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Chapter Text

The auror wing of the Ministry of Magic was a hive of controlled chaos. Dust motes floated lazily in the shafts of sunlight that managed to pierce the high, grimy windows, and the air smelled faintly of scorched parchment and brimstone—a scent Harry had learned to associate with the aftermath of Dark magic. Around him, unspeakables in their long robes moved with silent precision, cataloguing, boxing, and securing artifacts salvaged from the recently raided Death Eater homes.

Harry’s wand was tucked at his side as he carefully lifted a small obsidian box from the table. It vibrated faintly, like a purr of some creature he couldn’t see, and Harry’s stomach clenched at the thought of what might be inside. There were curses and wards embedded into these objects, left to trap anyone foolish enough to touch them. He glanced around at the other aurors, their faces set in grim determination, and then at the unspeakables—shadowy figures who moved almost like ghosts, their robes trailing and their eyes constantly scanning, cataloging, measuring, noting.

“Careful with that one, Lord Potter,” a voice said, dry and clipped. One of the unspeakables, a tall man with thin spectacles and pale skin stretched tight over sharp bones, gestured toward the box. “It isn’t just cursed; it’s… stubborn.”

Harry nodded, crouching slightly as he lifted it. The room around him seemed to hum. It wasn’t just the magic; it was the air itself, thick with tension, the residue of Dark enchantments, and the raw energy of forbidden spells.

He was moving the box toward a containment chest when a faint shimmer caught his eye. A second too late, a small, jagged statuette fell from a nearby shelf, spinning end over end, and struck him squarely in the shoulder.

“Potter! Watch—” someone started, but their voice was drowned out by a crackling noise, sharp and unnatural.

Pain, light, and motion blended together. The world seemed to stretch like taffy, colors twisting, walls elongating and bending. Harry’s stomach dropped, his head spun, and he found himself staring at… nothing.

And then, a room. The same architecture, the same tables, the same faint scent of burnt parchment—but the air felt different. There were candles flickering in sconces where modern lighting had been, parchment stacked in haphazard piles instead of neatly labeled boxes. Shadows danced in corners where they hadn’t existed a moment before.

Harry blinked, his mind racing. Time travel? He staggered slightly, trying to recalibrate, the box he’d been holding clattering to the floor harmlessly.

A voice cut through the haze. “Hold him.”

Before Harry could even react, strong, practiced hands grasped his arms and steadied him. He could smell the faint tang of potion on one of them, the scent of parchment and candle smoke on another, and something… metallic? Sharp, commanding, and… strange.

He was dragged into a small room.

“You’re… not from here,” a third voice said, and Harry turned to see her.

She stood just beyond the table, arms crossed. Her black hair was pinned neatly at the back of her head, a few loose strands curling around her sharp cheekbones. Her grey eyes were piercing, assessing, and utterly unyielding. She looked every inch the authority figure Harry felt he should be wary of, yet there was elegance to her posture, the faintest curve of a smile held back, and a sense of command that made his stomach tense.

Pureblood, Harry thought automatically. He didn’t know why, it just… clicked. Something about her posture, the confidence, the subtle refinement. But then he noticed the faint glimmer of a ring at her hand, simple and elegant, not something from a family of immense wealth. She must have married a muggle. That explained… something, though Harry wasn’t yet sure what.

She stepped closer. “State your name and your… purpose. Clearly. Now.”

Harry swallowed, feeling the tension coil inside him. He tried to remember his training, his manners, the countless interviews he’d endured as an auror trainee. “Harry Potter,” he said carefully. “Auror. Ministry of Magic. I… I was handling dangerous magical objects and… I think one of them transported me… here. To… this time, I think... I time travelled?”

Her gaze narrowed slightly, and Harry felt a flicker of doubt. Then, just as quickly, her expression softened. “You’re… not harmed, then. Good. That is… fortunate.” She paused, then drew a small vial from her robe. A shimmer of gold-tinted liquid inside caught the candlelight. “This is Veritaserum. Drink it. We need the truth. Who are you? What brought you here? Every detail.”

Harry’s stomach twisted. Veritaserum was no small thing, but he’d faced interrogation before. He nodded, swallowing nervously. “Yes, I… I understand.”

She handed him a sheet of parchment and a quill. “Write it down as you speak, in full. We must document everything, most of your life, in fact. Your method of travel… it is dangerous, yes. But it is accepted. We have had… incidents before, and we understand the mechanisms. You will not be punished for arriving here, nor cast back into the void randomly. You may stay, temporarily, until we can determine the full ramifications. You will follow instructions, and you will be precise. Welcome to 1917."

Harry’s hands shook slightly as he took the quill, dipping it into the ink. Every word he wrote felt heavy, a thread pulling him further into a world centuries before the one he knew. His mind spun at the implications—unspeakables of 1917 handling him as carefully as he had once handled dangerous Dark artifacts, yet the weight of history pressed down. He could feel the difference in the air: the magic was older, richer, somehow… wilder.

She leaned back slightly, observing him, her eyes unflinching. “Do not waste time with hesitation. Record the exact sequence. If you leave anything out, it will… complicate matters.”

Harry nodded again, quill trembling, and began to write, describing the Ministry, the auror wing, the dangerous objects, the statuette, the shimmer, the sensation of being pulled across time. With each stroke, he felt more grounded, more tethered to this place—even if he didn’t yet understand it fully.

The room smelled of ink, candle smoke, and authority. And through it all, Harry felt something strange—like a pull at the back of his mind.

When he finally set the quill down, the unspeakable woman’s sharp gaze softened just fractionally. “Good. You may remain. For now. But know this, Mr. Potter—time is not merely a river. It is a cage, a storm, and a path. Tread carefully.”

Harry swallowed. He had no idea what this meant, nor how long he would be allowed to remain. Or if he could even go back.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat in that first room before they decided what to do with him. The candles had burned lower by the time the elegant woman—Isla Hitchens née Black, she’d introduced herself curtly—rose from behind her desk and gestured for him to follow. Her heels clicked neatly against the stone floor as she led him through a maze of corridors, past rooms humming faintly with enchantments and doors sealed with sigils he didn’t recognise. 

Finally, she stopped before a heavy oak door carved with runes. She flicked her wand, and the locks unlatched with a deep, resonant click.

“Inside, Mr. Potter.”

Harry obeyed, stepping into a smaller, dimly lit chamber. A round table sat in the middle, covered in parchment, quills, and thin glass vials of shimmering ink. The walls were lined with books bound in dragonhide and thin shelves of crystal orbs that pulsed faintly. There were no windows—only a soft, golden light emanating from the ceiling that seemed to breathe in time with the magic in the room.

“Sit.”

Harry sat. His palms were clammy, his heart still racing from everything that had happened. It was only now that he realized his hands were trembling—whether from nerves or the residual pull of time magic, he didn’t know. He tried to keep his breathing steady as Isla moved efficiently around the room, pulling things from drawers, muttering under her breath.

He opened his mouth to speak, to ask what was happening—but before he could, she reached across the table, took his right hand, and pricked the pad of his finger with a slender silver needle.

He startled. “What—?”

“Hush now,” she said, almost gently, though her tone was brisk. “I didn’t tell you what I was doing so you wouldn’t make a fuss of it. Hold still.”

She pressed his hand over a sheet of parchment. A few drops of his blood fell, bright and red against the creamy surface. At once, the paper absorbed the color, veins of gold light spreading out like roots through the parchment. Names began to bloom across it, written in elegant old script, intertwining and branching.

Harry’s breath caught.

“What is that?” he whispered.

“Your family tree,” Isla said, her tone as calm as if she were discussing the weather. “We’re going to forge your identity.”

Harry blinked. “I’m sorry, what do you mean by that?”

“Exactly what I said.” Isla folded her arms, her expression unreadable. “We can’t have you wandering about with the name Harry Potter. Too many questions. Certain old magics will always be able to tell the truth of your bloodline—your ancestry, your lineage. If we created a completely false identity, the old wards, the family grimoires, even the genealogical charms that track magical blood would all still acknowledge you and that may bring questions why you can go to Potter manor and not get burnt at the stake by accidentally walking through. So…”

She gestured to the parchment, where glowing branches still twisted and shimmered. “We move you around the tree. We create a cousin that never existed. A branch where none was before. You’ll remain within your own family, Mr. Potter, only… slightly rearranged. Magic will accept it. The world will accept it. And you’ll... remain safe.”

Harry stared at the glowing tree, his pulse echoing in his ears. The names of his ancestors danced across the parchment—Potters, Evanses, and older names he barely recognized. Some branches pulsed faintly with gold, others with a muted silver light, as though marking generations steeped in magic or diluted by time.

“And this… works?” he asked quietly.

“It has to,” Isla replied, her tone softening for the first time. “Otherwise, you’d either vanish the next time you touched a blood ward—or you’d trigger every magical family registry in Britain and have half the Ministry down here within the hour.”

Harry swallowed hard. “So I’m… being rewritten.”

“In a manner of speaking.”

Her wand moved gracefully through the air, tapping the parchment. A small portion of the tree shimmered and unfurled, highlighting a line that stretched back to an ancestor named Ignotus Peverell.

“Of course,” Isla murmured, as if the choice pleased her. “A strong line. Ancient, respected. We can nest you here. A Peverell, displaced by family tragedy. It’s clean. No one will question it.”

Harry’s throat tightened. Peverell. He’d known the name since the Deathly Hallows. The thought of hiding beneath that branch, even symbolically, felt… eerie. Yet something in him recognized the inevitability of it. He had always belonged to that legacy, even if only in whispers.

Isla must have noticed his hesitation because she paused, studying him with those sharp grey eyes. “You’ll still be you, Mr. Potter. The blood doesn’t lie. We’re only changing the surface of things. This world—our world—is old, rooted in bloodlines and magic deeper than time itself. The past is less forgiving than your present, and I’d rather you not be torn apart by it.”

He let out a shaky breath. “You make it sound like I’ve gone and stepped into a nest of dragons.”

That earned him the faintest flicker of amusement. “In 1917, Mr. Potter, that would be an accurate description of polite society.”

She turned back to the parchment, her wand hovering above the faintly glowing branches. “The Peverells have just died out,” she said quietly, eyes tracing the golden veins. “Officially, at least. The last of the line was declared gone a few years ago. Their estate sits empty, their records sealed. No one will question a surviving cousin returning. Even muggle war makes ghosts of us all, and families are rarely inclined to look too closely when a familiar crest appears again.”

Harry swallowed, his throat dry. “So… I’m a ghost now?”

“In a sense.” Isla’s grey eyes lifted to meet his. “But a useful one. The Ministry doesn’t like anomalies. We prefer to tidy the edges where time frays. You’ll need a place, a name, a past that can breathe without drawing attention. This—” she tapped the parchment with her wand “—is the cleanest way.”

“What name do you suggest?” Harry asked after a moment, watching her wand hover over the still-glowing parchment.

“It’ll probably be best to keep close to your own,” Isla said, eyes narrowing in thought. “Otherwise you’ll forget yourself and answer incorrectly when someone calls. Something you can claim ‘Harry’ as a nickname from.”

Harry frowned. “I can’t keep Harry?”

She looked up at him with a faint, incredulous tilt of her head. “Harry is hardly suitable for the time period you’ve landed in, Mr. Potter. It sounds… unrefined. Like a stable hand’s moniker. You could be—” she paused, lips twitching faintly “—Hades?”

Harry choked on a startled laugh that came out as a cough. “You’re joking.”

“I am not.” Her tone was prim, though her eyes glittered with amusement. “Hades is a strong, ancient name. Regal, even. But perhaps a bit dramatic for daily use.”

He couldn’t help a small grin. “A bit.”

Isla tapped her wand against the table, the tip humming faintly. “Hmm. Hector? Hadrian? Humphrey?”

Harry ducked his head, biting the inside of his cheek to hide a laugh.

“Yes, yes, very funny,” Isla said, though there was a warmth beneath the mock irritation. “Huxley? Hansel? Hezekiah?”

Harry’s shoulders shook once.

She sighed, rolling her eyes skyward in the manner of a woman who’d had to endure far worse nonsense from Ministry clerks. “Harrison? Hudson? Any of these sound tolerable to you, Mr. Potter-who-will-cease-to-exist-by-morning?”

Harry rubbed the back of his neck. “Harrison’s… fine,” he said at last. “It’s close enough to Harry that I won’t forget it. And it sounds…” he hesitated, searching for a word. “Normal. For 1917, I guess.”

“Good,” Isla said crisply, satisfaction softening the corners of her mouth. “And your middle name can’t be James, as you very well know.”

Harry looked up, startled by how casually she’d said it—as if she already knew everything about him, down to the ghosts in his family. “Why not James?” he asked, even though he knew the answer before she gave it.

Isla raised one elegant brow. “Because the name James Potter doesn’t exist yet, Mr. Potter. Nor should it, if you’d prefer to keep breathing without attracting the attention of every genealogist, curse-breaker, and meddling historian from here to Edinburgh. We’ll need something from the Peverell line. It keeps the blood coherent, and it lends the right amount of credibility.”

She turned back to the parchment, the glow of it catching in her grey eyes. “Let’s see,” she murmured. “Cadmus, Ignotus, Antioch… no, those would sound too presumptuous. Perhaps a descendant’s name, something that’s carried quietly through the generations…”

Harry leaned forward despite himself, curiosity flickering through the haze of nerves. The names on the parchment rippled faintly, lines of blood and light shifting as Isla traced her wand along one of the branches.

“There was a Corvinus Peverell,” she said after a moment. “Distant, but well-documented. A scholar, eccentric but respected. His name faded from the records after his line dwindled, which gives us room to weave you in without notice.” She glanced up. “Harrison Corvinus Peverell. It has weight, doesn’t it?”

Harry mouthed it silently. The name rolled oddly on his tongue, formal, old-fashioned, but solid. The kind of name that could have been carved into a marble plaque in some forgotten hall.

“It sounds…” he hesitated, then gave a small, almost embarrassed smile. “Important.”

“Good,” Isla said, her tone softening for the first time. “You’ll need it. Names are more than words here—they’re currency. Your lineage will open doors that even magic might not.”

She flicked her wand again, and the name sealed itself onto the parchment with a soft golden flare. Harrison Corvinus Peverell.

For a moment, the air itself seemed to hum around it, threads of old enchantment weaving into place. Harry could almost feel the magic sink into his skin, faintly warm, like sunlight through glass.

Isla watched him closely, her expression unreadable. “There,” she said quietly. “Now you exist here as you were meant to—by magic, and by name... or you will be once I get this down to the goblics and archives. You’ll find that the world responds differently to you now. Wards will recognize you. Charms will bend in your favor. You are anchored.”

Harry looked down at his hands, still faintly trembling. “It feels strange,” he murmured. “Like something’s… humming under my skin.”

“That’s because it is,” Isla said, gathering the parchment and tucking it into a leather folio. “Time is adjusting to you, threading you into its pattern. You’re no longer a displaced fragment, it’s accepting you as one of its own.” She paused then, regarding him thoughtfully. “You’re adapting remarkably well, Mr. Potter. Most people panic when I rewrite their existence.”

Harry gave a faint, humorless laugh. “I’ve had worse days.”

“Mm.” Isla’s lips curved, just slightly. “I rather imagine you have.”

For a heartbeat, silence filled the room—the air heavy with old magic and quiet understanding.

“As I said, I’ll get the goblins to finalise it on their side, too,” Isla said, tucking the leather folio under her arm. “You’ll be the Peverell Lord, Harrison. That’s a lot of responsibility, but it means you’ll be set. You’ll have the estates, the money, the artifacts, the land.” Her grey eyes narrowed slightly, the faintest edge of warning in her voice. “But be warned. I, Isla Hitchens, née Black, and the head Auror, Theseus Scamander, will be keeping track of things you do to ensure you don’t abuse your advantage of being in the past to change things for the worse.”

Harry’s eyes flicked up sharply, and he frowned at the name. He whispered it under his breath, cautious and curious: “Scamander…”

“You know him?” Isla asked, arching one neat eyebrow.

He nodded. “Not personally. His brother became… famous.”

Isla let out a small, knowing hum. “With how obsessed he is with animals, I’m actually not that surprised.” She shifted, her tone brisk once more. “Our next topic… is, well… you’ll need to learn about today’s society if you’re to fit in. You’ll have to go shopping, mingle in public. Since I am your assigned Unspeakable, I will be spending time with you. And… keeping you safe as an omega.”

“As an omega,” Harry repeated softly, the weight of the words making his stomach twist.

“Have you had your first heat yet?” Isla asked without preamble, her voice smooth, even, clinical.

Harry sputtered. “W-what?”

“What is the matter, dear?” she asked, tilting her head slightly, her grey eyes sharp.

“Well… it’s just that… we’re in 1917. I did not expect you to ask that outright,” he admitted, cheeks heating as he looked down at his hands.

“I think you’ll find most Blacks are rather… straightforward in what they wish to ask and say,” she replied, almost gently, though there was no mistaking the firmness in her tone.

“I… haven’t had a heat,” Harry whispered, almost apologetically, his ears tingling as if the room itself had noticed his admission.

“But you’re eighteen?” Isla said, the barest note of surprise in her voice. “Average heats start from thirteen to sixteen years old. It being so far behind… is an issue—”

“Caused by stress,” Harry cut in. “There was… a war.”

“A wizarding war?” Isla asked, her sharp gaze unwavering.

“Multiple,” Harry added, his voice quieter this time, almost reluctant to speak.

“I must say,” Isla continued, tone clipped but careful, “you will have to keep your mouth shut about the future unless you want your memories wiped. But… to speak about it to me is acceptable, since I am an Unspeakable. But only to me. Only! Unless you get my approval.”

Harry nodded, the weight of the responsibility settling over him like a cloak.

“Back to your heat situation,” Isla said, drawing her wand again and lightly tracing it through the air. “Your house-elves will be able to keep you hydrated and… blaa blaa…” She made a dismissive motion with her hand, though Harry caught the faintest smile tugging at her lips. He laughed quietly, a short, almost nervous sound. “…During your heat,” Isla continued, unbothered by his laugh. “Having an alpha help you through it is acceptable in this time of society, provided no child is made out of wedlock, or it is not public knowledge they are assisting you.”

“Oh…” Harry said softly, uncertain.

“What is it?” Isla asked.

“Well… I’ve just never really been educated on heats,” he admitted, the blush creeping across his cheeks.

“I’ll give you a book on omegas,” Isla said briskly, her wand flicking toward a shelf where several tomes seemed to shimmer faintly. “So far, you’re getting eleven books.”

“Eleven?!” Harry echoed, eyebrows shooting up in disbelief.

“Eleven,” she confirmed simply, her tone precise, as though the number itself was immovable fact. A soft knock at the door interrupted them. Isla’s sharp eyes flicked toward it. “Ah,” she said, her lips curving faintly. “Your room..."

Harry’s gaze followed hers, his nerves tingling at the thought of stepping fully into this time period. 

Isla gestured for him to follow, her movements smooth, confident. “Come. We’ll prepare you. You’ll need attire appropriate to your station, your new life, and… your place in society. And you’ll need to learn quickly, Mr. Peverell, because once you step outside, the world will have expectations of you—and time does not forgive mistakes lightly.”

Harry swallowed, heart hammering in his chest. He could feel the pulse of magic beneath his skin again—the old, resonant hum that whispered of responsibility, lineage, and the invisible threads of power weaving him into the past.

And as he moved toward the door, following Isla, he realized that every step he took would be more than just movement—it would be a step into a life decades away from everything he had known, and yet entirely tethered to him by blood, magic, and a name that was now his own: Harrison Corvinus Peverell.

Chapter Text

The room he was led into was nothing like the sterile halls of the Department of Mysteries Harry knew. The air itself carried weight, humming faintly with enchantments so deep they were almost invisible. When the door closed behind him, he could feel the faint thrum of wards settle over his skin, like a shiver down the spine.

“This,” Isla said, her voice echoing softly in the chamber, “is your room until you pass societal and etiquette classes.”

It was larger than he expected a bedroom to ever be, with smooth slate floors etched with faintly glowing sigils that pulsed in a quiet rhythm, a secure network woven into the foundation itself. The walls were bare stone, softened by the glow of enchanted sconces, and the air smelled faintly of lavender and parchment. A bed was in the middle, neatly made, with a folded pile of clothes laid across the footboard. Beside it stood a narrow table, and above it, a small shelf filled with books.

Eleven books. Thick, leather-bound volumes that looked both intimidating and well-loved. The twelfth appeared with a soft pop, accompanied by a tiny house elf with long ears and bright eyes that bowed deeply before vanishing as quickly as it came.

“Your educational materials,” Isla said lightly, as if eleven volumes on wizarding etiquette and social propriety were a perfectly reasonable thing to assign. “And one more. An addendum on omega health or magical biology. You’ll read them all.”

Harry blinked at the pile. “All of them?”

“All of them,” Isla said without hesitation. “You’ll thank me later, or at least you’ll refrain from embarrassing yourself at a dinner table.” She crossed the room with the kind of unhurried confidence that made Harry instinctively straighten his posture. “You may go to your Peverell estate when the Ministry deems you ready, but we will not let you live there until you complete your learning to blend in. Essentially—” she turned to face him fully, eyes gleaming with dry amusement, “—to be blunt, you’re on a leash for a while.”

Harry’s throat worked around a swallow. “How long do you think…?”

“If you’re quick at reading, three weeks,” Isla said matter-of-factly, opening the wardrobe with a flick of her wand. “If you’re distracted, well… that depends on you.”

The doors swung open with a quiet creak. Inside were crisp linen sleep clothes folded with almost military precision. Everything else was empty.

“As you see,” she continued, “the wardrobe awaits your additions. We’ll go shopping tomorrow. You’ll need attire suited to your rank and the time period. Tailored robes, day coats, shoes that don’t make you look like a Muggle chimney sweep.”

Harry tried to smile, though it came out awkwardly. “Right.”

Isla gestured toward the wall near the bed, where a faintly etched rune glimmered. “Tap this with your wand, and I’ll be alerted that you need me. It also signals emergencies or—” she gave him a sharp look “—if you attempt to leave the floor without permission.”

He blinked. “So… definitely a leash, then.”

Her lips curved faintly. “Precisely.” She turned back to the bedside table and picked up something glinting silver — a bracelet, slender and simple, made of smooth metal laced with runic filigree. Without asking, she took Harry’s wrist and clasped it on. The metal pulsed once with a faint glow, then shrank neatly to fit.

Harry stared down as faint words shimmered to life along the inner band — soft, silvery letters that danced briefly before settling into clarity.

“They’ll only appear to you,” Isla said. “Those words are your password to this room. They’ll change daily, and you’ll need to recite them to open the door. They also hold your floo code and a discreet tracker, until you pass the tests I mentioned.”

Harry turned his wrist in the light, mesmerized by the runes that shifted under his skin like reflections on water. “You really don’t trust me, do you?”

Isla looked at him for a moment — not unkindly, but with a certain tempered honesty. “Trust, Mr. Peverell, is a luxury we can’t afford when dealing with time anomalies. Even ones who look tired and polite.”

That earned the faintest, reluctant smile from Harry. “Fair enough.”

“You’ll have food delivered three times a day,” she continued, pacing toward the door. “The elves know what to prepare — don’t expect your future nonsense like packaged sugar or tinned soups. There’s a bathing chamber through that door. Laundry is automatic; you need only leave your clothes in the basket by the hearth. Lights will dim at eleven. I suggest you sleep by then.”

Harry nodded, absorbing each instruction like a soldier learning new orders. The ache in his head had dulled, replaced by a heavy, surreal calm.

Isla lingered by the doorway, her expression softer now, though her poise remained unbroken. “It’s a strange thing, isn’t it?” she said, almost quietly. “To be ripped from your own time and handed a life that isn’t yours. You’ll adapt. Most do. You seem clever enough.”

“I’ll try,” Harry said, meaning it.

“Good.” Isla inclined her head, a faint note of approval in her tone. “Rest, Lord Peverell. Tomorrow, the world begins again.”

The door closed behind her with a soft click, and for the first time since the spell had thrown him through time, Harry was alone.

He turned slowly, taking in the room again — the quiet hum of the runes beneath the floor, the faint scent of old paper, the silvery glint of the bracelet against his wrist.

On the bed, the folded clothes waited, neatly pressed, the fabric stern beneath his fingers. On the shelf, the twelve books stood like sentinels, silent and imposing, their spines etched in gilt with titles about society, customs, and proper magical conduct. He brushed his fingers along one — A Treatise on Omegan life in Wizarding High Society (1903 Edition) — and let out a soft, incredulous laugh.

He sank down onto the edge of the bed, running a hand through his hair. Somewhere far above him, the Ministry thrummed with a magic he no longer belonged to, a century away from the one he’d known.

“Right,” he muttered under his breath, looking at the bracelet again. “Three weeks. Don’t get killed. Don’t change history. Don’t fail etiquette.”

The bracelet pulsed faintly in response, as if the room itself had heard him.

Harry leaned back against the edge of the bed, the candlelight flickering across the leather-bound pages. He had intended to read systematically, starting at the beginning, but the section labeled “Male Omegas: Attire and Presentation in High Society” caught his eye. Curiosity pried at his exhaustion, and he found himself skimming ahead.

The illustrations were unlike anything he had seen before. The drawings depicted young male omegas standing at attention, poised and elegant, each figure adorned in outfits that seemed to straddle eras and ideas simultaneously. The clothing was unique in cut and silhouette, but unmistakably designed for an androgynous grace.

Harry frowned as he studied the sketches. The ballroom outfits, in particular, drew his attention. The top was reminiscent of a tightly-fitted waistcoat, shaped almost like a corset, sculpting the torso while leaving the collarbone exposed in a wide, open neckline. Frills and delicate lace edged the top, puffing slightly at the shoulders before tapering tightly to the elbows where more lace trailed softly, then hugging the forearm down to the wrist.

The skirt—or rather, the partial skirt—flared out from the hips, cascading in light teal down to the floor. Yet, in a twist of practical daring, the front of the skirt was completely open, revealing tight-fitting trousers beneath that disappeared into lace-trimmed stockings just below the knee. The trousers were sharply tailored, emphasizing the long line of the legs, while the lace stockings added a subtle flourish of refinement.

Harry tilted his head, studying the illustration, and muttered under his breath. “The wizarding world of 1917 really is behind the times…”

He glanced at the folds of the skirt, the careful arrangement of lace and frills, the way the waistcoat cinched at the smallest part of the torso while leaving the collarbone bare. “But… it’s stunning.” The words left his lips in a whisper, the faintest spark of admiration warming his chest.

The outfits were designed to balance elegance and display. The open neckline revealed the delicate sweep of the collarbone, the flaring skirt added movement and drama, while the trousers maintained a tailored, masculine structure. The ensemble was a conscious blend of tradition and allure, restrained yet deliberate in its beauty.

Harry’s fingers traced the page instinctively.  He shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips despite himself. “They may be centuries behind, but I’ll admit… this is the kind of style that could make a man feel like a proper work of art... If I’m going to be on a leash anyway, I might as well look incredible doing it,” he muttered, half amused, half resigned.

A strange thrill pricked at his chest, the sort of anticipation that had nothing to do with magic and everything to do with presence.

Yes. The outfit was fantastical, perhaps excessively delicate for daily life, but it was designed to impress, to enthrall, and Harry found himself imagining just how it would feel to inhabit the look: standing tall, moving with quiet confidence, the world noticing without a single word being spoken.

And, begrudgingly, he had to admit: he rather liked it.

Harry’s gaze drifted from the ballroom illustrations to the neatly folded clothes on the bed. A part of him wondered—hesitantly, nervously—if these were meant for casual wear, for a male omega like him, or if they were intended for something more formal. With a tentative breath, he reached for the topmost layer and unfolded it.

The garment was exquisite. Even in the soft candlelight, the tailoring spoke of wealth, influence, and meticulous care. The waistcoat was cut sharply to the torso, nipped in at the waist like a corset but designed for comfort, a perfect marriage of control and ease. Its shoulders were squared but softened with a faint puff, reminiscent of the faintly exaggerated lines of military dress coats, and the sleeves tapered neatly to the wrist, where small bands of delicate lace peeked out — a subtle, unmistakable mark of omega refinement.

The color was a muted teal, sophisticated without screaming for attention, the shade catching the light just enough to suggest luxury. Along the lapels and collar, there were faint embroidered runes in silver thread — not magical in function, merely ornamental, an insignia of the Peverell line, elegant without ostentation. The collar itself was open, framing the neck and collarbone in a way that echoed the designs from the ballroom outfits, yet restrained enough for daily appearances.

On the waistcoat there was soft silk lining and faint pinstripes running vertically, lending structure and height to the torso. It ended at the hips, allowing movement and lending an understated elegance that didn’t rely on frills or lace for impact.

The trousers were slim but not constrictive, tailored to stop at the upper calves or low knee and disappear into knee-high lace-trimmed stockings. The fabric was sturdy. 

The ensemble was completed by shoes polished to a mirror sheen, soft leather in the same teal shade with subtle silver buckles that matched the embroidery on the lapels. Small cuffs of lace peeked at the wrist and ankle, signaling refinement but not frivolity.

Harry held the outfit in his hands, weighing it, feeling the texture of the fabric. It was designed to impress quietly, to mark him as someone of high status, yet unmistakably an omega. The tailoring was sharp enough to command respect in a room full of wizards, while the subtle lace, soft colors, and delicate flourishes reminded anyone who looked closely that he was someone of value and rarity.

The outfit seemed to hum faintly under his touch, as if aware that its wearer would need to carry both authority and subtle allure. It wasn’t a costume—it was armor of a different kind, crafted for appearances, for politics, and, quietly, for the strange, precious social currency that male omegas commanded in 1917 wizarding society.

Harry laid it carefully back on the bed, his fingers lingering on the folds. The craftsmanship, the balance of androgyny and elegance, the understated power—it all left a strange, fluttering thrill in his chest.

A soft pop in the corner made him jerk.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, stumbling backward as a small figure scuttled into the room. The elf was no taller than his knee, its large ears twitching nervously. Its eyes were bright and unnervingly intelligent, and it carried a bundle of folded parchment tied with a ribbon.

“You startled me!” Harry said, holding a hand to his chest.

The elf chittered softly, bowing once. “I am sorry, young Lord Peverell. Unspeakable Hitchens has requested I deliver this to you. It is… the latest fashion news for today’s styles, for your guidance in attire.”

Harry blinked. “Fashion news?”

The elf bobbed its head earnestly, holding out the bundle. Harry took it gingerly, still wary of the tiny creature. Before he could ask any more questions, the elf gave a small squeak of farewell, and with a soft pop, it vanished as suddenly as it had appeared.

Harry stared at the bundle in his hands. It looked almost like a miniature newspaper, but the paper was a soft, creamy parchment, the edges trimmed with silver ink. He untied the ribbon and carefully unfolded the sheets.

The pamphlet was filled with illustrations, sketches of men and women—alphas, betas, and omegas—posing in the latest fashions for 1917. Even in the muted light, the colors and textures leapt from the page.

He noticed immediately that the styles had shifted slightly from the illustrations in his etiquette books. The partial skirts for male omegas were now paired with more structured trousers underneath, the lace trimmings softer, the waistcoat designs slightly more relaxed. Shoulder lines were broader for alphas, tapering sharply at the waist for betas, while male omegas retained the signature open collar, soft puffed sleeves, and delicate lace at wrists—always maintaining that subtle, androgynous elegance.

At the side of the pamphlet, small blocks of text indicated the colors of the season, sorted by secondary gender. Summer, it said, favored pale teal, soft lavender, and muted coral for omegas; deep navy, forest green, and rich burgundy for alphas; and gentle taupe, soft cream, and silvery grey for betas.

Harry’s eyes flicked down further, seeing predictions for autumn and winter: deeper jewel tones, warmer neutrals, and occasional metallic accents. For omegas, soft emeralds, sapphire blues, and pearlescent whites would dominate; alphas were encouraged toward oxblood, charcoal, and midnight blues; betas in muted plums, soft browns, and dusky silvers.

He flipped through the pages slowly, absorbing the subtle shifts, the seasonal guidance, the careful balance of formality and magic-infused elegance. Each outfit came with annotations on the type of fabric, the recommended pairing of gloves, boots, and accessories, and even a small note about magical upkeep—how certain silks reacted to spells, or which lace patterns were favored in enchanted lighting.

Harry leaned back against the bed, the pamphlet open across his lap. It was dazzling and overwhelming all at once. He could feel a strange thrill of anticipation at the thought of stepping into these clothes—not just for appearances, but as part of the social game of being an omega, a prized male in a world that regarded him as rare and precious.

The pamphlet felt like a bridge between his new life and the one he had left behind: a guide, a challenge, and a promise all in one. Summer colors to wear now, hints at the coming seasons, a gentle lesson in how to move through society with elegance, poise, and influence.

Harry exhaled softly. I really have to get this right, he thought, tracing a finger along the illustration of a young omega. The combination of formality, beauty, and subtle power left a strange, fluttering excitement in his chest—an excitement he wasn’t entirely sure he had felt before.

He folded the pamphlet back onto the stack of books. The summer colors for omegas, pale teals and soft lavenders, seemed to mock him from the page. He shook his head, imagining the washed-out effect against his pale skin, the way the light tones would clash harshly with his black hair and make his bright emerald eyes look almost too sharp. He wasn’t sure he could pull it off.

Grumbling under his breath, he pushed the thoughts aside and turned to where the sleepwear awaited. It was modest, practical, and yet carefully made, clearly designed for comfort and lightness.

He picked up the top first. The neckline was square, wide but shapeless, a subtle elegance without any of the constriction he had imagined from the tailored waistcoats. The sleeves were capped and frilled delicately, soft linen that would brush lightly against his skin. The body of the top ended around his pelvis, falling loosely so he could move without restriction.

He pulled it over his head, the fabric cool and soft against his shoulders. It hung comfortably, swaying slightly with each movement, the detailed embroidery along the hem catching the dim light. There was an understated intricacy in the patterns—tiny diamonds, curling vines, delicate symbols that might have been merely decorative—or perhaps faintly magical in design, woven into the linen to keep the material soft yet resilient.

Next came the bottoms. They were essentially shorts, but puffed and frilled at the hems to mirror the cap sleeves, reminiscent of bloomers from Muggle fashion but without the elastic that pressed against the skin. The fabric was light, airy, soft to the touch, patterned with similar motifs as the top. Pulling them up, Harry felt the lightness of the outfit, the way it allowed his legs freedom to move, yet kept him slightly modest. The frills at the end swayed delicately, adding a soft femininity without forcing anything tight or restrictive.

He looked at himself in the small, enchanted mirror Isla had left propped against the wall. The ensemble was simple compared to the ballroom outfits or the layered, tailored smart wear, but it felt… right. Comfortable, light, breathable—something a young Lord could sleep in and yet not feel like he had completely lost his dignity.

Harry sat on the edge of the bed, brushing his fingers over the fabric. The top slid softly over his skin, the square neckline giving just enough room at the collarbone to feel delicate but unobtrusive. The frilled shorts brushed lightly over his thighs, cool and airy.

He let out a quiet breath. “At least this… works,” he murmured to himself.

Lying back under the warm blanket, it was a simple comfort, the first small act of grounding in a day that had thrown him through time and into a life both strange and precise.

The only true annoyance Harry encountered was the blasted alarm charm.

It shrilled at precisely eight in the morning—sharp, punctual, and impossible to ignore. He groaned, pulling the pillow over his head, but it didn’t stop until he sat up properly. When he tried to lie back down, it started again immediately, louder this time. With a sigh of resignation, he stayed upright.

He tugged down the hem of his sleep shirt; it had ridden up during the night, bunching around his chest. The loose cut, which had seemed so airy and pleasant before bed, now just annoyed him. Too light, too soft. The frills tickled when he moved.

Muttering under his breath, Harry swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. The room felt cool, faintly humming with the subtle wards woven into its walls.

The lack of... well, support in the sleepwear wasn’t something he’d noticed the night before, but now it was definitely a problem. Still, he supposed the idea of letting the body “breathe” at night wasn’t the worst logic he’d ever heard. It was just… awkward.

He stripped out of the sleepwear and set it neatly aside, rubbing at the back of his neck.

He opened the wardrobe and pulled on the undergarments. Soft linen and structured cotton, the strange blend of masculine cut and feminine tailoring that marked omega fashion. There was something delicate about it all—the lacing, the fine stitching—but also undeniably practical. It made him feel oddly… refined. Not quite himself, but not uncomfortable either.

He had just begun looking toward the smart outfit from the night before when the pop cracked the air.

Harry jumped.

The house elf bowed low, its ears drooping slightly. “My apologies, Lord Peverell,” it squeaked. “I have been told to inform you to dress in your outfit from yesterday for now, and allow me to transport you to the Ritual Room. If you decline, means of force will be used. My apologies.”

He blinked. “Force?”

The elf winced. “Unspeakable Hitchens’ orders, sir.”

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Right. Fine. Just... give me a second.”

He changed quickly back out of the undergarments, pulling his Auror robes back over his shoulders. They felt oddly heavy now. He adjusted the collar, tightened the fastening, and looked at the elf, who waited silently, eyes wide and anxious.

“Let’s get it over with, then,” Harry muttered.

The elf reached out a small hand. Harry took it. The world folded inwards.

The crack of magic was sharper than Apparition, compressed, cold. For a moment, everything stretched—and then solidified.

He found himself standing in a smaller, stone-walled chamber. The air hummed with enchantments. Symbols glowed faintly across the floor, an intricate circle of runes and sigils etched into the marble, pulsing in rhythm like a slow heartbeat.

Isla Hitchens—Isla Black, his mind corrected absently—was waiting. She stood near the center of the circle, hands clasped neatly before her, wand in one, parchment in the other. She looked altogether too calm.

When she saw his face, she laughed lightly. “No need to look so petrified, Mr. Potter- pardon, Lord Peverell.”

“I’d say I’m more… deeply concerned,” Harry replied dryly, eyeing the runes.

“I imagine you are,” Isla said. Her tone was cool but not unkind. “We need to sort out your appearance, which may alter your height and, consequently, the fit of your clothing. So you’re dressed in this for now, to avoid damaging what you’ll wear later.”

He arched a brow. “To damage these clothes instead?”

She gave a small, amused tilt of her head. “They’ll be burned anyway.”

Harry blinked. “Comforting.”

“Quite.” Isla stepped closer, her wand tapping against her palm as she began pacing around the circle. “Your appearance must be corrected. You look far too much like a Potter.”

“Right,” he said slowly. “My hair?”

“Yes. That hair.” Her eyes glittered faintly. “Unruly, defiant, untamable. Typical of your paternal line. The Potters may be distant kin of the Peverells, but their features are distinct. You, Lord Peverell, cannot afford to walk around with a head of hair that screams ‘Potter’ at every turn.”

Harry ran a self-conscious hand through the offending mess. “So what, exactly, are you changing?”

“Approximately a quarter of your ancestry,” Isla said matter-of-factly. “We’re folding in the bloodline of a collateral Peverell branch. It will adjust your features—subtly, mind you—enough to anchor your claim. The magic will settle the lineage itself. You’ll be a true Peverell by blood as well as title.”

He swallowed. “And this… won’t hurt?”

She gave him a look that was far too reminiscent of Professor McGonagall at her driest. “Define hurt.”

“Oh, brilliant,” Harry muttered.

Isla’s lips curved into the faintest smile. “You’ll manage, dear. Everyone does. Now, step into the circle, if you please.”

Harry hesitated only a moment before doing as he was told, the runes flaring faintly gold beneath his boots. He drew a steadying breath. 

“The center, Lord Peverell, not the edge. And place some of your blood on the middle rune.”

Harry’s stomach twisted nervously. “Blood… right.” He took the small ceremonial knife Isla handed him, hesitated for only a second, then nicked the palm of his hand. A bead of warm blood welled immediately. He pressed it against the glowing center of the rune circle, feeling the pulse of the magic react to the living essence he offered. The light flared, golden and cold, and he felt the faintest hum ripple up his arm, like icy fingers brushing against bone.

“Lie down,” Isla instructed softly, though there was steel beneath her tone.

Harry obeyed, settling onto the smooth floor as the circle’s glow wrapped around him. The magic was immediate—pressing, insistent, weaving through his body.

It hurt, a sharp twinge surged through his chest as his bones shifted slightly, subtle and twisting, muscles pulling and loosening in ways that made him hiss softly. The sensation traveled down to his legs, tightening his calves, spreading to his hips and waist, pulling and reshaping. It wasn’t excruciating, but it was definitely discomfort that demanded focus and breath.

“Breathe through it,” Isla instructed, her voice calm, even gentle. “The magic knows what to do. Your body will adjust.”

Harry gritted his teeth, bracing himself. He felt his torso subtly compress, shoulders narrowing just slightly, hips widening to match the new lineage. His jaw pressed inward, softening, while his nose shifted, tip rounding faintly. His heart thudded rapidly, head swimming, as the magic worked through every inch of his frame.

When the pulsing in the circle dimmed, Isla knelt beside him. “Sit up. Slowly.”

Harry did, teeth clenched, trembling slightly. “That… hurt,” he muttered, rubbing at his temples.

“I told you to expect discomfort,” Isla said, though the faintest hint of amusement played at the corners of her mouth. “Now, stand before the mirror.”

Harry rose carefully, his legs wobbling faintly. He peeled off the heavy outer Auror robes, revealing the slightly more form fitting clothes beneath. As he approached the mirror, he felt a flicker of irritation.

The reflection that met him was… unnerving.

He felt himself get annoyed immediately. The malnourished form he had carried—long, gangly, and faintly awkward—was gone. In its place was a body shorter than he remembered: 5’4” instead of his usual 5’6”. The Peverells were supposed to be tall, he thought sharply, hands gripping the edges of the mirror.

The transformation had done its work meticulously. His jawline was now softer, more delicate, almost feminine. His nose was smaller, button-like, and his eyelashes longer, fuller, brushing against his cheekbones. His waist had pulled in slightly, narrow but defined, while his hips flared subtly—enough to give a quiet curve to his silhouette.

He swore under his breath. “This… this makes me look more feminine.”

His emerald eyes stared back at him, bright and sharp, though the edges now glimmered with a subtle golden fleck, like sunlight caught in jade. He blinked rapidly, still adjusting.

Then his hair. Oh. His hair.

Gone was the familiar, messy, untamed black mane. Now it was a neat mop of curls, soft and springy, with a faint middle part—though not precisely aligned, just enough to suggest deliberation. The curls brushed lightly at the nape of his neck, not falling far enough to be feminine long, but long enough to feel like an heir’s hair, the sort a young lord might carry with casual elegance rather than ostentation. And yet… it looked good. Really good, actually.

Harry spun on his heels to face Isla, wide-eyed. “I… I look like a Black.”

“You think?” Isla’s grey eyes narrowed in appraisal, the corner of her mouth twitching with amusement.

“I think,” Harry said quickly, frowning at himself in the mirror, “I look a bit more like my godfather.”

“Your godfather was a Black?”

“He was… disowned.”

“Oh.” Isla’s expression softened, but her lips curled into a grin. “Me too. Though they still invite me to dinners, balls, the lot. Even if they have to put up with my improper language, my Muggle husband, and half-blood children."

Harry ran a hand through the curls again, letting them spring lightly back into place. “I don’t know what the Peverells looked like, apart from dark hair and being very tall. And… I’m not tall.”

“No…” Isla muttered, stepping closer to examine him in the mirror. “But you looked malnourished before, and no doubt that’s transferred into this form of you too. The posture, the frame… all of it is subtle, but correct. Still, you carry it differently now.”

Harry crossed his arms, scrutinizing the reflection. “Why… why am I more feminine?”

Isla’s lips pressed into a line. “If I were to hazard a guess, it might be due to stress delaying your heat. It delayed your omega development, your secondary gender expression. This ritual—combined with the Peverell lineage—has… restored it, in a sense.”

He blinked at her. “Restored it?”

“Truly,” Isla said softly, “I am sorry, I cannot be exact. The Peverells were rarely omegas—mostly alphas and betas. Male omegas in the line are extraordinarily uncommon. You look more like an omega now, rather than a… slight beta.”

Harry’s stomach twisted at the words, a mix of annoyance and incredulity. He tilted his head, studying the delicate curve of his jaw, the subtle widening of his hips, the soft sweep of his collarbone. “So stress made me… delayed, and now I’m… fully… an omega?”

“In essence,” Isla said, tilting her head. “You are a rare specimen, Lord Peverell. Carefully crafted, both by lineage and circumstance. Your features, your frame, your presence—all are aligned with what the Peverells prize. And what society will prize in a male omega of your station.”

Harry groaned, pressing both hands to his face. “I swear, I did not need anyone messing with me this much. I just want to survive.”

Isla chuckled softly, grey eyes glinting. “Survival is the first lesson, dear. Refinement and presence come second. And you, Harrison, have been… well, gifted a start.”

Harry peeked through his fingers at the mirror again, catching the shimmer in his eyes, the gentle wave of curls around his face, and the trimmer waist that gave him a subtle elegance he had never imagined for himself.

“Gifted,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “Right. Fabulous. Omega Lord gifted by magic and stress.”

Isla merely tilted her head, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “Exactly. Now, clothes must be measured, and your estate awaits preparation. You will inhabit this body fully, Lord Peverell. There is much to be done.”

Harry exhaled slowly, running a hand down the front of his torso. Much to be done indeed, he thought, staring at his reflection again. And beneath the irritation, the surprise, and the faint swirls of disbelief, there was the smallest flicker of anticipation.

Isla gestured for Harry to stand in the center of the room, the enchanted mirrors on the walls reflecting his new, shorter frame from every angle.

“First, we measure,” she said, her tone crisp, businesslike, but not unkind. “The clothes in your room will be adjusted magically, but precision matters. You may find that some garments fit differently than you expect after the transformation.”

Harry shifted nervously. “Right. Different… yes."

Isla produced a tape measure—thin, silver-threaded, and softly humming with magic. “Relax your shoulders. Breathe naturally. No tension.”

He obeyed, though the still-raw sensation of his reshaped body made him stiffen automatically. Isla’s hands were precise as she measured across his shoulders, down his arms, around his wrists, chest, waist, and hips. Each tap of the measuring tape seemed to pulse faintly with magic, the silver threads catching light and drawing subtle lines in the air.

“Your shoulders are narrower, as expected,” Isla murmured, noting something in her parchment. “Chest is proportionate. Waist… slightly trimmer than the previous measurements of the clothes we gave. Hips—wider, as per the transformation. Legs—calibrated, yes, to allow the trousers to fall properly over your calves. Height… 5’4”, confirmed.”

Harry made a noise of mild protest. “Still not tall. Peverells were tall.”

“Indeed,” Isla said dryly, “but you have inherited the grace and posture of an omega. Appearances can be more persuasive than mere height. You will learn to walk with it.”

She moved around him with fluid efficiency, measuring inseams, sleeve lengths, and the subtle curve from shoulder to wrist. Every motion was precise, efficient, and gentle, almost like a dance.

“The outfit in your room has now changed to the measurements that this measuring tape recorded,” Isla said, her wand flicking lightly to emphasize the finality of the act.

“Wow,” Harry muttered, staring at her in mild shock. He could still feel the magic in the air, faint tingling across his skin where the measurements had been recorded.

She grinned, a rare, almost conspiratorial curl of her lips. “This is a trial magical method, of a sort. Not open to the public.”

“It seems it never will be,” Harry replied dryly.

“A pity,” Isla said, adjusting her parchment. “But I can see that releasing it to the general public would cause tailors to lose some business, and for our community, that would have consequences.”

Harry swallowed, trying not to think too much about how spoiled the magical upper-class had become. He tugged his outer Auror robes back on and followed her silently as she guided him back to his room.

“Have you started on the books?” she asked as they walked, her voice light but sharp.

“I read part of the omegan book you gave me,” Harry admitted, his fingers brushing against the edge of the robe, “and I read the pamphlet on recent styles.”

“Might I ask your opinion?” she inquired, stepping aside to let him pass through the door.

Harry let out a small huff. “I hate the summer colours.”

“Ah yes,” Isla said, raising an eyebrow, “I thought you might. Pale colours don’t look so bad on fair skin as one might think, but they do tend to emphasize any unwanted redness—acne, minor blemishes. But alas,” she added, eyes flicking over him approvingly, “you appear to have none of that.”

Harry frowned slightly, crossing his arms. “My worry is that my eye colour and dark hair will be uncharacteristically bright compared to the clothes.”

“I can see what you mean,” she said softly, inclining her head. “But not to worry. Summer is soon over. After you are properly changed, you will meet Theseus Scammander, and then we will go into Diagon Alley together, just the two of us. I assume you are aware of that Alley?”

“Yes,” Harry replied, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “It still stands in the year I left at least.”

Isla’s gaze softened briefly, a hint of satisfaction in her grey eyes. “Good. Then you are already one step ahead. There is much to learn, Harrison, but it will all come in time.”

They reached his room. Isla paused at the door, eyes flicking to the rune on the wall. She spoke the password, her voice crisp. A soft glow traced along the rune as she spoke the words, and a faint click echoed from the door.

Harry’s fingers trembled slightly as he turned the handle and pushed the door open, stepping inside.

“Might I ask…” Isla began, tilting her head ever so slightly, “forgive me if I am being rude, what is the scar on your head from?”

Harry froze, his breath catching in his throat. That scar—the faint, pale indentation that remained from the lightning-bolt shaped mark, or more accurately the wand-shaped scar from the Killing Curse—was something he had expected to be noticed eventually, but never so soon. He ran a hand lightly over the faded line, now barely visible since the events of weeks ago, after Voldemort had been defeated.

“Ah…” he murmured carefully, trying to keep his voice steady. “It’s… from an attack.”

Her grey eyes, sharp and discerning, didn’t let him off so easily. “Partly to do with the Dark Lord you mentioned you defeated in the… script you wrote when you arrived?”

Harry’s mind immediately went into a quiet panic. The Dark Lord… but… he isn’t born yet. Not for a decade. And yet, here I am, back in 1917… He swallowed, forcing a calm tone. “Yes… something like that. An adversary I… defeated. A powerful dark wizard, yes.”

Isla studied him carefully, her expression unreadable. “I see. That is… fortuitous for this time period, I suppose. Though I cannot imagine many in 1917 who could conjure such magic so young. You must have been… exceptional.”

Harry exhaled slowly, trying to settle the sudden tightness in his chest. “I… suppose so,” he said, voice quieter, tinged with a thread of unease. His fingers lingered over the faint scar, the memory of pain and triumph intertwined. “But here… there’s no need to worry. He... doesn’t exist yet.”

Isla gave a small, knowing nod. “Indeed. Take care, though; the world may not forgive recklessness."

Harry nodded slowly, still unsettled by the question, but relieved that the scar was more curiosity than judgment. He shut the door behind him and let the lock click into place. 

The door swung open suddenly, and Harry jumped, startled enough that he nearly toppled over his own feet.

“Privacy?” he muttered, eyes narrowing at the intrusion. "I could have been changing already."

“Sorry!” Isla’s voice called lightly from the other side, and then a flick of her wand sent a soft shimmer across the clothing laid out on the bed. The teal fabric remained, but gold details now traced the hems and cuffs where silver had been, catching the light with subtle brilliance. Some panels—strategically placed—shifted to black, matching the deep sheen of his own hair. The outfit seemed to shimmer with approval of his features, perfectly attuned to the magical adjustments she had orchestrated.

“I thought you might prefer it to suit your appearance rather than not,” she added, her tone crisp but not unkind. “I’ll see you after you’re ready.”

The door clicked softly shut, and Harry exhaled, letting the tension seep out of his shoulders. He stood frozen for a heartbeat, staring at the outfit as it seemed almost to hum faintly in the dim morning light, waiting for him to step into it.

He took a deep breath, fingers trembling just slightly as he reached for the garments. The teal and gold shimmered under his touch, soft to the hand yet structured in all the right places. The trousers adjusted minutely as he held them, the fabric settling into just the correct taper for his newly transformed legs. The waistcoat-like top expanded subtly at the shoulders, narrowed slightly at the waist, and the puffed sleeves tapered naturally, all perfectly calibrated to his frame.

Harry exhaled again, a small, reluctant smile tugging at his lips. The magic worked seamlessly, as though the clothing itself knew exactly what his body needed. The gold embroidery caught the light across the chest and along the hems, bringing out the faint golden flecks at the edges of his green eyes, while the black panels added a grounding contrast that made his hair seem almost iridescent against it.

He shook his head softly, marveling at it. “I… I look… coherent. Not ridiculous.”

When he slipped into the shoes—soft, dark leather with a subtle sheen—the ensemble seemed complete. He stood, straightened his posture, and let the magic finalize the fit. Every crease smoothed, every panel aligned, every color accentuating his dark hair, golden-edged green eyes, and the subtle curves of his reshaped form.

He ran a hand through his curls, adjusting them lightly at the nape, and then allowed himself to glance at the mirror. The reflection was almost unrecognizable. Shorter, more refined, golden-green eyes catching the light, hair curling neatly around his face, and the outfit—teal, gold, black, perfectly fitted—made him look every bit the young omega lord he was now meant to be.

Harry exhaled again, the tension in his chest melting just slightly. “Alright,” he whispered to himself. “Harrison Corvinus Peverell. Let’s see what this day has in store.”

Harry pressed the rune lightly. A faint glow pulsed under his touch, and a soft click echoed from the lock. The door swung open, and Isla leaned against the frame, a grin tugging at her lips. “Well now, I daresay you are… most exquisite, Harrison. Quite the proper young gentleman, if I might say so.”

He blinked, cheeks warming slightly. “Thanks, I… suppose.”

“Oh, do try to abandon that pitiful, unsure whisper of yours,” she said sharply, stepping fully into the room. Her wand flicked absently, sending the faint shimmer of protective wards dancing along the edges of the furniture. “Learn to be confident. A proper thank you will do, and do not forget to compliment in return, as is required in polite society.”

Harry arched a brow, a sly edge to his voice. “I feel as though you wouldn’t do that yourself.”

“Heavens, no,” Isla said, the words crisp and sharp, before she broke into a casual smirk and leaned back against the edge of the bed. “You’ve got me right there. I’m rather tired of that posh rot, truth be told. I do it sometimes out of habit… and old loyalty to the Black standards. But mostly, I couldn’t care less. Honestly, I find it tiresome.”

Harry’s grin widened faintly, appreciating her candor. “So I can take it that if I compliment you back… it won’t be the wrong thing?”

She laughed, a short, sharp sound that didn’t quite fit with her posh diction. “Oh, you can compliment me all you like, Lord Peverell. Just… do it honestly, yes? None of this stiff-upper-lip nonsense. Say it as you mean it. That, I do appreciate.”

Harry nodded slowly, feeling the faintest thrill at being spoken to so plainly, yet under the invisible watch of social expectation. “Alright. Thank you then… for everything. And I do say, you manage to make this whole… transition, rather manageable. Somehow.”

Isla’s eyes softened just slightly, though the playful smirk remained. “See? That’s better. Confident, polite, and with a touch of mischief. Exactly the balance we require. Now, come along, Harrison. There are still lessons to attend to, and the Alley will not wait for the faint of heart.”

Harry hesitated a moment, straightened his posture, and let himself follow.  The corridor was quiet as Isla led Harry through the Ministry’s winding hallways, the soft clatter of their footsteps echoing faintly against the polished floors. The air smelled faintly of parchment, candle smoke, and the faint metallic tang of magic. When they reached the office door, Isla gave a small tap with her wand, and it swung open with a soft creak.

“Lord Peverell,” Isla said softly, gesturing for Harry to step inside.

Harry swallowed and stepped forward, the soft hum of the wards brushing along his senses. 

And then he saw Theseus Scamander, head Auror and his newly appointed minder in this time, was every bit the imposing figure he had imagined—but not in a way that froze him in place. Six foot two, with that casual, unassuming strength about him that suggested effortless control. His hair, brunette and neatly combed, caught the lamplight, and his eyes—stormy, sharp, a touch golden—seemed to appraise the room and its occupants with quiet authority.

And then there was the scent. Harry froze for the briefest instant. Pheromones, unmistakable, faint but insistent. Alpha. Layered over the warm smell of old books, polished wood, and the faint tang of a fire burning somewhere nearby. Not overpowering, just… present. Subtle, commanding, yet oddly grounding.

Harry took a measured breath. I’ve defeated a Dark Lord alpha, he reminded himself internally. I can stand here. And he did, though his eyes couldn’t help but flick to the slight crease in the corner of Theseus’s mouth as he regarded him. He noted how pupils dilated slightly—not in attraction, but interest, awareness of an unusual presence.

Theseus didn’t immediately move, merely studied him, then inclined his head slightly. “Lord Peverell,” he said, voice calm, deep, smooth as polished oak.

Harry nearly bristled but caught himself. “Oh, please,” he said quickly, holding his chin high, trying to muster the right mix of authority and humility. “Call me… Harry. I find this… transition quite the challenge already.”

Theseus’s lips twitched in a faint smile, as if amused by the candor. “Very well, Harry.” He gestured to a chair near the fire, the room lined with shelves of leather-bound volumes, magical instruments neatly arranged, and a faint curl of smoke rising from a brazier in the corner. “Have you found the clothing provided… suitable?”

Harry shifted slightly, adjusting the teal and gold ensemble, the black panels accentuating the sharpness of his newly transformed features. “It’s… different from anything worn in 1998, but… I suppose I’ll have to get used to it. I find the silhouettes… stunning, though.”

Theseus’s laugh was faint, a low chuckle that softened the stern lines of his face. “I can tell you’re trying your best to speak well. Perhaps too well for polite conversation.”

He straightened, chin slightly higher. “I would rather not get in your wrong books.”

“Wise,” Theseus replied, his eyes scanning Harry for more than posture—his presence filling the room like a subtle gravity. “But do not let the polish of words mask the truth of you, Harrison… or Harry, as you insist. You will need both—the words, and the substance—to survive here. In this place, in this time.”

Harry’s pulse quickened faintly, not with fear, but with the weight of the alpha’s presence. Substance, he thought, adjusting his shoulders. He had defeated a Dark Lord, yes, but standing before a man like Theseus Scamander was a challenge of a different kind.

“Then I shall endeavor, sir,” he said carefully, “to speak honestly and act properly. At least, as much as this… transition allows.”

Theseus’s gaze softened just a fraction, the corners of his mouth lifting in an almost imperceptible smirk. “Good. Let us begin, then. There is much to do before you step fully into this world, Harrison.”

Harry nodded, gripping the edge of the chair for a moment before letting go. He could feel the subtle tug of pheromones at the back of his mind—the quiet reminder of his omega presence—and he reminded himself, firmly: I can handle this. I’ve faced worse.

“There is another matter,” he said carefully, his deep voice calm but threaded with an unyielding seriousness. “A… unique consideration for your station, Harrison. Male omegas are exceedingly rare, as I'm sure you are aware. And you, by virtue of your lineage and your magical aptitude, will draw attention.”

Harry’s brows rose. “Attention?”

“These families,” Theseus said, voice even, almost clinical, “noble, wealthy, powerful—will take an interest. Marriage proposals will arrive, in the post, sometimes accompanied by considerable sums or estates, in hopes that their heirs may secure a union with you. Many young men of these houses will be eager to align themselves with you, despite their parents’ wishes or their own preferences for women. Male omegas of your magical caliber are… highly prized for their strong magical offspring.”

Harry swallowed hard, blinking. “I… I didn’t know that. I mean… I knew male omegas existed only by magic, but... stronger magical children?”

He nodded gravely. “Indeed. When a male omega conceives, the pregnancy is formed purely through magical means. The offspring inherit stronger magical potential as a result. Families… covet that potential. You will need to tread carefully. Your attention, your consent, and your discretion will be paramount.”

Harry’s stomach tightened, a faint swirl of apprehension mixing with fascination. The very idea of being so desired, not just for social status, but for magical legacy, was both intimidating and surreal.

“Theseus, then… your role...?” Harry asked, trying to push the fluttering tension at the back of his mind into focus.

“I am,” Theseus said, his tone formal now, “charged with your protection. Not your supervision in the daily sense—that is primarily the responsibility of Unspeakable Hitchens. She is your primary minder, Harrison. I do apologize if that makes you feel… as though you were a child and she a nanny.”

Harry chuckled lightly, the sound breaking some of the tautness in his chest. “That’s alright. I can manage.”

Blue eyes softened just slightly, though the commanding authority remained. “Your safety will be my concern should it be threatened. This includes threats arising from your unusual status, your identity not entirely belonging to this century, or from those who may seek to exploit your… qualities as a male omega. I am effectively backup to Isla Hitchens. Beyond that, my obligations as Head Auror are… considerable, and I shall not involve myself unnecessarily in your day-to-day activities.”

Harry nodded, letting the words settle. “So… Isla is the primary guide, the one who’ll teach me, correct me, and manage… well, me. You step in only if things go sideways?”

“Precisely,” Theseus confirmed. “Think of me as a safeguard, an enforcement of consequence should threats arise that she cannot—or should not—handle personally. Beyond that, I do not intend to interfere unless absolutely necessary.”

Harry exhaled slowly, the weight of it sinking in. Alright, I can do this.

“Very well,” he said finally, adjusting his posture, a faint determination creeping into his tone. “I… understand. I’ll rely on Isla for most things. And if something arises, I’ll know you’re there.”

Theseus inclined his head once, expression softening to a faint approval. “Good. Then we are agreed. You will learn, adapt, and survive. And, Harrison, one more thing…” He leaned forward slightly, voice dropping just a fraction, “do not underestimate yourself in this world. Rare or not, omega or otherwise, you are as capable as anyone in your place, if you carry yourself correctly.”

Harry swallowed again, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I shall do my best, sir.”

The quiet crackle of the fire in Theseus’s office was shattered in an instant by a sudden whoosh of displaced air, a hiss of magic, and the faint scuff of boots against the polished floor. Harry’s eyes went wide as a figure erupted from the fireplace, landing lightly but firmly on the enchanted floor.

“Newton!” Theseus barked, voice sharp with both authority and exasperation. “I told you the password not so you could burst in whenever, but to visit when I require your aid!”

“Sorry,” came a soft, hurried voice. The figure dipped into a small, uncertain bow, shoulders hunched slightly in apology.

Harry blinked, momentarily forgetting to breathe.

So this was… the grand Newt Scamander.

He was tall, equally imposing as Theseus in stature—six foot two, also lean but not unrefined, with the kind of presence that suggested strength without demanding it. His hair was a tousled, wavy, sandy brown mop that fell softly over his forehead, curling just enough to brush the tops of his ears. Eyes—bright, alert, and intelligent—darted nervously around the room, flitting briefly to Theseus, who fixed him with a glare that could curdle milk, before settling on the gathered documents he clearly intended to hand over.

There was a tentative confidence in Newt’s stance, though it carried a subtle tension, as if every motion was measured against the expectation of his elder brother. His robes were practical rather than ostentatious—deep forest green with subtle trim, the faintest shimmer from protective enchantments woven into the fabric—but they didn’t hide the slight awkwardness in the tilt of his shoulders or the quick, almost imperceptible tapping of a finger against his thigh.

And then Harry noticed the scent.

It struck him before he could process anything else. Fresh-cut grass, the earthy solidity of oak bark, and… something else. Something warm and slightly floral, almost like wild honey mixed with damp soil after rain. It was calming, grounding, utterly intoxicating. Harry’s chest tightened, and for the briefest heartbeat, he forgot all else—the office, the fire, Theseus’s presence, even the magical implications of this sudden arrival.

He was simply… in love with that scent.

Harry’s eyes flicked between the younger Scamander and Theseus, his mind racing. Alpha, yes… but timid. Timid in a way that makes him approachable… yet commanding without trying. The contrast between the two Scamanders was striking: Theseus, controlled, confident, undeniably powerful; Newt, quieter, softer, but undeniably magnetic, the kind of presence that drew attention without demanding it.

Newt’s gaze briefly met Harry’s, and he ducked it quickly, fumbling with the papers he held. Harry felt a strange, internal tug, a pulse of awareness at the edge of his senses. 

“Newton, place your research down and leave. I am busy,” Theseus said, voice crisp, commanding, but not unkind.

“Sorry, Theseus,” he murmured, setting the stack of papers carefully on a nearby desk.

“It’s alright. Just… next time, send an owl or whatever animal you have that can deliver the papers.” Theseus’s eyes flicked to Harry briefly, then back to his brother. “Newt, meet Lord Harrison Peverell. Lord Peverell, meet my younger brother, Newton Scammander.”

Newt startled slightly, eyes widening as he processed the words. Lord Peverell, the only remaining Peverell, and—he was tiny. Smaller than expected, perhaps, but there was an undeniable aura of something rare, something potent, that made Newt tense just slightly.

Harry, heart hammering, stood and skittishly shuffled forward. He offered a hand, almost trembling, wanting, quietly, to make contact. His senses hummed faintly, a pull he barely understood but could not ignore.

Newt’s gaze dropped to the hand extended toward him. Pupils dilated too large for the lighting, catching the flicker of firelight as if drawing it into his green-gold irises. His fingers hovered a moment before slowly closing around Harry’s, his touch light, hesitant, almost as if he were unsure whether he should be holding something so… alive.

Theseus, watching, felt a flicker of dread that wasn’t entirely professional. Oh no, he thought, recognizing the unmistakable signs—both of them drawn to each other’s appearance and scent. Usually Newt paid no attention to people, save for his creatures, and yet here he was, lingering, captivated.

Harry felt it too—the brush of Newt’s fingers against his palm, the faint pulse of warmth, the subtle tug at the back of his senses, something almost pheromonal in its intimacy. He shifted slightly, caught in that strange, magnetic pull, but said nothing, letting the moment stretch.

The handshake lasted far too long, seconds stretching into a small eternity. Neither seemed willing to release, as though letting go would break some delicate balance, some silent understanding neither had yet named.

Finally, with a quiet, reluctant sigh, Newt withdrew his hand first, stepping back slightly, his face flushed, hair tousled in that charmingly disheveled way. Harry’s chest still throbbed faintly where their palms had met, and the faint, intoxicating scent of fresh grass, oak, and honeyed earth lingered in his senses.

Theseus cleared his throat, stiffening the room with his presence again. “Yes. Well. That is… enough introductions for now. Harrison, Newton. Conduct yourselves with some decorum. That is all I ask.”

Harry nodded, still catching his breath silently, though his eyes could not resist flicking back to Newt. And Newt, for his part, avoided looking at Harry entirely—though his pupils betrayed him, wide and unfocused for just a fraction too long.

A silent war of awareness, scent, and fascination had begun. And neither of them knew it yet, but the pull between them had already anchored itself deep.

Newt’s retreat was graceful, almost painfully so. He dipped his head slightly in polite acknowledgment, eyes glancing briefly—and impossibly lingered—on Harry as he disappeared through the floo, leaving a green shimmer that flickered and danced like candlelight against the walls.

Harry’s chest tightened suddenly, a visceral tug from deep within, and he froze for a heartbeat, realizing with a jolt that his omega self—the part of him that had always been quiet, controlled—was far more alive and potent than he had ever understood.

It wasn’t just attraction. It was instinct. Awareness. A pull so subtle he had barely recognized it until now. He felt the tiny, startling flare of something ancient in his blood, a thread of need woven through the new identity of himself.

“Harrison.” Theseus’s voice cut through the haze, smooth, sharp, controlled. He raised an eyebrow, lips pressed in a thin line that suggested equal parts warning and inquiry. “I trust you can hold yourself back better in society than what you just displayed right now.”

Harry blinked, still processing the surge of awareness that had almost betrayed him, and straightened. “I… yes, sir. I can manage it.” His voice carried a faint tremor, though he forced it into steadiness. Omega or not, I will not be weak here. Not before him.

Theseus’s gaze lingered, sharp and assessing, though his lips curved almost imperceptibly at the corner. I am not entirely certain I approve of him and my brother pursuing each other, he thought silently. Especially as he is a time traveller… unpredictable, and yet… He exhaled softly, keeping the thought tucked behind professional composure. The opinion was his alone, and for now, it would remain unspoken.

Harry’s fingers twitched slightly, a small reminder that his body had reacted in ways he hadn’t fully controlled. He pressed his lips together and nodded again, trying to summon the composure and confidence Theseus expected of him.

“I will… maintain decorum.”

Theseus inclined his head, satisfied, though faint tension lingered in his shoulders. “Very well. Then we shall proceed with today’s plans. And Harrison…” His gaze sharpened subtly, the flicker of concern hidden beneath the veneer of authority. “…be mindful of your impulses. This is not just about appearances or manners. It is about survival, here, now, in this time. Remember that.”

Harry swallowed, nodding once more, feeling the faint, lingering pull of Newt’s presence even after the floo fire had faded. His pulse had quickened, and he was acutely aware of the stirrings of something older, deeper, and very much alive within him.

“Yes, sir,” he murmured, voice low, steady—but internally, he knew the game had changed.

Chapter Text

By the time Isla took him out of Theseus’s office, Harry was still quietly flushed, mind replaying the handshake far longer than he cared to admit.

“Ah, Harrison,” Isla said, tilting her head with that faintly exasperated smile of hers. “Come along. We have much to see today.”

Harry hesitated, then blurted out, “I… I shook Newton Scamander's hand.”

Isla stopped mid-step, one brow raised, and a laugh bubbled up from her chest before she could stop it. It was sharp, slightly melodic, and entirely amused. “You did what?”

“I… I mean, he offered it, and I… I wanted to touch, I—” Harry trailed off, face heating further.

Isla waved a hand, clearly dismissing the embarrassment, though her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Oh, my dear boy, of course you did. And of course you have already taken a liking to someone who barely understands the concept of decorum! Do you have any idea how unlikely that is?”

Harry blinked, utterly dumbfounded. “I… what?”

“I know him distantly,” Isla said, beginning to walk again. “I’ve met him in passing. That’s it. Never personally. And he would never, ever, shake a hand the way you received it.” She chuckled, soft now, more like a hum. “In fact, when we first met, he didn’t even take my hand. Stared at it as if it were… mud. Awkwardly avoided it. You… actually shook his hand.” She stopped for a moment, looking at Harry with a fondly incredulous expression. “That alone is shocking.”

Harry could only nod, still feeling the faint tug of something deep in him. “I… I just… wanted to.”

Isla laughed again, a short, melodic sound that made Harry’s ears burn faintly. “Of course. Naturally. You, Harrison, already acting on instincts far beyond the social codes of 1917. And drawn to the only person who wouldn’t understand proper etiquette if it hit him in the face.”

They emerged from the Ministry into the narrow, bustling streets of Diagon Alley, and Harry’s jaw went slack. He had seen it before, in his own time, yes, but this—this was entirely different. The alleys seemed narrower, deeper, twisting into hidden nooks that didn’t exist in 1998. Magic writhed in the air itself, in the signs above shops, the shouts of vendors, the soft glow of floating lanterns that illuminated cobblestones worn smooth by centuries of footsteps.

There were more alleys, more side streets branching off than he had remembered. Shops crowded the streets, spilling into open-air stalls. Wizards and witches bustled about, carrying bundles of parchment, crates of ingredients, and sometimes caged creatures that chirped, hissed, or blinked at him curiously.

Harry’s senses flared. The faint pull of his omega self was still present, ghosting behind every brush of air, a whisper of awareness of potential mates, admirers, and the magical currents that threaded through the alleyways. He swallowed, still coming to terms with how… alive this place felt, how layered it was with both wonder and a subtle tension he couldn’t entirely name.

Isla noticed him staring and smirked. “It's different from your time isn't it? You’ll need to learn the alleys, the nooks, the shortcuts. It is the only way to move safely and with discretion.”

Harry nodded, trying to take in the colors, the smells, the subtle hum of magic underfoot. And yet… he thought, a quiet, racing thrill running through him. Even here, I can’t stop thinking of Newt.

Her voice pulled him back. “And do try not to let your thoughts wander toward the timid Scamander while we shop. Keep your composure, Harrison. You are still learning… manners, appearances, and the subtle art of surviving in this time.”

Harry swallowed again, trying not to grin too broadly. “Yes… ma’am.”

And even as he followed her down the crowded, twisting streets, his mind’s eye flicked faintly to the green fire of the floo and the scent of grass and oak that still clung to him.

He was… entirely undone.

Harry’s stomach lurched as he suddenly realized, hands hovering in midair, that he didn’t have his wand.

“Are you looking for your wand?” Isla said, a sharp laugh threading through the alleyway bustle. She shook her head, amusement twinkling in her grey eyes. “We confiscated your… phoenix, was it? Wand. It’s far too identifiable. You cannot be running about with something that marks you as… well, you.”

Harry froze, then reflexively drew a wand from the folds of his robes. The crowd didn’t notice, the magic hum surrounding him muffled. But Isla stopped in her tracks, her mouth falling open ever so slightly.

Harry held it up. Light, gleaming, subtle engravings catching the sunlight. The Elder Wand.

“How… do you have that?” Isla asked, voice low, incredulous, stepping closer, almost touching it but restraining herself.

Harry shrugged, a faint smirk tugging at his lips despite the tension curling in his chest. “I… I find it keeps coming to me. Even now, it seems to follow me. I’m… surprised, really, that it did.”

“Yes,” Isla said softly, eyes narrowing in thought, remembering a wandmaker from before—long deceased, someone whose possession of such a wand had always been a quiet rumor. “It belongs to someone else. You should not—”

Harry shivered, a chill threading down his spine as the weight of reality hit him. He was, after all, now a few years before Grindelwald had even stolen it. Before the rise of the Dark Wizard he had defeated in his own time. And yet, here it was, in his hand.

“I… I won it,” he murmured, almost to himself. “I possessed all the Hallows. And, I guess… now I am also a Peverell.” His fingers tightened around the wand, the magic thrumming faintly, alive, familiar yet strange in this earlier time.

Isla’s lips pressed into a thin line, eyes fixed on the wand as though it were both fascinating and dangerous. “Harrison…” she said carefully, the tone almost maternal beneath the formality, “you must… tread carefully. The consequences of wielding such a wand here… are… profound.”

Harry exhaled slowly, squaring his shoulders against the sudden rush of responsibility, power, and time’s peculiar twisting. “I… understand. I always have.”

He tucked it back into his robes and took a careful step forward, aware of both Isla’s watchful gaze.

They threaded their way deeper into Diagon Alley, cobblestones worn smooth by centuries of footsteps, the buzz of merchants and witches and wizards pressing around them like a living current. At first, Harry was distracted by the sheer volume of stalls, alleys branching like veins, and the smell of ink, parchment, and magical curiosities lingering in the air.

And then he noticed the glances.

Eyes flicked toward him, widened slightly, lingered longer than polite curiosity would demand. It wasn’t the kind of attention he had been accustomed to in his own time—he was no longer “the boy who lived,” a name whispered on every street, revered or feared—but something subtler, stranger. Something that threaded through the air, pulling gazes in ways that whispered, there is something… unusual about you.

His stomach tightened as the realization hit. This attention wasn’t for his fame, wasn’t for his skill—it was because he was a male omega. The pheromones he had never fully appreciated in his own time were now active, potent, radiating in ways he had not expected, drawing eyes, subtle fidgets, and brief, almost imperceptible shifts in posture from those around him.

Harry’s pulse quickened, he felt the delicate prick of unease. It’s not my magic, not my face, not my robes… it’s me. My secondary gender.

Isla noticed immediately. “Ah, yes,” she murmured, voice low, almost conspiratorial, as they walked past a stall of enchanted quills. “You’ll find… some people will notice. Very few, but they will. Male omegas are rare. And here…” she gave a small shrug, “well, you’ll draw attention whether you like it or not. The trick is to hold yourself still, walk as if you own nothing more than the ground beneath your feet, and ignore their stares.”

Harry nodded, though his eyes still flicked to the subtle ways in which wizards and witches glanced, murmured, and tilted their heads. He swallowed. I’m not invisible. I never will be invisible. Not as a male omega. Not ever.

Their next stop was a small, narrow wand store tucked into a bend of the alley, the sign above the door swinging gently: Fletcher & Thorne, Custom Wands.

“This is where you will receive a wand suitable for your magic,” Isla explained.

Harry felt a flicker of relief. The Elder Wand, brilliant and dangerous as it was, could not simply be carried about openly. Here, at least, he could have something tailored to him, a wand that would respond to his magic, without risking exposure or misuse.

The bell above the door chimed softly as they stepped into the wandmaker’s shop. Inside, the world seemed to hush — as though every breath, every whisper of air, was steeped in old magic. The floorboards creaked faintly beneath their feet, carrying the scent of polish and resin, and behind the counter a thin, silver-haired man straightened from his ledger.

He wore a waistcoat of deep green brocade and a pair of half-moon spectacles perched delicately on his nose. “Lord Peverell,” he greeted, bowing faintly at the waist. “I am Alaric Thorne, co-founder of Fletcher & Thorne. Your appointment was forwarded to me by Mrs Hitchens.” His gaze flicked to Isla, and his tone softened. “And you, Isla — always a pleasure to see a mind of your calibre.”

Isla smiled faintly. “You say that only when the Ministry’s paying your invoice, Thorne.”

“Quite right,” the wandmaker replied without missing a beat, and turned back to Harry. “Now then, let us see what the world’s magic thinks of you.”

Harry stepped closer, feeling the faint pulse of magic in the air, delicate as a hum under his skin. Thorne drew out a slim, rune-carved measuring wand that lifted itself into the air at a flick of his fingers.

“Hold still,” Thorne murmured. “Your wand length is determined not by vanity but by proportion — the length between the heart’s pulse and the hand that wields it.”

The enchanted tape darted around Harry’s wrist, up his forearm, across his shoulders, and back, measuring invisible distances only it seemed to understand. Harry tried not to flinch. The hum of the shop pressed closer, old woods whispering faintly from the shelves.

Thorne made a quiet note. “Nine and three-quarters inches,” he said at last. “Possibly nine and a half, depending on balance once the core is set.”

Harry blinked. “My old wand was eleven inches,” he said, unable to hide his curiosity. “What does wand length signify?”

The wandmaker looked up, the corners of his mouth curving slightly, as though this were a question asked often and answered seldom with full honesty. “Length,” he said, “is a reflection of proportion — both physical and spiritual. A wand too long for its wielder suggests a character that must spill into the world, bold and uncontained. Too short, and one finds… limitation, or a lack of depth. But a modest nine or ten inches…” He tilted his head. “That speaks to one who is self-contained. Balanced. Tempered by restraint, not by weakness.”

“So I’m… modest, then?”

“Your wand will be,” Thorne said, unbothered, “but you? We shall see.”

Isla coughed into her gloved hand to hide a laugh.

The wandmaker gestured for Harry to approach the long table set in the centre of the shop. Laid out upon it were dozens of slivers of wood, each hovering faintly above its tray, humming with latent power. Some glowed softly, others shimmered as though breathing.

“Do not choose,” Thorne instructed. “Your magic will.”

Harry hesitated, then extended a hand. The air shifted at once. Fine threads of invisible energy sparked between his fingertips and the pieces of wood. The first few gave no reaction — a faint tremor, a pulse — but then, about halfway along the table, one piece flared.

It was pale, faintly pink, the hue of dawn through mist: cherry wood.

“Ah,” Thorne murmured. “Cherry. Lethal. Most people covet it for its beauty — that soft rose colour, the polish it takes, the charm of it. Fools, the lot of them. Cherry wands are no playthings. They are deadly precise, and they brook no indecision. It chooses only those with exceptional strength of mind, those who can wield power without trembling beneath it.”

Harry’s fingers brushed the piece of wood, and a thrill passed through him, cold and warm all at once.

Thorne moved next to the shelves behind him, pulling open drawers that smelled faintly of old parchment and strange magic. “Now for the core.”

Inside the drawers lay rows of phials, each containing something impossibly rare — the shimmer of unicorn hair, the faint glow of dragon heartstring, the darkness of manticore mane. But when Thorne laid out the options before him, two stood apart from all the rest.

A single black hair that seemed to absorb light.

And a feather, faintly iridescent, shifting between gold and storm-grey with each movement.

“Thestral hair,” Thorne said softly, “and a thunderbird tail feather. Both extraordinary, both… difficult.”

He gestured for Harry to step closer. “Now, touch neither. Merely stand and let them feel you.”

He did as told. For a moment, there was nothing — and then, both core materials trembled. The thestral hair rippled, the feather shimmered bright as lightning.

Thorne raised an eyebrow. “They both want you.”

Isla, standing off to the side, spoke. “Lucky you. Most people struggle to make even one react.”

Harry looked uncertain. “So… which one?”

“Neither you nor I will choose,” Thorne replied gravely. “When the wand is bound and sealed, the core will decide which wishes to be joined with the cherry. That decision will depend upon the harmony of your magic with theirs. It will take a days careful crafting — the wand must be bound, steeped, and polished by hand, and the final enchantments must take into account your stature, your magic’s temper, and your…” he hesitated, eyes flicking faintly toward Harry’s pheromonal aura, “nature.”

Harry caught the pause and flushed faintly but said nothing.

Thorne clapped his hands once, softly. “Good. That concludes the choosing. You may collect it in four days’ time.”

Isla reached into her pocket and produced a folded piece of parchment. “The Ministry will handle the bill,” she said cheerfully, passing it over. “His wand, and all other essentials, can’t have him wandering about looking like a lost spectre.”

Thorne took the parchment with a slight bow. “As always, Mrs Hitchens, the Ministry’s generosity honours us.”

Harry looked down at the small piece of cherry wood now resting on the table, still faintly warm from his touch. He could feel something faint and living in it already, as though the wood had marked him.

Isla laid a hand lightly on his shoulder. “Come on, Lord Peverell,” she said with a grin that was more teasing than formal. “Let’s get you something less terrifying than that wand will probably turn out to be.”

Harry smiled faintly, one corner of his mouth curling. “It’s only wood.”

“Cherry wood,” she corrected, eyes glinting. “Pretty, dangerous, and far too clever for its own good. From what I gather, rather like you, actually.”

And as they stepped out into the bright afternoon, Diagon Alley humming around them, Harry couldn’t help but glance back at the door of Fletcher & Thorne. 

The marble steps of Gringotts Wizarding Bank gleamed faintly in the late morning sun, the kind of polished brightness that seemed to repel dust, time, and the unworthy. Harry hadn't seen it like this for a while — whole, pristine, the goblin-forged bronze doors shining like sunlight caught in amber. No scorch marks, no war damage, no traces of the century that would come to break and rebuild it. It stood immaculate, proud, and almost regal in its silence.

He slowed on the steps without meaning to. Isla cast him a sidelong glance and smirked. “Intimidating, isn’t it?”

“I’ve seen it before,” Harry murmured, “but never… like this.”

“Yes, well, in your future time it’s probably half-broken and overrun with Ministry decrees.”

“Not far off,” he admitted under his breath.

A goblin in a small silver waistcoat bowed them inside. The light was dimmer within, the air cool and scented faintly of metal and parchment. Rows of polished counters gleamed under gas lamps. The goblins — sharply dressed, long-fingered, and with the air of old authority — looked up as Isla approached with her Ministry credentials.

“Unspeakable Isla Hitchens,” she said smoothly. “Here on behalf of the Ministry’s Department of Magical Law and Historical Integrity. We request the reinstatement of the Peverell estate, lineage, and titles, to their rightful heir, Lord Harrison Corvinus Peverell.”

The goblin at the front desk — sharp-nosed, wearing a monocle so fine it looked like a chip of glass — tilted his head, his gaze sliding to Harry. “The Peverells are dead.”

“Evidently not,” Isla replied with mild amusement. “He’s standing right here.”

The goblin’s eyes narrowed faintly. “Verification will be required.”

“Of course,” Harry said quickly, nervousness curling in his stomach. Isla gave him an encouraging nod.

He followed the goblin down a narrow corridor lined with iron doors. The sound of quills scratching and distant coin-counting faded behind them. The air grew cooler still as they descended a short flight of steps into a small chamber lit by floating lamps.

Upon a plinth in the centre rested an ornate basin of glass and silver. The goblin gestured sharply. “A drop of blood, if you please.”

Harry pricked his finger with the knife provided, letting a single drop fall. The liquid hissed faintly as it touched the surface, and words began to bloom in the air — curling, ancient script unfurling like smoke.

Bloodline Verification: Harrison James Potter-Peverell.

Recognised descendant of Peverell.

Titles Restored: Lord Peverell of Estates and Castle Peverell.

Harry blinked. “Castle?”

The goblin peered up at him. “Castle Peverell still stands, though unoccupied these hundred years. It lies in the far north, in what Muggles now call Northumberland. The vaults will be reopened to your name. Your lordship is thus restored.”

“Just like that?” Harry asked, half-stunned.

The goblin’s thin lips twitched, almost in amusement. “Nothing in Gringotts is ‘just like that,’ Lord Peverell. But yes. Your claim is uncontested.”

He produced a sealed document — elegant parchment tied with black ribbon and stamped in red wax. “Your ring is within the vault. Would you care to retrieve it personally?”

Isla smiled faintly. “He most certainly would.”

They were led back up into the main hall and toward the side corridor that led to the carts. The goblin escort climbed in first, and Harry followed, the old familiar whoosh of movement making his stomach lurch as they sped through the twisting, glittering tunnels.

When they stopped, the vault door loomed before him — tall, rune-etched, older than even the goblins who kept it. The goblin pressed a long key into the lock. The door opened with a heavy sigh, revealing a chamber dimly lit by enchanted sconces.

Unlike the glittering vaults of noble families Harry had seen before, this one was quiet. There were chests, yes, and piles of coins, but also books, relics, strange heirlooms wrapped in dark cloth. It felt… peaceful. Like something ancient had simply been waiting.

In the centre sat a black velvet cushion. Upon it rested a ring of pure obsidian, the Peverell crest carved into its face — a triangle enclosing a circle and a vertical line.

Harry stepped forward and picked it up. It was cool against his fingers, humming faintly with recognition. He slid it onto his right hand, and the ring shrank to fit. For an instant, his vision blurred — a flicker of ancient power whispering at the edge of hearing, a thousand voices murmuring his name and one name only: Peverell.

When the sensation faded, Isla was watching him, her usual humour softened to something like respect.

“Congratulations, Lord Peverell,” she said, almost sincerely. “History just took a deep breath.”

He exhaled, the weight of the ring grounding and strange. “Feels heavier than I thought.”

“Responsibility usually does,” Isla replied lightly. “Come along, Lord of a dead house. You’ve vaults to open and letters to dread.”

“Letters?”

“Oh yes,” she said, half-laughing as they left the vault. “Once word gets out that a male omega of the Peverell line has reappeared, the marriage proposals will arrive faster than you can burn them. Some families will offer Galleons to court you. Others will offer bloodlines.”

Harry groaned softly, rubbing his face. “I think I preferred fighting a dark lord.”

Isla grinned. “You might find the aristocracy far worse.”

The cart rattled back into motion, echoing through the ancient tunnels. By the time they emerged from the cool, echoing corridors of Gringotts and stepped back into the warmth of Diagon Alley, the world seemed louder.. Sunlight spilled through the enchanted area overhead, scattering over the polished cobbles and the steady stream of witches and wizards that bustled past. Children darted about with ice cream, the rich scent of coffee and parchment drifting from the shops that lined the lane.

Harry adjusted the coin pouch, heavy with weight and faintly clinking when he moved. He’d also signed, somewhat warily, for what the goblin clerk had described as a “Gringotts convenience token” — a sort of enchanted charge card keyed directly to his vault. Isla had grinned at the bemused look on his face.

“Think of it as a wallet that never runs out,” she’d said. “Provided you don’t overspend your actual vault, of course.”

“I think I prefer cash,” he had muttered, signing the parchment regardless.

Now, as they passed by a row of high-end robe shops, Isla slowed before a glass-fronted boutique displaying elegant sleepwear — silks, lace, and soft cotton robes that shimmered faintly in the afternoon light.

“Next stop,” she said brightly.

Harry followed her gaze and immediately felt his stomach twist. “You mean—”

“Yes,” Isla interrupted cheerfully. “You’ll need nightclothes that suit your station. And undergarments, naturally.”

He groaned. “Undergarments?”

Her eyes danced. “You didn’t think the Ministry would allow Lord Peverell to wander about risking it, did you?”

The moment they stepped inside, a chime of magic rang softly through the shop. The air was perfumed with lavender and starch, the shelves neatly stacked with silks, embroidered nightshirts, and lacy garments that made Harry flush just looking at them.

A tall witch with silvered curls and sharp, delighted eyes turned toward them. “Mrs Hitchens! Oh, heavens, it’s been ages! And—oh my stars—” Her gaze landed on Harry, and her eyes practically sparkled. “You’ve brought me a male omega? Oh, I haven’t had the pleasure of tailoring for one in years!”

Harry, caught between embarrassment and horror, wished the floor would kindly open and swallow him. “Er... hello,” he managed faintly.

“Don’t be shy, dear,” the seamstress said warmly, circling him as if he were a prized exhibition piece. “You’ll need proper sleeping attire, yes? And underthings to match. Something breathable, dignified—oh, perhaps a touch of lace—yes, that would frame your build beautifully—”

“Lace?” Harry squeaked.

Isla leaned languidly against the counter, enjoying herself far too much. “You might as well let her work, Harry. You’ll lose this battle before it begins.”

Two fittings, three measuring tapes, and far too many discussions of fabric weight later, Harry found himself standing on a small platform while the seamstress clucked happily to herself. The sleepwear, she said, would be “modestly refined” — a soft cotton set with embroidered hems, a loose sash, and fine stitching along the collar. The undergarments were another matter entirely; she practically glowed with glee as she explained the advantages of enchanted silk in regulating temperature during “seasonal changes.”

By the time they stepped back outside, Harry was red to the tips of his ears and clutching a parcel that felt far too scandalous for something supposedly necessary.

Isla, of course, was laughing. “You looked ready to duel her over lace.”

“She wanted to add ribbons,” Harry muttered darkly.

“She was besotted,” Isla said between chuckles. “In her defence, you are rather the rarity.”

Harry glanced over, still uncomfortable. “How rare are we talking?”

That wiped the mirth from her tone, just a little. “Rare enough that most people will never meet one in their lifetime. You see, of wizarding Britain, roughly fifty-seven percent of the population are betas — ordinary in scent, neutral in energy. Twenty-four percent are alphas — fourteen percent of those are male, ten intersex female. And omegas?”

Harry blinked as she paused for effect.

“Nineteen percent in total,” Isla continued, her voice quieter now. “Seventeen female. Two male.”

“Two percent?”

She nodded. “A fraction, really. And even fewer of noble bloodlines, since most families prize alpha heirs. Male omegas are often—well, treasured, sought after, sometimes to an unhealthy degree. Which is why, my dear Lord Peverell, we keep you close. There are families who would pay fortunes to claim you as a son-in-law.”

Harry made a face. “You make it sound like I’m livestock.”

“Not livestock,” Isla said wryly. “A prize stallion, perhaps.”

He groaned again. “That doesn’t help.”

She laughed softly, her eyes glinting with something between fondness and sympathy. “Don’t worry, Harry. You’ll get used to it — the attention, the stares, the way the air changes when you walk into a room. Omegas are rarer still when they have power. And you—” she gave him a look both amused and assessing “—you practically hum with it.”

Harry shifted uncomfortably, clutching the parcel tighter. “I’d rather hum less, if that’s an option.”

“Unfortunately not.” Isla’s smile returned, a shade softer this time. “But you can learn to carry it. With grace. And perhaps a bit of swagger.” He gave her a doubtful look, and she nudged him toward the next shop. “Come on, Lord Peverell. You’ve survived a war. I’m sure you can handle shopping.”

Isla paused again, stepping aside from the flow of pedestrians, her gloved hand fishing delicately in the pocket of her fitted robe. The movement was neat, habitual — like she was reaching for a coin — but instead, she withdrew a small, finely carved wooden box, no larger than a snuff tin.

Without ceremony, she set it atop the neatly wrapped parcel Harry was clutching. The parcel shimmered — only for a heartbeat — and then, with a soft pop and a faint swirl of silver mist, vanished completely.

Harry blinked, staring at the empty air where the package had been. “I have so much to learn about magic,” he muttered, running a hand through his newly curled hair. “Please tell me what you just did.”

Isla arched a brow, her tone utterly casual. “Think of it as an object portkey keyed to your quarters.”

Harry’s mouth dropped slightly. “You mean… I could just grab something of yours and send it off like that? That seems a little—dangerous.”

Her expression turned amused, almost indulgent. “Not when it’s Ministry issue, and not a public enchantment. Everything keyed to our branch of the Unspeakables carries a personal sigil and ward signature. If you tried to replicate it, it would... well, not end prettily for your eyebrows, at the very least.”

“Right. Mental note: don’t touch the shiny things.”

“Always good advice.” She brushed invisible lint from her sleeve, voice lilting with good humour. “Besides, it’s far more efficient than lugging parcels through the Alley. You’ll have quite a few of those by day’s end.”

Harry frowned. “Couldn’t you have just shrunk it instead?”

Isla gasped as if he’d proposed arson in the middle of the street. “Shrink—! Merlin’s breath, Harry, no! You must never shrink linens or cottons, not even enchanted silk!”

He blinked. “Why not?”

“Magic disrupts the natural weave,” she explained, tone suddenly as precise as a tutor’s. “The fibres twist on themselves, the thread memory breaks, and before you know it, your entire wardrobe looks like it’s been through a hurricane. A Scourgify would do the same — ruin the texture, strip the softening charms, even weaken the embroidery wards.”

Harry stared, incredulous. “So… what, I have to hand wash them?”

“Not you personally,” Isla said smoothly, lips curving. “Your elves will see to that. Proper water, proper soap — old-fashioned, but reliable. You’ll find they’re far gentler than any spell when it comes to delicate fabrics.”

He grimaced. “I’m… not exactly comfortable with having house-elves.”

That gave her pause. The crowd pressed around them — the murmur of voices, the rattle of enchanted trolleys, the faint shimmer of summer heat from the glass above. Then Isla turned her head slightly, her tone softer, measured in a way that cut through the noise.

“Harry,” she said quietly, “house-elves aren’t enslaved in the way you’re thinking. At least, not when they’re bonded properly. They draw their magic from their master’s household — quite literally live off it. Magical people, magical grounds — those are their lifeblood. They’re paid in magic itself, and the work they do keeps that connection alive.”

Harry frowned, but she went on before he could interrupt.

“The elves tied to the Peverell estate have likely been with the family for generations — some centuries. Without an active Lord or Lady, their binding magic would’ve begun to unravel, and they’d fade. Your taking the lordship…” She gave him a small, knowing smile. “It saves them. You keep their home alive as much as they’ll keep yours.”

He stopped walking, the hum of the street fading around them. The thought hit him like a quiet weight — not guilt, but something gentler, heavier. He’d spent years believing Hermione’s campaign was the right path, the moral one. He could still see her face in his mind’s eye, hear her fierce voice arguing about rights and fairness, parchment rustling in her hands.

But now, that image blurred against Isla’s calm pragmatism, against the simple truth she’d just laid out.

“Oh,” he said at last, voice low.

“Yes,” she replied simply, not unkindly.

He shook his head, eyes lowering to the cobbles, his curls shadowing his face. The ache that came wasn’t sharp — more a quiet tug somewhere behind his ribs. He didn’t want to think about Hermione, or Ron, or the world that was ninety years away. About how he’d never see them again. About how, in a strange way, he’d died when that artefact had thrown him into 1917.

Isla must have seen it in his expression, because she adjusted her tone again — brisk, but not unfeeling. “Come now,” she said, as though shooing away melancholy itself. “You’ve had quite the day, and I’ll not have you brooding in the middle of Diagon Alley. We’ve a schedule to keep — wand to collect later, robes to commission, and a world to reintroduce you to.”

Harry took a slow breath, nodded once, and managed a faint smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Don’t call me that, you make me feel ancient.”

He laughed, softly this time. “Alright… Isla.”

“That’s better,” she said with satisfaction, tucking her hands behind her back as they resumed walking. “Now then, Lord Peverell, we’ll need to find you something respectable for daytime wear — you can’t go about looking like a misplaced Auror all the time. Heaven forbid you frighten the seamstresses again.”

Harry grinned faintly, grateful for the levity. “I’ll do my best not to scandalise anyone else today.”

“Darling,” Isla said, eyes sparkling as she steered him down the lane toward the next shop, “you’ve already scandalised half the Alley. I’m rather proud, actually.”

The tailor’s shop was a jewel box of muted glamour—warm oak floors, velvet drapery drawn back with golden cords, and mannequins draped in silks that shimmered when one blinked. 

The moment Isla and Harry entered, the air changed. A murmur swept through the assistants and fitting charms fluttered to life like birds startled from a tree.

“Merlin’s hemline,” one of the seamstresses whispered before snapping her mouth shut, cheeks pinkening. “Forgive me, lord, I’d simply—well—it isn’t every day we design for a male omega.”

Harry flushed scarlet to the tips of his ears. “Er—yes—so I keep hearing.”

“Contain yourselves,” Isla said with a faint, good-humoured sigh. “We’ve only come for fittings, not to start a social revolution.”

That did little to stifle the quiet, giddy energy. Within moments, Harry was surrounded—tape measures floating, parchment fluttering, pins glinting in the air. The head tailor, a stooped wizard with silver spectacles and the air of someone who’d dressed half of the Wizengamot, clapped his hands once.

“Right then. Measurements first, design later. You know the Oath.”

The assistants all nodded solemnly. They pressed glowing wands to their throats and spoke in perfect unison, “By fabric, fit, and form, I swear upon magic not to disclose, copy, or whisper the body’s truth.”

A shimmer of gold light sealed their words. Harry shivered. Isla leaned close and murmured, “It’s customary. Measurements are sacred in the fashion trade—it’s not just gossip, it’s considered immoral to share them. Even hinting would get them blacklisted.”

“Good to know,” Harry muttered, watching as a measuring tape circled his shoulders with more reverence than he’d ever been shown at the Ministry.

What amused Isla most was how the tailor and his assistants couldn’t stop praising the current outfit—the pale teal robes, soft beige lace trim, threads of dark grey and gold that glinted in the shifting light. They cooed over the harmony of tones, the drape, the subtle sheen that hinted at wealth without arrogance.

“Magnificent choice of palette,” the tailor said approvingly, stepping back to assess him like an artist before a canvas. “Not often one sees such balance in tone. The gold against the teal, it warms the complexion without drowning it. That hint of beige lace? Inspired.”

Harry blinked. “Oh, thank you, but I didn’t—”

“Oh, hush,” Isla interrupted smoothly. “He’s terribly modest.”

The old wizard chuckled. “Modesty in an omega is charming, my lady, but art deserves recognition. Might we,” he turned back to Harry, tone gently deferential now, “might we use the palette of your present robes as inspiration for one of your casual ensembles? A daytime piece—light enough for summer, but with that same richness of detail.”

Harry hesitated, fingers brushing the sleeve of his current robes. “You mean... copy this colour scheme?”

“Precisely,” the tailor said. “The summer palette for omegas leans cool—mists and moonlight tones, silvers and soft blues—but you wear warmth well. Your colouring allows for both—rare, in truth. We could layer gold filigree into the seams, soften the teal into sea-glass green, perhaps pale the lace just a shade so it whispers, not shouts.”

Isla smiled faintly, clearly enjoying the display of artistry. “Do as you see fit,” she said, glancing at Harry. “You’ll thank me later when the whole of society sighs over your wardrobe.”

Harry sighed, resigned but smiling. “I suppose it’s harmless to let you work your magic.”

“Splendid!” cried the tailor, scribbling furiously on a hovering scroll. “Now, two ballroom ensembles as well, yes? One in the summer shades, another in autumn tones. The Ministry’s decree, no doubt.”

Harry made a noise halfway between a groan and a laugh. “You could say that.”

The tailor didn’t pry—he simply nodded, already lost in thought. “For summer, then, cool tones with your teal and gold palette—graceful, airy, perhaps a sheer silk overlay charmed against heat. For autumn…” He tilted his head, eyes narrowing in contemplation. “Autumn for omegas this season runs toward soft emeralds, sapphire blues, pearlescent whites and bright golds. A richer balance—jewel tones rather than mists.” He studied Harry’s complexion, the deep gleam of his hair. “Yes… the emerald would flatter your eyes most splendidly. The white not as a dominant tone, no—it would wash you out—but in increments, lace perhaps, cuffs, subtle linings. Enough to catch the light.”

Isla nodded in agreement, tapping her chin. “I think you’re quite right. Too much white and he’ll look like he’s auditioning for a wedding. But the gold accents will pull the whole thing together beautifully.”

Harry had no idea what half those words would look like, but the passion in the man’s voice was oddly infectious. He found himself nodding along, enchanted by the idea of colours chosen by magic itself to fit him.

As the last measurements were taken—arm, wrist, shoulder, inseam, a dizzying blur of floating tape and quills—Isla leaned lightly against the counter, watching him.

When the tailor finally declared, “We have it!” and the glowing quills stilled, Isla straightened and smiled.

“You’ve charmed them, you know,” she said quietly as Harry rejoined her.

He blinked, flustered. “I haven’t done anything.”

“Exactly,” she replied with a knowing tilt of her head. “That’s why they’re charmed.”

The bustle of shoppers had begun to swell into its noonday hum. Cloaks brushed, parasols fluttered, and owls swooped overhead carrying crisp parchment from one ornate window to another. Isla and Harry emerged from the tailor’s shop into that warm, swirling movement of voices and silk, the faint scent of parchment and wand polish in the air.

Harry adjusted the fall of his sleeve—it still felt odd, wearing clothing so carefully crafted, so soft and deliberate—but it draped well on him now that it had reshaped to his figure. The gold filigree along the cuff glinted as he moved, delicate but not ostentatious. He might almost have passed for someone who belonged here.

Almost.

They had gone scarcely twenty steps before Isla slowed. Harry followed her gaze and saw a woman crossing the street toward them—a striking figure even at a distance.

She was tall, draped in plum robes that shimmered faintly in the sun, her silver hair swept up beneath a modest hat adorned with a single raven’s feather. The set of her shoulders was proud, her stride measured, every inch of her speaking of old blood and old dignity. There was no mistaking the family resemblance: the sharp eyes, the elegant curve of the jaw.

“Ah,” Isla murmured under her breath, her tone light but with that trace of affectionate resignation that only close kin could conjure. “Brace yourself, Harry. The wind of Black propriety approaches.”

The woman stopped before them, her gaze sharp enough to cut glass. But when her eyes settled upon Isla, something softened—a flicker of warmth beneath the marble poise.

“Isla,” she greeted, her voice deep and resonant, carrying easily over the street noise. “You appear in daylight for once. I was beginning to think the Ministry had swallowed you whole.”

“Nearly did, Aunt Elladora,” Isla replied with a grin that was entirely too casual for someone being addressed by a Black matriarch. “But I escaped. Barely. I hope you’re keeping well?”

“Well enough. And who,” Elladora said, turning that formidable gaze upon Harry, “is this?”

Harry froze. For a moment, he was back in McGonagall’s office, feeling the weight of a teacher’s scrutiny—except this woman’s gaze held none of McGonagall’s gentleness. Elladora Black’s eyes missed nothing.

“A companion of mine,” Isla said smoothly before Harry could stumble into error. “He’s under Ministry protection for now, recently arrived from… abroad. Lord Harrison Peverell, allow me to present Miss Elladora Black.”

Elladora’s eyebrows lifted faintly. “Peverell?” she repeated, her tone not quite skeptical, but certainly intrigued. “My word. I was under the impression that family had died out years ago.”

Harry bowed slightly—an awkward movement, but passable. “It nearly did, Miss Black."

There was a faint pause as she examined him anew, gaze flicking over his androgynous silhouette—the soft teal and gold robes, the open collar, the subtle lace. When she spoke, her tone carried an unexpected hint of approval.

“Quite the attire,” she observed. “And not a mere fashion experiment, I take it. You wear the Omega form well, Lord Peverell.”

Harry flushed faintly but managed a polite, “Thank you, Miss Black. I’m still—ah—adjusting to the customs.”

“Then you adjust quickly,” Elladora said, her eyes glinting with something shrewd. “Few manage to wear a silhouette like that with dignity. It’s a fine cut, and I see the Ministry’s tailors haven’t lost their touch.”

Harry blinked, startled. “You can tell?”

“I was married to one of their patrons,” she said lightly, though her expression flickered at the word was. “Before he died. I still recognise quality work when I see it.” Her gaze softened, just for a heartbeat. “And it’s refreshing to see an Omega—particularly a male one—wearing it with pride. We see so few of you these days.”

“Two percent of the population,” Isla remarked cheerfully. “Rare as unicorn hair, and just as valuable if properly kept.”

“A pity, then,” Elladora murmured, “that society tends to lock its treasures in gilded cages.” Her eyes returned to Harry, assessing but not unkind. “I take it you will not allow the Peverell name to die again, my lord?”

Something flickered through Harry’s chest—resolve, perhaps, or defiance. “No,” he said simply. “I won’t.”

That earned the faintest curl of a smile from her. “Good. Far too many old names have faded into dust because their heirs preferred comfort over legacy.”

“Aunt Elladora,” Isla interjected lightly, “before you begin giving him a lecture on heritage, I must say the poor man’s still learning which fork to use.”

“I’d hardly expect a Peverell to struggle with etiquette,” Elladora said with mock severity, but her eyes twinkled. Then, to Harry, more warmly: “You are welcome to call upon me if ever you require assistance navigating society. My niece, though clever, can be rather… irreverent in her instruction.”

“I am not,” Isla protested.

“You are,” Elladora said smoothly, unbothered. “And we love you for it, even if your tongue has grown most undignified since you married that charmingly impossible man of yours.”

“See, Harry?” Isla said with a grin. “This is what I put up with.”

Harry’s lips twitched. “You two remind me of someone I once knew.”

Elladora inclined her head graciously. “Then I hope the comparison is flattering.”

“It is,” he said truthfully.

“Good. Then I shall take my leave before my niece begins her usual habit of dragging me into shops for hats I do not need.” She turned to Isla. “Do come for supper soon, dear. Bring your… friend, if you wish. It will cause a delightful stir among the neighbours.”

“I’ll think about it,” Isla replied, though she was smiling. “Give my love to Great Aunt Misapinoa.”

Elladora nodded, her silver hair catching the sun like glass. “Of course. Take care, Lord Peverell.”

She swept away with the effortless poise of a woman who had spent a lifetime being watched—and approved of.

When she was gone, Harry exhaled softly. “Is she always like that?”

“Like what?” Isla asked innocently.

“Like she could hex me into a toad for blinking too fast.”

Isla snorted, linking her arm through his. “Yes. But don’t be fooled—she adores me. And for her to approve of you, Harry, on first sight? That’s practically a coronation.”

Harry shook his head, still half reeling. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to people treating me like I’m worth knowing.”

“Get used to it quickly,” Isla said with a smirk as they continued down the street, the crowd parting instinctively for the noble lord and the witch in Ministry blue. “You’re a Peverell now, darling. And the world’s already begun to notice.”

The next shop on Isla’s route stood at the corner of a narrow, cobbled lane off the main stretch of Diagon Alley, its sign written in curling silver script that caught the noon light: Aurelius & Finch — Purveyors of Refined Accessories and Arcane Finery.

Its façade was all polished mahogany and gilt lettering, with tall, mullioned windows displaying rows of gloves, hats, brooches, and pocket-watches that shimmered faintly with enchantment. Inside, the air smelled faintly of sandalwood, parchment, and new silk. Every surface gleamed, from the mirrored counters to the glass cabinets filled with jeweled cufflinks that shifted hue to match the wearer’s secondary gender.

A delicate chime sounded as Isla pushed open the door. A clerk in a waistcoat of deep violet hurried forward, bowing slightly.

“Madam Hitchens! How good to see you again,” he said, his accent clipped, his smile professional but warm. “And this must be…?”

“Lord Harrison Peverell,” Isla supplied, resting a gloved hand lightly on Harry’s arm. “He requires the appropriate accessories for his new station — gloves, watch, perhaps even designed with signets.”

“Indeed, madam.” The clerk’s eyes widened a fraction at Harry’s name but he recovered quickly, beckoning them inside. “We are honoured to serve you, lord. This way, if you please.”

The interior of was a quiet symphony of colour and craftsmanship. Glass cases lined the walls, displaying enchanted canes whose handles shifted shape at a touch; silk cravats that shimmered from pale grey to sapphire depending on the wearer’s mood; hats enchanted to repel rain or accentuate pheromonal projection depending on the client’s rank.

In one corner stood an entire display devoted to omega fashion — elegant gloves with lace that carried cooling charms for heats, scent-preserving scarves woven with lunar-spun thread, and slim decorative chokers in soft leathers enchanted to pulse faintly in rhythm with the wearer’s heartbeat.

Isla plucked up one of the chokers and handed it to Harry with a grin. “This, my dear, is what every high-born omega is wearing this summer. Functional and fashionable. It will protect your scent in crowded rooms — but also announce you rather beautifully.”

Harry turned scarlet. “Announce me?”

“Oh, certainly,” the clerk said smoothly, lifting a velvet tray of enchanted rings. “Nothing too forward, of course, my lord. Merely a… refined emphasis.”

Harry wasn’t sure if that was better or worse.

Isla wandered to the display of watches — slim-faced things with tiny enchanted runes around the edge — and pointed one out. “This one, I think. Polished silver with a gold face — neat, dignified, and won’t clash with your existing colours.”

Harry trailed after her, still blinking at the faintly shimmering choker in his hand. The shop’s quiet hum of magic made him feel oddly grounded, the faint vibration of spells at work behind every polished surface.

“Not too much lace, mind you,” Isla said briskly. “He’s still adjusting.”

“Of course,” the clerk murmured, already selecting items with an expert’s intuition. “We’ll prepare a modest collection suited to the new Lord Peverell’s presentation — understated, but unmistakable.”

Harry gave her a dry look. “That sounds ominous.”

“Good,” Isla replied cheerfully. “That means it’s appropriate.”

Before Harry could retort, she reached into her reticule and withdrew a neatly folded sheet of parchment, cream-coloured and sealed with a small dab of red wax marked with the Ministry’s sigil. She handed it to the clerk with an elegant, almost careless flick of her wrist — the sort of gesture that looked thoughtless but was, Harry suspected, anything but.

The motion caught his attention.

Harry’s eyes followed the parchment as it changed hands. Isla had offered it with the practiced swiftness of someone who didn’t want her companion — namely him — to get a proper look at what was written upon it. His brow furrowed slightly, suspicion pricking the edge of his good humour.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Nothing you need concern yourself with,” Isla said far too smoothly, her voice slipping into the silken tone of someone used to diverting questions. “Merely a list of articles the Ministry deems essential for your present situation.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed a little. “Essential?”

“Yes, essential,” she said, eyes still fixed on the clerk as though that settled the matter. “Proper documentation, enchantment authorisations, all the usual red tape.”

The clerk, for his part, accepted the parchment with both hands and a polite inclination of the head, though Harry caught the faintest glint of interest in the man’s eyes before he masked it beneath his professional demeanour.

“Of course, madam,” he said, tucking the paper discreetly beneath his arm. “We will see to every specification. A Lord of newly restored line requires precision, after all.”

Harry crossed his arms loosely, one brow arching. “You’re aware that secrecy makes me more curious, not less.”

Isla turned to him with a look that was half exasperation, half affection. “And you’re aware that curiosity is a most inconvenient habit in a time where discretion is paramount.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It isn’t meant to be,” she replied, her tone softening into mild amusement. “Trust me, Harrison. You’ll thank me when you’re properly attired and not causing the social equivalent of a minor explosion at every turn.”

The clerk had already begun noting down measurements and murmuring to an assistant, who disappeared behind a velvet curtain to fetch swatches of enchanted fabric and pale boxes tied with gold string. The faint rustle of paper and fabric filled the air.

Harry sighed, conceding the argument for now, and leaned against the nearest display case. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

“I’m doing my civic duty,” Isla said crisply, brushing a speck of dust from her glove. “A properly presented Lord Peverell reflects well upon the Ministry — and upon me, of course.”

“Ah,” Harry said dryly, “so I’m a walking public relations project.”

“Exactly.”

The clerk returned just then, bowing lightly before setting a new tray of accessories upon the counter — polished gloves in soft dragonhide, a delicate wristwatch with a moonphase charm, and a few understated cufflinks that shimmered faintly when Harry’s hand passed over them.

“Per the specifications, madam,” the clerk murmured, laying them out neatly.

Harry caught Isla’s faintly smug look from the corner of his eye. He didn’t need to see what was written on that parchment to know she had arranged far more than simple accessories. And perhaps — though he wouldn’t admit it aloud — that wasn’t entirely a bad thing.

His attention drifted as the clerk and Isla continued their quiet exchange — phrases like “formality clauses” and “regulated enchantments” slipping past his ears like soft rain. The shop itself hummed gently with the kind of magic that felt both civilised and old, steeped in a heritage of tailoring that valued precision above mere prettiness.

Velvet drapes hung heavy in the corners; the air smelled faintly of sandalwood and pressed linen. Fine gloves, walking sticks, pocket squares, and a staggering array of enchanted fabrics gleamed under the golden gaslights. It was the sort of shop that screamed restraint and good breeding — which was exactly why something near the far wall caught Harry’s eye.

It wasn’t grand, nor glittering, nor remotely the sort of thing Isla would approve of.

A display tucked discreetly near a cabinet of spell-threaded canes: a row of handcrafted cloaks. Not the heavy, ceremonial sort — these were soft, enveloping things, spun from layers of wool and silk, lined in subtle colour-shift charms. They were meant to fall just above the ankle, light enough to move with the wind, the hems embroidered with quiet protection sigils.

But that wasn’t what drew him.

It was the hoods. Large, deep, almost cocoon-like. Cloaks made to cover, to hide. To wrap someone small and vulnerable in warmth and quiet. There was something profoundly soothing about them, something that stirred a deep, unspoken instinct in Harry’s chest — his omega side humming softly like a chord struck true.

He stepped closer without thinking, fingers brushing the nearest fabric. The sensation was immediate and intimate — soft as breath, warmer than it had any right to be. It smelled faintly of rain and lavender oils.

“Do you like that one?” the clerk asked politely, stepping beside him.

Harry startled slightly, withdrawing his hand. “I— perhaps. It’s… comfortable.”

Isla turned, brow arching. “Comfortable?”

Her tone wasn’t mocking — not quite — but it made heat crawl up the back of his neck all the same. “It’s hardly the most distinguished piece, darling,” she said lightly, approaching to inspect the cloak. “They’re travel garments. Household wear, really. Not quite the look for a newly reinstated Lord of an ancient line.”

Harry gave a small shrug, looking anywhere but at her. “I didn’t say it was for public appearances.”

The clerk’s expression softened a little — professional, but with a touch of understanding. “They’re woven for restfulness, my lord. Many omegas favour them for private comfort. The hoods are charmed to muffle noise and soften light.”

Harry’s ears turned faintly pink. He hadn’t realised that was what he’d felt — the quiet, the calm that wrapped around his senses. He half wanted to crawl into it and disappear for an hour.

“I shouldn’t,” he murmured, almost to himself. “It’s hardly necessary.”

“Necessary,” Isla said, crossing her arms, “is relative. If you wish for it, then we shall add one to the order. There’s no shame in a preference for comfort.”

Harry shot her a look, wary, searching her face for even a glimmer of mockery. There was none. Only faint amusement — and, beneath it, something that might have been kindness.

“Choose the colour you like best,” she said finally, gesturing at the row. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

He doesn’t choose an omega summer colour. He reaches, instead, for a cloak of deepest black — the sort that drank the light and gave it back only in a faint sheen, like moonlight on still water. Along the hem ran the most delicate embroidery in gold, thread so fine it shimmered faintly with movement, catching on the air like whispered magic.

Isla sighed the way one might at a stubborn younger relative, though there was the ghost of a smile behind it. The clerk, however, raised an elegant brow.

“As a Lord everyone will have their eyes on once word gets around of your status and title,” the clerk said carefully, “you’ll be setting trends whether you mean to or not.”

Harry blinked. “Trends?”

“Indeed,” the clerk replied. “As you may know, male omegas are already rare, my lord, but one bearing a family name thought extinct will cause something of a sensation. Every robe you wear, every shade you favour, every adornment you refuse—” they inclined their head toward the cloak “—will be discussed, duplicated, and sold by the dozens within a week.”

Harry frowned faintly, tugging at his sleeve. “That sounds… exhausting.”

Isla gave a quiet laugh. “Oh, it will be. But perhaps this is your chance to steer things towards good taste for once. Half of society could do with less pastel.”

The clerk chuckled at that, smoothing the folded cloak with their wand. “Black and gold, then. Regal and unexpected. It suits the aura, if I may say so, of a wizard who knows his own mind.”

Harry flushed slightly at the praise, uncertain what to do with it. “I just— I liked it,” he admitted. “It feels… grounded. I don’t know how else to put it.”

The clerk smiled kindly, as though they understood something deeper than he’d said. “A grounded Lord is a rare thing, my lord. Rarer still in an omega.”

Isla cut in before Harry could flounder for a response. “Well then, that’s settled. One black cloak with gold detailing, fitted for his measurements and properly warded against the cold. Send it with the rest.”

The clerk bowed slightly and whisked away the order, muttering softly to themself as they recorded the details on a slip of parchment.

Harry lingered, glancing once more at the cloak as it disappeared behind the counter, feeling an odd tug in his chest. He couldn’t have said why it mattered so much — only that it did. Perhaps it wasn’t about colour or fashion at all.

Perhaps it was that black and gold felt like a promise — something steady, something unmistakably his, in a world that was still learning what to make of him.

Isla, watching him quietly, noted the way he stood straighter when he looked at it. She said nothing, only touched his shoulder lightly and murmured, “Come along, Harrison. Noon’s passing fast, and we’ve yet to see to your boots.”

The cafe she chose was tucked neatly between two taller buildings, half-hidden beneath a curling iron sign that read The Honeyed Thistle. Its windows were frosted faintly with enchantment, glimmering in soft tones of rose and amber, and the faintest hum of magic drifted through the open door — a charm to keep the interior warm and the tea ever steaming.

Inside, the air was perfumed with honey and cinnamon, with the sharp, comforting scent of roasted coffee beans and the sweeter, herbal whisper of enchanted flowers that bloomed in pots along the walls. Delicate lace cloths lay over the tables, and the cutlery gleamed like something from another age. Harry thought it was beautiful — cosy in a way that made him feel momentarily at ease.

“Merlin’s beard,” he murmured under his breath. “It smells divine.”

Isla smiled over her shoulder, removing her gloves as she spoke. “They use honey from enchanted bees. Very calming properties, particularly for omegas in flux. Thought you might appreciate a moment to rest before the day is out.”

They took a small corner table by the window. Harry sank into the seat gratefully, the soft cushions practically swallowing him. The waitress — a cheerful young beta with a dimpled smile — brought menus that shimmered faintly with illusion, each word appearing in fine, golden ink when Harry touched the page.

“They serve nearly everything,” Isla said, scanning hers. “Sweet or savoury, tea or coffee, scones the size of your fist… oh, and pumpkin tarts that are nearly impossible to dislike.”

Harry smiled faintly. “Then I suppose I’ll trust your recommendation.”

“Good lad,” she replied, flagging down the waitress. “Two pumpkin tarts, one black tea with cream, and one…?”

“Coffee, please,” Harry said, then hesitated. “Do they have sugar cubes?”

The waitress giggled. “Three kinds, lord — rose, cinnamon, or plain.”

He blinked. “Rose?”

“Try it,” Isla urged, eyes glinting with mischief. “You might as well embrace the decadence of our century.”

When the order came, it was nothing short of enchanting. The tarts were golden and warm, the filling just shy of molten, and the coffee — rich, dark, faintly floral — curled through the air like something alive. Harry dropped a rose sugar cube in, watched it dissolve in a swirl of pink, and found the scent oddly soothing.

For a while, neither spoke. The silence was companionable, broken only by the clink of cutlery and the faint hum of conversation around them. Outside the window, Diagon Alley moved like a painting — carriages rolling by, robes swishing, the occasional owl sweeping overhead.

It hit Harry, all at once, that he truly was here. 1917. A different world. And yet somehow, sitting in this sunlit cafe, it didn’t feel so foreign.

Isla broke the silence, her tone softened. “You’re adapting faster than most would, you know."

He glanced up, surprised. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

She smiled faintly. “You haven’t run screaming yet, and that’s already an improvement over the last temporal transplant we attempted.”

Harry nearly choked on his coffee. “You what?”

“Never you mind,” she said lightly, eyes twinkling. “Eat your tart before it cools.”

He obeyed, laughing under his breath.

Chapter Text

The shoe shop was tucked on a narrow side street, the polished glass windows reflecting the sun in a dappled, almost magical way. Inside, the scent of fine leather mingled with beeswax polish, making the space smell both warm and crisp. Rows of boots and shoes — from ankle-high riding boots to delicate, pointed slippers for balls — were displayed on velvet-lined shelves. A faint shimmer of protective charms hovered over the more delicate designs, ensuring that no careless touch would mar their finish.

Harry followed Isla into the shop, his newly tailored cloak swaying lightly behind him. He felt his green eyes wander over the array of footwear, noting the subtle magical enhancements — boots enchanted to keep one silent on cobblestones, shoes that adjusted minutely to the wearer’s stride. He was leaning slightly forward, absorbed in the details, when he felt it: a presence close, a heat and pressure against his back and side that didn’t belong.

Before he could turn, a young man practically lunged into his space. He was tall, but skimpy, square jaw, and that faint but unmistakable spike in the air that suggested dominance. His expression was proud, almost arrogantly confident, and his hands were too close to Harry’s sides.

Harry stiffened, instantly alert, every muscle coiling. A part of him wanted to spin, grab his wand, and issue a warning he knew the young alpha wouldn’t forget. The problem — as Harry very well knew — was that his usual wand was no longer in reach, and the one he had now, the Elder Wand, carried too much power for a mere reprimand. He could not afford to lose control here.

“Lord Harrison Peverell,” Harry said, voice clipped and precise, forcing the posh cadence that Isla had insisted upon — though it scraped against his teeth to speak so unnaturally. “And you are?”

The alpha’s chest puffed up. “Alfred Wicker,” he announced, with the sort of pride that made Harry instinctively frown.

“And just what makes you think you can acquaint your breath with my vicinity?” Harry added, poshly measured, forcing the words out in a cadence that felt foreign to his own mouth. Inside, his thoughts were chaotic — he wanted to hiss, to snap, to repel this overfamiliar creature from his personal space. The alpha was tall, brash, and unaware of social boundaries, practically draping himself over Harry as if the world existed solely to accommodate him.

Alfred tilted his head, seemingly untroubled by the frost in Harry’s tone. “I thought perhaps… that someone of your stature might appreciate a gesture of camaraderie,” he said, voice dripping with confidence, not quite arrogance but far too close for comfort.

Harry’s jaw tightened. He could smell the alpha pheromones now, strong and insistent — dominance, pride, a little reckless youth — and it made the pit of his stomach twist. He remembered what it was like, months ago, in 1998, to feel cornered, to have one’s life threatened. The sensation — an alpha leaning into him without consent — ignited a reflex deep inside.

His hand twitched, and he muttered under his breath — just enough that Isla, several feet away, couldn’t hear — a warning laced with barely controlled power: “Step back, or I will rearrange your face.”

Alfred froze, a flash of uncertainty crossing his face, the first flicker of caution, before his pride kicked in again.

Harry caught Isla’s eye across the shop. He exhaled slowly, letting his shoulders drop a fraction, but maintained the posh, practiced mask on his face.

“Do note,” he said carefully, smoothing the unnatural edge of his voice into a veneer of authority that he still despised internally, “that there exist boundaries which even the boldest of alphas ought not to test without invitation. Consider this… a gentle advisement.”

Alfred blinked rapidly, caught between indignation and curiosity, clearly unused to being spoken to in such a precise, unyielding manner by someone younger and smaller, yet undeniably male omega — an anomaly in their society that he had already perceived. Harry’s posture, his tone, the faintly flickering magic in his aura, made the boy hesitate.

Isla, watching from just behind Harry, suppressed a small, wry smile. The power dynamics at play were obvious, but she wisely chose to let Harry handle it. He had, in truth, handled it beautifully. Firm, contained, unyielding — while outwardly flawless in the genteel, posh mannerisms that society demanded.

Harry allowed himself a quiet inward shiver, part thrill part apprehension, as he noted Alfred’s eyes flickering downward, then back to him. The alpha’s pride bristled, but Harry had managed to plant the subtle seed: proximity without consent was not acceptable.

And as much as the situation made him uncomfortable, a small, guilty part of him couldn’t help the quiet, whispered purr of satisfaction from his omega instincts: the power to command space, even over someone biologically stronger, was intoxicating.

“Now,” Harry said, voice crisp, posh as a bell tolling in some ancient hall, “if you’ll excuse us, Alfred Wicker, there remain shoes to be chosen. I would hope the rest of your day be devoted to more appropriate pursuits.”

Alfred, reddening slightly, inclined his head with as much dignity as he could muster, finally retreating a careful step.

Harry let his breath out in a slow hiss, massaging the back of his neck. Inside, he winced at the sheer unnaturalness of the posh tones he’d forced himself into — every word scraping at his tongue like sandpaper — yet outside, his face remained as still as polished marble.

Isla, finally stepping closer, whispered softly in his ear, “Well done. You’ve survived your first uninvited alpha contact. And without so much as a single spell discharged.”

Harry gave her a faint, tired smile, muttering, “Next time, I bring a wand I’m allowed to use.”

She laughed, low and warm, letting the sound mingle with the gentle chime of enchanted bells as the clerk returned with a selection of finely polished shoes.

Isla’s sharp eyes scanned the shelves as the shoemaker approached, carrying several pairs of boots and slippers polished to a mirror sheen. “Now, Lord Peverell,” she said, voice laced with gentle reproach, “we must select shoes befitting your station. Your feet will be observed, particularly at formal gatherings, and a poorly chosen pair can sully even the most impeccable wardrobe.”

Harry raised a brow. “I don't care for fashion,” he admitted, his voice still tinged with reluctance, though the posh edge forced itself over every syllable like a stiff collar.

Isla gave a faint, knowing smile. “I am aware. That is why we are here. You may not care, but society most certainly does.”

The shoemaker stepped forward with a flourish, presenting the first pair. “These, Lord Peverell, are the latest in noble evening boots. Polished calfskin, lined with enchanted silk to mold perfectly to the wearer’s foot. Notice the slight curve of the arch — designed for both comfort and elegance. Suitable for ballroom dances or formal visits.”

Harry leaned slightly forward, inspecting them with genuine curiosity despite himself. The craftsmanship was exquisite, the leather smooth yet firm, the heel perfectly balanced. He traced the top edge lightly with a fingertip, almost mesmerized by the subtle gilded stitching along the seam.

Isla’s gaze flicked to him, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “It appears you are… intrigued, despite your protests.”

He flushed lightly. “I… suppose the details are… interesting,” he admitted, his voice betraying the faintest awe. He had never seen shoes crafted with such deliberate care, so clearly designed for both utility and statement. The notion that each curve, each seam, each stitch had been considered with magical precision stirred something he didn’t quite expect.

The shoemaker, pleased by the faintest spark of interest, laid the next pair before him. “For daywear, lord — softer leather, lighter soles for extended walking. Enchanted to resist dust and minor stains, with subtle charms to maintain polish and shape.”

Harry bent to examine them, holding them up against the light. The enchantments made the leather shimmer faintly, iridescent against the sun filtering through the window. Despite himself, he allowed a small, appreciative smile to tug at his lips. “I… rather like the enchantments,” he murmured, almost to himself. “It makes sense… practical as well as elegant.”

Isla leaned in, whispering softly, “Practicality in an omega’s life is often undervalued, Harrison. One cannot always rely on servants or companions, no matter how loyal.”

Harry nodded, a faint shiver running down his spine.

The shoemaker stepped back, leaving the final pair for inspection. “And these, my lord, are for travel. Sturdy yet refined, enchanted to absorb fatigue, with soles that adjust to both cobblestone and parquet. Ideal for someone of your… stature and pursuits.”

Harry’s hand lingered over the soft, dark leather, tracing the subtle runes embossed along the heel. Something about them felt alive, almost attuned to him — protective in a way he hadn’t anticipated. His omega instincts stirred quietly, drawn to the balance of elegance and subtle security.

He glanced up at Isla, his face carefully neutral. “I… think I rather like these, actually.”

She arched an eyebrow, hiding her amusement with a poised flick of her gloved hand. “See? Even the most indifferent may find themselves swayed by quality and purpose, when it is presented properly. Let us have them fitted, shall we?”

Isla led Harry through a narrow archway at the back of the shop, where the bustle of customers and the fragrant aroma of polished leather fell away. The room beyond was quiet, softly lit by enchanted sconces that cast a gentle, golden glow. A low table lined with measuring instruments sat in the centre, with a single velvet chair awaiting him.

“Please, Lord Harrison,” Isla said smoothly, though her eyes twinkled faintly at his discomfort, “do remove your shoes. It is necessary to ensure your fittings are precise.”

Harry’s fingers hesitated over his polished shoes. The posh formality of the situation felt almost absurd, and yet — he complied, easing his feet out of the shoes and placing them carefully on the floor. The soft leather slid easily from his skin, cool against the warmth of the room.

A clerk approached, young with steady hands and a keen eye, and laid out measuring tapes and enchanted calipers. “We are bound by oath, lord,” she said quietly, almost reverently, “to ensure that every measurement taken in this room remains secret. No word shall leave these walls. We understand the importance of your… station and identity.”

Harry raised a brow because it was only foot measurements, but said nothing, allowing her to work.

The measurements were exacting, precise — each inch and contour of his feet recorded, from arch to heel, from the spread of his toes to the subtle curve of his ankle. A faintly shimmering ink transcribed the results onto a parchment that glowed softly, sealed with wards that would prevent duplication or alteration.

As she worked, Harry’s eyes wandered to the instruments, the soft hum of magic in the air, the way the room seemed to respect the stillness of him, the careful attention of those around. It was oddly comforting, if slightly unnerving, to be the focus of such meticulous care.

“Your shoes,” the clerk said finally, stepping back, “will be crafted in the styles you have chosen. The Peverell sigil will be impressed inside, discreetly, and incorporated as a buckle on one of the designs. You shall be our priority shopper — your fittings will be completed by tomorrow at the earliest.”

Harry allowed himself a faint nod. “Thank you,” he said, trying for the composed tone Isla had drilled into him. Internally, he marveled at the combination of elegance, utility, and secrecy.

Isla stepped closer, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “See? Even something as mundane as shoes can be made extraordinary when the intent is correct. You need not worry — they will fit perfectly, and reflect the standing you now hold.”

Harry’s gaze lingered on the clerk and the instruments, on the careful magic swirling faintly around the parchment. “I… suppose I never expected shoes to require quite so much… consideration,” he admitted, his voice quieter now, a trace of wonder threading through the posh cadence.

The clerk inclined her head, eyes serious. “Every detail matters, lord. And in your case… discreet perfection is imperative.”

Harry slipped his ministry-given shoes back on. Isla gave a small nod of approval, and they stepped out of the shop.

Their next stop was a stationary shop, narrow and lined floor to ceiling with parchment, quills, ink bottles, and enchanted sealing wax that floated briefly above each shelf. Isla guided him through selecting supplies for correspondence, teaching him the correct etiquette for sealing letters with wax imprinted with a personal sigil. Harry rolled his eyes privately at the minutiae but allowed her to demonstrate, noting that the wax glimmered in the sunlight in a way that seemed to make even the dullest letter a small work of art.

Next, they passed through a bookshop. The shelves were endless, filled with leather-bound tomes, some with enchantments humming faintly in the bindings, others with small, protective charms to keep curious fingers from opening the wrong page. Harry’s eyes scanned the shelves lazily.

“I won’t need to read any more than the twelve books I already have,” he said bluntly, almost casually, looking up at Isla. “I’m… I guess I’m set for learning. That’s enough.”

Isla’s lips quirked, half-amused, half-resigned. “You, my dear, are remarkably forthright for someone of your… status. And yes, I believe twelve books will suffice, though I reserve the right to add one or two… if necessary.”

“I guess I’ve survived worse than extra reading.”

She chuckled lightly, allowing him the victory — small though it might be. Harry allowed himself a brief, grateful smirk before Isla turned on her heel and gestured down a narrow, shadowed back alley.

“Next, Harry,” she said with that faintly teasing lilt she sometimes allowed herself, “we have a… specialized establishment to visit. It is necessary for your station and, well, for certain… biological considerations.”

Harry froze mid-step, an uneasy feeling curling in his stomach. He’d survived dark wizards, dragons, and time travel — but somehow, a shop tucked away in a near-forgotten alley, with a discreet sign that read “The Omega Curio”, had managed to make him flush hotter than any duel or magical catastrophe ever had.

“Necessary?” he repeated, his voice tight. “This… this is more embarrassing than the… the undergarment store earlier.”

Isla’s grin was faint but firm. “I am fully aware. But yes. Necessary. You are an omega, Harrison. A male omega. Certain matters must be attended to in private, and discreetly. It would do no good to leave them unattended. And in this establishment, privacy is guaranteed.”

Harry’s heart thudded audibly in his chest as they approached the door. A small bell chimed softly when Isla pushed it open, though it barely disturbed the velvet-draped interior. Inside, the air was warmer than the alley, scented faintly with lavender and something subtly sweeter — not cloying, but suggestive, an invisible pulse of enchantment threading through the space.

The shopkeeper, a middle-aged beta with a calm and professional air, appeared from behind a curtain. “Welcome, Lord Peverell,” she said, bowing ever so slightly. “This shop is closed for you and you alone. You shall have privacy to consider what is appropriate for your needs.”

Harry’s face turned a shade of crimson that no spell could dull. He shifted uneasily, glancing at Isla. “Needs?” he whispered, almost apologetically. “I… I really don’t know if I—”

“You will, in time,” Isla interrupted softly, laying a steadying hand on his arm. “There is nothing to fear. Think of it as a lesson in managing your… heat, in ways both discreet and proper. This shop is intended for those of your… uniqueness. Male omegas are rare, Harrison, and certain preparations are expected to ensure your health, your dignity, and your station.”

Harry swallowed, his ears burning hotter by the second. The shop was arranged in quiet elegance, not garish like Muggle establishments of the kind he’d sometimes glimpsed in books — but unmistakably, entirely dedicated to omega needs. Delicate powders, charms, small enchanted objects, and even lightly enchanted silks and satins filled the shelves. Some shimmered faintly as if aware of their purpose, some hummed softly with magic designed to soothe, protect, or stimulate during the… most intense moments of an omega’s cycle.

He cast a furtive glance at Isla, whose expression was unreadable, though the faint lift of her brow hinted at amusement. “You are welcome to look, Harry,” she said quietly, “but do remember that decorum — as awkward as it may feel — is expected, even here.”

Harry nodded mutely, tugging at the cuff of his androgynous outfit, eyes darting from one softly glowing object to another. The blush in his cheeks deepened. He felt simultaneously mortified, fascinated, and — though he would never admit aloud — strangely drawn to the delicate, magical craftsmanship of the items before him.

The shopkeeper, aware of his discomfort, guided him with gentle, deliberate motions. “There is no rush,” she said. “You need only learn what is suited for you. Each object, each garment, each charm, is carefully designed for your… station and your physiology. We close the shop for every customer so that discretion is absolute. No outsider may observe your selection, and nothing leaves without your consent.”

Harry’s throat felt dry, and he clutched at the hem of his tunic, wishing he could vanish entirely. Yet, despite the embarrassment prickling at his skin, a small part of him — the omega part he had barely begun to acknowledge — hummed quietly with interest. There was an undeniable allure to the care, the magic, the secrecy; it was oddly thrilling to be seen as… desired, protected, catered to, in a way that he had never experienced in his original life.

He shifted uncomfortably, cheeks warming as he spoke. “I- um… I heard of something my friend told me of, though I am unsure if it exists in this country yet,” he began, voice hesitant. He cast a sidelong glance at Isla, who merely raised an eyebrow, encouraging him to continue. “Something… that can help warn of impending heats? A, erm… tracks core temperature, I believe?”

The clerk’s eyes lit up with faint, professional delight. “Ah… you mean a monitoring charm,” she said carefully, as though the very word was delicate. She produced a small, almost translucent orb from beneath the counter, about the size of a marble, its surface faintly glimmering. The light within pulsed softly, like a heartbeat caught in crystal.

Harry’s mouth went dry. “That… that’s it?” he asked, uncertainly reaching toward it.

The clerk nodded, careful not to rush him. “Indeed. It is enchanted to sense subtle changes in your body temperature, your magical aura, and other physiological cues indicative of an approaching heat. It is discreet, safe, and fully adjustable. The orb may be worn in a variety of manners: a bracelet, a necklace, a waist chain, or — though less common for males, and rather scandalous — an anklet. The choice is yours.”

Harry swallowed audibly, the tips of his ears paling. He glanced at Isla, who merely shrugged, lips twitching with suppressed amusement.

“It is… not unheard of,” Isla murmured, “for young male omegas of notable station to utilize such devices. In fact, some… circles would consider it prudent, given the rarity of male omegas and the value they represent to magical lineage.”

Harry’s hands twitched slightly, hovering over the orb. “I… I suppose a bracelet would be safest?” he murmured, voice tight, cheeks flaming.

“Indeed,” the clerk agreed, carefully producing a delicate chain of gold and silver intertwined, subtle enough to pass as ornamentation while holding the orb snugly against the wrist. “It shall track your readings, give subtle alerts only perceptible to you, and remain entirely discreet. Only your magic may attune it.”

Harry nodded, fumbling slightly as he took the bracelet. The orb pulsed gently in his palm, and for a moment, he could feel it almost synchronizing with him, as though it recognized the rhythm of his body and his magic.

 “I… thank you,” he muttered, more to himself than to either of them. He fastened the bracelet carefully around his wrist, feeling the soft pulse of magic against his skin.

The clerk inclined her head. “It may be adjusted later, should your body or circumstances change. That is the benefit of working with… bespoke enchantments.”

Harry glanced down at the orb again, then to Isla. “I… I suppose it’s useful. And discreet,” he added, attempting the posh tone she had encouraged earlier, though it came out tight and clipped. “How much does it cost?” Harry asked cautiously, his voice quiet, almost hesitant as he regarded the delicate orb in his palm.

The clerk gave a small, professional smile. “As this is primarily a protective measure,” she explained, “ensuring the health and comfort of an omega of your… unique status, it is not as expensive as you might anticipate. The magic employed is precise but designed for long-term use.” She paused, glancing at Isla with a subtle nod, as though confirming protocol.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “So, not horrendous?”

“Not horrendous,” the clerk agreed smoothly. “After activation, the charm will take a few days to attune fully to your normal body temperature and magical rhythm. During that time, it may be slightly more sensitive to changes in ambient temperature or minor fluctuations. Once attuned, the pearl-coloured mist within will remain neutral under normal conditions, but when approaching your heat, it will shift to a subtle gold hue. In other circumstances, such as a fever or other irregularity, it may glow incorrectly as a heat, unfortunately there's no way to fix that."

Green eyes widened slightly, a faint flush coloring his cheeks. “It… changes colour?”

“Yes,” the clerk replied with a soft smile, as though reading his reaction. “Gold for heat, entirely discreet, entirely for your benefit. No one but yourself will perceive the change.”

Isla, ever composed, gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “See, Harrison? You need not fear its presence. It is practical, discreet, and tailored for your needs as a male omega of your station. You will find it… invaluable once accustomed to it.”

Harry nodded slowly, still staring at the orb. “I… suppose that makes sense. And the attunement… that takes days?”

“Correct,” the clerk said. “Do not worry; the process is entirely automatic once activated. Simply wear it, allow the magic to harmonize with your body, and it will serve you faithfully.”

Harry exhaled, finally fastening the bracelet carefully around his wrist. He felt the subtle pulse of its enchantment, a quiet thrum that seemed to hum in time with his own heartbeat.

“Very well, then,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. “I suppose I… am glad it exists.”

“Indeed,” Isla said softly, her voice carrying that faintly teasing edge that somehow managed to keep him both uneasy and comforted at once. “Now, Harrison, with this matter settled, we may move on. There are still the final items to acquire before your return to the estate, and the day is growing short.”

Harry’s steps faltered as Isla led him to a smaller room at the back of the shop, the door marked with a discreet sigil he didn’t recognize. A warm, soft light spilled from within, the air carrying a subtle, musky scent that made his stomach twist nervously. He froze in the doorway, eyes wide, heart hammering.

“For someone born almost a century ahead, you’re far more skittish around this stuff than the others I’ve had to deal with,” Isla muttered lightly, almost sotto voce, as though she were chastising a particularly jumpy kitten rather than a Lord of the Peverell line.

Harry opened his mouth, but no words came. “I’ve never—” he stammered, cheeks burning furiously. He didn’t finish; he couldn’t. The thought of the things in the room, the objects on shelves arranged with quiet, deliberate care — sex toys of all kinds, charms and enchanted aids meant for male omegas, discreet and elegant, yet utterly intended for pleasure — made him feel like he might vanish entirely.

Isla’s eyes softened. “I know,” she said quietly, stepping closer. Despite being a beta, her hands moved with the gentle assurance of someone used to handling a startled omega. One hand rested lightly at the nape of his neck, brushing his curls and pressing just enough to ground him. Harry’s breath caught; the gesture was unfamiliar, intimate, and yet calming, and he found himself leaning subtly into the touch without understanding why.

“Breathe, Harrison,” she murmured, her tone firm yet tender. “There is nothing to fear. You are safe. Everything is meant for comfort, protection, and preparation. Simply observe, learn, and leave if you feel overwhelmed. There is no obligation to do more.”

Harry’s pulse slowed fractionally, the warmth of her hand steadying the fluttering panic in his chest. He swallowed, nodding weakly, still unsure, still confused by the strange comfort he felt at the simple touch.

Isla gave a small, almost imperceptible smile, guiding him backward, away from the shelves and the more… alarming objects. “Come, Harrison,” she said softly, letting her hand slide from his nape to rest lightly at his elbow, gently steering him out of the room. “You do not need to confront anything today. We are merely here to learn, to acclimate. That is all.”

Once back in the main shop, the clerk retrieved the small, clear orb bracelet. Isla paid for it with a discreet flick of a Ministry-issued bill, ensuring Harry was spared even the minor embarrassment of handling money in this strange, unfamiliar setting.

Through it all, Isla’s hand never fully left him. A light, guiding touch — not possessive, not pressing, but steadying. Harry felt the warmth trail down the back of his arm, and for a moment, he felt an unfamiliar blend of safety and… something else he did not yet have words for.

“See?” Isla murmured, as if reading his confusion. “You are unscathed. You may have been startled, yes, but there is nothing here that would harm you. And now, Harrison… we may leave.”

Harry nodded, cheeks still faintly pink, but a subtle sense of calm had replaced the near-panic that had gripped him moments ago. The bracelet glimmered faintly against his wrist, a quiet, reassuring pulse.

Together, they stepped back into the narrow alley that felt almost like another world, a still pocket tucked away from the bustle of Diagon Alley proper. Only the omega shop, a slightly run-down estate agency, a cramped antique store, and a small, fragrant pet shop occupied the narrow stretch. A gentle wind rustled the edges of the cobblestones, carrying faint scents of earth, leather, and something sweet — perhaps from the pet shop’s cages.

Harry exhaled shakily, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his tunic. “You… you haven’t said it exactly, but I know I’m never going home,” he murmured, voice small, carrying the weight of a truth he wasn’t sure he wanted to face. The words trembled from his lips as if even speaking them aloud made them more permanent.

Isla’s expression softened, a rare flicker of gentleness overtaking her usually precise, composed demeanor. She guided him to a nearby wall, one of the slightly higher slabs forming a natural perch. Standing with careful poise, she positioned herself so her back was against the stone, allowing her a clear view down the alley.

Harry shuffled closer, almost instinctively, his face burying into her shoulder as he tried to still the storm of nerves within him. Her shoulder, thin yet reassuring, felt solid, a grounding presence. Isla’s hand rested lightly at the nape of his neck, fingertips brushing against his curls with delicate precision, while the other hand settled along his back, the warmth radiating through the fabric of his robes.

“You’re safe here,” she murmured quietly, her voice carrying the calm authority of someone accustomed to handling danger, yet tempered with a softness that seemed almost maternal. “You may breathe, Harrison. Let it out.”

Harry drew in a shaky breath, the scent of her — a mixture of faint herbs, and something subtly grounding, almost like old mahogany — filling his senses. He closed his eyes, allowing the steady pressure of her hands to anchor him, though he still felt oddly unmoored, as if part of him were still suspended between the world he’d left and the one he had been thrust into.

“You… you’re very… calm,” he muttered, voice muffled against her shoulder. “Even though I’ve never- never done anything like… this.”

Isla’s lips twitched into the tiniest smile. “Calm is necessary when guiding an omega through unfamiliar… circumstances. You’re frightened, yes, but that is expected. I am merely here to remind you that it is manageable. You are not alone.”

For a long moment, they remained like that, still in the quiet alley, the sounds of the wider magical streets muted behind the walls. Harry let the tension drain slowly from his shoulders, the warmth of her presence and the firm, careful pressure on his back and neck pulling him toward a sense of… cautious security.

Finally, Isla shifted slightly, just enough to allow him to meet her gaze. “Harrison,” she said softly, still maintaining that delicate balance of authority and reassurance, “whatever the past you’ve left behind, whatever the world you came from — you are here now. You have a place, a title, a station. And you are prepared to face it, even if only in small steps.”

Harry nodded slowly, still tucked into her, a faint shiver running through him. For the first time since arriving in this strange, earlier time, he felt a quiet certainty that — however unnerving, however unfamiliar — he was not entirely without support.

“In my time, no one really cared about secondary gender,” Harry murmured, the words carrying that particular weariness born not of fatigue but of too many memories pressed too tightly together. "War was the important thing."

Isla’s eyes softened at the edge of his voice — quiet, unsteady, but undeniably honest. She drew in a measured breath, reached for her wand, and with a graceful flick, cast a Muffliato. The faint hum of privacy shimmered around them like a silk veil.

“How did you grow up?” she asked quietly, her tone stripped of the usual clipped precision she carried in public. “As a Potter?” She hesitated, lowering her wand, her brows knitting. “I know you were malnourished.”

“Abused,” Harry corrected softly. The word fell like a stone into still water, rippling between them. “The Potters all died out. It was just me.”

Isla’s breath caught audibly. “Died out? The Potters? But... Harrison, I know you came from war but…”

“There were three wars in that century,” he said, voice thin and trembling between exhaustion and detachment. “The first starts in nine years. It lasts nineteen years. There’s another in my parents’ time. It ended… with me.”

Isla’s hand, still resting lightly at the base of his neck, tensed just slightly — not in recoil, but in a quiet ache. “What do you mean?” she whispered, thumb moving in small, grounding circles against his nape.

Harry swallowed hard. “I was around a year old when it started. There was a prophecy — said I was the one who could defeat a dark wizard. So he came after me. My parents died that night trying to protect me. The killing curse was meant for me, but it… rebounded. Killed him instead.”

Her sharp intake of breath was almost a gasp. “Your scar!” she said, half in awe, half in horror. “The wand movement — that shape..."

“The Killing Curse,” Harry finished for her quietly. “Yes.” He blinked rapidly, tears threatening but held stubbornly back. “My parents died that night,” he repeated softly, as though reminding himself. “And I was sent to live with my mother’s sister. Muggles. They hated magic. They hated me.”

Isla’s expression folded into quiet grief, her hand steady on his neck as though afraid even breath might break him.

“When I was fourteen,” he continued, voice cracking just once, “the dark wizard came back. Horcruxes — he’d split his soul to keep himself alive. For years, we fought him. Everyone I loved died or almost died. And then… a few months ago — well, for me, but now it’s eighty years from now — I killed him. After taking another Killing Curse.” He exhaled shakily, shoulders trembling under the weight of the words. “I don’t really know why I lived that second time.”

Isla didn’t answer immediately. She simply stood with him in the narrow alley, one hand resting against his back, the other gently curved around his neck. Her touch wasn’t possessive — it was steady, protective, quietly human.

After a long moment, she spoke softly, her tone reverent rather than pitying. “You should have been cherished,” she said. “Not weaponised. You should have been held and told you were safe, not prepared for death before you were grown.”

Harry let out a choked sound that wasn’t quite a sob, more a sharp breath escaping through gritted teeth.

Isla’s hand found his hair, smoothing it once, twice. “You’re alive,” she murmured. “And in this time, Harrison, that alone is enough. You owe no one anything — not your power, not your past, not your pain.”

Her hand rose, gentle yet firm, cupping Harry’s face as though to keep him from shattering. His glassy green eyes lifted to hers, uncertain, lost — the kind of gaze that still belonged to someone halfway between boy and man, soldier and survivor. She smoothed her thumb once beneath his eye, brushing away the tear that had gathered there, and whispered something low — something meant only for him.

But before he could answer, before either could step back, a sharp intake of breath cut through the quiet alley.

“Isla Hitchens?”

The voice carried the weight of authority, familiar enough for her spine to stiffen instinctively. They both turned. A tall, broad-shouldered man stood at the mouth of the alley, silver-trimmed robes, clearly having a prominent status within the Wizengamot. His dark hair was that characteristic Potter mess, and his hazel eyes burned bright beneath furrowed brows.

“Lord Potter,” Isla said, straightening instinctively but keeping one hand protectively at Harry’s shoulder. “You startled me.”

“Did I?” Henry Potter’s tone was not unkind, but it brimmed with the shock of recognition, eyes darting from Isla to the young man she still held so closely. “I had not expected to find the esteemed Mrs. Hitchens nee Black,” — the formal address bit, sharp as glass — “embracing a young omega in broad daylight. I had no idea your marriage had grown so… open.”

Harry’s cheeks flushed crimson, the colour rising to his ears. His eyes, already damp, shone wetly again — and the faintest tendrils of his omega pheromones slipped into the air, shimmering like gold-dust laced with sharp grief and confusion.

Isla turned her head slightly, jaw tense. “You presume too much, Lord Potter,” she said smoothly, though there was fire beneath the poise. “This young man is under my guardianship by order of the Ministry. He is unwell, and under considerable strain.”

Henry blinked, taken aback by the steel in her tone. His eyes shifted to Harry, and something in them softened — immediately, instinctively.

Harry, uncertain whether to bow or stand straight, half-mumbled, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

Henry cut him off gently, stepping closer with the calm air of someone accustomed to being obeyed but kind enough not to demand it. “You’ve done nothing wrong, young man.” His gaze lingered on Harry’s face, tracing the fragile lines of exhaustion, the subtle tremor in his hands. “Forgive me. I was startled, that’s all.”

The silence that followed was oddly weighted — as though something unspoken had shifted between them.

Henry Potter’s eyes, clearer now that his temper had cooled, widened faintly as he truly saw the boy before him. “Merlin’s beard,” he breathed softly. “You’re— I can see it. You’ve the old look about you.”

“The… old look?” Harry asked quietly, trying to school his voice into composure though his throat was thick.

“Peverell,” Henry murmured, almost reverently. “You’ve the Peverell blood in your face. I’d have sworn that line had gone cold not five years past. And yet…” He gave a low, astonished chuckle, a rare gentleness lighting his features. “Here you stand.”

Harry blinked, unsure what to do under the weight of that paternal gaze — a gaze that seemed to see him without knowing how much truth it truly touched.

Henry looked to Isla again. “This is the last Peverell, then?"

“Yes,” Isla replied, composure restored, her arm still lightly resting at Harry’s back. “Lord Harrison Peverell, only just been confirmed. His lineage was… recently verified.”

The older man studied Harry once more, his expression shifting from surprise to something warmer, steadier — protective in the quiet, instinctive way of an older alpha before a distressed omega. His voice softened, touched with something that might have been pride. “Then the Peverell name lives yet,” he said, almost to himself. “My mother would have wept to see it.”

Harry, for reasons he couldn’t quite place, felt something inside him loosen.

Henry extended a gloved hand — not in formality, but with quiet sincerity. “Henry Potter,” he said. “Lord Potter, if we must be proper. It’s an honour to meet you, Lord Peverell. Our families are… kin, of a sort. Distant cousins, though that thread’s been thin a long while.”

Harry hesitated only a heartbeat before accepting the hand. The man’s grip was firm, steady, and something about the contact steadied Harry too.

The alpha scent surrounding Henry was deep and grounding — musk and hearthfire and parchment, old magic worn into the skin. It wrapped briefly around Harry like reassurance, like the ghost of something he’d never had — a father’s steadiness, perhaps, or a grandfather’s strength.

Henry’s brows drew together faintly at how light Harry’s hand felt, how the boy seemed to carry weariness like an extra limb. “You’re young,” he said softly. “Far too young to carry a lordship alone. But the Peverells were never known for yielding to fate.”

Harry managed a faint, shaky smile. “No,” he murmured. “We weren’t.”

For a moment, neither spoke further. Isla inclined her head politely, the tension easing now that Henry’s tone had softened.

Henry stepped back, gaze flicking between them once more. “Forgive my earlier words, Mrs. Hitchens. I spoke without grace.”

“Forgiven,” Isla said briskly, though the faintest smile curved her lips.

“I hope to see you both at the Wizengamot gathering next week,” Henry added. “The reappearance of a Peverell lord is not a small matter. You’ll find a welcome there, Harrison. And perhaps a few overzealous suitors as well — but I expect you’ll handle them.” His smile was kind, teasing, in that older-man way that managed to be both affectionate and unbearably proper.

Harry flushed but nodded. “Thank you, Lord Potter.”

Henry inclined his head and took his leave, disappearing around the curve of the alley, his footsteps fading into the hum of London beyond.

He exhaled once he was gone, rubbing at his face. “He thought you’re having an affair,” he muttered, mortified.

Isla laughed softly, slipping her wand back into her coat. “Let him.”

Harry blinked at her, still pink about the ears. “You really don’t mind?”

“Oh, darling boy,” Isla sighed, straightening his collar with a deft hand, “I’m an Unspeakable. If that’s the worst rumour that follows me home, I’ll count myself blessed.”

Harry’s voice was quiet, unguarded — the words spilling out before he could school them back. “His handshake felt like a hug,” he said again, almost to himself this time, eyes distant as though still seeing Henry Potter’s kind, weathered face.

Isla’s expression gentled, and she tilted her head. “You’ve not had many of those, have you?” she asked softly.

He swallowed, his throat working. “No. Not even hugs that felt like that.” He frowned a little, fingers twitching at his sides as though remembering the warmth still lingering in his palm. “It was… solid. Safe. Like I could’ve leaned into it and he wouldn’t have let me fall.”

“Henry Potter’s a good man. Stern, yes, and rather too attached to his parliamentary speeches — but he’s one of the few I’d still call decent.”

Harry nodded faintly. “He feels… familiar somehow. Even though I’ve never met him before. Like I’ve known him all my life.”

Isla smiled faintly, more in her eyes than her lips. “Blood calls to blood, Harry. Even when it’s thinned by generations. There’s an echo in it — something old, steady. Perhaps your magic recognised his before your mind did.”

Harry’s hand came up to touch his chest, as though to still something restless inside. “Maybe,” he murmured. “It’s strange, though. For the first time since I got here, I didn’t feel like I was completely… alone.”

“Well,” she said after a moment, her voice brisk again though not unkind, “that’s something, isn’t it? A Potter and a Peverell, side by side again. The ancestors will be dancing in their portraits.”

Harry gave a soft laugh — startled, unsteady, but genuine. “I hope they’re better dancers than I am.”

“I should hope anyone is better than you are being raised in the dreadful future,” Isla teased, eyes glinting as she started walking again. “Come along now, Lord Peverell. You’ve had enough sentiment for one morning. Let’s get you some lunch before the Ministry decides to send a search party.”

He followed, a little lighter on his feet, and as they stepped back into the bustle of the Alley, he murmured under his breath, more to himself than her — "Still. His handshake… really did feel like a hug.”

She took him firmly by the wrist — not unkindly, but with the brisk practicality of someone used to guiding those who’d been swept up in something much larger than themselves — and led him toward the public Floo point. The Ministry-appointed guards at the entrance gave curt nods of recognition, and Harry followed, steps a little slow, mind still lingering on Henry Potter’s handshake and the warmth that had so quickly drained from him again.

“Oh dear, Harrison,” Isla sighed as they approached the great gilded fireplace, the green powder shimmering in its bowl. “I forgot to tell you — you must not, under any circumstances, attempt to access the Muggle world.”

Harry blinked, startled by her sudden shift in tone. “I know why,” he said quietly. “World War One.”

She froze. For one suspended breath, the whole of the Ministry’s atrium seemed to hush around them — as though his words had pulled all the air from the room. Then, with a sharp, almost strangled sound, Isla hissed, “One?” Her eyes widened in horror, and her voice dropped to a furious whisper, “This is called the Great War, Harrison. Please — for heaven’s sake — change your speech. You’re heavily suggesting there will be another.”

Harry’s lips parted, words failing him. He could only stare at her, the colour draining from his face.

“Oh great heavens…” Isla muttered, glancing around to be sure no one overheard as she steered him closer to the hearth. “Three wizarding… two muggle.” The way she said it — half in disbelief, half in mourning for a future she would never see — struck through the air like a cold wind. “And you lived through the last of them.”

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His throat was too tight, his chest too heavy. He just nodded once — a jerky, helpless little movement that made Isla’s hand tighten briefly at his arm before she stepped forward.

“Come along then,” she said briskly, her voice quieter now. 

They stepped together into the emerald flames, she tossing down the powder and calling clearly the destination.

Green fire swallowed them whole. The spinning was brief but violent, as though the Floo itself resented carrying the weight of what hung between them. When they spilled out into the cool quiet of his room, Harry stumbled once, caught himself, and then simply stood there — the silence pressing on his chest until he couldn’t breathe properly anymore.

He sat down heavily on the edge of his bed, fingers curling in the soft linen coverlet, head bowed. The room, large though it was, suddenly felt far too small — the walls too near, the air too thick.

Isla stepped closer, but she didn’t speak. She’d seen enough soldiers break down in these very halls to know when words did more harm than good. She merely stood beside him, hands folded neatly in front of her, pretending to be occupied with a small ward charm flickering at the corner of the room.

Harry drew one shaky breath, then another, and then — with a sound like a snapped thread — the dam gave way. He buried his face in his hands and began to cry. Not the hard, furious tears of battle, nor the quiet ones of grief — but the helpless, trembling sobs of someone who had spent a lifetime surviving and didn’t quite know what to do when the world stopped demanding it.

The flames in the hearth burned low and steady, casting soft gold light over the curve of his bowed shoulders. Isla remained still beside him, saying nothing, simply present — the silent witness to the quiet breaking of a boy who had already lived through too much.

Chapter Text

The rest of the day passed in a kind of quiet fog. Isla, mercifully, had left him to himself after ensuring the wards were properly set and a dinner tray had been scheduled to arrive. When the door closed behind her, Harry had exhaled, the sound catching somewhere between relief and exhaustion.

He changed into the linen pyjamas. He frowned at the faintly feminine details once again but didn’t have the energy to care. It was softness. And after months of rough wool, blood, and sweat, softness felt like a miracle.

He curled up in the armchair beside the fireplace with one of the books Isla had insisted upon. By dinner, he had read three chapters and understood perhaps half of the words, though his eyebrows had furrowed nearly the entire time. He ate when his meal arrived — something mild and well-seasoned — but managed only half before setting the fork down, appetite dulled by the weight in his chest. When the house-elf reappeared silently to take the tray away, he muttered a quiet thank you, and it vanished with a soft pop.

The room dimmed with the dusk, and the rhythmic crackle of the fire filled the silence. He stood then, stretching with a practised grace that came from months of sleeping rough in forests and fields. His joints cracked softly. The motions — deep lunges, slow rotations of the shoulders, measured bends of the spine — were muscle memory from the days he needed to stay loose enough to duel at a moment’s notice.

When his breathing steadied, he drew the Elder Wand. It hummed faintly in his hand, that same stubborn, impossible loyalty humming beneath his skin. The connection felt unchanged — eerie and familiar both — and it steadied him, in its way. He moved through a few basic patterns, the wand slicing clean arcs through the air, silent spells shimmering faintly before fading. The magic answered him as easily as ever.

Then the quiet would settle again, too deep, too heavy. Every hour or so, without realising it, his chest would seize and he’d find himself crying — quiet, shaking sobs that seemed to come from nowhere. He’d wipe at his eyes, scold himself in muttered tones, then pick up another book as though sheer effort could undo the ache.

When at last he climbed into bed, he lay staring at the ceiling, the etiquette book still open beside him. His eyes lingered on the sections he’d marked — An Omega’s Conduct in Mixed Company, Appropriate Deference to Alphas, Presentation and Modesty in Public.

He read those passages again and again, expression caught between confusion and disbelief. The careful, measured language of submission — of social restraint and quiet grace — felt foreign to him. He’d fought wars, led soldiers, commanded armies. Now the same society that once hailed him as a saviour expected him to lower his eyes, keep his scent gentle, and bow before the whims of an alpha simply because biology said so.

He turned the page, then closed the book softly.

The fire crackled once, and he thought of Isla’s hand steady on his neck earlier, the firm comfort of it — the way it had quieted him despite the confusion it brought. Perhaps there was truth in some of these instincts. Perhaps he just didn’t understand them yet.

But the thought still sat uncomfortably.

He rolled onto his side, pulling the soft blanket up to his chin, eyes prickling again. “Omega,” he murmured into the pillow, the word tasting strange and new on his tongue. “Lord Peverell. Fuck etiquette.”

Sleep came in fits — dreams full of shifting faces, green light, and blood seeping from wounds.

Harry stirred slowly at 1pm the next day. The absence of the usual piercing alarm was immediately noticeable; his body ached pleasantly from the hours of uninterrupted sleep, a luxury he had not known for… well, perhaps his entire life. Groaning softly, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and spotted a small, folded note perched neatly against the wardrobe door.

He shuffled over and unfolded it. Isla’s unfamiliar, precise handwriting greeted him:

“Harrison, I took the liberty of allowing you additional rest today. You looked pitiful in your sleep. Your attire, shoes, and personal items have been returned to your wardrobe by the house elves. Your new wand will be completed and ready for collection tomorrow.

-Isla"

Harry let out a scoff, partly in exasperation, partly amused. Pitiful? he thought, rubbing at his eyes.

He turned toward the wardrobe, curiosity and a vague thrill urging him forward. The doors opened with a soft swoosh at his touch, revealing a collection that made him momentarily pause. It was as though a personal seamstress, tailor, and magical wardrobe committee had been painstakingly devoted to him overnight.

The first items that caught his eye were the two ballroom outfits. One glimmered in a delicate summer palette — a soft light sage, highlighted with pale gold accents along the cuffs, collar, and hem. The fabric shimmered faintly under the sunlight, almost as though it had been enchanted to catch light with every movement. The second outfit was in autumn colours: soft emeralds, deep sapphire blues, and pearlescent whites interspersed with touches of bright gold. The primary white portions were not overwhelming, merely elegant in small incrustations along the seams and trims, designed to accentuate his dark hair and pale skin rather than dominate them. He found himself holding it delicately, imagining the way it might flow as he moved.

He stepped back, letting his gaze sweep over the rest. Three cloaks — one of them the black casual ensemble he had selected himself — hung neatly with invisible supports ensuring their perfect drape. Five more casual outfits, understated compared to the dazzling ministry-issued attire of yesterday, each combined subtle elegance with the necessary practicality for daily life in 1910s wizarding society. Each piece seemed made for him, measured perfectly, cuts soft yet deliberate, some slightly androgynous, reflecting the complex silhouette of a male omega Lord.

Three pairs of shoes sat beneath the clothes, each polished, shaped to fit his feet. Underneath, neatly stacked, were a variety of undergarments. Harry’s cheeks warmed as he surveyed them — delicate, frilled, and subtly designed for a male omega, balancing the masculine and feminine in ways that left him momentarily tongue-tied. Each set appeared carefully designed for comfort, practicality, and, he suspected, to appeal to the discerning eye of a wizarding society that valued the rarest of secondary genders.

He shifted his attention to the additional pyjama sets. The first resembled his current attire but differed slightly: the top, no longer flaring as broadly, curved subtly at the waist, forming a loose vest-like shape that hinted at the natural contours of his frame. It was soft, supple linen, airy enough to be comfortable but tailored in a way that felt… deliberate, almost intimate in its fit. He wasn’t quite sure how to describe it, but it was less shapeless than the first, more like clothing that understood the body beneath.

The second pyjama set was more daring — a knee-length, flowing garment reminiscent of a dress. He hesitated, fingers brushing against the delicate fabric. Its design was clever: practical for sleep, elegant enough that it wouldn’t look out of place if he were ever seen in private company, and unmistakably crafted for the omega frame — the shoulders and neckline cut just so, the waist subtly defined without pressure, the hem soft and feathered.

Harry sank onto the edge of the bed, staring at the wardrobe as if it held the promise of an entirely new life within its neatly arranged confines. It was overwhelming, yes, but in a way that made him catch his breath. Each item was more than fabric and thread — it was a statement, a reflection, a declaration that he was no longer just a survivor of wars he barely remembered; he was Lord Harrison Peverell, male omega, custodian of a line thought lost, and, improbably, someone the world would watch with keen attention.

For a long while, he simply sat, brushing his fingers over the folds of the clothes, feeling the weight of expectation, elegance, and strange, delicate beauty. He could almost hear Isla’s dry, teasing voice in the back of his mind, reminding him to be polite, to be proper, to hold himself like a Lord. And though he felt a pang of discomfort at the unfamiliarity of it all, he could not deny that a small part of him thrilled at the thought of learning — slowly, deliberately — what it truly meant to exist in this new, strange world.

Harry’s eyes roamed the wardrobe again, not so much to study the clothes, but to take in the cabinet below. It was a neat, velvet-lined compartment, its small drawers and compartments filled with an array of jewellery — cufflinks, brooches, delicate chains and chains of small pearls, some accented with tiny, glimmering stones. Isla had evidently taken it upon herself to ensure he had what might be considered the proper adornments of a young lord, an assortment suitable for formal dinners, society gatherings, and quiet afternoons where appearances mattered more than conversation. There were other items too — small charms, protective trinkets, and subtle talismans that carried discreet enchantments. He felt a small pang of amusement at the thought that she had chosen these for him with the same deliberate care she had applied to every other aspect of his life since arriving in 1917.

Harry sighed softly, letting himself lean back against the wardrobe. She was, he realized, like a stern yet tender aunt (not like Petunia, but more Molly) — part disciplinarian, part conspiratorial companion, a woman who could scold and comfort with equal measure, and still somehow find time to enjoy herself in the process. There was a softness to her control, a warmth wrapped in the precision of her expectations. For someone so tied to the ministry and secrets beyond his comprehension, she had poured herself into ensuring he would not flounder entirely in this strange past.

He picked up the etiquette book once more, sliding into a chair beside the fire. The room, warm and drowsy, filled with the quiet crackle of burning logs, became the backdrop to the meticulous study of proper behavior, tone, posture, and manners.

By three o’clock, he had finished the book, his mind fatigued yet oddly enriched by the information. Lunch had been a quiet affair an hour prior, at two — simple yet nourishing, a tray of delicate meats, bread, and soft fruit, delivered without fanfare, leaving him to eat at his own pace.

Having digested both food and information, Harry found himself wandering the room. On a sudden whim — or perhaps a remnant of his obsessive nature cultivated over years of constant vigilance in a war-torn world — he balanced two of the etiquette books atop his head and paced deliberately from one end of the room to the other. Shoulders back, chin up, spine aligned. Each step was careful, measured, an attempt to train himself into a posture that would befit a lord, a young man of noble blood. He repeated the exercise multiple times, frowning at himself in the mirror when a book wobbled precariously.

By four o’clock, curiosity and an uncomfortable blend of apprehension and self-interest led him to remove the linen pyjamas, exposing himself to the full light of the afternoon. He stared at his reflection, the body laid bare, green eyes catching the light, the faint scars along his skin — each a memento of past duels, magical skirmishes, and the endless push of a war that had once defined his very existence. He traced the line of the scar on his forearm, remembered the ritual from the morning before that had subtly altered his features — the softer jawline, the gentler curve of his hips, the altered shoulders, and the curls that now fell around his face.

This body, once honed for survival in battle, now seemed… uncertain in purpose. Once, he had moved through life with a single clarity: survive, defend, and cleanse the world of threats. His body had been a weapon, a shield, a tool. Now, in the quiet light of an afternoon, it felt at odds with itself.

Harry’s mind swirled with possibilities, and contradictions. Back in his original time, he had fast-tracked into the Auror department immediately after the war — not out of ambition, but necessity. The Ministry had been decimated, many Aurors lost to dark wizards’ cruelty, and he had found himself taking responsibility for what remained. Order, structure, protection — that had been his purpose. That had been expected of him.

The question he could not push away gnawed at him: what was he to do with this body, this title, this rare, coveted secondary gender? Should he prepare for looming conflicts, should he sharpen his mind and his magical prowess for inevitable wars as he had in the future? Or was he now to be someone else entirely — someone whose primary purpose was to attract an alpha, yield to their attentions, and present himself as an object of beauty and refinement?

The reflection in the glass offered no answers. Green eyes stared back at him, luminous and alive, yet heavy with the weight of expectation. The alterations of the blood ritual made him more visibly omega than he had been yesterday, and with that came the bitter knowledge of rarity — the curious, pressing desire of society that could, in time, be directed toward him.

He could tell — at least, he thought — that he was somewhat attractive. 

He turned slightly, examining the narrow slope of his shoulders, the gentle swell of his chest — subtle but undeniable in the way it was a bit toned — and the way his waist curved inward before widening over his hips. He wasn’t tall. Not in any sense that mattered to lords or ladies of society. He hovered around what could be considered the average height for a female beta, a startling thought for someone who had imagined himself commanding a room, dueling in battle, or dying. He huffed, a short, self-conscious sound. Even female omegas, he thought, could be tall and strong enough to protect their young. He, in comparison, looked like… something else entirely: a strange, short, skinny yet now curvy boned person, awkwardly suspended between masculine and feminine ideals.

The scars along his arms, his torso, and the faint, almost imperceptible line across his forehead weighed heavily in his mind. Who would want to see those? he wondered, biting the inside of his cheek. They were reminders of battles, near-death experiences, and the relentless hand of fate that had marked him since infancy. Beautiful? Perhaps not. But undeniably him.

Harry pivoted, letting himself examine the rest of his form. “Well,” he muttered under his breath, a small smirk tugging at his lips despite the tension curling in his chest, “I guess I have a good arse.” The words sounded ridiculous even as he thought them. 

He blinked, remembering something. His eyesight. For years as an auror, he had used charms to correct and improve his vision, refining every detail of the world in crystalline clarity. But when he arrived here, in this strange, long-past 1917, he had forgotten entirely. And now, after the blood ritual and transformation yesterday morning, he hadn’t reapplied the charms. Yet… his sight was perfect. Clear. Unfiltered. Natural.

Harry leaned closer to the glass, eyes widening. He was seeing himself, fully and vividly, without the aid of spells, lenses, or enhancements. For the first time, he realized how much he had relied on magic for perception in his old life — every shadow softened, every line sharpened, every colour enhanced for efficiency. Now, green eyes staring back at him, he saw the truth of his own reflection. No improvement spell. No glasses. Just… himself.

But do I want to be like other omegas? he thought, the question echoing in the quiet of his room.

He knew he wanted a family. Always had. That dream had survived the Dursleys’ neglect, Voldemort’s obsession, and the chaos of the war. He had imagined tiny hands in his own, children laughing in a sunlit room, the warmth of family that he’d never truly had

But in these genes he had always had, as an omega, he realized something unsettling: he was being placed in the role of the mother, the one who would carry life. And that responsibility — physical, magical, emotional — was foreign and frightening. He understood how to survive, how to care for himself, but the intricate tenderness of nurturing another life? He wasn’t sure he even knew what good parenting looked like.

Do I want an alpha? The thought drifted unbidden, pulling at him. Perhaps it would be… comforting. Someone large, protective, who could wrap him in warmth and kisses when the world was cold. Someone whose presence would fill the gaps in a way that he had never known. But the idea also made him tense — he had never liked intimidation, never thrived under the weight of someone else’s dominance. The thought turned inward, circling around one particular name.

Newt Scammander.

The image of the young, awkward, brilliant alpha came unbidden: the way he fumbled with his papers, the gentle timbre of his voice, the quiet strength that radiated from him without effort. Newt was perfect in Harry’s eyes — humble, good-hearted, loving. He didn’t command attention; he earned it. He was… safe. And yet, the thought made Harry’s chest tighten with confusion. In his time, Newt was married. His grandson was courting Luna by the end of the war. Those ties still existed, theoretically. But here, in 1917, Harry was untethered, an omega in a strange world, and Newt was… just Newt. Not anyone else’s.

Do I even like men? The next question came again, twisting with uncertainty. He had kissed two women — Cho Chang, a beta female, and Ginny Weasley, an alpha female. Both had been fleeting moments, colored with curiosity and youthful exploration, but nothing had truly lingered. And yet, he remembered moments that made his stomach churn with warmth: the accidental release of pheromones around Charlie Weasley, the flush that had risen to his ears when Cedric leaned close to whisper something trivial. Those memories, small as they were, pulsed with unspoken longing, a recognition of attraction he couldn’t ignore.

A sharp pang of grief struck him suddenly, and he felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes. They’re gone. Gone, all of them. Friends, family, mentors, loved ones — all of them existed in a timeline he had left behind, now unreachable. He would never see them again as Harry Potter. Never be their friend, their companion, their fellow fighter in that long, dark world. That truth pressed against him, heavy and immovable.

And yet, in that raw ache of loss, clarity began to seep through. He was definitely 1st gender gay. That part of him had never wavered, never dimmed despite everything. And as for his omega self, as rare and magical as it was, he knew something else: he was 2nd gender straight. The pull of an alpha, the desire for a partner who could cradle him in strength and tenderness — that, at least, his body recognized.

Harry’s face flushed a deep crimson as his eyes dropped to his groin. His thoughts felt like a storm, colliding in a confusing mess of biology and magic. He’d read — well, read enough — that male omegas were different. That their bodies were made to bear life in ways muggles could never replicate. That internal mechanisms, wombs created and sustained purely through magic, allowed them to carry children. That magic kept him clean and healthy even when his body betrayed him in subtle, confusing ways.

And yet… sex. How was he supposed to even conceptualize it? In his mind, everything felt half-abstract, half-intuitive. He knew pheromones were involved, that arousal released a fluid from his body — and yes, even from his bum — but what did that mean? Could he take an alpha inside him? How would he know what to do? Could an alpha just… do it? Was it about giving pleasure, receiving pleasure, procreation, bonding, or all of the above?

He paced the room and tried to reason it out. I’m not like other people… he thought. Male omegas were rare, highly prized, magical anomalies. There was no “textbook” guide in this world for how he should approach intimacy. All he knew was that his body responded to pheromones, to magic, to touch. He knew that the pull toward an alpha wasn’t purely emotional — it was chemical, magical, biological.

And that made it terrifying. He’d never been intimate with anyone. He’d kissed a few people, yes, but this? This was about his body, a body that was now more female in shape, more curvy, more responsive than it had ever been.

The knowledge of being able to carry life made him feel exposed in ways he couldn’t fully articulate. And the thought of giving himself to someone — anyone — made his stomach twist with both curiosity and fear. And while he could have a child, the process required subtle, precise magic — more than instinct, more than biology. It was a negotiation between his body and the magic that shaped it.

Harry sank onto the edge of the bed, burying his face in his hands. He felt a flush of frustration — part embarrassment, part longing, part curiosity — all of it wrapped together in a tangle he wasn’t ready to untangle. How do you even start to understand this? he muttered to himself, voice muffled. How do you even practice? Or is it just… instinct?

He started simply, hesitantly, at his groin. He had seen muggle boys wank in secret, once, when he had accidentally caught Ron. He had lobbed the memory far, far away at the time, and now, alone in this quiet room, he wondered if he could replicate what he’d glimpsed.

He stroked himself, slow, unsure, trying to mimic the motions he’d seen described in passing or overheard in whispers at the ministry. But it felt… odd. Not particularly pleasurable, not exactly arousing — just sensitive, raw, and startling. The nerves tingled, but it wasn’t what he expected. He frowned, frustrated at his inexperience, at the awkwardness of it all.

Then, unexpectedly, a warm trickle of fluid began to seep from his bum. His eyes widened, and he froze mid-motion, the sensation simultaneously shocking and confusing. He felt his body reacting in a way that was distinctly omega, a magic-infused physiology entirely unlike anything he had encountered before.

Curious and apprehensive, he rolled onto his side, keeping his eyes averted from the mirror for a moment. Trembling, he slid a hand carefully behind him, between his cheeks, and let his fingers trace down to his entrance. The subtle warmth and slight slickness made him freeze entirely, pulse racing, nerves screaming at him to stop, to pull away. His hand lingered at the rim, hesitant, shaking. The sensation was unlike anything he had experienced — part curiosity, part alarm, part undeniable instinctual pull.

He swallowed hard, his chest rising and falling rapidly, trying to reconcile his mind’s cautious logic with the primal reactions of his body. It was slippery, sensitive, entirely foreign. 

He sat frozen for a moment, staring at his hand as though it had betrayed him, the strange warmth and slickness lingering on his fingertips. A shiver ran through him again, part horror, part… curiosity he didn’t dare name.

Slowly, trembling, he raised a finger again and hesitated at the rim, circling it as though mapping some foreign territory. Every nerve ending felt alive, every touch amplified by the magic that made him different, made him rare. His body betrayed him with each accidental pulse and flicker of sensation.

Finally, emboldened and terrified, he pushed a finger in. The shock made him gasp, and instinctively he jerked back, heart pounding, face red with heat and embarrassment. It felt… alien. His stomach churned with a mix of confusion, shame, and fascination.

He could not sit still. Every thought whirled in his mind as he scrambled from the bed. “I— I can’t… I can’t just—” he muttered to himself, his words half-choked by the rapid rhythm of his pulse.

Without thinking further, he bolted toward the bathroom, fumbling at the door before retreating into the small sanctuary of the shower.

Water poured over him in a soothing cascade, and he exhaled shakily, pressing his hands to his face. He had no idea when showers had been invented in this world — he knew muggles of 1998 had them, but here? He didn’t care. He was grateful. Grateful for the warm water, grateful for the steam, grateful for the chance to hide himself from the strange, confusing intensity of his own body.

He leaned back, letting the water cascade down, and tried to slow his breath. Every pulse of warmth from his earlier exploration throbbed insistently, a reminder of his rarity, his difference. His mind raced with questions he didn’t know how to answer: How was he supposed to experience this? What was normal? How should he navigate the desires his body conjured, the instincts that made him shiver and flush so easily?

Steam clouded the small bathroom, softening the edges of the tiled walls and blurring Harry’s reflection in the misted glass. He stood beneath the spray for a long while, water trickling down his skin, grounding him after the confusing, dizzying rush of moments before. When at last his pulse slowed and his thoughts untangled enough to form shape, he turned to the small shelf lined neatly with glass bottles and jars clearly stocked by the ministry.

He eyed them as though they were potion ingredients, brow furrowing in faint suspicion. Each had delicate labels, handwritten in looping script, and small decorative stoppers that caught the light. The effort someone had gone through to make his shower pleasant left him faintly uneasy.

He uncorked one of the bottles and sniffed cautiously. Orange blossom. Sweet, airy, almost intoxicating. Then another — wildflower, earthy beneath its brightness. Finally, rose. That one made him pause. It was soft and elegant, but too… much. Too unlike him.

He stood there, a frown creasing between his brows, and realised—he’d never thought of any of this before. Not of beauty, or scents, or how his skin or hair might smell to anyone else. He had never needed to. His life had been battle and duty, not quiet indulgence. Even when his secondary gender had emerged due to his pheromones, there had been no time for the delicate rituals others seemed born knowing.

He inhaled slowly, and beneath the faint floral haze of the bottles, he caught it—his scent. Subtle, familiar, and entirely his own: golden syrup, light wood, and the faint trace of something floral he could never quite name. Treacle tart and spring air, he thought absently, something warm and comforting, the sort of scent that spoke of safety and home.

He realised, with a small and rueful smile, that he didn’t even notice it most days. It had simply become part of him, as unremarkable as his own heartbeat.

After a moment of indecision, he reached for the scentless bottles. He didn’t want to mask himself. Not with flowers or fruits or anything borrowed. His scent had been shaped by who he was—his magic, his blood, his stubborn survival. It felt wrong to tamper with it now, to smother it beneath something as delicate and deliberate as perfume.

So he washed simply, quietly, the clean water and neutral soap rinsing away the remnants of shame and confusion clinging to his skin. When he finally stepped out, towelling his hair dry, the faintest curl of steam rose around him.

Harry grimaced at his reflection, his cheeks colouring even though he was alone. “I still can’t believe I put a finger up my bum,” he muttered, voice low, almost scolding himself. The memory made him shiver again — half embarrassment, half disbelief.

Of all the things he’d done, that was the one that undid him.

He dragged a hand through his hair and froze. It was a sight — half flattened, half frizzed, bits sticking out in every direction. He winced. “Brilliant,” he muttered. “Battle of Hogwarts survivor, defeated Voldemort, two killing curses, and I’m bested by a towel.”

With a sigh, he turned the shower back on, leaned in, and ducked his head beneath the spray until his hair was thoroughly soaked again. Water streamed down his temples and nose, cooling the faint flush on his face. When he straightened, he reached for the towel and draped it over his shoulders, letting the ends hang loose as droplets slid down his neck.

A comb waited on the counter — sleek, polished, far too elegant for his taste. He eyed it a moment, then picked it up and began dragging it carefully through his damp curls. The motion tugged, smoothed, then loosened again until the strands started to fall into better shape. He gave them a tentative scrunch with his fingers and blinked in surprise when the curls actually behaved — forming proper clumps instead of the usual chaotic halo.

“Well,” he said to his reflection, “that’s… new.”

He tried letting it drip dry, just to see what would happen, but after a minute the sensation of water tickling down his back became unbearable. “No, that’s enough of that,” he sighed, and brought the towel up again, this time gentle, patting and scrunching until his hair was only slightly damp.

The curls bounced faintly as he tilted his head, studying them in the mirror. For once, they looked intentional — dark, defined, and almost soft. A far cry from the wild, frizzy mop he’d grown up with. He found himself smiling despite the lingering awkwardness of the morning.

Harry tugged on the new set of pyjamas — a two-piece of pale linen trimmed in soft stitching. He gathered up the ones he had been wearing before and tossed them into the woven basket by the heartg — the one Isla had pointed out yesterday with the clear instruction that anything placed inside would be washed by the elves.

With a wince, Harry added his underwear too, face burning at the thought. It still felt indecent, somehow, to imagine a stranger — even a magical one — handling such things. He hesitated for a moment, then shrugged helplessly. “Well… she said they’d wash everything,” he muttered, pushing the pile deeper into the basket and dusting off his hands as though that might rid him of the embarrassment.

He glanced at the wardrobe again. His old briefs, his auror uniform — everything that had belonged to Harry Potter — was gone. Isla had said those garments would be disposed of, and though she hadn’t specified how, he suspected they’d been burned. A part of him understood. If he was to live as Lord Harrison Peverell, then every shred of the past had to vanish. But still… it felt strange, untethering himself from even the cloth that had once been his armour.

With a sigh, he returned to the bed and sat cross-legged atop the covers. The mattress dipped beneath his weight, soft and indulgent in a way that made him feel far too pampered. He reached for the next book from the small stack Isla had left — A Concise History of Wizarding Britain, 1800–1890 — and cracked it open to the first chapter.

He had scarcely read a page when there was a sharp pop. Harry startled, the book wobbling in his hands. An elf stood beside the bed, short and thin, with a neat folded towel draped over one arm and a steaming plate hovering beside him.

“Dinner for Lord Peverell,” the elf announced in a clipped, efficient tone.

Before Harry could protest, the plate floated neatly onto a tray, and the tray itself swooped over his lap with a precision that suggested long practice. He blinked down at it — roast dinner, by the look of it, perfectly portioned and gleaming under a faint charm of warmth. There were roasted potatoes, green beans, slices of beef, even a little Yorkshire pudding — all arranged as though for a painting.

“This is… new,” Harry murmured. “Didn’t do this yesterday.”

The elf tilted his head, unbothered. “Will Lord Peverell prefer to dine differently?”

“No— no, it’s fine, really.” Harry lifted his hands slightly, then lowered them again, feeling faintly foolish. “Thank you.”

The elf blinked once, as if unsure he’d heard correctly. “Which drink shall Lord Peverell have?”

Harry opened his mouth, closed it, and then thought for a moment. “Is there—er—apple and elderflower cordial?”

The elf nodded, tapped the rim of the waiting glass, and the drink materialised within it — first the syrupy scent of apple, then a swirl of pale liquid as it filled.

“Thank you,” Harry said again, meaning it.

The elf’s ears twitched. He gave Harry a very odd look, as though uncertain what to do with such civility. “Will Lord Peverell be needing anything else?”

Harry shook his head. “No, thank you. You may go.”

The elf lingered half a beat longer than necessary, his eyes flickering between Harry’s face and the tray, as though trying to determine whether this odd young lord truly meant what he said. Then, with a soft crack, he vanished.

Harry sat in the quiet that followed, the faint smell of roast dinner filling the air. He couldn’t help but smile wryly. “They think I’m mad,” he muttered. “Polite to elves — clearly I’ve lost it.”

After dinner, Harry found himself sinking back into the familiar rhythm that had become the quiet refrain of his new existence — read a bit, eat a bit, cry.

He set the empty tray aside, the remnants of warmth still rising faintly from the plate, and drew his knees up to his chest beneath the covers. The etiquette book lay open beside him, half-read, its neat, looping script now blurred by the sheen in his eyes. He swiped at his cheek with the back of his hand, annoyed at himself, but the tears came anyway — slow, hot, traitorous.

It wasn’t that he was miserable, exactly. Isla was kind in her brusque, impatient way; the ministry had gone to great lengths to give him comfort. He was alive, safe, even—well, important again. And yet there was a hollow inside him that no warmth or title could quite fill.

He missed laughter that didn’t sound rehearsed. Missed Ron’s terrible jokes, Hermione’s dry sighs, Ginny’s fierce eyes, Hagrid’s clumsy affection. Missed the noise and chaos of life that had meant belonging. Here, everything was tidy, polite, distant — and wrongly quiet.

He picked up one of the books again, only to stare blankly at the page. The words refused to settle in his mind. Instead, his thoughts drifted — to the war, to those he’d lost, to the boy he’d been when the world had demanded so much of him. 

He gave a humourless laugh and pressed his palm to his eyes. “Merlin, I’ve turned pathetic,” he muttered.

Still, he couldn’t seem to stop. Every few pages came another sigh, another swallow of the ache that wouldn’t leave. It was strange, how easily grief found him even here, nearly a century removed from everything he knew. Perhaps it had followed him through time, clinging like a shadow that no spell could shake.

When at last the candlelight burned low, he closed the book and set it aside. The quiet of the room was deep and soft — the sort of silence that made him aware of every breath. He turned on his side, clutching the pillow close.

There was a knock at the door.

Harry didn’t move. He was warm and the thought of getting up—of being seen—felt like far too much effort. Besides, these pyjamas, though comfortable, were thin enough that he didn’t trust them not to go a bit see-through if the light hit wrong. So he stayed where he was, silent, hoping whoever it was would simply go away.

The door opened anyway.

“Harry?” came Isla’s voice—clipped, polite, but not unkind. She stepped inside with her usual air of brisk efficiency, the faintest touch of fatigue softening the corners of her mouth. “Apologies for intruding. I knocked twice.”

Harry propped himself up on an elbow, blinking blearily. “Oh, it’s fine. I just—uh—wasn’t expecting anyone.”

“I should hope not,” Isla said, shutting the door neatly behind her. “It’s practically evening. I had half a mind to send an elf to check you hadn’t died of boredom.”

Harry snorted faintly, which earned him a small, rare smile from her.

“I’ve been buried in paperwork all day,” she continued, crossing the room with her usual sharp grace. She sighed, muttering to herself, “Merlin forbid the Ministry allows me a single quiet week.”

Harry tilted his head, a little amused despite himself. “You didn’t have to check in. I’ve been fine.”

“Fine,” she echoed, raising a brow, “yet you look like you haven’t left the bed."

"I have." Harry’s cheeks coloured faintly. He tugged the blanket higher, pretending to busy himself with straightening it. “I’ve… also read.”

“Have you now?” Isla’s tone held just a trace of scepticism. “And how many books does that make?”

Harry hesitated. “Two and a half.”

That actually stopped her. Her brows lifted in visible surprise. “Two and a half? In two days?”

He shrugged. “They’re not that long.”

“They’re dense as lead,” she countered, crossing her arms. “I’ve met Ministry aurors who couldn’t make it through half of Etiquette for Magical Nobility without threatening to hex the author. And you’ve done two and a half?”

Harry gave a faint, embarrassed smile. “Didn’t have much else to do.”

Isla studied him for a moment—perhaps reassessing something about him. “I was under the impression,” she said slowly, “that you hated reading.”

“I do,” he admitted flatly.

That drew a dry little laugh from her. “Well, at least you’re honest.”

She moved to the side table, brushing a few empty teacups aside with neat fingers. “You’ve been cooped up too long. I’ll arrange for a walk tomorrow—something quiet, perhaps in the west garden. Fresh air will do you good. You can’t go on reading until your eyes fall out.”

Harry opened his mouth to protest, then thought better of it. “All right.”

“Good,” she said, satisfied. “And if you’d like other forms of entertainment—cards, wireless, even a chessboard—just tell the elves. They’ll arrange it.”

“I’ll think about it,” he murmured.

She gave a small nod, her expression softening just a little. “You’re doing well, Harry. Better than most would, given… well, everything.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. Compliments, even gentle ones, still sat awkwardly in his chest. So he only nodded, faintly smiling.

Isla hesitated a moment longer, then turned toward the door. “Rest well, Lord Peverell,” she said, with that familiar mix of duty and faint affection that reminded him of a stern aunt who couldn’t quite stop caring.

When she was gone, the silence folded back around him again—gentle, but heavy. He looked at the half-finished book on his lap, sighed, and muttered to himself, “Two and a half, and I still don’t know what I’m doing.”

Chapter Text

That night was plagued by nightmares.

It began the moment he drifted off—the instant his body loosened into that fragile space between waking and sleep, he was thrown backwards into memory. His muscles jolted as though struck by a curse, his heart pounding against his ribs. He saw flashes—flame, the sickly green of the Killing Curse, smoke thick enough to choke on. But before the dream could shape itself fully, he jerked upright in bed, gasping.

His room was quiet. Too quiet. The dark hung close and heavy, like the air before a storm. He ran a trembling hand through his hair, forcing his lungs to slow. It was over. There was no shouting, no flashes, no stench of blood. Just him and the faint glow of the candle that burned low on the table beside him.

He lay back down. Tried again.

And again it came.

This time it wasn’t the battlefield—it was the woods. The cold, wet earth underfoot, the smell of pine and fear. He could hear the sharp crack of spells, the cries of someone he couldn’t see. He tried to speak—to tell himself it wasn’t real—but the words caught in his throat. The moment before the dream could swallow him, he tore himself awake once more, chest heaving, skin clammy with sweat.

He sat there for a long time, staring into the darkness, his pulse echoing in his ears. Then, foolishly, stubbornly, he lay down again—because what else was he meant to do?

The third time, it was Hogwarts. The Great Hall in ruins, the bodies lined up like silent accusations. The metallic scent of blood mingled with dust and smoke. He saw Fred, Remus, Tonks. He heard himself screaming.

And once more, he woke before the nightmare could complete itself—bolting upright, one hand clutching at the sheet like it might anchor him to the present.

By now, his breathing wouldn’t calm. His body remembered fear like an old friend—sharp, reflexive, unstoppable. He curled forward, elbows on his knees, and pressed his palms to his eyes until the stars burst behind them.

He knew, distantly, that he wasn’t there anymore. He wasn’t in that war. The wand on the bedside table wasn’t his old one, the house elves here didn’t tremble in terror, and outside his window was only the quiet of a new century. But knowing it didn’t make it feel true.

Each time he lay down, he sank right back into it. Each time, his body betrayed him, dragging him through flashes of what he had already survived—what had burned itself into him so deeply that even time travel couldn’t wash it away.

By dawn, Harry was still awake. His eyes ached from crying, though he hadn’t realised he’d done so. The sheets were twisted around his legs, and his pillow damp. He turned onto his side, staring at the faint morning light creeping across the floorboards.

There was no battle waiting. No war to fight. And yet his body didn’t know how to stop fighting.

He just wanted to be held.

It was such a small, foolish wish—something a child might crave after a nightmare, not a man who had carried death on his shoulders. But as the first thin line of light edged through the curtains, that was all he could think of. He wanted arms around him, steady and warm. He wanted someone to tell him it was over, that he could sleep without watching for movement in the dark.

He curled tighter beneath the sheets, his body trembling from exhaustion that went deeper than muscle. His chest ached, his throat raw from silent cries he hadn’t realised had escaped him. The pillow smelled faintly of soap and linen, clean and impersonal. He pressed his face into it anyway, pretending for half a heartbeat that it was someone’s shoulder.

He didn’t even know who he wanted. Isla, perhaps—her calm, unflappable presence, her hand at the nape of his neck grounding him without demand. Or maybe someone faceless—just a warmth that didn’t flinch when he shook, didn’t ask him to speak. Someone who would breathe slow and even beside him until his own breath remembered how.

But there was no one. Only the quiet hum of the house and the ache of being alone in a century that wasn’t his.

He swallowed hard and turned onto his back, blinking up at the ceiling that blurred and swam through the tears he couldn’t stop. His body ached for contact, for comfort, but his mind recoiled from the thought of asking. Omegas, the book had said, were meant to seek warmth and protection. He hated that it was true of him, even now.

He didn’t register the sound of the door opening, nor the faint pop of displaced air that always came with an elf’s arrival. The tray was set quietly on the bedside table, the smell of toast and tea mingling faintly with the crisp air of the morning, but Harry didn’t stir. He was still curled on his side, the blanket drawn up to his chin, one hand clutching the edge of it like an anchor. His eyes were half open, glazed and distant, but he wasn’t seeing anything at all.

The elf—small, anxious, and clearly uncertain—stood frozen for a moment, wringing its long fingers together. Lord Peverell wasn’t meant to be like this. Omegas, the elf knew, could be delicate sometimes, but the young lord’s stillness was wrong. He wasn’t sleeping. He wasn’t awake, either. The elf hesitated, whispered Harry’s title once, then again, a little louder. No response.

In the next instant, the elf vanished with a soft crack. When it reappeared, Isla was with it—hair pinned neatly, expression sharpened by worry. She dismissed the elf gently, crossing the room in long, measured strides.

“Oh, Harrison…” she murmured when she saw him.

He looked as though he’d been fighting something all night. His cheeks were damp, though no new tears came. His breathing was shallow, uneven. Fragile in a way that broke her heart.

She reached out carefully, fingers brushing the edge of the blanket. He didn’t flinch, but he didn’t move either. Isla hesitated for only a moment before she sat down on the edge of the bed.

“Harrison?” she said softly. “It’s morning. Breakfast is here.”

No answer. Only the faintest shift of his shoulders, like a sigh that never quite formed.

Isla’s throat tightened. She set her wand aside, reaching instead to smooth a hand over his hair, light and careful. His curls were mussed from sleep, his skin cool to the touch.

“Breathe with me,” she whispered, her voice low and even, the same tone she used to steady overwhelmed omegas in her work. “In through the nose, out through the mouth. That’s it. You’re safe here, Harry.”

Slowly, achingly, his chest began to move in rhythm with hers. Still shallow, still trembling—but there. Alive.

“Good man,” she murmured, brushing the hair from his forehead. “That’s it. Just breathe. I’ve got you.”

He didn’t speak. Not yet. But his fingers loosened from the blanket, and that tiny movement told her more than words could.

For a long, fragile moment, Isla thought he might not come back to her at all. His eyes were distant, unfocused, as though he were still somewhere far away—on a battlefield only he could see. But then, as her hand moved gently through his curls again, she felt the faintest tilt of his head, the subtle nudge of his cheek pressing further into her palm.

Her breath caught, and then released in a quiet sigh of relief.

“There you are,” she whispered, the corners of her mouth softening into the smallest smile. “That’s it, darling…”

The sound that came next was so soft she almost thought she imagined it—a low, unsteady vibration that began in his chest, barely audible at first, but real. Purring. A delicate, instinctive sound, the kind that only surfaced when an omega’s body recognised safety.

“Oh, sweetheart…” Isla murmured, her voice thick with emotion. She’d seen omegas purr before, of course—seen it used to soothe children, to settle pairs—but there was something heartbreakingly pure about this. About him. The wariness in his face slowly eased, the tightness in his shoulders uncoiled, and with each tiny, trembling purr, the terror drained away.

She shifted closer, careful not to startle him, and rested her palm lightly at the nape of his neck, tracing slow, grounding circles. “There we go,” she murmured again, quiet and sure, as though her voice alone could ward off the ghosts clinging to him.

Harry’s breathing evened out bit by bit, his purring deepening into a steady, rhythmic hum. His fingers twitched against the sheet, and for the first time since she’d entered, his eyes closed fully—not in fear, but in something that almost resembled rest.

“You’re safe now, Harrison,” Isla whispered, her thumb brushing the shell of his ear. “No battles here. No one will touch you without care.”

He didn’t answer, but the soft press of his head into her hand was enough. The sound of his purring filled the quiet room, fragile yet achingly alive—and Isla let herself breathe again.

When Harry stirred, his limbs felt heavy, unpleasantly so, the weight of sleep still pulling at him. When he blinked blearily, the first thing he saw wasn’t the ceiling, but Isla — seated gracefully in an armchair beside his bed, legs crossed, spectacles perched halfway down her nose as she read a thin, well-loved book.

She looked up at the faint rustle of sheets. “Morning, Harrison,” she said softly, her voice carrying that fond amusement of someone who had been there a while. “You had quite the night I gather.”

Harry blinked, confusion stirring. “You stayed?” His voice was hoarse, quiet, threaded through with the remnants of dreams he didn’t want to recall.

“I did,” Isla replied, closing the book and setting it aside. “You were trembling half the time, and purring the other. I thought it best not to leave you unattended.” Her lips curved into the faintest smile. “I hope you don’t mind.”

At that, Harry’s face flushed deep crimson. He tugged the blanket up to his chin as though to hide behind it. “I— I purred?” He sounded mortified, as if he had just been caught doing something terribly improper.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Isla said lightly, rising from the chair. “Don’t look like that. It’s perfectly natural.”

“It’s— it’s not natural for me,” Harry muttered, eyes darting away. “I didn’t even know I could do that.”

“You didn’t have the freedom to, perhaps,” Isla said, sitting at the edge of the bed now, one hand resting gently atop the blanket. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Harry. Purring is an instinctive response to emotional distress, comfort, or safety. Omegas— particularly those who’ve spent their lives in survival mode— rarely experience it unless they’re in an environment where they finally feel safe enough to let their body do what it’s meant to.”

Harry stared at her hand, then at the faint sunlight dappling the quilt. “It’s weird,” he mumbled. “I don’t even know what ‘safe’ feels like anymore. Maybe my body just got confused.”

Her expression softened. “Or maybe,” she said quietly, “it recognised that you aren’t in a battlefield anymore.”

He swallowed thickly, eyes glinting with the kind of exhaustion that sleep couldn’t fix. “Feels strange though. To think… I can’t just— fight something when it hurts. It’s always been fighting. Or running. Now it’s just…” He shrugged. “Books and eating and crying. I must look pathetic.”

“Pathetic?” Isla repeated with a gentle scoff. “From what you've told mr, you've survived more in eighteen years than most wizards could in a lifetime. You’ve been remade by war and thrown into a century that isn’t your own, and yet you’re sitting here reading about etiquette like it’s an exam you mean to pass. That is not pathetic. That is resilience wearing soft clothing.”

Harry cracked a faint smile, despite himself. “You make it sound better than it feels.”

“That’s because it is better than it feels,” Isla said briskly, brushing invisible lint from her sleeve. “In time, it will feel as good as it sounds.”

Harry hesitated. Then, almost shyly, he asked, “Isla… can I ask something? It’s— it’s a bit awkward.”

“You’ve asked worse,” she replied with a knowing tilt of her head.

He took a breath. “I don’t understand all this about omegas. Not really. In my time, no one cared much about… this sort of thing. Everyone was just people, and the rest was— well, private. Now it’s all etiquette books and colours and— rules. What am I meant to be, exactly?”

Isla looked at him for a long moment before answering, her voice gentling. “You are meant to be yourself. The rest is merely structure— a language of presentation, of how society reads you. It isn’t meant to control you, Harrison. It’s meant to give you a way to move through the world without it tearing you apart for being different.”

“So… I don’t have to act like those omegas in the books?”

“You’d be insufferable if you tried,” she said dryly, and Harry huffed a laugh through his nose. “You’ll find your own way of balancing your nature and your will. You’re far too stubborn to do otherwise.”

He glanced away, quiet for a moment. “You really don’t think I’m pathetic?”

“No,” Isla said simply. “I think you’re extraordinary. Frightened, wounded, uncertain, yes, but extraordinary all the same.”

Something fragile fluttered in his chest at that, a small warmth spreading beneath his ribs. “You sound like you’ve had practice reassuring traumatised omegas.”

“I’ve worked with many, yes,” Isla said. “But none quite like you. You don’t need coddling, you need rebuilding... in your own image, not theirs.”

Harry sat back, processing that. “That sounds like a lot of work.”

“Then it’s a good thing I like a challenge.”

Harry laughed properly— soft, genuine, and fleetingly boyish. Isla smiled faintly at the sound, thinking how, beneath all that ancient grief and the weight of prophecy, he really was still young.

“Come,” she said after a moment, rising from the bed. “Eat your breakfast properly this time, then dress. We’ll go for a walk in the gardens. You’ve been cooped up too long.”

He groaned. “Do I have to wear the ridiculous clothes again?”

“Yes,” Isla replied with a small smirk. “You’re Lord Peverell, after all. Appearances must be kept.”

Harry flopped back into the pillows with a dramatic sigh. “I liked you better when you were all comforting.”

“Then you’d best stop pouting and eat,” she said sweetly, heading toward the door. “I might start being stern again.”

Breakfast was simple but satisfying—porridge sweetened with honey and milk, a small glass of water beside it, and a quiet elf that disappeared before Harry could thank them properly. He ate most of it, though left a little at the bottom of the bowl, and drank perhaps half his water before pushing the tray aside. His appetite still wavered between moments of hunger and those strange, hollow spells that had followed him ever since the war.

He set the tray neatly on the cabinet, then turned toward his wardrobe with the mild dread of someone facing an exam rather than an outfit. One thing the books had not prepared him for, he thought ruefully, was how many layers wizarding fashion in 1917 required.

With a resigned sigh, he began.

First came the undergarments. He pulled on the one-piece underlayer Isla had told him was both practical and decorous, though to Harry it looked alarmingly like lingerie. The top half clung close to his body, soft lace tracing faintly along the collarbones, while the lower half fitted snugly around his thighs and groin, the fabric firm yet strangely comfortable. It wasn’t indecent, exactly—but it certainly didn’t feel like anything a “Lord” should be wearing. Still, the support was welcome, even if the awareness of it made him blush faintly.

Next came the stockings—thin, silken, and cool against his skin. He drew them up to just above his knees, their edges clinging without the need for garters, much to his relief. He’d read enough about omega dress etiquette to know garters were considered charmingly suggestive and had no interest in experimenting with that.

Then the trousers, cut just below the knee in that odd fashion that seemed to hover between formal and impractical. They fitted close to his frame, soft and light, the tailoring clever enough to flatter rather than cling. After those came the boots—handsome knee-length ones in soft leather, polished to a near sheen. They were mercifully enchanted with a sealing charm instead of actual laces. He ran his finger along the invisible seam, felt the faint hum of magic as it sealed tight, and let out a quiet sigh of gratitude.

“Brilliant,” he muttered under his breath. “The one sensible invention they’ve got.”

He stood for a moment, adjusting his cuffs and glancing down at himself. The ensemble, though far more refined than anything he’d ever worn, did not feel wholly unlike him. It was the next part that made him pause.

The shirt.

It was light, cream-coloured, and far too elegant for his liking—soft linen, the fabric gathered in loose, poet-like sleeves that puffed slightly before tapering to a fitted cuff at the wrist. The neckline was open enough to feel improper by modern wizarding standards, yet still formally designed. He tugged at it, trying to convince himself he didn’t look ridiculous.

Over it went the waistcoat—though “waistcoat” was a charitable word. The garment was clearly designed for omegas, a curious blend of structure and softness. It shaped to his torso like a corset, boned lightly but flexible, its neckline low and squared, dipping just enough to display the top of the shirt’s lace edging. A fine embroidered panel sat across the chest and upper ribs, detailed with pale gold thread in looping, dignified patterns. Harry eyed it dubiously in the mirror.

It was undeniably beautiful, if not a little too beautiful for him. It spoke of someone graceful, someone poised, someone who knew how to stand still and let others look. Harry was none of those things. He sighed, fastening it anyway, feeling the firm but comfortable embrace of the fabric.

Below the waist, that could be attached by hidden buttons, was a flowing back skirt—an elongated panel that reached to his knees. Harry took one look at it and promptly left it unattached. “Not happening,” he muttered. “I draw the line there.”

He finished the ensemble by pulling on the cloak—his favourite of the lot, if only because it was black. Heavy, finely cut, lined with silk, and tailored to move like smoke when he walked. The high collar brushed the back of his neck, the fabric soft and rich without being fussy. It was formal but grounding, protective. It felt like armour disguised as clothing, and Harry found comfort in that.

Once everything sat properly in place, he turned to the mirror again.

The reflection that looked back at him was strange. Elegant, certainly. A little archaic, yes. But somehow—he couldn’t quite deny it—it suited him. 

He stepped toward the door, smoothing the front of his cloak, and pressed his thumb lightly to the rune etched beside the handle. It glowed softly under his touch, a neat little convenience that still amazed him.

Moments later, the door opened, and Isla stepped in—composed as ever, her hair pinned up, her sharp eyes sweeping over him from head to boot. A slow smile curved her lips.

“Ah,” Isla said, one brow arching with dry amusement as she stepped in fully. “Pairing pastels with that black cloak already. Well, it’s only a walk, I suppose. We might fetch your wand after. I will steal that cloak if you dare put that hood up.”

Harry smirked faintly and immediately pulled the hood up.

It fell forward, deep and heavy, shadowing half his face and pooling softly over his shoulders. He’d chosen it for that very reason. The clerk had mentioned its practical enchantments—subtle scent-dampening for sensory ease, light filtering, and protective runes woven into the gold embroidery that traced the seams like veins of quiet magic. The clasp at his throat was ornate but dignified: the Peverell sigil worked in pewter and obsidian, catching the morning light in soft glints.

When he turned slightly, the inner lining shifted in a curious way—there were pockets, yes, but not normal ones. The cloak was crafted with inner panels: long, soft sleeves open at the middle and again near the hem, hidden beneath the outer layer. Harry frowned and fingered the slit curiously.

Isla noticed at once. “Ah, you’ve found them. Go on, put your arms through.”

He did so carefully, sliding his hands into the concealed spaces. To his surprise, the inner fabric moulded softly against his forearms—silk-lined, faintly warm, and far more fitted than the rest of the cloak. It gave the strange sensation of wearing the garment inside as well as outside, binding him gently into its weight.

“Oh,” Harry murmured, testing the movement. It felt oddly secure, though slightly restrictive. When he tried to lift his arms too high, the cloak tugged against his shoulders and shifted around him like a living thing reluctant to let go.

Isla’s lips quirked into a laugh. “It’s a home cloak, Harry. Not one meant for duelling or… excessive enthusiasm.”

Harry blinked. “Home cloak?”

“A comfort piece,” Isla explained, stepping closer to adjust the edge of the hood where it had fallen unevenly. “Omegas often wear them indoors. They’re charmed to promote calm and security—meant to keep warmth close and prevent overexposure to external pheromones or light stimulation. Yours is a luxury variant, of course.”

“Of course,” Harry echoed, amused. “Like… a hoodie, then.”

Isla frowned slightly. “A what?”

Harry waved it off with a small grin. “Never mind. Same idea.”

“Hmm,” she hummed, still curious but choosing not to press. “Would you like to see what else it does? Keep your arms in those, please. Are you all right with hugging?”

Harry hesitated for the briefest moment before nodding. “Yeah. ’M fine.”

“Good.” Isla stepped forward, calm and deliberate, her movements both professional and motherly. She opened her arms, leaving space for him to meet her halfway. He hesitated again, then moved in—slowly, shyly—until their arms met and she guided him through the motion.

She slid her arms beneath his, her hands resting lightly against his back. And as Harry’s arms wrapped around her in return, the cloak responded.

It moved.

The fabric folded inward, closing softly around Isla’s form. The inner sleeves tightened imperceptibly, pulling the material snug around them both. It was as though the cloak had sensed his intent and decided to help, creating a private cocoon of layered warmth and quiet. Isla’s voice came muffled through the folds of fabric.

“See? It’s designed to wrap around the one you’re holding.”

Harry’s eyes widened slightly. He could feel it—the cloak adjusting itself, forming a gentle seal across his back and shoulders, the texture warmer now, almost pulsing faintly with his heartbeat.

“Oh,” he said quietly. “That’s… clever.”

“Yes,” Isla agreed, her tone softening as she patted his shoulder once before stepping back. “It’s also for when omegas wish to curl up enclosed in it—especially young ones, or mothers nursing infants. There’s a charm that keeps the inner warmth steady, and if the wearer falls asleep holding someone, it won’t slip off.”

Harry looked down at himself, fingers brushing the heavy folds. The realisation sank in slowly—how the garment wasn’t just clothing, but a kind of spell in cloth form. Protective. Nurturing.

It felt oddly personal.

“Guess it’s more than a hoodie then,” he muttered, earning a small, bemused smile from Isla.

“I don't know,” she said. Then, with brisk efficiency: “Now. Keep that on, and let’s get you some fresh air. Perhaps a walk will make you feel less like an orphaned library ghost.”

They left the rooms, Isla sweeping ahead in confident strides and Harry following. When they stepped out into the daylight again, it was not onto the bustling street Harry half-expected but into the quiet splendour of the Public Wizarding Gardens of London.

For a long moment, he simply stood there.

The air itself seemed softer here, touched by layers of enchantment that filtered noise and soothed the senses. The sky, though overcast, glowed faintly silver as though the clouds themselves had been spelled to let through only gentle light. Harry drew a slow breath. The faint hum of ambient magic kissed his skin like static, settling over him in a way that felt almost alive.

Before him stretched rolling lawns, their greens impossibly deep and perfect, edged with flowerbeds in riotous bloom. He could not name half the flora—lilac foxgloves twined with blossoms that shimmered like glass, roses whose petals rippled between shades of white and crimson, trailing vines that whispered faint songs as they climbed the marble balustrades. The very air smelled of rain, old stone, and faint perfume—like a memory of a summer too elegant to ever have existed.

“Wow,” Harry murmured under his breath. “It’s... beautiful.”

Isla smiled, eyes alight with fondness. “One of the few civilised places left in this city. The Ministry maintains it for public use, though most forget it exists. Not many have the temperament for quiet beauty these days.”

Harry followed her onto the main path. The walkway was laid in smooth, enchanted stone, cut in swirls of cream and grey that formed intricate sigils when viewed from above. Iron lampposts shaped like lilies lined the route, glowing faintly gold though it was morning. Here and there, families strolled—the occasional pair of witches in fine robes, an elderly wizard feeding glittering fish in a pond, two small children chasing a puffskein that squeaked merrily as it bounced between flowerbeds.

As they passed, Harry caught glimpses of creatures that made him blink—an elegant kneazle lounging on a bench, tail twitching like a cat’s; a miniature griffin perched on a railing, preening its feathers while its witch owner sipped tea. A cluster of ravens, too large and too self-assured to be ordinary, cawed softly from a nearby fountain. It was a world so carefully balanced between the natural and the enchanted that it almost didn’t feel real.

He realised, distantly, that he’d never seen anything like it before. Not in his world, not even in his time as an Auror. There had been parks, yes, but by then the world had been scarred—by war, by fear, by what Voldemort’s shadow had done to wizarding culture. If these gardens had existed in his future, they must have fallen long before he was born.

“Was this here in my time?” he wondered aloud before catching himself. “I mean, in the future?”

Isla glanced at him sidelong, brow arched. “I shouldn’t think so. Most of what you’ve told me about your… era sounds grey and pragmatic. The old gardens were likely abandoned or built over once secrecy laws grew stricter. A pity. Wizards once believed beauty was a kind of defence.”

Harry looked around at the serenity before him—the soft drift of petals across the cobblestones, the laughter of a passing couple, the murmur of enchanted water. 

He swallowed. “I wish it had survived.”

“Then enjoy it now,” Isla said simply, looping her arm through his as they continued down the path. “This is what we fight for, Harrison, not the duels, not the politics, but mornings like this. The kind that make you forget we ever built walls around our hearts.”

He said nothing, but his hand brushed the edge of his cloak, feeling the faint pulse of its enchantment as it warmed against his skin. His eyes drifted to the pond where silver-scaled koi darted through floating lily pads that glowed faintly pink. Further on, he saw a marble pavilion covered in flowering wisteria and a group of young witches sketching, their familiars—owls, a fox, and something that looked suspiciously like a tiny dragon—dozing lazily beside them.

It struck him then, with quiet ache, that this was what magic could be when it wasn’t afraid. When it wasn’t about power, secrecy, or survival. 

Harry exhaled slowly, the scent of flowers brushing past like a sigh.

They had reached the heart of the gardens, where the paths curved around an elaborate stone fountain shaped like an open book—its pages spilling water that shimmered faintly with runes. Isla, composed as ever, had taken a seat upon one of the marble benches, intent on reorganising the small stack of parchment she always seemed to carry. Harry lingered nearby, running his fingers absently along the carved edge of the fountain’s basin.

The light here was dappled, slipping through the canopy of willow branches overhead. It made the water look like liquid glass, and Harry, for a fleeting moment, thought he could breathe again—really breathe—without the heaviness of memory or the ache of displacement.

Then he felt it. It wasn’t loud or invasive—more like a shift in the atmosphere, the subtle tilt of the world when an Alpha’s pheromones brushed against an Omega’s senses. His breath caught before he could stop it, and Isla, who had known him long enough now to recognise the flicker of panic, looked up at once.

“What is it?” she asked, following his gaze.

But Harry couldn’t speak. His instincts had already recognised who it was before his mind had caught up.

A tall man with auburn hair was crossing the path ahead—freckles catching the sunlight, his shoulders wrapped in a brown coat. He carried a case clutched close to his chest, its surface scuffed, but oddly revered. His movements were hesitant but graceful, his eyes—the softest shade of sea-glass blue—fixed intently on the ground as though following a trail only he could see.

Harry froze, every nerve in his body seeming to hum at once. He’d met him before, briefly, in Theseus’s office, but that had been under the formal pressure of introductions and watchful eyes. Now, with the scent of wisteria and sun-warmed air mingling between them, it was… different.

Terrifyingly different.

Newt stopped mid-step when his gaze finally lifted and found Harry’s. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. Then the Alpha scent hit—rich, grounding, like moss after rain and the faintest trace of honey. It wrapped around Harry so completely he had to take a step back. His knees weakened under the weight of it; the air felt too thick, too intimate.

Isla stood, already catching on, and her eyes flicked sharply between them. “Oh, good heavens,” she murmured. “This will be interesting.”

Harry swallowed hard, tugging the edge of his cloak tighter around himself. He realised, belatedly, how utterly improper it was to be out in it, it was a home cloak, after all. It felt too soft, too domestic, meant for curling up indoors, not for meeting anyone, least of all an Alpha like Newt Scamander.

He wanted to hide. But Newt was already walking towards them, eyes wide, expression unreadable save for the faint, dazed smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Mrs Hitchens,” Newt greeted softly, giving her a polite nod before his gaze returned to Harry. “And… Lord Peverell, wasn’t it?” His voice was gentle, warm in a way that settled beneath the skin.

Harry managed a small nod. “Er, yes. Hello, Mr Scamander.”

The words came out far too quietly, his throat tight. His scent had already begun to rise unbidden, a subtle reaction that only made his embarrassment worse. He folded his arms across his chest as though it might help suppress it, but Newt’s nostrils flared almost imperceptibly. His pupils widened.

And Harry knew Newt liked it.

The Alpha’s magic brushed across his like a curious whisper—tentative, reverent, as though afraid to frighten him off. It didn’t feel oppressive, not like most Alphas Harry had known. Instead it was… inviting. Calming. The kind of strength that didn’t need to prove itself.

“Forgive me,” Newt said suddenly, clearing his throat, as though realising he’d been staring. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I—ah—often come here to let a few of my creatures stretch their wings.”

From the open by only a little bit case, a soft chirrup echoed, followed by the flutter of something small. A tiny golden snidget peeked over the rim, its feathers shimmering.

Harry couldn’t help the small, startled laugh that escaped him. “You… just carry them about with you?”

Newt’s smile deepened, bashful but bright. “Only the well-behaved ones.”

Isla hid her smirk behind one gloved hand. She took a step back, clearly enjoying the unfolding awkwardness between the two. “I think, Lord Peverell, you might find Mr Scamander’s work fascinating.”

“I’m not—” Harry started, but his words died as Newt shifted closer. The faint scent of moss and honey thickened, and Harry’s chest tightened. Their eyes met again, and for a single breath it felt like falling—soft and inevitable.

Newt looked at him with quiet wonder, as though Harry were something rare and fragile, something to be handled gently. And Harry, despite every instinct screaming at him to hide beneath his cloak and vanish, couldn’t look away.

His pulse fluttered wildly as Newt smiled shyly and said, “Perhaps you’d like to see one of my bowtruckles?"

Isla merely looked skyward, suppressing a grin. “Merlin save me,” she murmured under her breath. “He’s smitten already.”

"I've never met a bowtruckle before." Harry muses.

Newt’s entire face brightened, the subtle tension in his shoulders dissolving in an instant. “Haven’t you?” he said, his tone lifting with genuine excitement, his fingers already working deftly at the clasps of his worn leather case. “Oh, then you absolutely must. They’re extraordinary little things—protective of their trees, terribly clever, and rather misunderstood by most people.”

He crouched gracefully beside the case, his coat settling around him like a great russet wing, and murmured something too soft for Harry to hear. The case gave a faint shimmer of light, and then a sliver of green movement stirred from within.

“Come along, Pickett,” Newt coaxed gently, his voice dipping into a low, soothing register that sent an odd shiver down Harry’s spine. It wasn’t magic, not exactly—at least not in the spellcasting sense—but there was something in the way he spoke that carried magic of its own. A warmth, a quiet command born of love rather than power.

A moment later, a tiny creature no longer than Harry’s finger clambered delicately onto Newt’s hand—a bowtruckle, all twig limbs and green leaves, its little eyes bright and beady with curiosity. It blinked at Harry, and when Newt lifted his hand slightly, it gave a suspicious clicking sound, half hiding behind Newt’s thumb.

“Oh, don’t be shy,” Newt murmured, smiling. “He’s only curious.”

Harry moved slowly, drawn in despite himself. He’d faced dragons, basilisks, even dementors—but this? This was something altogether different. “He’s… beautiful,” he said softly, and meant it.

Pickett tilted his head, as though he understood the compliment.

Newt’s eyes flicked up, and for a moment—just a moment—they shone with something Harry couldn’t quite name. Pride, perhaps. Or affection. Or maybe it was the simple, disarming joy of sharing something precious with someone who saw it.

“Would you like to hold him?” Newt asked, voice quieter now, almost shy again.

Harry hesitated. “He won’t bite?”

“Only if you offend him,” Newt said, a trace of laughter in his tone. “And even then, it’s more of a protest than a bite.”

Harry chuckled softly, the first real laugh he’d had in days. He extended his hand, tentative and open. Pickett, after a moment’s stern assessment, crawled lightly onto Harry’s fingers. The sensation was startling—warm, alive, delicate. Harry’s breath hitched as the little creature wrapped its tiny hand around his thumb, and for reasons he couldn’t quite explain, the gesture made his chest ache in the gentlest way.

Newt watched him closely, the fondest smile touching his lips. “He likes you,” he murmured.

“Does he?” Harry asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Pickett doesn’t warm to people easily,” Newt admitted, looking down with a faint, endearing flush across his cheeks. “You must have a good heart.”

Harry swallowed. The compliment, so simple and sincere, hit harder than he expected. He felt the heat rise to his own cheeks and ducked his head slightly, pretending to adjust Pickett’s perch.

From the bench, Isla crossed her legs and hid her smirk behind a hand. “Well, that’s two of them in love now,” she muttered under her breath, not that either of them heard her.

Newt shifted closer, his scent—moss and honey, clean earth and soft rain—washing over Harry again. Their hands brushed briefly as Pickett clambered back into Newt’s palm, and Harry felt his pulse stumble.

He looked up—and met Newt’s eyes.

For a long moment, the noise of the gardens seemed to fall away: the birdsong, the chatter, the hum of the fountains. All that remained was the quiet thrum of magic between them and the look in those sea-glass eyes—gentle, open, and unguarded.

Newt shifted his case to his other hand, glancing at Isla with a polite tilt of his head before his gaze returned—almost shyly—to Harry. “I was just on my way to the eastern glades,” he said, voice soft but full of quiet enthusiasm. “The moonflies are migrating earlier than usual this year—likely because of the temperature shift last week. It’s quite a sight, if you’d care to join me. Even better in moonlight, though."

Harry blinked, caught off guard. “Moonflies?”

His smile deepened, small but dazzling. “Their wings refract sunlight like glass, though they glow at night. Remarkable little things.” He hesitated then, fingers brushing the worn handle of his case as if to ground himself. “I’d be honoured if you’d come.”

Isla, who’d been watching the exchange with a faintly knowing smile, inclined her head and immediately responded else Harry might stutter and make a fool of himself. “I can think of no reason to refuse. Lead the way, Mr. Scamander.”

Newt’s eyes brightened, though they flickered back to Harry as though seeking his answer, not hers.

Harry nodded, managing a small, genuine smile. “I’d like that.”

And so they walked.

The path through the gardens curved under the shade of silvery willows, sunlight dappling through the leaves in soft golden patches. Isla trailed a few steps behind, hands clasped loosely before her, giving them the illusion of privacy while maintaining the air of propriety.

Newt, for all his unassuming posture and diffident speech, seemed at home here. He would pause occasionally to crouch and point out some marvel—a nest of thimble-sized pixies resting beneath fern leaves, a cluster of mushrooms glowing faintly blue in the dappled light—and each time Harry found himself leaning closer, listening to the quiet passion threaded through Newt’s words.

“Most wizards overlook them,” Newt murmured at one point, crouching beside a small patch of trembling grass. “They think only of the grand creatures—dragons, griffins, thunderbirds—but there’s extraordinary magic in the small things, too.”

As they walked on, Harry became increasingly aware of the subtle rhythm between them—their steps falling in quiet synchrony, the occasional brush of sleeves or hands. His senses were full of Newt: the warm, grounding scent of forest soil and rain-soaked leaves, the faint hum of restrained alpha energy beneath his gentle exterior.

Harry’s own scent began to unfurl unconsciously, answering in slow, hesitant pulses. It wasn’t deliberate. He didn’t even realise he was doing it. But the air between them seemed to thicken faintly with it, a warmth curling at the edges of the sunlight.

Newt’s pupils dilated slightly; he blinked, then smiled, nervous but… pleased. His own pheromones responded in kind—barely a breath of it, respectful and tender, like a caress of fresh air through leaves. It wasn’t overpowering, nor demanding, it was simply there, an acknowledgment. A quiet hello between bodies as much as souls.

They stopped at the edge of a low hill, where the sunlight spilled across a stretch of wildflowers. The air shimmered faintly—and there they were.

Dozens upon dozens of tiny, winged creatures rose from the petals, translucent as glass, refracting rainbows as they fluttered in delicate swarms.

Harry drew in a breath. “Oh—”

Newt glanced at him, and in that moment, the sunlight caught Harry’s face, turning the green of his eyes into living emeralds. Newt forgot, for a heartbeat, to breathe.

“They’re beautiful,” Harry whispered.

“Yes,” Newt murmured, voice distant, reverent. “Yes, they are.”

And Isla—standing just far enough away not to intrude—pretended she hadn’t heard the way he said it.

Harry sank down without thinking, his knees pressing into the trimmed grass, the folds of his cloak pooling softly around him. The movement was instinctive—utterly without dignity or decorum, the sort of spontaneous wonder that ignored propriety altogether. His hand reached out as one of the moonflies drifted closer, its wings glinting in the sunlight like shards of crystal.

The tiny creature hovered near his fingers, then settled upon his knuckle. It was light—barely there, its wings trembling like spun glass. The faint luminescence that clung to it shimmered against Harry’s skin, tracing delicate reflections up his wrist.

Newt froze.

He’d seen countless people admire magical creatures before, but this—this quiet reverence, this childlike sincerity—made something ache deep in his chest. Harry wasn’t merely looking; he was feeling. His eyes followed every flicker of the moonflies’ wings with such complete absorption that Newt forgot to speak.

Isla opened her mouth to remind him, gently, that a lord of the House Peverell did not kneel in the dirt like a schoolboy. But when she saw the way Newt was watching him—eyes soft, smile forming unbidden—she stopped herself. With an inaudible sigh, she turned and strolled a few paces off, pretending to inspect a patch of thistle.

The air between the two men hummed.

Harry looked up, lips parted, cheeks faintly pink. “It’s— Merlin, they’re glowing, look at this one.”

Newt crouched beside him, his long coat whispering against the grass. “That one’s a juvenile,” he said softly, and his voice was close now, low and warm. “They don’t develop their full refraction until they reach maturity. It’s… a bit like hope, I think.”

Harry smiled, small and genuine. “Hope?”

Blue eyes flicked to him. “Yes. Fragile when it begins, but it grows stronger the more light it learns to hold.”

He looked back to the moonfly on his hand, his heart twisting at the gentleness in the words. “That’s beautiful,” he whispered, though he wasn’t sure whether he meant the creature or the man beside him.

The sun caught Harry’s hair where it curled at his temples, a gleam of gold and shadow, and Newt’s fingers twitched as though he wanted to brush a stray strand away.

Harry glanced at him again—too quickly, too shyly—and the air shifted once more, that soft pulse of mingled pheromones brushing like warmth over skin. His cloak tightened slightly about his shoulders as the magic of it responded to his quickened heartbeat, enclosing him protectively even as he leaned closer to watch the moonflies flit near Newt’s hand.

“Do they always come here?” Harry asked quietly.

“Every few months,” Newt murmured. “They follow the moon’s arc. I thought they’d be later, but…” He smiled faintly. “Perhaps they were waiting for the right company.”

Harry laughed softly, breath catching in his throat. The sound of it made Newt’s heart stutter.

Newt’s chest tightened almost painfully. He had spent so long observing creatures, listening to their silences, feeling their rhythms, reading their moods—but never had he been drawn to a human in quite this way. Harry wasn’t just another person; he was a puzzle, an entirely new species in his mind, and yet there was a raw honesty in the way he interacted with the world, untainted by fear, deceit, or ego. Here was someone who knelt in the grass, shivering slightly from the breeze, not for appearances, not for admiration, but simply because something small and shining had captured his attention.

And Newt knew, with a quiet certainty, that this omega was unguarded in a way few humans—or creatures—ever allowed themselves to be. The cloak wrapped around Harry accentuated the soft curve of his shoulders, the slight tilt of his head as he followed the moonfly’s flight, and Newt’s heart clenched. For the first time, he wanted not just to study or protect, but to understand, completely, every nuance, every hesitation, every flicker of emotion that passed across a human's delicate, intense features.

The moonfly, indifferent to human fascination, drifted away, leaving Harry’s hand empty. Yet he did not rise immediately. Instead, he did something unmistakably omegan. He reached into the folds of his cloak and, with a quiet, measured care, drew his hands together, cupping them as if holding a fragile thing, his eyes following the moonfly’s path into the sunlight. There was a soft, almost reverent exhalation, a small shiver, as though he were channeling the fleeting beauty of the moment into himself, absorbing it, before bowing.

Newt’s breath caught.

The motion was subtle, delicate, entirely unforced—but it spoke volumes. It was a gesture of connection, of attunement to the world, of recognition that life—even in its smallest forms—was precious. And somehow, instinctively, Newt understood.

Harry, eyes still tracing the moonfly’s ascent, whispered softly, almost to himself, “It’s… beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Newt replied, though his voice was a touch husky, more for himself than for Harry.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Harry’s hands moved to rest gently against his knees, the cloak falling softly around him, cocooning him in warmth and shadow. And Newt’s fingers twitched, a reflex, as if he wished to reach out, to touch, to offer comfort, to mirror that delicate reverence. Yet he held back, knowing that some moments were meant to be observed, not interrupted—yet burned into memory all the same.

Then the warding dome trembled, a sharp, vibrating hum running through the very air of the gardens, Harry felt the world tilt beneath him. It was subtle at first—an almost imperceptible quiver—but then the dome wobbled visibly, bending light, sending ripples across the surface of the magical barriers and vibrating through the earth like a distant drum. The creatures scattered at once; moonflies spiraled upward in a panic, bowtruckles clung desperately to the nearest branches, and small familiars skittered into hiding. Harry’s heart seized.

For a split second, he didn’t understand. No shouts came from the other wizards wandering the gardens. No alarms, no curses; everyone else seemed to watch calmly or merely adjust their positions. And yet Harry felt it in his very bones, the tremor of the dome against the ground and air, a violation of the invisible walls he had come to trust.

Memories slammed into him, unbidden and brutal. He saw the shattered wards of Hogwarts, felt the splintering magic of the final battle, heard the screams and the cracking stone, the searing heat of curses deflected but unstoppable. He hadn’t been prepared then—and the thought that he could be caught unawares here, in a place he thought safe, sent a raw terror coursing through him.

Harry’s breath hitched, catching in his throat. His arms wrapped instinctively around himself, the cloak sliding further over his shoulders in the motion, leaving him wrapped in black velvet against the damp grass. He curled into a fetal position, one side pressed to the earth, knees pulled to his chest, arms around himself as though that alone could make the trembling stop. His eyes peeked through the shadow of his hood, wide and bright, glassy with panic. The tremor of the dome had unlocked something in him—memories, fears, reflexes from a life spent dodging death.

Newt froze beside him, aware of Harry’s reaction instantly. The alpha’s heart pounded not with fear, but with helpless adoration and concern. Every flicker of movement Harry made, every shudder of breath, every small whimper, pulled at him like gravity. He wanted to reach out, to touch, to anchor, but he knew—he knew—that Harry needed more than touch: he needed someone present, steadfast, unyielding, a shield in the storm of memories and terror.

Isla was there in an instant, her presence a firm counterweight to Harry’s panic. Her hand on his back was steady, grounding, and though she spoke not a word at first, her nape-brushing touch and the way her fingers pressed gently into his back communicated safety without demands. Harry’s body released a rush of pheromones, raw and unfiltered—fright, vulnerability, the primal call of an omega in need of protection. It was a scent that could topple wizards, unsettle even alphas; for Harry, it was an unconscious admission of the depth of his fear.

Harry shook violently, clutching at himself, the cloak now tangled around his arms and torso. The fetal position offered no real security, but it was all he could manage, all he could remember how to do when the world had slipped from under him. His breaths were shallow, sharp, and irregular.

He dared not look fully at Newt, could not bear the alpha gaze that would instinctively seek to soothe, to dominate, to claim safety for him. Yet he felt Newt there, the brush of his scent just at the periphery—fresh grass, oak, the faint whisper of magic-infused earth—and it pulled at some instinct inside him that was not fear, not yet.

Isla’s other hand moved, lightly cupping his nape, tilting his head forward just slightly. It was a small gesture, but it reminded him he was not alone. He allowed a small whimper to escape, a sound entirely unlordly, entirely omega, and it sent a small shiver through him from tailbone to crown.

Newt’s eyes softened, and despite Isla’s commanding presence, he inched closer, careful, his movements slow and deliberate, one hand hovering near Harry’s shoulders as though simply being near him might help carry some weight. Harry’s breath hitched again, quick and uneven, but he did not recoil this time—he was still curled, still shaking, but there was a tether now. He could feel it, the invisible thread between him and the steady hearts beside him, and for a brief, trembling moment, he allowed himself to lean into it, to let the arms of his cloak and the press of hands on his nape anchor him to the present.

Isla’s hands moved with deliberate precision, following the rhythm and technique she had been trained in for tending to omegas in distress. One hand rested at the nape of Harry’s neck, the fingers gently kneading the tight muscles, coaxing the tension downward and away from his skull. Her other hand traced a calming pattern along his shoulders and upper back, moving in slow, almost hypnotic spirals, the kind of motion that spoke to both human instinct and magical nuance. She applied just enough pressure to stimulate nerve endings without overstepping, coaxing his muscles to release the invisible tension that had bound him since the tremor of the dome.

Newt watched with quiet fascination. There was a subtle awe in his gaze; it was as though he were observing a creature in need of care, delicate and instinctual, yet not entirely unlike some of the more sensitive magical beings he tended to. The way Harry leaned into Isla’s touch, reminded Newt of the contentedness of a bowtruckle nestled in a hand, or a niffler curled in a pocket.

Isla noticed that Harry’s shivering persisted despite her careful touches along his back and shoulders. His body had grown rigid again, panic threatening to surge anew, his awareness entirely consumed by fear and residual memory. With a gentle but firm motion, she shifted him slightly, adjusting his position so that she could access his chest and sternum directly. The movement was subtle—tilting him just enough so that one of her hands rested lightly over the front of his body without compromising his modesty.

Then she began the smooth chest rubs. Her palm moved in small, deliberate circles over his sternum, tracing the natural curves of his ribcage. This contact stimulated the parasympathetic nervous system, triggering the body’s natural relaxation response while also creating a focused point for Harry’s attention, redirecting his mind from the echoing fear of the dome. The circular motion mimicked the gentle pressure of heartbeat-like contact, which omegas instinctively recognize as a soothing, life-affirming rhythm. It was a motion designed not only to release tension but to instill a sense of warmth and safety, reinforcing the subconscious association of touch with protection.

Harry’s purring began almost immediately, a low, tremulous sound that echoed the tiny vibrations of contentment seen in creatures, the sound instinctively released by omegas under safe and nurturing contact. His eyes closed slightly, though his body still quivered, and he leaned further into Isla’s touch, seeking the reassurance that radiated from her hands and her presence.

Slowly, Harry’s shaking subsided, his breaths grew more even, and the purring deepened, vibrating softly against Isla’s palm.

When Harry’s mind clawed its way back from wherever it had fallen—through the shatter of memory, through the suffocating haze of the battlefield and the sound of roaring spells—he became abruptly aware of the present again. The air was warm and laced with scents—his own, sharp and frightened, mixed with another’s: deeper, steadier, sweetened with something that was distinctly alpha. His body was pressed close to Isla’s side, her hand still tracing those slow circles over his chest, and beside them—far, far too near for comfort—was Newt Scamander, his scent unmistakable, soft yet firm, earthy and protective like moss and spice.

Harry froze. The realisation struck him like cold water, a shock that travelled from the nape of his neck down to his toes. He had been… purring. Merlin, he had purred in front of them—loud enough that Newt must have heard, maybe even felt it through the air between them. His cloak still cocooned him, keeping his posture small, almost curled in on himself, and now he wanted nothing more than to disappear entirely beneath it, to fold himself into invisibility and never emerge again.

He sat up too quickly, dragging the fabric tighter around his shoulders as if to hide within it. His cheeks burned, his ears burned, even the tips of his fingers felt warm. Isla was watching him with the kind of quiet understanding that only made it worse, her expression soft but infuriatingly knowing. Newt, on the other hand, hadn’t moved from his kneel in the grass—though his eyes were no longer wide with alarm. They were gentle, curious, that same patient look Harry had seen him give frightened creatures in his case.

“I— I’m fine,” Harry said quickly, the words tumbling over one another, his voice trembling slightly. “Really, I— sorry, I didn’t— that wasn’t—”

But the air between them told another story. Newt’s scent had changed again, that grounding alpha musk humming low in the atmosphere, calm and safe and instinctively soothing. It curled around Harry like an invisible hand, brushing against his panic, coaxing it to stillness before he even realised what was happening. And it worked. His heart slowed, his breathing evened out—his whole body responding to the pheromonal comfort before his rational mind could fight it.

He hated that it worked. He hated even more how good it felt.

He glanced toward Newt, ready to glare, but the words died on his tongue. The man wasn’t doing it on purpose—he could tell that much. Newt’s pheromones weren’t dominating or sharp, just… open, a quiet offering. A natural sort of reassurance. It made Harry’s muscles want to soften, to lean forward, to—

To what, exactly? Curl up? Purr again?

The thought slammed into him, mortifying. His ears burned hotter, and he yanked his cloak tighter around himself like a barrier. His body, treacherous thing that it was, wanted to respond to Newt’s calmness with instinctual warmth, to bury itself in the scent and safety it promised. He swallowed hard, forcing his gaze down to the grass, his hands curling into fists under the folds of his cloak.

No. Absolutely not. That wasn’t—he didn’t—he couldn’t even finish the thought.

Newt tilted his head slightly, noticing the flicker of embarrassment that passed over Harry’s features but saying nothing.

Harry dared a glance up—and promptly regretted it. Newt’s eyes were still on him, blue-green and far too kind, reflecting the same quiet wonder he’d shown when observing the moonflies.

Harry’s stomach twisted. His brain scrambled for composure. “I’m—sorry. I didn’t mean to— I just—”

“You were frightened,” Newt said softly. His voice was like velvet, calm and even, not at all patronising. “Anyone who didn't know about the bombing would’ve been.”

For a moment, silence reigned. Only the wind moved — stirring petals from the trees above and brushing them against Harry’s cloak. His breaths still came in shallow bursts, but they were no longer sharp with panic. 

Newt was an Alpha, yes, but a gentle one; he had always been wary of touching others without reason. Yet the trembling boy in front of him, cloak clutched like armour around him, looked so impossibly scared.

“May I?” He asked softly, his voice barely above the sound of the garden breeze.

Harry nodded, still half-hidden within the folds of his cloak, his wide eyes flicking up only for a second before darting away again.

Newt reached out, his fingertips first brushing against the cloak’s heavy fabric, then against Harry’s wrist beneath it — a light, grounding touch. Slowly, patiently, he let his magic flow in the softest pulse, soothing and low, like a heartbeat of calm. Harry’s shaking faltered. The cloak fluttered as if sensing the new calm between them, and Harry, unsure why, loosened his grip on its edge.

The alpha took that as permission. His hands, gloved but warm, moved to adjust the hood back slightly, revealing Harry’s face — pale, eyes glassy but not unfocused now.

“You’re safe,” Newt murmured, the words unthinking, instinctual. “It’s only the wards flexing. They’ll hold. You’re safe.”

Harry blinked at him, the way a startled animal might — half not believing, half clinging to the sound. His lip trembled once before he whispered, “It felt like— like it was happening again.”

“I know.” Newt didn’t know what “again” meant, but the way Harry said it made his heart ache. Slowly, carefully, he drew Harry closer. 

When Harry leaned forward, it was as if his body moved before his mind could stop it. His forehead came to rest against Newt’s shoulder, soft curls brushing Newt’s jaw. 

Isla glanced away, pretending to inspect a flowering hedge, pretending not to notice that the Lord Peverell was half in the lap of a man whose knees were muddy from kneeling in the grass. It was scandalous, certainly. It was also deeply human.

Newt’s hand moved in slow circles at Harry’s back, the same pattern Isla had used moments before — instinctively, without thought, just a rhythm to match Harry’s breathing. He murmured nonsense about magical creatures and spring winds and how some creatures shake when they’re frightened because they have too much magic in their small bodies to hold still.

Harry listened. He wasn’t sure he understood the words, but the cadence mattered more. It was like a lullaby — the kind that carried no melody, only presence.

Eventually, Harry’s own hands, trapped within the hidden sleeves of his cloak, slipped forward until they brushed Newt’s side — hesitant, then firmer, clinging not in fear but in gratitude. The contact sent another shiver through the air, pheromones winding together again, gentler this time.

“I’m sorry,” Harry murmured against the fabric of Newt’s coat. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t apologise,” Newt said softly, his voice warm, unflinching. “It’s all right to be shaken. It’s all right to be held.”

When Harry finally lifted his head, his cheeks were flushed pink, his curls damp and sticking to his temples, and his eyes still wet — but calmer. He met Newt’s gaze, and it hit him just how close they were. Bare inches.

Newt, for his part, looked like he’d just discovered a new species and didn’t quite know if he was allowed to touch it.

They parted as though waking from a spell — slow, reluctant, almost reverent in their movements. The cloak slid away from Newt’s shoulder as Harry stepped back, the fabric falling in heavy folds that caught the light like black water. For a long moment, neither of them seemed to remember where they were. They simply stood there, the garden stretching out in a wash of sunlight and drifting petals, the hum of the wards still faint in the air, and something softer humming between them still.

Newt was the first to glance aside, brushing absently at the grass stains on his trousers with a kind of embarrassed gentility. Harry followed suit, fidgeting with the clasp of his cloak, his face faintly pink.

They looked away and then back again at almost the same moment and both smiled, small and awkward but real.

Merlin, they’re perfect, Isla thought from her quiet distance, the corners of her mouth twitching despite herself. She’d seen many strange things since she’d taken employment under the Peverell estate’s new heir, but this — this quiet, wordless meeting of two souls who seemed to fit together like notes in an old tune — made her chest ache in the gentlest way. Clearing her throat delicately, she stepped closer, all brisk efficiency once more.

“Harrison,” she said, her tone warm but composed, “we had best be getting your wand soon.”

Harry startled slightly, as though the reminder tugged him back to earth. “Oh- oh yes, of course.” He turned back to Newt quickly, his hands folding before him in a gesture that was almost courtly. “Thank you, Mr Scamander, for helping me,” he said, his voice softer than usual, shy but earnest. “If you don’t mind, I would very much like to keep in contact with you. I’m rather fond of magical creatures.”

“I’m always eager to meet someone who appreciates them. And perhaps next time, when the moonflies aren’t quite so startled, I can show you the burrow where they nest.”

Harry’s heart gave an odd little twist. He ducked his head in a small nod, curls falling over his forehead, and murmured, “I’d like that very much.” He could still smell Newt’s scent caught against the fibres of his cloak. It made him feel steady, and warm, and terribly aware of the fact that he didn’t quite want to walk away.

Isla began to guide him toward the gate, though her expression softened when she caught the lingering look the two men shared over their shoulders — Harry’s hesitant, hopeful; Newt’s fond, almost tender.

It was, in all its quietness, the sort of moment that would sit heavy in memory. A single, unspoken beginning between two people who, by all rules of the world and society, ought never to have knelt in the same patch of grass.

Harry hesitated for only a heartbeat before offering one last smile — small, genuine, a little shy — and then he turned to follow Isla down the path. His cloak trailed behind him, the black fabric glimmering faintly gold in the morning sun, like the echo of something still alive between them.

And as Newt watched them disappear among the rose hedges, he realised, quite without meaning to, that his hands were trembling.

Chapter Text

Newt lingered only a moment longer amidst the hush of the gardens, watching the swaying moonflies settle once more into their soft, silvery orbit. He brushed a curl from his brow, tugged lightly at the edges of his coat, and, with a deep inhale that tasted of grass and sun, headed toward the floo point nestled along the garden’s eastern wall.

The bricks glimmered faintly, the verdant vines curling around the hearth like delicate fingers holding secrets. Newt stooped slightly, dipping a hand into the coarse green powder before throwing it down, the flames dancing to life and casting his reflection in the darkened brass surround. The smell of smoke, mingled with the familiar scent of his own phosphorescent magic, made him feel at once grounded and slightly lighter, as though the garden’s lingering serenity traveled with him through the fire.

He spoke the destination, almost absentmindedly, and stepped forward into the flames, his frame vanishing in a shimmer of green sparks.

The Scamander family home was warm, sunlight spilling through tall windows and gilded with the dust of late-summer afternoons. The smell of roasting meats and baked bread mingled with the heavy, musky scent of the stables, where Newt’s mother tended her hippogriffs with unwavering devotion. She was seated at the long wooden table, arranging fresh flowers she had gathered that morning, her golden-brown hair tied back with a simple ribbon. Her eyes, a gentle hazel, lifted when she sensed movement at the fireplace.

“Newton!” she called, a note of mock reproach in her voice. “You are late. The roast will cool if you dawdle any longer.”

Newt stepped through the hearth, the powder settling with a soft pop behind him, and offered a slight bow, tucking his hands behind his back. “I apologize, Mother. I was… detained in the gardens.” He did not elaborate, not about the Peverell boy, nor the peculiar sense of warmth he had carried back with him.

His father, Thaddeus Scamander, a broad-shouldered man with a quiet gravity to his movements, looked up from where he had been reviewing his wife's notes on Hippogriff health and breeding patterns. His deep eyes crinkled with faint amusement as he caught sight of his youngest son. “Detained, you say?” he asked, voice calm but firm, the tone that had kept Newt in line even during the most chaotic of magical mishaps. “I trust the gardens were not too hazardous this time?”

Newt’s lips twitched in the corner of a smile. “Not hazardous, Father. Merely… engaging.”

From the head of the table, Theseus lifted his gaze from his parchment with the faintest hint of a smirk. “Engaging, you say? One would think the gardens were plotting to eat you alive, based on the way you rush through the floo.” His tone was lightly teasing, but Newt recognized the underlying warmth of brotherly scrutiny. Theseus folded the parchment and leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, hazel eyes assessing. “Dinner waits for no one, Newt.”

“I am aware,” Newt murmured politely, slipping into the seat beside his mother. “I hope my tardiness has not spoiled the table.”

His mother waved the notion away with a delicate hand, eyes sparkling. “Nonsense, my dear. Sit, relax. The creatures are well-fed, and there is still wine and cordial enough for everyone.” She gestured to the spread before them: a hearty roast, golden potatoes crisped to perfection, a selection of thickly buttered breads, and vegetables from the garden beds of the estate.

Newt settled into his chair with a quiet sigh, a rare moment of ease settling over him. His brother Theseus merely raised an eyebrow and smirked, clearly content to let their mother fuss over him for a brief respite.

Conversation was light at first, meandering over breeding techniques for Hippogriffs, management of magical creature populations, and minor affairs at the Ministry of Magic — topics safe, practical, and grounded in the world they all understood.

He ate slowly, appreciating the care with which his mother had prepared the meal, the quiet camaraderie of the family, and the subtle interplay of scent and sound that made even the mundane feel comforting. 

“Newt,” Marigold began, voice firm but threaded with maternal concern, “we’ve been considering a few matrimonial prospects for you. As the Scammander line is part of the Sacred Twenty-Nine, and though you are not the heir, your union still matters. It matters greatly for family connections, for magical influence, for—” she gestured broadly at the table, the room, the very air that carried centuries of Scammander pride, “for the propagation of our line. There are four families who have expressed interest, each offering generous settlements and assurances of social advantage.”

Newt shuffled slightly in his chair, his hands tracing the intricate carvings along the table’s edge. “Mother,” he murmured, the words almost lost in the hum of the household, “I have told you repeatedly. I am not interested in marrying a woman.” His tone was soft, but his eyes were steady, focused, not wanting to be drawn into the sort of debate that had plagued the Scamander matriarch for weeks.

Marigold’s lips pursed, and she let out a sound halfway between a sigh and a harrumph. “The only way you will have heirs,” she insisted, “is with a woman. You understand, Newt, the line must continue... these are not matters of preference, they are matters of duty.”

From across the table, Theseus inclined his head slightly, his dark eyes catching Newt’s for a brief, knowing moment. “Not unless it is a male omega,” he interjected, his voice calm but pointed, as if stating an irrefutable law of nature rather than challenging their mother’s logic.

She blinked, her hands tightening imperceptibly on the edge of the table. “That is idiocy! I have never met a male omega in my entire life, Newt. Never. How could you possibly…” Her voice trailed, disbelief giving way to curiosity.

Thaddeus Scammander, the patriarch, leaned forward from where he had been quietly observing, his deep-set eyes glinting with memory. “The only male omega I ever encountered,” he said slowly, voice gravelly yet precise, “was a classmate long ago. The moment he became an adult, he was married off, and fled to Asia to escape. A most skittish man, terrified of… everything, in fact.”

At this, Newt and Theseus exchanged a fleeting glance, a silent conversation that needed no words. Their shared memory, the subtle tightening of the throat, the unspoken acknowledgment, hung briefly in the air before Marigold cut through it with a sharp note.

“What is it with the two of you? Spit it out, or I will!”

Newt took a shallow breath, and Theseus inclined his head slightly, subtly urging him to speak. The words were heavy, carrying a weight of both wonder and disruption. “Well… it is just that,” Newt began, voice low but clear, “we have met a male omega.”

The room seemed to pause, the silverware catching the sunlight, the faint aroma of roast and herbs mingling with a sudden, imperceptible shift in tension. Marigold’s eyes widened, her hands trembling slightly as she gripped the table. “A male… omega?” she repeated, the words almost faltering as they left her lips.

“They’re not that rare,” Theseus said, his voice measured, though the underlying tension was unmistakable. “There is just under one hundred and forty in this country that are recorded."

Thaddeus, his voice rising with exasperation, added sharply, “One hundred and forty of which could be ranging from ages zero to two hundred! A statistic like that hardly makes one feel comforted when considering the perpetuation of a bloodline!”

Newt’s fingers tightened around the edge of his napkin, his voice quiet but firm. “Sacred Thirty,” he corrected, “not twenty-nine. And… the Peverells are still alive. Though, to my knowledge, only one remains.”

His mother's eyes widened further, a flicker of disbelief crossing her sharp features. “What?”

Theseus rose from his seat and moved toward the fireplace, where the morning papers had been stacked, the ink still crisp and the pages filled with the usual reports of ministry affairs and minor scandals. He retrieved a sheet and, sliding it across the table toward Marigold, said, “Did you not read today’s newspaper?”

Marigold leaned forward, hands hovering over the page, as her eyes scanned the headline in bold, almost sensational print: “The Peverells Survive? The New Male Omega.”

Beneath the title, a sketch had been rendered—exquisite in its artistry, the likeness of a young man whose features were simultaneously delicate and strong. The accompanying text detailed estimated height, physique, and other particulars, all carefully calculated to give the reader a vivid impression of the mysterious heir who had re-emerged.

Thaddeus huffed, adjusting his waistcoat, while Newt’s gaze lingered on the paper with a quiet intensity, noting the accuracy of the depiction and the subtle hints of magical aura that the artist must have perceived.

Marigold, hand pressed to her lips, muttered under her breath, “All this… a single male omega, and the Peverells alive… I can scarcely believe it.”

Theseus crossed his arms, his expression one of controlled gravity. “It is true. And as you will note, the ministry has taken measures to protect him. The coverage is limited to essential facts only, yet the sketch and description will inevitably spread through society.”

“But surely you cannot expect to court him? He’s a Peverell! Very high society. That’s well above us, even if we’re a sacred family,” Marigold’s voice, tinged with incredulity, carried across the polished mahogany of the dining room.  “Theseus,” she continued, fixing her eldest son with a pointed look, “I understand your concern for decorum, for propriety, but even within the bounds of the Sacred Thirty, one does not lightly propose alliances with the very houses the ministry watches closely. The Peverells have been considered extinct. And now... well, we are confronted with a young man of extraordinary rarity. A male omega. It is… unprecedented.”

“Mother,” Newt began, almost in a whisper, “I—”

“Even if he’s taken an interest in Newt?” Theseus interjected smoothly, though there was a subtle tightening at the edge of his jaw, a flicker of unease he did not allow to show otherwise. “One must be cautious, of course, particularly given… the anomaly that is Harrison. That he is a male omega, young, untested within our social structures, even as a lord… well, it is difficult to gauge the consequences.” His eyes, dark and calculating, flicked briefly to his younger brother. He was protective, yes, but he did not wish to see Newt’s affections risked on a situation that might prove unstable.

“I met him again today, in the gardens,” Newt said, fiddling with his hands, twisting them in his lap, betraying a nervousness uncommon to him. 

Theseus’s eyebrows rose slightly, a flicker of surprise passing through his otherwise controlled expression. “You— again?” he asked, almost incredulously. “In public?” 

“Yes,” Newt admitted, still avoiding his mother’s gaze. “We observed the moonflies together. He… has a way of noticing things, of seeing them, really seeing them, in the same way I would examine creatures. I found myself… drawn to him.” His words were soft, but precise, each carefully chosen.

“Tell us about him,” Marigold said, leaning forward slightly, her voice both commanding and curious. “I want to know who this young man is.”

“Theseus,” Newt prompted gently, “please.”

“He’s eighteen, around five foot four, and apart from distant Potter relatives, essentially alone,” Theseus said, adopting the detached, factual tone he employed when reporting ministry intelligence. “He is currently under protection from the ministry due to his rarity and the publicity surrounding the Peverell revival. That, in itself, ensures he is… well-catered for and observed.”

“Good gracious,” Marigold exclaimed, her tone oscillating between astonishment and exasperation. “You’ve gone for a tiny man! How is he supposed to look after children, let alone stand by your side, Newt?”

“That’s unfair, Mother!” Newt said sharply, his cheeks tinged with a blush. He straightened in his chair, fingers still twisting, but less nervously. “He’s not… ‘tiny’ in the way you imply. He is average height for a beta female, yes, but what does that matter? I am drawn to him, his heart, his care for creatures, his attentiveness. It is not his stature that matters, but his character. He is… extraordinary.”

Marigold’s expression softened slightly, though her brow remained furrowed. “Extraordinary, yes, but a male omega? One must consider the practicalities, the alliances, the future of the family.”

“Mother,” Theseus interjected, his tone even but firm, “this is not about practicality alone. Newt is drawn to him, and that is not insignificant. Nor is it a passing fancy. Harrison—Lord Peverell—possesses qualities that are rare, not merely because of his status, but because of his presence. The boy commands attention, even unintentionally. He is... well, it is undeniable that he carries himself with the quiet strength of one who has survived far beyond what most could endure.”

Newt nodded, his fingers still fiddling but now more intentionally. “And that is why… I cannot dismiss him simply because he does not fit the standard expectations. He is kind, considerate, and clever. And I… I care for him.”

Marigold sighed deeply, the weight of years and tradition pressing down on her, yet softened by a trace of understanding. “Very well. But know this, my son: any association, any courtship, must be measured, observed, and conducted with the utmost discretion. Society will watch, and we must ensure that neither of you are compromised by inexperience or by those who would seek to exploit the unusual circumstances surrounding the last Peverell.”

The youngest son exhaled, the tension in his shoulders relaxing fractionally. “I understand, Mother. But I am not unmindful of that. I only wish to proceed with honesty and care.”

Thaddeus, who had been silent for the majority of this exchange, leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, and gave a quiet nod. “Then may fortune favour your discernment, son,” he said, eyes briefly flicking toward Newt before returning to his meal.

“He wishes to keep in contact with me,” Newt said softly, a gleam of happiness lighting his usually contemplative eyes. The words slipped out before he could rein them in, a quiet confession that he barely noticed leaving his lips. He fiddled with the hem of his waistcoat, not meeting anyone’s gaze, but the unguarded joy was apparent.

Theseus exhaled slowly, a mixture of curiosity and exasperation flickering across his face. “And what precisely did he say, Newt?” 

“That… that he has an interest in magical creatures and wishes to keep in contact,” Newt replied carefully and swallowed nervously, aware that he sounded ridiculous in the way his heart had leapt at the mere idea of correspondence.

“Newt,” Theseus said, a small edge in his tone that betrayed concern rather than admonishment, “do try not to scare him off with your rambling. Omegas are not used to sudden floods of enthusiasm, especially not of this… particular sort.”

“Yes, brother,” Newt murmured, still partially smiling. “Though he has met Pickett, and Pickett loved him… and he liked Pickett as well.”

“Pickett? Your bowtruckle?” Marigold asked.

“Yes,” he said quietly, almost reverently. “And he… he bowed to the moonflies.”

“Bowed to the moonflies?” Thaddeus interjected, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, hush, Thaddeus,” Marigold scolded lightly, her voice warm but firm, her eyes narrowing at her son. “That is a sign of respect and care. Animals, particularly the more sensitive or intelligent ones, sense the nature of those they encounter. Omegas, by their very essence, are often beloved by creatures for their attentiveness, their gentleness, and their capacity to approach the world without harm. It is no small matter that the boy—this Lord Peverell—did such a response.”

Newt’s lips quirked into a small, almost shy smile at his mother’s words. “He’s careful,” he said softly, almost as if speaking a secret aloud, “and the creatures… they notice that. He’s considerate without even trying. I— I think that is why Pickett responded to him, why the moonflies… I don’t know, it felt as though they trusted him.”

Theseus gave a faint, reluctant nod, his expression softening minutely as he considered the point. “Perhaps,” he murmured, “though... one must exercise caution.”

“Of course, Brother,” Newt said, his voice still tinged with quiet warmth, “He is extraordinary, not merely for his rarity, but in the way he sees, and listens, and moves through the world. That… that is something worth cherishing, don’t you think?”

Marigold smiled faintly. “Indeed. It is a rare gift to recognize such worth when it appears. Let us hope that Lord Peverell, in all his novelty and distinction, proves equal to the trust you are inclined to place in him.”

Newt’s eyes softened, a brief, shy glow lighting his features. “I believe he will,” he said, almost to himself. “I believe he will.”

Thaddeus huffed quietly, shaking his head, though his lips curved ever so slightly in reluctant amusement. “Well, then,” he said, “let us hope you are both careful. For once, Mother may have a point: creatures are one thing, but humans… humans are far less predictable.”

They left the gardens with a soft reluctance, Harry’s hands tucked lightly into the deep pockets of his black cloak, the fabric brushing against the curves of his waist and chest in that intimate, enveloping way that still made him shiver faintly. His knees, mercifully, bore no lasting stains from the damp grass, only a faint trace of mud on his boots that Isla had already brushed off for him with a whispered flick of magic, feeling absurdly pleased at her own efficiency.

Yet even as he walked, the memory of Newt’s half-hug lingered against his senses—the warmth, the quiet, careful way Newt’s arms had curved around him, a soft pressure at his shoulders that spoke of both reassurance and fascination. 

Isla's keen eyes occasionally darted sideways to catch his expressions. “You do seem… oddly preoccupied, Harrison,” she said lightly, her tone laced with the faintest teasing. “Or should I say, with the Scamander boy. Really, you barely met him before you were pining after a half-hug.”

Harry’s ears burned crimson. “I— I’m not pining,” he protested, his voice tight and unnatural, the posh lilt still struggling to form as he spoke. “It’s… it’s just a— he’s… considerate with creatures.” He glanced at Isla, hating the pink tint to his cheeks, hating that he was conscious of how flushed he looked. “And I— I suppose that sort of… attention… is… pleasant?”

She smirked, lifting a brow as she gave him a sidelong glance. “Pleasant, indeed. You clearly... you have a type.”

Harry groaned softly, burying his face into the high collar of his cloak. “Type, yes. Type. Not… not love. Or… or anything… proper.” The words tumbled out in a rush, but the flush did not fade. 

“You’re hopeless,” Isla said lightly, shaking her head with fond exasperation. “Completely hopeless. But I suppose that is to be expected of an omega, particularly a young lord omega who’s never quite been… exposed to proper society, hmm?”

Harry sniffled faintly, tugging the cloak closer around him, feeling the fabric press against his chest and arms in that familiar, protective way. “Exposure is… confusing,” he admitted softly. “And… and there’s been… a lot… a lot of strange things. And that—“ He faltered, briefly biting his lip. “The gardens… and the dome… I— I don’t want to think about it again.”

Isla’s hand brushed lightly against his back, a fleeting contact, and he leaned into it without realizing. “I know, Harry,” she murmured quietly, though her tone carried a hint of admonishment. “You should not cling to the danger. You should not dwell. And yet…” She gave a faint exhalation, almost a sigh, “…you carry the memory of his touch, don’t you? That’s improper, Lord Peverell. It is far too intimate for public decorum.”

Harry felt his stomach flutter and his ears warm again, unable to meet her eyes. “I… I— It’s not improper,” he muttered, though the words sounded weak even to his own ears. “It... it was… safe.”

“Safe, yes, for the heart, perhaps. But in polite society, Harrison… you must learn to distinguish between safe and proper. Sometimes the two do not align.” She let the words hang between them, eyes twinkling, before flicking her gaze down the cobbled alley to the familiar shopfronts ahead. “And speaking of proper… your wand awaits.”

The shop was the same as before though a tiny bit destroyed, no doubt by someone who picked up the wrong wand and it reacted badly. Isla had to push Harry further into the shop.

Harry’s breath caught slightly as the wand was presented to him, cradled in a velvet-lined box. He held it in his hands, feeling the reassuring warmth of the wood against his fingers, the subtle hum of dormant magic that seemed to pulse just beneath the surface.

The core, as he had hoped—and perhaps quietly prayed—was Thunderbird tail feather. Relief flooded him. Not only did it feel “right” in that immediate, visceral way that wands often do, but it also meant he could still own the Elder Wand if he wished. That one, with its Thestral tail core, was… different. Powerful, yes, but too conspicuous, too legendary, too impossible to carry without drawing attention, even here in 1917. This new wand was more subtle, more suited to him as Harrison Peverell, a young lord still finding his feet in a society that was as bewildering as it was enchanting.

He flexed his fingers around it, feeling the slight tension of the wood respond to his own inner rhythm. A shiver of recognition passed through him—the familiar, intimate resonance of a wand acknowledging its wizard. He had always known the Elder Wand would follow him, insistently, but this… this felt like choice. His magic had drawn it to him, but this wand, this Thunderbird-core wand, had welcomed him as its equal.

“Fits you,” Isla murmured, watching him with a faint, approving smile. “A Thunderbird. Strong-willed, fiercely loyal, and… rare, much like its owner.”

Harry’s lips twitched, a small smile breaking through his lingering tension. “I… I suppose that suits me,” he admitted softly, still cradling the wand. Relief, pride, and a flicker of something warmer—something far too human, far too aware of the closeness of Newt in his thoughts—blended inside him.

He raised the wand experimentally, the wood and core humming, and a soft, luminous shimmer sprang from the tip, faintly illuminating the rich wood-paneled shop. 

“And yet,” Isla’s voice cut gently through his reverie, “don’t forget, you also have your Elder Wand. That one, should the need arise… it belongs to you still.”

Harry nodded, careful not to reveal how complicated that made him feel. One wand, subtle and intimate; the other, legendary and impossible. One for the world he now lived in, the other for the man he had been and would always be, no matter what century he found himself in.

The wand maker returned, stepping lightly with a gentle clatter of polished shoes on the wooden floorboards. In his hands were ten wand holsters, each delicate and daintily constructed, yet lined with soft, protective padding that made them appear almost luxurious. They were smaller than the typical holster one might see for an adult male wizard, clearly designed with someone of Harry’s—and particularly an omega’s—size in mind.

Isla’s sharp eyes sparkled with approval as she examined them, noting the care with which each lining had been finished, the subtle embossing along the leather, and the slender straps that would keep a wand securely yet comfortably against the arm. “Ah,” she murmured softly, as if to herself, “these will do nicely.”

Harry, still gripping the newly attuned cherry wood wand, watched with some curiosity as Isla selected a few of the holsters—two for each wand. She chose two in pale, almost ethereal tones, and two in a deep, smoky grey, the contrast both practical and elegant. Only one having 2 wand sections. Harry opened his mouth to insist on paying, but Isla raised an eyebrow and gave him a gentle shake of the head. “No, Harry. Consider this part of your proper integration into wizarding society,” she said, her tone teasing but firm. He let himself be placated, though his cheeks warmed slightly at the notion of someone else handling such things for him.

“Like every wand holster, I presume?” Isla asked the wand maker, turning slightly to Harry so he could hear without needing to speak himself.

“Yes, indeed,” the wand maker replied, his voice quiet and measured. “A mere flick of the arm, or even the intent to draw your wand, and it will slip easily into your hand. No fumbling, no awkward catches.”

Isla nodded, satisfied, and reached for the wand in Harry’s hand. With a practiced motion, she slipped the cherry wood wand into one of the pale holsters and then carefully fastened it along his right arm, adjusting the straps until it fit snugly against his arm. Harry felt the wand settle, as if it already knew this position was right for him.

The remaining three holsters were tucked into a bag, and with a flick of Isla’s wand and a whisper of the familiar portkey charm, the bag vanished into Harry’s room. It would arrive safely, ready for use whenever he needed it. Harry caught himself glancing at the inner pocket of his cloak where the Elder Wand rested, a quiet reassurance that he still had his more legendary wand close at hand, though no one in the shop was aware of it.

Isla gave him a small, almost imperceptible smile. “There. Efficient, elegant, and entirely functional. I trust you’ll manage without incident.”

Harry swallowed, nodding, “Thank you,” he murmured softly.

The wand maker inclined his head politely, and Isla guided Harry to the door with a firm but gentle hand.

Their footsteps clattered lightly on the cobblestones as they made their way toward the floo station. Harry kept his eyes fixed somewhere between the ground and the sky, frowning at the wand holster snug against his arm.

“Is it… bad I hate its pink?” he muttered at last, the words barely above a whisper, yet carrying the weight of a small indignation.

“Oh, Harry,” Isla said softly, the exasperation in her tone barely tempered by amusement.

“It’s baby pink,” he continued, muttering through clenched teeth, his hand brushing against the holster reflexively. “I knew it would be… but… that’s for little girls, isn’t it?”

“Little girls?” Isla’s brow furrowed, genuine confusion knitting her features. “Harry, I… I don’t know what’s changed in your century, but pink is… well, it is perfectly suitable for boys. For boys of status, of taste. Red is the strong colour, and pink is merely its softer reflection.”

Harry’s frown deepened, and he muttered, “Oh. Well… that switches around in a few decades then, just so you know.”

Isla blinked, her head tilting slightly, caught somewhere between puzzlement and fascination. 

“But still,” he continued, shaking his head with the smallest of shivers, “baby boy colour, then. My wand… it’s baby boy colour.”

“You are a male omega,” Isla said, almost gently, yet firm, as though reminding him of some truth he had tried to skirt.

“I am an adult,” Harry countered.

“You are still an omega,” she reminded him, the faintest note of warning threading through her words.

“Oh yes,” he said, a mixture of mockery and self-awareness threading through the sigh he let escape. “I am supposed to be pretty, a tiny object, a… a breeder.”

“Lord Peverell!” Isla exclaimed sharply, her voice a blend of reprimand and incredulous amusement, catching him off guard as the carriage of her words practically rattled the air around them.

Harry flushed, cheeks warming, and he muttered something inaudible, mostly a scuff against the weight of centuries and expectations, as Isla’s eyes softened imperceptibly, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, the teasing entirely restrained but unmistakable.

They stepped through the swirling green flames of the floo with a faint whoosh, and the room came into view almost instantly.

Harry moved toward the bed, the cloak falling around him in folds that trapped faint motes of light like trapped starlight. With a small grunt of relief, he slipped the boots off,. He rolled onto the bed with an elegance that belied the casualness of the motion, cocooning himself within the black cloak. The hood fell over his face, shadowing it, leaving only the faint line of his jaw and the curve of his lips visible.

“You are so improper,” Isla said, her tone a mix of reproach and amusement, though her hands rested lightly on the edge of the bed as she regarded him.

“This is my private space?” Harry murmured from beneath the cloak, the words muffled, yet firm. He shifted slightly, curling into the folds, making himself smaller yet somehow more protected, the fabric of the cloak pressing gently against his shoulders.

Isla let out a quiet sigh, stepping closer, though careful to give him the space he claimed. She knew that space was not merely a physical allowance, but a refuge from the weight of expectations, of prying eyes, of the very world he had been plucked from and dropped into. The hood obscured his expression, though not the subtle rise and fall of his chest, or the way his fingers gripped the inner lining as though it were an anchor.

“You are a Lord, and yet here you lie, wrapped in your cloak like a skittish little creature,” she murmured, her voice dropping to a whisper, not wanting to shatter the fragile calm he had claimed. “I suppose even Lords have moments where they may be… human.”

Harry rolled onto his back on the soft expanse of the bed, the folds of the black cloak shifting with him, the hood sliding slightly to reveal the upper half of his face, green eyes wide and earnest as they found Isla’s. “Can you make me purr?” he asked, voice tinged with a mixture of curiosity and something almost shy, an unfamiliar vulnerability for a Lord of the Peverells.

Isla’s lips quirked with amusement, a soft laugh escaping her. “What do you mean?” she asked.

“Well,” Harry said, shifting slightly under the layers of his cloak so that his chest rose and fell more visibly, “in the gardens… you rubbed my chest, and I… I purred. Why did you make me purr? How… how does that even happen?”

She inhaled softly, settling herself at the edge of the bed, her hands folding neatly in her lap for a moment before she spoke. “It’s a pattern, Harrison. A touch, the way one applies it, can soothe an omega. It mimics the way creatures, especially magical ones, respond to gentle, rhythmic care. It stimulates a sense of safety. Your body… it reacts naturally. Purring is a manifestation of calm, trust… contentment.”

Harry blinked, processing the words, his gaze dropping to her hands and then back to her face. “Can… can you do it again?” he asked, almost whispering, the cloak constricting him in a cocoon of nervous anticipation.

Isla’s brow furrowed faintly, conflicted. Technically, it was improper—he was calm, there was no need, and here they were, in his private quarters, with all of society’s expectations looming outside those walls. And yet… who was she to deny an omega, particularly one so fragile, so in need of reassurance, the natural instinct to care for him tugging at her?

Slowly, she leaned forward, one hand coming to hover just above his chest. “Just… relax, Harry. Trust me,” she murmured. Her fingers pressed lightly against his sternum, small circular motions, a rhythm learned from years of understanding how to calm those whose pheromones betrayed their distress, a pattern as precise as any wand movement.

Harry’s eyes widened as the sensation traveled through him, subtle at first, then deeper, and the low, rumbling purr that had startled him in the gardens returned, soft and involuntary.

The moment was delicate, intimate—but not in the way society would label impropriety. It was an exchange of trust, of instinctual care, of something older than words and ranks and proprieties. For Isla, it was the marvel of the omega’s body responding naturally; for Harry, it was a revelation of sensation he hadn’t known he could surrender to.

And still, the caution lingered. Her other hand stayed poised, ready to withdraw, fully aware that touching an omega’s chest was… not something one did lightly.

Harry’s chest continued its low, rolling rumble, vibrations resonating through the folds of the cloak as he let the sensation wash over him. “I… I like purring,” he admitted softly, a small, almost shy smile tugging at his lips, though his eyes remained partially closed.

“I can tell,” Isla replied gently, her fingers tracing the small, deliberate circles over his sternum. “You’re… probably touch-starved, Harry.”

“Touch-starved,” Harry repeated, the word slipping out as a mumble, almost tasting it, as though trying to understand it fully. “I guess… I was never really held… caringly.” His voice broke slightly on the last word, and he let his eyes close fully, allowing himself to melt a little into the warmth and rhythm of her hand.

The purring continued, more resonant, and Harry’s arms unconsciously wrapped a little around himself, the cloak’s inner sleeves keeping him cocooned, yet his body leaning toward Isla in silent invitation.

Then, something unexpected happened. His breathing shifted, subtle at first, a soft hitch that wasn’t entirely the purring. His legs curled slightly, pulling up under him, and a faint shiver traveled down his spine. His hands, resting lightly atop his chest, twitched just enough to press into her forearms, seeking something—guidance, comfort, a tether.

“Harry…” Isla murmured softly, pausing her movements just enough to watch, careful, attuned. Her hand remained gentle, steadying, while she allowed the unexpected response to emerge, recognizing it for what it was: the mingling of relief, nervousness, and a deep, instinctual trust that his body had not been allowed to express before.

The purring remained, but now it was accompanied by tiny, almost imperceptible whimpers of release, as if his body were letting go of tension held for years. It was intimate, and it was raw, and it caught even Harry by surprise.

He blinked, green eyes wide and shimmering, cheeks faintly pink, looking at her through the hood of the cloak. “I… I didn’t mean to… that’s… unusual, isn’t it?”

“It’s not unusual,” Isla replied calmly, her voice firm yet soft. “It’s… natural. Your body is responding to comfort and safety for the first time in a long time. You’re allowed this.”

Harry shivered again.

“Harry, do you know beauty charms?” Isla asked after a moment, her tone light, conversational.

“Beauty charms?” Harry blinked, still half cocooned in his cloak, sitting up slightly as her hand slipped from his chest. The soft rumbling in his throat quieted, leaving behind the faint warmth of her touch. “Oh, no, I don’t. Not really.”

She laughed, a light and genuine sound that filled the quiet chamber. “I mean the simple ones, darling. Hair removal, brightening under the eyes, softening lines, that sort of thing.”

Harry frowned faintly, his head tilting like a curious cat. “Hair removal?”

“Yes,” she said, her eyes twinkling in amusement. “You might prefer it, especially given that you’re to wear stockings often. Omegas typically have less body hair, but most still like to remove what little there is. Makes the skin smooth, soft... presentable.”

He looked down at his arm, tugging the cloak aside, brows furrowing. “All?” he asked cautiously, voice almost wary.

“All,” Isla said matter-of-factly, though there was a small, teasing smile in her tone. “Though no one’s demanding that of you just yet. It’s more about comfort than appearance.”

She took his hand before he could argue, turning it gently palm-down and brushing her wand along the back. His skin was already smooth to the eye, but under the soft light, one could see the faintest scattering of tiny, fine hairs glinting like gold dust.

"Now, hold still.”

There was a faint hum—a delicate pulse of magic—and Harry’s skin tingled as though a breeze had passed directly over it. A faint warmth spread, and he let out a small startled sound, his fingers twitching in her grasp.

“It tingled,” he murmured, looking down as Isla ran her thumb over the spot she’d charmed. His skin was now utterly smooth, almost silk-like under her hand. He rubbed it himself, eyes widening in faint wonder. “It feels… odd.”

“Odd good or odd bad?” Isla teased, letting him study his own hand like a newly discovered artifact.

Harry considered. “Odd… soft.” His voice carried both surprise and faint embarrassment, the tips of his ears pink. “I never thought of it. In my time, it’s... well, mostly women who worry about such things. Not men. Certainly not—” he hesitated, searching for the right term, “not soldiers.”

“You’re not a soldier now,” Isla said gently, setting the wand aside. “You’re a lord. An omega lord, at that. Presentation matters, how you carry yourself, how you look after your body. It’s a form of pride, not vanity.”

Harry stared at his hand again, turning it over in the light. The skin caught the glow, soft and golden. “Still feels strange,” he murmured.

“It will,” she admitted. “The first time always does. But it’s harmless, and it’ll last a week or two before it needs renewing. If you like, we can do your arms and legs later.”

Harry gave her a look that was somewhere between suspicion and amusement. “You’re enjoying this.”

Isla smirked. “Perhaps a little. You’re easier to fuss over than most of my charges.”

“I’m not sure that’s a compliment,” he said dryly, still rubbing his smooth hand. “Feels like I’m being prepared for display.”

“You are,” Isla said simply. “That’s part of your role now, my lord. But you’ll learn in time, it isn’t all for others. There’s comfort in care too.”

Harry didn’t answer immediately. He only ran his thumb over the soft skin again, lost in the foreign sensation, and whispered, almost to himself, “I suppose I’ve never really had that either.”

“I’m getting you a beauty book,” Isla announced, straightening her posture with the kind of proud finality that made Harry immediately suspicious.

“What?!” he spluttered, his voice pitching up in disbelief as he stared at her. 

“My own copy,” she continued serenely, entirely unfazed by his protest. “I know all the charms by heart, but you ought to learn them properly. I’ll have an elf pop in with it.”

Harry groaned, pulling his cloak tighter around himself like a sulky child warding off unwanted affection. “You can’t be serious. Why are you doing all this? Surely this is more than the Ministry’s paying you for.”

Isla gave a soft laugh, one that was equal parts fondness and exasperation. “Harry, dear, the Ministry didn’t assign me to preen you like a finicky cat. I chose to.”

He blinked at her. “You chose to?”

She sighed in that long-suffering, amused way only mothers seem capable of. “Yes. I have two sons and they are the most dreadfully trying creatures alive. All dirt and shouting, never a thought for manners or the state of their collars.”

Harry’s lips twitched despite himself. “Sounds about right for teenage boys.”

“Yes.” Isla folded her arms, as though that settled the matter. “All I ever wanted was an omega or a daughter I could spoil a little, fuss over, teach how to sit prettily and enchant their own perfume bottles.”

Harry frowned. “And… that’s me now?”

“Yes, that’s you now,” she said warmly, smiling at the look of bewildered outrage spreading over his face. “You’re mine to fuss over, Lord Peverell, and Merlin help you if you think I’m going to let you go about with rough hands and unkempt curls.”

Harry looked at her like she’d just declared ownership of his soul. “I am not your daughter.”

“No,” Isla said, utterly unbothered, “but you are my project.”

Harry let out a strangled groan, falling back against the bed dramatically, his curls fanning out over the pillow. “You’re annoying.”

“I’ve been called worse,” she said primly. Then her expression softened, her gaze gentler now. “You’ve had a hard life, Harry. Harder than any young man your age should. Let me give you something different, something gentle for once.”

“…Fine,” he muttered, voice softer now. “But I’m not doing those brightening-eye charms. Or eyebrow shaping. Or whatever ridiculous thing that book says.”

“Of course not,” Isla said airily, the corner of her mouth twitching. “We’ll start with skin care and moisturising routines. Perhaps a little hair serum.”

Harry sat up again, incredulous. “You already have a plan?”

“I always have a plan,” she said proudly. “Now hush and let me enjoy this. You’ve no idea how long I’ve waited to use my expertise on someone who doesn’t whine about Quidditch.”

Harry buried his face in his hands, "But I love Quidditch!" beneath his exasperated groaning there was a quiet sound that might have been laughter.

“Now then,” Isla said briskly, rising from her seat with a little clap of her hands. “Let’s put that new wand of yours to use, shall we? We’ll start with something simple. Hair removal charms are a perfect test of finesse and focus.”

his head shot up, eyes widening. “Right now?”

“Yes, right now,” she said, in the same tone one might use with a stubborn child refusing vegetables. “No better time. It’s delicate magic, requires a steady hand, and it will help you bond with your wand.”

“I-Isla,” he stammered, clutching his cloak closer to himself. “That’s personal!”

She arched a perfectly shaped brow. “Harry, you’ve fought in wars, faced down dark wizards, and survived a Killing Curse. I hardly think a few vanishing hairs will be your undoing.”

He huffed but sat up nonetheless, pulling the cloak aside enough to free his arms. The cherry wood wand lay beside him on the coverlet, faintly pink and polished, gleaming in the soft light of the room. When he picked it up, a faint tingle ran up his fingers—warm, alive, distinctly his. It was nothing like the elder wand’s weight of power; this felt more like quiet confidence, a steady pulse of energy that hummed in his palm.

“It feels… different,” he murmured, half to himself.

“It will,” Isla said softly, stepping closer to observe. “Thunderbird core. Responsive to your emotion but not temperamental. Treat it gently, and it will return the favour.”

He nodded, studying the wand’s pale blush tint. “It really is pink,” he muttered.

“Blush rose,” Isla corrected, smirking. “The cherry wood naturally takes that hue. It suits you.”

Harry didn’t dignify that with a response.

“Now,” Isla continued, flicking her own wand for demonstration. “The incantation is Depilare suavem. Gentle intent is key, if you force it, you’ll only end up with patchy results or irritated skin.”

“Depilare… suavem.” Harry repeated slowly, his tongue uncertain around the words.

“Good. Start small.” She nodded toward his wrist. “That’s safe. It’ll tingle a bit, like a fizzing drink on the skin. Go on.”

Harry sighed and raised his wand. “Depilare suavem.”

A faint shimmer of golden light passed over his wrist, and he gasped as he felt the briefest fizzing sensation. When he glanced down, the tiny, almost invisible hairs that had been there were gone, the skin left smooth and soft.

“It worked,” he whispered, sounding faintly amazed.

“Of course it did,” Isla said, her tone proud but teasing. “You’re a quick learner. Most omegas botch that their first try. You’ll get used to it,” Isla said, watching him with something like affection. “And the charm can be used anywhere, though I’d suggest waiting before you attempt that.”

Harry turned scarlet. “Merlin’s beard, Isla—”

She laughed outright then, that sharp, rich sound that always managed to disarm him. “Oh hush. I’m not suggesting you strip down right now. You do it in private, of course. Or I can help if—”

“No!” He yelped, mortified, and Isla burst into fresh laughter.

“Very well,” she said, dabbing at the corner of her eye with amusement. “I’ll leave you to your modesty. But you did splendidly. Your control is excellent for a first try.”

Harry rolled his eyes, though there was a faint, reluctant smile tugging at his lips. “You really are impossible.”

“And you,” Isla said, gathering her robes as she headed toward the door, “are going to make quite the handsome young man once I’m finished with you.”

When the door closed behind her, Harry looked down at his smooth wrist again.

He couldn’t help it, he smiled.

Chapter Text

Not long after, the soft pop of magic signaled the arrival of the book. It hovered gently at the foot of his bed for a moment, then settled on the coverlet, as if it had been placed there by invisible hands. The cover was richly embossed, gilt lettering shimmering faintly: Practical Aesthetics. Harry’s green eyes flicked over the pages, scanning headings, diagrams, and delicate illustrations of wands at work on smooth skin. For a moment, he considered opening it fully, committing to a thorough read—but the pull of immediate experimentation was stronger.

He set the book aside with a soft sigh, brushing his fingers over the embossed cover. Later, he told himself firmly. First, he had a task that required direct attention: the hair removal charm on his own arms and legs.

Standing, he slipped out of his clothed, leaving them neatly folded on the chair beside the bed.

The thought that he would be actively practicing magic on his own body made him feel absurdly adult and yet still like a shy child discovering a new, secret pleasure.

He moved to the bathroom, wand in hand, and surveyed the smooth, gleaming surfaces. The room smelled faintly of soap and pine, the tiles cool underfoot. His reflection stared back at him, a mixture of apprehension and intrigue mirrored in wide green eyes.

Taking a deep breath, he levitated the wand before him. The gentle hum of magic vibrated through his fingers. He whispered the incantation he had just learned, Depilare suavem, and felt the familiar tingling sensation run across his forearm. Tiny golden sparks danced along the surface of his skin as the wand hovered above, and he marveled quietly as the fine hairs disappeared with a faint shimmer.

“Right,” he murmured to himself, lowering the wand to the other arm. “Let’s see how far this goes.”

The charm required patience. He moved methodically, guiding the wand over his limbs, letting the magic hover and smooth in deliberate strokes. With every flick and circular motion, he could feel the subtle pull of the wand as it responded to his intent, almost as though it understood what he wanted. The golden fizzing sensation tingled pleasantly, a curious mixture of light warmth and electric alertness, leaving his skin soft and gleaming under the bathroom lights.

He paused at his calves, eyes narrowing in concentration. The sensation was both strange and satisfying, his pulse quickening slightly with the novelty. Hovering the wand over his ankles, he noticed the way the tip responded to the subtle micro-movements of his fingers, almost like a musical instrument, attuned to his command. The charm seemed to hum faintly, echoing the rhythm of his heartbeat, and Harry allowed himself the tiniest, self-conscious smile.

This… isn’t so bad, he admitted silently, almost whispering to himself.

Harry froze for a heartbeat, wand hovering over his upper thigh. The tile beneath his foot had been just slightly slick from lingering water, and in the slip he had allowed the charm to stray. He blinked down at the patch of skin now hairless, the stark contrast making his chest tighten in an odd mixture of embarrassment and anticipation.

Well, he muttered under his breath, teeth biting his lower lip, might as well finish it properly.

He guided the wand carefully, letting the magic skim over the rest of the area. The tingling sensation that had been pleasant on his arms and legs now felt markedly different, sharper, more intimate. His thighs quivered slightly under the subtle hum of the charm, and he felt a hot flush creeping up his torso. The slick that began to gather unbidden between his cheeks was distracting, but he pressed on, determined not to stop. His legs weakened with every careful sweep of the wand, each stroke sending shivers through his body in unexpected ways.

The charm hummed softly, almost like a whispered song, responding with delicate precision to his intent. Harry’s breaths became shallow; he ignored the sensations pooling in the center of him, focusing instead on the smoothness of his skin under the wand’s magic. Each movement of the wand seemed to echo along his nerves, a delicate, insistent pressure that left him trembling quietly.

He moved to the other leg, letting the wand hover over the curve of his calf and the sensitive skin above his knee, eyes fixed on the reflection in the mirror to guide himself. The previous sensations lingered in the recesses of his awareness, but he pushed them to the background, concentrating on the charm’s effect. The smooth skin, the golden shimmer that left no trace of hair, was both thrilling and oddly grounding.

By the time he finished his second leg, Harry was breathing a little heavier than usual, legs still slightly wobbly from the unexpected tingles. He lowered the wand, letting it roll gently to the side.

Harry’s fingers trembled as he knelt on the cool bathroom tiles. The light from the window painted delicate patterns across his smooth, now hairless skin, but he barely registered it, entirely absorbed in the task he had set for himself. Tentatively, he reached behind him, sliding a hand down the curve of his back, tracing the line of his spine before hesitating at the dip between his bum cheeks.

He took a slow, deliberate breath, calming his pulse, and then let his fingers drift toward the rim of his entrance. The skin there was soft, responsive, and unfamiliar in the way it tingled at the lightest touch. He traced it gently, circling the sensitive area.

For a long moment, he simply explored the rim, tentative and careful, absorbing the newness of it, the tingle of nerve endings responding to his touch. 

Finally, as he had before, he let a finger press gently inside. The sensation was startling, unexpected, but not unpleasant—an intimate, alien feeling that sent a tremor up his spine. He froze, hand lingering, heart hammering, trying to reconcile the embarrassment with the undeniable intrigue of the experience.

It was strange, unfamiliar, and intensely private, and yet Harry found himself studying it with a careful, almost scientific fascination, noting the slickness, the warmth, the subtle resistance, and the way his body reacted. His other hand rested lightly on his thigh, grounding him as he processed the sensations, shivering slightly with the intimacy of the exploration.

Harry’s hand trembled as he slowly slid that single finger deeper, marveling at the unfamiliar warmth and slickness that coated him. Each in-and-out movement was tentative at first, exploratory, as though he were learning a new language his body had only just begun to speak. The sensations made him shiver involuntarily, a soft whimper escaping despite his attempts to remain quiet.

He tried to hold back the moans that threatened to escape, pressing his free hand against the tile for stability, grounding himself in the reality of his own body.

The slick that gathered at his entrance made every movement slipperier, smoother, and Harry’s curiosity overcame his initial hesitation. He was discovering something wholly private, intensely pleasurable, and startling in its novelty.

Despite the sensations, he quickly realized that his most sensitive spot, the one that would bring him to climax, remained tantalizingly out of reach. The frustration and delight intertwined, making him bite his lip and groan softly, curling slightly over his bent knees.

He hesitated for a heartbeat, then slowly eased a second finger in, heart pounding, muscles tightening and relaxing as he adjusted. It made the sensation more profound, more consuming, his hips subtly rocking on their own accord as though responding to some instinctual rhythm. Harry’s breath came in uneven pants now, his mind wandering as he tried not to fully lose himself, and yet he couldn’t help the way thoughts of Newt Scamander intruded.

The memory of Newt kneeling in the garden, so utterly focused on the moonflies, his soft pheromones brushing against Harry’s senses, and the shy, almost hesitant way he had smiled—it all flared through Harry’s mind with the intimacy of a forbidden daydream. The thought made him shiver, his free hand clenching into the smooth tiles, grounding himself while simultaneously yearning for something impossibly close yet impossibly distant.

He closed his eyes, letting the sensations blend with the memory, feeling his body respond in ways that were at once embarrassing and completely absorbing. Whimpers slipped past his lips despite his best effort, a mixture of pleasure, shyness, and something deeper—an ache for connection that had nothing to do with anyone else but the ghost of an alpha who had held him in the gardens.

The rhythm of his fingers became more confident as he explored, slick coating his skin and heightening every sensation. Each stroke and press of his fingers sent shivers through him, making him arch his back slightly, clenching and releasing as the pleasure built but remained tantalizingly incomplete. Harry’s mind raced, torn between fascination with his own body, embarrassment at being caught in such an act, and the intrusive, undeniable adoration for Newt—the alchemy of intimacy and longing overwhelming him in the quiet solitude of the bathroom.

Harry’s hips arched almost instinctively, the slight forward rocking of his body pressing his rump high in the air as he continued to move his fingers in and out. His body was screaming at him in ways that both startled and fascinated him, the sensations pulsing through his thighs, his lower belly, and down to the tips of his toes.

But then he froze. His fingers, no matter how deftly he moved them, could not reach that one precise, impossibly internal spot. He had never craved this before, never imagined a desire so pointed, so specific, so undeniably physical and emotional all at once. He wanted an alpha—someone strong, enveloping, someone who could claim the space his fingers could not reach.

His mind raced. What could possibly reach it? he wondered, the question almost whispered aloud, though he immediately clamped his lips shut, cheeks burning at even the thought of the answer. Could there be an object? Something designed for this? Or is it only flesh that can do it?

His gaze fell around the room, eyes sweeping the shelves and counters with a mixture of longing and panic. Soap, towels, toothbrushes, combs… something—anything—that could reach him properly. He bit his lip, cheeks heating as his pulse raced, fingers idly tracing slick over the rim of his entrance.

Then his eyes landed on a simple object that, in another context, would have seemed utterly mundane: a hairbrush, small and round-headed, with a smooth, slightly rounded end at the handle. He froze, staring at it, mind racing. No. That’s not… it’s not meant for this. And yet, the shape, the slight curve, the smooth hardness of the end—it called to him in the most forbidden, tantalizing way. His green eyes, wide and shining with a mixture of guilt and need, darted around the room as if someone might catch him, as if the walls themselves were judging him.

His fingers twitched, slick making the handle slippery in his grasp. He knew instantly, even without trying, that it was the perfect length, the perfect width to reach deep inside, to press at that spot he could not reach with his own body. His pulse hammered in his ears, heart racing in a combination of fear, anticipation, and that helpless, urgent desire that had been building since the hair removal charm earlier.

He bit down on his knuckles, swallowing hard as he hesitated. This was… entirely improper. A Lord. Doing this with a hairbrush in a bathroom. The sheer absurdity of it made him flush further, but it also made his desire impossible to ignore. His body quivered as he turned the brush over in his hand, fingertips tracing the smooth end again.

Finally, after a long pause that felt like an eternity, he lowered himself back onto the floor. Heart hammering in his chest, he pressed it gently against the rim of his entrance, every nerve ending aflame with the anticipation of the unknown.

Slowly, with a tentative hiss, he guided it inside. The sensation was unlike anything he had ever felt—sharp at first, startling, yet impossibly precise, pressing at that hidden, unreachable spot that had teased him for so long. He gasped, the sound involuntary, and shivered as the smooth wood shifted slightly with each careful movement.

Encouraged, he wobbled it gently, angling it forward with painstaking care. A rush of heat pooled low in his belly, his thighs trembling beneath him. Whimpers escaped his lips, soft and ragged, as he gasped through each wave of delicate, exquisite pressure. For a fleeting moment, he let himself sink into the sensation, rocking slightly, each micro-movement sending a thrill that bordered on overwhelming.

And then, in a sudden misjudgment born of desperation and inexperience, he jolted it too harshly. Pain shot through him like a bolt of lightning, sharp and insistent, and he gasped sharply, yanking the brush free. He curled in on himself instinctively, drawing his knees up to his chest, arms wrapped tight around his shivering body. A soft whimper escaped him, the sting of the sudden sharpness still lingering, mingling with the fading tremors of pleasure.

He pressed his face into the crook of his arm, heart pounding, stomach twisting with the confusing mix of sensations—pleasure, pain, embarrassment, and that familiar, raw vulnerability that came so easily to him now. 

When he finally gathered himself, Harry stood on trembling legs, each step toward the sink a minor battle against the residual shivers running through him. He washed his hands thoroughly, the warm water doing little to soothe the fluttering unease coiling low in his belly. Never before had he felt the need to use toilet paper to clean between his legs.

He retrieved his wand, heart still pounding, and scourgified the hairbrush again and again, each swipe of magic over its handle leaving a small, satisfying fizz of cleansing light. Finally, he rinsed it meticulously in the sink, the water swirling over the polished wood, carrying away the remnants of his experiment. Even as he did so, he felt a twinge deep inside him—a lingering echo of the sensation that made him flush, a reminder of just how raw and sensitive he had been.

He tore off a fresh piece of tissue and, with tentative care, wiped himself once more behind, inspecting the evidence. It had taken on a faintly pink hue from blood, startling him slightly, but he reasoned quickly with the pragmatism born from years of survival. It’s only a tiny bit, he thought to himself, the analytical part of him asserting control over the embarrassment, it’ll be fine.

Still, the warmth and the slight sting lingered, making him lean over the sink for a moment, pressing his palms against the cold porcelain to steady himself. 

Never again, Harry thought, the words sharp and absolute in his mind, though they rang hollow in the quiet room. He pressed his lips together, still tasting the faint salt of his skin, and turned away from the bathroom mirror as though it could read the confusion written plainly across his face.

I barely know Newt, he scolded himself silently, drawing in a shaky breath. And here I was—on my hands and knees—wanting him. The thought alone made his stomach twist with shame, heat rising behind his ears. What is wrong with me?

The thought that perhaps his heat was near sent a rush of unease through him. But how was he to know? His regulation bracelet was still attuning to his body, its runes dull and unresponsive, the metal faintly warm from constant contact with his skin. It hadn’t yet synchronised with his cycles or temperatures—it offered no warning, no measure. He didn’t know what a pre-heat felt like. He didn’t know what anything felt like, not really.

With a frustrated sigh, he stepped back into his room. He slipped into his favourite linen pyjamas. He knew he wouldn’t be leaving his room for the rest of the day. The thought came with a strange kind of relief. He tugged his cloak from where he’d left it, the familiar fabric brushing against his fingers like a reassurance. Pulling it around his shoulders, he settled it properly—arms through the openings, the hood drawn up until it shadowed his face. It cocooned him, hid him, made him feel contained and unjudged.

From his nightstand, he took the thick leather-bound book Isla had given him earlier that week: The Sacred Thirty-Two Families of Magical Britain. Or rather, The Sacred Thirty, as the embossed note on the inside cover solemnly corrected—two of the ancient lines had perished within the past century. The weight of it felt symbolic somehow, a reminder that even legacies could die out, no matter how pure or powerful.

He climbed into bed, the mattress dipping beneath his small frame. The cloak pooled around him like liquid shadow. Only his hands and eyes peeked out from the folds as he opened the book, the golden edges glinting in the lamplight. The parchment crackled faintly when he turned a page.

He read slowly, his mind drifting as his eyes scanned the elegant calligraphy—of ancient names, of extinct sigils, of bloodlines proud and broken. But his thoughts kept returning, traitorous and unbidden, to a pair of freckled hands that had brushed his sleeve in the gardens, to the warmth of a half-hug that still lingered like a ghost along his ribs.

Harry drew the cloak tighter, his heart a slow, tired drumbeat beneath the linen. He tried to focus on the words, on anything but himself, until the sound of pages turning became the only thing left to fill the silence.

He had dozed off somewhere in the middle of a paragraph. When he stirred, it was to the faint rapping of small feet on polished floors, and the soft jingle of an elf’s presence announcing itself. Harry blinked blearily, trying to shake the remnants of sleep from his mind, and looked up to see the familiar elf carrying a silver tray, delicate as ever, with a steaming plate of food balanced carefully atop it.

“Oh, thank you,” he mumbled, sitting up slowly and pulling the cloak around his shoulders like a shield. The elf’s small, knowing eyes studied him briefly, the corners twitching almost imperceptibly, as though they could see right into his tiredness. Harry hesitated, then asked, “Do… do you have any spare blankets?” His voice was hoarse, more a croak than a question.

The elf straightened, ears perked, a small bow accompanying their precise motion. “Yes, Lord Peverell,” they said, their tone polite yet gently deferential. “What colour and type would you like?”

Harry rubbed the sleep from his eyes, thinking. “Oh… I don’t mind. Erm… I guess something fluffy, and… any neutral colour.” He tried to smile, but it came out half-hearted, uncertain, like a candle flickering against the wind.

The elf’s expression softened, as though the request was perfectly reasonable, and their small hands set the tray down carefully beside the bed before bowing slightly. “Yes, Lord Peverell. I shall fetch one now.” With a snap of fingers and a faint pop of magic, the blanket appeared—soft, inviting, the kind that promised warmth without weight, a gentle neutral beige that melted into the shadows of the room.

Harry accepted it with a quiet thanks, tugging it around his shoulders and pulling it up to his chin. The texture was luxurious against his skin, fluffier than he expected, and it was almost ridiculous how comforting it felt. He let his forehead rest against the soft folds, breathing in the faint scent of freshly laundered linen, feeling the day’s tension seep slowly from his body.

“Thank you,” he whispered. The small creature gave a barely perceptible nod before quietly popping out of the room.

Little did Harry know, the moment the elf left his room, it did not head straight back to the kitchens. With a purposeful pop, the creature appeared instead in Isla’s office — a warmly lit chamber lined with parchments, vials of soothing draughts, and books of medical and social protocol concerning omegas under Ministry protection. The elf bowed low, wringing its small hands nervously, for this was not a routine message.

“Unspeakable Hitchens,” it squeaked, “Lord Peverell… he is nesting.”

Isla looked up from her paperwork, brows drawing together. “Nesting?” she repeated, setting her quill aside. “Are you certain?”

The elf nodded quickly, ears twitching. “He asked for blankets, ms. Fluffy ones. Neutral colours. Then he curled beneath his cloak and wrapped himself up tight. It looked… very much like nesting.”

A pause lingered in the air, soft but heavy. Isla exhaled quietly, understanding blooming in her expression. She had half-expected this, truth be told — the signs were there earlier, the fragility, the seeking of comfort, the subtle tremor of his scent when the wards had shaken. “All right,” she said at last, voice soft but firm. “He may be frightened to ask for more. Give him some things that might help — extra blankets, perhaps a comfort cushion, something soft and weighted, even a little bit of lavender if we have it. Do not disturb him more than necessary, but make sure he has what he needs.”

“Yes, Unspeakable Hitchens.”

And with another quiet pop, the elf vanished, appearing moments later in the castle’s domestic stores — a cavernous room lined with everything from spare sheets to winter cloaks. It gathered a neat pile: two plush blankets, one a muted ivory, the other pale grey; a small comfort pillow filled with goose down; and a pouch of calming lavender tied in silver thread. The elf looked over its selection once, satisfied, and then disappeared again — reappearing in Harry’s room in the faint shimmer of evening candlelight.

The air shifted. Harry peeked his head from beneath his cloak, blinking owlishly. His dark hair was flattened on one side, and his expression, tired though it was, turned wide-eyed at the sight of the basket the elf had placed gently on the floor.

“More gifts, Lord Peverell,” the elf announced softly, bowing low. “Unspeakable Hitchens thought you might wish for more comfort. There are two fluffy blankets, a small pillow, and some lavender for calm dreams.”

Harry’s lips parted in faint surprise. “Oh. Thank you,” he murmured. The elf gave a small, approving nod, and with a faint pop, it was gone once more.

He looked at the basket for a long moment, as though uncertain whether he was truly meant to touch what was inside. Then, slowly, he set aside the untouched half of his dinner and slid off the bed, padding barefoot to the basket. The lavender scent met him first — faint and soothing, the sort of smell that softened the edges of thought. He drew the blankets out one by one, feeling their textures: one silky and cool, the other so fluffy it seemed to sigh beneath his touch.

He stood there for a moment, then looked to his bed. The duvet, thick and heavy, suddenly felt wrong — too stiff, too foreign, too coarse against his skin. He pulled it off entirely, folding it neatly at the foot of the bed as though excusing it from duty. Then, with quiet deliberation, he spread one of the soft new blankets across the sheet, tucking it under with care, smoothing it flat until there wasn’t a single wrinkle. The second blanket he laid over the top — a gentler weight, one that breathed warmth without smothering.

He stared at his handiwork, lips twitching slightly, a faint flicker of contentment threading through his chest. Then his eyes fell upon the third blanket and, almost without thinking, he rolled it tightly into a soft, compact bundle. Crawling back into bed, he curled himself around it, his body folding naturally on its side, knees tucked close. His arms and legs wrapped around the makeshift bundle as though it were something precious, something living. The lavender pillow found its place beneath his head, and the faint scent surrounded him like a sigh.

He reached blindly for the book he had abandoned earlier and opened it again, his eyes darting over the ink though the words drifted in and out of sense. Only his hands and eyes peeked from the folds of his cloak and blankets, the rest of him buried deep, protected.

Isla appeared just as the last gold light of evening began to spill through the tall windows of Harry’s room. Her steps were silent, the soft swish of her skirts barely disturbing the quiet, and she came to the side of the bed with the poise of someone accustomed to moving through rooms without creating ripples.

“Harry,” she cooed gently, her voice carrying the warmth of familiarity despite the stern undertones that clung to her naturally, “you’ve been… nesting all evening, I see.”

Harry’s eyes peeked out from the cocoon of blankets, hood pulled low over his face. His lips parted just slightly, a soft, almost inaudible whimper escaping as he shifted in the folds of cloth. For a moment, he said nothing, just curled tighter, arms drawn around the ball of blanket he had fashioned, seeking contact, seeking comfort.

“I—” he murmured, voice trembling slightly, “Isla… I just… I want an alpha. I just want—” His words broke off into a soft whine. “A hug. Just… someone big to hold me. I—”

“Shh,” Isla interrupted softly, crouching low beside the bed. She reached out with deliberate care, her hand hovering for only a moment before resting lightly on his cheek, tilting his head so her thumb could stroke gently along his jaw. Her touch was firm yet tender, the sort of contact that could steady an omega rattled by anything, and Harry melted against it immediately.

“Isla… am I… am I in pre-heat?” he asked, voice small, unsure. The question trembled on his lips as though even speaking it aloud might make the sensation more real, more urgent.

She gave a small, deliberate shake of her head, her eyes soft but knowing. “I don’t believe so, Harry. Not yet. I think what you’re feeling is the residue of fright, the tremors of the day… and perhaps the echo of longing.” She brushed a strand of damp hair from his forehead and tucked it behind his ear, the motion so intimate that Harry shivered, curling in closer as though the simple gesture was enough to steady him.

“You’ve had… a lot of new experiences today, love,” she murmured, voice hushed and smooth. “New places, new faces, new sensations. It is only natural for an omega to feel unsettled when confronted with so much at once.” Her fingers trailed down to his chin and over his neck, grazing the pulse, and Harry exhaled sharply, half gasp, half purr, the vibrations rolling up from his chest.

He shifted slightly, still buried in the blankets, letting himself lean against her as though her presence alone could anchor him to the floor of the room and the reality of the present. “I just… I don’t even know what I am supposed to do sometimes,” he whispered. His hands clutched the soft folds of the blanket tighter. “I’ve never… been held like this before. Not… not properly.”

Isla’s smile softened, almost imperceptibly, and she leaned closer, her forehead resting against the top of his hood. “But I will.” She stroked along his cheek and down the side of his neck in a careful, practiced rhythm, the motion meant to soothe, to comfort, to provide reassurance on a level deeper than mere words could reach.

Harry shivered again, more softly this time, his chest rising and falling with an unfamiliar but not unwelcome warmth. “I just… want it to be safe,” he murmured. “I just want… someone to hold me and not let me go, like… like I belong.”

“You do belong, Harry,” Isla said, voice low, certain. “And for this moment, here and now, you are safe. You have no need to be brave, no need to hide. You may feel, you may tremble, you may even purr if you wish.”

He nuzzled into her palm, eyes half-lidded beneath the hood, entirely surrendered to the sensation of being held with no expectation, no danger.

Harry shifted slightly, still curled in his cocoon of blankets, and with a soft, hesitant squeak pressed his face into the folds of the cloak, tugging it tighter around him. His hands clutched at the fabric, kneading it almost like he would a stuffed animal, and his green eyes peeked up at Isla, wide, shimmering, and impossibly vulnerable.

“Oh, Harry,” Isla murmured, heart tightening at the sight. “Do you… need something to hold?” she asked gently, voice as soft as the brush of leaves in the garden. She moved slightly to reach a small cabinet by the bed, the kind usually reserved for minor comforts, things meant to ease restless nights.

Harry’s lips parted in the faintest whimper, a subtle, pleading gesture that was entirely without words, but entirely clear in meaning. His fingers tugged at the blanket again, and Isla knew instantly: he wanted something to clutch, something tangible to anchor himself.

“Very well, then,” she murmured, selecting a small, plush teddy bear from the drawer. It was modest, nothing ostentatious, but soft and reassuring, with embroidered eyes and a tiny, stitched smile. She knelt beside him and placed it gently against his chest.

Harry’s hands shot out instinctively, clutching the bear to him, nuzzling its head against his cheek as a soft, happy purr rolled through him. He pressed it tight to his chest, curling around it even more fully, and Isla watched with a quiet fondness, noting how even a simple, childish action could draw such unguarded delight from someone usually so cautious and battle-hardened.

“Looks like you’ve found a friend,” she whispered, brushing a gentle hand along his shoulder, letting him nestle further into the cloak, into the warmth, into the small, perfect cocoon of comfort he had created for himself.

Isla settled herself on the edge of Harry’s bed, watching him curl further into the fluffy blanket, his little hands clutching the teddy with a grip that bespoke both comfort and trepidation. She felt that familiar tug in her chest — the one reserved for omegas — a deep, instinctive fondness that wasn’t romantic, wasn’t even fully paternal, but wholly protective. She had always adored omegas, ever since her youth, when she’d noticed how delicate, complex, and instinctively careful they could be. There weren’t many in her experience, and fewer still in her circle of family and friends.

She thought, idly, about her own family — a complicated web of personalities and bloodlines. Born in 1881, she was the eldest of five siblings. Three of them were alphas, one a beta, and one, Sirius Black II, an omega. She remembered how, a few years back, he had rambled on about how lonely it was never meeting another male omega, how it felt like a missing note in a symphony. 

Sirius now had three sons, and his partner was an intersex alpha, Hesper Gamp, which made for an unusual but harmonious household. He had always navigated life with remarkable poise, but Isla knew the young lord in her room — Harry, Harrison — was a very different kind of omega. Fragile in ways, raw from history, and unsettled by both his new status and the sudden freedom he now had. Perhaps, Isla thought, Sirius might be able to offer guidance in ways she could not.

She shifted slightly, thinking. It might be worth asking Sirius if he would like to make the acquaintance of Lord Peverell. Not formally, not as some political or social duty, but as an opportunity for Harry to meet another male omega — someone who had walked the path for decades and might understand the peculiar, confusing, and sometimes overwhelming sensations and instincts that came with being a male omega.

“Perhaps…” she murmured to herself, her gaze falling on Harry’s soft, purring form, “… He might understand in ways even I cannot.”

Harry twitched slightly in his sleep, the small movements of his chest and hands betraying the subtle comfort the blanket and teddy afforded him. Isla smiled faintly, the plan forming in her mind. 

Isla lingered for a moment by the bed, letting her hand rest lightly against Harry’s soft cheek. She pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead, careful not to startle him, and felt the familiar, deep rumble of purring vibrate through him. Her lips curved into a small, fond smile.

She straightened herself, adjusted her cloak, and with a small flick of her wrist, activated the floo powder. The fire roared to life, and she was whisked away almost instantly, leaving the warm, cluttered room behind. Flooing was faster than stairs, faster than the corridors, and more discreet. She found herself in her home within moments.

That night, after ensuring her sons were settled and the household quieted, Isla took to her desk. The candlelight flickered softly across the polished wood, casting golden hues over the neatly stacked letters and parchments. She drew a sheet from a fresh stack and began to write in her precise, formal hand, each word considered.

My Dearest Sirius,

I hope this letter finds you in good health and spirits. I am writing to you regarding a matter both delicate and most unusual, and I ask you to read with patience and discretion.

A young male, Harrison Peverell, has recently come under my care and supervision, though not in any official Ministry capacity. He is fast becoming much like a niece to me in temperament, trust, and the subtle intimacies one extends to those who are… well, precious.

Harrison is an omega, and, as you well know, the rarity of a male omega cannot be overstated. His circumstances are unique, and he bears the weight of great social and political attention, though he is of a tender, cautious nature. In truth, his very presence commands careful handling, as he is prone to overwhelm in certain situations.

It occurs to me that the guidance of another male omega, one with experience and understanding of the nuances of such a condition, as well as the intricacies of both public and private expectation, might benefit him greatly. It is with this in mind that I humbly request your consideration of introducing yourself to Lord Peverell, though discreetly and informally. I believe your wisdom, patience, and perspective may offer him insight that no other can at this moment.

He is not merely a ward, Sirius; in temperament and trust, he is like family to me, and I am deeply invested in ensuring his well-being. I hope you will view this proposal with both the discretion and the openness I have come to expect from you.

With the utmost respect and affection,

Isla Hitchens

She read over it carefully, letting each word settle. The formality was necessary, she reasoned, not just for propriety, but to convey the seriousness of Harrison’s circumstances, and to prepare Sirius for a meeting that might be delicate in more ways than one. She sealed the letter with her signet, pressed her lips to the wax, and placed it carefully in a silver envelope.

The letter was sent that same night, tied neatly to the leg of her grey owl, Aster, who blinked up at her with mild irritation before taking flight into the cool, star-dotted sky. Isla watched the bird vanish into the dark, then sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Truthfully, she didn’t expect an answer soon. Sirius was a devoted correspondent in theory, but in practice… well, the poor man had his hands full.

His oldest, Arcturus the Third — only sixteen now — had, to put it kindly, inherited both his father’s charm and his grandfather’s recklessness. Isla had nearly dropped her teacup when she’d first heard the news two years ago: Arcturus, barely fourteen, and that sweet McMillian girl, Melania, expecting a child. The scandal had burned through the pureblood social circles like a brushfire.

It had been a nightmare for Sirius and Hesper — especially Hesper. She, an intersex alpha of uncommon refinement, had once declared she would never again change a nappy as long as she lived. Yet here they were, two years later, with a toddling granddaughter underfoot, learning to soothe cries at midnight all over again.

Isla could picture it clearly even now: Sirius pacing the nursery, wand in one hand, bottle in the other, muttering something between a lullaby and a lecture. Hesper, hair tousled, glaring at him from the rocking chair while the little one — Lucretia, if she recalled correctly — gurgled with the smug self-satisfaction only toddlers possessed.

No, she thought with a small, amused sigh, she wouldn’t expect a letter too soon. Sirius was a busy man, head of a sprawling household, father to three sons, husband to an alpha who didn’t suffer fools gladly, and now, once again, caretaker to a baby.

Still, she knew he would write back. He always did, eventually. And when he did, he’d be curious.

She smiled faintly, shaking her head as she set her quill aside. “Merlin help him when he meets the boy,” she murmured to herself.

Sirius Black II sat back in his study chair, the parchment trembling slightly in his hand as he reread Isla’s neat, looping script. The fire crackled low in the grate, throwing gold light over the oak-paneled walls and the endless shelves of books, portraits, and old heirlooms that marked the room as quintessentially Black.

But it was the phrase — “fast becoming like a niece to me” — that had him scoffing aloud.

“A niece,” he muttered under his breath, tapping the parchment against his knee. “A niece, Isla? The boy’s a man, for crying out loud.”

He tossed the letter down on the desk, running a hand through his thick, slightly disheveled dark hair. The gesture pulled faint echoes from the past — his brothers’ teasing voices ringing in his ears.

“Sister Sirius.”

“You’re softer than a girl, you know that?”

“Our tiny sister in disguise!”

He could still remember the sting of it, even decades later — the awkward laughter that followed, the way his cheeks had burned as though shame had claws. He’d been the only omega in a family of alphas and betas, and though his parents had treated him well enough, the subtle humiliation of being called sister had never really left him.

Now, here he was, staring down at a letter that seemed to repeat the same sentiment in gentler ink.

He sighed, leaning back and glancing at the portraits of his ancestors glaring down at him from their frames. “You’d have a field day with this, wouldn’t you?” he murmured to the silent faces. “A male omega called a niece. How perfectly scandalous.”

And yet… Isla wasn’t wrong. He knew what she meant. Male omegas were different — not weaker, but softer in ways that frightened others. Society couldn’t quite decide what to do with them. Some were called sons, others daughters. Some were ‘sirs,’ others quietly reclassified as ‘madams.’ And then there were those, like himself, who had been called mother by their own children.

He remembered the first time Arcturus had said it — “Mummy” slipping past his lips before he could think, his face red as a beetroot. Sirius had nearly dropped the spoon he’d been using to stir the porridge, but he hadn’t corrected him. How could he? He wasn’t quite father, wasn’t quite mother, and in the end, the word had simply… fit.

He sighed again, the weight of memory pressing against his ribs. Perhaps Isla had chosen her word deliberately. Perhaps she meant it fondly.

Still, he muttered with half a smile, “Niece, though. Really, Isla, you might’ve softened since your own nest grew up.”

The smile faded as his eyes drifted to the bottom of the letter — to the part where Isla described this Lord Peverell.

A male omega, likely untrained in his own instincts.

Sirius’s expression gentled. He folded the letter neatly, tapping the parchment against the desk before setting it aside. “Well then,” he murmured, “if the boy’s anything like I was at that age, he’ll need someone who understands.”

He stood, stretching his stiff limbs, and walked toward the nursery door where faint laughter and cooing filtered through — Hasper's low voice, and the baby’s bubbling giggle.

He allowed himself a small, fond smile before muttering, “I’ll write her back tomorrow. Tell her I’ll meet the lad.”

The next morning, Sirius rose before the household stirred — before Hesper's soft hums filled the kitchen, before the nanny came to tend to little Cassiopeia, and before his eldest sons thundered down the stairs for breakfast.

He preferred the quiet of dawn; the way the air still clung to last night’s coolness, and how the manor’s heavy drapes let in streaks of pale grey light that made the ink on his desk gleam faintly blue.

He unrolled a fresh sheet of parchment, smoothed it beneath his hand, and uncorked the ink bottle with a careful twist. Isla’s letter lay beside him, its edges neatly folded.

He dipped his quill and began to write in his firm, elegant hand:

Dear Isla,

Your letter reached me last night, and I confess, I read it twice over before I could decide what I felt.

Firstly — I’ll overlook the “niece” business, though I trust you meant it affectionately rather than descriptively. You know my thoughts on such things. Still, I appreciate the sentiment behind it, and I know your heart well enough to understand what you meant.

Now, regarding this Lord Peverell of yours. I admit, the name alone carries a great deal of weight. It’s remarkable to see that line resurface — and more remarkable still that the heir should be both an omega and so young. I cannot imagine the weight he must bear, nor the confusion that must accompany his position.

I remember what it was to be a young man surrounded by people who saw your secondary nature before they saw you. It can be a lonely thing, even among friends.

If you believe my experience might be of use, then I will gladly make his acquaintance. The coming weekend should be suitable; Hesper has agreed to mind the children (though she has warned me that Lucretia will likely cry the whole time I’m away).

You needn’t worry about formalities. I would rather meet him quietly, without pomp or ceremony. From your description, I think too much attention would do him more harm than good. Perhaps an informal tea, if that suits you both.

And Isla — thank you for thinking of me. It is not often I’m asked to help these days, and rarer still that I find reason to look forward to doing so.

Give the Lord my regards, though perhaps not my full name just yet. We both know the Blacks have a reputation that can make young omegas nervous.

With respect and fondness,

Sirius Black II

When the ink dried, he sealed it with dark green wax stamped with the Black crest — the serpent winding through a star — and handed it to his tawny owl, who gave him a reproachful look for being up so early.

“Don’t start with me,” Sirius muttered, tying the letter carefully to its leg. “You’ll get a treat when you come back.”

The owl hooted softly, flapping out the open window and vanishing into the cool morning mist.

Sirius watched it go, rubbing a thumb thoughtfully across the edge of his jaw.  Then, with a low sigh and a small, reluctant smile, he turned toward the kitchen.

When Isla went to Harry quarters at midday, the air was warm and soft with the faint scent of wool and parchment. Harry was still tucked in his blanket fortress — a small, careful nest made of layered throws, all in the muted cream and grey tones he seemed to prefer. The curtains were drawn half-closed, letting in thin ribbons of sunlight that pooled across the floor.

He didn’t notice her at first. He was reading, propped on one elbow, eyes tracing the lines of an old book on magical lineage. His hair was tousled, his cloak draped over his shoulders like a shield. A half-eaten sandwich sat beside him, and an untouched glass of water.

Isla couldn’t help but smile; he looked like a nesting owl, all defensive calm and quiet intelligence. She let her presence be known by clearing her throat softly.

“Busy, I see,” she said, warmth threading through her voice.

Harry looked up sharply, then relaxed when he saw her. “Oh, Isla. I didn’t hear you come in. I… might have gotten carried away. The Macmillans, did you know they were once allied with the Peverells? I had no idea.”

“That I didn’t,” she said, coming closer, perching lightly on the edge of his bed. Her eyes flicked over the carefully arranged blankets, the tightness of his cocoon, the faint purr still rumbling under his breath when he shifted. “It looks very comfortable in here, Harry.”

Harry flushed. “It’s… just nice,” he said quickly. “The blankets were soft. And I didn’t see a reason to get up.”

“Mmm,” Isla hummed, a knowing sound. “Well, I have a bit of news for you.” She folded her hands neatly on her lap, smile faint. “I wrote to my brother yesterday evening.”

Harry blinked, the page of his book forgotten. “Your brother?”

“Yes,” she said lightly, though her tone was careful. “His name is Sirius. Sirius Black the Second. He’s an omega as well, and has had quite a life of it. I thought perhaps… well, it might do you good to meet someone else who’s walked that path. He’s kind, and sensible, and has agreed to visit this weekend — if you’d like to meet him, that is.”

Harry stared at her for a long moment, processing the words. His lips parted slightly, surprise flickering in those vivid green eyes. “You... you wrote to him about me?”

“Only that you reminded me of the niece I never had,” she said, gently teasing, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. “He was intrigued, I promise you that. And don’t look so alarmed, darling, he’s family to me, and I’d never introduce you to anyone who wouldn’t treat you with respect.”

Harry exhaled slowly, looking down at the book in his lap, fingers worrying the edge of the page. “I… suppose that sounds all right. I’ve never met another—” He faltered, almost shyly. “Another male omega.”

“I thought as much.” Isla smiled softly. “He’ll understand you in a way few others can. And don’t fret, you’ll like him. He’s far less intimidating than his name suggests.”

Harry gave a faint, bashful smile and murmured, “I suppose I should try to look proper then, shouldn’t I?”

Isla laughed quietly. “Perhaps a little less blanket and a little more shirt, yes.”

He rolled his eyes, though his blush betrayed him. “Fine.”

“You’d better,” she said fondly, brushing her hand over his nest’s edge.

Harry sat at his desk that afternoon, sunlight soft through the curtains, the faint warmth of the blankets still clinging to his shoulders. His cloak was folded neatly on the chair beside him, and his new wand — the cherry one — lay on the parchment before him.

He’d been staring at the blank page for nearly fifteen minutes.

It wasn’t that he didn’t know what to say. It was that he wanted to say so much — and yet, he feared sounding foolish. He wasn’t used to writing letters that made his heart flutter with every stroke of the quill.

Finally, with a steadying breath, he began.

To Mr. Newton Scamander,

I hope this letter finds you well. I wanted to thank you again, truly, for your kindness yesterday. I’m afraid I was rather poor company toward the end. The tremor in the wards unsettled me more than I expected, and your calm helped more than I can say.

The gardens were extraordinary. I’ve never seen moonflies up close before, nor anyone who looked at them or at the world quite as you did. It was nice. Comforting, somehow.

You mentioned wanting to observe their migration patterns, I’d very much like to hear about it, if you’re inclined to write. I can’t promise my own insights would be of any use, but I would like to learn more about the creatures you study.

Isla insists I should rest today, and she’s probably right, but writing this felt important. I’d very much like to keep in touch, if you’re willing.

With thanks and respect,

Harrison Peverell

He set the quill down, reading it over three times. It sounded formal, yes, but there was a softness to it — something that felt true.

Harry hesitated, then added a postscript, quickly, before he could change his mind:

P.S. Please give my regards to Pickett. He’s a remarkable little guy.

When he sealed the letter, his cheeks were warm, and he caught himself smiling faintly at the wax cooling beneath the Peverell crest. He gave the envelope to the waiting owl — one of the Ministry messengers assigned to him — and watched as it swooped from the open window.

He returned to his nest afterward, curling beneath his blankets with a small, secret smile. 

Chapter Text

It was late in the afternoon, sunlight sliding golden and heavy across the Scamander home, the warm smell of hay and feathers drifting in from the open back door. Marigold was in the sitting room, teacup in hand, when a tawny owl swooped through the window with impeccable precision, landing smartly upon the table beside her with a faint rustle of wings.

“Oh? Who’s this from, then?” she murmured, setting her cup aside. The seal was an elegant one — the ancient sigil of the Peverell line. Her brows rose, curiosity brightening her features. “Well now, that’s interesting.”

She broke the seal and unfolded the letter.

The handwriting was not overly polished — a touch too careful, as if the writer were conscious of every loop and curve and still wrote a bit badly. But the tone… well, the tone was what struck her most.

I wanted to thank you again, truly, for your kindness yesterday. The tremor in the wards unsettled me more than I expected, and your calm helped more than I can say.

Marigold read that line twice. Her lips twitched into a wry little smile. “Oh, Newt,” she whispered, shaking her head. “You’ve gone and found yourself a poet.”

By the time she reached the closing lines — ‘I’d very much like to keep in touch, if you’re willing’ — she was smiling outright. Not mockingly, but in that knowing, maternal way only mothers could. She could feel the care threaded through every word.

She refolded the letter neatly, her fingers lingering on the edge of the parchment before setting it aside just as Newt entered, boots dusty from the garden, Pickett perched jauntily upon his shoulder.

“Post for you,” she said lightly, feigning nonchalance as she sipped her tea. “From a certain Lord Peverell.”

Newt froze in the doorway, colour rising immediately to his cheeks. “You opened it?”

Marigold gave a gentle sniff. “It had no warning mark, dear. And really, I had to be sure it wasn’t some ministry nonsense. But now I see it’s quite the opposite.”

“Mum—”

“Oh, don’t fuss.” She waved her hand airily. “He writes beautifully, you know. Grateful, gentle. Clearly fond of you already.”

Newt groaned, mortified, stepping forward to rescue the letter. “Mother— please.”

Marigold only chuckled, patting his cheek fondly as he snatched the folded parchment from the table. “You could do worse, my son,” she said, her tone suddenly softer. “He sounds kind. A touch lost, perhaps. You’ve always had a gift for finding the lost things.”

And with that, she picked up her tea again, utterly serene, while Newt stood there in the golden light, ears pink, heart thundering,  reading Harry’s words in silence.

Newt was smiling by the time he reached the final line, that soft, private sort of smile that lived somewhere between disbelief and warmth. His freckles could not disguise the flush that crept up his neck, blooming like sunlight beneath pale skin. He pressed the letter closer to his chest for a moment, the parchment faintly warm from his hands, as though the words themselves carried a trace of the person who’d written them.

The first time he’d ever truly taken interest in a human.

It was a peculiar feeling — disorienting and wondrous in equal measure. For so long, people had been difficult for him: too loud, too sharp-edged, too careless with the fragile and beautiful things of the world. Magical creatures made sense; they spoke to him without words, their trust was simple, their needs honest. But humans… humans were clumsy with their own hearts.

And yet here he was, heart beating rather too fast over a letter.

He reread it again, tracing the careful loops of Harry’s writing with a fingertip. There was vulnerability tucked between the lines — that same quiet strength he’d glimpsed in the gardens, when the young lord had knelt in the grass with such reverence, unbothered by dirt or decorum. 

He looked up briefly; his mother had gone back to her embroidery, pretending not to watch him, though the tiniest smile tugged at her lips. Pickett peeked down from his shoulder and chirped inquisitively, tapping the parchment with a twig hand.

Newt laughed softly. “Yes, I know,” he murmured, voice low. “He is different, isn’t he?”

Pickett squeaked again, as though in agreement.

He folded the letter carefully, almost tenderly, and slipped it into the inner pocket of his waistcoat. His fingers lingered there for a moment.

He hadn’t expected this — hadn’t expected to find himself curious about the way another person laughed, or the way their eyes softened when they spoke of small, living things. But Lord Harrison Peverell had startled something awake in him. Something human.

The following morning arrived pale and quiet, Harry had already been awake for an hour, wrapped in his cloak with his knees drawn up beneath his chin, pretending to read but really just tracing the edges of the page with an unfocused stare. 

A sharp knock preceded Isla’s voice, warm and brisk as ever. “Harrison? May I come in?”

Harry blinked, dragging himself upright. “Yes, yes, of course.”

She stepped through with her usual confident grace, though her smile was softer this morning, a glimmer of amusement tucked behind her lips. “Special delivery,” she announced, holding up a neatly folded letter sealed with a familiar mark. “It seems someone was rather eager with his quill.”

Harry blinked, his stomach doing a strange, swooping thing. “He wrote back?”

“He did,” Isla said, stepping closer and offering it with the kind of reverence one might afford a sacred object. “I thought we could read it together. I confess, I’m invested now.”

Harry blushed, but his grin gave him away. He took the envelope carefully — too carefully — running his thumb over the wax seal. His fingers trembled a little as he broke it open, and Isla sat at the edge of his bed like a patient chaperone, her eyes full of quiet delight.

The parchment smelled faintly of earth and something herbal — like Newt himself. Harry unfolded it, smoothing out the creases, and began to read aloud, his voice hesitant but soft.

Dear Lord Peverell,

I was most gratified to receive your letter. Your kindness in writing so soon was quite unexpected, a pleasant surprise in a world that does not often permit them.

I am very glad to know you arrived home safely, and that you have taken an interest in magical creatures. I confess, I often find they understand far more than most people ever will. The moonflies, in particular, were rather taken with you. They do not land on just anyone, you know.

If you should wish to see them again, I would be honoured to guide you through their habitat more properly. I promise they are even more beautiful by moonlight.

Until then, I remain sincerely yours,

Newton Artemis Fido Scamander

P.S. I've hidden Pickett to write this, he rather doesn't like paper.

Harry’s breath caught at the signature — full and formal, yet endearingly earnest. The corners of his lips lifted in that shy, incredulous way Isla adored.

“Oh, he is a gentleman,” she said softly, clasping her hands together. “Moonlight walks, Harry? He’s smitten.”

He flushed scarlet, looking anywhere but at her. “He’s just being polite.”

“Polite?” Isla laughed. “That letter is practically courtship wrapped in parchment. You do realise how rare it is for an alpha to write something so delicate?”

Harry smiled helplessly, eyes still tracing Newt’s neat script. “He said sincerely yours.”

“Yes, darling. He did.” Isla chuckled, reaching out to squeeze his hand. “And I think he meant it.”

He pressed the letter closer, cheeks burning hotter than any fire could manage. The faint scent of Newt drifted off the parchment, and he couldn’t stop himself. He inhaled sharply, eyes closing as a shiver ran down his spine.

His small hands clenched the edges of the letter, and before he realized it, his feet were kicking lightly against the bedspread, a childish, gleeful rhythm that made him feel both delighted and mortified at once. He curled himself around the letter, pressing it to his chest, as though by sheer proximity he could hold some fraction of Newt’s presence with him.

Isla raised a brow, lips twitching into a knowing smile. She had seen this before — her youngest brother had reacted similarly as a child whenever he felt safe and loved.

“Now, now,” she chided softly, crouching beside him, “don’t tear the paper, Harry. It’s a letter, not a toy.”

Harry’s blush deepened, but he didn’t let go. “I… I just…” His voice faltered. “I like it… I like him…”

“You do, dear,” Isla said, her tone gentle, indulgent, almost musical in its patience. “And there’s nothing wrong with that. Treasure the feeling, not the guilt.”

He peered at her from beneath the hood of his cloak, green eyes wide, lips trembling. “It smells like him…”

“Yes, yes, it does,” she murmured, nudging the tip of the hood back slightly so she could see his expression. “And it’s perfectly normal to find comfort in that. You’re not alone in feeling it, you know.”

He and Newt corresponded back and forth a few times — Harry, with Isla's help. They agreed to meet on a Thursday night to watch the moonflies at moonlight

The day arrived with the sort of quiet anticipation that seemed to make the very air hum for Harry, and he woke in a haze of nerves and excitement. Isla had knocked lightly, checking in with the same warm, calm smile she always reserved for him. She did not press him, merely offered tea and a soft reminder to be punctual, which Harry mumbled assent to, more preoccupied with the fluttering anticipation that had taken residence in his chest.

By the time the afternoon had waned into the dusky light of early evening, Harry had taken a long bath, letting the warm water seep through him, massaging away the tension he did not fully realize he had been carrying. His hair, still slightly damp from careful scrunching and patting, fell naturally in loose, glossy curls that caught the amber of the dying sun.

Isla appeared shortly thereafter, a twinkle in her eye that betrayed her amusement and delight at his first proper social outing beyond the confines of his own room. She had selected his outfit with care, knowing that the evening would be dim and that Harry wished for darker, more autumnal tones to complement the emerald and gold of his chosen ensemble. She had smoothed the fabric over his shoulders, adjusted the cuffs of his poet-sleeved shirt, and checked the fit of his waistcoat-corset hybrid, which hugged him snugly without restricting the natural curve of his waist.

“Emerald and gold,” she murmured approvingly as she inspected the combination. “You’ll blend with the shadows, yet the detailing will catch the light just enough for a lord such as yourself to be seen without shouting it.”

The trousers, cut just below the knee and tucked neatly into his knee-high boots, gave him a refined elegance while still allowing freedom of movement. The boots, polished, gleamed faintly, the subtle shimmer of protective charms glinting in the light. Isla fastened the clasp of his cloak, her hands brushing against the small of his back, and Harry shivered in anticipation. He did not bother with the back skirt attached to the cloak again; it was unnecessary for their purpose, and he preferred the freedom it allowed. The hood he drew over his head settled comfortably, shadowing the top of his face while allowing his green eyes to glimmer with excitement.

“Ready, Harrison?” Isla asked, stepping back to admire him, hands folded in that habitual, measured way that seemed to project both authority and warmth.

“I… think so,” Harry murmured, pulling the hood slightly tighter around his face, feeling the cloak’s inner sleeves wrap gently over his arms. The sensation was protective, almost reassuring, as though the garment itself understood the tremor of nerves he could not quite control.

They moved to the floo, Isla guiding him to the correct fireplace with calm assurance. Harry’s heart raced as he stepped into the swirling emerald flames, the world around him momentarily dissolving into flickering light and heat. He gripped the edges of his cloak, feeling the soft, protective lining.

When they emerged into the gardens, the moon hung low and silver, casting pale light across the pathways and illuminating the delicate forms of the flora and magical creatures that moved quietly through the shadowed undergrowth. Harry took a deep breath, allowing the crisp night air to fill his lungs, and felt a tremor of anticipation coil in his stomach.

“You look…” Isla began, trailing off as she searched for the right words, “…quite remarkable, Harry. The colours suit you, and the cloak… well, it's your favourite, isn't it?”

Harry only nodded. He could barely contain the excitement that made his legs jitter beneath the flowing cloak. He stayed rooted near the edge of the garden path.

Isla gave him a small smile and a gentle pat on the arm before disappearing into the shadows, leaving him alone to anticipate the arrival of Newt Scamander.

It wasn’t long before Newt appeared, fumbling, his eyes darting over the path as if he expected some dire consequence for arriving late. “Lord Peverell,” he began, hesitantly, his voice tight with formal respect.

Harry’s ears burned, and he immediately shook his head, hands clutching the cloak a little tighter around him. “Please,” he said, voice small but firm, “call me Harry. I… I prefer that name.”

Newt blinked, taken aback. The formalities seemed to melt away in the warmth of Harry’s words, replaced with a curious, tentative vulnerability that drew him in. His lips parted, as if to offer a correction, but then he simply said, “Then… Harry, you may call me Newt.”

His heart stuttered at the sound of the name from Newt. He nodded, cheeks flushed, but the blush didn’t fade, it only deepened as he realized he had been holding his breath, waiting for the moment to arrive, and it had.

Slowly, they moved toward the apparition point, the evening air brushing at their faces. Harry’s hand brushed against Newt’s sleeve, and instinctively, as if the connection were magnetic, he slipped his arm through Newt’s. 

“Are you ready?” Newt asked, glancing down at Harry with that nervous smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth.

Harry nodded, though his stomach fluttered with the strange thrill of anticipation. “Yes. Let’s go.”

With a subtle sway of magic and a concentrated focus, Newt Apparated them, the world blurred around him in the sudden, dizzying rush of magic.

Harry clutched at Newt’s sleeve, trying to steady himself, but the shift of the world hit him harder than he expected. A wave of vertigo, a sensation like the floor had vanished beneath his feet, surged through him. His legs faltered, and for the briefest heartbeat, he knew he would have fallen—

…had Newt not been there.

Instinctively, Newt reached around him, a strong, secure arm curling around Harry’s waist. He pressed Harry flush against his own chest, the heat of his body, the faint, intoxicating scent of an alpha flooding Harry’s senses. Harry’s knees buckled slightly, unable to support his own weight after the dizzying fall, and Newt held him steady, his hands firm and unyielding, yet gentle.

Harry’s breath hitched, a soft whimper escaping as the pheromones—raw and intimate—washed over him. He hadn’t realized he’d been longing for this, longing for protection, for safety, for a strong presence to anchor him... but here it was, tangible, pressing against him in the form of an alpha. His chest pressed into Newt’s, and for the first time, Harry felt a shiver of something dangerously tender running through him.

Newt, a whole head taller than Harry, bent slightly so his gaze could meet the green of Harry’s wide, trembling eyes. There was no judgment, no condescension just steady warmth, the kind of certainty that made Harry’s knees weak all over again. Newt’s arms didn’t shift to let him go; instead, they tightened just enough, subtly encasing Harry in the safety he hadn’t known he’d craved.

Harry’s hands went to Newt’s chest almost without thinking, clutching lightly at the fabric of his waistcoat, grounding himself in the undeniable reality of the warmth, the security, the alpha presence. His cheeks flamed crimson, not just from the closeness, but from the overwhelming, heady flood of sensations he was only just learning to navigate.

“Shhh…” Newt murmured, voice low, soothing, entirely inappropriate for the social norms of their time, yet utterly necessary. “It’s alright, Harry. I’ve got you.”

And Harry believed him. Oh, how he believed him. He pressed just slightly closer, whimpering again at the sensory storm of pheromones, the strength of Newt’s hold, the overwhelming sense of safety that, until this very moment, he hadn’t known he could ever feel. For a heartbeat, for an infinitesimal eternity, the field, the moonlight, the tall grasses—they all faded. All that existed was the press of Newt’s chest against his, the heat radiating through him, and the realization that he could truly let himself want something, someone, entirely.

“I’m sorry,” Harry murmured, stepping back a fraction. “Apparition never does well with me. Or I with it, I should say.” His hands fidgeted slightly, tugging at the hem of his cloak, hiding, as much as he could, the lingering tremor that wasn’t entirely from the vertigo. 

“That’s quite alright,” Newt replied, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. There was a quiet pride in the way he said it, though his cheeks pinked instantly, betraying an uncharacteristic self-consciousness. “I’m more than happy to catch you.”

The blush that crawled up Harry’s neck mirrored Newt’s own. Both of their eyes flickered down to the soft, dew-scented grass beneath them, then back up again, the moonlight painting Newt’s face with an almost ethereal glow.

“What… magical properties do moonflies have?” Harry asked, his voice a little tighter than usual, betraying the undercurrent of nervous excitement still thrumming through him.

Newt’s expression softened into something almost reverential. He gestured gracefully toward the gently undulating grasses where the moonflies were known to gather. “Moonflies are fascinating,” he began, his voice low and melodic, as though speaking louder might somehow disturb the delicate magic around them. “They are incredibly sensitive to lunar cycles, which governs not only their appearance but also their migratory and mating behaviors. Their wings are imbued with a faint luminescence, a natural magic that reacts to moonlight, creating patterns which vary subtly with the season and the surrounding flora. It’s said that the glow is more than decorative—it resonates with ambient magical energy, amplifying faint traces of a wizard’s aura.”

Harry’s eyes widened as he followed Newt’s every gesture, every flick of his hands as he traced the imagined paths of the moonflies. “So… they’re like little living indicators of magic?” he whispered, awe threading his tone.

“Exactly,” he said, walking beside him with measured, careful steps, mindful of the uneven ground. “They are delicate, yet incredibly attuned to the world around them. They react to the smallest disturbances, sensing danger and shifts in magical currents. Some wizards and magical scholars have even used them to detect illusory enchantments or hidden wards. They’re gentle, but perceptive—almost like… companions rather than creatures to be simply observed.”

“They’re… beautiful,” Harry murmured after a moment, his gaze tracing the soft shimmer of moonlight across the field. “Like… tiny stars, drifting in the grass.” His voice was quiet, almost breathless, and he noticed the faintest flush of approval on Newt’s face, the way his freckles seemed to bloom under the moonlight, the slight upward curl of his lips.

Newt’s hand brushed against Harry’s, almost by accident, or perhaps not. He suppressed a gasp, ducking his head slightly, and kept his hands folded inside the cloak’s inner sleeves, curling just enough to hide the betraying tremor.

“They’re more than just beautiful,” Newt added, his tone softening further, “they remind us to slow down, to notice the small, intricate wonders in the world. Most people overlook them, or they only glance and miss the way they interact with everything around them. They are small teachers of patience, of attentiveness… qualities I think—” he paused, glanced at Harry with a half-smile, “—that anyone observing them might find rather… humbling.”

“I… I think I understand,” Harry whispered, voice barely audible.

Harry’s focus had become singular, entirely consumed by one delicate creature that flitted and dipped through the silvered air. Its luminescent wings traced arcs of pale light against the night, weaving through the darkness like liquid stars. He crept forward, careful not to disturb its flight, his fingers curling around the hem of his cloak. Each step seemed to reverberate softly in the quiet field, though the moonflies paid no mind, attuned only to the subtleties of their magical environment.

The tiny creature alighted, almost impossibly, upon a stray curl of his hair. Harry froze, his breath catching in his throat, eyes widening in delighted astonishment. Slowly, he turned to face Newt, the moonfly resting lightly against the soft tangle of his curls, its faint glow illuminating his face. He beamed, a pure, unguarded smile stretching across his features, and pointed at the tiny visitor perched above his temple.

Newt’s chest constricted ever so slightly, and he drew in a slow, involuntary breath. The sight before him stole all thought from his mind for a moment—the fragile luminescence of the moonfly haloing Harry’s pale skin, the vibrant green of his eyes reflecting the dim shimmer like precious jewels, and the slight curve of his lips, untouched by self-consciousness, a smile so genuine it seemed to capture the very essence of wonder.

Every detail struck Newt with unerring clarity. The emerald tones of Harry’s waistcoat-corset deepened the verdant brilliance of his gaze, harmonizing with the shadowed grass around him. The gold embroidery along the edges of his clothing caught the faint moonlight, glowing like fine threads of captured starlight, tracing delicate patterns that seemed almost to echo the arcs of the moonflies themselves.

Newt shifted his weight slightly, instinctively closing the gap between them, though he did not approach too closely. There was a tension in him, a quiet ache, as if the world had compressed to the span between himself and this singular, exquisite human of pale skin and lithe form. He could feel the stirrings of something profound, some ancient, protective instinct that hummed through him, subtle yet insistent.

Harry, oblivious to the turmoil he had stirred, tilted his head, letting the moonfly drift gently over his curls. “Look at it, Newt!” he murmured, voice light with wonder. “Isn’t it amazing? It’s… it’s so tiny.”

He nodded, though his eyes never left Harry, tracing the lines of his face, the soft gleam of his skin, the way his cloak framed him like a living portrait. “Yes,” he said softly, voice low enough for only the two of them to hear. “Absolutely remarkable.” His hand twitched almost imperceptibly, as though he longed to reach out, to touch, but restrained himself with careful reverence.

The moonfly, oblivious to the silent drama it had become the centerpiece of, fluttered its wings once, sending a wash of gentle light across Harry’s shoulders. Harry’s hair shimmered and Newt’s gaze lingered on the delicate curve of his jaw, the faint rise of his cheeks as he smiled, utterly captivated by the creature yet unknowingly radiating a beauty that left Newt breathless.

“I… I think it likes me,” Harry whispered, a hint of pride threading his words as he tilted his head, letting the moonfly explore a little further along his curls. “Or… maybe it just likes the moonlight.”

Newt allowed a small, almost imperceptible exhale of relief and admiration. “Perhaps both,” he murmured, his voice husky, carrying a weight of fascination and something more—an unspoken longing that he dared not voice. 

The younger man's smile widened, unabashed and bright, and Newt’s pulse skipped once, twice. 

Harry’s green eyes found Newt’s across the soft glow of the night, a flicker of embarrassment and delight dancing in their depths, and Newt had to swallow the sharp pang in his chest, a rare vulnerability, as he whispered, almost to himself, “You’re… utterly breathtaking.”

And Harry, oblivious to the weight of that truth, simply laughed softly, eyes alight, and pointed again at the tiny moonfly resting lightly atop his curls.

Harry inched forward are collecting the tiny, luminescent creature delicately between his fingers, careful not to startle it. The moonfly hovered just above his hand, wings buzzing with soft, iridescent light, but Harry’s gaze had shifted, almost imperceptibly, from the creature to Newt. Their heads were close, close enough that the faintest scent of him brushed Harry’s senses.

Meanwhile, Newt  continued in his soft, measured voice, almost as if narrating a private lesson, his hands subtly gesturing toward the field as he spoke. “Male moonflies are slightly smaller, with a more concentrated glow to attract females. The females, in contrast, tend to have a wider wingspan for agility during migration. The hierarchy—well, it’s subtle, but it exists. Dominant males will—”

Newt’s words faltered halfway through, his voice catching as he realized Harry was no longer observing the moonfly at all. Instead, Harry’s eyes were tracing the lines of his face, the gentle slope of his nose, the curve of his lips, the sweep of his dark curls catching the moonlight. It was a look of pure wonder, unguarded and utterly consuming.

Harry’s expression was open, almost childlike in its astonishment, and Newt felt a sudden warmth rise to his cheeks. The soft brush of Harry’s shoulder against his—all of it combined into a quiet, magnetic intimacy that left Newt momentarily speechless.

He tried to continue, forcing his voice steady, “—and the males will sometimes—” but he found himself trailing off, words rendered trivial by the intensity of Harry’s gaze. It wasn’t just admiration for the moonfly, Newt realized with a quiet pang in his chest; it was the way Harry looked at him, noting, appreciating, absorbing his every subtle expression as if it were as fascinating as the tiny, glowing insect between them.

Harry’s hand twitched slightly, almost involuntarily, and the moonfly fluttered, its glow highlighting the delicate curve of his cheek, the pale shimmer of his skin against the dark emerald of his cloak. Newt’s pulse thudded in rhythm with the creature’s wings, a quiet symphony of fascination and desire.

Finally, Newt swallowed, taking a subtle step closer, his voice softer now, “Harry… you… you really notice, don’t you?”

He blinked, startled, and a faint flush crept over his cheeks. “Notice… what?” he murmured, voice small. But his fingers lingered around the moonfly, hesitant to let go, and his gaze flicked up again, hesitant, wide, shimmering with unspoken curiosity.

Newt’s chest tightened, and he forced a calm exhale. “Everything,” he admitted quietly, almost in a whisper, “I think you notice everything about me.”

Harry’s lips parted slightly.

They wandered slowly across the soft, moonlit field, the grass whispering underfoot, the night alive.

Not far ahead, a large, gnarled tree stood sentinel, its trunk thick and twisted with age, the bark cracked and pocked, revealing dark hollows near the base. Newt paused, tilting his head slightly, and gestured with a delicate hand toward one of the larger holes.

“Look there,” he whispered, his voice soft enough to avoid startling the creatures. Harry leaned forward, green eyes wide, and saw the faint glimmer of tiny wings tucked in the hollow. A cluster of moonflies had settled inside, their luminous bodies pulsing gently in the dim light, as if the very heart of the tree was breathing.

“They hide in the hollow when tired or cold,” Newt explained, stepping slightly closer so Harry could hear him without raising his voice. “Decaying trees are perfect for moonflies—warm, sheltered, and just moist enough to protect their delicate wings. They’ll rest here until the moon changes enough, then begin their migrations again.”

Harry nodded, fascinated, but as he straightened, he realized with a sudden, fluttering awareness that he was almost pressed back against Newt’s chest. 

He tilted his head back, his green eyes catching Newt’s profile in the silvered light of the moon. He thought, almost in disbelief, that Newt was far more captivating than any moonfly he had ever seen. 

For a moment he forgot the small, fluttering creatures in the tree hollow, the magic of their wings, the soft murmur of the night. There was only Newt, standing there, taller, steady, impossibly real, and entirely, achingly beautiful.

Newt glanced down, his own eyes meeting Harry’s, and something unspoken passed between them—an acknowledgment of fascination, of a magnetic pull that neither had tried to define but both understood. Harry’s small intake of breath seemed to stir the air around them, and for a heartbeat, it felt as though the moonlight itself leaned closer to observe, shimmering against the emerald and gold of Harry’s attire.

He dared a small smile, hesitant, almost shy, but full of wonder. And Newt, noticing the slight curl of it, allowed himself a tiny, imperceptible inhale, as though Harry’s awe had physically touched him. For all the magic of the night, the hovering moonflies, the enchanted moonlight, it was Harry who truly glimmered in Newt’s gaze.

Harry hesitated, but slowly, almost unconsciously, he pressed his back against Newt’s front. The contact was electric and grounding all at once; he shivered, not entirely from the cold, but from the heat and reassurance that radiated from the alpha behind him.

Newt’s arms flexed slightly at the subtle pressure, instinctively steadying Harry without a word. The warmth was immediate, a contrast to the crisp night air, and Harry’s heart fluttered wildly. He could feel the faint rise and fall of Newt’s chest through the fabric, the subtle scent of grass, wood, and the faint trace of herbs clinging to him. Every nerve in Harry’s body seemed alert, tingling, as though this was a sensation he had been waiting for his entire life but had never dared to imagine.

He knew he shouldn’t. Social norms, propriety, the unspoken rules of 1910s wizarding society—they all whispered in the back of his mind. And yet, every rational thought collided with the simple, undeniable desire to be held, to feel the protection of someone larger, someone strong, someone willing to bear the world quietly with him.

Newt shifted slightly, letting one arm settle snugly around Harry’s waist, the other relaxed by his side so as not to overwhelm, yet ready if needed. The movement was natural, fluid, and instinctive, as though he had been holding fragile creatures like this all his life. Harry leaned a fraction closer, resting his small frame against Newt’s chest, the warmth seeping into his bones. 

They both stared at the tree before them, the gnarled base hollowed where moonflies had taken refuge. 

“I know this is improper,” Harry admitted softly, his voice almost swallowed by the night air, “but… nothing’s ever felt so right. And, if you don’t mind me saying, you’re warm... and it’s so cold out here.”

Newt’s lips curved in a faint, private smile, the kind that seemed to acknowledge a secret understanding. “You fit perfectly in my arms,” he murmured, the words deliberate, grounding, almost a promise. His thumb traced absentminded circles along Harry’s hip.

Harry closed his eyes briefly at the contact, inhaling Newt’s pheromones. His body shivered once, then melted a little further into Newt’s embrace. 

They stood that way for several heartbeats, neither speaking, just breathing together. 

Then, Harry tilted his head back to peek at Newt, still flushed and wide-eyed. “I— I’ve never felt anything like this,” he admitted, voice soft, almost a whisper. “I don’t even know how I should… I mean, it’s just… perfect, and I shouldn’t, but—”

Newt’s own smile softened, the kind of gentle, patient expression reserved for creatures far more fragile than humans, and he lowered his chin so it hovered near Harry’s head. “Shh,” he murmured, “there’s no wrong here. Just… be.”

Harry let out a breath. Newt’s thumb stroked gently in response, as if acknowledging it without comment, and the night seemed to stretch infinitely around them—moonlit, quiet, and utterly intimate.

The shorter man tilted his head sideways, letting it rest lightly against Newt’s chest, listening to the steady, grounding beat of his heart. 

They swayed imperceptibly, a gentle rocking that mirrored the rhythm of quiet trust and shared serenity. 

Time passed softly, measured not by clocks but by heartbeats and the slow drifting of clouds across the moon. Ten minutes, maybe fifteen—it didn’t matter. Eventually, a subtle awareness of the chill pressing through their layered clothing and the night air reached them both.

Newt drew in a deep breath and tilted his head slightly down toward Harry. “I think… we should end the night soon,” he murmured, voice low and gentle, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile intimacy of the moment.

Harry let out a reluctant sigh, lifting his head slightly to peer up at Newt, green eyes luminous in the moonlight. “Yes… the cold,” he admitted, his cheeks tinged pink, though he nestled just a little closer for a fleeting second before letting go.

With careful, almost ceremonial slowness, Newt eased Harry from his hold, adjusting the cloak so it wrapped comfortably around him.

Then, with a mutual, wordless agreement, they turned to make their way back away from the moonflies. Harry took Newt's arm and they apparated back.

The moment the world snapped back into focus, Harry’s knees buckled, the sudden displacement making his stomach churn violently. His face paled, green eyes wide, and he braced himself instinctively—only for Newt’s strong hands to close around him, catching him with intimate precision. This time, from behind, Newt’s chest pressed against Harry’s back, the warm, solid contact grounding him against the violent jolt of travel.

Harry’s hands clawed weakly at the air as his stomach threatened rebellion. “Oh— oh, I—” he muttered, a whimper breaking free, the sensation of near vomit clinging to his throat. He rocked slightly, trying to control the heaving, but the very effort sent a shiver up his spine.

“Easy, easy… I’ve got you.” 

Seconds stretched as if suspended. Harry clenched his teeth, inhaled sharply through his nose, and forced himself to ride out the nausea. Each breath steadied by Newt’s hands, wrapping around him with gentle insistence.

Somehow, by some miracle, he managed to hold back the betrayal of his stomach, swallowing down the threat that had clawed so insistently at him.

He let out a trembling sigh of relief, leaning further into Newt’s hold. “If I had… if I had thrown up…” His voice faltered. “The night would have been ruined.”

Newt’s lips curved faintly in understanding, his hand squeezing Harry’s side just a touch more, not intrusive, but firm enough to reassure. “No, Harry,” he murmured softly, his chin resting lightly near the top of Harry’s head. 

Harry’s shoulders slumped slightly, hands resting against Newt’s forearms almost instinctively.

Eventually, with a quiet, mutual breath, Newt eased him back upright, allowing just enough space for Harry to regain himself fully, though Harry couldn’t resist pressing back against him for a fraction longer than propriety demanded before they walked on.

Newt’s long strides matched Harry’s careful, slightly uneven steps as they made their way through the crisp night air toward the ministry entrance. Every so often, Harry pressed a hand instinctively against the front of his torso, relishing the residual warmth.

“Are you staying in the ministry?” Newt’s voice was casual, but the note of curiosity and concern threaded delicately beneath the words.

Harry hesitated, biting the inside of his cheek before mumbling, “I am… for a while. I’m under protection.” His tone was clipped, almost rehearsed, though the slightest tremor betrayed him.

Newt’s brow lifted slightly, sensing layers of meaning behind the simple declaration. Was it the title, the last of the Peverells, that kept him under watchful eyes? Or was it something more—fragile and unique, a rare male omega navigating a world unprepared for him? Newt let the thought linger for a moment, weighing it, considering, before wisely deciding against questioning. Some things, he realized, were better approached with patience, with care, and not with the blunt curiosity that might fracture the delicate trust that had been built tonight.

Harry’s steps faltered slightly as they entered the ministry’s grand foyer. The stone floors gleamed beneath the high chandeliers, their reflections scattering across the polished surfaces in a kaleidoscope of muted gold and silver. Harry’s gaze flicked nervously toward the grand staircase and the portraits lining the walls, but he felt the faint, insistent pressure of Newt’s presence behind him, one arm brushing just enough to reassure without overstepping, and it steadied him more than any charm or spell ever could.

“I… I didn’t mean to—” Harry began, voice catching as he glanced over his shoulder, “I didn’t mean to be… so… reliant on you.”

Newt let out a small, easy laugh, low and warm, almost a purr against the crisp air. “Harry, "he said gently, “there’s nothing wrong with relying on someone when you need it. Not everyone gets that chance.” His tone carried no judgment, only quiet acceptance, the kind that made Harry feel simultaneously seen and safe in a way that had eluded him his entire life.

Harry swallowed hard, nodding.

The great doors of the ministry loomed before them, and Newt paused, his gaze resting on Harry with an intensity that made the omega’s chest flutter in ways he both feared and craved. “I’ll—” Newt began, then hesitated, swallowing, “I’ll be around. If you need… anything.”

Harry’s lips parted slightly, a soft, almost imperceptible murmur escaping, “I… I know. Thank you, Newt.” 

Newt inclined his head once, subtly, before watching Harry go slowly down the corridor.

Harry finally stumbled upon the right corridor, only to find that the twist of hallways and angles—so likely designed as a subtle protection measure—left him entirely disoriented. He muttered under his breath, tugging slightly at the hem of his cloak as he paused at a junction. “Erm… is there a house elf around?” 

As if on cue, a small, swift blur of motion manifested beside him. A house elf, eyes blinking up at him with a mixture of mild irritation and practiced efficiency, seized the hem of his cloak. Before he could even thank it properly, the elf gave a deft tug and, with the faintest snap of magic, they were deposited directly into his room. Harry’s knees nearly buckled from the speed and suddenness, his stomach lurched, and before he could manage more than a “Thank—,” the elf was gone, vanishing with the soft pop of disappearing magic.

Harry exhaled shakily, half amused, half exasperated. Probably a bit annoyed I called at this hour, he mused. Still, it had saved him from wandering the labyrinthine ministry halls any further. He closed the door behind him and leaned briefly against it, fiddling with his cloak, still suffused with the memory of Newt’s warmth. 

He kicked off his boots and began stripping away the clothes, throwing them into the laundry basket for the house elves to deal with. His trousers, stockings, and undergarments—everything except the cloak. That he could not part with. The bottom of it brushed lightly against the grass from earlier, but it carried Newt’s presence. That alone was enough to keep him from sending it off to be washed. After all, he had sent it yesterday, and now it seemed practically a second skin, a tiny shield against loneliness, worn night and day.

He reached for the dress-style pyjamas he had hardly worn. The soft linen rustled as he slid into them, feeling oddly conspicuous in the gentle folds that draped down to just below his knees. It was an odd sensation, the fabric fluttering around his thighs, and he felt a subtle, unfamiliar awareness as his bare skin pressed lightly against itself beneath the flow of material. The dress was loose, airy. There was a strange sense of guilt mixed with comfort—he had practically ignored this piece of clothing, yet now he felt as though he should have sought it out sooner.

Lying on his side, he tugged the cloak further around himself, folding into it like a cocoon. He instinctively drew his knees slightly up, thighs touching. And yet, there was a pang of unease—the fabric of the dress might ride up as he shifted in sleep in ways that felt too delicate, too personal, for him to entirely relax.

Even so, he couldn’t bring himself to remove the cloak and get changed. It smelled faintly of the field and, more importantly, of Newt. The scent was a quiet balm, a reminder that warmth could exist without judgment, without expectation. He curled further into the cocoon of fabric.

Chapter Text

Harry stirred reluctantly, the alarm’s chiming slicing through the quiet of his room at precisely eight o’clock. He let it ring for a moment, then, with a groggy frown, hoisted himself entirely out of the cocoon of blankets and cloak. Standing on the floor in his pyjamas, the fabric of the dress rustling softly around his knees, he allowed his limbs to stretch languidly before curling back into the bed again.

Miraculously, the alarm, perhaps convinced he was awake and attending to the day, ceased its insistence. A small, triumphant smirk flickered across his face as he sank back into the soft embrace of his cloak. Sitting up had evidently been the trick; merely shifting in bed had only enraged it further, forcing its ceaseless clanging upon him.

He closed his eyes for a few more precious moments, relishing the gentle warmth the cloak offered. Its sleeves curled around him almost instinctively, as if it remembered the contours of his arms, snug and reassuring. He tilted his head into the hood. A smile, almost imperceptible in the drowsy light, tugged at his lips.

The knock at his door was soft but firm, measured in a way that suggested Isla’s efficiency and good manners in one precise motion. An hour had passed, it seemed, and with a sigh, she entered, her presence immediately filling the room with a composed warmth. “I see you’ve worked out how to beat the alarm,” she said, the corners of her lips tilting in amusement. “Honestly, I can’t believe that one time you slept through it. That thing will play for an hour if you don’t get up properly.”

Harry blinked sleepily at her, still cocooned within the folds of his cloak, the hood draping gently over his hair. “It does?” he murmured, his voice thick with drowsiness. “Isla, I… I’m so tired.” 

“Oh, I know,” Isla said, crouching down beside the bed, her hands brushing lightly against the fabric of his cloak. “The elves told me you came back past midnight. So… how did it go?” 

He buried further into the folds of the cloak, hugging it to himself with a quiet desperation. His voice emerged muffled from the hood, barely above a whisper, “It… it was… fine. Magical. Incredible…” His green eyes peeked out, glinting in the soft morning light, a blush creeping over his cheeks despite the drowsiness, despite the privacy of his cocoon.

Her lips quirked knowingly. “Hmm,” she teased, leaning slightly closer, “you smell like Newt.”

Harry froze just slightly, then he hugged the cloak tighter, pressing his cheek into the soft folds as if to bury himself further into the memory, into the feeling of safety, of desire, of something profoundly right that was still shocking him in its intensity.

“I…” he whispered, voice trailing, almost caught between awe and embarrassment. “I didn’t think… I mean… he’s… just… so warm, and… and I don’t know how to… how to not…”

Isla simply crouched beside him, letting him breathe and process, her hand brushing lightly along his shoulder and the top of his head, guiding and soothing without intrusion. “Shh,” she murmured softly. “That’s perfectly natural, Harry. You’re safe. You’re entirely safe here.”

“I’m awful at coping with Apparition,” Harry said. “And he caught me both times. He’s so steady. So warm. And beautiful. And— and the moonflies were incredible too. One… one landed in my hair.” His words tumbled out in a rush, each syllable punctuated by a subtle blush creeping up his neck. “And Newt… he showed me where they sleep, in rotation, until migration. And we— well, we accidentally, um… we hugged. My back to his front. That kind of hug… until it got too cold.”

He paused, his hands tightening involuntarily on the soft folds of his cloak. His green eyes, wide and bright, glimmered with a mixture of awe, embarrassment, and that uncontainable thrill that only came from something—or someone—he truly adored.

Isla smiled, a knowing, indulgent curve to her lips. “Oh, Harry,” she said softly, leaning a little closer, “you’ve got the biggest crush over him. I’ve never seen you like this. And it’s only amplified by the fact you haven’t had true care before. You’ve been starved for this, haven’t you? For someone steady, someone safe, someone… extraordinary, to just hold you and let the world wait.”

Harry frowned slightly, his small mouth quirking in a sheepish, yet thoughtful expression. “Well… if it makes me this happy now, then I can hardly be displeased about waiting for it,” he admitted, his voice muffled against the hood of his cloak.

“You’ve been implementing different ways of speech,” Isla said, a playful note in her voice, brushing a stray curl from his forehead. “You’ve been thinking carefully about how you express yourself. How to hold attention, how to be… understood.”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice still soft, “I’ve been trying. Am I… am I good?”

“You’re getting really good at it,” Isla reassured him, her eyes warm and approving. “I can tell. And I’d wager that cloak isn’t going to leave your touch until Newt’s smell fades entirely.”

“I… I think you’re right,” he murmured, almost to himself. “I don’t think I want it to leave. Not for a long time.”

Isla chuckled quietly, brushing her fingers along the top of his head, the motion gentle and intimate. “Well, I can hardly blame you. That boy is exceptional, Harry. And… I do believe you’ve been longing for something like that your whole life. Someone steady, kind… someone who sees you, really sees you.”

He exhaled slowly, the sound a mixture of awe and relief. “I… I just didn’t know I could feel this… safe. And happy. And… wanted,” he admitted, each word weighed with new, tender significance. “It’s… overwhelming. But… in a good way.”

Grey eyes softened, catching the subtle shifts in his expression, the flicker of his unguarded happiness. “And that’s the point, isn’t it, Harry? To let yourself feel it. To let yourself be held…"

Harry sighed into the hood.

“And remember,” Isla said, her tone carrying that mix of sternness and indulgent warmth that Harry had come to rely on, “you’re meeting my brother Sirius tomorrow for lunch in my office. I don’t believe you’ve been in my office yet, have you?”

“What about the room you looked at my family line in when I first arrived?”

“Oh, that’s not my office, that’s a staff room,” she corrected, a faint laugh in her voice. “Merely a room where the necessary papers and ledgers are kept. Very practical, very dull. I only brought you there so you could see the history in context, nothing more.”

Harry’s brows knitted, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “A very bland staff room, that I’m guessing no one ever uses?”

“You have that right,” Isla replied with a subtle nod, her sharp eyes glinting with amusement. “Very few care to trudge through the dust-laden volumes and ledgers I keep there. That room is reserved for the faithful few who wish to glimpse the past.”

Harry swallowed, biting his lip as a small, uneasy thought crept into his mind. “Isla… what if your brother doesn’t like me?” 

“Harry,” she said gently, “Sirius is a man of good judgement. He won’t dislike you because of who you are. Quite the opposite, in fact. He’ll see what I see in you—someone rare, someone remarkable, someone who’s been… well, let’s say, underappreciated until now.”

Green eyes widened slightly, a blush rising in his cheeks. “Underappreciated?” he murmured, almost incredulously.

“Yes, my dear,” she said, her lips quirking into a soft, amused smile. “You’ve been left to navigate so much on your own, without proper care or understanding. But that stops here. Tomorrow, you’ll meet my brother, and you’ll see, he’ll recognize what I’ve already known. ”

Harry let out a faint, shaky breath, curling a little deeper into his cloak. “I hope so,” he admitted softly, voice muffled against the fabric, “I… I don’t know how to impress anyone properly.”

“Don’t think of it as impressing anyone,” Isla replied, straightening slightly, her tone firm yet comforting. “Think of it as simply being yourself. He will respond to that just as I did, the moment I met you.”

“Alright,” he whispered, “I’ll try. For you… and maybe for him too.”

"That’s all I ask, Harry. Simply be yourself. I’ve no doubt he’ll be fascinated, and perhaps even… a little enchanted.”

“My godfather’s name was Sirius,” Harry murmured, voice quiet but steady, his eyes distant as though seeing through time itself.

Isla blinked, surprised. “Oh… oh, Harry.” Her voice gentled at once, her heart sinking. She could see the way his shoulders folded inward slightly, that minute change of posture that always betrayed a deeper ache beneath his words.

“It’s alright,” he said quickly, a reflexive attempt to ease her worry. His lips curled into something that might have been a smile if not for the sorrow etched beneath it. “I know his great-grandfather was also a Sirius. He showed me his family tree.” A short pause followed, his voice cracked faintly. “But he— he was the closest to a father I ever really knew.”

Something inside Isla softened further, and she reached for him without hesitation, pulling him into a gentle, protective embrace. He felt smaller than ever then, thin frame pressing into her, as if seeking the comfort he’d never truly been given. “Oh, my dear boy,” she whispered against his hair, “I’m so sorry you’re parted from him now."

Harry’s hands clutched faintly at her sleeve, and his voice trembled when he spoke again. “He died in the war, Isla,” he said, his breath uneven, eyes glistening. “I didn’t leave him behind when I… when I accidentally arrived here. I killed him years before.”

The words came out so softly they might have vanished into the air had Isla not been so close. For a moment she froze, holding him still, her chest tightening with disbelief and compassion. “You did not kill him!” she said firmly, pulling back just enough to see his face, to look into those tormented green eyes. “I do not know what happened, but how can you say such an awful thing?”

He tried to speak but the words faltered. Finally, they tumbled out in a broken rush. “T–the dark wizard sent a vision,” he stammered, voice breaking. “A vision of Sirius being tortured... so I… I went to go and save him, but it was a trick, a trap. And Sirius ended up coming to save me instead.” He swallowed hard, every word tearing at him. “And he didn’t make it out. His cousin... she— she killed him.”

Isla’s heart ached at the anguish written across his face; her hand rose instinctively to cup his cheek, thumb brushing just beneath his eye. “Oh, Harry,” she whispered, voice trembling now too. “You were a child, facing monsters no one should face. That is not your fault.”

He shook his head weakly, eyes closing as a tear slid free despite his best effort to contain it. “But it feels like it was. If I hadn’t gone, if I’d just—”

“Enough,” Isla said softly, but with gentle authority. “You did what love made you do. You acted with your heart, not malice. That is not guilt—it’s humanity.”

Harry’s breath shuddered, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction as he let himself lean into her touch. “You sound like him,” he whispered faintly.

“Then I’ll take that as the highest compliment,” she murmured, brushing his curls back with care. “He must have been a man worth remembering.”

Harry closed his eyes, a faint sound escaping him—something between a sigh and a sob. Isla stayed close, holding him until the tremors eased, until his breathing steadied, until the ghost of the past loosened its grip enough for the present to come back into focus.

When he finally pulled back, his voice was quieter, steadier, though still soft. “Thank you, Isla,” he whispered.

She smiled faintly, her hand still resting against his shoulder. “Always, dear heart... I know tomorrow will be hard for you, with what you just told me, facing someone from that line—someone who shares his name—it may bring up… echoes you aren’t ready for.”

Harry shook his head slightly, still buried in the folds of the cloak. “Well,” he murmured, voice low, “I’m banking on the fact that he’s his great-grandfather. He can’t look exactly the same… though I know… Blacks tend to look remarkably similar no matter what.” His green eyes flicked up at her, glinting with the faintest hint of nervous humor. “And my Sirius… he was an alpha. This one… he’ll be different. A different kind of person.”

Isla tilted her head, studying him. “Different, yes… but don’t discount the power of resemblance, Harry. Not just in looks. You may find pieces of him in mannerisms, in the way he carries himself, even in how he breathes or laughs. It could surprise you, in ways both comforting and… unsettling.”

He exhaled sharply. “I suppose I’ll just have to take it as it comes. I can’t change the past… or who I was with my Sirius. I can only… try to face it now, with the new one.”

“And you won’t be alone,” Isla said firmly, tilting her head closer. “I’ll be there. I’ll make sure you’re safe, and that nothing overwhelms you. You’ve been through too much already to face this unprepared.”

Harry’s lips pressed together, a small, almost shy smile tugging at the corners. “I… I know. And thank you. Really. I don’t think I’d have anyone else to lean on in a situation like this.” His hands fidgeted in the folds of the cloak, tracing the embroidery along the edges. “Even with all the rules, all the proprieties… somehow it feels okay with you.”

Isla allowed herself a soft smile, one that carried pride and affection in equal measure. “Then we’ll navigate it together, Harry. One moment at a time. You are not alone in this, not now, not ever.”

He was led down to Isla’s office by one of the ministry’s younger clerks, a pleasant enough beta who didn’t say a word beyond a quiet “this way, Lord Peverell.” Harry followed, his hands tucked into the folds of his cloak as though for courage.

He was dressed neatly in his teal ensemble — the waistcoat precisely fitted, the sleeves of his white shirt turned and buttoned just so, gold-threaded embroidery along the lapel catching the faint light of the sconces as they walked. He’d once again forgone the back skirt that matched the outfit, deciding the weight of it would make wearing his cloak unbearable. The cloak was always his final comfort, like a silent shield draped around him.

Still, he was weary of it today. It smelled faintly of Newt, and though the scent had faded almost completely—just a trace now, a memory rather than a presence—he couldn’t quite bring himself to leave it behind. Newt hadn’t scented it, hadn’t even meant to leave anything on it. It was just the faint mingling of warmth and touch that had remained after that night beneath the moon. Harry had half a mind to wash it, but he couldn’t do it yet. Not when it still felt like safety.

And so he wore it, comfort and vulnerability both stitched into the folds.

The corridors of the Ministry were strange this morning—brighter somehow, busier. Footsteps echoed off the high ceilings; papers floated themselves through doorways; voices murmured politely over tea. It was still a world Harry hadn’t quite gotten used to. The people here moved with such grace, their magic casual and quiet, and their speech always just a touch too measured.

He kept his head down, counting his breaths as they passed a tall mirror in the corridor. For a heartbeat, he almost didn’t recognize himself—the young man reflected there, fine clothes and carefully tamed curls, a cloak so soft and old it clung to him like memory. He looked nothing like the boy who had stumbled into this time months ago. He wasn’t sure if that was comforting or frightening.

When they reached the door to Isla’s office, the beta gave a small bow and stepped aside. “She’s expecting you, Lord Peverell,” he said.

Harry nodded his thanks, smoothing down the front of his waistcoat though his fingers trembled slightly. Inside, he could hear voices—Isla’s, calm and melodic, and another, deeper, richer, carrying the easy authority that made the hairs on the back of Harry’s neck rise before he even saw the speaker.

The name echoed in his mind again: Sirius.

He hesitated a moment longer outside the door, clutching the edge of his cloak in both hands. It was so strange—wanting to turn and run, yet also wanting to see the man. To know what kind of Sirius this one was. To see how much of the familiar he’d find in a stranger.

Then, drawing a steady breath, he lifted his chin and knocked softly.

The sound was swallowed by the heavy wood and velvet air inside. Isla’s warm “Come in!” broke through a heartbeat later.

Harry pushed the door open and stepped inside.

What hit first was the pheromones.

Soft—delicate even—yet with a depth that made Harry’s knees nearly give way. Jasmine and sandalwood. He’d caught traces of those scents before, in passing from female omegas or from perfumed rooms in the Ministry, but never like this. Never so alive. It was as though the air had leaned forward to greet him, warm and slow and tender. His breath left him in a sigh he didn’t realize he’d been holding—an instinctive exhale of recognition, of home.

And somewhere in the room, he heard another sigh, equally soft and startled.

The door clicked shut behind him, and the scent surrounded him fully, familiar and foreign all at once, like a childhood memory he hadn’t lived himself. A fellow male omega.

Harry hadn’t known until that moment how different it would be. He’d smelled female omegas before—sweet, warm, sometimes overwhelming—but this… this was grounding. Calming. A scent that wrapped around him like a quilt and whispered that he wasn’t alone in the world after all.

The man before him, Sirius Black II, wasn’t at all what Harry had imagined. He was shorter than Harry’s godfather had been, perhaps five foot seven, and carried none of the half-starved sharpness that had haunted his Sirius. This one was fuller, healthier, his frame strong yet softened by a natural curve, a quiet maternal balance. His hair, a mass of dark waves, was tied neatly back with a black ribbon that caught the light when he moved. His clothes were impeccable—dark plum and silver, embroidered with quiet elegance that spoke of old blood and calm confidence and avoiding the summer palette in confidence. And there was no trace of the rough beard or haunted eyes Harry remembered.

Just warmth. And poise. And the faintest, knowing curiosity.

Sirius’s lips were parted slightly as he looked at Harry—stunned, maybe, but not unkind. It was the look of someone who’d waited too long to see something they’d once been sure didn’t exist.

It had been years since he’d met another male omega. The last had been an old scholar who lived out his years in the countryside, nearly a century and a half old by the time Sirius had last visited him. To stand now before someone so young, so clearly vibrant—barely eighteen, eyes the brightest green he’d ever seen, posture uncertain but proud—was strange beyond words.

Sirius could feel the instinct tugging at him, the quiet omega hum beneath his ribs, the urge to comfort, to nurture, to make space safe.

And Harry, trembling and shy but so evidently moved by the scent in the air, felt it too.

“Hello,” he squeaked. His voice came out much higher than he meant it to—thin, uncertain, betraying the nervous flutter in his chest. He cleared his throat, his fingers worrying the edge of his cloak where it draped over his hands, and tried again, quieter this time, “Hello.”

Sirius’s lips curved into the gentlest smile, the kind of expression that carried both understanding and restraint. “Hello, Lord Peverell,” he said softly, dipping his head in greeting. His tone was smooth, deep, touched with an accent that curled around each syllable like smoke.

His throat bobbed. “Please, just Harry.”

That earned him a glint of warmth in Sirius’s grey eyes. “Then Harry it is,” he murmured, and there was a hint of relief there, as though formality had felt too heavy between them. "Call me Sirius."

For a moment, Harry didn’t know where to look. Everything in him screamed for composure, but his instincts were louder—the soft pull toward the other omega’s scent, the unfamiliar safety humming in the air. It was strange, how much his body relaxed just standing there.

“You smell nervous,” Sirius said lightly, and Harry blinked, startled. Then Sirius chuckled—a low, melodic sound that made Harry’s stomach twist in embarrassment. “Don’t worry, dear. Most people do, the first time they meet me. My scent tends to… fill a room.”

“It’s not bad,” Harry blurted before he could stop himself. His face turned crimson. “I mean- it’s actually q-quite nice.”

Sirius’s eyes softened. “You’ve good instincts, then. Jasmine and sandalwood—my bondmate used to say it calmed people down.”

Harry smiled awkwardly, clutching at the hem of his cloak. “It does. It… really does.”

He tilted his head, studying him for a heartbeat longer, something like fondness flickering in his expression. “You’re smaller than I expected,” he said finally.

Harry’s cheeks warmed.

Isla was positively grinning.

She stood by her desk, arms crossed, eyes dancing as she watched the two of them—her brother and her precious ward—regard one another like wary but curious creatures. 

Harry still looked like he might bolt if anyone spoke too loudly, his fingers clutching the folds of his cloak, his head dipped just slightly. Sirius, on the other hand, was the picture of calm poise: spine straight, shoulders relaxed, but with that telltale softness in his eyes that only appeared when something (or someone) had charmed him entirely.

“Oh, look at you two,” Isla said, unable to help herself. “You’d think I’d just introduced long-lost brothers.”

Sirius gave her a flat look that couldn’t hide the smile tugging at his lips. “You could have warned me he’s adorable.”

“Warned you?” Isla laughed. “I thought you liked surprises.” Harry went scarlet to the roots of his hair, stammering something unintelligible, which only made Isla grin harder. “See? You’ve flustered him already.”

Sirius turned back to Harry, voice gentling immediately. “Forgive me, Harry. I don’t mean to embarrass you. It’s only that it’s been a long, long time since I’ve met someone like myself.”

Harry peeked up shyly, those brilliant green eyes darting between the siblings. “I-it’s all right,” he murmured. “I… I’ve never met anyone like you, either. Not… not another like me.”

His expression softened, and for a moment, Isla swore she could feel the emotion ripple through the air like the first notes of a lullaby. Two lost stars, finding each other by chance.

“Well,” Isla said brightly, clapping her hands together to lighten the mood before it got too heavy, “now that we’ve established how precious you both are, shall we have lunch? The elves made something special today—roast pheasant and honeyed carrots. And if either of you so much as sniffles, I will simply melt.”

Harry’s shy laughter came like a fragile melody, and Sirius smiled fully now, reaching out to guide him toward the small dining table in the corner. Isla followed them, grinning still, her heart warm and full.

Perhaps, she thought as she watched Harry relax ever so slightly under her brother’s gentle presence, perhaps this was exactly what he needed.

Harry’s fork hovered uncertainly above his plate, the pheasant untouched, the honeyed carrots cooling by the minute. He wasn’t even sure why his hands trembled—maybe it was the unfamiliar scent, the soft strength radiating from the other omega across the table, or maybe it was just that he felt like he’d walked into something too intimate for words. His stomach twisted with nerves, appetite entirely gone.

Sirius, it turned out, wasn’t faring much better. He’d cut one careful slice of pheasant and then simply… stopped, knife still poised, as though his focus had been utterly stolen by the young man sitting opposite him. Every few seconds his gaze flicked up, soft and assessing, and every time Harry caught it, he blushed harder and pretended to inspect his plate again.

It was pitiful.

And Isla had finally had enough.

“You know what I think?” she said suddenly, her tone cutting clean through the silence like the crack of a whip. “This is the most pathetic thing I’ve ever seen.”

Both omegas froze mid-motion—Harry mid-breath, Sirius mid-blink—eyes snapping up to her like scolded schoolchildren.

Isla leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs, utterly unrepentant. “Sorry to be blunt about it, but grow a backbone, both of you. You’re acting like two frightened rabbits in a thunderstorm. He’s not going to bite you, Harry, and you—” she turned on Sirius with mock severity, “you’re a grown man with three children, for Merlin’s sake. Speak.”

Sirius spluttered. “I-Isla, really—”

Harry’s lips twitched before he could help it. A little laugh escaped him, quick and light, and it startled him as much as it did the others.

“There,” Isla said, pointing at him triumphantly. “A sound. That’s already better.”

“I wasn’t aware I was being graded,” Harry murmured, hiding his smile behind his hand.

“You always are when you dine with my sister,” Sirius said dryly, and that earned him another quick laugh from Harry.

Isla huffed, pretending not to be pleased. “Good. Now that you’re both speaking and smiling, maybe one of you could eat.”

Sirius sighed, finally taking a bite. “Bossy as ever.”

“Efficient as ever,” she corrected. “Now, talk. Properly. You’re both rare enough that I expect a full, fascinating conversation about omega things, and if I hear more than ten seconds of silence again, I’ll assign you both work.”

Harry bit back another laugh, cheeks warm. “What kind of work?”

“Oh, I’ll think of something dreadfully embarrassing,” Isla said, with a grin that made both of them immediately pick up their forks.

Harry smiled shyly into his cup before setting it down and folding his hands neatly in his lap. “How are your children, Lord Black?”

Sirius chuckled, instantly waving a hand. “Please, none of that. Just Sirius. And yes, they're alright, all three of them. All boys. Or... well, I had three until a certain son of mine decided to make me a grandfather far earlier than I would’ve liked.”

Isla snorted into her tea. “Oh, do tell him. It’s my favourite story.”

He groaned, running a hand through his tied-back hair. “It’s not a story, it’s a tragedy.”

Harry blinked, wide-eyed and polite, waiting.

Sirius sighed deeply. “My eldest, Arcturus—sixteen now—got himself into quite the mess when he was fourteen. He and a McMillian girl—Melania—decided they were madly in love and, well…” He gestured vaguely, as if the rest needed no explanation. “Nine months later, little Lucretia arrived. A delightful accident, but an accident nonetheless.”

Harry covered his mouth, eyes widening. “At fourteen?”

“Yes,” he said dryly. “Fourteen. Barely old enough to tie his own cravat properly, but apparently more than capable of—well—other things.”

Isla laughed, not even pretending to hide it. “Hesper nearly hexed the boy bald when she found out.”

“Oh, she did not,” Sirius said with mock outrage, though the corner of his mouth twitched. “She threatened to, though. We both did, if I’m honest. And then, of course, Arcturus tried to run away from home with the girl to raise the baby in the wilds. Said he could ‘live off the land.’”

The younger omega bit his lip, trying not to laugh. “He didn’t.”

“He did,” Sirius said grimly, stabbing a piece of pheasant. “He made it as far as the end of the garden before the wards turned him around. Thought it was divine intervention and fainted dead away. The poor girl was in tears; I was in hysterics. And Lucretia—sweet thing—screamed her head off the entire time.”

Isla was openly grinning now, shoulders shaking. “He means she screamed because Sirius and Hesper were screaming at each other.”

Sirius pointed his fork at her accusingly. “I seem to recall you screaming at me too.”

“I was cheering you on!” Isla said innocently.

Harry couldn’t help it—he laughed, a real laugh this time, bright and warm. It slipped out of him so naturally that even he was startled by it. “Oh, that poor boy,” he said between chuckles. “And poor you. I can’t imagine raising a child and then suddenly a grandchild as well.”

Sirius softened at that, leaning back in his chair. “It’s chaos,” he admitted, voice gentler now. “But Lucretia’s… she’s wonderful. Chubby cheeks, bright eyes. She laughs whenever anyone drops something—thinks it’s the funniest thing in the world. I suppose it keeps us all humble.”

He smiled tenderly, imagining the baby. “She sounds precious.”

“She is,” Sirius said, watching Harry’s expression quietly. “You’d like her, I think. You’ve got that… gentle way about you. Omegas tend to be good with little ones.”

Harry’s fingers stilled upon the edge of his cloak, the soft fabric clenched between his thumb and forefinger. Teddy, his mind whispered. Little Edward Lupin with his ever-changing hair and his round, trusting eyes, eyes that had once looked up at Harry as if the world were still kind. Barely a year old when it all ended. Barely a year when Harry had lost everyone and left him behind to be raised by others, just as he himself had been. The ache swelled in his chest, tender and bruised. He swallowed hard and blinked away the sting in his eyes.

“I love babies,” he said softly, and his voice trembled despite the gentle smile he tried to summon. “I would love to meet your family.”

Sirius’s expression warmed, the sternness that often sat in his brow softening entirely. “I would love for you to be part of our family,” he said, simply and sincerely.

Harry’s breath caught. 'Part of our family.' The words struck somewhere deep, lodging under his ribs where loneliness had long made its home. For the briefest of moments he could almost feel what it might be like—warmth, laughter, belonging. The weight of being alone slipping, even just a little.

“I— I couldn’t possibly…” he stammered, eyes darting down, cheeks flushing as though the idea itself were too bright to look at directly. “You’ve been so kind already—”

“Harry,” Isla interrupted gently but firmly, leaning forward, one hand on the table, the other reaching toward him. “Omegas need packs." Her tone wasn’t patronising—it was maternal, understanding, resolute. “It’s not weakness, darling, it’s nature. You thrive in warmth, in safety, in company that won’t demand more of you than you can give.”

Sirius nodded slowly, his dark eyes kind. “She’s right. When we’re cut off from that instinct, from those bonds, it feels like we’re… fading. You’ve done everything alone, haven’t you?”

Harry hesitated, then gave a tiny nod, gaze fixed on his clasped hands.

“Then it’s time to stop,” Sirius said softly. “It doesn’t have to be blood. You have Isla, and if you’ll allow it… you have me, too. My home is full of noise and chaos, but it’s safe. It’s steady.”

He looked up then, meeting Sirius’s gaze, the green of his eyes shimmering faintly in the lamplight. There was something so heartbreakingly kind in Sirius’s offer, something that made the walls he had built around his heart falter just a little.

He smiled faintly, though his voice shook. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Say yes,” Isla said simply, her expression softening. “Just say yes, Harry."

He laughed weakly through the lump in his throat. “Yes,” he whispered. “I’d like that very much.”

And though he would not yet admit it aloud, that small word—yes—felt like the first true step toward home he had taken in years.

“Oh, Siri,” Isla said suddenly, a mischievous gleam in her eyes as she turned toward her brother. “Guess the type of wand Harry has.”

Sirius raised a dark eyebrow, immediately suspicious of her tone. “Oh? Is this another one of your tricks, Isla?”

She grinned. “Maybe.”

He hummed thoughtfully, gaze flicking between the two of them, as if trying to sniff out the joke. “I’m not sure... oak, perhaps? His scent has that grounding note, a bit like old oak.”

“No,” Isla said, her voice laced with amusement. “Sirius, what wood did our dear sister cry over and over about not having?”

He blinked once. Then groaned. “Cherry wood.” He dropped his head into his hand, muttering, “Merlin’s beard, she cried for weeks after her wand ceremony. Refused to use her ash wand for a month.”

Isla laughed. “She said it wasn’t romantic enough, remember?”

Sirius sighed, though there was fondness in his exasperation. He turned to Harry with a raised brow and a faint grin. “Don’t tell me—you really have a cherry wood wand?”

Harry nodded shyly, the corners of his mouth twitching upward in a small, proud smile. “Yes, sir.”

Sirius chuckled. “Oh, don’t ever let Belvina see. She might steal it in your sleep.”

He smiled, soft and uncertain, then reached inside his cloak. “It’s right here, actually.”

He pulled out a wand—but not his wand.

For a heartbeat, none of them breathed. The air seemed to hum, crackling faintly with a quiet, ancient pulse that had no business existing in such a domestic setting. The polished length of light wood caught the light in a way that made Isla’s stomach drop.

“Oh, heavens above,” she whispered.

Sirius went utterly still, his nostrils flaring faintly. “That’s—”

“I— oh— no—” Harry stammered, panic surging through his veins. His fingers trembled as he shoved the wand back into his cloak with almost frantic urgency, fumbling until another slipped free—a much warmer, softer wand of cherry wood. He placed it on the table, his head bowed low, shoulders drawn up tight as though expecting a blow.

The silence in the room felt sharp.

Isla’s breath caught at the sight of the man's small, hunched frame, his hands shaking as he whispered, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to— I wasn’t thinking—”

“Harry,” she started softly, moving around the table, hand lifting to rest lightly on his arm.

But the moment her fingertips brushed his sleeve, Harry flinched so violently his chair tipped backward. He fell to the floor in a tangle of limbs and fabric, curling in on himself, one arm raised instinctively as though shielding his head.

“Harry!” Isla gasped, stepping back immediately, horror flooding her expression.

“I— I’m sorry!” Harry’s voice broke on the words. “I didn’t— please don’t—”

He didn’t even know what he was begging for. His chest hurt, lungs tight with panic, heart thrashing like a trapped bird. Isla’s face blurred behind a film of tears, and all he could feel was the old, sick reflex of fear—of what happened when he disappointed family.

But Isla wasn’t moving toward him anymore. She froze in place, her own eyes glassy. Sirius, however, was already on the floor beside Harry, his movements slow and deliberate, his voice dropping to a low, steady rumble that vibrated through the air.

“Hey… hey, little one,” Sirius murmured, his omega pheromones rolling out in soft waves of comfort—warm, like sunlight filtered through trees. “Easy now. You’re safe. No one’s angry with you.”

Harry’s breath came in shallow gasps, his body shaking as if trying to fight itself. He looked utterly lost, trapped between apology and instinct.

Sirius didn’t reach for him yet; he just knelt close, palms flat against the floor. “Can I come closer?” he asked quietly. “I won’t touch you until you want me to.”

Harry blinked at him, disoriented, eyes glassy with tears.

“It’s all right,” Sirius soothed. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You just got startled, yeah? Happens to all of us. You’re safe here. I promise.”

Slowly—achingly slowly—Harry’s rigid posture began to loosen. His arm lowered, his shoulders sagging as if his body was finally registering safety. A quiet, hiccuped sob escaped him.

Sirius moved closer inch by inch, until he could sit cross-legged beside the boy. He opened his arms slightly, not insisting, just inviting.

Harry hesitated, blinking through the tears, before instinct overrode thought. He leaned in, trembling, and Sirius gathered him in gently, no tight grip, just a steady embrace. His scent deepened, the soft notes of jasmine and sandalwood washing over Harry like a tide.

“There we go,” he whispered, resting his chin lightly atop Harry’s head. “You’re all right. I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

Harry’s breath hitched again before melting into quiet, shuddering breaths against Sirius’s chest. The warmth, the scent, the safety—it all blurred together until the panic ebbed.

Across the room, Isla stood frozen, her heart breaking. She hadn’t realised—hadn’t known how deep Harry’s fear ran, how little it took to awaken that old reflex of terror.

When Sirius glanced up, his expression was both soft and grave. “He’s been through more than we thought,” he murmured.

Isla nodded, her eyes damp. “We’ll show him different,” she whispered back.

Harry didn’t hear them. His eyes were half-lidded, breathing evening out as he tucked himself closer to Sirius, seeking warmth and steadiness. His hands were still trembling, but now they trembled inside safety.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, he let someone hold him without fear.

Sirius didn’t rush him. He just breathed, slow and deliberate, waiting until Harry’s trembling lessened to soft, uneven shivers. Then, instinctively, deeply, he let out a low sound from his chest.

It started as a hum, barely there, a soft vibration that resonated against Harry’s cheek where it rested against Sirius’s shirt. Then it deepened, warmer, steady, rhythmic. A purr.

The sound filled the little office, low and soothing, like the earth itself was humming safety into the air. Harry froze for half a second—startled by the unfamiliar sensation—before melting, inch by inch, into the embrace.

The vibration thrummed through Sirius’s chest and into Harry’s ribs, into the layers of fabric between them, until Harry could feel it pulse in his bones. His fingers, still trembling faintly, curled into Sirius’s sleeve. Every breath he took came a little slower, a little steadier.

Sirius kept the purr going, unbroken, his hand tracing soft circles over Harry’s back. “That’s it,” he murmured between vibrations, voice rumbling along with the sound. “You’re all right now. You’re safe here. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

Harry’s shoulders gave a tiny, exhausted shake as he exhaled—a sound between a sob and a sigh. He buried his face further into Sirius’s chest, drawn to that deep warmth, the scent of jasmine and sandalwood that wrapped him like a blanket. The purring didn’t falter—it filled every small silence, a promise of protection.

Sirius adjusted them so Harry sat between his legs, half-leaning against him. His arms were loose but solid, one hand supporting Harry’s shoulder, the other resting lightly around his middle. Every so often, he gave a small press of his palm, a grounding reminder of touch.

His pur grew softer, subtler, until it became part of the quiet itself. The scent of calm pheromones mingled in the air, honey-sweet and steadying.

Sirius leaned his head down, speaking in a whisper that carried on the purr. “You’re safe in my arms, Harry. No one’s ever going to hurt you here.”

Harry’s fingers relaxed their grip on Sirius’s sleeve, still resting there like an anchor. His eyelids fluttered. And when Sirius’s next soft rumble vibrated through his bones, Harry let out the smallest, unguarded sound of comfort, a quiet whimper that turned into a steady breath.

Sirius looked up at his older sister, still cradling Harry carefully in his lap, one arm curled protectively around the younger omega’s waist. His voice came out quieter than usual, softer—like the purr still hummed faintly beneath it.

“Isla,” he said, eyes earnest, “what on Morgana's green earth happened to him?”

Isla had crouched nearby, her face stricken but gentle. She met Sirius’s gaze, her own full of something raw. “I don’t know,” she said quietly. “He doesn’t talk much about before. Just… fragments. Enough to know he’s been through too much.”

Sirius’s thumb brushed idly over the back of Harry’s hand, grounding both of them. Harry hadn’t moved from where he’d tucked himself against Sirius’s chest, breathing slow and even now, the edge of exhaustion pulling at him.

“He flinched from you,” Sirius murmured, more observation than accusation.

“I know,” Isla said softly, guilt flickering across her expression. “He’s never done that before. I think the talk of family—of packs—frightened him. Not because he doesn’t want it, but because he doesn’t believe he deserves it.”

Sirius’s jaw tightened. “No omega should ever flinch from touch like that.”

“No,” she agreed. “But he did. And we’ll have to show him he’s safe now, that not every hand raised is meant to hurt.”

He nodded slowly, still stroking Harry’s arm in slow, absent motions meant to soothe.  “I’ll help him,” Sirius said. “He shouldn’t have to learn what safety means on his own.”

Isla gave a small, fond smile. “I knew you’d say that, Siri. You always were the softest one of us.”

He huffed, the corners of his mouth twitching despite himself. “Don’t tell the others. I’ve a reputation to maintain.”

“I won’t. But maybe… this time, being soft is exactly what he needs.”

Sirius glanced down again at the small figure in his arms—Harry’s lashes resting on his cheeks, his expression finally calm, almost peaceful. The cloak he loved so dearly was still tangled around him, the faintest trace of an alpha’s scent mingling with Sirius’s own.

“Poor thing,” he whispered. “He looks like he’s been starved of kindness.”

Isla’s answer came quietly, almost to herself. “He has been. But he’s found it now.”

Sirius froze for a heartbeat when a quiet, tentative sound reached his chest.

It was soft at first—barely a tremor against his ribs—but it grew steadier, sweeter, until the gentle vibration of Harry’s purr blended with his own in a rhythm that made something ancient and instinctual stir inside him.

His eyes softened, his whole body easing as the warmth spread through him. He’d didn't know what it could feel like to belong like this, to have another omega’s song thread through his own, matching tone for tone, breath for breath. Betas never purred, and alphas’ purrs were different—rougher, dominant, meant to claim and soothe. But this… this was harmony.

He looked down at the young man in his arms and something within Sirius melted entirely. His fingers brushed lightly over Harry’s hair, slow and reverent, as if afraid the moment might shatter if he dared to hold it too tightly.

He remembered the years he’d spent longing for this kind of quiet connection. The ache of being the only male omega in his circles, always the oddity, always too gentle or too strange. Even other omegas had looked at him differently. None had ever purred with him, not the older omega he’d once known.

But now—now this small, frightened boy had found comfort enough to purr back.

Sirius’s eyes glistened, a flicker of wonder and protectiveness flooding him so suddenly it left him breathless. He leaned down slightly, cheek brushing Harry’s curls, his own purr deepening in answer.

Mine, the thought came unbidden, fierce and tender all at once. Not possessive, not romantic, just a pure, instinctive pull to protect, to keep safe what the world had hurt too much.

This little one was his kin, his kind, his own.

He felt Isla watching from where she stood, but she didn’t interrupt. She only smiled softly, one hand pressed to her chest as if she, too, could feel the fragile miracle in the air.

And in that quiet, Sirius closed his eyes, letting the shared sound between them fill the room—two broken heartbeats beginning to find their rhythm together.

Harry blinked up at Sirius, his eyes still glassy and uncertain, pupils wide in the haze of leftover fear. For a moment, he didn’t move at all, just stared like he was trying to understand why this omega in front of him felt safe when everything in him said he shouldn’t trust anyone.

Sirius’s hand came up slowly, the same way one would approach a skittish creature—steady, open, patient. He brushed the backs of his fingers along Harry’s cheek, feather-light.

“There now,” Sirius murmured. “No one’s cross with you.”

Harry melted a little at the touch, eyelashes lowering, a tiny sound escaping him that was closer to a hum than a word. His purr started again—faint, hesitant, but genuine—and the air between them softened with the vibration of it.

Sirius’s thumb stroked once under his eye, tracing the curve of his cheek. “That’s it,” he whispered, as if to soothe a tremor.

He leaned into the hand instinctively, just a fraction, the way a cat might nudge into warmth. His cloak slipped off one shoulder as he did, and he didn’t notice. He didn’t flinch this time when Sirius’s fingers brushed through a bit of his hair, untangling a curl near his temple.

“So good,” Sirius said quietly, and the words weren’t commanding—they were gentle, reverent even.

Harry’s breathing evened out. He kept purring, the sound growing steadier until it filled the small room like a heartbeat shared between them.

Sirius coaxed him up slowly, careful not to startle him again. “Come on,” he murmured, his hand steady against Harry’s shoulder. “Let’s not sit on the floor like a pair of startled rabbits, hm?”

The younger omega nodded faintly, still dazed, still clinging to the rhythm of the purr between them. His legs trembled when he stood, and Sirius kept a supportive hand at the small of his back as they made their way to the sofa.

Once they sat down, Harry found himself curling instinctively toward Sirius again, the nearness quieting whatever panic still lingered in his chest. He tugged his cloak closer around himself, but Sirius gently pulled it aside just enough to smooth it where it had twisted.

“You’ve had quite the life, haven’t you?.

Harry gave a faint smile, his head still tilted toward Sirius’s shoulder. “You could say that.”

It wasn’t a planned thing at all. But as they sat there, Harry’s small frame still tucked near his side, it came to him as naturally as breathing.

He looked down at the boy—no, the young man—and saw the faint exhaustion behind those bright eyes. The soft tremor still in his fingers. The guardedness that flared up every time someone moved too quickly near him. Sirius had seen that before. In war or family, it always meant the same thing: someone who had learned to brace for hurt even in kindness.

“Harry,” Sirius said gently, resting a hand on his shoulder. “What would you say to a change of scenery?”

Harry blinked, startled out of his quiet purr. “A change of scenery?”

“My home,” Sirius said simply. “Just for a few hours. I could show you around, introduce you to my family. You already know their names, Hesper, my partner, and little Lucretia. It might… do you good, I think.”

Harry’s lips parted slightly, uncertain. “I— I wouldn’t want to intrude. It sounds improper to just—”

“Nonsense,” Sirius said, with the confident, fond tone only older siblings and parents seem to master. “You’d be doing me a kindness. Hesper’s been dying to meet another omega other than boring old me, and Lucretia loves new people."

Across the room, Isla lifted her brows, half-amused, half-pleased. “He’s right, you know,” she said, looking between them. “You should go. It’ll be good for both of you. Merlin knows Harry could use a break from staring at parchment and reading about the Sacred Thirty all day.”

Harry flushed. “You’ve noticed that?”

“I’ve noticed everything,” Isla teased. “Go on. It’s a perfect afternoon for a visit.”

Chapter Text

The rush of floo travel swallowed them whole, spinning, tugging, the scent of ash and magic filling the air, and then they stumbled out into a cozy, sunlit sitting room.

Harry staggered slightly, dizzy, and Sirius caught him by the shoulders, steadying him before he could fall. “There now,” Sirius said softly. “You did fine.”

The room smelled faintly of sugar and fresh bread. A fire crackled in the hearth, and a trail of little wooden animals lay scattered across the rug. Somewhere beyond the archway came the sound of humming—low and content, the kind that meant someone happy in their home.

“Hesper’s baking again,” Sirius said, a little sheepishly. “She'll forgive me for bringing you unannounced if I tell her you like biscuits.”

Harry blinked, still gripping his cloak, eyes darting around the room as though expecting reprimand. “You didn’t warn her?”

“I never do,” Sirius said cheerfully. “It keeps life interesting.”

Harry didn’t share that sentiment. The moment the floo quieted and he had time to breathe, his senses filled with scents he didn’t recognise—and that made him immediately wary. There was the sharp, firm undertone of an alpha, the steadier presence of a beta, and faint traces of two more alphas, faded but still distinct. It smelled like a home with structure, strength, and pack, a comfort to most omegas, but to Harry, unfamiliar territory.

His fingers clenched tighter around his cloak. He found himself half-hiding behind Sirius’s shoulder, as though the elder omega’s warmth could buffer him from whatever, or whoever, was coming.

A soft rustle came from the kitchen doorway, followed by the scent of sugar and hearthfire. Hesper appeared, flour on their hands and a tea towel slung over one shoulder. Their expression froze for just a moment when they took in the sight of Sirius with a stranger standing so close. Then their eyes sharpened slightly, nostrils flaring in instinctive recognition.

“Oh, hello,” Hesper said, tone immediately shifting to something softer. “Who’s this?”

Harry ducked his head, his voice too small to emerge. 

Sirius’s tone was bright but careful. “This is Lord Peverell,” he said. “The one Isla wanted me to meet.”

Hesper’s eyes widened as the implication clicked—the male omega Isla had been talking about. It wasn’t something you encountered often. And here he was, trembling slightly, half-hidden behind Sirius’s arm like a spooked fawn.

Hesper’s voice gentled instinctively, smooth and warm like honey. “Well then, that’s quite the introduction. Welcome, Lord Peverell.”

His head peeked just barely from behind Sirius’s shoulder, his eyes wide and uncertain. “Please no,” he whispered, almost as if he feared he wasn’t allowed to speak. “Call me Harry.”

Hesper’s heart softened at once. “Harry, then,” they said kindly. “There’s no need to be nervous, sweetheart. You’re safe here.”

Hesper was a tall woman—elegant in build, curvy but balanced, her shape speaking of strength wrapped in softness. Not like Molly Weasley’s warm, bustling roundness, but a more composed grace, something steady and calm. 

Harry stared for a moment, a little dazed. She was beautiful.

Different, too, from the alphas he’d known or seen. Her stance wasn’t overbearing, her voice wasn’t edged with command. There was no heavy-handed dominance that made his chest tighten or his pulse quicken in dread. She was confident without being harsh. Safe. A tiny, shy thought flickered through Harry’s mind before he could stop it: No wonder Sirius is so gentle… if this is what he was around.

Maybe that’s what shaped them both—Sirius and him—this quiet understanding that male omegas didn’t fare well around frightening alphas.

Hesper tilted her head, her eyes scanning Harry’s face with a warm sort of wonder. Those wide green eyes, so bright and full of emotion, hit her right in the chest. Merlin, she thought, he’s precious. There was something in him that felt fragile, like a porcelain cup someone had glued back together with infinite patience and love.

Sirius gave a little hum beside Harry, his hand gentle on the younger omega’s elbow. “Come on now,” he murmured softly. “You’ll make her think I brought home a ghost if you keep hiding behind me.”

Harry blushed, but he let himself be guided to stand properly beside Sirius. He tugged his cloak tighter around his shoulders, as if the folds of fabric could shield him from too much attention.

She smiled—open, radiant, motherly in a way that made something twist in Harry’s chest. “Aw, you are so beautiful,” she said softly, and it wasn’t teasing. It was simple truth, spoken as if she couldn’t help herself.

Harry’s cheeks went scarlet. His eyes darted to the floor, then shyly back up, unsure how to respond to the compliment. “Th-thank you,” he mumbled, voice quiet but earnest.

Hesper chuckled lightly, taking in his soft blush and hesitant stance. “If you don’t mind me asking,” she said with gentle curiosity, “how old are you, dear? Fifteen? Sixteen?”

He blinked, startled, before stammering out, “Eighteen.”

There was a pause—one that felt like both surprise and heartbreak. Hesper’s brows lifted slightly, and Sirius let out a quiet sigh beside him, almost fond.

“Eighteen,” Hesper repeated softly. “So young.”

Harry couldn’t tell if that was admiration or sorrow, but it made his throat tighten anyway.

“I’m sorry I’m here uninvited,” he said softly.

Hesper blinked, her expression immediately tender. “Oh, love, you’ve nothing to apologise for.”

But Sirius was quicker. He waved a hand with that easy, irreverent cheer that seemed to belong only to him. “Nonsense, I invited you,” he said, tone warm and bright as summer sunlight. “You’re here because I wanted you here, Harry. Don’t start apologising for giving me what I want.”

The words startled a laugh out of Hesper, soft and genuine. Harry ducked his head, a flush creeping up his neck, his lips tugging at a small, shy smile he couldn’t quite stop.

“You always were impulsive,” Hesper teased, glancing at her mate. “You might’ve at least sent a note first.”

Sirius only grinned, unapologetic. “And rob you of the surprise? Never.”

He looked down at Harry then, eyes softening at the sight of the younger omega clutching his cloak as though it were a lifeline. “Besides,” he added gently, “you’d have been invited sooner or later. I just sped things along.”

Harry blinked up at him, unsure how to respond to the kindness, his throat tight. “That’s… very kind of you,” he managed, voice trembling on the edges of sincerity. “I don’t— people don’t usually—”

Hesper stepped closer, cutting him off with quiet assurance. “Well, they should,” she said, brushing an imaginary speck of dust off her apron. “And you’ll find we’re a rather impossible lot to get rid of once we like someone.”

Sirius laughed, the sound deep and easy, curling through the air like warmth. “She’s right, you know. You’re doomed now, Harry. Entirely part of the chaos.”

She tilted her head, the frown softening into amusement. “You’ve already scented each other,” a teasing lilt in her voice.

Harry froze, his fingers clutching Sirius’s sleeve. “I— I don’t remember doing that,” he stammered, cheeks pinking under the sudden awareness.

Sirius scratched the back of his neck, sheepish. “Nor do I,” he admitted, though the faint curve of a grin betrayed him. “If we did, it must have been… accidental…” He let the thought trail off, unwilling—or unable—to say more.

Hesper’s laugh rang lightly through the kitchen, and Harry found himself relaxing ever so slightly. “Well,” she said, still smiling, “it’s a good thing you met another male omega, isn’t it? Within minutes, scent mingling, clutching at each other’s arms like you’ve known each other for a lifetime.”

Harry stiffened a little, tugging closer to Sirius without thinking, wanting the comfort of his warmth, his steady presence. 

“No need to worry, Hesper," Sirius murmured, voice low and warm. “I only have eyes for you. But this little one is my eldest child now.”

Harry blinked up at him, the nickname twisting his heart into a knot of delight and embarrassment.

Hesper laughed softly. “Another child to look after, then?”

Sirius grinned, ruffling Harry’s hair in a gesture full of affection, mischief, and ownership all at once. “My precious one.”

She raised a finger. “You better not make the others jealous.”

“My baby,” Sirius said firmly, smiling down at Harry. And Harry, caught in the warmth, the teasing, the deep, safe devotion, laughed freely. “Do you want to meet Lucretia?” he asked, tilting his head slightly as if he could already see the excitement flickering behind Harry’s wide green eyes.

“You’ve told him about what the little rascal Arcturus did?” Hesper said, a teasing lilt in her voice.

Sirius waved a hand dismissively. “I rather felt I had to. He’d find out eventually anyway, and he seemed curious about our family.”

Green eyes flicked from Hesper to Sirius, a blush creeping up his cheeks. “Can… can I meet her?” he asked in a tentative whisper, almost afraid that simply voicing the desire would make it vanish. “Am I… am I okay to meet her?”

“Of course. She’s barely turned two, still tiny, with the wobbly walk of a toddler and a penchant for curiosity. She’s gentle, I promise, but she’s also spirited, very much like her father was at that age. You’ll need to be careful with her little arms; she likes to reach for faces.”

Hesper chuckled again. “She adores soft voices, and she loves being held safely. Omegas, especially, have a way of comforting babies that we adults can’t. You may find she takes to you immediately.”

Harry’s hands clenched lightly in front of him. “I… I’d like that,” he admitted softly. 

Sirius extended a hand, gentle yet sure, and offered a reassuring squeeze. “Come along, then. Step slowly. She’s usually in the sitting room when she’s not napping, playing with her little toys, and I think she’ll be intrigued by you immediately.”

Harry nodded, trusting Sirius entirely, feeling a warm thrum in his chest as he followed the taller omega. His boots padded lightly against the floor.

As they entered the room, Harry’s breath caught. There, in the center, Lucretia sat among a scattering of soft toys, barely two years old, with short tufts of dark hair curling slightly at the nape of her neck, and wide, observant eyes that reflected both curiosity and delight. Her tiny hands clutched a doll close to her chest, and when she caught sight of Harry, a small, excited squeal escaped her lips.

Harry froze for a moment, struck by the sheer innocence and vulnerability of the child. His own instincts, honed over years of surviving in harsher worlds, softened at once. Slowly, he knelt down, the hem of his cloak splaying around him, and extended a careful hand.

Lucretia’s little fingers grasped his hand immediately, warm and insistent, and she babbled something that sounded like “hello!” Her voice was tiny but fierce, full of the uncompromising joy of a toddler discovering a new companion.

Harry’s lips curved in a shy but genuine smile. Sirius watched closely, the corner of his lips twitching in both amusement and pride. Hesper, arms folded, couldn’t hide the softening expression that had overtaken her.

“You see?” Hesper said softly. “She knows when someone’s safe and gentle. She’ll adore you if you remain like that.”

Harry nodded, still kneeling, green eyes wide and shining, fingers lightly holding Lucretia’s tiny hand as she tugged him toward the mound of toys she had built. He felt a strange, profound happiness, a sense of purpose.

Sirius murmured beside him, voice low and steady, carrying the scent and presence of safety. “Take your time. She’ll lead, and you just follow her little cues. You’re already doing wonderfully.”

Harry played a little while with Lucretia, her tiny hands reaching for his fingers and tugging him toward the soft mound of toys scattered across the sitting room rug. The toddler’s nose twitched repeatedly as she sniffed the air, and Harry caught himself leaning forward, letting her smell him. It was subtle, yet comforting—she seemed to recognize something gentle in him, and he, in turn, felt an instinctive pull to keep her safe, to remain soft and careful in the way only an omega could.

Seeing them together, Sirius and Hesper exchanged a glance, quietly stepping back toward the kitchen. “We’ll leave them to it for a while,” Sirius whispered, gently closing the door behind them.

Once inside, Hesper leaned against the counter, dusting flour from her hands. “Do you think he finds me odd for cooking when we have" house-elves?” she asked softly, a frown tugging at her lips.

Sirius shook his head, leaning against the opposite counter. “Not at all, Hesper. He isn’t like that.” His voice was calm, measured, but beneath it, a quiet concern lingered.

Hesper’s brow furrowed. “What happened? I know something happened at the ministry for you to bring him here. For you to scent him, even."

He ran a hand through his wavy black hair, letting out a quiet sigh. “He… he flinched when Isla went to comfort him. I think he's… been abused.”

Hesper’s eyes widened. “Abused?! But he’s a Peverell!” Her voice was incredulous, a mixture of shock and disbelief, though there was an undercurrent of sadness.

Sirius shrugged, the lines around his eyes tightening. “I don’t know exactly what happened. He’s the last Peverell we know of. Maybe he didn’t grow up with the rest of the family, maybe his childhood was… incomplete. The family protections failed him, or perhaps he was separated too early.”

“But surely he would have been given to the Potters? They’re related, aren’t they?” Hesper pressed, trying to grasp the situation.

Sirius shook his head again. “I don’t know if Henry was aware that the Peverell line continued. Although… I suppose he does read the newspaper. So he might have known. But it’s not clear how much anyone was paying attention to the youngest male of the line until now.”

Hesper leaned back, crossing her arms, and exhaled. “So he’s… alone. No family, no one to guide him through this properly, and suddenly he’s thrust into… people, scents, attention, care.” Her voice softened, the maternal side of her speaking even as she wiped a hand over the counter.

“Oh, Hesper,” Sirius said softly, a rare vulnerability in his voice as he shifted closer, almost instinctively seeking the comfort of his alpha. Hesper’s arms immediately encircled him, firm yet gentle, drawing him into a hug that radiated warmth and protection.

“It was… remarkable,” he continued, his voice low, almost reverent. “When he purred back to me, after flinching, after falling off his chair... I held him, and he purred. Truly, Hesper. I’ve never… never experienced that before. Not from another omega. Not ever.”

Hesper’s lips curved in a tender smile, a faint shake of her head accompanying the soft, understanding sigh she gave. “Oh, darling, I would never have imagined that such an absence lingered in your life. It must have been… illuminating.”

Sirius exhaled, letting the warmth of the hug seep through his tense frame. “Indeed, I had never even considered it. And… I find myself wanting him to be safe, to be cared for, to have… a family. A place where he need not flinch at kindness or familiarity. He deserves it. He needs it.”

Hesper’s hands stroked along his back in slow, deliberate motions, grounding him. “And we shall provide that, Sirius. We shall be the anchors he can rely upon. That sense of family, of protection—it is not given lightly, but he is worthy of it.”

Sirius pressed a hand to her arm, gripping lightly, his gaze distant yet fervent. “Yes… worthy. And I—perhaps selfishly—wish to be the one to ensure it. To watch over him, guide him, and let him know that such trust is not misplaced. That our care is constant, even when he cannot ask for it.”

She nodded, her hold tightening just slightly, affirming the silent promise. “Then that is what we shall do, Sirius. Together, we shall show him the steadiness of a family. The constancy of care. And perhaps, with time, he will learn to rest without fear. To trust without reservation.”

Sirius inclined his head into her shoulder, inhaling the subtle, grounding scent of her. “Together,” he whispered, the word carrying both a vow and a hope, “we shall give him that world. And he shall know he is safe, cherished, and never alone.”

He stepped lightly back into the sitting room and paused mid-step, completely unprepared for the scene before him. Lucretia was nestled almost entirely in Harry’s lap. Her tiny hands explored the colored bricks they had scattered across the carpet, stacking, knocking down, and stacking again under Harry’s careful supervision.

Harry’s hand rested gently over her soft little stomach, not constricting, not pressing—simply a reassuring weight, a promise that she would not topple or tumble. Every so often, he adjusted the bricks, letting her tiny hands guide him while he offered a quiet word of encouragement, murmured like a lullaby. “Yes, like that… very good,” he whispered. Lucretia’s giggle, small and musical, echoed faintly against the walls, and Harry’s chest lifted slightly in a quiet smile, proud yet tentative, as if afraid of disturbing the fragile perfection of the moment.

He observed as Harry’s thumb brushed a stray curl from Lucretia’s forehead, a motion so gentle that even the softest creatures of the magical world would have felt reassured. The omega’s entire body language spoke of patience, of consideration, and of an instinctive understanding of smallness and vulnerability. Sirius could see the rise and fall of Harry’s chest, slow and steady, and the faint purring sound that had emerged quietly when Lucretia’s laughter tickled him.

The little girl, sensing the calm and warmth, began to relax further, her head tilting slightly against Harry’s chest as her eyelids drooped. The bricks, once scattered in playful chaos, now rested forgotten between them as her tiny hands relaxed, pressing lightly against his stomach. Harry adjusted his hold ever so slightly, ensuring that she remained secure even as sleep began to claim her. The sight, so intimate and natural, struck Sirius with the overwhelming awareness that this young man, so skittish and cautious with the world, had a capacity for care and gentleness that was both astonishing and profoundly moving.

Sirius could feel himself exhaling slowly, grounding in the quiet scene, almost afraid to break the fragile spell of domestic peace. Every tiny gesture—Harry’s careful hand placement, the way he leaned slightly forward to meet Lucretia’s curious gaze, the gentle encouragement in his quiet voice—made Sirius’s chest tighten in admiration.

And all the while, Lucretia, secure and slowly surrendering to sleep, pressed herself closer, her trust implicit and absolute. Sirius realized, with a small catch in his throat, that Harry wasn’t just being careful or proper; he was inhabiting a role that came naturally to him, the role of protector, of comforter, of one who could hold life and fragility in his hands without breaking either.

It was a tableau of quiet, domestic intimacy, one that made Sirius’s pulse quicken, not with desire but with awe, pride, and an almost aching tenderness. He stepped closer, careful not to startle either of them, and allowed himself a moment to drink in the scene. 

Sirius stayed there, silently, until Hesper’s voice drifted through the door, announcing the biscuits were ready, pulling him reluctantly from the reverie but leaving the image of Harry and Lucretia etched firmly in his mind.

The quiet domesticity of the Black household shattered with the unmistakable crash of the front door, followed by the boisterous, commanding voices of three young men returning from their afternoon Quidditch match. Arcturus, the eldest at sixteen, barreled in first, his alpha aura radiating dominance and unbridled energy. Lycoris, fourteen and a beta, trailed close behind, trying to keep pace with his older brothers but already sensing the tension that would follow. Regulus, twelve, quick and observant, brought up the rear, his eyes flicking about the room with a precocious sense of authority.

All three froze as their eyes fell on Harry.

He was on the floor, cradling Arcturus's daughter gently against his chest while carefully arranging the small, scattered bricks beside them. His delicate hands rested on her tiny stomach to keep her secure. Lucretia, barely two, blinked sleepily at the sudden intrusion, her tiny hands gripping his clothing, and instinctively snuggled closer.

The moment their gaze met, the boys stopped dead, as if the air itself had thickened. Arcturus’s eyes narrowed instantly, the alpha instincts flaring into protective, territorial aggression. Regulus mirrored the stance, smaller but equally intense, while Lycoris, the beta, instinctively hesitated, sensing the potential for confrontation.

Harry stiffened, his pulse spiking, wide green eyes flicking between the three imposing figures. Panic coursed through him, the heat of pheromones hitting him like a physical wave. He hugged Lucretia tighter, rocking her gently as she stirred at the noise, whimpering softly. “Shh… it’s okay… it’s alright…” His voice was quivering, almost a whisper, yet full of instinctive care.

The three young men stepped forward, the sheer energy of three alphas converging like a storm. Arcturus’s jaw tightened, chest rising and falling with irritation and disbelief. “Who is that?!” he barked, pointing toward Harry, whose small frame suddenly seemed unbearably vulnerable. “What is he doing with her?”

Harry flinched, pressing closer to Lucretia, his head ducking instinctively against her soft curls. The toddler whimpered, tiny arms flailing toward him, startled by the loud, commanding voices. His heart hammered, body tense, and the teal ensemble felt like it was clinging to him with every jitter of fear and panic.

Regulus advanced, stepping too close, eyes darting between Harry and Lucretia, curiosity and suspicion warring within him.

The omega’s hands shook as he murmured soothingly, rocking Lucretia with deliberate care, but the chaos around him made it almost impossible to keep steady. He glanced to the doorway for Sirius and Hesper, but the kitchen was silent—both were oblivious, busy with baking and conversation, entirely unaware of the commotion that threatened to overwhelm him.

Arcturus’s voice rose again, a sharp bark that made the air thrum, “Step back! Who let you— how dare you—?!” His aura pressed down on Harry like a weight, making the small male omega flinch visibly, curling slightly around Lucretia, clutching her to his chest like a shield.

The sudden surge of overwhelming pheromones hit Harry full force—the fading traces of Sirius from the previous day, the alphas’ dominant scent, even faint remnants of Lycoris’s beta aura—all of it pressed him into a corner of panic. His knees jerked on the floor, fingers tightening instinctively against Lucretia, whispering, “It’s alright… shh, shh…” But his voice cracked under the strain.

Lucretia, confused and scared, whimpered loudly, tugging at his teal jacket. The little one’s cries made Harry panic further; the floor beneath him felt unstable, his mind racing, unable to comprehend how three strangers could loom so imposingly and threaten the small cocoon of safety he had built around her.

All the while, Sirius and Hesper remained blissfully unaware, the scent of domesticity and baking filling the kitchen, neither noticing the crisis unfolding in the sitting room.

Harry’s hands shook violently as he whispered, “It’s… it’s okay… it’s… alright…” over and over, clinging to Lucretia. Wide green eyes darted from one imposing figure to the next, and though he was on the floor, his posture shifted subtly, a low, wary growl bubbling from deep within his chest—a protective rumble, soft but clear, the sound a mix of fear and instinctual warning. He tightened his cloak around Lucretia, holding her closer to his chest as if sheer proximity might shield her from the storm of alpha energy pressing toward him.

“Who— who do you think you are?” Arcturus demanded, his voice low and hard, practically vibrating with indignation. His stance was imposing, one hand resting on the hilt of his wand, though he hadn’t drawn it yet.

Harry’s lips trembled as he answered, voice quivering but clear: “Lord Peverell.”

The room seemed to stop. Arcturus froze, mid-step, and Regulus blinked, momentarily distracted by the weight of the title. Even Lycoris glanced between the omega and his elder brother, unsure what to do.

Beneath the cloak, Harry’s hands held Lucretia tighter. His chest vibrated gently with the purring, an instinctive hum that wrapped around the child like invisible silk. But tears pricked his eyes and rolled slowly down his cheeks, and he hiccuped quietly as he tried to steady his breathing. The purring had begun as a tool to soothe Lucretia, but now it carried his own fear, his own trembling heart.

He did not want to lose this small being. He would not. Not when he had just discovered what it meant to care for someone beyond himself.

Tears glistened along his lashes, and his purrs rippled softly through the air—a plea, a reassurance, a declaration that he would protect the child, even as the three Black sons’ eyes burned with suspicion and barely restrained fury.

He would not let anyone take her from him. Not while he felt threatened and couldn't ensure her safety.

“We’ve got bisc…uits—” Sirius’s voice faltered as he stepped into the sitting room, the scent of the oven’s warmth still clinging to him. What met his eyes, however, wiped the easy cheer from his tone entirely. The atmosphere in the room was taut, alive with unspoken panic—the three boys poised like hunting dogs, and Harry on the floor, cloak drawn tight about himself and the tiny form beneath it.

Sirius slowed at once, instinct overriding thought. “Harry…” he said gently, voice low and warm, coaxing rather than demanding. He could see the tears glistening on Harry’s lashes, the trembling of his hands as he shielded the sleeping child beneath his cloak. Then, abandoning any restraint, Sirius hurried forward, his slippers whispering against the carpet. “Oh, sweetheart…”

“I-I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Harry stammered, the words spilling out in a rush, head bowed as though awaiting reprimand. 

“Shh,” Sirius murmured, kneeling beside him. His hand found Harry’s arm and slid up to cup his face, his thumb brushing away the tear tracks gently. “Is Lucretia alright?”

Harry sniffled and nodded faintly, peeling back one side of his cloak with careful precision. Beneath it, Lucretia was nestled against him, fast asleep once more, her chubby hand curled in the fabric of his sleeve. The faintest rise and fall of her chest confirmed her deep, steady breathing.

“She’s alright,” Harry whispered, voice raw. “I didn’t mean to upset anyone, she just… she cried and—”

“You did beautifully,” Sirius said firmly, cutting across his apology before it could gather force. He ran his fingers through Harry’s hair soothingly. His gaze flicked upward to his sons, the tone of his voice turning like steel wrapped in velvet. “Did you feel threatened, Harry?”

Harry’s lip wobbled, but he nodded.

Sirius’s hand stilled on his cheek, his body shifting slightly so that he positioned himself protectively between Harry and the three boys. His expression hardened. “You did well. Lucretia’s safe, isn’t she? Look at her, fast asleep, calm as anything. And even I struggle with that. Arcturus is awful at it.”

“Father!” Arcturus exclaimed, his voice brimming with outrage. “What is the meaning of this!”

“This,” Sirius said coolly, rising to his full height, “is Lord Peverell.”

“And why,” he demanded, though more guardedly now, “was he alone with my daughter?”

Sirius turned to face him fully, his presence now unmistakably commanding—the kind of quiet authority that could still an entire room. “Because,” he said softly but firmly, “I asked him to meet her. Because he is gentle, and kind, and precisely the sort of person I wish to have near any of you. And because I trust him.”

Harry’s breath hitched, his eyes widening. Sirius trusted him. 

Arcturus faltered, jaw tightening. “You might have told us—”

“And you might have thought before marching into a room like a pack of wolves,” Sirius snapped, though not unkindly. “Look at him, Arcturus. Does he look like a threat to anyone? He’s frightened half to death, and still his first thought was to protect your child.”

Harry’s trembling had lessened under Sirius’s steadying voice. Lucretia shifted faintly and made a small, contented sound in her sleep, and Harry instinctively petted her back through the cloak, still half-curled protectively around her. 

Lycoris looked uneasy now, guilt creeping into his expression. Regulus, normally quick to sneer, said nothing at all.

“Father…” the eldest son started again, but the edge in his voice had dulled.

Sirius sighed, crouching once more beside Harry. His voice dropped, gentle as the flicker of a candle. “You’ve nothing to apologise for, Harry. You did everything right.” His thumb traced along Harry’s temple, pushing back a lock of dark hair that had stuck there with tears. “You’re safe here. I promise.”

At that moment, Hesper’s voice carried faintly from the kitchen doorway: “Everything all right in there?”

“Yes, darling,” Sirius called back smoothly, never breaking his soft, reassuring rhythm. He met Harry’s eyes again, the faintest smile warming his expression. “See? All is well. You can breathe, sweetheart.”

Harry exhaled shakily.

“Harry,” Sirius said warmly, “these are my three sons who, frankly, need a very good smacking now and then.” He let the amusement in his voice soften the reprimand before he named them more properly. “Arcturus — who is Lucretia’s father — Lycoris, and Regulus.”

Arcturus, all alpha bristle and sudden self-consciousness, gave a stiff bow that was more defensive than polite. “I— father,” he began, the indignation in his tone curdling into something less certain as he took in the sight of Harry with his sleeping daughter. Up close the boy looked smaller than the newspaper sketch had suggested; his cheeks were flushed with recent tears, and his hands cradled Lucretia with an unexpected, careful tenderness that unsettled Arcturus more than it pleased him.

“Arcturus,” Hesper said lightly but with motherly steel, “if you were intending to frighten anyone today, you’ve succeeded in frightening our guest. Do remember that the house does not run on threats alone.” She crossed the room in a few easy strides and, with the efficiency of the long practiced, gathered Lucretia’s tiny hand and smoothed the few tufts of hair off her forehead as if checking she was indeed all right. “She’s asleep, poor mite. Thank you, Harry,” she added, softening as she looked to him. “You did very well.”

Harry bowed his head in a small, shy nod, still clutching the cloak around them. “I’m sorry,” he whispered again, as if the apology might settle whatever unease remained.

Sirius put a hand on his shoulder, steady and gentle. “You have nothing to be sorry for. You kept her safe.” He glanced over his sons with a father’s frankness. “You’ll thank him for me, all three of you. And Arcturus — you will apologise for all the theatrics.”

Arcturus blinked, colour rising in his cheeks, and the alpha’s bluster gave way to a muttered, “Sorry,” that was more grudging than sincere but earnest enough. Lycoris nodded, awkwardness easing; Regulus offered a small, more interested “Hello,” that carried less threat than curiosity.

Hesper perched on the arm of the sofa, biscuit tin in hand, and cast a conspiratorial look at Sirius. “He’s taken to Harry like a duck to water,” she said. “If that isn’t a sign we’ve chosen well.” She nudged her husband with her elbow. “You said you wanted him to meet the family. Consider the introduction made — though perhaps we should have given the boys a mild warning.”

There was a short, fluttered silence as the household’s immediate shock settled into conversation; the sharp edges of the earlier confrontation smoothed by warmth and the very ordinary business of family. Hesper offered Harry a plate, pressing a biscuit into his hand. “You must eat something,” she said gently. “Little ones and big ones both need sugar to steady them after excitement.”

Harry accepted the biscuit with trembling fingers, taking a careful nibble that turned into a small, genuine smile. He looked up at Sirius, gratitude plain in his eyes. 

Isla arrived then, stepping in as if she’d timed her entrance for effect. Her grin was unrepentant. “I walked in on three young men behaving like stray bludgers and a small omega stroking my niece to sleep,” she announced, tone brilliant with amusement. “I must say, the afternoon’s entertainment has been superb.”

Sirius rolled his eyes indulgently. “Isla, do you have to be quite so theatrical?”

“Only when the occasion calls for it,” she replied merrily, and then she turned toward Arcturus and the others with a look that brokered little nonsense. “Be kind, boys. He’s ours now... in a fashion. We’ll see he’s taught the ropes of proper society without terrorising him further.”

“Stay for tea,” Sirius invited simply, as if the domestic ease of the house could smooth years of nervousness. “Hesper will not allow you to leave hungry, and I would like you near. You need not feel you must be on display; you are welcome here — that is all.”

Harry’s reply was a whisper and a bow of the head, but it carried more than words could: acceptance, gratitude, and the smallest, most hopeful lift of his chin, as if the thought that there might be a pack to belong to was no longer entirely fanciful.

Regulus leaned toward his brother, lowering his voice though his wide grey eyes were still fixed on the floor across the room. Sirius had drawn Harry close — protective but unhurried — and was absently smoothing a hand through the younger omega’s hair, fingers tracing careful circles against his temple as though calming a frightened child. The gesture was startlingly intimate for company.

“Has Father ever done anything like that to you?” Regulus whispered, scandal colouring his cheeks.

Lycoris blinked, caught somewhere between discomfort and fascination. “No,” he murmured back, shaking his head with a small, uncertain frown. “Never. Not in front of anyone, at least. He’s affectionate, but… not like that.”

Both boys glanced at each other — the weight of their family’s impeccable manners pressed into them since childhood — and then back toward the sofa. Sirius’s thumb brushed a tear that had escaped Harry’s cheek; his tone was low and melodic, an unthinking hum that made the whole scene seem almost private.

Regulus shifted, unable to decide whether to look away or keep watching. “It’s— it’s most improper,” he hissed finally, trying to sound indignant but coming off more bewildered.

Lycoris’s lips twitched despite himself. “Perhaps,” he said slowly, “but it’s… rather gentle, isn’t it? I don’t think I’ve ever seen Father gentle like that. Not even with Lucretia.”

The youngest frowned, unsettled by how right that sounded. Sirius was usually all laughter and drama, all charm and brilliance — not this quiet, steady warmth that seemed to anchor the trembling young omega beside him. It was something else entirely.

From where they stood, they could see Harry leaning subtly into the touch, the tension in his shoulders easing, his eyes fluttering closed. Sirius bent to murmur something soft, a reassurance neither boy could hear, and the young man gave a small, sleepy nod in response.

Lycoris let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. “Maybe,” he said at last, still half-whispering, “that’s what Father’s like when someone really needs him.”

Regulus didn’t answer — just kept staring, confused and curious in equal measure — as the quiet purring sound rose again from the men, foreign and strangely soothing, like a sound out of some gentler world they’d never been allowed to know.

“Shh, shh, it’s all right now,” Sirius whispered, his lips close enough that the words stirred a few stray curls at Harry’s temple. One arm was looped securely around Harry’s waist. 

It was intimate in a way that made the onlookers shift, unsure where to look. Sirius didn’t seem to notice or care. His focus was only on the trembling young omega in his arms, on the faint, rough little purr that still stuttered against his chest. Every time it faltered, Sirius’s touch gentled further, the soft sound of “shh, breathe, you’re safe” coaxing it back into rhythm.

Harry’s fingers had curled into Sirius’s sleeve; he was still half-hidden beneath the edge of his cloak.. The faint scent of distress was slowly giving way to something sweeter, something calmer.

Hesper stood silent, one hand pressed lightly to her lips. It looked absurd, almost comical in its tenderness: her formidable husband, heir Black, holding an eighteen-year-old peer of the realm as though he were a frightened infant. Yet there was nothing mocking about it.

Sirius bent a little closer, voice barely audible. “Good. There you are. Keep purring for me, yes? That’s it, that’s perfect.”

Harry obeyed without meaning to, the low vibration humming softly between them, a sound of instinct and relief.

The eldest son moved closer to his mother, his voice taut but hushed, eyes still fixed on the strange tableau across the room.

“What in Merlin’s name is going on?” he hissed. “Why is Father—” he gestured vaguely, helplessly, “—doing that?”

Before Hesper could answer, Isla spoke first, her tone even, clipped, the voice of someone used to soothing sharp tempers and smoothing over scandal. “Lord Harrison Peverell,” she said, low enough that the others wouldn’t overhear, “is under Ministry protection. He is the last of his line. I thought it wise that he and your father meet. There are precious few male omegas, and your father understands better than most how… isolating that can be.”

Arcturus’s mouth opened, shut again. His eyes flicked between Harry’s small form and his father’s protective hold. There was confusion, yes, but also an edge of guilt flickering behind his annoyance.

Hesper sighed softly, finishing what Isla had not. “And before you start, Arcturus — yes, it’s unusual. But Sirius is trying to keep him purring right now. He hasn’t had another omega purr to him in his life, not once. It’s… something deeply instinctual. And if you look closely—” she nodded toward the bundle on the sofa, “—you’ll notice Lucretia hasn’t stirred once since.”

Arcturus blinked, looking again at his tiny daughter. Her little curls were poking out from under the cloak, her breathing slow and even, the faintest sound of a child’s soft sigh now and then.

“So,” she murmured, folding her arms and giving him a pointed look, “perhaps let your father do what he’s doing. He’s keeping two frightened people calm, and one of them happens to be your own child.”

“How old is he?” Arcturus asked after a moment, his voice no longer sharp, but bewildered — as though every answer only raised further questions.

“Eighteen,” Isla replied evenly.

Arcturus blinked. “Eighteen?” he repeated, incredulous. “He’s older than me?”

Hesper hid a smile behind her hand. “By two years, yes. Surprising, isn’t it?”

He looked back toward the sofa as though trying to reconcile the picture before him — his father, calmly nuzzling the crown of the young man’s head, soft purring rising and falling in unison between them. Harry looked small despite his age, his hand fisted lightly in Sirius’s shirt as though the slightest distance would undo him.

Sirius murmured something no one could hear and pressed another kiss to Harry’s forehead. 

“How long have they known each other?” he asked finally, looking at Isla as though the absurdity must surely be her fault.

Isla chuckled, shaking her head. “Since lunch.”

He blinked again. “Lunch?"

“Yes,” Hesper said fondly, “and your father’s already decided he’s part of the family.”

“Of course he has,” Arcturus muttered, dragging a hand over his face. “I’m sorry, Lord Peverell. I really am,” he said at last, his voice subdued now, his brothers standing awkwardly behind him as though they weren’t quite sure whether to retreat or bow.

Harry shifted slightly in Sirius’s arms, wiping the corner of his eye before managing a faint smile. “Oh — please, call me Harry. I feel strange when people use my title,” he said softly, his voice still a little shaky but gentle. “And I understand. This is your daughter, after all. I would have been livid too.”

“You would have?” Arcturus asked, surprise flickering over his face.

“Who wouldn’t?” Harry replied, eyes softening. “She’s so beautiful, by the way. Miss McMillian must be quite the sight.”

Arcturus blinked, thrown entirely off guard by the compliment. “Thank you,” he muttered, a hint of colour rising to his cheeks. “Melania is.”

Sirius gave a quiet hum of amusement, one eyebrow lifting as he smirked at his son. “He just couldn’t resist her,” he said, with the dry tone of a father who’d long ago accepted that story into family lore.

Harry’s laugh bubbled out, light and genuine, and Lycoris and Regulus snorted behind their hands, trying — and failing — to disguise their amusement.

“Father!” Arcturus said indignantly, eyes flashing. “You let your own son be judged before a lord?”

Sirius only leaned back a little, looking pleased with himself, but before he could answer, Harry tilted his head and said in that same mild, teasing voice, “Mr Black, perhaps calculate when your father had you.”

There was a pause — then Arcturus’s brow furrowed as he counted under his breath. “Eighteen… Father! You had me young!”

Sirius burst into delighted laughter, the sound filling the room. “Oh, Harry, you little devil!” he said, clutching his chest. “He hadn’t worked it out before, clearly. And for the record, my dear son — eighteen is a lot more mature than fourteen!”

Arcturus crossed his arms, scowling, though the faintest smile threatened his lips. “That’s not fair. It’s different now.”

“Different?” Sirius echoed. “It is very improper for a member of this family to go running off into the daisies with a thirteen-year-old girl. Poor thing,” he tutted. “When Father Phineas finally decides to step down, you will be my heir, you know that.”

“I know! But you don’t need to go explaining things to a person you just met,” Arcturus huffed, cheeks pink, though his voice wavered between annoyance and embarrassment.

“I’m sorry, Mr Black,” Harry said quickly, tone warm and conciliatory. “If it eases your mind, it’s not the first time I’ve heard of this sort of thing. My adoptive family’s son did the very same.”

A flicker of something — discomfort, sadness — passed over Harry’s expression at the mention of the Dursleys, though he kept his voice even.

“You were adopted?” Regulus asked, curiosity cutting through the tension. He looked small beside his brothers, all wide eyes and earnest interest.

“Regulus, might you mind your tongue?” Hesper chided, though not harshly.

“It’s all right,” Harry said, shaking his head faintly. “I was adopted when I was one.”

There was a quiet, thoughtful pause. Sirius’s hand was still resting on his shoulder, thumb absently drawing slow circles there. Isla, standing by the doorway, watched the entire scene with an unreadable look — half affection, half calculation.

Inwardly, she was already making note: that detail, “adopted at one,” would be valuable in forging the new, complete identity of Harrison Peverell.

“Why were you adopted?” Regulus asked suddenly, the words tumbling out before he could stop himself.

“Regulus!” Hesper’s voice cut across the air in quiet reproach.

“It’s all right,” Harry said softly, looking down at his fingers for a moment before speaking. “I lost my family.”

“Oh,” Regulus murmured, face falling at once. “I’m sorry.”

“Don't say that,” Harry replied, with a small, almost detached smile. “I only remember them dying, so I didn’t have much to mourn.”

The words hung in the room like a chill. I only remember them dying.

Sirius blinked — slowly, once, then again — as if trying to comprehend the shape of what Harry had just said. Across from him, even Arcturus looked subdued, his usual bluster dimmed. Lycoris glanced uneasily between them, while Hesper’s hand, resting on the table, went still.

Those words circled the room, caught in each of their heads like a haunting refrain.

I only remember them dying.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Harry asked after a beat, voice quieter now, wary, his green eyes flicking up uncertainly between them all.

Sirius swallowed, his throat tight. “Because,” he said gently, “you lost everything.”

Harry opened his mouth then closed it again. There was a strange, flickering ache in his chest, like a memory that wanted to surface but couldn’t. He wanted to say, Well, in eighty-one years, your whole family is dead, but the words stuck to the back of his throat, wrong for this place, this time. So instead, he just nodded faintly.

Truthfully, he didn’t quite understand why he didn’t feel much pain anymore. Perhaps he’d simply learned to fold it away, to tuck it neatly behind walls so tall and so silent that no one could see the cracks.

Hesper’s gaze met Sirius’s over Harry’s bowed head. The realisation passed between them without a word.

Harry hadn’t been abused by the Peverells — of course not; they were long gone. No, he’d been given to some other family, one who hadn’t wanted him, one who had hurt him, used him, and left him to fend for himself the moment he came of age.

The last Peverell — an omega, lost and half-starved for affection — had been raised without love at all.

“You have someone, right?” Regulus piped up suddenly, brow furrowed in youthful curiosity. “I smelt an alpha on you.”

Harry flushed instantly, a deep, warm red crawling up his neck to his ears. Isla, who had found tea, hid her grin behind her cup — but the sparkle in her eyes gave her away completely. 

“Oh, dear Harry,” Sirius said with exaggerated despair, one hand pressed to his heart in mock offence. “Please tell me you’re not following in my footsteps.”

“Sirius!” Harry gasped, mortified. “I would never! I only met him this week.”

“And went for a moonlit walk,” Isla added, voice lilting, her grin far too pleased for Harry’s comfort.

Harry groaned quietly and pressed a hand over his face. “It wasn’t... it wasn’t like that! We were just talking!”

Sirius’s laughter boomed through the room, rich and amused. “And who is this fine fellow who’s managed to make my darling little Peverell blush to his hairline?”

Harry peeked out between his fingers, muttering, “Newton Scamander.”

At once, several heads turned.

“The younger brother of the Head Auror?” Hesper asked, arching a brow with sudden interest.

Harry nodded meekly, fidgeting with the cuff of his teal sleeve. “Yes, ma’am. He’s very kind. A bit awkward, but good.”

“Awkward and good,” Sirius repeated with mock solemnity. “Perfect combination for a man with a brain full of magical beasts.”

Arcturus snorted. “The Scamander family’s respectable, Father. At least he’s not some wandering drifter.”

“Oh, hush,” Sirius said with a smirk. “You’re only saying that because your little daughter is practically in love with Harry already.”

“I am not!” Arcturus snapped, scandalised, which only made everyone laugh harder — even Hesper, who shook her head fondly.

“Well,” she said finally, smiling toward Harry, “if this Scamander is who I think he is, he’s a bright young man. Loyal, a bit shy, very much the academic sort. You could do worse, dear.”

Harry groaned again, burying his face in his hands as Sirius clapped him on the shoulder.

“Welcome to the family, Harry,” Sirius said cheerfully. “Apparently, you come with stories already.”

Chapter Text

By an hour later, little Lucretia had roused again, blinking sleepily and beginning to squirm in Harry’s lap. Her tiny fists rubbed at her eyes before she gave a small whimper of complaint. Hesper appeared almost at once, maternal instinct sharp as ever, and bent down with a soft hum.

“Come here, sweetheart,” she said, carefully lifting the toddler into her arms. “Let’s check if you need changing, hmm?”

Lucretia cooed drowsily, half-asleep against her grandmother’s shoulder. Hesper smiled over her head at Harry. “You’ve quite the magic touch. She hasn’t slept so soundly in weeks.”

Harry smiled, a bit shyly, brushing his hands over the front of his teal robes. “She’s a lovely child,” he said softly.

As Hesper disappeared down the hall with the baby, Harry rose to his feet — and immediately felt a shadow fall across him. He turned slightly, startled to find Arcturus standing much too close.

“Oh, he’s tiny,” Arcturus said, tone somewhere between disbelief and fascination.

Harry blinked up at him, realising with a faint flutter of discomfort that the sixteen-year-old towered over him. Arcturus was already brushing six feet and strong from endless hours on the Quidditch pitch. Harry, by contrast, was small and fine-boned, with lean muscle.

Sirius looked over from his armchair, one eyebrow arching. “Arcturus, for heaven’s sake, stop looming. He’s not a new species.”

“I’m not looming!” Arcturus protested, though he didn’t step back. “He's smaller than I expected. You said he’s eighteen!”

“I am,” Harry said quietly, straightening his shoulders in a polite but nervous attempt to reclaim a bit of space.

Lycoris snickered from behind his brother. “You sound like a giant commenting on a pixie, Archie."

That earned him a glare from Arcturus and a smothered laugh from Regulus.

Sirius rose smoothly, crossing over to Harry and slipping an arm loosely around his shoulders in that instinctive, calming way of his. “My dear boy is perfectly sized,” he said in that dry, affectionate drawl that could disarm anyone. “You, on the other hand, are still growing into those long legs and don’t yet know what to do with them.”

Arcturus scowled. “I do too!”

“Oh, really?” Sirius teased. “Then stop tripping over your own broom and perhaps I’ll believe it.”

Harry let out a soft laugh, tension easing slightly as Sirius’s fingers rubbed comfortingly at his shoulder. 

“Tiny,” Arcturus muttered again, as though still not over the discovery.

“Yes,” Sirius said easily, eyes twinkling with mischief, “and he’s also the owner of the Elder Wand, so watch your mouth, my son.”

That caught everyone’s attention.

Arcturus blinked. “The what?”

Harry’s face went pink. “No one really owns it,” he said quickly, hands fluttering in protest. “It just… follows.”

“Follows you?” Lycoris repeated, head tilting like a curious crow.

Harry nodded, looking sheepish. “Yes. If I leave it somewhere, it’ll come back when I want it.” He hesitated, then added with a grimace, “Or… when I don’t want it.”

There was a beat of stunned silence.

“It comes back?” Regulus asked in disbelief. “Like a stray cat?”

“Exactly like that,” Harry sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I once snapped it in half, threw it off a high bridge, and it was in my hand again by the time I left the area.”

“You what?” Arcturus blurted, staring at him as though he’d just confessed to kicking a dragon.

Harry shrugged helplessly, the movement small and apologetic. “It was only a month ago. I’ve not seen any malfunctions with it since.”

“No,” Isla said with a teasing lilt, “apart from it appearing in your hand before the cherry one does.”

That earned her a sharp look from Sirius, remembering perfectly how the scene at lunch had unfolded.

“I didn’t know it would do that!” Harry protested, cheeks flushing bright pink. “I might need to… train it, I suppose.”

Sirius barked a laugh. “Train it? What, like a pet kneazle?”

“I’d pay good money to see that. A lord of an ancient house lecturing a wand to ‘sit’ and ‘stay.’”

Harry gave a tiny huff of laughter, rubbing at his face. “It sounds ridiculous, I know. But if it’s going to insist on coming back to me, I might as well try to make it behave.”

Lycoris grinned, sharp with youthful mischief. “Do you think it understands you?”

“Sometimes,” he admitted with an embarrassed little shrug. “Once, when I was annoyed, I told it to leave me alone, and it… actually did.”

“How long for?” Sirius asked, curious despite himself.

“Four days,” he said gravely. “It was the best four days of my life.”

Sirius burst out laughing again, doubling over, and even Hesper had to hide her smile behind one elegant hand.

Arcturus, though still looking vaguely scandalised, couldn’t quite stop the corner of his mouth from twitching. “You’re either the bravest or the most foolish man alive.”

Harry tilted his head, eyes glinting with quiet humour. “Probably both. It’s been said before.”

“If the Elder Wand exists,” Lycoris said, eyes bright with curiosity, “does the stone and cape exist too?”

Harry smiled faintly, leaning back into the cushions. “A little secret for you,” he said softly. “The Potters keep that cape well hidden. And the Gaunts adore that ring.”

Three pairs of young eyes widened.

“You know where they are?” Regulus asked in awe.

Harry hesitated, his tone turning playfully mysterious. “I have it on good conscience that I could probably will them here if I wished.”

“Please!” Regulus gasped, nearly bouncing forward.

“Oh no, no way,” he said at once, shaking his head so fast his hair ruffled. “I do not wish to anger the remaining cousins I have. The Potters would hex me senseless, and the Gaunts— well, they’d likely curse my ancestors for it.”

Sirius laughed, warm and rich. “If you ever anger Henry, I’ll calm that gruff man down for you.”

Harry blinked. “You know Lord Potter?”

“I should hope so,” Sirius replied, a teasing lilt to his voice. “I am good friends with him. We have tea a few times a week.”

Harry’s brows furrowed slightly. “But— aren’t your political views vastly different?”

Sirius looked amused. “Different?”

He shook his head quickly. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I thought so.”

“We both stand firm in the belief that magic must remain secret from Muggles, but that Muggleborns should be welcomed and integrated into wizarding society. Neglecting our roots as wizards and witches,” he added, his tone deepening thoughtfully, “will be the downfall of us.”

Harry nodded, his voice softer now. “I agree.”

Lycoris tilted his head, studying Harry with the sharp perceptiveness that came from being both a middle child and a beta. “Will you take up your seat in the Wizengamot, then?”

Harry hesitated. His hands folded neatly. thumbs rubbing against each other in a small nervous motion. “I would have to learn a great deal about politics before I do,” he admitted softly. “Even so, I don’t think people would listen to an eighteen-year-old omega that—” he gave a faint, self-conscious laugh, “—from what I’ve been told, looks around fifteen.”

Lycoris smiled faintly, his dark brows lifting. “I wouldn’t say fifteen,” he said diplomatically, though the glimmer in his eyes betrayed his amusement.

“Fourteen, perhaps,” Regulus murmured with a smirk, earning himself a pointed look from his father.

Sirius, however, chuckled, the corners of his mouth softening. “Don’t mind them, darling. You look young because you’re gentle-faced, not because you’re childish. There’s a difference. Most of the wizened fools in the Wizengamot could use a touch of youth among them.”

Harry blushed, ducking his head slightly. “You say that, but I imagine I’d faint before I made it through the first speech.”

“You’d do splendidly,” he said, tone both proud and affectionate. “And if anyone dared to speak down to you, they’d have to answer to me, to Hesper, and to Isla as well.”

“Indeed,” Hesper called lightly from the doorway, arms crossed but smiling. “They’d best prepare for a very unpleasant day if they tried to belittle our young lord.”

Harry laughed quietly, though his cheeks remained pink. “You all make it sound as if I’d need an army behind me.” Though he remembers he did at one point.

“You do,” Sirius replied at once, matter-of-factly. “Every good leader does. No one rules alone, Harry. Not even a Peverell.”

For a moment, Harry said nothing. His gaze dropped to his hands and then he looked up at them — at Sirius’s open warmth, Hesper’s calm strength, Isla’s approving grin, and the curious, respectful looks from the three young Blacks.

Something in his chest ached, not painfully, but tenderly — the kind of ache that came from being seen, truly seen, for the first time in years.

“Perhaps…” he murmured at last, “perhaps one day I’ll try.”

“Good boy,” Sirius said softly, smiling so warmly.

Harry froze for the briefest of moments. The word good sent a warm spark through his chest, a quiet flutter of something instinctive, safe. But the word boy hit a buried wire. Something in him bristled; not visibly, but deep under the skin, like an echo of static that refused to fade.

The Dursleys’ voices came back to him in fragments — sharp, hateful, the word boy always spat like filth.

His breath hitched. His smile faltered.

“Harry?” Sirius’s tone softened immediately. He’d noticed the shift, the faint tension in Harry’s shoulders. His voice was low now, threaded with concern. “Harry, what is it?”

Harry spun away, the motion quick, almost defensive. He didn’t want them to see the tremor in his hands or the flicker of panic behind his eyes. He focused on the mantle instead — the soft ticking of the clock, the faint scent of Hesper’s baking, anything to anchor himself.

It was too much, too close — Sirius, the same name, the same gentle tone his godfather had once used. And yet this man wasn’t his Sirius. This was another life, another time, another version that looked at him like family when his own had died long ago.

He swallowed hard, forcing air through his lungs.

After a moment, he turned back, his expression carefully composed again, though his green eyes were glassy. He managed a smile — small, apologetic, but sincere.

“I’m all right,” he said softly, voice steadier than he felt. “I just… remembered something unpleasant, that’s all.”

Sirius frowned, still watching him closely, but he didn’t press. Instead, he nodded once, slow and reassuring. “You don’t ever need to apologise for that, darling.”

Harry’s smile grew a little more real at that, though he quickly looked away again, eyes landing on the fire. “Thank you,” he murmured.

A day ago...

Newt woke late, if it could even be called that. The heavy curtains had done nothing to mute the golden light pressing through the windows of his childhood room. When he finally pried his eyes open, the clock on the mantle declared it was three o’clock in the afternoon. He groaned, scrubbing a hand down his freckled face.

Sleep had evaded him most of the night. Every time he’d shut his eyes, he’d seen Harry — the green of his eyes under moonlight, the way his laughter had sounded when the moonflies landed in his hair, the trembling softness of his voice.

It had been a long time since anything had left Newt feeling so awake.

He dragged himself up and fumbled for the nearest trousers and shirt he could find, pulling them on half-backwards and not bothering to tuck anything in. His hair stuck up at odd angles, and his collar was undone.

When he finally made it downstairs, the smell of tea and baked bread met him — and so did the sharp voice of his mother.

“Newton Artemis Fido Scamander!” Marigold snapped, hands on her hips. “I thought you’d left early to work! You’ve been asleep this entire day?!”

Newt blinked owlishly. “I— I was awake late,” he tried.

“Awake late? Doing what, may I ask? You’re twenty years old, Newton! Not some dreamy schoolboy! You can’t go wandering about at night chasing pixies or whatever you do!”

He opened his mouth, then decided against the first answer that came to him. “I was meeting someone,” he said finally, voice careful. “Lord Peverell.”

The reaction was instantaneous.

“At night?!” Marigold’s voice shot up an octave. “You were meeting Lord Harrison Peverell... in the dark? Newton Artemis Fido Scamander, don’t you dare tell me—” she gasped, a hand to her chest as if he’d mortally wounded her sensibilities— “you didn’t bed him, did you?!”

“Mum!”

Her eyes were wide and scandalised. “Don’t you Mum me! You come home at dawn smelling of an omega, and you tell me you were out meeting him in moonlight? Oh, for Merlin’s sake, Newton, if you’ve gone and—”

“Mother!”

“—rammed your willy up his arse and nine months later we’ll all see the ramifications of it!”

The voice that came next was from the doorway. “Marigold!”

Both turned. Mr Scamander stood frozen in shock, halfway into the kitchen, a newspaper in hand and a look that was trying very hard to stay neutral.

Marigold barely glanced at him before snapping back to Newt. “Well?!”

“Mother, I only hugged him!” Newt said helplessly, cheeks burning redder than a Howler. “I promise you, that’s all we did!”

“Hugged? Hugged?! You expect me to believe that after you came out of your room looking like- like you’d been tousled?”

Newt ran both hands through his hair in exasperation. “I’m always tousled! You know this!”

His mother crossed her arms, unimpressed. “Multiple hugs, was it?”

“Yes!” Newt sputtered. “Two because Apparition doesn’t bear well with him, it makes him ill, and once because— because—”

“Because you couldn’t keep your hands to yourself?” she cut in.

“Because,” Newt said loudly over her, “he was cold!”

There was a pause. Marigold raised an eyebrow. “Oh, cold, was he? So you decided to warm him up with—”

“Mother!”

Mr Scamander quietly poured himself a cup of tea and retreated to the farthest corner of the kitchen, muttering something about not interfering in domestic catastrophes.

Newt took a steadying breath. “I will not have you thinking of Harry like that,” he said, voice firm now, surprising even himself. “He is gentle, and beautiful, and I would never—”

Marigold’s mouth twitched. “Oh, Harry, is it? Not ‘Lord Peverell’ anymore?”

He froze, face flushing scarlet.

“Oh, this is worse than I thought,” Marigold declared, throwing her hands up. “He’s already on a first-name basis! Newton, you’ve gone and attached yourself to him like a kneazle to a broomstick.”

“I have not!”

His father, hiding behind his newspaper, coughed suspiciously — it might’ve been a laugh.

Marigold groaned, pacing. “Next you’ll be writing poetry and keeping locks of his hair.”

Newt crossed his arms, red-faced but defiant. “It was one evening, Mother. We talked about moonflies.”

“Yes, I’m sure that’s what they call it nowadays,” she muttered.

He sighed, defeated. “I need to go feed the mooncalves.”

“Feed them, or name one after him?” she called after him.

Newt ignored her, stalking out into the garden — cheeks still aflame, heart still thrumming with the memory of emerald eyes under moonlight.

He stomped down the back steps, boots half-laced and shirt still hanging untucked, muttering under his breath the entire way. The cold garden air slapped his face, sharp with the smell of wet soil and early autumn, but it did little to cool the heat burning under his skin.

“I can’t believe my mother,” he muttered, kicking a loose pebble into the herb patch. “Absolutely unbelievable. 'Rammed your willy up his—' honestly... what sort of thing is that to say to your own son!”

A mooncalf poked its head out of the shed door, blinking its wide silver eyes at him.

“I hugged him,” Newt said, pointing an indignant finger at the creature as though it needed to understand his plight. “That’s all. Three times! Two because he nearly fainted after Apparating and one because— well, because— he looked like he needed it.”

The mooncalf blinked again, unimpressed.

Newt sighed dramatically and leaned against the fence. “And now she thinks I’ve— oh, honestly. The way she said it! Loud enough for the neighbours to hear, too, I wouldn’t be surprised if Mrs Nettle a mile away is already writing it in her gossip journal. ‘Oh, have you heard? Marigold Scamander’s boy got entangled with a lord.’” He groaned. “Perfect.”

He crouched down to refill the feed trough, hands moving automatically while his mind reeled. Every time he closed his eyes, he could still see Harry — the way his curls had caught the moonlight, the shy smile he’d given when Newt offered his hand, the little tremor that had run through him when they’d Apparated. He’d looked so breakable, so gentle, like one wrong word might shatter him.

And his mother had turned that into— into— well, that.

“I can’t believe her,” Newt said again, louder this time. “She’s gone completely mad.” He straightened and paced, gesturing wildly to the garden. “And father! Just sitting there, pretending to read the paper like he wasn’t about to laugh his beard off! Oh, that’ll be the talk of dinner tonight, won’t it?"

He groaned again and raked his hands through his hair until it stuck up even worse. “Merlin’s beard, I’m never going to live this down. I can already see the look she’ll give me next time I leave the house after sunset. ‘Off to court Lord Peverell, are you, Newton?’ Ugh.”

The mooncalves nuzzled around his legs, clearly sensing his distress but not particularly sympathetic.

He dropped a hand to pat one absentmindedly. “She doesn’t understand,” he murmured. “He’s not— it wasn’t like that. He’s just…” He paused, searching for the right word and coming up short. "… kind,” he finished softly. “He’s kind, and soft-spoken, and he looks at people like they might be worth saving.”

For a long moment, he stood there, surrounded by quiet snuffling sounds and the rustle of leaves. The memory of Harry’s faint laugh drifted back to him — that gentle, almost startled sound that had felt like sunlight.

Newt smiled faintly despite himself.

“I can’t believe my mother,” he whispered again, but now there was a touch of rueful affection in it. He shook his head, gathering up the feed pail. “But she’s not wrong about one thing.”

He glanced toward the horizon, where the first streaks of orange touched the clouds.

“I am rather attached.”

"Newt!"

He nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of her voice. He spun around, the pail in his hands tilting dangerously before he righted it with a huff.

“Leta! Merlin’s— you nearly gave me a heart attack,” he said, a touch breathless.

She was standing at the garden gate, arms folded elegantly, a wry smile tugging at her lips. Her dark curls were pinned back, though a few had escaped — as usual — to frame her face in the lazy breeze.

“Is your mother also trying to set you up with someone?” she asked, stepping through the gate with a familiar ease that said she’d been walking into his family’s garden her entire life. “Because mine’s been at it since breakfast. Went on and on about this Flint fellow — apparently, he’s quite accomplished, owns half of Wiltshire or something equally dull — and when I told her I wasn’t interested, she actually had the audacity to say—” She dropped her voice into a perfect imitation of her mother’s sharp tone: “‘Well, darling, perhaps you should go back to that Scamander boy. He’s an odd one, but at least he’s clever.’”

Newt groaned. “Oh, wonderful. So the Lestrange family is conspiring alongside mine now.”

Leta laughed, her eyes bright. “You look like you’ve had a morning worse than mine, though.”

He stared at her for a long moment before blurting, “My mother thinks I’ve— she thinks I’ve compromised someone.”

Leta’s eyebrows arched in delight. “Oh, really? Who’s the lucky someone?”

“Don’t— don’t say it like that!” Newt flustered immediately, turning pink to the roots of his hair. “It’s not what she thinks! She’s convinced I— well—” He rubbed his face with his hands, muttering, “Why do I even bother?”

Leta’s grin widened, predatory in the most affectionate way. “You’re blushing, Newton.”

“Because it’s mortifying!” he protested, pacing a few steps before collapsing against the fence again. “I met someone. A perfectly respectable meeting, might I add! Lord Harrison Peverell. He’s— well, he’s very nice—”

Leta blinked. “Lord Peverell? As in the Peverell family?”

“Yes,” Newt said miserably. “And now Mother thinks we— well, you know what she thinks! She started shouting at Father about— about willys and ramifications! Right in the sitting room!”

Leta choked on a laugh, clapping a hand over her mouth. “She did not.”

“She did,” Newt said grimly, glaring at a passing gnome as though it were responsible. “I can’t go inside again without dying of embarrassment.”

Leta finally lost composure, laughing so hard she had to hold the fence to keep upright. “Oh, Newt— oh, Merlin— your poor mother! You’ve probably driven her to hysterics.”

“She’s driven me to hysterics,” he muttered.

When Leta caught her breath again, she smiled at him — softer now, fond. “So, you met Lord Peverell. What’s he like, then? Worth all the scandal?”

Newt hesitated. His hands fidgeted with the edge of the pail, eyes dropping to the ground. “He’s… kind,” he said finally, the word tasting careful, reverent. “He’s been through a great deal, I think. You can see it in how he carries himself. But he smiles anyway.”

Leta tilted her head, her expression gentling. “You like him.”

He flushed again. “I— I respect him.”

“Of course you do,” Leta said teasingly, stepping closer. “And I suppose if he’s as gentle as you say, he’d never survive my mother’s dinner parties.”

“Neither would I,” Newt admitted.

She laughed softly and bumped his shoulder. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your brooding, Newton. But for what it’s worth, I’m rather glad you didn’t end up with me. You’d never have survived my mother either.”

He grinned, a small, shy smile. “Probably not.”

As Leta turned to leave, she glanced back over her shoulder, mischief in her eyes. “Tell Lord Peverell from me that if he’s smart, he’ll run before Marigold decides to measure him for wedding robes.”

Newt groaned into his hands as she disappeared around the gate. “I really can’t believe my mother.”

“Brother!”

Newt froze again, shoulders hunching instinctively before he even turned. Theseus’ voice had that clipped, I’ve-been-interrupted-at-the-Ministry tone to it — sharp, commanding, and very much not in the mood for excuses.

“Oh no,” Newt groaned under his breath, eyes squeezing shut for a brief, hopeless moment. “Not you too.”

But it was too late. Theseus was already striding across the garden, trench coat half-open, tie askew, and the distinct look of an older brother who’d been summoned home from work specifically to handle nonsense. His boots hit the gravel with the force of a man ready to wrestle a dragon.

“Do you know what Mother just told me?” Theseus demanded.

“…That the hippogriffs are nesting again?” Newt tried weakly.

“No!”

Newt winced.

“She sent a patronus to the Auror Office, Newt — a patronus — saying you’d—” Theseus stopped mid-word, lowering his voice as though the garden gnomes might be scandalised. “—that you’d defiled a lord!”

“Oh, Merlin, not that word,” Newt muttered, covering his face.

Theseus threw his arms wide. “What was I supposed to think?! I was in a meeting with Director Croaker! Do you have any idea what it’s like trying to explain that to him? ‘No, sir, my younger brother hasn’t compromised an ancient house heir, my mother’s just—’ oh, I don’t know— mad!”

“I didn’t do anything!” Newt protested. “We just— we talked!”

“Theseus, she said you reeked of an omega!”

Newt spluttered. “Because I hugged him! He gets ill when he apparates, I wasn’t just going to— leave him there!”

Theseus pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something about needing a week’s leave. “Newt, you can’t just hug noblemen in moonlight. That’s how you end up in Witch Weekly.”

“I wasn’t trying to end up in Witch Weekly!” Newt shot back, cheeks colouring furiously. “He’s— he’s kind, Theseus! He’s gentle and polite and— and he smells like wildflowers and—”

“Oh brilliant, now you’re talking about how he smells,” Theseus groaned, turning toward the house. “Mum’s probably already ordering an engagement announcement.”

“She would not!”

“She would,” Theseus said darkly. “I’ve seen her do worse.”

Newt dragged a hand down his face, utterly mortified. “You can’t possibly think I—”

“I don’t think you did anything,” Theseus interrupted, tone softening slightly. “But Mother does. And now half the Ministry probably does, because she owled me there after the patronus.”

“She what?!”

“She wrote, and I quote: ‘Come home immediately. Newton's behaving indecently with a titled omega.’”

Newt made a strangled sound that was half groan, half despair. “I’m moving out.”

Theseus sighed, exasperated but faintly amused. “You said that last time she caught you sleeping in the greenhouse with the puffskeins.”

“That was different!”

“Was it?”

“Yes!”

They stood there for a beat — Newt, red-faced and flustered; Theseus, pinching the bridge of his nose but fighting the twitch of a grin.

Finally, Theseus let out a long breath. “Right. I’ll tell Mother you’re still a respectable young man. Merlin help me, she’ll probably faint from shock.”

Newt gave him a long, pointed look. “She already yelled the word ‘willy’ in front of Father.”

Theseus paused, then burst out laughing despite himself. “Oh— oh, for Merlin’s sake— Newt, you absolute menace.”

“I’m the menace?!”

“Yes!” Theseus clapped him on the shoulder, still grinning. “And for the record, I can’t believe I left a high-level meeting to come home for this.”

“You can’t believe it? I can’t believe our mother!” Newt muttered, stomping toward the back door. “I’m never bringing anyone home. Ever.”

“Good,” Theseus said dryly. “At least that way she can’t start knitting baby blankets.”

Newt stopped mid-step, realising his brother had gone very still behind him. The humour had drained from Theseus’ expression, replaced by something sharper — wary, assessing, as though someone had just moved the entire board mid-game.

“Who was it, by the way?” Theseus asked, voice a touch too casual now. “Mother didn’t say."

Newt’s shoulders slumped. “Lord Peverell,” he muttered into his collar, clearly wishing the ground would swallow him whole.

There was a pause. A long, dangerous pause.

Then Theseus blinked, once. Twice. “Lord Peverell?” he repeated, his tone incredulous.

“Yes,” Newt mumbled.

“As in Harrison Corvinus Peverell.”

“I didn't know his middle name, but... yes.”

“As in— the young man under Ministry protection. The one the Department of Mysteries insisted we keep unquestioned and unbothered. The one I personally signed the protection paperwork for.”

Newt winced. “…yes.”

Theseus entire face fell into his hands. “Newton Artemis Fido Scamander.”

“Please don’t use the full name,” Newt groaned.

“Oh, I’ll use the full name,” Theseus said grimly, lowering his hands. “Because I need you to understand the gravity of what you’re telling me.” He pointed an accusing finger. “You, the natural disaster in human form, have managed to accidentally entangle yourself with the Ministry’s most politically volatile ward.”

“I didn’t entangle anything!” Newt cried. “We just hugged!”

“Three times, apparently!”

Newt flushed crimson. “I didn't say he gets ill when he apparates, Theseus! I wasn’t going to leave him standing in the gardens! And— and he’s lovely, and—”

“Theseus rubbed his temple. “Lovely. Merlin above.”

“He’s gentle,” Newt said earnestly, “and curious, and a little shy, and— oh, you’d like him, Theseus, he’s—”

“That’s the problem,” Theseus interrupted sharply. “I do like him. I’m supposed to like him. I’m supposed to keep him safe, Newt. He’s been through God knows what before the Ministry found him. He’s barely old enough to hold his seat, and now my brother has gone and—”

“Comforted him,” Newt supplied meekly.

“—yes, comforted him,” Theseus sighed, “in a way that’s going to make half of Magical Britain whisper about whether the Scamanders are trying to form a political alliance by scent-marking the last bloody Peverell.”

“I didn’t scent-mark him!”

“You smell like him!”

“Well he smells like me, then!”

“Newt!”

There was a silence. Then Theseus rubbed his face. “This— this is fine. This can be managed. Merlin, if the press gets wind of this—”

“They won’t,” Newt said quickly. “It wasn’t like that. he was frightened, and I just wanted him to feel safe.”

That, finally, made Theseus stop. He looked at his brother properly then — dishevelled, defensive, but eyes full of sincerity. The kind that Theseus had seen only a handful of times in his life, when Newt was defending a creature no one else had cared to understand.

“…He was frightened?”

Newt nodded. “Terrified of being touched, at first. But he’s sweet, Theseus. He’s gentle. And he’s been alone for so long.”

Something softened in Theseus’ face, that protective instinct he kept tucked behind his authority. He exhaled slowly. “Alright,” he said at last. “Alright. I believe you.”

“Thank you.”

“But, Newt,” Theseus continued, “you do understand what this means? You’ve accidentally made yourself part of his protective chain now. If anything happens to him—politically or otherwise—it’ll come back to us.”

Newt hesitated, then nodded. “Then I’ll just have to make sure he’s safe, won’t I?”

He stared at him for a long moment, then groaned softly. “You’re stupid.”

“And don't you love me for it?" Newt replied, voice small but certain.

Theseus sighed through a reluctant smile. “Unfortunately, yes. Now for Merlin’s sake, go wash up before Mother decides he's carrying your child."

“Theseus!”

“She’s already knitting something pink, Newt. I’ve seen it.”

Chapter Text

Dinner, as it turned out, was a far more excruciating experience than Newt could have possibly anticipated, perhaps even worse than that mortifying week when he was seventeen and his parents had decided to educate him on the “mechanics and responsibilities” of his first rut. That particular ordeal had involved diagrams, awkward metaphors about hippogriff courtship, and his mother’s unwavering belief that “knowledge was civility.” But this? This was worse.

The meal began in silence, which was already a poor omen. Marigold Scamander’s silence was never comfortable; it was loaded, like a coiled serpent ready to strike at the faintest provocation. Thaddeus sat at the head of the table, cutting his roast lamb with precise, almost military movements—an alpha’s stoic mask of calm authority. Theseus, across from Newt, looked as if he might stab himself in the leg just to have an excuse to leave.

It was Marigold who finally broke the silence, setting her fork down with a decisive clink. “Newton,” she began, in that particular tone that made his stomach drop, “have you written to Lord Peverell yet?”

Newt froze mid-bite. “Written?”

“Yes, written,” she said, with a meaningful glance toward Thaddeus. “About your intentions. About courting him properly.”

“Mother,” Newt said, voice tight, “I am not—”

Thaddeus cleared his throat softly, deep and resonant. “Your mother does raise a fair point, son.”

“Oh, for Morgana's sake,” muttered Theseus.

Thaddeus ignored him, eyes on Newt. “If you truly wish to maintain this acquaintance, propriety must be upheld. The Peverell line is ancient. If you wish to show your respect—and if you are interested in Lord Peverell—you must do so correctly.”

“I don’t—” Newt tried, but Marigold spoke over him.

“It would be terribly rude to leave matters ambiguous, Newton,” she declared. “You escorted him in the evening hours, alone, and you smell of him still. If that does not suggest emotional involvement, it at least demands clarification.”

Newt nearly choked on his wine. “I smell of him because I hugged him!”

“Three times, as you said,” Marigold reminded him, primly. “That is three more times than a respectable, unmarried alpha ought to embrace an omega without some form of declared intent.”

“Theseus,” Newt pleaded, turning to his brother. “Please.”

But Theseus, who had been carving his potatoes with deliberate care, suddenly set down his utensils and pushed back his chair. “I am not getting involved in this again,” he said. “I endured this same interrogation when I brought home my first partner. I’m not doing it twice. Good luck, Newt.” And with that, he left the room, the door closing behind him with a muffled thud.

Newt groaned.

Marigold sighed dramatically, turning to Thaddeus. “Honestly, the both of them. You would think I raised wolves, not wizards.”

Unbothered, Thaddeus dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “A letter would indeed be proper, son,” he said, his voice calm and level. “A brief one—cordial, respectful, stating your honourable intentions to call upon him. It need not be romantic, but it should establish your position.”

Newt gripped his fork tightly, willing himself not to slam it down. “A letter is... too cold,” he said finally, lifting his gaze to his father. “If I am to express interest at all—and I am not saying I am—I would rather do it in person. With a meaningful gift. Something considered, something human. Not… ink on parchment.”

Marigold arched a brow. “A gift? And what, precisely, would you give him? A beetle from your collection?”

His cheeks flushed crimson. “No,” he muttered. “Something beautiful. Something that shows I see him as a person, not a title.”

Thaddeus watched him for a long moment, something almost like amusement flickering in the old alpha’s sharp eyes. “A meaningful gift is acceptable,” he said finally. “Provided it is done publicly and with respect.”

However, Marigold was less convinced. “I still think a letter should precede any meeting. It would spare you the embarrassment of rejection.”

“Mother,” Newt said through gritted teeth, “I would rather face rejection in person than send a lifeless letter.”

Marigold sighed, the picture of long-suffering maternal disappointment. “Honestly, Newton, you have all the stubbornness of your father and none of his composure.”

Thaddeus’s lips twitched faintly. “He’ll do as he thinks best, Marigold. Let him court or not court as he will.”

Newt exhaled a slow, shaky breath, grateful for the reprieve—though it did little to calm the pounding in his chest. Court him. The very idea made his mind spin and his heart race. Court Harrison Peverell. His mother made it sound like a political alliance, his father like an honourable duty. But to Newt, the notion was unbearably personal. He wanted to see Harry again, yes—but not because of lineage or propriety. Because when Harry smiled under the moonlight, it had felt like something inside Newt had cracked open and bloomed.

Marigold’s voice cut through his thoughts. “Well, if you insist on seeing him in person, then for heaven’s sake, at least trim your hair and wear a proper coat. You look like you’ve been dragged through your own suitcase.”

He sighed, stabbing a bit of lamb and muttering under his breath, “I prefer my creatures to people.”

From the doorway, Theseus’s voice drifted faintly back into the room: “That’s because your creatures don’t try to marry you off at dinner.”

Newt nearly smiled... nearly. Then he caught his mother’s look and returned to staring at his plate, silently counting the seconds until he could escape to his workshop and start crafting a gift worthy of Harrison Peverell. Something delicate, meaningful, alive.

Back to the present with Harry...

By the time evening began to roll lazily toward dinner, Sirius’s old manor had settled into that peculiar quiet it carried before meals—half the household either napping or preparing, the other half drifting about in hushed conversation. A low fire crackled in the sitting room where Harry sat, curled into one of the oversized armchairs that seemed to swallow him whole. He was absently thumbing through an old volume of Black family history that Lycoris had fetched for him, though he hadn’t turned a page in several minutes.

Sirius was sprawled nearby, one leg thrown over the armrest of his chair, reading through a newspaper and occasionally glancing over at Harry in that indulgent, almost fond way of his—half protective, half bemused.

The silence broke with the faint flutter of wings. A brown-and-cream barn owl swept gracefully through the open window, circled once, and landed neatly on the arm of Harry’s chair.

Harry blinked, setting the book aside. “Oh, hello there.”

The owl gave a low, business-like hoot and extended its leg, where a crisp envelope was tied with a golden ribbon. The wax seal shimmered faintly under the lamplight—an elaborate crest of flowers, vines, and a small winged creature, elegant yet undeniably eccentric.

Sirius leaned forward, squinting. “That’s not one of ours.”

Harry untied the ribbon carefully, brow furrowing as he flipped the envelope over. “No. It’s— oh. From the Scamanders.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Ah, so your mysterious moonlit companion’s family writes now, do they?”

Harry flushed slightly, ignoring the teasing. “I suppose so.” He broke the seal and unfolded the parchment. The handwriting was graceful, neat, and unmistakably feminine.

He began to read aloud, half out of habit:

To Lord Harrison Peverell,

I trust this letter finds you well, and in good health and spirits after your late-night excursion with my son, Newton. Please be assured that no offence is meant by this correspondence, but I wish to extend my sincerest apology if any impropriety occurred, or if Newton’s manners—or his sense of time—caused you any discomfort.

As his mother, I find myself compelled to ensure that all associations he forms are grounded in mutual respect and clear intention. Thus, if you would be so kind as to clarify the nature of your acquaintance, I should be deeply grateful.

However, should you find Newton agreeable company (and I suspect, knowing him, that you might), I would encourage a formal calling between you. Properly supervised, of course.

Warm regards,

Lady Marigold Scamander

There was a long silence when Harry finished. Sirius stared at him, mouth twitching.

“Oh, she’s quite direct,” he said finally, barely suppressing a grin.

Harry groaned softly and covered his face with one hand. “Oh, Merlin’s beard.”

“She thinks you compromised her son!” Sirius burst out laughing, full-throated and delighted. “She’s accusing you of scandalous conduct!”

“I hugged him!” Harry protested, his voice cracking between mortification and disbelief.

“Ah, yes, yes, of course, hugging. The gateway sin of polite society.”

Harry shot him a glare from between his fingers. “You’re not helping.”

“Oh, I’m not trying to. Marigold Scamander… She was a Berrycloth, wasn’t she? Always did have a penchant for dramatics. You should’ve seen her at the 1894 St. Mungo’s Gala, she once fainted because someone said the word unwed.”

Harry groaned louder and let his head fall back against the chair. “What am I supposed to write back? ‘Dear Lady Scamander, I assure you your son remains untouched and fully clothed?’”

“Perfect,” Sirius said, deadpan. “Add a little sketch for emphasis.”

Harry threw a cushion at him.

The commotion drew Hesper in from the hall, holding little Lucretia against her shoulder. “What’s all this noise?”

Sirius, still chuckling, gestured toward Harry. “He’s just received a letter from his potential mother-in-law.”

“What?!” Hesper gasped, laughing despite herself. “Oh, poor thing, you’re bright red!”

Harry covered his face again, utterly defeated. “I’m never going outside again.”

“Come now,” Hesper said warmly, setting Lucretia down in her cradle. “The Lady Scamander is harmless. Overbearing, yes, but her heart’s in the right place. She dotes on her boys something fierce.”

“That much is clear,” Harry muttered. “She’s halfway to arranging a wedding before we’ve had a proper conversation.”

“Don’t fret, darling,” Sirius said, still smiling. “If Newt has any sense—and he does, even if buried deep—he’s probably dying of embarrassment right now too.”

Then, Sirius had insisted, quite firmly, that they retreat to his office to handle the matter privately. “Before the children start hearing rumours of elopement,” he said, ushering Harry down the long oak-paneled corridor with a fatherly hand on his shoulder. Isla followed them, her face alight with amusement that she was barely trying to hide.

The office itself was a warm, dignified chaos: papers scattered over a vast mahogany desk, quills of various lengths in mismatched jars, and a half-empty bottle of something amber in the corner that suggested Sirius had faced many such family incidents before. The scent of ink, parchment, and faintly of sandalwood clung to the room.

“Right,” Sirius said, shutting the door with a soft click. “We shall craft the perfect letter. Calm, proper, utterly boring—so she doesn’t faint or send you a dowry by breakfast.”

Harry sat gingerly in the chair opposite, fingers fidgeting on his knees. “I don’t even know what to say without sounding either defensive or… scandalous.”

“That,” Sirius said, lowering himself behind the desk, “is why I’m here. I’ve had years of experience writing awkward letters, my dear. Especially after Arcturus decided at fourteen that moral restraint was optional.”

Isla choked back a laugh, perching delicately on the edge of the desk. “Don’t remind me. We had three Howlers, two hexed envelopes, and a family dinner that nearly ended in a duel.”

“Precisely,” Sirius said cheerfully. “So. Quill, ink, and our finest diplomacy.” He selected a quill, twirled it dramatically, and gestured for Harry to begin. “Go on, what’s your first instinct?”

Harry hesitated. “Perhaps… Dear Lady Scamander, thank you for your concern regarding your son—”

Before he could continue, the sharp tap-tap of claws on the window interrupted him. All three heads turned.

A large tawny owl—sleek, regal, and very determined—was waiting just outside, its eyes gleaming with purpose.

“Oh Merlin,” Isla murmured. “Not again.”

Sirius rose, opened the latch, and the owl swooped in with a single, powerful beat of its wings. It dropped a thick parchment envelope directly onto the desk and then, rather ominously, refused to leave.

Sirius frowned, breaking the seal. "This looks official.” He unfolded the parchment—and froze. His eyebrows shot up so fast Harry thought they might vanish into his hairline. “Oh… oh, this woman is mad.”

Isla leaned forward, curious. “What is it?”

Sirius spread the parchment out fully. It was long. Painstakingly detailed. At the top, in elegant copperplate, were the words:

Preliminary Marriage Contract between Lord Newton Artemis Scamander and Lord Harrison Corvinus Peverell.

Harry’s jaw dropped. “She didn’t.”

“She did,” Sirius said, voice strangled between horror and laughter. “She absolutely did.”

Isla leaned closer, reading the first few lines aloud in disbelief.

This agreement, drawn with the intention of ensuring mutual benefit, honour, and propriety between the noble houses of Scamander and Peverell, outlines the expectations, dowry, inheritance rights, and primary duties of each party…

Sirius interrupted, muttering, “She’s included inheritance clauses? Oh, for heaven’s sake, look... she’s even listed the potential birth ratio expectations!”

Harry turned red to the ears. “She what?!”

“Here—‘in the event of progeny, offspring shall bear the Scamander-Peverell double-barrel until such time as the Lords decide otherwise,’” Isla recited, barely holding in laughter. “My word. And look! She’s specified a wedding colour scheme.”

Sirius slammed the parchment down with an incredulous snort. “I’ve never seen anything like this. She’s fast-tracked you from polite acquaintance to betrothed in less than twenty-four hours.”

Harry slumped into the chair, utterly mortified. “I don’t even— how— why would she—?”

“Because,” Sirius said with mock solemnity, “you hugged her son. Apparently that’s tantamount to a bonding ritual in Berrycloth logic.”

Isla gave a helpless giggle. “Oh, this is marvellous. Look here, she’s even listed future estate merger terms. She’s already calculated land distribution if the marriage occurs.”

The younger omega groaned into his hands. “I think I’m going to die.”

“No, no,” Sirius said, grinning as he skimmed further. “You’re going to be very well taken care of. She’s proposed a shared estate near Dorset, three house-elves, and a yearly holiday allowance. And she’s signed it herself on behalf of her son! Merlin’s beard, she’s gone entirely off the rails.”

“I haven’t even spoken to Newt since that night!”

“I should hope not,” Isla murmured, lips twitching. “Or she’d already have planned the christening of your future child.”

Sirius chuckled, folding the parchment with exaggerated care. “Right. New plan. Forget the polite little thank-you letter—we’re drafting a firmly diplomatic response.”

“Firmly,” Isla echoed, smirking. “And kindly.”

“And vaguely threatening,” Sirius added. “In the way only a Black can be.”

Harry rubbed the back of his neck, feeling that warm flush creeping up again. “I mean… I wouldn’t mind courting him,” he admitted, glancing between them. “Newt, I mean. He’s kind, and I— well, I like him. But marriage?” He gave a nervous laugh. “I’ve only met him three times. I barely know him. I don’t even know if he likes tea or coffee.”

“Oh, Harry, dear,” Isla said, voice full of sympathetic amusement. “That’s not how it usually works in our world.”

Sirius leaned back, swirling his quill like a conductor’s baton. “You see, my sweet summer child,” he began, half-smiling, “most of the wizarding population don’t actually know their intended before the contract is signed. They might meet once or twice, exchange pleasantries at a gala, and next thing you know they’re married and comparing wand polish over breakfast.”

Harry blinked. “That sounds… horrible.”

“It is,” Isla said brightly. “But it keeps the family lines tidy. And the Ministry delighted, of course. They adore seeing ancient names bound neatly together—Peverell, Scamander? They’re probably salivating already.”

“I’d rather marry for love,” he murmured, still pink in the face.

“Which is exactly why,” Sirius said, tapping the quill against the parchment for emphasis, “we’re not entertaining any contracts just yet. Courting, though…” He gave a knowing smile. “Now that’s perfectly respectable. Civilised. Entirely innocent, especially if it drives his mother mad.”

Isla nodded sagely. “A letter of interest would be quite proper. Keeps the door open, while you maintain control of the situation.”

Harry looked between them uncertainly. “So you’re saying most people don’t even talk before their contracts?”

“Talk?” Isla laughed softly. “Half the time, dear, they don’t even write. Their parents do it for them, right down to the colour of the wedding robes and who gets which wing of the estate.”

Sirius gave a nostalgic huff of laughter, leaning back in his chair. “Yes, that’s the truth of it. Hesper and I were lucky, though. We met at school, you see, Hesper was two years above me, a terrifyingly clever prefect who caught me out of bounds more times than I care to recall.”

His sister smirked knowingly. “I recall a few letters about that.”

“Oh, I’m sure you do,” Sirius said, eyes gleaming. “By the time I was fifteen and Hesper was seventeen, our families had decided the match made sense politically—both old blood, both respected. But it didn’t feel like an arrangement, not really. We’d already fallen halfway into it ourselves. By my eighteenth birthday, the contracts were signed, and we were married that very evening.”

Harry blinked. “The same day?”

“The same hour,” Isla corrected, grinning. “He was still trying to tie his shoes while the officiant was waiting.”

Sirius gave her an exaggeratedly wounded look. “I was nervous, thank you very much. You try marrying the most formidable alpha of the age with shaking hands and an entire Wizengamot delegation staring at you.”

Harry smiled faintly, but it didn’t escape him how natural Sirius’s tone was when he said formidable alpha—not fearful, but proud, fond, reverent. It was the sound of safety, of a bond that had never been cruel.

“But yes,” he went on, settling forward again. “By twenty, most are married—if not by choice, then by parental design. Especially in the old families. Courtships are swift, efficient, political. Love, if it comes, comes later.”

“Which,” Isla added, lifting her teacup with a knowing tilt of her brow, “means both Scamander sons are already considered scandalously behind schedule. Newton’s twenty, Theseus nearly thirty—and neither married, nor even properly courting. It must be driving Lady Scamander to distraction.”

Harry’s lips parted slightly in surprise. “She seemed… quite determined.”

“Oh, she would be,” Sirius said dryly. “Two unattached alphas, both well-bred, both past the usual age, she’ll be worried the family name will be whispered about before the year’s out. A mother like that will be halfway between panic and strategy by now.”

Isla chuckled into her tea. “Desperate, brother. The word you’re looking for is desperate.”

Harry smiled despite himself, cheeks pink. “So that’s why she sent me the  contract…”

“Precisely. She’s probably pacing her drawing room as we speak, wondering if you’ve accepted and whether she ought to start designing the wedding invitations.”

Harry let out a soft, incredulous laugh. “Merlin’s balls.”

“Welcome,” Isla said kindly, “to the upper echelons of pureblood society. Where gossip runs faster than a broom and marriage is a blood sport.”

Harry was quiet for a moment, looking down at the parchment on the desk — the one that bore his name and Newt’s in elegant golden ink, the wax seal of House Scamander pressed into the corner like a weight on his chest. The neat, swirling clauses of the marriage contract blurred before his eyes as he thought. Then, softly, with a nervous flicker of courage in his voice, he said,

“What if I send back… terms of courting instead?”

Isla and Sirius both looked at him — Sirius with the faint lift of surprise, Isla with something that looked suspiciously like pride.

“Terms of courting?” Isla repeated, setting her teacup down with a quiet clink. “Now that would be interesting. And bold.”

Harry fidgeted with the edge of his cloak, twisting a fold of fabric between his fingers. “Well, I like him,” he admitted, in a small voice that made Sirius’s eyes soften immediately. “But marriage… I hardly know him. It feels wrong to agree to something like that without understanding who he is first. And he deserves that too. If I sent back my own parchment—courting terms, not a rejection—then maybe his mother would see I’m serious, just… not ready for that.”

Sirius smiled slowly, leaning back in his chair with that pleased, paternal pride that Harry didn’t quite know how to name yet. “I think that’s very wise, Harry. Not timid, not defiant, just measured. You’re making it clear you’re open to the bond, but you value the foundation first. That’s the mark of someone who knows his worth.”

“Indeed,” Isla said with an approving nod. “You’d do well to set a precedent. The Scamanders will see you’re not a child to be bartered. That you’re a lord, and an omega who knows his own boundaries.” She tapped her quill against the table thoughtfully. “You could even include expectations—frequency of visits, written correspondence, no physical bonding until mutual consent is established.”

He flushed scarlet at that, eyes darting between them. “Do people write that sort of thing down?”

Sirius chuckled, amused. “Oh, they do. Often in much colder terms. You’d be surprised how many courting agreements specify things like ‘no open displays of scenting’ or ‘no exclusive claims before official engagement.’ But yours could be warmer, gentler. A reflection of you, Harry. Something honest.”

Isla murmured, “Let’s see… Lord Harrison Peverell expresses gratitude for the offer of union between the noble Houses Peverell and Scamander… however, he proposes an initial period of courtship to better know one another in person and spirit.”

Harry blinked. “It sounds so… proper.”

“It’s meant to,” she said lightly. “The politeness keeps them from fainting in outrage.”

Sirius chuckled again. “Add something kind about Newton himself—say you were honoured by his mother’s attention, and that you found her son to be of fine character. That will ease her feathers.”

Harry nodded, thinking of the warmth of Newt’s arms catching him, the gentle steadiness of him, and smiled faintly. “That part won’t be hard.”

“Good,” Sirius said, voice softening. “Because if you truly like him, then let it show. You don’t have to hide that. Just... do it your way. Not society’s.”

“Would you like me to draft the letter, or would you prefer to write it yourself?” Isla asked

Harry looked at the contract again—the elegant gold letters, the expectation folded into every line—and then at the blank parchment Isla held out to him. Slowly, he reached for the quill.

“I’ll write it myself,” he said quietly, determination lighting his eyes. “If this is going to be my life… I want the first words of it to be mine.”

Sirius and Isla shared a glance, something proud and sad and fond all at once.

“Well then,” Sirius murmured, handing him a bottle of ink. “Let’s make sure Lady Scamander never forgets the name Harrison Peverell. Oh, but please please use the Black family crest, I hope it'll give her a little shock before reading its from you! A little payback, if you will."

The morning sun streamed through the tall windows of the Scamander breakfast room, dust motes glittering in the golden light, as the routine calm of the family’s meal was shattered by a sharp, urgent flutter at the window. Marigold Scamander had been arranging the last cup of tea on the sideboard when a piercing cry of wings announced the arrival of the owl, who swooped down and dropped a folded parchment neatly onto the polished table before dashing off again.

“Oh!” Marigold exclaimed, springing up immediately, her hands already moving to retrieve the letter before anyone else could. Her excitement was palpable, and her eyes glittered like mischief as she unfolded the parchment. But her expression shifted, her brow knitting, as she glanced at the seal and then at the crest embossed upon it.

The room had gone still. Newt Scamander, still in his dressing robe, immediately noticed the shift in his mother’s expression. “The Black family?” he asked slowly, his voice cautious, eyes narrowing as he saw the Black family crest stamped across the top of the parchment.

“I… I don’t know,” Marigold admitted, frowning, her fingers still holding the paper. “But it's from Lord Peverell.”

Newt froze, one hand gripping the back of his chair. “Lord Peverell? Mother, did you send him a letter without my knowledge?”

Marigold glanced at her son, her expression all innocent excitement, as if that somehow excused her bold maneuver. “I did.”

Cerulean eyes went wide, his mouth opening as he sat upright. “Mother! What did you send?”

“Merely a marriage contract,” she replied as though the words were perfectly ordinary, her hands fluttering dramatically as she set the parchment down.

Newt let out a choked gasp, and the chair beneath him creaked. “What?”

Theseus, at the far end of the table, jumped from his seat, his brow furrowed. “Mother! What— what have you done?”

Thaddeus dropped his teacup, which rolled slightly on the table before clinking harmlessly against the saucer. He ran a hand over his face, disbelief and incredulity flashing across his features.

Marigold’s lips quirked in a small, proud smile as she dropped the letter onto the table. “He declined the marriage,” she announced, her tone triumphant.

Newt exhaled sharply, relief flooding him. He slumped back into his chair. “Thank Merlin,” he muttered under his breath, though his cheeks still burned from the near panic that had gripped him.

Marigold’s smile broadened. “My darling son, he sent a courting contract!” Her voice was like a bell, full of pride and satisfaction, shining with the gleam of her own cleverness.

His hands flew up, gripping his temples. “But… Mother! I told you I wanted to do this in person! You’ve ruined it! You’ve made it official before I even had a chance to see him properly.”

“Newt!” Marigold exclaimed with mock exasperation, her eyes sparkling. “You'll be courting now, once your father signs this!”

Theseus, whose patience had already been fraying at the edges, snatched the parchment up from the table, his fingers tightening on the edges. “Wrong, Mother,” he said sharply, holding the letter out like a weapon. “This requires the signature of the lord of the house, yes, but also Newt. You can’t just push it forward by yourself!”

Newt let out a slow, measured sigh, letting his shoulders relax for the first time that morning. “At least Lord Peverell wants my consent on the matter,” he murmured, almost to himself, relief threading through his words. 

Undeterred by her sons’ protests, Marigold snatched the letter back from Theseus with a decisive flick of her hand. “Honestly, Theseus, must you always act like a storm cloud?” she muttered under her breath, though there was a sharp note of exasperation in her tone. She perched herself at the edge of the breakfast table, her eyes scanning the parchment with meticulous attention, reading each clause as though it were a manuscript of arcane magic rather than a young man’s earnest words.

“Hmmm,” she murmured, leaning closer. Her brows knitted as she reached the section outlining the terms of intimacy. She exhaled audibly, sounding both bemused and slightly scandalized. “Well, well… this bit about intimacy if both parties consent. I do wonder, my dear, how far Lord Peverell means. At eighteen, he seems far more sensible than most, but still… it’s a bit forward, don’t you think?”

Newt stiffened, a faint flush rising along his jaw. “Mother,” he said carefully, “it’s… normal for contracts like this to include boundaries and consent clauses. It doesn’t mean anything is expected beyond what’s agreed upon. It’s a way of being clear and respectful.”

She sniffed, half amused, half perturbed. She flicked the paper, scanning for more details. “And yet, there’s nothing—absolutely nothing—about ruts or heats. That is quite remarkable, actually. He’s clearly chosen to leave out certain… personal details, isn’t he?” Her voice lowered to a conspiratorial murmur, almost like she was reveling in the scandal of it. “No clauses about ruts or heats, or any of the more… primal matters. Hmmm, very interesting, very interesting indeed.”

Theseus groaned in exasperation, leaning back in his chair with arms folded. “Honestly, Mother, do you have to read it like it’s a manual for… for… whatever it is you’re imagining?”

“I am observing the nuances, Theseus,” Marigold said sharply, glancing over her shoulder. “One cannot simply hand a young man a contract about courting an omega and ignore what might—or might not—be implied. I’m making careful note of his prudence and caution!”

Newt rubbed the back of his neck, casting a wary glance at the two of them. “He’s thoughtful,” he said quietly. “He’s clearly thought this through. It’s not about scandal, Mother. It’s about mutual respect. And yes, it mentions intimacy only if we consent, but the absence of other clauses just means… he’s not assuming anything about me. He trusts me to make my own choices.”

“I suppose that’s… admirable, yes. But, one does wonder, does he understand the nature of an omega’s… instincts fully? Or is he just leaving the details vague to keep the contract polite?”

He let out another sigh, glancing down at the letter, then back to his mother. “He’s leaving space for trust and consent. That’s precisely why this is done properly in person, with discussion and understanding, not just on paper. It’s not about leaving things vague; it’s about leaving room for us to decide, together.”

Marigold huffed, a mixture of exasperation and reluctant admiration on her face. “Well, I suppose that’s one way to view it. Still, a young man so precise and careful at eighteen… I can’t recall such thoughtfulness from my own sons at this age.”

Theseus, rubbing his temples, muttered under his breath, “I don’t even want to think about how complicated this could get if he actually follows through with it.”

Newt, giving a small, rueful smile, simply said, “It will be fine, Theseus. The point is that he values consent, he values respect, and he values discussion. That’s far more than most manage at his age.”

Marigold, still scrutinizing the letter, finally let out a soft whistle. “Hmph. Very well. I suppose we shall wait for your signatures before any further drama ensues. But, mark my words, this young Lord Peverell is… intriguing. Quite intriguing indeed.”

“I will sign it,” he said, eyes fixed on the parchment, “if Father signs it.”

Her eyebrows shot up, a mix of surprise and exasperation crossing her face. “Well! That’s… unexpectedly reasonable of you, Newt.” She tapped the table with a finger, making the parchment rattle. “You realize, of course, that by leaving it to your father’s signature, you’re giving him the final say on this arrangement?”

“I am,” Newt said simply, shrugging. “It is his household. It is only proper that he approves before I do. If he sees any reason to withhold his consent, then I cannot sign in good conscience.”

“And what if he refuses? Or insists on conditions you might not agree with?”

“I will discuss them,” Newt replied calmly, his hand resting lightly on the parchment. “If Father requires changes, I will only sign once I am satisfied that they respect both myself and Lord Peverell.”

His father just stayed quiet, not caring they talked about him like he wasn't right there.

Theseus snorted. “You sound far too adult for your own good.”

Marigold rolled her eyes, but there was a hint of admiration in her expression. “It seems we have underestimated your prudence, Newton. Very well… we wait for your father's signature.” She gave a decisive nod, folding her hands over her lap. “But I will be watching how this unfolds very closely. You cannot escape my scrutiny, young man.”

Newt let out a quiet, resigned sigh, straightening his back. “I would expect nothing less, Mother.”

Marigold’s eyes narrowed as she leaned closer to the parchment, her fingers tracing the lines with an almost imperious precision. “I thought he’d detail clauses like he will not take on a heat partner,” she said sharply, the faint edge of exasperation creeping into her tone. “Every proper courting contract, every sensible contract, addresses this first. Why is it absent?”

Newt groaned softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Oh, Mother, please…”

She did not relent. “And what about scenting? Why didn’t he say you will not scent each other? This is a very important detail, Newton! An alpha and omega must have proper boundaries, even in letters. Even when courting!”

“I am quite aware of that,” Newt murmured, glancing at the letter. “I did not ask for a prohibition. That is… something we can negotiate in person.”

Marigold huffed, shaking her head. “Negotiate in person? The world does not work like that, son. You’ve got to put these things on paper. How will you explain your actions if anyone—anyone!—asks? You cannot rely on verbal agreements alone. Especially not with Lord Peverell!”

Theseus, who had been largely silent, leaned over to glance at the contract, frowning. “I see there is something about… secrecy,” he said slowly. “Let me get this right: ‘Neither party shall disclose the contents of discussions to the press in anyway shape or form without the express written consent of the other.’”

Newt nodded. “Yes. That part makes sense.”

Thaddeus’s brow furrowed as he scanned the final lines of the parchment. “Now this… this is unusual,” he murmured, adjusting his spectacles and leaning closer. His finger traced the words, slow and deliberate. “At the very end, it says—‘Oversight for Harrison Corvinus Peverell shall be provided by Isla Elladora Hitchens, née Black.’”

Marigold raised an eyebrow, nearly knocking over her teacup. “Oversight? That’s… that’s not something I’ve seen on any contract before. Usually, a contract is a binding agreement between the parties. There’s no mention of a third party being granted oversight.”

“Actually,” Theseus said, voice measured, “it does make sense in this case. We’re talking about Harrison Peverell, the last known member of the Peverell line. Given his… history, it seems prudent that someone trusted and experienced be listed as overseeing this agreement. Isla is effectively acting as a guardian, or at least as a neutral party ensuring his safety and consent.”

Thaddeus muttered under his breath. “Yes, but the phrasing… unusual. Oversight is typically reserved for legal wards or business interests, not personal matters like courting agreements.”

Marigold clucked her tongue. “Inserting a named third party as the overseer? That’s… audacious.” She shook her head, half in disbelief, half in admiration. “Clearly, he’s very careful about his autonomy. He doesn’t simply hand himself over to anyone. He wants safety, trust, and transparency. I approve.”

Theseus pointed to the very last clause, his finger tapping it emphatically. “And note this: the contract hasn’t been signed yet. In fact, the final clause explicitly states a wish for Harrison to meet the Scamander family before signing. That’s… considerate, if not extraordinary. It gives him the chance to meet you again, Newt, and us, before he consents to anything permanent.”

The father nodded slowly, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It’s a safeguard, yes. He’s asserting his agency, making sure that he is comfortable with the family of the alpha he will be courting. Very clever of him. Most of these… agreements are rigid, formalities only. But this one actually considers the people involved, and the dynamics. It’s quite remarkable.”

Chapter Text

It was a dreary, gray Tuesday afternoon, the sort of day where the clouds seemed permanently etched into the sky and the wind whispered through the streets in soft, unsettling murmurs. The light filtered dimly through the high windows, casting a pale glow across the Ministry grounds as Harry adjusted the hem of his outfit nervously. Today was the day he would meet the Scamanders in person, without the mediation of letters. His stomach fluttered and clenched, a mixture of anticipation and apprehension that made his hands fidget endlessly with the soft fabric of his ensemble.

He was dressed in lilac and pale blue, the colours light and airy but still dignified. The back skirt was firmly in place, cascading down behind him and giving him a subtle grace of movement, the delicate edges of the fabric catching on the faint gusts that drifted through the corridor.

There was no cloak this time; he had left it behind deliberately but it was exposing, both literally and emotionally, and it left him feeling small in a way he was uncomfortably aware of, even in the security of the Ministry.

Isla stood beside him, her hands steady but gentle, warm against his shoulders. “Harry,” she murmured, voice soft, carrying the kind of reassurance only someone who had watched over him for years could manage, “remember, take your time. You’ve got this. You’re strong, and you’re prepared. Just… breathe.”

He nodded, though it was more a reflex than a conscious act. His throat felt tight, and he swallowed hard, eyes flicking over the pale blue corridor and the looming portals they were approaching. The world seemed unusually large and uncertain today, and though he had apparated countless times before under her guidance, the idea of doing it alone—of stepping into the unknown without Isla’s hands to steady him—made his stomach twist with anxiety.

She bent slightly, pressing him closer, wrapping her arms firmly around him. “I’ll make sure you don’t fall,” she whispered, her lips brushing the side of his temple. “And if you need it, I’ll catch you. Tight, yes, like this.” Harry shivered slightly at her proximity, the memory of her support from countless other moments wrapping around him like a second skin. “Just… trust me.”

He nodded again, a little shakily this time, and Isla pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead before gripping him tighter.

"Ready?” she asked, her eyes meeting his. He gave the smallest nod in return, and the familiar shimmer of the apparition spell began to envelop them, tugging at his senses in a way that made his stomach lurch.

And then they were gone.

When the world solidified again, Harry found himself stumbling slightly, the sensation of arrival jarring, and he nearly toppled forward onto the cobbled floor. Isla’s arms were around him instantly, snug and unyielding, pressing against him so that the panic, the nausea, the scattered adrenaline all seemed to recede into something manageable. He breathed shakily into her, letting her steady him, feeling her heartbeat against his own, the warmth of her reassurance like a protective shell.

“It’s okay,” she murmured, holding him closer than usual. “Nothing can hurt you here. You’re safe, Harry. Safe.”

He nodded, letting the tension leak slowly out of his shoulders, head resting against her shoulder as he focused on her words and the sound of her steady breathing. His stomach settled slightly, the threatening wave of sickness ebbing.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity and only a few moments, she loosened her grip slightly, her hands sliding down to his arms, letting him step back but still keeping a comforting presence close.

"You’ll do wonderfully,” she said softly, brushing back a strand of hair that had stuck to his forehead. “I’ll be back to collect you at the agreed time, and until then, just… be yourself. That’s all anyone could ask of you.”

Harry tried to smile, though his lips trembled, and he swallowed hard. “I… I’ll try,” he murmured, voice almost lost under the weight of his own nervousness. 

Isla gave him a final, firm squeeze, the kind that communicated more than words ever could. “You’re ready,” she whispered, and then, without another word, she turned and vanished in the familiar shimmer of apparition, leaving Harry.

His fingers curled around the hem of his back skirt as he took a deep, shuddering breath. He tried to straighten his posture, to remind himself that he could do this, that he had done frightening things before and survived, that he had somehow navigated a world far stranger than any magic he was about to face here.

He moved cautiously toward the front gate, each step measured. The wards shimmered faintly as he approached, a subtle, welcoming glow recognizing his presence, and without hesitation, they parted to allow him through. A small, almost imperceptible thrill ran through him at the thought that magic itself seemed to acknowledge him—or at least, that he was expected here. The path beyond the gate was quiet, overcast with the same gray drizzle that had lingered over the city all morning, but the sense of anticipation made every raindrop, every gust of wind, feel sharp, almost electric.

By the time he reached the front door, his stomach had twisted into knots, nerves making his legs feel simultaneously heavy and unsteady. He raised a hand to knock, a polite, hesitant gesture, but the door swung open almost before his knuckles even made contact. He blinked in surprise, jerking his hand back down.

Marigold Scamander, the Lady of the house, tall and composed, with that unmistakable beta softness that still carried the authority of experience, regarded him carefully. Her sharp eyes, framed by the faintest lines of age and patience, flicked over him in an instant appraisal, and she tilted her head ever so slightly. Her lips pressed into a knowing smile, the kind that didn’t need words to communicate understanding.

Harry felt his pulse quicken under her gaze. There was a moment of silence, just long enough for him to feel the weight of her inspection, and then, as though something inside her had clicked, her entire expression softened, a warmth that seemed to radiate from her very presence. 

“Oh,” she said softly, the single word laden with comprehension. Her hands, delicate yet confident, rested lightly at her sides, but the tilt of her body leaned just slightly toward him, as though drawn to the subtle cues of his nervousness and the quiet dignity in the way he held himself. “You must be… Lord Peverell?” she asked, though the question wasn’t quite necessary. She had already gathered from instinct, experience, and the faint, subtle pheromones that this was the same male omega who had so captured her youngest son’s attention.

Harry, cheeks flushed with the subtle rush of nerves and the awareness of her gaze, nodded slightly. “Yes… hello,” he managed, voice trembling just enough to betray the whirlpool of emotion inside him. He tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, trying to anchor himself in something tangible.

Marigold’s smile widened, gentle but knowing. There was a flicker of amusement in her eyes, and yet, underneath it all, an undeniable respect. She could see why Newt had been so utterly captivated by him—the way he moved, the small self-conscious gestures that made him seem fragile yet earnest, and the way his eyes, large and luminous, betrayed a mixture of curiosity, fear, and longing.

“I understand now,” she said softly, almost to herself, though the words carried easily to Harry. “No wonder Newt has been… enchanted.” There was a subtle lilt in her voice, a warmth tempered by the faintest edge of authority.

Harry’s heart leapt in his chest at that—just the recognition, the acknowledgment of his presence and his worth, was enough to make his stomach twist with relief and excitement.

Marigold stepped aside, a small, graceful gesture that allowed him to enter, the door closing quietly behind him. The air inside was warm, smelling faintly of baked goods and polished wood, a home that spoke of care and attention but also subtle order. Harry took a hesitant step forward, scanning the room. Every detail seemed designed to welcome, to soothe, without overwhelming.

“You must be very tired,” she said softly, moving toward him with calm, unhurried steps. “Traveling alone, the wards, and… the Ministry, yes?” Her voice carried no judgment, only recognition of the small burdens he bore.

Harry nodded again, words failing him as he felt an almost dizzying mix of relief and anxiety.

Marigold stepped fully aside, a subtle invitation for him to move further into the house. “Come in, Lord Peverell. Make yourself comfortable.” she said.

He was led through to the sitting room, a stately space with high windows that let in the muted afternoon light, illuminating the polished wood floors and the neatly arranged furnishings littered with little items that made the place feel homely.

Harry’s steps slowed as he entered, his nerves coiling in his stomach.

And then he saw them. The three men standing as if the world had paused for their arrival. Thaddeus Scamander, the lord of the house. Theseus, upright and tense beside him, exuding the controlled authority of someone who had been trained from birth to lead. And then, the one who made his chest tighten and a small blush creep up his neck, Newt. His heart leapt and faltered all at once.

Harry froze for a moment, wide-eyed and unsure. He gave a small, awkward smile toward Theseus, who nodded politely in acknowledgment but did not step forward—his stance firm, a silent reminder that he was both guide and watcher. But when his gaze landed on Newt, all pretense of composure slipped away. The younger man’s familiar cerulean eyes, the slightly disheveled hair from rushing about, the quiet warmth of his presence, it was comforting in a way that made Harry both relieved and embarrassed to admit.

“Oh,” Harry whispered softly, almost to himself, but loud enough for Newt to hear. His lips curved into a nervous, bright smile, and he shifted his weight. 

Newt’s lips quirked upward in return, a small, tentative smile, as if silently reassuring Harry that he wasn’t alone in this. Harry felt a flutter in his chest, a warm, dangerous mix of nerves and excitement, and he instinctively took a slight step forward—closer, though the room itself was still wide, formal, and intimidating.

Thaddeus cleared his throat, deep and resonant, his eyes surveying Harry carefully before settling briefly on Newt. “Lord Peverell,” he said, his tone firm but not unkind. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Harry’s heart thumped audibly in his chest, and he straightened as best he could, keeping his smile polite yet unsure. “The pleasure is mine, Lord Scamander,” he said softly, voice barely above a whisper, but steady enough to carry across the room.

Theseus inclined his head, a silent acknowledgment, his posture taut but welcoming. Harry gave a small nod in return. And then he looked back at Newt. Relief flooded him in an unexpected wave. His (not yet) alpha was here, alive with warmth and familiarity, a tether to something safe in the middle of this intimidating display of power. He smiled, a little brighter now, though still shy.

Harry inhaled, taking a careful step forward, feeling the nerves and excitement twisting together. The room seemed to shrink around him, and yet he felt, paradoxically, that he had never been more visible or more noticed in his life. This was terrifying—and exhilarating all at once.

“Come, sit,” Thaddeus said finally, motioning to the high-backed chairs and sofa arranged neatly around the room. “Let us make introductions properly. We have much to discuss, it seems.”

Marigold re-entered the sitting room carrying a small silver tray, neatly arranged with an assortment of biscuits—shortbread, chocolate-dusted wafers, and delicate little honey tarts that smelled sweet and buttery.

“Would you care for a biscuit, Lord Peverell?” she asked warmly, setting the tray down on the low table with a gentle clink. Her eyes softened when she glanced at him, noting the slight paleness of his cheeks and the way he shifted uncomfortably on his feet.

Harry forced a polite smile, bowing his head slightly. “Thank you, Mrs. Scamander, but I… I think I should wait. I feel a bit… whoozy,” he admitted, the words small and almost apologetic. The sudden drop in energy from apparating alone—and the tension of walking into the alpha-dominated room—had left him a little dizzy, more fragile than he’d expected.

“Oh, of course,” Marigold replied gently, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “You must take care of yourself, dear. Do sit down; the biscuits will wait for you. Perhaps some water?” She gestured to a crystal decanter on a side table.

Harry nodded, grateful for the offer but still hesitant to move too quickly. He sank onto the edge of one of the upholstered chairs, folding his hands neatly in his lap, and took several slow, measured breaths.

He crossed his legs neatly, nervously.

“I would like to apologise, Lord Peverell, for how forward I was with the marriage contract,” Marigold said, her tone measured but warm, as she finally sat across from him. 

Harry’s cheeks warmed almost immediately. “It’s quite alright, Lady Scamander,” he replied softly, bowing his head slightly. “It was just rather unexpected.” His voice was quiet, formal, carrying a tremor of nerves he struggled to suppress.

Marigold inclined her head. “We were curious,” Thaddeus interjected, his deep voice resonating through the room, “why, on the courtship contract, you have an oversight of Isla Hitchens?”

He drew in a small breath, steadying himself against the twinge of anxiety creeping up his spine. “I’ll be open,” he said carefully, hands twisting slightly in his lap. “My upbringing was not one a heir might receive. I did not know of the Lordship I would inherit. As your eldest may know,” he glanced toward Theseus with a subtle nod, “Isla Hitchens is my primary carer during my protection with the Ministry.”

Marigold’s gaze softened but her voice was still measured. “And what are your intentions with my son Newton?”

Newt shifted awkwardly, fidgeting with the cuff of his sleeve, cheeks faintly pink. His eyes darted away, unsure where to rest them, though he kept close enough to the table to remain part of the conversation.

Harry inhaled slowly, shoulders rising slightly. “D-did the courting contract not answer that?” he asked, trying to maintain formality despite the slight tremble in his hands. “I intend for a successful courtship, and we’ll see if it leads into our houses merging.” 

The room fell into a momentary silence, heavy with expectation.

“And were those your intentions when you met him at night to see the so-called moonflies?” Thaddeus asked, leaning slightly forward, his eyes narrowing just a fraction. The question hung in the air like a drawn quill.

Harry’s stomach twisted. He straightened as best he could, gripping the hem of his lilac-and-blue tunic, and spoke swiftly, carefully measured—every syllable a shield. “I don’t wish to be interrogated in your household by those whose secondary genders are all intimating to that of my own.” His words were clipped but polite, echoing the etiquette guides he had studied so obsessively over the past week. Relief washed over him that he could lean on the lessons from those books in such an unnerving situation.

Thaddeus raised a brow, voice deep and curious. “You are intimated by our presence?”

His lips parted, then closed, his mind racing to articulate what he felt without tripping over the wrong phrasing. “I would rather feel welcomed and protected by the family of whom I intend to court. Especially when I have no family of my own.”

The words hung in the room, quiet yet resonant. It was more than a polite statement—it was a subtle declaration of his vulnerability, and of the trust he was attempting to extend. Marigold’s eyes softened, her lips twitching in what might have been a restrained smile, while Newt shifted slightly.

Theseus, stoic of the two brothers, studied Harry a moment longer, then gave a subtle nod, acknowledging both the gravity of the statement and the courage it took to voice it. 

Suddenly, Harry rose swiftly, the movement precise. “I shall be leaving,” he said, soft but with absolute certainty in the edge of his words.

Thaddeus’s brows knitted, his deep-set eyes narrowing in quiet concern. “Wait, please,” he said, stepping closer, but keeping his hands visible, open, showing restraint. “Can we start again? Perhaps…” His voice softened, measured now, “Perhaps there’s been some misunderstanding.”

Harry shook his head almost imperceptibly, his emerald eyes shining with a mixture of frustration and vulnerability. “Forgive me,” he said, his voice catching slightly as he struggled to maintain composure, “but you do understand… I am eighteen, an omega, on my own in your household, and I’ve felt nothing but tense hostility from you.” He paused, letting the words settle. “I came here seeking respect, perhaps guidance, maybe even the faintest sense of belonging. And yet, I am met with constant scrutiny pressing like a storm I cannot shelter from. I cannot—will not—submit myself to that without invitation.”

The room grew heavy with the weight of his words. Marigold’s hands tightened together, her lips pressed together as though holding back a comment. Newt shifted, clearly torn between wanting to step forward and giving Harry the space he demanded. 

Harry’s gaze flicked to Newt for a heartbeat—a silent plea for understanding—and then returned to the assembled Scamander family. “I am grateful for your invitation, truly,” he said, his voice softening slightly, “but I cannot allow myself to remain where I feel exposed, unprotected."

He moved toward the door, steps quick but controlled, each footfall a careful assertion of independence. The room fell into silence, punctuated only by the quiet rustle of fabric.

Harry didn’t get far — only to the gravel path past the gates, where the sharp October air cut through the thin silk of his sleeves and bit at his bare neck. He stopped just long enough to breathe, to let the ache in his throat settle into something he could manage. His heart hammered against his ribs; he didn’t know whether it was the rush of adrenaline or the remnants of fear.

“Harry!”

He turned just as Newt came running after him, his hair windswept, boots crunching on the stones. Behind him, in the tall window of the sitting room, Harry could see the faint shapes of the Scamanders — three silhouettes and a glimmer of Marigold’s cream skirts. Watching.

But Newt didn’t care. He reached Harry, breathless, eyes wide with apology and worry. “Harry, please—”

Harry shook his head, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes though he refused to let them fall. “Don’t,” he whispered, “don’t apologise for them.”

“I’m not,” he said, catching Harry’s hand before he could pull away. His grip was warm, trembling just slightly. “I’m apologising for myself. I should have stopped them sooner, I should’ve—”

He stopped short as Harry’s gaze softened — wary but not angry, more weary than anything.

Then, to Harry’s shock, Newt lifted his hand and pressed a kiss to the back of it, slow and reverent. It wasn’t the kind of touch that claimed — it soothed, grounded. The brief brush of lips left heat that lingered long after he pulled back.

Harry swallowed hard, his voice breaking when he finally spoke. “Newt… I’ve spent most of my life running from alphas.” His words trembled in the air, quiet but sharp, each syllable heavy with truth. “Every time one came near, I braced myself, for anger, for punishment, for control.”

Newt’s thumb brushed the inside of his wrist, tracing the faint pulse there. “You don’t have to with me,” he murmured.

“I know.” He looked down at their joined hands, fingers trembling but not pulling away. “That’s the problem, Newt. You’re the only one I ever ran to. And I won’t back down from that, I don’t want to. But standing in front of your family, feeling every breath from those who could break me if they wanted to—” He shook his head, his throat tightening. “It’s… it’s not easy. I can’t always hide what that does to me.”

Newt’s breath caught, his chest rising and falling unevenly. “They don’t mean to frighten you.”

Harry froze — the misted air between them turning heavy with words neither had been ready to say aloud. His lips parted slightly, a shiver passing through him that had nothing to do with the chill of the grey afternoon.

“I don’t know, Newt,” he murmured, his voice small, fragile as spun glass. “I don’t do well with families.”

Newt frowned, his hand still resting lightly on Harry’s wrist. “What do you mean?”

The omega looked down at their hands — Newt’s broad, gentle, ink-stained fingers against his own smaller, paler ones. “I destroy them,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to, but I do. Wherever I go, I bring ruin. I destroyed one family before I was even old enough to understand what that meant… and it seems I’m already doing the same to yours.”

The words struck like shards of glass — soft but cutting.

Newt’s brows knit together. “I doubt that’s true,” he said gently.

His head lifted, his eyes glistening but sharp with conviction. “It is. I was raised by hate, Newt. By people who saw me as a mistake to be hidden, not a person to be loved. And when I finally started to love — really love — people, I lost them too.” His voice broke, a tremor running through him as he turned slightly away. “So please, just let me leave. I won’t forget you, but I’ll spare you the trouble of despair. It’s what always comes.”

“Harry,” Newt breathed, stepping forward, his own voice shaking now. “What are you talking about? I don’t want you to go! You’re the only person I’ve ever felt at ease with.”

Harry blinked at him, startled.

He went on, the words spilling out now, unguarded, raw. “Everyone else just… tolerates me. They smile, they nod, they change the subject when I talk about the things I love — the creatures, the habitats, the endless details that make me feel alive. They call me odd behind my back, or worse, to my face.” His throat tightened. “But you… you ask questions. You listen, not because you feel you must, but because you want to. You look at me like I’m not strange, but—”

“If the only reason you like me,” Harry cut in softly, “is because I like magical creatures, then I really should go.”

“No,” he said at once, his hand tightening around Harry’s. “That’s not it. I’m sorry — that came out wrong.”

Harry didn’t pull away, but his eyes stayed downcast.

“I meant…” Newt took a slow breath, his chest rising and falling as he searched for the right words, the ones that had been building in him since that day in the gardens. “I meant that I feel a connection with you. I can’t explain it. My heart... it beats twice as fast every time I see you, or even when I just think about you. I can’t get you out of my head, Harry.”

Harry’s breath hitched, his lashes fluttering.

He pressed on, the truth tumbling out now, unstoppable. “When I close my eyes, I still feel you in my arms — the way you fit against me when we Apparated. The warmth of you, the scent of wildflowers and something that feels like home. And your eyes…” He reached up, hesitantly, to brush a stray lock of hair from Harry’s forehead. “Your eyes linger behind mine when I blink. I can’t get rid of the image of you, no matter what I do.”

The world went still for a long moment — even the breeze seemed to hush around them.

Harry looked up at him then, face pale, eyes wide and shimmering like green glass. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I do,” Newt said softly. “And I mean every word.”

The omega's throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, torn between disbelief and something fragile blooming in his chest. The honesty in Newt’s voice didn’t demand — it simply was, steady and open and warm in a way Harry didn’t know how to receive.

“You’re… not supposed to say things like that,” Harry whispered, almost to himself.

Newt smiled faintly, heartbreakingly gentle. “Perhaps not. But I’d rather be honest than let you walk away thinking you’re poison.”

He exhaled shakily, his fingers tightening around Newt’s almost of their own accord. “And if I still bring ruin?”

“Then I’ll stand in the ruins with you,” Newt said, without hesitation.

Newt’s arms came around him first — hesitant, almost trembling, like he was afraid Harry might shatter if he held too tightly. But Harry didn’t pull away. Instead, he pressed closer, his palms flattening over Newt’s chest as he rose up onto the very tips of his toes.

Newt bent instinctively, a soft, protective noise escaping him, and they found one another halfway — a half-crouch, half-lift that drew them together until the sides of their necks brushed. Skin to skin. Scent gland to scent gland.

The connection was immediate and dizzying. Harry felt the air shift, warm and heavy, as their pheromones mingled. The faintest hum built in Harry’s throat; Newt breathed it in like something sacred.

“You’re so tall,” Harry murmured, voice muffled against Newt’s collarbone.

Newt chuckled softly, the sound low and rough from the back of his throat. “I’ve been told that before,” he mumbled, dipping his head slightly to nuzzle along the delicate line of Harry’s jaw, careful and reverent. Then, with a thoughtful tone, “Have you noticed how… complimentary our scents are?”

Harry let his eyes close, leaning into the warmth of Newt’s breath against his skin. “Golden syrup,” he said quietly. “A sort of wood — or paper — and wildflowers. That’s mine.”

Newt hummed, pleased, his fingers ghosting up Harry’s spine. “And mine?”

He smiled faintly. “Honey. Oak. And petrichor.”

Newt’s smile deepened against Harry’s neck. “Now I say that’s a fine mix.”

Harry tilted his head slightly, half-laughing, half-sighing. “Yours?”

He pulled back just enough for their eyes to meet, his expression soft, impossibly earnest. “Ours,” he corrected, his voice quiet but steady.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The world around them seemed to still, the rustle of green leaves, the faint hum of afternoon wind, everything muted under the warmth radiating between them.

“Hmm,” Harry murmured, leaning his forehead against Newt’s chin. “Like going for a stroll in the woods.”

Newt smiled. “Then I say I’d like to invite you to my favourite forest one day,” he said, his thumb brushing the side of Harry’s neck before he drew back just enough to look at him properly.

“Your favourite?”

“The Forest of Dean.”

Harry froze for a heartbeat — the name hitting like a stone in still water. His smile faltered, then returned, small and taut at the corners. “With you, I’d love to,” he said softly. “But only after I sign that silly contract I made to appease your mother.”

Newt blinked. “You did that for her?”

He gave a faint laugh, half-embarrassed, half-resigned. “She sent me a marriage contract, Newt. Directly after a letter asking if I was indecent with you.” His eyes widened in exaggerated disbelief. “That lady is intimidating.”

Newt groaned, covering his face with one hand. “Oh, I am so sorry.”

“It’s alright. I understand her intentions. She wants the best for you. Even if her methods involve terrifying potential suitors.”

Newt dropped his hand, laughing under his breath. “I think she’s trying to make sure I don’t live my life entirely in the company of bowtruckles and nifflers.”

“An admirable concern,” he teased.

“But… do you want to court me?”

“I’d love to."

Newt huffed a laugh, his hand still hovering near Harry’s cheek as though afraid to let the moment slip away.

"If they don’t tear up that contract because we hugged again,” Harry added softly, a crooked grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Cerulean eyes went wide, then he laughed — helplessly, quietly, his forehead dropping to rest against Harry’s for a brief, giddy moment. “If they do, I’ll write another one myself,” he murmured. “And this time I’ll add a clause that says hugging is mandatory.”

Harry let out a small laugh of his own, the tension that had knotted in his shoulders finally easing. “That might be a first in wizarding law,” he teased. “An official courtship contract where the parties are legally obliged to hug.”

“Then I’ll make history,” Newt said, his tone mock-solemn but his eyes full of warmth. “Newton Scamander, first wizard to draft an affection clause.”

His grin widened. “You’d get a medal.”

“I’d rather get another hug.”

“Merlin, you’re greedy.”

“I’m thorough.”

They both laughed then — the kind of laughter that comes from relief, from fear melting into something softer. It hung in the damp afternoon air, quiet and golden.

When it faded, Harry’s gaze lingered on Newt’s face — open, kind, utterly sincere. “You know,” he said gently, “I don’t think they’ll tear it up. You make me feel safe. And I think… I think that’s something your mother will see.”

Newt’s voice dropped, low and rough at the edges. “I’ll make sure she does.”

“Promise?”

“I promise,” he said.

Chapter Text

Newt led Harry back toward the house slowly, their fingers still laced together. The tension that had hung heavy earlier seemed to melt under the soft dusk light. Harry’s head was lowered, curls slipping forward, but his grip on Newt’s hand was firm — not out of fear now, but quiet reassurance.

When they reached the door, Marigold appeared in the hall, but before she could say a word, Newt gave her a faint, polite nod. “He’s a little shaken. I’ll take him upstairs for a moment, if that’s alright.”

There must have been something in his tone — protective and firm — because Marigold only pressed her lips together and gestured toward the stairwell. “Supper will be ready soon.”

Newt inclined his head and guided Harry up the narrow stairs, past the carved banister and portraits that murmured softly to one another. At the end of the corridor, he opened a door to a quiet, plant-filled conservatory. Golden light poured through the glass roof, catching on floating dust motes. There was the faint, soothing smell of soil and parchment, a few low tables with books stacked haphazardly, and a wide bench with a patchwork blanket draped over it.

Harry exhaled slowly, his shoulders dropping as Newt guided him to sit. The world seemed to hush around them.

“Better?” Newt asked gently, crouching before him.

Harry nodded. “Much. It’s quieter here.”

He smiled faintly. “This is where I come when I need to breathe.” He stood, then hesitated before sitting beside him, their knees brushing. “You look beautiful in this light, you know.”

Harry blinked, startled, the words soft but certain, without the teasing lilt he might have expected. “Beautiful?”

Newt’s smile widened just slightly, but his eyes were entirely serious. “Yes. You do.”

Hus cheeks burned a vivid pink, a colour that rose all the way to his ears. His first instinct was disbelief, the kind of shy, startled flinch of someone who had never heard that word directed at him sincerely. “No one’s ever called me that before,” he admitted, voice a little hoarse.

“Well, they should have.”

Harry leaned his shoulder against Newt’s, a small smile tugging at his lips as he looked down at their intertwined hands. “And you, mister,” he said quietly, “are stunning.”

Newt gave a startled laugh, ducking his head, his own ears tinting pink. “Really? But my freckles—”

“Are like stars on your face,” Harry interrupted, voice barely above a whisper but steady. “If you ever charted them, I bet they’d make constellations.”

The alpha went perfectly still, eyes wide, and then smiled — a slow, luminous smile that made Harry’s stomach twist in the gentlest, most bewildering way.

“You say that,” Newt murmured, tilting his head so their foreheads almost touched, “and I don’t think I’ll ever look at a mirror the same way again.”

Harry laughed softly, breath catching as Newt’s scent filled the small space. He found himself tilting closer, resting his temple against Newt’s shoulder.

For a long moment, they stayed that way — quiet and close, the late afternoon light pooling golden around them.

Newt’s thumb traced idle circles over Harry’s knuckles. “You don’t have to worry about my family, you know,” he said gently. “They just… care a little too loudly.”

Harry smiled faintly. “I suppose I’ll just have to get used to that.”

Newt leaned back slightly on the bench, his shoulder still warm against Harry’s. The quiet of the conservatory wrapped around them like a soft cocoon — birdsong from somewhere outside, the creak of an old vine shifting against the glass, the faint tick of the clock by the window.

They’d talked of forests, of muggle animals, of magical creatures, but now the conversation began to drift, soft and natural, like water finding a new current.

“You know,” Newt said after a thoughtful pause, “I was thinking about the moonflies. You’ve got such a gentle way with creatures, Harry. They seemed drawn to you.”

Harry smiled faintly, turning his hand palm-up in his lap. “I’ve always felt like they understand me more than most people ever did. Especially the ones everyone calls dangerous.”

Newt’s eyes brightened — that deep, warm excitement that always came when he spoke of the creatures he loved. “Oh, I know that feeling better than anyone. Sometimes I think the Ministry will never learn that danger isn’t the same as cruelty. Most of the creatures they fear are just… misunderstood.”

Harry chuckled quietly. “I could say that about a few people I know too.”

He huffed a small laugh through his nose. “Quite right.” Then his expression softened, that inward, thoughtful look he had when something truly precious came to mind. “Do you know, I once had the privilege of studying a phoenix? It was years ago now, though I never managed to write about it properly — their magic defies neat explanation.”

Harry’s heart jolted. He turned to him, eyes wide. “A phoenix?”

“Yes. Magnificent beings. Rare, too — they’re native to parts of Egypt, India, and China, though they can travel extraordinary distances. But here, in Britain, they’re very particular about whom they bond with. The Dumbledore family seems to be the only one they’ve truly trusted for generations.”

Harry’s pulse fluttered unevenly. Fawkes. The name echoed in his chest like a ghost of firelight. The warmth of feathers on his shoulder, that pure, crystalline song that had filled the Chamber of Secrets, and the healing tears that had burned and soothed all at once. He swallowed, forcing his voice steady.

“I… I’ve seen one before. Just once. It cried for me.”

“Cried for you?”

Harry nodded, smiling faintly, eyes lowering. “I was hurt. It landed beside me and... its tears healed me. It was… the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Then you were very lucky, Harry. A phoenix will only cry for someone if it feels their suffering — if it deems that person truly worth saving.” He hesitated, looking down at his hands. “Most people don’t know this, but when a phoenix weeps for you, it feels your pain as its own. Every cut, every ache, it echoes in them for as long as they live. They heal you, but they carry a piece of your suffering with them.”

Harry froze, the air caught in his lungs. “They— they feel it?”

“Yes.”

He blinked hard, his throat tightening. “So… it hurt him too. And I never even—”

Newt leaned forward slightly, sensing the sudden shift in Harry’s scent — the sweetness of sorrow, the weight in his breath. “Hey,” he murmured gently, “don’t take that on yourself. Phoenixes are creatures of rebirth. They choose what pain they’ll bear, and they rise anew from it. They don’t regret who they save.”

He nodded faintly, eyes shimmering. He tried to smile but it wobbled at the edges. “I just… I didn’t know. I hoped it was only me who’d been hurt.”

Newt hesitated, then laid a careful hand over Harry’s. “The fact that it wept for you means it saw goodness in you, Harry. They never cry for those they believe will bring harm into the world. Only for the ones who carry light.”

Harry looked up at him, eyes glassy, lashes trembling. “You really believe that?”

“With all my heart,” he said quietly.

Harry shifted a little, curling closer against Newt’s side. The settee they sat on was small, its old velvet sagging just enough to make them lean naturally toward one another — too close for propriety, certainly too close for what Marigold would call decent space between an unbonded omega and alpha. But neither seemed inclined to move.

“You’re trembling less now.”

Harry smiled faintly. “That’s because I’ve got a very solid, very warm, very tall alpha next to me.”

A soft chuckle escaped Newt, the vibration of it humming through Harry’s shoulder. “Well, that’s one use for being tall, I suppose.”

Harry let his head rest more firmly against him, looking up. “What Hogwarts house were you in?”

Newt’s face brightened with a fond, slightly bashful smile. “Hufflepuff,” he admitted. “Proudly so. Most people expect me to say Ravenclaw because of the… er, interest in creatures and all that, but I never really cared for learning just for the sake of facts. Hufflepuff valued patience. Kindness. Loyalty. I fit better there than anywhere else.”

Harry’s heart gave an odd little tug. Of course he was a Hufflepuff — it made too much sense. The gentleness, the soft-spoken steadiness, the way he always seemed to give others more than they deserved.

“You sound proud,” he said softly.

“I am,” Newt answered with a small, decisive nod. “We aren’t the house of glory or brilliance, but we’re the ones who keep things together when others forget what they’re fighting for. I think that’s worth something.”

Harry bit his lip, smiling faintly. “That’s… that’s lovely, actually.”

Newt tilted his head. “What about you? Where would you have been sorted, do you think?”

He hesitated — he couldn’t very well tell him the truth. Couldn’t say Gryffindor, couldn’t mention that he went to Hogwarts.

Harry shifted slightly, fidgeting with the hem of his pale blue sleeves. The soft brush of Newt’s sleeve against his own made him pause, and for a heartbeat he considered whether this was the kind of question that could lead him into a lie he’d regret.

“What do you think I’d be in?” he asked finally, trying to sound casual but failing slightly — his voice pitched just a touch higher than usual, betraying the flutter in his chest.

Newt blinked at him, tilting his head with a thoughtful frown. “Hmm…” he murmured, running a finger along the edge of the armrest. “Well, I think you’re careful. Thoughtful. You notice things most people don’t. I’d say… maybe Hufflepuff? But not for the timid. For the steadfast. Someone who’s gentle but strong in their own way.”

Harry’s chest tightened at the words. Gentle but strong in their own way. He had never been described like that — certainly not by anyone who mattered, and certainly never to his face. His lips curved into a small, hesitant smile.

“I… I think you might be right,” he admitted quietly. “But… I’ve never been sorted properly, so I can’t be sure. I just… I’d like to believe I could be Hufflepuff if someone thought I deserved it.”

Newt’s hand shifted subtly, brushing the back of Harry’s fingers in a small, comforting gesture. “I think you’d fit better than most.”

Harry hesitated for only a heartbeat before letting himself shift, and instinctively straddled Newt’s lap. Both froze, eyes wide, a faint gasp escaping Harry’s lips. His mind had barely registered the motion, only the need to feel closer, to anchor himself to someone he trusted entirely. Now they were almost face to face, noses brushing lightly, the subtle scent of Newt enveloping him, mixing with his own.

“I’m… I’m sorry, am I heavy?” Harry murmured, voice small, cheeks already heating with embarrassment.

Newt shook his head, fingers tightening slightly around Harry’s waist in a grounding, protective gesture. “No, not at all,” he said, though his own chest fluttered at the closeness, at the warmth of Harry’s body pressed against him. “You’re… perfect.”

Encouraged by the soft reassurance, Harry adjusted slightly, sliding just enough to let their chests align, the clothing between them brushing in a way that made his stomach flutter. He leaned his head gently against Newt’s shoulder, letting his arms wrap around him, holding tight as if he could absorb every ounce of safety radiating from Newt. It was more than comfort, more than just proximity — it was a tether, a way to ground himself in a world that had so often been unsafe.

Newt’s arms went around Harry’s waist without hesitation, holding him firmly, securely. He could feel how thin Harry was and his mind flickered to a future he hadn’t allowed himself to imagine yet: making sure Harry ate, that he slept, that he was never left cold or afraid. When they lived together — if they lived together — he would see to it that Harry never went hungry, never felt alone. The thought made his chest ache with protectiveness, with longing.

Harry, in the moment, wasn’t thinking about propriety or the potential implications of their position. He wasn’t aware that sitting like this could be considered sexual in certain ways. He simply rested, breathing in Newt’s scent, letting the steady rise and fall of Newt’s chest calm the storm in his own.

A low, throaty purr escaped Newt before he could stop it. Harry flinched ever so slightly at the sound, then relaxed again, comforted. “That… feels nice,” Harry whispered softly, almost to himself.

Newt’s heart swelled at the words. “I’m glad,” he murmured, tightening his hold just a fraction, not wanting to let go. His lips brushed the top of Harry’s head instinctively, and he felt a shiver run through both of them, a mingling of relief, affection, and a closeness neither had anticipated but both craved.

They stayed that way for minutes that stretched, just holding, breathing, feeling each other’s warmth and presence. Harry rested his cheek against Newt’s shoulder, letting himself sink into the safety he had been so starved for all his life, not yet realizing how deeply he was allowing himself to trust, to care.

Newt’s arms never wavered, his mind already cataloging the little things — how Harry’s hands curled against his back, the way his shoulders slumped slightly when truly at ease, the slight hitch of his breath whenever he shifted closer. He thought of future mornings, quiet breakfasts together, gentle reminders to eat, to rest, to simply exist without fear. And right here, right now, he vowed silently that Harry would always be protected, always be safe, and always be loved in the way he deserved.

Newt’s purring continued, low and steady. He felt Harry’s small, even breaths slow, his body relaxing, melting into the warmth Newt offered. The tiniest shivers ran through him at the thought of Harry completely letting go, trusting him enough to fall asleep against him. And that—being the one Harry trusted most in the world, even for a moment—made Newt’s chest tighten in a way that was equal parts joy and worry.

He shifted slightly, careful not to disturb Harry, craning his head just enough to see the peaceful expression on the omega’s face. The long lashes resting against pale cheeks, the soft rise and fall of Harry’s chest, the faint curl of his lips in a contented half-smile—Newt’s heart thrummed with protectiveness. Don’t move, don’t wake him, don’t let anything harm him, he thought, silently willing his arms to stay firm and his presence steady.

Then, the door burst open. Marigold Scamander swept in, eyes wide and her voice carrying the full weight of alarm. “Dinner! Dinner is ready! And what in Merlin’s name are you two doing?!” Her words were a mixture of indignation and disbelief, and she froze in place at the sight of the two of them.

Newt’s eyes widened. “Mother— wait! Stop!” he whisper-called, waving his hands. “He’s sleeping! Harry just wanted a hug! Nothing happened!”

Marigold blinked, and her gaze softened, though suspicion still lingered. “And you have to hug like that?” she asked, a faint crease between her brows.

He shook his head, leaning slightly closer to shield Harry, careful not to disturb him. “He’s just… tired, that’s all. And yes, the hug is comforting, but that’s it.”

Her eyes flicked down, narrowing slightly. “Is he purring?”

Newt swallowed hard, trying to keep his tone casual. “Very, very quietly. I can only just feel it.”

Marigold tilted her head, lips pursed in skepticism. “But I heard—”

“That was me,” Newt cut in swiftly, his voice gentle but firm.

“You? You purred?” Her eyes widened further, a mix of disbelief and fascination.

“Yes,” he said simply, a faint smile touching his lips. “And it helped him settle. He’s safe. That’s all.”

Marigold stared at him for a moment, then softened further, the edge of her initial exasperation fading into something warmer, maternal. “Well… if he’s safe and comforted, I suppose there’s no harm,” she said, shaking her head lightly as though still trying to process the scene. “But, Newton Scamander!”

"Nothing happened, mother. I promise.”

She gave a small, reluctant nod, her gaze lingering on Harry for a few more seconds, softening further at the peaceful look on the omega’s face. “Very well. Dinner will wait a few more minutes, then. But… I expect a report on this, both of you.”

Newt shifted Harry slightly, careful not to wake him, letting the omega rest more comfortably against his chest. He pressed a quick kiss to the top of Harry’s head, inhaling the soft, sweet mix of honey, oak, and wildflowers that clung to him. Then he lifted his gaze toward his mother, silently pleading for some understanding, some leniency, even if only for tonight.

Marigold exhaled a long, resigned sigh, placing her hands on her hips. Her beta composure wavered slightly as she looked at the two of them. “Fine,” she said at last, her tone softening despite the fatigue creeping into her voice. “I’ll have the elves bring up two plates for you, under a heating charm so your food stays warm.”

His chest eased a fraction. “Thank you, mum,” he murmured, keeping his arms firm around Harry. He glanced down at the sleeping omega again, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead.

She shook her head lightly, as though scolding herself for softening. “But understand this, Newt: after he wakes and you two eat, he will not be staying. This is already far too much, far too fast.” Her eyes flicked to Harry, who murmured softly in his sleep, nuzzling into Newt’s shoulder.

Newt swallowed, tension knotting in his stomach at the thought of separating from him so soon, but he nodded respectfully. “I understand."

“And one more thing,” Marigold added, her voice softer now, tinged with a motherly concern that went beyond mere reprimand.

He braced himself. “Yes?” he asked, keeping his tone calm though his heartbeat quickened.

“She’s adorable,” Marigold said, her eyes warming as they settled on Harry. “Absolutely, undeniably… adorable.”

Newt allowed himself a small, unguarded smile, stroking Harry’s back gently. “Oh, I know,” he murmured, leaning slightly to press a soft kiss to the crown of Harry’s head. The warmth of the moment made his chest ache with a mix of relief and longing.

“And I see why you like him,” Marigold continued, voice lowering, “and I’m glad he stood up for himself earlier. But… something in me is ringing warning bells.”

“Warning bells?” Newt repeated, his brow furrowing as unease settled over him.

She nodded, eyes fixed thoughtfully on Harry. “Yes. It’s as though he carries a great deal of baggage. Not something that can be lifted in an afternoon, or even a week. Something deep… emotional. Be careful, Newt. He’s fragile, and though he’s strong in ways you may not yet see, there are shadows there that may take time to ease. You may not be able to unload them for him entirely.”

Newt inhaled sharply, heart hammering at her words. He would do everything he could to keep Harry safe, to make him feel wanted, cared for—but he understood now, in stark clarity, that the omega’s past could not be simply brushed aside.

“I’ll be careful. I’ll make sure he knows he’s safe. That he’s wanted… and that he has someone to trust.”

Marigold’s lips curved faintly, softening the warning into a gentle smile. “That’s all I ask, Newt. Just… watch over him, and know that this little heart may take longer to open than you expect. But don't let yourself get hurt."

Newt nodded, swallowing against the tightness in his throat. He leaned down slightly, burying his face in the crown of Harry’s head for a fleeting moment. "Yes,” he whispered, voice thick with determination. “But he is worth it.”

His mother left and the house-elves wasted no time in magically arranging dinner with almost comical efficiency. Starting with a table that randomly appeared before them, then plates hovered into place, silverware lined up perfectly, and steaming dishes of roast meat, buttery vegetables, and fresh bread settled neatly onto the polished wooden table. 

Newt brushed a hand firmer along Harry’s back as he tried to wake him gently. Harry only shifted closer, subconsciously clinging. His knees locked firmly around Newt’s hips, as though he could anchor himself in that one secure spot. Seeing this, Newt carefully shifted him to sit sideways on his lap, lifting him quite a lot so he wasn’t straddling, though Harry’s weight felt almost weightless in his arms. He blinked, startled as he was lifted, eyes widening.

“This feels weird,” Harry murmured, laughing softly, squirming slightly against Newt’s hold. 

“What does?” Newt asked gently, tilting his head, trying to gauge whether Harry’s comment was playful, nervous, or something else entirely.

Harry’s blush deepened, the words tumbling out almost too quickly to frame into proper sentences. “Feeling… small and liking it. And…” He paused, brushing the thought aside. “…Oh, dinners here? Are we not eating with your family?” His gaze flicked toward the table, the neatly arranged silverware and steaming food catching his attention, but the nervous energy in his voice betrayed his lingering uncertainty.

Newt shook his head softly, brushing a stray lock of hair from Harry’s forehead. “Not exactly,” he said, a small smile tugging at his lips. “While you were asleep, my mother caught us here together.” His voice softened, and he glanced down at Harry, who flinched slightly at the reminder. “She decided to let us eat together when you woke, though. She knows you’re here, and she wants to make sure you’re comfortable before joining the family at the table.”

Green eyes widened, and he instinctively shifted in Newt’s lap, tilting his head down slightly. “She… saw us like this?” His voice trembled slightly, uncertainty lacing each word.

He smile softened, though his chest tightened at how tense Harry had become. “She called you adorable, don’t worry,” he murmured, letting his fingers brush lightly over Harry’s back, soothing the tremor of nerves. He left out that his mother had initially been shocked and slightly flustered, sensing that revealing that would only add to Harry’s discomfort.

Harry’s cheeks flushed a delicate pink at the compliment, and he leaned further against Newt, letting the warmth of his body ground him. “Adorable…” he repeated softly, more to himself than aloud, the word feeling foreign but comforting. “Am I really?"

“Yes, you are,” Newt said gently, pressing a soft kiss to the top of Harry’s head, careful not to startle him. “Absolutely and undeniably.” He adjusted Harry in his lap, keeping him close yet giving him space to settle into the comforting embrace.

Harry let out a quiet, almost inaudible sigh, not quite knowing how to respond.

“The food looks so tasty,” Harry said, finally stretching a little and slipping from Newt’s lap. He settled beside him instead, still close enough that their thighs brushed with every small movement. The proximity didn’t seem to bother him—in fact, it almost seemed to ground him. His voice was warm but shy as he added, “Your mother must be a great cook.”

Newt smiled faintly, reaching for one of the plates and handing it over. “She’ll love to hear you say that,” he replied, tone light and fond. “But this was actually made by the house-elves.”

Harry blinked, pausing halfway through picking up his fork. “Oh,” he murmured, looking faintly sheepish. “I still haven’t quite gotten used to that.” He frowned slightly, as though uncomfortable with the thought.

That admission made Newt’s chest tighten slightly, though he didn’t press. Instead, he filled his own plate and took a thoughtful bite before saying softly, “I have a lot of questions about you.”

The omega's fork paused mid-air, and his green eyes flicked toward Newt with a faint, wary curiosity. “I suppose you must,” he said after a moment, a faint smile curving his lips. “As I have a lot of questions about you.”

Newt chuckled, a low, warm sound that filled the quiet space between them. “I fear my questions for you will be far more invasive than you would like,” he admitted, tone gentle but honest.

Harry blinked, confusion flickering across his face. “Invasive?”

“Yes,” he said simply, his voice soft but serious. “Because I want to understand you properly. Not out of curiosity alone, but because I suspect you’ve been through far more than you admit.” His gaze softened immediately as he saw Harry swallow, his fingers tightening around his fork. “So,” Newt continued, lowering his voice, “I shall restrain myself until you are comfortable with sharing.”

For a heartbeat, silence filled the space between them—heavy, but not uncomfortable. Harry breathed deeply, gaze flicking toward his plate as though searching for courage there. “I wasn’t raised in the wizarding world,” he said at last, the words coming out carefully, as if testing the air for judgment. “That might explain a lot.”

Newt’s head tilted slightly, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I said,” he murmured gently, “until you were comfortable with sharing.”

Harry smiled faintly, a glint of something bright—relief, maybe—appearing in his eyes. “I am comfortable sharing that,” he said, voice steadier now.

He studied him for a moment, quietly, almost analytically, before sighing softly. “You are far too trusting.”

Harry let out a soft laugh at that, genuine and tinged with something wry. “That could be a fault of mine,” he said, meeting Newt’s gaze. Then, with a faint spark of confidence that made Newt’s heart ache a little, he added, “Or I could be very good at knowing who to trust.”

Newt couldn’t help smiling at that—soft, proud, and just a little enchanted. 

They ate slowly, the meal punctuated by the soft clink of cutlery on china and light, meandering conversation that flowed easily between them. Harry seemed to relax more with every bite, though his knees still brushed against Newt’s occasionally, sending little jolts of warmth up his spine.

“What’s your favourite colour?” Harry asked suddenly, his tone casual but his eyes flicking up to meet Newt’s, lingering just a fraction longer than necessary.

Newt considered the question, tilting his head thoughtfully. “I rather like peacock blue,” he said finally, a small smile tugging at his lips. “It’s bold but calm at the same time. What about you?”

Harry grinned softly, a teasing glint in his green eyes. “Oh, I like green. But I think it’s fast becoming cerulean.” He leaned in just slightly, tilting his head as if measuring Newt’s reaction, eyes twinkling with quiet mischief.

“Cerulean?” Newt repeated, trying to keep his tone neutral. He paused, realizing Harry was leaning in, gaze locked on him, teasingly intense. A slow blush crept up his neck. “Oh… you flirt!” he exclaimed, half laughing, half flustered, brushing a hand through his hair as he remembered the colour of his own eyes.

Harry’s grin widened. “Am I? I thought I was just… showing interest.” His tone was innocent, but the way his eyes glimmered told a different story.

Newt cleared his throat, shifting slightly in his seat, trying to hide the rush of warmth that spread through him. “Well… showing interest is one thing. Flirting is… another entirely."

He leaned back just a little, pretending to be nonchalant, though the corner of his mouth twitched with amusement. “Then I suppose I’ll let you decide which it is.”

Newt laughed softly, heart beating a little faster, feeling both flustered and strangely elated. “You’re insufferable,” he muttered fondly, but his voice lacked any real reproach.

Harry’s teasing smile softened into something warmer, more open. “Insufferable, am I? Or irresistible?”

The alpha's cheeks deepened in colour, and for a moment he couldn’t form words, just blinked up down Harry, who was watching him with that easy, mischievous intensity. Then, finally, he managed, breathless but laughing: “You’ll drive me mad, Lord Peverell.”

“Harry,” Harry corrected with a playful tilt of his head, though his grin never faltered.

“Yes, Harry,” Newt echoed softly, the word tasting unexpectedly sweet on his tongue. “How do you like your tea?” He asked, a touch nervously, fidgeting with the edge of his napkin. He hadn’t been sure how to continue the conversation, and the question came out simpler than he had intended, but the lilting curiosity in his tone made it endearing.

Harry laughed lightly, a soft, airy sound that made Newt’s chest warm. “Are you trying to know me, or are you collecting little facts to run off to the Daily Prophet with?” His teasing smirk was playful, and his green eyes danced with a mischievous glint.

His ears turned faintly pink at the joke. “In your little contract,” he said, leaning forward slightly, “it says we can’t do that.” 

Harry grinned, “True,” he said, tilting his head and tracing the rim of his glass absentmindedly. “But… we both haven’t signed it yet, have we?” His voice lowered just enough that it carried a faint, conspiratorial warmth, and Newt felt the faintest shiver run down his spine.

“I see,” Newt murmured, eyes flicking down to where Harry’s hands rested near the cup, brushing gently against the glass. He swallowed, feeling his pulse quicken. “So this is… pre-contract permissible teasing, then?”

Harry chuckled softly, lifting his glass in mock toast. “Exactly.” He took a sip of the water. “I like my tea…” He hesitated for a heartbeat, then shrugged in an almost sheepish gesture. “Ah, I don’t really know. I guess… warm, milky, and sweet. Comforting, like a hug in a cup.”

Newt blinked, slightly stunned. The way Harry phrased it made something ache softly in his chest. “Warm, milky… and sweet,” he repeated, as if tasting the words themselves. 

Harry grinned, seeing the faint flush on Newt’s cheeks. “What about you? Do you take sugar? Honey? Or just straight up bitter?” He leaned closer, voice low and intimate, like a secret shared between them.

His mouth twitched in amusement and embarrassment at once. “I… um. I like a little honey. Just a touch.” He swallowed, noticing how his pulse leapt slightly as Harry’s gaze lingered on him. “It’s… sweet, but not overpowering.”

Harry’s grin widened, mischievous and tender all at once. “So… we’re a match, then. Warm, sweet, comforting. That’s how I take tea, and maybe… that’s how I take moments too.”

Newt felt his chest tighten, a small, almost panicked flutter of warmth spreading through him. “Moments… or people?” he asked softly, though his voice carried a slight tremor.

The omega leaned in the tip of his nose nearly touching Newt’s. “Both,” he said simply, his grin softening into something far more vulnerable and intimate. “I like my tea… and my moments… with people I trust. People I want close.”

Newt felt the words settle over him, sinking deep and making him aware of every inch of their shared space. He caught the faintest whiff of Harry’s scent—the golden syrup and wildflowers that clung to him—and swallowed, trying not to let his nervousness show.

“You really don’t want someone dominating?” Newt asked innocently, his tone light and curious, with no edge of challenge in it—just genuine confusion.

Harry, however, blinked hard. His mind—conditioned by the crude jokes of Gryffindor boys’ dorms, the teasing smirks of Sirius and Remus years ago, and his own scattered, half-understood experiences—went very suddenly and very inappropriately elsewhere.

Bloody hell, Newt.

He coughed, his cheeks warming as he quickly turned his teacup between his palms, pretending to examine the pattern on the porcelain. “Not in the cruel way,” he managed finally, voice just a touch higher than usual.

Newt tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to decode that answer. “So you like that I’m an alpha?”

Harry looked up sharply, caught between laughing and panicking. “What— what are you asking exactly?” he said, half-amused, half-nervous. The flush on his cheeks deepened to a vivid rose, and he pushed his hair back from his forehead as if that would somehow help him think straight.

Newt, bless him, looked entirely earnest. His brows knitted, his freckled nose scrunching just slightly as he tried to explain himself. “I suppose I’m just worried you won’t like me if I act… more like an alpha,” he said slowly, his voice carrying the soft hesitance of someone who’s been told too many times to be something he’s not. “I don’t even really know what that means, truth be told. But people always say I’m not enough of one. Not assertive enough. Not… dominant, I suppose.”

Harry’s blush cooled, replaced by a flicker of sadness and affection that softened his expression entirely. “You think being an alpha means being loud or bossy or—”

“Or confident,” Newt said bitterly, before Harry could finish. “Or physically intimidating. Or knowing how to take command of a room. I’ve never been that sort. Theseus always has been. He can fill a room just by walking into it. Father too, in his own way. And I suppose I just…” He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck, gaze flickering downward. “I worry you’ll realize I’m not really what omegas expect of an alpha.”

Harry’s chest tightened. The idea of Newt—sweet, brilliant, self-effacing Newt—believing he had to perform some kind of caricature of dominance just to be worthy of affection made something twist sharply in his gut.

“Newt,” he said softly, setting his teacup down and leaning closer. “If I wanted someone to command me around, I’d be halfway to France already after the first marriage contract of a posh twat saying he worked out daily. I’ve had enough people telling me what to do for a lifetime.”

That got Newt’s attention. His eyes flicked up, startled.

Harry smiled faintly, just enough to take the edge off his words. “You’re kind. And gentle. You listen. You actually look at me, not just through me or see me as a tool. You make me feel… safe. That’s what being an alpha means, to me. It’s not about roaring, or showing teeth, or marking territory—it’s about steadiness. About not flinching when the other person needs you calm.”

Newt stared at him, lips parted slightly. “Safe,” he repeated softly, as if testing the word.

Harry nodded. “Yeah. Safe.” He gave a faint laugh, shaking his head. “Honestly, if you started acting like one of those chest-thumping idiots who think their pheromones are an argument, I’d probably hex you on instinct.”

That earned a small, startled laugh from Newt—the kind that made his shoulders relax and his eyes light up again. “Well, then,” he murmured, “I suppose I’ll remain as I am.”

Harry grinned. “Good. Because I happen to like you exactly as you are.”

Newt ducked his head, the tips of his ears turning red. “Even if I don’t act very much like an alpha?”

“Especially because of that,” Harry said, almost in a whisper. Then he smiled, gentle, teasing, fond. “Besides,” he added, his tone dipping to something half-playful, half-shy, “you don’t need to act like an alpha, Newt. You already are one. The good kind.”

Cheeks pink under freckles and heart thudding far too fast, Newt decided that if this was what courting felt like—this mix of warmth, confusion, and quiet awe—he could happily get lost in it forever.

Chapter Text

After dinner Harry lingered in the doorway for far longer than necessary, shifting from foot to foot and tugging nervously at the hem of his back skirt. He hadn’t wanted to leave—he never wanted to leave—but Isla’s clockwork punctuality was not to be ignored.

“Please, please, please…” Harry pleaded in a small, almost desperate voice. “Just… just coat it with your scent. My new handkerchief. Please?” His fingers clutched the soft material, trembling slightly, as if it were a lifeline.

Newt blinked at him, caught off guard by both the request and the intensity in Harry’s green eyes. Then, after a moment, he laughed—a light, warm sound that made Harry’s heart stutter. “You’re adorable, you know that?” he murmured, and took the handkerchief.

“I… I really want it,” he admitted, voice soft, almost a whisper.

Newt, careful to be gentle, and pressed the fabric near his scent glands, releasing a steady, rich aura into the fibres. Harry’s eyes went wide, pupils dilating at the sudden intensity of the pheromones. 

“Whoa,” Harry breathed, his voice barely audible. “It’s… stronger than I imagined.”

“Did you want it to be strong, or subtle?” Newt asked, tilting his head, though a soft smile curved his lips.

“Strong,” he whispered, his throat tight. “I… I want to remember it.” 

Newt handed it back with care, watching the reverence in Harry’s expression. Harry took it as if it were the most precious thing in the world, cradling it gently with both hands, thumbs brushing over the cloth again and again.

“I… I’ll keep it close,” Harry said, eyes shining, voice thick with something unspoken. “Always.”

Newt’s chest tightened in a mixture of pride and tenderness. “I’m glad,” he said softly. “And… you don’t have to be embarrassed about it. You can like my scent. You can want it. It’s natural.”

Harry swallowed, his lips twitching into a shy smile. “I know. I… I just—” He paused, caught between gratitude, affection, and the rush of intimacy that came from such a simple act. “I just… really like it.”

He chuckled quietly, brushing a loose strand of hair behind Harry’s ear. “Then keep it close,” he said again. “And come back soon, alright? I’ll be waiting.”

Harry nodded, clinging to the handkerchief as though it were a talisman, and then, with a nervous but hopeful glance up at Newt, he stepped back toward the wards, heart still racing, scent lingering, and warmth settling deep into his chest.

His steps slowed as he moved away from the Scamander estate, his hand clutched around the scented handkerchief as if it contained a piece of Newt himself. Every few paces he stole a glance back, just long enough to see Newt standing near the doorway, tall and calm, yet somehow entirely focused on him.

His lips curved into a shy, unguarded smile, the kind he rarely allowed himself to feel around anyone. 

Isla appeared beside him with the soft shimmer of apparition, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder to steady him. “You look… happy,” she murmured, raising an eyebrow with amusement.

Harry glanced up at her, cheeks flushing faintly, but he couldn’t hide the sparkle in his eyes. “I… I am,” he admitted, a little breathless. “I just… I don’t know. It feels nice. Being wanted. And safe.”

He stole one more look over his shoulder. Newt’s figure hadn’t moved, still watching him, still smiling that small, knowing smile that made Harry’s stomach twist into butterflies. It was both grounding and dizzying at once.

“You can stop looking back,” Isla teased gently, though she didn’t push. “He’ll be waiting, Harry. You’ll see him again.”

Harry nodded, but his gaze lingered. The wards shimmered faintly as Isla guided him forward, but even as the distance grew, the memory of Newt’s hands, his scent, the careful way he had pressed the handkerchief near him, stayed vivid.

A small laugh escaped him, quiet, almost private, and Isla smiled knowingly. Harry’s grin stayed long after they had apparated away, tugging the scented handkerchief closer, feeling like he was carrying a piece of home, of warmth, and of someone he’d barely known but somehow already trusted completely.

Harry sagged against Isla as they landed, his legs wobbling just slightly from the sudden shift in momentum. “Ugh,” he groaned, letting the sound carry all his mild frustration and exhaustion.

Isla gave a small laugh, arms still securely around him. “Are you ever going to get better at apparating side along?” she teased, raising an eyebrow. “Honestly, you cling like a barnacle every single time.”

He pressed a hand to his forehead, cheeks tinged pink from effort and embarrassment. “I-It’s not that I cling, it’s that I don’t want to fall flat on my face.”

“Mm-hmm,” Isla murmured, clearly amused. “Every. Single. Time.” She set him down carefully, making sure his feet touched the floor safely. “You really do need to trust me a little more, Harry. Side-along apparition isn’t going to bite.”

Harry groaned again, dragging a hand through his hair and rubbing at his neck. “I know, I know… but it’s… it’s scary. Everything moves so fast, and I—” He paused, taking a deep breath, “—I just feel like I’ll mess it up even though I'm not the one doing it."

Isla crouched to meet his eyes, voice softening. “You’re fine. You’re safe. And you did it, didn’t you?”

He blinked, then allowed a small, weary smile. “Yeah… I guess I did.”

“So… did you sign the courting contract?” Isla asked, tilting her head slightly, her eyes curious but gentle.

“I did,” Harry admitted, shifting on the edge of the bed, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his lilac blouse. “After dinner. It was… so awkward. When I first arrived, I actually almost walked out on them.”

“You didn’t!” She exclaimed, leaning forward slightly.

Harry shook his head, a small wry smile tugging at his lips. “I did. I panicked. I just… I just wanted to leave.”

“You didn’t!” Isla repeated, sounding part relieved, part impressed.

“I didn’t,” Harry said firmly. “Newt stopped me. And that was enough. I couldn’t leave.”

“So then what happened?” Isla pressed, settling onto the edge of the bed beside him.

He exhaled, leaning back slightly, gaze distant for a moment. “We went back inside. But… instead of facing his family directly, we retreated to a conservatory. It’s… quite beautiful, lots of glass, sunlight, plants, herbs—he loves plants too. I think it makes him… grounded. I mean, it made me feel calm, too.”

“And what did you talk about?” Isla asked, eyes sparkling with curiosity, clearly enjoying the mental image.

Harry chuckled softly, rubbing at his temple. “We talked about… life. About magical creatures, mostly. Phoenixes, specifically. Newt loves them. He told me how they feel pain when they cry for someone, and it… it hit me more than I expected.” His lips twitched into a small, embarrassed smile. “I told him about a phoenix I knew… and I couldn’t really explain everything about… well, everything, but I shared what I could.”

“And then?” Isla prompted gently.

His cheeks flushed slightly, warmth creeping up his neck. “Then… I fell asleep on him.” He waved a hand vaguely, as if brushing away the mortification. “Completely unplanned. He didn’t wake me, just let me rest… and then his mother walked in and caught me like that!”

Isla gasped dramatically, covering her mouth. “She… she saw you like that?”

“It was… fine! Newt told me that she said I was adorable. And then she set up a table for us to eat alone, which was nice. No one hovering, no intimidation. Just… us.” Harry paused, his hand moving to his pocket. Slowly, he pulled out the handkerchief, smooth and lilac, holding it out to Isla with trembling fingers. “And… I got him to scent this.”

Grey eyes widened in surprise, and she leaned in, inspecting it delicately, though she didn’t touch it. “You… Harry…” she said, her voice catching in the middle, part astonished, part exasperated.

He tucked the handkerchief back into his pocket with a hurried movement. “I… I know it’s a bit forward. But… I like him. Really, really like him. And… I wanted something of him with me… when I’m not near him.”

Isla’s expression softened, a quiet smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Oh, Harry… you’ve got no idea how utterly charming that is. That he gets to have a piece of you too… it’s mutual, you know. You’re both tethered to each other in a very… honest way.”

"And… I want to see where this goes. I want to court him properly… learn him… be with him… if he’ll have me.” He hesitated, swallowing hard. “I just… I don’t want to screw it up.”

“You won’t,” Isla assured him, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. “You’re… you, Harry. That’s more than enough. And Newt… well, he’s clearly already smitten with you. I can see it in the way he’s… protective of you, how careful he is.”

Harry’s face flushed even brighter, and he leaned slightly against her shoulder. “And… you think I’m not being ridiculous, right? Wanting to… care for him like this?”

“You’re not ridiculous,” Isla whispered. “You’re brave. Not many get to find someone who matches them… so perfectly.”

“I hope I don’t let him down.”

“You won’t, Harry. You just… be yourself. Everything else will follow.”

“But Isla, they haven’t signed the thing yet,” Harry said, standing up and pacing a little, his stockings whispering against the rug. His voice had that familiar nervous edge that came out whenever he overthought something. “I’ve set it so a copy will appear on my desk when they sign it, but nothing’s shown up. Not even a shimmer of parchment.”

Isla looked up from where she sat, perched elegantly on the edge of the bed, and raised a brow. “Maybe they’re reading it through with a lawyer,” she offered mildly, smoothing an invisible crease in her dress.

Harry groaned, running a hand through his messy hair. “Or maybe they’re trying to see if they can add something or debate a clause.” He turned, facing her with a worried expression. “You know—something about propriety or lineage or… or Merlin forbid, fertility expectations.”

“Harry,” Isla said gently, trying not to laugh at the way he was winding himself tighter with every word. “You’re spiralling again.”

“I’m realistic,” he countered, pointing a finger at her with mock severity. “Newt’s mother practically sent me a background check disguised as a polite letter, and she’s probably gone through the contract with a magnifying glass by now. I bet she’s arguing about the bit where it says the courting period can extend indefinitely before engagement.”

“Indefinitely?” Isla echoed, tilting her head. “That’s… unusual.”

“Well, yes,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “I thought it would make things less pressured. I’m not exactly used to being courted, let alone being someone’s omega.”

She smiled softly. “You’re thoughtful. And you did it for the right reasons. But if they’re taking their time, that’s fine. Some families do like to pick apart wording. You wouldn’t want to rush them and end up with a clause you didn’t see coming.”

Harry sighed, dropping heavily into the armchair by his desk. “You sound like my friend Hermione,” he muttered.

“Thank you,” Isla said serenely. "I don't know who that is but if they're your friend, it's a compliment."

He groaned again, slouching into the cushions. “What if— what if they think it’s too forward? What if his parents think I’m… not good enough? Or too weird? Or—”

“Harry,” Isla interrupted, leaning forward with a kind but firm tone, “you have to remember that Newt likes you. He’s clearly smitten, and his family will come around if they haven’t already. The fact that his mother didn’t throw you out when she found you napping on him says a lot.”

Harry flushed, burying his face in his hands. “Please don’t remind me. That’s mortifying enough without you turning it into evidence.”

Isla chuckled softly. “All I’m saying is: give it time. If they’re reading through it, that’s a good sign. It means they’re considering it seriously, not dismissing it.”

He peered through his fingers, one green eye glinting uncertainly. “You really think so?”

“I do,” Isla said, voice warm. “Besides, from what you’ve told me, Newt’s not exactly the sort to be bullied into doing what he doesn’t want to. If he wants to sign, he will. On his own terms.”

Harry lowered his hands slowly, staring at the faintly glowing corner of the desk where the duplicate would appear once signed. “I just… I want to know it’s real, Isla. That I didn’t dream it. That he meant all of it, the way he looked at me, the way he held me.”

She smiled softly, reaching over to nudge his knee with hers. “If I had to wager, darling, I’d say you’re the first person who’s ever made him look that alive... other than a creature. So yes. It’s real.”

His lips quirked into a small, shy smile. “You’re really sure?”

“Positive,” Isla said. “Now stop watching the desk. It’ll appear when it’s ready, not when you glare at it into existence.”

Harry let out a small laugh, rubbing his face. “Fine. But if it doesn’t show up by tomorrow, I’m sending him an owl just to make sure he hasn’t been eaten by his mother’s disapproval.”

At Newt’s house, the evening sun cast long, amber streaks across the polished floors of the Scamander house. Newt had already signed the courting contract with deliberate care, running the quill smoothly across the lines, feeling the weight of the commitment he was making—even if it was only the start of something tentative and delicate.

Now, he sat nervously on the edge of the settee, hands fidgeting in his lap as his mother and father leaned over the large dining table, the contract sprawled between them like a battlefield map. Marigold tapped a manicured finger against the parchment, her expression taut with that familiar blend of maternal concern and sharp-minded scrutiny.

“I do understand that Lord Peverell has signed it,” she said, her voice measured, “but we must consider the practicality of these things. At least, before your father signs as Lord of the House, we should review the fertility records if he'd give them to us. A young omega’s reproductive health is… well, it’s a standard precaution.”

Newt’s eyes widened slightly. “Fertility records?” he echoed, his tone a mix of disbelief and exasperation. “He’s eighteen! And this is a courting contract, not… not some arrangement for the Ministry’s archives. I’m not even the heir, why is this important to anyone?”

“It’s typical for these negotiations,” Thaddeus said, his voice low and steady. “Not a reflection on the young man personally, of course. But before binding the families, before a public acknowledgment of the union, one must ensure all conventional safeguards are in place. I would also recommend a virginity confirmation—an assessment of his purity, as the law of the household expects. It is… customary.”

The young alpha groaned softly, pressing a hand to his forehead. “Customary? Really? You’re going to ask him to prove he’s a virgin before I even get to court him properly?” His eyes darted toward the window, as if imagining Harry’s face, perfectly polite and startled at such absurdity. “This feels… I don’t know… medieval.”

Marigold’s lips pressed into a thin line. “You’re missing the point, Newton. This is not about mistrust. It’s about safeguarding your family and the integrity of the house. We cannot—cannot—afford scandal or disappointment. If Lord Peverell is to be considered, then these details must be verified, quietly and delicately.”

“I understand,” he muttered. “But it feels like we’re treating Harry like some kind of… specimen. I want to court him. To spend time with him. To see if we even like each other outside of these... these lists of checks and precautions.”

His father raised a brow at him. “And you will. But those preliminaries must be observed, Newt. The oversight is… a formality. Ensuring the match is viable. It is the way of the world. Even an heirless son like yourself must respect these traditions.”

Newt slumped back in the chair, exhaling a long, frustrated sigh. “I just… I don’t see why that matters now. Why can’t we wait until I actually know the man properly, without him having to submit to some… invasive procedures before he’s even comfortable here?”

Marigold’s face softened slightly, but she was unwavering. “I understand your concern, dear. But you must recognize that when dealing with the potential merging of houses, appearances and propriety carry as much weight as affection. This is a negotiation as much as a courtship. We cannot afford to disregard the expectations of society, no matter how inconvenient they may seem to the young hearts involved.”

“I’m not asking for the world. I’m asking to be with him without this… medieval interrogation. He’s Harry. Not some household investment.”

Thaddeus exchanged a glance with his wife, the corners of his mouth twitching ever so slightly in exasperation and sympathy. “Newt,” he said, softer this time, “you will have your time. You’ll have moments of privacy and intimacy. But these initial precautions—these are not to diminish your feelings. They exist to protect them.”

Marigold sighed audibly, folding her hands neatly over the table. “Yes, Newton. As much as you may want to rebel against it, this is merely protocol. A formality before the true courtship may begin.”

Newt’s jaw tightened. For a moment, he looked every inch the quiet, unassuming son she knew him to be — mild-mannered, polite, far too gentle to raise his voice. But something in him shifted then. His fingers clenched at his knees, knuckles pale, and when he lifted his head, there was fire in his eyes that startled even Thaddeus.

“Mother, Father,” he began slowly, voice trembling not with fear, but conviction, “I do not need your permission to court him.”

“Newton—” Marigold started, warning in her tone.

He pressed on, the words spilling faster now, years of quiet deference cracking under something new and fierce. “I do not need you to sign that parchment for me. That is mere formality. I could court behind your back if I wished to. I could leave this country, get disowned, and still find my way to him. There’s nothing binding me here except the name you value so much.”

Marigold gasped softly, eyes widening. Thaddeus froze mid-breath, watching his son with an unreadable expression.

“I could do so much to be with him,” Newt continued, breath quick and heated now. “And I would. I don’t need his fertility records. I would wish to court him even if he were a beta.”

The words struck the room like a whip crack.

Marigold’s eyes went round in horror. “Newton Artemis Fido Scamander,” she snapped, standing sharply from her chair, “you will stop this right now!”

But Newt only met her glare with quiet defiance. His voice softened — not out of submission, but steady conviction. “Would you rather I lie, Mother? Pretend that affection only follows hierarchy and status? That love is dictated by what someone’s body can or cannot do?” He took a deep breath, shaking slightly. “I would court him if he were a beta, and I’d still court him if he were an alpha.”

Thaddeus exhaled sharply, eyes flashing. “Newton, you speak recklessly.”

“Do I?” Newt shot back, the words tumbling before he could stop them. “Because quite frankly, he is from one of the most renowned wizarding families in magical history — his name carries weight, the kind that you both crave when you talk about ‘merging houses.’” He gestured to the parchment with a flick of his wrist, almost disdainful now. “Isn’t that what you wanted? A union that strengthens our line, our prestige, our public image?”

“Newton—” Marigold tried again, but Newt’s voice rose, passionate, desperate.

“So who cares if he’s not fertile?!” he snapped. “Which he is, by the way, because if you can’t tell that from scent alone, then you’ve no business calling yourself a beta mother of two alphas. The scent of a sterile omega is different — dulled, lacking depth. His isn’t. His scent is alive. It sings.”

“Enough!” Marigold’s voice cracked like a whip. She stood stiff-backed, but her lips trembled. “Do not speak of her in such a way!”

“Him,” Newt corrected softly, but firmly. “Him, Mother.”

Her expression darkened, eyes narrowing as though she were trying to will her son back into silence. “Call it what you will. I know what I smelled in this house — soft, sweet, subdued. Too delicate for his own good. Whatever he calls himself, that boy carries more omega than most women I’ve met. And you—” she pointed an accusing finger toward her son, “you let yourself get wrapped up in that softness. You’re letting your instincts rule you.”

For a moment, the words hung heavy in the room, biting and cruel.

Newt’s mouth opened, then closed. His hands shook faintly at his sides, but when he finally spoke, his voice was clear and quiet, like calm water after a storm. “You’re wrong,” he said simply. “I’m not ruled by my instincts. I’m guided by them. There’s a difference.”

Thaddeus sighed heavily, rubbing a hand over his face. “Newton, your mother didn’t mean—”

“She did,” Newt said, gaze flicking to his father. “And that’s alright. You were both raised in a world where you think an omega’s worth lies in a bed or a birthing ward. But that’s not who Harry is. He’s clever, he’s brave, he’s—” Newt smiled faintly, the tension in his face softening just a little, “perhaps far too trusting for his own good. But he’s not a broodmare, and I won’t let you treat him as such.”

His mother stared at him as if she didn’t recognise the son before her. For a moment, she looked lost — somewhere between pride and disbelief. Then she drew herself up, chin tilted high. “You will regret speaking to us this way.”

“Maybe,” Newt murmured. “But I’d regret far more if I stayed silent and let you scare him away before he even feels welcome here.”

Thaddeus stood, voice deep and final. “Enough. This discussion is done. You’ve made your point, Newton. You may court him as you wish. But don’t mistake your youth and passion for wisdom.”

“I’m not mistaking anything,” Newt said, shoulders squared. “I just… for once, know what I want.”

Marigold sat again, her posture rigid, her eyes burning but unshed tears glinting faintly in them. After a long, tense silence, she spoke quietly. “You always were my most stubborn child.”

He smiled faintly, weary but sincere. “Perhaps you should’ve expected this.”

And with that, he turned, the contract still half-signed on the table, and walked toward the door. Behind him, Thaddeus exhaled a long, resigned breath. Marigold stared after her youngest son — torn between outrage and the strange, reluctant pride that her shy, quiet boy had finally found his voice.

Thaddeus exhaled slowly, running a hand over his thinning hair. “You pushed him too far, Mari.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “He spoke to me like— like a stranger,” she said faintly, voice tight. “Like I’ve done something wrong simply for caring what becomes of him.”

“He’s grown,” Thaddeus murmured. “You knew it would happen someday.”

Marigold’s gaze flicked toward the door — the one Newt had disappeared through — her eyes suddenly soft with a mother’s worry. “He’s still my child,” she said. “I still remember the way he’d hide behind my skirts at family gatherings, too shy to speak to anyone. And now he stands there defying me like he’s… someone else entirely.”

He smiled sadly. “He’s still that boy. Just with a bit more spine.”

She gave a dry, almost trembling laugh. “Spine. You call it that. I call it madness. Did you hear him, Thaddeus? ‘I would court him even if he were an alpha.’ Merlin’s beard, what kind of nonsense—”

“Love,” Thaddeus interrupted gently. “That’s what it sounded like to me.”

Marigold turned to him sharply, eyes wet despite the indignation in them. “Love?” she whispered. “You think I don’t want him to have love? I do. More than anything. But not the kind that will break him. Not the kind that will make the whole bloody world turn against him.”

Thaddeus tilted his head, patient as ever. “You’re afraid.”

“Of course I’m afraid!” she snapped, voice cracking halfway through. “One wrong thing and he'd have the whole Prophet tearing him apart the moment word gets out. And you know how delicate he is—”

“He’s not as delicate as you think,” Thaddeus said quietly.

Marigold looked away, blinking fast. “He’s never been… typical. Always head in the clouds, always talking about creatures and faraway lands, never thinking of what people will say.” She rubbed at her temple. “And now he’s found someone who lets him stay that way. That’s what terrifies me, Thaddeus. Because that kind of love… it burns bright and fast. And when it ends, it scars.”

He watched her for a long moment. Then, with a sigh, he came around the table and set a hand gently on her shoulder. “Maybe,” he said softly. “But maybe it doesn’t end. Maybe it lasts because it’s the first thing that’s made him alive.”

Marigold’s breath hitched. She looked down at her clasped hands again. “He sounded so certain,” she murmured. “So sure of himself. I didn’t know he could sound that way. Did you?”

Thaddeus smiled faintly. “No. But I think I like it.”

She huffed, torn between a scoff and a sob. “You always take his side.”

“I take reason’s side,” Thaddeus corrected gently. “You just happen to be outnumbered by it right now.”

Marigold gave a trembling sigh and leaned back in her chair, the tension slowly draining from her. “If this Harrison Peverell truly means all he said… if he truly makes our boy smile like that…”

Thaddeus arched a brow. “Then what?”

“Then I suppose,” she said slowly, “I’ll just have to learn to love him, too.”

“You will. You always do.”

She gave a watery laugh, shaking her head. “Don’t make me sentimental, Thaddeus. You know I hate that.”

He chuckled softly. “Of course, dear. Perish the thought.”

For a while, neither of them spoke. The clock ticked steadily on the mantel. Somewhere upstairs, the floorboards creaked with the faint sound of movement — perhaps Newt pacing, perhaps already writing a letter.

Marigold stared toward the ceiling and whispered, barely audible, “Just don’t let him get hurt.”

And Thaddeus, in the quiet that followed, squeezed her hand gently and murmured, “He’s a Scamander, Mari. He’ll survive it — and he’ll make it something worth surviving for.” He then took the parchment, sad down and signed his name below his youngest son's.

When he looked up, Marigold was already standing, her expression caught somewhere between disbelief and betrayal.

“Thaddeus,” she breathed, voice tight. “Why did you do that? We always make decisions together..."

He sighed, leaning back slightly, though his tone remained calm. “You forget, my dear — I am the Lord of the house.”

“And I the Lady!” she shot back sharply, coming closer, skirts whispering against the rug. “That means something. We agree before you stamp that seal—”

He met her eyes with the steady patience that had softened a thousand of her tempests. “And I love you very much,” he said gently, “but this one, Mari… this one I couldn’t wait on. You saw him. You heard the way his voice shook. You know he’s serious about that boy.”

“That boy,” she echoed, folding her arms. “You mean that omega who’s had our son tangled in his pheromones for less than a fortnight?”

Thaddeus gave her a look, not chastising, but weary. “Careful, love. You sound like your mother.”

Marigold froze mid-retort, lips parting, then pressing shut again. For a long moment, she didn’t speak. The room filled only with the faint crackle of the fire.

"You think me cruel,” she said finally, quieter now, almost defeated.

“I think you frightened,” Thaddeus corrected softly. “And I understand it. Truly, I do.” He rose from his chair and walked to her, placing a hand over hers where it gripped the back of another. “You remember how long it took us,” he said, voice gentle but firm. “Nine years between the boys. Nine years of healers and spells and disappointments before Newt came. And we both knew, from the moment he was born, he was… delicate.”

Her eyes shimmered — half with anger, half with memory.

“You’re afraid,” Thaddeus continued, “that this will break him the way those years nearly broke you. You think if he gives his heart and it fails, he won’t know how to piece it back together.”

Marigold’s throat bobbed. “And you don’t fear that?” she whispered. “He’s our son, Thaddeus. He’s ours. He’s never known how cruel the world can be. If this— if that boy hurts him, or if the world decides to—” She stopped, pressing a hand to her mouth, her voice trembling. “I couldn’t bear it.”

Thaddeus nodded, slow and understanding. “I know. Neither could I. But keeping him from it won’t stop him from loving, Mari. It’ll only teach him to hide it. And haven’t we both hidden enough in our lives?”

Her eyes softened at that — a flicker of shared history passing between them, old battles fought for their own union when families disapproved.

“You remember your father,” Thaddeus said gently, tilting his head. “The way he refused to sign our own betrothal papers? You told me once you nearly ran off without him. You would’ve, too. You were as stubborn as Newton.”

Marigold let out a reluctant laugh through her tears. “I was much prettier doing it.”

He smiled, thumb brushing over her hand. “Still are.”

She sighed deeply, letting some of the fight drain from her posture. “You think he’s truly that taken with him, don’t you?”

“I do,” Thaddeus said without hesitation. “You saw the way he looked when Harry left — like someone had stolen the air from the room. And the way that boy looked at him back…” He shook his head, smiling faintly. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen something that pure.”

Marigold hesitated. “You think I’m wrong.”

“I think you’re worried. And that’s never wrong.” He kissed her knuckles lightly, then straightened. “But I also think that we can’t live Newt’s life for him. We can only set the table, not tell him what to eat.”

She rolled her eyes softly, though the corners of her lips lifted. “You and your metaphors.”

“Effective, though.”

A quiet beat passed. Then, reluctantly, Marigold exhaled, her gaze dropping to the sealed parchment on the desk. "Fine,” she said finally, almost whispering. “Let it be done. But if he’s hurt…”

“I’ll be the first to make sure Lord Peverell answers for it,” Thaddeus promised — though his tone was gentle, not threatening.

She nodded slowly. “You’re far too good at being reasonable. It’s insufferable.”

“And you’re far too good at loving our son,” he said, smiling as he brushed her cheek with his thumb.

Marigold looked away, but the faintest ghost of a smile curved her mouth. “Nine years…” she murmured. “Merlin help me, if he makes Newt happy, I’ll sign every blasted paper in this house.”

Thaddeus chuckled softly. “That’s my lady.”

“What do you think of Lord Peverell? Truly. Don’t hold back with me.”

Thaddeus took his time, as he always did when it came to people — weighing what he’d seen, what he’d heard, what his instincts whispered. The fire crackled in the hearth between them, and the faint scent of parchment still lingered from the freshly signed contract on his desk.

Finally, he said, “I think he’s not what I expected.”

Marigold turned to him, one brow arching. “Meaning?”

“Meaning that when I read his letters, I imagined someone proud — perhaps a bit self-satisfied, like many of those young noble heirs. But the man who walked through our doors looked as though he’d fought half the world just to stand upright.” He paused, rubbing his thumb along his jaw thoughtfully. “He’s been hurt. Badly. I couldn’t say how, but it sits in his shoulders, in the way he watches every doorway before he enters. There’s… caution, yes, but also the kind of strength that doesn’t come from comfort.”

Marigold sighed. “I noticed it too. That constant awareness. And the way he flinched when I spoke too sharply — but then looked me straight in the eye when he answered back.”

Thaddeus smiled faintly. “That took courage. You were rather formidable.”

“I was protective,” she corrected, folding her arms, though her voice softened a touch. “And yet, even when cornered, he didn’t cower. He reminded me of… well, a frightened creature that will still bare its teeth before it runs.”

“That’s not a bad thing,” Thaddeus murmured. “It means there’s spirit left in him.”

Marigold looked toward the window where the moonlight fell in pale stripes across the carpet. “He said he has no family,” she said quietly. “And I believe him. There was something… empty in the way he spoke of it. Not bitterness, just that quiet kind of loss you don’t even try to explain anymore.”

Thaddeus nodded. “When he told us he wouldn’t be interrogated in our home—” He smiled a little. “That was the moment I knew he’d survive this world just fine."

“I don’t like thinking he’s been through something dreadful.”

“No,” he said softly. “But I think that’s part of why Newt was drawn to him. You saw how gentle he became around the boy — careful, but not patronising. Newt has always wanted to protect what the rest of the world misunderstands.”

She huffed, but it was a tender sound. “You think I’m too hard on him.”

“I think you’re too afraid of seeing Newt hurt,” Thaddeus said kindly. “But Lord Peverell… I think he’d sooner cut off his own hand than wound someone he loves.”

Marigold’s lips pressed together. “You really believe he could love him?”

“I believe he already does. In some quiet, uncertain way.”

She sat back, exhaling through her nose. “Well,” she said after a long pause, “then Merlin help them both. Because if that boy truly is as damaged as he looks, and Newt keeps loving him anyway, they’re going to need all the help they can get.”

Harry sat cross-legged on the edge of his bed in the Ministry dormitory, a stack of marriage contracts spread haphazardly around him. Isla perched on the edge of the bed opposite, occasionally pointing out ridiculous clauses, or laughing at the bizarre demands some families dared to make.

“Did you see this one?” Harry asked, shoving a particularly florid parchment toward her. “They literally offered me… two children. For a threesome.”

Isla nearly dropped her quill, her face a mix of disgust and disbelief. “They offered you children? In the same contract? Who does that? Who even thinks that is remotely appropriate?”

Harry grimaced, shaking his head. “Honestly, I… I don’t even want to know. But somehow they thought it would sweeten the deal. I’m not even sure it’s legal.”

They chuckled together, Isla making occasional mutters about “incompetent wizards with too much ink and too few brains,” until a subtle warmth began creeping through Harry’s body. At first, he thought it was just residual tiredness, the heat of the Ministry office seeping through the thick stone walls, but soon the feeling settled more insistently in his core.

His hands went to his stomach, brushing over the fabric of his pajamas as a gentle pressure began to build. He froze. “Isla… I feel… strange,” he murmured. “I don’t know what this is.”

Isla tilted her head, watching him with her keen eyes. “Strange how?”

“It’s… like my body is… boiling,” Harry said softly, his cheeks heating. He shifted slightly, curling inward on top of his bed. He vaguely noticed a faint shimmer near his desk. A copy of the courting contract had appeared, confirming what he had half-expected but hadn’t dared hope: Newt and his parents had signed it.

Isla’s attention snapped toward him in that instant. Her sharp eyes caught the telltale signs before Harry could even realize what they meant: the slight quiver of his shoulders, the curve of his hands curling against his body, the faint, almost invisible mist of his pheromones beginning to saturate the air.

“Oh bollocks,” she swore, her voice sharp but undercut with worry, the first time Harry had ever heard her swear like that. She darted across the small space of the room, gently but firmly at his side.

“Harry,” she said, voice low, almost reverent, as she knelt beside him. “You’re in heat. This is… it’s happening now.”

Harry blinked, confusion flickering over his face. “I… I don’t… Isla, I’ve never—”

“I know,” she interrupted softly. “I know. You’ve never had one. That’s why it’s coming on like this — slow, almost silent, but strong enough that I can smell it, and trust me, it’s strong.”

Harry’s breaths came in short, uneven bursts as he curled further into the bed, handkerchief pressed tightly to his nose. His legs were drawn up, thighs clamping together as a tremor ran through him, and he could barely meet Isla’s eyes.

“Isla…” he whispered, voice small and nervous, “please… tell me. I… I don’t know what goes on… with… with a heat.” His words trembled, barely audible over the roaring tide of sensations coursing through him.

Isla’s eyes softened, her hands still resting gently on his back. “You were never told?” she asked, just lightly, almost rhetorically.

Harry shook his head. “No. No good family. No one to… explain. I… I didn’t even know this could happen.” He rolled slightly, thighs clenching tighter, his body betraying him with an almost desperate need he didn’t understand.

“Oh… oh,” Isla breathed, a faint catch in her own voice as she assessed his trembling frame. She drew a deep breath and crouched lower beside him, speaking with brutal, unflinching honesty. “Harry, a heat is your body asking for… for sex, asking to be pregnant. It’s your nature as an omega — your body is trying to make children. That’s why it can feel so overwhelming. Usually, an omega will have a heat every two to four months. Most last a day or two, but in extreme cases, it can be up to four. Sometimes longer if the omega is stressed, hasn’t bonded with an alpha, or… or other complications arise.”

Harry’s eyes widened, and he whispered, “Pregnant? My body…?” His voice trembled as he clamped his thighs again, a sharp heat radiating between his legs.

“If you spent heat with an alpha,” Isla said gently, but firmly, “and more than that… you will feel intensely hot. You will get sore. You may feel heavy in the core, and you’ll leak... natural lubricant. It’s not shameful, it’s normal. Your body is just doing what it’s made to do.”

Harry swallowed, overwhelmed, his pulse racing. “And… and I… what if I… I don’t want to… I…” His words faltered completely.

“Then you don’t have to do anything,” Isla said, leaning closer, pressing her hands softly against his back to ground him. “You’re safe, Harry. Nothing has to happen unless you choose it. But you need to know, so you’re not terrified of what’s coming.”

Harry’s eyes welled.

She stood and clapped her hands lightly. “Betty!"

Within moments, a small, neatly uniformed elf appeared by the door. Isla explained quietly, “We need provisions for an omega in heat. Standard comforts, warmth, and… and supplies for managing natural responses.”

The elf’s eyes widened for a moment, but it bowed swiftly and disappeared. Moments later, it returned carrying a small woven basket. Inside were neatly folded blankets, a small pitcher of water with cold-preserving charms, and — Harry’s eyes went wide — a modest assortment of unopened sex toys. Nothing obscene, nothing overbearing, just the practical tools an omega might need to manage the sensations safely.

Harry gasped softly, covering his face with his hands for a moment. “I… I didn’t… I don't…”

Isla’s voice was calm, steady, almost maternal. “It’s okay, Harry. That’s why it’s here. These aren’t for… anything you don’t want. They’re simply tools to help you manage your body safely, to prevent pain and to allow you to rest if the need becomes too intense. You are not obligated to use anything. But I promise, these will make the heat bearable.”

Harry’s chest heaved, and a hot, unfamiliar wetness began to slick between his legs. He gasped sharply, his back arching instinctively, and a strangled cry escaped him. “Isla, please… I can’t… I can’t let you see me like this!” His hands clenched the sheets, body trembling as the heat pulsed through him like fire racing along his nerves.

Isla crouched a little closer, hands still hovering just above his back, not touching him unless he allowed it. Her voice was firm, unwavering, but gentle enough to calm him. “Harry… you will call a house-elf if a problem arises. Do you understand me?”

“I… I can’t—” he stammered, tears welling in his eyes, a flush creeping over his cheeks. “I can’t have anyone see me like this… like a… like a—” He choked, fumbling for words, his voice breaking under the raw intensity of his body’s demands.

“You will, Harry,” Isla interrupted, her tone edged with no-nonsense authority. “You will. That is the safety protocol.” She gave him a gentle, reassuring smile, brushing back a stray strand of hair. “Good luck, Harry. Remember everything we discussed. Call the house-elf if you need help, and… breathe. You’ll get through this.”

Harry nodded numbly, his body already humming with the strange, insistent heat that had overtaken him. He watched Isla leave, the door closing softly behind her, and the sudden quiet of his room pressed in on him. His heartbeat raced—not just from the heat, but from the fact that he was entirely alone now, without guidance but with a body demanding his attention.

He barely thought before the rest followed instinctively. His hands fumbled at the fabric of his clothes, tugging at buttons, shoving shirts over his head. Each garment felt like a barrier between himself and the raw sensations burning through him. He peeled away layers with surprising speed, leaving himself exposed to the cool air of the room. The moment the last article of clothing hit the floor, he collapsed back onto the bed, knees drawn up, arms clutched around himself.

The handkerchief, still scented with Newt, pressed to his nose, grounding him, grounding him in something safe and familiar. The heat, however, surged stronger, pulsing in rhythm with his quickening breaths. Every nerve seemed alight, every inch of skin sensitive, as if his body was singing a song he had never known before.

“I… oh gods…” he whispered, voice trembling, as the warmth pooled lower, pressing insistently between his thighs. He rolled onto his side instinctively curling into a ball. 

His fingers drummed lightly against the sheets as he tried to regulate his breathing, to ride the tide rather than be swept away by it. He could feel his body producing slick warmth, and the sudden realisation made his pulse spike. He hissed softly through his teeth, feeling an ache that demanded attention, demanded release.

Harry’s brow furrowed as he tried to make sense of the sensations coursing through him. The warmth, the slick that seemed endless, the pulsing ache between his legs—it was all entirely new, entirely overwhelming. His hand drifted almost instinctively to his chest, fingers brushing against his skin as if trying to tether himself to some familiar, safe feeling.

He shifted slightly, grinding softly into the blankets beneath him. The friction felt both foreign and comforting, a physical echo of the heat that had overtaken his body. His stomach twisted, a mixture of embarrassment and the undeniable intensity of his body’s demands. Every nerve ending felt alive, as though even the smallest touch was magnified, amplified, a current running straight to his core.

“Oh no…” he whispered, almost apologetically, as if speaking aloud might keep him from losing control. His thoughts were jumbled—shame, curiosity, fascination—but beneath it all was a raw, undeniable truth: his body wanted, needed, something he’d never been taught to give or take.

He clutched at the handkerchief scented with Newt’s pheromones, pressing it closer to his nose, letting the familiar scent ground him even as the rest of his body betrayed him. It was confusing—comforting, intoxicating, and overwhelming all at once.

Harry shifted again, rocking slightly against the blankets, his thighs tightening together. He could feel the slick pooling more insistently, wetting the sheets, making him acutely aware of how exposed he was. His chest rose and fell quickly as he breathed through the strange, building sensations, and his hand moved again, brushing lightly over his collarbone, over the taut skin of his stomach.

“I… I can handle this,” he whispered to himself, though the truth was that he wasn’t entirely sure. 

Harry’s mind flicked back, unbidden, to the earlier moment when he’d tried to explore himself with the handle of a hairbrush. He shivered, both embarrassed and slightly guilty at the memory. He knew it had been improper, dangerous even—but at the time, he had wanted so desperately to feel something, anything, to understand the stirrings in his body.

Now, lying on the bed, slick and flushed, he tried to push the memory aside. There was no time for that, only sensation, only the urgent, insistent pull of his heat. One trembling hand moved down past his groin, past the mess that had accumulated there, and hesitated at the entrance that still throbbed with need. The touch was tentative at first, exploratory, and then he sank a finger inside, almost instinctively.

It was a tiny bit overwhelming, yes, but it also felt like a release—like a little bit of the unbearable heat was easing, though it didn’t disappear completely. His body responded instantly, slick coating his finger and making the movement almost hypnotic. He felt the pull, the tightness, the ache, and in that moment, it didn’t matter that he’d never experienced this before. It didn’t matter that he’d been terrified of his own body for years.

A small sound escaped his lips, a soft whimper that betrayed the pleasure.  He bit his lip, trying to hold back any noise, trying to keep the moment private, but every nerve ending screamed.

Harry’s first finger moved rhythmically, in and out. At first, it was enough—almost. But soon, the relentless surge of heat made him realise one finger wouldn’t suffice. His hand trembled slightly as he added another, gingerly sliding it in, stretching carefully, testing the limits of his own body.

He paused for a moment, chest rising and falling rapidly, and glanced at the basket the elf had left. The toys, blankets, and water with cold-preserving charms all felt like both a temptation and a safety net. His mind spun—curiosity mingling with nervousness—as he considered the new sensations he could explore, ways to ease the heat that pulsed through every fiber of him.

He reminded himself to go slowly, to feel rather than force, allowing the pleasure to act as a release instead of a rush. 

After a little while, Harry slipped off the bed, knees shaking slightly but determined. His hands fumbled with the first toy he saw and undid the packaging. It looked simple, almost unassuming—a cock-shaped toy, about the size of his own, not an alpha’s overwhelming size, but enough to explore something new. He swallowed nervously and climbed back onto the bed, hands and knees bracing against the soft blankets.

Harry’s fingers rubbed the toy against himself first, collecting the slick that had begun to coat him. A wave of anticipation hit him, a mix of nervousness, shame, and curiosity. He paused, heart racing. This is horrid, isn’t it? he thought, disgusting. But it’s going to feel… good, isn’t it?

He pushed gently, careful at first. His entrance stretched around the toy, and for a moment he tensed, expecting the sharp sting of pain. But it slid in more easily than he anticipated, slick and warm, and the moment it reached the right angle he felt a tingle that deepened quickly, blossoming into something almost addictive. He hesitated, chest tight, then pushed further, adjusting slightly, and suddenly the toy brushed against his prostate.

A low, involuntary groan escaped him. It was overwhelming, confusing. How can this feel so good and be so… disgusting at the same time? His cheeks burned as heat pooled lower, his body humming in a way he had never experienced before. His hands gripped the blanket tightly as he rocked back and forth slightly, letting the sensation wash through him.

Harry’s mind whirled. Shame and pleasure tangled inside him like twisting vines. I shouldn’t like this… I’m not supposed to enjoy it am I…? Yet every careful, tentative movement told him otherwise. 

Moving the toy in and out, Harry felt wave after wave of pleasure wash through him. It was overwhelming and confusing at the same time—his body adored the sensation, even as his mind struggled with the mixture of embarrassment and delight. His hand and wrist began to tire from the effort, so he shifted, rolling onto his side and angling the toy differently.

He discovered that if he ground his hips back and forth, the toy moved side to side inside him, brushing against and pulling away from his prostate in the most exquisite way—all without him needing to manipulate it with his hands. His body arched naturally, responding instinctively, and he let himself ride the rhythm his hips created.

The climax came unexpectedly. Heat and pleasure pooled everywhere at once, and it felt strange and dizzying, erupting both forward and backward. His mind raced, trying to reconcile the sensations with what he knew about omegas: the excess fluids, the intensity of release, the way his body could feel so simultaneously drained and alive. No wonder we dehydrate so fast, he thought, planning to grab water as soon as he could.

Even as his body relaxed and the initial storm faded, the heat inside him remained, coiled and insistent. His entrance was sensitive and sore now, but he didn’t want to remove the toy. In fact, a small, curious part of him longed for something bigger, more filling—but his body, exhausted and trembling, demanded he pause. He stayed put, letting it rest inside him, feeling the strange, powerful drain it caused on his magic.

A small, grateful thought flitted through his mind: he was glad this was his first heat, that he had not endured it amidst the chaos and terror of the war.

Harry woke with a dull ache pressing at his entrance and a strange, heavy fullness he hadn’t noticed before. Blinking through the haze of sleep, he realized the toy was still fully inside him. In his half-conscious state, he must have shifted during the night, pressing it deeper in the throes of his heat. A small hiss escaped him as the discomfort registered—part pain, part lingering pleasure.

He tried to remove it immediately, but it was slippery, coated in his own slick, and every attempt only made it slide further or twist awkwardly inside him. He groaned, frustrated, feeling the bizarre mix of arousal and soreness that made each movement simultaneously enticing and uncomfortable.

After a few minutes of slipping, sliding, and fumbling, he remembered something he’d read once about… prisoners. He had no other ideas. With a shuddering breath, he squatted low, bracing himself with one hand on the bed, and coughed sharply as he pushed. Slowly, agonizingly, the toy began to slide out. Each millimeter was a mixture of relief and lingering pressure, until it finally popped onto the sheets with a wet, slippery sound.

Harry grimaced, catching his breath. His thighs ached, his entrance throbbed, and yet there was an almost desperate longing to put it back in. The combination of exhaustion, heat, and lingering arousal made the idea both absurd and compelling. He pressed a hand over his face for a moment, letting out a shaky breath.

The need to fill himself again pulsed through him, and he reluctantly reached toward the toy, hesitating as he reminded himself to be careful, but then he shook his head and left the toy.

Harry shifted onto his hands and knees, letting his chest press lightly against the soft bedding. Every contact of the fabric against his nipples made him shiver; they were deliciously sensitive from the heat. He arched his back downward instinctively, pushing his arse up just enough so that the air brushed across his slick entrance. The cold draft felt strange at first—almost shocking—but the relief it brought to the coil of tension in his lower body was immediate and undeniable.

Why is arching my back so pleasurable? he wondered, still bewildered by the unfamiliar sensations coursing through him. Each small movement stretched his abdomen and spine in a way that made the pressure in his pelvis ease slightly.

The position itself gave him an odd sense of release. He realized he could manipulate his posture, the angle of his hips and the curve of his spine, to target the sensations in exactly the way he needed. 

Harry rested like that for a few long minutes, rocking gently, testing how much relief he could get from shifting his weight forward or arching more sharply. 

Chapter Text

At Newt’s house the Daily Prophet arrived, flopping onto the breakfast table with a muffled thump. Thaddeus picked it up first, his face tightening into a frown as he skimmed the front page. “Lord Peverell is in it,” he muttered, a note of foreboding in his voice.

“Please tell me they don’t already know about Newt and him,” Theseus said nervously, glancing at the papers. His hands tightened around the edge of the table.

“Worse,” Thaddeus said, his jaw dropping.

Marigold was fast, snatching the newspapers from him with a dramatic gasp. “Oh, poor thing,” she muttered, flipping the pages with delicate fingers.

“What is it?” Newt asked, peering over her shoulder.

“Someone… someone has given his measurements to the press,” Marigold said in a horrified whisper. “Bloody title—”

“Marigold!” Thaddeus snapped, but she continued.

“‘The Omega Lord's Dress Size.’ Oh, Newton, you are one lucky fellow,” she said, reading aloud. “Height: five foot four inches. Waist: twenty-two inches. So tiny.”

Newt blinked, slack-jawed, his hand frozen in mid-air over his breakfast.

Thaddeus, meanwhile, let out a long, exasperated sigh. “It’s those stupid fashion pamphlets you read, Marigold. They’ve completely warped your perception of what’s healthy. You think anyone could be that size and be well-nourished.”

“No, no, I know he needs more,” she said, flipping to the next page to see a drawing of Harry. “Look at him, Newton! Look at how delicate he is! He’d look like a porcelain doll if he weren’t so… so gaunt!”

Newt’s cheeks heated, a mix of embarrassment and exasperation. “Mother, he really is too skinny. When I picked him up the other day, he was just... light. Too light,” he admitted, thinking back to Harry’s small frame and the ease with which he’d practically floated in Newt’s arms.

“You picked him up?! Newton—” Thaddeus exclaimed, eyebrows arching so high they nearly disappeared into his hairline.

“To get him off my lap!” Newt said quickly, holding up his hands defensively. “He was on my lap for hugs! You know, hugs!”

Theseus, frowning, rubbed the back of his neck. “I… I need to go and check on him. He’s under my care in the Ministry, and this kind of public exposure, he’s too… he’s too small for this attention. I’ll make sure he’s alright.”

"Newt, you'll take good care of him, yes?" Marigold asked which sounded more like a demand.

Newt exhaled slowly. “I don’t care about the papers or the measurements. He’s fine with me, and I’ll make sure no one hurts him—physically or otherwise. He’s precious, and I won’t let anyone forget that.”

The Potter estate was a sprawling manor, a mixture of old stonework and sprawling gardens, punctuated by the soft rustle of leaves from the centuries-old trees lining the walk up. Inside, the great hall smelled faintly of polished wood and fresh parchment. It was a Wednesday morning, and the family was gathered over breakfast when the subject of Lord Harrison Peverell came up again.

Lord Henry Potter, an imposing figure, radiated a calm alpha energy. Tall, with messy hair that was tamed but still failed to be combed back, he exuded authority without being overbearing. Across from him sat Clarissa, his wife and an omega of subtle strength, her serene presence balancing his intensity. Her soft lilac robe contrasted with Henry’s dark green morning coat. At her side, their son Fleamont, tall and awkwardly lanky at eighteen, slouched in his chair, his long legs tangled beneath the table. A beta, he bore the tension of being caught between his parents’ extremes, often rolling his eyes at overly dramatic Alpha-Omega dynamics yet never unkindly.

Nearby, Henry’s cousin Heather, a composed beta with sharp hazel eyes, sipped tea while cradling her infant son, Charlus, who gurgled happily in her lap. Her husband, Tobias, another beta, read over a letter from a Ministry official, frowning slightly at the news contained within.

The breakfast was interrupted by the arrival of the Daily Prophet, laid neatly on the polished oak table. Its pages bore the headline: “The Omega Lord’s Dress Size” The drawing beside it showed Harrison.

Henry’s brow furrowed. “Again? The Prophet?” He muttered, running a hand over his face. “Fleamont, come look at this. It concerns one of our own, and it’s being misrepresented already.”

His son groaned, plopping his hands over the table. “Do I really need to? He’s not even—ugh, I mean, why are we fussing over some omega’s measurements? Honestly, why does the press care so much?”

Clarissa placed a hand on his arm. “Because Harrison is part of our family, dear. He’s young, he’s alone, and he is… remarkable because of that. That’s why Henry wants to ensure we’re supporting him.”

Heather adjusted her Charlus in her lap. “And besides, it’s not just about the measurements. He’s a lord at eighteen. Most young men that age are still under the guardianship of their families. Harrison has no close relatives around, not really. If we can help him, it would be a kindness—and a duty.”

Tobias looked up from the letter. “So, what’s the plan then? How do we integrate him?”

The Lord took a deep breath, leaning back in his chair. “We invite him into the family, of course. Formally, but carefully. He needs to know that he has people to rely on—people who care, who will protect him, and guide him in ways no one else can right now. We need to ensure that he feels accepted, not just obligated to anyone because of titles or contracts.”

Fleamont crossed his arms, leaning back, a faint scowl on his face. “So, basically, he gets babysat by us Potters?”

Clarissa smiled, her eyes softening at him. “Not babysat, Fleamont. He’s nearly your age. But yes, he’s still young and… he’s been through a lot. We will be there to help him navigate, to give him family where he hasn’t had one before.”

He rolled his eyes again but there was no malice in it. “Fine. I get it. But… I suppose I’ll have to make sure he doesn’t get pushed around. That part I’ll do.”

Henry chuckled, reaching over to ruffle Fleamont’s dark hair. “That’s my boy. Protective, even if begrudgingly. Good. You’ll see him soon. Clarissa and I think it’s time we meet Harrison properly—make him feel welcome before any of the press nonsense gets to him.”

Heather smiled down at Charlus, who waved his tiny hands excitedly. “We’ll make sure he’s surrounded by people he can trust. He won’t have to worry about being alone ever again. That’s what family does.”

Tobias folded the letter and set it aside. “So, when do we invite him? Do we have a formal dinner in mind, or…?”

Henry stood, eyes sharp but warm. “Not yet. However, we'll host him here, formally, and make sure the household is ready. Fleamont, I expect you to behave.”

“Yes, yes, I’ll try… but I still say omegas are annoyingly fragile. I’d take being a beta over this any day.”

Clarissa laughed softly, a quiet musical sound. “You may, my son, but you still never call me fragile.”

Heather adjusted Charlus on her hip as the toddler babbled happily, tugging at a lock of her hair. The little boy’s laughter filled the drawing room, echoing off the high ceiling and mingling with the soft crackle of the fire. 

“Why don’t we invite him to Charlus’s third birthday?” She suggested suddenly, her voice bright but thoughtful. “It’s in a week, so it’s short notice, but it won’t be a private setting. He might not feel too nervous if there’s a crowd. Plenty of people to talk to, and plenty of distraction. Then, while he’s comfortable, we could invite him to a more private gathering later on.”

Clarissa lit up immediately, setting her teacup down with a soft clink. “That’s a splendid idea. A child’s party feels far less formal than a family dinner or a Ministry event. It will give him a chance to observe, to feel out the family dynamic without any pressure.”

Henry tilted his head, his tone mild but cautious. “We could… but it will be a rather large crowd, won’t it? Heather, if I recall, you went rather overboard with the invitations last year. Half the Wizengamot was in attendance, and three of the Malfoys’ peacocks ended up in the rose garden.”

She flushed a little, laughing under her breath. “Yes, well, in my defense, the Malfoys sent the peacocks. I didn’t ask for them to strut about the cake table.”

Fleamont smirked into his teacup. “Oh, I remember that. One of them chased me for ten minutes. I still say they smell like burnt potion ingredients.”

“Because you tried to hex them!” Heather retorted playfully.

Henry chuckled, shaking his head before looking thoughtful again. “Still… Harrison Peverell is probably not accustomed to large social affairs, that much I can guess. If the Prophet can print his measurements, it means he’s been hounded by the public already. Perhaps we should keep that in mind.”

Clarissa tapped a manicured finger against her cup. “Then we ensure it’s controlled. Fewer reporters this year, no social climbers. A protective environment, of sorts.”

Heather nodded eagerly, gently bouncing Charlus, who was now making happy squealing noises at the sound of his name. “Okay. We’ll say it’s an intimate celebration this year — just those closest to the family. I’ll send out discreet notices to the guests we do want there.”

Tobias glanced up from his chair. “And how many would that be, love?”

She hesitated, counting silently on her fingers. “Oh… not many. Only about… thirty? Forty at most.”

“Forty is not intimate,” he said dryly.

Henry sighed, half amused, half resigned. “If that’s your version of small, Heather, then I dread to see what you’d call a crowd. But very well. It’s done now. He’ll be invited.”

Clarissa smiled softly. “We’ll ensure Harrison feels included but not cornered. Fleamont, you’ll help make him comfortable, yes? You’re around his age.”

He groaned audibly. “So I have to talk to the poor omega while everyone else gets to eat cake?”

Heather smirked. “You can talk and eat cake, darling.”

Henry gave him a pointed look. “Be polite, son. Remember, the boy has no family around him. It costs nothing to be kind.”

Fleamont leaned back, looking reluctant but not unwilling. “Fine, fine. I’ll be nice. Just don’t expect me to coo at him like everyone else.”

Clarissa laughed softly. “I don’t think anyone expects that, dear. Just… don’t scowl.”

“Noted.”

"Then it’s settled." Lord Potter said. "We’ll invite Lord Peverell to the birthday celebration — a neutral ground, warm and public enough that he won’t feel trapped, but friendly enough to remind him that he’s family. Afterward, we’ll arrange a more private dinner so we can talk properly.”

Heather looked pleased, brushing a kiss to the top of Charlus’s head. “Perfect. He’ll be surrounded by laughter, music, good food, and people who mean well. I think that’s exactly what he needs.”

“And perhaps seeing little Charlus will remind him that life doesn’t have to be all duty and formality. That there’s joy, too.”

Fleamont snorted softly but hid a smile behind his teacup. “Joy and peacocks, apparently.”

Heather swatted lightly at him. “There will be no peacocks this year, I promise.”

Theseus arrived in Isla’s office in the Ministry rather abruptly, the door flying open without so much as a knock. His expression was tight, his coat half-buttoned, and a copy of that morning’s Daily Prophet clutched in his hand like a weapon.

Isla looked up from her desk, her face grim but composed. She didn’t even need to glance at the headline to know what he was here about.

“You’ve seen the papers?” she asked dryly.

“I have,” Theseus said shortly, striding forward. “My family has too.”

“Oh dear,” Isla muttered, rubbing her temple. “That poor boy can’t catch a break.”

“These weren’t even rumours this time,” Theseus went on, slamming the newspaper down on her desk. “They printed his measurements, Isla. His body. His size. That’s beyond indecent, it’s exploitation! How did they even get that information? And—Merlin help me—my mother was reading it aloud over breakfast.”

“Poor Marigold,” Isla murmured distractedly, though her tone made it clear she wasn’t sympathising with Marigold at all. “Poor Harry, more like. What a violation.”

Theseus exhaled sharply and began pacing the room. “Do we speak to him about it? We should at least let him know we’re handling the press. Or reassure him that my family doesn’t believe any of the insinuations.”

Isla sighed, leaning back in her chair. “He’s indisposed, Theseus.”

The pacing stopped. “Indisposed? The tracker says he’s here in the Ministry. Why would he be indisposed? He’s not ill, is he? Did something happen? Merlin, if a reporter tried to get into the—”

“Omega things,” Isla interrupted firmly, with a tone that suggested he might want to stop talking before he embarrassed himself.

Theseus blinked. “Omega things?” He looked utterly lost. “What are omega things?”

Isla stared at him in disbelief, mouth twitching as she tried very hard not to laugh or strangle him. “A heat, Theseus. His first.”

There was a beat of silence before the words sank in, and Theseus’ entire face went scarlet. “Oh. Oh, Merlin’s beard.”

“Yes,” Isla said, exasperated but faintly amused. “Merlin’s beard indeed. Poor lad’s been caught right in the middle of it. He’s never had one before. You can imagine how confusing that must be.”

Theseus made a strangled sound in his throat, halfway between horror and sympathy. “He’s- he’s alone?”

“Yes,” Isla said, raising a hand to reassure him. “He’s in his private quarters, heavily warded, and the elves are tending to him. I’ve made sure he has everything an omega in heat might need. And no, before you ask, you are not to go near him.”

“I wasn’t—!” Theseus stopped mid-protest when Isla gave him a knowing look. “All right, fine, I was going to check on him, but only to make sure he’s all right!”

“I know your protective streak, Theseus Scamander,” Isla said pointedly. “But this is one of those times when you must not interfere. The worst thing for an omega in their first heat is to have an unfamiliar alpha nearby. Even a friendly one. Especially a friendly one.”

He rubbed at the back of his neck, ears still burning red. “Right. Of course. I— heavens, I didn’t think... poor man.” He frowned. “How long will it last?”

“Usually a day or two,” Isla replied, her tone softening. “Three, at most, if it’s a strong one. His scent’s already practically flooding the corridor outside his rooms, so I’d say his body’s making up for lost time. It’ll burn itself out soon enough.”

Theseus groaned quietly and ran a hand over his face. “And the papers had to come out today.”

“Yes,” Isla said bitterly, “of course they did. Because fate’s a sadist.”

He let out a short, humourless laugh. “And my mother’s likely already plotting a diet plan for him, calling him ‘darling little thing’ between paragraphs.”

“Then perhaps you’d better keep her distracted,” Isla suggested, tone wry. “Buy her a new herbology book, or tell her the Prophet misprinted his waist size by twelve inches.”

That earned a small, reluctant smile from Theseus. “You’re just as terrible as ever."

“I’m practical,” Isla said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to file a complaint with the Prophet’s ethics department, handle two furious owls from the press office, and make sure no overexcited intern decides to ‘check in’ on Lord Peverell.”

Theseus paused at the door, still frowning. “He’ll be all right, though? Truly?”

“Yes,” Isla said softly. “He’s safe, Theseus. Confused, uncomfortable, probably mortified—but safe. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned about that boy, it’s that he can survive anything.”

He nodded slowly, letting out a long breath. “Right. I’ll hold off on the visit, then. But the moment he’s recovered, I’m having words with whoever thought it was acceptable to publish that article.”

“Oh, I’ll bring the pitchforks myself,” Isla muttered, already reaching for her quill.

As he left, the door shut with a soft click behind him, and Isla allowed herself a quiet sigh. “Poor child,” she murmured to the empty office. “What a mess to come of age into.”

The letter shimmered into existence atop Isla’s desk just after midday, the Ministry approved stamp glowing faintly before fading into plain parchment. She didn’t even flinch anymore when these things appeared unannounced — working over Lord Peverell meant paperwork arrived by charm, courier, owl, and even once Dumbledore's phoenix.

She tapped the envelope with her wand; the protective seal shimmered. Then, as his registered caretaker during his recovery period, the lock released with a soft click. The letter unfolded itself on her desk.

Her eyebrows rose as she read.

Dearest Lord Peverell,

We, the Potter family, would be most delighted if you would join us in celebrating the third birthday of our young Charlus Potter on the 24th of August at Potter Manor, Godric’s Hollow. The event will be a casual affair — friends, family, and colleagues are warmly invited. It would bring us great joy to have you among us, as you are family by blood and name.

Please consider this a public invitation, though a more private welcome will always await you, should you wish for it.

With our regards and affection,

Most Nobel House of Potter

Isla leaned back, a smile tugging faintly at her mouth. “Ah,” she murmured, “so they have reached out.”

She was glad, truly. The boy needed roots, people who could remind him what family felt like. Henry Potter, if she recalled correctly, was a decent man — an Alpha, yes, but kind, restrained, one of the few she trusted to speak to an Omega without condescension. His wife, Clarissa, had always been gracious, if a bit dreamy. Their son, Fleamont... well, perhaps Harry would find him amusing.

Her eyes flicked to the date. A week. A week?

She gave a soft snort. “Short notice."

Her gaze drifted to the small status orb hovering by her desk — the one linked to the wards of Harry’s quarters. Its colour was a deep amber, pulsating slowly. Still in heat, then. Fourteen hours now, by her count. If he followed an average Omega’s rhythm — and that was a big if given his lack of prior cycles — that meant another two, maybe three days.

She sighed, setting the letter down and drumming her nails against the wood. “Should I write back for him?” she mused aloud. “Or… just accept on his behalf and make him go?”

It wasn’t as cruel a thought as it sounded. Harry would want to go, she knew it in her bones. He’d been alone for so long that even the idea of family made his eyes light up, that soft, guarded hope hiding behind his wry smiles. A birthday for a toddler would be safe, public enough that no one could corner him, and, thank Merlin, half the Black family would be there.

“Sirius will be there,” she muttered, glancing toward the portrait of her late mother that hung above the door. “He won’t let anything happen to the boy.”

Her quill floated from its stand, hovering over a clean sheet of parchment. Isla stared at it for a long moment, lips pursed.

“Do I write as myself?” she murmured. 

It was one of those delicate lines she’d learned to tread with Harry — autonomy versus protection. But she knew this much: the moment his fever broke, the first thing he’d ask was if he’d missed anything important. He’d hate to find out later that he’d ignored an olive branch from his own blood.

She reached for her inkpot and dipped the quill. “All right then, Harry,” she said quietly. “I’ll accept the invitation for you. You’ll curse me for it later, but you’ll thank me one day.”

As the quill began to move — neat, professional, and perfectly polite — Isla added a note to herself in the corner of her planner:

Prepare: hydration potions, cooling charms, scent suppressant, neutral-toned suit. Remind Sirius to bring tissues (and whiskey).

She chuckled softly to herself, the image of Sirius fussing over Harry already too easy to imagine.

“Merlin help me,” she muttered with affection, folding the letter for owl delivery. “Between the Blacks, the Potters, and the Scamanders, he’ll never have a quiet moment again.”

Lord and Lady Potter,

On behalf of Lord Harrison Corvinus Peverell, I wish to extend sincere gratitude for your thoughtful invitation to Mister Charlus Potter’s third birthday celebration.

Lord Peverell is honoured by your kind consideration and would be delighted to attend the event, health and schedule permitting. As his appointed Ministry liaison and caretaker during his current period of recuperation, I am writing to confirm his attendance in principle. Should any unforeseen circumstance prevent his participation, I will inform you directly and promptly.

It brings him great comfort to know that family connections remain open and welcoming. Please extend his warmest congratulations to young Master Charlus on this joyous occasion.

With respect and gratitude,
Isla Hitchens (née Black)

Ministry Liaison to the House of Peverell
On behalf of Lord Harrison James Peverell

The letter arrived neatly sealed with the Ministry crest. Henry picked it up first, brow furrowing as he read the elegant handwriting.

“Ah,” he muttered, a slow smile spreading across his face. “It seems Lord Peverell will be attending Charlus’s birthday.”

Clarissa leaned over his shoulder, scanning the words. Her instincts flared briefly at the careful phrasing — formal, respectful, but warm. She couldn’t help but soften. “Is that… Isla Hitchens writing for him?” she asked.

He nodded. “Yes, she’s his Ministry liaison. Smart woman. That explains the thoroughness and tact.”

Fleamont, lounging with an exaggerated sigh in the corner, snorted. “Recuperation, huh? Sounds like someone’s avoiding us for something more than just a family gathering.” He smirked, giving his parents a knowing look. “Don’t tell me our future little lord is shy, of all things.”

Clarissa chuckled, shaking her head. “Fleamont, he’s barely had a chance to settle into wizarding society. I’d say showing him some patience is in order.”

Heather peeked over. “Well, at least it’s a public setting. He won’t feel cornered."

The Lord tapped the letter thoughtfully. “I’m just glad someone’s taking care of him properly. It reassures me that he’ll be comfortable. The eldest Black daughter is competent and protective — exactly what he needs.”

Fleamont rolled his eyes dramatically. “You sound like you’re gushing, Father. But fine, yes, it’s good news. Now we just need to make sure the boy survives our family without running screaming.”

His mother smiled warmly, kissing Henry’s cheek. “He’ll be fine. And perhaps he’ll even enjoy it.”

“And who knows, he might charm everyone there before the day’s over. Just imagine him meeting all of us, seeing his extended family for the first time…” She trailed off with a fond smile.

“I wonder if he likes Quidditch…” Fleamont mused aloud, spinning a butterbeer bottle in his hands.

“That’s all you ever think about. Quidditch, Quidditch, Quidditch,” Clarissa snapped, though her tone carried more exasperation than anger. “Especially now that you’ve finished school! Are you ever going to get a proper job? You don’t even have an apprenticeship!”

Fleamont pouted, tilting his head. “Can’t I work in Father’s potion apothecary? It’d be fun, I could mix things up, see what happens!”

Henry raised an eyebrow, the lines around his eyes softening slightly despite the sternness in his voice. “I’ve told you, not until you’ve learned how to even make the potions properly. It’s not playtime, Fleamont. Potions are serious business. You can’t just throw ingredients in a cauldron and hope for the best.”

He groaned dramatically, running a hand through his messy, dark hair. “But I’ve asked! I can be your apprentice!”

His father shook his head firmly. “Apprentices usually cannot be family. You’ll only make mistakes out of… well, familial laziness if you try.”

“I’ve never heard that before!” Fleamont protested. “Why? Why can’t I be your apprentice and then do the final tests with someone else? That way it counts, doesn’t it?”

Clarissa folded her arms, giving him a long, unimpressed stare. “Because apprenticeships are meant to teach humility and respect, Fleamont, not entitlement. You think being family gives you a shortcut, but it doesn’t. You’ll have to prove yourself like everyone else. And until then…” She tapped a finger against her temple, emphasizing her point. “…you’ll need to stop daydreaming about Quidditch and start thinking about skills that matter.”

Fleamont huffed, leaning back in his chair. “Skills that matter… like what? What if I’m really good at Quidditch? That doesn’t count?”

“It counts,” Henry said gently, “but it won’t sustain you in life. You can be a great Quidditch player, but there’s more to being a wizard than flying fast and catching snitches.”

“I bet Lord Peverell doesn’t have a job,” Fleamont pouted, crossing his arms over his chest. His green eyes glinted with mischief and just a little envy.

Henry chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “Perhaps not in the way you think of a job. But he carries responsibilities that would make most men twice his age tremble. Being a lord isn’t just a title, Fleamont. It comes with obligations, duties, and the weight of people relying on you.”

Fleamont groaned, sinking further into the chair, though he didn’t look entirely convinced. “But if he’s just an omega, he probably doesn’t even need to worry about running the estate himself. He can just… um… sit there and let others do things.”

“Being an omega doesn’t mean that,” Heather said firmly. “And he is the Lord of the house. He will probably be handling the majority or all of the estate on his own soon.”

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, frowning. “But… an omega? Isn’t it supposed to be, you know, easier for an alpha?”

Henry shook his head, leaning forward slightly. “Not at all, Fleamont. Omegas make great leaders. They’re protective of their pack, compassionate by nature, and often more intuitive than others. They notice things alphas might miss because they approach problems differently — with care, foresight, and empathy. That is a kind of power in itself.”

“I guess… I never really thought about it like that. I just always assumed alphas do the leading and omegas… follow.”

“Oh dear, Fleamont…” Clarissa said gently, reaching over to tap his arm. “In most societies, omegas would be considered better leaders in terms of running households, communities, or even kingdoms in peacetime. The ability to see the needs of the people around them. That’s invaluable.”

Henry leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “However… in situations like wars or high-risk expeditions, alphas might be better suited for leadership because their instincts push them toward protection, aggression when necessary, and taking decisive action in moments of danger. Both alphas and omegas have their strengths. One is not strictly better than the other — just different.”

Fleamont frowned, crossing his arms. “So… what about betas? Are we just… the soldiers? The little losers that follow everyone about?” His voice had a touch of frustration, and Charlus, sitting on Heather’s lap, wriggled at the sound of his tone.

“Not at all. Betas are the ones who keep everything running smoothly. They are stabilizers, organizers, advisors. They often see things neutrally, without the weight of the alpha instinct to act or the omega instinct to nurture. Betas can step in where alphas or omegas might be blinded by emotion or pride. In many ways, betas are the unsung backbone of society.”

"A beta’s perspective is essential. You’re not a follower because you’re a beta."

Fleamont looked between them, his lips twitching in the beginnings of a smile. “So, being a beta isn’t terrible. It’s… strategic?”

“Yes, exactly,” his mother said, smiling warmly. “Strategic, patient, and crucial. And it will serve you well."

Theseus stepped into the warm, fragrant chaos of the Scamander household just as dinner was being set, his cloak slightly damp from the cool evening air. The unmistakable smell of hay and feathers lingered in the hallway, proof that his mother had been tending to the hippogriffs for most of the afternoon. Marigold’s usual composed presence was there, but it was softened by the faint sheen of sweat on her forehead and the subtle stains of feed on her apron. She glanced at Theseus with a proud, motherly smile, clearly satisfied with her care for the majestic creatures.

Newt sat at the edge of the long dining table, arms crossed, shoulders stiff, clearly in a strop. His head was lowered, glancing occasionally at the parchment he had left beside his plate. “I sent him a letter this morning,” he muttered, mostly to himself, “and I haven’t heard anything yet. It’s been less than a day, but—”

“Newt,” Marigold said gently, trying to coax him out of his self-imposed gloom, “it’s too soon to worry. He may not have had the chance to respond. Or perhaps he’s resting, he’s—”

Newt threw his hands up, cutting her off. “I know, Mother! I just… I want to know he’s alright. That he got it. That—” His words faltered, and he stared down at the table, cheeks faintly flushed.

Thaddeus, as usual, remained calm and silent, his hands folded neatly in front of him, eyes observing his sons and wife without any outward expression. His quiet presence was a contrast to the tension Newt exuded, and both sons were well aware of the weight his glance carried.

Theseus, loosening his tie as he moved toward the kitchen sideboard, motioned to a nearby house elf. “Fetch me some wine,” he said with a relaxed authority, which the elf immediately obeyed. The clink of glass on wood was comforting in the tense atmosphere.

Thaddeus raised an eyebrow at Theseus as he uncorked the bottle and poured himself a small glass. “So… what is it, Theseus? Why the sudden interest in wine?”

Theseus held the glass carefully between his fingers. “The Daily Profit,” he began, his voice calm but with an undercurrent of irritation, “reports that someone anonymously gave Lord Peverell’s personal information. They protect their sources, of course, but we’ve tracked down the people who wrote that column and they’re in questioning.”

Newt’s head snapped up, green eyes narrowing. “Have you spoken to Harry?” he asked quickly, voice edged with worry, leaning forward slightly.

Theseus’s face heated, the tips of his ears flushing pink. “No,” he admitted, fidgeting with the edge of his sleeve. “He’s… busy with omega things, Newt. He went into heat last night.”

The room fell silent for a beat. Marigold, clearly processing the statement, tilted her head, her eyes softening with realization. “Oh... that’s probably why he wanted a cuddle, Newton,” she said gently. “And then… he fell asleep on you yesterday.”

Newt blinked rapidly, a mix of shock, embarrassment, and fluster running across his features. “Oh… oh,” he repeated, voice barely above a whisper, cheeks warming at the memory. His mind immediately raced through the implications — the scent, the warmth, the feel of Harry curled against him, the way he had gotten on his lap. And now, knowing the reason behind it… his chest thudded a little faster, a mix of pride and nervous excitement threading through his nerves.

Thaddeus, observing his sons’ reactions, let out a small chuckle, shaking his head just slightly. “Seems you two are… more involved than I thought,” he murmured, voice calm but tinged with amusement.

Theseus cleared his throat, trying to regain composure, but his blush betrayed him entirely. “It wasn’t like that... well, it was comforting, yes, but…” he trailed off, realizing there were no words that could describe the situation without sounding awkwardly scandalous.

Marigold, in the meantime, gave Newt a soft but knowing look. “You do understand, Newton, that omegas in heat are not always subtle about… feelings. It’s a natural thing. But I must say… seeing you care for him like that is rather sweet.”

His gaze flicked down at the table, hands curling around the edge, tense yet gentle. “I just… I wanted him to feel safe. That’s all,” he mumbled, voice low but earnest, not meeting anyone’s eyes.

Thaddeus gave a small nod, sipping his tea slowly. “Protective instincts… that’s normal,” he said. “Especially for an alpha with an omega in their care.”

Newt exhaled softly, shoulders relaxing fractionally. “I just… I hope he’s okay. I want to hear from him soon.”

Theseus leaned back, his glass of wine finally placed in hand, and nodded thoughtfully. “Give him time, Newt. He’ll reach out when he can. These things… they take a bit of patience. And I imagine he feels the same way about you as you do about him.”

His mouth quirked, a small, shy smile tugging at his lips. “I hope so,” he said softly, almost to himself.

Marigold, satisfied with the calm that had settled, moved back to check on the hippogriffs with a final glance at her sons. “Well… I suppose dinner can wait a moment longer. You all need to breathe and settle before you eat anyway.”

It was two days later, and the residual tension of Harry’s first heat had finally begun to ebb. His body, exhausted and still slightly sore, was slowly returning to a semblance of normal. Isla sent a house elf to check on him in the Ministry — a simple precaution, knowing how disoriented he could be after such an intense experience. The elf returned shortly after, looking perplexed.

Harry was gone.

Isla frowned, heart thudding in her chest. “Missing?” she muttered. She immediately checked the tracker he always wore. The bracelet, which usually pulsed a soft warmth when he was nearby, was showing nothing. No signal. It was as if he had vanished entirely. Isla’s mind raced — the only way he could be completely off-grid like this was if he had moved into a heavily warded, magically secure area. Somewhere where even the Ministry’s detection spells couldn’t reach.

Without a second’s hesitation, she grabbed a floo powder pouch and slammed it into the hearth calling an address and password. In a swirl of green sparks and flames, Hesper Black’s face appeared, framed by the familiar tiles of Sirius Black II’s home. Her expression, halfway between surprise and concern, immediately set Isla on edge.

“Hesper,” Isla said, her voice taut with worry, “have you seen Harry?”

Hesper blinked. “Woah, Isla, calm down. Not even a hello first?”

“No time for hellos, Hesper!” Isla snapped, her hands gripping the edge of the fireplace. “He’s missing. I can’t locate him. He’s not in the Ministry. The tracker isn’t picking him up anywhere.”

Hesper’s eyes softened, a knowing look passing over her face. “Isla… he’s not missing.”

“Not missing? Then where is he? Tell me now!” Isla pressed, her voice rising.

She took a deep breath, as if steeling herself for the revelation. “He… he’s having a bath here.”

“A bath? But… why here? Why not in his rooms at the Ministry?”

Hesper’s expression shifted, a slight exasperated smile tugging at her lips. “He came over, half-dressed, distraught after his heat ended just a little while ago. He… didn’t want to be alone, so Sirius suggested… well, that he take a bath here. Sirius is here too, keeping him company.”

Isla’s eyebrows shot up in alarm. “Wait… what? With Sirius?”

“Yes,” the alpha said, raising her hands defensively. “He’s with Harry in the bath. Calm down, Isla. Nothing inappropriate. Sirius is taking care of him. They’re both omegas, so this is… comforting for him. He’s safe.”

Isla’s heart beat faster, a mixture of relief and disbelief coursing through her. “A bath… together? Are they… alright? Physically? Emotionally?”

“Yes, Isla. Harry was really distressed, and Sirius has been through his own experiences. They’re both taking care of each other. It’s… tender. A little strange for you to imagine, I’m sure, but it’s the safest way for Harry right now. He trusts Sirius, and that’s what matters.”

Isla let out a long breath, her shoulders relaxing slightly, though the sense of urgency lingered. “I suppose… I can understand. But I should come over, right? Make sure they’re okay?”

Hesper shook her head, though her lips twitched in amusement. “Not yet. Let them have a little privacy. Harry’s… overwhelmed. Just keep an eye from a distance if you must, but let them have these moments. He needs a fellow omega now more than anything.”

Isla’s jaw clenched as she processed it all. “You’re sure he’s safe?” She asked.

“Absolutely,” she said, smiling knowingly. “He trusts Sirius completely. I don't know why since they just met but the trust is all that matters. They need to feel secure.”

Isla nodded slowly, her mind racing with all the ways she could ensure his safety without intruding too much. “Alright,” she murmured. “Thank you, Hesper. For keeping an eye on him.”

“Of course,” Hesper said gently. “He’s sort of family now. You know how that goes.”

Chapter Text

A little while ago...

Sirius felt the wards flare as someone crossed the threshold. He rushed to the fireplace, his eyes widening at the sight of Harry stumbling forward, half-dressed, sweat beading along his forehead, tears clinging to his lashes. The faint sweetness of Harry’s scent hung thick in the air. Sirius’s chest tightened—every instinct, every ounce of his omega empathy screamed.

“Come, sweetheart,” Sirius murmured, his voice low, coaxing, careful not to startle. He stepped closer, letting Harry lean slightly against him for support. “Let’s get you cleaned up. Time for some omega time, yeah?”

Harry blinked, voice barely a whisper. “S-Sirius…” His shoulders shook, and he pressed a hand to his face, trying to hide how raw and exposed he felt.

“You don’t have to say anything, love,” Sirius soothed, sliding a comforting arm around Harry’s waist. “Just let me help. Let me take care of you.”

Harry leaned against him, trembling. His knees buckled slightly, and Sirius’s toned arms caught him effortlessly.

“I— I don’t even know what to do,” he admitted, voice catching.

“That’s alright,” Sirius said softly, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of Harry’s head. “You don’t have to do anything. We’ll take it slow.” He guided Harry toward the bathroom, careful and steady, letting him cling as needed.

On the way to the bathroom, they passed Hesper, who froze mid-step, mouth opening in the faintest 'o' shape. Her eyes softened immediately; she could tell from the faint shimmer of pheromones lingering in the air and Harry’s slightly flushed, messy appearance that his heat had just ended.

“Look after him, love,” she said gently, her voice low and knowing. “I’ll make sure you aren’t disturbed, and I’ll get him a fresh set of clothes while you do. Make it comfortable for him.”

“Thank you, Hesper,” Sirius replied, squeezing her hand briefly before she disappeared down the hall. “He’ll be alright. I’ve got him.”

Harry clung lightly to Sirius’s arm as they entered the master bedroom’s en suite. The bathroom was enormous, marble-tiled, with a bath that could easily fit two adults. Sirius flicked his wand, and the taps opened, water filling the tub slowly, magically adjusting temperature to a comfortably warm level. The faint hiss of steam filled the space, curling through the air.

Harry looked glum, eyebrows furrowing. “Bath?” he asked softly, as though the idea itself was a punishment.

“Yes, bath,” Sirius replied, glancing at him with a reassuring smile. “We need to soothe your muscles. It’ll feel good, I promise.” He opened a cupboard and peered inside, scanning for bath products. “I’m guessing you’d rather have no added scents in the water—you’re bound to be sensitive right now. No, don’t argue with me about that. It’s natural.”

Harry looked uncertain but didn’t respond, letting his body sag slightly against Sirius’s arm.

“Do you want bubble bath?” Sirius asked, reaching for a bottle with a soft, lavender-colored label.

Green eyes immediately lit up, the corners crinkling with a shy sort of excitement. “Yes! I… I loved bubble bath the one time I had it,” he admitted, a little flustered. “It… it was fun.”

Sirius laughed softly, shaking his head. “I love bubble bath too. You know, we could go crazy—pink bubbles, blue, green…”

“White bubbles,” he interrupted quickly, almost shyly, his cheeks tinged with pink. “Just white bubbles.”

“White it is,” Sirius said, smiling down at him. “Perfect. Simple, soothing, no fuss.” He shook the bottle lightly over the water, and a froth of pure, snowy-white bubbles began forming, spilling over the edges slightly, the steam rising with a gentle warmth.

Harry’s gaze followed the bubbles in fascination, a small smile tugging at his lips despite his exhaustion. “It… looks nice,” he murmured, tentatively stepping closer to the tub.

“Yes,” Sirius said softly, his voice warm and encouraging, “but you’ll need to get undressed first. I can leave you be, give you privacy…” He paused, watching Harry’s expression carefully. “…but I’d rather not. Not if you don’t want me to.”

Harry’s hand reached out almost instinctively, brushing against Sirius’s wrist. “Please… stay,” he whispered, voice a little hoarse. “We can… we can take it together.”

He blinked, the gentle flush rising to his cheeks. “Together?”

Harry nodded quickly, curling his fingers lightly around Sirius’s wrist. “I had two friends… they had this thing called ‘omega time.’ They… they asked me to join a few times, but I was embarrassed because… I was the only male one…” He trailed off, ears pink, glancing down at the white bubbles clinging to the surface of the water.

“Oh, Harry…” Sirius murmured, a soft laugh escaping him. “I’d love to. I had friends who did the same thing too. They… they made me do it a few times, when I was feeling like my heat or my stress would just overwhelm me. It’s… it’s really nice. And there’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

Harry looked up at him, uncertainty still lingering in his large eyes. “Really?”

“Really,” Sirius assured him, reaching out to gently brush damp hair from Harry’s forehead. “It’s about being cared for, safe… and comforted. That’s all. Nothing else has to happen, unless you want it to.”

His lips trembled into a small, grateful smile. “Okay… I trust you.”

Sirius’s smile softened further, full of warmth. “Then we’ll do this together. You first, slowly, and I’ll follow your lead. Nothing more than comfort, nothing more than soothing.”

He turned away briefly, giving Harry privacy as he reached to turn off the bath taps. The steaming water had risen almost to the rim, white bubbles piled thick and soft over the surface.

Behind him, he heard the faint rustle of clothing. Harry’s movements were slow, hesitant, almost shy — the small sounds of fabric sliding down his legs, the soft intake of breath as cool air touched bare skin. Sirius didn’t look, though a part of him wanted to offer some reassurance. He knew how difficult it was to feel exposed.

When Harry finally stepped into the water, it was with a shaky exhale. The warmth enveloped him instantly, drawing out a soft whimper before he could stop it. His shoulders hunched, his face half-buried in steam, eyes fluttering shut as tension bled from him.

“Oh…” he breathed, voice cracking just slightly. “It feels… so good.”

Sirius turned back then, and his heart twisted. Harry was half-submerged, the bubbles lapping at his collarbones, skin too pale against the water, faint scars tracing maps of pain and history over narrow shoulders and ribs that pressed too sharply beneath the surface.

Sirius swallowed the ache that rose in his throat. Protective instinct — fierce, deep, almost parental — flared hot in his chest. He didn’t say anything, though; he knew Harry didn’t need pity. What Harry needed was normalcy, safety, gentleness.

“Well,” Sirius said lightly, tugging his shirt over his head, “I knew this huge tub would come in handy one day.”

Harry peeked up at him through the drifting steam, eyes soft but curious. “You really bought the biggest one you could find?”

Sirius laughed, stepping out of his trousers and into the water. The bubbles rippled as he lowered himself beside Harry, settling opposite so they weren’t crowded. “Hesper nearly hexed me for it. Said I was being ridiculous, but look at us now — clearly it was destiny.”

Harry giggled quietly, the sound small but real. “It surely isn’t bigger than the prefect baths at Hogwarts.”

The older omega blinked, mid-splash, and turned to him with a mock-suspicious squint. “And how would you know that?”

He froze for a fraction of a second, eyes darting toward the bubbles. “Oh, uh… someone told me,” he stammered, “how ridiculously large they are.”

Sirius tilted his head, watching him for a moment. There was something curious in the boy’s tone — a slip of something unsaid — but the warmth and the soft scent of calm that filled the room made him let it go.

“Well,” Sirius said, smirking as he flicked a handful of bubbles toward Harry, “whoever told you clearly has good taste. Hogwarts baths are brilliant.”

Harry smiled, shoulders relaxing again, as if the simple banter washed away whatever nervousness lingered. “You’ve been in them, then?”

“Oh, I’ve spent more time in those baths than in the library,” Sirius said proudly, earning a small laugh. “My friend always said I was born to lounge in bubbles, not books.”

Harry laughed properly — a warm, tired, honest laugh that made Sirius’s heart ache with affection. The tension in the air dissolved completely, leaving just the sound of gentle water and two omegas sharing the same quiet peace, decades apart and yet finally, finally safe.

Harry washed his own lower half with careful, slow movements, feeling slightly awkward but determined. Then, almost instinctively, he reached for Sirius’s arms, intending to mirror the care he’d received.

Sirius chuckled warmly at the gesture, gently catching Harry’s wrists before he could start scrubbing. “Ah, you don’t need to wash me like that,” he said, tugging Harry into a snug, protective hug. The heat of their bodies mingled with the steam around them, and Harry could feel the steady rhythm of Sirius’s breathing. “Just relax. That’s enough for now. Let me take care of you, yeah?”

Harry nuzzled closer, inhaling the familiar mix of warmth and faint scent that made him feel anchored. “I like the odd cushioning charm, by the way,” he murmured, tilting his head to look up at Sirius.

“On the bathtub? Is it really odd that it’s not so hard? Why would I want a hard bathtub? How would I ever relax like that?”

He let out a small giggle, eyes fluttering closed as he rested his cheek against Sirius’s chest. “I suppose it’s… nice. It feels safe."

“That’s the point,” Sirius murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of Harry’s head. “Safe, soft, warm… everything you need right now.”

Steam swirled thickly around the bathtub, curling like lazy tendrils into the warm bathroom air, when there came a hesitant knock on the door.

Sirius’s hand froze slightly in Harry’s damp hair. “Harry… can Hesper come in? She said she’d bring clothes and things.”

Harry hummed softly against Sirius’s shoulder. “Mhm. Bubbles cover us anyway,” he murmured, voice muffled but calm.

“Alright, Hesper, you can come in!” Sirius called, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of Harry’s head as he stroked his wet curls in slow, soothing circles. “Just… come carefully, okay?”

The door creaked open, and Hesper stepped inside, her gaze immediately softening. Her eyes went wide as they settled on the tableau before her: Harry head tilted against Sirius’s shoulder, breathing shallow but calm, and Sirius holding him with that protective, almost feral gentleness. She couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped her. “Oh… now that is adorable,” she whispered, almost to herself.

Harry shifted slightly, tilting his nose to better catch Sirius’s pheromones, inhaling the warmth and calm they brought him. He was quiet for a moment, just letting himself feel safe, letting the residual heat and tension in his body slowly ease under Sirius’s hands.

Hesper crossed the room with careful, quiet steps, holding a large soft bag. “I have clothes for you both,” she said, setting it down gently on the edge of the tub. “Only the softest for Harry, of course. They might be a bit big...”

Harry peeked up at her, eyes still bright but shadowed with lingering exhaustion. “That’s okay, I’m used to that. It’s… nice,” he murmured.

Hesper raised a brow, frowning slightly, “Baggy things are nice?”

“Mhm,” Harry said, nodding earnestly, still half resting on Sirius’s shoulder. “Like hugs.” He gave a soft little sigh, and Sirius pressed him closer. “Like warm, endless hugs.”

Sirius smiled, brushing wet strands of hair back from Harry’s forehead. “You see, Hesper? He likes comfort over… you know… tight or restrictive things. It’s what he needs right now.”

Hesper knelt beside the tub, rummaging gently through the bag. “Alright, then. Let’s make sure everything is soft and warm. You’ll need it after… all that,” she said, glancing knowingly at Sirius.

Harry snuggled further into Sirius’s chest, curling his fingers into the curve of his shoulders.. Sirius hummed, tilting his head down to press a tender kiss to Harry’s temple. 

She carefully set the clothes on the cupboard by the bathtub. “Obviously, not lord-y kind of things or anything. These are more… muggle,” she said, glancing at Harry with a small smirk. “So, hush about us Blacks having it, alright?”

Harry let out a soft laugh, hiding his face briefly in Sirius’s chest. “Muggle things… I like that.”

Sirius chuckled, resting his chin atop Harry’s head. “You and your love of simple things,” he murmured.

Hesper continued, her tone practical but kind. “Siri, I have your usual — trousers, cotton poet shirt, and the waistcoat-corset combo. Honestly, I’ll never know how you find that comfortable, but there you go. And for you, Harry, I have the undergarments Isla sent through — you sent her into a right panic, by the way — plus trousers and a muggle jumper.”

Harry peeked up, his cheeks tinting pink, and mumbled softly, “I’ve… I’ve missed jumpers.”

Sirius grinned, tightening his arm around him. “I think I understand that. Comfort matters more than anything right now, hm?”

He nodded, letting himself sink a little further into Sirius’s warmth. “Yeah… and being here, with you… it’s…” His voice trailed off, but his contented sigh said it all.

Hesper gave them a small, approving smile, stepping back to give them space. “Alright, then. You two take your time. Just… enjoy it. Nothing else matters today.” She closed the door behind her.

Harry shifted slightly, tilting his head to glance at Sirius, eyes still wide and soft. “I… I like being held,” he admitted quietly.

“I know, sweetheart. And you’ll be held as long as you want.”

When their fingers began to prune and the bubbles had cooled enough to be comfortable, they carefully slipped out of the bath. Each wrapped themselves in the fluffiest towels Hesper had provided, the warmth of the fabric pressing into their chilled skin. The scent of soap and soft towels mixed with their lingering pheromones, making the air feel thick with comfort.

“I think your hair type is similar to mine,” Sirius murmured, brushing his fingers lightly through the damp strands of Harry’s curls, “but yours is more… curly. Little tighter ringlets.”

Harry glanced down at the wet mop on his head and laughed softly. “Do you think I’d pass as one of your kids?”

Sirius raised a brow, tilting his head to appraise him more closely. “With these eyes? No way.” He leaned down just slightly, brushing a thumb along Harry’s cheek. “Your eyes are very green. Little precious emeralds.”

Harry felt his chest squeeze with warmth at the compliment, and he smiled up at Sirius, letting the warmth of the towel and the affection from him seep into his tired muscles.

Sirius reached for a comb sitting on the side of the bath. “Let’s tame this chaos a bit, hm?” he said, threading it through the damp curls. Harry yelped softly at the unexpected tug. “Oh, shush,” he said with a laugh, looking down at him. “I want to do your hair. It’ll be relaxing.”

Harry’s hands gripped the towel tighter around himself. “Ok… just… don’t make it frizzy, please. I can’t deal with frizz today.”

He smirked, leaning closer to nudge Harry’s shoulder lightly. “Excuse me? Do you think I — the owner of the most perfect wavy hair in this entire continent — will even be able to make your hair frizzy?”

Harry felt heat rise to his cheeks despite the cool air, and a laugh escaped him. “You’re awfully confident."

Sirius tilted his head back and grinned. “Confidence comes with experience, little omega. And besides…” He leaned in again, brushing the comb gently through a particularly stubborn curl near Harry’s temple. “…it’s not just about keeping it neat. It’s about taking care of you. And you’re worth it.”

The younger omega melted into the sensation, closing his eyes for a moment as Sirius worked carefully, untangling the curls without pulling. The warmth of the towel, the careful touch of Sirius’s hands, and the faint scent of soap and residual pheromones made him feel safe in a way he hadn’t felt for a very long time.

Sirius’s fingers slowed, the comb pausing mid-stroke as a faint sound reached his ears — a soft, low rumble that seemed to come from somewhere deep in Harry’s chest. It was quiet at first, almost inaudible over the rustle of towels and the dripping bathwater, but it was unmistakable.

“Are you…” Sirius leaned down slightly, an amused grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, “are you purring just from me touching your hair?”

Harry froze, eyes widening in alarm as the soft vibration abruptly cut off. “I- no, I wasn’t, I mean—” He stammered, cheeks instantly blooming pink. “It just-  it happens sometimes- I didn’t mean—”

Sirius laughed, rich and warm, setting the comb aside before Harry could dig himself further into embarrassment. “Oh, no no, don’t you dare be embarrassed,” he said quickly, his tone softening as he reached up to brush a strand of damp hair from Harry’s forehead. “I do that too.”

Harry blinked, startled. “You do?”

“Mhm,” he said, matter-of-factly. “Usually when someone scratches the back of my neck, or if I’ve had a long day and someone runs their fingers through my hair. I can’t help it, it’s soothing.”

Harry ducked his head, but his shoulders relaxed just slightly, a shy smile tugging at his lips. “It’s… instinctive, I think,” he murmured.

“Yes,” Sirius agreed, resuming the gentle combing. “It’s a good sign, actually. Means your body feels safe enough to relax. That’s not something to hide, sweetheart — that’s something to be proud of.”

Harry let out a soft, self-conscious laugh. “You make it sound less ridiculous when you say it like that.”

“That’s because it isn’t ridiculous,” Sirius replied easily. “It’s an omega thing. You’re allowed to feel good when someone cares for you. We’ve both spent too long pretending we don’t need that.”

Harry’s throat tightened for a moment, but he said nothing — only tilted his head again, letting Sirius’s fingers weave through his curls. The gentle hum started up again, quieter this time, and Sirius pretended not to notice — though the soft smile on his lips said otherwise.

“There we go,” he murmured, voice like a warm blanket. “Just let yourself purr, love. You’ve earned it.”

Sirius moved back from the towel rack, shaking out his own damp curls as he muttered under his breath. “All right, I think your hair is perfect now.” With a flick of his wand, a delicate spell whisked away the last bits of moisture, leaving each strand shiny, soft, and smelling faintly of soap and the lavender bubbles. He gave a small nod of satisfaction before looking over at Harry, who was already wiggling his fingers and toes, eager to get dressed.

Harry laughed quietly to himself, standing and carefully pulling on the undergarment Isla had thoughtfully prepared. The material slipped up his legs first, snug but soft, before he threaded his arms through the delicate, tank-top shaped sleeves. The fabric was surprisingly cool against his skin, the lace around the deep neckline a delicate tease to the touch, the semi-sheer upper fabric soft enough to feel elegant but not overly revealing. The bottom half hugged him closely, tight but comfortable, like a second skin, and kept him securely in place. It was both functional and strange in its daintiness — something he had never had the luxury of wearing before.

“Oh my…” Sirius’s voice drifted out in a low whistle as his eyes roamed over Harry, who now stood fully dressed in the one-piece. He paused mid-step, leaning on the edge of the sink, completely fascinated.

“What?” Harry asked nervously, tugging slightly at the hem to check the fit. His cheeks warmed, a faint flush creeping over his pale skin.

“And where did you get that, little lord?” Sirius asked, voice a mixture of curiosity and delight. “It’s… well, it’s really something.”

Harry blinked. “What? Is it bad?”

“No! No, it’s absolutely… wow. I want one!” Sirius exclaimed, stepping closer, hands buried in his pockets, his green eyes bright with a mixture of amusement and genuine interest. “Which shop? You’ve got to tell me. I must have one.”

Harry shook his head quickly, cheeks heating further. “Ah… you’d have to ask Isla. I wasn’t really paying attention when she took me shopping. She just… picked things out. I just… tried them on.” He fidgeted with the clasp at the front, the weird little magical zip thing that sealed the garment snugly in place, his fingers curling around it.

Sirius laughed softly, reaching out to tug at the edge of the fabric teasingly, careful not to disturb Harry too much. “Ah, I see. Well, Isla clearly has impeccable taste. That is… incredible. I mean, really, it suits you perfectly.” He paused, a mischievous glint lighting his gaze. “And it’s ridiculously unfair that you look that good in it. Honestly. If I wore one of these, I’d look like a drowned rat.”

Harry snorted, the tension in his shoulders relaxing as he perched on the edge of the counter, still holding the hem of the one-piece.

After they were both fully dressed, Harry cozy in the soft, slightly oversized jumper that draped perfectly over his frame, Sirius helped him carefully down the stairs. Harry’s fingers clutched the hem of the sweater almost constantly, as if drawing comfort from the fabric itself. He inhaled deeply, feeling the faint scent of lavender from the bath still clinging to him and Sirius’s comforting pheromones weaving gently into his own.

“Did you grow up wearing muggle things?” Sirius asked as they descended, his voice gentle, curious, and almost protective.

Harry looked up at him, nodding slightly. “I did. All my life, I got my adoptive family’s son’s clothes passed down to me. Always too big, always a bit rough… but warm enough.” He paused, glancing down at his jumper, the soft wool feeling like a hug from someone who actually cared. He didn’t call the Dursleys his family; mentioning them would only raise questions he wasn’t ready to answer.

Sirius’s gaze softened, an almost imperceptible frown crossing his features as he took in the confession. He didn’t say anything — he didn’t need to. The way Harry curled into the jumper, the way he leaned on him as they descended the stairs, spoke volumes. Neglect, a lack of care, maybe even abuse. Sirius’s heart ached.

By the time they reached the dining room, Sirius’s three sons were already seated, their plates partially cleared, and their attention snapped to the new arrival. Their brows knitted in confusion. This was only the second time they had seen Harry. The sight of him leaning on their father, nestled in the oversized jumper, was almost disarming.

Harry, cheeks flushed, allowed Sirius to guide him to an empty seat. His hands stayed curled around the edge of the jumper, fidgeting slightly as he looked at the family around the table. 

Before either of them could start talking, a house elf materialized with two freshly prepared plates, setting them gently in front of Harry and Sirius with a polite little bow.

“Where’s Hesper?” Sirius asked, scanning the room for any sign of her.

Lycoris, one of the elder sons who had grown used to the constant swirl of guests in the Black household, spoke up without looking from his plate. “I believe she’s with Isla at the Ministry. Isla wanted to drink, and Mama said she shouldn’t drink alone.”

Sirius chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Typical."

Harry’s lips curved into a tiny, shy smile, and as he reached for his fork, still half-fascinated by the textures and smells of a proper Black family meal, Sirius felt that familiar surge of protectiveness. He would keep Harry safe, keep him warm and cared for, even in the whirlwind of this massive household, and nothing — not the past, not the heat, not the endless oddities of wizarding life — would change that.

“Thank you for the food,” Harry murmured softly.

“It’s the least we could do,” Sirius replied warmly, giving him a gentle squeeze on the shoulder. “You’ve had a long few days. Sit back and relax.”

For a moment, the room was quiet except for the clinking of cutlery from the rest of the family. Harry picked at the edges of his plate, still unsure of the rhythm of being in a family home, and Sirius watched him carefully, a mix of pride and protectiveness settling in his chest.

“Excuse me, Father,” Arcturus began, his voice hesitant, careful. He paused, brow furrowing as he glanced at Harry. “Did…”

Sirius immediately raised an eyebrow, cutting him off with a single glance. He could smell it too — the faint, sweet undertone of an omega at the tail end of a heat, subtle now but unmistakable. Arcturus, sharp as ever, had picked up on it immediately, his alpha senses alert.

“Did what, Arcturus?” Sirius asked slowly, his tone calm but with the weight of command, letting Arcturus know he had noticed the smell and the unspoken question in the air.

Arcturus’s cheeks flushed slightly, caught between curiosity and embarrassment. “I… I just wondered if he… was okay. He smells… um, different. And I know omegas sometimes… well, you know, after a heat…” His words trailed off, leaving the meaning hanging between them.

Harry, noticing the tension, blushed deeply, eyes darting to the table. “I’m fine,” he said quickly, voice a little shaky. “Really.”

Sirius gave him a reassuring smile and a soft squeeze on the hand. “He’s fine, Arcturus. Just coming out of his heat. That’s all.”

The eldest son nodded slowly, still slightly flustered, but the tension in his shoulders eased once Sirius’s hand remained firmly on Harry, grounding him. The rest of the family exchanged quiet, knowing glances — even the youngest Black sons could smell when an omega had been in heat, but Sirius’s presence kept the situation calm and contained.

Harry leaned slightly into Sirius’s side, comforted by the warmth and reassurance, he felt like he could breathe properly.

Sirius rumbled softly, almost a purr, just for Harry’s ears. “See? Nothing to worry about. You’re safe here, sweetheart. Always.”

Arcturus relaxed further, dipping his head respectfully, and the rest of the meal resumed in a quieter, gentler rhythm, Harry nestled against Sirius, still flushed and a little vulnerable, but safe.

“H-how’s it going with Newt?” Regulus asked, tilting his head, curiosity written plainly across his face. He had a mischievous spark in his eye, already sensing that Harry’s cheeks were about to turn pink.

Harry froze for a fraction of a second, the words sticking in his throat. His heart raced, heat residual but adrenaline freshening it. “…Oh.” He swallowed, bright red creeping up to his ears and neck. “…We’re… courting now.”

A brief, stunned silence fell over the table. Even Sirius paused mid-bite, eyebrows raised, not from surprise but from noticing just how flustered Harry had become. Harry fidgeted with his sleeve, tugging at it nervously as he glanced down at his plate, wishing the floor would swallow him whole.

Regulus’s grin widened, sensing victory in eliciting such a reaction. “Courting?” he repeated, voice dripping with playful intrigue. “So… you like him, then?”

Harry’s blush deepened, and he squeaked out, “I-I… yes. We… we get along very well...” His words tumbled over themselves, unable to capture the whirlwind of feelings.

Sirius chuckled softly beside him, giving Harry’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “Newt’s… well, he’s a good match. You’ll see.”

Regulus’s eyes sparkled with curiosity, leaning in slightly. “Is it all romantic-y, or…? You know, like hand-holding and stuff?”

Harry groaned inwardly, covering his face with his hands. “Do you have to make it sound so… so obvious?”

“Relax, it’s innocent curiosity,” Sirius said, chuckling. “Though, Harry, it seems you’re not exactly keeping your feelings hidden.”

Harry peeked between his fingers, cheeks still bright. “I… I like him. A lot. But it’s… it’s all very new, and I don’t really know what I’m supposed to do yet.”

Regulus grinned wider, practically bouncing in his chair. “Ooh! This is exciting! I can’t wait to hear all about it! Is he cute? What’s he like?”

His breath hitched slightly, the warmth in his chest matching the residual heat still tingling faintly. “He’s… very beautiful. Smart. Funny. And… I just feel safe with him, like… like nothing’s wrong when he’s around.”

Sirius hummed softly, proud and protective. “That’s what’s important. And remember, Harry, there’s no rush. You’re allowed to explore this at your own pace.”

Harry smiled shyly, still flushed but a little more confident with Sirius by his side. “Yes… we’re just… learning each other.”

Regulus beamed, clearly delighted by the drama and emotion at the table. “This is going to be fun to watch.”

Harry groaned quietly, but a small smile tugged at his lips. “You’re enjoying this too much, Regulus.”

“Never too much for family gossip,” the youngest Black replied, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“You deem him family already?” Arcturus asked, raising an eyebrow. “You’ve only met him twice now. Surely that’s… hasty?”

Regulus, still flushed from earlier excitement, waved his hand dismissively. “Dada says he’s part of our family, so he is part of it. Blood or not.” He grinned, proud of his own logic. “He also said that only family or very close friends have the Floo password. So, clearly, he’s close.”

Harry felt his ears heat up again, cheeks blazing crimson. He kept his gaze mostly on his plate, though a small, delighted smile tugged at his lips. Pride, happiness, and embarrassment tangled together, making him feel both utterly seen and completely flustered. Sirius caught the look instantly and felt a swell of pride—protective, yes, but overwhelmingly proud of how accepted Harry already felt with the family.

“I think he’s family too,” Lycoris said softly, his tone steady and sincere. “And your daughter certainly likes him, Archie.” His gaze flicked warmly to Harry, who was now nearly melting from both attention and praise.

Arcturus groaned dramatically. “Yes… she does.” His words were half resignation, half disbelief, and entirely accurate. 

Regulus clapped his hands together, delighted. “Then it’s settled! Lord Harrison Peverell is officially part of our family! Now we just need to get him to a proper party so everyone can meet him!”

Harry nearly choked on his food at Regulus’s enthusiasm, cheeks burning hotter.

Sirius nudged him gently with his elbow, whispering, “See? They already love you. You’re safe here, Harry.”

Harry exhaled softly, the tension easing slightly. “I… I guess so. I didn’t think anyone would… care, really.”

“You’re wrong there, little lord,” Sirius murmured, brushing a strand of damp hair from Harry’s forehead. “Family cares. And you’ve got us now.”

Lycoris reached across the table to squeeze Harry’s hand briefly. “We’ll all take care of you,” she said quietly but firmly.

Arcturus groaned again, this time more dramatically than before, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. “Fine, fine. But don’t get used to me coddling you… yet.”

His smile widened, small but genuine, feeling a warmth that had nothing to do with his heat from days before and everything to do with finally being welcomed into a family, messy, loud, and loving as it was.

Chapter Text

They all heard the flames in the hearth flar before Isla stepped through to the dining room, brushing soot from her sleeve, Hesper following just behind with a faint giggle and a half-empty bottle in hand. To everyone’s surprise, Isla looked almost perfectly sober—cheeks a bit flushed from fire travel, but eyes sharp and focused.

“Harry!” she cried the moment she spotted him at the table beside Sirius. “You scared me so badly!”

He startled, blinking up at her like a caught schoolboy. “What? I scared you?”

“You disappeared!” Isla said, striding over and crouching beside him, fussing immediately with his hair and his face as though checking for injuries. “No note and your tracker didn’t show you anywhere, and then apparently you turn up here—half-dressed, exhausted, and clearly just out of heat! I thought you’d been kidnapped!”

Hesper followed, still laughing softly. “He’s fine, Isla. He’s clean, fed, and looks ready to nap for a week.”

“That’s not the point!” She huffed, though her relief was obvious. She cupped Harry’s cheeks gently, her tone softening. “I was worried, sweetheart. You’re supposed to tell me when you leave the ministry. Especially after your first heat. You gave me a heart attack.”

Harry wilted a little, guilt flooding his expression. “I— I didn’t mean to. I just… I didn’t feel right. I panicked, and I came here. I didn’t think—”

Sirius rubbed his back reassuringly. “He did the right thing, Isla. He came somewhere safe.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Isla muttered, straightening and glaring at Sirius just for show before turning back to Harry with a sigh. “You could have at least called an elf, though. Or sent anything. I almost dragged half the Auror department into a search.”

Hesper snorted behind her. “And you would’ve done it, too.”

“Of course I would’ve,” she snapped good-naturedly. Then her gaze softened again as she looked down at Harry. “Next time, just tell me, all right? You scared the life out of me, you daft omega.”

Harry ducked his head, smiling sheepishly. “Sorry. I’ll tell you next time. Promise.”

“Good.” Isla finally exhaled properly, the tension leaving her shoulders. Then she looked at Sirius and added, “Thank you. For looking after him.”

Sirius smiled, still lounging comfortably beside Harry. “Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve scooped up a runaway omega, but this one’s special.”

Harry groaned softly, burying his face in his hands as Hesper laughed and Isla rolled her eyes.

“Well,” Isla said at last, straightening and brushing imaginary dust from her robes, “since you’re alive, safe, and apparently was bathing in bubbles like a pampered kitten, I think I’ll finally have that drink Hesper’s been hoarding.”

“Pampered kitten?” Harry squeaked.

“Yes,” Isla said, smirking. “My pampered kitten, who’s going to give me grey hairs if he keeps disappearing like that.”

“You're worse than a mother hen,” Harry mumbled but his smile gave him away.

Lycoris, Regulus, and Arcturus all tried — tried — to keep straight faces through the whole thing, but it was a losing battle from the start.

The moment Isla started fussing over Harry’s hair and cheeks again like a frantic mother, Regulus made a strangled noise that was half laugh, half cough. Lycoris elbowed him sharply in the ribs, but his own mouth was twitching. Even Arcturus, who usually carried himself with that stiff, composed Black family air, had his lips pressed so tightly together they’d turned white from the effort of not grinning.

Sirius caught sight of all three and groaned. “Oh, go on, then. Laugh it out, you little gremlins.”

That was all the permission they needed.

Regulus snorted first, doubling over against the table. Lycoris joined in almost instantly, trying and failing to sound sympathetic as he said, “Poor Harry.”

“I didn’t even think Isla could look that furious,” Arcturus added with a wry smile. “You’d think he’d run off to elope, not just… have a bath.”

Harry turned scarlet. “I didn’t elope! I just— I wanted—”

“—a bath, we know,” Regulus wheezed, still giggling. “A very dramatic bath.”

Sirius chuckled, trying not to laugh too much himself as he rested a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Ignore them, sweetheart. They’re only like this because it’s not them being fussed over for once.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Lycoris said cheerfully. “If Isla had come storming in for me, I’d have fled the country.”

“Not before she grabbed you by the ear,” Arcturus teased.

Hesper, who’d been watching from the side, chuckled behind her hand. “Honestly, Sirius, our boys are terrible.”

Sirius grinned. “They’re out boys so of course they are. But they’re right; this whole scene is rather priceless.”

Harry buried his face in his hands again, but the tips of his ears were pink, and when Isla huffed and swatted Regulus lightly on the shoulder for laughing too hard, Harry couldn’t help but start giggling too.

“Alright, enough of you lot,” Isla said finally, though she was smiling now. 

Harry groaned. “I’m never going to live this down, am I?”

“Not a chance,” all three brothers said at once — and even Sirius couldn’t help but laugh at that.

Isla, having finally calmed down enough to stop clutching at Harry’s shoulders, drew herself up with the air of a healer who’d been through this routine far too many times. She waved her wand, and one by one, small labelled vials began appearing on the table in front of Harry with neat little clinks.

“There,” she said briskly, lining them up with military precision. “You’ll take the blue one tonight before bed — hormone regular. That’ll help stabilise your scent output and balance your post-heat system.”

Harry blinked, looking at the collection of potions as though they might leap up and scold him. “Oh. Er… thank you, Isla.”

“I’m not finished,” she interrupted, tapping the next vial. “The green one’s a scent dimmer — you reek of post-heat, dear. It’s perfectly natural, but I’d rather not have every alpha in the Ministry fainting dead away when you next walk through the atrium.”

That earned a round of muffled snickers from the Black sons again.

“Lycoris,” Isla said sweetly, turning just enough to make him freeze mid-laugh, “if you’d like to demonstrate the effect of residual pheromones on a full grown unbonded alpha, I can certainly arrange that.”

Lycoris immediately looked fascinated by his plate. “No thank you, Isla.”

“Thought not,” she said crisply before returning to her line-up. “The clear one is for hydration and muscle recovery — heat can cause dehydration faster than you’d expect. And this—” she lifted a small pink bottle that shimmered faintly, “—is a mild nerve soother. Take half if you can’t sleep, a full dose if you’re restless or feel your temperature spiking again.”

“You’ve turned this into a full pharmacy, sister.” Sirius said, amused.

“Well, someone has to look after him properly rather than just a bath,” she said tartly, though her voice softened as she looked at Harry. “You shouldn’t have to manage everything on your own, darling. You scared me half to death disappearing like that.”

Harry ducked his head, cheeks flushing. “I didn’t mean to. I just… needed someone who understood.”

Isla sighed, her tone gentling further. “I know. And it’s good that you went somewhere safe. Just... next time, send a note. Even a house elf’s squeak would do.”

“I will,” Harry promised, small and earnest.

Satisfied, Isla gave a firm nod, then patted his hand before straightening up. “Good. Now, drink the hydration potion."

Harry reached for the clear vial obediently, while Sirius tried and failed to hide his chuckle at the sight of the young Lord sitting meekly under Isla’s watch like a schoolboy.

Hesper, standing nearby with her arms crossed, smiled warmly. “He’s being good for you, Isla. Maybe you should move in and run my house instead."

Three horrified Black sons froze mid-bite.

Isla smirked. “Don’t tempt me.” She paused as Harry pointed at the one vial she’d very deliberately left out of her explanations — a tiny, pearlescent bottle with a faint shimmer to it, stoppered with wax and sealed with a runic band.

“That one,” Harry said, curious, innocent enough. “You didn’t say what it does.”

For a moment, the entire table went still. Hesper tilted her head, even Sirius looked uncertain, and Isla’s lips pressed together so tightly her dimples vanished.

“Oh. That one,” she said finally, her tone suddenly far too light. “Well, that’s… a specialised tonic. You don’t need to worry about it right now.”

Harry frowned. “Specialised how?”

“Harry,” Sirius warned gently, already sensing where this was going.

But Harry, still recovering from heat, still painfully honest, blinked up at Isla. “I just want to know what it’s for. You said the others were for hydration and nerves—”

“—and this one,” Isla interrupted sharply, “isn’t for the dinner table.” She cast a meaningful look toward the three Black sons, who were immediately riveted.

“Why ever not?” Lycoris asked far too innocently.

“Because,” Isla said, standing abruptly and drawing her wand, “this conversation requires a privacy charm.” She flicked her wrist, and the air shimmered faintly around her, Harry, and Hesper — the latter purely by accident of proximity. The rest of the room went muffled, the laughter and whispers outside the bubble now nothing but a hum.

Inside, Harry looked alarmed. “Did I do something wrong?”

Isla exhaled, then crouched slightly so she was level with him. Her tone softened, but her cheeks were undeniably pink. “No, darling. You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s simply… one of those potions meant only for male omegas. Their anatomy’s a little different from female omegas, and after a heat — particularly a first one — they can experience lingering inflammation, sensitivity, or internal soreness in certain areas..."

Harry’s mouth dropped open. “Oh.”

“Yes, oh,” she said primly. “It’s a restorative elixir for the inner gland system and the lower nerve network. It reduces discomfort and prevents possible… ah… gland over-activation during recovery.”

Hesper blinked, clearly taken aback. “I’ve never even heard of that one.”

“Maybe Sirius was embarrassed to share it with you,” Isla replied shortly. “They’re rarely needed. It’s not dangerous, just private.”

Harry’s face had gone bright red. “So it’s basically a—”

“Yes,” Isla cut him off quickly, “exactly what you’re thinking, and that’s quite enough explanation.”

When she dropped the privacy charm, the laughter started immediately. Arcturus snorted first, Lycoris followed, and Regulus very nearly fell off his chair trying to contain his giggles.

“Something funny?” Isla asked with all the frost of the North Sea in her voice.

“No, Aunt Isla!” the boys chorused, voices strangled from trying not to burst out again.

Harry groaned softly, covering his face with his hands. “I should’ve just not asked.”

Biting back a grin, Sirius squeezed his shoulder. “Lesson learned, sweetheart. Some bottles are better left unpointed at.”

Hesper laughed outright now, tossing her head. “You’ll fit right in here, they live to tease.”

Isla only sighed and muttered, “Merlin preserve me."

Harry’s ears were already pink, but by the time Isla handed him the little set of potions, his entire face was flushed to the roots of his hair. He stared down at them like they might combust in his hands.

“Right then,” Isla said briskly, clearly trying to smooth over the awkwardness. “You’ll take these one after another. Scent dimmer now, and finally the—” she coughed delicately, “—the restorative. That one you’ll want to drink slowly.”

Harry nodded mutely, still feeling the tips of his ears burn. “O-okay.”

He uncorked the vial, it smelled faintly floral. After he took it, Sirius could smell the shift instantly, his protective pheromones easing as Harry’s scent muted to a calmer, softer tone.

And then there was the last one. The pearly vial. The one that had caused far too much chaos already.

Harry hesitated, staring at it. He could feel the eyes on him, the half-muffled snorts from the boys down the table who were clearly trying — and failing — to behave.

“Go on,” Isla said, voice gentle now. “It’ll make you feel better, I promise. You’ve nothing to be embarrassed about.”

He exhaled, lifted it, and took a cautious sip. The potion was warm and faintly sweet, almost like vanilla and spice. A soft shiver ran through him — and then his face turned crimson again as the warmth settled low, exactly where Isla had warned it would.

Lycoris made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a cough.

Sirius shot his sons a look that could have melted steel.

Harry, utterly mortified, covered his face with both hands. “I hate everything about this moment.”

“Mm,” Isla said, patting his shoulder, entirely unsympathetic. “I think every omega says that their first time. You’ll live, dear. Drink some water in a bit.”

Even Hesper couldn’t resist a grin, her eyes crinkling. “Oh, love, you’re practically glowing. Poor thing. You’ll be alright soon enough.”

“You’re doing fine, sweetheart. Welcome to life in the Black household — we embarrass each other at least once before dessert.”

"Can I at least have something for this awful taste?"

"What does it taste like?" Regulus asks curiously.

Harry pulled a face, sticking his tongue out a little like a child who’d just swallowed a mouthful of spoiled milk. “Like... like if you boiled socks, added sugar, and then forgot what you were doing halfway through,” he said miserably.

That did it. Regulus let out a sharp laugh he didn’t bother to hide. “That’s horrid,” he said, grinning. “You’re telling me they give that to omegas? For something that’s supposed to make you feel better?”

“Yes,” Harry said flatly, “and it feels like it’s still sitting in my throat. Isla, please tell me there’s something for this.”

Isla, for her part, looked thoroughly unimpressed with his dramatics but also faintly amused. “You’d think after what you've been through you could handle one potion,” she teased. Then, with a flick of her wand, she summoned a small glass of something pale and fizzy. “Here. It’s called a neutraliser tonic. Sip it slowly, it’ll clear the aftertaste.”

Harry sniffed it suspiciously. “It’s not going to make it worse, is it?”

“No,” Isla said, exasperated but fond. “It’ll taste of lemon and mint. You’ll live.”

He grimaced at that but took a careful sip and blinked. “Oh. That’s actually—” another sip, a little faster now “—good. Really good.”

“See? Miracles do happen,” Hesper said, hiding a laugh behind her hand.

“Careful, dear,” Sirius added, voice laced with amusement. “If you drink it too fast you’ll start hiccuping bubbles. Ask me how I know.”

Harry lowered the glass slowly. “You’re joking.”

“Nope,” Regulus piped up gleefully. “He hiccupped bubbles at dinner last Christmas. Mama nearly fell off her chair laughing.”

“I was testing a new batch,” Sirius said, tone mock-defensive.

“Sure you were,” Lycoris said under his breath, earning another burst of laughter from his brothers.

“I don't care if that happens to me, at least the taste is gone,”  Harry said, relieved. “Though next time, Isla, I’m requesting potions that don’t taste like the bottom of a cauldron that’s never been washed.”

That earned a collective groan and a few chuckles from around the table. Arcturus wrinkled his nose. “That’s vile. You’ve tasted that before?”

Harry smirked faintly. “No, but I can imagine. Feels about right.”

"Erm, Harry, how did it feel finding out you were an omega?" The youngest asks.

The air in the dungeons was thick with tension and the sharp, acrid scent of ingredients simmering over low flames. Students whispered among themselves as they measured, stirred, and tried not to blow anything up. But today something else filled the air — subtle, confusing, heavy. A strange scent beneath the usual potion fumes that made a few of the older Slytherins glance around uneasily.

At the front of the class, Professor Snape’s nostrils flared once, twice, and then his dark eyes snapped toward Harry Potter’s table.

“Potter,” he said, voice cutting through the murmurs like a whip. “What is that stench?”

Harry blinked. “Erm… I don’t—”

Snape’s expression twisted into fury, though beneath it there was the faintest glimmer of realization — and annoyance. He stalked toward Harry, robes billowing, and hissed, “Up. Now.”

The class froze. Harry shot a helpless look at Ron and Hermione, who stared back wide-eyed, but one glare from Snape sent them silent. Without another word, the professor seized Harry by the wrist and practically dragged him toward the door.

“Professor, I didn’t even—”

“Be silent, Potter,” Snape snapped. “You’re distracting the entire classroom.”

Harry stumbled to keep up as they swept through the dungeons, Snape’s grip unrelenting. The scent of damp stone and brewing fumes faded as they ascended to the hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey looked up in surprise as Snape all but shoved Harry inside.

“Severus, honestly,” she began, frowning, “what’s the meaning of dragging a student in here like—”

“Because,” Snape interrupted, his voice cold but tight with irritation, “his pheromones are all over the classroom. My students are completely unfocused, glancing over their cauldrons like distracted kneazles.”

Pomfrey blinked. “His— what?”

Snape gestured toward Harry with exasperation. “You mean to tell me he hasn’t been told? You haven’t done a secondary gender assessment for the Boy Who Lived?”

Harry’s head snapped between them, utterly lost. “Wait— what’s going on? What pheromones? What are you talking about?”

Madam Pomfrey gave Snape a warning look before stepping closer to Harry, her tone softening. “Harry, dear, have you noticed any unusual… scents lately? People around you acting differently, perhaps?”

He frowned. “Well… yeah, actually. People have been staring a lot more this week. Talking to me for no reason. And I thought I could smell different soaps on people, but I just assumed the house-elves were experimenting with laundry detergent.”

The expression on both adults’ faces was nothing short of disbelief. Snape pinched the bridge of his nose. “Laundry detergent,” he muttered under his breath, clearly restraining himself.

Pomfrey sighed, shaking her head. “Oh, heavens… Harry, it seems you’ve presented as an omega.”

Harry blinked again. “A… what?”

Snape groaned quietly. “For Merlin’s sake, how has no one explained—”

Pomfrey cut him off sharply, “Severus, that will be quite enough. He’s only just found out.” Turning back to Harry, she smiled gently. “It means your secondary gender has finally expressed itself. It’s perfectly natural, though it often happens earlier in life. Omegas tend to have stronger pheromones, which others—particularly alphas—may react to. It’s nothing to be frightened of.”

Harry could only stare at her, mouth open. “So that’s why everyone keeps… sniffing around me?”

Snape’s glare darkened. “And why my classroom now smells like a blasted perfume shop. Control yourself, Potter, before I banish you to the corridor for the rest of term!"

Pomfrey frowned deeply. “He can’t control it yet, Severus. It’s his manifestation. He’ll need proper guidance.”

Snape’s lip curled, but he said nothing.

She placed a comforting hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, dear. We’ll have a talk about regulating pheromones and managing instincts. You’ve nothing to be ashamed of.”

Harry just nodded faintly, his brain still reeling. Of all the things to happen during the Triwizard Tournament!

Snape sighed dramatically on his way out. “If he floods the castle with that scent again, he’s brewing alone in a storage cupboard,” he muttered darkly.

As the doors swung shut behind him, Pomfrey gave Harry a small, kind smile. “Don’t mind him, dear. I don't think he understands omegas.”

Harry huffed softly. “I don’t either.”

Back in the present, Harry stared down, and his voice, when it came, was soft — almost an afterthought.

“I was just in shock,” he said simply.

Regulus, sitting across from him with a biscuit halfway to his mouth, blinked. “Because you’re so rare?”

Harry gave a small, weary laugh. “Because I didn’t even know about secondary genders.”

The youngest Black gaped. “You didn’t?! But you’re a Peverell! Every pureblood child is told before they’re ten — even the muggles have secondary genders!!”

Harry thought on it. Maybe the Dursleys never spoke on it because they were all betas. He knows Dudley would have definitely boasted about being an alpha if he were one. And maybe they didn't know male omegas were a thing so just thought his sweeter scent was because he was a freak.

Finally, he just shrugged, a small, helpless motion that carried far too much weight. “I guess no one thought to tell me.”

Sirius froze mid-reach for his tea, eyes darkening. Harry hadn’t been raised with care. The way he flinched from certain tones, the way he spoke about his past like it was a place you survived, not lived in. But this — not even being told something as basic, as foundational, as what he was — that twisted something deep inside Sirius’s chest.

Regulus was still frowning, struggling to make sense of it. “But… how did they expect you to- I mean- didn’t you notice anything? The scent changes? The instincts?”

Harry’s shoulders lifted again, half-embarrassed, half-defensive. “I thought everyone could smell things like that. I didn’t even realise it meant something. I thought—” He paused, his brow creasing. “I thought it was just… being weird. Or broken. I used to scrub everything because I thought the smell meant I was dirty.”

“Oh, Harry,” Hesper murmured from the corner, her heart breaking a little.

Sirius reached over, resting a hand on Harry’s arm, grounding him. “You weren’t dirty, sweetheart. You were neglected. There’s a difference.”

He startled and then gave him a faint, crooked smile. “Yeah, I know that now. But back then, I didn’t even know omegas existed. Not until someone practically dragged me into the hospital because I was apparently ‘stinking up’ everywhere. It was… mortifying,” Harry admitted.

“You were young,” Sirius muttered, voice tight. “Still a child. And they just— what? Let you walk around confused and alone?”

“I suppose they did.” Harry’s voice softened. “But the.. healer was kind. She gave me books and potions. Tried to explain things. I just... I didn’t really have anywhere to ask questions.”

Silence settled for a moment. The fire crackled in the hearth, throwing gold across Harry’s face.

Then Regulus leaned forward, his tone quieter now, careful. “You know… you’re learning fast. You’re doing really well, Harry.”

Harry blinked at him. “You think so?”

Sirius ruffled his hair, smiling softly. “We know so. You’re doing better than most omegas would, love... especially without the upbringing or the talk. You’re figuring it out on your own, and you’re not hiding from it.”

He flushed, ducking his head, but there was a small, shy smile there. “Thanks. I just… don’t want to be treated differently for it, I guess. It’s weird. Everyone’s suddenly very… protective.”

“Because they care,” Sirius said simply. “Not because you’re weaker. Never that.”

“I do have something to tell you,” Isla said suddenly, her tone careful, like she was bracing for a reaction.

“Ok… shall we go somewhere else?”

“No, no,” she waved her hand lightly. “It’s not a private thing, don’t worry. You’ve received a letter from the Potter family inviting you to their nephew, Charlus Potter’s, third birthday.”

He froze, eyes wide. “what?”

Isla smiled tightly, a touch nervous now. “It’s a sort of public gathering. A family-and-friends thing, but there’ll be plenty of names there — Dumbledore, the Longbottoms, several Ministry families. It’s in half a week. I… accepted it on your behalf.”

Harry gawked. “You what?”

Sirius, who had been lounging lazily in his chair, immediately stepped in before Harry could spiral. “It’s alright, sweetheart,” he said reassuringly. “Hesper and I — and my boys — we’ll be going too. You won’t be alone, alright? And Lucretia too, speaking of which…”

He tilted his head toward the hallway. “She should be waking up soon.”

“Oh, lovely,” Hesper said, already rising with that soft, maternal smile. “I’ll fetch her before she starts wailing the roof down.”

Arcturus grinned. “She’s got lungs for days.”

Harry was still blinking, trying to wrap his mind around it. “So… the Potters want me there? Like, they actually… want to see me?”

“They want to meet you,” Isla clarified, sitting beside him again. “You’re a Peverell. The families were connected long ago, they likely want to acknowledge that tie.”

“I’m not good with formal things.”

“Don’t worry,” she said gently. “It’s a children’s party, not a ball. You’ll manage perfectly. And Sirius will make sure you’re dressed properly — something comfortable, soft, not too flashy.”

Sirius nodded in agreement, reaching out to squeeze Harry’s shoulder. “You’ll be fine, sweetheart. We’ll be right there beside you. And besides…” His grin softened. “I think it’s time people saw you for who you really are — not a mystery, not a rumor. Just you.”

Harry looked at him for a long moment, heart fluttering between anxiety and gratitude. Finally, he exhaled a quiet, uncertain laugh. “Alright… but if anyone tries to introduce me as Lord Peverell, I’m hiding behind your robes.”

Sirius grinned, standing. “Deal. And if that fails, Arcturus will hand you Lucretia — no one will dare bother you while you’ve got an adorable toddler shield.”

As if on cue, Hesper returned with the sleepy little girl in her arms, her dark curls mussed and her tiny hand clutching at Hesper’s collar.

“There’s my darling,” Arcturus cooed, reaching for her. Which was weird for Harry to see a teenager doing that.

Lucretia blinked up at him with wide grey eyes, then yawned hugely, unbothered by the adult chaos around her.

Isla held out a neatly folded envelope, her expression calm but her eyes glinting with amusement. “This arrived a few days ago, but you were obviously… indisposed,” she said gently, placing it carefully in Harry’s hands.

Harry blinked at it for a moment, the envelope feeling impossibly heavy in his fingers, then he tore it open with trembling hands. As he unfolded the letter, his eyes widened and he leapt to his feet, almost knocking over the chair behind him.

“Newt! Oh, poor Newt!” he exclaimed, his voice a mix of shock and worry. His pulse raced as he skimmed through the neatly written words, the formal phrasing only making the situation feel more surreal.

He paused, frowning, and reread a specific line aloud, his voice barely above a whisper, “My measurements… are in the paper?”

Harry sat back down slowly, letter clutched in his hands, staring at it as if it might suddenly explain itself. He didn’t see why it was such a big deal. Yes, it was in the paper, but to him it was just… information. Facts. Numbers. He couldn’t quite grasp why anyone would make such a fuss.

He shifted in the chair, cheeks warming faintly, and tugged the letter closer to his chest, like it might shield him from the odd, fluttering awareness of being watched. “It’s just… numbers,” he murmured to himself. “Why does anyone care?”

Sirius and Hesper exchanged a glance, a tiny smirk playing at the corner of Sirius’s lips, while Regulus and Lycoris giggled quietly, clearly enjoying Harry’s discomfort. But Harry didn’t understand what he was missing. He felt slightly embarrassed — yes, of course, he was aware of being measured, of his underweight frame and omega shape, his slightly rounded hips — but it wasn’t shameful to him. He just… blushed because he felt suddenly, weirdly exposed.

“Do people always write this stuff in the paper?” he asked softly, peering up at Isla, still holding the envelope like a lifeline.

“They do,” Isla said gently, settling into a chair beside him. “For lords and other notable figures, it’s… standard. Not really meant to embarrass you.”

Harry tilted his head, frowning slightly. “I don’t get it. People actually care about my measurements? Why? I’m just… me. That’s all I am. Numbers won’t change that.”

Chapter Text

Harry sat on the edge of his bed in the Ministry, the soft morning light spilling across the pale green and beige fabrics of his outfit. The gold trim caught it just right, glinting faintly with each small movement. He had spent nearly an hour this morning fussing over every detail: the lacey ribbons on his trousers tied just so, the sheen of his stockings lying smoothly (which made him grateful he kept up with the hair removal charms), and the new robe-like cloak draped perfectly over his shoulders, though he was upset it didn't have a hood. The kitten-heel shoes were snug and polished, the Peverell symbols on the buckles gleaming faintly, and he had practiced walking around in them enough during these past two weeks to feel confident that he wouldn’t stumble.

His gaze drifted to the gifts he had packed for Charlus and Heather. For the little birthday boy, he had chosen a handcrafted wooden puzzle in the shape of a dragon — intricately carved and painted with vibrant colors, something that would challenge him and keep him entertained. And if he picked a dragon shape because the name Charlus was a reminder of Charlie Weasley... well... no one would know because he's far in the past.

For Heather, he had selected a bouquet of wildflowers, carefully gathered and arranged with subtle charms to keep them fresh for longer — lilies and daisies woven with tiny hints of mint and lavender, soft and cheerful. He hoped she’d like it; Isla had told him she appreciated thoughtful gestures, and he wanted to make a good impression.

Harry felt a flutter of nervousness. He wasn’t sure what the day would hold, especially with so many unfamiliar family members in one place. Henry, an alpha, was bound to be imposing; Clarissa, the omega, probably radiated calm and warmth; Fleamont, their eighteen-year-old beta son, might be judgmental or teasing; and the tiny Charlus, well, he was just a toddler, blissfully unaware of the social pressures that Harry was suddenly immersed in. And then Heather and Tobias, the beta parents of Charlus, would undoubtedly scrutinize his choices — or at least he imagined they would.

He absently fiddled with the hem of his cloak, running his fingers along the soft fabric. His heart thumped with that familiar mix of excitement and anxiety. Being properly dressed, feeling like he had done everything right, helped — it made him feel prepared, even if just a little.

Harry took a deep breath. “I hope this is alright,” he murmured softly, as if talking to the presents themselves. “I hope they like it…”

But first, he met with the Blacks.

He found the full household assembled. Sirius, radiant in his usual calm omega manner, was cradling little Lucretia on his hip. Her tiny hands waved at Harry, her short curls bouncing with each motion. Hesper moved efficiently around the room, fussing over appearances and making sure everyone looked their best — hair combed, cloaks straight, and collars adjusted. Her energy reminded Harry of Molly Weasley; there was that same combination of authority and warmth, the maternal insistence that everyone look presentable.

Harry noticed Arcturus standing off to the side, watching his daughter with an odd mix of longing and frustration. Harry’s mind quietly interpreted the look: “I know I’m her father, but why can’t I be like one?” It was subtle but unmistakable, a quiet pang that made Harry’s chest ache a little.

Sirius guided Harry forward, his protective instincts on full display. He gestured for Harry to stay close. “Come along, sweetheart,” he said softly. “We’ll head over to Potter Manor together. Don’t worry, I’ve got you.”

Harry noticed just how different Sirius acted here — not the composed, distant figure he often presented at the Ministry, but fully, unabashedly omega. The warmth radiated off him, grounding Harry in a way he hadn’t expected. It was comforting, soothing, and quietly thrilling at the same time.

Lucretia babbled happily, reaching for Harry’s hand, and he laughed softly. Sirius chuckled, his grey eyes crinkling at the corners. “She likes you already, I can tell.”

Hesper flitted around one last time, adjusting Harry’s cloak, smoothing a stray curl from his forehead. “You look quite fetching, Harry,” she said with a faint blush, “though you must be careful with those shoes.”

Harry blushed bright red but smiled nonetheless. He could feel Sirius’s hand resting lightly on his back, grounding him, steady. 

“I hope the flowers and present I got are okay,” he mumbled after a moment, fiddling with the ribbon tied around the bouquet as though suddenly doubting his choices. 

Sirius turned to look at him with a mix of amusement and fondness. “You got Lady Travers flowers?”

Harry blinked, a little startled. “Heather is a Travers? And yes, I did.” He reached for the bouquet from where it rested on the counter, along with the neatly wrapped present he’d picked out for Charlus.

Heather Potter married Tobias Travers, despite this, she still tends to go by Potter, that's why Charlus is called Charlus Potter. Her second born will be called Travers as per her marriage contract.

Hesper smiled softly. “That’s a charming gift, Harry. Quite clever of you.”

“Oh, most just send those sorts of things by owl,” Sirius said with a playful roll of his eyes. “But not even we got her flowers. You’ve outdone us all.”

He flushed again, his fingers tracing over the wrapping paper. “Ah, well, she is my family, isn’t she? I thought it would be nice. I hope they’re okay.”

“They’re beautiful,” Lycoris said from across the room, genuine admiration in his voice. “I didn’t even know we had flowers like that as summer closes.”

Harry grinned, the kind of boyish, bright grin that seemed to make the whole room feel lighter. “Thank you! I… might have stolen them from the Ministry courtyard.”

Sirius nearly choked on a laugh. “You what?”

His ears went pink. “Well, Isla said it was alright! She even helped me pick them out. Apparently, no one messes with her, so it’s fine.”

Hesper laughed so hard she had to set down the small bag she’d been carrying. “Merlin, that sounds just like her. Isla Hitchens, patron saint of reckless permission-giving.”

“Exactly!” Harry said brightly, encouraged by the laughter. “She even did some kind of preservation charm on them so they’d stay fresh until the party. Said it’d be a good ‘family first impression.’ Though I think she mostly wanted to keep me out of the potion labs that I discovered on my ministry floor."

“She’s probably right,” Sirius teased gently, taking the flowers from him for a moment to inspect them. “But these are perfect. And the dragon — that’s an inspired choice. Every three-year-old needs something mildly dangerous that makes noise.”

Harry giggled, his shoulders loosening a little. “I just hope Charlus likes dragons. Everyone likes dragons, right?”

Lycoris nodded solemnly. “Absolutely. If he doesn’t, he’s too young to appreciate greatness.”

Even Arcturus cracked a faint smile at that, the corner of his mouth twitching. His tone was almost approving when he said, “That’s a proper gift, Lord Peverell. Thoughtful. Personal. You’ll make a good impression.”

Harry looked down bashfully at his hands, trying not to seem too pleased by the praise, though his grin was unmistakable.

“See?” Sirius said softly, resting a reassuring hand on his back again. “You’ve done everything right, sweetheart. Now all we need to do is arrive in one piece — and, preferably, without you stealing any more foliage from official property.”

Harry laughed, the sound bright and genuine. “No promises.”

Sirius gave him a fond side-eye, lips twitching. “Of course not. You’re a Peverell after all. I wouldn’t expect anything less than trouble wrapped in politeness.”

He looked up at him through his lashes, smiling shyly. 

Hesper sighed fondly, clapping her hands. “Alright, you two charmers — let’s get going before the Potters start wondering if we’ve forgotten the way entirely. Everyone ready?”

Arcturus gathered Lucretia into his arms; Lycoris adjusted his collar; Sirius took Harry’s hand again, steady and warm. The laughter still lingered in the air as they moved toward the floo — the kind of laughter that only comes from a household where, for a brief moment, everyone feels like family.

The green flare of the Floo subsided — and immediately Harry regretted the idea of travelling with Sirius to “save powder.”

Because the moment their shoes hit the polished floor of the Potter ballroom, dozens of heads turned.

The scent of two male omegas arriving together — rich, warm, unmistakable — seemed to ripple through the air. Conversations faltered. A few fans fluttered discreetly. A handful of alphas blinked in quiet confusion, while others straightened instinctively, their posture softening as their instincts urged deference to the calm, steady scent Sirius exuded.

Harry, on the other hand, felt every pair of eyes on him. The room was bright, golds and creams and soft music humming beneath the chatter, but it felt like a stage.

His first thought was to bolt back into the Floo. His second was that it was much too late for that.

Sirius’s hand shot out, steadying him before he stumbled over the hearth step. “Easy, sweetheart,” he murmured under his breath. Then, with a casual flick of his wand, the soot vanished from Harry’s pale cloak.

“Thank you,” Harry muttered, wishing his voice didn’t sound quite so small.

“Nothing to thank me for,” Sirius said, tone light, reassuring. “Come on — presents go over here.”

Harry clutched the bouquet and gift, keeping as close to Sirius’s side as he could without literally clinging to him. His heart was pounding, his scent fluttering in nervous bursts that Sirius tried subtly to counter by releasing calm pheromones of his own — warm and woodsy, grounding.

It helped. A little.

He kept his gaze low as they crossed the room. The music had picked up again, though Harry could still feel glances trailing after them. He tried to tell himself it wasn’t judgmental — maybe it was curiosity, maybe politeness — but the weight of it made his stomach twist.

“Here,” Sirius whispered, guiding him to a long, beautifully set table covered in pastel wrapping paper and shiny ribbons. “You can put them here.”

Harry nodded mutely and leaned forward, placing the flowers and small box carefully among the other gifts. His cheeks burned hotter when he noticed the rest — bottles of wine, fancy boxes of sweets, a few golden trinkets clearly meant for display.

Not a single flower among them.

He was, it seemed, the only one to bring something for the mother.

Of course he was.

His throat went dry. “Oh,” he breathed under his breath, mortified. “Oh, no.”

Sirius glanced down at him, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “They’re beautiful, Harry. Don’t you dare think otherwise.”

“But no one else—”

“Which means she’ll remember you,” Sirius said, tone firm but kind. “And you’ve given her something no one else did — thoughtfulness. I told you, sweetheart, you’ll make an impression.”

Harry’s blush deepened, partly from embarrassment, partly from the affection in Sirius’s voice. He nodded quickly, forcing a shaky smile. “Right. Yes. An impression.”

“Exactly,” Sirius said with a wink, looping an arm loosely around Harry’s back to guide him away from the gift table. “Now, chin up. You’re not hiding behind me all day. Remember — you’re a Lord, not a ghost.”

Harry turned slightly at the sound of the Floo roaring again behind him. The flames flared a deep emerald, and one by one the rest of Sirius’s family stepped gracefully out of it.

Hesper emerged last, her bearing elegant and composed even as she dusted a bit of ash off her sleeve. Her presence immediately seemed to fill the space — calm but commanding, the steady authority of an alpha who didn’t need to raise her voice to draw attention. The moment her shoes touched the ground, her gaze swept over everyone, making sure no one was missing or looking out of sorts.

“Lycoris, straighten your collar, love. Regulus — cloak off and to a house elf before it wrinkles. Arcturus, your cuff’s half-rolled again.”

“Always so attentive,” Sirius teased.

Harry bit back a small laugh, the sight oddly comforting. There was something about Hesper that reminded him faintly of a cross between Molly Weasley’s fussing and McGonagall’s composed energy — all brisk affection wrapped in quiet dominance.

She turned her attention to Harry then, her expression softening immediately. “You look wonderful, Harry,” she said warmly, brushing a bit of invisible lint off his shoulder before placing her family’s neatly wrapped gifts of their own on the table.

Harry smiled awkwardly. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“None of that, dear. It’s Hesper,” she corrected gently, before ushering her brood forward.

Arcturus, however, barely made it past the hearth before his eyes landed across the room — and the world, apparently, narrowed to a single point.

Harry followed his line of sight, curious, and saw a delicate, fair-haired girl standing by the refreshment table, nervously fidgeting with the lace on her cuff. She couldn’t have been older than fifteen. When she noticed Arcturus, her entire face brightened, and before Harry could blink, Arcturus had scooped little Lucretia higher on his hip and all but bolted toward her.

“Merlin’s beard,” Sirius murmured, rubbing his temple.

“Who is that?” Harry asked, though he suspected he already knew.

“Melania McMillian,” Sirius sighed, his tone caught between fondness and exasperation. “My son's… partner.”

“The mother of Lucretia?”

“The very one.”

Harry watched as Arcturus practically lit up beside her, Melania fussing over Lucretia’s tiny curls while Arcturus beamed as though no one else existed. It was hard not to smile at the sight — two teenagers wrapped around a baby they adored.

Sirius groaned softly. “He’s sixteen, Harry. Sixteen. And acting like he’s my age and head of the family. I'm not even head of the family yet!"

Hesper, overhearing, swatted Sirius’s arm lightly. “He’s doing just fine,” she said firmly. “And so is she.”

Harry smiled faintly. “They seem… really happy.”

“They are,” she agreed, her expression softening as she watched the young family. “And that’s what matters.”

Sirius grumbled under his breath, but his eyes betrayed affection, a quiet pride he tried — and failed — to hide.

Harry blinked up at Sirius, still a little overwhelmed by the glittering crowd, the swirling perfumes and pheromones mingling in the air. The hum of voices, the shimmer of silks and enchanted lights, the careful posturing of highborn alphas and betas, it was all a maze he didn’t know how to walk.

He gave a sheepish little shrug. “So I’m a bit lost on what to do,” he confessed quietly. “I’ve read eight issued Ministry books on etiquette and proper conduct at gatherings, and I still have no clue how to navigate these scenarios. They make it sound like a chess game where one wrong step gets you exiled.”

Sirius threw back his head and laughed, rich and full. “Oh, sweetheart, that’s because it is a chess game,” he said, eyes sparkling with amusement. “Except half the players are pretending to be knights and the other half are pawns pretending they’re not. You’ll get used to it.”

Harry groaned softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s not reassuring.”

“It’s not meant to be,” he said cheerfully. He adjusted the fall of his robe and gestured around the room. “Well, I can take you with me around and about, introducing you to people. Normally, Hesper makes me stick to her side — she’s a little protective of me being an omega. Thinks I’ll be eaten alive by a roomful of gossiping alphas.”

Hesper, who was smoothing Regulus’s collar again, didn’t even look up as she said, “Protective is a generous way to phrase it. You are hopeless at remembering who you’ve offended at these events, Sirius.”

Harry hid a grin behind his hand as Sirius shot her a mock-offended look.

“I am not hopeless,” Sirius protested. “Merely selective in my memory.”

“That’s one way to describe it,” Hesper muttered dryly, finally turning to face them. “Us two did argue about this. Don’t make it sound like a calm conversation.”

Sirius sighed dramatically. “Fine. We argued. Loudly. But—” he slung an arm loosely around Harry’s shoulders “—we came to the decision that I can wander with you today. Show you the ropes, so to speak. Consider me your personal escort and your… male omega sort of uncle.”

Harry blinked up at him. “Male omega uncle?”

He gave a small, roguish grin. “Exactly. Every confused young omega needs one. I’ll teach you all the tricks they don’t put in those stiff Ministry pamphlets. Like how to exit a conversation before someone starts talking about their bloodline for twenty minutes, or how to make your scent calm but unapproachable when someone’s getting too curious.”

“That’s actually… really useful,” Harry admitted.

“See? I’m already invaluable.”

Hesper gave a small huff of laughter, shaking her head fondly. “Just don’t let him convince you that slipping alcohol into your tea is one of those lessons, dear.”

Harry smiled, feeling a flicker of warmth in his chest. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Sirius patted his back and winked. “Come on then, nephew. Time to make you look like you belong here — and to scandalize a few people while we’re at it.”

Harry blinked, following Sirius’s gaze toward the far end of the ballroom where the soft, polished chatter had taken on a sharper tone. Hesper, all calm authority and elegance, was striding toward a pair of older, stiff-backed betas and an anxious-looking Melania McMillian.

“Oh dear,” Harry murmured, watching as Hesper intercepted the McMillians, her expression polite but her shoulders squared like someone ready to duel with words.

Sirius made an unfortunate sound — half snort, half choke — and immediately clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes widening. “Oh, Merlin, I actually snorted.” His voice was muffled and mortified, but there was unmistakable pride behind it. “That’s my alpha,” he said, shaking his head. “Standing up for my family before poor Arcturus gets himself hexed into next week by Melania’s parents.”

Harry glanced over again. Hesper had reached the group now, speaking in low, measured tones, though her chin was lifted in that unmistakable Black way — all grace and defiance bundled into one perfectly composed stance. Melania’s mother looked like she wanted to argue but thought better of it, while Melania herself had her face hidden behind her hands, cheeks red with embarrassment.

“They were too busy gushing over Lucretia to notice Hesper headed their way,” Harry said softly, trying not to laugh as the baby reached for Melania’s mother’s shiny brooch, utterly oblivious to the tension brewing above her.

Sirius’s eyes crinkled with amusement. “That’s probably the only reason no one’s yelling yet. My granddaughter could probably stop a duel with those eyes.”

Harry smiled faintly. “She’s adorable.”

“She knows it,” Sirius said proudly, then glanced at the scene again. “And Hesper knows it too — she’ll use it to her advantage. Watch, she’ll have them softened in ten seconds flat. But—” He turned abruptly to Harry, lowering his voice with mock urgency. “—let’s rush away before we’re dragged into it. The moment she finishes smoothing things over, she’ll want to parade us over there to prove how reasonable and united we all are.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “She’d do that?”

“Oh, without hesitation,” Sirius said, already steering him toward the opposite side of the room. “And I, for one, have no desire to stand next to Arcturus while Hesper delivers a lecture about ‘communication and responsibility’ in front of the McMillians.”

Harry gave a small laugh as Sirius ushered him along, both of them weaving through clusters of nobles. “You sound like you’ve been through that before.”

“More than once,” Sirius said grimly, though his grin betrayed his fondness. “Hesper could make a grown minister apologize for breathing too loudly if she thought it offended someone. Come on, let’s hide near the refreshment table — it’s neutral territory.”

The refreshment table stretched nearly the length of the room. A long, polished expanse of gleaming oak laden with crystal decanters, trays of finger foods, and an artful display of sugared fruit that shimmered under the floating candles above. Harry blinked at it all, a bit overwhelmed but doing his best to look as though he belonged there.

Sirius leaned in conspiratorially, his voice low and warm against the hum of the crowd. “Right, so... a quick crash course in pureblood birthday etiquette. We mingle at the start, that’s this bit. Lots of polite conversation, subtle boasting, everyone pretending they haven’t been waiting for the cake since they arrived.”

Harry stifled a smile.

“Then,” he continued, reaching for a glass of sparkling juice and handing it to Harry before taking one himself, “the family hosting the event makes their proper entrance. You’ll see Heather first, of course — Lady Travers, for all intents and purposes, even if she prefers not to use the title. Tobias will be beside her, and little Charlus will no doubt be toddling, very wobbly, between them with the other Potters following close behind in case he makes a break for the desserts.”

Harry couldn’t help grinning at the image. “Sounds like something I’d do.”

Sirius chuckled. “You and half the toddlers I’ve ever met. After that, there’s a bit of ceremony. They’ll present the cake — always overly elaborate, of course. Usually has the family crest or something dreadful in sugarwork. Charlus will theoretically cut the first slice—” Sirius waggled his fingers in air quotes “—but Heather will probably guide his little hand, or just do it herself to spare the cake from a complete massacre.”

Harry laughed softly, taking a sip of his drink.

“Then,” the older omega went on, “a different cake — the real cake, the one meant to be eaten — will be brought out by house-elves or waiters. That’s the point where everyone pretends not to have been staring at it for half an hour, and conversation starts to loosen. Once people have cake, the wine flows more freely, the formality eases, and the gathering becomes more… comfortable.”

Harry tilted his head, watching the way Sirius gestured — relaxed, practiced, clearly used to these events. “And then everyone leaves?”

“Eventually,” Sirius said with a grin. “There’s no official signal, people just start to drift off once the host looks tired or the wine runs low. Some will stay to talk politics, others to gossip, some just to show they can. But don’t worry, I’ll let you know when it’s safe to make a graceful exit.”

Harry smiled faintly, a flicker of nerves easing from his shoulders. “You make it sound like a military operation.”

He raised his glass in mock salute. “That’s because it is. Every pureblood gathering is just a battle disguised as a polite social function. The trick, my dear nephew, is to keep your footing, hold your glass like you know what you’re doing, and never — under any circumstances — get cornered by an elderly matron who wants to tell you about her eligible granddaughter or alpha grandson."

Harry snorted into his drink. “I’ll try to remember that.”

“Good,” Sirius said warmly, clinking his glass lightly against Harry’s. “And don’t worry, sweetheart — if anyone tries to bother you, I’ll step in. Omegas stick together, after all.”

Harry’s blush returned, faint but undeniable, though the nervous flutter in his chest had softened into something lighter — maybe even excitement — as the room began to buzz with anticipation for the hosts’ arrival.

They had only been standing there a few minutes, Harry quietly people-watching and Sirius commenting under his breath about who was wearing last year’s robe cut, when a polite, almost musical voice called out—

“Lord Black! Lord... Peverell!”

Harry stiffened. Sirius’s hand came to rest lightly at the small of his back again, steadying him. They both turned to see a tall witch in soft purple robes approaching, two young women trailing behind her. Her silver-blonde hair was pinned up in elegant curls; she carried herself with the easy poise of someone born into etiquette.

“Lady Selwyn,” Sirius greeted with a smooth smile. “It’s been an age.”

“Too long,” she said, extending a gloved hand first to him, then to Harry. “And this must be the young Lord Peverell. You’ve caused quite a stir, my dear—though don’t let that frighten you. The entire hall is simply curious to finally see the mysterious omega everyone’s been whispering about.”

Harry blinked, flushing to the tips of his ears. “Ah— er— thank you, Lady Selwyn. It’s, um, nice to meet you.”

Her smile was approving, almost kind. “Polite and modest. How refreshing. I was just telling my nieces that not every debuting lord remembers to mind his manners.”

The two girls giggled behind her, bowing slightly. “It’s an honour, Lord Peverell,” one of them said.

“Likewise,” Harry managed, gripping his glass a little tighter.

Sirius chuckled softly beside him, his tone deliberately light. “Careful, Lady Selwyn, you’ll frighten him off before he’s even had a chance to try the canapés.”

“Oh, nonsense. He’s far too charming to run,” she said with an airy laugh. Then, lowering her voice a touch, “Do enjoy yourself this afternoon, lord. And if anyone gives you trouble, simply tell them I’m watching.”

Harry could only nod, cheeks pink.

When she and her nieces moved on, Sirius leaned closer, murmuring so only Harry could hear. “Well done, sweetheart. You handled that beautifully.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Exactly,” Sirius said, grin widening. “You stayed polite, you didn’t bolt, and you didn’t spill your drink. That’s a perfect start in pure-blood society.”

Before Harry could reply, another group was already approaching—an older wizard and his beta son, both wearing the rich green and bronze of House Flint. The elder bowed slightly.

“Lord Black. Lord Peverell. It’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance,” he said to Harry. “Your recent article caused quite a discussion in the Wizengamot lounge. We’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

Harry blinked. “My... article?”

Sirius smoothly stepped in. “He means the coverage in The Prophet,” he said lightly, eyes warning the man to tread carefully. “Yes, Lord Peverell has been quite the topic lately. Now, how are the Quidditch leagues this season, Flint? Still claiming your son will outfly the entire Chudley team?”

The older man laughed, and the tension broke as Sirius expertly steered the conversation away, giving Harry a moment to breathe.

As they moved on, Sirius murmured, amused, “See? Survive the first few introductions and the rest get easier. Just keep smiling, nod when they talk nonsense, and let me handle the blustering alphas.”

Harry gave a soft, grateful chuckle, shoulders relaxing a little more. “I think I can do that.”

“Good,” Sirius said, clinking his glass lightly against Harry’s again before guiding him toward the next set of guests weaving their way across the marble floor.

They had barely rounded a cluster of murmuring betas when a ripple of hushed laughter drew their attention. Harry followed Sirius’s gaze and froze. Across the ballroom, a man — impeccably dressed in deep navy robes with bronze embroidery — had paused mid-conversation with another noble, and now his attention was fixed entirely on Harry.

He was about twenty-five, though his precise age was difficult to pin down beneath the sheen of polished charm and carefully groomed hair. His pale blue eyes glimmered with amusement as they slowly swept over Harry, lingering a touch too long on his delicate hands and the faint flush that still colored his cheeks. He smiled — a slow, measured smile, the sort of smile that suggested he already knew he was making an impression.

“Oh, Lord Black,” the man called, voice smooth, cultured, and faintly lilting, as if he were testing the resonance of the room itself. “And who is this? The new Lord Peverell, I presume? But… such a refined creature! One almost expects a harp to follow in his wake.”

Harry’s stomach lurched at the word 'creature'. The man’s eyes didn’t just look at him — they sensed him, tracing the lines of his shoulders, the curve of his neck, the subtle tilt of his chin. Every careful step Harry had taken to appear composed seemed suddenly inadequate, a flimsy veil over the way his instincts stirred uncomfortably at the intensity of the attention.

Sirius, ever quick, shifted closer, his arm brushing lightly against Harry’s back in a grounding gesture. “Ah,” Sirius said lightly, though there was a sharpened edge beneath the charm, “you must be one of the… more enthusiastic admirers. Harry, this is—” He left the introduction suspended, letting the man’s gaze linger, a silent warning threaded in his posture.

The man swept forward with a languid elegance, his movements precise, calculated. “I am Heir Thornebury,” he said, bowing with the exaggerated courtesy of someone accustomed to having every eye follow him. “And you, my dear Peverell, are simply… radiant. One hears of the Daily Prophet’s nonsense, of course, but nothing, I assure you, prepares one for… reality.”

Harry swallowed, heat prickling the back of his neck. He looked to Sirius, who’s expression had tensed imperceptibly — the subtle stiffening of his jaw and the narrowing of his eyes suggesting he understood the gravity of the situation immediately.

Sirius murmured, low enough only for Harry to hear, “Don’t let him get under your skin. He’s a beta — flashy, entitled, and entirely convinced he can coax any omega into compliments. Ignore, nod, smile, and stay grounded.”

But Heir Thornebury did not allow for that simplicity. He extended a hand toward Harry, fingers long and elegantly tapered, not waiting for Harry to respond before bringing it lightly to his own lips in a mock bow. “The scent of one’s first impression,” he murmured, voice smooth silk over velvet, “is one one never forgets. And yours — exquisite, my lord. Absolutely exquisite.”

Harry’s cheeks flamed hotter. He tried to take a step back, but Sirius’s subtle hold prevented him from stepping away entirely. He glanced at Sirius, panic flickering in his pale eyes.

Lord Thornebury’s gaze lingered again, deliberately slow, as if savoring every detail. “And what a shame,” he said lightly, “that someone so delicate must rely on… guardianship. One imagines you could be the delight of every ballroom if only given the chance.”

Harry froze, sensing the underlying double meaning. Every sentence seemed to brush against his omega nature, teasing, flirting, poking at instincts he had learned to control.

Sirius’s hand tightened ever so slightly at the small of Harry’s back, the subtle, almost imperceptible signal of protection. He leaned forward, voice deceptively light, “Heir Thornebury, you are quite… forward. Perhaps you should save such observations for someone more… suitable?”

Thornebury tilted his head, a faintly mischievous glimmer in his eye. “Ah, but I find that the most exquisite creatures often require… encouragement. One cannot help but admire them, no?” His voice was a caress, almost teasingly intimate.

Harry felt the familiar flare of panic and irritation rise in his chest. Fuck it, he told himself firmly, letting his own resolve sharpen. If this is going to become public eventually, I might as well say it now.

“Thank you for your admiration,” Harry said, his voice steadier than he expected, “but I already have a suitor.”

The words barely left his lips before the faintest collective gasp rippled through the nearby crowd. Harry could feel eyes prickling his back, overhearing, and he clenched his hands slightly to hide the flutter of nerves that raced up his spine.

“Your… suitor?” Heir Thornebury’s brow lifted in obvious surprise. “And your suitor is not present?”

Harry shook his head, the flush on his cheeks deepening but his voice firm. “I am not sure if he was invited.”

The man’s smile tightened ever so slightly, but his amusement remained. “Why ever not? Is he not part of a prestigious family?”

Harry drew a small, cool breath, letting his confidence grow along with his words. “I think you’ll find his family is a lot more prestigious than your own.”

A faint flicker of irritation crossed Thornebury’s elegant features. “And which family might this be?” he asked, his voice carefully even, as though trying to hide the slight snap of pique.

His lips curved in the faintest of satisfied smiles. “The Scamander family.”

For a moment, he thought he had won. Thornebury’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, but he did not back off. The tension hung in the air, charged and delicate. Harry felt the prickle of stares from everyone nearby, aware of the drama unfolding in subtle glances and suppressed murmurs.

Then, as if summoned by some divine timing, a tall, lean figure appeared at Harry’s shoulder, voice calm but unmistakably firm: “Are you talking of me?”

Harry’s eyes widened, almost forgetting to breathe. His pulse skipped. So Newt’s family was invited! Relief, awe, and a sudden surge of gratitude washed over him in a rush so hot and bright he could have nearly kissed the man on the spot. He could feel Sirius’s subtle grounding pheromones at his back, steady and reassuring, but all he wanted was to wrap his arms around Newt and refuse to let him go.

Thornebury froze, the faintest flicker of surprise crossing his face. “Ah,” he said finally, his tone trying to recover its casual, teasing lilt, “so this is the famous… suitor?”

Harry swallowed hard, cheeks blazing, barely able to speak. “Y-yes,” he managed, voice small but resolute. “He is my… suitor.”

Newt’s eyes softened slightly, a quiet warmth in their gaze, and Harry felt it like a shield around him, steady and protective. The faint scent of alpha pheromones — woodsy, calm, grounding — drifted to Harry, steadying the thrum of panic that had been threatening to undo him entirely.

Thornebury’s elegant composure faltered, his hand falling away from the gesture of near-flirtation he had been performing. “Well… how inconvenient,” he said lightly, though the tension under his words betrayed his irritation at being so publicly rebuffed.

Harry, emboldened by Newt’s presence, stood a little taller, letting his own aura — quiet, confident, fiercely protected — radiate outward. “Yes,” he said simply, his voice firmer now, “and I suggest you mind your attentions elsewhere.”

Sirius, beside Harry, let out a low, amused huff of relief. “About time someone told him,” he murmured, still keeping a protective hand near Harry’s back.

Newt stepped closer, subtly shielding Harry from the beta's angle. “I imagine your attentions are better directed toward someone with no… prior obligations,” he said, voice calm, measured, but carrying the unmistakable authority of an alpha who claimed his omega.

Thornebury’s smile returned, but this time it was carefully polite, not predatory. “Ah,” he said with a faint bow of his head, “I see. Well, I shall not overstay my welcome.”

Harry let out a quiet breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His shoulders relaxed for the first time in what felt like hours. Sirius nudged him gently, whispering, “See? Nothing like a strong alpha swooping in at the right moment.”

Harry’s gaze flicked to Newt, and a faint, grateful smile tugged at his lips. I could kiss him for saving me right now, he thought, feeling a warmth that had nothing to do with the room or the music.

Newt’s lean hand brushed slightly against Harry’s sleeve in a gentle, grounding contact.

He let himself lean subtly into the reassurance, letting the heat of embarrassment and tension ease, replaced by a heady mix of awe, relief, and… something deeper, something that made his chest tighten in a way that was both nerve-wracking and thrilling.

The crowd around them murmured and shifted, some whispering speculation, but Harry barely noticed. 

Sirius’s gaze flicked between Harry and Newt, eyebrows raised in both amusement and mild exasperation. “So… are you going to introduce me, Harry?” he asked, his voice light but carrying that teasing undertone that always made Harry’s cheeks warm.

Harry blinked at him, flustered. “You’re a Black, Sirius! Everyone knows you!” His voice was pitched a little higher than intended, and he tried to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear, conscious of the small gathering of curious eyes now drifting toward them.

The alpha chuckled softly, the sound low and reassuring, and extended a hand. “I’m Newton Scamander,” he said, his tone calm, refined, and perfectly measured, “Harry’s suitor. It’s very nice to meet you.”

Sirius, eyes glinting with both curiosity and subtle appraisal, took the hand. The firm, polite shake was measured, deliberate — a small test of sorts. “It’s nice to meet you too,” he said smoothly. “I’m Heir Sirius Black the Second. Harry’s told me a lot about you.”

Newt’s pale eyebrows lifted faintly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Hopefully only good things,” he said, his eyes briefly flicking toward Harry, who was attempting — not entirely successfully — to look nonchalant.

“Considering I was there when the marriage contract arrived…” Sirius said, his voice lowering just enough to carry a teasing edge.

Newt groaned, letting out a low, dramatic sigh that was both exasperated and amused. “That’s my mother for you,” he muttered, glancing sideways at Harry as if to silently apologize for her interference in the intricacies of their courting arrangement.

Harry’s curiosity flared, and he could feel the nervous excitement tingling in his chest. “Newt… your family is here?” he asked softly, voice full of awe.

Newt’s lips curved faintly. “Just my father and I,” he replied, eyes calm, steady, and reassuring. “Theseus has work, and Mother is tending to the hippogriffs. We may have a new member come nightfall.”

Green eyes widened, heart skipping. “A… new member?”

He gave a small, knowing smile. “Yes. You can meet the baby hippogriff soon enough. For now, focus on surviving the party without flustering yourself further.” His tone was light, teasing, but the warmth behind it grounded Harry instantly.

Sirius gave a subtle, approving nod, clearly impressed by the alpha’s composure. “Well then, Harry,” he said, giving him a playful nudge, “looks like you’ve got yourself quite the… capable bodyguard.”

Harry couldn’t help but smile, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “I suppose I do,” he admitted quietly, letting his gaze drift to Newt, who offered another reassuring, faintly amused smile.

Chapter Text

In the grand, sunlit sitting room of Potter Manor, soft curtains diffusing the afternoon light, preparations were underway. Servers rather than elves bustled discreetly about, ensuring every detail of the birthday celebration was in place — silver trays polished, crystal decanters gleaming, and the soft rustle of silk and satin robes filling the air with a quiet hum of activity.

Little Charlus Potter waddled about in the center of the room, a tiny navy-blue suit tailored perfectly to his toddler frame. The gold buttons gleamed, the collar sat just so, and a miniature waistcoat completed the ensemble. Every time he tottered unsteadily, he squeaked with delight, utterly unaware of the fuss he had inspired.

Clarissa Potter, hovering nearby with a soft lace handkerchief in hand, cooed and fussed over him. “Oh, my word, he looks positively exquisite! Not that it’s my son, of course,” she added quickly, glancing at Heather with an apologetic smile, “but really, how can one not gush over such perfection?”

Heather Potter laughed softly, smoothing her own gown with delicate fingers. “He is adorable,” she admitted, “and I don’t mind one bit that someone else’s heart is caught up in him. Look at him wobbling about like a little lord of the manor!”

From the main room, Tobias Travers reentered, robes slightly rumpled from arranging the final seating and straightening the silverware.

“How’s the crowd? Is it too big?” Heather asked her husband, glancing toward the doorway with a mixture of curiosity and mild anxiety.

Tobias exhaled, adjusting his cufflinks with a distracted hand. “A bit big,” he admitted. The faint crease of concern between his brows softened as he smiled at Charlus, who had managed to grab one of the corner tassels of his tiny waistcoat and was tugging it enthusiastically.

Fleamont Potter, standing near the hearth with his usual air of refined exasperation, scoffed. “It’s huge,” he said, waving a hand vaguely toward the doors, as though the sheer scale of the gathering was physically pressing in on them.

Henry, tilted his head with sharp interest. “Is Lord Peverell here?” he asked, voice tinged with genuine anticipation.

Tobias smiled knowingly, just a flicker of amusement in his gaze. “He’s causing a stir,” he said lightly, leaning back against the polished edge of the sideboard. 

“Oh dear, what kind of a stir?” Clarissa asked, leaning slightly forward, eyes alight with curiosity.

he smiled knowingly, just a flicker of amusement in his gaze. “He’s with the omega Sirius Black, I believe he’s your friend, Henry, but that’s only half of it.”

“Half of it?” Clarissa echoed, eyebrows raised.

Tobias chuckled softly, shaking his head. “A beta — Heir Thornebury, I believe — has made his… admiration rather forward. And… get this… Peverell’s suitor stepped in.”

Heather’s eyes widened, and she nearly dropped the tray of finger sandwiches she had been adjusting. “He has a suitor? Tobias, please share!”

“It’s Newton Scamander,” Tobias said with a small grin, enjoying the effect of the revelation.

Clarissa’s eyes went wide. “Thaddeus’s boy? The one who’s obsessed with creatures?”

“Oh, Merlin,” Fleamont interjected, pinching the bridge of his nose. “He was in Hufflepuff, the year above mine.”

“What was he like?” She asked her son, leaning in with a mixture of fascination and maternal glee.

Fleamont wrinkled his nose thoughtfully. “Very quiet, kind of awkward. I don’t know him personally, but I heard he got a month of detention for going into the Forbidden Forest to talk to centaurs about his classwork. He was just pleased he got to talk to them. My friend Angelia was obsessed with him when he presented as an alpha, though.”

“And what happened?” Henry asked, his curiosity barely contained, knowing full well his son would have a humorous anecdote.

“She asked him to Hogsmeade for a date,” Fleamont replied, smirking, “the Hog’s Head, I think. And he avoided all eye contact and said he had to feed the flobberworms… and walked off.”

A ripple of laughter ran through the sitting room. Heather clapped her hands together, clearly delighted. “Oh, that’s adorable! and already a suitor for Peverell? That’s going to be quite the pairing.”

Clarissa shook her head, smiling fondly at Henry. “I can only imagine how Peverell is reacting to all this attention. And with Sirius Black there as well… oh, it must be rather overwhelming for the poor omega!”

Henry’s lips curved in amusement. “He’s managing, I’m sure. But you can bet he’ll be turning a few heads while he does it.”

Fleamont leaned back, chuckling quietly. “I’d pay to see Thornebury's face when Scamander stepped in. The perfect public rebuff.”

“Well, let’s hope it all stays polite… at least until Charlus has had his cake. After that, anything goes.”

“Shall we head out? Cut the cake?” Heather asked, brushing her fingers gently through Charlus’s messy chocolate-streaked hair. The little boy looked radiant, his earlier frustration with his suit softened away by subtle charms that made him beam again.

“Is he okay to walk out?” Clarissa asked, crouching slightly to watch him.

“He would be okay,” she replied, “but I think I’ll carry him.” With that, she scooped Charlus into her arms. He screamed a tiny bit at first, fingers wriggling, before settling against her chest, giggling softly as the warmth of her hold reassured him.

“Are we all ready?” she asked, glancing around the sunlit room.

Henry’s gaze swept over the assembled family, a hint of amusement in his expression. “Fleamont,” he said, voice firm but gentle, “be on your best behaviour. Even if you see your friends.”

“Yes, Father, I know,” Fleamont said, straightening his back with exaggerated formality, though a mischievous glint lingered in his eye. He smoothed his sleeves and tried to ignore the butterflies of excitement fluttering in his chest.

Heather adjusted Charlus in her arms, smoothing the wrinkles from his tiny suit, and offered a small smile. “All set, then. Everyone follow me — the guests are arriving, and it’s time to make a proper entrance.”

Henry gave a final nod, tapping his fingers lightly against his side as if counting a silent beat. Tobias and Clarissa flanked them, ready to guide the flow of the gathering, while Fleamont followed closely, stiff but eager.

Heather led them into the main hall, the polished floor gleaming under the floating candles. Immediately, the chatter dimmed as every guest turned to watch the little man. Heather’s smile was warm but commanding as she addressed the room. “Thank you all for coming,” she began, her voice carrying clearly, “and for all your well wishes for little Charlus.”

The crowd murmured politely, some bowing their heads, others nodding with smiles. Charlus wiggled happily in Heather’s arms, eyes wide with excitement, before she carefully set him on the small platform before the cake.

Guiding his tiny hands, Heather helped him slice into the confection. Charlus’s tongue poked out in concentration, as though he were performing some intricate magical ritual. A few chuckles ran through the assembled crowd, but it was all good-natured amusement.

Once the cake was cut, the room erupted in a wizards’ version of the Happy Birthday song, voices clinking with charm-laden harmonies that carried lightly through the hall. Charlus clapped along with pure delight, and Heather exhaled in relief — the little one wasn’t upset by the noise this year, a small but significant victory.

As the singing ended, servers moved through the room, carrying silver trays laden with neatly cut slices of cake. Guests began sampling the sweets, murmuring compliments, and conversing in low tones.

The strict formality of the opening moments loosened slightly, and the rest of the ground floor was opened to the crowd. Guests began to drift about, settling into small groups, whispering to neighbors, or navigating the polished expanse in carefully measured steps.

Fleamont, liberated at last from the adult attention, spotted his friends in a corner near a decorative hearth and made a dash toward them. His steps were quick, almost bouncing in excitement, as he found his intended, Euphemia. Her gown shimmered softly under the candlelight, and she was laughing lightly with one of his friends.

“Euphemia!” he called, trying to sound composed but failing spectacularly.

She turned, eyes bright, and smiled. “Monty! I wondered when you’d escape the watchful eyes of your parents.”

He grinned, feeling the familiar rush of adolescent excitement. “I had to,” he admitted. “They’re… a little overbearing right now.”

“Just a little?” she teased, reaching for his hand. “I think the word is entirely.”

He laughed softly, letting her take his hand. “Perhaps. But I managed to survive. And now I get to be with you.”

Euphemia’s smile deepened.

Meanwhile, the rest of the Potters were still being hounded by guests offering congratulations, their polite chatter and repeated bows creating a near-constant hum around the family. Heather smiled and nodded, Charlus perched securely in her arms, as she accepted praises for the little boy’s birthday. Clarissa and Tobias traded polite smiles and small talk, while Fleamont and Euphemia had drifted off to their own corner, hands entwined.

Gradually, the crowd’s attention shifted, allowing a brief lull in the congratulatory chaos. That’s when Henry’s sharp eyes caught movement at the far side of the room. Sirius Black was striding forward, confident, tall, and entirely at ease, his posture perfectly composed for the occasion. At his side, the short omega he knew as Lord Harrison Peverell — Harry — followed, moving with an elegance that made Henry’s lips curl into a small, involuntary smile.

It was clear immediately that Harry’s suitor had already drifted away, probably whisked off by his father or another member of the Scamander family. Henry let the thought pass with a quiet chuckle; the pair’s dynamics were already fascinating enough.

Then, to everyone’s mild surprise, Harry actually curtsied. He dipped low, eyes flicking nervously up toward the Potters. Heather and Clarissa blinked, momentarily stunned by the formal gesture, while Tobias raised an eyebrow in approval.

Sirius laughed, a low, warm sound that seemed to draw attention without forcing it, and stepped forward to greet Henry and the rest of the Potters. “It’s a beautiful celebration,” he said smoothly, inclining his head. “Charlus looks very well on his third birthday.”

Before Sirius could bend down to congratulate the birthday boy properly, Harry squealed softly, a little squeak of wonder slipping out. 

Sirius turned to nudge Harry gently with his elbow, amusement flickering across his sharp features. “Steady there, Harry,” he murmured, voice low and teasing.

Harry blushed furiously, cheeks tinged pink. He straightened quickly, lifting his gaze to meet the Potters. “Lord Peverell,” he murmured politely, voice barely above a whisper. Then, unable to resist, he added, “I’m sorry… I couldn’t help myself. Charlus is just… so adorable.”

Heather smiled, softening immediately, her eyes twinkling as she held the little boy closer. “Why, thank you, Lord Peverell,” she said warmly. “He is very proud to hear it.”

“Please, call me Harry or Harrison,” Harry said quickly, voice soft but earnest, cheeks still faintly flushed.

“You tell everyone that,” Sirius interjected with a teasing grin, glancing down at Harry.

Clarissa’s expression softened, her tone warm. “You are family to us, Harry. We hope to get to know you better.”

Tobias leaned slightly closer, eyes narrowing in mild curiosity. “And your scent alone is somehow calming my son,” he said, nodding toward Charlus, who was now wriggling happily in Heather’s arms. “I don’t know how you’re doing that.”

Green eyes went wide, panic flickering across his features. “Oh dear… I never got the hang of controlling my scent,” he admitted, hands rising slightly in nervous self-consciousness.

Clarissa’s laugh was soft and reassuring. “It’s calming him, dear, don’t worry,” she said gently, brushing a curl behind Charlus’s ear.

Harry let out a small, nervous smile, trying to hide the tension. He watched as Charlus reached out grabby hands toward him, squealing softly, and Heather laughed at the display. His heart thumped a little faster, a warm tug of affection spreading through him as he bent slightly to engage with the little boy.

Sirius, watching the interaction with quiet amusement, nudged Harry lightly. “Has Fleamont run off to Euphemia?” he asked, voice low but teasing.

“As always,” Henry replied dryly, though a small smile tugged at his lips. Then he turned his gaze toward the pair. “I must say, I am shocked you both know each other,” he added, nodding between Harry and Sirius.

Sirius shrugged casually, though the glint in his eye betrayed his amusement. “Oh, Henry, the world is smaller than you think. And when you meet the right people… well, some connections are inevitable.”

Harry flushed again, mumbling softly, “We… we’ve known each other a little while. Um… very helpful to have someone like myself around.”

Clarissa smiled knowingly, as if she already understood more than Harry realized. “Helpful indeed,” she said lightly. “It seems the two of you make quite the… calming pair, don’t you?”

Sirius chuckled, brushing a stray speck of chocolate from Charlus’s cheek. “Calming, yes. Though I’d argue he’s more than capable of holding his own in most situations,” he said, nodding toward Harry with fond amusement.

Harry’s blush deepened, but he gave a small, shy smile.

Arcturus came hurtling forward, little Lucretia clutched to his chest, her tiny legs kicking in excitement. “Father,” he called breathlessly, cheeks flushed with exertion and slight embarrassment, “I— I can’t find Mother. She’s probably… um… attending to her friends,” he admitted, voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper as he gestured vaguely toward the distant cluster of adults. “I was wondering if you could… take Lucretia whilst I go with my school friends.” Then, as if embarrassed by his forwardness, he glanced quickly at the Potters, bowing his head politely. “Many congratulations to little Charlus,” he added, voice soft but formal.

The Potters smiled warmly, Heather's hand fluttering briefly toward him. “Thank you, Arcturus,” she said, her tone gentle, indulgent, as though acknowledging both his respect and the awkwardness of a young teenager juggling family obligations and manners.

Sirius, without hesitation, held out his arms. “Of course, son,” he said warmly, smiling as he took the little girl, who squirmed with mild delight and curiosity.

Arcturus’s shoulders relaxed, and he gave a quick nod. “Thank you, Father,” he whispered before darting off toward the other children, hair and robes bouncing as he went, cheeks still flushed with the effort.

Before Harry could even react, Sirius, in one seamless movement that looked almost too natural, deposited Lucretia into Harry’s arms. The little girl giggled, tiny hands patting at Harry’s chest as she wiggled happily. Harry froze for the barest moment—he had only ever played with Lucretia twice before—but instinct took over.

He shifted the toddler carefully, cradling her firmly with one arm while maintaining an effortless, protective hold. His other hand hovered near her, coaxing her attention toward the small toy she held, and he released a faint stream of calming pheromones without conscious thought. Lucretia responded instantly, curling closer and babbling in gurgles of delight as she grasped at the toy. Harry’s breath caught slightly—he wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing, yet somehow it felt instinctively right.

Heather, observing the exchange, smiled warmly. “You can take her to the playroom if you like,” she said, gesturing down a short corridor lined with plush rugs, miniature chairs, and enchanted toys designed to keep small children entertained. “A few other toddlers will be there, and we were going to take Charlus as well.”

“Oh- um—” Harry began, still adjusting his hold on Lucretia, unsure of proper protocol while balancing the little girl’s squirming delight and his own nervousness.

Heather’s tone softened but carried that familiar note of gentle insistence. “I insist. You can follow me.” With a polite, reassuring smile, she turned and began walking toward the playroom, and Harry carefully followed, one hand still firmly cradling Lucretia, eyes flicking nervously back toward Sirius.

Sirius, noticing the glance, let out a quiet, amused laugh. “Don’t worry, Harry,” he murmured, tone teasing. “She won’t bite. Not really. And you’re doing perfectly.”

Harry swallowed hard, trying to hide the nervous flush creeping up his neck. “I— I just… want to make sure she’s safe,” he admitted, his voice soft but earnest.

“I know,” he said, voice low, fond. “And that’s why you’re good at this, trust me.”

Clarissa had turned toward her husband’s friend, curiosity sparkling in her pale eyes. “How did you two meet?” she asked Sirius, tilting her head slightly, voice polite but tinged with genuine curiosity.

“Through Isla,” Sirius answered smoothly, a brief glint of amusement in his eye.

“Ah, she did reply to our invitation for Harrison,” Clarissa said, nodding thoughtfully.

Sirius’s grin widened slightly, mischievous, and he leaned in just a fraction, voice soft but teasing. “If you call him Harrison, his eye will twitch,” he said, glancing back at the doorway where Harry had disappeared with Lucretia. “No matter if he said you could call him that. He much prefers Harry.”

The three adults — Clarissa, Tobias, and Henry — all laughed lightly at that, shaking their heads in amused agreement. Henry’s lips curved in a small smile.

“I must part,” Sirius said, arching an amused eyebrow as he shifted his weight slightly, “I feel like I’m holding you all up.”

“Nonsense,” Heather replied warmly, smoothing Charlus’s tiny sleeve. “Please, help us escape this… crowded hall of endless compliments. Shall we all follow to the playroom?”

Sirius’s grin widened, clearly delighted by the notion of retreat. “Lead the way, then.”

The group threaded carefully down the corridor, polished parquet flooring giving way to softer carpets and the distant, happy shrieks of children at play. As the playroom door swung open, Harry’s eyes widened slightly, and then softened. There he was — already ensconced in a small corner, cloak wrapped snugly around him like a protective shield. The fabric hugged him a little tighter than usual, as if he was cocooning himself from the dizzying social chaos outside, though the effect was almost imperceptibly comforting.

Lucretia and Charlus were in the midst of an improvised game before Heather, rolling a small leather ball back and forth with determined seriousness, their tiny legs churning on the floor with unsteady balance. The squeals of delight filled the room, a joyful cacophony, and Harry’s gentle presence somehow grounded it all.

There were three other toddlers as well — a Prewitt, a Weasley, and an Abbot, each with only one parent nearby, the other parent clearly lost in the swirl of mingling adults somewhere on the other side of the house. And yet, despite the chaotic mix of tiny, shrieking energies, every single toddler seemed to respond instinctively to Harry.

The air subtly shifted around him; a faint warmth, soothing and unassuming, spread like a gentle current. Lucretia leaned into him as he carefully rolled the ball toward her, a small giggle escaping her lips. Charlus, in turn, pounced after it, legs wobbling slightly, and squealed with delight when Harry made a soft, encouraging noise.

The other toddlers, despite their differences in age and parentage, immediately gravitated toward him. The Prewitt boy tugged at the edge of Harry’s cloak, the Weasley girl babbled animatedly as she bounced on her toes, and the Abbot toddler crawled forward with a fascinated little frown, reaching for Harry’s hand.

Clarissa glanced at the scene, smiling fondly. “It seems he has quite the effect on them,” she murmured. Charlus’s small hand slapped at the ball again, and Lucretia followed with perfect timing, each child rolling and chasing with a mixture of focus and delight.

Harry, slightly flushed, bent forward carefully, letting the younger children engage with him without overwhelming them. His free hand gently guided the ball, rolling it toward the Prewitt boy. “Careful now,” he said softly, voice low and melodic. “Here you go. Roll it gently.”

The toddler responded immediately, his tiny hands gripping the ball with exaggerated concentration. The Weasley girl bounced closer, arms raised in encouragement, and the Abbot crawled faster than seemed reasonable, gurgling excitedly. Each small movement seemed to amplify the warmth radiating from Harry, his pheromones weaving a subtle, invisible net of calm over the cluster of children.

Heather chuckled softly, adjusting Charlus in her arms. “It’s almost as if he’s… orchestrating them without moving much at all,” she murmured to herself, eyes glancing down at Harry.

Harry, oblivious to his effect, simply hugged the little ones closer when they toppled toward him, adjusting the cloak to keep Lucretia snug against his chest. The room hummed with chaotic laughter and squeals, yet somehow, within the eye of that small storm, Harry remained perfectly composed, eyes bright, cheeks flushed, and hands gentle.

The four of them settled into the sofa set in the corner, a small cluster of low tables separating them from the chaos of toddlers rolling balls, squealing, and tumbling on the plush carpet. The three other parents, sitting on a neighboring sofa, were engrossed in conversation amongst themselves, their voices polite but light, leaving the corner occupied by the Potters and Sirius to feel unusually intimate in comparison.

“This playroom is… quite spacious,” Sirius remarked, leaning back against the velvet cushions, one ankle casually draped over the other knee. The others were all used to Sirius not acting very omega-like, or as omega expectations held.

“It’s usually a sitting room,” Henry said, voice calm and deliberate, “but for events such as this, we transform it. So the toddlers may come and play without endangering themselves or the adults.”

“That’s a clever arrangement,” Sirius replied, nodding appreciatively. “Oh, it seems Harry is realising he’s become the toddlers’ favourite already.” He tilted his head toward the area where the Prewitt, Weasley, and Abbot children had clustered around Harry, the faint scent of his calm pheromones subtly organizing the chaos into something approaching order.

Heather’s laughter drifted from the center of the room, muffled but undeniably pleased, and Tobias smirked faintly. “My wife seems very amused,” he remarked. “How is Lord— Harry,” he corrected himself quickly, “doing? It must be challenging for him without any family of his own. We hope he will soon feel comfortable enough to settle into our company.”

Clarissa inclined her head, voice measured but warm. “We plan to invite him to a more private meeting on another day,” she explained. “A setting where he can feel less… observed.”

Sirius hummed thoughtfully, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. “He’s… he acts like he’s alright,” he said, lowering his voice. There was a faint catch in his tone, subtle enough to indicate care but not alarm. “Though I don’t think I should tell you this… he was very clearly at the very least… neglected by his adoptive family.”

Henry blinked, a frown forming as he absorbed the statement. “Adoptive family? Isn’t he under the guidance of the Ministry?”

Grey eyes flicked toward Harry gently correct the wobbling Prewitt boy with a calm, instinctive hand. “Oh, yes. He is only in guidance now he’s officially a Lord. But before that… he had an adoptive family. He wasn’t raised by the Peverells, they died when he was very young. The family he grew up with were… or at least I believe, in the Muggle world, possibly even Muggles entirely. So he’s struggling quite a bit with the differences in society, expectations, and… everything else that comes with wizarding aristocracy.”

“Poor lad,” Henry murmured, leaning back and running a hand through his hair. His expression softened, a mixture of concern and reflection. “I first met him in Diagon Alley. Isla was with him, of course. At first, I didn’t know who he was. I only saw Isla holding an omega close, and I’m rather ashamed of what I thought.”

Sirius tilted his head, intrigued. “Oh? Do tell.”

Clarissa let out a small laugh, shaking her head in mild exasperation. “He thought your sister was having an affair,” she said lightly, as if recounting a humorous anecdote rather than something potentially scandalous.

Henry blinked in surprise, then groaned softly. “Honey! Why on earth did you tell him that?”

“It’s a cautionary tale, my dear,” the omega replied smoothly, though the corners of her lips twitched in amusement. “A reminder not to jump to conclusions without understanding the full context.”

Sirius let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head in disbelief. “Merlin’s beard,” he murmured under his breath.

Whilst Harry was gently bouncing Lucretia in his arms and rolling the ball between her and the other toddlers, his mind was elsewhere, swirling with thoughts that refused to settle. It was difficult to focus on the little game in front of him, even as the toddlers giggled and shrieked in delight at each throw.

Earlier, when he had glimpsed Fleamont entering the grand hall behind his family, something strange had struck him. In that moment, Harry suddenly felt as though he were staring into a reflection of his own past, though altered by time and circumstance.

Fleamont’s black hair was messy like his own was previously, sure, but it had the lightness and health he hadn’t seen in himself. His bone structure was strong, stronger than his own delicate lines. The rounded spectacles—so familiar—clutched in his hands rather than perched upon his nose, made Harry’s stomach twist. His eyes were brown, not green, and yet there was something uncannily familiar about their shape, the depth behind them.

Isla had told him yesterday that Fleamont was his age. The revelation hit him like a sudden jolt of frost: it felt insane. That was his grandfather!

Now, as he held Lucretia and felt the tiny weight of her trust in him, Harry realized how nerve-wracking the entire afternoon had been. Meeting his family—the Potters, his ancestors — engaging in polite conversation, and briefly embarrassing himself in front of a crowd that seemed to watch his every move…it was exhausting.

The polite smiles he offered felt precarious, the chuckles he forced, a balancing act. Even now, with the toddlers’ attention tethered to him, Harry’s mind kept replaying fleeting glimpses: Fleamont’s beta tall, healthy frame, the quiet composure of Henry and Clarissa, and the subtle curiosity in Tobias’s gaze that made him wonder what else they saw in him, what else they judged or wondered about.

It was a lot. Too much, perhaps, for someone who had only just begun to understand the intricacies of being an omega in true society and not war. His instincts told him to shrink back, to hide in his cloak, and yet the tiny fingers tugging at his sleeves, the laughter of Lucretia, and the wide-eyed fascination of the other toddlers pulled him forward. He had to stay, had to hold, had to be gentle and present—even when his thoughts wanted to spiral.

He excused himself, voice barely above a whisper, and asked Heather where the nearest bathroom was. “Just down the hall to the left,” she said, smiling as she adjusted Charlus’s tiny bow tie.

Harry nodded mutely, feeling like a marionette with too many strings attached, and carefully un-clung the toddlers from his arms, placing Lucretia gently back into Heather’s waiting hands. The toddlers immediately resumed their chaotic game of rolling the ball across the floor, squealing in delight, as if they hadn’t just been held by the stranger who seemed to emit some kind of calming aura.

His legs felt unsteady as he stepped out of the large playroom, the echoes of tiny feet and laughter following him down the carpeted corridor.

His head was in the clouds, his mind still reeling from the whirlwind of social encounters.

Finally reaching the bathroom, he pushed the door open with a trembling hand, stepped inside, and locked it with a soft click. He leaned heavily against the smooth porcelain sink, eyes fixed on his reflection in the mirror, and let out a long, shuddering sigh.

The sigh carried more than just fatigue—it held the weight of a young man who had been thrust into a world of social niceties he barely understood, who had been stared at, whispered about, and yet expected to maintain a composed exterior.

Harry ran a trembling hand through his black curls. The room felt stifling in its own way, the walls too close, the faucet too bright, the mirror reflecting a face that looked daintier and younger than he felt. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against the cool tile, and let the thought escape him silently: I can’t keep hiding in the corners forever.

With a shaky breath, he pushed off from the sink and used the bathroom quietly. The soft drip of water from the faucet was almost soothing as he washed his hands, watching the suds swirl down the basin. He was halfway lost in thought still when a loud laugh echoed outside, followed by the sound of running feet. He jumped, startled, heart giving a little jolt before he realised it was just a child racing down the corridor. A fond smile tugged at his lips. Probably a guest’s little one, he thought.

He dried his hands and stepped out, blinking as the sound of chatter and the faint hum of music filled the air. Everything looked the same—grand corridors lined with polished portraits, soft carpets, and golden sconces—but he couldn’t remember which turn led back to the playroom. He turned right, then left, and found himself in a corridor he didn’t recognise at all. Brilliant, Potter. Lost in a house full of people, he scolded himself silently, tugging at his cloak a little tighter around his shoulders.

Before he could retrace his steps, a cluster of voices approached, youthful and animated. A group of people his own age spilled out from one of the side rooms—laughing, talking over each other, their energy like a sudden gust of wind sweeping through the corridor. For a moment, Harry froze, unsure whether to slip past or greet them. But then one of them—a tall boy with messy black hair that looked far too much like his own before the blood change—caught sight of him.

“Oh! Come here, will you?” the boy called, grin wide.

Harry blinked, startled, and realised with a small start that he was looking at Fleamont Potter.

“What’s your name?” asked the girl hanging off Fleamont’s arm, her eyes bright with curiosity and mischief.

Harry hesitated, unsure how to handle being in front of… well, his grandparents. He swallowed hard, trying to sound casual. “I’m Harrison Peverell,” he said softly, offering a small, polite smile. “Call me Harry.”

The girl’s eyes sparkled with interest, but Fleamont grinned with such warmth that for a fleeting moment, Harry felt the tension in his chest loosen.

“My family have been talking so much about you!” Fleamont said eagerly, stepping closer. “I’m Fleamont, call me Monty. You’re eighteen too, right?”

Harry nodded shyly, clutching the edge of his cloak. It was oddly comforting—and deeply disorienting—to see the boy who would one day become his grandfather laughing like any other Hogwarts graduate, unaware of the significance of the meeting.

“Oh, don’t be shy!” another voice chimed in cheerfully. A ginger-haired boy stepped forward, his grin infectious. “I’m Piran Weasley. Monty told us his family have been dying to meet you.”

The Weasley name made Harry’s heart twist with something bittersweet. Different century, same freckles, same easy kindness. He nodded again, managing a small laugh. “I’m honoured.”

The girl on Fleamont’s arm smiled widely. “I’m Euphemia Gambol,” she said, lifting her chin a little with playful pride.

Harry brightened immediately, his eyes softening. His grandmother. She was stunning—sharp-witted eyes, golden brown waves that framed her face perfectly, confidence radiating from every gesture. “It’s nice to meet you,” he said earnestly. “Congratulations on your engagement.”

Euphemia blinked. “How did you know? I don’t even have an engagement ring yet.”

Harry froze, his mouth opening and closing like a fish caught out of water. “I-I guessed?” he stammered, cheeks going red as the group laughed good-naturedly.

Before he could dig himself a deeper hole, he felt a light tug at his sleeve. He turned, startled, to see a girl who looked about fifteen or sixteen, for once a person who was shorter than him, her brown eyes wide with curiosity.

“You’re a male omega?” she asked, voice hushed but awestruck.

Harry blinked. “I am.”

“I’ve never met one before!” she said breathlessly, her hands clasping together.

He shifted awkwardly, unused to being gawked at quite so openly. “Oh, um… well, I’m just like any other person,” he said dryly, “except for the constant line of alphas who seem to think it’s their life’s purpose to jump on me.”

The group laughed, and even Fleamont snorted behind his hand.

“Not a single other difference?” the girl pressed, eyes bright with youthful curiosity.

Harry pursed his lips, humour flickering through his nerves. “And the clothes, of course,” he said, his tone half-exasperated. “They expect me to wear a back skirt. It’s really just a piece of fabric that trails from my waist. Awful thing. I try my best to opt out of wearing it whenever I can.”

That earned a ripple of laughter from the girls, Euphemia nearly choking on her drink as she laughed. “Oh, that’s ridiculous,” she said, brushing tears from her eyes. “A half skirt? I can’t imagine!”

Harry smiled sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Neither can I, honestly. I’ve learned if I act confident enough, people stop questioning these knee length trousers."

“Merlin, you’re a breath of fresh air,” Piran chuckled. “Half the people out there wouldn’t dare talk like that.”

“Well,” Harry said softly, “I didn’t really grow up with… all this.” He gestured vaguely, meaning the fancy suits, the social circles, the subtle hierarchy of families and ranks. “I’m still getting used to it.”

Fleamont gave him a kind look, the easy empathy of someone who didn’t yet have to carry the burden of being Lord Potter. “You’ll get the hang of it, Harry. You already seem a lot more grounded than most people here.”

Harry felt warmth bloom in his chest, and for a brief, fleeting moment, he allowed himself to relax. It was strange—surreal, even—to laugh alongside them, to watch the spark between Fleamont and Euphemia that he knew would one day become his family’s foundation. He wondered if this was what fate felt like: standing in the middle of a living memory, smiling at ghosts who hadn’t yet become ghosts.

He laughed when Piran cracked another joke, hiding his flush behind a sip of pumpkin punch someone had handed him. For the first time that afternoon, Harry didn’t feel like Lord Peverell—the mysterious young omega everyone whispered about—but simply Harry.

“Oh, Harry, my father has been dragging me around for the past two hours,” came a warm, familiar voice from behind him, cutting through the laughter and chatter of the small group. Newt Scamander emerged from the corridor’s crowd with that usual air of endearing disarray — hair slightly mussed, the corner of his waistcoat undone, his bowtie half-askew. There was a faint dusting of gold glitter near his cuff, likely some magical residue from a creature encounter earlier that day. He looked tired but bright-eyed, and his smile when he saw Harry was all sunshine.

“I’m so glad to see you,” Newt said earnestly, stepping right up to him without a moment’s hesitation, as though the rest of the group didn’t exist.

Harry’s shoulders relaxed immediately. “I was dragged off to look after five bubbling toddlers,” he said, tone halfway between amusement and exhaustion.

Newt blinked, head tilting, the way he always did when something seemed simultaneously baffling and adorable. “Why?”

Before Harry could answer, Fleamont jumped in, clearly delighted by the sight of the flustered omega now joined by his suitor. “Yes, why? Five toddlers, Harry? You must be a saint!”

Harry sighed dramatically, earning a few laughs. “Because someone—” he shot an amused glare, “—dumped little Lucretia Black into my arms in front of your family, Lord Potter, and I was immediately swept to the playroom. The moment I sat down, I was surrounded.”

Piran snorted. “Surrounded by toddlers? Merlin’s mercy, that sounds terrifying.”

Euphemia grinned, looping her arm through Fleamont’s. “I think they liked you being an omega,” she said teasingly.

“Perhaps,” Harry admitted with a sheepish laugh, his blush faint but sweet. “I suppose I don't let them trip over their toys.”

“Or maybe they liked your scent,” Piran teased, elbowing Fleamont, who immediately turned pink.

Harry was about to retort — something witty and self-deprecating — when Newt leaned down, close enough that his curls brushed Harry’s temple. His voice dropped low, quiet enough for only Harry to hear, soft and rich with fondness.

“I know I like you being an omega,” Newt murmured, lips barely moving, breath brushing Harry’s ear.

Harry went scarlet in an instant. His eyes widened, and his lips parted in stunned embarrassment as a few curious glances turned their way, thanks to his sudden flush. “Oh, you!” he hissed under his breath, giving Newt a playful shove in the chest.

Newt chuckled, utterly unrepentant, the corners of his eyes crinkling with mischief. “You make it very hard not to say things like that, Harry.”

“Then try harder,” Harry whispered back, though the faint tremor of laughter in his voice ruined his attempt at sternness.

Euphemia, who had clearly caught the tail end of the exchange, gasped softly behind her hand, her expression flickering between shock and intrigue. “Are you- are you courting?” she asked, eyes darting between them.

Newt, attempting to be a gentleman even when his hair was chaos and his tie crooked, straightened up and smiled warmly. “We are,” he said simply, with that earnest pride that made Harry’s heart ache and flutter all at once. “Newton Scamander,” he introduced himself properly, extending a hand to Fleamont. “It’s a pleasure to meet you all.”

Fleamont grinned, shaking his hand. “I think the pleasure’s ours. You’ve just made our afternoon far more entertaining, Mr. Scamander.”

“Oh, Monty, behave,” Euphemia scolded lightly, though she was smiling too.

“You two have quite the height difference,” the teenage girl remarked, her tone curious rather than cruel, eyes flicking between them as she tried to measure just how far Newt had to lean to whisper in Harry’s ear.

Harry turned pink all over again. Newt looked down at him with a faint, crooked smile that was equal parts amused and fond.

“Yes,” Harry muttered, folding his arms and glaring up at the girl with mock offence. “I’m aware. He’s a giraffe.”

That earned a laugh from the group, Fleamont practically doubling over, while Euphemia pressed a hand to her lips to hide her smile.

“A giraffe?” Piran wheezed, grinning. “Scamander, you could probably rest your chin on his head if you tried.”

Newt, of course, didn’t miss a beat. “I would never,” he said earnestly, blue eyes sparkling with that mischievous glint that always appeared when Harry was flustered. “That would be very disrespectful. Harry’s hair deserves better treatment.”

Harry gasped. “Newt!”

“What?” Newt tilted his head, lips twitching. “It’s true.”

“Don’t encourage them,” Harry hissed but he was laughing now, too.

The unnamed girl giggled behind her hand. “Sorry,” she said, clearly not sorry at all, “but you two look… sweet together. Like one of those old portraits — the noble suitor and the shy young lord.”

Harry groaned, but Newt’s ears went a little pink. “That’s… rather kind of you,” he said softly, sincerity breaking through his awkwardness. “Harry’s the one who makes us look proper, though. I’m the disaster of the pair.”

“You?” Euphemia teased, arching a brow. “But you seem so polite.”

“Only when he remembers,” Harry muttered under his breath, just loud enough to make Newt stifle a laugh.

The girl — still unnamed — clapped her hands together suddenly. “Oh! I’m Celia Abbot,” she said brightly. “Sorry, I got distracted before I introduced myself.”

Harry smiled kindly, inclining his head. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Abbot.”

“Likewise,” she said, eyes sparkling. “And… I think it’s wonderful you don’t care about height. Some people get all fussy about appearances.”

Newt looked down at Harry, his expression softening into something so gentle that Harry’s breath caught. “I care more about what’s here,” he said quietly, tapping two fingers against his own chest.

Harry blinked, heart leaping in his throat. “You’re too much,” he whispered, half mortified, half melting.

“I’ve been told that,” Newt murmured back, smiling that shy, lopsided smile that made Harry’s knees feel suspiciously weak.

Piran leaned over to Fleamont. “Is it just me, or are they disgustingly adorable?”

“It’s not just you,” Euphemia said, smirking. “I might start taking notes.”

“Notes?” Fleamont laughed. “Merlin help me, Mia, you already run me in circles.”

Harry, caught between laughter and embarrassment, ducked his head to hide his blush — and Newt simply rested a hand lightly at the small of his back, steady and protective, grounding him even as everyone else laughed.

There was something soft and bright between them — something that made the noise of the party blur into a harmless hum in the background.

Maybe it was because they hadn’t seen each other properly in weeks. Maybe it was because Harry had finally gone through his first heat a few weeks back and, ever since, his scent had changed — warmer, rounder, faintly spiced like the sweetness of honey and autumn air. Newt couldn’t tell if that was why he felt so dizzy around him now, or if it was simply because it was Harry, standing there with flushed cheeks and a smile that could coax the sun from hiding.

Harry couldn’t tell either. His pulse was too quick, his mind fluttering every time Newt leaned in a little closer or looked at him too long. The scent of the alpha’s calm warmth wrapped around him like a coat, and he had to fight the silly urge to just lean into it.

Newt, however, had a thought — a mischievous, utterly boyish thought — and before Harry could sense it coming, he decided to test something.

Without warning, he tilted his head and rested his chin right on top of Harry’s curls.

It fit perfectly.

“Hmm,” Newt said, sounding entirely too pleased with himself, “yes, that’s quite comfortable.”

Harry froze. His jaw dropped. “You are too forward!” he exclaimed, thinking of societal expectations, spinning on his heel to glare up at him — only to turn directly into Newt’s chest instead. His nose met solid fabric and the scent of forests.

“Oh—!” Harry huffed, stepping back just enough to look up at him, cheeks aflame. “Have you flattened my hair?”

Newt’s smile softened, almost tender. “Your curls are too springy for that,” he murmured, reaching out before he could stop himself to brush one errant strand that had bounced up rebelliously.

Harry swatted his hand away, but not before his lips twitched with the beginnings of a smile. “Stop it.”

“You like me anyway,” Newt said lightly.

Harry tilted his head. “I’m still deciding.”

“Liar,” Newt teased, and his grin — wide and utterly unguarded — made Harry’s stomach flutter.

Piran groaned dramatically behind them. “Merlin’s beard, you two! Do you hear yourselves? It’s like watching a romance novel unfold in real life.”

Euphemia snorted. “If they start reciting poetry, I’m leaving.”

Fleamont folded his arms, pretending to be stern though his smile betrayed him. “Scamander, don’t you dare make a move that makes my mother faint in thirty years’ time.”

Harry, mortified and laughing at the same time, buried his face in his hands. “Why am I being bullied for existing?”

“Because you’re adorable when you’re flustered,” Newt said simply, utterly without shame.

“Newt!”

But even as Harry tried to glare, he couldn’t quite manage it. His lips betrayed him with a trembling smile, and when Newt’s fingers brushed his knuckles  the last of his faux anger melted away.

It didn’t matter whether it was the new balance of pheromones or just the thrill of being together again. All Harry knew was that it felt easy — warm — like standing in sunlight after a storm.

And when Newt leaned down just slightly again, chin hovering temptingly over Harry’s head, Harry sighed and said in defeat, “Fine. But only if you promise not to squash me next time.”

Newt chuckled low in his throat. “Deal.”

Harry took Newt’s hand before he even thought about it — it just happened. A simple, instinctive thing. His fingers slipped into Newt’s, and it was… nice. Steadying. The crowd around them was loud and dazzling, but that tiny point of contact made everything else fade to a soft blur.

Newt’s thumb brushed lightly across the back of Harry’s hand, the motion gentle and reverent, tracing small, absent-minded circles. His gaze softened, his voice dropping unconsciously as he murmured, “Sweet hand.”

Harry blinked up at him, caught off guard by how tender it sounded. Then he narrowed his eyes slightly, trying to hide the pink creeping up his neck. “Are you in a flirty mood or something?” he asked, his voice teasing but unsteady, because Newt’s touch was doing things to his heart he couldn’t quite name.

He tilted his head, the faintest grin tugging at his lips, though his eyes were serious. “I’m just… noticing. Your scent has changed.”

Green eyes widened, and he stepped in closer, lowering his voice until only Newt could hear. “Can we even discuss this in public?” he hissed, darting a glance around the room. “You can guess why it’s changed.”

The realization hit Newt a beat later — and the tips of his ears turned red. His breath caught, the fluster blooming high on his cheeks.

“Oh— I, I didn’t mean to— Merlin—” he stammered, his composure crumbling for a moment as his brain replayed the implication of Harry’s words.

Harry, half-amused and half-mortified, tugged his hand back just a little, biting his lip to suppress a laugh. “You really need to stop thinking so loudly, Newt.”

“I wasn’t— I didn’t—” Newt’s protest only made Harry grin wider.

“Oh, you were,” Harry said, smiling despite himself. He tilted his head, curls brushing his forehead. “And now you’re blushing redder than a tomato.”

Newt groaned softly and rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand, still not letting go of Harry’s hand. 

“'Sweet hand',” Harry mimicked quietly, rolling his eyes but smiling all the same.

Newt ducked his head to hide his grin, and his thumb brushed over Harry’s knuckles again, slower this time — more deliberate. “Still true.”

“Harry, is this Newt?”

Both Harry and Newt froze.

Harry turned, and there he was — Regulus Black, twelve years old and already sharp as a tack. His eyes too piercing for a boy his age. Yet there was a spark of mischief there too — a quieter, subtler version of Sirius’s grin, paired with that particular sort of unbothered confidence only a young alpha could have.

Harry blinked, startled, though his lips softened almost immediately. “Regulus,” he greeted, his voice fond despite the surprise. “Yes, this is Newt.”

Regulus crossed his arms, tilting his head just slightly, studying Newt the way one might study a magical creature in a case. “I thought so. You match the description.”

Newt blinked, unsure whether to feel flattered or alarmed. “I… do?”

He nodded solemnly. “Harry said you were kind and smart, but a bit awkward when people compliment you. You’re proving him right.”

Harry made a strangled sound — half laugh, half mortified squeak — and buried his face in his hands for a second. “Regulus!” he groaned through his fingers.

The boy smirked, entirely too smug for his age. “What? You did say that.”

“I— well— I didn’t mean for you to quote me at him!”

Newt, blushing and smiling helplessly, crouched slightly so he was closer to Regulus’s eye level. “You must be one of Sirius Black's sons,” he said gently. “I can see the resemblance.”

“Everyone says that,” Regulus replied matter-of-factly. “But I’m more observant.” He paused, then looked pointedly at their still-linked hands. “You make Harry happy.”

That one landed like a pebble dropped in a still pond — simple, honest, but with ripples that reached far beyond the words.

Harry blinked, taken aback, his cheeks flushing again but for a softer reason this time. He looked at the young alpha and smiled — a real smile, warm and touched. “You think so?”

Regulus nodded, confident and entirely sincere. “You always look… lighter when you talk about him.”

Newt’s throat went a little tight.

The omega sighed and gently tugged Regulus forward, resting a hand on his shoulder. “You really have no filter sometimes, you know that?”

Regulus shrugged. “You don’t need a filter when you’re right.”

Newt laughed softly, utterly charmed. “He’s got a point.”

Harry groaned, covering his face again. “Do you encourage everyone!”

Regulus grinned triumphantly and folded his arms. “I like him,” he declared, giving Newt a nod of approval that was purely aristocratic despite the boy’s youth. “He can stay.”

Harry looked between them, exasperated but secretly touched, and sighed. “Merlin help me, you sound like you’re interviewing my suitor.”

“I am,” Regulus said without missing a beat. “Father says if you’re family, I get to make sure you’re treated right.”

He blinked. “Sirius said that?”

“Not exactly,” Regulus admitted. “But he implied it. Sort of. When I asked.”

Newt was laughing quietly now, shaking his head, utterly undone by the boy’s blunt earnestness. “You’re very thorough, Regulus. I’ll make sure Harry’s treated well, I promise.”

Regulus considered that for a moment — then nodded, satisfied. “Good.” He turned to leave, already looking pleased with himself, and Harry could only watch him go with a sigh.

“I love that boy,” Harry murmured softly, “but sometimes I think he’s fifty trapped in a twelve-year-old’s body.”

Newt chuckled, still watching Regulus’s retreating form. “He’s protective. It’s endearing.”

“Endearing,” Harry repeated wryly. “He keeps interrogating me. Watch out for that."

Newt smiled, leaning in just slightly, his voice a quiet murmur. “Then I’ll just have to make sure I pass that test too.”

Harry looked up at him, his blush returning. “You already did.”

Chapter Text

Henry Potter lingered at the edge of the corridor, half in shadow, one hand resting against the carved oak paneling as he took in the scene before him. The laughter and chatter spilling from that side hall had first drawn his attention—light, young, full of a carefree rhythm that belonged only to those just beginning to test their place in the world.

And there, at the center of it, was Harrison Peverell.

Henry had been ready to believe Sirius’s worry was misplaced. After Harry hadn't returned for ages, Henry assured the man that the boy had likely just fallen in with the younger crowd—Fleamont’s friends were thick as doxies at an evening bloom, and most of them were eager to talk to the mysterious young Lord whose name had been murmured all afternoon. But now, seeing it with his own eyes, he found his certainty wavering.

Harry stood beside a tall young man, Newton Scamander, if Henry’s sharp memory for faces served him right. The boy was unmistakable: fair, freckled, lean. Fleamont and his small circle—Euphemia Gambol, Piran Weasley, and another bright-faced young girl—were gathered around, laughing at something Harry had said.

What struck Henry most wasn’t the laughter or the lively conversation, it was the way Harry’s shoulders looked unburdened. Relaxed. The careful poise he’d worn earlier, the nervous little smiles, the tension in his hands—all of it seemed to have melted away.

The reason stood beside him, fingers intertwined with Harry’s.

They weren’t hiding it, either. It wasn’t a defiant gesture, but a quiet one, natural, comfortable. Henry had seen courtships before, hundreds of them over the years, but there was something… unusually genuine about this one. No performative posturing, no calculated flirtation. Just warmth.

Still, the old instinct in him twitched. He knew how these halls could hum with gossip, how easily a whisper could turn sharp-edged and cruel. A male omega and a young alpha, in the open, surrounded by Lords, Ladies, heirs and heiresses, it was enough to turn heads.

He could already imagine the questions if the wrong eyes saw them.

He’s still young, Henry thought, studying Harry’s soft, earnest expression. Barely finding his footing here. And Merlin knows what sort of nonsense he’s already had to shoulder since taking the Peverell name.

He should probably turn back, tell Sirius that Harry was well, reassure Clarissa that he’d been found safe, and leave the young ones to their moment. It was a sweet picture, after all. But part of him, the part that was both father and Lord, hesitated. He’d taken a liking to the boy from the start, Harry’s quiet manners, his awkward grace, that spark of bravery that shone when he thought no one noticed.

Henry’s gaze softened as he caught the way Newt leaned down to whisper something—Harry laughed, bright and unguarded, and reached up to swat at him gently.

“Merlin help me,” Henry muttered under his breath, a fond smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. They’re young and already halfway lost to each other.

And yet…

He could hear Fleamont’s voice among them, teasing and laughing with Euphemia. His own son was barely older than Harry, and here was Harry, already burdened with titles, politics, expectations—and the rare vulnerability of being a male omega in a world that would happily turn him into a spectacle.

No, Henry decided quietly, this wasn’t something he could just walk away from. He wanted to see for himself. To understand the young man his friend Sirius so fiercely protected—and to gauge the suitor who, if his instincts were right, might just become more than that one day.

He adjusted his cuffs and stepped forward, blending into the flow of conversation at just the right moment, his presence heralded by no more than a polite, “I hope I’m not interrupting?”

The group startled slightly, as young people often did when an elder Lord appeared among them. Fleamont straightened at once. “Father—! We were just—”

Henry raised a hand, his tone kind. “Relax, my son. I was only out looking for our guest. Lord Peverell, I believe I left you in the playroom?”

Harry blinked, caught mid-smile, and his face shifted through a dozen expressions in a second—surprise, guilt, embarrassment, and finally a nervous laugh. “Ah- yes, I may have… gotten a bit lost,” he admitted.

“Lost,” Henry repeated, amused. “Well, the manor is a maze to the uninitiated. You’re hardly the first.”

Newt, still holding Harry’s hand though subtly now, inclined his head respectfully. “Good evening, Lord Potter. I’m Newton Scamander. It’s an honor to meet you.”

Henry gave him a once-over, assessing without malice. “The pleasure’s mine, Mr. Scamander. I recall your father from Hogwarts. You’re studying magical creatures, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” Newt said, visibly brightening at the topic.

Henry nodded, eyes crinkling. “A noble field, though not one many have the patience for.” His tone carried the faintest warmth. “I admire the work you’re doing.”

Harry exhaled quietly beside him, shoulders loosening again. Henry noticed the little motion, the subtle ease in his stance, and found himself smiling.

He could see it clearly now, why Harry trusted him.

Henry made his polite farewells with a practiced ease, though inwardly, he was already plotting his escape route. The moment he sensed the shift in the air—that dangerous lull when one conversation dies and another guest senses an opportunity to swoop in—he moved.

He smiled at Harry and Newt once more, offered Fleamont a quiet nod that meant behave yourself, and turned smoothly on his heel before any of the bright-eyed debutantes or overzealous parents could latch on. The man had survived countless ministry luncheons and social dinners by that very tactic: leave before someone says, “Oh, Lord Potter, what a surprise! I simply must ask—”

The corridors were quieting now, the chatter of the younger guests fading behind him as he strode with purposeful steps. His shoes clicked softly against the polished floor, and with every turn, he felt the tension ease from his shoulders.

He muttered under his breath, “Small talk, the bane of every sensible wizard’s existence.”

It wasn’t that Henry disliked people. On the contrary, he was a man who valued conversation deeply... when it had meaning. He’d gladly discuss governance, policy, magical theory, or Quidditch strategy until dawn. But the endless droning of polite society—the false laughter, the meaningless compliments, the transparent attempts to curry favor—made his skin crawl.

At least in the playroom, he mused, there were no titles or social climbing, only children and perhaps a bit of honest noise.

When he reached the door again, the sound of laughter and soft chatter greeted him. Clarissa was still seated comfortably on the sofa, talking quietly with Tobias and Sirius, who was now balancing Lucretia in his lap and pretending she wasn’t pulling at his long hair.

Heather was kneeling near the floor with Charlus and another toddler, her voice patient and low as she helped them with a tower of enchanted blocks that kept trying to float away.

It was a scene of domestic warmth—calm, almost ordinary—and Henry found he needed that.

“Ah, there you are,” Clarissa said, noticing his return. “Did you find him?”

“I did,” Henry replied, loosening the fastenings of his robe cuffs before sitting down beside her. “He’s quite safe. Found a group of young people his age.”

Sirius raised a brow. “Including his suitor?”

Henry nodded, leaning back. “Including his suitor. Quite attached at the hip, those two. I think you can stop worrying, my friend.”

Sirius gave a small, knowing smile, though his eyes softened with relief. “Good. He deserves a bit of peace.”

He hummed in agreement, his gaze briefly following the swirl of magic as a toddler’s block tower rearranged itself midair. “He does. And that Scamander lad seems… good for him. Nervous, polite, the sort who thinks too deeply and speaks too rarely. But solid.”

“Sounds like a good type,” Tobias remarked, smirking into his tea.

Clarissa swatted his arm gently, but she was smiling too. “And you made it back without being cornered by anyone?”

Henry groaned softly, rubbing his temple. “Barely. I think Lady Selwyn was about to launch into the history of her garden parties. I may have died on the spot if she’d gotten a single word out.”

That earned him a round of laughter from the group, and even Sirius cracked a grin.

They slipped away from Fleamont and his friends, Harry's hand remained intertwined with Newt’s, their fingers brushing and squeezing in a subtle rhythm that neither could resist.

The gardens, a sprawling expanse of manicured hedges, blooming roses, and twinkling lanterns, welcomed them like a secret sanctuary just beyond the reach of the hall's scrutiny.

Harry exhaled softly. “I can’t believe we actually got away,” he whispered, voice a mixture of relief and excitement. “I thought your father was going to drag you back any second.”

Newt grinned, tugging gently at Harry’s hand. “He might have,” he admitted, “but we were too quick for him this time. And really, social standards be damned. I don’t care about anyone else right now.”

Harry felt his heart hammer at the words, at the way Newt’s cerulean eyes were fixed on him with that quiet intensity he found disarming. “I… I think I feel the same,” Harry admitted, heat rising to his cheeks. “It’s like… I’ve been holding my breath all afternoon, and now—”

“—we can finally breathe,” Newt finished for him, and there was a softness to his voice that made Harry’s stomach flutter. He squeezed Harry’s hand, thumb brushing across the back of it in that familiar, intimate gesture that had somehow always felt like home.

They wandered along a winding path, lined with hedges and faintly glowing lanterns, the warm evening air carrying the scent of roses and freshly cut grass. Harry’s mind drifted, unbidden, to the events of the day and he realized he was dizzy not from social anxiety but from the simple, undeniable joy of being near Newt.

“Newt… why do you think secondary genders exist?” he asked, voice almost a whisper. He felt heat rise to his cheeks, but he couldn’t stop himself from voicing the question that had been gnawing at him all day. “Sometimes… it just feels like I have a label over my head that says ‘submissive.’ Like I’m defined by something I didn’t choose, and everyone’s watching to see if I live up to it.”

Newt’s eyes softened immediately. He slowed his pace so that Harry could adjust beside him, and tilted his head to catch the omega’s gaze. The hand Harry held seemed to pulse with reassurance under his own.

“It doesn’t have to be like that,” Newt said gently, voice low, thoughtful. “You’re not just an omega, Harry. That’s… part of who you are, yes, but it doesn’t define your choices, your feelings, or what you want. Society likes to put people into boxes—it makes them feel safe—but those boxes aren’t real unless we let them be.”

“But I am submissive,” Harry admitted, his voice tight. “I just don’t understand how genes can tell when it’s supposed to be a personality thing, unaffected by DNA.” He let out a shaky sigh, looking away toward the neatly trimmed hedges. “I-... sometimes it feels like I’m trapped in a mold I didn’t choose.”

Newt’s fingers tightened around Harry’s, grounding him before he could spiral further. “I… think I understand,” he said softly. “I’ve spent years observing creatures, Harry. Wolves, pack animals, even some magical beasts, they have roles, too. Alphas lead, omegas nurture, betas adapt. But it’s never rigid. Some creatures… they fight their assigned role. Some alphas aren’t dominant, some omegas aren’t gentle, some betas surprise everyone. Nature gives tendencies, not absolutes.”

Harry blinked, letting that sink in. “So… you’re saying… maybe I can be me, even if my scent or… my status says otherwise?”

He nodded, lips tugging into a gentle smile. “Exactly. And in people… the rules are even more ridiculous. Omegas sometimes date omegas. Alphas sometimes pair with alphas. Betas can pair with anyone. But society frowns, because… well, society always thinks it knows better. People don’t like being challenged, Harry.”

Harry exhaled sharply, leaning a little into Newt’s shoulder. “Doesn’t stop me from thinking people look at me like they already know what I like in bed, despite me being a virgin.” His voice was blunt, almost startling, and for a moment he regretted it as his own words hung between them.

Newt froze, eyes widening slightly in surprise. The flushed color creeping up his neck and ears betrayed that the comment was… unexpected. Then a low, soft laugh escaped him, shaking the tension.

“I… I know what you mean,” he said, amusement threading through his voice. “It’s maddening. Omegas are so unfortunately presumed weak but…” He reached up and gently tucked a loose curl behind Harry’s ear, voice dropping to an almost conspiratorial whisper, “that doesn’t make it true. You’re not weak, Harry."

Harry’s gaze wavered, doubt shadowing his amber eyes. “Even if I spent the last seventeen years of my life being abused by muggles?” The words spilled out in a rush, half-joke, half-confession, and he immediately regretted the bluntness. His heart thudded painfully. “I… I didn’t mean—”

Only a second later Harry felt the warmth of Newt’s chest pressing against him, the steady heartbeat beneath his ear grounding him in a way he hadn’t realised he needed. His hands, trembling slightly, curled against Newt’s sides as he tried to steady himself. For a moment, the past—the abuse, the endless years of feeling weak and unseen—pressed against his chest, and he was certain he would crumble.

But Newt’s arms tightened just slightly around him, firm but gentle, and his lips brushed the top of Harry’s head in a kiss that was both comforting and reverent. Then, resting his own head atop Harry’s in the way that was teasing earlier but now was ever so comforting, Newt whispered, voice soft but unwavering, “You’re not weak. You’re stronger than you’ll ever know.”

The words reverberated through Harry, each one steadying, lifting, and, strangely, warming. He tilted his face into Newt’s chest, letting out a shaky breath.

Newt, for his part, felt an unexpected lump form in his throat. His own chest tightened with emotion, a mix of tenderness and fierce protectiveness. He could feel the tremor in Harry’s body, the vulnerability that Harry had barely been able to speak aloud, and it hit him with such force that he had to swallow hard to keep himself from crying.

“You…” Newt murmured, his voice thick. “You… don’t have to hide anything from me, Harry. Not ever. Whatever you feel, whatever you’ve gone through… I care. I will care. You can say it all. You can show it all. I’ll hold it with you.”

Harry’s hands clutched slightly tighter at Newt’s sides, and for the first time in years, he didn’t feel like he had to pretend to be brave, or polite, or composed. He let himself be small in Newt’s arms, let himself lean into the safety being offered without shame.

“I… I’m worried,” Harry admitted in a voice so low it could almost have been a whisper. “Scared that… that I’ll never be normal… that I’ll always be…” He trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

Newt tilted his head, brushing his lips once more against Harry’s temple, as if to seal the words with reassurance. “You are enough, Harry. More than enough. You’re human, though that doesn't really matter to me. You’re alive. You’re here. And you… you make people care without even trying. I see you, and I care for you, exactly as you are.”

His breath caught, a shiver running down his spine, the warmth pooling in his chest making him dizzy in the most wonderful way. He pressed a hand against Newt’s heart, as though trying to anchor himself to the certainty there, and whispered, “I… I want to be brave.”

“You already are,” Newt murmured, his thumb stroking the back of Harry’s hand. “And if you ever forget, I’ll remind you. Every day, if I must.”

After they parted from the previous embrace, their hands intertwined once more, fingers lacing naturally. They wandered slowly along the garden paths, the soft glow of lanterns reflecting on the dew-specked leaves, until they reached the edge of the garden. Beyond the trimmed hedges, a field stretched out, roughly marked with goalposts and chalk lines, clearly a makeshift Quidditch pitch. The open space was empty, quiet, and bathed in the fading warmth of early evening.

They sank down onto the grass, hidden by thick, arching bushes that offered them a small, private sanctuary. Newt seated himself with his legs comfortably spread, and Harry eased himself down between them, leaning back so that his shoulders rested against Newt’s chest. The warmth radiating from Newt’s body was immediate, steadying, and comforting.

Newt’s arms wrapped naturally around Harry’s waist, a gentle but firm hold, and Harry responded instinctively, curling his hands over the encircling arms as though anchoring himself in the safety of the embrace.

Harry tilted his head slightly and glanced upward. Newt’s gaze softened as he leaned down, eyes warm and luminous, tracing the curve of Harry’s face. There was a pause, an unspoken hesitation that neither needed to speak aloud, a delicate moment suspended in time where everything else seemed to dissolve: the garden, the distant manor, the lingering scent of roses and freshly cut grass was replaced by their own loving scents.

And then, as if pulled by the same impulse, they moved together. Their lips met in a kiss, brief at first, hesitant, but immediately imbued with the curiosity and warmth of two hearts catching up after too long apart.

The kiss lingered, gentle but electric, soft and lingering on their lips, both of them acutely aware of the press of the other, the faint taste of a chocolate treat one of them had and warmth, the subtle tremor of excitement threading through them.

Harry shifted slightly, pressing back instinctively against Newt’s chest, the movement small but telling, and a quiet whimper escaped him. Harry immediately flushed, realizing the sound had left his throat, and he twisted slightly in embarrassment, half-burying his face into Newt’s shoulder.

However, Newt only smiled, warm and indulgent. “You’re adorable,” he murmured, leaning down just enough to press a light kiss to the top of Harry’s head. The faint tremor of Harry’s body against him, the soft, reactive movements of his back, the little noises he couldn’t quite hold in—all of it drew Newt’s attention, and he found himself unable to stop grinning. “Do you know how irresistible that is?”

Harry’s hands clenched at the arms around him, still trying to maintain some small semblance of control over his own reaction. “I… I’m not—” he started, voice muffled, then gave up, letting the warmth and closeness wash over him.

Newt’s thumbs stroked lightly over Harry’s sides, soothing yet deliberate, and he held him there. “You don’t have to fight it,” he whispered. “You’re perfect, Harry.”

A small, hesitant whimper escaped him again, and Newt chuckled softly. “Shhh… it’s alright. You don’t have to hide anything from me,” he murmured, nuzzling the crown of Harry’s head. “I love this. I like you, even when you’re embarrassed and flustered like this.”

He shifted slightly in Newt’s arms. “I… I just… I didn’t mean to tell you about… what happened,” he said, voice small, faltering. “About the… the abuse and… yeah. It’s… horrid, and I feel horrid for even bringing it up.” His words were rushed, halting, as if speaking them aloud made them more real, heavier than he could bear.

Newt’s gaze softened, a gentle frown tugging at his brow. Now it clicked—the soft whimpers, the way Harry had pressed into him, the way he had pulled back only to peek up nervously.

“Ah,” he murmured, pressing a little closer, tilting his head so that Harry could feel the warmth of his breath against the top of his head. “That’s… that’s why you were whimpering, isn’t it? It’s okay, Harry. I’m glad you shared it with me. It means I can be here for you, help you… support you. You don’t have to carry it alone.”

Harry stiffened for a moment, a flush spreading across his cheeks and ears. “Th… t-thank you, but please… don’t think anything of it. I just… I shouldn’t have said it. It’s… it’s not… important to you.” His voice faltered again, a mixture of embarrassment and fear, as if admitting his history could somehow make him less worthy, less… whole.

“What do you mean?” he asked, voice gentle but steady, his tone a careful anchor. He tilted his head, looking down at Harry’s face, trying to meet those wide, green eyes with reassurance. “Don’t think anything of it? Harry, that’s… that’s not how it works. Everything about you matters to me. Every piece of your past, every fear, every… shadow you carry. That doesn’t make you lesser, it makes you you.”

Harry swallowed hard, looking away for a moment, embarrassment mingling with something unnameable in his chest. “I… I don’t… I just feel like… like maybe you’ll see me differently. That you’ll—” His words stumbled to a halt, choked off by the lump forming in his throat.

Newt tilted Harry’s chin up so their eyes met again. “Harry,” he said softly, deliberately, “I want to see you. Every part of you. The brave parts, the broken parts, the scared parts… all of it. And I don’t see it as ‘horrid.’ I see it as… well, I see it as you being strong enough to survive it, and I… I want to be here with you through it.”

“I… I’m not used to anyone saying that,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Especially… for me.”

“And I know you’re not,” Newt said. “That’s why it matters even more that you can say it to me. That you can… trust me. You don’t have to pretend, Harry. Not with me.”

“I… I want to, I think. I just… I’m scared I’ll say the wrong thing, or make you… uncomfortable.”

“You could never make me uncomfortable. I want to hear it all, even the parts you think you shouldn’t. That’s how I can be here for you. That’s how I can care for you.”

“Even… even if it’s… really awful?”

“Especially if it’s awful,” he said firmly, his thumb brushing the back of Harry’s hand again. “Because you carried it all this time. And now, you don’t have to carry it alone anymore. Not with me.”

Harry let out a shaky breath, his hand gripping Newt’s arm a little looser, the weight of his embarrassment and fear slowly softening into something warmer, something like… safety. 

Finally, Harry whispered, voice trembling but calmer, “Thank you… for caring.”

Newt’s lips curved into a soft, fond smile. “I always will.” His chest rumbled softly, letting the vibration hum. The sound was warm and low, almost imperceptible at first, but Harry’s eyes widened, a small, delighted shiver running down his spine. "Would you like it if I purred?” He murmured. “Would that help?”

Harry flushed deeply, a rosy warmth spreading from his ears down to his chest. His lips quirked into a small, shy smile, but there was a flicker of something untamed in his eyes—a mixture of joy and curiosity. “I… I think so,” he whispered, voice soft, almost breathless. “It… it feels nice.”

Newt chuckled softly, amusement and tenderness mingling in the sound. He closed his eyes for a moment, taking a steadying breath, and then let himself continue. The purring started low and hesitant, like a creature testing the air, but it quickly deepened into a full, rolling hum that resonated against Harry’s back. Harry buried himself further into Newt’s chest.

“Have you… ever purred to creatures?” Harry asked between soft, almost imperceptible whimpers. “Do you think they’d… react to it too?”

Newt paused, tilting his head thoughtfully. “I… I haven’t, actually,” he admitted, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “I’ve always been so focused on studying them that I didn’t think of trying it on myself. But now… I think I should try that, right now. Maybe… maybe it would calm them, just as it calms you.”

Harry let out a small, happy noise. “I’d like to see that,” he said softly, and Newt’s fingers tightened slightly around his waist. “You sound… really nice,” he said, breathless. “I… think I could fall asleep to that.”

“I think your father would kill us if he saw us like this,” Harry murmured, half-laughing, though his voice carried a note of real worry. He shifted a little, looking up at Newt with that mixture of mischief and apprehension that always made Newt’s heart melt.

“I think we’re well hidden,” Newt whispered. “And besides, it’s hardly a crime to sit together in a garden.”

Harry arched a brow. “In a Lord's garden, pressed between prized hedges?”

Newt chuckled softly, the sound vibrating against Harry’s back. “Technicalities,” he murmured.

That made Harry smile. He turned his head slightly, meeting Newt’s gaze. They tilted forward again at the same time, a silent agreement hanging in the air, lips barely touching—

“Well, if it isn’t the love birds,” came a teasing, now-familiar voice.

Harry froze.

Newt’s purr cut off mid-vibration.

They both turned sharply, wide-eyed, to find Fleamont Potter standing at the edge of the hedge, a broad grin splitting his face. Behind him stood several of his friends, clearly amused by what they’d stumbled upon.

“This is our first impression of you, Harry,” Fleamont said, crossing his arms in mock sternness. “Are we to assume you’re a romantic, then?”

Harry’s face turned the shade of a Weasley’s hair. “I- um- I- well—”

Newt, equally red, straightened where he sat and tried to compose himself. “We were only—ah—talking,” he said quickly, which only made Fleamont snort.

“Talking? Looked a bit more like studying the anatomy of affection,” teased one of the boys, a sandy-haired lad Harry vaguely recognized as Cecil Fawley, who was trying (and failing) to keep a straight face.

Another friend, a taller one with pale blond hair—Oliver Selwyn, if Harry remembered correctly from lots of introductions—peered curiously. “So this is the Lord Peverell everyone’s been whispering about. Honestly, I didn’t expect him to be quite so… ah, adorable.”

Harry let out a noise of pure mortification somewhere between a whine and a sigh and buried his face in his hands.

Fleamont laughed outright. “Oh, don’t tease him, Ollie! He’s got better manners than all of us put together. I saw him curtsy to my father."

Newt’s arm around Harry’s waist tightened protectively. “I’d prefer if you didn’t make him uncomfortable,” he said, tone polite but edged.

That earned him a few raised brows—but Fleamont only grinned wider. “Merlin, you two are precious. Don’t worry, Scamander, we won’t tell anyone you’ve gone soft on a Peverell. I mean—if I were courting someone like Harry, I’d probably do the same.”

“You know I can still hex you for that, right?” Harry said.

That only made Fleamont laugh harder. “You can try, dear cousin.”

Harry blinked at him. “Cousin?” He knew that Fleamont was his cousin but he couldn't help but hate the word and hate hearing it.

“Oh, didn’t anyone tell you?” Fleamont said, as if it were obvious. “Distantly, through the Ignotus line! Makes me practically your elder family. So really—” he gestured grandly at Newt “—I should be the one interrogating your suitor. Proper family protocol and all that.”

Newt, to his credit, didn’t flinch. He met Fleamont’s mischievous grin with a calm, measured one of his own. “You may interrogate me, Mr. Potter, though I can’t promise my answers will be terribly interesting.”

Fleamont clasped his hands behind his back, mock-serious. “Question one: do you intend to continue hiding in hedgerows with my cousin?”

That broke the tension completely. Even Harry couldn’t hold back his laugh this time.

“We were just talking,” Harry said, cheeks still pink.

“Talking,” Fleamont repeated, raising a brow. “Of course.” He gestured toward the open field behind him. “Well, since you’re both in one piece and haven’t completely combusted from embarrassment, we were actually on our way to show the new pitch my parents set up. You’re welcome to join.”

Harry blinked at Newt, who was clearly torn between relief and amusement.

“Come on,” Fleamont said brightly. “You can’t hide in the bushes all evening. Besides, I promise not to tell my parents I caught you two making eyes at each other. For a price.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “And that price would be?”

“A match. A Seeker’s match.”

Green eyes widened immediately, his stomach flipping like he’d swallowed a Bludger whole. “I— no,” he stammered, voice almost breaking. “I couldn’t. I couldn’t do that.”

Fleamont blinked, thrown by the abrupt shift in tone. “What? Why not?”

Harry’s throat tightened. His fingers flexed at his sides, gripping his own palms until they ached. The smell of broom polish, the echo of cheers, the flash of gold—it should’ve been thrilling, nostalgic even. But instead, for a split second, all he could see was fire.

The collapsing walls.

Draco’s terrified face.

The crash.

Crabbe’s scream.

The flames swallowing everything before Harry could stop them.

“I—” he began again, and stopped. His lips parted, but no sound came out. His vision blurred around the edges. The thought of climbing onto a broom—even just for fun—sent a cold jolt through him that made his hands shake.

Newt’s hand brushed his shoulder, gentle, grounding. “Harry?” he murmured softly, his voice pitched for only him to hear. “You don’t have to.”

“Come on, it’ll be fun!” Fleamont said, grinning, his broom already slung over his shoulder. The sunlight caught his hair just so, his boyish enthusiasm utterly unaware of the way Harry’s heart had just stopped dead in his chest.

But before anyone could blink, Harry took a step back, then another... and ran.

“Harry?” Fleamont called, startled.

But he didn’t stop. Harry’s shoes pounded against the gravel, breath ragged, vision spinning. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t be there. The laughter, the smell of grass, the glint of broom handles—it all blurred into one roaring rush of memory.

The room was burning.

He could hear screaming.

He could smell smoke.

He could feel it, the heat, the choking—

He didn’t even know he’d reached the edge of the garden until the panic inside him cracked open like glass under a spell, and the world folded. The very air shuddered.

Every wand in a half-mile radius hummed in warning. The wards of Potter Manor quivered, then roared, the kind of ancient sound that made even seasoned alphas flinch.

Then—

CRACK.

And Harry vanished.

The playroom erupted. Toys rattled off shelves, the curtains blew inward as if the house itself had inhaled too sharply. Clarissa gasped, holding little Charlus tighter against her chest as the boy whimpered from the sudden gust of magic. Heather’s hair lifted in the static charge; one of the toddlers started to cry.

“What on morgana's green—” she began, but her words died as the air bent.

A shimmer of light tore open right in the middle of the carpet. And from it, like a doll dropped by invisible hands, Harry fell.

He hit the floor hard. Not a sound came out of him as he curled in on himself instinctively, trembling, his breath catching in half-sobs that never fully formed. His cloak tangled around him, his body small and shaking, one hand clutching at his chest as though he couldn’t get enough air.

Sirius was on his feet in an instant. “Harry!” he cried, dropping to his knees beside him.

But Harry didn’t respond. His eyes were open, wide and glassy, fixed on something that wasn’t there. His lips moved, barely forming words—no sound, only the shape of no, stop, please.

Clarissa’s instincts kicked in before her mind did. She shoved Charlus gently into Heather’s arms and hurried forward. “He might be in magical shock,” she breathed, kneeling opposite Sirius. “He must have forced an apparition through the wards, oh, look at him.”

“He’s cold,” Sirius murmured, his hands trembling as he touched Harry’s shoulder. “He’s bloody freezing... Harry, love, it’s Sirius. You’re safe, you’re safe.”

Heather set Charlus down beside the Weasley toddler, who was now sobbing too, and rushed to help. “He needs grounding,” she said sharply. “He’s not aware of where he is—Sirius, talk to him. Clarissa, check his pulse—gently.”

Clarissa obeyed, pressing two fingers to Harry’s wrist. His pulse was wild, fluttering like a frightened bird. “He’s having a panic attack,” she said softly. “A very bad one.”

Sirius leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Harry, dear, it’s alright. You’re safe, ok? You’re not there.” His own scent softened in the air, wrapping around them both like a blanket. “You’re safe. Just us.”

Harry twitched at the sound of his voice, a strangled breath leaving him, but his eyes didn’t focus. His body trembled so violently that a rush of magic almost knocked Sirius backward.

The door burst open.

Henry Potter rushed in, wand drawn, the wards’ echo still prickling along his skin. “What happened? The wards—” His words died when he saw the scene before him. “Oh, sweet Merlin.”

“He apparated into the wards, collapsed straight from the air. He’s having some sort of magical exhaustion or shock. He’s nonverbal.”

Henry was already kneeling beside them. The air around him shifted with the calm authority of an alpha used to managing crisis. “Alright, everyone breathe,” he said firmly. “Sirius, keep doing what you’re doing. Clarissa, lessen your scent a little. We don’t want to overwhelm him.”

Clarissa nodded, breathing through her nose, softening her own omega pheromones until the air grew steady again.

Henry reached out carefully, fingers brushing Harry’s forehead. The boy’s magic sparked faintly against his touch—wild, defensive, then collapsing into exhaustion. “He’s spent,” Henry murmured. “But not in magical burnout yet. Just overexerted.”

Sirius looked up, eyes desperate. “He was fine, you said was just with Fleamont, and then I don’t know what—”

Henry’s gaze softened. “He must have been triggered. Whatever it was, it pushed him past reason.”

“Poor child,” Clarissa whispered, still holding Harry’s hand lightly. “He must have been terrified.”

“Henry, his breathing,” Heather said suddenly. “It’s slowing too much—”

“Shh, easy, lad.” Henry’s voice deepened, commanding and kind at once. “Harry, you need to breathe with me, understand? In—” He inhaled slowly, exaggerating the motion. “And out.”

Harry’s chest hitched. A small, ragged inhale. A shudder. Then another, slightly deeper.

Henry takes it into his own hands. The alpha in him—the instinctive urge to protect, calm, and anchor—kicked in before he could think twice. He moved, careful not to startle Harry further, and gently gathered the trembling omega into his arms. Harry’s face pressed against Henry, tucked beneath the fabric of his robes, and instinctively Henry guided him closer to the scent glands at his neck.

He could feel the shuddering tremors running through Harry, small but fierce waves of fear and exhaustion. His body felt fragile, yet Henry’s alpha instincts knew precisely how to respond. Wrapping one arm firmly around Harry’s shoulders and upper torso, he held him with a secure, enveloping weight, while the other hand pressed firmly, yet gently, into the nape of Harry’s neck. He didn’t ask permission; the small omega didn’t have the capacity to respond right now, and Henry’s experience with frightened magic-imbued children and omegas told him this was the correct, grounding approach. The pressure at the nape was careful, a combination of force and tenderness—it made Harry pliant, calming the chaotic energy radiating off him.

“Shh… shh, it’s alright,” Henry murmured, voice low, steady, warm, a soft rumble that Harry could feel reverberating through his chest. “You’re safe now. No one is going to hurt you. Not here, not ever.”

Sirius was immediately beside him, kneeling on one knee, his own hands hovering close but unsure. “Henry… are you—”

“I’ve got him,” Henry said firmly, eyes soft but commanding. “Sirius, you keep your scent a little lighter, alright? He’s already overwhelmed. Don’t try to soothe him in your usual way.”

Sirius nodded mutely, then slowly settled to watch, one hand lightly brushing Harry’s arm.

Clarissa hovered nearby, a hint of protective wariness flickering across her face but her tone soft as she spoke. “You're… very good to him, Henry,” she said, though her voice carried that small twinge of envy an omega sometimes felt seeing their alpha take charge of another omega.

Henry’s hand at the nape of Harry’s neck shifted slightly, massaging gently, pressing, letting the strength of his alpha calm settle over the small omega. The shudders slowed; the chest heaving became more measured. Harry’s hands curled into Henry’s robes, still gripping instinctively, seeking the safety and the control that came with being held by someone strong and steady.

“You’re safe, Harry. Breathe with me.” His own inhalations were slow, deliberate. Harry’s breaths wavered at first, then gradually mirrored Henry’s rhythm.

Tobias entered the room quietly, eyes flicking between the calm scene in the center and the scattered toys and empty toddler seats. “Everything alright here?” he asked softly.

Heather’s shoulders relaxed slightly as she nodded. “Yes, Henry’s just… helping Harry settle,” she said. “The toddlers are fine, all calm now.”

Henry didn’t release Harry yet. He let the omega feel the steady beat of his heart, the warmth of his body, the reassurance of his scent wrapping around him like a protective cocoon. He shifted slightly to keep Harry tucked in, letting one hand trail along his back, pressing just enough to maintain that grounding connection.

“It’s alright to let it out,” Henry murmured. “Whatever’s inside you—fear, panic—it doesn’t make you weak. Not here, not ever. You can trust me.”

Harry’s lips parted slightly, a small, ragged sigh slipping out, and Henry felt the tremors beneath his hands soften further. 

Minutes passed in silence except for Harry’s slow breaths, the subtle whine of relief, and the faint creaking of the floorboards. The chaos outside the room—voices, footsteps, the faint laughter of toddlers—felt miles away.

Finally, Harry’s body slackened completely in Henry’s arms. His head rested fully against Henry’s shoulder.

“That’s it… that’s it, Harry. You’re safe.”

Harry’s eyes were half-lidded, the weight of exhaustion and lingering adrenaline making his gaze heavy, unfocused. He looked up at Henry, and there was something in the calm, steady presence of the alpha—the way he held him, the strength in his arms, the warmth radiating in measured pulses—that made Harry feel safe.

Almost as if, for the briefest of moments, he was being held by the father he had never known. It was a strange, dizzying comfort, and even as he knew this man was a great-grandfather he had just met, the closeness bridged generations.

“You apparated through our wards, little one,” Henry said gently, voice low and warm, the words carrying both astonishment and reassurance. “Not even I can do that.”

Harry blinked slowly, letting the term 'little one' sink into him. It was soft, tender, and intimate—so far removed from the cold, detached language he had been spoken to with in his adoptive home. The words made him feel like he could just… bask in the reassurance, let himself exist in the quiet warmth of being cared for without expectation.

“Scared,” Harry admitted softly, the single word a small, honest surrender. His head pressed closer to Henry’s chest, as if by narrowing the distance he could absorb more of the calm stability Henry radiated.

Henry tightened his hold, just enough to let Harry feel the firmness of his protection, not restrictive but grounding. “I understand,” he murmured, a careful rumble in his chest. “That’s alright. There’s no shame in being scared.”

His fingers clutched at the fabric of Henry’s robes, seeking the scent, the pressure, the reality of the body holding him. 

“You’re not alone here,” Henry continued, voice low but commanding in that quiet, alpha way. “You don’t need to hide what you feel. You can tell me, little one. I’ll care, and I’ll protect you, no matter what.”

He nuzzled into Henry’s scent, the calming pheromones. "I’m… I’m alright,” Harry whispered after a moment, though his voice wavered, raw and fragile. “I just… scared.”

Henry pressed his forehead gently to Harry’s temple, inhaling softly. “I know, little one. And it’s alright to be scared. But I’m here. You’re safe. You’re not alone.”

Harry’s eyelids drooped further, the panic bleeding away into warmth and grounding. Even the soft catch of his breath sounded steadier. 

Henry held him there, rocking him slightly, murmuring soft words of reassurance, letting Harry feel the constancy of a strong, protective presence for the first time in what felt like forever.

It was no surprise to anyone in the room, not really—except for the toddlers who were too young to understand, too small to register why Harry had suddenly stopped moving and melted into sleep. Magical exhaustion of that kind, after passing about the intricate wards protecting Potter Manor, would have left anyone completely drained. 

“I think… I think he should stay here tonight,” Clarissa murmured, her tone protective, instinctively maternal. Her fingers flexed gently as she looked at the sleeping Harry, a small crease of worry between her brows. “He can’t… he can’t go back out there like that. Not after what just happened.” Her gaze swept the room, measuring the parents and their own toddlers, trying to gauge if anyone would argue. There was none; even Sirius looked hesitant, knowing when to let someone else take the lead.

Henry shifted slightly, careful not to disturb Harry.

"How do we tell the Ministry though?” Clarissa asked, half to herself, half for the group. 

“I’ll contact Isla,” Sirius said smoothly, though his lips were tight with worry. “He is under her protection, after all. She’ll know what to do.” His tone was calm, but his hands flexed slightly at his sides, betraying the taut nerves beneath the practiced veneer.

“Only Isla looks after him?” Clarissa asked, brow furrowing.

“Oh no. Theseus Scamander too,” Sirius added. His eyes flicked to the small bundle of Harry sleeping against Henry. “He’s… backup, I suppose. But it’s Theseus’s responsibilities with the Ministry that keeps him busy most of the time.”

“That has to be awkward,” Clarissa said quietly, shaking her head, “for Harry be courting his brother while he looks after Harry.”

“According to Harry, he’s only backup,” Sirius confirmed, his voice dropping as he avoided looking directly at the sleeping omega. “He’s got his hands full being Head Auror anyway. But…” He paused, glancing at Henry, Clarissa, Heather, and Tobias, and then added, “You might need a monitoring charm on Harry. After this panic, I wouldn’t be surprised if he gets nightmares—or… goes into another episode.”

“I wonder what made him panic,” Heather said softly. “Was it the crowd? Or… something deeper?”

No one in the room had a clear answer. The adults exchanged glances, each aware that speculating could lead into treacherous territory. Sirius’s own mind reached the same conclusion; abuse seemed a likely source, but it was not something he could confirm. So he kept his mouth shut, letting the silence fill the space.

Guests were already beginning to trickle out of the manor, murmuring polite goodbyes and congratulatory farewells. The subtle shift in energy made the playroom feel calmer, the lingering chaos of toddlers and excited chatter softening into quiet pockets of warmth. It was a relief, for everyone.

By now, the other toddlers’ parents had departed with their children, leaving the room with just the Potters, Sirius, Lucretia, and the omega who still lay curled and fragile in Henry’s arms. The space felt almost sanctified by the quiet—the kind of calm that only came when the world outside paused, if only for a moment.

Henry, holding Harry carefully, moved toward the tall bookshelf that lined the wall. He ran his fingers along the spines of the books with a faint, thoughtful smile. “Watch this,” he murmured, his voice soft but carrying an undertone of pride. He pressed a seemingly innocuous section of the shelf, and with a subtle click, it slid aside, revealing a narrow passageway bathed in shadow.

Tobias and Heather both glanced at each other in surprise, eyebrows raised. “A secret passage?” Heather asked, her voice whispering in awe.

Henry winked at them, eyes sparkling with the mischief of someone who had known these hidden corners all his life. “Sometimes, one needs a bit of privacy,” he said simply, going into the passageway.

Clarissa followed close behind, her steps careful but determined. 

The passageway led them upstairs, winding subtly but securely, until they emerged behind a cabinet on the second floor. The hidden door swung open almost silently, revealing a quiet large corridor. Henry moved with ease, the small weight of Harry held firmly in his arms. 

Finally, they reached a guest bedroom, the warm light of a lamp spilling softly across a neatly made bed. Henry carefully set Harry down, the omega’s body instinctively sinking slightly into the mattress, seeking the comfort and safety of solid ground.

The bonded couple worked in gentle tandem, removing his shoes and easing off the heavy robe without disturbing the rest of his clothing. They tucked him into bed, smoothing the sheets around him with practiced care, ensuring that nothing about the bed would feel uncomfortable. Henry brushed a lock of black hair from Harry’s forehead, and Clarissa adjusted the blanket so that it lay snug but not constricting.

Harry’s eyes fluttered open briefly, green gems blinking sleepily. He gave a tiny sigh, allowing the tension of the day to melt just slightly.

“You’ll be alright here,” Henry murmured, voice low, almost reverent. “We’ll be right here if you need anything.”

Clarissa leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to Harry’s temple. “Sleep now, little one. You’ve had a long day.”

Henry adjusted the blanket one more time around him as he hummed softly, trying to make sure the young lord felt completely secure. “Darling, he’s worryingly light,” he murmured, shaking his head slightly.

Clarissa, hovering close, glanced at him, concern evident in her eyes. “You think he doesn’t eat enough?” she asked, her tone gentle but probing.

“I think so,” he admitted quietly, his thumb brushing along Harry’s hand. “His body’s slight... But he’s strong in ways people can’t see.”

Meanwhile, back in the playroom, the atmosphere had shifted. Fleamont and Newt had returned, their expressions panicked, their steps hurried as they scanned the room. Fleamont’s brow furrowed deeply as he approached the adults gathered on the sofa. “Where’s father?” he demanded, voice tight with worry.

Newt’s voice was sharper, a little higher than usual, laced with genuine concern. “Have you seen Harry?” he asked, scanning the room. The deep golden-haired Scamander’s usual calm was replaced by urgency, his hands twisting together in frustration.

Heather, Tobias, and Sirius exchanged quick, meaningful glances, each understanding the gravity of the situation in a different way. Heather, usually composed, felt her pulse quicken at the fear in Newt’s eyes. Tobias’ hands clenched slightly, and even Sirius’ usual nonchalance faltered under Newt’s concern.

“Please, have you seen him? We were by the field talking of Quidditch when he started running and then vanished,” Newt pressed, his words rapid, his gaze sharp with worry.

Sirius took a deep breath, his voice steady but urgent, carrying the truth in its calmness. “He apparated into here.” There was a pause, heavy with the weight of explanation. “He had a panic attack and then fell asleep from magical exhaustion.”

Fleamont blinked, his concern deepening as he tried to process the information. “Where is he now?” he asked.

Heather, stepping forward, placed a hand gently on Fleamont’s shoulder. “With your parents, Monty. He’s safe,” she said softly, giving him a small, encouraging smile.

Newt exhaled sharply, his shoulders dropping slightly but still tense. “I’m sure he’ll contact me when he's safe,” he murmured, almost to himself, but there was a note of anxiety threading through his tone.

Tobias, watching the exchange, leaned forward slightly. “Yes, but your father has been looking for you for over half an hour now,” he said, voice firm but gentle, acknowledging Newt’s worry while grounding him in the present.

Newt ran a hand through his hair, pacing a small circle in frustration. “I was— I was in the gardens…” he admitted, almost defensively, though his eyes never left the space where Harry had disappeared.

"You better go find him, Newt. I’m sure he’ll understand. He knows you are caring. He actually said to me he thought you must be rocking a kneazle to sleep or something.”

“Come on, Newt,” Fleamont said softly. “He’s safe. That’s what matters. Let’s give him time.”

Newt took a deep breath, finally allowing himself a moment to steady his heart, the tension in his shoulders slowly easing. “Right,” he murmured. “Time…”

Chapter Text

It was a rare quiet that hung over Potter Manor that night, the kind of quiet that only comes after a long, emotionally charged day and the departure of guests who have filled the halls with laughter, chatter, and the occasional clinking of glasses. The last few hours had been exhausting in ways both visible and invisible—tense introductions to people at the very top of wizarding society, polite smiles and careful conversation, and the relentless effort to maintain composure after Harry’s magical disappearance had rippled through the protective wards. Everyone had pretended nothing untoward had happened, though every adult had sensed the undercurrent of panic and exhaustion that Harry carried like a shadow.

By 8:30, the elves had moved quietly through the rooms, sweeping and clearing, stacking empty glasses and crumbs with practiced efficiency, leaving only the faint scent of polished wood and lingering cake behind. The household staff moved like whispers, careful not to disturb the fragile calm. Sirius had left hours earlier, escorting his family home and sending a detailed, gentle report to Isla to assure her that Harry was safe, though she didn’t yet know all the nuances of what had occurred. Newt had left with his father, who accepted his absence with a knowing glance. The young alpha had gone without explanation beyond the simple fact that Harry had been in distress, and while Newt had considered sharing the truth of Harry’s words—the admission of years of abuse—he knew his father did not need to hear it. That knowledge would remain between him and Harry, a quiet bond of trust and secrecy.

Now, in the expansive library on the second floor of Potter Manor, five figures sat in relative calm. The firelight flickered against polished shelves lined with leather-bound volumes, casting long shadows across the room. A magical baby monitor kept the tiny sounds of Charlus in the room down the hall under watch, his soft breathing and occasional stirrings punctuating the silence. Magical monitoring charms hummed quietly from the room nearby, placed carefully around Harry in the room adjacent to Fleamont’s own. The adults’ presence in the library was as much a protective measure as it was a space to breathe.

For a long moment, the library remained silent, each adult lost in their thoughts, some staring into the fire, others to the window where the garden lay still in the moonlight. Then, breaking the quiet, Fleamont’s voice rang out, sharp and worry-laden, pulling everyone from their reflections.

“When he wakes, he’s going to feel like he ruined the birthday,” he said, a note of earnest concern in his tone. He leaned forward slightly, his elbows on his knees, hands clasped together, his brown eyes wide and earnest. It was an observation that drew nods and subtle shifts from the others.

Clarissa’s voice was soft but firm, tinged with a gentle admonishment as she leaned back in her chair. “Fleamont, he didn’t ruin anything. Birthdays are for everyone, not just for perfect appearances or events running smoothly. Harry’s presence is a gift, and we all know he’s been through much more than most could imagine.”

“That’s not what I said,” Fleamont replied quickly, leaning forward in his chair, earnestness tightening his voice. “I said that’s what he’s going to think. We need to make sure he knows he’s welcome anyway, that the day wasn’t ruined because of him.” His hands fidgeted in his lap, betraying the anxiety he didn’t voice. “Even if he believes it, we need to reassure him. That’s all I meant.”

Tobias exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck as he leaned back in his chair. “Yes, I suppose… with his history…” He trailed off, uncertain how much to reveal without overstepping.

“What history?” Fleamont asked, brow furrowed. His youthful curiosity and concern combined in a single sharp, focused question.

Henry ran a hand over his forehead as if to steel himself for the delicate truth. “Sirius said… he was at the very least neglected by his adoptive family,” he said carefully, his voice carrying the weight of authority and restraint.

Fleamont’s eyes widened. “No… he was abused,” he blurted, the word slipping out before he could measure its impact. 

“You can’t assume that!” Heather’s voice rose sharply, and all heads turned toward her, startled. Her hands curled into fists, though she kept them folded in her lap. “We can’t just declare that without his words! We have no right!”

Fleamont shifted, unsettled, and looked down at his hands. “I overheard him… speak to his suitor. I shouldn’t have, I was just walking by to get brooms, but I couldn’t help it.” His voice softened, almost ashamed. “He said… he said, ‘Even if I spent the first seventeen years of my life being abused by Muggles…’ or something like that. He was… asking Newt if he was weak, because he’s an omega.”

Clarissa’s expression fell further, her eyes glimmered with unshed tears. She leaned back in her chair and pressed a hand to her chest, drawing in a long, quiet breath. The words resonated deeply with her own experience, the unspoken burden of being seen as weak simply because of being an omega—a burden she’d carried silently for years before understanding that strength wasn’t measured by society’s labels.

Henry’s jaw tightened, his hand clenching on the arm of the chair. He exchanged a glance with Tobias, who nodded grimly, sharing the silent acknowledgment that Harry had endured horrors no child should face. 

“Poor boy,” Clarissa murmured, voice thick with empathy. “It’s no wonder he panicked today… no wonder he felt overwhelmed. Seventeen years of that kind of life… it would leave anyone on edge. We must make sure he understands—he’s not alone. He’s safe, and he’s among people who care for him.”

“We can’t undo the past,” Tobias said quietly, “but we can give him something he never had before. Stability, acceptance, protection. That is worth more than anything else.”

Fleamont’s hands clenched and unclenched in his lap, his young face determined. “I’ll make sure he knows. That he’s wanted, and that he’s safe. That… he’s family, even if it’s complicated.”

Clarissa reached over, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You’re right, darling. And we’ll do it, all of us. He’s been through enough, but here, he will find care."

At nine o’clock, Harry’s eyes fluttered open to the muted silver light of the moon spilling across the floor, slicing through the curtains like liquid silver.

His body felt simultaneously heavy and electric, as though the adrenaline and fear of the evening had never fully left him. He rolled over, the sheets cool against his flushed skin, and immediately, the embarrassment from earlier surged back—a hot, burning wave that made his ears ache and his stomach twist.

Where am I? His mind raced as he caught the faint scents of the place. Potter Manor, unmistakably. He could tell, even without opening his eyes fully.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, feet brushing the smooth floor. His stomach churned with heat and shame. Earlier—that—all of it—the panic, the apparation through the wards, the shuddering tremors, the whispers to Newt, the closeness of Henry, the protective calm of the Potters—all of it. He was boiling from the intensity of his emotions, a mess tangled into one.

Sneaking out crossed his mind almost immediately. Maybe if he left quietly, no one would notice… he could escape the way he had escaped in the gardens, disappear before anyone could fuss over him. But the rational part of his mind—the part honed through years of careful survival—told him that was impossible. Wards, monitoring charms, the lingering magic from the protective spells around the manor… there was no getting past them. And if he tried, he knew they’d find him, and then the whole evening would be scrutinized again. The thought made him flush further.

The guest room was sparse, purposefully bare. A simple big bed, a small side table, a chair pushed into the corner. No proper decorations, no distractions. Harry exhaled slowly, the cool silver light washing over him, offering a small measure of clarity. He was alone here. Not entirely, but alone enough to breathe without eyes on him.

He glanced down at his body. Carefully, he slid out of his clothes, leaving only the snug, one-piece underwear he always preferred for comfort.

Sliding back under the sheets, he curled inward, clutching the cool linens, trying to ground himself. His mind swirled with fragmented memories. Did someone carry him up here? The thought lingered, unanswered, as his body began to relax.

Instinctively, he latched onto the faint memory of Henry’s arms, strong and grounding, cradling.

With a shudder, his lids drifted shut. His body, exhausted, surrendered. 

But at 2 a.m., Fleamont shot awake, heart hammering, as a scream ripped through the quiet corridors of Potter Manor. It was piercing, raw, and immediately unmistakable, someone was in distress.

The sheets fell around him as he swung his legs out of bed, and instinctively his wand was in his hand before he had fully processed what was happening. In a rush, he grabbed a robe and wrapped it loosely around himself, feet hitting the polished floors as he bolted out of his room, adrenaline sharpening every sense.

By the time Henry and Clarissa emerged from their own rooms, startled and rubbing the remnants of sleep from their eyes, Fleamont was already at Harry’s door. He didn’t pause; he didn’t knock. He burst into the room with his wand raised, scanning the dim moonlit space.

Harry was writhing in the bed, tangled in the sheets, his frame shaking. The air was thick with the pungent, sharp tang of fear pheromones radiating off him. Fleamont’s stomach twisted at the scent, but as a beta, he was more immune to being overwhelmed the way an alpha might have been. For once, that immunity was a relief—it allowed him to think clearly, to act. He could focus on the person before him without being incapacitated by instinctual urges.

Fleamont’s first instinct was to reach out to steady Harry, but the instant his fingers brushed against Harry’s arm, a streak of magical energy shot from Harry. Fleamont was thrown across the room, colliding with the far wall. Pain shot up his back and legs, and he instinctively scrambled to his feet, wand still in hand, breathing raggedly. His mind reeled: Is that... the Elder Wand? But there was no time to ponder the identity of the wand or its implications. The immediate priority was Harry.

Standing now, every muscle tensed, Fleamont raised his hands slowly, showing he was unarmed, unthreatening. “Harry… it’s Fleamont. I’m not going to hurt you.” His voice was calm but firm, echoing slightly in the room.

Harry flinched, eyes wide with terror, as if he were seeing the world in jagged, unpredictable shards.

In any other scenario—any ordinary, safe scenario—Fleamont would have been mortified, perhaps even a little embarrassed, to see his cousin in such a state of undress. But this was no ordinary moment. This was urgent, delicate, and dangerous in a way that overshadowed propriety.

The sound of footsteps racing down the hall heralded the arrival of Henry and Clarissa, both wide-eyed, wand in hand. 

“Harry, love, it’s alright,” Clarissa said softly but firmly, moving forward with cautious grace. Her scent was grounding, floral and warm, wrapping around Harry like a protective cocoon. “We’re here. You’re safe.”

Henry’s eyes softened as he assessed the scene, his instincts flaring. He knelt beside the bed in a fluid motion, lowering his body to Harry’s level, his hand hovering over Harry’s back. “Little one, it’s us. You’re not alone,” he murmured. His voice carried authority and reassurance, and though Harry was trembling, there was a flicker of recognition, of relief, in those wide amber eyes.

Fleamont backed slightly, staying alert, wand still raised but lowered enough to show he meant no harm. “I—I was trying to—” he began, but Henry’s sharp glance silenced him. Now wasn’t the time for explanations; it was time to calm Harry.

But...

“Don’t touch him!” Fleamont blurted, his voice a mixture of fear and frustration. “He’s not ready for that!”

Henry and Clarissa froze, startled at the sharpness in his tone, while Harry’s body tensed further, a ragged whimper escaping him. Fleamont’s own stance softened, but his eyes never left Harry’s, trying desperately to gauge what would help.

Taking a cautious step forward, Fleamont whispered, “I… I just want to help. I—” But then, almost instinctively, he added, “C’mon, cousin, it’s alright…”

The word hung in the air, and the effect was immediate. Harry flinched, scrambling back under the covers, almost curling in on himself. His hands shot up to cover his face as another strangled whimper tore from his throat.

“No! Don’t— don’t call me that!” Harry gasped, his voice cracking, eyes shining with panic. “I’m not… I’m not your cousin! Stop!”

Fleamont’s heart sank. “I… I didn’t mean—” he began, his wand lowering again. He tried to maintain his calm, but his voice was tense, apologetic. “I thought… I was supposed to… help.”

Henry exchanged a quick glance with his wife. He leaned in slightly, voice low and steady, the warmth and authority of an alpha shining through. “Harry… listen to me. No one here is forcing you into anything. You are safe. You are not obligated to respond in any way you’re not ready for.”

Clarissa added softly, placing a hand gently on Fleamont’s arm. “He’s frightened, darling. He needs space, not assumptions or labels. Let him breathe.”

Fleamont nodded, stepping back immediately. “Okay. Okay, I understand,” he said, his voice quiet, almost reverent. “I just—” His words faltered as he saw Harry trembling under the blankets, the panic still coursing through him. “I just want you to know you’re not alone, Harry.”

Harry peeked out from under the covers, eyes wide, still catching his breath. “I… I just… I hate being called cousin. I don’t… I don’t want it.” His voice was barely a whisper, laced with hurt.

“Noted,” Henry said firmly, still keeping his hand lightly on Harry’s back, kneading soothingly. “No one will call you that again unless you want it. You are Harrison, Harry, however you wish to be addressed. No titles, no expectations, no labels. Only your comfort matters.”

The words seemed to ripple through Harry’s tense body. Slowly, he lowered his hands, though he remained curled in the bed. Fleamont stayed still, silently willing himself to be patient, while Henry and Clarissa maintained their protective, grounding presence.

Harry’s trembling form crawled from the bed. He pressed himself against Henry, curling into the alpha’s chest and letting his body fold into the warmth and strength he instinctively craved. Henry, his heart twisting painfully, wrapped Harry as tightly as he could without causing discomfort, holding him like the child he had never had the chance to protect before.

As Harry’s hands clutched at Henry’s robes like they did earlier, Henry’s eyes fell involuntarily to the pale, burned scar just below Harry’s shoulder bone, which during the day were obscured by the folds of his clothing. A sharp pang of anger and sorrow went through him. How could anyone have done this to someone so young? His gaze traveled to the starburst circle on Harry’s arm, evidence of a puncture, and then downward to the long, wide scar slicing across his wrist, the edges still rough in texture and telling of a desperate act—probably a knife, Henry thought grimly, perhaps a suicide attempt.

Henry tightened his arms instinctively, wanting to shield every inch of Harry from the world, from cruelty, from the very air that had allowed such pain. He started a low, soft vibration from deep in his chest, the purring resonating through his body. Harry flinched at first, then slowly pressed closer, letting the sound wrap around him.

Fleamont froze, eyes wide as they drank in the sight of Harry’s back. His youthful optimism and naivety were shattered in an instant by the harsh reality of the physical evidence left behind. The next moment Clarissa, compelled to see for herself, leaned slightly, and her breath caught. Through the sheer top half of Harry’s once-piece underwear, pale white lines crisscrossed his back—long, thin, faded but undeniable. Belt lashings, scars from repeated strikes that should never have occurred.

Clarissa’s stomach heaved and bile rose up. She barely managed to step back in time to avoid falling, but the sensation was too overwhelming. Fleamont gagged at the smell of sick, his face contorted, but he acted immediately, pointing his wand and muttering a quick spell to vanish the unpleasant remains from his senses. The second after, thinking quickly, he conjured a glass from the side table, whispered an Aguamenti charm, and water arced gracefully into it, extending the glass toward his mother to steady her.

Henry felt the sharp intake of breath from those around them, but his focus remained solely on Harry. He pressed his head down against his neck, breath mingling faintly with Harry’s curls. Gently, he tilted Harry’s chin upward. “You’re ok,” he murmured, voice low and steady, a rumble of reassurance that resonated deep in his chest. “You’re safe.

Harry’s eyelids fluttered halfway open, the faintest glint of green showing beneath lashes wet from tears. “‘M safe,” he mumbled, voice hoarse and small, the words slurred by exhaustion but sincere in their acceptance. His head dropped back against Henry’s shoulder, the tension slowly bleeding out of his limbs.

He brushed a hand through Harry’s curls, soft and messy. The gesture was tender, almost paternal. His thumb ghosted across the faint line of Harry’s forehead, and once again his eyes caught on it — that lightning bolt scar. The same one that had drawn his attention earlier, when Harry’s fringe had shifted just enough under the daylight. But now, after the panic, after seeing his chest too, Henry had spotted another. A second lightning-bolt-shaped mark, curling across the left side of Harry’s sternum.

Two scars, identical in shape. Not random. Not natural.

Henry frowned deeply, his hand resting protectively against the boy’s back as he drifted further into sleep. The purring from his own chest slowed, the instinctive vibration giving way to stillness as his mind began to churn. “No coincidence,” he murmured under his breath. His instincts as a man long used to magical oddities told him something wasn’t adding up. These weren’t the marks of mundane cruelty alone — at least not all of them.

He glanced up, voice quiet but edged with thought. “Monty,” he said.

Fleamont looked up from where he’d been standing a few feet away, still pale from the shock, his wand limp in his hand. “Yes, Father?”

“Are you certain Harry said he was abused by Muggles?” Henry’s tone was sharp now, though still hushed so as not to wake the boy in his arms.

“Positive,” Fleamont said immediately. “I overheard by accident — word for word. He said he’d spent the first seventeen years of his life being abused by Muggles. I didn’t mishear him.”

Henry’s frown deepened. He looked down again at the boy in his arms, sleeping against him, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest oddly reassuring and unsettling at the same time. “Then why…” he murmured, fingers tracing the faint outline of that lower scar through the thin fabric of Harry’s undergarment, “…does he look like he has curse marks?”

“Curse marks?” Clarissa echoed, voice low.

He nodded once, grimly. “That scar on his forehead is magical, I can feel it. But now I see one on his chest, the same shape, the same feel. No wandless blow could’ve made that.” He brushed another lock of Harry’s hair back, exposing the jagged line again in the moonlight. “This wasn’t just abuse,” he said softly, almost to himself. “This boy’s been marked, twice.”

Fleamont shifted uneasily, stepping closer. “Marked?” he repeated. “Like cursed?”

“Something of that nature. Curses don’t always leave visible signs — but when they do, it’s because the magic wants to be seen. It binds itself to the body, to the soul. And if this boy has two of the same kind…” He looked up again, meeting his son’s eyes. “Whatever hurt him wasn’t just human cruelty, Monty. It was dark magic.”

Clarissa inhaled sharply, glancing from Henry to Harry, her hand coming to rest gently on the edge of the bed near the boy’s arm. “Then whoever did this to him—”

“—wasn’t just cruel,” Henry finished quietly, his gaze still fixed on Harry’s peaceful, sleeping face. “They were powerful. And deliberate.”

The room fell into silence, heavy and thick. Only the soft hum of Harry’s quiet breathing filled the space.

“Whatever happened to him,” he said after a long pause, “he’s not going back to it.”

Fleamont nodded slowly, jaw set. “I’ll make sure of it, too.”

Henry’s hand lingered protectively over the faint rise and fall of Harry’s chest. “Good,” he said softly. “Because if what I suspect is true, he’s not just a victim of cruelty. He’s the survivor of something unnatural.”

Henry adjusted his grip on the sleeping boy, careful to keep Harry’s head nestled securely against his shoulder as he rose to his feet. The movement stirred a small murmur from Harry, a faint noise of protest that dissolved into a quiet sigh. Henry hushed him instinctively, voice barely a whisper. “It’s alright, little one. Just putting you to bed.”

He moved toward the bed, the moonlight painting silver along his arm and the curve of Harry’s neck. The young omega’s breathing was slow, peaceful again.

Behind him, Fleamont spoke hesitantly, voice uncertain but firm with purpose. “Father… I think you should see his back at one point.”

Henry turned slightly, brows knitting together. “His back?”

Fleamont swallowed, glancing toward his mother before he continued. “Don’t you— don’t you make potions for scarring?”

Clarissa nodded faintly, still pale, one hand resting against her lips. “He… he might need them,” she whispered.

Henry frowned, puzzled but uneasy. Slowly, he lowered Harry back onto the mattress, his movements gentle and deliberate. He adjusted the blanket, intending to tuck it around the boy again, but the concern in his son’s tone gnawed at him.

“What exactly do you mean?” he asked quietly, eyes flicking between them both.

Fleamont didn’t answer right away. He just looked at the sleeping boy, then at his father. “Just… look,” he said finally, voice low and strained.

Something in his tone made Henry’s stomach twist. Carefully, he turned Harry onto his side, meaning only to check for himself—and froze.

The sheer white of Harry’s one-piece undergarment clung faintly to his skin in the moonlight, translucent enough to reveal the truth beneath. Henry’s breath caught.

White lines. Dozens of them. Some straight, some crossing each other, all thin but carved deep in their time. Lashes that ran across the shoulders, down to the small of his back. A few thicker, uneven—evidence of healed gashes. Faded, yes, softened by age and magic, but still vivid enough to tell the story of their making.

For a long moment, Henry could not speak. His mind, so used to analysis and measured thought, simply stalled. 

So that’s why my wife threw up, he thought grimly, jaw tightening.

Clarissa’s voice was soft but broken from behind him. “No one… no one should ever look like that.”

Henry drew a steadying breath through his nose, setting his jaw as he reached forward, hand trembling slightly as he brushed the edge of the fabric near one shoulder. 

“These aren’t new,” he said, voice low, as much to himself as to the others. “Old, years old. Some are from the same instrument, others… thicker. He was beaten, more than once.”

Fleamont’s fists clenched at his sides. “By Muggles,” he said bitterly, his voice barely controlled. “He said Muggles.”

Henry didn’t immediately answer. He was staring at one particular mark that didn’t fit the rest—a thin, vertical line ending in a burst, almost star-shaped, just above Harry’s left shoulder blade. A mark that looked faintly scorched. “No,” he said quietly. “Some of these, yes. Belts, whips. But this one…” he brushed the air just above it, frowning. “That’s not Muggle work. That’s a wand strike. Uncontrolled, but magical.”

Clarissa pressed a hand to her mouth again, eyes shining. “He’s only a child…”

Henry sighed softly, drawing the blanket gently back over Harry’s shoulders and smoothing it down. The boy stirred, instinctively curling toward the warmth, and Henry’s heart twisted painfully in his chest. “Not anymore,” he murmured. “He’s young, but what he’s lived through…”

He straightened up, rubbing a hand over his face, his voice quieter but filled with iron. “When he wakes, we’ll give him a salve. I’ll make one tonight, something to ease the sensitivity. But the rest—”

“The rest?” Clarissa asked softly.

Henry’s expression darkened, his gaze still on the sleeping form. “The rest we can’t heal with potions entirely. That’s damage that’s taken root far deeper than the skin.”

Fleamont stepped forward, eyes lingering on the rise and fall of Harry’s back beneath the blanket. “Father… what kind of life did he have to get scars like that?”

Henry’s voice was quiet, but there was a tremor in it—a rare, dangerous anger simmering beneath calm control. “The kind of life no child should survive. And yet he did.”

Clarissa’s breath hitched softly as Henry’s hand moved again gently to take Harry’s wrist. The boy was already sleeping deeply, worn out to the point that even movement didn’t stir him. 

Henry turned the forearm slightly, his expression tightening. 

“Love…” he said quietly, voice rough. “Do you think he did this one?”

Clarissa’s gaze followed his hand. Her lips parted, but no sound came out at first. Then, barely audible: “It looks like… he tried to…” She couldn’t finish the sentence.

Henry nodded faintly, thumb brushing over the edge of the mark. It was old. Faintly warped. He’d seen hundreds in his years brewing restorative potions. “I’ve seen scars like this before,” he said softly, analytical even through the ache in his tone. “It wasn’t recent. But it’s deep. The cut missed the main artery by less than a centimetre. Whoever closed it didn’t bother with finesse.”

Clarissa covered her mouth again, eyes wet. “Oh, Henry…”

Fleamont, who had quietly moved to the other side of the bed, caught sight of what they were discussing and froze. “What- what is that?"

Henry immediately turned a little, angling his arm to block the worst of it from view, but it was too late. Fleamont had already seen the scar, the way it gleamed in the moonlight against Harry’s skin. The air in the room seemed to grow heavy.

“Monty,” Henry said softly, tone steady but commanding, “go fetch a glass of water. And perhaps some chocolate from the kitchen.”

Fleamont hesitated. He wasn’t a child—he was eighteen, an adult—but the tone was one he’d heard all his life, and it left no room for protest. “Right,” he murmured, throat tight. He turned and hurried out, his footsteps echoing faintly down the corridor.

Once the door clicked shut, Henry exhaled slowly, running his thumb once more along the pale line. His voice dropped low. “This one… isn’t like the others. The older lashes, those are deliberate punishment. Someone took pleasure in those. But this…”

He stopped, frowning deeply, his mind turning over every detail—length, depth, angle. Something about it bothered him beyond the possibility of self-harm. The cut was straight, yes, but the edges were warped in a way that suggested magic—some sort of siphoning.

He didn’t voice that suspicion aloud. Not yet.

Clarissa crouched beside the bed, brushing a strand of Harry’s hair from his forehead. “You think he did that to himself?” she whispered.

Henry hesitated. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “It’s possible. But something about it feels… wrong. There’s energy here. Residual magic, faint but—it’s dark.” He looked grim. “As if his blood had been used for something. Not just spilled.”

Clarissa shivered, instinctively leaning closer to the sleeping boy. “Henry, you’re frightening me.”

He softened immediately, reaching to touch her shoulder. “I’m sorry, love. It’s only speculation. But I’ve brewed from samples that carried traces of ritual magic before. This feels similar.”

She stared down at Harry and whispered, “Then he’s been through worse than any of us can guess.”

Henry nodded once, quietly. “And he survived it.” His tone was one of awe and grief mixed together. “Somehow, he survived it.”

They sat in silence for a while after that, listening to the faint sound of Harry’s steady breathing. The boy shifted once, curling tighter beneath the quilt, face pressed into the pillow like a child trying to disappear.

What neither of them could have known—what no one could—was that the jagged mark on Harry’s wrist was no suicide wound. It was a remnant of a blood ritual, carved by the very man who had betrayed his parents. The cut had been used to tether life to death, to bring back a dark lord from the brink.

A wound not born of despair, but of dark purpose—and Harry had borne it ever since.

“He’s still beautiful,” Clarissa whispered, her voice trembling slightly as her eyes lingered on Harry’s sleeping face. “And he has the most striking eyes I’ve ever seen. I felt frozen when I first saw them earlier today, they could see right through me.”

Henry smiled faintly, a sad, weary curve of the mouth. “Yes,” he murmured. “He does have that kind of look, doesn’t he?"

He adjusted the blankets around Harry again, tucking them gently up to his shoulders until the boy was completely cocooned in warmth. His hand lingered for a moment on the quilt before withdrawing.

He exhaled through his nose, the soft sound carrying all his worry. “Fleamont isn’t dumb,” he said finally. “I just wish he hadn’t seen what he did. We should have sent him out of the room the moment we entered.”

Clarissa nodded slowly, wrapping her arms around herself. “I know, darling. Trust me, I know.” She turned to look at him, her voice wavering between guilt and resignation. “But we can’t protect Monty from the world forever, as much as we always hoped to. He’s of age in both world now. He’ll see cruelty out there far worse than this—and maybe it’s better he understands what it looks like."

Henry reached for her hand, drawing her closer until she rested against his chest. “You’re right,” he said quietly, pressing his lips to the top of her head. “He’s growing up faster than I like to admit. I just… wish his first glimpse of what the world can do didn’t have to be like this.”

Clarissa leaned into the embrace, her voice muffled against his shoulder. “No parent ever wants to see their child’s innocence chipped away,” she murmured. “But Monty handled it well. He didn’t panic. He even thought to give water for me after I—” she paused, grimacing at the memory, “—after I lost my composure.”

Henry chuckled softly, the sound quiet but affectionate. “You did just fine, love. Anyone would have reacted the same way.” He rubbed small circles on her back, grounding her. “He’s a good lad. Compassionate. Reminds me of you when we first met.”

Clarissa laughed weakly, resting her head under his chin. “Oh, Henry, don’t make me cry again. You’re too kind.”

He held her closer, letting the silence between them settle into something warm and steady. 

They should have expected Fleamont to be quick, he always was when given a task that made him feel useful. Barely two minutes had passed before the door opened again and Fleamont hurried back in, slightly out of breath, holding a glass of water in one hand and a small tin of chocolate squares in the other.

Henry and Clarissa exchanged a look—half exasperation, half fond disbelief.

“Monty,” Henry began, his voice low but tired.

“I got the water and the chocolate,” Fleamont said quickly, setting both down on the side table by the bed. “Didn’t want to waste time—oh.” He blinked at the sight of them both still by the bedside, Henry’s arm around Clarissa’s shoulders.

Clarissa gave a small, weary laugh, brushing at her eyes. “It’s for you, dear.”

“What?” Fleamont looked scandalized. “You could’ve told me that! I nearly tripped over the rug running back here—”

Henry pinched the bridge of his nose, trying not to smile. “Monty, we just needed you out of the room for a moment. You didn’t have to sprint.”

“I didn’t sprint,” Fleamont muttered indignantly, straightening his dressing robes. “I moved efficiently.”

Clarissa reached out and pushed the tin toward him with a tired but affectionate smile. “At least have a square of chocolate then, darling. You’ve earned it.”

Fleamont opened the tin and broke off a piece, grumbling under his breath. “A little warning next time would be nice, you know. ‘Monty, be quick, but it’s actually for you.’ That would’ve saved me the drama.”

Henry huffed out a small laugh, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. “Noted for next time.”

Fleamont took a bite, then another, sighing as the sugar hit his system. “Good,” he said, his mouth still half full. “Because I think I aged ten years tonight.”

Clarissa let out a soft chuckle and reached over to ruffle his hair—something she hadn’t done since he was little. “You and me both, sweetheart.”

Henry finally smiled properly, glancing from his wife to his son. “All of us, I think.”

And for the first time that night, the room felt a little lighter.

“He’s dinky.” Fleamont muttered quietly, peering down at Harry curled up in the guest bed. “Honestly, he’s even smaller than I imagined. Makes you want to just… keep him safe forever, doesn’t it?”

Henry nodded gravely. “Can you tell us everything that happened? What made him apparate away like that?”

Fleamont ran a hand through his messy hair. “Ah, well… he was… um, he was cuddling with his suitor—Newton—by the field. You know, near the makeshift Quidditch pitch. Everything was calm at first. Then, well… I suggested a seekers match. Thought he might enjoy it, you know, something fun.” He shrugged, trying to sound casual, but his voice faltered. “And that’s when he panicked. Completely. He… bolted. Scamander went after him, tried to calm him, but Harry—he just… vanished. Before anyone could reach him. The wards struggled. There was a sharp… pop, like…” He waved vaguely, clearly a little shaken by how close he’d been to witnessing it.

Henry hummed thoughtfully, running a hand over his face. “And then he appeared in the playroom… before Sirius. Makes sense, he trusts Sirius. Probably aimed for someone he knew, someone safe. Impressive… but terrifying. That’s not something you can do lightly in wards like ours.”

Harry shifted in his sleep, frowning, a faint whimper escaping him. Fleamont didn’t hesitate. He moved fast, clambering partway onto the bed, careful not to startle him further, and stroked Harry’s forehead gently.

Harry blinked open his eyes, bleary, disoriented. “Dad?” he murmured softly, voice thick with sleep and confusion.

Henry and Clarissa froze mid-motion, and Fleamont stiffened, caught completely off guard.

“I should hope not,” Fleamont said quickly, trying to ease the tension. “We’re the same age, remember?” His voice was half-joke, half-awkward, but the words sounded thin even to him.

Harry’s green eyes widened as he focused on Fleamont, and for the briefest moment, the room felt taut with silence. Harry’s mind was spinning. He looks so much like… James. The resemblance was uncanny—the messy dark hair, the same expressive eyes, the faint mischievous curl to the mouth. Even the tilt of his head while watching him had shades of that same familiarity. His chest tightened.

Henry and Clarissa exchanged a glance, worried, but unsure how to intervene without making it worse. Fleamont, on the other hand, could see the tension knotting Harry’s shoulders.

“Harry,” Fleamont said softly, reaching to adjust the blanket around him, “I know it’s… confusing. Perhaps I look a bit like someone you’ve seen before, but I promise you, I’m not your father. But I am your family still. That’s all. Really.”

Harry’s lip trembled slightly, and he flinched again, burying his face into Fleamont’s chest, trying to make himself smaller, as though if he could shrink far enough, all the feelings of confusion, fear, and overwhelm would simply disappear. Fleamont’s heart clenched, and he instinctively wrapped an arm securely around him, murmuring gentle words, trying to ground him in the moment.

“You’re safe. I’ve got you. I promise.”

“No… you’re my grandad,” Harry mumbled deliriously, words slurred by sleep and exhaustion. His head was buried against Fleamont’s chest. “You… you’re my grandad, Monty. I… I know…”

Fleamont froze, staring down at Harry. His hand on the small omega’s back stilled. Clarissa and Henry exchanged panicked glances. Fleamont’s mind scrambled. Grandad? That’s impossible… I’m only eighteen. He must be dreaming… hallucinating… But Harry’s voice was insistent, shaky, desperate.

Clarissa whispered, trying to calm both of them. “Harry… sweetheart… you’re tired. It’s late… you’ve been through so much… maybe you just need to sleep…”

But Harry’s fingers clawed slightly at Fleamont’s robe, tugging. “No! You… you have to believe me! You… you had a son in 1960… it took so long… Euphemia and you… dragon pox… dead… James… my dad… murdered… the Potters… gone…” His words tumbled out in jagged fragments, half sobs, half accusation.

Henry frowned, utterly baffled, trying to piece together the meaning behind the words. Fleamont’s jaw tightened. “Harry, what… what are you saying?” he asked cautiously.

“I… I’m telling you! I’ve seen it! I know it!” Harry’s voice broke slightly. He buried his face further, hot tears dampening Fleamont’s chest. “I… I’m with you, I’m here… but… you’re my family… my family is gone… they’re all gone… and I… I needed you…”

Henry’s expression softened slightly, but Clarissa’s grip on his arm tightened. “Love… he’s exhausted… delirious. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

“I’m not delirious!” Harry protested weakly, head shaking against Fleamont. “I know this… I know what happens! I… I can’t lose you! You… you’re supposed to be my family! You—”

Fleamont swallowed hard, unsure how to respond. He’s talking about events I haven’t even lived through yet… and he calls me his grandad… He tried to reach out, to speak, but even saying “cousin” as he often did to calm Harry’s previous anxieties made the omega flinch. Fleamont froze, hands hovering awkwardly in the air, suddenly terrified of triggering more pain.

“Harry… look at me,” Fleamont said softly, voice careful, measured. “You’re with your family now. You’re safe. That’s all that matters right now. We’re… here. You don’t need to… see the future. You don’t need to know everything. It’s… it’s okay.”

Harry whimpered, pressing closer. “But… but I do know… I know everything…” His small body shivered, exhausted from trying to convey what he’d seen in a lifetime he hadn’t yet lived. “I… I can’t fix it… I can’t stop it… but… you… you’re here… and I… I don’t want to lose you…”

Henry crouched beside the bed, resting a hand over Harry’s. “Harry, listen to me. You’re exhausted. You’ve been through a lot today. Your body… your mind… it’s overwhelmed. We’re not going anywhere. You’re safe here. That’s all that matters. You can sleep, little one.”

Clarissa added, voice firm yet gentle, “Rest. You’re in a room with people who care about you. You don’t have to think about dragons, murders, or lost families right now. We’ve got you. Every moment.”

Harry’s breath hitched again, and he nuzzled deeper into Fleamont. His mind was spinning.

Fleamont kept his arms carefully around Harry, restraining himself from using the word “cousin,” knowing it would strike too sharply at Harry’s past trauma. “Shh… it’s okay… it’s okay, Harry… we’re here. You don’t have to fight right now. Just breathe.”

Harry’s eyelids drooped, his grip on Fleamont weakening slightly as the exhaustion overtook the fear. “I… I just… I just… want my family…” he whispered.

“You have us,” Henry said quietly, “And we’re not going anywhere. You’re safe, Harry. That’s all that matters. Sleep now.”

“We’ve got you, sweetheart. Every moment.”

And the tremors eased and Harry drifted back toward sleep.

Henry pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling through his nostrils with a tired huff. “This… this is too much,” he muttered, voice low but heavy with exasperation. He glanced down at Harry and then back at Fleamont. “I don’t know whether to be shocked or to just… accept that our little guest here is speaking in riddles that make no chronological sense.”

Clarissa leaned forward, hands clasped tightly in front of her, eyes narrowing slightly as she studied Fleamont. “Do you think he’s… a seer?” she asked, her tone a mix of curiosity and unease. “How could he possibly know about your… fertility issues, Monty? That you’d—”

“Mother!” Fleamont snapped, voice sharp, cheeks heating. “I… I don’t like you airing that!”

Clarissa’s gaze softened slightly, though she didn’t relent. “It’s true, isn’t it? You know your test results, Monty. You’ve said it yourself before.”

Fleamont ran a hand through his hair, exasperated, feeling trapped between his mother’s relentless curiosity and the absurdity of Harry’s statements. “Yes, yes, it’s true,” he admitted finally, sighing. “But… I don’t like the idea of having a child aged sixty-one. How could I have a child that old? I… I just don’t believe it. It’s impossible."

Henry rubbed his eyes, leaning back in the chair, voice low and thoughtful. “Perhaps, but look at him,” he said quietly, nodding toward Harry. “He believes it. And he’s… unreasonably convincing. You can see it in the way he spoke, the desperation behind it. He thinks he knows the future.”

Clarissa gave a sharp nod. “That’s exactly my worry. Even if he isn’t a seer, he believes he’s seen it. And we know that omegas… when their minds are stressed, they can fixate, imagine, and create what they need to survive.”

Fleamont groaned, running both hands over his face. “I can’t even process this. He’s talking like he’s lived a lifetime I haven’t even begun to. And now he’s claiming I’m supposed to… I don’t even know… father a child that far into the future? It makes no sense!”

Henry’s tone softened slightly, leaning forward. “Monty… he’s just a child, or at least a young adult. He’s exhausted, terrified, and he’s clinging to some sort of anchor—something he thinks is family. And right now, that anchor… that’s you. He needs to believe, in this moment, that he has a family to hold onto.”

Fleamont exhaled, shoulders slumping. “I know, Father… but I can’t help feeling… exposed. All of this, how can he even know these things? It’s like he’s… peering into time itself, and I… I can’t even tell him it’s impossible.”

Clarissa reached out, brushing a hand over Fleamont’s arm. “He’ll wake tomorrow, calmer. And when he does, we’ll help him understand what’s real and what he’s imagined. Right now… right now, he just needs to know he’s safe.”

He swallowed, nodding slowly, though the tension in his shoulders remained. “Fine. But… I swear, if he starts calling me grandad again, I might—” He trailed off, a small, humorless chuckle escaping. “I might actually lose my mind.”

Henry exhaled, muttering under his breath, “This night… this night will go down in history as one of the most bizarre introductions I’ve ever witnessed.”

Chapter Text

Harry blinked himself awake, groggy and heavy-limbed, his mind trying to string together scraps of memory that didn’t quite fit. He remembered a nightmare that felt too close to reality, a panic that tore him apart from the inside. And then—hands, arms, comfort. Henry’s voice, deep and sure. Clarissa’s soft words. Fleamont’s wide, uncertain brown eyes.

He sat up slowly. The sheets slid down, and the air hit his skin. His cheeks burned. They must have seen everything, his scars... the evidence of every hurt he’d tried to hide.

Henry Potter was slumped in a chair beside the bed, his head resting on his folded arms on the mattress. His hair was mussed, and his face softened in sleep, lines of concern easing slightly in the morning light. There was an untouched glass of water on the nightstand and a small jar of salve beside it—dainty handwriting on the label.

Harry swallowed hard. Guilt crawled up his throat. They saw. Fuck, they saw everything.

He pressed a trembling hand to his own arm, tracing the faint ridges of a scar. The thought that they had seen it all made him want to curl in on himself. What must they think of him now? Pity? Disgust? Or worse, fear?

He looked at Henry again. The older man’s breathing was steady, his expression calm, almost protective. His hand, resting near Harry’s blanket, looked as though it had been holding on until exhaustion finally pulled him under.

Harry’s chest tightened. He didn’t remember much after the panic, only flashes—the safety of an embrace, the steady rhythm of a heartbeat under his ear, a deep voice saying you’re safe. He had clung to that like a lifeline before the darkness dragged him back under.

Harry exhaled quietly and whispered, “You didn’t have to stay…” even though he knew Henry couldn’t hear him.

He looked toward the window, the light spilling in across the floorboards. He should get up, get dressed, find his cloak. But moving meant facing them, and he wasn’t sure he could yet, not after last night.

He glanced back at Henry once more, eyes soft, guilt and gratitude twisting together in his chest. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “For… all of it.”

Henry stirred faintly at the sound, his hand flexing against the blanket as if his body was already reaching to reassure before his mind had woken.

Without meaning to, Harry began to shift. The blanket rustled faintly as he tugged it closer, his instincts taking over before his thoughts could catch up. He tucked it under his chin, curled in slightly, and drew one of the spare pillows closer to his chest. It wasn’t quite enough—there wasn’t the soft jumble of scents and fabrics his body seemed to crave—but something in him was searching for safety, for a nest.

He rearranged the pillow and sheets around himself with slow, almost mechanical motions, eyes half-lidded, the soft rustle of fabric around him. 

Henry shifted slightly beside the bed, a small movement that made his wrist slide closer to Harry’s face. The older man’s scent glands on the wrist rested just on the edge of the mattress, the faint musk of calm alpha pheromones spilling through the air like warmth from a fire.

Harry inhaled unconsciously, his body reacting before his mind could protest. He leaned closer, pressing his forehead lightly against Henry’s wrist. The steady pulse beneath the skin, the deep, grounding scent—it was everything his frayed instincts sought.

His fingers brushed the back of Henry’s hand as he settled, curling up tighter, the faint tremble in his shoulders easing. The tension in his body began to melt away in little shivers, like frost under sunlight.

Henry stirred again, brow furrowing, but he didn’t wake. His free hand moved reflexively, fingers brushing through Harry’s curls once, gently.

That simple, sleepy touch made Harry’s breath hitch. His head tilted instinctively to nuzzle closer to the warmth of Henry’s wrist, and the scent that lingered there filled his senses—stability, safety, the kind of comfort he’d never been allowed to want.

His eyes fluttered shut again, the quiet of the room settling over them both.

Clarissa entered the room quietly, her hair a little mussed from lack of sleep, a robe tied loosely around her waist. She hadn’t meant to make a sound, but the sight that greeted her in the pale morning light drew a soft laugh from her before she could stop it.

Henry’s head was tilted awkwardly against the side of the bed, too stunned to move. His face was frozen somewhere between exasperation and disbelief, as though he wasn’t sure how he’d ended up in his current predicament. And nestled right against his arm—clutching it like it was a lifeline—was Harry.

The boy had burrowed into Henry’s wrist, cheek pressed against the faint pulse point where his scent glands rested, curls dark against the white bedsheets. His fingers were loosely curled around Henry’s sleeve, the motion protective even in sleep.

Clarissa covered her mouth to keep from laughing too loudly. “Oh, Henry,” she whispered teasingly, “how long have you been trapped like that?”

He blinked up at her, his voice a hoarse whisper so as not to wake Harry. “Not long. Five minutes, maybe. He… did this while I was half asleep.”

She stepped closer, eyes soft with amusement and affection. “You look as if you’re afraid to move.”

“I am,” Henry muttered, half whisper, half sigh. “If I wake him, he might panic. Or worse, cry."

That made Clarissa chuckle, a low tired sound that filled the room with warmth. She brushed a hand over Harry’s blanket, smoothing it down over his shoulder. “He’s nesting,” she said gently. “Instincts are still running high, poor thing. You’re just… convenient comfort.”

Henry raised an eyebrow. “Convenient?”

Clarissa smirked faintly, leaning over to kiss her husband’s temple. “Yes, convenient. You smell safe, you’re warm, and you didn’t move away when he reached for you.”

Henry’s face softened, gaze drifting back to the boy clinging to his arm. “He’s so adorable like this.”

“Mm,” Clarissa murmured in agreement. “You know,” she added, smirking again as she wrapped her arms around Henry from behind, “he does that exactly the same way I do when you try to leave the bed early.”

Henry gave her a sideways look. “So it’s an omega thing, then?”

She laughed quietly, her eyes full of gentle pride. “Definitely an omega thing. We latch onto our safe places, and if that happens to be your arm... well, you’re not getting it back until we decide so.”

Henry rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched into a small smile. “You and him are going to be trouble, I can already tell.”

“Darling,” Clarissa said, pressing her cheek to his shoulder, “I plan to be."

"'M awake y' know?" A tiny mumble came from the bedsheets.

Henry let out a soft huff of laughter, relief breaking through the tension of the last few hours. “Does that mean my arm gets its circulation back?” he asked, his voice still hushed, careful not to startle him.

Harry made a sleepy sound somewhere between a hum and a sigh, nuzzling his face further into Henry’s sleeve before mumbling, “Mhm.”

“Is that a yes or a no, young lord?” Henry teased lightly.

Harry cracked one eye open, squinting up at him blearily. “S’a yes,” he murmured, though he didn’t make much effort to move just yet. His voice was thick with sleep and that faint, lingering rasp that came after crying or exhaustion.

Clarissa snorted softly from where she’d perched at the edge of the bed. “He says yes, but his body clearly disagrees.”

Harry gave a faint, sheepish smile without lifting his head. “’M comfy.”

Henry chuckled quietly. “I noticed. My hand’s gone completely numb, so I suppose that’s a compliment.”

“M’sorry…” he muttered, finally unlatching himself and shifting back, rubbing at his eyes with one hand.

“Don’t be,” Henry said, flexing his arm with a grimace and shaking out the tingling feeling. “I’ve been trapped by worse.”

Clarissa raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Meaning me, I assume?”

Henry shot her a look, and she stifled a laugh behind her hand.

The young omega blinked between them, still half cocooned in the sheets, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. “You two are funny,” he murmured sleepily, the corners of his lips turning up just slightly.

Clarissa smiled gently. “Good morning, darling. Did you sleep alright?”

Harry nodded slowly, curls falling into his eyes. “Think so. No nightmares this time.”

Henry’s features softened at that. “That’s good to hear. You gave us quite the scare last night.”

He frowned a little, confusion flickering across his face. “Did I? I don’t remember…”

“Nothing to worry about,” Henry said quickly, resting a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “You’re safe now. That’s all that matters.”

Clarissa brushed a hand through his hair, voice warm and light. “And if you’re awake enough, breakfast’s nearly ready. You can have it in bed if you like.”

Green eyes lit up slightly. “Really?”

“Really,” Clarissa confirmed. “Though only if you promise not to steal Henry’s arm again.”

Harry looked at her with mock innocence. “No promises.”

Henry groaned quietly, but there was a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Clarissa soon returned with a tray floating at her side, guided by one of the house elves. The smell of warm toast, soft scrambled eggs, and spiced tea filled the room. “Thank you, Pipsey,” she said kindly, and the elf bowed before vanishing with a soft pop.

She set the tray gently on Harry’s lap. “There we are, darling. Nothing too heavy, just a bit to get your strength up.”

Harry sat up slowly, clutching the blanket around himself a little tighter. “Thank you,” he murmured, eyes flicking toward the plate. His stomach rumbled quietly, but the faint embarrassment on his face made it clear he wasn’t used to being fussed over.

Henry gave a soft chuckle and settled back in his chair, rolling his wrist to make sure the feeling had returned. “Go on, eat. Healer's orders,” he teased.

Harry hesitated, taking the smallest bite of toast. He chewed slowly, almost cautiously, before daring another.

Clarissa noticed, but said nothing about his pace—just smiled and poured him a bit of tea. “You’ve had a long night, sweetheart. No one’s expecting much from you this morning.”

Henry leaned forward slightly, his hand gentle as he brushed the back of it against Harry’s forehead. “You’re warm,” he murmured, a crease forming between his brows. He flicked his wand for a moment and cast a diagnostic charm. “Not a fever, thank Merlin. Just some magical exhaustion still hanging about.”

Harry hummed quietly, grateful for the care but also clearly uneasy under the attention. His eyes darted down, landing briefly on his bare arms. He tugged at the blanket a little higher to cover himself.

The bonded pair shared a quick glance—Henry uncertain how to proceed, Clarissa softening instantly.

“Oh, darling,” she said gently, taking the edge of the blanket and tucking it around his shoulders again. “You don’t need to hide from us. We’ve seen the scars, yes, but only because we needed to make sure you weren’t hurt worse. We won’t ever judge you for them.”

Harry’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “It’s just… embarrassing,” he whispered, voice small.

Clarissa sat on the edge of the bed and reached out, waiting for permission before brushing a curl from his forehead. “I know, love. But there’s nothing to be ashamed of. Scars are proof that you’ve survived—that you fought to live, even when the world didn’t make it easy.”

Harry blinked rapidly, his vision swimming a little. He sniffed and tried to focus on his tea.

Henry’s voice was quiet but steady. “We’ll help you heal, Harry. Not just your magic or your body, but everything else too. You don’t have to do any of it alone.”

For a long moment, Harry didn’t speak. Then he set his teacup down carefully and whispered, “Thank you.”

Clarissa smiled, reaching for his hand. “There’s no need to thank us, darling. You’re family now.”

Harry’s lips parted slightly, a fragile sound caught between a laugh and a sob. “Family…” he repeated softly, tasting the word like it was something rare and precious.

Henry rested his hand over both of theirs. “Exactly,” he said quietly. “And this time, family means safety.”

Harry looked at them both for a long moment and though his eyes shimmered, he smiled, a faint, real smile that made him look more like the young man he should’ve always been.

When Harry had eaten as much as he could manage—a few bites of egg, half a slice of toast, and a good portion of tea—Clarissa stood and brushed her hands against her skirts. “You finish up, sweetheart. We’ll step out and let you get dressed, hmm?” she said kindly.

Harry nodded, grateful. “Thank you.”

When they left and the door shut softly behind them, Clarissa exhaled a long, quiet sigh, her body relaxing for the first time since the night before. She leaned gently against Henry’s side as they walked down the corridor together, her fingers brushing his.

“Do you think he’d be all right if he stayed here?” she asked softly. “I mean, really all right? He’s safe at the Ministry under Mrs Hitchens, I know that, but…” She bit her lip, glancing up at her husband. “He seems so fragile. He shouldn’t be waking up alone in some official building when he needs people who actually care for him.”

Henry hummed low in his throat, thinking. “It’s a fair question,” he said. “He’s still technically under Ministry protection, and I imagine there’s protocol around it. Scamander and Hitchens will have their own systems for keeping him stable.”

Clarissa frowned. “Systems,” she repeated, as though the word itself was sour. “He doesn’t need systems, Henry. He needs warmth. Safety. Someone to sit by his bed when he wakes up from nightmares, not paperwork and scheduled check-ins.”

He stopped walking for a moment, gazing out one of the long windows that overlooked the misty grounds. “I know,” he admitted. “And Merlin knows, if I could just keep him here, I would. But I don’t want to make him feel trapped. That boy’s had enough of that for a lifetime.”

Clarissa softened, laying a hand against his arm. “You think he’d say no?”

“Not out of mistrust,” Henry said slowly. “I think he’d say no because he wouldn’t want to be a burden. He’s probably one of those people who’s learned to apologise for existing.”

Her heart squeezed painfully. “Oh, my poor darling boy…” she whispered. “He doesn’t even realise this is his home too. That we’re his blood.”

Henry reached for her hand, squeezing it gently. “Let’s see how he feels later today. We’ll talk to him, carefully. No pressure. If he wants to stay at the Ministry, then fine—but if he wants to stay here, even just for a while…”

“Then we’ll make room,” Clarissa finished for him.

Henry smiled faintly. “We’ll make home, love. There’s always room for that.”

She nodded, her eyes warm but distant, still filled with worry. “I’ll speak to Sirius and Hitchens later, just to ask what his schedule looks like—see if we can work something out.”

Henry sighed, brushing a hand through his hair. “If it were up to me, he’d never set foot back in that Ministry dorm again. But it’s his choice. It has to be.”

Clarissa nodded again, but her expression remained soft and thoughtful as she looked back toward the closed guestroom door. “I just hope,” she murmured, “that when we offer him a home, he’ll believe us.”

When Harry emerged from the guest room, dressed neatly once more in his formal robes, the transformation was almost startling. Gone was the trembling, half-conscious boy who had clung to Henry through the night. In his place stood someone far steadier—young, yes, and clearly recovering from exhaustion, but carrying himself with the quiet dignity that came from bloodlines steeped in history.

Clarissa smiled softly. “Well now, don’t you look every bit the Lord Peverell,” she said warmly, though her voice carried no mockery—only admiration and pride.

Harry flushed, ducking his head. “You don’t have to call me that. Just Harry’s fine.”

Henry chuckled. “Ah, but we Potters have a bit of a stubborn streak when it comes to titles,” he teased lightly. “Still, we’ll try to remember. Come along then, you’ve not yet seen much of the house you fainted into, have you?”

That earned a quiet laugh from Harry, which was exactly what Henry had hoped for.

The manor was alive in the morning light, sunlight streaming through tall windows onto patterned carpets and age-darkened wood. The elves had already righted everything from the night before; it was as though the party had never happened.

“This is the east wing,” Clarissa said as they began their slow tour. “Most of the family bedrooms are here. That guest room you were in was once used by Fleamont when he was little, before he moved to his own suite.”

“Mother,” Fleamont protested from the end of the corridor, where he’d appeared halfway through the tour. He’d clearly just woken—his hair was mussed, his shirt half-buttoned, and he was holding an apple like he’d grabbed the first edible thing in sight. “You make it sound like I’m ancient.”

Clarissa smiled indulgently. “You’re not ancient, darling, just noisy.”

Fleamont rolled his eyes and caught up with them, falling into step beside Harry. “They showing you around, cousin?”

Harry hesitated at the word cousin—the brief flicker of something unreadable passed over his face before he forced a polite smile. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “It’s… beautiful here.”

Fleamont grinned. “It’s big, is what it is. I got lost in it until I was eleven. Still do sometimes if I’m half-asleep.”

Henry snorted softly. “Your mother and I once found you in the linen closet at three in the morning.”

“I was exploring!” He protested.

They laughed, and Harry smiled again. 

They showed him the study, the small family library (“Not to be confused with the main library,” Clarissa clarified), the portrait hall filled with ancestors who whispered curiously among themselves as Harry passed. A few even tilted their heads, murmuring that he looked familiar.

When they reached the sunroom overlooking the gardens, Harry stopped at the window, his gaze softening. “It’s… peaceful,” he murmured. “I didn’t think anywhere could feel this peaceful.”

Henry stood beside him, his tone equally gentle. “Potter Manor’s been standing for hundreds of years, through wars and dark times alike. It holds peace the way some homes hold echoes. You can always find it here, no matter what the world outside looks like.”

Harry turned to him, a little uncertain. “You mean… even if I’m not…”

“Even if you’re not anything but you,” Henry finished, smiling faintly. “You don’t need a title, or a reason, or permission. You’re family.”

Clarissa reached out and brushed an invisible wrinkle from Harry’s sleeve. “And family gets breakfast and a second cup of tea before I let them anywhere near a broom,” she said.

Fleamont grinned. “That’s true. She enforces that rule like it’s law.”

As they walked down the long gallery that overlooked the main hall, sunlight pooling across the marble floor, Henry found himself studying the boy beside him more closely. Harry’s head tilted as he admired the portraits—men and women in rich robes, all bearing the marks of old magic and long ancestry—and in that light Henry caught something that tugged at the edge of memory.

There it was again. The line of the jaw, the tilt of the chin, even the faint, stubborn downturn at the corner of the mouth—it was so Potter.

Strange.

By blood and by name, Harry was a Peverell, one of the oldest lines to touch English soil. The Potters had descended from the Peverells, yes, but that had been generations ago. The blood should have been thin enough that any resemblance had long been washed away. And yet…

Henry hummed under his breath, not quite realizing he’d done so until Clarissa glanced up at him. “You’ve got that look again, darling. What’s caught your mind this time?”

He blinked. “Hmm? Oh, nothing.” Then, after a pause, he admitted, “It’s just… the boy looks more Potter than Peverell, doesn’t he? Look at the nose, the cheekbones—he’s got the same shape as Fleamont at that age, but with different eyes.”

Clarissa smiled faintly, glancing at Harry, who was a few steps ahead, now peering curiously at a portrait of Ignotus Peverell. “Perhaps it’s the ancestry reasserting itself. Magic can do strange things with inheritance.”

Henry nodded slowly, but the thought stayed with him.

Then there were the eyes. Bright, arresting green, clear as cut emeralds, nothing like any Potter or Peverell Henry had ever known. They shone in his face like twin lights, startlingly vivid, almost too vivid, and when they caught the sun through the window they glowed faintly gold around the pupils.

Unusual. Distinct. Beautiful.

He’d noticed it the day before too, but now, in the calm of morning, it was impossible to ignore.

He leaned slightly toward Clarissa. “Those eyes… have you ever seen a shade like that in our line?”

Clarissa shook her head. “Never. But they suit him, don’t they?"

Harry was polite—almost painfully so—but there was an odd familiarity in his movements. The way he hesitated before stepping through doorways, as though gauging invisible threats. The way his eyes flitted from corner to corner, observant, like a man used to scanning for danger rather than admiring fine architecture.

And then there was the hair.

He couldn’t stop thinking about it.

When Harry had leaned over the stair rail earlier to peer down at the entrance hall, the morning light had caught his curls—thick, dark, untidy but not wild. Not like the Potters. Not like Fleamont’s.

Henry’s own fingers twitched with the muscle memory of years spent tugging combs through Potter hair—his son’s, his own, even Heather's to some extent. It was hopeless, always hopeless. The family’s uncombable hair had been a running jest for generations, a small hex woven into their blood centuries ago. A punishment, according to legend, for some ancestor’s vanity.

It was unbreakable. Every Potter child was born with it, every strand standing in defiance of gravity and order alike.

But Harry’s curls… they obeyed him. They fell soft against his temple, bouncing but not rebelling.

That alone made it impossible for Henry to believe what the boy had mumbled in half sleep the night before. “No, you’re my grandad.”

Henry frowned slightly, hands clasped behind his back. How could that possibly be? 

And yet the thought wouldn’t leave him.

If the family curse dictated the Potter hair, and Harry’s didn’t match… then how could he look so much like them otherwise? The cheekbones, the nose, the set of the shoulders—all Potter. Even the little furrow between his brows when he was thinking. Henry had seen it a hundred times on Fleamont’s face, and before that, in the mirror.

It made no sense.

Clarissa was saying something about the east garden when she noticed her husband had gone quiet again. “You’re brooding,” she said softly, nudging his arm with hers.

He hummed distractedly. “Just thinking. There’s something… peculiar about him.”

“Peculiar how?”

Henry exhaled, glancing down the corridor where Harry was admiring a tapestry of the Peverell crest. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he had Potter blood.”

Clarissa blinked. “Darling, you do know better. We are the Potters.”

He smiled faintly. “You know what I mean. Closer blood. Direct blood. Fleamont’s blood.”

Clarissa’s brow furrowed. “But that’s impossible. Unless…”

“Unless he’s a seer and he meant it differently,” Henry interrupted quickly. “Or he saw something that will be. Magic can play strange tricks on a mind that’s still recovering.”

He wanted to believe that explanation. He needed to. Anything else made no sense.

Because if Harry’s words were true—if somehow, impossibly, this quiet, scarred boy was Fleamont’s grandson—then that meant time and sense had both bent to let the future walk among them.

And even for a Potter, that was too extraordinary to accept.

Still, as Henry watched Harry’s curls shift in the sun, soft and untroubled, a faint chill went through him.

Because if it were true… then the family curse had broken somewhere along the line.

And if it were true…

If the boy truly was Fleamont’s grandson from some far-flung future… then why had he spoken of growing up with Muggles?

Henry frowned deeply. The Potters, for all their quirks and scandals, had never abandoned family. Even when one of them made poor life choices, they were sheltered, kept safe, loved fiercely. No Potter child would ever be sent to live with Muggles. Especially not abused by them.

So… was Harry lying about the muggle part? 

Henry didn’t think he’d lied. He didn’t feel a lie in him.

But that only made things worse.

If he truly had been raised by Muggles, then something catastrophic must have happened in the Potter line. Something so drastic that his own kin either didn’t know of him… or didn’t care enough to bring him home.

A sharp pang struck behind Henry’s ribs. “Merlin help me,” he muttered under his breath. “What did the world become to let this boy grow up like that?”

Clarissa looked at him, puzzled. “What’s that, love?”

But he didn’t answer. Because just then, as Harry turned slightly to glance back at them, the light caught another faint mark on his skin—on the back of his right hand.

Henry’s gaze sharpened. It wasn’t a scar from a blade or curse. The lines were too clean, too deliberate. He took an involuntary step forward, trying to make out the letters.

Harry noticed the look, sighed softly, and without a word, extended his hand. A quiet, defeated motion—as though he’d gone through this before, and expected disbelief.

Henry took the hand gently, his heart pounding as he read the words carved faintly into the skin: I must not tell lies.

He froze.

Clarissa gasped, covering her mouth. Fleamont, halfway turned toward them, paled visibly.

That phrase, it wasn’t just cruel. It was illegal.

Henry’s throat went dry. Blood quills—ancient, outlawed devices that forced the writer’s blood to serve as ink, binding the statement magically to their being. They were used centuries ago in the darker corners of wizarding law, until the Ministry had banned them under pain of imprisonment. The only legal use of them now is goblin documents.

But this—this was the unmistakable mark of a blood quill.

Henry ran his thumb over the faded words, his healer’s mind spinning. The scar had healed, yes, but the faint shimmer of residual magic beneath it was unmistakable. The quill had been used repeatedly.

“Harry,” he said softly, forcing calm into his voice, “who did this to you?”

Harry looked away, jaw tightening. “Doesn’t matter. It was a long time ago.”

The avoidance, the tremor in his tone—Henry had seen it too many times in scar patients who had survived cruelty. But blood quills weren’t just cruel—they were a statement of control. Whoever had done this wanted Harry to silence himself.

And suddenly, his words from last night echoed in Henry’s mind. “No, you’re my grandad.” “all gone.”

Henry’s breath caught.

Blood quills compelled truth as much as silence. The binding magic forced honesty when certain triggers were invoked. Which meant, if Harry still bore that mark, and he’d said those things under the influence of exhaustion, trauma, and instinct…

Then he might not have been capable of lying at all.

Clarissa had gone pale, staring at her husband. “Henry…” she whispered. “You don’t think…”

Henry looked up slowly, his expression grim. “I think everything he said last night might have been the truth.”

Fleamont’s face went ashen, his lips parting soundlessly. “But… that would mean…”

“That would mean,” Henry said quietly, “that my great-grandson stands in front of me, and he’s lived a life where our name has already been reduced to ash.”

No one spoke for a long time. The corridor felt too still, the portraits above them whispering faintly as though eavesdropping.

“What are you talking about?” Harry asked suddenly, tension creeping into his voice. His posture shifted—instinctive, defensive—as if he could pull himself smaller without moving at all.

Henry looked at him, eyes filled with something that was equal parts worry and awe. “Harry,” he began carefully, “do you know what a blood quill is?”

Harry’s throat worked, but he said nothing. His gaze flicked to the side, a flicker of shame or memory darkening his face. That silence told Henry enough.

“Blood quills,” Henry continued gently, “are designed to bind the writer to the words written with them. Not just physically, but magically. It’s a binding between your soul, your magic, and the statement itself. Every time you used it, that connection deepened. Over time…” He paused, searching Harry’s face, “…you’d find it nearly impossible to lie about the subject those words refer to. Or even contradict them.”

Harry’s breath hitched, the tiniest sound escaping.

Clarissa’s hands had flown to her mouth again, eyes wide with horrified comprehension. “Henry, you mean—?”

“Yes,” he said grimly, not taking his eyes from Harry. “It means he cannot lie about what he said last night. Not after bearing that mark.”

Harry shook his head, backing up slightly. “No- no, that’s not— You’re wrong.” But his voice faltered, trembling like a string pulled too tight. 

“Harry,” Henry said softly, taking a step closer, careful not to crowd him. “Do you remember what you said to us?”

Harry swallowed hard. “No. I-I don’t remember much. I just remember being scared, and… and everyone was looking at me like I was crazy.”

Fleamont spoke up quietly, his voice thick. “You said I was your grandfather.”

Harry froze.

“You said I’d have a son,” Fleamont continued, disbelief lacing every word, “in 1960. That it took years for your grandmother and me to have a child. That we both died eighteen years later of dragon pox.”

“I never—” Harry stopped, jaw clenching. His eyes glistened with panic.

Henry moved closer still, tone low, calm, and fatherly. “Harry. You couldn’t have guessed that. You knew about Monty’s fertility problems, something only the family and our healers know. You knew details that haven’t even happened yet.”

His breathing quickened. “It doesn’t matter, I—”

“Harry,” Henry interrupted, not unkindly, “if the blood quill mark still holds its magic… you can’t lie about those things. What you said last night—it was true.”

The young omega’s face crumpled. His shoulders hunched, eyes closing tight as he shook his head violently. “No… no, I wasn’t supposed to say anything. I wasn’t supposed to mess it up again!”

Clarissa stepped forward then, motherly instinct overwhelming everything else. “Oh, sweetheart—”

But Harry flinched back, hands over his ears. “Stop! Please- just stop talking about it!”

The raw fear in his voice froze them all. He wasn’t lying. He wasn’t manipulating. He was terrified.

Henry raised both hands, voice gentle and low, the same tone he used to calm distressed patients. “Alright, alright. No one’s forcing you to say anything, Harry. You’re safe here. You don’t have to explain.”

Harry’s breathing was ragged, his eyes darting between them, as though waiting for someone to call him crazy again.

“But I can lie. I can lie!” Harry’s voice was frantic, a desperate rush of words tumbling out as if repeating them enough times might convince himself. His wide amber eyes darted between Henry, Clarissa, and Fleamont. “I- I can! I really can!”

Henry’s brows furrowed, Clarissa instinctively leaned closer, but Harry’s gaze was wild with that intoxicating mixture of fear and insistence that could only belong to someone terrified of their own truth.

Then, as if on impulse, Harry’s expression shifted from panic to mischief. “The sky is green!” he declared sharply, and immediately added, “I have a wart on the tip of my nose!”

Clarissa blinked, Henry’s lips twitched, but Harry wasn’t finished.

“My robes are bright red!” He stamped a foot lightly on the floor. “I am six foot tall! My hair is blue! I have a tail! I can fly without a broom!”

Henry’s frown softened, and Clarissa covered her mouth, trying—and failing—to keep from laughing. Fleamont’s jaw dropped at first, and then the corner of his mouth quirked up as he realized the absurdity of it all.

“The sun… is a giant teacup!” Harry continued, panting with excitement and pride. “I have seven noses! My wand is made of spaghetti! I am allergic to water!”

Henry’s shoulders shook, Clarissa was practically gasping with laughter behind her hands, and even Fleamont had to lean forward, trying to keep a straight face.

Harry paused, chest heaving, and pointed at Henry with a triumphant grin. “See?! I can! I can lie if I want to!”

Henry finally let out a chuckle, soft and warm, reaching out to gently pinch Harry’s shoulder. “Yes, yes, you’re quite convincing, Harry. But perhaps not on the sun being a teacup.”

Clarissa’s laughter spilled into the room, light and relieved. “Oh, you little imp! You had us all worried for a moment.”

Harry’s grin softened, his wild energy easing slightly into relief at their laughter. “I-I just… I didn’t want you to think I was helpless or—” He trailed off, realizing their expressions were no longer full of suspicion, but genuine amusement and care. And breathed a sigh of relief. Isla would have killed me, he thought.

Henry ruffled Harry’s curls gently, a fond smile tugging at his lips. “You’re clever, Harry. And strong. Even when you think you’re not.”

It eased Henry’s mind considerably, the knowledge that what Harry had said last night might not actually be true—but even so, there was a lingering unease. The words felt… real. Too real. Every detail, every hesitation, every little inflection carried the weight of someone who had lived through something impossible to explain. Henry found himself replaying the scene in his head, trying to reconcile the rational with the uncanny.

As they continued the tour of the manor, Harry trailing slightly behind but still close, Henry’s gaze fell on a portrait tucked into the corner of a wide hallway. The painted figure was a Peverell, tall and angular, with an intense gaze and dark hair that fell in loose curls around the face. And then Harry, standing just a few feet away, glanced at the portrait. The resemblance was striking, unsettling even. The tilt of the chin, the shape of the eyes, the subtle arch of the eyebrows. It was uncanny.

Henry’s heart skipped a beat. His mind raced, questioning every rational explanation he had clung to: adoption, coincidence, mere familial resemblance. Yet the similarities gnawed at him. And still, his practical side, honed by years of experience and caution, whispered firmly that Harry could not possibly be a time traveler.

“It’s probably just—” Henry began, his voice low, more to himself than to anyone else.

“Just what?” Clarissa asked softly, noticing the furrow in his brow.

He shook his head, forcing a small, reassuring smile. “Nothing. Just… imagining things. He’s… he’s just remarkably Peverell, that’s all.”

Harry, oblivious to the storm of thoughts behind Henry’s calm facade, tilted his head to look back at the portrait, his amber eyes bright with curiosity. “He looks like me,” Harry murmured, almost to himself.

Henry exhaled slowly, letting the thought linger unspoken. Yes, Harry looked like a Peverell. 

Still, the unease didn’t fully fade. Even as they moved on, Henry’s mind lingered on the thought: what if, somehow, the boy before him carried not just the bloodline of the Peverells, but glimpses of a future none of them could yet understand?

Chapter Text

Harry left Potter Manor later that day, his robes slightly rumpled from the morning’s tour and the lingering closeness he’d felt with Henry and Clarissa. Despite the exhaustion clinging to him, there was a quiet, bittersweet warmth in his chest. It struck Henry sharply that Harry could call the Ministry home. The thought weighed on him: no one should feel at home in such a place, no matter how protective the wards, no matter how familiar the desks and corridors might be. And yet, for Harry, it was a sanctuary of sorts. 

Before departing, the Potters assured Harry he would be keyed into their wards, his presence recognized and protected whenever he chose to visit Potter Manor again. No need for frantic apparitions or panicked escapes. They wanted him to feel that this—this house, these people—could be a refuge too, if only for a little while.

He paused in the nursery, crouching beside little Charlus with Heather's guidance. The toddler’s eyes lit up at him, the pure innocence of the child offering a balm to the storm in Harry’s mind. He scooped Charlus into his arms, pressing his cheek against the boy’s soft hair. Charlus giggled, wrapping his tiny hands around Harry in a clumsy hug.

“Take care, little one,” Harry murmured, his voice thick. “I’ll see you again soon.”

Charlus’s laughter tinkled like chimes as Harry reluctantly set him down, giving one last wave before flooing through the fireplace, back into the stuffy air of the Ministry bedroom he owned and pressed the rune by the doorframe.

Harry sat cross-legged on his bed, robes loosened. Isla had appeared moments later—pale, breathless, eyes sharp with worry—and the moment she crossed the threshold, the tension Harry had been holding cracked like glass.

“Are you ok???” Isla demanded, breath still quick from running. “I didn’t get much information from Sirius—only that you were staying with the Potters because you passed out!”

Harry rubbed his temples. “I had a panic, that’s all. They were really kind to me.” His voice was soft, heavy with embarrassment.

Grey eyes narrowed. She knew when Harry was hiding something; he had the kind of face that went distant when his mind began spinning too fast. “You’re holding back something.”

Harry sighed and drew his knees to his chest. “I accidentally… at night… somehow told them Fleamont was my grandfather and what happens to him…”

Isla froze. “Harry!”

“I didn’t mean to!” His voice cracked slightly, the shame and panic bubbling up again. “It just came out, I was half asleep! Why aren’t I under oath?! Shouldn’t I be magically prevented from saying things like that?”

Isla hesitated. The tension in her shoulders softened, and she sat down on the edge of the bed, her eyes tired but kind. “Because one day, you might want to share the truth with someone. And when that day comes, you shouldn’t be punished for it.”

Harry blinked. “What?”

“But, the thing you signed when you came here... it’s… sort of binding.”

Harry’s stomach dropped. “Isla, what is this? Why didn’t I know?”

She exhaled heavily, her tone turning grave. “I’ll tell you everything. Time travel is dangerous, Harry. You know that. But your method—your accident—was legal. That means you didn’t intend to travel through time, and you didn’t mean to alter anything. You simply… fell through it. However,” she added, raising a finger, “once you’re here, you are changing things—just by existing. So, by law, you’re allowed to change the future as you see fit. It’s the only humane way we can handle someone displaced in time.”

Harry’s expression darkened. “Then what’s the catch?”

“The catch,” Isla said quietly, “is that the paper you signed binds you—not by blood or by magic, but by law—to act only in ways you believe are morally right. It’s a moral contract, not a magical one. That’s why I’m here, to oversee your case and make sure your choices align with your conscience. To make sure you’re safe… and the timeline remains stable enough to survive your presence.”

Harry frowned. “So… you trust me to do what’s right, but you’re also watching to make sure I don’t screw up?”

Isla smiled weakly. “That’s the gist of it, yes.”

But Harry’s sharp mind was already spinning, tracing threads, testing boundaries. “That’s a huge loophole,” he muttered. “If a dark wizard genuinely believed he was moral, he could twist that law to justify anything. Murder, control, torture—”

Isla cut him off with a quiet laugh. “I know. I knew you’d spot that loophole. You’ve got the mind of an Auror and the heart of a Gryffindor; of course you would.” Her voice softened, though a shadow passed through her eyes. “But that’s why I’m here—to make sure no one uses that law to hurt anyone. Especially not you.”

Harry’s gaze lowered. “You make it sound like I’m dangerous.”

She was silent for a beat. Then: “Not dangerous. Powerful. And people with power, especially those who’ve suffered, need support, not suspicion.”

Harry’s throat tightened. He didn’t know what to say.

Isla sighed. “What I didn’t tell you before, Harry—what I should have told you—is that you had options. I made that choice for you because… I thought it was the kindest one. But maybe I was wrong.”

Harry looked up sharply. “Options?”

“Yes.” Isla’s voice grew quieter, steadier. “There were five.”

He swallowed hard, uncertain if he wanted to hear them.

“Option one,” Isla began, “was a memory wipe. You’d lose everything—your memories, your identity—and we’d place you in muggle London. But… with the war raging, I couldn’t bear to do that to you.”

Harry’s heart thudded painfully. Isla’s tone carried more emotion than he expected; she had cared about him even before knowing him properly.

“Option two,” she continued softly, “was assisted suicide. For those who can’t bear the burden of being displaced.”

Harry’s stomach twisted. “God…”

“Option three was to place you back in the time loop. We’d send you through again, but no one can predict where or when you’d come out. You'd probably die anyway..”

His fingers gripped the sheets tightly.

“Option four,” Isla went on, “was to bind you magically. You’d be unable to say anything about your time, your knowledge of the future, or your past. You’d live freely, but with your tongue tied forever.”

“That sounds like hell.”

“Which brings us to option five,” Isla said. Her tone softened again, and she reached over, resting a hand over his. “The one you have. Legal but free. Watched, but trusted. Allowed to change what you must, so long as you follow what you believe is right.”

Harry stared at her hand over his, trembling slightly. “You mean I could have chosen to forget. Or to die. Or to be silenced forever.”

Isla nodded. “Yes. And I chose for you to live, to be yourself, even here.”

Harry swallowed hard, eyes glassy but defiant. “Then I’ll make it worth it. I’ll do what’s right.”

“I know you will.” She smiled faintly, though there was sorrow in it. 

Isla watched the flickering candlelight dance over Harry’s face. His eyes were still wide and raw, filled with the weight of everything she’d just said. She could see the questions forming already, his brain spinning in that sharp, relentless way it always did.

Before he could speak, she added quietly, “And a little fact for you—something most Ministry workers don’t even know.”

He looked up at her warily. “What fact?”

“We don’t work under the Ministry.”

Harry blinked. “What do you mean? You work in the Ministry.”

Isla smiled faintly, a knowing tilt of her head. “Oh, we use their halls, their offices, and their paperwork, yes—but we’re not under their authority. The Department of Temporal Integrity, or the ‘Section for Time’ as we call it, is an international agency. Created after the War of 1772, when three separate ministries tried to weaponize time travel at once and nearly shattered the entire European timeline.”

Harry froze. “That was real?”

“Oh, very real.” Isla’s voice was grave now, the hint of humour gone. “They called it the War of the Clocks. It ended with dozens of paradoxes and half the magical governments having to be reset—literally rewritten into existence again. People woke up with different memories, others never born at all. So after that catastrophe, the International Confederation of Wizards founded our section. We operate outside of national control. The British Minister has no legal power over us.”

Harry blinked, struggling to process it all. “So… the Minister... can’t tell you what to do?”

“Not in the slightest,” Isla said with a small grin. “He can’t even get our records. We don’t answer to him, or to any national leader. Our only authority comes from the International Code of Temporal Ethics, ratified by every major magical government in the world. It ensures one thing, that no government can use time travellers for their advantage, or rewrite history to serve themselves.”

Harry frowned. “So that’s why no one’s tried to exploit me?”

“Yes,” Isla said softly. “They can’t. Not legally. Not magically. Even if they wanted to. And no one really knows you time travelled, even Theseus Scamander only knows that you time travelled and a few details, not the year you were born or the year you left."

Harry’s shoulders loosened, though his expression remained uncertain. “So you’re… like the magical UN for time?”

“That’s one way of putting it. Though a bit more bureaucratic, and a lot more paranoid.” She tilted her head slightly, eyes softening. “You see, that’s also why we have guardians—like me—assigned to every displaced person. The moment someone crosses time boundaries, their case becomes international property. The Ministry can’t claim you, can’t control you, and can’t punish you without our consent. You’re under our care. And only the Confederation itself could overrule a decision made about you.”

Harry let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. “So I’m… safe, then.”

“Yes,” Isla said simply. “As safe as anyone can be when the fabric of time has been nudged.”

She smiled faintly, seeing the tension in his shoulders ease for the first time that evening. “And don’t worry, Harry. Whatever happens next—whatever you decide to do—we’ll make sure no one, not even a Minister, can twist it for their own ends.”

Harry gave a small, wry smile. “That’s comforting. I think.”

“In this world, you’ll need every bit of comfort you can get, Lord Peverell.”

Later, Harry sat stiffly at the desk in his small ministry quarters, quill in hand, staring at the sheet of parchment as if it were a puzzle. He tapped the nib lightly, then sighed.

Dear Mr. Newton Scamander, he began, keeping his tone proper and formal, carefully choosing words that conveyed gratitude without letting too much emotion slip. He told Newt he was safe, apologized for running off so abruptly during the event at Potter Manor, and admitted, in the most measured way he could, that despite the panic, his time with him had been… enjoyable. He added a final line expressing hope that Newt had returned home safely and without incident.

Harry re-read the letter three times, smoothing out every perceived flaw, biting the corner of his lip nervously. Finally, he handed it to an elf waiting patiently at the door. “Please send this by owl,” he instructed quietly, trying not to betray the flutter of hope that accompanied the thought of Newt reading it.

The next day, Isla was waiting, practically bounding in her usual purposeful, brisk way. She had insisted on dragging him out of the Ministry, muttering about “fresh air, morale, and proper perspective on one’s lineage.” Harry, still groggy from the late night, rolled his eyes but allowed her to guide him.

“You’re dressing for the occasion, Harry,” she said firmly, while inspecting him as he stood in front of the mirror.

He looked down at himself. Isla had approved a more casual ensemble today, though she insisted on practicality with a touch of style. His blouse, a shimmering baby blue poet style with billowing sleeves, brushed softly against his arms. Navy trousers tucked into knee-high boots softened with charms for walking comfort. Over it all, a large cloak with a voluminous hood draped over his shoulders, the weight of it comforting and protective.

“You look… alright,” Isla muttered, a small smile breaking through her normally serious demeanor. “No magical fashion statements to alert every passerby. This will do nicely. You won’t trip over your own ego today.”

Harry blushed faintly and adjusted the hood, letting the soft fabric brush against his cheeks. “I just hope Peverell Castle isn’t… too overwhelming.”

“You’ve survived worse,” Isla said with a teasing lilt. “And besides, seeing it now, while you’re prepared, will give you context. You can’t fully understand the past without standing in the rooms your ancestors once did.”

Harry’s stomach fluttered. Part of him felt excitement, another part anxiety. He had no idea what he might see or how it might affect him—but he trusted Isla. And in her insistence, there was a certainty he couldn’t refuse.

With that, they left the Ministry, stepping into the brisk morning air, Harry’s cloak billowing slightly behind him as they made their way toward the apparation point.

Apparition was still an uneasy experience for Harry. Each jump carried the familiar hollow lurch in his stomach, the acid biting the back of his throat, and the fleeting disorientation of the air rushing past him. He was improving—no longer gasping violently when landing—but the nausea lingered, a reminder that he was not entirely accustomed to bending space around himself, even in the safety of a protected magical bubble.

When the castle finally emerged from the mist, it loomed large but not overwhelmingly so. Its grey stone walls were softened by the creeping ivy and the gentle rise of green lawns. Around the main keep clustered smaller buildings, as if the castle had grown organically into a tiny hamlet rather than being designed all at once. Paths wound between them, lined with old cracked lanterns that flickered faintly despite the morning sun.

Passing through the wards was another trial. Harry could move freely because of the blood wards keyed to the Peverell line, but Isla had to maintain her grip on him, holding her wand up as she announced their presence. The wards shimmered in response to her magic, confirming that she was authorized to be there. Harry felt a twinge of relief and a little pride; his magical signature alone could bypass barriers that would have stopped even most adult wizards.

Once inside, the gardens unfolded like a hidden treasure. Rows upon rows of magical plants, old and rare, stretched under enchanted glass canopies that glimmered with protective charms. Isla’s mouth fell open. “These… these aren’t on the market anymore. Many of them. A collector would pay a fortune. You could, if you wanted, grow them and sell them.” Her voice was a mix of excitement and disbelief.

Harry glanced around, frowning slightly. “I… I’m awful at gardening with magical plants. I can do with muggle plants though. I love them, but that’s it.”

“You could hire someone,” Isla suggested lightly. “A skilled gardener, maybe a few magical caretakers. You wouldn’t even have to touch the soil yourself.”

The grounds were immaculate, and the sense of history was heavy in the air. As they approached the castle itself, house elves appeared, peeking around corners and rushing forward, their small feet barely making a sound. Their crisp uniforms were unusual—most elves didn’t wear them, yet they looked ready and proud, and clearly had been anticipating guests.

The head house elf stepped forward, bowing low. “Lord Peverell, welcome home,” he said, voice slightly trembling with excitement. Harry stiffened instinctively at the title. Even with all the experiences he had weathered, the formality of being addressed as Lord Peverell was jarring. He knew immediately it would be difficult to get them to call him Harry. 

Harry inclined his head politely, trying to mask his unease. “Thank you,” he said. Green eyes sparkled with curiosity as he took in the busy little figures scuttling about. “What are your names?” he asked eagerly.

The head house elf straightened, chest puffed out, clearly proud to explain. “I am Mip,” he said, voice slightly high-pitched but carrying authority. “Head elf.”

Harry nodded, trying to memorize it. “Mip, and… who’s this?” He pointed to a smaller, younger elf standing stiffly behind Mip, arms crossed.

“Me? Lilt,” the elf replied, tone clipped, stern, clearly used to giving commands as much as following them. “Lord’s personal. Bath if dirty. I'll comb Lord Peverell's hair if messy. Never lazy, never sloppy."

Harry stifled a laugh. She looks like she’d make me take a bath if I sneezed wrong.

“And dis one,” Mip continued, gesturing to a slightly rounder elf carrying a tray of golden baked goods. “Chef elf. Snip. Make pudding, make meat, make sweet. Make the master pleased. Snip.”

“Hello, Snip,” Harry said, grinning.

“Lord Peverell, hello,” Snip replied, puffing up his chest a little.

Mip raised a tiny hand. “And dis one, Jem. Keeper garden, she waters, talks to plants, keeps the magic strong.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “You talk to the plants?”

“Talk,” Jem said firmly. “Yes, yes. Plants do listen, plants then grow. Jem help.”

“Do all the plants listen?” Harry asked, leaning closer.

“Listen, yes. Not all, some stubborn. Jem is patient."

Harry giggled at the simplicity and earnestness. “And you’re…?”

“Am Nib,” said a tiny elf, barely reaching Harry’s knee, carrying a polishing cloth and shaking it like a spear. “Nib clean silver, all glass, all shiny. Nib proud.”

Harry laughed again. “I think I’ll need a lot of you to keep up with the manor.”

Mip snorted. “Yes, yes, many hands. Always work. Always care. Lord happy, all happy.”

Isla sighed beside him, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “Harry, I told you, you don't need to spend half an hour just memorizing names and responsibilities.”

Harry turned to her, bright-eyed. “It’s fascinating! They all do different things, and they talk so differently than wizards!”

“They have their own grammar,” Isla said, shaking her head. “And don’t try to correct them. You’ll only frustrate everyone.”

Harry waved her off. “No, I want to remember them. Mip, Lilt, Snip, Jem, Nib… got it!”

“And a dozen more in the kitchens and stables,” Mip added seriously, “all work for Lord Peverell. All loyal. All clever. All quick. You need, you ask and we will do.”

Harry’s grin widened. "Only if you don't tire yourselves out too much. I want everyone to be happy. I promise I’ll try not to make you angry.”

Mip clapped his hands. “Yes, yes! Lord happy, house happy! Good day, good day! We show more if time, yes.”

Isla muttered under her breath, “And you thought the ministry was complicated…”

Harry was already bouncing on his heels. “Tell me everything, please!”

And so the head house elf, the personal elf, the chef, the gardener, and the polish-obsessed little Nib went on, chattering and explaining their duties, their names, and their quirks, while Harry listened intently, utterly fascinated.

And whilst Harry learned from Isla more than two weeks ago now that house elves die out from being free elves, Harry was going to do his best to make Hermione proud and let the elves be as free as possible whilst being under his house, letting them feed off the magic of the grounds.

Harry spent the rest of the day at Peverell Castle with Isla, exploring its vast grounds and rich history. The library, in particular, captivated him. Rows upon rows of ancient tomes, some bound in materials he couldn’t identify, lined the towering shelves. Hermione would have been envious of the sheer volume and rarity of the books contained within those walls. The scent of aged parchment and the soft rustle of pages turning created an atmosphere of scholarly serenity.

As evening approached, Harry and Isla wandered the expansive gardens near the forest. The setting sun cast long shadows, and the air was filled with the earthy scent of moss and pine. Despite the beauty surrounding him, Harry couldn’t shake the feeling of unease. Would he truly want to stay in such a place? The grandeur of the castle was undeniable, but it felt… distant. He would feel guilty if he didn’t embrace it, yet a part of him longed for the simplicity and solitude he had known before.

He liked being alone, but he didn’t like being lonely.

Just as Harry was lost in thought, a soft rustling in the underbrush caught his attention. He froze, his heart skipping a beat, as the movement grew closer. From behind a low hedge, a teal-green shimmer appeared, scales catching the last of the sunset’s light, wings tucked tightly against a serpentine body that pulsed with power. The creature’s wings, a deep, iridescent purple, unfurled slightly, casting a shadow over the ground. Its eyes, large and intelligent, fixed on him with unmistakable aggression.

Harry’s breath caught. He had read about this in Newt’s book, in a copy of Fantastic Beasts he had found in hogwarts library, though it hadn’t been published yet in this time. An Occamy, he whispered to himself. Beast XXXX classification. Extremely aggressive, carnivorous… protects silver eggs… Choranaptyxis meaning it can change size at will… usually from India or the Far East… He swallowed. The sheer rarity of the creature, combined with its instinctual aggression, made his pulse race.

The Occamy hissed, a deep, resonant sound that made the hairs on Harry’s arms stand on end. “Go away! Leave me be! I will defend myself!” The sound seemed to vibrate through the air, threatening yet oddly articulate.

Harry froze for a moment, remembering what he had learned in the future. I can speak its language… Not with words, exactly, but with Parseltongue.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” he hissed, his tongue flicking over the words instinctively, “I mean no harm.”

The Occamy paused mid-hiss. Its wings twitched, its body rigid. Then, unbelievably, it changed tone. It tilted its head, eyes narrowing, and the harsh, threatening sound shifted to a curious trill. “You… you speak like me?!”

“Yes,” Harry whispered back, tilting his head slightly. “I can understand you. I’m not going to take any eggs you may have or hurt you.”

The Occamy gave a high-pitched chirrup that sounded almost like a snicker. It circled him cautiously, growing slightly larger in height as if testing him, then shrinking again, coiling around his legs protectively. “You… you are not a threat? Why do you know my tongue? You… are strange!”

Harry tried to step back, hoping to give the creature some space, but the Occamy refused. It shrank to the size of a large dog, coiling tightly around his legs, wings wrapping around him in a protective embrace.

“No… you stay. I am alone. You… are mine now.”

Harry froze. “I-I'm… yours?” he whispered, unsure if it was a threat or… something else.

The Occamy hissed softly in a melodic way, clearly asserting itself, then pressed its snout lightly against his ankle. “Yes. Stay. I protect. You stay.”

Harry tilted his head, unsure what to do. “I… I don’t think I can stay all the time. I have… other things I need to do.”

“No,” the Occamy replied firmly, its body shrinking slightly as it circled him again. “You are alone like me. You… stay.”

At that moment, Isla returned, stepping lightly through the garden. In her hand was a small bowtruckle she had found, still clutching a twig. When she saw Harry, frozen mid-step, with a shimmering teal-green serpent coiling protectively around his legs, her eyes went wide. She froze in place, slowly lowering the bowtruckle into the nearest bush as though it might suddenly leap away in fear.

“Harry….” Isla whispered, her voice a mix of awe and apprehension. “That… that’s an Occamy…”

The creature hissed softly, almost proudly, tilting its head toward Harry. “Yes. Mine. You… mine too.”

Harry blinked at Isla, uncertain whether to explain or just let it be. “It… it won’t let me leave,” he said quietly, voice tinged with both amusement and exasperation. “It says I’m alone and… it insists.”

The Occamy shrank again, small enough to circle his feet easily, purple wings flicking against his boots, glimmering like moonlight on water. “You… mine. I'll protect.”

Harry sighed, realizing he had a new companion, whether he wanted one or not. He crouched slightly to meet its gaze, feeling a strange warmth in his chest. “I… I guess we’ll have to get used to each other.”

The Occamy chirruped softly in response, the sound vibrating against Harry’s legs like a purr. It leaned against him, wings folding partially around him, and for the first time in weeks, Harry felt a sense of calm he hadn’t realized he’d been craving.

Isla watched quietly, unable to speak, her mind racing with both awe and concern. “Well,” she murmured finally, “this is… new. Definitely new.”

Harry’s lips quirked into a small smile. “Yeah… new,” he whispered back as he stood up again. Then froze as the Occamy slithered up under his cloak, the soft scales brushing against his neck. He yelped and flinched, trying not to knock himself off balance as the creature coiled lightly around his shoulders, wings brushing his cheeks.

“Hatchling!” it hissed sharply, and Harry jumped. The sound was almost like a declaration, but in a sassier tone than he’d expected.

“Hatchling?” Harry hisses, trying to edge away, feeling the cool scales tickle the nape of his neck. “I… I think I should have a say in my own title, actually.”

The Occamy tilted its head, eyes narrowing, a low hiss vibrating from its throat that made Harry squeak. “You are hatchling. My hatchling!”

Isla, standing nearby with her hands clutched nervously in front of her, bit her lip to suppress a laugh. Every time Harry shifted or muttered under his breath, the Occamy flicked its tail sharply, knocking against Harry’s arm or hood.

“Okay, fine! You can be… uh… Slytherwing!” Harry offered, trying to be creative. The Occamy flinched, then let out an offended trill, tail swiping across Harry’s cheek.

Harry yelped again, rubbing his sore cheek. “Ow! Seriously, you could break my face in with that thing if you wanted!”

“Hatchling! Hatchling! Hatchling!” the Occamy hissed again, and Harry groaned. Isla covered her mouth, laughing quietly. She was sure she’d never seen a serpent this dramatic.

“Fine, fine! How about… Mr. Scales?” Harry tried, in a mock-official tone, hoping it might appeal to the creature’s apparent vanity. The Occamy flicked its tail again, this time smacking him lightly in the shoulder.

“No! Horrid name!”

Harry flopped back slightly, resting his forehead against the Occamy’s shimmering wing. “This is ridiculous. You’ve got to have some kind of name. Everyone needs a name. Even you.”

“No!”

He paused, thinking. “Alright, alright… I know what would suit you. Something dignified, magical, intimidating… but also sassy.” He rubbed his cheek where the tail had hit him. “How about… Turquoise Majesty?”

The Occamy froze for a fraction of a second, and then let out a sound that was somewhere between a hiss and a dramatic snort. “Acceptable. That is my name… it's acceptable!”

Harry laughed, leaning back against it cautiously. “Finally. We have a name. You are Turquoise Majesty, and I am your… caretaker? Hatchling? Minion? Something.”

“My hatchling,” it corrected immediately, puffing up slightly, wings spreading just enough to brush Harry’s arms.

Harry winced at the ticklish sensation but rubbed his sore cheek anyway. “Well, Turquoise Majesty, you are one sassy serpent. And also the most stubborn magical creature I’ve ever met.”

“I am sassy, thank you. Hatchling, now stroke me."

Harry rolled his eyes but complied, laughing as he pressed his hand to the cool scales. Isla’s bowtruckle wriggled nervously nearby, clearly impressed by the spectacle, while Harry whispered, “Alright, Turquoise Majesty… I think we’re going to get along just fine… maybe.”

The Occamy let out a triumphant trill, tail flicking again—but this time only playfully—and settled more comfortably around his shoulders, clearly satisfied with the final choice. Harry rubbed his cheek again, smiling, knowing that for the first time since Hedwig, he’d found a companion who was just as fiercely stubborn as he was.

Isla crouched beside him, as the Occamy writhed lightly around his shoulders.

He exhaled, trying to settle the shaking of his own hands. “Isla… meet…” he began, trying to keep a straight face, but the name came out in a snicker. “…Turquoise Majesty.”

The Occamy reacted instantly at the laugh. Its tail lashed sharply across Harry’s arm and shoulder, knocking him slightly off balance. A hiss of sharp disapproval escaped its lips, scales shimmering in teal and turquoise. “No! Laugh! No laugh! Hatchling! No laugh! That is rude, so rude of you."

Harry winced, rubbing his sore shoulder. “Ouch! Okay, okay, Majesty, no laughing.”

“My name is Majesty!”

Isla, hands pressed to her mouth, watched the interaction with wide eyes. “Harry… it’s… intense,” she murmured.

Harry groaned. “You’re telling me. I didn’t realize giving a name to an Occamy would be this… complicated.”

The creature twisted, coiling lightly around Harry’s neck, wings brushing his cheeks. Its voice was sharp, yet there was a clear undertone of demand, of pride, in every hissed syllable. “Hatchling, say it right! Majesty! Don't laugh at me!”

Harry took a deep breath. “Alright, alright. No joke. Majesty. I won’t laugh, I promise.”

The Occamy hissed again, but less aggressively, shifting slightly lightly around Harry’s arm, holding him in place. “Good… good hatchling.”

Harry rubbed at the side of his neck, sighing. “You’re obsessed with being called Majesty, aren’t you?”

“Yes!”

It took nearly an hour, with Harry proposing half a dozen variants: Turquoise Majesty, Little Majesty, Luna Majesty (an ode to his friend), even just Majesty-of-the-Wings. Each attempt was met with sharp hisses, tail flicks, and light swats until Harry realized the creature was uncompromising. And well... he had been rubbish at offering names.

Finally, exhausted and with a hand rubbing his cheek where the tail had lashed, Harry muttered, “Fine. Just… Majesty. That’s it. That’s your name. Period.”

The Occamy paused, scaled neck tilting, wings fluttering lightly, before giving a sharp, satisfied hiss. “Yes! That's what I've been saying you idiot hatchling.”

Isla let out a small laugh. “Well… it seems you’ve finally earned its respect.”

Harry nodded slowly, leaning back. “Yeah… Majesty. It’s simple, clear… powerful. Fits you.”

The creature coiled gently around his shoulders, tilting its head down toward him, as though approving. 

Harry rubbed the scales lightly, marveling at the way the creature’s eyes reflected the late afternoon sun. There was a quiet pride in the creature now, an acknowledgment of trust and acceptance, and Harry felt a rare warmth at the bond forming between them.

“Alright, Majesty,” he whispered, finally calm. “We’re going to get along… I think we can work with each other.”

The Occamy let out a low, contented hiss, wings folding slightly, tail resting without striking. It had claimed its name—and Harry—on its own terms.

"Isla... how happy is the ministry going to be if this is my familiar?"

She looked up from where she was crouched in the grass, her expression halfway between awe and horror. The teal-and-violet creature was still looped comfortably around Harry’s shoulders, scales glinting like jewels in the sunlight, its wings half-furled and tail lazily coiling against his chest.

“Harry…” she said slowly, trying to keep her voice level, “you’ve just bonded yourself to a Class Four beast.”

Harry blinked innocently. “…So… not very happy?”

Isla let out a strangled laugh. “Not very happy? Harry, they’re going to have a collective stroke. Occamies are on the Ministry’s restricted breeding list! Do you have any idea how many forms you’ll have to sign just to own it legally, let alone bond with it?”

Majesty lifted her elegant head, giving a self-satisfied hiss. “Own? No. Hatchling is mine.”

Harry groaned softly. “Yeah, that’s going to go over well in the paperwork. ‘Who owns who’ is going to be a bit of a legal debate.” He jokes though Isla didn't know why he said that, not understanding the serpent.

Isla dragged a hand down her face, muttering, “Merlin’s beard, they’re going to bury me in parchment.” She looked up again, gesturing helplessly. “This is an Occamy, Harry! An Occamy! You couldn’t have found a kneazle, or a puffskein, or something normal?”

Majesty let out a sharp hiss, scales flaring like light off glass. “No kneazle. No puff puff. I'm better. I'm the best. My hatchling is lucky.”

Harry chuckled nervously, holding up a hand. “I think she heard you.”

“Oh, she absolutely did,” Isla said dryly. “And she clearly agrees with herself.” She sighed, tilting her head, studying the creature. “She’s… stunning though. I’ll give you that. And she’s bonded to you already—look at her posture. She’s claimed you.”

“Yeah,” Harry murmured, brushing a careful hand along Majesty’s neck. “She was lonely. Said she didn’t want me to go.”

Isla’s eyes softened slightly. “Of course she didn’t. Occamies are fiercely protective of their mates and hatchlings. If she’s decided you’re hers, you’re probably not going to be able to get rid of her even if you wanted to.”

Harry gave a half-laugh, half-sigh. “Well, that’s comforting. Guess I’m a parent now.”

“Hatchling!” Majesty hissed indignantly, angry they weren't understanding. Not even the parseltongue boy was understanding.. “You're not my parent! You're my hatching! My hatchling! Mine!”

“Right, sorry. I’m the hatchling.” Harry looked helplessly at Isla, who was now outright laughing. “This is going to be fun explaining to the Ministry, isn’t it?”

Isla grinned, shaking her head. “Oh, they’re going to love it, Lord Peverell. You—of all people—walk into their pristine little office with a four-X-classed magical serpent on your shoulders who insists you’re her hatchling. The paperwork alone will be legendary.”

Harry slumped, rubbing at his temple. “Brilliant. Just brilliant.”

Majesty preened, flicking her tail. “Brilliant hatchling."

Isla smiled fondly. “Well… congratulations, I suppose. You’ve got your first familiar here. And possibly your first real bureaucratic disaster since arriving here.”

Harry snorted softly, letting the creature settle more comfortably around his neck. “You know what, Isla? I’ll take it. She’s beautiful. A bit demanding, but beautiful.”

Isla grinned as they started back toward the castle. “Yes,” she said under her breath. “I can tell who’s really in charge here.”

Returning to the Ministry turned into something of a public spectacle—more than Harry or Isla had anticipated. Even from a distance, whispers rippled through the wizarding crowd as they approached the grand Ministry entrance.

Aurors, their expressions a mix of alarm and disbelief, immediately erected a translucent bubble ward around Harry. The ward encompassed the Occamy as well, who squirmed happily, coiling and uncoiling in delight, its wings flicking like iridescent sails in the sunlight.

Isla pinched the bridge of her nose as she realized she’d made a serious error in judgment letting Harry dress casually. The baby blue sheen of his poet blouse and navy trousers were charming, yes—but in this context, with a fully grown Occamy hanging onto the neck of a teenage omega lord? Front-page headlines practically wrote themselves.

Harry, unfazed by the aurors’ rigid stances and panicked murmurs from the onlookers, stood with his hands on his hips beneath his cloak, which Isla had done her best to fasten securely around him. Majesty’s teal-green scales glimmered with purple-tipped wings flaring, her eyes sharp and vigilant, darting at anyone who got too close. She hissed occasionally, protective and imperious.

From the crowd, wizards and witches froze, torn between fear and fascination. Murmurs spread like wildfire: “Is that an Occamy? And… the Lord Peverell?” Children craned their necks while adults whispered theories and cast nervous glances toward the Ministry Aurors. Even a few seasoned greying wizards who had seen their share of magical creatures stopped to gape.

Isla was hunched over a clipboard, trying to jot down the paperwork required for binding the familiar legally. Her wand hovered in her hand for occasional adjustment charms, but the sight of Harry casually leaning into the Occamy’s protective embrace made her inwardly groan. “Focus, Isla, paperwork first. Not… whatever that is,” she muttered under her breath, though a small smile tugged at her lips despite herself.

One of the more junior Aurors approached, voice trembling. “Mrs Hitchens… it… it’s… it’s unsafe! This beast—”

“It’s perfectly safe,” Harry interrupted, his voice calm, almost casual. “It’s not my fault it clung to me!"

Majesty flicked her tail, lashes (if she had them) bristling. “Don’t call me an it! Hatchling!”

Harry gave a tiny shrug, ignoring her indignation. “Yeah, yeah, Majesty, I know.”

The Aurors paled further, one fumbling for a restraining spell that he didn’t dare cast. The ward around Harry shimmered faintly in response to his calm, steady magic, further stabilizing the situation. “We… we should… contain it—” one stammered.

“Contain her?” Harry asked, cocking an eyebrow. “You mean Majesty. And no, she doesn’t want that.”

Another hiss shot from the Occamy, the sound high-pitched and melodious in a terrifyingly beautiful way. “Hatchling says no! He belongs to me!”

Isla sighed, exasperated but also secretly impressed. “Harry, maybe don’t sass the Aurors while we’re doing this.”

Harry gave a mock pout, his green eyes glinting under the hood of his cloak. “I’m just explaining the rules, Isla. Majesty is… very particular.”

Nearby, other Ministry employees had started taking notes or sneaking glimpses with wide eyes. A few brave souls whispered to one another: “I don’t know what’s happening, but… I want one.”

Isla huffed, scribbling furiously while occasionally muttering incantations to reinforce the wards and make Majesty’s movements less dangerous to bystanders. Harry, meanwhile, shifted slightly, leaning his head against the Occamy’s soft scales and speaking softly to her in parseltongue, not bothering to hide the language as it wasn't tainted by Tom Riddle yet. Majesty’s irritation faded into a contented, almost regal hissing, as though approving his choice of words.

“Honestly,” Isla muttered, exasperated yet fond, “I should’ve prepared a press release before bringing you here. Now we’re going to be the talk of every department in the Ministry for a week.”

Harry shrugged, looking utterly unbothered, glancing around at the staring crowd. “Better them gossiping than me panicking, right?”

Majesty gave a satisfied hiss and nuzzled against Harry’s neck. 

“Yeah,” he said softly, pressing his hand to her scales. “I know. I know, Majesty.”

Harry couldn’t help the grin spreading across his face, letting Majesty coil comfortably around his shoulders. The sunlight caught the teal and turquoise shimmer of her scales, the purple tips of her wings flicking with every movement. Even from a distance, anyone with half an eye for magic—or aesthetics—could see the spectacle: a young omega lord, radiant and alive, with a majestic, iridescent serpent wrapped around him like a living stole.

Combined with his natural omega allure, it was impossible not to be noticed. And Majesty, seemingly aware of her own contribution, puffed up and hissed proudly, flicking her wings in a showy display. Her gaze swept over the crowd as if to say, “See? This hatchling belongs to me, and we are both glorious!” With a little hissy sing song on the last word that briefly made Harry think if Majesty was a human, she'd be a drag queen.

Harry caught a few incredulous stares from Ministry employees who had been gaping silently, unsure whether to be impressed, frightened, or utterly distracted. He chuckled to himself. Honestly, he hadn’t felt this alive—or seen himself this way—since arriving in this time. The excitement, the absurdity, the complete lack of pretense—it was exhilarating.

He tilted his head, meeting Isla’s exasperated yet fond glare. “You know,” he said, parseltongue sliding lightly in the back of his throat, “I think this might actually be the most fun I’ve had since… well, a long time.”

Majesty gave a sharp, approving hiss and flicked her tail, clearly pleased by the statement. “I'm glad."

Harry laughed, hair catching the sunlight, cloak rippling with a gentle breeze. There was something utterly liberating about this moment.

Isla’s quill scratched furiously across the parchment, the stack of forms and enchantment logs before her growing taller by the minute. Magical creatures rarely arrived at the Ministry under such… unconventional circumstances, and the bureaucracy had to be precise. Every runic inspection, every charm of containment, every note on temperament and aggression had to be documented—and she was doing it all in the middle of the main Ministry entrance.

Her eyes flicked up at Harry, who was grinning, oblivious or uncaring to the paperwork chaos. 

Isla took a deep breath. She could scold him, she really could. He was showing off, drawing attention, possibly endangering herself and the Ministry staff with a magical creature that could snap a wand or uncoil at a moment’s notice. But… no. Doing so would make her look unreasonable, even ridiculous, in front of the public. And everyone was watching.

Instead, she huffed quietly, muttering under her breath. “Focus, Isla. Do the paperwork. Ignore the chaos.”

Harry caught the mutter, tilted his head, and smirked. “I’m not chaos,” he said softly, though only she could hear him, “I’m charm. Pure, concentrated charm.”

Majesty hissed in agreement—or perhaps in correction, Isla couldn’t tell—and flexed her wings.

Isla pressed her lips together, trying not to curse. Yes, yes, very charming, Lord Peverell, now please let me finish before the entire Ministry collapses under your aura of adorable catastrophe.

She scribbled another note, murmuring the new Occamy’s temperamental details, while Harry leaned slightly forward, clearly enjoying the spectacle of drawing stares and whispers. Every now and then, he’d grin at a passerby, and Majesty would puff out her scales.

Isla glanced up again, exasperated but fond. One day, she thought, the paperwork will be done. One day, this young omega lord and his protective, sassy Occamy will not make the Ministry entrance look like a circus.

Maybe one day, she muttered, but not today.

Theseus Scamander stepped out of the Ministry’s main hall with that calm, efficient stride that immediately commanded attention. Aurors stiffened, glancing nervously at the bubble ward around Harry and Majesty. The protective charm kept onlookers safely distant from the serpent.

“Lord Harrison Peverell!” Theseus’s voice was sharp, carrying the weight of authority and unflinching exasperation. Harry turned with a sheepish grin, eyes bright behind his bangs, and Majesty hissed in what sounded like mock indignation.

“How on Morgana’s green earth did you find an Occamy?” Theseus demanded, hands on his hips. “And then—why in the name of all that’s sane—did you decide to befriend it?!”

Harry shrugged, tucking a loose curl behind his ear, voice tentative. “She found me, and… she latched onto me. Wouldn’t let go. She’s rather charming, actually. I think she can stay.”

Theseus pinched the bridge of his nose, a mixture of disbelief and worry flashing across his features. “Why is your cheek bruised and bleeding?”

Harry’s shoulders rose and fell quickly in a nervous shrug. “That’s her fault.” Majesty flicked her tail in mild pride.

“And you… don’t see how the Occamy is dangerous?” Theseus’s tone had gone from scolding to incredulous. “These creatures are classified XXXX for a reason, Peverell. They can grow fifteen feet—”

“Oh, I know,” Harry said quickly, holding up his hands. “This was just from trying to name her.” He grimaced, rubbing at the faint streak of blood across his cheek where a sharp tail had swiped.

Theseus exhaled slowly, then asked, his voice dropping slightly in disbelief: “What’s her name?”

“Majesty,” Harry said proudly, his grin widening as Majesty coiled tighter around his neck.

“Oh heavens,” he muttered, pinching his nose again and closing his eyes briefly. “The Ministry is never going to let me live this down.”

Harry giggled at the exaggeration, and Majesty huffed in agreement, feathers on her wings shimmering like a living jewel. The head auror’s expression shifted to resigned exasperation as he glanced at the aurors maintaining the bubble ward.

“These wards better stay up, Peverell. I do not want to explain to the Minister why an Occamy has somehow acquired your scent as a permanent attachment and is terrorising our community,” he warned.

Harry waved a hand lazily, trying to look innocent. “It’s fine. She’s very… protective.”

Majesty huffed again, making a low, musical noise, clearly pleased to be recognized.

And then it hit Theseus. Of course. Even if this was reckless, impulsive, and completely insane, it was… perfect. Harry’s natural curiosity, his fearless willingness to interact with creatures most wizards would run screaming from, his unflinching calm even when flung into danger—it all screamed Newt Scamander.

The head auror shook his head slowly, a bemused smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He wasn’t about to voice it; it would only embarrass Harry and give the Ministry reason to file a dozen more reports. And besides, if Harry and Newt ever ended up staying together, well… these little reckless moments were exactly the sort of thing Newt would adore.

Theseus pushed the thought aside and focused on the present. “Alright, Peverell,” he said, voice regaining its authoritative edge, though a faint grin lingered, “I’m letting you in. You behave, you stay within these wards, and Majesty doesn’t terrorize any more aurors.”

Harry’s grin widened, and the Occamy made a delighted little hiss that sounded almost like laughter.

“Theseus,” Isla said, relief flooding her voice as she stepped back from the paperwork sprawled across the ministry counter, “thank you. I was drowning in forms for ages.”

“Theseus, you are the best,” Harry chirped, eyes bright.

The auror simply gave a small shrug, pinched his nose bridge, and muttered, “Go on then. Take your beast of a familiar, and try not to break anything else.”

He kept the thought about Harry and Newt locked tight in his mind, letting it rest there quietly. For now, it was enough that the omega lord was safe, happy, and, somehow, utterly endearing.

Theseus strode into his home, boots echoing against the polished floor, shaking his head in disbelief. He was still reeling from the sheer absurdity of the morning. Being called in off-hours was one thing, but being summoned to deal with Harry Peverell and a fully grown Occamy perched on his shoulders? That was a level of chaos he hadn’t signed up for.

“What was it, son?” Thaddeus asked, eyes narrowing in curiosity as he watched his eldest pacing through the room. His voice carried that subtle weight of authority that didn’t need to raise its tone to demand attention.

Marigold, knitting needles frozen mid-air, glanced up at Theseus with a sharp eyebrow. “Theseus, you look as if you’ve seen a Boggart. Stop that dramatic stomping and tell me what’s happened.”

Theseus ignored the gentle scolding, instead marching straight to Newt, who was sitting at the kitchen table sipping tea as if nothing unusual had happened in the world of magical law enforcement. With a quick jab to Newt’s chest—careful enough not to hurt, forceful enough to startle—he practically shouted, “Your little omega beau has gone and got an Occamy for a familiar!”

Newt blinked slowly, tea halfway to his lips, utterly unprepared for the energy storm that was his brother. “Excuse me?” he asked, voice cautious, one hand rising to steady the cup.

“Theseus, sit down and tell me everything,” Thaddeus said, leaning forward now, interest fully piqued. “I take it this wasn’t just some minor magical mishap?”

“Oh, it wasn’t minor,” Theseus said, flopping into a chair with a dramatic sigh, running a hand over his face. “Harry, your—um—Peverell… that little lord,” he paused, rolling his eyes in exasperation, “managed to befriend an Occamy at the Ministry! And not just befriend—it latched onto him, terrified aurors, and they spent a good hour keeping it under a bubble ward while Isla tried to fill out paperwork.”

Marigold nearly dropped her knitting. “A what?!”

“Theseus, you said… an Occamy?” Newt finally asked, voice rising slightly, setting his teacup down with an audible clink. His brows knit in equal parts concern and amusement.

“Yes! A fierce, protective, winged serpent that normally would eat you for breakfast if you got too close. She- or he- whatever, Majesty is apparently its name now, clung to Harry like it was his job and refused to let go. And then, his cheek!” Theseus jabbed his finger at Newt’s chest, lowering his voice as if recounting a particularly horrific scene. “His cheek was bruised and bleeding from trying to name it. And Harry… Harry didn’t even seem scared. He thought it was fun!”

Thaddeus groaned, leaning back in his chair. “He thought it was… fun?”

“Theseus, calm down, darling,” Marigold interjected, hands on her hips. “It's most likely fine.”

“Fine?” Theseus repeated, voice incredulous. “He could have been eaten! Or worse! And in public! Do you know the paperwork alone? I had to relieve Isla of forms for hours after this!”

“Son, calm yourself,” Thaddeus said, but this time his tone was softer, trying to temper the storm of his son’s frustration with reason. “Tell me this, is the Occamy… tame now?”

“Theseus groaned, running a hand down his face. “Tame? No. She—Majesty—seems entirely convinced she belongs to him. And Harry? He’s standing there grinning like he won the lottery. And the aurors… never mind the aurors, they were terrified, Newt.”

Thaddeus spoke slowly, a grin tugging at his mouth despite the chaos, “I think you’ve just realized something… Even if Harry did all this recklessly, he’s the perfect fit for you, Newt. You’d do exactly the same thing.”

Newt’s eyes flicked toward Theseus, incredulous. “And you’re not going to mention that to anyone, I hope?”

“Not a word,” Theseus said, though the ghost of a smile lingered. He leaned back, taking a deep breath. “But, Newt, I am going to need a detailed report on how your… companion managed to charm a fully grown Occamy. And then survive it.”

Chapter Text

Harry had grown comfortable enough with his new rhythm that the Ministry’s bustling halls no longer made his chest tighten. Between quiet mornings in the gardens and slow afternoons at Peverell Castle, the air had finally begun to taste like freedom again. Majesty slithered at his side—or sometimes shrunk and curled around his shoulders—and the world, for once, seemed to hum in calm equilibrium.

Isla had worked a small miracle by linking the tracking bracelet to the Peverell wards, meaning Harry could finally wander alone without setting off alarms. The relief of solitude—safe solitude—was something he hadn’t realised he’d craved so badly until it was granted.

And now, he had company.

He’d invited Newt along to see the castle, nervous but excited. It felt right, somehow, to share this part of his new world with Newt, the old stones and silent halls that felt like memory and myth all at once.

The two walked together down the long path toward the lower gardens. Majesty was draped across Harry’s shoulders, her teal-green scales shimmering with flecks of turquoise and purple, reflecting every shard of sunlight that slipped through the clouds. When they reached a patch of ancient marble, Majesty uncoiled herself lazily and slithered onto a broad, sun-warmed slab of stone, spreading her wings with languid grace.

“Is she… basking?” Newt asked, stopping short.

Harry smiled faintly. “That’s the word for it, yes.”

“She’s magnificent,” Newt breathed, kneeling a little, though not too close. “I’ve only ever seen a juvenile Occamy before, in the East Wing of the Cairo Sanctuary when Father finally gave in and let me go. And you—Merlin, Harry—she bonded with you?”

Harry shrugged. “She found me. Wouldn’t let go.”

Majesty lifted her head, the sunlight catching the iridescence of her wings as her slitted eyes narrowed toward Newt. Harry felt the shift in her attention through the faint psychic pulse of her mood—a sort of assessing hum that brushed against his mind.

"Who is this one?" Majesty hissed softly, forked tongue flicking out. "He smells of you. Your mate?"

Harry’s breath caught, his face heating immediately. "He’s not— he began quickly, He’s... well... we’re courting."

Majesty hummed in a way that sounded almost like amusement. "Mate."

"No, that’s not—"

The Occamy tilted her head, considering. "He is tall. Smells good. Strong magic. Good for mating."

Harry’s entire body went rigid, mortified. His blush deepened to the tips of his ears. Newt, of course, didn’t understand Parseltongue—but he noticed the way Harry’s posture suddenly tensed, how his lips twitched in visible embarrassment.

“Harry?” Newt asked softly, shifting closer. “What is she saying?”

Harry made a strangled noise in the back of his throat. “Um. Nothing bad. Just— just curious about you.”

Majesty flicked her tongue again, curling it smugly. "You lie, hatchling."

Harry resisted the urge to cover his face with both hands. "Stop talking. Please stop talking."

"Why? I am helping. You need a good mate. You are small and fragile and sad. He smells like forests and honey. Very good for you."

Harry groaned aloud, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Newt crouched beside him, concern deepening. “Harry, are you sure she’s not threatening me? You look... rather pale.”

He exhaled shakily. “She’s not threatening you, no. She just…” He trailed off, struggling for words. “She’s… evaluating you.”

“Evaluating?”

“Yes. In… Occamy terms.”

Newt blinked. “And what does that mean?”

Harry turned away, shoulders trembling faintly with embarrassment. “It means she thinks you’re good for mating,” he mumbled under his breath.

There was a long silence.

Then, faintly—very faintly—Newt choked out a startled laugh. “Oh,” he said, voice high and strangled, as a blush crept up his own neck. “Well. That’s… flattering, I suppose?”

Majesty made a satisfied clicking sound and lifted her wings, proud. "See? He agrees. Good choice, hatchling."

“Please stop,” Harry muttered, voice somewhere between mortification and laughter.

Newt, still pink in the face but smiling now, sat cross-legged beside the stone, hands resting loosely on his knees. “She’s… protective of you, isn’t she?”

“She’s possessive,” Harry corrected. “And loud. And apparently very opinionated about my love life already.

Cerulean eyes half closed with quiet amusement. “She sounds a bit like my mother.”

Harry laughed then—genuine, warm, and fleeting. The tension eased. Majesty preened in the sunlight, tail lazily flicking, utterly pleased with herself for approving Harry’s “mate.”

The sunlight grew warmer, the air fresh and sweet with the scent of wild lilacs that grew near the castle’s south wall and Newt's lovely scent, and Majesty had gone unusually quiet, wings tucked primly against her sides as she watched the clouds shift overhead.

Harry thought, perhaps, she’d finally settled into the basking part of the afternoon.

Then Majesty turned her bright turquoise eyes on him, tail flicking idly.

"When will you have eggs?" she asked, as casually as one might inquire about lunch. "Majesty can warm them for you when you’re busy."

Harry inhaled at precisely the wrong moment and promptly choked on air.

He coughed hard, his entire face going crimson. “Wh– what? Majesty, what on— what in Manasa's name are you talking about?” (Manasa = Hindu goddess of snakes)

The Occamy blinked slowly, wings shifting. "Eggs. You and mate will have them. Soon? Later? I good with eggs. Soft wings, perfect warmth."

Harry’s ears went scarlet. “We are not having eggs!” he spluttered, hands flailing uselessly in front of him.

Newt, who had been admiring a nearby cluster of moonwort, spun around at the sound of Harry choking. “Harry! Are you alright?”

Harry was trying, and failing, to compose himself. “She— she’s fine,” he rasped, clearing his throat. “I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”

Majesty flicked her tongue, unimpressed. "You lie again, hatchling. You turn red like firebird. That means embarrassed."

Newt crouched beside him, worried. “Harry, you’re very red. Did she- did she bite you?”

The omega squeezed his eyes shut. “No. No, she just—” he waved a helpless hand in Majesty’s direction, “—said something absolutely mortifying!”

“Mortifying?” Newt repeated, brow furrowed.

Harry groaned. “Yes. She wants to… babysit.”

Newt blinked in confusion. “Babysit? Who?”

He hesitated. “...future eggs.”

There was a pause so long that even the nearby wind seemed to hold its breath.

Then, softly—“Eggs?”

Harry buried his face in his hands. “She thinks—she assumes—that we’re having children. Together.”

“Oh.” Newt’s voice was very small. “Oh.”

Majesty, delighted by the direction the conversation had taken, rumbled contentedly. "You both will. It is natural. You are courting, and he smells of good nests and strong magic. Hatchlings soon. I will help."

Harry groaned into his palms. “Please stop saying hatchlings!”

Newt made a strangled sound that might have been a laugh or a squeak. “She’s… very proactive, isn’t she?”

Harry peeked up at him between his fingers, his face still red as a Weasley jumper. “That’s one word for it.”

He coughed politely, clearly flustered himself but trying to be professional about it. “Well,” he said weakly, rubbing the back of his neck, “it’s… quite sweet, in a way. That she’s already protective of you.”

“Sweet?” Harry repeated, aghast.

Newt smiled, a little shyly. “In a terrifying way.”

Majesty hisses—a low, humming vibration that rattled Harry’s ribs. "Good mate. Clever mate. Keeps you safe."

Harry dropped his head back with a groan. “This is my life now,” he muttered.

Newt chuckled quietly, his eyes full of fondness and disbelief in equal measure. “You did say she chose you.”

“Yeah,” Harry sighed. “And apparently that means she’s already planning my family tree.”

Majesty hissed softly, smug. "I will make nest."

“Absolutely not!” Harry squeaked, voice breaking, while Newt tried very, very hard not to laugh.

But she didn't and Majesty had, thankfully, stopped mentioning hatchlings every five seconds — though Harry suspected that was mostly because she’d grown distracted by Newt.

The magizoologist had taken out a well-worn sketchbook, flipping it open to a clean page with an almost reverent care. Majesty, sprawled on a sun-warmed slab of marble like a jeweled goddess, perked up at the scratch of pencil on parchment.

Her scales shimmered from teal to turquoise to violet as she angled her head toward him. "What he doing, hatchling? Why he staring?"

Harry glanced at Newt, who was utterly absorbed, head tilted, curls falling into his eyes as he sketched with delicate, precise strokes. “He’s drawing you,” Harry explained.

"Drawing?"

“Saving the moment. So others can see what you look like.”

Majesty puffed up, tail curling elegantly around her. "Hatchling's mate will show others?"

“Yes.”

"Good. They must know I am magnificent."

Harry snorted. “Trust me, I think they’ll get that part.”

Majesty slithered forward, studying the quick-moving pencil with fascination. Her forked tongue flicked out curiously, tasting the air around Newt’s quill. "He good with claws. Steady, soft movements. Majesty like this mate. Hatchling keep him."

Harry groaned. “He’s not- oh never mind.”

He sat back in the grass, watching Newt’s practiced hand glide across the page. Majesty was unusually still now, posing like a creature who knew she was being admired. The sunlight made her scales sparkle, and Newt kept murmuring little observations under his breath—“lovely curvature of the wing joints… luminescent quality to the ventral scales…”—the way he did when studying something that genuinely thrilled him.

Harry, meanwhile, had his own problem. Majesty had clearly not forgotten the earlier “egg conversation,” and her tail thumped the ground as she suddenly asked, "when two-legs make hatchlings, where do two-legs keep them? Majesty will need to help hatchling warm them when hatchling busy!"

Harry blinked. “No, Majesty. No hatching eggs. It’s just… different for us.”

Majesty’s wings half-flared, a sign of confusion—or indignation. "Explain. How can hatchling grow if not in egg? You grow them in mouth? In nest pouch? Under scales?"

Harry rubbed the bridge of his nose. “No, no, nothing like that. Humans—well, two-leggeds—grow their young inside their bodies.”

There was a pause. A very long pause.

Then Majesty let out a horrified hiss that startled even Newt, who looked up mid-stroke. "INSIDE?"

Harry winced. “Yes. Inside.”

"That... disgusting. Wrong. Sticky inside! Too soft! Why two-legs do this?"

Newt glanced between them, brow furrowing. “Harry? What’s she saying?”

Harry waved a hand, cheeks pink. “You don’t want to know.”

"You put hatchlings in belly and they swim? Do they not drown? How do you breathe? Do you cough them up when they ready?"

Harry’s face turned a shade of red that clashed painfully with his cloak. “Majesty, please! It’s just how it works! They’re not swimming, they’re—oh, Mansana, how do I explain—”

Newt, still baffled, leaned closer. “Is she upset?”

Harry groaned. “She’s appalled by human reproduction.”

He blinked. “Ah.” A pause. “That’s… understandable, I suppose.”

Majesty hissed again, coiling her body around Harry’s boots for moral support. "You poor creature. You must be so scared when it happens. You will let me guard nest, yes? Keep it safe from… whatever crawls out of you."

Harry buried his face in his hands, somewhere between laughter and despair. “I’m not having children, Majesty!”

"You say that now. All hatchlings say that before nest time."

Newt coughed discreetly, clearly torn between curiosity and concern. “She seems… vocal.”

“Understatement of the century,” Harry muttered through his fingers.

Majesty, apparently proud of herself for causing so much commotion, flicked her tongue smugly. "You make good stories, hatchling. You and mate both. I like watching you talk. You both red too easy."

Newt smiled uncertainly. “She seems pleased.”

Harry groaned. “Oh, she’s ecstatic.”

“About what?”

“About… anatomy. Don’t ask.”

Newt was clearly dying to ask. But the expression on Harry’s mortified face was enough to stop even him.

Majesty slithered up Harry’s arm and curled comfortably around his shoulders, her head nestling against his neck. "Strange, strange little mammal," she murmured fondly. "But I keep you safe anyway."

Harry sighed, resigned, and reached up to stroke her scales. “Thanks, Majesty.”

Newt looked up from his sketch, his eyes softening as he took in the sight: Harry, sitting in the sunlight with the magical creature coiled trustingly around him, both utterly at peace despite the chaos.

“It’s beautiful,” Newt murmured.

Harry glanced at him. “What is?”

He smiled faintly. “The way she looks at you.”

Majesty purred, wings folding tight. "See? Mate understands."

Harry made a noise somewhere between a groan and a laugh. “I give up.”

Majesty blinked her huge, iridescent eyes at Harry, tilting her head like a jewel-encrusted serpent queen appraising a foolish snake. "Good mating… you mate yet?" Her tongue flicked as if tasting the air for answers. "Hatchling… you good female. Strong pheromones. Nesting instincts… worthy." 

Harry froze. Wait— what? “I—I’m male!” he sputtered, inching back as Majesty’s claws flexed in anticipation, a small rumble of approval vibrating through her throat.

"Male? Male makes weird inside eggs?" Majesty hissed, indignant. "I do not understand. You lie. You female! You will mate like female. Coil! Snuggle! You do this… you weak male?"

Harry flushed furiously, stepping back. “I am male! I just… have magic to take on the female role sometimes. For… for bonding purposes. Caring purposes. Nesting purposes!”

"Protective?" Majesty tilted her head further, wings twitching in amusement. "You enjoy coiling? You enjoy mate on top of you?"

Harry groaned, face turning hotter by the second. “Oh god… Majesty! Stop! This is embarrassing! I’m not explaining… that! You are insane!”

"Insane?" Majesty’s voice was almost musical in its hissing. "Hatchling thinks I insane? Male pretending female… fun. Strong nest scent. Good pheromones. Good mate."

Harry grabbed his cloak, tugging it tighter around his shoulders like a flimsy shield. “I swear, I’m leaving if you keep talking about me like this!”

Majesty, of course, did not move aside. Instead, she shrank herself just enough to coil snugly around Harry’s leg, tail flicking up playfully. "Leave? You go nowhere. I guard nest. You mate. Hatchling make hatchling. Important for mate."

Harry threw his hands in the air. “Fine! But I— oh Merlin, why am I agreeing to a snake’s logic?”

Newt, standing nearby sketching, froze mid-pencil stroke. He had no idea what was being said but the look on Harry’s face—equal parts horror, exasperation, and some secret pride—made him pause and smile faintly.

"Good male. Good female. I approve." Majesty hissed. "You coiled. You warm. You mate. Perfect. Hatchling my hatchling's hatchling."

Harry groaned, sinking to the grass with the Occamy still coiled happily around him. “I am going to regret this,” he muttered, partly to himself, partly to Newt, who was still staring wide-eyed.

Majesty flicked her tongue, clearly delighted at the flustered omega. "You regret nothing. Hatchling, learn. Mate strong. I teach."

Harry buried his face in his hands, whispering, “Why did I ever think a friendly magical creature would not judge me?”

Majesty hissed softly, almost tenderly, and nuzzled Harry’s cheek. "Judge? No. Guide. Protect. Get you to reproduce. All good things."

His groan turned into a reluctant laugh, and even Newt couldn’t stop smiling at the sight: Harry, entirely out of his comfort zone, being completely accepted by a shrunken five-foot teal-and-purple scaled Occamy, who apparently had very strong opinions about reproductive roles.

“Fine, Majesty,” Harry said finally, resigned. “You win. But don’t think I’ll ever admit you were right about the coiling thing.”

Majesty hissed in amusement. "Oh, hatchling. You already admitted it in scent."

Harry buried his face deeper in his hands, cheeks burning. He flopped back onto the warm stone slab, hands dragging through his hair in exasperation, while Majesty’s coils shifted comfortably around his legs. The sunlight caught the iridescent scales on her wings, making them shimmer like liquid gemstones.

Newt knelt beside him, pencil hovering over his sketchpad. “What… what did she actually say?” he asked, eyes wide.

Harry groaned, rubbing at his temples. “She… she said I’m female. And I tried to explain, I’m not. I’m male, and my magic… makes me take on the female role sometimes.” He gestured vaguely at himself, face reddening. “Then she… she said I like my mate on top of me.”

Newt blinked. “She said that?” His pencil wavered, not even drawing at this point.

Harry threw his hands in the air. “Yes! Can you believe it? I’m sat here trying to explain my existence and a giant magical serpent is judging my… coiling instincts.”

Majesty hissed softly, as though defending herself. "Judge? No. Guide? yes." 

Harry groaned again. “Guide? I… I don’t even know if she’s right about any of this!”

Newt leaned closer, curious, despite the oddness of it all. “And… you’re okay with her thinking you’re female?”

He let out a humorless laugh, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I am okay with it… but only because she doesn’t understand humans. And also, she really thinks she knows my mating habits.” He gestured vaguely at Majesty, who had settled on his ankle like an oversized, very judgmental scarf.

Newt’s eyes softened, watching Harry’s flush and the mixture of embarrassment and exasperation. “Well… she seems to like you. And honestly, you look… happy, even with the chaos.”

Harry groaned again, burying his face in his hands. “Happy? Maybe. Mostly mortified. This is the most mortifying conversation I’ve had in… well, ever. And she’s the one making it worse!”

Majesty hissed softly in agreement—or was it amusement?—flicking her tongue.

Harry peeked through his fingers at Newt. “I think… I think I’m going to have to live with her thinking I’m female forever.”

Newt smiled faintly. “Well… at least she seems loyal.”

Harry muttered, “She’s clingy too.”

His grin widened. “Sounds like she’s the perfect familiar for you, then.”

Harry groaned audibly, realizing that yes—yes, Majesty was indeed perfect in the strangest, most awkward way possible.

Newt paused a moment, letting the warmth of the sun settle over them, and then slid closer behind Harry, draping an arm gently over his shoulder. Harry stiffened at first, half expecting some sudden critique, but Newt’s touch was soft, grounding, almost protective. Without a word, Newt tilted the sketchpad he had been working on, revealing page after page of his careful drawings—Majesty in repose, basking in sunlight, her wings splayed; the intricate shimmer of her scales captured in delicate, swirling strokes; the way her eyes glimmered with both ferocity and mischief.

Harry blinked at them, and for a long moment there was only awe on his face. “These… these are amazing,” he breathed, leaning back slightly into Newt’s chest. “You… you really captured her.”

Newt’s lips curved into a small, proud smile. “I tried. I wanted you to see...” His hand flexed gently over Harry’s shoulder, thumb brushing lightly along his arm. Harry closed his eyes, feeling the warmth, the quiet steadiness, and for once, he didn’t feel the tension that always seemed to coil tight in his chest.

Majesty, sensing the subtle relaxation, slithered closer, her body curling around Harry’s legs, coiling protectively but not too tightly. She hissed softly, tongue flicking. "Hatchling cold?"

Harry shook his head quickly, letting his voice roll over in parseltongue, low and smooth: "Not cold. Just safe. Feeling safe."

Majesty paused, tilting her head, scales shimmering in approval. "Safe good. Hatchling stay. Coils good." She coiled a little tighter, not threateningly, but in a way that anchored Harry, letting him sink fully into the sensation of being cared for.

Newt watched this, his eyes gentle, affectionate, and then he shifted slightly in the sunlight. From behind Harry, he pulled something small from his pocket, holding it delicately so that Harry could see it—a short silver chain with a tiny emerald pendant, catching the light like a droplet of spring water.

“For you,” Newt murmured, voice soft, almost shy. “A courting gift.”

Green eyes widened, and he instinctively reached for it. “Newt… this is- this is beautiful. I… I love it.” His fingers brushed the silver lightly, then traced the tiny emerald, marveling at how it seemed to capture the same bright, shifting greens of his own eyes. “I should have gotten something for you too.”

Newt chuckled, the sound warm and soft against Harry’s ear. “No, no, you don’t need to. The suitor—or in this case, the alpha—buys the courting gift. That’s how we prove ourselves. Not the other way around.”

Harry leaned back fully, tilting his head so he could see Newt’s face from beneath his own curls. “You don’t need to prove yourself to me,” he said, quiet, almost hesitant.

A thumb brushed along Harry’s shoulder. “I want to,” he murmured, and the words were low, intimate, threaded with a seriousness that made Harry’s chest tighten. “I want to prove it to you. You’re… important to me, Harry. And if that means showing you, in ways both small and large, then… then I’ll do it.”

Harry’s breath caught in his throat. He hadn’t expected the words to land like that, not so direct, not so… real. His heart was racing, a mixture of warmth, affection, and the tiniest spark of nervousness. “You… you really mean that?” he asked, voice soft.

Newt leaned closer, pressing a gentle kiss to Harry’s temple. “Every word,” he said, murmuring against the curl of Harry’s hair. “Every single one. You… you deserve it.”

Harry felt the tight knot in his chest ease slightly. Majesty hissed approvingly. He looked down at the silver chain with the emerald again. He smiled, shyly, and whispered, “Then… I’ll wear it. Every day.”

Newt hesitated for just a moment, holding the delicate silver chain with the emerald pendant between his fingers. He wasn’t sure if Harry would mind, and in truth, he didn’t want to overstep. Omega's nape and the sides of his neck were sacred spaces—places only the most trusted, most intimate people had ever touched. 

Harry, sensing the hesitation, tilted his head slightly and whispered, “It’s… okay, Newt. I trust you.”

The words were enough. Carefully, Newt lifted the chain, and Harry instinctively leaned forward, exposing the sides of his neck. The soft breeze ruffled his hair, brushing against the sensitive skin there.

Newt’s fingers brushed lightly over the curve of his jaw, then traced down to the sides of the base of his neck where the scent glands nestled, and Harry shivered softly—not in discomfort, but because it felt grounding, soothing, and somehow intensely personal all at once.

“Sorry… I just…” Newt murmured, voice low, “I have to make sure it sits right. And… I want to.”

Harry swallowed, heart thudding. “It’s fine,” he whispered. “It feels… nice.”

As Newt carefully slid the chain around his neck, his fingers grazed the nape, brushing along the sides almost reverently. Harry’s breath hitched, a quiet, almost inaudible whimper escaping him, and he clenched slightly, curling instinctively into Newt’s warmth. 

Newt finally fastened the clasp, letting the emerald settle just below Harry’s collarbone. “There,” he said softly, fingers lingering for a heartbeat longer. “It suits you… perfectly.”

Harry tilted his head, feeling the smooth weight of the pendant and the cool chain against the warmth of his skin. The sensation was electric, but also tender. “It… does,” he breathed, closing his eyes briefly. “Thank you… for this, and… for everything.”

Newt pressed a gentle kiss to the side of Harry’s neck, careful, respectful, a whisper of affection that sent warmth coiling through Harry’s chest. “Always,” Newt said, almost a vow. “You’re worth it, Harry. Every bit of care, every bit of attention.”

The omega exhaled slowly, nuzzling into the contact, letting the sensation of trust, protection, and intimacy wash over him. He felt completely, unreservedly safe—and oddly, gloriously spoiled (which he normally hates).

Newt lingered just at the side of Harry’s neck, brushing against the soft, sensitive skin with the gentlest of touches. Harry tilted his head almost instinctively, exposing his neck further, as though inviting Newt to explore the space. His breath hitched slightly, and there was a flush spreading across his cheeks.

The alpha froze for a heartbeat, aware that this could easily become intimate in a way neither of them intended, and he wasn’t about to risk crossing a line.

Instead, he asked softly, almost shyly, “Would you… mind if I tried kneading your neck? Just a little? I’ve never done it before.”

Harry’s eyes fluttered open, and a faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “If you think it’s okay… I trust you,” he whispered, voice trembling slightly with anticipation.

Newt’s hands were cautious, hovering for a moment as he considered the best way to touch such a delicate place. His fingers, soft but a bit calloused from times of handling magical creatures and all the odd things that came with that, pressed gently to the muscles along the sides and base of Harry’s nape.

Almost immediately, Harry let out a small, drowsy sigh, and his body softened, as if the pressure were melting away all the tension he’d been carrying.

Delicate… so delicate… Newt thought, fascinated. The kneading made Harry’s muscles slacken, his arms curling slightly around Newt, his chest pressing closer. Newt realized this was what they’d warned him about—the nape was dangerously sensitive, capable of inducing almost a drugged, limply submissive state in omegas. Hundreds of years ago, certain omegas had even worn metal neck braces to prevent unwanted manipulation, the history of which sent a chill through Newt’s mind. But right now, with Harry, it was completely safe—Harry was giving consent, and Newt’s careful touch was gentle, affectionate.

Harry let out another soft, half-whispered sigh, curling more into Newt’s chest. “Feels… good,” he murmured, eyes half-lidded. His trust was palpable, and Newt’s chest warmed at the vulnerability Harry allowed him. It wasn’t sexual—it was comfort, it was intimacy, it was trust—and it felt incredible.

Newt’s fingers worked along the muscles for a few more moments, careful to keep the pressure soothing but light. Harry’s body relaxed so thoroughly that he almost melted into Newt’s arms, the softest, warmest weight pressing against him. Seeing this, Newt couldn’t help but smile gently; the way Harry allowed himself to be cared for right now was incredibly endearing.

Realizing he needed to bring Harry fully back into a grounded position, Newt slowly stopped kneading and gathered him in his arms, cradling him closer. He adjusted so Harry was pressed against his chest, one arm around Harry’s shoulders, the other around his waist. Harry rested his head against Newt, eyes drifting closed again in a haze of comfort.

Newt’s mind lingered on the sheer power of the nape for omegas—the way it could induce submission, how easily an unscrupulous alpha or even beta could abuse it. His hands tightened slightly around Harry in protective instinct, ensuring nothing could harm him. This knowledge, mingled with the warmth of Harry against him, made Newt’s chest ache in that peculiar way of wanting to protect, soothe, and cherish all at once.

He let Harry rest there, cradled, breathing slowly and steadily. Each soft exhale from Harry felt like a confirmation of trust, and Newt whispered quietly, almost to himself, “I’ll never let anything happen to you. Not ever.”

Harry stirred slightly, letting out a small, contented whine, the kind that made Newt’s heart lurch. “Hm… safe,” Harry murmured, voice muffled against Newt’s chest.

“Yes,” Newt whispered back, pressing a kiss to the top of Harry’s head. “Safe, always.”

Newt adjusted Harry carefully in his arms, tilting him just slightly so his head rested comfortably beneath Newt’s chin. The soft, rhythmic rise and fall of Harry’s chest was hypnotic, and Newt’s hand lingered lightly on his shoulder, brushing through the curls at the nape. Harry let out a faint, contented sigh.

“You really are remarkable, you know that?” Newt murmured softly, more to himself than to Harry. His thumb brushed lightly in circles on Harry’s shoulder, careful and measured, aware of just how sensitive the nape was.

“M’just comfy…” Harry murmured sleepily, his eyes fluttering shut again.

“You should be,” Newt replied, pressing a gentle kiss to the crown of Harry’s head. “You deserve to be.”

Harry’s voice wavered slightly as he spoke, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I feel like a simple touch from you makes me breathe. That sounds insane, right? I think I-I think I’m so tense all the time and it sounds ridiculous, but being near an alpha I trust just lets it melt away.” He hesitated, cheeks pink, then added, “What’s even more stupid is how much I trust you even if we met just over two weeks ago.

Newt tilted his head, eyes soft and warm, fingers brushing lightly through Harry’s curls. “You’re right,” he said carefully, “that does sound silly. The last part, not the first.”

He blinked at him, a little confused, his small body leaning instinctively into Newt’s chest. “Not the first part?”

Newt shook his head, smiling faintly. “No. The first part… it makes perfect sense. Omegas are naturally sensitive; you’ve been carrying far too much on your own. It’s only natural that being near someone you can trust, someone who wants to protect you, lets that tension go.”

Green eyes widened slightly, the hint of disbelief still lingering. “Really?”

“Really,” Newt said, tilting his chin down to brush his lips against Harry’s hair. “It’s not silly at all. What is remarkable is the trust you’re giving me. That part… that is a lot, Harry. But I promise, I’ll handle it with care.”

Harry let out a small, relieved laugh, soft and breathless. “I don’t know why I can tell you things I’d never tell anyone else.”

Newt tightened his arms just a little around him, careful not to overwhelm, his voice gentle. “Maybe because we met at a time when you needed someone to understand, and I’m not going anywhere. You don’t have to hide with me, Harry.”

He pressed his face against Newt’s chest, inhaling the familiar scent and letting himself sink into the warmth. “I don’t know what I did to deserve someone like you,” he murmured.

“You didn’t do anything,” Newt said softly, tilting Harry’s chin up with a fingertip. “You just are. That’s enough.”

Newt’s thumb brushed over Harry’s jaw, tracing the soft line of his skin. The air between them hummed faintly — not from words, but from something deeper. Their eyes met, and Harry forgot how to breathe for a moment. Then Newt leaned in, slow, giving Harry every chance to pull away.

Harry didn’t.

The kiss was deep, unhurried, but strong — like the world itself had narrowed to just that moment, to warmth and closeness and the faint taste of tea on Newt’s lips. Harry’s magic flared before he could stop it, rippling outward in instinctive waves.

A shimmer of light spun around them like mist — a shield, protective and possessive all at once — enclosing them in a soft bubble that smelled faintly of rain and magic. Majesty lifted her head from the grass nearby, narrowing her snake eyes, intrigued.

Harry pulled back with a gasp, face flushed and eyes wide. “Oh Merlin— I didn’t mean to—”

Newt blinked too, looking around at the faint glow surrounding them. Then he laughed softly, the sound so warm and genuine that it eased Harry’s panic immediately.

“Hey, it’s alright,” he said gently, brushing his fingers against Harry’s cheek. “That’s actually quite adorable — your magic wanted to protect us.”

Harry ducked his head, his blush deepening to the tips of his ears. “It’s… it does that sometimes. Gets a bit overexcited.”

“I can’t blame it,” Newt murmured, smiling as his fingers lingered near the collar of Harry’s cloak. “It’s only following your heart, isn’t it?”

His breath hitched, his throat tight. “That sounds sweet.”

“It is,” Newt said simply. “You are.”

The bubble flickered again, faint ripples of gold dancing through it like sunlight on water before fading away. Harry laughed under his breath, the sound quiet and disbelieving. “I don’t know what to do with you.”

“Keep kissing me, maybe?” Newt teased softly, eyes twinkling.

Harry hesitated for a heartbeat, then smiled — that small, rare, luminous smile that made Newt’s chest ache — and tugged him down for another kiss, softer this time but no less real. Majesty coiled closer, humming low in satisfaction, her tail flicking lazily against the grass.

After Majesty finally slithered off to bask again, Harry led Newt up the winding stone steps that curved around the castle’s inner courtyard. The air inside was cooler, the faint hum of ancient enchantments stirring through the walls like a heartbeat.

“I’ve only explored a little bit,” Harry said as they walked. “Mostly the library. You’d love it — it’s huge. There’s an entire section on magical fauna and ancient creatures.”

Newt’s eyes lit up instantly. “Truly? What kind of works?”

Harry smiled, that small proud curve that softened his face. “A few manuscripts I’ve never even heard of. One of them mentioned Occamies being bred by early Peverells for warding. I didn’t get to read much yet.”

Newt practically bounced on his heels, all excitement and curiosity. “That’s incredible, Harry! If that’s true, you might be living in one of the oldest documented sanctuaries for magical beasts. No wonder Majesty felt drawn here.”

Harry laughed at his enthusiasm. “That’s the good part.” He paused dramatically at the end of a corridor, giving Newt a sideways look. “The bad part is that the section’s hidden behind something straight out of a nightmare.”

Newt blinked, already halfway distracted by the shelves of books lining the wall. “Nightmare?”

“Necromancy,” he said solemnly. “Rows and rows of it. Tomes bound in weird hides, jars with Merlin-knows-what floating inside. And the air’s cold. I swear one of the books breathed.”

Newt stopped dead, staring at him. “…Breathed?”

Harry grinned, hands tucked behind his back. “Yes. So I go through very fast. Don’t look around. Don’t read any names. Just— brisk walk, head down, pretend you’re not being watched.”

The alpha's lips twitched despite himself. “You make it sound like sneaking past a sleeping dragon.”

Harry laughed. “It feels like one! The last time I went through, Majesty refused to come in. Said the air smelled wrong.”

“I don’t blame her,” Newt murmured, though the gleam in his eyes betrayed how tempted he was. “Still, I’d love to study it someday… the wards, the preservation enchantments— perhaps even what kind of energy sustains that area.”

“You can, so long as you promise not to raise anything.”

“Raise—? Oh, Merlin’s beard, no!” Newt flushed, looking genuinely scandalized. “I’d never! I just want to look.”

Harry laughed again, shaking his head fondly. “You and your beasts. Even the dead ones maybe.”

That earned him an embarrassed smile, but Newt’s fingers brushed his as they walked on. 

The air in the lower kitchens was thick with the scent of polished copper, hearth smoke, and freshly baked bread. Magic hummed softly through the space, keeping the fires stoked and the dishes scrubbing themselves in the basins.

Newt had absolutely no idea how they ended up there. One moment, he’d been following Harry through a grand corridor lined with ancestral portraits, the next, he was watching the omega roll up his sleeves and start rifling through cupboards with single-minded purpose.

“Harry?” Newt finally ventured, bemused. “Are we… hiding from something?”

Harry grinned over his shoulder, already tugging open a pantry door. “No. I’m making treacle tart.”

“You’re— what?”

“Treacle tart,” Harry repeated matter-of-factly. “You’ve had it, right?”

Newt blinked. “Er— I think so? Once? Possibly at a Ministry banquet. Or a wedding.”

“That’s not real treacle tart, then.” Harry’s voice was fondly dismissive. “This is the proper kind.”

The kitchen elves, however, did not share his enthusiasm.

The head chef popped into view with a loud crack! and an expression halfway between horror and scandal. “Lord Peverell mustn’t be cooking! Snip is chef! Snip cooks!”

Harry crouched down, smiling patiently. “Snip, I promise, I’m not trying to take your job. I just—” He paused, searching for words. “Cooking calms me. It helps my mind settle. And I like… making something good.”

Snip squinted at him, ears twitching furiously. Two assistant elves peeked out from behind the oven door, whispering in squeaky tones about “the nice young master wanting to bake.”

Harry sighed softly. “I won’t ever touch your spice rack without permission,” he offered solemnly.

That seemed to earn him a flicker of consideration. Snip sniffed once, then folded his arms. “You wash your own bowl,” he said firmly. “Snip will watch.”

“Fair enough,” he said, grinning.

Newt, meanwhile, stood awkwardly by the counter, hands tucked behind his back as though afraid to touch anything. “I don’t… really know how to help. I’ve mostly fed— er— nifflers. And bowtruckles. And once, a grindylow.”

Harry laughed, eyes glinting with mischief. “You'll just make sure I don’t explode anything.”

“Explode—?” His alarmed look made Harry laugh harder.

“Harry, are you certain we’re allowed to—” Newt began, watching as the younger man confidently tied an apron around his waist.

“Yes,” Harry interrupted, scanning the shelves. “We’re making treacle tart.”

“We’re… we are?”

Harry looked over his shoulder with a grin that was both boyish and mischievous. “Of course. You didn’t think I’d let you just stand there looking pretty, did you?”

Newt blinked. “I— er— I’m not sure I know what to do.”

“Then you’ll learn.” Harry clapped his hands together, eyes bright. “Three big ones, one smaller. The big ones are for your family, for Sirius’s, and for the Potters. The little one’s for us.”

Snip, the head elf, muttered in the corner about “lord doing kitchen work like commoners,” but Harry only flashed him a winning smile. “Snip, we’ll clean up after. Promise. And you can taste a slice if it passes your inspection.”

That seemed to mollify the elf a little.

Harry started gathering ingredients from the pantry shelves — flour, butter, eggs, breadcrumbs, lemons, syrup. He placed each carefully on the table, checking their freshness with the care of someone who clearly knew what he was doing.

“You can start with the breadcrumbs,” Harry said, tossing a loaf of soft bread toward Newt.

“Breadcrumbs?” Newt caught it just in time. “How… small?”

“Fine as sand,” Harry replied. “Here—” he pointed to a large wooden bowl and a hand-cranked grinder. “Just feed it through this. It’s like feeding puffskeins — gentle, not rushed.”

Newt gave him a side-eye but obeyed, cautiously cranking the handle. Crumbs flew everywhere.

Harry laughed, brushing a few off Newt’s curls. “You’re a natural disaster.”

“I deal with wild animals, Harry, not breadcrumbs,” Newt muttered, though a small smile tugged at his lips.

While Newt worked, Harry handled the pastry. He moved like someone who’d done this a hundred times — rubbing the cold butter into flour with deft fingers until it looked like fine crumbs, adding just enough water to bring it together. He rolled it out on the floured table, the scent of butter filling the air.

“Pastry’s all about temperature,” he explained. “Cold butter, gentle hands, no overworking it or you’ll make it tough.”

Harry carefully lined four tins — three large, one small — with the golden dough. He pricked the bases with a fork, then showed Newt how to use parchment and dried beans to weigh them down for blind baking. “Stops them puffing up.”

They slid into the enchanted oven with a soft whoosh. Harry leaned back against the counter, brushing flour off his arms. “Now the filling. Grab that syrup tin for me.”

Newt handed it over, sticky already, and Harry grinned as he measured it into a heavy saucepan — golden syrup glinting like sunlight as it poured.

“This,” Harry said reverently, “is the heart of a treacle tart.”

He added butter, warming it gently until it melted together, then stirred in the breadcrumbs and a squeeze of lemon juice. “The lemon cuts the sweetness — balance, Newt. All good things need balance.”

Newt nodded, more focused than he’d been in any Ministry meeting.

As Harry stirred, the mixture thickened, glossy and fragrant. He passed Newt a spoon. “Taste.”

Newt hesitated, then tried a little. His eyes widened. “That’s… incredible.”

Harry smirked. “Not bad, huh? That’s what golden syrup’ll do for you. Just wait till it bakes.”

By now, the kitchen smelled rich and buttery, warmth wrapping around them like a blanket. Snip had stopped protesting and was watching from the counter, arms crossed but clearly intrigued.

When the pastry shells were ready, Harry ladled in the filling, spreading it smooth with quick, sure strokes. He leaned down to trim the edges neatly, dusted a bit of sugar over the top, and slid them back into the oven.

“You make it look easy,” Newt murmured.

Harry shrugged. “It’s just… good magic, I guess. Not spells or charms — just doing something with your hands. You ever notice how creatures respond to that? To steady work? It’s calming.”

Newt smiled softly. “I think I understand why you said it helps you feel grounded.”

While they waited, Harry leaned against the counter beside him, arms crossed, bumping Newt’s shoulder playfully. “You’re still covered in breadcrumbs.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Newt said dryly. “It’s not as though someone asked me to grind it by hand.”

Harry laughed, the sound bright and warm.

The tarts came out golden and bubbling at the edges, filling the kitchen with the thick, syrupy scent of caramelized sugar. Harry set them to cool on racks, brushing one last bit of sugar over the tops.

“Perfect,” he said softly. “One for your family, one for mine, one for Sirius’s lot, and one for us.”

Snip, curiosity finally winning, took a cautious nibble from the cooling tart. His ears twitched. “Lord Peverell cooks well,” he admitted grudgingly. “Kitchen not disgrace.”

Harry gave a little bow. “High praise indeed.”

Newt chuckled, watching Harry slice two small pieces from the smallest tart. Harry handed him one, steam curling up between them.

“Now,” Harry said, eyes gleaming, “tell me that isn’t the best treacle tart you’ve ever had.”

He took a bite. His expression softened instantly. “It’s… it’s like sunshine. Sweet, but not too much. Warm, familiar.” He looked at Harry. “It tastes like you.”

Harry laughed, cheeks pink. “You sap." He leaned against the counter again, licking a bit of syrup off his thumb. “Well, this is part of my scent,” he said. “The golden syrup reminds me of treacle tart." He looked thoughtful then, tracing the edge of the cooling tin with his finger. “What actually defines a person’s scent, Newt? I mean, how do we develop scents we like? Why do some alphas smell like pine forests or thunderstorms, and others like… coffee or parchment?”

Newt set his half-eaten slice down, wiping a crumb from his thumb. His eyes were soft, amber-brown in the glow of the oven fire. “That’s a very good question,” he said, voice warm with approval. “A person’s scent is… well, part magic, part biology. It’s shaped by our emotions, our health, our elemental affinity, even our heritage. But for wizards and witches, it’s what our magic finds safe and comforting.”

“Comforting?” Harry echoed, brow furrowing.

“Mhm.” Newt nodded, leaning one elbow on the table. “For instance, I smell faintly of rain on grass because I’ve always been happiest out in the world, with the creatures, under the open sky. My scent settled when I was fifteen — just after I found my first herd of Mooncalves. I remember it clearly.”

Harry smiled faintly at that image, fingers absently brushing the chain at his neck. “So it’s what makes you feel safe that becomes what you smell like.”

“Exactly.”

Harry went quiet, considering. 

“I suppose that makes sense then,” he said softly. “Golden syrup and treacle tart were… the first things I ever baked in a place I called home. Even if I didn’t truly have a home.” He glanced up at Newt, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Guess my magic just decided that’s what safety feels like.”

Newt’s expression softened. He reached out, brushing his fingers gently along Harry’s wrist, right where his scent gland pulsed faintly. “That’s a beautiful thing, Harry. Your scent’s warm, and bright, and comforting.”

Harry’s cheeks flushed. “Do alphas like certain scents more?”

“Some do,” Newt said thoughtfully. “It’s instinctive, I think. Scents that soothe or balance them. Omegas tend to like grounding scents — wood, smoke, spice — things that make them feel secure. Alphas often like sweetness, or lightness, something that draws them in.”

Harry tilted his head. “So… you like sweetness?”

Newt blinked at him, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I like your sweetness.”

He snorted, trying to cover the heat in his cheeks. “You’re worse than Majesty.”

Newt chuckled softly, reaching over to tuck a stray strand of hair behind Harry’s ear. “You asked.”

Harry swatted him lightly with a floury hand, laughing — but his chest felt light, his heart thrumming with something that felt like wonder. 

His heart was pounding so loudly he was sure Newt could hear it. The spoon had still been warm from the filling when he’d lifted it to Newt’s mouth, and the movement had felt so natural—just two people sharing something sweet. But the second Newt’s lips closed around the bite, the world had gone still.

Neither of them had thought; they’d just done.

Now Harry’s ears were scarlet, his hand frozen mid-air as though it still held the spoon. Newt blinked, startled but soft-eyed, a faint dusting of pink blooming across his cheeks.

Harry was the first to break the silence, stammering like mad. “Ahem, right, well—I’d better, erm—find something to package these in. Can’t exactly carry three tarts in my arms, can I? That would be… ridiculous. Maybe there’s ribbon somewhere. Or string. Do wizards even use string?”

“Harry—”

“I mean, I am an idiot, who forgets the packaging—”

“Harry,” Newt said again, a little firmer this time, though the warmth in his voice stayed gentle.

Harry stopped rambling, staring hard at the table. “I didn’t mean to- I mean, I didn’t think—”

“I know,” Newt interrupted softly. He set his fork down, the clink barely audible in the quiet kitchen. “Neither did I.”

That somehow made it worse—no, better—and Harry wasn’t sure which was more terrifying. He turned slightly, shoulders tense, cloak slipping from one arm.

“You don’t have to apologise for being kind, Harry. Sometimes, connection just… happens. Even when you don’t mean it to.”

Harry swallowed. His throat felt too tight, and his pulse too fast. “It was… forward. Wasn’t it?”

Newt gave a small smile, eyes crinkling. “Maybe. But it was also lovely.”

He covered his face with one hand, groaning softly. “Please stop being sweet, I’m already embarrassed enough.”

“Can’t promise that,” Newt said, voice teasing now, and Harry felt that dangerous flutter of affection again.

“Honestly, you’re impossible,” Harry muttered, but his tone had softened too. He turned back to the table, flicking crumbs off the edge. “How would I even deliver these? The ministry’s not exactly equipped for baked-goods delivery.”

Newt chuckled quietly. “You could owl them. Or let me help you. I could drop one off with my family on my way home. I’m sure my mother would adore you forever if you fed her treacle tart.”

Harry smiled faintly, fiddling with the silver chain at his throat. “She doesn't adore me.”

“She’ll adore you more,” Newt said, and there was that soft gleam again — something fond, reverent even, that made Harry’s stomach twist in the most confusing way.

He huffed, giving up on hiding the blush that was spreading again. “Fine. You can deliver one. But if your mother starts asking when the wedding is, that’s on you.”

Newt laughed, a real, full sound that filled the kitchen like sunlight, and Harry’s chest loosened.  “Deal,” he said at last.

Harry smiled back, shy but honest. “Deal.”

The question to Snip, the head chef, had been simple enough—“Do you have anything I can put these in?”—and within moments, the little elf had produced an assortment of perfectly sized boxes, each charmed against spills and sealed with neat green ribbons that shimmered faintly with stasis charms.

It should have been easy from there. Except Harry’s plan to owl the parcels fell apart the second he realised. And the trauma of seeing Hedwig die was still there.

He froze mid-motion, tart box in hand. “Absolutely not using owls,” he muttered.

“Harry, they’re perfectly capable—” Newt began, adjusting his satchel.

“They’re tiny, Newt. Their poor little feet will get pulled right off if they try to lift these.”

“Feather-light charms, Harry. That’s what they’re for.”

“Nope.” Harry crossed his arms, expression set. “They’ll still feel the weight when they take off. I’m not sending my tarts or any owls to their doom, thank you.”

Newt, caught between amusement and awe, blinked. “You do realise these owls routinely carry parcels far heavier than that?”

“I don’t care,” Harry said, and his voice softened into something childishly firm. “Not mine.”

And that was that. Harry’s word was law. 

Sighing but secretly endeared, Newt didn’t push further. Instead, they packed the tarts neatly together.

When it came time to part ways, they found themselves by the Floo, the soft glow of the flames reflecting in Newt’s hair. Harry held the last box in both hands, the scent of treacle and butter warm between them.

“Well,” Harry said, a little too brightly, “one for your family, one for Sirius’s, one for mine. I’m rather proud of us, actually.”

“Us?” Newt teased. “I was only stirring and making bread crumbs.”

“That’s participation,” Harry said, smirking slightly.

He hesitated, the easy air faltering for a breath. Newt had leaned in to take the box from him, and suddenly they were close—close enough that Harry could see each freckle, close enough that the scent of petrichor and honey oak wrapped around him.

Without thinking, Harry shifted up onto his toes. He was aiming for Newt’s cheek, maybe, but he misjudged—he wasn’t tall enough. His lips brushed just under Newt’s chin before he froze, flustered beyond words.

Newt’s laugh was low and warm, and it only made Harry’s blush deepen. “You missed, just a bit.”

Harry glared half-heartedly and gave his arm a light swat. “You could bend down, you know.”

“I was enjoying the view,” he said softly, bending anyway so that Harry could press a quick, shy kiss to his cheek this time.

Harry huffed, pretending to scowl but unable to hide the smile tugging at his lips. “You’re terrible.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

Still muttering under his breath, Harry shoved the parcel into Newt’s arms—careful, reverent, even with his embarrassment burning bright. The tart box shimmered faintly with a warming and preservative charm. “There. Now it’ll stay fresh for three days at least. Don’t drop it.”

Newt’s grin was wide and boyish. “I’ll guard it with my life.”

“You’d better.”

Harry lingered as Newt stepped toward the hearth, the emerald flames dancing higher. He wanted to say something else—thank you, maybe, or come back soon—but the words tangled somewhere between his chest and throat.

Instead, he just watched as Newt threw the powder into the fire, the green light flaring around him.

“See you soon, Harry,” Newt said, voice gentle before he vanished into the flames.

Harry stood there a moment longer, his heart beating far too fast.

He sighed, brushing a bit of flour from his sleeve. “Screw Isla,” he murmured with a grin. “She won’t even notice I’m gone.” He said as he gathered the remaining parcels and stepped into the fireplace.

Harry stumbled out of the Floo, coughing on ash and blinking through the faint haze that always seemed to linger in Grimmauld’s kitchen. He still hadn’t mastered graceful landings, but he’d managed to keep both packages upright—which, considering his track record, was practically a miracle.

Lycoris Black, who had been halfway through a cup of tea and a book by the window, nearly spilled both at the sight of the unexpected visitor. “Harry! Why are you here?”

Harry beamed, cheeks dusted with soot and curls slightly singed at the tips. “I—er—made your family something.”

Lycoris blinked, setting his cup down slowly. “You… made something? As in, with your own hands? Not ordered the elves?”

“Yes, me!” He said proudly, brushing his cloak off and placing the parcel on the counter with a flourish. “Treacle tart. Proper treacle tart, too. I made it myself.”

That earned a stare, half disbelief, half affection. “You baked?”

“I did,” Harry said firmly, crossing his arms. “My suitor helped me.”

Lycoris’ eyebrows rose so fast it was a wonder they didn’t hit his hairline. “Your suitor? Merlin, you’ve been busy.”

Harry flushed. “It’s not like that—well, I mean, it is, but not—ugh, never mind! The point is, I wanted you and your family to have this.” He pushed the parcel forward, the charm-warmed box giving off the faintest scent of golden syrup and butter. “Treacle tart."

Lycoris leaned closer, breathing in. “You made this yourself?”

Harry nodded earnestly. “Three large ones and one small. This one’s yours. I really can’t stay long—Isla’s probably already noticed I’ve vanished off the tracking map, and if she sees I’ve been using the Floo for baking deliveries, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re impossible, Lord Peverell.”

Harry’s grin turned sheepish. “Maybe. But you’ll like it, I promise. It’s the best I’ve ever made. My suitor—Newt—helped with the mixing.”

“Newton Scamander, right?”

Harry went bright pink again. “…Yes.”

Lycoris smirked. “Then it’s probably made with love and mild chaos.”

“That’s… not inaccurate,” Harry admitted with a laugh, tucking a curl behind his ear. He glanced toward the fireplace, already glimmering faintly green again. “I really do have to go before I’m arrested by my minder for ‘reckless baking escapades.’”

Lycoris snorted. “You sure are a menace. Regulus guessed so, I didn't believe it."

“I’m efficient,” Harry said with mock offence. “I made sure to charm it so it stays warm. Tell your father I said hi... and that I’m not sorry.”

He tilted his head. “Not sorry for what?”

Harry had already stepped into the Floo, holding the last parcel close. “For being me!” he called, tossing in the powder.

The flames flared, and in a swirl of green, Harry vanished again—leaving behind the scent of smoke, treacle, and something bright that made Lycoris smile.

He looked at the package on the counter, the neat handwriting on the tag reading For the Black Family — from Harry.

Lycoris chuckled under his breath. “You’ve got a soft heart, Peverell.”

Then he opened the box, and the room filled with the scent of pastry and faintly Harry.

Harry stood frozen in the grand entrance hall of Potter Manor, treacle tart parcel clutched close to his chest like a shield. 

The fireplace behind him crackled as if to remind him that he could still leave, still retreat to somewhere smaller, safer, less full of ghosts.

He’d come with good intentions but now that he was here, the warmth of his actions seemed too meagre a thing, too simple for what it was meant to say. Thank you for being kind to me. 

He didn’t even know why he thought treacle tart would say that. Maybe it was just because it was his—his favourite, his comfort, his scent. Maybe he hoped that in some strange, invisible way, it would feel familiar to them too. Maybe it was a Potter thing, passed down somehow. But Harry didn’t know; he’d never had the chance to ask anyone what Potters liked.

He placed the parcel down carefully on the nearest polished table, meaning to leave it there, but then his gaze caught.

A vase of flowers sat in the centre of the table. Nothing special to anyone else, but Harry knew them. He’d bought them for Heather, for Charlus’s birthday, because he wanted to give the mother of the toddler something too and flowers felt safe. 

And now they were wilted slightly at the edges, but still there, still alive.

Something in Harry cracked. His throat tightened as if a hand had gently closed around it, not cruelly—just enough to remind him he was still fragile. His eyes stung, and he tried to blink it away, but his vision blurred anyway.

He was so tired of not belonging anywhere.

He was so tired of pretending he didn’t care.

He sniffed once, hard, pressing a palm against his eye like he could shove the feeling back in. But it was too late; his shoulders trembled, and he stood there like a lost boy clutching a box of tart, trying not to sob in someone else’s beautiful manor.

“Harry?”

The voice was soft, hesitant, and it made Harry jolt slightly.

He turned, wide-eyed and blinking, to see Henry standing just beyond the archway, his expression somewhere between surprise and concern. His gaze flicked from the table to Harry, then to the faint shimmer of tears in Harry’s eyes.

The wards must have told him someone had entered, Harry realised distantly. He should’ve owled.

He tried to smile, but it wobbled. “I- uh- sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

Henry frowned gently and came closer, careful, like one might approach a wounded bird. “You’re not intruding, Harry. You’re family.”

That word. Family.

Harry’s breath hitched, a soft, broken sound. He looked at the flowers again, then at the treacle tart box. “I- made this,” he said shakily. “For you all. As a thank you. I thought… I don’t know what I thought.”

Henry stopped beside him, glancing down at the box with its faint charm-glow and the neat handwriting on top. Then he looked back up at Harry, whose cheeks were damp now.

“You thought right,” Henry said quietly. “You thought we’d love it.”

Harry laughed weakly through the tears. “M-maybe. I wasn’t sure if Potters even like treacle tart.”

Henry smiled, faintly nostalgic. “It’s actually a bit of a family favourite. Fleamont loved it. I do too. It’s... well, it’s the sort of thing that disappears at the table before the main course even begins.”

Harry’s lips trembled, but his smile grew a little steadier. “Oh. That’s… good. I didn’t know that.”

“Now you do,” Henry said, and reached out—slowly, giving Harry time to flinch away if he wanted—but Harry didn’t. He stood still, and when Henry rested a warm hand on his shoulder, he leaned in slightly, like a plant seeking light. “You really don’t have to do all this to be part of us,” he murmured. “You already are by blood."

Harry let out a shaky breath. “It just… feels like I need to earn it.”

Henry’s heart clenched. He rubbed Harry’s shoulder gently. “You don’t.”

He nodded, biting his lip. “I- um- I should probably go before Isla tracks me down. She’ll think I’ve started a rebellion or something.”

Henry chuckled softly. “You? Never.”

That earned him a watery laugh. Harry sniffed, wiped his cheek with his sleeve, and smiled properly this time. “Right. Well. Enjoy the tart.”

Henry nodded, still watching him with that gentle, patient expression. “We will, Harry. And thank you.”

As Harry stepped back into the Floo, green flames flaring up around him, Henry looked at the small package again—and the flowers still sitting quietly beside it.

It struck him then that Harry’s need to give was never about the gifts themselves. It was about being seen, about offering a piece of himself, hoping someone might take it and say, yes, you belong here too.

Henry reached out, touching the flowers that made his cousin Heather gush over lightly. “He does,” he murmured to the quiet room. “He does belong.”

He grabbed the parcel and ran through the long, polished halls of Potter Manor, shoes echoing softly against the stone floors, heart pounding with a mixture of excitement and pride. It had been decades since he had felt such a burst of pure joy, and he could hardly wait to show his family that Harry cared. The golden syrup scent, faintly leaking from the carefully wrapped tart, danced through the air, making his stomach rumble with anticipation.

Bursting into the smaller dining room, he nearly tripped over a rug in his haste. “Clarissa!!” he bellowed, his voice carrying more than a hint of theatricality, and even Fleamont looked up from the neat piles of job applications he had been sorting with wide, startled eyes.

Clarissa’s quill paused mid-air, her expression one of confusion mingled with amusement. “Henry, what on earth—?”

He hardly heard her. He was practically vibrating with glee as he waved the parcel in the air. “Darling! Look! Isn’t Harry cute!”

Fleamont blinked at him, slack-jawed. “Father, that’s a parcel, not Harry.” He rubbed his eyes as if Henry had suddenly become unhinged, but then the golden syrup scent hit him in full force. His drooling expression melted into delight. “Wait… is that…?"

Henry’s grin widened like a sunrise. “Yes! Not just any, mind you. Harry made it himself! Came all the way here, insisted on leaving it for us. Said he couldn’t stay long because Isla would hunt him down otherwise, but he wanted to make sure we knew he cared.” He set the parcel reverently on the table, as if he were placing a crown jewel before the family. “When Heather, Tobias, and little Charlus come back from their mediwitch check-up, we can share this for afternoon tea!”

His wife blinked, her hands pausing as she straightened her posture, quill still in hand. “Slow down, Henry… what is it?”

Fleamont leaned forward, sniffing the air like a curious animal, eyes widening. “Mother, do you not smell it? It’s… it’s treacle tart! Golden syrup, pastry, butter… oh Morgana!” His grin was wide and loopy, completely taken over by the scent.

Henry nodded proudly, almost bouncing on his heels. “And it’s handmade! From Harry himself!"

Clarissa raised an eyebrow, suppressing the hint of a smile. “Honestly, Henry, you’re a grown man. Lord of the house, an alpha… and you’re going soppy over treacle tart?”

“Soppy? Soppy?! This isn’t soppy, Clarissa, this is pride! Pride in a young omega lord who has faced more in his short life than most would know. And—” he paused, leaning in to sniff the parcel again, inhaling the warm, sugary aroma deeply, “—honestly, it smells divine!”

Fleamont reached out a finger as if to poke the tart through its packaging, and Henry swatted it away.

“No, no! That is sacred property until we serve it properly with tea. Harry’s efforts deserve reverence!”

Clarissa chuckled softly, the warmth of the moment seeping into her voice. “Well, I suppose we’ll need to prepare for our afternoon tea in a way that honors this masterpiece, then.” She gestured at the tart. “Henry, do you intend to guard it with your life until the others arrive?”

“Guard it? Absolutely. I shall protect this tart as fiercely as I would any of our own family treasures.” His grin widened further, gleaming like sunlight over polished armor.