Chapter Text
Draco is heaved onto wet ground, mouth filled with sand and the iron taste of blood from what he assumes is biting his tongue on the unwanted apparition. His hands grip the wet sand, finding some kind of purchase as he pushes to his knees, spitting out as much as possible. He can hear the lapping of the waves, and his own breath as he tries to calm the swirling sickness. He can feel the whipping breeze against the sweat building along his hair line and yet his body refuses to cool, if anything the heat continues to rise, as if he’s caught a fever, possibly from the stress.
The hair on his neck raises as he can smell the others around him, hearing them begin to settle themselves. He flips, gasping at the pain shooting through his chest at the sudden motion. His clothing is wet from the sea, yet when he reaches to clutch the center of the sharp throbbing, his hand pulls away red. He can finally see the dagger–polished, metallic and carrying the Black emblem–sticking out of his upper chest.
The deep growls pull him away from his apparent wound, back to the group closer than they once were. He pushes back, staggering to his feet and with a cry, he rips the supposed family heirloom, apparently a gift given directly from aunt Bella herself, from his chest. He brandishes the bloody weapon to the group, “Stay back!” With a loud cry, he takes a handful of shaky steps back, trying his best to ignore the onslaught of pain.
A loud pop sounds and the dagger, his last piece of safety, is ripped from his hand. That damned house elf. Potter crosses the sand easily, determined, as if Draco isn’t a threat and stares Draco down, eyes crazed, so deeply black, he can hardly make out the emerald in them. Yet Draco doesn’t move, doesn’t do anything but shake like some damsel in distress. Saint Potter’s type he notes.
Potter is practically on top of him, hand moving from his cheek, to his neck, tugging the neck of his jumper to expose what he’s been trying to hide for months, fingers ghosting over the sensitive glands he shouldn’t have. It pulls a sharp gasp from him, followed by a hiss from jolting causing his newly acquired wound to burn. Potter's hand continues down, pushing on the wound, applying pressure and waking Draco up from his trance. He tries to pull away, but Potter's other hand closes on his other arm and he lets out a dark growl, stopping a panting Draco from his fighting.
Potter's snarls have yet to cease as he keeps Draco close, but he manages to get out a name, “Hermione.”
This close Draco can smell his own blood and Potter's leathery scent mixed with wet soil that reminds him of when he’s in the garden after a rainstorm, and a faint musk from his sweat. There is this thrill that sends sparks through their connected skin and despite the pain, Draco’s head begins to feel fogged, feeling at peace in what feels like forever.
Then he can smell must like when he opens an old waterdamaged book that hasn’t been touched in centuries and burnt cinnamon. Potter, keeping him close while looking over his shoulder, snaps, “Only Hermione!”
Another growl sounds off, not as deep as Potters, but still manages to push Draco closer into Potter's hold. He feels sick, the alpha he once was would’ve never cowered behind Harry bloody Potter, and he would have never felt as hard as he embarrassingly does at the moment. Except he’s an omega now. Weak, pathetic, wounded and surrounded by enemies. He wants to scream and cry and rut against Potter's leg.
“It’s okay Harry, I can take care of Draco.” A silky voice calls from his right and Draco is instantly offended that they think he needs to be looked after, like a child, like they don’t remember who he was, the power behind the Malfoy name that could knock them back down to the bottom.
He can feel Potter’s hold tighten for half a second, face lowering followed by a deep breath before he pulls away completely, storming off down the beach. Lovegood, looking worse than he’s ever seen her, guides him toward the small house he hadn’t noticed before. The Weasel is watching him with dark eyes but doesn’t move, holding Granger close and Draco figures he has better odds not out in the open.
There's no trust, just confusion, a burning heat, a wetness between his legs and a throbbing on his shoulder. He can’t help but feel abandoned and he wishes his new omega instincts would cease in making him feel utterly pathetic.
He’s left the den of snakes for a pride of lions, both wanting his worthless head on a stake. Wandless, no longer possessing his old alpha defenses, he can’t stop from collapsing at the door, heaving in a large gulp of air before the world spins one last time.
𓇢𓆸
Twisting in sheets he can’t seem to kick off, he can’t help but rub his face against the scratchy material for the umpteenth time. It’s that same leathery scent, wet soil and fresh lilies. He’s smelled it before but he can’t think past the color green. The material is the only thing that subsides the pain, and with that thought he takes another long whiff.
He growls, rumbling low in his chest as a light comes through the darkness, it smells of black tea and old parchment and a lingering of vanilla, nothing he wants stealing the cloth, already faint from how long he’d been pushing his face into it.
A deep sigh fills the room and the door is shut harshly but the new scent doesn’t leave, if anything it's closer. “Away. Get away.” He bites out, trying to bury his face back into the thin pillow, nothing like the luxury he has back at the manor.
“I have to work on your wound, Malfoy. It's bound to become infected.”
“Go away!”
“I’m only here,” the voice is harsh, he hates how it makes him want to cower, “because Harry won’t let anyone else in the room.” Then cold hands grab at his chest, airing the fact that he’s already shirtless.
When exactly did that happen?
He shudders, keeping his rumblings low but otherwise not fighting the hands as they sit him up. He can see now a blurry flame is lit to his left, and he can only catch bushy brown hair as the figure is bent low over him. His chest aches, and he can’t help the loud cry he lets out as the cloth on his chest tugs at dried blood and an internal sharp burning fills the area.
The light is back, followed by a husky growl and he can’t stop the heavy gush between his legs as his stomach aches, “Alpha..” He moans softly, falling back into the slick sheets.
“OUT!” A shrill voice shouts, steps clicking away followed by a loud crash and the door slamming once again and then Draco’s lost to another bout of heat.
𓇢𓆸
Cool liquid is pushed past his parted lips, startling him slightly, he can’t make out who’s with him let alone which way is up and which way is down. Once he realizes it’s just fresh water, he reaches for the glass, ignoring the burning in his shoulder and gulps it down greedily. It manages to spill down his neck from his desperate need but he can’t find the need to care, enjoying how it helps cool him, if only slightly. A damp rag meets his head as he falls back into the cushions, turning restlessly as he can’t find a way to cease the oncoming cramps.
Pressure is put on his lips. It’s dry and salty and nothing he quite cares for at the moment. Yet an exasperated voice demands the opposite from him, “It’s only a cream cracker, Malfoy, you have to eat it.”
He’d rather not but the low growl of his stomach demands otherwise and unavailingly he opens his mouth, eating one and then another and another and he quickly loses track of how many he’s had. Another glass of water is pushed to his lips but he only takes a small sip before he tries to reach fruitfully for the scratchy material, once he realizes it’s nowhere near him, desperation pushing panic to the forefront of his mind. A sheet is pulled up and over him but he forcefully kicks it away, a soft growl erupting from his chest.
A second later, it's thrown over him and he takes a deep sigh of relief as he holds it tight.
“Alpha, alpha, my alpha..” He pants, hips thrusting softly into the thick quilt, a deep desire feeling him again.
The door slams once more.
𓇢𓆸
He’s groggy and sticky when he forces his bleary eyes to open. The room he’s in is dark and he desperately wants out of the moist bed he has been placed in and take a long well deserved shower. He struggles to sit up, his body aching painfully and his chest burns uncomfortably. He unclenches his hand, throbbing from the grip they held on a drab jacket. Its quality is clearly poor and he’s not sure exactly where it came from as he struggles to remember much of anything.
He can’t help the worry settle over him as he realizes he’s had his first official heat. His first thought is Greyback as pain radiates through his body and it has him pulling out of the bed despite the pain screaming at him to stay put.
The door in the corner creaks open and he catches wide brown eyes. Granger… Then he’s still with Potter. He doesn’t like how that thought calms him instantly, taking the wind from his sails, he sits at the edge. He’s suddenly very aware of his nudity and it has him reaching for the closest material he can, the unkempt jacket, and he proceeds by covering himself as best as he can.
Granger closes the door behind her, slowly making her way over, “You took them off yourself.”
“I wasn’t,” his voice is brittle and dry and tries to clear it slightly, using what little saliva he has, “I wasn’t accusing you.”
“You didn’t have to, it’s written all over your face.” She pushes a glass in front of his face and he eyes it warily, “If I wanted to poison you, I would’ve done it days ago. Drink.”
The mention of days rings loudly in his head, as he snatches the glass away from her, chugging it as if the water will force down the creeping dread.
He’d been out of it for days? It comes to him in bits and pieces, mostly just Granger's scent and he hopes the darkness hides the heat that begins to tint his cheeks. He can’t believe he’s had no control that entire time, they could’ve done anything to him. He glances down in question, remembering the dull ache thrumming throughout his body. Besides the jacket, he’s only covered by a bandage, covering his chest and his left shoulder.
It brings a swift chill through him and he can’t help but clutch at the jacket a little bit tighter. Shifting away from the girl standing in front of him. He’s so uncomfortable that he can feel his skin as if he needs to shed it, rip it right off the meat and bone.
She lifts a pair of clothes that smell like the jacket and it's when he notices her own bandages, tightly wrapped with just two splotches of red covering her forearm. He clenches his teeth, it's covered but he can see the branding as clear as day, her screams still fresh in his ear, rattling the back of his skull painfully. Instead he grips them gratefully, holding it closely to cover as much exposed skin as he can. He wants to apologize but he is sure it will result in another hard wallop to his face and he knows this weakness must be from his new instincts. Or maybe it's residual from his previous ones, wanting to protect an injured omega. It makes him feel like an invalid, a freak of hormones and confusion, as if he’s fifteen again and going through transition for the first time. He is sure by this point it won’t ever stop feeling wrong.
She ignores his internal turmoil, striking a small stick on an equally small box, bringing forth a small flame. He can’t help but jump back, having never seen something like this before. She gives him a sharp look before reaching over and lighting a half melted candle on his bedside.
“What,” He clears his throat as he watches her flick her wrist to vanish the small flame from her tiny wand, “no lumos?”
She backs away with a shake of her head, “Harry won’t allow me to bring in my wand.”
He turns avoiding her burning gaze to study the new shadows dancing on the white wallpaper. He’s not sure how to respond to that, to Potter's protection, to this whole nightmare situation.
“The bathroom is down the hall, on the right.”
He nods, waiting for her to exit before he can make his move.
“We’ll have to rewrap those bandages with dittany, don’t tear my magic before then.”
He clenches his teeth, biting back a harsh comment as she talks down to him. He only gives her a small shrug with his uninjured arm, looking away to glare at the candle flickering from his heavy breathing, sitting content on the night stand. She hesitates half a second before making her way out, the door shutting behind her causing images of the last couple days to flash through his mind. He reddens at the memories, gritting his teeth as he chucks the clothing in his hands across the room
“Fuck.” He groans aloud.
He can only sit in embarrassment for so long before he realizes he’s still covered in his own fluids and in a desperate need for a shower. He begrudgingly collects the only clean clothing he has before finding his old ones tangled into the wet sheets. He pulls on the dirty ones not wanting to soil the clean ones before taking a deep breath and pulling open the door handle. The door opens to a small stretch of hallway, and he can hear the others just beyond the corner. No one’s talking but there is scraping of silverware on ceramic and he forces himself to push onward to the shower.
Once he enters, he pushes the lock on the knob and then makes sure to open a drawer to further keep anyone from entering. He moves to turn on the shower, jolting at the cold water hitting him instantly. The manor had been charmed to prevent this, he thinks solemnly. Then he remembers that he hasn’t had a peaceful shower at the manor since he’d been changed.
With that thought, he rests against the sink as he waits for the water to heat. He can still hear the other occupants through the thin walls, drawers opening and closing, Lovegood's voice drifting as she calls out a faint goodbye and then a door closes.
It’s suddenly completely silent, an uncomfortable amount, then he hears Weaslebee call out, “So, what the hell was that?”
“Ronald, he’s awake!”
“Yeah and so is Harry finally!” There's some shuffling as the clattering of dishes sound out, “Don’t worry, love, he can’t hear me from in there.”
He moves closer to the door as quietly as he can, trying to hear what they have to say. A voice he hates considering familiar mumbles something but he can’t make out the faint words.
“It had to have been the stress, Harry. It’s been known to have stunted peoples' deciding designation before.”
“Bloody hell, Harry, your body has awful timing!”
“Well, honestly Ron! Obviously it was Mal- er Draco who must’ve set him off.”
“What?!” Weasley squawks, “It can’t have been Malfoy!”
“And what do you call the last three days?” Potter's voice is deeper than it once was, gruff with what he must’ve gone through the last couple of days.
“Er, I don’t know! He was an alpha- this doesn’t make any sense!”
Granger’s voice sounded curious, like Draco was just some specimen for her to poke and prod and study, “I’ve never known an alpha that went through a heat.”
“Well clearly he’s not one anymore! I didn’t think that was a thing, how is that a thing?”
A new voice, one Draco doesn’t recognize speaks up as the floorboards creak harshly, “He reeks of Greyback.”
A cold dread washes over Draco, he hadn’t known that he’d still.. still smelt of the beast. It brought a pain up his spine, his hackles drawn. He’d been nose blind, he’d gotten used to it, comfortable in it. Horrified, he gripped the counter for some type of support.
“You mentioned bite marks Harry,” Granger began, “I saw them briefly.. You don’t suppose he could be a werewolf, do you?”
“Blimey! And we’re still keeping him around?!”
“We can’t be sure.” Potter snaps but he doesn’t sound hopeful.
It’s as if Granger has started to sink her own teeth into all that is wrong with him, fixated, asking too many damn questions that she shouldn’t be privy to, “Greyback, at least, must have been a part of.. the process, of changing his designation, but I don’t understand how a werewolf bite could have–”
Draco’s done. He is sick of hearing them talk about him like he’s some freak, some pop up attraction for young witches and wizards to point and laugh at. He takes hold of the drawer he’d pulled out earlier and slams it shut with such a vicious force, the toiletries and creams on the counter rattle and fall violently.
It goes quiet. Draco waits one minute then another. It remains silent and in a small satisfaction, he strips and purposefully avoids looking at his new changes in the mirror and climbs under the falling water warmed if only a degree or two more from its previous chill.
𓇢𓆸
He’s not sure where to go after freshening up. He doesn’t want to be where he’d spent the last couple of days making a fool of himself, refusing to smell his own desperation, but he can’t sneak out without his shoes and wand. All the while sitting in the foyer making small talk with the shacks residents doesn’t seem like the right move either. It’s the sharp twisting pain in his gut that finally pulls him out of the washroom and down the hall. He remains guarded, but he can smell the meat cooking, bringing his pace quicker down the hall.
He has to cross the empty sitting room to reach the kitchen, finding a familiar face he hadn’t seen in years. Fleur Delacour, Triwizarding failure, heart throb to the many bumbling alphas and betas throughout Hogwarts and even a few twisted omegas. She was something to look at, sure, pretty in all the right places, he’d even heard she had some Veela blood and yet he hadn’t cared much beyond that back in the day. She was a bit redeemed though, when he remembered over hearing about Weasley's big fat rejection over the Yule Ball. Despite going through the process of becoming an alpha, he came to realize most omegas didn’t catch his attention, too busy messing with Potter and his incompetent group to bother and then, well, Voldemort returned to set up shop permanently within Malfoy Manor.
She jumped at his sudden presence, almost dropping the utensil in her grip. They eyed each other warily before Draco’s stomach interrupted the silence, “I am cooking some food for Bill, iz there zomething I can get for you?”
Draco could hear the others in the house move around somewhere above him, not helping the tense pain in his shoulders, “S’il vous plait. Ca sent divinement bon.” He responded, knowing the dork trio wouldn’t be able to understand them if they spoke another language.
“Très bien! Je ne savais pas que vous parliez français!” She gestured to the small kitchen table for four pushed against a thin curtained window, “Asseyez-vous.”
He didn’t want to move away from the exit and yet he cautiously made his way over, sitting with his back to the wall and front to the doorway and Fleur. She continued cooking, but he could see tension take place in her shoulders, aware of his presence, matching his own discomfort. His relief in only having Fleur around was short lived, as feet pounded back the way he had come. Potter rounded the corner quickly, meeting his eyes. It wasn’t long before Granger and Weasley followed yet Potter remained in the other room, not daring to move any closer.
Granger didn’t spare him a glance, with a pink face, she took a seat in the corner armchair, picking at a stack of books he hadn’t noticed before. The Weasel trailed after, blatant in his glaring as he plopped into a nearby couch.
Draco’s chest felt hollow, wishing he’d decided on staying in that blasted room. Or better yet, left this place altogether–wand be damned. He chanced a look back at Potter, who had yet to move, vibrant eyes fixated on him. It made the kitchen feel hot and stuffy and instead he chose to place his focus on his nails, picking at a loose bit of skin.
He did not jump when Fleur stood above him, a soft smile on delicate features, reminding him of his mother, “Les gens ici sont gentils. J’ai confiance que vous obtiendrez l’aide dont vous avez besoin.” She placed a hot plate in front of him, politely ignoring his burning face as his stomach let out a rather loud cry of hunger, “Allez, sois sage et mange quelque chose.”
“Peut-être, de ton point de vue.” Draco gave the group another once over, noting Potter had finally moved, joining Ron on the couch but remaining in the direct eyeline of the kitchen doorway. Draco moved back to Fleur's eyes, “Merci pour le repas; apparemment, je suis affamé.”
Giving him a resolved nod, Fleur made her way back to the stove. Draco did his best to ignore Potter's loud staring, eating the very rare steak placed before him. Each bite melted on his tongue, as if he hadn’t eaten properly in days, which now that he reflected back–he hadn’t.
Potter continued watching but remained distant and Draco couldn’t help but be a little appreciative. He was aware that he was coming out of a heat, Potter very clearly out of a rut if that musk permitting the air was anything to go by and they hadn’t done anything, hadn’t had to be fought apart. Draco had unfortunately remembered calling out to his alpha which could have only been Potter and as mortifying the thought, Draco was, well- he was impressed. He’d never seen or heard of someone fighting their first rut off before.. His own had been excruciating and having nothing but his hand as he remained locked in the small room had not been helpful. If he had smelt an willing omega then.. He was certain he wouldn’t have been able to hold back. Merlin, he’s heard horror stories of others before, bonded for life from a mistake of nature.
As he swallowed his final bite, he dabbed the corners of his mouth, rising with purpose, turning to hold Potter's eyes head on, marching into the other room with a confident air he didn’t quite feel. The three watched him with varying expressions but Draco looked down his nose at the lot, “My wand,” he snapped, holding out a pale hand, “hand it over. My mothers too.”
“As bloody if, Malfoy!” Weasley barked.
“Ron.” Granger chided, finally looking up from her book, “Despite the.. certain circumstances, we can’t hand back your wand-”
“We can’t trust, no- we don’t trust you. We’re not going to just load you with a weapon.” Potter vented in frustration, green eyes narrowed.
“No, of course not, just enough to kidnap me, attempt to shag me and keep me in this- this shack.” He spit, venomously.
“I didn’t shag-”
“Yeah, why is that, Malfoy? Why are you suddenly an Omega?” Weasley queried.
Draco clenched his fist tightly, nails digging deep into his palms, “None of your sodding business, wanker.”
“What? Touchy subject for you?”
Draco couldn’t be blamed for what happened next, he hadn’t been himself in quite sometime. Jumping for the pillocks freckled throat with sharp nails, he aimed to maim, if not kill the dirty little weasel.
Granger let out a squeal, Weasley a high pitched shout, and Potter, always with the seeker reflexes, intercepted, barely catching an odd loop in these blasted muggle trousers and yanking him firmly back into him.
“Don’t let him bite me!”
“Really Ronald? Stop baiting him!” Granger cried, hitting the thick leather bound book onto Weasley's back.
The rattling of the front door put a pause on the room, everyone turning to watch as it was pushed open, and a tall orange mop of hair made his way inside, placing a Cleansweep Five in the corner. Draco warily eyed the slashes across the obviously older Weasley’s face. This must have been Bill Weasley. He recognized him but, for the life of him, he couldn’t place where. Then again, he was sure all the Weasleys were like that. Still, he attempted to scent the air but all he could smell was Potter, fresh like soap and that earthy musk he always carried. It was.. intriguing, to say the least. He took another concealed sniff, eyes fluttering before a shiver shot through him, horror washing over him as he realized he’d been willing huffing in Potter of all people. He couldn’t stop the light growl from his throat, raising an arm to shove Potter away from him, ignoring the tingling racing down his arm at the contact. Luckily Potter shuffled back willingly, having the gall to look embarrassed.
He was itching for a wand. Feeling his hackles rise as he slowly caught on to the fact that he was surrounded by bloody Gryffindors. Man Weasley glanced at him warily, eyes shifting to Fleur who was making her way over. She raised to meet his bent form with a kiss on the cheek, “I’ve made you zome food, mon amour.”
He smiled lovingly at her, “Thank you, love.” He gave her head a soft pat, fingers interlocking in loose blonde strands. He gave her one last look before turning back toward the group, pulling something out of the satchel at his side as he made his way over to Granger, “This is all I could find, Hermione,” He spoke apologetically as he pulled one book after another out of the bag, “hopefully it helps in figuring out changes-”
“I’m sure it will, thank you.” Granger quickly cut him off, eyes darting to Draco. She grabbed the books quickly, placing them at her side, obviously hiding the fronts. Yet Draco wasn’t stupid like the lot she usually surrounded herself with. Her first mistake.
He eyed the poorly hidden stack of books despairingly. Now why would sweet muggleborn Granger be reading about dark magic?
She rightfully looked embarrassed.
“Dark reading, Granger? Wouldn’t mind sharing with the class now would you?”
Boy Weasley glowered at him, taking a few steps closer to Granger, “Piss off it, prat.”
“I would love to, after my wands are returned.”
Potter shifted, guarding his pocket, “Not happening.”
Draco glared, clenching his teeth. This was worse than the bloody manor, which mind you was crawling with death eaters torturing anything that breathed wrong, dungeons filled with blood and mayhem. Draco himself was evident of that.
He turned on his heel, making his way out the front door, ignoring the cries of protest behind him. Hearing Granger one final time, “Let him go, Harry!” Before he slammed the door behind him.
His bare feet slid in the cool sand and he got as far as the crashing waves permitted. Despite his strict upbringing, he allowed himself to flop very unceremoniously into the rough sand, only an inch or two from where the salty seawater crept up and then pulled back.
He sat with his head in his hands, frustrated with the uncontrollable rage swelling within him. No where to go, everything he’s done in this war worth nothing, whether he agreed with it or not and nothing to think of other than his parents inevitable demise and annoyingly enough, Potter's vexingly green, green eyes.
𓇢𓆸
He’s been here two days too long. His wound is better, just a scar that no longer aches but dread eats away at him. Every second he waits here, hiding away, is another his father and his mother, unarmed, could be hurt–killed.
Granger stays glued to the armchair, he can’t help watching her every time he comes out to eat but it’s as if she doesn’t even notice the world around her, a horrified look on her face. He doesn’t see Potter much, but everywhere he goes, he smells him as if the prat is trailing after. He is ashamed to admit that it calms down the building anxiety a bit.
It’s far into the evening of the third night when he creeps out of his room, watching the orange glow of candles bounce off the wall of the main room. He’s careful as he tiptoes down the hall, dodging the parts of the flooring that offset and creak loudly. Being sure to remain in the shadows.
“You can’t be serious!” Weasley's voice carries, “This has to be a bloody joke! Tell me this is a cruel joke, Hermione.” he pleads.
“How can it be? Everything that Harry has described, everything that we’ve seen? Why would I make this up?” Granger's voice is sharp like a knife.
Draco makes it a few steps before the entry, listening intently.
“It’s a thing of fairy tales! Mates? It can’t be-”
“Stop hiding, Malfoy.” Potter's voice is tired, calling out to him.
He flushes. When he was an alpha, he loved that his scent lingered, proving his status, his worth. Tormenting others with it. Now, as an omega, an escapable tart scent, announcing his disgrace, fills him with nausea, tormenting his legacy instead. He steps forward, out from the shadows, scowl on his lips. Weasley rumbles low but doesn’t move from where he stands at the window.
“I’m not hiding.” He adds haughty, placing a hand on his hip.
“Easedropping, whatever- You may as well be a part of this conversation.”
“Are you serious, Harry? You’re going to tell him? He’s already an insufferable git enough as it is.”
Harry turns to pace the edge of the room, running a hand through his wild hair, “He deserves to know too.”
“Know what?” He snaps, shifting on his legs uncomfortably.
Nobody would look at him, all looking sick to their stomachs. Instead choosing to fiddle with whatever was in reach. Acting like he was a bit of spilled tea, needing to be flipped over on the furniture. A different group, but the same dirty stain.
“What is it!” He roared.
Weasley was the only one with enough guts to finally meet his eyes, freckled face red, counteracting the orange of his hair. If it was another place, in another time, he’d harass him about it.
“About your heat! Harry’s rut! The whole reason he’s even an alpha now!”
He paused. Looking over at Potter who was starting to wear a hole in the wooden floor, “What- Why are you talking about this?”
“Hermione’s been researching– She found–”
“We’re mates, Malfoy. True mates.”
The dinky rug below him felt like it was ripped away. Like he was floating, no control of up or down, no movement to his limbs.
“Do you know what that means?” Granger supplied, tugging on a loose stand of her hair.
He touched back to the ground. Hard.
Narrowing his eyes, he turned toward her place on the couch, “I’m a well bred pureblood, not some imbecile." He gave a pointed look at Weasley, “What you’ve read, what you think is some grand revelation, is a wizarding fairy tale, for wee wizards and witches at bedtime, which you’d know if you weren’t a wasted muggleborn.”
“Explain Harry’s sudden change. The way you’ve been gravitating toward him. We’ve all seen it.” Granger remained calm, speaking to him as if he was an idiot. This must be how the other two felt constantly around the girl.
“Potter has always been a freak of nature. I, on the other hand, have not been gravitating toward him! I’m only in this damned shack because that brute dragged me along! I’ve been trying to leave!” He felt close to ripping his hair out.
“This explains a lot if this is how you’ve always gone about trying.” Potter scoffed, finally ceasing his pacing.
Draco didn’t waste a second, storming over, jabbing a sharp finger into his hard chest, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I thought you were smarter than this, Malfoy. Then again, you're always behind us. A second too slow for the snitch, a grade too low to be top of the class, an only child and yet still somehow born only good enough for second place.”
He raised his fist, wanting to feel Potter's nose shatter beneath his fist, to shut him up forever. It never made contact, Potter gripping the affronting fist in his own. Draco wanted to scream, nerves dancing at the contact, a calm he didn’t wish to have washing over him, “I didn’t ask for this either, I didn’t want you as a- a mate, my partner for life. This is a thing of nightmares, Malfoy.” Potter shoved his fist away weakly, hands back to his hair.
His heart was clamoring up his throat, the pounding threatening to shatter his teeth. He wanted Potter to touch him again. Desperately.
“True mates?” He uttered, choosing to step back, only placing distance between him and Potter could help now, “Nothing's true about this. I was an alpha, you were a beta! If that night.. if I.. this wasn’t supposed to ever happen. We are not meant to be.”
“And yet, here we are.”
He clenched his teeth, moving even further away, “I hate you, you know.”
Potter didn’t hesitate, staring him down with lowering eyes, “Yes, I’m aware, the feeling happens to be mutual, if that wasn’t clear.”
He looked to the others, if only to look away from Potter, finally eyeing the book Granger was holding. He recognized the grimoire as something ancient and dark, bound with elf skin, something he was sure she didn’t know, lest the book would be far from her hands. He knew as much that it had nothing to do with fairy tales, no such stories of romance swimming with the idea of a one true love to be found.
He crosses his arms tightly, “Read something interesting, Granger?”
“Interesting isn’t the word I’d use.” She bit, placing the book on the coffee table in front of her.
“Well,” Draco sneered, “out with it then.”
The three gave each other weary looks. Draco was ready to start shouting at their idiotic expressions, feeling stir crazy as he remained trapped in this teeny tiny little house, with the idea of true mates connecting to Harry Potter of all people bouncing around painfully in his head.
Brave, stupid Potter spoke up, “We know, Malfoy. About what happened–after that night in the Astronomy tower.”
Draco faltered, stepping back as if he’d been slapped, Weasley dropped his edge, watching the rug as if it was the most interesting thing in the world, Granger doing the same with a water mark on the ceiling and Potter, worst of all, watching him with pity in his eyes.
“You know nothing. You read one dark book and think you have things figured out-”
“A stack of books, actually.” Granger looked determined now but had yet to meet his eyes.
“Always the little know-it-all. ‘Brightest Witch of Her Age’, right?” Draco waved his hands in faux grandiose.
“Watch your mouth-” Weasley threatened but it was too late, Draco was raging now, a loose cannon ready to fire point blank.
“Except what would a dirty lowly mudblood like you know about true dark magic.”
Weasley moved but Granger stuck out an arm, “Enough to know that a bitching is powerful ritual magic.” All three heads snapped to the girl, wide eyed and silent, “Relying on strong, complex potions–tell me, did you drink it willingly?”
An audible gasp escaped past his lips, and he opened his mouth to speak, to call her out before closing to swallow the saliva building and then trying once more.
“Mal- Draco breathe-” Draco dragged his eyes to an approaching Potter, his hands held up placating, as if he was a wild animal, dangerous.
Draco blinked.
He was a Malfoy. He was dangerous.
Swallowing the thick lump that settled in his throat, he growled to halt Potter's movements, “You understand nothing, you pathetic omega. There was no damned potion, so all of you shut your braindead mouths before you suffer a fate worse than aunt Bella.”
Granger growled deep this time, the first he’s ever really heard from her since she punched him in the face all those years ago, “We can smell you! Did you forget I was with you when you were in heat? Because despite attempting to scourgify my mind, I haven’t. You’re organs- they aren’t what they once were, are they? That doesn’t just change from sex. It’s. Not. Possible.” She was standing now, hands clenching and unclenching, “This coming from a muggleborn–an omega with better marks than you could ever dream of.”
“That’s enough, Mione, you’ve made your point.” Potter’s words were loud in his ear, he was standing much closer than he was before, “And you,” a hot hand gripped his upper arm, “that’s the last slur. That ‘omega’ has busted arse researching for you, you owe her some bloody respect.”
Weasley stepped forward, “Yeah more than what your own parents have done for you-”
Draco twisted, pulling back from Potter's hold, flashing his fangs, “Your a bunch of fucking liars.” Then he turned and stomped back down the hall, past the room and straight into the washroom, a door with a blasted lock. He slammed it behind him, securing it before pacing like a caged animal. Chest heaving frantically.
Weasley's stupid voice echoing in his skull, ‘more than your own parents have done for you,’ echoing over and over. He didn’t want to think of that night, remember how the floor felt under him, the eyes that crawled under his skin, dissecting his exposed flesh. Greyback and his rotted breath that apparently never left his skin no matter how hot the water was, how hard he scrubbed, skin raw and red and stained. His poor mother, forced to watch as he was– He let out a sob, punching the wall, once, twice, three times, pulling back his aching bloody fist. He’d kill for his mothers freshly brewed tea leaves, fresh from the garden. It calmed him slightly that night, it would help now–
It calmed him that night.
He drank it that night.
His father–
He stumbled, falling to the floor, gagging, as if he could throw it up right now despite everything having been months ago.
His father offered it, despite his failure. Handed it over himself with a grimace. A promise that everything would be alright, that Malfoy’s always come out on top. Another fucking lie.
‘Tell me, did you drink it willingly?’
A potion. A cup of tea. One of the last pleasures from his father.
Anything done for the success of the cause. For their cause.
A coward that would do anything to survive the war. A reflection of himself.
His own blood.
Did his mother know? Did she supply the ingredients herself?
He could scream. Perhaps he had. He can’t remember. Only that a heat envelopes around him, yet it remains unable to soothe the pain burning through him. The despair sinking deep into his bones. The anguish from the betrayal. The now very obvious deception from a man he’d given his life for.
How was he going to survive this?
He leaned into the warmth, sobs wracking through his body. His rotten, mutated, useless body.
How was he supposed to go on?
He had no one left. No one–
He should have died that night.
He should have died.