were different now—more complicated.

McGonagall gave them all a moment, allowing the weight of the conversation to settle before she straightened and gestured toward the large doors at the end of the hall.

“Come along, then,” she said, her voice firm but kind. “I’ll show you to your new quarters.”

Benches scraped softly as the eighth years rose, still quiet, still navigating the strange balance of old roles and new realities. United by circumstance, divided by memory, they followed their Headmistress into the unknown of their final year.

Their new quarters were located in a central wing of the castle—neutral ground between the four traditional house dormitories. The location was clearly intentional, meant to symbolize unity and shared experience, and much to Hermione’s delight, it was conveniently close to the library.

The entrance was cleverly concealed behind a suit of armor tucked into a quiet alcove. Its shield was cracked and dented, as though it had seen one war too many. At McGonagall’s demonstration, the armored figure shifted with a low groan of metal, stepping aside to reveal a circular porthole set into the stone wall. A simple tap of one’s wand and the porthole shimmered, allowing passage.

“Only eighth year students may open it,” McGonagall had explained as they passed through. “It’s keyed to your magical signatures, so don’t worry about younger students sneaking in.”

Inside, the new common room rose in a graceful spiral. It felt like stepping into a tower, with warm, ambient lighting casting a golden glow across the polished stone and aged wood. The space had clearly been designed with care—arches of rich Ravenclaw blue framed the tall windows, Hufflepuff yellow tapestries hung in soft drapes between bookshelves, Gryffindor’s crimson armchairs sat beside green-and-silver Slytherin marble mantels. It was an odd blend, but somehow, it worked. Comforting and strange all at once.

A winding staircase clung to the interior walls, leading up to the separate dormitories marked discreetly by gender and secondary designation.

No one lingered long in the common room. The day’s weight—emotionally and physically—was too heavy. One by one, they drifted toward their assigned dorms with little more than a murmur of goodnight or the drag of feet on stone.

Harry paused at the base of the stairs, eyes scanning the room as students trickled away. He caught sight of movement near the far hallway—Malfoy, walking with Theo Nott and two other students. All four turned down the passage marked for omegas.

Harry froze, something unfamiliar and sharp lodging in his gut.

Malfoy’s an omega?

He hadn’t considered it. Not really. But now, as he watched the lithe figure vanish up the stairs, the pieces began to fall into place. The softened features. The delicate tension in his frame. The scent—that scent—he’d caught at the Ministry. And just like that, a vivid image slammed into Harry’s mind: Malfoy pressed against the stone wall of that spiraling tower, lips parted, eyes defiant and wanting. Harry crowding him in, one hand braced beside Malfoy’s head, the other gripping a pale hip as he—

Nope. Absolutely not.

Harry clamped down on the thought so fast it gave him whiplash. His face flushed, and he hurried up the opposite stairwell, muttering something unintelligible to Ron, who thankfully didn’t ask. He needed sleep. Cold air. A distraction. Anything to erase the idea of Draco Malfoy in heat from his rapidly spiraling imagination.

xxxxx

The following morning, the soft chime of enchanted bells echoed gently through the eighth-year dormitories, waking the students in a slow, peaceful wave. Harry sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and found a neatly folded piece of parchment waiting on his bedside table. His class schedule, pressed and sealed with the Hogwarts crest, lay beside a second note in Headmistress McGonagall’s clean, looping script.

He scanned it through bleary eyes.

Due to the reduced class size, all eighth-year students would be attending their core classes together—no separate house divisions, no staggered times. Only their chosen electives would be split.

Harry let out a quiet sigh, tossing the paper back onto the nightstand.

He hadn’t been particularly interested in electives. Not even Care of Magical Creatures tempted him, which once would’ve been a no-brainer. But the note stated clearly: two elective courses were mandatory. He spotted a third piece of parchment tucked beneath the schedule—a timetable for the rotating sessions with St. Mungo’s mind healers.

Without hesitation, Harry set that one aside.

He simply wanted a quiet, uncomplicated year. No duels, no chosen-one nonsense, no expectations. Still, he knew he couldn’t slack off entirely. If he wanted to keep the door open to the Auror program—if—he’d need to meet the prerequisites. So, as a sign of mild rebellion he’d signed up for Muggle Studies and simply left himself an open period. He wasn’t sure he truly wanted to become an Auror anymore. But he also wasn’t sure what else he’d do. The war had taken up so much of his identity that the future still felt like a blank page—daunting, not freeing.

Dragging himself out of bed, he dressed quickly, pulling on his plaid-accented robes. When he made his way down to the common room, the first rays of morning light filtered through the tall windows, casting a warm glow over the stone walls and the mismatched blend of house colors. Ron and Hermione were already seated at one of the long tables near the hearth. They sat with a Ravenclaw girl Harry vaguely recognized and two Hufflepuff boys who seemed deep in discussion over their breakfast pastries.

Hermione looked radiant—well-rested and already scribbling on a fresh scroll with enthusiastic precision. “The sooner I begin reviewing for N.E.W.T.s, the more confident I’ll feel,” she was saying as Harry approached.

Ron, slouched beside her with a piece of toast half in his mouth, groaned. “I regret coming back already.”

Harry chuckled and sat down, pulling out his folded schedule again to review it. His eyes drifted to the margins where he’d scribbled a small note to himself about Quidditch. He wondered if they'd form a new team for their temporary house or if returning students would be allowed to compete for their original teams. He made a mental note to ask McGonagall.

Just then, the door to the omega dorm opened.

Malfoy stepped out with Theo Nott at his side, the two Slytherins deep in some quiet conversation. Harry’s attention snapped to them instinctively—too instinctively.

And there it was again.

That scent.

Subtle, but maddening. Rose petals at dusk. The dark ripeness of black plum. And beneath it all, a spiced honey warmth that clung to the air like velvet. It was soft, intimate, and completely arresting. Harry’s stomach gave a traitorous twist. He met Malfoy’s silvery gaze for the briefest of moments—sharp and unreadable—before looking away with forced indifference.

The two Slytherins crossed the room, and Theo, grinning wickedly, leaned just slightly toward him as they passed.

“Well,” Theo drawled, eyes dancing with mischief, “had I known you’d turn out to be a stud, Potter, I would’ve happily gone on my knees for you.”

Harry’s ears burned. His brain stalled, trying to process the sheer brazenness of the comment. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. No one had ever said anything that filthy to him in such a casual tone before—certainly not in a room full of people—and it left him completely unarmed.

“Honestly, Theo,” Malfoy muttered, clearly unimpressed. “You’re such a shameless slag.”

Theo only laughed, unapologetic as ever.

Harry buried his face in his schedule, trying not to choke on the heat rising to his cheeks—or the fact that a very inconvenient part of him hadn’t hated hearing that.

The Padma Patil fell silent mid-sentence. The two Hufflepuff boys glanced at each other uneasily, one of them visibly tensing as if bracing for impact. Their body language said everything—they didn’t want trouble, but they also didn’t want to share a table with them. Even Ron and Hermione, who had been animated just moments before, had gone quiet. Ron’s jaw was tight, his fingers curling slightly atop his knees.

The silence was palpable.

And it didn’t go unnoticed.

“Seriously?” Theo Nott scoffed, his voice slicing through the stillness. “Did you lot already forget what McGonagall said about unity and all that shite? Thought this year was about rebuilding and all that—or was that just empty sentiment so you lot could pretend to be good people without actually changing anything?”

No one responded. The air thickened with tension.

Theo’s voice rose, sharp and biting. “I see how it is. You’ll play nice with each other, laugh over toast, but the moment a Slytherin walks in, the temperature drops. That it? You freeze us out? Ice us like we’re a stain on your precious new Hogwarts?”

“Theo, stop,” Malfoy said quietly, placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder in warning. “You’re not helping anyone by acting out.”

Nott shoved his hand off. “Yeah? Maybe someone should say what we’re all thinking.”

From the corridor leading to the boys’ dormitories, footsteps echoed. Seamus Finnegan appeared, followed closely by Dean and Neville. Behind them, other familiar faces from their year trickled into the room, drawn by the rising voices. Begrudging tension simmered between them all—just under the surface, but ready to boil.

Seamus didn’t hesitate.

“Be grateful McGonagall’s even lettin’ your kind back into the school after the shite you pulled on the rest of us,” he snapped, his voice full of venom.

Hermione stood abruptly, her face tight. “Stop. We shouldn’t fight—”

“That's right, everybody listen to Granger,” Theo drawled, sneering. “Golden girl of the war. She can do no wrong.”

Ron pushed back from his seat with a harsh scrape of the bench, rising to his feet with his fists clenched. “You’d better watch your mouth.”

Theo’s grin only widened. “Or what, Weasley? You’ll throw a tantrum in that hand-me-down uniform?”

“Enough,” Malfoy said again, his voice lower, warning sharpened. But it was too late.

Seamus took a step forward, voice cracking with fury. “Death Eaters shouldn’t’ve been let back into this school. We’ve lost our friends because of you! Fred, Colin, Lavender—how many more of us have to die before the Ministry wakes up and throws the lot of you in Azkaban where you belong?”

The room exploded in shouting—Ron yelling something, Dean trying to hold Seamus back, Hermione pleading for calm—but it all came to a sudden halt when Harry stood.

“Enough!” Harry’s voice rang out, loud and commanding.

The entire room stilled.

He stood rigid, chest rising and falling, his expression hard. All eyes were on him—some surprised, others expectant, some full of hurt.

“We’ve lost enough already,” he said, his voice quieter now but no less firm. “We’ve buried too many of our friends to start tearing each other apart now.”

His gaze swept the room, landing on each face—Seamus, Nott, Malfoy.

“We can’t undo the past. But we can choose not to repeat it. Fighting each other doesn’t honor anyone we lost. It doesn’t bring them back. And it sure as hell doesn’t make the future any better.”

Silence followed, heavy and uncertain. No one spoke. No one moved.

But the words hung in the air—unignorable, unchallenged.

Before tensions could flare again, Blaise Zabini stepped in with calm but deliberate authority, his hand pressing firmly against Theo’s chest to halt any further outburst. Pansy, ever poised despite the rising heat in the room, slipped between Malfoy and the others, her expression unreadable but clearly sharp with intent.

“Come on,” she said quietly, her tone clipped. “This isn’t worth it.”

Blaise nodded once at Malfoy. “Let’s go.”

Theo looked like he wanted to argue—his jaw clenched, eyes still burning with the sting of being unwelcome—but Malfoy caught his arm before he could say anything more.

“Not here,” Malfoy said, voice low. Not pleading. Just tired.

Together, the four of them turned and exited the common room, the silence in their wake somehow louder than the shouting had been. As the door clicked shut behind them, Harry exhaled through his nose and sat down slowly, tension bleeding from his shoulders.

He hated himself for it, but he felt it anyway—relief.

Not from victory. Not from justice.

Just relief that the pressure had finally broken.

He rubbed a hand over his face, jaw tight with conflicting emotions. He knew that old wounds didn’t close overnight. That even shared loss didn’t erase prejudice and pain. What they were all trying to do—forced to do—was bigger than house unity. It was about unlearning fear, rewriting history with something better.

But none of that made it easy.

And as he stared down at the quiet parchment of his schedule, the room still thick with unspoken feelings, Harry knew that the real battle wasn’t over. It had just begun.

Chapter Text

The weeks that followed their return to Hogwarts moved in a strange rhythm—classes, shared meals, awkward silences, and unspoken tension that hung like mist in the air. For Harry, it became painfully obvious that no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop noticing Draco Malfoy.

It was maddening.

Harry found himself distracted constantly—by the way Draco moved with quiet grace, by the sound of his voice during discussions, soft and composed, or worse—by his scent. That sweet, maddening scent that clung to the air like an expensive perfume: fresh rose petals, the deep richness of black plum, and that lingering undercurrent of warm, spiced honey. It drove Harry to the edge of frustration. He didn’t want to be drawn to Malfoy. Not like that. Not in any way.

So he did what he could to shut it down.

In every class they shared, Harry made a point to sit near the front—closer to the professor, to Hermione, to anyone who wasn’t Malfoy. It didn’t matter. Even without seeing him directly, Harry could still sense him. Catch the drift of his scent when he moved. Hear the silk-soft cadence of his voice when he answered a question. Feel the quiet buzz of awareness crawling beneath his skin.

He hated it.

And worse, Malfoy caught him staring—more than once.

Harry would quickly look away, pretending to be scribbling notes or reading his textbook, but it didn’t matter. Their eyes had met. The damage was done. And somehow, Malfoy always looked calm. Almost unreadable. But not unaffected. It didn’t help that they constantly crossed paths—especially in the shared eighth-year common room, where space and solitude were hard to come by. Or worse: in the narrow hallway leading to the showers. Seeing Draco in a terrycloth bathrobe with the flap showing off the smooth skin of his chest, damp blond hair clinging to his forehead and neck, skin glowing faintly pink from the heat of the steam that made the scars on his torso stand out...

Harry had nearly walked into a wall that morning.

Draco, for his part, had been quietly watching. He had been waiting—looking for the right moment to speak to Potter alone. He wanted to apologize. To finally say the words he’d carried with him since the end of the war. He wanted to thank him—not just for the testimony, or for sparing him and his mother from Azkaban—but for the mercy. For the dignity he hadn’t deserved but had still been granted. But Potter had been avoiding him. It was obvious now. Just like everyone else—everyone except the other Slytherins—Potter wanted nothing to do with him.

And yet… whenever their eyes meet, Harry was always the one to look away first.

Group projects offered no mercy.

They were partnered together once in Transfiguration, and again in DADA. Forced to sit shoulder-to-shoulder at cramped desks, their elbows brushing, parchment shared between them. Harry could barely concentrate. Every time Draco leaned over to make a note or brush something from the desk, Harry’s thoughts derailed. There was something in the way Draco held himself now—still sharp, but no longer brittle. He didn’t speak to impress or sneer to belittle. He was... quiet. And Harry’s instincts reacted to him in a way that confused and infuriated him.

He told himself it was just a side effect of knowing Draco was an omega. Just biology.

That had to be it.

It wasn’t that Draco’s lips looked soft and pink, or that his skin looked like it would bruise at the lightest touch. It wasn’t the graceful way he crossed his legs or the curve of his throat where his protective collar sat like a choker made to tease him. It wasn’t that.

It was just his alpha brain, trying to assert itself over common sense. Or so Harry kept telling himself… again and again. But deep down, the war between logic and instinct was already raging. And he didn’t know it yet, but he was already losing.

Thankfully, Quidditch proved to be an excellent distraction.

Nearly a month into the term, Harry had been relieved to learn that eighth-years were permitted to play for their original house teams. It was one of the few decisions that felt like a return to normalcy, and he wasted no time reclaiming his role as captain for the Gryffindor team. Ginny and Ron had been just as eager—Ginny already talking strategy while Ron mapped out tryout formations in a borrowed notebook. The pitch was alive again, the mild autumn wind tugging at the crimson and gold banners as students gathered for team selections. But Harry's attention, as much as he tried to keep it focused on the Gryffindor side, kept drifting to the opposite end of the field.

Slytherin was holding their own tryouts.

And Malfoy was there—his platinum hair gleaming like cut silver in the late September sun, already mounted on his broom, gliding effortlessly into the sky. Harry’s gaze locked on him involuntarily, watching as he launched into a series of sharp aerial dives and fluid barrel rolls, each one executed with effortless precision. It was annoying—how graceful he looked.

What surprised Harry most, though, was that Malfoy wasn’t the captain.

Millicent Bulstrode, now an alpha and built like a living battering ram, had claimed the position instead. Harry had expected Malfoy to force his way into leadership, to cling to whatever power he could still grasp—but apparently, he hadn’t even tried. From what Harry could tell, he couldn’t have cared less.

Trying to shake off the fixation, Harry turned his focus back to his own team.

He ran the candidates through drills, watching their broom handling and reactions. Ginny stood nearby, shouting observations and making notes, while Ron offered occasional suggestions between blocking attempts from the beaters-in-training. Luckily, they didn’t need a full roster—just two new Chasers, a solid Beater, and a few reserves. Ginny had a sharp eye, and Ron, despite his occasional grumbling, had developed a good sense of reading people on the pitch. Between the three of them, they were getting closer to final selections.

And then he appeared.

Malfoy swooped down, slowing to a steady hover before landing just a few paces from where Harry, Ginny, and Ron stood. Harry caught his scent instantly—stronger now, intensified by exertion and adrenaline. The breeze carried it straight to him: roses in full bloom, the rich tartness of plum, and that warm, maddening undercurrent of spiced honey. It hit Harry like a brick to the chest.

“Potter,” Malfoy called, voice smooth and deceptively light, “Bulstrode is wondering if you’d be interested in a friendly match. A scrimmage, to test the new candidates.”

His voice was almost melodious. It did something strange to Harry’s spine.

“Not a bad idea,” Ginny chimed in, glancing up at Harry and knocking the back of her gloved hand against his arm. “This’ll be a great way to see how the newbies hold up against real players.”

“Easiest way to find out if they’ve got what it takes,” Ron added, surprisingly agreeable for once.

Harry’s throat was suddenly dry. Malfoy was looking directly at him, silver eyes nearly white beneath the bright sky, his expression expectant but unreadable. That gaze pinned Harry in place, and for a split second, everything felt too much—too loud, too bright, too close.

He swallowed hard and forced himself to look away, jaw clenched tight.

“Yeah,” he said stiffly, gripping his broom so tightly his knuckles turned white. “Tell Bulstrode we agree to a friendly game.”

Malfoy gave a small nod, then turned gracefully on his heel and took off, cutting clean through the air as he flew back to the Slytherin side.

Harry stood there, boiling under his skin.

Why did he feel so hot?

Malfoy hadn’t even said anything remotely offensive—if anything, he’d been polite, respectful. But Harry’s body reacted like he’d just been hexed, and the irrational irritation that followed made him feel worse. He hated how affected he was, how much space Malfoy was taking up in his mind without even trying.

“You alright, mate?” Ron asked, brow furrowed.

“Yeah,” Harry muttered too quickly. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Ron and Ginny exchanged a glance—quiet and resigned. They didn’t say anything. They didn’t need to. Ever since the war, Harry had carried something heavy behind his eyes. They all did, but his weight seemed harder to bear, coiled somewhere deep where no one could reach. They knew he struggled. Knew he hadn’t been sleeping well. Knew he hated being asked how he was doing because it reminded him he wasn’t doing well.

So they let the silence settle again, returning to the tryouts without another word.

The friendly match turned out to be an excellent strategy for weeding out weak candidates and pinpointing where the existing players needed to tighten their performance. After all, Quidditch had been practically nonexistent the year before—cancelled amid a war-torn Hogwarts and the daily terror of Death Eaters walking the halls, torturing students into silence or submission.

Now, under a sky streaked with the first hints of autumn gold, the pitch felt alive again. The roar of wind, the flash of brooms, the crisp sound of whistled commands—this was the kind of chaos Harry could handle.

Yet even now, with his focus meant to be locked on his team, his attention kept drifting.

To him.

Harry hovered high above the pitch, broom steady, pretending to track the seekers-in-training as they chased the glint of gold zipping over the grass. But his gaze was drawn again and again to Malfoy—poised and sharp on his broomstick, eyes narrowed as he followed the movement of the snitch with cool, calculating focus. His posture was effortlessly balanced, his attention wholly fixed. Harry watched him, knowing he shouldn’t. Malfoy looked ethereal in motion—silver-blond hair catching the sun, green robes fluttering behind him. His scent drifted up on the wind again: warm honey, crushed rose, and ripe black plum.

Harry clenched his jaw, staying deliberately downwind. He didn’t need another reminder of how tempting Malfoy had become.

“We couldn’t have been this oblivious at their age,” Draco remarked, his tone edged with dry amusement as he watched two seeker hopefuls fumbling through a dive far too early.

Harry almost missed the comment, so lost in thought. “Maybe if they had our level of rivalry, they’d be neck and neck by now,” he replied, lips twitching with a trace of wry humor.

Draco glanced over his shoulder, smirking—and Harry’s stomach flipped like a Bludger hit.

“Is that what we still are, Potter? Rivals?” he asked, his voice softer now. There was no sneer, no mocking lilt—just something quiet, maybe even sorrowful.

It caught Harry off-guard.

He wished Malfoy was the spoiled, sharp-tongued prat he’d once been. It would be so much easier to hate him that way. Or would that just be another reason to find him attractive?

Harry’s throat tightened as he stared back. His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Honestly… I don’t know what we are anymore.”

Draco’s expression softened, his smirk fading into something more open. “That’s true. Things are different now… for all of us. For better and worse.”

Before the moment could stretch further, the golden snitch buzzed suddenly between them—its wings fluttering as it darted up into the sunlight before taking a sharp turn downwards.

For a breath, neither of them moved. They just watched it.

Then, in perfect sync, they gave chase.

Brooms dipped. Wind howled. The two of them were off, neck and neck as they rocketed after the glittering blur, weaving between startled players and soaring over the pitch in fluid, razor-sharp motions. It felt effortless—natural. For the first time in what felt like ages, Harry felt something good surge through his chest.

The thrill of the chase.

The rush of adrenaline.

The pure joy of flying.

It transported him back—before the horcruxes, before the war, before the graves and the guilt—to a time when the only thing that mattered was catching the snitch. And right beside him was Malfoy, flying like he was born for it, matching Harry turn for turn.

But then—contact.

They were shoulder to shoulder, their thighs brushing, and Harry became acutely aware of the press of Draco’s body against his. His alpha instincts howled at the closeness, and the momentary distraction cost him—his eyes flicked away from the snitch just as a third-year flew right into their path, catching a stray quaffle and veering wildly.

Malfoy acted fast.

His hand shot out, grabbing Harry’s sleeve and yanking him left. The two of them lost balance, twisting midair before tumbling to the ground. They landed hard in the grass, rolling in a tangle of limbs before skidding to a stop.

“Blimey! Sorry about that!” the third-year shouted from above, already banking away.

Malfoy groaned, pushing himself up on his hands and knees, wincing as he looked around for Harry. He spotted him not far away—on his back, glasses askew, glaring murderously. Harry rolled onto his front, gritting his teeth as he sat up and adjusted his glasses.

“The bloody hell was that, Malfoy?!”

Malfoy stood, brushing dirt from his robes. “Sorry, I was just reacting—” Malfoy brushed grass from his knees, straightening his robes with stiff, controlled movements. He approached Harry slowly, hand extended—not quite apologetic, but not combative either. “Sorry,” he said again, quieter this time. “It was just an impulse. I saw the third-year and—”

Harry slapped his hand away, his voice sharp, too loud. “You didn’t have to yank me off my broom like that! I had it handled, Malfoy!”

Malfoy flinched—just slightly—but enough for those nearby to notice. The quiet that followed was immediate.

Ginny and Ron froze mid-step when they landed on the grass. Members of both teams hovered closer, drifting in the air or landing cautiously nearby. No one spoke, but all eyes were locked on the pair.

“I was trying to help,” Malfoy said, his voice clipped but measured.

“Yeah?” Harry snapped, brushing grass off his sleeve. “You think yanking someone off their broom counts as helping? Next time, try trusting that I can manage myself.”

The words landed with a sharp finality—harsher than Harry intended, but he didn’t walk it back.

“It was on impulse, Potter.” Malfoy said, instinctively trying to maintain his calm while the alpha in front of him was growing aggressive.

A few players exchanged glances. One of the younger Gryffindor Chasers snorted under his breath. “That’s rich, coming from him,” the boy muttered. “Guess making impulsive choices runs in the family. Like joining the Death Eaters.”

There was a beat of stunned silence. The smirk on the boy’s face faltered as the weight of his words sank in, but it was too late. Laughter—dry and uncomfortable—rippled through a few of the younger players like a bad joke gone unchecked.

“Oi! That was in poor taste!” Bulstrode yelled, making the younger Gryffindors flinch.

“Smyth! You’re out!” Ginny yelled sharply at the fifth-year.

Malfoy’s eyes darkened. His shoulders stiffened. But he didn’t say a word. He stood there, alone in the center of the pitch, his pale face unreadable as the hush stretched longer than anyone could tolerate.

Harry’s anger drained out of him in a single, sudden wave.

He hadn’t meant for that.

He’d been reacting—just like Draco had. And now, here Draco stood, surrounded by students who still looked at him like he didn’t belong. Who waited for him to slip. Who used his worst mistake as a joke.

And Harry had been the one to give them the opening.

Draco’s expression remained composed, but something behind his eyes had shuttered completely. He turned without a word and walked off the pitch.

xxxxx

When Potter didn’t step in to defend him, didn’t say a single word to shut down the cruel jab from that Gryffindor fifth-year, it told Draco everything he needed to know: Potter hadn’t changed his mind about him at all.

That testimony before the Wizengamot—where Potter had spoken up for both him and his mother, had insisted they deserved leniency—it had simply been a debt being repaid. A balancing of scales. Nothing more.

Draco bit down the sting that bloomed behind his sternum as he stalked into the Slytherin locker room, silent and numb. All anyone would ever see in him was a branded coward. A guilty Death Eater who'd somehow slipped through the cracks of justice. Someone who shouldn’t be walking free.

The rest of the team filed in after him—laughing, swearing, pulling off gear and chattering about the match. A few gave him small, supportive pats on the back. One clapped his shoulder with a muttered, “Ignore them, mate.”

Millicent Bulstrode dropped her gloves on the bench with a thud, jaw tight. “Bloody nerve of those Gryffindors,” she snapped. “Still strutting around like they own this school just because they think every Slytherin's some dark-arts fanatic. They act like they're above the rest of us,” she continued, yanking off her boots. “It’s like we’re supposed to just take it. Like we deserve it.”

Draco said nothing.

He unbuckled his gear slowly, carefully. His fingers worked methodically, avoiding the tremble that wanted to creep into his hands. When he peeled off his arm guard, he angled his left forearm toward the inside of the locker, hiding the faint but ever-present outline of the Dark Mark beneath his skin. Even now, it pulsed sometimes—less like magic, more like shame made physical. He changed in silence, casting a quiet Scourgify over his sweat-slicked skin, the charm cooling him off far too fast. The locker room felt colder than before.

He pulled on his school robes, smoothing the creases, tugging the sleeves long to cover the mark completely. And as he sat for a moment, just breathing, the quiet reflection returned—the one that had been growing louder in recent weeks.

He’d started feeling something strange whenever Potter was near.

At first, he’d brushed it off as residual stress, or some lingering hatred morphing into morbid fascination. But now… it felt like more. Harry's scent—petrichor, immortelle, and vetiver—always seemed to hit him hardest in passing. Like it was meant to settle into his senses and stay there. His voice carried in ways that soothed Draco’s nerves. The warmth Potter radiated made the air feel easier to breathe.

It was maddening.

The signs—all the signs—matched what his mother had told him about soulmates. What he’d read in books over the summer when curiosity had become desperation. The pull. The calm. The instinct to watch. The ache when they were too far away for too long.

Could it be?

No. No. He couldn’t be that stupid.

He told himself he was being delusional, letting stress and hormones and past guilt cloud his judgment. He couldn't let himself believe it—not after everything between them. Not after sixth year. Not after their deadly duel in the bathroom. Not after nearly bleeding out from a curse Potter had cast in a moment of panic.

And especially not after what had happened out on the pitch today.

Potter had humiliated him—whether intentionally or not. Had let someone mock the mark that would haunt Draco for the rest of his life. And said nothing. Whatever flicker of hope Draco had been clinging to was already fading, curling up into ash. Why would the hero of the wizarding world—The Chosen One—ever want a disgraced, broken omega with a Death Eater’s past for a mate?

He tugged his collar higher, steeling his expression.

He wouldn’t hope again. Not after this.

xxxxx

Draco had begun spending nearly all his free time with Blaise, Pansy, and Theo—his inner circle, his safe haven. He avoided the eighth-year common room like the plague. Too many eyes lingered on him there, too many unspoken judgments hanging in the air like smoke. He didn’t need the whispers, the sidelong glances, or the biting silence that followed whenever he entered a room. If he wasn’t holed up in his dorm, he was elsewhere—often tucked into one of the forgotten alcoves deep in the back of the library, nestled behind towering bookshelves and enchanted lanterns that flickered like fireflies. The silence suited him there. No questions. No stares.

In class, he sat firmly at the back with Theo and Pansy, always in the shadows. Out of range.

Out of reach.

It was easier to concentrate when Potter wasn’t in his peripheral vision—easier not to get caught up in the stupid way the alpha’s hair curled at the nape of his neck or how his scent—warm petrichor, wild immortelle, and smoky vetiver—clung to the air like a spell meant to undo him. It made Draco press his thighs together tightly under his desk, a futile attempt to control the heat that spiked low in his belly and threatened to leave slick in his trousers.

And the dreams—Merlin, the dreams—were enough to make him bite his pillow just to muffle the whimpers. He woke up flushed, aching, and furious with himself.

After what had happened on the Quidditch pitch—the public embarrassment, the insult, and Potter’s silence that followed—Draco hadn’t even been able to look in his direction. Giving Potter the cold shoulder had become a lifeline. If he could just pretend the alpha didn’t exist, maybe the pain would fade. Maybe the bond curling tighter inside him would loosen.

It worked. Kind of.

Sort of.

Not really.

He was losing the battle, and Theo knew it.

“You’re so pathetically obvious that you fancy Potter,” Theo drawled one afternoon, sprawled across Draco’s bed like a lazy cat, legs dangling over the side and arms tucked behind his head.

Draco scoffed from his spot at the headboard, cross-legged with his potions textbook open and quill in hand. “I’d sooner fancy a baboon than that insufferable alpha.”

Theo grinned, undeterred. “Please. Potter obviously fancies you.”

Draco’s hand paused mid-stroke, quill hovering just above parchment. His heart gave a traitorous stutter. His inner omega, the traitorous thing, purred at the idea.

Theo pressed on, watching him with amusement. “He’s not exactly subtle. He’s always looking for you—even though we share the same core classes. I’ve seen him scanning the room before you show up. I bet he even tries to catch glimpses of you between classes.”

“Thank Salazar for small miracles that Potter isn’t in any of my elective classes,” Draco muttered, scrawling a bit too aggressively as he resumed his notes.

He’d deliberately loaded his schedule with heavy academic electives—Arithmancy, Alchemy, Astronomy, and Ancient Runes—hell, he even signed up for Muggle Studies—partly to make up for lost time during the war, and partly to avoid sharing anything unnecessary with Potter (except Potter was also in Muggle Studies). With his track record, even eye contact was dangerous. Draco was determined to keep his head down. To stay invisible. If he so much as breathed wrong, someone would twist it into a reason to drag him back to the Ministry and throw him into Azkaban for the rest of his natural life.

“You should just put him out of his misery and shag him,” Theo said casually, examining his cuticles.

Draco didn’t dignify it with a response, but his quill stopped mid-word.

Theo’s grin widened. “I bet he’s still a virgin. Imagine that—The Savior of the Wizarding World, the most eligible and sought-after alpha of our generation, never getting his wick wet.”

Draco fought to keep the blush from rising to his cheeks. His quill twitched. In truth, he was still a virgin. He had never been particularly interested in his peers that way—not enough to consider something physical. Not until now. Not until Potter.

“Mmm,” Theo purred, stretching luxuriously, “I’d be happy to wet it for him. Although there is this interesting rumor that Potter has an impressive third leg.”

That earned him a sharp smack with a pillow, Draco growling as he swung. “You’re such a shameless slut!”

Theo burst out laughing, catching the pillow and throwing it back at him. “And you’re such a repressed disaster, darling. We make quite the pair.”

Draco rolled his eyes and returned to his essay, but the warmth on his cheeks lingered. So did the quiet, impossible ache in his chest that whispered: What if Potter did want me?

And worse: What if he didn’t?

xxxxx

Draco sat in his usual corner of the library, tucked beneath the tall, mullioned windows where the morning light slanted across the table in dusty gold stripes. His Astronomy charts were spread out before him, one hand moving with practiced precision as he annotated the orbit of Mars for his upcoming assignment. His quill scratched steadily across parchment, the only sound in the quiet alcove—until someone settled into the seat across from him with a soft thud of books.

He looked up, lips already curled into a faint scowl. Hermione Granger. Of course.

“There are plenty of other tables for you to sit at, Granger,” he drawled, brow arching. “Empty ones, at that.”

She didn’t flinch. “Would it be so surprising if I wanted to study with the only other smart student in our year?” she asked coolly, setting her pile of books and parchment down in front of her.

Draco blinked, the beginnings of a snort escaping him before he leaned back in his chair. “Flattery, Granger?” he said, almost amused. “Didn’t expect that from you.”

Hermione offered him a faint, knowing smile, but it faded when she noticed the subtle shift in his posture—his fingers tapping nervously against the table. He was clearly working up to something.

“Granger…” Draco started, voice lower now, a bit uncertain. He cleared his throat. “I… never properly thanked you. For what you did. At my trial.”

Her expression softened. She set her quill aside and met his eyes.

“It was the right thing to do, Malfoy,” she said gently, as though it was obvious.

He resisted the instinct to scoff, to brush it off with sarcasm. Instead, he inhaled slowly, like swallowing a bitter potion. “Yes, well… I still want to say it. Formally. You didn’t have to speak on my behalf. But you did. So—thank you. And I’m sorry. For all of it. For how I treated you. For what I said. For who I was.”

There was a pause.

Then, to his surprise, Hermione reached her hand across the table.

“I accept your apology, Malfoy,” she said, her voice steady. He looked at her outstretched hand for a beat too long, then took it. Her palm was dry but warm, her handshake firm. She smiled again. “A bit late, but I’m glad you didn’t end up in Azkaban. Your mother too. You’re both lucky to still have each other.”

He nodded once and let go of her hand, retreating quickly back into his own space. Still, a small weight eased from his chest.

She gestured toward his papers. “What are you working on?”

“Astronomy,” he answered, reaching for his quill and dipping it into the inkwell.

“Oh, I didn’t realize that was being offered to us this year,” she said, sounding genuinely curious.

“I’m taking it with the seventh-years,” he replied. “Most electives were canceled last year… for obvious reasons.”

Hermione nodded solemnly. “We have Arithmancy and Runes together. Are you taking anything else?”

“Alchemy and also Muggle Studies,” he said.

Her eyes widened slightly, impressed. “That’s quite the schedule. But then again, I’m not surprised. Your scores are just as good as mine.”

Draco narrowed his eyes at her. “Thank you for the reminder, Granger, that I’m not quite at your level of perfection.”

She blinked, then let out an unexpected giggle. “Are you—are you pouting, Malfoy?”

His frown deepened into a familiar scowl.

Hermione burst into a soft laugh.

“Why don’t you go harass the Weasel and the Chosen One and leave me in peace?” Draco muttered, focusing studiously on his chart.

“I’m sorry,” she said between chuckles. “I just wasn’t expecting you to be so... expressive. But now that you mention it—what is going on between you and Harry?”

Draco stiffened. “There is nothing going on between Potter and me. And I didn’t bring him up at all!”

Hermione gave a thoughtful hum, watching him closely. “He says the same. But he’s not exactly subtle when it comes to you. He’s been a bit… guilt-ridden about the Quidditch pitch, in case you haven’t noticed. I think he wants to apologize.”

Draco’s lips twitched into something bitter. “It wouldn’t matter if he did. It’s not like he said those things to me directly.” He shook his head. “And it wouldn’t change how the rest of the school sees me. They’ve already made up their minds. I’m the villain. End of story.”

“Not everyone sees you like that,” Hermione said softly.

“Maybe not everyone,” Draco allowed. “But the majority still need someone to blame. A scapegoat. And I’m the convenient choice.”

“I don’t see you that way. And neither does Ron. Or Harry. We know you were forced into—”

Draco snapped his Astronomy book shut with a sharp crack, making her jump. He began haphazardly stuffing his parchment and materials into his satchel, his hands trembling slightly with frustration.

“I don’t need some swot lecturing me about what I was forced into,” he said tightly. “Leave it be.”

“Malfoy—”

But he was already rising to his feet, slipping the strap over his shoulder.

“I said leave it, Granger,” he muttered before stalking off, his expensive shoes echoing down the rows of tall, silent shelves.

xxxxx

“He thanked you for your part in his trial, then apologized for being a prat to you, and then got angry and stormed off?” Ron asked, his voice muffled slightly around a mouthful of mashed potatoes.

Hermione nodded as she stirred her peas around her plate. “Well, I may have overstepped when I mentioned his… circumstances. I understand that it’s still a sensitive subject for him. But I do think Malfoy was sincere about the apology. We even shook hands.”

“Huh,” Ginny said, appearing beside them at the eighth-year table and plopping down on the bench beside Harry. “So the ferret can be civil. That’s new.”

“You think it’s all an act?” Ron asked, brows raised. “Just trying to keep himself out of Azkaban?”

Hermione scowled and slapped Ron’s arm with the back of her hand.

“What?” he exclaimed defensively. “I bet it’s not far from the truth!”

“Honestly, Ronald,” she huffed, glaring at him. “He’s trying, and if we can’t give him a chance then we’re no better than the people who assumed the worst of us during the war.”

Harry kept his eyes on his plate, absently pushing his food around with the edge of his fork. The guilt from the Quidditch tryouts still clung to him like damp robes. He knew now he’d overreacted. If Malfoy hadn’t yanked him out of the way, he’d have plowed straight into that third-year. But he’d been too embarrassed—too angry—to admit that at the time.

“It is a little annoying how pretty Malfoy is,” Ginny said suddenly, lifting a goblet of pumpkin juice to her lips.

Ron choked on his bite of chicken and thumped his chest with a fist. “Ginny!”

Harry blinked, startled, and looked over at her.

“I agree,” Hermione chimed in, brushing a crumb off her jumper. “Perfect skin, perfect hair, even his writing is elegant. When we shook hands—Merlin, his hands are ridiculously soft. Mine are like sandpaper in comparison.”

Ginny sighed. “It’s so unfair. Not only is Malfoy a looker, but he’s also an omega. Pureblood omegas are practically treated like rare jewels. He’ll be bonded and married off before graduation, you’ll see.”

Harry’s stomach dropped like a stone in cold water.

“Really?” Hermione asked, frowning. “You think his family would arrange something that quickly?”

“As the Malfoy heir and an omega?” Ginny arched a brow. “I’d bet Narcissa’s been getting proposal letters since his first presentation. The highest bride price wins, as always.”

Harry’s grip on his fork slackened. His appetite vanished.

“I’m tired,” he muttered abruptly, pushing away from the table. “Quidditch practice wiped me out.”

“Harry—” Hermione started, but he was already standing.

He made for the exit, his pace brisk, his heart thudding like a Bludger behind his ribs. As he left the Great Hall, he caught a glimpse of Malfoy sitting at the other end of the eighth-year table, his head tilted slightly as Pansy prattled on beside him. Malfoy didn’t even glance his way.

Outside, the quiet corridors felt like a balm and a burden all at once. The torches flickered dimly along the stone walls, casting shadows that swayed with his restless steps. He wandered aimlessly, his feet carrying him through familiar hallways he barely registered. His mind spun.

Why the hell did that bother him so much?

So what if Malfoy was going to be married off like a prized pet to the richest alpha? So what if someone else would touch that porcelain skin, kiss that petal-pink mouth, hold those soft hands in a bonding ceremony Harry would never be invited to?

None of it mattered.

It was Malfoy.

He should be enjoying his final year at Hogwarts—his true home—soaking in every moment with Ron and Hermione, cherishing the memories they still had time to make. He should be laughing over chess matches and chocolate frogs, not stewing over a stuck-up, sharp-tongued omega who had once called Hermione a mudblood and tried to get Buckbeak executed. He should not be imagining pinning Malfoy to the stone wall of an empty classroom, crowding into his space, drinking in that maddeningly sweet scent as he kissed him breathless. He should not be picturing the way Malfoy would shiver under his hands, how his pupils might dilate as he tipped his head back and whimpered Harry’s name—

“No,” Harry growled aloud, halting in the middle of the corridor, clenching his fists. “Absolutely not.”

It was just biology. Just an alpha reacting to an omega. That’s all it was. It had to be.

Because Draco Malfoy meant nothing to him.

Absolutely nothing.

Harry’s thoughts churned as he wandered the quiet halls, their stone corridors bathed in the silvery wash of moonlight. His feet carried him on instinct more than purpose, up staircases and around bends, until he found himself climbing the spiraling steps of the Astronomy Tower. By the time he reached the top, he finally realized how late it was—night had fully taken hold, the sun long vanished behind the horizon, leaving only the rising moon to cast its pale glow across the sky.

The higher he climbed, the quieter the world became. The occasional hoot of an owl drifted in through the arrow-slit windows, but otherwise the castle felt still, reverent. Harry’s hand grazed the stone wall as he rounded the final turn, remembering his first year—how he'd stood shivering with the other first-years during their very first Astronomy lesson. He’d barely remembered a thing from the class besides the cold and the borrowed telescope he never did return. He wasn’t even sure where his own telescope had ended up.

As he reached the open-air viewing platform, he paused.

Near one of the wider window alcoves, a soft blue glow pulsed gently in the dark. Malfoy sat there, setting up a brass telescope with practiced care. A jar of enchanted blue flame flickered beside him, casting soft light over his pale features. His platinum-blond hair caught the ethereal flame and shimmered like moonstone, his pale skin absorbing the glow in a way that made him look more spirit than boy.

Harry’s breath caught.

For a long, suspended moment, all the conflict in his chest—jealousy, confusion, want—fell silent. He only saw him.

And then the floorboard beneath his foot gave a loud creak.

Malfoy’s head snapped up, shoulders tensing.

“Potter?” Malfoy’s voice broke the quiet, soft and smooth—too smooth. It sank into Harry’s ears and poured over his nerves like warm honey stirred into tea. Calming. Disarming. The kind of voice that could lull an alpha’s instincts without even trying. Harry’s posture eased before he could stop it. “Did you follow me here?”

Harry jolted like he’d been caught red-handed. “Yes—I mean no!” he blurted, his voice a little too loud in the otherwise still air. He rubbed the back of his neck, heat blooming across his face. “I, uh… I was just out for a stroll. Clearing my head, that’s all. Is the Astronomy class meeting tonight?”

Malfoy didn’t reply immediately. He turned his back to Harry, cool as ever, adjusting the height of his telescope with the flick of a wrist. “No,” he said simply, not looking up. “It’s Saturday.”

Harry blinked. Oh. Right. Saturday.

A wave of embarrassment surged up his spine. Of course it was Saturday. He’d spent half the morning catching up on sleep and the rest of it locked in the shower, trying to scrub away the memory of yet another vivid, unbearable dream about Malfoy. One that left his legs trembling, his hand sore, and his chest aching with a hunger that had no name.

He cleared his throat, forcing the image back down into whatever deep corner of his brain it had slithered out of. This was not the time. Not with Malfoy standing there bathed in blue firelight, looking like the ghost of a fallen star.

“Listen, Malfoy,” Harry began, stepping slowly closer. The air between them felt charged, though he kept a careful distance—close enough to speak without raising his voice, but far enough that he wouldn’t lose his grip on his senses. “About what happened at tryouts…”

Malfoy didn’t look up, but his shoulders stiffened.

“I’m sorry,” Harry continued, voice quieter now, more earnest. “For getting angry at you. You were just reacting, and honestly, I wouldn’t have been able to avoid that third-year. You probably saved him from getting seriously injured. And what Smyth said… it was cruel. I gave him a proper telling off for it.” He hesitated, his gaze fixed on Malfoy’s profile, the delicate slope of his cheekbone lit by moonlight and blue fire. “I just want you to know… not all of us see you as a former Death Eater.”

Not all of us see you as an omega to be auctioned off to the highest bidder either, he wanted to say. But the words never made it past his lips.

Malfoy finally looked up at him. Harry blinked. Had Malfoy always been this short? No… back in sixth year, they’d been eye to eye—Malfoy might’ve even had the edge in height then. But now Harry stood half a head taller, and for some reason, it only added to the knot of protective possessiveness that gripped him.

Malfoy dropped his gaze, suddenly self-conscious, and shifted slightly as one hand moved to grip his left forearm beneath the sleeve of his robes—where the Mark still lingered, hidden but not forgotten.

“Thank you, Potter,” he said softly.

Harry nodded once, but didn’t speak. He could sense something else behind Malfoy’s words. The gratitude wasn’t casual—it felt layered, heavy with things unspoken. And then Malfoy inhaled deeply, squaring his shoulders as if steeling himself.

“There’s something I want to say,” he said, voice careful. Controlled.

Harry held still, his expression unreadable.

“I wanted to apologize,” Malfoy said. “For how I acted during our years here. For all the things I said and did to you… and to your friends. Especially in sixth year.” He didn’t look at Harry when he spoke, his eyes fixed slightly downward instead. “I was scared…and lost. And I took it out on everyone, even my own friends. And obviously on you as well. I don’t expect you to forgive me. I just…” He faltered for a second, then continued. “I needed you to hear it.”

Harry said nothing, his throat tight.

“And… thank you,” Malfoy added, barely above a whisper. “For testifying for me. For my mother. I know you didn’t have to. But you did.” He turned his head up just enough to glance at Harry, eyes shining faintly in the glow of the flame beneath his pale lashes. “I would’ve rotted in a cell willingly if it meant she’d be safe. And because of you… she is.”

There was a pause between them, charged and brittle.

Harry opened his mouth—only to find that for once, he had no words. Nothing clever. Nothing rehearsed. Just the thundering beat of his heart and the way Malfoy looked in the pale firelight, all moon-pale skin and parted lips, like something fragile and sacred.

But his body didn’t need permission from his mind. Instinct took over.

In one smooth step, he closed the distance between them. His hands came up—large, warm, and sure—cradling either side of Malfoy’s face. He tilted the omega’s chin up with a reverence that surprised even himself, and then he leaned in and pressed his lips to Malfoy’s.

Malfoy gasped softly, his entire body going rigid in shock. Harry could feel it beneath his fingertips, the tension like a tightly wound bowstring. But then it melted. The omega’s eyes fluttered shut, and he leaned into the kiss like he’d been waiting for it for years. His pale fingers clutched Harry’s robes, gathering the fabric in desperate fists.

The kiss deepened.

Harry’s lips coaxed Malfoy’s open, his tongue sweeping gently across the seam before slipping into the warmth of his mouth. He tasted faintly sweet—possibly a remnant of a berry tart he had for dessert. Harry swallowed a groan, savoring it like a starving man tasting real food again. When he finally pulled away, his breath unsteady, he took a moment to take in what he’d done.

Malfoy was flushed; cheeks kissed with a delicate rose hue. His lips were a dark pink and damp, slick with saliva. His silvery eyes were dark now, pupils blown wide with desire, and he looked at Harry like the world had tilted.

“Potter…” Malfoy whispered, breathless and barely audible. There was no venom, no bravado. Just his name—raw and exposed.

And instead of shame, Harry felt clarity.

He wasn’t conflicted anymore.

He fancied Draco Malfoy.

He wanted Draco Malfoy.

Harry leaned in again, slower this time, giving space to retreat if Malfoy changed his mind—but he didn’t. The omega surged upward to meet him halfway, their mouths finding one another with more confidence, less hesitation. They moved in sync, lips molding, breath mingling as they searched for rhythm, for a shared pattern between heartbeats. Harry guided them with gentle hands, pulling Malfoy away from the open alcove and pivoting him toward the stone wall.

He pressed the omega back into the cool stone, his body shielding him from the night air. One of Harry’s legs slid between Malfoy’s thighs, anchoring him there, and when Malfoy moaned softly—a sound so delicate it could break stars—Harry shivered. The sound etched itself into his spine.

Smaller hands clung tighter to Harry’s robes. Harry let his fingers tangle in pale strands of hair, grounding himself in the feel of him, the taste of him, the realness of this moment. And for the first time in weeks—maybe months—Harry felt like he wasn’t unraveling. He was being stitched back together.

Harry’s hands roamed slowly, reverently, down the slender column of Malfoy’s neck. His fingers skimmed over the soft edge of the leather collar that sat snugly against pale skin, a subtle but potent reminder of what Malfoy was—an omega. He traced along the elegant curve of his shoulders, then down his sides, following the trim lines of his robes until he found his narrow hips and pulled him flush against his body.

A soft gasp escaped Malfoy’s lips as their bodies pressed together. The friction was immediate—hot and electrifying. They rutted slowly against one another, their movements instinctive, need rising in steady, pulsing waves. The warm scent of musk, spice, and honeyed roses clung to the air, mingling with Harry’s own dominant alpha pheromones. It created a heady, intoxicating blend that fogged his mind and tightened his chest.

Harry could feel himself hardening rapidly, his cock straining against the confines of his trousers. And he wasn’t alone—he could feel the answering pressure from Malfoy, whose delicate fingers slid up into his hair, tugging softly at the roots as their lips parted with wet gasps and shallow breaths.

“Godric…Malfoy, I…should we stop?” Harry asked, his voice low and rough, barely more than a breathless rasp. The question contradicted his actions—his hips were still rocking against Malfoy’s, and Malfoy was rutting against his thigh, rubbing delicious friction where he needed it most.

“Do you want to?” Malfoy whispered, his voice husky and rough around the edges.

Harry growled, low and unrestrained. “No.”

Malfoy’s hand left his hair, moving with deft precision to Harry’s belt. He undid the buckle with practiced ease, like he’d done it a hundred times before, then popped the button and slid the zipper down in one fluid motion. Harry gasped when he felt cool fingers wrap around his cock, freeing it from its prison. The shock of it—of being exposed, of Malfoy’s touch—sent a shudder straight down his spine.

Malfoy’s gaze dropped and his silver eyes widened. “Merlin’s beard, Potter…” he breathed, utterly stunned.

Harry’s cock stood heavy and proud in Malfoy’s grip—long, thick, flushed an angry red at the tip. A bead of cum glistened on the swollen head, catching the flicker of torchlight like a pearl. For the first time since puberty, Harry felt a flicker of self-consciousness creep in.

“I doubt anyone could win a pissing contest against this beast,” Malfoy muttered, and Harry couldn’t help the rough laugh that broke from his throat.

“Scared, Malfoy?” he teased, one hand sliding between them to cup the hard shape between Malfoy’s thighs. Malfoy groaned, soft and needy, grinding down into his palm.

“Of you? You wish,” Malfoy scoffed, though the flush in his cheeks betrayed the heat beneath his words. “Of this…monstrosity?” he added, swiping his thumb over the wet tip and smearing the pre-cum with slow curiosity. “Bloody hell, how do you even stand upright with this hanging between your legs?”

Harry’s breath hitched, shaky and uneven. The sight of Malfoy—stroking him, watching him with awe and desire—was almost too much.

“Malfoy…we don’t have to go any further,” Harry said, his voice gentler now, though it trembled with restraint. He wanted this—wanted him—so badly, but he wouldn’t push. Not with him.

Malfoy looked up at him, eyes blown dark and lips wet. His expression flickered with something unreadable—longing, maybe, or fear.

“I know,” he murmured. “But I want to.”

And Harry’s world tilted on its axis.

Harry’s larger hands, rough with old Quidditch calluses and years of dueling, fumbled at Malfoy’s belt. Unlike the omega’s earlier smooth, practiced movements, his fingers were clumsy, betraying both haste and nerves. The buckle clinked noisily in the silence of the tower, his brows furrowing in concentration as he struggled with the clasp.

“Bloody—” he muttered under his breath, biting back a curse when the zipper caught halfway down.

Malfoy let out a soft, breathy chuckle, the sound curling around Harry like smoke. He tilted his chin up, brushing his lips over Harry’s in a teasing lick, his tongue catching the corner of the alpha’s mouth.

“Patience, Potter,” he murmured against Harry’s lips, his voice silken and amused.

Harry huffed, eyes dark, and finally yanked the zipper down with a frustrated tug. He shoved the waistband over Malfoy’s slim hips, letting the fabric fall, baring pale thighs and creamy skin to the cool night air. His breath caught at the sight of Malfoy’s cock—small compared to his own, yes—but undeniably beautiful. Smooth, flushed pink, with a rosy tip that glistened with a pearly bead of slick arousal.

Something primal stirred in Harry at the sight. His mouth watered as the omega’s scent—rich and decadent, that rosy black plum and spiced honey—flooded his senses. He leaned in, lips parted, and inhaled deeply, craving its taste, its burn on his tongue. Malfoy gasped softly when Harry’s warm, calloused hand wrapped around him. The contrast in size was stark—Harry’s hand nearly engulfed him—but his touch was reverent, slow, stroking along the heated shaft with growing hunger.

“Fuck,” Harry panted, voice hoarse as he swallowed back the sudden flood of saliva. His thumb swiped across the tip, catching the pre-come and smearing it lazily across the head.

Malfoy exhaled shakily, the sound half a moan, his hips twitching forward into Harry’s grip. Then he retaliated—his hand tightening around Harry’s cock, thumb returning to the wet head and swirling with maddening precision, pressing into the slit with the perfect amount of pressure. Harry groaned low in his throat and slid his other hand down, reaching around beneath the trousers and underwear to cup Malfoy’s arse. His fingers found the cleft, slick with the omega’s arousal, and slipped easily between the cheeks until he reached the puckered ring of muscle hidden within. He paused there, teasing gently, feeling the way Malfoy’s body fluttered and clenched in anticipation.

The omega’s breath hitched sharply.

“Tell me to stop and I will,” Harry rasped, his voice frayed and thick with restraint. He pressed his forehead to Malfoy’s, their noses brushing, glasses tilted crooked on his face.

Malfoy looked up at him, silver eyes blown wide with lust, pupils dilated until only a thin ring of grey remained. “If you stop now and leave me in this state,” he whispered, his breath warm against Harry’s lips, “I will personally take back my apology from earlier and make this final year for you as miserable as possible.”

Harry’s nostrils flared in amusement and heat, knowing the threat was empty but also knowing that Malfoy was perfectly capable of making good on it just for the satisfaction of revenge.

He pressed his middle finger forward, sliding the digit in past the first knuckle. Malfoy keened—high and soft—a sound that curled deep inside Harry and settled low in his belly like a coil of heat. The omega didn’t pull away; if anything, he pushed back slightly, silently encouraging more. Harry obeyed. He pushed deeper, as far as the slick warmth would allow, and then began to move—slow, gentle pumps meant to loosen and tease.

“Potter…” Malfoy’s voice broke, the name trembling off his lips. His mouth hung open, pink and parted as he gasped. “More… I want more.”

Harry swallowed hard, pressing a kiss to Malfoy’s temple as his control started to fray. “You’ll have it,” he promised, voice gravel-thick. “As much as you want.”

xxxxx

Draco’s back arched sharply, the column of his pale throat exposed to the moonlight as his head fell back. A tremor rippled through his lithe body the moment Potter added a second finger, the wet stretch of his slick hole burning just enough to make the pleasure sharper, keener. His lips parted in a soundless gasp, his lashes fluttering as his silver eyes rolled shut. The slight sting of the stretch was foreign—he’d never been touched like this before—and yet it felt right, grounding him in the present while pushing him closer to the edge. His cock throbbed in Potter’s firm grasp, leaking against the pads of the alpha’s fingers with each slow stroke.

He felt like he was unraveling.

The sensation was too much—Potter’s fingers deep inside him, curling ever so slightly with each thrust while the other hand teased his aching cock. He was caught in the middle, trapped between two sources of burning pleasure. Every nerve ending in his body felt like it was lit with static and want.

Theo’s words from weeks ago floated to the surface of his mind. He’s probably a virgin, he’d said. But no virgin would touch him like this. No virgin would think to prep with such careful rhythm, teasing the rim before easing in deeper, stretching him open with practiced confidence.

Potter knew exactly what he was doing.

Draco whimpered. His own hand, which had been stroking Potter’s cock in a slow, reverent rhythm, faltered and stopped completely as he succumbed to the intensity of the moment. He felt the third finger slide inside him, stretching him further still—and he bit down on his bottom lip to muffle the strangled moan that nearly escaped. His knees were shaking. The slick sounds of Potter’s fingers moving inside him and the shared friction of their flushed cocks rubbing together filled the air between them, obscene and beautiful.

“P-Potter—I...I’m…” Draco choked out, barely able to form words.

The alpha silenced him with a soft, possessive growl, wrapping his large, calloused hand around both of their cocks, stroking them together with a firm, practiced rhythm while continuing to thrust his fingers inside Draco in time with each pump. Draco's vision went white. He came with a sharp cry, his cock pulsing hard as thick ribbons of cum spurted across his stomach and Potter’s fist. His hole clenched wildly around the skilled fingers, fluttering from the intensity of release. The mess slicked Potter’s palm, adding wetness to the strokes over both their erections.

The black-haired alpha grunted, lips parted in ragged gasps as his movements grew erratic. His cock jerked in his hand, and then he came, warm and wet, spurting between them in sticky bursts that painted their hands and stained the wool hems of their jumpers.

For a long moment, they simply clung to each other, panting, sweat cooling on their flushed skin as their hearts thundered in sync.

Draco felt Potter’s fingers slip free from inside him, the movement making him tremble from the sensitivity. He let out a quiet sigh, half-relieved and half-lost. His breath caught again when he watched, dazed and fascinated, as Potter raised his slick-covered fingers to his lips. The alpha sucked them slowly, deliberately, his eyes never leaving Draco’s as he drew each digit into his mouth and cleaned them with obscene care.

“It’s sweet,” Potter murmured, voice low and reverent.

Then he leaned in, cupping Draco’s face with one steady hand, and kissed him again—slower this time. Their lips met and moved, tongues tangling. He shared the taste between them, the mingled essence of desire and the raw truth of what they’d just done. Draco moaned into the kiss, pliant and open beneath the weight of it, drowning in it.

Draco reached into the inner pocket of his robes with fingers that trembled slightly, retrieving his wand. With a quiet flick and murmured "Scourgify," a cooling rush of magic swept over their bare skin and soiled clothes, washing away the physical evidence of their heated exchange. The sting of the cleansing spell, a little too sharp, snapped through the haze that still clung to them like steam. It sobered them both.

Potter stepped back, the air between them cooling as their flushed skin began to dry and their heartbeats slowed. He cleared his throat awkwardly, his hands fumbling slightly as he tucked himself back into his trousers and adjusted his belt with movements that were suddenly shy and uncertain. Draco did the same, fingers moving more smoothly, but the silence pressed heavily around them now. There was no avoiding it.

The moon hung high and luminous through the viewing window, casting a soft silver light across the tower’s stone floor. The remnants of their passion shimmered like heat ghosts, lingering in the corners of the room. Draco leaned back against the cool wall, letting it anchor him. His legs were still unsteady, and a strange fluttering had taken up residence behind his ribs—like something fragile and confused had nested there.

He looked at Potter.

Potter was watching him.

His messy black hair was disheveled beyond saving, his glasses slightly fogged, and his lips—those lips that had just kissed him senseless—were curved into the gentlest smile Draco had ever seen on him. It was tentative, like Potter wasn’t sure if he was allowed to wear it, like he wasn’t sure if it belonged.

Draco’s chest tightened at the sight.

The last few minutes had felt like a free fall—hot, hungry, irrational. But now they were drifting back down to earth, and reality was waiting.

He swallowed and forced his voice to be even, steady.

“What now, Potter?”

There was no venom in the question. No snarl. Just a simple inquiry, fragile in its neutrality. Because Draco didn’t know what came next. He didn’t know if this had meant something or if it was just a moment, a beautiful, reckless spark in the dark.

Because right now, it felt like he was still falling.

Chapter Text

“What now, Potter?”

Up close like this, with the moonlight framing him and the quiet of the Astronomy Tower wrapping around them like a suspended breath, Draco could finally see Potter.

No adrenaline. No shouting matches. No flying bludgers or insults hurled across a common room. Just Potter—real and raw in the stillness.

Draco’s eyes roamed over him, taking in the subtle changes that had gone unnoticed until now. Potter had grown into himself over the summer. His skin, no longer sallow and drawn, had taken on a healthy olive complexion, highlighting the smattering of scars that still traced faint lines across his jaw and collarbone. His shoulders had broadened, and his chest and arms now filled out the clothes that once hung off his wiry frame. There was strength beneath the modest wool jumper—a quiet, solid kind that hadn't been there before.

His messy hair, longer now and curling slightly at the nape, looked as though it had only ever been tamed by Draco’s fingers. It suited him—wild and untamed, like the magic that always crackled just beneath his skin. Draco's gaze flicked to Potter’s throat, catching the subtle bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed, clearly still reeling from what they'd just done. There was tension in his stance, the kind that betrayed nerves beneath all that Gryffindor bravado.

And then Potter surprised him.

“It’s whatever you want,” he said softly, his voice low and uneven. He gestured vaguely between them. “This… is between us. I won’t force you into something you don’t want. It’s completely your choice.”

Draco blinked at him, the vulnerability in Potter’s tone catching him off guard. There was no smugness. No arrogance. Just quiet honesty.

Draco’s lips parted, but he hesitated. “And what do you want, Potter?” he asked at last, his voice softer now, the sharp edges of his usual tone dulled by uncertainty.

Potter looked like he might bolt for a moment—his brow furrowed, his hand rising to push back his hair in a nervous tic. “I…” he began, then paused, gathering his courage. “I think I fancy you.”

The words were simple, but the impact was immediate. Draco felt his heart stutter in his chest, a rush of warmth unfurling in his stomach like petals blooming in time-lapse. Of all the confessions he might have expected from the Boy Who Lived, that was not one of them. Potter’s cheeks turned pink, and he shifted awkwardly on his feet, suddenly looking far younger than his war-earned age.

“I’d like to see where this goes between us,” he added, his voice barely above a whisper now. “If you want that too.”

The silence between them stretched, fragile and charged. The moonlight shimmered across the floor like ripples on a still pond, and Draco—who had spent so long waiting for the other shoe to drop—stood at the edge of something terrifying and new.

And for the first time in a long while… he didn’t feel entirely alone.

“You… fancy me?” Draco echoed, disbelief thick in his voice.

He wasn’t mocking, not exactly. But the weight of the statement lingered heavily in the air between them. The Gryffindor had said it so plainly, like it wasn’t the most absurd confession in the wizarding world—that the Chosen One, golden boy and alpha savior of wizardkind, harbored feelings for him. For Draco Malfoy, former Death Eater and current social pariah. And yet… Draco’s omega purred beneath his skin, traitorous and pleased by the idea. He hated how seen it made him feel in a time where he wished to be invisible. But if he were honest with himself—Potter was fit. Broad in the shoulders, soft around the edges of his smile. A good kisser, too. His lips had stolen the breath from Draco’s lungs, and his fingers had—Salazar. Draco shifted where he stood, heat pooling traitorously low.

But then—

“We don’t… need to make it exclusive,” Potter blurted, his voice stumbling over the words.

Draco blinked, thrown off by the sudden shift.

“I mean—I know you’re an omega,” Potter went on, rubbing the back of his neck and looking anywhere but at Draco. “And you’ll probably be getting loads of propositions from other alphas—and well…”

A sharp pang twisted in Draco’s gut. The warmth from earlier drained slowly from his limbs, replaced by a cold flare of indignation.

“—And I don’t want you to feel like you have to choose me just because I’m an alpha or whatever. Like—I mean, if you wanted to, I wouldn’t say no to being exclusive, obviously, but I get it if you want something else or need time or if you’re already seeing someone—Merlin, I’m not making any sense, am I?”

Draco's eyes narrowed slightly as he studied Potter—really studied him. The Gryffindor looked painfully awkward, caught in a whirlwind of his own words, cheeks pink, brows furrowed, lips moving faster than his brain could manage. His hands flailed in small, unsure gestures, like he was trying to grasp something invisible.

He’s trying to give me a choice, Draco realized. Trying not to come off like every other alpha who thinks they’re entitled to me the second I so much as glance their way.

And just like that, the sharp edge of Draco’s anger softened. What had felt like an insult now resembled an anxious olive branch. Potter wasn’t pushing him away—he was trying, clumsily, to leave the door open without pressuring him through it.

“Potter,” Draco said, calmly.

The name alone was enough to make the clumsy alpha freeze mid-sentence, his mouth snapping shut.

Draco tilted his head, pale hair falling across his brow as he fixed the other boy with a cool, unreadable expression. “How much do you know about pureblood courting rituals?”

Green eyes blinked behind glasses. “Uh… not much. Just what I read once in a textbook. Something about letters and, uh, gift-giving?”

Draco arched a brow, lips twitching at the corners. “Letters and gifts, yes. But there’s more to it than that. Rules. Expectations. Social contracts that go back generations.”

Harry stood straighter, clearly trying to keep up. “Okay…”

Draco stared, his gaze sharp as cut glass but not unkind. “You just told me you fancy me. And then you offered me the option of keeping things casual—as if you think I need an escape hatch.”

Harry flushed again. “I just… I don’t want you to feel trapped.”

Draco studied him a moment longer, his own heart oddly loud in his ears.

“Most alphas would never say that,” Draco said quietly. “Most would already be drafting their claim. You’re…different.”

Potter swallowed, and this time Draco watched the motion with intent.

“Um…” Potter began hesitantly, eyes flicking down toward the floor before drifting back up to Draco’s face. “Ron mentioned something once. About pureblood alphas putting in, uh… a bride price. For omegas.” His voice pitched slightly higher at the end, almost as if he regretted saying it the moment the words left his mouth. “Is that true? Do alphas… buy omegas?”

Draco’s expression didn’t shift much, but something in his shoulders stiffened. His pale lashes lowered as he gave a humorless little exhale.

“Sounds terrible, doesn’t it?” he murmured, his voice flat—resigned.

Potter didn’t answer at first. He looked stricken by the confirmation, eyes narrowing slightly with discomfort, like he couldn’t decide if he was more horrified or angry.

“Couldn’t you just… refuse?” he asked quietly, searching Draco’s face as if the answer might be written there.

“I can refuse,” Draco said, meeting his gaze with quiet intensity. “I could reject every single one of them if I choose to. Unless…” He paused, carefully weighing the moment. “Unless I find my soulbond. Which, let’s be honest, is unlikely. And if I don’t… eventually I’ll be expected to choose an alpha to marry and bond with.” Draco tilted his head slightly, observing Potter’s reaction with a guarded edge. “As the sole heir to both the Malfoy and Black legacies, it’s not just expected—it’s my duty to marry and produce an heir of my own.”

Potter’s brow furrowed, his mouth pulling downward into a frown. “That sounds like quite the burden,” he said softly.

Draco gave a faint shrug, but there was no lightness in it. “It is. But it’s more than that. Unlike alphas, omegas—once bonded—are bound for life. We can’t seek out other physical relationships. We can’t fall in love again, even if we want to, it would only end in tragedy. But alphas? They’re not bound the same way. They can stray. Bonded or not.”

There was bitterness under the calm surface of his voice, like a bruise just beneath the skin.

“Can’t the bond be broken? Like… divorce?” Potter asked, clearly hoping the answer was yes.

Draco’s eyes darkened.

“No,” he said simply. “The only way out of a bond for an omega… is death. The life of an omega is unfair in comparison, isn’t it?” He tried to keep his voice cool, but resentment bled through all the same. “Even if the alpha I’m paired with dies, I’ll still belong to them. The bond will kill me in the end in their absence.”

Potter stared at him, stunned silent. The very idea of it—of a love so permanent and unforgiving—seemed to shake him. And perhaps something else too. Something darker. Draco didn’t need to elaborate further. They both knew the unspoken reality that often followed: once an heir was produced, the omega became obsolete. Most alphas wandered, seeking new partners, new distractions. It was a pattern as old as the ancient houses themselves.

“You,” Potter said suddenly, voice rough with emotion, “of all people… you deserve to have a say in how you get to live your life.” He looked away, shoulders tense as if bracing for rejection. “I’ll understand if this was just a one-time thing. Just say so, and I’ll leave you alone.”

Draco’s heart clenched—tight and painful.

“Potter.”

The name was barely a whisper, but it caught in the space between them like a tether. Draco pushed off the wall and took a quiet step forward, closing the distance. He reached up, slow and deliberate, his fingers brushing along Potter’s jaw before cradling his cheek in the palm of his hand. He felt the scratch of stubble under his skin, rough and real and grounding.

Potter’s breath hitched.

Draco guided his face gently, turning it until green eyes met silver once more. There was no mistaking the honesty behind Draco’s gaze.

“I think I fancy you, too,” he said.

And the words—simple, delicate—landed like a spell between them. Irrevocable.

Potter’s eyes softened, lips parting in silent surprise, and for the first time in what felt like ages, Draco allowed himself to hope.

xxxxx

Harry couldn’t keep the grin off his face.

It had been two weeks since that night in the Astronomy Tower, and something in him had shifted—untangled. The endless war he’d been waging against his own instincts, the confusion, the guilt, the resistance—it had all dissolved the moment Malfoy’s lips met his. Now, those conflicted thoughts had been neatly evicted from his mind, and in their place was a single, insatiable desire: to see Draco Malfoy come undone like that again. To coax that delicate shudder from his body, that flushed, stunned expression when he tipped over the edge with Harry’s name caught between his gasping lips.

He hadn’t told anyone yet—not Ron, not Hermione, not even Ginny. Per Malfoy’s request, they were keeping whatever “this” was between them, at least for now. It made sense. Draco was still on Ministry probation. The last thing he needed was the world discovering that the so-called Boy Who Lived was sneaking off to snog a former Death Eater between classes. That sort of scandal would be a feeding frenzy. Malfoy didn’t need that kind of attention.

Harry understood. He respected the caution. But Merlin, did he want to shout it from the Astronomy Tower.

He didn’t dare claim he was in love—he wasn’t foolish enough to toss around that word. But he was definitely smitten. Or maybe just incredibly, soul-achingly horny. Because every time Malfoy walked past him, every time he caught a glimpse of that graceful, swaying gait, that pert arse hidden beneath layers of school robes, Harry’s brain completely short-circuited. It didn’t matter how many books Hermione slammed down beside him to remind him of what they were supposed to be studying, or how many half-hearted attempts he made to focus on NEWT-level coursework.

His imagination was thoroughly, traitorously occupied elsewhere.

His traitorous cock even more so.

He'd lost count of how many times he’d had to excuse himself to the lavatory. Always the same memory playing on loop: Malfoy flushed and panting, pressed against that cold stone wall, those soft, bitten-pink lips parted just for him.

They hadn’t gone that far since. A few stolen kisses behind shelves in the back of the library, hurried snogging in empty classrooms between lectures. Always secret. Always careful. And Harry was fine with it. He really was.

But his balls? His balls were staging a full-scale mutiny.

Still, when Draco looked at him with that sly little smirk or let his fingers ghost along Harry’s wrist when he passed by a little too close, all the aching tension seemed worth it.

For now.

Merlin he was nearing desperation to get laid.

It was no small blessing that both Hermione and Ron were betas. If either of them had presented as an alpha or omega, they would’ve surely caught the unmistakable scent clinging to Harry’s skin—faint but persistent. Malfoy’s scent. Sweet, heady, and dangerously addictive.

Harry was sure Malfoy had some sophisticated way of masking his scent—something pureblood and proprietary, no doubt—because none of his Slytherin friends seemed to act any differently around him. Meanwhile, Harry was left struggling to hide the lingering traces of their late-night trysts, dabbing cologne over his neck like it might help. It didn’t.

And Neville had noticed.

They were paired together in Herbology, the greenhouse humid and pungent with soil and blooming tubers, when Neville leaned over the potted Moonshade Lily and said quietly, “There’s a plant—dampus root—if you steep it in hot water and spray it on your clothes, it can neutralize the scent of pheromones.”

Harry, caught red-handed—or red-scented, in this case—froze with his gloved hands halfway into the soil. He blinked at Neville, thrown off by the casual tone paired with that very meaningful look in his eyes.

“I…uh…” Harry stammered, trying to recover. “Do I smell?”

Neville didn’t answer right away. Instead, he smirked, something knowing in the curve of his lips. “Omega’s each have a unique signature to their scent,” he said, voice still low. “Most of them use scent blockers. It works on alphas, too.”

“I don’t—” Harry began, defensively, but Neville cut him off.

“Malfoy’s scent smells floral and sweet,” Neville said evenly, as if he were simply commenting on the fragrance of a potion. “Too sweet for my personal preference.”

Harry’s face ignited in heat, his ears burning.

“Don’t worry,” Neville added, a trace of mischief flickering in his brown eyes. “Your secret’s safe with me, mate.”

Harry opened his mouth to say something—thanks, maybe, or some excuse—but before he could utter a word, someone slid between them with effortless boldness.

“Hey, lover,” Theo drawled, his voice velvet-smooth and unmistakably teasing as he leaned far too close to Neville. “Mind if I borrow your shears?” He didn’t wait for an answer, already plucking the pruning tool from Neville’s workstation.

Neville only smiled, utterly unbothered. “I don’t mind.”

Theo’s hand lingered—definitely lingered—on Neville’s shoulder as he gave it a light squeeze, then turned with a wink and sauntered back toward the table he shared with Pansy. His hips had more sway than strictly necessary.

Harry was still staring, mouth slightly agape, when Neville turned back to him with a look of innocent amusement.

“Wait—” Harry said, his voice cracking. “Are you and Nott—?”

Neville shrugged, a lazy grin tugging at his lips. “Let’s just say I’ve developed a taste for bad ideas since the war.”

Harry blinked, still a bit stunned.

It didn’t help that Neville looked nothing like he used to. The last traces of his boyish roundness had vanished over the summer. His jaw had sharpened, his cheeks more sculpted. He was the same height as Harry now—just an inch or two taller, actually—and his frame had filled out in the shoulders and chest, bulkier from what he claimed was hard manual labor fixing up his gran’s cottage and expanding her home garden. Whatever he’d done, it showed.

Neville was fit. Broad. Solid. Confident in a way that was new and utterly magnetic. And judging by the lingering glance Theo gave him from across the room, Harry wasn’t the only one who noticed.

Still, it was Neville’s next words that drew Harry’s attention back fully.

“I’ve got a few scent blockers already brewed,” he said. “I’ll give you some when we’re back in the dorm. You’ll want to use it before breakfast tomorrow—Hermione and Ron will notice eventually.”

Harry nodded, trying not to fidget with his gloves. “Thanks. Really.”

Neville gave him a wink. “What are friends for, if not to cover up the scent of your secret omega boyfriend?”

Harry groaned quietly into the potted soil. At least he could trust Neville to keep a secret.

xxxxx

Hogsmeade weekend finally arrived in the thick of October, the air crisp with the bite of oncoming frost and the faint smell of chimney smoke drifting from the castle’s upper hearths. The golden leaves swirling outside the windows might’ve inspired excitement in any other student—but Harry Potter woke up feeling like a cauldron left too long over an open flame.

His sheets felt suffocating, twisted around his legs like a net. The noises in the dorm—Dean snoring faintly, Seamus humming as he dressed—felt amplified and intolerable. By the time Harry made it down to the Great Hall, his nerves were already frayed.

The tea was bitter. The toast was cold. The eggs were too overcooked.

He blamed it on poor sleep. Or maybe the fact that his clothes clung to his skin as if his body couldn’t decide whether it was too hot or freezing. He stripped off his jumper only to shiver the moment cool air kissed his overheated skin.

He was not in a good mood.

When Ron clapped him heartily on the back in greeting, it felt like being slapped with sandpaper. Harry barely stopped himself from growling deep in his throat. Hermione brushed past him to sit and her sleeve grazed his arm—he flinched involuntarily, skin twitching from even that light touch. It didn’t help that everyone smelled different this morning. Sharper. More vivid.

Especially Malfoy.

Harry could scent him before he even saw him—fragrant rose and black plum with spiced honey, sweet and cloying. Even through scent blockers, the omega's scent wormed its way into Harry’s senses, tangled in his lungs and refused to let go.

It was distracting. Maddening.

He heard Malfoy’s light footsteps approaching from behind and tensed. Sure enough, the blond slid smoothly into the space just down the table, crossing the invisible house divide as though it meant nothing.

Harry had begun wearing the scent blockers Neville had quietly handed off to him in the dorms. The potion worked well enough—blunting the edges of Malfoy’s presence, dulling that sweet storm of fragrant rose and black plum with spiced honey that clung to the air whenever the omega passed by. But it didn’t erase it entirely. It only pressed it behind a veil, just enough to let logic step in. And logic was firm: he didn’t want to cause trouble for Malfoy. Not with the Ministry watching him during probation, not with rumors still dogging his every move. So Harry endured. He tamped down the need, the craving, and swallowed back the ache.

His logic was wavering.

“Everything all right, Potter?” Malfoy asked smoothly, setting a book down in front of Hermione.

“I’m fine,” Harry ground out through gritted teeth, muscles taut under his sleeves. The scent was worse up close—potent and magnetic—and he clenched his fists beneath the table to keep from grabbing.

The omega didn’t press. He turned to Hermione, his voice light. “My mother said this book might have something useful in it for you, Granger.”

Hermione's eyes lit up instantly. She reached for the book, already flipping through its thick, weathered pages. “Oh! I’m sure it’ll be informative even if it might not have what I’m hoping for. Thank you, Malfoy.”

Harry watched the exchange in stony silence.

The way Malfoy smiled, subtle but sincere. The way Hermione beamed at him, appreciative and warm. The way the scent from Malfoy lingered a moment longer when he leaned in to explain something about the text.

A sour twist curled in Harry’s stomach. Why was it bothering him so much?

He tried to rationalize it. It’s not because he’s talking to Hermione. Or being kind. Or breathing air next to her. Or existing. His internal voice hissed.

It’s not because he’s looking at anyone but me. (But it totally was.)

In fact, it made it worse.

Harry had hoped the long walk to Hogsmeade would shake some of that anger out of him, but each step seemed to wind him tighter. The wind in the air, the leaves crunching under his boots, the chatter of students—it all felt like background noise to the rising hum under his skin.

And then he saw him.

Malfoy, standing just beyond the gates with Pansy, Theo, and—fuck—Zabini.

Blaise Zabini. Another alpha.

Harry’s instincts zeroed in like a Seeker on the Snitch. The tall, smooth, confident way Zabini stood just a bit too close to Malfoy made Harry's hackles rise. He knew Blaise was just a friend, knew that Malfoy didn’t belong to him—not really.

But watching Blaise lean in and say something that made Malfoy laugh softly—

Harry felt something primal and ugly twist inside him.

Malfoy wasn’t his.

He wasn’t.

He was his own person, free to walk beside whomever he chose. Free to smile and laugh and toss his silvery hair back without a care. But Merlin help him, Harry wanted to shove Zabini out of the picture. He wanted to drag Malfoy back to the castle, lock the door behind them, and bury himself in that scent. Bite down and mark his skin until it was obvious—undeniable—who he belonged to.

Except he didn’t belong to anyone.

Least of all Harry.

And still, the possessiveness gnawed at his ribs, insatiable.

Harry shoved his hands into his coat pockets, nails digging into his palms, and muttered under his breath, “This is getting ridiculous.”

But the worst part?

He had no idea why he felt like this.

The entire trek into Hogsmeade was a blur of color, cold wind, and mounting agitation.

And all Harry could think about was Malfoy.

Where he was.

Who he was with.

Who fucking dared to look at the omega. Speak to the omega. Even breathe near his omega.

He’s not yours, a voice in his head whispered—but it was drowned out by the thunderous beat of instinct and fury coursing through his blood.

His eyes found Draco constantly. No matter where Harry was—Honeydukes, the post office, even glancing through shop windows—his gaze kept dragging back to flashes of pale blond hair, a curve of the omega’s neck, the arch of his brow as he laughed at something Blaise said.

Blaise fucking Zabini.

Harry spotted them standing outside Scrivenshaft’s, Draco holding a parchment scroll while Blaise leaned in far too close, his hand brushing between Draco’s shoulder blades to guide him around a display of ink bottles. A casual touch. Thoughtless.

But it burned in Harry’s eyes like a brand.

His stomach twisted in knots, hard and hot and sour.

Then, at the café, another alpha—some seventh-year Slytherin who had yet to fully present and someone Harry didn’t even know—leaned over Draco’s shoulder to murmur something in his ear. Draco chuckled, tilting his head politely as he sipped from his tea. The sun caught the faint sheen of his hair, the soft curve of his cheekbone, and Harry’s nails dug crescent-shaped dents into his palms through his gloves.

He’s mine, something inside him growled.

No, he corrected himself, breath shallow. He’s not. He’s not yours, he never said—

But the thought of Malfoy’s mailbox swelling with alpha courting letters—dozens of them, all scented and sealed, all full of promises and flattery—made Harry’s head swim with helpless rage. He wanted to tear every one of those letters to shreds. He wanted to snap the quills of every alpha who dared think themselves worthy. He wanted to—

Get a fucking grip, he told himself.

Then, across the cobbled lane, Draco looked up and spotted him.

His face lit up. A soft smile. Friendly. Casual. He lifted a gloved hand in a wave.

Harry didn’t wave back.

Couldn’t.

Too much heat. Too much pressure behind his ribs. He just stared for a moment too long, then turned and stormed off down the street like something was chasing him. He didn't notice the way Draco's hand lowered, the way his smile faltered slightly.

He and his friends later ducked into the Three Broomsticks to thaw out over butterbeer, but even the warm, familiar smell of cinnamon and roasted nuts couldn’t soothe the churn in Harry’s gut. He sat hunched in the booth, his fingers drumming restlessly on the wood table.

Ron leaned back in his seat with a grin, looking out the frosted window.

"Malfoy’s looking less like a ferret these days, yeah? Must be the hair or something," Ron said offhandedly, clearly trying to make a joke.

The words landed like a slap.

Harry’s head snapped up so fast it startled the entire table. "Shut it, Ron," he snapped. "You don’t know anything about him."

The silence that followed was immediate and thick.

Hermione froze mid-sip, her cup paused at her lips. Ginny blinked. Even Luna, seated with her customary calm, tilted her head and raised a single eyebrow.

Ron looked stunned. “Mate… I was joking. You alright?”

“I’m fine,” Harry bit out, though his voice sounded too sharp, too brittle.

Hermione frowned. “Harry, you’ve been acting rather disagreeable today.”

He mumbled something unintelligible—something about air, or the cold, or needing to move—and stood up so abruptly that the legs of his chair screeched against the floor. He shoved open the tavern door with too much force and stepped into the chill autumn air, the bite of wind a sharp contrast to the blaze under his skin.

As the door swung closed behind him, he heard Luna’s voice drift softly behind it:

“Oh. Harry must be entering his rut.”

Harry rubbed at his neck again, his fingers absently kneading at the tender skin just above his scent gland. It was sore—almost bruised—and a little swollen. He grimaced and dropped his hand, but the ache lingered, spreading down into his collarbone and chest like a throb beneath the skin.

He couldn’t focus.

Everything was too loud, too bright, too much.

Then he saw him.

Across the street, Malfoy emerged from the potions shop, the bell above the door chiming softly as he stepped out into the crisp air. His cheeks were slightly pink from the wind, and his thin, pale fingers clutched a small paper bag which he tucked neatly into his satchel. His coat was buttoned to the top, collar turned up, silver-blond hair ruffling as he started down the southern path—heading back toward the castle, it seemed.

Alone.

Without thinking, Harry followed.

He kept to the edge of the street, weaving between slower walkers, his ratty trainer crunching softly over loose gravel and damp leaves. Every part of him burned with restless energy, his skin tight over muscle, his breathing shallow. It didn’t even occur to him how it might look—how he might look—until the blonde omega slowed his steps and then suddenly stopped, turning on his heel.

His silver eyes narrowed as he caught Harry barely twenty paces behind him.

Malfoy stood in the middle of the path, arms crossed. “Potter,” he called, voice sharp and suspicious, “why are you following me?”

Harry froze, like a wolf caught mid-prowl.

“I wasn’t—” he began, then faltered. “I just—”

The omega’s head tilted, expression tightening with something between disbelief and growing concern. “Seriously? You’ve been acting like a jealous, possessive alpha all bloody day. Storming around like you're spoiling for a fight. Glaring at anyone who so much as breathes near me. What is with you today?”

Harry opened his mouth again but panic leapt ahead of reason. “You shouldn’t let Blaise touch you like that in public,” he blurted.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Malfoy blinked once, then slowly lowered his arms. “Excuse me?” he asked flatly.

“You just—he had his hand on your back and everyone could see,” Harry said, his voice tense, his fingers twitching at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. “He’s another alpha and he touched you—” His tone cracked, raw and half-wild. “You’re mine.”

Malfoy’s eyes widened just slightly, then narrowed again—sharp and assessing now. He stepped closer, gaze sweeping over Harry’s flushed cheeks, the sweat shining at his temple despite the cold, and the way his pupils were blown wide behind his glasses. He took a cautious whiff and…

“Oh…” he murmured, the realization settling over him like fog. “Oh, I see now.” He leaned in, not unkind, but firm. “Potter, is it your rut?”

Harry stiffened. “No— I don’t— I mean I haven’t—”

“You’re flushed. You’re sweating in this weather. Your scent is practically leaking through the blockers. And you’ve been acting like a feral hound since breakfast,” Malfoy said, tone somewhere between exasperated and amused.

Harry looked down at his shoes, ears burning.

“I didn’t know,” he mumbled. “I didn’t even realize. Everything’s just been…off. My skin, my mood, you—” He stopped himself, biting down on the confession as if it had weight.

Malfoy’s voice gentled, just slightly. “You should’ve said something.”

“I didn’t know. I didn’t…” Harry said hoarsely. “I’ve never—that is—well—if this really is my rut I had no idea. I have no idea what I’m doing! And just seeing you and smelling you and not being able to do anything is driving me crazier than normal”

Malfoy gave him a long, unreadable look. Then he sighed, tugged his coat tighter around himself, and gestured toward the trees lining the southern path. “Come on. Let’s walk. You’re not going back to the castle alone in this state.”

Harry blinked, surprised.

“Are you…?”

“I’m not offering to fuck you in the middle of the bloody road, Potter,” Malfoy said dryly. “But I’m not going to let you spiral out of control either. We’ll get you somewhere safe. Then we’ll talk.”

Harry nodded, grateful, but still simmering with the restless heat under his skin. And as Malfoy walked beside him, calm and poised and maddeningly scented like roses and plum and warm spiced honey, Harry realized something else—

He didn’t want to get through this rut with just anyone.

The alpha beast inside him only wanted Draco Malfoy.

The rut slammed into Harry like a knight bus.

His blood roared in his ears, thunderous and relentless, pulsing in every vein with maddening insistence. He stumbled on the dirt path, eyes fluttering as his balance wavered, then bent forward with a strangled grunt, bracing himself against his knees. His vision blurred at the edges. Every nerve in his body sparked, aching and tingling, burning hot one moment and bone-cold the next. The world was too loud, too sharp—too much.

Malfoy’s scent—sickly sweet beneath the faint burn of the scent blockers—poured into his lungs, his mouth, his mind, and Harry felt himself unraveling.

The omega’s hand gripped his arm with sudden purpose. “Potter—come on,” he said firmly, tugging him off the main path.

Harry barely registered the movement as they pushed through the underbrush. The crunch of leaves underfoot, the scratch of branches against his coat—it all blurred beneath the pounding need crashing through him like wildfire.

They were halfway back to the castle, but Malfoy knew he wouldn’t make it. Not like this.

The moment they were far enough into the woods to avoid any curious eyes, Malfoy turned and gently guided Harry down against the thick trunk of an old beech tree. Its bark scraped his back through his robes as he sank to the ground, trembling, panting. He knelt between Harry’s legs without hesitation; one hand braced on the alpha’s thigh to keep him steady. The Gryffindor let out a shuddering gasp, then another—high-pitched and desperate—as he clawed at the buttons of his trousers, his fingers too clumsy to do anything but fumble. His cock strained against the fabric, painfully erect, outlined in a deep, angry flush that made him hiss through clenched teeth.

“Shh,” he murmured, voice low but calm as he pushed Harry’s hands aside. “Let me.”

He made quick work of the fastenings, pulling Harry’s trousers and pants down just enough to free him. The alpha’s cock sprang free, engorged, flushed red and leaking a pearly string of precum that glistened in the filtered light through the leaves. Malfoy’s lips parted slightly at the sight. He’s even bigger than last time. The knot at the base had already begun to swell—premature, but not unexpected given how fast the rut had overtaken him.

Muttering a quick lubrication charm he slicked his palms before wrapping both hands around the shaft. Harry jolted at the first stroke, his entire body bowstring-tight. His hips bucked into the touch, a ragged moan escaping him—low, guttural, and almost feral. Thinking quickly, Malfoy cast Muffliato with a flick of his wand, forming a soft dome of silence around them. He didn’t need some passing student stumbling onto them—and didn’t want Harry embarrassed afterward, either.

Harry’s breath came in short, sharp gasps, sweat beading along his hairline, dampening his shirt and collar. His head dropped back against the tree, his green eyes wide but unfocused, mouth slack as the Slytherin worked him with fast, methodical strokes. One hand squeezed just beneath the forming knot, the other twisting and gliding up and down the slick, throbbing shaft.

“Fuck—” Harry gasped, his voice cracking.

“I know,” Malfoy murmured, his silvery eyes looking at Harry’s flushed and sweaty face. “Just let go.”

Harry’s body spasmed with a choked growl, his hips jerking violently as he came—hot and sudden and loud. Cum spurted from the tip in thick ropes, hitting the blonde’s hand, his robes, even splattering across his chest and jaw. He blinked but didn’t stop, holding tight around the knot to ease the pressure while Harry trembled through the waves of release.

The forest around them blurred into silence as Harry’s orgasm faded. His cock twitched in Malfoy’s hands, the knot still distended, still trapped in the vice of post-rut tension.

Malfoy tightened his grip again and held firm, watching the alpha’s face as he slowly came back to himself. “Just a bit longer,” he said quietly, voice softer now. “Let it pass.”

Harry nodded weakly, too exhausted to speak, chest heaving as the firestorm inside him finally began to dull into something quieter. Something that left him staring at Malfoy with a look so raw, it nearly stole the omega’s breath.

Harry could hardly believe how obscene—how utterly erotic—Malfoy looked with his cum streaked across that pale, elegant face. A bead of it clung to his jaw, glistening in the filtered light like some forbidden mark of ownership. And Merlin help him, the sight alone nearly made him hard again.

If only it weren’t his rut…

If only he had control. He wanted to drink the moment in, savor it slowly, crawl over Draco and worship every inch. But his rut was clawing at him, dragging him down into an frenzied-driven haze. Logic was slipping. Only instinct remained.

And that instinct was screaming: Mine.

Draco Malfoy was his omega. His feral alpha had long since made the claim, growling and baring teeth at anything that threatened to touch what was his. The urge to rub his scent all over Draco, to mark him, to brand him with his essence and have the world know—it was unbearable.

With a trembling hand, Harry reached out and touched the corner of Draco’s jaw where the streak had landed. Draco flinched ever so slightly, but didn’t pull away. Harry’s fingers smeared the thick fluid into his skin, rubbing it in slowly, possessively, as if it were expensive lotion instead of the mess of his own release. His breath caught in his throat. He wanted to cover him in it.

Draco’s brows furrowed. “Potter, what are you doing?”

Harry’s eyes flicked up, glassy and dazed. “I want you to smell like me,” he whispered, voice hoarse with want.

Draco let out a short, exasperated huff—but it wasn’t entirely annoyed. He flicked his wand and muttered Scourgify, cleaning the evidence from both their skin and clothes. Then, still kneeling, he stood and reached down, pulling Harry carefully to his feet. The alpha wobbled slightly, and Draco steadied him, brushing creases from his shirt and righting the waistband of his trousers.

“We need to hurry back before the next wave hits you,” Draco said briskly, but his words were barely registering.

Harry leaned in again, body thrumming with fresh heat. His hands found Draco’s waist, tugging him backward, pressing him gently—then with insistence—into the rough bark of another beech tree.

“Potter,” Draco warned, but Harry was already burying his face into the curve of Draco’s neck, dragging his tongue slowly along the soft skin beneath his jaw.

Draco’s knees nearly buckled.

A low groan rumbled in Harry’s throat as he tasted the omega’s skin, the delicate notes of rose and black plum and honey exploding across his tongue like ambrosia. He sucked gently at a patch just below Draco’s ear, his hands already slipping up under Draco’s jumper, seeking bare skin.

“Potter—get a grip of yourself,” Draco said, breath hitching. His voice was firmer this time, but not unkind. He could feel Harry’s arousal already building again, the heat radiating from his skin, the unmistakable swell forming at the base of his cock.

“Potter—stop. Potter. Potter—Harry, stop!”

Harry froze. His breath hitched as he pulled back abruptly, blinking down at Draco like he’d just stepped into daylight after a dream.

“I—I’m sorry,” Harry gasped, horror dawning behind the cloud of rut in his eyes. “I don’t know what… I couldn’t…” Shame crashed over him like cold water. He stepped back, trembling, his arms wrapping around himself. “I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s all right,” Draco said gently, his own cheeks flushed, lips slightly parted. He reached out and took Harry’s hand, grounding them both. “But we have to get you back.”

Harry nodded numbly.

Draco tightened his grip on his hand and led him forward, guiding him out of the woods—toward the castle, and toward the safety of stone walls and a locked door before the next wave could claim them both.

xxxxx

Potter was fading fast.

Twice already on their frantic return to the castle, Draco had been forced to pull them off the path and into cover—between hedges, and again in an abandoned storage alcove in the outer courtyard—just to cast a quick Muffliato and a repelling charm. Potter had needed relief, and Draco had done what he could to help ease the pressure, his hands slick with lubricant and trembling from the effort it took to keep his own instincts at bay. The trip back, which should have taken fifteen minutes, dragged into a full hour of stop-and-start agony.

By the time they reached their shared common room, Potter was leaning heavily against Draco, flushed and panting, the collar of his shirt soaked with sweat, eyes blown wide with need. Draco didn’t hesitate—he shoved the heavy door open and guided Potter toward the designated rut room tucked at the back of their quarters. But the moment Draco reached for the doorknob to open it, Potter’s hand lashed out, fisting the front of Draco’s robes with surprising strength. In one desperate tug, he pulled Draco in with him.

The room was dimly lit by a single hovering orb of warm light. Simple and compact, it was just large enough to contain the essentials. A narrow bed sat against the wall, barely large enough for Potter’s frame. Beside it, a plain wooden table bore an assortment of supplies—lubrication potions, spell tags for magical comfort, and an object Draco absolutely refused to look too long at: a sheath enchantment shaped to mimic an omega’s lower body, designed to take a knot.

Draco’s face burned with heat. He swallowed hard and tried not to think about the low, hungry sound Potter made beside him.

There was a second door across the room—likely the bathroom. But Potter wasn’t moving. He was draped over Draco’s side, his nose pressed into Draco’s neck, inhaling long and slow like he was memorizing the scent down to its atomic structure. His hands—those big, searing hands—were roaming blindly, seeking contact, tugging at the fabric of Draco’s clothing as if touch alone could anchor him.

Draco braced himself, keeping his voice steady. “Come on, let’s get you comfortable.”

He guided Potter to the bed, easing him down slowly until the alpha was seated. Potter’s breaths came in heavy pants, his body rigid with restraint, but Draco could feel the fine tremors in his muscles—the effort it took to not tackle Draco to the floor.

Draco knew he needed to go. Now. The air in the room was quickly saturated with alpha musk, and Potter’s scent—normally warm, grounding—was now practically molten, laced with pheromones so potent they prickled along Draco’s skin like static. His own body was responding, treacherously so. His glands were buzzing. Slick had already gathered uncomfortably between his legs. He couldn’t risk lingering. The last thing either of them needed was for him to go into an early heat on top of this mess. Draco had no interest in testing whether Hogwarts's rut rooms had contraceptive enchantments.

Still, he hesitated.

With careful fingers, Draco unfastened the front of his robe and shrugged it off, then reached for the hem of his jumper. The fabric clung slightly to his undershirt before he tugged it over his head and handed it to Potter without a word.

The effect was immediate.

The alpha snatched the jumper and buried his face in it, groaning low in his throat as if he’d just been given oxygen after drowning. The sound made Draco’s knees weak. Without waiting for a thank-you—or giving himself time to second-guess—Draco turned and slipped out the door, sealing it shut behind him with a flick of his wand and the soft chime of an enchantment taking hold. The lock shimmered briefly before going still.

It would remain sealed until Potter’s rut had burned through him.

Draco stood there for a moment, hand resting on the wooden surface. He could still feel the alpha’s heat clinging to his skin, ghostly and impossible to shake.

“Sorry, Harry,” he whispered under his breath, before heading off toward his dorm for clean clothes and a desperately needed shower.

xxxxx

Later that same day, Blaise pulled Draco aside in the common room, his hand firm but casual at Draco’s elbow as he steered him away from the others lounging near the fireplace. The warm glow of the room did little to thaw the ice slowly forming in Draco’s stomach. It was mid-afternoon, and Potter had been sealed inside the rut room for just over an hour. The magical wards ensured privacy, but Draco’s thoughts were far from settled.

Blaise’s nose wrinkled the moment he leaned in. His nostrils flared sharply before his face pinched with familiar disapproval.

“You’re going to need a stronger scent blocker,” Blaise muttered low, tilting his head. “You absolutely reek of Potter.”

Draco stiffened, his heart skipping a beat. Damn it. He’d scrubbed himself raw in the shower until his skin had turned pink. He had even used one of Pansy’s soaps—something floral and aggressively sharp, like crushed violets and old money. Not to mention layering on a thick coat of scent blockers. And still, Blaise could detect it.

Of course he could. Blaise had always had a nose like a bloodhound.

“I won’t tell anyone,” Blaise added with a raised hand, sensing Draco’s panic. “Who you shag—or don’t—is your business. Just saying, you may want to upgrade your concealment routine. Maybe something with wolfsbane or ashroot.”

Draco swallowed the lump in his throat, just as Blaise sighed and leaned against the wall with a shake of his head. “Shit. I owe Theo quite a bit of galleons for this one.”

That sparked Draco’s unease into something more aggravating. His brows pulled tight.

“You lot were betting on me?” he snapped, voice hushed but sharp. “Behind my back?”

Blaise smirked with zero remorse. “Naturally. You’ve been dancing around each other since term started.”

Draco ran a hand through his damp hair, trying to will away the sudden pulse of heat blooming beneath his collar. “How obvious are we?” he asked, not sure he wanted to hear the answer.

Blaise arched a brow. “Pretty damn obvious. Potter’s subtlety is nonexistent. Always watching you like you’ve hung the moon. You know he gives you moon eyes, right?”

“Moon eyes?” Draco repeated with a flat stare.

“Yeah,” Blaise said, clearly enjoying himself now. “You know, the big gooey ones. Like a lovesick crup waiting for a treat. It’s nauseating. And adorable, I guess, if you’re into that.”

Draco groaned and covered his face with his hands. “Merlin’s bollocks. So then the whole bloody school knows.”

Blaise shrugged, entirely unbothered. “Maybe. Probably. The portraits have definitely been whispering about seeing you two sneak off into broom cupboards and slipping behind statues like first years.”

“Salazar,” Draco hissed in mortification, peeking between his fingers.

“But if it makes you feel better,” Blaise went on, grin widening, “I thought you two would make it ‘til Yule before getting caught. Pansy had more faith—she said Beltane.”

Draco’s eye twitched. “And what did Theo say?”

“Before Samhain.” Blaise’s smirk turned smug. “He said there’s no way you two could keep your hands off each other that long.”

Draco let out a low, frustrated growl. “Theo always did have a knack for these things. Are we sure he’s secretly not a Seer?”

The alpha shrugged one shoulder. “At least I managed to convince him not to rope Potter’s friends into the wager,” Blaise added, patting Draco’s shoulder. “Figured the Gryffindors would find out eventually. But it’d be rude to charge them galleons and emotional whiplash.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet you seem to have tolerated my company all these years,” Blaise said smoothly, already walking off toward the dormitory corridor. “Go freshen up again, mate. You still smell like alpha satisfaction and bad decisions.”

Draco groaned louder this time, dragging a hand down his face and silently vowing to strangle Theo the next time he saw him.

Chapter Text

The three days Harry spent locked away in the rut room were a blur of fevered agony. He couldn’t recall when the haze had lifted—only that at some point, Malfoy’s jumper, once a soothing comfort, had lost its scent entirely, drenched and overpowered by his own musk. After that, it was no different than clinging to a memory, something fleeting and faded. He felt vile in the end. His skin sticky with sweat and dried cum, hair matted, body aching with the aftershocks of too many peaks. The sheets had been soaked through more than once, specks of dried blood dotted parts of the sheets from biting his lip too hard, and his stomach was empty and sore. A cocktail of hunger and exhaustion tugged at every muscle.

It took actual willpower to drag himself into the adjacent bathroom. His limbs felt leaden, like they might give out with each step, but he managed to step beneath the enchanted spray of warm water. The sensation was instant relief—sharp at first, prickling his oversensitive skin, then slowly softening into something bearable. Not quite peace, but a step in the right direction. He scrubbed until his skin was raw, trying to reclaim his own scent from what his rut had made of him.

When he finally emerged from the shower, he found clean clothes folded neatly on the sink counter—soft grey sweatpants, a plain black t-shirt, and fresh underthings, and pair of soft slippers for his feet. He didn’t know if the room’s enchantment had provided them, or if it had been the work of the castle’s ever-diligent house elves. Either way, he was grateful. Dressed and marginally less feral, Harry pushed open the door and stepped back into the quiet common room. It was deserted, dim, and still. The fire in the hearth had burned low, reduced to glowing embers that cast a soft orange hue across the stone walls. Above, the skylight framed a vast spread of stars, a stretch of indigo sky so deep it seemed endless. Judging by its position, he guessed it must be past midnight.

His stomach growled softly—an insistent reminder that he needed food—but he barely had time to take a step toward the porthole before he stopped short.

A scent. Familiar. Warm and intoxicating.

Fragrant rose, black plum, and a lingering trace of honeyed spice.

Malfoy.

Harry’s head turned, zeroing in on the scent’s source before his eyes even found him.

There—on the crimson-red velvet sofa near the fireplace, curled beneath a matching throw, lay Malfoy. His pale blond hair spilled over the armrest, the flickering light catching on the soft strands. His lips were parted slightly in sleep, his chest rising and falling in a gentle rhythm. He looked peaceful. Safe. Beautiful.

Harry’s hunger was forgotten. Or, more precisely, set aside.

Before he could stop himself, he crossed the room in quiet steps, his slippered feet silent against the rug. He lowered himself slowly to his knees beside the couch, his heart thudding with something softer, heavier than desire—something frighteningly close to affection.

The ache in his chest returned, but this time it wasn’t from rut.

Malfoy was here. Malfoy had stayed. Malfoy had waited.

Harry leaned in, close enough to feel the faint warmth of the other boy’s breath, and brushed a kiss to his temple. He closed his eyes as he did it, breathing in that sweet scent he’d missed so much, letting it wrap around him like the softest lullaby.

“Thank you,” he whispered against Malfoy’s skin, though he wasn’t sure if it was for the jumper, the silence, or the simple act of being here at all.

Maybe it was for everything.

Malfoy stirred beneath the green throw; a soft rustle of fabric accompanying the subtle rise and fall of his breath. His eyes fluttered open, unfocused for a moment in the dim light before they landed on the figure kneeling beside him.

He startled upright with a sharp breath, silver eyes wide, the blanket slipping from his shoulders. "Potter—"

Harry just smiled up at him, the warmth in his chest blooming brighter at the sight of Draco's sleep-ruffled hair and flushed cheeks. “Were you waiting for me?” he asked gently, voice low and reverent, as though afraid too much sound might break the moment.

The alarm in Malfoy’s face softened at once. He blinked the sleep from his eyes and reached out, fingers threading through Harry’s thick, unruly black hair. His touch was light, reverent. The kind of touch that made Harry’s heart squeeze in his chest.

“Is your rut over now?” Malfoy asked quietly, his tone laced with care.

Harry nodded, leaning into the cool press of Draco’s fingers. “Yeah. I think so.” A faint smile tugged at his lips. “But I’m absolutely starving now.”

“Then we should fix that,” Malfoy said with a small, knowing smile. “I’m sure the house elves would be more than happy to feed you something from the kitchens.”

“Come with me?” Harry asked, his voice soft but laced with longing. “I’ve missed you.”

Malfoy’s lips parted, a flicker of color dusting his cheeks, but he didn’t hesitate. He shifted to stand, pulling back the blanket—and Harry's breath caught in his throat. Malfoy was wearing one of his t-shirts. The faded, well-worn, long-sleeved, cotton clung loosely to his slender frame, the hem brushing mid-thigh. The oversized fit only made it more alluring. Harry just wished that Malfoy’s legs were bare instead of covered up by pajama bottoms. His hair was slightly mussed from sleep, and there was a softness to him—something unguarded and utterly irresistible.

Harry didn’t even try to hide his stare.

Malfoy caught it instantly. “What?” he asked, brow arching in sleepy amusement as he tugged the blanket off entirely.

“I’m just deciding if what I really want to eat is food…or you,” Harry said, shameless and direct, and was rewarded by the immediate flush that surged up Malfoy’s neck and into his cheeks.

“Bloody hell, Potter,” Malfoy muttered, though there was no bite to it—only exasperated fondness. “One would think you’d be too tired to even think about sex after a rut.”

Harry just chuckled softly, the sound low and warm in his throat. He rose from where he’d been kneeling, muscles still sore but steady, and reached out to take Malfoy’s hand in his.

Their fingers fit together so naturally, so easily, and Harry gave a gentle tug. “Come on, before I change my mind and decide dessert’s already in front of me.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes, but the slight quirk of his lips betrayed him. He followed willingly, letting Harry lead him toward the porthole and down to the quiet halls of the castle. Once they slipped out into the quiet corridor, bathed in moonlight and hushed torchlight, Harry barely had time to register the warmth of Malfoy’s hand in his before he was shoved—gently but firmly—back against the cold stone wall.

Harry blinked, startled, just as Malfoy rose up on his toes and kissed him.

It wasn’t hesitant. It was hungry.

Harry’s post-rut mind all but short-circuited, his arms locking around Malfoy’s waist, holding him flush against his body as he kissed back, deeper, more demanding. Malfoy’s scent—rose and plum laced with that rich undercurrent of spiced honey—bloomed in his senses like a fog, overwhelming and grounding all at once. Hot hands slid down the line of Malfoy’s back, finding the perfect shape of his arse and giving it a firm squeeze. Malfoy made a sound—something soft and utterly sinful—against Harry’s mouth and pressed closer, their bodies flush, breath shared between gasps.

Then Harry’s stomach let out a loud, monstrous growl that echoed off the stone walls.

They both froze.

Malfoy pulled back with a quiet huff of laughter, his forehead resting against Harry’s shoulder. “Well,” he murmured, poking a finger teasingly into Harry’s taut stomach, “I suppose it can’t be helped. Let’s feed that beast you call a stomach.”

Harry grinned sheepishly, trailing a hand down Malfoy’s side as they stepped apart and continued down the corridor, hand in hand. Dodging through the castle’s dimly lit halls felt like old times—like sneaking to the Restricted Section, or chasing after invisible threats with a cloak and a wand. They slipped past a pair of prefects, avoided Mrs. Norris with practiced ease, and ducked into a stairwell just as Filch’s lantern rounded the corner.

By the time they reached the warm, welcoming glow of the kitchens, Harry was both ravenous and nostalgic.

The house elves didn’t seem the least bit surprised to see him. One of them—a round-faced elf with enormous ears—beamed up at Harry and immediately bustled off to gather food. Harry, knowing Dobby had always spoken of the rotating elf schedules and their time for rest, smiled and thanked them profusely as he slid onto a worn wooden bench in the corner. Malfoy joined him, adjusting the hem of Harry’s oversized shirt he still wore and requesting a cup of tea. He sat with impeccable posture, as always, pale fingers curled around the delicate china cup while Harry… devoured everything.

It started with one plate. Then another. Then a third.

Malfoy watched in mounting disbelief as Harry tore through shepherd’s pie, buttered toast, and a stack of treacle tarts with the desperation of a man who hadn’t eaten in days—which, to be fair, he hadn’t.

“Even at your age,” Malfoy said dryly, sipping his tea, “your table manners are absolutely atrocious, Potter.”

Harry looked up, sheepish but grinning, cheeks puffed out from a particularly large mouthful of pie. He chewed, swallowed, and raised a brow. “So it’s back to my surname?” he asked with exaggerated disappointment. “I thought we were making progress when you called me Harry in the woods.”

Malfoy arched one pale brow, teacup pausing just below his lips. “I see. So you wish to be addressed by your first name, is that it?”

Harry gave a small nod, his green eyes gleaming with hope.

“If that’s what you want,” Malfoy said smoothly, as if it cost him nothing at all.

“It is!” Harry replied, entirely too eager.

Malfoy snorted softly. “Very well then… Harry.”

And that did it.

The sound of his name—his name—spoken in that voice, in that way, sent a visible shiver coursing down Harry’s spine. The blush that crept over his cheeks was immediate, his pupils dilating as heat surged beneath his skin. Malfoy didn’t need to be an empath to feel the spike of arousal radiating from across the table.

He leaned back in his chair with the languid grace of a satisfied cat and lifted his teacup once more, lips twitching with amusement. “Honestly. So easily riled up over something as simple as being called by your first name,” Malfoy mused, voice light but smug, his silver eyes gleaming as if enjoying a private joke only he understood.

Harry arched a brow, lips curling in challenge. “Well… wouldn’t you prefer if I called you Draco?”

He watched, satisfied, as Malfoy’s fingers twitched almost imperceptibly around the delicate handle of his teacup. A subtle tell. But one Harry caught.

Malfoy recovered quickly, setting his cup down with a soft clink. “Have you finished eating?”

Harry leaned forward, resting an elbow on the table and propping his chin atop his knuckles. His gaze never left Malfoy’s. “Yeah. Now I’m ready for dessert.”

A breath of a snort escaped Malfoy as he stood from the rickety table. “Of course you are.”

Harry only grinned wider, standing as the empty plates vanished in a quiet pop of elf magic. He turned to thank the house elves graciously, then—with absolutely no warning—lunged forward, catching Malfoy clean around the thighs and hoisting him up and over his shoulder in one smooth, practiced motion.

Malfoy yelped, a very undignified sound that Harry deeply enjoyed. “Potter! Put me down this instant!”

Harry laughed, loud and full of mischief, as he strode out of the kitchen. “You’re going to have to stop yelling, Draco, unless you want us to get caught after hours.”

Malfoy’s response was a series of indignant slaps against his back, each punctuated by a word. “Put. Me. Down. This. Instant!”

“Absolutely not,” Harry said cheerfully.

“You’re far too pleased with yourself, Potter!” Malfoy growled, though the lack of venom in his voice made it sound more like exasperated affection than true fury.

Harry rounded a corner and spotted the nearest unlocked door. Without hesitation, he slipped inside the empty classroom and gently deposited Malfoy onto the top of a desk. The omega huffed and crossed his arms, trying to salvage some of his dignity as he forced a glare.

Harry didn’t give him the chance.

He stepped forward, bracketing Malfoy with his arms, and kissed him.

It started slow—soft pressure, heat shared between parted lips—but Malfoy, still mildly affronted, retaliated with a sharp nip to Harry’s bottom lip. The sting pulled a low, rough growl from deep in Harry’s chest, his alpha instincts flaring.

Malfoy didn’t push him away.

Harry stepped closer, his hands sliding down to rest on the tops of Malfoy’s knees. He gently coaxed them apart, his thumbs stroking slow, lazy circles against the omega’s knees.

Malfoy’s breath hitched.

“You’re lucky I find you irresistible,” he muttered against Harry’s lips, eyes heavy-lidded but glinting with challenge.

Harry only smiled, his voice thick with want. “Oh, I know.”

And he leaned in again.

xxxxx

Draco would have been annoyed—should have been annoyed—if Potter weren’t such an utterly distracting kisser. It was maddening, how easily the alpha could unravel him with the press of his lips, the way he kissed like it was the only language he knew. Intimate. Focused. Devastatingly good.

With a soft sigh of surrender, Draco wrapped his arms around Harry’s neck, pulling him closer, threading fingers through the wild tangle of black hair he adored far more than he’d ever admit aloud.

A low moan slipped from his throat when he felt Potter’s hot, callused hands slide beneath the oversized shirt—his shirt now—palms skimming over his bare ribs, up to his chest. The gentle drag of rough thumbs over his nipples sent a jolt of sensation straight through him. They stiffened instantly under the touch, and Draco shivered, hips twitching forward instinctively. Heat curled low in his belly, the kind that made his thighs clench and slick begin to pool in his underwear.

“I’ve noticed you’re wearing my shirt,” Potter murmured, voice a low rasp against the shell of Draco’s ear. “How’d you get your hands on it?”

Draco didn’t miss the way the alpha’s breath hitched as he spoke.

“Your dorm doesn’t restrict omegas from entering,” Draco replied smoothly, letting his fingers drag through the curls at the nape of Harry’s neck. “So I took it after you were sealed in the rut room.” He smirked, teasing. “And you’re not getting it back. It’s shockingly comfortable for something cheaply made in China.”

That earned him a wolfish grin. Potter pulled back slightly, withdrawing his hands from beneath Draco’s shirt, only to reach behind his own head and tug his shirt off in one smooth motion.

Draco’s breath stalled in his throat.

Potter’s torso—no, Harry’s torso—was unfair. Lightly dusted with dark hair across a broad chest, firm with muscle and strength earned through endless training and war. A tempting trail of dark hair led from his navel down into the low-slung waistband of his grey sweatpants, where Draco could plainly see the outline of his cock, straining thick and eager. Draco’s own cock pulsed in response, tight and aching, and he could already feel the damp stickiness of slick soaking into the cotton of his briefs.

He swallowed hard, dragging his gaze back up from Harry’s body to those intense, darkened green eyes.

Salazar, his heart was racing like a snitch in flight.

He wanted this.

No—he needed this.

And the fire in Harry’s gaze told him everything he needed to know. Harry wanted this too. Just as much. Maybe more.

Maybe always.

Reaching for the hem of his shirt, Draco pulled it up and over his head in one smooth motion. The fabric slipped free from pale skin and dropped silently behind him onto the desk, leaving him bare to the cool air of the room and Harry’s burning gaze.

Harry's eyes swept over him slowly, reverently. His gaze wasn't just hungry—it was desirous, like Draco were a forbidden fruit and the gilded gates were opening up to him. The scars across Draco’s chest and abdomen caught his eye first—silvery lines, a cruel map of the past etched into porcelain skin. Harry’s chest ached at the sight, remembering the bathroom, the blood, the guilt that had weighed him down for years.

But it was the faded Dark Mark on Draco’s forearm that truly arrested him.

The serpent and skull curled there like an unwelcome ghost, faded with the death of its creator but still sharp in its message. Still too vivid to ignore. Draco noticed where Harry was looking. Shame flashed across his face as he quickly turned his body, hiding the mark behind him.

“It… will never go away,” he said softly, eyes cast downward. His voice was steady, but there was pain trembling beneath the surface. “It was created by dark magic. I’ve tried everything—even tried to flay the skin off myself.”

The quiet confession tore through Harry.

Stepping forward, Harry gently reached out and took Draco’s left arm, careful and deliberate. Draco hesitated, muscles taut under the alpha’s touch, but he let him. Let him see. Raising the arm and studied it up close, his thumb brushed over the scarred skin—delicate ridges where Draco had tried to erase it by force. The mark itself, though faded, was still discernible. Still there. A cruel permanence.

Without saying a word, Harry leaned forward and pressed his lips to the mark. A soft, lingering kiss. It was not a gesture of forgiveness—it was one of acceptance. Reverence. Perhaps even forgiveness.

Draco’s breath caught.

Harry didn’t release the arm right away. He looked down, eyes vivid green and shining.

“I know what it was meant to stand for,” Harry murmured. “But it doesn’t define you. It never did. This,” he brushed his lips against the mark again, “isn’t who you are. It’s in the past now.”

Draco’s chest rose sharply. His fingers twitched at his sides before he reached up, curling his hand around the back of Harry’s neck and pulling him down into a kiss. It was deep, urgent, and full of quiet desperation. A want for comfort, for closeness, for him. Harry responded instantly, melting into the kiss, pressing forward until Draco had to lean back against the desk to stay upright. The kiss didn’t break as Harry gently guided him down, easing the omega to lay back atop the cool wood, cradling him like something precious.

Draco’s hands roamed hungrily over Harry’s chest, exploring the ridges of muscle, the heat of his skin, the light dusting of hair that trailed from sternum to navel. His fingers curled through it, dragging downward, reveling in the contrast of his thin, elegant hands against the solid warmth of Harry’s body.

Harry moved his lips to Draco’s jaw, brushing soft kisses along the angle of bone, then down to the elegant column of his throat. He found the edge of the protective collar and nuzzled underneath it, his tongue dragging over the soft skin just above Draco’s scent gland.

Draco gasped, hips bucking. That spot—of course Harry would find that spot. His scent was thickest there, and Harry drank it in like a parched man. Breathy sighs escaped Draco’s parted lips, the moans soft but growing needier, shakier. His knees squeezed around Harry’s sides, heels dragging along the desk’s edge. The alpha’s mouth was relentless, worshipful, moving lower inch by inch.

Harry reached the first scar on Draco’s chest—a faint, silvery-white line etched diagonally across the pale skin near his collarbone. Without hesitation, he dragged his tongue along it, slow and reverent, following its curve until it met the center of Draco’s chest. There, he paused, planting a kiss directly over the sternum like a seal.

“Potter,” Draco sighed, the name spilling out unbidden on a breath of heat and want.

Harry’s mouth curled into something darkly satisfied. In the next moment, he bit down on a pink nipple, not cruelly—but sharply enough to sting. Draco jolted with a gasp, a flush blooming brighter across his chest.

“It’s just the two of us,” Harry growled, voice low and gravel-edged. “Call me by my name.”

“H-Harry,” Draco whispered, almost breathless.

Harry practically purred at the sound, the heat in his eyes deepening as he leaned forward to soothe the abused nipple with slow, languid licks. He lavished it with attention until it pebbled tightly under his tongue before trailing down, moving toward the next scar—one stretched across the right side of Draco’s ribs. He kissed and licked his way across it with the same care, the same devotion.

He was paying tribute—atoning with every stroke of his tongue, every kiss.

By the time Harry reached the faint scar along Draco’s left lower hip, his tongue had mapped every last sin he had inflicted upon this beautiful canvas. He lingered there, kissing just above the waistband of Draco’s pajama bottoms. Slowly, he hooked his fingers beneath the fabric, glancing up to silently ask for permission.

Instead, Draco shoved his palm against the back of Harry’s head and pressed his face down into the rigid outline of his clothed cock with a low, throaty growl.

Harry’s groan was muffled against the heat of Draco’s arousal. That was all the answer he needed. He mouthed over the fabric, teasing with his lips and breath before tugging the waistband down over Draco’s hips, slowly and deliberately. As he peeled away the last barrier, he pulled back just enough to take in the full picture.

Laid out across the desk, Draco looked like sin personified. His skin glowed in the low light, each scar telling a story, each breath making his lean body rise and fall. The line of his muscles flexed with every movement. A delicate flush painted his ears and upper chest, and resting against the pale canvas of his stomach was his cock—hard, flushed a needy pink, leaking slightly, nestled in soft platinum curls.

Harry swallowed thickly, mouth watering at the sight.

Then a pointed jab of a knee struck his side, snapping him out of his trance.

“Stop staring and get on with it, Harry,” Draco snapped, though the exasperation in his voice couldn’t quite mask the tremble of need beneath it.

Harry grinned like the devil. “You’re such a demanding prat.”

“As if you’d prefer a demure partner,” Draco shot back, breath catching as Harry slid his hand up along his leg.

“No,” Harry said, his voice low and warm as his hands explored. One hand gripped Draco’s calf while the other slid slowly up his inner thigh, drawing goosebumps in its wake. “I prefer you just as you are.” His fingers danced over the edge of Draco’s groin. “Spoiled.” They brushed over the crease of skin near his hip. “Entitled.” They dipped lower, teasing at the slick glistening rim between his thighs. “Arrogant.”

Draco’s head tipped back with a moan as Harry pressed one finger inside him—slow, sure, and curling just right. Draco’s breath hitched as his body clenched around it, slick easing the way as Harry began to move.

“Selfish,” Harry murmured, adding a second finger and working them together in rhythmic strokes. “Beautiful.” He leaned down, tongue dragging up the length of Draco’s cock from the base to the flushed, leaking tip. “Erotic.”

Withdrawing his fingers, Harry dropped to his knees, spreading Draco wider as he settled between his legs. He didn’t wait. He licked a broad stripe over Draco’s entrance, groaning into the taste of him—sweet and flowery and utterly intoxicating.

Draco let out a strangled sound of pleasure, his back arching clean off the desk. His fingers shot into Harry’s hair, yanking hard enough to sting as he ground his hips forward, chasing more of that wicked tongue. Harry moaned against him, gripping Draco’s thighs tightly as he devoured him—tongue circling, flicking, plunging deep. His own cock throbbed painfully in his pants, but he was lost in the act of worshipping the omega beneath him, lost in Draco’s gasping breaths and trembling thighs.

Every sound Draco made fueled him, every moan another spark in the fire raging between them.

Harry swiped his fingers through the glossy slick dripping steadily from Draco’s entrance, and brought his hand up to wrap around the omega’s flushed, straining cock. His grip was sure but gentle as he began to stroke up and down, slow at first, letting the slick ease each motion.

Draco's mind emptied, overrun with pleasure so sharp it felt like a dream. He couldn't believe this was happening—Harry Potter between his legs, mouth wet and hot and insistent as he licked him open like he were a candied treat from Honeydukes. Every stroke of Harry’s tongue sent sparks through his nerves, building, building until—

Harry suddenly moved, his mouth leaving Draco’s hole only to wrap around the flushed head of his cock, taking him in to the root with practiced ease. The shift was so perfectly timed that Draco cried out, hips jerking as his climax hit. His back arched high off the desk, and Harry held him down, swallowing around him with slow, deliberate gulps.

Draco was trembling, shivering with aftershocks as Harry licked him clean—each pass of his tongue a soft, thorough indulgence. When Harry finally dragged himself up the length of Draco’s body, he looked utterly smug, tongue flicking over his own lips as he smirked down at the dazed omega.

“And you’re utterly delicious,” Harry said, his voice a low rumble, finishing the litany of words he’d used to describe Draco earlier.

“Now who’s the prat?” Draco breathed, his voice wrecked but sharp as ever. He grabbed Harry by the hair and dragged him down for a searing kiss, tongue thrusting into Harry’s mouth to taste himself on the alpha’s tongue. The kiss was messy, needy, and full of heat.

While they kissed, Draco slid his hands between their bodies and slipped into Harry’s sweatpants, grasping the thick length waiting there. Harry groaned, hips stuttering into the contact as he kissed Draco again—slower this time, more lingering—before he pulled back. Draco let go reluctantly as Harry’s cock slipped from his grip.

Harry straightened and quickly toed off his slippers before shoving his sweatpants down, stepping out of them entirely.

Draco pushed up onto his elbows and stared—really stared. Harry’s body was strong, all defined muscle and strength born of years of battle and endurance. Scars traced over his tanned skin, each one a story, a history written in flesh. Draco’s mouth went dry at the sight of him. The alpha returned to him, green eyes dark with want as he sank back between Draco’s thighs. He reached down, and with the skill of someone attuned to his partner’s every breath, he slipped two fingers back inside. Draco was soft and slick and open now, his body eager, and Harry worked his fingers slowly, curling them just enough to draw a whimper from the omega.

Satisfied, Harry pulled his fingers free and spread Draco’s slick over his own cock in long, languid strokes. His breath hitched at the sensation, but his eyes never left Draco’s face as he positioned himself at Draco’s entrance.

“Go slow,” Draco whispered, a rare trace of vulnerability in his voice.

Harry’s gaze softened as he leaned in, pressing a kiss to Draco’s parted lips. “I’ll be gentle,” he promised, voice rough but tender.

He nudged the head of his cock against Draco’s rim, slowly applying pressure. Draco gasped, his body going taut as the wide head breached him. His breath caught in his throat, trembling fingers clutching at the desk’s edge.

Harry stilled, letting Draco adjust, whispering against his skin, “Breathe for me. That’s it… you’re doing so well.”

And Draco did—chest rising and falling as he exhaled shakily, trying to steady himself, trying not to fall apart too fast beneath the one person who made him feel like something sacred.

"You need to relax, Draco," Harry murmured, his voice rough but coaxing as he leaned down, brushing his lips just beneath Draco’s ear. His breath was warm, feather-light against flushed skin. Draco forced himself to even out his breathing, focusing on the rise and fall of his chest, on the grounding sensation of Harry’s body pressed to his own. As Harry slowly pulled out, just slightly, and then eased back in, Draco tensed—his thighs twitching—but didn’t resist.

Both of them were breathing in shallow, uneven pants. The sensation was overwhelming. Foreign and intense and devastatingly intimate. Harry was careful, every movement measured, though he was visibly straining to hold himself back. Just out of rut, his instincts clawed beneath the surface, urging him to take what was his—fast, hard, claiming. But he fought it, jaw clenched as he focused on Draco, determined to make it good for him.

Inch by inch, Harry worked himself in deeper, the thick length of him stretching Draco open until he was seated completely, buried to the hilt.

They stilled.

Draco's breath caught as the sensation settled over him like a heavy tide. He felt impossibly full. Stretched beyond what he thought possible, his body trying to adjust around the size of his alpha. Merlin, he thought vaguely, he’s huge. It wasn’t just the length—it was the sheer girth, the heat of him, pulsing inside.

Harry dropped his forehead to Draco’s collarbone, kissing the skin there, voice low and wrecked. “Draco… can I move?”

“Yes,” Draco whispered, voice barely audible. “But go slow.”

Harry withdrew just a little, dragging the head of his cock against Draco’s sensitive walls before pressing back in, gentle, controlled. He knew he was large—even before he had presented as an alpha, every lover before Draco had gasped or winced, some even tapped out—but he couldn’t bear the thought of hurting him. So he took his time, letting Draco adjust, moving in slow, patient strokes, gauging every flutter of breath, every tight clench.

Gradually, the tension in Draco’s body gave way. Harry could feel it—the shift. His body stopped resisting and began welcoming him in. Harry started pulling out farther now, then pushing back in with a little more confidence, the rhythm beginning to build.

Draco moaned, hands gripping the edge of the desk, head falling back as his legs wrapped around Harry’s waist. The angle let Harry slide in even deeper, and the sound Draco made was pure wanton bliss.

Perfect, Harry thought as he watched him, utterly entranced. Draco Malfoy, in this moment, was made just for him. The way their bodies fit—the heat, the tension, the way Draco gasped every time Harry bottomed out—it was as if the universe had aligned.

Harry’s restraint began to fray, his body moving faster now, driven by the post-rut haze clinging to his thoughts. He gripped Draco’s hips tighter, dragging him forward with each thrust, his pace now hard, relentless.

He could see it—where his cock bulged against Draco’s lower belly with each push. He should be worried about internal bruising, but the primal part of him had taken control. All that mattered now was the omega beneath him, the slick slide of their bodies, the needy clench of Draco’s inner walls. Harry doubled over, wrapping his arms around Draco’s torso, holding him tightly as he rutted into him. His breath was harsh, groaned into Draco’s throat. “So good… you feel so fucking good…”

Draco was lost, head swimming, moaning brokenly with each thrust. His fingernails scraped down Harry’s back, clinging desperately, his words incoherent as pleasure spiraled higher and higher. The steady slap of skin echoed in the empty classroom, their bodies slick with sweat, the desk groaning beneath them.

Harry felt the tightening, the building tension low in his spine. Draco was close, too—his cock twitching, leaking, his cries growing hoarse. Then Harry felt it—his knot beginning to swell, catching slightly on Draco’s rim.

Draco let out a sharp gasp, eyes flying open in realization.

“Harry—your knot—”

Too late.

With a final thrust, Harry pushed forward and locked, his knot slipping fully inside. At the same time, he bit down on Draco’s shoulder—hard. His teeth pierced skin, a shallow wound meant only to ground himself, not to claim. But Draco cried out at the twin sensation—sharp pain blooming across his shoulder, and the unbearable fullness as his body clenched hard around Harry’s knot.

His climax hit him like a wave. Draco’s back arched sharply, mouth open in a soundless cry as he came hard, his release spilling between them as Harry held him tight.

Harry was panting harshly against Draco’s neck, swallowing the sweet metallic tang of blood while trying to steady himself even as his cock pulsed inside the omega’s trembling body. He licked gently at the bite, soothing the sting as he whispered, “Sorry… I’m sorry… I couldn’t stop—”

They stayed like that for some time, knotted and tangled together in the stillness of the empty classroom, their breath finally beginning to slow. The haze of sex and pheromones gradually lifted, allowing clarity to trickle back in—just enough for Draco to lift his arm and smack Harry soundly over the back of the head.

Harry jolted. “Ow! What was that for?” he whined, lifting his head enough to look down at Draco’s unimpressed face.

“What do you think, dung for brains?” Draco snapped, silver eyes narrowing. “You bit me! You bloody bit me!”

“I said I was sorry!” Harry replied, his voice defensive as he rubbed at the spot Draco had smacked. His face morphed into a guilty pout, green eyes wide and remorseful. “I just… I don’t know, I got overexcited. It wasn’t supposed to be like that.”

“Salazar strike me down this instant,” Draco muttered, flopping his head back dramatically. “You Gryffindors really don’t think before doing something reckless, do you? Or is it just you who happens to be that utterly brainless?”

“I am sorry,” Harry murmured again, his voice softer this time. He ducked his head and nuzzled into the side of Draco’s neck, pressing his nose against the omega’s skin and inhaling deeply. Draco’s scent—rose and plum and that warm spiced honey—calmed something feral inside him. “I’ll make it up to you. Promise.”

“If you leave another scar on me, Potter—” Draco began to threaten, only to jolt with a sharp gasp when Harry ground his knot against the sensitive inner walls still clenching around him. “S-st—stop that!”

Harry smirked, lips brushing against Draco’s neck as he nosed at the bite, nipping playfully at the soft skin just below his jaw.

“You insufferable git,” Draco hissed, but it melted into a moan as Harry shifted again, his cock brushing directly over that electric spot inside him.

The alpha chuckled low in his throat, burying his face deeper into Draco’s neck. Oddly enough, he’d never felt more at ease—more himself—than in this moment, with Draco of all people. More relaxed with this sharp-tongued, insufferable Slytherin than with the friends he’d gone through literal war beside. It was disorienting. A little sad, too.

After presenting as an alpha, something had shifted. Ron and Hermione still cared for him, of course—but they didn’t understand the instincts, the change in everything. The dynamic between them had subtly frayed. He felt untethered from them in ways he hadn’t anticipated.

And now, here he was—knotted inside Draco Malfoy.

If Ron and Hermione found out… what would they say? Would they understand? Or would years of rivalry and house prejudice override everything else?

“We’re not as careful as we thought,” Draco murmured suddenly, cutting into Harry’s spiral of thoughts.

Harry blinked, lifting his head. “What do you mean?”

“Blaise, Pansy, and Theo know about us,” Draco said matter-of-factly, eyes fixed on the ceiling above them.

Harry snorted. “Well, they’re not the only ones. Neville knows, too.”

Draco’s mouth twisted in mild horror. “Wonderful. The bloody portraits have seen us as well—I’d very much like to incendio every last one of them.”

Silence fell between them for a moment. The air had cooled, the weight of reality settling around them even as they remained physically locked together.

Then Harry asked quietly, “Do you want to keep pretending? Or… should we just come clean to our friends?”

Draco’s eyes met his, calm and steady. “We may as well. You’re terrible at being subtle, by the way.”

Harry exhaled a breath of defeat. “Yeah… I know.” His fingers lightly brushed a lock of blond hair away from Draco’s damp forehead. “But it’s hard not to look at you,” he added softly.

Draco rolled his eyes, but a faint flush tinged his cheeks.

“Hopeless,” he muttered, though his voice lacked any real bite.

“Yours,” Harry replied simply.

And Draco didn’t argue. But in the back of his mind he did fear.

He feared that Harry Potter was his soulbond.

But would it be so bad if it were true?

Would Harry be happy?

xxxxx

The following morning, Draco woke with a groan, pain flaring through his lower back like molten lead. His hips ached, his arse was far too tender to sit without a strong cushioning charm, and his shoulder throbbed in dull protest. Every movement reminded him—blatantly—of the night before. He hissed under his breath as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, wincing at the stretch. Fortunately, he'd come prepared, as always. He reached for the small, lacquered box tucked inside his trunk and uncorked two familiar vials. One swallow of Wiggenweld, then a swig of Pepper-Up. The warming rush slid down his throat, bringing with it the first hints of relief.

Draco pulled off the loose sleep shirt (the one he took from Harry’s trunk) and caught sight of his shoulder in the mirror above his washbasin—angry red teeth marks already scabbing over. He muttered under his breath and dabbed Essence of Dittany onto the wound. The skin hissed softly at the contact, and the raw edges slowly faded to pale pink.

“Merlin, that idiot really sunk his teeth in,” Draco grumbled, rotating his shoulder with a wince. Behind him, reflected in the mirror, appeared the smug, lazy grin of Theodore Nott.

“Oh-ho!” Theo sang out, clearly delighted by the sight before him. “Did our dear dragon have a late-night dalliance? Or were you attacked during one of your secret strolls beneath the stars?”

Draco arched a brow, dabbing one last time at the fading marks. “I’m sure your heavy coin purse can answer that.”

A flash of wicked delight passed across Theo’s face. “So the rumors are true,” he murmured, taking two bold steps closer to peer over Draco’s shoulder. “This was Potter’s doing, wasn’t it?”

Draco didn’t respond. He merely grabbed a clean shirt and began buttoning it up with slow, precise fingers, hoping to hide the traitorous blush creeping up his cheeks.

Theo wasn’t so easily dismissed.

“Mmm, must’ve been quite the ride,” he purred, tilting his head to get another glimpse of Draco’s shoulder. “Did the Chosen One live up to his title?”

Draco tugged the hem of the shirt down a little too sharply. He and Harry had agreed last night—not to hide, but not to flaunt it either. No more pretending to hate each other, but also no snogging in the corridors or moon-eyed stares during meals. Let people draw their own conclusions.

Apparently, Theo had already drawn several.

“Come now, is the alpha really as big as the rumors suggest?” Theo asked, waggling his brows and tugging teasingly at the waistband of Draco’s trousers.

Draco slapped his hand away with a sharp smack. “Hands off, Nott.”

Theo laughed, completely unfazed. “Relax. You’re standing, so I suppose that means Potter didn’t destroy you entirely. Good sign. So go on then, tell me—how was he?”

Images flashed unbidden in Draco’s mind: Harry’s mouth on his skin, the way he’d murmured his name like a prayer, how full he’d felt, and the slow, searing way it had all built and unraveled between them. His cheeks darkened, and he turned to grab his school tie, trying to hide it.

Theo let out a low whistle. “That good, hmm?” He leaned forward, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Would you mind terribly if I took a ride on Potter’s legendary broomstick, then?”

Draco went still. For a brief moment, his body reacted before his brain could intercept—hot, sharp possessiveness spiked through his chest. But he smoothed his expression, careful not to give Theo the satisfaction.

“I’m not his keeper,” he said coolly. “Ask him yourself.”

Theo hummed and stepped closer, invading Draco’s space as he sniffed—actually sniffed—the air around him. “Your scent’s different,” he said. “Sweeter. Must’ve knotted you good.”

Draco gave a short huff, snatched his phial of dittany, and turned on his heel, stalking back toward the sanctuary of his four-poster bed. He needed to finish dressing before Theo made it his personal mission to embarrass him further.

Behind him, Theo chuckled. “Don’t be too smug about it, Draco. You’re practically glowing. And if I can smell it... the whole castle will know by breakfast.”

Draco muttered a curse under his breath and yanked his school robes closed with a dramatic flair. “Let them,” he snapped, “It’s not like it was much of a secret to begin with.”

Theo only laughed harder as he yanked on his school uniform with lazy efficiency, throwing his robe over his shoulders as he trailed after Draco out of the dormitory. The light from the tall corridor windows cast a golden sheen across the common room entrance, but it did nothing to soften the tension that crackled in the air.

Harry Potter and Blaise Zabini, standing rigidly, feet planted like opposing statues, locked in a silent but unmistakable standoff.

Theo stopped short, immediately grinning. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from barking out a laugh. Draco groaned beside him and pinched the bridge of his nose as if a headache were already blooming. Pansy sidled up smoothly, draping herself across Draco’s side and resting her elbow exactly on the shoulder he had just slathered with healing dittany. Draco hissed and elbowed her off with a glare, but she only raised a brow in amusement.

“What sort of pissing contest is this?” Pansy asked, her tone drier than sand.

“I have no idea,” Draco muttered, arms crossing over his chest.

“Oh, it’s quite obvious,” Theo chimed in, looking altogether too pleased with himself. “Potter thinks Zabini’s a rival for our lovely, sharp-tongued omega princess.”

Draco muttered something rude under his breath, but it was drowned out by Blaise’s flat voice. “You reek, Potter.”

Harry didn’t flinch. His eyes—darkened and stormy behind his glasses—narrowed into slits as he stared down Blaise, his jaw ticking in restraint. The air between them was taut with unsaid threats.

Draco sighed and strode forward, delivering a none-too-gentle jab to Harry’s side with his fist. “Knock it off.”

The tension cracked slightly, but not completely. Blaise turned his attention to Draco and instantly recoiled, pinching his nose with theatrical disgust.

“Shit, Draco. Your scent was barely tolerable before, but now it’s unbearable,” he said, fanning a hand in front of his face.

Draco shot him a flat, unimpressed look. “Shut up, Zabini. Not all of us are cursed with a bloodhound’s snout.”

“He doesn’t stink,” Harry said without missing a beat, his voice low and earnest.

Theo and Pansy both snorted before clamping their hands over their mouths, their eyes gleaming with poorly concealed laughter.

Blaise let out a short laugh of his own. “Relax, Potter. I’m not into blokes.”

That managed to surprise Harry, his brows lifting just slightly.

“Ugh,” Blaise said, his face still pinched. “No amount of scent blockers is gonna mask this mess. You should move out of the dorms, Potter. Find a wing with the betas. They won’t smell you.”

Harry sniffed at the collar of his robes, clearly perplexed. All he could detect was Draco—sweet, warm, slightly spiced. It didn’t seem foul to him. “I don’t think I smell.”

“Obviously,” Blaise replied with a dramatic roll of his eyes. “Draco, are you sure about this one? Order of Merlin or not, your alpha’s got dung between his ears.”

Draco sighed for what felt like the tenth time that morning and dragged a hand through his perfectly combed hair, ruffling it in frustration.

“I am not in the mood to moderate an alpha pissing contest before breakfast.”

Harry turned to him, half-sheepish and half-earnest, but said nothing. Draco didn’t need him to.

Theo leaned toward Pansy and whispered, “Ten galleons says Potter tries to mark him again before lunch.”

“I’ll raise you five he ends up knotted in a broom cupboard,” Pansy smirked.

Draco shot a flat glare toward Theo and Pansy, the sort that promised pain later. “You are the worst friends.”

“Aww, we love you, too!” Theo cooed in a baby voice as he and Pansy made an exaggerated heart with their hands over their heads, grinning like devils.

Before Draco could retort, Neville walked briskly across the eighth-year common room, slipping a small glass vial into both Draco and Harry’s hands with practiced subtlety.

“It might not be strong enough to completely mask your scents,” Neville murmured lowly, glancing around to make sure no one nearby could hear, “but it should help minimize it.”

Draco stiffened at once, a sharp jolt of embarrassment flaring in his chest and spreading through his limbs like fire. His cheeks flushed pink as he looked down at the vial, fingers tightening around the neck of the bottle.

“Thanks, mate,” Harry said, his voice sheepish. “Is it really that bad?”

Neville offered a sympathetic shrug. “Let’s just say… it’s strong enough even the betas are picking up on it. But, um—congratulations?” he added, eyes darting between them with an awkward half-smile.

Before either of them could respond, Theo practically teleported to Neville’s side, his grin widening like a shark scenting blood. “Hey, Longbottom. My heat’s due in a week or two. Wanna help me through it? I’ll even let you bite me.”

Neville, who once would’ve gone scarlet at such a bold offer, barely blinked. His smile remained mild. “I’ll think about it.”

“Don’t think too hard,” Theo replied with a wink. “I want all that blood in your brain someplace else.”

Neville just chuckled, giving Harry a respectful nod before ducking out through the common room’s arched porthole entrance to head toward the Great Hall.

“Ugh, you’re so shameless,” Pansy said, shaking her head with mock disdain as she crossed her arms.

Theo shrugged with zero remorse. “What can I say? I like a challenge.”

Before Draco could pocket the vial, Theo snatched it from his hands with a gleeful hum, uncorking it in one smooth motion.

“Theo! You idiot—don’t waste it!” Draco barked, reaching for it.

But it was too late. Theo was already sprinkling the powder over Draco’s robes with dramatic flair, like seasoning a roast. “Who cares? Blaise wasn’t wrong. You and Potter reek of each other. I’m gagging and turned on at the same time, and that’s very confusing for me.”

Harry rolled his eyes but quietly uncorked his own vial, letting the fine shimmer of scent suppressant dust fall over his shoulders and arms. The subtle scent of chamomile and ash wafted up from the mixture. He didn’t particularly want to mask the mingled scent—he actually liked it—but he figured Blaise and Neville deserved mercy, and anyone else who would find it overpowering.

“Better?” he asked, casting a glance at Blaise.

“It’ll have to do for now,” Blaise muttered with the air of someone preparing to endure a long and unpleasant meeting.

“I’m not waiting on you hormonal disasters,” Pansy declared, already striding toward the exit. “I need my coffee before I say something I can’t take back.”

Theo gave a cheerful two-finger salute and followed after her, whistling under his breath. Blaise trailed after them with a grimace, muttering about needing a scent blocker for his nose before breakfast.

Draco just sighed, brushing glimmering dust off his shoulder with a grimace. “Every day with them is a performance.”

“Yeah. But at least they’re our circus.” Harry grinned beside him, his fingers brushing Draco’s as they began walking.

Ron slowed to a stop just outside the beta dorm entrance, his brow furrowing in confusion. Behind him, Seamus and Dean came to an abrupt halt as well, all three of them staring at the sight ahead. Harry and Draco Malfoy were walking side by side, crossing the common room together with an ease that bordered on familiarity—Malfoy’s shoulder brushing Harry’s as they moved in sync, their heads slightly inclined toward one another as if still caught in conversation. Their proximity wasn’t hostile. In fact, it looked… cozy.

Ron blinked, his mouth opening slightly. “Did you guys just see…?”

“Harry and Malfoy lookin’ a bit chummy?” Seamus finished for him, quirking a brow. “Yeah, I saw it. You reckon they made peace or somethin’?”

“Maybe,” Ron said slowly, dragging his gaze after the pair as they left through the porthole. His mind turned over the memory of Hermione casually mentioning that Malfoy had apologized to her at the start of term—something about “making amends.” Maybe he’d done the same with Harry. Maybe that was all it was.

Dean crinkled his nose and sniffed the air. “Did someone spray too much perfume out here?”

Seamus laughed. “Mate, that’s not perfume. That’s the smell of pheromones. Someone’s been gettin’ very friendly.”

Ron glanced at Dean, then at Seamus, and back at the exit where Harry and Malfoy had disappeared. His frown deepened.

“That can’t be what it looked like,” he muttered.

Ron ran a hand through his hair, already dreading what Hermione might say when she found out. He couldn’t shake the mental image of Harry and Malfoy walking like… something was going on.

No. He refused to believe that just because Malfoy had turned out to be an omega—albeit a very pretty one (for a bloke)—didn’t mean that Harry would go after him in that way.

xxxxx

Lunch in the Great Hall was in full swing—chatter bouncing between stone walls, the clatter of cutlery underscored by bursts of laughter from the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw tables. At the newly created Eighth Year table, things remained subdued. Though there were conversations and some laughter, it was undeniable to see the wariness behind some of their eyes.

Ron, however, wasn’t paying much attention to his food. His eyes tracked Malfoy as the Slytherin poked at his roasted root vegetables, looking unusually pale. Not that Malfoy was ever not pale, but there was a tightness around his eyes, a faint sheen of sweat on his brow. Something was off. A moment later, Malfoy leaned over to whisper something to Theo Nott, who raised his brows and nodded quickly. Then, without another word, Malfoy rose from the bench, gathering his belongings before he exited the hall in long, quick strides.

Harry noticed. Of course he did.

Across the table, Harry straightened, his gaze following the retreating figure until it disappeared beyond the towering doors. Ron noticed the way Harry’s jaw tensed, his hand tightening around his fork as if he were deliberating something.

And then Harry moved.

“Where are you going?” Hermione asked, looking up just as Harry pushed away from the table.

Harry hesitated for a second too long. “I, uh… just forgot something. In the common room.”

Ron’s blue eyes narrowed, stabbing into him across the table. “Now?” he asked pointedly, tone a little too sharp to pass as casual. “You’ve hardly finished your plate.”

Harry didn’t answer right away. He flicked a glance across the room—toward the doors Malfoy had disappeared through—then back to Theo Nott. Theo, catching Harry’s eye, gave a small shake of his head. A silent warning: Don’t follow.

Harry ignored it.

He shifted his weight like he might say more, but his mouth pressed into a line and he turned to go.

Ron’s stomach twisted with unease.

He'd been watching Harry and Malfoy closely all morning—at first out of idle curiosity, then out of something sharper. The way they spoke during joint classes, quietly but often, with Malfoy’s usual smugness softened into something that almost resembled humor. The way they walked just a little too close between lessons, their shoulders brushing. And once—he was sure of it—he saw Harry’s hand ghost along Malfoy’s lower back as they entered the Charms corridor.

It hadn’t made sense at first. Couldn’t make sense. Harry hated Malfoy. Or he used to.

But then the exchanged glances since the start of term started making sense. The soft looks. The way Malfoy always sat just a little straighter when Harry entered a room. And Harry—Merlin, Harry—he looked at Malfoy like… like he mattered.

A pit opened in Ron’s stomach. Not just from suspicion, but from something darker.

He felt… betrayed.

Not just by Harry, but by the idea of Harry—of the boy who’d always stood for what was right suddenly falling into step with someone like Malfoy. A former Death Eater. A coward. Someone who had tormented all of them for years. Someone who had nearly gotten Dumbledore killed—who had watched with hollow eyes as his family spewed blood-purity filth for most of their lives.

And what about Ginny?

Ron’s jaw clenched.

He’d thought they were still… well, something. Together. Even if long-distance was hard, Ginny had never said they ended things. And Harry hadn’t said anything, either. Was he cheating on her? Was this whole thing some shameful secret?

The thought made his blood boil.

He slammed his spoon down into his bowl, startling Seamus beside him.

“Alright, Ron?” Seamus asked.

Ron didn’t answer. His eyes were still fixed on the door where Harry had vanished. Something was going on. And Ron Weasley intended to find out exactly what.

xxxxx

By the time afternoon classes rolled around, Harry was a jittery mess.

He couldn’t sit still—his leg bounced restlessly beneath the desk, fingers constantly raking through his already unruly hair. He tapped his quill against the parchment, the edge of the desk, even his own lip, until Hermione finally shot him a look that screamed please stop. But even then, Harry couldn’t calm the buzzing inside his chest.

His thoughts were far from the professor’s droning lecture. He kept glancing toward the doors, toward the clock, toward Theo Nott—who pointedly ignored him.

Ron noticed. Of course he noticed. He’d been watching since lunch (he’d been watching Harry since they were eleven). And the longer he watched Harry’s nervous fidgeting, the deeper the resentment sank. It had to do with Malfoy. Ron was sure of it. He’d known something was off for weeks, but now he was convinced. Harry barely looked like himself anymore—haunted, distracted. Worried. And for what? For Malfoy? Their former bully? The snake who had made their lives hell?

Ron didn’t know what made him angrier—Harry keeping it from him, or the idea that he might be sleeping with someone who still bore the remnants of a Dark Mark.

That evening, Quidditch practice had been an absolute disaster. Harry was clearly still distracted, and had taken a bludger straight to the ribs when he didn't duck in time. He’d spiraled off his broom, landing with a bone-crunching thud in the mud. Ginny had gone pale, yelling orders before flying down after him, shouting for Seamus to fetch Madam Hooch. Practice had been called off, the rest of the team dismissed as Ron and Ginny helped escort their captain to the Hospital Wing.

Now Harry lay on one of the beds, stripped down to his t-shirt and his Quidditch trousers, leaning heavily against a pile of pillows. His shoes sat beneath the bed. The soft glow of the infirmary's lamps cast shadows over the tight line of his jaw. He looked exhausted—and yet somehow still keyed up, as though his skin itched with nerves. Madam Pomfrey had already diagnosed him with a mild concussion and two fractured ribs. He was to stay the night so the healing potions could do their work undisturbed.

Ron sat stiffly at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. Ginny pulled a chair beside the mattress, her hand gently resting on Harry’s knee.

“What the bloody hell is wrong with you, mate?” Ron snapped finally. “You’ve been off ever since you left at lunch.”

Harry didn’t meet his gaze. He exhaled and rubbed a hand down his face. “It’s nothing. I’m just a little distracted, is all.”

“You did just come off your rut, didn’t you?” Ginny asked softly. “Maybe you're still feeling the symptoms?”

“No,” Harry said quickly. “It’s not that. I just… I’ve had a lot on my mind.”

“A lot on your mind,” Ron repeated with a scoff. “Does it have something to do with Malfoy?”

“Ron,” Ginny warned, her voice sharp.

He ignored her.

“Well? Is it?” Ron pressed, voice rising. “I’m not blind, Harry. I’ve seen the way you’re always looking at him. You two were practically joined at the hip this morning. Is it because he’s an omega? Is that it? You can't control yourself around him? Because if that’s the case, there are other omegas here—”

Harry’s head snapped up, green eyes blazing. “Don’t talk about him like he’s someone to be traded like chocolate frog cards,” he growled, voice low and dangerous.

That stopped them cold.

Ron’s expression darkened. “He’d better be a great shag for you to forget that he’s a Death Eater and a blood purist.”

“Ron!” Ginny hissed, appalled.

Harry sat bolt upright. Pain flared down his side, but he barely registered it. He launched forward off the bed, grabbing Ron’s jersey and yanking him in close, snarling into his face.

“Don’t you dare talk about him like that!”

Ron pushed back, startled by the sudden strength, but Harry didn’t budge. His grip was steel.

“So then it’s true!” Ron spat, eyes wide with disbelief. “You’re with Malfoy? What about Ginny, huh? Is this how you tell her you're shagging the bloody enemy?”

“He’s not our enemy, Ron!” Harry shouted back.

“Ron, stop!” Ginny interjected, standing now, alarmed. “Harry and I broke up after the war!”

Ron twisted from Harry’s grip and stumbled backward, breathing hard, face red with fury. “Have you completely forgotten who he is? He spent years tormenting us—called Hermione a slur every chance he got! Tried to poison me! Tried to kill you! People like Malfoy don’t change, Harry!”

“You’re wrong!” Harry roared. “He has changed. You’re just too stubborn and pigheaded to admit it. You still need someone to blame. You still need a villain to hate because you can’t handle the idea that maybe some people can be better!”

The door to the back office of the infirmary slammed open.

“Mr. Potter! Mr. Weasley!” Madame Pomfrey’s voice cracked like a whip across the room. She stormed toward them, her expression thunderous. “I will not have a brawl in my ward! And I certainly don’t want to re-mend your ribs, Mr. Potter. Back in bed—now! And you two—out.”

Ron didn't need telling twice. He turned without another word, his jaw clenched tight as he stormed out of the Hospital Wing, Ginny following close behind with one last, regretful look at Harry.

Harry slumped back down onto the bed, his chest heaving, the ache in his side barely registering over the pounding in his head.

Everything was falling apart. And he wasn’t sure if he wanted to fix it.

Chapter Text

The fallout between Harry and Ron hadn’t gone unnoticed.

By the next morning, the entire eighth-year house was buzzing with whispers and speculation. Ron, red-faced and seething, had made it his mission to tell anyone who would listen that Harry was “secretly shagging Malfoy.” And many had been all too ready to pick sides. Seamus had backed Ron immediately, spitting out something about not trusting Slytherins and “all the things Malfoy used to say.” Susan Bones, her expression stony, had quietly agreed. Her aunt had been murdered by Death Eaters during the war—Harry couldn’t blame her for her decision.

Even a handful of Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs had voiced discomfort. Some muttered that Harry had gone soft, that he’d been “compromised.” It was all sideways glances and half-hidden sneers in the hallways now, and Harry could feel the isolation tightening around him like a noose.

Hermione, to her credit, had been firmly on his side. She’d defended him calmly but with quiet fury. “Ron is being completely unfair,” she’d told anyone who challenged her. “Draco hasn’t even had the chance to speak for himself. You don’t get to decide who’s allowed redemption.”

But the rift had already split wide open among the eighth-years.

Theo and Pansy, meanwhile, had taken Ron’s accusations as a personal attack. Especially Theo, who had gone off on Ernie Macmillan in the common room for repeating one of Ron’s remarks about “not trusting anyone with a Dark Mark.”

“You lot are the ones who never change,” Theo had snapped, arms crossed and voice sharp as glass. “Always so quick to draw lines in the sand and pretend you're on higher ground.”

In the days that followed, Harry stopped sitting with his old Gryffindor friends altogether. He began sharing meals with the Slytherins, the only ones who didn’t shrink away or glare daggers at him for being with Draco. Theo and Pansy—often the loudest voices of mischief—had surprised him with their protectiveness, especially in Draco’s absence.

Draco had gone into heat the very day everything fell apart.

Harry had noticed something was off at lunch: the way Draco’s posture tensed, the pale flush creeping up his neck. Then he’d whispered something to Theo and left the Great Hall in a hurry, leaving his untouched meal behind. Harry had tried to follow, but when Theo met his eyes across from down the table in the Great Hall and gave a subtle shake of his head, it only made Harry stand faster.

He didn’t have a plan. Just instinct.

He caught Draco’s scent trailing through the corridors—sweet, heady, impossible to ignore. It pulled at him like a thread woven through his very marrow. By the time Harry reached the common room, the scent had grown dizzyingly strong. His knees nearly buckled when he saw Draco at the end of the corridor, standing in front of the heat room.

“Draco,” Harry breathed.

Draco turned, flushed and radiant, his silver eyes already glassy with the edge of need. The scent of his impending heat curled thick in the air between them, making Harry's throat tighten. His body responded instinctively—pulse quickening, fangs tingling, blood surging in his veins. His teeth aching to bite down on the omega’s smooth, pale skin.

“I can help you,” Harry offered, stepping closer. He was beginning to salivate. “If you want—I’ll stay. I’ll stay with you through it.”

Draco gave a soft, pained laugh, then leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the corner of Harry’s mouth. It was sweet and lingering, and full of longing.

“It’s too soon,” the omega whispered. “I want it to be different when it happens.”

Harry swallowed hard, nodding even though his heart was thudding wildly in his chest. He then removed his jumper and gave it to Draco, much like how the omega had done for him during his rut. With one last look, Draco slipped inside and sealed the door behind him with his nose buried in Harry’s jumper. Harry had stood there for what felt like an eternity, his hand still raised, pressed against the closed door. The silence was suffocating.

Later, he’d found Theo reclining on the couch in their common room, flipping lazily through a book on magical flora.

“How long?” Harry asked, voice hoarse. “How long do heats last?”

Theo looked up. “Depends on the omega. Sometimes three days, sometimes a full week.” He set the book down and smirked. “You just have to be patient.”

Harry nodded absently, but Theo wasn’t done.

“And hey,” the other boy added with a lazy grin, “if you’re curious about what it’s like to be with an omega in heat... mine’s due pretty soon.”

Harry blinked, caught off guard. “Didn’t you already proposition Neville?”

“I did,” Theo said breezily, “but it doesn’t mean I shouldn’t cast a wider net. Especially with the rumors I’ve heard about you and…” His eyes dropped meaningfully, and a wicked grin curved his mouth. “Your friend.”

Heat crept up Harry’s neck.

“I’ll pass,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Damn,” Theo said, letting out a dramatic sigh. “You really are whipped. Oh, well…it’s my loss I suppose.”

The omega winked and went back to his book, but Harry didn’t respond.

He was too busy staring at the sealed door at the end of the corridor, counting the days.

By the second day of Draco’s heat, Harry had taken to sleeping in the common room.

He’d dragged a blanket and a pillow down from his dorm and claimed one of the long, sagging couches near the fireplace. It wasn’t comfortable—not physically—his frame was too large and his feet were nearly hanging off the end, but it was the only place close enough to the heat room that he could convince himself he wasn’t entirely useless. The scent of Draco’s heat still lingered faintly in the air like the ghost of a perfume, teasing and maddening, even through the heavy stone walls. Harry lay awake most nights, his senses tuned to every shift in the room, half-hoping he might hear the door creak open, that Draco might finally emerge. But each morning came without him.

On the third night, Hermione sat down beside him, wrapping her arms around her knees, her expression hesitant but thoughtful. She'd clearly been waiting for a quiet moment to speak.

"Harry," she said gently, “are you serious about Malfoy?”

Harry sat up a little, rubbing the back of his stiff neck. His hair was messier than usual, dark circles beginning to bruise under his eyes. He looked exhausted—and not just from sleep deprivation.

“I don’t know,” he admitted truthfully. “I mean, I know he used to be… horrible to us. But that was before. He’s changed, Hermione. He told me how much he regrets everything—his part in the war, all of it. He said he’d take it back if he could, and I believe him.”

Hermione nodded slowly, processing his words. “I know. I believe he regrets it,” she said carefully. “But you have to understand something, Harry—what you two are doing… not everyone is going to accept it. What’s happening now with Ron, Seamus, and the others? That’s just the beginning. People talk. The public backlash, if this goes beyond school… are you ready for that?”

Harry glanced toward the sealed door of the heat room, his face tightening.

“No,” he murmured. “But I know it won’t stay quiet forever. And even though we agreed not to hide it anymore, it’s still scary. Everyone’s already made up their minds about Draco—he’s a villain in their eyes, no matter what he says or does now.” He ran his fingers through his hair again, tugging lightly at the roots. “And he’s on probation. Three more years of it after we graduate. If this gets out too far, it might ruin any chance he has of building a normal life.”

Hermione remained silent, her eyes searching his face. She didn’t interrupt.

“I know what it’s like to have people turn on you over bad publicity,” Harry said softly. “After Voldemort returned, our own housemates didn’t believe me. Everyone thought I was lying, attention-seeking. Even Ron and you were skeptical at first.”

She flinched, but didn’t deny it.

“And now... those same people I fought beside are the ones whispering behind my back again. The ones judging me because of who I care about.” He looked up, his green eyes burning with resolve. “But I’m not going to walk away. I didn’t back down then, and I won’t now. I’m not going to let him walk this alone.”

The fire crackled beside them, casting long, dancing shadows on the walls. Harry stared into it, lost in thought.

“I keep thinking about the train station,” he said suddenly, quieter now. “At King’s Cross. When I saw him that day, it was like something pulled me. Like there were… strings tying me to him. I couldn’t look away.”

Hermione was quiet for a moment before she said, “You two always did orbit around each other. Even when you hated each other, it was intense. Maybe you two were always fated to collide.”

Harry turned to look at her.

“Do you think we’re… fated?” he asked, the word foreign on his tongue.

Hermione rolled her eyes affectionately. “Honestly, Harry. You’re an alpha and you don’t know what a fated pair is?” She stood from the sofa, “You should read about it. There’s a whole section in the library on bonding theory and instinctual pairings. Merlin, there’s even a whole genre of romance novels about it.”

Harry groaned, flopping face-first onto the cushions. “Why can’t you just tell me?”

“Because maybe if you read something for once in your life, your grades wouldn’t be so tragic,” Hermione teased, already making her way toward the girls’ dormitory. The door clicked shut behind her, and Harry let out a long, low sigh into the pillow. The room felt colder without her in it. Or maybe he was just missing Draco too much. He turned his face to the door one more time, willing it to open. But the silence only answered.

He would wait.

What choice did he have?

xxxxx

Draco emerged from the heat room on Samhain morning, utterly drained. His pale skin still carried the faint flush of residual heat, though a lukewarm shower had helped calm his nerves and soothe the aching soreness in his limbs. He wore a fresh set of soft cotton pajama pants, loose at the waist, and over them Harry’s stolen oversized shirts—charcoal grey, with sleeves that hung nearly past his fingers. It smelled like Harry: petrichor after a summer storm, earthy vetiver, and a lingering trace of immortelle, bitter-sweet and grounding. The scent anchored him.

All Draco wanted was to bury himself in his bed and sleep for a full day.

The click of the door unlocking echoed softly through the common room. Harry, curled under a blanket on the couch near the fireplace, jerked upright instantly. The moment he saw the familiar silhouette, he was on his feet.

“Draco,” he breathed, voice still hoarse from sleep as he crossed the room.

Draco barely had time to react before strong arms wrapped around him, pulling him close. Harry buried his face in Draco’s neck, inhaling deeply and instinctively rubbing his cheek against the omega’s shoulder, instinct overriding manners. The urge to mark him—gently, scentfully—was too strong to resist. The tired omega let out a soft sigh and melted into him, his arms sliding around Harry’s middle. His body still hummed with the echo of need and exhaustion, but Harry’s scent—wet earth, moss, and golden warmth—was like stepping into a sanctuary. The last of the tension in his chest unspooled.

“I’ve missed you,” Harry whispered into the silky strands of platinum hair, his voice trembling with emotion he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in.

“Mmm. Missed you, too,” Draco murmured, eyes fluttering closed as his forehead rested against Harry’s collarbone. He was already beginning to drift, lulled by the warmth and security of Harry’s embrace.

Harry felt the omega’s weight begin to sag against him and adjusted his grip, supporting him more fully. “You should get to bed,” he murmured, brushing his fingers lightly up Draco’s spine.

“Okay,” Draco mumbled, pulling back just enough to look at him, bleary-eyed. Without thinking, he reached down, took Harry’s hand in his own, and turned toward the stairs that led to the omega dorms.

Harry hesitated as they reached the threshold. “Uh, Draco. Alphas aren’t allowed in there.”

Draco glanced over his shoulder, clearly unimpressed. “Only if uninvited,” he said flatly, tugging him forward.

The door opened, and Harry stepped through for the first time.

The air inside was different—thicker, softer. Layered omega pheromones lingered in the space like overlapping notes in a well-crafted perfume. Floral, musky, warm. It was comforting, but overwhelming, and Harry could immediately tell why the rule existed. Unlike the alpha and beta dorms, the omega dormitory was composed of private rooms rather than bunks or shared spaces. The lighting was dimmer, enchanted to a softer light to be soothing. Curtains hung over high arched windows, and the faint sound of enchanted wind chimes drifted from somewhere above.

Draco led him down the corridor to the third door on the left and slipped inside with Harry trailing behind. The moment they entered Draco’s room, Harry stopped. Here, there was only one scent. Draco’s. Lush, fragrant rose and black plum with spiced honey—it hit him in the chest like a memory. He inhaled deeply and closed his eyes for a beat. By the time he opened them, Draco had already kicked off his slippers and was shimmying out of his pajama bottoms with lazy fingers. The oversized shirt he wore fell low over his thighs, brushing pale skin as he moved. Harry’s breath caught.

“Get in or get out,” Draco said, not even glancing back as he crawled into the massive four-poster bed. “I’m too tired to wait around for you to make a decision.”

Harry blinked, shook off the haze that had settled over his brain, and moved forward. He took off his shirt and set his glasses carefully on the bedside table. Leaving his sweatpants on, he climbed into bed beside Draco.

The mattress dipped beneath their combined weight, and as soon as Harry got settled on his side, Draco immediately scooted closer, nose pressing to Harry’s chest. The alpha laid one arm under Draco’s head, letting the omega use it as a pillow. The other curled securely around Draco’s back, tucking him in close.

Draco let out a small, contented sound, already half-asleep.

Harry exhaled slowly into his silky hair, pressing a kiss there before letting his own eyes fall shut. The warmth of the bed, the soft scent of rose and spice, the gentle rise and fall of Draco’s breathing—it was all he needed.

And for the first time in days, Harry slept soundly.

xxxxx

They had slept through the entire day, wrapped around each other in a cocoon of warmth and shared exhaustion. Draco, utterly spent from his post-heat recovery, had hardly stirred once he’d nestled against Harry’s chest. And Harry—finally able to rest after three days of sleepless pacing, fretting, and longing—had drifted into the deepest sleep he’d had since Draco shut the heat room door behind him.By the time they finally stirred, the enchanted wall clock had already struck half-past six. Most of the eighth years had gone down to the Great Hall for dinner, and the common room was quieter than usual, lit only by the soft amber glow of floating orbs above the reading nooks.

Draco was still sluggish, murmuring something unintelligible as he rolled over and pulled the duvet higher. Harry kissed the top of his head before slipping out of bed, grabbing his shirt from the floor and carefully easing the door shut behind him. He padded quietly down the stairs from the omega dorms, tousled hair still sleep-mussed and shirt clinging to one shoulder. As he descended the final step into the common room, he paused.

Across the room, sprawled on the sofa before the fire, Theo Nott was straddling Neville Longbottom’s lap, arms looped around the Gryffindor’s neck. The two were in the midst of a heated snog, completely absorbed in each other—until Theo caught sight of movement on the stairs.

Breaking the kiss, Theo looked up and smirked, lips kiss-bruised. “Well, hello, sleepyhead,” he drawled. “Did you just come from the omega dorms?”

Neville turned his head lazily to acknowledge Harry with a calm, mildly curious glance—cheeks faintly pink but not nearly as flustered as Harry felt in that moment.

“Uh, well… yeah. Draco came out of his heat and, uh… he invited me in,” Harry said, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck. His face flushed with warmth.

Theo wiggled his hips teasingly where he still sat astride Neville, and Harry could pick up the notes of the two’s arousal before he interrupted them. “See, Longbottom? Potter got an invite and didn’t hesitate. So why not take me up on mine? We could have our own little sleepover in my room…”

Neville, to his credit, looked more amused than scandalized. “It wouldn’t be appropriate,” he said evenly, resting his hands lightly on Theo’s hips to still his movement.

Theo pouted theatrically. “What are you talking about? It’s totally appropriate if an omega invites you in,” he insisted, trailing a finger down the front of Neville’s shirt.

Harry quickly excused himself before the flirting devolved into something more graphic. He turned away with a half-wave and made a beeline for the staircase leading to the alpha dorms, still red-faced and slightly disheveled. As he closed the door to his room behind him, muffling the rest of Theo’s whining, he leaned against it for a moment and exhaled—somewhere between exasperated and amused.

Honestly, he thought, as he headed for his wardrobe, Theo was going to give him a heart attack one of these days.

xxxxx

Hunger finally triumphed over exhaustion as Draco slowly rolled out of bed, his limbs heavy with lingering fatigue. He groaned softly, rubbing a hand through his tousled platinum hair before tugging on his soft cotton pajama bottoms. He didn’t bother with appearances—he had just come off a heat, after all. There wasn’t a single part of him that cared if someone commented on how rumpled or underdressed he looked. He slung his thick, velvet-lined robe over his shoulders and slipped his feet into his fur-lined slippers with a muted sigh. The dim, warm lighting of the omega dorm cast a golden hue over everything as he shuffled out the door. The moment he stepped into the common room, he spotted Harry waiting at the base of the stairs, freshly changed and perched on the armrest of a couch like a loyal hound on alert.

Without hesitation, Draco walked straight into his arms. They shared a brief, warm kiss—chaste but full of feeling. No words were needed as they laced their fingers together and silently made their way out of the common room. By the time they reached the Great Hall, the clatter of cutlery and soft murmur of conversation had filled the space, most of the eighth years already seated for dinner. As the pair entered, hand-in-hand, a few students looked up—some eyebrows rose, some exchanged glances—but no one commented.

Harry and Draco took their usual seats among the Slytherin eighth years. Neville, seated beside Theo, gave them a small smile as Harry sat across from him. Draco wasted no time piling food onto his plate, his appetite back in full force after days of barely eating inside the heat room.

Pansy wrinkled her nose theatrically and leaned in across the table, fixing Harry with an expression of mock disgust. “Ugh! Your face, Potter.”

Harry blinked at her. “Do I have a zit or something, Parkinson?”

“Worse,” she said with a dramatic sigh. “You’ve got that stupid grin again. It’s disgusting.”

Harry just chuckled, unfazed by her jabs. He turned his head to look at Draco, who was mid-chew and clearly savoring his roast beef. Feeling Harry’s gaze, Draco side-eyed him with a mouthful.

“What?” Draco asked, raising a brow.

Harry gave a slight shake of his head, his grin unfaltering. “Nothing.”

Theo leaned forward on the table, his fork poised with a roasted potato speared on the end. “My money’s on a spring wedding,” he said cheerfully, popping the potato into his mouth.

“Please,” Pansy scoffed. “Spring is so gauche. If they have any taste, it’ll be an autumn wedding. Crisp air, changing leaves… Very dramatic.”

“What about you, Blaise?” Theo asked with a smirk.

Without looking up from his plate, Blaise replied dryly, “Eloping at the Ministry. Quiet. Efficient. End of term.”

Harry laughed softly, not even trying to hide the giddy warmth bubbling up in his chest. He didn't care that they were teasing. For once, his love-sick expression didn’t embarrass him.

Draco, however, clicked his tongue and muttered, “And none of you will be invited,” as he sliced through another piece of roast beef with finality.

Neville blinked, looking bemused. “Kinda early to be thinking about marriage, don’t you think?”

“Not in pureblood circles,” Theo chimed in, swirling his fork through his mashed potatoes. “It’s common to settle young—especially for omegas. More social leverage while you're still in your prime.”

Draco rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Harry glanced sideways at him, reading the fatigue still lingering beneath the surface and the light flush in his cheeks. He gently squeezed Draco’s hand under the table, grounding them both with the silent reminder: I’m here.

Dinner continued in a low, easy rhythm, filled with playful bickering and quiet laughter—almost like any other evening. But for Harry, this time, it felt more like home than anything else ever had. Harry didn’t bother acknowledging the glares coming from the Gryffindor end of the Great Hall—especially not the smoldering look Ron was throwing his way. The tension between them had escalated quickly and publicly, the news spreading like wildfire. Within a day, it had rippled through Gryffindor Tower and then outward through the entire castle.

Whispers had taken hold like ivy on stone walls: “The Golden Trio have broken up over Malfoy?!”

Harry had lost count of how many sideways glances or poorly veiled whispers he’d endured in the past few days. But he couldn't bring himself to care. Not anymore. He still had Hermione, at least—who had been caught in the middle, trying to be the bridge between him and Ron, attempting reconciliation that Harry wasn’t ready for. Not when Ron refused to see Draco for who he was now rather than who he had been.

Draco, of course, was blissfully unaware of the fallout, having missed the entire ordeal while secluded in the heat room. Harry hadn’t told him yet. He wasn’t sure if Draco would feel guilty, angry, or simply indifferent. But tonight—tonight wasn’t the moment for that conversation.

Halfway through his bowl of warm bread pudding, Draco’s eyelids began to droop. His spoon hovered near his lips for a second longer than necessary before he blinked and gave a soft sigh. The heaviness of post-heat exhaustion was already pulling at him again. He wondered faintly if this would become his new norm—feeling as though he'd been drained dry and gently folded up like laundry.

Harry noticed, of course. He was watching Draco closely, like he always did.

Once dessert plates were cleared and goodnights exchanged, Harry and Draco headed back toward the eighth-year common room. Neville strolled beside Theo and Pansy, who chatted animatedly, while Blaise trailed behind with his usual cool indifference.

As they crossed the threshold of the Great Hall, Harry caught it—just barely—a low scoff and a muttered slur from further down the corridor.

“Death Eater lovers,” Seamus said under his breath, just loud enough to carry.

Harry stiffened. His fingers instinctively tightened around Draco’s.

“Don’t react to them,” Neville said calmly, though the sharp edge in his voice betrayed his anger. “They won’t get far in life holding on to their old prejudices.”

Harry nodded, jaw clenched. He knew Neville was right—but that didn’t stop the slow burn in his chest. He hated the way those words had been spoken, like a venomous curse. Hated even more that Draco had heard them.

Draco had, in fact, heard every word. But he was too tired to be bothered. The sharp remarks rolled off him like water off a stone. His body craved warmth, quiet, and sleep. Nothing else mattered. Without a word, Draco tugged Harry’s hand and pulled him toward the omega dorms once they returned to the eighth-year common room. Their joined hands didn’t go unnoticed. A chorus of surprised gasps and slack-jawed stares followed them, but neither of them looked back. The heavy door closed behind them with a soft click, shutting out the rest of the world.

Harry blinked once in amused surprise and then smiled, following Draco. The omega dorm was filled with soft, gentle scents and muffled quiet. The kind of atmosphere that eased tension without effort. Inside Draco’s room, it was already dim, the curtains drawn and a faint warming charm softly humming. Harry shed his outer robe, kicked off his shoes, and peeled off his sweater, leaving himself in just his boxers and undershirt. Draco had already dropped his robe and pajama bottoms and was sliding beneath the duvet with practiced ease, Harry’s oversized shirt still hanging off his lithe frame.

Harry climbed in beside him without hesitation, settling on his side. Draco immediately wiggled close, fitting himself against Harry like he belonged there—which, to Harry, he did. The omega rested his cheek against Harry’s chest, his arm curling over his waist. Within seconds, his breathing deepened and slowed, drifting into sleep.

But Harry remained awake.

He held Draco close, pressing his nose into the soft strands of pale hair and inhaling his scent—rose, black plum, and that spiced honey warmth that always made his insides loosen with comfort. His heart ached with how much he loved it.

So much had happened in the span of a month. Somehow, what had started as wary conversations and cautious glances had bloomed into this—falling asleep together like it was the most natural thing in the world. And for Harry, it was. Lying here, tangled up in each other, felt like what life was supposed to feel like. With the war over, with no one trying to kill him or rip apart the world—Harry could finally look forward. For the first time, he let himself imagine a future not clouded by death or duty.

He thought of next year, and the year after that. Five years down the road. Twenty.

In every version of that life, Draco was there beside him.

That single thought—so certain and unwavering—filled Harry’s chest with warmth. He pressed a soft kiss to Draco’s hair and closed his eyes.

xxxxx

In the weeks that followed Draco’s heat, it became almost ordinary to see Harry and Draco walking the castle halls together, hands clasped and expressions relaxed. The novelty of their unlikely pairing had worn off surprisingly quickly—though the whispers never quite disappeared, they had softened into murmurs of curiosity, and in many cases, admiration. More than a few students had come to see their relationship as something symbolic—proof that what Headmistress McGonagall had hoped for at the start of the term might actually come true. That reconciliation between houses wasn’t just a pretty speech made on the first day, but a real, living effort.

In many ways, Harry and Draco’s growing affection had become the quiet embodiment of that goal: a bridge between Gryffindor and Slytherin, war hero and former adversary.

The eighth-year table had gradually evolved into a space where house lines blurred. Ravenclaws chatted with Slytherins, Hufflepuffs traded books with Gryffindors, and Millicent Bulstrode, of all people, had started dating a sixth-year Hufflepuff girl who sent her notes folded into paper airplanes to fly to her between classes. That alone had been enough to become the school’s favorite gossip for a solid week.

As November came to a close, the first snow arrived with December’s bite. The castle transformed into its usual wintry wonderland—wreaths hung from every banister, garlands twisted around the marble columns, and Yule trees glittered in every major corridor, each one decorated to represent a different house. The scent of cinnamon and pine seemed to linger in the air no matter where you walked. The Black Lake had frozen over, and students could be seen skating—or, more often, slipping and shrieking—across the glassy surface. Snowball fights regularly broke out in the courtyards between classes, while others scurried indoors bundled in scarves, hoods, and chattering teeth.

Harry loved winters at Hogwarts. Always had. There was something about the warmth of the fires, the magic twinkling in the halls, and the laughter echoing through stone corridors that reminded him, finally, of what a home could feel like.

Draco, however, had a far different opinion.

“I hate winter,” he’d grumbled one morning, shoving his icy hands into Harry’s pockets. “Flying in the cold is a punishment, not a sport.”

Harry had teased him endlessly for it. “So that’s why you let the reserve Seeker take your place in the Ravenclaw match? I thought you were just being generous.”

“I don’t do frostbite, Potter,” Draco had sniffed, burrowing his face into his scarf.

Now, it was another Hogsmeade weekend, and the cold outside was bitter enough that Draco hadn’t even tried to make an excuse.

“I’m not freezing my arse off for poorly made cocoa and third-rate pastries,” he’d declared from beneath a pile of blankets. “Here’s my list. Be a dear.”

True to form, the list had included not only a handful of potion ingredients and a specific brand of imported parchment and inkwells—but an entire section for Honeydukes. At the bottom, Draco had scribbled in his looping, precise script: Ask the seller to bring out the stock from the back. I have no desire to eat something that others have touched with their filthy fingers.

Harry had laughed reading it. Of course he had.

Now he walked through the snow-covered village beside Neville, the wind tugging at their scarves and the scent of woodsmoke curling from chimneys around them.

“Any plans this holiday, Harry?” Neville asked, brushing snow off his shoulders.

“Not really. I’ll be staying at the castle—it’s the last chance, after all,” Harry replied, watching a few younger students skate across a sheet of ice near the village green.

“Yeah, me too.” Neville smiled slightly. “I think Theo’s staying, as well. Said there’s no point in going back to an empty manor. I get the feeling he didn’t have the most… cheerful upbringing.”

Harry nodded. “Yeah, I get that vibe.”

Neville kicked a clump of snow off his boot, then hesitated before asking, “So… you think you and Draco will exchange gifts?”

Harry chuckled. “He gave me a list of things he wanted just for today, but as for gifts…what do you give someone who pretty much has everything?” He released a long-suffering sigh, the heat of his breath curling in the chilled air. “He pretends to be low-maintenance, but he’s the most high-maintenance person I know.”

Neville grinned at that. “You like it, just admit it.”

“I do,” Harry admitted without hesitation.

They walked in silence for a moment, snow crunching beneath their boots, until Harry nudged Neville’s arm lightly. “So tell me—are you and Nott, like, officially a thing?”

A faint smile touched Neville’s lips, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “We’re… casual. That’s what he wants. And I guess I’m okay with that.”

Harry gave him a sidelong glance. “You guess?”

Neville shrugged. “Theo’s not exactly shy about his flings. I’m not the only one he spends time with—and I knew that going in.”

“But it’s not what you want,” Harry said gently.

“No. But I’m still figuring things out. We’re young, right? I’ve got time.” Neville tried to sound light-hearted, but there was a heaviness beneath his words that Harry didn’t miss.

Harry stopped walking, placing a gloved hand on his shoulder. “Neville, do you care about him?”

“I do.” The admission was quiet. “But I don’t think he’s wired for monogamy. Not the way you and Draco are.”

“I’m sorry, mate,” Harry said sincerely. “I wish I knew what to say that would help.”

Neville offered him a small, resigned smile. “It’s enough that you listened. That makes you a good friend, Harry.”

Harry nodded, glancing down at the parchment list Draco had given him. “Well… let’s go find these potion ingredients and sweets that aren’t tainted by the hands of commoners.”

Neville snorted. “Merlin help you if you bring back the wrong inkwell.”

“He wrote out the brand and make of the inkwell, even drew a sketch of what it looks like. See.” He shows Neville the list and pointed at the sketch.

“Huh, didn’t take Malfoy to be a decent artist.” Neville said before splitting off to do his own shopping, promising to meet up later for butterbeer.

With his errands complete for his ever-particular omega, Draco’s parchment and ink—check. Harry had even requested the unopened stock from the back at Honeyduke’s, per Draco’s instructions, much to the amusement of the clerk—check. Potions ingredients with the exact amount that Draco had written down—check. Harry finally had time to wander the shops of Hogsmeade at a more relaxed pace, ticking names off his Yule gift list.

For Hermione, he chose the same high-grade parchment and her favorite brand of violet-tinged ink. He knew she went through supplies faster than anyone thanks to her endless academic pursuits, and she’d likely appreciate the practicality. At Quality Quidditch Supplies, Harry spotted a sleek pair of dragon-hide gloves and a new set of wind-resistant goggles—perfect for Ginny. She’d mentioned her old gloves were fraying at the seams after their last match against Hufflepuff. He’d had to special-order Neville’s gift: a new, enchanted set of gardening tools with self-cleaning and self-sharpening charms. Theo had a habit of “borrowing” Neville’s tools for Herbology and then misplacing them, often under suspiciously wilted plants.

Though it still felt a little strange, Harry had even picked up smaller gifts for Pansy, Theo, and Blaise. They’d become, in a rather unexpected turn, a steady circle of support after his split from Ron and the cold shoulder from the rest of Gryffindor. A bottle of imported hair serum for Pansy, a monogrammed flask for Theo—though Merlin knew what he’d keep in it—and a slim, leather-bound poetry collection for Blaise, who was strangely fond of tragic verse.

The only person he hadn’t crossed off his list yet was Draco. And that was proving difficult.

What did you give someone who already had everything? Draco’s belongings were tailored, curated, custom-ordered. He slept in the softest of sheets wit a high thread count, and had preferences about parchment texture and thickness. Harry felt hopelessly out of his depth. He was still mulling it over as he stepped into the warm, fire-lit bustle of the Three Broomsticks. The scent of butterbeer and cinnamon hit him the moment he entered. He spotted Neville tucked into a corner booth already in conversation with Blaise and Pansy.

“Hey,” Harry said, sliding into the booth beside Neville.

“Finally,” Pansy drawled, glancing at the bags hanging from his arms. “Let me guess—shopping for your high-maintenance ice prince?”

“I’m not denying it,” Harry said, shaking snow from his scarf. “He gave me a list.”

“Of course he did.” Blaise sipped from his glass, looking unbothered. “Did it include ‘new alpha, one who fetches faster’?”

Harry grinned. “No, but I’m sure that’s going on the next one.” He set his bags down and took a seat beside Neville. “Theo stayed behind, didn’t he?” Harry asked, noting the empty space beside Blaise.

“Obviously,” Pansy replied, rolling her eyes. “Omegas are sensitive, you know. Or at least Draco and Theo are.”

“Or,” Blaise said dryly, “they’re just dramatic little pricks, per usual.”

Neville snorted into his drink while Harry chuckled, the warmth of the room slowly easing the winter chill from his bones.

“Are you spending Yule at the castle?” Neville asked Blaise.

“Salazar, no,” Blaise replied. “I’ll be in Italy with my mother. Villa on the coast. Endless wine and absolutely no snow.”

“And I,” Pansy declared with a flourish of her manicured hand, “will be sunning myself in the Caribbean with my parents. When I return, you lot better compliment my gorgeous tan.”

“Not unless you come back looking like a boiled tomato,” Blaise said without missing a beat, making both Harry and Neville burst into laughter.

“Jealousy is a disease, Zabini,” Pansy sniffed, though a smirk tugged at her mouth.

Harry leaned back against the wooden booth, feeling—despite the bitter cold outside—oddly warm. A part of him still ached over Ron, and there were moments, late at night, when the loss of that friendship echoed sharp and hollow. But here, surrounded by this misfit band of eighth years, he didn’t feel quite so alone.

Still, Draco’s gift lingered in the back of his mind. He’d need to figure it out soon.

Something meaningful. Something only Harry could give.

Something Draco didn’t already have.

xxxxx

Never in a million years did Harry Potter imagine he’d be holed up in the library with both Hermione and Draco Malfoy, surrounded by towers of books and scrolls of parchment, their quills scratching in synchronized rhythm. He also never thought he’d live to see the day the two swots found so much common ground.

It was equal parts horrifying and mesmerizing.

He sat beside Draco while Hermione sat across from them, his posture slouched, his attention fraying as their conversation drifted from house-elf liberation laws to the ethics of centaur autonomy. His brain buzzed with static as their words blurred together—dense, theoretical, passionate—and he idly poked at the corner of his essay with his wand, casting miniature sparks for entertainment. When he finally zoned back in, Hermione was gesturing animatedly, her eyes alight.

“—it’s a brilliant series,” she was saying. “The hero doesn’t start off strong, but she learns to be brave. I think you’d really enjoy the journey.”

Draco, to Harry’s astonishment, was leaning forward, intrigued, a crease between his brows. “The premise is certainly... unconventional. A magical door that appears only on midsummer’s eve and talks to the protagonist in riddles? That’s absurd.”

“Well, of course you wouldn’t get it—you’ve never read them,” Hermione said, exasperated but grinning. “Tell you what, I’ll send you the first volume over break.”

Draco sniffed, but his smirk was playful. “Very well. Then I suppose I’ll return the favor and send you the first volume of a series I adored as a child. A rather sophisticated coming-of-age tale involving a half-blood duelist and his disgraced tutor.”

Hermione’s eyes sparkled. “Sounds right up my alley.”

Harry blinked, trying to process that he was witnessing something bordering on... friendship. Between Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy.

He leaned forward just in time to catch her next question.

“I’m still surprised you’ve read all of Jane Austen’s books. You do know she was a Muggle, right?”

Draco gave a snort of amusement, rolling up one finished assignment to work on the next. “It’s well known she was a squib. There’s an entire literary theory around it. Northanger Abbey was my favorite—Catherine was delightfully naïve and just the right amount of morbid.”

Harry stifled a groan. He recognized that look in Hermione’s eyes—the excited, glimmering one that only surfaced when someone actually matched her in bookish enthusiasm. It was the same look she gave McGonagall in Transfiguration theory debates. She looked positively smug now.

“Have you read Jane Eyre?” she asked, practically bouncing in her seat.

“Can’t say I have,” Draco admitted. “I’m assuming it’s written by a Muggle?”

“Yes! Charlotte Brontë. I’ll loan you my copy—it's in my dorm room. It’s dark, brooding, full of symbolism. You’ll love it.” She paused. “I’m guessing you like historical and gothic fiction?”

“I do,” Draco said, eyes gleaming. “Though most of what I’ve read growing up was penned by witches and wizards. Wards & Whitby published some excellent gothic collections. Very atmospheric.”

Harry let out a sigh and dropped his quill. “Please don’t tell me you’re going to start a book club.”

Hermione gave him a pointed look. “That’s actually not a bad idea.”

“Oh, Merlin,” Harry muttered, slumping further down in his chair. “What have I done?”

“You’ve brought together two literary giants,” Draco said dryly, reaching for his cup of tea. “You should be honored.”

Harry muttered something about cursed fate and rolled his eyes—but secretly, he was smiling.

xxxxx

Later that evening, the soft click of a bathroom door echoed through the quiet dorm as Harry stepped out, his teeth freshly brushed and the cool tingle of mint still lingering on his tongue. He padded barefoot across the plush carpet, yawning and tugging at the hem of his shirt as he made his way toward Draco’s bed—a place that had long since become his default resting spot.

By now, no one batted an eye at Harry’s constant presence in the omega dorms. The sight of the Gryffindor alpha slipping in and out of Draco’s room had simply become another part of the eighth-year routine, as normal as breakfast in the Great Hall or afternoon study groups.

Draco sat propped against the tufted headboard, the thick duvet across his lap and a paperback in his hands. The novel looked like it had been read a dozen times—its spine was deeply creased, and the once-white pages had gone soft at the corners, curling slightly from wear. A pale gold reading light illuminated his face, casting a warm glow over his platinum hair and the sharp cut of his cheekbones.

“You’re already halfway through that?” Harry asked as he climbed into bed, voice thick with fatigue. “Hermione just gave it to you before dinner.”

Draco didn’t look up as he turned a page. “Unlike you, I’m a fast reader.”

Harry grinned and flopped down beside him, resting his head on Draco’s thigh and curling onto his side. “That’s what I get for dating a book snob.”

Draco hummed in agreement, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “I’ll have to ask Granger for more muggle recommendations. My curiosity’s been piqued. This Jane Eyre has far more tragic longing and emotional repression than I anticipated. It’s... compelling.”

That comment lodged itself into Harry’s mind like a glowing ember—warm, sparking an idea. A Yule gift idea, to be precise.

But for now, he simply sighed and let his arm drape lazily over Draco’s lap. His hand brushed against the blanket and settled there, feeling the soft warmth of the omega beneath it. A moment later, he felt Draco’s fingers thread through his unruly hair, combing gently through the strands. When those fingers began to scratch lightly against his scalp, Harry practically melted into the mattress, his body going boneless with contentment. The rhythmic page turns and the tender, hypnotic motion of Draco’s fingers lulled him toward the edges of sleep. The scent of rose and plum wrapped around him like a blanket, tinged faintly with spiced honey that stirred something protective deep in his chest.

“Mmm,” he murmured, eyes fluttering shut. “You’re gonna spoil me if you keep doing that.”

“Good,” Draco said absently, brushing his thumb over Harry’s temple as he turned another page. “That’s the plan.”

And Harry drifted off like that—head resting on Draco’s thigh, the soft sound of turning pages filling the room, and his heart beating steady against the warmth of his omega.

xxxxx

“Come again?” Harry mumbled, mid-chew, his words muffled by a mouthful of scrambled eggs.

Beside him, Draco arched a perfectly shaped brow and set down his tea with a soft clink of porcelain. “My mother has extended an invitation to you—to spend Yule with us,” he said, his voice as composed as ever, though there was a faint tension behind his eyes.

Harry blinked. He swallowed hastily to keep from choking, coughing once before clearing his throat. “Wait, your mum... knows we’re dating?”

“Yes, Harry. She knows because I told her.” Draco’s tone was clipped, but not unkind. “But it’s fine if you’re not comfortable with the idea of returning to Malfoy Manor—especially considering how things went the last time you were there.”

Harry glanced down at his plate, as if the answer might be buried in his half-eaten toast. His last visit to the Manor hadn’t exactly been a holiday memory worth preserving, but that was wartime—and everything had changed since then. “It’s not that, I’m just... surprised, I guess,” he said honestly, lifting his gaze to Draco’s. “Um... does your father know about us?”

“No. Not yet,” Draco replied with a shrug, buttering his toast. “My mother agrees it’s best to keep him in the dark for now.”

Harry gave a slow nod. That did put him at ease somewhat—though the idea of visiting the infamous Manor still left a twinge of unease twisting in his gut.

“Okay then,” he said finally, setting down his fork. “I’ll spend Yule with you. And your mum.”

Draco’s shoulders relaxed and a small smile played at the corners of his lips. “I’ll write her back and let her know.”

Sitting at the breakfast table, amidst the gentle clatter of cutlery and the muffled buzz of morning chatter in the Great Hall, Harry felt the weight of the invitation settle in his chest—not like a burden, but a gravity. This wasn’t just a holiday visit. It was Draco’s way of opening a door to the part of his life he rarely shared. A gesture of trust. And Harry felt it in the marrow of his bones—the truth of it. That he would give up anything, even one last holiday at Hogwarts, if it meant making Draco happy.

He’d faced dark lords and certain death. A family holiday couldn’t be worse. Right?

Still, he reached for his pumpkin juice with slightly trembling fingers, trying to ignore the little voice in the back of his mind whispering about pureblood traditions and cold, echoing corridors filled with unspoken judgments. But then Draco nudged his ankle under the table, and Harry looked up to meet his pale grey eyes—warm now, sincere. And just like that, the nerves ebbed.

He’d be alright. Because he wouldn’t be going alone.

He was going with Draco.

And that made all the difference. Until he broke the news to Ginny and Hermione…

“Oh,” said both Hermione and Ginny in perfect unison, blinking at Harry like he’d just confessed he was moving to Siberia to herd Thestrals.

Hermione recovered first, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear with a thoughtful frown. “Well, I suppose it makes sense since you two are dating and all.” Still, there was a slight crease between her brows, her tone laced with concern. “Are you sure that’s... wise?”

“Fuck, Ron’s going to be even more insufferable now,” Ginny muttered, slumping back against the sofa in the eighth-year common room with a groan.

Hermione sighed, clearly unable to argue the point.

Ginny eyed Harry critically. “You sure about spending the entire holiday with the Malfoys? You know you could split the difference—come to the Burrow for New Year’s. Mum will make treacle tart, and Dad’s still obsessed with asking you about Muggle plumbing.”

Harry gave a soft chuckle, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Even if I wanted to... I’d rather suffer through awkward silences and pureblood tea parties with Draco’s mum than spend a minute around your brother right now.”

Ginny crossed her arms and clicked her tongue. “Yeah, that’s fair.”

“Well, if you do change your mind,” Hermione said, her voice warm and understanding, “the rest of the Weasleys would be thrilled to see you, I’m sure.”

“I know,” Harry said with a grateful nod.

Ginny let out a very unladylike snarl. “Ron is such a dunghead! Why can’t he see that Malfoy’s obviously changed? I mean, that blonde git even apologized to Hermione and me. —Ah, sorry, I didn’t mean to call him a git. It just sort of slipped out.”

“It’s all right, Gin,” Harry said, trying not to smile at how fiercely she defended him.

“If he makes you happy, Harry, that’s all we need to know,” Ginny added sincerely, her expression softening.

“Yes, exactly,” Hermione chimed in. “You of all people deserve to be with someone you love.”

Harry’s cheeks went hot instantly. “Love’s a bit—well, we haven’t been dating that long,” he stammered, rubbing his palms nervously together between his knees.

But the two Gryffindor girls only exchanged knowing looks and smirks, predatory glints in their eyes like they’d caught the scent of scandal.

Hermione folded her arms with a smug tilt of her chin. “You two walk to every lesson hand in hand, Harry. You escort him to his electives like a gentleman. You sit together. Eat together. When he studies with me in the library, you’re there, hovering like a personal shadow. And don’t think we haven’t noticed you’ve been sleeping in his dorm.”

“You’ve been sleeping in his dorm?!” Ginny asked, eyes wide and gleaming with mischief. “Since when?”

“Samhain,” Hermione answered smugly before Harry could get a word in. “And now,” she added, poking his arm, “you’re giving up your final Yule at Hogwarts to spend it with him and his mother in Wiltshire. Face it, Harry—you love him.”

Harry gaped like a fish, unable to form a single coherent syllable as both girls descended into giggles.

“Oh, Draco!” Ginny began, clutching her hands dramatically to her chest and pitching her voice low and breathy. “With your aristocratic features and perfect arse! I want to snog you under the moonlight in the rose garden!”

Hermione followed, tossing her curls with a dramatic flair as she pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. “Oh, Harry! My strong alpha! Carry me to our next class, won’t you? For I am far too rich and pampered to do something as vile as walking among peasants!”

The two of them were howling with laughter as Harry groaned and buried his flaming face in his hands. It was at that precise moment that a familiar drawling voice echoed into the common room as the porthole swung closed.

“Are you Gryffindors making fun of Potter and Draco?” Pansy Parkinson asked dryly, strutting toward them with Parvati at her side and Draco a few paces behind, clearly trying to pretend he didn’t know any of them.

Harry looked up, desperate. “Oh, Merlin. Tell them to stop.”

Pansy raised a brow, smirking like a cat with a bowl full of cream. “Granger’s impression was the closest, though I’d say yours lacked a little of Draco’s disdain. And Weasley—yours wasn’t nearly desperate enough.” With a wink to Parvati, Pansy clasped the Gryffindor’s hands and tilted her head back, eyes gone comically wide and teary. “Oh, Draco!” she wailed in a mock-Harry voice, “I can’t concentrate when you’re not around. I become a pathetic little owl, swiveling my head and hooting your name. Let me gaze longingly into your silver eyes until my vision blurs from not blinking!”

The girls howled in laughter at Harry and Draco’s expense.

Harry groaned audibly, head thunking softly against the back of the couch. He was ready to sink into the floor.

Draco looked thunderous.

“If I weren’t on Ministry probation,” Draco said, glaring at the lot of them, “I’d transfigure all four of you into ants and stomp you into the flagstones.”

The laughter only grew louder.

Ginny fanned herself, breathless. “It’s not fair, Harry. You’re both too easy to make fun of.”

“Truly,” Hermione agreed. “Like watching a tragic romance novel unfold in real time.”

Harry sighed and threw a cushion at her.

Despite his obviously empty threat, Draco pivoted on his heel and strode over to Harry with the kind of deliberate grace that made his robes swish just so. He stopped in front of him, lifted his chin with imperious indignation, and in his most theatrical drawl declared:

“Potter, carry me to my chambers, for I am much too aristocratically upset to climb them on my own.”

Harry’s eyes went wide, and his already red face turned a rather unfortunate shade of crimson. “What—? Draco—no—”

Too late.

The girls erupted.

“OI OI OIIII!” Ginny hollered, cupping her hands around her mouth like she was cheering on a Quidditch team.

“Woooo! Give the man what he wants, Potter!” Parvati shouted, clapping like she was front row at a Weird Sisters concert.

“Oh, my poor fragile omega,” Hermione cooed, mock-swooning into Pansy’s arms. “He needs to be cradled, Harry!”

“Use your strong alpha muscles, love!” Ginny added between gasping cackles.

“Now, now, hags. There’s no need to be jealous,” Draco said loudly over the racket, though his twitching lips betrayed the amusement he tried to smother.

Harry, completely flustered, muttered under his breath, “You’re the worst, you know that?”

Draco leaned in, smug. “And yet, you’re still going to carry me.”

There was a beat of silence as Harry looked at him—really looked at him—with his stormy green eyes narrowed in faux disbelief. Then, without warning, Harry grabbed Draco by the thighs and hoisted him up like a sack of drama and expensive cologne.

Draco let out a startled yelp, clutching Harry’s shoulders. “Potter! Put me down this instant—this isn’t what I meant—”

Harry ignored him, striding towards the stairs with purposeful steps and the dramatic blond prince of Slytherin perched like a kidnapped damsel on his shoulder.

More whoops and cheers followed them like a parade.

“LOOK AT THOSE SHOULDERS!” Ginny bellowed.

“CARRY HIM ACROSS THE THRESHOLD, HARRY!” Hermione cried out.

“You two better be mated by New Year’s!” Pansy called after them. “I want a formal invitation!”

“Maybe hex them just a little,” Harry muttered dryly as climbed up the stairs.

Draco sniffed. “Probation, remember? You’ll have to do it for me.”

And somewhere behind them, Ginny’s voice echoed down the hall one last time: “Kiss him, you coward!”

Draco just threw them all the middle finger before vanishing through the door to the omega dorms.

Chapter Text

Harry boarded the Hogwarts Express with Draco just ahead of him, the freezing December air still clinging to their coats. Behind them, Blaise Zabini and Pansy Parkinson followed at a leisurely pace, chatting softly between themselves. As Harry stepped onto the train platform, he paused to embrace Hermione and Ginny, pulling each girl into a warm hug.

Ron stood a few paces back, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his expression thunderous. His eyes narrowed into slits as Harry pulled away from Ginny and offered a grateful smile, pretending not to notice the daggers Ron was silently throwing in his direction. Hermione noticed, of course, and gave Ron a stern nudge, which he stubbornly ignored.

“See you after New Year’s,” Hermione said, squeezing Harry’s arm.

“Be safe,” Ginny said, pulling Harry into a brief but firm hug. As she stepped back, her gaze lingered on him with a knowing glint—one that clearly implied she wasn’t just referring to the trip.

“You too,” Harry murmured, catching the look but not yet realizing just how direct she was about to be.

“No, I mean be safe,” Ginny said more pointedly, folding her arms as one eyebrow arched high. “Use contraceptives, Harry.”

Harry’s face turned scarlet in an instant. “Ginny—”

“I’m serious,” she cut in, undeterred. “I get the distinct feeling you haven’t been using any. Which means your poor omega has been putting in all the effort to avoid an unplanned pregnancy.”

Harry spluttered, looking everywhere but at her because, of course, she was absolutely right.

Draco, standing beside him with his usual cool detachment, slipped his arm through Harry’s with practiced ease. He tilted his head, his voice dripping with faux innocence. “Don’t worry, Weaselette,” he purred. “I’ve been very thorough—used the contraceptive charm on Harry’s bollocks every single time I feel like riding his broomstick.”

Harry groaned, face now a vibrant shade of crimson. “Merlin’s beard. Can someone actually die of embarrassment?”

Ginny barked out a laugh, clearly satisfied with the chaos she’d stirred. “You’ll survive,” she said, already turning toward the other end of the platform where she’d be boarding near the front of the train. “Barely.”

Draco leaned in with a wicked grin. “She’s not wrong, you know. You’ll survive—just barely. Especially if I keep casting the spell with so much enthusiasm.”

Harry groaned again, pulling Draco toward the train before he could say anything worse.

Finding an empty cabin wasn’t difficult. Most of the students had opted to remain at Hogwarts for the holiday break, which left the train feeling uncharacteristically quiet. The corridors echoed faintly with the occasional voice or the roll of a trunk wheel, but otherwise, it was peaceful.

Pansy peeked into one of the empty compartments before dramatically flipping her hair over her shoulder. “We’ll take this one,” she declared, already sliding the door open. She looked over her shoulder at Harry and Draco. “Not in the mood to get sick watching you two snog each other into oblivion.”

Blaise just smirked and followed her in without comment.

“That works out for us,” Draco muttered under his breath, already tugging Harry toward the next compartment. Harry painfully knocked the top of his head against the doorframe, a slew of curses coming out him. Once inside, Harry dropped their luggage onto the rack while Draco pulled the door shut. The soft rattle of the train beginning to move rippled through the floor beneath their feet. They sat side by side on the wide, cushioned bench, the quiet enveloping them like a familiar blanket as the alpha rubbed the sore spot on his head. With a content sigh, Draco leaned in and rested his head against Harry’s shoulder, their bodies fitting together like puzzle pieces.

It reminded Harry of being back in Draco’s room at Hogwarts—quiet, secluded, a world entirely their own. The view outside the window shifted slowly as the platform drifted away and countryside began to blur into motion.

A flick of Draco’s wand sealed the cabin door with a gentle click, followed by the shimmering veil of a privacy screen and the low hum of a silencing charm. No sooner had the last charm settled than Draco moved, straddling Harry’s lap with fluid, practiced grace. Harry barely had time to blink before Draco was kissing him—deep, possessive, with just the right amount of heat to stir his blood. He responded instantly, hands gripping Draco’s thighs before sliding around to cup the omega’s arse, pulling him in closer until there was no space left between them.

Draco’s legs spread a little wider, grinding down against him with precision. Harry’s breath hitched as he felt the roll of Draco’s hips, slow and confident, like he already knew just how to undo him. It still amazed Harry how flexible Draco was—something they had both discovered, with mutual enthusiasm, during the long nights leading up to winter. Certain positions had quickly become favorites. A few of those had been inspired—perhaps unintentionally—by the scandalous “gift” Theo Nott had given Draco a week prior: The Illustrated Omega’s Guide to Satisfying Submissive Desires.

Draco had claimed it was ridiculous. Draco had also marked three pages with dog-eared corners in the paper.

“Merlin, you’re going to kill me,” Harry murmured into the kiss, voice low and already rough.

Draco smirked against his mouth. “Not until I’ve had my fill of you.”

And somewhere in the background, the snowy countryside blurred past the window, but neither of them noticed—too wrapped up in their little private world.

xxxxx

Harry cracked open the small train window, letting a gust of crisp, wintry air sweep into the cabin. The chill nipped at his cheeks, a welcome relief after the heated interlude he and Draco had just shared. The air inside had grown far too warm, saturated with the heady remnants of their mixed scents. With a quick flick of his wand, he cast a Scourgify on their rumpled clothes, watching the faint shimmer of magic whisk away the mess—to be honest it was mostly Draco’s mess after cumming so hard on his cock.

He turned to glance at the omega, who lay stretched out along the bench like a thoroughly satisfied feline, his platinum hair fanned across forehead and his face blissfully slack. The omega’s robes were half-unbuttoned, exposing a sliver of his pale chest, and his limbs were draped artfully as if he had no bones at all.

Harry’s chest fluttered with something soft and annoyingly fond. He couldn’t help but smile at the sight. Padding over, he sat down beside Draco. Instantly, Draco stirred and curled onto his side, laying his head across Harry’s thigh with practiced ease. Without thinking, Harry pulled his wand again and transfigured Draco’s crumpled robe into a soft, thick blanket, tucking it gently over him.

“You hate the cold,” Harry murmured.

Draco didn’t even bother to open his eyes. “And you’re infuriatingly thoughtful.”

Harry smirked.

“I think we can officially check ‘train sex’ off the list,” Draco added, his voice low and dry with amusement.

Harry snorted. “And probably never again. It’s not the most convenient of places.”

“Maybe if the compartment was a bit larger,” Draco mused, adjusting the blanket. “You do have to duck in here.”

“Yeah, that’s a new inconvenience,” Harry grumbled, rubbing the sore spot on his forehead where he’d cracked it earlier on the low doorframe. “Didn’t exactly think I’d outgrow the Hogwarts Express.”

“Well, you did have quite the growth spurt over the summer,” Draco pointed out, opening one eye lazily. “I distinctly remember being taller than you in sixth year.”

Harry snorted again. “And you never let me forget it.”

A knock came at the door just then, and Draco reluctantly sat up, pushing the blanket off his lap and buttoning up his shirt while Harry stood and waved his wand to undo the lock. He slid the door open to reveal the trolley witch, standing behind her cart loaded with sweets and treats.

“Want anything?” Harry asked over his shoulder.

Draco stood and moved beside him, forcing Harry to shift slightly to give him room. The narrow space barely accommodated them both.

Draco’s eyes skimmed over the trolley offerings with an air of detached curiosity. “Just a few,” he muttered, selecting a pumpkin pasty a handful of chocolate frogs and licorice wand before stepping back.

Harry, on the other hand, loaded his arms with an impressive pile of sweets—Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans, treacle fudge, licorice wands, and a few cauldron cakes for good measure.

As they returned to their seats and started unwrapping their selections, Draco gave Harry a pointed look over the rim of his pumpkin pasty. “I am absolutely amazed—and appalled—by how much you’re able to consume into that gullet of yours.”

Harry just grinned and popped a piece of fudge into his mouth. “Just another item on the list of things that changed since presenting. Bigger appetite, for one. Clothes finally fit. Although Kreacher had to magically tailor all of my trousers to be longer.”

“Of course he did,” Draco muttered.

“Also had to buy new shoes,” Harry added cheerfully, licking chocolate from his thumb.

“So basically, you just got bigger. That’s all I’m hearing,” Draco said, unimpressed.

Harry shrugged. “Yeah, but my hearing and sense of smell have gotten sharper too. Everything’s just… more heightened now.”

Draco leaned back with a thoughtful hum, nibbling on a corner of his chocolate frog. “So, a taller, hungrier, hypersensitive Harry Potter. Great.”

Harry turned toward him with a smirk. “You didn’t seem to be complaining earlier.”

Draco rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.

Harry was stretched out on the seat, one arm lazily draped over the backrest while Draco sat with one leg tucked beneath him, chewing on the end of a licorice wand like it was a contemplative quill. The train rocked gently beneath them, the rhythm almost soothing.

Draco tilted his head and asked, “Hmm, tell me—what do I smell like to you?”

Harry blinked, caught off guard by the question. “Your scent is sweet, but not too sweet—well, actually, Neville mentioned your scent was too sweet for him...”

Draco’s eyes narrowed slightly, though his tone remained dry as he shoved his foot against Harry’s side. “I’m not asking what Longbottom smells, I’m asking what you smell.”

Harry smiled sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck. “Right. You smell like... roses. And black plum. There’s this warmth to it, like... spiced honey.” He looked over at Draco. “It’s distinct, really comforting. At least to me.”

Draco looked thoughtful at that, his brow furrowing just enough to show he was processing the words. He bit off another piece of licorice, chewing slowly as he let the description settle in. “Roses, black plum, and honey,” he murmured under his breath, as though committing it to memory.

Harry, growing curious, tilted his head toward him. “What do I smell like to you?”

Draco’s gaze shifted toward him, sharp and sure. “You smell like after a summer rainstorm.”

Harry snorted, raising a brow. “What does a summer rainstorm smell like?”

“Petrichor,” Draco said simply, “and vetiver... with a hint of immortelle.”

Harry blinked. “That’s very specific.”

Draco shrugged, as if it were obvious. “It’s how I process scents. It’s earthy, grounding, slightly green. And there’s this golden dryness underneath it—like wildflowers that refuse to wilt.”

Harry smiled, touched in a way he didn’t quite know how to express. “Really? I guess I’ll have to take your word for it. Although I’ll need to look up what all of those actually are.”

Draco gave a faint smirk, eyes glinting. “You should. Might help you understand just how good you smell to me.”

Harry’s ears flushed slightly, and he reached for another chocolate frog to distract himself. “Merlin, the way you say things sometimes.”

“And yet here you are,” Draco replied smugly, sucking the last bit of licorice from his fingers, “utterly enraptured.”

Harry huffed, but his grin gave him away.

The gentle rhythm of the train had lulled them into another quiet comfort, but Draco broke the silence with a question that had clearly been on his mind for some time.

"Harry, can I ask how many partners you've had before me?" His voice was casual, but there was a faint tightness to it, betraying his nerves.

Harry turned his head, a lopsided smile tugging at his lips. “Well, not as many as Nott, I’ll tell you that now.”

Draco snorted, rolling his eyes. “I doubt anyone in Britain has had as many as that shameless slag. I’m honestly surprised he hasn’t caught fire from friction alone.”

Harry laughed, then sobered just a bit. “I’ve had four partners before you. Three girls and one bloke.”

Draco blinked, feeling a flicker of something he couldn’t quite name—jealousy, maybe, or simple insecurity. A part of him immediately regretted asking, but he had been genuinely curious. He didn’t interrupt as Harry continued.

“And what about you?” Harry asked, his tone gentle.

Draco felt his cheeks heat up, and he sank down into his collar like a turtle retreating into its shell. “You’re my first,” he mumbled.

Harry felt something warm stir in his chest—pride, foolish or not. His shoulders squared just a bit without him even realizing it, his expression softening with something like awe.

Draco narrowed his eyes and clicked his tongue, immediately catching the change. “Don’t act so pleased with yourself, Potter.”

Harry held up his hands, grinning. “Sorry, I just thought... maybe you and Pansy had a thing back in fourth year.”

Draco shook his head. “No, we’ve always just been friends. It was suspected pretty early on—since puberty, really—that I’d present as an omega. And I’ve always preferred men. Women... never did much for me.”

Harry nodded, thoughtful. “Does it bother you that I’ve been with other people?”

Draco looked at him, then away, his fingers idly twisting the corner of the blanket they were sharing. “No. I was merely curious. And I suppose,” he added with a slow, knowing smirk, “discovering first-hand that the rumors about you are true hasn’t done me any harm.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “There are rumors about me?”

“Oh, please, Harry, don’t act so naïve,” Draco scoffed.

“Fair,” Harry said, amused. “But you’ll need to be more specific.”

Draco leaned in just slightly, voice low and teasing. “That your cock could certainly pass as a third leg.”

Harry burst into laughter, loud and unfiltered. “Oh, that rumor. Yeah, I’ve heard it whispered in the corridors.” He leaned back against the seat, still chuckling. “But if you ask me, you’re the first one to actually take me completely without quitting halfway.”

Now it was Draco’s turn to look insufferably pleased. He sat up straighter, chin lifted with self-satisfaction. “Clearly.” He paused, then added, “She-Weasel pulled me aside once and asked if we’d had sex yet. Her immediate follow-up was how I survived.”

Harry nearly doubled over laughing again. “Merlin, I can’t tell if I’m flattered or horrified.”

“A bit of both, I expect,” Draco said smugly, reclining again with the air of someone who had very clearly won something.

At King’s Cross Station, just beyond the crowd of departing students and tearful parents, they were met by a small figure in crisp, dark livery: one of the Malfoys’ house elves. Poppi bowed deeply, her large eyes flicking between the two boys before squeaking out, “Poppi is here to escort young Master Draco and guest to the Manor.”

With a snap of her fingers, the world tilted.

Harry barely had a moment to brace himself before the familiar sensation of side-along Apparition hit—tight pressure, then the rush of air, and finally a sudden pop! as they landed neatly inside a richly decorated room with velvet-draped windows and a chandelier of pale crystal humming faintly above them.

The parlor was stunning—airy, warm, and gilded with understated opulence. Everything looked old and expensive. The magic in the air was palpable—ancient and deep, like a well that had never run dry.

Harry swallowed hard. His hand reflexively tightened on the handle of his trunk, but Poppi gave a polite bow and said, “Mistress is waiting for young Master and guest in the green room,” before vanishing with another pop—taking both trunks with her.

Harry startled slightly at her disappearance.

Draco, who hadn't let go of his hand, turned to him with an easy smile and gently tugged. “Come on. She won’t bite. Not unless provoked.”

They began walking through the Manor, and Harry tried not to gape at the grandeur of it all. The corridors were wide, ceilings high, and the walls were lined with portraits—some blinking lazily at them as they passed, others whispering behind gilt frames. The rugs beneath their feet muffled every step, and ornate sconces lit with flickering candlelight cast golden shadows on the stone.

Everything was pristine. Everything whispered of old money and older magic.

Draco finally led him through a set of arched double doors into what was aptly called the green room. The walls were painted in deep forest tones, accented with silver embroidery in the curtains and upholstery. A large bay window bathed the room in natural light, illuminating a circular table already set for tea with delicate porcelain and silverware.

Narcissa Malfoy stood from her chair near the table as they entered. Regal and poised as always, she was dressed in a long cashmere robe the color of moonlight, her pale hair pinned back in a twist of elegance. Her blue eyes landed first on her son, softening visibly. Draco immediately stepped forward to embrace her—still holding onto Harry’s hand—and Narcissa returned the hug with quiet grace. When they pulled apart, her gaze fell to their intertwined fingers, pausing there a beat before lifting to meet Harry’s face.

To his surprise, she smiled—not cold or calculating, but warm, almost fond.

“Welcome home, darling,” she said to Draco. Then, turning her full attention to Harry, she added with gentle sincerity, “And welcome to Malfoy Manor, Mr. Potter. I’m pleased you accepted my invitation to join us for the holiday.”

Harry felt a flicker of surprise and an odd warmth bloom in his chest. He bowed his head slightly. “Thank you for having me, Mrs. Malfoy.”

She inclined her head graciously, then gestured toward the table. “Come, sit. The tea’s still hot.”

Harry and Draco followed her back to the round table, taking seats. Harry sat across from Narcissa, and Draco sitting between them.

“Let me begin by offering you my personal gratitude, Mr. Potter,” Narcissa said, her tone polite but deliberate as she extended a hand toward the tea set in the center of the small table. With a graceful flick of her fingers, the porcelain pieces responded—cups gently lifted, teapots tipped, and sugar cubes dropped neatly into the swirling milk without so much as a clink. “For your testimony at my trial—and at Draco’s.”

The warmth in the room did little to calm Harry’s nerves. He shifted slightly in his upholstered chair, feeling like the silken cushions were swallowing him whole.

“Oh, um… It just felt like the right thing to do,” Harry said, clearing his throat. “I knew the circumstances you were under weren’t exactly a choice.”

Narcissa inclined her head, her expression unreadable but softened ever so slightly at the edges. “It was still a kindness I did not expect. And I will forever be grateful.” She took her teacup between her fingers, but her gaze did not leave him. It was cool but inquisitive, sharp without being cutting. “However, gratitude aside, I must admit I was rather surprised by Draco’s letter. In it, he confessed that the two of you have begun a relationship.”

Harry’s face flared crimson, and he nearly missed the handle of his teacup as he reached for it. The cup rattled against its saucer. He glanced at Draco, who sat between them, then back at Narcissa with a nervous laugh. “Oh, uh. Y-yes. It sort of... happened, I suppose.”

“How does a relationship simply ‘happen,’ Mr. Potter?” Narcissa asked mildly, sipping her tea.

“Mother,” Draco interjected, a note of warning in his voice.

But she waved a hand dismissively. “Hush, Draco. With your father away, it is my responsibility to ensure any alpha who pursues you is deserving. Now—go on, Mr. Potter.”

Harry hesitated, feeling like he was being examined under a magnifying glass. “Well... we had a row during Quidditch tryouts. I’d misplaced some of my frustration and took it out on Draco.” He scratched the back of his neck, not meeting her gaze. “I apologized, and then he did too—for how he treated me over the years. And then, uh...” His face deepened in color, and he choked slightly on the memory of that night in the Astronomy Tower—the way it all spiraled out of control with heat and impulse and mouths pressed too eagerly against skin.

“I see,” Narcissa said, watching him over the rim of her cup before setting it delicately back in its saucer. “To be honest, Mr. Potter, I feared for Draco’s safety upon his return to Hogwarts. I was certain that the stigma of his wartime association would place a rather large target on his back. Imagine my relief—and my curiosity—when the Headmistress’s monthly report arrived, stating not only that my son had remained entirely out of trouble, but that you and he had somehow forged a connection.”

Her eyes shifted to Draco, assessing. There was color in her son’s cheeks now—life, vitality, even humor dancing behind his silvery eyes. He looked more himself than he had since before the war. She thought back to the weeks following the trial—how he’d wasted away with guilt and anxiety, barely sleeping or eating. This... this boy before her now looked like he’d been pulled back from the brink.

“I won’t deny,” Narcissa continued, voice gentler now, “that the idea of a war hero courting my son bodes well for our family’s image. But I worry about the public backlash. We are already social pariahs in many circles, and so I must ask plainly: Are you prepared to walk through fire with my son, Mr. Potter?”

Harry straightened, his earlier fumbling giving way to something firmer, clearer. He reached for Draco’s hand and laced their fingers together.

“I am,” he said, locking eyes with Narcissa. “I don’t care what the public says. They’ve had their fill of talking about me. So long as I get to stay with Draco, they can say whatever they like.”

A beat of silence passed, and then Draco turned toward him, his expression gentle, touched by something deeply affectionate. He gave Harry’s hand a subtle squeeze.

The moment was shattered—cleanly, like porcelain—by Narcissa’s next words.

“And your bride price?”

Draco’s head whipped toward her. “Mother!”

“Draco is not property to be bought,” Harry said, voice sharp. “Ah, but if that’s the condition for us to be together,” he added, softening only slightly, “then I’ll pay whatever price you name. And if I don’t have it now, I’ll work until I do.”

“Harry, that’s not necessary!” Draco protested. “Mother, we’ve got to end that archaic practice—”

“Marcus Flint has offered fifty thousand galleons,” Narcissa said coolly, as if she were discussing the price of a rare artifact.

Harry blinked and without hesitation said, “I’ll pay double.”

“Harry, stop—”

“Adrian Pucey also made an offer of fifty thousand.”

“Then triple it.”

“For Merlin’s sake! Enough!” Draco snapped, throwing his free hand in the air as if ready to throttle them both. His cheeks had gone red, not with embarrassment, but indignation. “This is absurd—”

And then Narcissa laughed.

It wasn’t a sharp or mocking sound, but light, almost musical. Draco blinked, startled into silence. He hadn’t heard that sound—that laugh—from his mother in years. Not since before the war.

“Oh, Draco,” she said, still chuckling as she reached to gently pat his knee. “You’re quite fortunate to have found yourself such a devoted alpha.” Her gaze slid to Harry, soft with amusement. “And you, Mr. Potter, clearly do not lack for conviction. I have no doubt your intentions are sincere.”

She lifted her teacup once more, her eyes bright.

“I daresay, if your father were here, he would be quite impressed.”

Draco stared at his mother, utterly at a loss for words. His silver eyes were wide, disbelief clear in the subtle parting of his lips. Of all the ways this conversation could have gone, he hadn’t imagined this—her laughter, her ease, and her sudden, almost startling approval.

To his left, Harry looked equally stunned, his eyebrows raised high—but unlike Draco, he recovered quickly. His lips curved into a grin, the tension in his shoulders releasing all at once. Narcissa Malfoy approved of them—them—and the weight Harry hadn’t even realized he’d been carrying dropped away like a stone into still water. The approval of an omega’s parent, especially a Malfoy, was no small thing for an alpha. And coming from Narcissa, it meant everything.

“I will inform the interested parties that you have settled on an alpha to court, Draco,” Narcissa said, setting her cup down with a soft clink against the saucer. “Hopefully that will stem the endless stream of owl letters I’ve been receiving daily.”

Harry blinked. “You’ve been getting a lot of offers?”

“Yes,” Narcissa replied smoothly, folding her hands in her lap. “Despite my saying earlier that our family has become social pariahs, we are still a pureblood line—and a pureblood omega is highly desirable, regardless of public opinion. Status and lineage matter deeply to many.”

Draco didn’t speak. He sipped his tea instead, letting the familiar heat settle on his tongue as a distraction. This conversation—this topic—was one he’d grown up with, had rehearsed answers for, and learned to brace against. He knew Harry didn’t understand the full scope of what it meant to be a pureblood omega with the Malfoy name. Harry came from a world where love had always been an ideal—Draco came from one where love had to survive within the rules of legacy, alliance, and blood.

“Will that be enough to stop them?” Harry asked. There was a trace of unease in his voice, subtle but present. He wasn’t the type to get jealous easily—or so he told himself—but even he had started to grow tense when alphas at school stood too close to Draco, or lingered too long in conversation. He wasn’t worried about someone stealing Draco. Not exactly. But still…

“Goodness, no,” Narcissa said with a faint, knowing smile. “Until Draco is properly bonded to an alpha, the letters will not cease. Courtship only signals intention. And once it’s announced publicly that the two of you are together, it will likely invite challengers, Mr. Potter—alphas who wish to contest your claim.”

Harry blinked at that. He should have felt worried—should have felt something close to alarm. But instead, a hot thread of anticipation curled through his chest. The thought of proving himself worthy, of standing beside Draco not just in private but in the eyes of everyone, stirred something protective and bold in him. He wanted to prove himself.

Then Draco’s foot connected sharply with Harry’s shin under the table.

“Ow,” Harry muttered, hunching forward a little with a grunt.

He looked at Draco, who met his gaze with a raised brow and a warning glint in his eyes that clearly said reel it in, hero. Harry sighed and deflated slightly, shoulders dropping back into his seat.

Narcissa watched the silent exchange over the rim of her teacup, her lips curling ever so faintly. Unlike her husband—who would no doubt have wished their son to marry into another powerful pureblood family, to restore their prestige through carefully calculated alliance—she wanted nothing less than Draco’s true happiness. It was obvious to her now, clearer than ever, that the Boy Who Lived was a rare kind of alpha. Brave, certainly—but not just in battle. He had shown compassion, integrity, and nobility, the sort that extended beyond war medals and headlines. His true character had been laid bare when he stood before the Wizengamot, testifying not only for Draco, but even for Lucius—arguing for mercy when none was expected.

Narcissa knew the road ahead would be difficult. The ghosts of the war still lingered, and society would not soon forget the name Malfoy nor forgive the scars left behind. Their pasts would follow them, and not everyone would welcome their union. But as she looked at them now—her son and the young man who held his hand so protectively—lovingly—she allowed herself, for the first time in many years, to hope.

xxxxx

After tea, Narcissa rose gracefully from her seat and suggested that Draco and Harry rest before dinner. “A house elf will announce when the meal is ready,” she said, smoothing a hand over the fine silk of her robe as she stood. “I have letters to attend to, and Merlin knows they won’t answer themselves.”

Draco inclined his head with polite understanding while Harry murmured a quiet thank you. As they departed the green room, Poppi reappeared silently to guide them to Draco’s chambers, leaving Narcissa alone with her correspondence. She let out a quiet sigh, gathering the stack of parchment that had been waiting for her attention on a lacquered writing desk. The pile had only grown since the public had gotten wind that Draco had officially presented as an omega. The flood of suitors—most of them alphas with either wealth, power, or both—had arrived with increasing desperation, and Narcissa had wasted no time turning down the majority. Far too old. Far too distant. Poor reputations. Or—more often—a terrible mixture of all three.

She dipped her quill into the inkpot with precision, already anticipating the deluge of howlers that would come in the following days from jilted or rejected parties. She would meet them with her usual cool detachment. Let them howl.

A part of her, the softer, quieter part that few ever saw, had long suspected this outcome—this match. She’d heard her son speak Harry Potter’s name for years. Always with irritation, always with disdain, yet always with frequency. Petty arguments over Quidditch, over house points, over favoritism from Dumbledor—it never stopped. No boy loomed in Draco’s mind the way Potter did. And while it had once annoyed her, it had eventually drawn her attention.

Even then, Narcissa had known to look deeper.

Now that both boys had presented their secondary genders—Harry as an alpha, Draco as an omega—it all made sense. It explained the pull, the obsession, the unconscious magnetism. They had gravitated toward each other without even realizing it, like two stars caught in each other's orbit long before they understood why. And now, it brought her a sense of quiet peace. Draco, her brilliant, proud son, would be cared for. Not just protected, but seen. And even more—he would be respected.

Narcissa reached for another scroll, one that had been delivered nearly every day like clockwork, her lip curling ever so slightly as she recognized the distinct gold-embossed seal.

The Flints.

She broke it open just to confirm, skimming the newest offer from Marcus’s parents with a practiced eye. It was filled with the same arrogance and entitlement as all the others. She had never liked that boy. Even as a student, Marcus Flint had watched Draco too closely, made inappropriate comments too often. He’d objectified her son well before Draco had even begun to show signs of presenting.

It would be a relief—no, a pleasure—to be rid of them.

A small, vindictive part of her almost wished Marcus Flint would have the gall to challenge Potter for Draco’s courtship. There was nothing quite like the righteous wrath of a Gryffindor alpha defending what was his. Narcissa smiled to herself, folding the letter and setting it aside for the flames.

Some people needed humbling—and Harry Potter had always been particularly good at that.

xxxxx

Harry had always known the Malfoys were rich—old money rich—but seeing more of the manor beyond the ballroom and the infamous dungeons brought the truth home in a way no rumor or insult ever had. The corridors stretched endlessly, lined with antique portraits, tapestries that shimmered with enchantment, and rare artifacts displayed with casual indifference. The sheer scale of luxury was staggering.

He was starting to get the distinct impression that Draco—and any Malfoy descendants for the next ten generations—could live quite comfortably without lifting a finger.

As they entered the front room of Draco’s personal wing, Harry let out a low whistle, his gaze sweeping across the velvet furnishings, marble fireplace, and towering windows framed with emerald brocade curtains.

"I'm starting to get a better picture of why you were such a little shite when you were younger," Harry remarked, lips twitching with amusement as he turned completely to appreciate the space.

Draco snorted, flopping dramatically onto the plush, deep green sofa like a prince returned to his throne. “It had its charms, but it was honestly quite isolating,” he said, kicking off his shoes with a sigh. “As you could imagine, when you’re different, it’s hard to make a meaningful connection.”

Harry moved to sit beside him, the cushions giving way beneath their combined weight. He rested his arm across the back of the sofa, and Draco instinctively curled into his side, fitting against him with a familiarity that warmed Harry’s chest.

Harry could imagine. Growing up in the Dursley house hadn’t just been isolating—it had been cold, cruel, empty. But he’d never considered that wealth could breed a different kind of loneliness, one built on status, pressure, and expectation.

Draco tilted his head slightly. “Is it true that you were forced to sleep in a closet as a child?”

“Yes,” Harry said simply. “They sent me to live with my mum’s sister after my parents were killed. The Dursleys raised me with the bare minimum—food, clothes, whatever kept the neighbors from asking questions. I slept in the cupboard under the stairs until after our first year at Hogwarts. After that, they gave me Dudley’s second bedroom. He threw a tantrum about it, of course.”

“If they had a spare bedroom, why did they make you sleep under the stairs?” Draco asked, his voice tight with disbelief, eyes narrowing in indignation. He looked genuinely horrified, as if the very idea of such cruelty was difficult to comprehend—even for muggles.

Growing up, Draco had always assumed Harry’s tales of mistreatment were exaggerated for sympathy—an act for attention. But now, sitting here, seeing the calm but resigned look in Harry’s green eyes, he realized how wrong he’d been.

“They were… a different sort of cruel,” Harry replied, voice quiet but steady. “I was never physically harmed by my aunt and uncle. But my cousin—Dudley—he thought it was hilarious when he pushed me down the stairs once. I broke my leg.”

Draco’s expression twisted with horror, his mouth opening slightly in stunned silence. It was the same look Harry had seen years ago from Ron and Hermione when he’d told them the story. Somehow, the pain had dulled over time for Harry, but seeing the genuine shock on Draco’s face brought a fresh edge to the memory.

“Next, you’re going to tell me they forced you to serve them tea and biscuits,” Draco muttered bitterly, more accusation than joke. When Harry didn’t immediately respond, a terrible realization dawned on him. “They did, didn’t they? They forced you into servitude?”

Harry gave a small, humorless chuckle. “They said it was the least I could do to show them gratitude for not sending me off to an orphanage.”

Draco’s hands clenched into fists in his lap. “I suspect you would have been treated better in an orphanage,” he snapped, disgust coloring every word. “Why would they even keep you in their home if they obviously didn’t want you?”

Harry glanced down at his hands. “I suspect… it was because of Dumbledore.”

The name landed like a weight between them.

Draco’s lips thinned. He’d never liked the old Headmaster’s habit of secrecy and manipulation, and this only further soured the already bitter taste in his mouth. “Of course it was,” he said, disgust laced with quiet fury. “Let me guess—some twisted notion of ‘greater good,’ keeping the Chosen One hidden under the guise of safety with emotionally abusive muggles?”

Harry didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

Draco leaned closer, his tone softer but no less serious. “You deserved better. You still do.”

Harry met his gaze then, the warmth in Draco’s silver eyes offset by the fire beneath. He reached over and clasped Draco’s hand gently in his own.

“I know that now,” he said. “Especially since I’ve got you.”

Draco exhaled slowly, squeezing Harry’s hand in return. “Well,” he muttered, trying and failing to sound unaffected, “at least you’re not still sleeping in a cupboard. That would be a dealbreaker.”

Harry laughed, grateful for the shift in mood. “Noted.”

Draco frowned, his fingers curling slightly in Harry’s shirt as if anchoring himself. “Have you gone back to see them?”

“No. Haven’t spoken to them since before the war. Not too keen on reaching out either. I just know they’re safe, and honestly, that’s enough for me.”

“Fuck them,” Draco muttered. “You’re better off without them.”

Harry smiled softly and leaned down to press a kiss into Draco’s pale hair, breathing in the scent of roses and spiced honey that clung to the omega.

A beat of quiet passed before Draco tilted his head back to peer up at him. “Would you really have paid triple the amount of my bride price that had been offered?” he asked curiously. “Can you even afford it?”

“Yes to both questions,” Harry replied, settling deeper into the cushions.

Draco blinked at him, brows lifting. “Hold on—are you telling me that you’re actually independently wealthy? This whole time? And you continued to wear these rags?”

“You’re starting to sound like Pansy.”

“I’m just saying,” Draco drawled, sitting up a little. “Where did all that money come from?”

“My parents,” Harry said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. But when he caught Draco’s expression—eyes wide, mouth slightly parted—he realized it might not have been so obvious after all.

“I keep forgetting your father’s family,” Draco murmured. “The Potters were one of the oldest pureblood lines in Britain. Very well-off.”

Harry gave a small nod. “Also inherited Grimmauld Place from my godfather. Comes with its own complications and a curmudgeon of a house-elf, but the vault’s untouched.”

Draco exhaled heavily, as though the conversation itself was draining. “Honestly, why am I still surprised by your humbleness? It’s practically your whole personality.”

Harry just shrugged, nonchalant. “Would you prefer if I just threw handfuls of galleons around?”

“Don’t be a prat,” Draco huffed, shoving at Harry’s arm—but not hard enough to dislodge himself from the warmth of the alpha’s side.

Harry grinned. “I’ll take that as a no.”

xxxxx

The dining room of Malfoy Manor was as elegant and pristine as the rest of the estate—high ceilings draped with enchanted chandeliers that cast a warm golden glow over the long, polished mahogany table. The silverware gleamed, and the crystal glasses sang with every tilt. Dinner had been prepared by house-elves and served with refined grace: tender steak cooked to Harry’s exact preference, a delicate balance of herbs and spices elevating each bite, roasted vegetables arranged like art on fine china, and wine poured with practiced precision.

It was delicious—objectively so. But as Harry chewed thoughtfully, he realized something was missing. The meal lacked the warmth he associated with the heaping, slightly-overflowing plates at the Burrow. Molly Weasley’s food may not have been as refined, but it was seasoned with something richer than any spice: genuine love and care.

Still, conversation flowed easily.

Narcissa was a gracious hostess. Regal yet unpretentious, she engaged in pleasant conversation, asking thoughtful questions and making Harry feel, to his surprise, welcomed. Her demeanor was cool but not cold—like the silken breeze that drifted through the garden windows behind her.

"So," she asked, sipping delicately from a wineglass, "what are your plans for after graduation, Mr. Potter?"

Harry set down his fork and wiped his mouth politely. “Maybe the Auror program,” he said. “I received a letter over the summer for early admission, but after last year…” He trailed off, fingers curling lightly on the linen napkin. “I’m not sure I want to make hunting dark wizards my full-time career.”

Draco, who had been cutting into his steak, paused and looked over at Harry, clearly surprised. “This is the first I’m hearing of that.”

Narcissa nodded slowly, considering. “You would make a strong candidate for such a prestigious department within the Ministry. Your instincts and courage are well-proven. But… do you perhaps have a secondary option in mind?”

“I haven’t really thought about it,” Harry admitted. “I didn’t expect to survive last year, to be honest. Making future plans felt… presumptuous at the time.”

“A reasonable mindset,” Narcissa said kindly. “You are still young, and there is no shame in not having everything figured out. Draco, for instance, has changed his aspirations more times than I can count. Did he tell you he once dreamed of becoming a professional Quidditch player?”

Harry turned to Draco with raised brows. “No, he didn’t. But I believe it. He’s a brilliant Seeker—quicker than me now, honestly. My build makes those sharp turns harder than they used to be.”

Draco smirked, dabbing the corners of his mouth with his napkin. “You might as well switch positions and become a Beater.”

Harry chuckled. “Mmm, tempting. But our reserve Seeker gets overwhelmed just lining up for a practice match. I’d feel guilty.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t been benched,” Draco said casually, “what with how poor your grades are. It’s a miracle Slughorn still lets you into his N.E.W.T. classes. He’s clearly lowered his standards.”

“Oi! That’s not fair,” Harry protested. “I’ve gotten better, thanks to you and Hermione bullying me into study sessions.”

“No one forced you to sit with us in the library,” Draco drawled. “Even Granger suggested you leave us alone.”

Narcissa smiled faintly at the banter, amused by her son’s sharp tongue towards his alpha who hunched low like a chastised puppy. “Draco has always been quite gifted at potions. His godfather gave him private lessons during the summers, which honed his talents.”

Harry blinked, turning a mildly accusatory look on Draco. “Seriously? And you accuse me of favoritism with the professors.”

“Snape never favored me in class,” Draco said primly. “He was far more critical of my work than most. He just didn’t tolerate mediocrity.”

“It’s true,” Narcissa added. “Severus made Draco identify ingredients in every stage—whole, crushed, powdered, and brewed. He said a true potion master must know a potion by scent alone, blindfolded if necessary.”

“That’s a skill,” Harry admitted with a low whistle. “I still confuse lacewing flies with dried horned slugs half the time.”

Draco gave him a long-suffering look. “I weep for Hogwarts.”

Harry just grinned and reached for his wineglass. “And yet here I am. Still passing.”

“Barely,” Draco muttered under his breath, but the curve of his mouth betrayed amusement.

Dinner carried on with the soft clink of cutlery, occasional laughter, and the quiet warmth of familiarity slowly blooming in the cavernous space of the dining hall.

xxxxx

The wind bit sharply through the narrow streets of Diagon Alley, slicing between tall buildings like a blade. Harry pulled his jacket tighter around himself as he trudged through the bustling crowd. The cobblestones beneath his worn trainers were slick with frost, and every uneven crack sent a jolt up through the thinning soles of his shoes. He hunched against the cold, breath fogging in the air as he wove between last-minute shoppers bustling about with parcels charmed to float after them.

He honestly had no business of his own here today. There was nothing he particularly needed, and he would’ve much preferred to stay inside where the fire was roaring and the manor’s wards kept the chill at bay. But Narcissa Malfoy had approached him with a favor that morning—polite, composed, and still somehow managing to make it sound more like a royal request than a plea.

“I would go myself,” she had said, handing him an envelope with an elegant address scripted in curling ink, “but as you know, our terms of house arrest remain rather... firm. The shopkeeper will be expecting you. I’ve already owled ahead. The order will be under my name.”

Harry hadn’t minded. In fact, he’d appreciated the trust. Compared to the other requests he received these days, a quick errand in Diagon Alley seemed easy. What he did mind, however, was the thick parchment Draco had pressed into his hand just before he’d stepped into the Floo.

"Another list?" Harry had groaned, unfurling the scroll. “Merlin, this is longer than this year’s school supply list.”

“Don’t give me that look,” Draco had said coolly, arms crossed and tone arch. “Now that I know you’re not just some destitute tramp, you can afford to update your wardrobe and get everything else I need.”

“I don’t need new clothes,” Harry had argued, voice tilting into a whine he hadn't meant to slip out.

Draco had scoffed—loudly—and then reached out to tug at the hem of Harry’s much-washed, slightly threadbare t-shirt. “This shirt has faded to the point that I can’t tell if it was originally blue or gray. Plus it’s so worn that it’s practically see-through. And don’t even get me started on your shoes. You’re one cracked cobblestone away from walking barefoot.”

Harry had sighed, long and defeated. Even Kreacher, who had taken to tailoring Harry’s old clothes to fit his broader frame post-growth spurt, had gently suggested it might be time for an update. And when even Kreacher started weighing in on fashion, it was probably past time to listen.

So now here he was, the two lists tucked in his inside pocket, fingers already numb despite warming charms. Draco’s list—of course—was twice as long and filled with annoyingly specific instructions: enchanted robes with reinforced seams, a new pair of winter boots with anti-slip charms, not just “anything” but specific labels and tailors by name.

Harry decided to start with Narcissa’s errand first. At least hers only involved one shop, and the address was easy to find. The gold-lettered sign above the door read Belvedere & Faye – Curated Artifacts & Rarities. From the outside, the windows glowed with an inviting warmth, and Harry could already feel his fingertips tingling at the promise of heat. He glanced again at Draco’s list, mentally bracing himself for the chaos ahead. Wizarding fashion was a minefield, and Harry had never cared for robes with seventeen buttons or enchanted silk that shimmered depending on his mood. He liked clothes that were easy to move in, that didn’t announce his presence, and—most importantly—could survive a fall or a duel without fraying at the seams.

But he couldn’t deny the way his shoulders hunched less when his coat was charmed against the wind. Or how much more comfortable the wool-lined gloves Draco had made him borrow felt compared to his own thin cotton pair. Harry sighed again, ducking into the warm shop to handle Narcissa’s order first. One list down, a longer one to go. And if he could manage to finish it without hexing anyone or being cornered by a reporter, he might even reward himself with a hot chocolate from Fortescue’s—if it was still open for the season.

xxxxx

Draco sat curled on one end of the velvet fainting couch in the Malfoy Manor sitting room, the late morning light casting soft beams through the tall windows. A blanket was draped over his lap, more for comfort than necessity, and in his hands was a slim, brightly colored paperback with a whimsical cover. It was one of the books Granger had promised to send him—a gesture of goodwill, apparently, after their recent civil conversation about Muggle literature.

So far, it was… entertaining, he supposed, in a strange, chaotic way. But the so-called “magic” described within made absolutely no sense. The laws that governed the fictional world were inconsistent at best, and completely absurd at worst. How Muggles genuinely believed magic might function that way—without proper wands, incantations, or even spell matrices—was beyond him. Still, he read on, brow occasionally lifting at the more ridiculous moments. The very idea of a little girl falling through a rabbit hole into a nonsensical magical realm populated by talking animals and grinning cats was laughable. Even he, who had spent half his life involved in actual magical absurdities, found it far-fetched.

Across from him on the opposite loveseat, Narcissa Malfoy sat upright, the picture of elegance in a pale blue day robe. Her quill scratched quietly across thick parchment as she wrote out the latest in a series of letters. These were not idle correspondences—they were formal announcements, all variations of the same message: her son, Draco Lucius Malfoy, had chosen an alpha to court. She penned each message with the same graceful, fluid hand, stacking the finished letters in a tidy pile to be sent later by owl. It was better, she believed, to handle matters like this in one thorough stroke rather than scatter the task over several days.

A stack of unopened letters—fresh arrivals from that morning—rested beside her on a silver tray. Those she would attend to later. For now, this was her focus.

"You really shouldn’t force him into doing something he doesn’t want to do, Draco," she said lightly, without looking up from her writing.

Draco turned a page, not lifting his eyes. “What do you mean, Mother?”

Narcissa paused just long enough to dip her quill. “Telling him to buy new clothes when he clearly finds comfort in what he already has.”

Draco frowned at the book in his lap, the colorful illustration blurring as his mind shifted away from grinning cats and impossible tea parties. “I just want him to have clothes that fit. Is that so terrible?”

His voice wasn’t defensive—if anything, it was quieter than usual, almost introspective. He closed the book and set it aside, finally meeting her gaze.

“He grew up with nothing,” Draco said softly. “Hand-me-downs that didn’t fit. Birthdays that were purposefully ignored. A cupboard under the stairs, for Merlin’s sake. He told me once that his cousin used to get piles of presents while he was given a single sock.”

Narcissa’s expression didn’t change, though her hand stilled above the parchment. She watched her son carefully.

“Is it wrong that I want him to know he doesn’t have to accept the bare minimum anymore?” Draco continued, almost to himself. “That he deserves more than someone else’s scraps?”

“No,” she said gently. “It isn’t wrong to want the best for the one you love. But even the best intentions can create distance if they’re not shared with honesty.”

Draco exhaled softly through his nose, leaning back into the cushions. He hadn’t thought of it that way. Perhaps he'd been too blunt about Harry's wardrobe—or too demanding. But it wasn’t vanity that motivated him. It was... care. He wanted Harry to feel valued. To feel chosen. His brow furrowed as he thought of the faded, oversized shirt he’d borrowed—stolen, really—from Harry’s dorm. It had smelled like him, comforting and warm. But now, Draco realized with a sudden twist in his stomach, it might have once belonged to that abhorrent cousin.

He’d have to burn it later.

Across from him, Narcissa resumed her writing, though the corners of her mouth lifted faintly. She’d seen the way Draco looked at Harry. How he smiled more freely now. How animated and unguarded he became in the alpha’s presence. Their relationship was still new—fragile in many ways, and carrying the weight of a complicated past. But Narcissa knew better than most how fragile beginnings could lead to lasting bonds.

“Mother…” Draco said suddenly, eyes still distant in thought. “Were you happy when you found out Father had paid your bride price?”

That made Narcissa pause entirely. Her lips twitched, amused. “Your father was arrogant and nearly insufferable when we were at Hogwarts together,” she said with a smile, setting her quill aside. “I was quite determined to ignore his existence.”

Draco blinked. That… wasn’t the story he’d been told.

“I thought you were in love from you school days?” he asked, visibly perplexed.

“That would be your father’s version,” Narcissa said dryly. “‘Women—especially omegas—enjoy being chased while pretending they hate it,’ wasn’t it?” she added, mimicking Lucius’s deep tone with just enough amusement to make Draco snort softly.

“Something like that, yes,” Draco muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I cared very little for Lucius Malfoy when we were younger,” Narcissa said, returning to her story. “He had the ego of an alpha long before he ever presented as one. After graduation, I came into my presentation as an omega, and naturally, suitors followed. Lucius was the first to offer a bride price. Others followed. He always bid higher.”

“And Grandfather accepted his offer?” Draco asked, still trying to reconcile the tale with his father’s boisterous version.

“Eventually, yes. I began courting Lucius… reluctantly.”

Draco tilted his head. “So what changed?”

Narcissa’s gaze softened. “Another alpha challenged him. It was an ugly duel—your father lost. Badly. But he came to me afterward, bloodied and bruised, and told me he would continue to fight for me. That after all those years of feigning indifference, he’d only done so because he was too afraid to show how he truly felt.”

“And you believed him?”

“I told him,” Narcissa said, smile curving her lips, “that he had one final chance to gather the courage to say what he truly felt… or lose me forever.”

Draco stared. “And?”

“We were married the following spring.”

Draco sank back into the cushions, silent for a moment. The version Lucius had told him growing up painted himself as the invincible hero—confident, unshakable, romantic in the traditional alpha sense.

But the truth was more complicated. And somehow, more meaningful.

His mother reached for another sheet of parchment, her voice gentle.

“Pride is a dangerous thing, Draco,” she said. “It nearly cost your father everything. Don’t let it cost you what you’ve just begun to build with that young man.”

xxxxx

Muggle London during the holidays was absolute chaos—at least, that’s how it felt to Harry as he stood in a serpentine queue. If only the Statute of Secrecy didn’t exist at the moment because then he wouldn’t be stuck in this line moving at a snail’s pace. The bookstore’s interior was packed with harried shoppers elbowing for last-minute gifts and limited edition releases. Harry couldn’t help but think that Hermione would have loved every minute of it. If she were here, she probably would’ve bought more books than she could physically carry, and then somehow read them all by the end of the day.

The line inched forward painfully slow, and Harry was beginning to regret listening to Hermione’s suggestion of book titles to buy for Draco. He shifted on his feet, already contemplating on simply taking his chances of walking out with his unpaid items, when a waft of cloying perfume made his nose wrinkle.

Two girls, probably around his age—done up with heavy makeup and glittering earrings—had drifted toward him from a nearby display. They were dressed for attention, their lipstick bold and their eyes thickly lined. They giggled between themselves, glancing at Harry with undisguised interest before one of them stepped closer.

"Oi, we were just wonderin’," she said with a thick accent and a flirtatious smile, "could we get yer numba?"

They both laughed again, casting him sidelong glances as if they'd already won him over. Harry blinked, caught off guard. Was he being... propositioned? In a bookstore?

He wasn't a stranger to getting attention. Since the start of the school year, a small but steady parade of Hogwarts students had tried their luck—some with invitations to Hogsmeade dates, others offering something far less innocent in a dim supply closet. But most had stopped once it became clear he and Draco were something more than just occasional study partners. Still, it was a bit surreal to be asked for his number in a Muggle bookstore queue.

He didn’t even own a phone.

He offered the girls a polite smile. "Sorry, I'm in a relationship."

That should’ve been enough. It usually was. But these two apparently didn’t believe in boundaries.

"Doesn’t mean ya can’t have a bit o’ fun," the second girl purred, tossing her bleached, crimped hair and leaning in just a little too close.

Harry’s expression cooled immediately.

“Yeah, I’m sure a fit chap like yous must pull plenty of girls.”

"My boyfriend is plenty enough for me, thanks."

There was a beat of silence as both girls blinked, as though they’d misheard. Their expressions twisted from flirtation to something less pleasant before they scoffed and turned to leave in a flurry of perfume and indignation.

"Didn’t think someone lookin’ like him’d be a poof," one of them muttered, loud enough for him to hear.

Harry exhaled slowly through his nose and shook his head, letting the words slide off his back like rainwater. The line inched forward again and the thought of committing a felony had crossed his mind again.

xxxxx

Harry finally returned to Malfoy Manor early that afternoon, shrugging off the cold and stamping the last of the slush from his boots in the front parlor. His coat hung heavy with the weight of everything he’d bought, each pocket bulging unnaturally thanks to the expansion charm he’d cast that morning. It had been a miracle nothing tore or spilled. He was halfway through tugging packages and wrapped bundles from his pockets—muttering to himself about Draco’s absurdly specific requests—when a loud pop echoed through the room.

Poppi, the house elf, appeared before him in a crisp black tea towel embroidered with the Malfoy crest. With a knowing look and a snap of her long fingers, all of the items flew out of Harry’s hands, returning to their proper size mid-air before vanishing with another soft pop, likely whisked away to wherever Draco stored his gifts and parcels.

"Um… thanks," Harry said, blinking at the now-empty room and patting down his coat as if expecting at least one rogue package to remain.

"Master Draco is waiting for Mr. Potter in the library," Poppi said primly. "Poppi is showing you."

Harry followed the elf through the wide halls of the manor, the soles of his new boots clicking softly against the gleaming marble. The ancestral portraits lining the walls watched him with ill-concealed disdain, their eyes sharp and unblinking. Some muttered to one another behind painted fans or newspapers, making no attempt to hide their disapproval of a Potter within their hallowed corridors.

He pretended not to notice.

The library doors were already open, and the moment Harry stepped through, his jaw dropped. Bloody hell.

He knew Malfoy Manor was full of opulence, but the library was… something else entirely. Towering bookcases lined every wall, filled with ancient tomes bound in dragonhide and gilded script. The scent of aged parchment and polished wood filled the air. A fire crackled in the enormous hearth, casting a golden glow over the room.

If Hermione were here, she’d be a goner, Harry thought. She’d probably try to move in permanently.

But Harry’s attention didn’t linger on the books. His gaze found Draco immediately—curled up in an armchair near the fire, a thick blanket across his lap, a book laid aside on the side table. He looked up as the door opened, his expression softening as their eyes met.

Harry crossed the room in a few strides, leaning down to kiss him. Draco hummed quietly, his fingers brushing over Harry’s jaw.

"Took you long enough to return," he murmured. "Did you get everything on my list?"

Harry grinned and sat down beside him, allowing Draco to fuss with the blanket and drape it over both of them. "Yes, dear. Every odd and obscure item, even the rosehip marmalade, which was bloody hard to track down this time of year."

Draco gave a satisfied nod, shifting closer. “Thank you. I wish I could’ve gone with you.”

"I know," Harry said, glancing over at him. "But honestly, you’d have hated it. It was freezing, the wind practically knifed through my coat, and the crowds were unbearable. I nearly hexed someone in line at the apothecary."

Draco gave a delicate shudder. “Small mercies, I suppose.”

There was a pause, filled only by the pop and crackle of the fire.

“And,” Draco added more quietly, “if you don’t want to buy new clothes, you don’t have to. I wasn’t trying to force you. I just… I wanted you to have things that didn’t remind you of your past.”

Harry tilted his head. “And why would my clothes remind me of my past?”

“Because you told me that everything you wore growing up was handed down after your fat lard of a cousin outgrew them. I thought maybe… you were still wearing some of those.”

Harry hesitated, lips pressing into a line as the memory stirred. “Ah. Yeah. I see what you mean now. I guess I didn’t think about it like that.”

Draco didn’t say anything, but the silence was gentle, expectant.

“I suppose I could get some new clothes,” Harry admitted. “But I’d rather not pick them out. Honestly, I don’t care what I wear as long as it’s comfortable and not falling apart.”

Draco’s eyes lit up, almost gleaming in the firelight. “Does that mean I get to choose them?”

Harry smiled. “Sure. You have better taste than I do.”

Draco straightened with visible pride. “Then… did you stop by that shop I wrote down?”

Harry scratched the back of his neck. “I did. But… I got overwhelmed. I didn’t know what half the stuff was, and the clerk looked at me like I were some beggar.”

Draco looked down at Harry’s feet and noticed the fine brown leather boots with gleaming brass buckles. “But you did get new shoes.”

“I did.” Harry stretched out one leg and wiggled his booted foot. “You were right—I’d worn through the sole on the right one. It was practically flapping by the time I stepped into that place.”

Draco’s brow arched as he leaned in. “What was that?”

“I said… I wore a hole into the sole of my shoe.”

“No, before that.”

Harry rolled his eyes and let out a quiet, breathy laugh. “You were right.”

Draco grinned like a Kneazle who’d just knocked a priceless vase off the mantle. “Mmm. That sounded so lovely. Say it again.”

Harry chuckled and leaned forward, their foreheads almost touching. “You were right.”

Draco hummed in smug satisfaction before tugging Harry into a slow, indulgent kiss, completely ignoring the scandalized gasps and murmurs from the portraits surrounding them. Let them stare. Draco had his alpha right where he wanted him—he was warm, loved, and perfectly content.

Chapter Text

Draco awoke warm and sated, the silk sheets tangled loosely around his legs as the morning light filtered softly through the drawn curtains. He blinked slowly, letting himself linger in the gentle haze of waking, a low hum escaping him at the sensation of lips trailing reverently along the curve of his neck and the slope of his shoulder. Large, callused hands glided over his bare skin, mapping familiar territory with intimate precision. He sighed, a breathy sound of pleasure, and instinctively pressed his body back into the solid heat behind him. His bare backside nestled against the unmistakable hardness of his lover, drawing a quiet groan from the man at his back.

They had stayed up late the night before, wrapped in each other’s limbs, unhurried and breathless, losing time in the softness between kisses and whispered promises. Draco shifted, rolling in Harry’s arms until they were face to face. He smiled, still half-asleep, and leaned in for a slow, lazy kiss. Their mouths moved together in perfect rhythm—languid and warm, lips brushing, parting, teasing, tasting.

Then Draco pushed gently against Harry’s chest, coaxing him to lie back. Harry yielded with a contented hum, his hands finding purchase at Draco’s hips as the omega straddled him, settling over his waist with practiced ease. Rising to his knees, their bare bodies sliding together, skin against skin. The omega reached behind himself, fingers wrapping around Harry’s thick length, already hard and hot from the contact. Still softened and pliant from the night before, Draco guided the tip of Harry’s cock to his entrance and, slowly, purposefully, began to sink down.

His breath caught as he stretched open around him, inch by inch, taking Harry in until he was filled to the hilt. A matching moan spilled from both their throats, a shared sound of pleasure and relief. Draco’s hand moved instinctively to his lower belly, fingers splaying across the small bulge where he could feel Harry’s cock pressing deep inside him. His heart stuttered at the sight. Merlin… It was the most obscenely beautiful thing he had ever seen—his alpha buried so completely inside him that it showed. A thought brushed across his mind, uninvited but not unwelcome—what would he look like swollen with child? Round with Harry’s offspring.

Not if… when.

Only Harry. No one else would ever sire his children.

He closed his eyes and began to move, lifting his hips just enough to feel the slow drag of Harry’s cock against his insides before lowering again, setting a rhythm that had them both gasping. Harry’s grip tightened on Draco’s hips, his fingers digging into the delicate skin as he began to thrust up to meet him, matching each motion with a deep, rolling snap of his hips. Draco cried out, the pleasure cresting fast, the sound echoing off the bedroom walls as he tipped his head back and came undone. His release painted across Harry’s chest in streaks, his body trembling as he clenched around the cock still pulsing inside him.

Harry followed moments later, with two sharp thrusts and a deep groan, spilling himself inside Draco. The omega collapsed forward with a satisfied sigh, not caring about the mess between them. His ear rested over Harry’s heart, listening to the frantic thud of it as it began to settle. They lay there for a while, tangled in each other and the aftermath, breaths evening out, skin cooling.

Eventually, when sensation began to return to his limbs, Draco lifted his hips slowly, biting his lip at the slide of Harry’s now-soft cock slipping free, followed by the warm gush of cum that leaked out of him. He shivered from the sensitivity and rolled off with a low, satisfied hum, stretching languidly across the sheets.

Later, they moved to the shower, where the steamy cascade of water and marble walls set the scene for a different kind of cleansing. Harry had him pinned not five minutes in, Draco’s hands braced against the slick tile as his alpha took him from behind, grinding into him with deep, measured thrusts. Draco moaned, the sound swallowed by the stream of water overhead, the heat coiling all over again in the pit of his stomach.

A small blessing, Draco thought distantly, that sex outside of a rut or heat cycle didn’t lead to knotting. That would’ve kept them locked in place for longer than they would like—and they had brunch with Narcissa quite soon.

Then again… a part of him wouldn’t have minded.

Not one bit.

xxxxx

They spent the day together, wrapped in the kind of tranquility Harry hadn’t realized he craved until it surrounded him like snowfall—gentle, quiet, and pure. Draco had insisted on showing him the estate grounds once brunch was finished. The manor’s sprawling property was blanketed in a thick, pristine layer of snow, the kind that sparkled like powdered diamonds under the pale winter sun. Bundled in enchanted cloaks and scarves, they mounted their brooms and took to the skies, slicing through the crisp air in a blur of laughter and scarves flapping behind them.

They raced over the snow-covered lawn, weaving between bare-limbed trees and skimming low enough to scatter flocks of birds nesting in the hedges. Draco’s cheeks were flushed pink from the cold and exhilaration, and his eyes shone with a gleam Harry had only ever seen when he was flying—truly flying, unbound by the weight of anything else.

“You’re getting better,” Draco called over his shoulder, twisting midair with a grin that dared Harry to catch him.

“Or you’re just slowing down,” Harry shouted back, giving chase.

Hours seemed to melt away between broom races and snowball skirmishes, their laughter ringing through the still air like music. When their hands grew numb and the tips of their ears stung with cold, they returned inside and stripped off their outer layers by the roaring hearth of the manor’s main sitting room. There, wrapped in thick woolen throws, they sat close—legs tangled beneath the shared blanket, cups of spiced tea warming their hands. Harry watched the flames dance, the firelight painting golden hues across Draco’s pale skin and casting flickering shadows in the hollows of his collarbone. He memorized the sight like it was a painting he wanted to carry in his mind forever.

Outside, the wind rattled softly against the windowpanes, but it couldn’t reach them—not in here. Not in this little world they’d carved out for themselves.

The outside world, with all its noise and judgment, felt distant. Forgotten.

Well… mostly.

Every few hours, the manor's wards would pulse with magic, signaling the arrival of yet another red Howler, shrieking and shaking as it hovered in midair like a cursed specter. The first time, Harry had startled at the sound, but Draco merely rolled his eyes, drew his wand, and incanted, “Incendio.”

The letter went up in flames with a pop, reduced to ash before it could utter a single word.

“They’ve gotten creative,” Draco murmured as a second one appeared not long after. “Most often the wards would prevent them from entering.”

Harry snorted, pulling Draco closer against his side as he pointed his wand lazily at the hovering letter. “Incendio.”

“Charming,” he muttered as it crackled into nothingness.

They didn’t discuss the senders, or the contents they could guess at. The letters were as easy to burn as the memories of the people who sent them. Aside from those brief interruptions, the manor remained blissfully quiet. It was the sort of peace Harry hadn’t dared hope for—one he now clung to with both hands.

And Draco, curled against him in the flickering light, felt like something close to home.

xxxxx

Narcissa stood at the entrance of the manor’s receiving room, her pale fingers delicately holding the edge of the parchment that had arrived moments earlier alongside a parcel bearing the Flint family crest. Her lips curled in a cold, practiced sneer as her eyes skimmed the latest letter. As expected, it was yet another “generous offer”—their third this season alone—raising their bid for her son’s hand, cloaked in honeyed words and hollow flattery.

She dropped the letter onto a nearby silver tray as if it might soil her gloves. Beside it lay the “gift” they had sent this time: a lavish winter coat of dark green velvet, finely tailored and lined with the softest white rabbit fur. It might have been considered elegant by lesser tastes, but Narcissa saw it for what it was.

“Poppi,” she called, her voice calm but sharp.

The house elf appeared with a pop, bowing low. “Yes, Mistress?”

“Take this coat to the incinerator. I want nothing left of it but ash.”

Poppi blinked, then nodded solemnly. “Yes, Mistress,” she said, lifting the jacket carefully into her arms.

“Report back when it’s done.”

Not five minutes had passed before Poppi returned, soot-smudged and clutching her tea towel like a badge of duty.

“There was… strange smoke, Mistress,” she reported. “When Poppi burned the jacket, the fire turned purple… then pink.”

Narcissa’s lips thinned. Just as she suspected.

“They laced it,” she murmured, mostly to herself. “Cheap, clumsy charms layered over subtle toxins. Likely activated through wear or body heat.” She turned her gaze toward the frosted glass doors leading out to the south wing, her jaw tightening. “Trying to play dirty. Again.”

Poppi gave a worried squeak, but Narcissa only waved her hand. “They’ll learn.”

Tucking the matter away in her mental ledger, she smoothed her robes and headed toward the greenhouse. The glass-paned sanctuary glowed with warm enchantments, snow dusted along its arched frame, while lush greenery and vibrant winter blooms thrived inside. The scent of citrus trees and blooming orchids filled the air, mingled with the soft clatter of cutlery and laughter. Narcissa’s expression softened at the sound.

Inside, Draco and Harry were seated at the wrought-iron table nestled among the planted greenery. A third plate sat waiting—no doubt prepared by Poppi, who always anticipated her movements.

Draco was in the middle of teasing Harry over something trivial, perhaps his table manners or his stubborn refusal to wear gloves even in the cold. Harry was laughing, elbowing Draco lightly in return. There was an ease between them, a natural rhythm that needed no adjustment.

Narcissa lingered a moment at the threshold, watching them, the corners of her lips lifting ever so slightly. Then she stepped forward, her entrance smooth and elegant.

“Mother,” Draco greeted, standing halfway before she motioned for him to stay seated.

“I see I’m expected,” she said, glancing at the waiting plate with amused fondness.

“Poppi insisted,” Draco said, biting into a slice of blood orange. “She says we eat better when someone’s watching.”

Harry grinned. “She’s not wrong.”

Narcissa sat gracefully, smoothing the folds of her robes. “It’s good to see you both enjoying yourselves,” she said, reaching for her tea. The sunlight filtered through the glass above them, catching on the silver of her rings.

Draco hummed. “You sound surprised.”

“Not surprised,” she said lightly. “Merely… reassured.”

She watched as Harry offered Draco the last of the fruit tart, which he pretended to decline before accepting it anyway, their hands brushing in a subtle, intimate motion.

Narcissa sipped her tea and said nothing of the Flints. Not now. Not when the world outside the greenhouse was cold and full of scheming, and the space here—this moment—was full of warmth. She could wait. The holidays weren’t over yet. And some battles were best fought in silence, at the proper time.

xxxxx

Snow tapped softly against the tall windows of the eighth-year common room, the castle cloaked in the hush of a nearly empty holiday. With the fire crackling low in the hearth and most of their classmates having gone home for Christmas, the space felt both vast and strangely intimate—quiet in a way that rarely happened at Hogwarts.

Neville sat curled at one end of the sofa, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, a steaming mug of tea balanced on one knee as he stared into the fire. He heard the soft creak of floorboards behind him and turned just as Theo Nott appeared, a small, awkwardly wrapped package in his hands. More tape than paper held it together, and one corner had already peeled open to reveal the edge of a dark leather spine.

Theo stopped in front of him, lips quirked with faint amusement and maybe a trace of nerves. “Happy Christmas, Longbottom,” he said, holding the parcel out.

Neville blinked, genuinely caught off guard. “You got me a gift?”

Theo sat down beside him, close enough that their legs touched. He shrugged, eyes flicking to the fire. “Yeah. It’s nothing special. I just figured you’d have more use for it than I would.”

Neville straightened, touched despite the casual tone. “Thank you, Theo,” he said sincerely, setting his mug down. “Can I open it?”

Theo gestured lazily. “Of course. It’s Christmas, after all.”

Neville tore into the gift carefully—despite its disheveled wrapping—revealing a book. The cover was supple black leather, worn with age but still elegant. Gold-embossed script in Latin scrolled across the front, nearly faded with time. Neville’s breath hitched. It was a herbology text—but not just any. This was a rare tome on magical flora most often associated with dark rituals: Wyrmroot and Nightshade: A Compendium of Forbidden Flora. An original edition, if he wasn’t mistaken. Likely priceless.

“Theo…” Neville whispered, running a reverent hand across the cover. “Where did you even find this?”

Theo leaned back, resting one arm along the back of the couch. “Came from my personal library back at Nott Manor. One of many dark artifacts the Ministry somehow missed when they raided the place. I think they just got lazy by the time they reached the second floor.” He smirked faintly. “I figured you’d get more use out of it than I ever would. You like plants. This one’s full of nasty ones.”

Neville stared at the book, the weight of it almost too much for his lap. A find like this would’ve cost a fortune, and he knew Theo had handed it over like it was no more significant than a chocolate frog.

He looked up, overwhelmed. “Thank you, Theo. Really. I, uh... I didn’t get you anything.”

Theo’s lips curled into a knowing smile. “Don’t worry,” he murmured, shifting until he was straddling Neville’s lap, knocking the tea to the floor. His knees framed either side of Neville’s hips, eyes glinting as the flickering firelight cast long shadows across his face. “I know exactly what you can give me.”

Neville blinked up at him, startled, and then snorted. “Sex seems like a poor substitute.”

Theo arched a brow and leaned in, grinding his hips down just enough to draw a gasp from Neville. “And what if I want something more than sex?”

Neville swallowed thickly, his eyes tracing the pale stretch of Theo’s neck, the sharp lines of his cheekbones, the guarded hope flickering in his expression. “What—what do you mean by more?”

Theo reached down, taking Neville’s large hand in his own, guiding it beneath his jumper, up the soft line of his stomach to his chest. His skin was warm, his heartbeat thudding beneath Neville’s palm. “How about we give everyone something else to talk about for once?” he said, voice low, nearly teasing. “I’m sure they’re sick of Potter and Draco.”

Neville froze, realization dawning like a crack of light.

His eyes widened. “You want to court? With me?”

Theo grinned then—wide and mischievous and just a little bit shy. “Yeah, Neville,” he said. “I want to court you.”

And for once in his life, Neville Longbottom had no words—only the warmth blooming in his chest and the omega on his lap who had just made his entire bloody Christmas.

xxxxx

Christmas at the Malfoy estate was… different.

Harry had grown up with expected disappointment with the Dursleys, and then the bustling chaos of the Weasleys—half-shouted conversations across the table, enchanted ornaments pelting one another mid-air, and at least three people singing off-key while Arthur proudly fiddled with some dubious Muggle gadget wrapped in tinsel. The holidays had always been warm, loud, and a little messy.

Here, things were quiet. Elegant. Still festive, but in a way that felt almost cinematic: soft music drifted through the halls, fires crackled in ornate hearths, and everything smelled of cinnamon, pine, and roasted meats. Garlands of winter greenery laced the banisters, and starlight charmed to shimmer in the air floated lazily over the long dining table.

There were presents, of course—more than Harry had expected.

As always, a parcel from the Burrow arrived via owl post. Mrs. Weasley had sent her annual gift: a hand-knit jumper in bold Gryffindor red with a large golden “H” in the center. It looked a bit smaller than usual, and Harry suspected she had underestimated how much broader he’d gotten since the start of term.

Hermione’s gift came wrapped in brown parchment and tied with a precise bow. Inside was a beautiful raven-feather quill charmed to never dull or break, the sort of practical elegance only Hermione would find perfect. Ginny’s package included a high-end broom maintenance kit with a cheeky note scrawled in looping script:

“Ron is still being a sulking prat, by the way. I expect to be godmother to your and Draco’s firstborn. Don’t make me wait.”

Harry had snorted aloud at that one.

Draco, on the other hand, was nearly buried in gifts from his mother. Narcissa spared no expense—robes in a dozen shades, accessories with subtle silver inlay, Italian leather boots, and a cufflink set made of moonstone and platinum. What surprised Harry most, though, was when Narcissa handed him a gift of his own. The box was wrapped in heavy navy paper and tied with a silver ribbon. Inside was a winter jacket in deep forest green with subtle gold embroidery along the inner lining and a matching wool scarf. The fabric was impossibly soft, enchanted to be windproof and self-adjusting to the wearer’s preferred warmth.

Harry hesitated before slipping it on, half-expecting it to fit awkwardly—but it settled around his frame like it had been made for him. He smoothed his hands down the front, blinking in disbelief.

“This is… really nice,” he said, looking up at Narcissa. “Thank you.”

Her smile was cool but genuine. “You’ll need proper clothing if you insist on flying over frozen hills at ungodly hours with my son.”

He flushed and ducked his head with a chuckle.

In return, Harry presented Narcissa with a small, neatly wrapped box containing a pair of dark leather gloves—charms woven through to prevent wear and imbue a gentle warmth to the fingers. She slipped one on, flexed her fingers approvingly, and gave Harry a rare, maternal kiss on the cheek.

“They're exquisite. Thank you, Harry.”

Across the room, Draco was already modeling a new pair of enchanted boots, smug in the knowledge that he had completely overhauled both his and Harry’s wardrobes the moment he was given permission. Harry now had more clothes than he think he could wear in his lifetime and could possibly open his own boutique. And Draco had gone a step further by acquiring them both the latest broom models, sleeker and supposedly faster than Harry’s faithful Firebolt.

Harry had tried not to let that rattle him. His own gift to Draco had been more modest by comparison—a collection of Muggle-published novels in Draco’s favorite genre, neatly stacked and wrapped in charmed blue paper. Draco unwrapped them slowly, his brow lifting as he read the titles. Then he looked up at Harry with an unreadable expression.

“You were listening to Granger and me all that time,” he said softly, thumb brushing along the spine of one book. “And here I thought you’d gotten quite skilled at sleeping with your eyes open whenever we discussed the differences between literary movements and authorial intention.”

Harry scratched the back of his neck. “Well… if I’m being honest, I do usually tune you both out. But I couldn’t think of anything to get you that you didn’t already have. Hermione was kind enough to send me a list of books she thought you’d enjoy.”

Draco smiled, the kind that reached his eyes. “It’s strange,” he murmured, “but it means more to me that you paid attention to an idle conversation between two swots than if you’d bought me another set of robes.”

Harry grinned, pleased, then tugged on the jumper from Mrs. Weasley. It fit—barely. The wool clung tightly across his shoulders and chest, and when he raised his arms, the cross-stitching under one armpit gave way with an audible snap.

Draco winced. “I think the jumper’s giving up.”

Harry laughed, awkwardly wriggling out of it. “Guess I’ve grown a bit since returning to Hogwarts.”

“You’re going to hurt yourself trying to squeeze into Weasley knitwear,” Draco muttered, reaching over to help peel the sweater off his boyfriend with minimal damage. Harry tossed the now slightly mangled jumper to the side, adjusted his glasses, and looked around at the cozy room, the gifts, the glowing fire, and the quiet companionship.

Christmas here was different—but not bad. Not bad at all.

In fact… it might have been perfect.

xxxxx

Narcissa had departed later that morning under a shroud of soft grey sky, dressed in her finest robes and escorted by two silent Aurors. Permission had been granted for her to visit Lucius in Azkaban, something she never spoke much about but prepared for with the same solemn grace she brought to every difficult task.

Harry and Draco had remained behind.

The absence of Narcissa lent the manor a hollow stillness, one that neither of them wished to sit in for long. So they bundled up in thick winter cloaks, enchanted gloves, and charmed boots, and headed out to the far field behind the east gardens to test their new brooms. The air was sharp and bracing, the sky a brilliant pale blue overhead. Snow crunched beneath their boots until they kicked off, wind slicing past their cheeks as they soared into the sky. The brooms were sleeker and more responsive than anything Harry had flown before—even his Firebolt. Every shift in weight was answered with effortless acceleration, every twist and dive felt like second nature. He and Draco chased each other through the cold air, weaving around leafless trees and racing over the frozen pond.

They stayed out far longer than either intended. Their cheeks were red with cold, noses numb, and fingers tingling despite the warming spells. By the time they trudged back inside, both were shivering and laughing, breath coming out in white clouds.

Poppi had anticipated their return and prepared a steaming bath in Draco’s en-suite—already drawn and lightly scented with warming herbs and oils. The ancient brass tub looked comically oversized for two but turned out to be perfect as they stripped off their snow-dampened clothes and gingerly slipped into the scalding water.

The initial shock of heat stung against their frozen limbs, making Harry suck in a sharp breath and Draco curse softly under his breath. But within seconds, the bite of the cold was gone, replaced by a deep, bone-melting warmth that loosened muscles and coaxed sighs from both of them. Steam coiled lazily around them as they leaned back against the high, curved edge of the tub, the only sound the occasional slosh of water and their contented breathing.

They lingered there until their skin was pink and wrinkled, finally dragging themselves out and wrapping up in thick towels. Draco dressed in soft slate-grey loungewear, while Harry pulled on the comfortable new clothes Draco had gifted him—charcoal knit joggers, a fitted henley, and an oversized forest green cardigan he hadn't realized he'd love so much until he tried it on. They settled in the front room of Draco's private wing, a fire already crackling merrily in the hearth. The walls were lined with shelves filled with books and artifacts, a cozy den-like space far more personal than any room Harry had seen in the main parts of the manor. Draco was curled in the armchair closest to the fire, already absorbed in one of his new books—the title embossed in gold, fingers delicately flipping each page with a furrow of quiet focus between his brows.

Harry didn’t bother trying to read. He was content simply sinking down onto the settee nearby, his body warm and sated from the bath, the heat of the fire lulling his senses. He stretched out on his side, head resting on a cushion, and watched Draco read for a while, letting the gentle cadence of flipping pages and the occasional hum from his partner soothe him.

At some point, Draco glanced over, expression softening. “You’re falling asleep.”

“Just resting my eyes,” Harry mumbled, though his voice was thick with sleep already.

Draco arched a brow but said nothing, simply waving his wand for a blanket to drape gently over Harry before returning to his book. Within moments, Harry drifted off, breathing evening out, a faint smile playing at his lips. Wrapped in warmth, quiet, and the soft rustle of turning pages, the world outside faded away. Just the two of them, the fire, and the peace of a winter afternoon untouched by anything else.

xxxxx

Before they knew it, the holiday break had quietly slipped through their fingers, vanishing like frost under morning sun. The decorations at the manor had been packed away, the fireplaces no longer roared with indulgent warmth, and the crisp scent of fresh pine had been replaced with the lingering stillness of winter.

It was time to return to Hogwarts.

Though Narcissa would have liked to accompany them to the train station, her mandatory probation kept her bound to the manor. She remained composed, as always, dressed impeccably in soft dove-grey robes as she stood by the front doors with one gloved hand resting against the marble column. Just as Poppi was gathering their things, Draco had excused himself to retrieve a book he’d left behind in his room, his voice trailing through the corridor as he went.

Narcissa took the moment to pull Harry aside. Her pale blue eyes, sharp and assessing beneath finely drawn brows, met his. There was warmth there, but it flickered beneath the tight restraint of worry.

“Look after Draco at school for me,” she said softly, voice low and deliberate. “Make sure he stays safe.”

Harry nodded immediately. “I will.”

She searched his face, as if testing the depth of his answer. Satisfied, she continued, “And keep an eye out for other alphas who might challenge you. I know it’s unlikely anyone would get onto school grounds uninvited, but it is something to be mindful of—especially during your trips to the village.”

Harry gave her a small, reassuring smile. “You do know he’ll throttle me if I try to cage him inside the castle.”

A delicate, knowing smirk touched the corner of her lips. “Yes. He’s strong-willed—like his father. But he is still an omega. And he is still unmated, regardless of the exclusivity of your courtship. That makes him vulnerable in the eyes of others.”

The smirk faded, replaced once again by worry veiled in elegance.

“I won’t let anything happen to him,” Harry said, his voice steadier now. “I promise.”

Narcissa regarded him for a beat longer, then gave a small, graceful nod. “And I believe you.”

Just then, Draco reappeared, sliding his wand into the inner pocket of his travel cloak. “Ready,” he announced, cheeks flushed from the brisk walk down the corridor. He stepped up to his mother, wrapping his arms around her and holding on longer than usual. “I’ll write as soon as we get in,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

Narcissa smoothed her hand along the back of his coat, whispering something only he could hear. He pulled back, giving her a smile touched with affection.

With everything accounted for, Poppi snapped her small fingers, and in a crack of magic, Harry and Draco vanished from the front steps of the manor. They landed with a gentle thud on the platform at King’s Cross Station, steam rising from the train as students bustled around them. Their trunks had appeared beside them, upright and waiting, charmed to follow at a lazy pace.

Poppi adjusted Draco’s scarf one last time before stepping back. “Poppi wishes Master Draco and guest Potter safe return to school. Do not forget to eat warm foods. And use the scarf, even when you think you do not need it.”

“Thank you, Poppi,” Draco said fondly.

Harry echoed the sentiment with a grateful smile. With one last pop of magic, the elf disappeared, leaving the boys alone in the crowd. Side by side, they boarded the Hogwarts Express, their trunks floating obediently behind them, the soft clatter of wheels lost in the hum of returning students and the hiss of the train’s engine.

The train rumbled steadily beneath them, the familiar cadence of the Hogwarts Express lulling students into conversation, naps, or quiet reflection. Snow still clung to the corners of the windows, slowly melting as the interior of the compartment warmed from the enchanted heating charms.

This time, Pansy and Blaise had joined Harry and Draco in their compartment, settling into the plush seats across from the couple with practiced ease. The conversation began amiably enough, with each of them exchanging pleasantries and polite inquiries about the holidays.

Pansy, dressed in a flowing deep plum robe that complemented her sharp features, immediately began grumbling. “Can you believe I ran out of my sun potion halfway through our trip? And of course, we were out on a bloody boat.” She rolled up her sleeve to reveal the faintest remnants of a sunburn. “I peeled like a common tourist. Mother was mortified.”

Draco snorted. “Perhaps pack more than one vial next time.”

“Perhaps don’t spend Yule in a place where the sun actively seeks to murder me,” she shot back dryly, though the corners of her mouth twitched upward.

Blaise, ever relaxed and unreadable, leaned back with his long legs stretched out. His dark eyes flicked from face to face, lazily absorbing the conversation. “Mine was uneventful,” he offered in his smooth baritone. “Quiet days at the villa. My mother had a new suitor. He didn’t last.”

Draco arched a brow, intrigued. “What happened this time?”

“He corrected her pronunciation of an Italian vintage. Once.”

Everyone winced in collective understanding.

Conversation lulled briefly until Pansy turned toward Draco, eyes narrowing with a glint of mischief. She reached out suddenly, tugging at the collar of his jumper and revealing the sleek black leather omega collar resting snugly around his throat.

Draco batted her hand away with a hiss of annoyance. “Hands off, Parkinson.”

But Pansy was already leaning back with a dramatic sigh. “I was so sure you’d receive a mating bite for Yule. I even had Galleons riding on it.”

“You should know better than to bet on a Malfoy’s neck,” Draco said, pulling his collar back into place with a scowl. “Mind your business, Parkinson,” he added, shooting her a withering look.

“There’s still time left this year,” Blaise added casually, the smirk that curved his lips promising mischief and more wagers to come.

Harry, who’d been watching the exchange with amusement, tilted his head. “Another bet?” he asked, his voice wry.

Blaise didn’t answer immediately—just held Harry’s gaze with a cool, knowing look and a faintly crooked smile that said more than words.

Draco groaned and slouched against Harry’s side. “If I find out you’re all running a pool behind my back, I swear I’ll poison the lot of you.”

“Don’t forget you’re still on Ministry probation,” Pansy said sweetly, resting her chin on her hand.

“Harry will do it for me.” Draco said as if it were of no consequence.

Laughter bubbled between them as the train sped on, the sky outside turning from grey to a pale winter gold, the castle in the distance already visible through the frost-touched windows. The compartment rocked gently as the train sped through snow-draped countryside, a soft golden light filtering through the windows. The scent of chocolate frogs and freshly unwrapped treacle tart lingered in the air from a shared round of snacks after the trolly witch had come by. Blaise had returned to flipping through a Quidditch magazine, and Draco was half-lounging against Harry, thumbing through the next book he had received over Yule. It was peaceful—until Pansy opened her mouth.

“So, Potter,” she began casually, her eyes gleaming with mischief, “have you put in your bride price for Draco yet?”

Harry nearly choked on the sweet he’d just popped into his mouth. “Oh, well… the topic did come up. Sort of.” He rubbed the back of his neck, recalling the memory of Narcissa coolly appraising him while he, bold as ever, declared he’d pay triple the asking price if necessary. It still wasn’t clear whether she'd actually hold him to it.

Draco’s head snapped up. “What did I say about minding your own business, Pansy?”

But Pansy was already leaning forward in her seat, her expression alight with curiosity. “Ooooh. How much did you offer, Alpha Potter?”

Draco inhaled sharply, ready with a sharp retort, but Harry answered before he could.

“I offered triple the amount of the highest bidder,” Harry said simply, popping another jellybean into his mouth as if he hadn’t just dropped a bomb in the middle of the compartment.

The silence that followed was almost comical. Pansy’s mouth opened in shock, Blaise’s magazine drooped in his hand. Draco sat up straighter, the corners of his lips curling upward in smug delight. He folded his arms over his chest with the air of a king whose worth had just been affirmed in front of his court.

“Wait a minute—are you telling us that you’re wealthy?” Pansy demanded, staring at Harry with wide eyes. “While wearing those rags?!”

“He’s not in rags anymore, Pansy,” Draco said with a smirk, tilting his chin toward Harry, who was bundled in a finely tailored dress shirt and wool vest—both courtesy of the Malfoy vaults.

“That’s not the point!” Pansy shrieked, throwing her hands in the air. “You’re rich and you—” she pointed accusingly at Draco “—let him walk around Hogwarts like an urchin for months?!”

“I never really gave much thought to how much gold I actually had,” Harry replied, shrugging. “I mean, I had access to what I needed. But then I learned what a bride price was, and suddenly it felt a bit more... tangible.”

“Unbelievable,” Pansy muttered, slumping back in her seat with a dramatic sigh.

“Ignore her,” Blaise said, not bothering to look up from his magazine. “She’s likely sulking about her missed opportunity.”

“Shut the fuck up, Zabini!” Pansy snapped, launching a chocolate frog wrapper at him.

Blaise caught it mid-air without flinching, as calm as ever. “You wound me.”

Draco just chuckled quietly, threading his fingers through Harry’s and pressing a light kiss to his temple. “What a treat to see Pansy so put out.”

xxxxx

The first week of term began with the usual reluctance. Students trudged back to class under grey skies and the ever-present sting of winter wind, their break-long freedom exchanged once more for essays, early mornings, and dodging stray spells. Snow had turned to slush in the courtyards, soaking through shoes and tempers alike. Though the halls buzzed with chatter, it was impossible to ignore the chill between certain pairs.

Harry and Ron still weren’t speaking.

And from the way Hermione’s voice echoed sharply across the courtyard, it was clear things between her and Ron had only deteriorated since the holidays.

“Honestly, Ronald! For the last time—I am not cheating on you!” Hermione spun around so fast her scarf whipped out behind her, her cheeks flushed and eyes blazing. They were halfway to Transfiguration, but all thought of class had clearly been forgotten.

“What am I supposed to think,” Ron snapped, his own voice rising to match hers, “when you and Percy go missing for hours? And when you both come back, you keep looking at each other and laughing over some unspoken joke!”

“We were upstairs in his room,” Hermione bit out, planting her boots firmly in the icy slush. “He was showing me the new legislation he’s drafting for war victim reparations. We were talking. Talking, Ronald! For Godric’s sake, how many times do I have to explain that nothing happened between us?”

Ron wasn’t having it. “Then why would Percy say he looks forward to your letters, hmm? Are you sending secret love notes to my prat of a brother now?”

Hermione gave a strangled groan, throwing her hands into the air with such frustration that several students flinched. Without another word, she turned on her heel and stormed off through the archway.

“Don’t you walk away from me!” Ron shouted after her, his footsteps splashing after hers.

The argument had drawn the attention of nearly every student in the courtyard. Some had paused to watch, others whispered to their friends, smirking or rolling their eyes. It wasn’t just the eighth-years witnessing the drama unfold—students from all houses passed through the courtyard on the way to class.

A few paces away, Theo Nott let out a low whistle as Hermione disappeared down the corridor. “Uh-oh. Trouble in paradise,” he drawled, lips quirking into an amused smirk rather than anything sympathetic.

“I’ve always said Granger deserves someone who can match her intellect,” Draco added coolly, adjusting the collar of his cloak as if he hadn't just delivered a subtle insult.

Harry, who had been walking with an arm draped loosely around Draco’s shoulders, gently pulled away, eyes following Hermione’s retreating figure with concern.

“Save me a seat?” he said, already stepping away.

“Of course,” Draco replied with a nod, his expression softening. He understood immediately.

“Give Weasley a kick while you’re at it!” Theo called. When Neville gave a disapproving grunt from behind him, Theo quickly amended, “—if he deserves it! If!” He held up his hands in mock surrender.

Harry didn’t respond, already breaking into a brisk jog after Hermione. The courtyard buzzed again behind him, but he had no time for spectators or the mutterings of house gossip. Hermione needed a friend right now—someone to believe her without demanding proof.

Harry followed the raised voices through the outer courtyard, the sound echoing off stone walls and drawing a few curious glances. The shouting led him down a side stairwell he’d never bothered with before, past ivy-choked arches and frost-laced columns until he stumbled upon a small, hidden alcove tucked below the main courtyard. A shallow stone fountain stood at its center, long dried from winter’s freeze, its basin crusted with thin ice. A few curved benches flanked the space, and even though the air was bitter, the heat of an argument made the place feel almost too warm.

“I shouldn’t have to keep defending myself to you!” Hermione’s voice rang out, cracking with emotion. She stood with her fists clenched at her sides, her face flushed and wet with tears. “Why is it so hard for you to believe me? That nothing happened?!”

Ron stood a few feet away, just as red-faced, though his was from anger and stubborn pride. “It’s not my fault I can’t help but think that, Hermione! Especially with how Percy kept looking at you—and you looking right back! You used to look at me like that, you know!”

“That’s such a cruel accusation, Ronald!” Hermione spat, her voice shaking with frustration.

“It’s not cruel if it’s true!” Ron shouted back, his voice echoing off the stone.

Hermione took a staggering step back, like the words had knocked the air from her lungs. “I wish it were true,” she snapped, her voice low and bitter, “because at least Percy would never try to make me feel like I’m not good enough! He actually values my opinions, Ron. He listens when I speak. He treats me like an equal.” She was trembling now, voice rising again. “With you, everything is always about you. Quidditch. Your Auror ambitions. Your jealousy of Harry’s relationship with Draco—which, let’s be honest, you clearly can’t stand—and never once, not once, have you asked me what I want. What my plans are after graduation.”

“Yes I do!” Ron cut in defensively, his ears flaming.

Hermione let out a bitter laugh, wiping angrily at her eyes. “As if! Let’s face it, Ronald—we’ve been going in circles. You’re selfish, self-centered, egotistical, and completely incapable of seeing beyond your own insecurities!”

Ron looked stricken, but Hermione wasn’t done.

“I’m done with this,” she snapped, voice raw. “I’m done with you. I’m done with our so-called relationship. I’m done choosing between you or Harry. I’m done listening to your endless vendetta against Malfoy, when you know he’s suffered as much as we have, even if you won’t admit it!”

Ron opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off with finality.

“I’m just plain sick of you, Ronald Weasley.”

She turned sharply, her boots crunching in the frost as she stormed toward the archway—only to falter as she caught sight of Harry standing just outside, frozen in place. Her expression shifted quickly—surprise, embarrassment, and heartbreak flashing all at once before she pushed past him in silence, disappearing up the stone stair. Harry watched her go, a heavy knot forming in his chest, before turning slowly to face Ron. The redhead stood rooted to the spot, shoulders heaving, blinking fast as if unsure how it had all unraveled so quickly.

Harry didn’t speak.

There was nothing to say.

And yet—there was so much that had gone unspoken for months. Bitter silences, sidelong glares, words never dared and questions never answered. The distance between them had grown thick and thorned, festering since the war ended. Ron’s expression twisted the moment he saw him. His face pinched in fury, eyes sharp and resentful. He stood stiffly, fists clenched at his sides, as if he’d been waiting for this moment—itching for a fight.

“Shouldn’t you be busy filling your Slytherin whore’s hole?” Ron spat, the words dripping venom.

Harry froze, his chest tightening before rage surged through him like unchecked wildfire. The insult landed like a slap, not just for its vulgarity, but for the ugliness behind it.

When had Ron become so cruel? So hateful?

Or had he always been like this… and Harry had just been too blind—too loyal—to see it?

“I’m not going to entertain your insecurity, Ron,” Harry said evenly, though there was a razor edge to his voice, each word laced with warning.

Ron sneered. “Haven’t you had your fill of knotting your first omega? Is it that good? Shoving your cock up his arse?” He let out a cruel chuckle. “Maybe I should have a go. See what all the fuss is about.”

The words were a lit match to Harry’s fury.

A low snarl tore from his throat as his wand whipped into his hand. The spell he cast was fast and fierce—Ron barely dodged it, throwing himself sideways and yanking out his own wand. A sharp stinging hex cracked against Harry’s shoulder, burning through his robe, but Harry didn’t flinch. They exploded into motion—spells flying, hot and wild—light flashing between them, the hidden alcove echoing with the sizzle of magic. A stone bench shattered from a misplaced curse. Frosted vines curled into ash. The once-tranquil courtyard was torn into chaos.

Then Harry got close enough.

With a burst of movement, he lunged—tackling Ron bodily to the ground. They hit the cold flagstone with a harsh thud, fists flying. There was no finesse to it, just fury and years of buried resentment finally breaking the surface. Ron got in a solid elbow to Harry’s jaw—Harry responded with a punch to Ron’s cheek, hard enough to draw blood.

“Hermione was right to be sick of you!” Harry growled through clenched teeth, slamming Ron’s shoulder into the ground. “You don’t deserve her. You don’t deserve me, either!”

“Fuck you!” Ron snarled, grabbing a handful of Harry’s robe and yanking him sideways. “You’ve acted so bloody self-righteous for years—just because you’re the Chosen One! Now you’re an alpha and suddenly you’re too good for the rest of us?” He spat blood to the side. “You’d even sleep with the enemy! That says everything!”

“And you’re just a pathetic beta who never appreciated anything you had!” Harry shot back. “Not Hermione, not me, not even your own bloody family!”

“Enough!”

The sharp, commanding voice of Professor McGonagall cracked through the air like thunder. Harry and Ron froze, panting, bruised, and bloodied as they both scrambled up, limbs aching and clothes torn.

Professor McGonagall stood at the archway, eyes blazing behind her spectacles. “Mr. Potter. Mr. Weasley,” she said, her voice steely and cold. “I am appalled by what I’ve just witnessed. Fifty points will be deducted from your house—each. You will both serve detention for the rest of the month.” Her lips thinned further. “Now, report to the Hospital Wing. I expect you in my office directly afterward. Do not test my patience any further.”

Harry and Ron glared at each other, the air between them thick with unresolved fury. But neither spoke. With fists still clenched and jaws tight, they turned and stalked off in opposite directions—two soldiers from the same war, now on very different sides.

xxxxx

When Draco saw Harry again before their next class, he stiffened in immediate alarm. His sharp grey eyes swept over his alpha’s face, taking in the purpling bruise blooming along Harry’s right jaw, the split on the corner of his upper lip, and the crust of dried blood beneath his nose. His usually neat robes were disheveled and smeared with dust and grit, as if he’d been caught in a small explosion or dragged through a training field.

Draco’s heart lurched.

Beside him, Hermione, Theo, and Neville had also noticed Harry’s state. Hermione, who’d been sitting stiffly since Transfiguration, shot up from her place on the bench the moment she spotted him.

“Harry!” she gasped, a hand flying to her mouth. “Did Ron do that to you?” Her voice trembled with a mix of horror and guilt.

Harry gave her a crooked smile, though it tugged at the wound on his lip. “It’s fine, ’Mione. Ron looks worse.”

“Worse than he already does?” Theo muttered, arching a brow. “That must’ve taken effort.”

Neville gave him a nudge with his elbow.

“What? Tell me I’m lying,” Theo added with a shrug, though there was a flicker of concern behind his dry humor.

Draco didn’t say anything right away. He stepped forward, wand already out, and with a deft flick, cleaned the grime from Harry’s robes. He didn’t stop there—he stepped into Harry’s space, scanning his face with open worry.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” Draco asked quietly, his voice low enough that only Harry heard it.

Harry shook his head and gently wrapped an arm around Draco’s shoulders. “I’m okay,” he murmured. “I went to see Madame Pomfrey before McGonagall handed us our detention assignments.”

“She gave you detention?” Hermione exclaimed, visibly scandalized. “I’ll talk to her! I’ll explain what happened between me and Ron—she’ll understand!”

“Hermione, stop.” Harry’s voice was gentle but firm. “Ron egged me on and… I threw the first spell. Honestly, we’re lucky we weren’t expelled.”

Hermione huffed, her arms crossing tightly over her chest as they began walking toward History of Magic. Her brow was furrowed deeply, her gaze flitting between Harry and the path ahead. She hated that Harry had gotten pulled into her drama, hated that he’d seen her fall apart in the first place. But a part of her was grateful too—grateful that someone else had witnessed it, because she knew Ron. He’d twist the narrative, play the victim, and paint her as the irrational one.

“How long will you be in detention?” Draco asked, slipping his hand into Harry’s as they ascended the stone steps toward the third floor corridor.

Harry rubbed the back of his neck with a sheepish look. “Oh… uh… just a month.”

“A month?!” Draco and Hermione shouted in unison, both stopping in their tracks.

Chapter Text

Draco sat across Hermione in the back corner of the library, the golden lamplight casting long shadows across the wooden table they shared. Towering bookshelves muffled the low hum of evening activity, but silence hung heavy between the two of them. Their heads were bowed, parchment and ink bottles spread before them, but their quills barely moved. Neither attempted conversation, despite having found some neutral ground over the last week. They weren’t exactly friends—but they weren’t enemies anymore either.

Still, studying was proving impossible.

Harry and Ron were currently serving their first evening of detention with Professor McGonagall, and while Draco had no doubt his alpha could handle himself—of course he could—his mind remained elsewhere. His heat was coming. He could feel it brewing beneath his skin like a storm just out of sight, tightening in his lower belly, making him restless. Two weeks, maybe one. Possibly less. The idea of enduring it alone again filled him with a quiet dread. He could ask Harry. He knew—knew—his alpha would agree in a heartbeat. No questions asked. What alpha wouldn’t want to assist their omega through a heat?

Draco, however, wasn’t so sure that was the right reason to ask.

He wasn’t worried about triggering Harry’s rut. Alphas only fell into rut once or twice a year, and Harry had just had his in late autumn. But that didn’t make the decision easier. It would be a big step in their relationship.

Across the table, Hermione sighed heavily and snapped her book shut with a thud that echoed between them. She slumped forward and rubbed her temples in frustration.

“I just can’t believe that selfish prick,” she muttered under her breath, her voice simmering with residual anger.

Draco looked up and pushed his book aside. He hadn’t absorbed a single word of it anyway. “Don’t second-guess yourself, Granger,” he said quietly, yet firmly. “You did the right thing.”

“I’m sorry I dragged Harry into it,” she said with a remorseful glance. “I didn’t think it would lead to an actual brawl.”

Draco gave a small shrug, his tone even. “Harry has no one to blame but Weasley. That wasn’t your fault.”

Before Hermione could respond, Ginny Weasley appeared out of nowhere, sliding into the chair beside her and plunking her book bag onto the floor with a dull thud. Her bright red ponytail was wind-tossed, and she looked almost cheerful despite the tension in the room.

“Bugger,” she said, her voice carrying just enough for those nearby to turn their heads. “Did I hear right that Harry and my brother got into an actual fistfight this morning?” Her bright brown eyes danced with intrigue. “And I bloody missed it?”

Draco sat a little straighter, his expression guarded. He knew Ginny posed no threat—Harry was with him now, had claimed him in every meaningful way except the final one. Still, the omega in Draco remembered. Ginny had once shared something with his alpha. It didn’t matter that it was over. Some part of him, the animal part, always remembered.

Hermione leaned over, launching into a rapid explanation of everything: Ron’s jealousy, the confrontation, the fight, and how McGonagall had swooped in to give them both detention for an entire month. Ginny listened without interrupting, her mouth slowly curling into a thin line. By the end of it, she gave Hermione’s hand a gentle squeeze.

“I’m sorry my brother’s a fat ol’ git,” Ginny said sincerely. “It was obvious nothing was going on between you and Percy. Percy’s idea of flirting is discussing the latest subclauses in Ministry legislation. He’d talk about magical tax reform with a rock if it nodded back. Ron is just a moron.”

Draco couldn’t help himself. A small snort escaped. “Don’t be so unkind,” he said dryly. “A moron has more self-awareness.”

Ginny smirked at him. “Well said, Malfoy.” She leaned forward in her chair, folding her arms atop the table as she regarded him with a glint in her eye. “Speaking of, I’ve noticed you’re not walking funny. Did you castrate Harry over the holiday?”

Draco narrowed his eyes at her. “Don’t be so crass.”

“Oh, come on.” Ginny grinned wickedly. “You’re telling me you’re dating the Boy Who Lived and I don’t get to at least joke about it? I was hoping you’d let me know when I can start planning for my godmother duties.”

Hermione groaned, mortified. “Ginny! That is such an inappropriate thing to say!”

Ginny waggled her eyebrows and nudged Hermione with her elbow. “Please. You wouldn’t be saying that if you’d seen it.” She turned back to Draco, eyes glittering with mischief. “And Malfoy over here hasn’t just seen it—he’s accomplished the impossible.”

Hermione blinked. “What are you talking about?”

Ginny leaned across the table, dropping her voice into a conspiratorial whisper. “Don’t you remember those rumors about Harry’s… third leg?”

Hermione's cheeks flamed instantly, turning a deep shade of crimson. “Th-that’s just a rumor!” she stammered. “People exaggerate.”

Ginny shot her a sly look. “Not a rumor, ’Mione. I’ve seen it. And I knew right then and there I’d never be able to ride a broom properly again.”

Hermione made a noise somewhere between a choke and a squeak, looking helplessly at Draco.

Draco, ever the Slytherin, merely cocked his head to one side with a wickedly playful smirk on his pale pink lips. “On the contrary, Weaselette, my broomstick riding has only improved.”

Hermione turned positively scarlet, burying her face in her hands. “Oh, my Merlin.”

Ginny howled with laughter, drawing a few angry hisses from Madam Pince at the front of the library. She ducked her head, trying—and failing—to stifle her giggles. Draco just sat back with a smug smile, the weight of the evening finally lifting just a little from his shoulders. His heat might have been drawing closer, but at least—for now—he wasn’t facing the storm alone.

The lamplight flickered gently overhead, casting golden halos on the table's worn surface as Draco and Hermione felt a bit more at ease and were able to begin doing their homework. But with Ginny Weasley, their parchment and books lay abandoned as the conversation shifted from studying to decidedly less academic matters. The low murmur of other students gave the impression of calm, but at their secluded corner table, tension, curiosity, and a hint of mischief mingled freely.

Ginny twirled her quill between her fingers, eyeing Draco with a grin that bordered on wicked. “So then, Malfoy,” she began casually, “are you and Harry planning to make it official at the end of the year?”

Draco’s quill froze mid-stroke of a doodle. He lifted his head slowly, narrowing his silver eyes at her in that precise, aristocratic way that seemed far too practiced to be anything but hereditary. “We have not discussed it,” he said coolly, though the faintest flush crept up his neck.

Ginny leaned forward on her elbows, unfazed. “Really? Not even a bride price? I mean, you coming from a pureblood family and all… I figured Harry would’ve made an offer by now. Why else would he spend Yule at your manor?”

Draco’s spine straightened. He cleared his throat and raised his chin ever so slightly, regal even in his discomfort. “He did,” he said with careful precision, “offered to pay triple the amount of the highest bidder.”

Hermione choked on her spit, coughing as her eyes widened in disbelief. Ginny’s mouth dropped open.

“Shit! That’s right—Harry’s loaded,” Ginny blurted, immediately earning another harsh shush from Madam Pince across the room. She gave an exaggerated wince and lowered her voice, glancing around guiltily. “Sorry. But seriously, that’s insane. Triple the highest bidder? Merlin’s tangled beard.” Then, with a glimmer in her eye and a wicked grin creeping across her face, Ginny turned to Draco again. “Don’t suppose Harry would be interested in starting an omega harem, would he? Might be willing to offer myself as a second.”

The effect was immediate.

Draco’s entire body stiffened. His nostrils flared slightly as he bristled like a cat about to swipe. His lips parted just enough to reveal the beginnings of a hiss before he visibly checked himself. Even so, the warning in his sharp gaze was unmistakable.

“You shouldn’t joke like that, Ginny,” Hermione admonished, shaking her head. “It’s a deeply personal matter.”

Ginny held up her hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. No harem jokes.” She slouched back into her chair, still grinning, though now a bit more subdued. “I’m just saying, the whole thing sounds dead serious. I mean… Harry isn’t exactly known for doing anything halfway.”

Draco didn’t respond to that—because she wasn’t wrong.

The trio sat in silence for a beat, each lost in their own thoughts, until Ginny broke it again with a more grounded question.

“Fine, then. What do you suppose those two idiots are up to in detention?”

Hermione groaned softly. “Hopefully not trying to kill each other.”

Draco’s gaze drifted toward the high-arched window at the far end of the library. The moon was beginning to rise, casting silver light across the snow-dusted grounds. A flicker of worry passed over his face.

“Hopefully nothing dangerous,” he murmured. “But knowing them? I wouldn’t count on it. First year detention sent us wandering the Forbidden Forest at night.”

Hermione shuddered at the memory. Ginny just looked amused.

“Well,” Ginny said, stretching her arms above her head, “let’s just hope McGonagall’s feeling more generous tonight. Otherwise we’ll be dragging them out of the infirmary by breakfast.”

Draco didn’t answer, but his eyes remained fixed on the window, his thoughts already drifting toward the clock tower and the echoing footsteps of the boy who mattered most.

xxxxx

The fire in the hearth had burned low, casting warm shadows across the eighth-year common room. Most of the students had long gone to bed, the corridors beyond quiet save for the occasional creak of old wood. Draco remained on the sofa, legs crossed and his Potion’s essay balanced across one knee, quill in hand and brow furrowed in concentration. His parchment was half-filled with tidy, slanted handwriting when the portrait door creaked open.

Harry and Ron stepped inside, silent but tense. The air between them practically crackled—charged with fresh resentment. They didn’t speak, though they exchanged more than one glowering glance as they moved through the room. Harry's robes were smudged and dusty, a few stray threads of cobwebs clinging to his sleeves. Ron looked equally disheveled, his jaw set tight with frustration.

Draco’s eyes immediately left his essay, tracking Harry like a lodestone to north. His quill stilled. Hermione had gone to bed hours ago, determined to avoid another confrontation. Draco had stayed up, waiting. Without a word, Harry made his way over to the sofa and dropped onto it with a groan, the exhaustion in his limbs palpable. He didn’t sit beside Draco—he sprawled across the cushions and lay his head directly in the omega’s lap, burying his face into Draco’s abdomen as though seeking both warmth and absolution.

The sharp scent of varnish clung to Harry’s skin, an astringent, chemical tang that made Draco wrinkle his nose in distaste. It clashed horribly with Harry’s usual scent—stormy air and fresh earth. He gently set aside his book and parchment, his attention wholly shifted now.

Across the room, Ron made a disgusted noise—somewhere between a scoff and a scoffed breath through his nose—but neither Draco nor Harry acknowledged him. Ron hesitated a moment longer before storming off toward the boys’ dormitory, his footsteps heavy on the stairs. Draco hand drifted into Harry’s thick, dark hair. His fingers combed through the unruly strands, slow and rhythmic, brushing against his scalp with soothing intent. The omega was slightly jealous of how thick and healthy his alpha’s hair was, and surprisingly soft to the touch compared to his thin and wispy hair.

“What did McGonagall have you do during detention?” Draco asked, his voice low and even, the timbre like velvet pulled taut.

Harry shifted slightly but didn’t lift his head. “She made us polish every single trophy in the awards corridor. By hand. No magic allowed. Had to find bloody chairs or ladders to reach the ones on the top shelves.” His voice was muffled against Draco’s jumper. “Took forever.”

Draco's lips quirked into a smile, his hand continuing its steady path through Harry’s hair. “My poor alpha,” he murmured, looking down fondly at the exhausted boy in his lap. Harry only grunted in reply, content to remain where he was, as Draco’s touch and the soft crackle of the fire lulled him into a state of something dangerously close to peace.

Draco’s fingers idly carded through Harry’s hair, but his thoughts were anything but idle. He bit down on his bottom lip, hard enough to leave an indent, as a quiet war waged in his mind. The fire crackled low beside them, its flickering light painting golden strokes across the room and catching in Harry’s messy black hair. The scent of varnish still clung faintly to Harry’s robes, but beneath that, Draco could still sense him—his alpha. His constant.

He inhaled slowly, willing himself to speak before the moment passed.

“Harry,” Draco said softly, almost testing the name on his tongue.

Harry hummed in response, his face still nestled against Draco’s abdomen, eyes closed in contentment.

Draco hesitated for a beat longer, heart tapping a quick rhythm in his chest. It was now or never. “My next heat will be coming soon.”

Harry opened his eyes, lifting his head slightly to look up at him. “Really? When?”

“A week, maybe two,” Draco said, his voice steady but quiet. “I’m not exactly sure, but… it’s close.” There was a pause. Draco's heart hammered harder now as he gathered the courage to continue. “Would you… do you think if we asked McGonagall, she might suspend your detention while it happens?”

Harry blinked at him, eyes searching his face. “Are you… asking me to spend your heat with you?”

“I am,” Draco replied, the barest hint of color rising in his cheeks. He held Harry’s gaze, refusing to look away.

The words hit Harry like a bolt of electricity—his exhaustion forgotten in a surge of heady warmth and wonder. A grin tugged at his mouth before it could be helped. He felt lightheaded, almost drunk on the rush of emotion that overtook him. Without answering, Harry suddenly sat up, scooping Draco up into his arms with an eager strength that made the omega squeak in protest. In one smooth movement, Harry stood and began carrying him toward the dormitory stairs.

“Harry!” Draco huffed, startled but not displeased, arms instinctively wrapping around the alpha’s neck. “It’s not starting now, you dolt.”

Harry glanced at him with a gleam of mischief in his eyes. “No harm in a head start, is there?”

Draco rolled his eyes but couldn’t keep the smile off his lips, his heart fluttering as Harry carried him away—both of them already bracing for the weeks to come, yet perfectly content in the moment they were in.

“Wait! Go back. My essay is on the floor.” Draco said just as the door closed behind them.

xxxxx

Ron’s scuffed and well-trodden shoes echoed sharply against the cold flagstone floor, his fists clenched and shoved deep into the pockets of his robes. The sting of citrus-scented polish still clung to his skin after scrubbing the enchanted armors for hours under Filch’s glaring supervision. But it wasn’t the lingering smell or even the ache in his back that had him grinding his teeth—it was them.

Harry and Malfoy had passed him in the corridor outside the Great Hall earlier, speaking low, walking far too close. Draco’s hand had brushed Harry’s arm, and Harry had smiled—soft and utterly genuine, the kind of smile Ron hadn’t seen since before the war. That look, like Malfoy mattered, had gutted him. He stormed through a lesser-used corridor near the old Arithmancy classrooms, trying to shake the image out of his head, when he caught sound of muffled giggling ahead. Two younger Slytherin girls—fourth or fifth years—were perched on the lip of an arched window near an unused classroom, whispering in hushed, eager tones.

He would’ve walked right past if not for the name that froze his feet to the floor.

“He should give up on Malfoy already, like the rest of them,” one girl was saying, flipping her braid over her shoulder. “It’s obvious he and Potter are exclusively courting.”

“True,” the other agreed. “Flint might be a pureblood, but who could compare to the Harry Potter?”

“Didn’t the Pucey heir try, too? Got rejected right quick over break.”

“Even my brother’s bride price was turned down.” The girl gave a theatrical sigh. “Honestly, I bet the Malfoys are angling for a public comeback. Bonding their heir with Potter would practically erase the past.”

Their laughter rippled off the stone walls, cruel in its casualness. Ron stood still, staring down the corridor, letting their words sink like lead into his chest. Bride price. Multiple alphas. All rejected.

Harry didn’t say anything about that, he thought, throat tight. Why would he?

A sharp, hot spike of something twisted in his gut—bitterness, jealousy, and betrayal all tangled into one nauseating knot.

He’s being used, Ron told himself, jaw tightening. Malfoy’s manipulating him—he always was a slippery bastard. Just like his father. Just like all of them.

Harry, who was too selfless for his own good, always fell for the damaged ones. Cho, still grieving her dead boyfriend. Ginny, trying to be whole after the Chamber. And now… Malfoy—the snake they’d fought against for seven years. The one who wore guilt like a cloak and walked like he owned redemption.

Harry thinks he’s saving him, Ron thought bitterly. But Malfoy doesn’t want saving. He wants power. Position. And Harry—bloody Harry—makes the perfect prize.

A new thought slithered in. Something venomous. Dangerous.

Marcus Flint.

Ron’s mind flicked back to alumni weekends, how Flint would loiter around the Quidditch pitch, pretending he was there to watch a match when everyone knew he had his eye on Draco. He’d seen him once near Slughorn’s table at the Three Broomsticks, looking smug, polished—still built like a tank with a smile like a wolf.

Flint hadn’t given up.

And Flint doesn’t play nice.

An idea began to unfurl in Ron’s mind like a toxin-laced flower. It was wrong. Dark. But it made a terrifying kind of sense. If Flint still wanted Malfoy—really wanted him—Ron could give him the opening. A push in the right direction.

Let someone like Flint remind Malfoy where he belongs. Let Harry see the truth.

He turned on his heel, leaving the echo of the girls’ laughter behind him as he stalked back toward the dormitories—face shadowed, heart pounding, and a plan already starting to form.

xxxxx

Draco jolted awake just past midnight, the oppressive heat crawling beneath his skin like wildfire. His skin was slick with sweat, the sheets tangled uselessly around his legs, already kicked off in his restlessness. His lower abdomen pulsed with a low, aching throb—an early warning of the sharper cramps to come. The room felt stifling. Heavy. His body knew before his mind fully caught up.

It had begun.

He turned, breath coming in shallow pants, and nudged the sleeping form beside him.

“Harry,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “Harry, wake up.”

Harry stirred, groggy, lifting his head with a frown. “Mm? Draco?”

“My heat,” Draco managed, pressing a hand to his abdomen. “It’s starting.”

Harry blinked rapidly, sitting up straighter. The urgency in Draco’s voice swept away the last remnants of sleep. “Right. Okay. Stay put.”

Fumbling in the half-light, Harry reached across the bedside table for a scrap of parchment and a quill. He scribbled quickly, the ink blotting slightly where his fingers pressed too hard:

Headmistress McGonagall,

Draco Malfoy has gone into heat. I will be assisting him.

— H. Potter

Without pausing, he grabbed another slip and penned a shorter message:

Theo — it’s started. Thought you’d want to know.

He charmed both messages into paper birds. The first fluttered off through the cracked window toward McGonagall’s office, the second zipped away down the hall to find Theo. There wasn’t time to wait for replies.

When he turned back to Draco, his breath caught.

The omega was flushed a dark pink from his chest to his cheeks, sweat glistening at his temples. His usual clean, fresh scent was thickened now with pheromones—sweet, heady, and laced with something addictive. Harry swayed slightly, already feeling the edges of his focus fray.

“Come on,” he murmured, lifting Draco carefully into his arms.

The blond curled instinctively into his chest, nuzzling his face against Harry’s collarbone as they moved quickly through the silent dormitory halls. The castle was dark and still at this hour; not a soul stirred as Harry descended the familiar path to the heat rooms beneath the eighth-year wing. He stepped inside, hearing the door seal behind them with a soft click of magic locking into place. The heat room was softly lit and far more welcoming than the stark rut rooms he’d seen. Plush pillows and cozy-looking blankets were stacked in neat piles near a wide bed positioned under a window enchanted to show a calm, starlit sky. The headboard was a broad shelving unit stocked with supplies—oils, water flasks, cooling cloths, comfort items—and dildos of varying sizes.

To one side, a small private bathroom waited.

Harry set Draco down gently on the bed but the omega was already up again, moving toward the stack of pillows with a sense of urgency.

“What are you doing?” Harry asked, brow furrowed as he watched Draco haul armfuls of blankets and cushions back toward the bed.

“I’m making a nest,” Draco said, distracted but focused, already stripping the bed bare of its crisp linens.

Harry blinked. “A… nest?”

Draco didn’t pause, arranging the plush materials into a ring, layering the softest textures at the center. “It helps me feel safe,” he muttered. “Comforted. I can’t explain it. It’s instinct. I have to do it.”

Harry rubbed the back of his neck, feeling slightly helpless. “Right. I should’ve read up on this.”

“You should have,” Draco agreed, but there was no real bite to his voice. He didn’t even glance up. “It’s fine. I just have to finish before it gets worse.”

“Do you want help?”

“No,” Draco said immediately. “I have to do it myself. It won’t feel right otherwise.”

“Okay.” Harry stood back, watching as Draco worked with meticulous care, building a rounded center out of the softest materials, anchoring the outer ring with firmer pillows like walls. The final result did look like a nest—but instead of twigs, it was silken, inviting. Warm. Harry vaguely wondered if this was something all omegas did during their heats.

Draco finally stopped, panting a little from the effort. He tugged his sweat-damp shirt over his head and stripped off the rest of his clothes without hesitation. Then, without a word, he crawled into the center of the nest, sinking into the comfort he had made. His pale limbs stretched languidly across the cushions, face flushed, pale hair tousled across his forehead. He looked at Harry and lifted a hand, beckoning him in.

Harry’s throat dried. His blood sang with need, but he swallowed hard and kept his voice even.

“Right,” he said, kicking off his clothes quickly and placing his glasses on the bedside table. The moment he climbed into the ring of the nest, the scent hit him full force again—overwhelming, sweet, and so Draco. He lowered himself into the nest beside his omega, their limbs tangling, skin meeting skin. Draco pulled him close without a word, curling his body around Harry’s like a ribbon of heat.

Draco buried his face in the crook of Harry’s neck the moment they were entangled in the heart of the nest. He inhaled deeply, again and again, drawing in the alpha’s scent like it was the only thing anchoring him through the blaze rolling under his skin. His breath came in short, shaky bursts, his entire body coiled tight with need. His fingers clutched at Harry’s skin as though letting go might unravel him completely. The alpha wrapped an arm around him, gently brushing his hand up and down Draco’s bare spine. Harry didn’t know what to expect—hadn’t read enough, hadn’t prepared. But he knew one thing: he would do anything, everything, to make Draco feel safe, to ease the pain and want simmering through his omega’s body.

Then Draco’s lips parted, tongue dragging across the base of Harry’s throat, over his scent gland. A warm, wet swipe. Once, then again. Harry shivered violently, his body tensing as a low, involuntary growl rumbled in his chest. His fingers tightened slightly where they gripped Draco’s waist. The heat pheromones surrounded him, heavy and cloying, and Harry felt reason slipping. His alpha instincts stirred like a sleeping dragon awakened, nearly begging for the omega in his embrace to bite and claim him.

Draco whimpered softly, pressing even closer. Harry’s hand slid lower—over the curve of Draco’s arse, fingers dipping further down, seeking confirmation of what his instincts already knew.

He found it.

Draco was drenched, impossibly slick between his thighs. The heat pouring off him was near overwhelming now, and when Harry gently pushed two fingers inside, Draco moaned—a choked, desperate sound muffled against Harry’s neck. His fingers glided in with no resistance, the omega’s body hot and pliant around him, gripping him greedily. The wet, obscene sounds filled the quiet room, accompanied by Draco’s breathy whines, each one like a jolt to Harry’s spine.

“Please, alpha,” Draco moaned, his voice broken and pleading, hips arching helplessly into the touch.

Harry’s control snapped.

He shifted, easing Draco onto his back, spreading those pale thighs open. Draco’s flushed chest rose and fell in rapid bursts, his eyes blown wide and glassy, platinum hair plastered to his damp forehead. He was panting, writhing with need, looking up at Harry like he was the only thing that existed. Harry gripped himself, already thick and hard, the sight of Draco laid out and needy unraveling whatever restraint he had left.

“Alpha,” Draco breathed again, and Harry growled low in response, lining himself up. He pressed forward, the slick warmth guiding him easily inside.

Draco’s head fell back, mouth open wide in a silent cry as Harry filled him, inch by inch, until he was fully seated inside. He paused only a second, trembling with restraint, before Draco reached for him, arms open. He lowered himself down, and Draco immediately wrapped his arms around Harry’s broad shoulders, his legs coming up to lock loosely around his waist. Their bodies fit together like something ancient and inevitable.

“My alpha,” Draco whispered against Harry’s neck, lips brushing over his scent gland in a tender echo of the claiming bite neither of them dared to make. “My Harry…”

Harry began to move—slow at first, then deeper, harder, as instinct overtook rhythm. Draco arched beneath him, moaning, gasping, lost in the pleasure that rolled through him like waves. Their sounds filled the heat room: slick and skin, panting breaths, the wet slap of bodies moving together. Harry groaned into Draco’s shoulder as the urge to bite became nearly unbearable. Every nerve in his body screamed mine, but he fought it back, clenching his jaw and focusing on the feeling of Draco pulsing around him.

The knot was coming.

He felt it swell, forming at the base, and each thrust grew more frantic, more desperate, until finally—

Harry shoved deep, burying himself to the hilt as his knot pushed past the tight resistance and locked into place. Draco screamed—a sound of raw ecstasy—as he came, his entire body shaking as he clenched around Harry, slick gushing between them.

For a moment, there was nothing but the haze.

Then breath returned. Lucidity trickled in through the exhaustion.

Harry braced himself on trembling forearms, hovering over Draco. They were flushed, sweaty, their bodies trembling from the aftershocks. Their hips remained fused together, locked by the knot. Draco blinked up at him, his silver eyes soft and dazed. He reached up with one hand, cupping Harry’s jaw gently.

“Harry,” he whispered, smiling up at him in a daze. “My Harry. My alpha.”

Harry’s chest ached, too full of something unnamed to speak. He leaned down and pressed their foreheads together, just breathing in Draco’s scent, grounding himself.

Draco’s lashes fluttered closed. Sleep was already pulling him under.

When Harry felt the weight of sleep tugging at his own limbs, he carefully rolled them onto their sides. Both of them hissed at the tug of the knot, but it was more manageable this way—more intimate. Harry curled his body protectively around Draco’s.

“My omega,” he whispered into the quiet, before sleep claimed him too.

xxxxx

It didn’t take a genius to piece it together.

Harry Potter hadn’t been seen since late last night. And neither had Malfoy.

Ron sat rigidly in his seat at breakfast, fingers curled tight around the edge of the bench, his food untouched and growing cold in front of him. The seat beside him remained stubbornly empty—Hermione hadn’t shown up either, likely holed away in the library with her stack of meticulous class notes, preparing to hand them over once they returned.

Of course.

Everyone knew what it meant. They were whispering about it. Not even trying to be subtle. Malfoy had gone into heat. And Harry—bloody noble, self-sacrificing Harry—had gone with him.

Ron clenched his jaw, his teeth grinding. The image forced itself into his head, unwanted and vile: Harry, flushed and panting, buried between satin sheets with Malfoy curled against him, slick and possessive and whispering "my alpha" like it meant something.

It made Ron feel sick.

He shoved his plate away and stood abruptly. No one looked at him. No one cared. All anyone seemed to care about was how romantic it all was—how brave Harry was for claiming someone like Malfoy, how mature he must be to stand by his omega.

It was all bullshit.

Harry was being used. Anyone could see that. Malfoy was a Slytherin. A manipulative little snake who knew exactly how to use the right words, the right looks, the right whines to make an alpha feel needed. Ron had seen it happen before. He had watched his best friend walk blindly into this, caught in the glamour of being someone's protector again.

“Once a Death Eater,” Ron muttered under his breath, storming out of the Hall, “always a Death Eater.”

He needed a plan. Something that would make Harry see the truth. Something that would sever this sick bond before it was too late. It was during one of his quieter evenings—sitting alone in a forgotten corner of the common room, fingernails bitten raw—that he overheard two Ravenclaws talking in hushed voices about obscure variants of Obliviate. One claimed to have read about it in a Restricted Section tome, something twisted and dark. It wasn’t just about erasing memories—it was about reshaping them. Twisting the edges. Rewriting events into something new, something false… or something more convenient.

Ron didn’t sleep that night.

He had made up his mind, knowing that every second wasted was another second lost for Harry. His Harry. And it was up to him to break the illusion that Malfoy had put his best friend under. He waited until the tower had gone still, until the dormitory was quiet with the soft snores of slumbering boys. He dressed in silence, pulling his wand from under his pillow. Then, crouching low, he whispered, “Disillusionment.”

The sensation was like cold rain pouring over his body—numb and damp—but he was invisible, and that’s all that mattered. He crept through the castle, past the portraits who mumbled in their sleep and staircases that grumbled and shifted underfoot. His heart pounded loud in his ears, louder than his footsteps. But no one saw him. No one stopped him.

The Restricted Section loomed like a beast in the dark, guarded only by ancient enchantments and chains that whispered warnings to the unwelcome. But Ron wasn’t unwelcome. Not really. He had a right to be here. He was trying to save someone. He scoured the shelves for hours, his eyes raw and burning, until his fingers brushed a spine wrapped in charmed cloth, etched in shimmering Aramaic runes. Tessitura Mentis: A Weave of Thought. He opened it with trembling hands.

The script was maddening—ink that shimmered and curled like smoke, paragraphs that restructured themselves if he blinked too fast. But somewhere in the chaos, Ron began to understand. The book spoke of isolating specific memories, of unpicking them like threads in a tapestry. Of weaving something new in their place.

Memory replacement.

Selective falsification.

Emotional redirection.

It was dark magic. Ancient. Illegal. But it was also perfect.

He slipped the book under his jumper and left the library, the Disillusionment Charm clinging to him like fog. Back in the dorm, he curled under his covers and pulled the tome close. He studied by wandlight, his lips moving silently as he traced the curling runes, copying notes into a journal. The theory was dense—he’d never been good at this kind of magic—but desperation made him sharp. Focused. Willing.

If he could just isolate Harry’s memories of Malfoy… twist them a bit… replace the bond with something bitter or hollow… maybe then he could break the spell Malfoy had cast over him. Maybe then, Harry would finally see.

And Ron would finally have his best friend back.

xxxxx

Harry lay draped across Draco’s back, their bodies flushed and sticky with sweat, skin hot with exertion. They were still joined at the hips, Harry’s knot snugly locked inside his omega, the bond keeping them connected even as exhaustion weighed them down like a thick blanket. Their ragged breathing filled the warm, nest-scented room, echoing softly against the warded walls.

The heat had finally begun to ebb.

Harry couldn’t remember how many rounds they’d gone. The hours had blurred together into a haze of instinct and touch, the fevered rhythm of Draco’s heat dictating his every move. He only knew that he was sore in places he didn’t think could get sore, and his magic thrummed low and unsteady in his chest from sheer overuse. Every muscle ached and burned with the dull satisfaction of having been used to their absolute limit. His back, bare and glistening with sweat, was crisscrossed with red welts—fading maps of Draco’s desperate grip, each mark a testament to how completely his omega had needed him. Draco’s own pale skin was marred with the bloom of red-purple bruises along his hips and thighs, and hickies dotted his slender shoulders like stars. His collar—still secured around his throat—bore visible impressions of Harry’s teeth, though it had done its job in protecting his scent gland.

“Salazar,” Draco croaked hoarsely, voice still thick with exhaustion, “how long have we been in here?”

Harry let out a strangled groan and shifted slightly, the tug of his knot making both of them hiss. “I think I’m dead,” he said flatly, face pressed into Draco’s shoulder.

Draco smiled faintly, eyes closed but lips curling with amusement. “Luckily, I think my heat’s over.”

“Thank Merlin,” Harry muttered. “My cock’s about to fall off.”

Draco let out a weak chuckle, the soft vibration of it making Harry smile against his skin. They didn’t need to say anything more. Not now. Just being close, breathing the same air, letting their bodies rest—that was enough. Eventually, the tension eased and Harry’s knot deflated enough for him to pull free. They both hissed again, more out of sensitivity than pain, and rolled apart with matching sighs of relief. Without a word, they crawled into the center of the nest and curled up in the scent-warmed bedding, finally allowing themselves to rest.

Sleep came quickly, heavy and dreamless.

Later, they stood together in the small shower stall, shoulders bumping and hips brushing as warm water cascaded over them. Harry worked shampoo into Draco’s hair, while Draco lazily scrubbed the sweat and slick from his own skin with a washcloth. The grime of their bodies—the sweat, the fluids, the mess of it all—slid down the drain. When they stepped out, wrapped in soft towels and smelling faintly of soap and one another, it was like emerging from a storm.

They dressed in clean clothes and settled at the small table in the corner of the room where a tray of sandwiches, crisps, juice, and water had been left for them. Harry reached immediately for a sandwich and groaned after the first bite. They ate in silence, filling their empty stomachs and rehydrating. It was comfortable companionship between them.

“Thank you for helping me through my heat,” Draco said, watching him.

Harry looked up, something gentle and unguarded in his gaze. “You know I would’ve helped you no matter what,” he said softly. “I think it’s pretty obvious I’d do anything for you.”

Draco’s heart gave a flutter, a soft, unmistakable warmth unfurling in his chest. He felt it deep in his core—the certainty, the safety, the affection. And the way Harry was looking back at him, like there was no one else in the world, made it very clear the feeling was mutual. He rose slowly from his chair, stepping around the table to slide into Harry’s lap. Harry immediately welcomed him, arms wrapping around his waist without hesitation.

“I love you, Harry,” Draco whispered, looking into his beautiful green eyes with open vulnerability.

Harry’s breath caught. His heart thudded wildly, and then his face split into a brilliant, lopsided toothy grin. “I love you too, Draco.”

Their kiss was slow and meaningful, no rush, no heat—just pure, quiet tenderness. When they finally pulled apart, foreheads pressed together, it felt like gravity had shifted. Like everything had settled perfectly into place.

Draco let out a soft breath and leaned into him. “Take me to our bed, alpha,” he murmured, nuzzling against Harry’s jaw. “I need to sleep like there’s no exams tomorrow.”

Harry grinned and tightened his arms around him. “Whatever my omega wants.”

And together, they returned to the bed now magically clean with fresh sheets, fingers intertwined, hearts aligned as they climbed back into the nest. They whispered words of love and soft kisses as they snuggled in the warmth of each other, quickly falling asleep.

And blissfully unaware of the sinister plot brewing.

xxxxx

In the weeks that followed, Ron Weasley grew increasingly distant from what remained of his friends. His presence at meals became sporadic, his laugh absent from the common room, his gaze constantly averted when Hermione or Harry tried to catch it. He spoke little and, when he did, it was clipped—barely masking the simmering resentment beneath.

By day, he feigned the motions of a student. By night, he moved like a ghost.

He had stolen—yes, stolen—more volumes from the Restricted Section under the cover of Disillusionment Charms and muffling spells. The texts were thick with dust and decay, their spines protesting as he pried them open under candlelight in his curtained bed. He flipped through ancient parchment lined with curling scripts, devouring every whisper of magic dealing in mnemonic tampering, identity dissonance, and memory repair rituals twisted for darker purposes.

One book led him to another. Tessitura Mentis: A Weave of Thought, Encyclopaedia Occulta Memoria, and finally, an unmarked, cursed journal bound in what looked disturbingly like flayed human skin.

“If one weaves falsehood where truth once was,” the journal promised in a blotchy scrawl, “the mind clings to new threads to patch what’s frayed.”

Ron copied that line down in the margins of his Potions textbook, tracing it over and over until the quill nearly tore the page.

It started as a controlled experiment.

He created a crude substitute for a Pensieve—an enchanted silver goblet paired with a charmed shard of mirror to hold and replay single, shallow memories. Not true extractions, but temporary siphons, like cupping water with his hands. It was clumsy magic, experimental and unstable, but it worked.

He practiced on himself first. A simple memory: dropping a book outside the Great Hall. He tweaked it. Changed it so the book never fell—so Hermione never bent down to pick it up for him with that tight, pitying smile. Then he changed something else: a conversation between two Ravenclaws near the Charms corridor. He altered what one of them had said in passing, implanting a different tone, a new phrase entirely. Each small change left him with a pounding headache, his nose bleeding once, his vision swimming. Memory grafting, he’d learned, required precise focus and an almost unnatural level of psychic endurance—neither of which he possessed in great supply. The first few attempts left him drained and nauseous for hours.

Still, the results were… promising.

And so Ron shifted his focus. No longer content to test only on himself, he turned his attention to others. He started with first and second years. They were easier targets—gullible, impressionable, still struggling with basic spellwork and oblivious to the subtle shift of memory threads being pulled taut and rewoven in their minds. He’d bump into them in corridors, charm away a brief interaction, replace it with a lie.

“You dropped your quill,” he’d say, handing over a quill the child hadn’t owned.

“No, I didn’t,” the child might reply, puzzled.

But an hour later? They’d insist they had.

He was careful. Methodical. He never approached the same student twice, spreading his experiments thin across Houses. He had to build slowly—test boundaries. Older students were more resistant, their minds less pliable. Even the fourth years gave his spellwork a fight. Sometimes the graft didn’t take, and he’d have to remove the faulty memory entirely, leaving them with a flicker of forgetfulness and an odd feeling that something was… missing.

Ron began keeping a journal of his own—full of notes, revisions, diagrams of memory thread architecture. He annotated where he’d gone wrong and when. How long it took for a false memory to settle. Whether the target showed confusion. He graded himself like it was homework.

All the while, one thought echoed in his mind: Harry is being manipulated.

He pictured the way Harry looked at Malfoy now. Trusted him. Touched him. Acted as if all those years of enmity had never happened.

Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater.

And if Harry couldn’t see it, Ron would make sure he did.

Even if it meant rewriting the truth.

xxxxx

Valentine’s Day arrived at Hogwarts in a flurry of pink enchantments and blushing whispers. The enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall had turned soft rose-gold, casting a warm glow over the rows of tables below. Dozens of tiny winged cupids flitted through the air, their chubby cheeks flushed as they notched sparkling arrows into miniature bows. Each arrow unleashed a burst of glittering confetti or levitating parchment hearts bearing declarations of affection.

Harry sat stiffly at the table, shoulders tense. Every few minutes, a cupid buzzed low over his head, and he flinched. He couldn't help it—his second year had left a lasting impression, and the memory of that dreadful singing valentine still haunted him.

He leaned slightly toward Draco and muttered under his breath, “If one of those flying cherubs gets too close, I swear I’m blasting it with a bombarda maxima.”

Draco, who was already scowling at the confetti raining down on their breakfast plates, plucked a heart-shaped scrap of pink from his toast with distaste.

“Merlin, this holiday is insufferable,” he grumbled. “I haven’t even had a proper bite without swallowing bloody glitter.”

Harry chuckled, waving his wand in a practiced motion to clear the area around them. The air shimmered as heart confetti vanished in a neat puff, though another cupid zoomed by and sprinkled fresh bits directly into Draco’s tea.

“Couldn’t agree more,” Harry said, watching his boyfriend scowl deeper and reach for his wand.

To his right, Neville sat hunched over his plate, absently pushing scrambled eggs from one side to the other with a fork. His shoulders drooped, and there was a faraway look in his eyes that made Harry’s chest tighten. Harry glanced toward the Gryffindor table and caught sight of Theo Nott, half-leaning across the bench as he snogged a laughing seventh-year under a floating garland of rose petals. Theo’s hand was curled possessively at the small of his back.

Harry looked back to Neville.

“You all right, mate?” he asked gently.

Neville didn’t even lift his gaze. “I think I’ve finally reached my limit,” he said in a voice that was too flat to disguise the ache beneath it.

“I’m sorry, Nev. I know you really liked him,” Harry said quietly.

Neville shrugged. “I’ll get over him… eventually.” But he didn’t sound convinced. His eyes remained glued to his untouched breakfast.

Across from them, Hermione sat between Pansy and Blaise, her eyes scanning a letter with growing interest. Her cheeks had taken on a soft pink flush, and the corners of her mouth twitched upward. Pansy, never one to let curiosity go unanswered, leaned over and snatched the parchment out of Hermione’s hands before she could react.

Hermione gasped, “Pansy!”

But the Slytherin girl was already reading aloud with exaggerated disdain. “Dear Hermione, blah blah blah… there is a summer internship for new graduates in the Ministry if you are so inclined, blah blah blah—Merlin’s tits, Granger, a letter about working for the Ministry gets you flustered?”

Hermione reached for it, her cheeks now crimson. “Give that back!”

Blaise snorted behind his teacup as Pansy held the letter out of reach, skimming the rest with theatrical flair.

“Yours truly, P.I.W.” Pansy read aloud, then looked back at Hermione with her brows raised high. “Yours truly?”

Hermione finally managed to snatch the letter from her hand and shoved it into her bag, lips pressed tightly together.

“Well, well,” Pansy drawled, a wicked grin forming. “Have we finally moved on from Weasel? Who is this P.I.W. character? Sounds scandalously vague.”

Hermione tried to sound casual but failed miserably. “It’s just a friend who works in the Ministry, that’s all.”

Pansy hummed skeptically, propping her chin on her hand. “A friend who signs off yours truly and makes you blush like a schoolgirl? Sure, Granger. Keep telling yourself that.”

Blaise leaned in with amusement. “Do we get to place bets on who it is? Because I have ten Galleons on that Wizengamot intern who gave the seventh-year lecture last week.”

“Absolutely not,” Hermione said primly, but her ears were glowing now, too.

Harry and Draco exchanged looks and matching grins. Despite the flurry of confetti and aching hearts around them, some things—like teasing friends and mysterious letters—reminded them that not every form of love needed to be loud.

Just real.

“Are you two lovebirds heading to Hogsmeade later?” Pansy asked, her voice syrupy with mischief as she leaned across the table toward Harry and Draco.

Harry glanced up from buttering a croissant, catching the teasing glint in her eye. “We are,” he said with an easy nod. “Draco needs to stock up on sweets from Honeydukes—he’s practically going through withdrawals.”

Draco lifted his chin with mock dignity. “And who do you think has been going through my sweets?” he said with an accusing—but mild—glare. “I also need to restock on parchment and replenish a few potion ingredients. I am a responsible student, unlike some.”

Pansy smirked. “Sure you are. Just make sure you don’t spend all your galleons on chocolate frogs and scented ink.”

“Don’t stay out too late,” Blaise chimed in smoothly, taking a slow sip of his coffee. “Your match is tomorrow, remember?”

Pansy leaned on her elbow, lips curling upward. “It’ll be fun watching the lovebirds play against each other. Try not to get too distracted, Potter. I hear broom malfunctions can be… embarrassing.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry said, waving her off without much conviction. He was trying not to blush, but Pansy’s jab had landed squarely.

Because the truth was, he did get distracted. Draco in his emerald and silver Slytherin Quidditch kit was a walking sin. Those snug uniform trousers hugged his long legs obscenely well, and whenever Draco was in the air, flying just ahead of him—hips tilted forward, wind tousling his pale hair—it was a miracle Harry didn’t crash straight into a goalpost.

Just thinking about it now sent a sharp jolt of heat to his groin.

Draco, catching the slight shift in Harry’s expression, raised an eyebrow. “You all right there, Potter? You look flushed.”

“Fine,” Harry said quickly, coughing once and staring intently at his breakfast plate. “Just thinking about… uh, strategy.”

Pansy laughed. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

Draco smirked, sipping his tea. “I’m sure Harry will be very focused. Especially on my rear-facing strategy.”

Harry groaned and buried his face in his hands. “Merlin help me.”

Blaise chuckled under his breath, already fishing out a galleon. “I give him ten minutes into the match before he’s hopelessly distracted.”

Pansy held out her palm. “Oooh! You’re on.”

“You two and your fucking bets.” Harry grumbled. Draco smiled at Harry, putting his hand on the alpha’s thigh beneath the table.

xxxxx

Unbeknownst to the others enjoying (or sulking) their Valentine’s Day, Ron Weasley had taken a different path into Hogsmeade, cloaked in a worn cloak and a bitterness that had taken root too deep to pull out. He moved along the slush-lined alleys with purpose, the chill wind biting at his ears as he passed clusters of cheerful students with pink cheeks and bundled scarves. Their laughter only fueled the sourness brewing in his gut. He turned a sharp corner and slipped down a side lane, heading toward the darker edge of the village—where the cobblestones grew uneven and the shops lost their polish.

The Hog’s Head loomed ahead like a rot-stained tooth, crooked and half-swallowed by shadow. It reeked of sour ale, urine, and something faintly magical and illegal. Perfect, Ron thought grimly.

Sure enough, loitering near the tavern’s side wall, was Marcus Flint. The former Slytherin chaser stood with his broad shoulders hunched in a leather coat too tight for him, a half-used cigarette clutched between his fingers as he kept watch on the passersby. Ron lingered near the edge of the alley, eyes scanning the street behind him. No professors. No Prefects. Just young couples, wandering further away toward Honeydukes and Madam Puddifoot’s.

Steeling himself, Ron kept his hood up to hide his signature red hair and stepped out from the shadows.

“I heard you’re still sniffing after Malfoy,” he said, his voice low and grudging.

Flint turned, one eyebrow lifting in slow recognition. His upper lip curled into a sneer. “And what’s it to you, Weasel?”

Ron folded his arms, pretending to be casual. “Just thought you should know…” He let his words hang for a moment. “He’s only with Harry because of the press. Potter’s good PR, you know. Sells the redemption arc. The war hero and the ex-Death Eater—it’s practically scripted.”

Flint narrowed his eyes, skeptical but hooked. “Sounds like bollocks.”

“Maybe,” Ron said, glancing offhandedly toward the street again. “But if someone really wanted him—really wanted to claim him—there’s still a chance. Not everyone gets bonded after a first heat.”

Flint blew out smoke through his nostrils. “Why are you telling me this?”

Ron smirked faintly. “Call it a public service. You deserve a shot, don’t you? Just plant your feet and don’t back down next time. Malfoys respect power.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. He turned and walked away, holding his hood up against the cold. But the real magic had already begun to work. Ron didn’t need to say more—because he'd already said enough inside Flint’s head. A whisper slipped through the cracks of Marcus’s mind like smoke under a door: You could win him if you had the right help. There are potions. Ways to tip the odds. Ask the right people. You know where to look.

Ron’s memory work had evolved into something more than just erasing or replacing. He could now plant ideas—suggestions—subtle and toxic. Just enough to twist a person's thoughts until they believed the idea had been theirs all along.

Amortentia. Illegal. Powerful. Dangerous.

And Flint, already full of obsession and rejection, was the perfect pawn.

Ron disappeared back into the crowd, the echoes of laughter and love-sick cupids blurring around him like a veil. His eyes were fixed ahead, his fists clenched in his pockets. It was time someone reminded Harry that not everyone gets a fairy tale ending.

Chapter Text

It was game day—Gryffindor versus Slytherin—and the castle was already humming with anticipation. But in the quiet seclusion of their shared quarters, the only thing on Harry’s mind wasn’t Quidditch. It was the beautiful omega and those pretty red lips servicing him in the best way possible.

Draco was on his knees between Harry’s thighs, his hands gripping the lean muscles of Harry’s hips as he worked his mouth over his alpha’s cock with slow, deliberate care. The early morning light filtering through the enchanted windows gilded his pale hair in silver fire, and the heady scent of arousal lingered like perfume in the air. Harry’s head was tipped back against the headboard; one hand braced behind him for support while the other was tangled possessively in the soft silk of Draco’s platinum-blond hair. His chest rose and fell in ragged, uneven breaths as he watched the omega’s plush lips slide over him again and again.

“Draco…” he gasped, voice roughened with pleasure, “so good. Such a good omega.”

The praise made Draco shiver. He hummed low in his throat, letting the sound vibrate down Harry’s length as he pulled back with a wet, obscene pop, only to drag his tongue slowly up the sensitive underside of Harry’s cock. It wasn’t perfect—he could only manage half of him in his mouth without choking—but the determination in Draco’s silvery eyes as he flicked his tongue just right told Harry he was working toward it. Mastering it.

The sight alone nearly undid him.

Harry tugged gently on Draco’s hair, breathless. “Come here.”

Draco obeyed without hesitation, crawling up into Harry’s lap and straddling his thighs, the shift in position causing both of their cocks to rub against each other, slick and hard between their bodies. A moan slipped past Draco’s lips as he leaned in and pressed his mouth to Harry’s in a hungry, tongue-laced kiss.

“I love you,” he whispered between kisses, “and I’ll love you more after my team wins today.”

Harry huffed out a laugh, the sound half-growl as he grabbed Draco by the waist and rolled them over, pressing the omega down into the mattress, their hips grinding together in a slow, decadent rhythm.

“Is that so?” Harry murmured, nipping at Draco’s jaw as his hand slid down to grip one perfect pale thigh. “That’s a bold claim coming from you. If memory serves, I’ve caught every snitch in every match we’ve played.”

Draco arched beneath him, rolling his hips up provocatively. “Yes, but that was before you became a hulking alpha. I’m at least two stones lighter than you now, and far more aerodynamic. Your size is your downfall, love.”

Harry chuckled, a dark, amused sound vibrating against Draco’s throat as he kissed his way down to the omega’s collarbone.

“Haven’t heard any complaints about my size from you, though,” he murmured wickedly.

Draco’s lips curved into a slow, sinful grin as he wrapped his arms around Harry’s shoulders, drawing him closer. “That’s because I’m polite.”

“Liar,” Harry breathed before capturing Draco’s mouth in another searing kiss.

Their bodies moved in perfect synchronicity, all teasing gone as Harry positioned himself at Draco’s entrance. He paused, their foreheads pressed together, sharing breath.

“I love you,” Harry whispered.

“I know,” Draco replied softly, eyes dark with devotion. “Now stop stalling and fuck me.”

With a groan of pure need, Harry pressed forward, sliding in slowly, reverently, as Draco clutched at his shoulders and let his head fall back against the pillow, mouth parting in a gasp. The delicious burn of being stretched around Harry’s cock was a feeling Draco never wanted to grow numb to. That perfect ache, that full-bodied sensation of being opened and filled by his alpha—it ignited something deep within him every time. His legs were wrapped tightly around Harry’s waist, and each slow push forward sent sparks licking up his spine.

He gasped, the friction sharp and sweet all at once, and arched into the next thrust. “Gods, yes—just like that.”

Harry grunted, sweat beading along his brow as he buried himself deeper, one arm braced beside Draco’s head while the other hand splayed possessively across the omega’s waist. He moved with slow, grinding strokes at first, savoring the way Draco’s body trembled with each slide inside him. Ever since they’d shared Draco’s last heat, everything between them had shifted. Their sex wasn’t just physical now—it had evolved. It had depth. It was emotional, instinctual, tethered to something primal and unspeakable that had begun binding their souls together in the shadows between heartbeats.

Harry knew exactly how Draco liked it. The teasing. The drawn-out edging that kept him panting and needy, desperate to be ruined. The gentle strokes that left him squirming, whining, flushed with impatience before Harry finally, finally gave him what he was begging for.

And Draco knew his alpha just as intimately.

Harry melted beneath soft touches and warm praise. He bloomed when told how good he was, how perfect, how wanted. The way he shivered when Draco whispered, “That’s it, love. You feel so good inside me. You make me feel full, whole…” made the omega grin with quiet satisfaction, please that it made his alpha respond in such a way. Harry craved affection like air—drunk on kisses, fueled by closeness. He was utterly undone when Draco wrapped his arms around him and murmured that he was proud to be his.

Their rhythm now had the ease of something well-practiced yet never dull. They moved like they were made for each other, in tune on a level that words could never quite touch. Harry bent to kiss him, slow and deep, swallowing Draco’s moan as their hips rocked together.

“I love you,” Harry murmured against his lips, his voice rough with emotion and lust.

Draco cupped the back of Harry’s head, pressing their foreheads together. “I know,” he whispered, brushing their noses. “I feel it in every touch.”

Outside their quiet room, they’d grown bolder. No longer content with subtle glances or secret touches under the table, Harry would now tug Draco close in the corridor before Transfiguration and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. Draco would run his fingers through Harry’s hair before practice, murmuring a soft, “Try not to crash,” while sliding a piece of chocolate between the alpha’s lips.

They were no longer hiding. There was no need to hide because there was nothing to hide.

What they have was fireproof.

Draco’s fingers dug into Harry’s back, nails scraping down toned muscle as his climax hit with blinding intensity. A white-hot explosion tore through him, leaving stars blooming behind his eyelids. His body trembled as waves of pleasure pulsed through him, and he moaned out Harry’s name in a ragged breath. Seconds later, Harry followed with a low groan, thrusting deep as he spilled inside Draco with a molten heat that left the omega gasping. The fullness was overwhelming, grounding. Draco clung to him, burying his face in the curve of Harry’s neck as they rode out the aftershocks together.

Their bodies remained tangled as they traded slow, breathless kisses—whispers of “I love you,” soft hands roaming with reverence, still drunk on the euphoria of shared release. Every touch was tender, intimate, a reaffirmation of their bond in the quiet aftermath. They might have lingered longer in their blissful cocoon if it weren’t for the sudden, aggressive pounding on the door.

“Oi! Stop fucking, you degenerates! Some of us would like to not hear Malfoy’s moaning first thing in the bloody morning!” came Theo’s exasperated shout from the other side.

Harry snorted into Draco’s shoulder as their bubble of peace popped with an audible mental crack. With a long-suffering groan, Draco peeled himself off the mattress, already feeling the ache settle in his hips. He winced the moment he stood, shivering when he felt a warm trickle between his legs.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath. “I should count my blessings I haven’t gotten knocked up yet.”

Harry, still sprawled across the sheets, chuckled. “I thought purebloods encouraged popping out one legacy after another.”

Draco glanced over his shoulder toward the bathroom doorway, his expression bone-dry. “Yes, well. I’m not interested in becoming a young parent, thank you very much.”

“Fair,” Harry replied, pushing off the bed and following him into the bathroom.

They made quick work of cleaning up, though Harry lingered longer than necessary as he knelt in the shower to help rinse the evidence of their morning indulgence from Draco’s thighs. His touch was careful, loving, but there was no denying the possessive glint in his eyes. He resisted the temptation to do more, biting back the urge to fill Draco all over again.

“Later,” Harry promised lowly, fingers brushing along the back of Draco’s thigh before he stood.

Draco smirked, arching a brow. “If you’re lucky.”

Soon after, they were dressed in their Quidditch uniforms—Harry’s red and gold contrasting sharply with Draco’s emerald and silver.

xxxxx

The match had been nothing short of intense. From the moment Madam Hooch’s whistle pierced the air, both Gryffindor and Slytherin had thrown themselves into the game with relentless determination. No one was holding back—not today, not with house pride on the line.

High above the pitch, Harry and Draco streaked through the rain-choked sky like twin comets on gleaming brooms—brand new models that sliced through the wind with smooth precision. They were locked in a silent, calculated dance, weaving around bludgers and ducking out of the chaotic paths of their teams’ Chasers, eyes always flicking around in search of the elusive golden Snitch.

The cold was biting, the February air sharp against flushed cheeks. Rain came down in sheets, soaking through their robes and slicking their hair flat beneath protective gear. Harry had been forced to cast an anti-fogging charm on his goggles early on—without it, the condensation alone would have blinded him. But even drenched and frozen, Harry was painfully aware of one thing: Draco Malfoy. Specifically, the way his omega's arse looked in those fitted Quidditch trousers—now drenched by the rain. Merlin's bollocks. Every twist and swerve of Draco’s lithe body on his broom was a siren song Harry couldn’t ignore. He tried to shake it off, gripping his broom tighter, focusing on the field—on strategy, movement, the faint shimmer of wings in the distance—but the image kept dragging him under like a riptide.

Draco was a drug, plain and simple. Addictive. Impossible to resist. And Harry was hopelessly hooked.

Thunder rolled in the distance, the grey clouds above swirling darker by the minute. Rain began to pour harder, slashing visibility in half. The crowd below was a blur of house colors and cheering, muffled by the storm as players shouted over the roar of wind and rain.

Then, without warning, a deafening crack split the sky.

A jagged bolt of lightning shot down like a spear, striking the Slytherin goal post in a violent flash of light and splintering wood. Gasps and shrieks erupted from the stands. For a split second, the entire stadium froze. Madam Hooch blew her whistle with a shrill urgency, signaling all players to land. The game was immediately postponed for safety.

Harry hovered for just a second longer, heart pounding—not from fear, but from adrenaline, tension, and the aftertaste of watching Draco soaked to the skin, his hair plastered to his temples, eyes sharp and shining with competitive fire. When their eyes met through the rain and distance, something electric passed between them. Even the lightning couldn’t compete.

xxxxx

The downpour hadn't let up by the time students and staff trudged back to the castle, drenched and shivering from the biting wind. Umbrellas had been useless against the sideways rain, and water pooled in the corridors as boots and cloaks dripped onto the stone floor. Warmth slowly returned to numbed fingers and reddened noses as everyone made their way to their respective dorms or locker rooms.

In the Slytherin Quidditch changing room, the atmosphere buzzed with adrenaline and wet irritation. Mud streaked the floor, and robes clung to clammy skin as teammates peeled off soaked gear. Draco stood near the benches, his silver-blond hair plastered to his scalp, a deep scowl twisting his elegant features.

“You look like a harassed drowned cat,” drawled one of the Chasers, tossing a sodden glove onto the bench. “If looks could kill, Malfoy.”

There was a round of laughter from the rest of the team.

Draco sneered in response, but the gesture lacked venom. He was too cold, too miserable, and too exhausted to bother. Plus his hips ached from his pre-morning activity with Harry. His robes clung to his skin, icy water trickling down his back and collecting in his boots. All he wanted was a steaming bath, dry clothes, and to collapse in bed against the steady furnace that was his alpha. Preferably with said alpha rubbing warmth into his thighs with those big, capable hands.

“You and Potter plannin’ on makin’ things official between you this year?” Millicent Boulstrode asked casually as she wrung out her tunic and began changing into dry clothes.

Draco arched a pale brow at her, voice dry. “Tsk, tsk, Millie. I never pegged you the type to go diging for gossip.”

“Oh, come off it,” she shot back, tossing him a towel. “Even the first-years have seen you two snogging in the corridor like you're starring in your own bloody romance serial.”

The teasing lilt in her voice didn’t escape him, and Draco rolled his eyes as he accepted the towel. “We’re not in any rush,” he said, toweling off his hair. “We both have plans after graduation, and there’s no need to put pressure on something that’s already solid.”

Millicent grinned. “Well, I heard Pansy ranting about Potter offering triple your bride price. Is that true?”

Draco huffed as he tugged on a dry wool jumper, shaking out the wetness from his sleeves before slipping them on. “Pansy likes to exaggerate,” he muttered with finality, not bothering to entertain the idea further.

The corridor just outside the Slytherin locker room was damp and dim, the torches on the stone walls flickering weakly in the gloom. Cold drafts snuck in through the aging window slits, biting at Draco's skin as he stepped into the open space, his towel slung around his neck and hair still damp from the storm.

The pungent scent of smoke hit him first—acrid and lingering.

And then he saw him.

Marcus Flint stood lounged against one of the archway columns, dressed in an expensive black trench coat that failed to soften the brutish sharpness of his face. A cigarette smoldered lazily between his fingers, the glowing tip casting faint orange light against the leather of his gloves. His posture was casual, but there was something calculated in the way he eyed Draco. Like a predator sizing up a weaker animal.

Draco's stomach twisted.

“Come now, Draco,” Flint drawled, exhaling a plume of smoke as his lips curved into a smirk. “Is that any way to greet an old friend?”

Draco didn’t slow his stride. “If you’re here hoping to reminisce about the past, then you’d best take that elsewhere,” he said coolly, his voice clipped. “I have no desire to rehash anything with the likes of you.”

Flint pushed off the wall, tapping ash to the stone floor. His boots clicked as he sauntered after Draco, his presence looming. “So it was Potter who outbid me, eh?” he said, casually, like they were discussing the outcome of a bet. “Should’ve known you’d be the type to cling to his shiny, untarnished reputation. All that golden boy purity—”

Draco froze mid-step.

He turned around sharply, a vicious glare etched onto his pale features. His lip curled, eyes burning like twin blades of steel.

“I said—good day, Flint.”

But the older alpha didn’t stop. He took a drag of his cigarette, exhaled, and said with quiet amusement, “I could offer more, you know. Triple, even. Whatever he gave you—I’ll beat it. You were always a tempting little thing. Still are.”

Something in Draco snapped.

He stormed toward Flint without hesitation, fists clenched at his sides. “You think this is about money? You think I’d sell myself to the highest bidder like some pureblood prize pig? You disgusting, arrogant bastard.”

Flint’s eyes gleamed with amusement, as if he were enjoying every second.

“You think this is flattering?” Draco hissed. “You think I’ve forgotten what you did? The way you used to corner me in the showers after practice? The way your hands would linger on my hips too long under the excuse of ‘correcting my form’? You laughed when I told you to stop. You mocked me in front of the others.”

The smirk on Flint’s face faltered.

“You made my skin crawl then,” Draco spat, voice trembling with rage, “and you make it crawl now. You disgust me. If you ever thought, for even a moment, that I would ever belong to you, then you’re even dumber than you looked while repeating your seventh year.”

The words hit like thrown daggers, sharp and unrelenting as the smirk vanished from Marcus’ face. The amusement now replaced with irritation.

Draco’s chest was heaving, damp blond hair clinging to his temples, eyes shining not with tears, but pure fury. His scent spiked sharply, acidic and angry.

“You don’t own me. No one does. And especially not you.”

For a long, tense beat, they stood there, breathing heavily in the cold corridor. Flint looked away first, scoffing faintly as if to salvage pride, flicking his cigarette to the ground and grinding it under his heel.

“You’ve changed,” he muttered.

“No,” Draco said, lifting his chin. “I just stopped letting monsters like you think they could touch me without consequence.”

“Draco, everything all right?” came Boulstrode’s voice, rough with concern as she exited the locker room. A few other Slytherin teammates followed close behind her, frowning in confusion as they caught sight of Draco’s stiff posture and retreating form.

Draco didn’t look back. His shoulders were drawn tight, his face pale and stormy under the grey sky. “It will be,” he snapped, voice sharp as broken glass, “once I get away from this filth.”

He turned on his heel, his wet trainers slapping against the stone path as he stalked off. He could feel the weight of his teammates' gazes, lingering with curiosity and confusion—and something else, something quieter, more watchful. He was grateful when Boulstrode jogged to catch up, falling into step beside him without a word at first. Her presence was grounding.

“The fuck was Flint doin’ here?” she asked lowly, tone edged with anger.

Draco’s lip curled in disgust. “Being the creep he always was,” he muttered bitterly, his fingers clenching around the edge of his robes like he was trying to strangle the memory from his mind.

The wind picked up, cold and cutting, making the path to the castle seem even longer. But it wasn’t the weather that chilled him—it was the aftertaste of that encounter, the lingering stink of cigarette smoke and arrogance, the violation of being looked at like he was something to be bought and used.

Everyone in their house who had the misfortune of encountering Marcus Flint had heard the whispers over the years—about Flint and the things he liked. That he had a taste for what was forbidden. That he pushed limits that shouldn’t be pushed. There were rumors, ugly ones, about a first-year boy who had withdrawn from Hogwarts and transferred schools after one term while Flint was still a fifth-year. Nothing had ever come of it, not officially. Just hushed conversations behind closed curtains and shared glances that said we know but no one dared say aloud.

It had always been about power for people like Flint. Dominance. Fear. Making others smaller so he could feel bigger.

Draco felt filthy just being in his presence again. His skin crawled, and the cold soaked into his bones not from the rain, but from memory.

“I need a fucking shower,” Draco muttered under his breath, scrubbing at his arm with the edge of his towel like it might erase the sensation of being looked at like property.

“You want me to hex the bastard?” Millicent offered, her voice dark and sincere.

Draco almost smiled—almost. “It’d be a start,” he said.

Millicent narrowed her eyes as they reached the side hall that led toward the dungeons. “He touches you again, or anyone in this school, and I will break his fucking nose.”

Draco’s lips twitched faintly. “You always were the charming one, Millie.”

“I try,” she said dryly.

They walked on in silence after that, but Draco felt a little steadier with her beside him. He needed a hot shower, clean clothes, and his alpha to breathe again. The filth clinging to his skin might wash away—but the past never really did.

xxxxx

The eighth-year common room was a riot of sound and color, loud with laughter, music, and the clinking of glass flagons. Word of the postponed Quidditch match had done little to dampen spirits—if anything, it had given the students a perfect excuse to throw an impromptu party.

“We’re celebratin’ just for the hell of it!” Seamus yelled above the noise, raising his firewhiskey triumphantly.

Dean had charmed the battered old wireless to blast upbeat wizard rock, the bass thudding through the floor. Someone had strung enchanted fairy lights from the ceiling beams, blinking in rhythm with the music, casting flashes of emerald and gold across the walls. A keg of butterbeer—smuggled in under a certain someone’s invisibility cloak, no doubt—stood in the corner, surrounded by empty bottles and grinning students from all houses.

Draco paused in the corridor, blinking at the unusually large group of sixth and seventh years gathered outside the porthole entrance to the common room, the hum of music vibrating through the stone. The moment he stepped inside, the reason became obvious.

The party had grown beyond just the eighth years.

Hermione spotted him immediately and wove through the throng with a warm smile, grabbing his hand. “Finally! I was starting to think you were avoiding us,” she teased, tugging him into the chaos.

A flagon of butterbeer was thrust into his other hand by someone—he barely caught a glimpse of bright pink hair and assumed it was one of the Ravenclaws. The sweet, fizzy drink sloshed slightly as he steadied it, his fingers still chilled from the walk back to the castle.

Draco’s eyes roamed the room. Theo, Pansy, and Luna were dancing on top of a table with reckless abandon, spinning and shouting along to the music like complete fools. Luna wore a pair of glittering butterfly wings and was barefoot. Pansy had charmed her skirt to change colors with every beat. Theo looked like he hadn’t stopped smiling in ten minutes. In a corner near the fireplace, Boulstrode was cozied up with her beta girlfriend, their foreheads touching in quiet conversation, utterly detached from the mayhem around them.

The mingling of house colors was almost surreal—red, green, blue, and yellow knit together in scarves and jumpers, drinks in hand, no signs of old house rivalries. Draco’s gaze flicked toward the cluster of Quidditch players—Gryffindors and Slytherins alike deep in discussion or boasting loudly about the plays that would have won the match had it not been for the storm.

Still, something was missing.

Or rather, someone.

Draco barely had time to take a sip of butterbeer before a pair of strong arms wrapped firmly around his waist from behind, drawing him back into a broad, warm chest. The scent hit him instantly—rich petrichor, earthy vetiver, and the lingering ghost of immortelle.

Harry.

Draco smiled and leaned back into him, letting himself melt into the embrace. “Took you long enough,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing.

“Got cornered by McGonagall on the stairs,” Harry said, kissing his temple before promptly stealing the flagon from Draco’s hand and downing half its contents in one go.

Draco rolled his eyes with exasperated fondness. “Merlin, I don’t know why I bother.”

“Because you love me,” Harry replied cheekily, wiping foam from his lip with the sleeve of his jumper.

The party pulsed on around them. Someone had enchanted the chandelier to spin lazily above their heads, casting flickering lights like a moving constellation. Firewhiskey shots were being passed around now, with students cheering each other on. It was warm, crowded, and alive in a way that Hogwarts hadn’t felt in years.

Harry was soon swept up in an animated conversation with Seamus and Terry Boot, who were arguing over whether Chudley Cannons even deserved to be a registered team anymore. Draco, meanwhile, found himself tugged away by Hermione and Luna, the latter giggling and spinning him into the center of the dance floor. To his credit, Draco didn’t protest—he let them lead him through the fast-paced rhythm, the heat of the firewhiskey working its way into his limbs.

Beneath the staircases, where the shadows were just thick enough to blur propriety, Blaise had Ginny Weasley straddling his lap, her fingers wrapped in his necktie as they snogged like the room didn’t exist. Blaise’s shirt was half-untucked, and Ginny’s hair was wild and glorious in the low light. Theo had cozied up with Neville atop the staircase, snogging the alpha like his life depended on it and Neville holding onto the omega as if afraid of letting go.

The night was full of color, warmth, and that charged energy that only came from youth, adrenaline, and the illusion that nothing beyond this moment mattered. Draco let himself sink into it—for once, simply being without worry or weight. Just him, surrounded by friends, dancing through the echoes of rain still tapping against the castle windows.

All thoughts of his unpleasant encounter with Marcus Flint had been thrown to the wayside.

xxxxx

The eighth-year common room looked like it had barely survived a magical catastrophe.

Sunlight crept in through the high windows, illuminating the battlefield of empty bottles, discarded socks, and crumpled napkins charmed to sing—thankfully now mute. One of the armchairs had been upended. A broom lay diagonally across the fireplace, someone’s pants hung limply off the mantel like a white flag of surrender.

A few students were still passed out across the floor or curled up on the sofas, surrounded by the evidence of last night’s debauchery. Someone snored softly under a stack of discarded cushions, and a faint, lingering scent of firewhiskey and butterbeer clung to the air like fog.

It had been a wild party.

By breakfast, most of the eighth-years hadn’t bothered to crawl out of bed. Those who did make it to the Great Hall looked as though they'd fought a losing battle with a troll and barely lived to tell the tale. Hermione sat slumped at the table, her head cradled in both hands, the skin beneath her eyes dark with fatigue. Her usually controlled curls were in full rebellion, fanning out in every direction as if echoing her inner torment.

Theo was beside her, facedown on the table, groaning occasionally into his own arm. Harry had only managed to stumble to breakfast and immediately regretted his decision. His stomach felt like it was doing somersaults coated in acid. He winced at the smell of greasy sausages wafting from the platters as he lowered himself onto the bench with the slow precision of a man twice his age.

“I feel like I got hit by the Knight Bus,” he muttered, rubbing his temple. “Twice.”

It had been a mistake getting dragged into that drinking contest. A very Gryffindor-Slytherin mistake. His team had made a valiant effort, but Harry distinctly remembered Blaise being the first to tap out, followed by Dean and Parkinson. The last thing he could clearly recall was Draco and Boulstrode still standing—arms locked, shots in hand, and eyes glittering with manic determination—before everything turned into a blur.

Draco now sat beside him, one side of his face buried in a conjured icepack, the other looking murderous. His platinum hair was a bit askew, and the dark circles under his eyes made him look positively undead. “If someone doesn’t hex Seamus before lunch, I’ll do it myself,” Draco muttered, voice gravelly.

Harry offered a weak, lopsided smile. “You look amazing.”

Draco cracked one bloodshot eye open. “Say that again and I’m hexing you.”

Neville arrived then, looking far too alert for someone who’d also been at the party. He carried a flask in hand and began unscrewing the cap with purpose. “Pepper-up potion,” he said with the kind of reverence usually reserved for sacred relics. “Stole it from Professor Slughorn’s stash this morning.”

“You’re a bloody hero,” Theo mumbled, barely lifting his head.

One by one, the flask made its way around the table. Hermione took a swig and visibly brightened, though her hair remained wild as ever. Draco, after a brief hesitation, downed a mouthful and sighed, slumping slightly in relief. Harry took the flask next, the potion fizzing on his tongue and clearing the pounding in his skull almost instantly.

Unfortunately, his stomach was still another matter. He grimaced. “Ugh. That helped my head, but I think my stomach’s planning a coup.”

Hermione groaned into her hands again. “Merlin, where the hell did all that alcohol even come from?”

Harry glanced down the table, where Seamus sat looking rather regrettable to be present that morning as his face took on a mildly green tint before vomiting over the side. “As if Seamus would tell,” he said, shaking his head. “He probably bribed the house-elves or smuggled it in through his socks.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me if it was his socks,” Draco muttered.

Theo made a weak noise that might have been laughter—or pain. “We should throw him a thank-you party,” he said, “Right off the bridge.”

Hermione groaned louder. “Don’t even joke.”

Draco just buried his face in the icepack again. “Next time, I’m spiking the pumpkin juice and calling it a night.”

But Harry wasn’t so sure there wouldn’t be a next time. Knowing this mixed group of peers, the next party will undoubtedly be bigger and more chaotic.

xxxxx

The match between Gryffindor and Slytherin was rescheduled for the following weekend, with hopes that the weather would finally cooperate.

It didn’t.

Rain persisted throughout the week—unrelenting, misting through the windows of every corridor, casting grey light across the castle. Umbrellas charmed with Impervius spells dotted the courtyards, and the corridors smelled constantly of wet cloaks and muddy boots. Despite the dreary skies, the library remained a refuge of warmth and activity. Hermione and Draco’s bi-weekly study sessions had grown in size since the beginning of term. What had once been a quiet exchange of notes and hushed academic debate between the two of them had evolved into a regular gathering. Pansy and Blaise often turned up, as did Ginny and Luna, crowding their table near the tall arched windows.

Study sessions quickly spiraled into lively gossip sessions, thanks to Pansy and Ginny’s undeniable chemistry for drama. Hermione would half-heartedly scold them while scribbling her notes, but she rarely stopped them. Blaise listened with a disinterested arch of his brow, occasionally contributing a one-liner that made Ginny wheeze with laughter. Luna, ever the eccentric soul, spent half her time discussing obscure magical cryptids. She brought in clippings from The Quibbler and handed them around with utter sincerity. Draco and Blaise would leaf through it together, exchanging incredulous looks and dry commentary.

“There’s an article here claiming Fudge was replaced by a sentient boggart during the war,” Draco remarked one evening.

“Honestly, that would explain a lot,” Blaise replied without missing a beat.

Classes remained unchanged, though the seating dynamics shifted. Hermione now frequently sat with either Pansy or between Draco and Harry, their shared table often scattered with color-coded notes that Draco—to no one’s surprise—absolutely delighted in. Ron, however, had distanced himself entirely, choosing to sit with Seamus and Dean instead. The rift between the former trio had not healed, but it had stabilized—an uneasy truce that allowed them all to function without confrontation.

When the weekend arrived, so did the long-awaited rematch.

The sky remained heavily clouded, but at least the rain had ceased. The air was damp and cool, the scent of wet earth rising from the pitch as both teams took to the sky. With the game reset to zero, tensions ran high.

But something had changed.

The previous animosity between Gryffindor and Slytherin seemed… softer. Perhaps it was the afterglow of last weekend’s party, the shared laughter and firewhiskey breaking down walls built over decades of distrust. The rivalry hadn’t vanished—far from it—but it had mellowed into something more playful. Taunts were traded with grins, not glares, and the excitement in the stands buzzed with unity rather than division.

Cheers erupted as players soared into the air. Gryffindors waved crimson flags, Slytherins shouted chants, and the other Houses joined in, creating a thunderous symphony of support.

xxxxx

The air beneath the stadium bleachers was cool and heavy with damp earth, the scent of grass and rain-soaked wood rising around them. Above, the crowd roared with laughter and cheers—students celebrating a match Neville couldn't even remember the score to. He could barely hear anything but the drumbeat of his own pulse.

And Theo’s voice.

Theo stood inches from him, his dark lashes lowered, warm brown eyes gleaming like polished amber in the low light. His uniform shirt was open at the collar, his tie askew, and his body language as lazy and fluid as ever—dangerously soft, dangerously beautiful.

Neville’s back hit one of the support beams as Theo crowded into his space. Again.

He hated how familiar this had become.

Their on-and-off situation was wearing thin—shredding him, really. It pained him every time he saw Theo brushing shoulders with someone else in the corridor, smirking at another alpha, flirting without shame. And worse, it had humiliated him when, after winter break, Theo had taken back what he said before they left for the holidays.

“I want to court you properly, Neville.”

Liar.

Neville had believed him. Because he wanted to believe him.

But two weeks later, Theo had dismissed it with a casual shrug and a breezy, “I thought I was ready. Guess I’m not.”

Neville’s heart—and his pride—were worn raw. He knew it wasn’t healthy. Knew it was toxic, the way he kept crawling back to the one person who couldn’t commit to him. The one person who used affection like a lure. But Merlin help him, he was so weak where Theo Nott was concerned. He wanted to be strong enough to walk away. To mean it when he said it was over.

But Theo—Theo with his soft pink lips and bedroom eyes and those shameless little noises he made when Neville touched him just right—he was an omega who knew exactly how to weaponize his nature.

And Neville? Neville always fell for it.

“I can’t keep doing this anymore,” Neville said, voice barely cutting through the thunder of the crowd above them.

Theo tilted his head, expression all innocence as his slender fingers tugged teasingly at the belt on Neville’s trousers. “Doing what?”

Neville caught his hands—firmly, but gently—before they could reach the fly. He felt Theo’s pulse flutter under his thumbs. He hated that he still noticed that. Still cared.

“This. This back and forth,” Neville said, his voice thick, low, trembling with restraint.

Theo pouted, his lower lip just slightly pushed forward. “You’re taking it too seriously, Longbottom. We’re just having a bit of fun, aren’t we?” He rose to his toes and flicked his tongue playfully against the tip of Neville’s nose. The act was almost childishly flirtatious—if it weren’t for the fire in his eyes and the way his scent had shifted, sweet and sharp with challenge. “Besides,” Theo murmured, leaning in so their bodies nearly touched, “nobody in this school compares to you in bed. You always make me cum so hard, it’s insanity.”

Neville flinched. The words were said like a compliment—but they hit like a slap.

“So that’s it?” he asked, voice cracking. “You only come back to me because you’re sexually frustrated?”

Theo blinked, but didn’t speak.

Neville stepped back, jaw tight. “I’m nothing more than a good fuck?”

The silence that followed was louder than the roaring crowd overhead. Neville felt heat rise in his throat, a sick mixture of rage, heartbreak, and humiliation.

Theo didn’t deny it.

And that, more than anything, told Neville the truth he’d been trying not to see.

The rumble of the crowd above surged like a storm overhead—Quidditch cheers, chants, the roar of youthful energy. But here in the narrow shadowed space between the support beams, time felt suspended. The scent of grass and old wood mixed with something deeper—something warm and aching, like regret. Neville stood rigid, his tall frame a wall of tension, arms trembling at his sides. His eyes were fixed on Theo, who stood a breath away in the filtered light slanting through the gaps above them.

“You’re not a good fuck, Longbottom,” Theo said suddenly, the words sharp and far too bright. “You’re a great fuck.”

He tugged Neville’s belt with a determined yank, the leather slipping free with a quiet hiss. His slim fingers worked fast, knuckles brushing the taut fabric of Neville’s shirt as he popped open the fly.

“You can’t deny that we’re physically compatible,” he added, almost smugly.

But Neville didn’t respond the way he usually did—no flush of need, no hands clutching Theo’s waist. He only stood there, letting the words sink in like cold water.

“Do you even see me as a person?” Neville asked quietly, voice rough. “Because I get the feeling that I’ve only ever been a distraction.”

Theo froze.

The words knocked the breath out of him more than they should have. He swallowed, heart hammering wildly in his chest. The truth was, he did see Neville. Too much. Too clearly. And it terrified him. He wavered for a moment, then reached up—hands trembling slightly now—and rested his palms against Neville’s broad chest. The warmth there grounded him, even as guilt twisted in his stomach like thorns. He pressed close, nestling into the space beneath Neville’s chin like he had so many times before. The alpha’s scent was everywhere—earthy, rich, anchoring. And it made Theo’s chest ache with longing he didn’t know how to name.

“Is it not obvious?” he whispered, voice barely audible over the distant thunder of the crowd. “Why I always come back to you?”

Neville looked away, his eyes distant, jaw clenched as if holding back something fragile. His shoulders were stiff beneath Theo’s hands, as if resisting the urge to melt. To forgive.

His silence said everything. He was still waiting for the part where it stopped hurting.

Theo exhaled shakily, leaning his forehead against Neville’s collarbone.

“I come back to you, Neville Longbottom… because I know I’m safe with you.”

And he meant it.

Safe from his past. Safe from the ghost of his father’s temper. Safe from the cage his mother had lived in for years, smiling with cracked lips and sad eyes. Neville had never raised his voice to him. Never treated him like a possession. But Theo also knew—deep down—that he was too damaged to accept the kind of love Neville offered so freely. That he would sabotage it again and again, until there was nothing left to ruin but the man standing before him.

And yet, here he was. Reaching for that warmth again.

Because even broken things crave comfort.

And Neville broke first.

All of his righteous anger, all the things he told himself he should do, collapsed beneath the soft press of Theo’s body, the tremble in his voice, the confession that pierced through every defense he had so carefully built. His hand moved instinctively—large, warm, shaking slightly as he cupped Theo’s jaw. His thumb brushed beneath the omega’s lip, tilting his face up with gentle insistence. And then he swooped down, mouth claiming Theo’s in a kiss that was all fire and desperation.

It seared through them both.

Theo melted at once, his body going pliant, as if he’d been waiting—aching—for this. His hands clutched at the thick collar of Neville’s jumper, curling tight, dragging the alpha closer until there was no space left between them. Neville turned them, pressing Theo back against the support beam with a low growl. His hands slipped up under the soft hem of Theo’s shirt, palms callused and hot as they traced along sensitive ribs before thumbing over the omega’s nipples—already pebbled and eager. He knew every secret of Theo’s body, every shiver and gasp mapped in his memory, and his fingers didn’t miss the way Theo arched and moaned into his mouth at that particular touch. Theo’s breath hitched, the kiss breaking for a moment as he gasped for air, face flushed and lashes fluttering. He reached down with trembling fingers, unfastening his own trousers with practiced ease. One shoe came off with a soft thud, followed by the soft rustle of fabric as he freed one leg completely from his trousers.

Neville’s hand went to his own fly, pulling himself free—hard and heavy in his hand as he stroked a few slow, steady pumps. His eyes locked with Theo’s as he stepped closer, as he lifted him with ease. Theo’s legs wrapped around his waist, bare thighs clinging tight as he was braced against the cold wooden beam, the rough texture biting into his back.

“Don’t prep me,” Theo whispered, voice shaking with something close to guilt and need, his nails digging into Neville’s shoulders. “Just fuck me.”

There was no mistaking the undertone.

He wanted it to hurt. He needed it to. Needed to feel it. Because he’d hurt Neville—and pain felt like justice.

Neville’s jaw clenched, breath ragged against Theo’s cheek. He understood. He always understood. And that made it worse. Without a word, he lined himself up and pushed in—slowly, but unyielding.

Theo bit down on his lower lip hard, eyes squeezing shut as the burn bloomed white-hot through his core. It stung. It split. His fingers trembled around Neville’s jumper, holding on as tears slipped unbidden down his cheeks. Neville’s hands gripped his thighs tighter as he drove deeper, finding his rhythm—fast, brutal, punishing.

Theo gasped, moaned, cried out against his shoulder, each thrust ripping through him like a confession. It hurt—Gods, it hurt—but it was real. It was truth, carved into him in the only language they both understood. And through the haze of it, Theo clung tighter—because even in pain, even in all the ways he knew he didn’t deserve Neville, he needed him.

Even if only for now.

Neville came inside Theo with a low, broken groan, his forehead pressed hard against the crook of the omega’s neck. Theo's legs stayed tight around his waist, body trembling in his arms, still gasping softly from the relentless rhythm that had wrecked them both. His nails left faint red marks on Neville’s shoulders through his jumper, his scent rich with contentment and release.

The warmth of it—the heat, the slick, the way Theo’s body fluttered around him—should have made Neville feel whole.

It used to.

Theo liked being filled. Liked the weight of it. The way it made him feel claimed, even if he’d never say the word aloud. Full, he once whispered with a coy smile, flushed and pleased. It was one of his many kinks, and Godric, Neville had once found it unbearably hot.

But now…

Now it just made him feel dirty.

Used.

His body was still wrapped around the person he loved, still buried in tight, slick heat—but his heart felt hollow. Like something sacred had been stripped from the act, leaving nothing behind but shadows and shame.

Theo had whispered that he felt safe with him.

But Neville—he didn’t feel safe. He felt like a door Theo kept walking through whenever he needed to feel wanted. And then walked back out of as soon as it got too real.

The ache in his chest was unbearable.

He held Theo close, because he didn’t know what else to do. His hands ran along the small of the omega’s back, soothing him, grounding him, even as a storm brewed behind his own ribs. Theo’s soft sighs against his neck, the post-climax warmth, the intimacy of their bodies pressed together—Neville drank it all in like a man starved. And hated himself for it.

He wanted to say it.

“This is the last time, Theo.”

He wanted it to be true.

But the words never came. They stuck in his throat like thorns. Because as much as it tore him apart, as much as this hurt him again and again—he couldn't let Theo go.

He was too much of a coward to give up the one person he still craved more than anything.

Even if it was killing him slowly.

So instead, he just held Theo tighter.

And stayed silent.

xxxxx

Harry kept a steady eye on the pitch, scanning for the telltale flicker of gold.

And then he saw it.

The snitch darted out from beneath one of the Slytherin goalposts, gleaming in the gray light like a flash of fire. Instinct kicked in—Harry leaned forward and dove.

He wasn’t alone.

Draco was already veering into position alongside him, silver-blond hair whipped by the wind, his green robes a blur in Harry’s peripheral vision. The snitch zigzagged wildly, twisting between columns of players before rocketing straight upward in a vertical climb. Harry cursed under his breath and forced his broom to follow, but he was losing ground. As sleek and powerful as his new broom was, it couldn’t overcome simple physics. His broader frame cut through the air with more resistance, and in this kind of ascent, Draco’s lean build and impeccable balance made all the difference.

With a clean, flawless rise, Draco closed in—and snatched the snitch out of the air with a triumphant flick of his wrist.

The stadium exploded with cheers.

Draco looped around, the golden snitch glinting in his raised hand, a victorious smirk on his face as he circled back toward Harry.

Harry couldn’t even be annoyed. Disappointed, sure—but not angry. There was no resentment in the way they flew back down side by side, matching speed and altitude like a pair of magnets pulled together.

As they hovered just above the ground, Harry reached out, grabbed Draco by the collar, and pulled him in for a firm kiss. Draco kissed him back, grinning against his lips, still holding the snitch aloft for the crowd to see.

“AND SLYTHERIN WINS THE MATCH!”

xxxxx

Ron told himself that if Harry truly knew Draco—really knew him, beyond the charm and pointed wit and too-handsome smirks—he’d snap out of whatever delusion he was under. He’d see that Malfoy wasn’t a reformed ally, but still the same calculating, entitled snake he’d always been.

But Harry had changed. He didn’t listen to reason anymore. Not when it came to him.

So Ron did what he believed he had to do.

If the truth wouldn’t reach Harry… then Ron would rewrite it.

Literally.

By the time the Spring Equinox break loomed ahead, Ron had everything he needed. The forged letters were perfect. The Malfoy family seal was replicated down to the finest detail, right down to the faint shimmer of protective warding ink, courtesy of a few well-placed favors and one untraceable charm learned in Knockturn Alley.

He had even penned a convincing note—seemingly from Harry—asking Draco to meet at the Three Broomsticks that Friday afternoon. Simple. Direct. Romantic.

Draco wouldn’t suspect a thing.

As for Harry… Ron made sure to keep him busy. When the time came, he intercepted him on his way down from the tower, intercepting his path with forced casualness.

“Hey,” Ron said, voice lower than usual, hands in his pockets. “Can we talk? I… I owe you an apology.”

Harry stiffened slightly. He didn’t stop walking, but he slowed enough that Ron could keep pace beside him.

“I shouldn’t have said what I did,” Ron continued, tone practiced. “About you and Malfoy. I—I was just angry. I miss how things used to be.”

Harry exhaled through his nose but didn’t reply right away.

Ron pushed on. “I just don’t want to see you get hurt. I know you think he’s changed, but you don’t see what I see.”

“Oh, unbelievable.” Harry stopped walking, turning toward him with a scowl. “You’re still on that shit? Draco isn’t using me, Ron. He never was.”

Ron’s jaw tightened, but he kept his voice calm. Measured. “Look, I didn’t want to show you this. I really didn’t. But I found these… and I can’t ignore it anymore.”

From his cloak, he pulled out the letters. Folded neatly. Aged just enough to look worn, with perfect creases. The wax seals bore the unmistakable Malfoy crest—an ornate serpent winding through a fleur-de-lis, embossed in deep silver.

Harry hesitated. Took one of the letters.

His brows knit together as he scanned it. Narcissa Malfoy’s looping handwriting, unmistakable. “We’ve received the bride price from the Flints… the terms are generous. You’ve done well, my son.”

Another line, scrawled in what looked like Draco’s tight script: “I’ll meet with Marcus next week. I’ve stalled long enough.”

A sharp silence settled between them.

“…How did you get these?” Harry asked, voice flat, eyes narrowed but unsure.

“They were in his bag,” Ron said, too smoothly.

Harry’s fingers clenched around the parchment. His gaze flicked back to the letters, then to Ron.

“And why would you go through his belongings?” Harry’s voice was sharper now, laced with suspicion. “Draco doesn’t leave his bag unattended. Not ever.”

Ron’s expression faltered for just a second—so brief it might’ve been missed. But not by Harry.

“You’re lying,” Harry said, jaw tense and green eyes narrowing. “These aren’t real. You’re up to something, Ron. I can feel it.”

Rage flashed behind Ron’s eyes—but it was gone in an instant. He smiled.

“Fine. You want the truth? I’ll show you the truth.”

Before Harry could react, Ron flicked out his wand.

“Memor Verto.”

A rush of heat slammed into Harry’s head. His breath caught in his throat. His vision twisted—memories flashing too fast, too fragmented. Ron’s voice echoed like a whisper in water, weaving through familiar recollections:

—Draco laughing with Pansy, eyes flicking toward Harry, then away.

—A whispered conversation with Blaise, where Draco seemed to smirk at Harry’s name.

—A sneer. A glint of silver. A letter passed hand-to-hand in the common room, Draco’s expression unreadable.

—The forged letters… but now they felt true. Solid. Real.

Harry staggered back, clutching his head.

The spell receded—but the damage had been done.

The seed of doubt had been sown. Tended by Ron’s hand.

And Harry had no idea what had just happened. Only that something felt… off. Something he couldn’t quite name.

xxxxx

The bells above the door of the Three Broomsticks jingled softly as Draco Malfoy stepped inside, a light drizzle clinging to the shoulders of his wool coat. He brushed a few drops from the collar, grey eyes scanning the warmly lit pub with its low ceiling beams and ever-present smell of buttered spirits and woodsmoke.

He didn’t see Harry.

Draco checked the time—he was a few minutes early. Punctuality was a courtesy he’d never stopped practicing, even if it had lost meaning in wartime. With a quiet breath, he crossed to the bar, ignoring the handful of curious glances from students and townsfolk alike. He no longer sought the shadows of back corners. Not anymore. Not when he had nothing left to hide.

Especially not his relationship with Harry.

A quiet warmth crept up his chest at the thought. It was… strange. To be this open. To be this seen. But Draco hadn’t felt this content in years. There was a stillness in his bones now, like the calm after a long storm.

"Darjeeling, strong. No lemon," he said to Madam Rosmerta.

She gave a nod and set about preparing it while he claimed a booth by the front window, shrugging out of his coat. Outside, students ambled past beneath umbrellas and fluttering cloaks, the gray sky dull but no longer violent with rain. Moments later, the tea was brought over in a simple ceramic pot and matching cup on a tray. Draco murmured a polite thank-you and poured, the thin stream of amber liquid releasing a curling thread of steam.

And with it… a scent.

Petrichor. Vetiver. Immortelle.

His hand paused mid-pour. That scent—Harry. It was unmistakable. Earth after rain, fresh grass and golden warmth. His alpha. His brows furrowed slightly. Why would it smell like that? Darjeeling normally smelled delicate, floral and fruity. Before he could fully puzzle it out, a shadow fell over the table. Someone sat down across from him without invitation, and when Draco looked up, the chill in his spine was instantaneous.

“Flint,” he said, voice flat.

Marcus Flint grinned like a man who thought himself untouchable. His broad shoulders stretched the seams of his coat, and that same old arrogance hung around him like a bad cologne. His smile was all teeth.

“Nice spot,” Flint said, glancing around. “Didn’t peg you for the front-of-the-house type. Guess that’s what dating Potter does to you, yeah? Makes you forget your place.”

Draco blinked slowly, unimpressed. “If you’ve come to bother someone, Flint, I suggest you try Pansy. She’s far more amused by pathetic attempts at intimidation than I am.”

But Flint only leaned forward, resting thick arms on the table. “I’m not here for games. I’m here for you, Draco. You’ve been acting above your station, and we both know that can’t last. Your mother knows it too.”

Draco’s jaw tightened.

“Your little dalliance with Potter—cute, really. But it’s time to come back to reality. You’re an omega. That means something. That matters. You’re meant to be claimed. Protected. Obedient. You’re not built for this independence crap.”

Draco rolled his eyes and reached for his cup. “And let me guess, you’re the one who’s going to put me in my place?” He raised the teacup to his lips, the rim brushing against them as he added dryly, “How very noble of you.”

He took a sip.

It was smooth. Fragrant. But there was something else—an aftertaste. Faint. Slippery. Like roses and peppermint and a hint of Ashwinder egg—

Draco’s pupils dilated before he could swallow the rest. The cup slipped slightly in his grasp, and a slow flush crept into his cheeks.

Flint’s smirk widened.

“There it is,” he said softly. “Amortentia’s got such a lovely finish, don’t you think?”

Draco’s fingers tightened around the cup as the potion took hold. His thoughts began to swim, distorted, like ink bleeding into water. Logic unraveled. Distant alarm bells rang—but they sounded too far away to follow.

“Finish it, love,” Flint coaxed. “Then we’ll go.”

Some part of Draco screamed beneath the haze. But it was dulled now, smothered by the twisting warmth of manufactured longing. He brought the cup to his lips again, compelled by the pull of command.

And drank.

The world softened at the edges.

He stood when Flint did, coat left behind, expression dazed and slack with devotion.

Obedient.

Just like Flint said.

The two slipped out of the Three Broomsticks into the wet afternoon, heading toward the Hogs Head, where Flint had already secured a room.

Draco followed without a word.

And behind them, the last remnants of steam curled up from an empty teacup, the scent of Harry still lingering in the air like a cruel joke.

xxxxx

“Malfoy’s gone to Hogsmeade,” Ron said, feigning offhandedness as he walked beside Harry through the castle’s stone corridor. “Saw him leaving through the main gates not twenty minutes ago. Looked like he was trying not to be seen.”

Harry stopped, frowning. “What?”

Ron glanced sideways at him, lowering his voice with a well-practiced mix of concern and suspicion. “I didn’t want to say anything earlier, mate, but… you’ve got to admit, Malfoy’s been acting cagey lately. Always disappearing. Taking secret meetings. You really think he’s changed that much?”

Harry clenched his jaw. “He told me he was going to meet me today.”

“Did he?” Ron raised his brows. “Odd, then, that he didn’t wait.”

There was something about the way Ron said it—too casual, too knowing—that unsettled Harry.

“I don’t know,” Harry muttered, shaking his head. “You think he’d lie about where he’s going?”

Ron exhaled like it pained him. “Look, maybe it’s nothing. But if you want to be sure… maybe try the Three Broomsticks. I’d bet galleons that’s where he went. Not like he’s meeting you, though. Just… don’t shoot the messenger.”

Harry didn’t respond, but his pace quickened.

By the time they reached the village, clouds had rolled low, and a chilly wind tugged at the edges of Harry’s cloak. The Three Broomsticks was warm and bustling inside, all clinking glasses and murmured chatter, but Harry’s mind was already racing as he headed straight for the bar.

“Madam Rosmerta,” he said, drawing her attention. “Have you seen Draco? Malfoy?”

The barmaid tilted her head in thought. “Yes, actually. Came in earlier, asked for tea. Sat right there.” She pointed to a booth by the front window. “Didn’t stay long, though.”

Harry crossed the room and saw Draco’s coat, neatly folded on the bench. The empty teacup sat beside the pot. He pressed his fingers to the side of the pot—still faintly warm. Something wasn’t right as he picked up the teacup and sniffed. Rose, black plum, and spiced honey—it was Draco’s scent. What kind of tea smells like his omega?

He turned back to the bar. “Did you see him leave?”

Rosmerta nodded slowly. “Aye. About half an hour ago. Left with Marcus Flint, of all people.”

The words landed in Harry’s gut like a stone dropped into a deep well.

“What?” His voice barely carried over the noise.

“Strange pair, those two,” she added. “Didn’t look like they were talking much, just stood and left together. Malfoy looked… daze?”

Behind him, Ron shifted. “I’ve seen Flint hanging around the Hog’s Head a few times,” he said casually, too casually. “You think he took Malfoy there?”

Harry didn’t stop to question how Ron would know something like that. He just grabbed Draco’s coat and ran.

The streets blurred past, cold wind slapping his face as his boots thudded against damp cobblestones. Ron followed at a slower pace, pretending to keep up, but a grin was ghosting across his face, unobserved. The Hog’s Head loomed ahead like a rotting tooth, decrepit and leaning with age. Harry pushed the door open, the sour stink of old beer, mold, and tobacco smoke smacking him in the face. Underneath it—there. A thread of sweetness. Rose, black plum, and spiced honey.

Draco.

Harry followed the scent like a trail of breadcrumbs, shoving past the barkeep and bounding up the creaking staircase two steps at a time. The boards groaned underfoot, each one a crack of thunder in his ears. He reached the upper hall. One door was ajar, the scent stronger here, tinged now with something else—salt, and—

From behind the door: the rhythmic creak of a bedframe knocking against a wall. Muffled, breathy sounds.

Harry’s stomach dropped.

His hand closed around the doorknob.

He shoved it open.

What he saw turned his blood to ice.

Draco was beneath Marcus Flint on the bed, naked and limp, with one of Flint’s large hands clamped firmly around his throat. Flint moved against him in slow, brutal thrusts, his other hand gripping Draco’s hip hard enough to bruise. Draco’s head was thrown back, hair clinging to his sweat-damp forehead, his body unmoving save for the involuntary responses forced from him.

Harry’s heart stopped.

Draco’s face—Merlin—his eyes were open, but vacant. Glossy. Empty. No flicker of recognition, no reaction to pain or sound or the invasion of his body. It was like he wasn’t there.

And Flint—Flint was smirking, his head tilted down, watching Draco beneath him like he was a prize to be claimed.

Rage exploded in Harry’s chest. He didn’t think. Didn’t breathe.

“Expulso!” he shouted, wand raised.

The blast hit Flint in the chest, hurling him off the bed like a ragdoll. He slammed into the wall with a sickening crunch and dropped, unconscious and crumpled on the floor.

Harry rushed to Draco, grabbing him by the shoulders.

“What the bloody hell is going on? What—what is this?!”

Draco blinked at him, disoriented, his body trembling.

Harry cupped his face. “Draco, look at me. This isn’t you. What happened?”

There was no answer. Only confusion. Only that distant look, like he was watching from somewhere far away.

“Merlin—what did he do to you?” Harry whispered, horrified, and raised his wand again. “Finite Incantatem.”

The spell shimmered in the air and broke over Draco like a sudden downpour.

He flinched. Then gasped.

The glassiness in his eyes cleared slowly. He looked around in a daze, breath hitching in his throat as he saw Flint—naked, sprawled, unconscious—and then looked down at himself. The realization hit all at once.

“No,” Draco whispered, his voice broken as he sat up. “No—no, no, no—”

His fingers trembled as he touched his own skin, the dampness between his legs now unmistakable, the dull ache of pain blooming in slow, cruel awareness. A low, broken sound left his throat as he shrank back against the headboard, eyes wide.

“I don’t—I don’t understand,” he said, clutching at the sheet. “I—I was at the Three Broomsticks—he—he sat down—I didn’t invite him, Harry, I swear—Harry, I know what this looks like, but it’s not what you think,” Draco said, voice trembling. Panic was beginning to overtake him, white-hot and suffocating. His lips were dry, and his limbs had gone numb under the blanket he pulled up to cover himself. “Please—you have to believe me—I was drugged. It wasn’t me. I didn’t—he—he did something—”

Draco’s words came out in broken gasps, each syllable cut by the horror dawning on him as the memories began to flicker—disjointed and unreal—before full terror settled into his bones. His chest rose and fell too quickly, like a man on the edge of drowning.

Harry didn’t move. His wand lowered a fraction, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and cold fury.

Then suddenly—his eyes glazed over.

The tension in Harry’s shoulders dropped unnaturally. The line of his mouth slackened. He stood still as a statue. In the corridor just outside the room, hidden in a shadowed alcove, Ron Weasley held his wand tight in a shaking hand, a thin sheen of sweat beading on his brow as he whispered the final word: “Imperio.”

Harry blinked once.

And then he stepped forward.

Draco’s heart leapt in hope.

Until Harry opened his mouth.

“Once a Death Eater,” Harry said, voice eerily void of warmth, “always a Death Eater.”

Draco flinched as if he’d been slapped. “No—Harry, no! Don’t do this. Please, I—I love you. You know I do.”

He crawled to him across the lumpy mattress, the blanket falling around his waist, exposing bruised skin, bleeding bite marks and trembling shoulders. He grabbed at Harry’s wrist with both hands, desperate, terrified, clinging to the only thing that still tethered him to reality.

Harry looked down at him.

No softness.

No recognition.

Just disgust.

“I want nothing to do with you anymore.”

The words were knives. Cold, precise, fatal.

And then—

Something inside Draco broke.

Not physically.

Not in sound.

But in magic.

His eyes widened. A sharp gasp tore from his throat. He gripped his chest as if something had been ripped from beneath his ribs. A jarring, unnatural emptiness cracked open in his core.

It wasn’t dramatic—it was wrong.

Like a thread pulled from the weave of his soul.

His magic wailed silently in mourning.

A bond that had been slowly weaving itself together over the past year—unspoken, tentative, beautiful—fractured. And in that moment, as icy dread slipped through the cracks of his soul, Draco knew.

Harry Potter was his soulmate.

And he was walking away.

“No,” Draco whispered, his voice breaking, “you don’t mean that. You can’t.”

Inside his own mind, Harry screamed. Fight it! Say something! Anything! Don’t do this! Don’t leave him!

But his body did not listen.

His legs moved of their own accord, turning him toward the door, toward the hallway, toward Ron—who stood there, wand still raised, a sick grin barely concealed beneath a mask of concerned calculation. As Harry stepped through the threshold, Ron reached out and pressed two fingers to his temple.

"Let’s clean this up, shall we?" he murmured.

Magic, subtle and invasive, wormed its way into Harry’s memories. The confusion, the moment of clarity—the instant he realized Draco was under a spell—it was unraveled like thread. The suspicion that this was a setup—gone. The doubt that had tempered his rage—erased.

All that remained was betrayal.

Anger.

Revulsion.

And pain.

Ron stepped back, watching Harry breathe slowly, eyes still clouded under the curse, but now with a different truth forged inside him. He considered wiping all of it—the entire year—but even he wasn’t that reckless. Not yet. He didn’t have full control, not enough finesse. To tamper that deeply with soulbonded magic risked shattering Harry’s mind completely.

Ron wasn’t trying to kill him.

Just… bring him back to his senses.

Just until he realized what Draco really was.

And when he did—when he came crawling back, broken and furious—Ron would be waiting.

Because Harry Potter deserved better.

Chapter Text

Draco’s fingers shook uncontrollably as he fumbled into the crumpled pile of clothing on the floor. He didn’t know whose they were—didn’t care. His limbs moved on instinct alone, yanking on trousers, tugging a wrinkled shirt over his head, and wrapping himself in the coat Harry had dropped on the mattress with frantic, clawing movements. A sharp gasp escaped him when his hand slipped into the pocket and closed around the familiar curve of his wand. The solid weight of it was grounding. Real. Untouched. Not stolen.

Thank Merlin.

He barely made it out of the Hog’s Head before his body gave out. The cool air hit him like a slap, and he staggered into the narrow alley beside the tavern, falling hard to his knees. The moment his palms hit the stone, his stomach revolted. He retched violently, the sound raw and wretched as bile scorched its way up his throat. It hit the cobblestones in thick, heaving splashes, the stench turning his stomach further. His body shook with every convulsion, tears clinging stubbornly to his lashes as his chest heaved for breath.

His mind tried to latch onto something—anything—concrete. Some thread of memory. A moment of lucidity between the booth at the Three Broomsticks and Harry’s face, first of absolute horror and then melting into numb neutrality. But there was only darkness. Only silence. A void where memory should have lived.

Except… he remembered the scent.

The tea. Vetiver. Something sweet, almost cloying—immortelle, perhaps. And an acrid bite beneath it. Ashwinder egg. A soft hum in his bones before everything slipped away.

And then, Harry.

“Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater.”

The words cut through the fog like a blade, sharper than any hex. Draco gagged again, but there was nothing left to give. His throat burned, dry and ravaged. The pain in his belly twisted deeper, sharp and foreign and wrong. He curled inward on himself, arms wrapped around his waist, as if by holding his body together he could stop the unraveling inside.

The walk back to the castle—if it could be called that—was a blur of noise and light and pain. He wasn’t even sure how he managed it. The forest loomed like a breathing thing. The shadows shifted with his steps. Every branch, every gust of wind, felt like it might knock him down for good.

He kept going.

The gates blurred past. Then the path. Then the echo of his own steps. He clutched at the coat around him like armor, though it did nothing to stop the shaking in his limbs or the phantom hands still burned into his skin. His thoughts circled, maddening and slow. Flint’s ugly grin. The foreign taste in his mouth. The emptiness. And then Harry—his alpha—looking at him like he was dirt under his boot.

And worse than all of it—worse than the memory and the ache and the shame—was the absence.

The bond.

It was gone.

Draco had felt it the moment it snapped. No flare of magic. No cry in the air. Just the distinct, unnatural wrongness of something sacred being severed. It had been growing inside him for months—woven tight through instinct and magic and love. And now…

Gone.

Like a tether cut mid-flight, sending him spiraling into freefall.

His magic shrank back, recoiling from the wound. He could feel it: the hollowness in his chest where Harry’s presence used to hum like a steady rhythm. The root of the soulbond—once warm and anchoring—was now brittle and splintered, like charred wood after a fire.

For an omega… a broken bond like this wasn’t just grief. It was unmaking.

Harry’s voice came back to him, sharp and cold: “I want nothing to do with you anymore.”

Another sob escaped, unbidden and animal. Draco stumbled, clutching at a tree to keep from collapsing entirely. His body was shaking, not from cold but from grief—raw and overwhelming. Surely—surely Harry would realize what had happened. He had to. Draco had never betrayed him. He loved him.

But right now, all that love meant nothing.

All that remained was the echo of pain… and the unbearable silence where Harry’s magic used to live.

And in that silence, Draco broke. Quietly. Utterly.

Unseen by the world—But not untouched.

By the time Draco crossed the threshold of the castle, night had fully descended. The torches lining the corridors flickered weakly against the creeping darkness, casting long shadows that danced across the flagstones. Students spilled out from the Great Hall in noisy, jostling clusters, laughter echoing off the walls as they recounted their evening and gossiped about house drama or upcoming exams. It all sounded so distant. Hollow. Like he was underwater, watching a life he no longer belonged to.

Draco kept his head down, his coat collar pulled high to shield his face, one hand gripping the fabric like a lifeline. His steps were stiff, precise—an illusion of composure.

He was freezing.

Not from the night air. Not from the early spring chill that clung to the stone walls.

But from within.

A coldness had settled in his bones, curling around his lungs, threading through his ribs like ivy. It wasn’t even fear anymore. It was detachment. Numbness. As if he’d stepped outside of himself and was watching some poor stranger walk through the familiar halls of Hogwarts in his skin.

He needed the Hospital Wing.

Madam Pomfrey. She would help. She always had. She was fiercely competent, discreet, and kind in a way that had always unnerved him slightly—because she treated him like a boy, not a Malfoy. Not a name. Just a boy with a body that needed mending.

She would give him the emergency contraceptive potion. The one that purged any traces of… of—

His throat constricted.

She’d patch him up. The bruises. The torn skin. The bites on his chest and shoulders. The raw, chafed place between his legs that still throbbed sharply. Maybe—just maybe—she could do something about the ache in his chest. That strange, terrible emptiness where his bond had once been quietly taking root.

But she’d ask questions.

She’d have to.

And if he told her—if he said the words aloud—then they would become real. Immutable. Etched into the stone of this place like every other ugly piece of his past.

He’d have to say it.

That he’d been drugged. That he’d been raped.

That Marcus Flint had stolen not just his body, but his will.

That his alpha had looked at him afterward and seen filth.

And once it was said, it could never be unsaid.

Pomfrey would have to report it. Protocol demanded it. To the Headmistress. To the Aurors. And then—

His mother.

The thought hit him like a fist.

His knees buckled, and he caught himself with one hand against the corridor wall, fingers splaying against the cold stone as he fought to breathe. The nausea surged again, thick and dizzying, and he leaned his forehead against the stone, his breath coming in shallow, broken gasps.

He couldn’t. He couldn’t bear it.

Not the look on her face. Not the quiet horror behind her eyes. Not the unbearable silence.

He could already hear it. Already see it.

Her grief. Her guilt. Her pity.

Everything was unraveling—his composure, his body, his future. He’d held it together for so long, stitched his life into a tight, neat tapestry, trying to make something good of himself. Something worthy.

And in a single afternoon, it had been ripped apart.

Of course it had.

Of course the universe would take joy from him the moment it dared to bloom in his chest. It always had. That had been the lesson from the start. He was a Malfoy. A former Death Eater. A symbol of every wrong choice he'd ever made. People like him didn’t get healing. Didn’t get love. Didn’t get redemption.

They got nights like this.

They got silence and shame and ruined things.

They got punishment.

And as Draco slowly pushed off the wall and began walking again—toward the Hospital Wing, toward Pomfrey, toward whatever consequences lay ahead—he clung to one thought: He hadn’t deserved this.

But he didn’t know if anyone would believe him.

Least of all himself.

“Malfoy?”

The voice was soft, uncertain, but unmistakable. Draco lifted his head on instinct alone—too drained to mask anything, too raw to retreat behind his usual mask. Hermione Granger stood a few paces away, her brow drawn in concern, books clutched loosely to her chest. She wasn’t with Potter or Weasley, thank Merlin. Her gaze swept over him quickly, registering the disheveled clothing, the bruised cheekbone, the haunted look in his eyes.

“You look like you’ve been in a scuffle,” she said gently, her steps slow but sure as she approached. “Are you all right?”

Her hand rose, almost instinctively, as though she meant to touch his arm—but Draco recoiled before she could. His body jerked away from her reach like he’d been stung, his coat pulled tight around him with white-knuckled fists.

Hermione froze, startled by the reaction. “Malfoy,” she said again, this time her voice a notch quieter, less about asking and more about anchoring. “What happened?”

He opened his mouth, but no sound came. He tried again, and again his voice caught—shredded against the raw edge of his throat. A single tear escaped, and then another, hot and fast, tracking down the curve of his cheek before he could stop them. His breath hitched violently.

Hermione’s eyes widened in disbelief. She’d never seen Draco Malfoy cry.

Not during the war. Not after the trials.

“Where’s Harry?” she asked softly, careful not to crowd him.

Just the name—Harry—struck something inside him like a match to dry parchment.

The last of his composure crumbled. A ragged sob tore from his throat as he slid down the wall, collapsing in a heap on the cold stone floor. He curled in on himself, shaking hands hiding his face as grief and shame poured out of him in uncontrollable waves.

Hermione didn’t speak. She sank down beside him, her movements slow and unthreatening. She didn’t reach out—not yet. Instead, she stayed still, letting her presence speak for her.

But up close, she saw more.

The faint sheen of sweat at his hairline. The sickly pallor. The way he kept flinching every few breaths like some deep ache had taken root in his bones.

And then she saw it.

A bruise—deep and purpling, blooming across the delicate skin just below his jaw, half-hidden beneath the collar of his coat. Her stomach twisted.

“Do you need the Hospital Wing?” she asked, her voice barely more than a breath.

Draco didn’t answer. Couldn’t. But his body sagged forward, like something inside him had simply… given up. That was answer enough. Hermione rose and carefully reached for him. “Come on,” she murmured, her arm sliding gently beneath his to guide him upright. She didn’t rush. She didn’t ask again. She simply offered steady support, guiding him through the emptying corridors with all the care of someone shepherding broken glass.

She said nothing about the way he leaned into her more with every step.

Nothing about the tremble in his knees or the tear tracks on his face.

Nothing about how he kept his eyes glued to the floor like he couldn’t bear to see the world looking back at him.

But in her head, questions roared.

Who had done this to him?

Why wasn’t Harry with him?

And how could someone like Draco—proud, sharp-tongued, self-contained Draco—be this shattered? It couldn’t have just been a fight. This wasn’t the aftermath of a row. This wasn’t a bruised ego or harsh words.

This was devastation.

This was someone who had been hurt.

And Harry’s absence—his deafening, gaping absence—gnawed at her like a splinter in her mind. Where the hell was he?

When they reached the Hospital Wing, the heavy wooden doors creaked open, their sound swallowed quickly by the hush inside. The soft clink of potion vials from the back room ceased, followed by the brisk footsteps of Madam Pomfrey returning to her desk. She looked up—and stilled.

Her gaze landed on Draco.

One glance at his pallor, the disheveled state of his clothing, the smudge of a bruise just visible beneath the edge of his collar—and the lines around her mouth tightened.

“Oh, dear,” she breathed. “Sit, Mr. Malfoy. Now.”

Her tone was firm, but not unkind.

Draco didn’t argue. He lowered himself onto the nearest bed like a marionette with cut strings, his shoulders bowed, hands curled tight in the folds of his coat. It was the kind of obedience born not of fear, but of sheer, overwhelming fatigue.

Hermione lingered near the door, close enough to help if needed but far enough to give him space. Her chest felt tight. Her fingers twitched with the urge to step forward, to ask more questions, to fill the silence with something—anything—but she stayed quiet.

Madam Pomfrey approached the bed, murmuring something too low for Hermione to hear. Draco leaned forward, his voice barely audible, lips barely moving. But whatever he whispered made the matron pause. Her eyes flicked briefly toward the storeroom shelves—then she nodded once and disappeared behind them, leaving Draco slumped alone beneath the sterile glow of the sconces.

Hermione stepped forward. “Draco?”

His name sounded strange on her lips.

He didn’t lift his head.

She tried again, more gently this time. “Do you want me to find Harry for you?”

Draco flinched—just barely—but it was enough. A tremor passed through his frame. His hands, still clutching his coat, tightened. He shook his head once, fast and jerky.

“N-no,” he whispered, voice raw and frayed. “Don’t. Please… Just… get Theo. Please.”

Hermione blinked, caught off guard. “Of course,” she said at once. “I’ll go now.”

She turned just as Madam Pomfrey returned from the shelves. In one hand was a warm compress wrapped in a soft cloth. In the other, a small glass vial, stoppered and glowing faintly crimson in the light.

Hermione’s eyes fixed on it.

The color. The thickness. The unmistakable hue.

Emergency Contraceptive.

Her breath caught.

And suddenly everything—the bruises, the flinches, Draco’s silence, the haunted look in his eyes—slotted together with a clarity that made her knees weak. She didn’t say a word. Didn’t let herself dwell.

There would be time later for shock. Time for tears.

For now, she turned and left, her footsteps echoing faster down the corridor as urgency surged beneath her ribs like a second heartbeat.

She didn’t know the full story.

She refused—refused—to believe Harry had done this.

But someone had.

xxxxx

Hermione burst into the eighth-year common room like a gale, chest heaving, curls half-tumbled from the loose braid she’d tied that morning. Her eyes swept the space in a panic, scanning the clusters of students spread across armchairs and study tables, until she found him.

Theo Nott—flamboyant as ever—was currently draped across Neville Longbottom’s lap in what looked like a wholly one-sided flirtation. The alpha sat rigid as a board, red-faced and clearly flustered while Theo traced idle patterns along the seam of his jumper, murmuring something that had Neville stammering.

“Theo!” Hermione called out, stumbling to a stop in front of them, flushed and breathless.

Both boys turned toward her, startled.

Theo raised a brow, sitting up slightly. “Shit, Granger, you look like you just ran a marathon. Did a first-year hex your shoes?”

“Hermione?” Neville asked, brows drawn in concern. “Is something wrong?”

She didn’t waste a second. “Theo—Draco—needs you. Now.”

Whatever teasing lilt Theo had been wearing vanished in an instant. His whole body snapped to attention, every trace of languid mischief gone.

“What happened?” he demanded, rising so quickly that Neville nearly toppled backward.

“He’s in the Hospital Wing,” Hermione said through gasps, already reaching for his wrist. “Something’s… wrong. I don’t know the full story, but you have to come. He asked for you.”

Theo didn’t need more.

He yanked free of her grip—not in protest, but to move faster—and was already halfway to the door before she caught her breath. Hermione followed, legs aching as they pounded through the corridors, Theo easily pulling ahead with long strides fueled by worry.

He didn’t look back.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t dare imagine what state Draco must be in to send for him.

But as the wind rushed past and the castle blurred around them, Theo’s expression hardened, jaw set with singular focus. Whoever had hurt Draco Malfoy was going to pay.

When Hermione returned to the Hospital Wing with Theo at her side, the shift in atmosphere was immediate and chilling. The overhead sconces had been dimmed, casting long, uneven shadows across the ward. The usual sterile scent of healing potions was tinged now with something sharper—like tension laced with antiseptic. A hush had fallen over the room, the kind of silence that pressed against the skin, that made every breath feel too loud.

Draco had been moved to the bed furthest from the door, tucked into the back corner as if to shield him from view. Headmistress McGonagall stood stiffly at the foot of his bed, hands clasped tightly in front of her, her mouth drawn in a hard, unforgiving line. The expression on her face was one Hermione had only seen during the darkest days of the war—when the stakes were highest and the pain unavoidable.

Madam Pomfrey was bent over Draco’s form, her sleeves pushed up to her elbows as she smoothed a pale, shimmering salve across the exposed skin of his chest. Her usual gentle clucking was gone; she moved with focused precision, her face grim.

Theo halted just inside the threshold.

His breath hitched sharply beside Hermione, and she followed his gaze—then froze. Draco’s shirt hung open, pushed to the sides to give access to his wounds. The marks stood out stark against his pale skin: bruises blooming across his collarbones, deep crescent indentations around his biceps—finger-shaped, unmistakable. But it was the bite marks that stole Hermione’s breath. Angry, raw, and deep—too deep—lining the delicate skin of his neck and shoulders. No softness. No passion. These were the marks of violence, not desire.

Then she saw it—the bruise darkening along his throat. Not a hickey. Not a lovebite.

Someone had held him forcibly down by the neck.

Her stomach turned.

Theo stepped forward, voice a hoarse whisper. “Draco…”

But Draco didn’t move. Didn’t look at him. His eyes were distant, vacant, fixed on a point far beyond the bed, beyond the room. His fingers gripped the edge of the blanket tightly, white-knuckled and shaking. It was the only part of him still tethered to the present.

Hermione took an instinctive step forward—then stopped. McGonagall’s gaze swept toward her, sharp and unreadable.

“Miss Granger,” the Headmistress said evenly, her voice like tempered steel. “Thank you for bringing Mr. Nott. You may return to your common room.”

The dismissal was polite, but final.

Hermione nodded slowly, swallowing the knot rising in her throat. She didn’t argue. She didn’t ask questions. There was no space for that now. Only stillness. Only damage. She lingered a moment longer, eyes flicking to Draco’s motionless form. He hadn’t looked at her once. She thought they were friends—after everything this year had thrown at them, after the long hours of studying together, of sharing a love of reading. But this wasn’t about friendship.

Theo knew him better.

Theo was an omega. He would understand.

Hermione was a beta. And suddenly that felt like a chasm. Like she was on the outside of something she would never fully understand—something deeper than pain, deeper than fear.

She gave one last glance toward Draco.

He looked carved out, like someone who had been hollowed with a blade and left to bleed in silence.

Hermione turned without a word. The door closed softly behind her.

And the silence that remained was deeper than before.

xxxxx

With a firm swish of her wand, Headmistress McGonagall cast a locking charm on the door, the click echoing ominously in the quiet Hospital Wing. A soft hum followed as she layered a Muffliato over the room, a veil of soundproofing to ensure absolute privacy. Whatever was said in this space would remain within its walls. She turned to the young man seated on the bed—pale, trembling, but holding himself with a threadbare dignity.

“When you are ready, Mr. Malfoy,” McGonagall said gently.

Draco stared down at his hands, clenched into the thin white bedsheets like he might fall apart if he let go. The tremor in his fingers betrayed the storm behind his composed mask. Shame clung to his skin like a second layer, his stomach churning with humiliation, grief, and fury. His body ached in places he didn’t want to acknowledge. His soul ached worse.

He swallowed hard. The words clawed at his throat, but he would not be silenced. Not anymore.

“I was raped.”

His voice was quiet, hoarse, but it cut through the room like a blade.

The silence that followed was complete.

Madam Pomfrey gasped softly, covering her mouth with a trembling hand, her eyes filling with tears.

Theo looked as though he’d been punched. His face drained of color before twisting into something guttural and fierce—rage and helpless sorrow contorting his expression.

McGonagall didn’t blink. But her shoulders stiffened, and her eyes, behind their spectacles, darkened with fury.

“Can you name the culprit, Mr. Malfoy?” she asked, her voice composed, but not cold. There was compassion buried beneath the authority.

Draco’s jaw tightened, his lips trembling with restrained emotion. The rage in his chest flared hotter, fueled by the fuzzy image of Flint’s smug face, the heavy weight of his body, the cruel smirk Harry must’ve seen when he burst in.

“Marcus Flint,” he ground out.

McGonagall gave a stiff nod, her mouth thinning into a hard line. “Poppy,” she turned to the matron, “has he already been given the—”

“Yes, Minerva,” Pomfrey interrupted quietly. “The moment he arrived. I administered the contraceptive and began healing the external wounds.”

“Good,” McGonagall replied, her voice strained. She returned her focus to Draco, who had not looked up. “Mr. Malfoy, I know this is difficult for you, but I will need you to tell us everything you can recall. Any detail, no matter how small, may help.”

Draco closed his eyes briefly, gathering himself. His voice shook, but he spoke clearly, anchoring himself to the memory—what little of it he had.

“I received a note,” he began. “I thought it was from Harry. Said to meet at the Three Broomsticks. I went, of course I did...” His hands twisted in the sheets. “He wasn’t there and I thought I just arrived before him. I ordered tea, Darjeeling, and sat down at a booth in the front, it was next to a window. My tea arrived and when I poured it into the cup it didn’t smell the way it should.”

“What did the tea smell like?” McGonagall asked.

“It smelled like Harry. Petrichor, vetiver, and immortelle. Then suddenly Flint was there. Sat down without asking. He began spouting nonsense about needing to accept my role as an omega, and that it was only a matter of time before my mother accepted his bride price. I then took a sip of my tea and noticed it tasted strange. I started feeling... slow. Like I was moving through water. After that, everything’s a blur. Just flashes.”

He paused, eyes distant.

“The next thing I remember clearly—is Harry. Standing over me. Looking... horrified. I was in a room at the Hog’s Head. Naked and covered in wounds. I don’t know how I got there. I didn’t... I don’t remember anything in between until that moment.”

Madam Pomfrey scribbled his words furiously into her chart, her lips pressed tight to keep from crying. Theo stood frozen at Draco’s side, his fingers twitching like he didn’t know whether to comfort or rage.

“And how did Mr. Potter know where to find you?” McGonagall asked.

“I…don’t know. He was just there and then…he left.” Draco said, his voice trembling.

McGonagall exhaled through her nose. “Thank you, Mr. Malfoy. You’ve been very brave. I will need to contact the Aurors immediately. And I’m afraid your mother must be informed.”

Draco flinched at that but nodded. “I understand,” he said quietly, even though his insides shriveled at the thought. Narcissa would be devastated. Furious. And he hated that this was how she would find out. He wanted nothing more than to curl up and disappear. To vanish into a void where none of this had ever happened.

But if Flint was arrested—if there was justice, even just a sliver—then maybe it would be worth enduring.

Still, justice wouldn’t mend what was broken.

It wouldn’t give him back what had been stolen.

Two Aurors arrived at the Hospital Wing less than two hours after Draco had shared his account with the Headmistress. Their dark robes bore the insignia of the DMLE, their expressions hard-edged with the practiced neutrality of those who’d seen too much—and still weren’t used to it.

Draco had already been exhausted before they even entered the room.

He sat upright in the hospital bed, still swaddled in the thin blanket Pomfrey had tucked around him earlier, shoulders tense and jaw clenched. He steeled himself as they began questioning him, parchment and quills at the ready.

He was made to recount everything again.

From the moment he received the note—its handwriting and wording—to his arrival at the Three Broomsticks. How Flint had sat down beside him without invitation. The off taste of the tea. The dizzying fog that clouded his thoughts. The fragments—blurry and disjointed—that came after. But they didn’t let him speak uninterrupted. The Aurors interjected constantly.

“Can you recount any familiar faces you saw at the Three Broomsticks?”

“Can you describe exactly how the tea smelled and tasted from how it should have?”

“Do you remember the expression on Flint’s face when he approached you?”

“Did he touch you at any point before you lost consciousness?”

Every question was like a needle under his skin. The words came slower the longer it went on. His throat ached. His body trembled. But he gave them what they wanted—every painful, humiliating detail he could recall. He offered it all, like pieces of himself chipped away and handed over. And at the end, when they asked if he would consent to a memory extraction, he nodded silently.

He didn’t care anymore.

He knew they would question Harry. They’d speak to Hermione. They’d dig through every corner of the truth until Flint was caught in the open, nowhere to run. If he didn’t confess, they’d use Veritaserum. If that failed, they'd extract his memories. Hell, they’d probably sic a Legilimens on him if they had one in the department.

Draco hoped they did. He hoped it hurt.

He hoped they will take him seriously despite knowing who he is and the crimes he had been acquitted of. He hoped his past did not delay a disgusting troll like Flint to roam free. He just wanted it all to end. And after it was over, he wanted to disappear. To dissolve into mist. To sleep and never wake.

When the Aurors were gone and McGonagall had finished her final notes, the room was quiet again. Theo remained behind, sitting silently in the chair beside Draco’s bed, not pressing for conversation, simply offering his presence.

Only then did Draco speak.

“Harry’s my soulmate,” he whispered, like the words physically hurt to admit.

Theo blinked, his brows furrowing. “If he’s your soulmate,” he said carefully, “then why do you sound like it’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to you?”

Draco turned his face away, jaw trembling, his mouth twisting as he tried to hold himself together. But the tears came anyway—hot and unrelenting.

“Because he… rejected me,” Draco choked. “I felt it, Theo. I felt the bond break.”

The words shattered something in the air.

Draco curled in on himself, arms wrapping tightly around his thin frame as the sobs overtook him. There was nothing quiet or elegant about them. They tore from his throat like they were being ripped from his chest. Theo’s eyes filled with tears as well. He understood in a way only another omega could. Rejection from an alpha, especially with one that you had a deep connection with, wasn’t just emotional—it was biological. Instinctual. It echoed in every nerve ending. To be denied by a soulmate was a slow, agonizing death.

Theo stood and moved without hesitation, climbing onto the bed beside Draco. He gathered him close, holding his trembling body with all the warmth and strength he could offer.

“I’m so sorry,” Theo whispered, voice breaking.

They clung to each other in silence. Two omegas, caught in the wreckage of something meant to be sacred. The brunette sat quietly at Draco’s bedside, his arms still loosely around his best friend, whose sobs had quieted into hollow silence. The room was dim, the only light coming from the floating orbs Madame Pomfrey always kept hovering near her patient charts. Shadows curled along the edges of the hospital wing like ghosts.

But it was the fury building in Theo’s chest that truly consumed him.

A storm was forming behind his eyes—hot, unrelenting. He couldn’t stop thinking about Harry. Like everyone else, Theo had believed Harry Potter was madly in love with Draco Malfoy. The way he looked at him, the way his scent always softened around Draco, the quiet little gestures of care—tea mugs charmed warm for longer, scarves wrapped tighter around pale throats, fingers brushing against each other as they passed quills in class. It was unmistakable.

They were soulmates, for Merlin’s sake. Theo had known long before anyone else that they were meant for each other. The signs were all there. He even had visions of them back in fourth-year, holding each other and laughing. He just wished his ability to see glimpses of the future could also help him see possible danger.

Theo had envied them.

He had wanted what Draco had. A devoted alpha. A once-in-a-lifetime bond. A beautiful, fated love story…he thought of Neville…And yes, he’d flirted with Harry in the beginning. Shamelessly, even. Testing boundaries, curious to see if Potter was as unattainable as everyone said. But the moment he realized Harry only had eyes for Draco; Theo had backed off. They weren’t just smitten—they were tethered. Bound. Untouchable.

So what the hell happened?

Theo’s jaw clenched, and he stared blankly across the room, his expression hardening. He didn’t want to believe it—didn’t want to think Harry could be like other alphas. Those who chased omegas for the thrill, who discarded them the moment the bond got real, too real. But something didn’t add up. Something felt off. It had since Hermione had come to find him, breathless and pale, saying Draco was in the Hospital Wing and had asked for him—not Harry.

Not his alpha.

Even she had looked confused, troubled. There’d been an unspoken question in her eyes. A crack in the perfect picture everyone had believed in.

Harry wasn’t there when Draco needed him most. Why?

Theo inhaled through his nose, the scent of antiseptic and healing salves making his stomach twist. He didn’t know the full story yet—he only knew Draco’s side—but he would. He’d dig if he had to. Talk to Hermione. Ask around. Something wasn’t right, and Theo was no longer willing to give Harry the benefit of the doubt just because he had a lightning scar and a famous name.

But that could wait.

Right now, Draco needed him. Not an investigator. Not a crusader.

Just a friend.

Theo looked down at the sleeping omega beside him, tear tracks still glistening faintly on Draco’s cheeks. He reached out and gently brushed a lock of pale hair off his forehead, voice low and steady.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “I swear I won’t let anyone hurt you again.”

And he meant it.

xxxxx

Harry felt like he was rotting from the inside out.

Every thought, every memory twisted like a knife in his gut. The guilt was unbearable, but so was the fury. He paced the length of his unused dormitory like a caged beast, fists clenched at his sides, jaw aching from how hard he ground his teeth.

How could Draco do this to him? How could he?

The image of Marcus Flint—Flint, of all people—pinning Draco down, his brutish hand wrapped around that pale, delicate throat, flashed unbidden into Harry’s mind, and he gagged. The bile climbed fast, bitter and hot, and he barely made it to the basin before vomiting. He wiped his mouth with a trembling hand, breathing hard. The revulsion wasn’t just from the visual—it was from the sickening thought that Draco had chosen this. That he had gone behind Harry’s back for… for that troll.

But then the memory shifted. The way Draco had lain on that filthy mattress—limp, unseeing, his body slack and still. His eyes had been glassy, unfocused, like he wasn’t even there. And then the moment Harry had cast the counter-curse—clarity. Draco had blinked as if waking from a nightmare, his voice hoarse and confused.

Something had been wrong. Deeply wrong.

The Aurors had summoned him to recount his version of events. He’d sat stiff-backed in the chair inside an empty classroom, hands clenched on his knees as he told them everything he could remember. McGonagall had been present, as was her duty, listening quietly

He explained about the notes—how he’d found letters tucked into Draco’s bag, including a folded piece of parchment from Marcus Flint asking Draco to meet him in Hogsmeade. He told them about how he’d followed the trail to the Hog’s Head, about the moment he burst into the room and saw that—saw Flint atop Draco, who didn’t move, didn’t fight, didn’t speak.

Harry had admitted to stunning Flint on sight.

What he didn’t share—couldn’t share—was the full truth. That Ron was the one who “found” the letters, orchestrated the confrontation out of some twisted sense of loyalty. Because to Harry, Ron hadn’t been there. Ron hadn’t stopped to talk to him. Ron hadn’t been the one to show him the letters. Ron wasn’t the one who said he saw Draco leaving for Hogsmeade. Ron wasn’t the one who suggested they check the Hog’s Head.

Because Harry didn’t recall Ron being part of that day.

The Aurors hadn’t pressed. They nodded, scribbled their notes, and—like everyone else—trusted the word of the Savior.

But Harry’s mind wasn’t at rest. Not in the slightest.

Because when he tried to remember what happened next—after the curse, after the confrontation—his memory grew foggy. There were blank spots, flashes of motion without sound or weight. He remembered standing there, staring down at Draco's bruised, still form. Remembered his own breathing, sharp and ragged, and then—nothing.

He didn’t remember leaving.

Didn’t remember how he got back to Hogwarts.

Just the ghost of Draco’s stunned, broken expression lingered in his mind.

And that truth—the one he was slowly beginning to admit to himself—was that Draco hadn’t betrayed him. He’d been violated.

Drugged.

Used.

Raped.

Harry curled in on himself, hunched over on the edge of his bed, gripping his head in his hands as a migraine pounded behind his eyes. He had left Draco. Had stood there in horror and disgust—and walked away.

He wanted to go to the Hospital Wing. Every cell in his body screamed at him to go, to see Draco, to make sure he was alive and safe and breathing. But every time he got up, that image returned—Marcus Flint’s hand on Draco’s throat as he violated the omega, the bruises, the blood, the raw sound of silence in the room before the curse hit.

“Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater.” he heard Ron’s voice say in his head. Or was it his voice?

It made Harry’s stomach lurch again.

He didn’t deserve to see Draco.

He wasn’t sure he ever would again.

Yet, something about today just didn’t feel right.

There was a hollow echo beneath Harry’s skin, like something had been ripped away and he hadn’t noticed until now. A gnawing emptiness pulsed behind his ribs. He couldn’t put his finger on what exactly was wrong—but he knew something was. Something vital was missing. Every time he tried to trace the memory back—piece together what led to this gnawing ache in his chest—his thoughts slipped sideways. The moment he reached too deep, a piercing ring began to buzz in his ear, swelling louder until it drowned out everything else. Then came the migraine—white-hot and skull-splitting—making him wince and retreat from his own mind.

He gave up trying.

Harry slumped to the floor at the foot of his bed, arms limp, legs sprawled. It felt foreign, even though it was his. The bed had gathered dust over the months—unused, unloved—because he'd spent nearly every night curled against Draco. Wrapped around him. Home had been Draco’s scent, the warmth of his body pressed against Harry’s chest, his quiet breaths tickling the hollow of Harry’s throat.

Now… now it was all gone.

His chest caved inward under the weight of grief, and he folded in on himself, head hanging between his knees as silent sobs tore through him. It hurt. Everything hurt. The doubts, the guilt, the rage, the unbearable sorrow—they crushed him from every direction until he was nothing but a shell.

He didn’t hear the door creak open. Didn’t sense the footsteps.

“Harry?”

The voice was cautious; familiar. But Harry didn’t move. He didn’t want to be seen like this—crumbling, broken, barely holding on.

“Harry, mate…” The voice came closer, gentler. “What happened?”

Ron.

Harry refused to look at him. He curled tighter, wiping his nose on the back of his sleeve as he sniffled. The wetness on his cheeks had long since dried and returned, a never-ending cycle of pain.

“Does it have something to do with Malfoy? Did you guys fight?”

Harry didn’t answer at first. He had no desire to confide in Ron—not after what had happened between them. Their falling out over Draco had been brutal. And yet… something in him loosened. Maybe it was the way Ron’s voice didn’t carry that usual judgment. Maybe it was because, for the first time in months, he just wanted his best friend again.

“It’s over between me and Draco,” he finally said, his voice rough and hollow.

Ron’s expression flickered—but Harry didn’t catch it. He didn’t see the glint of satisfaction in Ron’s eyes, nor the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth before Ron masked it with something resembling sympathy.

“I’m sorry, mate,” Ron said as he sat down beside him. “I know I’m the last person you’d want to hear that from. But... despite what I believed about Malfoy and his intentions, I know you were really happy with him. While it lasted.”

While it lasted.

The phrase struck Harry like a slap. It felt oddly surgical. Detached. Like something you’d say about a dream that was never real in the first place. The words echoed in his head, stuck on loop. It was a strange thing to say to someone whose heart had just been shattered. But stranger still was the warmth of his old friend sitting next to him. The absence of cruelty, the way their shoulders brushed lightly as they sat there in silence. For once, they weren’t arguing. They weren’t exchanging barbs or bitterness.

It was almost... peaceful.

Harry closed his eyes and breathed. And for just a moment, he let himself pretend everything wasn’t falling apart.

But deep down he knew something wasn’t right.

Not right at all.

Something vital was missing.

xxxxx

Draco remained in the Hospital Wing for the remaining days leading up to the Spring Equinox break. In that time, his absence became a haunting echo in every corner of Harry’s world. The empty desk in Potions. The missing scoff in the Great Hall whenever someone said something idiotic. And most of all—at night, when Harry lay alone in bed. Not their bed. His bed. The one he hadn’t used for months. His trunk full of his belongings sat at the foot of the bed and it twisted something in his gut.

Without Draco beside him, the nightmares returned with a vengeance. But they had changed. No longer visions of war, death, and curses—no, now they were filled with the sound of Draco’s scream, with the image of his ashen face contorted in pain, of silvery hair matted to blood-soaked sheets. The worst part were the eyes—wide, empty, betrayed. Staring up at Harry like he’d been the one to plunge the knife.

Because maybe, in some way, he had.

Theo, Pansy, and Blaise no longer acknowledged Harry's presence. Theo, once playful and aloof, now looked at him with raw contempt. When Harry had made the mistake of asking about Draco, Theo had actually hissed—an inhuman, gutteral sound—and had to be restrained by Blaise. Harry had stumbled back, stunned. That sound had cut deeper than any hex.

Hermione’s efforts, usually so precise and effective, had wilted under the weight of what had happened. She offered lukewarm reassurances like, “He’s been through a lot. Maybe some space will help,” and avoided the subject of Draco entirely. Even Ron, awkward and shifting between his loyalty to Harry and his disdain for Draco, mostly kept his mouth shut for once. Neville was kind—but careful. He seemed to know better than to tread too closely, especially since Theo had evidently cut him off as well. Guilt by association.

But it was Blaise who delivered the final blow.

They had passed each other near the Library, and Blaise—ever the smooth talker, ever the diplomat—had paused only long enough to say, “I wasn’t there, so I can’t speak on anyone’s behalf. But if I had been in your place…” He paused, gaze cool and unreadable. “I wouldn’t have left my omega. Not for anything. It’s best you keep your distance, Potter—and wait for Draco to reach out to you.”

Harry hadn’t said a word. Just stood there, feeling himself slowly shrink into something small and hollow.

Harry had lost track of how many times he’d tried to get through the Hospital Wing doors. The first time, he’d approached in a daze, fists clenched at his sides, heart pounding with the weight of betrayal and fear. But the moment he stepped close, a shimmering pulse of magic rippled through the air—and the ward rejected him like poison.

He’d tried again. And again. And again.

Each time, he was repelled—sometimes gently, sometimes violently. On the fourth attempt, the barrier flared without warning and sent him flying backwards, his body thudding against the cold stone floor like a ragdoll. He lay there for several seconds, winded, pain radiating through his shoulder, staring up at the enchanted ceiling and wondering why.

Why Draco wouldn’t let him in.

When desperation set in, Harry turned to his cloak. If the wards repelled him, maybe they wouldn’t sense what they couldn’t see. That night, under the cover of darkness and invisibility, he crept silently through the castle corridors, pulse racing with the thrill of hope. But the moment he crossed the Hospital Wing threshold, the ward flared like a trap. He was thrown back so violently that his cloak slipped from his shoulders, and he landed hard on his arse, dazed and breathless, sprawled like some idiot student who hadn’t learned his lesson.

Still, he refused to give up.

He wrote letters—pleas, apologies, confessions—and charmed them with delicate folding charms so they’d slip neatly under the heavy oak doors. He even spelled them to hum softly with his voice: “Draco, please talk to me.” “I just want to understand.” “I miss you.”

But the parchment never returned, and no answer ever came.

Once, in a haze of exhaustion, he’d dozed off while camping outside the wing entirely. Slumped against the wall with his knees tucked to his chest, wand in hand, waiting like some pathetic guard dog. Madam Pomfrey found him the next morning and scolded him so thoroughly that even Snape would have blanched. She ordered him away with a pointed glare and a muttered locking spell.

He hadn’t been back since—but only because he didn’t want to risk making it worse.

He was losing his mind.

His fury—the righteous anger he’d tried to cling to—had crumbled into confusion. Grief. He was supposed to be furious at Draco for lying.

Had he lied?

Was it all a lie?

And yet, none of that fury could hold when the aching silence stretched on, when he pictured Draco curled up behind those warded doors, refusing to let him in.

The unanswered question echoed louder every day: Why?

Why wouldn’t his omega see him?

Had he gone too far by walking away in Draco’s clear time of need?

Why was that day such a painful, migraine inducing blur?

The thoughts spiraled like dark smoke inside his chest, threatening to choke him. And still, every night, his eyes drifted to the ceiling, hoping for an answer that wouldn’t come.

The Daily Prophet had at least brought a sliver of justice. Marcus Flint had been arrested and charged with premeditated drugging, kidnapping, and rape of an unnamed omega student. The article never named Draco, but it didn’t need to. Everyone knew. It should’ve been front-page news. It wasn’t. But knowing Flint was going to Azkaban for what he did—finally—offered Harry a thread of comfort.

A thread that snapped each time he remembered the broken look on Draco’s face.

The alpha inside Harry raged against the walls of his skin, frantic with guilt and helplessness. He paced at night. He couldn’t eat. His memories of that day—the moment everything shattered—remained fragmented and distorted. Every time he tried to remember clearly, a shrill ringing invaded his ears, and a blinding migraine took him down. He would see flashes—blood, Draco laying expressionless, a scent of wrongness thick in the air—but no continuity. Just disjointed horror.

Something was wrong with his memories. Something had gone terribly, terribly wrong. And yet the crushing guilt refused to let go. He had made a mistake. A terrible one. Of that he was sure.

When spring holiday arrived, he overheard Theo whisper to Pansy that Draco would be leaving Hogwarts. Harry made his way to Hogsmeade Station early, clutching to the hope that maybe—maybe—Draco would be among the crowd of students. He stood by the edge of the platform, scanning the sea of heads as they filtered onto the train. Gryffindors, Ravenclaws, Hufflepuffs, even a few Slytherins—but no sign of him.

The whistle blew. The train began to pull away, its engine huffing smoke into the air.

Harry stood frozen in place, heart sinking like a stone.

Maybe… maybe he stayed behind.

Driven by desperate hope, Harry took off, sprinting back up the castle path, lungs burning. The cold March wind whipped past him as he reached the main grounds—

And there he was.

A figure stood near the outer edge of the wards, pale hair glinting in the fading afternoon light. Draco. A trunk beside him. And at his side, the house-elf Poppi, holding out her hand.

Harry didn’t hesitate.

“Draco!” he yelled, voice cracking. “Draco, wait—please!”

Draco paused.

Poppi turned slowly, fixing Harry with a look of utter loathing. Her thin lips curled in disgust. Then she gripped Draco’s hand tightly, and with a sharp crack, they vanished.

Gone.

Harry stumbled to a halt, gasping for breath as the silence roared in his ears. His knees gave out. He dropped onto the cold, wet grass, body trembling, heart splintering into pieces too sharp to hold.

“No…” The word was a whisper, then a sob.

He curled in on himself, hands clutching at his hair, forehead pressed to the earth. Tears streamed down his face as the weight of it all crushed him from the inside.

He had failed.

He had lost Draco.

And worst of all, he still didn’t know how.

xxxxx

The final blow to Harry’s already-splintered heart came the next morning with the arrival of the post. A single, elegant envelope, heavier than the rest, landed in his lap with a soft thud. His blood ran cold.

The Malfoy crest was pressed into the deep red wax seal.

His heart stuttered, breath catching in his throat. For a fleeting, desperate second, he thought it was from Draco—finally, finally a reply. Maybe something soft. Maybe something angry. Maybe anything. He tore the envelope open with trembling fingers.

But the first line filled him with ice.

Mr. Potter,

In light of recent developments, consider this the official revocation of your bride price bid for my son.

The rest of the letter was written in the same elegant, measured hand. But every word carried a razor’s edge, her quiet fury slicing through the parchment with surgical precision. There was no shouting. No dramatic condemnation. Just cold, controlled disappointment. Harry would have preferred a howler. Would have welcomed a scream—anything but this dignified execution. He sat in stunned silence, the letter falling to his lap. His vision blurred with unshed tears.

During the week-long break, Harry had written to Draco every single day.

He sent letters through owl post and firecalls through the floo network—anything to reach him. Every word had been a plea, a confession, an apology. He had poured his heart into the parchment, telling Draco how sorry he was, how badly he wanted a chance to explain, to talk, to just hear him. To see him. He ended each one the same way: I love you. More than anything. Please write back.

But Draco never did.

Not even a returned letter. Not a single word.

And when classes resumed, the absence was glaring. Draco still hadn’t returned.

The chair beside Harry in Advanced Charms Ron. The space at the table in the Great Hall where Draco used to sit, always cross-legged with a cup of tea in hand, remained empty. The spot beside the fire in the common room—the one where Harry would find him reading, curled into himself like a cat—was now just a cold cushion occupied by someone else.

Days passed. A week.

Then two.

Then a month.

Then Harry broke.

He made his way through the common room, heart in his throat, legs stiff with tension. His eyes scanned until they found them—Theo and Pansy—seated in the far corner. They looked up when he approached, their conversation dying instantly.

“Please,” Harry said, his voice hoarse. “I just want to know if he’s all right.”

Theo didn’t even blink.

“Fuck off, Potter.” His voice was ice; venom laced through every word.

Pansy flinched but didn’t stop him right away.

“Theo, stop,” she said softly, placing a calming hand on his arm. Her gaze lifted to Harry, gentler but still wary. “Just—let him speak.”

Harry looked between them with hollow desperation, his hands trembling slightly at his sides. “Please, I’m begging you,” he whispered, the words nearly catching in his throat. “I’ve written letters, I’ve tried the floo—I just want to know if he’s okay. Please.”

Pansy opened her mouth, beginning, “He’s fin—”

But Theo suddenly surged to his feet.

“Fuck off, Potter!” he bellowed.

The entire common room went dead silent.

Harry froze.

“How dare you ask about him?” Theo’s voice cracked with fury, his eyes wild with unshed tears. “HOW DARE YOU?! He gave you everything—everything!—and you just spit on your relationship like it meant nothing the second another alpha touched him!”

“Theo—” Pansy tried again, but he was too far gone.

“You broke him, Potter!” Theo shouted, finger jabbing toward Harry like a curse. “He trusted you—he loved you—and you left him like he was dirty! Like he was less because someone hurt him! Violated him!” His voice fractured, and the first tear spilled down his cheek. “He will never come back from what you did to him!” he screamed, voice cracking. “So fuck you. FUCK YOU TO HELL! AND MAY THE FOUNDERS ALL SPIT ON YOUR GRAVE!”

Harry stood frozen, mouth agape, his body immobile as Pansy took Theo by the hand and gently, carefully guided the distraught boy upstairs to her dorm.

The common room remained silent, as if the air had been vacuumed out of the space.

Harry didn’t look at anyone.

He simply turned and left through the porthole, the door closing behind him with a soft click. His legs carried him blindly down the corridor. The torches along the walls blurred. Blood roared in his ears. His chest ached with every breath.

Theo’s words echoed again and again in his mind: You broke him. You left him. He will never come back from what you did.

Harry stumbled against a cold stone statue near the corridor junction and slid down to the floor, gasping. His breath came in short, sharp bursts, the edges of his vision narrowing. His body trembled uncontrollably, and he clutched at his chest as though trying to rip the guilt out of himself. He curled in on himself, forehead to his knees, a shuddering wreck of sobs and silence.

The despair swallowed him whole.

Because Theo was right.

He had broken Draco.

And now there was nothing left but silence.

And shame.

The world around Harry had collapsed into a suffocating void of soundless despair. His arms hugged his knees as close to his chest as possible, breath ragged and uneven as he curled into himself against the base of the statue. His fingers tugged helplessly at his hair, jaw clenched to hold back the raw sobs threatening to erupt again. His chest felt hollow, his ribs aching under the crushing weight of guilt and heartbreak.

He didn't hear the footsteps at first—quiet, composed, the soft click of polished dragonhide shoes echoing faintly through the corridor.

They stopped just inches in front of him.

“Draco’s not coming back, Potter.”

The voice was smooth, quiet, but without warmth. Blaise Zabini. Calm and cold as still water. Harry jerked his head up, bleary-eyed and hollow, blinking as if trying to process the words through a thick fog.

“He got permission to finish his schooling by correspondence,” Blaise continued. “Won’t be setting foot in this castle again.”

The finality in his tone struck harder than the words themselves. Harry’s mouth opened, but no sound emerged—his throat was raw and dry, like he’d swallowed broken glass. Then, with a sudden thwack, something hard smacked the stone, echoing in the empty corridor.

Harry flinched.

He looked down.

A thick book lay sprawled at his feet. The cover was a deep navy, gold lettering embossed along the spine and title: “Bonded and Bound: Navigating Alpha/Omega Pairings, Biology, and Mating Instincts in the Modern Age”

Harry stared at it numbly.

Blaise’s voice cut in again, low and pointed.

“Granger mentioned something about you needing to educate yourself on bonds and dynamics. Thought I’d help.” His tone was clipped, impassive. “I suggest you get started.”

There was no cruelty in his voice, but no kindness either—just a quiet, unyielding wall. Then Blaise turned, his robes whispering around his ankles as he strode back toward the eighth-year common room without so much as a backward glance.

Harry remained where he was, staring at the book as if it might open itself and tell him how to fix everything. But there were no answers, no miracles—just paper and ink and an ache that no words could reach. He reached down, picked up the book with shaking hands, and held it to his chest like a lifeline.

You broke him. You left him. He will never come back from what you did.

“It’s all my fault.”

Chapter Text

Harry unraveled slowly, quietly, like a thread pulled loose that no one noticed until half the fabric was gone. When Blaise told him that Draco would not be returning to Hogwarts, it felt as though something inside him cracked. Final. Irrevocable.

He didn’t speak much after that.

Most days he moved through the castle like a ghost, haunting the corridors with listless steps and hollow eyes. The laughter of students, the low murmur of conversation in the Great Hall, even the distant echo of Peeves causing havoc—all of it washed over him like static. He was there, but not really. Just… existing.

The nightmares came back with a vengeance.

They started as they always had—flashes of war, screams in the dark, spells flying past his ears. But now, they always twisted into something worse. Draco was there now. Every time. Naked, covered in blood, eyes wide and grey with terror. He would cry out for Harry, beg him to help. And Harry, rooted in place by invisible chains, could only watch.

He’d wake up drenched in sweat, his heart punching hard against his ribs. Sometimes he’d be shaking so badly that he couldn’t stand, couldn’t breathe. Ron would always appear, somehow. Rubbing slow circles into his back, murmuring soft, placating things like, "It’s alright, mate. You’re safe. It’s just a dream."

Harry would nod into Ron’s shoulder, grateful in some small way—but it was never enough. He wanted Draco. Only Draco. And that was something Ron could never be.

Eventually, he stopped trying to sleep at all. He started avoiding bedtime like it was cursed.

He turned to potions instead.

A vial of Dreamless Sleep became a nightly ritual, chased with a Calming Draught every morning to keep the ache in his chest from splitting him open before breakfast. The haze those brews offered dulled his emotions, turned the sharp, jagged agony into something muted—but it also numbed him. His world faded into greys. He stopped flying. Quit the Quidditch team to everyone’s disappointment. He skipped meals. Some days, he didn’t get out of bed until well past noon.

Professors noticed. Hermione noticed. Even Ron tried to pull him out of it with talk of International Quidditch matches, weekend trips to Hogsmeade, a round of wizard’s chess, or a particularly nasty duel in Defense class. But Harry barely responded. A shrug. A grunt. A shake of the head.

He was drowning, and the truth was—he let it happen.

Because it was his fault.

He had looked Draco in the eye and ended it. Threw everything away in a single breath. He hadn’t even given the omega a chance to explain. And now he was alone. Broken. Every beat of his heart throbbed with the ache of that mistake.

He wrote to Draco.

Daily.

Pages filled with apologies, regrets, half-formed thoughts that never sounded right once they were written. He told Draco he was sorry, that he missed him, that he couldn’t breathe without him. That Hogwarts felt like a tomb now, and he was the body buried inside.

But Draco never wrote back.

Still, Harry kept writing.

Maybe Draco was reading them. Maybe not.

But that hope—that tiny, flickering thing—was all Harry had left.

He and Ron had never truly talked about what happened. No clearing of the air, no cathartic shouting match or tearful reconciliation. Just a slow, uneasy truce born from necessity—something that slotted into place like a jagged piece in a puzzle that didn’t quite fit but was close enough to be left alone.

Ron had become a constant fixture in Harry’s life after Draco disappeared from it. He hovered—always nearby, never intrusive, never demanding. He brought Harry tea when he skipped meals, dropped by to walk him to class, left notes on his bedside table reminding him to not overdose on his potions. He was steady, attentive, and altogether too present.

At first, Hermione thought nothing of it. Ron was trying, and Harry was clearly unraveling. She had told herself Ron was simply being kind, quietly stepping up in a time of grief. But as the final weeks of the school year ticked by, she started to notice the edges fraying beneath Ron’s polished surface. He was too careful. His tone too soft. He watched Harry the way someone watches a lit fuse—closely, constantly, like he was waiting for something to blow. And when Draco’s name came up, Ron’s jaw would tighten a fraction too long. His voice would falter. Not obviously. Just enough for someone like Hermione to notice.

It didn’t sit right.

Neither did the memory—vivid and certain—of seeing Harry and Ron leave the castle together that day. She had watched them disappear down the path to Hogsmeade, their figures small against the snowy hills. But when she brought it up later, Harry had blinked at her like she’d spoken in Parseltongue.

“I was alone,” he insisted, his voice hollow. “I didn’t want anyone with me.”

The pain in his expression was raw, but there was something else—something distant, foggy. Like he genuinely believed it.

That bothered Hermione more than she cared to admit.

She’d mentioned it to the Aurors when they had questioned her that day. Told them, quite plainly, that Ron had followed Harry to Hogsmeade. But they never brought Ron in for questioning. Not once. And when she confronted Ron herself, he smiled too calmly and said, “You must’ve seen wrong, Hermione. I stayed behind. Harry went alone to find Malfoy.”

She hadn’t believed him.

And the way the case was handled by the DMLE made her stomach twist. She was relieved when Marcus Flint was sentenced to Azkaban—grateful that someone so vile would never harm anyone again—but the speed with which the case had been closed… the hush that followed… it all felt orchestrated. Neat. Too neat.

The media had treated Draco’s case like another statistic of violence against omegas.

No one had asked how he was doing. If he was safe. If he needed help.

Society had gotten its villain. That was enough, apparently.

Hermione knew it wasn’t.

She’d written Draco several times—quiet, gentle letters filled with mundane things. News about classes, the weather, what she and Neville were growing in the greenhouse. How Luna was convinced that the beehives were housing more than just the bees. She’d avoided mentioning Harry altogether, knowing instinctively that it would only deepen wounds not yet scabbed over.

Draco never replied.

Still, she refused to stop. She made a list of books—light ones, clever ones, stories she thought might give him a moment’s breath—and passed it to Pansy in the corridor between classes.

“I’m not your messenger, Granger,” Pansy said, taking the list anyway. There was no heat behind her words.

“I know,” Hermione said gently. “I just… I don’t think he’ll write me back. But I want to help. Even if it’s small.”

Pansy looked down at the list, fingers tightening on the parchment. Her mouth twisted, and for a moment she looked older—tired, worn down by worry.

“You’re not the only one he hasn’t been writing back to,” she said quietly. “Blaise and I—we’ve sent owls, letters, even charmed books with little notes. Nothing. He only writes to Theo, and even then, Theo burns the letters after reading them. Says it’s what Draco wants.”

A sheen of tears gathered in her eyes before she quickly blinked them away. Hermione, moved by something fierce and aching, stepped forward and pulled the other girl into a hug. Pansy stiffened for a moment, then melted, sagging into the embrace.

“We’ll keep bothering him,” Hermione murmured against her shoulder. “And eventually… he’ll get the message.”

Pansy nodded, voice small. “That he’s not alone.”

“That he still has friends,” Hermione said, holding on tighter.

Hermione did her best to maintain a sense of normalcy as the N.E.W.T.s loomed like thunderclouds on the horizon. She kept a tight schedule, color-coded study charts, and rotating revision groups. She even duplicated her notes for Harry—meticulously organized summaries of every lecture and reading—even though he rarely showed up to class anymore. She didn’t want her best friend to fail. But she also couldn’t let her own grades suffer, not when they were so close to the finish line.

The others tried, in their own ways, to reach Harry too.

Ginny visited the eighth-year common room often, pulling Harry into gentle conversations and urging him to come home with her for the summer. She kept her voice soft but steady, always invoking family—the warmth of the Burrow, the smell of Molly’s cooking, the safety of his old room. She didn’t say it outright, but Hermione could see the worry darkening her eyes every time she looked at the half-empty vials on Harry’s nightstand.

“He’s starting to depend on them too much,” Ginny murmured one evening, when Harry was out cold on the sofa, a Dreamless Sleep bottle tipped over in his hand. “This isn’t healing. This is hiding.”

Luna never mentioned Draco. Or the glassy look in Harry’s eyes. Or the way his shoulders had started to curve inward, as though he were trying to collapse into himself. Instead, she would simply sit beside him and read aloud from The Quibbler, her dreamy voice floating through the air like a charm meant to ward off grief. She didn't seem to mind his silence. She never did.

Neville, bless him, took a more direct approach. Quietly, carefully, he had started swapping out some of Harry’s potions with harmless herbal placebos—just enough to wean him off. Infusions of skullcap and passionflower tinctures. Mild teas laced with calming valerian instead of potion-grade sedatives.

It might have worked. If Ron hadn’t caught him.

“You could have killed him!” Ron snarled, storming into their shared dormitory and shoving Neville back against the wall.

“They were harmless replacements!” Neville shouted, red-faced, trying to keep his footing. “I was helping him—he’s addicted, Ron!”

“Addicted? He’s hurting!” Ron’s face was flushed with fury. “You don’t get to play healer, Longbottom. He doesn’t need your bloody herb garden—he needs peace.”

When Harry entered Ron told him what Neville had done, Harry just blinked. No anger. No outburst. Just a hollow kind of acceptance, like he had already run out of energy to feel anything at all.

“Just stop,” Harry said quietly, his voice barely audible over the rain tapping against the windowpane. “I just… I need my head to be quiet, Neville.”

Ron looked at him, frowning. “Harry, you don’t have to explain anything to him—”

But Harry wasn’t listening. His eyes stared ahead, unfocused. His breath hitched, shallow and sharp, like he was trying to hold back another rising wave of panic.

“It’s hard enough,” Harry whispered, curling his hands tightly at his sides. “I don’t... I don’t want to feel it anymore. I just can’t... not without him.”

“I was only trying to help, harry.” Neville said.

“Like you would know what he’s going through!” Ron yelled, shoving Neville out of the dorm room.

Hermione heard the shouting from down the corridor. She wasn’t the only one. Half the eighth-year class paused to listen as Neville stumbled backward out of the dormitory, nearly tripping over his robes.

The door slammed shut behind him.

It was then Hermione understood. Ron wasn’t just hovering.

He was enabling.

And Harry—Harry was slipping away.

xxxxx

Ron was all too pleased with how things had unfolded.

Draco Malfoy was gone.

And in his place, Ron had seamlessly stepped into the void—unassuming, ever-present, the picture of loyalty. The perfect friend. The one who never left Harry’s side.

He played the part masterfully.

Whenever Harry’s hands trembled, Ron was already there with a vial. Dreamless Sleep when the nightmares crept in. Calming Draughts when the panic made Harry curl into himself. He made it easy—never asked for anything in return. Just offered comfort. Stability. Quiet devotion. When Harry couldn’t breathe, Ron was there with soothing words, a hand steady on his back, thumb brushing softly at the nape of his neck. He’d learned exactly what to say, how to speak in the softest tones so Harry would trust him, lean on him. Need him.

He memorized Harry’s patterns, his silences. The way his eyes would unfocus after the potions took hold. How his breathing evened out just before the shivers stopped. That’s when Ron would slip beneath the covers, slow and silent. Careful. He would cradle Harry like something precious. Let his fingers brush through tangled black curls. Press his mouth, featherlight, to Harry’s temple, his jaw, his parted lips. Whisper things Harry would never remember. Confessions meant for dreams.

“You don’t need anyone else,” he murmured one night, lips brushing against the shell of Harry’s ear. “Not him. Not anyone.”

Ron had become a constant. He was the one who brought Harry food when he forgot to eat, the one who sat by his bed with a quiet book while Harry slept through another day. The one who pulled him from the grip of another nightmare, over and over again.

He made himself indispensable.

Because Ron Weasley was a good friend. A true Gryffindor. Brave. Loyal. Devoted.

And Harry Potter was his.

He had always been his. Since that first ride on the Hogwarts Express. Since the first laugh they’d shared. Since every moment they'd spent saving each other’s lives. And now, finally, the one person who had stood in the way—who had wormed his way too close to Harry’s heart—was gone. Cast out. Forgotten. Just a scar on the edge of memory.

Ron had made sure of that.

He nestled closer, Harry’s breath soft and slow against his chest, potion-heavy sleep keeping him still. Ron pressed a kiss to the curve of Harry’s throat, just above where a claiming mark would one day go.

“I love you, Harry,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion.

And Harry didn’t stir.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t say a word.

But in Ron’s mind, that silence was everything.

It meant Harry didn’t say no.

xxxxx

Harry barely scraped by with his N.E.W.T.s, managing only the bare minimum in most subjects. The once-promising Boy Who Lived—the golden symbol of hope—had become a husk of the wizard he used to be. His magic still responded to him, but weakly, as if even it had begun to mirror the withering of his spirit. His depression had settled like a second skin, a heavy, suffocating weight draped over his shoulders. It dulled his senses, pulled at his bones, and made every breath feel like penance.

When summer came, he didn’t go to the Burrow.

Instead, he went to Wiltshire.

He stood outside the grand wrought-iron gates of Malfoy Manor, his trainers caked in dust, his wand forgotten in his pocket. The Manor loomed in the distance like a monolith of memory and guilt, untouched by time or sorrow.

“Draco!” Harry shouted, voice cracking with desperation. “Draco, please! Just come out. Let me talk to you. Please!”

He called for hours. Until his voice rasped, until his throat burned raw and tears streaked through the grime on his cheeks. The sun dipped behind the hills, and still, he remained—leaning on the gate like a penitent, broken figure carved from regret.

The first night, he slept on the cold earth beneath the shadow of the gate, curled into himself, dreaming of stormcloud eyes and trembling lips whispering his name.

The second day, he tried again, his voice hoarse and barely audible now. “Please, Draco. I didn’t mean it. I swear I didn’t mean it. Just let me explain. I’ll do anything—anything.”

He stayed there for three days and two nights, no food or water, running only on the fire of guilt that crackled in his chest.

And then finally—footsteps.

Someone was approaching from the Manor.

Harry scrambled upright, heart thundering in his chest, hope blooming too fast, too recklessly. He wiped at his swollen eyes and took a shaky breath, bracing for the sight of Draco.

But it wasn’t him.

It was Narcissa.

She emerged with the same poise and grace Harry remembered, her pale robes fluttering like silk ghosts around her ankles. She stopped a few meters from the gate, cool blue eyes assessing him as though he were something wilting on the roadside.

For a heartbeat, Harry couldn’t speak.

Then—

“Please,” he croaked, his fingers gripping the iron bars as though they were the only thing holding him up. “Please… let me talk to him. I didn’t mean what I said that night. I didn’t know—I didn’t understand. Please. Just a minute. One minute.”

His voice cracked, tears returning as he sank to his knees, hands white-knuckled around the gate. He knew how pathetic he looked. He didn’t care. He would have crawled if it would’ve brought Draco back to him.

“I’ll do anything,” he whispered, brokenly. “I’ll take Veritaserum, I’ll give you my memories—extract every second of that day from my head if you want. I just… I need him to hear me.”

Narcissa’s face remained a mask of noble detachment, her chin lifted in that regal way she had perfected all her life. But something shifted in her eyes—something old and sad and tired.

“I thought my letter was clear, Mr. Potter,” she said evenly. “Your bid for the bride-price has been rescinded. You no longer have a place here.”

Harry flinched as if she’d struck him.

“I know I failed him,” he whispered, voice trembling. “I know I broke my promise. I should’ve protected him… and I didn’t. I left him alone and he—he paid the price. I live with that guilt every day. It eats me alive.”

He pressed his forehead to the bars, feverish skin against the cool iron.

“Please,” he begged again. “Just let me fix it. Let me try. Let me tell him I still—”

But Narcissa turned.

Her silken voice, cool as mountain snow, cut him off.

“Go home, Mr. Potter. I will not tell you again.”

She walked away without looking back, her figure retreating with slow, measured steps down the gravel path. Harry scrambled to his feet, hands still gripping the gate, slamming his palms against the metal as he shouted after her.

“Wait! Please! Mrs. Malfoy! Don’t walk away! Please—please just let me see him!”

His cries shattered the silence, but no light flickered in the manor’s windows. No door opened. No familiar voice called back. Only the echo of his sobs filled the Wiltshire air, mingling with the rustle of wind in the hedges and the heavy weight of silence. He slid back down to the ground, defeated, pressing his face into his hands.

He didn’t leave.

He couldn’t.

Not when there was still the smallest hope that Draco might come. That he might look out from one of those tall windows, or walk the gravel path with reluctant steps, just to see if Harry was truly still out there—waiting. Harry sat slumped against the iron gate, his legs pulled up, his arms wrapped around his knees. The ground beneath him was cold and rough, tiny stones biting through the thin fabric of his trousers. His throat ached from crying, from shouting Draco’s name into a silence that never answered. His lips were dry and cracked. Hunger clawed at his belly, thirst parched his tongue, and still—none of it hurt as much as the hollow ache in his chest.

He would risk death if it meant seeing Draco one last time.

He deserved to die, didn’t he?

He thought of that day, over and over again—like a blade turning in his gut. How he’d turned his back, how he’d said the one thing that had destroyed everything between them.

“Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater.”

Those words...those words hadn’t been his. But they came out of his mouth like someone had been speaking through him. However, they had stuck like barbs in the air between them, slicing through something fragile and sacred. And now, Harry would give anything—his wand, his magic, his name—just to take them back.

The sun had dipped low hours ago, casting the Wiltshire hills into shadow. Night had come, veiled in the hum of crickets and the scent of dew settling over the earth. Harry’s eyes fluttered closed, feverish and unfocused. His skin burned from exposure, and his body trembled from the cold damp seeping into his bones. So when the soft crunch of footsteps echoed from the gravel beyond the gates, he almost thought he’d imagined it.

But then—

“Go home, Potter.”

The voice, quiet and sharp as flint, sliced through the night like a whip. Harry’s eyes flew open. He scrambled up from the ground, gripping the bars of the gate with shaking hands as he turned toward the voice.

There he was.

Draco.

Standing just beyond the iron gate, illuminated faintly by the moonlight, wrapped in a thick robe against the night chill. His platinum hair was longer, falling past his cheekbones, and though he looked thinner—haunted even—he was still the most heartbreakingly beautiful thing Harry had ever seen.

“Draco,” Harry croaked, his voice nothing more than a rasp of broken glass. “Draco, you came. You—thank Merlin—you came. Please, please, I’m so sorry. I’m so—”

But the words died in his throat. Literally.

He felt the spell settle over him like a curtain being pulled shut.

Silencio.

Draco stood with his wand still raised, his expression unreadable—calm and cold in that way Harry had once mistaken for arrogance. Now he knew it was armor. Harry reached for him with trembling fingers, pressed them through the bars, trying to say something—anything—but his voice was gone. He was a mime of his own guilt.

Draco’s eyes met his.

Gone was the gleam of clever defiance, the wicked curl of his lips, the heat of their arguments. Now his gaze was dull and sunken, his skin pale with exhaustion, his cheeks hollow from weeks of grief. But his tears—those were real. Silent and steady, slipping down his cheeks like rain.

“I came to tell you this myself,” Draco said, voice low and thick with restraint. “So you’d hear it. So there’d be no doubt.”

He drew in a shaky breath.

“Go home, Potter. I never want to see you again.”

Harry froze, the words like a sword to his heart. His knees buckled, and he collapsed to the gravel with a thud, pain flaring in his shins and palms where the sharp stones bit into his skin. But he didn’t feel it—not really.

He looked up, lips moving, mouthing his name—Draco, please.

But the spell still held. And Draco’s gaze was impenetrable.

Then, without another word, the omega turned sharply on his heel. A single heartbeat later, with a crack of displaced air, he disapparated into the night.

Harry remained there, frozen on his knees, as the last trace of Draco’s presence vanished. And for the first time, a thought whispered in his mind—soft, but deadly in its finality.

What’s the point?

What was the point of surviving war, of defeating darkness, of living through hell—if the one thing he’d fought for, the one person he’d loved beyond reason, hated him? The silence around him pressed in. And Harry Potter, Savior of the Wizarding World, broke. Quietly. Utterly.

Alone.

xxxxx

Harry had vanished into the shadows of Grimmauld Place, pulling the decaying curtains of his inheritated prison tight against the world outside. He shut everyone out. The potion use—which had once been a means to silence the screaming inside his head—was no longer enough. Now, he chased every Dreamless Sleep draught with a glass of firewhisky, and every Calming Draught with something stronger, something darker.

It dulled everything: the ache in his chest, the guilt that rotted his insides, the crushing silence left in Draco’s wake. If misery was what he deserved, then this slow, self-inflicted rot suited him perfectly. Every time he blacked out, sprawled over the threadbare sofa or slumped beneath the grimy windowsill, he prayed it would be the last time. But it never was.

He always woke up.

Head pounding. Throat scorched. Mouth coated in bitterness. A heartbeat that throbbed in his skull like a punishment. Another day of disappointment.

Letters came. Dozens of them. Folded parchment sealed with familiar handwriting—Hermione’s neat, tidy script. Ron’s jagged scrawl. Even Luna’s dreamy loops. They piled in a dusty corner of the drawing room, unopened and ignored. Sometimes Hermione or Ron would come in person. Their knock would go unanswered. Their voices echoing through the house like ghosts. Occasionally, Hermione’s patience would wear thin, and she’d override the wards and force her way in.

But the worst had been Ginny.

She’d come alone.

She found him passed out in the front hall, collapsed in a puddle of his own vomit, pale as parchment, limbs twitching in fevered sleep. For one agonizing moment, she thought he was dead. Her scream had rattled the portraits awake.

Kreacher stood nearby, stone-faced and unmoving.

“He told me not to help him,” the elf had said, wringing his hands, guilt and enchantment warring in his eyes.

She had begged him, voice breaking, to please—please keep him alive. Even if Harry didn’t want it. Then, with shaking hands, Ginny levitated him upstairs, cleaned the mess, and cast a stinging hex to wake him. He came to with a jolt, groaning in pain before his bloodshot eyes found her.

“Get out,” he rasped. “I said get the fuck out!”

His voice was hoarse and cracked, but the fury in it was sharp. Ginny didn’t argue. She knew the signs. She had seen the same spiral in her brother George—the rage, the guilt, the slow fade of a soul trying to drink itself into oblivion. She left, but not for long.

A few hours later, she returned—this time with Hermione, Ron, and Neville in tow.

The intervention was explosive.

Harry had screamed at them, voice rising to a raw crescendo as he hurled empty bottles at the walls and cursed them all. When Hermione tried to disarm him, the wards flared in violent defense of their master’s wishes and hurled all four of them out the front door in a flash of blue-white light. They landed in a heap on the front stoop, dazed and bruised.

“Bloody hell,” Ron groaned, pushing himself upright and cradling his shoulder.

“This is worse than we thought,” Neville said grimly, brushing dirt from his shirt. “He’s not just upset. He’s drowning.”

“He’s in pain,” Hermione whispered, rising to her feet and glancing up at the house. “He’s been in pain since Draco... since everything.”

“How do we help someone who doesn’t want help?” Ginny asked, her voice small and trembling.

“We don’t abandon him,” Hermione said firmly. “Not now. Not when he’s like this. We rotate—take turns checking in, make sure he’s still breathing, eating something… not—” her voice cracked “—not dying.”

The others nodded. Even Ron, who looked unusually pale, agreed without protest.

They had all faced war before, but this? This was a different kind of battlefield.

And the one person who had always saved them… now needed saving most.

That summer, each of them—Hermione, Neville, Ginny, and even Ron—took turns checking in on Harry. They rotated shifts like an unofficial guard rotation, each one carrying the weight of concern and helplessness in different ways.

Hermione, ever the planner, had cleverly enchanted the Floo connection in Grimmauld Place to remain open to them, regardless of how many wards Harry tried to erect. She doubted he’d notice anyway—not in the state he was in. The Dreamless Sleep, the Calming Draughts, the sobering vials, the occasional unmarked flask of something darker... Harry was too far gone most days to craft even a simple counter-ward.

Neville had managed to earn Kreacher’s cooperation—barely. With the elf’s cautious aid, he replaced Harry’s stockpile of potions with milder herbal substitutes, ones that might help ease his dependency without sending him spiraling into withdrawal. It worked for less than a week.

Harry’s body rebelled. His temper flared. Withdrawal twisted him inside out.

When he began sourcing stronger potions—likely black-market batches from Knockturn Alley with toxic additives—Neville panicked. He had no idea how Harry was getting them, but it was clear the rot had reached deeper than any of them realized.

Ginny approached the matter like a storm. She made certain Harry’s icebox and pantry remained stocked, even if it meant dragging bags of groceries through the Floo herself. She cleaned, cooked, and fought. Fought him with tears in her eyes and fire on her tongue.

“You’re drinking yourself to death!” she screamed at him one afternoon, after finding another half-empty bottle of firewhisky tossed under the sofa.

“So what?” Harry slurred back, glassy-eyed and staggering. “Maybe that’s the point.”

When he nearly hurled the bottle at her head in blind frustration, Ginny disarmed him mid-throw with a flick of her wand and left the bottle to shatter against the wall. “You don’t get to die, Potter,” she hissed. “You don’t get to leave us like that.”

Hermione’s approach was less emotional—but far more forceful.

She no longer asked. She acted.

The moment she stepped through the Floo and found him unwashed, unshaven, and sprawled on the stairs with a flask in one hand and a vial of potion in the other, she’d had enough. She cast an Incarcerous without hesitation, binding him to the armchair with magical rope and forcing a Sober-Up Potion between his lips with the practiced ease of someone who had done this before.

“You’re going to eat,” she snapped, summoning the nearest plate Kreacher had left on the kitchen counter and floating it over. “And then you’re going to shower. And then you’re going to fucking listen to me.”

Harry thrashed against the bonds, rage flaring like wildfire. “You don’t understand! You don’t get it! I’m supposed to suffer!” he shouted hoarsely. “This is what I deserve!”

His voice cracked as he fought the potion’s effects, the flush of alcohol draining from his cheeks, leaving him pale and hollow.

“I let him get hurt,” he whispered. “I let him be taken. I broke him. I broke our bond. Just let me die.”

Tears burned her eyes but Hermione didn’t let go. “You are not beyond saving,” she said quietly. “But you have to want it, too.”

Harry didn’t answer.

But he didn’t scream again either.

Ron’s approach was the opposite of the others.

When the others grew tired or worried, when Ginny raged and Hermione lectured, when Neville shook his head with quiet disappointment—Ron remained. He made himself indispensable in Harry’s spiraling world. Always nearby, always watchful. Always just helpful enough not to draw suspicion. Ron yearned for Harry to plummet to the depths of despair, only so he could position himself as the hero who rescued the hero.

He’d taken to restocking the potions Neville tried so hard to replace—bringing stronger brews in hidden flasks, mixing them in under the guise of “what Harry actually needed.” The alcohol was easy to smuggle in. Easier still to hand it over with a concerned look and a whispered, “Just enough to take the edge off, mate.”

Ron told himself he was helping. That no one else really understood what Harry needed. In the quiet moments, when Harry was slumped on the sofa or stumbling toward the stairs, Ron would catch him before he could fall. He’d haul Harry up, half-carrying him to the bath, stripping off the ruined clothes and murmuring soft nothings about how it would all be okay. That he’d take care of him. That he’d always take care of him.

He washed Harry with careful hands—slow and deliberate, letting his fingers map every scar and hollow like a cartographer sketching sacred ground. His gaze lingered, worshipping the planes of Harry’s body. Every time Harry shivered, Ron convinced himself it meant something more. Something fated. Once clean, he’d dry him gently and guide him to bed, with covers already pulled back. Then he’d lock the door behind them—not to keep Harry in, but to keep everyone else out. Especially Kreacher, who had grown increasingly suspicious.

Ron would administer an extra dose of Draught of Living Death, watching as Harry's features slackened into a peaceful slumber. He would kneel beside the bed, watching Harry sleep, brushing damp strands of hair off his brow. Sometimes he’d whisper to him, low and fervent: “You don’t need anyone else, Harry. You never did. You’ve got me. I’ll never leave you.”

Harry never responded. He was far too gone, too deep in the haze of Dreamless Sleep and whatever else dulled his senses. But Ron didn’t mind. He preferred Harry pliant and silent, easier to mold into what he wanted.

The savior of the wizarding world, broken and hurting—his, now.

Rising up from where he knelt, Ron would press a gentle kiss to Harry's lips, a whispered promise of his devotion. He would then slowly divest himself of his own clothing, the cool air of the room prickling his bare skin as he climbed atop Harry's prone form. What had begun as furtive glances and self-gratification while watching Harry sleep had morphed into something far darker and more consuming.

Ron's breath would hitch as he took Harry's length in his hand, coaxing it to life with practiced strokes. A low moan would escape Harry's parted lips, a sound that sent a shiver of desire coursing through Ron's veins. With a murmured incantation, Ron would slick Harry's cock with a lubricating charm, his heart pounding like a drum in his chest as he lowered himself onto it. Pain lanced through him, his brows drawing together in a grimace as he bore down, taking Harry into him inch by agonizing inch. A soft cry escaped his lips, quickly muffled by his own hand, his eyes darting to Harry's face to ensure he remained lost in dreams.

A bitter jealousy gnawed at Ron's heart as he thought of Draco Malfoy, the omega who had once lain with Harry. He swiftly banished the thought, replacing it with the fervent belief that he, and he alone, deserved Harry's love.

With quivering thighs, Ron raised himself up, then sank back down with a groan that spoke of both pleasure and pain. He repeated the motion, again and again, until the initial burn and sting faded and ecstasy took its place. His body moved with fluid grace, riding Harry with an urgency that bordered on desperation. Sweat beaded on Ron's forehead, his hand working his own length in time with his movements. With a guttural moan, he reached his climax, ropes of pearlescent fluid painting Harry's chest and stomach. He watched, his breath coming in ragged gasps, as Harry's features contorted in sleep, a soft flush spreading up his neck and face.

As Harry's release pulsed hot and insistent within him, Ron felt a profound sense of satisfaction. He carefully lifted himself off, leaning down to capture Harry's lips in a deep, lingering kiss.

"I’ll make sure you forget all about him," Ron whispered, the words trembling on his breath like a secret he’d been waiting his whole life to speak. "You’ll see, Harry. You’ll see that I’m the one who’s always been here. I’ll be everything you’ll ever want... everything you’ll ever need."

The vow hung in the air, weightless and heavy all at once—like fog curling in around them, clinging to the edges of what was real and what was delusion. Ron’s fingers brushed against Harry’s cheek in a tender imitation of affection. The alpha didn’t stir. Oblivious. Unaware. His breathing was slow, even, deep beneath layers of potion-induced sleep.

With a soft exhale, Ron slipped out of the bed, casting a quick scourgify over Harry, but leaving the evidence of Harry’s spend inside himself as he redressed. He then pulled the covers over Harry, tucking him in with care before kissing the alpha’s lips again.

He’s mine.

He just doesn’t know it yet.

xxxxx

It happened on a Tuesday evening—storm clouds pressed heavy against the sky, casting Grimmauld Place in an eerie gloom.

A glowing non-corporeal Patronus burst through the kitchen wall at the Burrow, Hermione’s breath catching as it delivered Neville’s urgent message. Ginny paled beside her, already grabbing for the floo powder. Ron was the first to step into the soot-streaked hearth, vanishing in a whirl of green flames.

When Hermione and Ginny arrived moments later, they found Ron frozen in the entryway to the sitting room. His face was pale, stunned.

The destruction was immediate and overwhelming. The once stately room had been torn apart—cushions shredded like confetti, heavy armchairs splintered into jagged limbs, every picture frame shattered, their glass teeth glinting ominously in the low light. The curtains hung half-torn, and debris and dust floated like ash in the air.

In the center of it all, Neville knelt on the blood-slick floor beside Harry. He was desperately pressing a rags—now crimson and dripping—against Harry’s forearms, his hands trembling. Harry sat slumped, barely upright, his shirt soaked in blood and sweat. He was crying. Broken, guttural sobs wrenched from his chest like something feral and wounded.

“Neville, what happened?” Hermione gasped, darting forward.

“Get more rags,” Neville barked, his voice high and panicked. “He’s lost too much blood!”

Ginny didn’t hesitate—she turned and sprinted for the kitchen.

Hermione dropped to her knees beside them, wand already in hand. Her eyes caught the jagged neck of a shattered Firewhiskey bottle lying nearby—its edges wet and dark. She kicked it away with a quick flick of her boot, then cast a hasty Vulnera Sanentur, the spell trembling in her throat. The wounds resisted. Deeper than she expected. The kind carved with intention. Ginny returned, breathless, arms full of clean cloths, and together she and Neville worked to wrap the gashes. Blood still seeped through.

Ron finally moved. He stepped forward slowly, his eyes locked on Harry, his expression calculated—carefully blank, but too neutral.

Harry’s head lolled, his skin pale and damp with fever-sweat. His lips moved, trembling. “I rejected him,” he whispered, voice slurred and raw. “I didn’t understand—I didn’t even know. I severed our bond. I didn’t mean to—but I killed him. I killed him, Hermione. And he was mine.”

Hermione’s throat closed around a sob.

Near Harry’s feet was a book, spine cracked, pages dog-eared with splotched of blood—Bonded and Bound. The evidence was there in black ink. The reality of what Harry had done. Of what he hadn’t known. Of what had broken him.

“It’s my fault,” Harry cried, his hands twisting in the bloodied rags. “It’s my fault, it’s my fault…”

Hermione’s heart ached. She crawled closer, cupping his tear-streaked face in both hands and forcing his watery green eyes to meet hers.

“That’s enough,” she said, voice firm but full of compassion. “Harry, listen to me. This—this isn’t the way. This is not the answer.”

He trembled, the scent of firewhiskey clinging to his breath, his clothes, his skin.

“You have to fight your way out of this, Harry,” she continued. “If you want to be the kind of alpha he deserves—if you want a second chance—you have to start by healing yourself. You can’t pour from an empty cup. You can’t fix what’s broken between you if you’re still breaking yourself.”

His breath hitched. “I—I don’t know how.”

Hermione brushed her thumbs along his cheekbones, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “That’s okay. We’ll show you. One step at a time.”

Neville gently squeezed Harry’s shoulder, still kneeling at his side. “It’s time to get clean, mate. Let us help you.”

“You’re not alone,” Ginny added, her voice steady, her eyes fierce. “You’ll never be alone.”

Harry didn’t reply. But for the first time in weeks, he nodded.

And so began the slow, agonizing ascent out of the abyss—a climb Harry didn’t think he had the strength to make, and yet, somehow, he did. The first stretch of his sobriety was hell. Withdrawal came in waves—nausea that gripped him at all hours, tremors that left him curled on the floor, cold sweats soaking through his sheets. His muscles ached as if he were being wrung out from the inside. His skin felt too tight, his nerves raw. There were moments when he begged for the pain to stop, tempted by the siren song of a single vial, a single sip.

But he endured.

Kreacher remained dutiful through it all, never leaving his side. The old elf prepared broths, administered potions (approved by both Hermione and Neville) that soothed without numbing, and watched over Harry with surprising tenderness. Gone was the bitter house-elf from years before; what remained was loyalty forged in shared grief and time.

At Hermione’s relentless insistence, Harry began seeing a licensed mind healer in London. The first few sessions were brutal. He would sit stiffly in the wing-backed chair, arms crossed like armor, jaw locked tight. The healer’s gentle questions would bounce off him like rain on stone.

But week by week, the silence unraveled.

First came anger—sharp and biting. Then grief—quiet, endless. Words spilled out, slowly at first. Stories. Memories. Pain. He spoke of the cupboard under the stairs, of meals missed and bruises ignored. Of growing up unloved and always bracing for the next cruel word. He talked about war. The cost of survival. The weight of being chosen and never choosing for himself.

Eventually, he spoke of Draco.

The first time, his voice cracked before the name left his lips. The second time, he said it with reverence. The third, with regret so heavy it nearly crushed him. He confessed to the mistake—the blindness, the damage done by his own ignorance. He admitted he hadn’t known what breaking a soulbond truly meant until it was too late. That he hadn’t even realized there was one forming until its absence hollowed him out from the inside.

He cried. Often. Sometimes silently. Sometimes until he couldn’t breathe.

There were relapses. Days when he couldn’t stand the echoing quiet of Grimmauld Place and reached, trembling, for the comfort of firewhiskey or the dull hum of a potion. And when he slipped, he started again. Over and over. Until, slowly, the relapses grew farther apart.

There were days when the nightmares came back so vividly that he couldn’t get out of bed—visions of Draco looking up at him, crying, bloody, and broken, always just out of reach. On those days, he withdrew. Sometimes for hours. Sometimes for days.

But he no longer suffered alone.

Hermione would send books or parchment with small notes of encouragement scrawled in her handwriting. Ginny would show up unannounced with a casserole made by Mrs. Weasley and no expectations. Neville wrote letters—oddly comforting, matter-of-fact updates about greenhouse renovations and about his growing collection of rare and dangerous flora.

And Harry wrote, too. He journaled at first—shaky, stilted lines that made little sense. Then letters to Draco, though he never sent them. He kept them in a box on his nightstand, locked with a charm only his magical signature can open. A collection of everything left unsaid.

Time passed.

But his world remained grey and colorless.

Meanwhile, Ron had gone on ahead—his application to the Auror Academy submitted within days of leaving Hogwarts, as though he couldn’t wait to escape. He’d been accepted, of course, disappearing into the rigid structure of training by the end of that summer. His letters were short and infrequent, mostly full of standard updates and proud recounts of drills and evaluations. But his presence in Harry’s life had faded, and strangely, Harry found relief in that absence.

Ron had become a shadow of unease during his lowest days—too attentive, too close, watching Harry with an intensity that now, in hindsight, made him shiver. With Ron gone, there was space again. To think. To breathe.

Harry hadn’t applied with him. Not yet. The thought of becoming an Auror—the very symbol of law and justice—felt like wearing robes far too big for someone still barely standing. He couldn’t imagine facing dark wizards again, not when he still woke drenched in sweat most nights, heart pounding with phantom pain, or when his fingers still itched for the numbing burn of a calming draught or the bite of firewhiskey.

Hermione, ever Hermione, had carved her own path forward with relentless precision. She’d secured an internship at the Ministry—of course—and had chosen to work under Percy Weasley in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement’s Magical Creatures Division. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was necessary, and she tackled it with fierce determination. Her letters were frequent at first—check-ins, questions, updates—but the visits dwindled. Life had begun to pull her elsewhere, and Harry understood.

Ginny had been drafted into the Holyhead Harpies, her name scrawled across the back of a jersey now, her days packed with rigorous training and travel. She wrote often, her handwriting loopy and bright, sometimes including a picture of the team or a candid shot of herself mid-flight. Her letters carried sunshine with them, even when Harry barely had the strength to reply. He kept them all in a shoebox near his bed.

But it was Neville who remained.

Always Neville.

Steady as stone, patient as the rain. He never pressed Harry to talk, never offered hollow reassurances. Instead, he welcomed Harry into his quiet little life like nothing had changed. His cottage, nestled in the countryside where Muggle roads turned to gravel paths, became a kind of sanctuary. The greenhouse behind Neville’s home was a marvel—glass and metal arching like the spine of some slumbering creature, filled with warm, fragrant air. There, amidst beds of flowering aconite, fluttering fairy orchids, and the quiet rustle of leaves, Harry could breathe.

Some days, he would sit for hours on the greenhouse bench, a steaming mug of herbal tea in hand, staring at the shifting patterns of light as the sun moved overhead. Neville worked nearby, dirt on his hands, humming low under his breath. Sometimes they spoke. More often, they didn’t. And it was in that silence that Harry found something close to peace. Not healing, not yet—but the first gentle hum of it. A sense that life might continue, even in pieces. Even with grief still shadowing his every step.

Neville never mentioned Theo—not around Harry, at least—but Harry knew. He saw it in the way Neville’s expression would flicker when someone said the name. The ache that lingered just beneath his quiet exterior. Whatever was between Neville and Theo was complicated, tangled with longing and hurt and everything that made love dangerous. Harry understood it too well.

Still, Neville stayed.

The late afternoon sunlight filtered through the panes of the greenhouse roof in soft, warm beams. Dust motes danced lazily in the air, catching in the light, while the scent of damp earth and crushed mint hung like a calming balm. The faint rustle of leaves and the gentle trickle of water from a nearby irrigation charm filled the silences between them. Harry sat on an overturned wooden crate beside Neville, his elbows braced against his knees, staring blankly at a pot of flowering starcap moss that glowed faintly in the shade.

“How are things between you and Theo?” Harry asked after a long silence, his voice quiet, careful.

Neville didn’t answer at first. He reached over and plucked a withering leaf from a vine curling along the bench beside him, turning it slowly between his fingers.

“It’s… complicated,” he said finally, his voice low and tired.

And that was all.

Harry didn’t press. He understood too well the weight of emotions that felt too tangled to untangle out loud. Instead, he nodded slowly and looked back down at the moss, watching its fronds pulse gently with bioluminescence.

Neville cleared his throat, glancing over. “How are you holding up with the sobriety?”

Harry exhaled through his nose, the sound soft and bitter.

“Not well,” he admitted. “I’m limited on taking potions for the nightmares. My body craves alcohol just to take the edge off. The lack of sleep is… eating me alive.”

Neville frowned, reaching for a small trowel and gently prodding at the soil in a nearby pot, more for the rhythm than the need.

“Has your appetite come back?” he asked without looking up.

“No,” Harry said quietly. “Mrs. Weasley still sends food, gods bless her, but it just sits there. I think Kreacher’s ready to strangle me for the waste.”

Neville huffed a faint laugh at that—more breath than humor—and finally looked up. The sunlight caught on the green of his eyes, tired and kind.

“I know it’s hard right now, Harry,” he said gently. “And I wish I knew what to say to give you some comfort, but nothing comes to mind.”

Harry gave him a wan smile, grateful despite everything.

Neville shrugged and set the trowel aside. “I suppose you could take up plant keeping,” he offered, voice a bit lighter. “It gives you something to do with your hands, and it’s hard to be too hopeless around something that insists on growing, even when everything else feels like it’s falling apart.”

Harry looked around the greenhouse—at the blooms, the life, the sheer green stubbornness of it all—and for the first time in days, let out a real breath.

“I’ll think about it,” he murmured.

And they sat like that a little longer—two men surrounded by things that kept growing, even when they couldn’t figure out how to do the same. Eventually, he brought a few plants home to Grimmauld Place—low-maintenance ones, sensible and soothing. Nothing dangerous like the venomous vines Neville liked to fuss over. Just a few sturdy ferns and sun-loving succulents to anchor him. To remind him life could still grow in forgotten places.

As the wheel of the year turned, bringing with it new seasons and a slow shift in the air, Harry came to a quiet realization: he was… better.

Not healed. Not whole. But better.

The grief hadn’t left—it still lived in him, deep and aching—but it no longer hollowed him out from the inside. He could breathe again without the weight of it pressing on his ribs. He could move through the days without needing a potion to get out of bed. He laughed sometimes, even if it felt strange on his tongue.

And with that clarity came something else—purpose.

At the gentle, persistent urging of his mind healer, Harry applied to the Auror Academy. It took him weeks to send the application, each day spent staring at the parchment like it might bite him. But eventually, with trembling fingers and a half-sick heart, he sent it off.

He didn’t tell anyone—not until the acceptance letter arrived, written in crisp official script with the Ministry’s seal.

His healer had been right. The training was brutal—long hours, sleepless drills, endless duels and tactical lectures—but Harry welcomed the rigor. He let the sweat and bruises scrub him clean. He embraced the ache in his muscles, the weight of structure and responsibility. It gave him something tangible to fight against. Something to build himself upon.

It reminded him of who he was, and who he needed to become.

By the end of the following year, Harry Potter stood tall among the ranks of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. An Auror. A protector. A fighter. Not a broken boy with bleeding wrists and too many regrets—but a man who had clawed his way out of the dark, step by painful step.

Still, the nights were harder.

When the lights were out and the silence crept in, Harry would lie awake in the stillness of his room, staring at the ceiling, his fingers curled loosely around the edge of the pillow. Sometimes, when the ache grew too sharp to ignore, he would whisper Draco’s name into the dark.

It was a breath, a prayer, a wound that never quite closed.

And when the memories surfaced—soft and golden or sharp and bloody—his eyes would burn with the weight of them. Hot tears would spill down his cheeks as he curled inward, muffling his sobs into the quiet of his sheets.

He didn’t know if he was too late.

But he hoped—Gods, he hoped—that someday, somehow, he might be forgiven.

And until then… he would keep fighting. For the world. For himself.

And for the boy he still loved.

xxxxx

Ten years had passed since that final, harrowing year at Hogwarts. In that time, Harry Potter had become a fixture at the DMLE—a seasoned Auror with a reputation for relentless dedication, haunted eyes, and a work ethic that often worried his colleagues. He buried himself in case files and nighttime patrols, chasing both criminals and ghosts with the same single-minded focus. The busier he stayed, the less room there was for his thoughts to wander into the echoing corridors of regret.

He never let it go quiet anymore. Silence, to Harry, had become synonymous with pain.

His relationship with Ron had mended—somewhat. Years of shared missions, debriefings, and proximity within the department had built a shaky bridge of camaraderie over the wreckage of their fractured past. They weren’t close like before. And Harry was grateful they weren’t partners—he wasn’t sure he could bear the constant scrutiny that would come from being under Ron’s gaze all day.

Still, they shared a weekly ritual: Thursday lunch in the Ministry cafeteria with Hermione.

Today was no different.

They gathered at their usual corner table beneath the portrait of Minister Everard, whose tight-lipped scowl surveyed the room like a disappointed headmaster. Around them, the clatter of silverware and the drone of low conversation filled the air. Ministry workers bustled between tables, while enchanted food trays floated to and from the kitchens with practiced ease.

Hermione sat ramrod straight, as always, slicing into her salad with neat, precise strokes. The modest engagement ring on her finger—Percy’s anniversary gift—caught the cafeteria’s dull light, throwing a brief sparkle across her parchment planner. Percy, methodical and safe, had been a surprise to everyone. Especially Ron.

His relationship with Hermione had never recovered after she began dating his older brother. These days, his civility toward her ran lukewarm at best. Still, he had surprised them both by giving them a gift for their engagement—a luxury spa retreat voucher delivered without fanfare.

But no one knew—no one had ever known—that Ron Weasley didn’t care a whit about Hermione’s engagement.

Because Ron had eyes only for Harry.

“How’s your illegal potion case going?” Hermione asked, her gaze flicking toward Harry as she set down her fork. “Any leads yet?”

Harry sighed, poking his fork into the leathery slab of chicken on his plate. “It’s a mess,” he said, voice low with frustration. “I’m starting to think it’s not just a single rogue brewer. There’s likely a network behind it—distribution’s too wide, too fast. St. Mungo’s is seeing more cases every week. No one’s talking. No one wants to be next.”

Hermione frowned, already shifting into analytical mode. “Have the labs at least identified the base components? Maybe that could narrow down the source?”

Harry leaned back with a shake of his head. “The potion's complex. There’s a masking agent in it, something that makes standard detection spells fail. Even the Unspeakables are baffled—and the labs are drowning in backlogged work. Most apothecaries in Knockturn and Diagon Alley claim they’ve never seen anything like it. And the ones who have—well, they know how to keep their mouths shut.”

She chewed her bottom lip, a habit she’d never outgrown. “What about Theo?” she asked finally, tentative. “He’s still has connections with potion toxicologists at the private wing of St. Mungo’s, right? He might have insight.”

At the mention of the name, Harry’s jaw tightened. “Theo refuses to speak to me. Still. Even when I’m there on official business, he won’t look me in the eye. Just signs off reports and walks away.”

A heavy silence followed.

“Can you blame him?” Ron muttered, arms crossed, tone flat. “He’s still a Slytherin. He probably still blames you for what happened.”

Harry didn’t answer.

Hermione broke the silence, her voice softer. “I could reach out. Not as a colleague—just as a friend. Theo and I still correspond occasionally. He’s got connections to a few independent brewers who specialize in off-registry formulations. Even if he won’t talk to you, maybe I can act as a go-between.”

Harry exhaled, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “It couldn’t hurt to try,” he said, his voice rough. “Let me know if he writes back.”

Hermione nodded, already making a note in her planner with a quick flick of her quill. They sat in silence for a while, the low hum of the cafeteria wrapping around them like background static. Harry stared down at his untouched food, appetite long since vanished. Ron said nothing, his eyes on Harry, unreadable. And across from them, Hermione flipped to a fresh page, her mind already working through how she would word the letter.

xxxxx

The clock above the Auror bullpen struck noon with a soft chime, its sound muffled by the usual bustle of the DMLE—quills scratching against parchment, boots echoing across the stone floor, clipped voices trading updates on ongoing investigations. The scent of ink, burnt coffee, and ozone from overworked spellcraft hung heavy in the air.

Harry didn’t look up. He sat hunched at his desk, bleary-eyed, thumbing absently through a mound of reports he’d already read twice. His third cup of coffee had gone stone-cold beside his elbow, but he hadn’t noticed. The shadows under his eyes were deep as bruises.

The door to his office creaked open.

Hermione’s presence slipped in without preamble, a quiet force of order in the organized chaos of the department. Her heels clicked softly across the polished stone as she approached. She said nothing at first—just placed a single folded parchment on top of the case file nearest his hand.

“You owe me for this favor,” she said, her voice calm but purposeful, a knowing glint in her eyes.

Harry blinked up at her, pulled from the fog of exhaustion, expecting perhaps a note from an archivist or a lead from one of her Ministry contacts. But when he unfolded the parchment, the name at the top carved straight through him like cursed steel.

Draco Malfoy

His heart stuttered. The name bled across the page like a wound. The air left his lungs in a rush, and for a moment the sounds of the DMLE fell away, drowned beneath a roaring silence.

He looked up at Hermione, voice low and strained. “Is this some kind of joke?”

Her expression didn’t waver. “It’s not a joke. Malfoy’s the leading authority on independent alchemical research in Britain—possibly Europe. He has patents on half a dozen reactive stabilization formulas and was just published in The International Journal of Applied Alchemy.”

Harry stared at her like she’d gone mad. “You know I can’t—Hermione, I haven’t seen him in—”

“I know,” she said, her voice gentler now. “But you also haven’t made a breakthrough in weeks. The potion in this case is something new, something dangerous. If you want real answers, you need real expertise. He’s the best there is.”

Harry shook his head. “He won’t want to see me.”

Hermione didn’t deny it. “He’s a professor now. Took over as Potions Master at Hogwarts after Slughorn retired two years ago. I’ve spoken to McGonagall. She said he’s open to consultation—if it’s tied to an official investigation.”

The note crinkled in Harry’s hands.

Hermione reached into her bag and slid over the sealed request for external collaboration, already signed by McGonagall and Kingsley. “All it needs is your signature.”

Before Harry could argue again, she turned and walked out, her footsteps brisk and decisive as she disappeared into the corridor, leaving the ghost of Draco Malfoy behind like the aftershock of a curse. Harry didn’t move. He sat frozen for what felt like an eternity, staring down at the name printed in clean, elegant script. Draco Malfoy.

The last time he’d seen that face, it had been shadowed by heartbreak. Draco’s voice had been cold with grief, eyes wet and shining hollow when he whispered, “Go home, Potter. I never want to see you again.”

Harry flinched at the memory.

He reached for the drawer on the left side of his desk and opened it. Nestled in a velvet-lined pouch was the small vial—the mystery potion found at the crime scene. Its contents shimmered faintly under the enchanted light, swirling with colors that defied classification.

It was their only lead. And no one—no one—had been able to decode it.

He stood slowly, joints stiff. The room spun briefly as he reached for his coat hanging on the back of the chair. He tucked the vial carefully into its protective case, slipping it into the inner pocket of his jacket. His fingers brushed against the folded parchment with Draco’s name, still warm from his hand. His stomach clenched.

The Ministry corridors felt longer than usual as he made his way toward the lifts. Bright sconces flickered overhead, casting golden light against the stone, but they offered no comfort. Only a reminder that he was still walking forward—that time hadn’t stopped a decade ago, even if part of him had.

If he wanted answers, he’d have to face the person he’d wronged most in this world.

He stepped into the lift, exhaled, and let the gates close behind him with a final, echoing clang. And as the gears groaned and the lift began to descend, Harry Potter, Auror, tried to steady his heartbeat beneath the weight of the past.

Chapter Text

A part of Draco wished he had looked back.

He stood rigid at the edge of Hogwarts’ magical border, wand clutched tightly at his side, heart thrumming like a hummingbird’s wings in his chest. The cry of his alpha echoed behind him—raw, ragged, and filled with a kind of pain that carved through the air like a blade.

Draco didn’t turn.

He couldn’t.

If he saw Harry—if he looked into those desperate green eyes, if he saw the heartbreak etched into the face of the man fate had chosen for him—he would shatter. Right there, like glass against stone. So he stood tall, trembling, with silent tears slipping down his cheeks as Poppi reached up and took his hand.

Harry’s voice cracked again through the distance, calling out his name.

Draco squeezed his eyes shut.

Don’t look. Don’t break.

Then the world yanked sideways, the crushing pull of Side-Along Apparition wrenching him from the border, from Harry, from everything.

He landed hard in the grand foyer of Malfoy Manor. The silence hit first. Then the cold. A void where warmth should be. Narcissa stood waiting at the base of the grand staircase, her expression composed—pristine as ever—but her eyes betrayed her sorrow. Her lips were pressed into a brittle line, chin trembling ever so slightly with restraint.

Draco’s knees gave out.

The cold inside him—magical, unnatural—rushed up and consumed him like a tidal wave. He collapsed to the polished marble floor, sobs ripping free from his throat in great, silent heaves. His mother was with him in an instant. Her arms wrapped tightly around him, cradling him against her chest like she had when he was a boy crying from a scraped knee. She rocked him gently, fingers stroking through his hair, murmuring soft, unintelligible words against his temple.

But no comfort could dull the agony in his chest.

Ever since the bond had fractured—had shattered—a deep, gnawing cold had settled inside him. Not the kind that could be chased away by wool or fire or charms. This chill lived in his bones, his blood, nestled in the empty spaces where his magic used to sing.

Now, it only whimpered.

His core—once radiant and steady—felt splintered. Damaged beyond repair. Every breath felt like inhaling through broken ribs. Every flicker of magic felt like it sparked from a wand with a cracked core.

He would not recover.

He knew the statistics. All omegas did. No one spoke about them openly, but the truth lingered like rot beneath fine silk. An omega could survive a bond breaking… for a time, if the original bond had been strong to begin with. But they did not live long. Five years. That was the longest any recorded case had ever made it.

Draco would not live to see twenty-three.

He buried his face into his mother’s shoulder, grief curling through him like poison. Not just grief for the bond lost—but for the life never lived. The one he might have had with Harry. Laughter in the kitchen. Fingers tangled in his hair. A family. A future.

He would leave behind grieving parents, a hollowed out home, and a cursed legacy.

No heir.

No hope.

Only the memory of the alpha who had called his name.

His mother had been inconsolable.

In the hours and days that followed Draco’s collapse into her arms, Narcissa raged—fiercely, bitterly—against fate, against Potter, against a world that seemed determined to rip everything from her son. Her fury was cold and sharp-edged, the kind that echoed through the marble halls of the manor like a curse. Vases shattered. Doors slammed. Spells were cast without precision, flaring against wards and ricocheting off walls in fits of grief-laced anger.

But even amid her fury, she grieved beside him.

She never left his side for long. She brought him tea he never drank, meals he barely touched. She kept vigil as his magic fluctuated unpredictably—surging one moment, flickering out the next like a candle guttering in wind. She wept only once, quietly, when she thought he was asleep, curled in on himself beneath the heavy velvet of his bedding. But Draco heard her. He always did.

They both knew the truth: there was no cure for a broken bond. Not the kind they’d shared—not the rare, sacred ones written into the soul by fate. These bonds weren’t simple things that could be severed without consequence. They were permanent, brutal when broken, like a blade cleaving flesh from bone.

During the spring holiday, Draco had summoned what little strength he had to compose a formal request to the Ministry—meticulously written, sealed with the Malfoy crest, and sent by Poppi with trembling hands. He asked for permission to complete the remainder of his eighth year remotely, through private correspondence, under the care and supervision of the Malfoy family. The response came within a week. Both Headmistress McGonagall and the Ministry approved the request—swiftly, almost too easily. Perhaps they didn’t want him back at Hogwarts. Or perhaps they simply pitied him after the scandal involving Marcus Flint. Regardless, the conditions were clear: he was to remain within the bounds of his probation, away from the public eye, and refrain from any unauthorized use of magic outside coursework.

And just like that, the manor became his sanctuary… and his prison.

The quiet was relentless. Too large. Too hollow. He moved like a ghost through the halls, sleeping through the daylight and waking only when the moon rose high. He kept to the east wing where the sun rarely reached, haunting old corridors and dusty rooms filled with forgotten portraits who whispered their judgments behind cracked canvas.

Then came the letters.

The first arrived while he was still in the Hospital Wing—still pale and trembling under Madame Pomfrey’s steady wand, the trauma still fresh. The letter had found him anyway, slipped beneath his blanket with clumsy, familiar handwriting on the front.

Harry.

Draco had stared at it for hours before opening it. He’d expected sorrow. Guilt. Some pitiful ache in his chest at the sound of Harry’s voice spelled out in ink.

Instead, what he found was outrage.

The letter was full of confusion. Regret. Anger. Pleas to meet. Demands to speak in person. Harry’s words were frantic, desperate, imploring him to explain what had happened—as if he didn’t already know. As if he hadn’t been the one to speak those cruel words at the worst possible moment. As if he hadn’t been the one to look into Draco’s eyes and choose to walk away.

“I need to understand,” the letter had read. “Please, Draco. Just talk to me.”

Draco’s hands had trembled, magic crackling at his fingertips as rage surged through him. Understand? After everything? After Harry had torn their bond apart in one breath and left him bleeding out in the aftermath? He tore the letter to pieces. Shredded the parchment until it was nothing but fraying edges and curling corners, then set it alight with a silent flick of his wand. The cinders floated through the air like ashes from a funeral pyre.

But Harry didn’t stop.

Another letter came. Then another. Day after day. Each one more desperate than the last. Apologies turned into begging. Confessions. Promises.

“I didn’t know.”

“I’m still trying to work out the details of what happened.”

“Please, let me make it right.”

They wore at him—chip by chip, layer by layer—until the silence in the Hospital Wing seemed to echo with Harry’s voice.

But it didn’t matter.

There was no going back.

There was no repairing a severed soulbond. The magic was gone—ripped out like roots from dry earth. Whether Harry knew it or not, he had swung the scythe himself.

He had condemned Draco with that final blow.

So Draco stopped reading the letters.

And he never answered the ones he did read.

The letters kept coming anyways.

Even after the Ministry approved Draco’s request to finish his education from home, Harry’s letters arrived like clockwork—each one sealed hastily, addressed in that familiar, chicken scratch scrawl. His alpha had always been tenacious, stubborn to a fault. Once Harry set his heart on something—or someone—he didn’t let go easily.

But Draco no longer wanted hope.

Hope was dangerous. Hope was a knife disguised as kindness.

He didn’t want to be seduced into believing what they had was true love. Because if it were—real, sacred, undeniable love—it wouldn’t have left him like this. Unbonded. Untethered. Dying slowly in a gilded cage of silk sheets and silence. Each letter arrived with the same dull weight. Draco never opened them. Heavy-hearted, he simply walked them to the hearth, fingers trembling only slightly as he tossed them into the flames. He watched the parchment curl and blacken, the firelight reflecting in his eyes like distant stars flickering out.

He wouldn't let Harry see what remained of him—not the hollowness in his cheeks, the unsteady sway in his step, the quiet way his magic flickered and dimmed day by day.

Not the unraveling.

And still, through all his anger, resentment, pain, and grief… he loved him.

He always would.

That was the cruelest part of all.

It would have been easier if he hated him—if he could assign all blame to Harry and be done with it. But the truth nestled deep in his chest like a thorn: he still loved the boy who had doomed him. Which is why Draco couldn’t open the door. Couldn’t let Harry see what he’d done. Couldn’t let the man he loved watch him waste away.

Then came a letter that stopped him cold.

Not from Harry—but from Granger.

He’d stared at her handwriting for a long time, standing beside the fireplace with the letter pinched between his fingers, fully intending to let it burn with the rest. But something made him hesitate. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe spite.

Instead of fire, the letter met his letter opener.

He read it in bed, propped up against pillows beneath the green velvet canopy. The room was quiet, save for the soft rustle of parchment and the occasional crackle of the fireplace. His mother had left tea and shortbread beside his bed, untouched and cooling on the tray.

To his surprise, Granger never mentioned Harry. Not once.

Instead, her letter was a casual stream of thoughts—snippets of life at Hogwarts, the stress of exam season, her fascination with a new Arithmancy theorem, and a brief account of a ridiculous spat between Ernie Macmillan and Padma Patil over group project etiquette. She listed books she’d read recently and promised to send him a list of titles she thought he might enjoy.

It was warm. Thoughtful. Utterly Granger.

And when he reached the end—her final line written in looping, careful script: “I hope this letter finds you on a good day. If not, I hope tomorrow is better.”—Draco felt something inside him crack. The tears came without fanfare, slipping silently down his cheeks as he clutched the parchment to his chest. It was a unexpected feeling of relief that Granger—someone he had once been so cruel and nasty towards and later forgave him—did not give him pity, she simply gave him kindness.

He considered writing back.

He even uncapped his ink bottle and pulled out a fresh piece of parchment… but after sitting in silence with the quill hovering in midair, he folded the blank page neatly and tucked it into the drawer of his writing desk.

He never wrote her back.

More letters followed—Blaise’s was short and unbothered, mostly gossip and dry wit. Pansy’s was emotional and dramatic, scolding him for going silent and swearing to hex his kneecaps if he didn’t write back soon. She’d added at least three lipstick kisses to the page, along with a list of books—obviously from Granger.

He read them both, smiled faintly, but again didn’t reply.

It wasn’t that he didn’t care. He did. But neither of them would truly understand—not the way Theo might. He knew his friend wouldn’t dare to send them their pity or condolences, they knew better. But Draco would sense it all the same.

So he wrote only one reply. To Theodore.

It was brief, spare in its emotion, but honest in its wording. He asked Theo to pass along a message to Pansy and Blaise—that he was fine.

They both knew he wasn’t.

Blaise and Pansy would know that it was a lie but would bitterly take it than to bring him down further. But it was the lie everyone needed to hear.  And Theo, ever loyal, would deliver it with just the right amount of casual flair and subtle reassurance. And with that done, Draco returned to his silence. The manor echoed with quiet footsteps and the rustle of pages turning, as the outside world carried on without him.

And the letters kept coming.

Harry’s letters kept coming…and fed to the fire.

xxxxx

Draco awoke on the morning of his nineteenth birthday to the sharp, persistent tap-tap-tap of an owl at his bedroom window. He groaned and curled deeper into the blankets, the ache in his limbs making it harder to stir. The room was far too cold—unnaturally so. Summer sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains, golden and warm, but it did nothing to chase away the chill clinging to his bones. The warmth never reached him anymore.

He shivered violently and sat up with a sigh, dragging on his winter bed robes over the thick cotton nightclothes he already wore. The wool fabric rasped against his skin as he moved, but it was better than feeling like ice beneath the surface.

When the owl knocked again, more impatient this time, Draco shuffled to the window with a frown and raised a shaky hand to unlatch it wandlessly.

Nothing happened.

A flicker of frustration twisted in his gut. Of course. He’d forgotten—his magic was failing again. Weak and unreliable. His icy fingers curled into a tight, white-knuckled fist, trembling with suppressed fury before he reached out and opened the window manually, the metal of the latch biting into his sensitive skin. The owl fluttered in with little ceremony, perching on the sill for only a moment before it dropped a small package onto the floor at his feet. Then, without waiting for acknowledgment or a treat, it turned and flew off, disappearing into the blue summer sky.

Draco closed the window with a soft click and bent to retrieve the parcel.

It was small and neatly wrapped in brown paper, light in his hand. There was no name. No seal. No note.

Frowning, he sat down at the edge of the window bench and carefully tore away the paper, revealing a polished red lacquer box no larger than his palm. It gleamed richly in the morning light, catching the reflection of his pale fingers.

He hesitated a moment, his breath hitching as he lifted the hinged lid.

Inside, nestled on a bed of black velvet, was a golden snitch.

His snitch.

The very one he’d caught in that last match against Gryffindor—the only time he’d ever beaten Harry Potter to it. He recognized the slight dent near the seam, where during the chaos of the game it had glanced off one of the Chasers’ helmet. But it wasn’t just the snitch that made his stomach twist.

Engraved delicately into the body were two sets of initials: DLM and HJP.

Draco's breath caught sharply in his throat.

He stared down at the gift, hands trembling, chest tightening in slow, painful increments. He curled in on himself, the snitch pressed tightly between his palms, and the tears fall. His bottom lip trembled as he bowed his head over the tiny, gleaming thing in his hands. He sobbed—not loud or messy, but soft and broken. The kind of crying one does when the world has already taken too much, and yet somehow, it still finds ways to hurt you.

He missed him.

Gods, he missed him.

He missed the way Harry’s arms had fit around him at night, the grounding weight of his presence, the scent of petrichor, vetiver and immortelle that calmed the wild, fraying edges of his soul. He missed the way Harry looked at him like he was something sacred. Something worth protecting.

He missed being held.

Missed being his.

But beneath the sorrow, another emotion surged—sharp and bitter.

He hated Harry. Hated him for the damage he’d done. Hated him for breaking something that was meant to be eternal. Hated him for speaking those cruel, sharp words and walking away when Draco needed him most.

He hated him for loving him so perfectly… and then leaving him shattered in the aftermath.

Draco squeezed the snitch tighter, pressing it against his chest.

It wasn’t fair.

None of it was fair.

How could someone he loved so completely also be the one to hurt him most?

Draco closed his eyes, chest heaving with quiet sobs, and whispered into the stillness of the room: “I hate you, Harry Potter.”

But the words rang hollow.

Because what he really meant—what he couldn’t bear to say aloud—was: Please come back.

Draco’s nineteenth birthday passed like a whisper through the cold halls of the manor. There was no celebration. No laughter. No guests. Only the echo of footsteps on marble and the distant sound of rain tapping against the stained-glass windows.

It should have been a day of joy, of reflection, of beginnings.

Instead, it felt like the steady tick of a clock counting down the end.

He was nineteen now—closer to death than to any future. Each year no longer marked growth, but loss. One more year lived, one fewer left. And though he said nothing, though he accepted the cake in silence and murmured a thank-you to the elves who brought it to his sitting room, Narcissa could see it in him.

The hollowness.

Her son moved like a figure carved from pale wax, drifting through the manor with slow, silent steps, his silvery eyes dulled to pewter. The spark she had once adored—sharp, quick-witted, arrogant in the way all boys with bright minds and heavy legacies tend to be—had dimmed to a faint glimmer barely clinging to life.

Narcissa watched him from across the room as he sat near the window, untouched slice of chocolate-strawberry cake on a porcelain plate beside him. The same cake he'd loved since he was a boy—his favorite—but now it looked like an offering left at a shrine. She had asked the elves to bake it just right. She had overseen the whole process herself, even helped whip the cream by hand when no one was looking. It was foolish, perhaps, to think a cake could make a difference. But she had done it anyway, because mothers do what they must.

She’d even wrapped a small gift—a new quill carved from ash wood, sleek and elegant, with his initials engraved near the nib. It sat unopened beside the plate.

Narcissa didn’t push him. She had learned not to. He needed space, not pressure. Honesty, not pretense.

But her heart…

Her heart was splintering.

It was the war all over again—watching her son unravel, watching the color bleed out of his cheeks and the light leave his eyes. She had fought so hard to protect him during those dark years, had done things that would haunt her until her last breath. And yet, despite everything—despite surviving Voldemort, surviving the trials, the shame, the guilt—this grief was worse. Because now, the enemy was time. And magic. And a bond broken in the deepest part of his soul.

She would not bury her son. She refused.

That thought alone kept her from sleeping most nights. When the manor was still and the moonlight carved silver shapes on the walls, she would sit in the armchair near his nursery—the room she still visited sometimes, absurdly, as if echoes of his childhood might speak to her—and she would stare at the crib that now held nothing but memories.

No, she would not surrender.

While Draco wandered through the corridors like a wraith in silk, Narcissa turned to action. Quiet, methodical, determined.

She turned to hope.

For weeks now since her son’s return from Hogwarts, she had enlisted the help of the house elves to scour the attic, the old family libraries, and long-sealed storage rooms. She was searching for something that had once belonged to Severus Snape. Not the man the world remembered, but the man she had known—the one who had whispered truths when it was too dangerous to speak, who had brewed miracle after miracle and hidden them beneath layers of bitterness and sardonic wit.

She was convinced he had left something behind.

An antidote. A theory. A spell.

Something.

And then, at last, Faun—one of the youngest house elves, with enormous blue eyes and perpetually tangled ears—appeared at the attic door with a dusty trunk hovering behind her.

“Lady Narcissa,” the elf squeaked, “we is finding this one. It was hidden behind the old portrait frames.”

Narcissa stood frozen for a heartbeat, then rose from her knees where she’d been sorting through a row of mildewed crates. She crossed the room swiftly, wand drawn with elegant precision.

“Alohomora.”

The lock clicked open. The lid creaked.

Inside, tucked neatly between yellowing cloths and dried bundles of herbs, were several thick, leather-bound journals. Familiar ones. Her breath caught as she reached for the first. Severus’ handwriting greeted her like a ghost returned: sharp, slanted, and painfully familiar. She flipped through the pages quickly, skimming potion notes, sketches of runes, fragmented thoughts on wandlore, until—finally—she found what she was looking for.

A single line, scrawled across the top of the page in bold black ink:

“On The Fracturing of Soulbonds: Experimental Reconnection Theories and Binding Recovery.”

She pressed her hand to her chest, breath caught on the verge of a sob.

Relief poured through her like warm rain.

“Thank you, Severus,” she whispered, her voice trembling in the stillness of the attic. Her fingers brushed the page reverently, tears welling in her eyes. “You brilliant, bitter bastard.”

And perhaps—just perhaps—so long as she still breathed, so long as her son still clung to life, there was still time to save him.

The library was dim despite the late afternoon sun pouring through the tall, arched windows. Heavy velvet drapes remained half-drawn, keeping the room shaded—just the way Draco preferred it these days. Narcissa stepped quietly into the vast space, the heels of her soft slippers muffled by the ornate carpet that lined the floor. Her gaze landed on the figure curled up in one of the armchairs near the hearth—her son, wrapped tightly in a blanket far too heavy for summer.

Draco looked far too small in that chair.

His long legs were drawn up, knees tucked close to his chest, and a thick, slate-colored wool throw swaddled around his shoulders like armor. He had grown thinner since spring, paler too, the once-lustrous silver of his hair falling limp over tired eyes. In his lap sat an open book—The Giver, she noted. A gift from someone he’d called “an unexpected friend.” He hadn’t said more, and she hadn’t pressed. Just seeing him open a package—seeing the faintest twitch of a smile—had been enough.

For now.

Floating quietly behind her was a weathered old chest, its brass trim dulled with age, the lock long undone.

She paused a few feet from him.

“Darling,” she said gently.

Draco stirred, glancing up from the pages. His expression was guarded, but his voice was soft when he asked, “Yes, Mother?”

Narcissa brought the chest forward with a small flick of her wand, setting it down before him with great care. It landed with a muted thud, dust catching the golden light. “I wanted to give this to you earlier,” she said. “But I had to be certain it was the right one.”

Draco lowered his book and leaned forward, brows furrowed as he examined the old trunk. “What is it?” he asked, voice quiet, cautious.

Narcissa knelt beside the chest, her hands brushing the lid reverently. “It was left for you by your godfather,” she said, her tone laced with a mixture of grief and pride. “Severus… he left all of his research journals to you.”

Draco blinked, confused. Slowly, he reached for the latch and lifted the lid. The scent of aged parchment and dried herbs drifted up like a breath held for too long. Inside, bound in black and emerald leather, were the journals—dozens of them—stacked in neat rows, each embossed with Snape’s tidy, slanted initials. They were worn at the corners, some stained with potion residue, others filled with tiny tabs marking important sections.

He picked up the first one, thumbing through its brittle pages.

Diagrams of potion cycles, sketched with surgical precision. Detailed magical core analyses, rune sequences, handwritten annotations in Latin and archaic spell-code. Notes filled every margin—some analytical, others deeply personal in their cryptic frustration.

“I don’t understand,” Draco murmured, his brow furrowing as he scanned the dense text. “Why would he give me this?”

Narcissa rested a gentle hand on his knee. “Because he always was prepared for every outcome.”

Draco looked at her then—truly looked. And saw the tight lines of fatigue etched into her face, the hollow ache buried in her eyes.

“Severus was… like you,” she said softly, the words deliberate and aching. “He was also a rejected omega.”

Draco stilled.

“He never spoke of it, but he confided in me once. Said the bond that should have saved him nearly destroyed him instead.” Her voice trembled, just once. “And like you, it fractured his core. His magic began to decay.”

Draco swallowed hard, his chest tightening.

“But he was brilliant,” Narcissa went on, her voice turning fierce with the flame of hope she’d clung to for weeks. “He developed a potion—one that stabilized his core, kept the bond’s damage from spreading. It wasn’t perfect. He admitted that. But it bought him time.” Her hand tightened slightly over his. “He didn’t think you’d ever need it. He prayed you wouldn’t. But in case you did… he left everything. Every calculation, every failure, every formula.”

Draco’s hands trembled as he held the journal to his chest, breath caught between despair and disbelief.

“And he believed,” she said gently, brushing his hair back from his face, “that you would be clever enough to finish what he started.”

A long silence settled between them, broken only by the rustle of turning pages and the crackle of the library hearth.

Then, with no warning, Draco moved.

He dropped down to the floor and wrapped his arms around her, burying his face into the curve of her neck like he had when he was small. Narcissa froze for a breath—then embraced him tightly, her arms encircling his frame, holding him with all the strength left in her.

“Thank you, Mother,” Draco whispered, voice thick with emotion. “This is… the best gift I’ve ever received.”

Narcissa closed her eyes, letting herself breathe for the first time in weeks.

Because now, there was a spark.

xxxxx

Draco buried himself in his godfather’s journals as if his life depended on it—because it did. Day and night blurred together in a haze of parchment and potion residue. He spent endless hours bent over Severus Snape’s spidery script, deciphering theories and brewing instructions that only someone fluent in both desperation and brilliance could begin to understand. Soon, his own handwriting began to fill the margins, entire pages crammed with addendums, corrections, and questions.

Volumes of fresh notebooks accumulated beside the old ones, their edges dog-eared, pages ink-blotted and smudged with hurried annotations. Quills were discarded the moment they dulled; parchment tore beneath his restless fingers. His hands were perpetually stained—blackened fingertips, blotched wrists—while his eyes turned glassy and red from sleepless nights and flickering candlelight.

He didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

This wasn’t just for himself. This was for every omega who might one day find themselves cursed with a severed bond, forced to decay slowly while the world moved on around them. If he could perfect the stabilization potion, if he could turn Severus’s desperate formula into something lasting, something real…

Then maybe.

Maybe…

Draco slammed the door shut on that thought the moment it surfaced.

He couldn’t afford that kind of hope.

There was no guarantee he’d find success—not before his magic fully collapsed, not before his body gave out. His magical core was already weakened, brittle like cracked glass. Sometimes, his spells faltered midway through incantation. Sometimes, his wand pulsed with pain.

Time was his truest enemy.

And of that, he had so very little.

The Malfoy vaults in Gringotts overflowed with gold. Centuries of ancient heirlooms sat gathering dust in hidden corners of the manor. Land, artifacts, influence—it meant nothing now. His wealth couldn’t buy what he needed most: Time.

It slipped through his fingers faster than any coin ever had.

He clung to what hours he had, hoarding them with the feverish obsession of a dying man, refusing to waste even a moment on what-ifs. The present was all that mattered. The work was all that mattered. He read until his vision blurred, wrote until his fingers cramped, and committed every last viable theory to memory.

He made lists of ingredients.

Tracked down rare components through discreet owl orders and black-market apothecaries. He refused to eat at the dining table. Meals were left on a tray at his desk, barely touched. Narcissa brought him tea at intervals, her gaze quietly watching from the doorway, saying nothing as he worked himself into exhaustion.

But at night—when the house grew still, when the candles burned low and flickered against the high-paneled walls—Draco allowed himself a single indulgence. He would reach beneath his pillow and pull out the lacquered red box. The snitch gleamed as he opened it, soft gold catching in the dim glow. He cupped it in his palm, the cool weight a familiar comfort, and ran his thumb over the delicate engraving: DLM and HJP.

He held it tightly to his chest.

And for a few fragile moments, he let the dreams in.

He pictured Harry standing in the Manor gardens, barefoot on dew-slick grass. He imagined waking to warm hands curled around his waist, to sleepy kisses and murmured promises. He imagined a life—a real life—beyond the edge of this slow collapse.

He imagined being loved again, wholly, truly.

He imagined feeling the warmth return to his fingers.

And when the ache in his chest grew too sharp to ignore, when he remembered just how impossible those dreams were, he slipped the snitch back into its box and returned it to its hidden place beneath his pillow.

Then he turned back to the journals.

Back to the potions.

Back to the only thing he could still control.

Because time was running out.

And he would not waste what little he had left.

xxxxx

A few days after his birthday, a simple Ministry-issued owl tapped once against the Manor’s windowpane, its feathers ruffled by the early summer wind. Draco broke the seal, his final examination results were printed on crisp parchment. Perfect marks, as expected. He'd completed his final year of magical education entirely from the confines of Malfoy Manor, earning top honors in every subject. Though he had a sneaking suspicion—one that gnawed at him quietly—that he was still second to Granger.

He stared at the letter for a long time after that. Then folded it and tucked it away in a drawer without ceremony, without pride. He had much to do, much to focus on as he returned his attention back to the journals his godfather left behind.

Until one afternoon—while he was in the midst of brewing his first batch of Snape’s potion—Poppi appeared in the drawing room with her eyes wide and anxious, her voice soft with disbelief.

“There is someone at the gates, Master Draco. A visitor. An alpha.”

Draco’s breath caught painfully in his throat as he left his makeshift lab, emerging and going straight towards the front of the Manor and looked out the window.

And then he heard it.

Faint, but unmistakable—his name carried on the wind like a ghost: “Draco!”

His heart clawed at his ribcage when he saw the figure standing just beyond the Manor’s protective wards, framed by the ancient wrought-iron gates and the fading light of dusk.

Harry.

Even at this distance, Draco knew him. Knew that messy hair, that lean frame and broad shoulders, those same shoulders hunched slightly against the wind as he called out again—“Draco, please!”

Draco’s chest caved inward.

His legs nearly gave out.

His first impulse was to run. To fling the doors open, dash across the gravel path, and crash into Harry’s arms. To bury his face against his alpha’s neck and inhale the grounding scent of petrichor and immortelle. To weep into his shirt and pretend, just for a moment, that things could go back to how they were.

But he didn’t move.

Fear anchored him.

And resentment chained him beside it.

Instead, he crept closer to the window, carefully parting the thick velvet curtains just enough to spy through the glass. The Manor’s enchantments would keep Harry from seeing in—but still, Draco hid himself behind the fabric like a coward, heart thundering, eyes locked on the boy who had broken him.

“Master Draco,” Poppi said softly behind him, “does Master wish for Poppi to get rid of the guest?”

Draco didn’t answer right away. He was trembling, torn between the pull of his heart’s desire and the echo of Harry’s words in his mind—“Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater.” He squeezed his eyes shut as the memory stabbed through him again. The look on Harry’s face when he said it—cold, unforgiving. The absence of bond warmth had been immediate, like a door slamming shut.

And Draco had crumpled in its wake.

His hands balled into fists. He swallowed the scream rising in his throat, and instead forced himself to occlude—tight and harsh, locking the pain behind mental walls lined with frost and guilt. He pressed a shaking palm to the windowpane, the glass cold against his skin.

I hate you, he wanted to whisper.

But it wasn’t true. Not really.

He loved Harry. Even now. Especially now.

That was the worst part.

His love hadn't died with the bond. It had merely become sharper. More painful. A splinter lodged in his chest with every breath. He thought of what his mother had told him over Yule, in a rare moment of quiet honesty—how she had once given Lucius an ultimatum: Cast aside your pride, or lose me forever.

Draco’s heart ached at the memory. His father, ever the prideful alpha that he was, had chosen vulnerability. And he had survived it for love.

He... wasn’t sure he could.

Because his pride was no longer armor—it was a wall. And his shame, a leash that kept him from reaching for the one thing he still wanted more than anything. Love hadn’t saved him. It had doomed him. But even now, with frost biting his bones and time running thin, he still yearned.

And yet… he remained behind the curtain.

“Leave him be,” Draco said finally, his voice barely more than a whisper. “He’ll eventually tire and give up.”

But as he turned from the window, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, he already knew—

Harry wouldn’t give up.

And that terrified him most of all.

xxxxx

Draco tried—tried—to focus. His trembling hands measured out each ingredient with meticulous care, spooning crushed aconite into the simmering cauldron, counting the clockwise stirs, monitoring the thin ribbon of steam rising from the potion’s surface. He adjusted the flame beneath it with a flick of his wand, trying to maintain the exact temperature Snape had recorded in his notes.

But it was no use.

His hand slipped—again.

The mixture hissed and turned an ugly shade of grayish brown, the scent going acrid. He swore under his breath and slammed the stirring rod down onto the bench, bracing himself against the stone table as he fought the tremor in his limbs. His vision swam, eyes gritty with exhaustion, his magic flickering dimmer by the day.

He was unraveling. And still, he kept failing.

Because Harry was outside the gates.

His alpha—his alpha—was just beyond the wards, calling his name.

Draco could feel it like a pressure behind his ribs, like a soundless scream beneath his skin. He tried to block it out, tried to pretend it wasn’t happening, but his heart was breaking all over again with every word Harry shouted into the wind. When night had fallen on the first day, Draco had convinced himself that surely Harry would leave. That even he—stubborn Gryffindor that he was—would eventually surrender and walk away.

But he hadn’t.

Harry stayed.

Draco stood at the window, breath fogging the glass, his hands clenched tight around the frame. He whispered into the dark: “Please, just go home, Harry. Please… please leave me be.”

But the wind carried no answer—only the echo of his name again and again.

By the third day, Draco hadn’t slept. The silence between the shouts was worse than the calls. It left space for hope to creep in.

That morning, Narcissa had joined him at the breakfast table, watching him stir absently at a bowl of porridge gone cold.

“What do you want to do, my dragon?” she asked gently, fingers wrapped around her teacup.

Draco didn’t lift his gaze. “He’ll get the message eventually,” he muttered. “He’ll leave on his own.”

Her expression didn’t change, but her tone softened. “And if he doesn’t?”

Draco stabbed at the porridge with his spoon. “Then send for the Aurors,” he snapped. “I don’t care.”

He pushed back from the table and swept from the room without waiting for her reply.

But of course he cared.

He cared more than he could bear.

And that was why it had to end.

Every attempt at the potion had failed. Each batch a waste of time he didn’t have. And the closer he came to the edge of magic’s reach, the more terrified he became—not of dying, but of Harry watching him die. Draco had nothing to give but the bitter truth. And he would not let Harry drown with him.

Harry was an alpha. He would survive this. He would find another. He would find love again.

Draco was a phantom living on borrowed time.

So he dressed slowly, deliberately—layering his thickest robes over his sleep shirt, even in the summer his body still shivered like it were winter. He slipped on his boots, his gloves, and finally draped his scarf around his neck like armor. Hand trembling at his side, he left the manor through the side door, walking down the stone path toward the gates.

Each step felt fatal.

Every inch he moved chipped away another fragment of his heart.

You have to do this, he told himself, You have to let him go. Let him live. Let him find someone who isn’t running out of time. Don’t falter. Occlude. Occlude. Occlude!

When he reached the gates, the wards hummed softly around him, distorting the air like heat above pavement. Beyond them sat a lone figure, hunched and exhausted. Draco’s breath hitched.

Harry.

His alpha looked worn, shoulders drooped with fatigue, shivering from exposure in the night. But still—he was there. Draco smelled him before he could speak—petrichor, vetiver, immortelle—his scent wafting through the wards on the gentle night wind like a ghost’s embrace.

Occlude. Occlude. Occlude!

“Go home, Potter,” Draco said, voice low and razor-sharp.

Harry started and scrambled up from the ground, gripping the bars of the gate with shaking hands and standing on weak knees, but the relief written across his face…it almost undid Draco.

“Draco,” Harry croaked, his voice raw and broken from three days of calling. “Draco, you came. You—thank Merlin—you came. Please, please, I’m so sorry. I’m so—”

Draco raised his wand in one swift, practiced motion and flicked it through the air.

Silencio.

Harry’s voice vanished midsentence. His lips still moved, frantic and pleading—but no sound came.

Draco met his eyes. He stood perfectly still, shoulders squared, jaw clenched.

Occlude. Occlude. Occlu—

The tears betrayed him. They slipped down his cheeks in silence, warm and relentless.

“I came to tell you this myself,” he said, voice thick and shaking. “So you’d hear it. So there’d be no doubt.”

His throat burned as he drew in a shaky breath.

“Go home, Potter,” he said, and this time, his voice was cold as the winter in his bones. “I never want to see you again.”

Occlude!

Harry collapsed to his knees, the devastation written across his face more agonizing than any curse Draco had ever known.

Draco turned quickly on his heel. Disapparting on the spot.

The moment he reappeared in his makeshift laboratory deep beneath the manor, he collapsed to the cold flagstone floor. His body curled into itself as a raw, keening sob tore from his chest—and then he released. He let it all out in a gut wrenching scream of agony. His magic surged outward, uncontrolled and furious. Beakers shattered. Glass exploded from shelves. Cauldrons crashed to the floor. Potent ingredients ignited in miniature bursts of color and smoke.

And then—nothing.

The silence afterward was unbearable.

Draco lay there, trembling, as the cold settled back into his bones, deeper now. More permanent. He had let go.

But it didn’t feel like freedom.

It felt like death.

In the ruin of that dungeon, Draco closed his eyes and let the pain consume him until all that was left was the frost in his fractured soul.

xxxxx

Draco had fallen violently ill in the aftermath of his magical outburst.

It struck with frightening speed. One moment, he had been lying on the flagstone floor of his makeshift lab, his breath shaking from the force of his grief. The next, he was burning up with fever, but he was trembling beneath every layer of his thickest robes as though plunged into arctic waters. He was cold—so very cold—but he was also on fire. His skin turned clammy and flushed, as his magic thrummed wildly out of sync, lashing inward like a beast turned on itself. His bones ached with a deep, marrow-deep throb, and every inch of his body pulsed with pain.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, through the haze of fever and fractured thought, he wondered if this was it.

Had he finally run out of time?

Narcissa had not waited to find out.

She had moved swiftly, with the cold grace of a woman who refused to let Death step foot in her home uninvited. Letters were sent, wards extended, favors called in. She didn't care what it cost her or what bribes were required. Eventually, a healer arrived—reluctantly, cautiously—stepping into the Manor as though the very walls might swallow him whole.

Draco was barely lucid by then, drifting in and out of consciousness in his childhood bed. His body lay curled beneath layers of blankets enchanted for warmth, sweat dampening his hairline and collar, his breath shallow, lips pale and cracked. The healer examined him with the clinical detachment of a man treating a patient he deemed already damned.

“Magical exhaustion,” he concluded, with a note of disdain he barely tried to mask. “Coupled with physical overexertion and emotional trauma. He needs rest. Not potions. Time and quiet, Lady Malfoy.”

His tone made it clear that he thought Draco was getting what he deserved.

Narcissa’s expression didn’t falter. Her back remained straight, her chin high, her voice smooth as glass when she replied, “Thank you for your time, Healer Wilmot. You will find your payment has already been arranged.”

She escorted him to the door herself, and only once it had closed behind him did the tremor in her hands return.

She did not allow herself to weep.

Instead, she returned to her son’s bedside, every movement deliberate and calm. Her place was here. And she would not leave him alone—not again. Poppi helped as always, her wide eyes filled with worry as she brought warm cloths to cool Draco’s forehead and delicate teacups of medicinal blends meant to reduce fever and replenish energy. Broth followed, thin but nourishing, offered slowly on a silver spoon to Draco’s parched lips.

Narcissa took over when his hands shook too much to lift the cup.

She stroked back his hair and whispered soothing words that she had once spoken to him as a boy with fevers and nightmares. He didn’t answer, not fully. His eyes fluttered open and closed, drifting in the space between sleep and suffering. But sometimes—just sometimes—he would murmur a name beneath his breath.

Harry.

Narcissa heard it. Every time.

She said nothing, only smoothed the blankets tighter around him and kissed his temple. She had known, of course, that he’d gone to speak with Harry. Though he hadn’t shared the details, the aftermath laid before her. She had known it would not go well. She had seen the love in Draco’s eyes—the ache, the loneliness, the pride that held him back. And now she saw the cost.

Heartbreak could not be mended with potions.

She could not kiss this wound better. Could not scold it into silence. Could not fix what love, and its loss, had broken. As a mother, she had never felt more helpless. And yet, she stayed. She would stay for as long as it took.

It was on the second night of Draco’s illness when Narcissa reached for the slim, unfamiliar book resting on his nightstand. The Giver. The title alone intrigued her. She remembered when he unwrapped it—how he had blinked in surprise, lips twitching in something close to amusement, murmuring it had come from “an unexpected friend.” She hadn't asked who. Not then. Perhaps she’d been afraid of the answer.

Now, in the hush of Draco’s bedroom, lit only by the low golden glow of enchanted sconces, she opened the book and began to read aloud. Her voice was soft, careful not to disturb the stillness. Draco stirred once or twice beneath the covers, fevered and half-lost to dreams, but he didn't protest. So she kept reading.

And soon… she found herself drawn in.

The story was deceptively simple. Clean. Measured. About a boy named Jonas living in a world stripped of chaos, of pain, of feeling. A society bound by order and uniformity, where rules dictated everything and memory was the burden of one alone. But beneath its gentle prose was a message that struck Narcissa like a blade between the ribs. She saw it—the quiet horror dressed in civility. A world that chose security over truth, control over emotion. Where color, love, suffering, and joy had all been sacrificed in the name of sameness.

It was disturbingly familiar.

A chill passed through her as she glanced at Draco’s pale, still face.

He was Jonas.

Her Draco, born into a society that prided itself on legacy, obedience, and order. A child raised in the perfect mold—taught to suppress, to conform, to obey. A boy who had once walked the corridors of the Manor and of Hogwarts alike, believing in the old ways, in the doctrine handed down like inheritance.

But just like Jonas, Draco had begun to see.

He had seen the cracks in their gilded cage. Had felt the weight of expectation crush his breath. Had reached for something different—something real—and in doing so, had tasted color. Love. Pain. Truth.

And it had cost him.

Narcissa’s voice faltered only once as she read about the Giver’s pain, about Jonas learning what it meant to feel everything—the ache of loss, the ecstasy of connection. The danger of knowing too much. She closed the book gently after several chapters and set it aside on the bedside table. Her eyes lingered on Draco as she reached to wipe a lock of damp hair from his brow.

“My sweet boy,” she whispered, more to herself than to him, “you were never meant to be a ghost in their perfect world.”

His breathing had steadied. The fever still clung to him, but he looked more peaceful than he had in days. Narcissa sat back in the chair, the leather worn and creaked softly beneath her, and folded her hands in her lap. For all the failings of the pureblood world—their cruel traditions, their obsession with legacy—it had somehow produced him. A boy brave enough to defy it, even if it broke him. Even if it cost him everything.

She would not let it.

And as the candle beside her guttered low, Narcissa resolved to finish the book—to see how Jonas’s story ended. For her son. For herself. Because stories like these held truths too important to ignore.

When the fever finally broke, it left Draco hollowed out—like a house after a fire, still standing but scorched through the walls. Clarity returned in jagged pieces, each one cutting deeper than the last. The blurred memories of heat and trembling, of whispered voices and chilled linen, gave way to a crushing weight that settled firmly on his chest.

Harry.

Draco's bottom lip trembled.

The realization struck with brutal force: he had sent his alpha away. He had done it. Spoken the words. Delivered the final blow himself. And now…what was left? What was the point of surviving if he had thrown away the only thing that had ever felt like home? His eyes stared blankly at the embroidered canopy above his bed, once his sanctuary as a boy. Now it loomed like a ceiling to a coffin, the velvet folds heavy with silence.

He had done the right thing. Hadn’t he?

He had freed Harry.

Given him the chance to start again. To live a life untethered from the wreckage Draco had become. To love someone whole, someone strong. Someone not on a clock with hands ticking toward an early grave. Draco should have felt proud. Selfless, even. Instead, his heart was in splinters. A thousand jagged pieces scattered within the cage of his ribs, bleeding with every breath. He swallowed hard, the ache in his throat almost unbearable.

Could he let it all go now?

Could he stop fighting?

Stop pretending he was going to pull through?

Let himself slip into the abyss that had always been waiting—just beneath the surface?

He didn’t know. Not anymore.

All he knew was that he was tired.

So unbearably tired.

Tired of the tears that came without warning. Tired of the longing that gnawed at his insides, day after day, night after night. Tired of the cold that never left his bones. Tired of the anger, the helpless rage that turned inward until it became poisonous. Tired of the silence in the halls of the manor. Of potions that failed. Of hope that died faster than it bloomed. Tired of feeling powerless in his own story.

Tired of waking.

Tired of being alone.

Draco let out a shaky exhale as his eyes slowly slipped shut, lashes damp with the tears he was too weary to shed again.

He didn’t want to die.

But he didn’t want to keep going like this, either.

He just wanted it all to stop.

He was just so tired.

When Draco next opened his eyes, it wasn’t to fevered shadows or flickering candlelight. It was to the unexpected—but familiar—presence of three figures gathered around him. Theo lay on his side beside him, back propped against the pillows, casually thumbing through one of Snape’s journals as if he’d been there for hours. Blaise sat perched at the foot of the bed, sharp-eyed and unreadable. Pansy had claimed the velvet armchair at Draco’s bedside, her posture composed, but her expression… pained.

“You look terrible,” she said at once.

Draco blinked, surprised, and a soft, involuntary huff of air left him—half a laugh, half a sigh. “What are you all doing here?” he rasped, voice brittle from disuse.

“We came to visit our reclusive friend,” Blaise answered, as if it were obvious.

“And to bring gifts,” Pansy added, tilting her head toward the stack of wrapped packages on a nearby table. “We would’ve owled them for your birthday, but…” Her voice softened. “We wanted to see you.”

Draco stirred beneath the weight of his blankets, pushing them aside as he tried to sit up, only to feel his strength abandon him before he got halfway. Theo was instantly upright, gently assisting him until he was sitting up, and then Pansy and Theo began rearranging pillows behind him, fluffing and adjusting with practiced care.

Merlin. He was weak. Weak enough to need help sitting up. His limbs felt like soaked parchment, his head heavy with fatigue. He could see it in their faces—that they noticed it too. The way his skin had gone pallid, the shadows deepened beneath his eyes. He looked like a ghost of himself. And to the touch… he felt like ice.

“You didn’t have to,” Draco murmured, trying to smooth the front of his robes with trembling fingers.

“We know,” Pansy replied, settling back into her chair. “But we wanted to.”

Blaise waved his wand lazily and the stack of gifts floated over, lowering gently beside him on the bed. Draco’s eyes didn’t linger on them. Instead, his gaze landed on the journal Theo still held—Snape’s journal. His chest tightened instantly.

His failures lived in those pages.

“Draco, this one’s from Daphne,” Pansy said softly, placing the first gift in his lap. “She couldn’t come but sends her well wishes.”

He didn’t move.

His birthday had been… how many days ago now? He’d lost track. The days had bled together under fever and fitful dreams.

“You don’t have to open them now,” Pansy added quickly, her gaze sweeping over his fragile expression. “We just… we’re here. That’s all.”

Draco sat there, bundled under layers blankets, silent and hollow.

He shivered.

“This is an interesting read,” Theo said suddenly, breaking the stillness as he returned to flipping pages. “The formulas are insane. Who’s the nutter that wrote this?”

“My godfather,” Draco answered softly.

Theo blinked, then looked down at the script again.

“He left me all his journals,” Draco continued, voice low and flat. “He created a potion… something meant to stabilize the magic of omegas with severed bonds.”

The silence that followed was weighty.

Theo gaped. “Wait. Are you saying Snape was—he was an omega?”

Draco nodded once, solemnly.

“A rejected one?” Pansy whispered, stunned.

Another nod.

“Wonder who it was…” she murmured under her breath.

Theo straightened, eyes narrowing with new intensity. “Draco… have you made it? The potion?”

“I’ve tried,” Draco admitted, his gaze fixed on the folds of his blanket. “But they’ve all failed.” A long breath, then—quietly, “But it doesn’t matter anymore.”

“What?” Theo’s voice cut sharp. “Doesn’t matter? Doesn’t matter?!” He sat up straight, expression darkening. “This is breakthrough information! You could save yourself. You could save others!”

Pansy and Blaise were both alert now, their postures taut with urgency.

“There’s no point,” Draco said hollowly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I forced my alpha away. I told him to never come back.”

The words tasted like ash.

Theo stared at him in disbelief. “You… you rejected Potter? When?”

“Before I got sick,” Draco replied. “He came to the gates. Wouldn’t leave. So I told him I never wanted to see him again.”

Pansy gasped quietly. Blaise froze, his expression shuttered as his fists clenched tightly on his knees. Then Blaise spoke, voice low and simmering. “So you’re giving up and letting yourself die… what, to punish him? Or is it just easier than facing what you really want?”

Draco closed his eyes. “It’s better this way. He can forget me. Move on. Have a proper life.”

“And what about us?!” Theo suddenly roared, startling the others. “What about your mother? What about me? You selfish bastard!”

Draco didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. The truth was written in the slump of his shoulders, the exhaustion in his bones. They didn’t understand. How could they? They weren’t broken like he was. They still had futures, warmth, purpose. He was a hollowed-out shell, a countdown carved into his ribs.

“I just want to stop hurting,” Draco whispered.

The words cracked something in Theo. Tears sprang to his eyes as he surged forward and wrapped his arms around Draco, holding him close in a desperate embrace. The omega was so frail, so thin beneath the blanket, it nearly broke Theo’s heart.

“Let us help you,” Pansy begged, climbing up beside them and taking Draco’s hand in both of hers. Her voice trembled with emotion. “Please, Draco. Don’t do this. We’ll help you with the potion. We’ll brew it together if we have to. Just… please don’t give up yet.”

He was so tired. But something about their touch—their warmth, their presence—held him suspended in place, between surrender and survival. And in that moment, he thought of Harry again. Of green eyes wide with sorrow. Of strong arms that once held him like he was precious. Of dreams they would never have. He missed him. He missed that stupid, reckless alpha more than he could admit aloud. But still… Draco didn’t give them an answer.

Not that day.

xxxxx

Blaise could only stay for a single day. Duty called him back to Italy—his mother’s latest marriage was unraveling in dramatic fashion, and he’d been summoned to handle the fallout before society papers could turn it into a bloodbath. Still, before he left, he clasped Draco’s hand tightly and said with a firm look, “Keep me in the loop. Anything changes—anything—I’ll be back on the next international Portkey.”

Draco gave a faint nod, the kind you give when you’re not sure you’ll be alive long enough to follow through. But Blaise understood. He said no more.

Pansy and Theo remained.

They filled the quiet halls of the Manor with soft sounds—music played on enchanted gramophones, cups clinking gently in the drawing room, laughter that was more for Draco’s benefit than their own. They sat with Narcissa over tea, kept the fires stoked high in Draco’s rooms, and tried—gods, they tried—to lift the heavy shadow clinging to him.

Draco appreciated it. Truly.

But it didn’t change what he had told them.

He was tired. Tired of hurting. And when pain was constant, ceasing to feel became a seductive promise. He hadn’t slept well. Not since before the incident. It was another night he found himself abandoning any attempt to sleep. Instead, he simply lay in his bed, tucked beneath his thick blankets, staring blankly at the darkened canopy. In his hand, he held the golden snitch. Its delicate wings were still and silent. He ran his thumb across the polished surface, tracing the engraved initials: D.L.M. & H.J.P.

His heart clenched.

He missed Harry. That unbearable ache—like a limb severed and still longing to move—never left him.

The door creaked softly. Theo entered without a word, clad in loose sleep trousers and a rumpled shirt. His hair was sleep-mussed, and his expression unreadable in the moonlight. He said nothing as he padded over to the bed and crawled under the blankets.

Draco didn’t resist.

Theo nestled in close, resting his head gently against Draco’s shoulder. The silence between them was easy. Familiar. Safe. Outside, the manor grounds were quiet beneath the silver wash of moonlight slipping through the slits in the heavy curtains. The occasional rustle of wind against the glass was the only sound in the room.

After a long stretch of silence, Theo finally spoke.

“I spoke to Longbottom before I came here,” he said quietly, voice soft but steady.

Draco didn’t respond, his fingers still moving over the golden snitch in slow, rhythmic strokes.

“He told me he couldn’t play with me for a while. Said Potter needed him more.” Theo’s breath caught faintly. “When I asked why, he said…said it’s because Potter’s not been well. That he’s unraveling without you.”

Still, Draco said nothing. But he could feel the pressure building behind his eyes. His throat constricted.

“Granger, the Weaselette, and that other redheaded fucker are apparently taking turns checking in on him,” Theo continued. “Like they’re afraid he might do something drastic when they’re not watching.”

Draco’s grip tightened slightly on the snitch.

“And how do you think he’ll take the news,” Theo asked, quieter now, but with purpose, “when he finds out you died because you gave up?” His voice wasn’t cruel. It was gentle, careful. Meant to provoke, not punish. “My money’s on him following you to an early grave,” Theo said, forcing the words through a trembling breath. “Knowing him, it’ll be in your grave.”

That cracked something.

Draco’s lips parted, but no sound came out. His eyes welled, burning with the weight of truth

Theo’s own tears started falling in silence, one by one. He sniffed softly and curled in closer, clinging to Draco like he might disappear.

“Let’s make a deal, Draco,” he whispered, voice cracking but determined. “If in a year we haven’t perfected Snape’s formula—if nothing works, if it’s hopeless—then Blaise, Pansy and I… we’ll respect your wish. We’ll let you go. So you can fade quietly.”

Draco closed his eyes slowly, chest heavy with grief and aching want. He thought again of Harry’s scent, of the warmth of his arms, of the way he looked at him—like Draco was everything. He ran his thumb once more over the engraved initials.

“…It’s a deal,” he said at last, voice barely audible.

Theo said nothing more, just tucked his face against Draco’s chest, and held him close in the dark.

xxxxx

Draco and Theo—both top students, both brilliant in different, complementary ways—poured every ounce of their intellect and desperation into the work. The manor’s old dungeon had transformed into something obsessive, something sacred, cluttered with parchment rolls scrawled in tight ink, vials of dragonbone and powdered pearl, and bubbling cauldrons that hissed and spat under tightly managed flames.

What began as fragile hope quickly evolved into a singular obsession.

They ate when they could spare the time. Slept in shifts. Read through the journals aloud until the pages blurred, testing every theory Snape had scribbled in the margins—then reworking, adjusting, and theorizing anew. Outside the warded estate, Pansy and Blaise became their lifelines to the world. Pansy, with her charm and biting tongue, persuaded rare ingredient sellers to part with goods at half the listed cost. Blaise, ever the smooth operator, delivered banned and restricted items through foreign contacts with the ease of someone born for under-the-table dealings.

They were the network.

Draco and Theo were the core.

Draco tested every single variation of the potion on himself. Meticulously, he charted the effects—writing down magical fluctuations, ambient temperature shifts in his body, wand responsiveness, and the subtle sense of connection or disconnection he felt from the ambient field of magic. With each marginal success, a spark of warmth returned to him. His fingertips tingled with energy. The ache in his bones dulled. His core, fractured though it remained, throbbed with a pulse closer to steady.

For a few blissful hours, he could breathe without pain.

He dared—against all better judgment—to hope.

But the failures were brutal. Cruel. Some iterations of the potion left him collapsed on the stone floor of the lab, convulsing with magical spasms that twisted his muscles and sent his body into shock. His skin turned ice blue, his temperature plummeting so low that even heating charms couldn’t rouse him until hours later.

Each time, Theo was there, dragging him from the floor, wrapping him in thick blankets, whispering promises that this wasn’t the end.

And each time, Draco rose again.

He refused to stop.

When the year drew to a close, the final version of Snape’s formula stood bottled on the bench—shimmering softly, gold-laced and opalescent. Not perfect. Its effects lasted eleven hours. Eleven glorious, precious hours of steadiness. Of warmth. Of magic flowing through him without fracture or fail. For Draco, it was the closest thing to feeling alive again.

“Now that we have a stable base,” he said one evening, tucking the newest notes into the master ledger, “we focus on perfecting the formula. It needs to last longer than half a day.”

Theo looked up from his scribbled equations, lips quirking with dark humor. “So… does that mean I don’t need to dust off my funeral robes just yet?”

Pansy, seated across the room with her legs elegantly crossed and tea in hand, scoffed. “Must you be so tasteless?”

Blaise, leaning against the far wall with arms crossed, smirked. “Personally, I thought it was funny.”

Draco arched a brow at Theo, a ghost of a smirk pulling at his lips. “Are you that eager to deliver my eulogy?”

Theo grinned. “Please. I’m holding out for a good shag at your wake.”

“Charming,” Pansy muttered, setting her tea down with a clink, though a reluctant smile ghosted across her face.

Draco rolled his eyes and shook his head, but there was affection in his exasperation.

The potion wasn’t perfect.

But he was still here.

It took another full year. Another year of sleepless nights and heated debates over mathematical calibrations, of cauldrons bubbling long into the early hours, of failure and frustration, and the sheer unrelenting determination that only desperation could breed. But at last—after meticulous documentation, constant revision, and relentless testing—they did it.

The final version of the potion was stable.

Repeatable. Consistent. It extended life far beyond the grim projections written in cold medical textbooks. Where once Draco could barely hold magic in his hands for more than a day, the stabilizing effects now lasted a full week—seven full days of clarity, of warmth, of being whole. Draco tested it without fail for three months straight. No spasms. No crashes. No bone-deep coldness clawing at his soul.

He was still tethered. Still standing.

Narcissa had wept openly the day Theo confirmed the latest test results. She’d embraced both boys fiercely—Draco first, then Theo—as if trying to absorb them into her own heart. Her pride was unrestrained.

“I have my son back,” she whispered into Draco’s shoulder, voice thick with emotion. “And I have you to thank for it,” she added, turning to Theo with a look of maternal gratitude. “You all… you stayed. You never gave up.”

She hugged Pansy and Blaise, too.

Emboldened by their victory, Draco felt the spark of purpose reignite in him. This wasn’t just about survival anymore. It was about legacy. With Theo’s help, they submitted their findings to The Journal of Magical Medicine, detailing the nature of fractured omega bonds, the deterioration of magical cores, and the stabilizing solution derived from Severus Snape’s lost research. They included everything—notes, ingredient variations, and careful guidance.

The response was immediate.

Praise flooded in from the magical medical community. Letters of support. Requests for interviews. Several institutions offered to buy the rights to the formula, to patent it, commercialize it, control it.

Draco refused them all.

He issued a formal statement in the Daily Prophet and a separate publication through the Journal: “This potion is for the vulnerable. For the voiceless. It was born out of pain and perseverance, not profit. The formula shall remain open-source—free to any omega in need. No price. No patent. No gatekeeping.”

And he meant it.

They mass-produced booklets outlining the recipe, steps, and precautions. Copies were printed and distributed by owl post alongside vials of the potion itself, sent out across the United Kingdom to omegas who had written in, desperate and trembling with hope. Draco read every letter. He kept every single one of them. Narcissa had even taken the letters and made them into a book that grew thicker by the day with each new addition.

He had bought himself time. Not a cure—but time all the same. He would need to take the potion weekly for the rest of his life. But he had a life to maintain now. One not measured in months or moments. Time was finally on his side again.

Theo, moved by everything they had endured, accepted an apprenticeship at St. Mungo’s. He told Draco plainly that he intended to burn the whole system down—metaphorically, of course.

“Omega healthcare is a disgrace,” he’d said with fire in his eyes, “and I’m going to make it my personal mission to force change. Starting with research grants and diagnostic reform.”

Draco had simply smiled, proud beyond words.

Pansy and Blaise, ever the ambitious pair, turned their side dealings into a legitimate business. Trading rare ingredients. Brokering exclusive international deals. With Pansy’s persuasive charm and Blaise’s cutthroat precision, they became a formidable partnership. And when Draco needed something obscure or outrageously rare, their packages arrived at the Manor before he even asked—often with a sarcastic note or an overly expensive ribbon.

With his probation nearing its end, Draco threw himself into research.

He developed new potion lines—gentler, more effective alternatives for ailments often ignored by the elite medical circles. He invested in lycanthropy research. Studied vampiric blood volatility. Funded trials for treating cursed wounds and magical blood maladies that others deemed too dangerous or unprofitable. Slowly, quietly, he was becoming a force in the world of magical innovation. A name whispered in academic circles. A savior to the outcast. A silent rebel, reshaping the field from the ground up.

But even amid the accolades, the growth, and the progress…

His heart still ached.

No matter how far he reached, or how much he achieved, the echo of his alpha haunted him. The scent of petrichor still lingered in his dreams. The memory of green eyes—wet with tears, brimming with love—returned every time Draco closed his own.

Harry Potter had once called him home with nothing but a look.

And Draco, who now had time, who had a future, could not stop wondering: Have you found peace, Harry?

…He never stopped missing his alpha.

Not even when the potion was perfected. Not when the letters of gratitude came flooding in. Not even when the medical community hailed him as a revolutionary in omega healthcare. In the quiet hours, when the Manor was still and the hearths had burned low, the ache returned. The longing.

It always did.

Tucked behind a stack of textbooks on magical anatomy and alchemical theory, hidden within a leather-bound binder warded against dust and prying eyes, Draco kept every clipping that mentioned Harry. From The Daily Prophet to Witch Weekly and even The Quibbler. Every headline. Every article. Every blurred photograph from press events and Auror recognitions. Meticulously arranged in chronological order, each piece had been slid carefully into protective sleeves. Not a crease. Not a smudge. Draco had charmed the pages to preserve the ink, as if aging could tarnish the moments captured in print.

He read them when the ache became unbearable. When the scent of the Manor felt too clean, too sterile, stripped of the warmth and wildness Harry had brought into his life. When loneliness clawed at the edges of his thoughts. On those nights, he would go to the tall armoire in the corner of his bedroom—an heirloom of dark wood and mother-of-pearl inlay—and press his wand to the lock hidden beneath the top drawer.

The bottom panel clicked open.

Inside lay a small wooden box, no larger than his palm, carved with intricate runes and lined with velvet. He lifted the lid with reverent fingers. There, nestled like a treasure, sat a single phial of Amortentia. The liquid shimmered with that telltale opalescent swirl, pale and unassuming. But when he uncorked it—slowly, carefully, as if afraid to break the spell—the scent that rose nearly buckled his knees.

Petrichor.

Vetiver.

Immortelle.

It was Harry.

It was always Harry.

The moment the scent touched his olfactory, Draco would exhale a sad sigh. His chest ached with a memory so vivid it could have been yesterday—the curve of Harry’s neck, the way his shirt clung after the rain, the warmth of his skin against Draco’s lips, the way he smelled when he buried his face into the crook of Draco’s throat and whispered, mine.

Draco inhaled deeply again.

It was a memory in a bottle. A cruel kind of comfort.

A ghost that warmed and hollowed him in equal measure. A reminder of everything he had lost—and everything he had willingly given up. He pressed the cork back into the bottle, hands trembling. There were nights he cursed himself for pushing Harry away, and nights he told himself it was the only way to protect the alpha he loved more than life. But no matter how much time passed… no matter how far his accomplishments reached… Draco Malfoy had never once stopped loving him.

In time, Draco fulfilled every requirement of his probation. With the final Ministry seal pressed in crimson wax and the last scroll signed and filed, he was, at last, free. No more mandatory check-ins. No more surveillance spells woven into the Manor’s wards, charting his every movement. The invisible collar of house arrest had finally loosened from his neck. The mark of his past still lingered, of course—would always linger. His name would forever be tethered to the war, etched into public memory alongside death and regret.

But legally, Draco Lucius Malfoy was no longer a prisoner.

His mother had tasted that freedom a year before him. Narcissa’s own probation had ended after five long years of quiet compliance and impeccable decorum. Through it all, she had remained the picture of discipline—serene and statuesque in the face of whispers and scrutiny, a pillar of cold grace among crumbling ruins.

And with that freedom, she returned to Azkaban as a visitor.

Every week.

Without fail.

She would apparate to the ferry that would take her across the torrid sea, sign the visitation log with steady fingers, and walk the long corridor until she could sit beside her alpha again. To hold his hand, to brush back the hair that had turned to silver and ash. To look into the eyes of the man she once built a kingdom beside—even if that man no longer looked back.

Draco went with her sometimes.

He didn’t always have the strength to set foot inside the oppressive fortress, especially because it brought a different sort of feeling in him when he saw his father.

Lucius Malfoy had not fared well in prison.

The once-commanding figure, proud and pristine in black velvet and polished cane, had withered under stone walls and silence. Dementia had crept in slowly, a ghost that fed on isolation and shame, until only fragments of Lucius Malfoy remained—unmoored and fading. Draco remembered the first time his father didn’t recognize him. He remembered the blank look, the flicker of confusion. The way Lucius had flinched when Narcissa reached out, then offered her a feeble, hesitant smile—as if unsure who she was but sensing she had once mattered.

Narcissa never cried. Not once. At least not in front of others.

But she did plead.

She stood before the Wizengamot, composed as ever, her spine straight, her voice unwavering. She begged. Begged for clemency. For compassion. For the right to bring her husband home to die with dignity. She had spoken of the war, of guilt and loss and the slow erosion of a man once blinded by pride. She asked—not as a former aristocrat, but as a wife—for the chance to lay him to rest in a familiar bed, in a room filled with light.

The court dismissed her petition within minutes.

A month later, Lucius died in his cell.

The Ministry allowed a proper burial—a minor mercy. The ceremony was brief, private. The casket, dark alderwood trimmed in silver, was laid to rest beneath the weeping branches of the Malfoy ancestral grove. Theo, Blaise, and Pansy were the only ones in attendance besides Draco and his mother. They offered quiet condolences, dressed in tailored black, their presence a shield against the absence of the world beyond the gates.

After that day, Narcissa began every morning at her husband’s grave. She would rise before dawn, dress in mourning black, and walk the path through the gardens with the slow, deliberate pace of someone who had nowhere else to be. She stood there for hours—still as a statue—her veil catching the wind, her hands wrapped tightly around Lucius’s cane, now polished and weathered with her touch.

Sometimes Draco stood beside her.

He didn’t speak. Neither did she.

There was nothing to say.

The grief was too old, too deep, woven into the roots of the land itself. Draco once offered her his potion—the one that bought him time. The one she had watched him nearly die to create. She had smiled at him. Softly. With unbearable affection.

“No, darling,” she had said, brushing her hand across his cheek. “My time passed with your father.”

He never asked again.

And she never took it.

Several months passed before Draco noticed the signs—his mother moving more slowly, eating less, staying in bed longer after dawn. The Healers could find no ailment, no curse, no disease to name. Her magic remained intact, her vitals steady. But her heart… her heart had simply stopped trying. Grief, it seemed, was not always loud. Sometimes it settled in the bones like frost, slow and patient, until the soul surrendered.

Draco knew, however, that when a bonded omega lost their alpha, the omega would soon follow.

His mother had loved his father completely—through pride and war and ruin—and when Lucius had died, something vital had left her too. Narcissa had remained for Draco’s sake, a final duty she refused to leave unfinished. But even her iron composure had its limits.

She had been prepared.

She had made her peace.

They sat together one late afternoon in the drawing room, Narcissa wrapped in layers of soft black wool. Her silver-blonde hair, still elegant, had thinned with time, but her presence remained regal. A teacup rested delicately in her hand, untouched.

“I liked that Muggle book you keep beside your bed,” she said suddenly, her voice as soft as the rustle of her skirts. “The Giver. It was… sad, but beautiful.”

Draco looked over from his chair, startled by the shift in topic.

She smiled faintly, wistfully, her eyes distant. “The boy reminded me of you. Quiet and watching. Seeing too much. Wanting more than what he was told he could have.”

Draco lowered his gaze. “Granger sent it.”

“Granger…” Narcissa hummed thoughtfully. “Ah. The Muggle-born girl.” A ghost of a smile tugged at her lips. “How clever of her. She must have thought the same as I did. That you would understand the quiet pain in that story.”

Draco said nothing for a long moment, then nodded. “She turned out to be… an unexpected friend.”

His mother only nodded once, her eyes falling shut briefly, like the conversation had taken some invisible toll.

Two days later, she was gone.

The elves found her in her favorite sitting room, seated in the high-backed armchair upholstered in grey silk, the one that faced the window. She wore her mourning robes, of course—she had worn nothing else since Lucius’s death. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, a velvet throw tucked around her legs.

Her face was turned toward the window, peaceful and still.

The same view she had stared at every morning—the winding path, the gentle grove, and the marble headstone beneath the angel’s outstretched wings. Narcissa Malfoy died as she had lived: with grace, with dignity, and with silence.

Draco buried her beside her husband beneath the shade of the ancient angel carved centuries ago, her name etched in silver on the black stone. The ceremony was small. Private. Just as she would have wanted.

And just like that—Draco was alone.

His mother, the woman who had cradled him through grief and guarded him through the storm, was gone. His father already lost to time. His alpha—banished by his own words.

He still had his friends. Theo’s quiet loyalty. Pansy’s sharp wit. Blaise’s measured calm.

They were constant, unwavering.

But none of them could fill the hollow space carved out inside his chest.

None of them could touch the ache where love had once lived.

xxxxx

“How long has it been since your last heat?” Theo asked, adjusting his spectacles as he began jotting down notes to himself.

Draco, perched on the edge of the examination cot, tilted his head, brow faintly furrowing. “I think… the year before my probation ended?”

Theo froze mid-note through his chart, then slowly turned to look at him, eyes wide with disbelief. “Draco, that was over two years ago.”

Draco blinked, slightly sheepish. “Was it? I suppose… I just lost track of time.”

Theo gaped at him, horrified. “Merlin preserve me,” he muttered, pressing a hand to his forehead like he felt a migraine coming on. “Draco, this is serious. You’re technically the first omega in recorded magical history to survive beyond the projected lifespan of a severed soulbond. The absence of your heats could be a symptom—either a hormonal collapse or some unknown side effect of core destabilization.”

Draco pulled his collar up higher around his neck and shrugged. “I feel fine, really. More sensitive to the cold, perhaps, but that’s nothing new. And aside from the absence of a heat cycle, I don’t feel anything out of place.”

Theo exhaled deeply in exasperation, “I’d suggest hormone replacement therapy—maybe jumpstart your cycles—but your case is so far outside the standard model, I’d hate to trigger a flare in your core due to its instability. You’re a bloody anomaly.”

“It’s quite all right, Theo.” Draco offered him a faint smile. “I’ve made peace with it.”

Theo paused, visibly unhappy with the response, but he didn’t press. He knew that tone—knew when Draco was walling himself off again. Instead, he flipped the parchment closed and cleared his throat. “We still on for dinner tonight?”

“Of course,” Draco said, sliding off the cot with practiced grace. “Pansy’s been sending increasingly creative threats should I dare cancel again. The last one involved a howler, lace garters, and a cursed teapot.”

Theo snorted. “Charming, as ever.”

“I think she misses the theatrics,” Draco said with a small smirk, pulling his coat on and adjusting the collar. “And the gossip.”

“Speaking of which,” Theo said slyly, “maybe this time we’ll finally get Blaise blitzed enough to spill who he’s been secretly shagging. I don’t care what he says—last time we met, that was definitely a love bite on his neck.”

“Hmm, yes, well,” Draco murmured, arching a brow, “speaking of love bites…”

Theo glanced down just as Draco flicked his eyes toward the side of his throat. Realization dawned.

“Oh, bollocks,” Theo muttered, tugging up his collar with a guilty grin. “At least it’s no secret who I got them from.”

Draco was under no illusion. The absence of his heats was just another cruel echo of his severed bond—a hollow note reverberating through the symphony of his biology. His body had learned, slowly and irrevocably, to stop calling out for what would never return. Heats were for connection. For answering the pull of something sacred—something written in the marrow and sung through the soul. But his soul no longer sang. His bond no longer burned.

His body had given up waiting.

At first, it felt like a punishment. As if losing Harry hadn’t already torn him in two, Fate had reached in and twisted the knife. The universe had made its verdict known: this was permanent. Irrevocable. And now his body had started to accept it, too. There would be no alpha. No mating. No cycles. No calling to something lost. It was confirmation, etched in silence, that the bond was shattered beyond repair.

That he was truly, completely alone.

The cold never left him now.

It was no longer a fleeting chill, but something intrinsic—woven through his bones like frost beneath the skin. Even when the hearth burned high with crackling flame, even wrapped in enchanted layers of warming wool, he still felt it. It kissed his fingertips as he held his quill. Stiffened his joints as he stirred slow-brewing potions. Curled behind his ribs, an ache that couldn’t be spelled away.

It numbed. Not with mercy, but with quiet inevitability.

And no matter how brightly the fires blazed, no matter how many layers he wore or how many hours he spent curled beneath enchanted quilts, the emptiness never warmed. His core remained steady only by the grace of his potion. But warmth—true warmth—was a stranger to him now.

Just another bitter pill he had learned to swallow.

And still, he carried on. As always.

xxxxx

Dinner with his friends had become something of a rare indulgence these days. Blaise and Pansy were constantly in motion, their joint business ventures keeping them traveling across the globe in pursuit of rare ingredients, exclusive contracts, and clients who paid handsomely for discretion. Theo, now one of the leading experts in omega biology and reproductive health, spent most of his time buried in long shifts at St. Mungo’s, often catching sleep in snatched hours between surgical consults and research presentations.

And Draco… Draco had quietly retreated into a life of solitude.

He was no recluse in name, of course. His professional acclaim had only grown. His contributions to potion theory and alchemical innovation were now required reading in several advanced curricula. His funding and collaborative breakthroughs in lycanthropy treatment had already led to remarkable advances—monthly suppressants that dulled the agony of transformation, and new formulations being trialed across Europe. He received countless invitations to lecture at international conferences, and while he occasionally made an appearance at a university or symposium, Draco was highly selective. He rarely agreed to collaborate on outside research unless it truly intrigued him or offered something he couldn’t develop alone.

But recently, an unexpected letter had arrived.

It bore the seal of Hogwarts.

“Professor Slughorn has recommended you personally,” McGonagall had written in elegant, slanted script. “He’s been following your career with great interest and believes you’d be an ideal successor to his post, as he plans to retire at the end of this academic year.”

Draco had stared at the parchment for a long time after reading it. Teaching? At Hogwarts?

Now, over dinner in the private dining room of one of their favorite establishments tucked away in Diagon Alley, he shared the news.

“A teaching position?” Blaise echoed, brow lifting with interest as he sipped from his wine. “You?”

Draco gave a slow nod, picking at the grilled sea bream on his plate. “Headmistress McGonagall extended the offer herself. She wants me to take over Potions.”

“I can’t imagine you having the patience for a room full of hormonal, underqualified children,” Pansy said bluntly, twirling her glass. “You were a tyrant just trying to help me pass my OWLs.”

Draco frowned at her across the table. “I recall a very different version of events. You begged to copy my work, and I declined on moral grounds.”

“Details,” Pansy replied airily, waving him off with a grin. “The point stands.”

“I think you should take it,” Theo said casually, stabbing his fork into a heap of garlic noodles. “It’ll force you out of the Manor and back into the world. Might even do you some good.”

Draco sighed, pushing a slice of lemon off the edge of his fish filet. “I barely tolerate working with adults on research teams. I’d probably poison the first student who asks me how to brew a Pepper-Up Potion for the fifth time in a row.”

Blaise snorted. “You’re giving yourself too little credit. You’ve always liked control—why not shape the next generation of potioneers? Besides,” he said, breaking off a piece of rustic bread and dipping it in the sauce, “you might actually enjoy it. Imagine the satisfaction of watching your standards reduce a classroom of mediocrity to tears.”

“Tempting,” Draco drawled, though there was the barest curl of amusement at his mouth.

“You don’t have to decide tonight,” Theo said, more gently now. “But give it thought. A new chapter might not be such a bad thing.”

Draco fell quiet for a beat, eyes flicking between them—his friends, the last constants in a world that had shifted and taken so much.

“I will,” he said finally. “I’ll think on it.”

There was hardly any dwelling done on Draco’s part. He had written back to Headmistress McGonagall the very next morning with a crisp, efficient note: I accept.

He expected regret. Or second thoughts. But they never came.

When the new academic year began, he found himself returning to Hogwarts—not as a student, but as its newest Potions Master. And to his surprise… it wasn’t dreadful. In fact, he didn’t mind it at all. The first semester had been, as expected, a whirlwind of chaos and correction. There were cauldrons scorched beyond recognition, mysteriously disappearing ingredients, and no small number of disciplinary reports filed under ‘blatant misuse of school property.’ He endured headaches, sass, and the deeply frustrating inability of students to remember to stir counter-clockwise.

Still, something shifted in him when a third-year shyly handed over a perfectly brewed Calming Draught, its color the ideal shade of soft blue-gray. When a seventh-year correctly identified the minute textural difference between wolfsbane and monkshood by touch alone, Draco felt… something. Pride, perhaps. Or purpose.

Fulfillment.

He’d never expected to feel anything inside these stone walls again—but there it was, flickering quietly in the background of his days. And just like that, ten years passed since he himself had walked these corridors as a student. The castle had changed little in form, but everything felt different now. Familiar, but not the same.

By day, he lectured from the cool, shadowed depths of the dungeons, commanding the classroom with sharp precision and occasional dry humor. The students had long stopped calling him “Professor Malfoy” under their breath with suspicion. Now they said it with a mix of respect and mild fear. By night, he returned home to Malfoy Manor, pouring himself into his research—tweaking new formulas, refining old ones, forever chasing the bleeding edge of magical innovation.

Then, one dusky Thursday afternoon, as the autumn wind rattled against the tall, arched windows of his office, an owl tapped briskly at the pane.

He recognized the tidy scrawl on the envelope instantly. Theo.

The letter inside was brief.

Draco—
Strange new compound showing up in my patients. Symptoms mimic several known potions, but the reaction is inconsistent. Might be a new recreational blend—or something more dangerous. Need your expertise. Are you in?

—Theo

Draco read it twice.

Theo had sent him similar queries over the years—consultations on rare toxins, obscure brewing anomalies, side effects of obscure potions in omega biology. It was routine, and yet… something about the phrasing tugged at his instincts.

A new blend, he mused. Or something more dangerous.

He reached for his quill without hesitation.

Of course. Send me what you have. I’ll begin tests this weekend.

—D

The parchment dried swiftly in the warm glow of his desk lamp.

Beneath the simplicity of the message, Draco felt something stir.

A puzzle. A mystery to unravel.

And buried beneath the rising hum of intellectual intrigue… a quieter echo of what had always driven him: A reason to keep going. A purpose to follow.

Chapter Text

Harry stepped onto the familiar grounds of Hogwarts, the crunch of gravel beneath his boots a quiet herald of his return. The late afternoon sun stretched long shadows over the path as he took a moment to pause, eyes drifting toward the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Hagrid’s hut sat nestled where it always had—half-buried in the hillside, its crooked chimney exhaling a steady stream of smoke into the crisp air. A pang of nostalgia tugged at Harry’s chest, but he turned his gaze forward to the castle proper.

Hogwarts stood proud and unyielding, its spires clawing at the sky, defiant against time. The years had been kind—or perhaps simply forgiving. The stonework had been repaired, the shattered windows restored, but nothing could erase the deeper scars of that final battle. The magic of the place remained potent, humming beneath his skin as he approached, but so did the weight of memory.

He swallowed hard.

It felt like both yesterday and a lifetime ago since he had last walked these paths as a student. Memories surged in waves—some gilded in the golden glow of laughter and candlelight, of whispered secrets in the common room, of stolen hours beneath the Invisibility Cloak. Others were darker—twisted with grief, echoing with screams and wandfire, with names etched into marble memorials and into his heart.

He drew a breath, letting it settle deep into his lungs, grounding him.

Reaching into the pocket of his coat, Harry withdrew a silver pocket watch, its surface engraved with delicate filigree. He flicked it open with a practiced motion. The hands ticked quietly just past four o’clock. Classes would be ending soon. He slid the watch back into place, steeling himself. The great oak doors opened easily at his touch, welcoming him back into the embrace of cool stone and soft torchlight. The scent hit him instantly—dusty parchment, aged floor polish, and the faintest trace of ancient magic soaked into every inch of the castle.

Students passed him in a blur of robes and laughter, their voices echoing against the high ceilings. None of them knew him. None stopped to stare. They were too young to remember the war beyond history books and whispered stories. A new generation. And Harry hoped, truly hoped, they would never endure what he had.

He moved down the corridor slowly, his eyes scanning the familiar sights. The floating torches still flickered with warm, enchanted flame. The portraits whispered among themselves, some falling quiet as he passed. A pair of suits of armor clattered in the corner, one knocking its neighbor with a squeaky elbow. The corner where he and the Weasley twins would throw exploding snaps at passing feet, scaring students. The stairwell where he caught Snape’s cloak billowing like a shadow. The alcove where he and Ron used to ditch homework and eat stolen pasties. And many memories of him and Draco simply walking down the corridors together, fingers laced…when they still had forever.

A morbid curiosity stirred in his chest. Were there any new ghosts? The thought came unbidden, lingering like fog. He hadn’t seen any new spirits during his eighth year, but still… he wondered.

He hoped not.

Let the dead rest. Let the living forget, if they’re lucky.

As he made his way deeper into the castle, toward the dungeons, toward the Potions classroom where he knew a certain professor would be, Harry felt his pulse quicken.

He had to remind himself why he was here.

This wasn’t about memories, or closure, or ghosts of the past. It was about the case. About the growing network of illicit potions surfacing across the UK—potions with unstable properties, unknown origins, and devastating effects. Victims were piling up. Wards at St. Mungo’s were flooded with patients exhibiting erratic symptoms: seizures, magical disorientation, collapsing cores. He had work to do. People were depending on him. Before leaving the DMLE, he’d signed the request for interdepartmental collaboration. The form had glowed with the signatures of both Minister Shacklebolt and Headmistress McGonagall before vanishing in a sharp twist of white light. Official. Authorized. Necessary.

He had a purpose.

And yet… as he descended the winding stairway to the dungeons, his pace slowed.

The corridors were still familiar, though not untouched by change. A faint green glow now lit the sconces along the stone walls, casting a soft shimmer that had never been there during his school days. The ever-present dampness was gone, replaced by a surprising dryness in the air. There were fewer cobwebs in the corners, and the heavy scent of mildew had lifted. Someone had done more than just maintain the dungeons—they had improved them. Strangely enough, that small shift made the whole place feel… different. Not unrecognizable. But less ominous. Less like the belly of a castle and more like a proper workspace. Like someone had laid claim to it. Made it theirs.

As he turned the final corner, the Potions classroom came into view—just as a low boom rattled the stones beneath his feet. A beat later, the classroom door slammed open with a groan, and a plume of thick lime-green smoke rolled out into the corridor. Students tumbled after it, coughing and wheezing, their faces screwed up in dismay as they waved their arms through the haze.

“Mr. Fowers! Mr. Ingalvar!” a voice snapped from inside, clipped and cutting with unmistakable annoyance. “How many times must I remind you this is a classroom, not a testing lab for your idiotic bravado?”

Harry froze.

That voice.

It had been years, and yet it hit him with the precision of a spell—cool, refined, unmistakably familiar. Sharper now, more mature, but laced with the same dry edge that used to make Harry both bristle and secretly admire. His stomach clenched, and without meaning to, he felt a small, traitorous smile tug at his lips. A memory of that same tone directed towards him whenever Harry would purposely provoke.

“Fifty points each from Slytherin! And two weeks’ detention! Since subtlety seems to be beyond your comprehension, perhaps cleaning the trophy cases with a toothbrush will help sharpen your focus.”

Two boys—clearly the culprits—hurried into the corridor, coughing and laughing under their breath, their robes covered in a fine green powder. They slung their satchels over their shoulders without a care in the world and never even noticed the man standing just beside the door, stiff as a statue, eyes fixed on the dissipating smoke.

Harry didn’t move. He squared his shoulders, steeling himself.

He was here on business.

Now... now there was no avoiding him.

“I swear on Salazar’s watery grave…” came a muttered curse from somewhere inside the classroom, followed by the sound of shuffling feet and a soft hiss of magic.

Harry moved closer, drawn forward by a pull he thought he’d buried years ago. It lived in the hollow of his chest, that tether—thin, fragile, but still intact in some painful way. He stepped through the doorway—And stopped dead in his tracks. Draco Malfoy stood in the center of the classroom, wreathed in the last traces of lime-colored haze like a figure stepping out of a dream. He looked as though he belonged in a painting, too real and too beautiful to be flesh and blood. He wore a tailored midnight-blue robe with subtle silver piping along the cuffs, the hem brushing just above polished dragonhide boots. Beneath the robe, a dove-grey turtleneck hugged the elegant line of his neck and shoulders, refined and understated but no less commanding. His platinum hair—longer now—was tied at the nape of his neck with a narrow black ribbon, the tail of the ponytail resting over one shoulder like silk spun from moonlight.

Of course.

Of course Draco would be the reason the dungeons no longer smelled of mildew and rot. He always had been quite fastidious about cleanliness, why not extend it to the domain of his classroom and within the dungeons leading to it?

Harry’s breath caught. It had been more than ten years since he’d last seen him, truly seen him, and yet Draco looked infuriatingly untouched by time. If anything, he had grown into himself—sharper in profile, steadier in his movements. Still cold, still poised. Still devastating.

And still Harry’s, in some stubborn, aching part of his heart.

Draco moved with fluid efficiency, wand slicing through the air. With a flick, the cauldrons emptied, their contents evaporating in gentle streams of steam. Another motion, and the smoke in the room dissolved, pulled into the vents with a soft whoosh. A final, decisive gesture and the burners winked out, plunging the room into a quiet, controlled stillness.

In mere seconds, chaos had become calm.

Harry realized his hand was trembling. Palms sweaty. He slowly raised it, steadied himself, and knocked softly on the doorframe.

Draco froze.

He turned, slow and careful, eyes locking onto Harry’s like a curse summoned by name. They stood across the room from each other, an entire decade bridging the distance, and yet—for one breathless moment—they were seventeen again. Boys tangled in war and longing and all the things they never said.

Draco’s eyes widened fractionally. Storm-grey, glassy with something unreadable.

“…Potter,” he said, voice low and uncertain. The syllables tasted unfamiliar in his mouth, like he wasn’t sure it was really him.

Harry’s heart slammed against his ribs. He hadn’t been prepared—had thought he could be—but nothing could’ve readied him for the way it felt to hear his name in that voice again. He swallowed, trying to ground himself, fingers curling slightly at his sides.

“Hello, Malfoy,” he said quietly.

His voice betrayed him—hoarse, rough around the edges with emotion he’d never been able to drown out. It was beginning again. Or maybe it had never ended.

Draco blinked once—slowly, as though reorienting himself to the present. Then, as if some internal switch flicked into place, he straightened his posture with all the careful composure of a man slipping back into armor. “I wasn’t expecting… anyone.”

“I know,” Harry replied, stepping further into the room. The door swung shut behind him with a heavy thud that seemed far too final. “I should’ve sent word ahead. I just—wasn’t sure I’d come until I already had.”

Draco didn’t answer. His fingers, pale and long, curled tighter around his wand. He didn’t raise it, didn’t threaten—but the gesture wasn’t lost on Harry. The silence between them wasn’t passive; it crackled, strained at the edges by years of things left unsaid. The tension wasn’t born of discomfort. No—it was memory. It was history. It was the weight of a thousand fractured moments collapsing in on one another. And it was that one last memory, the most damning of them all.

“Go home, Potter. I never want to see you again.”

Those words had gutted Harry once. They echoed now like the final note of a dirge.

He took another breath, steadying himself against the ache. “How have you been?” he asked at last, his voice low, careful—like he wasn’t sure the question would be welcomed.

Draco didn’t respond right away. His arms folded across his chest, the movement deliberate and closed-off. It was a barrier more than a comfort, and Harry felt the distance between them widen.

“Why are you here, Harry?”

The sound of his name—flat, clinical, entirely devoid of warmth—landed like a blow. Harry barely resisted the urge to flinch. He saw the guarded gleam in Draco’s eyes, the faint tension in his jaw, and tried to read the lines he once knew so well.

It was strange, standing here. This wasn’t just a Potions classroom—it was Draco’s space now. And it bore his signature in all the small details. The lingering scent of clean parchment and crushed herbs. The gentle green-gold hue of the enchanted lamps. The arrangement of ingredients in neat, labeled jars, and the runes subtly etched into the stone archways for extra ventilation. It was precise. Elegant. Controlled. Harry’s eyes drifted along the perimeter before he cleared his throat and adjusted his tone.

“Right,” he said briskly. “Straight to business, then.”

His hand moved into the folds of his coat and withdrew a small glass vial, the liquid inside shimmering faintly in hues that shifted between blue and mauve. “There’s a new potion on the market. No known origin. It’s been showing up in overdose cases—St. Mungo’s is seeing a surge. We’ve already lost people. The analysts in the Department of Mystery haven’t been able to  identify the full compound yet, but…”

He stepped forward, extending the vial.

And stopped.

Draco had instinctively flinched—barely a movement, just a subtle tightening of his stance, a fraction of a step backward. But it was enough. Harry froze mid-stride, guilt hitting him like a brick. The rejection had been years ago, but the wound was still open between them. Still raw.

“I found this at the latest crime scene,” Harry said, his voice quieter now, gentler. He set the vial carefully on the nearest workbench, sliding it toward Draco without crossing any further into his space.

Draco hadn’t meant to recoil. The reaction had been instinctive. His body still remembered pain, betrayal, loss. And Harry’s presence—so familiar, so devastating—sent conflicting signals through every nerve ending.

He stared at the vial, not touching it yet. “Theo mentioned something about an unusual compound showing up in patients,” he said finally, his voice more measured. “I assumed the request had come through him.”

Harry hesitated, brows furrowing slightly. “It sort of did… in a roundabout way. Hermione had been our go-between since Theo refuses to cooperate with me personally. Then Shacklebolt and McGonagall were somehow looped in and approved external collaboration. They said you were willing to help. Didn’t McGonagall speak to you?”

Draco’s eyes narrowed, not in suspicion but in quiet exasperation. “I’d thought the request came directly from Theo.”

It hung there for a moment—awkward, brittle silence stretching thin again.

Harry looked down at the table, then back at Draco. “Would it have made a difference?”

Draco didn’t answer. He didn’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. All he knew was that the last time Harry Potter had crossed the threshold into his life, it had nearly destroyed him.

And yet… here he was. Again.

Draco stepped forward, the heels of his boots clicking softly against the stone as he reached for the vial. His fingers, pale and steady, lifted it from the workbench with delicate care. He held it up to eye level, tilting it slowly beneath the glow of the enchanted sconces along the wall. The thick liquid within clung unevenly to the glass, swirling sluggishly with inconsistent opacity. Specks of unfiltered sediment floated through the mixture like ash in murky water. He barely needed a moment to assess it.

“Crude,” he muttered, his tone clinical. “Whoever made this didn’t bother following proper brewing stages. Likely threw everything in dry—no infusions, no filtration. A slapdash approach. Probably to cut down brewing time or increase volume. Possibly both.” He angled the vial slightly toward the nearest green-lit torch, narrowing his eyes. “See that texture?” he said, his voice low. “Should be completely sediment-free. That’s powdered asphodel—still active, which means it wasn’t dissolved correctly in the base. That alone can disrupt neural conductivity. Combine it with belladonna, and it’s practically inviting cardiac failure.”

Harry watched him in quiet awe. “You didn’t even use a diagnostic charm.”

Draco’s brow arched with faint disdain. “There’s no need. Not when the craftsmanship is this... insulting.” He lowered the vial and glanced sideways at Harry. “My third-years could brew a cleaner base blindfolded.”

Harry huffed a quiet breath of amusement—half laugh, half something else. “You always were brilliant in Potions.”

That earned the smallest shift in Draco’s expression—a flicker, barely there. Not quite a smile. More like the ghost of one. He turned from Harry without a word, walking to his desk and setting the vial down amidst a tidy array of parchment scrolls and ink bottles arranged with almost obsessive precision.

“I’ll owl Theo with recommendations,” Draco said after a moment, reaching for a quill. “There are a few stabilizers that could lessen the neurotoxic effects—assuming the patients haven’t already sustained irreversible damage.”

“Thank you,” Harry said quietly, his voice laced with something deeper than gratitude. “Truly.”

Draco inclined his head, not looking at him. “You’re fortunate you brought it to me quickly. If it had stayed sealed in your evidence room much longer, the compound would’ve destabilized. It could’ve become volatile.”

A pause followed. Not long—but heavy. Charged.

Harry let his eyes linger. On the elegant way Draco’s fingers moved across the desk. On the way his posture remained straight-backed, composed, like armor fitted over fragility. His voice had been steady, his analysis sharp, his movements precise.

He was beautiful.

But so distant.

So carefully controlled.

So achingly untouchable.

“Do you—” Harry started, then stopped. Swallowed.

Draco stilled, sensing it. But he didn’t look up.

The words sat unspoken between them, gathering weight like stormclouds. So much was left unsaid. So much still bleeding under the surface of old wounds neither of them had dared reopen.

“Do you hate me, Draco?” he wanted to ask. It was a question that plagued him for years. Why else would he have told him to never wanting to see him again…

"Are you able to deconstruct the potion down to every last ingredient?" Harry asked, his voice tight—not just with the urgency of the case, but with something else buried deeper. Something tightly controlled, like a dam ready to crack.

Draco didn’t look up. He was already seated at his desk, sliding open a drawer with the quiet grace of someone who had long since mastered the art of appearing unaffected. His movements were fluid, deliberate—reaching for a fresh sheet of parchment, uncapping an inkwell, dipping the tip of a quill.

“Of course I can,” he said, the words clipped and even. “You’ll have the full breakdown by owl. I’ll also include a list of apothecaries known to distribute the base ingredients—both legitimate and those less so.”

There was no warmth in his tone. No inflection. Just clinical detachment and efficiency.

Harry exhaled slowly through his nose, his jaw tightening as the ache in his chest deepened. He resisted the urge to push—resisted the reckless, aching part of himself that still reached for Draco in dreams. Don’t make this personal. Not now. Not here.

“Thank you,” he said, stiffly. “And… since this is an ongoing investigation, could I reach out again? If we need your expertise?”

That made Draco pause.

Just briefly.

His quill hovered in the air as he glanced up, his grey eyes meeting Harry’s with a flicker of something unreadable—sharp and distant, like a winter sky. A flick of the past. And then, nothing.

“If you must,” Draco said coolly, returning his attention to the parchment.

Harry swallowed. It was like being pierced with a needle of ice. That voice—flat, indifferent—was not the one that used to whisper his name like a promise. Not the one that used to moan it into the hollow of his throat with trembling lips and shaking hands. He hated this. The emptiness between them. The sharp civility. They were two people who had once been everything to each other, now speaking like strangers who’d only ever passed in corridors. He wanted to fall to his knees right there in the classroom. In the cool, potion-scented air where they’d once known magic far deeper than what wands could conjure.

He wanted to say: Please. Forgive me. I didn’t understand what I was doing when I walked away. I didn’t realize what I’d lost until it was already too late. I didn’t know love until it was gone.

He wanted to bury his face against Draco’s neck, to breathe in the scent of rose, black plum, and spiced honey—the scent that used to center him, soothe him, ruin him. He wanted to say that not a day had passed without the dull ache of loss. That he still dreamed in the shape of Draco’s body against his. That the silence left in the wake of their broken bond echoed louder than any war cry.

However he didn’t say any of that.

He just nodded. Small. Measured. Fragile.

“Right,” he murmured. “I’ll wait for your owl.”

Harry turned on his heel and walked out, the hem of his coat brushing the stones with soft, final strokes. He didn’t look back. Didn’t pause at the door. The scent of petrichor, vetiver, and immortelle lingered faintly in the air as it closed behind him—like the ghost of a summer storm already spent.

He didn’t see what he left behind.

Didn’t see the way Draco’s shoulders slumped the moment the door clicked shut. Didn’t see the flicker of anguish that passed over his pale features, like a shadow sliding across moonlight. Didn’t see the way Draco’s hands curled into trembling fists, knuckles white, the quill falling from his grip and rolling silently across the desk. Didn’t hear the breath Draco sucked in—sharp, shaky, desperate to hold himself together.

And when the silence returned, it wasn’t quiet.

It was unbearable.

Draco sat motionless behind his desk, his spine stiff, fingers pressed lightly against the parchment he no longer saw. His eyes remained locked on the empty space where Harry had just stood, as though the air itself still trembled from his presence. The scent lingered—petrichor and vetiver, sharp and grounding, laced with the faint sweetness of immortelle. It drifted like smoke, cruel in its familiarity, wrapping around Draco’s senses until he felt suffocated by memory. He inhaled sharply through his nose, biting down on the tremor rising in his chest, willing himself not to fall apart.

Again.

He had spent a decade telling himself he’d done the right thing—forcing Harry away, cutting him loose, carving distance where a bond used to be.

“Go home, Harry. I never want to see you again.”

That had been the last thing he’d said to the alpha. A lie. A knife he’d turned against his own heart. He’d chosen those words like a spell of severance, to protect Harry from the decay setting into his body, from the slow, freezing unraveling of his core. To give Harry a chance at freedom. At happiness.

Because what was Draco now, really?

A rejected omega. A name on ancient parchment, once etched in destiny, now nothing but ash and silence. He no longer had heats. His scent—once a delicate, intoxicating blend of rose, black plum, and spiced honey—had dulled and faded to nothing. Most days, he could pass as a beta without trying. Even the younger omegas on staff didn’t seem to register him as one of their own anymore.

Only the cold remained.

It never left him—not fully. It pooled in his limbs and clung to his skin, especially as his next dose of the stabilizing potion drew near. He’d grown used to the signs: the creeping numbness in his fingertips, the ache in his joints, the chill beneath his breastbone.

It was better this way. Safer. Cleaner.

It had to be.

Draco let out a slow, quiet breath and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes against the sting at the corners. He summoned every ounce of control to remind himself that this was for the best. Harry looked… well. Stronger than before. Confident. His Auror robes fit him perfectly, the collar slightly askew in a way that was so infuriatingly Harry—careless and magnetic. That wild black hair. Those green eyes that still cut right through him. That olive-toned skin Draco had once touched with veneration, mapped like scripture.

And yet, Draco hadn’t asked a single question.

Not whether he was happy. Not whether he’d found someone else. Whether the house he lived in was quiet. Whether he still slept on the left side of the bed.

Because he couldn't bear the answers.

He’d spent years—years—burying himself in research, unearthing obscure tomes, translating rune-drenched texts by candlelight, daring to look into places few ever did. Searching for a way to fix what had been broken. What he had broken. Most of it led to nothing. Hopes that withered in the light of logic, magic that fizzled at the first test.

Except one.

One whisper of a solution buried deep in magical lore. A theory so ancient and rare it was half-considered myth: that a fated pair, even if severed, could—through the raw, primal magic of a shared rut and heat—reform a new bond. A resurrection of what had been lost, born not of ceremony, but of instinct. Magic pulled from the marrow. From need. From surrender.

But it required both rut and heat simultaneously. Together.

And Draco hadn’t had a heat in years.

His body had long stopped calling for an alpha. It had accepted that there was nothing to answer. His biology had adapted to the truth his heart refused to: the bond was shattered. His magic fractured. His instincts silenced. Even if Harry still loved him—even if he had returned begging—Draco could never give him what they had before. Could never recreate the moment where fate had first stitched their souls together.

But still…

He sat in the stillness of the classroom, surrounded by cooling cauldrons and extinguished torches, breathing in the ghost of a storm that had once been his entire world.

His heart ached in silence.

Because wanting had never stopped.

And hope—no matter how faint—refused to die.

xxxxx

Harry slept poorly that night.

He lay flat on his back, eyes fixed on the ceiling of his dimly lit bedroom, the soft ticking of the wall clock the only sound breaking the stillness. His arms were folded behind his head, but the position offered no comfort. The covers clung too tight, stifling and hot, but whenever he pushed them off, a chill crept into his bones. It wasn’t the kind of restlessness he could outrun. It was deeper—bone-deep, soul-deep. His skin felt too tight, his chest too hollow. The moment he had locked eyes with Draco in the Potions classroom had ignited something old and dangerous inside him. And now, it wouldn’t settle.

He had drifted into the kitchen at some point past midnight, bare feet soundless against the cold floor. The liquor cabinet beckoned. He stood in front of it for a long while, hand hovering near the latch. Just one glass of firewhiskey. Or a sleeping draught—enough to drown the pull of his instincts, to still the growl clawing up his throat.

But he didn’t touch it. Couldn’t.

He knew too well the risk of slipping again. He still struggled with his sobriety to this day.

Kreacher, silent as a shadow, had appeared with a steaming mug of tea instead. “Charmwort and moonlace,” the elf said in a gruff whisper, setting the cup on the table before him. “For calming. Master should sleep.”

Harry offered a weary, lopsided smile. “Thanks, Kreacher.”

He drank it slowly. The warmth helped for a time, but the ache in his chest refused to ease. His thoughts circled, looping endlessly back to grey eyes and a voice like silk cut on glass.

Draco.

Seeing him again had torn open something he had buried long ago. His voice, clipped and steady, still rang in Harry’s ears. His scent—regrettably he wasn’t able to pick up the omega’s sweet scent in the dungeon. Maybe because of the dried herbs? Or perhaps Draco had been wearing scent blockers.

The alpha inside him was wide awake, pacing like a caged wolf, snarling at restraint. It wanted to go back. To undo the past. To fix what had been shattered. But Harry stayed in bed, staring up at the darkness, hands clenched in the sheets.

He didn’t sleep. Not really.

By the time he stepped into the Auror Office the next morning, he looked a wreck. Shadows clung beneath his eyes like bruises. His jaw was tight, unshaven. His robes hung slightly askew. He didn’t speak to anyone as he passed the bullpen. Not because he was angry—but because he didn’t trust his voice not to crack. Everything felt sharper. Too loud. Too bright. His magic buzzed beneath his skin, too close, too raw.

He was unraveling again—and he knew exactly who had pulled the first thread.

A sealed envelope sat waiting on his desk, its pristine wax seal pressed with an elegant "M." Harry’s brows furrowed as he picked it up, recognizing the handwriting immediately—precise, looping, deliberate. Too clean. Too Draco. He broke the seal and unfolded the parchment, the scent of fine ink and old parchment rising faintly as he scanned the contents. Inside was the report. It was everything he had asked for—more, in fact. A full breakdown of the street potion, stripped down to its core: every ingredient named, proportions estimated, brewing errors identified. Neat annotations lined the margins, noting possible origins, common substitutions, and brewing inconsistencies. Next to each ingredient, Draco had listed vendors known to carry them—both legal and those who operated in greyer shadows.

But there was no note. No greeting. No signature. No snide remark or faintly amused insult tucked in the margins. No Potter.

Just data. Cold. Clinical. Impersonal.

Harry stared at the final line longer than necessary, his jaw tight, the sting of disappointment sharper than he’d anticipated. He wasn’t sure what he had expected—some proof, perhaps, that Draco had felt something during their meeting. A barb to remind him of old habits. A sign that he hadn’t imagined the way Draco’s eyes had flickered, just for a moment, with something more. But this… this professionalism felt like a lock sliding into place. Draco had drawn a boundary with surgical precision, and Harry could practically feel the scalpel slicing clean through what little thread still connected them.

Still, he couldn’t deny the value of the report. Draco hadn’t just answered the question—he’d dissected it, annotated it, and handed over the scalpel too. Harry’s gaze snagged on one detail: the variability in the potion’s symptoms. According to Draco’s notes, the effects shifted depending on the order of ingredient introduction—something even trained brewers often overlooked. Worse, the mixture’s instability meant it reacted violently to any other potion in the user’s system, making it even deadlier.

Harry folded the parchment with care, the crisp edges rustling softly as he slid it into the inner pocket of his coat. His fingers lingered there a moment, brushing over the fabric like he could still feel the ghost of Draco’s touch in the ink. Then, straightening, he grabbed his wand from the desk and turned toward the door.

“Following up on some leads,” he said as he poked his head into Robards’ office. “Won’t be long.”

Without waiting for a reply, he strode out of the office, cloak sweeping behind him, boots ringing sharply against the polished floor. The list of vendors burned hot in his chest. Draco might not want to see him again, but Harry would be damned if he let another name get carved into a headstone because of this poison.

Not while he still had breath left in him.

Following up on the leads had been grueling—both physically and mentally—but Harry welcomed the strain. The exhaustion dulled the ache beneath his ribs, the one that flared every time his mind strayed to the way Draco had looked at him: calm, distant, untouched. The motion kept him grounded. The travel, the interviews, the endless documentation—it gave him something to bleed into. Something useful. Something that didn't look back at him with storm-grey eyes.

The case consumed him, and he gladly let it.

Within days, he’d whittled his list down to two vendors whose names had emerged from Draco’s detailed report. On paper, they were spotless—clean storefronts, glowing reviews, long-standing reputations in the apothecary circles. One in Diagon Alley, the other tucked into a tidy side street in Manchester. Established, charming, cooperative.

Too cooperative.

When Harry pressed them about their suppliers—specifically for ingredients Draco had flagged as problematic—he got two answers. Both delivered with unwavering confidence. Both contradicting each other. One insisted they sourced their materials from a northern herb farm near Ottery St. Catchpole. The other swore by a contracted co-op out of Inverness. They smiled too easily. Their paperwork was too precise.

They were lying.

Harry scribbled the contradictions into his notebook with clipped strokes, the page already a patchwork of jagged lines and margin notes. The inconsistencies were subtle, but they were there—and they reeked of something deeper. He’d need to go beyond the storefronts, dig into the suppliers themselves.

What followed was a week of floo travel, endless parchment trails, and polite conversations layered with veiled suspicion. He chased down manifests, reviewed financial records, and tracked delivery schedules until every number blurred together. He barely slept, barely ate, and didn’t stop moving. Eventually, his pursuit led him north—just outside of York—where a large potion supply distributor stood behind wards and weathered stone. The building was plain, almost industrial, a warehouse-turned-office that fed potion ingredients to most of Britain’s apothecaries.

Inside, a wiry man named Thatchley greeted him with ink-stained fingers and a pressed smile. He had the worn look of someone more familiar with inventory ledgers than conversation.

When Harry flashed his badge and explained his investigation, Thatchley blinked behind round spectacles and nodded once. “This way, Auror Potter.”

He led Harry to a cluttered back office that smelled faintly of dried hellebore and pipe smoke. Scrolls and ledgers were stacked in precarious towers around the room.

“I’ve got documentation going back decades,” Thatchley said, pulling down a thick volume from the shelf with a grunt. “But if it’s this past year you’re after, I can have those ready in a snap.”

Harry flipped through the current year’s ledger, scanning pages filled with careful handwriting—ingredient quantities, distributor receipts, transaction notations. Nothing leapt off the page. No glaring red flags. No bloated orders. No falsified deliveries. But the absence of something was just as telling. He tapped his quill slowly against the parchment, trusting that nagging instinct curled at the base of his skull. Something was off.

“These are well-kept,” he said, finally. “But I’d like my analyst to review the copies at the office—just in case something’s been masked or altered magically.”

Thatchley nodded easily. “Certainly. Transparency’s the backbone of this place. Let me know if you need additional records.”

Harry summoned his wand and duplicated the ledgers, the copies rolling themselves neatly into a secure folder at his side. He stood and extended a hand.

“Thank you for your cooperation.”

Thatchley shook it with a firm grip, his expression open but laced with curiosity. “Hope you catch the bastard behind it, Auror. This new potion—it’s ugly work.”

Harry nodded grimly. “It is.”

He stepped out into the afternoon light, the folder warm under his arm from the duplication charm. The sun was high, but the chill in his bones didn’t fade. There was someone out there, moving these ingredients with care. Disguising the trade. Keeping just beneath the surface.

Harry intended to drag them into the light.

Another week passed, and the ledger yielded nothing. No anomalies. No inflated orders. No sudden shifts in supplier. Every transaction was clean, consistent, and—infuriatingly—legitimate. Harry couldn’t cross the supplier off the list just yet, but the lack of evidence made it harder to justify continued scrutiny. Whoever was behind the distribution knew how to cover their tracks.

But just as one lead dulled, another problem surfaced—sharper, more insidious than before.

A new version of the drug had started to circulate. It was no longer the crude, unpredictable blend they had first encountered. This batch was sleeker, more potent, and terrifyingly refined. Someone had corrected the flaws in the original formula with surgical precision. Gone were the erratic side effects and unstable behaviors. The potion now presented consistent symptoms—targeted reactions that were harder to trace, and worse, far more addictive.

Harry sat in his office, reading over the newest patient reports from St. Mungo’s with mounting frustration. The number of victims was growing by the day. Most were from vulnerable communities—young students desperate to increase magical stamina, ex-soldiers chasing a moment of quiet, even a handful of Ministry workers trying to enhance focus in high-pressure positions. The potion had become a quiet epidemic. Its effects were subtle enough to pass for legal-use brews if you didn’t know what to look for. But the truth was darker—its interactions with other common potions made it volatile, unpredictable, and in some cases, fatal.

And still, there was no suspect. No manufacturer. No distributor.

They had interrogated everyone they could—users arrested during sting operations, overdose victims rescued by mediwizards, smugglers caught with vials tucked into coat linings. But when asked where the potion had come from, every single one gave the same blank-eyed answer:

They didn’t know.

Their memories were gone.

Traces of magic lingered—subtle but clear. Most likely Confundus charms layered with carefully administered Obliviation. Whoever was behind this knew what they were doing and how to cover their tracks. It wasn’t some reckless potion pusher brewing out of a basement. This was deliberate. Controlled. Dangerous. Harry let the file in his hand drop to his desk with a dull thud, rubbing his palm hard against his brow. The parchment crinkled under the weight of his frustration.

They weren’t chasing a dealer anymore.

They were chasing a master.

Someone with skill in potioneering and access to rare, restricted ingredients. Someone who understood the delicate art of manipulation—of brewing compounds that didn’t just intoxicate, but ensnared. The one break they’d gotten came in the form of a minor suspect caught during a sting in Knockturn Alley—a ragged young wizard, barely twenty, trembling from withdrawal and barely coherent. During the arrest, a fresh vial of the new formula had been found hidden inside the lining of his cloak.

Colorless. Odorless. Perfectly sealed in a fine-cut glass bottle with no identifying mark.

Harry had confiscated it himself.

Now, that vial rested inside a magically reinforced containment box on the corner of his desk, gleaming faintly beneath the enchanted warding runes. It was inert. Unassuming. And yet it radiated menace. Harry stared at it in silence, his jaw tight, the knot in his stomach winding tighter with every breath.

He didn’t want to go back to Hogwarts. Not yet. Not again. Not after their last encounter—the tension, the formality, the way Draco had looked at him without looking at him at all. That impersonal report, folded so precisely, written in that same elegant script that once used to whisper I love you against his skin.

But Harry didn’t have a choice.

This potion was more than a threat—it was spreading, mutating. It was being used as a weapon. And Draco Malfoy—brilliant, cold, devastatingly distant Draco—was still the most gifted Potions Master in the country.

Harry needed him. Again.

xxxxx

The pub was noisy in the way all comforting places eventually became—softly lit, worn down at the edges, and steeped in the scent of spilt ale, woodsmoke, and shepherd’s pie. Conversation filled the air, overlapping like lazy harmonies; the low murmur of patrons, the occasional bark of laughter, the hiss of pint glasses being pulled beneath taps. It was familiar, grounding. A place that didn’t ask questions.

For Harry and Ron, it had become a kind of quiet sanctuary. Their unofficial haven after days—weeks—steeped in Ministry bureaucracy, field assignments gone sideways, and the constant low-grade ache of a world still healing from war. Their usual spot was at the end of the bar near the window, just far enough from the crowd to pretend they weren’t part of it.

Ron leaned back in his chair, one ankle resting over his opposite knee as he nursed his second pint of bitter. His cheeks were tinged pink with drink and warmth, hair tousled, his Auror badge tucked away for the night. “If that bloody ambassador makes one more joke about gingers not having souls,” he grumbled, “I’m hexing his hair red and calling it cultural diplomacy.”

Harry snorted into his ginger ale, the cool fizz biting at the back of his throat. His fingers curled slightly tighter around the glass bottle. The scent of alcohol was everywhere—so close, so tempting. He could smell the sharp tang of whiskey in the glass beside Ron, the yeasty warmth of lager drifting from the booth behind him. It clawed at him sometimes, the old ache. Sobriety was a battle he still fought, sometimes minute by minute.

He hadn’t blacked out in three years. He hadn’t woken on the stone floor of Grimmauld Place since the winter Hermione staged her final intervention. He attended meetings now, most of them Muggle-run, anonymous spaces where he wasn’t The Harry Potter. Just another name on a folding chair. Still, on nights like this, when his nerves were stretched thin and his thoughts were drifting back to places he wasn’t ready to revisit—he stared a little too long at the firewhiskey bottles behind the bar.

Kreacher had packed his flask away years ago. But the memory of its weight still sat like iron in his coat pocket.

“Is it the case?” Ron asked suddenly, not unkindly, his voice quiet enough not to carry over the din. His eyes flicked toward Harry’s hand, still white-knuckled on the bottle.

Harry exhaled, long and steady, and rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his palm. “Yeah,” he said. “Something like that.”

He didn’t elaborate. He never did.

They’d long since made peace about the things Harry wouldn’t talk about—his worst months after eighth-year, the nights he disappeared, the times Hermione had to find him half-delirious from potions meant to numb a heart that wouldn’t stop breaking. But even now, even with time and forgiveness behind them, there were lines Harry didn’t cross. And most of those lines were shaped like Draco Malfoy. He’d learned not to speak his name. Not around Ron. Not around Hermione either, if he could help it.

Ron still flinched when it came up—still curled his lip like Draco was a wound Harry refused to let heal. So Harry kept the truth buried beneath mission briefings and half-smiles. He didn’t mention the fact that he’d seen Draco just weeks ago. That the man who had once shared his magic, his bond, his soul, was now his silent collaborator on one of the most dangerous cases of his career.

That the omega whose scent still lingered in Harry’s lungs was helping him solve a crime.

That being in the same room as Draco had nearly brought him to his knees.

Ron nudged him gently. “You’ll figure it out. You always do. Cursed vaults, possessed mirrors, that time someone spelled the Ministry toilets to sing when you pissed—you’ve survived worse.”

Harry let out a laugh that barely touched his eyes and lifted his drink. “Here’s hoping,” he murmured, and they clinked bottles with a soft, familiar clack.

Ron, bless him, took the cue and launched into a story from earlier that day—something about a rogue portkey, a splinching incident, and an ambassador’s luggage that had turned into a flock of ravens and flown out a third-story window. Harry nodded along, lips quirking when appropriate, but he barely heard a word. His thoughts were hundreds of miles away. Deep in a stone corridor beneath a castle he once called home. In a classroom that still smelled faintly of ash and bergamot. In a voice that had haunted his dreams for a decade.

Draco.

He didn’t know what he was hoping for. A second chance? A scrap of kindness? A sign that Draco still cared?

He wasn’t getting it. He didn’t deserve it.

So he sat in the soft noise of the pub with his best friend beside him, laughter filling the space like smoke, and he pretended—like he had every day for the last eight years—that he was fine.

That he was whole.

That he wasn’t drowning.

And no one—not even Ron—saw the truth beneath the surface.

xxxxx

It had been another sleepless night.

After Ron had drunk himself into a slurring mess, Harry had side-alonged him back to his flat, guiding him through the door with an arm slung across his shoulders and a sigh already building in his chest. Ron stumbled with every step, clinging to Harry like a limpweed vine and mumbling incoherently about toast, loyalty, and how good of a mate Harry was.

“Stay the night,” Ron had slurred, tugging at the lapel of Harry’s coat. “One more drink. Just one more, mate.”

Harry had to wrestle him onto the couch and pry himself free. Surprisingly strong in his inebriated state, Ron nearly pulled them both over in his flailing insistence.

“Merlin’s sake,” Harry muttered, finally untangling himself and grabbing hold of the Floo powder on the mantle.

He didn’t look back.

Once he returned to Grimmauld Place, the first thing he did was seal his Floo connection to Ron’s flat. The last thing he needed was a drunk ginger stumbling through his hearth in the middle of the night with a bottle and a sob story.

Again.

And yet… peace eluded him.

What few hours of rest Harry managed were fractured and laced with heat and longing. He tossed and turned in the dimness of his bedroom, cotton sheets twisted around his legs like bindings. His dreams were vivid and cruel—Draco, bathed in candlelight, breath hitching softly against Harry’s ear. Pale skin, silvery eyes. The weight of his body pressing down, anchoring Harry in a memory that no longer belonged to him.

In the dream, Draco looked at him like he once had—like Harry was everything.

Harry woke with a sharp inhale, drenched in sweat, chest heaving like he’d been drowning. His heart thudded wildly, the phantom ache of the bond pulling taut in his chest, fraying at the edges. The alpha inside him clawed and paced, incensed by the illusion, furious that it had vanished with waking. He threw the covers off and stumbled to the loo, stepping into the shower and turning the tap all the way to cold. The water hit like needles, shocking him into awareness. He gasped through clenched teeth, bracing his hands against the tiles as the temperature bit into his skin. It helped. A little.

But the memory lingered. The dream had left him raw—wanting—and dangerously close to forgetting why he couldn’t have what he still craved.

By the time he made it to the Auror Office, he was running on adrenaline and tea, jaw clenched, eyes shadowed from lack of sleep. He dropped into his chair with a heavy thump and glared at the mound of parchment waiting for him. Briefings, interview transcripts, toxicology reports—each a brick in the wall he was trying to rebuild around himself.

Good. He needed bricks. He needed barriers.

He dragged the top file toward him and forced his attention on it, blinking against the temptation to let his mind wander—to remember the feel of silk beneath his palms, the soft tremor in Draco’s voice when he said his name, the way his hair had felt threaded through his fingers.

Was it still that soft?

It was longer now. Does he wear it loose at night?

Harry stabbed his quill into the inkpot a little too hard, leaving a spatter of black on the margin. He didn’t bother cleaning it. Instead, he bent over the report and kept his hand moving. The hours crawled. Even the usual chatter of the bullpen—the clatter of boots, the murmur of Aurors exchanging case notes—couldn’t pierce the haze he was wrapped in. He barely noticed when Simmons dropped off an update. He didn’t look up when Robards passed his office with a nod.

Lunch was a formality. He bypassed the break room altogether and grabbed a burnt sausage roll and a scalding cup of coffee from the Ministry cafeteria. He ate both standing up, leaning against a wall, the stale pastry sitting like a rock in his stomach. By the time four-thirty arrived, Harry was already moving. He slung his coat over one arm, grabbed his satchel—the newly refined potion sample sealed safely inside—and left the bullpen without another word. He didn’t need to check in. Robards knew. Simmons knew. Hell, Hermione probably knew.

There was only one place he could take it. Only one person who could break it apart and make sense of it.

Hogwarts.

The dungeons.

Back to the one person he wasn’t ready to face again.

Back to Draco Malfoy.

Harry gripped the satchel strap tighter as he made his way toward the Floo. He wasn’t prepared. He knew that. He was going to see Draco again far too soon, and the last time had left him barely holding himself together. But this wasn’t about closure. This wasn’t about the ache that haunted his dreams. This was about the case. At least, that’s what he told himself.

The reception Draco gave him was cool and carefully measured—cordial, but nothing close to warm. He didn’t look up right away. Seated at the front of the dungeon classroom, he was poised behind his desk, his quill gliding over parchment with precise, rhythmic strokes. The red ink bled into the page as he marked an answer incorrect, his expression unreadable in the low torchlight.

Only when Harry’s boots echoed too close across the stone floor did Draco glance up. His grey eyes flicked to Harry—sharp and assessing—before a faint crease pulled at his brow.

“I believe it is considered polite to send word ahead before dropping by unannounced, Potter,” he said evenly, voice cool as glass.

He didn’t pause his grading. Another essay was drawn forward with the same clinical care, another swipe of scarlet across an unfortunate student’s attempt. Harry came to a halt a few paces from the desk. His fingers curled loosely at his sides.

“You’re right,” he murmured, gaze dropping to the parchment strewn across the desk, each page bearing Draco’s elegant, looping script. “I should have. Sorry.”

He inhaled on reflex, the familiar old ache pushing to the surface as he tried—stupidly, desperately—to catch a whiff of that scent. That tethering blend of rose, black plum, and warm, spiced honey.

But it wasn’t there.

Instead, the air carried the sharp tang of singed herbs, the metallic undercurrent of spilled ingredients, and a sour veil of burnt mugwort. Not even the faintest echo of Draco remained beneath it.

Harry’s throat tightened.

He’s using a scent blocker. A strong one.

Draco didn’t look at him again. “I assume this is an official visit?” he asked, calm and detached, flipping to the next essay with a flick of his fingers.

“Yes,” Harry said quietly, trying not to sound disappointed by the clipped tone.

The silence that followed sat heavy between them—an invisible wall neither of them dared to breach. Harry reached into his satchel and pulled out the latest vial. It was smaller than the last—sleek and clean, the potion inside colorless, unnervingly pristine. He set it on the desk without a word. Draco’s quill stilled mid-sentence. Slowly, he laid it aside, reaching instead for the vial. His long fingers curled around the glass with practiced familiarity, lifting it into the light. He examined it in silence, rotating it slowly. Then, with a subtle flick of his wand, the soft glow of a Lumos lit the vial from below. He tilted it back and forth, eyes narrowing as the light shimmered through the fluid.

“They’re improving,” he said at last, voice low and contemplative. “Cleaner. More deliberate. No visible sediment. The brewer took their time with this.”

Harry nodded, watching Draco work with the kind of ease and confidence that made his chest ache. Even now, there was something beautiful in how Draco moved—how his fingers turned glass like it was sacred, how his mind never stopped working.

“I was hoping you’d notice something I missed,” Harry said, folding his arms loosely across his chest.

Draco hummed. “It’s not a matter of noticing. It’s a matter of knowing what to look for.” He angled the vial again. “Same bones as the previous batch, but this one’s layered—each component introduced with purpose. Whoever did this knew their timing. Knew their ratios. Knew what they wanted the end result to do.”

“Do you think it’s the same person?” Harry asked. “Or someone else copying the formula?”

Draco didn’t glance away from the vial. “It’s more likely the same individual,” he said slowly. “Someone refining their own work. Learning from early mistakes. Possibly experimenting with outcomes.” He paused. “Or… playing with you.”

Harry’s brows drew together. “Playing with me? Why would you say that?”

Draco finally looked at him, just briefly. “Because the first sample you brought me was intentionally crude. Sloppy enough to draw attention. This—” he lifted the vial between two fingers, watching it catch the torchlight— “was made by someone who knows what they’re doing. If I were to speculate, I’d say the sloppiness was deliberate. A misdirection.”

Harry’s lips pressed into a hard line. “Pretending to be multiple brewers to throw us off.”

Draco gave a single nod. “Exactly.”

Harry sighed and scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Brilliant,” he muttered. “That explains the discrepancies, but not who’s behind it.”

“Where was this recovered?” Draco asked.

“On a wizard I arrested during a sting in Knockturn Alley.”

Draco gave a quiet, thoughtful hum, the sound low in his throat. “Of course it was,” he said, voice dry. “That narrows the suspect pool to roughly half the underground potion economy.”

Harry gave him a flat look, though it lacked bite. “Thanks for the encouragement.”

Draco rose from his chair in one fluid, elegant motion and crossed the room toward the narrow side door nestled between two tall bookcases. With a quiet creak of old hinges, he pushed it open, revealing his private laboratory beyond. The room was smaller than the main classroom, but somehow more alive. Shelves lined every wall, brimming with neatly labeled jars of powdered root, crystallized resin, dried blossoms, and rare ingredients preserved in suspension. A handful of cauldrons simmered low on enchanted burners, their contents glowing softly—some amber, some violet, one nearly translucent. The golden lighting overhead cast a warmth that made the stone walls feel less severe, like the space itself was designed to be a refuge.

Harry followed him inside, the scent of dried herbs, potion fumes, and old magic wrapping around him like a worn cloak. He could feel the comfort Draco had built into this room—personal, meticulous, safe.

“I did follow up on the ingredient list,” Harry said as his boots echoed quietly against the polished stone. “Led me to two different supply chains. Both have been around for years—reputable, on paper. But the analysts haven’t found anything suspicious in the ledgers.”

Draco didn’t answer immediately. With a precise flick of his wand, he cast a containment charm over the potion sample and set it into a shallow, rune-etched dish at the center of his workstation. The soft shimmer of protective magic hummed in the air. He plucked the cork from the vial and placed it aside with care. A sharp, metallic scent rose from the potion, biting at the air like ozone before a storm.

“I’m assuming they gave you full access to their records?” Draco asked, his voice cool, already reaching for a glass dropper.

“They did,” Harry confirmed. “At least, the ones they showed me.”

Draco drew a small amount of the potion into the dropper and dispensed measured drops into several base solutions arranged in a neat arc. Each vial fizzed or changed color on contact—some shifting to gold, others clouding into an eerie shade of grey-green.

Draco frowned slightly, lips pressing into a line. “And you spoke to the owners?”

Harry tilted his head. “Yes.”

Draco finally glanced over his shoulder, brow arching in mild reproach. “Then you wasted your time.”

Harry frowned. “You think they’re hiding something?”

“I think,” Draco said as he turned back to his vials, “you should be asking questions of the people who actually handle the records. The owners know what you want to hear. The record keepers know the truth.”

Harry crossed his arms. “And you’d know that because…?”

Draco’s mouth curled faintly—half challenge, half secret withheld—but whatever quip he’d been about to deliver died as a voice called from the other room.

“Professor Malfoy? You in here?”

Draco turned slightly toward the open door. “In my lab, Professor Longbottom.”

A moment later, Neville appeared, carrying a wooden crate filled with small canvas pouches. He paused when he caught sight of Harry, his eyebrows rising in surprise.

“Oh—Harry!” Neville adjusted his hold on the box. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Harry gave him a tired smile. “Hey, Neville.”

Neville stepped further into the lab, casting a glance between them. “What brings you to Hogwarts?”

“Auror business,” Harry replied with practiced ease, though his gaze flicked to Draco’s back. “Professor Malfoy’s been helping me analyze a case sample.”

Neville nodded, unbothered. “Of course. He’s brilliant with this sort of thing.” He turned toward Draco. “I brought the clippings from Greenhouse Four—the ones you asked for.”

“Set them on the back table,” Draco said without looking up, his attention still fixed on the slow reactions unfolding in the samples before him. “Make space if you must, but don’t touch anything that hisses.”

Neville gave a soft chuckle and carefully placed the crate down, wiping his palms on his trousers. “Harry, you should stay for dinner,” he said warmly. “It’s Friday—roast chicken, Yorkshire pudding, and treacle tart for dessert.”

Harry hesitated, glancing again toward Draco. The omega hadn’t turned around. His shoulders were stiff, posture tight with disinterest or discomfort—Harry couldn’t tell. But the distance was there, deliberate.

He almost declined.

“I should probably—” he began, then stopped. His exhaustion dragged at him, and so did something else—something quieter, more desperate. He glanced at Draco one more time, hoping for a flicker of anything—permission, protest, invitation.

Nothing.

So when he spoke again, it surprised even him. “Sure,” Harry said softly. “I suppose I can stay for dinner.”

Neville brightened. “Excellent! I’ll save you a seat at the staff table. Don’t take too long, or you’ll miss the good wine.”

He gave Harry a friendly clap on the shoulder and disappeared back through the side door. As the other alpha’s footsteps faded down the corridor, the lab fell into a dense, wordless stillness. The soft gurgle of cauldrons and the faint fizz of reagents filled the space, accompanied only by the rustle of parchment and the gentle clink of glass. Harry remained where he was, rooted in the middle of Draco’s sanctuary, watching hands he once knew intimately move with precise, clinical grace.

He wondered—bitterly, achingly—how they’d ever let it come to this.

“The solutions will take time,” Draco said at last, his voice smooth and composed as he finally turned to face him. Not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle in his expression. Everything about him—posture, tone, presence—was polished to a defensive sheen. “I’ll send you my findings once they’re complete.”

Harry nodded, trying for something light—a smile, a crack in the frost. “Then… shall we head up to the Great Hall?” His voice was too hopeful, too soft. He knew it the moment it left his mouth. But the thought of walking the familiar halls beside Draco, even for just one shared meal, tugged at something deep and tender inside him. Something that remembered laughter. Companionship. Love.

Draco hesitated.

Harry saw it—the small tell in the way Draco paused, the telling flicker in his eyes before he turned away.

“I still have papers to grade,” Draco said, moving towards the box Neville brought in. “And revision packets for my O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. classes need updating.”

Harry took a step forward, measured but close enough that the warmth of his presence might be felt. “It’s Friday,” he said quietly. “You’ve got the weekend for all that.”

Draco didn’t turn. “Good evening, Auror Potter.”

The words cut clean and cold. Not sharp like anger, but dull and deliberate. A door closing—no, locking. Sealing something off. Harry stood there, breath caught in his throat, his heart skidding sideways. It wasn’t rejection. Not really. It was defense. Draco wasn’t being cruel—he was shielding what was left of himself. The wall he’d rebuilt was tall and thick and necessary.

Still, the sting found its mark.

For a moment, Harry debated walking out. He could leave, let the silence stretch until the echo of his boots faded down the corridor. There were other Potioneers. Less talented, perhaps, but available. Draco wasn’t obligated to open himself—he had every right to this distance. But Harry wasn’t ready to give up. Not yet.

“…At least come to dinner, Draco,” he said, and this time his voice held none of the Auror’s weight—only the man beneath it. “Just dinner. That’s all.”

The silence stretched again, heavier now.

Then—barely audible—a soft exhale.

“Very well,” Draco murmured, not quite looking at him.

It wasn’t victory. It wasn’t even progress. But it was something.

Draco turned, his robes whispering across the stone floor as he moved to the lab door. With a flick of his wand, a deep, layered locking charm shimmered over the wood, sealing the room with an iridescent sheen of protective magic. Security measures against curious students, certainly—but Harry knew it was more than that. This lab was Draco’s domain. His sanctuary. His shield. Neither spoke as they stepped out into the cool, empty corridor.

The walk to the Great Hall was long and quiet, their footsteps echoing side by side. The air between them thrummed with tension, not hostile, but taut. Fragile. Like something long-pressed under too much weight. Neither dared touch it. Torchlight flickered along the walls, casting golden bands over Draco’s sharp profile, gilding the edge of his cheekbone and the pale sweep of his hair. He didn’t look at Harry. His scent, once so magnetic—rose, black plum, honeyed spice—was still muted beyond recognition. Smothered by a blocker so potent it made Harry’s chest ache.

The silence between them was intimate in its own way. Not quite comfortable, not quite painful. Just… suspended. Harry didn’t know whether to cherish it or curse it.

When they stepped into the Great Hall, Harry was hit with a wave of sound and warmth. Above them, the floating candles flickered softly, casting golden halos over the rows of long, polished tables. The scent of roasted meat, buttery potatoes, and warm bread filled the air, mingling with the ever-present trace of ancient stone and wax polish. Silverware clinked. Laughter echoed up into the high, enchanted ceiling, which mirrored the fading light of dusk outside. The space looked the same as it had when he was a student, though the faces were new—fresh, bright-eyed, and untouched by war. For a brief second, it almost felt like another life.

“Oi, Harry! Over here!” Neville’s voice cut through the noise.

Harry turned to find him waving, a broad grin on his face, gesturing to a seat between himself and Hagrid at the faculty table. The half-giant raised a meaty hand in greeting, his smile just as warm as Harry remembered. Offering a polite nod, Harry made his way forward, murmuring greetings as he passed Professors Sinistra and Flitwick. He slid into the seat between his friends, grateful for the easy camaraderie they offered.

But his gaze drifted. He looked back—and his heart faltered.

Draco hadn’t followed.

Instead, the omega had taken a seat at the very edge of the table, well away from the others. His back was straight, composed, but rigid. Beside him sat a woman Harry didn’t recognize—likely a new hire—her hair streaked with iron-grey and her robes stained with what looked like ink and powdered graphite.

Draco didn’t glance his way. Not once.

He kept his head bowed just slightly, eyes focused on his plate, hands moving with quiet precision as he served himself a modest portion of vegetables and chicken. His posture was perfectly contained, but Harry could see the strain in the set of his shoulders, the stiffness in his jaw. He was isolating himself deliberately. Harry exhaled slowly, masking the ache behind the well-practiced smile he donned like armor. He turned his attention to the plate in front of him and tried to act as though the empty seat beside him didn’t matter.

It was easier with Neville beside him—talking about his fourth-year Hufflepuffs and how they'd somehow managed to confuse devil’s snare with honking daffodils during an exam—and with Hagrid’s booming voice recounting tales of the newest hippogriff foal at the Reserve, who had a flair for theatrics and bowed as if accepting applause. Harry laughed when appropriate. He lifted his glass, made conversation, nodded when prompted.

But he wasn’t really there.

His eyes kept sliding down the table—again and again—toward Draco. Toward the unreachable. Draco spoke when spoken to, offering short, polite replies. His face was blank; his scent muted behind the same potent blocker Harry had noticed earlier. There was a kind of loneliness in it, something carved too deeply to hide behind pleasantries. Harry recognized that silence. He lived with it too. Because the truth was—this wasn’t just tension. What had happened between them hadn’t been a simple falling out. It had been grief. Rupture. The catastrophic breaking of something sacred. Something meant.

Draco had once been everything.

And Harry had shattered him.

He swallowed hard, pushing his food around his plate. The ache in his chest was steady now, dull but persistent—like a phantom pain that never truly left. He still saw his mind healer. Still did the breathing exercises. Still wrote letters to Draco in his journal when the loneliness clawed too deep—but he never sent them. Never dared.

What good would it do?

The man sitting at the far end of the table wasn’t the same boy who had once curled against Harry in the dark, laughing softly about constellations and poetry and the taste of warm tea.

And Harry wasn’t the alpha he’d once promised to be.

So he forced another smile, another nod, another laugh at something Hagrid said about a centaur with a flair for bardic drama. He did what he always did—pretended he was fine. But beneath the surface, the ache pulsed like a bruise. Heavy and unhealed. And down the long table, just out of reach, sat the ghost of what he’d lost.

He missed Draco.

He missed the sly curve of his mouth when he made a sharp remark. The stillness that came not from aloofness, but from careful thought. He missed the scent that used to cling to his skin—rose petals after rain, the dark sweetness of black plum, the faintest trace of honey and spice that lingered on Harry’s clothes long after they’d parted. He missed all of it—everything they were, everything they could have been, before it all slipped between his fingers like smoke.

More than anything, he wanted to speak to him again. To be heard. To apologize. Not just with words, but with the truth. That he had been wrong. That he had broken something sacred. That he’d spent years regretting it. Harry’s gaze drifted once more toward Draco, still seated at the far end of the staff table, composed and silent. Surrounded by others but so clearly apart.

Hopefully, he thought, someday he’ll let me try.

Dinner wound down with the slow rhythm of clattering dishes and final sips of pumpkin juice. Harry exchanged a few polite goodbyes with Flitwick and Sinistra, offered Hagrid a tired smile, and murmured something to Neville about needing to get back to the Ministry. He wasn’t even sure what excuse he gave—some vague mention of paperwork, perhaps—but his feet were already moving, carrying him out into the corridor before he’d fully decided to leave.

The hallway outside the Great Hall was dimmer now, quieter. Shadows gathered near the high windows, the torchlight flickering as if in time with his pulse. Down the corridor, he caught the swish of a charcoal grey robe disappearing around the corner, already descending the winding stairwell that led to the dungeons. Harry knew he should stop. He had no reason to follow. No justification. Draco would owl him the results when they were ready—professionally, formally, just like last time.

But his legs moved of their own accord.

“Draco, wait—” he called, voice echoing faintly down the stairwell.

Draco didn’t stop, but he looked back. His expression was unreadable—cool, composed, the ever-present mask in place. “Yes, Potter?”

Harry reached the bottom of the steps with a slightly breathless hitch. “I just... I wanted to check if anything had changed with the solutions.”

It was a flimsy excuse. They both knew it. The solutions would take hours, at least. The second the words left his mouth, Harry winced internally. Draco stared at him for a long moment, one hand resting lightly on the stone banister. His pale fingers flexed once. Then, with a sigh so soft Harry almost missed it, the omega turned toward the corridor.

“Come on, then,” Draco said quietly. “Though you’re wasting your time.”

Harry followed.

The lab door shimmered with layered wards, which retreated at the touch of Draco’s wand. The locking mechanism gave a soft click, and the cool press of magic slipped away as the door creaked open. Inside, everything was unchanged. Vials lined the tables in exacting rows, their contents suspended under stasis charms. Beakers sat poised over low heatless flames, and notes were arranged in perfect order across the workbench. The potions hadn’t moved. Nothing had changed. They both knew that. Still, Draco crossed to the worktable, adjusting the protective dome over the latest sample. He didn’t acknowledge Harry for several seconds; his movements calm and deliberate.

“I suppose you’ll want tea,” he said, not looking up, already reaching for the set arranged on the side counter.

Harry blinked, startled by the unexpected offer. The tightness in his chest loosened slightly, like a knot coming undone beneath his ribs.

“Yes,” he said, the word almost catching in his throat. “I’d like that very much.”

Draco didn’t respond, but he nodded once—just once—and continued preparing the pot. Harry watched him. The elegant flick of his wand. The precision with which he measured out the loose leaves. A warming charm hissed to life beneath the kettle, and soon the scent of calming herbs filled the space—lavender, lemon balm, and something woodsy Harry couldn’t quite name.

They didn’t speak. Neither of them tried to fill the silence.

But there was something in it now that hadn’t been there before. Not peace, exactly. But a pause in the storm. A space carved out in the quiet where neither of them had to pretend—not quite. They stood on opposite sides of the room, leaning against their respective counters, facing each other. Not close. But not far, either.

The tea steeped slowly between them, and Harry clung to the moment—this quiet truce, this small mercy—grateful for the chance to breathe in the same space as him.

Another quiet flick of Draco’s wand and two cups of tea floated gently to the workbench between them, steam curling like whispered spells into the charged air. The room had gone still—too still—like the moment before a storm broke. Harry’s fingers curled around the warm porcelain, but he didn’t drink.

It was now or never.

The moment pressed down on him, heavy and suffocating, wrapping around his ribs like a binding curse. He could feel the thread of something old and raw pulling tight between them, stretched to its limit. If he let it snap—if he let this moment pass—he might never get it back.

“Can I ask you something?” he said quietly, the words fragile and rough with hesitation.

Draco didn’t answer at first. He stirred his tea once with a silver spoon, then again, each rotation slow and measured. Finally, he lifted his eyes, expression unreadable, voice clipped. “I highly doubt I’d be able to stop you.”

Harry’s throat worked around a swallow. “After what happened that day… I—I don’t know what came over me,” he said, voice hoarse, barely louder than the flickering flame beneath the nearest cauldron.

Draco stood motionless, the steam from his tea rising in thin wisps between them. His eyes didn’t narrow, didn’t flare—but they dimmed, like something inside him was quietly closing a door. The silence expanded. Thick and brittle. Harry set his cup down slowly. The ceramic met stone with a soft clack that echoed like a shot in the quiet. He couldn’t stop looking at Draco—at the elegant lines of his face, the tension stiffening his jaw, the slight tremble in his fingers he likely thought Harry couldn’t see.

Somewhere overhead, the ticking of an old brass clock echoed softly in the archway. A cauldron on the far bench released a low, hollow hiss as a bubble popped. The scents of dried rose petals, scorched valerian root, and something sharper—ash bark, maybe—mingled in the warm air, scenting it with something bittersweet and strangely intimate.

“Draco,” he said again, more firmly now. “I’m sorry. For what I said. For what I did and didn’t do.”

Draco’s jaw clenched, the tendons along his throat tightening beneath the high collar of his turtleneck. He inhaled sharply through his nose, like the breath might steady him—but it didn’t. He closed his eyes, as if already bracing for impact.

“Potter, don’t,” he said, the words tight and strained, like he was holding back something sharp.

But Harry couldn’t stop. Not now. Not when he was finally standing in front of the one person he couldn’t forget, couldn’t stop longing for.

“I remember feeling like something was wrong,” Harry went on, the desperation creeping into his voice. “Like something inside me was twisting, like my magic was—off. But I couldn’t understand it. I tried to tell myself it was because of what I saw, what you had gone through, the shock—but every time I try to remember what really happened that day, my ears ring. My head feels like it’s splitting in two. I get migraines that won’t stop until I give up trying.”

He stepped forward—not close, not enough to touch, but enough to breathe the same air. “But the guilt?” he said, quieter now. “That never left. Not for a single fucking day. Because I failed you. I know I did.”

“Stop, Potter,” Draco snapped—not loud, but with an edge sharp enough to draw blood. His voice was tight with something barely leashed, brittle at the edges. “This isn’t—”

“I wrote to you,” Harry pressed, taking another slow step forward. His hand curled into a fist at his side. “Every single day. When you were in the Hospital Wing. When you disappeared after you left Hogwarts. No one would tell me anything. I begged to know where you were—how you were. But no one would answer. I just wanted you to know I was sorry. That I never meant to break us. I know you didn’t go with Flint willingly. I know he drugged you. I know it wasn’t your choice.”

“Harry, stop!” Draco’s voice cracked open like thunder. His hand moved before either of them could stop it—hurling the teacup in his hand with a sharp, wrenching cry. It shattered against the stone floor between them, the sound like bone splintering, like glass cutting through silence.

Fragments scattered across the flagstones.

The room stilled.

Draco stood, chest heaving, hands shaking at his sides. His expression was carved from anguish—beautiful, broken, unforgiving.

Harry didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. He watched the storm in Draco’s pale eyes swell until it spilled over. There was so much Harry wanted to say. So much he should have said years ago. But his throat burned, and all he could do was feel—the weight of everything he’d destroyed between them pressing down like a tombstone.

Draco exhaled shakily, refusing to meet Harry’s gaze.

“I never read any of your letters,” he said, each word like ice sliding beneath the skin. “The moment they arrived, I burned them.”

Harry flinched.

He didn’t even try to hide it. The words landed like hexes—lethal and final.

Draco saw it. Saw the grief twist in Harry’s eyes. And it hurt in a way he hated—that he could still hurt him. That he still mattered.

But he didn’t stop.

He had to finish this.

I have to let you go.

“Flint may have been the catalyst,” Draco continued, voice raw and trembling, “but you were the one who broke us. I begged you to listen. I begged you not to leave me. But you did—you turned your back on me when I needed you most.” His voice lowered, venomous. “What was it you said to me?” His fingers moved to his forearm, slowly pulling back the layers of his sleeve. He bared the pale skin—exposing the Dark Mark, scarred and lightened with time but still visible, like a whisper from the past. “Ah yes: ‘Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater.’”

The air left Harry’s lungs. The words hit with devastating clarity—too specific, too cruel to have been imagined. Something deep inside him tore.

He didn’t remember saying it.

But he believed it.

His knees nearly gave out beneath the weight of his own remorse.

“No…” he whispered. “Please, Draco…”

Draco’s eyes shimmered, and for a moment, Harry saw it—the grief beneath the anger, the love that hadn’t died, only withered beneath years of hurt and silence.

“You severed our bond,” Draco whispered. “And now… I live on borrowed time.”

Harry stepped forward, aching to touch, to beg, to fall to his knees if he had to. “Draco, I—”

But Draco turned his back, bracing his hands atop the cold counter. Shoulders rigid. Unforgiving.

“I don’t want your apologies, Potter,” he said, voice dangerously calm. “Not if they come this late.”

And for the first time in years, Harry understood what it truly meant to be unwelcome.

Because forgiveness was not owed.

And love—once severed—didn’t always grow back.

Harry stepped over the broken china, closing the small distance before collapsing to his knees, the flagstone and micro sharps of porcelain biting into his knees. His trembling hands fisting the hem of Draco’s tailored charcoal robes as though they were the only anchor keeping him from slipping into the abyss.

“Please… believe me,” he whispered, his voice thick with desperation. Tears streamed down his cheeks unchecked. “I’m so sorry. I regret everything—everything I did, everything I didn’t do. I have no excuse. I should’ve fought harder. I should’ve seen what was happening. Please, please, please…”

His head bowed for a breath before lifting again, and the devastation in his eyes nearly undid Draco where he stood as the omega turned to look down at the groveling alpha.

“I’m dying without you,” Harry rasped, “Every day, I pretend for everyone else’s sake—but inside, I’m rotting away. I don’t sleep. I don’t breathe right. You were my mate, Draco. You are. Please…” His voice gave out—just cracked and folded in on itself. He knelt there, raw and breaking, his magic a pulsing throb around him like a wounded animal. The ache of a bond still trying to knit itself back together without permission.

Draco stared down at him, arms trembling at his sides. He hated him. He loved him. And his heart was already breaking anew under the weight of both truths.

He wanted to scream at Harry to leave. He wanted to kiss him until the hurt stopped.

He was stuck.

I have to let you go.

With a broken sound that escaped against his will, Draco fell to his knees, silk pooling like a dark waterfall of sorrow around his thighs. He reached for Harry, unable to stop himself, and wrapped his arms around his alpha’s broad shoulders, burying his face in the crook of his neck and breathing in deeply. The scent hit him immediately—petrichor and vetiver and that haunting, subtle hint of immortelle. The one scent that made Draco feel like he was home and hemorrhaging at the same time.

Harry let out a sound—half-sob, half-exhale—and crushed Draco to his chest. His hands splayed across the omega’s back, desperate and unsteady, as though memorizing him through touch alone. His tears soaked into Draco’s robes, and Draco felt the tremble of each breath against his skin.

“I love you, Draco,” Harry whispered, voice wrecked. “I never stopped.”

The words hit like a curse and a cure all at once. Draco’s breath hitched, and a sob slipped out before he could catch it. Hot tears spilled down his cheeks as he clung to Harry tighter, the scent of him flooding every broken space inside him.

“I love you,” Harry said again, pressing the words to Draco’s shoulder like an oath, his lips brushing fabric and flesh as he kissed desperately up the side of Draco’s neck—salt, warmth, memory.

Each kiss was a salve, a silent apology, a plea for absolution.

By the time Harry reached his lips, Draco met him halfway—mouths colliding in a bruising kiss that burned with everything they had kept buried for a decade. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t clean. It was messy, wet with tears and the sounds of mourning and want. Teeth scraped, tongues tangled, breath came in frantic pulls as if trying to breathe each other back into life. The Professor pushed Harry until his back hit the cabinet doors of the workbench with a hollow thud, hands curling into the fabric of Harry’s cloak, dragging it aside. Harry let his legs slide out, tilting his hips forward to meet Draco as he moved with urgency.

Draco straddled him, sliding into his lap like he belonged there—like he never should have left. His robe parted easily, legs framing Harry’s thighs as their mouths rejoined in feverish devotion. Their hands mapped old cartographies—shoulder blades, waist curves, the notch behind Harry’s ear that made the alpha shudder when kissed. They found the echoes of every moment they’d once shared and tried, desperately, to make them real again.

It wasn’t sex—it wasn’t about climax or claiming. It was about knowing. Being known. Reclaiming something that had been stolen too early, too violently. They broke apart only when breath could no longer be ignored, foreheads pressed together, eyes locked.

Draco’s fingers were tangled in Harry’s thick, jet black hair. Harry’s hands gripped Draco’s hips like a drowning man might cling to driftwood. And for a moment, time held still—just them, suspended in the remnants of something eternal as they gazed into each other’s eyes.

Then—

Snap!

The cauldron on the workbench sputtered and cracked, releasing a sharp spark and the scent of scorched chamomile into the air. The fragile spell between them shattered like glass.

Draco blinked.

The silence that followed was deafening.

He rose quickly—too quickly—knees stiff, robes rustling as his lower back slammed into the counter behind him. His face burned crimson as the reality of where they were, what they had done, crashed down on him like ice water.

His heart thundered with panic, confusion, guilt.

What the hell had he just done?

What had they done?

Harry stayed on the floor, eyes wide, lips parted, still flushed from the kiss.

“I shouldn’t have—” he whispered.

Harry reached out. “Draco—”

“No.” Draco’s voice was steel, even if his hands trembled. “Don’t. Don’t make this harder.”

But the damage was done. And they both knew it.

Because once again, the past had crawled into the present, dragging their hearts behind it. And neither of them knew what to do with the pieces.

Without a word, Draco flicked his wand, movements fluid but mechanical—each gesture hiding the tremble in his fingertips. The spilled tea vanished beneath a crisp Scourgify, he followed it with a soft Reparo, watching numbly as the porcelain reformed, smooth and whole again, though the memory of its break still echoed in the room. He levitated the cup with a flick, guiding it gently back to its shelf in the cupboard.

Everything was back in its place.

Everything except him.

Behind him, Harry rose slowly. His robes rustled as he brushed them off, and for a breath, neither spoke. The silence between them was thick, stretched taut with words unsaid, with ghosts too loud to ignore.

Then Harry moved.

Carefully, cautiously, he reached out and touched Draco’s arm—fingers curling just enough to turn the omega toward him. Draco let himself be moved, though he kept his gaze downcast, lashes trembling against the flush in his cheeks.

“Draco,” Harry murmured, voice raw. “You’re not the only one who’s scared.”

Draco’s eyes lifted, and Harry saw it all in that flicker of grey—fear, pain, stubborn hope barely hanging on. He brought his hand to Draco’s face, palm warm against his cool skin, thumb grazing the edge of a cheekbone as if trying to memorize the shape again. Then he leaned in, slow and cautious, brushing his lips against Draco’s with feather-light tenderness. It wasn’t lust. It was longing. A kiss that tasted of old promises and fragile tomorrows—of everything Harry hadn’t been able to say for ten years.

This wasn’t a mistake.

“Please,” he whispered against Draco’s lips. “Please take me back.”

Draco’s breath caught. For a heartbeat, he stood utterly still, lips parted, fingers twitching at his sides. Then he turned his face away with a sharp breath, eyes squeezing shut.

“You need to leave,” he said quietly, but the words landed like a guillotine.

Harry stood there, feeling ice plunge into the pit of his stomach, the warmth of the kiss still lingering on his mouth but the chill of those words were frosting over it. His heart caved in on itself, hollowed by rejection and the shame of having laid himself bare only to be shut out again.

His voice cracked. “I’m… I’m sorry.”

He backed away slowly, eyes never leaving Draco’s. And then he turned, shoulders hunched under the weight of everything he couldn’t fix, and walked out.

The soft click of the classroom door closing behind him was deafening.

Draco stood frozen for several long seconds before his knees buckled beneath the weight of it all. He slumped against the counter, one hand flying to his mouth, pressing hard to muffle the sob that tore loose.

But it escaped anyway—raw and broken.

He curled in on himself, shaking silently as tears spilled freely down his face, his chest heaving with the quiet agony of someone who had spent a decade grieving and had just watched his heart walk away a second time.

Because he couldn’t tell Harry the truth.

That he still wanted to believe.

That he never stopped loving him.

I have to let you go.

xxxxx

Neville had always been perceptive—especially when it came to people he cared about. He had noticed something simmering between Harry and Draco the moment he saw them together in the potions classroom. The air between them had carried a weight, an unspoken tension that didn’t belong in a professional exchange.

He had chosen not to dwell on it.

Until now.

That morning, during his seventh-year Herbology theory lecture, he’d caught the hushed whispers from the corner of the greenhouse where three students huddled close, bent over their parchments in pretend concentration.

“Professor Malfoy seems a bit off today, don’t you think?”

“Yeah. Like something sad just happened. Like someone he knew just… died or something.”

The words had tugged at something in Neville’s chest. He didn’t ignore them this time. During his free period, Neville made his way through the castle, descending into the cool, dim corridors of the dungeons. The familiar stone walls pressed close, lit only by sputtering sconces. He stopped outside the potions classroom and immediately saw the parchment tacked to the door in Draco’s elegant script: Afternoon Classes Cancelled. Please read chapters 19–21 and prepare three questions for discussion next session. —Prof. D. Malfoy

Neville frowned.

He knocked once before opening the door and stepping into the empty classroom. It was too quiet. No fire beneath the cauldrons, no scent of potion fumes or bubbling from unfinished brews. The stillness was uncanny.

He crossed to the back and knocked gently on the private lab door. “Professor Malfoy? Are you in there?” His voice softened. “Draco, are you all right?”

There was a long pause. Then, muffled through the door, came the curt reply: “Go away, Neville. I’m busy.”

Neville exhaled and pushed the door open anyway. The lab beyond was dim, lit only by the soft glow of a wall sconce and the faint, pulsing shimmer of protective wards over dormant cauldrons. Draco sat curled into the corner of the room, a chipped teacup cradled in his hands, steam curling weakly from the surface. His eyes were rimmed in red, lashes clumped together, cheeks blotched from what had clearly been a long, private breakdown.

“So… I’m guessing your private chat with Harry didn’t go well,” he said carefully, stepping inside and closing the door behind him.

Draco looked up, his expression tired and unamused. His glare lacked its usual venom—it was more defensive now, like a wounded animal warning others to keep their distance. Neville took it in stride, sighing as he skirted around a cauldron filled with something viscous and dark that hissed as he passed. He perched on the edge of a nearby workbench, folding his arms.

“Don’t you think you’ve punished yourself enough?”

Draco didn’t respond right away. He stared down at his tea, the surface trembling from the faint shake in his hands. When he did speak, his voice was low, frayed at the edges. “It’s for the best.”

Neville tilted his head. “Best for who?”

Silence.

Draco’s throat worked, but no words came. He kept his gaze fixed on the teacup like it might offer an answer—an escape. His shoulders were hunched, his posture guarded and drawn in, like the world had asked too much of him and now he had nothing left to give.

Neville didn’t press.

He simply sat with him in the quiet, letting the silence speak for them both. He’d seen what it looked like when someone built their grief into armor. He wasn’t going to ask Draco to strip it away.

“Do you want me to reach out to Theo for you?” Neville asked.

“No. I’ll be fine. I just…I just need a bit of time to right myself.” Draco replied.

xxxxx

Neville had a feeling and once he was done with his last class of the day he left Hogwarts. He had a feeling that if Draco had become as withdrawn as he currently was, he could only imagine what harry was going through. He just hoped his friend hadn’t sunk back into that darkness again.

By the time he reached the doorstep of Number 12 Grimmauld Place, the worry had bloomed into dread. He knocked once. The door creaked open without fanfare, revealing the bowed form of Kreacher, who blinked up at him with tired, yellowed eyes.

“Mister Longbottom,” the elf rasped. “Master has… relapsed.”

The words were almost too soft to catch, but the weight behind them sank heavy into Neville’s gut. He stepped inside, breath already catching on the acrid sting in the air. The stench of alcohol hit him first—sharp and sour, clinging to every surface like smoke.

Then he saw him.

Harry was sprawled sideways in his old, worn armchair like a marionette with cut strings, one arm dangling limply, the other gripping a half-empty bottle of Ogden’s Old. Three other bottles stood like sentinels on the coffee table—two drained, one knocked over and leaking a slow, sticky puddle onto the wood. In his lap was a worn looking notebook laid open on his lap.

“Oh… Harry…” Neville’s voice was low, aching.

He crossed the room with a slow, purposeful stride, heart sinking with each step. He reached for the bottle, intent on gently prying it from Harry’s fingers—but Harry jerked it away with surprising force, bringing it to his lips and downing a hard gulp.

“Juss… lemme die,” Harry slurred thickly.

Then the sob broke free.

His fingers loosened, and the bottle slipped from his hand, clattering to the rug and rolling to a stop against Neville’s boot. Some of the firewhiskey soaked into the fibers as Harry collapsed into himself, both hands dragging through his tangled hair, face crumpling with devastation.

“He… he never read a single letter I wrote him,” Harry choked out. “My omega… my omega hates me. And I deserve it.”

Neville sank onto the sofa beside him with a heavy exhale. He leaned forward; elbows braced on his knees, and stared at the man breaking apart beside him. Harry’s shoulders trembled as he wept, grief rolling off him like waves crashing against jagged stone. Neville looked down at the open notebook on Harry’s lap and reached out to pull it away. He glanced at the writing, seeing Dear Draco. He closed the notebook and set it aside on the cushion beside him.

“I’ve had a lot of chats with Draco since he joined the Hogwarts staff,” Neville said quietly, letting the words flow without judgment. “Late evenings in the greenhouse, over tea. He told me once he regrets not reading a single letter you sent him.”

Harry sniffled, blinking through the haze to listen.

“He said he didn’t read them because he didn’t want to give you hope,” Neville continued. “Because back then… he was dying. You know what happens to omegas who are rejected. If their bond is severed, their magical core breaks. He didn’t want you to see that. To carry the guilt of watching him fade.”

Harry’s breathing grew ragged, but he didn’t interrupt.

Neville leaned back, glancing around the room with a quiet sadness. “Then he developed that stabilizing potion. It saved his life… sort of. It prolonged what time he had left, but it drained him. And still, he threw himself into the work. Helping others. Finding second chances for people who didn’t have them.” He looked at Harry again. “But seeing you shook him. I could tell. He’s withdrawn again.”

“He doesn’t want to see me again,” Harry said bitterly.

Neville didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he nodded toward the table, eyes landing on the letter nestled between the bottles. “What’s that?”

Harry didn’t move, but his gaze flicked toward it.

Neville reached over and picked up the parchment, unfolding it carefully.

Potter,
I will continue to offer my aid in analyzing any strange potions you come across, but it is for the best that we correspond via owl from hereon out.

– DLM

Neville sighed. “Short and blunt. How very like him.”

Harry turned his face into the back of the chair. “It’s rejection, Nev. However you slice it.”

“No,” Neville said softly, lifting the spilled bottle from the floor and walking it across the room to the sideboard, far out of reach. “That’s fear. That’s self-preservation. And maybe some anger too. But not indifference.” He turned back to Harry, his voice steady. “You still matter to him. That’s why he pushed you away. Not because he doesn’t feel anything… but because he feels too much.”

Harry looked at him, eyes rimmed red, face pale and slack with exhaustion.

“What’s the point?” he mumbled. “I’ll just quit the DMLE and drink myself to death. At least then I won’t mess up anyone else’s life.”

Neville’s jaw clenched.

“No,” he said firmly, standing. “You don’t get to give up. Not after everything you both survived. If you love him—and I know you do—then you fight for him. You let him be angry. You let him grieve. And when the time’s right, you try again.”

He grabbed a clean glass from the side table and filled it with cold water with a tap of his wand, handing it to Harry.

“But first,” he added, “you’re going to sober up. And you’re going to stop making Kreacher clean up your spiral.”

Harry stared at the glass. Then, with trembling fingers, he took it.

Neville had asked Kreacher to do what the elf did best—take care of his master. With gentle firmness, he instructed Kreacher to clear out every last drop of alcohol from Grimmauld Place, no matter where it had been stashed. Bottles in cabinets, flasks in drawers, hidden caches behind bookshelves—gone.

"Help him clean up. Get him to bed. He needs rest," Neville added softly. Kreacher nodded solemnly and disappeared with a sharp crack to fulfill the task.

Neville remained for a moment longer, his gaze lingering on the discarded clothes, the untouched tea, and the evidence of too many sleepless nights. Then, from the living room sofa, he picked up the battered, worn notebook—the one Harry had been scribbling in for years.

The one full of unsent letters.

Neville tucked it beneath his arm and turned to leave, Apparating back to Hogwarts without another word. The Great Hall was still buzzing faintly with the last murmurs of dinner as Neville made his way through the castle. He didn’t stop for food. Didn’t stop to speak to the few colleagues who greeted him in passing. He moved with quiet purpose, boots echoing down the stone corridors as he descended into the dungeons.

He found Draco exactly where he expected him—in the potions classroom, standing motionless before a simmering cauldron. The room was dark aside from the flickering torchlight and the steady, muted glow beneath the cauldron. The air was thick with the scent of asphodel, lavender root, and a faint whiff of something metallic.

Draco didn’t look up. He was staring into the steam like it held answers, like if he watched long enough, the swirl of vapor would rewrite history.

Neville stepped closer. “Draco.”

The omega blinked slowly, his focus breaking. He looked over, eyes dull and tired. Neville reached into his coat and pulled out the notebook. He held it out, the leather worn smooth from years of handling, the edges curled slightly. “Here.”

Draco frowned, taking a hesitant step back. “What is it?”

“You told me once,” Neville said, voice low, “how much you regretted not reading the letters he sent.”

Draco’s brows furrowed. “That was a long time ago.”

Neville stepped forward and gently took Draco’s hand, placing the notebook into it with quiet insistence. “He never stopped writing.”

Draco looked down at the weight in his palm, then back up at Neville, confusion flickering behind his silvery eyes.

“Letters,” Neville said simply. “Dozens of them. Every time he couldn’t sleep. Every time he messed up and didn’t know how to fix it. Every time he missed you.”

The cauldron bubbled softly behind them, casting soft plumes of steam between their silhouettes. Neville’s hand lingered for a moment before he let go. “You don’t have to read them all. You don’t even have to forgive him. But… you deserved to know he never gave up.”

Draco didn’t say anything. His fingers curled around the cover of the notebook, the leather warm from Neville’s coat. He looked down at it like it might bite him. Or break him. Or both.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Neville said quietly, stepping back. “Don’t let that be another letter you never read.”

The Herbology professor took his leave and Draco stood alone in the quiet. The only sound was the soft, rhythmic bubbling of the cauldron. He stared at the cracked, dark brown cover for a long time before finally, slowly, opening it to the first page.

Chapter Text

Dear Draco,

It’s been eight months and fourteen days since I last saw you.

I hope—more than anything—that you’re well. I tell myself that every day. That you're safe. That you're healing. That you're finding peace somewhere I no longer get to see. But if I said I was fine, I’d be lying. I haven’t been—not for one moment.

My heart is sick for you.

If I had a time-turner, I’d go back. To that day. To that hour. To the second you were leaving for Hogsmeade. I'd drag you back into my arms and never let go. I’d change everything.

But I didn’t. I failed you.

The memory of that day—it’s like smoke. I try to grasp it, and it slips through my fingers. Every time I reach for the details, my ears ring, my head splits. Something’s wrong with it, Draco. Something’s missing. I feel it in my bones.

But no matter how much I try to forget it, I can’t. And maybe I shouldn’t.

I’m so sorry.

I’m sorry for what happened. I’m sorry for everything I didn’t say. For everything I didn’t do. I should’ve been with you. I should’ve protected you. I should’ve killed Flint with my bare hands for what he did to you. Instead… I walked away.

Those words I said to you—they weren’t mine. I don’t know what came over me. It felt like I was watching myself from the outside, screaming for it to stop, but powerless to change it. I never meant them. Not a single one.

Draco, please.

Please come back.

Please let me back in.

Please write to me—anything. Yell at me. Send a Howler. Curse me. Just don't stay silent. Not forever.

I’ll do anything you ask. Anything you need.

Just tell me it isn’t too late.

Always yours,

Harry

xxxxx

Dear Draco,

I’m not doing well.

I know that’s not what you want to hear. I know I don’t deserve your pity—or your time. But I don’t know where else to put this except into words I’ll probably never have the courage to send.

Why didn’t you write back?

Why wouldn’t you let me see you? Why did you lock me out of the Hospital Wing like I was some monster clawing at the walls? I was trying, Draco. I tried every day. No one would tell me anything—not McGonagall, not Pomfrey, not even Theo. They looked at me like I’d done something unspeakable.

Maybe I had.

I waited in the corridor outside for hours. I slept there for two nights—on the floor, on my coat. I thought, maybe, if you saw me there... if you knew I hadn’t left... maybe something in you would soften. I begged Pomfrey to let me in. I cried in front of her. And when that didn’t work, I tried sneaking in after hours. The wards threw me back like I was poison.

Was I?

Do you hate me now?

Do I disgust you?

Tell me. Please. Tell me anything. Scream at me if you have to. Curse me. Hurt me. Just don’t... don’t stay silent. It’s the silence that’s killing me.

I wish I could say I’m stronger than this, but I’m not. Not without you. I’m trying. Merlin, I swear I’m trying. I’m holding on by a thread most days, and it’s fraying fast.

Just... please.

Please write to me. A word. A line. Even if it’s just I’m alive.

I need to know you’re still out there. Still breathing. Still real. Because otherwise, I don’t know how I’ll keep going.

Always yours,

Harry

xxxxx

Dear Draco,

I need to confess something.

I haven’t been okay since the day you told me never to come near you again. I think, deep down, I knew it would come to that—but knowing it didn’t make it any easier. Merlin, some nights I honestly don’t remember how I got to bed. Or if I even did. I’ve blacked out more times than I care to admit. Mixed potions and alcohol like I was daring my body to give up.

Some part of me wanted it to.

It’s a miracle I haven’t killed myself by accident. Maybe I did, in pieces. Slowly. Quietly.

I’ve been seeing a mind healer for a few months now. Hermione set it up for me after I had tried to kill myself

I was in a really dark place and thought it would be easier if I just

I couldn’t imagine a life without you

It’s my fault you’re dying

Hermione got tired of pretending not to notice and dragged me to a mind healer. Said she I’m no use to you if I can’t help myself. That was three months ago. And I’ve gone every week since. I sit in this sterile little room with neutral lighting and a patient man who waits for me to unravel. It took me weeks to say anything meaningful. I just sat there, silent, staring at the floor like it might offer me an answer.

But eventually, I started talking.

About the cupboard under the stairs. About Dudley and his fists. About Aunt Petunia’s silence and Uncle Vernon’s rages. About the letter that came when I turned eleven and how it changed everything—but not me, not really. I was always behind. Always faking like I belonged in this world. I told him what it felt like to be hunted. To carry the weight of a prophecy I never asked for. To be broken and expected to keep walking.

And then I talked about you.

I told him about the way you used to look at me—like you saw past the savior and into the boy beneath the scars. How your voice could ground me in the worst moments. How your scent lingered in my clothes long after you were gone. I told him how much it hurt. How I would have given anything—anything—to take back what I said that day. To fix what shattered between us.

I told him how I kept drinking to fill the ache. How I started using potions to sleep, to function, to feel something other than guilt. I told him I wanted to die. Not in a dramatic way. Just… quietly. To stop feeling like this. To stop waking up with my chest crushed beneath the weight of your absence.

He suggested I start writing letters to you. Said it might help. Said that if I couldn’t say it to your face, I could at least write it. So here I am. Writing again. Because when I don't, I drown.

Draco, I love you.

I don’t know how to stop. I don’t think I’m capable of stopping.

I don’t even know if you’ll ever read this. But if you do… please know that every word is a piece of me trying to claw its way back to you.

Always yours,

Harry

xxxxx

Dear Draco,

It’s been four months.

Four months clean. Four months sober. Four months dragging myself out of bed every morning and pretending like that counts as progress. I’ve started training at the Auror Academy. Hermione said it would give me structure, something to anchor myself to. Something with purpose.

She wasn’t wrong.

But if I’m being honest—and I promised myself I would be in these letters—becoming an Auror isn’t about justice, or duty, or even legacy.

It’s about survival.

It’s about burying myself in something so consuming that I don’t have time to think. To feel. To remember. It’s easier to spend fourteen hours running drills and memorizing protocol than it is to sit still for five minutes and let the silence remind me you’re not here.

They all think I’m doing well. That I’m healing. That I’ve “turned a corner.” The instructors praise my focus. Ron says I look sharper. Hermione tells me she’s proud.

But it’s just a mask, Draco.

Underneath, I’m still raw. Still fractured.

The cravings haven’t stopped. The nightmares haven’t either. I still wake up with the taste of firewhiskey on my tongue and the echo of your voice in my head. Some nights, it’s so loud it feels real. Like you’re there beside me. Like I could roll over and reach for you. But it’s always the same—cold sheets, empty space, and the steady hum of loneliness settling back in.

I’m learning to hide it better. That’s what they teach us at the Academy, isn’t it? How to control. How to contain. How to appear unbreakable even when you’re falling apart inside.

So that’s what I do.

I smile when I’m supposed to. I nod at the right times. I make polite conversation during meals and I answer questions like I believe in the future. And everyone leaves me alone because they think I’m fine.

But I’m not.

Draco… I’m drowning. And no one sees it.

I don’t know if you’ll ever read these letters. I don’t know if they’ll ever reach you. But writing to you makes it feel like I’m not completely alone. Like there’s still a thread between us, even if it’s frayed and nearly gone.

I still love you. I never stopped.

Always yours,

Harry

xxxxx

Dear Draco,

My rut passed a few days ago.

I don’t remember most of it—just the heat, the hunger, the gnawing ache that wouldn’t ease. It felt like my skin was too tight, like I was burning from the inside out. I barely slept, barely ate. I just… existed through it.

And I dreamed of you.

Over and over again, I saw you in that fever haze. I imagined holding you against me, burying my face in the crook of your neck, breathing in that scent I still remember so vividly—rose, black plum, and spiced honey. I dreamed of your voice, your touch, your weight curled up beside me.

But something was wrong.

Even in the dream, you didn’t feel the same. You didn’t smell the same. Your voice didn’t sound right. It was like my mind was trying to recreate you from memory, but the details slipped through my fingers like smoke. No matter how tightly I clung to the dream, I knew it wasn’t real.

Because you weren’t there.

And my body knew it. My soul knew it. There was no bond to anchor me, no scent to soothe me, no truth in the illusion. Just longing wrapped in pain.

That’s the difference between dreams and reality, I suppose.

The dream version of you might have been warm—but it wasn’t you.

And I miss you so much it hurts.

Always yours,

Harry

xxxxx

Dear Draco,

Fuck you.

It’s been years. Years since I last saw you—since I touched you, since I heard your real voice without it echoing off the walls of my nightmares. Do you have any idea what that’s like? Do you even care?

I’ve tried—Merlin knows I’ve tried—to move on. To put you in a box somewhere deep inside me and pretend I’m whole without you. But I’m not. I’m bleeding all the time and no one sees it. The memory of you follows me like a curse. You’re in every shadow, every silence. Every moment I’m alone.

And I hate it.

I hate you. I hate myself. I hate this fucking life. I hate waking up and realizing you're still gone and I’m still here, choking on regret.

I wish I were dead.

I wish I were dead.

I WISH I WERE DEAD!

JUST LET ME DIE!

I WANT TO DIE!

I

xxxxx

The quill never finishes the sentence. Ink smears across the bottom of the parchment, the last line trailing off into an uneven blot, as if Harry’s hand had begun to shake—then stilled.

Tears slipped down Draco’s cheeks, hot and silent.

He didn’t bother wiping them away. There was no one to see him fall apart in the quiet sanctuary of his study, no mask to maintain here. Only the soft flicker of candlelight played across the tear-streaked planes of his face, casting shadows along the curve of his jaw, the trembling line of his mouth.

The notebook rested open in his lap, Harry’s raw handwriting bleeding emotion into every page.

He hadn’t known. Merlin, he hadn’t known.

He’d believed—wanted to believe—that Harry was doing well. That he'd built something solid, something stable out of the wreckage of what they’d lost. He’d clipped articles from the Prophet about his missions, his promotions, the accolades. He’d watched from afar, clinging to the illusion that pushing Harry away had helped him find a better path.

But he’d been wrong.

So very, cruelly wrong.

Page after page, the truth had unfolded with devastating clarity: Harry hadn’t moved on. He hadn’t healed. He hadn’t even stood back up properly.

And it was his fault.

Draco gripped the edge of the notebook tightly, knuckles whitening, his entire body taut with regret. Words echoed through his mind, jagged and unforgiving:

"Go home, Harry. I never want to see you again."

"You need to leave."

He’d thought he was protecting Harry. That severing what was left of their bond would set him free. That Harry would find love elsewhere—find peace. But instead, he had condemned him to spiral in silence.

“Best for who?” Neville’s words came back, quiet and sharp, cutting through the fog of Draco’s justifications. Best for who, indeed.

He had told himself he was doing the right thing—selflessly letting Harry go.

But the truth stung now, bitter and clear: he had been a coward.

A hypocrite.

Draco closed the notebook carefully, his fingers lingering on the worn leather cover as if it might pulse with the warmth of Harry’s hand. He curled into himself on the chaise by the fireplace, clutching the journal to his chest, tears still falling freely.

He had meant to protect Harry.

But all he’d done was leave him bleeding alone in the dark.

And now… now he wasn’t sure if he could ever forgive himself for it.

xxxxx

Dear Draco,

Robards has put me on indefinite medical leave.

I broke sobriety again.

It started small—an extra Calming Draught here and there when the headaches came. Then I added Muggle painkillers to take the edge off. It worked, at first. Everything got quiet. My thoughts, my guilt, my memories. Even you.

Too quiet.

I barely noticed how slow I’d gotten until I was chasing a pair of dark wizards through a collapsing building and didn’t react in time. I took a curse to the ribs. Woke up in St. Mungo’s screaming, half-dreaming, half-frozen. They couldn’t even give me a proper pain potion until the toxins flushed out of my system.

Now everyone knows.

Robards. The Healers. Even Simmons, my Auror partner, saw the charts. I’m no longer a hero, I’m a liability. Another addict they have to monitor. Just one more broken thing the Ministry has to keep from cracking in public.

But none of that really matters.

What matters is—I wished that spell had finished me. Honestly, Draco, I did. Sometimes I still do.

Living is… so fucking hard.

I’m tired of clawing my way through every day like survival’s some kind of punishment. I’m tired of pretending I don’t miss you in ways that feel like infection.

I’m tired of being alive when everything that made me feel real is gone.

Where are you?

Harry

xxxxx

Neville sat quietly across from Draco, the steam from their untouched tea curling between them like something ghostly and unspoken. They were tucked into the cramped corners of what used to be an old supply shed, the space now converted into Neville’s office after Professor Sprout’s retirement. It still smelled faintly of damp earth and old parchment, and the walls were lined with mismatched shelves crammed with herbology texts and jars of preserved roots.

The omega hadn’t said much since arriving. He sat stiff-backed in the wooden chair, his arms curled protectively around the worn leather notebook resting in his lap. His fingers clutched it with white-knuckled tension, like it might vanish if he let go.

Neville watched him, the lines of worry etched deep across his brow. “How much have you read?”

Draco didn’t look up. His voice was quiet. “The whole thing.”

Neville blinked. “Yeah? That’s… that’s a lot.”

Draco’s gaze stayed on the notebook, unmoving. “Five times.”

Neville inhaled sharply through his nose. He had only skimmed a few pages himself—just enough to understand the depth of what Harry had poured into those letters. Even reading that much had left him sick with guilt and sorrow. But Draco… Draco had consumed it all. Again and again.

There was a long pause before Draco spoke again, barely a whisper. “Did you know about his substance abuse?”

Neville shifted in his chair. “Yeah. I did.”

Draco finally looked up, eyes rimmed red, lashes clumped together from tears he hadn’t bothered to wipe away. “When did it start?”

Neville hesitated, but only for a second. Draco didn’t need kindness. He needed the truth. “Shortly after you left Hogwarts.”

Draco’s hands tensed on the notebook, his nails digging into the soft, weathered cover. His lips parted, but no sound came out. Neville leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees.

“He stopped sleeping,” Neville continued, voice low but steady. “Said he felt like something inside him had been ripped out. He started taking dreamless sleep potions to get a few hours at a time. That turned into calming draughts during the day. Then energy potions to stay alert. He said it helped keep the panic at bay. But it didn’t take long for it to spiral.”

He paused, gauging Draco’s reaction.

Draco sat frozen, jaw clenched, tears silently trailing down his cheeks now. His breathing was shallow and uneven.

Neville pressed on, gently. “After graduation, it got worse. He started mixing things. Magical and Muggle. Anything that would dull the ache. He didn’t think anyone noticed, but we did. Hermione especially. She confronted him more than once, but he shut everyone out.”

Draco swallowed hard. His voice cracked when he asked, “When did he try to—?”

Neville’s expression darkened. “It was nearly a year later. He used the shard of a broken bottle and cut his wrists open. I was there when he did it. Caught me by surprise.”

Draco’s hand came up to cover his mouth, a ragged breath escaping him as a sob broke free.

Neville didn’t look away. “That’s when he agreed to see a mind healer. He moved in with Ron for a bit. Hermione set up his treatment. And Kreacher—Merlin, Kreacher took over everything. Locked up the house, watched him like a hawk. That elf has kept him alive more than once.”

Draco trembled, the notebook now hugged tight against his chest like armor. His tears came freely now, soaking into his collar, but he didn’t wipe them away. He just shook his head, over and over.

“I thought… I thought I was protecting him,” Draco whispered, barely audible. “I thought if I pushed him away, he’d have a chance at a better life.”

Neville leaned back, his expression softening—not forgiving, not excusing—but understanding. “You were both broken after that day. But Draco… he never stopped loving you. Not for a second. All this time, it’s been you. Every letter, every slip, every time he picked himself back up—he was trying to reach you.”

Draco let out a sound between a sob and a gasp, curling forward slightly over the notebook like he could fold in on himself. “And I wasn’t there.”

“No,” Neville said gently. “But you’re here now.”

xxxxx

Dear Draco,

You’re just as beautiful as I remember.

When did you let your hair grow out? Does it ever fall into your eyes when you're marking essays late at night? Do you enjoy being a professor at Hogwarts? Do the students respect you like they should?

Did you ever think of me?

Seeing you again after all these years… I thought I’d feel something different. Relief, maybe. Joy. A flicker of hope. I thought I’d be overwhelmed by it, just standing near you again with no war between us, no enemies, no secrets. No barriers.

But you didn’t smile. You didn’t even seem glad to see me. You looked… afraid. Like you wanted to turn around and vanish into the stone walls. You stepped back from me—just a little—but it felt like a chasm.

You were so close. Close enough to touch. But you looked at me like I was a stranger you regretted letting through the door. Cold. Distant. Dismissive.

It reminded me of Hogwarts before everything. Before you let me see the real you. Before we were... us.

And gods, I don’t know if I can keep pretending. That this is normal. That we’re fine. That I’m fine.

I’ve missed you, Draco. I miss you so much it burns. I carry the weight of it like a second skin.

And despite everything—even now—I still love you. I love you so fiercely it borders on madness. It twists inside me, silent and sharp, every time you look away.

I want you to see me again. Truly see me. I want to matter to you like I once did.

I want you to tell me you still love me.

Just once. Even if it’s a lie.

Yours always,

Harry

xxxxx

The weeks that followed blurred into something brittle—fractured at the edges, like frost crawling across thin glass. Harry clung to his sobriety by his fingernails, white-knuckling through each day with a barely-contained, simmering desperation. He buried himself in the potion ring investigation like it was a lifeline, pouring over files long past midnight, skipping meals, skipping sleep—anything to outrun the thoughts that waited in the stillness. It was the only way to keep the ghosts at bay.

Three times—only three—he reached out to Draco.

Each letter was formal, clipped, enclosed with a new confiscated sample from the case. He kept the notes short, requesting analysis with no embellishments. Draco’s replies arrived with clockwork precision. Folded parchment, sealed neatly, addressed without warmth or familiarity. And yet… Harry read each one like scripture.

The handwriting hadn’t changed—elegant, deliberate, maddeningly restrained. Each alchemical note was crisp, clinical, efficient. Every sentence constructed like a wall between them. Still, Harry read them a dozen times over, each word dissected and pored over, searching for something beneath the surface. A crack in the tone. A missed flourish. A trace of something personal. He touched the parchment more times than he could admit. Brought it to his nose once, twice—breathing in hopes of catching a lingering trace of rose, plum, and honey. Nothing. Just ink, paper, and the faint sterile scent of a potioneer’s lab.

But the fantasy was stubborn. He imagined Draco sitting in his dungeon sanctuary, quill in hand, head bowed over the desk where they had once kissed, where he had once been held like something precious. The distance between those memories and the stark reality made his chest ache like an old wound that never quite healed.

At the Ministry cafeteria, Hermione and Ron noticed. Of course they did. They always did. Weekly lunches became a quiet exercise in tension. Harry picked at his food. His appetite had vanished entirely; meals reduced to mechanical motions. His eyes were red-rimmed and shadowed. The stubble along his jaw grew in patchy, like he couldn’t be bothered to shave or didn’t trust himself near a blade. His robes hung looser than they had just a month ago.

He barely spoke unless prompted.

Hermione watched him closely over the rim of her tea, her brow furrowed in quiet concern. Finally, she set her cup down and asked softly, “Are you alright, Harry?”

Her voice was calm, measured, but firm—just enough to press, not enough to push.

Harry didn’t meet her eyes. “Just tired,” he muttered, stabbing at a steamed carrot without real interest. “The case is getting to me.”

Hermione didn’t press, but her mouth tightened.

Across the table, Ron remained silent. He hadn’t touched his shepherd’s pie in minutes. His jaw was tense, his gaze pinned on Harry like he was trying to see through the lie. He could smell the truth—or rather, the absence of it. No alcohol on Harry’s breath, no telltale sharpness clinging to his clothes. But Ron knew the signs. He recognized the way Harry’s fingers trembled when holding his fork. The way his foot tapped restlessly beneath the table. The way his magic thrummed just beneath the surface, like something raw and barely leashed.

He didn’t say anything. Not yet.

But Harry felt the weight of his stare all the same.

And in that silence, in the scrape of cutlery and low hum of conversation around them, Harry sat with his lie.

Just tired.

Just the case.

Just broken.

And no one could fix it.

He rejected me.

Draco…doesn’t want me.

What’s the point in living?

xxxxx

Dear Draco,

I’ve relapsed again.

Woke up sprawled on the front steps of Grimmauld Place, vomit down my shirt and the pavement spinning like I’d been hit with a dozen Bludgers. Kreacher locked me out—said it was to teach me a lesson. That I wasn’t fit to be trusted with my own wand, let alone my sobriety. He wasn’t wrong.

I had to go to the Burrow just to get clean enough for that bloody elf to even consider letting me back in. I was shaking so badly I couldn’t hold a glass of water. Couldn’t look Molly in the eye, either—not after she saw me like that.

She scolded me, of course. Fiercely. Like a mother trying to scrub blood from stone. Ginny was there too, arms crossed, her face pinched tight with disappointment. She didn’t say much—just left the room with a slam of the door when she caught the smell of whiskey on me.

I spent two nights above the joke shop with Ron. He’s trying. Really. But it’s hard to breathe with him hovering all the time, like if he blinks I’ll vanish. Like if he looks away I’ll drink myself into another hole.

So I went home.

It’s ridiculous that I had to break into my own house, because Kreacher’s wards wouldn’t recognize me as “sober and stable.” His words, not mine. The locks flared against me, burned my fingertips. It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? Being held hostage by your own damn house-elf because you’re too much of a coward to face the day without numbing it first.

I haven’t stopped shaking.

The withdrawals are worse this time. Every muscle feels like it’s fraying apart. I can’t keep food down. My skin itches. My bones ache. I keep hallucinating the sound of your voice—sharp and soft all at once—like it’s woven into the silence of my walls.

And the cravings… Merlin, Draco. They’re brutal. My hands reach for the bottle before my mind even registers the thought. But it’s not the firewhiskey I want. Not really.

It’s you.

I want to wake up to the sound of your voice at my bedside. To the warmth of your hand brushing against mine. I want to hear you say my name like you used to—like it meant something more than just a reminder of what I’ve destroyed.

I know I don’t deserve that. Not after what I said. What I did. I keep trying to climb out of this hole, but every time I think I’ve found a foothold, it crumbles beneath me. And I end up right back where I started—alone. Sick. Pathetic.

I miss you, Draco.

I’m sorry doesn’t begin to cover it.

Always yours,

Harry

xxxxx

At home, Kreacher had become unrelenting. The old elf, once spiteful and hunched with resentment, now ran Grimmauld Place with a militant sort of care—unyielding, unsympathetic, and utterly focused on keeping his master alive. Every bottle of alcohol, every pain draught, every sleeping tonic had vanished from the cupboards. Gone were the flask in the bedside drawer, the emergency vial under the sink, even the dusty bottle of firewhiskey hidden behind the attic insulation. Harry had checked—furiously. Kreacher had found them all.

He even confiscated the razors, the scissors, the potions vials with sharp glass edges. Not even a butter knife remained in the kitchen drawers. Meals were cut for him in advance, plated and left with a quiet dignity on the table.

Harry had screamed at him once, rage and shame lashing out in cruel words. The elf hadn’t flinched. He simply stood his ground, ears stiff, chin tilted up in defiance. “Master Harry will not destroy himself while Kreacher still draws breath,” he had said, voice like old stone.

And that was that.

On more than one occasion, when Harry stumbled home from the pub with the thick stench of drink clinging to his skin and regret curling heavy in his gut, he found the wards locked—the front door sealed shut with old magic and house-elf spite. He would curse and knock and plead, fists thudding weakly against the wood until his strength gave out and he slid down to the step, back to the door, legs folded beneath him. There he would stay—drunk and shivering, forehead pressed against the cool, warped grain of the door, muttering apologies that no one answered.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered once, hoarse and broken. “Please. I’m trying.”

The night didn’t care. The cold sank into his bones. And inside, Kreacher waited—watching silently from behind the curtain, eyes narrowed, lips tight. Only when Harry’s breaths evened out into sleep, when the drunken muttering stilled and the tremors faded into exhaustion, did the wards lift. The door creaked open just enough for Kreacher to tug him inside. The elf dragged him by the collar of his robes, muttering under his breath the entire time. He cleaned him, put him to bed, and sat at the foot of the mattress like a sentry until morning.

Harry never remembered how he got inside.

But he always woke up clean.

Always in bed.

Always aching.

And the shame—that stayed with him longer than the hangover ever did.

xxxxx

Dear Draco,

You pushed me away again.

You told me to leave—again.

I know I shouldn’t have said what I did in your classroom. I shouldn’t have opened my mouth, shouldn’t have laid myself bare. I should’ve kept pretending. Should’ve nodded, smiled, played the part. I was doing so well at it, wasn’t I?

But I can’t. Not anymore.

I can’t keep pretending that I’m fine. That I can live like this—with you so close, yet miles out of reach. I’ve carried this love in silence for too long, hoping you'd see it, feel it, remember what we were. But every time I try—every time I reach for you—you close the door just a little tighter.

You told me to go. Again.

And I did. But it felt like walking away from the last reason I had to keep breathing.

I’ve told you the truth: I love you. Still. Always. I don’t know how not to. It’s in my bones. It’s in every breath. And now I’ve told you, and you’ve made it clear—you don’t want me. You don’t want this. You don’t want us.

And maybe you never did.

I’m tired, Draco.

So fucking tired.

Tired of aching. Of pretending. Of hurting. Of living every day in a world that doesn’t have you in it.

I’m ready for it to end.

Forever yours even in death,

Harry

xxxxx

Harry sat at the edge of his bed, shoulders hunched, breath shallow. The room was dim and quiet, the only light a weak glow from the single lamp on the dresser casting long shadows against the walls. He was bone-tired—soul-tired—and the silence around him was suffocating.

His wand trembled in his hand; fingers curled loosely around the wood. He turned it slowly between his fingers, the motion hypnotic. He had rehearsed this moment a thousand times. Every time he had talked himself out of it. Every time he had survived another night.

But tonight felt different.

He was empty. Hollowed out. The grief had long ago turned to ash inside him, and now even the ache was dull. It was just exhaustion now. Cold and constant. He pressed the tip of his wand to the side of his neck, just below the jaw. His mouth opened, the first syllables of Sectumsempra rising like a breath—

Knock knock knock.

Harry froze.

He blinked.

Had he imagined that?

Silence stretched.

Then—again—knock knock knock. Louder this time. Urgent. Frantic.

A strangled curse slipped from his mouth as he lowered the wand, eyes narrowing. Probably Ron. Or Hermione. Again. He didn’t want company. Didn’t want to be stopped. But the knocking didn’t relent. Swearing under his breath, he tossed the wand onto the tangled bedsheets and rose on legs that felt too heavy. The hallway was dark as he padded barefoot to the door, the cold floor biting into the soles of his feet.

He wrenched the door open—and all the breath fled from his lungs.

Draco Malfoy stood there.

And he looked like hell.

His usually pristine blond hair was disheveled, his eyes bloodshot and rimmed in bruised lavender. His skin, always so painfully flawless, was pale and dry, lips cracked. His robes were creased and wrinkled, like he fallen asleep in them. In his hands, clutched tight against his chest like a lifeline, was his notebook.

The one filled with every letter Harry had never meant to send.

For a moment, Harry was sure he was hallucinating. A cruel mirage conjured by withdrawal, grief, or madness. He opened his mouth—but nothing came out.

“Harry,” Draco rasped, and just hearing his voice—soft, strained, real—made Harry’s knees buckle. “I… I read them. All of them. I didn’t know you were suffering like that. I thought… I thought pushing you away was the right thing. I thought I was protecting you.” His voice cracked, and he hugged the notebook tighter. “But your last entry… gods, Harry—I thought— I had to come. I had to be sure you weren’t—”

Harry didn’t let him finish. He lurched forward with a strangled sound, arms wrapping around Draco in a crushing embrace. The omega let out a startled gasp as Harry buried his face in the curve of his neck and clung to him like he was the last solid thing in a collapsing world.

“You’re here,” Harry choked out. “You’re real—you’re real.”

Draco stiffened in his arms for a heartbeat, his breath hitching. But then something in him cracked. His arms rose slowly, uncertainly, before wrapping around Harry’s waist. His forehead dropped to Harry’s temple, and his eyes fluttered shut.

The notebook slipped from his hand, landing softly at their feet.

Harry trembled against him, shoulders wracked with silent sobs, breath catching in his throat like broken glass. He couldn’t stop. Couldn’t speak. It was all too much.

And Draco didn’t speak either.

He simply held him.

Held him the way he used to—like he remembered.

Like Harry still mattered.

The house was silent except for the sound of Harry's shuddering breath, the gentle rustle of fabric as Draco tightened his grip, and the weight of everything they had lost pressing down around them. Draco didn’t know—couldn’t have known—how close he had been to losing Harry for good.

But now, he was here.

Because in this moment, they were both real.

Both broken.

But real.

xxxxx

Draco was quiet as Harry bent down and picked up the fallen notebook. The alpha didn’t comment on it as he finally guided Draco over the threshold, and the moment they stepped into the dim corridor of Number 12 Grimmauld Place, a soft ripple of magic surged around them.

The wards recognized him.

Harry felt it like a tug behind his ribs—a shift in the very bones of the house. The air stirred, faintly electric, as though something old had exhaled after holding its breath for too long. The shadows along the hallway retreated, the gloom peeling back slightly at the corners. The oppressive weight that always clung to the Black family home lifted—just barely, but noticeably—as if the magic within the house itself recognized something sacred had returned.

Draco stilled, spine straightening as the pulse of recognition passed through him. His expression flickered—he felt it too.

Kreacher appeared an instant later, as if summoned by instinct. His eyes, yellowed with age but still sharp, widened. Then, with a surprising and solemn grace, the elf bowed deeply at the waist.

“Master Draco,” Kreacher rasped. “Heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Welcome home.”

Draco blinked, taken aback, but he recovered quickly, offering the elf a subtle incline of his head.

With a nod and no further prompting, the elf scurried toward the kitchen, muttering about warming the kettle and preparing snacks. Moments later, the air was filled with the scent of steeping tea and warm bread—familiar, grounding smells that softened the edges of the room like balm on an open wound.

Harry reached for Draco’s hand as they moved together toward the kitchen. His fingers brushed Draco’s tentatively, unsure if the contact would be welcome. Draco didn’t pull away. He simply laced their fingers together. It didn’t go unnoticed how cold the omega’s fingers were but he gave it no further thought beyond the fact that he was here. He was real.

In the kitchen, the table was already set—tea steaming in chipped cups, buttered scones glistening under the warm light, with a dish of golden honeyed fruits nestled at the center like an offering of peace. They sat across from one another at the scarred wooden table—one that had seen too many late-night plans and too many silent mornings. Harry set the notebook down atop the table next to his tea. For a long moment, neither spoke. They just looked at each other. Traced the changes. Took in the exhaustion, the wear in their posture, the bruises life had left on both of them.

Harry’s patchy beard and red-rimmed eyes made him look older. The slump in his broad shoulders made him look as though life had taken its pound of flesh from him. And perhaps it did, if the notebook Draco had read gave any indication.

“You look awful,” Draco said at last, voice cool but not unkind.

Harry blinked, caught off guard—then let out a soft, broken snort. “Yeah, well. I can’t deny that. But you don’t exactly look like your posh self either.”

Draco looked down at his untouched cup. “I’ve been…distracted.”

“By what?” Harry asked gently.

Draco didn’t answer right away. He tried to busy himself with the teacup between his hands, fingers curling slightly tighter around the chipped porcelain. His voice, when it came, was quieter. Almost uncertain.

“Since our last meeting… it left me feeling quite raw.”

Harry sobered. “Me too.”

Draco’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. His eyes lifted, grey meeting green across the worn table. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was full—of history, of grief, of hope still bleeding at the edges.

They were both different men now.

Harry sat hunched over slightly, his hands resting on his knees beneath the table, his shoulders tight with restraint. Across from him, Draco sat with his back straight, spine stiff, eyes trained on the chipped edge of his teacup rather than Harry’s face.

“How did you get my notebook?” Harry asked finally, voice soft—more curious than accusing. There was no bite to the question, only the raw ache of someone trying to make sense of the wreckage.

Draco looked up slowly. “Longbottom gave it to me,” he said, his tone flat but not unkind.

Harry blinked. Of course. It must’ve been that night—the night Neville found him drunk and crying again. His throat tightened. His friends had always shown up when he was at his worst, cleaning up the messes he could no longer handle.

He stared down at the tabletop. “And you read it?” he asked, his voice barely audible now. “All of it?”

Draco gave a small nod. “Every single page,” he said. “More than once.”

The silence that followed pressed in like fog, thick and suffocating. Harry felt the burn of humiliation creep up his neck. Knowing Draco had read it all—his pain, his rage, his weakness laid bare in ink—made him feel small. Exposed. Like something cracked open too far to ever be closed again.

But deeper still, past the shame, was a white-hot ember of something else.

Anger.

“Why didn’t you read the letters I actually sent you?” Harry asked, a slight tremor in his voice. His hands curled into tight fists beneath the table.

Draco’s mouth parted slightly. His gaze dropped. “I’m sorry,” he said, and the words came out so quiet they barely reached across the table.

Harry's jaw clenched. “Why, Draco?!” he snapped, the explosion sharp and sudden. His fists came down hard on the table, the wood groaning beneath the force. The cups rattled, one nearly toppling onto its side.

Draco flinched, but he didn’t speak. His eyes stayed on Harry, wide and wary.

Harry’s breath hitched. He stared down at the shaking in his hands, at the splintering hurt that had finally pushed past the dam he’d spent years fortifying. “Why didn’t you read any of them?” he said again, lower this time, the anger giving way to something far more fragile. “I was losing my mind, Draco. I was begging for answers—screaming for you through paper because no one would tell me anything. They treated me like I was the one who—”

He cut himself off, his voice breaking.

His eyes dropped, ashamed of the tears he could feel burning behind his lids. His chest rose and fell in shallow bursts, the silence roaring now, echoing in the corners of the old house like ghosts.

Across the table, Draco’s knuckles were pale as he anxiously wrung them on his lap. He swallowed visibly. “Because I was afraid,” he said at last. “Because I couldn’t bear to read the words that would give me hope. It was easier to just…to just give up.”

Harry shook his head, laughless and bitter. “You were everything to me. And you left me in silence.”

The kitchen of Grimmauld Place felt colder than it should’ve. The silence stretched between them, tight and tense, filling every corner of the room with unsaid things. The only light came from the single pendant lamp overhead, casting long shadows over the weathered table and the untouched tea now cooling between them.

Draco sat still, his fingers laced tightly in his lap, the notebook of letters resting beside Harry. He looked pale, drawn, a far cry from the composed figure he usually projected. His eyes dropped shut, lashes trembling against his cheeks.

“I know,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry isn’t good enough,” Harry said, the words low and shaking with fury. The fragile dam holding back his pain cracked, and the flood broke loose. “Sorry doesn’t give me back the years of silence. It doesn’t erase what it felt like—when I came to you, begging for you to talk to me, to look at me. I dropped to my knees for you, Draco!”

His voice rose; each word edged with the jagged pain of betrayal.

“You looked at me like I was nothing,” he said, breathing hard now. “Like none of it—us—had ever meant a damn thing.”

Draco didn’t speak. He didn’t try to defend himself. He sat there, small and silent, his shoulders trembling faintly. He didn’t try to stop Harry. He knew he deserved this. Harry rose from his seat, hands braced against the edge of the table, glaring down at the man he had once held closer than his own breath.

“So how dare you come back now?” he spat. “How fucking dare you!”

With a sudden, furious swipe of his arm, Harry knocked the cups and plate of scones from the table. Porcelain shattered on the floor, tea splashing across the cupboards, bits of fruit and crumbs scattering like broken promises. The crash echoed off the walls, sharp and violent. Draco flinched, shoulders curling inward instinctively. He didn’t move to clean the mess. He didn’t speak.

Harry stood there, chest heaving, eyes blazing with unshed tears. His fists clenched at his sides, the silence ringing again in his ears, louder than the crash.

“I should hate you,” he said, his voice suddenly breaking. “I should hate you for everything you put me through. For the nights I couldn’t breathe. For the times I begged whatever’s out there to just let me die.”

His face crumpled, the dam finally shattering completely.

“But I don’t,” he gasped. “I still love you.”

The words came out on a sob, unsteady and raw. His whole body trembled as he stood there—angry, aching, utterly undone. Across the table, Draco’s eyes were wide, glassy with tears. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, as if searching for something—anything—that could hold weight against what had just been said.

But no words came.

So instead, he reached for the only thing he could offer: he stood. Quietly. Slowly. And waited—uncertain if Harry would push him away, or fall into him again.

“You weren’t the only one who suffered all this time,” Draco said quietly, his voice barely louder than the ticking clock in the corner. His gaze lifted to meet Harry’s, unguarded now. “But I can see now that you were hurting more. That you’re still hurting. Because of me.”

Harry’s shoulders shook as a fresh wave of emotion crashed through him, and he dropped heavily into his chair like the wind had been knocked from him.

“I’m so sorry, Harry,” Draco said, voice trembling with sincerity. “Truly. I only pushed you away because I didn’t want you to watch me…watch me die. I thought if I disappeared quietly, it would hurt you less.”

Harry didn’t answer, just cried harder, his hands buried in his hair, his chest rising and falling in jerky bursts. Draco stepped around the table slowly, his steps soundless on the kitchen floor. He stood beside Harry’s chair, hesitant at first, then lifted a hand and gently pressed his cool fingers against Harry’s flushed cheek. His thumb brushed away a tear, tender and slow.

“You had a better chance than I did,” Draco whispered, “at finding happiness again. I thought I was setting you free. I thought I was doing the right thing.”

Harry leaned into the touch like it was oxygen, one hand rising to wrap around Draco’s slender wrist, grounding himself. He clung to him—not to pull him closer, but as if afraid Draco might vanish if he let go.

“I wish you’d take better care of yourself,” Draco murmured. His eyes traced over Harry’s face, over the lines that hadn’t been there ten years ago—the deep shadows under his eyes, the sharpness of his cheekbones. “Longbottom told me… about your struggle. With sobriety…since graduation.”

Harry huffed out a shaky breath, the sound half-laugh, half-sob. His mouth twisted into something bitter. “Yeah. I was a wreck after it all. After you. After Flint. I barely got through exams. McGonagall passed me, but I think it was out of pity.”

He swallowed the lump in his throat and finally loosened his grip on Draco’s wrist. The omega stood silently at his side, his face unreadable, before returning to the chair opposite Harry. They sat across from each other, the kitchen quiet again, save for the low creak of the old house and the occasional gust of wind brushing against the windows.

“I…” he started, then stopped. The words were there, crowding his throat, but none of them felt like the right ones. “I don’t know where to begin.”

Draco’s gaze stayed on him. “Usually,” he said gently, “people start from the beginning.”

Harry nodded, slow and unsteady. He curled his fingers into the edge of the table to stop their tremble and exhaled slowly through his nose.

Then he began.

He spoke not with excuses, but with the raw-edged truth of a man who had spent too long hiding from himself. He told Draco everything—how the war had fractured something essential in him, how graduation had left him adrift, and how losing Draco had cracked him open in a way that nothing else ever had.

“I felt flayed open,” Harry said, voice barely above a whisper. “Like something was torn out of me, and I couldn’t figure out how to function without it. Without you.”

Draco’s lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes still fixed on the table. But he didn’t interrupt. He didn’t recoil.

Harry continued. “I started drinking more than I should have. At first it was to sleep. Then it was to forget. I pushed everyone away—Hermione, Ginny, Neville, Ron… even Kreacher. I became someone I hated being around.” He gave a bitter laugh, more air than sound. “I’d wake up in the middle of the night and feel… hollow. Like there was a hole in my chest where you used to be. Like I’d misplaced my own soul and forgot how to breathe without it.”

Draco’s hand tightened around the handle of his teacup, the porcelain creaking faintly under the pressure of his grip.

Harry forged on, each word measured and heavy with memory. “I hit rock bottom. Snapped at Hermione. Screamed at Ron and Neville. I—” he flexed the fingers of his right hand absently, “My lowest point was when I tried to kill myself.” His gaze dropped, shame curling through his shoulders. “That’s when I admitted I needed help.”

He shifted in his chair, not quite looking at Draco, but close.

“Hermione found me a mind healer. A good one. Gentle. He helped me untangle a lot—grief, guilt, trauma… the bond.” His voice caught on the last word. “You.”

Draco’s breath hitched audibly, but still he said nothing. His back remained straight, his jaw rigid. Only the slight tremble in his fingers gave him away. Harry glanced down. Their knees were nearly touching beneath the table. The fragile space between them was full of everything they hadn’t said in ten long years.

“I kept going,” Harry continued. “Even after the worst passed. I don’t go as much anymore now...I probably should, but I just…”

The words hung between them, warm and aching.

A long silence stretched out. The ticking of the ancient kitchen clock filled the quiet, counting heartbeats in time. Draco finally set his cup down. His hands folded neatly on his lap, though Harry could see the tension in every line of his body. When he spoke, his voice was quiet.

“You never deserved what Flint did to you. Or what I said… afterward. I wish I could remember that day clearly. Recall every detail. The mind healer said it’s a defense response to trauma.”

Harry’s throat went tight.

Draco finally looked up, eyes raw and unreadable.

“We were both broken,” he said simply. “And no amount of healing has ever made me feel whole again.”

Harry didn’t speak. He only reached across the table, palm up, offering—not expecting.

A minute passed.

Then Draco’s hand slid into his, cold and trembling.

And held.

Draco finally spoke, his voice a quiet, cracked thing barely above a whisper.

“You looked so put together when I saw you again,” he said. “All those newspaper photos. Headlines. The Ministry’s golden boy. I thought…” He trailed off, shaking his head faintly. His gaze dropped to the tabletop, as if ashamed of even entertaining the thought.

Harry let out a dry, hollow laugh. “Yeah. That’s the funny thing about press photos. They never show the nights on the bathroom floor. Or the bottles you can’t remember emptying.”

Draco lifted his face to look at him fully then, the fragile light from the kitchen chandelier catching in his pale eyes, making them gleam like glass.

“I’m sorry you went through all of that,” he said at last, the words quiet but sincere.

Then it was his turn.

The omega sat still, back no longer as straight as before as he sat slightly hunched forward. He stared into nothing, eyes locked somewhere in the middle distance, somewhere buried in memory. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and even—but it trembled at the edges, fraying like worn silk.

“On the day our bond broke,” Draco said. He pulled his hand away from Harry’s, his fingers curling together tightly in his lap, knuckles pale from the pressure. “I knew then—without a doubt—that we were soulmates.”

Harry didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. He swallowed thickly, his throat raw.

“I felt it,” Draco continued, lifting one hand unconsciously to press it over his heart. “Like something inside me cracked. Not like a splinter. It was… cold. Like frost, starting deep and spreading outward. My magic staggered. I lost my equilibrium. And I knew.”

Harry said nothing, afraid that if he interrupted, the moment might dissolve.

“When I reported the rape… and named Marcus Flint,” Draco said, his voice tighter now, his jaw clenching, “a part of me hoped it would bring justice. That it would settle something inside me. But it didn’t. There was no relief.”

The kitchen had gone still. Even the air seemed suspended, as though the house itself was listening.

“I felt ashamed,” he whispered. “Not because I did anything wrong—but because I hadn’t listened to my instincts. The tea in the Three Broomsticks where I waited for you had smelled… off. And the note—I thought it was from you. It was so stupid,” he said bitterly. “It said to meet you at there. I thought you had planned something—some surprise. Something sweet. I never imagined it was a trap.”

He exhaled shakily, tears shining but not falling. “The only thing that saved me from worse… was my collar. It protected my scent glands. Flint couldn’t claim me.”

Harry’s fists had curled into white-knuckled balls on the table. His heart was pounding like a war drum in his chest, and he couldn’t tear his gaze from Draco’s face.

“When I went home for the holidays,” Draco went on, quieter now, “I was barely holding myself together. I didn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. I was… shattered. And then the bond… the moment it snapped…” Draco’s voice cracked. “It felt like someone had peeled my soul away. And I knew—I knew—you’d rejected me. Whether consciously or not, it didn’t matter. A severed bond for an omega…”

He paused, gathering the shreds of composure around him.

“It’s a death sentence.”

Harry wanted to reach across the table and touch him. Beg for a way to undo the past. But he didn’t move. He couldn’t.

“So I didn’t let myself hope,” Draco said. “That’s why I didn’t read your letters, I just threw them into the fire the moment they arrived. Not because I didn’t want them—but because I knew I wouldn’t live long. And I couldn’t bear the thought of you clinging to something that was already fading.”

The words fell like stones between them.

After a long silence, Draco spoke again, softer now.

“Snape left me journals. After he died. Hidden ones. And in them were notes on a formula—something he’d been developing in secret. A way to temporarily stabilize a damaged magical core. A potion.”

Harry’s head lifted slowly, his eyes wide and stricken.

“My mother told me…that he was a rejected omega, too. That he’d lived with it, quietly. Silently. His entire life.” Draco straightened slightly, his voice growing steadier. “Perfecting his formula gave me a reason to keep going. I struggled to brew his original recipe on my own and then you showed up at the gate and I…I’m so sorry, Harry.”

Draco’s voice cracked as he brought his hands up to his face as he cried softly. Harry swallowed thickly, remembering camping out at the gates of Malfoy Manor for three days. He had developed a fever and was bedridden for nearly a weak after. He remembered how he wondered if he was dying of a broken heart. It took the omega a few minutes to calm down, though the signs of his breakdown lingered—pink-rimmed eyes, a tremble still in his fingers as he wiped at his face with the sleeve of his robe. His voice was rough, frayed at the edges.

“I gave up trying after that,” he admitted, his tone barely above a whisper. “After you… after everything. I thought I was done.” He sniffled again, shoulders curled slightly inward as though trying to make himself smaller, more bearable. “Theo, Pansy, and Blaise came to visit while I was still bedridden. They were furious. Said I was pathetic, selfish—even dramatic, which I suppose I was. But it was Theo who really laid into me when he found out about the journals. Said I didn’t have the right to give up without their permission. We made a deal that if we weren’t successful in brewing the potion within a year’s time then they would let me die quietly.”

Draco paused, lips twitching faintly in memory. “Theo moved into the manor after that. Refused to leave my side. We worked tirelessly until we got the formula right. Improved it even. And Pansy and Blaise… they helped too. Tracked down rare ingredients, pulled favors, sent things by owl at all hours. It’s how they ended up starting their business, actually—dealing in ethically sourced magical flora and potion components.”

He looked across the table then, eyes locking with Harry’s. That green—still startling. Still sharp with unspoken ache.

“We made it clear, once the patent came through, that the potion would be available to every omega like me. Every one of us who’d been told we were defective. Hopeless. Unfit for bonds, for families… for futures.”

Harry’s throat worked soundlessly, jaw clenched as he blinked hard against the rush of emotion. He looked like he wanted to speak, but the words didn’t come.

“It gave them something,” Draco continued, lifting his chin slightly. “Hope, mostly. Maybe dignity. It gave me hope, too. Not in a miracle—but in purpose.” His voice dropped lower, almost reverent. “I gave away the discovery for free. Shared every scrap of my research with the Healers Guild. After that, I buried myself in work—research, lectures, curse-breaker collaborations. I raised funds for omega care and cursed ailment wards. Because if I was going to die young, I needed to make it mean something.”

He drew in a slow breath, then glanced down at his hands, splayed on the worn kitchen table between them—pale, steady, too cold even now, but alive. And then he looked up again, voice so fragile it nearly broke the air.

“But I didn’t die. I’m still here. And now I don’t know what to do with what’s left of me.”

The truth hung heavy between them.

His next words were quieter still. “And I don’t know what to do now that you’re here.”

His gaze stayed on Harry’s, unflinching now. Vulnerable. Waiting.

Draco gave a small smile, faint but unmistakably real, like the first sliver of dawn after a long winter night. “I kept clippings,” he admitted, eyes flicking down as though embarrassed by the confession. “Of you. Your work with the Aurors. Headlines. Interviews. Every time you got promoted or saved someone or landed on the Prophet’s front page.”

Harry blinked, stunned. “You… did?”

Draco gave a tiny, self-conscious nod, his cheeks coloring the faintest shade of rose. “A binder full,” he murmured.

Harry laughed—quiet and surprised. The sound cracked something open inside both of them.

“I didn’t even know you’d taken a position at Hogwarts until Hermione told me,” Harry said, shifting slightly in his chair, still trying to wrap his mind around the idea of Draco Malfoy saving newspaper clippings like a secret admirer. “She praises your work, by the way.”

“As she should,” Draco replied breezily, lifting his chin with exaggerated pride. “I’m quite celebrated in the medical research community.”

That earned a snort of amusement from Harry, who reached across the table without thinking, sliding his hand into Draco’s. Their fingers laced effortlessly, like they still remembered how. Draco didn’t pull away—his hand was cold. Harry didn’t let go. The quiet between them shifted. It was no longer weighed down by grief or blame. There was still pain, yes—but it was softened now, colored by something gentler. Familiarity. Longing. The fragile beginning of hope.

Harry studied Draco’s face—his wan complexion, the way his lashes cast delicate shadows beneath tired eyes. “Is there…” he began slowly, voice tentative, “Is there a way to fix the bond? To save you?”

Draco exhaled through his nose, gaze falling back to their joined hands. “I came across some old lore,” he said after a pause, voice hushed. “Obscure, half-lost accounts about fated mates re-forging broken bonds.”

Harry straightened in his chair, heart kicking hard in his chest. “And?”

Draco hesitated.

“It’s… impossible.”

Harry’s brow furrowed. “Why?”

Draco’s voice was barely a whisper. “The lore says the couple would need to reform the bond with a mating bite… during rut and heat—at the same time.”

Harry went still, processing the weight of that condition. His pulse thrummed wildly, but he kept his voice gentle. “And, uh… why is that impossible?”

Draco slipped his hand from Harry’s, slowly curling his arms around himself like he was bracing for impact. He stared at the floor.

“I don’t get heats anymore,” he said. “They stopped…about six years ago.”

The words sank into the silence like a stone dropped into deep water. A cruel, final punctuation to the dreams Harry had barely allowed himself to hope for. He felt his breath catch—his entire body going still—but something inside him refused to let go. The ache remained, but so did the tether. He stood, slowly, and moved to Draco’s side. He knelt down beside him, gently reaching for his hand again.

“Draco,” he said, voice low and full of longing, “let me back in.”

Draco turned toward him, and the crack in the dam holding back everything finally collapsed. His lashes fluttered, and tears slipped free, carving silent trails down his pale cheeks.

“Please, love,” Harry whispered. “You’re all I ever think about. Every damn day. I’ve lived without you and I don’t want to anymore. Please… please take me back.”

Draco took a ragged breath, his bottom lip trembling. His voice cracked. “I don’t know how long I have.” He looked away. “The potion keeps my core stable, but it’s not permanent. There’s no guarantee. I don’t want you to… to have to watch me waste away.”

Harry didn’t hesitate.

“Draco,” he said, smiling through his own unshed tears, “I just want to be with you. Only you. I don’t care about the rest. I just want you. Not perfect, not permanent—just you.”

There was a beat of stillness. Then Draco reached out, his fingers brushing delicately against the inside of Harry’s wrist. The touch lingered—light and tender—and Draco looked down at him with a watery, amused smile. His eyes shimmered with emotion, but behind the tears there was something softer, more luminous.

“You always were a surprising romantic, Potter,” he murmured, the hint of affection curling around each word like smoke.

Harry’s smile broke across his face—gentle, shy, full of hope. “Only for you.” He squeezed Draco’s hand, eyes searching. “So will you take this pathetic alpha back?” he asked softly. “Please say yes.”

Draco’s breath caught in his throat.

For a suspended second, neither of them moved. The air between them shimmered with something tentative and old—an ache that had lived too long inside them both. Slowly, carefully, Draco lifted his hands to Harry’s face. His cool fingertips brushed against the coarse stubble along Harry’s jaw, then rose to cradle his cheeks, his thumbs sweeping in slow arcs beneath tired green eyes.

They stared at each other—truly looked.

In Harry’s eyes, Draco saw years of torment and longing, love that had never faded. In Draco’s, Harry saw ghosts—of pain, of survival, of the boy he’d once held and the man he’d never stopped dreaming of. And there, hidden behind all that, was the most fragile thing of all: hope.

Then, without warning, Draco’s fingers pinched sharply into Harry’s cheeks.

“Ow—ow ow ow!” Harry yelped, reeling back and clutching his face. “Merlin’s left nut, Draco! What the hell?!”

“I had to be sure this wasn’t a dream,” Draco said primly, though the faint curl of amusement on his lips betrayed him.

Harry gawked. “Wouldn’t you pinch yourself, then?!”

Draco’s smirk deepened as he leaned forward in his seat. “Why ever would I do that,” he murmured, “when I can pinch you instead?”

Harry laughed, helpless against the warmth swelling in his chest. “You’re impossible,” he whispered, his forehead brushing against Draco’s.

“True,” Draco said, closing the small space between them, “but you love me anyway.”

And Harry did.

So much so that he had to confess to one more thing.

“I need to tell you something,” he said at last, lifting his gaze to meet Draco’s. “Something that’s going to upset you. A lot.”

Draco’s brows knit, his expression alert but calm. He didn’t speak, just reached across the space between them and cradled Harry’s face in his hands—cool palms against overheated skin, thumbs gentle along the line of Harry’s cheekbones.

“You can tell me,” Draco murmured. “Whatever it is.”

Harry swallowed hard. “Just before you knocked on my door… I was about to end it. I was going to kill myself.”

The words dropped like stones in still water, sending ripples of stunned silence across the space between them. Draco didn’t breathe. He couldn’t. His hands went still on Harry’s face, eyes wide, blinking like he hadn’t understood. But he had.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said quickly, the words tumbling out in panic, “I shouldn’t’ve said anything—I shouldn’t be putting this on you—”

“Harry,” Draco interrupted, voice sharp with pain. He firmly tilted Harry’s head so their eyes met fully, so there could be no retreat. “How?”

Harry flinched. “With Sectum.”

Draco’s stomach twisted violently. “Your wand?”

Harry nodded once, shame heavy on his face. “I had it at my throat. I was—ready. It felt like the only way to stop the noise. The guilt. The loneliness. And then…”

He trailed off.

“Then I heard your knock,” Harry whispered. “I thought I was imagining it at first. But you were there. You were real.”

Draco stared at him, something shattering and rebuilding behind his eyes in the span of a breath.

“You’re here because I knocked,” Draco said, his voice cracking with the weight of it. “Merlin, what if I had been too late?”

“You weren’t,” Harry rasped, his forehead pressing against Draco’s. “You saved me.”

Draco’s hands, still cupping Harry’s face, tightened, his thumbs pressing just a little firmer against the sharp line of Harry’s cheekbones, practically squeezing the alpha’s face.

“Don’t you ever—ever—do something like that again,” he hissed, his voice trembling. “You have a mind healer, Harry. Use him. That’s what he’s there for, you absolute idiot!”

The words came out half-choked, laced with fury—but it wasn’t detached anger. It was protective, desperate. His entire body was taut with it. And still, despite everything—despite the sting of reprimand, the pain still lingering in the room—Harry smiled. Not wide. Not flippant. Just the kind of smile that came when something precious, long thought lost, had been found again.

Draco’s brows furrowed, and his eyes narrowed sharply. “Why are you smiling like that?” he snapped. “This is serious!”

“I know,” Harry murmured, catching Draco’s wrists with his own hands and leaning into the omega’s cold but grounding touch. “I’m sorry. I just… you’re here. You’re really here. And you care. I won’t do it again, Draco. I promise.”

Draco studied him for a long moment, the fierce set of his mouth softening just a fraction.

“You also have to stay clean,” he said. “Sober. Do you understand me? Half of those letters you wrote—Merlin, Harry, they were incomprehensible. Slurred ramblings, some of them didn’t even have proper endings. You were clearly off your head on potions or Firewhiskey or both.”

Harry gave a quiet, lopsided grin. “Yes, Professor. I promise.”

Draco huffed through his nose, rolling his eyes, but the tension in his shoulders eased just a little. “The nerve of you bloody Gryffindors. We’re having a very serious conversation about your mortality, and you’re sitting there grinning like a madman.”

“I can’t help it,” Harry said, voice softer now. “It’s you. I missed your scolding. I missed… you.”

Draco’s expression crumpled slightly, as if those words had struck something delicate inside him. “You’re unbelievable.”

Harry leaned his forehead against Draco’s again, grounding himself in the presence of the only person who ever truly made him feel understood. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Today’s been… overwhelming. Finally talking to you, finally being able to say everything—I’m exhausted. My emotions are shot to hell, and I don’t know what to do with myself now.”

“I know what you mean,” Draco said after a long pause. His voice was low and a little unsteady. “This conversation should’ve happened years ago. But now that it has—I honestly don’t know what happens next.”

Harry didn’t hesitate.

“Stay,” he said. “Please. Just for tonight.” He lifted his head, searching Draco’s face, not with pressure, but hope—hope that didn’t feel as unreachable as it once had. “Will you stay the night with me?”

Draco's lips parted, breath catching in his throat. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, he slowly nodded.

“Yes,” he whispered. “Of course I’ll stay.”

He leaned in, and this time, when their lips met, it was neither frantic nor broken—it was tender and reverent. A quiet reclamation. A promise spoken without sound: I’m still yours.

Draco sank into the kiss with a soft sigh, his fingers curling around Harry’s collar. It was soft and slow at first, then grew more confident—bolder—as memories reignited like embers stirred back into flame. They clung to each other, rediscovering the rhythm, the feel, the taste. When Harry finally pulled back, he rested his forehead to Draco’s, his breath warm against his skin. Draco’s fingers twitched as though reluctant to let him go.

But then Harry stood, gaze mischievous.

“Harry,” Draco warned, narrowing his eyes as the alpha reached for his hand. “Don’t you—”

Too late.

With a sudden lurch, Harry bent down and hoisted Draco clean off his feet, slinging him over his shoulder in one swift, practiced motion.

“Potter!” Draco shouted, wriggling like an offended cat. “What is wrong with you?!”

Harry’s laughter boomed down the hall, bright and unrepentant. “You know I can’t resist. You make it far too easy.”

Draco flailed, smacking his back lightly. “We’re too old for these shenanigans!”

“We’re never too old for this,” Harry quipped, climbing the staircase two steps at a time.

Draco huffed—but beneath the huff was a reluctant smile. He let himself go still, his arms hanging loosely down Harry’s back. The motion of being carried, the way Harry’s strong grip held him effortlessly, the sound of that laugh—he’d missed it all. Missed him.

His heart thudded against his ribs, fast and traitorous.

And though he’d never admit it aloud, he liked being held. Especially like this—wild, undignified, loved.

“Put me down and I’ll consider not hexing you,” Draco muttered.

“But I enjoy hauling you around like a sack of flour,” Harry called over his shoulder.

“You insufferable git.”

At the top of the stairs, Harry turned down the familiar hallway, passing the covered portrait of Walburga Black, and pushed open the door to his bedroom. The space was a chaotic reflection of the man himself—equal parts focus and neglect. The bed was rumpled from restless nights, clothes piled in one corner, parchment and case files scattered across the desk and floor like the aftermath of a small storm. It was the only room Kreacher had been ordered never to tidy, much to the elf’s consternation, along with Harry’s home office. The elf still huffed in protest every time he passed by it.

Harry set Draco down gently at the edge of the bed, letting his hands linger just a moment too long before stepping back. The omega looked around the dimly lit bedroom, his expression immediately pinching with disapproval.

“Of course you’d live in an absolute sty,” Draco muttered, wrinkling his nose as he nudged a lone dirty sock away with the toe of his polished shoe. “Honestly, Potter.”

Harry gave a sheepish shrug, raking a hand through his hair. “It’s not that bad.”

“You have a house elf, Harry,” Draco said pointedly, sweeping his eyes over the cluttered nightstand and discarded clothes on the floor. “Why aren’t you using him?”

“I just… don’t like him coming into my room, that’s all.” Harry kicked aside a crumpled shirt without much thought.

“It’s his job to clean,” Draco sighed, clearly scandalized. “Merlin’s sake, that poor thing. Probably sobs himself to sleep.”

“You don’t have to pity Kreacher.”

“I’m not pitying him,” Draco muttered. “I’m pitying myself for being dragged into this den of filth.”

Despite the words, his voice lacked real bite. He unfastened his outer robe with efficient fingers, transfiguring a chipped mug on the nightstand into a graceful hanger and carefully draping the garment over it.

Harry watched with open amusement, then crossed the room and came up behind him. He slid his arms around Draco’s waist, fingers moving instinctively to the buttons of the waistcoat.

Draco promptly slapped his hands away. “Absolutely not.”

Harry grinned but didn’t retreat, letting his hands settle low on Draco’s hips instead. “Thought I’d try to be helpful.”

“You’re about as helpful as a kneazle in a potions lab,” Draco said, but his voice had softened. He began undoing the buttons himself, his movements neat and practiced.

Harry leaned in, resting his chin lightly on Draco’s shoulder. He tried to breathe him in—searching for that familiar scent, the one that used to draw him in like gravity—but there was nothing.

“Why do you wear so many layers?” Harry asked quietly, eyes half-lidded. “Don’t you get hot?”

Draco hesitated, then replied, “Since my magical core became unstable… I’ve struggled to regulate my body temperature. Even in summer, I feel like it’s winter. The potion helps, but only for a short time.”

Harry nodded, absorbing the words in silence. But something else tugged at him. “Why can’t I smell you?” he asked, voice quieter now. “Are you wearing a scent blocker?”

Draco’s hands paused briefly in unbuttoning his shirt before he answered. “Without a heat my glands have gone dormant, thus my scent has just become suppressed. I can now pass as a beta these days.”

He shrugged off both shirt and waistcoat, revealing a thin, second-skin undershirt beneath—sleek, form-fitting, and somehow more intimate than if he’d been bare. Harry swallowed thickly, heat blooming in his chest as he carefully took Draco’s garments and hung them with the robe.

From the dresser, Harry pulled out a soft, well-worn t-shirt—dark grey with faded lettering—and held it out to Draco without a word. Their fingers brushed in the exchange. They changed in silence, the air between them filled with quiet tension. Harry peeled down to just his boxers, placing his wand and glasses carefully on the bedside table before turning back to the bed.

Draco, now curled beneath the covers in Harry’s oversized t-shirt, watched him quietly. The fabric clung in places and pooled in others, overwhelming his narrow frame. He looked small in it. Comfortable. Like he had when they were back in Hogwarts and often wearing his shirts to bed instead of his silk pajamas.

Harry slid in beside him, the mattress shifting gently beneath their weight.

Like muscle memory, Draco curled instinctively into Harry’s chest the moment the lights dimmed. Harry welcomed him with open arms, pulling the omega close until their bodies slotted together like a familiar puzzle long separated. Draco buried his face into the crook of Harry’s neck, inhaling deeply—greedily. That scent, gods, he’d missed it. Earth after rain. Smoky vetiver. The faintest trace of immortelle, like sun-warmed herbs. It wrapped around him like silk, like safety, like home. He pressed himself closer, slender fingers curling into the soft cotton of Harry’s shirt. He let the weight of Harry’s body and scent and steady breath anchor him as he tucked his chilled feet between Harry’s calves.

Harry jolted with a hiss. “Morgana’s left tit—Draco! Your feet are freezing!”

“Mmm,” Draco hummed, clearly unapologetic. “You’re like a walking furnace. I’m simply making use of my resources.”

Harry let out a soft, rumbling chuckle, one hand drifting instinctively up to stroke the back of Draco’s head. “I can think of a few other ways to heat you up.”

Draco smiled against Harry’s chest, his voice muffled and content. “I know you can,” he murmured. “But this… this is enough. Just being in your arms—like this—is everything I need right now.”

Harry tightened his hold, pressing a kiss into Draco’s hair as they lay wrapped around each other in the quiet hush of the room. There was no need to rush. No need to speak. After everything they’d lost, rediscovered, and endured, this was warmth. This was healing.

This was home.

xxxxx

Harry stirred slowly, warmth wrapped around him like a thick quilt. His limbs were heavy with sleep, the air still and dim with the morning hush. Blinking against the soft light, he stared up at the ceiling, mind blank and quiet.

“Hiya, Harry.”

A voice—familiar, far too familiar—cut through the fog of his mind.

He turned his head—and froze.

Ron Weasley’s grinning face hovered above him, his freckled face flushed pink. He was naked. Completely naked. Bite marks marred his throat and chest like scattered confetti. His eyes glittered with something far too intimate.

“You wanna go again?” Ron asked, already moving to straddle him. “Go as hard as you want, love. I can take it.”

Harry jerked upright with a violent gasp, heart thundering in his chest. His sheets tangled around his legs as he looked wildly around the room, breath ragged and hands trembling.

His bed was empty. Just him. Alone.

Thank bloody Merlin.

He slapped a hand over his face, dragging it down slowly as he reached blindly for his glasses. The familiar frame slid into place, grounding him slightly. Still, unease twisted in his stomach as he tried to shake the image of Ron—of that version of Ron—from his head.

“Fucking hell,” Harry muttered, running a hand through his already messy hair. “What the fuck was that?”

He glanced toward his closet—and paused. There, hanging from the door, was a grey robe. Not his. His breath caught. Was it—?

Had he—

Panic licked up his spine like fire. Had he been so far gone last night that he’d done something unforgivable?

Soft footsteps in the hallway made him tense, but they were too light. Measured. Controlled. Not clunky like Ron’s. And there was no muttered complaint in the gravelly tone Kreacher always used in the morning.

Then the door creaked open, and Harry’s world shifted.

Draco stepped inside, carefully balancing two steaming mugs in his hands. He wore one of Harry’s oversized T-shirts, the hem brushing his thighs beneath a checkered bathrobe that hung open. His pale hair was tousled and loose and his face still soft with sleep.

Harry stared, utterly still. The dream evaporated like mist under sun.

“Finally awake, I see,” Draco said lightly, rounding the bed and offering one of the mugs to him.

Harry took it, silent and stunned, eyes drinking in every detail of the omega before him. The way Draco’s fingers lingered just a second too long against the curve of the handle. The faint blush on his cheeks. The flutter of guarded uncertainty in his silver eyes.

Draco sat on the edge of the bed and took a sip of his own tea. “Did you sleep well?” he asked, glancing sidelong at him.

Harry still couldn’t speak. His chest ached with the weight of everything—what they’d said, what they hadn’t, what it meant that Draco was here.

“Are you all right?” Draco asked, concern threading through his voice as he set his mug down on the bedside table and turned fully toward him. “You’re pale. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Harry’s fingers tightened around the mug. “I can’t believe you’re really here,” he breathed, his voice rough.

Relief washed over Draco’s features like morning sunlight. He smiled, gently, beautifully, reaching out to brush his fingers through Harry’s scraggly beard.

“I’m here, Harry,” he said quietly. “This is real.”

Harry set his mug down beside Draco’s and reached for him without hesitation, pulling the omega into his lap and wrapping his arms around him like he never intended to let go. He cradled Draco gently, his hands trembling slightly as he tilted the omega’s face upward. Their eyes met—green locking with silver—and the world narrowed to just that point of contact. The morning light haloed Draco’s pale features, softening the worry still clinging to the corners of his mouth.

It was real.

Harry’s breath caught as he stared into eyes he’d memorized in a different lifetime. Draco was here—warm, alive, and in his arms. Not a ghost. Not a dream.

“I need to kiss you,” Harry whispered, voice breaking on the truth of it.

Draco’s eyes softened. He leaned in without hesitation, meeting Harry halfway. Their lips brushed, a light kiss—tender, hesitant, and grounding. It wasn’t about passion. It was about presence. About everything they’d survived to make it to this moment.

When they parted, Harry exhaled shakily. “You’re really here.”

“Yes,” Draco murmured, his voice steady despite the tremble in his hands as he cupped Harry’s jaw. “I’m here.”

He leaned in again, pressing their foreheads together.

“And I’m never leaving you again.”

Harry captured Draco’s mouth again, this time with a hunger that had been building for years—feral and desperate. Their lips crashed together, mouths parting to taste, to claim, to remember. Tongues met in a rhythm both new and familiar, tasting the salt of tears and the ache of everything unspoken. Teeth grazed lips, and Draco made a soft sound—half gasp, half moan—as Harry’s fingers wove into his hair, tugging just enough to tilt his head for a deeper kiss.

The need to be closer, to be remembered, surged between them like a rising tide.

Harry’s hands moved with urgency, shoving Draco’s borrowed bathrobe off his slender shoulders, letting it fall forgotten to the floor. His mouth never left Draco’s as he shifted, lips brushing over his jaw, down the column of his throat. Draco’s hands found the hem of Harry’s t-shirt and pushed it up, up, until it cleared his head and was tossed aside. Then Draco peeled his own shirt off, baring himself fully to Harry’s gaze—shoulders pale in the low morning light, the faint tracery of old scars catching like memory on skin.

Harry stared for a breathless moment, then dragged his fingers down the curve of Draco’s spine—slow, worshipful. Draco shivered, breath hitching, and Harry guided him gently down to the mattress, laying him back as though he were something sacred. Their underwear came off in quiet desperation, tossed aside in the haze of rediscovery. Then there was only skin—warm, yielding, alive. They tangled together, chests pressed tight, hips rolling in slow, aching rhythm. Their mouths met again and again, kissing like it would stop them from unraveling completely.

Harry’s hands roamed Draco’s body—over the jut of his hipbone, the slope of his waist, the familiar notch of his ribs. He mapped every inch with callused fingertips, relearning him in silence. Draco’s lips found Harry’s jaw, then the hollow of his throat, the dip of his collarbone. He kissed the swell of Harry’s chest, slow and tender, tasting skin and sweat and heartbreak. His fingers splayed across Harry’s back, pulling him down, closer, deeper.

“I missed this,” Draco whispered against his skin, voice raw and trembling. “I missed you.”

Harry responded with a groan, burying his face in the crook of Draco’s neck.

“I’m here,” he murmured, breath hot and ragged as he pushed up to hover above the omega beneath him. “I’m yours. I’ve always been yours.”

And then he saw them.

New scars, rough and pale, carved into Harry’s olive-toned skin like ghosts of old battles. Some jagged and violent, others neat and deliberate. Draco paused, brushing his fingers gently over one just below Harry’s ribs.

“You’ve added a few,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

Harry looked down, his chest rising and falling beneath Draco’s hand. “Occupational hazard.”

Draco met his eyes, something molten stirring deep in his gut. The scars didn’t frighten him. If anything, they made Harry real—made him raw and sharp and achingly mortal. They made him look sexy…powerful. Indominable.

The pit in his stomach curled tight with heat.

“They suit you,” Draco whispered, his voice a silken drag of breath over skin as he let his lips trail the jagged line of an old scar just beneath Harry’s ribs. He pressed a kiss there, tender and lingering. “You look dangerous.”

Harry’s fingers slid into the fine strands of Draco’s pale hair, the movement both loving and possessive. A smirk tugged at his lips. “You say that like it’s a good thing.”

Draco looked up through his lashes, his storm-gray eyes heavy with desire and something softer hidden beneath. “Oh, it is,” he murmured, voice curling like smoke. “Especially since I know exactly how soft you are.”

Harry gave a low laugh, his smirk deepening. “Soft, eh?” He reached for Draco’s hand, guiding it with deliberate slowness between them until it pressed against the hot, thick length straining against his belly. “I don’t think soft is what you want.”

Draco glanced down—and he found himself licking his lips. The sheer size of Harry’s cock had always been something he’d openly marveled at, but after all these years apart, seeing it again—hard and leaking for him—made Draco's mouth go dry. His fingers curled firmly around the shaft, giving it a few languid strokes, watching in delight as Harry shuddered and groaned, his abdomen flexing beneath Draco’s hand.

Draco grinned wickedly. “Still so easy to unravel,” he purred.

But Harry was done playing.

With a swift movement, he caught Draco’s wrist, stilling him. He gently removed the omega’s hand and pressed a kiss to the inside of his palm before shifting lower on the bed, eyes locked on his lover’s body like a man starved. Harry descended slowly, licking and biting his way down Draco’s chest and stomach, lips mapping every scar, every dip and hollow as if committing it to memory. When he reached the flushed, weeping head of Draco’s cock, he didn’t hesitate. He opened his mouth and swallowed him whole in one smooth motion, the tip of the omega’s cock nudging the back of his throat.

Draco’s entire body arched in response, a broken moan tearing from his lips as his hands flew to Harry’s hair, gripping the thick strands, fingers twisting with abandon. Harry bobbed his head with practiced precision, hollowing his cheeks and curling his tongue as he pulled back before sinking down again, letting his omega feel every inch of the inside of his mouth.

Draco didn’t stand a chance.

His thighs trembled, his hips jerking of their own accord as the tightness coiled in his belly snapped, sending him over the edge. He cried out Harry’s name as he spilled into the alpha’s mouth. Panting, flushed, and utterly undone, Draco collapsed back against the sheets, chest heaving. His eyes fluttered open just in time to see Harry rising up again, a look of feral satisfaction in his eyes. He cupped one hand beneath his mouth and spit Draco’s release into his palm without breaking eye contact. With the same hand, slick and warm, he reached down and spread the omega’s cheeks apart, using the cum to coat his fingers before pressing two inside with deliberate slowness.

Draco gasped, head falling back as his legs fell open further to accommodate Harry’s touch. The stretch burned in the most perfect way, his body reacting instinctively to being touched like this again—after so long, after so much emptiness. His hands fisted the sheets beside him, and he let out a soft sob of pleasure, eyes fluttering shut.

Harry leaned over him, his free hand bracing beside Draco’s head, his body a blanket of heat and strength. His voice was a growl in Draco’s ear.

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful.”

He leaned down, mouth brushing over Draco’s lips before kissing him deeply, letting him taste his own pleasure. “How did you become more beautiful?” he whispered against Draco’s mouth. “More perfect?”

Draco barely had time to answer—his lips parted on a moan as Harry added a third finger, pushing in deep. His entire body arched, trembling beneath the stretch and pressure.

“Harry,” he gasped, his voice wrecked, pleading. “Oh fuck! Harry!”

Harry growled low in his throat, possessive and wild, then licked slowly across Draco’s lips before devouring his moans in another searing kiss, swallowing every sound like it belonged to him. Draco’s hands released their grip on the rumpled sheets, drifting upward to tangle in Harry’s thick, unruly hair. His fingers combed through the dark strands, pulling gently as he tilted his head back and inhaled deeply. Petrichor, vetiver, and immortelle—Harry’s scent enveloped him like a balm, like something sacred. Draco breathed it in as if it could mend the cracks that had long since splintered his soul.

Harry’s long, callused fingers curled upward inside him, hitting that sensitive spot deep inside with devastating precision. A jolt of sensation tore through Draco’s spine, his thighs twitching as he let out a sharp, helpless cry.

“Fuck, Harry—”

Harry's mouth descended to the vulnerable curve of Draco’s neck, licking over his dormant scent glands with longing. His tongue moved in deliberate, hungry passes, tasting the skin there—desperate for more, aching for that familiar sweetness. But there was nothing more than the taste of his omega’s skin.

Still, Harry didn’t stop. He dragged his mouth down Draco’s throat, lips and teeth skimming the protective leather collar, nipping and sucking along the line of his collarbone until soft red marks bloomed beneath his mouth. Then Harry pulled back, sitting up on his haunches, his fingers slipping from Draco’s body with a wet sound that felt far too dry. The alpha frowned, looking down at his fingers. Before, Draco used to leak out slick like a broken faucet, but now there was barely enough to make it a comfortable experience for the both of them.

“It’s my lack of heat,” Draco panted, reading the concern in Harry’s eyes instantly. “I no longer make my own slick.”

Harry leaned down without hesitation, brushing a tender kiss across Draco’s lips. “It’s okay,” he murmured against his mouth, voice rich with reassurance and affection. “Luckily, we’ve got other ways to get you wet.”

Harry muttered the lubrication spell under his breath. A warm gush of enchanted liquid seeped from Draco’s entrance, making him gasp sharply and arch beneath him. Harry repeated the incantation into his palm and slicked his cock, his hand gliding over himself in slow, measured strokes as he positioned at Draco’s entrance.

“Are you ready, love?” he asked, voice raw with restraint.

Draco nodded, biting his bottom lip.

He felt the blunt, broad head press against his hole, and then—slowly—Harry began to push in. The stretch was intense, nearly overwhelming after so long, but it was a welcome ache. Draco’s mouth fell open, a strangled noise catching in his throat as he watched Harry’s eyes flutter closed, lips parting as if in prayer.

He was so tight—so impossibly snug around Harry—that the alpha had to pause, trembling above him as sweat began to bead across his brow and along the ridges of his muscles. Draco clung to him, one hand pressed flat against Harry’s chest, the other stroking his side as the alpha worked his way deeper. When Harry finally bottomed out, both men groaned, the sound guttural and honest. Neither of them dared to move—only breathing, only feeling.

“Shit,” Harry breathed, eyes clenched tight as he fought against his own overwhelming need. He bit down on his bottom lip. “Give me a moment.”

Draco’s heart swelled. He cupped Harry’s face gently, coaxing him to meet his gaze. “Darling,” he said softly, thumb stroking across his stubbled cheek, “we have all the time in the world.”

That undid him.

Harry’s pupils blew wide, and he surged downward, kissing Draco with filthy desperation—tongue, teeth, and fevered breath. The sound he made was nearly a growl, and the kiss stole every last thread of Draco’s air. Then Harry groaned—and with a broken cry, he came inside Draco, his cock twitching as hot pulses filled him.

“Fuck—damn it,” Harry muttered, face burning with embarrassment as he buried it in the crook of Draco’s neck. “I wanted our reunion to be... better than me busting a load prematurely.”

Draco burst out laughing, light and warm, wrapping his arms tight around Harry’s broad shoulders and kissing the top of his head.

“I think it was perfect,” he said, voice threaded with love and amusement. “You always did get overwhelmed when I called you ‘darling.’”

Harry groaned again, hiding his face even deeper in Draco’s neck.

Draco just smiled and held him, letting their bodies mold together—connected once more after too long apart.

“All the time in the world, huh?”

“Yes. For all eternity.”

Chapter Text

The room echoed with the raw, guttural symphony of loud moans and feral grunts, a testament to the primal dance unfolding within. The air was thick with the musk of sweat and desire, the steady, rhythmic slapping of skin on skin a chaotic, passionate beat. The sturdy oak headboard slammed against the wall in syncopation, each thrust echoing like a primal drumbeat.

Harry's teeth were bared in a grimace of pleasure and exertion, his fingers digging into the supple, sensual hips of his lover with a vice-like grip. He pulled Draco back towards him as he thrust forward, their bodies meeting in a fevered, desperate rhythm. Draco's face was pressed deeply into the rumpled, sweat-soaked sheets, his hips elevated, offering himself completely to his alpha. His platinum hair, darkened with sweat, stuck to his forehead and cheeks, framing a face contorted in ecstasy. Panting, crying out in pleasure, a string of drool trailed from his lips, painting a stark picture of raw, unbridled passion.

Draco whined and moaned, his body a vessel of overwhelming pleasure as Harry pushed against his insides, claiming him, reshaping him, completing him. His cock, hard and leaking, bobbed between his spread thighs, dripping pearlescent beads of cum onto the already soiled sheets. Harry's bollocks, heavy and full, swung against Draco's with each powerful, relentless thrust, a primal, possessive rhythm that was driving them both to the edge.

Harry's cock rubbed incessantly against that sensitive, secret spot inside Draco, the tip almost kissing the back of his belly button. Each thrust sent tingling jolts of electric pleasure coursing through Draco's body, his nerves alight with fire. He called out his alpha’s name, a desperate, pleading litany, pushing his hips back to meet each thrust, chasing his release. Harry was also nearing his climax, his grip on Draco's hips bruising as his own hips pistoned faster, deeper, chasing the sweet, inevitable release. With a guttural howl that was more beast than man, he came, his body tensing, his head thrown back in a rictus of ecstasy. Hot liquid flooded Draco's insides, marking him, claiming him as Harry's.

Draco came soon after, his body convulsing as milky white streaks painted the sheets beneath him, a testament to their shared, feral passion.

Panting raggedly, every inhale a trembling gasp, Harry let his head drop forward. Beads of sweat traced paths down his chest, each droplet clinging to his skin like liquid glass. His warm breath drifted over Draco’s flushed back, the graceful slope of spine rising and falling beneath him with each shuddered inhale the omega drew. He slid one calloused hand along that delicate ridge, fingertips brushing the hollow at Draco’s tailbone before following each vertebra upward—knowing the subtle swell and dip of muscle beneath his palm as intimately as his own reflection. At the nape of Draco’s neck, damp strands of pale hair clung to cool skin, and Harry lingered there, tracing the slender curve where neck met shoulder.

With a tender, possessive squeeze, he gathered that skin between thumb and forefinger—a silent promise. Draco trembled beneath him, every muscle in that lithe body tightening in response. Inside, the omega’s heat pulsed and fluttered around Harry’s still-sensitive length, sending a fresh surge of molten ache through him.

“Fuck,” Harry hissed, awed by the delicate power of the reaction.

He let his hand drift down again, fingertips skimming the gentle hollow of Draco’s back, past the small curve just above his hips. When he reached the firm rise of those hips, he pressed forward, guiding Draco down with careful deliberation as he began to withdraw.

Harry groaned low in his throat at the sight before him: Draco’s ring of muscle, flushed pink and glistening, twitching in small spasms with every pulse of desire he’d just filled and emptied. A creamy rivulet of cum dripped slowly down the backs of Draco’s thighs, leaving warm tracks that glowed in the dim light. The muscle band at Draco’s entrance clenched and relaxed once more, a silent protest at its sudden vacancy. A fierce wave of possessive pride coursed through Harry, raw and ancient. He lifted his hand and brought it down in a swift and pointed slap against Draco’s arse—skin ringing with a quick echo in the hush of the room.

Draco moaned, a low, satisfied rumble muffled against the rumpled sheets beneath his cheek.

“Such a good omega,” Harry murmured, voice husky, as he bent to press a feather-light kiss at the small of Draco’s spine.

With deliberate care he eased Draco fully onto the mattress, sliding him onto his side so that their bodies nestled together perfectly. Draco responded with a tired hum of contentment, limbs heavy and limp, as though sleep might claim him at any moment. Harry collapsed beside him, one arm looping around Draco’s waist, pulling him close. He nuzzled his face into the omega’s damp shoulder, inhaling the heady scent of sweat and sex that still clung to their skin.

Neither spoke for a moment, both wrapped in the afterglow, breaths slowly syncing in the quiet intimacy of the room.

Harry reached over to the cluttered bedside table and grabbed his wand, muttering, “Tempus.” A silvery clock face shimmered into existence in the air, its hands ticking steadily toward the half-hour mark.

“Half ten,” he sighed, watching the numbers fade away. Bugger—it was already late Sunday morning. The weekend had all but slipped through his fingers, though he was sore in ways that made it clear where all that time had gone. The thought of Monday brought a grimace to his face. He briefly considered taking the rest of the week off—throwing up some protective wards and keeping Draco as his very willing prisoner.

Well… mostly willing.

Harry smiled to himself at the thought of Draco’s dramatic outrage if he so much as suggested it.

From beside him, a low, raspy voice broke the silence. “Merlin, what time is it?”

Harry turned his head to find Draco squinting against the morning light that filtered through the half-drawn curtains. His platinum hair was a tousled halo around his head, his cheeks flushed and his lips bitten red. The omega’s voice was raw from hours—no, days—of moaning, panting, and crying out Harry’s name. And judging by the stiffness in his movements, his hips and thighs were just as sore as Harry’s everything.

Harry smirked and reached out, pulling Draco into his chest. “It’s still Sunday—we’ve got time,” he murmured, trailing a hand lazily down Draco’s spine.

Whatever sense of serenity he hoped to preserve was shattered a second later by Draco’s fingers pinching his nipple, and twisting hard.

“Bloody—fuck!” Harry yelped, jerking back.

“That is not what I asked,” Draco said, voice crisp and unimpressed, though the corners of his mouth twitched like he was holding back a smirk.

“Godric’s heart,” Harry grumbled, rubbing at the assaulted spot, “have you always been this violent?”

Draco gave an exasperated sigh, flopping back against the pillow like a cat who had been unceremoniously roused from a nap. “It’s called cause and effect, Potter. You dodge my question; I make sure you regret it.”

Harry huffed, still rubbing his stinging nipple. “Your poor students. Fine. It’s half past ten.”

Draco groaned. “Shit. I still have to finalize my lesson plans for the week and check the results of that potion sample you sent me. If it’s destabilizing again, I’ll have to redo the entire experiment—ugh.”

He started to sit up, but Harry moved faster. He hooked his arms around Draco’s waist and yanked him back into the tangle of sheets, wrapping his legs around the omega like a human octopus.

“Potter!” Draco snapped. “This is childish.”

“Correction,” Harry said, his voice muffled against the back of Draco’s neck. “This is strategic. If I let you go, you’ll disappear into a pile of parchment and potion fumes until next Friday.”

“Honestly, darling, you’re clingier than you were before.” Draco said in exasperation.

Harry chuckled. “Exactly. And I’ve got a decade of missed opportunities to be unbearably clingy. Let me catch up.”

Draco gave a long-suffering sigh and rolled his eyes with dramatic flair. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake.”

But he didn’t wriggle free. In fact, he settled a little more comfortably into Harry’s embrace.

Harry grinned into Draco’s hair and whispered smugly, “You love it.”

Draco didn’t answer—but the small smile tugging at his lips said plenty.

xxxxx

Harry arrived at the Ministry, feeling refreshed and cleanly shaven, walking with a rare spring in his step as he strode through the grand atrium. A subtle smile played on his lips, and for once, the dull clack of boots against polished marble and the low murmur of Ministry workers didn’t irritate him. He barely noticed the security witches checking wands at the entrance. He was already thinking ahead—about case files, of course. Not Draco’s hair mussed by his pillow. Not Draco’s legs tangled with his under the sheets. Definitely not that.

The lift chimed and released him onto the floor of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. The familiar scent of burnt coffee and old parchment greeted him as he stepped into the bustling bullpen. Colleagues moved about with purpose, some already deep in discussion of overactive investigations, others rifling through files. No one gave him more than a passing glance, which suited him just fine.

At his desk, Harry slung his satchel into the chair, rolled up his sleeves, and pulled forward the neglected stack of case files he’d been avoiding all week. He'd barely skimmed the top folder when a familiar voice chimed at his open office door.

“You’re looking in better spirits. Got yourself a new lead?” Ron asked as he leaned against Harry’s desk, arms crossed and brow raised in curiosity.

“Something like that.” Harry answered, lips twitching. “Simmons has been making progress with the ledgers from the record keepers and he and I will be scouting out leads later today.”

Ron nodded thoughtfully. “Hmm. Yeah, makes sense. Those blokes see everything, especially the dodgy shipments.” He scrubbed a hand through his red hair before making a face.

“How’s missing persons unit going for you?”

Ron let out a groan loud enough to turn a few heads. “A lot better than your unit.” Ron said, looking pointedly at the stack of folders Harry had been procrastinating on. “Merlin, I thought Robard’s was cracked for putting you and Simmons on illegal potions and narcotics.”

“It’s all about the long game in these cases.” Harry said and reached for his still-hot cup of coffee, the mug warming his palm. He took a cautious sip, eyes flicking to the top report on his desk. But Ron was watching him. Really watching him. His brow furrowed, lips pursed in thought. Harry could feel it.

“You get laid over the weekend?” Ron blurted.

Harry choked.

Coffee spluttered from his mouth in a spectacular arc across his desk, hitting two folders and narrowly missing a quill. He pounded his chest as he coughed, eyes watering, while Ron stood there, mouth agape before bursting into laughter.

“Bloody hell, you did!” Ron crowed, grinning like he’d just solved a Ministry-wide prank case.

“Ron—!” Harry gasped, reaching for his wand and hastily Vanishing the coffee before it soaked through parchment. “Are you mad?”

Ron ignored him and dropped into the chair across from Harry, leaning forward with the glee of someone who had just stumbled across gossip gold. “Well? Don’t keep me hanging. Who is it? Is it that cute secretary in Magical Transportation? The one who wears the flowy skirts and always has the top three buttons of her blouse undone?”

Harry stared at him like he’d lost his mind. “What—no. No! You’ve got it all wrong!”

Ron grinned wider. “Yeah? Then why are you blushing?” he teased, pointing a finger accusingly at the rising flush in Harry’s cheeks.

“I’m not—this has nothing to do with that.” Harry said firmly, adjusting his glasses and resisting the urge to cover his face with a file. “I just—have a really good feeling about the case today, is all.”

“Mmhmm.” Ron leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head. “Sure. Great feeling. Must’ve been a very thorough lead.”

Harry sighed heavily and ran a hand through his already tousled hair, only making it worse. Ron was worse than Ginny when he smelled something brewing—but unlike his sister, Ron had the attention span of a Kneazle on catnip and a reputation for twisting facts into something barely recognizable.

“Don’t you dare tell anyone anything,” Harry warned under his breath.

Ron stood with a wink. “Course not, mate. Your secrets are safe with me.”

Harry groaned as Ron strolled off, whistling.

He knew better. His “secret” wouldn’t last the week.

Especially not with Ron Weasley on the case.

About an hour before his scheduled lunch break, an envelope landed on Harry’s desk with a soft thwap. He didn’t need to check the seal to know who it was from—the elegant parchment and clean, angular handwriting on the front gave it away instantly. He broke the wax seal and unfolded the letter inside. As expected, it was Draco’s analysis report.

The meticulous detail was signature Malfoy. Every ingredient in the potion sample had been broken down with precision—listed with their possible quantities, potential combinations, and known side effects. There was also a section tracking the most likely suppliers of the components, a level of investigative thoroughness Harry had come to both admire and depend on.

All except for one.

Near the bottom of the list, Draco had written about an ingredient he couldn’t place—Songoa Root—noted as an extremely rare plant that only grew in a remote part of the Congo Basin.

“Unlikely to be locally sourced,” Draco had written in his crisp, flowing script. “It’s used in complex memory-erasure concoctions but is near-impossible to acquire legally in this hemisphere. I’ll consult with Longbottom—his knowledge of exotic flora is better than mine, annoyingly so.”

Harry chuckled quietly, imagining the sour twist of Draco’s mouth as he admitted that last part. There was a brief note scrawled at the bottom of the report, the ink slightly smudged as if written in haste: “Next time you plan to drop by the castle, try the courtesy of sending an owl first. Some of us actually have important work to do, especially with preparing young minds for their final exams of the year.”

Harry smiled at the not-so-subtle complaint. He reached for a clean bit of parchment and dipped his quill in ink.

Appreciate the detail, as always. I’ll be looking forward to whatever Neville digs up on the Songoa Root. I’m heading into the field this afternoon—will update you once I’ve returned. And fine, I’ll send an owl next time. No surprises. Happy?”

He signed his name with a flourish, tapped the parchment twice with his wand, and whispered the charm. The note folded itself into a sleek dart and zipped off through the enchanted tube, vanishing toward the Ministry’s internal mailing center. With a small smirk still tugging at the corner of his mouth, Harry leaned back in his chair and glanced at the clock. Forty-five minutes to lunch. Plenty of time to sort through the rest of the morning's reports before heading out into the field.

xxxxx

Draco’s entire lower half ached painfully as though he’d been trampled by a herd of centaurs. Bruised didn’t quite cover it—he felt like a walking contusion. His lower back throbbed hotly in time with his heartbeat, and his legs, though long and usually graceful, now moved stiffly, every step a calculated effort to avoid limping. Attempting to walk normally without betraying his discomfort was proving more difficult than any lesson plan he’d ever written. But sitting—sitting was absolute agony.

His arse, in particular, had suffered grievously. Not solely because of Harry’s insufferably large cock (though that certainly played a large part—no pun intended), but because Harry had apparently developed a taste for thoroughly spanking him until his skin glowed red in the shape of his handprints. And biting—Merlin!—the bastard bit him! On the arse!!!

A double dose of Wiggenweld potion had dulled the worst of the soreness, and he’d been liberally applying a healing salve every few hours to the swollen and tender ring of muscle between his legs. Still, each time he dared lean back against the edge of his desk in front of his students, he had to bite the inside of his cheek to suppress a wince. His posture, normally impeccable, was now tight and wary, and not a single student missed it.

A Hufflepuff first-year—sweet girl, far too observant for her own good—had looked at him with wide, concerned eyes and asked gently, “Professor Malfoy, are you hurt?”

He’d smiled thinly and replied with as much dignity as he could muster, “I took a minor fall, but I’ll be just fine.”

Minor fall, he thought ironically as he now made his way across the lawn. Impaled myself on Potter’s cock, more like. Repeatedly.

Thank Merlin he had a sliver of free time between classes now. Enough to duck into the greenhouse and down another shot of Wiggenweld. He made a mental note the next time he saw Harry, he was going to jinx the alpha with a temporary case of erectile dysfunction until his body fully recovered. That bloody brute had taken things too far.

…Even if Draco had absolutely loved every second of it.

Still, he wasn’t eighteen anymore. Recovery took longer. Bouncing back now required rest, healing potions, and more importantly, complaining dramatically into his pillow.

“That fucking bollocks-for-brains,” Draco muttered under his breath as he hobbled into Greenhouse Three, one hand bracing the small of his back.

Inside, the scent of fresh soil and humid flora filled the air. The distant crack of something being snapped echoed as Neville Longbottom came into view, currently tossing strips of raw steak into the gaping maw of a thorny, carnivorous plant that writhed with tentacled vines. Draco eyed it warily. Why the hell the man insisted on keeping that particular breed in a school was beyond him.

Neville looked up as Draco stepped carefully onto the grated metal stairs, his expression shifting from concentration to concern. “Malfoy, you all right?” he asked, wiping his hands on his dirt-streaked apron.

Draco grimaced when a sharp stab of pain shot up his hip. He disguised it with a controlled exhale and answered coolly, “I’m fine.”

Neville didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t push. “Did you need something?”

Draco stepped down the final stair, favoring his right leg slightly. “Songoa Root,” he said without preamble. “Do you know of any legal—or even rumored—sellers of the tuber?”

Neville frowned, brows knitting as he scratched thoughtfully at his stubbled chin. “That’s a rare one. I’m guessing this is connected to Harry’s latest investigation?”

“Yes,” Draco said. “I finished my analysis of the potion sample he left me. That root was the ingredient that stood out—it doesn’t belong in standard brews. From what I recall, its properties are… volatile, even dangerous. I believe it was banned in Britain sometime in the 1800s, around the height of the opium crisis.”

Neville nodded slowly. “You’re not wrong. Songoa Root is actually harmless once it’s fully matured. Locals in the Congo region use it in both cuisine and traditional medicine. But if harvested too early, the root secretes a toxin. A nasty one. Even a single drop can trigger acute psychosis if it enters the bloodstream. And it causes blistering—painful, deep welts on contact with the skin.”

Draco raised a brow. “And if brewed into a potion?”

Neville hesitated, shifting his weight. “Has Harry told you what symptoms the victims are exhibiting?”

Draco shook his head. “No. But I imagine St. Mungo’s has records. I’ll need to do more research on what Songoa Root can do when ingested in liquid form. Particularly if it was harvested before maturation.”

“I’ll pull what I have in the herbology archives,” Neville offered. “There might be a few academic journals from field researchers who studied the plant in its natural habitat. But be careful. If someone’s using underaged Songoa in potions… that’s not just dangerous—it’s weaponized.”

Draco nodded, lips pressed into a firm line. “I highly doubt it was meant for recreational use.”

“You’re not wrong about that.” Neville said.

Neville tilted his head slightly, studying Draco with an amused kind of curiosity. He didn’t need to ask why the Potions Master looked like he’d been hexed in the spine. As colleagues who had spent the better part of the last few years in close professional collaboration, Neville was more aware than most of Draco’s unique “condition.” The scent clinging to him now—rich with alpha musk and unmistakably Harry Potter’s—told Neville everything he needed to know, not that Draco was about to confirm it willingly.

They had come a long way from their school days. Their professional relationship had evolved into something resembling genuine friendship—unexpected, perhaps, but practical and productive. Both shared a strong desire to reform and improve their respective subjects, and that common ground had fostered a rare kind of mutual respect. At the beginning of the academic year, Neville distributed starter kits—seedlings and instructions for cultivating a basic herb garden tailored to each year level. It was the students’ responsibility to tend to those plants, to learn the patience and discipline necessary to raise magical flora from scratch. By mid-semester, Draco would take over, guiding the students through the process of harvesting, drying, curing, and preserving their crops for use in potion-making.

The program had been their joint solution to the rising costs of ingredients following the war. Not every family could afford commercial supplies, and Draco had been vocal about the need to equalize access for students. He still maintained a substantial personal stockroom for essential ingredients like dittany and valerian root, but even he struggled to keep up with demand. Together, they'd petitioned the Board to approve the construction of a new greenhouse just for student projects. The space now stood proudly behind Greenhouse Four, filled with labeled beds and enchanted irrigation systems, a tangible result of their collaboration.

Neville turned back to Draco and asked casually, “So… how are things between you and Harry?”

Draco’s lips tightened, and a faint flush bloomed across the high crest of his cheeks. Neville didn’t need the visual cue—Harry’s scent was practically stamped into the air around Draco. But it was the omega’s unwillingness to correct or deflect the question that confirmed it. Neville leaned against the edge of a potting bench, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Draco narrowed his eyes at him, tone cutting as always. “How’s your endless pining over a certain Healer been going?”

Neville lifted his hands in surrender, chuckling as he backed off. “Okay, okay. I won’t pry.”

“You give him far too many chances, Longbottom,” Draco said, dusting off his sleeve. “Theo’s my friend, but even I can see your relationship is far from what can be viewed as healthy.”

A flicker of melancholy passed over Neville’s face, softening his features. “I know,” he admitted quietly. “But it’s hard letting go of your first love.”

Draco didn’t scoff as he normally might have. Instead, he gave a small nod, the kind that held a thousand silent truths. “I’ll tell you a secret, Longbottom,” he said after a pause, glancing up through pale lashes.

Neville met his gaze, alert now.

Draco’s tone turned casual, but his eyes gleamed with something sharper. “He changed the magical signature on his collar. You know, the one that protects it from being removed.”

Neville’s brow furrowed. “And?”

“It’s keyed,” Draco continued, voice low. “So that only a specific alpha can take it off.”

Neville’s posture shifted—just slightly—but Draco caught the change. The subtle tightening in his shoulders. The way his jaw set.

“Why would you tell me that?” Neville asked, his voice steady, but there was a quiet edge to it now, uncertain but searching.

Draco smirked faintly and turned away, already making for the exit. His gait still painfully stiff as he walked away.

“Why do you think I’d tell you?” he said over his shoulder. “Just bite that little shite’s neck already. I’m tired of him coming to me in the middle of the night, pissed off his arse and crying about you.”

And with that, Draco stepped out into the sunlit corridor, leaving behind the scent of rain-damp earth, magical herbs, and a stubborn truth hanging thick in the air.

xxxxx

Harry's investigation into the illegal potion ring had finally begun to yield results—small ones, but meaningful. After weeks of following dead-end leads and stale reports, he’d shifted his approach. Instead of going after the street-level dealers or relying on auror intelligence alone, he started speaking directly to the record keepers and logistics clerks of the larger potion supply companies across Britain. Most were tight-lipped, but enough paper trails and off-the-record comments had pointed him back to where it had all started: the shadowy corners of Diagon Alley, and deeper still, into the fetid veins of Knockturn Alley.

He moved through the labyrinthine alleys like a ghost, wand always within reach, cloak drawn tight, blending into the edges. Whispered rumors had led him to the source of several potion-based narcotics spreading through the wizarding world like rot. The most dangerous of them all was a potion now known on the streets as Eidolon.

The name made sense.

It wasn’t just another hallucinogen. Eidolon twisted memory and fantasy, crafting illusions so vivid that users often couldn’t tell what was real. The potion responded to the user's subconscious desires, pulling their deepest wants to the surface and feeding it to them in euphoric waves. To some, it was paradise. To others, a slow unraveling of the mind.

Harry stared down at a confiscated vial under stasis charm on his desk. The contents shimmered, a silvery-rose hue shifting like breath across the glass. Draco's report had been delivered earlier that week—meticulous, as always. The potion’s primary ingredients included Songoa Root, a rare magical herb found only in a remote section of the Congolese jungle, a base similar to the Draught of Dreamless Sleep, and—most disturbingly—blood-derived reagents. Human, Draco suspected, though he’d stopped short of confirming it. More than likely the blood of the users to “activate” the potion’s properties.

He'd included a note with his analysis:

Longbottom has connections with international herbalists to do a bit more digging on who are the main suppliers of the herb. But the level of refinement is a point of concern for me. I have also reached out to Blaise and Pansy to see if they have heard or noticed anything since their business is mainly rare and hard to obtain items. Potter, this isn’t the work of some back-alley brewer. Whoever made this has studied alchemy. And dark magic.

That warning had been underlined twice.

But Eidolon wasn’t the only concern.

Another potion—less insidious but equally problematic—had emerged among Hogwarts’ upper years. Draco had brought it to his attention personally, storming into Harry’s office two days later with a confiscated flask and a scowl sharp enough to slice.

“They’re calling it Clarity,” Draco had said, setting the vial onto Harry’s desk. “Hyper-focused tunnel vision for four hours straight. Zero fatigue, no hunger, no sleep. Ideal for cramming, apparently. Until the nosebleeds start from back-to-back use.”

Harry had inspected the vial, noting the crystalline shimmer of the potion, the faint hum of volatile enchantments embedded within. “How many students?”

“Three caught with it. Likely more. The rest of the faculty have been made aware and are now checking bags before N.E.W.T. and even the O.W.L. prep sessions. It’s not just cheating, Potter. It’s dangerous. It’s one thing when it was random adults in the world but it’s now spreading to children.”

Draco’s irritation had masked something sharper underneath—fear. And Harry shared it. Because Clarity, too, bore signs of professional work. The brew was clean, concentrated, and clearly modified from an original stimulant base he’d seen used in Ministry interrogation serums years ago.

“Same brewer?” Harry had asked.

Draco’s mouth twitched. “Same level of precision. Whoever they are, they’ve had formal training. Possibly Guild-certified. But the enchantment layering on this one? That’s alchemical work. Someone is building a market, Potter, and they’re not an amateur.”

Now, Harry sat back in his chair, the two vials side-by-side under their protective dome. Eidolon—intimate and deadly. Clarity—subtle, seductive, and widespread. Two very different drugs, but made with the same steady hand. The street distribution might be getting sloppier, but the brewing wasn’t.

Something bigger was happening.

And Harry was going to find out who was behind it—before kids ended up in St. Mungo’s, or worse.

Ron entered Harry’s office without so much as a knock, pushing the door open with unnecessary force. He held up a file in one hand, the other gripping the door handle. He stopped short in the doorway, his entire posture shifting the moment he spotted Draco Malfoy seated across from Harry’s desk.

The flash of recognition was immediate—and so was the anger.

His grip on the file tightened until the edges curled. For a heartbeat, the room seemed to shrink.

There he was. Malfoy. Sitting there like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t been thoroughly erased—humiliated, broken, cast aside. Ron had made sure of it. He’d worked hard to dismantle the omega’s life, brick by brick. or at least he thought he did. The fact that Malfoy had the audacity to show his face again—here, in Harry’s office—made Ron’s jaw lock with silent fury.

No one had ever suspected him. Not Hermione, not Ginny, and certainly not Harry. The breakup had been swift and brutal, with Harry utterly convinced it had been his choice, his instinct, his rejection. But it had been Ron all along, lurking in the background, manipulating from the shadows. He’d tampered with Harry’s memory of that day, weaving in false impressions and blurred details, just enough to obscure the truth without unraveling everything.

Even Marcus Flint hadn’t been spared—Ron had obliviated the alpha’s memory before the Aurors brought him in, ensuring no threads could be traced back to him. The operation had been flawless.

But clearly he had miscalculated.

“Ron, now isn’t a good time,” Harry said sharply, rising from his seat with a frown as soon as he saw the tension settle in Ron’s shoulders like armor.

Ron ignored the warning. “What the bloody hell is he doing here?” he demanded, voice low but laced with venom. His glare landed squarely on Draco, who met it with a calm, cool detachment.

Draco’s pale eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of amusement dancing behind the silver. “Still obsessed, Weasley?” he said quietly, not bothering to hide the disdain in his tone. “I’d have thought you’d moved on by now.”

Harry stepped out from behind his desk, already sensing the temperature in the room drop. “Draco’s here on official business,” he said, voice tight with frustration. “That file can wait.”

Draco rose with his usual grace, smoothing the front of his pristine plum colored robes. “I should get back to the school,” he said evenly, his gaze never shifting from Ron, who looked like he wanted to lunge across the room.

Harry moved beside him, his posture protective without being overt. “I’ll walk you to the Floo Atrium.”

“There’s no need,” Draco replied smoothly, a ghost of a smirk touching his lips. “I’m sure you have your own work cut out for you.”

Ron stepped aside, shoulders stiff, refusing to meet Draco’s eyes again as the omega walked past. Draco didn’t spare the beta so much as another glance, moving with the same effortless poise he always had—dignified, untouched, and maddeningly unbothered.

The door clicked shut behind him, and Harry turned back toward Ron with a tired exhale.

“What was Malfoy doing here?” Ron asked, his voice deceptively even. But his eyes betrayed him—flashing with unease and something darker beneath. He stood rigid near Harry’s desk, fingers twitching like he was restraining the urge to pace. They couldn’t be seeing each other again, could they? The thought coiled in his gut like a snake.

Harry didn’t look up right away. Putting away the vial of potion Draco had confiscated from one of his students. “Draco’s the best Potions Master in Britain,” he said, calm and matter-of-fact. “He’s been helping me analyze the potion samples I’ve recovered for this case.”

Ron scoffed, a sharp sound that barely passed for a laugh. “The Ministry has appointed analysts for that kind of work, Harry. Entire departments, remember?”

“And they’re severely backlogged,” Harry replied, finally meeting Ron’s gaze. His expression was firm, tired. “Draco’s assistance in these cases has been approved by Shacklebolt and Robards.”

Ron’s jaw clenched. He crossed his arms, his voice thick with skepticism. “So you’re desperate enough to call upon some random consult? I’m sure there’s someone in Mysteries who is more readily available instead of relying on Malfoy.”

“He’s not just some random consultant,” Harry said sharply. “He’s been nothing short of professional. And he hasn’t told a soul. Besides, he brought me something I wouldn’t have otherwise known—some of his students were caught with a new variant of the drug. That’s a lead.”

Ron took a step forward. “If you need help with this case, I can ask Robards to assign me to your team. You could use someone you can trust.”

Harry sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. It was true—this case was growing far larger and more dangerous than he and his partner Simmons had initially thought. But the idea of Ron and Draco sharing a room made his stomach knot. “If you can spare the time, ask Robards. If he gives the okay, I’ll send you the case file I’ve built.”

Ron gave a stiff nod, then stepped forward and set a crumpled file on the desk. “Update from one of your old cases. The bloke running that illegal magical creature ring—he was found dead in his cell last night.”

Harry’s brow furrowed. He picked up the file and flipped it open, scanning the short, terse report. “A suicide,” he muttered, frowning. He was about to mutter the word “coward’ but stopped himself. Who was he to judge someone for taking the easy way out when he himself had nearly done the same thing.

Ron didn’t respond right away. He watched Harry as the alpha sank back into his chair, brow furrowed in thought. Then Ron’s voice cut the silence like a knife.

“Are you and Malfoy back together?”

Harry looked up, startled, and for a brief moment, the truth was clear in his eyes—unguarded and vulnerable. Ron saw it. And his hands curled into fists at his sides.

“After everything he did—you’d take him back?” Ron demanded. His voice rose with disbelief and fury. “He cheated on you, Harry! He was using you! You had proof—letters, for Merlin’s sake! He was going to marry Flint!”

Harry flinched as if struck, then closed his eyes and dragged a hand down his face, like he was trying to pull himself back from the edge of snapping. “Ron…” he said, low, exhausted. “It’s none of your business.”

Ron’s face twisted. “None of my—? I’m your best friend, Harry! I’ve always looked out for you!”

Harry opened his eyes, staring at him with growing frustration.

“I’m surprised McGonagall even allows him around children,” Ron went on, bitterness spilling freely now. “Bet he’s teaching them that pureblood supremacist filth, or recruiting them for Merlin knows what. Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater.”

The words had barely left his mouth before Harry’s fist slammed down on the desk with a crack of wood and magic. The lamp rattled. Ron jumped, startled.

“Get out,” Harry said, voice cold as ice, eyes blazing. He didn’t shout. He didn’t have to. Every syllable was a blade.

Ron hesitated, stunned—but only for a second. His face flushed red with humiliation as he turned on his heel and stormed out, slamming the door so hard behind him that the walls shuddered. Harry sat in the quiet aftermath, breathing hard. He stared at the door for a long moment, then leaned back in his chair and exhaled slowly, the echo of old wounds and deeper truths tightening in his chest.

The echo of Ron’s words—“Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater”—rattled around inside Harry’s mind long after the door had slammed shut. It wasn’t just the cruelty of the statement. It was the familiarity of it, the way it struck a chord so deep it made his gut churn. Draco had hurled the same thing at him as a reminder of the words Harry had thrown at him weeks ago in the quiet of Draco’s lab, their past laid bare like torn parchment.

“What was it you said?” Draco had mocked in anger. “Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater.”

At the time, Harry had remembered saying it—his rage had been incandescent back then, the betrayal scorching. But something about it hadn’t sat right. It had felt like someone else’s words in his mouth. Parroted. Planted.

Now, hearing them again from Ron’s lips, with that same sharp bitterness… the alarm bells were deafening.

Harry leaned back in his chair, staring blindly at the cracked surface of the desk where his fist had landed. The crack had spread like a fracture in glass—delicate, but dangerous. He didn’t like thinking ill of Ron. Merlin knew they'd been through too much together. But honesty demanded he acknowledge the truth: their friendship wasn’t what it used to be. Some days, sure, it still felt like old times—laughing over lunch, exchanging jabs over chess, reminiscing about Hogwarts. But more often than not, it felt…hollow. Like two people playing out a script from a past life. They shared space, not closeness. Familiarity, not trust.

He rubbed at his temple, trying to stave off the dull ache forming behind his eyes.

There was more.

There was that night—three years ago. Ron’s flat. Too much Firewhisky, an unusually quiet evening that had spiraled somewhere neither of them expected. Or maybe Ron had expected it. The memory came reluctantly: the press of lips, rough and desperate, the stunned silence afterward, Ron’s eyes blown wide with drunken affection. “I’ve always been in love with you,” he had slurred.

Harry had recoiled—stammering something about the drink, about confusion, brushing it all off with a shaky laugh. He’d left that night under the guise of a sudden headache, heart pounding like a war drum. The next day, Ron apologized profusely. “Stupid,” he’d muttered, red-faced. “Didn’t mean it. Just drunk. Let’s forget it ever happened.”

Harry had agreed.

But he hadn’t forgotten.

He’d just buried it deep and, since then, kept Ron at a cautious distance. Close enough to maintain peace. Far enough to protect himself—and others.

And Draco.

Gods. Draco.

Harry’s eyes dropped to the edge of his desk, fingers brushing against the corner. A splinter pricked his thumb, but he didn’t pull away. Ron had been there the day everything fell apart between him and Draco. Before and after. When the “discovery” had broken about the engagement contract with Flint, when Harry had found those letters (but had he found the letters himself? The memory was still spotty), when every instinct told him something was wrong—that Draco would never willingly do this to him.

And then…

The image of Flint pinning Draco down by the throat as he raped the omega surfaced in Harry’s mind like a punishment.

He’d wanted to make it right when he learned the truth—that Draco had been drugged, manipulated, pushed into betrayal against his will. He remembered the urgency in his chest, the need to run to Draco, to hold him, to apologize.

But he had been locked out.

He had abandoned Draco and in turn, Draco retreated. His omega had been delivered a death sentence because of him, and recalling Draco’s words the other night, about how he had wanted to spare Harry the pain of watching him grow weak and die…

But why was that day so blurry? Why were the details still out of reach? Hidden behind a veil of fog and a ringing in his ears followed by a excruciating migraines. His mind healer had said that it was possible his subconscious mind was simply protecting him by blocking out certain details that he may not be ready to face yet. A response to trauma.

But now…

Now that wall felt suspicious.

Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater.

The signs were there, weren’t they? Harry had been too hurt, too overwhelmed to see it back then. But Ron—Ron had always hated Draco. Ron had always resented their closeness, even before their relationship had turned romantic. And after…Ron’s behavior had changed, he was suddenly at his side, acting like a supportive friend again. He had been there at the beginning of Harry’s spiral, saying things that were meant to be comforting but a part of Harry always felt that something was wrong. Something was amiss.

It didn’t get better that following summer. Ginny had presented as an omega and there had been such high expectations of the two of them to get together, but whatever they used to have had completely cooled. Ginny was beautiful, yes, but her smell was all wrong, her eyes didn’t remind him of starlight, her fiery hair didn’t capture the light like a beacon in the dark. And her small hands and short fingers did not compare to the long, delicate elegance that had once combed through his hair and grip at the root when making passionate love. And her voice…the way she said his name…it didn’t make his heart race or his stomach flutter.

Harry could see it in Ginny’s eyes, that she knew they were wrong for each other. They were never meant to be. Harry was too broken from Draco, and Ginny clearly had higher ambitions for herself than to become a kept omega.

Molly had been greatly disappointed.

Ron had done a good job to appear happy at first. To see his sister and best friend together. As if that was how things were meant to be. However, after that night at the flat with Ron, with his drunken confession…it was clear something had shifted drastically. He was always watching Harry’s every move inside the DMLE. Making comments over an observation in how certain individuals interacted with the alpha.

“She’s pretty. I hear she’s unmated.”

“That bloke likes to come around a lot to make small talk with you.”

“I’d be careful, mate, heard a bit of gossip going around about someone tracking your rut cycles. Don’t worry, I’ve got you covered.”

“You and that beta seem to be getting on. Something you wanna tell me?”

Jealousy.

That had to be it.

Harry sat at his desk long after the office had emptied for the night, the glow of the enchanted desk lamp casting long shadows across the stacks of paperwork that had begun to resemble miniature towers. The low hum of magical wards resonated in the quiet, a dull companion to the ache forming behind his eyes. His mind drifted—almost of its own volition—toward the Ministry’s internal archive terminal, housed just behind the reinforced door across the hallway. The Department of Records. He knew exactly where he needed to go. The case file against Marcus Flint had been sealed, closed almost as soon as it opened, but Harry remembered the details well enough to know what it contained: a series of bottled memories, collected under Veritaserum and pensive extraction, from both Flint and Draco.

When he had come across them when he was still a junior Auror he hadn't dared to watch Draco’s memories.

He’d only read the transcripts. Cold. Clinical. Secondhand.

But now, with suspicion coiling in his gut like smoke through a crack in the floor, he needed more than someone else’s summary. He needed to see it for himself. His fingers twitched toward the drawer where his clearance tokens were stored, but his eyes flicked to the disheveled piles of parchment sprawled across his desk—the ones marked “Urgent,” “Backlogged,” and worse: “Pending Since February.”

Some of these files had been sitting here for weeks. Months. Cases that needed follow-up interviews. Illegal potion seizures that required categorization and approval for destruction. The slow rot of bureaucracy, and all of it his responsibility.

He let out a long, slow breath through his nose, dragging a hand over his face.

The temptation to abandon it all, to march straight down to Records and demand access to Flint’s case materials, was strong. Stronger than it should have been. But Harry was still a professional, even if this felt personal. He opened a fresh corner of parchment and scratched a quick note in his spiky handwriting:

→ Revisit closed file: Marcus Flint. Review memory vials (Flint, Malfoy). Request vault access.

He paused, then underlined “Malfoy” twice.

Setting the note atop his wand holster, he gathered a new case file from the top of the “Urgent” stack and began reading—though the words blurred at the edges. The thought refused to let go.

Soon, he promised himself.

He would get to the truth.

And if Ron had something to do with the fallout between him and Draco—if Ron had interfered in some way—then Harry would know.

And he would never forgive it.

xxxxx

Another week bled by under the weight of a hot day in early June. The Ministry’s cooling charms barely reached the lower levels of the Auror Office, and Harry found himself tugging at the collar of his undershirt for the hundredth time that day. The thin cotton clung to his back like a second skin, the heat making concentration feel like a Herculean task. But the case—his case—was growing.

And he couldn’t afford to slow down.

The first wave of reports had trickled in quietly—Muggle hospitals listing several unexplained overdoses. But the latest batch was harder to ignore: eight victims in critical condition, three already dead. All of them had trace amounts of unfamiliar compounds in their systems. And more importantly, they all contained magical residue.

Someone was slipping wizarding drugs into the Muggle world.

Harry sat hunched at his desk, poring over the lab reports and location data when the pattern clicked. Shipping manifests, overlapping distribution paths, and flagged keywords in the Auror database painted a clear picture—one that pointed toward Muggle shipping yards along the Thames.

East London.

And the deeper he dug, the more rotten the foundation became. On paper, these yards were owned by innocuous Muggle transport firms. But with a few sleepless nights and some help from Hermione pulling Ministry financial records, Harry found what he suspected: nearly all the yards were quietly funneled through a web of shell companies. Companies with ties to ancient pureblood families—ones who had long claimed neutrality since the war. Some hadn’t been on the Ministry’s radar in years.

But their fingerprints were all over this.

He and his partner Auror Clyde Simmons spent three consecutive nights staking out the largest yard, camped under Disillusionment Charms among rusted containers and creaking cranes. Despite the grime and metallic stink of the river, it was easy to spot the anomalies—shimmering wards, hidden doorways, crates that triggered faint magical pulses when scanned.

By the end of the week, they had enough evidence.

Harry strode into Robards’ office at dawn, tossed the compiled file on his desk, and requested a warrant for a full-scale raid.

The operation launched less than twelve hours later.

With half a dozen Aurors and a fleet of trained Hit Wizards, the raid was swift and surgical. They seized dozens of unmarked crates filled with contraband: illegal potion ingredients, black-market magical items, an entire case full of the Songoa Root, and—most damning of all—an entire shipment of Viretroot, a rare, highly addictive root banned by the Ministry since 2003. A small vial of it could render someone high for days. A crate full? Enough to devastate the country.

It was a significant win.

The yard’s listed owner—a slick man in pinstripes who claimed ignorance—was arrested alongside several dock workers and magical transporters who didn’t resist. Under interrogation, all had similar stories: they were middlemen. Grunts. Paid well to keep quiet. Not a single name higher up.

No buyer.

No known potioneer.

And no trail beyond whispers.

It should’ve felt like progress. But all it felt like was fog. They were close. But whoever was behind this operation was always one step ahead. He needed to find the missing link.

xxxxx

Draco stood in the quiet shade of the family mausoleum, the afternoon light filtered through the trees, painting soft patterns across the marble stones. He’d replaced the withered arrangement from last week with a fresh bouquet—long-stemmed lilies and white hellebores, picked carefully from the garden that now flourished under his attentive care. The blossoms gave off a light, calming fragrance that mingled with the scent of grass and warm stone.

His gaze rested on the carved names etched into the marble—Narcissa Black Malfoy and Lucius Malfoy—their birth and death dates stark reminders of the time stolen from them. From him. They should have had more years together. A chance to rebuild. A chance to live instead of merely survive. But the war had left scars across every corner of their world, and the Ministry had been determined to make examples of those who had once stood too close to Voldemort’s side, regardless of circumstance.

He missed them deeply—especially his mother.

A gentle breeze stirred the air, and with it came the faint, grounding scent of petrichor and vetiver. His alpha. Draco turned slightly, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as Harry emerged from the footpath that wove through the manor grounds, looking slightly harried but unmistakably home.

“Merlin,” Harry huffed as he reached Draco’s side, raking a hand through his windswept hair. “I swear your house elf has it in for me.”

He leaned in to kiss Draco’s temple, his arm wrapping comfortably around his waist.

“Poppi has always been protective of me,” Draco murmured, leaning into the warmth of his mate’s embrace. “Ever since I was a child.”

“She nearly took my head off with a kitchen knife,” Harry grumbled, pressing a kiss to Draco’s temple again for emphasis. “Claimed it slipped. Slipped, Draco.”

Draco snorted. “She did spend years being trained as an assassin-class domestic elf. You can’t expect her to just stand down now.”

“Fantastic,” Harry muttered. “I’ll be murdered in my own mate’s ancestral home.”

Draco chuckled softly, the sound warming the solemn air. “She’ll come around eventually.”

“You mean after she murders me on accident?”

“I’m sure Mother would have forgiven you,” Draco said with a fond smile, reaching to brush dust from the edge of the marble. “Though she would’ve likely insisted Poppi assist her in making sure your body was never found.”

Harry gave a long-suffering sigh and pulled two roses—one deep red, one soft white—from his coat pocket. He laid them gently at the foot of the grave. “Then I suppose I’ll never get the chance to atone properly.”

“You’re doing it now,” Draco said, his voice quiet. “By being here. With me.”

They stood in silence for a moment, wrapped in stillness and birdsong, the breeze rustling the trees overhead.

Draco’s hand found Harry’s and laced their fingers together. “I wish they were still alive,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I wish I could tell them that I’m happy now. That I’m safe. That I’m loved.”

Harry squeezed his hand.

Draco looked down at the names etched into the stone once more. His throat tightened.

“But I know they’d be proud. Wherever they are.”

Harry glanced sideways, watching the way Draco’s shoulders straightened, the way his expression turned solemn and resolute.

“I’m curious…” Harry murmured, his voice low as they lingered by the gravestone. “Wouldn’t the potion you created have helped your mum, after Lucius passed?”

Draco didn’t answer right away. His gaze lingered on the engraved letters of her name—so precise, so final. He reached out and brushed his fingers over the cool marble, as if he could feel her warmth through it.

“Maybe,” he said at last, voice barely more than a whisper. “I offered it to her. Told her it might ease the pain… give her a few more years, even if it wasn’t a cure. But she refused.” He exhaled slowly, the memory sitting heavy in his chest. “I never pushed,” he added, “even though I should’ve. It just felt… wrong. Hypocritical. How could I beg her to keep living when I knew exactly how painful and lonely it is to survive without your mate?”

Harry wrapped his arms around Draco’s waist, gently drawing him close. He pressed a soft kiss to the crown of Draco’s head, breathing in the faint trace of rose and ash that still clung to his hair.

“She’s at peace now,” Harry said quietly. “She’s with him.”

Draco leaned back into him, his eyes closing for a long moment. The grief was still there, tucked in the folds of his heart, but it no longer swallowed him whole.

“And I’m with mine,” he whispered, the words soft but certain. “That’s what matters now.”

They returned to the manor just as the sun dipped low beyond the hills, painting the sky in strokes of rose gold and lavender. Dinner was served in the sun atrium, the glass walls and ceiling letting in the last of the light, casting soft amber shadows across the white linen tablecloth. The room was warm, too warm for Harry’s thick Auror robes. He shrugged them off, folding the heavy fabric over the back of his chair before rolling up his sleeves, revealing the lean lines of his forearms glistening faintly with sweat.

Draco noticed immediately and with a subtle flick of his wand cast a cooling charm around the alpha’s seat. A soft breeze wafted in around Harry, carrying with it the faint scent of lavender and mint from the garden just beyond the glass.

“You always run hot,” Draco murmured, eyes flicking down the length of Harry’s exposed arms with thinly veiled appreciation.

Harry huffed a laugh. “And you always act like I’m some overgrown radiator.”

Draco only smirked as he turned his attention back to his plate, his silverware glinting in the waning light as he delicately cut into the lemon-roasted chicken. There were no wine goblets, no crystal decanters filled with amber spirits—only tall glasses of chilled water infused with sliced cucumber and lime. The omission was deliberate, a quiet vow of solidarity.

“You know,” Harry said after a few moments, his voice low and sincere, “You don’t have to do this. If you want a glass of wine or something, I really wouldn’t mind.”

Draco’s knife paused against the porcelain plate before he glanced up, the candlelight dancing in his pale eyes. “I believe it will be easier for you if I refrain as well,” he said simply. “Less of a temptation. And I’d rather be present with you than dulled by anything else.”

Harry’s lips curled into a smirk, his foot nudging Draco’s beneath the table. “The only temptation here is you.”

Draco looked up through his lashes, a knowing glint in his gaze as his lips curled into a faint smile. “You’ll have to wait until dessert, darling.”

Harry leaned back in his chair, savoring the moment—the taste of food on his tongue, the light catching in Draco’s hair, the soft murmur of wind outside. This was the kind of warmth he could live in forever.

“Ah, I should let you know,” Draco began, dabbing at the corner of his mouth with a linen napkin, “that I’ll be quite busy over the next two weeks with O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T. exams. The other professors and I have had our hands full cracking down on students caught with stimulant potions.”

Harry arched a brow as he cut into a roasted potato. “Still? I thought they’d all been confiscated.”

Draco let out a quiet sigh. “Yes, but we’re still being cautious. A few particularly resourceful students have managed to get their hands on newer batches. We’ve been receiving quite a number of concerned letters from parents. Longbottom caught two of his seventh-years stashing vials in the soil of their plant boxes in Greenhouse Four. Caused quite the scene when one broke open and wilted half the row of doxytraps.”

Harry winced. “Sounds like a mess.”

“It was,” Draco said, pausing to take a slow sip of his cucumber water. “I’ve never seen Longbottom so furious before.”

Harry leaned back slightly in his chair, fork poised mid-air. “Makes me wonder if something similar was going on when we were students. We just didn’t notice.”

“Likely,” Draco replied with a shrug. “Stimulants for exams aren’t exactly new. But what’s circulating now is dangerous—far more potent and unpredictable. Some of the ingredients are completely unregulated, not to mention toxic in high concentrations.”

Harry sighed, the lines around his eyes deepening. “The potion ring case is spiraling. My team’s buried in evidence after the raid. You were right, by the way—about the songoa root. There was a whole bloody crate of it.”

“I read about it in the Prophet,” Draco said, idly tracing the rim of his glass. “The article claimed it was a success, but noted no suspects were detained.”

“None,” Harry muttered, stabbing a piece of chicken. “And no record of where the shipment came from, either. Everything was scrubbed—no import logs, no shipping signatures. It’s like it appeared out of thin air.”

Draco tilted his head thoughtfully. “Would you like me to reach out to Blaise and Pansy?”

Harry looked up from his plate with a wary expression. “Draco…”

“They’re legitimate,” Draco said quickly, though his tone held a teasing lilt. “Well, mostly. Everything they do is technically within legal bounds. But their business ventures give them access to… channels the Ministry doesn’t. Especially when it comes to international imports.”

Harry narrowed his eyes in mock sternness. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

Draco let out a quiet laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Relax, darling. I’m not suggesting they smuggle anything for you. Just that they might know who to talk to, or at least where the trail might pick back up.”

Harry considered this as he chewed, eyes flicking to the glass ceiling above them. The sky was darkening into velvet blue, the stars just beginning to appear.

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt,” he said finally, setting his fork down.

Draco nudged his foot playfully against Harry’s beneath the table. “I’ll be sure to write them.”

Harry smirked and nudged him back. “Let’s just hope they don’t charge consulting fees.”

“With Pansy?” Draco said dryly. “You’ll owe her a favor before the ink dries.”

Harry groaned. “Merlin...the lengths I go to.”

Draco only sipped his water, lips curving in amusement. “Ready for dessert?”

xxxxx

It was Draco’s birthday, though anyone looking in from the outside wouldn’t have known it. The omega had spent the day immersed in back-to-back lessons, preparing his fifth-years for the stress-inducing O.W.L.s and keeping his sixth and seventh-years focused on the looming threat of their N.E.W.T.s. The corridors of Hogwarts hummed with pre-exam tension, parchment rustled with furious note-taking, and ink-stained hands gripped textbooks like lifelines. Draco moved through it all with his usual elegant composure, though his sharp eyes missed nothing. He corrected cutting techniques here, adjusted tempos of stirring there, and gave a rare, genuine nod of approval when a seventh-year brewed a particularly difficult draft of Antivenin without error. Still, the weight of the day had settled behind his eyes by the time classes were over for the day.

Final exams were just around the corner, and soon after, summer would arrive in its full, sun-drenched glory. For Draco, it meant something he rarely let himself feel: relief.

No more essays to mark. No lecture notes to revise. No lesson plans to perfect. And perhaps most importantly—more time. Time for his greenhouse. Time for his research. Time for the quiet satisfaction of his alchemical side projects.

Time for Harry.

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he slipped into his quarters which he only used as a personal study. He rarely slept at the castle, often returning home to the manor. It had been part of the agreement for Draco to teach at Hogwarts, even though he no longer got his heat nobody else knew that and he simply used his status as an omega to simply have his way (mostly because he had other potions brewing in his personal lab that would require his attention). On his writing desk sat a modest stack of parcels and letters. Theo’s arrived first that morning—an elegantly wrapped journal of enchanted parchment that never ran out of pages. “For your potioneering breakthroughs,” the note read, “or for cursing students under your breath. I won’t judge.”

Blaise’s gift came with a bottle of a rare, oak-aged firewhisky Draco had once admired during a private tasting years ago, paired with a sleek charmed corkscrew that practically opened itself. Pansy, naturally, sent a dramatically oversized bouquet of enchanted lilies that changed colors to match his mood. She enclosed a cheeky card: “I know you say you hate birthdays, but we both know you love being adored.”

Draco rolled his eyes, but the warmth lingered behind them.

Perhaps the most unexpected gift Draco received came from Longbottom—a small, humble-looking pot cradling delicate pale green leaves, their edges curled ever so slightly as if shy of the light. Neville had intercepted him just outside the greenhouse between classes, cheeks reddened and voice unsteady but firm with purpose.

“It’s a Lunaria Bloom,” he explained, thrusting the pot forward like it might bite him if he held it too long. “It, er… it only blossoms under moonlight. The petals release a scent that’s supposed to calm nerves. Good for stress and—well—thought it might help.”

Draco had blinked, genuinely caught off guard. The gesture was surprisingly thoughtful—personal, even. He accepted it gently, fingertips brushing the rim of the pot.

“Thank you,” he said, sincerely. “It’s… lovely.”

Neville gave a sheepish shrug. “You could keep it in your quarters. Or… if you’d prefer, the greenhouse.”

Draco almost smiled.

The scene had, unfortunately—or perhaps hilariously—played out right in the middle of class change, with a stream of students passing in both directions. More than a few had cast speculative glances at the interaction, and by the end of the day, the rumors had already begun circulating like wildfire: Professor Longbottom and Professor Malfoy were courting. Secretly, of course. Tragically. Illicitly. And perhaps passionately, if the more salacious whispers were to be believed. Draco had done nothing to discourage the gossip.

In fact, he found it rather amusing to watch Neville squirm any time the subject arose—stammering through student questions, flushing furiously when someone asked if he was planning to bring a date to Hogsmeade. The rumors gave the students something harmless to giggle about, and frankly, Draco enjoyed watching the man’s ears go scarlet.

When Theo first caught wind of it, however, he had been... less amused.

“People think what?” he’d growled, nearly tearing the door off its hinges when he stormed into Draco’s office.

The next morning, Neville had arrived to breakfast sporting a rather dramatic collar of hickeys and teeth marks, though most of them were glamoured over—poorly. Draco had teased him all week, offering him high-collared scarves and essential oils for “stimulation fatigue.”

Draco gently turned the potted bloom beneath his fingers, admiring its shy, leafy tendrils. He’d keep it in the clay pot until it was strong enough to survive the transition, and then it would join the others at the manor—tucked beside the night-blooming orchids and the whispering moonvines. With the soft rustle of the greenhouse in mind, Draco crossed the room to the small table beneath his window, where the previous week’s copy of The Daily Prophet lay folded in half. The front-page headline reading: “AUROR DIVISION RAIDS ILLEGAL SHIPMENT YARDS IN EAST LONDON.”

The article mentioned Harry by name—of course it did—but remained frustratingly vague about the details. There were no suspects named, no confirmed identities behind the potioneers or buyers of the illegal magical substances. Still, Draco’s fingers lingered on the newsprint a moment longer before carefully cutting it out to add to his growing collection.

A silly habit, perhaps. One he’d most likely never outgrow.

He simply liked having the clippings. Liked seeing Harry’s name in ink. Liked tracking the shape of his work across headlines, like he was watching from the wings of some far-off stage. Draco leaned back in his chair with a quiet sigh. He had no cake, no candles, no grand celebration. And yet, somehow, it had been a rather good birthday after all.

xxxxx

By the weekend, Harry came barreling through the Floo network in a swirl of ash and urgency, stumbling into the grand foyer of Malfoy Manor. His voice rang out before the green flames had even died behind him.

“Draco!”

His boots echoed against the polished stone as he stormed down the corridor, heart thundering like a drumline in his chest. Poppi, the ever-watchful house elf, appeared in a sharp crack at the base of the grand staircase, blocking his path with her wiry arms crossed firmly over her chest. Her large, yellow eyes narrowed with cool disdain, her expression sourer than a lemon soaked in vinegar.

Harry slowed at the sight of her, slightly breathless. “Poppi, where is Draco?”

She sniffed, unimpressed. “Master Draco is in his lab. Busy with his research, as he always is.”

Her tone made it clear she still hadn’t forgiven Harry for the years-old heartbreak he’d caused. House elves never forgot anything. Especially when it came to the ones they loved.

“Thank you,” Harry said quickly, dashing off before she could scold him further.

He knew exactly where to go.

Down, down into the bowels of the Manor, where once a cold dungeon cell had lain like a festering wound. Draco had gutted the space years ago, exorcising the darkness from its stone walls and transforming it into something wholly new. Now, it was his sanctuary—a fully outfitted potions lab with elegant brass fixtures, polished counters, enchanted cauldrons, and rows of neatly labeled ingredients that gleamed under bright enchanted light.

Harry practically flew down the last flight of stairs, bursting through the arched doorway. The scent of molten herbs and bitterroot clung thick in the air, and he found Draco hunched over a steaming cauldron, long fingers delicately sprinkling in a fine, shimmering powder. The pale threads of his hair were pulled back in a loose ribbon, though several silvery strands had slipped free to frame his sharp cheekbones.

“Draco!” Harry exclaimed, voice too loud in the enclosed space.

Draco startled violently, nearly dropping his jar of crushed herbs. “Salazar’s bloody bones, Harry! You gave me a fright!” he snapped, glancing over his shoulder with wide, startled eyes.

Harry didn’t slow. He rushed forward and took Draco by the arms, gripping them with a firm touch. “I completely forgot your birthday! Why didn’t you say anything?”

Draco blinked at him, confused by the sudden outburst. “What? Oh. That.” He shrugged one shoulder, adjusting the ribbon in his hair. “It’s during an inconvenient time, honestly. My students are preparing for their final exams, and I’ve been up to my ears in coursework.”

“That’s not the point.” Harry released his arms only to run a hand through his already chaotic hair, making it worse. “You should’ve said something! I would’ve done something. Something special—for you. With you.”

Draco’s lips twitched. He leaned back slightly, studying Harry’s flushed, anxious face. “Are you truly panicking about missing my birthday?”

“Yes!” Harry whined, his frustration edged with guilt. “Merlin, I’m a terrible boyfriend.”

Draco chuckled softly, amused despite himself. “Harry, it’s fine. Really.”

“It’s not fine,” Harry said, and the earnestness in his green eyes made Draco’s chest tighten with fondness. “You deserve more than a forgotten birthday. You deserve everything.”

Draco tilted his head, expression softening. The alpha before him was brave and powerful, an Auror with the weight of the world on his shoulders—and yet here he was, unraveling because he thought Draco felt neglected. The omega had forgotten that birthdays were important to Harry who spent a childhood of willful negligence from his muggle relatives.

“Well then,” Draco murmured, smoothing his palms over Harry’s broad chest, “term ends in two weeks. Once the students are gone and summer begins, we’ll both have more time. Why don’t we take a holiday together?”

Harry perked up immediately, hope blooming like wildflowers behind his eyes. “Yes. Merlin, yes. Let’s go away—just the two of us. Where do you want to go?”

Draco smiled, pleased by his enthusiasm. “I have a cottage in the Swiss Alps. Remote, charming, untouched by noise or owls. It overlooks a crystal-clear lake and there’s a natural hot spring a short broom ride away. We could fly through the mountain passes and swim under the stars.”

Harry was practically vibrating with excitement. “That sounds amazing. Let’s go the moment Hogwarts closes for the summer. I’ll send in my holiday request first thing Monday. How long can we stay?”

Draco leaned up, brushing his lips against Harry’s in a lingering kiss. “As long as we like.”

Harry's grin grew impossibly wide. He wrapped his arms around Draco’s waist, lifting him slightly in his joy. “We’ve never shared my rut before,” he murmured as realization struck. “It’s due in early July. Would you be all right with that?”

Draco gave a warm, knowing smile, fingers sliding into the hair at the nape of Harry’s neck. “I’ll be fine, darling. I’d be more than happy to help you during your rut.”

Harry held him tighter, already counting down the days.

xxxxx

Ron had stopped by Harry’s office three times in one week. The first time, he’d come bearing takeaway—two kebab sandwiches from the Turkish cart down the road from the Ministry, the one Harry used to love. He’d knocked lightly, smiling wide, casual, pretending it was just a normal Monday, showing up unannounced. Harry barely looked up from his desk. Papers were stacked in uneven towers around him, his quill scratching noisily.

“Thanks, mate,” he said, accepting the sandwich but not inviting Ron to stay. “Can’t chat. Trying to get through as much of this as I can today.”

Ron stood awkwardly in the doorway, watching Harry pick up a sealed memo and slide it into a folder.

“Busy week?” Ron asked, trying to keep it light.

“Mm,” Harry hummed. “I’ve got a deadline.”

He didn’t say what for. He didn’t offer details. He didn’t meet Ron’s eyes. Ron left, chewing on the silence the whole way back to his own office in Magical Transportation.

The second visit wasn’t as well received.

“You know,” Ron said casually, leaning against the doorway to Harry’s office, arms crossed like he had all the time in the world, “If Malfoy really is the leading expert in potioneering in all of Britain, don’t you find it suspicious that he can easily identify the ingredients and portions of the potions you’ve been finding at crime scenes?”

Harry didn’t look up at first. His quill scratched steadily across parchment, the lines of his jaw tight with restraint. But when Ron didn’t leave, didn’t shift or shut up, Harry finally met his gaze—visibly irritated.

“Don’t start.”

Ron raised his brows, feigning innocence. “Start what? I just think it’s… interesting. You two, circling back around each other like this. Needing his help and he so readily offers it just to get back into your life. Makes people wonder, that’s all.”

Harry dropped the quill with a sharp snap against the desk. “People like you?”

Ron smiled tightly but said nothing.

Harry stared him down for a long second, then returned to his paperwork without another word, the muscles in his shoulders pulled taut. Ron didn’t move. He just kept leaning in the doorway, silent now, eyes fixed on Harry—thinking, calculating, resenting.

Ron flushed, but didn’t back off. “Look, I’m just—concerned. After everything—”

Harry cut him off, tone sharp. “I appreciate the concern, Ron. I do. But I need space. And I need to get this done.”

That was the last time Harry left the door open. The next time Ron showed up, the door was locked and a junior Auror politely informed him that Harry had updated his schedule preferences—restricted access to his floo, memos, and office visits until further notice. The beta eventually found out about the planned holiday two days later. A slip of parchment in the Auror Department’s internal registry. Harry had put in for leave. It had been approved.

No indication of destination. No return date noted.

Ron stared at the entry for longer than necessary, rereading it again and again until the letters blurred. The only thing he could picture was Malfoy. Malfoy at some seaside villa, leaning in close, whispering in Harry’s ear, smug and pale and smirking.

Ron’s heart thudded heavily in his chest. His fists clenched at his sides.

He wasn’t jealous. He was worried. Concerned for Harry. Concerned that someone like Malfoy—with his silky words and glittering credentials—was slowly crawling back into Harry’s life. Unchecked. Unchallenged.

He couldn’t let that happen.

He won’t see what’s happening until it’s too late, Ron thought bitterly, pacing in his flat that night, blinds drawn tight. He thinks Malfoy’s changed, but he hasn’t. He’s still the same manipulative little snake he was at Hogwarts—he’s just learned to dress it up better now.

Ron opened the drawer of his desk. Inside sat a worn Hogwarts Potions text and, tucked behind it, a small flask with iridescent liquid swirling at the bottom. He hadn’t brewed it himself—he wouldn’t dare. It was something he had confiscated years ago on another case.

He stared at the flask for a long time.

No, he told himself. Not yet. Not unless I have to.

He didn’t want to use Amortentia. Nor did he want to alter Harry’s memories. He wanted Harry to choose him. To remember all they’d been through—everything they’d fought together. Everything he’d given up. He wanted Harry to look at him the way he used to. As a constant. As the one person who’d always stayed.

And if Malfoy had to disappear for that to happen… so be it.

xxxxx

Hermione arrived precisely at forty-five minutes past five, as always, her curls tamed in a loose knot and the scent of lavender perfume trailing behind her. Harry welcomed her into his home at Grimmauld Place with a tired but genuine smile, ushering her toward the sitting room where a fresh pot of tea and two mismatched mugs waited on the table.

He looked... worn. There were shadows beneath his eyes, the kind that spoke of restless nights and long days buried in paperwork and field reports. But there was something else too—a strange, quiet brightness beneath the exhaustion. A lightness in the way he moved, the faint upturn at the corner of his mouth when their eyes met. She hadn’t seen that in years.

They settled into their chairs, steam curling lazily between them.

Hermione sipped from her mug, watching him over the rim. “You look tired,” she said, voice soft, but not unkind.

Harry let out a short laugh. “I feel tired.”

She didn’t press him. Not yet. It struck her then just how rare this had become—quiet time alone with Harry. Their lives had splintered in different directions after graduation. Her recent work with the Department of Magical Law Reform had consumed her, and then there was Percy. Being engaged to a Weasley made for a very full calendar, though unlike with Ron, time with Percy never felt like a battle of wills. With Ron, she now needed a buffer—someone else to temper his moods, someone to help her tolerate his simmering resentment. Usually that someone was Harry.

“How are wedding preparations going?” Harry asked casually, stirring honey into his tea.

Hermione’s face brightened. “Everything is going according to plan. Percy’s been brilliant with organizing everything in stages. I swear, if that man wasn’t as obsessed with color-coded files as I am, I don’t know how we would’ve survived the first month of planning.”

Harry grinned. “I can just imagine the two of you labeling storage boxes together.”

She chuckled, nodding. “Even the tea cozies have labels.”

He was truly happy for her and meant it, too—Percy and Hermione made sense. They were passionate about their work, disciplined, methodical. Their flat was pristine, every book arranged alphabetically and by category, and every spice labeled with expiration dates. But more than that—Hermione glowed in Percy’s presence. There was a warmth in her gaze when she spoke about him, a deep, contented sort of love. What was more was that Percy actually listened when she talked and kept up with whatever subject she was going on about and adding his own input.

Percy was absolutely smitten with the Brightest Witch of her Age.

Harry caught himself wondering if he wore that same expression when he looked at Draco.

Hermione took another sip, then tilted her head. “How is your case going? I read about the raids in The Prophet.”

Harry leaned back with a sigh. “Hit a bit of a wall, honestly. Leads went cold.”

“That’s frustrating.”

“It is,” he agreed. “I’m hoping some time away will help. Maybe if I step back, I’ll see the case from a different angle.”

Her eyes brightened. “You’re taking time off?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, chuckling. “Robards practically shoved the paperwork into my hands when I was putting my request in. Said I was making the rest of the department look bad by never taking a break.”

Hermione raised a brow. “How long are we talking?”

“Seven weeks.”

Her teacup paused mid-air. “Seven?” she echoed, incredulous. “That’s quite a holiday, Harry. Are you planning on going somewhere?”

“I am.”

She leaned in with a smirk. “Well? Where to?”

Harry just smiled, that familiar glint of mischief flickering behind his glasses. “It’s a secret.”

“Oh, come on,” she groaned, rolling her eyes. “At least give me a hint. Are you going with someone?”

He chuckled lightly, avoiding her gaze just enough to confirm her suspicion. “I’ll be on the continent. Somewhere up in the mountains, far away from civilization. But that’s all I’m going to say. Can’t risk someone showing up and ruining the peace.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes but smiled despite herself. “Fine, keep your secrets.”

Harry sat curled into the corner of the couch, one leg tucked beneath him, the other bouncing restlessly against the floorboards as he nursed his second cup of tea. The steam curled against his glasses, briefly clouding his vision before fading. The house was quiet, the kind of quiet he’d come to treasure in recent months. Hermione sat opposite him, curled into his favorite armchair with a cozy familiarity that had long been theirs, though time and distance had stretched it thinner over the years.

He wanted to tell her.

He wanted to say it out loud—that he and Draco were together again (and currently upstairs, passed out from being so thoroughly fucked). That the ache in his chest he’d been carrying for years had begun to ease. That being with Draco felt like breathing clean air after years of smog. But the words caught behind his teeth every time he tried. Not because he didn’t trust her—he trusted Hermione more than anyone—but because the happiness he’d found felt fragile. Sacred. Like a bubble he didn’t dare burst by saying too much too soon.

And he didn’t want Ron finding out. Not yet. He wanted to keep this peace for as long as possible.

Some truths, no matter how good, needed time to settle before they could be shared.

Hermione’s voice broke his thoughts. “I’m worried about Ron.”

Harry blinked, then looked up. Her expression was creased with concern, her brow furrowed as she cradled her mug against her knees.

“I think he’s heading down that self-destructive path again,” she continued. “Something must’ve happened.”

Harry frowned into his cup. He’d been avoiding Ron—more deliberately than he wanted to admit. Ever since Ron walked into his office while Draco was visiting had caused a noticeable shift in the beta’s behavior. Such as the way Ron had been hanging around his office lately, always under the guise of ‘catching up,’ had left Harry uneasy. At first, he’d written it off as Ron being clingy—maybe just looking for distraction, maybe lonely. But with his upcoming holiday drawing closer, with Draco waiting and the promise of a few uninterrupted weeks together... Ron’s constant presence had begun to feel intrusive.

Unsettling.

A flicker of guilt passed through him. Maybe he should have drawn firmer lines earlier. Maybe he never should have let Ron back in after the disaster at Hogwarts—after the breakup with Draco. Things had never felt “right” after that. Like some vital thread had been cut between him and the world, leaving everything skewed. And worse, he could still hear the words Ron had said echoing through the years, like a curse he couldn’t shake: “Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater.”

The words hadn’t just haunted Draco—they’d haunted Harry, too.

He looked at Hermione. “Can I ask you something?”

She glanced up, surprised by the shift in tone. “Of course.”

“After my breakup with Draco back in school... did anything about that day strike you as odd?”

Hermione’s posture changed. She lowered her mug carefully, her fingers curling around the ceramic for warmth. Her eyes narrowed slightly—not suspicious, but searching memory.

“Honestly, it’s been so long,” she said slowly, “but I do vividly remember something felt... off. I remember seeing Malfoy—he looked wrecked. Absolutely broken. I didn’t know what had happened, but it was written all over his face. And then when that article came out about what Flint had done...” Her voice dropped, soft with remembered pain. “My heart broke. For him. And for you.”

Harry stared down into the dregs of his tea.

Hermione wrapped both hands around her now-cooling mug, her eyes distant as if lost in thought. The flickering candlelight on the coffee table cast soft shadows across her features, lending a quiet solemnity to her expression.

“As a woman,” she began, her voice low and steady, “I understand the danger we face in society. I understand the vulnerability of walking alone at night and the endless tightrope we walk between strength and expectation. There’s always been this unspoken rulebook—get married, have children, keep a tidy home, and smile through it all like that should be enough. Like ambition beyond the domestic is unnatural.” She glanced at Harry then, her gaze intent and full of empathy. “But as an omega—a male omega at that—I can’t imagine how much harder it must be to move through the world when everything about your biology becomes a commodity. When people see your secondary gender before they see you. Perceived as nothing more than something to be owned, bred, or protected, whether you ask for it or not.”

Her words hung heavy in the room, not accusatory, but thoughtful. Painfully aware. “I’ve read the articles,” she continued, her voice quieter now, edged with horror. “Heard the testimonies. Underground trafficking rings, omega auctions—gods, they’re supposed to be illegal in every civilized country, but they still happen. People still disappear. It’s sick. And terrifying. Especially when you think about how easily someone can be dehumanized just for how they present.”

She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, as if trying to release the weight of everything she’d just said.

“I think… in some ways, I got lucky,” Hermione admitted, idly twisting her engagement ring on her finger. “Presenting as a beta meant I could build a life on my own terms. I don’t have the same biological pressures pushing me into heat or rut, and no one’s trying to buy me off to make heirs. I can fight for my place, my career, my choices—without having to constantly defend my autonomy.” Her eyes softened, and she looked back at Harry, something quietly fierce in her gaze. “But I saw him, Harry. I saw how hard it is for omegas—especially for someone as infamous as Malfoy—to be taken seriously. I can’t pretend to know what that’s like, but I admire him for never letting the world decide who he is.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was respectful. Contemplative.

Hermione continued, her tone careful. “But when you told me your version of events, Harry... it never fully added up.”

He looked up sharply. “What do you mean?”

“You said you found letters,” she said, “between Malfoy and his mother—talking about accepting Flint’s bride price. But that never made sense. You and Malfoy were clearly in love, Harry. Everyone could see it. And you would never go through someone’s personal things like that, especially Malfoy’s without his verbal consent. That’s not you.” She shifted forward, her eyes narrowing slightly. “And another thing. Ron. He knew Flint would be at the Hog’s Head that day. I remember you two leaving together to look for Malfoy, but when the Aurors questioned you, you said you’d gone alone. I didn’t press at the time, but I remember thinking something wasn’t right.”

There was a silence between them, dense and brittle.

Harry pressed a hand to his temple. That familiar buzzing started in the back of his skull again, like a swarm of wasps behind his eyes. “Any time I try to piece that day together, I start to hear ringing in my ears and then I get this wicked migraine,” he muttered.

Hermione’s face darkened with worry. “Do you think... you may have been obliviated? Maybe fed false memories?”

The words hit like a gut punch. Harry didn’t answer right away. He had wondered. In his most private, darkest moments, he’d questioned his own memory. But he hadn’t wanted to believe it. Because that meant someone—someone close—had tampered with his mind. Had taken something from him without consent.

Had tried to control his choices.

And the only person who had been close enough that day…

“I don’t know,” he said at last. “It could be possible.”

His voice was flat. Careful.

Hermione reached out, placing a gentle hand over his. “If someone did that to you, Harry, we’ll find out. And we’ll make it right.”

Harry squeezed her hand but didn’t speak. He wasn’t sure what terrified him more: the idea that someone had tampered with his mind... or the sinking feeling he already knew who it might have been.

And what he might have to do if it turned out to be true.

Harry eventually saw Hermione to the door.

“Percy’s waiting,” she said, rolling her eyes with affectionate exasperation. “He wants me to review the latest revision of that bill he and Kingsley are drafting.”

Harry gave a small smile. “Tell him good luck getting it past the Wizengamot. And thank you—for coming.”

“Anytime.” She squeezed his hand and gave him a knowing look. “Try to sleep tonight. And don’t let your mind get ahead of your heart.”

With that, she walked down the gravel path, stepped outside the gate and disapparated, leaving behind the faint scent of milk tea and parchment. Harry locked the door behind her, warding it with a flick of his wand, and turned toward the stairs. He took them two at a time, chest already pulling with warmth and anticipation as he ascended. The house was quiet, save for the soft creak of the staircase underfoot and the whispered mutterings of Walburga behind the heavy curtain. When he reached his bedroom and pushed the door open, the sight that greeted him made his breath catch.

Draco lay beneath the old, patchwork quilt Mrs. Weasley had made him years ago—faded reds and mismatched blues, lovingly hand-stitched. His pale hair was tousled across the pillow, his slender form curled slightly beneath the covers, only a sliver of moonlight through the window casting silver over the exposed arch of his shoulder. He looked ethereal—beautiful in the way that Harry remembered seeing him the first time he realized he was in love.

This was his. His again.

And it felt like breathing after being underwater for years.

“Are you going to keep standing there like a creep,” Draco murmured as he opened one eye, his voice thick with satisfaction and amusement, “or are you going to come ravish me some more?”

Harry raised a brow, already pulling off his shirt. “Oh? Were the first two rounds not thorough enough for you?”

Draco shifted, the quilt slipping low to reveal his bare torso, neck and collarbone littered with red kiss-marks and love bites, a particularly dark one just above his sternum. His lips were swollen, flushed pink from biting and being kissed within an inch of their life. His nipples were still peaked and red from the brutal teasing from Harry’s fingers and mouth. He looked properly debauched—and utterly pleased with himself.

“On the contrary,” he said, tilting his chin in that impossibly haughty way, “I was so thoroughly satisfied that I’ve decided to demand an encore. Consider it your curtain call, darling.”

Harry grinned, shirt now discarded, followed by his trousers and socks as he approached the bed. “A private performance, then? Exclusive to one very spoiled omega?”

Draco sat up just enough to wrap his arms around the alpha’s neck, tugging him down until their lips nearly brushed.

“Only if we get to do chapter thirty-four again,” he purred, the wicked smirk curling his mouth was nearly as sinful as the memory itself.

Harry groaned into a kiss, heat stirring low in his belly as he gently pushed Draco back against the pillows. “You really liked that one, huh?”

“I loved it,” Draco whispered, arching beneath him just enough to tease. “I could feel you hit my womb with that move.”

“Merlin,” Harry breathed, already losing his grip on restraint, “then let’s start with that.”

When he kissed Draco this time, it was slower—full of heat. A promise sealed with tongue and teeth and breath. Harry pulled the worn quilt aside, revealing Draco’s pale, lithe body bathed in the dim light of the bedroom. The omega was already sprawled out beneath him, chest rising and falling with anticipation, the bruises and bite marks across his skin a testament to the earlier hours of indulgence. He pressed a kiss to Draco’s ankle as he gently lifted the omega’s right leg, guiding it over his shoulder with practiced ease. His free hand slid between them, fingers stroking along the slick seam of Draco’s entrance, finding it still softened and open, pliant from their earlier joining.

Draco’s breath hitched sharply as Harry pushed in, two fingers sinking with ease. His back arched as he keened softly, the tremble in his limbs betraying just how sensitive he still was.

“Still so ready for me,” Harry murmured, lips brushing against Draco’s ankle as he glanced down at him. “You’re soaked.”

Draco let out a shaky breath, eyes half-lidded. “We did go through a lot of lube… and I may still be full of you,” he said, voice rich with amusement and want.

Harry groaned, his fingers curling slightly as he leaned in, kissing up along Draco’s shin. “Merlin, that’s so bloody hot. Is it awful that all I want is to keep you here—just us—wrapped up in you forever?”

Draco huffed a small, breathless laugh. “We’ll have our holiday for that, darling. Now quit teasing and put that mouthy alpha instinct to use where it matters.”

Harry grinned, withdrawing his hand carefully before muttering a soft lubrication charm into his palm. He slicked himself with slow, deliberate strokes, watching the way Draco’s legs shifted, welcoming, waiting. With one steady roll of his hips, Harry pressed forward, the tip of his cock pushing past the first ring of resistance. Both of them groaned at the feeling—deep, unrestrained, almost desperate.

Harry’s breath caught as he seated himself fully. “Still tight,” he muttered through grit teeth, forehead pressing to Draco’s shin. “Fuck, you drive me insane, love.”

Draco’s fingers gripped the sheets, his pupils blown wide. “And you’re still talking,” he said, voice ragged. “Move, alpha.”

Harry chuckled, low and fond. “Bossy omega.”

Then he began to move—not rushed, not rough, but with a rhythm built from knowing every inch of the man beneath him. Every thrust, every stroke was both a conversation and a confession: I love you. I missed you. I’m never letting go again.

Harry leaned over, his body curving above Draco’s as he pushed the omega’s leg up, angling his hips just so. The new position allowed him to thrust deeper—so deep Draco’s breath caught, his back arching off the mattress as Harry filled him over and over again. Draco was still as flexible as ever—something Harry never took for granted. Even now, with the years between them and the ghosts of their past lingering, Draco’s body welcomed him like no time had passed at all. His knee nearly touched his chest as Harry drove into him, relentless, purposeful. Each deep stroke had the blonde gasping, his toes curling and his spine bowing from the sheer pleasure of it.

“Merlin—just like that!” Draco cried, his voice breaking into a whimper. “Don’t stop—don’t stop! Aaaah!”

Harry didn’t stop.

Draco’s climax hit him like lightning, his body shuddering as white streaks spilled across the faded scars of his abdomen. His inner walls clenched down on Harry’s cock in a series of spasms so intense it nearly undid the alpha. Harry growled, feral and wrecked, at the tight grip around him. He caught Draco’s other leg and lifted it, folding him fully now—hips canted up, knees pressed against his chest, completely open and exposed beneath his alpha.

This angle. Gods, this angle.

Draco gasped as Harry thrust into him hard and deep, his breath hitching every time Harry hit that devastating spot inside.

“Fuck,” Harry growled low in his throat. “You’re such a good omega—tight, sweet, so damn flexible. Can you feel me?” he panted, hips snapping with increasing urgency. “Can you feel me brushing your womb?”

“Yes!” Draco moaned, clutching the sheets. “Yes, alpha—you’re so deep—too deep—I love it.”

Harry was close now—Draco could feel it in the tremble of his thighs, the desperate way his rhythm began to falter as he stroked himself.

“I’m gonna cum inside you,” Harry rasped, breath hot against Draco’s skin. “Fill you up—make you mine. Do you want that, love?”

“Yes—yes, darling!” Draco cried, his body tightening again as another climax threatened. His slender fingers around his own cock and stroking in time with Harry’s thrusts. “Make me full of you—please!”

Harry’s thrusts turned brutal, rhythmic and raw, sweat beading on his brow and sliding down his chest in rivulets. His grip tightened on Draco’s thighs as he bucked hard one final time, spilling into his omega with a low, guttural cry. The omega followed a heartbeat later, his cock twitching in his own hand as hot release streaked across his stomach once more. Their bodies trembled, locked together—chests heaving, breath mingling, foreheads pressed together as the storm inside them slowly began to ebb. Harry didn’t pull out right away. He stayed buried deep, hands stroking down Draco’s shins with absolute tenderness.

“You’re everything,” he whispered against Draco’s temple. “Everything I ever wanted.”

Draco looked up at Harry, his pale, scarred chest rising and falling rapidly, the flush of pleasure still glowing high on his cheekbones. His legs, once folded high, trembled slightly as Harry gently lowered them back to the bed—one, then the other—settling them on either side of the alpha’s hips.

“You are my heart, Harry,” Draco whispered, his voice thin, the weight of the words drawing tears to his eyes. “My everything.”

Harry’s breath caught. He leaned in, his body still connected to Draco’s, the last flickers of their joined heat pulsing faintly inside the omega’s spent body. He cradled Draco’s flushed face in both hands and kissed him—slowly, thoroughly. A kiss of quiet worship, a seal to every vow they’d ever made and broken and made again.

“I love you so much,” Harry whispered against those swollen lips, still tasting of salt and shared breath.

“I love you, too,” Draco murmured, eyes fluttering closed beneath the brush of Harry’s nose along his cheek.

With a final lingering kiss, Harry gently pulled out, and they both winced at the wet, obscene sound of separation. Draco sighed, deeply content, as Harry collapsed beside him, one arm flung over his stomach, their legs tangled lazily.

“How was that for an encore?” Harry asked, breathless and grinning as he turned his head to face Draco.

Draco huffed a soft laugh, turning toward him as well. “A marvelous performance, darling. Truly, you deserve a standing ovation. Pity I can’t stand at the moment.”

Harry chuckled, pleased with himself, and reached past Draco to the nightstand drawer. From it, he retrieved a worn paperback book—its cover curled at the edges and its spine permanently creased. The enchanted illustrations within shimmered faintly in the low light, depicting various creatively contorted bodies in varying degrees of acrobatics.

“You’re not serious,” Draco said, lifting a brow when Harry flipped to a dog-eared page.

“Oh, I’m very serious.” Harry smirked, tapping the top of the page with a sly grin. “‘Cannonball.’ We’ve never tried this one.”

Draco leaned closer, eyeing the rather outrageous positioning illustrated on the page—complete with magical motion lines and a cheeky sparkle charm added in the corner.

“If only you had shown this much enthusiasm for your academics back then,” Draco said dryly, though the way his lip curled upward gave away his amusement.

Harry leaned in to kiss that very smirk. “If they’d made textbooks like this, I’d have been top of the class.”

Draco rolled his eyes fondly and let his head fall back against the pillow. “You really are a menace.”

“Only for you,” Harry murmured, grinning as he ran his fingers lazily down Draco’s thigh, already mentally planning their next “study session.”

xxxxx

The Weasley family dinner was in full swing—laughter, clinking cutlery, and the occasional raised voice carried through the warm, crowded kitchen. Platters of roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, and roasted root vegetables were passed around between animated conversations. Yet beneath the laughter and warmth, a subtle current of unease simmered—most of it radiating off Ron.

He sat stiffly at the table, shoulders tense, fingers white-knuckling his fork. Across from him, Hermione was glowing as she spoke to Percy, her engagement ring catching the golden kitchen light and sending delicate sparks dancing across the tabletop. Percy, ever composed and verbose, was explaining the latest developments in their wedding planning, his tone inflected with proud efficiency.

“We’ve got the venue secured and the guest list finalized through page three of the spreadsheet,” Percy was saying. “I’ve already submitted the names to the Floo Network Authority to ensure no congestion at the main entrance.”

“That’s brilliant,” Fleur chimed in, delicately sipping her wine. “A well-organized ceremony is ze best kind. My cousin’s wedding was a disaster—no one knew where to go, and someone’s great-aunt ended up in the loo for an hour because of the confused signage.”

Angelina chuckled. “Just make sure the bridesmaids don’t clash. I’ve seen some things.”

Percy gave a satisfied nod. “We’ve gone with matching robes in slate and navy with silver accents. Very understated.”

The topic naturally veered into work as Percy, never one to pass up an opportunity, shared his latest triumph.

“The Equal Application Rights Bill is finally being reviewed by the Wizengamot. If it passes, hiring committees will be required to evaluate candidates strictly on merit—regardless of race, gender, or secondary gender.”

Hermione beamed, placing a hand proudly on Percy’s arm. “It’s about time, I know you’ve been working on that bill for a good part of the year. That bill could open doors for so many overlooked witches and wizards and magical creatures. I’m so proud of you.”

Molly, bustling back from the oven with a bubbling dish of scalloped potatoes, caught the moment and smiled warmly at the pair. “You two make such a good team.”

Arthur, seated at the head of the table, wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Speaking of hard work, anyone heard from Harry lately? He’s been quite busy, poor lad.”

Molly sighed wistfully. “Always with the weight of the world on his shoulders, that one.”

“He’s taking a much needed holiday this summer.” Hermione said.

“Good for Harry taking time off,” Arthur added. “His latest case has certainly been weighing on him. A bit of quiet and rest is long overdue.”

“Anyone know where he’s run off to?” George asked as he tore a dinner roll in half and slathered it in butter.

Hermione shook her head, swirling her wine. “Not a clue. But when I last saw him, he seemed thrilled to be getting away from London for a while.”

Ron’s stomach twisted. He stabbed a piece of roast beef with unnecessary force, eyes glued to his plate.

Molly let out a soft, regretful sigh. “It’s a shame he and Ginny didn’t work out. I always thought they’d bond after she presented as an omega.”

Ron’s jaw clenched.

Once, Ron had genuinely believed he’d made peace with Harry and Ginny ending up together. It was familiar, easy. Logical. They matched in a way that made sense, like puzzle pieces from the same box. And for a while, Ron had even felt happy about it—grateful, in some twisted way, that someone as extraordinary as Harry Potter could find joy within his family.

But that was before.

Before Malfoy.

Before the way Harry’s smiles changed—softer, deeper, more private. Before the way he looked at Draco like he’d found a missing piece of his soul. Before Ron realized that he couldn’t stop watching Harry… couldn’t stop wanting him. That the ache wasn’t brotherly jealousy. It was something far more insidious. He buried it, of course. Stuffed it down beneath layers of bitterness and practiced smiles. His friendship with Harry—whatever was left of it—was too valuable a façade to ruin.

But resentment festered.

It wasn’t the same kind of jealousy that haunted school corridors or teenage fantasies. No—this was systemic. Quiet. Consuming. Because even in their progressive society, where same-gender couples were common enough, the subtle hierarchies still lingered like rot beneath varnish.

An alpha with an omega? Perfect. Balanced. Biologically purposeful.

An alpha man with a beta man?

Empty.

Beta men were tolerated partners—but only just. Passionate, perhaps. Loyal, sometimes. But productive? Never. They couldn’t bear children. Couldn’t scent mark properly. Couldn’t trigger bonds the way omegas could. Ron had known all his life that he was ordinary. That betas were the overlooked center of society—not revered like alphas, not coveted like omegas. Just… invisible.

Ron had joined the Aurors a year before Harry finally decided he was ready to go through the Academy. It was supposed to be his edge—his advantage. Yet within two years of Harry graduating, the golden boy had been promoted ahead of him. The humiliation burned. Ron told himself he worked just as hard, maybe harder, especially as a beta in a department where alphas dominated. But that didn’t matter. It never seemed to matter. Alphas got the better assignments, the higher-profile cases, the recognition that stuck in the public’s mind.

Harry hadn’t even meant to overshadow him—Ron knew that—but the sting didn’t fade.

When, another year later, a younger beta was assigned as Harry’s partner instead of him, Ron’s teeth ached from how tightly he clenched his jaw. Simmons. Too fresh-faced, too damned eager, and yet Harry took to him almost immediately. Ron had expected to feel the same bitterness toward Simmons that had festered for years toward Malfoy—that instinctive dislike of anyone who could pull Harry’s focus away from him. But it wasn’t the same. Simmons was a beta like him, and Harry didn’t look at Simmons the way he had looked at Malfoy. There was no heat in his eyes, no longing. Just… trust.

And that trust was enough to make Ron’s stomach twist.

The resentment rotted into something uglier. Simmons was still there, still beside Harry, while Ron was pushed to the periphery. Forced to watch from the shadows while someone else stood where he belonged.

It should be me, his mind hissed. I’m the one who should be at Harry’s side.

The thought burrowed deep, repeating itself until it no longer felt like jealousy—it felt like fact. Fact that the world had cheated him again. When the feelings he’d harbored for Harry refused to fade—when they tangled with his bitterness until they became something darker—Ron began to hate himself. Hate the skin he’d been born in.

He didn’t want to be a beta anymore.

Being a beta meant he would never be the center of Harry’s world. Never inspire that raw, instinctive desire Harry had once reserved for Malfoy. Never be the one Harry needed on every level—physically, emotionally, biologically.

And that, Ron decided, was unacceptable.

He wanted to be seen.

He wanted to be chosen.

He wanted to be Draco Malfoy.

But more than that… he wanted to be better.

So, quietly, desperately, he began to research. To hunt. He scoured obscure medical texts and fringe magical journals. Dove deep into transmutation theory and controversial alchemic rites. He spoke in whispers, visited questionable clinics under false names, paid for cursed documents on the black market. Because if magic could rewrite bones and blood, why not secondary gender?

That’s when he found Gabriel Voss.

Ron had hit rock bottom, and it wasn’t even the first time. He’d been removed from field duty after a failed Auror op left three agents injured and one dead—his hands still trembled from the explosion, the weight of decisions he couldn’t undo. He’d been drinking too much, sleeping too little, and trying to outrun the deep, gnawing truth inside of him: he wasn’t enough.

Not for the job.

Not for his family.

And certainly not for Harry.

He told himself that was why he’d gone to see Voss. A quiet referral passed along through shadowy channels, whispered like a blessing or a curse depending on who said it. Voss operated a legitimate healing practice by day—known for his surgical precision and success rates with rare magical ailments—but by night, beneath a false wall in a private clinic near Knockturn Alley, he offered something else.

Reconstruction.

Reassignment.

Remaking.

They called him The Sculptor.

Their first meeting had been disarmingly clinical. Voss had pale, unblinking eyes and an unnerving calm that set Ron on edge almost immediately. He wasn’t warm, but he wasn’t cruel either. He was controlled—like everything he said had already been rehearsed and trimmed down to its most efficient version.

“You feel it, don’t you?” Voss said, his voice smooth, scalpel-sharp. “The wrongness. Like something in you is unfinished.”

Ron had swallowed hard, unable to speak, his jaw clenched as he tried to suppress the shaking in his fingers.

“You’re a beta,” Voss continued, stepping closer, as though examining a specimen under glass. “Chemically balanced, physiologically neutral. But the psyche doesn’t always obey the body’s blueprint. You crave more.”

Ron nodded mutely.

“You need a stabilizer,” Voss said, pulling out a small vial with silvery-blue liquid swirling within. “Originally designed for omegas with unregulated pheromone spikes. I’ve… adjusted it. It should bring you clarity.”

Ron didn’t ask questions.

He drank it.

The effect was like fire under the skin. Within hours, he felt light-headed, heat blooming across his chest and groin. By the end of the first week, he was flushed at all hours, sensitive to scent and sound, every brush of fabric like a caress. He couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t stop thinking about Harry. It was then—coinciding with one of Harry’s relapses—that Ron had gone to him.

Harry had been a mess. Slurring. Barely able to stand and surrounded by empty bottles of alcohol and Dreamless Sleep. And Ron had been buzzing, his body alight with the chemical cocktail Voss had given him, desperate for release—for touch—for affirmation. It had been so easy.

Just one extra dose of Dreamless Sleep potion mixed into Harry’s whiskey. Just one whispered spell to blur the edges of memory.

And then Harry was pliant. Warm. Responsive.

Ron had convinced himself that Harry had wanted it, too. That somewhere beneath the haze, he’d known it was Ron. That their bodies had responded on instinct, on fate. That it meant something. He’d made himself believe that as Harry held him in his altered state of mind. Afterwards, guilt warred with obsession. He returned to Voss, trembling, demanding to know what was happening to him—why he felt like he was becoming someone else.

But Voss only smiled, serene and almost reverent.

“You’re my ideal body,” he said. “Responsive. Suggestible. Willing.”

It was in that moment—stripped raw with longing and shame—that Ron had confessed his deepest desire: “I want to be an omega.”

He remembered saying the words aloud for the first time, how terrifying and exhilarating it felt. “I want to be what he needs. I want to bond with him. Bear his mark. Bear his children. I was born wrong. But I’d do anything—anything—to make it right.”

Voss had not blinked. Had not laughed.

He’d only nodded, his gaze gleaming with something like triumph.

“If you give me your body,” he said, “I’ll give you your dream.”

That was all it took.

From that moment on, Ron surrendered himself—mind, body, and purpose—to the process.

The first procedures were deceptively simple: a series of numbing spells, tissue-softening tonics, and skeletal transfigurations designed to subtly narrow his frame. The pain was manageable at first—more ache than agony—but it escalated quickly. Bones were shaved down, ligaments adjusted, nerves rewired to accommodate changes no wizarding textbook would ever sanction.

He was stripped, piece by piece.

A new skincare regimen followed—Voss’s own formula of enchanted salves and dermal elixirs meant to smooth out years of roughness. His freckles faded, the angular planes of his face gradually rounded, softened under Voss’s meticulous design. Even his scent changed. Cloaking spells and alchemical serums altered his pheromonal output, veiling him in something sweeter, lighter—something more omega. But it wasn’t enough.

He wasn’t perfect yet.

“You’re blooming,” Voss had murmured during one late-night check-in, running gloved fingers over Ron’s jaw, his pulse, his ribs. “Your body is beginning to understand what you were always meant to be.”

Ron said nothing. He only nodded and endured.

Then came the injections. Muggle hormone replacement therapy—regulated, monitored, magically enhanced. Every dose another chisel against the identity he was shedding. His voice wavered. His muscles softened. Heat clung to his skin like second nature. He found himself weeping during moon phases, craving touch in ways that rattled him.

Bit by bit, Voss dismantled him.

And with every cut, every vial, every incantation whispered under anesthesia, Ron felt himself being stitched back together into someone new. Someone right.

And Ron welcomed it.

Because he wasn’t doing this for vanity.

He was doing it for Harry.

He was becoming someone Harry might—no, will—love. Someone worthy. Someone whose body could bond, could bear, could belong.

Someone who wasn’t Malfoy.

Chapter Text

With Hogwarts shuttered for the summer, the air of responsibility that typically clung to Draco like a starched collar began to loosen. Their long-awaited holiday could finally begin.

Harry’s extended leave had been approved weeks ago, and true to his word, he left all work behind. No files, no case notes, no late-night messages from the office. His partner, Clyde Simmons, had been surprisingly understanding. “Go,” he’d said with a grin. “I’ve got it under control. We’re still knee-deep sorting through evidence from the raid, and honestly, you’d just get in the way.” Harry didn’t need more convincing.

Draco had also wrapped up most of his potions work in the private lab tucked away in the converted dungeon of the Manor. Flasks were neatly labeled, the temperature and storage charms double-checked. All but one cauldron had been bottled—an experimental restorative draught that still needed a final reduction phase. With a precise flick of his wand and a whispered Tempus Suspendo, Draco cast a stasis charm over the bubbling brew, ensuring it would remain undisturbed until their return.

The portkey—a delicate, rune-etched silver bookmark—lay on the drawing room table between them. It was keyed to a modest but beautifully secluded cottage in the Swiss Alps. Warded, charmed for privacy, and nestled in a quiet valley where the snow still dusted the mountains even in early summer.

Harry couldn’t stop smiling. He stood at the threshold of the Manor’s drawing room, travel cloak draped over one arm, his other hand already brushing Draco’s.

No students to supervise.

No criminals to chase.

No headlines.

No interruptions.

Just the two of them, breathing the same mountain air, curled beneath blankets before a fire, sharing quiet mornings and even quieter nights.

“You ready?” Draco asked, eyes sparkling, a rare look of peace softening the sharp lines of his face.

Harry grinned and took his hand, fingers threading together instinctively.

“More than ready,” he said.

And in a whirl of blue light, they vanished.

The portkey released them with a jolt, and Harry stumbled slightly, catching his balance as his worn trainers met solid earth. The world steadied around him just in time to take in the breathtaking view before him.

They had arrived on the edge of a clearing, surrounded by towering pines that stood like ancient guardians beneath a sky painted with early evening hues. The crisp mountain air kissed his skin—cool, clean, tinged with the scent of pine needles, damp moss, and the faint bite of snow lingering somewhere higher up the slope. It smelled like wilderness and peace, untouched and sacred. Before them stood a cabin, though the word felt too modest for something so beautiful. Nestled into the mountainside, it looked like something out of a fairytale: elegant and weathered with time, the timber dark and polished from years of mountain storms. Climbing ivy crept lazily along the stone foundation, and the windows glowed faintly with golden enchantments—soft and inviting.

The front door stood out immediately—arched and masterfully carved to resemble a majestic owl mid-flight, wings sweeping outward in a curve that framed the doorway like an embrace. It was whimsical in a way that surprised Harry, yet charming—distinctly Draco. He turned, still taking in the quiet. Not a single sound but the rustle of trees and the occasional birdsong. No bustling city, no Ministry alerts, no echo of war.

Just… stillness.

“We’re completely off-grid,” Draco said, his voice low and content, like a secret shared between them. He stepped forward, his boots crunching softly against the gravel path as he approached the door. With a practiced flick of his wand, the owl’s eyes blinked once, and the lock clicked open with a gentle snick.

Draco turned to him, a smile curling at the corners of his mouth.

“Well, come on then,” he said, a flicker of anticipation in his eyes.

Harry didn’t hesitate. The scent of pine. The coolness in the air. The feeling that he could breathe easy. He followed Draco inside, still marveling at the tranquility. But the moment he stepped over the threshold, his jaw dropped.

It was not a cabin in the traditional sense.

This place was nothing short of a miniature manor—clearly touched by Malfoy luxury. Towering, stained glass windows let in a cascade of natural light, casting a rainbow of colors over the polished wood floors and high-beamed ceilings. Every piece of furniture was elegant yet inviting, from the velvet settees to the carved bookshelves. A sweeping staircase hugged one side of the room, its banister gleaming with lacquered charm.

“I should’ve known,” Harry muttered, eyes wide. “Only you could call this a ‘cabin.’”

Draco huffed a laugh, grabbing Harry’s hand and pulling him further inside. “You haven’t seen the best part. Come on.”

They crossed the grand sitting room to a set of double doors adorned with a stunning stained-glass mosaic of snowcapped mountains and swirling clouds. Draco opened them with a flourish, revealing a spacious patio beyond.

The sight stole Harry’s breath.

Just a few steps from the patio, a narrow dock led down to a crystal-clear alpine lake. The water shimmered like glass, so transparent he could see all the way to the pebbled bottom. A ring of towering trees framed the lake, and beyond them, snow-dusted peaks reached for the sky.

“Bloody hell,” Harry breathed, stepping onto the patio. “This is… this is amazing.”

Draco leaned against the railing, his gaze soft as it traced the serene horizon. “I came here after my probation ended. Needed time to think. To get my priorities straight.”

Harry turned to look at him, sensing a shift in his tone. The peace of the place was matched only by the quiet solemnity in Draco’s voice.

“This is where I came to terms with my limited time,” Draco said gently, eyes still fixed on the lake.

A sharp pang twisted in Harry’s chest. Guilt surged beneath his ribs at the reminder—that his own past decision, severing their bond at nineteen, had irreversibly altered Draco’s life…and his.

“Draco…” Harry stepped closer, raising a hand to cup the omega’s delicate jaw. “Please don’t say things like that.”

Draco’s eyes finally met his, luminous and calm. He leaned into Harry’s touch, nuzzling softly into his palm.

“The potion helps,” he said quietly. “And being with you? That helps more than anything. It’s kept the cold that had settled into my bones go away. I’m not wasting another moment. I plan to make every single day count with you.”

Harry’s throat constricted. He leaned in, brushing his lips against Draco’s forehead and holding him close, the quiet promise hanging between them like the mountain air—clear, and eternal.

They hadn’t spoken aloud about the countdown lingering over them—not in so many words—but it was there. A shared understanding that every breath together had to count. The severed bond between them had stolen something vital from Draco, something irreplaceable. It had left damage that no potion could fully mend. But it hadn’t taken everything. And now, they refused to let time steal anything more.

“We can’t waste any of it,” Harry whispered, voice barely audible. “Not a single day.”

Draco’s arms tightened around him. “Then let’s make each one beautiful.”

They had made a quiet vow their first night after their long overdue talk, lying tangled together beneath the patchwork quilt in Harry’s bed in Grimmauld Place. No grand proclamations. No formal promises. Just a breathless exchange between soulmates long separated—an unspoken agreement to live. To love without hesitation.

Now, as Harry turned to face him, the wind tugging at their hair, he cupped Draco’s jaw in his hands and brushed a kiss across his pale mouth. Slow. Steady. A kiss that said I’m here. I’m yours to the very end. A kiss that promised a thousand mornings more, even if fate only gave them a few hundred.

A loud crack shattered the quiet serenity of the patio, startling Harry slightly from their peaceful little bubble. He turned just as a house elf appeared beside them, bowing low with exaggerated politeness. The creature’s ears flopped forward with the movement, nearly brushing the wooden floorboards.

“Hello, Tig,” Draco greeted with a warm smile, clearly expecting him.

“Master Draco and honored guest, welcome to Château du Cygne,” the elf said, his voice high and clear. “Tig is most honored by your return, Master.”

Harry blinked at the name. Château du Cygne—Swan Manor. It suited the tranquil setting, nestled against the snow-capped mountains and crystal lake.

“Harry,” Draco said, turning toward him, “this is Tig. He manages several of my family’s estates throughout Europe.”

Harry raised a brow, glancing between Draco and the polite little elf. “Several? Just how many properties do you own, exactly?”