Stuck

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/6955051.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Category: M/M
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Characters: Ginny Weasley, Pansy Parkinson, Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Hermione
Granger, Ron Weasley, Blaise Zabini
Additional Tags: Eventual Smut, Alternate Universe, Werewolves, Mates, Werewolf
Mates, Dirty Talk, Shameless Smut, College, Ginny Weasley Bashing,
Snarky Draco Malfoy, Sexual Tension, Knotting, Alpha/Beta/Omega
Dynamics, Alpha Harry Potter, Omega Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter is
Obsessed with Draco Malfoy, Possessive Draco Malfoy, They're just
obsessed with each other guys, as they should be, Bad Parent Lucius
Malfoy, Although bad parents doesn't really cover it, BAMF Hermione
Granger, Sassy Pansy Parkinson, Attempted Sexual Assault, Kidnapping,
but everything works out okay
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2016-05-24 Completed: 2025-03-31 Words: 43,138 Chapters:
20/20
 Stuck
by aidaninkling

Summary

Draco Malfoy lives a simple life. Go to college, throw some snark at resident golden boy
Harry Potter and his posse, judge the remainder of the living population with Pansy, go home,
jack off to aforementioned golden boy in the shower, crawl into bed with a book and a cup of
tea. Rinse and repeat.

Until he and Potter get stuck in a closet together, and things get a whole lot less simple.

Really quickly.

Notes

Guys so I rewrote a fair bit of this. If you read anything prior to chapter 15, specifically
chapters 1 - 5, before the end of Oct 2024, please give it a reread. It’s different now. Not
much, but somewhat. Onwards!
 Chapter 1

Stuck in a closet. Draco was stuck in a closet.

That, in and of itself, was not that distressing. He had a smutty novel tucked away in his bag,
and there was enough light filtering in through the crack beneath the door that he could
probably make out most of the words if he squinted. If anything, Draco had always had a bit
of a habit of seeking out enclosed, quiet spaces, and were it not for the problem, Draco might
have gotten quite comfortable, waiting for classes to end so he could make his plight known
to students passing in the hallway.

No, the closet was not the problem.

The problem was the fact that Draco was stuck in said closet with Harry James Potter.

A sneeze echoed through the tiny space and Draco rolled his eyes. It seemed the other man
could not even respect Draco’s inner monologue.

“Do you mind?” Draco drawled, not bothering to turn to look at him. Potter was practically
standing on top of him, anyway.

“Do I mind?” Harry bit back, a vague blob of restless energy in the darkness looming over
Draco, where he was seated cross-legged on the floor. “I’m not the one doing nothing to get
us out of this fucking place.”

Draco sighed, doing his best to sound bored. He was bored, but maybe he was also trying to
rile Potter up, just a bit. “We’ve been over this, Potter. We are in a closet. It is locked from
the outside. Neither you nor I seem to be skilled in the art of breaking and entering – or
exiting, in this case – so we remain, as before, in a closet. Until someone lets us out.”

“Can’t you call someone?” Harry grit out, like it physically pained him to have to ask Draco
something, rather than just – order him around, probably.

Draco tugged his phone out of his bag, but a quick glance at the screen confirmed what he
already knew. He had messaged Pansy twenty minutes ago, when they had first found
themselves thusly incarcerated, but it seemed she was finally taking threats of academic
exclusion to heart and actually putting her phone off during class.

No blue ticks in sight. Draco sighed, again, letting his phone drop into his lap.

What a truly horrendous time for his best friend to start taking her future seriously.

“Alas, no,” he drawled. Potter sighed as well, much too loudly, and Draco’s tone turned
snippy despite his better judgement. Really shouldn’t be starting fights in confined spaces. “I
don’t see you getting us out of here, either.”

“I don’t have my phone,” Potter growled, and Draco promptly shut up at that tone.
Silence reigned again, and Draco resumed his staring into the darkness. The closet was about
a square metre in size, if that, and despite not being able to make out more than vague shapes
for the most part, especially after temporarily blinding himself, he was acutely aware of
Potter standing over him. Draco shifted surreptitiously – the closet floor was cold, and his
butt was starting to go to sleep, but even with Potter not taking up the majority of the space in
their little prison, he wouldn’t have been able to stretch his legs out anyway.

Draco stifled the urge to sigh.

They had settled into a comfortable routine over the past couple of years; Potter and he. He
remembered their first meeting vividly, but how it had evolved into this was a blur of tense
exchanges, snide remarks and ham-fisted insults, and – at least on Draco’s part – a handful of
disappointing drunken snogging sessions with random dark-haired blokes that he chose not to
analyze too closely. However it might’ve started, they had a routine now, and Draco could
only blame a very clear break in said routine for their current predicament.

Every late-morning, Monday to Friday, Harry – captain of the varsity soccer team and
resident Golden Boy – would strut into their shared philosophy class, surrounded by a pack
of followers. Draco would call them friends , but he doubted the socio-economic bonds of the
upper echelon of the student body could be likened to friendship. It seemed all the more
likely that they were a clique brought together by beauty and Daddy’s oodles of cash; out to
benefit as much as humanly possible from one another without actually being human at any
given point.

Draco really had no idea why any of them were even in the class. He, himself, was a physics
major, but had always taken an interest in the arcane, and philosophy seemed about as close
an elective as he was going to find. Potter was doing some humanities degree, sure, and he
assumed the rest just… followed. Somehow, despite being in different faculties, they had
managed to share at least one class every year since they started at the university together,
and their final year of undergrad was no exception.

Upon arrival, milliseconds before the start of class, usually, the posse would make their way
to the back of the room, high-fiving familiar faces and being generally jolly – urgh . The very
thought had Draco wrinkling his nose. Until they reached him, in his usual aisle seat, nose in
a book (not the smutty one – this one a second, very civilized and intellectual book, that he
kept on hand specially for such occasions, not that anyone had to know that.)

“Why, if it isn’t Draco.” That was Ginnerva Weasley, usually, in one of two poses: claws
latched onto her hips, or claws latched onto Potter’s bicep.

Draco wouldn’t look up, both because Potter always seemed all the more worked up when he
didn’t look at him, and also so he wouldn’t be tempted to rip the orange monstrosity from
Weasley’s scalp. That was probably grounds for expulsion. He hadn’t read the student’s code
of conduct in a while, but it seemed likely.

“Imagine that.”

He could practically hear her enraged snarl.

“Listen here, you little freak, I don’t know what you think you’re doing –”

“Reading. But, then again, I can’t say I’m surprised that you’re unfamiliar with the act.”

A cacophony of shrieking followed, and it inevitably devolved from there.

Routine. Comfortable. Predictable.

Except that morning, Draco was late.

Except that morning, he turned off his alarm instead of snoozing it and woke up two hours
later having missed his first one and a half classes already.

Except that morning, he barely had time to pull a half-decent ensemble over his head before
running out the door but knew he wouldn’t make it through the day without a hit of caffeine
so stopped at the coffee cart for a take-away latte anyway.

Except that morning, as he rushed down the corridor towards philosophy, Potter and his crew
were just sauntering up to the door themselves, heads turning as they heard the hurried
footsteps coming up behind them.

Except that morning, he really needed to get into that class before roll-call and make sure he
kept what was left of his attendance record in order, and not get distracted.

Except that morning, like a dumbass, he couldn’t resist.

“Honestly, Potter, we must stop meeting like this or your groupies are going to start thinking
you fancy me,” Draco drawled as he strolled past him, and he had just enough time to throw
Potter a cheeky wink before the other man grabbed him by the collar and slammed him
against the wall.

Now don’t get him wrong.

It wasn’t that Draco didn’t think Potter was attractive. It wasn’t even that Draco hadn’t jerked
off to a fantasy of the pack leader in various stages of undress two or three times. It was just
that it didn’t matter.

Their circles would just never meet, in any way other than this fucked up mess.

Well – almost never.

Draco hit the wall harder than he expected, thanking his lucky stars that Potter’s hand – the
one not wrapped in the front of his pullover – had hit the wall palm-first before Draco’s skull
did, cushioning a potential head injury.

His moan was no less pained at the sight of his iced latte all over the floor, however.

Potter let him go so quickly one would swear he’d been burnt, and Draco’s mood, impossibly,
worsened.
“My coffee!” Draco moaned, again, wondering whether the code of conduct said anything
about murder as Ginny started cackling.

“Have fun cleaning that up, little loser,” Ginny sing-songed, and Draco could manage little
more than an urgh as he lamented his attendance record and turned to hunt down a janitor’s
closet.
 Chapter 2
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Draco was fairly certain Potter was having a panic attack.

“…Are you having a panic attack?”

“I – do not – have panic attacks.”

Draco raised a well-trained eyebrow in the general direction of the stunted denial, and tried –
for once – to not be a total menace.

“I must be imagining the sounds of hyperventilation, then.”

Oh dear. Mission failed.

“Fuck off,” Potter growled, but it sounded a bit pathetic all round, so Draco felt a bit bad and
tried again.

“Look, what if I just…”

He trailed off, somewhat lost for words, and ideas. He unlocked his phone; turned on the
torch but kept it trained on the floor. He had hoped it might make Potter feel a bit better if he
could see, but the other man’s eyes were closed where he was leaning heavily on the wall to
Draco’s left, knuckles white. Draco felt his keen sense of self-preservation perk up – never let
it be said that Draco Malfoy was unfamiliar with the early signs of an impending mental
meltdown – so he propped his phone up in a small tin bucket on the bottom shelf to his right,
facing the wall so it cast a dim glow across the space.

He decided he really liked to be able to see, after all.

Potter peered at him through slitted eyelids and snorted, like he was going to say something,
but did something that sounded painfully like he was completely deflating his lungs before
turning to lean both palms on the wall next to him instead. Which, due to the aforementioned
complete lack of space in their temporary prison, left Draco with an eyeful of jean-clad ass a
scant three inches from his face.

Great.

No, really. It was a fantastic ass.

Potter should’ve been completely unappealing. Attractive, yeah, but honestly nothing special.
Sure, he had muscles on his muscles; statuesque abs atop that V on either side of the trail of
dark hair that led down past the waistband of his shorts – the trail that just begged Draco’s
eyes to follow it the one day in the locker room when Draco had stayed late to get some extra
laps in before the swimming meet the next day, and Harry had just finished soccer practice
and the sweat was still clinging to him as he pulled his shirt over his head; the one that was
always just snug enough around his biceps –

Yes. Like he was saying, Potter should’ve been completely unappealing. Draco was more
skinny-jeans and vintage sweater vests. He wore his white-blonde hair long, grazing his
jawline in artful layers, carefully styled to look like he’d run his hands through it that
morning after a quickie in the shower and it just decided to stay that way. Draco had learnt
that it takes a heck of a lot of effort to look like you don’t care – Potter, on the other
hand, that wasn’t careful carelessness, his hair was just a honest-to-God mess, a pitch black
crow’s nest above his head that Draco just itched to run his fingers through while he lost
himself in eyes so green he swore they were the colour of –

UNAPPEALING. COMPLETELY. FOCUS.

Potter was an idiot, for one. Oh yeah, skimming by on an arts degree in classics or something
(Draco didn’t care, why would he?) that the man probably didn’t even study for because he
got handed A’s just so the college could keep him on their soccer field with a sports
scholarship that he didn’t even need because everyone knew Potter was loaded unlike a
certain blonde who actually had to work his pert ass off to stay in class–

“What are you doing?”

Draco slowly released his death grip on his bag – it was making a rather distressing
crunching sound – and schooled his expression neutral.

“Nothing. How’s the panic attack?”

Potter exhaled heavily. “Fuck you, Malfoy.”

“Yeah, I’m sure that would just make your day.”

The laugh Potter loosed at that echoed through the closet, and it grated Draco in a way he was
distinctly uncomfortable with.

“What,” Draco grit out, not really a question.

“Nothing,” Potter breathed, still facing the wall, and Draco wanted to scream that he couldn’t
see the other man’s expression.

Catching himself, Draco drew a deep breath, and schooled his voice apathetic.

“Listen, Potter, I know we don’t like one another, but it would really make the next thirty to
forty-five minutes a touch more bearable if we just–”

“I don’t dislike you,” Potter said, suddenly, and Draco stuttered a very undignified what
before he could think about it.

“I don’t dislike you,” Potter repeated, and Draco’s brain went entirely quiet before – “I don’t
feel anything about you.”
Oh.

Draco’s throat spasmed against his will, and the floor was suddenly unbearably cold.

“Well I very much dislike you, Potter,” Draco sneered, and felt five years old.

“You don’t know me, you don’t know anything about me,” Potter breathed, and were Draco
of clearer mind, it might have struck him that Potter didn’t say that in a way that sounded like
a defence.

“I know enough,” Draco snipped, and Potter shook his head where it hung.

“I swear if this whole thing was some ploy to –” Potter started, and Draco snapped, jumping
to his feet, suddenly very close to Potter, but –

“You’re the one that followed me in here! If anyone’s the one that–”

“I’m sure in your fucked up reality that makes sense, but–”

“Excuse me? I’ve got a fucked up reality?!”

It was important to note that Draco Malfoy hadn’t lost his temper in public in a long time.
Cool and collected was his modus operandi.

Even in his altercations with Potter and his crowd, he always came out of top – yeah, maybe
he'd got a couple bruises out of it, both physical and emotional, but he was never the one left
flushed and panting – no, that was Potter. Potter lost his cool. Draco Malfoy sowed chaos and
sat back to watch as the world fell apart.

Draco Malfoy did not fall apart.

“At least I’ve bloody well come to grips with my reality instead of strutting around like some
repressed gym junkie with too much of everything who can’t admit what he really fucking
wants!”

Well, Draco Malfoy never used to fall apart.

"You want me to believe you’ve never looked at another man and thought about his lips
around your cock? Never imagined what it would be like to grip his hair and ram yourself
down his throat?” Draco growled, and Potter looked up sharply, eyebrows drawn together as
something low and menacing rumbled through the other man’s chest. Draco’s heart rate
kicked up a notch and he still didn’t really know what he was doing but suddenly he felt
powerful and alive in a way he hadn't felt in a long time and he just couldn’t shut up.

“I bet you have thought about it. About sliding your cock into a tight ass–” Potter’s gaze
dropped, then, watching Draco’s lips form the words, and Draco hoped the other man didn’t
hear the stutter in his breath at that – “I’m sure Ginny’s way too pretty to let you do that to
her. It’s all vanilla with that one, isn’t it? White picket fence just around the corner, Golden
Boy."
 Suddenly Draco's back hit wood and Potter was gripping him just below his throat. It
wasn't hard enough to constrict but enough to let him know that Potter could really hurt him
if he wanted, and it was not okay that that was the thought that kicked Draco's heartbeat into
an even higher gear, but Draco was so far past okay.

Draco laughed, and it sounded strange even to his own ears but he was on a high and he
wanted Potter to– just–

"But that isn’t what you want. You want to fuck. You want someone who can take it, take
everything you give them.”

Draco was feeling like the one with the panic attack now, his breathing hard, and even as
Potter loomed over him Draco couldn’t shut up. His voice dropped so low he doubted Potter
would be able to hear it were he not a mere inch or two from his lips.

“And you want to give it all, don’t you?”

The air was deathly still in the small space aside from the harsh sound of their breathing and
Draco knew he was probably about to get decked, with the way that Potter was looking at
him; his eyes hard and his jaw locked and so, so close but Draco wanted to– he wanted to–
Draco wanted.

“Even if you had me,” Draco breathed, “You wouldn’t know what to do with me.”

Chapter End Notes

Sorry if I made it sound like arts degrees are worth less than other degrees (They're not!
I know that! But Draco's a bit of an intellectual snob and hates Harry and thinks he's
slacking so...)
 Chapter 3

When Ronald Weasley yanked open the janitor closet door, two things happened.

One, Draco was immediately – and he feared, for a moment, permanently – blinded.

Two, Potter let go of him so quickly (again) that Draco lost his balance and stumbled straight
into him, earning himself a face full of t-shirt.

Seemingly despite himself, Potter caught him, and Draco got to enjoy about six seconds of
sturdy hands on his waist and a very nice smelling cushion before his sense of sight (and
decorum) returned.

Weasley, for his part, was doing his best impression of a deer in headlights.

So Draco did the mature thing: he grabbed his bag, and ran.

Metaphorically. Really he just walked away really, really quickly.

Were Draco not blowing steam from every available orifice, he might have taken the time to
thank a random deity for the fact that he didn’t have to stand around in a locked closet in
awkward silence following his fantastically explicit little speech. Every time he replayed it,
however, he felt heat creep up the back of his neck and couldn’t seem to get quite enough
oxygen.

“Where the fuck were you?”

Draco plonked down next to the black-haired girl he used to consider his partner in crime,
slamming his lunch tray down with enough force to spill overly milky coffee into his chicken
salad. As much as he had wanted to go home and hide under three duvets until the sun started
its slow death and sucked the earth into a fiery end, he had just made it to his last class. He
really couldn't afford to keep skipping.

“Oh, here and there, you know me,” Pansy sang, throwing a casual wink in Draco’s direction
before she got a proper look at him and sat up a little straighter. “What the hell happened to
you?”

“Harry fucking Potter happened– No, stop looking at me like that, you whore,” Draco
snapped at her raised eyebrow.

“Well how am I supposed to look at my best friend–”

“Like fuck–”

“My best friend when he just waltzes into lunch looking like he got ravished behind the–”

“Malfoy.”
And Draco died. There just seemed to be no alternative response to the right hand man of the
person whose ears you just molested walking up to you in a crowded cafeteria to have it out
over your earlier transgressions.

“Weasley, a pleasure, as always,” Pansy drawled, picking up Draco’s slack effortlessly as he

stared at the table in silent horror. The game of social apathy was one they’d played side-by-
side since middle school, and they were like a well-oiled machine by now. Pansy would never
let his slip go noticed by the unwashed masses, no matter how curious she herself was to
have it out in the open.

“Parkinson,” Ron replied, not altogether unkindly, just rather uninterested. He had his target,
and if there’s one thing you could bet your life on, it was that Ronald Weasley was like a dog
with a bone. “I’m here for Malfoy.”

“Why, I’m so much more fun,” Pansy purred, popping a grape into her mouth, and Draco
could practically hear her trademark wink.

“What– No, I–” Weasley sputtered, and Draco had to keep from physically slapping himself
before raising his head nonchalantly and casting a side-ways glance at the jock looming over
them. He was Draco fucking Malfoy, and he was not going to have Pansy fight his battles for
him while he stared dumbly at linoleum.

“Weasel, come to lower the IQ of the room, I see. State your case so we may continue our
meal unaccosted, won’t you?” he drawled, mentally high-fiving himself at how completely
unbothered he came across. He cast a stealthy glance at the cafeteria behind the hulking
ginger, spotting his group of prissy plastics and jocks gathered around a table a little while
away. Potter sat in the far corner, leaning heavily against the table as he drilled a hole through
a can of soda with his eyes. His attention seemed diverted, and Draco released a slow lungful
of air. Finally, he was catching a fucking break. They were going to have this conversation at
some point – best be now, while he can still play it off as a joke; a gag meant to pass the time
and fluster the golden boy. Then they could all move on and forget it even happened.

Damage control. He could do this.

“My case? I don't know what the fuck you were thinking when you–”

Draco waved one hand dismissively, the other clutching his fork as he stabbed a piece of
chicken maybe a little too violently. He could do this. “Well, Weasel, I’d wager there’s a lot
you don’t know, but Potter’s a big boy. I assure you it was meant in jest.”

There was a heartbeat of silence, and then Ron's voice did something interesting. “You think
locking Harry in a cupboard is a joke?”

Draco felt the hairs on the back of his neck prick up.

“What?”

“That's my line, mate,” Weasley quipped, and Draco was only ever “mate” when he was
about three point two seconds away from getting knocked out.
Oh well. It’d been fun.

Draco drew himself up out of his chair with all the composure he could muster, his hands
sliding into his pockets easily as he turned to face Weasley, who was now looking like a
rooster on parade, with his arms folded over his chest and his eyebrows drawn so tightly
together Draco wondered if he’d ever get rid of those frown lines.

“Again, Weasel,” Draco smirked (oh he was so screwed), “we seem to be faced with the
question of your ability to–”

“Ron. Let’s go.”

The command was spoken lowly, almost growled, yet it quieted the bustling cafeteria
immediately. Draco willed himself to keep his eyes trained on Weasley, his expression calm,
almost smug, but inside he was hyperventilating. Potter. Fuck.

Weasley narrowed his eyes at the blonde, his lips turning down at the corners, and it looked
for a moment like he was going to argue before he turned around and walked over to where
Potter and the hangers-on were making their way out. Potter stood in the doorway, watching
his best friend walk over before turning and following the others out.

Not once did he glance at Draco.

Pansy's low whistle broke through the haze in Draco's brain like a knife.

"You have got a heap of explaining to do, pretty boy."

Draco let out a slow breath and tried not to shatter all over the cafeteria floor.
 Chapter 4

Pansy had been laughing for two minutes straight when she finally quieted down enough to
draw a deep breath and Draco thought he might not have to kill her.

“You –” she managed, hugging her stomach as she tried to hold it together. “So you – you –”
she paused, pointing at the messages displayed on her (finally revived) phone, before her lips
twitched, and she was doubled over again in hysterics.

It really was a shame. Draco had enjoyed having her companionship over the years. He just
hoped there wasn’t too much blood to clean up afterwards.

“Hey, hey no, okay –” she sputtered, hands held up in surrender, “Stop making the murder
face. I’m sorry. Sorry. Okay.” She pulled in a long, dramatic breath. “I can do this.”

Draco considered it. “I’d really rather end you and the knowledge you unfortunately carry
with you.”

Pansy’s face split into a manic grin again and Draco leaned back against the concrete wall in
defeat. They had retreated to their usual hiding spot after the incident in the cafeteria; a
surprisingly sunny corner behind the microbiology building on the furthest side of campus. It
was their traditional rendezvous point for gossip sessions and shared cigarettes. Which wasn’t
that bad an idea, actually. He needed nicotine. And maybe a lobotomy.

Pansy slumped down on the ground next to Draco and pulled him down with her, stealing the
lit smoke from his fingers as he reached out to break his unexpected fall.

“Bitch.”

She took a drag and smiled to herself. “So Potter, huh?”

Draco frowned. “Not Potter, huh, don’t start that shit. It was a momentary lapse in
judgement.”

Pansy’s eyebrows nearly met her hairline, and Draco had the sudden urge to scratch at his
own scalp. He hadn’t even told her the whole story – kept the most mortifying bits of his
behaviour to himself, spinned a PG13 version which got to the gist of it – and yet. “Draco.
Honey. C’mon. You’ve been obsessed with the man since freshman year–”

“I am not obsessed,” Draco spat, snagging the cigarette and filling his lungs with smoke as if
it could erase the dirty taste of the word.

"Suuure, 'cause that creepy little dance you two do is totally healthy."

"Pansy. Fuck. The guys hates me, I hate him, we'll never get along and this conversation isn't
even happening, God, so just drop it. I don't even know why I told you."
They sat in silence for a while, each lost in thoughts and nicotine until Draco murmured
“Besides, he didn’t even look at me.” and Pansy had nothing to say to that.

“Are you going to see your mom this afternoon?” she asked, instead.

Draco’s lip curled despite himself.

“Draco. She misses you,” Pansy admonished, but her eyes were sad. “Should I come with
you? I haven’t heard the latest on her eternally amazing petunias in a while. I swear the damn
things are enchanted, seriously – your mother’s a witch.”

Draco’s lips twitched despite himself. “You’re insane.”

“It’s settled then! An afternoon at the delightful Malfoy Manor!” Pansy proclaimed, throwing
her hands in the air.

The not-so-affectionately nicknamed Malfoy Manor had seen better days. Draco’s family was
an obscenely old one, in the sense that their money had been passed down from feudal
relatives one was probably better off not mentioning in polite conversation, and their
bloodline preserved in rather unsavoury ways.

All in all, Draco really didn’t want to talk about it.

“Mrs Malfoy, so lovely to see you again!”

Narcissa Malfoy smiled demurely at Pansy’s enthusiastic greeting. She was seated in an
overstuffed chair upholstered in faded red suede, her hands folded neatly one over the other.
Her air was regal, which only served to make the whole situation that much more tragic.

See, it was rather important to note that the aforementioned stash of old Malfoy money
passed down from dodgy ancestors had recently been diminished. A lot.

Again, Draco didn’t want to talk about it.

“Pansy, you look well, dear,” she replied, standing to greet them. They had been shown into
the tea room by the only remaining servant in the house; the butler who was now so old that
Draco almost honestly expected him to simply disintegrate one day and blow off in the wind.
The ridiculous pseudo-Victorian mannerisms his parents chose to cling to along with the
crumbling family home was just one of the many things that had Draco rebelling in bad
language and a flat off campus that, while it had seen better days, was still mostly furnished
with IKEA wares not older than two decades.

Yet, he still found himself reverting to the overly posh ways of his parents when under
pressure or backed into a corner, and it made the visits all the more horrid, since try as he
might, he simply couldn’t bring himself to hate his mother and leave it all behind.

“Oh, Draco, darling,” she smiled, honestly this time, opening her arms to embrace him.
Draco tried not to notice how her hair was more gray than strictly fashionable and her eyes
looked just a little too bright to be put down to a youthful spirit.

Well, if there was one place in the world one was going to lose one's mind...

“Mother,” he greeted, leaning down for a kiss.

Narcissa pulled back sharply, her eyes suddenly focused and alarmed as she stared at Draco
and he could do nothing but stare back.

What the– "Mother?"

Pansy stepped forward, her hands reaching out as if to catch the woman if she suddenly fell,
but Narcissa blinked twice before kissing her son on the cheek with a yes, lovely, dear and
returning to her chair.

Draco felt his heart beating in his throat and steadfastly ignored the look he was getting from
Pansy.

"Sit down, darlings, please. Spencer will bring us tea, won't he," she said brightly, but the
little brass bell she used to call for their butler sat untouched on the coffee table. Pansy and
Draco took a seat opposite his mother and an unsettling silence filled the room as she seemed
to stare through her son for a moment too long before she focused again.

"So how are classes?"

Draco swallowed. “Alright, I’m maintaining the standard required by the scholarship board,
and–”

Narcissa was staring at the coffee table now, murmuring yes, yes, as he spoke. Her eyes
flitted over to the large wooden door hidden in the shadows of the far corner of the room, and
Draco felt his throat tighten.

“Draco’s always so modest, he was awarded three class medals at the end of last semester,”
Pansy piped up, as cheerfully as she could manage.

“Yes, well, he always was a smart boy, wasn’t he…” his mother trailed off, and Draco stood,
the hairs on the back of his neck suddenly standing on end.

“Mother, it’s been lovely seeing you again, but I have a late lecture that slipped my mind–”

And then Draco realised she wasn’t looking at him anymore, but at the shadowy corner
where that great wooden door had opened in Draco’s presence for the first time in four years.

“Draco." His father's voice carried through the room like an airborne disease, and Draco's
mind went blank. "A word."
 Chapter 5

Draco still remembered the day his father kicked him out like it was yesterday. The way he
stood in the doorway, his back rigid and his eyes ice cold, his voice even more so.

You’re no son of mine.

He had first come out as gay at 15, but that went over alright, all things considered. His father
wasn’t the type to yell, you see, oh no – way too fucking classy for honesty, the Malfoys. No,
instead it was pure contempt. Every waking hour that he spent in that house, his father told
him with his sneer, with his upturned nose and nasty jibes – You’re a Malfoy, Draco, your
duty is to your family and the continuation of the bloodline, and you go dallying with boys…
Have you no shame? No sense of responsibility? Look at me; I’m an old man and I’ve only
ever done what was expected of me and I’m fucking miserable, isn’t this what you want for
your life?!

Okay, so maybe his recollection was paraphrasing a bit. But he could live with that. He did
live with that. The constant expectation that this was just a phase and he’d have no choice but
to settle into his chosen role soon enough was one he could deal with from his father, but he
couldn’t deny it stung that his mother’s sad eyes held the same hope.

When he turned 18 and it became glaringly obvious he wasn’t going to be the man his father
always planned he would be, however, he was out on his arse faster than he could grab a coat.

And Draco was relieved.

He had wanted to leave then, just like he wanted to leave now, but now, just like then, it
wasn't his choice to make.

His father had been staring at him for about three minutes, if the tarnished brass clock on the
wall behind his father’s desk was to be believed, but Draco felt it must’ve been running slow.

Still, he waited. Finally, Lucius spoke.

“Draco.”

“Father.”

“Are you taking your medication?”

Draco felt a muscle in his jaw twitch. His medication. Like he’d really be stupid enough to
forget to take it and see his life unravel helplessly before his eyes. But he held his tongue. It
wasn't his choice to make. When his father asked questions in that tone of voice, he gave an
answer. And only an answer.

His hand wandered to his blazer pocket, feeling for the yellow canister of tablets, looking for
some small comfort, but clutched empty fabric instead.
Draco’s heartbeat was suddenly beating out triple-time and he hoped to hell his father didn’t
notice the way the annoyed twitch just became a nervous-fucking-panicked one.

Shit. This was NOT his day.

His father raised an eyebrow and Draco’s throat tightened further as he managed a “Yes,
Father.”

It wasn’t a lie, technically. He had been taking his medication. Every day, at a half past four,
his phone alarm blared his inadequacies at him and he popped a tab and pretended he was a
normal kid. Only, the brass clock must’ve been insulted at Draco’s silent doubt of its abilities
because it claimed it was now twenty past four and his tablets were not in his pocket.

Fuck fuck fuck. Okay. Think Draco. You can do this.

…Ask Father for more?

Yeah, you’re an idiot, shut up.

Lucius looked doubtful, and if he asked any more specifically it would be over for Draco, so
he grit his teeth against the urge to be quiet and muttered, “You know I have no choice.”

His father was quiet a moment, then with a hn he turned and Draco felt his chest lighten.

He was out the door before Pansy even realised he’d passed by them.

The locker room was cold and damp, the sun just peaking over the windows lining the top of
the bare walls. Draco ran a hand through his hair for what might’ve been the twentieth time
in six minutes; the amount of time it took him to haul ass back to campus. With the panic of
being late that morning, he must’ve forgotten to pop a small yellow canister in his pocket,
like he always did. Always. Yet he still kept a spare canister in his swim locker, despite never
having needed it. Until now. The university was closer to Malfoy Manor than his flat, and he
needed –

He needed it now.

Draco walked briskly through the locker room, fighting the urge to break into a jog, passing
rows of lockers, thankfully deserted at this hour – he was worried he was going to catch the
back end of the soccer crowd, but it appeared fate was finally giving him a break.

He yanked open his locker, catching a glimpse of his reflection in the small mirror attached to
the door. He looked like he felt; his hair was a mess, falling into his face, over his eyes that
were too wide, his cheeks too flushed. He felt out of breath, and suddenly he was really
thankful he hadn’t encountered anyone on the way in.

Only, Draco should’ve known better, because today was not his day, remember?
There was movement in the corner of the mirror, and Draco had just enough time to realise
someone had come up behind him before he heard it.

“Malfoy.”

Breathe, Draco. Fucking breathe.

“Potter.”

Draco was too warm; it felt as if Potter was radiating heat, and a cautious glance to the side
revealed damp bare skin and glistening pecs, confirming that the other man was indeed
dressed in a towel. And only a towel. And barely three inches behind Draco now.

“What are you doing here?” Potter growled, and Draco’s breathing did that oh-what-am-I-
doing-I-completely-forgot thing. He was sincerely starting to worry about a lack of oxygen
supply to what was left of his brain.

“I– I forgot my bag. What are you doing here?”

Leaving. Say leaving. Please.

“Coach made me do extra laps after practice. Said I was…”

Draco felt him step closer and then two large hands were resting on the lockers on either side
of his head. Potter sounded completely uninterested in what he himself was saying, and his
nose was suddenly pressed to the skin behind Draco’s ear as he breathed the end of his
sentence onto the back of Draco’s neck.

“…too wound up.”

Draco felt the tingle of a bead of sweat running down the side of his neck, and when Potter’s
tongue languidly swiped it up, Draco knew, distantly somewhere in the back of his mind, that
he was fucked. His hands reached back of their own accord, tangling in messy black hair and
pulling the other man closer. It was hot, he was hot, and Harry was right there and that’s what
he really wanted so why not, right–

Fuck.

He tore himself from Potter’s grasp and yanked his duffel bag open, scrambling madly for the
yellow canister and feeling his stomach leap into his throat as his fingers closed around the
cold plastic. Potter, for his part, grabbed Draco’s wrist and yanked him against the cold steel
to his left in one move. The little yellow canister clattered to the floor, and Draco raised his
hand not pinned to the lockers to shove Potter away but found himself clutching bare pecs
with one Harry James Potter shoved against his mouth instead.

Potter’s lips were insistent and unyielding and Draco’s fingers curled unconsciously against
his bare skin before Potter’s tongue swiped across his bottom lip and Draco woke from his
stupor.

He pulled back sharply. “Potter, you don’t–”

“Shut up,” the man growled before plastering himself against the front of Draco’s body and
claiming his mouth again. Potter took advantage of Draco being mid-sentence to slip his
tongue between his lips and stroke against Draco’s own. Draco’s protest morphed into a
moan and his eyes slipped shut as one of Potter’s hands fisted in his long hair and pulled just
hard enough to sting.

Fuck.

Draco’s hands ran along Potter’s toned back as the hand not in his hair cupped his ass and
pulled him flush against the hardness lifting the front of Potter’s towel. Draco hoisted one leg
around Potter’s waist and rolled his hips, his nails sinking into damp skin mercilessly as
Potter yanked his head back and scraped his teeth against Draco’s neck. His pulse leapt along
with his cock and he couldn’t help the noises that were streaming from him now.

“Oh fuck– I– I– Ah–”

Sharp canines nipped at his earlobe and he felt a growl reverberate right through him as
Potter crushed him between his grinding erection and the wall of lockers.

“I've got you,” Potter growled, and that was good, because Draco could do little more than
cling to him as he rolled his hips against the man, gasping for air. The combination of the
rising heat in his lower belly and the bulk of the captain of the soccer team pinning him
against unyielding metal left him short of breath and he could barely utter more than a
strangled fuck as Potter’s relentless grinding pushed him over the edge.

His vision blacked out for a moment, and then he started as he felt the sharp snap of teeth
right next to his ear as Potter came with a low growl that had Draco’s pulse racing in a
completely different way to two seconds before.

In what felt like a split second, Potter’s gaze met his own; his eyes cleared and he was
stepping away, clutching the towel that had lost all chance of holding on during their
activities and looking completely…

Completely…

Potter turned, grabbed a duffel from the bench and strode out.

Draco fell to his knees, scrambling for his tablets before spilling half of them onto the floor
and swallowing two dry.

Oh God.
 Chapter 6

“Hermione Granger.”

Draco looked up to find a small hand with neatly manicured nails thrust into his face.
Following the limb, he was met with a kind but serious face surrounded by a halo of bushy
deep red hair.

“Uh,” he managed, shaking the hand automatically, “Draco Malfoy?”

“Pleasure,” she replied, taking a seat opposite him as she placed the three large tomes resting
in the crook of her left arm on the table with a thud. The library was silent but for the whisper
of turning pages and the odd murmured conversation, and Draco glanced around for any
signs of foul play but – nope. It had been four days and nineteen hours since the incident in
the locker room (but who was counting), and the sky was yet to fall, so he was naturally
suspicious.

Everything was just as it always was, safe for the woman now sitting in the usually empty
seat opposite him.

“Likewise,” he murmured, eyeing her carefully. “You’ll excuse me, but I don’t think I’ve
noticed you around before.”

“Oh,” she scoffed, opening one of the textbooks in front of her, “No surprise, I just
transferred in last month. Chemistry major,” she finished, flashing him a smile before
returning to her browsing.

“Physics,” he supplied.

She laughed. “Oh, you’re not about to give me the ‘chemistry is just applied physics’ speech,
are you?”

Draco felt the corners of his lips pull up despite himself. “Academic snobbery is practically a
prerequisite to the course.”

“So I’ve heard, but I’m afraid what’s done is done – I’ll just have to put up with you.”

Draco smiled to himself. He liked her. She was quick. He turned back to his book, scanning
the lines of quantum mechanics, surfacing ten minutes later to realize he’d absorbed nothing,
his notebook lying untouched next to him.

He sighed, and Hermione piped up, “Long day?”

“More like long week,” he replied sullenly, before realizing that he was complaining to a
complete stranger and sitting up a little straighter. “Swamped in assignments,” he finished,
which technically wasn’t a lie but tasted like one anyway.
“Cheer up, Malfoy, it can only get better,” Hermione smiled, and Draco cocked his head to
one side.

“You can call me Draco.”

Hermione’s gaze dropped to her text again and she cleared her throat. “Oh! Yes, of course –
but I so like the sound of Malfoy. It’s French, isn’t it? Old bloodline?”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Yes. Curious you should recognize it.”

Hermione kept her nose in her book but Draco could see her shift slightly in her seat. Hm.
“Oh, you know… I like to read.”

Well. That was vague.

He crossed his arms, leaning back in his seat before he caught sight of the clock on the wall
behind Hermione. Shit. He had lunch with Pansy in exactly 3 minutes and if he kept her
waiting again she’d be sure to ask prying questions.

He would tell her, of course, as soon as he figured out what it was he had to tell.

“Well, it’s been a blast, but I must be off,” he said, standing to shove his books in his bag.

Hermione smiled up at him. “I’m sure I’ll see you around again.”

Draco smiled back. Interesting.

“Definitely.”

“I think I just made a friend.”

Pansy nearly choked on her pasta salad, her face turning an amusing shade of red, and Draco
considered helping the woman, but then she gulped down half a bottle of water and laughed
so hard the cafeteria froze.

“Good thing too, God only knows why I’ve kept you around this long,” Draco drawled
through her giggles, turning to look at a first year staring at their table with a Can I help
you?, and the room seemed to reanimate.

“This obviously unbalanced human being have a name?” Pansy snorted.

“Hermione Granger.”

“And she goes…?”

“Here, apparently.”

Pansy raised an eyebrow. “Honey. I know every kid in this joint. No Hermione Grangers
making roll-call today or any day.”
Well, well, well.

“Chemistry major, she claimed. Transferred in last month.”

“I’m in chemistry –”

“Only because you have the hots for Professor Dawson –”

“Be that as it may , I’m in chem and she’s not.”

Draco drummed his fingernails against the table top.

Pansy grinned, “You’re going to see her again, aren’t you?”

Draco smirked, for the first time in what felt like days. Probably was. But he had a new
mystery, and Harry fucking Potter could go suck a dick.

Nope, wrong turn of phrase.

“Of course.”

“She hot?”

He shot her a sharp look. “Pansy.”

“Hey, you know I’m equal opportunity,” Pansy quipped, winking and waving her fork in a
way that was suggestive for reasons Draco could never explain in words.

“All good and well, but let’s not go fraternizing with bookish girls with a penchant for lying.”

“Gotta say, babe, you’re really selling her here.”

“You’re such a slut.”

“Hey, at least I’ve actually –”

“I’m getting lunch,” Draco said, and made his way over to the nearest counter before she
could get another word in. Bitch.

He stared at the selection of foodstuffs in front of him until the woman behind the counter
rolled her eyes and left to chat to someone on the other side of the room. It was a truly
unappetising selection, but he could never make lunch and get his hair done in the morning,
so here he was, and also then there was the thing where he would be doing something and
halfway through he’d think of Potter, and that was both annoying and wasted a great deal of
time, so–

“Do you mind?”

Think of Potter, and he shall loom threateningly, apparently.

“Not at all.”
Draco didn’t turn to look at him. He didn’t deserve it.

“Move, Malfoy.”

“Manners, Potter, or did your mother never teach you not to jump the queue?”

“Malfoy, I swear –”

“Honestly, Potter, do you have a point, or are you simply vying for my attention in an attempt
to swipe the last slice of treacle tart?”

Potter grabbed one shoulder and shoved him to the side, taking a threatening step closer and
backing Draco up against the counter.

“I don’t want your attention,” he growled, “You’re nothing to me, Malfoy.”

Draco raised one eyebrow, and stepped closer to Potter in return. Suddenly their position
could only be perceived as suggestive, and Draco revelled in it.

Let the world see. Fuck you, Potter.

“Oh. I see what this is about,” he breathed, the picture of innocence, “You think it meant
something... You think I want you.”

He laughed, lowly, under his breath, and he could see Potter’s gaze flicking between his eyes
and his lips. Oh, he’d missed this rush.

“You were hardly my first rodeo, Potter. But– Oh…” Draco’s eyes widened in mock
realisation. “I was yours, wasn’t I?”

Strong hands gripped his shoulders and suddenly the counter was digging into his back but he
couldn’t help the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. He was going to take the other man
apart. He deserved it.

Potter was yanked off him the next moment, Ron and another one of his cronies – Neville,
was it? – each gripping a bicep as they held him back.

“Harry, mate, what are you doing?!” Ron asked, glancing between Draco and his irate best
friend in concern.

Potter was glaring at him now, his jaw clenched so hard Draco thought he might crack a
molar if he kept it up, but a trip to the dentist was hardly the worst Draco wished on him.

“Well, Potter, as fun as our little encounter was,” Draco murmured, stepping forward with a
cheeky wink, “I think it’s best if we agree to be just friends, don’t you?”

Ron gawked, Neville’s eyebrows disappeared into his hairline, Potter growled and Draco
smirked. Have fun, Potty.
He strode back over to their table, swinging his bag onto his shoulder and throwing a casual
“Close your mouth, Pansy, we should beat it before the Weasel remembers how his brain
works,” at his best friend before sauntering out the door.

Draco Malfoy was back.

 Chapter 7
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Ginny fucking Weasley was all over Harry fucking Potter and Draco didn’t give two.
Fucking. Hoots.

At all.

“Draco, honey, the fork is not your enemy.”

Draco released his death grip on his cutlery and breathed deeply through his nose. See. It was
fine.

“We really need to get out more. We spend too much time in the cafeteria.”

Pansy threw him a sideways glance and snorted. “Yeah, okay, way to change the subject.”

“We should try the bleachers.”

“So we can watch the Ginger Disgrace shove her tongue down Potter’s throat some more in
between cheers? No thanks.”

Draco hummed. “The Ginger Disgrace. That’s new. I like it. Sounds like Christmas at
Snape’s.”

Pansy pulled a face. “Ugh, are you and Potter in cahoots to thoroughly ruin my lunch today?”

“Did something just mention Draco and the great Harry Potter in the same sentence? My
goodness, the world will surely meet its untimely end.”

Blaise practically fell into the empty seat to Draco’s left with a shit-eating grin and Draco
tried not to claw his face off as he nearly spilt coffee on his pullover. It was one of his
favourites; just the right combination of "You know you wanna fuck me" and "But I'm
waaaaaay out of your league."

“The prodigal son has returned!” Pansy exclaimed, and Draco growled.

“Don’t fucking encourage him, Pansy.”

Blaise pouted. “Aaaw, Draco, it’s like you didn’t even notice I was gone.”

Draco stared at him blankly, and Blaise blinked. “Oh.”

“Oh, don’t mind him, darling, he’s got time for only one person these days,” Pansy drawled,
leaning over the table to Blaise, “Now tell me, how was she?”
Blaise smirked, and leaned back in his chair. “Well, if you must know–”

Draco started humming rather aggressively as he scanned the room idly. If he had to listen to
another one of Blaise’s battle reports, he was going to puke. He’d frankly lost count. Pansy
was the only one of their dysfunctional posse who was here on real money; Draco worked his
ass off for his scholarship and Blaise – well, Blaise made use of the resources available to
him. Draco would call him a whore, if he didn’t know that the man was doing it for pleasure
more than business.

Plus, it made Blaise’s degree in Women’s Studies ironic. And Draco liked irony.

Either way, this meant they didn’t see Blaise except for between conquests. Draco sometimes
wondered what Blaise planned to do when he’d worked through the entire female student
body – he supposed there would always be a new freshman to woo.

Draco shuddered.

“– and at this point I started realizing I was in over my head a little, but the handcuffs were
fucking real so I really had no choice –”

Nope.

Draco returned to his musings, but there was precious little to contemplate other than the
aforementioned happy couple. He was apparently not the only one to think so, with the rest of
the room not-so-discreetly gawking at the sight as well.

Don’t frown, Draco, you’re too young for wrinkles.

Draco had been winning. And then Potter strolled into the cafeteria and was snogging his best
friend’s little sister faster than Draco could say that’s a little fucking creepy, don’t you think.

I mean, Jesus. Ron was sitting right there. Have a little decency.

And really, that was the only reason Draco found the whole thing upsetting, because fine, he
was a little bothered, but it wasn’t because of Potter. No, it was just the whole thing was in
very poor taste. Everyone had always assumed Potter and Ginerva were dating, but other than
the girl draping herself over him at every opportunity, Potter never really seemed to be one
for PDAs. Which was probably the only reasonable life choice the man had ever made, if
Draco had to be honest.

This new public aspect to their relationship just reeked of a complete lack of class, and if
Draco had to give the whole situation a good once-over, which he would only ever do out of
an academic curiosity, the Ginger appeared to be the only one really enthused by it.

Ugh. Fuck Potter. He deserved all the misery he could garner.

"So Draco's got a new conquest, does he?" Blaise seemed to have come to the end of his
horrendous recount, and was now onto the next bit of gossip. Man never could keep his
mouth shut, though, so Draco spoke before Pansy could blurt out his life story.
"Not a conquest, per se, more of a... score to settle."

The truth was Potter hadn't so much as looked at Draco since he entered the room, and that
was irksome. Draco looked fucking fantastic today. Least Potter could do was notice when he
came up for air.

This was war, dammit, but did the man have no honor?

"Ah, I see. Wouldn't happen to have anything to do with the rumors about –"

Oh, it was war indeed.

“Blaise,” Draco practically purred, cutting him off. He watched the man’s eyes flicker over to
him once, assessing, before he slipped into an easy smile, angling his body towards Draco
just enough to show he had his attention, if anyone happened to be watching.

Draco supposed there was a reason he kept him around after all.

“So what are we playing at today, then?”

Draco folded his arms on the table and tilted his head slightly. “Like I would tell you. Just sit
there and look enthralled.”

Blaise’s smile became flirtatious. “You’re lucky the girls think a guy playing for both teams
is sexy or you might have to actually engage in a real relationship.”

Draco laughed like Blaise had just said something terribly witty and he couldn’t wait to get
the man’s pants off in reward. “Oh, Blaise, don’t think I won’t turn your balls into ornaments
for Pansy’s Christmas tree.”

“Wow, Draco, you really know how to treat a girl,” Pansy deadpanned into her lunch.

“There’s a reason I’m bent, sweetie,” Draco sing-songed, running one finger along Blaise’s
collar as the other man leaned closer in response. Perfect.

"Don't think I won't be hearing this story later, Malfoy," Blaise murmured.

"You probably won't be around long enough."

“Huh. I think I’ll go for Daphne Greengrass next. She’s been eyeing me a while,” Blaise
whispered, and Draco had to fight not to roll his eyes.

“Sometimes I wonder what you’re trying to prove, Zabini,” Draco winked.

“Oh aren’t we hilarious,” Blaise smiled.

“Not to alarm you, Draco, dearest,” Pansy muttered, “but Potter’s glaring two holes right
through you.”
 Draco tilted his head in a way that he knew made his hair fall into his eyes just right, and
hooked one finger into the front of Blaise’s shirt. “That so?”

“Potter? Seriously? Jesus, Malfoy, one day you’re going to get me killed.”

Draco grinned like the cat that got the canary, and tucked a strand of hair behind Blaise’s ear
casually. He leaned forward, one hand sliding up Blaise’s thigh as he moved to whisper into
his ear. Draco cast his gaze slightly to the right, finally meeting Potter’s hard stare. Holding
his gaze, Draco flicked his tongue across Blaise’s earlobe, and winked.

Perfect.

“Oh honey… You have no idea.”

Chapter End Notes

Enter convenient Blaise. XD

I also apologise for another cafeteria scene. Seriously. My varsity life kinda consists of
lecture theatre lecture theatre lecture theatre lab (secretly eat lunch in the lab even
though the radioactive sources might kill me) lecture theatre lecture theatre library. I
have no idea what normal college kids do or where they go. In case you hadn't figured
that out.

I'll do better next time.

 Chapter 8
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Don’t look back: the first rule of executing a badass exit.

Also the quickest way to find oneself pinned against a corridor wall by one Harry Potter,
Draco had recently discovered. Would conveniently also make a half-decent title for the
ironic memoir he was penning in his head in his last living moments.

Potter looked livid.

Draco could feel the tension pull the air thin until he was catching his breath on every second
inhale, Potter’s straining muscles like a coiled spring inches from the blonde’s face. Potter’s
hands were pressed firmly to the wall on either side of Draco’s head, his biceps clenching
along with his jaw every so often, and somehow the fact that he hadn’t laid a finger on Draco
so far made it so much worse. He looked like he was about to erupt; let out a wave of rage so
thick it would hit Draco like a bus before Potter even touched him.

Oh yes, let’s wax lyrical while the mountain range decides how to dispense of your existence.

“Potter, I’d love to say it’s a pleasure meeting you like this again, but it isn’t.”

Potter slammed one fist into the bare brick wall and Draco promptly shut up. He watched as
his captor drew one long breath, before running the aforementioned hand through his hair on
the exhale. Draco noticed the bloody knuckles and stayed shut up.

“I’m sorry.”

Draco would have rolled his eyes if they weren't glued to the man towering over him. “Calm
yourself, Potter, takes a little more than that to scare–”

Potter shook his head, eyes trained unseeingly on Draco's sneakers. “About the other night, in
the locker rooms. I really shouldn’t have done that.”

Draco felt the heat race up the back of his neck and grit his teeth. So Potter regretted it. Fine.
To be expected, even. He was straight – or he thought he was, and that was good enough to
make him beat himself up over it. Hardly Draco’s problem. Breathe, Malfoy, fuck.

“Well, never fret, you made it abundantly clear just how sorry you were when you ran,”
Draco sneered, regretting it instantly. That was not the narrative of the casually unaffected.

Potter shook his head again and Draco wished he'd at least look at him again so Draco could
figure out what he was thinking.

"That's not what I mean and you know it."

Draco barked out a laugh that was as derisive as it was nervous. "Oh, so now you deign to
know my mind? Shove off, Potter, I've got things to see and people to do."

Potter growled and grit his teeth. “Jesus, can you just stop, for one second, I’m trying to have
a fucking conversation –”

“Oh my, I hadn’t realized!" Draco stepped forward, in the two inches he could, and crossed
his arms. "How about I pencil you in just after never fucking ever –”

Suddenly Potter had one hand around the nape of Draco’s neck and his lips pressed firmly
against the blonde’s. Draco squeaked and Potter pressed his chest against Draco, who
struggled to free his trapped arms before shoving Potter away and landing one solid blow to
his jaw. His knuckles cracked painfully as they made contact, but he barely noticed.

Fist fights were really not his style, but he was spitting mad. His cheeks were flushed, he
could feel it, and it angered him even further that Potter might realize what effect he had on
the blonde.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” he sneered.

Potter looked surprised, his face open for a moment before he narrowed his eyes and the jaw
twitch was back. Draco told himself that he preferred it that way, but he had a heaviness in
the pit of his stomach that just made him angrier.

“Why the fuck not?" Potter growled, his tone low. "Like you said, it's not your first rodeo or
anything.”

Draco clenched his jaw and pretended he couldn't feel the sting behind his eyes. “Fuck you.”

“Oh, I really rather think it's going to be the other way around.”

Draco laughed, and it was harsh, and he hated the sound of it. He hated that he had to sound
like that.

“If you think I’m going to be your dirty little secret, Potter, a quick roll in the hay to satisfy
your urges before you get back to being the golden boy, you are sorely mistaken.”

“Don’t –" Potter shouted before he grit his teeth in an effort to lower the volume, "Don’t call
me that. I am no one’s golden boy.”

“You should probably let your fanclub know, I think they missed the memo.”

“Do you do your best to be a snarky fuck 24/7 or does it come naturally?”

"Do you make a habit of propositioning men who hate your guts or should I feel flattered?"

"What is it you who you screw –"

“Jesus, we don’t even know each other!” Draco snarled.

Potter slammed one fist against the wall again and Draco had a moment to see his life flash
before his eyes before Potter spun around and was across the hallway in two long steps,
planting both hands on the wall opposite as if to stabilize himself. Suddenly the empty space
between them seemed gargantuan with only the sound of their laboured breathing to fill it.
Draco wanted nothing but to slump against the wall behind him, but he kept himself upright
and watched the man altogether too close and too far from him wearily.

“What are you doing?”

Potter ran one hand through his hair, and gave a short laugh. “Something tremendously
stupid.”

“Well color me shocked, I –”

Suddenly Potter spun around, and his eyes were bright and focused. “Malfoy, have lunch with
me.”

Draco waited. Counted to three, took a deep breath or two, and Potter was still looking at him
like that.

“…So that's the line you're going with then?”

“Fine, maybe not lunch, people would notice – just a chat. At the lake. Two days from now.
Friday.”

Draco stared some more, because this was a train wreck, but morbid curiosity and he were
very well acquainted. “Potter, I know you recently took a blow to the head, but I’m pretty
sure it wasn’t that bad.”

“Malfoy, God, it’s not difficult – Well, okay, it’s complicated as fuck, and this is going to get
me into so much shit –” Potter muttered, running his hands through his hair again, before
returning his determined gaze to Draco. “Just it doesn’t matter, okay. I don’t care. Meet me at
the lake. Friday.”

“Potter, why on earth would I even begin to consider –” Draco started, crossing his arms
between them and hoping to hell his eyes didn’t give away how honest that question really
was.

“I just want to talk.”

"Seriously, after all –" Draco threw his hands up and let out a sound that was more cry of
disbelief than laugh. "Were you not in the same hallway as myself just now?! The fact that
we are currently conversing without bloodshed is frankly –"

“Just to get to know each other.”

"God, you don't want to get to know me, trust me –"

Potter strode across the hallway but this time when he planted a hand on either side of
Draco’s head the blonde felt like blushing and that was annoying. Potter’s eyes were wide
 and earnest, but Draco couldn’t bring his internal voice to spit the word like he would have a
moment ago, and that was annoying as well.

He should say how annoying it is.

...Any moment now.

“Malfoy. Please.”

God.

He was so fucked.

“Fine.”

One corner of Potter’s lips quirked. “What was that?”

“Fine. I said fine, Potter, don’t push it,” Draco muttered, using the behemoth’s good mood to
push past him and stride down the hall.

“Friday!” Potter called, and Draco waved one hand in a yes, yes gesture without looking
back.

Potter didn’t have to know it was because Draco didn’t want the other man to see him smile.

Chapter End Notes

Sincerest apologies, my precious people, for the delay. I realize it's been, like, a month
since I last updated, and that's just horrendous. Yet every day I get an email telling me
people are still sending me kudos and commenting, though, and that makes me so happy.
 Chapter 9

“You’re late,” Hermione admonished, one eyebrow raised in a manner that Draco recognized
as distinctly Malfoyesque.

“Sincerest apologies, ma’am, I seem to be running a little behind schedule today,” Draco
quipped, taking his usual seat opposite the redhead.

Hermione looked him up and down, her eyes narrowing slightly. “I thought Malfoys were
never late.”

“What?” Draco asked, looking up from where he’d been rifling through his bag for a pen,
coming up empty handed. It was Friday, and it was all Draco could think about.

Friday.

Had his head not been attached to his shoulders… Well, he wasn’t sure he hadn’t lost his
mind, actually.

Hermione chuckled, lowering her voice as they drew disgruntled stares from the library at
large. “Or distracted. Goodness, Draco, if I didn’t know better I’d say you were in love.”

“I–” Draco leveled Hermione with an assessing stare. “You do know better.”

“Do I?”

Hermione started as the table suddenly buzzed to life, grabbing her phone and busying
herself reading the message while Draco smirked. He watched as her mouth pulled tight,
before typing a reply with way more force than a touchscreen ever needed to see and
slamming the device face down on the wooden surface again.

“Tetchy. Who’s the lucky human on the other end?”

Hermione pulled a face and dragged her bushy mane into a ponytail. Draco really was going
to do something about that hair one day, and it wasn’t going to like it.

“My boyfriend’s mother.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. This was the first he was hearing about a boyfriend, but he didn’t
want to scare her off with the usual Slytherin interrogation.

The truth was, as much as Draco was still trying to figure out who this mysterious little liar
was, he was also really enjoying Hermione’s company. They met at least once a week to
study, and while they did actually get a fair amount of work done – Hermione, despite not
attending class there as she claimed, seemed to be taking fairly similar maths courses to
himself somewhere, and she wasn’t a simpleton – they also got a fair amount of talking done.
All indefinite, mostly, tales of unnamed people with few discerning features wronging them
in vague ways, but there was a certain amount of comfort in the anonymity. A lack of
judgement. Draco loved Pansy as much as a gay man could love a woman, but God, she
played judge, jury and executioner.

“She doesn’t think I’m good enough, that’s the truth of it," Hermione sighed, "Oh,
she pretends, and R– my boyfriend would never suspect his kind old mother of such
underhandedness, but she sabotages me around every corner. Oh, Hermione, dear, are you
reading again?” she mocked in a high pitched tattle, before slamming her hand down on the
table. “Because my kind should be in the kitchen, of course, barefoot and pregnant, making
her stupid soufflés that fall flat every time – I swear that’s the only reason she asks me to
make them, Draco, I swear she doesn’t even like them. She just wants to see me fail at
being her idea of a perfect ma– girlfriend– whatever!” Hermione finished with a flourish,
crossing her arms as she slumped in her chair.

Draco leaned forward, smirking. “Oh God, how am I only hearing about this boyfriend and
his delightful creator now?”

Hermione shifted in her seat. “Well – I’m sorry, I really shouldn’t offload on you in the first
place, and –”

He waved one hand dismissively. “Oh please, by all means, offload all your earthly woes. I'm
only slightly offended you've kept this gold to yourself all this time.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, smiling slightly. "You're such a gossip, Malfoy."

"Sharing is good for the soul, I'm told," Draco drawled, his smirk firmly in place even as
Hermione adopted an expression he dreaded seeing on anyone but himself.

“Speaking of… Not like you’ve ever told me about your boyfriend.”

Draco leaned back and crossed his arms, cool and collected because there was nothing to be
anything other than cool and collected about, of course. “That’s because there’s nothing to
tell.”

“Oh no, you don’t!” Hermione was the one leaning over the table now, trying to keep her
voice down in her excitement. “You dodged me earlier but there’s no way a guy like you gets
through college single!”

Draco smirked. “Single doesn’t mean lonely, honey.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes, and he had to admit it made him a little nervous. She seemed to
have an uncanny ability to see through the bullshit sometimes. “Draco.”

“Spit it out, Granger.”

“Oh come on, you and I both know you’re much too high maintenance to just be someone’s
fuck buddy.”

“I am not high maintenance –”

“Please, you make topiary look like a lazy Sunday afternoon.”

"That... is such a confusing simile."

"Doesn't detract from my point."

"Oh my, would you look at that, I'm late for a –" Draco glanced at his phone and started,
grabbing his bag. "Shit!"

Hermione rolled her eyes, smiling even as she drawled "I'm going to let that one go.”

But Draco was already gone.

The lake was on the far side of campus, past the sports fields and over a grassy knoll that left
the body of water and its green banks hidden to the mill of students attending the university.
It was beautiful, especially at this time of day when the sun was just dipping below the trees
lining the other end of the water, yet very few people bothered to come this far after a long
day of classes. Draco was one of the few that did, and even then, not often at all, so it really
was no surprise that the lake was deserted.

Completely deserted.

Potter wasn't there.

Of course.

Draco dropped his bag next to the softly lapping edge of water, falling down next to it with
all the grace of a Malfoy stood up. Pulling out his pack of cigarettes – he was running low,
damn Pansy and her sponging – he withdrew one and just felt the fragile paper and tobacco
between his fingers for a while. His mind felt strangely empty, yet at the same time fuzzy,
like there were many things he knew he had to think about, yet couldn't find the energy to
focus on any one. Potter wasn't there, and he knew that he wouldn't be, of course – except
that wasn't true.

Draco lifted the cigarette to his mouth and lit it quickly, taking a deep drag and feeling the
nicotine clear his head.

“Since when do you smoke?”

It was only years of fine breeding that stood between Draco and falling face first into the
lake. Good god, he was really far gone if he didn't even hear Potter come up behind him until
the man spoke.

Instead, Draco merely raised an eyebrow, not bothering to turn around. “Since always. Why
would you know?”

Potter took a seat next to him, leaning back on his hands as he looked over at Draco
unashamedly, from what Draco could make out in his periphery as he stared at the lake
resolutely.

“Yeah, why would I…”

Silence reigned, as the trail of Potter's words hang in the air, and Draco pretended he didn't
feel the heat behind his ears. He was not blushing. He was smoking. He would not look at
Potter. The sun was only just filtering through the trees now, causing the lake to sparkle even
as the rest of the earth was bathed in a soft orange light. It was as if time stood still.

Draco's eyes flickered to the side. Damn.

Potter was staring at Draco’s lips, where they were pursed around the cigarette as he inhaled.
Draco held the smoke in his lungs for long seconds – five, six – feeling the burn and relishing
it, using it to keep him grounded. He felt Potter's gaze rake over his throat as it worked
against the urge to breathe, felt it for as long as he could bear. Draco exhaled, and turned back
to the lake.

"You're late."

Potter ran a hand through his hair, letting out a forced laugh. "Yeah, sorry, sometimes it's just
impossible to get away."

Draco could've rolled his eyes. "Poor Potter, always having to beat his fanclub back with a
stick."

It sounded more bitter than Draco would've liked, and he felt his eyebrows pull together.

"I didn't think you'd wait," Potter replied instead.

"I didn't."

Silence hung heavy in the air, and Draco was sure that if he turned, he'd see Potter with his
eyebrows in his hairline.

"I'm smoking," he stated, instead, not quite sure why he was explaining himself.

"I'm glad you're smoking."

Draco didn't really know what to say to that.

"So... how are you doing?"

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Really? That's your opener?"

Potter sighed, but Draco could feel him shift beside him. Irritation? "That's usually how
conversations work, Malfoy."

Conversations. Right. Talking. The reason we're here.

"I'm surprised, Potter, that you're capable of that much civility," Draco quipped.
Potter growled, and Draco tried not to think too hard on how it thrilled him somewhat to
elicit that reaction from the other man.

I suppose it's difficult to hold a conversation with someone when all you can think about is
how they look naked.

The thought irked him, made his skin itch, so he smirked instead, and, because he was Draco
Malfoy, he poked the bear.

"I'd always taken you for an uncultured beast."

Suddenly he was on his back, his arms pressed firmly to the ground on either side of his head
as Potter loomed over him. Dark green eyes held his steadily, commanding him not to look
away even as he felt like they stole the breath from his lungs and he felt his head spin from
the sudden disorientation.

"You think you're so much more refined, so much more civil, because you've cultivated
this person you dress up as every morning and present to the world," Potter growled, so low
and controlled that Draco felt his scalp heat up. Potter leaned down, his face mere
moments from Draco's own, and Draco could feel the other man's breath, steady and
restrained, on Draco's parted lips, even as his own hitched in his throat.

"You think it's enough to keep the world out, to keep people from digging too deep, because
they think it's perfect, it's beyond improvement, but it just makes me want to take it apart."

Draco's skin prickled everywhere – he may have gotten under Potter's skin figuratively but it
felt as if Potter was literally under his. Draco could feel his heat but Potter wasn't touching
him; nowhere except where his forearms pressed firmly against Draco's own, and Draco felt
himself arch up at an attempt to get some contact, but Potter growled and he lay still.

"I want to rip the clothes from your body until there's nothing hiding you, hiding your need. I
want to make you writhe until you can't be bothered to care what your hair looks like, until
you're as naked on the inside as you are on the outside."

Potter's head dipped under Draco's chin, and his eyes slipped shut as he felt hot breath along
the column of his throat. Draco dared tilt his head to the side, providing Potter better access
even as the man refused to touch him, and Draco could only bite his lip against the desperate
moan lodged in his throat. He was aching and he couldn't think straight and Potter
wasn't touching him.

"You see, I may be a beast, but I know exactly what to do with you," Potter growled against
his jugular.

"And if I am a beast, Draco Malfoy, then so are you."

Draco's eyes snapped open and he shoved Potter off him with the strength only drawn from
panic so sudden it almost makes you sick. He scrambled to his feet, grabbing his book bag as
a shield, an anchor, something to hold onto as he rounded on Potter, the words spilling out of
him like vomit as he tried not to sound like he was on the brink of hyperventilation. He was
still hard, a complete mess, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

“I don’t know what you thought was going to happen here today, Potter, but it doesn't
matter. Our worlds – they don’t fit together. And they never will.”

Draco watched as Potter's jaw tightened and his eyes darkened with something other than
arousal and determination. Something inside Draco wanted to take it back, wanted to make
him stop looking like that, like a man on his walk to the gallows, but he couldn't. He
wouldn't.

“Have a nice life, Potter.”

Draco turned and walked away.

Potter didn’t stop him.

 Chapter 10
Chapter Notes

Trigger warning for attempted sexual assault. Nothing explicit, just lots of sleezy words
and ideas.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Draco was surprised his living room door was still on its hinges by the time he was done
slamming it.

He stalked into the tiny kitchenette, yanking open cupboard doors until he found a cup and
saucer, slamming it against the counter with enough force to chip one edge of the porcelain.
He waited, his body tense as a tightrope as the kettle boiled. At the whistle of steam, he filled
the cup, reaching for the tea only to find he had run out.

The cup and saucer was hurled against the opposite wall, splintering into a handful of chunks
with a distressing clatter.

Draco needed to get Potter out of his system.

The club was smoky and stuffy, the bar sticky under Draco’s fingers, and he was sure the
strobe lights were going to induce an epileptic fit in exactly three seconds. Sweaty men
pressed up against him from all sides, and he downed his second drink in the space of 10
minutes. Watching the girl behind the bar fill him up and flounce over to the next customer
without so much as a second glance, he was both relieved and irritated at finding the sort of
place where reckless intoxication didn't bear judgement.

The blonde to his left was still nattering on, having taken a seat next to Draco a little while
ago and taken his complete indifference as an invitation to stay. Draco was looking for
company – the kind that had stilled his hand before he could call up Pansy, lest she talk him
out of it – but the little bastard was just that – too little. If he was even legal, Draco would be
surprised, but even then he wasn't interested in someone who couldn't hold his own.

The girl behind the bar plopped another drink onto the counter before him, and he raised an
eyebrow – he was still busy with the last refill, she was getting a bit eager – before she
pointed over to the other side of the bar and giggled From that guy over there.

Draco looked over and studied the man smirking in his direction. He had dark hair, tall and
obviously hiding quite the physique beneath that black t-shirt, and he was making the kind of
eye contact that should have left Draco with goosebumps.
Instead, he felt tepid, which was infuriating enough for Draco to throw back his drink and
carry the next one over to its buyer.

He smirked at the brunette, settling down on the stool next to him gracefully, tilting his head
in invitation. He had left modesty at the door on his way out; he was wearing his pair of
leather pants that left little to the imagination, his hair tousled. He knew he looked delicious.

"Quite the looker you left behind there," the man said, glancing over at the blonde Draco had
all but forgotten about – oops – and looking obviously pleased with himself.

"I prefer them tall, dark and handsome, personally," Draco replied easily.

The man raised an eyebrow, moving closer. "Oh really?"

Yip, really. Tall, dark, handsome, angry, with terrible conversational skills and a penchant for
pressing me against flat surfaces –

Draco was really going to have to do something about the voices in his head.

"I'm Draco," he offered, instead.

"Derek," the other man – Derek, apparently, urgh – smiled, "So, tell me Draco, what's a guy
like you doing in a place like this?"

Draco had to reel in all his self-control in order to not roll his eyes. Oh my God, seriously,
where did this guy learn to flirt? He had kind eyes, was obviously a good guy, but Draco
wasn't looking for a good guy, this wasn't working –

"I'm here to dance," Draco purred in answer, grabbing Derek's wrist and leading him to the
center of the packed dance floor. The music drowned out everything – bad pick up lines and
traitorous inner voices included – and Draco felt Derek step behind him and pull Draco flush
against his chest, hands on Draco's hips as they swayed to the monotonous electronic beat in
what little space they could claim. Draco closed his eyes and focused on the music pounding
through his brain, the warmth of hands on his skin as they slipped beneath the thin material of
his shirt and caressed his hipbones, the feeling of hot breath on his nape, trailing down the
side of his neck and behind his ear as he titled his head to the side in submission. He pressed
his hips against the hardness behind him, letting the power rush through him like a waterfall,
and just felt.

"Oh God, I want you so much," Derek husked onto his ear, and Draco flinched involuntarily.

Wrong, wrong, wrong –

He felt Derek's arms go slack around him at his reaction, and he turned quickly, looking to
remedy the situation, pass it off as a nervous twitch, but when he caught sight of the man's
eyes – blue, just this side of green, but blue, goddammit – he could only manage a quick "I'm
sorry" before turning and weaving unsteadily through the crowd of writhing bodies. He was
sure he was going to be sick, the air in the club hot and cloying in his throat, the grinding
couples providing endless obstacles until suddenly he was stumbling through the back door
and into the cool late night air. Draco threw his head back, dragging in lungfuls of air and
focusing on the puffs of condensation appearing on every exhale, trying to anchor himself as
the world spun on its axis.

What are you doing, Draco Malfoy?

Draco turned and started down the alleyway, towards the main road. It took him a moment to
orient himself, realizing he had probably drunk a little more than was wise when out on one's
own, but couldn't bother to beat himself up over it.

Look at us, just the epitome of great choices today.

He shivered against the cold, reaching to pat down his pockets for his cigarettes and realizing
belatedly that he had left his jacket in a locker in the club in his haste to get out. Sighing, he
looked back towards the door that had swung closed behind him, trying to muster the will to
go back and fetch it and failing. It'd be in the lost and found tomorrow – along with his
dignity, probably, although Draco wasn't sure that he hadn't lost that way before this ill-
conceived outing.

He spun on his heels again only to nearly walk into someone.

Draco stumbled back a step, disorientated both from too much alcohol and the height on the
man towering over him. The man reached forward, grabbing his arm as if to steady him and
Draco's heartbeat picked up in triple time.

Shit.

Yanking his arm back from the man's grasp, Draco put on the most contemptuous expression
he could muster as the man only seemed to smile wider at his fight.

"Excuse me," Draco sneered, attempting to side-step the behemoth, hoping the man was all
bravado and would let him pass without a hassle.

No such luck.

"Now, now, gorgeous, just where do you think you're going?" the man asked, leaning an arm
against the wall and effectively cutting off Draco's exit route.

"Away from you," he spat.

The man laughed and it was like sandpaper on Draco’s skin. “Yeah, sure, honey. I know your
type. A pretty little thing like you just loves playing hard to get, don't you?”

Draco caught movement out of the corner of his eye; a shadow at the entrance of the alley,
and he raised his voice as he changed tactics, hoping to hell and back that it wasn’t another
pervert closing in.

“Listen, I’m meeting my boyfriend out front, so just leave me the fuck alone before –”
 The man dipped his head forward and Draco gagged at the scent of his breath on his face.
“Shhh, baby, why can’t you just calm down and enjoy yourself –”

Draco threw his head forward, feeling bone crunch as he connected with the man’s nose. He
didn’t have the best angle, though, and could feel his head start spinning again. The man
cursed loudly and grabbed Draco by the neck, hoisting him up on his toes as he slammed him
against the wall to his side, his head cracking against the bricks. There were spots of black in
Draco’s vision now, and he gasped for air but came away empty handed.

“You little bitch, I tried to be nice, now I’m gonna show you what happens to boys who can't
behave.”

Draco clawed at the hand cutting off his air supply, scrambling for an opening as the man
laughed and shoved his disgusting face against Draco's own again.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Suddenly there was a figure behind the man, a hand reaching out to grab his aggressor by the
hair and throw him against the opposite wall like he was a rag doll. Draco fell, slouched on
cold concrete as he tried to suck oxygen into his lungs and make out the shadows on the
opposite side of the alleyway. Sounds were muffled and he kept veering between darkness
and consciousness, but the man was gone and there was the voice from the darkness, and he
knew he knew that voice from somewhere but he just couldn’t think straight, everything was
too fuzzy…

“Draco?”

The voice in the darkness, God, he wished he could place it. He opened his eyes, trying to
focus on the figure now crouched before him. Dark hair, kind eyes... He was falling off the
edge, he could feel two hands cradling his head and he tried to grab onto them but his eyes
kept slipping shut and everything was going dark.

“Draco?! Jesus, Draco, look at me, come on!”

That was the last he heard.

Chapter End Notes

I take after Draco in the sense that I, too, start throwing things around when I run out of
tea.

Urgh. I do feel like that encounter with Derek was a tab brief, but I just couldn't bring
myself to write more Draco-with-anyone-other-than-Harry-dearest. Does that make me a
bad writer? I don't care.
 Chapter 11
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Draco woke up in a strange bed. There were a number of clues: the sheets were too soft to be
his own – he could never afford such luxury – and the bed was large enough that he wasn't
crowded up against the wall by the person next to him.

The person next to him.

Oh God.

The back of his head throbbed obnoxiously, and Draco could only assume this was the
universe punishing him for drinking too much and going home with a man he didn't know. Or
couldn't remember. Every time he tried to piece together his path to the strange bed,
something stabbed him behind his ear and he had to do some deep breathing.

Alright, man up, Malfoy, let's see who you threw your v-card at.

If only to chase away that thought, Draco cracked one eye, bracing for an onslaught of
stabbing white rays of light. The hangover Gods seemed kind this morning, however – as
kind as they can be, in any case – and the light was subdued, barely filtering through the
drawn curtains. The ceiling was bathed in a warm yellow glow, and Draco remembered a lake
and a pair of intense green eyes before deciding that the identity of his paramour could be no
worse than that set of memories, so he ripped off the proverbial band-aid.

Ah. Derek. Of course.

He couldn't make out the man's face from his perspective, seeing as Derek was sleeping with
his back to Draco, but the pillow next to his was cradling a head of messy black hair atop
some seriously impressive shoulders – not wearing a shirt, similar to Draco himself, he just
realized, feeling his face heat up – so it had to be Derek. Of course.

Yes, of course, you moron, who else could it be?

He needed to get out of here. Draco sat up slowly, biting his lip not to groan as he held his
head in his hands for a moment, allowing the sharp pain behind his eyes to pass. Exhaling
slowly, he looked over at the sleeping man next to him. Even sitting up Draco couldn't make
out any more of his face, but it was really neither here nor there at this stage. Taking a
cursory glance around the room, he allowed himself a moment of relief, both at the state of
the place – and by extension, that he was to leave it – and at the fact that a king size bed
pushed up against a wall suggested he had not contributed to the explosive end of an
established relationship.

Oh, if Pansy could see him now.

As soothing as that last point was to his conscience, it was extremely unhelpful to his escape
efforts.

Well. Nothing for it.

Slowly, channeling his inner chameleon, Draco reached one hand over the sleeping man,
placing it softly but firmly on the mattress next to him. He held his breath for a slow count of
20, watching for any signs of stirring. Nothing. He drew a careful breath before slowly
swinging his leg over Derek as well, feeling a sense of accomplishment as he settled over
him, the man still to so much as twitch at Draco's acrobatics.

He could do this. All he had to do was swing first his other leg and then his arm over him,
and then –

Draco was on his back, wrists pinned firmly to the bed as his apparently very much
awake bed partner loomed over him, and it was only the shock of deep green eyes staring into
his resolutely that kept Draco from losing his stomach contents all over his captor.

Potter.

He had slept with Harry fucking Potter and he couldn't even remember it.

"Morning, dear, so sorry to wake you," Draco bit out, going for nonchalance but getting bitch
instead. "No, seriously, so sorry."

He was rewarded a hearty glare for his efforts.

"What were you thinking?!"

Potter's voice was pitched low, but Draco could feel his restraint, the tension in his forearms
where he pinned Draco to the bed. He was pissed.

Draco nearly rolled his eyes – surely they had found themselves in enough compromising
positions for the man to have worked through any hang-ups about his sexuality by now – but,
acutely aware as he was of his position, he wasn't inclined to stoke the flames of ire just then.

Just... poke them a bit in the hopes Potter would back off enough for an escape attempt.

Draco laughed softly. "I could ask you the same thing. Honestly, Potter," here he raised an
eyebrow, his tone tinged with just enough amusement to be conspiratorial rather than
mocking, "a gay club?"

"This isn't a game, Malfoy!" Potter barked, shoving back onto his heels as he ran a hand
through his hair before turning his attention back to Draco. "Do you realize what could have
happened if I hadn't been walking past just then?!"

Draco did roll his eyes then. "Well, I'm no expert, but –"

Wait.
Oh.

Draco felt the blood running from his face – quite a feat, considering the blush he was
harboring earlier – and his fingertips tingled. His entire body felt cold and his ears rang, a
muffled cacophony of static and viscous words, and he couldn't tell if they were from this
lifetime or another, one where he was weak and wrong, or one where he would be worth
nothing more than what some stranger decided he would be.

You little bitch, I tried to be nice, now I’m gonna show you what happens to boys who can't
behave –

"Draco?" The side of his face was warm, and Draco realized belatedly that it was Potter's
hand, cupping his jaw, his thumb stroking his cheek softly, as gentle as his voice floating
through the hazy noise behind his eyes, calling his name.

He turned his head, focusing on the man next to him – he must have settled there again at
some point, facing Draco, watching him, making sure he was fine. Which he was. He was
fine. "I'm fine," he said, but his voice sounded croaky, broken, like he hadn't used it in a
while, like it struggled to escape the coldness in his chest.

"I know. I know you're fine," Potter replied, and Draco could tell that he meant it.

He turned to face the voice, curling into Potter's warmth as he repeated you're fine, you're
okay, and Draco let his forehead rest against Potter's chest, closing his eyes and just listening
– you're fine, you're okay – as Potter's body heat seeped into his clammy skin, a large hand
trailing steadily along his back as a chin rested on the top of his head and Draco realized
absently that he hadn't felt so secure in a long time.

When Draco opened his eyes again, the voice had stopped but the hand was still stroking his
back calmly, and he realized he had no idea how long they had been lying there. The feeling
had returned to his limbs, and he flexed his fingers experimentally, only to learn that he had
pressed them against Potter's abs at some point in an attempt to anchor himself. He felt his
ears burn, clearing his throat lightly as he tried to think of a casual remark to get him out of
this with whatever little dignity he had left. Potter must've felt him tense, however, since he
moved away easily, giving Draco some space even as he did his best to pretend he didn't miss
the warm hand on his back.

"Thank you," he said instead. It was small but earnest, and he meant it, and for once, he didn't
mind.

Potter, however, shook his head with a small smile. "You don't have to thank me," he
murmured, and his face turned serious. "I'm sorry, I didn’t think that you wouldn’t
remember..."

Draco raised an eyebrow, watching Potter as the man ran a hand through his hair, his eyes far
away and sad.

Was Potter honestly apologizing?

To Draco?

Right now?

After he saved his life?

What the hell?

"Don't be absurd, Potter, or I might have to have you admitted for one hell of a hero
complex," Draco replied, his tone dry, but the small smile was back and Draco found he was
too tired not to smile in return, so he added an eye roll for good measure.

"So what did you think happened last night when you woke up in a strange room half-
clothed?" Potter asked, his eyes teasing. Draco felt heat race up the back of his neck, but
attempted nonchalance anyway.

"Well, I just figured we –" Draco waved a hand between them ineffectually.

Smooth, Malfoy.

Potter raised an eyebrow. "You're still wearing pants."

Well at least Draco was now sure the blood flow had returned to his face. "I
am extremely hung over," he replied, shoving at Potter's chest and pretending he didn't know
the man was humoring him just a tad when he went with it and fell to the floor so Draco
could step over him and search for his shirt.

"Didn't seem too bothered at the idea either," Potter continued, and Draco decided that a man
should never sound that smug after falling off a bed.

"On second thought, I'm actually still drunk." Draco rounded on Potter then. "Speaking of –
where is my shirt?"

Potter stood, obviously trying his best not to meet Draco's eyes.

"I might have figured you wouldn't enjoy sleeping in a shirt covered in blood," he replied
eventually.

"Why was my shirt covered in blood?!" Draco asked, raising a hand to check his head for any
wounds he might have missed in the morning's excitement. God, he hoped he didn't have to
get stitches –

"No, not your blood," Potter replied, stilling Draco's hand with his own, "Or mine," he added
quickly, mercifully letting go of Draco's hand to scratch at the back of his neck sheepishly, "I
got a bit messy teaching that bastard a lesson outside the club."

He laughed nervously, and Draco rolled his eyes, decidedly ignoring the unwelcome thrill
that trickled down his spine at the thought of Potter beating some guy to a pulp because of –
because of him. Very unwelcome. "Stop fretting, Potter, I'm sure the pervert got what he
deserved and nothing more, but that doesn't explain the state of my clothing."
"Malfoy," Potter started, slowly, raising his eyebrows as he apparently waited for Draco to
catch on. Draco crossed his arms, and waited, raising one eyebrow in return.

He could do this all day.

All.

Day.

Urgh.

"Just spit it out, Potter."

"I had to carry you here."

Oh.

"Okay well I'm going to need a new shirt, then," Draco continued, head held high, he was not
going to crawl into a corner and hide –

"Harry! What are you doing, mate, we've been waiting for ages – What the fuck?!"

Ron stood in the doorway. He looked at Draco, then at Harry, then at Draco again, mouth
gaping like a fish that just discovered water isn't even real and it's actually a panda. He had
burst in without warning, obviously on his way somewhere, or from somewhere, expecting to
find Potter oversleeping or something to that effect.

Draco smirked. "Why am I not surprised you never learned to knock, Weasel?"

"Draco, not now," Harry growled, and Draco did his level best not to pout at the reprimand.
Instead, he crossed his arms and sulked internally.

“Harry, how could you, mate?!” Ron had apparently decided that Draco was not worth
squabbling with, but made no effort to come any further into the room.

"Ron, calm down, it's not what it looks like –" Potter started.

"Oh this is just making my morning," Draco drawled, getting quite fed up with being ignored.

"Draco, please, now is not the time. Ron, let's talk about this outside –"

"Draco?!" Ron cut in, looking at Potter in disbelief, "He's Draco now?! Harry, you
could’ve killed him!"

Oh. Well that was new.

Draco raised an eyebrow as Potter ran his hands through his hair, looking between him and a
fuming Weasley until realizing neither would be forthcoming with answers.

"Just what the fuck is he talking about?" he asked, instead.

Potter let out a long breath, wincing as he looked over at Draco and indicated to his own neck
with one finger. Draco was about to roll his eyes at Potter's pathetic attempt at charades – yes
I know what it means to kill someone – before he realized what Potter meant. He walked over
to the full-length mirror on the far wall, catching sight of the yellowing finger-shaped bruises
around his neck. He poked at one absently, not sure whether to cry at the pain or the fact that
some pervert managed to mar one of his best assets like that.

"Good God, that is pretty gory," he murmured more to himself than anyone else.

"Does he think this is funny?!" Ron yelled at Potter instead.

"Seriously, Weasel, I'm right here."

“Ronald? What’s all this yell–” and then Hermione Granger stepped into the room.

Well now it's a party.

Hermione's eyes went wide as she surveyed the room, catching sight of Draco standing in
front of the mirror still prodding at his injuries. "Oh my God, Draco, are you alright?" she
exclaimed, one hand fluttering to her mouth.

"I'm fine, Granger, honestly," Draco sighed.

Potter narrowed his eyes at the redhead. "Hermione, why do you know Malfoy?"

"What, a girl can't have friends outside of your little club?" Draco quipped, feeling a smug
spark of vindication as Ron finally turned his glare on him.

"Malfoy, you need to leave, this has got nothing to do with you," Ron growled, and Draco
crossed his arms stubbornly in reply.

"Ron, stop it!" Hermione cut in. "I’m sorry, I know I have a lot of explaining to do, to all of
you, but we can't keep doing this." She turned to Potter slowly. "Harry, you need to know...
Draco, he’s – he’s like us –"

Like – us?

Potter’s growl cut through the room, and suddenly Draco felt so stupid – “Be specific,
Hermione.”

Hermione pulled in a tremulous breath, but she soldiered on. “As far as I can tell he’s
unaffiliated. But he’s –” her eyes flitted over to him, “he’s a wolf, Harry.”

"Don’t." Draco hardly recognized his own voice, low and dangerous, bursting from his chest
before he could think twice about it. "Don’t you dare pretend to know a damn thing about
me, Granger," he hissed.

"Back up, Malfoy," Ron growled, stepping between Draco and Hermione, and Draco would
recognize a man spoiling for a fight a mile away, but suddenly Potter was standing between
him and the angry ginger and Ron backed off.
When Potter spoke, his voice commanded attention. "Hermione, explain."

"I'm sorry, Harry, I know this seems rather out of the blue but we all need to take a step
back–"

"Hermione!" Potter's voice was firm, but his eyes were violent as they pinned Draco to
the floor. "Why can’t I smell it?!"

Hermione made a sound in the back of her throat that sounded like she really knew she
should be quiet but it caused her physical pain.

“Harry… he’s on suppressants.”

Something in Potter’s eyes darkened at that, and Draco felt the floor fall out from under his
feet. He was done. Only Omegas took suppressants – Alphas and Betas had less rigorous
methods of hiding their scent that didn’t involve blocking hormones.

You little bitch, I tried to be nice, now I’m gonna show you what happens to boys who can't
behave –

Potter advanced on him quickly, and Draco could see his muscles straining with tension as he
cornered him, shirtless and quietly furious. When he spoke, it was more a rumble along
Draco’s nerve endings than a sound to his ears.

“I am the Alpha of this pack and you will tell me why you are in our territory concealing
your scent.”

Draco could feel his heartbeat in his throat and he was certain Potter sensed it too, the way
his eyes flickered to his pulse before stepping impossibly closer, impossibly more imposing
as he sent that deep, primal sound rattling through Draco’s bones.

"Tell me!" he barked, and Draco thought he saw a spark of hurt in his furious green eyes.

“I didn’t know there were others!”

Draco didn’t recognize his own voice until he realized Potter hadn’t turned to look at
whoever spoke behind him. He also instantly realized how stupid it was to tell the
truth. Didn't know there were others. No Alpha worth his salt would believe that – not
without an explanation.

Potter watched him a long moment, his jaw set and his gaze piercing. Hermione started to
speak, a soft Harry but he barely turned his head in answer, baring his teeth in warning
before she could finish coming to Draco's defense. Draco caught sight of a sharpened canine
glinting in the light.

Oh God. He was dead.

"Get dressed. We're going to talk," Potter growled, grabbing a shirt slung over a nearby chair
and throwing it at him.
 Draco watched him stalk out his room, before releasing the lungful of air he'd been holding.

They were going to talk.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

Chapter End Notes

Well, I guess the cat's out of the bag now, folks!

I mean, for Draco and Harry, in any case (and Ron as innocent bystander, poor thing).
You guys had tags. There's no excuse. I had fretted over whether or not to include this in
the tags to begin with, 'cause it's revealed so late in the story and is kind of a "surprise"
(but also not really, the signs are all there) but I realize some people are squicked by
A/B/O. Don't know how. I could read it aaaall day, son.
 Chapter 12
Chapter Notes

GUESS WHO'S NOT DEAD! This chapter is unofficially dedicated to

loveglowsinthedark 'cause I told them I was going to update about 20-something days
ago. And then I didn't. So I feel bad. (Sorry.)

On a different note, a couple comments suggested people actually DIDN'T realize this
was an A/B/O werewolf fic... which is both like yay! 'cause I got to do my surprise
properly but also confusing 'cause, y'know, tags guys. They're there. They don't lie.

In this vein, however, you might find I'm a bit more explicit in my explaining of the
universe (and how they didn't know about one another) this chapter. If anything seems
obvious to you 'cause you're a die-hard fan of A/B/O (like me), sorry, but I don't wanna
leave anyone behind, and also my universe might be a bit different to the wolf-verse
you're used to. I really thought this thing through. A lot. I swear.

Potter’s kitchen was decent but bare. All stylishly treated wood and granite countertops and
steel appliances that look like they hadn’t been used more than maybe twice in their entire
life. Draco would’ve written the lack of cookbooks or shopping lists off on the internet age,
but watching the man lean against a spotless counter wearing nothing but his jeans and a
stormy frown - with the recollection of the state of his bedroom, which was very much lived
in - Draco got the feeling Potter wasn’t much of a cook.

“For God’s sake, Potter, put on a shirt.”

Potter growled low in his chest, uncrossing his arms and pushing off the counter to stalk
forward until Draco was forced to sit on the kitchen table behind him to avoid Potter’s
looming form. It put him (another) couple inches shorter than the other man, and if the power
play weren’t so textbook, Draco might’ve been annoyed.

He crossed his arms and glared instead.

The short walk between bedroom and kitchen had bolstered Draco’s spirits again. Without the
raging Alpha yelling in his face and sending his blasted instincts spinning, he’d had a chance
to think the situation over, and figured he had a shot at this. While wolves were still very
much driven by their baser urges - Draco’s lip curled at the thought - it was hardly the 17th
century. There were laws; rules that governed the packs and appropriate punishment waiting
to be dished out.

Fine, maybe Draco had broken one or two of those laws himself, but Potter was hardly going
to rip his throat out for it.
Not in front of Hermione, anyway.

Right?

“Start talking, Malfoy,” Potter growled.

“Well, I’m Draco Malfoy,” he started in a bored drawl, “and I’m a Sagittarius. I like long
walks off short piers -”

“And you’re a fucking wolf, apparently, so you better drop the sarcasm and get to explaining
or I’m going to be perfectly within my rights to make you.”

Draco swallowed.

“Fine,” he replied, steadfastly ignoring how dry his voice sounded, “I’m Draco Malfoy and
I’m a seven-millionth generation pureblood werewolf or some shit. You’ll have to ask my
father, he’s the fanatic.”

“Why are you on suppressants?”

Draco snorted. “Because they suppress. My scent, the heats - I get to live a normal fucking
life, okay? Last time I checked, you can’t defer finals on the basis of wanting to fuck
everyone’s brains out,” he spat, his tone more bitter than he would’ve liked just then.

“That’s what temporary supps are for - you’re on permanent ones,” Potter replied.

“I have a busy schedule,” Draco ground out.

Potter was watching him, frowning, and Draco was finding it increasingly difficult to read
him. It itched under his skin and he shifted uncomfortably, saved from the disadvantage of
being the first to break eye contact by a crop of red hair stepping between them. Ron had one
hand on his friend’s shoulder and one suspicious eye on Draco as he spoke.

“Mate, I don’t know if I buy this,” he whispered about as covertly as a stampeding horde of
buffalo, “Sure, suppressants would explain the lack of scent but he’s not healing. Supps
don’t do that.”

Draco rolled his eyes. In the room, Weasel, God. “I am healing, just not at a breakneck pace,
Wolverine.”

“What?” Ron rounded on him, looking confused and hilariously offended. “That doesn’t even
make sense, Wolverine wasn’t a werewolf!”

“Ronald! Focus!” Hermione snapped from her vantage point in the far corner, glaring at Ron
as Draco grinned.

And then stopped.

‘Cause glaring Alpha and all that.

“Explain, Malfoy.”

“There’s nothing to explain! Supps do do that,” Draco snapped, arms crossed in a way that
said not my fault you don’t know that, God.

Potter looked over at Hermione, where she was watching Draco with a small, hesitant frown.
“Well - Yes, some,” she said, then looked like she wasn’t sure whether to continue or not.
“Nothing sanctioned by a reputable health organization, however.”

“Maybe we have different ideas on what constitutes reputable, Granger,” Draco replied
lightly, but the deepening of her frown made him slightly nervous, like she took personal
offence to that and he was going to pay in a manner he didn’t like.

“Alright, so I can’t scent you because you’re drugging yourself up til kingdom come -” Potter
summarized, running a hand through his hair but squaring his shoulders in the next breath.
Draco felt tired looking at him. “Doesn’t explain how you didn’t know about us.”

Potter’s gaze refused to waver, and Draco looked away. Dammit. He shifted slightly, leaning
back on his hands as he studied the kitchen cabinets behind Potter’s head.

“The meds suppress my ability to scent other wolves. I still have a slightly heightened sense
of smell,” he explained carefully, “but the cigarettes take care of it.”

“Seriously?!” Another Weasley outburst. “You expect us to believe you’ve basically turned
yourself fucking human for no reason whatsoever?!”

“Frankly, Ronald, I couldn’t give a damn what you believed about me,” Draco threw back.

“Enough.”

Draco had always hated how the tone of an Alpha could quiet a room without so much as an
additional decibel, how it ran ice through his veins and made the voice in the back of his head
whisper run, but he hated Potter’s voice even more.

Because Potter's voice made him shiver, sparked through him right down to his bones and
made him want to disobey just to see what he'd do to put Draco in his place.

Always had.

How had you missed this, you idiot?!

“So you're just living a normal life, huh.”

It wasn't really a question, but Draco felt the need to shrug like yeah, that's what I said, well
done detective anyway. Then Potter tilted his head in a way that made Draco's blood warm.

“By whose standards?”

“By my own, alright!” Draco grit out. Potter's voice was too soft, too quizzical, like he was
trying to understand - “No! You don’t get to do this - I'm perfectly within my rights to take
whatever suppressants I please, and I will not sit in a room with an Alpha and his fucking
entitled Betas and be told that -”

“Hey!” Ron burst out, stepping forward threateningly, “Don’t you come in here and -”

Draco snarled. “I didn’t come in here, you bloody imbecile -”

“You’re on my land, Malfoy, watch your step,” Potter growled, but Draco had had just about
enough of intimidating Alphas and their mind games and their abs.

“Again, Potter, not my fault -”

“Draco, Harry's territory runs from the Longbottom estate to about seven miles east of the
town border.” Hermione cut in swiftly. “That includes the university and, unless you're
commuting two hours a day, your home. You’re free to take whatever questionable
medication you like, but you had an obligation to report your presence and status to Harry the
moment you moved onto his land.”

Draco paused, his mind racing. He had been out of the loop for a couple years, sure, but this
was big - for someone so young to have claim to that much territory was unusual. Even if
Potter had inherited it, he wouldn’t go unchallenged, no -

He had earned his place.

It scared Draco as much as it excited him.

“As far as I knew this land was unclaimed,” he shot back, instead, “And you have nothing to
prove otherwise.”

“We don’t need proof, blimey, everyone knows that Harry’s Alpha in these parts,” Ron burst
out, “And honestly it’s just good sense to know your neighbors!”

“Oh? Is it?” Draco sneered, “So you explain your surprise at uncovering a wolf named
Malfoy how? My father’s land has been in the family for as long as there have been wolves.”

Potter was frowning now, and Draco fought down the strange urge to laugh hysterically at
his lack of an answer. He suspected he was strung a tad tighter than was strictly sane.

“So? How did none of you know?” Draco asked again, his tone mocking.

“I knew.”

Everyone turned as one to Hermione where she stood in the corner of the room, tall and
unflappable.

“Oh, you can stop looking at me like that now, it’s my job to know,” Hermione snapped, “The
land has always belonged to the Malfoys, you really don’t need to snoop very far to find out
that much. As far as anyone was aware, though, the Malfoys have been residing comfortably
in France for the last decade or so, thus my not mentioning it,” she explained evenly.
“And when you discovered that this wasn’t the case - at least not for the youngest Malfoy?”
Potter asked, far too calmly as far as Draco was concerned.

“I decided to investigate,” Hermione replied squarely, “He wasn’t causing any trouble - in
fact, he was doing the exact opposite of causing trouble anywhere other than where he and
your little spats were involved, so I decided to scope him out for myself.”

“Hermione,” that was Ron, sounding equal parts angry and worried, “Blimey, that’s
dangerous, you should’ve told one of us, at least.”

“I am not a glass ornament, Ronald, I am just as capable as either of you of assessing a

threat,” Hermione replied sternly, and Draco was reminded again why he liked her so much.
“Honestly, I was intending to just keep an eye on him from afar but then you were in such a
foul mood that one day," she directed this at Potter, "and when I eventually tracked him
down, he practically reeked of you, which none of you realized since you were probably
avoiding him and it was just so irresponsible, Harry -"

She cut herself off, realizing belatedly that she was chewing out her pack Alpha in front of a
possible intruder, but her expression communicated how not sorry she was. Draco would've
been amused were he not completely mortified - he smelled like Potter?! They'd barely even -
he felt heat run up the back of his neck and shoved the thought into the overflowing IGNORE
box in his brain.

"Draco is not a threat,” Hermione stated firmly, finally. She turned on him then, and caught
him in a level gaze. “What he is, is in trouble.”

“The looming Alpha your first clue, Granger?” he snapped.

“Your suppressants are dangerous, Draco, and you know it.”

“They do the job,” Draco growled in return.

“And what exactly is the job, Malfoy?”

Draco fought the urge to roll his eyes. “Good Lord, Potter, you know what Albert Einstein
said about the definition of insanity, right?”

“If I expect different results, Malfoy, it’s because I know you’re not telling me the whole
truth here,” Potter growled in response, and Draco couldn’t find a snappy comeback to that if
he tried. “You’re on black market drugs, your extremist parents are secretly holed away in
their bloody estate -”

“Don’t you dare talk about my mother like that!” Draco was standing before he realized it,
his words hanging in the air as if suspended by the tension, and he clenched his fists as
Potter's expression shifted all at once. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, and Draco's chest
felt tight.

“Draco. If you want me to believe you weren’t hiding on purpose, and that I don’t have just
cause to do everything in my power to protect my pack from you right now," Potter spoke,
"you need to tell me the truth.”

The truth.

When was the last time he’d even tried to tell the truth to anyone?

“I was aware that my parents were laying low,” he started, instead, picking his words
carefully, because at least they weren't a lie, “My father had formed an alliance with a
neighboring Alpha when I was a child. The Alpha was under the impression that humans
posed a threat to wolves; that living in hiding was cowardly and would only lead to the
downfall of wolf civilization. He proved a tad…” Draco waved one hand dismissively,
“Insane.”

He glanced over at the trio, having wandered slightly as he spoke. They were impassive, not
even Potter’s small frown giving anything away. How much did they know?

“It was quite an affair, really," he continued breezily, "After his fall - by the hands of a young
new up-and-comer by the name Evans, I’m told - my father thought it prudent to keep us
under wraps until the whole mess blew over, and we could be reintroduced into the wolf
community without… prejudice.”

Draco eyed Potter as he spoke, curious. The Alpha was uncharacteristically quiet about it all,
not asking questions or interrupting, and Draco really had no idea what to make of his
behaviour.

What do they know?

“I wasn’t lying,” he said finally, “Earlier, about my suppressants. My father might’ve seen it
wise to conceal my nature for political reasons, but I’m not -”

Unhappy?

“I’m not complaining about the convenience,” Draco finished.

“How long has it been?” Potter asked, finally.

Draco waved one hand vaguely. “A couple years, I’m hardly marking it off on my calendar.”

“It’s been years? And you don’t question it, now? Your father’s motivations?” Potter quirked
an eyebrow incredulously, and Draco felt his skin itch.

“My Alpha ordered it. I obeyed.”

Potter tilted his head to the side, assessing. “You’re lying.”

“Prove it,” Draco snarled back.

“Harry -” Hermione’s voice cut through the tension like a knife, "It's been a long morning."
Draco felt her gaze flicker between him and Potter anxiously. The silence stretched tight
between them, and for a moment Draco thought the Alpha would never relent, but then Potter
stepped back and Draco remembered how to breathe.

"This is hardly over," Potter warned.

"Ta," Draco breathed, turning on his heel towards the bedroom, "I'll just get my things -"

Potter's hand was suddenly firm on his bicep, the fact that a grip so far from painful was
capable of stopping him in his tracks really grating at Draco's nerves.

“You’re not going anywhere," Potter stated calmly, and Draco could do little more than gape
at the implication.

You can't possibly mean -

“Draco, you’ve got three options,” Potter spoke, matter-of-factly, his gaze refusing to let
Draco go, “Either you stay within spitting distance of me at all times, you move back in with
your father, or you go back to your normal life but you stop taking those damn pills.”

Green eyes bore into his, his expression open and plain.

Choose, it said.

“You’re taking the couch,” Draco found himself saying, and dimly wondered when Potter
had become his safest option.
 Chapter 13
Chapter Notes

I'll just leave this here.

Believe it or not I rewrote this chapter like 3 times and thought about it for a looooong
time 'cause this is probably the most difficult stage of their relationship to capture, but I
hope it does it justice. It's like 2:30 am though so sorry for any typos or if it's weird. Idk.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Draco sat perched on the end of the couch, hands in his lap. The apartment was deathly quiet,
not even the ticking of a wall clock to fill the empty rooms with life, save for the muffled
sound of running water two doors down.

You live here now.

Draco sucked in a deep breath, exhaling through his nose deliberately as he clutched the
leather on either side of his knees to anchor himself. Shut up, he thought, which was ironic
considering the voice telling him how fucked he was, was also the one telling itself to quit it,
but Draco would have to appreciate it later.

Right now he was trying to figure out what the fuck to do.

Honestly, the morning had turned out completely uneventful after the blow out with the
Potter pack. Hermione and Weasley had said their goodbyes after more furious whispering
and warning glances from Hermione than were strictly necessary, and then Draco and Harry
were left to stare at each other from opposite sides of the living room for a tense while before
the other man uncrossed his arms and disappeared into his room without a word.

Draco heard the shower start up, and sat down abruptly.

Cue current near-panic attack.

It was always uncomfortable being in another person’s space, that itching urge to walk on
eggshells around things that didn’t belong to you or spaces that worked in ways you didn’t
understand, but there were rules to make one’s course of action clearer. Etiquette. Guests
were to respond to hosts as appropriate and even if everyone hated it and one another they
wouldn’t be punished for their lack of class later.
Potter had no idea of etiquette, and Draco had no idea what to do. The water shut off, and
Draco’s scalp prickled. It just wasn’t right, to leave someone like this, a guest, no matter how
unexpected. How was he supposed to respond to this, deal with the fact that he had no idea
when he would see his own flat again, however small and shoddy it may seem in comparison
to all the leather and glass and chrome in this place, deal with the fact that they knew and
he’d have to explain and admit that –

Draco stood, then, abruptly.

He was going to make himself a motherfucking cup of tea.

Draco flicked the switch on the electric kettle, fighting the urge to hum out loud to add to the
rumble of the bubbling water. The kitchen was no different to this morning, still way too
clean to be considered lived in, but the sunlight streaming in through the gigantic window
made the whole place seem so much emptier. Lonelier, without a handful of young adult
werewolves crowded around, trying to unpick the mystery that was one Draco Malfoy.

Steadfastly ignoring his shaking fingers, Draco looked through the cupboards over the coffee
station, in search of a teacup. The crockery was all nondescript porcelain in shades of grey,
but nestled amongst the stark white cups was a set of three delicate teacups. They were a
faded cream with intricate purple designs hand-painted around the rim. Carefully, Draco
picked one from the bunch and held it gently between his fingertips.

It was pretty, even faded with time. Draco knew fine china, and this certainly wasn’t
expensive or even branded, yet it felt precious. It was thin, delicate, yet it had been cared for.
Perfect. Flawless.

Draco jumped as the front door slammed, suddenly, and the teacup slipped between his
fingers like silk, shattering as it hit the tiles.

It felt like whole minutes passed before Draco’s eyes could focus on the porcelain at his feet.
The cup was in three neat pieces; the base, the handle and a shard from the side that hit the
ground. Draco crouched slowly, picking up the pieces with soft fingertips before laying them
carefully on the kitchen counter. He toed over to the adjacent pantry, grabbing a hand-broom
and dustpan to sweep up any errant splinters. That done, he rifled through the drawers before
he found a tube of superglue. Bending over the kitchen counter, Draco pieced the teacup back
together, nearly sticking his own fingers first to the cup then to each other. Finally, it stood
whole on the counter once again, perfect save for the hairline cracks that no amount of glue
would ever erase.

It was broken, once, and no one could fix it now.

A sound tore from his throat, something like a sob but broken and angry, and Draco grabbed
one of the nondescript white mugs from the still-open cupboard and hurled it at the bare
kitchen floor. It shattered with a clash that rang in his ears, porcelain scattering across the
tiles, so Draco grabbed another and another and watched their pieces skitter across the floor
like something living.
Carefully picking up the teacup still perched on the counter like the lone witness to his slowly
unravelling sanity, Draco skirted around the worst of the stark porcelain shards and made his
way to the bedroom. He shouldn’t – he knew he shouldn’t, it wasn't his place, not his place –
but the sunshine streaming through the rest of the apartment was making his scalp prickle and
his chest feel too small for his lungs. The bedroom was easy to shut off, the curtains allowing
through only the same smattering of light as the last time he’d been in the room, and with the
door shut it felt like he was boxing in the panic, his breath slowing to a deep
inhale/exhale/repeat that smelled like Potter’s cologne but nothing else in particular.

Yet.

Potter’s room was still a mess, and when trembling fingers finally set down the teacup on the
bedside table, it was on a stack of books. Draco crawled into the bed, tucking the pillow into
the crook of his neck and feeling his muscles relax as he focused on his breathing, staring
aimlessly at the teacup in the soft light.

In.

Out.

Were it not for the too-long sleeves of his shirt and the completely alien silence of being in an
apartment five stories higher than his own with walls made of something other than paper, he
might’ve believed he was at home, cuddling back into bed after grabbing some water to wash
down a dream with more detail than any dream deserved to have.

But he wasn’t at home.

Draco pulled the covers over his head, and cried.

When Draco woke, his eyelids felt heavy and there was a pounding behind his left eye that he
recognized as the universe’s pleasant reminder of a good cry. Cracking one eye open, he
wondered when he’d fallen asleep – he certainly hadn’t meant to, yet the light filtering
through the curtains was decidedly subdued, stemming now from streetlights and passing
cars. Scanning the indistinct shapes scattered around the room quietly, he caught sight of the
teacup perched on the pile of books, feeling a heavy sadness start to settle in his belly before
his eyes adjusted and he realized –

It wasn’t the same teacup.

His heart beating in his throat, Draco pushed himself up on one outstretched arm, eyeing the
cup cautiously. This teacup was from the same set as the one he’d left there, but it was
missing the cracks and tiny chip along the rim. This one was whole, and it wasn’t empty. A
quick sniff revealed the hot liquid to be tea, as he suspected, and although it was no longer
giving off steam and Draco could hold the cup quite comfortably, it wasn’t cold enough to be
unpalatable. It had been brewed recently.

Brewed recently and left there. For him.

Draco found Potter in the sitting room, on the couch with his back to the hallway and his
elbows on his knees as he cradled the cracked teacup between his fingers. Draco stood in the
doorway, watching, feeling the weight of the cup of tea in his hands and wondering how to
say hey thanks I think but also what the fuck. Adrenaline warred with bone-deep exhaustion,
as he shifted and a floorboard creaked. Draco started and turned to stare wide–eyed at Potter,
who had turned to face him.

“Oh – I’m sorry, I didn’t realize…” Potter murmured, trailing off aimlessly in a manner that
was so un-Potter-like that the apology made Draco feel more on-edge than the man yelling at
him for being in his doorway and in his house and in his room and in his bed would have.

Draco nodded, once, terse, as Potter placed the teacup he was holding carefully on the coffee
table in front of him. Potter’s hair was mussed, the sleeves of his white shirt pushed up to the
elbows, and Draco wondered whether he looked that tired too.

“Hermione – she’s coming over tomorrow,” Potter spoke, almost as if to fill the empty space
with words, and Draco wanted to retort to ease the tension in his skin, cut back that it wasn’t
really fucking up to him was it and Potter could get fucked if he thought Draco was looking
forward to seeing the redhead anyway but his tongue felt glued to the roof of his mouth
instead as his gaze dropped and he stared aimlessly at the shimmering surface of his cup of
tea.

He felt more than heard Potter move, standing from the couch to pad over to where Draco
was standing, and Draco could make out the bottoms of his jeans and his bare feet as he came
to a stop before him. Draco suddenly felt underdressed, even though he was arguably more
covered, and he felt his fingertips grasp anxiously at the shirt sleeves hanging halfway over
his hands before he heard a soft sound, caught somewhere between surprised and injured, and
he whipped his gaze upwards automatically to catch Potter leaning against the wall of the
narrow hallway heavily.

“What…” Draco murmured, not sure what he was asking.

“You…” Potter started quietly, pausing as he shoved one hand in his jeans pocket, “The
clothes. I know you can’t tell but,” Potter murmured, gesturing slightly with his free hand,
“they smell like me.”

You smell like me.

“You have chocolate on your shirt,” Draco replied quietly but evenly, as if they were
exchanging anecdotes about their outfits, “It’ll stain.”

Potter made a surprised sound and glanced down almost as if he forgot he wore a shirt at all.

“Oh, yeah, I went for ice cream with Ginny today,” he muttered absently, like it wasn’t a big
deal, like one would recount a chance encounter with a particularly colourful butterfly on the
walk home.

It wasn’t a big deal.

“Oh,” Draco responded, because it wasn’t a big deal, and stepped around Potter quickly,
making his way to the kitchen briskly only to stop in his tracks immediately upon entry.

“Stop,” he whispered, but Potter never listened.

The kitchen floor was clean, the carnage from earlier in the day swept away like it never
happened, and Draco put down his tea on the counter heavily as he tried to wrap his head
around what was happening and what Potter was doing and why he hadn’t even mentioned
that Draco had wrecked his kitchen before crying himself to sleep in his bed.

Potter followed him, of course, because Potter never did what Draco wanted, he just did.

“Ginny and I, we’re not…” Potter began, pausing in the doorway behind Draco, as if
searching for the right word, and eloquent as ever, settling on: “We’re not a thing.”

“We’re not a thing either, Potter,” Draco murmured, swallowing hard, because they weren’t
whatever a thing was.

“Harry.”

“What?” Draco turned from the clean floor to stare at Potter, confused.

“Call me Harry,” he repeated, like they had just met in a bar or the party of a mutual friend.

“Harry–” Draco started, almost incredulously, but then felt the name on his tongue, the
familiarity of it, the way it said everything about how a wall they didn’t even know was there
had fallen away in the space of a day, and it made his words less scathing even as he tried to
get distance. “You’re not supposed to…”

“I’m not supposed to what?” Harry asked quietly.

“You’re supposed to be angry with me,” Draco shot back, receiving only the same halfway
confused halfway hurt noise from earlier and feeling his hackles raise.

“I’m angry with you,” Draco continued, his voice just loud enough now to not be considered
civil anymore even as he felt his throat constrict.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said simply, and Draco felt his resolve snap.

“No! You don’t get to be sorry!” Draco yelled, gritting his teeth, “I’m angry, and you’re
angry – it’s the reason I’m here, isn’t it?! Because I’m dangerous?!”

“Yes,” Harry breathed, but he looked about as convinced as Draco felt, so Draco placed both
hands on Harry’s chest and shoved him as hard as he could, which only sent himself reeling
back considering their size difference and general athleticism.

“Then fucking– FUCK!” Draco hissed as he lifted his left foot quickly only to see droplets of
red fall onto the lone shard of porcelain he’d failed to spot against the equally white kitchen
tiles.
 “Shit–” this was Harry, which was really funny considering Draco was the one bleeding all
over the place, thank you very much, but he’d barely opened his mouth to cut back before
Harry was lifting him onto the counter, his stomach swooping at the sudden rise and stop.
Draco wasn’t sure if it was that or the pain suddenly starting to register, but he felt like he
might throw up for a moment, his head rush subsiding just in time to witness Harry freak the
fuck out.

“Oh my God, that’s so much blood,” he muttered, clutching a handful of paper towels as he
hovered, and Draco rolled his eyes with what blood he had left in his head.

“Dear Lord, just–” Draco snapped, grabbing a paper towel from him and pressing it to the
cut, staunching the blood flow and easing the pain slightly. “Feet bleed a lot, how don’t you
know this?”

“How do you know this?” Harry shot back, and Draco snorted, because duh, but then
suddenly he couldn’t stop laughing and Harry was looking much too alarmed at this and it
just made him crack up all over again.

“What the fuck– Draco, what the–”

“Say what the fuck one more time,” Draco giggled, and Harry huffed out an incredulous
laugh at that, before his lips quirked involuntarily and suddenly he was laughing too, kind of
breathy at first but then hard enough for him to lean over the counter next to Draco and press
his forehead against the cool granite in an attempt to anchor himself.

“What the fuck,” he muttered eventually as they caught their breath, laughter dying into
steady inhale/exhale/repeat.

“I don’t know,” Draco replied eventually, his head lolling back against the cupboards behind
him, “I honestly don’t know.”

Chapter End Notes

Have a drink every time I used the word teacup in this chapter.

Urgh, I want to rattle on for ages about this, but I won't. Let me know what you guys
think - I know it's probably a bit weird, but I find emotional rollercoasters tend to be a
bit weird. This is the turning point. We can only stabilize from here. That's what I was
trying to get at.

Also sorry if you didn't get the significance of Harry making Draco a cup of tea. Like, in
my house a cup of tea is the ultimate sign of affection. I make you a cup of tea and YOU
BEST KNOW I LOVE YOU BITCH. I feel Draco gets that. Idk.

Love you guys <3

 Chapter 14
Chapter Notes

Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in.

Me. I'm what the cat dragged in. Literally. An absolute mess.

I'm so happy to have something to post for you guys!! It's been, like, half a year, I know,
so if you're still around I think we can officially call this a cult now for the level of
commitment you're at. I feel like I have to say this every A/N, but this story is not, has
never been, and will never be abandoned. Ever. If it takes me another two years, it does,
but by god this thing will be finished.

Sorry, that wasn't very inspirational. I promise it won't take another two years. *cries*

Anyway, let's get on with this shit show.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

There were still droplets of red on the kitchen floor the next morning, when Draco woke up
far earlier than necessary and crept down the hallway, doing his best to avoid the creaky
floorboard in the doorway. Harry had taken the couch, in the end, much to Draco’s
disappointment surprise, and Draco had managed to rummage (unsuccessfully) through the
alpha’s cupboard for clothing he wouldn’t positively drown in and get showered and changed
without waking the other man.

Seeing himself in the bathroom mirror that morning had been strange, and if he stared at his
reflection for longer than normal, trying to figure out why he didn’t quite recognize the
person staring back at him, he was committed to not thinking too hard about it.

The purplish yellowish marks around his neck were fading to a dull reminder now, but he
opted for a poloneck jersey anyway, the hem falling past his butt, making him feel slightly
better about having to put on his skin-tight leather trousers again (God they were
inappropriate). Harry didn’t own anything resembling hair products, so the best Draco could
do was brush his hair with his fingers and hope it didn’t frizz too horrendously.

He’d even managed to get the kitchen floor cleaned up – properly, this time – and the kettle
on before he heard the shuffle of bare feet on wooden floors and looked over to see Harry
leaning in the doorway shirtless of course I mean why would anyone ever wear a shirt if they
had a body like that –

Draco cleared his throat and turned back to the kettle. “Morning. Tea?”
“I’m more of a coffee man myself,” Harry replied, and Draco could hear him smiling, and his
ears were not hot thankyouverymuch.

“Philistine,” he muttered, pulling another mug from the seriously diminished stash in the
cupboard overhead, “You’re getting instant, then,” Draco added, looking over at Harry
pointedly as the other man chuckled and threw his hands up in surrender.

“Let it never be said that Harry Potter argued with a man holding a teaspoon,” he said, and
Draco felt the corners of his mouth twitch before he realized oh God this is actually nice.

They were clearly both insane, but it was nice.

Draco turned back to the task at hand, brewing their drinks efficiently. He had just finished
stirring Harry’s coffee, the aforementioned teaspoon held in mid-air as he contemplated the
merits of dirtying a new spoon as opposed to cross-contaminating his tea with a lesser source
of caffeine, when he felt the other man’s presence at his back. Draco tensed instantly,
distracted as he was, holding his breath in hopes that Harry wouldn’t notice he’d nearly
jumped out his skin, but Harry merely chuckled as he reached around Draco for his coffee,
muttering a quiet why thank you into the skin just under Draco’s ear.

Draco exhaled all at once, and he felt his ears heat up.

“You– I–” Oh God, now he was stuttering.

“Yes, Draco?” Harry murmured, in that voice that sounded like a smile, and Draco really
didn’t have an answer to that – what was he even going to protest about again? He could feel
Harry behind him, not quite touching, and there was a coil in Draco’s gut at the knowledge
that Harry wasn’t even fully dressed. If he just leaned back, ever so slightly – it wasn’t even a
full step and Draco would be able to feel the alpha pressed against him. His breath hitched at
the thought, and he swore Harry was pulling the air tight between them as he suddenly
growled low in his chest, sucking in a deep breath where his nose was nearly pressed into
Draco’s neck –

Draco dropped the spoon, the sharp sound of metal hitting stone piercing the room as dread
flooded his veins.

Harry jerked back as if burnt, spilling coffee over the sides of the mug he still held in his
right hand in the process. Draco twisted from the bracket of his arms quickly, narrowly
missing getting some coffee on his own person.

“Oh – shit, I’m sorry, I – just –” Draco stammered, turning to rummage through a couple
drawers before stumbling across a dishtowel he was pretty sure had never actually been used
before. He rushed over to Harry, pressing the cloth against the hand that had been holding the
now abandoned cup quickly.

“Are you okay? Are you burnt?” Draco was rambling, he knew he was, but he tried not to
notice how his own hands trembled as they held Harry’s.
“No – No, Draco, I’m alright, really,” Harry responded in a low tone – some distant part of
Draco’s mind was offended that the man was trying to calm him down, while the rest
panicked quite fervently.

“Are you sure?” Draco asked, dropping the dishtowel to inspect the skin of Harry’s hand still
cradled in his own. “It was hot, and –”

“Draco. Hey,” Harry said, firmly, his left hand covering Draco’s suddenly. Draco looked up
involuntarily, meeting soft green eyes, tinged with something that made his chest ache. “It’s
okay. I’m sorry.”

Draco opened his mouth, then closed it, cursing the universe and all its deities that he
was here, that there was no way to tell Harry never to be sorry for that, to run his fingertips
over the man’s forearms and dig his fingernails into Harry’s biceps as Draco pressed himself
against him and stole every regret from him with his kiss, and at the same time not lose who
he was.

It had been too long. Draco had taken his last dose on Thursday – he was more than 48 hours
overdue. He couldn’t get too close.

He wanted to cry.

“Don’t be,” he said instead, in a voice so small he barely heard it himself, and hoped it was
enough.

Harry smiled, softly, and Draco wanted to cry all over again, but he settled for pulling away
reluctantly to clean the last of the spilt coffee and dump the ruined cup in the sink before
grabbing a clean mug from the nondescript collection and flicking the kettle on again.

“Last chance to convert to the nectar of the civilized,” Draco joked weakly, the pressure on
his chest lifting slightly at the sound of Harry’s laughter.

“You don’t have to – oh, fuck, I’m going to be late to meet Ron, actually,” Harry said all at
once, in that way only those who never keep calendars can.

“Wait, I thought Granger was coming over,” Draco said, turning to face the man, only to
realize he was halfway to his bedroom already.

“She is,” Harry called, and Draco rolled his eyes as he followed him, because he was not
going to yell.

“To talk to you,” Harry continued loudly, and Draco nearly flattened himself against the wall
next to the bedroom door when he realized Harry was now dressed only in his underwear,
looking around the room for something. Apparently closing doors was now too civilized.

“I think she wants to apologize,” Harry smiled, holding up a pair of jeans triumphantly before
stepping into them. Not that Draco was looking.

Draco snorted. “Of course. You lot are too righteous,” he muttered, crossing his arms as he
stared at the ceiling some more.
“Draco,” Harry’s voice was closer, then, surprising Draco into looking at him again, as the
man stood before him holding a shirt in one hand because dear God why on earth would he
put it on I mean Draco really hasn’t suffered enough already –

The doorbell sounded, and Harry smirked as Draco jumped slightly, so Draco did the mature
thing and grabbed the shirt, tossing it in Harry’s face before spinning on his heel to go answer
the door. Harry’s laugh followed him down the hallway, Draco opening the front door with a
small involuntary smile.

“Granger,” he greeted the guest lightly, before he felt the smile melt off his face at the sight
of her companion.

It should have been some consolation that Ginerva Weasley looked just as shocked to see him
as he was to see her, but even her twisted freckled face couldn’t settle the roiling in his gut at
the sight of her, the way he had to clench his teeth to keep his scathing words at bay. Even
once she had schooled her features, however, Draco noted the lack of uncreative insults that
would usually follow an encounter with the ginger, along with the not-so-subtle glances at
her future sister-in-law.

And, well, that was interesting.

“Draco,” Hermione smiled, and Draco glanced over just in time to see Ginny’s eyes bug out
of her head again, the the fuck?! obviously on the tip of her tongue and oh, if Draco hadn’t
woken up in the bed of a six-foot Adonis that morning (said Adonis’ presence lacking, of
course, but Draco was very much taking wins where we could find them these days),
discovering that the Weaselette was scared of Hermione would surely be the highlight of his
day.

As it was, it was certainly lifting his spirits. Were Pansy present, she would have taken one
look at him and shuddered.

“Hermione, sorry I’m running –” Harry rounded the corner, now wearing shoes but pulling
on his shirt as he went. “Oh, Ginny, this is a surprise,” he finished, coming to stand next to
Draco in the entrance hall. Draco tried not to smirk at the way Ginny’s eyes flicked between
recently-shirtless-Harry and himself.

Let the useless little cogs turn.

“Yes, Ginny simply insisted on tagging along, despite my telling her I wouldn’t be joining
you and Ron for breakfast,” Hermione responded, her tone as completely devoid of
enthusiasm as her face.

“Oh,” Harry responded, oh-so-eloquently, “well, I suppose – I mean, we were just going to
grab a bite somewhere close-by, nothing fancy –”

Draco fought valiantly to roll his eyes at Harry’s attempt at dissuading the girl from stalking
him, but alas, lost. Hermione coughed suddenly, the corners of her mouth turned up, before
she turned to Ginny suddenly.
“Oh, Gin, I completely forgot!” she exclaimed, Ginny looking at her as if she’d gone mad, “I
promised your mum I’d let her know if Harry and Draco would be joining us for supper next
Wednesday. I’m assuming you are, right?” she finished, turning a sharp eye on the two men.

“Of course,” Harry responded immediately, and Draco nearly cracked one of Harry’s ribs
with his elbow out of reflex, because what the fuck he was not venturing into Weasley
territory had Potter lost his bloody mind but he knew that Ginny was watching, so he settled
instead for an easy smirk and a: “I’m sure I’d find it infinitely more entertaining than
lounging about here alone all evening.”

If Harry seemed surprised at Draco taking the news so well, he didn’t show it (although
Draco half-suspected that the situation being uncomfortable for him hadn’t occurred to the
other man at all.) Hermione did raise an eyebrow, but the last reaction was the one he was
most looking forward to.

“Wait – he’s sleeping here? Where?!” Draco widened his eyes at the youngest ginger’s tone,
as if surprised she was so worked up I mean golly gosh young lady these personal affairs are
hardly your business now are they.

Draco was soaring.

Harry’s brow furrowed at the outburst. “My bed,” he replied, in a tone that suggested it was
obvious, only Draco seemed to be the only one between the two of them who realized that the
implied while I sleep on the couch for I am a gentleman of virtue was anything but obvious.
Draco would’ve been full-on smirking now if he wasn’t biting his lip so hard – this couldn’t
have gone better if he’d drilled a script into Harry’s head.

“In either case,” Hermione spoke, as if nothing untoward had occurred, “Gin, it just occurred
to me your mum mentioned last time we spoke how she doesn’t get to see you nearly often
enough. I’m all tied up right now, would you mind terribly popping past on your way home
and letting her know for me?” Hermione asked, her tone saccharine sweet.

Ginny gaped at Hermione silently, her eyes flicking between the redhead and Harry, and
Draco felt the same darkness in the pit of his stomach at the look she sent Harry’s way.

He hadn’t felt anything like it in years.

Harry reached for his jacket hanging from the coat rack, pulling it on as he commented “I’ve
got to get going, I’ll walk you to the corner, Gin?”

Draco knew it was crisis averted, Hermione having gotten rid of the unwanted guest, but even
the mention of Harry taking a short walk with Ginny prickled at the back of his neck. God, it
was ridiculous, he was just being polite, they’d literally had their tongues down each other’s
throats before –

Harry turned to say goodbye, Draco gathered, but Draco was already stepping closer and
lifting one hand to rest on Harry’s chest casually as he took a deep breath, clearing the haze
of murderous intent from the forefront of his mind. At such a short distance, Draco had to
crane his neck just to be able to look Harry in the eye as he spoke; Harry instinctually raised a
hand to Draco’s lower back to stabilize him even as he raised an eyebrow at Draco’s
proximity.

Draco smiled naughtily, and he knew it looked like flirting.

It was flirting, some corner of his mind supplied, before it was kicked into submission by the
devious quarter that was running this show.

“I need to head over to my place and grab some more clothes when Hermione and I are done
chatting,” he murmured idly, keeping his tone casual but low enough that Harry had to watch
his lips to follow, “I’ll pop past the grocer’s on the way back – supper tonight? I’ll cook,” he
finished, smiling warmly at Harry.

“Sure, that sounds great,” Harry murmured, his tone low and gravelly, and Draco felt a very
real shiver run along his spine. Harry’s hand at his lower back tensed, as if sensing his
response, and Draco watched his pupils dilate, black swallowing green, the air suddenly
feeling thin in his lungs.

Hermione cleared her throat pointedly, and Draco swayed as Harry stepped back slightly.

“Fantastic,” Draco breathed, holding Harry’s gaze until the door closed behind them, leaving
Draco alone in the entrance way with Hermione and her raised eyebrow.

Draco rolled his eyes, and made his way to the living room, taking a seat in the armchair.
Hermione sat down on the couch across from him, next to the neatly folded sheet and pillow
Harry had pulled from the hall cupboard last night to sleep under. She cast a pointed look at
the bedding, then at Draco, who returned her gaze coolly, and the two proceeded to stare one
another down.

“I saw what you did there,” Hermione said, eventually. “It wasn’t very nice,” she continued,
but she was smiling just a little.

“I’m certain I have no idea what you’re on about, Granger,” Draco drawled, “And even if I
did, I assure you I wasn’t trying to be nice.”

Hermione scoffed. “Don’t try to pull that bullshit on me, Draco. I saw that – right in front of
Ginny!” Suddenly, she smiled, and Draco didn’t like it one bit. “You’re staking claim!”

“What?! That’s– Even if I was–” Draco swallowed hard around the words, because he wasn’t,
“I’m Omega. We don’t stake claim.”

“What?” Now Hermione was looking at him oddly, “Of course we do.”

“You –” Draco cut himself short immediately, but Hermione was quick.

“Surprised?” she smiled.

“Well – I’m sorry, I just assumed –,” Draco cleared his throat, “You never seem to be taking
orders from him, from Weasley, rather it’s the other way around –”
“So you assumed I must be a beta or I’d be bending over backwards?” Hermione finished for
him with a look.

“I – I don’t –” Draco swallowed hard, and shut himself up.

Hermione smiled, more to herself than anything else, but it was kind. “Don’t worry, I
understand. I know that some of the older, more traditional folk– Well, I guess I don’t need to
tell you,” she finished lamely, shifting slightly as if uncomfortable with the topic.

Draco clenched his jaw against the sudden stifling sensation in his throat, and bit out: “And
yet I get the feeling that you’re going to.”

Hermione sighed, and Draco averted his eyes. Suddenly, the air felt heavy, and that very
morning seemed a distant memory.

“Why are you really here, Granger?” he managed.

“Draco, you and I both know your father isn’t your Alpha anymore.”

The silence that followed stretched until Draco felt sure he would be at the receiving end
when it snapped.

“Of course he is, he’s my father,” Draco said to the floor, eventually, his voice as cold as his
chest felt.

“Yes,” Hermione countered firmly, “He’s your father and he was your Alpha. And the
moment he found out his firstborn was an omega he did what purebloods have done for
generations: he cast you out of his pack and severed the bond.”

Draco could hear the anger in her voice, the rage boiling under the surface at the injustice,
the wrongness, but all he felt was cold. It hurt less to feel cold.

“You didn’t tell Harry,” Draco observed.

“It wasn’t my place,” Hermione supplied, and Draco’s fist clenched against his will.

“Funny how you’re suddenly concerned about what you have the right to share,” Draco
snarled.

Hermione’s expression hardened. “I will not apologize for sharing information that could
potentially harm my pack,” she stated shortly. “That you are a wolf is not something Harry
cannot know. Your suppressants, on the other hand – you don’t have to obey your father, but
if you choose to keep taking them –” Hermione paused, continuing softly, “I will not share
my suspicions over your motives with Harry in this regard, but Draco, you need to tell him.”

Hermione paused, and Draco looked up to see her pulling something out of her purse and
handing it to him.

“You are not only hurting yourself with this,” she said firmly.
 Draco took what was offered wordlessly, staring down at the small object in his hand for
what felt like hours.

A familiar yellow pill bottle.

“I –” Draco swallowed hard. “Where did you get these?”

“They’re mine,” Hermione replied simply.

Draco watched her for a moment.

“I don’t understand,” he said eventually, because he didn’t.

“I found wolf dynamics very confusing when I was first turned,” Hermione offered by way of
explanation, and Draco’s eyes widened despite himself.

“You were– you were bitten? Oh my god,” he said, because he was a born wolf himself, but
he had heard stories, of the horror of turning, the human body accommodating to its new
form, the high fatality rate –

Hermione smiled sadly. “Yeah. It wasn’t fun, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t regret it. My
parents tried really hard, they did,” she continued, sighing heavily, “Found out everything
they could about wolves and how to look after them, but in the end they couldn’t know
everything. They tried to keep me healthy but I was so scared of what could happen, that I
could hurt them without meaning to – so I turned to those,” she finished, nodding at the pills
Draco still held reverently.

“They’re not meant to be taken for prolonged periods of time, though – they’re not meant to
be taken at all–” Hermione cut herself off, running one hand through her hair. “You know,
Harry was the one that found me, lost – he took me in, introduced me to Ron,” she continued,
rolling her eyes slightly as she smiled despite herself. “Harry saved me, he saved us all really,
but sometimes I wonder,” Hermione paused, “Who’s going to save Harry?”

Draco swallowed hard. “Harry doesn’t need saving,” he whispered, staring at the seemingly
harmless yellow canister in his hands. “I couldn't– I can't even–”

“Oh Draco,” Hermione whispered, “You are so much more than you know.”

If they sat together for a long while before parting ways, neither mentioned it again.

Chapter End Notes

OH DEAR LORD DOES THE ANGST NEVER END

 Chapter 15
Chapter Notes

Evening, friends.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Harry sighed loudly from his seat at the kitchen table, and Draco rolled his eyes.

“Are you sure I can’t help?” he whined, and Draco turned from the stove, looking pointedly
at the tear-inducing mush that had resulted from his agreeing to let Harry chop the onions,
still sitting innocently on the counter.

“Yes,” Draco responded flatly.

Harry pouted, and wow an alpha jacked enough to snap Draco in half should not look that
cute, and wow Draco should really not feel the back of his neck prickle at the thought, and
wow this internal monologue was really not helping –

“Should it be doing that?”

Draco yanked the bacon off the heat just in time, the pan spitting fat at him angrily for getting
distracted.

“…Yes,” he responded coolly, pretending to check the pasta (he knew it wasn’t done yet). He
felt heat run up the back of his neck, and waited for Harry to laugh at him, but instead the
man just sighed.

“You’re so good at this,” he lamented.

“Yes, well –” Draco replied, quite happy with himself then actually, a clever put-down on the
tip of his tongue as he turned, wielding his spatula, only to come face-to-face with the human
equivalent of a puppy left out in the rain in a soggy cardboard box.

“Well,” he said again, crossing his arms.

Silence stretched for a moment.

“Well?” Harry asked, voice pure benevolent curiosity, but he was smiling just a little, so
Draco hit him with his spatula.

“Fuck off.” Draco turned and stirred half-heartedly at the bacon.

Harry laughed, standing and grabbing seemingly indiscriminately from the cutlery drawer
before sauntering out the doorway. “I’ll just set the table, then.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “The table is behind you.”

“Actually the table is in the dining room,” Harry called back.

Draco dropped the spatula and spun on his heel. “You have a– How fucking big is this
place?!”

“Massive,” Harry smirked, sauntering back in. “Are you impressed?”

“Frankly I’m surprised you even know how to set a table, Potter,” Draco quipped, trying for
dry. Harry’s smile suggested he got petulant instead.

“I think,” Harry murmured, his voice low as he leaned in, “you’ll find I’m nowhere near done
surprising you yet.”

Draco tensed as a shiver ran down his spine, swallowing hard as Harry’s eyes dropped to his
lips. Harry stepped closer, one arm reaching around Draco–

And stepped away, having plucked two serving spoons from the holder next to the stove,
turning on his heel with a smile better suited to a five-year-old rascal than a fully grown man
trying his utmost to drive Draco to–

“I expect at least three kinds of forks!” Draco yelled at the vacant doorway.

Listen, what you really need to understand is that Draco drinks a bit too much when he’s
nervous. Not that he was nervous. It was just Harry, after all, he reminded himself, sipping
his wine compulsively, Harry with his smile and his hair and his compliments to the chef
which made Draco turn a rather unappealing shade of pink, if you ask him, followed by some
truly inappropriate moans during the consumption of the dish by the aforementioned chef
who really was going to choke so that was what the wine was for, you see –

“I hope the forks are to your satisfaction,” Harry drawled, grinning over the edge of his own
glass.

“It’s like you think I won’t kill you in your sleep,” Draco muttered, eyes narrowed, but not
narrowed enough to miss that goddamn grin on the man’s face, pleased as fucking punch –

“You really shouldn’t drink, Potter, it addles the mind,” he added vindictively, but now Harry
was smirking, and that really shouldn’t be allowed, so Draco stood quickly, imperiously, only
to have the world spin as the blood rushed to his head.

He was surprised when he didn’t hit the ground.

It should have unnerved him; how quickly Harry could move when he wasn’t pretending to
be a mere human, but Draco could focus on little other than the feeling of strong arms around
his waist, a solid chest pressed tight against his own, the rustle of Harry’s shirtsleeves as
Draco’s fingers gripped ever tighter. He was sure Harry could feel how quick his breath was
coming then, but when he risked a glance up, he was… surprised? (Disappointed, Draco?
No, of course not.)

“Coffee?” Harry smiled down at him, warm and unthreatening, but then Draco felt his arms
flex as Harry fought to keep his hold gentle, the tension evident in the press of his fingers
then, and Draco’s own grip tightened.

“Tea, you heathen,” Draco hissed, and Harry’s smile widened, which should have been
impossible, Draco thought, without his face splitting in half.

“Come on,” Draco huffed.

He was going to need a clear head for this.

Some might say Draco didn’t want to let Harry go the whole time he was making the
aforementioned cup of tea. Some might say he kept his arms firmly clasped around Harry's
waist, his cheek pressed comfortably against his muscled back, his pride be damned. Some
might say he even took the opportunity to press his fingertips against the dips between
Harry's abs, tracing the divots and smiling to himself when Harry stiffened against him.

Some aren’t telling this fucking story, so you didn’t hear any of that.

Either way, there they were, Harry lounging on the living room floor with his back to the
sofa, Draco settled far too comfortably against his right side, running an idle fingertip along
the intricate purple designs around the rim of his cup. The light was soft, the lamp in the far
corner casting a glow on the room, and Draco felt – safe.

“It was my mum’s, the teacup,” Harry said suddenly, quietly, with a small, sad smile.

Draco made a sound, a small questioning noise in the back of his throat before he could stop
himself. The arm around his waist tightened in response, and he looked at Harry sharply.
Harry avoided his gaze, cleared his throat, and then nodded.

“She was an omega – turned, when she was young, like Hermione, only they weren’t quite as
tolerant back then to outsiders –” Harry frowned, and Draco felt guilty, and he didn’t even
know why. “Anyway, the purebloods weren’t too fond of turned wolves, and my father –
well, the Potters were purebloods of repute, back then, before I came along,” That small
smile again, “But my father laid eyes on her and he wouldn’t be swayed. He just… knew.”

There was something wistful in Harry’s eyes when they met Draco’s again, and Draco’s gaze
dropped in a hurry. Round and round the rim of the teacup his finger wandered, until a large
hand settled over his own, stilling his fidgeting.

“That’s –” Draco cleared his throat, his voice seemingly caught. “I mean, that’s very –
Lovely. Convenient,” he shrugged, his mind racing yet filled with cotton wool all at once.
“Hm,” Harry hummed, almost to himself, then: “You don’t believe in love at first sight?”

“I –” Draco huffed, focusing very intently on his teacup, on Harry’s tanned skin contrasted
against his pale fingers, on the heat rising up the back of his neck, “Even if I – Listen, life’s
not a fairytale , Potter. We don’t get happy endings just for being – I don’t know.”

Harry shifted, was quiet, and Draco felt the soft press of Harry’s mouth against his hair.

“Don’t we?”

“No – stop that!” Draco cried, suddenly, startling even himself. He lunged forward, settling
the teacup out of harm’s way, before turning on Harry sharply. “I don’t understand ,” he
pleaded, and any other day he might have been mortified to sound so desperate on his knees,
but his eyes were stinging and it was all he could do to shuffle closer, bracket Harry’s thighs
with his own. “Where’s the – the gay panic,” he ranted, his hands clasped in the front of the
other man’s shirt, “the rah rah Alpha bullshit, the – the – the disregard for my freedom, I –”
Draco’s voice cracked, his eyes wide and wet.

Where’s the excuse to stop, to hate you, to run and pretend this never happened–

“I don’t want to make excuses,” Harry whispered, and Draco couldn’t look away from him.
“There was a lot of – I mean, it’s understandable, I have a pack to think of, but it was a lot of
pressure to not just – to choose a proper mate –”

Harry’s hands gripped him by the waist, then, a fire lit in the Alpha’s eyes all of a sudden at
the thought of – Draco didn’t want to speculate.

“God, Draco, you don’t understand, I wanted – I needed you so badly but I thought – I knew
– you were human, and I could never – I could never give you what you deserved, a normal
life, one free of pain and danger –” Fingertips slipped under the hem of his shirt, wide palms
brushing his bare sides, and Draco shivered. “ I could snap you like a twig, do you even
realize –”

Draco’s gaze was fixed on his own hands, his fingers uncurling to smooth against Harry’s
chest as he spoke, feeling the muscle flex under his palms as he slid one hand up to rest
against Harry’s throat. He thought he might have been trembling.

Could he have this?

“What about Ginerva?” Draco asked, not liking how small his voice came across.

Harry shook his head, his hands rubbing soothing circles into Draco’s back. “There was never
anything,” he whispered, and Draco hated that his eyes stung.

“But she would be, wouldn’t she,” Draco murmured, almost to himself, “Proper?”

“You are –” Harry growled, and Draco hadn’t heard that sound not directed at him, but rather
for him, for so long – “ everything.”
Harry was wiping the tear from his cheek before Draco even realized it had fallen, then
cupping Draco’s chin gently, lifting it so Harry could look him in the eye.

“And hey ,” Harry whispered, smiling gently, the corners just naughty enough to distract.
“What about Blaise?”

At this, Draco snickered, shaking his head to dislodge Harry’s grip before sliding forward to
rest his elbows on broad shoulders, hands sinking into a pitch black mess of hair. “Blaise is as
straight as an arrow, don’t be silly.”

“It’s not silly,” Harry murmured, “Have you seen yourself?” he mused, his eyes sharp – “No
mere man could resist.”

“Good thing you’re not a mere man,” Draco breathed, but the humor seemed to have left the
room, and Harry merely gazed at him.

“Could have ,” Draco murmured, “ Could have snapped me like a twig.”

Harry chuckled, and Draco felt the vibrations against his chest, Harry’s voice gravel next to
his ear. “I don’t know, Omega, you still look pretty breakable to me.”

Draco’s breath caught in his throat, and he knew Harry had felt it, the Alpha’s grip firm and
sure as his hands travelled down Draco’s back, along his sides, gripping his thighs firmly.

“Don’t think I’m falling into bed with you just because we’re…” Draco trailed off aimlessly,
his eyes falling shut as Harry turned his head, running his nose along the sensitive side of
Draco’s neck.

“Of course not,” Harry whispered, breath hot on Draco’s ear. Then Harry hooked his earlobe
between his teeth, his tongue teasing along the sensitive flesh, and Draco’s fingers gripped
Harry’s hair to the point of what must have been pain, but Harry was only growling low in
his chest when Draco pulled his head back and slotted their lips together.

They had kissed before. Draco knew they had kissed before, and had he been occupied with
anything else, he would have felt heat in his cheeks at the thought, but this – Draco’s chest
was tight, and as Harry slid his tongue possessively along Draco’s, his left hand wandering to
brush against an erect nipple, Draco wasn’t sure if he was dying, or if he had never really
been living.

How can this –

“You think too much,” Harry growled, pulling Draco’s shirt over his head sharply before
latching onto the nipple he wasn’t abusing with his fingertips. Draco was distantly aware that
the sharp cries for more and fuck and Harry were his own, but this affected him only so far as
it drew another dark sound from Harry, a “ fuck, baby,” that was more animal than anything
else, a sound that Draco was rewarded with every time he rolled his hips against the hardness
beneath him, so he did it again, and again –
 Firm hands gripped Draco’s hips, stilling his movements, and Draco whined high in his throat
at being denied. His cheeks were hot as he leaned back, caught sight of Harry’s hooded eyes;
his smirk at Draco’s reaction. The sadistic fucker opened his mouth, to boast no doubt, so
Draco gripped his shirt and ripped it over his head, running his fingernails over the newly
exposed skin, half in spite, half in awe, before circling his hips purposefully, using Harry’s
own strength against him to grind his ass against Harry’s cock as if his life depended on
getting them off. When Harry threw his head back and grit his teeth, Draco thought it might.
Soft light glinted off one canine, one suddenly very sharp canine, and his hips stuttered in
their hold.

“Fu – uck,” Draco whispered, and grabbed Harry’s bottom lip between his teeth, tugging
harshly before running his tongue over the wicked tip of his canine. Draco's rhythm was off,
now, his desperate grind having lost its tempo as his stomach twisted, an unfamiliar fire
stoking low in his belly, but Harry’s harsh grip was no longer a hindrance, his biceps
straining under Draco’s fingers as he guided his movements, and when Draco pulled back for
air, nuzzling into the damp skin of Harry’s shoulder, Harry whispered dark nothings into the
space under Draco’s ear until it rang with come on baby, you feel so good, fuck, come for me
sweetheart –

His release was almost painful, cock spurting into the confines of his jeans as his thighs
seized, his fingers clenching in Harry’s hair as he muffled his cry in Harry’s shoulder,
couldn’t resist the urge to clamp down with his teeth on the straining tendons where neck
meets shoulder, distantly aware of Harry going still beneath him, riding out his own release –

“You bit me, baby,” Harry murmured into his hair, later, when he had caught his breath, but
Draco could hear the smile, feel the gentle hands rubbing idle patterns into his back, sense the
heartbeat slowing along with his own, and his eyes slipped shut.

Chapter End Notes

Lol remember the time I said it wouldn't take another two years to update.

Yeah.

Isn't life funny.

For loveglowsinthedark who refuses to abandon my hopeless ass and deserves all the
best things in life. All of them.
 Chapter 16
Chapter Notes

Explain myself, you say? You’d like that, wouldn’t you.

PSA to go back and read the beginning chapters again because I edited them and now
they're simply... **better**.

Draco had never been a fan of Mondays, but this one… This one was taking the cake.

He was – prickly. Annoyed. At everything and no one. It had started out fine – more than
fine, even, waking up next to Harry, watching the other man sleep and smiling to himself
until his cheeks hurt and he had to creep into the kitchen just so he had something to do with
his hands, before realizing he had dozed off the previous night without setting an alarm on his
phone, and either Harry had no morning classes (likely) or simply didn’t have to panic about
his attendance (equally likely), because he was still languidly slouched against the headboard
as Draco threw on some half-decent clothes and tore out the front door. Now Draco’s skin
itched wherever his sweater so much as grazed him and he wished he’d taken Harry up on his
sleepy offer to let Draco borrow one of his jackets that morning. The cafeteria wasn’t even
that crowded, but it felt like every passer-by was trying to share their conversation with
Draco personally given the volume of their discourse and whatever was on the menu today
was making him nauseous –

“Urgh, my only consolation is that they might have to be carted off to the emergency room
one day for sticking a tongue too far down the other’s throat,” Pansy muttered into her
lasagna across the table, pulling Draco out of his reverie.

His head snapped up, heart beating in his ears, but was met only with the sight of Blaise and
– Daphne? – two tables down, trying their best to contribute to his lack of appetite.

“Oh – Blaise, right,” he replied, returning his attention to his lunch. Chicken. It was off-
putting. Usually he loved chicken.

Pansy eyed him suspiciously, poking ineffectually at her pasta. “Who did you think I meant?”

“Potter, of course,” Draco replied dully, glancing up to catch Pansy’s raised eyebrow when
she was quiet a minute too long. “What? It’s always Potter.”

“No, it’s always Potter with you,” she replied, and Draco felt a muscle in his jaw twitch. He
stabbed a piece of white meat and tried to glare at it until it disappeared.
“Tetchy,” she tsk-ed at his demeanour. “What did you do this weekend? I couldn’t get hold of
you.”

“Nothing,” he muttered, glancing around the cafeteria again. Still – no sign of him.

“Really?” She raised an eyebrow. “Nothing?”

Draco gripped his fork so hard it hurt.

“So you expect me to believe that –”

“Jesus, Pansy, stop hounding me, could you just be an actual friend for once instead of
snooping for gossip,” Draco snapped across the table, so suddenly he surprised even himself.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Pansy snipped, but her eyes were too bright, her voice too high, and shit , he
really hadn’t meant it – “ I need to be an actual friend?”

“Don’t–” Draco hissed, not really sure where he was going, but Pansy cut him off as she
pushed her chair back with a grating screech and threw her serviette down between them.

“You know what, Malfoy, fuck you. I don’t even know what’s wrong with you today,” she
snapped, and stormed off, nearly colliding with Potter as he sauntered through the doors. For
a moment, Potter blinked after Pansy in surprise, then turned to look at Draco, eyebrows
raised in question.

Draco, in answer, grabbed his bag and stormed out the other door.

Potter – Harry – caught him at the end of a quiet corridor, pulling him into an empty
classroom before he could start spitting and kicking like a feral kitten.

“Hey, hey,” Harry murmured, his voice quiet, but his eyes scanning Draco up and down
critically. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t –” Draco growled, tugging at the neck of his still too-tight, still too-itchy sweater, “I
don’t know.”

Harry frowned, taking a small step forward. When Draco didn’t back away, he took another,
hands coming to rest softly on Draco’s waist. Gentle fingers gathered up the knit of his
sweater, rucking it up his chest until Draco was forced to lift his arms for Harry to pull the
offending item over his head. The chill of the empty classroom raised goosebumps on the
skin of his arms, but before he could make a fuss, Harry slipped out of his own jacket and
draped it over Draco’s shoulders, pulling him in close in one smooth movement. The fabric
was butter-soft, warm, and smelled amazing. Harry wrapped strong arms around him, tucking
Draco neatly under his chin, and Draco –

Draco nestled his face into Harry’s chest, safely hidden behind the upturned collar of his
jacket, and inhaled.
“I missed you, this morning,” Harry murmured, and it was a low rumble against Draco’s
cheek.

“I was late,” he replied, but now he just sounded petulant – the kitten after being dunked in a
bucket of cold water.

“I’m sorry,” Harry hummed, and Draco knew there was nothing for him to be sorry about, but
it soothed some small irrational part of him all the same. He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply
again. He didn’t know how long they stood there, barely swaying, Harry’s fingers coming up
to card through Draco’s hair unhurriedly.

“I think these might be– symptoms,” Draco whispered, eventually, into the safety and the
warmth.

Harry stilled, for a moment, “Symptoms?”

“I–” Draco cleared his throat. “I stopped taking the pills.”

“Oh,” Harry breathed, his tone carefully neutral. “Since when?”

“Since the club. Before, actually,” Draco said, and he felt Harry tense beneath his cheek.

“Do you not have – Do you need more?” Harry asked, and Draco could feel how still he was
holding himself.

“No – Hermione gave me more. I have pills. I just haven’t been – taking them,” Draco
murmured, not offering more of an explanation. He didn’t know if he had more of an
explanation.

“Okay,” Harry said, just as quietly. “Is it –” he trailed off, “Are you okay?”

“I don’t know,” Draco whispered.

They stood in silence for a bit, Draco counting every one of Harry’s breaths against his
cheek, before the Alpha spoke.

“Listen, I’m not good with words, so I’m probably going to dig a massive hole for myself
here, but –” Harry started, still running those impossibly gentle fingers through Draco’s hair,
“While I can’t say that I’m not – relieved, at the very least, I hope you haven’t felt – I hope I
haven’t made you feel – pressured.”

Despite himself, and the seriousness of the conversation, Draco wanted to laugh. There were
a million things he could’ve said, just then.

He wanted to sing. He wanted to scream.

But there was really only one way he knew how to explain it all, so he pulled back from
Harry (but he kept his jacket), and gestured for the other man to sit in one of the empty
chairs. He needed to be on his own two feet for this. Harry looked unsure for a moment, but
then he went, without a complaint.
He sat down, and Draco started.

“When an Omega first presents, they go into heat,” he said, plainly. Harry probably knew this
but one had to start a story somewhere, and this was the easiest. “It was on my 18th birthday,
as was to be expected. When my father discovered that I wasn’t an Alpha –”

Draco cleared his throat, and he could see Harry making to stand but he shook his head, and
the Alpha sat back down.

“When my father discovered I wasn’t an Alpha, he kicked me out. I was two hours into my
first heat and I had nowhere to go. Pansy, Blaise –” he felt more than heard Potter’s growl,
and despite the wave of discomfort lapping at the back of his throat, it made him smile just a
bit, for a moment – “They didn’t know, they wouldn’t understand, and I couldn’t tell them – I
couldn’t tell them… what I was.

“So I ran. I didn’t have any cash on me but I had the watch my father gifted me for my 16th
birthday – it was gold plated, I figured I could pawn it and get enough to buy myself a motel
room with a working door lock for a couple nights, enough time to ride out the wave. And I
almost did. I managed to find a pawn shop that was open despite the hour, and the old man
was going to give me a good price for the watch, but then a couple Alphas were wandering
by –”

Draco stopped, swallowed hard. He couldn’t quite tell if he wanted to throw up or faint. He
heard a distinct crack of splintering wood, and looked up to see Harry was in the process of
destroying the desk he was obviously doing his very best to stay seated at.

“I got away, I – I got away,” he managed to say, “I found an abandoned room, off an
alleyway, the door had a deadbolt –” he was rambling somewhat now, but he had to get it out,
“The door had a deadbolt but I sat against it the entire time anyway, on the floor, spiraling
between panic that any moment now they would find me and kick the door down and just
feeling so alone –”

It was like the floodgates opened, then. Draco struggled to draw a breath, harsh sobs getting
stuck in his throat, only finding a way out when Harry stood and pulled him into his arms
again. Draco could feel how tightly Harry was holding himself, his fists clenched in the back
of Draco’s jacket – Harry’s jacket, still draped over Draco’s shoulders – but the Alpha’s
words were infinitely soft and kind as he whispered nonsense comforts against Draco’s
temple.

“I’m scared – I don’t want to lose that control again. I don’t want to lose who I am,” Draco
whispered into Harry’s chest, eventually, his voice hoarse. “That day, in the locker rooms, I
had missed a dose of my suppressants, and I know that’s why you practically attacked me, it
was all pure instinct and –”

“Woah, Draco, slow down,” Harry cut in, his voice low and calm, and Draco sucked in a
deep breath again. “Listen. Yes, you smelled absolutely brilliant that day, just like you do
now,” Harry pressed a small kiss to Draco’s forehead, then pulled back enough that he could
look Draco in the eye, “but that doesn’t mean that I don’t want you . I mean, your wolf is you,
your scent is you, and while it does make me want to absolutely ravish you, it’s not
something tricking me into wanting you.” Harry drew a deep breath, seeming to steel
himself. “Honestly, I’d do without it if it made you happy, if it meant I could keep the rest of
you.”

Draco felt something in his chest twist. He knew, somehow, that despite how difficult it
would be, how much Harry would have to deal with if Draco chose to keep taking his
suppressants – Draco knew, somehow, that Harry meant it. And knowing that the other man
was willing to do that – it made Draco feel brave, feel like maybe this itch he was feeling to
try wasn't totally idiotic.

“I thought you said you weren’t any good with words,” Draco whispered, instead, because he
didn't know how to say any of that out loud.

Harry smiled, a twinkle in his eye that made Draco feel like maybe this was going to be
alright. “I guess you bring out of the best in me.”

Draco snorted, despite himself.

“So what now?” Harry asked.

Draco stared at him. There were still a million things to say.

What are we going to tell your ex-girlfriend’s family at dinner?

I'm fairly certain your friends hate me.

I don't know what's going to happen now that I've stopped taking the tablets.

I don't know how quickly it's going to happen.

What if I'm never quite right again because of what I've been doing to myself?

I should probably move out of your house now.

Instead, he settled for, “I think I’m going to have to apologize to Pansy.”

 Chapter 17
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Pansy Parkinson was not an easy lady to find, unless she wanted to be found.

Draco had seldom been the one she didn’t want finding her, and he was chagrined at how
long it took him to track her down at the lake, smoking a cigarette.

“Fuck off, Malfoy,” she muttered, taking one look at him before turning to stare at the lake
again instead. Her voice was quiet, not as biting as Draco had heard it before, and the
realization that she wasn't angry, that she was hurt, made Draco want to draw into himself
until it all just blew over, but –

He had to be brave.

“Pans, I'm sorry,” he tried, softly, sitting down next to her.

“Yeah, I know,” she muttered again, stubbing out her cigarette in the sand. “It just isn't really
helping.”

She drew out her pack of cigarettes and offered him one. When he shook his head, her
eyebrows rose sharply.

“What, you've quit? I’m the last to find out again?” she snipped, yanking back the pack.

“I haven't quit,” he said, on autopilot, then: “I mean, maybe I have, I just don't really need
to… smoke anymore…” he trailed off as Pansy started laughing to herself, disbelieving.

“Pans, I need to tell you something,” he said, firmly.

“Go ahead,” she exclaimed, with that same not-amused laugh, “let's see what new excuse you
come up with for–”

Draco drew a deep breath; steeled himself.

“Imayormaynotbeawerewolf.”

Pansy stared at him for long enough that he started to realize just how insane that sounded,
that she was probably going to think he was playing a stupid prank on her and never talk to
him again, that he really had fucked it up now, before she reanimated all at once. Her words
were… not what he expected.

“What, you think that gets you off the hook?!” she yelled. He tried to interject, but she just
kept going. “Oh, I’m a mythical creature of the night, boohoo! You ditched me!” she punched
him in the arm, hard, then seemed to think about it, and punched him again. “And lied to
me!”
Draco tried very hard not to rub at his bicep, but damn.

“Well, I never lied to you, technically –”

Pansy stuck a finger in his face. “Draco Malfoy don’t think I won’t put a stake through your
heart.”

“That’s– vampires, Pansy,” Draco corrected, before he could think better of it.

“Oh my God,” her eyes were huge. “Vampires are a thing?! Seriously?!”

“What?! No – I mean, I don’t actually know – Could you just focus?!”

“Focus? Focus?! On what?! You’re a werewolf?!”

“Okay, let’s maybe–” Draco cast a glance around the lake. There was no one around, but…
“let’s maybe keep it down a bit.”

“Okay but like – since when?!” Pansy asked in a stage whisper. Given the manic pitch of her
voice, it was not much quieter than before, but Draco appreciated the effort.

“Since always,” he cringed, waiting for the outburst, but instead, Pansy looked thoughtful.

“Are you – are you even allowed to tell me this?” she asked, quietly.

“I mean – yes, technically,” Draco replied, and it was true. “There’s no statute of secrecy or
weird werewolf law around it or anything. Most wolves just – don’t need to tell any humans,
I guess? They tend to stick to their own kind. And obviously if you do tell a human it’s
expected you’re being – responsible, and sure they’re not going to launch a full-blown
extermination attempt or whatever.” Draco explained. “I mean, the government knows.”

“Wow,” Pansy breathed, eyes wide.

“No telling Blaise, okay?” Draco said, sternly, and Pansy scoffed at him.

“Pfffft, yeah! Of course! Why would I share this with him, just when I have the secret that
makes me your best friend again?”

Draco knocked her shoulder with his. “You were always my best friend, Pans.”

They sat in silence for two seconds, then –

“Wait so you’re going to need to explain what this has to do with your little Potter
obsession.”

Draco cringed.

“Sit still, Granger, honestly, or I’ll pull this mess you call hair straight out of your head.”
Draco tried not to snigger as Hermione’s eyes went wide, stilling immediately as Pansy
wound a strand of hair around her finger, taming Hermione's usually frizzy mane into a mass
of graceful curls instead.

“I still don’t understand why you’re doing this,” Hermione started, cautiously, looking very
careful not to move her head, “I mean, not that I don’t appreciate it, but –”

“Because that’s what friends do, Hermione,” Draco drawled, “They have pre-parties where
they drink wine and do their hair –”

“And talk about boys?” Hermione interrupted, her grin shark-like as Pansy crowed and high-
fived her over her shoulder.

“On second thought, I hate you guys,” he muttered into his glass. This was a total mistake.
Draco had done his best to explain his situation to Pansy, powering through the awkwardness
of secondary genders like he was a ninth grade biology teacher, but ultimately he had to
admit that… he didn’t know all that much.

“Who am I supposed to get my werewolf lore from then?” Pansy had lamented, and Draco
knew she was just being dramatic for his benefit, trying to make him smile, but…

“Well, there is someone.”

Initially the thought of making Granger suffer through Pansy’s endless and impossibly
awkward questions had made him smile to himself, but now he saw that, through this
introduction, he had really just brought about his own suffering.

“Okay wait I have another question,” Pansy declared, ignoring Draco as he muttered an of
course you do, “Longbottom… Any chance he’s single?”

Draco held up a finger, like she was a naughty dog. “Pansy, no.”

“What, I wasn’t even going to do anything!” she replied, seemingly aghast. “...I was just
asking.”

“He is. Single,” Hermione cut in, and Draco gaped at her. “What? There’s no rule against
wolves dating humans.”

There – isn’t?

His thoughts must’ve shown on his face, because Hermione continued hurriedly.

“I mean, not in general. It’s –” Hermione sighed, “It’s complicated. It depends.”

“On what? His dick size?” Pansy drawled.

“It’s different for everyone,” Hermione dutifully continued, always the academic. “Some
wolves run closer to the surface than others. They find it harder to tamp down their instincts,
and it presents even in their physicality in human form. It’s why –” Hermione looked over at
Draco carefully, “It’s why Ron had such a strong reaction initially to Harry starting a
relationship with you. It wasn’t personal.”

Pansy chimed in before Draco could agonize about how to feel about that.

“Granger, you cannot be implying that, were Draco human… Harry could’ve literally fucked
him to death.”

Draco spit wine over his carpet. Pansy cackled. Hermione stuttered out something that wasn’t
a denial.

“Okay you –” Draco pointed at Pansy again, his face flaming, “You’re done. We’re going to
be late. Get up Granger.”

The Weasley’s home base was a short taxi ride away from Draco’s apartment, and he and
Granger bundled into the backseat.

She looked lovely, and Draco was very pleased. If only she would stop glancing at him.

“Spit it out, Granger.”

“I can’t help but notice,” she smiled, small and tentative, “you smell – nice.”

“Oh,” Draco cleared his throat, caught off guard, “I’m sorry, I can’t really –” He fumbled for
words, because I can’t smell you sounded a bit weird, even without their driver potentially
listening in on the conversation. “I can’t really say it back, yet.”

Hermione smiled wider, but he didn’t feel like she was laughing at him. “That’s alright, it’ll
take a little while.”

The driver dropped them off around the corner, not willing to brave the cul-de-sac leading up
to the Weasley’s, packed as it was with vehicles parked on either side of the road. How many
of them were there?

Hermione sucked in a deep breath as they started down the quiet pavement.

“I’m glad you’ve made this decision. Whatever the reason.”

“It’s not because of –” Draco started, then stopped himself. Wasn’t it? Not really, but – “It’s
not because of him. Sort of. Maybe a little. It doesn’t really make any sense, when I try to say
it out loud, it’s been like – what? Two weeks? It’s really – intense,” Draco rambled, the
disparate fears that had been pinging around the back of his brain suddenly flowing out of
him without his say-so, into the cool quiet night air. “What if – I mean, we didn’t get along,
we never got along, I thought – I thought he hated me.”

He fell silent, then, the words hanging in the air between them, as they walked side by side
towards the warmly lit windows at the end of the lane.

“I’m not going to excuse his behaviour,” Hermione said, eventually, and by the set of her
face, Draco could tell she meant it. “It was – there were better ways to have handled this.
 But,” she paused, meaningfully, making sure Draco was making eye contact before she
continued. “Whatever you were feeling, the pull, the attraction,” Hermione went on, and
Draco wanted to open his mouth and deny it, but he couldn’t, “all those years – you were on
suppressants, Draco. Imagine what it was like for him. What it is like for him.”

As they neared the house, Draco could make out a figure standing on the sidewalk under a
street light, at the end of the front garden path, hands in his pockets as he stared idly at the
rosebushes. He must’ve heard them nearing, because he lifted his head in their direction, and
then – Harry smiled, and it was dazzling in the dim light. Draco felt it like a blow to the
chest.

And it hit Draco, then, all at once – Harry had told him, that night they first started being
honest with each other, and he had heard him, but he hadn’t really understood until just then
what it meant. Since the first moment they met, Draco had been a planet orbiting Harry,
everything pulling him back to his sun, even if it was to be sneered at and spat at – at least, at
least Harry was looking at him. That was Draco’s reality with all his senses dulled.

Imagine what it was like for him.

“Hi gorgeous,” Harry grinned, his eyes trailing down Draco’s body slowly, his voice low.

“Hi,” Draco breathed, his face feeling like it might split in half from smiling too hard.

Hermione cleared her throat, and Draco stepped back.

“Hello to you too, Harry,” she snarked, and turned down the garden path. “Come on, we’re
late.”

Harry held out his arm, like a real gentleman – despite the way his gaze was trying to burn
through Draco’s clothes – and Draco took it.

“Once more into the fray,” Draco murmured, and together, they turned.

Chapter End Notes

Guys the next chapter is going to be wild.

 Chapter 18
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

The Weasley homestead was everything Malfoy Manor was not, and Draco felt both
immediately at home and unbearably out of place. They were hardly through the door before
Harry was beset by a tall ginger, dragging him away with a laugh and what sounded like a
scheme, but when Harry tried to plant his feet, looking back at Draco abandoned in the entry
way, Draco shoo'ed him off with a small smile. Be brave. Luckily, Molly Weasley seemed to
be wholly distracted by her future daughter-in-law, and he had a moment to orient himself.

“Oh, Hermione, dear, you look – look at you!” Molly seemed to be short-circuiting, her eyes
wide, but not unkind.

“You look absolutely ravishing,” Ron cut in, wrapping a covetous arm around Hermione’s
waist before taking her hand and spinning her around. Hermione giggled, her eyes shining,
and Draco felt Ronald Weasley go up in his esteem, ever so slightly, despite his better
judgement.

Molly smiled to herself, genuine and warm, as she watched the pair, before seeming to
remember herself and turning to Draco.

“Mrs Weasley,” he said, and thanked his ridiculous upbringing for the fact that he
remembered his manners despite his nerves. “You have a lovely home.”

“Oh thank you so much, dear, no need for such formality, though!” she gushed, ushering him
through to the dining room, where a large table was being practically dwarfed by the
redheads surrounding it. Molly plopped him down in a seat, and despite earlier resolutions of
bravery, he felt relief wash over him like a summer rainstorm when Harry sat down next to
him, grabbing his hand under the table and shooting him a dazzling grin.

“I’m really glad you’re here,” Harry murmured, and Draco tried very hard not to melt into a
puddle of goo. It would ruin dinner, after all.

Conversation at the Weasley family dining table, perhaps unsurprisingly, was easy, and while
Draco didn't quite manage to carry on three disparate discussions all at once the way Harry
could, he quite enjoyed Molly's idle chatter, and Bill's thought-provoking stance on recent
proposed werewolf law amendments. Draco even found himself embroiled in a surprisingly
lively debate with Ron about chess openings that Harry pretended to snore through.

Ginny was seated on the far side of the table from Draco and Harry, and despite Molly's
seemingly carefree attitude, Draco had the feeling it was not by accident. Ginny’s arms were
crossed and she was slumped low in her chair, glaring at Draco and ignoring her brothers on
either side who were now playing football with finger goals and stray peas.
Unfortunately, it seemed there were not enough seats at the table to save Draco from
awkward interactions completely.

“So… Malfoy, is that right?” Percy asked from his right, seemingly casually, but he looked at
Draco with what could only be described as disdain.

The table fell quiet for the first time that evening, and suddenly there were more eyes on
Draco than he was strictly comfortable with. He felt Harry shift next to him, but he squeezed
his hand under the table before the other man could speak.

“Yes,” Draco replied, clearly. “That's right.”

Percy scoffed.

“Huh. Brave of you to show your face here–”

“None of that,” Molly snapped, having returned from the kitchen in time to dump a giant tub
of ice lollies in the middle of the table and put Draco out of his misery. “We are not our
parents,” she stated resolutely. “If we were, you lot would be a whole lot less hassle,” she
looked at the twins pointedly, and they grinned back, unashamed.

“Now, who's ready for pudding?”

Cheers went up around the table, and Molly looked at Hermione expectedly. Draco cleared
his throat, and stood.

“Please, Mrs Weasley, let me help.”

“Oh don't be silly, dear, Hermione and I have got it covered –”

“Please, you've been so welcoming, I insist,” he smiled, and Molly melted, leading him to the
kitchen as she started nattering about her souffle recipe. Draco caught Hermione's eye, where
she was still seated at the table, and mouthed a clear come, followed by a pointed now when
she didn't follow right away.

“What are you doing,” she muttered, joining him at the kitchen counter, but he just whispered
a quick “trust me” before helping Molly lay out two mixing bowls and getting to work.

They worked amicably, even Hermione not able to resist laughing along as he charmed Mrs
Weasley in the way one learned to charm older women in polite society, but her face fell
when they pulled their respective trays of souffles out the oven.

Draco's souffles looked lovely, puffed up and golden brown, while Hermione's – well,
honestly Draco wondered how she had even managed it, to produce souffles that flat, when
they had been standing side by side following the same recipe. Maybe he would give her
some lessons one day, it was frankly appalling. For today, however…

Draco cast a quick glance at Molly, her back to them, and shoved his tray in front of
Hermione, grabbing hers.
“Hermione! Those are beautiful!” he exclaimed, before she could react. Molly turned,
gasping as she laid eyes on the exemplary souffles on Hermione's tray.

“Oh my dear! Look at that!” She smiled warmly, and the look on Hermione's face made it
worth it. “I knew you could do it!”

“I– Well–” Hermione tried, and Draco mercifully cut her off before she could dig any holes
for herself.

“You're going to have to teach me,” he moaned, looking at “his” souffles dejectedly.

“Oh don't be too hard on yourself, dear,” Molly said to him, scoffing, “These alphas really
can't tell the difference, it all tastes the same to them – I can't tell you how many flat souffles
Arthur had to eat in the first years of our mating!” she laughed, delighted in a way one could
only be when recalling fond memories, and nearly skipped back out to the dining room.

“Draco – thank you,” Hermione said, quietly, as he picked up his souffles.

“Don't be silly, dear,” Draco drawled, with a wink, and followed Molly out.

Harry shoved Draco against the floral basin in Molly Weasley's guest bathroom, the cold
porcelain digging into his lower back as he keened at Harry sucking on his collar bone. “I
know what you did back there.”

“I’m certain I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Draco replied, his haughty tone
ruined slightly by the way he was panting and clutching Harry’s hair.

He felt the answering chuckle in his chest, a shiver running down his spine as Harry nipped at
his clavicle, then started making his way up his neck. Draco had popped off to the restroom
for a breather after dessert, honestly just looking for a quiet moment away from the
whirlwind that was the Weasleys, and Harry had followed him.

Not that Draco was complaining, but –

“Harry –” Draco tried, valiantly. “Harry, we definitely shouldn’t – fuck –” Draco’s fingers
tightened in Harry’s hair as canines pricked at his neck. “We definitely shouldn’t fuck in your
best friend’s parents’ bathroom.”

“Definitely,” Harry murmured, sounding very much like he was paying absolutely no mind to
what Draco was saying, and Draco was starting to wonder how he would ever make this up to
Molly when there was a banging on the door.

“Leave some room for Jesus, kids!” Charlie called through the door, and Draco shoved Harry
back so hard the alpha nearly fell into the bathtub.

Harry looked surprised, and then – impressed.

“You're getting stronger,” he said, and Draco had to fight not to throw a decorative soap at
him in response.

“Fix your hair!” Draco hissed, face flaming, trying – and failing – to hide the bruise
blooming on his neck under his collar.

The walk of shame was, well, shameful. In the Malfoy home, their behaviour would've
garnered a stern talking-to and temporary exile – at best . The Weasleys, in contrast, seemed
generally amused by the whole thing, even as Ron muttered to himself miserably about them
stinking up the place (mortifying). Draco was still standing awkwardly in the doorway,
wondering how he was going to survive another ham-fisted entendre from one of the brothers
when a vase came sailing past his head. He ducked, and it shattered against the wall behind
him, but Ginny was screaming before he could even process the near-miss.

“If I knew this was going to happen, I never would’ve locked you in that fucking closet in the
first place!”

You could hear a pin drop.

Then chaos erupted in the room.

“Ginerva! Explain yourself!”

“That is not funny, sis –”

“Ginny that was extremely dangerous and we are definitely going to have a talk about –”

“Bloody hell, Gin, don’t you think ?! Harry could’ve killed him!”

Why do they keep –

“Wouldn't be the first time he got rid of a useless waste of space!” Ginny yelled, and Draco
felt his world narrow.

Harry had – killed. Harry had killed someone.

But –

He turned to Harry, voice quiet, “How –” he had to stop, clear his throat, “How did you
become pack Alpha?”

Harry looked pained, and his voice was small. “My mother's maiden name… was Evans.”

After his fall – by the hands of a young new up-and-comer by the name Evans, I’m told –

Back then, Draco had been kept from the finer details of the whole affair, but he knew
roughly when it happened. He had still been living under his father’s roof.

He looked at Harry.
He must've been so young.

“What do you think now, you little slut?” Ginny sneered, but Draco didn’t look at her.
“Harry’s the one who killed your dark lord and made your family pathetic, that’s the wolf
you've been shacking up with.”

Draco looked at Harry, and Harry looked… broken.

He must've been so young.

In an instant, it was clear.

“I'm going to need someone to remove that woman from my presence before I do something
everyone else will regret,” Draco growled at no one in particular, and were he not so focused
on Harry, he might've surprised even himself with how truly menacing he sounded. As it was,
he had no space to think about what these people would think about him threatening their
daughter, sister, friend; no space to wonder what he might do if they didn't play ball.

As it was, he only vaguely heard Molly telling Ginny very sternly to leave, and a door being
slammed so hard the glass rattled in its frame.

He turned on them the moment Ginerva was out of his field of senses.

“What is wrong with you?!” he snarled, and didn't give anyone a chance to respond.

“You’re supposed to be his family !” he advanced on them, then, red creeping into the corners
of his vision. “He did that to protect you, to keep you from the clutches of a raving lunatic,
and you treat him like he’s a monster ! Like any moment now he’ll snap, like a fucking
ticking time bomb!”

“Draco–” Granger tried, but when he turned to her, she shut up, drawing a quick breath.

“Everything he does–” he growled, “ Every decision he makes, he’s thinking of you, of your
happiness, your expectations. You don’t deserve him–”

Draco felt a sharp pain, suddenly, in his palms, the shock of it derailing the thought. Numbly,
he turned his hands up, saw the blood start to run from the crescent-shaped cuts in his palms.
His nails were stained red. Did he– do that?

He stared at his bloody palms until a shadow fell over them, warm hands running up his
biceps firmly before coming to rest on his shoulders – Harry’s hands, he could tell, without
looking up, squeezing reassuringly.

“It's alright, love. Deep breaths for me,” Harry murmured, quietly, just for the two of them.

Draco felt like a puppet whose strings had been cut, all of sudden, and he thought the only
thing holding him up must've been Harry's hands on his shoulders. He wasn't quite sure what
had happened. He was still standing with his hands palms up, blood drying on his skin. His
hearing was a bit fuzzy. His teeth hurt.
He looked up, and all he could see was Harry.

“I'm –” he couldn't say he was sorry, because he really wasn't, and he knew, even in the haze,
that he never would be. He meant every word. “I– I don't know what came over me.”

Harry pulled him close, pressed his lips to Draco’s temple, and inhaled deeply.

“Let's go home,” he said.

The drive home – the drive to Harry's place – was quiet.

Draco wasn’t quite sure how Harry had gotten him from the Weasley sitting room to the
passenger seat of his car, the process a hazy montage in Draco’s memory, punctuated only
with Harry’s warm, steady hands, his low voice murmuring comforting nonsense into Draco’s
hair as he pulled on his jacket. Then he was buckling Draco into his seat, pulling out of the
driveway, the radio turned all the way down as they navigated the quiet nighttime streets, and
Draco’s awareness slowly returned to him, in bits and pieces. The warmth of the air on his
feet. The soft leather seats under his fingertips. The glint of the street lights in Harry’s eyes.

Harry’s eyes. His kind, soft, sad eyes, trained on the road as he drove them home in silence.

Draco watched him. Watched his long, steady fingers grip the steering wheel. Watched his
chest rise and fall with each deep breath. Watched his throat work, a muscle twitch in his jaw.

He was holding himself so tightly, but he didn't smell angry.

Draco stopped short. Nobody had smelled like anything other than cigarettes or body spray
since he was eighteen. For a moment, he expected to feel panic bubbling up within him;
waited for it, but it didn't come.

He looked down at the palms of his hands, where the cuts from earlier had healed over
already.

He looked up again, and Harry was still watching the road. The alpha’s throat bobbed, once,
tightly, his breathing shallower than earlier, and Draco thought it might be on purpose.
Because now – now he was noticing.

Harry smelled like coffee roasting, like the sea air on a misty morning, like cherry wood
smoke as you huddled around a campfire late at night.

And Draco – Draco smelled like cookies baking, like caramelizing sugar and burnt butter and
fresh vanilla pods, but somewhere underneath – a citrus note, lemon zest and orange essence.

Draco watched a bead of sweat trail down Harry’s throat, over the barely-there stubble. He
wondered what that stubble would feel like on his inner thigh, and the citrus sharpened.

Harry’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel, the leather groaning under the pressure. He
swallowed, again, and the smell of the bonfire roared to life, filling the car with their shared
scent: dark and rich and earthy and warm and comforting and safe and delicious. Draco bit
his own lip, hard.

Harry turned into the underground parking garage and pulled the car into his designated spot.
Draco couldn’t stop staring at his fingers, one hand still gripping the steering wheel, the other
clutching the hand brake like his life depended on it.

Draco wanted to laugh. The only thing his life depended on was getting those hands on him.
He unclipped his seatbelt, arched his back as the belt retracted, breath hitching in his throat as
he let his jeans press against his hard cock almost-painfully.

Harry was breathing through his mouth now, knuckles white.

Silly Alpha, Draco thought, and climbed over the central console, settling with one knee on
either side of Harry. Harry growled, low and dark and Draco realized it was a warning, that
he had said that out loud, but then one hand was in his hair, the other on his back – under his
shirt, skin on skin as Harry brought their lips together.

There was no time for soft. Draco mewled as Harry’s tongue bullied its way into his mouth,
mapped it out as if he owned it, and Draco was in no mood to disagree. He dropped his seat,
making himself comfortable, feeling Harry’s hardness press against his ass as he rolled his
hips, trying to find friction for his own need against Harry’s abs. Harry tugged on his hair in
retaliation, sharply, and Draco keened against his lips shamelessly, and did it again, and
again, desperate in a way that left him slightly lightheaded. The car’s interior was cloying
with their scents, driving out any sensible thoughts he might’ve tried to conjure up, but it
was– slightly different to before, a bit sticky now, like marshmallows roasting over an open
flame–

Draco felt it, then, for the first time in years, his breath catching.

He was slick.

He knew the moment Harry smelt it, the alpha going still underneath him, time seeming to
stop for a bit as they panted into the small space between their lips. Draco tried not to squirm.

“How long has it been?” Harry breathed.

“I– I don’t–” Draco’s breath stuttered. “Not since–”

“It’s okay,” Harry husked, voice tight. “We can stop.”

“No!” Draco cried, eyes wide as he leaned back and immediately slapped a hand over his
mouth.

Harry leaned back as well, one eyebrow raised. Draco did his best to convey don’t you dare
with his stare, but Harry’s lips twitched anyway. Draco tried for a frown, but that just caused
Harry to break into a full-blown grin, sharpened canines on display.

Oh –
Draco squirmed, averting his eyes back to Harry’s own as his breath came a little faster, only
to find bottle green flecked with red. “Stop and I’ll have to kill you,” Draco breathed, and he
maybe meant it a bit too much.

Harry grit his teeth, his expression pained as he said, “We need to get inside.”

Draco moaned, a sad, pitious sound, and Harry murmured I know, I know, love into his hair as
he bundled him out of the car and into the elevator. Draco endured, mouthing at Harry’s
collar bone and generally making the entire task that much more difficult for the alpha, only
letting go when Harry was tossing him onto his bed.

The alpha was pressing him into the mattress the next moment, so Draco had no room for
further complaint.

“Gorgeous,” Harry growled, one hand tucking Draco's hair out of his face before they were
kissing again, although maybe kissing was too soft a word for how much teeth was involved.
Draco tugged Harry's bottom lip between his teeth, nipped sharply as Harry ground his hips
down into Draco's. Harry pulled away for air, and Draco tugged at his shirt sharply,
instructions clear, and Harry set about undressing them without a fight.

When they were both undressed, Harry leaned back on his heels, despite Draco’s attempts to
get him as close to himself as possible, and surveyed the blonde spread out before him.

“I could just sit here and watch you, jack myself off and come all over you, again and again,”
Harry growled, and Draco felt his whole body flush at the words, at the thought of Harry
marking him–

“Harry please,” he moaned, and he wasn't quite sure what he was begging for, but Harry took
pity on him, took both of Draco's hands in his and wrapped his fingers around the vertical
slats in the headboard.

“Keep your hands there for me, baby,” Harry murmured, and Draco gripped tight as Harry
made his way down his body, sucking bruises into his neck, then each nipple, grazing his
teeth along Draco's sides until his skin broke into goosebumps and his knuckles were white.
Draco was biting his lip, so hard he tasted blood, but it couldn't stop the steady stream of
noises in his throat.

Then Harry settled between his legs, slung one thigh over his shoulder, and licked a long
stripe over his leaking hole.

“Oh!” Draco's hands were in Harry's hair then, clutching tight, but the alpha didn't seem to
mind the disobedience if the low rumble vibrating against Draco's ass was anything to go by.
If anything, he doubled down, his long fingers definitely leaving bruises on Draco's thighs as
he held him down, alternating between long luxurious licks and short pointed flicks of his
tongue around Draco's rim, pressing against the fluttering entrance every now and then as if
testing its give, but never really breaching.

Draco thought he might go mad.

“Harry, Harry, Harry Harry Harry–”

The alpha pulled back, turned his head to suck a bruise into the milky skin of Draco's thigh in
question.

“Harry I need–”

Harry chuckled, nipped his thigh once, sharply. “I know what you need, love,” he murmured,
one hand gripping each of Draco's ass cheeks, his thumbs pulling them apart to expose Draco
to his gaze.

Draco might've exploded into a ball of flames if he weren't so desperate.

“Look at that pretty little hole,” Harry husked, one thumb teasing, languidly swiping through
Draco's wetness before pressing in, just the tip. Draco whined. “You're so soft for me, so
ready.”

“Harry please–”

Harry, in answer, pressed two fingers against Draco's rim, the middle and index fingers of his
right hand sinking into Draco slowly, so slowly Draco was rolling his hips by the time
Harry's fingers were seated all the way.

Then Harry crooked his fingers just so.

“Fuck –” Draco choked out, back arching as white sparked in the corners of his vision, and
his toes curled, as Harry abused that spot inside him. Then those wicked fingers pulled out,
all the way; circled his rim teasingly until Draco was rolling his hips desperately to get them
back inside. Harry acquiesced, the earlier tenderness bleeding from his movements; his
fingers thrusting with a single-minded purpose now, hitting that spot inside Draco that made
him see stars with every inward press.

“Are you going to come for me sweetheart?” Harry growled against the inside of his thigh,
his pace not letting up, and Draco made an incoherent sound in answer.

He could feel Harry's ring finger tease at his entrance on every thrust, and he wanted it, too,
was hungry for more, to feel that stretch, more more more, but he didn't last long enough to
ask for it, as Harry shifted up to take Draco's cock in his mouth and suck.

Draco tensed, all at once, his back arching almost painfully as he came. His thighs clenched
tight around Harry's shoulders, but the alpha seemed quite happy to be taken hostage,
swallowing Draco's cum as he stilled his hand, massaged his fingertips against Draco's
pulsing insides just so, until it felt like his orgasm was never going to stop and there were
tears leaking from the corners of his eyes at each new spasm Harry coaxed from him.

It stopped, finally, those long fingers pulling out and massaging his hole lazily as Harry
licked at his soft cock until Draco had to find the energy to shove ineffectually at his head.
He was spent, could barely keep his eyes open, but…
“You…” Draco muttered, gesturing vaguely at Harry resting his chin on Draco's stomach,
unable to muster more words to get his message across.

Harry nuzzled his cheek against Draco in question, eyes intent.

“Just do it,” Draco whined.

“Do what?”

“Come. In me. On me. I don't care,” Draco moaned, and Harry’s eyes darkened.

Harry sat back, flipped a boneless Draco onto his front, then tugged him up onto his knees;
ran those wonderfully large hands across Draco's asscheeks as the blonde gripped a pillow to
sink his face into. Draco was just getting comfortable, considering a nap, when Harry spread
his cheeks again, and ran his palm through the frankly obscene amount of slick Draco had
managed to leak onto himself. Draco looked back over his shoulder to see Harry slicking up
his own cock with it, and shivered at the look in Harry’s eye.

Then Harry put a hand either side of Draco’s hips, shoved his legs together, and squeezed his
cock into the warm, slippery space between Draco’s thighs.

Draco bit his lip, hard, as Harry’s cock grazed the underside of his balls, unable to tear his
gaze from Harry’s face; unable to look away from those red-tinged eyes trained on his ass
like it was their next meal. Harry’s pace was leisurely, thrusting his cock into the soft grip of
Draco's thighs, his hands pulling Draco’s cheeks apart for his inspection, his thumb grazing
over Draco’s exposed hole covetously.

“I can’t wait to fucking ruin you,” Harry growled, almost to himself, and Draco’s spent cock
twitched despite himself.

There was something about Harry fucking his thighs, playing with him so idly, using him for
his own pleasure–

Harry slipped a thumb inside him and Draco nearly sobbed at the overstimulation, pretty sure
he was drooling onto the pillow now, but Harry just grit his teeth at the sound, his pace
picking up until his hips were meeting Draco’s with a chorus of wet smacks that echoed
through the room obscenely.

“Ah fuck –” Harry growled, pulling back just in time to take himself in hand and come over
Draco’s ass, onto his lower back; Harry’s free hand holding Draco’s hips in place – not that
he had any intention of moving, not while Harry was covering him in his come.

When he finished, Harry bent over Draco, chest to back, uncaring of the mess he was
spreading between them as he dropped a kiss between Draco’s shoulder blades, then onto the
back of his neck, before they both collapsed. Harry wrapped an arm around Draco’s waist,
pulling him impossibly closer, and Draco was wet, and sticky, and he knew he should get up
and clean up before he fell asleep, but he was drifting off to the sound of Harry’s breathing
before he could properly finish the thought.
Chapter End Notes

Fellas, is Draco a pillow princess?

You guys are going to hate me for the next chapter but I am having so much fun with it.
 Chapter 19

Draco woke up the next morning feeling feverish.

He rolled over; pulled the blankets closer to himself even as it felt like someone was kindling
a fire in his insides, one hand searching for Harry on the other side of the bed. Instead, his
fingers landed on the soft crinkle of paper.

Draco had to rub at his bleary eyes twice before he could make out Harry's chicken scrawl on
the note.

Didn’t want to wake you.

I’ll see you at lunch.

Harry xxx

Draco turned his face into his pillow, giggling like an idiot as he kicked his feet. Ridiculous.
It was just a note.

He checked his phone; it was one of the few weekdays he didn't have to be on campus before
11, and it was only 8:30. He cuddled into the covers again. He was relieved to note he wasn't
sticky anywhere – Harry must've wiped them down at some point in the night, or in the
morning, while he was clearly passed out. He shoved his face into the blankets at the thought,
and bravely resisted the urge to kick his legs again.

Usually he would lounge in bed for an hour or so, luxuriate in it, but he was hot, even after
kicking the covers off, and couldn't get comfortable, so he rolled out of bed, lazily pulling on
one of Harry's t-shirts and a pair of sleeping shorts.

He was worried he might have caught a bug, his body exhausted from all the recent stress,
but when he caught a look at himself in the full-length mirror, he quickly dismissed that idea.
He looked fine. In fact, he looked more than fine. He looked great. His cheeks were a bit
flushed, but his skin was clear, his eyes bright and his hair shiny.

He was practically glowing. He probably just needed a cup of tea and to adjust Harry's
thermostat a bit.

The kettle was just coming to the boil when Hermione called.

He considered letting it go to voicemail, but knew it would ultimately be futile. He had to

have this conversation at some point, and Granger could be more tenacious than her
boyfriend sometimes.
“Granger,” he greeted.

“Draco, we need to talk about what happened yesterday –”

“I'm not apologizing,” he warned.

She sighed, impatient. “That's not why I called. Listen, yesterday, when you became – upset
–” Draco opened his mouth to protest at that phrasing, but Hermione powered through, “Did
you notice anything out of the ordinary?”

For a moment, Draco was lost for words. Then: “You mean other than the whole fucking
situation?”

“I mean, like –” Hermione sighed, frustrated, and Draco didn't think he'd ever heard her
struggle for words like this. “Did you feel anything strange?”

The doorbell rang, and Draco was almost grateful for an escape from this strange
conversation.

“Listen, it was all weird, can we talk about this later? There's someone at the door.”

Hermione made that harassed sighing noise again. “Draco, this is important, I need you to
think back–”

Draco cut her off, on his way to the door. Whoever was on the other side had clearly never
learned any manners, ringing again. “Listen, if you have something to say, say it, otherwise
I'm going to hang up–”

She made that whining sound she always made before saying something she knew she
probably shouldn't, and cracked. “Your eyes were blue!”

What? Draco stopped halfway down the passage, confused. “My eyes are grey, Hermione.”

“No, Draco – your eyes were blue. Omega blue.”

Draco realized what she meant, then – the cerulean blue glow of an Omega’s eyes that
matched their Alpha’s blood red. He had never seen his own eyes that colour; hell, he had
never seen any Omega's eyes that colour. It wasn't something that happened often, he knew
that much.

“What – what does that mean?” he asked, quietly.

“I'm not sure exactly, but – your wolf is closer to the surface than ever, Draco, I think you
might be – well I can't be sure, but –” Hermione sighed, and Draco wanted to ask what he
might be; demand she finish her thought, but the doorbell was ringing incessantly now,
insanely distracting, so Draco started down the passage again.

“Look, Draco, just promise me you’ll be careful until we know –”

Draco opened the door, and someone smacked him over the head.
Draco woke up feeling feverish for the second time that day. This time, however, he was
distinctly less comfortable.

He cracked open an eye and tried to orient himself. There was something hard to his back – a
metal pole, if he had to guess – but it was doing precious little to stop the ache in his lower
back from, presumably, being tied to said pole for an indeterminate amount of time. He
flexed his fingers behind his back, relieved to find they still had some feeling in them despite
the ropes cutting into his wrists. The same could not be said for his feet, however. His legs
were free, but the concrete floor on which he was seated was cold and clammy, and he was
still dressed only in sleeping shorts and a t-shirt. His lower half protested loudly as he shifted
his legs, trying to get his blood flowing again. Needles stabbed at him, but he bit his lip
through the pain, knowing that – whatever this situation was – he was better off having full
use of his lower limbs.

“Looks like someone finally decided to wake up,” a voice spoke, cruelly, and Draco had been
expecting a couple things, but somehow – not her.

“Ginerva,” he muttered, forcing his chin up to look in the direction of her voice. It was
worryingly difficult – even without the throbbing in his left temple, the fever was making his
eyesight swim, and he felt somewhat nauseous trying to lift his head.

When he saw who was standing next to Ginny Weasley, the bile rose quick and furious.

“No,” he croaked, but Ginny just laughed.

“Poor little Draco. Guess Daddy doesn’t love you that much after all,” she taunted, and Draco
could see his father’s hands tightening on the metal snakehead handle of his cane at her
words, but the other man kept his expression neutral. Impassive.

“You don’t – you don’t know what you’re doing,” Draco managed, his throat like sandpaper.

“Oh, I know exactly what I’m doing,” Ginny snarled, and Draco blinked back tears, because
he knew she really didn’t, but it was too late now. “I’m saving Harry from a whorish little
liar who’s trying to trap him in a mating before he realizes just what he’s dealing with.”

“No,” Draco gasped again, but it was futile already, he knew.

“Yes,” Ginny snarled, piqued, and she took a step forward. “Did you really think you could
just show up and take Harry from me –”

“Miss Weasley, please,” his father intoned, and Ginny stepped back, chagrined. She looked a
bit embarrassed at her outburst, compared to Lucius and his calm and collected persona, and
Draco felt nothing but regret.

Then his father turned his attention to him.

“You had one job, Draco,” Lucius drawled, calmly, and Draco readied himself, “and that was
to disappear. To make yourself known to nothing and no one, and finally stop being a burden
and embarrassment to your family and everyone who has the misfortune of knowing you.
One job.

“The next thing I hear, however, from Miss Weasley no less, is that you’ve decided to not
only make yourself known to the wolf community, but to whore yourself out to the wolf who
brought about your family’s disgrace,” his father spoke, progressively louder, but never quite
shouting. Lucius never shouted. He had other ways of showing his displeasure. Like lifting
his cane, holding it firmly by the wrong end, and swinging the heavy metal snakehead against
Draco’s temple.

Draco’s head snapped to the side, and he tasted blood in his mouth. He thought he might’ve
heard Ginny make a sound, but his vision was swimming again, his ears stuffed with cotton
wool, and he could barely make out what his father was saying, standing right in front of him.

“I thought I would have to drug you to make you ready for your new owners, but it seems
you’ve gone and taken care of that yourself,” his father snarled, his lip curled up in disgust,
and it hit Draco, then, through the ringing in his ears, what was happening.

He didn’t recognize the signs, and why would he? The last and only time this had happened,
he had spent it delirious and terrified.

He was going into heat.

Draco threw his body to the left, just managing not to get sick all over himself. The tears
won, then, despite his best efforts, and his father’s lip curled, again, as he took a swift step
forward to kick Draco in the gut.

“The only reason I didn’t immediately sell you off to the highest bidder when you presented
was because your mother wept and begged me not to; to cast you out instead,” he sneered
down at his son. “But now you’ve forced my hand. You are making your mother incredibly
unhappy, Draco, I hope you know that.”

Draco let loose a sound against his will – a laugh or a sob, he didn’t know. His head was
swimming and he had started shivering violently and he was going to die.

“What do you mean, sell him off?” Ginny asked, her voice high. It seemed she had finally
found the good sense to be nervous, but not the good sense to shut up. “I thought you were
just going to lock him up in the manor for a while or something.”

His father looked at Ginny like she was something stuck to the bottom of his shoe, and were
Draco in any shape to do so, he might’ve felt sorry for her.

“It’d do you well not to think in future, Miss Weasley. I have no use for an omega, especially
not a defective one.”

“But you can’t–”

“I can do whatever the fuck I want,” his father snarled, and Ginny backed up two steps so fast
she tripped. Lucius Malfoy nodded wordlessly at the hulking man standing in the corner of
the room – Draco realized it was really bad that he hadn’t even noticed another person
standing there the whole time – and the brutish man grabbed Ginny under the arms and
hauled her up like she was nothing.

“Make sure she doesn’t talk to anyone until this is done,” Lucius ordered, and the man
dragged her out without so much as a yes sir. Her screams were muffled the moment the door
shut behind them.

“I won’t bother telling you to behave yourself,” his father sneered, “It won’t matter either
way. The payment has been made, and there are more of them than there are of you.”

“I’ll kill myself,” Draco bit out, sharp and ugly, and he meant it. He would put a blade
through his own throat before he let himself lose control, before he gave those disgusting
creatures what they wanted – before he gave them himself.

His father just laughed. “I would like to see you try.”

There were two thuds on the door, and the hulking figure from earlier was back.

“Mr Malfoy, they're here.”

 Chapter 20
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

The first thing Draco noticed was the smell.

Old fish rotting on a pier; seagulls circling overhead. The inside of a garbage bin left out in
the sun all day. Bread forgotten in a lunch box at the bottom of a school bag.

He tried not to gag as the three alphas sauntered into the room – he wanted to keep his eyes
on them, his wits about him, and he couldn't do that if he was getting sick – but their scents
were overpowering. He resisted as long as he could, staring them down. He wanted – needed
– to look them in the eye; show them he wasn’t going to back down. The bile rose in his
throat, and still he glared at them, swallowing convulsively.

Eventually, however, he cracked. Draco turned his face into the shoulder of his shirt –
Harry's shirt – and inhaled his alpha's scent, clinging to the fabric. By the time Harry realized
Draco was missing, it would probably already be too late. Even if Draco was still alive…
Some alphas had no qualms marking as many omegas as they could, Draco knew. Wolves
could only handle being marked once, both physically and mentally, but could dole out as
many marks as they pleased, without consequence.

These three struck him as the type. If he was driven mad, it would be a mercy, compared to
the alternative.

Lucius took a small step forward, knocked Draco against the side of his knee with his cane
none too kindly, but the alphas had noticed.

The tallest alpha stepped forward; sniffed the air, then crouched down in front of Draco,
leaning into his personal space. Draco cringed back, knees drawing up to his chest as he tried
to get as much space between him and the alpha as possible, but the man kept sniffing him.

The alpha growled low in his throat. “What the fuck is this?!”

Lucius’ face was impassive. “What we agreed.”

The man's lip rose in a sneer. “What we agreed? You said he was a virgin.”

“He will serve your purposes well enough,” Lucius growled, and Draco – Draco wanted to
laugh, then, felt a mad high-pitched giggle rise in his chest despite the shivers still wracking
his frame. These monsters had no problem buying him, owning another human being – no, he
wasn’t a human being to them, no omega was. They only balked at the idea that he might be
owned by another alpha.

“Let it go, Lance, he'll make a fine fuck either way,” a voice drawled – another of the three
alphas, this one stockier and face twisted into a cruel grin. A phantom spider skittered down
Draco's spine. The alpha joined his friend; forced Draco's head to the side with two fingers,
pulling away quickly as Draco snapped his teeth at them. “No mark. A shame, actually.
Would've enjoyed hearing this one scream for his mate.”

“You're a sick fuck, Tom,” Lance snorted, but he seemed more amused than anything else. He
stood.

“Would you prefer we take him off premises?” he asked Lucius, as if they were discussing
the weather.

“Do what you like,” Lucius drawled, casting Draco one last disgusted look before turning to
the door.

Just like that. Just like that his father was going to sell him off, leave him to these low-lifes to
do with as they please. No concern for whether his son would even make it through the next
24 hours.

The rage rose within him like vomit, quick and hot.

He probably hoped Draco wouldn't make it.

“Come on then, poppet,” the last, shortest alpha sing-songed, his grin a grimy smear across
his face as he crouched down in front of Draco. He leaned forward, fingers reaching around
to tug at Draco's bonds, his chest pressing against Draco's despite the omega’s best attempts
to avoid it, and Draco had to bite his lip so hard it bled to avoid getting sick again.

Suddenly, any earlier worries: the very thought that he would want these creatures just
because of his hormones – that even the haze of heat would be enough to convince him to
spread his legs for them – was hilarious. Ridiculous.

He laughed, once, a bark of a sound, and the alpha pulled back, startled. It wasn't quick
enough.

One of Draco's hands was free.

Draco grabbed the man by the neck, fingernails – no, claws, now – digging in mercilessly.
The alpha scrambled to get his hands off him, and while Draco was weakened from his heat,
not strong enough to rip the man's throat out completely, he held on, blood running down the
alpha's neck in satisfying rivulets as he gasped for air.

Lance seemed to snap out of whatever state of shock he was in, and dragged the other alpha
away from Draco, blood spattering satisfyingly across the concrete as Draco’s claws were
ripped from his throat. The injured alpha wheezed, and Draco knew he would probably heal
up soon, but still he felt a rush, his blood pulsing in his ears.

“What’s the matter, poppet,” Draco growled, and bared his teeth, still bloody from earlier.

Lance looked so offended, Draco cackled, sharp and biting.

“What the fuck, Lucius!” the alpha shrieked. “You tried to sell us a little fucking psycho –”
Lucius bared his teeth. “Do not impugn my honour because you cannot restrain one measly
omega.”

Draco laughed again, high and manic. Tom turned his glare on him, then, eyes stormy, and
Draco kicked out savagely as the alpha tried to advance on him, still tied to the metal pole by
one wrist.

“This measly omega will rip your throat out with his fucking teeth,” Draco growled at him,
and the alpha’s pace faltered. He looked unsure for a moment, assessing, but then –

Draco cried out as Tom's boot made contact with his ribs with a definitive crack. He braced
his free hand on the concrete next to him and tried to steady his breathing. His vision went
white as Tom brought his heel down on Draco's fingers in turn, the crunch sickening. Tom
crouched down, gripped Draco’s hair in one fist and yanked his head back.

Draco must have passed out for a second, because the next thing he was aware of, other than
the screaming pain, was the ice cold knife's edge trailing almost lovingly along his cheek.

“I wanted to fuck this pretty little face before I cut it up, but I guess we’re going to have to
make some changes to the script here,” Tom growled, and Draco let his eyes fall shut.

Maybe now they'll just kill me instead of –

And then something exploded.

Massive splinters littered the floor, and Draco realized no – someone had kicked the door in,
just as Harry stepped through.

His alpha's ruthless gaze found him immediately, taking in the state of him, then swept
around the room once. Harry’s eyes turned impossibly colder. Were he physically able, Draco
might have laughed at his past self who thought he saw hatred in Harry's eyes during their
little tiffs. That was nothing in comparison to this. This was beyond hatred.

Time stood still for a moment, and Draco thought to himself that he could die happy, having
seen his alpha look like that, for him, one last time.

Then Harry scooped up two wooden stakes from the debris at his feet, and speared them at
the two alphas closest to him. Lance and his accomplice went down with a thud, the chunks
of door embedded firmly in their chests.

The guard at the door was next, his brains painting the concrete as Harry crushed his skull
against the floor in one fluid motion.

Lucius seemed to see an opportunity, not to fight but to flee, like he always did. Harry caught
him by the throat before he made it to the door. Draco had barely drawn two breaths since
Harry first started moving, his movements brutally efficient up to that point, but now – his
alpha seemed to hesitate, Lucius's wide eyes still full of life as Harry's claws sank into his
neck, too slowly to crush and end it instantly. A frothy trail of blood slipped down the side of
Lucius' chin, his every breath a terrible wheeze now as Harry tightened his grip fractionally,
and Draco realized – no, that wasn't hesitation. Harry was drawing it out. He wanted Lucius
to suffer.

Draco wanted Lucius to suffer, but time was not on their side.

Tom seemed to realize the same, the blade previously pressed to Draco's cheek making quick
work of the last of the rope securing him to his position on the floor. Tom hauled Draco up
and against him, spinning them so Draco was between Tom and the rampaging alpha, his arm
tight around Draco's screaming ribcage, and Draco let out a pained cry.

His alpha's eyes snapped to him immediately.

Harry growled low in his throat, a sound more beast than human, and without taking his eyes
off of Draco, he gripped Lucius by the shoulder with his other hand, and ripped his throat out.
Blood sprayed Harry in a fine pink mist, Lucius's husk discarded without a second thought.

His alpha watched him with an intensity that stole Draco's breath.

Behind him, Tom laughed.

“You snagged yourself quite the pretty young thing here, I must say,” Tom drawled, hooking
his chin over Draco's shoulder and nosing at his neck in a way that had tears pricking hotly at
Draco's eyes. “Such a shame you didn't get to enjoy him fully. But don't worry, I will.”

Harry moved faster than Draco could make out. One moment, Draco was pressed up against
Tom, trying not to jerk with his growing sobs, a strange alpha mouthing at his neck, a blade
biting at his cheekbone.

The next, Tom's head rolled at his feet.

Draco stared down at it, chest hitching with aborted breaths, not fully understanding what he
was looking at. Tom's expression was frozen in an expression a half-moment before panic,
his neck ripped from his body in jagged strings of muscle and sinew, ugly and brutal.

Slowly, Draco turned. Behind him, Harry was still holding Tom's headless body with one
hand, the arm which had been holding the knife against Draco's cheek hanging onto the rest
by a thread. Harry tossed the body to the side, the same way he had Lucius’, as if the scum
did not even deserve perfunctory respect in death.

Tom's body crumpled into a heap, and Harry turned to face Draco, slowly, his eyes downcast.
Draco watched as Harry drew a deep breath into his lungs, the tension draining from his
shoulders, finally lifting his gaze to meet Draco's.

Draco felt the adrenaline drain from him all at once, relief like a summer rainstorm. Black
spots rushed Draco’s field of vision.

“Harry,” Draco breathed, and then he dropped.

When Draco woke, it was in bed. Harry’s bed. He realized, dimly, that this was becoming a
habit. He could not bring himself to care, however, floating on a pile of feather cushions,
surrounded by his Alpha's scent, seeped into the very fabric of the room.

If only he wasn't so hot.

He had the urge to kick his legs; flail until the offending covers were on the floor, but a
strange pressure against his right side stopped him. He cracked open his eyes, relieved to see
his Alpha at his side, but then – confused.

Harry was kneeling on the floor next to the bed, hands clutching the duvet, his forehead
pressed against Draco’s stomach like it was the last time he would get the chance to be this
close to him.

Draco reached across with his left hand, the one not trapped between his alpha and the bed,
and wove his fingers into Harry's hair gently, scratching his nails lightly against Harry's scalp.
Harry's hair was a mess – it always was, but more so than usual, and Draco lost himself in the
rhythm, raking his fingers through Harry’s hair in a vain attempt to tame the strands, teasing
out the errant knot here and there, but mostly just revelling in touching his alpha, in being
close to him.

Now, in the quiet, the late afternoon sun filtering through the curtains, Draco could admit that
he hadn't really believed he would have this again.

He was staring so intently at his alpha that of course he saw the moment Harry tensed, woke
up – or maybe just snapped out of a doze, because Draco didn't believe anyone could sleep
properly kneeling at a bedside like that.

Harry's fingers flexed in the covers, and Draco thought his shoulders might be shaking, just a
little.

“Harry?” Draco breathed, but his alpha refused to look at him.

Then Harry was whispering something, and it took a moment before Draco heard it.

Forgive me.

“What,” Draco breathed, his hand stilling in Harry's hair.

Still Harry refused to look at him, so Draco tightened his grip in his hair ever so slightly,
tugging his alpha's face away from his side gently, but Harry went easily. Draco's frown
deepened when he saw the look on his face.

“What are you talking about?” he asked, desperate to speed this up and get to the part where
his alpha was in bed with him, pressed against him in as many places as possible, with no
plans to change that any time soon.

“I'm not sorry, I'd do it again in a heartbeat,” Harry whispered, his voice scratchy and raw in
a way Draco didn't like, “but I understand if you would rather not be around me anymore.”
Draco wondered whether his face was doing what his brain was doing. It certainly felt like it.

“Are you – are you talking about how you saved my life?” Draco asked.

“I killed your father,” Harry whispered.

“The man was a monster!” Draco replied, his voice breaking in his incredulity.

“He was still your family,” Harry tried, but Draco was not having it. He knew, somewhere in
the back of his rational mind, that he should probably handle this whole situation with more
tact. That they both needed to sit down and discuss what had happened. Probably get some
therapy.

Unfortunately, his rapidly overheating body had other ideas, and thinking back now to Harry
saving him – his alpha, ruthless, focused, willing and able to kill for him, now kneeled at his
feet – Draco was inclined to agree with those ideas.

“Harry,” he said, again, sitting up – or trying to, anyway. Harry immediately stopped him,
finally getting up from the floor to loom over Draco instead, tucking him back into the
pillows with a frown. Draco wanted to protest – tell Harry that he was fine, that clearly his
werewolf healing was back in full force because he didn't have so much as a minor headache
to show for his ordeal, now, but he had a feeling Harry was not in a frame of mind to be
reasoned with.

Luckily, that made two of them, and Draco was going to take full advantage.

“I'm hot,” Draco breathed, and Harry stepped away immediately, pulling the duvet down to
the bottom of the bed, mercifully exposing Draco’s bare legs to the open air.

“Better?” Harry asked.

Draco shook his head petulantly, feeling only a little bad about Harry's answering frown. He
was going to make it up to him. As soon as the man got in the damn bed with him.

“What do you need?” Harry asked, always so earnest, leaning over Draco again, one knee on
the bed, the other resting on the headboard. Draco reached up, hooked one finger in the neck
of Harry's shirt, and pulled him down towards him. Harry landed with a hand on either side
of Draco's head, hips between Draco's knees, and Draco was delighted at the outcome.

“You,” he whispered, bracketing Harry's thighs with his own, pressing himself as close to his
alpha as he possibly could, and Harry caved, pressing his forehead to Draco's. Draco said it
again, whispered it into the space between their mouths and then against Harry's lips, licked
the word into his alpha's mouth until Harry's fingers tightened in Draco's hair in the way they
did when he was trying to hold himself back, barely leashed violence, but now, Draco was
holding the reigns. Draco ran his fingertips down the side of Harry's face; splayed his hand
along the side of his throat, felt the muscles in Harry’s jaw work as he pulled back, settling
one steadying hand on the headboard behind Draco.
“Draco, you –” he tried, but his voice was gravel and Draco could see red glinting in his eyes
already, “if you need time –”

“You said you're not sorry. Are you sorry?” Draco cut him off, and Harry's face was hard
when he shook his head, clearly replaying the memory in his mind's eye.

Draco sighed, long-suffering. “Harry. Alpha. My alpha,” he mused, trailing feather-light

fingertips down the muscles in the side of Harry's neck. “If you haven't realized by now that
the thought of you ripping people to shreds for me makes me want to get down on my knees
and beg you to fuck my face until I can't breathe, then I don't know how to be any more
clear.”

The headboard cracked, audibly, and Draco couldn't stop the grin that split his face.

Maybe they were both fucked up. Were Draco a better person, maybe he would've cared. As
it was, he decidedly did not.

Harry growled, deep and low, and swooped down, tucking his face in Draco's neck and
grazing his teeth, canines sharp, along Draco's milky unmarked skin. The effect was
immediate, sending a shiver straight down Draco's spine, and he sucked in a sharp breath,
rolling his hips up against Harry's, desperate for some friction to alleviate the almost painful
arousal prickling at his fucking fingertips.

Harry did not show mercy. He continued his path downwards, pulling the neck of his shirt –
oversized, on Draco – to the side so he could nip at Draco's collarbone, then hook a claw into
the fabric and pull, ripping the shirt clean off of Draco's body. Draco bit his lip, one hand
clutching Harry's hair helplessly, the other wrapped in the pillows behind him. The smell of
slick was thick in the air, when Harry paused at his chest, red-tinted eyes watching Draco
with that breath-stealing intensity as he trailed open-mouthed kisses along Draco’s ribcage.

“No one will ever touch you again,” he growled into his skin, and Draco could see it: every
injury Draco had endured during his capture, all healed now, but ghosts haunting Harry all
the same.

Draco would much rather his body conjure very different memories for his alpha.

“Only you,” he replied, and he meant it. Draco watched as a muscle in Harry’s jaw worked,
his alpha pulling himself up until he was level with Draco again, pin-prick claws at Draco’s
hips slipping underneath the waistband of his underwear, teasing them down.

“No one will ever make you scream again,” Harry growled into the space under his ear, biting
along his jaw as Draco writhed beneath him, only giving in when Draco managed to get a
hand on either side of Harry's face, tugging him in for a kiss.

“Only you,” Draco breathed against his lips, and Harry snapped.

Draco’s underwear met the same fate as his shirt, shredded and tossed to the side carelessly.
Harry descended on him with a single-minded focus, leaving a trail of teeth marks and
bruises down his neck and chest as Draco tugged his alpha’s shirt off of him, his body
temperature rising sharply. Sweat was prickling at his hairline, in the small of his back,
behind his knees, and it should have been gross but instead it was overwhelming, the need
need need hitting him suddenly like a physical blow, and he couldn't bear to look at his alpha
between his legs, biting marks into Draco's hip ones, without it stabbing a lance of painful
anticipation through his belly.

“Harry–” he keened, knees tightening around the other man's shoulders as he bit into the
fleshy inside of Draco's thigh, two pin pricks of blood rising to the surface, swept up by his
alpha's tongue and healing already. Harry's gaze flicked up to meet Draco’s, and his eyes
turned fully red.

Draco didn't have time to so much as draw breath before Harry was sitting up on his knees,
grabbing Draco's hips and yanking him down the bed, Harry's thighs cushioning his lower
back so his ass was pressed up against Harry's cock, hard and leaking.

Draco wondered dimly when his alpha had lost his pants, and then Harry was reaching down,
taking his own cock in hand so he could rub the swollen head against Draco's hole, wet and
soft and wanting, and Draco bit his lip, hard enough to taste metal, rolling his hips against the
intrusion as much as he could with what little leverage he had, spread open on Harry's lap,
until his alpha growled low in his chest, leaning forward to grip both of Draco's wrists in one
hand, pressing them against the mattress and bending Draco at the waist.

Draco lost whatever leverage he had, completely unable to move now, except to hook his
ankles behind the small of Harry's back as his alpha leaned forward ever so slightly, pressing
just the head of his cock through Draco's rim with a pop.

Draco's breath stuttered in his lungs, his mouth falling open, the stretch still sudden despite
how obscenely wet and ready his body was, the sensation all-consuming. Harry watched him
with an unwavering intensity, a blood red predator's gaze drinking him in as Harry pulled
back his hips just enough to pop free, and then sink back in, just fucking Draco ever so
diligently on the tip of his cock, the ridge catching maddeningly on every out stroke until
Draco thought he would go mad from the anticipation, the all-consuming obsession building
within him for Harry to just sink all the way in, but he was trapped, his shoulders pushed
down into the bed, wrists immobilised under Harry's hold.

Still Harry watched him, teased him, prepped him, and just when Draco thought he truly
couldn't stand it any longer, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes and his breathless gasps
turning to incoherent begging sobs, Harry leaned forward, pressing his cock into Draco in a
slow, wet, tight slide.

Harry bottomed out, hips flush with Draco's ass, and Draco thought he could feel him in his
throat.

Harry leaned forward further, Draco's wrist bones creaking under one hand, his claws raking
red welts into Draco's ass cheek with the other, and rolled his hips, pulling out and pressing
back in impossibly deep in a smooth, purposeful, seemingly endless motion, over and over,
stoking hot embers in Draco's lower belly with a persistent pressure, a focused assault on
Draco's insides with the length of Harry's unfairly large cock, filling him up to the brim and
then some, providing no relief until the embers turned to lava, erupting and overflowing
before Draco could fully understand what was happening. He threw his head back, every
muscle in his body pulling taut, his legs clamping down around Harry in a way that might
have been painful for anyone else, and his vision went white as he came, cock untouched, his
ass pulsing around Harry's cock, as if trying to draw him deeper, every tightening around the
intrusion bringing a sharp new sensation all over again. He only realized he had started
crying when he finally came down, small spasms of after shock still wracking his body, and
Harry released his wrists, running his hands covetously down Draco's arms, gently wiping
away his tears where they clung to the side of his face. Draco thought he must look splotchy
and gross, probably, but Harry watched him like he was his North star, like the rest of his life
depended on his wishes, and Draco's chest tightened, lost for the words for what he was
feeling right then, so he reached forward instead, clamped a hand around the back of Harry's
neck and pulled his alpha forward for an open-mouthed kiss, more tongue and spit and tears
than anything else.

The movement jostled Harry where he was still buried deep inside Draco, and Draco moaned
as, impossibly, he felt heat flare again.

“Harry, Harry, Harry Harry –” he whined, not really sure what he was asking for, but Harry
kissed him quiet.

“I've got you, sweetheart,” he murmured against Draco's lips, then sat up, gripping both of
Draco's hips again.

Then Harry leaned back, pulling Draco tight against him, and Draco's eyes rolled back in his
skull. With the change in angle, Harry’s cock pressed up, an unwavering presence rearranging
Draco's insides, and then Harry whimpered, a sound so helpless Draco willed his eyes open,
only to wish he hadn't, because now he could see what had Harry's hands clenching on his
thighs in that way they did when his alpha was just this side of losing control; could see
where Harry's eyes were glued to the outline his cock made in Draco's lower belly, pressing
up against his stomach from the inside until it bulged obscenely.

And Draco watched, helpless, as Harry reached forward and pressed down on his stomach,
over the bulge of his own cock, and started fucking into Draco with small powerful
devastating movements, no doubt feeling himself move inside Draco from the outside, and
the pleasure ran so sharp and hot that Draco thought he was lost, his hands gripping the slats
of the headboard not enough to ground him as his body was owned, overwhelmed, the
pressure building further until Draco realized that it wasn't just his impending orgasm, that
Harry was growing, that his cock was expanding inside him at the base.

“I'm going to stretch you out on my knot, fucking take it, ” Harry growled, his voice more
gravel and beast than man, and Draco wished he could respond, enthusiastically, but he was
reduced to the wordless, helpless sounds spilling out of him, his mouth hanging open, spit
slipping down the side of his own face as Harry's knot grew, to the point where Draco
thought he wouldn't be able to take it, that he would be split open, before Harry thrust deep
one last time and stilled with a groan, and Draco felt him spilling inside of him, the stretch a
pleasure dancing on the knife-edge of pain. Then Harry took Draco's cock in hand, ran one
thumb over the head and stroked almost too-tightly, and Draco came like a rubber band
snapping, unable to breathe, unable to so much as scream as his body convulsed around
Harry's knot, and he lost all conscious thought, giving in to his body and his alpha,
completely.

Epilogue

Draco tipped his head back over the edge of the bed, running his fingers over his own clothed
nipples, hard under his dress shirt, and moaned as Harry pressed his cock down Draco's
throat.

“Fuck, baby, yes,” his alpha husked, under his breath, and even if Draco didn't love the
feeling of Harry's cock inside him as much as he did, that reaction alone would have been
worth the effort it took to learn to take Harry all the way down his throat without gagging.

Not that Harry didn't like it when he gagged on his cock, too, sometimes, depending on how
close the wolf was to the surface, how sadistic his alpha was feeling.

A shiver ran down Draco's spine at the thought and he clenched his thighs tighter together,
trying in vain to stave off the slick leaking out of him. He was definitely going to ruin his
pants at this rate.

Harry pulled back carefully, fucked back in, thumb rubbing tender circles over the skin of
Draco's throat, and Draco knew what his alpha was staring at so intently: his mark on Draco's
neck, where he had sunk his teeth into Draco's skin two days ago, during his last heat. Harry
wore a matching mark in the junction between his neck and his collarbone, the spot Draco
most loved to clamp onto while Harry fucked the living daylights out of him.

They had tried to wait, give it a proper amount of time before they became the equivalent of
werewolf married.

They had lasted less than a year.

Draco had no regrets.

Neither did Harry, he thought, watching as his alpha started to lose his rhythm, a sure sign he
was close, and Draco swallowed around his cock, the constriction enough to send Harry over
the edge with a soft fuck, Draco swallowing his alpha's come as he pressed the heel of his
hand against his own cock desperately, staving off his own orgasm. Harry pulled out, not yet
done, taking himself in hand and finishing on Draco's chest and face, smearing his cum
across Draco's cheek and eyelashes, and Draco, in the mood to tease, opened his mouth to
show his alpha his spend on Draco's tongue.

Harry's eyes glinted red and Draco wondered if they would make it out of the house after all.

“Could you two stop fucking for two minutes we have a lunch reservation! ” Pansy started
banging at Harry’s front door. Distantly, Draco could hear Hermione giggle as Ron and
Neville sputtered at Pansy about neighbours.
 Harry looked in the direction of the door, clearly frustrated despite himself, fighting the
alpha. Draco giggled, and the sound brought Harry back to him, his gaze softening as he
reached out and tucked a sweaty strand of hair out of Draco's face, ran a covetous thumb
along Draco's cheekbone, a vain attempt to clean Draco up. Draco suspected he wasn't trying
very hard. There were few things his alpha loved more than marking him, he knew, and
Draco was not at all inclined to dissuade him of the impulse.

“Are you ready to tell them?” Harry asked, his voice still hoarse.

Lying on their bed, still-hard, half-dressed, ruined, covered in cum, Draco beamed up at him.

“You’re stuck with me now, Potter.”

Chapter End Notes

I swear I didn’t intend for the smut to go that hard in this last chapter. I hope this makes
up for 2016-me putting “shameless smut” in the tags of a WIP that really had basically
no smut until last year. This is certainly shameless now.

Did you guys know that the title of this fic was originally a knotting joke. I think I
meant it to be like 3 chapters when I started it. Barely. What a ride.

I was going back and forth for ages between just finishing this or taking the time to
rewrite the beginning chapters so they’re more in line with my current style. I’m glad I
did the latter. I think the story became something else along the way and now I’ve
honoured it and also just wow I really couldn’t write very well nine years ago.

Can I write very well now? Who knows. I’m sure me in another nine years will have
opinions. I certainly have a codependent relationship with em-dashes and italics.

I want to write something a bit darker next. I think that's where I was originally trying to
go with this but never really got there. But I also have a very silly idea for a Bridgerton-
esque marriage-of-convenience ABO. Shenanigans ensue.

Vote in the comments. Maybe you’ll get to read it in another decade.

Oh well. Here she is, done and dusted. Finally. See? Never give up on your dreams. :)
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