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When we met I was sure out to lunch, now my empty cup tastes as sweet as the punch.
If someone asked Harry Potter, savior of the wizarding world, the chosen one, most eligible bachelor in wizarding society and alpha extraordinaire, about his first ever crush he would lie to your face. Especially if you were from the press.
He would laugh, pretend to be embarrassed, flustered even, and start telling you a story about this sweet Beta girl in school named Cho Chang. How enamored he was the first time he saw her, how he made a fool of himself trying to woo her in his awkward teenage ways, despite her being Cedric Diggory's girlfriend; how they parted as friends and how he realized that it was nothing more than a harmless infatuation.
And then the curious person on the other end would ask him if he was still hung up about her, if she was the one that got away. After all, Harry is still single at twenty-five, having plenty of affairs and Omegas to his name, ones which the press has conjured up out of platonic gala dates, dinner sightings and paparazzi shots, but reportedly none of them stick around. What's the issue? No one is more desirable than the Harry Potter! He could have the pick of the litter, literally any Omega and Beta he could possibly wish for! Is he too picky, maybe? Is no one perfect enough for the golden child?
Harry will laugh a second time, a laugh that's forced, subtly check his watch, promise himself that this is the last interview he'll give for six months and, bold facedly lie again. There is no one, he's just taking his time, wanting to figure himself out first. He's had a rough life, the war has taken his chance to be sound and curious. But he'll leave it open with a knowing wink he knows the media loves so much; who knows? Maybe in the future there will be someone. Love finds its way, after all.
Deep down, though, Harry knows the truth. A truth buried so deep within him that despite all of his attempts at finding love, he's never quite been able to be honest with himself and failed miserably. He's dated, he's flirted, he's been around; Omegas, Betas, male and female. He's had sex, plenty of it.
And he desperately wants to like it, he really does. Sometimes even succeeds in gaslighting himself into it, which results in a two year long relationship with Ginny Weasley that ends abruptly with an insipid and austere note even though she is everything Harry is supposed to want. A breathtakingly beautiful Omega, sweet, funny and smart as a whip. And yet, nothing.
The nothing becomes painfully obvious whenever he's failed to pop a knot; Merlin, he couldn't even quite remember the last time he did. It became such an obvious malfunction that Harry has even considered if it could be a medical issue, has sought out discrete professionals all over Britain only to be told that, no, he's a perfectly healthy, if not short, Alpha with full functionality. Some of these experts have suggested visiting a mind healer, maybe these symptoms were psychosomatic, a consequence of terrible war experiences, unprocessed childhood trauma, yadda yadda, but Harry doesn't really want to hear it. He's quite sure the reason he can't pop his knot into the next soft, pliant Omega isn’t because he’s grown up in a closet or had to kill Voldemort.
What makes him so sure?
He lets himself think about it sometimes, when it's night and he's laying in his comfortable bed that's way too big for one person and especially for an Alpha of his short statue. It's then he reminisces about his past and his school years and it's then he actually admits to himself that he's lying to these people, be it the press, the people of high society, Merlin, even his friends.
Sure, he did have a crush on Cho Chang, that much is true, but what he's kept to himself, tight to his chest, is that she hasn't been the first. By no means and no sense of the word. There's an invisible weight at the back of Harry's head, a weight in the shape of a person that has been there for almost fourteen years now. Mostly whispering, sometimes shouting, hard to ignore and completely forget about, like tinnitus in one's ear you just get used to after a while.
And when Harry slowly falls asleep, the world fading into the land of dreams, when his mind isn't so terribly preoccupied with trying to shield himself from this droning weight in the back of his head and his tight grip on the reins finally slips, he remembers.
There aren't any designations among muggles. They're all born a standard Beta, as the average wixen would call it and whenever a magical child is born that doesn't happen to be a true Beta, like a male Omega or a female Alpha with both sets of genitalia, they're often diagnosed by muggle medical professionals as biologically intersex. It happens; the wizarding population isn't large enough for it to be very noticeable at all that once in a blue moon an intersex child is born. The parents aren't led to believe it for too long, as the Ministry sends out letters before a detrimental decision is made for any surgical gender reassignment, a generally awful mistake for anyone under a designation.
Of course Harry has been wondering about the bulge that started to form at the base of his penis that, looking around in dressing rooms after swimming lessons, not one of his classmates had when he was growing up, but it wasn't like the Dursley's cared about his health even if he tried. He was lucky when they were kind enough to provide him with a bucket to barf into whenever he happened to have the flu and so he decided to simply go on with this anomaly on his body. That is, until he got the Hogwarts letter and later was enlightened to his designation: Alpha.
A rather small one, that much became clear soon. Who knew if it were his genetics or the years of detrimental childhood development he spent in a tiny, dark closet with too little food, but he'd always been small and this fact became glaring whenever he enrolled into Hogwarts.
Alphas, even at an early age, were tall, put on muscle fast and whenever they hit puberty one couldn't get away fast enough from their moods that would eventually, at least for most, even themselves out. Sure, Harry was hit with a cocktail of hormones as well, like any other alpha, but the thing with growing tall and building muscle just flew by past him.
Whenever the student populace of Hogwarts wasn't feeling especially generous towards the Boy-Who-Lived, they sure let him feel his failings. Kids and teenagers were quick to ridicule, loose-lipped with insults. Harry’s accustomed himself quickly; he's survived worse, after all.
That doesn't mean he doesn't have his pride. The Alpha inside of him didn't care much how tall Harry was or if it was particularly smart to look for trouble with fellow students; especially when it came to quidditch.
Harry remembers it clear as day, even if he doesn't particularly want to. He's just been recruited by McGonagall to fly as Seeker for Gryffindor and successfully played a few games that the Reds won thanks to his merit. Just now they've decided a game against Slytherin for themselves and Harry’s inner Alpha is preening with pride, peacocking around with a kind of overestimating self-esteem only a young Alpha in the throes of puberty could have.
He's taking his time on his way towards the dressing rooms with his fellow Gryffindors, joking around, laughing, when the Slytherin team pushes past them and someone bumps into Harry, harshly. He flies forwards, but catches himself before he can fall.
“Hey!” Harry yells indignantly.
The lively chatter dies down and the Slytherins turn to glance at Harry; it quickly becomes obvious who it has been that bumped into Harry because despite what is said about Slytherins, there's only one of them the rumors are really true about.
Marcus Flint turns fully, smirking. “What?” He challenges and Harry just knows that he intentionally bumped into him.
“Watch where you're going! You bumped into me!”
Flint's eyebrows rise and the amused smirk grows even more mischievous. “Did I?” He feigns innocence. “I would say sorry, Potter, but how can it be my fault? You're so small, I can barely see you.”
A heat rises to Harry's cheeks, part anger, part humiliation and despite knowing that Flint only does this to provoke him, the coil in his stomach won’t let up.
“Listen here, Flint—” Oliver Wood says, ready to step in.
“Now, now, Wood,” Flint says and lazily walks over, unafraid, “would you really embarrass your Seeker like this? He's an Alpha after all, he can handle this, yeah? Why would he need a Beta to settle his fights for him?”
Harry eyes Wood's profile and sees the anger glistening in his eyes. “You–”
“It's fine, Oliver,” Harry bites, his gaze focusing back on Flint who was grinning now.
“You sure?”
“Yeah. We're settling this later, Flint.”
Flint barks a laugh, eye crinkling. “Oh sure, munchkin, sure.”
With that he walks away, fellow Slytherins in his wake, towards the changing rooms. Harry glares after him, frustrated and mad, only slow to file into his own changing room with his teammates. He showers, changes angrily, his hurt pride not letting up. Marcus Flint just does things like this, in fact, he's even known for it. For being a bully.
A surprising attribute, given what his designation is; Marcus Flint is an Omega, through and through. Though there have been persistent, stubborn rumors that there's just something significantly wrong with him. Who can blame Hogwarts’ students for whispering? Flint just doesn't look and act the part, he's ridiculously tall at seventeen, towering even some Alphas, heavy in beefy weight on his arms, shoulders, legs — practically everywhere an Omega that fits neatly into society shouldn't have weight. And then there's the attitude that's so downright mean and nasty that he's had multiple conversations with the head of his House, which didn't change much of anything. The students love gossiping about it; is he compensating for something? Does he want to be in Alpha? Are his hormones fucked? Dismissive of Omegas, Betas and Alphas alike, Marcus Flint seems determined to pick fights, relishing in brawls and provocations, ignoring whatever stern warnings and point diminutions teachers give him as he doesn't care for them, or any authority that is, either.
In these heated fights, people have told him that he will never find a mate like that, told him he looks like a troll, that he's incorrigible, stupid, repulsive, a freak of nature, but Harry's seen it. The amused gleam in the Omega's eyes. What they think might hurt him bothers Marcus Flint none.
It would be fascinating, almost, if Flint wasn’t such a prick. A prick that has Harry seething as he finishes up and stomps out of the changing rooms only to walk into someone in the darkness of the hallway. To his horror it's then he realizes that Flint has actually waited up for him. A hot shudder runs down Harry’s spine; he talked big earlier, but he isn't stupid. In a one versus one he'd lose out. Badly.
He now regrets having sent the others ahead to have the showers for himself as Flint turns around, smirking down to him.
“Yeah? What now, little Alpha?”
Harry swallows, still not afraid enough to let or show that he wouldn't win this fight. “I don't want to fight you,” he says evenly.
“No?” Flint tilts his head, “after the utter disrespect of mine?”
“No,” Harry grits, “I don't know what issues you have, but let it out on someone your size.”
That seems to really amuse Flint and he laughs heartily, leaning over Harry. He's towering him with ease. “Aw, he admits to it.”
Harry can't even react that fast Flint has him by his ear, pulling him up like a mother would a naughty child.
“Ow! Ow, what the hell!” Harry exclaims and claws desperately at Flint's hand, “let go, you troll!”
But Flint pulls a little harder and Harry yowls. “Munchkin, munchkin,” he tuts, “I'm not gonna hurt you, yeah? Would be cruel to torture little Alphas like you, got it tough enough, hm? You got a mouth on you though. You're quite a mean, little shithead.”
“You're the shithead! You bumped into me on purpose!” Harry yells, knowing his face has grown beet red.
His ear hurts like hell, pinchened in between Flint's strong fingers and he's standing on his tiptoes, tapping from left to right to keep his balance, his hands digging into Flint's wrist to no avail. Flint is strong and not letting up in the slightest. Harry’s humiliated, in pain, breathing fast and desperate to escape this mortifying situation. And yet…
There's a warm, fluttering feeling slowly spreading in his stomach, one that he cannot attribute to fear, anger or simple embarrassment, one that is something else entirely that he hasn’t felt before in his entire life. It’s now that he can smell it, the faint whiff of an Omega underneath some heavy, artificial deodorant like scents. One moment it’s there — plum, warm and buttery, poppy seeds, dry wheat and something strong and intense, like assam — and then it’s gone.
“True,” Flint admits easily, “gotta see if there's something solid behind you, pipsquak, but you're brave, aren't you? Little brave Gryffindor, how adorable.”
Harry's breathing hard through his nose to keep calm, his panting loud in the otherwise quiet hallway. “Let me go,” he demands quietly, glaring up to Flint.
“Ooh, scary!” The other mocks, but finally he does. Harry hisses and clutches his ear, staring up at Flint with what he hopes is a ferocity that would somehow impress the Omega into backing off, but all he achieves instead is a chortling laugh.
This doesn’t stop Harry from glaring however, furiously taking in every detail of Flint’s stupid face while his own feels like it might make him die from a heat shock. Flint already looks nasty by default, Harry always finds, with raven hair falling into a broad face that has some youthful chub to it, dark, gray eyes framed by black lashes and thick eyebrows. There's a soft mole on his cheek that's almost endearing if it wasn't situated on Marcus Flint's face, of all people. He looks just like someone who would’ve bullied Harry in primary, these blokes that have their caps on backwards, smoked cigarettes behind the gym and drunk those disgusting caffeinated fizzy drinks. They taste like battery acid, but maybe Harry’s judgment is clouded given that they forced him to drink it through his nose one time.
Flint’s mouth looks like it’s too small for his big teeth, which makes his grin akin to that of a shark. How is that guy an Omega? What if he is only pretending to be, but that makes no sense; Omegas don't have the best standing in wizarding society, especially not if they are from pureblood families like Flint is. They were under the guardianship of their parents or nearest relative until they’d marry an Alpha, and even then they aren’t allowed to open banking accounts or work without permission. No one would choose a fate like this.
And, of course, there was this scent…
“See you around, little Alpha.”
Truthfully, that is it. Harry never had an interaction like that with Flint ever again. The bloke poked beasts left and right, that he happened to taunt Harry was a rather random coincidence, probably caused by the fact that Harry was a quidditch player for Gryffindor and just unbelievably, ridiculously famous. It was nothing more than that, nothing more than Marcus Flint deciding to throw a gleeful, mean glance onto Harry, only for him to quickly move on to someone else.
Instead of forgetting about it, however, like any other normal person would, the memory of Flint’s fingers painfully pinching Harry’s ear, the belittling words mocking him swiveled around Harry’s brain for years to come, just like the occasional grin Flint shot his way whenever Harry was accidentally staring at him for too long; like ping pong it knocked back and forth until Harry was old enough for his first rut. It’s just around this time the feelings of angry confusion, annoyance and undecipherable tummy tumbles grow into something much more concrete.
It’s stupid, really. Flint had been away for a while at this point, graduating years ago and with him his terror went and left Hogwarts. No big deal, right? Good riddance, life went on.
But here Harry was, thinking he would spend his first rut fantasizing about the pretty Beta and Omega girls in his year or the ones above, you know, the ones with a great rack and nice hips, or maybe the Omega boys with their pretty smiles, soft eyes and alluring, developing scents; instead his brain had a very different idea. Suddenly there the imaginary Marcus Flint was, mean grin on his face, his voice confident and steady as it has always been, whispering ‘little Alpha’ and ‘munchkin’ into Harry’s ear and Harry, powerless, at the mercy of his own rabid hormones and the overwhelming, disorienting experience of the first rut, could do nothing but pop desperate knots into his hand over and over again until his hand was nothing but raw, hot skin covered with sticky cum. Until, finally, on day four he was utterly spent, dehydrated, with a faint, heated coil still churning in his lower belly.
It’s all stupid, just very, very stupid.
Harry Potter can’t afford things like this. It’s bad enough that he’s small as he is, his desperate hopes of him growing much at all during his teenage years gone up in smoke by the time he turns seventeen. Little Alpha freak, destined to slay the Dark Lord; yeah no, there’s no way he can dance out of order any further than he already does. And so Harry keeps his little secret, the little weight inside the back of his head and lies.
That is, until that one annual Ministry New Year’s ball.
“You sure you wanna do this, mate?”
Ron looks great in the black and white tux robe, his red hair combed back slightly in a gentle wave. He's been so kind to accompany Harry to these grueling festivities even though Harry knows he hates attending them just the same. They are running a little late and the ball has already officially begun; Harry’s guest of honor, like every year. It gets tiring to be the dancing monkey.
Usually he tends to skip these types of events now, he is twenty-five and frankly has had enough of them, but the annual New Year’s ball is something he unfortunately just has to attend for propriety’s sake. He mostly makes it to one o’clock in the morning, lets a few drinks mellow his mood and does an Irish goodbye, but he has plans for this year; finding a potential bride among all the eligible Betas and Omegas. The New Year’s ball is the event for the large and noble families to pitch their sons and daughters to an affluent, influential partner to secure their generational wealth. While debutante balls are a thing of the past, this comes close to one.
Not that Harry particularly wants to marry a virtual stranger, in fact the mere idea of it makes his skin crawl; but after eight years of dogged relentlessness of the press and the pressure of the people around him, Harry has had enough. Maybe this will solve his problems and fill the quietness of the house, the emptiness of his heart, suffocate the yawning questions and self-doubt in his head. A nice person at his side so that he won’t have to worry about gossip and paparazzi anymore, someone to catch him should he fall again. Realistically Harry knows his plan is bananas, but he's been feeling a little off his rails lately. Maybe hitting the twenty-five is the straw breaking the camel's back.
“Yes, I am,” he replies as he fixes his cufflinks.
Loud classical music is sounding from the double winged door, servants watching Ron and him walking closer with curious glances.
“It just doesn't seem like you, is all,” Ron mentions, though there is no judgment in his voice. Harry appreciates it; Ron always has his back, no matter how crazy the idea.
“It isn't like me, but honestly I've had it up to here,” Harry says, lifting his hand flatly over his head, “you have Hermione and your daughter to go back home to, I have no one.”
Ron nods. “I get it, mate. When did you break up with Ginny again?”
“Five years ago.”
“And you didn't have someone to, you know,” he suggestively waves his hand, “take care of your problem?”
Ron's also an Alpha. He knows how painful and exhausting ruts can get, especially without a partner. It's why teenagers are like bunny rabbits, desperate to find a willing body left and right because going through rut and heat alone twice a year was something akin to torture.
Harry winces. “Can't say that I do.”
Wouldn't have made a difference anyways. Harry can't knot anyone, any sort of relief was therefore denied to him. He could at least find a partner to look for his other needs, though, be it to provide him with food and drink during his painful ruts.
“Ouch, mate.”
The servants open the door and they both step through. The ballroom the Ministry rents each year for the New Year’s ball is packed to the brim with people, high society folks, politicians and important Ministry workers alike mingling among each other, networking, connecting, glad-handing their ways into any lucrative agreements. In between them Betas and most importantly, Omegas, dressed in their best, most fancy dresses; gowns to the floor, gloves, necklaces, tiaras and other head dress in their luscious hair pretending to listen to whatever Alpha or Beta was chewing their ears off. Harry sighs inwardly, preparing himself mentally for what was to come. Mindless chatter, meaningless conversations and smalltalk; getting to know people. A shudder runs down his back.
“I already want to leave,” he mutters to Ron.
“Shit, mate, me too,” he responds, “literally everyone with a name is here. Think you will dance?”
Harry pulls a face. With each ball there is also the dance, the highlight of the evening, where it would be evident who was interested in who, what engagements were to be expected soon and what marriage deals probably have been negotiated. Sometimes it just means that two people have a dance, a nice time, but rarely it’s interpreted as such. It’s the reason Harry’s never danced; he never wanted to risk headlines the next day.
“I don’t know. I guess I’ll see how the evening plays out,” he says, but notices himself that he doesn’t sound very optimistic.
They’re standing off to the side and while people have acknowledged them, they’ve not been approached. It’s only a matter of time though as Harry’s already spotted Kingsley Shacklebolt, who’s a friendly guy, but quite chatty, lively talking to people..
“I feel you mate, you don’t have to decide anything today— Merlin's balls, is that Flint?!”
Harry’s head snaps to Ron who’s staring wide eyed into the ball room, before following his gaze.
“Flint?” Harry mumbles and feels his face grow hot and cold. His eyes are frantic, searching before—
Yup.
Harry's mouth goes dry because there he actually is in the flesh, Marcus Flint, the bane of his existence whom he hasn't seen in over ten years. He's never been at these balls before as long as Harry's attended, mysteriously missing out each year to the point that rumors were going around that his father has had enough of his famously awful attitude, marrying him off overseas. That rumor, it turns out, is most definitely false.
Flint's grown even more from when he's been in school, Harry starkly realizes, towering over most people around him even though he's casually leaning against a windowsill, a flute of champagne in hand. He scandalously isn't dressed in a gown, which probably has earned Flint nasty whispering and disgusted glares from the older generation of high society wixens already; instead he is in a dark set of suit trousers, a white dress shirt his muscles visibly strain against and a simple, black bow tie. He hasn't even bothered with a jacket. It's just so typically Flint.
“Hello, Mr. Potter.”
A person pushes into Harry's field of vision, blocking his gaze towards Flint. He's slow to shake himself and focus on whoever has decided to approach him, an uncomfortable, frustrated feeling spreading in his chest. It doesn't take long for Harry, however, to recognize who's standing in front of him.
“Ah… Hello, Mr. Nott,” Harry replies politely, yet his eyes wander over Theodore Nott's shoulder. Flint's still standing there, but Harry has a hard time keeping his eyes on him.
“It's been some time you've been to these types of events,” Nott comments.
Harry feels Ron's hand on his shoulder. “I think I saw someone, you'll be fine by yourself, right?”
Before Harry could reply however, Ron's already walking away, pushing his way through the crowds. Harry, now alone with Nott, curses inwardly; Ron probably wants to help, but at the most inconvenient time. Nott isn't the one Harry suddenly yearns to talk to, but it seems like there was no getting around it. He lets his eyes drift onto Nott, who's smiling pleasantly.
Nott's an Omega, that much is clear by the beautiful garment he's wearing and the soft, floral scent that’s emanating from his person. Nothing too harsh or overbearing, notes of hyacinth, wisterias, daffodils. Spring flowers. He's pretty in the way many Omegas would be jealous of, with honey colored locks and warm, brown eyes. He's paid little attention to Ron, his eyes expectantly on Harry.
“I guess so. These balls aren't for me,” Harry says.
Nott laughs and it's something pleasant and light. “I apologize, but that much is obvious. Why are you here then, if you dislike it this much? Mingling?”
“Frankly, I'm rethinking my choices of coming here… It’s nothing against you, Mr. Nott, I should say. It's just that I may have hoped…” Harry's gaze unintentionally wanders into the general direction of Flint again, who still seems to be leaning against the windowsill. “I don't know what I've hoped for.”
This time, Nott picks up on it and, to Harry's chagrin, turns his head to where Harry's been looking. Though instead of annoyance, when he turns back around there's mirth on Nott's pretty face.
“Oh, I see. I never had a chance, did I?” He says teasingly.
“Ah, no, I–”
“It's fine, Mr. Potter,” Nott lays a hand on Harry's arm, “you see, I already suspected your tastes are special. You have the pick of the litter and chose none of them? I'm not a fool. Him, though? Interesting. Many won't understand it.”
Harry thinks he might sink into the earth from embarrassment. “I'm sorry,” he just says, not knowing what else there is to say to that.
“I know him a little,” Nott says instead, undeterred by Harry's predicament, “our families are friends, you see? He's not very easy… you might have to work for it. But you're his type, for sure. Want me to introduce you?”
Nott has already grabbed Harry's arm and is starting to pull him away from the corner they've been standing in. Starkly realizing what Nott's plan is, Harry's heart sinks into his trousers and he flounders, panic rising up in his throat.
“I– no, Nott, wait—”
It's too late. A determined Nott has some strength to him and he pulls Harry steadily through the crowd, with Harry unable to stop what has already been set into motion. Dread and excitement mingle into an undecipherable mess in Harry's stomach as they draw closer, Flint's image becoming clearer and clearer until, finally, they arrive.
“Hey, Flint, look who I've found,” Nott greets.
“Hm?”
Flint's bored gaze first lands on Nott and then notably on Harry. It's like the blinding lights of a lighthouse have focused on Harry's person and he starts to squirm underneath the attention, Flint's eyes sharp and calculating despite his casual demeanor.
“Harry Potter,” Flint says, amusement clear in his voice, “I haven't seen you in years.”
“That reminds me, I still have to talk to Blaise,” Nott suddenly says, “I'll leave you two to it!”
“Wha—”
For a second time this evening Harry's being abandoned into predicament before he could even say anything, now suddenly alone with Marcus Flint who's scrutinizing him with a mischievous smile pulling at his lips. It's just how Harry remembers it, how his ghost in Harry’s head was, and he doesn't know if that's any better or worse for his situation.
“Hi,” he croaks instead.
“Hello,” Flint replies with a smirk, “you never did grow any taller, how fun.”
Harry swallows. “No, uh… my body never got the memo, I guess.”
This wrings an amused snort out of Flint and he finally pushes himself off of the windowsill, uncrossing his arms. Harry's spellbound; growing up did Flint good. He's beautiful.
Not beautiful in the way wixen society would think, not at all; in fact, he's the antithesis of what is considered the perfect Omega. Flint is still so very tall, with visible muscles underneath his shirt and stark, defined features. His face looks mean like in Harry's memories, though now there is an allure to it Harry can't possibly describe. Maybe it's the cropped, raven hair slightly falling onto his forehead, the sharp, knowing eyes in a steely gray or the dark shadow of a beard hugging his jaw. He's grown into his teeth without losing the predatory appeal and Harry's weak, just a very weak Alpha. It's a pity he can't smell him, he thinks.
“Hm. It's cute,” Flint comments and while Harry's sure it would've offended any other Alpha, it makes his skin crawl. “So. What is the famous Harry Potter doing here? Thought you were above it all.”
Flint sips from his flute, but his eyes never leave Harry.
“I'm above nothing,” Harry's quick to say, “and I could ask you the same question. You haven't been to the New Year’s Ball either.”
“Still as feisty as I remember,” Flint chuckles. “Why am I here? I'm getting on with age, at least my father thinks so. I'm supposed to be getting an Alpha.”
Harry's heart beats fast against his chest and he feels a little faint. “And, ah… had any success?”
“What do you think?”
Flint doesn't sound at all disappointed at that, which has Harry headless. Even back in the day Flint hasn't given much on an Alpha's opinion of him or been in any sort of relationship. If rumors were to be believed, most just dared to approach him once, the brave even getting intimate with him before calling it quits. Flint really hasn't changed, not one bit.
“I– I don't want to offend you,” Harry mumbles. Is it terribly obvious that he's nervous?
“You won't,” Flint says casually and downs the rest of his champagne in one go, “it's the same with you, yeah? Not finding the right broad?”
Harry exhales. “You could say that.”
Well, it has come to this; Harry, the confident, no-nonsense, impertinent Alpha, the chosen one, the boy-who-lived and slayer of the Dark Lord Voldemort is left a nervous, stuttering mess in front of the most unruly, non-conforming, assertive Omega he’s ever met. All of a sudden, all the memories are back, the ones that he’s buried deep in the past, resurfacing like bodies of water ready to haunt him. How stupid could he’ve been? Of course he wasn’t ever interested in soft, delicate Omegas, how could he have been so blind? Whatever wires have crossed themselves wrong in Harry’s brain when he’s grown up all led to this, with his heart fluttering in front of a mountain of an Omega’s muscles. Harry’s always been a freak, why would it matter now?
The thought of another Alpha possibly trying to get with Flint, trying to stump and cut him down into some tight mold of what they imagine Omegas should be like makes Harry’s skin crawl in ways he can’t describe. Harry doesn’t want to leave, wants to remain at Flint’s side this whole evening — scratch that — forever is even better. Wants him in every possible way exactly like he is and that, possibly, has always been this way, ever since a younger Flint had Harry by his ear. Harry’s just been too blind to see. Too far in denial.
What has he been afraid of? Judgement? Criticism? He’s Harry bloody Potter and they can all kiss his arse.
“Here all!” An announcer yells into the lively conversations of the ballroom, ripping Harry from his thoughts, “The annual New Year’s dance starts in ten minutes! Dancers, please select your partner!”
A collective mumble starts traveling through the room. Time has come for true colors to show themselves, for people to gossip and whisper. Who’ll be with who? The crowd’s starting to move, young Alphas, Omegas and Betas alike craning their necks, approaching each other. And Harry? He feels a cold flush of determination wash over him.
“Found someone you like?” Flint casually asks beside him and Harry almost doesn’t hear it, heart pounding so hard it muffles his ears.
“Yeah,” he breathes and turns towards Flint, stretching out his hand, feeling like he might throw up at any given moment, yet so very sure at the same time. People around him notice and he hears a gasp or two, frantic murmuring all around him.
“Omega Flint, would you do me the honor?”
Flint looks at him, looks at his hand and back at him. There's no movement in his face but a surprised quirk to his brow; Harry's caught him off foot, though it doesn't take very long for Flint to react. He cocks his head, a glint in his eyes.
“Oh, little Alpha, you don't know what you're doing,” he says quietly.
Little alpha, little alpha, little alpha—
“I know exactly what I'm doing,” Harry insists, his hand still stretched out, waiting.
There's a quip in the corner of Flint's mouth and his gaze is amused, almost delighted. Still, he hasn't reached out and Harry, a nervous mess, begins to panic, because what if he miscalculated, what if he's left hanging? Rejected by the one he's only truly ever wanted?
“It's not a promise to anything,” Harry says quickly and it comes out just as nervously as he feels, “we can just dance, if you want to—”
His rambling is interrupted by Flint's heavy hand in his; it's warm and all encompassing, the grip confident.
“Well?” Flint says as he's slowly peeling himself away from the wall and further into the room, closer to Harry, “I'll do you the honor, Alpha Potter, but you have to work for it, yeah?”
“I—” For a moment, Harry’s caught off guard. Then, finally, his brain catches up to speed. “Yeah, yes! Of course, anything you want.”
He leads Flint towards the middle of the room, the dancefloor, where all the couples are slowly gathering. He's sharply aware of the people staring, pointing and mumbling; what's happening right now, what they're doing, is a scandal in the making, headlines writing themselves. Harry can't seem to mind. He only has eyes for the tall Omega in front of him.
“Anything I want, hm?” Flint comments. “A dangerous promise, little Alpha.”
Harry shakes his head. “Not at all. Not when I– not when I finally know what I want.”
Somewhere in the background the announcer is yelling for everyone to get ready and after a few beats, the music starts. A classic waltzer. Back in the day, Harry would've hated the idea of dancing to it, painfully embarrassing memories of the Yule Ball at Hogwarts resurfacing, but now he can't believe his luck as he lays his hand on Flint's waist.
“Oh?” The glint in Flint's eyes intensifies into something almost manic, “I see how it is. No one's been quite right for you, yeah? They've been foolishly assuming that you're proud…”
Flint's a surprisingly good dancer, moving just right to make up for Harry's two left feet. The music is loud enough for their quiet conversation to be drowned out and Harry, spellbound, is hanging from Flint's lips. The closeness is killing him, as if a fantasy has sprung into reality.
“...That you're assertive, strong, the perfect Alpha seeking the perfectly submissive Omega, huh?” Flint's words are teasing and Harry— “But you aren't, is that right, Alpha Potter? How long have you been yearning for someone to take control? To put you into place?”
Harry can't help it. He whimpers. It escapes his throat before he can even think about holding it back and Flint's face lights up even more, the dark glee in his eyes practically shining.
“Yeah. I'm right, aren't I?”
“Oh, Morgana,” Harry wrings out, unable to really deny nor confirm, entirely entranced by Marcus Flint.
The Omega leans closer until they're only a breath away; they must look ridiculous, Flint leaning down to Harry and Harry craning up towards him.
“What are you looking for this evening, little Alpha? Rumor has it you're lonely. Looking for a wife.” Flint whispers into Harry's ear and the hairs on Harry's back stand up in an instant.
“No– I, ah… yes. Yes, I've been l-lonely. And yes, frankly I've been hoping to find someone tonight. A partner, though, not a wife! I wouldn't force that role onto anyone!”
“Hm, a shame,” Flint smirks, “I wouldn't mind being a wife.”
“Y-you wouldn't?”
“No,” Flint's gaze on Harry is intense and feels like it's stripping back every layer, every mask Harry's ever tried to hide behind. “Not if I have such a perfect Alpha at home, catering to my every need. You'd do that, wouldn't you? Giving me everything I want?”
“Yes! Yes, of course!” Harry assures. How could he not? Flint's right. Once surrendered, his brain has given up on propriety and non-chalance.
Flint hums. “You need to be sure, though, little Alpha. I won't let you go and I'm not very easy. I won't change for you. You might wake up one day and realize I've grown to be too much for you. We can have some fun, I won't hold it against you if you don't want to go the long way.”
He's giving him an out of Harry's very own unsaid promise, Harry realizes and the way he said it, so very easy, casual and non-offended, he must've done so many times. Though Harry can't picture a world in which Marcus Flint is just a pastime for him, something casual to fall back to. And so he shakes his head.
“You could never be,” he breathes. In the warm light of the ballroom, Flint looks so breathtakingly beautiful that Harry can't take his eyes off of him. Harry's bold, after all; “I want you.”
Flint smiles, grins, shark-like. Just like he always used to.
“Oh, little Alpha,” he says quietly, “I will eat you whole.”
After the dance ends it's not particularly difficult to find the Flint patriarch, Lord Aulus Flint. The Alpha is already there when Harry and Marcus leave the dancefloor, looking as frazzled and stunned as a man in his position and with his status could possibly look.
“Mr. Potter,” he greets as they draw closer, straightening out his doublet at the front and lifting his chin, “Marcus. What is the meaning of this?”
Flint — Marcus — takes after his father, Harry realizes then, the similarities are uncanny as they stand next to each other.
“I apologize, Lord Flint,” Harry says and steps forward, mindful not to let go of Marcus’ hand, “this must be confusing to you. I intend on proposing to your son, Marcus.”
Lord Flint blinks, then looks at Marcus and back at Harry again.
“Really,” he says flatly and it doesn't sound like he quite believes it.
“Yes,” Harry reassures, “I want your son to become my Omega.”
It's then that the message hits home. Lord Flint's dark eyebrows raise far up to his gray hairline and he moves, taking Harry by the shoulder and moving them out of the crowd, towards the exit of the ballroom. The franticness in his eyes is hard to miss.
“Mr. Potter, I cannot begin to tell you how elated I am to hear that! Please, follow me, we'll start discussing the details at once!”
He waves to the servants who open the door immediately; just like that they're out of the hall and in the dark, quiet hallway, voices and music muffled into a background sound. Lord Flint turns towards Harry.
“Mr. Potter, I would be delighted if you would accompany us to our home,” Lord Flint says, hand on Harry's shoulder, “we can talk in peace there.”
“I won't run away, Lord Flint, if that's what you're afraid of,” Harry can't help but say, “but nonetheless I'm thankful for the invitation. I'll have to inform my company that I'm leaving.”
Lord Flint nods. “Of course, Mr. Potter.”
Harry turns to cast a quick patronus to let Ron know that he's leaving the Ball, which Ron hopefully won’t be too upset about. He hears some whispering behind his back, Lord Flint talking to his son — “I don’t know how you managed that, but good job Marcus—”, while Marcus regards his own father with disinterested apathy.
“Well…” Harry says as he slowly approaches.
“Ah, Mr. Potter, if you’re ready I’ll apparate us there.”
Without much hesitation, Harry grabs the offered arm.
Harry talks with Lord Flint in the unbelievably posh family’s owned townhouse until the early morning hours. The man can’t believe his luck, his face bright and enthusiastic during their whole conversation, which apparently seems to be uncharacteristic judging by the wary glance Marcus is casting to his own father; Marcus’ dowry, it turns out, is ridiculously large. Harry knows his way around a little, thoroughly informing himself about marriage contracts, appropriate betrothal time periods, courting and gifts before attending the New Year's Ball. Unfathomably wealthy families like the Flints aren’t stingy with their money, especially when it comes to their Omegas as they’re partially expected to drop some good weight in galleons whenever they marry them off, but it becomes obvious to Harry that Marcus’ dowry has been bait to whoever’s willing to see the money first and the Omega that comes with it second.
Harry almost wants to be mad because of it, but doesn’t see the sense. Lord Flint wants to know his son is in good, wealthy hands and he cares for him, even if it’s in an abstract way. Harry doesn’t care for the money, just eager to sign whatever contract Lord Flint will come up with. It's almost dawn when Harry's setting off, being accompanied to the door by Marcus.
The frosty blue of a new year's morning crawls onto the earth; during all of the excitement of the past evening, Harry's actually missed hour zero. He doesn't mind, breathing in the crisp, cold air, relishing in the early, peaceful hours of a young January.
“I'll see you,” he says quietly to Marcus and his heart feels full to the brim.
“Sure, little Alpha,” Marcus replies and the smile tugging at his lips is fond for once.
For a moment, Harry hesitates. In the past eight hours his life has changed drastically, from being an unoptimistic, lonely bachelor to his inky signature gleaming on the stark, white paper of a betrothal contract. They haven’t even talked much about this, just gone ahead and done it. Harry’s always been someone to go all out, but what about Marcus? The truth is that he didn’t know much about him at all.
“Are you sure about this?” He asks eventually, probing carefully. “We don’t have to do this, if you don’t want to.”
Marcus, standing there with his hands in the pockets of his dark suit trousers, just raises one of his brows. “Are you sure about this?” He shoots back.
“Yes, absolutely! I just— I don’t want you to feel pressured. Like you have no choice.”
To Harry’s surprise, Marcus laughs at that, something smooth and dark, yet melodic to Harry’s ears. “Harry, I’m thirty. No one else would want me.”
“That shouldn’t be the reason—”
“And it isn’t,” Marcus interrupts him before Harry’s dismay could rise any further, letting one of his heavy hands rest on Harry’s head. The weight of it is comfortable, like it’s grounding him. “Be at peace, little Alpha. I’m just where I want to be. You’re not the only one with unusual preferences; all the Alphas I had before were never willing to stay for long, wimps, but not the right kind. You’re perfect. And you actually want me. I'm glad we get to do this, that Lady Magic decided to bring us together.”
Harry swallows, squirms underneath Marcus’ intense gaze, a hot flush running down his back at the even confession he’s just heard. The earnest words comfort him, fill him with a giddy warmth.
“Alright,” he breathes, not knowing what else to say.
Marcus looks at him for a moment, his gaze studying Harry closely before he leans in, hand moving smoothly from Harry’s head to his neck. Harry barely has any time to react before he feels lips on his, surprisingly soft and determined. Eagerly he presses back, letting his hands cup Marcus’ face and it’s not before long he gives in to the Omega’s demand, letting the other’s tongue slip into his mouth. It’s wet and filthy, something for closed doors and not entryways, but Harry can’t help but let his future Omega take what he needs, letting Marcus press him close with the hand on his neck, his certain tongue exploring his mouth. Maybe this is what heaven feels like, Harry thinks, his stomach’s doing excited tumbles as he’s surrendering himself. It’s also Marcus who decides when the kiss ends, pulling away just in time before anyone could consider what they were doing as public indecency.
“Have a good trip back,” Marcus says and it’s a little unfair that he seems so entirely unfazed.
“Yeah,” Harry chokes out, feeling off kilter and high off of this first kiss.
And Marcus just laughs.
“SAVIOR OF THE WIZARDING WORLD HARRY POTTER OFFICIALLY OFF THE MARKET! BOY-WHO-LIVED ENGAGED TO CONTROVERSIAL FLINT OMEGA!
“The public didn't want to believe it at first, but rumors and sightings have now been confirmed in an official statement from the most honorable House Flint! Famed Harry Potter and most eligible Alpha bachelor in all of Britain is now engaged to the second son of the Flint House, Marcus Flint! The two have allegedly met at the Ministry's renowned New Year's Ball and reconnected, as sources say. The coupling is not without criticism; concerned citizens fear that the most honorable Mr. Potter might be under the spell of a love potion! After all it is said that the controversial Flint Omega is not at all how people picture the wife of the savior of the wizarding world. Credible sources say that he possibly suffers from a hormonal imbalance and that his poor attitude has scared away previous suitors… “
“Yeah, that's enough, Ron,” Harry interrupts.
Ron lowers the newspaper, a paparazzi shot of Harry and Marcus out on one of their courting dates on the front page; the Daily Prophet has always been garbage, but the newest article was the peak of journalistic diarrhea.
“Did you not like the different voices I did?” Ron teases drily, but folds the paper together.
Harry shoots him a devastating look, stirring the milk into his tea. “I don't know why they're so invested in my private life.”
“‘Cause you're famous, mate. And they love digging their noses into famous people's lives,” Ron points out.
Harry has invited him for tea in his home, the early spring letting a mild breeze drift through Harry's garden, carrying a warm, floral scent.
“Though you have to admit it's a bit strange, mate. Even I couldn't believe it when I first heard it. How long have you been engaged now?” Ron asks.
“Four months. I signed the contract in January.”
“Merlin's balls, right when you left the ball that night?” Ron emits and sips his tea, “thought you just wanted to get your knot wet, I didn’t even know who you were going home with.”
Harry shrugs. “No, it was a little more serious than that.”
“That’s quick, even you will have to admit. Were the Flints involved in the war at all?”
“Not any quicker than any other engagements between the ‘esteemed elite’”, Harry snarks and couldn’t help his sarcastic bite, though it isn’t particularly directed at Ron, “and no. They fled to Italy before the war began and of course that could be seen as cowardly, but I can’t say that I blame them.”
Ron hums. “When’s the wedding? I need to dig out my best suit.”
“In a month, didn’t you and Hermione get the invitation? You’re supposed to be my best mate.”
“Sure, I don’t know where she put it, though,” Ron admits sheepishly. “Anywho, I need to get back home. See you tonight, mate. I’ll see if I can convince Hermione to come with.”
He leaves not long after and Harry busies himself with cleaning up, his mind reluctantly wandering towards the evening; despite his best attempts to dissuade him, Lord Flint has insisted on hosting an official engagement party and Harry dreads it. All the pureblood families are invited, anyone with name and rank and, on top of everything, it’s a black tie event, which means it’s going to be as stiff and painfully posh as it can be. Harry loathes it already. He always feels so out of place and put on the spot at the same time, but has no other choice but to bear it for Marcus’ sake. It’s the consequence of marrying into such an esteemed family and for Marcus he’d do it ten times over, though it doesn’t mean he’s exactly elated about it. His day has felt off kilter since he’s woken up, which doesn’t promise anything good.
Nonetheless, he arrives on time, helps finish up some last things and spends precious little time with Marcus before guests come filing in. Loads of handshaking, forced polite banter and champagne later and Harry can’t stand it anymore; his head is pounding and he feels watched from every angle, scrutiny bearing down on his being every step he moves. Ron, who arrived without Hermione, as she apparently didn't find someone to take care of their little daughter, was soon entangled in a conversation with Ernie MacMillian he doesn’t seem to be able to shake. Even the Malfoy’s were invited, which Harry resents something fierce, the high raised, studying brow of Lucius Malfoy making his skin itch.
“Are you alright?” Marcus’ been sticking closely to him this entire time, a comforting solace.
“Yeah, I— it’s just a lot—”
“Mr. Potter, Lord Flint!” Their starting conversation is interrupted by a guest.
Lord Sloane Selwyn is the last surviving Selwyn, a Beta man in his late thirties that has mostly been raised in India, — ‘away from all the filth, though’ — as he claims; Harry’s never properly met him, but the stories being told about him and the sharp, superior look on his face makes his headache pound even harder.
“Lord Selwyn,” Marcus greets politely, but Harry just can’t choke it out.
“I apologize for arriving late,” Lord Selwyn says and takes a sip of his champagne, “you know how it is. Terribly busy. Still, I couldn’t possibly miss out on this.”
He laughs and Harry hates it, irritation clawing up his throat and into his mouth before he can stop it, tongue loose from alcohol and headache. “What’s so funny?” He challenges.
Lord Selwyn stops laughing, but a snort still escapes him. “Mr. Potter, you’ll have to forgive me, but this is just very amusing.”
“What is?” Harry presses.
“This entire engagement,” Lord Selwyn grins, “you two are a strange pair, yes? How do you think you’ll make it work? Standing next to each other you look a bit like an erumpent with its goblin owner. Tell me, Mr. Potter, I’m terribly curious, how much did Lord Flint pay you—”
Harry’s about to do something very stupid. Like terribly, consequentially stupid; his body’s nanoseconds away from moving, his mouth heartbeats away from bursting into wrathful tirades, ready to chew that pompous brat small between his teeth and spit him back out. At this moment, Harry doesn’t care that there are dozens of people around him, what this would do to his reputation, what kind of image it would project. His Omega has just been insulted and he has no other choice but to—
A heavy hand suddenly bears down on his neck. Marcus’ hand. It’s large in the way that it encompasses Harry’s neck entirely, glowing with warmth; the pressure’s just right for Harry to pointedly feel it, the squeeze following hurling Harry’s mind back to the here and now. The angry, tumbling thoughts suddenly mute down to a frustrated whisper and the words on the tip of his tongue swallow themselves back down into his stomach. The hand feels like it’s anchoring Harry into the ground and like a statue he stands there, frozen solid.
“I don’t know who raised you, Lord Selwyn,” Marcus says evenly, but there’s a darkness to it that even Lord Selwyn seems to pick up on, the superior grin slowly sliding out of his face, “but should you so blatantly insult me or my intended like this ever again, I will personally make sure you’ll have nothing left to laugh about. You will never attend any of these important social gatherings again, you will fail to receive invitations, your so called friends here will stop contacting you. Business partners will opt out of deals with you and in the end, you will have no choice but to go back to India. This time, I shall refrain from taking action, but I won't be so generous next time. Leave my home, immediately. I revoke my invitation right this moment. Do we understand each other?”
There’s a stunned shutter to Lord Selwyn’s eyes and he swallows. “It– It was just a joke, by Merlin,” he eventually stutters, “well, I see how welcome I am here, Lord Flint. I– I shall take my leave. Good day. Congratulations to your… engagement.”
Lord Selwyn turns and leaves, a certain hurry to his movements and Marcus just watches him go with an unreadable expression on his face. His hand never left Harry’s neck during the entire conversation and even now it’s still there, a reassuring squeeze following the theatrical exit of Lord Selwyn.
Harry knows he should still be angry at the man’s words and he would be in any other situation, Harry Potter's famous temper taking hold, but now all he can feel and think is the heavy weight on his neck.
“Doesn’t it bother you?” Harry asks.
The guests have left some time ago and Flint manor was empty, house elves scurrying around to clean up the mess; it’s past midnight and Harry is exhausted. Lord Flint has excused himself some time ago and so they were alone, the afterglow of a lively event still somehow lingering between the walls.
“What should?” Marcus replies, lounging in one of the fancy, blue satin armchairs in the living room, downing some leftover canapes in one fell swoop.
“What they say about us,” Harry settles on the chair's arm next to Marcus, too depleted to stand any longer, “they were all just… ogling us. Gossiping about what kind of freakish circus attractions we are.”
Marcus is chewing and glancing up at Harry as he talks, eventually rubbing his hands together to free them of breadcrumbs, looking down at his suit trousers to do just the same. “Nah,” he says, muffled into his chest, his head then coming up to look back at Harry, “it doesn’t bother me. Why should it? These people aren’t important to me. What they think about me, us or what we do is more than irrelevant. It’s non-existent to me. The only thing that matters to me is you.”
Harry feels his cheeks heat a little. Marcus is giving out his affections rather freely, Harry found, without much inhibitions. It never fails to make Harry feel flustered, letting a tingle spread in his stomach. He never has to guess with Marcus and his heart likes that a lot.
“I’m glad we did this,” Harry says after a few moments, maybe to reassure Marcus, “I’m glad I decided to ask you to dance.”
Marcus' eyes are on him, a gleam in the blueish-gray that is intense and meaningful, different from the usual amusement Harry sees in them. “You don’t have to tell me twice,” he says and suddenly his strong arms are around Harry’s waist, pulling him down into his lap.
Harry yelps in surprise, finding himself sprawled in Marcus' lap before he knows it, looking up at the Omega; though not for long, as Marcus leans down and places soft kisses on his mouth. Harry laughs at the sudden sensation, but that quickly dies down as he melts into the affection, kissing back pliantly. Marcus keeps it light, not too intense and eventually, he smiles against Harry’s lips.
“I’m going to spoil you, little Alpha,” he says quietly between kisses, letting them travel to Harry’s cheeks, nose and back to his mouth, “you’ll have it so good. You won’t need to worry about anything.”
He's scenting him, Harry realizes and inhales deeply, the pleasant smell of warm, buttery poppy pastries, tea and plums strong this close. It's heaven. He can't help it, Harry just laughs, his hands resting against Marcus’ close chest, acutely aware of the arms still around his waist. “Isn’t it my part to say that?”
Marcus meets Harry’s eyes and the mirth is back, playing from his eyes down to his lips. “And who’s ever decided that?”
The wedding is on a beautiful, sunny day in the full bloom of spring.
Flint manor’s extensive and sprawling gardens are beautifully equipped with white pavilions for shade, two dozens rows of chairs bordering a long, burgundy red carpet and an altar for the ceremony; Harry’s vetoed against a big, fat pureblood wedding in the Ministry and so the compromise was this. Still, three hundred guests romping around in their best robes, laughing, drinking and expectantly waiting for the ceremony to begin has Harry’s heart fluttering in nervousness.
“You good, mate?”
Ron’s with him in the now empty manor’s guest room, the cool bricks luckily preventing Harry from sweating all too much. He can hear the mass of people outside chatting, though it’s muffled.
“Sure, just–” Harry breathes, fixing the bowtie on his robes for what feels like the hundredth time, “just nervous.”
“I feel you, I was a nervous wreck when I married ‘mione,” Ron says and Harry finally decides to stop fussing with the bowtie, “you’re holding up better than I did.”
A soft laugh escapes Harry, though it doesn’t ease his tension. “I don’t feel like it.”
Ron watches him for a few moments and then, softly, asks; “You can always change your mind, you know that, yeah?”
“I know that,” Harry says and smiles, “I would never. I chose this… I chose him. He’s everything I could possibly want. He’s—” he struggles for words, “a dream come true.”
For a moment, both say nothing. Ron’s growing smile to this response is almost teary eyed and so painfully earnest that Harry himself has to swallow; it reminds him a lot of Ron’s wedding to Hermione, where Ron had been so nervous he couldn’t even tie his own shoelaces together. It had been a small, cozy affair with maybe two dozen family and friends invited and Harry still thinks it was the most beautiful wedding there is, the memory of it a warmth in his heart. Well, maybe except for now, his own.
Ron clasps his shoulder, kneading it a little, nodding. This is happening; Harry’s getting married.
Everything after that is a blur of soft, sunny light, white linen in the winds and the breathtaking sight of Marcus in his wedding garments, beautiful in ways Harry can’t even begin to describe. He knows Marcus would’ve never let his father put him in a wedding dress, though the compromise is just as gorgeous, the light gray three piece suit with the stunning tailcoat fitting him like a glove.
He's such a stunning sight, tall and defying, though a gentle mirth in his eyes only meant for Harry. He comes to stand next to him in front of the officiant, gentle spring winds tearing through the dark hair; Harry's transfixed, can barely move his eyes from the stunning man next to him.
When the patient officiant starts — “We've all gathered here today…” — and Harry's stomach does excited tumbles, he knows he's made the right choice.
The first flute of champagne with Ron excitedly flinging an arm around Harry, shaking him with joy, tastes like the sweetest nectar.
The party is still going when Marcus and Harry finally manage to leave, withdrawing into the house under the drunk yowling and whistling of family and friends that still manage to hold out even past midnight. Harry’s a bit tipsy himself as he stumbles up the stairs after Marcus, the Omega shedding his tailcoat on the way.
“You’re so beautiful,” Harry mumbles as they make it to their designated bedroom, Harry letting the door fall shut, “that suit’s so gorgeous on you.”
Marcus smirks at that. “Yeah? Glad you like it.”
He turns to look at himself in the big standing mirror and maybe it’s the liquid courage, but Harry can’t help himself, sneaking his arms around the tight waist. He manages to snuggle close when Marcus twists around and suddenly there’s a strong hand in Harry’s hair, painfully pulling his head up. A surprised whimper escapes Harry’s throat and with no other choice, he looks at Marcus’ face. There it is, that meaningful, twisted smirk that haunts Harry’s dreams.
“Did I allow you to touch me, little alpha?”
Marcus' voice is quiet, yet it still carries through the room with ease. A shudder runs down Harry’s back and his heart, not knowing if to be afraid or excited, does a helpless tumble. Like a locomotive engine, it starts beating faster as if on command.
“I— n-no,” Harry stutters and reluctantly lets his arms fall off of Marcus’ waist. The hand twisting in his hair, however, does not.
“That’s right,” Marcus says, “you’ll have to earn this, yeah?”
For a moment, Marcus just looks at him, gaze wandering up and down as if eyeing a good piece of meat. The smile slips off his face. “Strip. Then settle on the bed.”
Harry almost trips over himself to follow the stern command, tearing his jacket and bow tie off, almost ripping the buttons off of the good, expensive dress shirt he’s bought for the wedding. With shaking hands he undoes his belt, slips out of his shoes and trousers and undershirt until only his boxer briefs are left. For a moment, he hesitates; Marcus has never seen him like this. Sure, clothes give an impression on how someone might look underneath, but the real thing often still differs from expectations. What if he’s disappointed with Harry’s scrawny figure? The size of his dick? It isn’t small by any means, but doubt still claws at Harry’s throat.
“What?” Marcus asks. He’s been standing there, watching Harry with folded arms. “I said ‘strip’, little Alpha. That means everything.”
“Y-yes, sir!”
It’s more reflex than anything, maybe caused by Marcus’ sharp, commanding tone, but the ‘sir’ slips out nonetheless. Harry feels himself flush in mortification as he dares to look at Marcus, his heart doing what feels like ninety miles an hour. Marcus, however, just tilts his head.
“Finally you manage to address me properly, good job,” he says drily, “now do as I say. You want my pussy, yeah? Work for it or I’ll leave you wanting, runt."
It does what it’s supposed to. Harry practically rips his boxer briefs off and scrambles onto bed, pressing his head into the pillows. It’s only then Marcus moves, slowly crawling onto bed and closer to Harry, who tries his very best to keep his hands at his sides. Blood is rushing in Harry’s ears and he can already feel his dick being very interested in what’s happening, twitching despite still being soft.
Marcus, as sharp as he is, notices and hums, a sly smile crawling back into his face. He’s pretty at any given time to Harry, but like this, in the dim light of a bedroom, he’s like a siren - successfully - pulling Harry into the ocean's depths.
“He wants to play, I see,” Marcus mutters, “but he’ll have to wait. I want to have my fun first and then we’ll see how generous I feel. You’re not allowed to touch me, little Alpha, no matter what I do. Do you understand?”
Harry swallows against the thick lump in his throat. This is a test. A test on how good Harry can be for his Omega. “Yes, sir,” he whispers back.
“Good.”
He begins slowly, kissing Harry’s lower lip and Harry chases the mouth before thinking better of it. “Ah, ah,” Marcus chastises and moves on to Harry’s jaw, trailing it with steady, certain kisses until he arrives at Harry’s ear. He bites the earlobe and Harry, surprised, can’t help the little noise that escapes him; his fingers bury themselves into the duvet, soft fabric digging into his palms.
“You don’t know how long I've been wanting to do this, little alpha,” Marcus whispers into Harry’s ear, hot breath tickling on Harry’s auricle. “I always loved my alphas small and pathetic, which is so unfortunate because there are so few of them. I was getting rather desperate.”
Harry feels Marcus’ hand land on his thigh, large, warm, squeezing just a little before caressing up and down; Harry breathes in, shifting in his position ever so slightly.
“And then I saw you again, at the ball,” Marcus continues undeterred, his large frame cornering Harry even further, “and I couldn’t believe my eyes. I’ve forgotten about you, little alpha, but imagine my delight when I saw you’d barely grown an inch. Perfectly lovely, perfectly small.”
The hand moves up further, moving to the inner thigh and a tingle spreads in Harry, starting from his face and sinking right down to his lower abdomen. Harry feels his cock twitch again and with a hand so close to it, there’s barely any chance he can keep it together for long. He whimpers.
“You were always so angry, such a fire in your eyes. Back then I thought it was adorable, it was always such fun to tease you,” pressing even closer, Harry could feel the soft fabric of Marcus’ suit on his skin, but to his desperation the Omega makes a conscious effort not to accidentally touch his dick. “The fire’s still there, I see it. I want it.”
Marcus’ hand wanders further up Harry’s inner thigh, but before it arrives at Harry’s growing dick, it smoothly glides past it to his stomach, squeezing his waist before caressing his hard earned abs.
“I want that fire so that I can tame it. I want to own it. Own you.”
Harry can’t bear it, moves against the feeling of the hot palm against his stomach. It's vulnerable, raw and Harry feels terribly exposed, much further than his named state.
“Please,” he whispers, starting to feel a little lightheaded.
Marcus moves back a little, looking at Harry with a devilish smirk. “Aw, you’re begging already? I barely started, little alpha. Are you that desperate? Haven’t fucked in a long time, hm?”
He says it all with the all familiar glint in his eyes, the smile not moving an inch from his face; he enjoys this a lot, Harry realizes and feels a little bit like crying, the words hitting home in the worst and best kind of way possible.
“ ‘m sorry, sir,” he says and it comes out whiny, “I just want you so much.”
“Aren’t you adorable? You’d do anything I say, wouldn’t you?” The Omega asks sweetly almost, but it’s put on, mocking.
It’s the truth, the very truth and Harry squirms, the heavy hand still pressing against his stomach, thumb stroking up and down and just barely reaching the happy trail on his lower abdomen; it’s maddening, lightning shooting through Harry’s body and making the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
“Y-yeah,” he whimpers, “I would, sir.”
Marcus hums and says nothing at first, looking Harry up and down. “You really want me to touch your pretty, little cock, don’t you?”
“It’s not little,” Harry protests before he could hold himself back.
“No?”
Marcus' hand moves to his dick and it makes Harry groan in surprise; it circumvents his cock with ease and with such a tight grip that it’s just short of painful. The sensation is overwhelming and the tingle in Harry’s abdomen goes wild, making him feel dizzy. “It isn't? Look how cutely it fits in my hand,” the Omega says, pulling a little and Harry cries out, “it’s like it’s made for me. Do you think this will satisfy me well?”
Harry’s hands claw into the duvet, cock hard as a rock now under Marcus’ attention and he’s breathing faster, feeling off his rocks, tension boiling underneath his skin. “It will, I swear it will!”
“Yeah? I really want to believe you, little alpha, but I haven’t been able to give it a closer look. But it feels good in my hand, yeah?”
The hand around Harry’s cock starts to move rhythmically now, though achingly slowly and Harry moans in frustration, bucking against it in an attempt for it to move faster.
“Stop,” the Omega suddenly says sternly and stops moving his hand.
Harry whimpers at the loss of sensation and forces himself to sit still. “I do this my way, you little runt. You’ll get your treat afterwards, if you’re being good. If you continue being like this I’ll take care of myself and leave you here like this.”
The sharp tone feels like a needle piercing Harry right between his eyes.
“Oh, Morgana,” he breathes, feeling his dick twitch in the Omega's hands and squeezing his eyes shut.
“Do you understand?” Marcus bites and Harry twitches, ripping his eyes open. The Omega’s gaze is intense and sharp and it’s peeling every layer of Harry away with ease.
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, I’ll be good!”
“I sure hope so, I’d be terribly disappointed if you couldn’t even follow this little demand of mine. I know you can be good, little alpha,” he says and moves his hand again, the thumb teasing Harry’s cockhead.
The feeling of it drives Harry mad, he’s so terribly sensitive in his tip and it feels like Marcus has seen right through him. The hand starts moving faster, now finally finding a fast rhythm; Harry is unable to hold the noises back that leave his throat, high pitched and foreign even to his own ears.
“Yeah, that’s right, moan for me, that’s a good alpha,” Marcus mutters and Harry barely hears it, opening his eyes to see the Omega hovering over him, gaze bright and intense.
The tingly sensation in Harry’s lower abdomen comes quickly and rises fast, his balls tightening; Harry grips the duvet, having sunken down further during this whole procedure.
“S-sir, please, I’m g-going to cum— ahh,” he manages to say, because it feels right.
“Hm,” Marcus hums, “good alpha, telling me is the right thing to do.”
And then, to Harry’s horror, he’s taking his hand away. A desperate noise escapes Harry’s throat and he feels headless, reeling in the feeling of an orgasm he’s just been denied. Hasn’t he done everything his Omega wanted from him? Frantically, he lifts himself up on his elbows.
“Sir—”
“Oh, be patient,” Marcus scolds, as he slides off the bed, starting to casually undo the buttons of his waistcoat, shedding it. “You’ll get your reward, yeah? This is the last test; I’m going to get ready and you’ll keep your pretty cock hard for me. I want to ride it.”
Harry swallows thickly. “A- am I allowed to touch it?”
“No.”
It’s torture to watch Marcus undress. While he’s not doing it achingly slowly, he’s not particularly hurrying either; he’s unbuttoning the dress shirt and sheds it with the undershirt, kicks his shoes off, undoes his belt and steps out of his suit trousers. Finally, finally, he pulls his dark briefs down. And Harry feels hypnotized.
It turns out that keeping his erection wasn’t really that much of a challenge, the eroticism of seeing his Omega strip in front of him alluring in of itself, but seeing his dick for the first time has him feeling almost drunk. Marcus’ cock is sizable for an Omega, probably putting a lot of Alphas to shame with its size; he’s hard, the cock standing proudly in the nest of dark pubic hair that climbs up to the Omega’s stomach in the form of a happy trail. It’s official; Marcus is so undeniably beautiful everywhere that it sends a shiver down Harry’s spine. Once again he claws into the bedding as he slowly watches his husband draw closer.
“You’re liking what you see, don’t you, little Alpha?” Marcus says quietly, lop-sided smirk accompanying it.
“Uh-huh,” Harry replies a little dumbly.
Marcus climbs on the bed again, crawling up to Harry until he’s hovering right over his dick. Harry can’t help himself, reaching out to touch the Omega’s hairy thighs, but of course his hands get smacked away.
“I say when you’re allowed to touch me,” Marcus drawls, “first I wanna see how this cock and knot can satisfy me. I’m quite excited, actually. The sight of you alone—”
He takes Harry’s right hand and leads it underneath him. “Feel it, little Alpha.”
Harry does; Marcus’s pussy is hot and so wet it’s almost dripping. Harry would love nothing more than to sink his fingers in, his heart beating so fast it makes him feel dizzy, but knows Marcus wouldn’t allow it. He pulls his hand away.
“You feel amazing,” he breathes, looking up to Marcus.
In response Marcus just hums and sinks down.
Harry feels the tip of his cock dip in the tight heat and he groans, squeezing his eyes shut at the tingly, overstimulating sensation building. Though as he does, quickly there’s a hand gripping his chin and he opens his eyes again at the silent command.
Marcus' gaze is so intense Harry doesn’t know what to do with himself; it’s so sharp his instincts want to look away, subvert his eyes to appease him, yet at the same time he can’t, so utterly spellbound by the Omega above him.
“You’re gonna look at me when we do this, understand?” Marcus says.
Harry is quick to nod, though he has to drag the words out of himself. “Yes, sir.”
“Good Alpha.”
At that, Marcus sinks down fully and Harry almost chokes on the myriad of sensations running through his body, breathing in sharply, the wheeze sounding loudly in the room despite the noise of the ongoing party outside in the gardens. His cock has never felt this good, no matter whom he’s had sex with; Marcus is tight and hot and if he ever so desired, Harry could come right here and now. But he knows he has to hold out, blearily looking at his Omega and clenching his teeth in an attempt to keep it together.
“Feels nice, yeah?” Marcus comments smugly and begins rolling his hips, rubbing his clit over Harry’s knot. A satisfied moan escapes the Omega.
“Oh, Merlin,” Harry breathes, his knot being stimulated sending sparks down his spine.
Marcus leans forward a little, letting his hand glide over Harry’s toned stomach. “Love how you moan and shake for me, little Alpha,” he whispers heatedly, “you want to fill my pussy with your hot cum, yeah? I think I really want that, too.”
Slowly he lifts himself up, just a little, and down again, grinding on Harry’s cock with his cunt. It’s driving Harry mad, hands wound in the sheets so tight they’re starting to hurt.
“You—ah, god, y-you want tha’, too?” Harry parrots, watching as the Omega’s cheeks start to get a little rosy.
“Oh yeah,” Marcus replies, pleasure now obvious in the thickness of his voice, “the more I think about it, the more I want it. Want your cum to coat– ah— coat my insides, want to breed me stupid. Knock me up good. You said on one of our dates that you wished for kids…”
Marcus straightens himself again, now putting some energy into it, bouncing on Harry’s cock in earnest. The bed is creaking and ramming against the wall in his effort; his eyes close for a moment as he moans and Harry holds on to dear life.
“The way your cock feels in my pussy I say— I say be careful what you wish for, ngh, little Alpha. Might give you a dozen.”
“Marcus,” Harry moans, can’t possibly get out more.
Marcus bites his lip, heated gaze watching Harry and for a moment it looks like he’s thinking, despite his obvious lust. “Whenever I do something you don’t want,” he suddenly says, “you pinch my thigh, yeah?”
Harry’s a little confused, so far Marcus has never asked this and sure, he’s been out there with his attitude in the bedroom, but Harry’s been very enthusiastically on board for everything. Despite this it seems like it’s important for Marcus that Harry knows this and so Harry nods, managing to reply; “Y-yeah.”
“Good little Alpha,” Marcus mutters and leans forward again, his hand once again traveling over Harry’s stomach, passing his chest and up to his throat. It circles it, resting there on Harry’s throat and for some strange reason it feels like it belongs there.
“Morgana, I want to eat you alive,” Marcus whispers and intensifies his speed. Harry gasps and in that moment, Marcus' hand begins to squeeze.
Stronger and stronger the hand closes around Harry’s throat and soon it becomes very clear what it is that Marcus intends. He can’t help it; Harry's first instinct is to panic. His breathing becomes flat and exasperated, Marcus has a powerful grip that’s not letting up and the air that’s actually reaching Harry’s lungs is short. From one moment to another, Harry’s world zeros in on this; the warm hand on his throat, skin on skin, the fingers seeming almost all encompassing, like the strong, callused hand is his whole world… and his cock in the Omega’s tight pussy.
Harry can’t think, the world going a bit fuzzy, his brain buzzing in a strange, oddly comforting warmth like his mind was being wrapped up in a tight blanket. He knows he should be bucking against the grip and his hindbrain really wants to, but then he’d be disobeying his Omega, would he not? Through the gooey, tingly comfort that killed every rational thought he could see it, the wide eyed, gleaming gaze of Marcus above him.
“Yeah, feels good, yeah? Look at — ngh — look at you, all b-blissed out,” Marcus rambles
He was riding Harry’d dick like his entire life depended on it, looking at Harry like he was some shining, brilliant prize and Harry knew neither up nor down, his world going hazy as he watched his cock rhymically impaling the Omega, his Omega, the sensation shooting sharp lightning from his balls up his entire stomach and he couldn’t, Harry just couldn’t, he was starting to black out.
“Oh—”
His Omega is moaning, moaning in ecstasy, throwing his head back. Harry’s close, so damn close and he wants to hold it together, he really does, but if this goes on like that— if Marcus keeps squeezing, keeps riding his cock like that—
“Ah, H-harry, ah—”
Harry doesn’t know how he does it, his world starting to dim, but he reaches out, grabs Marcus hard dick that’s already leaking plenty of precum and starts to jerk it off as best as he can.
What escapes Marcus is nothing short of a yowl, a yell of pleasure so uninhibited it echoes through the whole room with ease; he comes violently, burying himself so deep on Harry’s cock his knot just– slips in. His tight grip around Harry’s neck loosens and suddenly there’s oxygen rushing it and it feels like a high unlike anything Harry's felt before. Nothing could’ve stopped Harry from coming then, not willpower, nor spells, not even Voldemort himself. A wave of indescribable pleasure crashes over Harry, the sensations on his cock and knot so stimulating it’s almost too much and within the beat of a second, his knot inflates, locking them in place and he comes so hard Harry thinks he might be seeing the afterlife.
Marcus is slumped over, breathing hard, his skin glistening with sweat; Harry feels how his own cock is pulsating in the Omega’s hot insides, pumping cum into him like it’s the last thing his best piece is going to be doing. Harry feels crazy, like a safety fuse has burst and still, he can’t help but ask for permission, like the good, submissive Alpha he is.
“Please–” he breathes and he can barely speak, his voice rough and raw, “please, Sir, Omega, please. Please, let me bite you, I promise I– I can be g-good for you, please, please…”
Marcus lifts his head, sweat-wet raven hair sticking to his glistening forehead. At first he just looks exhausted, but then he smirks provocatively, surely, like one of those boxers that knows they’ve just scored a win.
“Oh yeah,” he says with labored breath, “I’d be mad if you wouldn’t.”
With that, he tilted his head to the side, exposing his neck. His mating gland. Untouched, pristine.
“Go on, bite. Be a good, little Alpha.”
Harry’s fangs are out before he can even consciously think about it and a blink later he’s buried in Marcus’ neck, the metallic taste of blood on his tongue, his own pheromones going wild. His cock and knot; in Marcus. His teeth; in Marcus. The mating gland locking them in forever. His breathing is labored around the flesh in his mouth.
No one can blame him, really. Harry blacks out.
When Harry comes to it feels like he’s been hit by a bus.
Utterly spent and exhausted he’s laying on the large bed, all fours spread in the crumbled sheets and it takes him a few good moments to realize where he even is. His gaze first lands on his poor, limp dick and deflated knot that, after so many years of inhibition, now have felt like they exploded from coming alone; the aftershocks of the orgasm still run through his body, letting his hips twitch in a phantom sensation. It’s then he feels it, the sharp, biting pain on his neck and the soft kitten licks someone’s giving him.
A strong arm is slung around his waist; Harry blinks blearily and moves his head to the side, his nose landing in a head of dark hair.
“Hmbrr?” It escapes him and he’s unsure of what it was he even tried to say in the first place.
“With me again, little Alpha?” Marcus has stopped licking Harry’s neck, grinning into his face like a Cheshire cat.
“How long was I out?” Harry mumbles.
“Not long,” Marcus responds casually, “maybe five minutes.”
Harry hums and tries to sort his thoughts, the feelings he feels and it takes a while, his brain so comfortably fuzzy, like it’s wrapped in cotton.
“Did y’ bite me?” He finally slurs, putting two and two together and Marcus hums in confirmation, almost reverently kissing Harry’s mating bite.
“Kinda wanted to be awake for it,” Harry sighs, but can’t really be mad about it.
Marcus pushes himself up to properly look at him and honest to Merlin pouts. “I’m sorry, little Alpha. You were just so cute with your eyes all rolled back like that. I couldn’t resist.”
He uses the chance and captures Harry’s lips in a kiss; it isn’t as hungry as Harry knows Marcus’ kisses to be, instead it’s careful, deliberate, dedicated. “You did so good, little Alpha,” he praises, “Harry. You’re everything I ever wanted. You’re a dream come true. How did I get this lucky?”
And Harry can’t help it, giddy feeling spreading warmth in his stomach at those words, he giggles against Marcus' precious kisses, pressing back eagerly.
“I could say the very same.”