Chapter Text
It had been the second graveyard shift for Harry this week. All in all, it hadn’t been so bad.
No late-night creepers, no vagrants, no deep-sleep students drooling onto their textbooks, no old ladies monologuing about their hip replacements, no raccoons, and - miraculously - no one had tried to booty-call him with a flat white and a wink.
The tip jar had even been decent . A rare win.
Still, his shift ended at 2 a.m., which was about as far from a decent hour as one could get.
Indecent hours were what he worked. Exhausted was what he felt like.
Harry didn’t bother changing - just took off the apron, pulled a hoodie over his black polo shirt (the black luckily could hide the few coffee stains) and stepped out into the quiet London streets in late September.
It was a bit chilly, but nothing a faint warming charm couldn’t fix.
He stood at the crossroads, AirPods in, music blasting to keep him awake, eyes fixed mindlessly on the red man of the traffic light.
Muggles have a thing for rules, he thought fondly. Like standing at an empty crossing at 2:30 a.m., waiting for the green light, as if the universe would smite them for jaywalking. What a silly notion.
In his mind, he had already travelled to his home, where he would barge in, wolf down a slice of cold pizza he saved for this evening (a cold second day’s pizza was his guilty pleasure), a few sips of whiskey to get warm and fuzzy. It’s Friday night after all. Then, he would brush teeth and fall into the mattress with his favourite crime podcast and drown into a nice, fuzzy sleep…
Oh, the light was green now. He stepped onto the street, not thinking much, when something made him look to his right, and…
Some idiotic car was right there, approaching quickly, just a few meters away.
Acting on instinct, he flicked his fingers wandlessly, casting a quick, but probably inefficient Shield Charm.
Not that it helped much.
His body met the hood of the car, then he was rolling - over metal, over glass, over metal again - and finally, he hit the wet asphalt with a spectacular lack of grace.
For a moment, he just lay there, blinking up at the blurred city lights.
Here’s to living fast and dying young, he pondered. Not that I lived…fast. Also, I never saw the northern lights. Never visited the pyramids, nor the Great Wall. Never tried oysters.
Then everything went dark.
______
He woke up.
For a long moment, he just stared at the ceiling. No water stains from the upstairs neighbors. Interesting.
Where the fuck am I?
He pushed himself up, wincing. The room around him was unfamiliar.
A hotel?
The bed was large - queen-size, maybe? Not that he was fluent in muggle bed terminology. A padded headboard. Matching bedside tables and lamps. Yeah, hotel vibes.
Except…
Why am I in a hotel after getting hit by a car? After losing consciousness?
Have I been kidnapped?
No ropes, though. Small blessings.
Then he noticed a tiny, wiry woman, sitting in an armchair beside him, asleep. Her glasses were about to fall off her tiny nose.
Who is she? How long have I been out? Where am I? What is happening?
The woman stirred, blinking awake, then immediately straightened, professional and composed.
"Hello," she said, smoothing her blazer. "I am mediwi…I am Dr. Hazel. I understand you might be confused, but I assure you, you’re safe. Your health is my utmost priority."
"Er - " What??
"Let me check your vitals."
She was already leaning in, pressing cool fingers to his wrist before he could object. Harry instinctively retracted, but before he could fire off a single question, the door opened.
And a man walked in.
There were beautiful men, and then there were men who knew they were beautiful.
This one was the latter.
Tall. Unfairly so. He moved like someone who had never hurried a day in his life. Dark curls framed a face designed to be admired - sharp cheekbones, perfectly arched eyebrows, a ridiculous jawline, and a mouth so full it practically invited sin. Dark, magnetic mahogany eyes.
And of course, he was wearing black. All black. A crisp blazer, a fucking turtleneck. The uniform of a man who either had obscene amounts of money or was deeply pretentious. Or someone who just wanted to show off his large, muscled torso.
Worse - he smirked. At Harry.
Harry’s stomach curled, a flashback of a trauma setting in.
This man almost killed me. He was at the wheel.
The man met Harry’s gaze, taking him in with a slow, considering look. Then, he turned to the doctor. "How is he?"
I am right here! You can ask me!!
"He’s doing fine," Dr. Hazel replied, standing. She turned to Harry. "You had a mild concussion. Slept for eighteen hours. But you should be fine now."
"Eighteen hours?" Harry repeated, dubious. "Did you…scan my brain while I was…unconscious?"
Dr. Hazel didn’t answer. She merely exchanged a glance with Mr. Kidnapper and left.
Harry exhaled sharply and turned to the bastard. His cheeks were burning with rage and humiliation.
"Why am I here?" he demanded.
The man looked at him like he was some lost puppy. Then, slowly, he smiled.
"What do you mean?"
What do I mean???
"You hit me. With your fucking car. While I was crossing on green. I should be in a hospital. You should be in custody. I take it you didn’t call the police? Or an ambulance?"
The man didn’t look remotely sorry. If anything, he looked… entertained.
He let out a low, smooth chuckle..
"I realize this might… sound wrong to you," he said, "but I’m not exactly the sort of person who ends up in custody."
Oh, he was insufferable .
"Really?" Harry shot back. "Let’s see about that. You nearly killed me with your obnoxious, overcompensating-for-something car, kidnapped me, denied me proper medical care, and - what? Expect leniency when I report you? Even for a rich bloke, that’s bold. Hope you like orange uniforms, because that’s what you’re going to wear in prison."
The man just smiled. Fondly.
What a bastard.
"You’re quite cute," he murmured.
Harry’s brain skidded.
"Also," the man continued, as if he hadn’t just dropped that on him, "have you thought this through? Because when you report me… what evidence do you have? There are no cameras at that crossroads. I checked. And thanks to the Shield Charm you cast, there’s no physical proof on your body, either."
Harry’s breath hitched.
The man’s lips curved into something decadent. "Oh, by the way," he added, too casually, "I’m a bit of a recluse from the Wizarding world, too. But not so much as to be oblivious to other people’s magic."
Oh, no.
But then Harry felt a scent. Rich, gorgeous. The kind that didn’t just linger but claimed physical space - oak, leather, sharp black pepper, a dust of cinnamon, and smoky vanilla.
Fuck.
An Alpha. Not an aggressive one, not the overbearing kind, but it was unmistakable.
Suppressants. I need my suppressants.
Harry hadn’t needed them in a long time so he hoped the expiration date was still valid.
"Right," Harry managed, tight. "So, you nearly killed me, and I’m supposed to be grateful you’re not exposing me?"
The man leaned in - just slightly. Just enough to make Harry lean back immediately.
"Who said anything about gratitude?" he chuckled. "I’m not asking for gratitude, quite the opposite. I’d like to make up for all the pain and suffering I’ve caused you. Just tell me how - and I’ll do it."
What. The. Fuck.
It was tempting. Of course, it was. A small, deeply shameful part of him - one that had always dreamed of a sugar daddy - was currently doing cartwheels.
The more dignified part was scandalized.
Gotta go with dignity this time. And rationality as well for a change.
With a groan, he pushed himself up, wincing at the headache but determined to get out of here before he made any bad decisions.
"If you can’t take responsibility for what happened, then - from the bottom of my heart - fuck you. I don’t need anything from you."
For a moment, he bloody stumbled, but he made it to the door before the man could stop him.
And that’s when he realized he wasn’t in a hotel.
It was a flat. A very expensive flat, with a fancy hallway.
His worn, dirty trainers were neatly placed on the outrageously plush carpet, his hoodie and wallet set on a small, designer-looking shelf.
How… considerate.
He crouched to put his trainers on when the man followed him.
"You’re not seriously leaving like this," he said, sounding… worried?
"Oh, I’m so sorry - didn’t realize I needed your permission," Harry drawled, stuffing his foot into his shoes. His vision was spotty, but he still clocked his backpack in the corner. "Why wouldn’t I want to spend another day in a strange criminal’s flat?"
"You can’t go out like this - you’ve been concussed, you’re dehydrated - "
Harry started shoving his things in his backpack. Something was missing.
“Where are my AirPods?”
“What?”
“Stupid question. Probably on the street where you hit me.” He started moving towards what seemed like the entrance door.
"Sorry about the AirPods. Can I at least drive you home?" The man asked.
"With the vehicle that almost killed me? I’d rather not."
“Actually I have seventeen other cars,” the man started, but Harry wasn’t listening.
Harry yanked his backpack up, felt for his wand - still there, in the hidden side pocket - then turned around. Technically what we was about to do was not allowed in the Muggle neighborhood, but who the fuck cares.
The man took a step forward, like he might physically stop him, but before he could blink-
Harry Apparated.
______
This is ridiculous, Harry thought. I should not be thinking about him.
And yet, his mind kept circling back to the unnamed bastard in the fancy flat.
Especially when it contrasted so vividly with his own humble living arrangements.
Because as it happens, life as a blue-collar Muggle wasn’t particularly enchanting.
At first, he lived with flatmates. That had seemed reasonable - he was used to dormitories, after all. How different could it be?
Well.
It turned out that flat-sharing was a level of enforced intimacy even Hogwarts hadn’t prepared him for.
Like the horror of discovering, every morning, that the toilet seat was warm . And not because of a charm.
Harry had learned something important about himself during those years: he had a deep, visceral aversion to human-warmed toilet seats.
Eventually, he’d moved into his own place, but the first few flats had been dire. Some had been so cramped that the sink was practically in bed with him. Which, granted, had its perks - he could make tea in the morning without getting up.
But, deep down, it had always felt like he’d never really escaped the cupboard under the stairs.
So when he’d finally found a flat where the kitchen was a separate room ( imagine! ), and it wasn’t entirely out of his price range, he’d jumped at it.
Harry opened the fridge and contemplated the now sad, slightly grey pizza slice. Instead of a guilty pleasure snack it was cardboard. In the end, he had to throw it out. Cereal it was, then. Sigh .
After a rather depressing meal, he brushed his teeth and pulled the duvet up to his chin, switched on his favourite crime podcast, and -
"Good evening, lovely macabre-dames. Tonight, we delve into the chilling case of the infamous serial killer known as the Black Reign. Probably the sexiest murderer we've ever covered - "
Right. That was enough.
Harry could already picture the Black Reign. Or rather, he could picture a certain other dark-haired, devastatingly attractive, insufferable man.
And he could still smell him. Rich, warm, utterly addictive -
No. No, no, no. He would not let that infuriating rogue of an Alpha awaken his dormant Omega instincts.
This was exactly why he had left the wizarding world in the first place.
Being an Omega in a society that believed Omegas belonged to their Alphas had been bad enough.
Being the only male Omega of his generation - and one of the few in the last century - had been even worse.
After presenting, he had been prodded and studied by mediwizards, treated more like a specimen than a person. He had tried to live a normal life, to date, even - only to learn that people weren’t drawn to him. They were drawn to his rarity.
One date had gone so far as to call him “Top-tier bedpost notch.”
Harry hadn’t even waited for the bill before walking out.
After enough of those encounters, he had understood why so many Omegas abandoned magical society altogether. There was no intimacy, no trust. Just instinct and ownership.
Muggles, though - Muggles were all Betas. No scents. No urges. No overpowering hormones. No one losing their bloody mind over him.
It had been peaceful. It had let his Omega side sleep.
Until now.
Now he had that infuriating, entitled, rich, stupid Alpha in his mind and he didn’t even know his name.