Chapter Text
Lucius had seen many strange things in his life. He served the Dark Lord, after all. He bore the weight of the unknowable without flinching. He had gotten used to inconceivable things happening in the Dark Lord’s presence.
He had seen armies rise and fall, seen death reversed, seen a body knitted together from magic and a prayer.
And he’d bore it all with the unquestioning nature of a Malfoy. It was his duty, his honor to do so.
Lucius Malfoy was surprised by very little.
That was until this particular Death Eater meeting.
‘What…the fuck?’
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“Tom”, whined Harry, comfortably relaxed on Voldemort’s chest, eyes fluttering. “Please.”
A soft, amused chuckle broke the calm atmosphere as Lord Voldemort opened his blood-red eyes to stare down at his lover. “What is it, Harry, darling? What do you need?”
Harry stared back up petulantly at the imposing man. He was wrapped in a silky black garment, pulled tight around his shoulders like a blanket. The heat flushed his cheeks red, and his verdant eyes were hazy and glazed over. His expression flickered, pure need mixing with irritation as he buried his heated face back into his lover’s cool chest.
Harry had always run hotter than average; he was like the sun, scorching the Earth in moments of intensity and providing gentle warmth in others. This did not change in pre-heat. Harry, in fact, always ran a low-grade fever all throughout it.
Tom was the moon to his sun, with poor blood circulation from the ritual. He was perpetually cool to the touch, Harry’s haven amid the fire that threatened to burn him alive.
A chilly, pale hand ran through Harry’s hair, causing a shudder to run through his body. “Please let me keep them,” he whispered. “They smell like you.”
“Harry,” Tom crooned, gently tugging on the loose coils in Harry’s hair, “Darling, I need my robes for the meeting. Be a good boy.”
Harry let out a small, pitiful whimper as he shook his head in an emphatic ‘no’, face still buried in Tom’s chest. He needed Tom right now, needed his cool hands and his stable presence and his sweet, honeyed scent. He felt stripped raw, as if all his insides had been bared for the world to see. Tom’s steady hands and soft endearments were the only things keeping him together.
If Tom insisted on leaving to attend a Death Eater meeting, the least he could do was leave Harry an appropriate substitute. It was already so hard to cope without him.
Tom’s brow furrowed, concern marring his features as his hand slid from Harry’s head to the back of his neck, squeezing. “Love,” at which Harry whined, for Tom only used this endearment when Harry was at his most vulnerable, “How are you feeling? Do you think the heat has progressed?”
“No. But head’s all spacey. Feel so small. Don’t feel good, Tom. Need you,” Harry pleaded.
“Alright, love. You did so well. It is alright. May I bring you to the meeting with me? I shall carry you there, do not worry,” replied Tom. He waited, eyes wandering over Harry’s form searchingly.
Tom gathered Harry into his arms; it wasn’t very difficult, considering how light Harry had always been. Harry nosed at Tom’s scent gland, the scent of dandelions and rich spice enveloping him in a blanket of safety.
Harry had always found his mate’s scent ironic. He had wished on dandelions for a saviour his entire life.
(small hands gripping small stems, dripping blood slipping through fingers, choked sobs when dainty fingers became crooked and he realized no one was coming for him-)
What a coincidence, then, that the scent of his unfulfilled wishes was what Tom smelled like. He was, quite literally, a dream come true.
Harry felt himself being lifted up, secure in Tom’s embrace. The taller man then wrapped his silky, billowing robes around Harry. The robes settled smoothly onto his skin, flowing like water. They were airy enough to keep Harry cool, but enclosed so that Harry felt cradled. They covered him completely, and nothing except for his hair was even visible. And the best part? The robes smelled entirely of his mate. The sweet dandelion and woodsy cardamom mingled together to create a scent that was entirely Tom.
Harry barely even noticed that Tom had started walking towards the meeting room; his vision was starting to go hazy, as if the pre-heat was finally starting to pull him under. The chill of Tom’s arms and chest pervaded his being, freezing the inferno building in his chest. Tom was the oasis to his desert, his only solace through the burning waves of his pre-heat. He whimpered, and Tom shushed him with soft coos of “Almost there, love,” and “You’re doing so well for me, darling.”
He did not see the Death Eaters losing their minds in the corner, nor did he feel the exact moment Tom must have regally settled into his throne. The scent had invaded his mind, so all he could think about was ‘Tom, Tom, Tom’. There was no comparison to the nest he usually made out of his mate’s stale clothing.
Tom ran a pale, long-fingered hand down his back, the cool touch sending shudders down his spine. “Rest, Harry,” he whispered. “I will be there when you awake. For now, darling omega, you must rest.” Harry let out a weak whine. Tom ran his hand through his matted curls, and the noise, the expectations of the world, Lucius Malfoy’s flabbergasted sputtering, all died down to a quiet hum as Harry drifted, cool and finally safe.