A Dark and Savage Magic - Tessa Crowley (tessacrowley) - Harry Potter (2024)

Chapter 1: The Way of Things

Chapter Text

Draco was eight when he first began to understand what it meant to be an omega.

He knew what an omega was, of course, at least in the general sense, and knew that he was one, if only because no one ever stopped telling him, but he’d never seen how it mattered until it mattered.

It was Yule, and Draco had asked his parents for a racing broom. He’d thought of little else but Quidditch since the family had seen last season’s championship game in Lyon—the first time Draco had ever been out of the Manor, and the most formative experience of his young life so far. He’d dreamed of wings all autumn, of soaring through fluffy white clouds and skimming the surface of the river behind the Manor with the tips of his fingers as he flew down its length.

But instead of a broom, he received a doll.

It was a fine doll, to be sure, with porcelain skin and long, soft hair. Her blue eyes blinked and her painted mouth smiled with subtle enchantments that made her look almost alive.

“But,” Draco said, frowning, “I wanted a broom.”

“Draco,” his father sighed, “an omega should not be flying.”

“But,” Draco said again, and looked askance across the room.

Cordelia, his younger sister, was on the other side of the Yule log with a brand new Cleansweep even though she’d asked for a crup. Unlike Draco, Cordelia was an alpha. And because she had something that Draco wanted, she stuck her tongue out at him and hugged the broom to her chest—as if he needed any reassurance that his sister would never share her things with him. As ever, Draco choked on his anger. Any time he showed it or said it out loud, after all, he was told sternly to be quiet.

Father had already stopped listening to him, in any case. He’d crouched down at his daughter’s side, telling her that he’s sure she’ll be a fine flier and that we’ll take you out after breakfast, eh? He smiled and tousled her hair with the sort of casual warmth and fatherly affection that Draco never had expressed to him.

Desperate, he looked over at his mother, perched on a wingback chair by the fireplace. She was an omega, like him, and every now and then she would gently push back against Father’s decisions and words.

But not this time. This time, all she had to offer Draco was a sad smile. Somehow, it felt like a betrayal.

It was the first time that ‘omega’—the concept of it, the process of being it—took a meaningful shape in Draco’s mind, but of course, that wasn’t the first time ‘omega’ had been inflicted on him. It had been drilled into him, every part of his life and psyche, since the moment he was born. ‘Omega’ was the way he was told not to make a fuss even when his sister threw a tantrum. ‘Omega’ was the comments from Aunt Fiona and Granny Dru telling him that he’d make a fine wife one day, long before Draco knew what a wife was. ‘Omega’ was the reason that Cordelia had been born less than a year after Draco, because an omega could never be the heir of House Malfoy.

‘Omega’ was simmering anger and clenched teeth. ‘Omega’ was compliance and subservience.

Cordelia also got a crup that year. Draco didn’t get a second present.

Draco was nine the first time he cast a spell.

Though he’d always been able to sense magic—around him, inside him, even and especially in the earth beneath his feet—he’d never put together that being a wizard meant being able to manipulate it until the first time he tried.

It had been a particularly harsh winter in Wiltshire, and the Malfoy Manor had spent nearly two solid months under a foot of snow. By the time spring came around, the huge garden out behind it needed extensive work to bring it back to life.

Draco didn’t mind at all. Most of the things Draco liked—Quidditch, chess, climbing trees—were things he wasn’t permitted to do. Likewise, most of the things Draco was allowed to do—embroidery, singing, painting, piano—were things he found desperately boring. Gardening was the perfect compromise: something he was not only allowed to do, but encouraged to do, and something he loved doing. He didn’t even mind the dirt and the sweat and the bugs; they were uncomfortable, but they were signs of effort, proof of how he was helping the garden grow.

His mother joined him more often than not. It was, after all, her garden. And on that first spring day mild enough to work, when they went out with the house-elves to assess the damage of the long, hard winter, she said, “Oh, no. The fairywing.”

Fairywing was not actually fairy wings, of course, though Draco could see how they got their name: they were delicate flowers, with long and slightly transparent petals of pale blue. They, along with several others, were cordoned off in a special area of the garden, full of plants used not for decoration, but for potion work. Draco didn’t know which potions his mother made with them, but knew that she put more effort into them than all the other plants in the garden combined.

And when he followed his mother’s gaze toward them, he could see why she was upset. Fairywing was a delicate species, very susceptible to frost, and there wasn’t much left of it after a winter so brutal. Its woody stem was thin and gnarled, its petals blackened and small.

“It will make good compost,” Draco said. That was what his mother always told him when he was upset about a plant’s death. He expected it’d make her feel better, too, but when he looked back, her face was contorted with worry. “Mother?”

“Fairywing is… it’s more important than the others, dear,” she answered, wringing her dragon hide work gloves between her bare hands and staring down at the dead plant with growing dread. “I use it for… well, I suppose you don’t need to worry about that. Not for many years, anyhow.”

She was trying very hard to sound mild, but Draco could see the fear behind her eyes. Draco didn’t like it when he was told not to worry about things—and he was told it a lot. No one ever wanted him to worry about anything.

The magic in the garden was still sleeping. Draco felt it, as he always did, like a kneazle’s rumbling purr. It was vast and deep and cool like still water. And it was not unkind, nor intractable.

“If we asked the garden nicely,” Draco said, “I bet it would regrow for us.”

But when he looked back at his mother, she was several feet away, talking in low, urgent tones to Dobby. Draco frowned at her, then turned his attention back to the fairywing. He was almost sure that he could bring the fairywing back. He just needed to give the garden something for its trouble.

That evening, after dinner but before bed, Draco stole into his parents’ bedroom and took a few pieces from his mother’s jewelry box—a set of earrings made from delicate sapphire, an emerald pendant, and a gold-banded ring set with glimmering garnets. His mother had so much jewelry already, and he was sure she wouldn’t miss a few pieces. He carried them reverently in both hands out of the house and into the garden, wash in the golden light of sundown.

He knelt at the dead fairywing and, very carefully, dug a hole at its base.

“My mother needs this plant for her potions,” he whispered, and tucked the gems one by one into the soft, loamy earth, “so please bring it back. Thank you.”

And sure enough, the very next morning, the fairywing was in full bloom, three feet tall and glittering with golden pollen. His mother was stunned, but Draco wasn’t. He was feeling quite pleased with himself.

“I knew it would work,” he said.

His mother looked over at him nervously. “What worked?”

“I asked the garden to grow and it did,” he answered. He was flush with pride. He could feel the magic in the garden humming, vibrating—it was so happy with Draco’s gifts, and Draco was happy he made it happy. “I gave it a present, and it did as I asked.”

He smiled brightly at his mother, but she wasn’t smiling back. Her expression of terror was enough to have Draco’s joy flagging.

“Mother?”

“Who taught you how to do that?” she asked faintly. Her hand was clasped over her chest. “Where did you learn Craft?”

“Craft?” Draco parroted back, perplexed. “What’s—?”

“The old magics,” she hissed, and looked nervously over her shoulder. Dobby and Dotty were together on the other side of the garden, carefully spelling away the weeds with slow, deliberate movements. When she seemed confident that they weren’t listening, she seized Draco by one shoulder and steered him several feet further away.

“Draco,” she said, and knelt down in front of him in that way adults did when they had something very urgent to say, “listen to me: that is not the proper way for magic to be done.”

Draco was bewildered. “It… it’s not?” He hadn’t even realized he’d done magic. It had neither felt like nor looked like a spell as Draco understood it—after all, he’d seen his father use his wand plenty of times, flashy and grandiose, and he’d seen the house-elves, too, with their more subtle but no less impressive spellwork. Draco didn’t realize his request qualified as magic. From his perspective, all he’d done was ask the garden for a trade.

“It’s not,” she answered, emphatic. “Draco, the world does not look kindly on the old magics. They’re not… magic should come from inside you. Right? With a wand. You shouldn’t bargain for it.”

“Why not?” Draco asked.

“It’s not safe.”

“Not safe?” The idea struck him as absurd. The magic in the garden was the same magic that was everywhere, wasn’t it? And it had never done anything to hurt him. “I don’t understand. How is it not safe?”

“If your father finds out you were using Craft—”

His mother shut her eyes, took a steadying breath. Draco couldn’t recall a time when she looked more frightened.

“Just… just promise me, Draco. Promise me that you won’t bargain for magic like that anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” Draco answered at once, and he really is. So many times his father had curtly demanded apologies from Draco for things he didn’t think warranted one, but his mother never had. The mere existence of his mother’s distress made something in Draco quake with dread. “I’m sorry, Mother, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

She fell to one knee, pulled Draco into her arms. She held him like that for a long time, almost too tight to bear, but Draco bore it.

“They say that the Craft was created by omegas,” she whispered into Draco’s hair, “that it answers us before all others. That’s why they fear it. That’s why it’s dangerous. It’s something that gives us power, and there will never be anything more threatening to an alpha than an omega with power.”

Draco didn’t understand. He would in time.

Draco was ten when he was almost kidnapped.

In general, Draco wasn’t allowed out of the Manor much. In fact, since that trip to Lyon for the Quidditch championship game, he hadn’t left at all. It was in sharp, painful contrast to Cordelia, who was taken out all the time, usually hand-in-hand with Father, who was eager to show her off at the numerous social events to which he was invited.

Draco didn’t get shown off. Whenever Draco asked to go to one of his father’s fancy parties or to accompany him on business out at the Ministry, he’d be told to go to his room, or that it wasn’t a suitable outing for an omega, and Draco would fume and fist his hands in his skirt and swallow his anger.

For the most part, his life was confined to the gilded cage that was the Malfoy Manor, piano lessons and needlepoint with Mother and weekly tutoring in the library with Professor Snape and Cordelia, a dull monotony broken up only by afternoons in the garden.

But sometimes, when he was very lucky or very persistent, he’d be taken along somewhere.

“Master Draco and Mistress Cordelia must stay close,” Dobby said as soon as they appeared in the middle of Diagon Alley with a bang, but Draco could barely hear him. Draco could barely hear anything, because it was so loud, and so big, and so, so colorful.

Draco had never seen this many people in one place before. They packed the bright, narrow streets, shoving in and out of shop doors and past each other, shouting and laughing and haggling.

And the smells! Draco took a deep breath in. Fresh bread from the bakery down the way, gardenias from the florist to their left, potions reagents from Slug & Jigger’s, a passing witch’s ambergris perfume, mince pie from the open doors of the Leaky Cauldron—Draco felt overwhelmed in the best possible way.

“Ugh, it’s so hot,” Cordelia whined, which drew Draco’s attention. He knew she’d been here before several times, usually with Father. Annoyance flared, and Draco bit back a comment reminding her that she didn’t have to be here. Dobby hadn’t wanted to take either one of them, and Draco had to beg to come along. Cordelia was only here because she couldn’t abide Draco doing something she didn’t get to do also.

“Dobby only has a few orders to pick up, and then it’s straight home,” he said. “First, some reagents. This way, children, this way.”

Draco felt like he couldn’t keep his eyes on anything for longer than a few seconds. He wanted to go into every shop, talk to everyone who passed, ask Dobby a thousand questions—it was all he could do to contain his excitement. An omega should always be decorous, Draco, his father said whenever Draco felt too much of anything.

It was because he’d been looking at everything that he noticed the man in the purple suit.

He was very tall and very thin, and Draco could tell, even from ten feet across a busy street, two things:

First, the man in the purple suit was an alpha. The scent of him saturated the air, dominating all others, smoky and acrid and intense like Father’s scotch.

Second, the man was staring at Draco.

A prickle rose up Draco’s back, a reaction that felt like the one Draco got before a storm, a sort of low-grade dread and a rising awareness of danger to come. There was something about the man’s eyes that made Draco nervous, even though he didn’t quite understand why.

“Come, come, Master Draco.”

Dobby’s familiar voice pulled Draco’s attention away. He turned and hurried into the apothecary. One wall was dominated by a vertical nursery, hundreds of little plants in little pots, all of them labeled and under their own little hovering orbs of magical sunlight. Draco was distracted by that for a while, making a mental list of plants to ask Mother to add to the garden.

But when they all left the apothecary, the man in the purple suit was still there.

And he followed them into Madam Primpernelle’s to pick up Mother’s skin cream. And then into Twilfitt at Tatting’s for the dress robe Father had ordered. And then into Gringott’s to make a deposit. He kept getting closer and closer and closer.

More than once, when he got near enough to be in arm’s reach, Draco looked over at Dobby, at Cordelia, but if either of them saw the man in the purple suit, they didn’t pay him any mind. Draco felt off-balance and almost frantic. He didn’t know what to do. He wasn’t supposed to speak against an alpha—Father had said as much so many times—but surely the man in the purple suit shouldn’t be following them, right? At the very least, he should have said something instead of just lurking.

But on their last stop, Florean Fortescue’s (because Cordelia kept whining about how hot it was and demanding Dobby get them some ice cream), the man in the purple suit didn’t go in after them. Draco was relieved at first, and ate his scoop of strawberry while asking Dobby if Draco could come next time he went out on errands.

Then, as they all left the shop to Apparate back to the Manor, Draco’s whole body locked up with magic.

His feet went first, stiffening mid-step, then his torso and arms and finally his head, before Draco could even draw a breath to scream. Then a hand came over his mouth and dragged him backward into the alleyway next door.

“Nice and quiet, nice and quiet.” Draco couldn’t see him, but he could smell him, smoky like scotch: the man in the purple suit. He was holding Draco tightly with both arms, breathing hard into Draco’s hair. “That’s it. Sweet little omega. Don’t worry, you’ll be just fine.”

Every muscle in Draco’s body was on fire as they strained to move, to thrash, to kick and bite. His heart threatened to break straight through his ribs for how hard it was beating at the wall of his chest. And the man in the purple suit just kept muttering:

“You smell like snowdrops, sweet boy, did you know? They tell stories about how enticing omegas are, but the reality exceeds all expectation. Lovely, lovely boy.”

The droning hum of fear in Draco’s ears grew and grew until it was too much, until Draco was so frightened that he could do nothing else but wish desperately to be away, away, away, he didn’t want to go, he didn’t want to go, please no, please no, please, please, please—

From behind, there came the sound of a great tearing followed by a wet gurgle. The spell holding Draco stiff shattered around him like glass, and Draco had already scrambled out of the alley before he felt the wet heat soaking through his dress—blood. He looked back; the man was supine on the ground, twitching and choking, purple suit soaked black.

The last thing Draco remembered was screaming. He would recall those next few days as indistinct, disparate images:

First, an aging beta Auror in fraying maroon robes. He was sitting next to Draco’s father in the lobby of a big, imposing Ministry building. At some point, Draco had been tucked in his mother’s lap; she was stroking his hair and shushing him as Draco shook and wheezed.

“It was just a burst of wild magic, by all accounts,” the Auror was saying. “A perfectly reasonable reaction on your son’s part, Lord Malfoy, under the circ*mstances. Certainly nothing the DMLE will pursue.”

“And the attacker?” his mother asked. “What of him?”

“‘Attacker’ is a strong word,” the Auror answered. “From what he was able to tell me from his bed in St. Mungo’s, he was just overcome by your son’s presence. He’d never encountered an omega before. He wasn’t prepared for how affecting the scent would be.”

His mother stiffened under the hands Draco had fisted in her dress. She was angry, but she didn’t speak.

“Unless you’d prefer to pursue charges, Lord Malfoy? I caution you, it would be an uphill battle. The law—”

“No, no,” his father said dismissively. “It’s that damn fool house-elf’s fault. He should know better than to bring an omega out in public like that. He was asking for trouble.”

The conversation continued, but Draco wouldn’t remember it.

His next clear memory, some days afterward, was waking up from a nightmare of disembodied hands crawling over his body and blood soaking through his nightgown. He gasped and choked in the close darkness of his bedroom and sat weeping until sunlight came crawling through the window.

“Father says you have to get up,” Cordelia said snarlingly when Draco didn’t show up for breakfast that morning. “He said to stop with the theatrics. Omegas have to be decorous, Draco.”

When Draco didn’t answer, Cordelia stomped her foot. “I’m an alpha! You have to do what I say!”

Then, some days after that, another memory asserted itself: the man in the purple suit came to the Manor.

Draco saw him through the archway connecting the vestibule to the sitting room and froze, just like his spell had done. All at once, the world went from hazy and gray to crystal clear and razor sharp. He was there, just sitting there, in Draco’s house, talking with his father over a bottle of brandy:

“… really can’t apologize enough,” the man said. He wasn’t in a purple suit anymore, but a robe, neatly pressed like he was trying to impress Father with it. “It was never my intent to hurt your precious omega.”

“He was not hurt,” Father answered, sounding bored. Draco was starting to tremble. “A bit shaken, perhaps, and dramatic about the whole thing, as omegas are wont to be, but not hurt.”

“That’s so good to know, Lord Malfoy, a great weight off my shoulders. I wanted to ask, I—” The man faltered, cleared his throat. “I know it’s so early, but do you have a courting list for him yet?”

His father snorted. “A pureblood omega with his sort of features? Of course I do. There were three alphas on it the day he was born. These days it’s over a dozen.”

No, Draco thought, mouth flooding with bitter fear. Father wouldn’t do this, would he? He wouldn’t put the man who tried to steal him on Draco’s courting list, surely?

“I don’t suppose you’d consider adding my name to it? I can’t boast your family’s exceptional pedigree, but I am a wealthy man—I’ve made a fortune in Muggle textiles, you see—I could pay a handsome sum for him when he comes of age.”

“You have very stiff competition,” was Father’s disinterested answer, “but I suppose…”

Draco did not stay to hear the rest of the conversation. He raced up to his room, shut and locked the door.

That night, when his family was asleep, Draco snuck into his father’s laboratory and stole reagents, selecting them based on the way their magic crackled. Dragon liver, nightshade, sopophorous, belladonna: all of them powerful, valuable, and deadly. Draco had made a promise to his mother not to do magic like this again, but how else was he supposed to protect himself? No one was going to do it for him, clearly, not even his own father.

He put all the stolen reagents in a bowl of onyx and burned them. The flames were bright blue: the magic had accepted his bargain.

“Keep him away from me,” Draco whispered, and the magic of the Manor hissed and shuddered around him. “He will not set foot in this place again. He will not touch me again.”

The flames extinguished; the reagents were gone, nothing but gray ashes.

Draco was not troubled by nightmares again. The man in the purple suit never came back.

Draco had just turned eleven the month before when he got his acceptance letter from Hogwarts. Somehow, one piece of paper nearly sent the Malfoy Manor crumbling around them.

“This is an outrage!” his father bellowed, shaking the letter in his clenched fist. Draco didn’t know who he was yelling at. His mother was staring meekly down at her lap, Cordelia giggling and kicking her feet as she watched him carry on, and Draco—well, Draco was sitting on the ottoman, pretending to embroider. “An omega, attending Hogwarts? Since when does Hogwarts enroll omegas? Have they no respect for the old ways?”

“I believe there was a law passed,” his mother said, but his father didn’t appear to be listening, because he shouted right over her:

“It’s bad enough that they kowtow to Mudbloods and blood traitors—bad enough that it’s Christmas and Easter break, those rubbish Muggle holidays, tawdry facsimiles of a superior culture—what happened to Yule? To Beltane? Must they denigrate the culture that built their wretched institution in every possible way?”

His mother remained silent. Incensed, Father crumpled the letter in his hand and burned it to cinders with a wandless burst of magic. Cordelia laughed and clapped. Draco fussed with the embroidery hoop in his lap like he was stitching, even though he wasn’t. He didn’t even have a needle. He just wanted a reason not to engage. He knew there was nothing he could say to improve the situation. An omega must always be decorous—which in practice, Draco was coming to understand, just meant silent.

“Where would he even sleep?” his father asked, with a tone that suggested he didn’t want to hear an answer. “Alpha students can’t be expected to contain themselves around him for long stretches, even before his first estrus—a broom closet, then? A shed outside, like that oaf giant who keeps the game?”

Cordelia was still giggling. “You’ll have to sleep in a shed, Draco,” she whispered, and jabbed him hard in the knee with her finger. Draco frowned and used the embroidery hoop to swat her hand away.

Eventually, Father collapsed in his usual armchair. Dolly was quick to attend him with a tumbler of his favorite Scotch, which he drank in a long pull. By the time the glass was empty, he’d sagged back, long legs stretched out toward the fire.

“There’s nothing to do about it, I expect,” he said. “My son, my omega, attending Hogwarts. They’ll eat him alive.”

“They’ll eat you alive, Draco,” Cordelia jeered, just before— “Ow! Father, Draco kicked me!”

But Father appeared to be too melancholy to hear: “I suppose we’ll have to get him a wand. Merlin preserve me—an omega of his breeding with a wand? Half his courting list will evaporate when they hear.”

Draco hadn’t been sure how to feel about the idea of going to Hogwarts, but at the mention of a wand, excitement rose up through his chest, light and effervescent. He didn’t know omegas were permitted to have wands. His mother didn’t have one, nor had she gone to Hogwarts, unlike her two beta sisters. The idea of casting magic—proper magic, like his father—filled him with eager anticipation.

And the more he thought about it—Hogwarts term went from fall through spring, didn’t it? All that time away from Father, out of the Manor—it felt dangerously close to freedom.

Draco stared hard into his embroidery hoop. He let his long hair fall across his face to hide his smile.

Perhaps this could be the start of something good.

Chapter 2: Beyond the Gilded Cage

Chapter Text

“Hello. Hogwarts, too?”

For the second time in two years, Draco was out of the Malfoy Manor. Unlike last time, though, he was with his father, who was quite conspicuous, visible through the nearby archway leading to the front room of Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions. He was paying for Draco’s school uniforms and hadn’t noticed the boy who’d arrived, and who’d just tried to strike up a conversation.

Draco shot a nervous glance at his father, then looked back at the boy. He was Draco’s age, skinny as a lathe, with wild black hair and green eyes behind a pair of spectacles that was broken in the middle. His clothes were raggedy and far too big, and he was staring at Draco with a small, hesitant smile.

He was also an alpha. Draco knew that before anything else. Propriety kicked in, and Draco dropped his eyes to the floor submissively.

“Yes, alpha.”

The boy didn’t say anything. When Draco snuck a look back up at him through strands of his long hair, the expression on the boy’s face was bewildered.

“What’s an alpha?” he eventually asked.

Draco frowned. He lifted his head to look at him again, then back to his father, who was now chatting with Madam Malkin about something.

“Er,” Draco said. He didn’t know how to explain it. He also didn’t know why he’d need to. How could an alpha not know he was an alpha?

“Well, my name’s Harry. What’s yours?”

“I’m, er,” Draco faltered, “Draco Malfoy, alpha.”

“I just told you my name’s Harry,” said Harry, who was starting to sound a little helpless. “And I still don’t know what an alpha is.”

“It’s,” Draco began, but didn’t know how to finish. How could he possibly explain it?

“I’m sorry if this is a weird question,” Harry said, when after a while Draco still hadn’t come up with an answer, “but why are you wearing a skirt?”

Draco looked down at himself. Under the open black robe, which Madam Malkin’s spelled needle was still hemming, Draco’s knee-length gray skirt shifted with him as he squirmed uncomfortably on the stool.

“Because… it’s hot out?” Draco answered. If Harry was feeling bewildered, it was only fair: Draco was, too.

“I mean,” Harry continued, “I’ve never seen a boy wear a skirt before. Is this a wizard thing? Do boys wear skirts here? Will I have to wear a skirt?”

Draco laughed before he could stop himself, then quickly clapped a hand over his mouth. Horrified, he looked through the door again. Father was still talking to Madam Malkin, who was eagerly asking him a question about formal wear.

“Er,” Draco said, “I suppose you could do if you really wanted, but no, you don’t have to. The only boys who wear skirts are omegas.”

Despairingly, Harry asked, “Now what’s an omega? I have so much to learn.”

Suddenly, it clicked into place, and Draco took in a sharp breath. “Are you—?”

Draco shot one last look at Father. He still hadn’t noticed that Draco was no longer alone. If he had, he’d surely be cross that Draco was talking to an alpha like this, even one Draco’s own age.

He dropped his voice to continue: “Are you Muggle-born?”

Harry canted his head to the side. “Am I what?”

“Your parents,” Draco elaborated, still in low tones—the only thing that would make Father angrier than Draco talking to an alpha would be Draco talking to a Mudblood. Not that Draco had ever heard of an alpha Muggle-born, but he supposed it was possible. “Are they Muggles, or a witch and a wizard?”

“Oh. They were a witch and wizard, but died when I was a baby. I was raised with my aunt and uncle, who are Muggles. I didn’t know I was magical until yesterday.”

“I see. I’m very sorry to hear that, al—er, Harry. About your parents, I mean.”

Though it did, Draco supposed, explain why he didn’t know anything about alphas and omegas. Muggles were all beta, if Draco recalled correctly, and couldn’t sense magic in others at all. As Draco struggled to put together an explanation for what alphas and omegas were that was both short and comprehensible, Harry hurried right on to another question:

“Sorry again if this is weird, but why do you smell like flowers?”

“The same reason you smell like petrichor,” Draco answered. “It’s how we sense magic.”

“What’s petrichor?”

“It’s, er… it’s the smell of fresh fallen rain on very dry ground.” It was one of Draco’s favorite scents. He had fond memories of sitting in the garden for hours in late summer, breathing in the fresh scent of recent rainfall.

“Oh. So I smell like petrichor, do I?”

“Mhm. And something else. I can’t quite tell.” Not without burying his face in Harry’s neck, anyway, and that didn’t seem very decorous.

It was at that moment Draco realized, with an odd little twinge, that he’d never had a conversation this long with anyone outside his family, except Professor Snape, who Draco firmly believed did not count.

“I bet that’s why Hagrid smelled like mince pie. I just thought he had some in his coat or something.”

The longer he spoke, the more excited Harry looked. Draco could only suppose that he was one of the first people he’d ever spoken to about magic. In his shoes, Draco would probably be excited, too. Draco was just about to ask who Hagrid is when Harry started talking again:

“Can I ask you about Hogwarts? I have loads of questions, and I think I’ve already tired Hagrid out with them.”

“Er,” Draco said, and then abruptly stopped went silent when his father strode into the room.

All at once, Draco was on edge. He stood up straighter, dropped his eyes, and folded his hands together in front of his stomach, the correct and submissive posture that all his etiquette lessons had ground into him, just as his father said, “Draco.”

“Father.”

Draco didn’t need to look up to know that his eyes went straight to Harry. He sized him up in that way alphas always tended to do with one another—Draco had certainly seen it enough, when Father’s rich alpha friends from the Sacred Twenty-Eight would come over to drink brandy and talk about money.

But a quick glance through his hair told him that Harry wasn’t doing the same. His expression was more perplexed than anything, like he was trying to figure Lucius Malfoy out but couldn’t quite manage it.

“And the problems of allowing an omega out in society emerge on day one,” Father said. “Hardly an hour out of the house, and you already have an alpha sniffing around you, Draco? I’m having flashbacks.”

“We were just talking, Father.”

“It’s never just talking.”

Draco knew better than to protest again. He kept his head down. Harry, on the other hand, had the good fortune not to know Father’s temper, and said, “We really were only talking.”

“Stay away from my son,” was all Father had to say. “His bride-price could bankrupt a developing nation. Suffice it to say—” (he took a long moment to look reproachfully over Harry’s ripped-up, oversized clothes) “—he is out of your league.”

Draco was tempted to say that Harry probably didn’t even know what a bride-price was, but Harry’s expression did that on its own.

“That’s you all done, dear,” said Madam Malkin before the conversation could progress any further. A part of Draco was disappointed to be saying goodbye to Harry. A much larger part was glad to get Father as far away from the strange young boy as possible. Draco would have a hard enough time making friends at school without his father snarling at them.

“Goodbye, Draco,” Harry called as Madam Malkin pulled off his robe and his father ushered him toward the shop’s exit.

Draco couldn’t help but steal one last glance over his shoulder. Harry was still on the stool, smiling a little awkwardly and waving. Hesitantly, Draco smiled back.

“Goodbye, H—er, alpha.”

The moment the shop door jingled shut, his father said, “This is exactly why I didn’t want you to go to Hogwarts.”

He knew Father wasn’t speaking for Draco’s input, so he said nothing.

“How many alphas are enrolled? We’re about one in ten, so that’s—what—nearly eighty? More? I think one of them might even be on your courting list, for Merlin’s sake. If I weren’t sure your mother would throw a fit, I’d secure you with chastity charms myself.”

Draco had heard mention of chastity charms (he remembered Mother saying she was under one for the majority of her young life, and always sounding so bitter when she spoke of it), but wasn’t really sure what they did. He didn’t much care about what alphas might be enrolled anyway, so instead, he wondered if there would be any other omegas. He knew omegas were a great deal rarer than alphas—one in a hundred was the number Draco always heard—and also knew the majority were home schooled. Draco had never met another omega, apart from Mother. He wondered if they would have much in common.

“You must be very careful not to give the alphas at Hogwarts any ideas, Draco.”

Draco blinked, pulled out of his reverie to look up at his father, who was staring back down at him sternly.

“You understand? Do not tempt them.”

“Tempt them to what?” Draco asked, bewildered.

“Don’t play coy, Draco,” Father said, and then opened the door to the next shop. “You know perfectly well what I mean.”

“I really don’t,” Draco began, but couldn’t finish, because as soon as he stepped into the shop, something came soaring through the air and SMACKED directly into the center of his forehead.

“What in the—!”

“Oh, goodness!”

Stars burst behind Draco’s eyes; he staggered backward a step and hit the shop wall hard with one shoulder, which if nothing else kept him from completely collapsing.

“Ollivander, what is the meaning of this!”

“My sincerest apologies, Lord Malfoy—my boy, are you all right?”

Draco spent a few moments blinking away the fuzziness in his vision. When the world came back into focus, he was staring up at a man with huge silver eyes and a hawkish nose. He was crouched over Draco with an expression of concern while his father, slightly behind, was fuming.

“I… I’m all right,” Draco finally managed.

“I ought to have you brought up on charges! What in Merlin’s name was that, Garrick?”

The silver-eyed beta—Garrick Ollivander, apparently—didn’t answer his father. Instead, he crouched down to pick up the item which had apparently hit him: an aging, oblong box in dusty blue. There was a soft rattling noise coming from it, as if something inside was vibrating frantically.

“I believe,” Ollivander said slowly, “it was your son’s new wand.”

“Is this how wand selection works these days? Via projectile?”

“It flew off its shelf the moment he came into the shop,” Ollivander said. “The wand does choose the wizard, though not usually quite so violently. I’ve only observed it happen this way twice before in my career.”

After a not insignificant blow to the head, it took Draco a moment to process what he’d just heard. He stared down at the box as Ollivander drew the lid away. The rattling stopped at once.

It was beautiful—pale and twisty in a way that made Draco think of driftwood, with a handle of thin, interwoven reeds.

“Vine and unicorn hair,” Ollivander said, “nine inches, supple. The ancient druids used vine in the earliest wands, you know, before the Romans ever set foot in Britain.”

“Wow,” Draco said, slightly breathless.

“This particular wand has been in this shop for a very long time. It’s a peculiar combination—vine is the wood for a driven wizard, and usually prefers dragon heartstring, great power to match great ambition. A core of unicorn hair tempers that aspiration with empathy. This is a wand with a long way to go.”

“It… it’s mine?” Draco asked, hardly daring to believe it. He tore his eyes away from the wand, up to Ollivander, and back to his father, who was frowning.

“It certainly seems so. It chose you quite decisively, wouldn’t you say?” Ollivander’s silver eyes were crinkled at the corners with his smile. “Why don’t you give it a wave and see how it feels?”

Draco almost didn’t want to. It was so beautiful that touching it was surely some form of sacrilege. But when Father didn’t protest, and when Ollivander urged the box forward, Draco reached out to take it.

The wood was cool, tingling against Draco’s fingers. He held it up to the light, the pale wood almost luminous.

When he waved it in a broad arc, silver sparks went sailing into the air, raining back down in a beautiful cascade. Draco stared at the display, overcome. He’d never seen magic that came from within himself before—it was so beautiful. He hadn’t expected it to be beautiful.

“A disgrace that an omega should have a wand at all,” his father sneered, “but if his presence is legally mandated at Hogwarts, fine. How much?”

His father took the wand nearly as soon as they left the shop, kept it locked up in his office—for safekeeping, he’d said. Draco was annoyed, but knew better than to protest. In time, Father would have no choice but to give it back, and being an omega had taught him patience if it had taught him anything at all.

September approached glacially, each day longer than the one before. Draco felt thin and tight, like a drawn bowstring, even as he had no idea how he felt about leaving.

On the one hand, freedom was a tempting proposition. Draco could count on one hand the number of times he’d ever left the grounds of the Malfoy Manor, and for as long as he could remember, he’d yearned to see more of the world.

On the other hand, the same gilded cage that confined him also protected him. There was so much Draco didn’t know about the outside world, and based on his father’s constant, snarling comments, it seemed like much of it was out for Draco’s blood. Would he really be safe?

On the other other hand, Cordelia was furious and crying all the time because Draco was finally going somewhere she couldn’t follow. This on its own didn’t have anything to do with Hogwarts; Draco just thought it was funny and was enjoying her futile tantrums.

When August finally ended, Draco woke up with the sun the following morning, took a very long, quiet bath, then put on his nicest blue dress that Mother said complemented his coloring, and went with Father out to London. Mother did not come with them. Neither did Cordelia, despite her caterwauling. At first, Draco didn’t understand why—it was rare for Father to deny Cordelia anything. As soon as they made it to King’s Cross Station, though, he understood:

“Do not allow alphas to touch you,” Father said. “If it can be avoided, do not allow alphas to talk to you; if they insist on talking, do not answer. Your job is to get to the end of your time at Hogwarts without affecting your bride-price.”

“Professor Snape is an alpha,” Draco answered before he could stop himself, “and he’s going to be my teacher.”

“Don’t be obtuse,” Father snapped, and ushered them both through to Platform 9¾. Magic rushed passed Draco’s ears; he took an involuntary breath in, and when he released it again, there it was: the Hogwarts Express, long and scarlet and billowing steam into the air. The platform was packed with families and young children, a riot of sights and sounds. Draco would have forgotten the conversation entirely if it weren’t for his father’s grip on his upper arm tightening. “You will likely be the only omega in your year. All eyes will be on you. Don’t do anything that could start rumors.”

“I don’t understand,” Draco protested. He had to speak loudly to be heard over the dull roar of the platform. “What sort of rumors will I start by talking to alphas?”

“You are temptation, Draco; it is how nature designed you. Even in the best of circ*mstances, alphas cannot be trusted around omegas; Merlin only knows what could happen if you encourage them.”

“Encourage them how?” Draco asked, but the majority of his question is drowned out by the loud, bellowing roar of the train. Students began hugging their parents, hauling their trunks up, and hurrying onto the train.

“Just… be judicious,” Father said, clearly cognizant of their limited time. “If something happens, tell Professor Snape. He’ll take care of it.”

Draco still had questions. Why was Professor Snape an exception to this new don’t-talk-to-alphas rule? Why is Draco temptation, and what did that mean specifically? What would Draco do to encourage them, and what would he be encouraging? What sort of something is likely to happen?

But the train blared its horn again, and Draco sighed. He knew better than to expect a hug from his father, so instead he took his trunk by its handle, dropped a quick curtsy, and hurried toward the nearest door on the nearest car.

The thundering drone of voices was immediately cut short, muffled by the walls of the train. Draco looked carefully down the long hallway; students were squeezing past each other, into and out of neighboring cars. After taking a moment to assess where the majority was, Draco slipped off away from them to find a compartment.

To his surprise, the very first one he opened—

“Oh!”

It was Harry-from-the-robe-shop, alone but for a snowy owl in a brass cage balanced on the seat beside him.

“Oh,” Draco answered, a perfect echo, “hello.”

“It’s good to see you again,” Harry said, with a smile so bright and sincere that Draco didn’t quite know what to do with it. “Draco, right?”

“Er,” Draco answered, “yes.” He was thinking about Father’s new rules surrounding alphas. He glanced nervously over his shoulder—the train was filling up so fast, and the engines roaring to life. He’d have a hard time finding another compartment.

“D’you want to sit down? There’s loads of room.”

“Sure,” Draco said slowly. What his father didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, surely. Harry seemed like an alright sort, not at all the kind to start rumors, right? He tugged his trunk into the compartment, tucked it under the seat, and sat down across from him.

“Hagrid told me what alphas and omegas are,” Harry said as soon as Draco sat down.

“Oh,” Draco answered. Nervously, he smoothed his dress out over his knees. “That’s good.”

“Or at least he explained most of it,” Harry amended thoughtfully. “He left some parts out. He said I was too young to understand.”

“Adults do that a lot,” Draco readily agreed. Slowly, the train chugged heavily and pulled out of the station.

“What do omegas go into? Hagrid said they go into something and then stopped talking.”

“Heat,” Draco answered matter-of-factly. “We go into heat.”

“Oh. Like cats? My neighbor’s cat went into heat once and wouldn’t stop yowling for days and days.”

“Well, I don’t think there’s much yowling involved, but I believe it’s generally the same process, yes.” In truth, Draco didn’t know very much about it all, either. The subject was always delicately tiptoed around by both parents, and Cordelia didn’t seem interested enough in it all to care. “Anyway, we usually don’t hit prothestrus until fourteen or fifteen.”

“Prothestrus?”

“First heat.”

“Oh, right. That’s ages away, then. Have you been to Hogwarts before?”

Draco shook his head. “I’m not let out of the house very often.”

“Oh. Neither am I.”

“Really?” Draco was baffled. Why would anyone forbid an alpha to go anywhere? “Why not?”

Harry flinched. “My aunt and uncle aren’t… er…”

The compartment door slid open. A red-haired boy was standing in the threshold, looking nervous.

“Anyone sitting there? Everywhere else is full.”

Harry shook his head. The redhead glanced nervously from Harry to Draco, then hesitantly sat down next to Draco. As soon as he was close enough, his nostrils flared.

“Blimey, are you really an omega?”

Draco shrunk back. “Er, yes,” he said. The boy was beta, so presumably he wasn’t forbidden from talking to him, but if he was who Draco thought he was—

“I didn’t know they let omegas into Hogwarts,” he said wonderingly. “Er, no offense.”

“Why wouldn’t they let them into Hogwarts?” Harry asked, somewhere between curious and outraged.

When the redhead’s—Draco was almost completely sure he was a Weasley—attention was drawn to Harry, his eyes went big and round.

“Fred and George said they talked to you, but I didn’t believe them,” he said. “Is it true you’re Harry Potter?”

Draco startled. “You’re Harry Potter?” he echoed, and joined the Weasley in staring. “Why didn’t you say?”

“You didn’t ask?” Harry answered, sounding nervous.

“Oh—well, I thought it might have been one of Fred and George’s jokes. And have you really got—you know…”

The Weasley pointed at Harry’s forehead, and Harry, like it was nothing, pulled back his wild black bangs to show a small but prominent lightning bolt-shaped scar in the middle of his forehead.

For a moment, Draco felt like he couldn’t breathe. A huge mix of emotions rose in the middle of his chest all at once, too many for Draco to name. If Draco wasn’t allowed to talk to alphas, he definitely wasn’t allowed to talk to Harry Potter. Father would be furious if he found out.

“So that’s where You-Know-Who—?”

“Yes, but I can’t remember it.”

“Nothing?”

“Well—I remember a lot of green light, but nothing else.”

“Wow.” The Weasley sat back in his seat and stared at Harry admiringly for a while. Draco, meanwhile, stared at the floor of the compartment. He felt as though he was at war with himself. Father had told him not to talk to alphas, but Father wasn’t here. Still, if word got back to him—if he found out that Draco was associating, even casually, with the Boy Who Lived, and past that, the Boy Who Killed the Dark Lord—he would be beyond furious. Would he disenroll Draco from Hogwarts altogether? Was that allowed? Would he lock Draco up in his room forever, keep him as a prisoner in his own home till his courting list came to call? Would—

“So why wouldn’t omegas be allowed in Hogwarts?” Harry asked.

“Er, well,” Ron began, anxiously looking between Harry and Draco, “they’re really rare, and especially in old pureblood lines, they’re considered—”

“We’re meant to be subservient to our alphas,” Draco said thoughtlessly, fussing with the hem of his dress, “and an extension of them. We’re supposed to have their babies and manage their households and do only as we’re told. I think I’m the first omega in my family to go to Hogwarts. I’m definitely the first to have a wand.”

“That,” Harry said, sounding dumbstruck, “that’s…”

“A lot of families are moving past the old ways, though,” the Weasley said reassuringly. “My family doesn’t believe in all that, certainly. My aunt’s an omega, and she’s got a job and everything.”

His father’s voice echoed back through Draco’s head: Have they no respect for the old ways? Draco kept his eyes down.

“So what’s your name?” the Weasley asked.

Draco flinched. He almost didn’t want to say. The beta boy seemed nice, but the blood feud between House Malfoy and House Weasley was an old one.

“I’m… I’m Draco.”

The casual ease of the conversation shifted immediately. The Weasley’s seat creaked as he stiffened.

“Draco Malfoy?”

Draco shrunk. “Yes,” he said, quietly, eyes down.

“Well, no wonder you’re the first omega in your family to go to Hogwarts!” the Weasley said. “Your family fought for You-Know-Who!”

“They did?” Harry asked, flummoxed.

“That what his whole bit,” the Weasley volunteered to Harry, upon seeing how confused he looked, “pureblood supremacy, returning to the old ways. My mum says it was as backwards back then as it is now.”

“It’s…” Draco began, but found he wasn’t quite sure how to finish. Draco had never been expected to have an opinion on his father’s politics. He’d never been expected to have opinions at all. He didn’t know what to say to them being challenged. Perhaps just nothing at all? Father had always said that omegas should be seen and not heard.

“I can’t believe they even let you out of the house at all.” The Weasley said, the first strains of disdain forming around the edges of his voice. “But I bet they couldn’t resist the idea of letting another Slytherin into the world. Never been a witch or wizard who went bad who wasn’t in Slytherin.”

“Hey, that’s not fair,” Draco protested. He may not be sure how or even willing to go to bat for his father’s politics, but— “Professor Snape is the finest potions master of his generation, and he’s head of Slytherin!”

“Professor Snape was a Death Eater, too, just like your father,” the Weasley sneered. “Figures you’d defend him.”

“Severus Snape is a good man, patient and kind, just a little grouchy sometimes. He’s my godfather and has tutored me since I was very young. And where do you get off, talking about people like this behind their backs?”

“I’m not going to let a Death Eater lecture me on right and wrong!”

“I’m not a—!”

Draco’s mouth snapped open and shut a few times, but he’d run out of words. He looked from the Weasley, arms folded over his chest and still glaring daggers, to Harry, who seemed both confused and alarmed by the conversation.

For a time, no one spoke. Draco’s throat was humiliatingly tight.

So, eventually, he grabbed his trunk out from under the seat and hurried out of the compartment, slamming the door behind him.

Draco went back and back along the train. Every compartment was occupied by at least one other student, and all he wanted was familiar solitude.

Back and back and back, till finally he came to the caboose, where the corridor widened slightly, opening to a door with one large window that stared out onto the train tracks and the rolling English countryside through which they ran. Draco pushed his trunk awkwardly into the corner of the corridor and sat down on top of it, staring out the window and steadfastly refusing to let himself cry.

Perhaps it was foolish of him to even entertain the idea that Hogwarts would be better than home. Based on how things were going, he was set to be just as lonely at school as he was everywhere else.

Draco drew his legs up to his chest and rested his chin on his knees and told himself that it was fine. He was fine. He didn’t need stupid Harry Potter who smelled like petrichor, anyway.

“Malfoy, Draco.”

The whispering started immediately, before Draco even walked up to the dais. In all the dissident, unintelligible sounds, one word echoed over and over: omega.

He took a breath and climbed up onto the dais, fidgeting nervously with the hem of his sleeve. All the professors stared at him like Draco was a riddle they hadn’t worked out yet—except for Snape. He offered Draco a small, encouraging smile, which Draco couldn’t quite manage to return on account of all the butterflies in his stomach.

When he turned forward to sit down on the stool at the front of the Great Hall, he felt hundreds of eyes on him, crawling like spiders.

Harry stood toward the front of the group of first years from which Draco had just emerged, the Weasley at his side. The Weasley was glaring. Harry was frowning. Draco tried not to look at them and sat down.

He hadn’t given much thought to which house he’d end up in, and when the hat came down, he acknowledged that his father would probably be upset if he didn’t end up in—

Slytherin, eh?

Draco took in a sharp, surprised breath.

Yes, I can see a fair bit of Slytherin in you. And not just in your blood. You’re quite driven, and if you were given half a chance, your ambition would be a force to be reckoned with. You strike me as a young man with something to prove—but what, and to who?

Draco swallowed, dropped his eyes to his knees. The silence of the hall felt oppressive.

But there’s more depth to you than just that. You’ve got quite a good mind, a lot of intuition, and a natural connection to magics far older than you and me. And your sex has given you an empathy that’s rare in your bloodline. There hasn’t been a truly kind Malfoy in many generations.

Draco was silent. He’d been called so many things, but never kind. He didn’t quite know how to feel about it.

The drive of a Slytherin, the mind of a Ravenclaw, the gentleness of a Hufflepuff—and perhaps even a little bit of Gryffindor chivalry. What do you think, then? Where do you belong?

Draco felt paralyzed by the question. He didn’t know. Wasn’t it the Hat’s job to know?

Something like a chuckle rumbled gently in Draco’s skull.

You’re not used to having your opinion matter, are you?

Draco wasn’t sure why the comment twisted painfully in the center of his chest. Around him, people were starting to mutter. It had been nearly three minutes.

You have a long road ahead of you. I can’t tell you where to go. At best, all I can do is give you a little nudge.

Draco swallowed. The seconds ticked on in silence.

The only person in this whole school he knew he could trust was Professor Snape. Draco was the only omega in his year, and if the train ride had been any indication, he needed all the help he could get.

A practical and—if I may say so—very Slytherin answer. Very well:

“SLYTHERIN!”

The Slytherin table burst into applause so sudden and loud that Draco jumped. The clapping was cut through noticeably with loud whistling, which Draco didn’t understand. None of the other students had gotten whistles.

He stood up, but paused briefly before heading to the table. He turned around and dropped a quick curtsy in Snape’s direction. He was seated at the table next to a woman with very large glasses, tall and grim and dark and, even from twenty feet away, smelling very strongly of valerian root and aqua fortis.

Snape smirked and inclined his head in acknowledgment. Then Draco hurried off to sit down.

Harry went to Gryffindor, just a few names later, to applause that was so loud it shook the hall. So did the Weasley—Ron Weasley. They grinned at each other as he went to sit down.

Draco told himself firmly that he was not disappointed.

As soon as Draco came into the large, luxurious common room, lit with a roaring hearth and looking out into the night-black waters of the lake, he was intercepted: “Mr. Malfoy. Congratulations on your Sorting.”

Draco was both surprised and not surprised to see Professor Snape. His godfather had always been a little overprotective of Draco (His alpha instinct, no doubt, his mother had deduced when Snape hexed the contractor who came to work on their roof when he stared too long at Draco), but Draco never minded. He liked Professor Snape, and where Father’s protectiveness had always felt like suffocation, Snape’s had been a blanket: heavy but warm, unignorable but comforting.

“Thank you, Professor,” Draco said, and leaned to one side, watching as the last of the Slytherins vanished down the steps leading to the dormitories. Once he was sure they were gone, he sprang forward and hugged Snape tightly around the middle.

Snape chuckled and patted Draco’s hair indulgently. Draco was quick to step back, folding his hands together at the level of his stomach.

“I’m glad you’re going to be my head of house,” Draco told him.

“I am as well,” Snape answered. “Unfortunately, I didn’t seek you out for pleasantries. It’s about your dormitory.”

For just a moment, fear jolted through Draco’s middle. “Am I going to have to sleep in a shed?” he asked before he could stop himself, voice half an octave too high.

“What? No! Who put that—” Snape sighed, shook his head, and Draco’s shoulders sagged with relief. “No, Draco, you’ll be sleeping in the castle. Because there are so few omegas enrolled, all of them share one dormitory. It’s accessible only from four points, one in each of the common rooms. This way.”

He started off without further preamble. Draco stumbled over his own feet to catch up.

“Unlike the entrance to the common room,” Snape said as they walked, “it’s warded with a specific kind of blood magic. Only omegas can pass through—and professors, of course, in case of emergency.”

“I see,” Draco said. “Do alphas get their own private dormitory, too?”

“Of course. But there are more alphas than omegas, as you can imagine. There’s one dormitory shared by all alphas in each house, then beta males and beta females are broken up further by year.”

When Snape came to a stop, he was standing outside a rather unremarkable mirror affixed to an unremarkable wall in the middle of the corridor leading into the Slytherin dormitories.

“Only you will be able to pass through,” he said, gesturing toward it.

Draco peered forward at his own reflection. The glass seemed plenty solid to him. “I just… go through?”

“Just go through,” he affirmed. “The house-elves have already put your things away. Goodnight, Draco. Sleep well.”

“Goodnight!” Draco called as Snape spun and vanished down the hall in a swirl of dark robes. Draco returned his attention to the mirror.

It did seem very solid, a heavy brass-framed piece about six feet tall and three across, affixed to the wall about two inches off the ground. Draco took a slow breath, shut his eyes, willed himself to believe he wouldn’t smack directly into the glass, and moved forward.

He kept moving, and when he opened his eyes again, he was somewhere else.

His gaze was drawn up first, to a dome of stained glass through which glimmered multicolored stars in a pretty facsimile of the night sky. Four beds were arranged around the edge of the room, with curtains of various colors: one red, one cerulean, and two emerald. Across the way, a small door to what must have been a bathroom stood ajar, fountaining steam. And scattered around the room—

“So, fresh meat.”

Draco knew at once that they were omegas, of course. The one who’d addressed him, a lean girl with dark skin and coily hair that she was combing carefully, was sat on the foot of the bed with red curtains, eyeing Draco uncertainly.

“Another Slytherin. Just what we need.”

“Don’t be bitchy, Spinnet,” said an older boy, perhaps fourteen, who was reclined on one of the two green beds with a book on his lap.

“Er, hello,” Draco said. “I’m Draco Malfoy.”

“Oh, he’s all uptight,” said Bitchy Spinnet. “Are all pureblood omegas like that, or is it just you and Rowle?”

Rowle? Draco glanced over at him. He knew the family, of course—the Rowles were one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Draco was mostly sure that the Rowle Alpha was a friend of Draco’s father’s.

“All pureblood omegas are like that, I’m pretty sure,” said a new voice. Out from the adjoining bathroom walks a third omega, her hair twisted up in a towel and wearing a pair of pink silk pajamas. “Welcome, by the way, since no one bothered to say it. I’m Marietta Edgecomb. Ravenclaw, second year.”

“Hello, nice to meet you,” Draco said reflexively.

“And that’s Alicia Spinnet, Gryffindor, third year.”

“Wotcher,” Spinnet said as she carefully tucked her hair into a silk bonnet.

“And I’m betting you know Adrian Rowle—Slytherin, fourth year.”

“I, er, don’t think I’ve had the pleasure,” Draco said. “But I know of you. I think our fathers are friends.”

“Friends isn’t the word I’d use,” Adrian Rowle answered dismissively, turning the page in the book on his lap. “My father is obsessed with yours. I swear, if they weren’t both alphas, I’d say she was trying to f*ck him.”

Spinnet cackled. “She could be, you never know. You purebloods are into some crazy sh*t.”

Draco very deliberately did not react. He’d never really heard anybody talk like this and wasn’t quite sure how he felt about it. He carefully made his way over to the second green-curtained bed, where his trunk was pressed neatly against the foot.

“The well of pureblood jokes never runs dry for you, does it, Spinnet?” Rowle said, voice flat.

“I have a lot to work with,” Spinnet answered through a grin.

“Are we the only omegas in the whole school?” Draco asked as he unpacked his trunk, pajamas first.

“No, there are two others,” Marietta said. “A fifth year Hufflepuff and seventh year Ravenclaw.”

“Edward and Amelia,” Alicia supplied. “They’re around, but they room separately since they got their first heats.”

“And of course, Victor got pulled out after fifth year to start the courting process,” Marietta added, a little glum. “I’ll miss him.”

“Oh,” Draco said, and wondered with a sinking dread if his father would do the same to him. Traditionally, courting started after an omega hit prothestrus, then continued till they came of age at seventeen, when they were expected to get engaged, then quickly married and pregnant. But surely Father would let Draco at least finish school?

“I think your little sister is on my courting list, by the way,” Adrian said, briefly dropping his book flat on his lap to look across at Draco, startled out of his own head. “Cordelia, right? What’s she like?”

“Intolerable,” Draco answered, too quickly to think about it, and before he could even feel bad—

“That tells me nothing,” Adrian said. “All alphas are intolerable.”

Alicia and Marietta both laughed loudly.

“They are,” Alicia said, collapsing backward onto her bed. “Did I tell you Marcus Flint pinched my ass on the train? Prick.”

“Absolute prick,” Marietta agreed.

Something hot furled in the center of Draco’s stomach. He couldn’t quite tell what it was.

“I think Marcus Flint is on my courting list,” he said slowly as he shrugged out of his outer robe.

“A tragedy, to be sure,” Alicia said.

“He’d probably be on mine if he weren’t a cousin by marriage,” Adrian said. “He’s an absolute dog, and he’ll be all over you when he realizes who you are. Remind me to teach you the snapback jinx.”

Draco peered up at Adrian curiously as he sat down to pull off his shoes. “Snapback jinx?”

“Invisible teeth that bite anyone who touches you from the tit* down,” he explained, grinning wolfishly and shutting his book. “It lasts all day, and you can amp it up to be really nasty if you cast it the right way.”

“Poor Roger Davies still has the scars,” Marietta giggled.

“But I’ll tell you what,” Adrian said, “he never f*cking tried it again, did he?”

Laughter burst through the room, and Draco was astonished to find he was laughing, too. That was when the name for that hot feeling in his chest came to him: camaraderie. It was hardly a wonder Draco had so much trouble identifying it—he’d never felt anything like it before.

It took Draco a while to get used to Hogwarts.

The layout was easy enough to figure out, even with the staircases that sometimes changed around while you were midway up, and he even found the lush, remote highlands climate to be agreeable. It was the little things that threw Draco for a loop: no one ever snapped at him for poor posture, or was cross when he was a little late for dinner, or told him to stop talking. In fact, except for Marcus Flint who was constantly trying to look up his skirt and the surly sixth year prefect who kept calling Draco a slu*t under her breath, people were mostly very nice. He even made a few friends.

The other omegas were all in different years and houses, and so all had different class schedules, but always laughed and gossiped together at the end of the day before bed. Several of Draco’s fellow Slytherins were cordial, too—Draco and Pansy Parkinson quickly bonded over their shared love of Quidditch, and the smooth-talking beta Blaise Zabini kept trying out what he called “lines” on Draco, which were mostly terrible complimentary puns that were so bad they circled right back around to funny. Even the staff seemed to like him, if his first few classes were anything to go by—Professor Sprout complimented Draco’s aptitude for herbology and the stiff-backed alpha Professor McGonagall told him that his wand posture was excellent.

If there was any shade to Draco’s sunshine, it was Harry Potter, who wouldn’t leave him alone, and Ron Weasley, who wouldn’t leave Harry alone for not leaving Draco alone. It always went the same way:

“Hi, Draco,” Harry would say, usually in the Great Hall, but on this particular occasion, it was during the first potions class of the semester, shared with Gryffindor. Harry had decided to sit directly in front of Draco.

Draco would sigh, because he knew how this conversation was going to end before it even began. “Where’s Weasley?” he would ask, and Harry would answer with something vague like:

“He’s running a bit late.” Then he would go straight into a conversation as if he and Draco were friends, and as if Harry hadn’t already picked Weasley over him: “Slytherin had History of Magic yesterday, right? Did you manage to stay awake through it all? Gryffindor had it on Tuesday. I think next time I have trouble falling asleep I’ll just ask Binns to tell me about the Roman conquest of Britain.”

“He’s just not that into you, Potter,” Pansy said from beside him.

Draco just sighed. “Don’t bother.” There was no point. Even as he arranged his parchment, ink well, and quill neatly on his desk, he could hear Weasley’s hurried footsteps coming through the dungeon hallway and into the potions classroom.

“Listen,” Harry said, “are you going to be working on that charms essay this weekend? I could use the help, and I—I’d also really like an opportunity to talk, since I feel like we—”

But Weasley was already at the seat beside him, right on time, glaring daggers at Draco and wheeling Harry forward in his chair. Draco sighed delicately and dipped his quill and neatly wrote out the date and subject at the top of his parchment.

It wasn’t that Draco didn’t like Harry—he did, actually—it was just that Draco was hurt, and Harry didn’t seem to care. Weasley, by now Harry’s friend, had been so mean on the train, and kept being mean, shooting dirty looks at Draco and calling him a Death Eater when he thought Draco couldn’t hear him, and Harry hadn’t done so much as tell Ron to stop.

Which was fine. Stupid Harry Potter who smelled like petrichor and something else didn’t owe Draco anything. But Draco certainly didn’t owe him anything, either, and it was stupid that he kept being all nice.

Fortunately, Draco didn’t have much time to think on it, because soon Professor Snape was striding into the classroom, billowing black robes. Draco perked up immediately, and when he reached the front of the classroom and turned to take roll call, Draco waved at him enthusiastically. Snape sighed, fought back a smile, and instead of acknowledging it, went ahead and took roll.

When he got to Harry’s name, he paused. “Ah, yes. Harry Potter. Our new—celebrity.”

Draco frowned. From his vantage behind Harry, he could see his shoulders stiffen. A few Slytherins chuckled, but otherwise the room was silent. Draco had a bad feeling about this.

As Professor Snape began a very long speech about the subtle science and exact art of potion making, Draco could tell he was in one of his moods. He got this way sometimes, snarling and short-tempered and mean. For as long as Draco had been his pupil, he’d never turned that ire onto him—although on one memorable occasion, he’d snapped at Cordelia to stop being a brat during their maths lessons (and in his defense, she had been being a brat)—but regardless, Draco had always been able to tell that he was feeling moody.

So he wasn’t at all surprised when he suddenly snapped, “Potter! What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”

Draco sighed a little. He was still upset at Harry, but there was no good reason to leave him to Snape’s mercies when he hadn’t done anything to deserve it.

As Harry sat in stunned silence for several seconds, and as a bushy-haired Gryffindor shot her hand into the air, Draco leaned forward to whisper, “Living Death.”

Harry’s shoulders jerked slightly, as if he wanted to react but held back. Under his breath, and without turning around, he whispered back, “What?”

“Asphodel and wormwood create Draught of Living Death.”

Another few seconds pass in tense silence. Then, right before Snape opened his mouth to interject, Harry said, “Draught of Living Death?”

Snape’s mouth snapped shut and his eyes narrowed. “Correct.”

Weasley looked mistrustfully over his shoulder at Draco, but didn’t say anything. Draco fussed with his quill and tried his best to look innocent.

“Where would you look, Mr. Potter,” Snape continued, stalking down the central aisle toward him, “if I told you to find me a bezoar?”

The bushy-haired girl’s hand went up again, but Harry was silent. At this point, Snape was just picking on him. “Goat’s stomach,” Draco whispered.

“A… goat’s stomach?”

Snape was really starting to look suspicious now, and had almost made it to Harry’s desk. He frowned and folded his arms over his chest.

“What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?”

When Snape was briefly distracted by the legs of the bushy-haired girl’s chair shrieking against the floor as she nearly knocked it over to raise her hand, Draco whispered very quietly, “Same thing.”

But it wasn’t quiet enough, apparently. Just before Harry said, “They’re the same thing,” Snape swiveled his dark eyes to Draco, who smiled brilliantly back at him and folded his hands together on his pile of parchments.

Snape, by his expression, wasn’t buying the innocent act.

“Correct,” he said, very slowly. “How fortunate we are that someone did the reading.”

Harry visibly deflated with relief. Weasley’s eyes were still narrowed, and the bushy-haired girl looked dejected at being ignored. Snape moved to Draco’s desk and said, “See me after class, Mr. Malfoy.”

“Yes, Professor,” Draco answered brightly, which had his godfather rolling his eyes. He turned on a heel and strode back toward the front of the classroom.

“Books open!” he barked. “Page 54! Your first potion will be one to cure boils!”

“You know, that display was technically insubordination,” was how Snape opened the conversation. The rest of the class had mostly left, and Snape was putting on his best Big Scary Teacher face, which Draco saw right through.

“You were being mean,” Draco answered simply. “You were picking on him for no good reason.”

“I’m trying to reprimand you, Draco,” Snape replied evenly, despite the smile that was threatening to curl the corner of his mouth. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t return the favor.”

“Some things are just mean,” Draco insisted, “and we shouldn’t pretend they aren’t. We shouldn’t act like they’re all right.”

Snape was silent for a while before he eventually said, “I had it on good authority that you and the Potter boy didn’t get along.”

“I—” Draco frowned, chewed at his lower lip. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Draco, surely you know that if he’s done something to you, I’ll set him on fire myself.”

“Don’t set him on fire! And don’t be mean to him in class! We don’t need any more nastiness in the world, if you ask me. Professor,” he said, and came around to Snape’s side of the desk once the classroom door swung shut following the departure of the final student, “I wanted to ask you—I know the rule about no casting magic in the hallways or common rooms, but I really need to cast the snapback jinx.”

Snape opened his mouth, shut it again. “Why in Merlin’s name would you need to cast that?”

“Marcus Flint keeps trying to look up my skirt even though I’ve told him to stop. Adrian Rowle says that the snapback jinx worked really well for him in the past and he can show me how to cast it.”

Though Snape’s face remained impassive, the quill he’d been holding in one hand, poised above his grading ledger, suddenly snapped in half. Draco looked down at it, bewildered, then back to Snape.

“I’ll take care of Flint,” he said eventually, voice unnaturally steady. Before Draco could respond, he continued, “Five points from Slytherin for giving answers to your classmate. Don’t do it again.” Then, neatly, he stood up, fastening shut his outer robe and striding away.

Draco shouted after him, “You promise to stop picking on Harry?”

It made Snape stop in the doorway, sigh, and look back at Draco.

“If you insist, dear godson,” he answered, “then yes, I promise. Merlin knows why you care so much, but I shall endeavor not to be quite so hard on Harry Potter, regardless of how much karmic debt he’s paying off for his father.” He continued toward the door, then stopped again. “And, you know what, go ahead and cast the snapback jinx. Just don’t get caught.” Then, at last, he vanished through the classroom door.

Draco beamed. He knew he’d made the right choice in house.

Marcus Flint stopped trying to look up Draco’s skirt. In fact, any time they caught sight of one another across a room or hallway, he went white and fled, which suited Draco just fine. He still mastered the snapback jinx, though, under Adrian’s careful tutelage, just in case.

The following Sunday, Draco forewent a picnic at Hogsmeade Alicia volunteered to sneak him out to en lieu of working on his Charms essay in the library. Draco had always worked best alone, and he was absolutely determined to get the best grades he could possibly get. Hearing about the omega who got pulled out after fifth year to start courting did wonders for Draco’s motivation. Perhaps he could convince Father to let him stay all seven years at Hogwarts through academic rigor.

He was just getting into a good rhythm when an all-too-familiar voice cut through the otherwise silent library:

“Hi, Draco.”

Draco sighed even before he looked up, and was not at all surprised to see stupid Harry Potter who smelled like petrichor and something else standing on the other side of Draco’s table when he did. Here we go again.

“Where’s Weasley?”

“In the common room still,” Harry answered, and slipped into the chair opposite Draco. He had a bag full of books over his shoulder, which he set on the table near Draco’s stack of textbooks and began to unpack. “I wanted to thank you for what you did in potions. I really do appreciate that you had my back.”

Any minute now, Weasley would come hurrying in, tugging Harry away by the elbow while glaring at Draco, so Draco kept his attention on his essay, neatly forming the g in the word casting before even bothering to answer.

“I’m busy, Harry.”

“Come on, please? I feel like I’ve been trying to talk to you for ages.”

“Yes, and your best friend always manages to swoop in and drag you away,” Draco answered, not without some venom. If he was still sore, he felt it was’t unwarranted. “I’m amazed you’re still putting in this much effort to talk when he hates me so much.”

“Ron is…”

Harry trailed off. Reluctantly, Draco paused his quill and looked up. The expression on Harry’s face was complicated, mouth twisted, eyes downcast, fingernails scratching anxiously at the spine of his charms textbook.

“Look, Ron means well, he really does. And he’s not a bad person, although I’m sure you must think otherwise. He just really doesn’t like your family. And I mean, that’s not completely daffy, is it?”

Draco flinched, dropping his gaze back to his half-finished essay. Again, that huge tangle of emotions rose in the middle of Draco’s stomach, roiling uncomfortably.

“Is it true that your father… that he’s…”

“It’s true,” Draco said, voice small.

“He’s a Death Eater? He fought for the man who killed… who…”

Draco wrung his quill anxiously between his hands. The ideas his father had always espoused—that pureblood culture was some great, lofty ideal that had been ripped down by Mudbloods and blood traitors, that its restoration was worth any cost—were ones that Draco had never really been called to examine. Cordelia had always been eager to parrot Father’s beliefs back at him, of course, but Draco had always been told to be silent and subservient before anything else.

Still, this was the first time he’d been presented with any sort of counterargument—and it was undeniably persuasive. It was hard to come up with reasons to support an ideologue when one of his victims, made orphan by his war, was sat right across from him.

“My father is a complicated man,” Draco eventually said, “and not without his flaws.”

“You don’t believe in all that, do you?” Harry asked, sounding a little desperate.

Absurdly, Draco felt a trembling panic under his skin. This was, he thought, the very first time anyone had ever asked his opinion on anything.

“Why… why does what I think matter?” he deflected.

“Because you seem really nice and I want to be your friend but I don’t know if I could be if you’re anything like the man who killed my parents.”

Harry wanted to be his friend? The sentence fluttered uncomfortably in the back of Draco’s head.

“I… w-well… it doesn’t matter anyway,” Draco stammered out, hating the way his cheeks got hot, and dipped his quill back into his inkwell. “Weasley would never let you be my friend if his past behavior is any indication. And my father certainly wouldn’t let me associate with you.”

“Right,” Harry said glumly, “because I’m the Boy Who Lived.”

“No,” Draco snipped, “because you’re an alpha. I’m not supposed to talk to alphas at all. Apparently it affects my bride-price.”

“What’s a bride-price?”

“It’s sort of like a reverse dowry.”

“Oh.” A pause, then, “What’s a dowry?”

“Ugh. You’re hopeless.”

Harry grinned at Draco, and Draco, despite his best efforts and all good judgment, grinned back.

Then Draco’s face got all hot again and he looked back down, furiously scratching out the next few words of his essay.

After a long, lingering silence, Harry said, “Maybe we can be secret friends.”

“What?”

“Secret friends,” he repeated. “Ron doesn’t like you, your father doesn’t like me, and we can’t very well get rid of either of them, so maybe we’ll just be friends in secret.”

Draco paused, considering the proposition. It seemed, on the surface, to be absurd—surely, Harry Potter couldn’t do anything in secret—but there was a part of Draco that wanted to try. The simple fact of it was that he liked Harry, and did want to be his friend.

“I… I suppose,” Draco said slowly. “But I don’t want to get you into trouble.”

“Some things are worth risking trouble for,” Harry answered at once. He was beaming, an infectious smile that made Draco all hot again. “Hey, did I tell you that I’m going to play Seeker for the Gryffindor Quidditch team?”

Draco boggled. “But first-years aren’t even allowed to try out!”

“I got a special exception! The captain, Oliver Wood, is also an alpha, so I’m sharing a dorm with him and all the other Gryffindor alphas, and he saw me catch—all right, let me start at the beginning. Peeves was in the bathroom, throwing everything around, when all of a sudden a bar of soap came hurtling at my head…”

And so: Draco and Harry became secret friends.

Although perhaps “secret” wasn’t the best word for it. They only spent time together alone, usually in the library or a little study nook off the main second floor corridor, but it’s not like they hid. Harry told Draco all about the crazy misadventures he got into, like saving Hermione Granger from the mountain troll and the discovery of the three-headed dog in the third-floor corridor (“One of the alphas dared me to go inside. I didn’t know what to expect but it definitely wasn’t that!”), and Draco answered all of Harry’s questions, to the best of his ability, about magic and Hogwarts and alphas and omegas and even Professor Snape, who Draco defended ardently (“He’s just grouchy sometimes is all, and I made him promise to stop picking on you, so be nice to him!”). They got into a heated debate about which team Draco ought to support for the first Quidditch game of the year (Draco only agreed to root for Gryffindor after Harry pointed out that Marcus Flint had spent the whole first week trying to look up Draco’s skirt), and Draco was there to witness the way Harry’s broom bucked and nearly threw him off with his heart in his throat (“Ron and Hermione say it was Professor Snape doing it, but with everything you’ve told me about him, I’m just not sure,” Harry had said, while Draco was just so relieved he was okay).

As autumn ended and winter crept in over Scotland, Harry asked if Draco was planning to stay at Hogwarts for winter break, which of course he hadn’t been, and Draco asked, puzzled, if Harry was, which led to a lengthy discussion about Harry’s home life, which horrified Draco to near speechlessness. With all the fanfare surrounding Harry’s early life, somebody had to know about the Dursleys and what they did to him—known, and done nothing.

Draco bought Harry an extra nice Yule gift and stayed behind to give it to him personally. He’d miss his mother and Father would be very cross, but it was worth it.

“It’s just this way,” Harry said.

“Where did you get this?”

“It was my dad’s, apparently. Someone gave it to me as a Christmas gift.”

“I’ve never seen anything like it!” Draco knew there was magic to obscure and camouflage, but true invisibility was very powerful magic. And to have it as a cloak? “It’s like the old stories.”

“What stories?”

“The Deathly Hallows. Have you never heard of them? I suppose you mightn’t.”

“Here it is!”

Their conversation and their uncomfortable closeness under the silver cloak both ended abruptly when the door closed behind them. When Draco straightened and looked around the darkened room, the first thing he saw—

“A mirror?”

“It’s some kind of magic. I don’t know which. It shows me my parents. Come look.”

Draco came forward. The mirror was definitely magic; Draco could feel it crackling and snapping around the tall, gilded frame, which glimmered even in the low light.

“This mirror is very powerful,” Draco said at once, voice edged with admiration and just a tinge of fear.

“Is it?”

“Can’t you feel it?”

“Feel—? No. Can you feel it?”

Draco gave Harry a puzzled look. “Of course I can. I thought everybody could. Do you not?”

Harry shook his head. “I’ve never felt magic, no. I mean, unless a spell hits me or something, but it doesn’t seem like that’s what you mean.”

Draco frowned. Sensing magic was so obvious and intuitive to him, and it was strange to imagine that no one else did. As he wandered closer to the mirror, he thought back to a conversation he had several years ago with his mother, about Craft and how omegas—

“Oh.”

The first thing he saw in the reflection was not himself, it was a pair of huge, beautiful, tawny wings. They were spread outward from his back and flapping as if preparing to take off.

“What do you see?” Harry asked eagerly, hugging his cloak to his chest. “Is it your parents?”

“No, I—”

The wings were so lovely and so real that Draco had to look over his shoulder, a little frantic, to make sure they weren’t actually there. They weren’t. He looked back and stared at them in the mirror, feeling breathless and bewildered and, for reasons Draco couldn’t quite discern, very sad. His reflection flapped its wings a few more times, then took off.

“I… I have wings,” Draco said, throat tight. “I have wings, and I’m flying away.”

“Wings?” Harry repeated, confused

“I don’t understand. What is this mirror?”

“Well, now I’m not sure. I thought maybe it showed you your family, but I’ve never seen any wings when I look into it.”

Draco felt himself start to tremble, and his vision went hazy with what he belatedly realized were threatening tears.

He didn’t know why looking at this image—himself, wings outstretched, soaring into the sky—made him ache with desire like this. It was stupid, and it didn’t make sense. Draco would never have wings. He’d never be free like that.

He was an omega. Omegas shouldn’t fly.

“Can,” Draco stuttered, and backed away from the mirror, “can we go?”

Alarmed, Harry said, “Draco, are you all right?”

“I’m—yes, I’m fine, I just—I don’t—” This was so stupid. And it was impossible. He would never have wings. He would never have wings. “I don’t want to b-be here anymore.”

Harry hurried him back into the corridor, throwing the cloak back over them both. In the silvery closeness, Harry said quietly, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Draco sniffed, rubbed the heels of his palms into his eyes. “I’m sorry for crying,” he whispered back.

“You don’t have to apologize for being sad,” Harry told him, even though Draco felt like he did. Omegas shouldn’t cry, they shouldn’t be loud, and they definitely shouldn’t fly.

Draco hadn’t dreamed of wings in years. After seeing the mirror, he dreamed of little else for the rest of term.

He tried very hard to distract himself. He studied as hard as he could, did all his extra credit assignments, and even made himself read chapters ahead when he ran out of things to study in a given subject. He was rewarded for his efforts with excellent grades. By March, he’d cemented his marks as the best in Slytherin, and second-best in his entire year. The only name above his was one Draco didn’t recognize until, one day, he put it to a face that he did:

“Hello, Draco.”

When he looked up, he was staring at a cloud of bushy hair and sharp brown eyes. Her scarlet tie looked very bright against her dark skin, and though she was very familiar—

“Oh. Er, hello…”

“Hermione,” she said. “Hermione Granger.”

She sat down across from him, despite the fact that there were plenty of other open tables in the library this time of day. Draco stared at her in bewildered silence as she began unpacking her textbooks, parchments, and quills.

“Can I… help… you?”

“Which subject are you working on?”

Draco looked down at his notes, then back up at her.

“Er, History of Magic.”

“Alaric I and the sack of Rome?”

“Yes?”

“Good. I haven’t finished that essay yet. Let’s compare notes.”

Draco opened his mouth to protest, but couldn’t, because she was already listing off the differences between Roman and Visigothic magic that likely contributed to the lopsided victory, and Draco corrected her on a few points of Tervingi spellcraft, and they got into a very intense discussion about how it differed from Latinate casting, and before Draco knew it, it was eight in the evening and they’d missed dinner but they both had excellent outlines for their essays.

“Not that I don’t appreciate your insight,” Draco said as they both packed up their things, because Pince was starting to glare at them for staying so late, “but what prompted this? We’ve never even met.”

“Because you take your studies seriously, unlike certain dunderheads in my house that I could mention,” she answered as she shrugged her messenger bag onto her shoulder. “I considered making you my academic rival, but it seemed like we could both get more from cooperation than competition.”

Draco tried not to laugh and failed almost immediately. He clapped his hand over his mouth and giggled helplessly, shoulders shaking. Hermione seemed surprised by his reaction at first, and then pleased.

“I knew you’d understand,” she said. “Shall we work on McGonagall’s assignment next week?”

Knowing what Draco now did about Harry’s home situation, he made initial efforts to stay behind in Hogwarts for Easter holiday (or Beltane, his father would insist, despite the fact that the two weeks off coincided with neither holiday), as well, but couldn’t manage it. He received a pleading, almost desperate letter from Mother expounding on how much she missed him, and a much sterner letter from Father telling him that an omega’s place was at home and it was bad enough he’d “eschewed his already meager familial responsibilities” at Yule.

So, reluctantly, and with apologies to Harry that he gallantly insisted were not required, Draco went home in early April. He was met at the platform by Dobby, greeted with a warm hug in the foyer by Mother, and promptly, at family dinner, interrogated by Father:

“The Parkinson Alpha tells me that you’ve been in association with her beta daughter, Pansy.”

Draco wouldn’t exactly describe his relationship with Pansy as an association. They were friends, not business partners—though perhaps his father had forgotten the difference. Perhaps he never it knew at all.

“Yes, Pansy’s very—nice,” he said, which was the only word he could come up with. Pansy wasn’t nice—that wasn’t not the word for her, and not why he liked her. She was wickedly funny and quite rude and a bit bossy, but fiercely loyal and protective of her friends. He doubted his father cared about all that, though, and was proved right when the first thing he said was:

“Such a shame Marigold wasn’t able to get any alphas out of her wife.” He sawed his chicken breast in half. “Four pregnancies in as many years, genetics as strong and pure as the Parkinsons, you’d think they’d have managed at least one. Still, I suppose four betas is better than an omega.”

Draco flinched, dropped his chin to his chest, and stared into his lap. He knew what his father meant—that the strength of a bloodline was traditionally measured by how many generations comprised an unbroken line of alphas, and that omegas were typically married into other families and thus not considered to be adding to the bloodline—but that understanding didn’t make him feel any better.

Mother, sensing Draco’s dejection and eager to talk over Cordelia’s quiet cackling, quickly intervened: “Severus owled, by the way. He told us that your marks are ranked second in your year. Is that true, darling?”

“I… yes, it’s true,” Draco said, pushing his wild rice pilaf around his plate. “I’ve been studying very hard. I want to do well.”

“That’s wonderful—” his mother began, but was promptly cut off.

“Oh, Narcissa, it hardly matters. What use does an omega get out of academic achievement? Considering the length of his courting list—a miracle they all stayed on, mind you, considering he’s enrolled at all—he’s bound to be pregnant before he’d even graduate.”

Draco’s hand clenched around his fork. Shame and anger made for a potent combination, creeping through his veins like riming frost.

Valiantly, his mother tried to continue the conversation. “I heard about that horrible accident with the mountain troll on Samhain. That must have been quite frightening.”

“Are we surprised that it happened?” Father asked with a sneer. “That whole castle has gone to the dogs. I’m only amazed that little Mudblood survived.”

“Hermione,” Draco said quietly.

“Speak up, Draco,” he snapped, “if you have something to say. And don’t slouch.”

“Her name is Hermione and she’s the only student with better marks than me. You shouldn’t call her that.”

For one paralyzing moment, Draco thought he made his father angry. Silence lapsed, cold and lingering, but when Draco looked up, he discovered it was only because Father was taking a long pull of his wine, looking bored.

“The Notts invited us to a Beltane bonfire, by the way,” he said to Narcissa after he set his wine glass back down. “Shame it can’t be celebrated on the day, but of course we can’t expect Hogwarts to honor the old ways anymore.”

Absurdly, Draco was angry. Somehow, being ignored was worse than eliciting anger. Were his thoughts really so irrelevant that his defending a Muggle-born witch wasn’t even worth acknowledgment?

“I’m amazed you even went to Slytherin,” Cordelia jeered as their father went on about who else was coming to the Notts’ Beltane celebration. “I was sure they were going to make you live with the house-elves. How is it, sleeping in a hut?”

“Omegas don’t sleep in huts,” Draco said without missing a beat, “that’s alphas.”

“What? No, you’re lying. They wouldn’t make alphas sleep in huts.”

“All of them, piled up in a smelly heap. They make them bathe in the lake, too.”

“No, they don’t!” Cordelia shrilled, but there was enough hysteria edging her voice to assure Draco that there was a part of her that believed it. If he couldn’t even earn his father’s interest, at least he could put the fear of God in his sister.

The Notts’ Beltane festivities were unspeakably boring. Draco recalled reading that the celebrations used to include dancing and drinking and drumming and ritual offerings to the faefolk and whatever “fornication” was, and somehow people like his father had turned it into dreary outdoor gatherings where rich, boring alphas talked about nothing for six interminably long hours. Marcus Flint was there, and without Snape’s deterring presence, he once again tried to look up Draco’s skirt, and even asks him if he’s had his first heat yet.

He’d never been so happy to leave home—and he was always happy to leave home. Hogwarts castle stood waiting for him like a glittering beacon when the train arrived at the station, and Draco fell asleep quickly on his first night back with Marietta’s quiet kitten snoring in the background.

For the most part, his life went back to normal. Harry and Ron were involved in some ridiculous misadventure involving Nicolas Flamel—and so was Hermione, who Draco thought really should know better after what nearly happened to her on Samhain—but he stayed largely out of it, if only because Ron was convinced Snape was involved in it and Draco, therefore, couldn’t be trusted, which suited Draco just fine. Harry would chatter his ear off about it every now and then, and Draco would nod, and then they’d talk about Quidditch instead.

Spring settled in over the castle and the days got warmer. Draco was relieved to discover that he had overprepared for exams, and breezed through each one with confidence. As the week wound down, Draco did as well, the little knot of tension he’d been carrying in the center of his chest unspooling until it all fell out.

That first evening after the last exam was over, Harry was late for their weekly chat in the second floor study nook. Draco tried not to be upset, but couldn’t quite manage it. It was his birthday tomorrow, and the only thing he wanted to do was spend time with Harry.

But when he finally turned up, the first thing he said was, “Draco, you can sing and play music, right?”

Draco glanced up from the book in his lap. It was getting late, and the nervous expression on Harry’s face told him that—

“Something’s wrong.”

“Er, no… no, nothing’s wrong. But you are a singer, right? I remember you told me once that omegas are trained in music—”

“Harry,” Draco interjected firmly, “something’s wrong.”

“All right, so maybe Neville Longbottom is petrified on the floor of the Gryffindor common room, but—”

“What?”

“—that’s really neither here nor there. Do you know any lullabies, in particular?”

“Lullabies? What are you—why is Neville Longbottom—Harry, what is going on?”

“Draco,” Harry then said, very seriously, sitting down in the armchair across from his, “I need your help with something.”

“You must be joking,” Ron said. “You want to go confront Snape and bring his godson along to do it?”

“Ron, we don’t know for sure it’s Snape,” Harry answered. “And we need someone who can sing!”

Draco had been confused the whole way to the third-floor corridor by everything—why did Harry insist on stuffing all four of them under his Invisibility Cloak when it wasn’t even that late? Why were they bound for the room where Harry said he had confronted a three-headed dog? Why did they need Draco to sing? And why did they keep bringing up Snape?

“If it is Snape,” Hermione reasoned, “maybe Draco’s presence could deter him from doing You-Know-Who’s bidding.”

“What?” Draco said. “What are you talking about? Professor Snape wouldn’t do his bidding! And how would he do it, anyway? You-Know-Who is gone, he’s been gone—”

“I bet Malfoy’s in on it,” Ron interjected suddenly, glaring ferociously at Draco, who flinched and took a reflexive step backward. “I bet he’s been helping Snape this whole time, that—”

“Ron, enough!” Harry snapped, so loudly and so suddenly that the bottom dropped out of the conversation and all eyes turned to him. “I’m sick and tired of you being so rotten to Draco! He hasn’t done a single thing to you!”

“I—his family—!”

“Draco’s not his family! He’s smart and sweet and, most days, nicer than you! He’s my friend, all right?”

Draco felt like his blood was on fire. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “I thought,” he said, face burning, “it was a secret.”

“I’m sick of secrets. And I’m sick of having to act like I don’t like you when I do. And I’m certainly not going to ask for your help while letting any of my other friends berate you for no good reason.”

Ron seemed gobsmacked, which was when Hermione sidled up to him.

“Ron,” she intoned, “just give Draco a chance. I know you don’t like his family, and that’s fine, but you shouldn’t judge him for things he didn’t do. Besides, we need all the help we can get, right?”

Ron’s eyes flickered between Harry and Hermione for a while, his expression one of a man backed into a corner. Then, finally, he looked to Draco. His face went as red as his hair and his gaze dropped to the floor.

“Fine,” he grumbled, “whatever.”

Harry huffed an impatient sigh, then turned his attention to Draco.

“Listen, that three-headed dog I told you about? We think it’s guarding something called the philosopher’s stone. It’s—”

“The philosopher’s stone? What’s the philosopher’s stone doing in Hogwarts?”

Harry reeled back a step, stunned. “You know about it?”

“Of course I do! It’s wizarding legend!”

“Oh, we should have brought him in ages ago, Harry,” Hermione protested. “This whole thing could have taken so much less time—”

“We think Voldemort is after it. He has someone here at Hogwarts who’s doing his bidding—”

“But that’s not possible; he’s gone, Harry, he can’t—”

“I saw him in the Forbidden Forest! Or some part of him, I don’t know for sure. But something like him is here and he’s after the philosopher’s stone, which that dog is guarding.”

Finally, Harry indicated to the door they were all standing outside of, in the third-floor corridor. Fear hummed under Draco’s skin.

“Hagrid told me that he falls asleep if he hears music, which is where you come in. If you sing him a lullaby, we can get through the trap door he’s guarding to get to the stone before Voldemort does.”

“This… this is so dangerous,” Draco said, voice a little weak. “We’re just kids, we shouldn’t…”

“Dumbledore’s left Hogwarts. If he’s going to strike, it’ll be tonight. I already tried asking McGonagall for help and she wouldn’t. Draco, please. We can’t let him get away with this.”

Draco had never been especially brave—he’d never been called to be. There was a very real, very substantial part of him that wanted to say no and just run. If there was even a slight possibility that some fragment of the Dark Lord was behind this door—

He looked back at Harry a little desperately. Too green eyes stared back at him, wide and earnest and pleading.

Draco swallowed down a trembling breath, and began the only lullaby he knew:

“Dún do shúil,” Draco sang, voice wavering, “a rún mo chroí…”

Harry took in a sharp, surprised breath and didn’t move. Hermione did, though, hurrying toward the door and whispering a soft “Alohom*ora!” that made the lock click and the door swing open.

Inside, as had been implied, was a massive, three-headed dog, half-curled up against the back wall of a dusty, disused classroom. Its eyes were locked on the door when it opened, all three sets of eyelids already drooping, huge body swaying at the sound of Draco’s voice—which stuttered and nearly fell off entirely at the sight of the beast.

“… a-a chuid den tsaol, ’s a ghrá liom…”

Ron headed in first, creeping past the dog toward the back of the room. Hermione was next. Draco, still singing, looked over at Harry, who appeared transfixed. His mouth was slightly open, green eyes huge and round as they stared at Draco as he sang.

“… dún do shúil, a rún mo chroí…”

“Harry!” Hermione whispered urgently, which finally broke the spell. Harry’s head spun, and he swallowed before heading inside. Draco took up the rear, moving very slowly, staring at the dog. It was so big, even slumped over and snoring from each of its three heads.

In the corner of the room, Ron crouched down and pulled open a trapdoor, peering down into it. His first analysis was, “I can’t see anything…”

Draco edged toward them, keeping his back to the wall, still singing: “… agus gheobhair feirín amárach…”

“Just black—there’s no way of climbing down, we’ll just have to drop.”

Drop? Dread jolted through Draco, strong enough to nearly make him forget the words.

Harry sighed resignedly. “It should be me that goes first,” he said.

Draco’s hand shot out, grabbing Harry’s wrist before he even realized what he was doing. “Harry, no!” he whispered. “You can’t do that, it’s too dangerous! Please, let’s just—”

“Draco,” Hermione interjected urgently, as on the far side of the room the three-headed dog snuffled and grumbled, “the song!”

Draco gripped Harry’s wrist all the tighter, reluctantly continuing the lullaby: “Tá do dheaid ag teacht gan mhoill ón chnoc…”

“Draco,” Harry said as he sang, all earnestness, “I know it’s scary. I’m scared, too. But If someone doesn’t do something, Voldemort’s going to get the philosopher’s stone and become immortal. Surely that’s worth risking everything to stop.”

Draco could only shake his head. Even if he didn’t have to keep singing, he wouldn’t have been able to come up with the right words for it. From Draco’s perspective, it wasn’t worth it. Harry was his best and closest friend, and there was nothing worth risking his life for.

So instead of words, he just gripped at Harry, shook his head, and gripped at him tightly as his eyes burned with tears. “… agus cearca fraoich ar láimh leis…”

Harry released a small sigh. “Stay here, Draco,” he said. “Someone should, in case we don’t come back.”

No, no, no, no, Draco wanted to scream, but couldn’t. He wanted to grab Harry and never let go, but Harry was pulling out of his grasp and heading toward the trapdoor with nothing more than a regretful look over his shoulder, lowering himself into the darkness.

“If anything happens to me, don’t follow. Go straight to the owlery and send Hedwig to Dumbledore, right?”

“Right,” said Ron, looking grim. Draco could only shake and sing:

“… agus codlaidh go ciúin ’do luí sa choid…”

Harry, in his last moments before dropping down through the trapdoor, gave Draco a long, lingering look that Draco couldn’t decipher.

They went through and down one by one, and Draco sang and sang, feeling like a songbird in a cage:

“… agus gheobhair feirín amárach…”

Draco waited in that classroom for hours, singing and shaking, till the distant sound of the clocktower tolling midnight shook him out of his stupor and sent him running from the room.

He went straight back to the dungeons and woke up Professor Snape, telling him everything through frantic, terrified tears. Snape told him curtly to stay put and flew from the room in a swirl of dark robes.

Sometime in the small hours of the morning, he came back, finding Draco just where he’d left him, trembling on the floor of his office. Wearily, he said, “Follow me, Draco, since I know you won’t listen if I tell you to go to bed.”

In the Hospital Wing, a frazzled-looking Madam Pomfrey was attending to Ron’s shoulder, while Hermione sat perched anxiously on the foot of a bed.

Harry’s bed. He was laid out on it, unconscious. Draco’s chest constricted so tight he briefly stopped breathing.

“Draco!” Hermione cried, and bolted toward him, pulling him into a hug.

“Is he—” Draco stammered back at her. “Hermione, is he—?”

“Alas, he’s fine,” Snape said, “or will be. Poppy says he’ll be out for a few days while he recovers. Quirrell wasn’t quite so lucky.”

“It was Quirrell?” Ron asked, stunned. “I thought—I thought—”

“That I was behind it? Yes, I noticed,” was Snape’s flat, derisive answer. “You made little secret of your mistrust.”

Hermione withdrew from Draco to stare up at Snape, wide-eyed. “But I saw you… at the Quidditch game, I saw you try to knock Harry off his broom—”

“You saw me casting a countercurse to Quirrell’s spell,” Snape returned. “For being as clever as you are, Ms. Granger, you have a nasty habit of jumping to conclusions.”

His answer chastened her. She went red and stared down at her feet.

“So all this time,” Ron said, “you’ve been protecting Harry?”

Snape rolled his eyes. “Despite the unfortunate history I have with his father, no, Mr. Weasley, it never extended to the point where I wanted his son dead. I have made plenty of mistakes in my life, but I am not the monster you imagine me to be.”

Ron was still staring at Snape, like he was rearranging several things in his head. All he said was, “Oh,” and sounded a little faint.

“I owled Albus. He’s leaving London tomorrow. If nothing else, I’m sure this whole misadventure has persuaded him to do what I had urged from the beginning—to destroy this damn thing.”

From the folds of his robes, he produced the philosopher’s stone, small and red and glittering in the low light.

Draco couldn’t even look at it. Since arriving, he hadn’t been able to look at anything other than Harry.

He was so pale, brow shiny with sweat. His chest rose and fell erratically, and even as concern strangled Draco’s throat, anger set his blood on fire.

“I told him not to do this,” Draco hissed, fists clenched.

Hermione was at his side again. “Draco—”

“I begged him not to do this. I told him it was dangerous and he did it anyway.”

“But he got the stone away from You-Know-Who!” Hermione insisted. “It was worth it, surely?”

“He could have died! He nearly did! Would it have been worth it if Professor Snape had been a split second too late? Or if I was? Or—”

The truth was growing in the pit of Draco’s stomach, heavy and cold. He cared about Harry so much, and had nearly lost him. All this righteous indignation was growing from a core of terrible, soul-consuming fear.

He’d nearly lost him. He’d nearly died.

He turned and fled from the Hospital Wing, chased by shouts of protest from Ron and Hermione, and a single calm repudiation from Snape: “Let him go. His anger is not unwarranted.”

Draco decided he didn’t want to talk to Harry anymore. He couldn’t be this scared of losing him if he didn’t have him in the first place.

For the first few days, it was easy to avoid him, as he didn’t regain consciousness for the whole weekend. The first day he woke up, though, he all but followed Draco around the castle, vaulting across hallways to grab his wrist or shouting his name from the far side of the library. It was all Draco could do to race back to the dungeons and hide in the Slytherin common room till he was finally able to calm himself down.

He spent the whole end-of-year feast staring at Draco from across the room, expression twisted with worry. Draco stared down at his plate through it all.

But when Headmaster Dumbledore gave out those final 150 points—when all that Slytherin emerald was magically replaced with Gryffindor scarlet—Draco couldn’t stand to be in the room anymore. He stood up so abruptly that he nearly knocked Pansy over as he stormed out of the Great Hall.

He was halfway across the room when—

“Draco!”

He stopped in his tracks and turned, furious, back around. Harry was hurrying through the vestibule behind him.

“Draco, wait, please wait. I need to talk with you. I—”

“No,” Draco snapped. “No, you don’t need to talk with me. You need to talk at me. Clearly, yours is the only opinion you care about, oh great alpha!”

Harry stopped in his tracks, reeled back as though struck. “I—Draco, that’s not fair, I don’t—”

“Save it! I’m so fed up with alphas making me feel horrible! Do you have any idea how scared I was, waiting for you to turn back up? I thought you were dead!”

Harry’s expression began to fracture slowly. “Draco—”

“And I had to spend my own bloody birthday wondering if my best friend was ever going to wake up again, because you went and did something so stupid and reckless even when I begged you not to!”

“Draco, I only—”

“And of course you’re rewarded for it,” Draco sobbed, gesturing furiously to the Great Hall, where the Gryffindor table was still cheering. “Of course you had to steal away the bloody House Cup from Slytherin, too, because it wasn’t bad enough that you made me cry myself to sleep two nights in a row, you also had to undo all my house’s hard work—”

Harry’s voice was getting tight and tremulous. “Draco…”

“—so do me a favor, Harry Potter, and just leave me alone!”

Draco spun and sprinted the rest of the way out of the vestibule, back down into the dungeons. Harry, mercifully, didn’t follow.

As he descended through the castle, Draco shook and panted and resolutely told himself that he would not cry over Harry Potter, not again. He would go home for the summer, he would help Mother in the garden, he would bake with Dobby in the kitchen, he’d clobber Cordelia at chess, and he would come back next term not caring about Harry Potter at all.

When Draco finally sat down on his bed, he doubled over and buried his face in his hands, shoulders heaving. He would not cry over Harry Potter. He would not.

After a few long moments, Draco finally lifted his head, meaning to go stare drearily out the window till the hallways emptied out and he could sneak down to the kitchen to get the dinner he’d skipped, but was distracted by a small package on his bedside table.

Draco sniffed, rubbed his palm across one eye, and then reached out to pick it up. It must have come in with the rest of the post earlier in the day. It was slender and light, wrapped in brown paper and secured with twine. There was a little square of parchment tucked into its folds, which Draco tugged out first to read.

Happy birthday, Draco. It was Father’s handwriting, neat and florid and unmistakable. Draco blinked in surprise. Father didn’t usually give him presents—they were always from both parents, and, usually, clearly selected by Mother.

Draco wasn’t quite sure why this one was different. Did Father want something from him? Did Draco’s absence make his heart grow fonder? They both seemed so unlikely. He’d never wanted anything from Draco before, save for perhaps his silence, and if he’d ever been fond of his omega son, he’d taken great pains not to show it.

Still, it was a thoughtful enough gift—handsomely crafted and bound with fine green leather. Draco had never had a diary before.

Chapter 3: Venom & Honey

Chapter Text

Dearest diary,

Hello, it’s nice to meet you.

I’m not quite sure why I feel the need to greet you or introduce myself to you, or even why calling you a “you” feels like the right thing to do. I can tell by the way your magic feels that you are capable of thought and emotion, so perhaps it’s that. I can also tell that you’re quite old, and quite powerful, and that you smell a little bit like copper and ashes.

But if I am going to introduce myself, I suppose I should do it properly. My name is Draco Malfoy, and I received you as a gift from my father for my twelfth birthday. I’m writing this, my first entry, having arrived home for summer break after finishing my first year at Hogwarts. I’m an omega—a pureblood omega, I feel the need to point out, not because it’s a source of any sort of pride, but to provide context. Do you know much about pureblood omegas, the sort of lives we’re confined to? The suffocation, the stagnation?

Can you even answer me? I can’t really tell. I hope so. I could use someone to talk to. Now that I’m back home, I’m remembering how lonely it is here. What friends I made at school—Pansy, Hermione, Adrian, Marietta—write when they can, but it’s not the same. I know I should be grateful that I have the opportunity to go to Hogwarts at all—my father didn’t want me to, or even to have a wand—but gratitude is a hard thing to muster after having a taste of freedom, only to be thrown back into my cage.

I have my summer work to occupy me, at least, a small mercy that I know will not last forever. I use my essays and my wandwork as rewards for myself, little moments of respite after long days of doing little to nothing. There’s only so much gardening to do, only so many pies to bake, only so many books to read. Have I lost my tolerance for idleness, I wonder, or has a life outside my home made me realize I never had any in the first place?

Harry hasn’t sent me any letters. I suppose that is what I wanted. I wish I didn’t feel so disappointed. I wish I could forget him altogether.

I need to head down for dinner soon. I ought to hide you. If my sister Cordelia discovers I have a diary, she’ll doubtlessly try to steal it.

Goodbye for now, dearest diary.

Draco

In the run-up to summer break, Draco had been hearing his friends and house mates rhapsodize about how good it would be to return home, to have all that free time, to see their families again—Draco had to bite his tongue not to ask why they wanted any of that, because home, free time, and family were the three biggest sources of misery in Draco’s young life.

“Hello, Dobby.”

The kitchen of the Malfoy Manor was at the back of the building, just off the dining room and with a small door leading to the back garden. With its large, east-facing windows, it was lit up brilliant gold in the mornings, sunlight painting the red brick of the enormous fireplace a dazzling, glittering orange.

Dobby was at the counter when Draco arrived, looking up from a large dough ball he was kneading with a start.

“Master Draco!”

“Where are Dolly and Dotty?”

“They is on cleaning duty today. Dobby is cooking.”

“Is that pie crust? Are you making dessert?”

“It is being bread, Master Draco.”

“Can I help? Father and Cordelia are out getting her a wand, and Mother’s feeling poorly, and there’s nothing in the garden that needs tending, and if I force myself to do one more stitch of embroidery I might lose my mind.”

Dobby hesitated, and Draco edged toward the kitchen counter. It was unbecoming, Draco knew, for an omega to engage in manual labor like kneading dough, but he was just so bored, and had been since he arrived home four days ago, and Dobby usually didn’t mind his company—in fact, Draco got along rather well with the house-elf most days. Of the three, Dobby was definitely Draco’s favorite.

“If Master Lucius is out, Dobby supposes it is alright,” Dobby answered haltingly. “But Master Draco must be leaving if he returns. Master Lucius would be very cross—”

Draco was already beaming, heading over to the cupboard to get the rolling pin. “Oh, what doesn’t make my father cross?”

Dobby smiled smally. Draco kicked a stool over to the counter so he could stand beside Dobby’s and take over the kneading.

For a time, they worked in companionable silence. It was a sourdough loaf, Draco could tell by scent alone, one of Dobby’s best recipes. Dobby went to prepare the pans while Draco continued to roll the dough out.

“Has today’s owl post arrived yet?” Draco asked after a time, trying to sound casual.

“Dobby believes so, yes.”

“Anything for me?”

“Master Draco received a letter from a Ms. Hermione Granger, and another from Mr. Blaise Zabini.”

That was a small mercy, Draco supposed. “Any others?”

Draco didn’t need to look to know that Dobby was giving him an odd look. “Is Master Draco waiting for a particular owl?”

“I… no. I mean, maybe? I don’t know. Dobby, if I get an owl from Harry Potter, could you please not let Father know?”

Metal clattered loudly against the butcher block counter. Draco jumped and spun; Dobby was standing on his stool with huge eyes, knees wobbling.

“Dobby?” Draco asked, alarmed.

“Is… is Master Draco in contact with Harry Potter?”

“Well, not if Father asks,” Draco answered, a desperate attempt at joviality that completely missed its mark. If anything, his answer seemed to make Dobby even more nervous. “Dobby, you don’t have to be scared. I doubt he’ll even—”

“Master Draco should forget about Harry Potter!” Dobby interjected, voice shrill. Draco was stunned, for a time without even knowing why, before he realized that he’d never heard Dobby interrupt him before. If it had been his father, it would’ve earned the house-elf a beating.

“Dobby,” Draco said slowly, “are you all right?”

“Dobby is fine! Dobby is being perfectly fine! But Master Draco should not be associating with Harry Potter! Harry Potter has probably already forgotten all about Master Draco and will not send any letters!”

Draco flinched, then quickly and reflexively turned forward again to hide the jolt of pain that he could feel twisting his face up. The worst part was that Dobby was probably right. People forgot about Draco all the time.

“Harry Potter might not even go to Hogwarts at all this year!” Dobby continued, voice getting higher and higher as he spoke. “He should not! He… he…”

Slowly, Draco risked a look back over his shoulder. Dobby looked manic, rubbing his oversized hands together with a wild, frenetic energy.

“Dobby,” Draco said again, the pain giving way to concern.

“Dobby has to go! He has to… he…”

The house-elf ran from the kitchen as though chased. Draco was left wrist-deep in dough and baffled. He’d never seen Dobby like this before. This terror was nothing like the usual fear his father took so much joy inflicting on his house-elves.

Draco could only wonder why, and what it had to do with Harry Potter.

Hello there, Draco Malfoy.

Imagine my surprise, being woken up from a very long sleep to such a lovely letter waiting for me to read. You tell me that you are a mere twelve years old and I find myself struggling to believe you—your way of writing is very mature, and your thoughts very cohesive. You have an old soul. Has anyone ever told you that?

If introductions must be made, then it would be discourteous of me not to meet your earnestness and cordiality in kind. I am indeed capable of thought and emotion, and my name is Tom. It is such a delight to meet you after being so long alone.

I can tell that you are quite perceptive. It’s not just anyone who can discern the nature of magic through aura alone—or has no one told you what a magical aura is? Based on the way you describe it, I wouldn’t be surprised. Reading an aura is a very old, very obscure skill to have, dating back to the druids who ruled England before the Romans conquered us. Alas, much of the art has been forgotten in the ages since their disappearance, to the detriment of all. It is one of many reasons I believe so ardently in returning to and seeking out the old ways: not for hatred of others, but for the restoration of something great.

I have a keen empathy for the isolation you describe, Draco. I am neither pureblood nor omega, but I know what it means to be lonely. I, myself, grew up in a Muggle orphanage, with a legacy in my blood that I didn’t understand. I was mistreated, vilified, and isolated from my peers—often by choice, but just as often by force. Like you, I didn’t have a taste of real freedom or real joy until I came to Hogwarts.

If you would write me back, I would be interested to know more about you. What house are you in? What is your favorite subject? How long have you been able to sense auras? What is your relationship with your sister? And who is Harry?

Warmly,
Tom

Unlike Draco’s first trip to Platform 9¾ where it was just himself and Father, for Cordelia’s first year send-off, everyone in the Malfoy Manor came to bid her farewell: Father, all three house-elves, and—in her first appearance outside the home in several years—even Mother. Both parents were fussing over Cordelia, who was straight-backed and beaming with pride as Father adjusted her robe and Mother wiped her eyes daintily with a silk kerchief.

Draco sighed heavily and went off into the crowd. If he had to watch them croon over how handsome Cordelia looked for another second, Draco was going to lose his breakfast.

It didn’t take long for him to spot a bushy head of brown hair. With a sudden jolt of excitement, he dodged and weaved his way through a maze of suitcases and straight to—

“Hermione!”

“Draco!”

She dove toward him the second their eyes met, and they gripped each other in a tight hug.

“It’s so good to see you!” she said at once, and drew back with bright eyes. “How was your summer?”

“Unspeakably dull,” Draco answered, and heaved a great sigh. “Cordelia got private flying lessons from the Holyhead Harpies starting Chaser, and I wasn’t permitted out of the Manor even once.”

“Not permitted?” asked a new voice from the side.

When Draco turned, he was greeted with an older man and woman whose hair was equally brown and bushy, and Draco could tell by aura—or lack of aura, as the case may be—that they were Muggles, which could only mean—

“Oh!” Draco quickly dipped down to a curtsy. “Hello, Mister—er—Dr. and Dr. Granger. I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

“It’s quite all right,” Hermione’s mother said with a smile. “You must be Draco. Hermione’s told us so much about you, though I confess we’ve had some trouble wrapping our heads around… what is it called, dear? Secondary sex?”

Looking very embarrassed, Hermione said, “Yes, mum, secondary sex. Draco’s an omega.”

“It’s all right if you don’t understand,” Draco answered quickly. “I don’t really understand what a den-tist is, though Hermione’s done her best to explain. I just can’t quite figure why teeth need doctors.”

Hermione’s mother laughed lightly, and her father smiled.

“Have you seen Ron or Harry?” Hermione asked, drawing Draco’s attention away. “I thought I saw them outside the platform, but that was ten minutes ago now and I still haven’t found them.”

“No,” Draco answered, shoulders slumping, “though I don’t imagine either of them want to talk to me.”

“Oh, Draco, don’t say that! I met them both in Diagon Alley a few weeks ago, and the very first thing Harry asked after was you. Even Ron seemed rather contrite.”

Draco frowned. It seemed so difficult to believe. “Neither of them wrote to me.”

“Oh—about that! Harry told me the most fascinating story—”

Her words were cut off by the sound of a low, bellowing horn.

“You’d better get aboard, my dear,” Hermione’s father said, then bent down to kiss her forehead with such warmth and affection that Draco was startled at the sight of it. He’d never seen his own father do anything like that. “Write to us once you’re settled, alright?”

“Alright!” Hermione agreed. “Goodbye, I love you!” Then she darted over to hug her mother before grabbing her trunk in one hand and Draco’s wrist in another. Together, they hurried toward the train.

They found a compartment just as the engine roared to life and, steam billowing from its smokebox, the train chugged slowly out of the station.

“I suppose they must be on the far end of the train,” Hermione said when, after a few minutes of searching, she found no trace of either Harry or Ron. Her voice was edged with worry.

“Probably,” Draco agreed. “Oh, I forgot to ask—what did you end up writing about for Binns’s summer essay?”

Hello, Tom. I’m so glad to know your name, even as I’m surprised to hear you have one.

I am positively bursting with curiosity about you. Are you a diary, or are you a person inside a diary? You say you grew up and went to Hogwarts, so you must be a person in some way or another. How did you get in here? Are you trapped? Is there a way to get you out?

Oh, I’m sorry. Here you are, asking me so many questions, and I can’t even do you the courtesy of answering them before asking a thousand questions right back at you!

I’m in Slytherin, like my father and his father, like most of my mother’s family, and as of tonight, like my younger sister, who—since you asked—is a terrible little brat of an alpha who my father has spoiled rotten. She’s already asserting her dominance in that way alphas do, pushing everyone around and making herself a problem for all our house mates. She’s already got Crabbe and Goyle, both alphas and a year above her besides, following her around and doing her bidding like servants.

My favorite subject is herbology, unless Professor Snape is asking, in which case it’s potions. He’s my godfather, you see, and my head of house, and potions professor, and probably the only alpha I actually enjoy spending time with. He’s tutored both me and Cordelia since we were small. He’s quite kind, though he takes great pains not to show it.

Your description of aura reading is so fascinating! I never knew there was a name for it! I didn’t even realize other people couldn’t do it until last year. It’s so obvious to me and always has been. I can feel magic in myself, in other witches and wizards, in Hogwarts, in wands, and even in the earth. Especially in the earth. It’s why I’m so fond of herbology. Working with magical plants—all plants, really—is so soothing. Being immersed in all that deep, calm, dark magic feels like falling asleep. Does that make sense?

Your description of it as a practice of the ancient druids makes me ache to know more and, for the first time, understand my father’s perspective a little better. He always says that we must return to the old ways, that the wizarding world has lost more than it ever gained, and for the first time I’m wondering if he’s right. What magics did the druids know that we’ve forgotten? I’m going to look it up, and I’m going to get Hermione to help me. She’s brilliant with research and I know she would be interested in this. I hope we find something wonderful. Is there any more about druidic magic you can tell me?

I was very sorry to learn about your childhood, Tom. It must have been so dreadfully lonely, growing up as the only wizard in a Muggle orphanage. Maybe we can be lonely together? Though perhaps that’s not the best foundation for a friendship. I thought Harry and I could be lonely together, too, but that didn’t work out very well.

Harry is…

I don’t know how to describe Harry. If you don’t know his name, then you must be quite old. He’s very famous for something that happened to him as a baby—it would take quite a while to explain—and that same something made him an orphan. I can say that he is brave. And he’s good too, but not the way most people think of good. Harry is good in the same way a forest fire is good. He’s strong and powerful and dazzling, and he is—I think the best word for it is necessary, in a very complicated, grand-scale sort of way. But like a forest fire, he’s dangerous, and people who get too close to him get hurt. I did, and his flames barely grazed me.

I suppose it doesn’t matter. Hermione said he asked after me, but he didn’t talk to me at all at the feast—I didn’t even see him—and I have no reason to suspect that will change. I don’t want to talk to him, anyway, or at least that’s what I tell myself. I don’t want to be burned like that again.

Gracious. Look how long this entry (letter?) has gotten. You must think I’m a terrible, longwinded bore. If you managed to get this far—thank you, I suppose, for reading, and caring. Not many people would. And I’d like to know more about you, Tom. Feel free to answer me with something twice as long! I promise to read every word.

Very sincerely,
Draco

“I didn’t know you had a sister.”

When Draco looked up from his book, curled up in his usual chair in his usual second-floor study nook, the first thing he saw was Harry, and his heart gave a little leap, despite itself.

But he was quick to crush it back down. “Hello,” Draco said, and kept his voice guarded. The tone made Harry recoil a step, stare down guiltily at his feet.

“Er, hello, Draco.”

Silence stretched between them, impossibly heavy. From down the hall, a grandfather clock ticked idly, and from even further, Peeves cackled.

“I,” Draco began slowly when Harry didn’t offer anything, “didn’t expect you to want to talk to me.”

“Of course I want to talk to you,” Harry protested, a little feebly. “You’re my friend. Or I—I hope you are. You are my friend still, right?”

Draco frowned, squirmed a little in his seat. “I…”

“Look,” Harry said, visibly mustering his courage to come and sit on the ottoman just opposite Draco’s armchair, “I had all summer to think about it and… obviously I didn’t want to scare you, but Draco, do you really not understand why I had to do it?”

Reflexively, Draco drew his knees up to his chest. The book he’d been reading was crushed between his thighs and stomach. “That’s…”

“He was going to take the stone and become immortal. I know it was scary—it was scary for me, too—but I couldn’t very well do nothing, could I?”

“You could have gone to Professor Snape,” Draco said. “McGonagall may not have believed you, but he would have. He was onto Quirrell from jump!”

Harry frowned as if the thought had never occurred to him. Draco groaned.

“Hopeless,” he despaired. “All alphas are hopeless.”

“Hey,” Harry answered, a little weakly, “there have got to be at least a few of us who are smart.”

“I’ll let you know if I find one,” Draco harrumphed, and bent his knees to the side so he could go back to his book, rather irate.

The clawed metal feet of the ottoman shrieked on the flagstone floor as Harry scooted even closer. “So we’re alright now? Please say we’re alright. I miss you a lot.”

Draco’s face got unbearably hot. He sank down behind his book, rounded his shoulder and drew in around himself.

Very quietly, Draco admitted, “I was really scared, Harry; I don’t think you understand how much. I sat there alone for over an hour just singing and waiting and thinking my best friend was dead.”

Sadly, Harry said, “Draco, I…”

“So can you promise me that? Can you promise you won’t scare me like that again?”

“I mean, it’s not really up to me—”

“Harry.”

“I’m just saying, Voldemort is clearly out to finish what he started—”

“Harry.”

“But I can promise to do my best. Does that work? I don’t want to scare you like that. I never did. And I can’t see the future but I can say that if the choice is mine, I’ll never hurt you or scare you again.”

Why was Draco’s heart beating so fast? Why was heat radiating down his neck and chest? Why was Harry’s stare, so intense and earnest and penetrating, the only thing Draco could see? Draco had never felt anything like this before and wasn’t sure if he liked it.

“Please?” Harry prompted when, after a protracted silence, Draco couldn’t manage to answer. “The whole summer long, being cut off from everyone like I was, more than anything—more than Hogwarts, more than Ron and Hermione, more than Quidditch, it was you I missed the most.”

The confession did nothing to soothe Draco’s strange agitation. He swallowed a knot in his throat.

“I… all right, I suppose I forgive you, if you’re really sorry,” he said, trying to sound flippant and not quite managing it. The smile that broke across Harry’s face lit up the whole room and every inch of Draco’s skin.

“I am sorry,” Harry assured him. “I definitely didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I know.”

“I’d have brought you down with me, but I figured you’d be better served there keeping Fluffy asleep for when we came back up.”

“That thing’s name was Fluffy?”

“Hagrid’s idea. He’s got a soft touch.”

“He must have,” Draco said, laughing a little as the worst of the nervousness—(was that what it was?)—uncoiled in the center of Draco’s chest. He stared down at his book because it felt easier than looking at Harry, who at that moment was as bright and dazzling and beautiful as the sun.

“Good! I’m glad it’s settled. Nothing feels normal when we’re not friends. Hermione said she told you about what happened with the house-elf, right? The reason I couldn’t get any letters over the summer?”

Draco took a few steadying breaths, willing the heat to dissipate from his skin. “Yes. Very strange. House-elves normally don’t do anything they’re not explicitly told to do.”

“That’s the impression I got,” Harry agreed, “but Dobby said—”

“Wait,” Draco interjected, looking up sharply, “it was Dobby?”

My dear Draco,

What a marvel you are. I had thought, after your first letter, you could not surprise me more—and yet here I am, further amazed. Truly, you are a diamond in the rough. To be so young and so worldly, with an ancient bloodline and a mind as sharp as broken glass—I find myself a bit envious that I can’t add my name to your courting list! To be sure, you will be a remarkable wife one day. I hope the alpha to pay your bride-price knows what they have.

Let me tell you a secret, Draco: I can also sense auras, and have been able to all my life. Like you, I assumed that everyone could, but learned slowly over my years at Hogwarts that the ability was quite singular. It was one of many talents I’d inherited from an ancient bloodline of my own.

Since you’re so curious, I have no idea how long I’ve been inside this diary—time doesn’t seem to work in quite the same way in here—but I can tell you that I was born on New Year’s Eve, 1926, and that I attended Hogwarts through the second half of the 1930s and the early 1940s. But the version of me that is talking to you, the version that is inside this diary, is only sixteen. And he is very pleased to have made your acquaintance.

He is also an alpha, so watch what you say about my sex! Alas, I do understand your misgivings. If only there were more in our number who were unworthy of such scrutiny. I’ve seen how boorish and boastful many of us are, and have always found it as distasteful as you. Being an alpha should mean being a protector, first and foremost—of one’s bride and children and house and holdings. For me, who never had any of that, it has meant protecting a magic and way of life that, as you’ve correctly identified, has been largely lost.

Did you know that the Sacred Twenty-Eight are so distinguished because they trace their ancestry to specific druids who lived before the Roman occupation of Britain? If I recall correctly, House Malfoy has its roots from a druid in Brittany, who was the first wizard to master the art of animal transfiguration—the first Animagus, as we would understand it. That is a legacy that lives in you now, Draco. I wonder what you will do with it.

Come to it, I know an Abraxas Malfoy, French by birth but expatriated to Britain, who is a few years behind me in Hogwarts. He’s a good friend of mine and a fellow Slytherin. I suppose he must be your forebearer, or at least an extended relative. Is he still alive? Do you know of him?

Curiosities upon curiosities. You are an endless mystery that I could easily spend years untangling, Draco Malfoy. When next you write, I urge you to tell me what you and this Hermione discovered in your research, and also more about you. I assure you that I am just as eager to learn about you as you are about me.

Admiringly,
Tom

“Draco? Are you even listening?”

The world came into focus.

Draco was walking down a hallway out of the Great Hall and into the vestibule. Cordelia was at his side, Crabbe and Goyle slightly behind them.

Draco’s head spun like a top and his vision swam. When had he gotten here? The last thing Draco recalled, he’d been lying down for a quick nap before dinner—he’d been rather tired lately—and now here he was on the other side of the castle. There was a distressing void in his memory. When had he gotten here? How had he gotten here?

“I… I’m listening,” Draco said, dazed. Perhaps he was just more tired than he realized.

“So anyway,” Cordelia said, as if continuing from an earlier point that Draco couldn’t recall, “I think if I ask Father to make a donation to the team, I should be able to join it next year. He already said that it’s about time the Slytherin Quidditch team had some new equipment, and if their record last year is any indication, he’s completely right. It’s absurd that Slytherin hasn’t won the Quidditch Cup in a decade, don’t you think so?”

“My head hurts,” Draco muttered, reaching up to rub his temple with one hand. Something slick rubbed off there, and Draco drew his hand away to see traces of red paint under his fingernails. Paint? When had he been painting?

Cordelia kept talking like she didn’t even hear him: “Of course, I’m not nervous about trying out or anything. I’m sure Flint will see what a good flier I am. But Professor Snape has the final say on all new team members and he doesn’t favor me like he does you.”

“Professor Snape doesn’t favor me,” Draco protested. He couldn’t muster much energy for it. His head was pounding something awful.

From behind, Crabbe said, “Your hair smells really nice, Draco. Like roses.”

Draco frowned over his shoulder at Crabbe, who was staring at the hair that ran down Draco’s back. “You should keep your pets on a shorter leash,” he said to Cordelia admonishingly.

“They’re alphas,” Cordelia answered with a gamely shrug. “You know how we are.”

Draco’s face contorted. “Unfortunately.”

She met Draco’s reproach with scorn, of course: “If Crabbe fancies you, perhaps I could convince Father to add him to your courting list. Perhaps when I tell Father what a slag you are, he’ll give him a discount on your bride-price.”

“I’m not a slag!” Draco snapped.

“Then stop talking to alphas, slag,” Cordelia answered.

“I’ll start with you, then!”

“What’s that?” said Goyle suddenly from behind, which drew all eyes forward.

Draco hadn’t even noticed until it was right in front of him—the students flowing out of the Great Hall had all slowed to a stop, forming a mass wrapping around a particular section of wall. Standing in the middle of the clearing were Harry, Ron, and Hermione, staring owlishly out at the crowd, who in turn was staring at—

THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED.

“Enemies of the Heir, beware!” Cordelia shrilled, giddy. “You’ll be next, Mudbloods.”

The petrified cat and the blood red paint made for a grisly scene. Students around them were gasping, muttering—one was even sobbing.

Draco could barely perceive any of it. His eyes went back down to his hands, and the remains of the red paint beneath his fingernails. It was the same color as the one that was scrawled on the wall.

His heart was beating loudly in his ears. The questions became more urgent: how had he gotten here? When had he gotten here?

Tom,

There’s something strange happening to me, I think.

I’ve had some very peculiar dreams lately, which, considered alone, I would not necessarily count as strange—but some of them have, I think, been coming true? Or perhaps—I don’t even know. I’m quite frightened.

No one in my family has any talent for divination, as best I can recall. I know that a strong Inner Eye can sometimes manifest spontaneously, but if that’s the case, I’ve received no indication of it before now.

But I don’t think it’s prophecy. I think I’m doing things in my sleep. Bad things. I wake up in places without remembering how I got there, with signs of distress on my body—scratches, sometimes, or bruises or broken nails or torn clothes. To make matters worse, there have been horrible things going on at Hogwarts. Hagrid’s roosters have been killed. Mrs. Norris, the cat of the caretaker, has been petrified and strung up, near a message on the wall: The Chamber of Secrets has been opened.

I’ve heard of the Chamber, of course—my grandfather (Abraxas, as you correctly deduced) used to tell me and Cordelia stories about the last time it opened, about the Muggle-born girl who was killed. He said there was some half-breed who took the fall, but that the real assailant was never caught. Cordelia would always ask who the Heir was, and Grandpapa would never say, only smile strangely.

Tom, if you were my grandfather’s friend, then surely you must know something. Please, tell me everything you can. I feel like my body is no longer my own, and it is frightening beyond all description. I don’t want to hurt anyone.

I’m sorry. I wish this letter was more lighthearted, but my heart isn’t so light anymore.

With love,
Draco

“Hermione, I need to talk to you.”

“Good! I need to talk to you, too.”

It was Tuesday, and Draco had barely slept since Sunday when Colin Creevey had been found petrified. Draco had woken up in the middle of the Slytherin common room just before, drenched in a cold sweat even though he was standing in front of the roaring fireplace. He’d run back into the dormitory and found all the other omegas sleeping, because it was after midnight.

He and Hermione had found each other near the library, and she was the first to pull him inside by the wrist. Draco hoped she couldn’t feel his blood thundering through his veins.

“Me first,” she said as they ducked between two rows of shelves together, “it’s quick. Does your family descend from Salazar Slytherin at all?”

Draco recoiled a step back, taking in a sharp breath. Did she suspect him as the Heir? His heart, already pounding, doubled its speed.

“No!” he answered, a little frantic. “No, we don’t—we—not to my knowledge, anyway, and my father had me memorize my family tree back five generations.”

She huffed a sigh. “See, that’s what I thought. I told Ron that if you knew anything about who the Heir of Slytherin was, you’d tell us, especially if the Heir was Cordelia.”

Draco opened his mouth, snapped it shut. “I… you think it’s Cordelia?”

“I don’t think it’s Cordelia,” Hermione assured him. “I think Cordelia is a nasty little brat who deserves to have a few teeth knocked out, but I don’t think she has the spine or the stomach to attack anyone. But Ron can’t be talked out of the idea.”

“Oh,” Draco said, a little deflated.

“It’s like he knows Harry would lay into him if he said it was you, so he’s redirected all that anger onto Cordelia. At least she’s worthier of it. How do you stand her?”

“I don’t, generally,” Draco answered. “I… Hermione, I need… there’s something…”

“Are you all right, Draco? You’re shaking.”

Was he? When she reached out to grip his hands, wringing together in a knot of fingers near his breastbone, he discovered that he was.

A small part of him wished that she did suspect him of being the Heir. If anyone could figure out a way to stop this, to stop him, it would be her.

Because what other explanation was there? All the time Draco was losing, it always happened around the time of the attacks. Past that, there was often physical evidence of his escapades on his body.

What if he was the Heir of Slytherin? What if it was Grandpapa Abraxas who’d opened the Chamber the first time? What if these gaps in his memory were some darkness in his blood asserting itself? And what if getting Hermione involved, a Muggle-born herself, put her in Draco’s path? What if he hurt her? Merlin, Draco would never forgive himself.

“Draco!” Hermione suddenly said, alarmed, and reached toward him to wipe his face with the hem of her sleeve. He’d been crying, apparently. Draco hadn’t even noticed.

“I have to go,” he said, and could only add a feeble, “I’m sorry,” before racing past her and away.

Draco, my dear little bird,

You must remain calm, first and foremost. You will be no good to anyone if you’re hysterical.

I urge you to consider the plain facts, beginning with those about yourself. When you lose time as you’ve described, you are not in control of yourself and have no memories after the fact, so we can soundly deduce that whoever it is, it is not “you” in a meaningful way. And whoever it is opening the Chamber of Secrets, he’s leaving you out of harm’s way, isn’t he? Apart from a few bumps and bruises and a little fatigue, you seem to be in no immediate danger.

And because it is such a small world (how curious that the man you call Grandpapa I recall as my dearest friend!), I do have insight about the Chamber of Secrets, and when it opened it in June, 1943. The death of the little Mudblood girl—Myrtle, I believe?—was tragic, of course, but in a way, unavoidable. The power that was unlocked was ancient and tremendous and demanded sacrifice… or did you imagine the lost magic which so fascinates you to be sunshine and daffodils? No, Draco, magic as old as that was never kind. When it awakened, it demanded a price for its long dormancy, a score that needed to be settled.

But you, my bird, have no need to fear that darkness. You are pure—untouched and unspoiled, blood and bone and body—and the legacy you carry in your veins will protect you. Your kind heart does you credit, Draco: I love that you care so much for your fellow students, but it is a worry misplaced. The Chamber, and the beast within it, are not your enemy, and this is not your battle to fight.

Be at peace, little bird, and sleep easy. You are in no danger. I would never allow it.

Yours most ardently,
Tom

Draco never wanted to sleep again.

How could he? How could he sleep knowing that every time he did, he’d risk another attack? Whatever Tom said, people were getting hurt.

Draco didn’t know how to respond to his last entry, and so he hadn’t. Maybe if he kept that damn diary locked up in his trunk under his bed and didn’t think about it, didn’t touch it, and certainly didn’t write in it, this whole situation would go away. Professor Sprout’s mandrakes would be cultivated and everyone would go back to normal and no one would ever have to know what happened.

Draco could spend the rest of his life pretending that it had only been a very bad dream.

He tried to return to his life as normal. He threw himself into his studies, which was a hard thing to do when refusing to sleep for any substantial length of time. He checked up on the mandrakes frequently (because Professor Sprout was offering it as extra credit, and not because of the sucking chest wound of guilt). He kept to himself.

Or at least he tried to.

“Are you sure you’re not related to Salazar Slytherin?”

Draco jerked at the voice, in part because he hadn’t been expecting it and in part because he’d been nodding off on his book.

“Hmmwhat?”

When he blinked open his sleep-blurred eyes, Harry was standing over him. Draco stared at him in perplexed silence, too foggy to process the question.

“Are… are you all right, Draco? You seem…”

“I’m fine,” Draco answered, a reflex. Lots of people had been asking him lately if he was all right. He could only suppose it was because of how dreadfully not all right he looked.

“If you say so,” Harry said doubtfully, sliding into his usual spot in the armchair across from Draco’s in their little study nook on the second floor. “You know, if you know something about Cordelia, you don’t have to protect her. I know she’s your sister and all, but if she’s up to something—”

“Merlin, this again,” Draco sighed. “Harry, Cordelia is not the Heir of Slytherin.”

“How can you be sure?” Harry pressed. “Salazar Slytherin lived thousands of years ago, right? Maybe you are his descendants.”

The fogginess of Draco’s exhaustion gave way to dread. He felt his body curl in on itself and his heart start thudding against the front of his chest.

“Stop it,” Draco answered, voice wavering. “Just stop, Harry, please. I don’t want to talk about this.”

But, infuriatingly, Harry just kept talking: “I mean, your whole family has been in Slytherin, right? And past a certain point, everyone’s family tree gets a little foggy. And with the way—”

“Stop it!”

Draco was on his feet before he even realized he was moving, the book he’d been reading overturned on the floor. His hands had balled to trembling fists at his sides, and Harry was staring at him with big, startled green eyes.

“What do you know about it? Nothing! You don’t know anything about my family, about pureblood culture, or even about Cordelia! Maybe I am related to Salazar Slytherin, maybe I’m not! Maybe you’re related to him! House Potter is just as ancient!”

“Draco,” Harry interjected, standing and raising both hands as if placating a scared animal, “calm down. I wasn’t trying to accuse—”

“Shut up! Yes, you were! And I’m not going to sit here and let you point fingers at my family when you don’t know—you don’t know—!”

Harry was talking. Draco couldn’t hear him.

He didn’t know. He had no idea. And in a horrible, nauseating, terrifying way, neither did Draco.

Draco stormed out of the room while Harry was mid-sentence.

Two days later, Draco woke up in the middle of a shower with no memory of the previous few hours. Not long after that, Justin Fitch-Fletchley and Nearly-Headless Nick were found petrified.

Tom,

I know it’s you. It must be you.

How could you do this? Are the lives of these children worth so little to you that you’d send a monster after them? What is it you even hope to gain through all this violence? There’s no magic, lost or otherwise, worth this kind of terror and pain.

And how could you do this to me? Do you not even care what this is doing to me, how guilty I feel, how scared I am when I wake up with open wounds in my memory? I thought you cared about me. I thought you cared. How could you do this? Tom, how could you?

This is your last chance, Tom, before I burn this f*cking diary to cinders. Who are you? Why are you doing this? Stop hurting them at once or I’ll rip your pages out one by one. Stop it stop it stop it stop it STOP IT STOP IT

There were always a few days, sometimes a few weeks, between Draco’s entries and Tom’s responses. But it had never felt so long as it did after the one Draco wrote in mid-December.

A blizzard came in over the highlands, dropping a foot of snow over the castle, muffling everything, even the howling wind which accompanied it.

Draco stayed behind at Hogwarts for Yule, not because he wanted to, but because he could not bear to see his father. He was an assemblage of broken pieces that he was only just holding together; he could not confront the man who struck that first shattering blow.

But because Draco stayed behind, Cordelia did, too. And because Cordelia did, so did Crabbe and Goyle, which was annoying.

“So,” Crabbe said after the Christmas feast.

“Stop trying to smell my hair!” Draco snapped, whirling around in his seat. Crabbe, who’d come up behind Draco’s chair in the Slytherin common room, reeled back a step, eyes wide.

“Gross,” he said.

Draco scoffed. “It’s gross now, is it? Because Marietta has it on good authority that you tried to break into the omega dormitory to steal my clothes. Freak.”

“Gross,” Crabbe said again, genuinely horrified so far as Draco could tell. Draco narrowed his eyes.

“What do you want, Crabbe? Shouldn’t you be licking my sister’s boots or something?”

The question seemed to shake Crabbe out of his thoughts. “I… no. I mean, no! I don’t want to talk to Cordelia.” He coughed into his fist, and intentionally deepened his voice to say, “Everybody thinks it’s her, you know.”

There was something about Crabbe’s voice that was different. And familiar. Draco’s head was pounding and his temper short, and for a time, he couldn’t quite figure out what the strange feeling coming off him was—

“The Heir of Slytherin. They think it’s her, attacking everyone. But if the Malfoys are descended from Salazar Slytherin, it’s just as likely to be you, isn’t it?”

—until he did. It wasn’t a feeling, it was his aura. Crabbe wasn’t Crabbe. He was—how was that possible? If he wasn’t Crabbe, who was he?

“No one would suspect a sweet little omega could do all this horrible stuff. And Cordelia says it’s not her, so—”

“Weasley?” Draco blurted out.

Crabbe’s eyes went wide. He scampered backward.

“Are you… are you under Polyjuice?” It was the only explanation that made any sense. How else could Crabbe not be Crabbe? How else could his aura feel clear and blue instead of thick and gray? “Why would you…”

Draco looked past Crabbe-not-Crabbe. On the far side of the common room, Goyle was talking to Cordelia, sprawled on the chaise, mid-sentence: “… wish I did know who it was. I could help them.”

“Uh,” Crabbe stammered out, “I… I don’t know what you—”

Slowly, horribly, it all became clear.

“Right,” Draco hissed, fists clenching. “Of course. My denial wasn’t enough. You had to go and sneak around behind my back. Is Harry Goyle?”

“I…”

“I thought you were my friends,” Draco continued. It was getting harder to breathe, perhaps because of the knife in his back. “Or I—I at least hoped you didn’t hate me so much as to lie to my face—”

Weasley-Crabbe was backing away slowly, looking afraid and contrite like a crup caught digging up the garden. “I… we…”

Draco stormed past Weasley-Crabbe, straight to Harry-Goyle, who, when Draco slapped him across the face, staggered back in shock.

“Ha!” Cordelia laughed at once. “What’d you do to him, Goyle? Must have been good!”

“You’re unbelievable,” Draco hissed, eyes burning, and sprinted from the common room.

Dear Draco, sweet Draco, how young and how beautiful and how naive you are.

Perhaps you’ll understand one day; I hope you do. Perhaps as you grow, you’ll learn the importance of my mission, see the grand design in these, my disparate actions. Perhaps you’ll come to accept the fundamental difference between alpha and omega, because as of yet it seems you don’t:

When, my sweet little songbird, did I ever give you the impression that I required, or even cared for, your consent?

Draco tried to burn the diary, but the paper wouldn’t catch.

He tried to rip the pages out, but they grew back.

Blades couldn’t cut it. Spells bounced off it. No matter what Draco did, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t destroy it.

Eventually, Draco threw it down the toilet and ran back to his dormitory to cry for the rest of the evening. It wouldn’t be enough, he was sure. But he didn’t know what else to do. He was so tired, and so scared, and the people he thought were his friends had gone behind his back because they didn’t trust him.

He spent so much time over the next few weeks crying and hiding away in his bed. It was a misery compounded by the fact that certain Gryffindors kept trying to corner him.

Hermione first, tearful— “I’m sorry, Draco, I swear I did believe you, but Ron was just so sure it was Cordelia, and we didn’t have any other suspects…” Draco ran back to the dungeons to hide before she could see him weeping.

Then Harry a few days later, desperate— “Draco, please believe me, I never wanted to hurt you! It was Cordelia I didn’t trust, not you—God, please don’t cry, I never…” Draco screamed to be left alone and fled the library.

Then Weasley a week later, surprisingly enough, hesitant but earnestly contrite— “If it makes you feel better, Hermione absolutely raked me over hot coals for it. I… in hindsight, it was a sort of rotten thing to do, but for whatever it’s worth, I believe you now…” Draco said nothing, just stared at him and shook, wanting for Ron to be suspicious again, for someone to stop all this, to take all the fear and the pain away from him. But how was he supposed to ask for something like that? He barely even knew what was happening to him, let alone how to stop it.

On Valentine’s Day, Draco got a huge pile of cards and gifts that he barely even noticed. Cordelia helped herself to the sweets and Draco curled up in bed behind drawn curtains for the rest of the day.

The room was huge and dark and echoing. From somewhere, there was a soft hiss reverberating off the high ceiling—running water? Draco couldn’t quite tell.

As his vision adjusted to the darkness, Draco became aware of a figure in front of him.

“Tom?”

He knew him first by aura: copper and ashes. Was it copper? In the clarity of isolation, it tasted more like blood. A tremor raced down Draco’s body.

“Hello, Draco.”

He was more handsome than Draco had expected him to be—tall and pale, with dark hair and a fine-boned face. Draco’s legs tried to move, to retreat away, but couldn’t. He was paralyzed.

“I regret that it had to happen this way,” he said, and came forward. One hand reached down to cup the side of Draco’s face. His skin was cold like marble, and Draco’s breath stuttered as it left his lips. He began to shake. “If I’d had the opportunity, I’d have warned you in advance. For now, just keep your eyes on me. Can you do that, songbird?”

Draco couldn’t speak. From the dark places of the cavernous room in which they stood, the hissing grew louder and clearer. It wasn’t running water.

“The patrician beauty of House Malfoy,” Tom remarked as his thumb, icy cold, stroked across Draco’s cheekbone again and again, “combined with the storied magical acumen of House Black. An inspired match, and an excellent specimen of an omega to show for it. Even in adolescence, you possess such allure. If I find my way out of this godforsaken diary—when I find my way out—I’ll make you mine. Your father has already proved very tractable with my intentions. He offered you up so readily when last we spoke.”

A single long, low hiss sounded, directly behind Draco. A whimper raked up and out of his throat.

“Don’t look away. Keep your eyes on me.”

Scaled flesh sliding across stone. A great current of smooth air that caught the ends of Draco’s hair. A massive, shadowy body slid past, just out of Draco’s periphery.

“A few troublesome obstacles remain. Fortunately, one of them is coming to me right now, walking into my waiting trap. It seems I’m not the only alpha with eyes for you.”

“No,” Draco said, because somehow he knew that Tom meant Harry. “No, you can’t.”

Tom smiled in a cruel facsimile of indulgence. “On the contrary, I must. If it makes you feel any better, you actually have very little to do with it. I’ve learned quite a lot from those little stints controlling your mind, you see. I know who he is and what he did. I can’t allow the Boy Who Lived to live twice.”

The bottom dropped out of Draco’s stomach. Trembling graduated into full shaking as all the pieces clicked together.

“No,” Draco whispered. “No, you…”

“Are you scared, little bird? There’s no need to be,” Tom said, and as the great, shadowy body coiled around them both, he leaned in close. “There’s nothing you can do, after all.”

Closer, closer, so close Draco thought that their lips might touch.

Instead, Tom grabbed Draco’s left forearm hard—so hard, so tightly, so suddenly that Draco thought surely his bones would snap under the grip. Draco screamed, recoiled, trashed. Hot blood seeped between Tom’s freezing cold fingers, down toward the ditch of Draco’s elbow.

“Eyes,” Tom hissed through clenched teeth, “on me.”

Draco woke screaming, sleeve soaked with hot blood and heart pounding in his ears.

“Draco! Thank Merlin you’re awake! We could really use your help!”

The first thing Draco noticed was the sense of lost time, like he had just woken up from a very, very long sleep.

The second thing Draco noticed was the massive basilisk. His panting turned to wheezing.

“Harry found your diary.” It was Ron. Draco’s frantic eyes turned to him as he struggled to his feet. “Something inside it said that you were in danger, and Harry freaked out—”

Harry.

There he was, facing down the enormous serpent. Red blood was fountaining out of the beast’s eyes and running down its scales, but still it lashed, fang first, toward him. Harry only just barely dodged out of the way. Hermione, at his side, was slinging frantic spells, each of which rebounded off its hide.

“—and dragged us out of bed and straight down here—”

Once Ron had stood, he hauled Draco up, but Draco’s attention was wholly on the fight. Harry and Hermione seemed so incredibly small beneath the massive snake.

“—and no one knows we’re down here! Draco, do you know how to get out? Or better yet, how to kill that thing?”

“Even if you kill it,” came a high, clear voice, “you still won’t be rid of me.”

Heart thudding, Draco turned frantic eyes to the far side of the room, where standing against the wall—

“Tom,” Draco choked. “Stop it! If you ever cared about me, let them go! Please!”

“I am immortal,” Tom said, as though Draco hadn’t even spoken. “I am omnipotent. You cannot kill me in a way that matters.”

Harry screamed. It was the worst sound Draco ever heard. When he looked over, the basilisk’s massive fangs were buried in Harry’s shoulder—

“No!” Draco screamed.

“Harry!” Ron echoed.

“Flagrate!” Harry roared, a spell cast directly inside the basilisk’s mouth, still clamped around Harry’s body. Brilliant red fire lit the beast from the inside; it recoiled, thrashed, rolled.

Hermione dove in with a follow-up spell—“Deprimo!”—which blasted a hole through its jaw. The beast stopped moving after a time, though still its corpse turned black and burned.

But Draco wasn’t looking at Hermione. He was at Harry’s side before he even realized he’d moved, collapsing at his side. Dark, arterial blood was soaking his robes, and he was going alarmingly gray.

“No-no-no!” Ron cried, falling to his knees on Harry’s other side.

“Basilisk venom is deadly!” Hermione intoned, frantic. “We—we need to get him to Madam Pomfrey—”

“He’ll be dead before you even find the exit,” came Tom’s cold, jeering voice. Draco turned. Tears made Tom’s form blurry and indistinct. Draco shook, cold with rage and fear and blood loss. “One bite is all it takes. The Boy Who Lived, dead at last. Long overdue.”

Draco looked back down. Harry was fading fast, breath slowing, eyes unfocusing—but he was smiling.

“You’re all right,” Harry said, delirious. “I’m so glad you’re all right. I—I get it now, Draco, why you were so upset—”

“Harry.” Draco’s voice came as an embarrassing whimper.

“—seeing me swan off and put myself in danger last year, I finally get it. When I heard you were in danger, I…”

“Harry.”

“Nothing else mattered. I’m so glad you’re safe. I’m…”

His voice faded like the rest of him. Draco’s throat was so tight that he felt like he couldn’t breathe.

Eventually, Harry stopped moving altogether.

“No,” Ron said, frantic. “No, he can’t—he can’t really be—”

“Oh, but he is,” Tom crooned. “Better late than never, I suppose—or is it early?”

Draco turned one more time to face Tom. A long time ago, he’d made a promise to his mother—a promise he’d broken only once, when the need was great.

Tonight, the need was even greater.

“Do you still have the diary?” Draco asked Hermione.

She was shaking where she stood. “It… he put it in his robe.”

Draco shoved his shaking hands between the folds of Harry’s robe. The diary, small and green and so unassuming, came free from the inner pocket. Draco stared at it hatefully.

The magic surrounding it was dark and viscous—but powerful. It was more than enough.

“Take your price,” Draco hissed.

“What are you—?” Hermione began, but couldn’t finish, because the diary burst into flame, bright and blue.

Behind, Tom screamed.

Draco held the diary firm, even as the fire ate away at it, blistering his fingers.

“Energy for energy. Life for life. Take, and give.”

Harry came awake with a wheezing breath, a violent cough, a jerk forward—he spat black bile, basilisk venom, onto the floor beside him.

Tom screamed, and burned, and vanished.

Draco collapsed and the world went dark.

“… injured? Merlin, is he even conscious?”

For the first time in a long time, Draco’s mind felt quiet.

“He has a superficial wound on his left arm that’s resisting my magic, but other than that…”

He was so tired. On a certain level, he’d been tired for months now, but alongside that exhaustion had existed a paranoia, a dreadful and bone-deep certainty that he must not sleep—but that feeling was gone now. There was a hand in his hair and a familiar scent nearby. Draco felt safe. There was a dull pain in his arm, but it was ignorable, and he could fall back asleep if he cared to.

“… an owl to the Manor. I’m sure they’ll be along soon.”

“And what of his sister? Should we tell her? She’s your godchild, too.”

Severus.

Draco took in a slow, deep breath, forced open tired eyes. He was in the Hospital Wing, lying on a cot. The windows were dark, and so was the room, lit only by small, flickering pools of candlelight from each of the bedside tables.

“Cordelia can keep. I’m not going to alarm a dormitory full of students in the middle of the night. Her father will likely want to break the news, in any case—”

“Professor?”

He was seated on the very edge of Draco’s bed, and when Draco spoke, turned away from Madam Pomfrey to him.

“Draco,” he said, a sigh of relief that took the shape of his name. “Thank Merlin. Are you all right? How are you feeling?”

“I…”

For being made of such simple words, it was a very complicated question. Was Draco all right? He honestly didn’t know.

His arm ached, and he was still very tired, and there was a gash in his soul that let in a terrible draft, but the fear was gone. Was that a kind of all right? How would Draco know if it wasn’t?

“Dumbledore told me what happened,” Snape continued, expression furrowed with concern, when Draco didn’t answer. He petted Draco’s hair, which felt nice. “And those Gryffindor dunderheads you insist on associating with filled in the other gaps.”

“Harry,” Draco said suddenly. “Is he—he’s—?”

“He’s fine,” Snape answered. “They’re all fine. Shaken, perhaps, and a bit scraped up, but standing.”

Draco felt something in the middle of his chest uncoil. He sank back down into his bed.

“You seem to be the one who took the worst of it,” Snape continued, and his hand left Draco’s hair to gently push up his left sleeve, dark brown with dried blood. “Draco, what is this?”

Draco looked down. It was a deep, nasty cut, in the shape of a very long and slightly curved V. Seeing it made the dull pain sharpen. Draco drew an unsteady breath, forced his hand to clench and unclench, a movement which sent sparks of pain flying through the injured muscles.

“I,” Draco whispered, voice tremulous, “I don’t know.”

“Whatever it is,” Madam Pomfrey intoned, “magic isn’t fixing it, though it did stop bleeding on its own. All indications are that it will heal naturally, though its resistance to healing magic is… worrying.”

“Potter told me about the diary,” Snape said. “Draco, is it true that it was possessing you?”

Draco curled in on himself, drew his injured arm close to his body. Quietly, he admitted, “It’s true.”

Voice ruined with emotion, Snape continued, “Why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t you come to me?”

“I didn’t know at first. He was just Tom. And by the time I worked it out, worked out what I was doing, what he was making me do, I—I was scared. I’m sorry, Professor. I’m so sorry.”

“Merlin preserve me,” Snape whispered, and pulled Draco forward into a tight embrace. Draco tried very hard to keep himself from falling apart. “Where did you even get the diary? Where could you have possibly—”

And, as fate would have it, that was the precise moment the door of the Hospital Wing banged open, and in strode Lucius Malfoy.

Draco’s reaction was immediate and consuming, more intense than anything he’d felt the whole school year long. All at once, he tried to extricate himself from Snape’s arms and scamper away, to middling success.

“No,” Draco said. “No-no-no-no—”

“I just received the owl,” Lucius said.

“No! No, no, no! Stay away! Stay away from me!”

“Draco,” Snape said, stunned, “what are—”

“Why would you do this to me!” Draco screamed, and kept scrambling, pressing himself backward into the metal headboard of the hospital bed, fisting his hands in his hair and curling into himself. “Why would you do this! Why do you hate me so much!”

“Draco,” Lucius began, voice thin and brittle, but Snape had already put it together.

“You?”

His voice was low and dangerous. He stood, spun, incandescent with anger.

“You gave him the diary? Your own son?”

“How could you,” Draco sobbed, how could he, how could he do this, what had Draco done to deserve his father’s hatred? Was he just born wrong? He’d always known that the label of omega meant he was worth less, but he hadn’t realized just how much less.

The next few hours blurred together. He would be told much later, by a starry-eyed Harry who’d been listening at the door, that Snape had punched Lucius in the teeth and sent him sprawling onto the floor.

Draco wouldn’t remember it, though. All he remembered was clinging onto his godfather’s shoulders, burying his face in his chest, and weeping, “I don’t want to go back with him, I don’t want to go back,” and hearing Severus whisper that he’d make sure he wouldn’t.

Chapter 4: Mark of the Serpent

Chapter Text

Draco spent that summer with Professor Snape at his little two-bedroom home in co*keworth.

He’d never really given much thought to where Professor Snape might live—naturally, Draco had never been allowed to visit—but the dreary little run-down building in the middle of a dreary little run-down Muggle neighborhood did suit him. It was well-kept, but very spare and dark. What few furnishings the home had were old and worn, and it had almost no decorations at all.

Draco made it his project to liven the place up. With a few handy reference guides for domestic magic, Draco reupholstered the sofa, painted the walls, and refinished the hardwood floor. Then he set to cleaning all the windows and polishing the brass fixtures in the kitchen before repairing the broken tiles in the bathroom walls. Draco got as far as putting in a small garden before Snape came home from shopping.

“What in Merlin’s name have you done to my house?”

Draco sat up from where he’d been planting some of the lavender and foxglove he’d ordered from the nursery the day before. “I’m helping!” he answered at once.

“I think helping might not be a strong enough word, considering the volume of work alone,” Snape said. “Did you paint the sitting room? I’ve only been gone an hour!”

“Do you not like the color? The leather furniture looks so nice against burgundy!”

“It’s—yes, Draco, with some reluctance, I’ll admit that your taste is impeccable. It’s not that, it’s—what triggered all this?”

Draco wrung his hands together in his lap. Even with the thick gardening gloves he’d found in Snape’s shed, he was still dirty to his elbows.

“I… I want to earn my keep. It’s the least I can do, right? You’re so generous to let me stay, and you always comfort me after the nightmares, and I…”

Draco trailed off. Snape was silent for a moment. Then, briefly, he ducked back into the kitchen to set the bag of groceries he’d bought on the counter before heading to Draco’s side and crouching down next to him.

“Draco,” he said slowly, “listen to me carefully: you’re not my lodger, you’re my godson. You do not have to earn your keep. You don’t owe me anything. Family relationships should not be transactional.”

Draco had no explanation for why Snape’s words made his throat tight.

“I know your father hasn’t exactly been a shining example of alpha masculinity, but while you’re under my roof, you can relax. I expect neither silent subservience nor mindless domesticity. You’re thirteen. Go play with frogs and skin your knees.”

“Frogs are gross,” Draco told him with a frown. “I’d rather plant flowers.”

“And I suppose you expect me to tend them once you’re gone?”

“They’re useful!” Draco insisted. “Lavender can make tea and foxglove is used in sleeping potions.”

Snape’s expression gentled into a smile. Taking it as tacit permission to continue, Draco went back to filling in the soil around the foxglove.

“Your mother sent a letter,” Snape said eventually. “She wants to visit.”

Draco kept his eyes on the ground. “Alone?” he asked, a bit stiffly.

“With Cordelia as escort, I believe.”

Draco huffed a sigh. Of course Lucius wouldn’t let her leave the house, even to the home of her child’s godfather, without an alpha at her side. As if Cordelia, a twelve-year-old brat, was any sort of escort for anybody.

“Fine,” Draco said, and used a spell to soak the ground around the foxglove’s roots, “I suppose, if he’s not coming.”

“You’ll have to face him eventually, you know,” Snape answered, standing up.

“Eventually,” Draco conceded, “but not until I absolutely must.”

Dear Draco,

You’ll be quite annoyed, no doubt, to hear that Ron, if his last letter is any indication, has yet to give up on his insistence that the spell you cast to save Harry’s life in the Chamber of Secrets was Dark Magic. I’m sure he’d stop if you weren’t so cagey about what sort of magic it actually was. Why are you so cagey about it? It’s very unlike you to not want to talk about magic. And also I haven’t had any luck on my research so I really must insist you tell me.

As for Harry, his last owl said that he was expecting a visit from his Aunt Marge, which he implied he was dreading, and ever since then I’ve heard nothing. Have you? Every time I learn something new about the wretched family Harry lives with, the less I like the whole situation. I think if I don’t hear from him by the second week of August, I’ll head there myself. I know his relatives hate magic, but I can still pass for a Muggle if I need to. And I’m not afraid to hex them.

Speaking of August, now that I’m back from my holiday in France, I wanted to invite you formally to a sleepover! After begging my parents, they finally agreed to let me host one. I can’t invite Harry or Ron, of course, but after a very embarrassing conversation about omega physiology they agreed to let you come. I’m also inviting Ginny Weasley—Ron’s younger sister, did you ever meet her?—and also Parvati Patil and Marietta Edgecomb. I’ve always wanted to have a proper sleepover so I’m quite excited by the idea! It will be very fun. We’ll have lots of food and play games and maybe even help each other with school work! Please say you’ll come!

How are things with Professor Snape, now that you’ve been there a while? You’ve always insisted he’s actually very nice, and I’ve never been able to picture it! I can’t imagine him not barking orders about potions and glowering, I guess.

Please RSVP in regards to the sleepover by next week!

Love from
Hermione

Draco hadn’t been sure what to expect when he agreed to let Mother and Cordelia visit—would they be angry? Remorseful? Disappointed?—but of all possibilities, the very last he’d expected was awkward.

But that’s what it was: across the little kitchen table from his mother and his sister, with Professor Snape seated beside him and a pot of tea that was still steaming hot, the silence that grew between them was awkward before it was anything else.

“I admit, Severus,” Mother said after a long lapse of silence, “I hadn’t expected your bachelor pad to be so well-decorated. The drawing room in particular is lovely.”

“You have your son to thank for that, believe it or not,” Snape answered. “He seems to be intent on renovating the whole building, despite my insistence that he doesn’t have to. He’s working on the back garden this week.”

“A potions master should have a garden,” Draco protested feebly, staring down into his untouched cup of tea.

Mother laughed mildly. Then she stopped laughing and it got awkward again.

Then, after having said absolutely nothing since arriving, Cordelia suddenly spoke up, sounding surly: “Father said you’ve abandoned your family.”

“Cordelia!” Mother hissed.

But Draco had been expecting hostility from her, and was ready. “Father says lots of things,” he bit back, “much of it nonsense. But then, you never did bother to think for yourself, did you? Best let someone else do the thinking for you.”

Cordelia sneered and crossed her arms over her chest. “You should show respect to your sire.”

“My sire shouldn’t try to kill me, and yet here we are.”

“He didn’t try to kill you. Stop being dramatic!”

“What would you know about it?”

“Stop it, both of you!” Mother said, voice harder than Draco had ever heard it. It was surprising enough to silence both her children. “This is not why we came, Cordelia.”

Cordelia looked like she wanted to keep fighting, but cowed under her mother’s stern gaze. She did mumble, a little irritably, “I still think he’s being dramatic.”

“I just wanted to check up on you, darling,” Mother said, reaching across the table to take Draco’s hand, resting near his teacup. “With you being away at Hogwarts, I haven’t seen you in nearly a year. I’ve missed you.”

Draco softened at his mother’s words, gripped her hand back and smiled. “I’ve missed you, too,” he admitted. “I don’t want to be away from you, I just… I can’t…”

Unconsciously, Draco’s free hand went to the opposite forearm. The hard, raised edges of the long, V-shaped scar were tangible even through the fabric of his sleeve, and even the gentle touch elicited an ache of pain. It hadn’t healed fully. Draco doubted it ever would. There was magic in it, snarling and twisting and dark and obscure.

“I almost died down there,” Draco admitted, voice scarcely above a whisper. “That diary—there was no way he didn’t know what it was when he gave it to me. And I’m so scared—I don’t want to hear his excuses. What if he did it to deliberately hurt me? Or worse, what if he didn’t? What if the intent was just to open the Chamber, and he saw my life as a price worth paying to achieve that end?”

“Draco,” his mother said, the shape of her face changing, “your father loves you.”

“Does he?” Draco asked. “Are you sure?”

The question should have been dismissive, but it came out desperately earnest, because that was the truth of it: Draco didn’t know if his father loved him. Through much of his youth, he’d assumed that Lucius had loved him perfunctorily, because he was his son and fathers were supposed to love their sons. Now he wasn’t so sure.

“I,” his mother began, and then didn’t seem to know how to finish. Her heart was breaking in every line of her face, and Draco hated to see it, but hated that she didn’t know the answer to his question even more.

“This is stupid!” Cordelia suddenly interjected, standing up so quickly that the legs of her chair went shrieking backward across the tiled kitchen floor. “Father wouldn’t try to kill you! It was obviously a test that you failed!”

“Cordelia,” Snape growled, but Draco spoke over him:

“A test of what?”

“I don’t know! Loyalty! To your family and culture! To the old ways!”

“And how was I supposed to pass this test? Kill my peers? Be explicit, Cordelia!”

She stared back at Draco hatefully, hands balled into fists, eyes narrowed.

“Father gave me a dangerous magical artifact that possessed me, that forced me to attack our classmates! It sent me into the lair of a basilisk that nearly killed me and three of my friends! All this without the slightest indication of what that diary was—so you tell me, Cordelia, how would you have passed the test?”

“I would have helped the Heir! Those Mudbloods deserved what they got!”

Silence hit the room like an avalanche. For reasons Draco couldn’t quite articulate, he was stunned. Was the hate twisting his little sister’s face into a grotesque caricature of itself something new, or had it always been there, with Draco refusing to notice? Was this what hatred did to a face? Perhaps it was—after all, her resemblance to Lucius had never been stronger.

“Out,” Snape said, very quietly and very dangerously, “of my house.”

“Severus,” his mother began.

“I’m sorry, Narcissa, but I will not tolerate this kind of language under my roof,” Snape said to her, before turning his baleful attention to Cordelia. She flinched away at first, then screwed up her courage and met his gaze just as he continued: “Perhaps your father has taught you to mistake hatred for pride, but I assure you, Ms. Malfoy, from personal experience, that the prejudicial bullsh*t your father spews is indicative of a fundamental flaw in the soul, and not of nobility.”

Draco gawped. Cordelia’s face went an alarming shade of red. Neither of them had ever heard Professor Snape talk like this.

“So feel free to come back when you understand that,” Snape continued, “but until then—out.”

“You can’t—” Cordelia began.

“Out.”

They left in short order, Mother’s hand gripping her daughter’s shoulder with bruising force. They left through the Floo, and when the flames died back down, the house felt quieter than it had before.

“I apologize for cutting short your mother’s visit,” Snape said eventually.

Draco shook his head. He felt starstruck, too stunned to speak.

“Perhaps we can find a way for just the two of you to meet,” he continued, which is when Draco dove forward and hugged him tightly around the middle.

Snape stiffened at first, as though startled, then sighed through a little laugh.

“I’d expected you to be upset,” he confessed. “What’s this for?”

Draco didn’t answer. He didn’t know. But it felt important in a way that was too big for words, like Snape had just reached into the center of Draco’s chest and pulled out a little shard of something that he hadn’t even realized was there.

In the middle of August, after a few owls back and forth and a very confusing conversation through an odd little Muggle device Professor Snape kept in his kitchen which Draco could only hear half of, Draco was Side-Alonged into a quiet Muggle neighborhood in what he was told was Colchester.

“If something should happen, I’ve given Grangers my phone number, since I doubt they’re on the Floo network,” Snape said as they came together out of a narrow alley between two homes on Harsnett Road, according to the sign. “I’m sure they can show you how to use it if necessary.”

“I’m just grateful you’re allowing me to go,” Draco said, peering up and down the street. It was a narrow little road, lined with trees and flowers and packed with strange metal contraptions on wheels. Draco suddenly found himself wishing he’d been permitted to take Muggle Studies. “I know I wouldn’t be if I were still at the Manor.”

“With luck, Draco, you will one day realize that the way you are being raised is not normal.”

“Draco!”

He spun. Sticking her head out from behind a bright blue door was Hermione, smiling widely. Draco beamed back at once, and raced toward her. She met him halfway and squeezed him into a tight hug.

“Look at you, all dressed up in Muggle clothes!” she said as she drew back.

“Professor Snape helped me pick it out,” Draco answered, looking down at himself. “I’ve never worn trousers before.”

In fact, he’d never worn anything like his current assemblage: the trousers were stiff yet comfortable, made from something Snape had called denim, and the long-sleeved shirt was thin but very soft with “Manchester United” written across it. Draco had no idea what either denim or Manchester United were, but thought the clothes were very nice.

“Better safe than sorry,” Hermione said. “Muggles don’t have omegas, so they might not quite understand why a boy would wear a skirt. And you do need to blend in, because we’re going to the zoo!”

“Wow,” Draco said. Then, “What’s a zoo?”

Before she could answer, he heard Snape say, “I’ll return tomorrow,” not to Draco, but to one of the Doctors Granger, who’d come out behind her daughter to greet him. “If you’ve never dealt with pureblood children before—well, just try to keep him out of traffic. He doesn’t know what cars are.”

“Noted,” Hermione’s mother answered, chuckling nervously.

“Come inside!” Hermione said, grabbing Draco by the wrist to pull him along. “Marietta’s already here! We’ll set up our sleeping bags and then have lunch and then we’ll head out to the Colchester Zoo and then have pizza for dinner and then I’ll teach you how to play Monopoly!”

And that was, more or less, how the day went. Draco and Ginny marveled at the mere concept of a zoo, while Parvati and Marietta—both half-blood—giggled and their amazement. Pizza, as it turned out, was the most delicious food in the whole universe, and Monopoly was a very confusing but fun game played with little metal pieces and fake paper money. They also spent a very bewildering hour and a half watching a movie on a television, which Hermione said was called Home Alone, and after it was over Draco asked if all movies involved people getting injured, which made her laugh a lot.

Somewhere around midnight, halfway through a very intense round of another game called truth or dare, Draco realized that he’d never had this much fun before in his entire life, and wasn’t quite sure why that understanding made him a little sad.

He was reluctant to leave the next morning, but Hermione promised to write again before the start of term, and even to meet him in Diagon Alley to pick up their school things on the last day of August. Draco was surprised when Snape readily acquiesced to the proposition—and not only that, but offered to let him go alone.

“You’re thirteen,” he said when Draco had startled at the suggestion. “You’re perfectly capable of managing to Floo there and back. I don’t see the harm.”

So: Draco went alone, stepping through the fireplace in Professor Snape’s sitting room and into the Leaky Cauldron, overwhelmed by the heady and novel sensation of freedom. He couldn’t decide if he was excited or nervous.

He met Hermione at Florean Fortescue’s, and unfortunately, Ron was there, too, glowering.

“Hello,” Draco offered, a little uncertainly, after Hermione released him from the hug.

Ron didn’t answer.

Anxiously, Draco sat down at one of the two free chairs at the little patio table. “Er,” he said, “I heard your family went to Egypt on holiday… how was it?”

Still, Ron didn’t answer. His mouth twisted and he stabbed at his dish of ice cream with his spoon.

“Oh, Ronald,” Hermione sighed, “you’re being ridiculous.”

“Just don’t want to run the risk of talking to a Dark Wizard,” Ron snipped. “They can steal your voice, you know.”

“I’m not a Dark Wizard,” Draco said, exasperated.

“I know what I saw!”

“I really don’t think you do.”

“Then why won’t you say what spell you cast? You won’t even tell Hermione!”

Draco flinched, dropped his eyes. That much was true. She’d asked—twice in letters, and once at the sleepover—but Draco had always deftly avoided answering. The uncomfortable truth of it was that Draco didn’t really know how, or even if, Craft was meaningfully different from Dark Magic. His mother had steadfastly refused to talk about it ever since she’d seen the product of Draco’s spell in the garden all those years ago. And despite looking, Draco hadn’t found a single book on the subject, either in Hogwarts or Flourish & Blotts.

“I…” Draco said, before mercifully the conversation was diverted:

“Harry!” Hermione suddenly called, standing up. “Harry!”

Draco turned. Down the street, just looking away from the window of Quality Quidditch Supplies, was a familiar mop of dark hair and big, round glasses. Draco felt the surge of warmth first, chased by the smile that rose unbidden to his mouth.

Harry was smiling, too, as he came over—or at least he was, until he saw Draco, at which point his expression changed.

“Draco, you—what are you wearing?”

Draco stared back at him in confusion, before remembering: “Oh—jeans! They’re great, right?” Draco rubbed his palms across the dark fabric. He’d left the Manchester United shirt at home, favoring a light linen top instead. “Professor Snape bought them for me so I could go to the zoo.”

Harry seemed unable to look away from Draco’s legs. “I… don’t think I’ve ever seen you in…”

Dread surged. “What? Am I wearing them wrong? Do they look bad?”

“What?” Harry looked up with a jolt. “Yes! I mean—no! You look—th-they look—er—”

“I think what Harry is trying to say,” Hermione interjected, grabbing him by elbow and shoulder and shoving him into the last remaining chair, “is that you look very nice.”

“Ugh,” Ron said.

“Harry,” Hermione continued as if she didn’t hear him, “is it true you blew up your aunt?”

The whole school was abuzz, of course, with rumors about Sirius Black, the murderer who’d escaped from Azkaban to finish what he started by killing Harry Potter.

Allegedly. Draco had his doubts. He knew enough of his own family lore to know the murky circ*mstances surrounding Black’s conviction. He very much doubted that the Potters’ best friend would betray them, let alone so ruinously.

Not that anyone seemed particularly interested in his opinion on the matter, which suited Draco just fine; he had plenty to keep him occupied. As a third year, Draco was finally allowed to take elective courses. He wanted to take them all, but had settled for three, which had required special permission from Professor Snape to vouch for his academic rigor. He’d signed up for Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, and Divination, and felt a keen sense of injustice about the fact that he couldn’t take Muggle Studies as well. But Father, despite not having seen Draco since summer of last year, had refused to sign off on it. There wasn’t much Draco could do.

Still, the electives he did have were plenty fascinating on their own. And of the three, his favorite was definitely Ancient Runes.

The subject on its own would be fascinating—Draco had never even considered that writing could be a method of creating magic—but it’s made all the more intriguing by all the different variations. There were dozens of runic languages from all over the continent, and each of them felt very different. Magic, it seemed, had different shapes, which was something Draco had always known on an instinctual level but never really understood.

On the second class of the semester, the subject took on much more significance.

“Professor?”

Bathsheda Babbling was a plump, pretty, beta witch. She had a kindly way with her students and was easily startled by loud noises. Draco knew he liked her the second he saw her—aside from the way she smelled (fresh tea and lilacs), there was something about her that radiated comfort and warmth. Her aura, he could only suppose.

“Ah, Mr. Malfoy. How can I help you?”

“I had a question.” He shuffled up to the edge of her desk, gripping his textbook tightly in both hands, with one finger slipped to a particular page. “I know we’re only just beginning in the term and I know that you probably have this in your lesson plan already, but it’s a matter of some—er—” Draco hesitated, stuttered a bit, “—urgency isn’t the right word—importance? I’m wondering about a very specific rune and its applications.”

Professor Babbling gave Draco an odd, but not unkind appraisal over her tiny, round spectacles. “I see. Which one?”

Draco thumped the textbook open on top of her pile of ungraded homework. It fell to the page his finger had been marking, where on the top let corner of the page was a very long, narrow, upside-down V.

“Ūr?” She canted her head to one side. “Historical data suggests that it was one of the earlier runes. Its meaning varied depending on conjugation, but was most commonly translated as water, or as auroch—a type of cattle ancient wizards domesticated over a thousand years ago. But as you said, we get into all this in class. Why the interest?”

Draco opened his mouth, shut it. He did have a reason, of course, but despite having thought of nothing else since seeing it earlier in the class, he couldn’t come up with an explanation that didn’t sound insane.

So he didn’t bother explaining, or at least not with words. He unbuttoned the cuff of his sleeve, tugged it up, and brandished the scar to her. That was what it had become, over the summer—a pale, ugly, gnarled scar.

“Oh,” she said, voice small and alarmed.

“I got it in the Chamber last year,” Draco told her, trying very hard to stay calm as he spoke. “I—I thought it was a V, but…”

“That is certainly ūr,” Professor Babbling answered, dour. She pulled her wand out, leaned down, and cast a few careful diagnostic spells, one of which made her recoil in surprise. “There’s magic in it!”

“Yes, I felt it, too,” Draco said. A part of him had been hoping she’d discount his suspicion out of hand. It was simultaneously vindicating and terrifying that she agreed with his analysis, that there was something more to the scar than met the eye. “But no one can figure out what kind. Headmaster Dumbledore didn’t know, Professor Snape didn’t know, and I even asked Hermione.”

“I’ll look into it,” Professor Babbling said uncertainly. “But there’s a huge volume of spellwork that could be wrought with ūr, of course, and if Albus Dumbledore was stumped, I…”

Draco’s shoulders sagged. He swallowed a knot in his throat, tugged his sleeve back down.

“You should know, Mr. Malfoy,” she continued, with some reluctance, “that there’s a less common conjugation of ūr.”

He looked up at her with a frown as he buttoned his shirt cuff back up.

“You understand—I hope you understand, I hope you know—that for much of early British history, and particularly within the Roman Empire, omegas were considered slaves. Essentially chattel.”

Draco frowned. He knew this, of course, but only in a vague, abstract way—when his father would disparage Draco for resisting his lot by grimly reminding him of how much worse your omega forebearers had it, and telling him to be grateful that he was even allowed to speak in the presence of alphas.

Surely she didn’t mean to imply—

“After the Roman conquest of Britain,” Professor Babbling continued, “the rune was used on—on slave manifests and marriage contracts, to denote an omega being transferred to ownership to their alpha in exchange for their bride-price.”

Every inch of Draco’s skin crawled with frantic horror.

Was that what his mysterious scar was? A mark of ownership? An indication that Draco was his slave, upon prothestrus, as with the omegas of old?

Draco’s left hand flexed and unflexed. His vision swam.

Surely not, he told himself, less a counterargument and more a desperate refusal of a horrible reality. Surely, surely not.

Draco spent the next week trying not to think about it.

There was nothing to be done about it, after all. Multiple people had tried to identify the nature of the magic in the mark, and multiple people had tried to dispel it. Without any obvious effects, there was no further action to be taken and certainly no point in worrying.

He worried anyway. Incessantly, doggedly. He tried to focus on other things, but it always came back to that damn scar on his arm. It started to itch, which initially he thought was an effect of the mysterious magic within it, but which Madam Pomfrey told him, after a few tests and a sigh, was psychosomatic.

To make the whole thing worse, Harry was avoiding him.

Draco would find him in the hallway, smile and wave and walk over to say hello, but Harry would get flustered and run away. Nearly as bad as that were the times Draco caught him staring from the far sides of rooms.

It was frustrating—and past that, it was upsetting. Draco was having a terrible go of it. He was nervous and jumpy all the time, and he was used to Harry being one of the people to make him feel better. Without him, there was only Hermione, and she’d taken up a new mission of her own:

“I figured it out!”

Draco jumped, once when she announced herself and again when the huge volume she’d been carrying thumped onto the library table in front of him. When Draco looked up, Hermione’s brown eyes were as bright as he’d ever seen them.

“Er,” Draco said.

“It was Craft!” Hermione said, and Draco stiffened. “Wasn’t it? The spell you used to save Harry?”

“Keep your voice down!” Draco hissed, looking frantically around the room. Fortunately, apart from Madam Pince, who was glaring at them from behind her desk, no one seemed to have heard her.

“So it was!” She sounded very vindicated, but at least it was quietly vindicated. She sat down across from him. “I was looking into all sorts of things, but it wasn’t until Ernie MacMillan made some off-handed comment about how it was probably Craft—”

“How does Ernie MacMillan know what happened in the Chamber?” Draco asked, distressed.

“Oh, Draco, the whole school’s been talking about it since it happened,” was Hermione’s flippant answer, which did nothing to soothe his distress. “Anyway, I overheard him telling Justin Fitch-Fletchley that the only magic an omega’s any good at is Craft, and I told him off for being a sexist and reminded him that you got better grades than he did, but then of course I went and researched it myself—”

“Hermione.”

“—and it was so hard to find any information on it, at first I was sure Justin was just making things up, but then eventually one of the older Ravenclaw betas—Tabitha Wright, you know her?—she said—”

“Hermione.”

“—that Hogwarts certainly wouldn’t carry any books on it, and that the only sorts of places Craft had ever been written down were in Books of Shadows—”

“Hermione, stop!”

“Ssh!” came Madam Pince’s admonishing hiss from the far side of the library. Draco shot a frantic look at her over his shoulder, then leaned in toward Hermione, dropping his voice to a whisper:

“You can’t just talk about this kind of thing in public,” he hissed.

Hermione looked bewildered. “Whyever not?”

“It’s—” Draco huffed an aggravated breath, snapped shut the textbook he’d been reading. “Look, I don’t know that much about it, all right? I just have a sort of… I guess a natural talent for it. The first spell I ever cast was Craft, and I didn’t even realize I was doing it!”

“How fascinating,” Hermione said, leaning forward.

“But it terrified my mother,” he hastened to point out, “and she told me never to do it again, because it wasn’t the proper way to do magic, and if my father ever found out he’d—he’d—”

Draco didn’t know what Lucius would do. But he very much did not want to find out.

Hermione was undeterred. “But it’s a whole other type of magic! Or—or maybe not another type, it’s—it’s like another language of magic. Don’t you find that fascinating? Don’t you want to learn more?”

Draco hesitated. The no was dangling on the tip of his tongue, an inch away from being spoken. He wasn’t entirely sure what held him back from saying it.

He shouldn’t, right? Every pureblood instinct told him he shouldn’t. He’d only ever used Craft when he had no other choice, and intentionally exploring it felt transgressive and dangerous. He remembered with brutal clarity what his mother’s face had looked like when she begged him to never bargain for magic again.

And yet, nagged an annoying little voice in the back of Draco’s head, and yet.

“Look,” Hermione said when Draco’s silence went on too long. She turned the book around, stood to come over to Draco’s side of the table to open it. All the pages were yellowed and frayed, the binding barely holding together, and on the first page, in elegant script, was written Book of Shadows—along with a date: 1839.

“What… is this?” Draco asked warily.

“Well, obviously, it’s called a Book of Shadows.”

Draco sighed. “Yes, obviously.”

“From what I’ve been able to tell, they’re halfway between journals and spellbooks. Lists of spells, Craft, written out, along with general notes on theory and other practices. And do you know what? This one was written by an omega!”

That caught Draco’s attention. Hermione dutifully turned to the second page, which was much less extravagant than the first: As Recorded by Julien de Montfort, omega.

“Montfort,” Draco said under his breath, to feel the shape of the name in his mouth. A nagging sense of familiarity pulled incessantly in the back of his mind. Why was the name Montfort familiar?

“What are the odds?” Hermione said, with an admiring little sigh.

“They say Craft was made by omegas,” Draco answered distractedly, tugging the book forward to thumb through the next few pages. “That it answers us before all others.”

“Does it? Is that what your mother said?”

The next few pages had huge, complicated diagrams that Draco couldn’t decipher, though he desperately wanted to. As he kept flipping, he was disappointed to find— “So much of it is faded.”

“Well, it is a very old book,” Hermione reasoned. “And in general, Books of Shadows are very rare, and based on the response I got from the owner of the curios shop in Hogsmeade, considered very taboo.”

“Can I borrow this?” Draco asked, and when he looked up, Hermione had leaned forward and grabbed one of his hands in both of hers.

“On one condition,” she answered, very serious. “You have to promise not to hide things like this from me again.”

Draco swallowed. “Hermione…”

“What were you afraid of, Draco? That I’d be upset with you? You’re one of my best friends! And when have you ever known me to be upset to learn something new?”

Slowly—very slowly—a knot of fear Draco hadn’t even realized was there uncoiled in the center of his chest. The tension in his shoulders dropped. He bit down on an involuntary smile.

“Sorry,” he said, voice small. “I… I promise not to hide things from you anymore.”

“Good! Then of course you can borrow it.” She turned in her chair to face him properly. “Now, I really must insist—tell me everything you know about Craft.”

During the second Defense Against the Dark Arts class of the semester, which for Slytherins was on Friday, Draco confronted his Boggart.

Unsurprisingly, Professor Lupin held him back after class ended.

“You know,” he said after the last student trailed out, “Gryffindor did this class yesterday. I was so sure that the Dark Lord would be Harry’s Boggart, not yours.”

“I’m sorry,” Draco answered at once, reflexively. His eyes started burning all over again. His hands had been shaking all class. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t expect—I didn’t know it would take his shape, honest. I—I should have, maybe, but I…”

“Hey, hey. Draco.” Professor Lupin put one hand on Draco’s shoulder, which made Draco suck down a few desperate, ragged breaths. “It’s all right. Severus told me something of what happened to you last year. It must have been absolutely horrible, certainly not the sort of thing you need to apologize for being scared of.”

Draco forced himself to nod, gripping his textbook to his chest like a shield. He tried desperately to calm his frantic panting. After a moment, Professor Lupin went around to the back of his desk, pulled something out from a drawer, and came back over to offer it to Draco: a small piece of chocolate.

He swallowed. “Thank you,” he replied, and bit off a tiny corner. It melted almost immediately on his tongue and did, he was forced to admit, make him feel a little better.

“I’m just,” Professor Lupin said, then stopped and began again. “What he said to you, Draco… as your professor, I have some concerns.”

Draco flinched. The words of Tom-as-a-Boggart were still echoing through the darker corners of his mind. It’s only a matter of time, omega. I’ve already marked you mine, and soon I’ll have you again.

“I realize this is a difficult subject to talk about, but he implied…” Once again, Professor Lupin started over, frowning. “Draco, did he touch you at all?”

Draco shook his head.

“If he did, you would not be in trouble,” Professor Lupin added.

“It wasn’t like that. He didn’t—he couldn’t touch me. He didn’t really have a body. And apart from one dream…”

Draco’s fingertips trailed over his left sleeve. The magic in the scar crackled at his touch.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Draco whispered, and stared hard at his feet.

“All right,” Lupin said slowly, sounding concerned. “But if you ever do want to talk about it, you’re welcome to come to me. I know you’re very close with your godfather, but—well, perhaps it would help to talk about it with a beta instead?”

He offered a small smile, which was a struggle to return.

“I’d rather just forget it happened at all, to be honest,” Draco admitted.

“I understand the impulse,” Professor Lupin said, with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “But that’s not something we can control, unfortunately. All we can do with our trauma is try to learn something from it.”

Draco sniffed. Lupin patted his shoulder gently.

“Have the rest of your chocolate,” he advised. “It will help.”

“Hi, Draco.”

In the years since their first, the little study nook on the second floor had been established as Draco and Harry’s spot. It was a very small area—just an armchair and a loveseat and a coffee table between them—and the other students had learned to steer clear of it because at least one of them was always there, and more often than not both of them.

Something had changed this year, though Draco couldn’t quite tell what. It was nearly the end of October and this was the first time that Harry had shown up.

“This is a surprise,” Draco answered, which made Harry, hesitating by the archway leading into the nook, go a bit red in the face. “I was starting to get the impression that you were avoiding me.”

“No, not avoiding you. Just…”

Harry’s gaze trailed down to the floor—but no, not the floor, Draco’s legs, crossed demurely at the ankle, which he’d been doing a lot of lately. Draco had no idea what it was about his legs that Harry suddenly found so fascinating, though he wished he did. After nearly two months of alternating between weird, abbreviated conversations, avoidance, and prolonged staring, all Draco had been able to deduce was that the Hogwarts uniform knee-high socks somehow made it worse.

But class had already ended on this particular evening, and Draco was just in his usual gray skirt and Mary Janes. It didn’t stop Harry from staring, though.

Eventually, he loudly cleared his throat. “Your sister’s the new Slytherin Seeker,” he said, voice a little strained. He sat down across from Draco on the loveseat.

“Yes, she won’t stop crowing about it,” Draco answered. “Are we really not going to talk about how you’ve been avoiding me for two months?”

“I said I wasn’t avoiding you,” Harry said. Their positions were such that the coffee table blocked his view of Draco’s legs, which seemed to help. What was it about his legs? “Have you ever seen your sister play?”

Draco frowned. “A little.”

“Is she any good?”

“Are you trying to get intel?” Draco asked. He couldn’t decide if he was upset or impressed. “Rather underhanded, using your connection with me to get an advantage over Slytherin.”

“I wouldn’t call it intel. I’m just… curious.”

Draco scoffed incredulously. “She’s all right,” he eventually said. “Quick, but not half as clever as she thinks she is. Prone to overconfidence.” Then Draco turned the page in the book he’d been reading.

“See, now I’m not so sure what I’m doing, because that sounded a lot like intel.”

“Maybe she deserves it,” Draco answered flippantly. “Maybe she needs to be taken down a peg or two. Or maybe I’m just jealous because Father won’t let me play Quidditch.”

Harry sat up a little straighter, surprised. “You play Quidditch?”

“Of course I don’t. I’m an omega. I’ve never even been on a broom.” Each of those sentences, true though they were, of course did not detract from the dreams of wings Draco’d been having since he was a very young child. He’d never wanted anything else quite as much as he wanted to fly.

Harry was giving him another one of those long, awkward looks, like he wanted to say something but didn’t have the words. If the past two months were any indication, he’d stammer incomprehensibly and run away in a moment.

“I’ve missed you,” Draco blurted out before he could stop himself.

“I—what?”

“I’ve missed you,” he repeated. “You’ve been avoiding me and I’ve missed you.”

“I… I haven’t…”

“You have. I just wish I knew why. Did I upset you somehow? Has Ron convinced you that I’m a Dark Wizard? I’m not! I promise, the spell that saved you wasn’t evil!”

“Draco,” Harry interjected, color high on his cheeks, “I’m not upset at you and I don’t think you’re a Dark Wizard. It’s really not… I’m sorry if I’ve been upsetting you. I’ll try to run away less.”

Draco sighed, huffed, sat back in his armchair. “I asked Professor Snape if there were any magical properties to jeans that make alphas stupid, and he just laughed at me. That’s all I can figure as to why you’re being so weird.”

“It’s fine,” Harry said, a little too quickly. “Don’t worry about it.”

Silence lapsed. Draco stared at him, feeling twitchy and restless in his own skin and desperately hoping that whatever was going on between them stopped soon. He really did miss Harry something awful.

“So the magic that saved my life definitely wasn’t evil?” Harry asked, like he was trying desperately to change the subject.

“No! I even talked about it with Hermione and she agrees with me that it’s not evil!” Draco realized somewhat belatedly that he sounded very defensive, and that it probably wasn’t the best way to convince anyone that he wasn’t a Dark Wizard. “Everyone’s always so suspicious of Craft when they don’t even know anything about it!”

Harry canted his head to one side. “Craft?”

Draco opened his mouth, snapped it shut, and sighed. He’d been trying so hard to forget the whole wretched affair—the diary, the Chamber, the basilisk—but maybe it would be all right to tell Harry. Like Hermione, he didn’t have any preconceptions about Craft like other wizards did. He wouldn’t be cross, right?

“You have to promise,” Draco said, very slowly, “not to tell.”

Things between him and Harry got a little better, but didn’t quite go back to normal.

It was infuriating and confusing. Draco felt like he couldn’t have a normal conversation with him anymore. He’d been perfectly understanding about Craft, and had even asked insightful questions and asked to see the Book of Shadows he’d borrowed from Hermione. But as soon as Draco got close enough to let him see the page he was looking at, Harry got all tense and uncomfortable and made up an obvious lie about Quidditch practice and left.

A few days later, Draco snuck over to the Gryffindor table to sit with him and Hermione (and Ron, unfortunately). At first, Harry seemed all right, and even smiled at the sight of them. Then when Draco reached across Harry to grab the pitcher of pumpkin juice, he stood up so fast he nearly took out the bench they were both sitting on.

The following week, after Harry was injured on the Quidditch Pitch after falling from his broom, Draco went to check up on him in the Hospital Wing. He seemed grateful to see Draco at first, and they talked about Dementors and what Professor Lupin had told Harry about them. Then Draco had given him the potions homework he missed with a smile, which made Harry very twitchy and stuttery and awkward, which brought the conversation to a grinding halt. Draco had left with a huff.

“Why are all alphas stupid and terrible and communicating?” Draco asked Professor Snape after the potions class next week.

“Hey,” Snape protested half-heartedly.

“They are,” Draco insisted, collapsing furiously in the chair opposite his desk and folding his arms over his chest. “I’ve asked Harry a million times why he’s being so weird around me and he just keeps saying it’s nothing when it’s obviously not nothing. Is it possible to be so stupid that you don’t know why you do things?”

Professor Snape raises a dry, unimpressed eyebrow. He arranges himself neatly behind his desk, with the strained patience of a man who would have thrown any other student out by now.

“I just don’t get it. Why can’t I have a normal conversation with him anymore? He keeps staring and stammering at me and being so weird! And so far the only thing I can figure is that it has something to do with my legs!”

“Your legs,” Snape echoed.

“Or maybe my hair? I don’t know! It’s always one of them that he’s staring at!” Draco released a long, aggrieved sigh, sinking back into the chair. “I need to figure out a way to fix this, but I can’t fix what I don’t understand.”

“Draco,” Snape said. His expression was dry and agitated, arch without the amusem*nt. “Do you hear yourself when you talk?”

“What?” Draco asked, defensive. “What did I say?”

“He stares and stammers? Has an unusual preoccupation with your hair and legs?”

Draco frowned. “Yes?”

Snape kept his gaze steady, like he was waiting for Draco to figure something out.

“I don’t get it,” Draco eventually said. “What does—oh.”

“There it is.” Snape dipped his quill and began to write.

Draco felt as though he’d been hit upside the head. “No, that… that can’t be right. Harry doesn’t…”

Snape said nothing. The scratching of his quill went uninterrupted.

“He doesn’t… think of me that way. Does he?”

Still, Snape didn’t answer, which was fine, because Draco probably wouldn’t have been able to hear him anyway. Everything that had happened since the end of the summer, when put into that context—

Staring at his legs and hair—blushing and stammering when Draco got too close or smiled—

“Oh,” Draco said, then promptly began to panic. “What—what do I do? I don’t know what to do.”

“No,” Snape interjected. “No, Draco, this is where the conversation must end. I will allow you some lenience on account of you being my godson, but anything past helping you discover the obvious I shall direct to your mother.”

“But,” Draco said.

“No,” Snape repeated.

The scar on Draco’s arm began to itch.

It had itched a little while it was healing, but never quite like this. It really itched—particularly whenever he saw Harry.

The worst part about it all is that now Draco is acting just as stupid as Harry had been. Most days, he couldn’t even see Harry on the far side of the hallway without flushing all over and feeling the impulse to run away. He felt ridiculous. He couldn’t even say with confidence that Harry for sure fancied him, and now all of a sudden he turned into a stuttering idiot whenever they were in the same room.

“What’s a courting list?”

“Nothing!” Draco shrieked, panicked even before he fully knew it was Harry who’d asked the question. “Why do you want to know? What do you care about it? How do you even know that term?”

Harry had just sat down beside him—double History of Magic with Gryffindor on Tuesdays—and reeled back a step (perhaps not unreasonably) when Draco started shouting.

“I, er,” he began, looking embarrassed. “Marcus Flint—on the Pitch at practice, he said that he was on your courting list and that I should ‘step off’—I don’t, er, know what he means.”

Draco felt like he might burst into flame. A horrified sound slipped out of Draco’s mouth, and he buried his face in his hands. This was so stupid. Why was he being so stupid?

“It’s…” Merlin, Circe, and Salazar, he did not want to talk about this to Harry. “It’s a custom… er, all pureblood omegas have a list—a, er, list of alphas who intend to court them when they reach prothestrus.”

“Court?” Harry repeated, a little nervously. “As in…?”

At this point, bursting into flame would be a mercy. “As in court, Harry! As in—flowers and dates and all that! They vie for the omega’s interest, and then they all bid for their hand—”

“Bid?” Harry was starting to sound horrified.

“They—yes, they put up a bride-price, and then the one who wins the bid is permitted to… to…”

Draco silently prayed that he would burst into flame, just to escape this conversation.

“To… marry. The omega.”

Harry said nothing. Draco swallowed a lump in his throat and snuck a sideways glance at him. His expression was at the exact midpoint between bewildered, angry, and (Draco suspected) jealous.

“Er,” Harry said.

Draco frantically scratched at his arm. The scar was itching terribly.

“How,” Harry began, slowly, “how many are…?”

“I don’t know,” Draco answered, which was true. “I think at least twenty. Father doesn’t keep me apprised.”

“Twenty.”

“Well, I don’t have a say in it!” Draco sounded a little more shrill than intended. “Omegas never have a say in it! It’s—it’s custom. It’s how things are done in pureblood circles. I’ve had a courting list since I was born.”

“But is that what you want?”

Draco looked over at Harry only to find Harry looking back, green eyes so determined. Draco’s heart thumped wildly against his ribs.

“I,” Draco stammered. “I…”

“Wouldn’t you want to—to marry for love?”

Then Harry seemed to realize what he said and turned forward again. So did Draco, if only so he could look at something, anything else.

Draco didn’t know what he wanted. He’d never had any reason to think that what he wanted would matter—particularly in his marriage. Love had played no factor in his parents’ marriage; why should Draco’s be any different?

Eventually, Professor Binns floated through the wall, up to the podium, and began his droning lecture about Merlin’s contributions to the field of transfiguration.

Every now and then, Draco snuck a sideways glance at Harry, and the scar on his arm would itch and itch.

The year continued. Gryffindor won the Quidditch Cup, which infuriated Cordelia. Professor Lupin was outed as a werewolf. There was a whole terrible incident with Sirius Black that Draco didn’t hear about till after the fact. Harry went from hating him to being very excited that he existed, even in exile. Professor Snape was less enthusiastic.

Draco focused mostly on the Book of Shadows and extracting what information he could from it—or at least he tried to. He didn’t get much. It was hard to get anything done when Harry’s question kept running through his head over and over and over:

Wouldn’t you want to marry for love?

Chapter 5: The Courting List

Chapter Text

After the end of term, Draco and Cordelia were met at Platform 9¾ by Dotty, since Dobby was no longer under his family’s employ. She Apparated them both straight back to the Manor.

In the foyer, they were met by their parents. Mother went straight to Draco, Lucius to Cordelia.

“I missed you,” Mother whispered as she held Draco tightly. Draco returned her embrace, buried his face in her shoulder and breathed the familiar, comforting scent of rosewater and bergamot.

“I missed you, too,” Draco answered, though he hadn’t realized till that moment just how much. He’d never been away from his mother this long before.

“I’m told Gryffindor won the Quidditch Cup,” said Lucius to Cordelia, with a baleful look. When Draco glanced over, Cordelia was incensed.

“It’s stupid Potter,” she insisted, “with his scar and his broomstick. Madam Hooch favors him, I just know it.”

Lucius made a despairing noise—then looked at Draco.

Draco looked back, but said nothing. The moment crackled.

Draco hadn’t seen his father for almost two years, since before the Chamber. Whatever part of Draco had wanted answers about why, why, why he’d done this to his own son had been largely overshadowed by fear—fear of the man, and fear of his answer, because there was no answer he could give that would make it all right.

Lucius canted his head to one side as he regarded Draco, giving him an assessing sort of look, measuring the inches Draco had grown and his hair, which he now kept in a low braid. But still, he said nothing.

Propriety said that, after a long time away, an omega should acknowledge the Family Alpha with a curtsy and a bowed head. Draco did neither. He didn’t know how to feel about Lucius Malfoy these days, but did know how he didn’t feel.

Severus’s words echoed in the back of Draco’s mind: You’ll have to face him eventually.

“Dinner is in a few minutes,” his mother said, voice strained, breaking the spell of silence that had formed between them. “Why don’t you both get cleaned up?”

“Hey, I need to talk to you.”

Draco was halfway through writing out a response to Hermione’s latest letter when Cordelia had appeared. He looked up only long enough to glare at her.

“Have you never heard of knocking?” Draco snipped.

“Ugh, whatever.”

Cordelia collapsed on the small divan that sat adjacent to Draco’s writing desk. Draco sighed, dipped his quill, and continued the sentence.

“Father’s taking me to Adrian Rowle’s débutante ball next week,” Cordelia said after a brief silence.

Draco frowned and stole another glance at her. Adrian had gone into heat midway through Draco’s second year, and as a consequence had moved to a private dormitory. Draco hadn’t seen him at all last year, and had only heard through the grapevine around Yule that it was because he was no longer enrolled. He’d spent a lot of energy ever since trying not to think about it.

“I’ve been on his courting list since before I even knew what what an omega was,” Cordelia continued, folding her arms over her chest. “I’ve never even talked to him, and now I’m expected to try and court him? It seems absurd.”

“I assure you, it’s twice as absurd from the other side,” Draco said, but Cordelia kept talking as if she didn’t hear him.

“I don’t know a single thing about him. But you and he roomed together, didn’t you? What’s he like?”

Draco’s frown deepened. “What is it you want to know about him?”

“f*ck if I know. Is he wife material?”

“What does that even mean?” Draco sneered.

“Father says I’ll know what it means when I meet the right omega, but I have my doubts. Why can’t I just marry a beta girl? Grandpapa did, and it seems like much less hassle.”

Draco knew the answer to that question, of course, and so did Cordelia—omegas were rare, their bride-prices expensive, and marrying one was a status symbol. It meant an easier time conceiving children, and a higher chance of having an alpha. That was to say nothing of access to heats, which in Draco’s vague understanding were highly prized, especially by alphas.

Still, Draco knew his sister well enough to know when she was misdirecting him.

“Do you have a specific beta girl in mind?” Draco asked.

“No!” Cordelia answered very quickly, which was a yes. “Shut up!” she added, which was definitely a yes.

“Oh, Cordelia, is she at least pureblood? Father will have a conniption if she’s not at least pureblood.”

“She is,” Cordelia said, and a split second later went an alarming shade of red. “I—I mean, shut up! I said shut up, didn’t I?”

Draco sighed and shook his head, but quietly filed the information away. He needed to find this beta girl and, if nothing else, warn her.

“Very well,” Draco returned mildly, finishing off the sentence he’d been writing. “Pretend I didn’t say anything.”

Cordelia’s face was still scarlet as she sat back and in the divan and averted her gaze. “Just… just tell me about Adrian. I should know something about him if I’m going to try and court him.”

Draco dipped his quill again. “Well, he’s very funny. Good at charms. He’s fascinated by Merlin, has read all his books front to back, and even owns a first edition of Lex Arcana that’s falling apart.”

“Ugh,” Cordelia intones, nose wrinkling. “I don’t want a brainy omega. Having one as a brother is bad enough, but having one for a wife would be a nightmare.”

“What’s wrong with being brainy?” Draco asked, defensiveness prickling up his back.

“Nothing, if you’re an alpha or beta. But an omega being smart is useless and annoying. Why do you need to be book smart? You’re going to spend the rest of your life having babies!”

Draco breathed very slowly and deeply, lest his white-knuckle grip snapped his quill in half.

“It’s a good thing you’re set on a beta, then,” he answered acidly, “because there isn’t an omega alive who’d tolerate you. I certainly can’t.”

Cordelia sneered in response to the jibe. “And there’s not an alpha alive who’d tolerate you. Or have you deluded yourself into thinking that Harry Potter is actually interested in you?”

“Shut up and get out of my room,” Draco said, voice going cold.

“What do you think, he’s going to put his name on your courting list? He doesn’t even have a sponsor, and Father would never allow it even if he did. Potter will chase you till he manages to get you into bed and then he’ll get bored—”

The cold in Draco’s voice spread to his blood. “Get out.”

“—and then you’ll be ruined, because no one’s going to pay a king’s ransom in a bride-price just for a slag who took a knot out of wedlock—”

The mirror on the wall behind Cordelia’s head exploded into a thousand shards. She yelped and dove forward, ducking under one elbow until the last pieces of glass clattered onto the hardwood floor. She looked back at the frame of the ruined mirror, then to Draco, eyes wild and bewildered.

Draco met her gaze with a steady, riming fury. He was on his feet, though he could not recall when he’d stood.

“If you think so little of omegas, then don’t court one,” Draco hissed. “And definitely don’t ask for their advice.”

Draco stormed from the room before Cordelia could even open her mouth to answer. His whole body shook with fury. And somewhere, under all that anger, the same frantic despair from when he woke up after escaping the Chamber of Secrets still wailed: Why do you hate me so much?

Draco had to wait nearly a month before he had the opportunity to talk to his mother alone.

Lucius and Cordelia had gone to Adrian’s débutante ball on a bright July afternoon, and Draco and his mother had been left behind. Draco would have chafed once, but these days was glad to be away from the alphas in his family. He and Mother worked together in the garden for a while in companionable silence, speaking only to remark on the condition of a particular plant or to ask for one another to pass over certain tools.

When Dotty went inside to help prepare dinner, Draco finally brought up the subject that had been eating away at him all last year:

“I’ve been reading about Craft.”

Mother spun around so violently that she knocked over the bucket of topsoil at her side with a great clatter of metal. Draco frowned, righting it with a hand rather than his spell to avoid getting dirt on his wand.

“Draco,” she said breathlessly.

“Mum, it’s okay,” Draco insisted. “They’re not home, remember? We’re alone.”

But his mother didn’t seem reassured. She looked over her shoulder anxiously. The French doors leading into the kitchen stood open. Dolly and Dotty were shelling peas together, by all appearances unaware of the conversation.

“We still shouldn’t talk about this,” she said anxiously, dropping her eyes back to the rosebush she was pruning.

“Please,” Draco insisted, scooting closer to her. This was one of the younger rosebushes in the garden, its blooms a beautiful dark burgundy, and they both had to kneel to prune it. “Mother, please, I really don’t think it’s evil. I just want to know more about it.”

“This isn’t up for discussion, Draco,” she answered firmly, eyes focused on the flowers.

“Mother, it saved Harry’s life in the Chamber!”

Her hand stilled just before pruning a graying rose, and she looked nervously over at her son. Draco leaned forward anxiously.

“I didn’t have the time to tell you in person, and I didn’t want to write about it in a letter in case someone else saw it first, but Harry had been bitten by the basilisk, and in a panic, I used Craft to expel the poison from his blood.”

“Draco,” she whispered, somewhere in the middle between angry and heartbroken, “you can’t let it become a habit. It’s dangerous.”

“How?” he pressed. “Because that just doesn’t comport with my experience. From everything I’ve done and read, it seems like it’s just another sort of way to cast magic.”

“Where have you been reading about it?”

“I—” Draco hesitated. He almost didn’t want to say. “Hermione bought a Book of Shadows. She let me borrow it.”

His mother went slightly gray in the face. “A Book of Shadows? Where on earth did she—”

“There’s a curios shop in Hogsmeade. It’s really old, written by an omega named Julien de Montfort. I can’t make out a lot of it, though, on account of how faded it is. Hermione said she was going to take it to a professional who might be able to restore it to legibility, but—”

“Draco,” Mother said, dropping her gardening shears she she could grab Draco’s hand in both of her own, “please listen to me. Craft is dangerous, not because of what it is, but because of how it is perceived.

“Did I ever tell you about your aunt? Your father’s sister, Marie?”

Draco frowned, shook his head slowly. He’d never even heard the name. So far as Draco was aware, his father’s only sibling was Fiona, older than Lucius by about six years, who still lived in France.

“Marie was an omega, too,” Mother continued, “and a good friend of mine, a constant companion from the earliest days of my marriage to the end of my pregnancy with you. She was lovely, and kind, but had difficulty conceiving children, so she turned to the old magics to help.”

Draco stared. “She did?”

“She did.” Her grip on Draco’s hands was getting uncomfortably tight. “And when her husband, Thérèse, found out a few years down the line—she Cruciated her to the point of insanity.”

For a while, a long while, Draco stared at his mother in uncomprehending silence. He understood the individual words, but within the context of the sentence, it seemed too absurd to be real. Her own husband used an Unforgivable spell, drove her own wife insane?

“She was erased off the Malfoy family tree, her marriage annulled posthumously, and your own Father—he was the one—he—”

She sucked down a few shaky, desperate breaths. Draco stared, fighting down a growing wave of fear. He’d never seen his mother like this.

“There’s a very old law in England,” Mother eventually said, voice tremulous. “Fructus tenebrarum—the fruits of darkness. Any child born of an omega found wielding Craft is considered shadow-touched. Evil. The duty fell to your father, who had just assumed the role of Malfoy Alpha from his ailing father, to kill Marie’s beta daughter. She was three at the time.”

Draco opened his mouth, shut it. There was something deeper and darker than dread growing in the pit of his stomach. He felt an instinct to discount the story as absurd out of hand—Lucius Malfoy was a flawed man, but infanticide?—and yet Draco could somehow picture him, with eerie clarity, serenely killing a child for the crimes of her omega mother.

“But,” Draco stammered out, “that’s murder. That—”

“It’s only murder if you are considered a person. The law may have recently decided that we are people, my dear, but pureblood society has not made that jump. It was all hushed up. Money and influence will go a long way.”

A year ago, Draco had tearfully asked his father why do you hate me so much. He now realized that the question had not been broad enough.

He swallowed, withdrew his hand from his mother’s grasp, and wrapped both arms around his middle. He doubled over, shook, and tried to reckon with the fact that Lucius did not hate Draco, but that he hated omegas.

“That is what I mean when I say Craft is dangerous,” she continued. “That is why I tell you not to speak of it. I know very little of its praxis—just snatches of explanations I heard from your aunt—but I know intimately of its consequences. For a thousand years, Craft has been considered heresy, the foremost crime an omega can commit. Unless your very life is on the line, do not risk it. And even then—ask yourself if the death that threatens you is worse than the one in store if you are discovered.”

Draco tried to speak, failed, sucked in a shuddering breath, and finally managed to answer: “I understand.”

A trembling hand emerged to tuck a strand of Draco’s hair, shaken loose from his braid, back behind his ear.

“I love you,” she said with a ruined voice. “You are so clever and have so much potential. I wish you had been born a different sex so that you could make use of it.”

Somehow, after such a long and horrible conversation, that was the sentiment that hurt the most.

His mother came forward and pulled Draco into her arms. They sat like that for a long while, silent in the sun-drenched garden. Draco breathed in the scent of rosewater and bergamot and tried unsuccessfully to make sense of everything.

“Narcissa.”

It was Lucius. Draco wrenched himself out of his mother’s arms and spun, staring at the alpha as he came into the sunlight, adjusting the cuffs of his starched black robe with a disinterested expression.

Images of a dead toddler, white-faced and unnaturally still, rose unbidden to the fore of his mind. Draco had never been so frightened of him before.

“The ball is over. You’ll be expected to host the Rowle Alpha tomorrow evening for the initial round of bride-price negotiation. Apparently Cordelia is on the short list.”

Mother lowered her eyes and bowed her head. “Yes, alpha.”

The cool, gray gaze moved from mother to son. Draco stared back, hoping his skin-crawling terror was not visible from the outside.

If it was, Lucius didn’t seem to care enough to acknowledge it. Wordlessly, he spun on one foot and went back inside. Draco dissolved into frantic trembling and tried to remember how to breathe.

Draco had always had a very complicated relationship with his father. In his early years, he’d admired him for his poise and effortless confidence, the way he commanded a room without even trying to. As the years went on, that admiration had tempered with resentment for all the things he forbade Draco to do.

Now, though, there was none of that left. Now it was all fear.

Draco started avoiding him. He’d take his books and letters into forgotten corners of the Malfoy Manor just to be harder to find. At meals, he spoke only when prompted, and never met his eyes. The diary had struck the first blow; the knowledge of what had happened to his aunt and baby cousin had dealt the last. He counted down the days till he could return to Hogwarts, when he could claw back some modicum of safety from the kinslayer he called father.

But avoidance didn’t always work, of course.

“Oh. Oh, I’m sorry, I… I’ll go elsewhere, I—”

“Is my solarium not big enough for two? Sit down.”

Draco hesitated. This room was typically empty in the afternoons, as the glass walls and ceilings usually pushed it just into the realm of uncomfortably hot. But when Draco had arrived with his fourth year Transfiguration textbook under his arm, Lucius was perched on the wicker armchair with a pile of correspondence in his lap.

“I…” Draco said, trying unsuccessfully to keep himself from shivering, “I…”

“Draco,” Lucius snapped, “sit.”

Draco sat.

For a time, that was just about all he could do. He felt paralyzed by fear, by the knowledge of what Lucius had done to Draco, to the baby cousin he’d never met. He gripped his textbook tightly in both hands and commanded his hands to open it. They did not obey.

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed your change in behavior, by the way,” he said conversationally, flipping through the parchments in his lap.

Draco swallowed, said nothing.

“Honestly, I thought your little summer-long snit at Severus’s would have wrung it out of you, but I suppose you are dedicated to misunderstanding.”

Not that long ago, Draco would have challenged an assertion like that: how does one misunderstand giving their own child a cursed dark artifact? Now, though, he said nothing, just silently stared into his lap and tried over and over to make himself move, and over and over failed to manage it.

After Draco once again said nothing, Lucius continued, “I know it may be difficult for you to understand now, Draco, but I did what I did for you, with best intentions in mind.”

Draco’s hands were trembling. Images of his second year flashed through his mind’s eye—the basilisk, the red paint under his fingernails, the gaps in his memory, the searing pain in his forearm, and the way Tom sounded when he said eyes on me.

His breath came fast and unsteady.

“Draco,” Lucius continued, setting his papers on the small coffee table between them, “when a powerful alpha requests to be added to your courting list, the proper response is gratitude. You should be so lucky as to continue the line of Slytherin.”

Draco wasn’t sure what was worse: carrying Voldemort’s child or watching that child die when his father murdered it for Draco’s use of Craft.

He began to wheeze. The shaking gradually moved up his arms, to his shoulders, down his spine. He wanted to leave. He wanted to leave. Why couldn’t he make his feet move? Why couldn’t he move?

“Draco,” Lucius said, his voice different. He reached out to grip Draco’s shoulder—

—and just like that, the spell broke. Draco wrenched away so quickly and so violently that his textbook fell to the floor and the little settee on which he’d been perched skidded loudly across the tile floor. All at once, the fear came flooding out of him, shuddering sobs and blinding tears. He gripped himself around the middle, breathing raggedly through a constricted throat.

“Please no.”

“Draco,” Lucius said again. His voice was very different now, past confused and into stunned. But Draco could barely hear him.

“No, please. Please don’t make me—please—please—”

Lucius stood. Draco wheeled backward, blind instinct and raw terror. He collided with the wall by the door that led back into the hallway. Why was he begging? This was a man who’d killed a child to punish an omega. He would never care about what Draco wanted, no matter how scared he was or how much he begged. Was he even human in Lucius Malfoy’s eyes? Had he ever been?

“Draco, I—” Lucius began, sounding strange, but Draco was already running out of the solarium and away.

August slowed to a crawl. Draco spent every moment he could get away with in his room. Moments where he couldn’t, he stared at the floor and prayed to avoid Lucius Malfoy’s notice. Moments where he didn’t, he panted and shook and said nothing until Lucius, after a lingering silence, changed the subject.

When September finally arrived and the family left for King’s Cross Station, he peeled away from his mother’s last minute embrace and ran for the train. It wasn’t until the door slid shut behind him that he finally took a breath—it felt like the first in nearly a month. He sucked down a few more for good measure.

“Draco!”

Hermione was just climbing on herself from the other side of the car. He looked up at her, tried to speak, and couldn’t. She hurried down the narrow hallway, the wheels of her trunk thunk-thunk-thuking behind her.

She hugged him tightly. Draco hugged her back even tighter. He had not realized, in the numb terror of his last few weeks at the Manor, how dreadfully he’d missed her.

“Oh, it’s so good to see you! I was worried when you didn’t answer my owl!”

“August has been a nightmare,” Draco muttered into her shoulder. Hermione’s scent was all her own—crisp paper and cotton sheets—and he took a few breaths of it, finding himself surprised by how well it calmed him down.

“You couldn’t have picked a worse time to not answer your letters,” she said, withdrawing to look him earnestly in the eye. “After what happened at the Quidditch World Cup!”

Draco frowned. He recalled being excited about the match, eager to see how the young upstart Viktor Krum played and intending to listen to it on the wireless, but—well, that had been two days after his fateful conversation with Lucius. He’d been too scared to leave his room.

At his expression, Hermione persisted, “You… did hear what happened at the World Cup?”

“Oy! You two, this one’s open!”

Hermione looked back over her shoulder. Ron was waving them down from the far end of the car, head poked out through a compartment door. Hermione heaved her trunk back up and tugged it along down the hall. Draco, somewhat delayed, did the same.

“It was all over the papers and everything,” Hermione said as they went.

“I’m not permitted to read the papers,” Draco answered distractedly.

“Not permitted to—?” She looked back at him, bewildered. “I always knew purist ideology was a load of hogwash, but I didn’t realize how bad it was!”

Draco huffed a small, long-suffering sigh. He almost said, Neither did I.

As soon as Draco came into the compartment, the first thing he saw was—

“Harry.” The name came tumbling off his lips, small and surprised.

“Hi,” Harry said, then, “wow.”

“Smooth as butter, mate,” Ron said, and slumped into the seat beside him. But Draco wasn’t looking at Ron; he couldn’t look anywhere but at Harry. He’d shot up a few inches over the summer, his dark hair grown out a bit, and he’d—broadened—as well.

Draco suddenly felt like his skin was a bit too tight. After such a long, terrible summer, he’d nearly forgotten—

“Hello,” he finally managed. Harry was so handsome it almost hurt to look at him.

“Hi,” Harry said, a second time. He was staring at Draco, at the braid over his shoulder, his anxiously wringing hands, his legs.

An almost frantic excitement furled in the center of his chest. For as long as Draco could recall, he’d always commanded the attention of alphas. This was the first time he found himself liking it.

But it was a pleasure that he didn’t know what to do with. All his life, he’d been told to not give alphas any ideas and guard his virtue, and now that he wanted to give one particular alpha an idea and maybe guard his virtue just a tiny bit less, he felt paralyzed. Was it okay that Draco felt this way? If it wasn’t, how did he stop it? If it was, how did he proceed? No one had ever told him what to do with feelings like these. No one had even told him to expect them.

“You two are pathetic,” Hermione said, tugging Draco’s trunk out of his hand and tucking it under the seat just before she pulled him onto it. Harry, for his part, cleared his throat awkwardly. Draco fussed nervously with the end of his braid, trying to feel slightly less stared at.

“You, er,” Harry said, “did you have a good summer?”

“Er, no. Not really.”

“Oh.” Harry hadn’t been expecting a no, apparently. “Sorry to hear that.”

“You really didn’t hear anything about the World Cup?” Hermione pressed. “I’d thought, with your father—”

Draco’s entire body reacted to the word “father.” It was a physical jerk that started in the middle of his chest and wrenched him around to face Hermione, a sort of fight-or-flight instinct in reaction to a perceived threat.

“Wh-what about my father?” he asked, nervous.

“He was there, mate, with your bratty kid sister,” Ron said. He sounded circ*mspect, arms folded over his chest, gaze scrutinizing. “And we reckon he was there when Death Eaters attacked it that night.”

Draco was disappointed, but not surprised, to know that Lucius had taken Cordelia to the Quidditch World Cup without even informing Draco. Though perhaps it had been for the best, in the end.

“Death Eaters… attacked it?” Draco echoed. “Is—was everyone all right? Was anybody hurt?”

“A few, in the skirmish,” Hermione said with a frown.

“He really didn’t tell you anything?” Ron asked. His suspicion was obvious but not, for the first time Draco could recall, spiteful. It felt like progress.

“He never talks about that sort of thing,” Draco answered, “or at least not with me.”

Draco glanced back at Harry, which was a mistake. What brief reprieve from that horrible-wonderful, terrifying-exciting, confounding-intoxicating feeling the conversation had allowed was swallowed up by Harry again, who was staring at Draco like he was right on the edge of saying something but couldn’t find the words. Without quite knowing why, his mind went back to a conversation they had in History of Magic last year, and the one question that had been stuck in the back of his head ever since: Wouldn’t you want to marry for love?

“Oh, for goodness’s sake, you two,” Hermione said after a lapse of silence.

“Is this how the whole year is going to be, d’you reckon?” Ron asked her, with a tone that suggested he didn’t want to know the answer.

“I don’t know,” was her considered, frowning response. “They’re both bright in their own way, but also quiet dense.”

“By the way, Draco,” Harry said, as if he hadn’t heard, “I’ve been meaning to ask—do you know if you have any Veela blood?”

Draco furrowed his brow. “Do I what?”

“Merlin,” Ron moaned.

“So do you think he’s going to enter?” Cordelia asked as soon Draco sat down at the Slytherin table that evening. Not because he wanted to be near her, but because the seat beside her was the only open one left near Pansy.

“Is who going to enter what?” Draco asked, frowning.

Cordelia sneered at him. “Don’t tell me you forgot. Father was talking about it all summer.”

“What a coincidence,” Draco answered, “I’ve been avoiding him all summer. Hullo, Pans.”

“Draco, I missed you!” She leaned across the table to grip his hands in hers, which was the most they could manage in the crowded, chaotic Great Hall as it filled with students for the start of term feast. “Did you get my last letter in time? I sent you all the pictures from our holiday in Lithuania!”

“I got them,” Draco confirmed, before admitting, “I’m so jealous. Riga looks so beautiful. I wish I could travel more. I’ve only ever been to France, and that was just to visit family so it barely counts.”

“Oy!” Cordelia snapped her fingers in front of Draco’s face. Draco frowned and, on instinct, swatted her hand away as if it were a particularly annoying gnat. “Are neither of you interested in speculating on who our Champion will be?”

“Champion?” Draco repeated warily. “Of what?”

“You really don’t know?” Cordelia returned, but before Draco could continue the conversation, the Sorting Hat began its annual song.

Somewhere around the third verse, though, she leaned in to whisper: “For the record, I fully anticipate that your boyfriend is going to enter.”

“Enter what?” Draco hissed back, before a blush burned its way across his face in a delayed response. “He’s not my boyfriend! Shut up!”

“Are we talking about Potter?” Pansy asked eagerly as she bent forward across the table, dark eyes bright.

Draco snapped, “No!” at the exact same moment Cordelia whispered, “Yes, obviously.”

“Did he finally ask you out, Draco?” Pansy asked.

“Shut up, both of you!” Draco hissed. “Harry’s not my boyfriend and I don’t know what you’re on about, Cordelia, and I’ll remind you that I haven’t forgiven you for what you said to me in July—”

“Ugh, omegas are so dramatic,” Cordelia despaired, which is when a prefect finally shushed them. The Sorting carried on for a while in silence.

Somewhere around the L’s, Draco noticed Cordelia frowning at Pansy as she whispered excitedly about something with Daphne Greengrass to her left. Now that the fraught conversation he’d had with his sister last month was at the fore of his mind, Draco couldn’t help but wonder—

“It’s not Pansy, is it?” he whispered to her, horrified.

Cordelia shot him an odd look. “Is she what?”

“The beta girl you fancy.”

“Ugh! No! And did I or did I not tell you to shut up about that?”

“I thought you were on Adrian’s short list, anyway,” Draco continued.

“Courting takes ages, though, doesn’t it? It can’t even get serious till we’re both of age, and Father says I’m fine to play the field till then. I believe his exact words were sow my wild oats.”

Draco couldn’t tell which part he liked less: that Cordelia was allowed to pursue others while vying for an omega as a fiancée when Adrian would certainly not be allowed the same, or that Cordelia wanted to pursue anyone at all. Surely there was no one in the world who deserved to suffer Cordelia Malfoy’s romantic attentions.

“That’s a gross idiom,” Draco said, because it was. Then he asked, “So who is it, then?” because Draco was her big brother and he had a right to be nosy.

“No one!” she snapped. “Shut up!” But her eyes went to the Gryffindor table.

So, then: a pureblood, beta, Gryffindor girl. Draco had to find her and tell her to flee Great Britain for her own safety.

“Is Katie Bell pureblood?” Draco asked Hermione on their first study session of the year.

Hermione had just started unpacking her things when he’d asked, and frowned thoughtfully at him. “I don’t believe so, though I don’t know her very well. I think I heard her mention her father was a Muggle.”

“Hm.” Cordelia would be punching above her weight with Katie Bell, who was two years older than her and three times as beautiful, but Cordelia had a thing for Quidditch players.

“Harry might know,” she said, sitting down at her usual spot across from Draco. “Or Alicia. They’re both on the Gryffindor team with her. Why do you ask?”

“Nothing important,” Draco answered, which was true enough. He flipped open his copy of Runes & Runework: Practical Exercises, a class which he and Hermione shared.

“Oh! Before we get started, I have something to show you.” She bent over to dig through her bag, which she’d just set on the floor. Draco watched in curious silence. “I can’t believe I didn’t tell you the second I saw you on the train. I guess between the World Cup and the announcement about the Triwizard Tournament it just slipped my mind—”

At last, she found what she’d been searching for, and a moment later, she thumped the familiar, weathered copy of Julien de Montfort’s Book of Shadows on the table.

Draco’s veins rimed over and he felt as though he stopped breathing.

“I had to ship it of to a specialist over the summer, and got it back toward the end of August,” she said, eyes bright with excitement. “She was able to reconstruct most of the text—”

“No,” Draco said, then, “no. Hermione, stop it. I can’t do this.”

“Draco!” she protested with a whine, looking very put-off. “I thought you’d gotten over your weird hang-up with Craft.”

“It’s not a hang-up,” Draco insisted. His voice was starting to shake; he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the book, though he wished he could. “Not anymore. Hermione, put it away. I can’t be seen with it.”

“Draco,” she repeated, voice even whinier and looking even more put-off, “I thought you had more intellectual curiosity than this! There are some really amazing spells in it that—”

“Hermione, stop it! You don’t understand!”

There must have been something in his voice that gave her pause. She stopped talking, brown eyes big and worried.

“It’s different for me,” Draco insisted. He was gripping his textbook tightly to keep his hands from trembling. “I’m an omega—a pureblood omega. Maybe it’s just intellectual curiosity for you, but it could get me killed.”

Hermione seemed bewildered and horrified. “What? Killed? How?”

Against his will, Draco’s mind went back to that awful conversation with his mother in the garden, the feeling of gravity shifting as he learned of the aunt he’d never met and his own father’s culpability in her fate. He swallowed through a terrified knot of fear in his throat.

“Put the book away,” he whispered, “and I’ll explain.”

He knew plenty about the Triwizard Tournament, of course. It had been one of Draco’s own ancestors on his mother’s side, Jean-Christophe Rosier, who’d been the Beauxbatons Champion the last time it was held. Family lore even said he was the one who accidentally released the co*ckatrice that killed all those people, though Draco knew better than to assume every family story was true. Still, when the students from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons arrived at the end of October, he was keen to speak to some of the French students to see if they could corroborate the story Granny Dru had always told.

Unfortunately, the majority of the Beauxbatons students seemed rather aloof (they were French, Draco supposed), and his attention that evening was being monopolized by an unexpected guest.

“I did not know that Hogvarts allowed omegas to enroll,” said Viktor Krum, leaning forward with his head resting on one hand. “How forvard-thinking of them.”

“Mhm,” Draco said distractedly, as he tried to come up with a polite way to excuse himself.

(Draco knew that there were a lot of students who’d kill from this sort of attention from a handsome, talented international Quidditch star, but Draco was not one of them. He respected Krum a lot as a Seeker, but he was still an alpha, and alphas always reacted this way to Draco. It was getting a bit old hat.)

“Do you care much for Quidditch, Draco?” he asked.

“He doesn’t play, of course,” Cordelia interjected, who was more excited by Krum’s presence than every beta girl in the room put together, “he is an omega. But I play, you know. Seeker, just like you.”

Draco sighed and let their conversation turn into an unpleasant but ignorable backdrop. There was a group of Beauxbatons girls sitting with some Hufflepuffs that, if he could just make it over and say hello—

“—see the Vorld Cup, Draco?” Krum asked, forcing Draco’s attention back to the table. Krum was grinning at him in a way that would be very charming if it weren’t so predictable. “Terrible business vith the aftermath, of course, but the game vas exciting.”

“I didn’t see it,” Draco answered.

“I did,” Cordelia said eagerly. “Shame Bulgaria lost, but what a catch!”

Krum was saying something else; Draco wasn’t listening. He’d caught Marietta’s eye across the Great Hall, and was raising eyebrows at her to get her to come over and extricate him from the conversation.

“Has anyvone ever told you,” Krum said to Draco a few sentences later, “that you smell like snowdrops?”

He picked up Draco’s hand and pressed his nose to the inside of his wrist. Before Draco could even formulate a reaction, there suddenly came—

BANG!

—from the other side of the room. One of the windows by the Gryffindor table had exploded in a shower of stained glass. Several students were screaming; even Krum wrenched around. In the middle of the chaos—students scrambling away from the debris, knocking over chairs and overturning plates of food—sat Harry, stony-faced, magic warping the air around him in a way that made Draco think of magma.

Then Harry caught Draco’s gaze, flinched, and stormed out of the Great Hall.

“Er,” Draco said, his stomach twisting into knots.

“Ugh, Potter,” Cordelia sneered. “Don’t mind him, Krum. He’s the worst sort of celebrity—complete drama magnet, nothing like you. I’ve been meaning to ask—I’d love to see a demonstration of that famous Wronski feint!”

Draco spent the rest of the day trying to find Harry but couldn’t.

He’d fully intended to spend the next day doing the same—Draco needed to talk to him, needed to know if that display was what he thought it was—but Halloween ended up going slightly pear-shaped, which only strengthened Draco’s resolve to find him:

“Harry!”

As soon as he saw the familiar mop of dark hair exit from Headmaster Dumbledore’s office, Draco dropped his disillusionment charm and leapt from the shadows toward him.

Harry only had time to let out a startled yelp before Draco had him wrapped up in a hug that was perhaps a bit too tight, by the way Harry seemed to be struggling to breathe.

“Are you all right?” Draco asked at once. “Were they very cross? What happened? How did your name end up in the Goblet? Are you really going to have to compete?”

“One question at a time, Malfoy,” said a voice that wasn’t Harry’s. Draco withdrew just enough to look over.

“Oh, Diggory.” Draco hadn’t even noticed he was there. “Hello. I’m sorry, I didn’t…”

Cedric Diggory was a tall, handsome, sandy-haired Hufflepuff, beta, and Seeker for his house team. Draco had never spoken to him personally, but knew him through reputation. Half the beta girls, a surprising number of beta boys, and near-on half the omegas had a crush on him (Marietta would kill him if Draco spoke to him without putting in a good word for her).

“It’s all right,” Diggory answered with an awkward but good-natured smile. “I guess you’re both a bit… distracted.”

He looked back at Harry, and so did Draco. He had released Harry from the vise-grip of a hug, but still had both hands clutching his wrists.

Harry, though, wasn’t looking at his wrists; he was looking at Draco. And now that Draco was looking back, every organ in his chest was twisting up into a horrible tangle.

“I, um,” Harry said, then didn’t finish.

“Are you all right?” Draco asked.

“Yeah—yes, I’m all right. I… I mean, everyone’s mad at me and I’m sure no one’s going to believe me when I say I don’t know how my name got in the Goblet… And I’m going to have to risk my life to compete in this Tournament, I guess…”

A horrible, distressed sound came wrenching out of Draco’s throat involuntarily. He withdrew his hands and rubbed them together instead, because if he held Harry’s wrists any tighter he was going to leave marks.

“This is so horrible,” Draco said. “Do you think it—I mean—do you think it has something to do with—?”

Draco’s eyes went to Harry’s scar, half-hidden behind the fall of his hair. If his last few letters before summer ended were any indication, his dreams had been getting worse and more ominous than ever. Harry’s mouth twisted downward to an anxious frown.

“I don’t know,” Harry answered with a tone that suggested he wished he did. Then he glanced nervously from his feet to Draco. “So you… you do believe that I didn’t—?”

“Oh, Harry, don’t be absurd! Of course I don’t believe you did this!”

A small, fragile, relieved smile lit Harry’s face like a sunrise, and Draco felt an absurd and near-overwhelming impulse to flee the corridor so he wouldn’t have to keep looking at it. “That’s… that’s an incredible relief.”

“You have to admit,” Diggory added, “it is… rather difficult to imagine a plausible alternative.”

A tense silence lapsed. Draco stood fidgeting in the silence, eyes going back and forth between them.

Eventually, Harry said, “You don’t have to believe me.” His voice was smaller than Draco had ever heard it. “I’m sure you won’t be alone. But for what it’s worth, Cedric, you deserve this shot way more than I do, regardless of how my name got in.”

After a time, Diggory sighed, clapped Harry on one shoulder, nodded to Draco, and left down the hallway toward the Hufflepuff common room. Draco watched him till he was out of sight around a corner, then returned his attention to Harry.

Harry was already looking at him when he looked back, and Draco suddenly became aware of the fact that they were alone, in a dark hallway, with a gentle autumn rain pattering the nearby window.

Draco had been trying to talk to him alone like this for nearly two days, and now that he finally had the opportunity, Draco couldn’t shake the desire to run away as fast as possible.

“I got to talk to the other Champions,” Harry began falteringly.

“Oh?”

“Krum seems,” he continued, “nice.”

“Does he? He seems like a blowhard to me.”

Something sparked behind Harry’s eyes. “He does? I thought—I mean, yesterday at the Great Hall, he—I mean, he’s, er, such a great Seeker and…”

“You’re a great Seeker,” Draco answered at once, and then immediately got hot with embarrassment. Why had Draco wanted to talk to him so badly? Draco should never speak to Harry, or anyone, ever again.

“Oh,” Harry said, voice strange. “Th-thanks.”

Draco buried his face in his hands and made a horrible squeaking sound. “I should go,” he said. He needed to dig a ditch and then stay in it for the rest of his life.

“D’you want to go to Hogsmeade?” Harry asked, suddenly and very quickly. The conversation was really putting a damper on Draco’s live-in-a-ditch-forever plan, which he felt like he should start on as soon as he could.

“What? What’s in Hogsmeade?”

“Er—the Three Broomsticks? Or Honeyduke’s. Or there’s that nice trail down by the stream.”

Draco stared. He could feel his heart beating in his throat. This couldn’t possibly be what he thought it was, could it?

“Look,” Harry continued, after an uncomfortable lapse of silence, “I’ve loved being at Hogwarts. This place is like my home now. But even so, it has a pretty consistent record of trying to kill me.”

“Er,” Draco said.

“Quirrell in first year, the Chamber in the second, then Dementors last year and now this—and through it all, the only really, consistently, wonderfully good thing has—h-has—”

Maybe Draco wouldn’t have to dig a ditch. Maybe if he tried really hard, he could just make himself burst into flames.

“—been my friends, and especially—especially you. And—so—do you want to go with me to Hogsmeade or not?”

Draco has to force his tongue to move: “Okay.”

That sunrise-of-happiness look came slowly over Harry’s face again. Draco was having a little trouble breathing. “Okay?”

“I’d love to go to Hogsmeade with you. I’d love—” To spend time with him any way he could? To go on a date with him? Was this a date? Oh, Merlin, was this a date? He couldn’t go on a date! His father would kill him! “—t-to go to Hogsmeade with you,” he said a second time, except now he was stammering like an idiot, but it didn’t seem to detract from Harry’s happiness at all.

“Great. Amazing. I—I’ve got loads of homework to do tomorrow, but maybe next Saturday?”

Draco spent the rest of the week trying not to lose his mind, to middling success.

The longer he had to think about it, the more sure that he’d made a mistake. Even if it wasn’t a date, it was close enough to look like a date, which would be more than enough justification for Lucius.

Draco had been told explicitly before he began his first year that he wasn’t even to talk to alphas, and he’d broken that rule almost immediately. He’d managed to escape Lucius’s notice, which Draco could only put down to the man not caring enough to be especially involved with Draco’s life, but now?

Now Harry was on the stage in a new way. And now Draco knew just how far he was willing to go to punish omegas.

To make matters worse, the Hogwarts rumor mill was going wild with speculation about how Harry had become the fourth Champion; consensus seemed to be that he definitely put his own name into the Goblet, somehow, but no one could agree on how.

Draco knew without asking, without even needing to glance in his direction, that the rumors were aggravating Harry. He’d never been comfortable in the spotlight, and hated when people assumed otherwise.

All this plus Draco’s mounting nervousness made for a rather wet blanket when they met at the Three Broomsticks:

“Everyone’s looking,” Harry said before anything else, before they’d even ordered.

And they were—Hogsmeade was packed with students, as it tended to be on weekends, and Draco was willing to bet that there wasn’t a single pair of eyes in the building that hadn’t glanced in their direction since they’d arrived.

“Seems like it,” Draco agreed. He wasn’t any happier than Harry was about the attention, though he suspected his reasons were different.

“I’m sick to death of all this and we haven’t even made it to the First Task,” Harry said miserably.

Draco frowned sympathetically at him. “Have you and Ron and Hermione been working to prepare?”

“Yes, a little,” he answered, then flinched and amended, “well, Hermione has. Ron and I have been in a bit of a row.”

Draco tried, and failed, to hide his surprise. Madam Rosmerta arrived and placed two butterbeers on the table, for which they both mumbled their thanks. She paused, opened her mouth as if to ask a question, then shook her head and left.

“Why are you in a row?” Draco finally asked.

“He thinks I put my name in the Goblet,” Harry sighed. “Thinks I’m doing it for attention, I guess, like I don’t get too much of that already. I’m sure Hermione told you.”

She hadn’t—not directly. Though it made her snarling comments at their study session the day before about how all boys were idiots make more sense (when Draco had protested, she insisted that Draco didn’t count, which confused him; he assumed it was a Muggle gender thing and left it alone).

“He’ll come around,” Draco assured him. “He’s been your best friend for ages. Sooner or later he’ll remember it.”

“I hadn’t expected you of all people to defend him,” Harry said. “I know you can’t stand him.”

Draco shook his head. “I don’t hate Ron. He hates me—or my family—and I guess I understand why, but I’m not going to try to talk him into liking me. Life’s short enough.”

Harry was giving him a long, lingering look. It made Draco feel all fluttery and hot.

“You’re really,” Harry began, and trailed off, which made the flutteriness and heat a thousand times worse.

Then Harry cleared his throat, took a fortifying swig of butterbeer, and smiled when he sat it back down.

“Actually, I’m glad we have some sort of chance to talk,” he said. “I’ve been writing to Sirius about pureblood courting customs.”

“Y-you—you have? Why?”

“Curiosity, I guess,” Harry said, directly into his butterbeer. “Anyway, he said there’s a way out of it. Recusal, I think he called it? He said that’s what he did to get out of his parents’ efforts to get him married.”

Draco frowned. “I’m familiar,” he said guardedly. “With the concept and the specific story. He’s my cousin, remember?”

“Right,” Harry continued, leaning forward, “so why don’t you do that, too?”

“Why don’t I Recuse myself from courtship?” Draco repeated. “Do you even know what that would mean?”

“It worked for Sirius,” Harry insisted.

“It very much did not work for Sirius,” Draco said. “Harry, how do you think he got booted off the Black family tree?”

Harry opened his mouth, snapped it shut again. The shapes of his face were changing, as if he was connecting several dots together.

“If I Recused, I’d be kicked out of my own home, disinherited, and made homeless. I might even be killed, if my father was angry enough! I’d definitely never see my family again.”

“I…”

“And that’s even assuming that my petition to Recuse was accepted,” Draco continued. “Sirius is a beta. I’m an omega. My sex wasn’t even considered to be legally people till twenty years ago!”

“What? Legally people? What do you mean?”

“We were considered wards for the last few hundred years, first of our fathers, and then our husbands. We weren’t allowed to open bank accounts or vote or go out in public alone or anything! We were slaves until—what was it, the Omega Liberation Act in 1833? Don’t you listen in Binns’s class?”

“Well, no,” Harry admitted, “but in my defense—”

“If I Recused and it was accepted, assuming I wasn’t killed outright, I’d lose my family,” Draco said. “If I Recused and it wasn’t accepted, I’d probably be on a tighter leash than I already am. He’d probably pull me out of Hogwarts! He’d… he’d…”

Merlin, it was a nightmare just to think about. A bit of butterbeer splashed on Draco’s fingers, and he belatedly realized it was because his hands were shaking.

“Hey. Hey.”

Harry’s hands came to grip Draco’s, who sucked down a few desperate breaths. He lifted his eyes to meet Harry’s, which was a mistake, because his eyes were so green and his hair was so dark and the way he was gripping Draco’s hands—Merlin, the scar on Draco’s forearm itched dreadfully—

“I’m sorry, all right? I’m not going to pretend I know anything about pureblood culture or courting customs or any of that. I just… it drives me crazy to think…”

Draco said nothing; he couldn’t. His heart was firmly lodged in his throat, blocking the egress of any words he wanted to say, words like Does the idea of me being courted drive you crazy because it’s against my will, or because you wish it was you?

“Draco,” Harry eventually said, “last year I asked you if you wouldn’t rather marry for love.”

“I remember,” Draco whispered back. How could he have ever forgotten?

“I’ll ask it again. Do you want to marry for love? Or at least on your own terms?”

Draco swallowed hard. “It’s not as simple as that.”

“Just answer me,” he insisted, gripping Draco’s hands tighter. “Would you rather marry for love?”

“We don’t all get that choice.”

“Draco, would you rather marry for love?”

“Of course I would!” Draco blurted out. “But I can’t—I don’t—there isn’t—”

“Right,” Harry said. Those green eyes were so bright, so determined. “Then that’s all that matters. I’ll figure out a way to make it happen for you, all right?”

“Make—make it happen?”

“I’ll figure out a way to make sure you marry on your own terms.”

Draco couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You’ll figure out a way to overturn centuries of social mores? What, on your own?”

“Hey, I never said it was going to be easy, just that I’d do it. It’s—it’s you. How could I not at least try?”

Harry’s hands, still gripping Draco’s, became more difficult to ignore, hotter, searing like a brand. Draco sat and stared at him in silence for a time. He wanted to scoff, to call him absurd, to discount this insane, ill-defined declaration of his out of hand.

He tried, albeit a bit feebly: “You’re absurd, Harry Potter.”

Harry grinned back. “Good absurd or bad absurd?”

Sometimes Draco did wonder.

THE FOURTH TRIWIZARD CHAMPION: An In-Depth Look at Harry Potter
by Rita Skeeter

(continued from pg. 6)

… of course, the Boy Who Lived is more than his clearly traumatizing past: Harry has at last found love at Hogwarts. His close friend, Colin Creevey, says that Harry is rarely seen out of the company of one Draco Malfoy, a stunningly beautiful omega boy who, like Harry, is one of the top students in the school.

“It’s bound to cause a firestorm eventually,” says Draco’s alpha sister and heir to the Malfoy estate, Cordelia. “I’ve kept quiet about it because he’s my brother and I love him, but the whole school knows Draco’s courting list is a mile long and Potter’s name is definitely not on it. How could it be, without a sponsor to put it there? But then, Potter always has been keen for things he can’t have and attention he doesn’t deserve.”

Draco Malfoy, firstborn of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, is a pureblood with a sterling pedigree. It’s hardly a wonder Harry is so enamored with him—between his platinum blond hair, marmoreal skin, and striking figure, half the school is, too!

“I’d wager his sister is the only alpha in the castle who hasn’t looked at him twice,” says the omega’s closest friend, Pansy Parkinson. “Not that he has any idea, mind you. He’s completely unaware of the effect he has on people.”

Though Harry’s nascent romance is certainly star-crossed, it is difficult to imagine how it could ever survive. The Malfoys are famously strict traditionalists, who would not take kindly to the idea of their omega son eschewing a formal courtship. When asked for his thoughts on the matter, Draco’s godfather and head of house, Severus Snape, very rudely declined to comment.

It felt like no time at all before the First Task was upon them—just a few weeks of classes and one more Saturday out at Hogsmeade with Harry (more private, this time, a long and quiet stroll along the riverbank), and suddenly the day had arrived.

Draco had spent those brief, intervening days in a near-constant state of panic. Ever since the article, the rumors about Harry, and by extension Draco, had been unrelenting. He’d had a bit of a row with Pansy about it when he discovered she gave Skeeter a quote; she’d rather defensively said that it was true, and in any case gave Draco a mystique, whatever that meant, and eventually she’d reluctantly apologized.

Cordelia, though—

“Hey, check it out!”

Draco glared at his sister as she sauntered over, Crabbe and Goyle in tow. She was bundled up against the chilly Scottish November, and pinned to her green Slytherin scarf—

“What is that?”

Support CEDRIC DIGGORY—
The REAL Hogwarts Champion

The letters were glowing bright red and, when Cordelia tapped hers with her wand, switched around:

POTTER STINKS

Draco rolled his eyes. “You’re an asshole, Cordelia.”

“Oh, come on. Just because they take the piss out of your boyfriend doesn’t mean they aren’t funny.”

“He’s not my boyfriend!” Draco snapped, a little too quickly and frantically. “And I don’t appreciate you giving interviews to the Prophet that indicate the contrary! You’re an asshole for that, too, by the way.”

“I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true,” Cordelia said, and settled into the seat beside Draco’s. The stands out by the Quidditch Pitch, just conjured for the First Task, were rapidly filling up with students, and in the distance, Draco saw several enormous cages covered with cloths. He tried not to look at them too long, because he knew what they were and it made him sick with fear to think that Harry was about to face one.

“If he’s not your boyfriend,” Crabbe suddenly intoned from where he’d taken a seat behind them, “does that mean I can ask you to the Yule Ball?”

“No!” Draco barked at him.

“He’s obviously waiting for an invitation from his boyfriend, Crabbe,” Cordelia continued.

“Shut up! What do you want? Go bother someone else.”

“That’s a problem, then,” Cordelia answered, kicking her feet up on the back of the empty seat in front of her, “because what I want is to bother you.”

Draco had never wanted to strangle his little sister quite so badly. “When I find that beta girl you fancy, I’m going to make it my life’s mission to get her to flee the country.”

Cordelia straightened and went scarlet with a blush. “Hey—y-you—shut up!”

“Probably won’t even have to try that hard,” Draco gleefully added. “One look at your snotty little face and she’ll be running for the hills—”

“Welcome, students,” bellowed Ludo Bagman from the empty field, cutting short the conversation, “to the First Task of the Triwizard Tournament!”

The makeshift arena erupted into applause. Draco clapped politely, though dread had settled into the pit of his stomach. He almost didn’t want to watch.

Until he did watch, and found he couldn’t look away.

Harry had always been good on a broom, and though Draco had seen him fly before, it had never been like this, zipping around cones of dragon fire, a blur of scarlet and black. He took Draco’s breath away.

Something shifted in that moment, small but fundamental, a sea change in his soul that Draco couldn’t quite name. The feeling was intense but inscrutable, and in the quietest corners of his heart, he wondered if this was what falling in love felt like.

“Draco, are you busy?”

When Draco looked up from his Charms homework, he was met with a face he hadn’t expected.

“Oh, Ginny. Hello.” He hadn’t seen her since Hermione’s sleepover the year before, which made sense—they were in different houses, after all, and different years. Still, they were on fine enough terms; they usually smiled and waved when they saw each other in the halls, and once at dinner she’d told Draco a joke that had made him laugh so hard he spat pumpkin juice all over himself.

“I was wondering if I could get your opinion on something,” she said, slipping into the seat across from him at Draco’s usual library table.

“Sure, I suppose,” Draco answered. He scooted a few textbooks over so she’d have somewhere to put her arms.

“Two different people have asked me to the Yule Ball,” she said, “and I’m not sure which one to go with.”

Draco canted his head to the side. “Why do you want my opinion?”

She flashed him a small, mischievous, almost catlike grin. “Well, you are the expert on getting asked to the Yule Ball. What’re you up to now? Six?”

He bit back on the response of eight, actually, and instead went a little hot in the face. “I, er… I’m just… waiting for the right person to ask me.”

Her expression got a little maudlin.

“Right,” she said. “Harry.”

Draco’s face got even hotter. He sank a little lower into his chair. “I…”

“You know, I almost didn’t want to come to Hermione’s sleepover when I heard you’d be there. That’s how jealous I was of you.”

He couldn’t have hidden his surprise even if he cared to. “What? Jealous?”

“Yes, jealous, obviously. I fancied Harry for near-on three years, didn’t you notice?”

Draco really hadn’t, though it did explain a few incidents where she’d clammed up when he came into the room.

“And there you were, all pretty and blond and omega and he was walking into walls the first time he saw you in jeans when I couldn’t even get him to glance in my direction.”

“Oh,” Draco said, small and surprised and with a little jolt of guilt. “I… I’m sorry. That can’t be a good way to feel.”

She heaved a little sigh, pushed some of her red hair over her shoulder. “It is what it is. Hermione’s been great in helping me move on. She very correctly pointed out that I shouldn’t have to fight for someone’s attention.”

“I… well, if it makes you feel better,” Draco said, “for being so supposedly mad about me, Harry hasn’t asked me to the Yule Ball.”

“Yeah, he keeps trying and then getting nervous,” she answered with a grin. “It’s hilarious to watch, actually. He’ll come around. Anyway—this isn’t why I’m here.”

Draco tried fiercely to push down the butterflies in his stomach. “Er, right.”

“I’m here because two people asked me to the dance, almost at the same time. One tried, then another stormed right over when he did and asked the same. Demanded, more like. And—I don’t know. I’m at a loss.”

Draco flipped his textbook shut and leaned in conspiratorially. He was a Slytherin, after all, and a Slytherin loved nothing more than good gossip.

“The first was Neville—you know Neville?”

“I know of him.” They’d never really spoken.

“He’s been a good friend for a while, and I like him a lot, and when Hermione turned him down because she already had a date, he thought to ask—”

“Wait, Hermione already has a date?” That lying cow! How could she not tell him?

“This isn’t why I’m here,” Ginny replied, matching his tone. Draco groaned and made a mental note to confront her later. “Hermione had a date, so he thought to ask me, and at first I thought—why not, right? I don’t fancy Neville, but I like him fine, and he’s sweet enough. But then, right before I could say anything, your sister came storming over in a pique!”

“Cordelia?” Draco said, bewildered, before it hit him like a train: “It’s you!”

“What?” Ginny blinked back at him. “What’s me?”

“You’re the pureblood beta Gryffindor girl she fancies!”

“She—she fancies me?” Ginny said, looking confounded, her cheeks going a bit pink.

“No, you don’t understand,” Draco hastened to add, “she’s awful. Truly the worst, brattiest, most dreadful sort of alpha imaginable. Go with Neville.”

But Ginny didn’t appear to be listening. Her bright brown eyes had trailed up, staring dreamily up at the mezzanine level of the library. “She fancies me,” she said again, no longer a question but an admiring sort of sigh. “I guess that does explain why she was so hot under the collar when she heard Neville ask me to the dance… oh, but our families would hate it.”

By her tone, though, Ginny was more intrigued by an idea of star-crossed lovers and not rightfully put-off by the fact that it was Cordelia Lucienne Malfoy, the most obnoxious alpha to have ever lived.

Draco found he was not above begging: “Ginny, no. You don’t—look, Cordelia’s on Adrian Rowle’s courting list, there have already been negotiations on his bride-price—”

“And yet she had to follow her heart in defiance of convention,” Ginny said, and Draco groaned and buried his head in his hands. This was going exactly opposite of how he’d intended.

“Thanks, Draco,” she said brightly, standing. “You’ve been a huge help.”

“You’re going to regret this,” Draco replied, though it was mostly muffled by his hands.

“Don’t look now, but I think your fearless alpha has finally mustered his nerve.”

So Draco didn’t look, not even as Ginny thumped his shoulder as she walked past, and not even as he heard her say, “Go get ’em, tiger!” before giggling and walking off.

When Draco finally did look, several long seconds had passed, and Harry was standing a few paces away, shifting his weight nervously from foot to foot and looking slightly gray.

“Hi,” he finally managed.

Draco was not in the mood for this. He’d just inadvertently made his stupid kid sister’s dreams come true, and he was so indescribably sick of making things easier for alphas.

“Out with it!” Draco snapped, which made Harry reel back a step.

“I,” he said.

“Do you have any idea how many people I’ve had to turn down while I’ve been waiting for you?”

His green eyes got wide. “Wait,” he said, “how many people have—?”

Draco stood, the shriek of his chair legs on the parquet floor cutting short Harry’s question. He closed the distance between them and jabbed an accusatory finger into his chest.

“Harry James Potter, ask me to the Yule Ball right this second!”

“Er,” he said, then, “would you like to go the Yule Ball with me?”

“Yes! Honestly, was that so hard? Merlin! Why are alphas so stupid?”

But even as Draco railed at him, Harry was grinning. Draco spun and returned to the table, furiously muttering about how intolerable alphas were, hoping that Harry hadn’t seen the flush of pleasure that had risen up Draco’s neck.

His parents had, of course, packed him some formal robes, per the letter of supplies that had gone out over the summer. They were starch black and covered him from neck to toe, very finely-made but also very conservative, and not that long ago would have been perfectly suitable.

But now, Draco felt like there was something to prove. Whatever reservations Draco had about breaking Lucius’s rules surrounding alphas was swallowed up by a growing, bone-deep need to cement this fragile, delicate, confusing thing that had been growing between him and Harry. Maybe it would all come to nothing; maybe Harry’s promise that he’d get him out of courtship was no more substantial than a dream, but Draco wanted it to be real. He wanted Harry, and wanted Harry to want him. It felt cathartic to admit.

And it was why Draco had forewent those formal, conservative robes and gone to Gladrags. It was why he picked up a dress there instead, and why when Harry first saw him in it—

“Oh, my God.”

—his reaction was so satisfying.

[ Silver Silk by reliand ]

Draco swallowed, smiled shyly. “Hi,” he said.

“Oh, my God,” Harry said again.

The dress was floor length, silver silk with white embroidery across the chest and cape sleeves that were just as long as the skirt. The beta witch who’d done his fitting had sighed and called it a vision. Standing in that dress for the first time, Draco had never felt quite so lovely. He was used to other people telling him he was pretty, but it was the first time it had felt true.

Seeing Harry see him in the dress was another experience entirely. There were others, of course, filtering toward the Great Hall who also craned their necks to get a better look at Draco, but Harry’s attention was the only one that mattered.

“Do you, er,” Draco asked, fingers twisting together near his stomach, “know how to waltz?”

“What?” Harry said. He was staring at Draco’s left leg, visible through the long slit up the front of his dress.

“Waltz,” Draco repeated. “Do you know the steps?”

“Er,” Harry said, still apparently unable to tear his eyes away from Draco’s leg, “McGonagall—she gave all the Gryffindors lessons, so I… er…”

“Harry?”

At last, he looked up. His pupils were blown wide. “Yes.”

Draco felt heat rise in his cheeks. “You look very nice.”

It was true: his bottle green robes complemented his eyes perfectly, and were cut just right. Draco wanted to trace his fingertips over his shoulder to feel the material—and maybe for other reasons, too.

“You are,” Harry said, and swallowed thickly, “indescribably beautiful.”

Even a month ago, Draco would have felt an impulse to run at a compliment like that, part of that ingrained instinct to shy away from romantic attention. Now, though, he just wanted so much and so madly that he ached with it.

“Thank you,” he said, very quietly.

“Are you sure you’re not part Veela?”

“Champions over here, please!” came McGonagall’s voice, cutting through the droning mumble of voices. Harry looked back at her, then at Draco, and then nervously offered a hand. Draco took it, frantically trying to ignore the surge of heat under his skin, and together they walked into the Great Hall.

The room was done up with silver fairy lights and illusory snow falling from the ceiling. A great Christmas tree stood at the far end where the professors normally sat, glittering white and gold. And around the edges of the room, the students were crowding for the Champions Dance.

“What about you?” Harry asked lowly as they took their position in the center of the room, between all the other Champions and their dates. “Do you know how to waltz?”

“I’m an omega,” Draco answered simply. “I’ve been trained in ballroom dancing since I was a child.”

“Right,” Harry said, and put one hand hesitantly on Draco’s hip. The single touch lit up his whole body with pleasure and heat. Draco rested his own on Harry’s shoulder, hoping the alpha wouldn’t be able to hear Draco’s heart pounding through his chest.

The music struck up and they danced.

On the one hand, objectively, Harry wasn’t a very good dancer. His movements were a little stiff and awkward, his rhythm not quite in pace with the song.

On the other hand, he got better as time went on. He also got closer. By the end of the first few bars, Draco could feel the alpha’s body heat leaching into his own skin. He could also feel his hand, searing like a red-hot iron, moving slowly up Draco’s spine. The dress, being off-the-shoulder and low in the back, allowed for an expanse of skin for the hand to travel. Draco felt every inch of it.

“Harry…”

“Yes?”

He was very close now. His voice was in Draco’s ear, his breath fluttering through the loose strands of hair artfully falling from the twist of at the nape of his neck.

“You are,” Draco began, but was unable to finish. They were pressed together now, and Draco’s blood sang with heat and desire so intense that it eclipsed all other sensation: there was no ballroom, no dance, no Great Hall, there was only Harry, his hands on Draco’s skin, his petrichor scent.

“What am I?” he asked, his voice low.

He was close enough now that Draco could detect that other, subtler scent under the petrichor. It was clean and almost metallic. It made him think of thunder, which was when the name for it occurred to him: ozone. The smell of air after a lightning strike.

Ground after rain, air after lightning. Harry Potter smelled like a storm.

Want, want, want. It pulsed in him with increasing urgency, so strong that Draco was dizzy.

And he was still dizzy, still wanting, still hot, so bloody hot, even after the dance ended and the room applauded. They were so close still. Harry’s hands were on his skin, his mouth so close to Draco’s neck—an instinct, wild and primal, had him tilting his chin back slightly, without even realizing—

“I… Draco…”

—that he was baring his throat for Harry Potter’s bonding bite, and his body, trembling and so f*cking hot, was drawn tight as a bowstring, and he was—he was—

“You… you smell… what’s—?”

Draco had to use every ounce of self-possession to keep himself standing, to force words out of his mouth:

“Y-you need to get Professor Snape.”

“What? Why?”

“I—” Draco swallowed. The crowd around them began to dance, completely unaware that— “I’m going into heat.”

“Oh, how like a Malfoy to hit prothestrus at the most dramatic moment possible.”

“Alicia! Be nice!”

“Niceness isn’t going to curtail his heat.”

He was moving. He couldn’t tell where. His arms were held by points of pressure that pulled him along, but he couldn’t keep his head upright to look at where he was going.

“He seems pretty far gone.”

“Well, he was dancing with Potter. I bet he triggered it.”

“Can that happen? Can heat get triggered? I thought it was a cyclical thing.”

“I don’t know. Let’s just get him to the heat room.”

Heat room?

Up and down and left and right. With difficulty, Draco finally identified the other voice: Nigel Wolpert, Gryffindor, the only omega in the first year class.

He wished he knew where he was going. It wasn’t until he felt a familiar shiver of magic and saw the recognizable rug in the omega dormitory that he was able to put it together.

“It’s through here,” Alicia said.

Something opened and shut. Draco was pushed forward, staggered, and landed on something soft. His whole body convulsed at the sudden lack of contact; he made a horrible, pathetic sound and curled in on himself.

“You’re in for a sh*tty weekend, Draco,” Alicia said. “First heats are always the worst.”

“Are they?” Nigel asked nervously.

“Oh, yeah. I felt like I’d been kicked by a horse for days after my first one ended.”

A sash window hissed and thumped as it was pushed open. A frigid December wind came through immediately, and Draco arched toward it without meaning to. It felt incredible on his flushed, feverish skin.

“Should we bring him something?” Nigel asked. “Food, water?”

“He’s not going to be in a fit state to eat or drink. He’ll come out on his own in a few days.”

“I feel bad leaving him alone like this.”

“Not as bad as he’s going to feel, trust me.”

There was nothing but heat—nothing but straining muscles and beads of sweat and slick running between his legs and this pulsing, this urge that he didn’t understand. He wanted, wanted, wanted, without understanding what it was he was after.

Days and nights blurred together. Flashes of consciousness, disparate images of open windows and tangled sheets and low-burning candles came between long stretches of nothing. The only constant through it all was a steadily-escalating, all-consuming ache that seemed to swallow up every other sensation. Want, want, want.

He wept more than once, called out for help, but no one ever came. No one ever heard him.

And then, as abruptly as it began, it ended. He awoke to a rather small bedroom with a single window, lying on a bed that felt uncomfortably damp.

He sat up, rubbed his eyes, but nothing came into focus. With great difficulty, he stood and stumbled toward and through the only door in the room, and exited back into the omega dormitory. A few were there waiting for him, but he couldn’t quite tell which.

“What day is it?” he said by way of greeting. His throat felt rough and abraded and dry.

“Sunday,” answered one of them, a familiar voice. “Sunday night, to be specific. You look like sh*t.”

“I feel like sh*t.” And Merlin, he really did. There wasn’t a single part of him that didn’t hurt. His legs struggled just to hold him upright; his eyes strained just to see. There was an uncomfortable hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he was f*cking thirsty and absolutely ravenous.

“Alicia told me to tell you to take a shower first.” It was Zacharias Smith, Hufflepuff, two years below Draco. Now that he was focusing, he could see him perched on the foot of his bed, eying Draco nervously. “Then go and see Professor Snape.”

Draco’s head was too fuzzy to think. “Professor Snape?”

“Standard procedure,” Nigel said from the bed beside Zacharias’s. “You need to talk to your head of house about… well, about moving out of this dorm. Alicia said he’ll probably also have a meal waiting for you.”

A meal sounded amazing, but not quite as good as a shower.

Draco looked down at himself. The pretty silver kitten heels he’d bought had been stripped off, but his dress hadn’t. He’d paid nearly thirty galleons for this thing and now it was absolutely ruined, wrinkled and ripped and sticking to him in—places.

“Great,” Draco said. “I can’t wait to talk to my alpha godfather about my first heat.”

“If it makes you feel better,” Nigel called as Draco stumbled toward the bathroom, “I don’t think anybody at the Yule Ball noticed!”

Draco slammed the door behind him.

“How are you feeling?” was the first thing Professor Snape asked.

The true answer was: more human, after taking a shower, but still achy and incredibly hungry.

The answer Draco actually gave was: “Fine,” because he absolutely did not want to discuss the details with Professor Snape.

“Hm,” Snape answered. “I suppose I shouldn’t press. Dobby?”

Draco looked up sharply. Dobby had appeared in the corner of Professor Snape’s office, holding a covered tray and smiling shyly.

“Dobby!” Draco said before he could stop himself. “What are—?”

“Dobby has been working at Hogwarts for some time now,” he said, and came forward to set the tray down on the little table in Snape’s office, where Draco was seated. “He has been… a little reluctant to tell Draco Malfoy. Dobby did not wish for word to get back to Draco Malfoy’s father.”

“No, of course not,” Draco assured him. “I won’t breathe a word. How have you been, Dobby?”

“Oh, Dobby has been very well. Dobby has taken up knitting! He pays for wool skeins with his salary. Would Draco Malfoy perhaps be interested in a new pair of socks?”

Before Draco could come up with an answer to such a bizarre question, Snape mercifully interjected: “You can talk to him later, Dobby. My godson and I have a few things to go through.”

“Oh—yes, Professor, of course.” Dobby snapped to remove the domed cover from the tray, revealing a hearty but typical Hogwarts spread: roast lamb, pumpkin juice, mashed potatoes, blueberry tart. The smell alone was enough to remind Draco of how desperately hungry he was after nearly three days of heat. He tucked in immediately.

“So,” Snape said, “you’re to be given a private room.”

Draco glanced up at him briefly. The sight of his godfather and head of house, sat back in the chair across from Draco with one ankle resting on the opposite knee, reigned in Draco’s impulse to swallow the meal in one mouthful like a snake. He took his second bite of lamb, slightly smaller and less desperate this time.

“Access is off the Slytherin common room still. I’ll show you where when you’re done. Also, per Hogwarts policy, you’ll go to see Madam Pomfrey.”

Draco frowned. “Madam Pomfrey?”

“It’s standard medical procedure,” Snape assured him. “A quick and painless physical exam post-prothestrus. It will determine that you’ve recovered appropriately and allow you the opportunity to ask any medical questions you might have.”

Draco’s chewing slowed. He had to admit: he did have questions.

Snape heaved a sigh as he continued, “Also standard procedure is notifying the parents of the omega in question. I sent word to your mother after the Yule Ball ended, and she sent a letter back for you.”

He reached into his robe and pulled out a familiar envelope, edged in the House Malfoy colors of black and silver, which he slid across the table. Draco waited till he was finished with his bite of potatoes before taking it. It felt very thick.

“I’m sure she has a lot of good advice,” Snape said. “You’re fortunate to have an omega as a mother—many of your sex are not as lucky. I trust you’ll give her words the weight they deserve.”

Draco nodded slowly. He wanted to rip it open immediately, but held back. It was safer, perhaps, to read alone.

“And finally, as a warning…”

Snape trailed off, as though hesitating on the edge of his point. Draco frowned, but said nothing.

“I know you’re already used to… certain types of treatment from alphas,” he eventually continued, “but you should know that an omega at the age of sexual maturity will have a very different scent that alphas especially will be quick to detect. This might result in some of your classmates treating you differently.

“I want to be clear: I am not making an excuse for them. They should, and in fact are obligated to, control themselves. If anyone displays any harassing behavior toward you, let me know and I will handle it expeditiously.”

Draco had no doubt. He fondly remembered how well Snape had handled Marcus Flint in first year.

“But teenagers are rotten creatures,” Snape said, “and though self-control and basic human decency are a low bar to clear, a teenage alpha without a fully developed sense of empathy is perfectly capable of limbo dancing beneath it.”

Draco wanted to ask what a limbo dance was. He didn’t have the opportunity.

“So be on your guard. Be judicious and wise. I will try my best to protect you, but not every alpha has my same intentions.”

Draco, my darling,

I suppose we both knew this day would come. I admit, I had hoped that it would come a little later, but biology operates by its own rules.

Severus told me that he would pass this letter to you as soon as he could, likely the very day after your first heat. I remember feeling dreadful after mine had passed, and I’m sure you feel much the same. For what it’s worth: they do get easier with time.

I’ve included in this letter a little crystal phial full of suppressant. These are very specialized potions, as you can imagine, not generally sold in apothecaries, and the recipe is one that I acquired from your late aunt, Marie, who in turn acquired it from her great-grandmother. I can brew more, and I will, but it takes time and very specific reagents that are not easily acquired.

Mark on your calendar one month exactly after the beginning of your first heat, minus three days: that is when you will take this suppressant. While it will not stop the heat in its entirety, it will curtail it to a length of about six hours and make it much more bearable. You will be lucid enough to eat, for example, and do school work, though you will still feel restless, and your body will still be giving off pheromones to attract alphas, so you are best spending these hours alone.

During heat, even suppressed heat, your body will be craving sexual stimulation, and specifically, the touch and bite of an alpha. This will, of course, be somewhat at odds with your mind, which—if you are anything like me—will mostly just be craving to get it over with already. You should feel free to indulge in your own pleasure as much as you feel comfortable; it will alleviate some of the suffering. Say the word, and I can send over a few devices that might help. Just don’t tell your father.

For what it’s worth, my darling, I’m so sorry that this is not a discussion we can have in person. I’m also sorry this is the first time we’re having it at all. If I thought I could get away with it, I’d have given you all this information years ago, so the whole experience wouldn’t be quite so frightening. But there is a culture of forced ignorance within the pureblood sphere; for reasons that utterly elude me, giving an omega foreknowledge of their own biology is considered “corrupting,” and what could possibly be worse than besmirching the innocence of an omega?

Please come home for Beltane. You doubtlessly have more questions—practical ones, that are reasonably beyond the expertise of the matron—and I am always willing to answer. Feel free to return this owl with any that can’t wait for spring. I’ll send along more suppressant once I’ve brewed it, of course. Its recipe is another subject we ought to discuss when you come home.

With love,
Your mother

People started to stare.

People had always stared, of course, always whispered when they caught wind of Draco’s scent, but it felt different now. Darker, hungrier. It made Draco feel uncomfortable in his skin. The scar on his arm itched more than ever.

“You smell different,” Harry said.

Draco blushed, though he wished he wouldn’t. It was double Potions with Gryffindor, the first since Draco’s heat, and going through even the most routine of motions felt like a spectator sport now. Every alpha in the room, save of course for Professor Snape, was staring; Draco felt their gazes like spotlights on his skin. Harry’s especially.

“Er, yes. I expect so.”

He nervously unpacked his potions textbook and quills.

“Sort of… I don’t know, deeper? More nuanced? It’s hard to explain.”

A part of Draco was curious to know how his scent had changed since his first heat. The rest of him was too embarrassed to ask. He kept quiet.

“How’d it, er, go? Your heat?”

Draco found himself biting back a laugh. How’d it go? Like it was a particularly taxing exam.

“Fine, I guess,” he said. “I don’t remember much, apart from just sort of being miserable. And there’s no saving my dress.”

“Oh,” Harry answered, sounding surprised.

Draco glanced sideways at him. Harry hadn’t unpacked anything but a single quill, which he was twisting in both hands as he stared. Heat crept up Draco’s neck and over his cheeks.

“I, er,” Draco said, “I’m sorry about ruining the Yule Ball for you.”

“You didn’t ruin it,” Harry assured him. “I got to dance with you, didn’t I? And even if you can’t save it, seeing you in that dress was…”

He stopped, cleared his throat, and averted his eyes. Draco dropped his own gaze to the blank note page and sternly commanded himself to stop blushing.

“Well,” Draco forced himself to say, though his voice came out a little strangled, “at least you got to do the important parts.”

“I mean,” Harry hedged, “I didn’t kiss you.”

Draco’s heart did a horrible sort of swoop, down into his pelvis and then straight back up to lodge in his throat.

They glanced at each other at the same moment, then both very quickly looked away again.

“I suppose there’s time for that yet,” Draco said quietly. If he was going to defy Lucius’s wishes, he might as well go all in, right?

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Harry grin to himself.

“Textbooks open to page 372,” Professor Snape said, once he’d finished writing the lesson plan out on the blackboard. “This is an O.W.L. level potion, so pay attention if you care about trivial things like graduating.”

Mother,

You have the right of it—my first heat was pretty miserable. I don’t remember much of it, actually, but the aftermath felt rather like having fwooper flu without the cough. Will the aftereffects be that miserable after a suppressed heat, too? I suppose I’ll find out for myself in a few weeks.

At least the whole thing happened over the weekend. You said a suppressed heat is six hours—that’s a class and a half, and I hate the idea of missing out on important material to heat. Isn’t there any sort of potion that suppresses it in its entirety? Surely there must be.

Otherwise, things at Hogwarts are fine, generally. Alphas are behaving different around me. Professor Snape assures me that it’s normal, but when one of them tried to put her hand down my shirt in the hallway, he took off fifty points from Ravenclaw and used language foul enough to strip paint. I’m grateful to have him.

There are a few things I’d like to talk to you about in person, it’s true, things that are certainly out of the purview of Madam Pomfrey and too—let’s say sensitive—for a letter. I miss you, Mother. I can’t wait to see you again.

Warmly,
Draco

PS: I spoke to a few Beauxbatons students, and they corroborated the story Granny Dru used to tell about her paternal great-grandfather ruining the last Triwizard Tournament! Can you believe it? I always thought the story was nonsense.

PPS: Do I have any Veela ancestry? It seems unlikely, but Ha a friend keeps asking.

Draco spent the next few weeks trying very hard to pretend that he wasn’t thinking, almost exclusively, about kissing Harry.

Ever since the comment in Potions, he couldn’t go more than a few hours without thinking about it—thinking about what kissing Harry might be like. Would he taste like storms as well? Would his hands find Draco’s hips? His back, his hair? Would it be sweet like honey or sharp like firewhiskey?

To make up for all the time lost daydreaming, he put more time toward school work. He fit in an extra study session with Hermione to make up for the one he lost to his heat. He got an unacceptably low score on his Arithmancy test—an E instead of an O, absolutely humiliating—and spent a while brushing up on his weak points in the subject. He did a bit of extra credit work for McGonagall.

And when Harry casually asked him if he’d like to head out to Hogsmeade one weekend in mid-January, he only squeaked a little bit when he answered in the affirmative.

When the day actually arrived, though, and he arrived at the Three Broomsticks in his nicest sweater and powder blue leg warmers over his tights that his mother had said complimented his eyes—

“Ron? Hermione?”

“Oh, hello, Draco!”

Draco couldn’t quite suppress a stab of disappointment. “I… didn’t know you were coming.”

“No need to look so disappointed,” Ron scoffed.

Draco sighed and unwound his scarf. Harry was talking to Ludo Bagman on the other side of the pub, looking nonplussed. He sat down resignedly across from Hermione.

“I’m not disappointed,” he lied.

“Well, neither are we,” Hermione said, with a pointed look to Ron.

“You smell different,” Ron said rather than answer.

That was when Harry arrived, sliding into the seat across from Ron, next to Draco.

“What did he want?” Ron asked, gesturing to Bagman, who was hurrying out.

“He offered to help me with the golden egg. Hi, Draco.”

Draco forced a small smile. “Hello.”

“He shouldn’t be doing that!” Hermione said, outraged. “He’s one of the judges! And anyway, you’ve already worked it out—haven’t you?”

“Er… nearly,” Harry said, which was a no.

“What do you know so far?” Draco asked, and smiled at Madam Rosmerta as she dropped off a butterbeer.

“Cedric said that I should take it with me to the bath, and I’ve done that a few times now and haven’t learned a thing,” Harry said, which made Hermione frown. He added, falteringly, “I-I mean, it’s been helpful, at least, having the time to think…”

“Maybe it’s meant to be a mer egg,” Draco said, and took a sip.

They all looked sideways at him, varying shades of bewildered.

Draco blinked back at them in silence. “What?”

“Mer egg?” Harry repeated blankly.

“An egg laid by a mermaid,” Draco supplied.

“Mermaids lay eggs?”

“Of course they do, Harry, they’re fish!”

The wheels were turning behind Hermione’s eyes. “Mer eggs only hatch underwater,” she said slowly. “Maybe that’s what Cedric meant! Harry, have you tried opening it underwater?”

Draco, dearest,

A suppressed heat is indeed easier in its aftermath. Hopefully this letter has arrived early enough to offer you reassurance before you experience it for yourself. Be at ease, my love: you are one in a long tradition of omegas who have survived empty heats. You will be miserable, but you will be fine.

It had not occurred to me that your academics might be affected. Surely Hogwarts will be accommodating? Omegas are a recent addition to their rosters, but not that recent. I’m sure there are procedures in place to allow you to make up school work as necessary.

So far as I’m aware, there is no potion to completely suppress a heat or stop the estral cycle. Though you might consider taking one of the potions I’ve sent over with this letter (I gave you a few extra, just in case) to your assiduously protective godfather. He’s the finest potions master alive—if there’s anyone who can refine such an obscure potion, it would be him.

I’m disappointed, but not surprised, to hear that alphas are behaving differently around you now. There are spells that will help to quiet your scent—I’ve included a few copied pages from an old spellbook of mine that might be useful. Try them and let me know how they work for you.

I look forward to seeing you back at home, my darling, for Beltane. I have missed you as well, and will of course answer all those sensitive questions as soon as we have the time.

Your adoring mother

PS: I informed your Granny Drusilla’s portrait of what those Beauxbatons students said. She felt very vindicated.

PPS: If you have any Veela blood, it wouldn’t be from the Black side of your family tree. Who is this friend who’s so convinced of your supernatural beauty, Draco?

Draco took his suppressant on January 22. The next day, which was a Monday, Draco began to feel a bit nauseous around lunch. He told Flitwick before his afternoon class began, who nodded and said he’d mark him excused. Draco went back to the Slytherin common room, then through to his new, private bedroom.

The room was quite small—a twin bed, a dresser, a bedside table, and a little window that looked out over the Forbidden Forest. There wasn’t even enough room for his trunk, which Draco had to stash under his bed. But when the nausea turned into a dreadful, churning heat, he was grateful for the privacy.

Dobby had thoughtfully left a little tray of dinner for him under a stasis charm on the bedside table, along with a scrawled note wishing him well and a pair of poorly-knitted socks. Draco stripped out of his robe, kicked off his shoes, undid the first few buttons on his shirt, and collapsed on his bed, waiting for… something.

He wasn’t sure what, though. The churning heat was there, certainly, roiling in the center of his gut, but it was easy enough to ignore. He tried to read, but couldn’t really focus. He tried to do some homework, but couldn’t stop squirming long enough to write anything substantial.

Eventually he gave up and let his mind wander. His thoughts went to Harry very quickly.

They still hadn’t been able to make good on that kiss both of them seemed to want, but that hadn’t stopped Draco’s increasingly persistent imaginings. He wanted to know what it felt like, kissing Harry. He wanted to run his hands through that dark mop of hair, wanted to see for himself specifically how Quidditch had filled out that once-wiry body.

A small whimper escaped his mouth. Slick was beading between his legs, blood pounding into his co*ck.

He wanted… he wanted…

One hand slipped around his body, found his entrance. The skin there was hot and so sensitive that even that one faint touch had the rest of his body reacting with a violent spasm, chased by a wave of pleasure.

The scar on his arm ached. He tried not to think about it, pressed one finger into himself. Bright bursts of pleasure fogged his vision; he writhed, turned his face into his pillow, and pushed the finger deeper.

It felt so good. He knew it would, intellectually—this was what was supposed to feel good for an omega’s body—but he hadn’t been prepared for how good it would feel.

Would Harry touch him like this? Would he want to? Did he think about Draco like this, like Draco was now thinking about him?

Another spasm at the thought, before all the rest came, disparate and disjointed: Harry’s fingers inside him, his mouth on Draco’s neck, the firm knot of his co*ck—

“Hnnnn.” Draco arched his body, shook, straining toward a painful climax.

He wanted—he wanted—

“Ha-arry—”

He reached under his skirt and took his co*ck in his free hand, which sealed it with a hot surge of pleasure that nearly ripped Draco apart. His body bucked through it, vision swimming, slick pooling in his palm and spend striping his skirt.

As it ended, as Draco’s breathing evened and his senses returned to him—

“Oh, Merlin,” Draco whispered, and buried his face in his pillow. How was he supposed to look Harry in the eye tomorrow?

Mother,

I gave a vial of suppressant to Professor Snape. He seemed doubtful, but said he’d look into it. Said that the brewing appeared “atypical,” whatever that means. He did request a reagent list and formulation instructions, though, to be sent at your convenience.

It worked, by the way, just like you said it would. My second heat was reduced to a mildly uncomfortable Monday afternoon. It was over by dinner.

Thank you for the spells. They seem to be working. Or at least, people have stopped remarking on how I smell “different,” and leering marginally less.

All this bending and contorting to make myself small is exhausting. Hide my scent, curtail my heat—Merlin forbid anything about me is inconvenient. I feel suffocated. But even as I write it out, I realize: this is just what it means to be an omega, isn’t it? Before I am compliant, before I am cordial, before I am courteous, I must be reducible.

I’m sorry if that sounded bleak. I promise I’m fine.

Your tired son

PS: I thought you said you were going to move Granny Dru’s portrait to Gringotts? I can’t stand the way she criticizes my posture.

PPS: This is one of those sensitive matters. We’ll talk at Beltane.

He had a dream of dark shapes and distant songs. It was serene, if eerie. It lasted for ages and never changed.

Was it a dream? After a few minutes—hours?—he was beginning to have his doubts.

He felt muffled, somehow, and oddly restricted, like he was swaddled up in a thousand layers of wet blankets. There were sounds around him that were impossible to make out—some deep and continuous, others sharp and brief, all of them incomprehensible.

A crash, then, through something. His body felt heavier all of a sudden. Through the uncomfortable, heavy fog he could just barely pick out what might have been a voice—

“Draco? Draco!”

He couldn’t have reacted even if he wanted to.

Where was he? It didn’t feel like his bed—and that was where he’d been last, hadn’t he? He’d gone to Transfiguration, then to dinner, then to bed early because the Second Task was tomorrow and he wanted to get up early to check on Harry…

Harry…

“Draco, oh, God, please say something, please…”

Harry’s voice was steadily becoming more distinct. And it must have been Harry—Draco would recognize his freshly-broken baritone anywhere—but he didn’t understand…

Where was he? Why couldn’t he move? What was going on?

“Finite incantatem!”

That was when it shattered. The muffled damp exploded into a thousand sensations all at once: wet clothes hanging off his body, shouting voices all around, the painful burn of air flooding into deprived lungs, and above him—

“Harry,” he said, or tried to say. It came out as a sort of hiccuping whine. He was outdoors somewhere, stretched out on cold, wet grass.

“You’re alive,” Harry sobbed. His hair, already so dark, had soaked to look like curls of ink on his brow, and without his glasses, the green of his eyes was all the more prominent.

Draco felt dizzy.

“You’re all right, I thought—I thought I’d lost you, I—”

Suddenly, a hand came around the back of his neck, hauled him up. Suddenly, Harry was closer than he’d ever been.

Suddenly, they were kissing.

At first, it felt surreal. Perhaps this was a dream, after all; perhaps he would wake up in a minute with a small trail of slick on his inner thigh and a mortifying need burning in his blood.

But the details felt too real. Draco’s hand pressed to the center of Harry’s chest, met with wet robes and solid muscle. And he was tilting his head just slightly, leaning in to deepen the kiss as the hand that wasn’t cupping Draco’s neck slid around his lower back to hold him close. In the periphery of his vision, white lights burst and flashed.

Later, he would realize that those lights were cameras from every prominent magical newspaper in the British Isles, and that perhaps now was not the ideal moment for this.

But in those first few seconds, Draco’s hand fisted in Harry’s damp clothes and he arched forward to reciprocate. In those first few seconds, there was nothing but Harry, fierce and warm and gripping Draco like he was afraid to let go.

And Draco didn’t want him to.

Professor Snape came and got him eventually, dried him off, and helped him walk on unstable legs back to the castle. Madam Pomfrey looked him over and diagnosed him with jitters, dear, from bewitched sleep that was dispelled too quickly—just have a nice meal and a cuppa and you’ll feel right as rain soon.

So a nice meal and a cuppa was what he had. He didn’t even have to ask—Dobby found him in that little study nook on the second floor with a tray all ready for him. Draco thanked him effusively, Dobby graciously told him it was no trouble, then asked if Draco had liked the socks he’d knitted for him.

But not long after Dobby popped off to another part of the castle, he was found yet again:

“I’m not sure why thought to look for you here.”

It had only been a few hours all told, but when Draco looked over, it felt like he was seeing Harry for the first time. His heart picked up, fluttering against his ribs like a restless bird in its cage.

“Hi,” Draco said.

“Hi,” Harry answered. His hair was still a bit damp, his smile lopsided.

“Did you, er,” Draco faltered, “win? The Task?”

“Tied with Cedric.”

Harry sat down on the other side of the divan as Draco, three feet away and entirely too far. Draco carefully moved the teacup he’d been holding back onto the tray.

“I… I guess I should thank you,” Draco said. “For saving my life.”

“I guess I should thank you for not dying,” Harry answered, which made Draco laugh. Harry stared at him helplessly as he did. It made the bubbling laughter fade and turn into something else.

Draco swallowed. “You, er. I think a couple reporters caught the moment when you…”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

Silence stretched, long and agonizing.

“Should,” Harry said eventually, “I… not… have—?”

“Did you not want to?” Draco asked, a little alarmed and hoping it wasn’t obvious.

“No, I’ve wanted to kiss you for like a year and a half, I just didn’t have the opportunity.”

“Oh.”

Draco was going to maybe melt into a puddle. Especially if Harry kept staring at him like that.

“In the future,” Draco said quietly, “you don’t need to save my life to kiss me.”

Harry was getting closer. Or was it Draco? Or just gravity, pulling them toward each other?

“No?” His voice was quiet, barely a breath. Draco felt it on his own mouth.

“No.”

There was going to be hell to pay for this. He wasn’t even supposed to talk to alphas and definitely wasn’t supposed to kiss them.

But Harry felt inevitable. He felt like a force of nature that Draco could neither understand nor control, potent and dangerous and all-consuming.

Harry kissed him. Draco breathed in sharply, shut his eyes, and melted into it. Quidditch-rough hands found the sides of Draco’s neck, sending little sparks of pleasure through his skin; he leaned into the touch, his own hands bracing on Harry’s forearms, and breathed in the scent of a storm.

The next few days at Hogwarts were strange. Draco had become accustomed to drawing attention, but not attention like this.

Some people were oddly happy for him:

“Nice one, Malfoy,” said either Fred or George Weasley (Draco couldn’t tell them apart) when they passed in the hallway the day after the Second Task, “bagging Potter. I mean, the whole school knew he was after you, but at least now the Daily Prophet knows it, too, eh?”

“Er,” Draco faltered, “thanks?”

Others were quite angry:

“You know, my brother was on your courting list,” said Cecelia Flint about a week after the fact. Her nose was wrinkled and her expression coolly disdainful. “Fat chance he will be after your little stunt, slag. I thought your Alpha raised you better.”

And some who Draco assumed would have a lot to say said nothing:

“I don’t suppose you’ve seen Theseus?” he asked Hermione when she snuck over to the Slytherin table to say hi at dinner. “I know he likes you.”

“Well, I always let him have my treacle tart,” she said, and brazenly stole Draco’s turkey drumstick off his plate. “Plus, I think he fancies Hedwig. But, no, I haven’t seen him. Why?”

“Nothing,” Draco said, frowning and fussing nervously with his fork. “It’s just—nothing.”

“Draco,” she persisted.

“My mother hasn’t written back since…”

Hermione raised both eyebrows. “The Task?”

“It could be nothing,” Draco hastened to point out. “It could be she got busy. But the timing… idle speculation on page seven is one thing, but a front page photo of me and Harry—er, of us—”

“Kissing,” Hermione said, looking entirely too satisfied. Draco’s face got hot and he sunk down in his seat. “I can’t believe you two finally got it over with. Ron and I were convinced you never would.”

Draco put his elbows on the table and his face in his hands. “Shut up.”

She took a bite of her ill-gotten drumstick before speaking again: “I’ll keep an eye out for Theseus. I’m sure it’s nothing. It’s almost Beltane, right? They both must have busy social calendars coming up.”

But all through the rest of February and all of March, Draco still heard nothing—not a single letter from either of his parents. He didn’t know if he should be relieved or concerned.

“After some research,” Professor Snape said on one rather unspectacular day in early April, “I’ve determined that there are a few improvements that could be made to your mother’s suppressant.”

Draco startled. When he’d been asked to stay back after class, he’d assumed it was to go over the extra credit assignment he turned in. “There are?”

“The formulation your mother uses is stable, but neglects some advancements in the craft made in the last half-century. I suspect the recipe she has is a legacy.”

“She did say it came from my great-great-grandmother, I think it was.”

“I’ll need to do a bit of experimentation, but it should be able to suppress all symptoms of estrus in their entirety. I’d say it seems odd that no one ever thought to perfect and sell a potion like this, but that wouldn’t be truthful. It doesn’t seem odd at all. I should have a prototype for you to test before the school year is out, if you’re amenable.”

Despite his best efforts, Draco found himself grinning. “You really are a genius, aren’t you?”

Snape sneered at him. “What are you trying to do, win my favor? You’re already my godson and benefit from entirely too much nepotism.”

Draco laughed into his hand, and Snape rolled his eyes and told him to get out of his office.

Draco,

I don’t have much time to write this, but despite your father’s best efforts, I will not allow you to be blindsided.

Your Alpha has decided, against my explicit wishes and desperate begging, to begin your courting process this Beltane—the moment you come home for break.

Let it suffice to say that this is not how it is meant to go. Although you are technically the “correct age” to have your débutante ball, having reached prothestrus, it is far more common for this sort of thing to wait till the omega is sixteen at the very earliest. He is breaking from tradition quite substantially, and I haven’t been able to talk him out of it.

He has also mentioned a punishment for your “escapade” with Harry Potter. I don’t know what it is, and I hesitate to speculate if only because I do not want to scare you.

I wish I had more to offer you. I wish I could stop this. But the invitations to your ball have already gone out. Even were you to stay at Hogwarts, you would be forcibly collected.

Brace yourself. Take what measures you are able.

With endless love and futile grief,
Your mother

The first question Harry had after reading the letter was, “What’s a débutante ball?”

“Fancy pureblood courting party,” Ron answered, grim. “Sort of ghoulish. Omega gets shown of like a prized horse to a bunch of alphas keen to marry them.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Draco said. He hadn’t stopped shaking since he got the letter. Even the roaring fire in the kitchen had no effect on the horrible, cold, gnawing dread. “I don’t know what to do. I can’t believe he’s doing this. I’m only fourteen, and he’s starting my courting process? In the middle of the school year, no less? I—I thought I’d have more time!”

“Hey—Draco, breathe.” Hermione’s hand found Draco’s back, rubbed comforting circles. “Just breathe. It’s okay, we’ll figure this out.”

“I mean,” Ron said, “he can rush the courting, I guess, but he can’t possibly rush the engagement, right? Legally, you can’t get married till you’re seventeen.”

“Wait,” Harry interjected, “married? Engaged?”

Draco wailed and fell forward over the counter top. Hermione was still rubbing circles into his back.

“Mate, what did you think ‘courting’ meant?”

“Well, I—I knew that was the goal of it, but I thought—you know—it would happen down the line, not…”

“Yes, that does seem to be the issue at hand,” Hermione said.

“Are you telling me you could be engaged before the year is out?” Harry asked. He was starting to sound just as frantic as Draco felt.

Draco could only make another pathetic wailing sound.

“I can do some legal research,” Hermione volunteered. “Surely there’s some bylaw somewhere that will help. And Harry, you should definitely write to Sirius. He grew up with this sort of thing; he must be able to come up with something.”

“Hopefully not Recusal,” Ron said, “or anything else that has a minor risk of getting Draco killed.”

Dobby, who’d let them all into the kitchen so they could talk in private, came back over with a tray containing a pot of tea, four cups, some biscuits, and a rolled up pair of knitted socks (somewhere in the back of his frantic brain, Draco noted that his knitting was getting better).

“Dobby may be able to get a message to Dolly and Dotty, if Draco Malfoy is thinking it could be useful.”

Hermione frowned. “Who are—?”

“They is being the other house-elves at the Malfoy Manor. Dobby has been working with them for many years.”

“Would they be willing to go against their master’s orders?” she asked.

Dobby’s huge, watery eyes moved between Hermione and Draco for a while in silence.

“Draco Malfoy was always treated very poorly by his father,” he eventually said, “and for no good reason at all. But Draco Malfoy never let that cruelty make him cruel, and Dobby appreciated it. Dolly and Dotty did, too, Dobby knows. They will help Draco Malfoy, even if it is meaning defying their master.”

Draco swallowed a little knot in his throat.

“It’s not nothing,” Ron said. “Draco, I know we’ve never quite seen eye-to-eye, but—well, we don’t have to. What’s happening to you is twisted, and you don’t deserve it, and I’ll help you, all right?”

The little knot got a little bigger.

“Th-that’s—” He swallowed. “Thank you, Ron. I… I appreciate it.”

Ron smiled crookedly. “Hey, if my best mate was willing to swim to the bottom of a lake for you, the least I can do is help you out of a jam.”

They come up with several half-baked plans over the next few weeks.

Hermione finds a few regulations pertaining to children’s welfare that she thinks might be useful, “But we’d only be able to apply them before the Wizengamot as part of a custody hearing. And starting that is a whole new kettle of fish.”

Ron loads Draco up with a few particularly useful pranks, courtesy of Fred and/or George, because, “You know, they might be useful. Extendable ears, smoke bombs, throwable voices—and Viscous Vomiting Vapor is great for faking illness to get out of things.”

Harry did indeed write to Sirius and confirmed that he had an idea, but, “It’s not foolproof, and… and he needs to arrange a few things, which we may not have time for… As soon as I know for sure, Draco, I’ll let you know, I promise.”

And so, in the end, Draco had little choice but to climb back onto the Hogwarts Express in the middle of April, dread weighing heavy in the pit of his stomach.

“Father said you might be in a mood,” Cordelia said when she found him just before the train pulled into London.

“Go away, Cordelia,” Draco answered miserably. He’d gone all the way to the end of the train just to be alone; how like his obnoxious kid sister to find him anyway.

He didn’t need to look to know that she was making a face. “We’re going to the same place, idiot. And I’m not delaying on your account; I’m hungry. Let’s find Dolly.”

Draco sighed, peeled himself away from the window against which he’d been slumped, and grabbed his bag. His trunk he’d left behind at Hogwarts, as it was mostly full of his school things anyway, and had only brought a few textbooks and notes back to do his homework—though Draco fully expected he’d have precious little time to do it.

“Why are you in a mood?” she asked as they moved, slowly due to the crush of students filtering off the train in the same direction as them, toward the platform. “Father only said that I should expect some ‘theatrics’ from you.”

“Theatrics,” Draco spat. He’d never hated Lucius Malfoy more than he did at that moment.

“Are you still in a snit about the Chamber? Father told me himself that he only did what he did—”

“Shut your f*cking mouth, Cordelia,” Draco snapped, locking her with a furious stare just in time to see her eyes widen in surprise. She wasn’t used to Draco fighting back. “Keep you opinions to yourself, especially on subjects which you know nothing about.”

“Father said—!”

“Father lied, Cordelia!”

She stared. Around them, a few other students were staring, too.

“He does that a lot! He lies about blood purity, about the old ways, about his motivations and intentions. It’s not my fault that you’re too stupid to see it.”

Cordelia’s expression shuttered. She didn’t look hurt, exactly—Draco doubted she gave enough weight to his opinion to be really offended—but there was a new current of worry visible beneath the insufferable smugness.

“He said something was happening this Beltane,” she said after a short pause. “What is it?”

Draco laughed darkly. Of course Lucius wouldn’t trouble his precious heir with the unpleasant details of his brother, soon to be a child bride.

“It’s my débutante ball,” he said bitterly. “I’m sure you’re thrilled to hear that I’ll finally be fulfilling my sex’s only purpose.”

Another pause, shorter and more jagged than the last. They’d almost made it out of the train car. “But… you’re only—”

“Fourteen? Yes, I’d noticed, too. Take it up with Father Dearest.”

Draco shoved past her, down the steps and onto the smooth stone of the platform. He was shaking with fury. He’d been scared for so long—scared of hurting his family, of insulting his heritage, of offending or upsetting a single person in his entire life—that he’d never noticed how much f*cking anger had been growing underneath his skin. All his best efforts, all his good intentions, and for what? To be sold off by his father the second his first heat cooled?

“Master Draco,” came a familiar, squeaky voice from his left. When he took a steadying breath and looked over—

“Dolly.” He forced a smile; there was no sense in taking out his anger on his house-elf. “Hello.”

“Dolly is being very happy to see Master Draco,” she said, slipping between two sets of legs to get closer. She snapped her fingers, and Draco’s bag lifted off his shoulder and hovered behind her. “Did Master Draco have a good term at Hogwarts?”

“‘Good’ is certainly a… word for it,” Draco said.

Cordelia appeared behind him, pale brow furrowed, unusually quiet. She handed her own bag off to Dolly, who had it hovering by Draco’s with another quick spell.

“It will be an eventful Beltane at the Malfoy Manor, Dolly thinks,” she said. “Many visitors, much to-do. Perhaps even some… friends will make an appearance.”

Draco shot her a quick, startled look. She was staring back at him with the ghost of a smile on her face. He wanted to ask what she meant, but didn’t dare—not with Cordelia right there. In any case, she kept talking:

“Shall we return now? The Lord and Lady Malfoy are eagerly awaiting their children’s arrival.”

Their reception at the Malfoy Manor was frosty. While his mother eagerly embraced Draco—and held him there for too long, perhaps, like she knew something terrible would happen when she let him go—his father stood back and stared. When he turned his cool gaze to Draco, expecting acknowledgment, Draco gave him nothing but an answering stare. If he was hoping for any familial affection from his omega son, he should have thought twice before trying to earn it with duplicity and malice.

For the most part, Draco spent his first few days alone, shut up in his room. His débutante ball was scheduled for the morning of April 14, a Friday, just a few days after the break began—allowing for all the more time, Draco could only assume, to negotiate exactly how much the alphas on his courting list were willing to pay for him.

Professor Snape, who Draco had tearfully told about the whole affair, sent an owl the day after Draco arrived back home, offering what little advice he could: Do not allow yourself to be brought low; keep your dignity and your self-possession and set a precedent to all who would court you that you will not be mistreated. Protect yourself first, Draco, always.

He read the line over and over again, trying to internalize it.

On day three, the twelfth, halfway through yet another day Draco was intent to spend shut up in his room and away from his father, someone screamed in the hallway.

Draco sat up so quickly that the book he’d been reading fell of his lap and onto the floor, because he recognized the voice— “Mother?”

She screamed again. Draco sprung from his seat on the window sill and raced for the door.

He wasn’t the only one who’d heard her. Cordelia’s disheveled blond hair was visible poking out from the door down the hall, and storming toward them—

“Lucius, please!” Mother was begging, gripping at her Alpha’s arm as he made his way, dour and grim and resolute, toward Draco’s bedroom. “There’s a reason these spells were reclassified as Dark Magic—I lived under their effects for over a decade, they are torture—please, don’t do this!”

“Father?” Cordelia said, bewildered, but Lucius wasn’t looking at her. His eyes, gray and dangerous, were fixed on Draco.

“Wh…” Draco tried to say, but couldn’t find his voice. He’d never seen either of his parents like this before.

“Draco,” Lucius said.

“Alpha, I beg of you,” Mother wept.

“Come with me.”

It wasn’t a request—Lucius seized Draco by the forearm and dragged him down the hall.

At last, Draco’s voice came back to him. “What—what’s happening? Where are we going?”

“I do not require your understanding,” Lucius said. It wasn’t clear if he was talking to his wife or to his son. “I do not require your consent. One day you will understand why this was necessary. Why I only had your best intentions in mind.”

“Lucius!” Mother screamed.

“Narcissa, stay out.”

“Please!”

Finally, their destination became clear when Draco was thrown into it: Father’s laboratory. Draco had been here a few times before, usually to complete Potions assignments—it was a small room, one wall dominated by a bookshelf and the other by a blackboard. In the center of the room was a large table for brewing.

Or there normally was. When Draco was pushed inside, the table had been moved aside to make room for a large rune drawn in what Draco desperately hoped wasn’t blood on the floor.

The door slammed, making Draco jump. He could still hear Mother on the other side of the door, screaming and sobbing and beating her fists into the wood.

Draco’s eyes found his father’s. That was when the fear caught up with him, and a terrified tremble began spreading under his skin.

“What… what’s happening?” Draco asked, barely. “What is this?”

“You,” Lucius said in a low, dangerous voice, “should have heeded my warning.”

The trembling was getting worse “Father—”

“Silence!”

Draco wheeled back a step. What glimpses he’d had of Lucius’s temper had never been directed at Draco. The trembling became full-on shaking.

“I take no joy in this, Draco,” Lucius said, and Draco believed him, a fact which on its own made Draco nauseous with fear. “I do this because there are machinations beginning that are beyond your understanding, and this is the only method I have to protect you from them.”

Draco felt an absurd, childish impulse to hide—but of course, there was nowhere to go.

“Get into the rune,” he said.

“Father—”

“Now.”

Draco backed up into the rune on wobbly legs. Though he was panting frantically, he felt like he couldn’t get enough air. His chest was tight, his vision swimming.

“I take no joy in this,” Lucius said again, this time almost like an apology, and raised his wand. “Castitarum.”

It was less than a breath before the magic took over, cold and intense and gripping at the bones of his pelvis like a vise.

It took less than three breaths before it hurt so much that Draco capitulated to his knees and began to scream.

Lucius was still talking, Mother still sobbing and shrieking on the other side of the door. Draco could hear neither of them.

The pain was indescribable, so completely overpowering that he couldn’t even see, couldn’t feel anything past the shards of jagged ice that surely, surely had buried themselves through Draco’s lower abdomen. He doubled over himself, clamped his arms uselessly around stomach, and screamed and screamed and screamed.

Everything, including his sense of time, got fuzzy. Draco wasn’t sure precisely how much time had passed when he felt his mother’s arms around him, heard her tearful, whispered apologies:

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Darling, I’m so, so sorry. I would never wish this on anyone.”

The pain never went away, never even lessened—Draco just had to get used to it, Mother said, because there was no other option.

“Chastity charms,” she whispered. “That’s what they’re called. I don’t know why. They’re not charms. They’re curses. Always have been.”

It had taken hours before Draco was able to stand, and it was agony. His legs shook with the weight of his own body. Just taking his first few hesitant steps from his bed to his desk was so unbelievably painful that he broke down into frantic tears all over again.

“You learn to tolerate the pain,” Mother assured him, though she was audibly holding back on her own tears. “It becomes a backdrop. It is always there, but ignorable.”

“It hurts so much,” he sobbed.

“I know. Merlin, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Draco,” she said, and hugged him for a long time while he wept into her shoulder.

The rest of the day was dedicated just to re-learning things Draco had mastered as an infant. Standing up, sitting down, walking upright, bending forward and to the side. It felt like no matter how Draco moved his body, the chastity charm punished him for it.

“It can only be removed by an alpha’s bite,” his mother told him a few hours later, when Draco finally managed to walk again, upright and unassisted but flinching with every step. “Which, of course, will likely not happen till your wedding night.”

Draco stared at her despairingly. “I can’t get married until I’m seventeen; it’s against the law! Are you telling me that—that for years, I—”

Mother’s face crumpled. “I know. I’m sorry.”

Sometime around midnight, Draco could stand up and sit down without help. It was as Mother had described: the pain never lessened, but he could feel the beginnings of his body reluctantly adapting to thought-destroying pain.

Everything still hurt. Everything was still a struggle. Draco didn’t want to become accustomed to pain like this, but was finally learning that what he wanted did not, and had never, mattered in the slightest.

“Do you need me to help you dress for bed, darling?” Mother asked quietly. “I can also get you a sleeping draught.”

April 14, the day of Draco’s débutante ball, was dull and rainy.

According to Dotty, who woke him up at daybreak to help him into his dress, the Malfoy Manor was a flurry of activity—Lucius had hired an event planner, apparently, and paid extra for the short notice; the planner had, in turn, hired musicians and florists and a full wait staff and moved some furniture around to set up the ballroom for the event.

Draco hadn’t been around to see any of it, of course. When he wasn’t sobbing from the sheer overwhelming pain of the chastity charms, he was focusing all his effort on doing things as simple as picking a book up off the floor or taking a bath.

When he was finally dressed, Dotty gently turned him to face the mirror. Draco was all in white per tradition, of course, with a crown of flowers—red peonies and carnations—pinned to his hair, which fell loose to the middle of his back.

“Master Draco looks quite beautiful,” Dotty said, but there was no joy in the assessment.

“Yes,” Draco agreed, because it was true: he did look nice. But it was a compulsory beauty, one forced upon him, for the benefit of others, and Draco hated every part of it.

“Master Draco is knowing his role for the showing?”

“Yes.”

“Then Dotty wishes Master Draco the best of fortune,” she says, “in whatever form that is taking.”

When Draco looked down at her, she had already vanished. He took a few shaky breaths.

He didn’t want to do this. He had to do this. It would only be more painful if Draco was forced through it kicking and screaming.

He slipped out of his bedroom and walked, barefoot, down the hallway.

Before he even made it to the stairs, Draco heard the low, droning rumble of voices—many voices, talking over and between each other. It was more than just twenty. Draco wondered, with a lurch of nauseous fear, just how many people were on his courting list. Of course, he’d never seen it himself.

When he came to the doors of the ballroom, they swung open for him and everything went abruptly silent.

Scattered through the ballroom were—what, fifty, sixty?—alphas, ranging in age from under ten to well over seventy. Suddenly, Draco regretted not taking that Viscous Vomiting Vapor Ron had given him; puking his guts up sounded much more palatable than being here.

“Draco.”

It was his father, at the front of the ballroom. He was dressed to the nines—shiny shoes on the parquet floor, sleek black robes over a vest and bright green ascot. He gestured Draco over with one hand.

Draco went, but slowly—part reluctance, part pain.

“My omega son, Draco Leander Malfoy,” Lucius said as Draco approached, “pure of blood for as far back as records extend. He came into his first heat at Yuletide.”

Murmurs rippled around the room. At last, Draco came to stand beside his father. He kept his head down.

“He is gentle of nature and quite obedient,” Lucius continued, which sent prickles of anger up Draco’s back. “His professors describe him as quite bright, as well, if any of you might enjoy the challenge of an intellectual bride.”

A round of chuckles. It took all of Draco’s willpower not to bare his teeth; he settled, instead, for gripping his hands together and staring hatefully at the floor.

“One by one, if you please,” Lucius said.

Footsteps shuffled and voices mumbled excuse me and beg your pardon; the alphas were arranging themselves into something resembling a queue.

“Chin up, Draco,” Lucius said, voice low and even. “They will want to see your face before they agree to anything.”

Draco grit his teeth and said nothing.

The next twenty minutes was humiliating.

One after the other, alphas would approach. They would eye Draco up and down, ask him to turn around, lift your chin, smile, love, so I can see your teeth. Occasionally, they would ask questions—not to Draco, of course, but to his father:

“Bit young to be starting the courtship, isn’t he?” asked one, an old and wheezing alpha woman who leaned on a walking stick.

“The House Malfoy has always preferred lengthy engagements,” Lucius answered smoothly. “His mother and I were the same. And unless it begins early, a long engagement can make for an older bride—which I’m sure no one here would prefer.”

“Better to breed them young,” she agreed, and Draco seethed.

“He’s had no trouble with his heats so far?” asked the beta father of a seven-year-old alpha boy who was glaring at Draco like he had yet to come out of the age in which he thought omegas were stinky.

“No, none,” Lucius confirmed. “I owled the matron at Hogwarts personally—he’s in perfect health.”

“Good, good. Our house has always liked a whole litter, you know. Alistair, here, is the fifth of nine!”

Sweet Merlin, nine?

“I saw the Prophet around late February,” said a familiar voice, and Draco looked up with a jerk to see none other than Marcus Flint. What a pity he hadn’t taken himself off his courting list, like his sister had said he would. “Rather salacious. How am I to trust that he’s unspoiled?”

“He is unspoiled,” Lucius said firmly. “Cast a diagnostic spell for yourself and find chastity charms securely in place.”

“Chastity charms?” Flint said, with leering interest.

Draco flinched at the shiver of magic Flint cast; it clashed uncomfortably with the painful, throbbing magic still snarled around his pelvis. Flint loomed forward with clear arousal.

“Like the old ways,” he rumbled.

On and on and on, alpha after alpha after alpha, poking and prodding at him, making horrid remarks about Draco’s childbearing hips and comely features, estimating how many children they’d be tempted to put in him. It was humiliating and infuriating, and by the end of it, Draco wasn’t sure if it was emotional or physical agony that was making his legs shake.

“As a display of his talent,” Lucius said to the crowd, who had by now taken to talking amongst themselves and picking at the trays of hors d’oeuvres and flutes of champagne set out on the table by the back wall, “and for your entertainment, my son will sing and play for you. He’s been trained in music since youth, of course—I have no doubt you’ll enjoy my little songbird.”

With a wave of his wand, Lucius conjured a grand piano—or, to be more specific, summoned it from where its usual spot in the conservatory. Draco stared at it hatefully for a few seconds, then moved slowly toward it, hoping his fury wasn’t visible on his face.

As he sat down at the bench, he spent a few moments considering what to play. He had a fairly wide repertoire, thanks to a very assiduous music tutor, but was also in a nontrivial amount of pain. After a few moments, he lifted his hands and began to play.

“Early one morning, just as the sun was rising,” he sang, voice brittle, “I heard a maiden call from the valley below.”

It was an old English folk song with a modern arrangement; the piano accompaniment gave a nice depth and complexity to the simple melody. But, most vitally, Draco had the piece memorized, and he didn’t have to force his aching body past what it could handle.

“Oh, don’t deceive me; oh, never leave me. How could you use a poor maiden so?”

Quick glances up between bars showed reactions that ran the gamut. The little seven-year-old alpha was not paying the slightest bit of attention, instead staring out the window. An older alpha woman with broad set shoulders was leaning against a nearby wall and staring at Draco enraptured.

“Remember the vows that you made to your Mary,” he sang, “remember the brow’r where you vowed to be true.”

There was a rush from the fireplace, so quiet that Draco didn’t notice at first.

“Oh, don’t deceive me; oh, never leave me.”

He did notice the gasping, however, and the mumbling. He frowned as he played, snuck a glance up over the top of the piano—

“How could you—”

“Draco.”

Draco’s breath caught.

It wasn’t possible, was it? How could it be?

How could Harry really be here?

But there he was, looking a little disheveled in that same bottle green dress robe he’d worn to the Yule Ball, shoulders heaving like he’d been running.

“How,” Lucius suddenly interjected into the deadly quiet of the room, “did you get past the wards without an invitation?”

In the corner of his eye, Dolly shrunk behind a potted plant.

“I,” Harry said, ostensibly to Lucius, though he was looking at Draco, “I’m here to add my name to Draco’s courting list.”

The room exploded into protestations.

“What?” cried one alpha.

“Outrageous!” snapped another.

“Mr. Potter,” Lucius snarled, “this is not a game.”

“I’m not treating it like one,” Harry said. He was still looking at Draco, who felt as though he was stranded in the middle of a storm, with a tornado hurtling toward him.

“This is preposterous,” railed a third alpha, who Draco belatedly realized was Marcus Flint, fighting his way to the front of the crowd. “He’s underage! And quite famously, Mr. Potter does not have a parent to sponsor him, so by point of order—”

“But I do!” Harry interjected suddenly, stuffing his hand into his dress robe pocket to produce an unevenly folded letter. “Signed, sealed, and notarized, all the bells and whistles.”

He finally went toward Lucius, who was looking utterly gobsmacked. When Harry offered him the letter, Lucius nearly tore it in the process of breaking the seal.

“My godfather,” Harry said, once again looking at Draco, “my legal guardian, has signed off on my sponsorship.”

“Sirius Black?” Lucius said, apparently reading his name from the letter.

“Sirius Black is a criminal and a blood traitor!” Flint railed. “Malfoy, you can’t tell me that you’re honestly considering this? You still have the right to refuse—the omega is your property.”

“Draco is no one’s property!” Harry snapped.

“Watch your tone, half-blood,” Flint snarled.

“Or what? You’ll lose to me in Quidditch again?”

“Harry,” Draco said, and the room once again went silent.

That storm Draco was caught in was terrifying and deadly and getting so, so close. He was helpless to do anything but stare and, with immense difficulty, stand and go around the piano.

“What,” he gasped, “what are you…?”

“Draco,” Harry said, and went forward to meet him halfway, gripping his hands, “I couldn’t just… you couldn’t really expect me to just sit back and let this happen?”

“So, what,” Draco answered, feeling paper thin and right on the edge of hysteria, “you’re just going to… to…”

“Draco, I’ll do whatever it takes,” he said, “anything it takes.”

“Lucius,” said a foul-tempered alpha with a glass of champagne in one meaty hand, “tell this boy that you reject his petition and end this farce!”

All eyes turned to Lucius, then, who was still staring at the letter.

He would, wouldn’t he? What choice did he have? He couldn’t allow Harry Potter of all people onto his son’s courting list—it would be insane.

“I know it’s a lot to ask,” Harry said to him, “and I know we have some rocky history, but I’m prepared to offer—”

“I accept the petition,” Lucius interjected.

“You… you do?” Harry said.

“You do?” Draco echoed.

“I see no reason not to,” Lucius said. His face was an impassive mask which, Draco knew from experience, was just a mask. He was very deliberately hiding his true thoughts. “It is a legal, notarized petition. Both Mr. Potter and Mr. Black have ancient bloodlines and sizable estates.”

“Lucius!” growled an alpha from the front of the room.

Draco felt like he was losing his mind. He turned frantic eyes to Harry. “I need to talk to you. Alone.”

“Alone?” Flint snarled. “Alone with an alpha petitioning to court you? You were treading on thin ice with that kiss, you worthless slu*t—”

“Keep your mouth shut, Flint!” Harry snapped.

“Dolly will be willing to act as chaperone!” the house-elf suddenly squeaked, with surprising volume. At some point she had, apparently, come out from behind the potted plant.

Of course, a house-elf was barely a suitable chaperone under the best circ*mstances—and now that Draco had a split second to think about it, his father had absolutely no reason to even agree to Draco’s request for a private conversation with Harry at all—

“Fine,” Lucius said, eerily even, “but make it fast.”

—what the f*ck was happening?

Draco quickly decided that he would worry about his father’s bizarre behavior later. First things first.

He grabbed Harry by the wrist and dragged him out of the ballroom. Dolly’s hasty, padded footsteps followed close behind.

The second the door to the salon on the other side of the hallway closed—

“What are you doing?” Draco demanded, spinning back around to face him.

At once, Harry held up both hands pacifyingly. “I’m only trying to help,” he said.

“Help? Do you even realize what it is you’ve signed up for? You just told my father that you want to marry me!”

“Draco—”

“You think the solution to the problem of me being sold off to an alpha like a broodmare is to make sure you’re the alpha to pay?”

“No! That’s not what this is!”

“Isn’t it? Because you just submitted a legally binding contract to the contrary!”

“I mean, it is, but not—”

Harry heaved a huge, frustrated sigh, pushed both hands through his hair. He had the look of a man who was trying to put a novel’s worth of thoughts into a few sentences.

“Draco,” he eventually said, and came forward to grip his hands again, “we’re both fourteen. I certainly have no idea if I want to marry you. I’m sure you don’t, either. And why should we? We’re not even out of school; neither of us should need to know this kind of thing.”

“Harry—”

“But here’s what I do know,” he continued. “I know I care about you. A lot. So much I kind of wonder if I’m crazy. Sirius says all first loves are like this, and maybe that’s true, but that doesn’t change the fact that seeing you forced into what is essentially slavery makes me absolutely crazy!”

Draco’s throat was getting tight. “Harry.”

“And since I can’t rip down the sh*tty system that’s put you into this situation like I want to, I am left with the next best thing. If it’s me, Draco—if I’m the one you’re courting, then at least you have an ally.”

And now his eyes were starting to burn. “Harry…”

“At least you have someone in your corner, who can work with you rather than try to control you. I’ll court you to keep other alphas away till it’s safe for you to Recuse. Or I’ll put up a bride-price just to get you away from your father. Or I’ll marry you in a courthouse somewhere and then immediately annul so you can have your autonomy back. Whatever it takes. Anything it takes.”

And Draco realized: he was in love with Harry Potter.

“Surely you know,” Harry said, quietly now, all the wind fading from his sails, “that I’d do anything for you.”

Draco stood in the eye of the storm, breathless and overwhelmed. He lunged forward, grabbed Harry by the face, and kissed him.

Then immediately wheeled backward again, horrified. Harry was staring at him with huge green eyes.

“I,” Draco stammered, “I’m sorry, I—”

Harry closed the gap immediately and kissed him back. Draco went careening into a wall; his hands tangled in Harry’s hair while Harry’s gripped his hips. Draco gasped into the kiss, arched his body into Harry’s, and let himself be swept away in his storm.

Until Dolly delicately cleared her throat, and they both sprang three feet away from each other.

“Dolly is thinking this is all terribly romantic,” she squeaked, “but perhaps best saved till term resumes?”

“He wasn’t much for negotiations,” was the first thing Lucius said when, at the end of the night, he finally found Draco in the sitting room. His ascot had been loosened around his neck, his robe shucked over a nearby armchair. “Seemed just keen to agree with whatever stipulations were put in front of him.”

Draco said nothing, kept his eyes on the table. He’d changed into pajamas, braided his hair, and thrown his flower crown into a fire. He hated carnations anyway.

“When I asked him for his bride-price, he only said that I had a blank check. When I asked for his timetable, he said whatever time would be required.”

There was still a part of Draco that couldn’t believe Harry was doing this for him. Did he really understand how much money was about to change hands?

“In the end, we agreed to twenty-thousand galleons in bride-price and an expedited engagement,” Lucius said, and at long last sat down across from Draco at the table. “Seeing as you’re both underage, there are legal loopholes that allow for you to marry, with consent from parents—or guardian, in his case, I suppose.”

Dotty appeared with a snifter of brandy. Lucius took it thoughtlessly, swallowed a long pull.

“It will still take time to arrange, of course,” he said. “There’s paperwork to do, officiates to find.”

“Why did you agree?” Draco asked.

Silence lapsed. The fire crackled quietly, and Lucius took another sip of brandy.

“What does it matter, so long as I did?” he countered. “If he’s this motivated to marry you, and willing to follow the old ways, why should I say no?”

“You have plenty of reason to say no,” Draco said.

More silence. This time, Lucius didn’t take a sip of his drink. When Draco snuck a look up at him, he was staring at Draco’s forearm.

At the scar.

Something cold and fearful twisted in Draco’s stomach. What do you know, he wanted to ask.

“Go to bed, Draco,” he said, and stood. He left the room, taking his brandy with him, and Draco sat in silence for a while, full of dread and not quite understanding why.

The ride back to Hogwarts was long, which was good, because it was taking everything Draco had to wrap his head around the fact that, very technically, he was engaged to marry Harry Potter.

“Is this what you wanted?” Cordelia asked.

Draco looked over, surprised, not because she’d finally spoken to him after nearly two hours on a silent train ride, but because she sounded like she genuinely wanted to know the answer—and also a little scared.

“I’m surprised to hear that you suddenly care about what I want,” Draco answered, though he couldn’t muster any malice.

Cordelia was staring at him with an expression that Draco had never seen before, that he couldn’t quite pin down. It existed somewhere in the middle of anxiety, sympathy, and terror.

After a long moment of silence, she asked, “What did Father do to you? That night two days before the ball?”

As if in reminder, the shards of ice buried in Draco’s abdomen throbbed dully. He averted his eyes, stared out the window, and didn’t answer.

“I heard you scream,” she said.

Still, Draco said nothing. He had no desire to tell her, or anyone, about the charms that now ruled so many parts of his life. This was a private pain.

“Draco,” she said, voice trembling, but Draco continued to say nothing.

His first heat since being placed under the chastity charms was a nightmare.

It felt like knives, twisting and ripping his guts apart. It felt like frostbite eating him away from the inside out, like liquid nitrogen was flowing through his veins. Six hours of pain like Draco had never experienced, so intense he couldn’t see, couldn’t move, could barely breathe.

Even after it ended, he sobbed and shook, completely unable to move for hours after the fact. He’d never been in this amount of pain before.

He asked Professor Snape the next morning, a little hollowly, if he was finished refining his mother’s suppressant recipe yet. Snape saw Draco’s face, went slight ashen, and said he wasn’t, but that he would expedite it.

Navigating Hogwarts felt different. On the one hand, Draco had reason to be cautiously optimistic about his situation. On the other, physically moving around the castle was now a painful nightmare.

“Everyone’s talking about it,” Ron said. “Skeeter wrote an article about it. All speculation, of course, and based on your account of it, mostly nonsense—unless you really did defeat eight alphas in consecutive duels, Harry, and just forget to mention it?”

“No, that part’s true,” Harry said, cool sarcasm without joviality.

“I’m sure this isn’t what Draco wants to talk about on his birthday,” Hermione protested.

Technically, it wasn’t his birthday—his birthday was tomorrow, on a Monday, so they’d gone out together to Hogsmeade the day before. It was good to be back, Draco supposed, but everything felt a little surreal. And the chastity charm was really smarting something awful today.

“So are you going to get him a ring?” Ron asked.

“Ronald!” Hermione hissed.

“It’s fine,” Draco said. “No, Ron, probably not. That’s a Muggle custom that wormed its way into magical society, and my family is all about the old ways.”

Ron scoffed. “Old ways. How do they know which ways are old? Seems like the old ways are just a bludgeon they can use to hit people who can’t fight back.”

Draco had a hard time disagreeing.

“Ooh, Madam Rosmerta’s waving us over—Ron, come on, our food’s ready.”

Hermione tugged him away by the sleeve. Harry looked sideways at Draco as he took a sip of butterbeer.

“I could get you a ring if you wanted,” he offered, a little awkwardly.

Draco laughed quietly. “Ask me again in a decade or so,” he said, “without a bride-price changing hands.”

“Fair enough.”

But Harry was still looking at him like there was something else he wasn’t saying. Draco took a sip of his own butterbeer, raising an eyebrow at him in invitation.

“Is it—” He faltered. “Is it still okay if I kiss you?”

Despite himself, despite everything, Draco’s heart gave a little flip.

“Why wouldn’t that be okay?”

A lopsided little smile tumble onto Harry’s face. “I just… want to be sure. Since there’s some pretty dubious paperwork out there telling you that you don’t have a choice in the matter. I want you to know you do.”

“Harry Potter,” Draco said, “if I didn’t want to kiss you, you’d know it.”

The smile got a little wider. “True,” he said. “You are very… forthright. It’s one of the things I like about you.”

Harry kissed him, soft and sweet and chaste. Draco’s eyes fell shut, and his heart thudded against his ribs, and he leaned up a little to deepen it—

—and then pain jabbed through his pelvis.

“Ah,” Draco hissed, recoiling. f*ck, that hurt. Was it just the change of position, or—?

“Draco?” Harry asked, concerned.

“I… it’s nothing,” Draco said, as the pain slowly settled back down to manageable levels.

Hermione and Ron reappeared, each holding two plates of food.

“Cheers,” Ron said as he sat Draco’s meal down, roast chicken and stuffing.

“Harry, I keep forgetting to ask,” Hermione said, “how are you feeling about the Third Task? Nervous?”

Harry sighed. “Incredibly.”

She frowned. “And the dreams?”

“Getting worse,” he admitted. “Did I tell you about the last one?”

On the day it happened, something went wrong. The audience had been watching the Champions’ progress through the maze with spells, until they weren’t. Harry was in the lead, until he wasn’t. Everything was fine, until it all went wrong.

Draco went to Snape when he couldn’t take the waiting around anymore and found him in his office, talking in low, urgent tones with Dumbledore.

“Where is he?” he demanded. “What happened?”

The two exchanged a nervous look.

“You should go back to your common room, Mr. Malfoy,” Dumbledore said.

“No!” Draco snapped. “It’s been over an hour! Where is he? Where’s Harry?”

“Draco,” Snape said, coming around the desk toward him, “we’re doing everything we can to—aah!”

He stumbled, and at first Draco assumed he’d tripped, till he saw that Snape was gripping his left arm.

Bitter fear flooded Draco’s mouth. He knew what was on Snape’s left arm. He knew of only one reason why it would hurt.

“Th-that,” he stammered, “that’s…”

“Severus?” Dumbledore prompted. The first signs of alarm strained his voice.

“I…” Snape was staring down at his sleeve with nauseous fear. “I… Albus, I have to go.”

“No,” Draco said. “No, you—”

“Do what you must,” Dumbledore said.

“No!” Draco said again, but Snape wasn’t listening. He was pulling his cloak off a peg on the wall. Draco lunged for him, frantic, and grabbed his elbow. “No, Sev, please! Please don’t go!”

Snape’s expression was wrenched by agony. “Draco, there’s more to this—”

“You can’t,” he sobbed, “you can’t go to him, you can’t go back—”

“Mr. Malfoy,” Dumbledore said, and with one surprisingly firm hand on his forearm, pulled him backward.

“Sev, please!” Draco sobbed, but he was already throwing the cloak on, pulling up its hood, and racing for the exit as Draco, held back, thrashed and sobbed. “No!”

“Mr. Malfoy,” Dumbledore said again.

“You have to get him back!” Draco said, turning tear-blurred eyes to Dumbledore. “You can’t let him do this! Please, I can’t lose him!”

“Mr. Malfoy,” he said, more firmly, “you are bleeding.”

Panting, shaking, and delirious with fear and adrenaline, Draco looked down. The left sleeve of his white shirt was soaked red.

He ripped the cuff open and tugged it up to his elbow.

The scar on his arm, the rune carved into his flesh by Tom Riddle, had reopened.

Chapter 6: Book of Shadows

Chapter Text

The wound on Draco’s arm bled and bled and didn’t stop bleeding. Dumbledore tried to seal it up and it didn’t work; it was all he could do to put pressure on it and walk Draco down to the Hospital Wing, where Madam Pomfrey also tried to seal it up and it still didn’t work.

In the end, he had to be taken to St. Mungo’s when he started getting dizzy from blood loss. His memories got fuzzy right around the time the healers started force-feeding him a lot of blood replenishing tonics. At some point, he lost consciousness.

When he woke again, he was lying in a bed, and had the distinct impression that a significant amount of time had passed. The window nearby was lit golden as if it was evening, and there was a healer in the room with him, casting careful spells.

“I’m going to miss my exams,” Draco told her. It was the first thing that occurred to him. His head felt very light with all the medicine, and he couldn’t quite focus on anything. “I can’t miss my exams.”

“You need to focus on healing,” his healer said. She was frowning at him.

“Where’s Sev?” Draco asked her, which was the second thing that occurred to him. He missed him dreadfully, and couldn’t shake the feeling that he needed to find him. “Where’s my mother?”

“Rest,” she said, and cast a spell that knocked him out.

Some time later, he woke again. That nearby window was black as ink, and his arm was throbbing with pain. From somewhere nearby, two people—healers, presumably—were talking in low tones.

“Are these spells even legal?” one said.

“They’re not illegal,” the other answered.

“He must be in constant, excruciating pain. As physicians, don’t we have a duty—?”

“It’s not relevant to his diagnosis or treatment.”

“So what? He’s our patient, and they’re causing him discomfort. And chastity charms surely must count as child abuse.”

“Do you want to be the one to start a child abuse investigation against Lucius Malfoy?”

It was so hard to focus. His arm hurt so terribly, a constant, burning throb. “Sev,” he whimpered. “Mother? Sev? Please…”

Their conversation stopped, but Draco couldn’t turn himself in the right direction to look at them. Eventually, one approached—a woman and, now that he could smell her, beta.

“How long have you been under chastity charms, dear?” she asked.

“For Merlin’s sake, Abernathy,” said the other healer, and cast another spell to knock him out.

When he woke up the next time, the familiar scent of valerian root and aqua fortis hit him before all other sensation. He twisted, breathed it in a little harder, just to convince himself it was real, that he was there. Before he could even manage to open his eyes: “Sev?”

“Ssh.” A hand on his hair, cool and long-fingered. “I’m here.”

Draco blinked his eyes open, but it took a while for things to come into focus. His arm didn’t hurt quite so badly anymore, less a distressing throb and more a sort of dull ache that felt like healing. And sitting on the side of his bed—

“Sev.”

He smiled down at Draco, but there wasn’t any joy behind it. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

“You look terrible,” Draco said, and he did: there were dark circles under his eyes, a stark contrast against his sallow skin, and there was something about his expression—like he was trying very hard to keep himself together.

“Is this the thanks I get for being a doting godfather? Criticisms on my appearance?”

“Please,” Draco whispered, “what happened? Is Harry okay? What happened at the Third Task?”

Snape’s expression didn’t change, per se, but it did strain under the weight of whatever he wasn’t showing Draco. His hand in Draco’s hair slowed its stroking till it was nearly still.

“I… a lot has happened,” he began, speaking very slowly, “not all of which I’m at liberty to tell you.”

“Sev,” Draco protested.

“It’s complicated, Draco, but there are things I can’t say—things that, if I said them to you, would put you in danger.”

“What can you tell me? I feel like I’ve been here for ages.”

“It’s only been four days.”

“Four days?” He’d lost so much time! And, with a horrible lurch— “I missed my exams!”

“You are entirely predictable,” Snape said; it was inflected like a reprimand, but with a fond warmth. “As it happens, I have them all on my person. The Headmaster has granted you leave to owl them in when you’re done.”

“What about the practicals?” Draco asked, and tried to sit up. Snape steadied the movement with a hand on Draco’s shoulder, then adjusted his pillows with a quick spell to help keep him upright.

“That’s only my class,” he said as he cast, “and as you’ll recall, you turned in your potion to me two weeks early. You got an O, by the way.”

“My Defense exam is practical, too.”

Snape’s easy expression hardened slightly. He continued adjusting Draco’s pillows, rather needlessly. “You don’t need to worry about that class,” he said.

The answer gave Draco a horrible sinking feeling. “Professor, please,” he said, “what happened at the Third Task?”

Dark eyes turned to Draco, grim and assessing—and then, eventually, profoundly sad.

“Cedric Diggory is dead.”

All the breath left Draco’s lungs in a rush. “Dead?”

“Potter made it out, but only just. The trophy—it was a Portkey. It took them both to—” He stopped, sighed heavily. “There’s only so much I can say.”

“Professor,” Draco begged.

“You’re better off asking someone else. They’ll be able to tell you more.”

“Professor, please—”

“And what about you?” Snape asked, reaching across Draco’s body to pick up his arm. “Don’t think I didn’t notice that you failed to answer me when I asked you how you were feeling.”

“I’m fine,” Draco answered, but it was reflexive. When Snape rolled Draco’s arm so his palm was facing up— “Oh.”

The mark was still there, but it was no longer an open wound. In fact, instead of a scar, open or otherwise, it was a burn of the same shape, half-healed and still aching dully.

“Cauterization,” Snape observed, frowning. “How crude. But I suppose if it doesn’t respond to regular healing magic, they weren’t left with a lot of options. At least the bleeding stopped. Albus mentioned that neither he nor Poppy could seal it…”

Snape’s long fingers trailed carefully around the outside of the burn, just at the lip of where the pain hummed under Draco’s skin. Draco stared at the burn nervously. The magic, dark and twisty and obscure, was still there. The cauterization had done nothing past stopping the immediate threat to Draco’s life—which, he supposed, wasn’t nothing.

Still, just looking at it filled Draco with a nauseous fear. Why had it reopened? Why right at the same moment that Snape’s Mark began to hurt? There was something Snape wasn’t telling him, and Draco had a feeling—a horrible, sinking feeling—that he knew what it was.

“Sev,” Draco said, very quietly, and looked up to meet his godfather’s eyes, “is he back?”

He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need to. The horrible expression was all the answer Draco needed.

A trembling started in the middle of his stomach, spreading out down each limb. He withdrew his arms from Severus’s grasp, doubled over himself, and tried to stop himself from shaking.

“You should rest,” he said, and stood. He reached into his cloak pocket and produced a stack of parchments, which he sat down on the table next to Draco’s bed. “There’s no hurry. Take your exams at your leisure. St. Mungo’s has its own owlery you can use once you’re done.”

“Where’s my mum?” Draco whispered. “I want to see her.”

“She—” He faltered. “You know she’s not allowed out of the Manor without an escort.”

“Then why isn’t my father escorting her?” he ground out. His eyes were burning. “Why hasn’t he come?”

“He’s—busy,” Snape said.

Too busy for his son in hospital. Of course. Draco curled in on himself.

“I want to go home,” Draco whispered.

“No,” Snape said, “you don’t.”

Draco looked up in just in time to see Snape leaning on the post of Draco’s hospital bed with a white-knuckle grip, his expression heavy with everything he was holding back on.

“You want to stay here for as long as you can, do you understand?” Snape said. “Do your exams. Let your arm heal. The Malfoy Manor is not—it may not be—it’s changed.”

A part of Draco wanted to know what that meant. A much larger part did not.

It took Draco twice as long to do his exams than anticipated—not because the material wasn’t what he’d expected, but because he was left-handed, and the associated arm was still healing, which made writing difficult. The pain was severe enough that it limited his History of Magic essay to seven inches over Professor Binns’s minimum length instead of the ten he preferred, and he dearly hoped that it wouldn’t affect his grade at all.

He sent off his exams one a day, through his very kind healer, Dr. Abernathy. She would check his arm, peer frowningly at the dark purple bruise that appeared under his skin, inquire after how he was feeling, run a few tests, and then ask, “Which exam is going out today?”

“Arithmancy,” he said, and handed her the stack of papers with a small but grateful smile. She tucked it under her arm.

“I’ll stop by the owlery before I leave,” she said. “You should be ready to be discharged soon.”

Draco wasn’t sure which shape his face was taking. He fidgeted nervously with the edge of his blanket. “I should?”

“I’d hoped to figure out why that arm of yours is so resistant to healing magic, but diagnostic after diagnostic has given me nothing—or at least not anything I can use. It seems stable, which is I suppose the best we can hope for.”

Draco stared into his lap, nodded slowly. At the idea of being discharged, Professor Snape’s warning buzzed in the back of his head: The Malfoy Manor—it’s changed.

“I’ve kept your father updated on your progress,” she said, “by owl. He hasn’t…”

“Answered?” Draco guessed. He didn’t need to look up to confirm. “No, he’s never cared overmuch about me.”

“He cares enough to control you in the most despicable, dehumanizing—”

Draco found himself surprised by the venom in her voice. When he looked up at her, she was taking slow, deep breaths, eyes shut, like she was trying very hard to calm herself down.

Then, abruptly, she sat down on the side of his bed, putting Draco’s Arithmancy exam in her lap.

“Draco,” she said, “I want to write you a prescription. One I don’t think your father would want me to give to you.”

Draco frowned.

“But if he doesn’t care about your prognosis, then I don’t care about telling him. I’m happy to stretch the rules of healer-patient confidentiality for this.”

“For what?” he asked, but she was already reaching into her robe and producing a slim tube full of a pale blue liquid, shut by a black rubber stopper.

“This,” she said, handing it to him, “is normally used to mitigate the effects of a hex or curse that can’t otherwise be dispelled. It’s called tranquilis—as in quieting symptoms without removing the underlying magic.”

“Tranquilis,” Draco repeated, taking the vial and peering down at it carefully. He’d heard the name before. He thought, perhaps, that it was a N.E.W.T.-level potion that he’d seen in the index of one of his textbooks.

“Chastity charms cannot be dispelled,” Dr. Abernathy said grimly. “The spellwork is ancient—older spells were frequently designed that way, with a sort of lock-and-key framework. In this case, only an alpha’s bonding bite can do the job.”

Draco nodded slowly. “My mother warned me.” He was still turning the tube over in his fingers.

“And since I can’t take the spell off you like I want to—and trust me, Draco, I would if I could—this is the next best thing. A dose of tranquilis will suppress the symptoms of the chastity charm for a period of about six hours. It will get rid of the pain.”

Draco looked up, feeling a little breathless. “It will?”

“It will.” She grimaced. “But the ingredients are potent, and it’s not safe to take more than once a day. Try to save it for when it’s particularly painful.”

“It’s always painful,” Draco said. The answer seemed to break Dr. Abernathy’s heart.

“Then take it whenever it’s so bad you can’t stand it, or when you need to be pain free,” she said. “I’ll arrange to have doses shipped to you every other day by owl post—would that work?”

The Malfoy Manor—it’s changed.

“Maybe…” Draco said, then faltered. “Maybe you could arrange to have them picked up at the potions shop in Hogsmeade instead? If my father found me getting potions like this…”

“Merlin, you poor thing,” she sighed. Then, “Yes, of course. If you think you can manage the summer.”

Draco nodded slowly. He’d managed a whole trimester with the charm in place—somehow. He could manage a summer, too, surely.

Even though the mere idea of six hours without pain was so tempting that it made him physically itch. Even though the thought of being in control of his own body again made him near-frantic with desire.

“Will it suppress all the effects of the chastity charm?” he asked.

“It varies case by case,” Dr. Abernathy answered. “It depends on the complexity of the spell, the power of the caster, and the nature of the magic. What literature I’ve read suggests that omegas under chastity charms will be pain-free, but still won’t be able to experience sexual contact or arousal.”

Draco had assumed that the chastity charms were just a barrier, preventing various parts of anatomy from entering various others. He hadn’t considered that they might also wholly prevent the sensation of pleasure.

That must have been why his suppressed heat had been so agonizing—and why it had hurt to kiss Harry.

Suddenly, Draco didn’t want to think about it anymore. He sunk back onto his pile of pillows.

“Is there a copy of the Prophet lying around that I could read?” he asked miserably.

In the end, Draco was in St. Mungo’s for over a week. Snape visited when he could, which wasn’t often, and he always looked so haunted and refused to answer any of Draco’s questions about what had happened.

The Prophet hadn’t been much more help. There were a few articles about Cedric, ranging from fond obituaries to wild speculation about the “murky circ*mstances” surrounding his death, but nothing substantial, and certainly nothing about the Dark Lord.

He couldn’t even begin to imagine what Harry was going through. However the Third Task had ended, Harry had been there when it happened. Draco wished bitterly he could see him, but the school year was already over by the time he was discharged.

It happened on Draco’s second Tuesday there. With his arm wrapped up and three vials of tranquilis tucked into his pocket, Draco left the spell damage ward of St. Mungo’s and came into the reception, looking around nervously. It was late in the evening, quiet and still, with only a few patients awaiting admittance. He’d been told by the nurse that he was to be picked up here, but there wasn’t anyone—

“Draco.”

Lucius Malfoy had, apparently, been waiting in a shadowed corner. When he emerged, the first thing Draco noticed about him was that he looked even worse than Professor Snape.

“Father,” Draco said, with a nervous, perfunctory curtsy. He was still in his Hogwarts uniform, the clothes in which he’d been admitted.

“Your things have been sent home,” Lucius said. He was shifting nervously from foot to foot, glancing at the faces of every other person in the room as though he was looking for a saboteur amongst them. “We’ll… head there now. Together. Come.”

He turned and left the reception. Draco followed at his heels. Together they went through the large, double doors and into a circular rotunda full of fireplaces, each with little jars of Floo powder on their mantles and signs that read one sickle per pinch. It was empty.

“We have guests at the Manor,” he said as soon as the doors clicked shut.

“Guests?” Draoc repeated.

“Guest,” Lucius corrected. His voice was frayed, hands rubbing together nervously. “A guest. He should be… asleep by now. I hope so, at least. Draco, it may be prudent for you to… to confine yourself to your room for now.”

A fireplace rushed. They both clammed up as a very pregnant witch waddled past with her alpha husband ushering her along and the reception doors shut again.

“Who is it?” Draco asked, then clarified: “Our guest.”

Lucius gave him a long, steady, anxious look. His fingers were flexing and unflexing around the snake head handle of his cane. Fear spread, thin and tremulous, from the center of Draco’s chest. It got stronger and stronger the longer he didn’t answer.

“Father,” Draco said, “who is our guest?”

“I’ll escort you straight up to your room,” Lucius answered.

“Father.”

“You’re doubtlessly tired. Use your bell if you need a house-elf, you understand? Don’t go venturing out looking for them.”

“Father.”

“Come.”

Lucius seized his shoulder and steered him toward the Floo. He put a few sickles into the jar, which dispensed a pinch of Floo powder in a tray below.

“I’ll go first,” Lucius said, then threw the powder in and stepped through with a harsh, “Malfoy Manor.”

Draco watched him vanish in a burst of green fire, nervous. He followed more slowly.

He was subsumed by darkness as soon as the fire died down. It took his eyes a moment to adjust from the overlit, fluorescent brightness of St. Mungo’s to the sitting room of the Manor, curtains drawn and candles snuffed for nightfall.

There was a scent hanging in the darkness that was familiar, but not sharp enough for Draco to identify. Still, something about it made his heart beat in the side of his throat. He stepped forward carefully, shoes crunching through dust and cinder.

The hazy outline of a figure stood silhouetted a few feet in front of him, against the dim light of the foyer. Draco blinked hard against the darkness, willing his eyes to focus.

“Father?” he whispered, the only sound to break the eerie silence.

“Draco,” came Lucius’s petrified voice from the far side of the room.

The figure shifted. A gust of air hit him, carrying the scent of blood and ash. Draco’s breathing came fast and ragged. No, he thought.

“Lumos,” he said, and in the pale blue wandlight, a white face appeared—red-eyed, thin-lipped, papery skin pulled tight over fine bones.

Draco stumbled backward, a sharp gasp ripping his throat apart. His hand found the mantel, a too-tight grip that kept him standing, since his legs now refused to move.

“So,” said Lord Voldemort, “this is your eldest, Lucius. I was beginning to doubt that he existed.”

Draco’s mind raced. That fragment of Tom Riddle that knew too much about Draco, that has possessed him, that had forced his hand to violence—it had been destroyed, hadn’t it? Draco had cast the spell himself. There was no way—there was no way he could—

“He’s just out of St. Mungo’s, My Lord,” Lucius said, speaking very quickly. “Still ailing, I fear, but glad to be home. Draco, I’m sure you’re tired…”

Draco couldn’t speak. He couldn’t move. Fear, that most potent paralytic, had seized his every muscle. He breathed like he was running and shook like he was chin-deep in frigid water.

The Dark Lord came forward. Memories of Draco’s wretched second year clawed their way through his mind one after the other. The basilisk. The way Harry screamed. The red paint under his fingernails. Eyes on me.

“An omega,” Lord Voldemort remarked, idly. There was no recognition on his bone-white face. “Interesting.”

“Draco,” Lucius hissed, “I’m sure you’re tired.”

Draco didn’t know how he managed it, but he stumbled his way out of the hearth, knocking over a basket of firewood in the process. Now that his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, he could see Lucius standing by the side door, one hand outstretched and expression urging. Draco took the hand if only so he had something to hold onto if he lost his footing.

“Go straight to bed,” Lucius said, quiet enough not to be overheard. “If you need something, use your bell to summon Dolly or Dotty. You understand?”

Draco wasn’t sure he did, but he nodded anyway.

“Go,” he said, and Draco went as quick as he could toward the foyer, when—

“Wait.”

He froze. It felt entirely involuntary. Was it magic, Draco wondered, or soul-consuming terror that stopped him in his tracks?

From behind, Lord Voldemort approached, footsteps easy and languid on the parquet floor. Draco shook. He wanted to run but he couldn’t move. He couldn’t move.

(Eyes on me.)

“What is that…”

Something cold and hard as marble grasped Draco’s injured wrist. It took everything in him, every drop of resolve in his body, not to scream. With the grip, his arm was wrenched up.

In the periphery of Draco’s vision, a white face leaned in to inspect his arm carefully. He couldn’t quite stop the terrified whimper that tumbled past his lips. He turned his head away and screwed his eyes shut, willing himself to wake up from this nightmare.

“I would recognize that magic anywhere.”

“My Lord?” Lucius said, voice thin and thready.

“And why shouldn’t I? It’s my own.”

Draco wanted to run. He wanted to run. But he couldn’t move.

With a few quick, silent spells, the sleeve of his robe was pulled down, the bandages around his arm unwound. No, no, no, no, no. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t move.

“Lucius Malfoy,” said Lord Voldemort, “why does your omega son bear a rune of my design on his skin?”

“I…”

The tip of the Dark Lord’s wand pressed into the tenderest part of Draco’s flesh. He watched, horrified beyond articulation, as Voldemort withdrew a long thread of silver from within—

A memory.

“No,” Draco said—tried to say. All that came out was a frantic, whimpered breath. No, no, please no, please no.

“He’s tired, My Lord,” Lucius said. “He… he’s…”

“Then send him to bed,” Lord Voldemort said. He sounded distracted. The little silver memory formed a quivering orb in midair, hovering an inch past the end of his wand. He dropped Draco’s arm.

“Go to bed, Draco,” Lucius said at once, and Draco ran.

Up the stairs, down the hallway, around the corner, crashing through his bedroom door. He slammed it shut behind him, locked it, and then immediately collapsed to his knees.

Frantic, still panting and shaking, Draco looked down at his arm.

It didn’t hurt anymore. In fact, it wasn’t even injured anymore—the cauterizing burns had melted away, leaving nothing but a thin, pale, but distinct scar.

The magic was still there, though, dark and twisty and obscure. Draco stared at it for a long time, shaking and panting.

He barely had the presence of mind to cast a silencing charm before starting to scream.

There was a pile of correspondence on his desk that Draco did not notice till morning and could not bring himself to read. It was from his friends, he was sure, doubtlessly worried about his abrupt departure from Hogwarts, asking after his wellbeing.

He wouldn’t know what to tell them. He didn’t know what was safe to tell.

One of the house-elves dropped off breakfast for him. He woke to it sitting on his bedside table under a glittering stasis charm. He stared at it, but did not eat it. He had no appetite. Perhaps he never would again.

He’d barely slept. Much of the night had been spent pacing, weeping, screaming, trying to formulate a plan and being absolutely unable to think straight. How could he? How could he possibly think about anything but the shadow that now lived just down the hall?

He wanted to leave, but where would he go? Where was safe? How would he make his excuses? He couldn’t think. He couldn’t think.

Around noon, Cordelia knocked on his bedroom door.

“Draco?”

Her voice was muffled, but unmistakable. It jarred Draco out of his fourth hour of nervous pacing.

He wanted to scream at her to go away. He didn’t want to talk to Cordelia.

But then, in equal measure, he didn’t want to leave her stranded in the hall. What if he came by?

Teeth grit, Draco ran to the door and pulled it open. Cordelia, just outside, startled and wheeled back a step.

“Inside,” he hissed. “Quick.”

She came inside. Draco slammed and locked the door behind her.

“Where is he?” he asked her at once.

She shook her head. “I don’t know. I… I haven’t seen him all morning.”

Draco groaned, sinking to a sit in front of the door and pushing his hands through his hair.

“How did this happen?” He bent forward over his knees and hugged his legs to his chest. “Why is he here?”

“Where else is he supposed to stay?” Cordelia asked. “It’s not like he can rent a room in a hotel.”

“How is it possible that he came back?” Draco asked. “He was supposed to be dead! What do you know, Cordelia? Has Father told you anything?”

Her mouth twisted and her arms folded over her chest, like she was trying to hide nervousness with false nonchalance.

“He hasn’t said much,” she admitted, leaning her weight back against Draco’s writing desk. “He’s been busy… settling him in, I guess. I don’t know much, but—the rumors going around Hogwarts just before term let out…”

Draco stared up at her from where he was still sat, curled up against the door of his bedroom. He hated the way her sentence fell off so abruptly. “What rumors?” he urged, when she failed to continue. She flinched visibly.

“They say it’s how Diggory… how he…”

Draco’s vision tunneled. “Oh, Merlin.”

“That’s what Potter was telling his friends, anyway, and the Headmaster. Fudge has been refusing to believe it, of course.”

There was a thrumming panic under Draco’s skin. He sprung up to his feet and began to pace, hoping to somehow wring it out of his body or outrun it. How could he have possibly come back from the dead? How had Harry made it out alive?

And how, how, how could Draco possibly make it through the rest of the summer with him in the same building?

“Draco,” Cordelia said, a little hesitantly, “it’s—you know it’s fine? For us, I mean. He’s not going to hurt us. We’re pureblood.”

“Shut up, Cordelia!” he snapped, rounding on her and ripping his sleeve up. “He’s already hurt me! He branded me like an animal!”

Cordelia stared at Draco’s arm, bewildered, as though she’d never thought about it that way—how, Draco couldn’t imagine. She knew good and bloody well what had happened to Draco in his second year, just like Lucius, and had been just as f*cking cruel about it.

He yanked his sleeve back down and returned to pacing.

“I can’t stay here,” he said. “I can’t. D’you suppose Professor Snape would let me stay at his place again?”

“Draco,” Cordelia said, voice a little wobbly.

“He was so cagey when he came to see me in St. Mungo’s, I think he knew he was here but couldn’t tell me—but surely, if I asked, if I begged—”

“Draco,” Cordelia said again, with more strength, “you’re being absurd. Father told me—he said, if we show him the deference he’s due, he’ll return our loyalty in kind.”

“You’re such a f*cking idiot,” Draco snapped. “You’re going to trust in the integrity and the good intentions of a murderer?”

There was a lot of conflict on Cordelia’s face; her expression vacillated between fury and contrition and resolve and doubt for a few long moments before she said, “You shouldn’t talk this way about the Dark Lord.”

Draco realized, all at once, that he had absolutely no patience for her. “Get the f*ck out of my room.”

Her eyes narrowed. “If Father finds out that you—”

“Get the f*ck out of my room!”

Expression furious, Cordelia finally got the f*ck out of his room.

But before closing the door behind her, she turned around, unable to resist a parting shot:

“Maybe we can’t trust the integrity of a murderer,” she said, “but we can definitely trust that he’ll be keen to rout blood traitors from his midst.”

She slammed the door. Draco was left shaking in her wake—with what, he wondered? Fury, fear, both, or something worse than either?

He took a few deep, shuddering breaths.

Then he locked the door and sat down at his desk to go through his letters. If he was very lucky, maybe one of his friends could take him in for the summer.

Draco,

Where are you? What happened to you? Professor Snape is gone and the headmaster says you’re in St. Mungo’s, but won’t tell me why.

I need to talk to you. God, Draco, I need you more than I’ve ever needed anyone.

He’s dead, Cedric’s dead. I think it’s my fault. It is my fault. I’m the one who told him to take the trophy with me. He said, “Kill the spare,” and then he did. Cedric’s dead because of me.

And Voldemort is back. That’s my fault, too, I think.

I don’t know what to do. Sirius is telling me that I shouldn’t blame myself, but how could I do anything else? I told Cedric to take the trophy with me. I walked right into his trap. My blood is what brought him back from the dead.

I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. His red eyes won’t leave my mind. I can hear his voice even when it’s quiet.

Please tell me you’re okay. Please tell me I didn’t somehow hurt you, too. Please write back.

Harry

Draco wrote out his whole response with tear-blurred eyes and a trembling hand before he realized that he couldn’t send it. Theseus’s cage was in Lucius’s office, on the far side of the Manor, and the only thing worse than not answering Harry’s desperate letter was seeing him again.

For the rest of the day he paced the floor of his bedroom, possessed with frenetic energy. He spent hours trying to talk himself into sneaking out in the middle of the night—if he were under a strong disillusionment charm, perhaps, and running as fast as he could—

Until, shortly after nightfall, he heard a short, brisk knock on his bedroom door.

Draco swallowed. For a moment, he was paralyzed.

Then, Lucius’s voice: “Draco? Open the door.”

Slowly, very slowly, he opened the door.

His father was standing in the darkened hallway, half-lit by the angles of candlelight coming from within Draco’s bedroom. His expression was grimly resolved.

“You’re being summoned,” he said.

Dread spread slowly through Draco’s fingertips, up his arms, down his spine.

“Summoned?”

“Come.”

“Father—”

“Now, Draco.”

His tone brooked no argument. Draco knew, with horrible certainty, that there was only one person besides Lucius Malfoy who could summon Draco within his own home.

He didn’t want to go, but what choice did he have? How would he fight back and survive? Where would he run that he couldn’t be found?

His legs moved on their own, heavy and reluctant. Lucius moved silently through the corridor, down the steps.

The dining room of the Malfoy Manor was dark and spare through most of the year. For formal occasions, portraits and seasonal decorations would be brought out, but during the rest of the year, it was a long, empty room: a massive table, a dozen chairs on either side, a fireplace, two windows—

—and, at present, Lord Voldemort.

He was at the head of the table, the spot normally reserved for the Malfoy Alpha, his posture relaxed and insouciant, one white wrist balanced delicately on the arm of his chair.

His red eyes found Draco the moment he entered the room.

The fireplace was the only light source in the room, flickering low orange-gold. It played strangely on his bone white skin, casting deep shadows on his face.

“My Lord,” Lucius said, and bowed.

“I feel,” Voldemort said, “that I have done you a discourtesy, Draco Malfoy.”

Even if Draco had cared to, he wouldn’t have been able to speak.

“When we spoke yesterday,” he continued, rising slowly from his chair and making the aging wood creak softly, “I had none of the context you did. You must forgive me. The piece of me you came to know so well was—let us say—displaced. From time, and from himself. It’s fortunate that I had the foresight to leave a message for myself to find, telling me all about you.”

The memory.

He was moving toward Draco, long robes billowing silently around his feet.

Draco began to shake.

“I am delighted,” he said, and took Draco’s hand in one of his own, freezing cold fingers leaching all the heat from Draco’s skin, “to make your acquaintance. Again.”

He kissed Draco’s knuckle. His lips, thin and pale, were even colder than his hand. His red eyes were trained on Draco’s. Draco could not move. He felt like he could not even breathe.

“You’ve grown. And you’ve come into your first heat.”

He wasn’t letting go of Draco’s hand. Draco could feel his icy fingertips tracing patterns across his palm, his wrist. Draco hoped, frantically and childishly, to wake up, wake up, wake up from this horrible dream. He screwed his eyes shut, but his hand was still on Draco’s, his bloody-ashy scent still saturating the air.

“There’s no need to be shy. I can smell it on you.”

Wake up, wake up, wake up. Please wake up.

“Tell me, Lucius,” he said, and dropped Draco’s hand. Draco sucked in a ragged breath—he had not even realized he’d been holding it—and his knees wobbled treacherously. “Has your son yet had his débutante ball?”

Draco forced his eyes open. The dining room came back into focus—not a dream.

His father, a few paces away, was staring at Draco with his mask in place.

“Yes, My Lord.”

“And how many alphas, exactly, do I have to compete with?”

Lucius’s nervous eyes flickered over to Lord Voldemort as he once again sunk into the chair at the head of the table.

“Compete?”

“I suppose it could be done in comportment with the old ways,” he said, voice blasé. “Formal duels to the death? It seems messy, but I’m not unwilling. We have time, yet, while my followers assemble to me.”

A horrible memory asserts itself, a line in an aging green diary that, once upon a time, had made Draco smile and blush: I find myself a bit envious that I can’t add my name to your courting list!

Draco looked frantically to his father, who had gone rather white.

“I,” he said, slowly and haltingly, “don’t—”

“Although perhaps it is best to keep a low profile while I am freshly returned to the land of the living,” he said. “I could offer double whatever the highest bride-price is—but then, what need does the House Malfoy have of money? I could offer you something far greater.”

“I’m engaged!” Draco said. The words tumbled from his mouth before he could snatch them back, before he could even consider them.

Two pairs of eyes swiveled to Draco, whose breath came fast and ragged.

“I—I’m engaged already,” Draco said. “The petition signed, the bride-price paid. It’s…”

The silence that followed was terrible. Draco wished he could read the expression on his face, but between the darkness, the distance, and the eerie uncanniness of his countenance, he could detect nothing.

“Well,” Voldemort said, after a lengthy pause, “that actually makes things much simpler. Lucius, you’ll call off the engagement—”

Draco’s heart thundered. “No—”

“—in accordance with droit du seigneur. Rest assured, I’ll reward your obedience handsomely. I am not a miserly master.”

“My Lord,” Lucius said. His voice was brittle.

“Or would you not accept my generosity, Lucius? My favor, my blessings, my magic… my mercy?”

Another terrible silence stretched. Draco’s eyes moved frantically between his father and the Dark Lord.

He couldn’t do this, could he? Draco did not know everything about the ancient rites and traditions, but he’d never heard of an engagement being wholly called off by order of an unrelated third party—what even was this droit du seigneur? He couldn’t—he wouldn’t, surely—

Lucius’s face was gray. Voldemort’s was horrible, a dreadful, curling smile climbing slowly up his face.

“You never know,” the Dark Lord said, “when my mercy may come in handy. You have quite a lot worth protecting, Lucius, don’t you?”

It was a long moment before Lucius’s shoulders sagged in defeat.

“No,” Draco whispered. “No—Father, please—”

“If My Lord has honorable intentions,” Lucius began.

Draco couldn’t make himself believe it, couldn’t force himself to accept that his own father was doing this— “Father!”

“Then by droit du seigneur, I am bound. All I ask, My Lord—all I ask—”

Was Draco crying? He couldn’t quite tell. His shoulders were shaking, his eyes burning—and there was a sharpness in his chest, which either was a keen emotional agony or a knife, buried in his back by his own father.

“—is that you also honor the traditions of the House Malfoy. We prefer lengthy engagements.”

“Lengthy,” Voldemort said distastefully. “How lengthy?”

“At—at least wait until he’s of age. That’s all I ask.”

How could you? Draco wanted to scream. How could you? I followed your rules, I did everything right, and still you would betray me?

But, of course, Draco couldn’t scream. Between the wretched, gasping sobs, he couldn’t even speak. He gripped hard at the back of the nearest dining chair.

“I suppose that’s not an unreasonable request. How old are you, Draco?”

Draco could not speak. He was wheezing too hard.

“He just recently turned fifteen, My Lord,” Lucius said, when it became clear that Draco would not be able to answer.

“If I recall correctly, attendance at Hogwarts is required through the end of fifth year, anyway, before students are allowed to disenroll. So let’s say, then, that we will honor the old ways. He’ll stay promised to me till his sixteenth birthday, and then we’ll enjoy the traditional engagement of a year and a day.”

How could you, how could you, how could you.

“Then, when he comes of age—” (He was still smiling terribly, Draco knew; he could hear it in his voice) “—he will be mine.”

Mr. Potter:

Your engagement to my son, Draco Leander Malfoy, has been heretofore annulled. You will find the sum of his bride-price returned to your Gringotts vault within seven to ten business days. Enclosed are the notarized deposit slips, for your records.

You are asked not to make contact with him again.

Lucius A. Malfoy II
Order of Merlin, 3rd Class

Draco considered, more than once over those next few days, simply ending his own life.

It was hard not to be tempted by death, whatever it might bring—oblivion would be a welcome alternative to what his father had done to him. And if suicide brought him damnation, well, it could not possibly be worse than a life bound to a maniac.

Lucius came knocking on Draco’s door the next morning. He did not open it, could not even hear what it was he said. Eventually, after several minutes of answering silence, Lucius left.

A few days later, Cordelia. She said something about the news. She knocked, little nervous taps on the heavy wood, surprisingly earnest pleas uttered in low, urgent tones. But Draco didn’t answer her, either, and though she lasted longer than Lucius, even she left, too, in time.

Then, the week after that, Mother.

“Draco?”

She was, perhaps, the only person in the whole building Draco could stand talking to—but it was a near thing. It took him nearly a full minute to force himself to his feet, across the room, and finally to open the door.

“Darling,” she said by way of greeting, eyes sad but resigned.

Draco’s throat spasmed. He stepped aside to let her in. To his surprise, the very first thing she did was pull him into her arms.

Slowly, he returned the embrace, burying his face in her shoulder. Rosewater and bergamot.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry, Draco.”

“Why did,” Draco began, but couldn’t finish.

But she didn’t need him to: “Because the choice was never yours.”

His hands fisted in the back of her dress. He’d known that, of course, but it somehow still hurt to hear.

“I did everything right,” he said.

“I know.”

“I did what he said. I kept my virtue. Harry’s petition was valid and he accepted it. And he—he just—”

“The choice was never yours,” she whispered into his hair. “It doesn’t matter if you do as they say. It doesn’t matter if you do everything right. They tell you it will, but it never does. No one ever fits the mold or reaches the standard. The choice was never yours.”

It was painful but oddly cathartic, falling apart in his mother’s arms like a child again. She held him for a long while, stroking his hair, whispering gentleness, and letting him curl up against her there on his bedroom floor.

But unlike when he was a child, she never said anything that sounded like hope. There was no “It will be all right” or “Everything will be fine”—instead, she just told him again and again that she loved him with a tone that suggested she knew love was not enough to save him.

“What is there left for me?” he asked her that night, after trying and failing to sleep. He’d tucked himself up against her chest like he used to do when he was young and woke up from nightmares.

“You have a year at Hogwarts,” she whispered back. Draco was surprised she was still awake to answer. “You have that. Make the most of it.”

So that’s exactly what Draco resolved to do.

Over the summer, he kept his focus on survival. He stayed in his room, spoke to no one, and played the delicate game of invitation and refusal whenever he was told to come downstairs. He did his school work and a bit of extra reading—not because he had any reason to care about his grades anymore, but because he enjoyed the process of studying, and needed to keep his mind off the nightmare that his life had become somehow—and then, when the first of September finally arrived, he took his first swig of tranquilis in the morning.

At first, Draco thought there must have been some energizing properties to the potion; he hadn’t had such a spring in his step in months, after all. But as he climbed up onto the train, pain free and delirious with excitement to pack as much living as he could into his final year at Hogwarts, he realized that he’s energized because he finally had something to look forward to.

A part of him had expected to run into Hermione on the train first—that was how it had gone for the previous three years—but he was surprised instead by a familiar head of red hair instead, enthusiastically waving at him from the far end of the first train car he walked onto.

“Oh, hello, Ginny!” he said brightly as soon as they were near enough to speak. “How was your summer?”

“Pretty wild, if I’m being honest. How’s your sister?”

Draco’s smile got thinner. Despite Draco’s vociferous objections, she and Cordelia had gone together to the Yule Ball last year, and despite his persistent nausea at the sight of it, she and Ginny had kept making eyes at each other in the hallway, and he’d caught Ginny more than once giggling at Cordelia’s jokes. It was appalling.

“Still terrible,” Draco answered. And with Voldemort living in the Malfoy Manor, likely to get even worse in days to come. “Have I told you recently that you have awful taste?”

“Mm, yes, a few times last year.”

“You know Cordelia wet the bed till she was eight.”

“Draco?”

Draco’s heart had leapt up into his throat before his conscious mind even had even identified the voice. And when Draco at long last saw him there—

“Harry.”

—coming around the corner with his trunk behind him, Draco’s whole chest filled with bubbles of delight.

Harry was here, and Draco had him all to himself the whole school year long. And it didn’t hurt to kiss him.

Draco raced past Ginny and straight toward him. As he did, Harry, expression wrecked, began talking:

“God, Draco, what happened? I got an owl from your father in mid-July saying that—”

Draco cut off the rest of his sentence by throwing both arms around his neck and kissing him. Harry made a startled, bitten off sound and staggered back a half step, which Draco was quick to close, pressing himself bodily into Harry and tilting his head to deepen the kiss.

With the tranquilis, it didn’t hurt at all. Draco’s heart absolutely surged.

“Get a room, you two,” Ginny admonished, though her tone was light.

It was enough to pry Harry away from him, who blinked bewildered green eyes down at him.

“I,” he said, as a delightful flush spread across his face, “thought—your father said you—”

“Who cares what my father says?” Draco purred, and leaned up to lick teasingly at his slightly parted lips. It elicited a very pronounced shiver. “He’s not here.”

“Draco,” Harry said, but Draco leaned back in to swallow the rest of his words. Harry made another wonderfully broken sound and his hands found Draco’s hips as if on their own accord. Draco took it as invitation to press even closer.

“Right,” Ginny said, “I’m not subjecting myself to more of this than I absolutely have to. See you both at the feast.”

“Where are Ron and Hermione?” Draco asked when, after a few long, delicious moments of uninterrupted snogging, he determined that this particular train car might actually be empty.

“They—they’re both prefects this year, so they’re up at the front,” Harry said. His pupils were blown wide, and Draco had made his lips all swollen and slick, the sight of which had satisfaction curling in the center of his chest. “Draco, please, I haven’t heard from you all summer. First with Voldemort coming back, then you in hospital, and then your father breaking off our engagement, I—”

“Harry,” Draco said, and pulled open the nearby compartment door with one hand.

“I—I—yes?”

He used his arm around Harry’s neck to drag him through the door and inside. “Do you want to talk about my father or do you want to kiss me?”

“Er—both?”

“Hm,” Draco said, and shut the compartment door decisively behind him. “Well, I don’t want to talk about my father, but I definitely want to kiss you. So how about we just do that?”

“Draco—”

Draco pushed him backward onto the compartment bench and then immediately climbed on top of him.

“Oh, my God,” Harry said, with the voice of a man who’d been expecting a thunderstorm and received a windfall.

“My father isn’t here,” Draco whispered, straddling his legs and settling his weight decisively on Harry’s lap, “and he can’t tell me what to do. I’m all yours, Harry,” he continued, running both hands through Harry’s dark hair, “all year long. Make good use of me, won’t you?”

Draco had been prepared to distract him further, to tempt him out of conversation with lips and fingers and teeth, but was surprised—and then not surprised—by how quickly Harry succumbed to Draco’s persuasion. He was, after all, a fifteen-year-old alpha with an omega in his lap, and Draco was all too happy to kiss bruises into his lips and touch and breathe in his scent and tell himself that it was all that mattered.

Draco was not surprised at all when Professor Snape held him back after the end of the very first potions class that semester. He knew what the conversation was going to be about the second he heard him call Draco’s name as everyone else was packing up their books.

“Sir,” Draco said as soon as he made it to Snape’s desk, “before you say anything, I—”

“Not here,” Professor Snape interjected sharply. “Office.”

Draco sighed and resigned himself to the fact that this was happening. As all the other students filed out, Draco sulkily followed Snape through the door at the back of the classroom leading into his godfather’s dark, dingy office.

He held the door open as Draco went through, and as soon as he shut it—

“I heard what happened.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Draco said at once.

“Draco, hope is not lost. I don’t know what you’ve gleaned of my—my situation, but I am not without strategies to help you.”

Draco spun on a heel and stared him down. He was angry; he couldn’t help it. “If you wanted to help me, you wouldn’t have gone to his side while I screamed after you not to.”

Snape’s expression pinched, hardened somehow—it was a look Draco knew well, the look he always got when he wasn’t saying something important.

“There are bigger factors at play, Draco,” he said.

“I’m not stupid,” Draco hissed. “I know what it is you’re doing. You’re going to spy on him, aren’t you? On Dumbledore’s behalf?”

“Draco—”

“Are you really so beholden to him? What has he ever done that’s worth risking your life like this?”

“My understanding with Dumbledore is not—”

“I know you regret ever taking the Mark!” Draco continued. “You told me as much a thousand times! You said it was the worst mistake you ever made, and now you’re just going to go back to him? Just to risk your life as a spy?”

“Don’t make this about me!” Snape barked. “My choices are my own, my loyalties mine to give to whom I will. You, on the other hand, are soon to be the child bride of Voldemort.”

Draco flinched backward a step, dropped his eyes to the ground.

Snape took a few slow, steady breaths. When next he spoke, it was much more gently:

“Draco,” he said, “it’s because I am going to be working against him that I am in a position to help you. I’ve already discussed it with Dumbledore. He’s open to the possibility of getting you out.”

“Getting me out? Of the Malfoy Manor? So I can live in hiding while the Dark Lord hunts me like a dog?”

“So, what, you’d rather submit?” Snape asked, anger edging back into his voice.

“What you call submission, I call survival,” Draco snapped. “You know as well as I do that going into hiding is no guarantee. My father’s chastity charm ensures there’s nowhere I could go he wouldn’t find me!”

His expression was getting tragic. “Draco—”

“If I ran, and if he found me—when he found me—my fate would be a thousand times worse, if he didn’t kill me outright.”

“Draco, please,” Snape said. “I don’t think I can watch you go through this.”

Draco’s hands balled into fists.

“Then you shouldn’t have agreed to be a spy,” Draco said, voice tight and thready. “You shouldn’t have taken away the only place in the world I’ve ever felt safe.”

The blow lands hard, clearly. Snape stares at him at with a wrecked expression, breathing like a man who’d just suffered a mortal wound.

“You know I can’t hide from him, Severus,” Draco eventually whispered. “You know that.”

Snape said nothing.

“So just let me have this. Let me have one more year where I can kiss my boyfriend and spend time with my friends and read and breathe free air while I still can before I’m forced to drop out and—and—”

“I’m so sorry,” Snape said, barely. “Draco, I’m so sorry this is happening to you.”

“So am I,” Draco answered, and hurried past him out of his office.

He did not cry. He would not cry. He would not think about it all for a single second longer than he had to.

Draco had this one final year. He was going to wring out every drop of joy he could.

Draco decided that so long as he was going to thwart his father’s rules and all the social expectations of omegas, he might as well do it in style.

He took a page from Pansy’s book and began rolling the Hogwarts uniform skirt up twice around the waistband to show off his legs which, Draco thought, had become rather long and shapely over the summer. He also began to keep his hair in a ponytail, which he discovered caused nearby alphas and beta boys to bump into things.

It felt nice to be desired. A year ago, he’d have balked at the attention, but what did it matter now? His fate was sealed no matter what he did or didn’t do, no matter how closely he followed all those rules or met the expectations. He might as well do what made him happy.

He also discovered that the tranquilis potion was potent enough to let him do just about anything in that glorious six-hour window, and he was keen to do one thing in particular.

“Draco?” Cordelia boggled when she saw him on the Quidditch Pitch on the first Friday after the start of term. “What are you doing here?”

Draco had just changed into the worn but fitted Slytherin uniform, leather boots, linen breeches, and a numbered robe of black and green. He was adjusting a pair of goggles to fit when he saw her.

“I should think it’s obvious,” he answered. “I’m here to try out for the Slytherin team.”

“But,” Cordelia began, faltering, “you’re an omega.”

“Am I? Thank you, I hadn’t noticed.”

“Omegas can’t play Quidditch!”

“Says who? You? Is there a rule about it? Because I asked Madam Hooch and she said I’m free to try out.”

“She—?” Somehow, despite having her every question answered, Cordelia continued to look completely flummoxed. “I… really? That’s allowed?”

“It’s allowed,” said Graham Montague, a whipcord-lean alpha and Slytherin Quidditch captain. He’d just come out from under the archway over the path leading back to the castle, and was carrying a broom in either hand, one of which he tossed to Draco, who caught it with a grin.

“But an omega’s never been on the Slytherin Quidditch team!” Cordelia protested. She was also wearing a uniform, but hers was already embroidered with her name, position, and number, which was apparently six.

“It’s working well enough for Gryffindor,” Montague pointed out acidly, “or did you not notice how they clobbered us last time? Spinnett scored on us so hard it didn’t even matter that you failed to catch the Snitch.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault Flint was a sh*tty Captain,” Cordelia deflected, folding her arms over her chest and frowning.

Montague rolled his eyes. “Well, he’s not here anymore. And I say your brother gets to try out. We’ll see how you are on a broom, Malfoy. Do you have much experience flying?”

Draco was examining the Nimbus 2001 that Montague had given him, the one that Draco’s own father had purchased for the Slytherin team three years ago. It was in excellent shape, its handle dark and glossy, its bristles perfectly trimmed. It almost felt as though it was humming in Draco’s hand.

“Absolutely none,” Draco admitted, smiling.

Montague was taken aback, though whether by the lack of experience or the joviality, Draco couldn’t say. “None? But you want to try out for the Quidditch team?”

Draco grinned at him. “Why not? If I’m sh*t, I’m sh*t. Won’t know until I try.”

He twirled the broom around his hand. Montague was eyeing him distrustfully; Cordelia looked outright embarrassed. Other students in their own uniforms were beginning to fill the edges of the Pitch, too, and among them—

“Draco?” Harry said, bewildered. “You’re…”

Draco looked back at him, and took his time drinking in the sight. He always did look fetching in his Quidditch gear, which he’d grown into across the chest and shoulders.

“Trying out,” Draco confirmed. “Scared, Potter?”

“‘Scared’ was not the word I was looking for, no,” Harry said, eyes locked on Draco’s legs and, specifically, the knee-high black uniform boots.

Draco grinned. “Maybe after this,” he said, “you could give me a few tips on broom maintenance—”

“No fraternizing with the enemy!” Montague barked, and Draco reluctantly looked back. “If you want to try out, Malfoy, then try out! On your broom, let’s do some drills!”

Montague called Draco’s flying “surprisingly competent,” and Draco ended up making reserve Seeker, which infuriated Cordelia to no end and, as a consequence, Draco used against her constantly.

It didn’t take him long to get used to going to Quidditch practice, to taking his dose of tranquilis at lunch after a miserably painful morning, and feeling that lightness all the way through the evening when the team met and practiced. It was incredible, having a real physical outlet. Draco had never been allowed to do anything more taxing than gardening his entire life, and it was good to put his body to real use. He had more energy, and even felt bolder.

“Hermione,” Draco said at their fourth study session of the year, fresh off Quidditch practice and beaming, “do you still have that Book of Shadows?”

Hermione looked up from her book, shiny prefect badge gleaming right next to the smaller S.P.E.W. one. Once she’d processed the question, she frowned.

“You… want to see it?”

“I do,” he answered, sliding into his usual spot just across from her at the table.

“But you said… I thought you said that it could get you in trouble. That if your father found out—”

“Who cares what my father thinks?” Draco said flippantly. “He’s a twat.”

“I… don’t disagree, I suppose,” she said, “I’m just—are you sure? Your behavior has been so strange recently.”

“There’s nothing strange about my behavior. This is just how I act when I stop caring about what other people think.”

Her frown didn’t go away—if anything, it deepened.

“What… what exactly happened over the summer?” she asked. “So far as I can tell, you haven’t told anyone about why you were at St. Mungo’s, or why your engagement to Harry was broken off.”

“I don’t want to talk about that,” Draco said decisively, because it was true: he didn’t want to talk about it. He wanted to play Quidditch and practice Craft and snog his boyfriend. He didn’t want to spend another second worrying about his father or his rules—and he especially didn’t want to think about his betrothal to Voldemort. “Do you have the Book of Shadows still or don’t you?”

She huffed a small sigh, fingers wringing around her quill. “I have it,” she said. “It won’t get you into any trouble, will it?”

“Who cares if it does?” There was no way his life could get worse after the end of the school year, after all. If he was very lucky, his father would find out he’d been using Craft and honor kill him, just like his niece.

One more sigh, and then Hermione reached down into her book bag. Dust curled into the air when she set it down on the table between them. Draco grinned and eagerly pulled it forward.

“I don’t suppose you’d be amenable to letting me buy it off you?” he asked. “How much did you pay for it, anyway?”

“I’ve already made extensive notes of all the legible text,” she said, “so you might as well keep it. I hope you find something useful, Draco.”

Useful? Yes, Draco was sure he could find something useful, but after so many years of repression, of making himself small, he would have been happy to find something amazing.

Draco learned a lot about Craft over the next few months.

He learned how to make invocation circles, how to balance the price of a spell with what was being asked. He learned which phases of the moon were best for which kinds of magic, and how to make reagents more powerful through focused meditation.

He also learned how to cast magic without a wand. It wasn’t easy, and required a lot of concentration, and it took Draco a long time to do successfully, but within a few weeks, he managed it—he was casting an unsteady lumos and forming an orb of light in his otherwise empty hands. He was sure that there was a technique to it, one that he was only just starting to unlock, but he was happy with what progress he’d made.

“So what kind of magic can you do without a wand?” Harry asked when Draco told him on a cool day in late September, in their little study nook on the second floor. Wind was howling around the castle, and the Forbidden Forest, visible through the window, was just starting to turn all shades of yellow and red. “How complex?”

“So far, just simple things,” Draco admitted, “but I’m getting better. Yesterday I managed a levioso on a book—up and back down with no fuss.”

“Wow,” Harry said. He sounded genuinely impressed, and Draco couldn’t help but preen under the single-word assessment. Draco had become accustomed to praise, but from Harry, it always felt so much more meaningful. Harry, Draco knew, wouldn’t play to his ego—he didn’t need to. He didn’t need to flatter Draco; Draco was more than willing to kiss him for any reason, or no reason at all. “That’s impressive. I can’t imagine not having a wand. I’ve never cast magic without it that wasn’t an accident.”

“It is linked to emotion, from what I can tell,” Draco said, and, once he’d arranged all his books in quills how he liked them on the coffee table, sat down beside Harry on the loveseat. “Wild magic, I mean, the kind we all cast accidentally when we’re kids. And wandless magic just uses the framework of Craft to make it deliberate. It’s just a matter of directing the emotion with intent and learning how to give up a little energy in exchange—stuff your wand normally does for you.”

“Sounds complicated,” Harry said.

“It gets more intuitive with time.” Draco threw both legs over Harry’s lap. He was wearing the knee-high socks that Draco knew he liked, and sure enough, green eyes quickly found the curve of Draco’s left calf, hugged by the black fabric and curled slightly into the seat back.

“We should really be less obvious about this,” Harry said, then proceeded to be very obvious about it by running two fingertips from Draco’s shin to the ditch of his knee. The touch, feather light as it was, still sent little sparks of pleasure up Draco’s thigh, where they promptly stopped at the level of the chastity charms, mercifully suppressed by the tranquilis. “Umbridge has been cracking down on this sort of thing. Public displays of affection.”

Draco thought about it for a moment, then held out both hands and, with a bit of difficulty, cast a disillusionment charm. It was a bit wobbly at first, but with one more cast it settled down, covering their little alcove with a shimmery veil.

“Wow,” Harry said again as he watched. “D’you reckon you could teach me how to do Craft?”

“Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, using Craft? The Wizarding World would lose its mind.”

“The Wizarding World will learn to cope, I’m sure,” Harry said, eyes once again returning to Draco’s legs, trailing slowly up his knees and to the few inches of thigh visible past the end of his skirt. “Hermione has been trying to get me to teach Defense, you know.”

“Teach Defense? What, like a professor?”

“Since Umbridge clearly isn’t doing any sort of job of it. She wants me to form a sort of club so students who want to actually learn how to defend themselves can.”

Draco raised both eyebrows. “That’s not a bad idea,” he said. “I dare say you have more experience in defending yourself than anyone else in the school.”

“I’m not so sure,” Harry answered. “A lot of it was luck—like, a lot of it. And I don’t know that I’d be a very good teacher. Maybe you should teach it.”

He couldn’t quite bite back a laugh. “Me?”

“You’re the only one between us who can cast magic without a wand,” Harry pointed out. His hands were still on Draco’s knees, fingers brushing the hem of his skirt. Draco found that he couldn’t quite look away.

“Sure,” Draco conceded, “but there’s more to self-defense than that. It’s about survival, isn’t it? Knowing the right thing to do at the right time? And I wasn’t the one to face down—to—”

Draco stumbled over his own words. The conversation was straying dangerously close to topics that he steadfastly did not want to think about. He had heard the story, through vague explanations from Ron and Hermione, what had happened in that graveyard, and he didn’t need the details. He didn’t want to think about Voldemort, his soon-to-be fiancé. He didn’t want to think about how he was living in Draco’s house, or what designs the maniac had for him or anything else.

His life would end soon, if not literally then in any way that mattered. He wanted to focus on what he could do while he was living.

“Yeah,” Harry said, voice slow and carefully neutral. He kept his eyes on Draco’s legs; Draco could only suppose that Harry didn’t want to think about it all, either.

So Draco distracted him. With one last glance at the disillusionment charm, he scooted forward till he was wholly in Harry’s lap, one arm around his shoulders.

“You know what I wish?” He kept his voice soft. The disillusionment wouldn’t affect sound, after all.

Harry’s pupils blew wide, but Draco felt one of his hands slide around the small of his back and settle on his hip. “What?”

“I wish,” Draco said, leaning down to talk low into Harry’s ear, “that we were in the same house.”

Harry laughed breathily. “What, that you were a Gryffindor?”

“What? Ew, no, don’t be gross. I wish you were in Slytherin.”

Harry laughed again, more loudly. “Right, my mistake.”

“If you were in Slytherin, I could sneak you into my room. Omegas get their own private ones, you know, after prothestrus.”

Beneath him, Harry shifted. His voice changed as he said, “Do they?”

“Mhm. They’re very little, but also private. And if you were in Slytherin, I could show you.”

“You want to,” Harry said, faltering mid-sentence, “show me your bedroom?”

“Just imagine everything we could get up to with some real privacy,” Draco said, nose nuzzling into Harry’s hair, breathing deep of that uniquely stormy scent. “Such a shame you’re not a Slytherin—”

“I mean, let’s not discount the idea out of hand,” Harry said quickly. “I have my Cloak, I’m sure we could arrange something.”

Draco giggled helplessly and squirmed closer.

“Also, maybe don’t move around quite so much,” he added, a bit strained.

“So are you going to do it?”

“Do what? The Cloak? Yes! I mean, if you want to, I can probably clear out—”

“No! The teaching thing. Are you going to do it?”

Harry opened his mouth, shut it. Green eyes fell to one side, uncertain.

“I… I don’t know,” he confessed. “I really don’t. People assume I’m some great wizard, when all the stuff I did—half of it was dumb luck, not skill.”

“You killed a basilisk,” Draco pointed out.

“Sure, but—”

“And shook off an Imperius curse.”

“Well—yes, that’s true, but—”

“And also didn’t you conjure a Patronus at thirteen? That’s N.E.W.T.-level magic, you know.”

“All right, all right, you’ve made your point,” Harry said, sounding a bit put-off in a way that Draco thought was very cute. “I just… I don’t know. People assume I can do anything just because I’m the Boy Who Lived, and I can’t.”

Draco softened. The hand around the back of Harry’s neck reached up to tangle two fingers in his hair.

“I think you can do anything,” Draco said, slowly and sincerely. “Not because of the scar, but because I’ve already seen you do some amazing things. Maybe people expect too much of you, but you also expect too little from yourself. You are a great wizard, Harry, in a way that has nothing to do with your fame.”

At some point, Harry had begun staring at Draco with big, round, green eyes, expression open and affected. By the time Draco was done speaking, his lips were slightly parted as if he wanted to reply, but no words came.

Draco took the opportunity to kiss him, briefly and chastely.

“So do it if you want to do it,” Draco said when he drew back, “if you think you might be able to help some people learn. Or don’t; it’s your choice. But if my opinion matters at all, I think you’d be brilliant at it.”

“I,” Harry said, then broke off on a word that began with L. Draco saw his tongue hesitate on the sound, and smiled patiently.

“And if you do decide to do it,” he continued when Harry couldn’t seem to finish the sentence, “I definitely want to be involved.”

Draco preferred, generally, to study out in the library or in his and Harry’s little nook on the second floor, but when a day was particularly long or taxing, there was nothing he liked more than reading in the window sill of the Slytherin common room. The sound of a thousand tons of rushing water just on the other side of the glass was eerie but oddly serene, and Draco liked to watch the sunlight shimmer through the kelp in between chapters in his textbooks or paragraphs in his essay.

The only downside to the Slytherin common room was, of course, Cordelia.

“Draco?”

He sighed and reluctantly lifted his eyes toward her. She was standing a few feet away, twisting her hands together near her stomach. At fourteen, Cordelia was just starting to grow into her body; her voice had dropped to a contralto over the summer, her limbs lengthened, the last of her baby fat faded into her father’s famous square jawline. She was a bit reedy, lacking some of the musculature an alpha might otherwise have, but then, no one in their family was especially broad.

“What,” Draco answered flatly.

“Can I, er, talk to you?”

He sighed heavily. “If you must.”

She helped herself to the seat beside him on the window sill. It was already a narrow little alcove, and if she were anyone but a family member it would be entirely too close for comfort.

“I asked Professor Snape about… about what happened to you. Over the summer.”

Draco glowered at her, but only briefly before returning his attention to the essay in his lap. “I’m sure that conversation went over well.”

“I mean, you wouldn’t talk to me! And you still won’t answer any of my questions. And you’ve been acting really strange lately, dressing all different and trying out for Quidditch—”

“Get to the point, Cordelia,” Draco snapped.

She frowned, but not at Draco—she frowned into her own lap, which was the moment Draco realized that he’d never seen her look so uncertain before.

“And I asked Professor Snape what was happening, since you talk to him at least, and since he might know, and he told me… he…”

And as she talked, Draco also realized that she’d been behaving rather differently this year. She’d been surprised when Draco had tried out for the Quidditch team, but not angry as Draco would have expected her to be. And she hadn’t called him a slag once, not even when Draco started wearing his skirts shorter and his hair up. She hadn’t even been tormenting Harry, or anyone else, at all.

She scooted all the closer, dropping her voice to an fearful, conspiratorial whisper: “He said that Father broke off your engagement to Potter and—and that you—”

“I’m sure he said it more colorfully than that,” Draco answered neutrally, which appeared to be answer enough for Cordelia. She took in a sharp, stuttered breath and leaned backward, blue eyes widening.

“But—but Father accepted his petition!” Cordelia said. “He paid the bride-price and—”

“Merlin, Cordelia, when are you going to figure out that none of that sh*t matters?”

The final thing Draco realized was that he didn’t care. So what if Cordelia was coming to some huge realization? It was too little and way too f*cking late.

“The rules don’t matter. They never mattered. Have you just not been paying attention? Father doesn’t even consider me a person! He can do whatever he wants, ruin my life in any way he wants, because my life doesn’t matter!”

Cordelia seemed too stunned to speak.

Draco, incensed, rolled up his half-finished essay. “What did you think you were agreeing with when you parroted all Father’s sh*t about the old ways? This is what it means to be an omega. You get to do whatever you want, and I get sold off to a maniac like a war prize.”

Finally, Cordelia managed, “Draco,” in a thin, wobbly voice.

“But it doesn’t matter. It’s too late to change it now. My betrothal begins in June. I’ll be forced out of Hogwarts and I’ll finally fulfill the role you’ve always told me I was meant to fill. So just f*ck off and let me enjoy what freedom I have left.”

He stood and stormed toward his room, furious to the point of trembling. He didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to think about it. Why wouldn’t anyone just let him not think about it?

Draco had been nipping back and forth to Hogsmeade since term began to pick up doses of his tranquilis from the apothecary, with special permission from Professor Snape, but the first official weekend of the year was the first week of October. The whole village had a crisp, autumnal tang in the air, and Draco tried to savor it, even though his potion had worn off a few hours ago and walking all the way to Hogsmeade was difficult.

Still, Draco wasn’t going to miss it. Hermione had excitedly told Draco at their study session the week before that Harry was finally coming around to the idea of teaching Defense to the other students, and had agreed to meet everyone who was interested at the Hog’s Head, to avoid Umbridge’s scrutiny.

Draco was surprised by the turnout. He’d arrived a few minutes late on account of how painful the journey had been, and there were over two dozen people packed into the dingy little tavern, circled around an irate and overwhelmed-looking Harry.

“Hi,” said either Fred or George Weasley (Draco still could not tell them apart) to the gray-haired barman. “Could we have… twenty-five butterbeers, please?”

“Better make it twenty-six,” said either George or Fred, who’d seen Draco enter. “Looks like Harry’s boyfriend is here, too!”

Draco laughed a little nervously, unwinding his Slytherin scarf from around his neck. Harry’s eyes found him, and perhaps it was Draco’s imagination, but something in his expression seemed to relax fractionally.

“Hello, Draco,” said a dizzy-looking blonde next to Ginny that Draco vaguely recognized as being a Ravenclaw. “Hermione tells us that we have you to thank for talking Harry into agreeing to this.”

“The legendary persuasive powers of an omega,” Draco said with good humor and false loftiness. A few of the assembled students chuckled; one of them raised a butterbeer that the barman had begun reluctantly pouring.

“Cough up, everyone,” said Fred or George, “I haven’t got enough gold for all these…”

Draco happily contributed a few sickles of his spending money, even covering for Ron, who was nervously patting his pockets, with a smile.

“Hi, Harry,” said Neville Longbottom as he sat down with his own mug. Draco took a seat beside him and smiled at the beta, who got a little flustered at the sight of it. “Hi, Draco. Er, your hair looks… nice.”

“Thank you,” Draco answered neutrally. “Don’t tell my father I’m keeping it in a ponytail; he’d call me a harlot.”

Eventually, all the chatter died down, and expectant eyes turned to Harry, who was once again looking nervous. Hermione was the one who spoke first, however, sounding very nervous:

“Er. Well—er—hi.”

Draco gave her a reassuring smile and a thumb’s up, which didn’t seem to help much.

“Well… er… well, you know why you’er here. Erm… well, Harry here had the idea—I mean—” (Harry had given her a very reproachful glare.) “—I had the idea—that it might be good if people who wanted to study Defense Against the Dark Arts—and I mean, really study it, you know, not the rubbish that Umbridge is doing with us, because nobody could call that Defense Against the Dark Arts—”

“Hear, hear,” said a Ravenclaw boy on the far side of the table, which seemed to lift Hermione’s spirits significantly.

“—well, I thought it would be good if we, well, took matters into our own hands.” She paused a moment to look over at Harry. “And by that I mean learning how to defend ourselves properly, not just theory but real spells—”

“You want to pass your Defense Against the Dark Arts O.W.L., too, though, I bet?” said a different Ravenclaw.

“Of course I do. But I want more than that; I want to be properly trained in Defense because… because…” She paused again, took a steadying breath. “Because Lord Voldemort’s back.”

Near-on everyone in the room reacted to the name, some more dramatically than others. One of them shrieked and threw butterbeer everywhere, and Neville made an odd yelp-gurgle sound.

Draco stayed quiet and kept his eyes on his lap, wishing frantically for the conversation to change. He didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to hear them talk about it—

“Well… that’s the plan anyway,” Hermione continued, once everyone had settled down. “If you want to join us, we need to decide how we’re going to—”

“Where’s the proof You-Know-Who’s back?” said a blond Hufflepuff that Draco recognized him at once—Zacharias Smith. He hadn’t expected a fellow omega to want to join.

He’s living in my house, Draco almost said, but did not dare. He screwed his eyes shut and tried not to listen. He didn’t want to listen. He didn’t want to think about it. He only had this year left at Hogwarts before his whole life would go to sh*t, he didn’t want—

“Well,” Hermione said, bewildered, “Dumbledore believes it—”

“You mean, Dumbledore believes him.”

Draco also hadn’t expected for a fellow omega to be such an officious little bitch.

“Who are you?” Ron butted in.

“Zacharias Smith, and I think we’ve got the right to know exactly what makes him say You-Know-Who’s—”

“Shut the f*ck up, Smith,” Draco snapped.

Everyone at the table abruptly turned to him. Draco felt an initial wave of horror, that old instinct to be decorous, an omega should always be decorous rearing up in the back of his mind and telling him he shouldn’t be speaking that way—but it quickly got swallowed up by righteous indignation.

When Zacharias Smith seemed too stunned to reply, Draco continued:

“What do you want, a play-by-play of what Harry saw when Cedric Diggory was murdered in front of him? Are you that f*cked in the head? Harry went through hell and he doesn’t owe you anything. Believe him or don’t, but shut your f*cking mouth about what you don’t understand.”

Silence, then, long and horrible. Just as Draco’s resolve began to waver, Fred or George snorted loudly.

“Merlin,” he laughed. “You got yourself a live one, Harry.”

“Yeah,” Harry answered. When Draco looked over at him, he was staring back dreamily, green eyes slightly unfocused.

“And for the record,” said the other twin, to Zacharias Smith, “he’s right and f*ck you.”

“Right,” Hermione said, straightening. “So if you want to learn defense, then we need to work out how we’re going to do it.”

And, so, they began once-weekly meetings to practice Defense.

(The fact that Umbridge was appointed High Inquisitor and disbanded all student organizations not two days later was not lost on Draco. He couldn’t help but wonder if Cordelia had something to do with it—she’d been a little too curious about where Draco had disappeared to when they saw each other that evening in the Slytherin common room, although perhaps she actually was sincerely worried about him, as she seemed to be, though Draco still had his doubts. At least Quidditch was reinstated relatively soon after, due to the outcry. Draco had just become accustomed to it and would have been loathe to give it up.)

The meetings were rather sporadic at first, locations decided on at random and disseminated through the patchwork whisper network that had developed between them, until eventually they stumbled upon what Draco only belatedly realized was the Room of Requirement, the rumor of which Draco had only heard mentioned in passing. It was fascinating to see the magic of it in action; it felt so mutable to Draco’s senses that it reminded him less of magic and more of water.

When Ginny suggested the name Dumbledore’s Army, Draco bit back his protest. He knew Harry worshiped the man, but Draco knew more about him than Harry did—he’d read about Grindlewald, and had heard the rumors of what had happened to his sister muttered through pureblood circles in the past. Still, Draco was reluctant to muddy the shine Harry seemed to see in him.

It was fascinating to watch Harry teach—and he was teaching them, whatever he said. He was knowledgeable, encouraging, and surprisingly perceptive. Draco especially liked it when he would take Draco’s wand hand in his own to demonstrate a particular wand movement, and made him do it once or twice even when Draco had it down already.

“You sure are intent on mastering this spell,” Harry said, smirking, on their third go-round with the movement for the patronus spell. “I hadn’t even intended to teach it till a few months down the line.”

“I like to read ahead,” Draco answered innocently, which made Harry laugh. Across the room, Ginny managed to knock Cho flat with a stunner.

“You probably don’t even need a wand for this,” Harry pointed out. “Your wandless magic is getting really good. I saw you cast that reparo in the hall the other day. That’s advanced stuff.”

“As I said, it gets easier with practice. Expecto patronum!”

After three unsuccessful attempts (and one that he deliberately did wrong so Harry would come over and give a hands-on demonstration), it finally took: out from the end of Draco’s wand, silvery mist coalesced into a recognizable shape:

“What is that?” Harry asked, surprised. “A sparrow?”

“It’s a lark,” Draco answered, with an odd lump suddenly forming in his throat. He watched as it did a loop in midair, little wings flapping and then stilling into a glide.

“It’s beautiful,” said Harry, voice strange. “Well done.”

Draco wrung both hands around his wand, watching it fly back around and disappear. “Thank you.”

“Would you consider stepping in for a lesson?” Harry asked.

He startled, looked over. “What?”

“Wandless magic. It could be useful. It’s easy enough to lose your wand in a fight, and it can’t hurt to have another line of defense.”

Draco opened his mouth, snapped it shut, frowned.

“I… I’m not sure that would be a good idea.”

Harry frowned back. “How d’you mean?”

“You have to understand, the technique I’m drawing on—it’s Craft. There’s a huge taboo surrounding it, especially within pureblood circles. It was a crime to do it at all until only about a hundred years ago, but the stigma never went away.”

Harry paused a moment to consider it. Then, cavalierly, he shrugged.

“Sod what other people think,” he said decisively. “If they think it’s evil or wrong—well, they’re idiots, and that’s on them. I’m not going to refuse to learn something that could save a life just because it makes other people uncomfortable.”

Draco’s stomach did a little flip. Merlin, he was so, so, so in love with Harry Potter. He wished he could say it, wished the sentiment didn’t get all tangled up in his throat whenever he tried.

“If anyone in the D.A. isn’t comfortable learning it, fine. But I definitely want to, and I know Hermione would, too, and probably loads of others. So what do you say? D’you think you could step in for a lesson or two, teach the basics?”

And so, reluctantly, Draco did.

Draco knew, objectively, that a lot was a lot happening in Hogwarts, and the Ministry at large, this year, most of it quite bad. He knew that Professor Umbridge was dead set, apparently, on ousting half of the staff, and quashing any dissent against her or the Ministry.

The trouble was that he also knew why all this was happening, and that whatever nightmare was being created in this school would be nothing compared to what was in store when Voldemort’s machinations were finally realized. He also knew that there was next to nothing he could do about it—every passing month meant that much less freedom, another step forward in the inexorable march to what was, effectively, sexual slavery to the Dark Lord.

So he focused on what brought him joy. He played Quidditch, got butterbeers with Pansy every Hogsmeade weekend, spent time with his friends in the fledging D.A., and honed his skill in Craft to a razor’s edge.

Most of all, he spent time with Harry.

“He’s planning something,” Harry told him one evening, when they were both curled up in front of the fireplace in the kitchen, helping Dobby make S.P.E.W. pins. “I know he is. I can feel it. The dreams are getting worse. Dumbledore says he wants Snape to teach me Occlumency.”

Draco nodded slowly. “It’s not a bad idea. From what I know of psychic magic, an open door can be passed through in either direction. You can’t be too careful with—with—”

He clammed up. He couldn’t say the name, not without remembering what his lips felt like on Draco’s knuckle. He swallowed thickly, put it all decisively out of his mind. He didn’t want to think about it.

“I’m so angry and sad and confused all the time,” Harry told him after a lapse of silence. “I feel completely out of control of my own life. Sometimes it seems like the only time I feel calm is when—when I’m with you.”

Draco’s heart fluttered treacherously. He felt exactly the same way, for very different reasons.

I love you, Draco wanted to say, and nearly did, but the words caught. It felt too big to admit, like his mouth couldn’t fit the words through. It was true, but it was so much. And it wouldn’t last, anyway.

Everything Draco had, he was going to lose. That awareness, that darkness, was always lingering at the back of his mind: soon, very soon, he was going to have nothing at all.

And he didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to fall into that blackness a second sooner than he had to.

So he leaned forward and kissed Harry gently, and committed every sensation to memory.

On the second Gryffindor-Slytherin Quidditch game of the semester, Cordelia got sick and couldn’t play, so Draco, as reserve Seeker, subbed in for her and caught the Snitch. The game ended 170-30 Slytherin, and Draco felt as light as air.

“Well done, Malfoy!” Montague said as soon as they were both on the ground. He clapped Draco on one shoulder, a gesture which sent him staggering. “Way to show your sister up. A few more games like that, and I’ll start running out of reasons to keep you as reserve.”

There came the requisite post-game dogpile in which Draco got his hair ruffled so much it nearly knocked his ponytail loose, and then he went to change out of his Quidditch robes in the little shared bathroom hidden under one of the many Pitch towers.

Or at least he tried to. He was grabbed by the arms, spun, and pressed backward into the tiled wall as soon as he made it inside.

“Hey—!” he began, but couldn’t finish, because Harry was kissing him. “Mm!”

The outrage and alarm died out almost immediately, and before long Harry’s hands, still wrapped up in leather gloves, were sliding under Draco’s robe and up the sheer linen fabric of his shirt. Draco tried to say something sarcastic—What’s the opposite of a sore loser?—but couldn’t manage it: Harry was pushing himself up against Draco so they were body-to-body. Heat pooled and coiled in the pit of Draco’s stomach, and he threw both arms around Harry’s neck somewhat belatedly.

“God,” Harry said as he broke apart, only to move his mouth to Draco’s jaw, the lobe of his ear, the cords of his throat—Draco moaned helplessly. “Do you have any idea what you looked like out there? Hardly a wonder I didn’t catch the Snitch, I couldn’t look at anything but you.”

“Hnn,” Draco whined when Harry finally stopped talking and went back to kissing. Little bursts of pleasure were tingling under Draco’s skin, and before he even realized what he was doing, one leg had lifted and locked around Harry’s waist. When he felt the barest brush of teeth on the side of his throat— “Harry!”—he arched into it reflexively. Yes, yes, yes, chanted the little omega instinct in the back of his head, bite me, mark me, claim me, do it, do it, do it.

“I can’t even be angry we lost,” he groaned, rocking his hips forward, and with one of Draco’s legs around his waist, he could feel heat and pressure and something fracturing in the very middle of his pelvis. “I’m going to be thinking about the way your legs look straddling a broom all week.”

“Merlin,” Draco whined. “Harry. I wish we—I wish you could—”

“Yeah?” he breathed against Draco’s throat. The little fracture in Draco’s pelvis fractured wider.

Draco couldn’t quite keep himself from talking: the words came as if on their own accord. “I wish you could f*ck me,” he whined.

Harry made a very deep, very nice sound that vibrated through Draco’s throat. He rocked his hips again, and that fracture—it felt colder now, spreading out through his middle like rime—he didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to think—

“I wish it could be you. I want it to be you. I want—I want—”

Colder and colder, wider and wider. The tranquilis was wearing off, and Harry felt so good against him, please just a little longer, please—

“God, you must know I want the same,” Harry breathed.

And Draco tried to immerse himself in the thought of it, the fantasy of what it would feel like to give himself to Harry like that, to feel his teeth in his neck and his knot—

“I w-want… I…”

But the pain was getting so bad now, so intense, and so f*cking cold. When Harry rolled his hips one more time, it shattered.

Draco screamed. Harry wheeled backward.

“Draco?” he asked, alarmed.

Draco couldn’t hear him. He slid down the wall, arms curling desperately around his lower abdomen. He capitulated to his knees and then forward onto the floor.

“Oh, my God—Draco, are you all right? I—are you in pain? What’s happening?”

Draco couldn’t answer. With the distance, the horrible, jagged shards of agony died back down into the more familiar, icy pulsing pain, but Draco still felt like he couldn’t catch his breath.

“Hang on,” Harry was saying, “hang on, I can help you to the Hospital Wing. Just—what hurts the least? I can shoulder you there or maybe carry you—”

“Nn,” Draco finally managed, and shook his head. He sucked several deep, unsteady breaths through his teeth. “No. She won’t—she can’t—”

“What? What do you mean? Draco, God, please just let me help…”

“You can’t help,” he wheezed, and drew upon reserves of self-control and discipline he did not have to readjust to the pain. “No one can help. No one can help me.”

“Draco…”

He sat there for a while, on his knees on the tile floor, trying desperately to put himself back into a functional shape. It wasn’t easy. It was never easy. Every time the tranquilis wore off, no matter how prepared Draco thought he was, it always wrecked him all over again, always ripped him open from the inside like it was the first time.

“Draco.” Harry’s voice was closer now; he was, Draco belatedly realized, crouched right next to him, with one steadying hand on Draco’s back, “I know that… that something happened to you over the summer. Hermione knows it, too. Even Ron’s noticed something’s wrong. And I also know you don’t want to talk about it, which—trust me, I get that impulse. But… whatever it is, it’s clearly more than you can handle.

“So please, please just let me help. Why do you keep getting these random bursts of pain? Why are you acting so different? Why does Professor Snape get so upset when I try to ask him about it? Please talk to me.”

Miserably, Draco lifted his head. His breaths still came hard and ragged, and when he looked up into Harry’s desperate green eyes, it didn’t get any easier. He shuddered, panted, shut his eyes.

“It’s a chastity charm,” he finally said. The words were so small, but Draco still had to force them out.

“A—a what?”

“My father put me under them before my débutante ball,” Draco said. “And over the summer, he… he…”

He didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to say it. It felt so close, closer than it ever had before.

And though he wanted nothing more, Draco knew he couldn’t avoid it any longer.

“Meet me tomorrow in the library,” he whispered.

In the end, the whole, terrible conversation lasted about an hour. In an oft-forgotten corner of the library, under the thin, shimmery lattice of Hermione’s disillusionment charm, Draco told them everything: the chastity charm. The scar. The Dark Lord’s arrival at the Manor. The annulment of Draco’s betrothal to Harry. The droit du seigneur.

The first to speak was Ron, a full thirty seconds following the end of Draco’s rambling, tearful explanation: “Blimey, Draco. I… I had no idea you…”

“Oh, Draco,” Hermione said, sounding outraged, even though she was visibly on the verge of tears, “why didn’t you say anything? You should have told us straight away!”

“I didn’t want to think about it,” Draco sniffed, burying his face in his hands. “I only had this school year left, and I didn’t want to waste it chasing mad fantasies of freedom or… or being sad. I just wanted to spend what time I had left being happy.”

“There has to be something we can do,” Harry said, sounding frantic. “Why can’t you stay with the Order? They’ll protect you.”

“The chastity charm doubles as a tracking spell. It’s old magic, you understand, from a time when omegas were considered an asset in need of protection. There’s nowhere I could go that I couldn’t be found. And when he did find me, he’d… he…”

(He didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to think about it.)

“Don’t you think I’ve already gone through it a thousand times in my head already?” Draco asked eventually, lifting his head and staring up at them miserably. “I can’t break the engagement. I can’t run. I can’t hide.”

“So, then, break the chastity charm!” Harry said. “There must be a way to do it!”

“The only way to break it is with an alpha’s bite,” Draco answered frowning.

Harry seemed bewildered, but not put-off. “A bite? I—okay, fine. I’m an alpha; I’ll do it.”

Heat flared across Draco’s face. Hermione sighed, and Ron cleared his throat.

“Mate,” Ron said, “it’s not… it isn’t really that easy.”

“How d’you mean?” Harry asked, frowning.

“Harry,” Hermione said, “when an alpha bites an omega, it forms a lifelong bond, a magical compact that even death can’t break. It binds the pair together forever. And it also—er, well, it also tends to lead to—”

“It happens during sex, mate,” Ron supplied, voice flat. “That’s how it gets cemented.”

“Oh,” Harry said, very quietly. He looked over at Draco, and Draco looked back. Then they both very quickly looked away again.

“It’s not that I don’t,” Draco began, then cleared his throat. “I mean, in theory I don’t… I’m just not quite…”

“No, I—I, er, understand. It’s…”

“Soon,” Draco supplied. “It’s just soon. And I’m not sure…”

“Oh, quit being so delicate, you two!” Hermione snapped. “You’re both fifteen and you’re not ready to have sex! There, I said it!”

“But—but that can’t just be it,” Harry protested, turning frantic eyes to Hermione. “There must be some other way to break the charm and get Draco into hiding.”

“Chastity charms are really old magic,” Hermione said doubtfully. “Magic that old was designed to be dispelled one way or not at all. I’m just not sure—”

“What about Craft?” Harry asked, looking back to Draco. “Is this something Craft could accomplish?”

Draco sighed. “I… I don’t know. Maybe, but… I just don’t know enough about it all—Craft or chastity charms. And the magic is so deeply tangled up in my body that if I did it even slightly wrong, the consequences could be disastrous.”

“I can’t just accept this,” Harry insisted. “I won’t. I’m not going to just leave you to—”

“Harry,” Ron intoned, sounding sad.

“Voldemort’s done enough damage!” Harry said, standing up so sharply that his chair went skidding loudly across the hardwood. “And he’s hurt enough people I care about! I can’t just let him do this!”

“I’ll do some research,” Hermione said, standing herself to grab Harry by the arm and urge him back down into his chair. “I’ll… I’ll look into it. I don’t know how much I’ll be able to—I’ll look. All right?”

“I’m really sorry, Draco,” Ron told him, shoulders slumped. “About everything. This is… this is terrible.”

Draco sniffed. “Yeah,” he agreed with a soft voice. “Yeah, it is.”

In a way, it was better. Draco no longer felt like he was running away, hiding from the looming darkness.

In another, it was worse. Draco was no longer running from the darkness because he’d said it aloud, given shape to it, and had been subsumed.

He tried to focus on everything else—tried to do his school work and tell jokes with Pansy and give his all to Quidditch practice. He studied for his O.W.L.s. It all felt a little hollow.

The only parts of his day he really looked forward to were D.A. meetings. Once the other members had seen Draco demonstrate wandless magic, they were eager to learn, and Draco happy to teach. He didn’t have Harry’s natural skill, but Ginny told him smilingly that he was good at explaining things. Draco never called what he was teaching them Craft—more than a few of them were pureblood, and likely wouldn’t react to it well—but no one ever asked after the technique. It was cool, and it was useful, and that was all that mattered.

The year slowly got worse. Harry was terrible at Occlumency, and stagnated in his lessons with Snape. Umbridge cracked down harder and harder on Hogwarts and its staff. One by one, professors were picked off by more cruel, spiteful Ministry regulations. Draco could feel the year hurtling toward something, though he could never tell quite what.

Hermione never made any progress on finding a way to dispel the chastity charm. Draco hadn’t really expected her to. Harry, though—it drove him to desperation.

“Maybe we should just—maybe we just should,” he said one night, after a long D.A. meeting had finally ended, as they sat in the center of the floor with hands clasped and foreheads pressed together. “I—this isn’t how I’d ever want for it to happen, but maybe—”

“How romantic,” Draco answered, and tried for a smile.

“If the alternative is—” Harry screwed his eyes shut, gripped Draco’s hands tighter. It was like he couldn’t even stomach saying it aloud. “This is why I put myself on your courting list at all, wasn’t it? At least it’s me. At least it’s us. At least you know you can trust me, and at least I know I care.”

“Is that what you want our bonding to be?” Draco asked, quietly. “Necessity?”

Harry swallowed.

“The magic of a bonding bite is sensitive,” he continued. He spoke very slowly and kept his eyes down. “It reacts to intent. It would be ill-formed if it was done from compulsion and not… n-not…”

Not for love. Why couldn’t he say it? All these months later, why couldn’t he just force the words out? Harry, I love you. It might have very well been Draco’s last chance.

“It can’t just end this way,” Harry whispered. “I can’t just—I can’t let this happen to you.”

Draco smiled sadly, stroked his thumb over and over across the back of Harry’s hand, across the new, silvery scars there: I must not tell lies. “It’s not your fault,” he said.

“It feels like it is,” Harry answered, choking. Draco scooted closer till their legs were tangled, kissed the track of the tear that had slipped down his face.

“It’s not,” Draco assured him. “Whatever happens to me, to us, you should know that you were the best thing I ever chose for myself.”

“Draco,” he said.

“I never got a lot of say in my own life,” Draco continued, his own throat tightening, too, “but you—you were all mine. The best decision I ever made and the best thing I ever called my own.”

Harry seized him by the face and kissed him in a way that made Draco think of a drowning man gasping for air, like it was the only thing in the world that mattered. Draco shut his eyes and felt it.

Days ticked by interminably until it all happened at once. Everything was in slow motion until a thousand years raced by in the blink of an eye.

He had been trying so hard to cherish those last few weeks of freedom when he and Ginny heard shouting in an empty classroom on the first floor. All that effort put into going slow gone in a split second.

Harry had refused to let him come, in the end. If he’s there—if he sees you—

And no amount of begging and pleading could convince him otherwise. He watched them leave the Forbidden Forest on thestrals he couldn’t see and trudged back to the castle on shaky legs.

It was either two minutes or a hundred years later when they came back to Hogwarts, an injured jumble of trembling limbs and white faces.

He’s dead, Hermione had sobbed. Sirius is dead.

“Harry,” he said when, after a long time, he finally emerged from Dumbledore’s office.

He was covered in drying blood. He looked haunted, hunted. When his eyes turned toward Draco, his gaze went right through him and a thousand miles past.

The hallway was dark and empty. It was, after all, after midnight—long hours that had passed in a heartbeat.

Harry didn’t speak. Draco moved slowly, carefully. It felt like he was approaching a wounded animal.

“Harry,” he said again when Harry didn’t answer.

“I,” Harry said, then drifted off as though he didn’t know where he’d intended that sentence to go.

Draco swallowed. He was close enough to touch, but unsure if touch was a good idea.

“I heard,” Draco said, “what happened.”

Harry swayed slightly in his spot, said nothing.

“I’m sorry,” he continued, voice dropping to a whisper. “Harry, I’m so sorry.”

The Adam’s apple on the front of Harry’s throat bobbed. Delirious green eyes dropped to the floor.

“Please say something,” Draco begged.

Another agonizingly long silence stretched, before eventually Harry whispered: “Hermione was right.”

“Harry.”

“About me. About everything. I should know better than to doubt her by now.”

“Harry.”

“My own stupid need to save everyone got him killed.”

“Harry, no. You can’t let yourself go down that road.”

“I don’t even know why I’m surprised. He took my parents. He took Sirius. And now he’s going to take you—”

Harry’s body convulsed with a horrible, wrenching sob. Draco surged forward, caught Harry by both arms a split second before he collapsed. It was all Draco could do to lower him gently onto the floor.

“Not tonight, he’s not,” Draco said, and leaned forward to pull Harry into him, where he shuddered and shook and sobbed and fell apart. “Tonight, I’m right here. I’m right here, Harry, I’ve got you.”

Not forever. Not even a month from now. But at that moment, curled up together on the floor of an abandoned corridor—

“I’ve got you,” he whispered into Harry’s hair. “I’ve got you, love.”

[ Not Forever by reliand ]

Chapter 7: A Year and a Day

Chapter Text

Draco was surprised at first, then immediately not surprised, when he was told by Professor Snape on the morning the Hogwarts Express was meant to take everyone back that there was a special carriage awaiting him.

“It’s a Death Eater manning it,” he said as soon as they were out of the castle. Draco’s trunk was skidding and skittering across the loose gravel path behind him as they walked. “I think it’s Greyback. He should be under orders not to hurt you, but be cautious.”

“Greyback,” Draco repeated. The name was familiar.

“A werewolf. Unwilling sire to many other werewolves. Loyal, but unstable. Be judicious.”

Draco said nothing.

The carriage waiting for him was stately but grim: black canvas walls, large ebony wheels, with a hooded figure up front. Two banners were strung from the back that might have, at one point, been forest green and black, but were tattered beyond any identifiability.

When the hooded figure heard them approach, it wrenched around. The lower half of its face was visible—flared nostrils and, after a pause, a wide smile accentuated by pointed eyeteeth.

“Severus,” said Fenrir Greyback, who smelled like wet loam and offal.

Snape didn’t answer, just pulled open the carriage door for Draco and used a quick wand movement to load his trunk into the rack mounted over the rear wheels.

“And to think,” Greyback said, “there were whispers that you would turn coat when His Lordship demanded your godson as a bride. Good to see you offering him up so readily.”

“Keep your mouth shut, dog,” Snape answered, his voice even but unmistakably dangerous.

“What? Don’t say you’re having second thoughts now. From everything I’ve heard, His Lordship intends to honor the old ways throughout their… engagement.”

“If any harm comes to him before he lands at the Malfoy Manor,” Snape said, “it will be no secret where it came from.”

“Relax,” Greyback rumbled. Draco tucked himself inside and out of sight, but didn’t need to see him to know that the sharp-toothed grin was still in place. “Unlike some of us here, my loyalties are not in question.”

Snape gave him a last, dark look, then turned his attention back to Draco. A long, tense silence passed between them. Snape was doing an admirable job of hiding his emotions; Draco had nothing to hide. There was nothing inside him but a horrible, sucking void. He stared back at his godfather’s face impassively, finding he was even too empty to hope.

“I have a few… things to take care of,” Snape said, “but I will come by the Manor before the month is out. In absence of your father, I am your Alpha. I intend to honor that duty to the best of my ability.”

Draco said nothing. Greyback, on the other hand, snorted; neither of them acknowledged it.

“Be safe, Draco,” Snape said, and closed the carriage door. The gesture shook the whole frame and plunged Draco into near-darkness.

The only light Draco had was from directly in front of him, a narrow rectangle carved out of the canvas that allowed Draco to see part of Greyback’s arm and shoulder—and, briefly, when he turned his body around, part of his fanged smile.

“Just you and me, omega,” Greyback said. “Pretty little thing. Even lovelier than all the rumors suggested. Count yourself lucky you’ve already been branded by my master, or I’d have a taste of you.”

Draco answered, rather mechanically, “Got you muzzled and neutered, has he?”

Though he could only see a portion of Greyback’s face, he had no trouble seeing the shapes of it as they changed. That sharp eyetooth of his was no longer bared in amusem*nt, but in anger.

“Leashed like a bitch? Good to know. I’m more of a cat person, myself, but I’ll be sure to let you out in the garden to piss when you get whiny enough.”

Greyback moved so quickly that Draco didn’t even notice it till the werewolf’s open hand slammed into the frame of the carriage, sending the whole thing rocking precariously to one side.

“Shut your mouth, whor*,” he growled, “or—”

“Or what?” Draco interjected smoothly. “You’ll kill me? Do you think death is worse than what your hound master has planned for me?”

Greyback stilled, but didn’t answer directly. His shoulders heaved with angry, ragged breath, but he said nothing.

“Kill me, if you’re willing to suffer the consequences. It will save me the trouble of doing it myself.”

Still, he said nothing. After a moment, he jerked forward again, and snapped what must have been a pair of reins, though Draco hadn’t seen anything out in front of the carriage when he’d walked up to it. When the carriage took off forward and then, slowly, up, Draco could only assume that it was thestrals pulling it.

“As if he’d ever let you out of his grasp that easily,” Greyback eventually said, and chuckled darkly.

Draco swallowed, shut his eyes. He told himself to stay angry, that his anger was the only thing left Draco had that was authentically his own, but it was a hard thing to maintain. As the carriage made a broad arc in the sky and began flying south toward Wiltshire, Draco knew that there had always been, and always would be, more fear than anger.

When Draco first arrived back, the Malfoy Manor was largely empty. He’d beaten Cordelia home by several hours, it seemed, and Lucius, of course, would be in Azkaban for the foreseeable future.

He didn’t appear to be home, which suited Draco just fine.

At first, Draco looked for Dolly and Dotty, but they were nowhere to be found. Then he went looking for Mother, but as soon as he came around the corner of hallway leading to her private bedroom—

“Well, well, well, look who it is.”

Draco spun. Standing at the far end of the hallway was a tall, slightly crooked figure, thin-limbed and crowned with wild, dark hair. Her scent was sharp and intense, though Draco couldn’t quite pin down what it was—some unpleasant combination of something sweet and something sour.

“Little baby Draco, who managed to disappoint his whole family before even being born.”

As she got closer, the scent became clearer: licorice and bile. Draco’s nose wrinkled, and suddenly he knew who he was talking to.

“Aunt Bella.”

“At least you got your looks from your father, thank Merlin,” she said, and seized Draco by the chin so she could lift his face toward hers for inspection. “Never did see why everyone was falling all over themselves for Cissy. I always thought she was rather homely. But you’re a real prize, aren’t you?”

Draco slapped her hand away, which seemed to take Bellatrix by surprise—a surprise which quickly morphed into sad*stic anticipation.

“Feisty for an omega. No wonder His Lordship likes you.”

“Where’s my mother?” he asked, brusque.

“Probably still locked up in isolation, since her Alpha failed so spectacularly at the Department of Mysteries and got himself arrested.”

Draco frowned. He supposed that made sense—although perhaps that wasn’t the right term for it. Nothing that happened to omegas made any sense. It did comport, at least, with what Draco had always been told about what his place was.

Wordlessly, Draco turned and continued toward her bedroom. Before he could move a single step, however, a thin-fingered hand grabbed his wrist and pulled, so sharply that Draco nearly lost his footing.

“Got your father’s attitude, too, didn’t you?” Bella growled at him, as Draco hissed in pain and fought to extricate himself from her grasp. “Little bitch. Don’t walk away from your betters.”

Draco bared his teeth. “And you’re meant to be my better, are you? Talking sh*t on my father for failing his way into Azkaban when you still have the stink of it in your hair.”

The comment lit real fury behind Bella’s eyes. She hauled him forward. “Listen, slu*t—”

“Either kill me or stop wasting my time!” Draco snapped, and with one deliberate jerk, finally pulled his wrist. “There is nothing you can do to me that is worse than what the maniac you call master has in store for me.”

Fury transformed into righteous rage. “You dare speak this way of—?”

“Draco!”

Standing in the doorway leading to her bedroom, apparently drawn out by the commotion, was his mother, her hair long and unbraided and falling to her waist in a tangle. Draco had never seen her so disheveled: dark circles under her eyes, no make-up or jewels, dressed only in a simple sleeping gown which laid bare the old, silvered bonding bite on the side of her throat, which Draco had never seen before.

“Cissy,” Bella said, with a cruel, curling smile. “So good to see you in the land of the living at long last. Did you know you raised your omega into a horrid little brat?”

“Get your hands off my son,” Mother answered firmly, and used one arm to scoop Draco away from her. She gave him a quick once-over as if checking for injury and, upon finding none, returned her eyes to Bellatrix in a reproachful glare. “This is hard enough on us, Bella. Don’t make it worse.”

“Or what?” she jeered. “Your apha’s not here to hide behind anymore.”

Mother didn’t answer, only ushered Draco into her room and shut the door behind her.

It was only after the fact that Draco realized it wasn’t the master bedroom as Draco had expected, the one his parents typically shared. It was his mother’s heat room, where she would go during estrus or, more commonly, when she was “feeling poorly” and wanted to spend the night alone. Draco knew the room well—small but well-decorated in cherry wood and very deep scarlet, with big, open windows looking out onto the river behind the Manor and an ensuite with a soaking tub. He’d curled up in the bed here with her more than once as a child, whenever he had a nightmare.

“You really shouldn’t pick fights with her,” Mother said as soon as she slid the manual chain lock in place. Then, belatedly, “Draco, I… welcome back. How… how are you feeling?”

Draco had gotten caught up staring at the sunlit window—it really was an unfairly beautiful day. The first day of Draco’s imprisonment ought to be drearier.

When at last Draco drew his eyes back to his mother, refocused his attention on her question, he found that he couldn’t answer. How was he feeling? How did she think he was feeling?

When he stayed silent, she came forward and drew him into her arms. Draco screwed his eyes shut and, very slowly, returned her embrace.

He’d expected more words from her, but none came. Perhaps she’d run out—perhaps these brief few weeks following her alpha’s imprisonment had drained everything from her.

They didn’t talk at all that evening. They sat together on the end of her bed for a while, Draco curled up against her chest, and then eventually Draco took a bath and Dolly brought them both dinner.

This time around, Draco no longer felt the impulse to hide in his room.

Perhaps it was the knowing that he wasn’t home, but Draco suspected it had less to do with that and more to do with no longer caring about his own safety. Why should he?

So, after dinner, and after he was sure Mother had dozed off to a fitful sleep, he slipped out down the hallway and went off into the dark, winding hallways of the Malfoy Manor.

As he wandered, he felt oddly out of place, almost like a ghost. All the familiar rooms and corridors felt otherworldly now, a darker magic having soaked into the bones of the building. This place was not his home anymore, if it ever had been.

He was surprised when he found—

“Cordelia?”

—and even more surprised when he realized—

“What are you doing in the library?”

But there she was, at the large table under the mezzanine, looking up from a stack of tomes with bleary, slow-blinking blue eyes.

“Draco,” she finally said, delayed by what Draco could only surmise was exhaustion. “You… you really shouldn’t be up. He could be back at any moment.”

“And so what if he is?” Draco answered. “Is it likely to make my situation any worse?”

Cordelia frowned. Draco sank into the chair just opposite her.

“What are you reading?” he asked.

She didn’t answer. From what Draco could make out from her arms, which she’d folded over the lower half of the large tome in front of her, it was some dense, ancient treatise on runework.

“You don’t even take Ancient Runes,” Draco said.

“Yeah,” she answered, then looked at Draco’s left arm. Draco had changed out of his school uniform already—he’d been tempted to burn the f*cking thing to cinders, since he certainly would never need it again—but instead had just folded it up and left it for Dotty to deal with. He’d changed into a simple robe of dark blue, finely made but covering nearly every inch of his skin. The high collar hid the entirety of his neck and the sleeves were fitted all the way to his knuckles, the hem flowing around his ankles.

Still, he knew what she was looking at. It made him frown.

“What do you care for that?” he asked, and didn’t bother to hide the suspicion in his voice.

“I…” She averted her eyes, shifted in her seat. “It’s…”

On the far side of the room, hinges squealed. There were multiple entrances to the expansive cellars of the Malfoy Manor hidden throughout the building, and in the library, it was behind a massive, ancient portrait of Armand Malfoy, the first ancestor to come to England with William the Conqueror. Draco heard him grumbling in French, unhappy as he always was whenever someone disturbed his frame.

Emerging from the darkness was a tall, wiry alpha who smelled primarily of mahogany and red wine, and secondarily of Azkaban, just like Bella. Cordelia whipped around in his direction as soon as she heard the portrait swing open, and hissed his name under her breath like a curse: “Dolohov.”

“Dolohov?” Draco repeated. He’d heard of him, of course—nearly as sad*stic as Bellatrix and twice as lethal in a fight. He’d been very justifiably locked up for murder, among other crimes, back in the eighties.

“The very same,” said Dolohov, with a near-impenetrable Russian accent. The second he came withing scenting distance, his nostrils flared and his pupils dilated as they fixed on Draco. “No question who you are, sweet little omega.”

“Step back, Dolohov,” Cordelia snapped, which had Draco raising both eyebrows in surprise. Of all the things he’d come to expect from his little sister over the years, protectiveness was not one of them. “He’s not yours to leer at.”

“And he’s not yours to guard, either,” Dolohov answered. He reached into the inner pocket of his robe to produce a kerchief, which he used to wipe—was that blood on his hands?

“Keeping busy?” Draco said neutrally. It was definitely blood. And it was fresh.

“His Lordship has a few captives in the dungeons. He has me, Bella, and Rodolphus breaking them in before he puts them under Imperius.” Dolohov smiled, all crooked, yellow teeth. “It’s good to be free.”

“I suppose errant torture would be the main benefit of freedom for a psychopath,” Draco answered, which made Dolohov’s impassive expression flicker and Cordelia wheel around in her seat, looking gobsmacked.

“Has anyone ever told me that you’re mouthy for an omega?” Dolohov returned, voice low and dark.

“Constantly. Has anyone ever told you that enjoying torture is not generally something to be proud of?”

“Draco,” Cordelia hissed.

Dolohov canted his head to one side, dark eyes searching Draco’s face.

“I was going to say,” he eventually began, “that I didn’t see what the Dark Lord did, but that wouldn’t be true. Psychopaths like me know that half the fun of claiming an omega is breaking them in.”

“Enough, Dolohov!” Cordelia snapped, standing up. “This is still my family’s home, and in absence of my father, I’m its master. Leave my brother alone.”

Dolohov’s eyes swiveled to Cordelia briefly. Whatever it was he was searching for in her face, it didn’t seem as though he found it.

“I don’t answer to you, whelp,” he said. “I answer to the Dark Lord, and so do you. You’d do well to learn that before he Marks you next week.”

Dolohov strode past, chuckling. Cordelia’s face went white, and Draco, once Dolohov had vanished through the library doors, whirled back around to face her.

“You’re taking the Mark?”

She set her face. “Of course I am. You can’t tell me you’re honestly surprised.”

And perhaps he shouldn’t be, but he was. “Cordelia, you can’t take the Mark!”

“You can’t tell me what I can and can’t do, Draco,” she said. “Like I said, in the absence of Father—”

“Cordelia, you are not Death Eater material! Or are you actually intent on conspiring to commit murder?”

“I don’t have a choice, all right!” she barked. “He’s living in our house, and Father’s in Azkaban! It’s either take the Mark or get both of us and Mother killed!”

Someone on the far side of the Manor cackled loudly—it sounded like Bella. The sound of it was far enough away that she couldn’t have been near enough to hear, but close enough to force them both to realize they couldn’t speak about this kind of thing openly.

Cordelia snapped her book shut, leveled Draco with a furious stare. “You shouldn’t be picking fights with Death Eaters. I heard what you said to Aunt Bella, and Greyback already hates you enough that he can’t talk about you without snarling—”

“So, what, you just expect me to submit?”

“I expect you to survive! It’s what you told Severus you wanted, wasn’t it?”

Draco pursed his lips. He had said that—it felt like a lifetime ago now. A few short months and a thousand years. Now Draco wasn’t so sure. What use was surviving if all he had to look forward to was a life of sexual slavery? Was that really something worth surviving for?

“Draco,” Cordelia said, sounding alarmed, “you do still want—no, Draco, you’re going to survive. I can’t—I can’t watch you—”

Draco swallowed thickly. Cordelia was snapping shut all the tomes she’d had scattered across the table, sending them flying back to the shelves from which she’d pulled them with a few careful spells—but even as she did, her eyes were fixed on Draco.

“You’re going to survive,” she said again. “You’ve got to.”

Draco asked, “And why’s that?” He had intended to sound flippant—why should I bother surviving?—but it came out painfully, unbearably sincere—please tell me why I should survive; give me a reason to fight.

Once all the books were away, they were left together in a dark, silent, echoing library. His sister stare at him hard, gripping the edge of the table as if it was the only thing keeping her standing.

“Because,” she said very slowly, “I need you to.”

The answer surprised him. “Do you?”

“Yes,” she answered. “I need you to survive. I need you. You—you’re my brother. I need you.”

Draco wondered if that was true. Even a month ago, Draco would have had trouble believing a sentiment like that coming out of Cordelia Malfoy’s mouth.

She strode out of the library before Draco could process it fully, before he could even draw enough breath to reply with the first thing that occurred to Draco to say: I think I need you, too.

The Dark Lord returned less than a week later.

Draco knew the moment it happened. The wards over the Malfoy Manor shivered palpably, lurching as though in fear against Draco’s skin. From somewhere outside, Greyback howled as if in greeting.

It was a Thursday, late into the evening, and Mother was already asleep, Draco curled up in the armchair near her bed with a book in his lap. He looked up with a jerk when he felt it, and leapt to his feet when, quite abruptly, his arm began to ache.

He bit down hard on his lower lip and pulled his sleeve upright, half-expecting to see blood, but there was none. In fact, there was no visible sign of the dull throb—

—apart, perhaps, from the way he was physically pulled toward the door, wrist first.

It was an odd, disorienting feeling. It wasn’t that he felt compelled to move, as the Imperius Curse might do, but rather that there was a very specific magical force dragging him. It was all Draco could do to keep his footing as he moved, which was easier said than done, because he was barefoot and his steps kept catching in his long nightgown.

Wherever the mark on his arm was taking him, he wasn’t going alone. Others were filtering through the halls in the same general direction: down. Some of them Draco recognized—Bellatrix, Dolohov, Greyback, Crabbe Sr., a twitchy-looking beta who could only be Rodolphus Lestrange—but many Draco did not. He had no time to acknowledge them, in any case: the mark was pulling him faster than any of them were walking.

When at last he reached his destination, his heart began to pound: just situating himself at the head of the dining room table, wash on one side in orange firelight—

“Ah, at long last, I am reunited with my most beloved fiancé.”

—Lord Voldemort.

Draco’s vision tunneled, but the magic kept pulling. He nearly tripped over his own feet in his attempts to get away, but it was no use—he stumbled and scrambled right up to his side, where with a gesture, Voldemort sent Draco hard onto his knees on the wood floor beside his chair.

He loomed like a terrible white specter over Draco, red eyes seeming to glow in the darkness. Draco’s breath came in short, wheezing gasps. His arm had raised itself as if waiting for the Dark Lord to take it—which he did, slowly, ice cold fingers slipping under Draco’s palm and drawing it up so he could kiss the knuckle.

“You are particularly lovely,” the Dark Lord said, under his breath, “when you are on your knees.”

“My Lord.”

Whatever magic had been holding his arm up, his gaze on Voldemort’s, broke. When Draco looked over—

“Severus!” he gasped, barely. He almost couldn’t force the word out.

There he was, tall and thin and sallow, arms folded behind his back. He was looking Draco up and down as if searching for wounds.

“I do hope,” Snape said, his tone conversational, “that you intend to hold to the provisions of the deal you drew up with his father.”

Others were filing into the room now, too—more and more Death Eaters, each of them getting a full view of Draco on his knees at Voldemort’s side, hand in bone-white hand. Draco shook and swallowed and tried to breathe.

“I confess,” Voldemort said, “in his absence, it is tempting to eschew convention. Surely even you have noticed, Severus—the omega’s quite a prize.”

“I have no taste for omegas,” Snape answered neutrally.

A pause, a chuckle. “Ah, of course—I’d nearly forgotten.”

Snape sat down beside him, eyes once again scanning Draco. Draco stared back helplessly. Please, he wanted to beg, but had no voice, please get me out of here, please make him stop.

“The contract should still be magically binding,” Snape eventually said. “And though I would be acting as the boy’s Alpha in Lucius’s stead, I have no way to remove or change the terms of the betrothal. And My Lord should be cautious about violating such an agreement here in the omega’s ancestral magical home. The Manor will not take kindly to it.”

Voldemort’s red eyes turned to Snape. Magic crackled palpably in the air around him—or at least it was palpable to Draco. It was Legilimency—it must have been.

“You could not change it?” the Dark Lord said.

“No, My Lord, I couldn’t.”

Draco swallowed hard. The Legilimency crackled on for a while, then eventually sputtered out. The Dark Lord dropped Draco’s hand and, apparently, his interest. The Death Eaters, now assembled, were squeezing themselves into empty seats and looking uncomfortably amongst each other between stolen glances at the Dark Lord.

“I can be patient when I need to be,” he said, and then addressed his Death Eaters in formal greeting.

Snape, meanwhile, stole a look at Draco, who swallowed and trembled, still held in his subservient position on his knees. He wished he could read more into his godfather’s expression.

The meeting was interminably long. The Dark Lord spoke at great length to his followers about what his plans were, now that he had a foothold in the Ministry, and each one was more horrifying than the last: Muggle-born registrations. Snatchers to hunt them down. A jinx on his name.

Draco was neither addressed nor acknowledged through any of it. He felt distinctly ornamental, like a pretty animal curled up at its master’s feet. Every now and then the Dark Lord’s hand would come down to rest on his head, making Draco flinch. Long, cold fingers would twine absently through his hair, stroking in a sort of thoughtless, meditative way. It sent goosebumps rising along the back of Draco’s neck, and made him feel almost nauseous in ways he couldn’t easily describe.

Toward the end of the evening—the Dark Lord had the end of Draco’s braid in his hand now, idly stroking—the conversation shifted to what felt like the final topic:

“And finally, there’s the small matter of Albus Dumbledore,” he said. Then, “Cordelia?”

Draco swallowed, looked up. He’d hardly even realized Cordelia was in the room. She straightened when he addressed her, cleared her throat.

“Yes.”

“You are in a unique position,” he said. “A position of minimal suspicion in Hogwarts—and a position to make up for your father’s… errors.”

Cordelia kept her face admirably blank. Draco felt dread swell in the pit of his stomach; his eyes moved back and forth between the two of them. It seemed as though—it didn’t seem possible, but the way the Dark Lord spoke, it was as though he intended—

“You told me, slightly less than a year ago now, that you had every intention to take my mark and become my loyal follower, like your father, like his father. Is this still true?”

No, Draco thought helplessly. On his knees as he was, Draco could barely even see anyone at the table, but he could see Cordelia, see the way her face went white and her hands made fists on the table.

“Of course, My Lord,” she said.

“Excellent. Rise, then.”

No, Draco thought again, more frantic. But the legs of Cordelia’s chair were already groaning as she stood, limbs stiff, and crossed the dining room toward him. Maybe Cordelia had been right, maybe it was necessary, but that didn’t make it any less horrible. He didn’t want this for his sister, and was sure his sister didn’t want it for herself.

When Cordelia wouldn’t look at Draco, Draco looked at Severus—but Severus had his mask in place, sat back against his chair and staring at the scene impassively, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair.

“Roll up your sleeve,” the Dark Lord said, and Cordelia did.

Draco couldn’t just let his happen, could he? There was something so fundamentally wicked about the Dark Mark that Cordelia simply didn’t have. She was an awful little brat, but she had never been evil. Not like Lucius. Not like Voldemort.

“As you take my Mark,” the Dark Lord said, withdrawing his wand from the sleeve of his robe in a long, slow motion, “you accept your first mission. Make up for your father’s egregious failure at the Department of Mysteries.”

Cordelia swallowed. “Yes.”

He pressed the tip of his wand to her forearm. Draco felt like a wild animal caught in a snare.

“Kill Albus Dumbledore,” the Dark Lord said.

Cordelia grit her teeth. “Yes.”

Cordelia, Draco wanted to protest, to scream. He wanted to grab his sister by the shoulder and drag her out of the building, run far away with her—

“Morsmordre,” the Dark Lord said, and Cordelia screamed.

Draco thrashed—he couldn’t help it. Watching his little sister collapse onto her knees and then onto her side, something wild and frantic reared up in Draco. Cordelia was in pain and Draco had to help her.

Idly, almost as if distracted, the Dark Lord looked back at Draco. The magic around his arm holding him in place slackened for a moment, and Draco took the opportunity to scramble toward Cordelia.

“No,” he whispered. She was still screaming, writhing—the Dark Mark, fresh and black, was writhing on her skin, and Cordelia was convulsing around it in agony. “No,” he said again, louder, then hurried to draw his own wand. He knew little of healing magic, but knew enough to numb, though he doubted it would be enough.

As he cast the spell, which reduced her violent screaming to helpless whimpering, the Dark Lord spoke from behind: “The boy has a soft touch.”

“It is his character,” Severus said. “If My Lord is intent to marry him, he should become accustomed compassion. You’d have an easier time bleeding a stone than removing kindness from Draco Malfoy.”

“How fortunate, then, that kindness and compassion do nothing but bore me.”

“You’re okay,” Draco whispered to Cordelia, stroking her hair out of her face. He didn’t know if he was reassuring her or himself. “You’re all right. The pain will pass. It… it must pass, surely.”

Cordelia made a horrible, helpless groaning sound. Draco kept stroking her hair, kept up his numbing spell—

Until, quite abruptly, his wand was plucked from his hand. Draco spun.

Lord Voldemort had, at some point, risen to his feet. He held Draco’s wand in one hand, inspecting it carefully.

As Cordelia whimpered and shook and sucked down several deep breaths, Draco stared. He wanted to demand his wand back, but his throat felt as though it was full of bile, acrid and suffocating.

“If the magic surrounding our betrothal cannot be changed,” he said, “then it should be in comportment with the old ways, Severus, don’t you think?”

“I,” Snape began, but couldn’t finish, because Lord Voldemort snapped Draco’s wand in half.

He felt a physical reaction, a wave of nausea, a burst of pain in all directions across his body. Draco almost screamed, but had no breath to do it. He stared up at the Dark Lord, Cordelia still gasping and writhing underneath him, and when red eyes met him—

“You don’t need a wand,” he said, “to serve your alpha.”

Ollivander had given him that wand nearly six years ago with a mysterious smile, telling him that it had a long way to go—apparently it wouldn’t be going an inch further.

“And you will,” the Dark Lord continued, two white fingers trailing through Draco’s hair, “no matter the delays. One way or another, you’ll serve me.”

Severus helped Draco take Cordelia back up to her room, where he cast a quick spell to put her to sleep. Her body slumped as if it had been waiting for a reason, her breath evened.

“He intends for her to fail,” Snape said as he stared at her. “You know that, right?”

Draco looked up at him. He still felt oddly restless, almost panicked. Without a wand, Draco felt more vulnerable than he ever had—and he’d spent most of his life feeling vulnerable.

“There’s no one in the world who’s a serious match for Albus Dumbledore,” Snape continued when Draco couldn’t manage to speak. “The Dark Lord knows it. He just wants to punish Lucius Malfoy in the only way he can.”

Draco had no trouble believing him. He hadn’t been at the Department of Mysteries, but he’d heard the stories.

Cordelia made a weak sound and rolled over. Draco reached for his wand to pull the blankets over her before remembering, for the second time in just a few minutes, that he didn’t have one anymore. His fingers flexed uselessly near where he usually kept it tucked in his sleeve.

“I’m so sorry about your wand,” Snape said after a protracted pause.

“You have to help her,” Draco eventually said.

Snape sighed.

“Severus, please,” he said. “You said yourself she can’t do it. You can’t just watch her fail, leave her to the mercies of… of…”

“I have recently been surprising myself,” Snape replied, “with what I am capable of watching.”

Draco wrapped his arms around himself.

“I know she’s been so awful,” Draco said, because he couldn’t bear to talk about himself or his situation anymore, “but I also know that she’s not an awful person, not where it counts. If I’d been born an alpha, I probably wouldn’t be very different from her. She just… Severus, if you find a way to get her out—”

“Out?” Snape repeated.

“Of the Manor, of everything. If you find a way to get her out, you get her out. Promise me.”

“Draco—”

“Promise me,” Draco insisted. “Sev, please. She’s my baby sister. I can’t lose her.”

Snape’s dark eyes searched Draco as if looking for something inscrutable, something hidden deep.

“I can get you another wand,” Snape said.

“I don’t need a wand,” Draco replied.

His expression fractured. “Because you don’t need one to serve an alpha? You can’t allow her to be lost, but you’ll happily lose yourself?”

“Severus,” Draco said, “I do not need a wand.”

Another silence lapsed. Draco had never told Severus about his forays into Craft, though Draco had always suspected that he knew—or perhaps he just expected that he did. Severus had always known everything else.

When the silence grew to long, Draco said, “Will you help her or not?”

Snape spent a lot of time alone with Cordelia over the next few weeks. Draco never interrupted; he trusted his godfather implicitly and knew that if there was anyone in the world who could truly help his little sister, it was Severus Snape.

The intervening days Draco spent mostly with Mother. He tried to find Dolly and Dotty, but since the other Death Eaters had moved in, they made themselves scarce, which Draco supposed he couldn’t blame them for. Still, he missed them. Without Lucius around, Mother was hardly anything resembling company.

Less than a week after Cordelia had taken the Mark, Draco’s arm ached familiarly in the middle of the night.

The pain of it woke him up from a dead sleep on the sofa under the window in Mother’s heat room. For a few moments, Draco was delirious—his sleep-slowed mind couldn’t quite remember the significance of this particular pain, past remembering that it was significant—but one more sharp tug woke reminded him.

Draco’s arm pulled him along, the rune aching, out of his mother’s heat room and into the hallway. This time, there were no other Death Eaters milling along with him as he went—he was the only movement in the darkened corridor, on the steps, through the foyer, and at long last the drawing room, where sat perched on a wingback chair by the fireplace—

“Good evening, Draco.”

The aching tug did not stop until Draco was once again on his knees at the Dark Lord’s feet.

“I apologize if you’ve been feeling neglected lately. As you can imagine, I’ve been quite busy.”

The trembling came belatedly, starting at the base of his spine and radiating out.

Voldemort reached for the narrow end table beside the chair and plucked a waiting glass of red wine from it. It was already half-empty, and he drained another quarter in a single mouthful, though his eyes stayed firmly on Draco.

Draco didn’t answer; he couldn’t. The Dark Lord didn’t speak, either, until he’d drank his fill of wine and set the glass back down with the delicate sound of glass on wood.

“But I have a free evening,” he continued, voice mild and conversational, “and I’d like to use it to speak with you. I have a few questions.”

Draco told himself that Lucius, for all his numerous flaws, was a competent and powerful wizard. His magic was strong, and even stronger when cast in his ancestral magical home. There was no way that—

Surely even Lord Voldemort himself wouldn’t be able to break—

“I interrogated Severus about your situation,” he said. “He tells me he brewed you a potion to suppress your heats.”

Draco swallowed, nodded slowly. Now that he was out of Hogwarts, it was the only potion left that he had ready access to.

“He called it an act of mercy, that suffering a heat while under the effects of a chastity charm was torturous.”

Draco nodded again. His trembling was, he thought, rapidly getting worse.

“I suppose I can understand the impulse. Despite the popular image of me, I am not one for needless suffering. Stand up, Draco.”

Draco stood. He wasn’t quite sure how he maintained his footing.

Voldemort stood as well. He was a full head taller than Draco, and Draco felt every inch of that difference in height when he slowly began to circle him. The horrible red gaze moved up and down Draco’s frame, slowly and methodically, like he was looking for something specific.

He stopped when he was behind Draco. The scent of blood and ash saturated the air around him, and Draco’s trembling graduated into shaking.

“And it is good for appearances, I suppose,” Voldemort began. He was so close that his breath ruffled the hair near Draco’s left ear, “for me to have a beautiful, obedient, pureblood omega on my arm, ready to give me my heirs. Secures the lineage. But I confess…”

Draco screwed his eyes shut. When a frigid hand found the back of Draco’s neck, his whole body flinched away from the touch. The hand gripped—hard—and held Draco physically in place.

When Voldemort next spoke, it was directly into Draco’s ear: “My motivations were not entirely pure. Strip.”

Strip? Draco’s eyes flew open, his muscles seized up. With the icy hand still holding his neck in its vise-like grip, he couldn’t look around, couldn’t find the Dark Lord’s face to verify—

“I said,” he growled, “strip.”

Fingers shaking and fumbling, Draco pulled at the long laces at the front of his nightgown. His shoulders heaved, his vision swam. He rucked the long white fabric up, first to his knees, and then over his head. The air of the drawing room was unbearably cold against his bared skin, and gooseflesh rose immediately down his back.

The hand, which had removed itself from Draco’s neck to allow him to disrobe, returned abruptly, slamming him hard into the nearest wall. Draco yelped; it was all he could do to brace both palms on the wallpaper.

He felt Voldemort’s face—his breath—near the junction of his neck and shoulder.

“Snowdrops,” he said, “and something subtler. You are remarkably beautiful.”

Draco shook. He’d hated the chastity charms from the moment Lucius had cast the spell, and now was praying that they held.

“And enticing. How does any alpha restrain themselves around you?”

Hands, freezing cold and hard as marble, pressed hard into Draco’s skin—his ribs, his hips, kneading his thighs. Tears threatened. Draco fought them back with everything in him. He shook, he panted, he prayed, but he would not weep.

“Severus says he is unable to remove the magic of your father’s chastity charm, and I am tempted to believe him. Still, I would be remiss if I didn’t explore the possibility with my own magic.”

No, no, no, no, no. “But—” Draco stammered, “—you said—the betrothal isn’t over, and you said you’d—”

The Dark Lord made a distracted gesture, and Draco’s arm burned. His left hand came up against his own will and slapped itself over his mouth.

“An omega’s mouth isn’t meant for speaking,” he said. Then, slowly, his face twisted into a horrible facsimile of a smile. “But feel free to whimper and weep. I do love the sound.”

He shook. He panted. But he would not weep. He would not weep.

Magic was snarling, crackling, pressing insistently into Draco’s body, met in equal measure by the familiar, cold ache of the chastity charm. It was indescribably painful. Draco’s legs trembled, his fingernails dug furrows into the wallpaper, his eyes burned, but he would not weep, he would not weep.

Eventually, Voldemort made an angry growling sound.

“It could be removed,” he said, “but not without ripping you apart, womb-first. Which rather defeats the point, doesn’t it?”

Draco made a strangled sound into his own hand, still magically held against his mouth.

“The shape of the magic tells me it would prevent a bite, too, till you come of age.”

The bulk of the Dark Lord’s body pressed into him. The bloody-ashy scent was thick in the air, almost overpowering, and there was a particular pressure—

—a rigid outline pressed to the small of Draco’s back, held back by nothing but a layer of fabric and the aching, pulsing, freezing chastity charms—

(He would not weep he would not weep he would not weep—)

“So, then, strong spellwork,” Voldemort said. “But not especially thorough.”

Abruptly, Draco was spun. He was once again slammed into the wall, this time back-first. When the stars finished bursting behind his eyes, the first image to come into focus, the only thing he could see in the dark drawing room, prising his hand away from his mouth—

“Get on your knees,” the Dark Lord said, voice low and dangerous.

Draco shook but couldn’t make himself move. His body simply wouldn’t obey.

“Please,” he said.

“Get,” the Dark Lord growled, “on your knees.”

Draco’s legs gave out and he went, hard and painfully, down onto his knees.

“Eyes on me.”

(—he would not weep—)

Everything felt very far away. Draco felt as though he was apart from himself—surely, surely, this was not happening to him. Not his body, pressed between the long form of Lord Voldemort and the wall of the drawing room. Not his hair, fisted in an icy grip. Not his mouth—

(—he would not would not would not—)

—forced open by a co*ck, long and thin and cold as an icicle, pressed immediately to the back of his tongue and down his throat—

(—please please please stop please stop please stop—)

Draco couldn’t breathe. His chest convulsed as if trying to cough, but nothing went in or out. The co*ck in his throat was ripping him open. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe. His eyes were burning, tears running freely down his face, hot wet tracks smeared by the hand that gripped his jaw and forced the co*ck deeper—faster—in and out, in and out, a jagged rhythm—he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t see, the room was spinning and he couldn’t—

When he pulled out of Draco’s throat, when air came hard and ragged back into his lungs, when Draco doubled over and coughed and choked.

He wasn’t the only one out of breath. The Dark Lord was breathing heavy and deep as he said, “I believe I made myself clear, Draco—eyes on me.”

He did not wait for compliance. He seized Draco by a handful of hair and dragged him up. Though his vision was blurred by tears, he lifted his eyes to Voldemort.

It was horrible to look at him. White skin pulled tight over fine bones, bloody red eyes, shoulders heaving. The expression on his face made Draco think of a serpent, poised to strike.

“You can’t blame me, surely. As I said—you are particularly lovely on your knees. And you weep so prettily.”

The long white co*ck was shoved forcefully back into Draco’s mouth. Down his throat. In and out. In and out. He couldn’t breathe, but that was fine. He was far away, and getting farther with every heartbeat. He was somewhere else. Hogwarts, on his favorite window sill in the Slytherin common room. Bent over the sweet-smelling dittany in the greenhouse. Soaring across the Quidditch Pitch. Curled up with Harry in their favorite little study nook on the second floor.

He wasn’t here.

(“That’s it—nice and slack—ah—”)

He was with Harry.

(“What I’d give to claim you properly—”)

There was nothing to be scared of.

(“Breed you properly, as you were always intended to be—”)

He wasn’t being hurt. He wasn’t being raped. He wasn’t even here. He was with Harry, and nothing could touch him.

(“Bite you, mark you mine—aaah—!”)

Something on his tongue spasmed, pulsed. Liquid, a burning hot contrast to the icy body forcing itself into him, went spurting down his throat. Draco gagged uselessly for a time, then swallowed because there was nothing else he could do. His vision was gray at the edges. He was dizzy from what he belatedly realized was a lack of air.

And then it was over. The hand vanished, the co*ck withdrew. Draco collapsed, coughed, choked.

The Dark Lord spoke, but Draco couldn’t hear him.

Eventually, a door shut and the room went dark.

Time passed.

“Draco?”

The world came back slowly. Scent first—his own bedsheets, hot tea, and Professor Snape’s uniquely familiar smell of valerian root and aqua fortis. Then touch—stiflingly hot covers pulled up to his chin, a cool hand in his hair—

—not his hair, fisted in an icy grip—

“No,” Draco said, and scrambled backward, kicked, thrashed, “no, no, no, no more, no more—”

“Draco!”

“No more please no more please please no—”

“Draco, it’s me! It’s Severus! He’s not here!”

Finally, sight. Just fuzzy shapes at first, blurry patches of light and shadow that slowly came into focus. And it wasn’t until a few key details came into focus—lank black hair, intense dark eyes—that the heart slamming against the front of his ribcage gradually began to slow.

“Severus,” Draco said, if only to reassure himself that it was real, he was real.

His godfather’s expression was ruined. He sat perched on the very end of the armchair by Draco’s bed, one hand outstretched but hesitating right on the edge of contact.

“It’s me,” he confirmed. “Are you—is it all right to touch you? Just your wrist. I need to take your pulse.”

Draco told himself, firmly to calm down, and didn’t. He nodded. Severus reached out, pressed two fingers to the inside of Draco’s right wrist.

“I… I believe this is a panic attack,” he told Draco after a minute. His voice was oddly strangled, albeit perfectly steady. “I’d like to give you a potion, if you think you can keep it down. A calming draught.”

Draco nodded again. Out from the inner pocket of his robe, Severus produced a small bottle, shut with a metal cap and chipped wax seal. It took Draco’s shaking hands ages to negotiate the movements necessary to pry it open and swallow it down.

Once the last of the thin blue liquid was gone, Draco doubled over himself and panted and shook and desperately, desperately willed for it to work, to take away the fear.

It didn’t. Not really. But, slowly—so slowly it felt like hours—it took the edge off. It let him breathe properly, at least.

“Are you,” Snape said, then swallowed audibly. He tried again. “Are you injured anywhere?”

It took Draco a long while to process the question, and a while longer to determine some kind of answer.

“My throat—” Draco stopped, laughed just once, a little hysterically. Tears burned. “My throat hurts.”

“Right,” Snape said. The word was bitten off. “I… there are remedies, of course, for a sore throat, though their mechanics are meant to combat colds. Not…”

“Not when someone shoves their co*ck down your throat against your will?”

Snape said nothing.

“I’m sorry,” Draco whispered after a moment. An omega should always be decorous.

“Don’t apologize,” Snape answered. “I… there are topical numbing salves that can be reformulated. I can—I’ll brew you something.”

Draco nodded slowly.

Silence lapsed, long and heavy. Draco rubbed his throat feebly, a gesture that did absolutely nothing.

“I’m sorry,” Snape eventually said.

“Don’t apologize,” Draco replied.

“I am—I cannot—” His godfather’s voice was wavering treacherously. “I had always known that this was… but seeing it happen is—I—”

“Did you modify the chastity charm?” Draco asked.

“I… what?”

“He said,” Draco whispered, “that the chastity charm prevented a bonding bite till I was of age. But I know that wasn’t how my father cast it. He wanted me to be married and bonded as soon as possible. So did you modify it? It would have had to be you. The magic would only have responded to you.”

“I thought it would protect you,” Snape answered, voice bitter.

“It did.”

“At best, it’s bought you time. I couldn’t make it last past your seventeenth birthday; the magic was barely tractable enough to prevent a bite at all. As soon as you’re of age…”

Another heavy, suffocating silence.

“If I thought for a second,” Snape said, “that there was anywhere in the world I could take you—anything in the world I could do—”

Draco didn’t want to talk about this. “Is it true you have no taste for omegas?”

Snape stopped abruptly, huffed a surprised, almost delirious, laugh. “What? Is this really what you want to talk about?”

“I’ve never heard of an alpha who didn’t like omegas,” Draco said.

One more breathy laugh, then Snape shook his head.

“In truth, I’ve never been close enough to an omega to determine whether or not I might have a taste for them,” he said. “I’d never met one before your mother, and she was bonded to Lucius by then.

“In theory, I suppose I could find a taste for them, but in practice, I’ve only ever loved one woman, a beta, and have no intention of loving again. It’s just easier to say I don’t have taste for omegas than it is to tell Lord Voldemort to his face that I don’t f*ck children like he does.”

Draco laughed. He couldn’t help it; it came bubbling up out of his chest, wracking, shaking, hysterical laughter.

It didn’t stay laughter for very long.

“Draco, God,” Snape whispered, and moved from the armchair to the side of the bed, dragging him forward into his chest.

Everything got a little fuzzy from that point on. The familiar scent of valerian root and aqua fortis, once so comforting, did almost nothing to take the raw, bloody edge off Draco’s agony. In the frantic, swallowing darkness of his freshly rent soul, he was convinced that nothing ever could, that it would always hurt this much, this deeply, this horribly.

Snape stayed with him, at least, and whispered that meant nothing but felt kind.

“I wish I could stay,” Draco heard him whisper more than once. “I wish I could take you with me. I wish I could do anything.”

Draco wished the same, of course, just as fervently.

Weeks ticked on. July turned to August, August to September. Snape left. So did Cordelia.

His mother was still in the Manor, but there was barely anything left of Narcissa Malfoy by then. The long absence of her alpha had taken a huge psychological toll. Most days she didn’t even get out of bed.

With horrible regularity, Draco was raped. It became almost predictable.

It was almost always a Friday when it happened, after two or three days of his absence, when the familiar aching tug on Draco’s arm dragged him out of his bedroom and downstairs. It usually happened in the drawing room, but would occasionally take place in the office or the library.

On one horrible occasion, it happened beneath the portrait of Granny Dru, hung up in the formal sitting room, as she snarled and screamed about what a whor* and a degenerate Draco was while Voldemort chuckled and came down his throat.

That very night, with the bitter taste of the Dark Lord’s spend still on his tongue, Draco stumbled to his father’s laboratory, unfocused eyes moving slowly over the rows of ingredients. He wanted it to stop, but wasn’t sure of the best way to accomplish that goal.

His first thought was, of course, poison—but it seemed infeasible. Voldemort was incredibly paranoid; he never joined his followers at meals, drank very rarely and never from the Manor’s wine cellar, and Draco was half convinced that he didn’t even eat at all—it felt entirely too mundane, too human.

His second thought was also poison, not for Voldemort, but for himself. Draco didn’t need his wand to brew down nightshade to a deadly draught, and it would be painless. He lingered over the little jar of nightshade for a long time before his thoughts turned to Mother, to Cordelia, to Severus—he couldn’t abandon them, no matter how much he wanted an end to this nightmare.

Finally, Draco’s mind turned to Craft.

There was a spell in Julien de Montfort’s Book of Shadows that had caught Draco’s eye as soon as he’d seen it. All the spells within it had peculiar names, like to bottle ecstasy or to call down good fortune or to steal pain—but the one that had caught his eye was the strangest of all: to kill with kindness.

The ingredients were surprisingly simple: rose petals and hemlock, boiled in dragon’s blood. Add a piece of the killer, the instructions read, and force kindness.

He’d never tried any of the spells he’d found in the Book of Shadows before. But the Dark Lord’s horrible laughter from earlier in the evening was still echoing through the darker corners of Draco’s mind—mild, amused chuckling while the portrait of Draco’s grandmother called him a whor*, while he forced his co*ck down Draco’s throat—Draco would have killed him with anything. Kindness seemed as fitting a weapon as any.

So he gathered a flask of dragon’s blood and set it to boil. He used a mortar and pestle to grind together hemlock seeds and rose petals. The laboratory was dark, and the magic in the Manor was, too, snarling and snapping at Draco’s heels. It was eager for this, just like Draco.

“Kill him with kindness,” he whispered, and when he tipped the mortar over the small cauldron of bubbling dragon’s blood, the whole room shivered. “Kill him with anything. Make him suffer.”

The concoction was bubbling violently, the magic within it hissing. All that was left, Draco supposed, was a piece of the killer.

Spitefully, Draco used two fingers to wipe the spend from his lower lip. He flicked it into the cauldron.

Blue fire blazed briefly, lighting up the whole room. It was so bright it hurt to look at it—

—but, as soon as it began, it ended. The cauldron, when Draco blinked away the afterimage of the fire that had seared into his vision, was now empty.

Had it worked? Draco couldn’t quite tell. The spell had been cast, but—

He made a sound of frustration, sat back on his haunches, and rubbed his knuckles into his eyes. He didn’t know. Why couldn’t the Book of Shadows have more obvious names for spells, like murder you rapist or make someone’s co*ck fall off?

He’d invented his own Craft in the past, on instinct or even on accident, but those had been small and simple things. This was—big. And dark. Instinct wouldn’t be enough.

Eventually, Draco forced himself to his feet. He went back to his room and took a bath that did not clean him in the ways that mattered, then fell into a sleep that did not make him feel rested.

“Stop crying,” Voldemort said the very next week, when he held Draco by two handfuls of hair and shoved his co*ck down his throat. “Stop it. Stop whimpering.”

Draco couldn’t, of course, though a part of him wished he could. The rape was indignity enough; his inability to keep himself from sobbing, even as the Dark Lord f*cked his throat open, made the whole thing worse, somehow.

“Stop it,” he hissed. His teeth were bared, his hips bucking faster off the armchair at whose foot Draco had been forced to his knees. “I don’t—want to hear—your incessant—weeping.”

He tried to stop—really, he did—in his experience, disobedience was the easiest way to make the whole process hurt even more than it usually did—but he just couldn’t. He lifted his eyes to Voldemort’s, frantically searching for signs of malice, trying to measure how much worse this was going to be.

“Stop staring!” he snapped, and suddenly, Draco went flying backward. He hit the opposite wall with tremendous, echoing thud. Pain exploded down his spine and into his hip, and when he landed, it was hard on his front. He coughed and wheezed, curling in on himself, bracing for—something. A beating? A Cruciatus curse? A killing blow?

But nothing came for a long time. When Draco snuck a small, frightened look up, the Dark Lord was standing over him, expression scornful, but with an undercurrent of… what? Draco couldn’t tell, and was far too frightened to look any closer.

Eventually, he turned and stormed from the room. Draco flinched at the noise.

Kill with kindness, indeed. He’d have taken either and received none.

Around November, Bellatrix began following Draco around.

Perhaps she thought she was being subtle, but in Draco’s experience, no one in the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black was capable of subtlety.

She stared across the table when he ate. She hovered at the far side of the library when he read. On one particularly alarming occasion, she was in his bedroom when he stepped out of the ensuite, fresh out of a bath.

“Merlin!” Draco hissed, and nearly threw the heavy wooden brush he was holding through the window in his alarm. “What in—Aunt Bella, what are you doing in here?”

“I don’t know what you’ve done to him,” she glowered, “but it needs to stop.”

“What are you talking about?” Draco snapped, and tugged his dressing gown more tightly around his body—thank Merlin he’d brought it into the bathroom with him.

“His Lordship,” she clarified snarlingly. “Whatever it is you’ve done to him—as soon as I’ve worked out what it is, I’ll make sure he knows.”

Draco could barely believe what he was hearing. “What I’ve done to him?”

“The constant staring—the way he keeps you at his feet like a pet—”

“You think I have any say in the matter? I’m his fiancé!”

“And you are unworthy of the honor!”

All of a sudden, Bellatrix was inches away. Draco scrambled back several steps, tripping over his feet and colliding into the wall behind him; Bella followed him, loomed over him, hair wild and eyes mad.

“You’re unworthy to even be in his presence! If your failure of a father hadn’t been so desperate to be rid of you, His Lordship would have found a worthy consort—one who wouldn’t spurn his attention, one who’d be grateful!”

“You’re jealous,” Draco said. It made perfect sense, and yet was also absolutely, breathtakingly nonsensical. “You’re jealous. Merlin, Bellatrix, what do you want from me? To guard his affections like a jilted lover? Try your luck if you want him so badly! If it’ll keep his co*ck out of my throat for a single f*cking week, I’d—”

She slapped him hard enough to send Draco staggering. Pain burst across his face, his jaw; his lip caught between his teeth and tore, sending a sharp pang of blood rolling over his tongue.

He blinked for a few moments, stunned and bewildered.

“How dare you,” she hissed. “Filthy, painted slu*t. Just like your mother. How dare you speak this way of the Dark Lord? You’re unworthy of his touch!”

Bellatrix stormed from the room before Draco could even find his voice, before he even knew how to feel about her words.

She wasn’t the first one to call him a slu*t. Was that what Draco was? Unworthy of affection, unworthy of touch?

He rubbed his hand across his jaw. The last of the stinging pain left behind by Bellatrix’s slap was fading now, but Draco wasn’t thinking about the pain.

He thoughts turned, though he wished they wouldn’t, to Harry. He wondered if Harry knew what was happening to him here. Wondered if he would ever want to touch him again.

Who would? a small, terrible voice in the back of his mind jeered. Who’d take the cast-offs of Lord Voldemort?

Draco took a shuddering breath. He told himself that he would not think of Harry again. Harry wasn’t here and couldn’t help him. Draco didn’t deserve him.

slu*t, slu*t, slu*t, the terrible voice whispered.

Slowly, the Malfoy Manor began to fill up.

Not with Death Eaters, although there were a few new ones who would join the ranks, and more as the year churned on. The real masses who arrived went straight to the dungeons.

“More prisoners?” Draco couldn’t quite stop himself from saying when he saw them arrive. There were so many of them, shackled together with magical restraints, forced through the portrait of Armad Malfoy and down to the old cells.

“Political prisoners,” growled a familiar voice from behind, and Draco jerked and whirled around.

“Greyback.”

“Caught ’em myself,” he continued, pushing off the wall against which he’d been leaning and ambling forward, watching with keen yellow eyes as Yaxley yelled at once of them with a wound on his leg for holding up the line. “Mid-level bureaucrats, mostly. Ones that can’t be Imperiused’ll be Polyjuiced and left to rot—unless we need information of course.”

He shot Draco a feral smile, all teeth.

“Those ones we’ll leave to the tender mercies of your aunt and uncle.”

Nausea roiled in the pit of hi stomach. “Torture,” he said.

“If they’re smart,” Greyback said, “they’ll be compliant. I know I would be. I’ve seen Bella at work. Ever hear what happened to the Longbottoms?”

He had, of course, and had no desire to hear it a second time.

“People will notice if dozens of Ministry workers go missing all at once,” Draco said.

“Sure they will, but they won’t do sh*t.”

“It’s inhumane!”

Greyback gave Draco a long, assessing look.

“You’re lucky you’re the Dark Lord’s little slu*t,” he said after a moment. “This kind of talk would get anybody else killed.”

Draco opened his mouth, snapped it shut. He didn’t quite know what to say, which turned out not to matter—Greyback was already stalking away, down into the dungeons after Yaxley and the prisoners.

That night, Draco heard a lot of screaming. If it had been any other sound, it would be distant enough to be ignorable.

But of course, it wasn’t any other sound, and Draco didn’t sleep at all that night.

If he was going to be here in this place against his will, the regular victim of rape, he might as well rebel where he could.

“What are you doing?”

Draco wrenched around. The dungeons beneath the Manor were lit insufficiently, little orbs of magical fire flickering in aging sconces on the walls, always just a little too distant to illuminate what was in front of you. It was likely why he hadn’t noticed that Lord Voldemort had arrived on the far end of the hallway.

He swallowed, steeled himself. The Ministry bureaucrat on the floor in front of him—Draco thought she said her name was Agnes, though it was hard to be sure with all the missing teeth—made an agonized, gurgling sound.

“I’m,” he faltered. What was the point of lying to the finest Legilimens alive? “Healing her.”

“Healing her.”

“Yes.”

A pause, and then the Dark Lord came stalking forward, billowing black robes and chased by that familiar bloody-ashy scent which now always made Draco’s throat spasm in the anticipation of agony.

But it wasn’t his throat Voldemort went for this time, it was his arm, the one that had been holding the bowl full of antiseptic salve he’d brewed that morning. Draco yelped, but managed to hold it tight enough to not drop it.

“Why?”

“Because she’s in pain!” Draco answered, unsure if it was outrage or terror straining his voice higher. “What, you’d rather they just languish in agony? I thought you said you weren’t one for needless suffering!”

“They are my enemies,” he snapped.

“And you have won the fight against them!” With a jerk of his arm, Draco finally managed to extricate himself from the Dark Lord’s grasp. “They’re not a threat to you anymore, they’re not going anywhere, they can’t do anything to you! So why not just—just ease their pain?”

“What does their ease gain you?” He was shouting now, bending forward over Draco who was still sat on his knees, and who reflexively went scrambling backward at the approach. “What does relieving their suffering do for you?”

“Nothing!” Draco felt panicked. He’d already pressed himself into the wall, and there was nowhere else to retreat. “I just want to help them!”

“Why?” he screamed.

“I don’t know how to explain kindness to you!”

The expression on the Dark Lord’s face was inscrutable—some terrifying middle between outrage, confusion, and fury. His shoulders heaved, teeth bared, red eyes wide and angry.

“Kindness,” he eventually snarled, “is weakness. Compassion is weakness. It can be used against you.”

He reached out to seize Draco’s hair. A pathetic, frantic whine wrenched out of his throat and he curled away from the white hand, dropping the little bowl of antiseptic and immediately choking on a violent, convulsive sob.

He knew what was coming and it was going to hurt. He’d taste it for hours afterward. He’d have to fight for every breath. Please no please no please no please.

But it never came. Through gasping, wheezing breaths, Draco stole a terrified look up.

Voldemort was on the far side of the cell, his back to the wall. There was substantially less fury in his expression now, and substantially more confusion.

Then, abruptly, he turned and stormed out of the cell and toward the steps leading out of the dungeon.

Draco swallowed thickly, tried to talk himself into breathing again.

What was that?

Around Yule, Mother got sick.

Perhaps she’d been sick for a while and Draco just hadn’t had occasion to notice. The way she’d been languishing in bed, there was little indication of sickness—or, he supposed, of anything.

Still, when Draco came in to check on her the day before Yule, he found her ashen white, lying in sweat-soaked sheets. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, eyes moving wildly behind their lids.

“Mother?” Draco said, and set down the tray of breakfast he’d brought in to hurry to her side.

She didn’t answer. She did jerk, though, just once—a horrible sort of convulsion that sent her body curling over the side of the bed and coughing.

But no, not coughing—vomiting. Alarmed, Draco stepped back to avoid the bile, then climbed onto the bed beside her.

“Mother!”

He shook her by both shoulders. She retched again, body shaking, then stilled. Draco wrenched her over onto her back.

Up close, she looked even worse. Eyes sunken, cheeks hollow, sweat glittering on her brow and striping her blond hair.

Unfocused eyes opened, stared unseeingly out at Draco.

“Mum,” he said, heart in his throat. “This… what’s happening to you?”

“Dotty has seen this before.”

Draco wrenched around. The house-elf was standing nervously in the corner of the room, wringing the hem of the pillowcase she wore as a dress with both hands.

“You have?” Draco asked. “I—where?”

Dotty stole a nervous look over her shoulder toward the bedroom door, which Draco, in his haste, had left ajar. She snapped her fingers and it clicked shut quietly.

“In Master Lucius’s sister.”

“Fiona?” he asked, bewildered.

“No. Master Lucius’s other sister.”

All of Draco’s breath left him in a rush. “Marie.” The omega.

She nodded slowly and came forward on thin, knobbly knees. With a few sweeping gestures, she cleaned the bile off the Persian rug under Mother’s bed.

“When an alpha is rejecting their omega mate,” she explained, “or is being ripped away from their side, the magic of the bond bite will be fraying. It will be affecting both of them, but hurts the omega especially. If there is a name for it, Dotty is not knowing—but Dotty nursed Marie herself for six weeks before her husband broke her mind with dark magic, and it was looking very much like this.”

Draco swallowed. “So… so because Father is in Azkaban—?”

Dotty nodded, huge ears flapping, eyes wide and distressed. “Master Lucius is likely suffering similarly, though not as severely.”

“Draco?”

Draco looked back around. His mother was finally looking a little more aware of her surroundings, though couldn’t seem to make her eyes focus on her son.

“Hi,” was all he could think to say. His throat was so tight that he could barely get the word out.

“Hello, darling,” she said. She sounded confused. “Be a dear, won’t you, and fetch me some water?”

Draco glanced briefly back at Dotty, who was already using her magic to conjure a pitcher, cup, and tray.

“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you, sweetheart. Where’s your father?”

Draco tried unsuccessfully to swallow the lump that had lodged itself in his throat. Was her memory going? Or was it her whole mind?

“I… I’m not sure,” Draco whispered. It was all he could think to say.

“When he returns,” she said, “could you bring him here?”

Dotty was at her side a moment later, lifting the cup of water to Mother’s white lips.

“Nothing about our biology is fair, is it?” Draco asked. He wasn’t sure who he was talking to. “Nothing in the world is kind to us.”

Mother, still drinking in tiny little sips, didn’t answer.

But Dotty did: “A bonding bite is being sympathetic magic, old and powerful and primal. It responds to the will, the understanding of the one who bites and the one who is bitten. Master Draco’s father wanted ownership over his omega, and the bonding bite gave it to him.”

Draco had never hated his father more. He took his mother’s hand in his own, gripped tightly.

“There’s nothing to be done?” he asked.

“Unless Master Lucius is coming home,” Dotty answered, slow and grave, “then no. There is being nothing to do.”

She got worse rapidly after the New Year.

She went from weak and sleepy with occasional bouts of lucidity to effectively comatose; Draco could get nothing more substantial than mumbles out of her, and she could do little more under her own power than drink small mouthfuls of water and broth.

The list of things Draco could do about it was terrifyingly short. Anyone who might be able to help him was either too far to ask or entirely incapable.

He set to brewing a few vitality potions, hoping they might have some effect. He had all the reagents either tucked away in his father’s laboratory or growing in the garden, and he still had all his old potions textbooks to supplement his extant knowledge.

But before he could even get started on the first one, before he could even carry all the herbs he needed inside through the snow-dusted garden, his progress was impeded—

“What are you doing?”

Draco stumbled to a stop, hugged the basket of herbs to his chest.

The Dark Lord stood just inside the open French doors leading into the kitchen, red eyes searching.

He swallowed.

“I’m…” He gasped a few breaths, which snaked through his lips and fine, silvery mist in the frigid January air. “My mother is sick.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“I’m trying to brew her a vitality potion.”

“Why?”

Draco furrowed his brow.

“She—she’s my mother,” he said.

“And so? What do you owe her?”

“I love her.”

The answer didn’t seem to make any sense to him. He stared hard at Draco, red eyes dark and dangerous and uncomprehending.

“Nothing you do makes any sense,” he said eventually. “You help those who have nothing to offer you. You call it kindness, call it love, but it’s stupidity. It’s wasted effort. It’s weakness.”

“I,” Draco began, then stopped and started over. “Maybe. I don’t care.”

“Why?” he said again, more loudly, through his teeth.

“Because what’s the point of life if you don’t have people you love to share it with?” Draco felt like he was having a philosophical argument with a wall. “Look, I get it. You think I’m weak. You think I’m wasting my time. Fine—but it’s mine to waste, isn’t it? I’m not hurting you at all, I’m not interfering in your grand designs! You don’t understand, fine, but I’m not asking you to! Why is what I’m doing important to you? Why am I important to you?”

The Dark Lord didn’t answer. His face was a terrifying, unreadable, white mask.

Draco’s heart rabbited in the side of his throat. He hugged his basket of herbs a little closer to his chest and wondered, for a few nauseous moments, if he finally crossed some line and was about to die.

Then, eventually, “You come of age in June.”

He swallowed. “Yes.”

“The fifth, was it?”

It was getting very cold out in the garden. “Yes.”

“I’ll have you,” he said. “On the day it happens, I’ll have you.”

So cold that it was seeping into his bones, making him shiver. The wind blew and stung his eyes.

“The very stroke of midnight,” he said, with a voice that Draco had never heard before. “I’ll sink my teeth into your neck and f*ck you and you will be mine.”

Or, perhaps, Draco was weeping.

“You’ll carry my heir. You’ll be my bride and wear my mark. Stop crying.”

Draco stumbled backward a few steps. The wicker basket creaked and cracked under his fingertips.

“I will have you,” he said, like he was trying to convince someone, though Draco wasn’t sure who. “I’ll have you. You are promised to me and rightfully mine. Stop—weeping! Stop it!”

But Draco couldn’t stop, and the Dark Lord made an aggrieved sound, midway between a scream and a growl, and turned and stormed back inside.

Draco stood for a while in the snow, shaking and choking on his own throat.

It was so cold in the garden.

More people came to the Manor, prisoners from all over the country. Only magical folk at first, but then a few Muggles, too—members of their Parliament, Draco came to understand, who were varyingly tortured for information or placed under a thorough Imperius and released.

Draco had never met a Muggle before, but very quickly discovered that they screamed and wept and bled just like any witch or wizard.

He filled his mornings with brewing healing draughts and sedatives and antiseptics, as that was when all others in the Manor were likely to be elsewhere. The afternoons, when they would come back, typically with even more prisoners, Draco spent with his mother, trying to coax any sort of response out of her and never quite managing it. In the evenings, when the majority of the torture was done, he’d venture down to help those he could.

And he was able to help, for the most part—even though his efforts were occasionally hampered by the Dark Lord standing in the corner of the room and staring daggers into his back. Draco never dared to confront him about it, but that didn’t stop others from noticing.

“What kind of magic tongue do you have, to get His Lordship staring like that?” Antonin Dolohov said.

Draco flinched, but didn’t answer. He was daubing antiseptic on one of the Muggles who’d been here for a particularly long time.

“Come on,” Dolohov prodded, when Draco didn’t rise to the bait, “it was a compliment. An omega should know how to suck co*ck. At least I assume that’s what you’ve been doing, since there’s nothing on your neck.”

“I’m busy,” Draco said, very tightly, under his breath.

He settled down against the nearby wall, arms folded over his chest. “Everyone’s busy. Some of us just make more interesting decisions on how to delegate our time.”

He was looking to the back corner of the room. Against his better judgment, Draco followed his gaze.

Lord Voldemort, tall and white and robed in black, too far to reasonably overhear them, bared his teeth and spun, storming up the steps and out of the dungeon.

“If I didn’t know any better,” Dolohov said, “I’d say he had feelings for you.”

“His Lordship doesn’t have feelings,” Draco spat, and turned back to the Muggle.

“I thought the same, not that long ago.”

Draco frowned at him, or tried to. As soon as he looked, he was distracted by the huge volume of blood down his front.

“Merlin,” Draco said, recoiling. “What did you do?”

“Bella hasn’t been having any luck with Ollivander, so she’s letting me take a crack at him.”

Dread sunk through Draco’s belly. “Ollivander’s here?”

“He’s been here, boy, since July. A surprisingly tough nut to crack.”

“Where? I haven’t seen him.”

“He has… let’s call it special accommodations.”

Nausea churned in Draco’s stomach. He forced his eyes back to the Muggle, whose wound had already cleaned up; she’d slumped over slightly, eyes half-shut in what Draco dearly hoped was sleep. Greyback had been very hard on her.

Draco twisted the cap back onto the healing salve and stood. He’d do a quick triage and then head to bed. It was late, and he was exhausted, but that was the only way Draco could manage to fall asleep these days.

“So, really,” Dolohov said, “has he trained that tongue of yours or what?”

“f*ck off,” Draco snapped, and stormed away.

Though Draco tried to keep busy—and he desperately, desperately tried to keep busy—it was getting harder and harder to ignore the way his mother was deteriorating.

In late February, she slipped into something resembling a coma, the only evidence that she was even still alive in the shallow rise and fall of her chest. Draco would spend hours staring at that tiny movement, heart in his throat, just to reassure himself that she was still here.

His mornings, normally reserved for healing unguents and salves, became dedicated to brewing a revivification potion, the only thing strong enough to bring someone out of a comatose state.

But the formulation was extremely complex and precise, and when he failed for the second time, he overturned the cauldron onto the floor and broke down into frantic tears.

She was going to die. She was going to die. There was nothing Draco could do to stop it.

“What are you—”

Draco choked, looked up.

The Dark Lord stood in the doorway of the laboratory, hands braced on the frame, his expression more complicated than Draco had ever seen it.

Still, fear thrummed.

“I’m sorry,” he managed, and wiped frantically at his eyes, sucking down desperate breaths in an attempt to calm himself down. “I know you hate it when I… when…”

“Yes,” he said, his voice strange, but not angry.

“I’ll clean this up. I’m sorry,” he said again, and forced himself to his feet.

“Why,” the Dark Lord said.

Draco wiped again at his face with the end of his sleeve. “Why what?”

“Why are you,” he said, then bared his teeth as if to bite the rest of the sentence off. “Why.”

He took another few breaths. Without his wand, he could only grab the lip of the heavy iron cauldron and put it back on its stand over the fire.

“Because she’s dying,” Draco said. “My mother’s dying. I can’t fix it.”

Silence, then. Draco didn’t care. He just hoped he didn’t ask him why he cared again. It seemed to be all he did these days. Why are you always crying? Why do you flinch away from my touch? What are you so scared of? Even while his co*ck was down Draco’s throat. It was unbearable.

He grabbed a few spare rags from their spot on the shelf and dropped down to clean the failed potion up.

It wasn’t until he was nearly done that Voldemort said, “What would?”

“What would what?” Draco asked, swiping broad circles through the viscous brown muck.

“What would fix her?”

Draco frowned, looked up.

The tone of the question had been oddly uncertain, and it was mirrored by a withdrawn, almost suspicious expression.

Draco knew better than to backchat, of course. But his mother was dying and he was feeling bleak.

“Why the interest?” he asked, voice flat.

“I do not have to explain myself to you,” he answered at once.

Draco laughed hollowly. “Right. But I have to explain every single thing to you. How foolish of me to forget.”

“You are,” Voldemort faltered, “upset. With—with what? Your life?”

“What life?” Draco hissed.

From the corner of the room, a soft pop. Draco recognized the sound right away as Dotty, which was confirmed by her trembling voice: “M… Masters…?”

“What do you have to complain about?” Voldemort demanded. He sounded almost defensive.

“You can’t honestly be that naive,” Draco bit back. Even though the little voice in the back of his head was warning him how dangerous this was, he could barely hear it over the roar of nihilistic grief ringing in his ears. “You can’t honestly think I’m happy.”

“You live in luxury!” Voldemort snapped. “You want for neither food nor shelter—”

“I am a prisoner!”

“You are well-guarded from all forces that might do you harm—”

“By killers and maniacs!”

“And you are promised to a powerful alpha set to dominate all the world—”

“You rape me!”

The silence that followed hit the room so hard Draco was surprised that the Manor didn’t crumble around them.

From the corner, Dotty’s voice trembled again: “Masters… Masters, Dotty is… she…”

“You rape me,” Draco said. “You imprison me. You cannot honestly think—you are many things, Tom Riddle, but you have never been stupid.”

His expression was frozen solid and terrifying. But he didn’t move. And Draco was ready to provoke him, to walk right into the point of the Dark Lord’s wand.

“Or is it just self-delusion? Do you need to tell yourself that I want this, that I want you, that what you’ve been doing to me isn’t rape? Why? Why does it matter to you? Why do I matter to you?”

And then, Draco heard the question for the first time, despite having asked it before. Something subtle shifted—in the room, in the center of Draco’s chest, and even on the Dark Lord’s face.

“Why do I matter to you?” he asked again, more slowly.

“Masters,” Dotty whimpered.

“What would fix your mother?” the Dark Lord asked. His voice was stranger still.

“Why do I matter to you, Tom Riddle?”

“Answer my question.”

“Answer mine!”

“I don’t know!” he barked. “That is the answer! That is the truth! I do not know why you matter, but I despise that you do! You are—infuriating. You weep and I loathe the sight of it. You flinch away from me and I want to ruin the world. And I don’t know why.”

Draco swallowed.

“I thought I wept prettily,” he said, throat thick with tears. “I thought you enjoyed my… pain.” Or at least he had at first.

“I did! I—I thought I did. I—”

He looked incensed, furious—with Draco, or perhaps with the situation, or maybe even with himself. He bore his teeth, clenched and unclenched his fists. Draco stared.

“What would fix your mother?” he roared.

“She,” Draco said, and swallowed again. “It’s her bonding bite. Being separated from her alpha has—she needs Lucius back at her side or she’ll die.”

“It’s done, then,” he said, impatiently.

“Wh-what?”

“It’s done! I’ll get your father out!”

Draco couldn’t believe was he was hearing. “Y-you… you would—?”

“Yes! Apparently I would! Apparently I would rip the world apart for you!”

“Masters,” Dotty wailed.

Draco felt like he was out of breath. He stared down at his feet, then over his shoulder at Dotty.

Tears were rolling down the house-elf’s face.

“The mistress is dead,” she keened.

Draco’s world suddenly became very, very small.

“What,” he said. Then, “No.”

“She—?” Voldemort began, but Draco was shoving past him, racing down the hallway. No, no, no. “Draco!”

He ran, stumbled over his own feet. She couldn’t be dead. Not now. Not when the first sliver of hope had broken through the black cloud of Draco’s life—she couldn’t, she couldn’t—

But when he saw her bedroom door ajar—

“Mother!”

—and saw a limp white hand hanging over the side of her bed—

“Draco! Draco!”

—he knew, like he knew himself, like he knew his magic—

“No—”

—that she was dead, she was dead, she was dead—

Draco’s throat strained and tore as if he was screaming, but he could not hear it. His knees burst with pain as though he’d collapsed, but he could not recall the fall.

There were hands on him, words that were said, but all sensation went past him unacknowledged.

Time passed. He wished it wouldn’t.

There was a certain surreality to life after. Nothing quite felt real. In a way, it was comforting. The hazy in-between was better, surely, than whatever was waiting for him in the waking world.

Every now and then the scar on his arm would ache, but it would never pull him anywhere. In time, it would dissipate, and Draco would fade out again.

“Then make him eat.”

“D-Dolly will… try her best, but—”

“No. You will not try. You will make him eat.”

“Master m-m-must understand, he is grieving. There is no ready remedy to that.”

“Why not?”

“Please, My Lord, be at ease. The omega is replaceable. There are others who would happily give over themselves to be your consort—an honor, truly, beyond compare—”

“Get your hands off me, Bellatrix! Get out!”

“I only—!”

“Get out! Both of you get out!”

At some point, Draco woke up.

He was in his bedroom, full of dull gray light. The blankets on his bed fell away, pooling in his lap, as he sat upright.

He was alone, which surprised him, though for a time he didn’t understand quite why.

There was a lingering scent in the air—blood and ashes. Beside his bed, the empty armchair; he reached out and pressed a hand to its cushion. It was still warm.

That, his tired mind supplied, was why it surprised him he as alone. Because he hadn’t been for quite some time.

Carefully, Draco stood.

His joints ached in protest and he swayed precariously. His mouth felt unnaturally dry in the same way it had when he was in St. Mungo’s—someone had been feeding him magically.

He stood in silence for a while. In the mirror on the far wall, he could see his own tangled hair, rumpled nightgown, and bloodshot eyes. He wondered how long he had been here.

He didn’t wonder for very long, though. Eventually, he wandered out of his bedroom, through the corridor, down the steps to the foyer. The Manor seemed oddly empty, almost abandoned.

He wasn’t sure where he was going until he was pulling open the portrait of Armand Malfoy and climbing slowly down. And though the upper levels were deserted, the dungeons were as full as ever, a damp silence cut through with whimpering, weeping, whispered pleas for mercy that found no audience.

Down a narrow, near-invisible hallway off the main room, around a corner, Draco found what he was looking for. He heard it before he saw it, the unmistakable sound of blade on wood.

The door was unlocked, and came open easily. Why shouldn’t it? After all, Garrick Ollivander was shackled to the floor in front of his workbench.

“Oh,” he said when he saw Draco. The little knife he was using to whittle the wand in the vise on the table fumbled slightly, but did not fall. “You are… not who I was expecting.”

He looked terrible. His white face was a battlefield of fading bruises, his posture stooped as if he could barely hold himself upright, his silvery hair matted with blood.

Draco didn’t answer, but he did wander forward on bare feet, to the other side of his work bench. It was piled high with blocks of wood, bottles of reagents and polishes and sealants. It was also splattered with blood.

“Vine and unicorn hair, wasn’t it? Nine inches? As I recall, it hit you right in the middle of the forehead the second you came into my shop.”

Still, Draco didn’t speak. He wasn’t quite sure what he was doing here, until the reason occurred to him a burst of horrible clarity: he was lonely. His mother was dead, and he had no one else to talk to.

“It’s a fine wand,” Ollivander said slowly. “A very fine wand. How is it these days?”

“Snapped in half,” Draco answered before he could stop himself. “An omega does not need a wand to serve his alpha.”

A brief, horrible silence lapsed.

“I see,” Ollivander said eventually. “My… my sympathies.”

“I didn’t know you were down here till recently,” Draco said.

“I’m kept in this room exclusively,” Ollivander answered. “Since I will not answer their questions, they force me to make wands for them.”

He gestured to the mad mess on the workbench between them.

“I confess, I’m not sure how long I’ve been down here. I remember I was taken in July, right out of my shop, but—”

“It’s March,” Draco said.

Ollivander swallowed visibly, said nothing. He leaned his weight forward, hands braced on the table, shoulders shaking.

“I,” Draco began, then licked at the rough chap of his lower lip. “I think I might be able to get you out of here.”

He looked up sharply.

“I know their schedules,” Draco continued. “I could sneak you out in the middle of night, if you think you could survive the journey. The Floo in the Manor is being monitored, of course, but there’s a town not far. You could take a broom.”

“They will notice that I am gone,” Ollivander said.

“Yes, well, with luck you will be far enough away as to be beyond reach by then.”

“They will know I had help,” Ollivander said.

Draco nodded.

“They will surely suspect you.”

“Surely.”

“You would risk your life to free me?”

“My mother is dead,” Draco said.

The wandmaker’s face fell. “I’m so sorry.”

“My mother is dead, and apart from two house-elves who are too scared to show their faces for more than a few minutes at a time, there’s no one in this place who loves me. I’m going to spend the rest of my life here, slave to a madman. I am willing to risk my life,” Draco said, “because there’s nothing left worth living for.”

Ollivander was silent for a long time, silver eyes sad.

“I’ll heal you up first,” Draco said. “Get you some proper food, and pack you more for the road. If you’re able, you can leave tonight.”

Ollivander took Lucius’s old Nimbus 9 that very evening, patched up as best Draco could manage and carrying a rucksack full of food. He flew south as fast as he could, toward the little Muggle town a few miles past the edge of the property.

No one noticed he was gone till late the next morning. In the chaos, Draco snuck two Muggles out through the servant’s entrance. They ran south, too, clutching a little flask of healing potion Draco sent them on with.

On and on, as many as Draco could get away with, sometimes three or four a month.

People suspected, but no one ever leveled formal accusation. After all, Draco was just an omega. Just the Dark Lord’s little slu*t. How could he possibly be so capable?

As the weeks went on, as Draco’s seventeenth birthday got closer and closer, he got more daring. He sabotaged potions they were brewing, knocked candles over onto maps and ledgers, and of course got more prisoners out.

If Draco was going to lose everything, he was going to do as much damage as he could along the way. He was going to make it hurt them as much as it hurt him.

What was most surprising was not his success rate, nor his evasion of suspicion—it was Voldemort.

He never touched Draco again.

And then, the day before Draco came of age, nearly every Death Eater left the Manor at once in a chaotic rush, sprinting for the Floo. Draco was just coming out of his bedroom when he saw the commotion, watching as they ran. In the cacophony of their barked orders and shouted explanation, he only caught a few words—

Hogwarts.

Dumbledore.

Attack.

Draco thought his heart might break straight through the wall of his chest. Dumbledore had been attacked? Or just Hogwarts? Or both? He hadn’t seen either Severus or Cordelia since they left in September, and with the new wards over the Manor, had no way to contact them.

He followed them as far as he could, down the steps and into the foyer, stopping in the archway leading to the sitting room. After the last of them—Dolohov, with a limp from a recent fight of some kind—went stumbling through the Floo, Draco was left alone in a house so silent that it screamed.

His head filled with wild ideas. Was he really alone? It was a tempting opportunity to make use of. Maybe he could burn the Manor to the ground. Open every cell in the dungeons and bring down the whole building. He wouldn’t even miss it.

Maybe—

“Draco.”

His first thought was: that’s not possible.

Because how could it be? How could he be here? He’d heard his voice a thousand times in the sweetest parts of bitter dreams, but never after he’d woken.

But when he turned—

“Harry.”

And not just Harry, but Hermione, and Ron, and Dean, and Seamus, and Ginny, and Marietta Edgecomb and Zacharias f*cking Smith. The D.A., pouring in through the front door of the Malfoy Manor and immediately spreading out.

“All right, you lot!” Ron was calling. “You know the plan! We’ve got less than hour before we will be forced to assume they’ve figured us out!”

“Harry,” Draco said again.

“Hi,” Harry said.

Draco’s mouth was moving, but the words refused to come.

“If you come across any Death Eaters who stayed behind, stupefy first, call for help later! Don’t be a hero; save that for our fearless leader!”

“What,” Draco whispered, voice breaking, “what are you… what is this?”

Harry swallowed. A painful smile ripped across his face.

“It’s your rescue mission.”