Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Here, darling.” His mother helps him sit up. He’s sweating, drool trailing from the side of his mouth. Something in his stomach feels wrong, feels different. Merlin, no. It can’t be that.

“Mum. It hurts.” Draco leans into her clean, linen smell. She’s warm. Draco is shivering, like he’s sick.

“Drink this.” His mother places a phial in his hand. The liquid is pink. “It’ll help. And you’ll take it again in three months. You must. Promise me.”

“Why? Am I—one of them?” Draco’s heart quickens. The Dark Lord wants one. They’re just trying to find a fertile one. His father won’t let him use the word. But Draco knows it. Omega.

“This potion will ensure you’re not. You’re a Beta. That’s what you must say to anyone who asks.”

Draco nods. Of course, he doesn’t fully believe that he is a Beta, not with the heat in his hips and the ache in the pit of his stomach. Or the squirmy thing he feels when certain men look at him. Always Alphas. But he doesn’t say anything; just takes the potion and gulps it down.

“If one of the men—well, you know what they do to their boys… if one of them does it to you, take these.” She puts a packet of pills in Draco’s hand. “The pills will stop it from rooting inside. Severus can make you more if I’m not around.”

“If you’re not—why wouldn’t you be around?”

“Just promise.”

“Yes.” A spasm hits Draco’s thighs. Then his spine. He’s so empty. “I promise.”

“And stay away from the Dark Lord. Especially him.” Mother’s voice is so serious.

He clings to his mother as the pain slowly starts to ebb. “Yes, Mother.”

The first wave of the virus strikes two months before the end of the war. It targets Betas, mostly. Half of the remaining Omegas. None of them can carry to term. Some of them die, gruesome deaths late in pregnancy.

It makes the Dark Lord want one even more. Draco feels him staring sometimes. He sniffs the air when Draco is in the room. Like there’s something he might be missing about his youngest Death Eater; like he might be hungry for it.

Once, he corners Draco. Presses him against the wall, a hand on his thigh. “You don’t smell right. Do you? Not quite right.”

Draco shudders through it until the Dark Lord’s crazed eyes turn elsewhere. Until he’s sniffed his fill and loses interest. After, he takes two pink potions and locks himself in his room. He bathes and bathes to get the scent off of him. Even though he doesn’t know what it smells like. Or where it comes from. He just knows it's dirty. And wrong.

The final battle is a relief. Even though they’ve lost. Even though the Aurors come for them. Sentencing is swift. There is no jury, nor witnesses. Draco’s father is scheduled for execution. He and his mother are shipped off to Azkaban.

In the chill and damp, the virus spreads easily. The guards say it takes care of the Beta criminals. No need for Dementors anymore.

It’s a cold morning when a guard gives him the news. He’s been in Azkaban for one week.

“She’s buried out back with the rest.” He points at Draco. “You’re next.”

***

It becomes difficult to tell whether it’s day or night. Food comes at regular intervals, but it’s always the same; a thin, grey gruel. Three months in, Draco’s stomach starts rejecting it. Tonight, it’s worse. He takes a spoonful and starts heaving. His skin is clammy, itchy. The backs of his eyelids are hot. He takes to pacing his cell, then lies down on the hard, thin mattress when he can’t anymore. The shivering follows, then the sweat.

He’s seen it often now, with the other prisoners. The coughing will come next, then the pox will appear. He closes his eyes and waits for the end. He thinks of Mother. The pink potions. The warmth of his bed at home.

When he wakes, he’s somewhere else. The room is padded, but the cloth that lines the walls is mostly clean. He has a blanket—two blankets!—and a pillow, and he’s wearing a fresh set of pyjamas, white with pink hearts, and fuzzy slippers. On his hands are matching mittens, each tied together with a bow at his wrist. He’s clean, he thinks. Or, at the very least, the stench of the cell has been replaced with something significantly better. A light blue mist is pumped into the room, and Draco’s eyes go heavy.

A Healer in lime green robes is the first person he sees. A day later, maybe.

“Am I dead?”

The Healer ignores him. A piece of parchment and a QuickQuill hover nearby. “Patient appears to be a normal, relatively healthy eighteen-year-old male. Some signs of malnutrition, but that’s to be expected in his current conditions. Late onset secondary gender evident. Traces of heat suppressants discovered in the roots of his hair and aspirated fat from the left thigh. None in blood or urine. Likely resistant to the pox.”

She touches Draco’s hair, pokes her fingers in his ears. Lifts his chin. When she puts her fingers to his lips, he opens his mouth and lets out a moan. His body tingles pleasantly when she lets him suck. His cock, mortifyingly, stiffens in his pyjamas.

“Appropriate secondary gender oral response noted.” She pulls out her fingers, and Draco keens. It hurts. Something deep within him hurts.

“More. I—need—” His body is wracked with a shiver. Wet spreads between his thighs.

The Healer sniffs. “Ah. That’ll be your slick coming in.” She sounds pleased, but the words don’t make any sense. “The Birthing Society will be delighted. You’ll go to them. They’re becoming an official department in the Ministry. Rehabilitating young vessels like yourself.”

“The Birthing—”

The Healer is back to her chatter. She pulls down his pyjamas and smacks him on the bottom. Humiliatingly, he groans and tries to spread his legs. The Healer doesn’t seem terribly interested, more focused on gathering the fluid between his legs into a small phial. “Patient’s slick has been gathered. The smell and texture hint at strong signs of fertility. Further tests should provide proof of ovulation.”

Afterwards, she wipes him down and dresses him again, tucking him in like he’s a child. “You, my boy, are very lucky. Very lucky indeed!”

The blue mist pumps into the room. Draco is sleepy. And empty. So, so empty.

The next person he sees is the warden, who crouches down before him. He pokes and prods and grumbles about the luck of Death Eater scum. “The likes of you, getting shipped off to our war heroes! Tended and cared for like a prize Hippogriff. I should have ended you when I had the chance. But they’re shipping all of you out.”

“Where am I—what—I’m not dead?”

The warden spits. “No. You’re an Omega. And you’ll be breeding stock for the next ten years. Property of the state.”

Draco’s chest seizes. He sobs, then sobs harder.

He wishes he could go back and die on the floor of his grimy cell. He cries for a long time after the door closes, but there’s no one to hear him.

***

They keep his hands and wrists tied as he shuffles through the Portkey Authority. The blue potion keeps him foggy and quiet.

“Where am I going?” He has to force out the words. The Healer doesn’t answer, but she takes him to international departures. Even in his haze, he knows that much. She flicks his ear when he looks up to read the sign. But he’s seen it: Dublin.

“This is the home of two war heroes. You should be proud you were chosen. Mr Finnigan asked for a boy who’d never been bred.” She shoves him towards the steps of the townhouse. “The Dark Lord didn’t give you one, did he?”

“No.”

“Lucky you.”

Draco is shown to an upstairs room with peeling pink wallpaper, decorated with little hearts, just like his pyjamas. The door stays locked, and his mittens stay on. There’s nothing to read or do or look at, and his magic won’t work here, either. So he stays in bed and thinks of home.

Twice a day, the blue potion is pumped into the room, and Draco sleeps. A maid comes in every so often to bathe him, change his pyjamas—from pink to blue and back again—and replace his already clean mittens with cleaner ones. When his heat comes—that’s what it must be, since he feels sick and empty and wet between his legs—the blue potion is pumped in four times a day. When Finnigan finally comes to him, Draco is a whining, sopping mess, his pyjamas clinging to his arse, slick pouring down the backs of his thighs.

Finnigan doesn’t speak when he undresses Draco. He just sticks his fingers inside like he’s checking the temperature of a potion. It’s a horrible relief, being held open on thick fingers, that lightning pulse of pleasure inside. Draco hears himself begging, hears Finnigan’s chuckle as if it’s coming from far away.

“Got what you need right here.” Finnigan unzips and sticks his cock in without preamble. Humiliatingly, Draco moans and spreads his legs wider and wraps them around Finnigan’s waist. The slick is a mess on the mattress beneath him.

“Please, please, please,” Draco babbles, not entirely sure what he’s asking for. He knows, in the back of his mind, that something happens when an Omega is in heat; then there’s some chemical reaction in an Alpha’s body. But there are so few Omegas now—a vanishing breed, his mother said, when she gave him his second potion, so it’s best no one knows—and Draco has no idea what his heat actually means. Just that he needs, needs something, and his cock is hard, and his hole is so, so wet. And the slide inside is delicious, the sound of it wet and sticky, a satisfying slap of hips against his burning skin. But it’s not enough.

“Jesus, oh, that’s—good—you smell like dessert, Malfoy. God, like a big—” Finnigan ruts into him harder. “—slice—” Something inside of Draco catches and grows, and Finnigan groans. “—of pie.”

The knot—Draco remembers that word, knot—swells and swells, until Draco starts sobbing from the pressure.

“Please. I’m—I need—” The tension peaks, and Draco’s cock spurts between them.

“Need my knot, you filthy little slag.” Finnigan shoves in harder, hips still working even though Draco is crying now.

Finnigan kisses him messily. He smells like Firewhisky. “I can’t believe I get to have you for a year. Christ. I’m going to have you every fucking day.”

Draco cries out and comes again, bearing down on Finnigan’s knot. He doesn’t remember anything of the next week, but Finnigan is true to his word. He visits every day, even as Draco’s belly expands.

Baby Mathilda is born nine months later. The maid takes her straight away, before she’s even had a chance to open her eyes. The next three months, he cries and makes milk. And sleeps, when he can. Dean Thomas, who he barely remembers, comes sometimes and talks to him in low tones. He thanks Draco and says he and Seamus are so, so happy.

“It’s a good thing you’re doing. For all the wizarding world. You should be proud.”

Draco holds onto that for the last of his time in Dublin. Then he’s carted away again.

***

Lavender Brown is kinder than Draco would have expected. She sits and talks to him in the afternoons, when she comes home from her work at St Mungo’s. She brings cigarettes and Firewhisky before he goes into heat, tells him she won’t tell the Healers, and gives him a wink. She lets him take off his mittens when he promises he won’t fight. She looks fierce and arch, a silver scar down the side of her face.

When it comes to the night of his next heat, she tells him, “I don’t like this any more than you. But if I want to stay married to Parvati, we need a baby. She’s an Omega, too, but she got sick, right after the war.”

“Sick,” Draco repeats. He’s already sweating. Lavender, fittingly, smells sharp, like strong herbs. “The pox?”

“She lived. But barely. The Birthing Society” —she takes a shuddering breath— “they’ll take her for rehabilitation. If we don’t—somehow. So.”

“So,” Draco repeats.

She nods and produces a bottle of Firewhisky from the nightstand. “I don’t fancy blokes in the least. Should we get pissed?”

“Alright.” And so they do. They drink until the bottle is gone. Draco doesn’t remember much, but it isn't bad, he thinks. In another life—one without war or sickness or Hogwarts rivalries—he thinks they might have been friends.

Birth is easier this time. Parvati and Lavender let him have a strong potion for the pain. And he requests not to see the baby at all, which they honor. Later, Lavender tells Draco his name is Dex. Draco cries for a while after that. But he’s allowed to eat what he likes, and Lavender puts Muggle programmes on the telly. She gives him a pair of real trousers. And they do their best not to let Draco hear the baby cry.

When the Healer comes for him, she puts a pair of new mittens on his hands. They’re covered in pink hearts.

He touches a mittened finger to a heart by his wrist. “Mathilda,” he whispers. He touches another in the centre of his palm. “Dex.”

The Healer ignores him. They apparate with a nauseating crack.

***

“I’ve got a nice room for you, old friend.” Blaise meets him outside the Zabini Estate. He’s as tall and beautiful as he ever was, smiling brightly, like Draco is just popping over for a visit.

The Healer pinches Draco on the neck. “You’re supposed to say something, wretch.”

“You’re not a war hero! You’re a fucking coward.” It’s the first thing to come out of Draco’s mouth. Like he’s the boy he once was, taking charge of Slytherin House, instead of the Omega vessel wearing blue striped pyjamas, his ankles and wrists tied together with matching ribbon.

The Healer pinches him again, harder. “Watch yourself. Mr Zabini is on the Wizengamot!”

“That’s quite alright. Draco is mine now, isn’t he? So, off you go. We’ll see you next May.” Even though Blaise is still smiling, his gaze has grown deadly. A jolt hits Draco right in the pit of his stomach, and he squirms against his ties. The Healer nods curtly and Apparates, leaving Draco behind.

“I’m sorry—I said—” Draco gulps and looks at the ground. He’s heard of Omegas losing their magic for good for far less than this. “I’m very sorry.”

“Never you mind. I’m delighted you’re here.”

“You’ve a wife—or a husband?” Draco shuffles forward, head down. “I can prepare to meet them.”

“None. Just me. They’re encouraging all young members of the Wizengamot to procreate, however.” Blaise steps up to Draco and unties his wrists. Then kneels and unknots the ribbon binding his feet. When he rises, he’s eye to eye with Draco. “Let’s get you back to yourself, shall we?”

Draco’s cheeks blaze. Blaise smells like something rich and decadent. It makes Draco’s teeth hurt.

Inside, he’s shown to a set of rooms. There’s a wardrobe waiting for him, full of new suits and cravats. Plush robes. A nightstand full of novels. A bed covered with pillows, accented with velvet bed curtains.

“You can build a nest, if you like.”

“Oh.” Draco looks down at his hands. “I’ve never.”

“Only the best,” Blaise says, and kisses his cheek. “I’d like to watch you do it. It’s such a turn on.”

Draco smiles shyly. Pleased embarrassment blooms in his stomach. Maybe this is a better place. Maybe it’s the best of all.

It continues just as it started. Blaise is gentlemanly but warm, touching Draco’s waist, his hair, his neck. He invites Draco on walks through the gardens, brings him chocolate truffles and wine, eats breakfast and dinner with him, brings him tea. It’s a week before he kisses Draco, but it’s gentle and good. He tastes like truffles and smells twice as good as that.

“I want to make love to you, Draco.” He’s already unbuttoning Draco’s shirt, the very shirt Blaise picked out for their dinner this evening. “I want it so badly.”

Draco is already gasping, sighing, telling him yes, yes, yes, helping Blaise tug off his trousers. He usually doesn’t get as wet outside of his heat, but Blaise sucks his nipples and then his cock. After Draco comes the first time, Blaise slides two fingers inside and finds him soaking wet.

“A treasure like you shouldn’t be all locked up. I’ll make you feel like gold.”

Draco comes again and again and again that night. And the next. And the next after that. It’s not long before his skin is prickling and he knows his heat is coming. Blaise watches him build his nest with all the pieces Blaise picked out.

It’s a satisfaction Draco has never known, being knotted in a safe place of his own making. Even after his heat, Blaise continues fucking him daily, often twice a day. He’s even more ravenous once Draco is showing, pressing kisses to his growing belly, bringing him treats, getting him off multiple times a day.

It’s twins this time. And Blaise is well-connected. So well-connected in fact that he tells Draco he can stay. “Until they’re weaned, at least. And that could be a while.”

Draco has never been so happy, not since before the war. There’s a signed letter saying that his twins will count for two full years of his sentence. Blaise even floats the idea that perhaps Draco could carry another since he’s carrying the twins so beautifully.

Draco almost doesn’t notice when Ginny Weasley starts coming by. She’s a friend of Blaise’s, after all. And she dotes on the twins when they’re born. Plays chess with Draco and loses, frequently.

It’s only when Draco is six months into his second pregnancy, still nursing nine-month old Sadie and Lewis, that Blaise loses interest in sex. Draco’s doors are open, as always. He’s allowed to roam. He wears fine clothes and eats fine meals. And he pretends everything is fine—and it is, really, until a month after Nora is born.

He cries when he finds the invitations. An autumn wedding. A few months past Draco’s second year anniversary at the Zabini Estate. Draco must be twenty-one now.

“Congratulations,” he says to Blaise and Ginny later that night. He bites the inside of his cheek. “Will Ginevra adopt them? All three? They don’t have freckles, do they? But that won’t matter. Not if they belong to Blaise. Then they’re yours! Legally!”

“Don’t be hysterical, Draco. I’ll make sure you can stay on. I’ve heard of Omegas staying as nannies or nursemaids. I’m sure we could—”

“Fuck you,” Draco says. “Coward.” He throws a truffle straight at Blaise’s head. Ginny, rather inappropriately, laughs.

In the morning, Draco’s next assignment comes through. But Draco can’t stop weeping when they put him through rejuvenation. After two weeks, he goes catatonic, staring at his mittens, counting the hearts. On his left hand, there are five.

***

The next month, the Healers keep Draco at St Mungo’s. His breastmilk is expressed regularly. Draco doesn’t ask what they do with it. In fact, he doesn’t ask anything at all. He just watches the pump, then watches the wall. Nurses come, then Healers. There are more rejuvenating potions, oils for his skin. But his mind floats. Time bleeds into itself.

Five.

A tall woman brings him flowers one day. She sneaks him a tin of biscuits the next. He’s confused, a little, and reaches for her face, tracing his fingers over the long line of a scar. He must look like he doesn’t know her, even though he does remember the scar.

“It’s me,” she whispers. “Lavender. I’m a Healer at Janus Thickey. Remember?”

Draco shakes his head. He reaches for her scar again. She winces, but she lets him touch it. Her eyes are wet, and then his are, too.

“Parvati’s expecting. Dex is going to have a sister. He’s very bright. Like you. He’s not mean. You always said you hoped he wouldn’t be. He’s sweet and curious.” She takes his hand. “And Parvati is a good mum. She dotes on him. They think being a mum helped heal her inside. Or—I’m not sure. They say a lot of things that aren’t true. But Dex is safe. And happy.”

Draco cries hard for a long time, but he doesn’t know why. When he goes to sleep that night, he thinks to himself: Mathilda, Dex, Lewis, Sadie, Nora.

But he doesn’t know why.

Ernie McMillan picks him up in the morning. He talks all the way through the Portkey station, and Draco shuffles beside him, wrists and ankles bound with green ribbons. His new pyjamas are cream coloured with lace trim. His mittens match. He has to imagine little hearts on them. But they appear when he looks hard enough.

“You’ll love it in France. Lavender said there was some demented business with Blaise.” Draco winces at the name, but Ernie doesn’t notice. “I said to Justin, I always thought he was a tit. Doesn’t know how to treat his Omega surrogate. We’ve got a room outfitted for you with nice soft colours. Lav said to pile up a few things for a nest. I don’t know a nest from a den, but she said as long as everything is soft… well, you’ll figure it out.”

Draco is looking down at his hands, crying again.

He thinks: Mathilda, Dex, Lewis, Sadie, Nora. Five.

“Cheer up! We’re almost through security. They’re lifting some measures on ex Death Eaters, haven’t you heard. Helps the Omegas travel with their owners more easily. When we bring you back for your next posting, it’ll be quick as you like.”

Draco nods, because he knows he’s supposed to. When he looks up again, he’s in Normandy.

***

When Ernie fucks Draco, it feels good. Better than that, it makes his mind go blank when Ernie allows him to come. Draco makes a point of making hot noises and squirming, arching his back, wearing only his pants and mittens around the house. The others had liked all that, hadn’t they. Blaise did. Draco just needs to make sure he can stay this time.

One night, Draco kneels between Justin’s legs after supper, mouthing at the crotch of his trousers, looking back at Ernie in invitation. Ernie laughs awkwardly, but Draco can smell that he’s hard. By the time Justin pushes Draco’s mouth down onto his cock, Ernie is already lining himself up and popping the head of his cock in Draco’s hole. It’s so good, Draco sees stars. And now, Justin can love him, too.

“Not even in heat, and you’re so wet. Enjoying it here, are you?” Ernie starts thrusting, his hips smacking Draco’s arse. “I told Justin he should see me do it. See how you like taking it.”

Justin’s breathing is heavy, his hips twitching, driving the head of his cock to the back of Draco’s throat. He pulls Draco’s hair, and Draco groans. He’s blissfully hard, cock bouncing against his belly as he gets fucked, and Ernie is going to knot in him, and Draco will get to come. And they’ll keep him, for being so good to them both.

“He’s so pretty,” Justin says reverently. “All those babies and he’s still so pretty.”

“You’re even prettier, darling. I’m always thinking of you when I—oh, fuck.” Ernie drives into Draco with a growl, his knot inflating, rubbing against Draco’s prostate. The pressure makes Draco’s eyes roll back in his head; his thoughts scatter. He splatters all over the floor, shaking and whimpering. They like him, he thinks. Maybe it won’t be so bad. Even though now he can’t quite remember what was so terrible before.

It only takes two months for Draco to fall pregnant, belly expanding rapidly, round and tight. He knows it’s another girl well before his first appointment, just from the way he’s carrying. He tries to tell Ernie and Justin, but it’s hard to communicate with his mittens tied. And every time he tries to speak, nothing comes out. They just laugh and pet his hair and smile at his belly. At bedtime, they touch him all over and dote on him together. Sometimes, they fuck him together, one right after the other. Or Draco rubs himself while Ernie fucks Justin. Sometimes Draco wakes in the night with one of them inside him, and he likes that most of all. He’s part of them. He even has a spot at the foot of their bed.

The names vanish for the most part. When they come, they don’t plague him like they used to. He thinks of pink hearts instead. He counts them in his mind. One, two, three, four, five.

He’s placid when the baby comes. They call her Adeline. He holds her all the time.

The next year is something of a blur, but Draco is warm and pleased and well-fucked. His milk is steady. And Addie is fat and happy. The next baby is Maximillian. He has grey eyes and pale, pale hair, almost white.

But the decree comes by owl. Ernie is angry. He argues with them using a Muggle telephone.

“I’m sorry, darling.” Justin has been crying; Draco can tell from his voice. “They said they’d—they could take the children. We have to cooperate.”

Draco doesn’t understand any of that, not entirely. He just knows he’s leaving. That he’s leaving his precious girl and his little boy. He stops eating. Stops bathing. Justin bathes him instead and gives him a potion that makes him sleep.

When Draco’s final day arrives, he clings to Justin and sobs into his shirt. Justin cries, too, just quieter, and shushes him like he does with the babies. “Ernie made sure it’ll be okay with your next posting. You’re going back home. Isn’t that nice? And you’ll get to be pregnant again. You look so gorgeous when your belly is all big. You’ll get to hold another little one very soon, darling. Won’t you like that?”

Draco cries harder. He screams and screams when the Healers take him. He screams at St Mungos until they sedate him. He wakes and screams again.

Just before he falls unconscious, he thinks: Mathilda, Dex, Lewis, Sadie, Nora, Addie, Max.

Seven. He counts the little flowers on his mittens and imagines they’re hearts.

But he doesn’t know why.

***

“What are these fucking mittens for?” The voice is deep. Masculine. Draco almost recognises it.

Draco feels a poke on his hand, and he huddles down into the bedclothes, pulling a pillow over his head. It smells freshly laundered. Like sunlight, like the outdoors. He doesn’t know how long it’s been since he’s seen the sun, since he’s felt it. It feels like a long time, but he doesn’t remember.

“They’re so he doesn’t scratch.” A higher voice. A woman. Maybe a Beta. There’s scratching on a piece of parchment. She’s writing something down. “And so he can’t do wandless. Gin said he got good with it, from what she saw.”

The name makes Draco’s stomach sick. He whimpers.

“They’re horrible. Make him look like a weird little doll. It’s grim. Merlin, it’s really—”

“He can hear you, you know.”

“Right. Well, I’m sure he knows he looks like a pillock in his nightgown and booties.” There’s a tap on his shoulder. The pillow on top of his head lifts up. “What do you say, you old rotter? Do you want some real clothes? Something posh and stupid?”

Draco lets out a sob and shakes his head, vigorously enough that he's sure they can see.

“If this is going to work, we’re going to treat him like a human being,” the woman says.

“I am. I’m treating him the same as I always did. Maybe it’ll wake him up.” The man thwacks Draco on the shoulder. “I know you’re still an arsehole, Malfoy. Somewhere in there.”

There’s more scratching on parchment. The woman asks, “How many has it been? Do we know the names? Parents?”

“Erm. No. Well. At least six, Lav said. Gin said there’s a set of twins. That was Blaise. Lewis and—what’s the girl’s name? Sadie?”

Draco’s breath hitches, and he lets out a wail. A small, warm hand comes to rest on his shoulder. “It’s alright, Draco. Can you look at me?” She smells like ink. He looks at her. Her edges are fuzzy. It’s hard to focus. She has brown eyes, Draco thinks. There’s a feeling of—something. Not quite recognition. But it vanishes quickly. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

Draco shakes his head. It’s better when his mind is free of memories.

“Oi, you. Fucker.” The man speaks. He’s tall and broad and very, very orange. Even his jumper is orange. Something about the whole image seems monumentally offensive. “You’re shit at Quidditch. You can’t catch a Snitch to save your bloody life.”

Draco feels the growl rising in his chest before he’s aware of the sound. It’s long and low and rumbly.

“There he is. Watch this.” The man crouches in front of Draco’s bed. “You know who’s better than you? Harry Potter.”

Draco reaches out with his mittened hand and shoves the orange man hard, right in the centre of his enormous chest.

“Well done, you. Ten points to Slytherin!” The man shoves him back, right on the shoulder. “Congratulations. You’re officially my wife’s latest experiment. You’ll be well chuffed when you remember who she is.”

“He’s our guest.” This, from the experimenting wife.

“And we have to get him pregnant, don’t we? So whatever work you think you’re doing, he’ll have to leave in a year. Or two. Or whatever.” The man sighs. “Bloody grim.”

“Not if I have any say.” She squeezes his mittened hand. “I’m leaving a Draught of Peace for you, Draco. Try to sleep.”

***

“Do you remember me?” A small hand on his shoulder. Again.

For the first two hundred or so times she said this, Draco shook his head and cowered. He shied away from her touch. He hid in his nest of pillows and blankets.

But now, it’s a daily question. No, well-nigh hourly. And yes, he remembers her. As of this morning, anyway. But he hasn’t decided she deserves the satisfaction of an absolute yes.

He scowls.

“Draco, do you remember me? We were getting somewhere yesterday.”

He flips her two fingers. Yesterday, he’d thrown his lunch at her after she showed him a spell.

“Brilliant. I’m jotting that down as a yes.” She smiles. Her teeth are very straight. They gleam. Her hair, once bushy, is a pile of springy curls, piled on top of her head. “You’re doing brilliantly. Really, you are.”

She writes for a while, perched on her chair, and Draco drifts. The scratch of the quill is soothing.

“I was pregnant once,” she says. “But I lost it. Early enough that I was alright but late enough that it was—it was hard. We won’t make you—”

Draco’s eyes pop open. He reaches for her quill with a mittened hand and gestures impatiently towards himself.

“You’ll have to take off your mitten. I know you don’t like to.”

He rolls his eyes, very exaggerated this time, and offers his wrist. Still, his heart beats like the tick of a clock in his ears. But nothing horrible happens when she removes his mitten. And she hands him a quill. And a little muggle notebook with a spiral at the top.

I am sorry, he writes, then shows it to her. She blinks, wipes her eyes, and nods. Then he writes again, even though he can feel the muscles in his hand cramping up. Hard to lose, he writes.

“Yes, it is, Draco. You’ve lost significantly more than I have—”

He rolls his eyes again and makes an impatient gesture. I win, he writes.

“You did well today,” she says later, after she’s taken him through a set of exhausting physical exercises and an equally exhausting set of puzzles. At the end, she lets him have his mitten back, but he doesn’t put it on. “Ron’s here tomorrow. I’m at the Ministry. Seeing Harry.”

Draco scowls and picks up his notebook. Wanker, he writes.

The letters are shaky, and Draco’s hand is terribly tired. But Hermione laughs when she sees it, which pleases Draco in a way he finds disconcerting.

“He’s the reason you’re here. You were supposed to go to the Minister for Education. Ernie’s cousin. But Harry heard from Lavender, and you’re here.”

Draco sighs. He pinches the bridge of his nose. Rolls his eyes again. Of fucking course that’s why he’s here.

He places his mitten on the nightstand after she leaves. He counts the flowers. Hearts. They were hearts, a long time ago.

Mathilda, he thinks. Dex. Sadie. Lewis. Nora. Addie. Max.

This time, he remembers.

***

Weasley’s approach is somewhat different.

“Oi. Fucker.” The massive orange git throws Draco a broom. “Broom,” he adds, unnecessarily.

Draco stares at it in his hands. He still wears one dirty cream-coloured mitten on his right hand, his left now free for writing. It still feels illicit. But leave it to the sodding Granger-Weasleys to give him all this freedom—an unlocked room, a pair of George’s old jeans, soft shirts and socks and a proper place for a nest—and take it all away after his first heat. They’ll have to. The fucking Birthers—that’s what Hermione calls them, always with the expletive attached—won’t ever let Draco alone.

Draco shakes his head. He tries to hand the broom back to Weasley. No, definitely not. He’s not getting on one of those. He could be seen. Taken. Moved to someone worse. And right now, he likes where he is well enough. Even if it’s crawling with Gryffindors.

“‘Fraid you have no option.”

Draco drops the broom and backs away from him.

“I’m not going to hurt you, you plonker. Hermione’ll kill us both when she’s back if I haven’t done something with you. ‘Sides, I’ll put Eastenders on if you fly with me. For—five minutes.”

Draco huffs, but he picks up the broom. Fine. He mouths the word in Weasley’s direction, then flips him the bird.

Outside, it’s bright. Early summer maybe. The broom rises to his hand, even though he can’t manage the spell verbally. He wobbles the first few times. Then, he lifts off, hovering several feet above the ground before climbing just a bit higher. Weasley is already flying circles around him, swooping and swerving closer and closer, generally being a massive ginger nuisance and making Draco nearly have a heart attack. Eventually—and Merlin, he knows this is Weasley’s game—Draco is so angry that he swerves back. He climbs higher and flies a loop around Weasley. And he does it again and again, until he’s smiling.

When they land, Weasley is laughing. He claps Draco hard on the back and cups the back of his neck. Draco goes into him easily, just as he’s been taught, and he presses up for a kiss. He already feels tingly and open and wet under the weight of Weasley’s praise. He smells like fresh air. But Weasley shoves him away.

“Mate, no. That’s not—no. I’ll fix you a sandwich. And we’ll put on the telly, yeah?”

This isn’t right. Adrenaline pours through Draco’s veins. He clutches the sides of his face and stumbles backwards. He can smell Weasley’s arousal, can feel it. Can feel his body’s response to the pheromones positively wafting from his freckles.

“Malfoy, hey. Look at me, Malfoy. It’s alright.”

Draco glances at him, then looks away. Scared. Weasley looks scared. Or—concerned. He’s not hard. He just smells like he could be.

“It’s not that I wouldn’t,” Weasley continues. “I really, really would. Like, biologically or whatever, I want to. But my wife is terrifying, and, besides, I don’t think I ever want to—with someone else. If we don’t have a baby, we don’t. And before you worry about all that, we’ll figure it—”

Draco is already storming off, tromping up the stairs, shutting himself in his room and locking it with one of the few wandless spells he’s relearned. Weasley knocks and announces a sandwich in the hallway, then thunks back down the stairs, mumbling something about Hermione bringing home strays.

Towards evening, Draco wakes to another knock. Then, Hermione’s voice. “Draco, are you alright? Ron told me what happened. Not everything is going to be—easy. We’ve got dinner, if you want it. You can come downstairs.”

Draco fumes for a while. He thrashes in his nest. Then he rips off his mitten and flings open the door, stomping all the way downstairs. The room smells like stew. Like fresh bread. And like something else, too. Someone else. At the dinner table, Hermione and Weasley sit in their normal places. Draco’s chair is empty. And at the opposite end of the table is someone Draco thought he’d never see again. It’s been since the battle.

“Potter,” Draco whispers. And then he says it, louder. “Potter.”

Hermione drops her fork.

***

Dinner is awkward. Hermione keeps trying to get Draco to talk, and Draco keeps scowling at her pointedly. Potter is openly staring at Draco, hormones wafting from his sluttily open collar. Meanwhile, Draco steals glances at Potter, his stupid animal brain cataloguing all the physical aspects of Potter that he’d always known but never let himself feel. His eyes, bright green and intense, inquisitive. Hair, no longer a rat’s nest but a tumble of curls, long enough to be pulled back at his neck. His chest, broad and muscled beneath his shirt. And his scent, like honeyed wine and spice.

Draco hadn’t felt real desire in years. Not since his first months with Blaise. He hates how it feels; the slow prickle down his spine, the jump of his stomach, the wet gathering between his arsecheeks. After one particularly vicious jolt to his cock, he rapidly finishes his stew. He needs to get out. Now.

“So. Draco,” Potter says stupidly. “How’ve you been?”

Draco glares at him. He pushes his chair back and summons his notebook, scribbling quickly. Your pheromones made my stew go off. Goodbye.

He marches up the stairs and slams his door. He burrows deep into his nest and closes the gauzy bed curtains Hermione made for him. He dims the lights wandlessly and hums to himself, trying very hard not to think about Potter and how thick his thighs might be.

***

The more Potter comes around, the more insane Draco feels. Draco can smell himself, his own abject horniness all over his clothes, after Potter chats him up, even though they’re speaking about innocuous things. Well, Potter speaks mostly. Draco writes. He responds when he can. And the smiles Potter gives him in return. After one particularly intense conversation about Quidditch, he pulls Hermione into the kitchen and corners her with his notepad.

“Draco, what on earth—”

Can’t take it, he writes.

“What are you on about?” She straightens his tie and tucks a bit of hair behind his ear.

He bats her hand away. “The smell!” He whispers this, voice hoarse. Like honey, he writes. And red wine. Driving me mad.

“Yes. Your body is waking back up. And you like Harry. He’s quite attracted to you, so that’s just how he smells.” She says this all matter-of-factly. Like it’s not fucking horrifying. “He won’t hurt you.”

Had a sex dream last night, he writes. Double teamed by Potter and your husband. I don’t even like Ron! He taps his quill against the paper to get her attention.

“You called him Ron.” She smiles, annoyingly bright.

“Soaked the bed!” Draco whispers this and looks over his shoulder to see if Potter is watching. Thankfully he’s not. “Embarrassing!”

“Don’t worry. Those sorts of dreams are sort of random. Doesn’t mean anything.”

Always about Potter! Draco taps his pad again.

“Well. That part probably isn’t random.”

Scared. Draco stares at the word then shows it to Hermione.

“That’s normal, too. You’ve been through a lot. But you don’t have anything to be scared of here.”

Ministry will check if I’m pregnant. Soon. Not a person to them!!!

“Harry’s putting a stop to that. I think you can be our—our ward. Until he lobbies for all Omegas to have full citizenship again. Then you’ll be—yours.”

Draco scowls at her. You were going to tell me WHEN?!

“Tonight. At dinner.” She puts her hand on his shoulder and squeezes. “We missed your birthday. But today you’re twenty-seven and a half.”

He nods slowly, swallowing around a lump of panic. He doesn’t ask where the missing two years went. Janus Thickey. That padded room.

Mathilda, he thinks. Dex. Sadie, Lewis, Nora. Adeline. Max.

“Was that too much, Draco? You’re crying.”

Draco wipes his tears. “Cake?”

“Yes. With buttercream frosting.”

“Fine. I’ll stay.” Draco goes outside and cries for a while more. Then he comes back in and cuts himself a slice of cake before dinner is even served.

***

Draco helps with the washing up after. He’s still limited in what he can do without a wand, but his wandless spells are getting better, now that he’s not wearing mittens. His stomach tenses up when he thinks about his bare hands, but he steadies himself and dries another plate.

“Wand?” He whispers in Hermione’s direction.

“Eventually, I think so. Harry’s working on legislation, like we said.”

“Boring,” Draco says and rolls his eyes. “Natters on. Yap yap yap.”

“He does get going on the details, doesn’t he? And you’re his main—confidant these days.”

Draco sniffs. More like the receiver of all of his pheromone signals. But Draco must admit, Potter speaks to him like—like he’s a person. Like Hermione does. Ron speaks to him like their fifteen, but Draco expects he’d do that regardless of Draco’s secondary gender. But it’s clear—he’s not chattel here. Not a slave. Not a pretty pet.

That thought percolates in his mind as he casts spell after spell on the dishes. He can’t help thinking that the other shoe, someday, will drop. Well, when this is taken from him, there will be nothing of Draco left at all. There’ll be no grief when his mind is, finally, entirely gone. That will be good, to be honest. He’d rather not remember this at all when the time comes. Maybe he can request Obliviation.

Hermione gives him an odd look, like she might be peering directly into Draco’s mind, rooting around in all the broken pieces. “Do you like Harry? I told you you did and you didn’t contradict me.”

Merlin, that’s even worse. She always feels the need to apologise for these things. Draco shrugs. He rolls his eyes dramatically. Then shrugs again. “Biologically,” he adds, with some struggle. But it’s the right word to emphasize.

The other ways he might like Harry are darker questions, to him. He’s attractive. His scent is attractive. His heroic smile is attractive. The way he flies. The way he asks Draco his opinion, even though Draco can’t respond properly.

“Hate him,” Draco says when he dries the last dish.

“Right.” Hermione puts away the last dish. “Sounds like you.”

Draco huffs. It causes him no end of irritation that she sounds like she always knows more than Draco does. In this case, she isn’t even correct. They both know just as much, and all the same things, about Harry. He just doesn’t want to speak it into the world. Another person to lose. Another name in his mind.

Harry catches Draco before he leaves. “Mione and Ron will be out of town for—like one night. I can stay if you like. Or I can call Lav. Ginny, maybe.”

Draco shakes his head and gestures adamantly. “No. Not. Ginny.”

“They never got married, you know. He’s a git. She—she helped when we found you—”

“No. Never.” Draco gestures again.

“Okay. Alright.” Harry rakes his fingers through his hair. “Who?”

“You,” Draco says. Then he summons his notepad. You can’t fuck me, he writes and shows it to Harry.

“I would never—not unless you. Wanted to. Like. Really wanted to.” Harry looks horrified at Draco, then at himself. Then, possibly at the words that just came out of his mouth. “I mean, you can smell me, so—you know.”

Unfortunately, Draco writes. He taps his pad.

“Yeah. Well. So you know that—it’s just a bit of a pash.”

Draco raises an eyebrow. His stomach is going to explode. He’s certain of it.

“Maybe more than a bit.”

“Ugh.” Draco writes on his notepad. Bring cards. Game. And dinner. Takeaway. Chinese.

“I’ll—yeah. I’ll do that. I’ll erm. See you.” Potter stumbles on a crooked floorboard on the way out.

“He likes it when you insult him!” Ron yells this from the sofa, where he’s been watching the entire exchange, apparently. “Makes him randy. Always has, to be honest.”

A pile of Gryffindors tending him. What had Draco done in a past life to deserve this?

He sleeps well that night. And doesn’t dream.

***

It’s two months of dates before they even discuss anything physical.

The first kiss is not a surprise. Potter has asked him no fewer than five times just this evening, and in the two weeks preceding, they discussed it exhaustively. And Merlin, Draco was exhausted. But they’re going into this with a full plan.

Draco ends up sitting in his lap, shaking, his stomach tensing with want. His cock is getting hard, just smelling Harry’s honey-rich scent. But Draco ignores it. Ignores the sizable bulge in Harry’s trousers. Instead, he places Harry’s hands on his waist and leans in to kiss his forehead, his nose, the soft skin of each eyelid. Their lips brush, Draco’s tongue darting out to catch Harry’s lip. Harry rumbles deep in his chest and whimpers when Draco licks along the seam. When Harry opens his mouth, Draco does the same, and, finally, he fits their lips together.

What Draco isn’t prepared for is the feeling. The burst of sensation in his belly when Harry sucks his tongue, the tingling in his nipples and the head of his cock when Harry cups the back of his neck and groans. He feels like he’s fizzing on the inside when they pull away.

“Can I touch you—over your clothes, I mean?” Harry is breathless. His pupils are huge. Cheeks brightly flushed. He looks like a spread-out slut. Like the porn Draco liked before the war.

Draco nods. He guides Harry’s hand to his crotch and rolls his hips. “Good. There.”

“Yeah?” Harry keeps his hand in place. “Going to get yourself off?”

“Shh,” Draco says. And kisses him again.

Draco lets his thoughts fragment. He focuses only on the slide of Harry’s lips, the feeling of teeth against his lower lip, the sucking and slipping and the velvet touch of his tongue. All the while, he rocks against Harry’s hand, toes curling in his socks. His breath comes in quick bursts the faster he goes. He’s close now.

Mate, Draco’s brain tells him. Yours. He clutches onto Harry’s shirt and comes, shaking apart, tears stinging his eyes. Harry watches the stain spread on Draco’s trousers with something like awe, taking in deep breaths and pressing his nose to Draco’s neck and chest, making pleased chuffing sounds. Draco’s belly twitches, his cock releasing more when Harry’s lips find his scent gland.

“Ah! Salazar, I’ve never been—touched—there, oh—”

“Draco. I’ll stop if you—”

“I’ll kill you if you—stop.” He bucks his hips, against Harry’s bulge this time. “Suck it. Do it.”

When Harry bites down and sucks, Draco comes again, harder this time. Salazar, it’s like he’s never been touched before. Not by someone—someone who wants him like this. He hasn’t, has he?

Draco ends up sobbing—he warned Harry he would—and clinging to his neck, where he smells sweet and strong. When he’s stopped sniffling, he whispers haltingly in Harry’s ear. “Want to—get you off. I’ll—suck you.”

“Not tonight,” Harry breathes. “We said.”

Draco huffs. He nuzzles into Harry’s neck. “Then—you do it. Let me—see.”

“Alright.” Harry takes his time pulling himself out. He’s half swollen with a knot, foreskin pulled back tight. The tip is red and angry and steadily leaking. “This is… what you do to me Draco. This is—ungh. For you.”

It’s quick when Harry gets a hand on himself. His knot inflates fully, and he fucks into his fist. Come spills out in a steady stream after only a few strokes. Harry’s body twitches, and he keeps coming. It smells musky and strong, and Draco’s toes curl again, just from watching it.

Draco presses his lips to Harry’s ear. “I like you,” he says. “I like you.”

Draco doesn't talk for a day after that. But he's getting by. And Harry is lovely. He comes over when Draco is still in his silent mode, and they watch old films while Ron and Hermione cook. Later, Draco takes Harry to his nest, and they fall asleep there, together, Harry's arm around his waist.

***

The decree comes the day before Draco’s twenty-eighth birthday. Of course, it’s not addressed to him. It’s addressed to his owner, who is, as the universe reminds him, Ronald Weasley.

Subject must produce proof of pregnancy before 1st July or shall be transported to his new lord and master, Bertrand McMillan.

Hermione reads it out at the breakfast table. Harry is beside him, fortunately, and takes Draco’s hand in his.

“I told you all,” Draco hisses. He points at Hermione. “And you said you’d—you’d fix it! That Harry would—fix it! Do either of you even work at the Ministry? I wouldn’t know, of course. I’m not fucking allowed to leave.”

“We went to Brighton last month.” Harry says this with a pout, which makes Draco want to kiss him. Or strangle him. He’s not entirely sure which. Possibly both.

“And I was polyjuiced. And on those miserable suppressants. And now I’ll be the property of Bertie—fucking—McMillan!”

“You won’t.” Harry squeezes his hand. “The legislation—”

“Three weeks! My heat isn’t—until next month and we’ve never even—”

“I know. I’m not going to make you, Draco.”

“I know you won’t!” Draco slams his fist on the table. “But I need to be, and I—” His breath starts coming fast, panic rising. Words leaving him.

Harry puts an arm around him and lets Draco cry into his shoulder while Ron and Hermione bicker. After a while, the worst of the panic fades.

Harry clears his throat. “There’s always—well, it’s stupid. But I can get you to Denmark, Draco.”

“What’s in Denmark besides wooden shoes?” Draco pulls away, but Harry catches his hand again.

“That’s the Netherlands, isn’t it?” Ron shoves a piece of bread in his mouth. He’s the only one eating.

“They just passed the legislation I’m basing my proposal on, right? Last month. Omegas are citizens in the wizarding world there. We could—we could actually get married. Not that—not that you should have to. Or that you’d want to, with me. I’d’ve waited to ask, anyway. A good long time.” Harry is looking down at their hands, entwined. “But it would nullify your sentence. If we could get legally married.”

“But the children are here.” Draco says this automatically, his cheeks turning red immediately. Three pairs of eyes are on him. “Mathilda is in Dublin. And—Max and Adeline are in France. In Normandy. Somewhere. I—” Draco swallows hard, tears coming to his eyes. “Merlin’s fucking beard, the lot of you. Stop staring at me! Stop it. I hate crying! And it’s all I ever do!”

“You’ve never. You’ve just never spoken about them. That’s” —Harry takes a breath— “good, isn’t it? Right, Hermione? To talk about them. But we can’t—legally. We can’t get them.”

“I know.” Tears are pouring down Draco’s cheeks now. “I just. I dreamed of it.”

“Look.” Ron is tearing apart another piece of bread. “I can kill Blaise and make it look like an accident. That’s all I’m saying. I’m a Gryffindor. But I’m not above it.”

Draco laughs helplessly. He takes a steadying breath. “Mathilda. Dexter. Sadie and Lewis. Nora.” He swallows around the lump forming in his throat. “Adeline. Maximillian. They’re called Addie and Max.”

Harry squeezes his hand again. “They’re good names.”

“And I didn’t choose a single one of them.” Draco pulls his hand back and gets up from the table, walking for the stairs. “I need a moment,” he says without turning around. This time, he leaves the door open.

It’s a little while before Harry comes. Draco is mostly buried in his nest. The only real one he’s ever had. He’s made them before, but this one is freely given, no strings attached. No lives—no names—attached. When Harry comes to him, he doesn’t speak for a long time. He just gets in with Draco and holds him.

“I’d never make you get married. Or have a baby,” Harry says eventually. He moves a stuffed giraffe he got for Draco in Brighton so they can see each other, face to face. “But I do have something to tell you.”

“What.” Draco knows what Harry’s going to say. He’s entirely too predictable. But it’s—it’s safe, knowing this. And he’s known it for a while.

“I love you. And I would marry you today. Here or in Denmark. Or—wherever.”

“Then you’re a fool.” Draco tries to hide himself again. Hide from the idea, from the beat of his heart, from the mittens in his nightstand drawer. “It’s not even legal for me to be a person. Parvati is a war hero, and she’s not allowed to have a fucking bank account. Why would you want—”

“You could marry me, then immediately divorce me in Denmark. I can help you apply for citizenship.”

“Omegas were hit with the virus there, too, you daft sod. It’s still dangerous!” Draco sniffs. “And we’re not getting a divorce.”

“So, we’re getting married?”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“That’s not a no. So, yes?”

Draco groans. “Yes, I suppose. Maybe. If you can sneak me out of the country.” He presses his forehead to Harry’s. “About the other thing—I just—it’s—it’s something I felt for Blaise. It’s hard to say it. I said it to him, and I want those words back all the time. I want them back, Harry. I want all of them back.”

“I know you do.”

“So I can’t—I can’t say it. Not yet.”

“Don’t worry. We have time.”

***

“We need to get going. Flight’s in four hours.” Harry’s standing in the doorway, illuminated from behind like a patio light of their rental. He looks stately. Holy. Like something from a painting. A book of heroes.

“Yes—I—I’m ready.” Draco stops his fussing with the bags. They’ve been packed for ages, all of them ready to be piled in the boot of Harry’s beat-up car. For the seemingly massive weight of what they’re taking—Merlin, it’s all so heavy without magic—there’s so much they’re leaving behind. Too much.

“Right then. Are you—”

“Yes.” They won’t see Grimmauld again. Or Ron and Hermione’s cottage. He’ll never get to visit the anonymous graves behind Azkaban, where Mother and Father are. Something flips over in Draco’s stomach, hard. “Do I look—”

“Very Muggle. And not terribly like yourself.” Harry smiles. “But handsome, all the same.”

“No I don’t.” Draco wipes his eyes. “I look ugly as a brunet. It makes me look like a Victorian schoolmarm. A spinster.” He’s also dressed in George’s old jeans and Harry’s jacket, the hood pulled over his dyed hair. It’s a low-tech disguise, compared to the sort of operations Ron runs with his Aurors. But—Ron assured them it was their best bet. No trace of magic. Stick to crowded Muggle areas. Full commercial flights. A Muggle hotel in Copenhagen. A Muggleborn pastor. An Anti-Birther organization would get them safe after that.

“You couldn’t possibly look ugly.”

As they drive, the sky grows from inky to the light purple of pre-dawn. The car won’t be traceable when they abandon it in Manchester. Their passports are faked. Draco refused to let Harry cut his hair short, so he’s wearing it down, loose, over his scar, along with contacts that turn his eyes from shocking green to muddy brown.

Draco’s stomach turns and turns again as they drive towards the rise of the cityscape. They talk idly. Draco says he’s never been in a car. Nor in an airport. Or on a plane. “I’ve always lived in an entirely different world.”

“Everyone’s world got even smaller after the virus. I thought the war would make things different. More—integrated.” Harry taps on the steering wheel and turns into the massive car park. “But we’ve made it small and brutal instead.”

They’ve covered this ground again and again in the past few weeks, late nights talking with Ron and Hermione. Harry was pushed out of his job in Legislation. An Anti-Birthing Sympathiser, they’d called him. They left for a rental in the country after that. Said goodbye to Ron and Hermione, to Draco’s nest and all his carefully collected things, the only things he’s ever really owned since the war.

“History doesn’t repeat itself,” Hermione had said the day they left London. “But it rhymes.”

“Be good.” That’s what Ron had said to them before they went. “Keep each other safe. We’ll see you on the other side. After she saves the bloody country and all that.”

Tomorrow, Ron will report Harry missing. And Draco as stolen property. Lav will report that they tried to take Dex, then say they went to a safehouse in Scotland.

Harry loads their bags onto a cart and wheels them through the bustle of the airport. Draco keeps his hood up. He only takes it off when one of the people checking them in asks. He watches, dumbfounded, blood buzzing with the strangeness of it all, as the bags are carried away on a moving belt and disappear inside a tiny door.

“Is it magic?” Draco tugs on Harry’s sleeve as they wait in uncomfortable seats, planes moving like enormous creatures along the pavement outside.

“No. It’s—it’s all machines.” He pokes Draco with his elbow. “Boarding. Let’s go.”

On the plane, Draco clings to Harry’s arm. Holds his hand tight enough to leave nail marks on Harry’s skin. He nearly vomits twice. When the plane touches down in Copenhagen, it’s so loud and so fast that he forgets to breathe. But the little light goes off, finally, and the unclicking of dozens of seatbelts follows.

“We’re home,” Harry says. “We’re here.”

***

Before the war, Draco often imagined his wedding. As the heir to Malfoy Manor, he would have been expected to make a good marriage. The wedding would have been an event of the season. A formal ceremony with handfasting and an arch of spring flowers, on the eve of his twenty-fifth birthday. That was a perfect age, he’d decided long ago. He and his spouse would leave for their honeymoon in a horse-drawn carriage.

It’s strange, even still, even after everything, that it’s like this instead. Quiet and still in a small, old church, just outside of Copenhagen. It smells of candle wax and incense, and centuries of people passing through their doors. Their pastor is a Muggleborn, an Omega from Finland. Another refugee. Her name is Suvi.

She says a few words in her lilting Scandinavian accent, then nods at them.

“Do you have rings to exchange?”

“No, I—” Harry laughs. “We haven’t had time. It’s been—”

“A day. We've only been here a day,” Draco says. “We have an appointment tomorrow. At one of the safe shops in—the little town north of here—”

“Skovhavn. Yes. That’s alright. I marry a lot of people without rings these days.”

“I’ve got something else though.” Harry shuffles in his bag, pulling through clothing and books and pictures until he takes out a box. “Erm. Happy wedding.”

“I don’t have anything for you!” Draco’s ears go unpleasantly hot.

“Rings, tomorrow. Remember? This is—just. It was always yours. Open it.”

It’s been a decade. More than, now. But he knows when Harry places the box in his hands. The hum of magic, resonant with his, greets Draco when he opens the box. Hawthorn wood, warm to his touch. It feels bright and new beneath his fingertips.

Their pastor gasps. “How did you find his wand!?”

Her surprise makes Draco laugh, and Harry laughs too. “Oh, I happened to… erm, borrow it. Before everything went tits up. I thought I’d give it back at his trial. But there wasn’t one. And I—I tried to find you for years. Then it wasn’t legal to give it back, but—it is, here.” Harry rakes his hand through his hair. “Happy wedding,” he says again. “You can make your hair normal again. Normal for you.”

Draco gingerly takes out his wand and holds it. It’s like fitting a quill back in his hand, like it belongs there. Like he never forgot it, all this time. “Later. We should get married.”

“Right. Suvi. The spell.”

She smiles, her eyes bright, and casts. The words are a little different here, but the spell works the same, catching bits of their magic and tying their hands an instant before they let go.

“Congratulations,” she says. “You’re married.”

It's anti-climactic. There’s no horse-drawn carriage. But Harry buys them a small bouquet at the local market and puts it in a water glass on the table in their little rented room. The cold is rolling in after a long summer on the run, and it seeps in through the floorboards. But Harry casts and lights a fire in the hearth. He makes cheese toasties and dark tea. They go to bed soon after the sun sets, in the early evening.

“I do love you,” Draco whispers. “So you know.”

He can feel Harry smiling in the dark.

***

It’s early when Draco wakes. Harry is still sleeping, white t-shirt pulled tight across his chest. Draco sneaks a hand beneath it and scratches through the hair on his belly, and higher, along his ribs, circling one nipple and then the other. He can smell Harry’s arousal rising, a now-familiar musk that sings to something deep in Draco’s body. Harry groans and wraps an arm around Draco, pulling him in.

“G’morning. You’re very pretty, all blond again.” Harry cards through his hair. “I did miss it.”

Draco shivers. He presses in and kisses Harry, open-mouthed, sour morning breath and all. They kiss until Harry is panting, his hands firm and possessive on Draco’s body. His hips. His waist. His arse.

Draco sits up and strips off his shirt, then shimmies out of his pants. Harry watches him.

“Get naked.” Draco picks up his wand from the nightstand and shakily casts, sending flames to the hearth. “I need you to fuck me.”

“Yeah? Are you—are you sure?”

Draco takes Harry’s hand in his and places it on his arse, so Harry is touching his wet. “I’ll flood the bed if I get any surer than this.”

It’s slow and careful, just as they’d promised one another it would be. Harry peels off his clothes and touches Draco with sure fingers. Wine and honey and spice, the scent thick in Draco’s nose. Fingers, skimming his skin, tracing his scars, the stretch marks on his belly, the spidery veins on his thighs. Harry’s mouth on Draco’s nipples, licking them, sucking, teeth grazing. Harry’s hand finally slips between his legs, to find him soaked.

“That’s what you do to me.” Draco kisses Harry’s ear. He straddles one of Harry’s broad thighs so he can rut against it. So he can feel skin and hair and friction against his cock as Harry teases his rim.

Harry lets out a sigh when his middle finger slips inside. “Like silk, darling. I’m going to put my whole—fucking—hand in there. When you’re in heat.”

Draco gasps. His eyes roll back. His legs start to shake. “Can I?”

“Let me give you one more.” Harry is grinning, pleased. Like he’s proud of Draco. It makes a hot spiral of embarrassment hit Draco’s belly, makes him shudder and tense when Harry gives him another. And a third after that. “You can come now.”

Draco pushes down so he’s flush with Harry’s palm, rocking so Harry’s fingertips brush his prostate the way he likes. The build is slow and steady. Nothing jolting or jarring, nothing unwanted. He comes apart on Harry’s fingers, clenching and rolling, a steady climb, followed by a cloudburst of pleasure through his hips, broad and expansive as the sky itself.

After, Draco wants more. He takes it. He positions himself over Harry’s cock, taking the wide tip of it in hand, pressing it to his rim. He’s taken it inside, only a few times, only an inch or so, but he’s ready now. Open and wet, his cock still dripping come when he sinks down in one smooth slide, until it’s all the way in. Harry’s hands fall to his waist. His eyes are wide, sea-green in the thin light of morning.

Harry groans. He’s clearly trying to hold himself still. “Christ, I’m—fuck, Draco. I’m not going to last.”

“Good. I need your knot.” Draco pushes himself up and sinks back down, relishing the hard grip of Harry’s fingers on his waist, the clench in his jaw. He leans forward and kisses Harry’s neck, breathing in the scent of honey and spice. Scrapes his teeth over skin and stubble, whispering, “I need your come.”

Harry rumbles deep in his chest. His broad thighs tremble; Draco can see the muscles in Harry’s chest and stomach tensing as he tries to hang on. Draco rides him harder, hand in the centre of his chest, knees whispering against the sheets. Draco can tell when it’s coming from the flush spreading over his chest, the parting of his lips.

“You’re sure?” Harry chokes out the words even as his cock starts to swell, as Draco grinds down to meet it.

“Yes. Yes, love. Yes.” Draco watches Harry as his knot expands, as it fills and locks them together. “Are you going to fill me up?”

“Jesus,” Harry says. His breath is quick and rhythmic, keeping time with the slow roll of Draco’s hips.

Draco feels the jolt in Harry’s body, hears the catch of his breath. He pours himself into Draco, everything between them wet and sliding and easy. When Harry stops quivering, Draco takes Harry’s broad, calloused hand and fucks into it. Barely three thrusts, and Draco’s climax hits, slick pouring out, come spurting and covering Harry’s stomach.

They both cry a little, which isn’t so bad this time. Because they’re here, alive and whole. Sleep finds them both, with Harry’s knot still buried inside, their legs tangled among the sheets.

It’s past noon when they wake, messy and sticky, in dire need of a shower. But they stay as they are for a spell, Draco’s head on Harry’s chest.

“A year,” Draco says after a while.

“Hm?” Harry shuffles them to their side and presses his face to Draco’s neck. “Oh,” Harry says. “Oh, yeah. Okay. I’m—I’d love to with you. You know that. A year.” Harry is smiling now. “We’ll start trying in a year.”

Draco takes his hand. “Lots of this in the meantime.”

“Mm.” Harry brushes his lip against Draco’s cheek. “Lots of this.”

***

Twenty Months Later; Skovhavn, Denmark

“Well, I’m officially very upset about you stealing Draco.” Ron winks at Harry. “We’ve been leading a very convincing manhunt. Very distracting while Hermione overhauls the government. This is my long overdue holiday to the nether reaches of nowhere. Just me and my wife and a cabin in Skovhavn.”

Draco listens to their chatter as he sets out plates and puts a warming spell on their dinner. He winces a little when Ron jokes about sending Aurors out to intimidate Blaise.

Hermione catches his eye. “They’re all doing well.”

Draco nods. He knows what she means. They’re safe; best not to ask for details. When they’re of age, they’ll be told the truth. Until then, they’ll all be protected as best they can manage. And maybe, with hope, the world will be kinder then.

“Lav sent you a gift. I know your deal is not to discuss Dexter all that much. But she worked quite hard. She feels—quite a lot of guilt, Draco.”

“Neither of us had any choice at the time.” Draco smiles, soft. Wistful. He’d never held Dex—and that was his choice. They’d let him have that. “I think I might not be alive if it weren’t for her. And I like being alive. Even more these days.”

“I’m glad.” Hermione takes a book from her bag and hands it to Draco. “I’ll warn you, Draco. She found pictures of all of them. Stories, too. As much as she was able without attracting attention. I told her you might not be able to—look at them just yet.”

He holds it gingerly. The cover is worn leather, inscribed with Draco’s name and his family crest. “Not yet. But soon. Very soon.”

By the time Draco gets dinner on the table, Harry is already smiling. He tries to hide it, but it bursts through like sunlight through clouds. Draco rolls his eyes. As soon as Draco’s arse touches the chair, Harry is clanging his spoon against his wine glass.

“Not so hard! You’ll break it!” Draco shouts.

“But we have an announcement—”

“Like saying that doesn’t give it away already. Merlin.” Draco throws up his hands. “I’m pregnant! It’s definitely a girl. A very active one. I’m already enormous. Don’t say you didn’t notice.”

Ron laughs. “I noticed, even though you’re hiding it under that jumper. You look awful, mate. Like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards.”

Hermione is already crying because she’s horrible and obviously hellbent on ruining their supper.

“Stop it! You’re going to make me cry now. I won’t ever let you see the baby.” Draco starts sniffling and dabbing at his eyes.

“Have a name?” Ron is smiling wide now, gaze darting from Harry to Draco and back again.

Hermione chokes out a horrible noise. “Ron! It’s too early to ask them!”

Harry nods at Draco. “Yeah. Course we do. Draco picked it.”

“Out with it,” Ron says. “Let me guess. You’re naming her after me. Ronalda.”

“That’s right.” Harry takes a long gulp of wine. “It’s Ronalda now. Ronnie for short.”

Hermione starts giggling and puts her head down on the table. Really, she’s terrible when she hasn’t slept.

“No. All of you. It’s Aurora. For the” —Draco points to the window— “aurora. One benefit of freezing my tits off is that the sky is quite nice, even when I want to jump out of a very high window all winter long—”

“Not literally.” Harry shrugs. “What? It’s not literal.”

“Sometimes quite literally, Harry. And it I can’t say it out loud, I told you—I might hurl you out alongside me—”

Hermione can’t contain herself now. Laugh-sobs all around. Well. Draco is probably the only successful experiment she’s ever conducted. He can’t blame her, not entirely.

“Threatening me in my own home.” Harry grins at Draco. Foolishly. Like a big, dopey puppy. “We’re off to a very good start as parents.”

“You’ll be wonderful parents.” Hermione finally gathers herself and pours a very generous glass of wine. Then, she raises a toast. “I shan’t be long winded. I just want to say—congratulations. You deserve every bit of happiness.”

“And may we one day live in less interesting times,” Ron adds. “We hope.”

They stay up late, far later than they should. But the sky is so bright that it feels endless, like the world is new and flung wide open, and even the ache of living feels palpably right and necessary, like life itself is irresistible. Even if it’s an illusion, even if the world continues its cold and brutal punishments, Draco will take this dream of endless dawn and keep it. He understands. It’s worth staying up for.

Before they pour themselves into bed, Draco presses his hand to Lavender’s book.

“Mathilda,” he whispers. “Dex. Sadie. Lewis. Nora. Addie. Max.”

“Coming to bed?” Harry asks.

“In a minute. I’ll be there soon.” Draco stands at the window a little longer, eyes on the horizon as a new day rises.