And then there was a war.
It lasted far too long and a lot of people died and there were times when Harry wasn't even sure he was going to make it out the other side in one piece, but he did. He defeated Voldemort, fulfilled the prophecy, and became the savior of the wizarding world again (which, frankly, was starting to get a bit old hat).
Picking up the pieces after all that death and darkness was one of the hardest things Harry ever had to do. It didn't help that so many of the people he'd come to know and love were gone, and that even with Voldemort dead, the government and society in general were still in shambles.
Harry knew that he had a lot to look forward to now that it was over, or at least that's what everyone kept implying via raised eyebrows, knowing grins, and playful nudges to the ribs. He knew what they were expecting. He was the hero, after all; he'd saved the day, and all that was left to do was ride off into the sunset with Ginny Weasley and start the rest of his life.
So it was pretty inconvenient that Harry couldn't stop thinking about Draco Malfoy.
It would have been more accurate to say that he'd never really stopped thinking about him, even though he hadn't seen him once after becoming his Secret-Keeper and hiding him and his mother away to ride out the rest of the war. Draco Malfoy dominated every dream Harry'd had while on the run from Voldemort's corrupt government. He was the first thing on his mind when Harry woke up and his last conscious thought before he fell asleep at night. When Harry had walked into the Forbidden Forest to accept the Dark Lord's killing curse, his final thoughts were that he would never see Malfoy again.
And during the war, it was fine – or at least, it was tolerable. There was never any time to think too deeply of these things, not when you were Undesirable No. 1 and an entire government was hunting you down. But the war was over now, and no matter how much he tried, he couldn't get the git out of his head.
Worst of all, Ginny noticed almost immediately that something was wrong. After the Battle of Hogwarts she'd thrown herself into Harry's arms and confessed that her affections had never waned, and they had agreed to be together, because really Ginny was everything Harry wanted, or at least she should have been. Unfortunately, she was also a lot smarter than Harry.
"It's happening again."
Her voice was gentle, breathless, but it made him flinch. He opened his eyes.
Ginny was over him, straddling him, her hands on her chest and her breasts and stomach covered in a thin sheen of sweat. She looked lovely on his cock, her face flushed with exertion and her ginger hair a mess of tangles, and it should have been a much more arousing sight than it was.
"Harry," she whispered, "you've got to leave it behind."
Ginny had assumed, not entirely incorrectly, that every time this happened, it was because the still-fresh memories of the war were eating away at him. Harry didn't have the heart to tell her that it was also because, as nice as it felt to be inside her and as gorgeous and lovely as she was, he could not stop comparing her to Malfoy, and thinking about how much he would rather be fucking him instead of her.
It wasn't a fair comparison, and Harry knew it. Malfoy was an omega, and sex with him would always be better just by sheer force of biology. The only way he could ever successfully reach climax with her was when he thought about Malfoy, and that always felt dishonest and duplicitous.
"Sorry, Gin," he said, and she sighed and slipped off him. "It's not that easy."
"I know it isn't," she answered, "but it's been six months."
Six months and their bedroom at 12 Grimmauld Place was still being unpacked. Six months and Harry still couldn't be with his girlfriend in any meaningful way. Six months and he still couldn't stop thinking about Draco Malfoy.
What the hell was wrong with him?
"Harry, I think that you need to sort yourself out. Before we go any further with this, I mean."
Harry rubbed his knuckles into his eyes.
"You can't expect to be in a real relationship with anyone when you're still so…"
"Incomplete," Harry supplied at once.
He heard Ginny sigh. "Incomplete," she agreed. He felt the bed shift as she lied down next to him and put a comforting hand on his chest. "You're incomplete, Harry. There's a piece of you still missing and you have to find it before you can really move on."
Harry thought of Malfoy and felt a sharp tug of pain that went right to the core of him. He felt it every time he thought about Malfoy too much.
"I want to be with you," she continued, rolling off the bed and rising to her feet to start gathering her discarded clothes, "but I just can't, not like this. It's not fair to either of us."
"It wasn't supposed to be this way," Harry said, despite his better judgment. "It was supposed to work out. You and me, Ron and Hermione. It was supposed to be simple and perfect and easy."
Ginny fastened her bra and frowned at him sadly.
"Harry," she said, "nothing in this life worth having comes easy."
He rolled his head to one side and looked at her. She was so pretty, with her pale, freckled skin and her long red hair. Harry desperately wished that he could want her more than he did, that she could be more to him than just Not Malfoy. If nothing else, she deserved it.
"Promise me that you won't hang your happiness on me," he said. "Promise that you won't just sit around and wait."
She smiled, bent down, and gave him a benedictory kiss on his forehead, just to the left of his scar.
"When have I ever been so simple?"
Harry laughed. He put on his dressing gown, walked her to the fireplace, and hugged her before she Floo'd back to the Burrow. He stood for a while, staring at the yellow-orange flames and thinking about everything.
Then he knelt down and made a fire-call. It took a few moments before anyone answered.
"This is Shacklebolt."
"Shacklebolt, hi. It's Harry."
"Harry Potter! You're up late."
"You're one to talk, you answered a fire-call at midnight."
There was a raspy laugh. "I'm a workaholic, what's your excuse?"
"Couldn't sleep." It wasn't entirely false. Harry hadn't gotten a real night's sleep since before the war. "Do you have a minute?"
"Of course. What's on your mind?"
"Do you know what happened to the Malfoys? After Voldemort's death, I mean."
"Not much," he admitted. "They left the unplottable house you set them up in. I'm sure they went back to England, since their name was cleared. I know Malfoy Senior took up his old position on the board of governors… and I think his son recently got engaged."
There was a very powerful clench of jealousy so strong that it made Harry's entire body jolt. "Engaged?"
"Yeah. Couldn't tell you who to, though."
Harry was furious. Furious, astonished, and impossibly, cripplingly jealous. Who in the hell was engaged to Malfoy? What right did they have to him?
"Harry, are you all right? You're breathing heavily."
He was, too. And his hands were trembling almost uncontrollably. The surge of sheer, overwhelming emotion astonished Harry, but not enough to downplay any of the jealousy or anger.
"I'm fine," Harry said, willing his voice to be calm.
"All right," Shacklebolt answered doubtfully. "Why do you ask?"
Because I'm incomplete, Harry wanted to say, but didn't. He didn't know if Malfoy was the missing piece that was keeping him from moving on, but every instinct in his body was saying that he was. He'd been trying for six months after the war – and a year during – trying to convince himself out of caring that Malfoy consumed so many of his waking thoughts, and it had gotten him here: Ginny was gone, he screamed in his sleep, and he felt nothing like the hero everyone thought he was.
He should have found him as soon as he could, Harry's mind chided him. He should have gone right from Hogwarts to that little house on the northern coast of France and taken Malfoy away and—
—and what? What did he want from Malfoy?
Everything, Harry's mind responded at once.
That wasn't really an answer, despite how much it felt like one.
Harry didn't know what he wanted from Malfoy, but he did know that Malfoy being engaged was awful and completely unacceptable.
"Harry?"
"Uh, sorry. Nothing. I mean – thanks, Shacklebolt. I have to go, though."
"Are you sure you're all right?"
"I'm fine. Give my love to your wife, won't you?"
"I will. Take care, Harry." He really sounded like he meant it. Shacklebolt always did.
Harry ended the fire-call and sat back on his haunches, raking his hands through his hair.
Harry knew, in a very irrefutable and rational way, that he did not have any real claim to Malfoy. Despite all the things they'd said those two nights they spent together (all of it fuelled by instinct and hormones, Harry was sure), Malfoy was his own person. The fact that he was an omega and Harry was an alpha meant nothing tenable.
So why was every instinct in him screaming to go find him again? And why did he want to rip this fiancé of his to bloody pieces?
Traditionally, a match between an alpha and an omega was comprised of three parts:
First, there was the presentation. The parents of the omega met with the alpha and introduced them to one another. This was almost entirely a formality. All matters of money and inheritance were worked out beforehand, the contract drafted but left unsigned. It wasn't until the alpha first saw the omega, first smelled them, that any money would change hands.
Second, there was the wedding. There were a handful of customs that set an alpha-omega wedding apart from others, but they were mostly small and inconsequential. The primary features remained the same: family from both sides would come together, vows and rings were exchanged, and there would be a celebration afterwards.
Third and finally, there was the pledging, and after surviving (and hating) the first two parts, Draco decided that the pledging was the worst of the three.
"Dolohov is a good match for you, Draco," his father said, and he looked so clean and handsome and impressive in his formal wedding robes that you never would have known he spent over a year in Azkaban. "Good blood, good money, good standing."
Draco was sitting at the foot of the bed in the master bedroom of Snowbird Manor. That wasn't its real name, of course (its real name was in Russian and utterly unpronounceable), but he'd been told that Snowbird Manor was the closest translation. It was named for the signet animal of House Dolohov, and it was the oldest building in the city (the name of which was also completely unpronounceable). With its marble floors and gilded chandeliers and exquisite antique furniture, it was the most beautiful prison Draco had ever been in.
As was tradition, Draco was wearing robes of black and silver, the colors of House Malfoy. He had been recently and thoroughly washed, and the smell of the jasmine soap still hadn't faded from his skin. He was saying goodbye to his father, before saying goodbye to his mother, before his new husband came to strip him of his robes (or more symbolically, his old house), and claim him.
"It's beneficial on both sides," Father continued, idly studying the painting of a snowy forest on the wall. "It will help to elevate House Malfoy's standing, and House Dolohov will finally have their next generation of heirs."
As he often had, Draco considered telling him that he had bonded to Harry Potter. He knew that it wouldn't – couldn't – really change anything, but the same part of him that had never been able to look away from a natural disaster wanted to tell him anyway, just to see how his father might react.
At long last, Father looked away from the painting and regarded Draco. For the barest instance, Draco saw what might have been regret on his face. Father had been so quick to sell him off the moment Draco came of age, so quick to disinherit him, and the regret struck Draco as odd. Odd, but worthless.
"You will be—" he hesitated a moment, "—comfortable."
Comfortable. Not happy, not fulfilled – comfortable. Draco decided at that moment that "comfortable" was the worst word in the English language.
"You will be comfortable," he said again. "Be sure to answer your mother's owls. You know how she worries. We'll see you at Christmas, Draco."
And then he left. Draco stared at the door in silence until it opened again and his mother came in.
Her face had none of Father's composure. Ever since the wedding the day before, she'd been a sobbing, shuddering mess. Draco wasn't sure what exactly it was that was making her into such a wreck – happiness? Sadness? Guilt?
"Draco," she said, and she flew to his side and embraced him tightly. After a moment, he returned the embrace. "Oh, my sweet, sweet boy."
It was nice to be in his mother's arms, even if it brought him no comfort. Draco had long since passed the point where anything could comfort him about his situation.
"I know how bleak this seems," she said into his ear as the embrace continued. "I've been where you are. It all seems so terribly daunting."
Draco hugged her tighter. She wasn't wrong.
"I know you're bonded to – to another—" (by month eight, when Draco started sobbing at night for no other reason than he missed Potter so much, she stopped using his name) "—but perhaps this is what you need. Perhaps you can bond to Antonin, and begin to move on."
Draco didn't know if that was possible, though in fairness, no one did. These things simply weren't known, not anymore. And in between everything else, after bonding to someone he'd spent six years despising and a year-and-a-half of crippling depression from not being around him, Draco was just tired, so tired. He didn't know what he wanted, but he knew it wasn't this.
"You must take a leap of faith, darling. You remember the song your grandmother used to sing you about a leap of faith, don't you?"
He did, but he wanted to hear her sing it, so he stayed silent.
"Turn your back so all you'll see is sky," she sang into his ear. "Drop from the edge and fall, and for a moment, you will fly, you will fly. Fall, and for a moment, you will fly."
Draco was falling, he knew, but it felt nothing like flying.
They stayed as they were for a while, silent because there was nothing left to say, reluctant to let go because all that could follow was the rest of their lives.
When she left, tears were streaming down her face. She kissed his cheek and told him to be strong, and then left.
And then Draco was alone, waiting for his husband.
He arrived in short order, so quietly that Draco didn't even notice until he heard the sound of robes rustling.
When Draco turned, he was standing by the door, idly pulling off the outer layer of his robes. Antonin Dolohov was a tremendously tall man – nearly two meters – but quite slender. The inky blackness of his hair was matched only by his eyes, which were utterly abyssal. Though he was nearly thirty years older than Draco, he was not unattractive. It was not so much his appearance as the cold, businesslike countenance that repelled Draco.
"When was your last estrus?" he asked, rather than offering any sort of greeting. He spoke with a throaty Russian lilt, one that Draco still wasn't quite used to. He'd have to learn Russian, he supposed.
"It passed before the wedding," Draco answered mechanically.
Dolohov nodded. "Stop taking your suppressants," he said. "It is for the best if you're pregnant sooner rather than later."
Draco did his best to pretend as if the idea didn't make him nauseous.
"Stand up," he said, and Draco stood. Dolohov draped his outer robe over the chair near the door and crossed the room to stand in front of him.
He was close enough now that Draco could smell him. The scent was there – strong, heady, thick, distinctly and undeniably alpha – and Draco's body thrummed in response to it, though he wished it wouldn't. It was alpha, but it wasn't Potter, it wasn't what Draco wanted, not really. It made him feel treacherous.
"If nothing else, the Malfoys certainly do come from good stock," he said, reaching out and grabbing Draco's chin to tilt his head up and study his face in the light. "Good bone structure, healthy – and very fertile, according to the diagnostic spells. A healthy omega is a rare find these days – let alone one so pretty."
Draco knew that his assessment wasn't meant to be a compliment. He wasn't trying to flatter Draco, he was just making an observation, in the same way he'd remark on the weather.
Carefully, clinically, Dolohov reached down and undid the small silver clasps on Draco's robes, one by one.
"I should think I'd require at least three heirs, though it is a custom of my house to have five or more."
Fucking Merlin, five?
"You seem nervous."
"I am," Draco responded. He saw little point in lying to his husband.
Dolohov arched an eyebrow at him. He finished with the clasps and pushed off the robe – as was custom, Draco wore nothing underneath, and he shivered from the sudden flush of cold air on his skin.
"You have nothing to be nervous about," he said. "You will carry inside you future dukes and duchesses."
That he thought this fact would comfort Draco spoke volumes, but Draco said nothing. Abruptly, Dolohov grabbed Draco around the waist and picked him up, ignoring Draco's yelp of surprise and sweeping him over to a handsome mahogany desk against the wall and placing him on top of it. The wood was smooth on Draco's back.
Neatly, Dolohov spread open Draco's thighs and made a vague noise of approval at what he saw. Without preamble he pushed one long, thin finger into Draco, which sent his whole body jerking. He wasn't slick yet, but he was getting there – Dolohov's mere presence was helping it along.
Dolohov started fucking Draco with the finger in slow, thorough, languid movements, and warmth spread through Draco's body almost as fast as the sense of betrayal. He was shuddering and panting, but when he started to writhe on the desk, Dolohov put one hand on Draco's shoulder and held him down firmly.
I could hold you against the wall and fuck you with my fingers. How does that sound?
Merlin, it felt like so long ago, but Potter's words were still ringing in his head with perfect clarity. Maybe if he shut his eyes…
Get you so wet that you ruin all your lovely tailored robes…
A second finger joined the first and Draco keened, lifting his hips in a silent plea for more, faster, deeper. If he shut his eyes, it was Potter: Potter pressing him into the wall, Potter fucking him with his fingers, Potter getting him wet and ruining his robes.
Keep going until you're shaking and coming around my hand…
"Yes," Draco hissed. "Oh, Merlin, yes."
A third finger pushed into him and Draco whined. Potter's hands were so hot inside him, and they were in all the right places, knowing just where to go.
"Please," Draco begged, "please, more."
"Look at me."
Reluctantly, Draco opened his eyes. The illusion shattered; it wasn't Potter.
Dolohov was staring down at him, hungry-looking and feral. He pulled his fingers out of him and put one hand over Draco's throat.
"You belong to me," he said. "Say it."
"I…"
Dolohov's cock sank into him and Draco's mind went white. It felt incredible, so filling and so hot and so excellent but it wasn't Potter.
"Say it," Dolohov repeated. "You belong to me."
Draco shut his eyes again. "I belong to you," he said, and the words tasted like betrayal.
Dolohov purred over him. His hand on Draco's throat tightened – not enough to strangle him, but enough to make it hard to breathe. He started to fuck him, fast and thorough and unrelenting.
"Mine," he said. "My omega, my husband, my heirs. Only mine."
It would have been wonderful if it weren't for the fact that it was a lie, and as Dolohov held him down and fucked him, came inside him, Draco shuddered and climaxed and thought of Potter, only Potter.
It took several weeks of hesitation between points (I have no reason to send Malfoy an owl) and counterpoints (I also have no reason not to, and really, what's the big deal) before Harry broke down and sent him a letter for no other reason than he felt, inexplicably, like he had to.
It had been short and, hopefully, friendly and inoffensive. He congratulated Malfoy on his recent engagement, despite the fact that it was the last thing in the world he wanted to celebrate; he admitted the strangeness of contacting him after all this time and played it off with humor, even though the question was worryingly vexing; he asked him how he'd been since the War, and if he was free, maybe they could meet for a cup of coffee to catch up.
And to Harry's absolute astonishment, he got an answer two days later.
The tenor of Malfoy's response seemed cautiously optimistic with an overshadowing feeling of confusion. He thanked Harry for his congratulations and said that the engagement had recently become a marriage (which was so blindingly enraging that Harry almost couldn't read on). He acknowledged that the sudden contact was a bit strange, but not entirely unwelcome. He said that he couldn't stray too far from his new home in Nizhnevartovsk, Russia, but that if Harry wanted to catch up over coffee, there was a place in town they could meet.
Harry had no idea why Malfoy was so receptive to the idea of meeting him. Maybe it was the same reason Harry had talked himself into sending the letter in the first place.
Deep into winter as it was, Nizhnevartovsk was blanketed in snow, and it crunched under Harry's feet the moment he came off the train into the airy, open station. It was a bright city, with a clear sky and sunlight glaring off snow, and from its perch on a low hill, the station commanded a splendid view of the skyline.
He charmed his robes to insulate him more effectively against the cold and set of into the city surrounding the station. His breath chased him in swirling plumes of mist as he walked, and despite his best efforts, he felt apprehensive.
Two blocks from the station, tucked between an apothecary and a tailor, there was a little coffee shop with a window made foggy by a thin layer of ice, though not foggy enough to obstruct Harry's view of him.
Malfoy – he looked so very different, but still achingly, impossibly familiar. Skin like brushed porcelain, hair like spun platinum, and a perpetual look of fragility. In the years since Harry had last seen him, he'd gained a certain maturity to the sharp features of his face, a world-weariness. He stared out the window, away from Harry, into the street. He was sitting at a table with a cup of coffee and a book that he wasn't reading.
He looked anxious, Harry realized. He felt a tremor of excitement at the realization that it was because of him.
Harry pushed inside, and a bell chimed to signal his entrance. It was a quaint little coffee shop, with tables circled around a central, blazing fireplace, but Harry didn't notice any of it. Malfoy had turned around in his chair, and a moment of silence seemed to eclipse not just the room, but the whole city, as they met each other's eyes for the first time in so many months.
"Potter," he said, and there was a breathless quality to his voice, though perhaps Harry imagined it.
"Malfoy," he answered.
Another moment lapsed between them. Harry kicked the snow off his boots and sat down across from him.
"I was surprised to get your owl," Malfoy said.
"I was a bit surprised I sent it, to be honest."
Another lapse of silence.
"How's married life treating you?"
Simultaneously, they both looked down at Malfoy's right hand resting lightly on his copy of An Abridged History of Magic in the Western World by Hexulous Hoggart. There was a simple, handsome band of dark metal around his ring finger.
"You still don't know, do you?"
"Don't know what?"
"What are you doing here? When I first got your owl I thought… but obviously you have no idea."
Harry frowned. "What are you on about, Malfoy?"
"My name's not Malfoy anymore."
"What?"
"I'm an omega; I didn't keep my surname. I married into House Dolohov."
"Draco, then," he said, because he was definitely not going to start calling him Dolohov.
"Do you even know why you're here?"
Harry would have liked to answer him, but he didn't quite know what to say.
Malfoy – Draco – sighed and turned away, staring out the window. "I should have known. It would be too much to ask of Harry Potter to educate himself on his own biology."
"Glad to see you haven't stopped being a git."
"I'm not the one who came all the way to Russia without really understanding why."
Harry frowned. "I – I just wanted to see you again."
"And that didn't strike you as strange? That you haven't been able to get me out of your head once since sixth year? That you sent me an owl, hardly knowing the reason why, and wanted to see me again despite the fact that you've got a girlfriend?"
Harry stared in astonishment. How did he know all that? It took Harry a moment to gather himself enough to answer, "I broke up with Ginny."
"That doesn't surprise me," he answered. "I'm betting I'm what broke you up."
"How – Jesus, Mal—Draco, how can you possibly know that?"
Draco sat back in his chair and stared at Harry in marveling silence. "You really have no idea."
"Not so long as you bloody well refuse to tell me!"
"We're bonded."
"We're what, now?"
"Bonded, you idiot. It's what happens when an alpha and omega have sex during an omega's estrus. A complicated combination of magic and hormones that keep them attached to each other. It's supposed to help assure the survival of the offspring. Did you not researchthis? Weren't you the least bit curious as to why you couldn't get me off your mind?"
"That…"
Surely that couldn't be right. Even though it made perfect logical sense from an evolutionary standpoint, and even though it completely explained why he had never really stopped thinking about Draco since sixth year, it just couldn't be right.
"That's awful," Harry said after a moment.
Draco snorted and folded his arms across his chest. "Well fucking spotted, Potter."
"No, but it is, though. I mean, we weren't even given a choice—!"
"Biology is a harsh mistress," Draco said tersely. "When I got your owl, I assumed you had finally figured it out and were going to do something about it."
"And that's another thing!" Harry said, voice rising in volume. "Why in God's name didn't you tell me?"
"I assumed you could figure it out on your own! I certainly did!"
"If I had known—!"
"What, Potter? You'd have come running back to me after the end of the War and professed undying love? My marriage to Dolohov had already been arranged by then."
Harry's train of thought did such an abrupt 180 that it derailed and went up in flames.
"Your marriage to Dolohov was arranged?"
"Of course it was arranged! I'm a pureblood omega; that's what pureblood omegas do. They're put into arranged marriages with pureblood alphas and pop out pureblood babies so the whole bloody cycle can continue."
Harry was so angry he couldn't even see straight. The entire situation was so incredibly infuriating that Harry's heart was beating in his temple. He wanted to rip apart Antonin Dolohov for daring to challenge his claim over Draco. He wanted to hex Lucius Malfoy for forcing his son into a marriage against his will. And he wanted to topple the entire system that normalized it all, that made this sort of thing acceptable.
"What's the matter, Potter?" came Draco's voice, pulling Harry out of the angry fog of his mind. "Angry?"
"You're fucking right I'm angry," he said, voice low. "Aren't you?"
Draco didn't answer immediately. "Constantly," he said. "I suppose I've just gotten used to the indignity of being property."
Harry reached out and grabbed Draco's wrist. Electricity crackled between them and Draco sat upright, tensing.
"You're no one's property," Harry said.
"Not even yours?" Draco countered at once.
Harry grit his teeth and ignored the instincts roaring in his ears.
"I refuse to let that be the definition of my – my bonding," he said. "I don't want a prisoner, and I don't want someone reduced to their capacity to carry children."
Under Harry's fingertips, Draco's pulse started to quicken.
"I want you to be mine," Harry continued, "and I want to be yours."
"Fucking Gryffindors," Draco said, but his racing heartbeat and unsteady breathing betrayed the calm of his voice. After so many years, he was still reacting to Harry, still wanted him just as badly as he wanted Draco.
He lifted Draco's hand and planted a kiss on his wrist, which drew a delicious whimper out of him. Harry could smell him, that lovely smoky-woody-floral smell, distinctive but subdued, and with an undertone that was unmistakable—
"You'll be going into estrus soon…"
He jerked as though hit by lighting, and abruptly, Draco yanked his wrist away. "I have to go," he said. "I – there's – I have to go. I'll…"
"Draco!"
But he was already pushing out the door, tea and book forgotten, and Apparating away. Harry stared after him, instincts thrumming in his ear, the separation aching all the more now that the scent of Draco still lingered.
It had been so long since his first estrus that Draco had almost forgotten what it felt like. Now that he was reminded, he wanted nothing more than to forget again.
He'd nearly ripped his fine navy robes apart trying to get out of them on the first morning of his estrus, because despite the richness of the fabric, they felt unbearably, suffocatingly hot. He'd taken two baths and fucked himself raw on his fingers in a desperate attempt to smother the fire burning in his veins, but it wasn't enough; his fingers weren't enough. The desperate, aching hollowness in him was too big to be satisfied with his fingers.
And Antonin, damn him, was gone until the evening. Something about a meeting with some kind of council. He knew, he must have known, that Draco was going into estrus, that he'd be in agony without him, and he went anyway.
And of course all Draco could really think about was Potter.
Potter, damn him, with his ashy-earthy smell and strong hands, coming back after so long and reminding him that Draco was still his, only his, after all this time. Potter, with his green eyes and thick cock, Potter with his heated whispers and self-assuredness and his sixth sense that knew exactly what Draco wanted, damn him, why was it Dolohov and not him?
"Draco, there you are."
The water in the bath sloshed around him as Draco jerked around. Dolohov was standing in the doorway of the bathroom with a small grin, and he smelled nothing like Potter, but he was an alpha, and in estrus, that was all that mattered to Draco.
"Antonin," he said, though it came out more like a sob. He grabbed hold of the edge of the bath and tried to push himself to his feet, though his legs were weak underneath him. "Antonin, please—"
Dolohov closed the distance between them and caught Draco's arms before he collapsed und his own weight, then made a series of soft tutting noises.
"Look at you, you're a wreck."
"Antonin, please, I need—!"
Dolohov bent down and inhaled deeply, his grip on Draco's arms steady and strong, and Draco's words died in his throat.
"I know what you need," he said, with a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Ripe for the picking, aren't you? I would be a tremendous liar if I said I hadn't been looking forward to this. It's not every man who's so lucky as to experience an omega in estrus, let alone have them carry his children."
After nearly five hours of unendurable suffering, Dolohov's words were almost completely meaningless. He didn't want to talk; he wanted Dolohov to fix this horrible emptiness before he caved in on himself. Draco whined and pressed himself into his husband, drenching his robes with bathwater, clawing at him. "Please, Antonin," Draco sobbed into his shoulder, "please, please…"
"I can see already that the songs of this written by wizards of old were not in the least bit exaggerated."
Dolohov's hands slid down Draco's back, pressing into his skin. One hand ventured lower than the other, and, quite abruptly, one of Dolohov's long fingers breached into him. Draco spasmed.
"Hnnaaaahh—! Antonin!"
"So wet already," Dolohov said into Draco's dampened hair, hungry and possessive. "Let's sort you out, husband-mine. It is, I think, about time for you to be bred properly."
Draco could have – and nearly did – sob in relief at his words. Dolohov swept Draco up into his arms and carried him out of the bathroom, into the adjoining master bedroom. The sheets and comforter were tangled and disheveled from when Draco had tried unsuccessfully to sleep through some of the agony, but Dolohov didn't seen to mind. He laid Draco down and covered him with own body. Draco went back to clawing at the silver clasps on Dolohov's robes.
"I suppose the reassurance that we have three days ahead of us to indulge wouldn't offer you much comfort."
It didn't. Draco continued ripping at his husband's robes and managed to push the outer layer over his shoulders.
Dolohov smirked and it was all teeth. "To take the edge off, then."
He cast a wordless spell and what was left of his robes dropped off his body like water. Before Draco had the opportunity to appreciate the spell and ask him which it was, his husband's hand was on his throat and his thighs were being pushed apart. Draco would have gasped if it were possible to do so. Dolohov's other hand gripped the base of Draco's aching, straining, swollen cock, tight enough to ride the line between firm and painful, and all at once—
"Hnnn—hhaaaaahhnn—!"
As his husband's cock pushed into him with one terrible-wonderful movement that split open his willing body, Draco could think of nothing but Potter, oh, Merlin, Potter felt so good inside him, and some tiny shred of conscious brain was very glad that there was a hand on his throat, otherwise he might start saying things he'd regret.
The pace set was fast and ruthless and thorough. In his head, Draco could hear Potter's voice in his ear, smell him, feel him, and the illusion was so thorough that he could lose himself in it and it was exactly what he wanted. He would have liked to buck and thrash and moan, but with the carefully placed hands on his body, he could do none of it: all that was left was the sensation, and it was quickly becoming unbearable.
And painful. The hand around his cock – was he—?
Above him, Dolohov growled. "Ready to come so soon? An omega in estrus really is oversensitive."
He was, and all the indulgent fantasy shattered like so much glass. Dolohov's hand around his cock – he was keeping him from climax, the absolute bastard.
Draco would have spat any number of vulgarities but for the hand on his throat, and all that came out was a desperate, high-pitched whine. It was already too much. Draco ached from near-orgasm, not in a dull, generalized way but in a very sharp, incredibly painful throb centered to his pelvis. He needed it, he needed it so badly, he felt like he'd die without it—
"Relax," Dolohov said, hips unrelenting, sweat starting to bead on his brow. "The agony prolongs the ecstasy."
Draco didn't give a damn. The ecstasy would be meaningless If the agony killed him, and at the moment it felt like it might. Draco strained and arced and ached and scrabbled at his husband's chest with his fingernails, but nothing he did seemed to have any effect. With every vicious thrust into him, the orgasm-that-wasn't raged and ripped him to pieces.
It was reaching the point of unbearable pain and lightheadedness and the growing certainty that he really was going to die—
"Now," Dolohov said suddenly, and he'd scarcely taken his hand off Draco's cock before Draco was spasming and coming so hard he couldn't even see, so hard the world went sideways and slightly gray and he might have lost consciousness for a moment.
The thrusting, Draco noticed with a certain detachment, was still going, though the movements were slower and more languid. He could feel heat pooled deep in his pelvis, and it drew a shudder out of him.
The hand on his throat loosened, then dropped away. His husband pulled out of him with a soft, wet sound, and collapsed next to him on the bed.
It took a few moments for Draco to regain his senses, and a few moments more to make use of any higher functions. He still felt the thrumming buzz of his estrus, but it was muted, quieted from recent orgasm, thank Merlin. It seemed that climax afforded him a few hours of rest and a return to something resembling normality – necessary, Draco was sure, if estrus was supposed to last several days.
He moved to sit up, but felt Dolohov's hand on his chest. He looked over with a frown.
"Stay down for now," he said idly. "To maximize chance of conception, your body should be flat or angled slightly, letting the ejaculate pool against the cervix."
Draco's frown deepend. He didn't really think anything would maximize the chance of conception, because two days ago he'd laced Dolohov's drink with a potion to induce temporary sterility.
Still, there was no reason Dolohov had to know that. Draco laid back down and released a breath.
"I'll have a house-elf bring up some dinner for us," Dolohov said, pulling himself to his feet and grabbing a dressing gown he'd draped over a nearby chair. "I don't imagine there's time for a formal meal in the dining room. You'll be feverish again within an hour or two."
Draco sighed, summoned his wand from the nightstand with a wordless accio, and spelled away his own release from his stomach. His husband went to the bedroom door and shouted for one of the house-elves in angry, impatient Russian.
Draco knew that he had not bonded to Dolohov. Some part of him had always known he never would. There would never be anyone but Potter.
At that moment, he hated Dolohov. He hated him for buying into the system that reduced Draco to his womb, he hated him for presuming to purchase and own him, he hated him for everything.
He wondered if he'd still hate him if Potter had never found him that day in sixth year, if Dolohov had been his first alpha. Would he still feel this profound philosophical discomfort if he had bonded to Dolohov as he had to Potter? Would he still feel this impetus to rebel in some small way, even if it was just spiking his drink with temporary sterility potions?
The questions didn't matter in any practical sense, perhaps, but Draco still found some comfort in the idea that there was some measure of his mind that was still his own. Even if he had been bonded to Dolohov, he would still hate him, still rebel against him, still be his own person.
"After dinner, we'll sort you out again," Dolohov said, sitting down on the edge of the bed and splaying his fingers over Draco's abdomen, as if he was already pregnant. Draco found the gesture disgusting, and he wasn't quite sure why. "That should keep you sated until morning, let you get some sleep."
Draco stared back at his husband in silence, and something seemed to click:
Dolohov saw him as a womb, a receptacle for carrying children. What was keeping Draco from seeing him as a cock to help him through his estrus?
Turnabout, after all, was fair play. And after dinner, when the thrum of his estrus gradually roared back to life, Draco let himself slip away in the sensation, because that's all it was: a sensation, fleeting and pleasant and utterly meaningless.
The knowledge that this was still not any of his business, not really, kept Harry at bay for about three days, and then he was back in Russia again, for no other reason than he couldn't keep himself away.
Snowbird Manor was, among other things, a historical site, and not particularly difficult to find. It was just past the edge of town, situated on a hill and surrounded by tall, metal, snow-encrusted palisades. At first look it seemed more a shadow than a building; it faced east and, late in the evening as it was, was shrouded by the sunset behind it. As Harry drew closer he had to admit that it if nothing else, it was a handsome structure: all gray stone and picture windows and flagstone paths.
When he knocked on the door, it didn't take long before a house-elf, small and mousey, arrived to answer it. She stared up at him in confusion, her tapered ears twitching.
"Hello," Harry said. "I'm here to see Draco. Is he in? I need to return his book."
The house-elf inclined her head and stepped to one side, letting Harry in. He stepped inside and, as the heavy iron door closed behind him, admired the gleaming black-on-white marble foyer with the curling staircase and immense silver chandelier.
"Through this way," the house-elf said with a Russian accent, which Harry privately thought was adorable. "I'll go and summon Master Draco."
The house-elf gestured him into a small sitting room that was so cozy you could almost forget how opulent it was. A fireplace roared in a massive hearth, a bay window looked out onto the snowy gardens, and decorative weaponry lined the walls.
But Harry wasn't comfortable, and he didn't sit. Lovely as it was, it was all wrong, because he knew what the building was, and what it meant. Harry stood by the window and stared out into the snow, listening to the sound of the wind on the glass and the fireplace crackling.
"Merlin and Circe, what are you doing here?"
Harry turned and was almost knocked flat on his back at the scent and the sight that assaulted him.
It was Draco, in nothing but a long blue dressing gown. His hair was mussed, and he smelled so heavily of estrus that it took everything in Harry not to pin him to a wall and have his way with him.
"You can't just come over, Potter! You're lucky house-elves don't know alpha from omega; they'd throw you out."
"What, you're not allowed to talk to people?"
"Not an alpha; not while I'm in estrus!"
"You could have refused to see me."
Draco opened his mouth, but shut it quickly and glared instead.
"You forgot your book," Harry said, reaching into his robe and producing An Abridged History of Magic in the Western World from the inner pocket. "When we spoke a few days ago."
"Like there's even a chance that's why you're here," Draco hissed. "You have to go; you have to go now. He'll be home soon."
"You're right, sod the book," Harry said, tossing it onto a nearby coffee table and crossing the sitting room towards Draco. "I'm not here about the book. Do you want out of this?"
Draco tensed, and Harry stopped a few feet away from him, because if he got any closer he was going to rip that robe off him.
"What do you mean, out?" Draco said.
"I mean out," Harry said. "Out of the marriage. Out of everything."
"Potter—"
"I looked up the old bylaws about alpha-omega marriages. I can challenge Dolohov's claim over you."
Draco's eyes flew open, and he seemed too startled to speak.
"It's a really old law, but it's still in effect. If I challenge him to a duel for you and win, I can nullify the marriage."
"You can't be serious."
"I'm completely serious, Draco. The idea of you being held up here against your will is driving me mad. Say the word and I'll get you out."
"You realize that the old bylaw you mention would also transfer my marriage from him to you, right?"
"Then you can divorce me right after," Harry said quickly. "Stay, go, whatever you want. I just can't – Draco, I can't just sit there and know that you're in this situation!"
"Well, thank Merlin that Saint Potter came riding in to save the day!"
"I'm trying to help you!"
Against his better judgment, Harry reached out and grabbed Draco's arms. At once, he was overpowered by the scent of him, smoky-woody-floral, ambrosial, irresistible. Harry breathed it deeply.
"Potter," Draco said, and his voice was wan, tight with restraint. "You can't… you have to go."
"I'm trying to help you," Harry said. "Please, just let me help you."
"He – he'll be home soon, and—" mid-sentence, Harry leaned in and buried his face in Draco's hair, in that gorgeous scent, "—oh, Merlin."
"I don't want him to be anywhere near you," he muttered into Draco's hair. "He has no right to you."
"And you do?"
"You'll only be mine if I'm also yours," Harry whispered. "Just like I said."
Draco moaned and it was the most wonderful sound Harry had ever heard.
Harry reached up and snaked his fingers through Draco's hair, and it was as though nothing had changed. Everything was as it should be: Draco wasn't in a marriage he hated, reduced to his capacity to bear children; Harry wasn't insane with jealous wanting and anger. It was just them, electrified by each other, drunk from their senses, moving and needing as perfect complements.
Harry kissed him heavily, desperately, and Draco returned it in equal measure. There was a wall behind him and Harry pushed him into it, his hands leaving Draco's hair and moving down to explore every inch of his body through the sheer velvet of his dressing gown. God, it had been so long, but they fell into it like it had been no time at all.
"Let me help you," Harry whispered into Draco's mouth. "Please. I need this as much as you do. It was torture enough living without you, but the knowing that you were in a forced marriage…"
He could feel Draco's nails dragging across the back of his neck, carving shallow furrows in the skin.
"I hate it," Draco said after a moment, and his voice was tight with emotion. "I hate it, I hate being reduced to my womb. I hate being a trophy, a thing to be bought and sold and bred."
Harry's instincts were raging inside his head, screaming at him to protect, protect. Draco needed help and Harry needed to help him.
"I hate it so much and I'm utterly disconsolate and please, Potter, please help me."
"I'll help you," Harry promised, and his hands were fumbling with Draco's dressing gown, tugging it open, and God, his skin was so hot, so soft, "I'll protect you, I'll never let any harm come to you, not ever again—"
Draco cut him off mid-sentence with another kiss, more heated than the last, and Harry pressed into him, fingers on his chest, his stomach, his hips. Draco's entire body was rolling against his, and when Harry's hands slipped down and snaked lightly around his cock—
"Ah—hhaaaaaahnnhh—!"
—and God, just the sound of his voice. "God, Draco, do you even know what you do to me?"
Draco's hips were bucking frantically, his cock moving rapidly against Harry's palm.
"Every tiny detail of you controls me completely," Harry said, hand moving more quickly to match Draco's desperate movements. "I'm powerless."
"You're mine," Draco whispered breathlessly. "And I'm yours."
The words went straight to Harry's cock and Draco's hands ripped at his robes.
"Say it," Draco hissed.
"I'm all yours," Harry answered, and he could hear fabric tearing under Draco's impatient hands. "I'm yours, and you're mine."
Harry's robe came off, his shirt was ripped apart, and his trousers were pushed open just enough to free his aching, too-hard cock. It was good enough. Harry ground his hips forward, cock sliding against Draco's, all satiny heat and feverish skin.
"I'm yours and you're mine," Draco said against Harry's lips, "and if you don't fuck me in the next ten seconds I'm going to lose my fucking mind—"
Harry pushed one hand into Draco's hair and used the other to grab his left thigh and yank it up to let it rest on his hip. With a bit of adjusting, his cock was sliding lower, through the wetness that had coated the back of Draco's thighs.
"Yes, Merlin, yes, Potter—"
Draco lifted his other thigh and Harry pushed him back against the wall more firmly to keep him up; the movement sent his cock sinking upwards and into that incredible heat and for a moment Harry forgot to breathe.
Draco was half-moaning, half-screaming into Harry's hair, his hands gripping his shoulders so tightly that Harry was certain there would be bruises tomorrow. Draco's legs wound tighter around Harry's back and as Harry started to move sweat began to bead on his brow and on his back beneath his robes. Every movement into him was perfect, torturous agony and Harry couldn't get enough of it. He couldn't fuck him hard enough, couldn't grip him tightly enough, couldn't breathe in enough of his scent.
Draco was moaning Harry's name again and again, rocking his hips down against him, and his body was starting to seize up around him in the crushing vise of near-orgasm. Harry could read the approaching climax in every line of Draco's body like a map; the arcing lines of his neck, the taut muscles on his chest and stomach. And God, it was so good, so impossibly good, he could even see the signs in himself.
Harry wasn't sure if he was coming or dying; he'd done both, and they had never felt more similar than they did at that moment. An incredible mix of pleasure and pain that ripped him open and destroyed him utterly, and only as wave after wave of climax tore out of him was he slowly, slowly put back together.
In the back of his mind Harry knew it wasn't just a construct he'd invented to make himself feel better about his possessive instincts: as much as Draco belonged to him, he belonged to Draco, and Harry would not ever let harm come to him, never again.
Three hours later, Harry was gone. Draco had all but forced him out the door, insisting that if his husband came home while he was still here they'd both have hell to pay. He'd left Draco with a kiss, and it was such a strange and tender gesture that Draco could still feel it on his lips.
Three hours later, his estrus was over, or at the very least, it was ending. Estrus always began abruptly and ended gradually, and Draco knew his own body. By tomorrow, he'd have his senses back in full, and he'd be able to function like an adult.
Three hours later, he'd eaten and taken a bath and found a seat by the window in the master bedroom. There was so much that he had to think about, so many things that needed his consideration, but Draco felt disconnected from it all, and his thoughts were dominated completely by Potter and his promises and the hope that came with them.
Three hours later, his husband came home.
In the reflection of the window, Draco could see him – tall and starch and tense, and he knew at once that he must have figured out everything.
"You whore."
Draco smirked.
"Do you have any idea how much I paid for you?" Dolohov came storming forward, and he put himself between Draco and the window. He was livid, electric with fury, and it was utterly meaningless to Draco. "Twenty-seven-hundred galleons. That's a nontrivial portion of the Dolohov estate! And three days into your first estrus, I come home to the scent of sex – of another alpha in my own sitting room?"
Draco looked up at him wordlessly and took a sip of the tea he'd been nursing.
"I paid for you! Do you understand me? I paid for you and you're mine!"
Draco set the cup of tea down in the saucer on the end-table near the chair.
"He's challenging your claim," Draco said, his own voice a soft, calm foil to Dolohov's hysterics and volume.
The words made him tense even further. "What?"
"He's challenging your claim," Draco repeated, folding his hands in his lap. "I imagine he'll be filing the paperwork tomorrow morning and setting the court date."
Dolohov's face twisted into a macabre smile. "Good," he said. "Good. That means I'll be able to legally rip him limb from limb. Perhaps I'll bring his head back as a trophy, a reminder—"
"Ambitious," Draco interjected. "Do you really think you're any sort of match for Harry Potter?"
The silence that fell over the room was deafening. Draco studied his husband's face with great scrutiny, watching the emotions shift – anger, to confusion, to astonishment, back to anger.
"He did kill the most powerful wizard in the world," he continued. "Say what you like about him, but his magic is strong. Stronger than yours, certainly."
"You harlot," Dolohov said, and his voice was rising again, "you whore—!"
"Is the name-calling meant to intimidate me?"
Dolohov bent forward, his hands on the arm of Draco's chair, his eyes burning with rage. "What would your father say if I—?"
"Oh, I'm sure he'd react just like you," Draco answered easily. "You alphas are all the same – you all think the universe begins and ends at the tip of your cock. You can't use my father to intimidate me, Antonin. Any respect I had for him dissipated when he sold me to you."
Dolohov reached out and grabbed Draco by the jaw. "And you think Potter will be different?"
Draco bared his teeth and slapped Dolohov's hand away. "Don't touch me."
"What did he promise you? Did he whisper sweet nothings? Tell you he loves you?"
"He did nothing beyond treat me like a person," Draco hissed. "It's more than can be said for you."
"You're nothing but a prize to him, Draco. Like you said – we alphas are all the same."
"Your words are worthless to me."
Draco moved to shove past him, but Dolohov grabbed him my both shoulders, and before Draco could register what was happening, he was slammed into the window, which rattled precariously.
"Let me go!"
"If you honestly think he's different, you're deluded," Dolohov hissed, his body pressed into Draco's as Draco thrashed. "You're an omega. He wants from you what all alphas want from omegas. It's all you're good for."
Dolohov started ripping at Draco's robes and, with a flood of panic, Wild Magic exploded out from Draco in all directions, shattering the window and sending Dolohov flying back several feet, knocking over the chair.
Draco fled from the room as fast as his legs could carry him, out of the bedroom, through the hall, down the steps, into the sitting room. His entire body was white-hot with fear and adrenaline and when Draco grabbed a handful of Floo powder from the pot on the mantelpiece, he called out the name of the only place he could think of, the only place where he knew he would be safe—
"Spinner's End!"
The flames turned green and he hurried into them. The rush and the roar consumed him, warped space and time, sent him tumbling and falling through the void, and when he was spat back out, he landed on his hands and knees in utter darkness.
All he could hear was the sound of his own breath; all he could smell was dust.
Shaking, Draco produced his wand from his sleeve. "Lumos."
The blue-white light illuminated the small, claustrophobic sitting room, and at once Draco was blinded with tears.
He shouldn't have gone here. He should have gone somewhere – anywhere else.
All the bookshelves had been emptied, all the furniture taken. It was familiar, yet so distant that it was unrecognizable. Snape's house wasn't meant to look like this, quiet and empty and cold.
With great difficulty, Draco pulled himself to his feet, though he felt like he could hardly stand.
There were times during the war when all that kept Draco going from day to day was the promise he'd made. He'd promised that he would never let Draco be sold to an alpha.
You will not be abandoned.
None of this would have happened if Snape had lived. This ghost of a house would be full of books and bright with the light of the hearth. He would have talked his father out of selling him. And he and Potter…
The foyer was bright with moonlight and Draco sat down against the wall, drawing his knees up to his chest.
You will not be abandoned. I will not allow that so long as I am living.
But he wasn't living. He was dead.
And Draco had never felt so abandoned.