Chapter Text
The sun beat down on the gentle, rolling hills of Dorset, unseasonably warm for an afternoon in May. It made sweat trickle into Harry's eyes, the grip on his wand turning slippery as he stared down at Voldemort's smoking corpse. He made to take a step back, stumbled, and almost fell. Draco caught his elbow, a pale blur on the edge of his vision.
“Easy, Harry,” Draco said, as if from very far away.
Harry nodded numbly. His head felt heavy; full of cotton wool. There was an odd roaring in his ears. Voldemort was dead. Just an ugly, broken body in the middle of a no-name field in country Dorset, of all places, where they'd finally discovered one of his Unplottable bases.
“We did it,” he said, unable to look away from the body of the wizard who had caused so much pain, so much grief. Voldemort had murdered his parents. Sirius. Cedric. He’d destroyed lives, torn families apart, killed hundreds of innocents in his cowardly guerrilla attacks. Came far, far too close to killing Draco at Malfoy Manor, just two months ago.
And now – now it was over.
“We did it,” he said again, finding Draco's eyes at last.
His Alpha was too thin, cheeks sunken and his eyes hollow, robes hanging off him in all the wrong places; the result of too many months with too little food, forcing Harry to take the lion's share of even his tiny portion, again and again. He looked ready to collapse now. He'd used their bond to funnel as much of his magic as he could stand to lose (and probably more) into Harry in those final moments against Voldemort.
The power of love, Harry thought ironically, remembering Dumbledore's words from so long ago.
“You shouldn't have given me so much,” he said.
Draco just smiled wearily. “Doesn't matter now. You did it.”
“We –” Harry started to correct him, but then he staggered under the weight of a body slamming into his, and he was spitting out a mouthful of bushy brown hair. “Hermione,” he said, as she shrieked into his ear. The unexpectedly loud noise broke through the bubble he'd been standing in since Voldemort's Killing Curse had rebounded, and he realised the dull, thunderous sound in his ears he’d attributed to shock was actually the triumphant roars of the survivors.
“We won!” Hermione yelled, pulling back, her face flushed and happy even through the dirt and blood that seeped from a nasty-looking head wound. “We won! You did it, Harry!”
Harry took a deep breath, feeling the tugs and aches of bruises and what he suspected were cracked ribs. Voldemort had taken great pleasure in throwing him around, torturing him with repeated applications of the Cruciatus Curse, before Draco had managed to break through the lines to his side.
Hermione's face was beginning to fall, worry creeping in around her eyes, so Harry tried a smile. “We did it, Hermione,” he said, glancing over at Draco. “All of us.”
She smiled back at him, tears suddenly filling her eyes and spilling down her cheeks, making tracks through the dirt and grime. “We did it,” she agreed. “Oh Merlin, Harry, we did it!”
“Damn right we did!” Ron exclaimed. He laughed and slapped Harry’s back, hard, shoving him forward into Hermione’s arms. The hurt noise that escaped Harry’s lips was entirely unintentional, but he couldn’t argue with the result: Draco was there instantly, urging Hermione out of the way gently, shoving Ron away not-so-gently. He ran his hands down Harry’s sides, his eyes dark and questioning.
“Hurts,” Harry admitted.
Draco nodded, and closed his eyes, shifting his hand to cover Harry’s heart.
“Draco, no,” Harry protested, but Ron was there already, slapping his Alpha’s hand away.
“Don't be a fool, Malfoy!” he said, sharply. “You don’t even know what’s wrong! Last time you did that, you almost died.” The addendum ‘you idiot’ was left off, but clearly meant, and Harry winced as Draco’s eyes flashed.
“He’s right, you know,” Hermione said quickly, before Draco could unleash the full, terrifying bite of his scathing tongue on her boyfriend. “Harry has a higher pain threshold than you.” She frowned a little. “Or, at least, he’s better at coping with it. You were in a much, much better physical condition last time. This time, you’re practically dead on your feet. His injuries really could kill you.”
“A stiff wind would knock you over right now, mate,” Ron agreed.
Draco snarled. “He’s my –”
“Mate. Yes,” Harry agreed, pressing a kiss to the corner of Draco’s mouth. It was pleasantly cool against his burning lips, and he lingered there for a moment, closing his eyes, just enjoying the closeness. And if it was also a sure-fire way to divert Draco's attention away from his friends... well, that was just an added bonus. Really, he knew they meant well, but he was exhausted and too hot and slightly lightheaded, and he couldn't deal with an argument (read: pissing contest) right now.
“I’d really rather you didn’t, Draco,” he said quietly, deliberately angling his body to shut his friends out of the conversation. “I’m pretty sure I have some cracked ribs, and yours never did heal properly after the Manor.”
Draco’s jaw worked. “You just killed Voldemort. You’re in shock. You don’t know what you’re saying –”
“Draco,” Harry said, patiently, and his Alpha scowled and whirled away.
“Madam Pomfrey,” he snapped out. “Where is she?”
“Not far,” Hermione told him. “She's set up a medi-tent for the wounded. I took Remus there earlier. He's fine, Harry," she said, seeing his panic. "He jumped in front of a wasting curse meant for Tonks, but we managed to slow its progress long enough to get him to Madam Pomfrey. She said it would take some time, but she could reverse it.”
Harry sighed in relief, and let himself lean on Draco when the other boy wrapped an arm around his waist.
Hermione led the way, Ron falling into step on Harry's other side as they were swarmed, people approaching them with hands eagerly outstretched, wanting to offer their congratulations, their thanks, to shake Harry’s hand or touch his shoulder, pull him into a hug. There were tears and shouts of joy, and really Harry just wanted to find a quiet place and curl up with his Alpha and sleep for a month, but he knew they needed him – needed Harry Potter; their leader, their Saviour, the Boy Who Lived and the man who had defeated Voldemort at last.
“You’re exhausted and nursing broken ribs,” Draco said quietly, arm tightening around him. “This can wait. They can wait.”
Harry nodded, relieved that the decision had been taken out of his hands, and trying not to feel too guilty for that. He felt like he might collapse at any moment, and Draco was hardly any more steady on his feet, but they kept each other upright through sheer force of will, and perhaps a little left-over shared magic, and Ron and Hermione kept them moving through the growing crowd.
Fortunately, respect for the personal boundaries of the only known, bonded Alpha-Omega couple in the wizarding world kept most people at bay, and Ron and Hermione were able to handle the rest.
Harry nodded at familiar faces, beyond glad that they had made it, but too tired to even call out to them. Luna. Neville. Seamus and Dean. Hagrid. Molly and Arthur. Ginny. The twins, arms slung around each other and pale, freckled faces split into two with their grins. They waved, and Harry waved back weakly, and then winced at the sudden, sharp pain that shot through his ribs.
“Potter,” Draco hissed, unhappily. He fumbled for his wand (an indication of just how tired they both were, Harry thought; they rarely used their wands for anything but the most complex spells, now), and murmured, “Ferula.”
Harry felt bandages wrapping around his torso, and there was an instant lessening of pain. He relaxed, letting out a slow breath.
“Idiot,” Draco said, pulling him closer. He was stark white and trembling with exhaustion, and Harry opened his mouth to return the compliment. But the air he drew in was suddenly too thick, too hot, and he felt like he was burning up. The heat of his Alpha was almost unbearable pressed up against his side, and he pulled away, almost staggering at the loss. “Harry?” Draco's face swam anxiously in his vision.
“What’s wrong?” Hermione said. “Harry? We’re almost there. It’s just over this hill.”
Harry ignored her, reaching out for his Alpha, alarmed at the way Draco was swaying. Or was that him? “I feel – odd,” he said, pressing a hand to his forehead.
And then everything went dark.
~*~
He woke up in the infirmary, squinting against the harsh glare of the overhead lights. It was dark outside, and he felt an odd sense of displacement, like the time he'd had a too-long nap in the afternoon and went down to the Great Hall for breakfast, only to discover it was just dinnertime. He flung out a hand to the bedside table for his glasses, and encountered Draco’s hand, instead.
“Here,” Draco said, pressing the familiar wire-frames into his hand.
Harry pushed the glasses up his nose, and then blinked at his Alpha, confused. “What happened?” he said. He’d been hungry and sleep-deprived and in so much pain that only now it was gone could he recognise just how bad it had been. He felt good. Healthy.
Draco looked different, too; he was clean, and he’d changed into robes Harry hadn't seen in a long time – the nice ones he used to wear, before they went on the run. Hermione hadn't thought to pack anything for Draco, when they left Bill and Fleur's wedding; back then, they had still been more than a little distrustful of the Slytherin Harry had chosen as his Alpha, and it hadn't even occurred to Hermione that he might come with them.
Harry could have told her he would, if she'd asked. It was the one thing Harry had always known about his mate, right from the start; right from the moment Draco had staggered into the safe haven he’d created in Harry's mind, bloody and on the verge of death after fighting a battle with a Horcrux for Harry’s soul. His Alpha would do anything for him. No matter the cost.
It was actually quite frightening, to be the one person Draco Malfoy would always put first, before even himself. Fortunately, Harry had developed ways of ensuring it never went too far.
Like:“Draco, if you don’t eat, you’ll be too weak to help me when we face Voldemort, and I’ll die. Do you really want that?”
And: “I’m not leaving you to face this Horcrux alone! Dumbledore died because of one of these. Are you really going to copy his mistakes? Are you really that selfish? You know what will happen to me without you! I'll be forced to bond with another Alpha, forced to submit to someone who doesn't love me, who’ll rape me day after day for the rest of my life –”
It worked. It always worked. Because Draco was frightened of losing Harry, but the idea of Draco dying first terrified the hell out of both of them.
That the world was not kind to Omegas was an understatement. Severus Snape was living proof of that, and Harry considered himself a close second, even if he had been lucky enough to have been bonded to someone who really loved him, despite their rocky start.
He studied Draco now, frowning. He still looked tired and worried, with dark circles under his eyes, but his sunken, pale cheeks had filled out, and had colour again, and his robes couldn’t hide how much better he looked, how well, something that all the spells and potions in Madam Pomfrey’s supply couldn’t do alone. It meant time. “How long have I been asleep?”
“A week,” Draco admitted.
Harry gaped at him for a moment, speechless. “A week?” he managed, at last, choked with fury. “What the fuck, Draco! You made Madam Pomfrey keep me under, didn’t you? You have to stop doing this! They needed me; you can’t just make a unilateral decision to –”
Draco didn’t say that it was his legal right to do just that, because he owned Harry, and no medical professional in the wizarding world would treat (or not treat) Harry without Draco’s permission. They both knew it. It was just that Draco knew better than to say it, now. “You agreed,” he said instead, mildly.
Harry scowled. “I agreed that when I was ‘being a martyr’, you could override my decisions about my medical care, but Draco, you didn’t even give me a chance to make any decisions!”
“In the interests of fairness, Mr Potter,” Madam Pomfrey said, bustling over, “not all the blame can be put on your Mr Malfoy’s shoulders. It was the general consensus that both of you needed time to rest.”
“But Draco hasn’t rested!” Harry said, pointing an accusing finger at his Alpha.
Madam Pomfrey clucked disapprovingly. “You are quite correct, Mr Potter. However, he would refuse to leave your side for longer than an hour at a time, and I am afraid the one person who might have convinced him otherwise was unconscious.”
“I didn’t need to be unconscious to rest,” Harry said, petulantly. “We could’ve been resting together.”
“Unfortunately not,” Madam Pomfrey said, waving her wand over him and frowning in dissatisfaction. “You are in heat, Mr Potter.”
Harry froze. “I’m in – sorry, what?”
He couldn't have heard her right. Or – no, she had to be mistaken. He would know if he was in heat. It wasn't exactly the kind of thing he could miss.
“I can smell it,” Draco said. He was frowning, too, shifting uncomfortably on the hard infirmary chair. “You are in heat, Harry. But it’s not right. Something’s wrong. Hermione’s researching it, trying to find answers. But I couldn’t justify letting you wake up until your body could handle the strain of whatever's happening to you. The heat was hard enough on you, last time – let alone now.”
“Merlin,” Harry groaned, letting his head drop forward and raking his fingers through his hair. “This is just fucking fantastic. I need to be out there, Draco. I need to be helping, letting people see me, talking to them, and – oh, Salazar’s beard, Voldemort’s body –”
“It’s dealt with,” Draco said. “Severus burnt it himself. He scattered the ashes over half of Scotland. Not even the oldest, Darkest ritual could bring that bastard back now. As for everyone else, I gave a statement to the reporters on your behalf; explained how we defeated Voldemort at last, and what we’ve been doing for the last year.”
“Not the –?” Harry glanced at Madam Pomfrey, who clicked her tongue but otherwise ignored their conversation, busying herself with several unpleasant-looking potions.
“Of course not,” Draco said. “Just that we were searching for a way to take him down.”
Harry relaxed. “Still. All our friends, the Order members, all the students and their families who fought with us, who lost people –”
“Ron and Hermione are doing the rounds,” Draco reassured him. “Snape, too. You’ve made him a hero, you know.”
Harry shook his head immediately. “He did that himself. He suffered the most, and gave the most. I just made sure our side knew it, before we went into the final battle.”
“A very good thing, too,” Madam Pomfrey said, turning and handing a murky-green potion to Harry. She looked at him sternly until he put the vial to his lips and drank reluctantly. “Or I’m not sure he wouldn’t have found himself on the wrong end of an Order wand. He’s going to have to face trial for his actions, regardless. His brief stint as Headmaster of this school did not succeed in endearing him to anyone.”
“We wouldn’t have won the war without him,” Harry said.
“And he did his best to protect the students, to keep the worst of the Death Eaters’ excesses from hurting anyone,” Draco added.
“So you say,” Madam Pomfrey sighed. “And there’s no way to misinterpret Dumbledore’s deathbed confession. Still, more students ended up in my infirmary this year than I care to think about. I can hardly believe it’s over at last, and all thanks to you, Mr Potter.”
Harry frowned, but she was already handing him another potion, giving him a pointed look. He sighed and tipped the small vial back, swallowing it in one go. Unfortunately, the foul, bitter taste still managed to fill his mouth, even worse than the first. He gagged slightly, and then Draco was there, pressing his tongue into Harry’s mouth, chasing the bitterness away with his own, sweet taste.
Harry moaned and opened his mouth wider, fisting his hands in Draco’s robes and pulling him closer.
He let Draco claim him, let him probe and explore, sucked on his Alpha’s tongue with all the need and desperation of a seventeen-year-old boy. But there was something wrong. His skin was burning, the familiar-but-long-forgotten ache of the heat creeping up on him, but his body wasn’t reacting like it was supposed to, no slick wetness trickling down between his thighs, no unbearable arousal between his legs. He needed, but the most important physiological reactions just – weren't there.
He broke away, gasping. “Draco,” he said, panicked.
“I know,” Draco said, swallowing hard, his grey eyes just as frightened. “I know. We'll figure it out, Harry. I promise.”
~*~
The next few days went by in a whirlwind of grief and slow-building jubilation. The remaining Death Eaters had been rounded up quickly, and people were still mourning for those who had died, but the joy of finally hearing that Voldemort was dead – of hearing it confirmed from Minister Shacklebolt’s own lips that the war was over - was infectious, spreading like wildfire through the wizarding world.
Harry received invitations to no less than thirty parties in the first two days he was awake, not to mention twenty-three funerals, and was asked to speak at almost every Death Eater trial. Draco sent polite declinations to the parties, but Harry insisted on making an appearance, brief though it might by necessity be, at every single funeral to show his support and grief for the bereaved. He stayed for the entire funerals for Colin Creevy, Padma Patil, Lavender Brown, Professor Sprout, and Vincent Crabbe.
Draco was a steady, silent support by his side for two days, but at Crabbe's funeral he broke down and cried. “It’s my fault,” he said, “I should have tried harder –”
Harry wrapped his arms around him, shoving his stupid, inappropriate heat to the back of his mind so he could concentrate on Draco. He pressed a kiss to his Alpha’s temple. “His father got to him first,” he said, gently. “That’s not your fault.”
“Potter’s right,” Pansy Parkinson said. Her eyes were red-rimmed but clear, and Harry wondered how many funerals for the other side she had had to attend. Pansy had been one of the first to turn after Draco made his new loyalties known, and she'd been invaluable in helping to turn the rest of the Slytherins and their families. But there were always exceptions. Crabbe, for example. Her mother. “We tried our best,” she said. “Even Gregory tried, and if Vince was going to listen to any one of us, it would have been him.”
Draco nodded, but Harry knew better than anyone that the weight of responsibility for another's life could not be lightened with empty words. It just had to be dealt with.
He tried, after that, to pull himself together for his Alpha’s sake, to share his own grief with him and maybe try to heal together, but every time he did, that tormenting half-heat rose, prickling across his skin and consuming his mind with need, and he was no good to anyone.
“Harry,” Hermione said, one afternoon, and he jerked his head up to look at her. “You’ve been staring at that page for over an hour.”
His face flamed red, and he bent his head over the thick book again. “Sorry,” he muttered.
“Leave him be, Granger,” Draco warned.
Harry sighed. “No, she’s right. I’m not helping. I’m sorry, guys.”
“That’s not what I meant at all,” Hermione said. “I just meant – Harry, are you okay?”
Harry considered that. Was he okay? Voldemort was dead, which was good, but now he just felt – lost. Like he’d had one goal, one purpose, for so long, and now it was all over, he didn’t quite know what to do with himself. He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to work it out, either, when half of him wanted to curl up in a ball and cry for all that he’d lost, and half of him wanted Draco to just throw him down right here in the middle of the library and fuck him until he could barely remember his own name, let alone the ridiculous, unflattering titles the newspapers kept coming up with; The Boy Who Lived To Destroy Voldemort, The Omega Saviour, even, horribly, The Omega Who Had The Last Laugh.
And then – then there was Draco. His Alpha. The love of his life. The boy who had sworn to love him always, to cherish him always, to share everything he was and ever would be with him.
Harry had kept his promise. He’d allowed Draco to court him, to show him how good they could be together. And Draco had more than proved himself. But... recently Harry had begun to feel a distance between them. It hurt. He knew Draco loved him – could never, ever doubt that – but he’d been quiet for a long time, now. Off, somehow. Since Malfoy Manor, Harry realised now, and while he’d attributed it at the time to the horror and stress of the war, he wondered what that meant for them now. Especially if he could no longer go into heat.
Draco wanted children; he’d always been clear on that. If Harry couldn’t give him an heir, would Draco even still want him?
“He’s not okay, ‘Mione,” Ron said. “This shouldn’t be happening.”
“I’ve never heard of anything like it,” Draco agreed. “Nor has Mother. She’s searching the books in our library at the Manor, but if there’s a precedent, I think we would have found it by now.”
“You're right,” Hermione sighed, slamming her dusty old book shut. “None of this is helpful. It’s all prettily-worded waffle about not very much at all. It’s almost as if they were trying to keep the particulars of Alpha-Omega bonds secret.”
Draco frowned, and shrugged. “They probably were. Limiting public knowledge to myths and rumours would have increased the value of Omegas significantly, and many of the ruling pureblood families invested in the Omega trade would have had the power to destroy any publications threatening to undermine their profit margin. Not to mention the Alphas themselves; I can’t imagine revealing the intimate details of our bond to anyone, let alone allowing it to go on public record.”
The revulsion Draco felt at the very thought echoed through their bond, and Harry nodded in agreement.
Hermione sighed, obviously frustrated. “But, Draco, you might have to. There’s nothing in the books, and if we don’t even know how Alpha-Omega bonds work, how can we fix this?”
“Maybe we can’t,” Harry said, desolately.
Draco put a hand over his. “Harry,” he said, very seriously, and waited until Harry lifted his eyes to his. “I will do whatever it takes. Whatever it takes, even talk to Granger and Madam Pomfrey about our bond. I promise. I won’t let this destroy you.”
Reassurance poured through their bond, and Harry nodded, letting it relax him, trying not to think about Draco’s glaring omission: I won’t let this destroy us.
~*~
Kingsley Shacklebolt rushed the trials of the Death Eaters through the Wizengamot in a matter of days. Harry understood, of course; the wizarding world had seen enough hatred and pain and death for several lifetimes. People just wanted to mourn their losses, celebrate, and move on.
But his Alpha was a Slytherin, and too many of his friends – their allies – had friends or family on trial. Goyle’s parents. Pansy’s beautiful, tiny slip of a mother, who had cut down fifteen junior Aurors single-handedly in one, horrifying raid. Millicent Bulstrode’s three cousins, who had practically raised her, and now stood trial for the horrific murders of a group of Muggle professors and their students at the University of Leeds.
And Lucius Malfoy, Draco’s father.
Harry made Draco stay at Hogwarts while he attended that one. Azkaban was overflowing, and with the Dementors gone, the Minister had made the decision to reinstate the death penalty for the worst of the Death Eaters.
“I’ll get him off,” Harry promised. “I will, Draco... but – if I don’t – I don’t want you to watch that.”
Draco let him go without a word. And with the Chosen One’s heartfelt testimony on his behalf, Lucius was set free.
Narcissa didn’t even go to trial. She had never taken the Mark, and she had been rescued from Malfoy Manor by the Order long before the war began in earnest. With both Narcissa and Draco so close to Harry, Dumbledore had been afraid Voldemort would break Lucius out of Azkaban and try to use him against the Chosen One. And so they’d broken Lucius out first, and put him up in one of the Order’s safe-houses for the duration of the war.
Harry had been loath to trust the man, but, once he had accepted that his son was bonded, for life, to Harry Potter, Lucius had thrown himself into aiding the Light. His information on tactics and safe-houses and potential targets had saved many hundreds of innocent lives. Harry thought it was entirely possible the war had been won much quicker, and with far fewer casualties, because of him.
He’d even fought in the final battle, and had lost an arm getting Draco past three brutish Death Eaters. Without him, Draco may never have broken through the lines, and so, in a way, he’d saved Harry's life, too.
He wanted to thank him, but the Aurors shuffled Lucius and Narcissa out of a side entrance immediately after the trial, in case of retaliation. Harry thought the concern unjustified; very few people, and even fewer reporters, had attended the trial, and those who had seemed far more interested in what Harry had to say than the actual verdict.
It was a relief, but also kind of infuriating.
He hadn’t killed Voldemort alone. Draco had been right there with him, and they couldn’t have done it without Ron and Hermione, and Neville, and the Order, and the staff and students and families of Hogwarts; mothers and fathers and children fighting side-by-side.
He didn’t deserve this recognition. He never had, and it bothered him.
They were bombarded with owls for the better part of a week, bearing letters of thanks, of appreciation and congratulation – all for Harry. Many brought gifts, as well, from the newest, top-of-the-line brooms, to gold and jewellery, most with elaborate protections against curses or hexes, to chocolate and the best Faerie wines available in the wizarding world, to life-long subscriptions to Quidditch and wand magazines, and even tickets to the next Quidditch World Cup.
Harry felt uncomfortable accepting any of the gifts, and tried as much as possible to distribute them between his friends. Luna in particular was very taken with an experimental (and probably illegal) cross between a Pygmy Puff and a Crup, and Ginny wore a beaming smile for three days when Harry gave her the Firestorm II broom.
Draco made him keep the tickets to the World Cup (“the best seats in the house, Harry; you might want them, a year from now” ), and Harry noticed him pocketing some of the jewellery. He didn’t say anything. His Alpha had a right to it, after everything. If, however, he tried to make Harry wear any of it (which Harry had a nasty suspicion was Draco’s intention), they would have to have A Talk.
Unfortunately, some of the owls brought ‘gifts’ of offers of a more personal, and entirely inappropriate, nature.
I would be honoured to bear your child, one witch wrote. It’s widely understood that male Omegas can still impregnate female Betas, and it is the very deepest desire of my heart to give our Saviour his own child –
Harry tore it up, snarling. “I’m bearing any children we have,” he told a startled-looking Draco.
Draco frowned. “Of course you are,” he said, in a tone Harry knew meant he was just humoring him, and it brought him out of the sudden, blind rage. “Harry, love, are you feeling all right?”
Harry winced and shook his head, unable to meet his Alpha’s eyes. “No,” he said, his voice strained.
His heat was encroaching on him slowly – much slower than last time, when he’d had only perhaps an hour of true awareness of his predicament, and even then the heat had taken over so quickly that the idea of procreation hadn't fazed him in the slightest. This time, it was different. And the truth was, he was petrified. It was like the heat took control of his mouth, and the worst of it was that when he came back to himself a moment later, as he always did, he remembered.
“I don’t want children,” he said, just to be clear. “Not yet. Certainly not this heat. No matter what I say, Draco, you have to give me the contraceptive potions.”
“Of course, sweetheart,” Draco said, but his eyes were worried, and somehow sad, in a way Harry couldn’t understand. At least he knew why Draco was worried; this was no simple physical injury that he could take from Harry, bear for him until they could get to a Healer, or until Hermione could find the right spells, as he’d done far too many times for Harry's liking during the past year.
This was Harry’s body – his heat, their bond – betraying them, and neither of them had a fucking clue what to do.
~*~
Other letters brought different offers, similar to those that had flooded in as soon as the news broke that Harry Potter was an Omega. Alphas from all over the country (even the occasional Beta), writing to beg Harry to allow them the honour of a duel to the death with Draco for the right to claim Harry.
Several (though far fewer than the first time around, at least) were addressed directly to Draco, and challenged his claim in the most insulting language possible, as if Harry were little more than a prize Crup to be won. Harry read one in disgust, and then Draco refused to let him read any more, and sat there tearing up the letters into tiny pieces with a methodical grimness before he fed them to the fire.
Even that didn't satisfy his Alpha.
Already feeling impotent in his inability to help Harry, the letters threw him into a rage that threatened to boil over into something much, much worse when one of the volunteers helping to rebuild the castle – Fabien Barbary, the youngest member of the Board of St Mungo’s – caught Harry after his daily check-up with Madam Pomfrey.
He pinned Harry against a wall, forced his chin up, and bit him. And Harry submitted.
A tiny part of his mind was screaming in horror, and he was fairly sure he managed to squeak out a “no,” but the rest of him wasn’t listening, and Fabien certainly wasn’t.
Harry knew, even as it was happening, that if he was in heat – proper heat – his body wouldn’t tolerate any touch but his Alpha’s. But his body was reacting all wrong, and Fabien’s bite made him squirm in pleasure instead, need filling him up until he could barely breathe, his cock already hardening against the man’s thigh.
He didn't like to think of how far it might have gone if Snape hadn't turned the corner at that moment.
He tore Fabien off Harry, snarling, and shoved him away. “Go,” he said, in the most ominous tone Harry had ever heard from him.
Fabien's face paled, and he took to his heels and ran.
Harry gasped in relief, sagging. “Oh Merlin,” he said, touching his neck with trembling fingers. Tears prickled at his eyes, and he scrubbed them away with his arm roughly. “Professor – Merlin, thank you –”
Snape eyed him warily, and then sighed. “I should have foreseen this. You’re in heat.”
Harry nodded silently.
Snape made a noise of aggravation. “You stupid boy! Have you learned nothing? Where is your Alpha? Is he mad? Your heat might be waning, but you cannot afford to be out of his protection right now! Very few people will be willing – let alone able – to restrain themselves at the scent of an Omega in heat, whether or not you are the Saviour of the bloody wizarding world! And there are no legal grounds to prosecute, either. You’re an Omega, Potter. The Ministry will never recognise an Alpha trying to claim you for his own as rape.”
Harry scowled and turned his head away. It was a common sentiment, he’d discovered, but he still couldn’t quite believe that the Ministry – the government and justice system of their world – regarded him the same way: as an inferior being whose very nature, going into heat a couple of times a year, meant that even if he said no, he still wanted it. Because while an Omega could only be impregnated by his bonded Alpha, his body wouldn’t stop pumping out the scent that attracted other Alphas, or producing the slick that allowed an Alpha to knot him with ease, and apparently that was enough to imply ‘consent’ to those morons.
It was sickening.
“So,” he said, “there are laws about eavesdropping on private conversations between a bonded Alpha and Omega, but an Alpha can’t even prosecute when his Omega is raped?”
Snape regarded him carefully. “You think Mr Malfoy would want to prosecute?”
Harry frowned. “No,” he said, reluctantly.
“No,” Snape agreed. “He’d go after whoever it was and kill them.”
“And I don’t know that I’d stop him,” Harry muttered, darkly.
Snape’s lips twitched. “Indeed. And your Alpha would be well within his rights. Of course, if someone tried to tear you from his arms, he could prosecute. But trying to claim another’s claimed Omega behind his back – no one would even blink at murder.”
“That’s fucked up,” Harry said, shaking his head. “Every single Omega law is fucked up.”
Snape raised an eyebrow. “While I deplore your language, Mr Potter, I am not arguing with you. Will you let me escort you back to Mr Malfoy?”
Harry nodded, and Snape gestured down the hallway. They fell into step, and Harry pondered the difference a year could make. It wasn’t so very long ago that he would have scorned the idea of ever walking beside Severus Snape.
“Why were you away from your Alpha’s side?” Snape asked.
“I had a check-up with Madam Pomfrey.”
Snape stopped abruptly, staring at him. “She requested your presence during your heat?” There was dawning anger in his eyes, and Harry shook his head.
“I’m not in heat. Not properly. Draco says I collapsed, just minutes after we killed Voldemort, and my heat came on immediately. We don’t know why, exactly, but –”
“It’s been well over a year since your first heat, correct?” Snape interrupted, and Harry nodded. “That kind of gap is highly unusual, especially in the first few years of coming into your dynamic. No doubt the war prevented your body from feeling safe enough to go into a breeding heat. The idea of potentially falling pregnant in such an environment could only be abhorrent to an Omega. You probably have two or three heats to make up for now, and so when your body sensed it was over…”
“But it’s been a week since I woke up – two, since the battle – and I still haven't gone full-blown mindless animal yet.” Harry sighed heavily. “Frankly, I just want it over.”
Snape blinked. “You’re saying... Potter, this isn’t the remnants of your heat? It hasn't even begun? Draco has yet to take you?”
Harry coloured. “I didn’t say that,” he protested. “Just – we just did it the way we – you know, normally do.”
Snape's brow creased. “He’s bitten you?”
“We tried that,” Harry agreed. “It didn’t work. I mean – it still worked, I still got –” He coughed. “I mean, but – I didn’t feel that need to submit, to beg him for – well. You know.”
“No, I don’t,” Snape said dryly. “My inclinations run the other way, if you remember, Potter.” Harry snapped a look up at him guiltily. Even after all this time, he couldn't wrap his head around the idea that Snape and his mum would have been good for each other, in the same way Draco was for him. That he could have been Snape’s son, if things had been different. “But yes," Snape said, "I know what you mean. I should have been told earlier, Harry. This is very serious.”
“I didn’t want to bother you at the trial,” Harry said, wincing.
He'd spoken for Snape, of course, and showed the court Dumbledore's last Pensieve. Snape had walked free that day, and once the newspapers had written up his story (which Harry made sure they did), he'd become a national hero. Harry was glad. If anyone deserved recognition for his war efforts, it was Severus Snape.
Still, that meant he had been busy.
“I wish I’d thought to ask you for that suppressant before Dumbledore died,” he sighed. “I could have prevented all of this.”
“Perhaps,” Snape agreed. “And I will teach you how to make your own, once this is over. But you cannot allow this to go on, Potter. You are in heat, and everyone will know it soon. If your bond-mate cannot satisfy you, we will have every Alpha in Hogwarts in a frenzy in their attempts to claim you. And it will not take even their hormone-addled, primal brains long to figure out that the only way to do that is to kill Draco first.”