Chapter Text
Draco woke to the faint light of dawn filtering through the grimy windows of the drawing room. He blinked slowly, the stiffness in his neck and back reminding him that he’d fallen asleep in the armchair. Again. His hand brushed against something soft and warm, and he froze, tilting his head down to see a blanket draped over him.
Well, isn’t this touching? Draco thought dryly, lifting the edge of the blanket between two fingers. He scoffed quietly, letting it drop back onto his lap. What’s next? A pillow? Or maybe Potter himself will come downstairs to tuck me in properly?
The thought sent a curl of disdain—and something uncomfortably close to amusement—through him. Draco stretched, his joints protesting the movement, and then leaned back in the chair, glaring at the dusty ceiling.
“Perhaps I should ask if I’ll be allowed a bed at some point,” he muttered to himself. “Or is this armchair going to be my permanent quarters? How utterly charming.”
The sarcastic edge to his words softened as his thoughts wandered. For all the discomfort of the chair, it wasn’t the worst place he could be.
So far, he had been careful to keep the thoughts of the war at arms length. It was easier, somehow, around Potter. Something about the man pulled him in and made him forget the truths of the world. It felt like they were back in school, just children bickering without realizing the political implications of their every move.
Now alone, the image of Voldemort’s face slithered into his mind unbidden, pale and inhuman, with those glowing red eyes. The feeling of the older man’s slimy hands on his body. Draco shivered, pulling the blanket closer to his chest without realizing it.
No, he thought fiercely, shaking his head. Don’t go there. Don’t think about that.
But his mind, treacherous as ever, refused to obey. Instead, it offered up an entirely different face: unruly black hair, glasses slightly askew, and those vivid green eyes that seemed to see straight through him. Like the killing curse.
The comparison sent an icy chill down Draco’s spine, the kind that settled in his very bones and refused to thaw. He clenched his jaw, as though the physical effort might force the thought away. Comparing Harry Potter to Voldemort felt obscene, like holding a single candle up against the shadow of an inferno. And yet, some dark, twisted part of his mind insisted on drawing the parallels.
Both were alphas. Both wielded power that could bend others to their will. Although Potter didn’t seem to realize the full extent of his new power. Both had shaped Draco’s life in ways he’d never wanted, carving paths for him that left no room for choice. But that was where the similarities ended, wasn’t it? Voldemort was a monster. That much was undeniable.
Potter… well, Potter wasn’t perfect. Draco’s hand drifted briefly to his chest, where the faint echoes of scars—Potter’s doing—throbbed beneath his touch. He could admit that the man had his flaws. He was reckless, impulsive, far too willing to throw himself into danger without thinking of the consequences. But for all his faults, Harry Potter was not a monster.
No, Potter didn’t destroy lives for sport. He didn’t wield his power like a weapon meant to break others into submission. He didn’t drag Draco to his knees, forcing him to listen to unspeakable plans while pain raked through his body, every nerve screaming in agony.
Draco shuddered at the memory. Voldemort’s voice, cold and serpentine, slithered through his mind, recounting in sickening detail how he would claim Draco on the battlefield—how he would seal their bond while standing over Potter’s lifeless body. Draco had knelt there, trembling and helpless under the weight of the Cruciatus Curse, unable to block out the words or the terrible promises they carried.
That night would haunt him forever. He hadn’t been marked by Voldemort, but the sheer anticipation of what was to come—the inevitability of it—had felt like a brand seared into his soul. And yet, here he was. Voldemort was gone, defeated by the very man he was now tied to.
Potter.
Draco forced himself to focus. Harry Potter wasn’t Voldemort. Potter didn’t delight in cruelty or seek to dominate through fear. Potter hadn’t demanded Draco’s submission or punished him for perceived failings. In fact, Potter had done something Draco hadn’t expected at all: he had apologized.
The thought was almost laughable. Voldemort, apologizing? Impossible. The Dark Lord wouldn’t even consider it. But Potter had looked genuinely contrite after their argument, his green eyes meeting Draco’s with an awkward, almost earnest sincerity that Draco didn’t know how to process.
Potter was better looking, too—though acknowledging that fact felt absurd, even shameful. Comparing Voldemort to anyone was unfair, really. The man had barely looked human, his features twisted into something monstrous. But Potter…
Draco swallowed hard. Potter had those green eyes, brighter than the Killing Curse, and hair that seemed perpetually messy no matter the situation. His presence was solid, grounding in a way Draco didn’t want to think about. But he couldn’t let his mind wander there. That was a path he refused to tread.
Focus, Malfoy. He dragged himself back to the present, clinging to the cold, detached logic that had always been his armor. You’re here to survive, nothing more.
Survival. That was all it had ever been about. Yet as he stood in Potter’s house, the memory of Voldemort’s voice still echoing in his mind, Draco couldn’t help but feel like surviving and living were two entirely different things.
He pushed the blanket aside and stood, brushing nonexistent dust from his robes. His gaze swept over the dimly lit room, its corners still cloaked in shadow.
Draco headed toward the kitchen, his expression as composed and sharp as ever. But deep inside, the memory of green eyes lingered, no matter how tightly he tried to lock it away.
Determined to distract himself, Draco threw himself into his self-assigned task with renewed focus. Draco moved through the house with methodical precision, parchment in hand.
Each room offered a fresh assault on his senses—dusty curtains, peeling wallpaper, and furniture that looked like it had been dragged out of a junkyard. His quill scratched across the parchment as he made notes: Replace sofa. Repair floorboards. Burn curtains.
Despite the disrepair, the bones of the house were solid. Its architecture was imposing, regal even, though it had been smothered beneath layers of neglect. Draco’s lip curled slightly as he stepped into yet another dimly lit room, the air heavy with must and long-forgotten magic.
Even as a child, this house had been better maintained, he thought, recalling the last time he had visited. It had been years ago, when his great-aunt Walburga still presided over the house with her suffocating presence. Back then, the gloom had been intentional—a testament to the Black family’s austere pride. Now, it just looked pathetic.
He wrote down more items— new chandelier, deep cleaning, new carpet —and moved on. The parchment grew longer with each scribbled note.
Eventually, Draco climbed the staircase to the third floor. The creaking steps groaned under his weight, echoing through the empty corridors. The left hall was narrower than the others, its dark wood paneling lending it a claustrophobic feel. At the end were two doors, each distinct in its own way.
The first door was plastered with faded Muggle rock posters, their edges curling as if they had been glued on decades ago. A ghost of a smile flitted across Draco’s face.
“Sirius Black’s room,” he murmured to himself, recognizing the rebellious flair that had often been the subject of his mother’s whispered stories.
Narcissa had spoken of her cousin in hushed tones when Lucius wasn’t around, spinning tales of his wild spirit and defiance against the family’s rigid traditions. It had been dangerous to share such things, but Narcissa had done it anyway, her voice carrying a hint of wistfulness.
Draco’s gaze shifted to the other door, a stark contrast to Sirius’s. It was plain, dark mahogany, with no markings to distinguish it. Unassuming yet compelling, it seemed to draw him closer.
“That must be Regulus’s room,” Draco thought, his brow furrowing slightly.
He hadn’t known much about his other cousin. Narcissa rarely spoke of him, and when she did, it was with a guarded sadness. Most of what Draco knew had come from his godfather, Severus Snape, though even that was fragmented.
Snape had only mentioned Regulus when the firewhisky had loosened his tongue, and even then, the stories were brief and tinged with bitterness. “A fool,” Snape had called him once. “But a brave fool.”
The thought of his deceased godfather made his chest throb.
Draco stood in front of the unassuming door, curiosity clawing at him like a restless cat. He knew he shouldn’t—knew that some part of him was crossing an unspoken line. But the pull was undeniable. The door creaked as it swung open under the lightest push, revealing a room frozen in time.
The air was thick with dust motes that swirled lazily in the dim light filtering through heavy curtains. Yet beneath the musty scent of age and abandonment, something lingered. Draco's sharp senses caught it almost immediately—a faint but distinct omega scent.
His breath caught as he stepped further inside, his gaze sweeping the room. The furnishings were modest for a Black family member: a neatly made bed, an old wooden desk piled with faded parchment, and a bookshelf filled with spines that had faded to near illegibility. There was a stillness here, like the room was holding its breath, waiting for someone to return.
Draco moved toward the bed, his steps hesitant. The omega scent grew stronger as he approached, a soft blend of lilac and honey, so familiar it made his throat tighten. It wasn’t identical to his mother’s scent, but it was close enough to evoke her presence—a gentle floral with an undercurrent of woodsy warmth.
For a moment, Draco hesitated, his hand hovering over the pillow. Then, as if compelled, he picked it up and pressed it to his face, inhaling deeply. The scent flooded his senses, and he closed his eyes, letting it wrap around him like a fragile memory.
Lilac and honey. But lighter, sharper, almost… masculine.
Draco lowered the pillow slowly, his thoughts racing. He had always assumed Regulus had been a beta, but he hadn’t known for sure. No one ever mentioned his designation, but surely he couldn’t have been…
but this scent …
Perhaps I wasn’t the only one, Draco thought, his stomach knotting. The idea sent a shiver down his spine, a mix of relief and unease. If another omega had been marked, why hadn’t anyone known?
The thought shifted to his mother, unbidden. If another omega had existed within Voldemort’s regime, within the Black family, surely his mother would have told him?
Narcissa had been the one constant in his life, her lilac-and-honey scent a source of comfort even in the darkest times. He hadn’t seen her since the battle, hadn’t heard from her, hadn’t even been able to ask.
Is she still alive? The question struck like a dagger, sharp and cold.
Draco tightened his grip on the pillow, his knuckles whitening. He didn’t want to consider the possibility that she wasn’t, that he was truly alone.
Pull yourself together, Malfoy.
He placed the pillow back on the bed with careful precision, smoothing out the wrinkles he’d caused. The room felt heavier now, the air pressing down on him with its unanswered questions.
Draco had barely turned to leave when the familiar pop of apparition made him pause mid-step. Kreacher appeared in the center of the room, his wizened face twisted into a scowl. His large, bulbous eyes darted around, taking in every inch of the room before narrowing at Draco.
“Who dares disturb Master Regulus’ room?” Kreacher hissed, his gnarled hands clenched into fists.
Draco straightened, forcing himself to appear calm despite the surge of adrenaline in his chest. “Ah, hello, Kreacher,” he said, his tone polite but steady. “You may not remember me, but I’m—”
“Little Lord Malfoy,” Kreacher interrupted, his tone grudging but certain. His sharp eyes raked over Draco with a look that seemed to measure his worth against the weight of his ancestry.
Draco blinked, caught off guard by the recognition. “Ah, yes. That’s… actually not accurate anymore.” He cleared his throat, the words feeling alien and heavy on his tongue. “It’s Omega Potter now.”
The admission was strange, surreal. It was the first time he had said his new name aloud, and hearing it in his own voice made his stomach twist.
Kreacher’s long ears twitched, his head tilting as he processed the statement. “Aye?”
“Yes,” Draco said, his voice steady as he forced himself to remain calm. “I’m just getting started with plans to redecorate the house.”
Kreacher’s face twisted in immediate displeasure, his expression a mix of suspicion and disdain. Draco allowed himself a brief moment of amusement at the house-elf’s consistency.
Draco glanced around the room, keeping his tone measured and light. “I’m going to leave this room as is, of course.” His gaze landed back on Kreacher. “I’ve heard stories of my cousin. Regulus was a great man.”
“I only stepped in because... well, it smells like my mother,” Draco added, taking a calculated risk. He watched Kreacher closely, gauging the elf’s reaction.
Kreacher’s ears twitched again, but this time his expression softened, a flicker of fondness crossing his features. “Mistress Narcissa,” he murmured, nodding solemnly. “A fine lady. Regulus and Mistress Narcissa were close when they were young. Always together, they were.”
Draco’s chest tightened at the mention of his mother, but he kept his expression neutral. “And after they presented?”
Kreacher’s gaze dropped, his mouth drawing into a thin line. “It was not the same,” he said, his voice low.
Draco’s chest tightened, but he kept his expression composed. He had to phrase his next words wisely.
“My mother mentioned once,” he said slowly, carefully, “that Regulus might have been… like me.”
Kreacher’s gaze snapped to Draco, sharp and scrutinizing. For a moment, the elf was silent, his jaw working as if considering whether to speak at all. Then, his shoulders sagged slightly, and his eyes dropped to the floor. “Master Regulus…” Kreacher began, his voice thick with something between loyalty and grief. “He could not be what he was meant to be.”
The confirmation struck Draco like a cold gust of wind, stealing the air from his lungs. His stomach churned as the weight of the words settled in his chest. Regulus Black was an omega who managed to hide his status until his untimely death.
“And yet,” Draco murmured, forcing his voice to remain steady, “he still did what was required of him.”
Kreacher’s head snapped up, his expression fierce. “Master Regulus was the bravest of them all,” he said firmly. “Even when the weight was too much, he bore it—for the family, for the house of Black.”
Draco’s throat tightened, the chill in his chest spreading as he imagined the burden Regulus had carried, the sacrifices he must have made. Some dark part of him couldn’t help but feel jealous.
"Of course he did," Draco said softly, his voice barely more than a whisper.
Draco let a moment of silence pass before speaking again, his voice steady. “Regulus made great sacrifices for this family. For all of us.”
Kreacher’s eyes flicked up, meeting Draco’s. For the first time, there was no suspicion in them, only quiet acknowledgment. The elf gave a single nod, his bony fingers relaxing at his sides.
Draco turned toward the door, giving Kreacher one last glance. “Thank you, Kreacher. I’ll leave this room untouched. It deserves to remain exactly as Regulus left it.”
Kreacher’s expression softened further, and he gave a small, almost imperceptible bow. “You honor him, Omega Potter.”
Draco’s stomach twisted again at the title, but he said nothing, slipping out of the room with a newfound heaviness in his chest.