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Chapter Text

Draco

Omega biology: an overview guide

Chapter Four: Presentation Heats

As discussed in Chapter three: biological adaptations , the physical changes of an omegas secondary development are always followed by a so-called presenting heat. The presenting heat is essentially a sudden magical maturation of the omega body on a cellular level. This is the physiomagical maturation an omega will go through in order to assume their secondary gender.

This chapter will describe the physio-magical, mental and emotional aspects of the presentation. From this point until chapter 10: Emotional needs from their Alpha, there will be a section divide between female and male omegas due to significant physiomagical differences.

Thump.

I jolted, my hands gripped the book so tightly it creased at the spine. My eyes darted around the cramped bathroom stall, heart hammering. Just a noise. Just another pipe or footstep beyond the wall. Still locked. Still alone.

Curse the ministry official who’d granted my request. When they had compiled my list of textbooks and asked if I had any requests this was not what I had suggested. I had begrudgingly asked for a guide on omega anatomy. Not a bloody healer coursebook, three inches thick and double-columned. I would never admit to devouring the first three chapters last night when I got the book.

Admitting to myself that I had changed had been hard enough. Mortifying, even. The moment I caught the female guard sniffing the air- sniffing- was the last straw. Her face had scrunched in mild curiosity. She was a beta, thank Merlin, or else I might have done something embarrassing like sniff her back.

I'd requested a guide to omega biology, not a medical encyclopedia designed to make me vomit. This sort of thing was for Granger. Not me.

I sighed and hefted the cursed book into my lap again, flipping past diagrams and anatomical models until I found the correct section, my thumb keeping place at the already too highlighted chapter.

Impossible to hide the book too.

Physiomagical presentation; Male omegas

Physical aspects

The final phase of sexual maturation in male-designated omegas is initiated by the differentiation and separation of the perineal epithelial ridges. This process results in the formation of the perineal introitus, an external opening located between the anus and scrotum. The introitus serves as the visible entry point to the secondary reproductive canal , a hormonally responsive structure capable of accommodating penile penetration and supporting gestation, for more information see chapter three: biological adaptations.

I swallowed thickly. Penile penetration. Then I caught myself inhaling deeply as something sharp and warm stirred the air.

A scent. Strong. Intoxicating. Familiar in the same way a nightmare is familiar. Somewhere beyond the walls, an alpha. My body reacted before my mind did. Breathing in, mouth parting, every nerve alive. My thighs closed together. I shoved the book closer to my face and forced myself still.

This is not okay.

I folded myself deeper into the stall, fingers digging into the book’s edge until the skin blanched white.

The text continued with clinical precision:

The external genital morphology is collectively referred to as the external reproductive vestibule, which becomes prominent following the onset of omega-specific endocrine changes, typically occurring during late adolescence or early adulthood.

There was a footnote— for more information, see Chapter Six: Neurological Regulation of Arousal States —but I ignored it.

Access to the secondary canal is generally achieved via penetrative copulation, most commonly with alpha individuals during mating cycles. 

My thighs clenched once more. I felt lightheaded.

However, clinical and anecdotal data indicate that beta partners may also engage in intercourse through this structure, though this is considered atypical in some socio-biological contexts. Furthermore, in most unusual cases, copulation between omegas may occur.

No shit some would choose betas, betas were the most unproblematic. I stopped reading, wishing I was still a beta.

The book slid from my lap and landed on the floor with a muffled thud. My hands remained suspended in the air, trembling.

My body was following a pattern. Written in generations of magical biology and inheritance. Mother’s prediction had been wrong . And there was nothing I could do now to stop it. 

The textbook sat on the floor, staring at me.

Its presence was heavy in the little space of the toilet stall, more oppressive than the concrete walls, more inescapable than the chains I’d worn in court.

I couldn’t look at it anymore. Couldn’t touch it. I’d barely skimmed two paragraphs before my skin was crawling, a strange heat prickling up the back of my neck, between my shoulder blades and down my spine.

I wasn’t cold, but I started to shake. Not in the visible way—but inside, deep in my muscles, something was vibrating with horror. The description of the introitus —the very word made me nauseous—echoed in my mind. Located between the anus and scrotum. I didn’t want to think about it, but the feeling was always there. Damp. Warm. Wrong. My fingers twitched. My thighs clenched without permission. Curse this. I had never been so horny in my life. After what I now had to admit was my presentation heat my body wouldn’t listen to me, reacting to any and all stimuli. I’d start leaving snail trails soon if this didn’t stop.

I remembered the sensation, the first time I touched it. How it had made me shudder, how my hand had come away slick. I wanted to scrub it off. Peel the skin away. Pull it out by the roots, if there were roots. Tear it open wider and curse whatever gods had forced this on me.

Why did we never learn of all the secondary genders? This must have happened to someone else? Usually children were educated on their own biology according to their predicted gender. The whole school had been divided into special sexual education classes depending on the gender they were predicted to present as. I knew all about ruts and controlling your alpha and knots and controlling scents around omegas. But nothing about how it was the other way around.

I crouched low on the floor in the stall, pressing my forehead to the door. Cold against my skin. Real. Solid. The world was spinning otherwise.

I didn’t belong in this body anymore.

The textbook had diagrams. So clinical. Cross-sections. Arrows. Penetrative access, it had said, as though that was just something to file under ‘Normal Functions.’ As though it were fine.

I knew what that meant. I had lived that word— penetrative. It didn’t belong in a textbook any more than it belonged in my memory. The words from the page blurred and resurfaced, jumbled:

“Capable of accommodating penetration.”
“Typically occurs in early adulthood.”
“Supports gestation.”

Gestation.

My stomach lurched and I barely made it to the toilet before I was heaving, dry and loud. There was nothing left in me. Just acid and humiliation and fear . It hit me like a wave: I will be able to get pregnant.

No.

No, no, no.

My nails dug into my arms until I could feel them pierce skin. I wanted to scream, but no sound came. Just a soft, miserable whimper that echoed off the walls and back into me.

I wasn’t meant for this. My body wasn’t supposed to change like this. It was way too late for an omega presentation. If I was meant to be an omega I would have presented way earlier. Something was wrong.

I sat there for Merlin knows how long, sweat soaking into the collar of my second hand school robes, knees drawn to my chest.

The scent was still faint in the air— now being overridden by another alphas scent—and it was making my nose tickle. The scent was strong, demanding. Smelling like stormy rain and ozone lightning. I had no idea how I could even come up with such a silly description. My head spun with phantom tingles, my lower body throbbing with a subtle, persistent ache. I inhaled again. And again. I started panting, my pupils dilating. My body still very much on board with what I had been reading before. This was a powerful alpha. Worthy of mating. Just as I was about to unlock the door I jumped.

No. I put my hands behind my back and sat down on the closed toilet once more.

I didn’t want it. I didn’t want any of it.

I wrapped my arms tighter around myself. I wanted to crawl out of my skin.

I didn’t want to feel. Didn’t want to smell or ache or need. I wanted to be numb.

But I wasn’t.

And I couldn’t stop it.

HARRY

It started with a scent.

Thick. Sweet. Ripe.

I was mid-conversation with Hermione—well, pretending to be—when it hit me. It curled through the air like smoke, wrapping itself around my senses, sliding down the back of my throat and settling low in my stomach.

No.

My whole body went still. Heat coiled in my abdomen like a strike of lightning, sudden and uninvited. My palms clenched. I forced a neutral expression. A perfectly reasonable one- like I wasn’t five seconds from sinking my teeth into someone’s scent glands.

I dared a glance at Ron, he looked at me as well, his nostrils flaring. His lips curled into a brief smirk, no doubt seeing the struggle. He had always been better at controlling his alpha. 

Hermione was still speaking. We were the only ones who could smell it, it was so faint. Ron laughed about something, having already moved on. Their words skated past me like wind through leaves.

“-Anything from the trolley?”

I blinked. I must have spaced out. More like trying not to rut through my pants like a dog and traumatising my friends. “Sorry Mione, what did you say?”

Hermione gave me a sympathetic smile, probably thinking I was stuck in the past again. This was the first time I was thankful for her concern. Easier to be haunted by trauma than to admit I’d spent the last five minutes fantasising about knotting the omega with that stupidly addictive scent.

“I said, do you want anything from the trolley? She just passed and we told her we’d catch up with her”

“Oh. I can go get what everyone wants. I have to go to the loo anyways.” Maybe I sounded too eager, but with any luck she'd chalk it up to needing another moment to emotionally regulate—her favourite phrase lately. Admittedly I had been needing to do that a lot this past year. Now I just needed to find that scent.

“Okay, sure. I just want a butterbeer” 

“I want three chocolate frogs,” Luna piped up.

“Get me a butterbeer too mate. And we’ll give you the money when you return, yea?”

“Yeah, sure Ron. Whatever you say.” I nodded, slow. Neutral. Friendly. I made my way out of the compartment, only half-listening to what my friends were saying. I needed air. I needed distance. I needed to find the omega who had just turned my spinal cord into a live wire.

Get a grip. I exhaled.

Once I had closed the door behind me I could think more clearly. I truly did need to pee. But mostly, I needed to stop thinking about how sweet that omega scent was—like heat-warmed honey and whatever self-respect I had left. 

I started walking towards the loo on the front end of the cart. After only a few steps I realised the scent was growing more faint. Nope . That way led to dignity. I abruptly turned around, not being able to stop myself. Shit. Quick steps took me to the loo on the back end, the scent was growing stronger here. Of course it was. Of course the omega in question was marinating the hallway in pheromones like it was an open invitation- unless they didn’t even know. Or worse, they knew exactly what they were doing. I hated that I cared. I tried to slow down. Trying not to look like I was chasing a heat trail through the Hogwarts Express. I wasn’t some feral dog in his first rut. I had control. I had excellent control.

Except now.

The scent was stronger toward the back. Heavy and warm and desperate. Someone was close to presenting. Or had just come out of heat. And wasn't masking.

I passed a few compartments, trying to look casual, ignoring the flush crawling up the back of my neck. I wasn’t here to hunt. I just needed to know. Needed to understand.

I stopped in front of the loo, looking at the locked stall.

“It’s a wonderful scent, isn’t it?

I jolted, not having realised there was someone beside me. Zacharias Smith. “What?”

He raised an eyebrow “She must be wanting to be found. The omega must be dripping.” He sighed wistfully and continued “Must be in pre-heat. Brave of her not to mask.”

“Uh, yeah. Brave. I was just going to the loo”

He sniggered. “Sure you were”.

I huffed. "A bit rapey to wait for someone to finish in the bathroom, don't you think?”. As if I was any better.

He sputtered “I wasn’t- ” and stormed off.

I ducked into the loo next to the source of the scent. Someone was clearly inside. Door locked. Soft sound behind it. I ignored it. I didn’t want to be that kind of alpha. As if I hadn’t just had the exact same thought as such an alpha. Fantastic. Now I was no better than Zacharias bloody Smith—slinking around train corridors with a hard-on and a half-formed excuse. I usually had more control than this.

My reflection in the mirror didn’t help. Broad shoulders filled out the frame. Bigger hands now, bigger feet too. I’d started working out last winter to deal with the flashbacks—and once I presented, I just kept growing into it. My biceps strained against the sleeves of my shirt. Everything about me looked... too much. Too alpha. I splashed water on my face. My hands were shaking.

What the fuck is wrong with me? Going after attention seeking omegas when I was supposed to be with my friends? 

I’d trained for this. I’d prepared. My secondary gender had presented three months ago, and I’d made damn sure I’d mastered scent control before anyone could use it against me. I wasn’t going to be someone’s fantasy or threat. I wasn’t going to be reduced to my bulk or instincts—even if every bloody seam in my uniform strained with how much I’d changed. I was Harry fucking Potter. I had enough problems already.

But here I was. Practically panting outside a locked loo. About to knock the door down and offer my assistance.

Pull it together.

I sighed, shook it and zipped myself up again. While washing my hands I kept berating myself. This wasn’t who I was.

I clenched my fists. Heat thrummed at the base of my spine- the same place instinct wanted me to thrust.

The scent intensified again. I leaned against the wall and squeezed my eyes shut. My jaw locked. Magic hummed under my skin.

I wrestled my scent back into silence.

One. Two. Three deep breaths. You’re not some animal. 

I was about to go to a castle full of omegas, I had gained complete control of my alpha quickly. If it was anything like sixth year, I truly needed it. I couldn’t afford to slip up. Not when I was about to share a common room with girls giggling over my scent like it was amortentia in a bottle.

Shuddering at the memory of being newly presented, losing control in that shop in Diagon- Hermione pretending not to notice, Ron restraining me and laughing it off.

I really didn’t have the mental capacity for any giggling schoolgirls claiming my pheromones were making them do things.

I scrubbed a hand down my face. Waited. Until the edge dulled. Until I was myself again.

How could I claim to have such good control when I ended up like this as fast as an omega didn’t mask their scent in my presence? What kind of idiot alpha reacts to a scent like it’s a bloody siren song? Oh, right. Me. Ron never acted like this, only me. I should have found a way to be exposed to unmasked omegas before.

I took a few deep breaths. Let my magic sink back into my core, tight and leashed. Hermione said I had an unusually deep well—she called it a blessing. It didn’t feel like one now. Not when I didn’t even use it to stop myself from turning into a rutting disaster.

I stepped back out, straight into the scent again. Jesus fuck. I stopped in my tracks, locking every muscle against the instinct to push open the locked stall door.

You’re not that kind of alpha.

Not like Zacharias. Not like the ones who saw omegas as prey.

Eventually, I got myself under control. Mostly.

When I’d first presented, it had reminded me too much of sixth year. When I wasn’t in control of anything. When power meant someone else’s will in your head. I wasn’t letting that happen again.

When I finally turned back toward the trolley, I was silent, controlled. No trace of heat in my scent. Not even a whisper.

Still.

I walked like my skin didn’t quite fit anymore. Thinking about the omega in that stall.

I cursed that scent. Cursed that I didn’t know who it belonged to.

And I cursed being an alpha the whole damn way.

Now what did everyone want again? Butterbeer? Frogs? 

I just wanted a name for that goddamned scent that was going to haunt me the rest of the term.

DRACO

It was disgusting.

No. I was disgusting.

I was on all fours on the cracked tile of the Hogwarts train loo, legs spread, thighs damp, staining my trousers, scent leeching into the air like it was trying to climb the walls. There was no hiding it. No containing it. I’d spent the last minute clenching every muscle I possessed and still couldn’t stop the low, involuntary whine that escaped when I heard a door click nearby.

An alpha.

My body recognised it before I did. My core reached. My scent flared instinctively, betraying me completely. I slammed my head back against the cubicle wall with a dull thunk, just to feel something sharp and external.

“What, exactly,” I muttered aloud, “was the spell for ‘shove it back in and pretend you’re still a person’ again?”

No answer, of course. Just the sound of blood rushing through my ears and the slow, humiliating drip of slick onto the floor between my knees.

Not in heat. Just... completely unregulated. Newly presented. My hormones apparently thought I was a brothel curtain waiting to be drawn aside. Every breath felt like I was going to shatter. Every inch of fabric against my skin was too much and too little.

And worst of all—someone had scented me. Not just scented—hovered. Waited. My instincts said they’d stood close. Too close. A presence like warm fire and dangerous lightning pressing against my consciousness before it pulled away. I couldn’t place the alpha signature. But my core had liked it. Had leaned into it. Was still leaning into it. I had unconsciously pressed myself to the side wall of the loo. The alpha was in the loo on the other side. 

I wiped my mouth on the sleeve of my robe. “Fucking traitor,” I said to myself.

The worst part? It set deep in my nose- God. Something rich and clean, like rain and pine sap, or a thunderstorm right before it breaks. It had wrapped around my mind like a collar. I hated how much I wanted it.

I pushed myself upright, hands shaking. My legs didn’t want to cooperate, so I staggered against the stall door and cursed under my breath. My robe stuck uncomfortably to my back, the material damp with sweat. My wand- my precious wand the ministry had gotten from Potter and given back- was on the floor, half-covered in Merlin-knew-what. I bent to retrieve it, nearly gagging on my own scent.

I needed to mask. Desperately. I muttered three different scent-dampening charms—none worked. They sparked and fizzled, sliding off my skin like water on oil.

Brilliant.

“New low,” I said to my reflection in the scratched mirror above the sink. “Even for me. Next I’ll be asking the trolley lady for a towel and a cuddle.” It didn’t sound like such a bad idea. She was a beta, she wouldn’t try anything. A sob escaped from my throat.

My voice sounded raw. Wrecked.

I grabbed handfuls of cold water and splashed my face. Drenched the back of my neck. Scrubbed until the skin stung. Nothing helped. The scent still clung—too sweet, too exposed. I looked like someone who’d just come, and I had no one to blame but biology. 

If someone recognised my signature—

No. No, I couldn’t think about that. Couldn’t spiral.

I braced my palms on the sink and stared at the drain. Tried to slow my breathing. Tried not to think about the fact that the whole corridor probably smelled like me now. That the alpha had walked straight into it. That I’d liked it. 

I needed to pull myself together. Now.

“You’re a Malfoy,” I said aloud. “You’ve lied to the Dark Lord. You can lie to a few hormones.”

I shoved my damp hair back, fixed my robes as best I could, and straightened. My legs still felt like overcooked noodles. My scent wasn’t under control. But I couldn’t stay here forever. I had to leave before someone made the connection.

Before someone asked who the omega in the loo had been.

Before he came back.

I unlocked the stall. Paused. Took one more shallow breath and locked the door again. I couldn’t do it.

The scent that had been faint in the air just now—That unknown alpha’s scent. That crackling, potent heat.- had become stronger again. Electric and unforgettable. I trembled before the door. A part of me was disappointed I had locked the door again. A part of me wanted to open the door, forget my disgust with myself and surrender in his arms.

The moment passed, his scent grew weaker.

Whoever that alpha had been... my body had already decided it wanted more.

Fuck my life.

HARRY

By the time I reached the trolley, I’d mostly wrangled my scent back into something passable—muted, controlled, alpha-with-discipline. The lady handed me two butterbeers, three chocolate frogs, and a sugared pumpkin slice Luna hadn’t asked for but would definitely appreciate.

I didn’t say a word. Just nodded, paid, turned back.

The moment I opened the compartment door, the relief hit me like a bludger to the chest.

Safe air. Familiar scents. Family. No electric charge curling behind my teeth. I stepped inside, and it felt like I could belong in my own skin again.

Hermione glanced up from her book, her brow tightening just slightly.

“Thanks, Harry,” she said gently, accepting her bottle.

“Did you fight the trolley lady for our frogs?” Ron asked, grinning as he snatched his sweets. “You look like someone threatened your honour.”

I grunted. “No one threatened anything.”

Ron raised an eyebrow. “Right. So you just look like you want to commit murder for fun.” He knew, of course he knew. Every alpha on the train probably knew an omega was broadcasting in the bathroom.

I shoved the food bag toward him a little too hard. “Here. Enjoy.”

“Alright, alright—don’t get your knot in a twist,” he muttered with a smirk.

I froze.

He meant it as a joke. I knew that. But something sharp rose in my throat—acid-hot and electric. Before I could stop myself, I snapped, “Don’t.”

The compartment went quiet.

Ron blinked. “Bloody hell, mate, I was just joking—”

“Well, don’t,” I said again, too fast. Too sharp. I sat down. Stared out the window. My fingers itched.

Hermione watched me carefully over the top of her book. Her eyes flicked once to my throat, where scent clings most stubbornly. Then to my hands. She didn’t say anything, but the weight of her attention settled like a quilt of suspicion.

Luna, blessedly, took a bite of her pumpkin slice and hummed like nothing was wrong. “Did you see the moonflower fields on the right side of the train just now? They only bloom on Tuesdays during high-pressure weather systems. Very rare.”

“Missed it,” I muttered.

“You were gone for a while,” Hermione said after a pause. “Did you—run into someone?”

My stomach turned.

“I was just in the loo.”

“Right,” she said slowly. “And... everything’s alright?”

I didn’t answer immediately. My jaw ached from holding it too tight. My whole body was still humming from that fucking scent. I could still feel it pressed against my bones, teasing my resolve apart like thread between teeth.

“I’m fine,” I lied.

Ron unwrapped a frog, offered it to me. I took it stiffly, holding the wriggling frog tight. I was not fine.

I couldn’t stop wondering who it had been. Which omega. If they were okay. If they’d done it on purpose. If they even knew.

And worse—I couldn’t stop wanting more.

A glint of something in Hermione’s eye told me she didn’t buy my performance. She never did. She leaned back slightly, but her fingers twitched like she was debating reaching for me. Or maybe her wand.

My scent must’ve been slipping again.

I inhaled deep. Focused. Forced it back down into my core like slamming a door.

Safe. Normal. Controlled.

Not the kind of alpha who lingered outside bathroom stalls fantasising about strangers.

But even as I sat there, pretending to sip my drink, my mind kept going back to that moment in the corridor. That scent like warm honey and summer twilight.

It had curled into me like a secret. I didn’t even know who it belonged to.

But I knew—somehow, without reason or logic—I’d recognise it again.

And I wasn’t sure what I’d do when I did.

A part of me hoped I wouldn’t recognise it, for the omega's sake.

Chapter Text

Draco

I didn’t move until the scent was gone.

Not just thinned out, not just faded—gone. Scrubbed from the corridor like it had never existed. Like the alpha had never hovered outside the door breathing through his mouth like a dog.

I counted five minutes after that. Then another five. Just in case.

My palms were still clammy.

With a breath held in my lungs too long, I peeled myself off the wall of the loo and turned to the sink. A quick scan. My reflection was... tragic. Colour had returned to my face in uneven patches, drying slick still clung to my inner thighs, and my hair—

Merlin.

It looked like I’d been hexed and then left in a cupboard to ferment. Long, down to my shoulders. Straw-like from the ministry soap, frizzed from drying unevenly, and somehow still managing to clump at strange angles. Attractive. I looked like a feral little ghost of my former self. I lamented my once sleek hair. The ghost of House Malfoy’s shattered dignity. Touching my hair absentmindedly, I realised I hadn't even been able to look in a real mirror since I was in the Manor.

No matter. I could fix it. I would fix it.

I took the brush I'd been granted in my little bag of Ministry-sanctioned “essential supplies”—such a thoughtful euphemism—and began to work it through the coarse tangles. The moment the bristles passed through a third time, the texture changed. Beneath the straw: soft waves. Silvery. Fine. Unruly, yes, but still—there. Real hair. Hair that hadn’t been let loose on my head since I was a child.

I stared at myself. At the platinum waves that fell past my cheekbones like curling ribbon, soft at the ends. A quiet ache bloomed in my chest. I hadn’t seen myself like this since before-

No. Don’t think about before.

I pulled myself upright. Washed my hands. I left the waves as they were, feeling bold. Let them be free, I thought. I washed my hands again. Fixed the collar of my uniform. Redid my tie, purple for some reason. Dabbed at my thighs with a wet paper towel, then scourgified my underwear just to be safe. I didn’t need anyone catching a whiff of whatever lingering humiliation clung to my skin.

Not that it mattered. I was saturated. This whole day had soaked into my bones like vinegar. I cast Aerialis purgo , gagging from the sterile alcoholic smell it brought for a second before settling. Right. The mild reaction it was supposed to give omegas before they adjust. I understood why it was considered rude to cast it in their presence, and I was glad I hadn’t tried it in my frazzled state before. Although the side effect was bearable when it purged the loo of all traces of the humiliation that occurred in it.

I picked up the discarded affront to my being. The Omega Guide. I shrunk the disgusting thing, aggressively cast a featherlight charm on it and shoved it in the pocket of my cloak.

After I was done, we had already rolled onto the platform. I gave it another five minutes, listening for footsteps. When I heard the thrum of the last voices fade from the corridor and the unmistakable whistle of the last call before departure, I moved.

Door unlocked. Dart out. One turn. No one in sight.

My trunk still stood in the corner by the loo where I’d stashed it. Just beneath the emergency lantern bracket. Of course it was. No one had touched it. No one wanted anything to do with Draco Malfoy these days—not even my luggage.

I hauled it out with a graceless thump and started running.

The platform was nearly deserted, save for a few students too busy catching up to make progress forward. I kept my head down, hair swinging into my face as I hurried down the gravel path toward the thestral-drawn carriages.

I didn’t bother looking at the creatures. I’d seen them already. Several times.

One carriage was about to go. Half-closed door. Empty interior.

Mine .

I flung the trunk up into the back, pulled myself in after it, and slammed the door shut just as the thestrals started forward.

I exhaled. Sagged into the seat.

Finally, no eyes. No scents. No alphas hovering outside locked doors.

No one to ask why I smelled like... this.

I made it to the castle just as the last students were being sorted. I should’ve waited longer.

Too late for regrets now.

The scent purging charm only worked on areas and my scent was starting to build again. I covered my nose, at least it wasn’t smelling so coyly sweet like ripe fruit anymore. I tried a scent masking charm. No luck, it still fizzled out embarrassingly. It wouldn’t hold anyway—not yet. Not when everything still felt raw and loose and wrong in my skin. Not when every step brought a brush of fabric and seams over that spot made me twitch, tense, flush.

I walked behind the fifth years I had been following. I didn't slow down. I couldn't or I would lose my cover. I slipped in behind them, head down, hood up.

Eyes on the floor. One foot in front of the other. Posture careful.

I aimed for the Slytherin table. My hood went back, but I didn't reach up to fix it. It would slow me down. The movement would bring more attention to me. I kept my head down. I just needed to sit down and hide in the crowd. I spotted an empty space at the edge of the table beside a group of fourth years. I made it to the table unnoticed—mostly. A few turned. A few nostrils flared. Someone leaned over to whisper something. It rippled outward like dropped ink in water.

I adjusted my cloak, but the movement made it swing wide open for a second. Air hit my ribs and hips—cool, dry, biting—and I felt it.

Eyes.

Heat, like a brand across the back of my neck.

I froze mid-motion. Didn’t look up.

Don’t look. It’s not him. Don't look. 

I sat. Quiet. Deliberate. Eyes on the table before me. 

Someone two seats down cleared their throat.

Just sit. Blend in. Eat something. Leave.

Someone else- further down the bench, yawned big, then froze, mouth still wide open. Rude.

I didn't meet anyone's eyes. I spooned potatoes onto my plate like a person with absolutely nothing to hide. Like my body hadn’t just been open and ready for an alpha in a locked train loo thirty minutes ago. Like I wasn’t still wet, for fuck’s sake.

“I'm gonna puke, what is that smell.” Someone whispered.

I swallowed. I wanted to cry.

The back of my neck prickled.

I knew that feeling. Had known it since I was eleven years old.

I looked up.

Across the hall, beyond the heads of first-years and a floating candle or two—there. Gryffindor table. Harry Potter, frozen in place like someone had slapped him in the face with a memory.

Our eyes met.

My blood turned to lead.

Potter looked—I didn’t even know the word. Stunned. Exposed. Like someone had yanked his shirt open and pointed. His mouth parted just slightly. His eyes wide.

“He smells so good, you know who it is?” I barely registered the whisper close to me.

He didn’t look away.

And worse: he looked like he knew.

Like he knew exactly what he was seeing. What he was smelling.

I felt it rush up—my scent curling sharper, tickling my nose. Mortified.

My thighs pressed together under the table instinctively.

He dropped his gaze like it burned.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I didn’t need a mirror to know my face had gone red. Or that my neck was blotchy. My skin always did that. Too pale to hide a thing.

I angled my body to the side, pulling my cloak tighter over my hips. My hands trembled slightly as I reached for my goblet.

He saw me.

Not just recognised. Saw me.

My new shape. My scent. Everything I’d been trying to contain in that cursed loo for the past hour. Potter knew.

And Potter looked—

Not disgusted.

Not exactly.

Just… wrecked.

My fingers curled tight around my glass. I pressed it to my mouth to hide the way it trembled. I hoped he wouldn't use it against me. If he was an alpha he very well could. I peeked at him. He was looking at Granger now- something heavy settled in my gut at seeing her- smiling tightly. A muscle in his neck was straining. The neck gave way to broad shoulders and big arms. I gulped. He was an alpha, alright. 

A hot shiver ran down to my centre at the thought.

What the fuck is happening?

I took shallow breaths. I bit the inside of my cheek. Anything to calm down and attempt to control my scent. The sickly sweet scent was returning. I could feel the people around me staring. Could catch mortifying parts of their whispers. I was powerless to stop it.

So I let them look.

Let them wonder.

I had no interest in talking to anyone.

Especially not anyone who could smell what I'd become. Which was everyone.

HARRY

The great hall was full. Small bodies were being sorted into houses. Judged and put in boxes on their first day. Their future school years to be set in stone. They looked so small. Had I been that small? I looked down on myself, watched the muscles on my forearms move when I flexed my hands. When did I stop being the skinny kid?

When I died and this suffocated adult returned.

Has it always been this crowded in the hall? Did the sounds always bounce off the walls, sounding everywhere at once? It wasn't so small before. Before it was big and endless. Bodies in never ending lines. Dead and alive separated. 

Why did I come back? To this school. To life.

“ ‘Mione” I rasped, wide eyed and panting. 

“Calmantia.” Practiced hands cast the charm. My shoulders eased and my thoughts were not in the front of my mind anymore.

“Thank you” I said, relieved, and squeezed her shoulder. She squeezed mine back for a moment before resuming eating.

The scent hit me the moment the doors opened. Thankfully distracting my nerves further.

Just a whisper at first—like sunlight on something soft and golden. Not strong, overwhelming as it had been on the train. Not urgent. But present. Elusive.

I went still, fork suspended in midair. My senses locked onto it like a bloodhound catching a trail.

It’s here again. It’s strong. Like sunlight stroking my skin- familiar in the worst way. Or the best. I couldn’t decide.

I sniffed—discreetly, I hoped. It was different now, not as wild as it had been in the corridor. Mellowed, dejected. Still warm, still sweet. Still humming against every nerve I thought I'd beaten into submission earlier.

I twisted in my seat, scanning the hall. It was so loud- laughing students, clinking goblets- but my mind didn't have time to react to it. The sorting was nearing its end. Students were still trickling in through the heavy oak doors. Latecomers. Stragglers. Fifth-years mostly. 

And then—movement.

A figure passed behind the Ravenclaw table, walking with quick, stiff strides toward Slytherin. Small frame. Pale. Hood sliding off their head with the fast movements. Hair went loose and strange—almost silvery, catching the torchlight in long wild waves that hadn’t been styled or tamed. There was something soft at the edges of them. Frizz like spun sugar. Skin like porcelain. Shoulders narrow beneath the robe—

The cloak shifted as the figure moved around the edge of the Slytherin bench.

They adjusted their cloak. It fell open.

My breath hitched. Low and sharp.

A slim figure.

I didn’t mean to stare, but I did.

Curved, delicious fluid lines beneath black fabric. A body with give, with softness that made my throat close. Every bit of alpha in my blood stood to attention without my permission.

Not heat. Not quite.

Just want.

I strained to keep my reaction unnoticed. Wrapped my magic tighter around my scent glands.

The figure paused at the bench. Hands hesitated. The robe shifted again. My nostrils flared

The scent bloomed. Mouth watering.

Fuck.

I shamelessly gripped the edge of my seat. My jaw locked. It wasn’t just the scent. It was them—whoever this was. The body, the presence—they were—

The figure sat.

Head down. Shoulders hunched like they were trying to disappear. A soft sweep of hair swung forward.

The figure looked up—timid, guarded, flinching at the attention from the nearby Slytherins. My gaze followed the motion automatically- my eyes snapped to their face.

And time crashed.

Even staring straight down to the table I could recognise that face. 

I knew every line of that face.

Malfoy.

The realisation hit like a punch to the chest. I blinked once. Then again.

Platinum hair. Pale lashes. The same too-sharp cheekbones and mouth full of tension.

But it wasn’t him. Not the proud boy I remembered from school. Not the broken boy shackled in a courtroom chair, rail-thin and grey-eyed and bleeding guilt through every pore. Not the wide-eyed wreck on the day of the trial, clutching his prison shirt like it was the only thing tethering him to Earth. It made something catch in my throat. The way he wouldn’t meet anyone’s eyes—until he had. Until I had said something and the boy had looked at me like he didn’t understand the words.

Now…

This boy—this omega—was new. Softer somehow. The way the weightless sunlight hair brushed his shoulders. More fragile and more there, all at once. He looked—I didn’t even know.

Younger. And older.

My alpha longed to protect him. 

My pulse throbbed behind my ears.

“Mate?”

Ron’s voice barely broke through the buzz.

“Harry? Are you alright?” Hermione leaned in, her voice low. Her eyes were scanning me. Assessing. She hadn’t fully let me out of her attention since casting the calming charm. She noticed the change in me the moment the doors opened.

I didn’t look away. Couldn’t.

Malfoy turned his head slightly—toward someone down the bench. A brief glance, no more. But in that second, our eyes met.

Grey. Wide. Unreadable.

For a beat, neither of us moved. I didn’t even realise I was holding my breath until Malfoy’s eyes widened just slightly—and then darted away. He hunched forward. Tucked his robe tighter around himself. Pressed his knees inward like he could fold himself into nothing. Like it hurt to be seen. 

I could still smell him. I couldn’t look away.

Ron gave my shoulder a little shove. “Oi. You look like someone slapped you.” His voice garbled by a mouth full of bread roll, “Or showed you their tits.”

I blinked hard. “Nothing,” I croaked. “I’m—fine.”

Ron's nose twitched and his eyes strayed to the Slytherin table- thankfully Malfoy had his hood up again- and he smirked. “Yeah, sure.”

For some reason, the thought of anyone else smelling him made something crawl in my gut.

Hermione huffed at Ron’s comment. Sharp as ever, she didn’t buy my excuse. Her eyes flicked to the Slytherin table. She saw the strange student- looking like a breeze might knock them over. Her brow furrowed. But she didn’t ask. Not yet.

I turned back to my plate, but the food may as well have been dust. Thank God they didn’t recognise him. Why was I being protective of this scent? Why couldn't I stop smelling it.

The scent still lingered—too faint for anyone else to notice, but my body wouldn’t let it go. I could still feel it crawling up the inside of my throat.

I couldn't piece it together.

The scent. The train. The ache in my gut. The heat behind my eyes.

It had been Draco fucking Malfoy.

And that changed everything.

-------

The courtroom was colder than I expected.

Not physically, but in the way silence stretched thick between every word. The Wizengamot sat like statues—black robes swallowing them whole, faces carved in stone. Watching. Judging. I was glad I wasn't the subject of their attention.

I’d requested to stand as witness. The Ministry allowed it, not wanting to disrespect the Savior of the Wizarding World. They would also never decline an opportunity to hear more about my heroics during the war, as the Prophet had tactfully put it.

The moment I stepped up, I could feel every eye in the room trying to burn holes in me. Many with wonder in their eyes. Others just waited for me to stumble.

I didn’t expect Draco to be there. Not really. I thought maybe he’d be somewhere else. Somewhere safer.

When they called his name, my throat went dry.

He looked smaller than I’d imagined. Not from distance or posture. Something had been stripped from him, leaving a hollow, fragile shell. His voice barely came out when he tried to speak. He wasn’t the same boy I knew from Hogwarts. Not the same enemy. Not even the same person.

I took a breath. I tried to tell the truth as clearly as I could.

I told them how he hadn’t raised his wand. How he hadn’t betrayed me, even when it would have saved him.

I told them how he’d hesitated. How he’d been scared. How the Dark Lord had ruled his life like a shadow he couldn’t shake. I told them how Draco had basically shoved his wand into my hands at the Manor.

I didn’t say Draco was innocent.

I didn’t have to.

My words were enough.

I saw it in his eyes then. Confusion. Pain. Something like hope, fragile and shaking.

Then came the charges.

Endangering students. Attempted murder of the Headmaster. Dark Magic. Allegiance to Voldemort.

The weight of the words hit me too.

I watched Draco shrink beneath them, shoulders folding in like he could disappear through the floor.

Then the tone shifted.

They spoke of mitigating factors. Of age. Of coercion. Of Potter’s testimony.

They said he wouldn’t rot in prison.

Instead, probation. Finishing school. Travel banned for years.

I almost wanted to breathe.

But then the court mentioned something else.

The incident.

The guards. The coercion. The assault.

The bite.

I froze.

Nausea rose within me. I didn’t want to think about it.

But I saw Draco’s face.

Red. Hot. Ashamed.

And somewhere deep inside me, something broke.

Because I knew, without needing to be told, that this boy- this broken boy who had hurt to survive- was once a proud pureblooded bully. Was once arrogant and pompous. To go from that to this. He had been pushed so far no one else could have understood.

I wanted to reach out.

But I stayed silent.

Because this wasn’t about me.

This was about him.

And I wanted to remove my memories of this trial.

I had sent a note with his coursework, with my name it was easy enough to get someone to pass it on. But then I had tried to not think about the pointy git until hogwarts. I had forgotten all about him when I scented the omega on the train.

There was nothing pointy about him anymore.

DRACO

I made it to the end of the feast without vomiting or fleeing. Just barely.

I didn’t taste a thing I ate—if I even ate. The whole thing had gone syrupy and hollow. I kept my head down. Kept my cloak clutched around myself like a lifeline. Focused on breathing through my mouth and not looking at him.

Potter hadn’t looked back. Not once. Not that I could be sure. I hadn’t dared to check. But I hadn't felt that prickling sensation again.

The moment the benches scraped back and the students started to rise, I bolted.

I slipped off the bench, eyes on the floor, weaving past a blur of legs and robes and the rush of leaving bodies. The air was thick with scents—summer sweat, desserts, perfumed hair. But none of it broke through the sharp focus of my panic.

I kept my hood down low. Shoulders tucked. Just get out.

I made it just outside the Hall before it happened.

A presence. To the left. Still. Waiting.

Potter.

I didn’t look. I refused to have an interaction with him, not now.

I knew it was him. Could feel it. That thrumming, steady pull of pressure, like a storm held behind a glass wall. The kind of energy that crawled up my spine and set every nerve on edge.

Our scents hit the air between them like flint and kindling.

No.

No. No. No.

I pushed past—eyes forward, jaw locked. Cloak catching against the stone. Shoulders tight.

Potter didn’t say anything. Just turned his head, just enough for me to know he saw. Felt. Knew.

The corridor wasn’t wide enough for escape, not really. But the crowd saved me. Within seconds, they were all funneling toward the stairs—an endless crush of teenagers and noise, everyone rumbling upward toward the Divination Tower- the new common room for repeaters, the eight year s- like sleepwalkers.

I slunk to the back, while Potter was caught in the front, attention kidnapped by his friends. Good. I could pretend that didn't just happen in peace. I could pretend I hadn't been in a breeding position on a bathroom floor for Potter the bloody Saviour. And pretend that he hadn't been panting for it outside the door.

No. I can't think about it.

Something like that could never happen again.

I pulled my wand.

“Obscurio pherine.”

My whisper was dry. The spell fizzled—weak on the first try, but I was ready this time. Better than before. It had to work. 

The second attempt did.

My scent snapped back— sharp wilted roses drew inward, muffled. Contained. Normal. Almost neutral, just faint enough to pass for a worn-down perfume.

Relief flushed cold through my limbs. My shoulders sagged. No one turned. No one noticed.

I adjusted my hood, kept my eyes on the back of someone’s boots. Kept moving.

A few floors up, Potter’s voice floated toward me—muffled in the crowd. Laughing at something Weasley said. He wasn’t looking for me anymore.

Good.

I stayed invisible all the way to the tower.

The common room was large. Circular. Draughty. It looked like it had been barely converted from a storage area—thick rugs covering the floorboards, old Divination tapestries still hanging on the curved walls. There were student trunks shoved into corners and floating signs hovering above clustered doorways that said things like “Room1”.

McGonagall stood in the center with a scroll, her spectacles glinting in the torchlight.

Students shuffled into groups. Loud. Awkward. Nothing like a post-war reunion, right?

I lingered on the edge, quiet. Invisible again.

Until—

“Patil, Padma. Room Five.

Malfoy, Draco. Room Five.”

The words hung in the air like a curse.

I flinched.

There was a beat. Then the noise started.

A sharp “What?” from someone in the Hufflepuff cluster.

“You’re putting Padma in with him? He’s a Death Eater—”

“Never presented alpha,” someone added with a sneer.

“Why’s he even in an omega dorm?”

“Can’t he go with the other betas?”

I froze. 

My blood flushed hot under my skin. My mouth went dry.

I looked down. My hands were trembling.

I knew this was coming. I just hadn’t expected it this fast. I began to shake slightly.

McGonagall didn’t flinch.

Her voice cut through the room like a wand through fog. Calm. Sharp.

“Mr. Malfoy is not a beta. He is a newly presented omega. Which is, I remind you all, a protected identity and he will be treated as any other omega.”

The room went silent.

Stone-drop silence.

Then someone piped up. “He's still a guy paired with a girl. Who knows what he'll do.”

I didn’t breathe.

“Mr Smith, Mr Malfoy is on strict probation. I am sure he will behave with utmost respect. If I hear another word against this pairing, I will assume the speaker is expressing a problem with omega rights, and deal with them accordingly. Do I make myself clear?”

Smith swallowed. “Yes, Headmistress.”

Patil didn’t say anything. She stepped forward, nodded once at me. Not friendly, but not horrified either.

I moved. Automatically. I followed her to the doorway marked Room Five, not trusting my legs to carry me properly.

I felt it again.

That look.

I glanced back—just once.

Potter. Watching. Eyes unblinking. Jaw tense. A strange, low heat behind his gaze.

I disappeared through the door without a word.

She didn’t speak as we entered. Just walked across the room to the bed farthest from the door and started unpacking like it wasn’t a big deal. Like she roomed with disgraced ex-Death Eaters every term.

I stood near the threshold for a beat too long, trying not to look like I was bracing for impact.

The room wasn’t awful. Two narrow beds. Two trunks. A curtained window showing dark sky and the shadowed edge of the Forbidden Forest. There was a wardrobe we’d clearly have to share, and a small desk beside it that looked like it had been dragged up from storage last minute. A privacy screen stood folded against the wall. Someone—probably McGonagall—had tried.

I sat on the edge of my bed and made a show of straightening my sleeves. My hands were shaking. My eyes too wide.

Say something, Malfoy.

But what the hell was I supposed to say? Thank her for not refusing? Apologise for ruining her last school year with my very existence?

In the end, I said nothing. Just started unpacking. Slowly.

My robes were still rumpled from the train, and my second hand jumper had a strange crease in it from where I’d shoved it into my trunk in a blind panic earlier. I could feel her glance over once, brief and noncommittal. Assessing. She wasn’t scared of me—but she wasn’t thrilled either.

Finally, she broke the silence.

“So,” she said, voice neutral. “That was a dramatic entrance.”

I froze with one hand on a pair of socks. “…Was it.”

“Very.” She folded a blouse with methodical precision. “I saw you during the welcoming feast. I didn’t recognise you, but I smelled the anxiety all the way here. I’m not worried about you hurting me.” She straightened and looked me in the eyes. “Our paths never crossed in the past, and I’m glad they didn’t. But you’ve obviously changed much since then.”

I swallowed and nodded. She was being very reasonable. I didn’t know what an appropriate response was. My social skills were deteriorating already when living with the Dark Lord, now they were beyond rusty. She saw me opening and closing my mouth like a fish and took pity on me.

“You snuck in like a shadow. Hood up. Full mysterious energy. Half the table thought you were a disguised dementor.”

I snorted before I could stop it. A real sound. It escaped, sharp and surprised. My eyes widened.

Patil glanced over and smiled, small and crooked. “Guess not.”

I cleared my throat, startled out of my awkward state by my own reaction. “Not a dementor. Just… maladjusted.” 

“Don’t worry,” she said, shrugging. “You’re not the only one.”

Something about that landed—soft, unexpected.

She didn’t ask about my presentation. Didn’t ask about the trial. Or the scent masking charm that was surely obvious. The way my scent was bland and… beige because of it. She just kept folding her things and stacking them into the wardrobe like this was normal. Her scent was calm and clean. Balanced and tidy. The kind of scent that got good marks and never talked back. She readied herself quickly.

When I had made my bed and organised my school books, she had already gone to the bathroom and back. In pyjamas and smelling of shower steam. Her hair was in a braid, still dry. She looked relaxed and comfortable.

I reached for my pyjamas, avoiding the mirror above the desk. I hadn’t seen myself properly in months. My whole body. Not since jail. Not since…

I looked in my trunk, seeing the minimal supplies the ministry and mother had provided, I hadn't even looked through it all yet. I found my pyjamas. Mother had sent my silk one. Small mercies. The ministry had included underpants for omegas. The beta guard must have spread the word. It would have been quite considerate, had I not felt absolutely disgusted by them. I sighed, and gathered what I needed.

I dared a peek at my face at least in the mirror, careful to not let my gaze stray. 

My hair was still wrong. Curls emerging unevenly between the waves after weeks of dryness and neglect. I looked like someone else. Pale. I had never had such defined waves before. I looked softer around the edges. Eyes still sunken in spite of the rest of me filling out with presentation.

I caught Patil watching me in the mirror.

“Your hair’s grown,” she said.

I blinked.

“Looks better this way. You don't look so unapproachable.”

It wasn’t a compliment. Not really. Just an observation. A plain, quiet thing she didn’t seem to think twice about. But it hit me like a stone dropped in water.

I nodded once, quickly. “Thanks.”

Silence stretched again. Not uncomfortable. Just… quiet. Still.

She yawned.

“We have class together in the morning. Muggle Studies, I think,” she said. “McGonagall posted the timetables in the common room.”

Of course we did. The one class I wasn’t allowed to fail.

“Is it alright if I take a shower?” I said. She nodded and I escaped to the privacy of the bathroom.

It was a nice one. Not big but not small. Enough room to properly move around. A toilet, sink and shower as expected. A mirror over the sink I refused to look into. Also a full length cabinet with towels on the lower shelves and empty space to put our things on the higher shelves. Patil had left the highest ones to me. Makes sense, I'm much taller.

I stood under the spray far too long. I couldn't remember the last time I had properly cleaned myself. The guards had hit me with several scourgifies before letting me out of their holding. They couldn't risk anyone seeing their neglect after all. But then again, many would be glad to see me suffer, so maybe they should have left me as I was. 

I kept my eyes closed as I washed myself. My hands rough on my skin. If I was gentle I would feel my body too well. Would feel what was different.

I hummed to myself, trying to keep calm.

When I reached my groin I hummed louder. As I cleaned I began humming songs from The Weird Sister's instead of nameless tunes. Sang the lyrics as a hand skimmed over what was different from before. I rinsed off and jumped out of the shower. Dried myself roughly and threw on my underwear. Or I tried to. The old boxers mother had included wouldn’t go over my arse.

I tried again. Debated a resizing charm. It would work, but if it failed in the middle of the night it would squash my dick. I didn’t want to lose the only thing that was still the same. I tried again, made a frustrated noise when they didn’t miraculously fit, and vanished them. I threw on my pyjamas with nothing under.

I was panting by the time I was done.

Clean- and dressed- but at what cost.

The last straw was when I went to put my shampoo potion and herbal rinse mother had sent on my shelf.

I had to stand on my tippy toes. To reach a shelf I would have been able to see easily before.

Now I saw the underside of the board more than the upside of it. 

Before I knew it I sat on the fuzzy rug in the middle of the bathroom, hiccupping and rubbing my eyes.

By the time I was done with my impromptu breakdown, Patil was already buried in her fuzzy blankets. She must have brought her own, I hadn't seen them before. 

She peeked at me from behind a book, hopefully not seeing my red rimmed eyes in the dim nightlight. 

“Goodnight” I said softly.

I murmured a warding charm under my breath. Just a sound-dampener around my bed. Nothing too strong. I didn’t want to be rude.

She didn’t comment on it. Just flicked her wand and the lantern on her nightstand went out. She curled onto her side, facing the wall.

I crawled into bed.

My body ached like it had been wrung out. Nothing smelled like it should. It should smell of damp dungeon and faint potion ingredients and Blaise’s misty scent and Vincent's dirty socks. Instead everything smelled like Hogwarts and wood polish and lavender and a hint of Patil’s spicy jasmine and not what I craved. Not like my friends.

Not like Potter.

Still, I couldn’t stop hearing the scrape of the bench. The turn of his head. The burn of his stare when McGonagall said the word omega.

He saw.

I curled tighter under the blanket.

Eventually, sleep found me. Light, shallow, uneasy.

But for the first time in more than a year, I wasn’t alone in the dark.

The next morning I made it a full thirty-seven minutes before I saw him.

Not that I was counting.

It was in the corridor outside our common room, near the ugly statue of the gargoyle chewing on a broomstick. I’d picked a spot against the wall, eyes fixed downward, hood half up and scent tucked away behind masking charms so flat and chalky it made my tongue taste like soap. I was waiting for Padma. She had insisted we go together to breakfast, and then had to run back to collect her inkwell.

-------

We had both woken up about the same time.

There was a strange quietness in the early morning. A stillness. The light was muffled where it seeped through the high window. For a moment I thought I’d gone blind- it was just a blurring charm she’d drawn across the glass, muting the outside. Quiet magic. Of course. I’d almost forgotten about Patil.

She sat up in bed gracefully, in a coordinated sleeping set with embroidered moons and stars at the collar. Meanwhile, I clawed my way upright, wearing my silk pyjamas that hung like a pillowcase on my frame. House elf chic. Had I noticed how different my favourite pyjamas sat yesterday I would have drowned myself in the shower. The neckline stretched where it shouldn’t, drooping over one shoulder. It made me look softer than I liked.

We didn't speak at first.

We danced around each other in our room getting ready for the day. Pretending to not notice each other’s existence. Her trunk made soft metallic clicks as she sorted through her things. I busied myself with spelling my school shirt flat over the bed, though it was already creased in ways I didn’t want to think about.  I put my shirt on and cast a tailoring charm on it. Why hadn’t I folded it better? My tie kept slipping through my fingers. My eyebrow twitched, the plum colour was a relief. For unity among us eight years, apparently. For me, all that mattered was not standing out as the only Slytherin.

It wasn’t until we both turned around at the same time- both angling for the mirror- and bumped into each other that we spoke. I flinched so violently I almost dropped my hairbrush. “Sorry-shit-sorry,” gesturing wildly with my hairbrush. “Completely my fault. I wasn’t-”

She blinked at me and put her hands up in a placating gesture, about to speak. But then her eyes went to the top of my head. They stayed there. Just a beat too long.

Her lips twitched. Then she burst out laughing. Not in a mean way. Not too loud. Just a soft, surprised laugh, like she was trying to hold it in and failed.

“What?” I demanded, paranoid.

She gestured vaguely to my head. “Your hair.”

Confused, I turned back to the mirror. Oh.

It looked like I’d been dragged backwards through a broom factory. Worse than Potter. Worse than Granger on a humid day. The loose frizzy curls from yesterday were nothing in comparison- no, now it was a frizzy blonde explosion. Tight curls springing out in every direction like my hair was trying to stage a rebellion.

I blinked at it in horror. “Oh, fuck me sideways.”

Patil dissolved into another quiet peal of laughter, covering her mouth.

I tried to scowl at her, but the effect was ruined by the brush getting caught halfway through a snarl. “It’s not funny,” I said weakly.

“It kind of is,” she said, smile still dancing on her lips. “It’s... full. You have curl pattern.”

“It’s worse than my aunt Bella’s was, Patil.”

She shrugged- not flinching at the reminder of my relative- stepping beside me at the mirror. “I think it’s nice. My sister would kill for curls like that.”

I snorted. “My father would kill to undo this.”

That came out too fast. Too raw. Padma glanced at me but didn’t push. Instead, she began unpinning the twin braids from her own hair, fingers deft and practiced. The waves fell in a dark curtain down her back.

“I use Sleekeazy when I want it flat. Most days I just braid it wet.”

“I can’t be expected to add another crisis to my mornings,” I muttered, still waging war against a knot. “I already lost a duel with this shirt.”

Patil gave me a soft chuckle and reached over. “May I?”

I stilled. Then nodded.

She took the brush gently, and her fingers were surprisingly sure, untangling a snare near the crown of my head. Her scent—spice and late-summer leaves—was mild but grounding.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Then she said, quietly, “It must be awful to present so late.” I swallowed. The brush paused. “And your body changed so much.” Her tone was full of sympathy and no pity. But still, something twisted under my ribs. A lump lodged in my throat. Nausea, slow and sour, climbed upward.

“It sucks,” I said before I could stop myself. I forced myself to keep detangling the front curls with my fingers. But then I caught myself looking down on my body.

Forgetting that she was there I stared. 

My waist looked… narrower. The shirt sat snugly around it. My ribcage no longer sat as wide beneath the fabric. My shoulders not as wide as they used to be. I glanced down and saw how the hem curved around bony hips that were still unmistakably omega—broad, wide, the kind that filled a chair differently. The kind made for childbearing. Hipdips giving way to thin thighs.

Something in me recoiled.

My fingers tangled in a knot and I yanked too hard. My fingers stuck in the kinks and coils. I shook my fingers loose. Tears stung behind my eyes. I bit the inside of my cheek. I inhaled shakily.

“Oh, darling.”

She didn’t mean it condescendingly.

She just stopped brushing my hair and wrapped her arms around me, her cheek near mine. I wasn’t ready for the softness of the hug. It startled me how good the hug felt. How safe. I hadn’t felt safe in a long time. She started to gently detangle the knot I had just worsened. Her voice, close to my ear, was quiet. “It’s not going to stay like this forever. Your body will stabilise. You’ll find a way to feel at home in it.”

I didn’t answer.

But I didn’t pull away, either.

When we left the dorm, her braid was slung over one shoulder and my hair looked marginally less like a nesting site for pygmy puffs. Oiled jaw length curls bouncing with my step.

We walked side-by-side. By the time we reached the corridor, we were on a first name basis.

-------

I didn’t hear him, not at first. I was too busy thinking about how surreal it felt to be on speaking terms with Padma. To think that she had styled my hair just now. 

Then I felt him.

Something tight in the air, a spark in the base of my spine. Alpha.

It was subtle, probably nothing anyone else would notice. But the moment Potter stepped into my periphery, the breath caught low in my stomach like I’d been punched there.

There was another alpha there too, but I knew his scent.

Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t—

I looked.

He was laughing at something Weasley had said, head thrown back, tendons of his neck on display. He slapped Weasley on the back—and then stalled.

Right on me.

I jerked my gaze down again, immediately. Heat rushed to my face. I turned slightly, pretending to dig in my satchel. Fingers brushing against the damned Omega Guide. Not that I needed anything. Not that I could concentrate on a single thing if I tried. I was ever grateful I had mastered the scent masking charm.

He wasn’t even doing anything. Just standing there, being Potter. And yet my body wouldn’t stop reacting—heart thudding, palms damp. Stomach swooping like I’d swallowed a live snitch. It was too much to ask of my rewired body. Not only one alpha, bulky, wet haired- but two of them. If I concentrated I could feel Potter's magic permeating the air. And I did concentrate.

I hated it.

I hated myself for seeing how being an alpha was doing good for Weasley of all people.

I hated my body for being drawn to them.

The worst part was how aware I was of myself now. My body. The way my eyelevel was lower than it was last time I walked these corridors. The way my thighs chafed together when I walked fast. How my skin warmed too easily when—

Don’t. Think. About. Him.

I held my breath, counted backwards from ten, muttered obscurio pherine under my breath combined with a discreet wand movement.

I was not going to pine like some pre-heat omega over bloody Potter.

Not after everything I’d said to him. Not after sixth year. Not after—

No.

Could Padma be any slower?

Chapter Text

Harry

The common room was a half-lit cave of shadows and stale air, cramped with bodies restless to connect with each other. The flicker of torches cast sharp, uneven light across faded tapestries, barely concealing the cramped corners where boxes containing crystal balls were dumped like afterthoughts. The place smelled of old wool and faint incense. McGonagall truly had done her best, it was much better than the divination classroom it surely had resembled before.

I stood near the edge, pretending to watch the swirling groups of students, but my eyes kept drifting toward the door marked “Room Five.” Because of who just walked in there.

The new Draco was smaller somehow, softer- but still somehow there in every sharp angle of his face, every brittle line of his posture. And there was that scent again, just a faint thread that threaded its way through the stale common room air. A scent that had nearly undone me in the Great Hall, that had left me raw and aching. Now it was flat and empty, prickling my nose.

I swallowed against the sudden tightness in my throat. My muscles twitched with the pull of instincts I’d spent months learning to hold in check — the want, the protectiveness, the sheer magnetic pull that made me want to reach out and steady him. Make him release whatever he did to mask his scent so artificially. Let me inhale deep in his neck.

But I didn’t. I couldn’t. My alpha was going bonkers, reacting so strongly to a single omega.

The room was buzzing low with murmurs- whispers that cut sharper than any voice raised. Some were disgusted, others curious. All too loud in their own way. I saw some faces turn toward where Malfoy had just walked through the door. Their eyes flicking with judgment, suspicion, confusion.

I clenched my fists until my nails bit into my palms, grounding myself. This was not the moment to start defending my old rival. Not yet.

I dragged myself away from the door and over to where Ron and Hermione had claimed a spot on the couch near the hearth. Luna sat cross-legged on the floor, humming faintly, hands tucked under her knees. She had abandoned her own common room to join us. She tilted her head when I sat down beside her, as if seeing something just over my shoulder.

Seamus raised a butterbeer in mock toast as I approached. “Look who’s come back from the dead.”

“Bit rich coming from you,” I said, bumping his foot with mine. “Last I heard, you blew up a bridge and nearly killed Neville in the process?”

“True, but I can't speak for why Neville stayed on the bridge so long,” he replied, grinning as he leaned back on his elbows. “And I blew up the foundation of the bridge. We still haven't been able to repair it. But who’s counting?”

“McGonagall,” Neville said dryly, “McGonagall is definitely counting.”

Parvati laughed, curled beside Seamus with a blanket thrown over both their knees. “She says she’s keeping a list of mischief this year. For sentimental reasons.”

“We’re all doomed,” Seamus sighed, stretching like a satisfied cat. Feet reaching Dean in the armchair opposite, tickling his calves. “Anyway. Good to see your faces.”

“You too,” Hermione said, her smile faint but real. “It’s been… a long time.”

The conversation softened around that. Like everyone had silently agreed not to dig too deep, not tonight. Just warmth, surface-level comfort. No trenches, no ghosts.

“How’s your Gran?” Ron asked Neville, who was hovering nearby with a mug that steamed faintly of cinnamon.

“She’s threatening to audit the Herbology syllabus if they don’t increase hands-on venomous plant work,” Neville said cheerfully.

“Wonderful,” said Luna, dreamily.

“She’s not wrong,” Neville added. “It’s been good, though. Quiet. For the first time in a while.”

Seamus nodded. “That quiet feels weird, doesn’t it? Like something’s going to snap.”

Parvati nudged him gently with her shoulder. “That’s just trauma, love. We all have it.”

They laughed, but it wasn’t cruel. Even Dean’s soft snort felt more like a release than anything else.

Across the room, someone barked out a sharp laugh — Zacharias Smith, of course, voice cutting through the low murmur like a hex gone sideways.

“I mean, it’s ironic, isn’t it?” he was saying to Ernie, loud enough to carry. “Malfoy, of all people. Everyone thought he'd present a strong alpha. Bloody poster child for dominance. And now—what? Omega? Guess nature’s got a sense of humour.”

Ernie muttered something I didn’t catch, face taut. He didn’t laugh.

Ron made a noise low in his throat.

“Ignore him,” Hermione said quickly, touching his arm. “Just—don’t.”

My jaw tensed, but I stayed seated. The fire cracked sharply.

“Wanker,” Seamus said under his breath. “Always has been. But really, do you think Padma's safe just because they're both omegas?” The question was directed to Parvati.

Parvati rolled her eyes. “Smith is a prat. And yes, she wouldn't have gone into that room otherwise.”

“Lovely,” Luna said dreamily. “They'll be inseparable soon enough.”

There was a beat of silence.

“...sure,” Dean said.

“If not, I'll take a dip in the great lake” she said lofty.

Ron was grinning now, and I felt some of the tension ease off my spine. The scent that had haunted me since the feast was fading now — shielded behind thick stone walls and layers of bitter spell-laced soap.

But the memory of it stayed sharp. Along with the look in Malfoy’s eyes.

I turned back to my friends. They were laughing again. Real, tired laughter, the kind that came from surviving something that hadn’t killed us, not quite.

I held onto that. For now.

The laughter faded naturally, settling into the kind of quiet that came from people who didn’t need to fill every space with words. That was new. Or maybe not new—just missed.

Dean rubbed at a faint scar on his chin. “Can’t believe we’re back.”

“Feels wrong, doesn’t it?” Seamus said. “Like we snuck into someone else’s life.”

“Feels earned,” Neville said quietly.

I looked at him, surprised. He met my gaze with a steady calm I didn’t remember from before. Not softness, exactly — more like rootedness. Like he’d grown inward and outward all at once.

“I didn’t think I’d live long enough to see normal again,” he said. “So yeah. I’ll take it. Weird common rooms and all.”

Ron nodded, voice rough. “Yeah.”

“Besides,” Luna added, twirling a thread from her sleeve, “normal is just an illusion wizards agreed on to feel safe. It never really existed.”

That made Parvati laugh again — not light this time, but a little deeper, a little more real.

“You sound like Firenze,” she said, fond.

“I miss Firenze,” Luna said. “He always smelled like forests and inevitability.”

“wonder if he'll come back to teach?,” Seamus asked no one in particular.

Luna smiled. “I would like that.”

“Where is divination going to be taught?” Hermione asked, looking around. “This is part of the old teacher's quarters for the Divination professor after all.”

“Beats me,” Ron said, drawing her back into his embrace.

There was a pause — brief, but heavy. Professor Trelawney hadn't survived the war. Her body had, but her mind hadn't. She now lived in Hogsmeade with her sister taking care of her.

Hermione’s voice was gentle when she asked, “Did any of you… stay in touch? Over the summer?”

Dean shrugged. “A bit. Letters. News. Not much.”

“We mostly met up in Diagon when things felt… too quiet,” said Seamus. “Parvati found this café that never ran out of lemon drizzle. It helped.”

“It’s nice to talk about nothing with people who know what you went through,” Parvati added.

Hermione gave a small, understanding nod. “I couldn’t… talk about it. With my parents. They don’t know what to do with it.”

Ron shifted, intertwining his fingers with Hermione's.  “Even with people who were there, it’s still weird. Like—some parts I can say, and some I can’t even explain in my own head.”

“Exactly,” Neville said. “It’s like trying to put the war into sentences just breaks it. Doesn’t fit.”

Seamus took a sip from his mug, quiet for a moment. “ We’re still here. That’s the bit that counts.”

“Yeah,” said Ron, and this time his voice didn’t wobble.

A silence fell again — not awkward, just full. I felt it press behind my ribs, warm and unbearable.

Across the room, Zacharias was still talking — voice rising, desperate to be heard over the peace.

Ernie had turned away from him completely now, his posture stiff, clearly done.

Ron leaned toward me and muttered, “He says one more word, I’m chucking a coaster at his head.”

“Please do,” said Dean. “I’ll pay you.”

“Not here,” Hermione hissed, but she was smiling faintly, like she wanted to.

Seamus leaned toward Parvati, speaking low. “Did you hear Malfoy hasn’t been seen before now since the trial?”

“I heard,” Parvati murmured. “Padma said the Wizengamot delayed his release twice.”

“Looks different now,” Dean said, quietly. “Thinner.”

They weren’t mocking. Just observing. There was a kind of hush to the words, like people naming a ghost.

“Of course he looks different. He's a bloody omega now. I still can't believe it. Did you hear about his trial?” Seamus asked in a hurried tone before continuing, “Voldemort lived in his house. Imagine presenting with that in the next room.”

Several people shuddered.

Hermione sat up straight “That’s why he presented so late!” She looked at me expectantly.

“What?”

She huffed. “Oh, come on. Think about it. Omegas usually present earlier, the year they turn eighteen. He was probably so stressed out his body suppressed it. Like a reverse Ginny! How was he during the trial?”

She put me on the spot, several heads now turned in my direction. Waiting for an answer. “I don't know, Hermione. He was depressed. Soft spoken.”

There was a pause.

“Hopefully he won't be such a prick anymore,” Ron said with an air of finality, already bored of the subject.

I said nothing more. Just kept my eyes on the fire.

Luna, of all people, was the one to shift the mood.

“Do you think they’ll let us use the tower for stargazing? ” she asked brightly. “I miss the sky.”

Neville smiled. “I’m sure Headmistress McGonagall would let us. If you asked.”

“She owes me a favour,” Dean said seriously. “I gave her a charm that keeps chalk from ever squeaking.”

Hermione’s brows rose. “That is a useful charm.”

We all laughed again — lighter this time. Almost clean.

The laughter ebbed again, tapering into small smiles and the clink of mugs against the stone floor.

Outside the tall windows, the sky had deepened to a navy blue bruised with stars. The common room had taken on a golden hue, firelight flickering across familiar faces, older now, but still ours.

Luna had started braiding something into the frayed edge of Dean’s sleeve. He let her. Seamus was half asleep with his head tipped back, mouth open, snoring faintly. Neville had started fussing with the nearby plant stand, murmuring softly to a pale, wilting fern like it was a tired animal.

Parvati stretched. “My sister must be out cold. She was supposed to give me one of her blankets to sleep with.”

Hermione- having been dozing on Ron's shoulder- perked up. “For scent marking?”

“Yeah, for her nest. Apparently my ‘neutral beta scent’ grounds her.”

Hermione nodded thoughtfully. “Why didn't she join us out here?”

Parvati fiddled with a lock of hair, thinking of how to answer. “Since the war my sister hasn't been keen on big crowds. She's probably just tired after today.”

Seamus nodded, tucking the blanket higher. 

“It's been a long day. But I don't know how I will sleep here. It’s haunted, definitely.”

“It’s not haunted,” Hermione said, yawning despite herself.

“It’s a little haunted,” Luna corrected helpfully. “But mostly by the memory of bad marks and suppressed attraction.”

“Sounds like Hogwarts in general,” Ron muttered.

Everyone stood slowly, like their limbs had forgotten how to move without a threat behind them. The kind of sleepy calm that didn’t come easy anymore. I watched the way people brushed fingers as they passed, the way no one moved too quickly. Little signs. Quiet things.

Ron clapped Neville on the shoulder, then muttered something to Seamus that made him snort awake and swear under his breath.

Hermione hovered by Parvati, exchanging low words that I didn’t quite catch — something about study groups, or maybe books. Her voice was softer than usual. Like she was trying not to frighten the night. Luna waved at her before slinking out to sneak back to her own common room.

Dean gave me a brief nod as we passed. Not quite a smile- it felt off, seeing the boy as big and broad as me. Alphas really do grow like weed . He gave Seamus a kiss and fell into step behind us without a word, hands shoved in his pockets.

Ron walked beside me, yawning into his sleeve and for a minute, we all just walked . Wooden stairs creaked beneath our feet. The Divination tower was oddly quiet now. Almost like it was holding its breath.

I glanced back once, just before we rounded the landing. Down in the common room, the fire had burned low. Shadows stretched long over the stone floor. No one spoke anymore.

Just the quiet hush of magic adjusting itself to us again.

And then we reached our door.

Back to what was left of what was my first home.

The Hogwarts beds were smaller than I remembered.

Or maybe I was just… bigger now. Shoulders scraping the curtain rods when I pulled the bed hangings, elbows catching furniture corners I never used to notice. Ron joked I’d have to sleep diagonally.

“You’ve gone full mountain troll, mate,” he said, dropping onto his bed with a grunt. “Can’t believe I have to share oxygen with your shoulders.”

I tossed a pillow at his face.

He caught it with the grace of Errol, the Weasley owl. “Oi! That’s war.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” I muttered, but it came out lighter than I felt.

Dean huffed out a tired laugh from across the room and began tugging off his boots. “Can’t believe I came back to this. Feels like a fever dream already.”

Ron flopped dramatically back against the pillows. “We’re ancient now. Nineteen in wizard years is practically skeletal. Have you seen my walking cane?”

I gave a dry laugh, sat on the edge of my bed. “Feels like we time-travelled straight from a battlefield into a study hall.”

Dean snorted. “At least no one’s throwing hexes at our heads. Yet.” He rummaged through his trunk, clearly failing to find whatever he was looking for. “Has anyone seen my toothbrush or did the castle eat it?”

“I vote castle,” Ron said.

“Seconded,” I mumbled.

Dean groaned. “This is my villain origin story.”

Ron was already kicking off his socks, stretching out like a cat in a sunbeam. “So. You and me. Hogwarts again.”

“It does feel weird,” I said.

“Maybe it’s the beds. Or the war. Or the full-grown men crammed into teenage mattresses.”

Dean raised a hand. “Present.”

We all laughed, quiet and tired. It felt like the first normal moment all day.

Ron rolled to one side and dropped his voice. “So. That dorm thing. Draco with Padma.”

My stomach tensed.

“What about it?”

He stretched again, but I could feel his eyes on me. “You just… froze up a bit. In the Great Hall.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did. I know your faces, Harry. You went full oh no, I’ve made eye contact with a Boggart. ”

I stared harder at the ceiling. “It was just unexpected.”

Ron waited. He was good at that now. Had grown into a kind of quiet patience in the last year. War’ll do that.

“I thought he’d room with one of his friends,” I said finally. “That’s all.”

“Right. None of them returned.”

Dean made a thoughtful hum from the other bed. “Heard he’s on probation. They probably didn’t want to risk putting him with anyone who’d rile him up.”

Or anyone he might rile up.

Ron was chewing on the inside of his cheek again. He did that when thinking. “Was it the scent?”

I flinched. Ron’s bloody nose could sniff out chocolate frogs through brick walls. He obviously caught the reaction.

“Thought so,” he said, not mean. Just thoughtful.

Dean raised his eyebrows from across the room, mildly horrified. “Mate.”

Ron shrugged. “I mean. It is. ”

“Bloody mouth-watering is what it is,” I muttered, tension bleeding out. “I won’t tell her if you don’t.”

“Bet.”

Dean stared at both of us like we’d grown extra heads. “You two need sleep.”

“You didn’t smell it,” I countered, slightly defensive.

“He’s masking now,” Ron went on. “He passed me going into his room. Barely caught a whiff.”

I nodded, jaw tight.

But it wasn’t about the scent. Not really. It was the way it had cracked me open like an egg. The way I’d wanted—so fast, so hard it made me dizzy. That moment in the corridor had felt like falling through ice.

“It’s not like you fancy him or something,” Ron said quickly. “Right?”

I shot him a look.
He held up both hands in surrender. “Just checking. You’ve been… weird.”

Dean turned over in his bed. “You have been weird,” he mumbled into his pillow. “But I assumed it was just… everything.”

I swallowed past the tightness in my throat, thinking about Ginny. We tried, after the war—dates, talks, pretending maybe we could fit together again like before. But she never said what she needed, not really. Maybe she didn’t know herself.

The healers said her early alpha presentation was stress, magic scrambling to protect her after the Carrows. April before the Battle, she came in sharper, louder. More than just a girl.

I didn’t ask for that kind of armour. Didn’t know how to carry it for her.

Sometimes I wonder if I ever really saw her—or if I was just waiting for someone else entirely.

Ron was quiet. I could almost smell the echo of Ginny’s scent on him — familiar, laced with the kind of memory you didn’t shake. He didn’t say anything, but I knew he was thinking the same.

“No,” I said. “Of course not.”

“Alright, alright,” Ron muttered, flopping onto his stomach. “Weird year already.”

“Yeah,” I said softly, mostly to myself. “And it’s only the first day.”

Dean made a noise like a dying toad and pulled his blanket over his head. “Wake me when it’s June.”

“We’ll go for a run first thing in the morning, yeah?” Ron said.

“Yeah, I’ll set the alarm.”

I fished out my Muggle alarm clock from my trunk, set it for six, and placed it carefully on the nightstand.

The second it ticked, Dean groaned again. “Unbelievable.”

My feet hit the gravel path at a light pace, the lake glinting cold blue to our left, breath fogging the morning air. The castle behind us looked sleepy still, mist curling around the lower towers. I’d probably set the alarm too early- but Ron had only groaned once before dragging himself upright, boots thudding on the dorm floor.

Now, the rhythm of running was all I let myself think about. Footsteps. Breath. Cold air burning in and out of my lungs. My body could work without question, could move without needing to answer the kind of things Ron had asked last night.

The path dipped slightly and curved toward the greenhouses. Ron let out a dramatic wheeze.

“This is—actually—illegal,” he puffed. “Inhuman. What are we—aurors now?”

“You wanted- to join me.”

“Yeah. Not freeze- my balls off.”

But he kept pace anyway, surprisingly steady. Neither of us said what we were really burning off. Ron and I had both woken up from nightmares, with only a few minutes between each other. Female betas synced periods, omegas synced heats. Me and Ron synced nightmares.

When we finally looped back toward the castle, both sweat-slicked and shivering, I felt better. Not good, but scraped clean. Like my head had stopped echoing with that scent, with him, with—

No. Enough.

I followed Ron up the stairs two at a time, pulse still loud in my ears.

The dorm smelled like damp cotton, old wood, and alpha musk when we returned. Ron peeled his shirt off with a grunt. “You reek.”

“So do you.”

“I smell like effort. You smell like a lovesick puppy. Don’t think I didn’t see you looking at Malfoy’s door. Seriously man, you scented him yesterday. ”

Face red from not only exercise now, I threw my towel at Ron’s face.

He wasn’t deterred, just continued his teasing. “If Dean hadn’t gone with Seamus already he would be with me on this.”

I picked up another pillow, threatening to throw it. “Shower. Now.”

He went first, laughing. I collapsed onto my bed, wiped sweat from my neck with the hem of my shirt, then stared up at the low stone ceiling. Bedpost bumping at my shoulders again when I sat up, reminding me that I still hadn’t grown into this new body. Or maybe I had, but the castle hadn’t caught up.

When it was my turn, the shower was scorching. I scrubbed hard, like scent could be erased with pressure. It didn’t help. Nothing helped. That ghost of sunlight and roses still lingered in the back of my mind like a memory I hadn’t earned. The unnamed sweetness of it the best- or worst- part.

I dressed quickly after, the collar of my schoolshirt tugged tight, cologne dabbed on my neck out of sheer paranoia. It wouldn’t do anything to hide my pheromones anyway, but maybe it could distract me from other scents. It made me feel marginally more in control.

Ron was halfway out the door, juggling a piece of apple he’d nicked from the feast yesterday. “Come on.” 

I rolled my eyes and hurried after him out of the common room.

“Don’t make me miss breakfast when I’m actually on time for once.”

I clapped Ron on the back, laughing at his joke. Then I staggered. The scent was back. But not like it was supposed to be. It was too flat. Roses too artificial. Warmth from a spotlight instead of the sun. My eyes zeroed in on the source in question. He was standing to the side just outside the door. The first thing I saw was his hair. Platinum blonde and big . Curls framing his face like a soft aura. Then my eyes lowered to his face, he was already looking back at me. My arm flexed, the alpha in me glad for the attention.

So ridiculous.

“Let’s go, Mate. ‘Mione’s probably there already.” Ron was a few steps before me, looking at me with knowing eyes.

“Yeah, yeah.”

The Great Hall was already half full by the time Ron and I walked in, both of us still drying off from the run, hair sticking up in opposite directions like we’d been caught in a mild electrical storm.

Heads turned.

Not subtly, either.

I felt it roll over me in waves—eyes, whispers, the thrum of recognition humming under the enchanted ceiling. Much like yesterday at the welcoming feast. Some looked away quickly, like they’d been caught. Others stared openly. Half the younger students looked like they were about to ask for an autograph. One small first-year clutched a quill like it might be a wand.

“Oh no,” I muttered. If it was anything like yesterday it would be awkward stares and blunt, personal questions. Yesterday I was saved by the sorting hat. Today I wasn’t so sure.

“Yep,” Ron said, shoving his hands deep in his pockets. “The fame monster lives.”

“Hey, you’re a war hero too.” I said indignantly.

“Not the one who popped the snake, duh.” He had a point.

Before I could choose somewhere to sit at the Gryffindor table and make it worse, Nick floated straight through the end of Ravenclaw’s bench, looking unusually purposeful for a morning haunting.

“Ah, Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley,” he said with a sweeping bow. “Your presence is requested—well, encouraged, really—at the new eighth year table.”

“There’s a table for us now?” I asked, glancing toward the front.

Sure enough, a long, awkwardly placed table sat between Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw. It looked like it had been conjured in a rush and forgotten immediately. Six students were already scattered along it.

“Yes indeed,” Nick said proudly. “A new initiative from Professor McGonagall. Unity and such. Of course, you’re still permitted to sit with your own Houses,” he added, “but you are encouraged to sit together. For… connection. Post-war atmosphere and so on.”

“Right,” Ron said. “Brilliant. Group therapy in table form.”

But I was already walking toward it. I'd take McGonagall's political stance over wide-eyed hero worship any day.

Hermione waved as we approached. Parvati was next to her, already into her porridge. Michael Corner sat across from them, head in hands, blinking as if the sun had personally wronged him.

“Morning,” I said, sliding into the seat beside Hermione.

Michael made a sound somewhere between a groan and a swear.

“Michael’s upset,” Parvati said brightly. “We woke him up early.”

“Unethically early,” Michael muttered into his plate. “It’s not even nine. I went to bed at three.”

“You were up reading that late?” Hermione asked, with an odd blend of fondness and academic judgment.

“I was doing research,” he mumbled. “On wizarding inheritance law.”

I blinked at him. “You’re not even taking Magical Law.”

“I know.”

Hannah and Susan sat a few seats down, quietly talking. Hannah gave a small wave, always polite. Susan nodded at us like we’d just entered a courtroom.

“I think we’re the last,” Ron said, grabbing a roll and eyeing the table.

He was wrong.

A moment later, the doors opened again—and Padma walked in with Draco.

They weren’t touching, but something about the way they moved—side by side, steps in sync, like they were already calibrated to one another’s orbit—hit me harder than I liked.

I wasn’t the only one that noticed. The other occupants of the table did as well.

Draco’s eyes flicked around the Hall, cool and practiced. They skimmed past me, then came back. Slowed.

I kept looking at him, he averted his eyes.

He looked better this morning. Or maybe worse, depending on how you defined it. Tense. Pale. Like someone holding themselves too tightly, afraid to spill. He still smelled like nothing- like someone had hit mute on his pheromones. But my body remembered what it should be. That ghost of scent sparked somewhere behind my ribs. But what I couldn’t stop looking at was the hair. So like Bellatrix, but also not. Where his aunt’s hair had been hideous darkness, Malfoy’s was like an angel's halo. Framing his face, making him look softer, daintier, exactly like something my alpha wanted to watch over.

“Someone should tell him we’re not starting class yet,” Ron said, nodding at Draco’s tie, which was perfectly knotted.

“He’s always dressed like that,” I said, too fast.

Hermione gave me a look but said nothing.

Padma sat down first, calm as always. Draco hesitated, until Padma tugged him down by his arm. He took the seat between her and Susan, keeping his posture stiff and shoulders squared like he was expecting a duel.

No one said anything.

Then Parvati smiled like nothing was strange and asked if anyone wanted jam.

I guess Luna was right after all.

I wasn’t avoiding Malfoy.

I was… managing proximity. That was all.

Malfoy had been in three of my classes so far, and every time, I’d somehow ended up behind him, beside him, near enough to catch that strange not-scent—flat and artificial, like chalkwater.

It made something in me itch.

That first taste on the train had ruined me. It had been so real. Like sunlight and roses and some sweet, elusive thing I hadn’t known I’d missed until it vanished. Now, with Malfoy masked, I felt vaguely cheated. And restless. Offended, really. I could smell the petals and the warmth, but like one smelled a perfume. It didn’t have the depth one’s natural scent should have.

And then in Potions—bloody Potions—Slughorn decided to assign partners randomly for the first day back. Which, of course, meant I ended up next to Draco Malfoy. Because fate hates me.

We didn’t say a word when Slughorn called out our names together. Just moved stiffly toward the same cauldron like two people resigned to a death sentence. He sat beside me, hands tucked close like he was afraid to take up space. Shoulders hunched. Submissive. I didn’t want to know if it was deliberate or not. If he was submissive to appeal to me, or if he was genuinely frightened by me. I swallowed. He was thinner than I remembered. Paler, too.

I told myself I wasn’t staring. I was just… observing. Vigilant. Like sixth year.

Except I kept clocking things.

How his fingers trembled as he unstoppered the first vial. How he bit the inside of his cheek after mismeasuring the valerian root, then quickly corrected it without a word. How soft his hair looked. How he leaned in to stir and the heat of him rolled over me, carrying just a hint, just a flicker, of that real scent underneath the masking spell. Warmth. Roses. Something sweeter. Something omega.

I nearly choked on air.

Slughorn was lecturing at the front, droning on about stirring clockwise versus counterclockwise with powdered billywig sting. I couldn’t hear a word of it. I was hyper-focused on the space between us, the warmth of Malfoy’s arm as it brushed mine briefly- accidentally. The way his breath hitched when it happened, and how mine did too. It exited my alpha. It made me nauseous. I reacted out of attraction, him out of fear .

I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe properly. I was going to ruin the entire potion or asphyxiate on nothing.

When he leaned closer to check the flame height, I caught it again. That real scent. Our arms brushed slightly and I stilled. There it was. It spiked with sunlight and sweetness for a moment. I was gulping in lungfuls before I realised it. It tore through me like lightning.

For a moment I was frozen.

First the hair. Making him look delicate and fragile, making my alpha want to protect him, ruin him. Then this divine scent making my mind blank and my trousers tight.

I stood up so fast my stool scraped the floor. My magic lashing out to dampen the scent, contain it. I didn’t know I could do that.

“I— I need the loo,” I muttered. Slughorn waved me off absently, and I practically bolted.

I gripped the sink in the tiny dungeon lav until it creaked and splashed water on my face like that would do anything. My reflection looked wild. Flushed. Too sharp around the eyes.

Get a grip.

He was just an omega. A recently presented one, probably still adapting. Still off-balance. Masking his scent badly. Not used to alphas. He wasn’t reacting to me. Why would he.

And I was just an alpha. A completely normal, not-at-all-out-of-control alpha who had absolutely not nearly lost it over Draco Malfoy leaning slightly to the left.

He was totally afraid of me. Brilliant.

I stayed longer than necessary, trying to shove it all down. Double checking that my pheromones weren’t leaking. They never did. When I came back, Malfoy was still working in silence, arms stiff, eyes on the cauldron. But I caught the briefest flick of his gaze as I sat down again. Quick and unreadable.

We didn’t speak. Not even once. But something hung in the air like steam off the cauldron. Sharp. Charged.

After class, I was the first one out the door.

Ron caught up to me on the stairs. “You alright, mate?” he asked. Of course Ron saw what happened. He probably smelled it too. I felt a rumble start low in my chest at the thought. “Hey, just asking. Bit intense, that”.

I gave him a look. “Shut up.”

He grinned, teeth and all. “I’m pretty sure I was the only one who caught it before you dampened it, though. Real gentleman.”

I didn’t answer.

The omega in question walked past with the Ravenclaw Patil. I kept my gaze down, on my hands. I didn’t need to look. I already had that scent memorised, artificial or not.

I was lucky I had such a tight grip on my scent. But still, I couldn’t go around feeling like I was halfway to rut every time Draco bloody Malfoy breathed nearby. 

Absolutely not.

I wasn’t going to make it through the year.

Who was I kidding? I wasn’t going to make it through the day.

Draco fucking Malfoy.

Chapter Text

Draco

It had been an exhausting morning and first day of classes. Being near so many people was fraying my nerves. Even if people were keeping their pheromones in, they still slipped out from time to time and I couldn’t help reacting to them.

A seventh year omega in the loo next to me was sad, her scent smelling of crushed violets. It gave me anxiety I couldn’t shake off until an hour later. Zacharias was walking behind me to class. I hadn’t worn my cloak, it was still warm enough inside. He made his appreciation of my decision known. His musky cinnamon bark tickled my nose for the entire corridor we walked, before the other eight years joined us. Only then did he reel it in. As much as I disliked Smith, I still had to recast my masking charm. Getting wet from Zacharias Smith's pheromones was a new low. I wanted to cry.

All the eight years took transfiguration. I sat behind Potter. I couldn’t explain why, but I would rather have a bodily reaction from Potter than Smith. Potter's scent was masked, but still pleasant. Rain and crispy wind. I would never admit it helped ground me. It also helped that Padma sat beside me, her white tea and tulsi scent soothing me further. She stroked my arm when we first sat down and gave me a sympathetic look, she had seen what Smith did.

After class was over I told Padma to go on without me.

She hesitated—looked at me with a searching gaze. Eyes narrowing in thought.

“I’ll save you a roll,” she said finally, brushing past.

“Thank you” I said, already slipping into the empty classroom across the corridor.

It had tall windows and a slanted shaft of light across the floor. Dust. Cold. Quiet. Perfect.

I sat down at a desk in the corner, rolled out the bit of parchment I’d brought with me and stared at it.

For ten minutes, I didn’t write anything.

I stared at my name instead. Draco L. Malfoy, scrawled at the top, in case the Ministry would see my post. Mother had written in a letter she sent with my supplies that the Ministry liked to “accidentally misplace” anything not addressed formally.

Eventually, I began:

Mother—

No. Too stiff.

Mum,

Too soft. I scratched it out.

I hope this reaches you. I’ve been told the Ministry has… loosened some restrictions regarding communication, though of course no one could tell me that directly. I only found out because Professor McGonagall slipped me a look during orientation and said I should “feel free to write home.” I don’t know what counts as permission anymore.

I paused. Chewed the edge of the quill.

How to say it?

I’m sorry it’s taken this long. They didn’t allow me anything over the summer. No parchment. No owl access. No visits. You probably knew that. They wouldn’t even let you see me, would they?

I scratched that bit out, then rewrote it smaller. Less obvious. Less pathetic.

I got stuck again when I reached the actual point of the letter.

How do you tell your mother you’ve presented the wrong gender? That your body decided to go rogue and choose this of all things?

I’m writing because I… had a change, over the summer. You may have heard. My secondary gender.

I stared at the words. They looked sterile. Stupid.

Omega.
Apparently.
So that’s a thing.

I scratched it all out again. Left a jagged black mess in the centre of the parchment.

I tried again.

I’m an omega. I thought you should know. I would have told you sooner, if I could.

I sighed and cast a tempus. Realising I wouldn’t have time to eat. I had to go directly to potions. I folded the letter half-finished and tucked it into my robe pocket.

My hands were cold. My skin didn’t feel like mine.

I shouldn’t have taken this way.

It was quiet—too quiet. The kind of corridor that didn’t bother with windows, just long slabs of grey stone and the smell of damp dungeons bleeding into every corner.  One of those odd, unused pass-throughs that no one seemed to take anymore unless they were hiding or hurrying. The air felt pressed in, like something holding its breath.

I had taken the route on purpose. Gave me an illusion of privacy away from prying eyes. And I knew the dungeons well, this way was shorter to the potions classroom.

My shoes clicked too loudly.

I kept walking.

I was halfway down the passage when I heard it.
A second pair of footsteps. Then a third. Fast and deliberate.

I didn’t look back.

“Where’s your leash, Malfoy?”

My jaw tensed. I kept walking.

Another voice, cruelly bright: “Shouldn’t you be in the nursery wing with the rest of the little bitches?”

Laughter.

A hand grabbed my bag strap, yanking me backward. I staggered, caught myself. My scent leaked through my masking spell. Panic, sharp and bitter. 

Three of them, maybe four. Sixth-year Slytherins. Barely adults, not presented, but bigger than me. I didn’t know their names. I didn’t need to. One looked vaguely familiar- an echo of the Carrows in his face.

One stepped in front of me. Not even dramatic about it—just shifted sideways like we were playing chess and it was his square now.

I stopped.

“Excuse me,” I said flatly, or tried to. My voice came out as a low whisper.

He didn’t move. “You smell like shit.”

“You smell like a troll’s armpit,” I whispered back, my voice refusing to be louder.

Something in his expression changed. Just slightly. Like he’d been hoping I’d cower, and now he was annoyed that I hadn’t made it so easy.

The one behind me grabbed my shoulder suddenly, spinning me half-round.

“No wand?” he said mockingly. ““Guess the Ministry doesn’t trust you with sharp objects. Or functioning dignity.”

I kept my face still. Not reacting to their taunts.

But I did react. My scent soured even more. Signaling omega in distress. My biology reacting in fight or flight.

Another laugh. But it was sharper now, liking the way I had started trembling.

“Bet the professors have to sit you near the windows in case you start foaming.”

“Think he’ll go feral in class? Snap and start begging for a knot?”

I glanced sideways, judging the distance to the nearest turn. No portraits. No alcoves. No doors.

No witnesses.

The boy in front of me took a step closer, until we were chest-to-chest. I could smell the cheap cologne, could feel the dominance posture rolling off him like heat. At least they weren’t presented yet. Small mercies.

“Bet you liked it,” one said, voice low near my ear now. “When it happened. I heard it was all slick and trembling. Omega instincts. Fucking your own fingers. Dirty little—”

I couldn’t take it. I was shaking, my distressed scent permeating the air. A low whine escaped my throat.

“What’s the matter? Omega instincts kicking in? Need someone to help you remember where you belong?”

A hand brushed deliberately against my hip. I flinched.

“Don’t touch me.” I said, only managing a whisper.

But I was already being shoved backward, into the stone, hard enough to knock the wind from my lungs.

I gritted my teeth, swallowed the sound.

The hand stayed on my hip, the boy’s full body now pressed against me.

“Such a delicate little thing you are now,” he said, mouth close to my ear. A leg forced its way in between mine. Pushing roughly. It hurt. I pushed at his shoulders. Tried to wriggle away.

No.

They couldn’t.

“Yes, keep moving like that,” he mocked, rutting against my hip. Groaning deliberately. The others laughed. Tears were spilling from my eyes now. I couldn’t push him away. The tears blurred my vision. I wasn’t strong enough. If someone could just walk by. If Potter could just show up, like at the trial.

Suddenly, he backed away, grinning with all teeth. “I bet nobody would act like that for you. Nobody would want you, filthy slut.”

They didn’t use spells. Since I wasn’t permitted to, they didn’t need to.

A sharp elbow against my ribs. A hard palm pressing flat into my chest like they were testing the weight of me.

One of them—blond, stupid—wrinkled his nose. “Doesn’t even smell like a proper omega. Maybe it’s broken.”

“Maybe we should fix it.”

Laughter again.

I stared past them, toward nothing.

If I hit back, they’d report me. Probation violation. “No aggressive retaliation.”

And if I didn’t…

Well. I already knew how that felt.

Then the sound of footsteps. Loud, echoing. A door creaked open somewhere far down the hall.

The boys peeled off as if nothing had happened. One of them slapped my shoulder hard as they passed, knocking me off balance.

“See you later, princess.”

And they were gone.

I stood still a moment longer, breathing through my nose, jaw clenched so tight it ached. I picked up my bag, swallowed against the sour taste in my mouth, and kept walking.

I didn’t go straight to class.

I took a detour to the nearest alcove, just out of sight of the corridor, and braced both hands against the cold stone wall. Let my head hang.

Breathe.

One.

Two.

Three.

My heart was still racing like I’d run from something. I hadn’t. I hadn’t run. I should have.

I looked down. My hands were shaking. Stupid. Weak. My shirt was rumpled at the collar, a faint dust smear on the front where I’d hit the wall. I tried smoothing it, but my fingers didn’t quite work. I winced when I accidentally pressed on my collarbone, a bruise was forming.

I exhaled sharply through my nose.

Pulled my spine up straight.

Tried to smooth my hair, the curls having separated in a frizzy mess.

Fixed my cuffs.

Fixed my expression.

I cast obscurio pherine , and a scourgify for good measure.

No scent. No blood. No proof.

It hadn’t happened.

The corridor was empty again when I stepped back into it. I moved automatically, every step careful, spine too straight, shoulders set too high. Like I was trying to hold something in. Or keep something from falling out.

I hated this part.

The part where I had to walk into a room and pretend I hadn’t just been shoved against stone and hissed at like a thing. Like a toy. Like less.

The classroom door came into view. I slowed just slightly. Adjusted my collar. Touched my hair once, then let my hand drop before I could flinch at the shape of it.

When I pushed the door open, the world inside felt louder than it should have.

Chairs scraping. Cauldrons clanking. The scent of mugwort and powdered pearl.

I made it just in time. Padma was already seated next to Hermione.

I surveyed the classroom. We eight years had been squeezed in with the seventh year Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws. There weren’t many seats left. I looked around, getting anxious to find a seat. My eyes skimmed over Potter and I started to quickly move to the other side of the classroom. There. An empty seat. 

I sat down next to Luna Lovegood. 

“Hello,” I said softly. Her head turned to face me and she beamed. 

“Hello, Draco. How are you?” Her nostrils flared and her eyebrows scrunched slightly. “Oh, of course, I’m sorry.”

My eyes widened, I discreetly sniffed myself. If I concentrated I could make out the uneasy pheromones, but generally I just smelled like normal, pheromones masked.

“Don’t worry. Nobody else can smell it.”

“But how can you?” I whispered.

“Darling, we spent a lot of time together in your dungeon.” Luna said cheerily. 

Right. I hadn’t meant to, but me and Luna became friends , so to speak, during that time. In true Luna fashion, that meant she now could smell through my masking charm.

Just as I was about to reply, Slughorn began speaking. I jumped, my nerves still frayed. Instincts jumping all over the place.

I saw it coming the second Slughorn reached into his pocket for the drawbag.

“Randomly assigned,” he chirped, like the words weren’t cursed. “Just for a bit of variety!”

I felt it before I heard it. That specific weight of inevitability.

“Potter and Malfoy.”

Of course.

I didn’t argue. Didn’t flinch. Just stood and moved toward the cauldron like I wasn’t walking into a bear trap. Potter arrived at the same time, too close, too warm, the scent of alpha edging around him like static. We didn’t look at each other. That would have required some kind of acknowledgment, and I didn’t think either of us was capable of surviving that.

I sat. Hunched my shoulders. Folded my hands in my lap like I could make myself smaller. I could feel the tremor in my fingers already.

This wasn’t fair. Any of it.

He was broader than I remembered. Everything about him had sharpened and filled in. Shoulders thick, jaw like it had been carved, forearms visible beneath rolled sleeves. His magic buzzed faintly against my skin, just from proximity. And that scent—gods—it was subtle but relentless. Rain and musk and something darker underneath. I felt it like pressure behind my teeth.

My hands were sweating. I didn’t have time for hands to sweat.

I reached for the first vial—dried valerian root—and uncorked it. My fingers slipped slightly. Caught. Just enough to make me look incompetent. I didn’t look up to check if Potter had seen it. I didn’t have the courage to meet his eyes. I didn’t want to see disgust. Or pity. Or anything, really.

I measured wrong. Automatically corrected it. Bit the inside of my cheek and forced my breath to slow.

Keep going. Stir clockwise. Don’t tremble. Don’t flinch.

He was watching me. I could feel it like heat on my neck. The omega in me liked it. Liked the way his magic brushed against me. Merlin, he had so much it oozed off him. I hadn’t buried my instincts fast enough after the corridor. They were still too close to the surface, exposed, raw. And my omega reveled in the attention of a capable alpha who could protect me from that ever happening again.

Every time I moved, I was aware of how I smelled—flowery perfume and chalkwater, and underneath it, struggling to stay hidden, the shift of roses and warmth and a too-sweet ache I couldn’t suppress. My masking charm wasn’t holding as tightly anymore. I hadn’t had the moment to reapply it with Potter so close by. 

I leaned forward to check the flame under the cauldron. And felt it. That hit of awareness. His breath caught.

So did mine.

Our arms brushed—barely—but the contact sent something thudding through me, stupid and instinctual and raw. Sharp pleasure. Before I had any time to brace- or even understand what it was. It ran through me, almost painful. I felt the slick dampening my underpants, and mortifying release staining the front of them. My scent glands fluttered and the masking charm I’d layered like armor fell.

I pulled back so fast my spine locked. Sat stiff. Tucked my arms in tight. 

The silence between us pressed like thick velvet. I felt dirty. Disgusting.

Slughorn droned on about billywig sting and directional stirring. I caught none of it. Potter hadn’t moved. He was still. Too still.

My bottom lip wobbled as I whispered the charm to mask my scent once more.

Then his stool scraped suddenly. He stood.

“I— I need the loo,” he muttered, voice strained.

Slughorn waved a hand without looking up. Potter was gone a second later.

I stared at the spot he’d just occupied. The tension hadn’t left the air. It still buzzed, charged, giving me goosebumps. My scent was gone from the air.

What the hell was that?

I was masking. I was being careful. I hadn’t done anything. Had I? How did I react like that? Did I disgust Potter so much he had to leave? My hands were still trembling as I cast a discreet scourgify on my trousers. I then pressed them against the edge of the table until the white showed in my knuckles. I looked around. People were looking after Potter. Some looked at me. None were sniffing the air or reacting to my scent. They hadn’t noticed

Just survive class.

Just make it until it ends.

He came back eight minutes later. His hair was damp at the fringe. His shoulders tenser than before. He sat without a word, and I pretended not to notice him at all.

Except—I did.

He was breathing harder than he should have been. And for the briefest second, when he looked my way, I saw something raw in his eyes. Something I couldn’t name. Something I didn’t trust.

We didn’t speak for the rest of the lesson.

But the air between us stayed thick, like the aftertaste of lightning. Not visible, not nameable.

But definitely there.

I made it through the rest of the day by keeping my head down and my mouth shut.

Charms blurred past in a haze of incantations and forced composure. Flitwick called on me once. I answered correctly, somehow. I couldn’t remember what the question had been. Everything after Potions felt like holding my breath underwater, smiling too tight, shoulders too straight. One long impersonation of someone fine.

I didn't want to go to supper.

I couldn’t sit in that hall, boxed in in on all sides, hearing too much, smelling too much. I couldn’t take the eyes. The possibility that one of them might be there—one of the boys from earlier. Or worse, all of them, clustered like jackals. Laughing again. Or not even acknowledging it at all.

Maybe that would’ve been worse. 

But I couldn’t skip supper. Padma had approached me after potions. She spoke of how she had missed me at lunch and had saved a roll and an apple for me. She linked her arm with mine and dragged me off to the next class. She would be able to tell something was wrong if I skipped both meals.

I excused myself to go to the bathroom when we were studying in an alcove.

I went straight to the sink and washed my hands. Twice. I then went to a stall and sat down on the closed toilet lid. I wanted to scream. But I didn’t want to draw any attention. I wanted to go to my room and hide. But I didn’t want the questions from Padma.

Instead, I breathed. 

Shallowly.

Repeatedly.

Like if I just kept performing the right number of breaths, in the right pattern, I might trick myself into feeling human again.

The worst part was, I didn’t cry. Not even once. Not after.

Not because I’m tough. I’m not. I just… couldn’t. The tears had dried in the corridors, in the seams of my sleeves and the backs of my eyes. All that was left now was this quiet, hollow nausea in my chest. Like I’d swallowed a fistful of glass and had to pretend it was a sweet.

I thought about Potter.

Stupid.

I thought about the way his stool scraped back. The way he left like he couldn’t breathe with me there. I thought about the heat of his body next to mine, his scent sticking to the inside of my throat. The way heat had raked through me. I couldn’t deny that it had felt good. That my slit had clenched and pulsed pleasurably. The way I knew it would have been better if it would have had something to pulse and constrict around.

It made me sick. And I hated how it had happened so close to Potter.

I hated that he’d noticed. I hated the pity he must have felt.

I hated the way I wanted his pity, wanted his protection, even more.

He hadn’t said a word. I hadn’t either. Maybe that was the deal we made.

I didn’t want him to look at me like that ever again. But if he did… if he tried…

No. I wouldn’t let him. I couldn’t be anyone’s charity case. Not his. Not anyone’s.

I was still trembling a little, even now. A shudder rolled through me and I forced my limbs still, fists clenched tight around the fabric of my robes.

I just stayed there, eyes open, feeling everything echo.

Like I was still in that corridor. Still pressed against that wall. A knee pressed to my centre. Hardness pressed to my hip. Still waiting for it to stop.

Still pretending it hadn’t happened.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll finish my mother's letter. Maybe not.

Either way, no one’s going to save me. Not really.

And I am so, so tired of being the one who always survives.

I stood at the threshold of the Great Hall for exactly three full seconds.
Just long enough to regret every decision that had led me here.

The noise rolled out in waves—cutlery, laughter, the rise and fall of far too many voices echoing against stone. It smelled like roast lamb and firewhisky-glazed carrots, undercut by a dozen clashing scents: sugar, salt, sweat. Alphas. Omegas. Betas. Familiar and unfamiliar. I caught the tail-end of Smith’s cologne—sharp and cloying—and someone’s grounded alpha scent, dandelion root and herbs. Probably Longbottom. It didn’t matter.

Everything itched.

“Ready?” Padma asked beside me. Her voice was quiet. Not coaxing. Just present.

Right.

I squared my shoulders and stepped inside. Padma at my side. I was ready for the crowd now.

People turned as we passed. Not many. Not most. Just enough. Enough to notice the hush that followed like a cold draft. One girl leaned across the table to whisper something behind her hand. A boy laughed too hard at something that couldn’t have been that funny.

We walked to the Eighth Year table. That table was my salvation. No Slytherins. No whispers from the dregs of my past. Just… space. And Padma.

I sat. Didn’t speak. Poured myself a glass of water with a hand that felt like it didn’t belong to me.

Of course, it also meant sitting in close proximity to alphas.

Thomas was beside me—not a problem. I actually liked his calm scent. He masked it well, but during classes today I occasionally caught a flicker of something soothing, like warm leaves. He only ever let it out around Finnigan. I suspected it was deliberate. Something gentle he did to settle his beta. I’d made a note to keep near them in crowded spaces. Finnigan got antsy in big rooms. I shouldn’t take advantage of it—but I did. A little.

Goldstein and Susan were like Potter. Excellent masking. And after sharing some classes with them today, they both seemed... competent. Decent. Still, I sat far from them. Goldstein’s easy smiles were harder to shield against than I’d like to admit, and Bones—Bones looked at me like she was waiting for me to prove her worst assumptions. I’d caught her doing it twice already.

It was safest to keep my distance.

Unfortunately, Smith was also an alpha. The awful, entitled, bigoted kind. Luckily, a coward too—all bark. Still, I didn’t want him anywhere near me.

So I chose the empty seat beside Thomas. Smith sat on the other side of the table, spouting some loud nonsense Bones looked ready to fight him over. Goldstein beside her, arm slung easily behind Boot’s chair. Calm orbit. Manageable.

And then Potter and Weasley walked in.

The last ones.

Of course.

The only empty seats were across from me. Of course.

They sat.

I kept my eyes on my plate.

These were the ones I was supposed to avoid even more than Smith. Weasley had grown into a wide, solid frame—broad-shouldered, with enough softness to look infuriatingly comfortable. Potter was all muscle and edge. Big, sharp, and commanding. Like his body hadn’t learned moderation.

I picked at my dinner. Ignored their conversation. Ignored my thoughts that if it had been one of the golden alphas pushing me against the wall, knee grinding against my hole , perhaps I would have liked it. I was afraid I was right.

I peeked at the alphas between my curls. I tried to be honest with myself. Weasley was attractive in the way that I understood what Granger saw in him. 

But Potter… I was attracted to him in ways I didn’t understand. Obviously his scent. And his commanding presence. And his strong build. All those things I could explain as omega instincts. 

But his vibrant eyes, the mop of curls on his head just waiting to be run through? His soft smiles and bushy eyebrows? My attraction to those aspects of the alpha couldn’t be explained as just biology. 

His leg knocking against mine under the table when he laughed at something Finnigan said. A casual accident. His laugh was a low thing nowadays,  hoarse, like he was still recovering from shouting curses and hexes during the war.

I dragged myself back to the present

Chicken breast, untouched. A spoonful of parsnips. I managed two bites before my stomach twisted in warning.

Breathe through it.

I could still feel him from earlier. The heat of him beside me in Potions. His scent. That moment when I’d leaned too close and our arms touched. When my body betrayed me so profoundly. When something in him had nearly snapped. I hadn’t even looked—but I’d felt it. Thick and charged in the air.

And then he’d bolted.

Of course he had. The Great Harry Potter couldn’t bear to sit beside a Malfoy-shaped embarrassment of pheromones and Ministry branding.

And I was the one who’d looked calm.

On the outside.

The potatoes on my plate blurred. I blinked too slowly. The Hall felt sideways for a second, and I snapped my spine straight so fast it hurt.

No one noticed.

Or Padma did, and rested a hand on my arm before resuming her conversation with Abbott.

I swallowed water. My throat clicked too loudly.

Across from me, Potter muttered something to Weasley, then pushed his food around his plate like it had offended him. He looked flushed. Like he’d run a mile. Like he was still catching up to himself.

His sleeves were rolled to the elbow. His forearms looked larger than they had any right to be.

I hated that I noticed. Hated more that I remembered how warm he’d felt when our arms touched by accident.

He hadn’t looked at me since. Not with that sharp, consuming attention.

Good.

The sooner he forgot I existed, the better.

Sneaking another glance, I saw how the fading daylight from the window caught onto his face when he turned to talk to Longbottom. I had never really thought about his skin before, but now that I was looking at him, I saw it. I had forgotten how dark he was. Not dark like Dark , not like the kind of thing my aunt used to praise—no. His skin is just… brown . Deep. Tan the way you’re born, not the kind you bake into. Rich, gold-warm.

Not English, not quite. Something older. Foreign in a way that used to be whispered about behind fans. Inherited from his father, I think. A kind of quiet royalty in the skin.

It looked good , was the thing. Unfairly so. Like the rest of him had caught up to it.

I took another bite I didn’t want, jJust to prove I could, and shook off my thoughts.

Padma was talking to Boot, easy and composed. Hair pinned back with a tortoiseshell clip. Her scent grounded me—cool and composed.

I latched onto it like a rope in high wind.

I could do this.

Just keep eating. Keep breathing. Sit up straight.

I wasn’t going to break in the middle of the Great Hall.

Not for the Slytherin sixth years who just walked into the great hall.

And especially not for Potter.

The corridor outside the Great Hall was quieter than I expected. Maybe most of the others had lingered over treacle tart or started drifting off to the common rooms already. The echo of our footsteps filled the space—mine sharp against stone, Padma’s soft and measured like always.

She didn’t speak right away, just walked beside me, the length of her braid swaying with her steps. Her scent curled around me in gentle waves- crushed tulsi and white tea. I hadn’t realised how tight my chest had been until it started to ease again.

Halfway up the marble staircase, she finally said, “You were steady.”

I snorted softly. “You’ve an unusual definition of steady.” I murmured

“You ate dinner. Mostly. You stayed upright. You didn’t hex anyone.”

I let the corner of my mouth twitch, just a little. “Low bar.” I said in a quiet breath.

“Better than this morning,” she said, with quiet certainty, like she was pointing out the weather. “Don’t dismiss it.”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. The burn behind my eyes had crept back, slow and traitorous. Why was I so open with her? I swallowed hard as we reached the landing, turned towards the staircase to our common room.

It smelled cleaner here. Less hormonal chaos. Fewer stares. Just the faint scent of warding runes and whatever soap was used on the baseboards. The common room smelled like smokey incense and calm lavender. Neutral and soothing.

Inside our room, the curtains were drawn. The lamps flicked on automatically with a soft crackle of magic. Padma crossed to her bed and sat on the edge, unpinning her braid. I stood in the centre of the room for a moment too long, like I’d forgotten what people were supposed to do in private.

I finally sat on my own bed, tugged off my boots, then stared down at my hands like they belonged to someone else.

“You held yourself,” she said. Still not looking at me. Just brushing out her hair with long, unhurried strokes.

I let myself fall backward onto the bed. “Barely.” I sighed.

“Still counts,” she murmured. “We do things barely until we don’t.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. Just there. Like her presence—quiet, solid, undemanding.

I turned my head to the side, cheek pressed against the cool duvet. “He didn’t look at me again. Not once.”

“Potter?”

I didn’t answer. She knew. Had seen the drama in potions.

“Maybe he was trying not to,” she offered.

I closed my eyes.

“I don’t want to talk about him.”

“Then don’t,” she said, simple as that.

The silence settled again. I breathed through it, letting it settle into my bones.

Padma flipped a page in one of her books. I heard the soft scratch of her pencil.

Her scent curled again—cool and herbal, slightly sweet. I let it anchor me, slow the racing beat of something behind my ribs. The part of me still vibrating from the classroom, the hallway, the touch of his leg under the table.

I didn’t want to think about Potter.
But I already was.

Padma was reading on her bed, legs crossed, a cup of tea floating absently beside her. The room smelled like her—grounded, smooth. Tulsi and tea leaves. It helped with what I was about to do.

I sat on my bed and took the parchment back out.

My hand hovered for a long time.

Then, without letting myself think too hard about it, I finished the letter.

I’ve been doing alright. I’m roomed with Padma Patil. A fellow omega. We get on.

I don’t really know how to say everything I’m supposed to say. I’m trying not to make it a thing. I just—

It’s strange, Mother. I feel like I keep waking up in a body that someone else ordered. I can smell things I shouldn’t. Feel things I hate. My skin fits wrong. I don’t even know if I walk the same way I used to. People stare. Some laugh. Some look scared.

It’s not like I expected to feel whole again. I just didn’t think I’d feel even less like myself.

I stopped.

Crossed it out. Too much. Rewrote something lighter.

Nevertheless. I’ll manage. I’m still here. I hope you are too.

Write back if you can.

Love,
Draco

I stared at the letter for a long time.

Across from me, Padma turned a page. Quiet, steady. The warmth of her presence like a weighted blanket over something fraying inside me.

“Do you want me to come with you to the Owlery?” she asked, still reading.

“No,” I said. “Stay.”

I meant: thank you, for everything.

The letter was gone, sent on its way to Mother. I should have felt lighter. Relief, maybe. Instead, my chest tightened until I could barely breathe, like some invisible hand was squeezing the air from my lungs. I slipped out of the owlery, the heavy weight of everything still pressing down. The castle was quiet, the shadows pooling thick and deep as I moved without purpose—just needing to put some distance between me and the letter, the words, the gnawing thoughts.

The cold stone corridor wrapped around me like a tomb, dimly lit by flickering torches that cast trembling pools of orange and black. My footsteps sounded sharp, hollow—too loud in the silence. I was halfway to the seventh floor, trying to slow the racing of my heart, when I rounded a corner too fast and nearly ran into someone.

“—Sorry,” I mumbled, head bowed, voice barely above a whisper.

The figure froze. My heart slammed against my ribs like a frantic drum. And then it hit me—before I even looked up—the scent. Warm and musky, taut with the sharp edge of sweat, raw and real and agonizingly familiar.

Potter.

He was wearing a tank top and shorts. I tried to not look at his exposed shoulders, his arms.

His eyes flicked up, locking onto mine, sharp and curious, then softened with something like concern—something that felt too close.

I swallowed hard, the air catching painfully in my throat.

Then my body betrayed me: deep inside, the coil in my pelvis clenched sharply, uncontrollably. My scent glands flared against my will, throwing off my masking charms. A slick, unwelcome warmth pooled low, dampening the fabric of my underpants yet again.

It happened again, just like in potions. Stronger this time. A series of physiological errors were occurring, and unfortunately, I was still present for them.

I clenched my fists at my sides, the tension almost unbearable. My breath hitched, shallow and uneven. I fought for control, for distance—between his scent and mine, between my body and my humiliation.

His arm reached out, as if to steady me. Absolutely not, what if whatever that was happened again.

I stiffened, pulling away with a jagged breath, unwilling or unable to meet his gaze.

“I’m—fine,” I said too quietly, voice brittle like cracked glass.

My legs felt clumsy, alien, as I turned on my heel and walked off. Each step was stiff and uneven, the cold stone suddenly sharper beneath my feet.

Behind me, there was nothing—no footsteps following, no voice calling after me. Just the soft echo of my retreating footsteps and the flicker of torchlight against stone.

But I could feel it—the charged stillness trailing behind me like a shadow. Potter’s eyes tracing the curve of my spine as if memorizing something he wasn’t allowed to touch. His rain and thunder scent lingering in the air like a promise I wasn’t meant to hear.

And somehow, that only made the ache inside me deepen, twisting tighter with every breath I tried to steal back.

Chapter Text

Draco

“What are you writing?” Padma’s breath was hot near my ear. I ignored it.

If I didn’t have to call it breaking it off , maybe it wouldn’t sound so harsh?

Maybe she would still want me?

“ Draco ”

I love her, so much. But is it romantic still? Was it ever romantic? We never did anything, like I did with Blaise. But I wanted to. It just wasn’t appropriate. 

“Draco”

It would be disrespectful to her and our future union. How could I touch her before presenting alpha. I wasn’t worthy yet. But maybe I’m not that unworthy still, my dick still works- kind of- 

“Mr Malfoy, will you be so kind as to join us in the present”

My head snapped up, quill tip breaking in my fingers. A drop of ink bled across the parchment, blooming like a bruise.

People were looking at me.

Padma gave me a sharp glance. Not pity. Something more useful. A warning. Get out of your head. Now.

“I’m sorry, Professor,” I croaked.

Flitwick didn’t raise his voice. He never had to. “Perhaps you’d demonstrate the Finite Variant wand motion, since you’ve clearly mastered it already?”

I stood too fast. The chair leg snagged on stone, screeching. My wand felt strange in my hand, like someone else’s.

Tight loop, flick, downward pull.

I executed the motion perfectly. Didn’t say the incantation. Forgot I was supposed to.

There was a pause.

Flitwick tilted his head, disappointed but not unkind. “Spellwork includes incantation, Mr Malfoy.”

I nodded and sat. My knees knocked the desk. Someone behind me snorted.

I looked back down at the parchment. My hand was still clenched around the broken quill.

Pansy-

I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to write.

The words sat heavy on the page. I stared at them too long. I hadn’t written to her once since she sent that letter while I was in Ministry holding. The one that smelled like her favourite perfume and dried lavender. The one I’d read until the parchment softened at the fold. The one that’d been left behind when I was moved to solitary, after that guard..

She’d said she missed me. That she believed in me. That she’d be waiting.

She hadn’t known I’d present omega. No one had.

I set the broken quill aside and murmured a reparo, hands shaking.

I don’t know how to say this, so I’ll just say it plainly. I presented omega.

I understand if this changes things. If it changes everything.

I haven’t called off the engagement. That’s not what I want. But I will understand- truly- if you want to end it. You have that right. You deserve the choice.

I paused. The ink blurred for a moment and I realised I was blinking too fast.

I still care for you, Pans. I always will.

We’d never even kissed. Not properly. Not like I had with Blaise, frantic and stupid and young. But I’d wanted to. I’d imagined it- Pansy’s hands on my face, Pansy’s clever mouth and sly smirk and the press of her weight against me. Her dips and curves.

But I hadn’t. Because I wasn’t an alpha yet. I wasn’t worthy. That was the word I’d used.

Worthy.

What a joke.

I would have waited to touch you forever, I almost wrote. But you won’t want me like this. Not now.

I didn’t write that either.

I still wanted her. I knew that. I knew that it would be challenging during my- my - yeah. If she still wanted me, then I could die a happy man. She had written that she believed in me. That we would be together once everything was over. In the letter she managed to get to me when I was in jail.

I pressed the base of my palm to my mouth. My clothes were becoming too tight, breath too short.

Padma nudged my foot under the table. Her hand brushed mine where it shook.

I finished the letter.

Write if you want to. Or don’t. I’ll understand.

Yours, still-

D.

It was stupid to hope. Stupid to want it.

But I still did.

The room emptied slowly. Chairs scraped, voices rose, footsteps echoed.

I didn’t move.

Padma didn’t either. She didn’t press me. Just waited, her fingers tapping a light rhythm on her book, like she was keeping time only she could hear.

I needed to send this letter before I backed out of it. I had to do it now or I won’t send it. And I refuse to run into a sweaty Potter again. I didn’t need to eat lunch. I could barely stand being in the great hall as it was, and lunch was the worst. The busiest time. 

I finally stood. My knees felt like glass. I pulled the folded letter from my pocket, smoothing the edges, then tucked it into the inner fold of my robe again.

“I’m skipping lunch,” I said.

Padma gave me a look.

“I need to go to the owlery.”

She didn’t blink. “Fine. I’ll come with you.”

“That’s not-Padma, you don’t need to-”

“Then we’ll go to the kitchens after,” she said, like I hadn’t spoken. “You haven’t eaten enough since yesterday morning. You can barely keep your scent stabilised and you look like you’ve been raised on vinegar and spite. If you keel over halfway up the owlery stairs I am not carrying your stubborn arse back down.”

I stared at her. “I’m not-”

“You’re thin as a twig, you’re clearly dissociating, and I saw you flinch when you picked up your bag just now. You’ve got a heat incoming or at least a hormone spike, and if you keep starving yourself I’m going to learn how to spell food into someone’s stomach and do it to you.”

I blinked.  A chill went down my spine. The offending Omega Guide had mentioned that male omegas were unpredictable when it came to their first heat after presenting.

Did Padma think mine was coming? Surely not.

I looked at her. “You’re terrifying.”

She smiled. “Thank you. Owlery. Then food. Let’s go.”

I could’ve argued. I really, really could’ve. But my legs were lead and my ribs ached and my voice wouldn’t speak over a whisper. It was nothing to use to argue.

So I didn’t.

We walked in silence up the stone stairs. It was a grey day, wind pressing through the slits in the tower, rustling feathers and parchment and fur.

I picked a sleek barn owl, fed it a bit of dried mouse from the tin, and held the letter out with fingers that shook slightly.

“Pansy,” I told it. “Parkinson Manor.”

The owl took off with a silent sweep, letter clutched tight.

I stood there a moment too long. Just long enough to feel the ache behind my ribs again.

Padma didn’t say anything. Just gently nudged my arm and said, “Right. Kitchens.”

I almost said no again. But then she looked at me. Really looked at me.

Not like I was broken. Not like I was fragile.

Just- looked. With care, not pity.

So I let her lead me down the stairs and through the twisting halls. Through the portrait door. Into warmth and butter and quiet clatter and excited house-elf greetings.

And when she handed me a bowl of soup and sat down across from me like this was any other Tuesday, I didn’t argue.

I ate.

And I didn’t cry.

But the food tasted like something steady. Like something solid. Like I might still have a body that deserved to be kept alive.

The soup was thick and savoury. Root vegetables, cream, a bit of pepper and something sharp like leek. It shouldn’t have made my chest ache, but it did.

I didn’t realise how cold I’d been until I started to warm up.

Across from me, Padma sipped her tea in silence. Her expression was calm, but not distant. I recognised the look. I’d seen it on my mother, on Pomfrey, on the older prefects back in fifth year who somehow always knew when someone was about to faint in the corridor.

A kind of watchful steadiness. Like she was letting me borrow her centre of gravity for a bit.

The silence wasn’t awkward. Just… hushed. Like the kitchens had caught the tone of the moment and decided not to interrupt.

A house elf passed by and set a plate of warm scones down beside us without being asked. I stared at them.

Padma broke one open, buttered it with precise little strokes of a silver knife, and pushed it across the table toward me.

I took it.

Still no words. I couldn’t decide if I was grateful or raw because of it.

I ate slowly, not because I wanted to savour it but because I didn’t trust my hands not to tremble if I moved too quickly. Padma didn’t rush me.

Eventually, I managed, “You don’t have to keep taking care of me, you know.”

She set her teacup down with a soft clink. “I know.”

“So why are you?” voice small.

She tilted her head. “Because you need it.”

That startled something in me. Not pity. Not an apology. Just a fact.

I glanced down at my soup again. It had gone lukewarm, but I still wanted it. I sipped the rest in silence.

Padma leaned back, one arm draped across the bench. She didn’t push. Didn’t ask how I was feeling. Just sat there, steady as stone, letting the quiet stretch as long as I needed.

And I needed it more than I wanted to admit.

After a while, when the ache in my ribs dulled and the food sat warm in my stomach, I let out a breath I hadn’t realised I was holding.

“Thanks,” I said quietly.

She didn’t smile. Didn’t make it a moment. Just nodded.

“We’ll go when you’re ready.”

And we sat there a little longer.

Just the two of us and the scent of bread and the low clatter of distant dishes. No demands. No expectations.

Just quiet, and warmth, and the startling realisation that I hadn’t once felt like a burden.

That I hadn’t had trouble keeping the masking charm once.

Not to her.

Not here.

It was an accident, walking into the corridor just as Michael Corner was being dragged in two different directions—literally. One of Granger’s hands was on his wrist, Patil’s on the other, like he might bolt if they let go. Honestly, he might have.

He looked utterly bedraggled. Red in the face, stiff in the shoulders, lips moving as if he were repeating a silent mantra to stay sane.

His eyes locked on Padma like a drowning man spotting a life raft. “Padma.”

Padma, who’d been rifling through her satchel near the wall, looked up sharply. “Michael?”

“Save me,” he said flatly.

Her beta twin rolled her eyes. “We’re just going to the library.”

“And discussing the benefit of financial responsibility in children,” added Granger, smiling like that was a normal thing to do on a weekday afternoon.

Padma’s tone was dry. “Sounds riveting, is anyone with child?”

“No.” Corner groaned in response.

“Corner,” I heard myself say, in a somewhat normal speaking tone for once, surprising both of us. The rest was forced out, trying and failing to keep the tone “I think Professor Sinistra said she needed to see you.”

He blinked. Barely hearing what I said. Come on. I gave him the barest tilt of my head.

“Oh-right-yes. Astronomy emergency.” He jerked his hands free and took three long steps toward Padma like a man released from prison.

Patil gave an exasperated huff, Granger a puzzled frown, but neither pursued. Too startled by me speaking more than quiet two liners.

Corner and Padma fell into step together. I hovered behind, not quite walking with them but not leaving either.

Corner didn’t speak until they’d rounded the corner, out of view. Then he burst. “I can’t keep pretending it’s normal to see Hermione bloody Granger in her panties and a tank top.”

Padma didn’t miss a beat. “Maybe just don’t look at her?”

He looked genuinely wounded. “She asked if I wanted lip balm.”

I snorted before I could help it, then ducked behind my curls to hide.

Their voices faded as they walked further on, Michael’s still climbing in pitch.

“Do you know how many kinds of cherry flavours she owns? And she keeps offering them. Like I won’t get ideas!”

Padma’s response was a placid hum.

I stopped and leaned my forehead against the cold stone and breathed out through my nose.

At least it wasn’t just me.

At least I wasn’t the only one quietly losing my mind over hormones, scents, skin.

It didn’t make me feel better, exactly.

But it did make me feel less… different.

They kept walking, not realising I wasn’t following. I let them. I wanted some fresh air anyways. 

The courtyard was mostly empty this late in the afternoon. Just long sunbeams dragging gold across the paving stones and the gentle rustle of stirring the bushes. I wandered until I found a quiet spot behind one of the shaped hedges, where the stone wall curved inward into a half-circle bench. Mostly shaded, but warm where the sun broke through the leaves.

I sat on the bench. The stone was cool against my back as I leaned against it. I pulled my knees up, let my arms curl around them.  The air was dry and smelled like old grass and cut stems. I hadn’t meant to come out here exactly, but it felt good to breathe, to not be watched. To not smell anyone.

I just wanted a moment.

I closed my eyes.

I heard footsteps before I saw them.

Didn’t think much of it until I heard a spell hissed low through teeth:

“ Muffliato. ”

Then another: “ Notice-me-not. ”

My gut twisted. My eyes opened, instinct tightening everything low in my belly. Two boys. Sixth years, maybe? No one I knew by name. Hufflepuff. Not friendly.

They grinned when they saw me look up.

“Malfoy,” said the tall one, mouth curling like he’d found something half-dead and amusing. “Fancy seeing you here.” He was freckled. Too much confidence for someone barely old enough to shave properly.

I shifted to stand. “Piss off.” Voice weak as always.

The taller one’s mouth curved into a mockery of amusement. “Don’t get your knickers twisted, Malfoy.”

The second boy gave a nervous laugh. “We’re just saying hello.”

The tall one’s nostrils flared. His eyes flicked to my neck. “Don’t think you’re better than the rest of us just because you're delicate now. You think you’re still pureblood royalty, but we all know what you are now.”

 He stepped closer. I stood, spine rigid. “-not in heat…” My cheeks flamed in shame. My voice couldn’t even carry the words.

“Could’ve fooled me,” he said, too close now.

His fingers grazed my wrist. I pulled away.

He smirked. “Let me touch you. Isn’t that what you’re for now?”

My head tilted to the side, refusing to look at him.

“You’ve got that look,” he murmured. “The kind that begs.”

I didn’t move. Couldn’t move. My throat was dry and I hated that I knew exactly what he meant.

He reached again, faster, and this time he caught a fistful of my hair, yanking my head back hard.

Pain shot through my scalp. My breath caught.

“You want someone to take charge, yeah? That’s what omegas need, isn’t it?” His voice was too close. I could smell him. Cologne, faintly woodsy. Unpresented. 

I twisted, tried to break free, but he used the grip in my hair to pull me off balance. My back hit the wall. I choked on my own heartbeat.

The other boy shifted uncomfortably. “Hey-this is getting out of hand-”

“You said you wanted to mess with him,” the tall one snapped, not looking away from me. His hand fisted tighter in my hair. “So I’m messing.”

He leaned in. I flinched.

Then-

He hesitated. Just a beat. Enough to feel it.

“Not so mouthy now, are you?” he whispered. “Bet you’d drop on your hands and knees easy.”

“Stop it, come on,” said the other boy, more sharply this time. “We said scare him, that’s it. He’s not even fighting.”

A pathetic whimper escaped my lips. 

That seemed to break something. The grip in my hair loosened.

The tall one let go like he was disappointed. “Touchy little slag.”
He tsked. “You’ll beg for it one day.”

“Leave him,” said the second boy, voice taut. He wouldn’t look at me.

The tall one muttered finally, voice sour, stepping back. “Little omega tease.”

The second one didn’t look at me as they left. The spells broke behind them.

The courtyard was too quiet again. The air raw.

I staggered back onto the bench. My curls were tangled, my scalp throbbing, breath still coming in sharp, tight pulls.

I cried silently. I didn’t move.

I just sat there, fists clenched in my lap. My scent was wrong. All wrong. Bitter and acrid and curling off my skin in waves I couldn’t hide.

I pressed my forehead to my knees.

At least they were gone.

At least nothing else had happened.

Except it had.

I stayed until the sun had moved off the stones. Until I was cold and my face stopped burning. Until I felt like I could walk back inside the castle without falling apart.

Instead of going to dinner, I went to the kitchen. Padma was an angel for showing it to me. In all my years in school, I had never bothered going. Why would I go where the house elves were? Why would I associate myself with them?

I used to be such an asshole. Such an embarrassment. If there was one good thing about the war, it was that I came out humbled.

Now I was happy to spend time with the elves. Happy to join them in their space and learn their names.

I sat there, on a low stool by a barrel turned table, chin resting in my hand, watching them. The hustle and bustle was soothing. They worked scarily efficiently. Their magic, different from wizards, washed over me. It felt good, relaxed me.

Before I knew it, several of them kept glancing at me. Giving me secret smiles. Content. Proud.

“What is it, Elian?” I asked the elf I had spoken to the most.

“We's happy you's liking it here, little omega sir,” was his answer. His mouth in a smile.

The feast was long over when Padma found me elbow deep in a dough. Harmlessly bickering with Elian about me not being firm enough- I was doing my best, gods damnit. The other elves who also were working on tomorrow's bread observed us, laughing when a glob landed on my cheek. My hair was tied back. “Hygiene” Elian had said after he had tied it for me. I really should learn how to handle my own hair. I still got flour in the pieces by my hairline that had escaped the tie.

I greeted Padma with an easy “hey there” that made her eyes widen. My posture was relaxed and I felt lighter than I had in years- since I was a child in the garden with mother.

Padma's nostrils flared once and then she walked up to me, sneaking her arms around my middle and hugged me from behind.

“Mm, who are you and what have you done to Draco?” She murmured into my shoulder.

I flustered, ear burning. “What are you doing?”

She squeezed me tighter, resting her cheek briefly between my shoulder blades before pulling away. “You smell... different. Calm. Happy.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but Elian interrupted with a cheerful, “That’s because little omega sir is home now.”

Padma blinked. I blinked.

Elian didn’t seem to notice what he’d just said—or if he did, he meant it.

“Home?” I echoed, voice softer than I meant.

The elf beamed. “Kitchens is always home for those who need.” Then he tapped the dough with a stern look. “Now stop talking and knead. You's still too soft.”

Padma covered her mouth to hide a laugh. I elbowed her lightly, the smallest of smiles tugging at my lips despite myself.

I did my best with the dough. Elian kept making increasingly distressed noises every time I hesitated or handled it too gently.

“More pressure!”

“I am pressing—”

“Not petting! Press! You’s need kneading, not stroking a cat!”

“I’ll show you kneading,” I muttered under my breath, scowling down at the sticky lump.

Behind me, Padma let out a hum that could only be described as deeply amused. I felt her presence at my back again and, this time, she didn’t hug me—just leaned in over my shoulder, observing the mess I was making of tomorrow’s bread.

“You’re emitting some serious domestic omega pheromones right now,” she said casually, like she was commenting on the weather.

My hands froze in the dough. “I’m what?”

“Mm.” She sniffed lightly, squinting toward me in mock analysis. “Real wife material , Malfoy. The scent profile is giving comfortable home life. The type that says ‘I bake and I fold laundry, I pop out pups and I will absolutely remember your mother’s birthday.’”

The reference to childbirth made me queasy for a moment, then it drifted away in the elves' easy atmosphere and I managed to reply. “I am elbow-deep in fermenting flour and having a spiritual battle with an elf over gluten.”

She nodded, entirely serious. “Exactly. Radiating competence and fertility. If any alpha walked in here right now, they’d imprint like a duckling.”

I made a sound. It might’ve been a whimper or a strangled laugh. Possibly both. “You’re vile.”

“You love me.”

I didn’t answer, because it might have come out true.

Then, quieter, more thoughtful, she added, “But for real. It smells… good. Settled. Like calls to like, I guess. My omega likes it too.”

I stilled. My chest tightened around something uncertain.

She noticed.

“Not in a weird way,” she said quickly. “Just… you feel safe to me now. You didn’t, before. You were all bristles and posturing and just too much.”

“Don’t forget the sneering,” I muttered.

“Oh yes. The sneering.” She smiled gently, then stole a bit of dough from the side and flicked it at me. “You’re still a brat, just… not porcupine about it.”

I wiped the dough off my shirt with a huff, but I didn’t argue.

“And you've been speaking normally the whole time.” She said it gently, as if pointing it out would make me revert to mumbling whispers.

I hadn't even noticed.

I should have been disgusted by myself. Disgusted that I was allowing myself to play into the stereotype of my new gender willingly . I knew that I often behaved like a scared little omega, but I couldn't help it . Now I was doing it of my own volition.

But I couldn't even be mad at myself. I couldn't even attempt to stop. I finally felt settled in my own skin.

I just looked at the elves next to me and smiled.

‘Little omega sir is home’

The warmth in the room wasn’t just from the ovens.

Our room was dark but not silent.

Steam curled from the mugs Padma had set down between us on the floor, thin and slow in the candlelight. She moved like everything was deliberate. Measured, practiced. I wasn’t sure if that was innate or just what happened when you had a twin. You learned to make space. I had just begun relearning how to breathe without apologising for it.

I curled my fingers around the ceramic. Warmth seeped into my palms, into the bones of my hands. I hadn’t realised how cold I was after my post-bake shower.

She sat across from me, cross-legged, robe sleeves pushed up to her elbows. Her hair was braided back tight tonight, face clean and unpainted. She was reading softly from a book on meditation-some passage about visualising your thoughts as river stones, smooth and temporary and easy to let go.

I wasn’t letting go of anything. The easy contentedness from the kitchens had evaporated the second I stepped out of it.

“Try inhaling slower,” she said quietly, not looking up. “You breathe like you’re being graded on it.”

I let out a bitter little laugh. “That’s because I probably am.” i whispered.

She did glance up then. Not disapproving, just steady. Like she was used to me deflecting- after knowing each other for less than two days- and hadn’t decided yet if she was going to allow it tonight.

I took a sip of tea to avoid meeting her eyes.

It tasted like chamomile and something woodsy, maybe ashwagandha. She’d labelled the jar with a tiny silver moon. Her handwriting was obscenely neat.

My shoulders ached. I’d spent the whole day trying not to smell like myself. At least five rounds of obscurio pherine and I still caught people turning their heads when I walked by. Like I was dripping honey down the halls.

Like I’d forgotten to zip my skin shut.

Padma didn’t comment when I sagged forward a bit, elbows braced on my knees, mug cradled like an anchor.

She just turned the page. “Visualisation helps. Even if it feels stupid. Picture the air as something soft. Something that wants to hold you.”

My mouth twitched and I said gently “That sounds like a very omega thing to say.”

She rolled her eyes, but fondly. “That’s a very Malfoy thing to say.”

“I don’t know what that means anymore…” I trailed off.

That silenced her for a beat. She set the book down, marking the page with a bit of twine.

“I think,” she said slowly, “it means you want to be good at things that weren’t made for you. So you try harder than anyone.”

I blinked at her. The tea was suddenly too hot in my throat.

She didn’t push. Just sat with me, moon tea between us, candles burning low. Let me pretend that breathing was something I might one day get right.

And for a moment, I almost did.

Padma set her tea aside and reached for the small tin of oil she kept on her nightstand. It smelled faintly of jasmine and something deeper, something grounding. I didn’t ask what it was.

She tapped my knee. “Come here.”

I hesitated. Then turned and let her pull me between her knees, back facing her, spine stiff with the familiar tension of being perceived. Even by her.

“You know,” she said lightly, “you could do this yourself.”

“I could,” I muttered, as she uncapped the tin.

Her fingers were already in my hair, warm and practiced. The oil was cool at first, then melted into my scalp under the sure press of her hands. She worked it through with gentle precision, slow, deliberate strokes, not rushed like whenever I tried to detangle it. 

“But you won’t,” she added.

I closed my eyes. “No. I won’t.” The words slipped out before I could stop them.

She only hummed, satisfied.

The scent of the oil unfurled around us, mingling with the last of the tea steam. My shoulders sagged. My neck tilted backward instinctively when she started to section my hair, her thumbs precise and firm as she drew the lines. 

“I can teach you how,” she offered again, quieter now. “You part the hair cleanly, oil your fingers, and braid with tension but not too tight. Otherwise it strains your scalp.”

I made a soft sound of agreement, but we both knew I wouldn’t bother. Not while she was still here.

Not while I could sit on this floor and let someone touch me like I wasn’t fragile, or wrong, or something to be avoided. And somehow that was okay.

The silence stretched warm and easy.

She started at the crown and moved outward, and never tugged. “You’ve got a good head of hair, you know. Fine texture, but thick. Easy to train.” I huffed a laugh and continued quietly, “That’d be the only thing about me that’s easy to train.”

She flicked the back of my ear.

I didn't apologise.

She finished the first braid and moved to the next, fingers steady. I’d started to breathe more evenly. Almost like a person. Not a liability.

It hit me then, sudden and sharp: how much this meant. How much it helped. How no one had ever done this for me without expectation or price.

“Padma?”

“Mm?”

“Thank you.”

She stilled for a second, then resumed braiding. “Don’t make me cry, Malfoy. I’m trying to keep this from turning very omega .”

I laughed at her jab at my earlier comment, but it cracked a little.

She didn’t say anything else. Just tied off the last braid with a soft little tug. Her fingers rested a moment at the nape of my neck. Not possessive. Just… present.

And for once, I didn’t flinch from it.

It came during breakfast. Of course it did.

A pale barn owl swept low over the eighth-year table, dropping the letter directly onto my plate of a half eaten sandwich like some cosmic joke. The crest stamped into the wax was unmistakable. I froze. My goblet froze halfway to my mouth, my lips slightly parted.

Padma glanced up from her tea. “Letter?”

I nodded, stomach twisting. “Pansy.”

She didn’t say anything, just gave me a soft, unreadable look. I pushed back my chair and stood.

“Excuse me.”

The corridor was cool, shadowed. I walked until I found a narrow alcove near a suit of armor with a blindfold charm cast over its visor. A place no one would bother pausing. My hands felt stupidly shaky as I peeled the seal open.

Her handwriting hit me first. Neat, sharp. Too familiar.

Draco—

I’ve rewritten this six times, and I still don’t know how to say it kindly, so I’m just going to say it.

I wanted you as my alpha. I wanted you as my husband, my partner, the father of our children. I thought you’d come back from all this and present the way we always talked about. I waited. I wanted to wait forever, if that’s what it took.

But I can’t pretend now.

You’re not what I waited for.

I’m sorry. I know you’re still you, but I don’t know how to… do this. I can’t be with an omega, Draco. I don’t want to help you through- that. I don’t want to think about you begging like—

There was a blotch there. Ink. Maybe hesitation. Then she went on.

I can’t pretend I’m not disgusted. I hate myself for it. I love you, but I hate this. I don’t want to lie to you and pretend I can make peace with something I can’t even imagine without gagging.

I hope you find peace. I hope you find someone who can love you as you are. But it won’t be me.

We cannot produce any heirs. Our contract has therefore been broken.

And frankly, I’m relieved.

I’m sorry.

—Pansy

I read it three times. Then I folded it once, twice, again, until it was a sharp little square stabbing at my palm, a shard I couldn’t bear to look at.

It burned.

Hotter than jail. Hotter than the trials. Hotter than the screaming that had clawed through my mind the moment I first smelled the truth of what I was.

She had waited for me.

And I had failed.

My knees buckled and I slid down the wall into a crouch, burying my face in the heels of my hands, trying to block out the world.

Disgusted. With myself.

Couldn’t handle my heat.

Didn’t want to think about—

A bitter bile rose, thick and burning in my throat. I swallowed it down with a dry gasp. I curled tighter, curling in on every fragment of me that still felt whole.

I shouldn’t have come back.

I shouldn’t have written to her.

I shouldn’t have hoped .

If I’d just presented alpha. Or even beta. Something clean. Something respectable.

Something normal .

My lower stomach ached faintly. I had just begun adjusting, I could feel the way things shifted. How my skin didn’t feel right. How I could still feel the way my body had been aching for Potter the other day. Everything felt traitorous.

I dug my nails into my thighs, harder and harder, until the sharp sting burned away the worst of the pain.

Then I sat there, breath trembling, trying to steady myself through the heat and the hurt.

Because I was alone now.

Even Pansy couldn’t love me like this.

A rustle down the hall made my fast breathing hitch. I couldn’t stay here. I needed to get away.

I staggered out of the alcove, vision blurring, heart pounding. My gaze was panicked, almost unseeing as I made my way toward the fourth floor.

Eventually I reached the Portrait. I tickled the pear, hands still trembling, and stumbled through the entrance. 

“Little omega sir!” Came a startled and concerned greeting. 

I slipped further in and sank down on the floor, pressing my back to a cool wall. Trying to make myself small, out of the way.

“I just nee- need a moment,” I stammered out, head hanging low.

Elians fingers, gentle and warm, brushed through my hair. “Winky be making hot chocolate.” 

I managed a small, grateful smile to my new friend. The quiet kindness was already soothing the raw ache inside.

“Thank you.”

The atmosphere was working already.

--------

We had decided to start early on our Muggle Studies homework and stayed later in the library than most.

We returned from the library to chaos. Or something adjacent to it, maybe chaos’s annoying cousin.

Someone’s Exploding Snap deck had gone rogue, judging by the soft pop and a shriek that I think belonged to Abbott. Weasley and Goldstein were hunched over a chess board like it was a battleground, muttering threats at each other and their pieces alike. Across the room, Hermione was waving a book while trying to explain something to Thomas and Patil, who both looked like they regretted ever learning how to read.

Padma and I paused just inside the threshold. She gave the room a once-over, then turned to me with the kind of expression I'd only seen her give her twin.

“We’ll drop our stuff and come back,” she said, with the firm cheer of someone who knew I was already planning to hide.

“We?” I asked.

Her smile tightened. “Yes. We.”

I tried to stall by arranging my bag very carefully once we got back to our room. Refilled the inkwell. Smoothed the edges of my notes. Pulled down my jumper again- it always rode up over my hip when I walked nowadays. I could feel her watching me through it all.

“I’m not really feeling up to—” I started.

“Draco,” she said. “You’ve been sitting alone or with me since Monday. Come. Sit. Exist.”

“I am existing. I’m existing very efficiently from here.”

She crossed her arms. “You’ll come sit on the sofa with me or I’ll send a patronus to Elian and have the kitchens send a sympathy tart. With sparklers.”

She could cast a patronus?

“ You wouldn’t dare— ”

“Watch me.”

Which is how I found myself being herded back into the common room like some reluctant pygmy puff. She made a beeline for the cluster of sofas by the hearth and plopped down gracefully on the cushion beside Abbott, leaving just enough space for me to sit between them. I stared at the gap. Then at her.

She patted it.

I sat.

Immediately regretted it.

Bones and Smith were locked in some sort of intense card standoff. Corner was curled up in a chair near the fire, squinting at a magazine like it had personally offended him. Boot had a mug of something that looked suspiciously alcoholic, which meant Finnigan probably had a hand in it. And Potter- Potter was on the other side of the room, half-listening to Weasley and Goldstein argue over whether rooks were too slow.

No one was looking at me. Which somehow made it worse. The buzz of voices and laughter felt louder around me, like I was underwater.

Padma passed me a piece of parchment. “Want to play? We’re keeping score.”

“I don’t know the rules,” I muttered.

“It’s Exploding Snap.”

“I don’t like things that explode.”

Abbott, next to me, snorted. “That’s fair.”

I blinked at her. “You’re speaking to me voluntarily?”

“What?” She leaned her ear closer to hear better. Didn't force me to try and fail to speak louder.

I repeated myself. She understood me perfectly. 

She grinned. “You wouldn't be able to hurt a fly nowadays.”

I flushed to my hairline. Padma, to her credit, didn’t say anything. Just pressed her arm gently against mine.

I didn’t play. I didn’t talk. I sat. I breathed. I endured.

It was weirdly exhausting.

But Padma leaned into me like it was normal. Like I wasn’t a disaster waiting to happen. And no one made me leave.

So I stayed.

I shouldn't have let myself be convinced to socialise. If I had said no then Padma couldn't insist now.

If I had said no she wouldn't come with arguments .

That it went well. That nobody was opposed to me being there. That Abbott had even been making conversation with me. That she saw me smile at some point.

That Luna would join the Hogsmeade outing only if I came.

The bastards had conspired against me.

I didn't even know Padma like that yet. When I think about it, we became weirdly comfortable with each other fast. Nevertheless, she hadn't earned the manipulation privilege. Yet she used it.

And worse. It worked.

So now I was walking just a half step behind the cluster of students, my hands jammed into the sleeves of the jacket Padma had insisted I wear, head slightly down, like that might make me less visible. The others were loud—Thomas and Finnigan already laughing too much, Thomas arm slung around the beta, Corner and Patil arguing over who had deserved the last fluffy towel in their pantry and someone (probably McMillan) going on about the weather like it was personally offensive.

Padma walked beside me like this was all fine. She didn’t force conversation. She didn’t try to touch me. But every few minutes, she’d glance over, checking. I hated how reassuring that was.

I should have said no.

It was bright out. Too bright. The last of summer refusing to go. I shouldn't have worn her jacket. It was too warm and the terracotta colour clashed with my skin. But I couldn't take it off now. It was like an armour I had to wear.

"You're brooding," Padma said, just loud enough for me to hear.

"Am not," I muttered.

She smiled, which I found personally offensive.

“It’s a pub outing. You might survive.”

“If I’m lucky, someone will hex me unconscious before we arrive.”

She hummed. “That’s the spirit.”

Up ahead, Granger called something over her shoulder about butterbeer specials, arm looped through Weasley’s. Smith was groaning about "catering to lowbrow palettes." Bones whacked him across the back of the head.

The usual. Those two barely got on on a good day.

I felt a presence sidle up on my other side and tensed instinctively, but it was just Luna, bundled in layers of velvet and wool and possibly curtains.

She smiled dreamily. “I told them I wouldn’t come unless you did.”

“I heard,” I said stiffly.

“You have a nice walk,” she said.

Padma snorted. I did not respond.

“It’s very precise. Like you’re measuring the distance between steps.”

I had no idea what to say to that, so I pretended to be choking on a cough.

Luna seemed pleased anyway. She fell back, drifting toward Boot, who lit up when she linked arms with him.

I was already exhausted and we weren’t even through the gate.

Padma nudged me with her elbow, just lightly. “I’ll order for you if you promise not to make me sit with Corner.”

“I make no such promise.”

She grinned and kept walking. I let myself breathe for a moment.

Maybe it wouldn't be entirely terrible.

Unless Potter came.

Then it would definitely be terrible.

(And, of course, he was already at the pub with Longbottom when we arrived.)

The pub was too warm. Too loud. Smelled like yeast, butterbeer, sweat, cheap shampoo, and someone’s aggressively over-scented cologne. McMillan. Had to be. I stepped in and immediately wanted to step out again.

Padma caught my sleeve before I could bolt. “You promised.”

I hadn’t, actually. But she was already dragging me toward the back where a few long wooden tables had been pushed together. Potter was there, of course. I saw him the moment we walked in—because the universe is cruel like that.

He was in the corner, one arm slung over the back of the chair next to him, laughing at something Longbottom said. His shoulders looked even broader in Muggle clothes, which was unfair and clearly cheating. He didn’t smell like much, not exactly—but I could still feel him. Like gravity. Like something in my skin trying to orient toward him.

I hated it.

I sat on the far end, behind a stack of abandoned coasters and a half-dead plant, and immediately started peeling the label off my butterbeer bottle to give my hands something to do.

Padma took the seat beside me, blocking off half my view. Bless her. On her other side, McMillan was already trying to wrangle a menu out of the server while Patil argued with Finnigan about table charm etiquette. Abbott was braiding a napkin. Finnigan was already tipsy. Granger and Weasley were bickering with practiced ease. The usual.

Then Potter looked over. Just for a second. A flicker of eye contact across the table.

I looked away too quickly, heart thudding, like I’d been caught. Doing what, I couldn’t say.

“Why do you look like someone’s cursed your drink?” Padma asked, sipping hers without looking up.

“I don’t like pubs,” I said.

“You like kitchens.”

“Because they’re quiet and I can hide behind an army of elves.”

“Same thing, just with louder people and worse lighting." After a moment's pause she added, "everybody here would stand up for you now.”

I huffed through my nose. Padma passed me a fry off her plate.

“Eat,” she said. “You’re vibrating.”

I took it mostly out of spite.

Somewhere across the table, McMillan had started beatboxing with a spoon and someone’s wand. Patil was shrieking in protest. The table was vibrating.

I couldn’t stop glancing toward Potter. Not looking, just…aware. Of the way he tilted his head to hear someone better. Of the veins in his forearms when he reached for his glass. Of the faint golden scent of his skin underneath whatever aftershave he’d used.

I shouldn’t be able to scent him across the bloody pub.

I hated that I could.

I reached for another fry. Ate it. Salt and grease and texture, grounding. Padma’s foot bumped mine under the table, accidental, probably, but she didn’t move it.

Then Potter laughed again. Loudly. And some part of me clenched.

Stop that , I thought viciously at myself. Stop it now.

“You all right?” Padma asked, watching me sidelong.

“I’m having a wonderful time,” I said, with all the sincerity of a poisoned drink.

She smirked. “You’ll survive.”

And maybe I would. But I could already feel my skin buzzing with awareness, pulse ticking high, nerves wound tight.

If Potter spoke to me- if he touched me- if I let myself lean even a little into the ache I didn’t want to admit to-

No. I dug my nails into the heel of my palm and forced myself to breathe.

Just survive the night. Pretend you’re normal. Pretend nothing’s wrong.

Pretend he doesn’t smell like everything you aren’t allowed to want.

Chapter Text

Harry

I wasn’t watching the door.

That’s what I told myself, anyway, even as my eyes flicked up at the gust of cooler air that followed a group of students into the Three Broomsticks. I took a sip of my drink and made a noncommittal sound at something Neville said.

Then I saw Malfoy.

Slightly behind the rest of the group, hands in his sleeves, jaw tight. He looked like someone had dragged him there by the soul. His jacket, a terracotta wool, finely tailored and double-breasted, with a soft collar that brushed his jaw—was far too elegant for the setting, and just a touch too pretty not to be noticed. The colour made his skin look like porcelain and brought out the silver in his eyes, which would’ve been stunning if he didn’t look so guarded in it.

He wore it like armour, even though it clung more like something chosen for softness than protection. My throat went dry.

Padma said something to him and he rolled his eyes in response, but didn’t walk away.

My stomach did a slow, uncomfortable flip.

I looked away too quickly and pretended to focus on the menu chalkboard.

“He came,” Neville said, not looking up from his half-finished chips. “I wasn’t sure if he would.”

I shrugged. “Why wouldn’t he?”

Neville gave me a look. “He's a skittish cat. Bolting if you move too suddenly.”

“Yeah,” I muttered. “I’ve seen.”

Ron slid back into the booth beside me, dropping a full pint on the table and a second in front of me with a grin. “Smith’s already flirting with the bartender,” he reported. “Five galleons says she’ll ignore him until closing.”

“She’s an alpha,” Hermione said from Harry’s other side, raising a brow as she thumbed through the drinks menu. “You’re betting against his odds purely out of prejudice.”

“No, I’m betting against his odds because it’s Smith,” Ron said.

I tuned them out.

The rest of the eight years were joining us. Pushing chairs and coats around like it was a competition. Patil had clearly claimed the other end of the table, and Malfoy hovered near her like she was the only point of gravity holding him on the planet. He still hadn’t taken off his jacket, like he couldn’t bear to take off the one thing that made him feel composed.

Someone handed him a butterbeer- Patil, probably- and he wrapped both hands around it like he was afraid it would slip through his fingers.

I shouldn’t have looked again. But I did.

I told myself it wasn’t because of the faint, stubborn whiff of Malfoy’s scent that had ghosted through the door with him. It wasn’t because of how it always made my pulse shift gears without permission. It wasn’t because of the heat that settled low in my stomach when Malfoy happened to tilt his head and expose the pale curve of his neck, just for a second, before tugging the collar of his jacket higher.

No. I was just making sure Malfoy wasn’t in danger. That’s all.

Neville elbowed me. “You’re doing it again.”

I blinked. “Doing what?”

Neville didn’t dignify that with a response. Just raised his eyebrows and went back to his chips.

“What’s he doing again?” Ron asked through a mouthful of ale and sausage roll.

“Brooding,” Neville said helpfully.

Hermione gave me a side glance. “Or pining.”

“I’m not—” I began, far too quickly.

“Not pining?” Hermione said lightly. “Of course not. You only go completely silent and weird every time Malfoy’s in the same room.”

Ron made a strangled sound. “Wait. You’re not serious.”

I pressed a hand over my face. “I am literally just trying to drink my butterbeer.”

“And staring at Malfoy like you’ve forgotten how drinks work,” Neville muttered.

“I was looking at the fire,” I lied, badly.

“You were looking at his ears,” Hermione said, entirely too perceptively. “Again.”

“They’re weird ears,” I said.

“They’re just ears,” Neville said, now openly amused. “He’s got a head. Ears come with it.”

“I’m too sober for this,” I mumbled.

I looked back at my drink. Malfoy still hadn’t spoken much to the others. But he was still there. Still sitting beside Patil, fingers holding his drink tightly, eyes roving the room like he was cataloguing escape routes.

I took a swig of my butterbeer. Too sweet. Not strong enough. I felt too warm in my own skin.

I could still feel the press of Malfoy’s presence at the edge of the room, like static under my skin. I told myself it wasn’t a big deal. I told myself this was just how alphas were around omegas sometimes.

That it was biological. An instinct.

But it didn’t feel like instinct. It felt personal.

The night had gone blurry around the edges.

Not blurry enough to forget Malfoy was sitting at the same table, but enough that the drinks were going down easier. Enough that Ron was trying to stack pint glasses with magic and getting increasingly annoyed when they collapsed anyway. Enough that Hermione had given up and transfigured a coaster into a tiny clipboard to keep track of how many drinks everyone’s had.

I wasn’t sure how many I’d had. Enough to feel warm in places I hadn’t realised were cold. Enough that I wasn’t exactly filtering the way I looked at Malfoy anymore.

He still hadn’t taken off that fancy coat, although it was open and hanging off his shoulders now, a t-shirt peeking through. His cheeks were pink, eyes slightly glazed, and he was sort of curled in on himself at the end of the booth, one hand still wrapped around a butterbeer he seemed to have forgotten he was holding.

Patil whispered something to him and he blinked slowly, like it took effort to catch up. She brushed his curly fringe back. He didn’t flinch. Just tipped his head a little into it.

My stomach did that slow, awful flip again.

I looked away, then back, because apparently I didn’t have a functioning brain anymore.

He caught me looking this time.

And for once—he didn’t immediately look away.

He just looked at me.

Eyes wide, pupils big from the drink, face too open.

It was the same look he had when he let Luna hold his wrist and look at his palm like it told his whole future. That same softness. Timid. Like he didn’t know how to be looked at, but wanted to be.

I stood up. Stumbled a bit. Caught myself.

“I’m going to get—air,” I said, mostly to no one.

The pub wobbled slightly on the way to the door. I heard Ron yell something about not climbing anything this time.

Outside, the night slapped me in the face.

Cold. Fresh. Sharp.

I leaned on the wall and let my head fall back, eyes closed.

Drunk. Definitely drunk.

I stood against the wall, debating climbing the lamppost next to the pub when the door creaked open again.

Soft steps behind me.

I opened my eyes.

Malfoy.

Still in that stupid coat.

He blinked at me, a little unsteady on his feet.

“Hi,” he said.

My brain short-circuited.

“Hi,” I said, like an idiot.

He was so... quiet. Not in the mean way. It still baffled me that the pointy git had become- this. That the boy who was ready to cast the cruciatus on me became this.

This beautiful, gentle creature.

He stepped up beside me and leaned back on the wall. Not touching. But close enough that I could feel the warmth of him under all the wool.

“Couldn’t breathe in there,” he murmured.

“Yeah. Same.”

He shifted slightly. His shoulder brushed mine. He didn’t move away.

“I don’t usually drink,” he said.

“Really? You’re doing great,” I said, and regretted it immediately, because it sounded like I was flirting.

He didn’t seem to notice.

“I feel like I’m floating.”

I glanced at him. His eyelashes were pale against his cheeks. He looked… soft. Pretty. Fragile in a way I never really let myself think about. When I was sober, that is.

“Maybe don’t float too far,” I said, quieter.

That got a faint smile.

“I can’t,” he said, leaning a little more on me. “You’re- solid.”

Oh.

Oh fuck.

My ears went hot.

He swayed just slightly, like gravity was a bit off.

“I mean-you’re standing still,” he added quickly, slurring a bit. “I just meant… you’re not floating.”

I swallowed. “Right. I’m very… grounded.”

“You smell like it,” he said.

I blinked. “Like what?”

“Like…” he frowned, brows knitting. “Warm. Like you belong in the ground. Not like dirt. Like… like forests.”

I stared at him.

He blinked again, then looked mortified. “Oh God. I’m drunk. I’m sorry. That was—I shouldn’t say—” He was mumbling, pink dusting his cheeks.

“No,” I said quickly. “It’s fine. I just… wasn’t expecting poetry, that’s all.”

He bit his lip. His eyes dropped to my chest, then my hand, like he wasn’t sure where to look. “I should go back in.”

“Do you want me to come with you?” I asked before thinking.

He glanced up, surprised. Hesitated.

Then nodded. “If you want.”

We walked in together. Not touching. But our arms brushed once, and neither of us pulled away.

Back at the table, someone had ordered chips and everyone was shouting about which dipping sauce was best.

Malfoy sat beside me this time.

He didn’t say much. Just curled into himself a bit, eyes heavy-lidded, pink still on his cheeks. I passed him a glass of water without a word. He took it without question.

I didn’t look at him again for a while.

But I knew he was there. Soft and close and real.

And for once, I didn’t try to lie to myself about how that made me feel.

Everything buzzed pleasantly. The room wasn’t just blurry anymore, it was also soft around the edges, voices hazy under the hum of warm light and butterbeer. I'd stopped trying to follow conversation. My back was pressed against the wooden wall, body angled sideways on the bench. From here, I could see most of the table. My friends. Laughing, flushed, alive. And beside me, Malfoy.

I didn’t realise how close he was until his leg brushed mine.

He’d taken off his jacket at some point. I didn’t see it happen. But now his arms were bare and pale, neck exposed in the glow of candlelight. He was wearing a faded ACDC t-shirt—Patil’s, I realised. I’d seen her in it once and asked how she knew about the band. She’d told me she’d spent the summer after the war "gathering firsthand experience in Camden."

Good choice.

The shirt looked obscene on Malfoy. The collar had stretched, drooping off one shoulder and exposing smooth, fine-boned skin. His complexion was luminous in the low amber light—cheeks pink, mouth flushed, a little damp around the edges from heat or drink or both. His hair had curled from the humidity in the pub, sticking out in soft spirals, wild and touchable. A punk dream. Softened at the edges.

My mouth went dry.

His glass was empty. Mine was half-finished and I felt syrupy, warm all over. When I tried to focus on anything, my thoughts slid like wet paper. I turned towards the table again, trying to gather my thoughts. I looked down and realised our thighs were touching. 

He hadn’t said much, but he’d stopped trying to leave. That felt like something.

Parvati said something across the table and he tilted his head like he might reply. He didn’t. Just blinked slowly, eyes slightly unfocused.

He was definitely drunker than I was.

And then—he leaned. Just a little. Rested the side of his head against my arm like it was nothing.

His hair brushed my shoulder. His scent hit me. Faint, dulled, but there. Something floral and clean and sweet, like late summer and rain-warmed stone. Roses. I hadn’t realised how much I’d missed it until it ghosted past the mask, lazy and resigned.

“Warm,” he said faintly.

“What?”

He blinked up at me. “You’re warm. It’s loud.”

“Loud?” I echoed.

“My skin,” he whispered, like it was a secret. “It feels… too awake when you’re close.”

I froze. My heart stuttered hard in my chest.

“Do you want me to move?” I asked, my voice thick and unfamiliar in my own mouth.

He looked at me—really looked at me—for the first time all night. His pupils were wide, swallowing the silver of his irises. Vulnerable. A little wrecked.

“No,” he said, too softly. Thank Jesus.

I shifted closer. “You alright?”

“I think I might float off,” he murmured.

“Again?”

He made a vague gesture, hand fluttering like a leaf on a breeze. “I forgot to eat.”

“You skipped dinner?”

“Didn’t feel like it.”

I swallowed. “Do you want something now? I’ll go ask.”

He shook his head against my arm. “Don’t want to ruin it.”

“Ruin what?”

He lifted his head and  looked at me again, eyes glassy but suddenly very serious. “This. Feeling light.”

That twisted something in my chest.

“You should eat more,” I said. It came out softer than I meant. Like I couldn’t help it.

Maybe that was where I lost the plot.

Because I didn’t move away. I let my hand rest on the back of the bench. Close enough to feel the heat of his skin, dangerously close to his arse. I watched the long line of his throat when he swallowed. I caught the twitch of his lashes when he blinked, the way he leaned just a fraction closer.

“You’re really…” he started, then trailed off. “Big.”

I huffed a laugh. “That’s the alcohol talking.”

“It’s not.” He tilted his head again, blinking at me with slow-drunk focus. “You’re… bigger than I remember.”

“I got taller,” I said.

“You filled out.”

I couldn’t tell if it was supposed to be a compliment. I couldn’t tell if I wanted him to stop.

“Is Draco Malfoy complimenting me?” I asked, low. Flirting, stupidly. Our thighs were pressed fully together now. Our faces too close.

“Maybe,” he said slowly. His mouth was slightly parted.

“I don’t know what you want,” I admitted, quietly.

He leaned forward, not a kiss, just the brush of his temple against mine. A whisper of skin. His breath was warm.

“Neither do I.”

I didn’t plan it.

But he was right there. And I was drunk, and warm, and something primal and exhausted inside me wanted the softness of his mouth like it had always been mine.

Our lips touched- barely. A brush, a breath. And he made a sound, a tiny breathy sound like surprise, like relief.

And then I kissed him for real.

Slow. Careful. His lips opened a little under mine, tentative. His fingers hovered on my arm like he was afraid to hold on. I wanted him to.

He tasted like butterbeer and something delicate. Sweet and sharp and dizzying.

“Draco,” I breathed when we parted.

His eyes were hot and glassy, confusion flickering at the edges. But he didn’t pull away.

So I kissed him again. And this time it was deeper, messier. His hand found the back of my neck. Mine curled around his waist. His mouth parted and our tongues slid together. Wet, clumsy, too much. His hand gripped my bicep more firmly. It flexed in reflex under his fingers. He made another soft noise against me, and his scent bloomed.

Fuck. His scent.

I reined my magic in, instinctively masking his pheromones as I always did with mine. Wrapping it in silence so no one else could smell the sweet spike of his arousal. Just me. Just mine.

I wished I could let go of mine so he could smell exactly what he did to me.

My mouth dragged to the corner of his lips, down to his neck. I kissed just below his jaw, then again lower, careful not to touch his glands. I wasn’t that far gone. But I kissed the soft skin around it. He whimpered, faint and stuttering, and tried to muffle it.

It didn’t matter. It was loud in here. No one else could hear him.

I growled low against his throat. I didn’t mean to, but I did.

My hand wandered to the back of his head, tangling in his curls, tugging him into another kiss.. His hands fisted in my shirt. He shifted, pressing against me as much as he could from where we sat. The hand on his waist wandered lower, over his hip and stopped on his thigh furthest away from me. I gave it a gentle tug of encouragement. He gasped, the noise swallowed by our mouths. And then he moved. Swung a leg over mine, settling on my lap. Fitting perfectly.

Fuck.

My hands fell down to his hips, resting them there gently. He was trembling slightly. Arms wrapped around my neck. Breath against my cheek, shallow and fast.

I was lightheaded. Drowning in his divine scent of arousal. I wanted to taste it. Our lips locked again and I pushed my tongue into his mouth. He moaned this time. My hands squeezed his hips and I ground him down slightly against my cock. Hard. His own hardness dragging against my stomach and the heat of his centre pressed desperately against my cock. Divided by our trousers. His hands gripped my traps and he moaned again.

And then he froze.

Just like that. Everything in him stopped. His scent twisted sharp in my nose. Bitter herbs, smoke curling through crushed rose petals. Alarm.

Shit .

I let go immediately. Both hands off him, held up, hovering uselessly in the air. My lips burned.

His fingers unclenched from my shirt. His thighs trembled where they straddled me.

I froze too.

He wasn’t making eye contact. His head was bowed, breath shallow.

“Draco,” I said. Voice hoarse but careful.

He didn’t answer.

I tried again. “Hey. It’s alright. We’ll stop.”

His scent flickered again. Humiliation, sharp and bitter.

“Sorry,” he stammered, unsteady. “I—I didn’t mean— That shouldn’t have—”

“It’s alright,” I said quickly, voice gentle. “Really. It’s okay.”

He didn’t look at me. His hair had fallen forward, curtaining his face. It was messy, clear someone had tousled it. Just shifting off me, movements too heavy to be sober. His hands trembled as they pushed down his shirt. His legs wobbled slightly as they touched the floor.

He didn’t look at me. Just reached for his jacket, fumbled with it and slipped it on.

I reached for him instinctively, but stopped short.

He needed space.

The noise of the pub came rushing back in—laughter, glasses clinking, someone swearing over a lost round of Gobstones. The world had continued. No one had seen.

Thank God. Thank God.

He still wouldn’t look at me. His hands were on the table behind him, steadying himself.

“Draco,” I said again, quieter this time. “Are you alright?”

He nodded once. Mechanical. And then he was walking—no, retreating—toward the loo at the back of the pub, the hem of Patil’s shirt sticking out beneath his coat, his shoulders hunched like he’d been struck.

“I’m just gonna—go wash my face,” he mumbled. “Padma—Padma will find me.”

And then he slipped away.

I stayed frozen.

My hands had returned to the bench at some point, gripping the edge like it might anchor me. My trousers were still tight. I couldn’t even look down. Couldn’t believe what I’d—

I hadn’t forced him. He’d kissed me back. I swear to fucking God he’d kissed me back.

But I should’ve stopped. I should’ve asked. His scent had changed. I knew what that meant. I’d pushed him too far.

Because I wanted it.

Because I’m an alpha and I thought I knew what he needed and maybe—I’d read him all wrong.

My stomach twisted.

Across the table, someone laughed—Dean or Ron, maybe. I couldn’t track it. Couldn’t look up.

I stared at the wood grain instead. My throat was thick and dry and closing up.

He hadn’t screamed. He hadn’t shoved me off. He hadn’t even said no.

But he’d frozen.

His scent had soured.

And that was enough to undo me.

The warmth from before—the buzz, the butterbeer, the weight of him in my lap, soft and boneless—was gone, snatched out of my chest. All that was left was silence and the memory of the sound he made when I kissed the hinge of his jaw.

Jesus.

I’d liked that sound.

I’d wanted more of it.

And now he was in the loo and I was sitting here with a hard-on and shaking hands, like a fucking animal.

I leaned back hard against the wall, knocking my head. I welcomed the jolt. I welcomed the punishment.

A chair scraped nearby. Someone came to sit beside me. I didn’t look to see who it was.

“Alright, mate?” It was Ron’s voice. Casual. Pleased. Oblivious.

“Yeah,” I croaked.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I forced a laugh. It sounded like gravel in my throat. “Just tired.”

Ron stretched, clapped me on the shoulder. “It’s been a long week. At least tonight’s been good, yeah?”

I nodded mutely. I couldn’t say yes.

Because tonight had felt good. Until it hadn’t.

Until I’d lost control.

Until he froze in my lap and I didn’t know if it was shame or—

Or worse.

I curled my fingers into fists in my lap.

Something ugly and hot boiled low in my stomach. Regret.

Across the room, I thought I heard the loo door creak open. I looked up instinctively. Draco was gone. Or hidden. Or avoiding me. I couldn’t blame him.

I didn't know how to come back from this.

I didn’t even know what this was.

But I’d give anything not to have seen his eyes go wide and wet and panicked like that.

I grabbed my abandoned firewhiskey and downed it.

The walk back was slow.

Everything buzzed too bright—head heavy, eyes dry, footsteps muffled against the stone floor. I didn’t even notice I’d made it inside the castle until the cold dropped away and I was blinking up at the huge staircase, vaguely wondering how I’d got there.

Neville had tried to keep pace with me. Said something about sleeping in the common room too. But by the time we stepped through the threshold to the common room, he’d gone pale and glassy-eyed and muttered, “Actually—fuck—think I’m gonna be sick,” before lurching off toward the room he shared with Smith, Bones and Goldstein.

I didn’t stop him. Just mumbled something useless and watched him disappear. One of his room mates would take care of him. Probably Goldstein.

The common room was empty. Warm, fire crackling low in the grate. Some omega had left a nesting blanket in the corner—Boot, probably. I didn’t touch it.

Instead, I dropped into the long couch closest to the hearth. On the end where Draco had curled up a few days ago, wrapped tight in a blanket and pretending to be part of the Exploding Snap they were playing. His face still sharp in my memory. Eyes too alert. Breathing shallow. I’d wanted to ask if he was alright then. I didn’t. I hadn’t known how to.

Now I knew even less.

My fingers went to my lips before I realised what I was doing. Still swollen. Still tasting him. The ghost of it lingered. Soft mouth, tentative tongue, those breathy little sounds he'd made right before he froze.

I let my hand fall.

Ron had taken Hermione to our dorm. He didn’t even try to be subtle. Just whispered something with a grin, and they’d snuck off giggling. Dean vanished too—Seamus in tow, both of them clearly about two drinks past conscious decision-making. The Room of Requirement would have adjusted to them. Private, quiet. Accommodating.

The castle was good at giving people what they wanted.

I dropped my head back against the chair, exhaling slowly.

What had I wanted?

What had I thought would happen? That he’d crawl onto my lap, kiss me like that, and it would all suddenly make sense? That I’d be the one going back to our dorm with a partner. That we’d wake up in the morning and laugh about it? That something in me would feel less fractured if I just had him once, soft and drunk and pliant against me?

I scrubbed my hands over my face.

He had wanted it. I knew he had. Until he didn’t.

And that moment, the second his scent turned, was burned into my brain. Like a curse. My fault. I’d leaned in too hard. Held him too tight. Let my instincts take over.

I thought I could control it. I thought he was safe with me.

I stared at the fire for a long time. Flames licking the logs in a rhythm too steady to match my thoughts. I tried to settle into the silence, but it felt wrong. It should’ve felt like relief, no one around, no questions, no knowing looks. But it felt hollow. Like I’d missed something I wasn’t going to get back.

I thought of his face. Of his hands gripping my shirt. Of how he’d said don’t want to ruin it. Of the way his scent had bloomed, dizzy and sweet, just before it turned.

He hadn’t really wanted me. Not all of me. Not like that.

And I hadn’t stopped to ask.

I ruined it, like I always ruin things. It seems that didn’t leave after the war either.

I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, and let the silence ring in my ears.

Then, slowly, I peeled off my jumper, folded it into something like a pillow, and stretched out on the sofa. My head throbbed with the first edge of a hangover. My mouth was dry. My chest was worse, tight, knotted.

He’d gone to Patil, probably. Told her everything. Maybe cried.

He’d definitely regretted it.

I closed my eyes and tried not to picture the exact moment he’d looked at me and shut down.

I didn’t sleep for a long time.

When I finally did, it was restless. And I dreamed of his scent. Sweet, fragile, slipping through my fingers like smoke.

The morning light filtered weakly through the tall windows, pale and uninviting. I blinked against it, heavy and slow, every muscle stiff as if I’d been locked in place all night. The fire had died down to glowing embers, cold now, and the quiet was thick—too thick.

I shifted on the sofa, careful not to wake whatever was left of my bruised pride or my throbbing head. The makeshift pillow of my jumper was damp with sweat, and my mouth tasted like ash and regret. The ache in my chest hadn’t gone anywhere; it was the kind of ache that clings, stubborn and hollow.

No one else was here. The common room was empty except for the early sunlight and the faint smell of last night’s smoke. I should have been relieved—no questions, no awkward glances, no need to explain. But it just felt... lonely. Like I was still waiting for something to happen, or for someone to show up and fix it all.

I ran a hand through my hair, muscles protesting the motion, and closed my eyes. The ghost of his scent was still there, faint but impossible to ignore—sweet and tangled with that sharp edge of fear. I swallowed hard, my throat dry, and wished I could rewind. Or at least press pause before everything went sideways.

I wanted to tell him I was sorry. I wanted to say I’d meant it when I said I’d keep him safe. But the words got stuck, tangled in everything I didn’t know how to say.

Instead, I just lay there, the silence settling around me like a weight I couldn’t shake. And for once, it felt like the hardest thing in the world was just being alone with myself.

The quiet was broken by the creak of the stairs.

Michael appeared first, his hair tousled and eyes half-lidded. He blinked against the light like it was a personal offense. His steps were uneven, as if the floor was suddenly unsteady beneath him. He rubbed at his jaw and muttered a curse under his breath.

Not long after, Parvati followed, her cheeks flushed and hair messy, but her eyes sharp and accusing.

“There you are,” she said, crossing her arms. “Left me all alone to suffer, and you just disappear.”

Michael grunted, the irritation clear in the set of his shoulders. “I didn’t exactly want to cuddle you last night.”

Parvati rolled her eyes. “I told you I was too dizzy to sleep alone. I wanted you to hold me.”

Michael shifted awkwardly. “Yeah, well... you said you would just climb into my bed after I fell asleep if I didn’t.”

Parvati huffed, stepping closer. “Why did you need to throw me out of bed? Hungover and dizzy and miserable?”

Michael rubbed the back of his neck, sighing. “Look, I’m grumpy and I’m hungover too. I didn’t mean to leave you. I just needed some air.”

They hadn’t noticed me yet. I looked at them blearily. Parvati’s hair was a mess and Michael’s pyjama pants were tented. Oh. Poor guy.

Parvati’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t argue further. Instead, she flicked a glance toward the empty common room, eyes landing on the sofa where I lay sprawled.

“Guess we’re all paying for last night,” she muttered.

Michael gave a short nod and shuffled toward the fireplace, settling down with a grunt. Parvati lingered, her arms crossed, clearly waiting for him to say something else, but he just stared into the embers.

The room fell quiet again, the awkward tension mingling with the morning light. It lasted only a second. 

The door at the top of the stairs creaked again.

Ernie appeared next, rubbing his eyes like he’d barely slept. His shoulders were slumped, but at least he looked more rested than the rest of us. “Morning,” he muttered, nodding at Michael and Parvati without much enthusiasm.

“Got the room to myself last night,” Ernie added with a tired smile. “Seamus and Dean went off somewhere... private.”

I barely had the energy to think about how they were glued to each other last night.

Parvati shot Ernie a quick glare, clearly still simmering about Michael. He just shrugged and lowered his gaze.

Then Hannah and Terry came down together, stumbling slightly but holding onto each other for support. Terry grinned sheepishly. “Rough night, huh?”

Hannah’s senses were apparently still sharp. She wrinkled her nose and leaned close to Terry. “Can we go to breakfast before these smells kill me?”

Terry gave a nervous laugh, but I caught a flicker of embarrassment in his eyes.

From the top of the stairs came a louder, more chaotic noise—Zacharias and Susan, locked in a low-volume argument already.

“You’re impossible, Susan,” Zacharias grumbled, pacing in the doorway. “Do you have to be such a pain all the time?”

Susan’s glare could have melted iron. “I’m not the one waking up looking like I lost a fight, Zach.”

Neville and Anthony followed, caught in the middle like usual. Neville’s expression was tired but calm. Anthony looked like he wanted to intervene but wasn’t sure which side to pick.

“I swear, if you two don’t stop by lunchtime, I’m sending you both to detention,” Neville muttered, shaking his head.

They all filtered into the room, some flopping down near the fire, others grabbing blankets left over from last night’s chaos.

I stayed where I was, still half-curled on the sofa, listening to the low rumble of bickering and groaning—some trying to be quiet, some giving in to grumbles and complaints. The morning had arrived in full force, messy and raw, just like us.

The stairwell creaked again, and soon Hermione and Ron stumbled in, still tangled together like a pair of wrapped-up vines. Hermione’s hair was wild, a mess of curls escaping every which way, and Ron’s shirt was wrinkled.

“Morning,” Ron grunted, flopping down next to me on the couch. His eyes were glassy but there was a lazy grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. I gave him a look.

Hermione gave a small laugh, dropping down on his other side and draping an arm over his shoulders. “I’m never going to live this down, am I?”

“For kicking me out of my own room?” I teased tiredly.

Ron nudged her side with an elbow. “Depends. Did you enjoy yourself enough to make it worth it?”

She rolled her eyes but leaned into him anyway, resting her head on his shoulder. “I did. I definitely did.”

Ron’s grin grew a little wider. “That’s what I thought.”

They both looked a little worse for wear—puffy eyes, flushed faces—but the glow of last night’s closeness still lingered. Good for them. They hadn’t gotten much privacy with Molly behind every corner in the burrow or Hermione’s parents who still were quite paranoid after the ordeal they went through. 

Ron caught my eye for a moment, his grin flickering into something teasing. “Hey, Harry, you alright there? You look like you could use a cuddle or two.”

I ignored him and closed my eyes, willing the pounding in my head to ease.

Hermione laughed softly. “Maybe later, Ron.”

Ron stretched and yawned loudly. “Alright, I’m starving. Who’s coming down for breakfast?”

Hermione glanced at him, rubbing her temple. “I could eat, but I’m not moving far from this spot anytime soon.”

Ron grinned. “Well, I’m dragging you out of here anyway.”

Parvati, perched nearby, sniffed the air and gave a half-smile. “Breakfast sounds like a recipe for barfing. I think I’ll stay here a bit longer. This spot’s nice.”

Ernie, eyes heavy but steady, nodded from his seat. “Same. I’m not quite ready to face the dining hall crowd.”

“In that case, please lay on me, I’m floating away.” I almost flinched at her wording, eyes flickering to Malfoy’s door.

Michael muttered, “I’m going to breakfast, have fun being her pillow Ernie.” He looked less grumpy but still irritated.

Hermione gave him a puzzled look, then shifted on the couch, stretching. “I think I’ll stay too, at least for a while. The fire’s warm.”

Ron laughed, nudged me and stood. “Well, Harry, looks like you’re on your own here.”

I blinked, realizing the couches by the hearth were quickly filling up.

Parvati’s eyes flicked to me. “You’re in my spot.”

Before I could protest, Ernie settled between me and Hermione, where Ron had just been. They all gave me an unmistakable ‘move over’ look.

I sighed and pushed myself up, rubbing the back of my neck. “Guess I’ll join you all downstairs then.”

Ron gave me a cheeky grin. “Smart choice. Food will fix you right up.”

Hermione smirked. “And maybe a strong cup of tea.”

I managed a tired smile and followed the group toward the stairs, walking behind Zacharias and Susan, still bickering.

I left the warmth of the fire, and the stubborn ache of last night, behind.

The common room was quiet, the late sun slanting in through the windows, soft and low.

I stepped inside and froze.

Malfoy lay with his head in Patil’s lap, pale and still, his eyes heavy and unreadable. Patil’s fingers moved slowly through his hair, tracing gentle circles. They shared a battered novel, reading in silence—the kind of silence thick with unspoken things.

Nearby, Parvati, Hermione, and Ernie lounged on the couches, wrapped in their own quiet world, soft murmurs occasionally drifting between them. The three betas had claimed the hearth-side seats, the warm fire flickering over their tired faces.

I wanted to look away, to pretend I hadn’t just walked into something too intimate to interrupt. But I couldn’t—not really.

Draco’s breathing was slow, shallow. Vulnerable.

Patil’s calm steadiness was almost painful. She looked up at me, calm and kind in a way that made the ache in my chest twist sharper.

I swallowed hard, suddenly aware of how dry my throat was.

Why does it hurt so much? I wondered.

Because I wanted to be there. Because I wanted him to look up and see me—not just as the alpha, or the awkward classmate, but as someone who cared. Someone who could care.

But instead, I just said, “Anyone seen Ron?”

Padma nodded quietly. “He’s out with Hermione. Should be back later.”

I shifted, flexing and clenching my hands. I wanted to say something, anything, but the silence was safer.

Around me, soft murmurs floated between Parvati, Hermione, and Ernie. Their presence was a reminder that I wasn’t alone—but it also made me feel more isolated.

I glanced at Malfoy again. His skin looked almost translucent in the fading light, his chest rising and falling with a tired fragility I felt like I should protect—but couldn’t.

Why can’t I just reach out? The thought burned behind my ribs.

But the words never came.

Instead, I stayed. I grabbed a book Dean had left on a side table the other day. I sat close enough to feel the warmth from the fire and the faint pulse of Malfoy’s breathing against the quiet.

For a moment, it felt like maybe this silence, the awkward, fragile quiet, was the safest thing we had.

And maybe that was enough.

I stayed there, trying and failing to read the book. My magic was uneven, crackling over my skin. Reaching towards Malfoy across the room. I put the book on the table and stood abruptly.

I needed to take a shower. I should do it now while I had our room to myself.

Yes, I’d do that.

I quickly made my way to our room, I grabbed what I needed and within two minutes after leaving the common room I was in the shower.

The water hit my back like punishment, too hot, but I didn’t move.

I stood with my palms flat to the tile, chest rising and falling in shallow pulls. Steam curled around me, thick and clinging, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it—about him.

About the pub.

His mouth on mine. The taste of butterbeer, wine and something softer, something sweet. The way he’d climbed into my lap, bold and trembling, like he didn’t know what he was doing but needed it anyway. Like he needed me .

God, the way he’d kissed.

Tentative at first. Then greedy. Desperate. His hands in my hair. His thighs bracketing mine. His breath going all uneven when I ran my fingers down his spine. That tiny noise he made when I pulled him closer— fuck, that sound.

I clenched my jaw, breathing harder now. My hand went down to my cock, stroking slowly.

It had been everything. His scent all around me, thick with omega want, dragging claws through my self-control. I’d been careful, I’d tried to be—but something in me had cracked open when he kissed me like that. When he leaned in, trusting me to catch him.

And I caught him.

I stroked faster. 

His lips were so soft. His waist tiny, fitting perfectly in my hands. His hips too skinny but still wide and soft under my hands. 

I was rock hard and panting, my knot beginning to form.

And god, the small sounds he made. How responsive he was to every little touch. How his scent spiked with want when I held him tight, when I kissed him just right.

My hand bumped on my knot with every downward stroke. My forehead was pressed to the tiles. The water hitting only my back now, pounding down.

How he whimpered like he hadn’t been touched before. How he had moaned when I ground his hot center down on my cock. He probably hadn’t been touched, not since his presentation.

I came to the thought.

I gritted my teeth and groaned through it. Painted the tiles with my spend.

God, if I was interested before, now that I had tasted him I was obsessed.

And I had him.

Until I hadn’t.

Because then he’d gone still. Cold. When I felt pleasure a moment before, I now felt shame. And regret.

His scent had turned, and I’d felt it—felt him pull away even while his hands were still fisted in my shirt. I could still feel the exact moment it shifted. The weight of him suddenly wrong in my lap. Like a door slamming shut in a corridor I hadn’t known I was walking down.

I thumped my forehead against the wall once.

Stupid. I’d been so stupid.

And still—

Still, my body remembered. The warmth of his hips. The scratch of his nails at the back of my neck. His mouth moving against mine like he needed it to stay upright. That broken, breathless little sound right before it all fell apart.

My stomach twisted.

I was hard now, aching with it, guilt and want tangled so tightly I could barely breathe.

I hadn’t even touched him properly. Hadn’t had him for more than a minute, really. But it was already burned into my skin like a brand.

Don’t want to ruin it , he’d said.

And I had.

I let the water scald me clean, but nothing washed it away.

Not his mouth. Not his voice. Not the echo of him trembling in my arms.

Not the way I still wanted him, even now—when I absolutely shouldn’t.

By the time I’d dried off and thrown on a t-shirt, the need had curdled into something else. A kind of low-grade panic buzzing under my skin. I didn’t let myself call it what it was—guilt, yearning, obsession—but it had me out of the dormitory before I could think too hard.

I told myself I was just going for a walk. Clearing my head. Needed to stretch my legs.

And yet.

I passed the hearth. I didn’t linger. Just… looked. The betas were still there, but Malofy was gone.. No sounds.

Fine.

I passed the library. Paused just long enough to check through the arched window. No blonde head bent over a book. No glimpse of a pale wrist or careful handwriting. Just Patil at a table, alone, hunched over something that looked like Arithmancy notes.

I moved on.

The Great Hall was too loud, too crowded. I stood at the entrance for a beat too long before turning away, hoping it looked casual. Hoping no one had noticed.

I wandered the first floor. The second. My legs carried me without much input. I wasn’t looking for Draco. Not really.

Except I was. I was so fucking obviously doing just that.

By the time I hit the fourth floor corridor, pacing between rows of armor and stained glass, I knew it. Felt it in the way my heart lifted hopefully at every sound of footsteps, only to drop again when it was Ernie. Or Anthony. Or one of the Patils (wrong one, of course). I greeted them all with forced smiles. Forced ease.

I didn’t ask if they’d seen Draco. That would have been too obvious.

Instead, I haunted the castle like a ghost in jeans and trainers. Patrolling my own shame.

The fourth floor was silent. Late afternoon sun poured through the tall windows, striping the flagstones in pale gold. I leaned against the cool stone wall beneath one of them, staring out at the grounds without really seeing them.

I hadn’t found Draco.

Not in the library, not in the halls, not even in the tucked-away alcove near the Charms corridor where I’d seen him sketching notes or reading with furrowed eyebrows. It was starting to feel ridiculous.

I told myself I needed a break. Something solid. Warm. Maybe tea.

I didn’t let myself question the direction my feet took- into the corridor that led to the large fruit bowl painting. I reached out and tickled the green pear with two fingers. It giggled, turned into a handle, and the door swung inward.

The scent of baking bread and cinnamon drifted out in a wave.

Inside, the Hogwarts kitchens were warm and bustling, but calm. Elves moved like a well-rehearsed dance around one another, prepping early supper trays and slicing fruit, stirring great pots and pouring tea into floating silver kettles.

Several of them spotted me immediately and broke into smiles.

“Harry Potter, sir!” piped a high voice—Tippy, I thought—bounding forward with her ears flopping around her face. “What a surprise! You is wanting something?”

I offered a small smile. It didn’t quite reach my eyes.

“Hi, Tippy. Just—wanted to say hello.”

“Of course! Of course! We is having fresh ginger biscuits, if Harry Potter sir wants.”

“Thanks. This is perfect.” I said as a biscuit appeared in my hand.

Tippy beamed and disappeared again in a flurry of linen and bare feet.

Then I asked, “Have you seen Kreacher today?”

A pause.

Two elves nearby turned their heads toward me, then one nodded. A small, hunched elf with spectacles and a deeply wrinkled face stepped forward—Brindle, if I remembered right.

“Kreacher is working today, Harry Potter sir,” Brindle said in a creaky voice. “He was on third floor this morning, polishing tapestries.”

I nodded slowly, not sure what answer he’d wanted.

“Do you know if he’s all right?”

“Oh yes,” Brindle said with a quick bow. “He is most diligent, sir. He takes pride. Very serious.”

I hadn't seen Kreacher in a week or more, he left Grimmauld Place earlier than me for the school year. But that hadn’t stopped me from thinking of him often- missing the old grump.

“I’ll try to catch him later then,” I murmured. “Just wanted to check in.”

Brindle gave another small nod, then shuffled back toward the ovens.

I took the biscuit and wandered a bit deeper into the kitchen, just to be moving. The tea was warm between my hands, grounding. Familiar.

The elves swirled around me in practiced motions—chopping, whisking, floating trays with magic. I was just about to thank Tippy again and head out when I caught movement near the far hearth.

At first, I didn’t recognize him.

He was curled on a stack of oversized pillows tucked into a corner, half-shadowed by a high spice rack. A blanket draped loosely over his knees. His hair wasn’t as big, unstyled, and he wore a soft-looking cardigan over what might’ve been pyjamas. Small. Tucked in. With a big bowl in his lap, fiddling with something in it.

He wasn’t alone.

An elf sat cross-legged beside him, his hands busy with a long line of green beans he was trimming with a tiny knife, dumping the trimmed ones in Draco's bowl. He was nodding as Draco murmured something, low and halting. I couldn’t hear the words. Just the soft, uncertain rhythm of his voice.

He looked… better, in a way. Not good. But soft-edged. Grounded. Like something in him had been patched up, at least a little.

I froze. Half eaten biscuit in my hand.

He didn’t see me right away.

I inhaled and the pheromones hit me. Soft, domestic and perfectly content.

I staggered on my feet, momentarily drunk on it.

And he did see me then.

His eyes met mine, and his whole body went tense. Like I’d slapped him from across the room. He went still, mouth parted slightly, one hand curling into the hem of the blanket.

The elf looked between us and, without comment, quietly stood and left the haft trimmed bean in Draco's hand.

I swallowed, throat dry.

“Hi,” I said, awkward, quiet.

He didn’t respond. His gaze dropped to the floor like it had weight.

I stepped closer before I could stop myself. "I didn’t know you were here.”

Still nothing. His fingers twisted into the blanket now, pale knuckles pressing white.

“I just… wanted to check in on an elf. I wasn’t looking for you.”

His shoulders curled inward slightly. Defensive. Like a pet bracing for scolding.

I hated it.

“I shouldn’t have—last night, I mean. I know you didn’t want that. I know you pulled away. I just… I wanted to say I’m sorry.” 

He didn’t lift his head.

“I wasn’t trying to take anything from you. I thought—I thought you wanted—" I stopped rambling, bit the inside of my cheek. “Doesn’t matter what I thought. I crossed a line. I’m sorry.”

There was a long pause. He nodded. Tiny. Barely more than a twitch.

That was it.

That was all I was getting.

I should’ve felt relieved. But I didn’t.

I wanted to say more. That I’d been thinking about him nonstop. That I couldn’t stop remembering the way he’d tasted. The sound he made when he kissed me back. The way it all crumbled when he flinched like I’d hurt him. How I'd beg on my knees for forgiveness if he wished.

But this wasn’t about what I wanted.

He looked so small. Hunched. Like the castle might swallow him whole if he didn’t keep his limbs tucked in.

I nodded once, mostly to myself.

“Right. I’ll… go. Sorry again.”

I turned before I could make it worse.

Behind me, he stayed silent. But I felt his eyes on my back until the door swung shut behind me.

And then I let myself breathe.

I really fucked up last night. If I had a time-turner I would go back and burn The Three Broomsticks before we even made it there.

Even if I knew it didn’t work like that.

Stay away , I told myself. He doesn’t need you hovering. He doesn’t need your guilt. He doesn’t need anything from you.

But god, I wanted to give it anyway.

Chapter Text

Draco

Going to the pub was a mistake.

Wearing Padma’s Muggle clothes for some stupid theme was a mistake.

Drinking alcohol was a mistake. Really, what was I thinking?

Going out after Potter was a mistake. Sitting next to Potter was a mistake.

Snogging him like my life depended on it was the biggest one of all.

The only mercy I could cling to was reminding myself I wasn’t supposed to enjoy sitting on Potter’s lap, wasn’t supposed to like how my body slicked up for him when he pressed closer, or how his hands gripped my hips like he owned them.

My humiliation would haunt me forever.

Those thoughts twisted inside my head day and night, eating away at me. Avoiding Potter was harder than I’d expected. He was everywhere—class, the Great Hall, our common room, the library. Every time I saw him, my heart hammered in my chest like a warning drum.

My only refuge was the Kitchens. Potter hadn’t come back there since that night, and I was thankful he hadn’t tried to talk to me.

I was sure I’d disgusted him. I thought he must hate me now, or at least regret what had happened. But I was surprised to realize that at least drunk Potter fancied me, even if sober Potter looked like he wanted to disappear. Maybe he was as mortified and regretful as I was.

I told myself I regretted it. How could I not? The thought of how my body betrayed me, how it responded to Potter, made my stomach turn.

But I couldn’t deny that it had felt… good. That he kissed like he meant it. That his arms were strong and sure, perfectly made for holding me tight. That he smelled like something warm and familiar, and the way he guided me onto his lap was so natural it made me dizzy.

If I were still a beta, maybe I wouldn’t have run off like a coward. Maybe I would have stayed and accepted the attraction.

How had no one noticed? Had we really been that hidden in the corner, lost in the noise and darkness? How could nobody have seen the moment I gave in to my biology, the moment I stopped fighting and let myself want him?

It was terrifying to think that I had to submit, lose control over myself, that my heat was something I couldn’t escape. That soon, I would be begging for a knot, any knot, just to quiet the storm raging inside me.

Even worse was the sixth year hufflepuff who kept following me and… 

I wished I was still a beta.

I didn’t know how I survived the week, especially how I managed to hide it so well from Padma.

Thankfully, she’d been caught up trying to mediate between her sister and her roommates. Apparently, they weren’t getting along as well as Padma and I did. Who would have guessed? Three stubborn, righteous, studious betas? Too similar and too different all at once. Two girls and one boy? Poor Corner was already climbing the walls before the bickering even started.

I missed my friend terribly. It didn’t feel like a weakness to admit it, just a truth I couldn’t hide.

And when I finally got some time with her again, I felt a flicker of peace I hadn’t had in days.

The day’s finally slowed, and the castle’s usual noise faded into a soft, almost comforting hum.

I was sitting next to Padma in the common room, the fire casting flickering shadows around us. Somehow, being near her made the knot in my chest loosen, even if only a little.

“You look like you could use a break,” she said softly.

I huffed, running my fingers through my tangled curls. “You could say that again,” I answered quietly.

She smiled and pulled a small jar from her bag. “I brought something for you. A protein mask for your hair—curly hair needs extra care. It’ll make your curls softer and easier to manage.”

I raised an eyebrow.

She laughed, that light, easy sound that made the tightness in my throat ease. “Trust me. Just let me help.”

I laughed quietly. “I won’t argue with someone trying to tame this.” I gestured to my hair and chuckled lightly when she pulled me into our room.

Well inside our room I let her take my head in her hands, her fingers working the creamy mask through my curls. The feeling was strange at first — cool and gentle, but her touch was careful, practiced. I closed my eyes, surprised at how calming it was.

“Leave it in for ten minutes,” she said. “Then I’ll help you rinse it out and moisturize.”

The minutes passed quietly. Just Padma’s gentle music box in the background and the sound of our breaths. When it was time, Padma helped rinse the mask from my hair. The cool water shocked my scalp awake.

Next came the moisturizer. Light, fragrant, and silky as she ran it through my curls. She scrunched and shaped them with such care that I almost forgot the chaos still swirling inside me.

When she urged me in front of the mirror, I didn’t even have to brace myself to look at my body without recoiling. I barely recognized myself. My curls looked softer, healthier - less like a wild mess and more like something I could actually tame. They looked like they fit in with my softened face. With my narrower shoulders and more feminine curves.

“Thanks,” I said quietly, feeling a warmth that wasn’t just from the fire.

She shrugged like it was no big deal, but I saw the kindness in her eyes. She hugged me from behind.

“Now we just have to get you to eat some more. You’re not comfy to hug when you’re this bony,” She teased and squeezed me tighter for a moment.

Maybe this week wasn’t a total disaster after all.

I was curled up—well, slouched dramatically—on my bed, legs crossed, the Omega Guide balanced precariously on my knees. The pages were already creased from how many times I’d slammed it shut in horror. But I forced myself to keep reading. I had to figure this out. I had to control my urges. It couldn’t be natural to flush at the sight of a bicep. To want to sniff an alpha’s sweat. It definitely wasn’t normal to go absolutely putty around Potter, especially after the pub exactly a week ago. So I bit down my unease and kept reading.

The illustrations were the worst. Line drawings, clinical and distant- like someone had studied an omega in heat from across the room with binoculars and absolutely no social skills.

A new horror caught my eye.

Chapter Ten: Mating Cycles and the Role of Knotting.

During peak biological receptivity—commonly referred to as an omega’s mating cycle—the presence of a compatible alpha may elicit instinctive physical responses. These include elevated core temperature, excessive production of pre-lubricant fluids (commonly termed slick) to accommodate for a knot, and the development of proceptive behaviours such as nest-building, scent seeking, and exposure posturing.

Exposure what now?

Knotting may occur during full physical union and is not considered medically dangerous in regulated conditions. It is advised that first-time omegas remain calm, breathe deeply, and avoid panic during tie formation, which may last between sixteen and thirty-seven minutes depending on alpha physiology.

Absolutely not. I wasn’t even calm reading this. My thighs had gone prickly with something I refused to name. I shifted on the bed and glared harder at the page. I didn’t react like this when reading about mating in the sex ed I had in 5th year.

“Figure 4b: Typical Proceptive Display (Omega, Unbonded).”

The drawing was a nightmare. A faceless omega figure kneeling on all fours with its back arched like it was trying to summon an alpha.

I had been in a similar position in my cell. I shuddered.

I had to stop.

Not because I couldn’t go on, but because if I read one more sentence, I might spontaneously combust.

No.

Absolutely not.

I slammed the book shut so hard a puff of air lifted my curls.

Across the room, Padma looked up from her parchment, quill poised mid-word.

“That bad?”

“If this book says the word lubrication one more time,” I said, dangerously calm, “I will personally burn it with my mind.”

She snorted. "I've been wondering what kind of book could get you so hot and bothered. And why you’d keep it from me.”

“Hot and bothered? Padma, it has an entire chapter titled ‘Interpreting Alphan Interest Using Scent Cues.’ It literally says, and I quote, ‘Some omegas may feel a deep yearning when an alpha shows prolonged eye contact or vocal roughness, especially during early presentation windows. These urges should not be viewed as shameful, but as natural biological synchrony.’” My voice was losing it’s breath, barely managing to get the preposterous words out.

I spread my arms exasperatedly. “All it’s doing is making me feel like a studied animal.”

Padma laughed outright at that, folding her arms. “Oh, gods. I’ve heard that one before, although, phrased differently. Some neighbour alpha at our house in India tried to convince me that arousal during confrontation is a 'territorial compatibility assessment response’. He was just embarrassed me yelling at him for littering got him in a tiffy”

“Translation: ‘If you get hot while fighting your nemesis, congratulations, you’re weird’.”

She grinned. “Honestly, our fifth year textbook was way better.”

I blinked. “I forgot you must’ve gotten one in secondary gender sex ed too.”

“Yeah. A small one. They handed it out for all us predicted omegas. Really basic. Actual advice. Stuff like what to do if you present during class, how to avoid bonding bites, using your magic for scent masking instead of spells that give you migraines…” She tilted her head at me pointedly. “Mine’s still in my trunk, actually.”

“You’re joking.”

She shrugged. “Not as shiny as your brick of a manual, but I liked it. It actually mentioned things like emotional regulation. Bodily reactions. Relationships. Consent.”

I looked back down at the Ministry book with grim distaste. 

Padma got up and padded over to her trunk. She rifled through it for a moment and returned with a much thinner volume. Light blue cover. No gold embossing. Titled, simply: Practical Guidance for future omegas.

She handed it to me.

I held it like it might dissolve in my hands.

“You don’t mind?” I asked, suddenly timid.

She shook her head. “Of course not. I don’t need it anymore anyway.”

We sat in silence for a while, me flipping slowly through this new treasure. The first chapter was titled “Your Body Has Changed: Understanding, Not Fixing.”

I almost cried.

Instead, I leaned back against the bedframe, tugged the blanket over my legs, and muttered, “If this book says the word ‘slick,’ I’ll allow it. Just once.”

Padma chuckled. “That’s the spirit.”

And then she paused.

“Hey, Draco?”

“Mm?”

“You know you can ask me stuff, right?”

I looked up. She met my eyes, calm and steady.

“You don’t have to figure all this out alone.”

I swallowed, throat dry.

“I don’t even know what to ask yet,” I said quietly.

“That’s okay,” she said. “Start with what you want to know. Not what they want you to.”

I stared down at the soft blue pages. For once, something loosened behind my ribs. Not gone, but… less tight.

“I’ll try,” I said.

And meant it.

Two weeks since I’d gained Padma’s blessed book my body still refused to listen to me, but my mind was more at ease. Managing social settings was easier.

Being in public was easier.

It was a peaceful Sunday in the library.

Low candlelight, the faint scratch of quills, the rustle of parchment. A kind of hush settled between the tall stacks—half magic, half etiquette—and I breathed it in like it was oxygen. Padma had staked out a corner of the table our fellow eight years had claimed beneath the high west window, the one framed by climbing ivy and birdsong. The table was worn smooth by generations of anxious fingers. It usually grounded me. Made the edges of me feel a little less sharp. Almost safe.

We were deep into a quiet debate about divination- dusk versus dawn, which hour best suited a proper tea reading- as we neared the table. Padma was firmly on Team Dawn. I, perhaps out of reflexive contrariness, argued for dusk.

“You’re discounting the liminal resonance of sunset,” I said in a hush, flipping a page in One Thousand Magical Inflections I was holding while walking. “Energy wanes. Shadows lengthen. It invites messages from the unseen.” I set the book on the table, my fingers brushing a paragraph with faint insistence. “It’s right here. See?”

Padma barely skimmed the paragraph. “It invites naps,” she retorted, arching a brow. “Tea readings at dawn catch the mind fresh. Unclouded. That’s why the first light has always been sacred in augury traditions.”

We were smiling, the kind of subtle intellectual sparring that counted as friendship. I didn’t even notice the bench shift beside me as I began taking notes. I didn't notice the scent at first either- warm, faintly electric, something wild curled beneath it- until it threaded past my breath like a hook behind the ribs.

Then I noticed everything.

Potter.

Of course.

Of course he was here. Close. Too close. Close enough that if I exhaled the wrong way, our elbows might touch.

I stiffened, my hand halting mid-word. Forced myself to keep my gaze down, to appear calm. Just another normal day. Just revising for Advanced Theoretical Magic. Just pretending I hadn’t been on his lap a fortnight ago.

He didn’t say anything. Neither did I.

But gods, he smelled the same. Worse. Stronger. Like warmth and leather and ozone, and something underneath I didn’t have words for. Something dark and humming. My body tightened before I could stop it—like it remembered him even if I didn’t want it to.

Do not look at him.

I focused instead on underlining “symbolic mirroring across lunar phases” with unnecessary precision.

“Did you know,” Padma was saying, unaware, or pretending to be, “that in some northern traditions, they only drink black tea before scrying? They believe green tea dilutes vision clarity.”

“I did know that,” I said, voice small and unsteady but grateful for something to say, for someone to speak to. “My mother refused anything but oolong the year she got really into it. The elves learned to keep the leaves whole, otherwise she’d hex the kettle.”

Padma chuckled softly. “Very on-brand.”

But I couldn’t join in. I could feel him beside me. The warmth radiating off his arm, his weight on the bench, the erratic twitch of his quill. I hadn’t looked, but I knew he hadn’t written a single word.

The air felt charged. Like it might break open.

And then Luna floated over, arms full of books and moonlight.

She drifted up with a pile of books like clouds in her arms, looking faintly surprised to find all of us where we were. She nodded to Seamus then  tilted her head at the other end of the table, at me and Potter and Padma. Her eyes were all moonlight and mischief.

“The room’s humming strangely,” she said in that dreamy, decisive way she had. “It’s probably a pheromonal build-up. Did you know libraries are very emotionally porous? All that thinking. It sinks into the wood.”

I stopped breathing.

Potter’s quill snapped.

Padma blinked. “Thank you, Luna,” she said, and turned back to her notes like nothing had happened. Too consumed with her studies to notice something did happen.

Luna drifted off.

I stayed frozen. My brain reeled. My chest ached.

Instead, I glued my eyes to my parchment and recited wand-core properties in my head like a prayer. My knee jittered under the table and—fuck—

His leg brushed mine.

Just a graze. Accidental, probably. But my body lit up like a bloody spellwork diagram. My thighs clenched, breath caught. No. Not again.

I saw flashes—memory, or fantasy, I didn’t know. Hands on my hips. Lips against my throat. The desperate way I’d melted into him in the dark corner of that cursed pub. The taste of something forbidden. The sound I’d made when he bit—

Stop. Stop it.

I forced the thought down, shoved it behind a mental door and locked it. My face burned. Breath stuttering. My magic jittered under my skin.

Padma stood, offhandedly announcing she needed a reference volume from the Arithmancy section. I wanted to beg her not to leave me.

My thoughts didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop them. Words showed like pictures in my head. Chapter Ten. Knotting. Heat regulation. Exposure posturing. The words slick and mating cycle burned behind my eyes. I saw myself—imagined—kneeling in my heat nest, bare and panting, while—

Stop. Stop. Stop.

But it was already too late. Wetness already made my underwear uncomfortably hot.

Padma’s departure left space to my left. Potter was still to my right. I should have moved. Slid over. Given distance. But if I moved now, he’d notice. He’d think it was about him.

So I stayed where I was.

And then it happened.

Potter shifted again, a subtle adjustment, like he was trying to stretch or ground himself, but it sent his knee grazing mine once more. The final push.

Something in me seized. Snapped. Not violently—worse. Softly. Like the sound of paper tearing down the middle.

There was a heat that began low in my pelvis, pressure curling up my spine, catching behind my ribs. Deep and thick. My breath vanished. My mouth parted, helpless.

No. No, no, no—

It rippled through me. A flash of slick. A slow bloom of wet warmth deep inside, unmistakable, clinging, humiliating. It pulsed.

I knew what this was.

My masking charm buckled- then shattered.

I could feel it. Like my body had called something out and the air answered.

My scent flared—spilling out, startled, sweet and full of frustrated arousal—and I panicked.

And then—

His magic washed over me.

It wasn’t violent. It was quiet. Like a blanket being drawn over a shaking dog. The way the room changed, not darker, but stiller. He didn’t touch his wand. Didn’t say a word. He just reached with his magic, and it wrapped around me. Swallowed my reaction whole. Cloaked it before anyone could react. Before Luna turned back. Before Seamus could twitch.

I gasped quietly. Eyes threatening to roll.

It felt so good.

My body was still shaking.

I turned my head. Slowly.

He was already looking at me.

His eyes were wide, pupils huge, edged in green but mostly black, like ink dropped in water. His lips were slightly parted. There was colour high in his cheeks, like he’d just sprinted a flight of stairs.

He looked... hungry. Unsteady. Flushed with instinct. His magic still clung to me like humidity in the air.

But his expression twisted. Subtle. A twitch of his brow, a swallow in his throat. His eyes darted down, then away. Shame? Apology?

Pity?

The nausea that hit me was instant. I looked away before I could see more. Before I could make it worse.

Of course he pitied me. I had just—gods, I had just come. Without touch. From nothing more than sitting next to him and a week old memory like some pathetic... omega stereotype. Weak. Prone to scent-triggered hysterics. I had slicked and spilled in my pants like I was in a rut fantasy, not a school library.

I wanted to disappear.

My throat tightened, burned. My hands clenched in my lap, willing myself not to move. Not to cry. Not to bolt. Not to make it more obvious than it already was.

My legs pressed together instinctively. I couldn’t help it. It was sticky, the mess in my trousers. Too hot, too slick. Like my body didn’t care how humiliated I was. Like it wanted him still.

I bit the inside of my cheek, hard enough to taste blood.

When Padma returned, something in me almost wept with relief. She didn’t notice anything amiss. Or if she did, she pretended with effortless grace. She slid back into her seat, flipping open her reference book with her usual calm, launching back into the debate like nothing had happened.

I couldn’t answer her. Not properly.

I mumbled something. I think I nodded. But all I could feel was Potter’s presence beside me. The warmth of his magic still clinging faintly to my skin. My own scent, buried but not forgotten. My shame sitting like a stone in my stomach.

I couldn’t go on like this.

If my masking charm was this fragile… if my body was this close to unraveling in public...

I had to ask Padma to teach me scent masking the proper way.
No spells. No charms. Just layers of my own magic.

My pride curled in on itself at the thought.

But I’d rather that than sit next to Potter again and—

Gods. I couldn’t even finish the thought.

I needed help.

When we finally closed our books—hours, or maybe minutes later, I couldn’t tell—my trousers were still damp.

Padma stood first, stretching delicately, her cloak falling around her like calm water. She glanced at me, waiting. I forced my limbs to move, careful not to wince, careful not to look at anyone else at the table. Especially not to my right.

As I turned, I let my wand slip into my sleeve. A whispered Scourgify, low and precise. The warmth and wetness vanished in a blink, replaced by a brief chill that raised gooseflesh down my thighs. Padma didn’t notice.

She was already walking toward the corridor, her braid swinging gently across her back.

I caught up, staying just a half-step behind her until we cleared the library doors and turned into the shadows of the side hall. It was empty, thank Merlin. Just the soft creak of old stone and the distant echo of students laughing somewhere far away.

“Padma—” I started, then stopped. My voice cracked in the middle of her name.

She turned, brow furrowing with immediate concern. “What is it?”

“I—” I lowered my voice, throat thick. “I need you to teach me masking.”

Her gaze sharpened. Not with judgment—never that—but with quiet intelligence, the kind that saw through distractions. “You mean without charms?”

I nodded once.

Something flickered in her expression. Understanding, maybe. Sympathy. But not pity.

She reached out and touched my arm. Just briefly. Just enough.

“All right,” she said softly. “We’ll start tonight.”

I nearly exhaled. Nearly. Instead, I swallowed hard and nodded again.

We didn’t speak the rest of the way back to the common rooms. But her presence beside me steadied something that had been swaying. 

The curtains were drawn in our shared room, and the lamps were low—soft golden light pooling across the carpet and walls, smudging the sharp edges of everything. Padma had cleared a space between our beds. Neutral, she said. She moved our nightstands and folded the rug back just enough for the floorboards to show. She sat cross-legged on a cushion in front of her bed, motioning for me to sit across from her, in front of my bed.

“Sit,” she said gently, like she wasn’t asking anything at all.

I hovered near the edge of the room. My fingers itched with nerves. My scent-masking charm still held—a thin, artificial film stretched across my throat and chest. I could feel it pulsing faintly with strain, like it might crack again with the wrong breath.

I didn’t want to do this. I also couldn’t afford not to.

“Just… give me a second,” I murmured, barely above a whisper.

Padma nodded. She didn’t press. Just waited.

My wand shook a little as I pulled it from my sleeve. I took a slow breath, focused on the sensation of the charm—tight, threadbare—and whispered, “Finite.”

The effect vanished instantly.

My scent hit the air like a dropped vial—warm, shaken loose, unbalanced. Still flushed from the incident in the library, still wet at the edges with leftover arousal and the sour tang of shame. I felt it spill into the room and wanted to crawl out of my skin.

Padma didn’t flinch. “Potter?”

I flushed and stammered out, “y-yes.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, as if letting it wash past her. Then opened them again and gave me the softest look—not pity, never that. Just… understanding. Permission.

“You’re safe,” she said. Simple. Steady.

I clenched my jaw. My body was taut with restraint, every nerve bracing for disgust that never came.

She didn’t wrinkle her nose. She didn’t step back. She didn’t do anything except hold the space like she meant it.

“Come sit,” she said again. “You don’t need to hold it in here.”

I wanted to argue. I wanted to hide. But the warmth of the room and her voice, the familiar scent of the herbs she’d lit, the quiet—all of it made something in my chest give in.

I sat.

And let her teach me.

Padma pulled a little pouch from her bedside drawer. Opened it. Inside were loose herbs—fragrant, grounding things: vetiver, dried tulsi, sandalwood bark. She pinched some into a ceramic bowl and lit them with a flick of her wand. The smoke curled low and slow, trailing across the floor like mist.

“This is how my grandmother starts,” she said. “She taught it to me when I first presented.”

I didn’t say anything. Just watched the smoke and tried to keep my hands from shaking.

“Female omegas in our family learn to mask with breath first,” she said. “The masking comes from stillness. From control. Not from hiding—it’s not suppression. It’s… direction.”

I swallowed.

She reached behind her and pulled out the slim blue book—Practical Guidance for Future Omegas—and laid it between us, open to a page I hadn’t marked yet. “It’s in here, a little bit. Not this version exactly, but the idea. You shape your scent by shaping your state.”

I stared at the diagram. A figure in a meditative pose, notes about core breath, scent pulses, emotional tracking. Things that sounded maddeningly vague when read, but that Padma made sound like air.

“Try this,” she said softly. “Feet flat to the floor. Spine straight. One hand on your belly, the other just below your collarbone.”

I mirrored her.

“Now breathe. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Feel the weight of your body. Say in your head: I am here.”

I did. I felt the floor. The breath. The weight of my knees. I tried to mean the words. I am here.

“Good,” Padma said. “Now… find your scent.”

I blinked at her.

“Don’t panic,” she added quickly. “It’s not about controlling it yet. Just… notice it. Where is it sitting in your body? What’s it doing?”

That made something in my throat clench.

I didn’t want to answer. But she waited.

I closed my eyes. Reached for it, reluctantly. My scent sat low, like heat in my belly. Muddled. Sharp-edged. A mix of things I didn’t want to name—want and shame and raw, broken nerve.

“It’s… stuck,” I said hoarsely. “Too heavy. Like it’s… pressing upward.”

Padma nodded, not judging. “It’s trying to find expression. That’s normal when you haven’t grounded it.”

I clenched my jaw.

“This part might feel… intimate,” she said. “But trust me. It’s just breath and muscle.”

She showed me how to engage my diaphragm. How to picture my scent as a thread of ribbon, rising with the inhale, falling with the exhale. I hated how easily she could do it. Hated more how much I wanted to.

We went on like that for a while. She adjusted my posture with light touches—an elbow here, a shoulder down, a hand unclenched. Her presence was calm, unshakable.

But mine wasn’t. 

I tried. I truly did.

But the moment I thought I felt it—that sense of stillness she described—something in me snagged. My breath caught. My shoulders tensed. And suddenly I was thinking of the library again. Of Potter. Of the way my body had betrayed me, slick and flushed and completely out of control.

My throat closed. My eyes burned.

“I can’t,” I said sharply. Too sharply. My hands curled into fists.

Padma didn’t flinch. She just sat with me.

I shook my head, breath stuttering. “It’s not working. I—my body isn’t—” I broke off. Looked away. “Maybe it’s different. Maybe it doesn’t work the same for me.”

Padma tilted her head. “Different how?”

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

She watched me for a long moment. Then said, “Here. Let me show you what it looks like.”

I blinked.

She closed her eyes, and let go of her mask.

The shift was immediate. Her scent bloomed into the room—floral but earthy- white tea, rich jasmine, sweet-spiced and anchoring- tulsi. It wasn’t overwhelming. It was strong. Assertive. Confident. Entirely hers. It swept gently over my senses, grounding and foreign at once.

“This is me, unmasked,” she said, voice steady in the still room. As if the air itself knew not to disturb this bonding moment. “This is what I’d smell like, naturally, in a safe space.”

Then, with a slow breath, she drew it back.

The air changed.

The scent softened, blurred at the edges, retreated like tidewater drawn through silk. Her expression didn’t change. Her magic just... folded inward. Deliberate. Laced with breath and stillness.

My throat ached.

“That’s masking,” she said softly. “Not hiding. Just setting a boundary. Redirecting the expression.”

I swallowed again. Something in me itched—just below the skin, in the soft skin of my throat.

I pressed two fingers to the hollow just beneath my jaw—where my scent glands pulsed beneath the surface—and I could feel it. Feel the way my scent struggled to move there. Feel the way my magic gathered there, too. Restless. Unruly. Barely held.

“I think mine… wants to sit there,” I said quietly. “Like it’s defending something.”

Padma nodded. “That’s where it holds for most omegas. The body protects its scent. The magic follows the need.”

I exhaled slowly. Tentatively, I tried again.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Feel the weight of your body. Feel the pulse in your neck. Let the magic settle.

I imagined it as warmth over my glands—a soft weight, like balm. Not binding, not pressed—just resting. Just claiming space without spilling out.

And for a second I felt it.

It wasn’t complete. But it was quieter.

I gasped, startled by the shift. “It… moved.”

Padma smiled. “You’re getting there.”

But it slipped almost instantly. The magic fluttered, unspooled. My shoulders rose again with tension, and I felt the pulse of my scent flicker bright in response.

I looked away. “It doesn’t stay.”

Padma didn’t press. “It will.”

I pressed the heel of my hand to my eyes. “I’m terrified,” I said, barely audible. “Of what I’ll be if I can’t control this.”

Padma’s voice was steady. “You’re not meant to control it, Draco. You’re meant to live with it.”

Something behind my sternum cracked.

I didn’t want to live with it.

But I had to.

I inhaled. Slow. Shaky.

My scent didn’t disappear. But it dampened. Just a touch.

The magic curled gently over my throat. Hovered where it ached the most, and held.

Padma’s smile softened. “There. That’s the start.”

I sat there a while longer, letting the stillness stretch. Letting the ache pass through. I hadn’t masked completely. Not even close.

But I hadn’t shattered either.

And for tonight… maybe that was enough

I should have gone to Madam Pomfrey from the start. As I said I would before I knew what was happening to my body, back when life was simpler between four walls..

I had done my best practicing with Padma. Night after night, seated cross-legged on the floor, letting her guide me through grounding rituals. Breath control, visualisation, soft touch magic over my scent glands, her voice like warm smoke in the dark. Sometimes she lit incense. Sometimes she hummed. Sometimes she read from that dog-eared Omega Guide she had lent me.

None of it worked.

Or—no. That wasn’t fair. I got better at breathing, at pretending. I got good at control. At stillness. At convincing my body it wasn’t on fire every time Potter sat too close in the great hall. But masking? Proper masking?

It never clicked.

Padma said I was blocking myself. That maybe I was trying to build a wall when I needed to let the scent settle, shift, evolve. I told her that was nonsense. That I wasn’t trying anything except not to bleed all over the carpet every time my instincts fluttered their lashes.

She’d winced at that, softly, but didn’t argue.

What she did do was gently suggest—more than once—that I go to Madam Pomfrey. The headaches had started about three weeks ago, shortly after the pub. At first, they were dull, manageable. Then they grew teeth. Throbbing behind my eyes, jaw clenched so tightly I thought I’d snap a molar. My sleep was fractured. My limbs ached. My thoughts blurred like rain-smudged ink. My scent turned sour whenever it bled through the charm, oversaturated with strain.

I thought I was coming down with something.

Padma knew better.

I let her drag me to the hospital wing on a Thursday evening. The corridors were dim and echoing, the oil lamps hissing low against the stone. She stayed with me until Madam Pomfrey could tend to me. She took one look at me and waved Padma firmly out. My friend left me to my fate. An irritated motherly beta.

“You’ve been using Obscurio Pherine daily, haven’t you?” she asked before I’d even sat down on the edge of a hospital bed. Her hands were already glowing diagnostic blue.

I blinked at her. “How did you—”

“Because I’ve seen this before.” She pressed two fingers to my temple, murmured something under her breath. “Overextended magic. Blocked regulation. Masking charms are only meant for short-term use, Mr Malfoy. They weren’t designed to suppress full hormonal cycles. Especially not on a developing secondary gender.”

I bit the inside of my cheek and murmured. “I didn’t really have much choice.”

That got me a look.

“The Ministry informed Professor McGonagall that you’d received the standard introductory education and medical check up,” she said tightly, checking the colour of my aura. “They were very clear that you declined the medical plan Hogwarts offers.”

I blinked. I had no idea Hogwarts offered such a thing for omegas. Then again, omegas were the only ones that presented early enough to not be finished with school.

What had the ministry done to help me? They gave me a short informational sheet and the too detailed medical textbook.

“They only gave me a pamphlet," was what I settled on. 

Madam Pomfrey sighed. “Of course they did.”

She muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like useless bureaucrats, then moved to the cabinet behind her desk. Glass clinked. A folder appeared. A spellbook. A roll of parchment with dark red ink and an old wax seal.

“You’re not masking wrong,” she said after a moment, “you’re masking like a female omega. Padma meant well, but it won’t work for you long-term. Not fully.”

I felt myself stiffen. “So there is a difference.”

“There is,” she said calmly. “Not in strength. Not in purpose. But in direction. Female omegas learn to tuck their scent inward, like pulling it close to the skin. Male omegas push it out, then diffuse. Wrap it. Think of it like fog over water, instead of perfume in a bottle.”

I stared at her. “…that makes no sense.”

“It will,” she said. “And I’ll teach you. Properly. Like you should’ve been taught. But first, I need to give you a health check, if you’ll allow me.”

I swallowed my pride and nodded. She only looked at me.

“I need you to remove your masking charm for the examination.”

I inhaled sharply, panic threatening the edges of consciousness.

“Mr. Malfoy, there’s only us here.” her gaze softened. “I am a mediwitch and I will not judge you nor subject you to any harm.” 

I exhaled shakily. Wand wobbling as I cast finite and could feel my scent escaping me, wilted flowers and stale honey. I scrunched my eyes shut for a second before opening them again.

I braced for embarrassment, but she didn’t treat me like a project. She didn’t lecture or coo or treat me like I was about to cry. She just cleared a chair for me and rolled up her sleeves once I’d sat. She started with complicated wand movements until the blue glow of diagnostics started up again.

“You were repeatedly subjected to dark magic, correct?” She asked, neutral and clear.

I nodded. Unease bleeding into my scent.

“You still have your Dark Mark?” She asked it as if it wasn’t such a loaded question. As if she was asking for a birthmark and not the brand of a mass murderer. 

I nodded, slowly. “It’s faded… but yes.”

“Left forearm?”

I offered it without being asked. Canceling the glamour on it. The skin was dull, grey-black against the rest of my arm, the shape still the same but without the evil presence it brought. She examined it, muttered something diagnostic, then didn’t comment further.

Instead, she turned back to the diagnostic charm floating just in front of her. The magical core readout was a pale shimmer, like moonlight caught in glass. Her eyes flicked over it. Once. Twice.

“You’ve very little dark magic residue,” she said, tone almost curious. “Much less than I expected.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Given the war. Your mark. What you were… exposed to. There’s some residual taint in the external field. But your core itself? Exceptionally clean. Oddly so.”

“Isn’t that… good?” I dared to ask.

“It’s rare,” she said, glancing up at me. “Not unheard of. But I’ve only seen this once before.”

She tapped the diagnostic chart, then looked back at me with a kind of softened frankness that made my stomach twist. “Did you experience pain in the days or weeks leading up to your first heat?”

I nodded. Inhaling deeply and speaking softly. “It was agony. I thought I was dying. I didn’t know what was happening.” I looked down on my mark. “I thought I’d been cursed.”

She exhaled, as if she’d expected the answer but still didn’t like hearing it.

“That’s not normal,” she said gently. “For male omegas, initial heats can be intense. Emotional. Disorienting. But the months leading up to the presentation, they tend to present with cramping, sensitivity, fatigue. Not… pain. Not like that.”

I didn’t say anything. My fingers curled into my trousers. I remembered the way my bones had ached, how my magic had pulled away from my body like it couldn’t bear to stay in my skin. The migraines. The burning nausea. The horror of waking up slicked and scenting and having no idea why.

“Years ago,” Madam Pomfrey continued, “I had one student. Male omega. Presented late. After… an incident involving dark magic. His transition was excruciating. Long. But his body fought it. Cleansed him, bit by bit, over weeks.”

I stared at her. “Because of the dark magic?”

“Yes. and because of his nature. Omega magic,” she said quietly, “is aligned with purity. Light. It’s not moralistic—but it’s biological. The magic must be compatible with nurturing life. With bearing children, eventually.”

I blinked hard. The words rang somewhere low and hollow in my chest.

“So,” I said slowly, “if someone had… a stain. From dark magic. From casting or carrying it. That could—”

“—provoke a purging response,” she finished for me. “Yes.”

My hand drifted to my forearm. The faded mark wasn’t hot anymore. Wasn’t loud. But it was there. It had been part of me for too long. “I think that’s what happened,” I said quietly. “It felt like something in me was being forced out. Burned away.”

She didn’t dismiss it. Just nodded, as if I’d confirmed something she already suspected.

“Your core is stable now,” she said. “You’ve likely passed the worst of it. But you’ll need to keep monitoring. Keep strengthening your baseline magic. You’re more sensitive than the average omega. Emotionally and magically.”

I gave her a dry look. But she didn’t smile. She met my eyes, steady and kind. 

“You’re not weak, Mr Malfoy. You’ve been working with the wrong tools.”

I looked away. My throat was tight. The warmth in my chest prickled with something close to shame. Because I believed her. And because that made it worse somehow. Even worse, it bled to my unfiltered scent.

Madam Pomfrey didn’t stall. She conjured a chair and sat in front of me. 

“There is one thing of utmost importance.” She sighed, as if expecting my resistance. “Because of your painful and special circumstances I have to make sure that all is as it seems with your reproductive systems.”

I blinked once, furrowing my eyebrows.

“I need to make a physical exam of your opening.” 

“...oh.” My cheeks heated up and my eyes widened. Madam Pomfrey looked at me with patient but firm eyes. She wouldn’t budge on this.

Bile was rising in my throat, but if something was wrong, it’s better to find out earlier. Right?

How weird could it be, people did this all the time, right?

Finally I nodded.

“Good.” The beta smiled and stood. With a wave of her wand, the area around the bed closest to us was closed off with privacy screens. “I’ll just bring the supplies, please undress your lower body and lay back onto the bed.” With a final wave, some metallic structures of some sort appeared by the bottom of the bed. Leg rests.

Oh dear.

By the time she was back, I was naked from the waist down, holding my folded trousers in front of me.

She nodded approvingly and gestured for me to lay down as she laid out her equipment. Upon seeing the- shape- of some of the equipment, I quickly laid down before  I bolted.

Oh, how I wished for Padma to be here with me.

Or perhaps not, this was beyond humiliating, I thought as I laid down with my legs in the leg rests. Everything was on display. I adjusted my limp dick to lay towards my stomach and shimmied my hips until I laid less stiffly.

Madam Pomfrey washed her hands in a conjured basin, drying them on a soft cloth with a flick of her wand. Her movements were brisk, clinical, practiced. Mine were not. My fingers were clammy where they gripped my schoolshirt bunched at my stomach. The metal of the leg rests was cold against my calves, and the faint scent of disinfectant made my stomach twist.

“I’ll begin with a basic exam,” she said, voice low and even. “You may feel some pressure. If anything hurts, tell me immediately.”

I gave a small nod. I couldn’t quite make myself speak. My throat was tight. My scent was tighter. Wilting like crushed leaves, thinned out by nerves. It clung to the air with a faint sourness I couldn’t control. I hated that I hadn’t masked it again. Hated that she could smell it.

But she didn’t react. She donned a pair of soft conjured gloves, lit her wand, and settled between my legs.

I tried to think of something else. Anything else. Her magic glowed faintly against my skin—cool, diagnostic blue—and then her cold fingers were gently parting me.

My hips jerked. I hadn’t meant to move, but my body did it for me. I gasped, hands clenching the edge of the mattress, butthole clenching.

“Breathe, Mr Malfoy,” she murmured. “You’re very tense. I’ll go slowly.”

I nodded again, jaw locked. My scent flared high and defensive—startled sharp, then dropping to burnt sugar.

The first brush of her fingers against my new entrance was light, clinical. But the breach—a soft glide, slow but steady—made my whole body lock up. A sharp, unfamiliar pressure. Not like pain from injury. It was deeper than that. Deeper than I thought it would be. My inner walls fluttered in confusion. I didn’t know they could do that. My thighs tensed.

“Almost there. Breathe for me. In and out.”

I obeyed, or tried to. Inhale. Exhale. Again. My body trembled. The air around us went cloying with unease, a sick-sweet edge to my scent I couldn’t stop leaking. I felt her fingers press further, curling slightly, then still.

“Good. Your omega channel is healthy,” she said quietly, more to herself than me. “Slight inflammation, but nothing concerning. No tears, no abnormal swelling.”

I swallowed, my head turned toward the wall. The stone was cool. I focused on that. Not the fullness. Not the way my body clenched instinctively around the intrusion.

“Now I’ll use a speculum. It’ll feel different—more pressure, but it won’t last long.”

I made a strangled sound of acknowledgement. She coated the instrument with a numbing salve, then gently replaced her fingers with the cool metal device.

The pressure returned tenfold.

I hissed, chest tightening. My hands gripped the blanket hard enough to hurt. My scent rippled with pain, too open, too raw—frosted flowers and something brittle underneath, bitter.

“Easy,” she soothed. “It’s okay. Nearly done.”

I tried to breathe around it, but the speculum stretched me in a way that made my stomach twist. It wasn’t sharp pain, exactly. Just wrong. Like my body didn’t understand the shape of it. It burned. Not from injury, but from newness. From forced stillness.

I gritted my teeth and focused on the ceiling. It was about the size of my own penis, and alpha’s are usually bigger. How in the world would I- I stopped my train of thought. Counted the flickers of the torchlight. One, two, three-

“Alright. That’s done. I’m removing it now.”

Blessedly, the pressure eased. I could breathe again. I could also feel her magic moving through me next—warmer, softer, like mist curling through cracks.

The diagnostic charm shimmered in the air above us, constructing an outline of my reproductive tract in suspended light. A soft translucent image rotated slowly: the curved omega channel, the tucked-back uterus, pale and small and folded like a sleeping creature. I recognised it only because of that wretched book the ministry gave me.

“Everything looks normal,” she said, adjusting the view. “Your uterus is healthy. No sign of lesions, internal scarring, or magical flux. You’ve completed your transition without physical complications.”

I let out a shaky breath I didn’t realise I’d been holding. The sourness in my scent began to lift, replaced by something almost flat. Like dried grass. Worn. Exhausted.

“You can sit up, Mr Malfoy. Take your time.”

I did. Slowly, awkwardly. My legs wobbled as I swung them down from the stirrups, bare feet curling against the floor. She turned away as I reached for my trousers and dressed again with slightly trembling hands.

By the time I sat properly on the bed again, she was back at her desk, scribbling something onto a parchment and sliding it into a medical file.

“You’re cleared,” she said. “And I’ll be following up in a few weeks to monitor your magic stability. Now, if you're up for it, masking techniques. No more charms. We’ll use magical grounding instead.”

I nodded faintly, voice still caught somewhere in my throat.

She finally looked up, her expression kind. “You did very well. That wasn’t easy.”

I gave a weak laugh. “Yeah, sure.”

She gave me a piece of chocolate and a glass of water. It helped a little, I didn’t feel so shaky anymore. The awkwardness of having my school nurse see my privates outwinning my disgust with my own body.

Finally, I murmured. “Let’s begin.”

She showed me how to press my palm to the scent glands on my throat until I felt the thrum of my own magic settle.

“Breathe downward,” she said. “Not just in. Into your spine. Your belly. Good. Now—cast inward, then push. Not like a shield. Like a veil. Lighter.”

It was strange. Awkward. My magic stumbled at first, unused to the shape. But then something clicked.

It rippled out, soft and smoky, not heavy. Not cloying. It didn’t seal me in—it softened the edges. My scent stilled, no longer broadcasting tension and shame like a beacon. It hovered closer to my skin. Contained.

I let out a shaky breath.

“Better,” Madam Pomfrey said. “It’s not perfect, but it’ll pass. You’ll need to practice—your emotions will still bleed through if they’re too sharp—but you’re masking now, not muting.”

“…It feels different.”

“It should.”

I sat with that for a moment. My body felt... quieter. My mind still hurt a little, but the fog was thinning. My scent no longer soured in my nose. For the first time in weeks, I didn’t feel like I was failing at something I didn’t even ask to be.

Madam Pomfrey handed me a small guide, handwritten and annotated, with notes in the margins from someone named Marius—a male omega who, apparently, had studied with her years ago.

I ran my fingers over the name. Said, “Thank you.”

She handed me a calming draught with a gentle, “Take this before bed tonight. It’ll help ease the tension in your channel and lower your stress hormones.”

I took it, fingers brushing hers. 

I walked out of the infirmary not wishing I were someone else- for the first time in a very long time.

Chapter Text

Harry

Professor Varga was already writing on the board when I walked into Defence.

I slid into my usual seat at the back, nodding once to Neville. He gave me a small smile and turned back to his notes. I set my bag down, leaned back, and let my wand spin between my fingers. Tap. Twist. Tap. It steadied something in me.

“Wands away,” Varga said without turning. “We’re covering theory today.”

The board read:

Nonverbal Defence: Instinct and Precision Under Duress

I felt it as soon as she said it. The way the room shifted, quiet and strange. A few students up front straightened. The kind of silence that isn’t from disinterest, but from knowing. From remembering.

“There’s no substitute for live experience,” Varga said calmly. “Some of you here know exactly what it’s like to cast under pressure. Not in duels. Not in exams. But in real, lethal conflict.” She surveyed the room, watching our reactions.

A few of the seventh year students we shared the class with looked around. At me, yes. But not only me. At Dean. At Seamus. At Neville. At each other, with haunted looks remembering that last battle.

I didn’t turn my head, but I felt it anyway.

“I’d like someone who’s ez´xperienced such a situation to share,” Varga continued. “Just briefly. What does it feel like, to cast without words when your life is at stake?”

No one moved.

A cough somewhere near the front.

Quills stayed still. I felt the eyes on me, the bated breaths.

I could feel it pulling at me. Not pressure, exactly, just… that weighted pause. The kind that waits too long. That stretched with every silent second. The kind that starts to feel familiar.

I exhaled quietly. I had to give in to the silent request, or this awareness would turn into anxiety.

“It’s not clean,” I said, my voice steady but low. “You don’t think through it, you don’t think about the spell. You barely know what you want to cast, only what you want to achieve. And then you cast.”

A few people looked back. I didn’t meet their eyes. Neville turned slightly toward me, his posture easy but his attention fixed. Quiet support, the way only he gave it.

“It’s not about precision,” I went on. “It’s not even about skill, sometimes. It’s about whether your magic listens to you fast enough.”

Ron looked over from where he sat with Hermione. I didn’t look at him for long, but it was enough. A flicker of concern, of what it could trigger to speak about it.

“You don’t win with perfect technique,” I said. “You survive with instinct.”

Varga’s expression didn’t shift, but her gaze settled on me with a kind of quiet understanding. She inclined her head.

“Instinct is born of experience,” she said. “Not all of it voluntary. Not all of it fair.”

A pause. Then she turned back to the board.

“But if you’ve lived through it, if you’ve cast under fire and survived- your magic will remember. The goal now is to understand what it remembers. Instinctual magic also grows stronger after presentation. Regardless, it is almost exclusively used under duress.”

The chalk tapped once against the board. The moment passed.

I rolled my neck, tension creeping at the base of it, and leaned back in my chair again. The wand stayed still under my thigh. Neville’s elbow nudged mine gently. He didn’t say anything, just offered a quiet, sidelong glance that said everything.

I didn’t nod. Just stayed there. Breathing through the memories.

The corridor outside Defence was noisy, but my thoughts were louder.

I slipped out past the last bench, catching the door before it creaked shut behind me. Varga’s words still rang somewhere low in my ribs. Instinct is born of experience. Not all of it voluntary. Not all of it fair.

No one had said my name. But they hadn’t had to.

I scrubbed a hand over the back of my neck, jaw tight, trainers moving on muscle memory toward the Great Staircase. I needed to go to the library. Not because I had an assignment — but because I had to get away from the crowd. I had nothing to distract myself with. I hadn’t had a panic attack since arriving at Hogwarts, and I’d like to keep it that way.

My mind spinned trying to find my usual anchor and I found myself sniffing the air, searching for a smell.

For someone.

With a start I realised who I was looking for. The one I had been avoiding.

My restlessness had been growing each day I had been avoiding him.

Because I had made him my anchor. And how could I not have?

Draco Malfoy had scent glands on his throat and a pulse that fluttered when he was nervous. He had curls that stuck to his forehead when he was flushed. He had a voice that shook when he spoke, and a body that had—gods—

That had come.

Because of me.

I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek, breath that had been calming down turning shallow.

That was why I had been avoiding him.

It hadn’t been on purpose. I hadn’t even touched him. I’d just been too close, too much next to him in the library, and then he’d—he’d folded into himself, trembling, scent flooding the space like a rush of sunlight and blooming roses. And I'd stood there, watching, panting, while he desperately gathered himself before Patil came back. I couldn’t even claim I had intended to drown his scent out, my magic did it instinctually.

And still, I’d wanted to bury my nose in his throat like some bloody animal. Still did.

Every part of me screamed that I shouldn’t want him.

Not like this. Not when he was clearly still finding his footing. Not when my presence made his instincts snap.

And still, every time I caught the edge of his scent in the corridor, I nearly turned around.

I wanted him. So badly I felt it like an ache, somewhere deep in my chest.

And I hated myself for it. I gritted my teeth and kept walking.

“Oi, Harry!” Dean caught up first, a hand clapping my shoulder before he matched my stride. “What’s the rush? Madam Prince’s your best friend now?”

“Thought I’d get a head start on McGonagall’s essay,” I muttered, glad I had managed to calm down.

“Riveting stuff,” Seamus chimed in, falling into step on my other side. “She wants five inches on inter-house cooperation and I’ve written exactly two words. One of them is 'bollocks.'”

Neville appeared from somewhere behind, cheeks still pink from the classroom. “You alright?” he asked quietly.

I nodded. Too fast. “Yeah.”

He didn’t press, just gave me that look. The one that said you don’t have to say it, I already know. I glanced at him sideways, grateful and unsettled all at once. I think I remembered to smile.

Ron and Hermione joined us a moment later. Ron was mid-story, something about a third-year who’d accidentally set their own robes on fire during Charms. Hermione was trying not to smile, but failing.

Luna trailed beside her, half-watching a floating quill that no one else seemed to see.

“Is the library suddenly the new common room?” Ron asked, eyeing our group as we all turned down the same hall.

“Safety in numbers,” Dean said.

“I go where the moon tells me,” said Luna serenely.

That got a snort out of Ron, and a little smile tugged at the corner of my mouth before I could stop it.

And for a moment — it almost worked. The noise of them. The rhythm. The way they moved around me like I was still just Harry, still just their friend, and not something warped by too many headlines and the weight of too many dead.

But it didn’t last.

Because underneath all of it, I was still thinking about Malfoy. About the quiet tension in his shoulders. The way he’d looked at me, like I was too bright and too loud. Like I was burning him alive without even touching him.

I’d made him cum. Just standing near him. Just being me.

I hadn’t meant to. I hadn’t wanted to—

No. That wasn’t true. I had. Some part of me had. Some awful, coiled instinct had swelled in satisfaction when I’d realised what was happening. That was the worst part.

He’d been terrified.

I’d been aroused.

I still was.

And I hated it.

So I let myself fall back, just a step or two behind the others, and tried to breathe through it. One step. Then another.

Malfoy needed space. Safety. Distance.

And the very least I could do was give it to him.

The greenhouse was warm. Not stifling, just…comforting. Quiet. The soft scratch of plant roots against glass. A faint mist in the air. I breathed in damp soil and green things and let it push my memories further from my mind. Malfoy’s smell too while I was at it.

Neville didn’t say anything when I showed up. Just handed me a pair of dragonhide gloves and pointed to the corner, where a cluster of shrivelfigs had started to overgrow.

I didn’t ask if I was interrupting. He didn’t ask what was wrong.

We worked in silence for a while. The good kind. The kind that didn’t stretch tight over your ribs or leave your tongue heavy. Just soft noises. Rustling leaves, scuffing boots, the dull pop of a seedpod splitting open.

When my fingers finally stilled, Neville glanced up.

“You alright?” he asked.

The question was simple. Not a demand. Just space, if I wanted to take it.

I stared at the dirt under my nails. “No.”

Neville nodded. “Yeah. Thought maybe not.”

He didn’t say anything else. Just kept working, slow and methodical, pruning away a curled yellowing edge from one of the fig leaves. I watched the way his hands moved—steady, practiced, sure. No pressure. Just presence.

Neville had always been like that. Solid. Gentle in a way that didn’t need to announce itself. An alpha unlike any other.

It made something in my chest loosen.

“I’ve been trying to stay away from someone,” I said quietly, not really meaning to. “I thought it would help.”

Neville glanced over but didn’t interrupt.

“It’s not,” I added. “It’s… worse, actually. I keep thinking about them. About what happened. And how I—” I broke off, jaw clenching. “I shouldn’t want anything. Not when they’re still—figuring things out. Not when I already made things worse.”

Neville didn’t flinch. Didn’t look confused or curious or eager to dig. He just nodded slowly and said, “Do they know you’re trying?”

That gave me pause.

I shook my head. “No. I haven’t said anything. I haven’t told anyone, actually.”

He shifted, sat back on his heels beside the potting bench. The sunlight caught in his hair, gold and soft and green around the edges from the fig leaves.

“You’re not a bad person, Harry,” he said. “Wanting someone isn’t the same as hurting them.”

I looked at him. Really looked. Neville, who had been just as much a part of the war. Who’d led the resistance here when the rest of us were gone. Who bore it all with quiet strength and never once made anyone feel smaller just for needing space.

“I scared them,” I admitted.

Neville’s brow furrowed a little, but his voice stayed calm. “And are you going to do that again?”

“No.” The answer came too fast, fierce and honest in my throat.

He nodded. “Then that matters.”

Something in my chest cracked. Not painfully. Just enough to let a little more air in.

We didn’t speak for a while after that. Just went back to trimming the fig roots and dusting off soil. If he knew who I was talking about, he didn’t let on.

My shoulders felt a bit looser by the time we were done. My breath didn’t catch so high in my chest.

And when we finally stepped into the castle again, Neville bumped my arm gently with his elbow.

“Come by again tomorrow,” he said. “The gillyroot’s overgrown too.”

I nodded, grateful. “Yeah. Alright.”

It wasn’t everything. But it helped.

I didn’t go straight to the Great Hall. I left Neville to go alone, and only felt a little bad about it.

I wandered instead, not aimlessly, not quite. My feet knew the quieter stairwells, the alcoves where portraits dozed and the stone didn’t echo so much. I let the castle guide me, slipping through hush and dust and sunlight filtering through high windows.

Neville’s words stayed with me.

Wanting someone isn’t the same as hurting them.

Maybe not. But the line still felt razor-thin.

I kept thinking about Malfoy. About the startled shine in his eyes when our magic clashed. About the way he’d tried so hard to hold it together — voice tight, shoulders locked, hands clenched white in his lap.

I kept seeing the moment it slipped — the way his spine had curved, soft and unguarded, like his body had simply given in to something it hadn’t chosen. Like I’d taken something. Even without touching him.

And it was that. Not the heat. Not the scent. Not even the sound he made when he peaked- it was that, the sheer helplessness of it, that had twisted guilt like wire around my ribs.

I didn’t deserve the thrill that had shot down my spine. I didn’t deserve the ache I still felt, remembering.

He hadn’t meant to give me anything. And I hadn’t meant to take it.
But I had. Some part of me had.

I pressed my palm to the stone wall beside me, grounding myself. Cool and steady beneath my hand.

Malfoy was trying. I could see that. In the way he held himself now, a little taller. The way he leaned into Patil, listened when she spoke. The way his scent was different — clearer. Sharper. Still soft, but no longer tangled with panic.

He wasn’t masking with spells anymore. Now he did it naturally. Slower. Softer. Sometimes imperfect. His emotions bled through, usually not intentional, especially when he was tired or caught off guard. But it was him. His own scent, controlled by his own will. And it made something in me ache, curdling low in my gut.

He was finding his footing.

And I was trying not to want him while he did it.

I let my eyes close. Just for a moment.

It was easier when he wasn’t in the room. When I couldn’t smell him. Couldn’t hear the soft scrape of his quill or the way he shifted in his seat like everything was just a bit too much.

I hated that my instincts clocked him before anything else. That my senses lit up like bloody beacons the moment he entered a space. How my alpha suddenly pressed to let my pheromones bleed out.

I hated that I liked it.

That I’d noticed how his curls looked a little more defined lately. That I’d caught myself wondering if Patil was the one helping him with that. That I’d wanted to reach out and touch one, just to see if it bounced.

I hated that he smelled good. Not just enticing, but good. Like something blooming. Like something living.

I hated it.

And I didn’t want it to stop.

Parvati stabbed a roasted parsnip with unnecessary precision. “Where’s your other half?”

Her twin didn’t even look up from her book. “The kitchens.”

Parvati raised a brow. “Again?”

“He wanted strawberry trifle.”

Parvati made a show of sighing, then leaned closer to her sister, flipping the page of the oversized tome between them. “Fine. Since he’s off flirting with the house elves, you have to look at this with me.”

Patil smiled faintly and shifted the book so it straddled both their plates. I glanced over from across the table — half-curious, half desperate for something to look at that wasn’t Malfoy’s empty seat. My food was untouched.

They were poring over a thick, gold-edged volume: An Atlas of Runes in Temple Architecture. A drawing sprawled across the page. A weathered archway carved with vines, stone lotuses, and a coiled serpent, each of its seven heads flaring over the threshold.

Parvati pointed to the engraving. “That’s Nāga script. You see the tongues? There, the third one— those loops mean invocation. Like a prayer.”

The Ravenclaw twin tapped the same symbol. “Odd to find it in a British tome.”

Parvati nodded her head enthusiastically. “I spoke to Professor Binns. He told me some knowledge bled over from colonial times. They brought mediums from temples. Guardians, healers, sometimes even snake-wranglers.”

That caught my attention. I leaned in slightly. “Are you talking about parseltongue? People actually used it?”

Both of them looked at me.

“Of course,” Patil said, like it was obvious. “Not everyone with snake speech turns into a dark lord, Potter.”

“Though I see how you’d get confused,” Parvati added, grinning.

I gave a weak laugh. “Right. No, I-yeah. It’s just… here, it’s not exactly something you keep.”

Parvati tilted her head. “It’s different in India. In rural areas, it’s considered sacred. Nāgas are protectors of water, earth, healing. If someone can speak to them, it’s seen as a spiritual gift.”

“Even if it’s just… snakes?” I asked. “I mean, I can’t summon rain or anything.”

Patil chuckled. “No one’s asking for a monsoon, Harry. But communication’s power. Especially when it crosses species. Especially when the species has fangs.”

I blinked at the page. The snakes stared back. All seven heads.

It was strange. I was so used to the revulsion, the flinching, even from people who meant well. But Parvati’s tone was casual. Padma’s curiosity was steady and kind.

“Do you still have it?” Padma asked, quietly.

“Yeah,” I said. “I think so. I haven’t… used it much. Since the war.”

“Why not?” Parvati asked.

I shrugged. “It freaks people out. And it—it feels weird now. Like it doesn’t belong to me. Like it never did.”

They exchanged a glance across the rim of their book.

Parvati rested her chin in her hand. “Just because it came through Voldemort doesn’t mean it was his. You’re the one who survived. Not him.”

Padma nodded, eyes soft when they looked at me. “You could learn to use it on your own terms. Visit a place where it’s not seen as a curse.”

“Or use it here,” Parvati added. “No one ever asked the snakes what they thought of the war, did they?”

That startled a laugh out of me — shaky, but real. “Pretty sure they’d say, stay warm and eat rats.”

“Wisdom,” Padma said solemnly. “Ancient serpent truth.”

The candles overhead flickered gently. Around us, students talked and laughed and scraped chairs. None of them paid us any mind.

But something had shifted. Some heartache seemed to let go.

Hermione’s patronus nearly gave me a heart attack.

Not a warning, not an emergency, just a silvery otter darting through the corridor to chirp, “Can you pop into the library and grab that Runes text I forgot? Third floor, purple cover, sixth shelf from the right.”

I told the otter she owed me. It just blinked at me before vanishing.
I muttered something about heart palpitations and headed up the stairs.

I wasn’t thinking about Malfoy. Honestly. I wasn’t.

But the second I crossed the threshold into the library, I knew.

It hit me like pressure behind my eyes. Not even a scent, not yet, just a shift in the air. Like the way you know a storm is coming. Or someone’s watching you from behind a mirror.

My breath caught before I’d even finished stepping inside.

Then it was there. Faint, but unmistakable.

Warm roses. Dusty sun through old glass. The ghost of heat pressed into cotton.
Malfoy.

My fingers curled tight around the strap of my bag. I stood there too long, trying not to look obvious about how I was sniffing the air like a complete lunatic.

He wasn’t masking it. Not with spells, not naturally either. His scent was soft- faded-but real, and it clung to the space like the echo of his breath. A little sharper at the edges. Less clean than usual. Emotional bleed.

I didn’t mean to follow it.

But I did.

Past Madam Pince, past the Runes section (sorry, Hermione), until the trail led me between two low shelves and to the far back corner.

There he was.

Asleep.

Head tilted, curls falling forward. One arm curled under his cheek. The other sprawled out beside an open Muggle Studies book. His fingers twitched once, like he was dreaming.

He looked… soft. Human. Less like a porcelain doll and more like something living. Breathing. Breakable.

That scent- his- was stronger here. Rising faintly from the collar of his jumper, where it had soaked into the fabric. Roses again, but something new underneath. Something unguarded. The barest trace of whatever he'd been feeling before he dozed off.

I stood there too long. Again.

My magic stirred without asking. Just a hum beneath my ribs. Wanting. Reaching.

My pheromones pressed to be released.

My fingers flexed uselessly at my sides.

I backed away.

Turned.

Didn’t look back.

But I grabbed a book off his table as I passed.
Didn’t even read the title. Just- something to carry the scent with me.

Just in case it faded too fast.

The book still smelled like him.

Not much. Just a whisper of roses when I cracked it open in the quiet of my room the night before, when Ron and Dean were already sleeping. Enough to keep me up too late, reading nothing. Just breathing.

I’d told myself it was fine. Harmless. I wasn’t bothering him. I wasn’t doing anything. Just… noticing.

But when I stepped into the corridor outside Charms that morning, the scent hit me again- and this time it didn’t feel harmless.

Malfoy was ahead of me, just a little. Walking stiffly towards me. Shoulders tight. I clocked the edge of his profile as he slipped into the classroom between us: jaw clenched, lips parted slightly, like he was catching his breath. And just before the door closed behind him, I saw him lift one shaking hand and wipe his mouth with the back of it.

My stomach dropped.

Someone else came out of the alcove behind him. A Hufflepuff, older. Six or seventh year. His uniform was too neat. Face pink, but not like he’d run there—like he was warm. Smug. He didn’t see me watching. Just tugged his sleeves down, adjusted his collar, and strolled off the other way.

I stared after him.

Then I went to the alcove.

I don’t know what I was expecting. Some sign. A dropped quill. Anything. But when I stepped closer, I felt it immediately — a faint shimmer in the air, like magic not yet settled. It caught in my nose. The sterile, flat scent of a purging spell.

Aerialis purgo.

Used to clean airborne matter. Pheromones, mostly. Or… other things.

I swallowed hard.

The scent in the alcove was wrong. Too clean. Wiped bare in a way nothing else around it was. Like someone had wanted to hide something. Erase it.

But Malfoy’s scent, his real one, still lingered at the edge of it, where the spell hadn’t quite reached. Faint, but fractured. Like bruised petals under too much weight. Sour at the edges. Overheated. Not masked, not fully.

Bleeding.

I didn’t move. Just stood there.

That same low hum started up in my chest. The one I hated. The one that felt like instinct, like heat. Like possession. My magic prickled like it wanted to fill the space, mark it, wipe every other trace away.

I took a step back.

Not mine. This wasn’t about me.

I turned and walked into Charms — slower than usual. Malfoy was already seated, staring straight ahead. Hands folded too neatly in his lap. Shoulders drawn in.

I sat behind him.

And didn’t stop watching.

He sat next to Padma like nothing had happened, even with her eyeing him.

Chin high. Spine straight. Hands folded neatly over his desk.

Too neat.

The usual humming hush of Charms wrapped around us. Parchment rustling, Flitwick’s light voice hopping from wand theory to practical instruction, the scratch of quills.

But I couldn’t hear any of it.

Not really.

Not with Malfoy one row in front of me, angled slightly to the side, like the light from the windows hurt his eyes. Like he was trying to sit inside his own shadow.

His scent hadn’t settled yet. I caught it the second I stepped in. Not the usual echo of paper and roses, but something… off. Frayed. Edges curled inward, like paper singed at the corners.

Still him. Still familiar.

But not right.

Too many layers. The faint sting of industrial soap. The clinical afterbite of a cleansing spell. A quiet, metallic edge beneath all of it, like heat on old coins.

Something had happened.

Something I’d missed by seconds. Maybe less.

He hadn’t looked at me. Not in the corridor, not now. I’d seen the faint tremor in his shoulders when he adjusted his sleeves. The way his mouth moved, not wiping, not exactly. Just… smoothing something out. The kind of gesture you make when you’re trying to forget the feel of something.

I stared at the back of his neck.

The place where his scent gland pulsed under skin. I couldn’t see it- the collar of his uniform was high today, fastened all the way up- but I could feel it, like the memory of a bruise someone hadn’t touched yet.

My magic shifted uneasily. A quiet stir beneath my ribs, like a warning hum. I bit the inside of my cheek.

I didn’t know anything.

And yet-

And yet.

He was too still. His scent, too scrubbed. Not masked, not buried, just erased in patches. Like something had panicked him into trying.

He didn’t smell like himself. Not fully. Just shadows of it. The same way a shirt smells once it’s been washed too many times. Faint, lingering, faded under bleach.

I hadn’t even taken my wand out.

Hermione nudged me gently under the table. I didn’t look at her. Just stared down at my parchment until the lines blurred.

Somewhere ahead of me, His quill scratched slowly. Deliberate. Measured. Like every sound it made was permission to keep sitting upright.

I wanted-
I don’t know what I wanted.

I just kept breathing through my nose.

And pretending I didn’t already know what the air was telling me.

Because I had seen it before, hadn’t I?

The sideways glances, sharp and quick like broken glass.

The muttered words just loud enough to catch at the edges of a quiet corridor.

That stubbornly clinging charm on Draco’s name in the hallway — the one I’d had to burn off with fire magic because it wouldn’t go away.

And Kreacher — Kreacher had turned up that night, screaming like the house was on fire, furious because I’d been the one who damaged the walls cursing whoever had done it.

He wasn’t safe.

And I had been avoiding him, out of my own selfish reasons.

I couldn’t claim responsibility over an omega who hadn’t asked for protection, but I could not keep avoiding him after seeing this.

We were sprawled around the common room like usual that evening. Ron and Dean arguing over some Quidditch play across two couches, Hermione buried in a book nearby when I caught sight of Hannah and Terry pulling Anthony and Neville to the side. The omegas looked uneasy, exchanging quick glances. As they spoke, Anthony’s jaw clenched tight, like he was holding something back, and Neville furrowed his brows before resting a gentle hand on Terry’s shoulder.

I kept watching as they finished talking. The omegas slipped off toward their room, shoulders still tense. Then Anthony and Neville turned to look at me. Anthony’s eyes flicked sideways at Ron sitting beside me, then over at Dean across the room, before he nodded toward the entrance with a barely perceptible tilt of his head.

I sighed and gathered my roommates. Whatever was going on, I knew it wasn’t trivial.

We walked out into the corridor, telling those still inside we were just going for a walk.

Once we were all together, Anthony laid it out. Neville was restless beside him. Zacharias had been making the omegas and betas uncomfortable with bigoted remarks and attitudes—old ignorance, they said, the kind you grow up with and don’t always question. But it wasn’t just words. It was the way he acted, the way he made people feel unwelcome. It made my blood boil. Malfoy’s vulnerable face flashed before my eyes, the student that had walked away smug. Zacharias would not be making anyone feel vulnerable..

“We need to stop him,” Anthony said quietly but firmly. “He’s a dick to share a room with, but this is different. He’s been targeting the ones without alphas. He’s like those stuck-up purebloods”

Ron folded his arms, agitated by what they shared. “We have to stop him.”

Neville spoke up. “It’s bad that nobody has said anything to us until now. Terry said it’s been going on since school started. For two months!”

Dean finally chimed in. “They don’t trust us to protect them in our own pack?”

The word slipped out, but no one blinked. Dean wasn’t wrong. No matter how territorial Susan was, how much Draco and Padma kept to themselves, or how much Michael complained about the disproportionate amount of estrogen in his room, us eight years had become one big pack. And we had to protect them.

There was a debate about whether to bring Susan into it. She was already constantly butting heads with Smith, and while her presence might escalate things, she deserved to be part of this too.

She was as dominant as Smith. Two alphas clashing was never going to be easy. But she had the right to be there.

I rubbed my hands together. This was going to be a difficult conversation. But it had to happen.

Later, when Susan arrived, she was bristling, as expected. But when we asked her to hold back and let us speak first, her eyes flickered with grudging understanding.

“I’m trusting you lot to handle it,” she said, voice sharp but fair. “But I won’t be quiet. Smith’s got to learn he can’t push people around.”

Neville gave a small, approving smile. “We all have to live together. That means respect.”

Neville caught Zacharias just as he was slipping back toward the common room. He led him down the corridor again to the nearest classroom. The classroom was dim, almost silent except for distant laughter from further away. Zacharias’s usual sneer was there, but I caught the flicker of something uneasy in his eyes as Neville’s firm grip caught his arm., preventing him from retreating.

“Come with me,” Neville said, low and steady. There was no arguing with that tone.

Zacharias muttered, but didn’t pull away. I could smell the sharp edge of his scent- dominance mingled with irritation, a wild pulse of challenge beneath his scent. They entered the classroom, where we waited, our own protective scents settling around us. The subtle musk of adrenaline and resolve. The first time I loosened the reigns of my pheromones since I learnt masking.

Ron folded his arms, voice rough. “Smith, this has to stop. You’ve been making the omegas and betas miserable. That’s not just talk anymore.”

Zacharias’s glare sharpened. His pheromones flared, a challenge in the air, almost like he was daring us to step back. “I’m just saying what’s true. Maybe if they acted right, people wouldn’t treat them like crap.”

I stepped forward, keeping my tone calm but firm. “It’s not about what they do. It’s about how you make them feel. You’re bullying them.”

The tension in the corridor thickened. Zacharias’s scent grew sharper. “You don’t get it,” Zacharias spat. “I’m just being honest. People need to toughen up.”

Ron’s frustration showed in his stance, his own scent flaring in protective waves. “No, you’re repeating stuff you were fed. That’s not who you have to be.”

I could see the fight flicker in Zacharias’s eyes. Pride, stubbornness. He pulled away, jaw tight, voice rising. “So what? I just forget where I come from? The traditions? I’m not some weak omega to be told what to think.”

Neville’s grip tightened just a little but his voice stayed calm. “We’re not asking you to forget. We want you to grow.”

Then Zacharias stiffened, stepping back, ready to storm off. His scent boiled hotter, almost a warning flare in the air.

“I’m done with this,” he snapped.

But before he could vanish down the hall, Susan’s voice cut through- calm and sharp.

“Smith.”

He froze, eyes locking with hers—dominant against dominant, a silent test of wills.

Susan stepped closer, strong and steady, a grounded power that filled the small space. “You’re part of this pack, whether you like it or not. You can’t push people around and get away with it here.”

Zacharias’s jaw clenched, pride battling with something raw beneath the surface. “You think I’m going to roll over? Like I’m less?”

I moved a bit closer, voice low and steady, more like an invitation than a threat. “No. We want you to be better than what you were told to be. To lead by strength, not fear.”

Ron stood beside me, steady and fierce. “Real power isn’t pushing others down. It’s knowing when to protect.”

Susan’s gaze bore into him, pressuring him into accepting our words.

For a moment, Zacharias’s shoulders sagged, the fight draining but pride still flickering like a dying fire.

“It’s hard,” he muttered, voice rough. His scent softened slightly, betraying vulnerability. “It’s the only way I’ve been taught to control them. You think I like the scent of a distressed omega?”

Neville stepped forward, calm and warm in his earthy scent, the steady pulse of reassurance. “Then accept that there’s different ways to be an alpha. Trust us to show you.”

Anthony and Dean stood quietly behind us, solid and calm. Anthony’s voice was quiet but firm. “It’s about respect. Protecting those without alphas. Being an alpha people want to follow.”

The tension broke a little in Zacharias’s eyes. Vulnerability softened the harsh edges of his scent.

He looked around the group, our steady gazes.

Finally, exhaling slowly, his voice low and honest, he said, “Maybe… I’ll give them space.”

I nodded, voice kind but unwavering. “That’s all we want.”

Susan relaxed fractionally, her scent calming but her stance still commanding. “I’ll give you hell if you fuck up.”

Zacharias swallowed, the walls he’d built starting to crack.

The bubble had burst.

We walked back mostly in silence.

Not tense, just… quieter. That strange, still feeling after something important’s been said. Like the air hadn’t quite caught up yet.

Zacharias stayed a step behind the rest of us, not sulking exactly, but not quite sure how to walk with us either. His scent had settled. No longer full of static and fire—just a little dulled around the edges, uncertain.

I could feel Ron glancing back once or twice. His brows were drawn, but not in that punchy way. More like he was chewing something over in his head.

When we stepped back into the common room, the others looked up. Hermione was still reading, but her eyes flicked quickly to our group. Anthony gave the smallest nod. Ron stopped halfway to the couch. Didn’t even look at Zacharias as he said it.

“If you’re that full of opinions and piss, you might as well come work out with us tomorrow,” he muttered. “First thing. Might do you good to get it out physically instead of barking at people.”

There was a beat of silence. I blinked.

Even Dean looked surprised.

Zacharias frowned, but not like he was offended. More like he was trying to process it. “You serious?”

Ron shrugged. “Exercise’s good for frustration. Or whatever it is you’re full of.”

And then-shockingly-Zacharias gave a short laugh. Almost awkward, like he wasn’t used to making that sound without edge. “Yeah. Alright.”

Ron didn’t reply, just grunted and made a beeline for the fireplace.

Dean arched a brow at me with a half-smile as he passed, the sort that said, did that just happen?

I stayed behind for a second, watching Zacharias linger near the edge of the room, clearly unsure where he fit, before walking off to his room. His presence was quieter now, just a little wary at the corners, but not hostile. Not defensive.

Progress.

I followed the others in, the warmth of the fire brushing over my skin like a reward.

For the first time all evening, I let myself breathe.

Thankfully, life calmed down as the season changed.

School was still hectic and balancing free time was hard… Flying was harsher in the biting cold and my laps around the lake had me freezing my toes off.

But it was still good.

I also kept myself to the outer edge of Malfoy’s orbit and I hadn’t caught anything suspicious happening like that one time before Charms.. Of course, I wasn’t always around him, or I would be a stalker. 

As if I wasn’t one already. 

Other than that, I felt good. My anxiety had reduced drastically.. My nightmares were fewer and farther in between. It seemed to be the same for my roommates as well. 

I snapped out of my thoughts and looked to my left.

Ron was lying on his bed tossing a Snitch from hand to hand, Dean was stretched out upside down on his own on the other side of the room, and I was leaning back against my headboard with a half-empty bag of crisps between us.

The topic had meandered from Quidditch to breakfast preferences to the noise a seventh-year Ravenclaw couple had made the other night, and then, somehow, to relationships.

“Seamus talks in his sleep,” Dean said, grinning up at the ceiling.

Ron groaned. “Don’t tell me he says your name.”

“No,” Dean replied, laughing. “Worse. He recites song lyrics. Half a Weird Sisters chorus at three in the morning.”

I laughed with them, shaking my head. “I thought you’d say he was saying your name.”

“Oh, that happens too,” Dean added, smug. “Different context, though.”

Ron made a face and chucked a pillow at him. “Nasty.”

“Oi,” Dean said, catching the pillow. “Don’t be jealous I get with my beta more than you get with yours.”

“I’m getting plenty. When she’s not busy preparing to change every law we have” Ron said defensively, tossing the Snitch again. “She’s more terrifying than either of you.”

I raised my eyebrows. “More terrifying than Seamus? The pyromaniac?”

Dean whistled. “Tough call.”

“Have you met Hermione?” Ron muttered. “She could disarm a bloke with her eyebrows.”

“Pretty sure she could disarm an actual battalion with her eyebrows,” I said, chuckling.

We all went quiet for a bit. The comfortable kind between close friends.

Then Ron spoke again. “You know... Smith’s been alright lately.”

Dean nodded. “Yeah. Shockingly tolerable.”

“Not just tolerable,” I said. “He actually shut down that fifth-year who was going on about ‘proper omega obedience’ the other day.”

Ron snorted. “Never thought I’d hear ‘Smith’ and ‘progressive’ in the same sentence.”

“I don’t think he even knew how badly he’d been fed that stuff,” I said, more thoughtful now. “His family must’ve drilled it into him. All those rules and hierarchies.”

Dean rolled over and looked at me. “You reckon he’s really changing? Or just acting?”

“I don’t think you fake that kind of awkward apology he gave to Terry,” I said. “And he hasn’t slipped up since.”

“He joined us for workouts- what- five times now,” Ron added. “Even said thanks the other day. You know how rare that is?”

We all laughed again. It felt good. Not like everything was perfect, but like things could be. Like people could grow, if given the chance.

Dean stretched out his arms and yawned. “Alright, enough feelings. Someone pass me the crisps.”

“You’ve had half the bag,” I protested, tossing it anyway.

“Still hungry,” he said. “Seamus has me exhausted. You wouldn’t understand.”

Sniggering, Ron glanced at me knowingly. I threw a pillow at Dean.

Way to remind me of my pining.

Chapter Text

Draco

I woke myself up with the sound of it. My own voice, a pathetic, ragged thing.

Not loud. Just sharp. A breath caught on a sob. My chest ached like I’d been running, lungs tight, ribs trembling. My throat was sore. And my hands were clenched in the blankets like I was trying to hold on to something that was already gone.

The nightmare was already fading, but the feeling wasn’t.

My eyes were wet.

Gods.

I pressed my face into my pillow, hard, trying to quiet my gasping breaths. My chest hitched anyway. Keep quiet. I bit down on the pillow, holding my breath. Fabric grinding between my teeth. My lungs burned, just like then.  Some of the pillowcase in my mouth, pushing at my tongue, like that guard's- like that seventh year’s- stop. I wish I could have bitten down on his- Just stop. I released the pillow and dragged in another breath. Just like I spit out the piece of that guard. I hope they couldn't fix him. I hope he's as broken as-

A soft rustle.

Padma’s voice was gentle, almost whispering.

“Draco?”

I flinched. I hadn’t meant to wake her.

The room was mostly dark, just the faint moonlight over our beds. The weak sound ward I kept on my bed had failed. I didn’t look at her. I couldn’t.

“It’s fine,” I croaked. My voice sounded worse than usual, a hard feat. It was thin. Frayed. “Go back to sleep.”

She didn’t. Of course she didn’t.

There was a shift of fabric. Quiet footsteps. I stared hard at the headboard as her silhouette stopped beside my bed.

“Was it a dream?” she asked softly.

I said nothing.

“Okay,” she murmured, and that was somehow worse. The kindness of it. The fact that she didn’t press.

The mattress dipped slightly. She didn’t lie down, just sat on the edge, close enough to feel the weight of her there. She didn’t touch me.

I couldn’t stop shaking.

“Breathe with me,” she said, so quiet it barely registered.

“I am breathing,” I hissed, and immediately hated myself for it.

There was no irritation in her response. Just warmth. “I know. But it’s still tight. Like you’re waiting for something.”

I didn’t answer.

Padma sat still for a moment longer. Then, very carefully, she shifted and reached over. She laid down next to me and hugged my head to her chest.

My body jolted from it. Not in fear. Just surprise. I still wasn’t used to her touch. It was an omega thing, she told me. Apparently it’s grounding for us. I couldn’t disagree. I wouldn’t do anything to stop her from doing it. During the war, touch was pain. Since my incarceration, touch has been sexual, demanding. But not from her. Padma’s touch is kind, comforting.

“You’re safe,” she said. Like she was stating a fact. “No one’s going to hurt you here. You’re in a bed. It’s warm. I’m right here.”

I blinked fast. My vision swam. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“It’s alright.”

“I don’t usually—”

But that was a lie. I did. Often. I just hadn’t woken her yet. So much for my ward.

“I know,” she said quietly. “I know.”

I didn’t move, but I let myself breathe, finally. A deeper breath this time. Her omega scent was soft—as if her jasmine scent was brewing softly, low and steady. It made me sink into her embrace. 

“I feel honored, you know? That I found a friend in you” She said, looking up to the ceiling.

I kept trying to breathe, sending her a confused look between one and another.

“Look at that ward you put up every night.” She nudged my side and gestured with her eyes to the ceiling.

I rubbed at my eyes and blinked away the tears. My ward wasn’t gone. The translucent, barely there, blue shimmer of it had extended to both our beds.

“Your magic trusts me- called for me.” She said softly, giving me a gentle smile.

I looked at her with wide, tear rimmed eyes, my cheeks turning pink.

She didn’t say anything else. Just stayed. My breathing took a long time to calm. Eventually she yawned and nudged me firmly. Startled, I scooted to give her more space. She lifted the cover and slid under.

“Close your eyes.” She said and wrapped an arm around my waist. I was enveloped in her scent once again, the spice of it drowning out my wilted roses and sourness.

My breathing returned to normal, and eventually my scent did too.

The room lulled to a serene calm.

“Padma,” I said, before I could think better of it.

“Hmm?”

“…Thank you.”

The blankets rustled. “Anytime, Draco.”

And she meant it.

That was perhaps the worst part.

The next morning I felt more rested than I had in what felt like years. Padma had told me it was normal. In a world where omegas sensitive senses are tested everyday, it was important to have tools to ground yourself, she said. Closeness between omegas was one of those tools.

I understood her point but had a hard time admitting to myself that I wanted to do it again. It had been embarrassing to wake up with my limbs tangled up with hers and my drool on her shoulder. Padma had merely laughed and poked my nose. 

It was embarrassing and even more so when Padma said she felt she could intrude into my bed because it was so bare.

“What do you mean?” I had asked in a small but bewildered voice.

Finishing up to begin our way to breakfast she had explained that I had no nest and that’s why she could join me without much thought. If I had joined her nest, she would have wanted to scent mark me first.

It all made me flustered and I said in a low but frustrated tone “I don’t know how to make a nest.’

“You don’t know how to make a nest?” came Hannah Abbott’s baffled voice from directly to my left.

I stopped walking. My spine straightened in horror. I hadn’t realised we’d left the privacy of our room, hadn’t realised I was now standing in full earshot of at least three other omegas, all blinking at me like I’d announced I’d never brushed my hair.

(Which, to be fair, Padma had done this morning. But that wasn’t the point.)

“Of course he doesn’t,” Luna said, far too reasonably for someone in socks with clouds on them and hair that looked like she’d just been electrocuted. “Nobody taught him.”

I wanted to sink through the earth.

“I—excuse me—what exactly are we discussing?” I asked sharply- or tried to, my voice came out soft and shaky. Which had no effect whatsoever. They were already closing in.

Padma, traitor that she was, looked entirely calm. I could see the exact moment she switched her allegiance from my dignity to the collective hive-mind of omega domestic politics. She even nodded, the bloody turncoat. “He doesn’t have any sort of nest in his bed. Just the bare linens. That’s why I felt like I could lie down with him last night—it didn’t feel like I was intruding.”

“I’m sorry,” I cut in.. “Should I have wrapped myself in rags like some kind of rat?” The bite my remark was supposed to have was completely ruined by my small and cracking voice. I hated how I couldn’t speak up anymore. Not even to my fellow omegas.

Hannah blinked at me. “That’s a feral nest. We’re not saying that.”

“I am saying that,” Luna added helpfully.

“Oh gods,” I muttered, putting my face in my hand.

“We can teach you!” Hannah said brightly, as if this were a rescue mission instead of an escalating humiliation.

“I don’t need—” 

“You do,” Boot said, finally chiming in as he emerged from our doorway- when did he get in our room- and assessed the situation. “Honestly, it’s giving post-surgical hospital cot.”

“Thank you, Boot.” I said muted.

“Not a compliment,” he said, yawning.

“Some omegas can’t nest properly if they don’t feel safe,” Padma said gently, her hand brushing mine again, grounding me without even trying.

“I am safe.” It came out too fast, forced.

“I didn’t say you weren’t,” she said, softer this time. “Your body might not know it yet, though.”

Which was… unfair. Unkind. True.

“You don’t have to do it now,” Hannah said in a bargaining way. “But you should learn. And maybe if you had a little comfort and safe space at night, you would be able to use your voice freely at least when there’s only other omegas nearby.”

I went very still. “I don’t…” I trailed off, hearing the soft quiet tone of my own voice

Padma didn’t flinch, but her expression did tighten slightly. She gave Hannah a quiet look. “Don’t.”

Hannah winced. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that cruelly. I just think… I think it matters. Touch and scent and soft things—it’s not frivolous. It’s biology. You’re allowed to want comfort, Draco. You’re allowed to have it.”

“That’s a very Gryffindor thing to say,” I mumbled.

“She’s a Hufflepuff,” Terry pointed out.

“Exactly.”

Padma cleared her throat. “Why don’t we show him the basics after breakfast?”

“Oh! Or we could have a slumber party tonight,” Luna said, already spiraling. “We could show him what we like in our nests. Like a soft object or a favourite fabric, and then Draco can see what feels good to him.”

It sounded like a nightmare. A safe, supporting, irresistible nightmare.

“I’m not having a nesting circle.” I whispered, frowning.

“You already did,” Terry said, smirking. “You just didn’t realise Padma initiated it.”

Padma did not deny this.

I sent her a look.

She shrugged, utterly unapologetic. “Consider it a very soft intervention.”

I huffed, and started walking toward the Great Hall as fast as I could without running.

Behind me, I heard Luna say cheerfully, “We’ll need lavender. And probably something blue. We’ll take the common room, the others can hang out in their rooms for an evening.” Luna wasn’t even in our year. What was she doing in our common room? Before breakfast?

Padma caught up with me in three steps, her hand brushing against mine again, warm and light and undemanding.

I glared at her, cheeks flushed.

By the second period, the humiliation had more or less dwindled. Padma had dropped the nest conversation in favor of speculating about Slughorn’s probable alcohol content.

Progress.

We were in the corridor outside Charms, the kind of in-between moment when everyone was waiting for Flitwick to unlock the door. The air was restless. Students shifting books, chatting too loud, someone’s quill scratching against parchment.

I wasn’t paying much attention until I heard the laughter.
Sharp. Mean.

A cluster of fifth-years snickering near the wall. I caught Hannah’s voice first, calm but clipped. “Move.”

She was trying to get past, but the boys weren’t budging. One of them made an exaggerated sniff, then smirked. “Smells like someone’s desperate for attention.”

My shoulders tensed. My magic prickled hot under my skin. My shoulders started caving in, I’d been in Hannahs position many times.

Padma started to take a step forward, but someone beat her to it.

Zacharias.

He was already bristling, I could feel it in the air- his pheromones laced through the corridor like static. Not sharp and aggressive the way I’d felt them before, but heavy. RIch cinnamon. Grounding.

“That’s enough,” he said. His voice wasn’t loud, but it cut.

The fifth-years shifted uneasily. One tried to laugh it off. “We were just joking—”

“No,” Zacharias interrupted, sharper now. He took a single step closer, and the boys all leaned back instinctively. “You don’t get to talk to her like that. Not here. Not anywhere.”

The air thickened with his scent. Solid, dominant, but not choking. A barrier, not a weapon.

The snickering died. One boy muttered something under his breath and tried to slink away. Zacharias didn’t move until all of them had gone.

Hannah was still standing there, books hugged to her chest. Her chin was high, her eyes cool, but I could see the tightness in her shoulders.

Zacharias glanced at her. For once, there was no smugness. Just a quiet nod. “You alright?”

She blinked at him, surprised. Then gave a small, curt nod back. “Yes. Thank you.”

Zacharias stepped aside, letting her pass. She didn’t look back.

The corridor seemed to exhale.

Ron let out a low whistle from somewhere to my left. “Well, that’s new.”

Dean grinned next to Ron, “Smith, the protector. Didn’t see that coming.”

Zacharias turned on them, scowling. “Shut it.” But his cheeks were a little red, and he didn’t sound as sharp as usual.

I caught it then, the faintest shift in the air. His presence was still hanging there, but steadier than I’d ever felt from him. Like he’d surprised himself with what he’d just done.

For the first time, Zacharias Smith smelled like an alpha I wouldn’t be afraid of.

We stopped at the loo between classes- Arithmancy next, Padma’s favourite- and I finished first. The corridor was empty when I stepped out. Still damp from the morning’s chill, with the faint smell of mildew and stone polish clinging to the walls.

I waited, twirling my wand as I did.

And then, like poison seeping through cracks, the spell bloomed.

It flared hot across the stone wall beside me. Gleaming gold for half a second, like a fancy bit of Weasley joke shop charmwork, before settling into slick black letters:

FILTHY OMEGA DEATH EATER SLUT

BETTER ON HIS KNEES, MOUTH WIDE

GUESS HE LEARNED SOMETHING IN AZKABAN

The breath went out of me like I’d been punched in the gut.

It wasn’t the first time. There’d been whispers. Snickers behind bookshelves. Spilled ink across my textbooks and one memorable note left on my pillow that suggested I’d make a fine broodmare “for the next Dark Lord.”

But this was the first time someone had gone to the trouble of public vandalism.

I stared at it.

I didn’t move.

Somebody knew.

I couldn’t see who cast it. Whoever it was, they were gone. Or watching.

Maybe they had seen.

My fists clenched. My scent spiked, bitter and cold. I took deep breaths, trying to reign my scent in. My hands shook slightly.

You can’t run, I reminded myself. Padma will be out any minute. You can’t let her see.

I drew my wand. “Finite Incantatem.”

The letters writhed and hissed, reluctant to leave, as if the spell had been made to resist. But they faded after a few seconds, leaving the stone scrubbed clean, as if nothing had ever been there.

I forced my shoulders down. Straightened my spine. My hands, traitorous things, were still trembling. I clenched them behind my back.

Padma stepped out a few seconds later, tucking something into her satchel. “Ready?”

I turned to her. Smiled with the corners of my mouth and nowhere else.

“Absolutely,” I said. My voice came out even, distant.

She slipped her arm through mine without hesitation, warm and casual.

And just like that, we walked away. As if nothing had happened.

As if I hadn’t just stared down something that tasted like the worst parts of my past, and my present, smeared in ink across castle walls.

As if I wasn’t thinking about the fact that some part of it—some dark, awful corner— believed every word.

I glanced behind me out of the corner of my eye. The ink was slowly coming back, bleeding into existence. 

Whoever cast it was smart. Wanted to twist the knife further.

Lunch was a mess.

I barely ate. Couldn’t. My stomach was in knots, and my skin felt too tight for my body. It took everything in me to keep my emotions from bleeding out. Especially with the alphas around me.

There was stew. It smelled like boiled socks and faint nutmeg, and I stirred it absently with my spoon, watching the greasy swirls separate and recombine like something out of a potion.

I didn’t mean to be disgusted by it. It wasn’t even a bad stew. Nothing Elian had a hand in making could be bad. I wouldn’t have been able to stomach even mother’s best cakes in the state I was in. 

Padma said something about Arithmancy exams, her voice calm and even beside me. I nodded, not hearing a word.

I’d chosen my seat carefully, wedged between Padma and Thomas. Not because I had any desire to hear about Muggle art or Gryffindor’s latest Quidditch woes. But because Thomas had a habit of letting out soft, ambient alpha pheromones when he was relaxed with his beta. Seamus sat on his other side now, knees bumping under the table, and Thomas was clearly in comfort mode.

It helped. A little.

The scent wasn’t targeted. Wasn’t possessive. Just a low, grounding hum in the air that settled somewhere deep in my gut like tea left to steep too long. It was the only thing keeping my pheromones from bleeding out everywhere.

Padma noticed, of course. She always noticed. Her hand brushed my knee beneath the table- not probing, just steady. Grounding. I didn’t look at her. I couldn’t.

Instead, I kept my eyes on my bowl and tried to breathe through the itch beneath my skin.

The wall was clean now. I’d passed it again, just to be sure. Whoever had cast the charm hadn’t recast it—yet. But the phantom of those words lingered, burned into the inside of my eyelids, curled into my throat.

I didn’t realise how tightly I was holding my spoon until Padma gently pried it from my fingers.

“Hey,” she said, low. “Breathe.”

I blinked. My scent had slipped. I could feel it. Bitter, metallic, threaded with some sour note I didn’t want to identify. I curled my magic around me. It snapped back fast, like cinching tight a too-small cloak.

“I’m fine,” I said, which was of course a lie.

She didn’t press. Just nudged my hip slightly and turned back to her food. I loved her for that.

Then Potter walked in.

I didn’t see him at first. I smelled him.

It hit me like static. Clean sweat and rain-damp clothes, sun-warmed skin and something sharp underneath. He must have just come from the pitch or the Room of Requirement. His scent was still rich with motion, the way alphas smelled when they hadn’t quite cooled down. Just like when I stumbled into him right outside of the hidden sanctuary. I had just wanted to see if the room had survived the battle, and pay respect to Vincent. Instead I found Potter’s own exercise room.

My shoulder’s caved in at the memory. I hadn’t meant to turn a moment meant for Vincent into something filled with lust.

Potter froze the second he reached our table. His eyes locked onto me.

No. Not me.

Dean.

He looked at Dean. Then at me.

And then at the gap between us, as if realising too late that I was sitting in some invisible spill of scent that didn’t belong to him.

Something flickered in his face. Irritation? Confusion? A strange tightening around the mouth, like he’d bitten into something bitter and wasn’t sure if he liked it.

Then he did the stupidest thing possible.

He sat directly across from me.

In the only open seat. Deliberately. Right in the pocket of Dean’s scent. Right where he could see my trembling fingers and unsteady breath and red-raw cuticles and decide whatever he wanted to decide.

I didn’t look at him. Not directly. But I could feel his eyes, the way you feel weather change, prickling at the base of your neck, crawling down your spine.

Dean made some comment about the stew being alive. Padma laughed softly. I tried to match her smile and ended up swallowing a sound that didn’t belong to any expression at all.

My spoon was still gone. My hands were folded tight in my lap. And Harry bloody Potter—Golden Alpha of the Realm—was watching me like I was an equation he didn’t understand.

I caught his scent again, stronger this time. That heat-ghost edge of him that made something low in my belly curl, tight and involuntary. Like I was back in his lap again.

And even though I was still nauseous, even though I hated myself a little more with every breath—I wanted.

Just a moment. Just a second of not being this.

And that was worse than anything that had been written on the wall.

The moment was broken by a parcel being dropped straight into my stew. Smack in the middle of lentil and root vegetable misery. I yelped. High and sharp- unmistakable omega. Feminine in all ways. Half the table turned.

My cheeks turned rosy before I could smother the reaction.

Above me, my mother’s tawny owl gave a haughty little flutter and landed neatly on my shoulder, claws like lacquered pins through my jumper. She gave no indication of regret.

Before I could fully register her presence, she’d begun pulling at the curls that had fallen into my face, fussing at the fringe Padma had insisted we leave long. The strands sprang back with insulted bounce as soon as she released them.

I exhaled slowly through my nose.

Padma, unbothered, merely pulled the soggy parcel from my bowl and began blotting it dry with a napkin. Dean blinked at the bird. Harry, across the table, hadn’t moved. Just stared.

I reached up and untied the letter from the owl’s leg with steady fingers.

The ribbon was pale grey. Silk. Knotted tightly, as if meant to reinforce something.

I knew the handwriting before I even looked at it—my mother’s looping, immaculate script, every stroke deliberate. The parchment smelled faintly of rose attar, so subtle it was almost imagined.

I set down my fork. Wiped my fingers once, then opened it in silence.

My dearest,

Upon noting the date on your letter, I realised it must have been misplaced in the ministry before it reached me. Do not think I deliberately waited to reply, my dear, especially after such a revelation.

Of course I knew. Or suspected. A mother develops instincts for these things. Your letter only confirmed what my heart already carried.

I will not pretend I am not disappointed—not in you, darling, but in fate. An omega son is not what I prepared for. But as you know, I’ve never wasted time arguing with reality. We work with what we are given, and you, Draco, have always been mine to shape. 

Not long after your letter, I received another—from Lord Parkinson. An affronting thing, unworthy of recounting. You are not to marry Miss Parkinson anymore. Naturally, it would not be right.

Do not fret, my child. You will emerge from this as you have from every other challenge. From this moment forward, you must be careful to hold yourself with elegance. Cultivate grace. Learn softness—not as surrender, but as strategy. Femininity is an art, and you must begin practising it with discipline.

It will serve you well in attracting a worthy alpha, when the time comes. That is not vulgar, darling—it is survival. Power still bends toward the feminine. You will learn how to bend it back to you.

You are not ruined. You are rerouted. Walk the new road with dignity.

In time, perhaps we could meet for tea with the Zabini’s?

*I’ve sent one of my shawls—my winter one, you remember it. I wore it the day the Minister came to the Manor. The scent will last a week or so.

I stopped reading.

My fingers curled at the edges of the parchment, but I didn’t crumple it. The words ran over me like velvet knives. Not cruel—never cruel—but sharp, always sharp. Shaped to cut, just not deep enough to bleed.

The shawl was neatly folded beneath the damp parchment. Fine wool, ash-grey with silver thread at the hem. It shimmered faintly in the light. Padma tilted her head, eyebrows lifting.

"Your mum?" she asked gently.

I nodded. My throat was tight.

Across the table, Harry’s gaze hadn’t moved.

I wondered what he saw.

Me, stiff-backed and flushed, with owl talons in my shoulder and mother’s words curled like silk around my throat. The faint trace of rose-scented submission clinging to the wool in my lap. My stew cooling into paste.

"She wants us to have tea with Blaise’s mother, " I said breathily. "Isn’t that nice?" It didn't come out sarcastic as I intended, just every bit as disoriented as I felt.

Padma didn’t laugh. But she reached out and touched my wrist under the table.

And I—like the weak, submissive omega stereotype I was quickly becoming—let her hold me up.

Chapter Text

Harry

Lunch should’ve been forgettable.

I hadn’t even meant to come to the Hall, I was still half-soaked from flying with Ron and my muscles ached from going too long without stretching properly, but my stomach had growled so insistently I’d dragged Ron and myself off the pitch and down to the castle, sweat still clinging to my skin under my jumper. No use in any spells with how dirty we were.

We couldn’t show up this filthy to the kitchens, the elves didn’t deserve that. Kreacher would be embarrassed. So we made our way to the Great Hall.

We reached our table just as the noise hit a lull. Conversations murmured around us, forks clinked against ceramic, and something about the whole room felt… wrong. Tense. Like a storm had passed but hadn’t quite moved on.

Then I saw him.

Malfoy, seated halfway down the far side of the table, between Padma Patil and Dean.

It took a second to register what I was seeing.

At first, it was just that familiar bolt of awareness. An unhelpful crack of instinct whenever Malfoy was in the room. But this time it hit harder. Something about the way Draco was sitting, rigid-spined and too still, not touching his food. The faint shimmer in the air.

Then I registered the scent.

Dean. Comfortable. Not focused, just resting in that soft hum alphas gave off when they were safe and relaxed. I had smelled it on him around Seamus before, or in our room, usually late at night when we were half-asleep and murmuring nonsense about Chudley Cannon's stats.

It didn’t usually bother me.

Except now it did.

Because Malfoy was sitting in the middle of it.

Inhaling it.

Leaning slightly, unconsciously, toward it, even if his arms were tucked tight in his lap and his shoulders were caved in and wound high enough to strangle.

My jaw clenched.

And before I could think better of it, I was walking straight toward him, straight to the empty seat directly across.

Patil gave me a glance—cool, polite, unreadable. Dean barely looked up. Malfoy didn’t look at me at all.

But I was looking.

Malfoy’s hands were folded too tight in his lap. His face was pale. His scent—beneath the weak masking—was sharp-edged and cold around the corners. Faint traces of adrenaline. Burnt nerves. Something sour beneath it all, like embarrassment or shame left out too long.

His eyes flicked up once, very briefly, then dropped again.

I shouldn’t have come over. It was obvious now. I’d inserted myself into something and now I was stuck.

And yet.

My eyes dropped again to the space between Malfoy and Dean. The narrow, charged gap between chairs. Patil was murmuring something about Arithmancy. Malfoy made a noise in response, distant. I could see the tension in the omega’s neck and the way his fingers twitched slightly, as if wanting to scratch at something just beneath the skin.

My fingers curled against my own thighs.

It wasn’t possessiveness. It couldn’t be.

It wasn’t.

But my skin itched. Something under my sternum was twisting itself into knots. I could smell the Dean-Malfoy blend now—unintended, sure, but maddeningly present—and something low in my gut growled without permission.

I told myself it was just the post-flight crash. Just hunger and muscle ache and the way my blood still hadn’t settled. That was all.

But then Malfoy shifted- just a few centimeters, just enough to lean unconsciously closer to Patil- and I caught the faintest sound.

A breath. Shaky.

I’d heard Malfoy make that sound before, but only when he was angry. Or scared. Or close to breaking. Right before throwing a cruciatus at me in a bathroom.

Something like ice threaded through my spine.

I wanted to ask. What happened. What’s wrong. Who did it.

But I didn’t ask. Because I already knew.

Because this wasn’t the sort of thing you asked Draco Malfoy in front of half the bloody school, while he was trying so hard to pretend nothing was wrong.

So I just sat there.

Across the table. Still and quiet. Fighting some bone-deep part of me that wanted to reach across and do… something. Anything. To fix it. To push my friend out of the way and be the one whose scent settled Malfoy like that.

But I couldn’t. Existing without masking wasn’t something I could do. Something I could never do as long as I was the face of the light side. Their precious Saviour. 

At that moment I wished I wasn’t. Not the first time I’d wished for it, but significant all the same.

I didn’t move. I couldn’t.

Because I wasn’t supposed to want that.

The sound he made, high and startled, cut straight through me. Not just omega. Him.

Draco Malfoy, cheeks flushed, hair slightly mussed from the owl now perching on his shoulder like some ridiculous, entitled brooch. He looked mortified. And beautiful. And mortified to be beautiful.

I hadn’t noticed it flying in.

I didn't mean to keep staring. I just couldn’t stop.

Patil was already blotting the parcel dry with a napkin, calm as ever. Dean blinked at the owl like it might explode. I couldn’t move. Just sat there like a fool, locked in place by the sight of Malfoy slowly—almost reverently—untying the grey ribbon from its leg.

He didn’t even look at the name. Just read in silence.

I watched him do it. Not on purpose. I just… couldn’t not. His face didn’t move much, but something in it went stiller. Like he was holding his breath inside his bones.

He folded the parchment with a kind of grace that didn’t suit how tight his mouth had gone. Then he lifted a shawl from the parcel like it might break in his hands. Grey and silver, delicate-looking. It shimmered.

And then the scent changed.

Not his. The letter’s.

It was so faint I thought I’d imagined it at first. Something floral. Old money and colder winters. And—Jesus—omega. Not just Malfoy’s scent, which was a sunlit summer garden of roses and bruised sweetness. This was legacy omega. Curated. Worn like perfume.

I knew, without needing to be told, that it smelled like his mother. That she’d scented it deliberately. That it was a message as much as the letter.

Patil asked something. Malfoy didn’t really answer. Just stared at the letter a second longer, then said lightly—too lightly—“She wants us to have tea with Blaise’s mother. Isn’t that nice?”

I went still.

Tea with the Zabinis?

Something about it lodged under my ribs like a splinter. Not just the idea of Malfoy being… presented, demure, dressed in heirloom shawls and subtle submission, but of him being offered. Positioned. A chess piece moved toward some polished pureblood match while he sat here looking like he might shatter if you breathed wrong.

I didn’t know if I was angry at her. Or at Blaise. Or at myself for not knowing why it bothered me so much.

But it did.

It felt like watching someone wrap him up in silver paper and hand him off. Like this—this folded version of him, quiet and pink-cheeked and obedient—was the one she wanted the world to see. Not the sharp, acerbic git who’d snarled at me in first year, or the New Malfoy who glared at me in class instead of speaking because his voice was too soft now, or gone pale and stiff-backed outside the Room of Requirement when we ran into each other and neither of us could speak.

I didn’t want to watch him get erased. Even if I didn’t know what I wanted instead.

Padma didn’t laugh. Just touched his wrist. Gently. She always knew how to reach him without crowding.

And I—still frozen across the table—watched the space where her fingers met his skin.

I wanted— Fuck.

I wanted her to move her hand. I wanted it to be mine there.

And I didn’t even know what I’d do with it.

I wanted something I didn’t have a name for. Not sex. Not even comfort. Just... to be allowed to touch him like that. To reach. To be part of the world he pulled around himself like expensive wool and armour. I wanted to be his armour.

I wanted to be close enough to smell his scent again. Not his mother’s, not the shawl’s. His.

I hated myself for that. Almost as much as I hated whoever charmed those words I burnt off the wall this morning. Almost as much as I hated that I hadn’t found it before Malfoy saw it this time.

Almost.

The common room had gone soft around the edges.

It wasn’t like how it was at Christmas, or after exams when everyone piled on couches and collapsed together. This was different.

The omegas had taken over the common room. Or, as Ron had said, “reclaimed the hearth.” He’d sounded weirdly proud about it.

They were nesting. Properly. Officially. They’d taken the hearth and turned it into something warm and glowing and unmistakably theirs- Blankets, cushions, soft lighting, incense that made even the portrait frames go sleepy-eyed. Padma had charmed floating candles in pastel hues. Floaty pink drapery transfigured from spare scarves. There was a centre pile and they'd begun gathering. Hannah brought out a tin of biscuits with a radiant, buttery calm. She and Terry were already in their sleep clothes, giggling and linking arms as they rearranged the piles. Close. Barefoot. Draped across one another like vines. Scent-heavy. All gentle voices and easy touch.

The whole tower had gone quiet in a reverent sort of way, like the castle knew better than to interrupt them.

And the rest of us- alphas and betas- we’d given them space.

Gladly.

Surprisingly, Susan had offered up some muggle thing called a galaxy light. Nobody touched her stuff, yet she gave it to Terry without a thought.

Even Smith had helped hang curtains for privacy. Smith, who usually threw a fit when his chair got moved two inches.  Ron elbowed me in the ribs and muttered, “Told you he had it in him.” 

The betas had been less gracious. Seamus had announced they were fleeing the omega fog and rallied Michael, Parvati, Ernie and surprisingly even Hermione off to the Room of Requirement for “a night of relaxing and lemon sherbets.” Their decision pleased us alphas too. The omegas were close, safe. The betas were giving them space and bonding with each other. And we were watching over them. It was instinctual.

After the betas went we’d both watched Padma gently brush out Luna’s hair.

My chest rumbled with a low pleased growl. I didn’t mean to, it was instinctual.

They were radiant. All of them. Emitting serene omega pheromones. Happy and safe within a space we shared. How could my alpha not be happy? I looked at Ron who was observing with a dopey grin.

All of us alphas were pleased- proud- that we had created a space where they felt secure enough to throw us all out to nest. 

It wasn’t just instinct—it was awe. Like watching something holy. Even the most territorial alphas- Smith, Susan- took themselves upstairs without a fuss, like it would’ve been sacrilege to linger.

We cleared out early, like good boys. Let them claim the hearth and the heart of the tower. 

Ron went easily, grinning, clearly happy for them. I stayed a moment to have a last look at our year’s glowing omegas. I clapped Dean on the shoulder and we went upstairs.

Except Dean glanced back, to have a last look.

What did he look at? WHat captured his attention?

I followed his line of sight and found myself looking at Malfoy sitting in the middle, with a gorgeous blush staining his cheeks and hugging a pillow.

I tried to ignore the emotions threatening to form.

But the ache didn’t go away.

It just sat behind my ribs like a bruise.

Even if we never would have denied the omegas, it still left us—me, Ron, and Dean—holed up in our dorm that felt two sizes too small, like the walls were leaning in to listen.

Ron had gone slack-limbed on his bed with an issue of Which Broomstick, still calmed by the omegas. Dean sat on the edge of his bed, his calm quickly replaced by frustration. Muttering under his breath as he tried to Vanish a dark brown stain from the arm of his jumper

“Still smells like fucking stew,” Dean grumbled. “Malfoy’s bloody owl-swooped right in like a dive-bomber. Splashed everywhere.”

I stared at the stain without seeing it. “Malfoy didn’t seem to mind.”

Ron paused mid-page turn. Dean looked up, reacting to my tone.

My mouth was dry. I hadn’t meant to speak, but it came out anyway.

“At lunch,” I said, voice flatter than I meant. “He just let it hit him. Just sat there with gravy on his sleeve like it was normal.”

Dean shrugged. “Probably didn’t notice. He looked like he was about to faint.”

“He looked like he was clinging to you.”

He gave me a look. “Mate, he was shaking. I didn’t do anything.”

My mouth acted before my brain could stop it. “Think he was too busy drinking in your scent.”

Ron looked up sharply. “Harry.”

Dean blinked. “Sorry—what?”

“He sat between you and Padma. Right in your scent.”

“You know,” I said too casually, leaning against my bedpost like I hadn’t just betrayed something inside me, “all trembling and wide-eyed. He was shaking.”

Dean sighed and kept fiddling with his sleeve. “And you—your alpha response kicked in. You calmed the whole table. I felt it from across the bench.”

“Okay, so?” Dean said. “That’s what it’s for. It’s not like I lured him in, Harry.”

I couldn’t stop myself. “He practically curled into your shoulder. You were leaking calm like some bloody mood diffuser and he couldn’t get enough of it.”

Dean’s head snapped up. “I didn’t do anything!”

“You don’t have to do anything,” I said, too fast. “You breathe calm. That’s what you are. A steady fucking drumbeat in a crisis. And he was drinking it in like he was starving.”

Dean sat up straighter. “Okay. That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” I asked, and I could hear it. My voice going sharp, not quite angry, not quite anything I could name. “You let him be close.”

Dean’s mouth flattened. “He looked like he was going to pass out. I didn’t exactly push him away.”

I sat up straight and bristled “He leaned into it. I mean-”

“You mean what?” Dean sat up fully now, jumper abandoned. “You think I was trying something with Malfoy?”

Ron shifted uncomfortably on his bed.

I stood. Heat prickled under my collar. “You let him. Like it was yours to offer.”

Dean stood too, slow and deliberate, like he’d suddenly heard what I hadn’t meant to say. “You jealous, mate?”

I barked a laugh. “Of you? With Malfoy?”

“Sounds like it,” Dean said, voice darkening. “You think I’d risk Seamus for—what, some broken pureblood who can’t stand being touched?”

“Don’t talk about him like that,” I snapped.

Dean ignored me, squaring his shoulders and continuing in a dangerous tone. “You think I’m sniffing around for a second mate? You think I’d scent for someone else with my mate in front of me? You think I’d do that to Seamus?”

“Maybe you’re used to it,” I snapped. “Maybe Seamus shares.”

The silence was sudden and dangerous.

Dean’s whole posture changed. Chin lifted, fists curling. “Take that back.”

I didn’t.

Couldn’t.

Because the thought had lodged in my brain like a splinter and I couldn’t tell what was fantasy, what was fear. All I knew was that Malfoy had looked like something fragile wrapped around Dean’s edges, and Dean hadn’t done a thing to stop it.

“Sometimes betas don’t mind,” I muttered. Digging my hole deeper. 

Ron groaned. “Fuck’s sake—”

I didn’t want to say it. But it came out anyway. “There are bonded trios. Alpha, beta, omega. You know that.”

A pause. Ron winced audibly.

Dean growled and his jaw clenched before he spoke, “You think I’d—you think we’d—”

I hesitated. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Ron slid off his bed. “Alright, maybe we all need to take a bloody breath—”

But Dean already had his fists clenched, biceps flexing.

““You think I’d sneak around behind my mate’s back? You think I’d let an omega crawl into my space like that-” He pushed into my space. “ That I’d go for someone who’s clearly not okay right now?” He backed up, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe it. 

“Fuck you, Potter.”

“You let him lean.”

Dean grabbed the column next to me and leaned in.  “I have my mate, but even if I didn’t I would never lead an omega on. Especially not a train wreck like Malfoy.”

I gritted my teeth. “I said, don’t talk about him like that.”

Dean’s head jerked. “Thought you hated him.”

“I don’t,” I snapped “That’s the problem. And I think you’re the calmest alpha in the room and Malfoy knows it.”

And there it was. Stupid. Vulnerable. Open to the bone.

Dean didn’t miss a beat. He stepped forward, too close again. “You’re a jealous goddamn hypocrite,” he said, low and furious. “You can’t keep your eyes off him. Don’t act like you’re above it.”

“I never said I was,” I hissed. “But you—he trusts you. He doesn’t flinch from you.”

That landed like a punch. Dean’s face twisted. “So what? You want him afraid of you?”

“Okay,” said Ron loudly, “I’m too tired for—”

“No!” I shouted. “I want—I want—”

“What, Harry?”

“I want him to lean on me.” It came out as a low growl.

“I didn’t ask him to lean,” Dean growled back, nostrils flaring. “Maybe he leaned because he didn’t want something from you.”

And that was it.

I shoved Dean.

He slammed me back.

The bedframe rattled as we crashed into it, fists flying, elbows digging, bodies grappling. We hit the floor hard, snarling, teeth bared, all instinct and noise. It was a blur—my vision went red at the edges. Dean threw a punch that clipped my jaw. I caught his collar and yanked. We rolled, thudding into trunks and walls.

Raw and ugly.

It wasn’t a fight.

It was an event.

A testosterone tantrum.

Ron was trying to manouver himself between us, and for a second I wanted to hit him too—anything, just to move, just to get the want out of me. Had Ron been a beta, he would have been crushed.

“Stop it!” Ron bellowed, finally managing to get between us. “Fucking stop!”

We broke apart panting, chests heaving, every muscle coiled like a spring.

Dean glared at me. “Don’t ever say that shit about Seamus again.”

I laid back on the floor and wiped blood from my nose. “I won’t.”

He shoved his hands through his hair, still seething. “And don’t look at me like I’m competition. I don’t want Malfoy.”

“I know,” I said, voice hoarse. “I know.”

Ron finally managed to wedge a pillow between us like a peace treaty. “Great. Glad we cleared that up before you killed each other.”

The dormitory was still again.

The adrenaline wore off like a crashing wave.

Dean pushed himself into a sitting position, leaning over Ron and pressing a fist to my shoulder. “You ever imply I’d step out on Seamus again- disgusting-” 

“I won’t,” I muttered. “I was… I was being an arse. It’s not about you.”

He still sounded wounded. “You think I’d hurt Seamus?”

I pressed the cloth to my lip and sat up, heart pounding. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to come for you like that.”

Ron exhaled. “Right. Sorted. Now can we not do that again?”

Dean was quiet for a second, then said, voice low, “He’s yours, isn’t he?”

I didn’t answer.

Didn’t have to.

Ron sighed. “Well, fuck.”

The room had finally calmed.

Ron was snoring. Half-on his back with one arm flopped over his face, the way he always did after too much adrenaline. There was a bruise darkening under his chin where one of us had clipped him by accident. He’d stayed between us like a human barricade, refusing to sleep until he was sure we wouldn’t try to kill each other.

Dean was still awake.

I could hear it. That too-steady breathing. Not quite natural. Controlled.

The beds creaked every time either of us shifted.

I stared at the ceiling, lip throbbing, head still hot. The air in the room was sharp with old fury and something quieter now. Regret. Or just leftover instinct.

Dean spoke first. His voice low, roughened at the edges.

“You ever feel like being an alpha’s just... a punishment?”

I turned my head, even though I couldn’t see him in the dark. “Yeah.”

He made a noise. Not quite agreement. Not quite surprise.

“I used to think it’d be this... thing I could grow into,” I said. “Like a title. Or a goal. Something earned. Not—” I broke off. Swallowed. “Not something that hits you like a backdraft. All heat and reaction and no thought at all.”

Dean exhaled, long and bitter. “I didn’t ask for it.”

“None of us did.”

“I was happy as a beta. Thought I’d stay that way.” His voice turned wry. “Then I got taller, angrier, louder. Couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t smell breakfast without wanting to cry. Seamus laughed his arse off when I presented. Said he’d always known.”

I closed my eyes. “You’re good at it.”

He huffed. “Yeah? Didn’t feel like it tonight.”

“You didn’t throw the first punch.”

“Maybe I should have.”

Silence again. The kind that builds between people who’ve seen each other's ugly.

Dean said, “You were right. About the calm thing. Sometimes I forget it’s even there. But omegas don’t. They pick up on it before I even open my mouth.”

I rolled onto my side, facing the vague outline of his bed. “That’s not a bad thing.”

“It is when people start reading into it.”

I didn’t answer. Because that part had been me.

His voice came again, softer now. “I built it for him, you know. Seamus.”

My breath caught.

“I didn’t have it. Not at first. I was a loud, reckless bastard like anyone else. But Seamus—he never said anything. Just kept standing there. All nerve and heart. Like he’d take whatever came with me, even if it cracked him open.”

The dark held his words like breath.

“It was right after the war. I didn’t want to be another thing he had to survive.”

I swallowed. “So you changed.”

He shifted slightly, voice turning steady again. “Yeah. I trained myself down. Learned where to place the weight of me. How to be still even when I wanted to scream. And now it’s just... how I move through the world. I don't think about it anymore.”

I lay there in silence, watching shadows curl across the ceiling. That stillness wasn’t an accident. It was crafted. Muscle memory born of care. Of love.

“He’s really yours?” Dean asked, after a long pause.

I didn’t breathe for a second. Then: “Not yet.”

Dean didn’t ask more. Just let the words settle.

“I’ve got all this power,” I said eventually, voice hoarse. “All this pull. But it never feels safe. Not for me. Not for anyone else.”

Dean turned onto his side too, facing me through the dark.

“It’s like we’re meant to be protectors,” he murmured, “but we’re built like threats.”

I nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. “That’s exactly it.”

“Seamus says I go quiet when I feel too much. He thinks it’s noble. Truth is, I just don’t want to break anything.”

I stared at the faint line of moonlight across the ceiling. “Malfoy flinched when I touched his wrist a few weeks back. Flinched like I’d burned him.”

Dean didn’t say anything.

“I can’t—I don’t want him to be afraid of me,” I said. “But I don’t know how to not be... this. Alpha.”

“You’re not just an alpha,” Dean said, simply. “You’re still you.”

“That doesn’t always feel like enough.”

“Yeah,” Dean said. “I know the feeling.”

Dean was quiet a moment, then shifted again, blanket rustling. “Maybe it’s harder for you.”

I glanced toward him, but didn’t speak.

“You don’t let any of it out,” he said. “Your pheromones. Never. Not even when you’re upset. Most alphas do, even when they’re trying not to. But you—nothing. You’re always holding it in. Hell, now you didn't until we started swinging.”

I exhaled slowly. “I have to.”

Dean didn’t argue, just waited.

I turned my face into my pillow. “It happened once. Over the summer. Diagon Alley. I wasn’t even aware I was giving off any pheromones. I’d had a nightmare the night before, and I was... off. Woke up wrong in my skin.”

Dean said nothing, which somehow made it easier to keep going.

“I didn’t notice at first. But omegas did. They turned- strangers- turned to scent me when I passed. One tried to speak to me. One grabbed my arm, she was shaking with want, eyes wide. Like she couldn’t help it.”

I took a breath. “And I- my alpha wanted it.”

Dean was quiet, breathing steady.

“Ron had to hold me back. I felt like a fucking weapon,” I said. “Like I’d made them react that way. Like I'd done something violent just by existing.” I paused, bracing myself. “One of them wrote a letter afterwards. I get fan mail- oh come off it- but this one was different. She threatened to sue for sexual harassment.”

Dean's bed creaked when he shifted. “That's messed up.”

“Hermione got me out of that mess. But I locked it down. All of it. Told myself if I didn’t leak anything, then no one could get hurt.”

“That’s a heavy way to live.”

I laughed softly, without humor. “Yeah. Tell me about it.”

Dean turned fully toward me, voice even. “Still. Doesn’t mean you can’t learn to let it out again. The good pheromones. In safe places. With people who would embrace them.”

“Like Malfoy.”

He didn’t blink at the name. “Maybe especially him.”

I let the quiet take us again.

We lay there, breathing. Ron snored. A breeze ghosted through the cracked window.

Dean murmured, half-asleep now, “We’ll figure it out.”

“Yeah,” I said. “We will.”

And for once, I let someone else’s calm settle over me. Not omega-soft. Not scent-thick. Just steady. Dean-shaped. Hard-won and quietly offered.

We slept.

Not well. But enough.

Ron’s snore cracked through the silence just before dawn.

I blinked up at the canopy, lips crusted with dried blood, and felt the bruises blooming slow and warm across my ribs. I didn’t even know who landed what anymore—just remembered motion and heat and the sound of Dean’s fist catching my jaw like punctuation.

I wasn’t sorry we fought. I deserved his beating. But I was sore.

“Up,” Ron muttered, voice hoarse. He rolled over and groaned. “Before I lose the ability to move.”

Dean mumbled something into his pillow and pulled it over his face. He still had blood at his temple and an ugly welt on his cheekbone.

I sat up, stiff. “Room of Requirement. Half hour. Gym.” My muscles creaked.

Ron made a noise of agreement and rolled off the bed with a thud. “Alpha rules, you promised to join us today, sleepyhead.” he said, stretching his arms over his head. “Burn it out or punch a wall.”

“Or each other,” I muttered.

“Already did that,” came Dean’s voice, muffled but grudging. He rolled upright and rubbed his face. “You’re both knobs.”

But he got up.

None of us said sorry again. It was enough that we were all standing, hearts still beating, friendships still intact.

We padded out of our room in shirts and joggers, trainers thumping softly on stone. It was barely five, the castle was asleep. The light leaking in from the windows was blue-grey, the kind that softens every edge and makes your shadow look twice as long.

The atmosphere changed as we neared the common room—blanketed warmth, sugar and sleep, and something deeper: trust, togetherness. It pulled at the back of my throat.

And then we saw it.

The makeshift nest was still spread over the far end, low and padded and drowsy with scent. Moon-patterned blankets, knit throws, a few half-folded jumpers. Fairy lights still twinkling. Even Susans lamp was displayed on the ceiling- that's what the name was for, galaxy. Pillows were stacked like tiny fortresses. The omegas slept like one being, each one in their own space, but touching someone else one was or another. A slow-breathing constellation.

Dean went still beside me.

Ron exhaled slow. “Bloody hell.”

It wasn’t lust. The two alpha's beside me each had a partner. It wasn’t even want.

It was awe.

Something in my chest clenched, strange and warm. The calm, quiet gravity of it. That’s what got me. The way they trusted the space enough to sink into it. I didn’t think I’d ever relaxed like that in my life.

The scent was thicker here—warm and dizzyingly sweet, like honey and hearth smoke and sleep.

And Malfoy was in the centre of it.

Pressed half onto his side, blanket twisting around his hips. One arm curled under his head, mouth slack in sleep. The other reaching out, loosely thrown over Terry's waist. He’d braided his hair—tight, neat braids starting high on his head and running all the way down, exposing the curve of his throat and the pale skin just behind his ear. His head was tilted, scent glands exposed in a way that should have felt indecent for me to witness, had it not been for Patil. She was behind him, face tucked close behind his neck, hair spilling forward out of her braid, shielding the softness between them.

His scent was softer in sleep, sunlight over faint blooming roses and something tart.

I gripped the doorframe.

He looked… safe. Not small, not weak—just momentarily untouched by whatever hells usually ran behind his eyes.

Dean made a sound, almost a hum. “They’re alright, aren’t they?”

“Yeah,” I said.

Ron glanced at me. “You good?”

No. Not even close.

But I nodded.

And as we turned to go—quiet, slow, respectful—I let myself look one last time at the braids. At the place where Draco's neck curved into his shoulder. At the soft rise and fall of his chest.

I wanted to be the reason he could be open and exposed. I wanted to be the person that provided that safety. I wanted—

I didn’t even know what I wanted.

Just… to be allowed near that softness. That trust. That safe sleep.

The door clicked softly behind us.

None of us spoke until the corridor curved out of sight. Then Dean exhaled through his nose, like shaking off dust.

Ron rubbed his jaw and muttered, “That was… I dunno.”

“Yeah,” Dean said.

I didn’t say anything.

The Room of Requirement gave us what we needed when we reached it: padded floors, wide windows, heavy bags suspended from the ceiling. A wall of weights. A quiet hum of enchantment in the corners. It was funny, really. The first time I wished for this room I did it on a whim. How could a magic castle conjure such inherently muggle equipment? Magic, I guess.

We stepped inside and didn’t bother warming up.

Ron went straight for the squat rack, already cracking his neck. Dean wrapped his knuckles with calm, precise movements, then strapped them again tighter. I didn’t stop moving—I went for the bag. Didn’t wait to wrap my hands.. Threw the first punch and let the thud echo.

My body ached. My hands remembered last night. My jaw twinged when I clenched.

It felt good. Honest.

One-two, one-two, elbow. Turn. Kick.

The room smelled like sweat, focus, and something steadier—Dean, probably. That same leveled-off calm he carried like a second skin now. It rolled out in slow waves, not too strong, just enough to ground the edges. His way of anchoring the space.

I didn’t know how he did it. Back in Diagon… I hadn’t even loosened my hold that much. According to Ron I had just given off content alpha. And still people had turned. Omegas who didn’t even know my name. Just scent and instinct.

One had tried to get close enough to scent-mark me.

And I’d panicked. Not because I was angry, but because I hadn’t meant it. I hadn’t meant to want it.

I wasn’t leaking now. I was locked tight. I always was.

The bag swung wide. I caught it. Held it in both hands and leaned my forehead against the canvas.

Draco’s braids flashed across my mind. The curve of his throat. His fingers resting over someone else’s ribs.

And the wild, traitorous thought.

Would he turn toward me, if I let go just a little? Would he feel at ease with me, too?

Behind me, Ron let out a breath and dropped the barbell with a satisfying clang.

Dean’s voice, low and steady: “Spar?”

I nodded.

Chapter Text

Draco

Having a nest was… nice.

More than nice.

I’d slept through the night without waking once, and when I blinked into the soft light filtering through the common room windows, I felt the warm patch of blanket creased against my cheek and no memory of dreams at all.

Just stillness. A floaty sort of weightlessness that I didn’t trust but didn’t hate.

Padma’s warmth was a steady line at my back. Her arm curled lightly against my waist, her breathing even. I didn’t move. Didn’t want to break the quiet. My eyes flicked to the side, and that’s when I noticed the hand I was holding.

Not mine.

Well—partly mine.

My fingers were curled lightly around someone else’s middle, knuckles pressed to soft cotton and skin-warm air. And that someone else was Boot—no, Terry. Just Terry now, because he was still here, letting me cling to him like a koala, and his hand was over mine, anchoring it there against his stomach.

I blinked again, certain I’d misread it. Waited for him to stir, pull away, joke or flinch or at least shift.

He didn’t.

He just yawned softly. His body shifted beneath my arm but didn’t shake me off. If anything, he curled a little closer.

My throat went dry.

I should have said something. A muttered sorry, maybe, or a deflection. But the apology dried up before it reached my tongue. Because I didn’t want to let go of the moment. Didn’t have to let go of the moment.

He wanted me there.

That was the shocking bit, wasn’t it? Not that I’d held on, but that someone had let me.

No, wanted me to.

The heat rose in my face, sharp and unwelcome. I turned into the blanket for cover, burying my expression before anyone else stirred. I kept my fingers still. Didn’t tighten my grip, didn’t move to pull away. Just breathed.

A braid itched slightly where it pulled at the nape of my neck, but I didn’t reach up to fix it. I didn’t want to disturb the moment. It was still early, after all. The room held the hush of early dawn, of omegas not yet willing to give the world its teeth again. Everyone still soft, still nestled close. No stress of school or trauma from the war.

Just.

This.

Warmth. Contact. A quiet, braided feeling of not being alone.

I let my eyes fall closed again.

I could give it five more minutes.

Maybe ten.

I must have dozed off again, because the room shifted around me like something exhaling.

A rustle here, a yawn there. The light had grown a little stronger behind my eyelids, pale gold filtering through the drawn curtains and the floaty gauze Longbottom had draped around the nesting area like a veil. The air was warm, sweet with layered omega pheromones—honeyed, sleepy, calm.

Padma stirred behind me, her hand slipping from my waist with a sleepy hum. She didn’t speak. Just patted my hip gently, like one might soothe a cat.

I let out a breath.

Terry stretched against my side, spine arching away from me, creating a gap of cold air. He made a noise like a sigh, then turned towards me under my arm. It was still too heavy with sleep to move and my thumb brushed against the underside of his breasts. I flinched and heat rushed to my face. Male omegas breasts were small but it was unmistakable that’s what I touched.

A hand shot out to hold my arm in place over his side when I tried to move away. He didn’t mind my accidental brush of hand, just blinked up at me with the bleary satisfaction of someone who knew exactly how soft his pillow was and had no plans to move.

“Morning,” he murmured. He smiled, easy and unbothered.

A lump rose in my throat. I swallowed it.

I nodded in response, voice not quite ready. “Didn’t drool on you, did I?”

His lips twitched. “Only a little. It’s part of the bonding experience.”

I scoffed, softly, but didn’t pull away.

Across the nest, Hannah rolled over and stretched. The jumper she had asked to borrow from Bones riding up. She cracked one eye open, groaning something about how if anyone dared to pull back the curtains, she’d smother them with a cat-printed throw pillow.

Padma giggled against the nape of my neck. Luna muttered something back, groggy and fond.

There was a slow domino effect of waking bodies, arms stretching over tangled blankets, sleepy greetings exchanged like notes passed in class. It didn’t feel like a dormitory or a common room anymore.

It felt like a world apart. A pocket dimension of blankets and safety.

A few hours ago, this had been the site of... what? A claiming of space? A rebellion in cardigans?

And we had gotten what we wanted. 

I watched as Luna sat up, her hair flattened on one side of her face, and leaned against the cushions with a sigh that sounded like satisfaction. 

“Do we have class?” Came Padma’s voice from behind me.

“Not yet,” Luna answered dreamily. “I set the stars to fade when it’s time. See?”

She pointed at the soft galaxies still moving across the ceiling. They hadn’t changed yet.

Padma made a pleased noise and nuzzled her face into my neck again. She was scenting me.

Terry shifted again, breaking my thoughts, and I finally moved my arm away from him, tucking it into my chest. He didn’t look offended. He smiled, soft and tired.

“Sleep alright?” he asked.

I nodded again. Then, quieter: “I think so.”

The galaxy ceiling lights flickered out and Padma rejoined the living, sitting up and yawning wide. She nudged my shoulder with hers and tossed me a knit jumper she must’ve pulled from somewhere nearby.

“Breakfast in 30,” she said. “And I call dibs on our shower, Draco. My hair smells like chocolate. A muffin must have gotten in there when Luna had them floating around the room.

Laughter rippled through the room.

And I- I stayed exactly where I was, fingers curled around the hem of the jumper, trying to hold onto the feeling of being something that belonged.

Even if just for now.

I had just pulled Padma’s jumper over my head when the air cracked.

No warning. No shift in pressure. Just a slap of scent and pheromones so sharp and territorial it made my stomach lurch and my lungs forget how to work.

My body knew what it was before my brain caught up.

Alpha.

Not the warm, low buzz of Thomas’ presence. Not Longbottom's gentle hum. This wasn’t instinctive protectiveness or even combat pride. This was pure, feral challenge. Ego and pheromones and violence that made my shoulders lock before I even realised I’d flinched.

Padma sat bolt upright behind me. Terry’s head snapped up. Every omega in the nest went still.

Another wave of alpha magic hit — stronger this time. Bitter, acrid dominance, layered over with something deeper, rawer. Like a volcano clashing against an avalanche.

My spine curled and my head snapped sideways before I could stop myself. Throat bared. Cold sweat broke under my arms.

Two alphas.

Fighting.

The entire common room shifted on its axis, calm curdling into a brittle kind of alert. No one spoke. Even Luna opened her eyes fully.

Then—

“Do you want to fucking go, Smith?”

Susan Bones. Sharp and cold as ice breaking.

“Oh, I fucking do,” came Zacharias’ answer, thick with venom. “Maybe if you stopped acting like this was your bloody kingdom, Bones, I wouldn’t have to.”

The scent burst like a backdraft. I gagged. My stomach flipped, one hand flew to cover my mouth while the other clenched tight around the hem of the jumper like a lifeline.

And then—

A slam. Flesh against flesh. Something heavy crashed—furniture? A chest? A body?—into the stone wall.

Snarling. Actual snarling.

A barked shout. Bones, again: “Touch me again, I dare you!”

Another thud—heavier this time. A sharp crack followed by the unmistakable scrape of boots dragging against the floor.

Glass shattered. A bottle, maybe, or a lamp. There was a scuffle- real, violent, unchecked. I flinched with every sound.

Anthony’s voice rose in panic: “Oi! Stop it! Merlin-Susan, don’t-Zacharias, fuck-”

The scent of blood spiked, coppery and hot. It hit my tongue like coins and made my vision tilt. My heart thudded painfully behind my ribs, every part of my body braced to bolt.

But the nest.
The nest held me.

Padma reached for me without speaking, fingers brushing mine in silent grounding.

We all moved closer to each other, to the middle of our arrangement of blankets.

Terry shifted to sit straight, shoulders tense but composed. “What is wrong with them,” he muttered.

I didn’t know if he meant Smith or Bones. Or alphas in general.

I breathed through my nose. Let the faint perfume of citrus from Luna’s hair and the leftover sleepy calm of Padma’s scent bleed back into the chaos. But the air was thick. Tainted. The nest’s protection only stretched so far.

I sat on my knees, hands clenched in my lap. I couldn’t let go of the humiliating- so stereotypically omega- posture.

I hated that I was flinching. Hated more that I expected it. That somewhere deep in my instincts, I’d already catalogued the posture I’d have to take, the angle I’d have to crouch to avoid a blow. I hated that I somehow knew it.

Padma muttered something vicious under her breath. “Honestly. Testosterone poisoned arseholes, the lot of them.”

She got up, grabbing her wand from her jumper pocket. Her scent spiked with something steely — not fear, not anger, but that calm determination that made her terrifying in duels.

“Stay here,” she said to me. Then, softer, “It’s alright. We’ve got you.”

The others were holding close. Not running. Not reacting with panic. Just anchoring.

And that’s when it hit me again, the same thing I’d realised last night.

This nest wasn’t a cage. It wasn’t a trap or a weakness. It was a fucking shield.

It didn’t matter what happened out there. Which idiot alpha tried to piss the highest on whatever metaphorical tree. In here, we weren’t the target.

I exhaled shakily and tucked my legs back under the blanket. My spine was still locked in posture, some primal instinct holding me there. If they saw me, at least I wouldn’t be a threat. Wouldn’t be a challenge. Just an obedient omega keeping quiet. Staying small.

Then.

A sudden crash echoed through the hall, louder than before. The heavy wooden door to their dorm slammed open and closed with a violent shove, rattling its frame like it might come off its hinges.

Bones stormed out first, eyes blazing, chest heaving with furious breaths, hair in her eyes. Smith wasn’t far behind, his jaw clenched, fists balled tightly at his sides. They were both flushed, faces tight with anger that didn’t fade with distance.

The fight hadn’t stayed contained behind their door. It was spilling out, raw and untamed. Smith went to block the exit.

Bones’ voice sliced the heavy silence:
“Get out of my way, Smith. You don’t belong here.”

“Or what?” Smith sneered, stepping forward, his voice low and venomous. “You gonna hex me again, Bones? Scared I’ll take your precious place now that the others don't have any issues with me?”

Without warning, Smith lunged, his fist crashing into Bones’ cheek with a sickening thud. Blood sprayed, a bright splash against her pale skin.

She staggered back but snarled, wiping blood from the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand, her own fist swinging out in a brutal arc that caught Smith across the jaw.

He grunted, stumbled, but recovered fast, grabbing her by the collar and slamming her against the wall. The wood creaked under the impact.

Susan twisted sharply and jabbed a hard elbow into his ribs. He grunted, releasing her grip for just a moment—enough time for her to raise a fist and connect solidly with his temple, cracking skin and sending a spray of blood that splattered across the curtain of our nest.

The common room erupted into chaos.
Chairs toppled, blankets scattered, and the scent of blood mixed with harsh sweat and angry pheromones, heavy and choking.

Padma stood, her wand raised, but even she hesitated, unsure if she should get in between two alphas locked in a violent storm. This was more than what we thought it was and my companions' scents soon mirrored mine.

Terry shifted beside me in the nest, tension thick in the air as fists flew fast and brutal. The thuds of impact echoed sharply, each hit a raw declaration of dominance.

I couldn’t look away. The fight was ugly, brutal. Two forces tearing at each other with no thought for anything but release.

Blood dripped from Bones split lip, staining her chin. Smith’s knuckles were red and scraped. Both were breathing hard, eyes wild and furious.

The resemblance to Greyback’s rages was nauseating.

A punch caught Bones in the stomach, forcing her down to one knee, but she snarled and lashed out with a savage kick that caught Smith off guard, sending him crashing into a bookshelf.

The room was a battlefield, and I was trapped inside the eye of it. Helpless, shaken, and wondering how far this would go before it finally broke.

Goldstein staggered out of their room, blood running down his nose, lip split. He quickly went to us, standing firmly between the nest and the alphas. Scowling and ready if they moved closer to us.

The punches kept raining down—harsh, brutal, relentless—each blow pushing Susan and Zacharias closer to the edge of the common room.

Their shouts and grunts echoed off the stone walls, growing louder, sharper, more desperate.

Smith shoved Bones hard, sending her stumbling back toward the heavy oak door of the common room. It slammed open under the force of their clash, banging against the wall with a hollow boom.

They were almost out. Each swing now dangerously close to the threshold.

Padma’s eyes widened, her scent flickering into fierce determination. She gripped her wand tightly, stepping forward into the chaos.

Bones growled, about to throw another punch, but Padma’s wand flashed with a sharp golden light- a shimmering, protective aura blooming around the nest’s edge, and pulsing out towards the alphas.

The light pressed against Bones and Smith, pushing back, refusing to let them to move back in.

I was frozen in the centre of the nest, heart pounding in my chest. The protective magic stirred something deep- a fierce, frightened instinct to stay safe, to hide, to be invisible.

Goldstein went to them, right between them, face set in a grim scowl. He didn’t hesitate.

With a rough grab, he seized Bones by the arm and Smith by the collar, dragging them both firmly but with unmistakable force away from the common room.

“Far away from here. Now,” he growled, voice low and dominant.

They spilled out through the open door, their harsh footsteps pounding down the narrow stone staircase.

Padma stayed just inside the nest entrance, her wand still raised, the protective glow shimmering strong around the doorway like a silent promise. The common door had been thrown off its hinges, but the magic rippled, settling stronger against the doorway.

My breath hitched as the sounds of the fight faded down the tower stairs. Thuds and grunts echoing into the distance.

I pressed down to the floor, trembling, clutching the blanket closer. Next to me Hannah wasn't much better off.

The violence was leaving the nest for now, but the terror it had stirred inside me lingered, raw and relentless.

Chapter Text

Harry

I’d never seen anything like it.

No, a lie. I’d seen it during the war. Once. 

It had jarred me more than when giants tore through battlements, or when spells split stone like dry bark. That had been destruction, sadistic, traumatic.

This was primal. Action with no thought behind blown pupils. Two alphas going for each other’s throats like they were made to fight and not much else.

I don't know why I didn’t personally encounter it during the war, and I thank God that I didn’t.

But now it happened in our tower. Nobody else there to stop them from hurting the omegas in their rage.

I’d heard the shouting first, then the crack of something hard against bone. Dean and I had sprinted from the corridor beneath our common room tower to the bottom of the stairs just in time to see the two come down in a storm of fists and raw magic.

Blood was already pouring down Zacharias face, his lip split, one eye swelling. But he was still snarling, still throwing punches like he couldn’t stop. They slammed into the corridor wall at the bottom of the stairs hard enough to shake dust from the ceiling.

I faintly registered a voice from the top of the stairs- Padma’s?- sharp with power. A ward shimmered up behind the alphas, keeping the rest of the common room shielded.

Omega magic. Defensive.

I felt it in my chest, something older than reason. Nobody was welcome up there right now.

Anthony came barreling after them, his face like thunder, robes askew. He didn’t waste time yelling- just grabbed Susan first, yanked her off Zacharias, then drove his elbow into Smith’s gut when he tried to lunge forward again.

It wasn’t graceful. It was desperate. But it worked.

Dean helped wrestle Zacharias off balance. I shoved Susan back when she tried to claw toward him again, her fingers curled like talons. Her mouth was bloody. Not all of it hers. Both of them stilled and we let go. Anthony eyed them like a hawk.

Me and Ron ran back up the stairs. Padma’s ward was still intact. The magic shimmering but letting us see through. 

Inside, it was a ruin.

The nest had collapsed. Blankets kicked aside, pillows torn, feathers scattered across the floor like snow after a blizzard. There was blood on the rug. On the wall.

And Draco- God.

He was curled in on himself, shoulders shaking, head tucked into Padma’s shoulder. Her hands cradled the back of his neck, stroking slowly over the sensitive scent glands there, keeping him grounded. Terry had an arm around both of them, his shirt streaked with blood that probably wasn’t his.

The others were frozen. Pale and shaken. Hannah sat with her knees drawn up to her chest, silent. 

I wanted to go to him.

My hands twitched with the urge. To reach out. To touch.

But Padma gave me a look—a sharp, glance that said no.

So we backed away. Let them be.

When we got halfway down the stairs we knew we shouldn’t have left Anthony and Dean alone with them. 

They were holding the raging alphas apart, just barely. 

Dean looked at me. 

“Get her-Harry-she’s not stopping-”

We didn’t make it down in time.

Susan broke free.

She twisted, elbowed Dean square in the ribs, and roared. 

“You pathetic, cockless coward-no wonder you had to bully people to listen to you!!”

Zacharias bared his teeth. “Say that again-”

“I will, you soulless-”

And then he lunged.

Goldstein tried to hold him back but got knocked hard into the wall by an elbow in the diaphragm. Zacharias and Susan slammed together again, fists flying.

It was worse this time. Sloppier, bloodier, nothing left of control. She grabbed his robes and dragged him bodily down the corridor. He fought like someone already losing.

A portrait shrieked and fled its frame.

First years coming up the stairwell screamed and scattered.

Ron shoved past me, wand half-raised, but I knew spells wouldn’t work here. Their own alpha magic was too high. They’d shake it off like rain. I’d seen it during the last battle. Charlie had been exchanging fists with Dolohov, none of them bothering with protecting themselves from the stray curses that flew, their magic brushing them off as they fought like savages. In the end Charlie had been standing over a still body with a broken neck.

Dean and I sprinted after our feral alphas.

We caught up outside the History of Magic corridor, just before the statue of Bagshot’s Cat. Zacharias had Susan by the hair. She was reaching for his eyes, snapping her teeth.

Ron got to him first, grabbed the back of his robes and hauled. They crashed into the floor together.

I hooked my arm around Susan’s waist and dragged her off balance, away from Zacharias’ reach. She snarled, writhing, then stilled only when Ron slammed his back to hers, bracing her with all his weight.

The four of us formed a makeshift barrier. Breathing hard. Hands slick with sweat.

Goldstein staggered but held firm, blood running from his nose now. He didn’t speak. Just stood over Zacharias with something unreadable on his face.

Disgust. Shame. Fury.

“Is it over?” Dean asked, still panting.

Susan bared her teeth. Zacharias spat blood onto the stones.

Ron let go carefully.

There was a crowd that had formed, the students who had seen the fight. Ron sent them away with a growled “This doesn't bloody concern you”. They all went, even the seventh years, not used to the commanding tone of an alpha as no alpha presents during school.

After this, it’s clear that’s a blessing. 

We stayed in the now deserted corridor. Susan on one side of the corridor with Anthony and me. Smith on the other side with Ron and Dean. They were spitting blood and holding their noses. Both of them probably broken.

None of us wanted to heal them.

Anthony looked almost as bad as Susan and Zacharias, and I fit right in. Dean had a black eye from yesterday night. Ron was the one best off, but he was also covering his nose- no doubt trying to block out the agitating pheromones his nose was more sensitive to than the rest of us. Must be the first time I don’t envy his keen sense of smell.

After about five minutes of silence we had another furious alpha in front of us, cold and biting.

The corridor went still before I even heard her.

The kind of stillness that meant everybody in the hall recognised predator faster than thought.

A sharp click of heels on stone. The sweep of robes that cut the air like a blade.

And then she was there.

Headmistress McGonagall filled the space with nothing more than her spine and her stare. She didn’t need to raise her wand, didn’t need to speak right away. Her eyes flicked once over the scene—the blood, the broken bodies, the stink of pheromones heavy enough to choke on—and her mouth thinned into a line that promised judgment.

Nobody breathed.

When she spoke, it was quiet but firm. Each word carved clean through the silence.

 “Enough.”

It wasn’t a shout. It was a sentence.

Smith and Bones stiffened where they sat. I felt the weight of magic settle in the air, a cold clamp that pressed against the back of my teeth. I had never heard of a Professor using their designation magic on students. This kind of discipline without warning was disorienting.

“Miss Bones. Mr. Smith.” Her voice did not waver, did not rise. “You have disgraced yourselves. You have endangered every student in this tower. And you have the audacity—” her eyes flashed, hard as steel, “—to bring this feral savageness into my school.”

She didn’t heal them. Didn’t move to comfort or intervene. She let the blood on their faces stand as proof of their shame.

Ron shifted uneasily under her gaze, but she didn’t look at him. Her attention was fixed, merciless, on the alphas.
“You will follow me. Now. Or I will see you both expelled before the hour is out.”

Neither of them moved. Zacharias tried to open his mouth- Her eyes snapped to him.

“Do not test me, Mr. Smith.”

The words landed like a hex. He shut his jaw with an audible click.

Then she turned on her heel. 

“Follow. Now.”

The air itself seemed to drag them in her wake.

For a moment they locked eyes, the embers of rage catching.

McGonagall smothered them with a pulse of magic pressing on all of our chests.

The corridor felt hollow after she left.

Like McGonagall had dragged the very air away with her when she swept out, Bones and Smith stumbling in her wake.

Nobody spoke. Blood still slicked the flagstones and the stink of alpha rage hadn’t yet lifted.

Dean was the first to break it.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, spat red into the corner, and looked straight at Anthony. “What the hell happened?”

Ron shifted beside me, his shoulders still tight, nose still hidden behind his hand. “Yeah. What the bloody hell, mate?”

Anthony exhaled. He hadn’t moved since McGonagall had come, like he’d rooted himself to the stones. His nose was still bleeding sluggishly, his robes torn at the collar, but he didn’t reach for his wand, didn’t try to fix it. Just pressed his knuckles into his palm until they shook.

“It wasn’t supposed to—” His voice cracked, rough in his throat. He swallowed and tried again. “I tried to stop them. Before it even became a fight. If Neville hadn’t gone to the greenhouses and been there too… maybe it would’ve worked.”

The corridor reeked of blood and sour rage, but under it was Anthony—sharp with guilt, acrid with self-reproach. His shoulders bowed like he was trying to make himself smaller, to hold it all in.

“What was the fight even about?” I asked, rolling my shoulder where Zacharias had yanked me.

Anthony’s jaw tightened. “I don’t even know. They have been wound tight since yesterday. Zacharias was on about Susan being too slow to stake a claim on Hannah. Susan snapped back about him not being able to attract an omega at all. That he had hit on that alpha female in the pub all those weeks ago. Just… stupid shit.”

He raked a hand through his hair, smearing blood at his temple. “I stepped in, tried to break it before it went anywhere. But they were already half gone, riding the surge. Susan caught me across the face when I pushed between them and I went down. By the time I came to, they’d torn into each other—already in the common room.”

His voice dropped, frayed. “It was a shitshow. The common room- Merlin.” He dragged in a breath that shook. “All those calm, domestic hormones from yesterday? Gone. Anger and terror. I could feel it—fear everywhere. And I couldn’t stop it.”

He lowered his head into his bloody hands. “I failed them. I failed so badly.”

Looking at him, I knew he’d done everything he could. It hadn’t mattered. He still thought he’d failed.

“You did your best,” I said.

Anthony didn’t answer. His jaw stayed locked, shoulders hunched, scent still sharp with guilt.

I exhaled hard, pushing myself up to my feet, and held a hand out to him. “Come on. Let’s go to Madam Pomfrey. We all look like shit.”

Hermione was the loudest of them, practically shouting over everyone else. “Why didn’t Anthony send a Patronus to McGonagall directly? How could we have let other students even see it? They could have been hurt!”

Ron finally managed to calm her enough for the other betas to get a word in. They were all furious about having to hear the news from gossiping third years in the corridor.

Ernie and Michael were insisting they go see Hannah immediately. Dean silenced them with a sharp hiss. “Padma’s warded the common room. They wanted to be alone.”

Madam Pomfrey attended to our cuts and bruises, spending most time on Anthony. She gave me and Dean suspicious looks, no doubt knowing our bruises were too old to be from this fight. She worked quickly and sent us all out of her infirmary with an exasperated huff that smelled faintly of antiseptic and impatience.

Neville caught up to us just as we were making our way toward the Great Hall. His eyes franticsearching for his roommate. “Tell me it’s not true what they’re saying…” His voice wavered. Then, seeing Anthony’s battered face, he muttered under his breath, “Oh, bollocks. I’m so sorry, Anthony.”

He threw an arm around his injured friend’s shoulders and fell into step with us. Masking the limp Anthony was sporting as we entered the Great Hall.

The whole castle buzzed with fresh gossip when we entered, all eyes following us: the fight, the blood, the omega magic- the portraits had told the students about that one, happy to have the students attention- the smell of fury and fear. The whispers followed us all day. People whispered in classrooms, pointed in corridors. By third period, it wasn’t just scandal. It was legend.

Two alphas, going at it like wolves. Not sparring. Not dominance games. Fighting to kill each other.

Susan and Zacharias were separated, thank Merlin. McGonagall had ordered them each to empty rooms on different floors, excused from classes. Pomfrey visited them separately, probably more for her own safety than theirs. 

People were in awe of Susan.

A female alpha who took down a male in a full-body brawl? That shattered a few backwards opinions overnight. She was still dangerous, still reckless, but she wasn’t weak. No student would ever say that a female alpha was inferior to a male one again.

We all went to the tower before lunch, everybody wanting to check on the omegas.

By then, the door was fixed and the nest was gone, packed up, folded away, like it had never been there.

Padma, their spokesperson, insisted they were fine. But the air still carried the sharp tang of fear.

Terry firmly said that they would appreciate some more time to settle. We all backed off immediately and went to the kitchens to avoid being gawked at again.

No-one noticed Neville lagging behind until he was already gone.

In the afternoon, after classes, we were finally allowed back into the tower.

My eyes immediately found Draco, scanning his figure for injuries. He looked washed out—hair disheveled, curls frizzed and loose, eyes a little dazed—but he was upright. The faint tang of fear still clung to him, subtle under the lingering sweetness of his natural smell. The air around him felt fragile, tethered, as if he were holding himself together by sheer will.

He stood beside Padma, one hand loosely looped through hers. His other hand brushed Luna’s shoulder, just enough to reassure her without breaking his careful balance. Every movement was measured, deliberate, soft.

He kept reaching, touching, offering, and I recognized it for what it was. His instincts were overriding the usual guardedness, his usual walls dissolving in quiet, instinctive care.

Even in his fragility, he radiated that omega pull: a subtle tension mixed with longing, a honeyed calm that pushed against the lingering metallic tang of fear. It was the first time I’d seen him consciously act like an omega—not curled in, not hiding, but trying to comfort everyone else even while he looked like he might shatter at any moment.

The room seemed to hold its breath. Then, one by one, voices broke the hush, quiet, careful, worried.

“Are you… alright?” Hermione’s voice wavered, tight with concern. Padma only smiled at her and gestured us further into the common room.

“Did it frighten you?” Ernie’s words were aimed at a quiet Hannah, almost a whisper. She met his eyes and nodded.

“Everyone come here,” Luna said, arms outstretched toward the corner by the fireplace, where a piece of tonight’s feast was laid out on the low tables. “We thought it’d be best to all eat here tonight.”

“That’s brilliant!” Hermione said brightly, taking Luna’s hand and effectively breaking the last of the tension.

Padma gestured me inside and pulled Ron in after me. “There you go,” she said with a teasing smile, eyes lingering on our bruised faces. “Big brawling alphas need to eat.”

As we sat, I noticed Draco holding Seamus’ arm with one hand while guiding Dean’s with the other, offering shy, careful smiles.

Something twisted in my stomach, a nauseating churn that crawled up my throat, my vision narrowing. I swallowed and forced my gaze to Ron, who was already watching me, then rolled his eyes.

“Mate, just eat, yeah?” he muttered with a sigh. I bumped his shoulder, feeling my face heat up.

We dug in. Conversation meandered. Telling the omegas of the scandal the school was whispering about, laughing softly, easing the tension. Luna sat next to Anthony, caressing his bruised cheek, making him blush. Padma was with her twin, Hermione, and Michael, speaking softly. Hannah sat beside Michael, Ernie’s arm slung around her shoulders.

I ducked to eat, half-listening to Ron and Hermione debate McGonagall’s punishment. Terry leaned over the back of the sofa, joining Ron and Hermione’s conversation. Padma had shifted into Terry’s old spot.

He bumped my shoulder gently. “What’d you think?”

“Huh?”

Terry laughed, soft and warm. “Too focused on eating, are you? Who’s getting the worst punishment, Susan or Zacharias?”

I blinked. “I think they’re pretty even.”

“Looking at the damage done, I’d say Susan’s worse off. Did you see Zacharias?” Ron exclaimed, hands flailing before landing back on Hermione’s thigh. Laughter rippled through the group.

Eventually, Terry wandered off, and I stiffened as Draco took his place. His hand brushed my shoulder, and I caught his scent clearly this time—a mix of rosy calm, residual fear, and the faint mingling of the others’ presence.

“Hey… thank you,” he murmured, voice soft, almost hesitant, barely meeting my eyes.

“Don’t worry about it,” I replied just as gently, feeling warmth spread where his hand rested.

A small smile lifted the corner of his lips, reaching his eyes, which scanned my face with quiet attention.

“It don’t hurt much. Most of it was from earlier anyway,” I said, not wanting him to worry over bruises I deserved.

“Are you sure? What did you and Dean fight about?” His words were velvet, rich and soft, demanding focus despite the chatter around us. How did he know that?

“Uh. Nothing much.” I glanced toward Dean and Seamus before thinking better of it. “Just stupid alpha stuff.”

His gaze followed mine to Seamus, and lingered there. He was seated in Dean’s lap, both of them absorbed in something Terry was saying. My stomach lurched. What if he’d heard what we said last night?

“Okay.”

His fingers brushed along my shoulder as he moved toward Hannah, leaving goosebumps in their wake. I watched him walk, noticing the subtle sway of his relaxed shoulders, the gentle rhythm of his hips. He wasn’t stiff or tense as he usually was, he was… unguarded, and it made the room feel lighter somehow. I had to force my eyes to shift from his plush behind and focus on my food.

Even amidst lingering fear and bruises, Draco radiated the quiet pull of his omega presence, doing his part in knitting the group together through small, deliberate gestures, grounding touches, and the faint, calming scent that wove through the air.

By the end of the night, everyone was okay and well, ready for when the culprits of the drama would return to the group.

Chapter Text

Draco

The echoes of Susan and Zacharias’s brutal fight still rang in my ears. Sharp, ragged, and relentless. Fists pounding flesh, curses hurled like weapons, the sickening crack of bone. I couldn’t unhear it. My eyes stayed locked on the faint glow of Padma’s protective ward, still pulsing softly in the dim common room, a fragile boundary between us and the chaos.

Padma’s magic was a quiet heartbeat against the storm outside. I wanted to look away, to sink back into the nest with her and Terry, to hide in the softness of blankets and warmth, but I couldn’t. My body stayed tense, every sense alert, as if the moment I blinked, the ward might vanish.

I pulled the blanket tighter around me, wishing I could disappear beneath its folds. My hands were shaking, my eyes leaked freely. It started the instant the alphas dragged their fight down the stairs.

Around me, the others worked quietly, vanishing away the blood to be properly cleaned later, restoring the nest to something like its former comfort. A quick Aerialis Purgo had us all heaving for a moment, but it cleared most of the metallic smell and dampened the lingering pheromones enough that I could finally take normal breaths again. It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough.

Once the nest resembled what we’d built before, Luna declared a collective cuddle-and-nap session. After the day’s ordeal, no one objected to missing class.

I was guided to the center, Hannah beside me, both of us still trembling, both of us needing the nest’s bubble of warmth most.

I laid down on my side and she laid in the space in front of me, using my arm as a pillow. She scooted back, close to me and I curled my arm around her still slightly trembling form and squeezed gently. Terry laid down behind me, his head level with my ribs, and wrapped an arm over my legs, his hand splaying on my thigh closest to the bed. Padma laid her head in the space above Terry, by my neck. I breathed in the faint mix of her perfume and her own pheromones, now free and soft and calming. Laying at an angle to the rest of us she stretched her legs out. Luna cocooned Hannah’s other side and stroked her hair.

“...Feels safe,” Hannah murmured, voice low, almost swallowed by the blankets.

“Mm,” I answered, my own voice hoarse, whispering more to the air than anyone in particular. “Safe.”

Padma twisted and pressed a soft kiss to the nape of my neck. “You’re okay,” she said, slow and certain. It made my chest ache with relief.

Terry’s hand patted my thigh. “We’ve got you,” he murmured, voice warm, carrying that same steady weight his presence always did. I let out a shuddering breath and sank into the soft mattress.

Luna’s hand drifted lazily over Hannah’s arm, and her voice, soft and curious, threaded through the quiet. “Hannah… how did it feel, having Susan so involved in all of that?”

Hannah’s fingers twitched against the blanket, and I felt her pause, a flush rising even in the dim light.  “Frightening,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper, “but… I wasn’t afraid of her. I knew she wouldn’t let anything happen to me.”

I closed my eyes, letting the blanket cocoon around us, letting the soft heat of bodies pressed close dull the echo of fists and blood from earlier. My hand brushed over Hannah’s shoulder, Terry’s fingers curled around mine, Padma’s back warm and solid under my cheek, Luna’s hand light against mine. Every touch whispered reassurance, a network of quiet words spoken in contact rather than sound.

No one shifted to speak louder, no one broke the fragile calm. Only breaths, soft and even, punctuated by occasional small sighs as limbs settled, blankets smoothed, and the ward pulsed faintly over us.

I let myself sink fully into it, letting every tension slide out with my exhale. For the first time all day, I didn’t flinch at the scent of anger or dominance. I just existed, warm and held and part of something soft.

Hours later, after we had finally slept, showered, and folded the nest away, the others came and tried to pull us back into the rhythm of the day. But we weren’t ready. Not really. We had only just bonded the night before, then been shaken apart by the morning’s ordeal, and now we were expected to fall back into normality?

We told them firmly we needed ‘more time to chill’, as Terry put it. Thankfully, they listened and left us alone.

The trouble was- we had already done everything we could. We’d cuddled, napped, scented each other, touched, talked. Still, the unsettled edge lingered. My nerves skittered under my skin, jittery and untrustworthy.

Hannah was the first to say it aloud. “We need someone to… to help us,” she murmured. Her voice carried a weight that made the others glance at one another. “Someone… secure.”

She didn’t say more. But the way the others nodded, I realised they all understood what I didn’t.

“What?” I asked, flustered. “Why do we need someone secure?”

Padma looked up from brushing her hair. “Usually, an alpha’s presence helps when omegas feel unsafe,” she explained gently. “It… steadies things. Makes the room feel anchored.”

“But all the alphas were involved in the fight,” I said. “How could that help? And isn’t that quite misogynistic.”

There was a beat of silence.

And then I blurted, before I could stop myself: “What about Longbottom?”

Padma blinked. Terry huffed a laugh. Luna nodded sagely like she knew something I didn’t.

Since all the other alphas had been part of the altercation no one had considered him individually, but of course he was perfect. He hadn’t been there. And he was Longbottom—soft, steady, incapable of intimidation.

Regret flushed hot in my cheeks, but Luna was already sending her Patronus, silver light flitting away.

He arrived within minutes, slightly out of breath from climbing the stairs. His scent was the first thing that hit me. Dandelion root and rosemary. Calm, earthy, like soil after rain. Unmasked and steady. Wonderfully alpha. Bleeding away my apprehension. It filled the air without pressing on it.

We told him what had happened. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t rush. Just sat with us and listened, nodding gravely, telling us how strong we were. One hug to Terry, one squeeze of Padma’s hand—enough to ground them. Hannah leaned in close, inhaling Longbottom’s scent with a quiet sigh, and some of the tension in her shoulders finally released.

I kept back at first, folded up against the arm of the sofa. Watching. Wanting. Ashamed to want.

He didn’t push. He spoke to Luna about nargles instead, his arm resting casually across the backrest, his scent steady and warm. Within reach of me if he stretched his fingers, but still the space between us endless on the sofa. I tried to ignore it, but the longer I sat there, the more my skin itched with restless longing.

At last, I gave in. Inch by inch, I let myself shift closer until I found myself pressed against his side. His arm lowered naturally around me, nothing forceful—just a weight, a warmth. He rubbed my arm once, gentle, then started drawing soft circles with his thumb. Nobody paid me any attention, likely knowing I would bolt if they did.

I breathed in deep. The pheromones wrapped around me like a blanket, seeping into the cracks the fight had left behind. I drank it down greedily, even as my throat tightened with humiliation.

But Neville didn’t look at me. Pheromones not wavering even once. Didn’t make it strange. Didn’t make it sexual or transactional. He just kept talking softly to Luna, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

And slowly, my skin felt like my own again.

Misogynistic or not, it worked.

Minerva McGonagall

When taking over as Headmistress, McGonnagall had ideas. Some could be implemented directly- like changing the layout of the eastern inner courtyard.

Others had to be approached more cautiously, like the neverending house rivalry. In fact McGonagall had half a mind to abolish the house system completely. She usually caught herself when those thoughts sneaked in. Instead she opted for trying something different with the returning students only. Mixing houses in the different dorms. Of course, since the only Slytherin who returned was Draco Malfoy, it wouldn’t truly give a reliable result. Although, with this war-worn cohort, perhaps it was better the Slytherins didn’t participate in her little study.

Of course she had to assign the rooms not only according to primary gender but also secondary gender as they normally did with presented omegas, just now it had to be done with alphas and betas too.

If this worked she planned on adopting this strategy with the sixth and seventh year students- the castle was magic, the layout changed depending on the demand for space- she would reorganise the sleeping arrangements depending on predicted secondary gender for all seventh years instead of their house. They would all share a common room and hopefully build stronger interhouse friendships for their last two years.

Hindsight would show her it wasn’t good to bite off more than one could chew. For McGonnagall took her little experiment further and did not take primary gender into consideration at all.

McGonagall didn’t announce her new trial.  She merely sorted the eight years into rooms and saw their reaction. She was pleased to see the only fuzz was about Mr Malfoy’s room, but someone would have been upset whoever she put him with. The Ravenclaw Patil was a smart and patient girl. She had consulted Flitwick and he assured her Patil would fit in with a sensitive, newly presented Malfoy.

Pleased with the initial success, she was eager to see the progress. 

Time would tell, calling it progress would be quite a far fetched thing.

For now she sat at her desk, staring endlessly at the tea she was swirling with her teaspoon.

How did it come to this? 

First a full on alpha fight. Right in her hall. On a Tuesday morning. Thankfully the rest of the eight year alpha’s were more sensible and had already stopped the fight when she arrived. Or perhaps, unfortunately, breaking up the fight would have been quite satisfactory. At least to think back to now when she was sitting with a whole situation at hand.

McGonagall knew she had created this situation. Knew she had gambled and now lost. Overfilled her glass and now had to clean up the spill.

The letter stared at her. A long rambling thing composed by five prominent figures. People with children in Hogwarts. People who should know their grammar and logos better. How they even organised to send the letter within the day the incident took place, she would never know. Or perhaps it wasn’t so astonishing, with how incoherent it was.

Under the bad writing was an underlying threat of going to the prophet with the scandal it sure would be among the traditionalists.

A male and female mixed dorm, only separated by secondary genders. An affront to our biology. No wonder the poor alpha girl was attacked- no matter it looked like Zacharias was the one attacked- when she was forced to share a room with three alphas.
Furthermore, how could the Headmistress have allowed male and female omegas to mix.  

McGonagall seized the letter and relaxed back in her chair a moment later. She looked to her rubbish bin, observing the torn up letter within. It wasn’t often that she was overcome with emotion and did something rash such as that, but that letter deserved it. And it felt good. The parents who signed it were either on, or with connections to, the school board.

Ultimately they showed concern that the arrangement for the returning students would be adapted to their children as well, and they called for Malfoy’s expulsion, nevermind that she would be dooming Malfoy for Azkaban if she did so.

 Sighing and finally drinking her tea, McGonagall prepared herself mentally to answer the letter.

And resigning herself to the fact that she would ultimately, probably- definitely- need to change the room division.

Draco

There had been an owl at the window during the dinner by the fire—persistent, sharp-beaked, battering against the glass until Ernie finally opened it. The letter it carried was addressed to all of us. Short, unsigned. A directive rather than a request: assemble in the common room tomorrow at seven-thirty.

So here we were. Half-asleep, rumpled, gathered in the grey morning light. No one knew what for. Padma was leaning on me, her head nodding every now and then.

The door opened. Susan and Zacharias stepped inside.

Gasps, exclamations. Seamus blurted, “Holy shit, you guys look messed up.”

It wasn’t an exaggeration. Both of them were mottled with bruises, their faces blotched in purple and green. Cuts already healed to pink lines. Their throats deep purple, but their knuckles bore the ugliest aftermath. They looked like they’d lost something far more important than a fight.

“Pomfrey was out of bruise cream,” was all Zacharias said before falling silent again and we soon knew why they were so mellow.

McGonagall walked in behind them.

She didn’t waste time. “There will be a change to your accommodations,” she said, voice crisp, eyes cutting across us. “You are to remove any personal memorabilia from your rooms this morning. The elves will collect your clothes and essentials during the day. By two o’clock, you are to have cleared your spaces. You will be assigned new rooms after your last period.”

That was it. No explanation, no preamble. Just the sentence, clean and hard as stone.

I stiffened, Padma straightened from where she had been leaning on me.

“Wait, what?” Michael blurted out just as we watched the trail of McGonagall’s robe disappear through the common room entrance.

“We all change rooms because you two fought?” Potter asked, gaze fixed on Susan and Zacharias.

“It seems like it.” Susan muttered with a shrug, only to immediately wince from the movement.

I looked at Padma who grabbed my hand, lacing our fingers. “I don’t want to switch rooms…” the words thin, more breath than sound.

“Don’t worry your curly head about it, you’ll probably room with Terry,” she whispered as she tugged one of my curls until it bounced.

“That’s right!” Hermione interjected, having overheard. “We’ll be rooming according to primary and secondary gender!”

Padma shot her a look before locking eyes with me and shaking her head at Hermione being so Hermione.

“So I won’t be with you girls anymore?” Michael piped up.

“Don’t sound so relieved!” Parvati shot back, though she smiled as she said it. Michael only rolled his eyes, and everyone knew he’d miss them more than he let on.

I left the rest to their conversations and dragged Padma back to our room, my shoulders eased only when the door shut behind us.

“I don’t want this to end,” I said, voice trembling despite my best effort.

Padma exhaled loudly and wrapped her arms around me. “Oh, you silly thing. You’re talking I’m about to die and leave you alone!”

My face burned. Tears gathered in my eyes. I grumbled into her shoulder “It feels like it…”

She pulled back, hands firm on my arms and looked at me sternly. “No, that’s your crippling abandonment issues talking. I’ll be a room away. You’ll probably have Terry. I’ll have Hannah. You will finally build your own nest with your blankets and your mother’s shawl. And it’ll have something of mine in it too. Terry will comfort you if you have a nightmare and you will do the same for him.”

She wiped a tear from my cheek and continued. “We’ll bring extra beds in and Luna too and we’ll all have sleepovers and nest together when we want. The only thing changing is the walls.”

I huffed a laugh when she pinched my cheek.

“So,” she said briskly, “no anxieties now and let’s pack our stuff down now before you get sad again.”

She squeezed my shoulders one last time before stepping back and transfiguring a cup to a big box.

I wiped my eyes, twisted my hair into a bun and did the same from an unused notebook. Together we started packing.

We were gathered in the common room after last period, everyone slouched on the sofas and chairs by the fire that is lit day and night now that the November weather had come in full blast.

McGonagall stood at the front with a parchment in her hand, her expression sharp as ever.

“Your new room arrangements have been finalized. As you can see the castle has adjusted and therefore, the rooms are not exactly where they used to be.” she said, tone brisk. “The elves have already moved your belongings. Listen carefully.”

She began to read.

“Room one: Mr. Weasley, Mr. Potter, Mr. Thomas, Mr. Longbottom, Mr. Goldstein, and Mr. Smith.”

A low groan went around the room. Ron muttered something about too much testo stink in one room. Anthony didn’t bother hiding his scowl.

“Room 2: Miss Bones.”

Susan crossed her arms, chin tilted up. Hannah glanced at her, worried, but said nothing.

“Room three: Mr. Macmillan, Mr. Finnigan, and Mr. Corner.”

Seamus let out a loud “Yes!” and clapped Ernie on the back. Michael gave a resigned sigh that made Parvati laugh.

“Room four: Miss Granger and Miss Patil.”

Hermione and Parvati shrugged, nothing much changed for them.

“Room five: Miss Patil and Miss Abbott.”

Padma squeezed Hannah’s hand; Hannah gave her a warm smile.

“Room six: Mr. Malfoy and Mr. Boot.”

Terry nudged my shoulder, grinning as though it were the best outcome imaginable. I tried not to stiffen.

McGonagall folded the parchment. “That will be all. You are expected to act with maturity.” Her eyes flicked once toward Susan and Zacharias, who both looked away. Then she swept out without another word.

For a moment, silence lingered. Then Seamus leaned back in his chair. “Well, that’s not so bad. Could’ve been worse.”

“Speak for yourself, we’ll be packed like sardines” Ron muttered, glaring at Zacharias.

“Oi, it’s not just my fault,” Zacharias shot back, gesturing to Susan.

The others groaned. Susan rolled her eyes. “Brilliant. Just brilliant.”

It wasn’t a crisis, not really. But the air was still heavy with everything that hadn’t been forgiven yet. It made me anxious and fidgety.

Eyeing me, Terry grabbed my sleeve and dragged me off to our new room.

It looked much the same as my old room. That was the worst of it. Nothing different to mark the change except the empty space where Padma should have been. A pang went through me. Sharp, familiar despair. Not rooming with her anymore. No hand at my wrist to steady me. No voice to pull me back when I started to unravel.

“Hey,” Terry said, waving a hand in front of his face. “Don’t stink up the room with your codependency already.” His smile softened the words, and before I could say anything, he threw an arm around my shoulders.

“It’s not so bad. I may not know how to do your hair, but I’m a male omega just like you. Anything Padma couldn’t understand, I can.”

He had a point. The thought settled, not comfortably, but enough. I let out a long breath, pulling my pheromones back under control.

“Yeah,” I managed. “I guess.”

Terry gave me a smile and dropped his box on his bed with a dramatic sigh. “You’d think the elves could at least alphabetize when they pack,” he muttered, pulling out socks and robes in one tangle.

I sat on the edge of my bed, box at my feet. Mine was neat, of course, folded, precise, my shawl laid carefully on top. A sharp contrast to Terry’s chaos.

He caught me looking and grinned. “What? Don’t tell me yours is all tidy.”

I lifted the shawl from my box. “Naturally.”

“Merlin’s beard,” he said, shaking his head. “The elves favour you,” but there was no bite in it—he was smiling as he said it, half-burying himself in his heap of clothes.

I smiled to myself, thinking of my elven friends.

We worked in silence for a while. I smoothed and refolded my things before placing them in the wardrobe; Terry stuffed his haphazardly into drawers, humming under his breath.

“You always hum?” I asked before I could stop myself. It was different, interacting without padma by my side.

He paused, a shirt dangling from his hands. “Only when I don’t want to think too much.” He gave me a sideways glance. “Helps sometimes. You?”

“I read,” I said softly, tucking away my last pair of trousers.

“Of course you do,” Terry said with a laugh. “You know, this might actually work. Not such a duo like you and Padma, but still good. You’ll keep me organized, and I’ll make sure you don’t shrivel up from overthinking everything.”

My face heated. “I don’t overthink.”

“You do.” He flopped back on his bed, one arm thrown over his eyes. “You were practically vibrating in the common room earlier.”

Heat rose in my face. I opened my mouth to argue, then shut it again. He wasn’t wrong.

After a moment, Terry spoke again, quieter this time. “I get it. Wanting someone nearby. Makes the walls feel less close.”

I folded the empty box down flat, fingers tight around the cardboard. “You say that as though it’s easy.” My voice quiet again.

He tilted his head to look at me, serious now. “It’s easier when the other person already gets it.” After a beat he added. “And don’t do that. Don’t be all soft spoken and quiet again. I thought you’d lost it after we nested.”

I didn’t answer immediately, but the lump in my throat lessened a little, easing my speech.

“Thanks.”

He was right, speaking had become easier after I had begun nesting.

About an hour later, I was perched on my bed, my side of the nest finished. My side, because Terry had pushed our beds together to make one large one.

“You sure you’re done with your part?” he asked, doubtful.

“What?” I snapped, defensive. He’d already asked three times.

“Nothing,” he said, laughing. “It’s just quite bare.”

“I told you, it’s only my second time nesting!” It felt freeing to be able to express myself fully with Terry.

“Okay, okay.” He raised his hands in surrender, but at my scowl, he softened. “Sorry. I forget you’re still new at this. Come here.” He flopped onto the blankets and patted the spot beside him.

My shoulders slumped. “Wait, I need to braid my hair.” As tired as I was, I wanted to show Padma that I’d remembered what she taught me about haircare.

Sitting at the mirror and oiling my ends, I couldn’t help but think back to what Terry had said before. That he could teach me about aspects of my life that Padma wouldn’t understand. Madam Pomfrey had answered some questions during my sessions with her, but there were things I just couldn’t ask her.

“I can feel you thinking from over here. What's on your mind?” Terry said, fiddling with the fairy lights he was stringing along the headboard.

“Nothing.” I paused, then forced it out before I lost courage. “Just… you said we could talk about things only male omegas deal with.”

He blinked, not expecting my answer, “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

“Well,” it was too late to back out now. “Like what things? And how do you know?”

He hummed, thoughtful, finishing setting up the lights before he sat down again. “Well. I’ve always been close to my omega cousin. We talk about everything and realised some things are just different between her and me.” 

I sat at attention, fingers braiding automatically.

“You know, females already have the full setup. “ He said, gestured to his lower abdomen. “We develop everything- and that in itself is insane if you think about it.” He huffed a laugh. ”And we get our slit.”

I stilled, heat crawling up my neck, memories stinging. He didn’t notice.

“Like- did you know they never get oversensitive from just… sitting too long?”

“What?” I blinked at him, effectively brought out of my memories.

“Yeah.” He grinned at my face.

“ You mean not everyone gets like… you know… down there?” My face heated as I spoke.

“Yup.” He continued, “We get all tingly and weirdly wet just from pressure. They don’t. Because our slits are new and sensitive. They have had their vaginas their whole lives.”

I just stared at him. “How did this even come up with your cousin?”

He shrugged, “I dunno, it just did. Like when you compare crushes and experiences.”

“When you what?” I sputtered, face heating.

Terry looked at me and slowly a smirk crept up on his face. “Did you never share stories?”

I tied off the second french braid and flung it over my shoulder. “We didn’t talk about those things,” I muttered, mortification burning in my face.

“Oh, don’t worry. Like you, she probably hasn’t done anything yet, the good Indian daughter she is.”

Indignation flared in me. “I have some… experience. Just not since-” My voice cut off, too embarrassed to keep talking.

“You can’t even say it, you prude! I bet you’ve never even looked at yours!”

“What! What do you mean, why would I look at it?” I stumbled into the nest, grabbing a pillow to hug to my lap.

“Why wouldn’t you! It grew from your body! If your partner’s going to see it-” He paused, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Have you even touched yourself?”

“Of course I clean myself.” At Terry’s face I realised that wasn’t the question. I swallowed. “I just learned how to nest, you think I’ve-?”

He stopped his teasing demeanor then, sat up straighter. “Wait. So what do you do when you get wet? Do you just let yourself spike?”

“The what?”

“You don’t even know? Oh, honey!” He stopped for a moment, eyes devastated and continued carefully, “you know when your body responds to an alpha and you literally cum, for no reason, out of nowhere?”

My throat closed, choking on my own spit. How did he know that.. I could still remember the library, Potter’s leg brushing mine, the rush that left me choking with shame. My breath quickened. “How do you know that?”

He sighed and said, “Because it happened to me too. Because nobody tells us this shit.” He put a careful hand on my arm. “Male omegas need release, Draco. If you don’t, your body finds it for you. That’s spiking.” His mouth twisted. “In porn it’s called spike bitch or sheetslut. Very fetishised.”

“What the fuck,” my chest burned. “I had no idea.”

“Yeah, it’s why some fetishise us male omegas. Some want their omega to spike.” Terry shuddered with disgust at that.

“But it’s not only pleasure, it’s painful and so humiliating” I felt as if I had to justify myself.

“I know.” His voice was firm, steady. “But now you know what it is. And you know how to stop it.”

I clutched the pillow tighter. Terry gently pried it from my grip, still humming faintly as if to soothe me. “I’m sorry you had to go through that without knowing. I hope the alpha wasn’t cruel about it.”

“No. He didn’t say anything.” The admission slipped out before I could catch it.

“Good.” He tugged me into the nest, guiding me against his chest. “You’ll figure it out. Just when you do, start gently, outside and then in.”

I inhaled deeply and nodded, trying to understand.

My mind spun with images of what my body might demand of me in the future. For some reason they weren’t as nauseating as I thought they would be, the change in my own view frightened me. But Terry’s warmth and steady pheromones wrapped around me, my mother’s shawl was cuddled to my face and at some point, my breathing slowed, and I drifted off.

Chapter Text

Draco

The change in our room arrangement wasn’t such a dooming event after all. Life returned to its rhythm quickly, and if anything, the drama seemed to have pulled us omegas and betas closer together. The dynamic between living partners calm and peaceful.

The same couldn't be said about the alphas. They didn’t speak of it, but the tension was clear—Padma said it was too much testosterone bottled up in one place, Terry called it a “primitive hierarchy problem.” I avoided thinking about it whenever I could.

One night, though, with all the omegas gathered in my and Terry’s room for an impromptu sleepover, the subject found me anyway.

“Luna’s not coming?” Terry asked, fussing over a nightstand he’d turned into a snack altar.

“She said something about moonbathing,” Hannah mumbled through a mouthful of crisps, already reaching for more.

Padma shook her head. “Honestly, she’s impossible.”

We sprawled across the nest we’d built from three beds shoved together. Pillows, quilts, and blankets in a chaos that made the room smell overwhelmingly omega. Terry had insisted on arranging his favourite fairy lights too, and now they cast a warm, cozy glow that made it easy to forget the frost clawing at the windows.

They talked easily, bouncing from topic to topic—snacks, gossip, which professors gave the worst homework. I listened, laughed when prompted, plaited and unplaited the edge of a blanket. Eventually, when the chatter lulled, I found myself blurting:

“Why do you guys care so much about… all that? With the alphas, I mean.”

Three pairs of eyes flicked toward me. Terry, naturally, was the first to grin.

“You want the crude answer or the polite one?”

“I don’t know.” My throat felt tight. “The one that makes sense.”

“All right, crude it is.” Terry stretched out like he was about to give a lecture, Hannah swatting at his knee. “They’re sorting out who’s the big boss. They don't want to admit it, but that's what it is. Whoever comes out on top, the others—and us—fall in line. You’ll see it if there’s ever a problem: who we all turn to first.”

I must’ve looked as lost as I felt, because he sighed and kept going. “Basically? We’re paying attention to see who’s the most eligible. Best alpha material. Our instincts can’t help it, even if we’d never act on it.”

“Gross,” Padma cut in before I could. “I want my NEWTs before any partner, thanks.”

“Sure, sure.” Terry waved her off. “But our bodies don’t care about NEWTs.”

He got a look from Padma that he ignored. “Now, Zacharias and Susan… they’re complicated. They screwed up, everyone knows it, so neither’s exactly popular right now. But strength counts for something, and Susan—well, she’s in her own bubble. No one’s challenging her.” Terry smiled in Hannah’s direction. “But we’re not getting any of her either, with Hannah being the apple of her eye.”

Hannah made a noise of protest and flung a pillow at him.

“As for the boys who share a room,” Terry continued breezily, “they can’t avoid the hierarchy. Harry, Ron, Neville? Strong magic, strong reputations. Nobody’s topping them, especially not the boy who lived twice. Ron’s off the table, Dean’s taken too, and Neville’s not the fighting sort anyway, so he’ll slide into his own spot. Zacharias… bottom rung. He’ll have to work to earn his place back. But Anthony?” Terry waggled his brows. “Anthony threw himself between us and two ferals. Took blows, already half-injured. He’s not the strongest, no, but—honestly, I wouldn’t mind a tumble with him.”

“Terry!” Hannah’s scandalised tone made Padma snort into her sleeve.

“What? I wouldn’t,” Terry said, sticking his tongue out. “He’s my friend, but if he offered…”

I stared between them all, trying to stitch the pieces together. “So… what you’re saying is, depending on how the alphas act with each other, it shows what sort of people they are. And our instincts… sort them as potential mates?” Heat climbed my neck. “That’s completely messed up. They’re our classmates. Your friends.”

Padma shook her head, amused. “And yours too, Draco. But it’s not only about mates. It’s about who can protect us. Who we trust. Who we lean on when things go wrong. It doesn’t have to be romantic. Or sexual.”

I didn’t answer. My fingers had found the blanket fringe again, braiding and unbraiding as the others laughed at Terry’s next outrageous comment. But the thought burrowed deep. That instincts could override logic. That mine already had, more than once.

“Which of the three do you think is actually… tolerable?” Terry said absentmindedly.

“In a romantic or sexual way?” Padma retorted.

He perked up at that. “Oh, yes this will be good!” His eyes zeroed on Hannah with a mischievous grin.

Hannah groaned into her hands. “This isn’t fair.”

“It’s perfectly fair,” Terry said, grinning. “You’ve been mooning after Bones since September. But pretend you’re free. Out of Neville, Harry, Anthony and Zacharias, who’d you pick?”

She was quiet for a moment but then Hannah peeked out between her fingers, cheeks hot. “Neville. Probably Neville.”

“Because he’s safe?” Padma asked.

Hannah smiled openly now. “No, because he’s sweet. He listens. He doesn’t make you feel small.”

“And he blushes like mad,” Terry added with a wicked grin. “I’d bet anything he’s a generous partner.”

Padma made a face. “Merlin’s sake, Terry.” But she was smiling too.

“Come on, you can’t deny it,” Hannah pressed. “He’s strong, but he’d never throw it around. He’d never push. He’d ask, and he’d wait, and… you’d always know where you stood.”

“Exactly,” Terry said with a dramatic sigh. “He’s like a warm jumper. Soft, dependable. Maybe a little dorky, but in a good way.”

Padma’s lips twitched. “Fine. He’s… solid. Gentle. But he’s too soft for me.”

“Which leaves you with Harry,” Terry sing-songed, waggling his brows.

“Oh please,” Padma scoffed, flicking her braid over her shoulder. “Harry’s… too much. Too famous. Too reckless. Can you imagine?”

“He’s not reckless,” Hannah argued. “Not anymore. He’s—he’s loyal. If he’s with you, he’s with you. And he’s brave.”

“And he’s hot,” Terry said bluntly. “You’re all thinking it, don’t even lie.”

Heat rushed to my face so fast I ducked down into the blankets.

Padma caught me, of course. “Ohhh. Draco.” Her grin went sly. “Now this is interesting.”

I glared, wishing my scent didn’t betray me. “Shut up.”

“Relax,” Terry said, laughing, tossing a pillow into my lap. “We’re not going to tell him. We’re just talking.”

Padma leaned in, merciless. “So you do think about him.”

Terry saved me. “Who wouldn’t think about him!”

Padma chuckled, shaking her head. “Fine. But admit it, Harry’s got the looks. That messy hair, the eyes, that whole brooding hero thing. Half the castle still swoons when he walks by.” She eyed me, smirking.

I buried my face deeper in the pillow.

“And he’d fight dragons for you,” Hannah said, almost reluctantly. “That kind of loyalty is… hard to resist.”

“Mm, but he’s ugly stubborn,” Padma cut in. “He’d argue you to death before he let you be right. You’d need patience the size of the Black Lake.” Memories of my younger self arguing with Potter flashed before my eyes.

Terry waggled his brows. “Arguing can be fun. Especially when it ends in make-up sex.”

“Merlin, Terry,” Padma muttered, throwing a cushion at him.

Not being able to help myself, wanting the topic to leave Harry, I piped up. “What do you think about Zacharias?”

Padma snorted. “I don’t trust him to handle me.”

Hannah wrinkled her nose. “He’s not… boyfriend material.”

Terry shrugged. “Still, you can’t deny he’s strong. If it came to a fight, I’d rather have him on my side than not.”

Padma made a reluctant noise of agreement. “Fine. Physically, yes. But the rest?” She shook her head. “He’d have to prove himself. Properly.”

Hannah was laughing now. “What about Anthony then. He’s not flashy, but… he’s brave. Just… in that quiet way. He’d look after you, I think. Make sure you ate, make sure you slept. The practical kind of love.”

“And he is handsome,” Padma added thoughtfully. “Not in-your-face handsome like Harry, but traditionally. Classic.”

“And those arms,” Terry said again, with feeling. “You know he could carry you up the stairs without breaking a sweat.”

That earned another round of laughter, bright and easy.

I sat there in the nest, trying to keep my expression cool while their words swirled in my head. Kind. Loyal. Steady. It wasn’t just gossip—it was how they saw them. How I was supposed to see them too, if my instincts had their way.

And maybe that was what unsettled me most of all.

Padma leaned back against the pillows, looking pleased with herself. “All right then. Hannah’s sorted. That leaves me.”

Terry immediately perked up. “Oh, this’ll be good.”

Padma gave him a long-suffering look. “If I had to pick—”

“Which you do,” Terry cut in.

“—fine. If I had to pick, I’d go with Anthony.”

That made Hannah blink. “Really?”

“Look, Terry has a point-oh, shush, you!-Neville’s lovely, I admit it. And Harry’s fit. But Anthony’s clever, doesn’t show off. He’d be the sort who lets you get on with your life without fuss, then turns up when you need him most. That’s the kind of man I’d want.”

“Boring,” Terry sing-songed.

“Dependable,” Padma corrected crisply, but her lips curved in a smile.

“All right, my turn,” Terry said, rubbing his hands together. “And before you lot accuse me of indecision, I’m going to cheat. Harry for the fling—”

“Obviously,” Padma muttered.

“—Neville for the husband, Anthony for the heat partner. Done. Next!”

Hannah snorted. “That’s not how it works, Terry.”

“Sure it is,” Terry said, grinning. “Why limit myself?”

Padma rolled her eyes. “You’d drive them all mad in a week.”

Terry smirked. “Better than dying bored.”

Hannah gave him a look. “You talk like you know.”

A beat passed where Terry seemed to be weighing his options, then his expression turned smug. “I do know.”

We perked up at that.

Padma blinked. “Wait, you’ve actually—?”

“A long summer in Spain. More than once,” Terry cut in, already grinning.

Hannah laughed into her crisps. “Merlin, of course you have.”

“And you?” Padma asked, turning the spotlight.

Hannah shrugged, cheeks a little pink. “Just Susan. Well—almost.”

That set them giggling, Padma shaking her head. “Figures.”

“And you?” Terry prodded.

Padma only shrugged. “Not yet, not until I’m in a steady relationship.”

“Typical,” Terry sighed, dramatically.

“Do you think you’ll take a heat partner?” Hannah asked Terry.

He hummed in thought before answering. “I don’t know actually. If I go many more heats without a partner I think I would if I had a friend I trusted like that.”

“You and Anthony are quite good friends. Maybe your fantasies will be reality” Padma said, smirking.

“True, but we already established this is all hypothetical. Although I wouldn’t complain if an alpha came swooping in to carry me into the sunset.”

They all laughed again. I just picked at the blanket fringe, wishing the talk would pass over me. Pretending the churning in my gut at the mention of Potter wasn’t jealousy.

I was meticulously arranging the fringe of the blanket on my lap when three pairs of eyes turned on me.

“What about you, Draco?” Padma asked sweetly. “Who’d you choose?”

Heat shot up my neck. “Me?”

“Yes, you,” Hannah teased. “Come on. No escaping.”

“I—” My mouth went dry. For a second, against my will, I thought of Harry. The sharp set of his jaw when he argued, the heat of him pressed too close in the pub, the dangerous thrill that still made my stomach knot. The electric crackle of ozone that clung to him, sharp and stormy, tangled with the deep, grounding pull of forest earth. The memory of it still hit me sometimes, unbidden, curling low in my stomach. Absolutely not. That wasn’t something I could ever say aloud.

My hands twisted in the blanket. “I don’t… really think about it.”

“Oh, please,” Terry scoffed. “Everyone thinks about it.” He leaned closer, eyes glinting. “So? Harry’s fire, Neville’s comfort, Anthony’s steadiness. Which one do you fancy?”

The air felt thick. I swallowed hard, forced my gaze down, and said the safest thing possible.

 “Maybe Neville.”

There was a collective sigh of “aww” from the others that made my ears burn.

“You were so cute pressed to his side when he was with us!” Hannah exclaimed.

Padma’s smile was soft, though. “Good choice, Draco. Neville’s safe.”

Safe. That word clung to me, heavier than it should, even as the others laughed and shifted the conversation on.

I walked the corridor, swaying my hips to the tune Parvati was humming, Padma laughing beside me. It was ridiculous, but I felt comfortable with no one else around. Padma threw an arm around my shoulder and joined in my swaying. This was nice. Ever since I’d started nesting with the others, something in me had… settled. Like the last of who I’d been before presenting was fading away, leaving only this—an omega I was slowly, reluctantly, beginning to lean into.

I’d been eating more, quickly putting on weight. Padma said she couldn’t call me skinny anymore. There’d even been an embarrassing shopping trip to Hogsmeade for new trousers since no tailoring charms worked anymore, and mortifyingly, I shopped for bras. The beta girls had been searching for good pants while Terry forced me to try on bralettes, claiming they were the most comfortable for ‘our small tits’. My face had flamed the entire time. In the end, it was almost fun. A bonding experience. I left with trousers that actually fit, even flattered, and felt more covered and comfortable with the bralette.

We reached our rooms and Padma gave me a cheerful “see you in a bit.”

I’d barely opened my door when I was knocked flat on my back.

“Ouch-”

“I’m so sorry, sugar, but I don’t have time for you to be in my way,” Terry blurted, nearly tripping over me. His bag was stuffed full of fabric—pieces from our nest, I realized when I glanced into the room. Then the scent hit me. Heat.

Still too hidden in his normal scent to be noticeable to anyone besides an omega, but still making my breath quicken.

“Shit.” Panic twisted my gut. Terry was going into heat—what was I supposed to do?

“Hey, take it easy.” He held out his hand and yanked me up. “It hasn’t hit yet. But it will and I’d like to be in a heat room when it does.”

“Can we walk you?” Padma asked, appearing at my side.

We did, and nothing happened—no dramatics, no collapse. He chatted the whole way, like it was perfectly ordinary. I couldn’t understand it. I thought back to my presentation heat of pain and fire, tearing me open from the inside out, combined with unending arousal. If that was what he was about to endure, how could he be so calm?

That night I didn’t go back to my own room. I stayed with Padma and Hannah, and they answered my clumsy questions. Heats weren’t always so bad, they explained. Mine had been unusually painful. Hannah suggested it might be because I was male and it was my first. I thought instead of what Pomfrey had told me, about the Mark and how it had twisted my biology. I didn’t say it aloud. Only rubbing my hand over the glamoured curse.

The next night I stayed again, simply because it was nice. Nesting together felt easy. Luna joined us this time, dreamlike as ever, and when she looked at me, she smiled faintly.

“You’ve been growing into your figure very well,” she said.

Heat rushed up my neck. The girls laughed, accusing her of sounding like a pureblood grandma. She ignored them and mumbled, “Your alpha noticed.”

The girls brushed it off, but Luna’s words clung. Then they turned mischievous, insisting on dressing me up. Hannah’s uniform fit me best, her shape nearest mine. They giggled as they fussed with skirt and stockings, telling me I ought to wear it out. I said no, horrified, but the look I gave the mirror betrayed me.

“It’s fine,” Padma said softly, catching it. “Male omegas can wear this too.” She wrapped her arms around me. “It suits you. You just have to familiarize yourself with it. And then we can match outfits.”

The third night, my own room began to smell… wrong. Stale. Unused. I wanted it to be ready when Terry came back, so I returned. Tidied the nest, charmed a nightlight to show the night sky. Made it feel alive again.

And then I remembered what Terry had said before, about looking at myself. Down there.

I ended up in the bathroom, dragging the standing mirror in front of the toilet. My hands shook, but I wanted to know. To see. Terry had one too and never seemed to think twice about it. Granted, he’d grown up knowing he would be an omega. But still.

My heart thudded dully as I shifted, tugging my trousers down with jerky, uncertain movements. My face in the glass burned scarlet even though I was alone. Every instinct screamed at me to stop, to pull them back up and walk away, to keep pretending that if I didn’t look then none of it was real.

But I didn’t want to spike again, the thought of it happening around Potter unbearable. Even worse, if it would happen around that seventh year who kept degrading me. I had avoided him for some time but the reminder of him left me with nauseating anxiety.

I didn’t want to spike again, and looking at myself was the first step. So I forced myself, and soon I was naked from the waist down.

My reflection stared back with that familiar mix of pale skin, fine bones, and wariness. Twisting in the mirror, I caught sight of the faint dimpled flesh on my thighs, cellulite. Pansy used to complain about hers, and I’d always teased that with curves came imperfections. With a sigh, I realised I had been right. Oh, if she could see how I’d changed.

I sat down on the toilet lid and pulled the mirror closer. Drew my knees up and parted them. For a long moment I only saw what I’d always known, my cock, long and flushed, my balls smaller than they used to be.

Not right. Too much, too big. Omegas weren’t supposed to look like this. Small, soft, easy to take. Not this. Not me.

My jaw tightened. Why had it stayed big? It’s not useful for anything.

If I ended up with a female, then at least I could still give her pleasure. Maybe I’d be better off with a female alpha who wouldn’t mind bottoming. I thought of how painful it had been to grow a slit — Merlin, how must it feel to grow a knot?

What would anyone think, seeing me like this? Attractive, or broken? Do I even want an alpha? If an alpha saw me, would they be repulsed? Would Potter? 

The thought slammed into me before I could stop it. Potter in that pub. Potter pressing me down onto his lap until I could feel him through every layer of clothing. My slit aching against the hard ridge of his cock, my own dragging over his stomach. Clothes holding us back. I knew he’d felt it, felt that I wasn’t what omegas were supposed to be. And still, he hadn’t stopped. He’d only kissed me harder, hands sure, confident, like he wanted.

My breath hitched. My hand closed around myself before I could think. Tugging, stroking. Potter’s mouth on mine, messy and desperate, swallowing the little sounds I hadn’t meant to make. His scent crashing through me, ozone, forest, storm and rain. Sharp. Grounding. Dizzying.

I stroked harder. Faster. My hips jerked up into my hand, but the pleasure stayed just out of reach, slippery and mocking. Frustration curled low in my stomach. I ripped my shirt off too.

I thought of how he had kissed me just right. Kissed me silly, so much that I had gone willingly to sit on his lap. It hadn’t been anything like that time with Blaise. Blaise had been reckless, without a care. Potter had kissed me like he had every care in the world. Most likely Potter had only reacted to my omega. Either way, it didn’t matter. It had still left me panting. I leaned back on the cool ceramic of the toilet and parted my legs.

My breaths were shallow, my movements insistent, still the real pleasure was out of reach. Frustration grew.

I looked at the mirror again and my breath came to a stop.

When holding myself like this, while leaning back, I saw it. Nestled beneath my balls, skin glistening with slick I hadn’t even noticed.

My breath came shallow. My cock twitched.

My free hand drifted lower, hesitant, until my fingers smeared over the slick heat beneath. I gasped. My hips jerked helplessly at the touch. A gasp, sharp, almost pained, slipped out.

Merlin.

I touched again, gentler this time. The tingles it resulted in were something I had never felt before, almost uncomfortable. The skin was smooth, some curls growing bravely by the edges. I grimaced at them.

Taking a deep breath I ignored my apprehension and parted the skin. More tingles shot up my spine, bordering on painful this time. I softened my touch.

Then I dared a look. It didn't really look like how I'd imagined it.

It looked like a cunt. Felt like one too. A finger gently caressed one of the lips that had been uncovered now. A shudder escaped me. It was slimy, wet and warm. Panic engulfed me for a moment. I snatched my hand back and snapped my legs closed. My eyes locked with my reflection. I looked pitiful, utterly afraid of my own body. Taking a deep breath, I smothered the panic.

It was just a cunt. I touched it every time I washed myself. It was fine.

Refraining from touching too much this time, I parted my legs, held my now limp junk out of the way and just looked.

 I gently parted the skin of my outer labia again.

The outer labia had been hiding my slit and now that it had been uncovered it looked terribly alien.

The skin was both pink and darker than the rest of my skin, it was soft and velvety, but also wet and moist. The folds looked like they overlapped each other. 

I hadn’t truly found a hole yet, or anything resembling an entrance, and so I braced again. 

With a deep breath I began touching the alien skin. Ignoring the tingles and nausea it gave me I tried to part the slippery inner lips. Finally I managed, and still didn't find a hole.

Sighing, I observed it more, ignoring my discomfort, I tried to observe it from someone else's point of view. Someone who wasn't half disgusted by it. I zeroed in on it, ignoring the shriveled balls above it, and imagined it belonged to someone who was supposed to have it, a woman, another omega, male or female. 

I began seeing it as it was. Delicate, swollen, flushed pink, obscene and needy. Wet with want I didn't feel at the moment. It looked appetising when imagining it belonged to a faceless beta female or omega.

My face heated at the thought. Pleasure had been evading me when stroking myself. Perhaps if I touched both places, pleasure would find me.

I began stroking myself once again, and I quickly grew hard. I kept my eyes lower, on the cunt beneath my balls. Saw how it grew wetter, felt how it tingled even without touch, demanded attention.

Only when I was panting, my cock getting too much attention and my pulsating cunt getting none, did I caress myself.

Once again I gasped, but this time I pushed through the unfamiliarity of the sensation, kept caressing the skin with my fingers. Felt how discomfort turned into pleasure as I accepted the feeling.

I couldn’t stop. I held my breath and caressed down over my lips and up again, exhaling slowly. Every caress sent sparks tearing through me.

The way my cock bobbed above while my slit glistened below made my stomach twist — filthy, shameful, arousing all at once. But it still wasn’t good enough. 

I pressed harder, one finger dipping between the lips.

I moaned. Did it again, and again. On a down stroke my finger caught on something and was enveloped in wet heat.

“Fuck,” I moaned, raw and helpless. A mix of discomfort and scorching pleasure erupting. I found my entrance. My walls clamped down, molten and impossibly soft, squeezing the finger. My back arched, eyes rolling back as my cock leaked across my stomach. Slowly drawing my finger back, my mouth opened but no sound came out. 

I caressed the opening, just slightly going into the dip of my entrance. Imagining strong fingers parting me, testing how tight I was, how much I could take. Small breathy moans filled the bathroom. 

I opened my eyes again, not knowing when I had closed them, and was met with a flushed, heavy lidded reflection. Lips parted and damp curls sticking to my forehead. I looked like a heat magazine whore.

The sight of myself giving in- my fingers dipping just past the entrance, slick coating my thigh- sent a shiver up my spine. It felt forbidden, wrong, and all the sweeter for it. I fisted my cock in time with the strokes and my breath broke into gasps, needy whimpers echoing in the little bathroom.

The thought of myself as an omega to be desired, alphas lusting, rutting, sent me spiralling closer. Thinking of the skirt I had tried on the day before, the way it had skimmed my thighs, thinking of how my reflection did fit the description of what an alpha wants in an omega. Good wide hips for breeding and breasts that will fill up with milk for pups. My other hand left my cock to go up to my chest. Kneaded my small breast and caressed one puckered nipple, pinching it.

I moaned, low and breathless, slipping a finger deeper, ignoring the slight sting. A fleeting thought of how insane it was that I enjoyed something inside me quickly being replaced with more sinful thoughts.

Heat flooded me as Potter filled my mind, Potter pressing me down, Potter’s cock, thick and hot, pressing into me where my own hand now was. My thighs shook with the picture of him crowding over me, kissing me senseless again, whispering my name into my mouth. A whine escaped my parted lips, high and needy. I couldn’t stop. My hips began rocking down onto my own hand as if I were riding him, riding Potter. The thought of his cock pushing in where my finger was made me groan, desperate and broken. I imagined him holding me open, his voice rough at my ear, telling me to take him, good boy, take it all.

My breath quickened, heat spilling into every limb. A strangled groan tore from my throat. My body arched as I spilled across my stomach in thick, hot spurts while my slit clenched and spasmed around my fingers. I came with a broken cry that echoed far too loud in the little bathroom, shuddering, ruined, unable to stop writhing until it finally ebbed.

I collapsed against the cool porcelain, shuddering with the aftershocks. One last gush of slick running down my slit to my asshole.

When I dared look again, the mirror showed me everything: cock streaked across my belly, slit abused and open, lips swollen and gleaming with wetness. A wreck. A mess.

And I’d thought of Potter the whole time.

For a few seconds, I couldn’t move. My whole body hummed, dazed, caught in the floating afterglow. My thighs trembled, chest rising and falling in shallow pants. I felt… loose, open. Like I’d given into something I’d been holding back for far too long.

The ache softened, leaving warmth curling low in my stomach. For the briefest moment, I almost let myself enjoy it.

Then I breathed in.

The air was thick, cloying, saturated with my scent — slick and musk, raw omega arousal. It hit me like a slap. My stomach dropped. I had drenched the room in it. Anyone would smell exactly what I’d done. Thank Merlin our rooms had personal bathrooms.

I glanced back at the mirror and my face burned. My cock softening against my stomach, my slit swollen and wet, lips flushed and obscene. The sight turned my skin hot with humiliation.

And the worst of it-

The worst of it was who I’d thought of.

Potter.

Not faceless alphas, not the kind of theoretical choice Padma had teased us with during the sleepover. Him. His mouth, his hands, his scent. I’d spilled myself, writhing like a whore, with Harry Potter filling my head.

Padma’s words from that night echoed, cruelly clear now: Harry’s fit. Half the castle still swoons when he walks by. Terry laughing: Who wouldn’t think about him?

And me, pretending. Pretending I didn’t.

My knees felt weak. I fumbled into the shower. Warm water thundered down, steam wrapping me tight. I scrubbed quickly, dragging soap over my skin, between my thighs, rinsing over and over. Trying to feel clean again. Normal again. But the hot water only dulled the sharp ache in my slit; it couldn’t rinse Potter from my head.

When I finally stepped out, dripping, I cast a cleansing charm over the tiles, the mirror and the toilet. Anything to erase the evidence.

Before I fled the bathroom I cast an Aerialis Purgo just to be safe, gagging at the shock of it.

I dressed quickly. The moment I crossed the threshold, my whole body recoiled.

The nest was wrong. Unused.

Before I knew it, I was tearing through blankets, shaking them out, rearranging pillows, smoothing sheets. My wand flicked automatically. Refreshing charms, softening charms, adjusting the nightlight so the ceiling shimmered just the right way. My hands wouldn’t stop, folding and refolding, fussing until everything smelled faintly of me and Terry again instead of that stale scent.

Padma’s voice whispered again in my mind, softer this time: It’s not just about mates. It’s about who we lean on. Who we trust when things go wrong.

I crawled into the nest and curled small, face pressed into the pillows.

It should have soothed me. But all I could think of was how much I had wanted him. How much my body still did. How much I could never let someone see me like I'd seen myself in the mirror.

Potter.

The name stuck in my throat, as hot and damning as the scent I’d tried to wash away.

Chapter Text

Harry 

The door to our new room had barely shut behind us when Ron blurted,

“Bloody hell, Smith, your face still looks like you got run over by a herd of hippogriffs.”

Zacharias froze halfway to his trunk at the foot of the bed in the furthest corner, one hand hovering self-consciously near the bruising along his cheekbone. “It’s not that bad.”

Dean snorted. “Mate, it’s purple. And lumpy. You look like a dropped pudding.”

Anthony let out a low whistle. “Honestly? I’d be impressed if it wasn’t your fault we all ended up here.”

Zacharias flinched. “I said I-”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re sorry,” Ron cut in, tossing his bag down on the bed he claimed. “Doesn’t magic away the fact I can still see your face.”

Neville sighed, slumping down onto a bed. “Can we not start this?”

But it was too late.

The room had already shifted.

Six alphas. One enclosed space. Too much instinct in the air.

Dean’s tone was joking, but the edge behind it wasn’t.

Ron’s shoulders were set too square.

Anthony’s patience was already worn thin.

Neville kept glancing around as if to mediate before anyone snapped.

And Zacharias…

Zacharias was shrinking into himself, eyes darting like he expected someone to lunge.

I could feel it. The tension crawling over my skin, every male in the room on high alert.

Even my friends didn’t feel like just my friends.

They felt like rival presences.

Other alphas in my space.

Instinct snarled in my chest, low and unwelcome.

And the worst part was that they reacted to me too.

Ron shifted a step further away without thinking. Dean’s posture dipped, just subtly. Anthony hesitated before brushing past me. Neville watched me with a soft, steadying caution.

Zacharias kept to the far wall.

The room had a shape now, an unspoken one, and I didn’t like how natural it felt.

Or how easily I fell into it.

We unpacked in silence. Grunting when we were in each other's spaces. The silence was thick, prickling along the walls like static.
Dean broke it first, though not by choice — his mattress squeaked as he sat, and every head snapped toward the sound.

He lifted both palms. “Alright, bloody hell, we’re jumpy.”

“We?” Ron said sharply from across the room, arms crossed over his chest. “You keep elbowing me every time I walk near you, like I’m about to steal your wand.”

Dean scoffed, but his fists clenching gave him away. “You’re the one acting like you need a five foot radius.”

“It’s not-” Ron cut himself off, jaw tightening. “It’s just instinct.”

“Yeah, well,” Anthony muttered, lowering himself gingerly onto his bed with the stiffness of someone still bruised, “your instinct keeps trying to shoulder-check me.”

Ron opened his mouth to argue, but the moment he turned toward Anthony, something in him eased. The fight bled into embarrassment instead.

“…didn’t mean to,” he muttered.
And he hadn’t. Ron was a protector through and through, not one for displaying dominance. Usually.

Neville cleared his throat gently. “Maybe we just need to, I don’t know… settle? Give each other a little space?”

He wasn’t commanding, Neville never commanded, but everyone backed down a little anyway. That was the thing about him, soft voice, steady magic.

Zacharias opened his mouth like he was going to say something snide, thought better of it, and sank deeper into his mattress.

Smart, I thought.
Even injured, Anthony bristled at the mere angle of Zacharias’ shoulder turning his direction.

And none of them were looking directly at me anymore.

Not aggressively, more like warily.
Giving me space I hadn’t asked for.

I hated how natural it felt.

I didn’t want this. Didn’t want dominance or rank or any of it. I just wanted to get through school without tearing someone’s throat out because my instincts misread a breath.

But every time someone shifted, every time bodies moved in the cramped room, eyes flickered to me first- checking my reaction. I hadn’t even said anything.

No matter, my alpha stretched under my skin, satisfied.

I wanted to choke it down.

The panic that had blessedly eased since a certain omega had began occupying my mind flared. Too cramped in the charged room. 

By the time we reached the Great Hall for dinner a week later, the tension hadn’t faded- It had simply evolved. We walked in a loose cluster, not exactly coordinated but… orbiting each other cautiously.

Ron stuck a little closer to me than usual.

Dean hung back, walked with Seamus, but still observing.

Anthony moved like a wounded animal still ready to bite.

Neville acted as the buffer, gently nudging us away from friction without drawing attention.

Zacharias stayed quiet, and no one encouraged him to speak.

Susan hovered near the Ravenclaw-plus Hermione-end of the table, expression tight, eyes darting every so often toward Zacharias. She wasn’t innocent in what happened either, not by a long shot, and everyone knew it.

The omegas and betas at the table felt the shift immediately.

Padma’s fork paused mid-air.

Terry’s eyes swept across us, brows climbing.
“Oh good,” he murmured, “the alphas are doing that weird… wolf-pack-thing again.”

Hannah stared between us all, lips pursed. “Should… we move seats?”

“No,” Padma whispered as if I couldn’t hear her, gaze narrowing. “Let’s observe. This is fascinating.”

Draco was already seated, posture upright, chin lifted, but I could see it, the way his gorgeous eyes flicked across the group, alert.

Curiosity written on his face.

I couldn’t stop myself from sliding into the space beside him. Leaning closer than I had to when taking my seat in hopes of catching more than a whiff of him.

He didn’t flinch. His shoulders actually lowered a fraction.

As Hermione was surrounded by books and Ravenclaws, deep in conversation, Ron sat on my other side, chair scraping a little too harshly. Staking a claim without meaning to. Dean rolled his eyes but didn’t contest it. Anthony raised an eyebrow and adjusted his seat to angle slightly away from Zacharias.

Terry’s grin widened. “Look at that. Full seating chart based on vibes alone.”

“Shut it,” Ron muttered, but without heat.

Across the table, Susan-who had been ignoring Zacharias for days-finally risked a glance his way. It came out brittle, defensive. She hugged her elbows around herself like she wanted to shrink.

The tension was a rope pulled taut.

Terry was complaining loudly of stigmas against omegas in the science field to Hannah. Making points I had never thought about. I sent a subtle glance to my side, seeing Draco’s furrowed brows and pursed lips. Clearly wanting to add to the conversation. Perhaps he even wished to enter the science field. With his intelligence he could enter any.

Just as those rosy lips opened to speak, Zacharias said something he shouldn’t have. A muttered complaint about “some omegas making everything dramatic,” too close to Padma’s hearing, too careless.

Her head snapped toward him. “Excuse me?”

Terry straightened, sharp as a wand-tip. “Say that again.”

Zacharias paled, but his mouth worked anyway. “I just meant-some people are blowing things out of proportion-”

Dean growled. Anthony’s magic spiked, crackling. Ron’s chair screeched as he stood halfway. Neville’s hand twitched toward his wand, not to fight but to intervene.

The omega next to me shrunk back, lowering his head. Wilted flowers now reaching my nose.

And something shoved me to my feet before I had time to think.

“Enough.”

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t even angry.

It was tired.

Every alpha in the circle snapped their jaw shut.

Zacharias froze.

Susan’s breath hitched.

Padma widened her eyes.

Terry mouthed, clocked it.

I stepped closer to Zacharias.

“You’re going to apologise,” I said quietly. “Properly.”

Zacharias swallowed. Hard.

“I—sorry.  Fucked up and I never meant to hurt any of you.”

To Padma, then Terry, then the rest of the omegas.

And he meant it.

Susan’s face was drained of color. She stood abruptly, voice sharp with nerves.

“I-I was part of it too.”
Her hands shook. “It wasn’t just him. I owe them an apology as well.” She turned to the omegas, her eyes lingering on Hannah.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have lost control like I did. I endangered you, and ruined our group. I’m… I’m really sorry.”

The tension broke like a string loosening.

People started to breathe again.

Ron sat down with a grunt.

Dean shook himself out.

Anthony pinched the bridge of his nose.

Neville let out a long exhale.

Both Susan and Zacharias sank back into their seats, shoulders collapsing with relief.

I sat too.

Draco’s knee brushed mine under the table as I sat - an accidental, quiet, grounding touch. 

My pulse eased instantly.

Conversation after that was awkward at first, stilted, everyone tiptoeing around what had just happened. But slowly, the tension drained out.

Draco leaned slightly into my space, not enough for anyone else to notice but enough that I felt it.
Hermione started eating with a small nod toward me, giving me a proud smile.

Ron elbowed me once, too pointed to be casual. Neville smiled softly, relieved. Dean cracked a joke at Anthony’s expense, and Anthony actually gave one back.

Seamus sighed dramatically and announced he deserved a medal for surviving this group.

Susan sat quietly but more at ease, Zacharias stayed very, very quiet.

By the end of dinner, we weren’t quite friends again, but we weren’t enemies either.

I sat there afterward, the chatter slowly piecing itself back together around us, and tried to understand why the whole thing left me feeling… hollow. Not proud. Not triumphant. Just tired.

Because the truth was, I hadn’t wanted to step up. Not in the way an alpha is supposed to. I didn’t care about being the strongest in the room or the one everyone looked at when things went wrong.

I’d spent years having leadership shoved onto me whether I wanted it or not. This felt like another version of the same trap.

But when Zacharias opened his mouth and the omegas stiffened, when Padma’s chin lifted and Draco’s shoulders went sharp beside me… something in me reacted before thought even formed.

Not because I wanted authority.

But because someone had to stop it.

Someone had to make it normal again.

And apparently-God help me-that someone was me.

Even if it left me shaky with unused adrenaline. Familiar anxieties rearing its ugly head. I thought I’d buried it during the year

I swallowed hard, forcing air into my lungs.

This wasn’t a battlefield. This wasn’t life or death.

It was just dinner.

Just a table of friends who suddenly expected me to lead again, and the fear of becoming that person again was enough to make my palms sweat.

But then Draco shifted beside me, a gush of air bringing his wonderful scent to my nose. Flowers and a warm sweet tone, contentment, I realised. The pressure in my chest loosened by a fraction.

The Room of Requirement was exactly as Hermione had promised: cozy, magically rearranged into a kind of sitting room with cushions and low tables, lit by a warm, flickering glow that made everyone look softer than usual. It smelled faintly of old parchment and pumpkin pasties. A comfort, if you ignored the underlying tension in the air.

It had been Hermione’s idea for us all to start having study sessions in the Room of Requirement ‘to get back to normal again’. More privacy than the library, and cosier too. Draco had even convinced a house elf he knew to bring some delicious looking snacks. God knows Kreacher wouldn’t have brought anything, too cross with me for not checking in with him enough.

He was here. Sitting about five feet from me, cross-legged on a cushion, trying to translate some ancient runes with Padma’s quiet guidance. I was half laying on my side, arm propping me up and legs splayed out, pretending to focus on my own work.

Because every time Draco moved, even just a subtle shift in his posture, the scent flickered through the air, something like roses and sunlight, but muted, as if it were trapped behind a veil. Comfortable and unguarded. It was the closest to his unfiltered natural smell it had been since I smelled him on the train. It was maddening. I had no idea what made him so open today, but I was not complaining. My alpha itched, and my magic buzzed under my skin, but I was determined not to show it.

Hermione was fussing over a complex spell on the other side of the room, Ron was pretending not to be bored, and Michael was deep in conversation with Parvati. The room felt full, but still, all my focus was pinned to Draco.

When Draco mispronounced a word, Hermione corrected him gently. “Try it again.”

He bit his lip, cheeks flushing just a shade pinker, and repeated the phrase. Clumsier this time.

I couldn’t help myself. I muttered from across the room, “You’re saying it wrong. It’s not ‘vel-lee,’ it’s ‘vel-lee-ah.’”

Draco froze, his grey eyes snapping up to meet mine, and the air thickened. The faint blush on his cheeks looked unbearably soft. I didn’t want to say it, but I couldn’t help myself with my nose full of his almost natural scent. I wanted to see him, really see him, without the walls or masks.

Padma turned to Terry to discuss and the others’ chatter continued, diffused and distant, leaving a bubble around us.

I cleared my throat, trying to sound casual, which didn’t help. “Sorry, didn’t mean to be a pain.”

“No, it’s—” His voice was quiet, as usual. How I missed the fiery passion it used to have. “Thanks. I... I’m just... not great at this anymore.” He was radiant.

“I don’t fully get it either,” I admitted, moving a little closer on the cushion. His scent strengthened, almost as if his body was responding. It had bloomed since the room change, even more so since I’d stepped up to get us alphas in line. I’d like to delude myself into thinking I had something to do with the lovely scent. “But you’re doing better than you think.”

He looked down, fiddling with the edge of his sleeve, then met my eyes again. “Right. Thanks.”

“Really, I mean it”

“Don’t overdo it,” His voice was marginally steadier, but still that familiar hesitancy.

“Is that a compliment?” My voice slow, teasing. Braver than I thought I would be.

Draco’s mouth twitched into something near a smile. “Depends who’s asking.”

My heart did that stupid flip again, the one I’d been fighting since the train. “Maybe I’m asking.”

For a long moment, we just sat like that. Two messy, broken halves pretending to be whole.

And somewhere between the flickering candlelight and the quiet hum of magic, the study group faded away. It was just us, caught in a small bubble of something fragile and real.

I shifted slightly, trying not to lean too close, but close enough that I could hear his small breaths that looked suspiciously much like he was trying to scent me. My scentglands pushed to let my pheromones out. I ignored it. “So… how long have you been at this?” I asked, nodding toward the runes he was scribbling.

Draco fidgeted with his quill, tapping it against the edge of the parchment. “Long enough that I should probably be better at it,” he muttered, voice soft, almost swallowed by the room. His grey eyes flicked up at me, half-expecting me to tease him. I didn’t.

“Better? Nah,” I said, smiling gently. Debating my next words. “You’re… you’re thorough, and you notice things most people don’t. That’s better than ‘perfect.’”

That soft blush returned and he ducked his head. My fingers twitched with the temptation to lift his chin up. “I think I’ve lost my genius. Gone with my presentation.” 

“You’re still brilliant,” I blurted out before I could stop myself. 

He let out a small, surprised huff and looked up at me. I looked away, my own face heating.

“Veléea.”

I wish I could have captured the smile that lit up his face when the runes on the parchment responded to his command. A soft violet glow illuminating his face.

I was walking on clouds the rest of the day. The high lasted the day after that. And the day after that.

Right until my every resolve was tested. My resolve to be a good alpha to my omega and to my pack, and to be a light wizard.

My omega.

Because that’s what he was in my head now, or rather, I was his. Made perfectly clear to me by my instincts.

I think I had been since the kiss at the pub, hell, maybe even since the train.

I just knew it was clear as day to me the moment I stumbled upon him being taken advantage of.

Chapter Text

Draco

I stopped keeping track of how many times it happened. Once would have been too many, but once had turned into twice, and twice had become a pattern. It wasn’t constant, just frequent enough that I never had time to get over it. I could wash the shame off my skin, bury the memory beneath the comfort of a nest, convince myself I was safe again. Now I could surround myself with my friends. And then it would happen all over.

It was never loud, never public. Always in the quiet corners where shadows stretched long and no one was looking. He never shouted. He never dragged me out in plain sight. Just a hand closing on my arm in a deserted hallway, or a too-firm press of his shoulder against mine as if we were only passing. Small reminders of what he could do.

I never told anyone. Could barely admit it to myself. 

The first time, I had tried to object, but my movements were halted, suffocated before it could turn into full resistance. Every time since then, my body betrayed me. Before I could think, my eyes dipped, my shoulders slumped, my throat tilted bare. Submission offered before refusal. My mind screamed no, but instinct always spoke first, and it spoke the language of survival. Submissive before predator. I hated myself for it. I hated how I crumpled in ways I couldn’t stop. I was helpless even before an unpresented teenager.

Maybe it was better that way. Better that I didn’t fight, better that no one knew. What could be done? Outside the fragile circle of friends I’d found here, I was still a disgraced death eater omega on probation. The rest of the world saw the truth of me, saw that it was only fair this should happen.

The first time, I thought he only wanted to scare me. Humiliate me. That would’ve been enough. But when his hand pressed the back of my neck down and his voice slid low and coaxing, I hadn’t resisted. Instinct had carried me straight into obedience. Opening my mouth by his guidance. And later, when I was sick in the loo, staring at my reflection with loathing, I couldn’t decide which was worse: what he had done, or how easily I had let it happen. How I wished I would have clamped my jaw and bit it off like I’d done before.

It didn’t stop. He’d learned I wouldn’t shout, wouldn’t tell. And every time his scent reached me, bland but heavy, woodsy, my body folded quicker. Knees threatening to give. Hands trembling. I hated myself for that too.

Tonight was no different. I hadn’t even wanted to be wandering the corridors. I couldn’t sleep. Terry had shifted in his sleep and ruined the nest, and I couldn’t put it back together without waking him. So I went to the kitchens. Convinced Elian to bake with me for the next study session. A routine we had picked up. We baked and we laughed, enjoying the kitchen to ourselves this late at night. Before I left, Elian fussed, pressed cinnamon rolls into my hands until my basket was overflowing.

I was still carrying it when I rounded a corner and walked straight into him.

The scent hit first, cloying, oppressive. My stomach dropped. Cinnamon turned sour in my throat. My body knew before my mind did, shoulders curling in, chin ducking, throat tilting without my consent.

“Out late, aren’t you?” His voice was soft, pleasant to anyone else’s ears. To me it was a blade.

“I—” My tongue tangled. I should have pushed past him, thrown a cutting remark. I used to be able to, used to be good at it. Instead my gaze slid down, fixed on the flagstones.

His hand brushed my arm. I flinched. That was all the answer he needed.

“Thought you’d be more grateful by now,” he murmured, guiding me back into shadow. “You’re good at it. Shame to waste talent.”

The basket slipped from my fingers, rolls scattering across the flagstones. And then his hand was at the back of my neck, firm, guiding me down. My knees hit stone. My mouth opened. Instinct. Betrayal. Again.

It slid in with practiced ease. My tongue flattening against the weight. My lips wrapping around it. My breaths short in between thrusts. Spit running down my chin. Tears gathering in my eyes. Gagging when he thrust too far. 

Wet sounds and sharp breaths filled the hallway.

And then-

“Get your hands off him.”

A voice tore through the corridor like thunder, so loud, so sharp, my eyes snapped open despite every ingrained instinct screaming to keep my eyes down.

The boy froze, grip faltering on the back of my head. I followed the line of his arm, wide-eyed, to where Harry was at the end of the hall, advancing fast, his whole body strung tight, eyes blazing feral. His scent crashed over us like a storm- protective, furious, scorching until there was no room for anything else.

The boy swore, stumbled back, his grip gone from me as he fumbled himself decent. I collapsed forward on my hands, coughing, humiliation and relief twisting together until I couldn’t tell them apart.

“Run,” Harry said, low and lethal. The kind of voice no one disobeys. And the boy did. Stupid, because no one escapes a storm like that.

For a moment, the corridor was just silence and the sound of my shaking breath and the boys' sneakers on the stone.

Then an explosion of sound. The alpha gained on him in a second and the sound of fists meeting flesh echoed off the walls. The windows rattled with every punch, the furious magic leaking off of him slamming against them. I turned away, wiped at my mouth harshly, pressed my face into my arms so I wouldn’t see. Wouldn’t feel the violence. But the growls, the thuds, the sharp sound of someone breaking under rage, all of it still carried.

When it quieted, I sat curled at the base of the wall, knees to my chest, trying to disappear into stone. The boy had been stopped. But it was Harry who had stopped him. Harry who had seen me like that, on my knees, small and ruined.

What would he think of me now? I was pathetic, dirty. Our kiss in the pub, any small chance we’d had, crushed under the sight of this. He would never look at me the same. Self loathing bled into my already terrified and desperate scent. There was no way I could mask now.

Then he was there. His scent still wild, snapping at the edges, but pulling itself in hard as he crouched beside me, making his big frame smaller, non threatening. His hands hovered, trembling with restraint. I gave the smallest tilt of my head, permission I hadn’t meant to give but couldn’t stop. Only then did he touch me, warm and heavy on my shoulder.

“Draco,” he said, softer than I’d ever heard, though his voice still rumbled with the growl underneath. A hand went under my chin, tilting it from side to side. Frantic eyes flickering over me. “Are you-” He broke off, swallowed, and tried again. “Are you alright?” Hands wandered down my arms, over my sides, then back to cover my smaller ones..

I shook my head before I could think. Shame surged again, unbearable, yet his gentleness made it both worse and better. My body betrayed me again, curving, seeking. My arms wrapped around his middle before I could stop them, face burying into his hard chest.

He froze. Inhaled, sharp, almost pained. And then his arms snapped tight around me, holding me close. His growl spilled out, unrestrained this time, vibrating through me. His alpha was right there, unguarded.

“Oh, Draco,” he whispered, rough. “You’re safe. You’re safe with me.”

His nose pressed into my curls, dragging in deep lungfuls like he couldn’t get enough, couldn’t stop.

“You smell so vulnerable,” he rasped, voice raw, half instinct. “Darling, can I scent you? Need to- need you to let me.”

A whine escaped me before I could stop it, permission in sound and instinct both. Still he held back, shaking with restraint.

“Words, Draco,” he demanded, voice thick with the alpha in him.

“Yes,” I breathed, muffled into his shirt.

The instant the word left me, his control snapped. He buried his face against my neck, scent spilling over me in waves. Not the careful, rationed calm I’d known before — but rain-thick, forest-heavy, protective and feral. I whimpered at the feeling of it.

And something inside me broke. Not the brittle fracture of shame, but something older, deeper. A knot of fear and tension that loosened under his scent like it had been waiting for this all along. My body stopped fighting itself. My shoulders slackened, I settled in his lap, my throat tilted, my instincts finally aligning with something safe. Not forced, not demanded. Given.

His scent wrapped me like a shield, seeping into my skin, into the marrow of me. My own scent answered before I could stop it, timid but sure, curling back toward him, seeking.

Harry whispered against my skin, nonsense and comfort, low and steady, but every word pressed deeper because of the storm of scent and warmth around me. His arms never loosened. His nose never left my throat. And I let myself lean into it, fragile in the storm. Because Harry’s feral wasn’t anything like Zacharias or Susan’s.

For once, submission didn’t mean shame. It meant shelter.

The storm eased slowly. His growl softened, the sharp edge of it dulling as though he was pulling himself back inch by inch. His grip never loosened, but the weight of his scent steadied, no longer flooding the air, settling closer to what I’d caught in fleeting moments before. Rain, earth, a tether instead of a storm.

My own scent still clung to him, timid and curling against his like ivy to stone. I should have pulled it back. Should have gathered myself, peeled away, reclaimed the distance I had learned to keep. But I didn’t. Couldn’t.

When Harry finally pulled back, it was only enough to see me. His hands stayed firm, one braced on my shoulder, the other on my arm. His eyes searched mine, green too bright in the shadows, raw and unguarded.

“Draco,” he whispered. My name sounded different in his mouth, cracked open by worry and something hotter underneath. “I’m sorry for going wild on you. But he won’t touch you again. Not while I’m here.”

The words burned. Too much, too kind, too impossible. I looked away, something tugging me to bow my head, to bare my throat again, but shame surged up hard and hot. I hated how easily I’d melted into him, how quickly I’d let myself sink into that shelter. How good it had felt.

I shifted, pulling back just enough to press my spine to the wall again. His hands lingered for a heartbeat before he let me go. The cold where his touch had been was unbearable.

“You shouldn’t have seen that,” I said, voice rough, almost a rasp. My eyes stayed fixed on the flagstones. I couldn’t bear his gaze. “You shouldn’t have—”

“Don’t,” he cut in, sharper than I expected. His alpha still pressed close to the surface, but not unkind. Just fierce. “Don’t do that to yourself.”

My laugh came out jagged, ugly. “What, the part where I let him—?” I couldn’t finish. The word stuck in my throat like glass.

Harry’s jaw worked, the muscle ticking. He leaned closer, not touching, but his presence crowding mine, warm and solid. “He forced you. That’s not the same as letting him.”

I shook my head, hard. “You don’t understand. My body-it-” My voice cracked. “I never fight. I never say no. I just give in. Like-like it’s easier. Like it’s what I’m supposed to do.”

For a long, terrible second, silence stretched between us. Then Harry said, low and certain, “Instinct isn’t consent. Your scent was screaming for help.”

The words rooted into me, heavy and foreign. My chest ached. I wanted to believe him. Wanted to let myself believe. But all I could feel was the heat of shame prickling beneath my skin.

Harry must have seen it, because his scent pressed a little closer again, softer this time, coaxing instead of fierce. “You’re not broken, Draco,” he said, steady as stone. “And you’re not alone. I’ll- We’ll protect you.”

I closed my eyes. Let myself breathe him in, just once, selfish and desperate. My body trembled with the urge to lean forward again, to sink back into the shelter he’d given me. But I held still. Because if I moved, if I let myself, I wasn’t sure I’d ever come back out.

We stayed like that for what felt like hours but couldn’t have been more than a minute. This wonderful protective alpha crowding me, hiding me from the world.

When I finally moved, it was only to push myself upright, my legs still shaky beneath me. Harry rose too, steady as a wall, not reaching out but hovering close enough that if I tipped sideways, I’d fall into him.

“Come on,” he said, voice quiet but firm. “I’ll walk you back.”

I almost told him no. The word sat bitter on my tongue, self loathing clawing at me to shove him away. I could walk myself, I’d walked myself into this mess, hadn’t I?

But then my knees wobbled, and the ground tilted, and Harry’s hand caught my elbow before I could hit the stone. He didn’t say see? He didn’t even smile. Just steadied me, his touch warm and unshakable.

I let him.

We walked in silence. Taking a longer way back to avoid the boy on the floor, young in a puddle of blood and rattling breaths. Every step was too loud, echoing through the empty halls. My mind buzzed with the thought of what he’d seen, what he must think of me. I clutched his sleeve in an attempt to ground me.

When we turned a corner, I risked a glance at him. His jaw was still tight, but the storm in his expression had settled to a simmer. His scent clung to me, no longer violent, but protective, wrapping me in something I didn’t deserve. I’d never truly smelled his scent, and I couldn’t deny that I loved it.

“Potter-” My voice came out strained. I cleared my throat. “You don’t have to-”

“Yes, I do,” he cut in, not unkind, just absolute. “You don’t have to talk. Just… let me do this.”

I swallowed hard. Words crowded at the back of my tongue, protests, barbs, thanks, none of them made it out. My instincts tugged me again, dragging my gaze to the floor, shoulders curling in. But when Harry’s hand brushed against mine — not grabbing, not demanding, just there — something in my chest eased.

The rest of the walk blurred. His presence filled every shadow, every stretch of silence. By the time we reached the common room, I felt hollowed out, raw.

We stopped. His hand left my arm slowly, reluctantly. For the first time since the hall, the air felt cold.

He asked if I wanted to report the student, and I pleaded with him not to. That the beating was punishment enough. Seeing the desperation in my eyes, he agreed, if I come to him with my troubles from now on.

“You’re safe now,” he said. His voice was softer than the crackle of magic in his eyes. “And you’re not alone.”

I wanted to believe him. Wanted it so badly it hurt. But all I could do was nod, eyes fixed on the floor, and slip inside before he could see how close I was to falling apart.