Chapter Text
FRESH LINEN, WARM MILK, AND NESTING INSTINCTS
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Harry Potter had never belonged anywhere. Not a place. And most definitely not a home. He found himself in this liminal space between the urge to leave and the desire to stay, with no place that had ever felt like he truly belonged there.
Not after his parents had died; their home could no longer be considered a home.
Not after Sirius had died; Grimmauld Place could no longer be considered his refuge.
The Dursleys' house was merely a place of begrudging shelter, only offered because they had to, not because they had ever wanted Harry in their home.
Hogwarts, while it had been and would always be a sanctuary to him, would never truly offer the sense of belonging he had truly yearned for. Still yearned for.
He had always been an outsider looking in, even within the wizarding world, constantly fighting to prove himself. Just so he could be accepted, yet still not belong.
The unconditional love that came from loving families, like Ron’s. Despite him being proclaimed as a part of the Weasley family so many times, Harry always felt like an honorary member, rather than truly a part of it.
Harry wanted something to truly call his own.
He had dreamed of such an idea for so long, and he could’ve had that; for a brief time in his life, he had that from his parents. Those who were no longer around were due to the sacrifices for that very reason. It was ironic that the very act of their sacrifice, intended to secure his place and future, paradoxically left him with a perpetual ache for the familial belonging they could no longer provide.
The more he saw everyone around him settle down, finding their own special someone, building homes, and creating families, the more acutely Harry felt the void within his own life. He had tried to ignore it, but the gnawing sense of isolation only intensified with each passing year, until he felt himself drifting away from everyone.
Harry Potter had become somewhat of a recluse or what his friends would lovingly call a hermit, in the recent years.
It had been ten years since the war had concluded – he was now 28, living a life of seclusion – not at all what he had envisioned for himself after everything. Admittedly, it was partly by choice and partly because he hated all the attention he received when out in public, having taken to wearing glamours when doing his necessary grocery shop or errand.
Despite his initial thoughts that overtime people would lose their interest in him once the charm of him defeating the dark lord became somewhat redundant, that hadn’t been the case at all. If anything, it had gotten worse since then since now he was rarely seen, and people wanted to get a glimpse of him like he was some rare animal in a zoo, the problem only exacerbated by his late presentation.
Apparently, malnourishment, trauma, and grief were a powerful suppressant when combined together. Because sometime during eighth year when he had returned to finish his NEWTs and was debating if he really wanted to become an Auror because, in all honesty, he was sick of chasing dark wizards after a lifetime of doing it, despite everyone else’s expectations of him, he had presented right in the middle of potions class.
In the end not even really having a choice even if he wanted to, which he hadn’t, which had been one of the only redeeming factors he would later discover.
He was caught completely off guard and remained unaware until someone else pointed out that a distinctly omegan smell had begun to permeate the room, triggering a room full of alphas, which was made evident by the sounds of growls resounding across the room gradually as the scent spread.
During that Harry had just scoffed and gone back to doodling in his potions book, occasionally throwing glances in Malfoy’s direction. He had remained quiet and reserved for the rest of the year; there had been times throughout when he would catch the other’s eyes, whether it be across the classroom or dining hall, an unfamiliar emotion flickering within his grey eyes that at times would look like liquid mercury. He knew it wasn’t hatred; both had seemingly had enough of that for a lifetime, their petty feuds finally settling into a tentative truce and understanding.
For some reason he had always felt himself drawn to his figure, one who had been oddly quiet since the start of eighth year; he had barely seen the blonde save for classes, let alone spoken to him. One of the last times he had heard him was after the trial when Harry had returned his wand, which had earned him an undecipherable look and a quiet thanks, before the other had returned back into the confines of the manor.
And then once again when Harry had stopped a stinging hex aimed at him, with him having to reprimand the younger Gryffindors who had done it and then a lot more students before they had finally stopped after he threatened them with getting them suspended, even if he hadn’t had the authority to do that, but everyone had believed him. One of the only redeeming factors of being titled a ‘saviour’.
Malfoy hadn’t gotten angry that Harry had defended him as he had expected. Not if the quiet ‘You didn’t have to, Potter’ he uttered and the almost small yet fond smile had said anything, as if he hadn’t expected Harry to do anything to stop the harassment yet also wasn’t surprised he had.
It was such a subtle change in his facial features, yet it was so noticeable to him, the shift from his stoic expression and his usually guarded demeanour melting away a little. It made him flush and utter a ‘no problem’. He still hadn’t managed to forget that memory.
Harry had shaken his head, vanishing the memory, more than ready to just get out of this class. Ever since he had woken up, he had felt oddly sweaty and warm, even after his cold shower. His nose, skin, and senses felt overloaded, and he had even been reluctant to head to class, pondering if he should say he was sick, but that option had been thrown out the window when Ron had told him he had to hurry up or they’d be late to breakfast.
In this classroom he was almost at his breaking point, the worst only getting progressively worse; there were too many smells everywhere suddenly. Something he had faulted was the room being stuffy and people just flaunting their smells everywhere, if he could even smell them with his muted nose.
Subgenders had never been something Harry ever gave much thought to, having grown up with Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon, who had an aversion to anything to do with the wizarding world and would have never told him even if he asked, and when he had started Hogwarts, he hadn’t paid attention to any of the classes about it, his mind occupied with more important things like the Dark Wizard after him.
He had found it weird when it would pop up in a conversation, not having grown up with these distinctions of alphas, betas, and omegas and having a surface-level understanding of the instincts and acts they indulged in, like scenting, imprinting, and marking.
Although he witnessed the disparities and differences between those specifically presenting as an alpha and omega. He had witnessed what people had suitably named alpha posturing, where they puffed out their chest to look more intimidating and pushed out their pheromones everywhere; it had been almost comical to witness.
However, he did note those who had been labelled as omegas were typically the ones who were affected the most, recoiling away from the smell or even falling to their knees as an act of submission or surrender. The thought that biology or whatever it was could simply cause someone to yield so easily left him discomforted; it was just something else that would leave someone vulnerable, and with the dangers lurking around Hogwarts, it had been anything but appealing to Harry.
Subgenders were just another thing that he had to adapt to, or at least find out; they weren’t any more interesting than the spells and potion formulas he had to learn. When Ron had told him he had presented as an Alpha and Hermione as a Beta around fifth year since that was the typical time people presented apparently, he had just hummed disinterestedly. Harry did still offer a congratulations, although he didn’t really know what for since he didn’t really know why it was important.
Hermione had questioned that and when he admitted that he hadn’t really known anything about the subject, she had gone off on a tangent about the whole subject, out of which all he had only picked up that he’d probably present as an alpha or beta.
With the idea of him having presented as a beta being confirmed half-heartedly in his own head when, by the end of sixth year, he hadn’t felt any changes at all throughout the 2 years after that lecture, when thinking on what Hermione had noted with when betas presented, they didn’t really feel any shifts except having increased smells, developing the glands, and maybe feeling more emotional during the presentation. Which for Harry was basically a part of his Hogwarts experience, which was an emotional rollercoaster.
It hadn’t occurred to him he would present later than everyone else, and even if it had, he would never have assumed he was a male omega because those were rare, extremely rare. As in no more than three others having presented as such in the last few centuries.
He would later learn it had something to do with recessive traits in males within ancient magical bloodlines that had long been thought to have died out because sometime in the past there was a concerningly low birthrate of witches.
This had caused a subsequent genetic shift that amplified latent traits within certain individuals from specific ancestral lines, which now included males into that mix, although even then it was still rare back then. The Potters had never been known for that, not that he really knew much about his family history in all honesty. But this felt like this would’ve been an obvious thing to know.
So why was it happening to him?
Apparently, Harry Potter had to be the exception, once again. As if he weren’t already an anomaly.
It had only been brought to his direct attention when he had noticed Ron leaning into him, giving him a sniff, and then proceeding to immediately cover his nose and jump out of his seat and about 5 ft away to distance himself.
Harry had immediately asked him what was wrong with an annoyed quirk of his brow, having already been agitated before any of this had even happened, but getting more so when Ron had just up and run after smelling him as if he smelt disgusting. He had known for a fact he shouldn’t, despite his sweating, having showered that morning, and usually he’d be more than happy to go along with the ginger’s antics but just not that day.
Then Ron proceeded to blurt, far too loudly for Harry’s liking for what he had been about to say, “Mate – Harry – y-you’re an omega!?”
That had caused everyone in the room to swivel their head in their direction instantaneously; even Professor Slughorn, who usually couldn’t care less, looked intrigued, and he felt like doing something childish like ducking under a table to get away from their prying eyes.
“No, I’m not Ron. Remember, I’m a beta. I’ve always been a beta. That isn’t suddenly changing; you’re probably smelling someone else.”
He had immediately denied Ron because the very notion was absurd, because even if he hadn’t consulted Madam Pomfrey or any other healer, he had already confirmed to himself that he was a beta, and he was determined to stay a beta.
He didn’t want to deal with all the problems that seemingly came with being an alpha and especially an omega. Ron had constantly complained about his ruts, well, at least until he had Hermione to help him through them. There was no way that something else so life-changing could happen to him in such a short timespan after everything he had been through.
But apparently it could and he was about to be sucker-punched with reality.
“No, I’m not, mate. I’m like one hundred per cent sure you’re presenting as an omega right now because even my alpha’s reacting to it despite being mated to Mione. Your scent is getting really fucking strong and you need to get out of here immediately. Most of the alphas in this class aren’t mated and probably have the self-control of a-“
Ron hadn’t even had the opportunity to finish the sentence before a figure lunged at him. With his instincts having been trained through years of conflict, where danger constantly loomed over him, he immediately spun around and cast a Protego. With the feral-looking alpha – who he could now see was Marcus Flint – rebounding harshly off the magical shield.
“Harry, you need to get out of here now! Quick, go to Madam Pomfrey.” Hermione had immediately instructed him, already brandishing her wand at the other alphas approaching, and Harry hadn’t wasted a moment’s time before darting right out of the potion room.
Thanking the high heavens that classes were still in session and halls were empty save for a few stray students who had immediately stopped in their tracks to catch a whiff of his scent as he ran past them.
If that was the reaction of Alphas to his just presenting scent, he didn’t want to wait and find out what would happen if he was caught amid his full-blown presentation, something he still wanted to vehemently deny was happening. In his panic he almost ran past the infirmary, of which he had slammed the door open, earning an utterly impressed look from Madam Pomfrey before her eyes widened noticeably and she ushered him to one of the beds in the corner, pulling the curtain around them.
Madam Pomfrey had given him a rushed explanation on how omegas had to ride out their first heat, which would take a couple of days, before even thinking of administering suppressants – something she had emphasised was to be used in emergencies if his heat lasted too long – because that was what he was about to have. A damn heat.
She had probably already known Harry would’ve been more than happy to take them for the rest of his life if only to stop the heat that seemed to be boiling his insides. It hadn’t taken long for Harry to fall into a haze, a consuming heat overtaking his senses that made him miserable and horny, a terrible combination in his opinion, although he was barely coherent at that point to think of that.
A deep ache had echoed inside him, his body telling him it needed something that he hadn’t a clue how to get; the potions he had been given did help to tamp down the pain as his body adjusted to the changes it was going through. The experience had been miserable, with it lasting over the span of four days. In the flashes of what he could recall, he had been whining aloud, panting for an alpha, specifically one with blonde hair and pale skin, writhing and rutting desperately in the sheets. The mere memory made him flush with shame and embarrassment, and he quickly shoved it away, locking it in the furthest corner of his mind.
Even if at times later throughout the year he would find himself randomly seeking to get a whiff of the other’s scent despite them wearing scent blockers all year round.
When Harry had regained coherence, there were aches and lingering sensations throughout his body, subtle reminders of the tumultuous shifts his body had undergone during the transformation, one that he faintly remembered Madam Pomfrey saying was the formation of his womb and glands. He hadn’t known what to feel at the mention of now being able to produce offspring, having had a rigid mindset for a long time that only females could give birth.
The room he had been given also smelt so overpoweringly of himself that he had to open the windows to air the space out, a scent he had belatedly realised belonged solely to him.
He smelt distinctly like fresh linen and warm milk.
Something that Hermione and Ron had later commented was oddly fitting – comforting in a way neither of them had expected – having told him it had reminded them of their childhood and warm embraces.
For Ron, when his mother had brought in the freshly air-dried bedsheets, which he would then proceed to throw his whole body into and roll into the warmed cotton.
For Hermione it had reminded her of the nights her parents would give her a warm cup of honeyed milk before bed with her mother’s arms wrapped around her, a fond memory she had of them, as she had still been trying to restore their memories at that point in time.
Harry couldn’t help but feel an odd sense of pride and joy at those words, despite not liking the reality that he had presented as an omega, not that he had any problems with those belonging to that subgender.
It had not been a scent he would’ve thought he’d ever smell like, not that he had ever given the idea a thought, having been told before he smelt something like a fresh breeze. A muted scent that was also comforting; he had remembered when he had been on the run with Hermione.
On the nights when either of them felt on the verge of breaking apart, they would naturally gravitate to one another; the memory of holding Hermione as she cried softly was ingrained in his mind, her scent of well-aged books and ink comforting in a way he didn’t know how to describe. It had made him feel safe and calm, two feelings that had been so hard to find amidst everything else that was happening that was nothing but chaotic. Hermione had told him that she felt similarly when breathing in his scent.
He hadn’t minded the way Ron, Hermione, and many of his friends, who had always been quite protective of him, were in even closer proximity to him than they had been before.
Whether it be the way Ron kept his arm wrapped around his shoulder or the way Hermione would nag him about his food intake and lack of sleep even more so. She had gone through the effort to scavenge for any texts about male omegas, telling him everything she had found out. It had been one of the only times he had listened so carefully to her lectures, at least the ones that weren’t about some complex magical theory she was trying to tell him about.
The two of them had even begun to scent him more. Ron having told him that since he was an omega and a newly presented one at that, all their instincts felt more inclined to safeguard him and scenting him would act as a mark that he was a part of a pack. Something he had learnt was used to refer to a group of presenting subgenders who share a strong bond, whether it be platonic or romantic.
It hadn’t helped the way people ogled him even more since his presentation as an omega. The first day he had returned to class, he had felt like some exotic animal everyone was gawking at; it hadn’t helped the way whispers and fingers followed wherever he went.
He hadn’t anticipated how sensitive and vulnerable he would feel after coming into his designation, where his uniform felt too tight and the fabric too coarse against his suddenly sensitive skin.
He wasn’t prepared for the way the muted scents of everyone around him were amplified and often created a nauseating concoction of smells that made him want to cover his nose.
But most of all he wasn’t prepared for the way he felt like a stranger in his body, his body compelling him to kneel at the sound of an alpha demand or how it felt the need to burrow in the worn clothes of his friends. It was just another aspect of his life he had little control over.
His problem only exacerbated when the prophet snagged that particular piece of information, with papers being spread all around wizarding society, claiming that Harry Potter had been hiding his designation as an Omega. Or that he wouldn’t be able to become an Auror, which had been expected of him. Or who would be the lucky one to mate with the chosen one? Each printing got more outrageous and speculative than the last, fuelling the relentless public fascination that had always surrounded him; it was suffocating to Harry.
Before he knew it, he was getting owls upon owls; they would flood the dining hall each morning with letters of courtship or ridicule alike, salivating for the attention of the ‘chosen one’ or mocking that all along he had been nothing but a pathetic omega.
It had gotten to a point where he couldn’t even see across the table to where Ron and Hermione had sat. It had only stopped when McGonagall had had enough of it all, instantly vanishing all the letters he had long stopped reading, with owl post having then needed to be filtered out before being delivered to students. He couldn’t help but be grateful to the headmistress for everything she had done for him.
Harry had hardly been able to deal with the attention before; he hadn’t thought it could get worse. But to his surprise – although he really should have known himself – it had gotten to a point where it was too much, and he’d find himself rushing out of the dining hall and collapsing into the closest empty space he could find.
Whether it be a bathroom stall or the janitor’s closet, having at that point worked himself into a fit that would always leave him frantically gasping for air, it was only when he forced himself to take deep breaths in and out, counting to three seconds each in his head, that he could finally calm himself. It had been one of the only things he had taken from his mandatory sessions with his mind healer, but it had always left him feeling utterly drained and disoriented in the aftermath, only able to force himself up when the signal that lunch or whatever mealtime it had been would motion him to get a move on to class.
He would always get looks of concern and queries when he saw his friends again, with it clear that he looked more haggard when he had come back than he had been when he would see them at the beginning of the break.
Harry had taken to hiding out in the kitchen for a good part of the school year – he had scared all the house-elves with his first unexpected arrivals – all who had scurried to accommodate him. After that they were always expecting him, with treats always left aside and cast with a warming charm for whenever he had visited them – it was also during this period he had found a love for cooking. He had asked the elves to teach him how to make the treacle tarts he had grown so fond of. It was only after much back and forth and his persistence that they had agreed to teach him.
Cooking had been something he had come to despise because the Dursleys would treat him as an unpaid servant, forcing him to prepare their meals while only leaving the meagre scraps for him. He found comfort in the methodical process of preparing, measuring, and combining ingredients. After he had finished making it, he had felt a sense of pride swell inside him that he had managed to create something that was solely his effort. Aside from the help of the house-elves, who had beamed brightly at him when he had offered them all to try it too.
When he had shown the way, they had smiled and praised his cooking.
They hadn’t praised him for being a hero or his triumph.
Solely his cooking – it was such a small thing to be praised about but that was what had made it so nice to hear because he wasn’t being complimented for a grandiose thing he had done.
Just a treacle tart he had attempted to make.
There hadn’t been any pressure to do or accomplish something great; he was allowed to fail, as there were no grave repercussions if he did. A safety he had never been afforded before.
It also let him hear a novel form of validation he had never had before, and that alone had made something warm spread through him. The Dursleys never uttered a sincere thanks for his efforts the whole time he had been with them. He had forgotten the way food could evoke such a simple thing as joy.
It had been then he was sure he wouldn’t want to pursue being an Auror, despite the letter from Kingsley rotting back in a drawer at Grimmauld’s place, even if it hadn’t even been a viable option with public backlash if he pursued it with his given presentation made public. Despite the fact he had defeated Voldemort himself.
But it sparked something in him, giving him a sense of direction when he had been feeling adrift for so long – just a small step in the right direction. He had realised that he had never gotten to explore any of his interests that other children had gotten to do. Such as Neville and his love for herbology or Hermione and her relentless passion for learning and knowledge through books.
Harry knew he had needed to distance himself away from the fame and glory that followed his name everywhere – with the public having this idealistic image of him that he knew he’d never be able to reach. Perhaps that distance needed to extend even to his friends. As much as he loved them and was grateful for everything they had done for him, the weight of their concern, their expectations, and their constant scrutiny – even when born of worry – only left him feeling more burdened than comforted.
And perhaps even be apart from his friends. As much as he loved them and appreciated everything they had done for him, the weight of their collective expectations and constant scrutiny, even if it was because they were worried about him, just left him feeling more burdened.
It hadn’t been until their eighth year had been nearing its end – with everyone having just completed the NEWTs – that Harry had told them his decision – his decision to disappear from the public eye and consequently them too. They were a constant presence he relied on all throughout his schooling; they celebrated holidays together, shared meals and tears alike, and had found something resembling a family with one another. The idea of being apart from them felt unnatural, almost wrong, even as he knew the distance was necessary.
But he knew if he didn’t figure out what he wanted away from prying eyes, he would only keep living a life shaped by everyone else’s needs but his own, and he’d never find something solely his.
Their reaction to the news had been expected, with both of them wearing looks of hurt, almost seemingly feeling a sense of betrayal even if that hadn’t been his intention.
Ron had been openly hurt, his face a mix of anger and sadness, as if Harry’s decision had personally wounded him. The look of wounded disbelief that Harry could consider leaving them so easily. Which he had found minutely ironic when the ginger had done the same during their Horcrux hunt.
It had only been after Harry had explained it wasn’t anything against him personally but something he had needed to do for himself. His hurt had shifted to confusion before understanding. Perhaps Ron somewhat understood; with his feelings of inferiority stemming from being compared to his siblings, the idea of having something that was his own probably resonated with him. He had drawn Harry into a side hug afterwards, teasing him with mock severity, “Look at you, all grown-up and secretive. Don’t think I won’t track you down if you disappear too long.”
With Hermione not believing he was in the proper state of mind – having seen him in some of his worst episodes during the periods when he neglected himself completely. For a time, he had barely eaten, barely slept, and retreated into himself, in which he barely uttered more than a few words as responses. His mind had spiralled with self-blame, grief, and anguish; memories would play on constant repeat.
She knew what could happen when he was left alone for too long with his own thoughts. Hermione had been worried that without a proper support system his health would only deteriorate further and about what it could lead to. The rest had been left unsaid between them. He knew why she was worried, why she was afraid for him.
He had confessed sometime during the year – after waking once more from a nightmare that had left him feeling raw and bleeding – that sometimes he had regretted returning back after he had died. Hermione had cried on his shoulder for the rest of the night. The admission was too raw and fragile to ever be spoken of again.
But she must’ve seen something in his face when he assured her it was what was for the best, as she had only hugged him tightly and made him promise to still at least owl or floo them whenever he could and reach out if he ever needed anything, no matter what, and that she would know somehow if he didn’t. Harry hadn’t doubted her on that.
Graduation had come and gone in a blur, a day filled with bittersweet smiles and tears, proud applause, and a quiet acknowledgement that he was leaving Hogwarts, which had been the start and end of so many things.
Harry couldn’t help feeling detached from it all, as if he were watching from behind a pane of glass. The celebrations, the laughter, the promises of a bright future – watching the way Ron and Hermione clung to one another or the conversation he heard about travelling overseas or their applications for ministry positions.
Perhaps there was someone who could relate with him, seeing as there was a particular head of blonde hair missing despite having received ‘O’ for Outstanding across all his subjects for NEWTs. Maybe like Harry he felt almost alienated. With students and the public alike judging his every word and action. Although for Malfoy it was fuelled with much more carrying the weight of a family name and expectations that never seemed to leave him in peace.
He couldn’t help having felt a twinge of regret that he had never given him a proper farewell like he had exchanged with the professors and his friends. Despite the fact he and Malfoy were not close to each other. But he didn’t let himself dwell on it too long, having to focus on what he’d be doing for the rest of his life.
For the first year it hadn’t gone well – Grimmauld Place was filled with too many memories – and with only the solitude of his mind and Kreacher for company, more often than not he’d lie lifelessly on the couch. He had tried to get into cooking like he had back at Hogwarts, but the state of the kitchen with its peeling walls and pots caked in rust always had him reaching for takeout.
He knew from the few Floo calls with Hermione and Ron that they were beginning to regret ever having allowed him to try something alone. It had only made him feel more pathetic that he couldn’t do something as simple as cook or even bother getting out of bed, asking Kreacher to just get it for him.
It had only taken him a full year of wallowing in the silence, letting the dust and decay of Grimmauld Place mirror the stagnation of his own life, for him to realise that he couldn’t keep existing like this. His mind couldn’t settle due to the state of Grimmauld Place, as if the remnants of war and grief he had yet to sort through still clung onto it. It had kept him in this perpetual in‑between, neither living nor healing.
Harry had decided then; the first thing he would take was the renovation of the whole place. A decision that he had told Hermione about that she seemed to greatly approve of.
He already had experience with the restoration of Hogwarts so it seemed like a great idea to him.
With the first room in his mental checklist being his bedroom and then his living room, the places he stayed the most. Afterwards, the kitchen because he wanted to get into the hobby of cooking.
While he had a semblance of a plan, it has still been a struggle, with there being so much to fix with all the cursed objects left by the Black family and the dilapidated state of many of the rooms. He found himself needing a lot of material but unwilling to go out in public due to his unwanted popularity. The only solution was to go to muggle London for everything he had needed.
Despite all the struggles, he found himself enjoying the whole process overall. He was able to witness firsthand the gradual transformation of a dilapidated and dark room into something much livelier, with walls painted a bright, airy blue and decorated with little knickknacks he would find in the markets he found himself visiting every weekend.
He was transforming the house into a liveable and functional space. One that, rather than oppressing him like it had before, made Harry feel that this – finally – was his.
It felt like he was reclaiming the place or carving a place just for himself. He hoped it would feel like a home to him someday.
The following years were spent in the slow, deliberate reclamation of both the house and himself – filled with serene mornings spent experimenting with creating different recipes that had piqued his interest, quiet evenings learning the intricacies and pleasures of his own body, celebrating small victories when fixing creaking floorboards, clearing out the remnants of the Black family’s dark history, slowly filling the rooms with knickknacks he found during his market outings, and the occasional fleeting thought that perhaps, one day, someone else might share this space with him.
Over a course of six years, Harry had begun to fill the place with objects and memories that were entirely his own. Finally, he had begun to settle into his own skin and had found peace with the life he had forged for himself.
That had been the way things were – until one afternoon it had all come crashing down when a small, warm weight pressed against him, refusing to let go. With their bright eyes and stubborn persistence, they had somehow found their way into Harry’s carefully curated solitude – and in that cling, that refusal to leave, Harry felt the first stirrings of an instinctual protectiveness, awakening an undeniable urge to shield and nurture.
A pull he hadn’t ever felt, tethering him to another in a way that was both unexpected and yet felt inevitable. It had made Harry realise that perhaps he might not be as content as he had made himself believe.