Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Draco! Where have you been?”

“I’ve been here, Pansy.” Draco’s voice is flat, barely audible over the sound of the wind rattling the windowpane. One leg stretches across the windowsill, the other pulled close to his chest, his chin resting on his knee. He doesn’t turn to look at her.

“I know that!” Pansy snaps, striding into the room. Her heels click against the stone floor, breaking the oppressive quiet. “I’m asking why! Why didn’t you come? We protested outside McGonagall’s office!”

“Did you accomplish anything?”

The question makes her stop short. He still doesn’t look at her, but his tone cuts deep enough to sting.

“That’s not the point! Why didn’t you come? You should have been there!”

Draco exhales, long and slow, before finally turning to face her. His pale face is shadowed, the dim candlelight casting hollows beneath his eyes. “What would have changed if I had been there?”

“Maybe nothing. But maybe everything!” she says, her voice cracking. She steps closer, her hands curling into fists. “They needed to see you, Draco. To see that they’re doing the same thing our parents did. The same thing he did.”

He flinches. Not visibly, but enough that she notices. Her expression softens, but the fire in her eyes doesn’t dim.

A few years ago, Draco would have smirked, called her a loud, obnoxious Gryffindor just to make her stop. Back then, she wouldn’t have dared raise her voice. Pansy was everything a pureblood Omega was meant to be: poised, quiet, and obedient, even before her presentation. But that girl had vanished sometime over the last year, replaced by the fiercely defiant woman standing before him now.

He’s not sure when it happened. Perhaps it was the war. Perhaps it was presenting as the very thing she’d always sworn she wouldn’t be. Whatever it was, she’d broken free of her parents’ training, and he couldn’t help but feel proud of her. Not that he’d ever say it aloud. The last time someone tried to praise her, she launched into a twenty-minute tirade about how Omegas didn’t need anyone’s approval.

“You sound like Granger,” he murmurs. It’s a weak attempt at deflection, but Pansy doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, she takes a step closer, forcing him to meet her gaze.

“They’re afraid of us, Draco,” she says fiercely. “Afraid of what we might become if we’re free. That’s why they’re doing this. And you—you could show them they’re wrong. You’re the Omega who helped stop him!”

He shakes his head, his lips curling into a bitter smile. “No, Pansy. I’m the Omega they rescued from him. I’m the reason they think we need this. Every time they look at me, they see a victim. Someone who couldn’t protect himself. Someone who can’t be trusted to stand on his own.”

“That’s not true,” she whispers, but her voice wavers. She bites her lip, and the room falls silent.

Draco leans back against the window, closing his eyes. “One day, you’ll make them see the truth,” he says softly. “You’ll get our freedom. But it won’t happen tonight.”

Her shoulders slump, the fire in her dimming for the first time. She sits beside him on the windowsill, their shoulders brushing. He reaches out and threads his fingers through hers, squeezing gently.

They sit in silence, the weight of tomorrow pressing down on them. Tonight is their last night of freedom, and they both know it. Tomorrow, they’ll be sold off—paired with Alphas chosen by the so-called “light” to protect the victimized Omegas of dark families. If they’re lucky, they might be allowed to write each other. Anything more is a dream neither dares to voice.

Eventually, Draco breaks the quiet. “Have you heard who—?”

“No,” Pansy interrupts quickly, then hesitates. “Maybe. They’re saying it’s nearly every member of the Order, plus a few others.”

“Anyone you might… want?”

The word feels wrong, and they both know it. Pansy snorts softly, shaking her head. “Susan mentioned Minister Yaxley might take someone. He wouldn’t be the worst.”

Draco nods, studying her face. Pansy deserves more than this. More than what their blood and status have condemned her to. She’s brilliant, brave, and beautiful in a way that makes her seem untouchable. But he’s a realist. Hope is a luxury he can’t afford.

She doesn’t ask if there’s anyone he might want, and for that, he’s grateful. Still, he answers the unspoken question anyway. It’s the one decision he’s allowed himself to make.

“No matter who is selected for me,” he says quietly, “it won’t be worse than him.”

Pansy shudders, and for a moment, pale skin and red eyes flash through both their minds. The phantom memory of a too-cold hand on his shoulder makes Draco flinch. She notices, of course, and immediately presses closer, as if proximity alone could chase the shadows away.

They sit like that until dawn, two forgotten souls clinging to the last scraps of freedom. Above them, the sun rises, unfeeling and indifferent to the pleas of those who pray for time to stop.

Chapter Text

The fire crackled softly in the hearth of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, its flickering light casting shadows on Harry’s tense face. He stood by the window, his hands balled into fists as he stared out at the rain-soaked street. The list lay open on the table behind him, the names glaring up at Hermione like a silent accusation.

She watched Harry for a moment before breaking the silence. “You thought you’d be able to stop this, didn’t you?”

“I thought being the ‘Savior of the Wizarding World’ would mean something,” Harry said bitterly, his voice tight with frustration. “I thought if I stood up and said, ‘This is wrong,’ people would listen. But Yaxley and the Order think this is the only way to unite everyone. To keep the omegas safe.” He turned to her, his green eyes blazing. “Safe? They’re prisoners, Hermione. They’re treating them like property.”

“I know,” Hermione said softly, moving to stand beside him. “And it’s sickening. But you’ve seen how people are after the war. They’re scared, desperate for anything that looks like order or stability. And Yaxley’s a Slytherin; he knows how to manipulate that fear.”

Harry’s jaw clenched as he turned back to the window. “Draco doesn’t deserve this,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Hermione sighed, pulling a chair out and sitting down at the table. “You’re right. He doesn’t. None of them do.”

“No,” Harry snapped, spinning around. “You don’t get it. Draco’s the reason we won the war. He threw me his wand, Hermione. He stood there, defenseless, in the middle of the final battle. He put himself in the crossfire—for me. For us. And his mum—” Harry’s voice broke, but he pressed on. “She lied to Voldemort. She risked everything to save me.”

“I know,” Hermione said gently, her gaze steady. “And you’re right. They deserve more than this. But Harry… even you can’t fix everything.”

Harry ran a hand through his hair, pacing the room. “I should be able to stop this. I should have the pull to make them listen. But no one cares. They just want to tie things up in a neat little bow and pretend everything’s fine.”

“They think pairing the omegas with alphas will unite the wizarding world,” Hermione said, her tone laced with bitterness. “That it’ll force everyone to move forward.”

“It’s a lie,” Harry spat. “It’s control, plain and simple. They’re punishing them, Hermione. And they’re using this ‘proper care’ nonsense to justify it.”

Hermione folded her hands on the table, watching him carefully. “Have you decided?”

Harry stopped pacing, his back to her. “You know I have.”

“Harry—”

He turned to face her, his expression fierce. “I owe him, Hermione. Not just for the war, not just because he saved me. I owe him because no one else will stand up for him. No one else sees him for who he really is.”

Hermione stood, crossing the room to stand in front of him. “I understand why you feel that way. I do. But… Harry, this is bigger than guilt or gratitude. Draco’s not just ‘the boy who threw you his wand.’ He’s an omega now, and an unsettled one at that. He’s been through hell. If you take him in—”

“Do you think I don’t know that?” Harry interrupted, his voice sharp. “I know how fragile he is right now. I know he’s not going to trust me. But if I don’t step in, who will? Yaxley? Some random Order member who sees him as a trophy? He deserves better.”

Hermione’s eyes softened, though the worry didn’t leave her face. “You’re right. He does. But Harry… this is going to be hard. For both of you.”

“I don’t care,” Harry said firmly. “I’ll do whatever it takes. He saved me, Hermione. Twice. I won’t let him be treated like this.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the only sound the steady patter of rain against the window. Finally, Hermione reached out and touched his arm.

“Just… promise me you’ll be careful,” she said softly. “He’s not the same person you knew. And even if he is… you weren’t friends, Harry. This won’t be easy for him. Or for you.”

“I know,” Harry said. “But someone has to try.”

Hermione nodded, stepping back. “All right. I’ll support you. But don’t expect me to stop fighting this system. It’s disgusting, and it needs to change.”

Harry managed a faint smile. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

Hermione glanced at the list on the table, her gaze lingering on Draco’s name. “For what it’s worth, Harry… I think he’s lucky to have you fighting for him. I just hope he sees it that way.”

Harry didn’t respond. He walked to the table, picking up the list. His eyes settled on Draco’s name, the memory of the wand flying through the air flashing in his mind.

Malfoy had saved him. And now, it was Harry’s turn to save him. 

Chapter Text

The air in the Headmaster’s office was tense, but Harry Potter sat straighter in his chair, his shoulders squared and his expression resolute. He didn’t fidget or hesitate; he met every gaze, especially Minister Yaxley’s, with an unflinching steadiness. The weight of his titles, Lord Potter and Lord Black, felt less like a burden and more like a shield today.

"Mr. Potter," Yaxley began, his tone smooth, almost pleasant, but Harry didn’t miss the subtle calculation behind the minister’s sharp gaze. "You’ve made a singular request in this process, which is... unusual, to say the least. I can’t help but wonder why."

"Because I’m the best option for Draco Malfoy," Harry replied evenly. He leaned forward slightly, his green eyes boring into Yaxley’s. "You know it as well as I do."

Yaxley’s brow arched. "Do I? You’ll have to elaborate, Lord Potter."

Harry didn’t flinch at the title, though he noted the way Yaxley used it with a faint edge, as though testing its weight. "Draco Malfoy is one of the most recognizable faces from the war. That makes him a target—both for those who still hold grudges against Slytherins and for those who fought on Voldemort’s side and feel betrayed by him. You can’t honestly think any random alpha could protect him from that."

Yaxley tilted his head, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "And you believe you’re capable of shielding him from all that animosity? Forgive me, Lord Potter, but your... fame may exacerbate the issue rather than alleviate it."

Harry’s jaw tightened, but he kept his voice calm and steady. "I have resources most people don’t. Influence. Power. Gold." He met Yaxley’s gaze squarely. "I also have something no one else does: a personal understanding of what Draco has been through. I know what it’s like to be targeted, to have the world project their opinions onto you before they’ve even met you. I can help him in a way no one else can."

Yaxley hummed thoughtfully, his fingers steepling as he regarded Harry. "You’ve given this some thought. I’ll grant you that. But surely you understand that Draco Malfoy is not merely a victim. He is also seen as a symbol—of complicity, of pureblood privilege, of... well, let’s call it ‘controversy.’ Many would argue he doesn’t deserve special treatment."

Harry’s lips pressed into a thin line. "Draco Malfoy isn’t a symbol. He’s a person. And no one else in this process will treat him like one. They’ll use him—whether for revenge, for status, or worse. I’m not here to do that. I’m here to protect him."

Yaxley’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. "A noble sentiment, Lord Potter. But this isn’t about sentiment. This is about unity. Rebuilding. Sacrifice. Surely you see how someone of Malfoy’s... notoriety could be leveraged to bring disparate factions together."

"Leveraged?" Harry repeated, his voice sharp. He leaned forward, his tone hardening. "You mean sold off to the highest bidder. Don’t dress it up, Minister. We both know what this is. If you’re going to claim this process is about protecting omegas, then Draco shouldn’t be anywhere near it."

Yaxley’s eyes glinted with something unreadable, but he remained calm. "You speak with such certainty, Lord Potter. It’s admirable, really. But I must remind you that this is a system agreed upon by the Order and the Ministry. Surely you’re not suggesting you know better than the collective wisdom of both?"

Harry didn’t miss the subtle jab, but he brushed it aside. "I’m suggesting that I’m the only one in this process who can guarantee Draco’s safety. No one else has the resources, the influence, or the determination to make sure he’s not hurt—physically or otherwise."

McGonagall, who had been quietly observing the exchange, finally spoke. "Harry," she said, her voice softer than usual. "This is not a decision to take lightly. If you are granted guardianship of Mr. Malfoy, you will be responsible for him in every sense of the word. This is not about debts or gratitude. It’s about his future."

Harry nodded, his resolve unwavering. "I know, Professor. That’s why I’m here. Draco may not want this, but if it has to happen, I’m going to make sure he has the best chance at something resembling a normal life."

Yaxley leaned back in his chair, his expression inscrutable. "And you’re prepared to meet the financial obligations required for an omega of Malfoy’s... standing?"

Harry didn’t so much as blink. "The House of Potter and the House of Black both have more than enough resources to meet any demands you throw my way. Name your price, Minister."

There was a flicker of something in Yaxley’s expression—surprise, perhaps, or respect—but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. He inclined his head slightly. "Very well, Lord Potter. Your request will be considered."

Harry stood, his gaze lingering on McGonagall for a moment before turning back to Yaxley. "It better be. Because if Draco ends up in the hands of someone who wants to hurt him, I’ll hold you personally responsible, Minister."

Without waiting for a response, Harry turned and strode from the room, his heart pounding but his resolve unshaken. Whatever it took, he would keep Draco Malfoy safe.

Chapter Text

The Great Hall was heavy with silence. The rows of long tables, once bustling with students, were sparsely filled with omegas sitting stiffly in their places. The weight of unspoken fears pressed down on them all. Draco Malfoy sat alone at the end of one table, his pale features inscrutable as he stared at the table, his hands folded in his lap.

He didn’t glance up as another name was called. Another omega stood hesitantly, their hands trembling as they clutched a worn bag. They shuffled to the door under the watchful gaze of a Ministry official. Moments later, a house-elf appeared, whisking away the few belongings left behind.

Draco didn’t need to watch. The process was always the same: the omega disappeared through the doors, never returning.  

It was easier to keep his head down, to pretend this wasn’t happening. The ache in his arm, where the Dark Mark had long since scarred over, pulsed faintly—a phantom reminder of the choice that had never really been his.

Pansy had been called hours ago. She had walked out of the Great Hall with her head held high, defiant as ever, even as fear flickered behind her eyes. Draco hadn’t said goodbye. He didn't know how. Now, the absence of her sharp wit and steadfast companionship felt like a gaping wound. She would be matched by now. Perhaps to some overbearing alpha convinced they could tame her. Or worse, someone who would try to break her. 

He doubted he would ever see her again.

Draco’s gaze flicked toward the omegas still sitting in the hall, their fearful eyes darting to him now and then. A few of them—mostly younger Slytherins—looked to him with something like hope, as though he might somehow fix this. He ignored them, too lost in his own thoughts to notice the silent reverence in their expressions.

They shouldn’t look to me, he thought bitterly. I’m just as helpless as the rest of them.

He had never asked to be a leader, but for many of them, he was all they had. The son of a powerful family, the omega who had survived Voldemort’s wrath and lived to tell the tale. The only marked omega from either war.

Marked, but unbonded.

Draco’s hand drifted unconsciously to his neck, his fingers brushing over the smooth skin where another mark could have been. A mating bond—a bite that Voldemort would have placed there to seal the bond between them. The fate that Draco’s father had sold him to. 

That was the future Draco had faced when he threw Potter his wand during the final battle. The act had been desperate, reckless even, leaving Draco defenseless in the crossfire. But it had worked. Potter had won, and Voldemort was gone.

Yet here Draco was, waiting to be parceled off to a new master. 

“Malfoy.”

The Auror’s voice broke the silence, and Draco’s name hung heavy in the air. He stood slowly, feeling the weight of every gaze in the room. The younger omegas watched him go, their eyes wide and pleading, as if his departure might somehow foretell their own fates. He rose slowly, his movements deliberate, schooling his face a mask of indifference. 

He didn’t look back.

The corridors were eerily quiet as Draco followed the Ministry official toward the Headmaster’s office. The stone walls felt oppressively close, the weight of history and expectation bearing down on him with every step. 

Draco tried to remember what the halls had been like just a few years ago when Hogwarts had felt fresh and new. Everything had been brightened with childhood innocence back then. 

The spiral staircase seemed to stretch forever, each step heavier than the last. By the time they reached the door, Draco’s hands were clenched into fists at his sides.

The door creaked open, and he stepped inside.

The room was dimly lit, the tension palpable. McGonagall sat behind her desk, her expression as stern and unreadable as ever, though her eyes softened briefly when they met his. To her left stood Minister Yaxley, his robes immaculate, his gaze sharp and calculating.

And then Draco saw him.

Harry Potter.

Potter stood near the window, his arms crossed over his chest, his infamous green eyes fixed on Draco the moment he entered. Draco froze, his breath catching in his throat as their gazes locked.

Potter’s expression wasn’t what Draco expected. There was no triumph, no smug satisfaction at having the upper hand. Instead, there was something else entirely—regret, anger, determination.

Draco’s stomach twisted. He forced himself to meet Potter’s gaze, though every instinct screamed at him to look away.

Of course, it’s him, he thought bitterly. How fitting that the person I’m indebted to is the one holding my future in his hands.

Potter took a step forward, his lips pressing into a thin line. Draco’s heart raced as he braced himself for whatever came next.

“Malfoy,” Potter said, his voice low but steady.

Draco inclined his head, his jaw tight. “Potter.”

The room was deathly silent, the air thick with unspoken tension. McGonagall began to speak, her voice measured and calm, but Draco barely heard her. His focus was entirely on Potter, the man who had both saved and condemned him. His new alpha. 

Draco didn’t know what was worse: the gratitude he owed Potter for saving his life, or the fury that burned in his chest at the thought of being beholden to him. Of belonging to him. 

Chapter Text

Harry’s stomach tightened as Draco Malfoy stepped into the Headmaster’s office. He had been mentally preparing for this moment since his conversation with Yaxley, but now that it was here, it felt entirely different. 

Draco looked... smaller than Harry remembered. His posture was stiff, shoulders hunched slightly, as though he was bracing himself for something terrible. The sharpness in his features, once so arrogant and certain, seemed muted, like something had been dulled inside him over the course of the war and the aftermath. His pale face was even paler, and his eyes—those cold gray eyes—flickered nervously around the room before landing on Harry’s.

For a moment, neither of them spoke, and Harry couldn’t bring himself to look away. He hadn’t expected it to feel like this. There was too much history between them, too much tension. Draco had saved Harry’s life in the final battle, but that didn’t erase everything that had happened before it—didn’t erase the boy who had made his life miserable throughout school.

But this wasn’t about their past. It wasn’t about the war or who had been right or wrong. It was about something else, something much bigger.

“Malfoy,” Harry said, his voice low but steady. 

Draco tilted his head, jaw clenched. “Potter.”

McGonagall’s voice broke the tension. "Mr. Potter, Mr. Malfoy, please take a seat."

Both Draco and Harry sat in front of McGonagall’s desk. Harry’s eyes stayed locked on Draco, watching him carefully as the headmistress began speaking, her voice steady and formal.

"As per the agreement with the Ministry, this is the official binding of your—" McGonagall glanced at both of them, "—arrangement." She paused, her eyes moving between the two of them. "Once signed, you will legally be considered mates in the eyes of the Ministry. This contract is irreversible. Any objections must be voiced before signing, as this decision will be permanent."

Harry felt his breath catch. Permanent. That word settled like a stone in his chest. He’d known it would be, of course, but hearing it spoken aloud made it real in a way nothing else had. He glanced at Draco, whose face was unreadable.

"Do you understand the terms, Mr. Malfoy?" McGonagall asked, her voice softer, as if trying to ease the gravity of the situation.

Draco nodded stiffly, but Harry could see the tension in his movements, the slight tremble in his hands that gripped the seat.

"As you are both aware," McGonagall continued, "the signing of this contract not only binds you as mates in the eyes of the Ministry but also entitles Mr. Malfoy to the legal protection of his alpha. It will be your responsibility, Mr. Potter, to ensure Draco’s safety, as well as his well-being, both emotionally and physically."

Harry nodded sharply, not looking away from Draco for a second. His mind raced—this was the moment. His future had just been sealed in a way that no one could have anticipated. He didn’t know what to expect, or even what Draco would want from him, but Harry knew one thing for sure: He wouldn’t let anyone hurt Draco.

“Mr. Malfoy is not permitted to sign the paper himself, as a legally recognized omega. Because Mr. Malfoy is technically still a student at Hogwarts, I, as his headmistress, will sign as his guardian.” McGonagall's eyes flicked toward Harry. "His signature is not required. Only yours, Mr. Potter. This is not an arrangement Mr. Malfoy can object to, only you have the right to refuse."

The air in the room seemed to thicken, and Harry felt his heart hammering in his chest. He knew what this meant. This was the point of no return. With a single signature, he would not just be bound to Draco in the eyes of the Ministry—he would become his protector, his legal guardian in all senses of the word.

Draco’s eyes flickered up at Harry, his gaze still unreadable. It was as though he was resigned to the inevitability of it all. Harry couldn't help but notice how small Draco looked, despite his usual haughty demeanor. He had been stripped of so much. His head slightly tilted downward, Draco’s face was drawn, and his posture stiffened as though he were trying to prepare himself for something terrible. There was no rebellion in him, no fight.

McGonagall’s voice was firm as she pushed the contract toward Harry. "You may sign now, Mr. Potter."

Harry’s throat tightened as the quill was passed to him. 

Harry looked at Draco one more time, then at the parchment in front of him. Harry James Potter. 

It was official—there was no turning back. He could already feel the burden of responsibility weighing down on him. He had spent most of his life fighting for what was right, trying to protect those he cared about, and now, the very person he had fought against for years—the person he had saved, who had saved him as well—was now linked to him permanently.

It was final. No going back.

McGonagall’s voice broke the silence again. "This is now an official bond under the Ministry’s laws. You are now legally mates, Lord Potter and Omega Potter." 

Draco didn't react—he didn’t move or speak. He simply sat there, shoulders still tense, his eyes downcast, and his breathing barely audible. His silence was loud, echoing through the room with the weight of all the unsaid things between them.

McGonagall then placed the parchment into an envelope, sealing it with a flourish.

"I will arrange for an official contract to be sent for both of you. I will also notify the Ministry of the completed union, and your bond will be recognized from this point forward." She paused, a flicker of something like concern in her eyes as she turned to Harry. "Please remember, Mr. Potter, that this is not a light responsibility. Draco’s well-being now rests entirely in your hands. This contract signifies more than just a legal arrangement.”

Harry nodded, his throat tight. His mind raced, thoughts tumbling over each other. This wasn’t a simple arrangement, and he couldn’t afford to think of it as such. It was a responsibility he had to accept, and he would. He wasn’t naïve enough to think everything would fall into place immediately, but he also couldn’t leave Draco to be someone else’s pawn, not when he had the chance to help him.

"I know," Harry answered, his voice steadier than he felt. He turned to Draco then, meeting his eyes. "I’ll take care of you. You have my word."

Draco didn’t respond right away. There was a moment of silence before he nodded, his expression unreadable, almost distant. Harry didn’t know what he was thinking, what he was feeling, but Draco didn’t protest. He didn’t object. That was something.

With the paperwork done, McGonagall stood and moved to the side, signaling for them to leave. Harry’s eyes were still on Draco, studying him, trying to read his expression. But Draco was a mystery—closed off in a way that Harry couldn’t quite understand. He didn’t know if Draco hated him or if he was simply resigned to the situation. All Harry knew was that this was the beginning of something complicated. Something that neither of them could change.

Draco stood slowly, his body tense as he looked toward the door. Harry followed suit, moving beside him, but keeping a respectful distance.

"Ready?" Harry asked, his voice steady but not without a trace of uncertainty. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but Draco didn’t respond right away. Instead, he nodded slightly, barely enough for Harry to catch it.

Neither of them spoke again as they exited McGonagall’s office, the weight of their new bond hanging heavily between them, unspoken but undeniable.

As Harry led Draco through the halls, towards the designated floo, he couldn’t help but wonder what the future would bring. 

Chapter Text

The emerald flames of the Floo roared to life in the dimly lit hallway of 12 Grimmauld Place, spitting Harry and Draco out onto the dusty hearth. Harry straightened first, brushing soot from his sleeves with practiced indifference, but Draco lingered a moment, his pale hands smoothing his robes as his sharp eyes took in the room. The air was heavy with the scent of old wood and neglect, and shadows clung stubbornly to the corners. Draco’s gaze flickered across the dim space, his expression unreadable, though a faint crease formed between his brows before he stepped gracefully into the room.

Harry noticed the look but said nothing. He gestured down the narrow corridor, his voice tight. "This is home. Well, for now, anyway. Let me show you around."

Draco said nothing at first, his gaze lingering on the peeling wallpaper and the tarnished chandelier overhead. He trailed behind Harry as they passed through the ground floor, his footsteps light against the worn wooden floors.

He knew this house—or at least, he had once. 

Memories stirred of his parents' strained politeness during infrequent visits here when the Black family was still intact. But he kept that to himself, unwilling to give Harry Potter the satisfaction of knowing that anything about this place was familiar to him.

When they entered the drawing room, Draco stopped abruptly, his lips curling in distaste as he took in the neglected state of the space. Dust coated the surfaces, cobwebs clung stubbornly to the corners, and the air was thick with abandonment.

“You know,” he said, his tone sharper than necessary, “I remember this house being...different. Though I suppose letting the place fall into ruin is very on brand for you, Potter.”

Harry froze mid-step, his shoulders stiffening as the words settled between them. He turned to face Draco, his green eyes flashing with frustration.

“Really? That’s the first thing you have to say?” he snapped. “Sorry it doesn’t meet your high standards, Malfoy. Maybe next time I’ll make sure the cleaning schedule aligns with your approval.”

Draco opened his mouth to respond, but Harry didn’t wait. With a muttered curse under his breath, he stormed out of the room, his boots thudding heavily against the stairs as he disappeared up to the upper floors.

Left alone, Draco blinked at the sudden shift in the air. He didn’t feel afraid, but the knot in his chest tightened slightly. A part of him wondered if he’d gone too far, while another part told him it didn’t matter. What did it matter if he irritated Harry Potter? He wasn’t here to play house. He wasn’t here by choice at all.

Still, Draco found himself glancing toward the door Harry had just disappeared through, his fingers curling against his sides. Something about the way Harry had left—something raw and unguarded—made him pause.

He sighed softly, shaking his head as he brushed dust off the armrest of a nearby chair. "Brilliant start, Malfoy," he muttered under his breath.

Draco eased himself into the dusty armchair, wincing as the ancient springs groaned beneath him. The room felt suffocating, not because of the state of disrepair, but because of the suffocating weight of his own thoughts. He rubbed at his wrist absentmindedly, the faint ache from earlier—a phantom reminder of the contract's magic—tingling under his skin.

Why, why, had he poked the lion so quickly? Could he not wait until they had at least settled? The answer felt obvious and yet frustratingly elusive. Pushing people away had always been his defense, a knee-jerk reaction born of years spent perfecting sneers and sharpened words as armor. It was his way to gain control of a situation, to protect himself. He didn’t know how to not bite back. Not even when biting was probably the worst thing he could do.

Especially now.

Draco’s fingers traced the worn armrest of the chair, his movements slow, deliberate. Harry could do anything he wanted to him. The terms of their so-called bond were clear. 

The law gave Harry almost unlimited authority over him as his alpha. Harry could drag him up the stairs, lock him in a room, and dictate every moment of his day. He could even punish him, physically or magically, if he wanted to. Short of killing him, there was not much of a limit. The protections that once shielded him as the heir of the Malfoy family no longer existed.

But the strangest thing—the thing that both comforted and unnerved him—was that Draco wasn’t afraid.

Fear was an old companion, one Draco knew well. It had shaped much of his life, curling cold and relentless around him in the shadow of the Dark Lord. But this wasn’t the same. There was no trembling in his limbs, no instinct to shrink or flee. There was only...unease.

He let out a shaky breath, raking a hand through his pale hair. “Because he’s Harry bloody Potter,” he whispered to himself, the words tasting bitter and ironic.

Harry Potter, Gryffindor golden boy, savior of the wizarding world. Potter might be able to snap him like a twig—hell, Draco had seen the strength behind that wandless magic during the final battle—but he wouldn’t. Potter was too much of a do-gooder to truly hurt him.

Draco almost wanted to laugh at the thought. It was ridiculous how much he trusted that fact. The same man who had foiled every one of his schoolyard schemes, who had left him trembling and bleeding out in a bathroom after a near-fatal spell—Potter had been his rival for so many years. Yet now, when everything was tipped so heavily in the alpha’s favor, Draco didn’t fear him.

Was it arrogance? Stubbornness? A deep-seated belief that Potter’s savior complex would keep him from stepping over the line?

Draco shook his head. Whatever it was, he couldn’t dwell on it. He’d already made one critical mistake by antagonizing Harry so quickly. He should have been careful, should have played the role of the quiet, submissive omega until he understood what kind of life he was walking into.

Instead, he’d done what he always did—lash out first, think later.

He needed to have more self-control. 

He sighed again, his gaze shifting to the door where Harry had disappeared. The silence in the house was oppressive now, broken only by the occasional creak of old wood. He doubted Harry had gone far, but he wasn’t sure whether the alpha’s absence was a good or bad thing.

For a moment, Draco thought about getting up, about wandering through the house to familiarize himself with what might now be his prison. But his body felt heavy, weighed down by exhaustion and frustration, and he couldn’t summon the energy to move.

Instead, he closed his eyes and leaned back into the chair, his thoughts turning over and over in his mind. Whatever this was—this bizarre, unwanted bond with Harry Potter—he would survive it. He had no other choice.

But, Merlin, he really needed to learn when to keep his mouth shut.

Chapter Text

Harry paced the length of the upstairs hallway, his boots scuffing the warped wooden floor. The dim light from the crooked chandelier above cast flickering shadows that danced with his restless movements. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, and his jaw worked furiously as he replayed Draco’s snide comment in his mind.

"Let the place go."

The words shouldn’t have stung. It wasn’t as if Harry didn’t know the state of the house. Grimmauld Place had always been a grim, suffocating relic, even before the war. After years of neglect following Sirius’ death, it had only grown worse. Dust coated every surface, cobwebs filled every corner, and the air carried a faint musty scent that no amount of airing out could dispel.

Still, hearing it from Draco made something deep in Harry bristle.

He leaned against the wall, pressing his fists into his thighs as if the pressure could ground him. It wasn’t just the comment—it couldn’t be. He’d dealt with Draco’s barbs for years, some sharper and crueler than this. He’d learned to brush them off. But now...

Now it felt different.

The alpha in him—this strange, ancient instinct that had become louder and more insistent over the last few days—reacted to the comment in a way Harry didn’t fully understand. It wasn’t anger exactly. It wasn’t even frustration. It was...hurt.

Hurt, because he was supposed to provide for Draco now.

The realization hit Harry like a Bludger to the chest, and he let out a low, humorless laugh. Merlin’s beard, he thought, running a hand through his hair. Was this what it meant to be an alpha? This irrational, primal need to make things better, to create a space where the omega could feel safe, cared for?

He was failing already.

Harry looked around the narrow hallway, his eyes catching on the peeling wallpaper and the tarnished sconces. He’d thought bringing Draco here was the best option. The Ministry had been clear—they wouldn’t pay for housing or offer any real support beyond pairing the omegas with their alphas. Harry had inherited Grimmauld Place, and while it was far from perfect, it was his. It was safe.

But standing here now, he felt an overwhelming wave of inadequacy. The house wasn’t good enough—not for anyone, let alone Draco Malfoy.

And that was the other thing, wasn’t it? It wasn’t just the state of the house. Draco hadn’t even been here for an hour, and Harry could already feel the tension thrumming between them. 

The war had changed everything, but Draco was still...Draco. Sharp-tongued, guarded, and frustratingly quick to strike. 

Draco had been quiet in McGonagall’s office. It had lulled Harry into a false sense of security. He hadn’t expected the blonde to return to himself so suddenly. 

Harry hadn’t expected him to show up meek and mild either—not after everything Draco had survived—but he’d hoped for...

What? Gratitude? Understanding?

He scoffed at himself. That was ridiculous. Why should Draco feel grateful for this forced situation? Harry hated it, too. He hated the Ministry’s laws, hated the contracts, hated that someone like Yaxley had the authority to dictate the course of their lives. But at least Harry had some semblance of choice. Draco had none.

Still, knowing that didn’t make the sting of Draco’s comment any easier to swallow.

Harry pushed off the wall, pacing again. He knew he needed to calm down before he went back downstairs. The last thing either of them needed was for him to lash out, to let his frustration show.

He’s scared too, Harry thought, his hands flexing at his sides. Draco hadn’t seemed it—he’d looked aloof, almost bored—but Harry knew better. He’d seen too many masks over the years not to recognize one.

The alpha in him—the part that still didn’t feel entirely his—wanted to fix this, to smooth things over and make Draco feel secure. But how could he do that when the bond itself felt like chains?

He exhaled slowly, his shoulders slumping. He didn’t know what the hell he was doing. But for Draco’s sake—and maybe for his own—he had to try.

Dust and all, Grimmauld Place was their reality now. If they were going to survive this, they’d have to do it together. Even if it meant rebuilding more than just the house.

Harry stepped into the dusty office at the end of the hall, the faint smell of old parchment and mildew lingering in the air. The large desk in the center was cluttered with discarded quills, a stack of yellowed letters, and a cracked inkpot. He brushed aside some cobwebs to uncover the Floo powder jar, grabbing a handful and tossing it into the fireplace. The flames roared green, casting a flickering glow on the room.

"Kensington Flat," Harry called, kneeling on the threadbare rug as the fire connected him to Hermione’s home.

Her face appeared moments later, hair wild and frizzy as always, her expression the epitome of deadpan. She raised an eyebrow as she took in his disheveled appearance.

“Trouble in paradise already?” she asked, voice dry.

Harry huffed, trying not to feel annoyed by the comment. “Nice to see you too, ‘Mione.”

She sighed, softening slightly. “What happened?”

Harry ran a hand through his already messy hair. “It’s...complicated.”

“Of course it is,” Hermione said, folding her arms. “It’s you, Harry. I’ve come to expect that.”

He shot her a half-hearted glare, but the corner of his mouth twitched, fighting back a smile. “Look,” he said, “the house is a mess. Draco—” He stopped, unsure how to phrase it.

Hermione raised an eyebrow, waiting.

“Draco made a comment about how we’ve ‘let the place go,’” Harry admitted, irritation creeping into his voice. “And, fine, it’s not untrue , but—”

“But it hurt,” she finished for him, her tone turning gentle.

Harry looked away, frustrated. “That’s not the point. What am I supposed to do, Hermione? About him, about this house, about...all of it? Did you know that omegas don’t even sign their own marriage contracts ? I’m the only one who could’ve objected back there.”

“Harry, you agreed to this. Did you think any of it through beyond just signing the papers?” Hermione’s words weren’t harsh, but they landed with a weight that made Harry wince.

He exhaled sharply. “I thought—I don’t know what I thought. I just know I couldn’t let someone else—someone like Yaxley—have him.”

“That’s a noble reason,” Hermione said, her tone softening again, “but it doesn’t solve the practical problems. What do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know,” Harry admitted, the frustration in his voice now directed inward. “What’s he even supposed to do now? He doesn’t have a wand. He doesn’t have anything. How am I supposed to make this...work?”

Hermione tilted her head, her eyes thoughtful. “Harry, most pureblood omegas are raised to run households, to entertain, to manage social connections. It’s their role in those families. If you’re feeling stuck, maybe...give Draco free rein over Grimmauld Place.”

Harry blinked, caught off guard. “You want me to hand the house over to Draco Malfoy ?”

“I’m not saying give him the deed,” Hermione said with a hint of exasperation. “Just...let him take charge of organizing it. Cleaning it up. Redecorating, if he wants. It might help him settle in better, and it’ll give you both something to focus on.”

Harry frowned, rubbing the back of his neck. “What if he just turns the place into some Slytherin shrine?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Do you honestly think Draco would do that here, of all places? He’s proud, Harry, but he’s not stupid. He knows how people will judge him. Giving him control over something—even something small—might help him feel less...trapped.”

Harry didn’t answer right away. He turned the idea over in his mind, picturing Draco stalking through the house, pointing out every flaw and fixing it with his usual sharp efficiency. The image wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

“And if it doesn’t work?” Harry asked.

Hermione shrugged. “Then at least the house will be clean.”

He snorted despite himself, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. “You’ve always got an answer, don’t you?”

“That’s why you called me,” Hermione said, smiling slightly. “Just...be patient, Harry. This is new for both of you. And remember, whatever you’re feeling? Draco’s probably feeling twice as lost.”

Harry nodded, her words sinking in. “Thanks, Hermione.”

“Anytime,” she said, her face already fading as the Floo connection ended.

Harry stood, brushing the soot from his knees, and glanced around the dusty room. Maybe Hermione was right. Maybe giving Draco something to do—some control—would make this transition easier.

For both of them.

Chapter Text

Harry descended the stairs, each creak of the old wood softened by the renewed determination settling in his chest. Hermione’s words lingered in his mind— be patient. He wasn’t sure he’d ever been particularly good at that, but if he was going to make this work, he’d have to try.

As he stepped into the sitting room, Harry froze.

There, in the armchair by the cold hearth, sat Draco Malfoy. Or rather, sprawled, his legs tucked neatly under him, his head tilted against the worn armrest. His eyes were closed, and his breathing was slow and even, giving him the appearance of someone who had succumbed to exhaustion rather than willingly chosen rest.

It wasn’t just any chair, though. It was Sirius’s favorite—one Harry had been oddly territorial about since his godfather’s death. He’d snapped at Hermione and Ron for so much as brushing past it, and Kreacher had long since learned to leave it untouched. Yet, seeing Draco there, Harry felt...not anger, but something quieter. Something warmer.

His gaze softened as he took in the sight. Draco looked smaller like this, fragile even. The ever-present tension that usually clung to him, as if he were bracing for a blow, was absent. For the first time since they’d been thrust together, Harry saw him without his armor. The sharp tongue and haughty airs had melted away, leaving behind someone pale and impossibly delicate.

The hollowness in his cheeks and the faint shadows under his eyes only heightened his fragile beauty, a reminder of the toll the past years had taken. Draco had always been pale, but now he seemed almost translucent, as if too much light might shatter him entirely.

Harry’s chest tightened. He wasn’t sure what he was feeling—pity, guilt, protectiveness—but it settled heavy in his ribs. He stepped closer, quiet enough not to wake him, and found himself studying the way the flickering lamplight caught in Draco’s silvery hair, the way his long lashes brushed against his cheekbones.

Beautiful.

The word surfaced in Harry’s mind unbidden, and he swallowed hard, suddenly self-conscious. But it wasn’t wrong. For all the bitterness and hostility that had colored their past, Draco Malfoy was undeniably beautiful.

Still, even in sleep, there was a faint crease between his brows, as if his mind refused to let him fully relax. Harry’s hand twitched with the urge to smooth it away, but he stopped himself. Instead, he stood there, an unexpected tenderness blooming in his chest as he watched Draco breathe.

For the first time since Sirius’ death, the house felt less suffocating. It wasn’t just the chair that felt less untouchable—maybe it was the entire room, the entire house. For all the dust and darkness, something about Draco being here made the place feel...alive again.

Harry stepped closer, the thought forming in his mind, I guess I should wake you.  

But before the words could escape his mouth, Draco's eyes fluttered open, the sharpness of his grey gaze cutting through the dim light like a knife.

Harry jumped, his heart thudding in his chest as he stumbled back a step. “Bloody hell, Malfoy!”

Draco arched a pale brow, his expression a mixture of amusement and disdain. “Were you watching me sleep, Potter?” His voice was dry, but there was an edge of mockery in it. “Merlin, that’s not unsettling at all. Shall I expect you to start lurking in doorways next?”

Harry's face flushed, and he crossed his arms defensively. “I wasn’t watching you. I just...you looked—” He cut himself off, realizing there was no way to explain himself without digging deeper. “Forget it.”

Draco stretched languidly, the movement deliberate, as if to make Harry squirm. “You do realize there are entire chapters in Defense Against the Dark Arts textbooks about people like you, don’t you?”

“People like me?” Harry scoffed, still flushed but unwilling to back down.

“Yes,” Draco said smoothly, shifting to sit up straighter in the chair. His voice took on a mock-lecturing tone. “Overly noble Gryffindors with an unhealthy fixation on Slytherins. Symptoms include hovering, unsolicited protection, and, apparently, creepy staring.”

Harry glared at him, but the corner of his mouth twitched despite himself. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

Draco smirked, his lips curling into the faintest expression of satisfaction. “I do, actually.”

The lightness in his tone caught Harry off guard, and before he knew it, he was smiling. “Well, you’re welcome for not leaving you to your nap. Who knows what kind of trouble you’d have gotten into while unconscious.”

Draco tilted his head, feigning thought. “If you really wanted to be useful, Potter, you could have brought me a proper pillow. This chair, while delightfully antique, isn’t exactly comfortable.”

Harry rolled his eyes but couldn’t stop himself from grinning. “Next time, I’ll bring you a whole bedding set. Wouldn’t want your delicate sensibilities offended.”

“See? Progress.” Draco’s smirk widened, and Harry felt an unexpected warmth bloom in his chest.

It hit him then, like a stray hex—Draco’s smirk wasn’t biting, not this time. It was playful, almost teasing, and it lit up his sharp features in a way Harry hadn’t expected. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting when he looked at Draco just now, but it wasn’t this...this sudden awareness.

For all the barbs and quick retorts, Draco looked stunning. His silvery hair was tousled in a way that was far too artful to be accidental, and the faint color that had returned to his cheeks made his pale skin glow in the soft light of the room. His eyes, sharp and calculating, softened just slightly, reflecting the firelight like molten steel.

Harry blinked, realizing he’d been staring again when Draco leaned back, crossing one leg over the other with deliberate nonchalance. “You’re doing it again, Potter.”

“Doing what?” Harry asked, his voice a touch too defensive.

Draco’s smirk widened. “Staring. Merlin, you really are terrible at this whole subtlety thing, aren’t you?”

Harry groaned, running a hand through his hair. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” Draco said airily, standing and brushing nonexistent dust from his sleeves, “you’re still here.”

For once, Harry didn’t have a retort.

Harry cleared his throat, his smile faltering as he shifted awkwardly on his feet. “Listen, Malfoy... I wanted to say I’m sorry. For earlier. I shouldn’t have stormed out like that. You didn’t deserve—well, it wasn’t fair of me.”

Draco blinked, caught off guard by the genuine apology. He studied Harry’s expression, looking for any sign of insincerity, but all he saw was a mix of guilt and earnestness. An alpha apologizing? No. Potter apologizing? Both thoughts unsettled him.

“I...” Draco started, but the words felt foreign on his tongue. His instinct was to dismiss Harry’s apology with a snide remark, to turn the moment into something easier to handle. Instead, he let the sentence hang in the air and simply nodded, his silence speaking volumes.

Harry seemed to take it as acceptance and continued. “I don’t blame you for being annoyed. The place is...well, it’s a mess. Has been for a long time. I just—” He paused, running a hand through his already unruly hair. “I don’t know why I let it get like this. I guess I wasn’t sure what to do with it.”

Draco tilted his head, regarding him with an unreadable expression. “It doesn’t exactly scream home, does it?”

“No,” Harry admitted, a touch of sadness in his voice. “But it could. If you want to, I mean.”

Draco’s brow furrowed. “What are you saying, Potter?”

Harry stepped closer, gesturing vaguely to the room around them. “I’m saying you can redo the house however you want. Change it. Make it...livable. Just—” He hesitated, glancing toward the stairs. “Just don’t touch the two bedrooms at the end of the left hall upstairs. Those stay as they are.”

Draco narrowed his eyes, curiosity flickering in their depths. “Why those rooms?”

Harry shrugged, his expression guarded. “They’re important to me.”

Draco held back the urge to press further, sensing that the topic was a boundary Harry wasn’t ready to cross. Instead, he gave a noncommittal hum, filing the information away for later.

Harry sighed, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “Look, just make a list. Of anything you want or need to fix the house—or to live here, for that matter. I’ll do my best to get it for you.”

Draco blinked, once again caught off guard. He opened his mouth, closed it, and then opened it again. “Anything?”

“Anything reasonable,” Harry clarified, though his tone carried a faint note of teasing.

Draco smirked faintly, though his thoughts churned. Why is he doing this? There was no logic in Harry’s generosity—or his apparent willingness to hand over control of the house. But Draco wasn’t one to waste an opportunity.

“Fine,” Draco said at last, his voice calm and measured. “I’ll let you know what I need.”

 “Good.” Harry nodded, his lips curving into a tentative smile.

“Goodnight, Malfoy,” Harry said, turning toward the stairs.

Draco watched him go, his gaze lingering.

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.