Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ron was on his limits. 

Really. 

He didn’t even remember the last time he felt so sleep deprived, it was ridiculous. 

Seriously. 

With a pitiful whine he tossed and turned in his bed, looking over the muggle alarm clock Harry had given him. Its numbers were glowing in the dark in pure white. 

05.45.

He could’ve had two full hours of sleep before he needed to wake up. That fact alone was infuriating him endlessly. 

The Grimmauld Place was completely silent and dark. Or at least it was, just moments before Ron woke up to this repetitious, soft thudding sounds and faint whines and moans that carried from Harry’s room. 

Fucking tosser has been in a dating spree for a year and Ron is now at his wit’s end. Harry, being a selfish prick that he was, even forgot the silencing charms or those didn’t hold on, because the Chosen Wanker happens to be too drunk. 

Too drunk to cast a good charm but definitely not drunk enough to not to fuck. What a life. 

The thing is, Ron’s been living with Harry in Grimmauld Place for a good couple of years. After the war they decided not to attend the offerend eight year at Hogwarts and instead they started their auror training straight away.

Living together with your best friend was honestly the greatest idea Ron has ever had. He didn’t know how he could’ve survived without Harry of his night terrors, the nightmares, the hard journey of healing. They supported each other every single step on the way, and he couldn’t be happier. 

Grimmauld was a shithole when they moved in. Well, Grimmauld is still a shithole, but maybe it's more their shithole now. Harry wasn’t the neatest resident and neither was Ron, but somehow they’ve managed. Harry had Kreacher there living with them too. Apparently the ancient house elf wasn’t too fond of the elves of Hogwarts and now he effectively travels between the establishments. 

But even Kreacher can’t help Ron now. This is Harry’s third date in a span of one weekend, so maybe Ron should really talk with him about bringing his lovers to Grimmauld. 

It’s not like Ron’s some kind of blushing virgin and saint here, of course not. He has had his own portion of wooing and very accommodating admirers, but the novelty wears off quite fast. People admired the idea of him, and it started to get boring, so now he’d been alone for some time. 

But Harry? One should think that alpha’s are getting more virile when they’re getting close to the time window of the upcoming rut, but no. That ultimate tosser is projecting something badly, shagging half of London senseless and then unceremoniously dumping the lovers the next morning, with rut or not. 

Still seething, by some miracle, Ron managed to finally fall into a fitful sleep, while trying to ignore the increasing moans. 

The next time he woke up, it was finally time to get up and get ready for work. Still sleep mussled, yawning and knees cracking he pulled some worm joggers on and ventured down to kitchens. 

Kreacher had set up the table and the scent of the coffee lured Ron in. That sour house elf was half enabling Harry with his dalliances: little shit had set the table for three.

Grumbling under his breath, Ron tried to stop himself from collapsing with someone who was standing right in the doorway. 

“Oh!”

Ron froze. For a short seconds he thought he was looking right at Malfoy but slowly the stranger turned more unfamiliar: the hair was blonde, sure, but it was shorter and had darker roots, the eyes were actually blue and based on their scent, or lack thereof, the person was beta. 

With a huff he shifted around the blondie and stepped closer to the hub so he could get something to drink. Tea was out of the option so strong coffee it is.

He jolted when he grabbed his own coffee cup from the cupboard: why the fuck he was even thinking that Draco sodding Malfoy would be in their kitchen in the first place? 

Shit. Now he’s seeing imaginary people in his kitchen. What next, hearing colors and tasting sounds? He should beat Harry to pulp for keeping him awake. 

“Morning.”

Speak of the devil. 

Ron nodded and turned to look at Harry, leaning his back now against the counters. 

Harry was looking like he hadn’t slept a wink last night and that was probably true. Black, curly hair wild as ever and stupid grin on his face. Small shadows underneath his green eyes. That infuriating five o'clock shadow adorning the sharp jawline. 

Ron rolled his eyes. He better stay quiet for now because if he’s not, he’ll be blowing up straight to the alpha’s face and scared the ever loving shit out of that small beta who draped himself in Harry’s side right away. 

The beta gave him a dazzling smile, only wearing one of Harry’s large jerseys and probably nothing else. Harry wrapped his arm around that waist and nuzzled closer making the beta giggle. 

“Mate,” Ron had to groan and down half of his coffee with one go. “We have to leave soon. Or are you staying in?”

Harry had sometimes a tendency to skip out his work and stay all cozied up in his bed with whoever his willing victim was at that moment. 

But now Harry just shook his head and leaned forward to the set table and snatched a sandwich in his hand. 

“Oh yeah, we need to close the Cliffe-case today,” Harry said brightly and gave a sound kiss to the beta. “Better get ready!”

Ron just took a quiet breath. Suddenly he had this unrelenting urge to lunge at Harry and really throttle the other alpha in the ground. 

Was his rut coming? Well, it has been almost a month since last time. Maybe it was just a poorly slept night that was causing him to feel uncomfortable with those two being in the kitchen with him. 

Harry’s alpha scent lingered around, mixed with the natural aroma of sleep and made Ron feel a bit lightheaded. If he’s completely honest, Ron has always liked Harry’s scent. It was a bit of a heady mixture of tobacco, amber, vanilla and something spicy. And when he was getting closer to his rut, his scent turned more intense, making Ron’s skin itch. 

Yeah. Definitely. He needed just a good night’s sleep and before that, he needed more caffeine. Unfortunately the coffee in his mug tasted like ash and defeated, he abandoned his mug on the top of the kitchen counter and escaped from the kitchen, stomping straight to his bathroom to take a shower. 

In the safety of his own shower he stepped under the warm stream of water and leaned in, tapping his forehead lightly against the cold tiles. 

When he and Harry started their Auror training, Hermione was the only one of them who went and attended in that eight year in Hogwarts. At the start it seemed to be great: he met her at the Hogsmeade almost every weekend and their relationship was coming together nicely. 

Until it wasn’t. 

With a slight tinge in his heart Ron remembered the feeling of distance and sort of disjoint between them. It was a confusing time, he had only hazy memories of that period. The nightmares were intensifying back then, Ron lost his appetite and they almost in sync stepped into their heritage. 

It was brutal. Suddenly the wounds of the war weren’t only things to be dealt with; now his best friend and his girlfriend both felt distant and cold. Slowly the warmth of Hermione’s eyes disappeared and her gaze hardened. Their kisses were more biting, more angry. They lost their connection and eventually they had to let go of each other, for good. 

Later on, some things turned out to be better. Ron moved away for a while, in a small apartment in Diagon Alley, just so he could take a break from everything and focus on his newly discovered secondary gender. His first rut was intense and awful, but he held on. 

The reason for their sudden mutual distance was quite simple in the end: all three of them are alphas, Harry and him more dominant than Hermione, so of course they naturally were repelling each other for the time being. 

It made him feel nervous, the fact that he was living in Grimmauld with Harry. What if their alphas were aggressive and they just couldn’t work together? 

Harry, being raised by muggles, was optimistic about their future and Ron was pleased to see that surprisingly their alphas seemed to accept the fact that they were cohabiting quite easily. 

But what Ron won with Harry, he lost with Hermione. There was no turning back now, and he needed to accept the fact that he and Hermione were done for good. She insisted to stay as friends with him but at that time, Ron just eventually holed up in Grimmauld. Heartbreaks and all that. 

When he gave enough time for himself to recover from all that had transpired in a matter of six, seven months, he felt a lot better. His head was clearer, he felt better in his skin and even if he had issues with sleeping, nightmares and loud noises such like cracks of apparitions, he felt like he was healing steadily. 

And Harry. Ever the strong, sweet Harry who trusted and loved him endlessly was there for him. Harry, who lost his appetite, was plagued with nightmares and even fell into shallow waters of depression, was supporting him. 

But not now. Now, Ron was staring with unseeing eyes at his cup of coffee, tuning out the background noise coming from the DMLE’s corridors. Chattering, people shuffling around and different fuss of spells in the air tried to make their way to his and Harry’s office through the open door. 

They had their desks facing each other; Ron’s was closest to the door since he could easily just tune out the noise around him and focus on his tasks. Perks of being part of the loud Weasley family, probably. Harry on the other hand, well. If he was seen, people never seemed to leave him be, but also he had the propensity for gossiping with someone familiar to no end and that usually left Ron with all their paperwork. 

A soft gasp made Ron break out of his reverie. He had to look up from the cooling coffee just to see how Harry was flicking through the case file, the Cliffe case, when suddenly his body went tense. Harry looked up with panicked eyes and Ron had to groan; Harry looking like that never meant anything good.

“What?”

Harry just stares at him, eyes wide before he managed to croak out loud:

“I forgot.”

Ron frowned in confusion: what the hell Harry meant? The Cliffe case was practically finished, what would he possibly have forgotten? 

“Forgot what?”

Before Harry could answer, from his peripheral Ron saw how someone was sauntering towards their office with feline grace while he was still trying to wrangle Harry’s panic into something useful…

And then in one terrible moment, the recognition clicked. 

Oh, oh yeah. Harry had forgotten that.

Draco Malfoy was all long lines and lean strength. Sharp cat like gray eyes, bright blonde hair cascading over his shoulders in delicate waves. Ron wanted to believe that the pointy git would look like the douche he had as a father, but to his endless vexation Malfoy looked more like his mother with the outgrown hair. Granted, the posh brat looked good, beautiful even. Not that Ron could never admit such a thing. 

After the war, Narcissa Malfoy took her son and moved swiftly to France, leaving the wizarding Britain behind them. Harry had testified in the trials for Malfoy’s behalf, telling how he and Narcissa lied and stalled, eventually helping them to escape and the Light side win the war. The Wizengamot were happy to get rid of the rest of the Malfoy family when they got their hands on Lucius. After Harry returned Malfoy’s hawthorn wand, the two of them left, probably for good.

But now, four years after the war and their voluntary exile, the little lord was back on English soil. Apparently the ferret had worked hard to get his name cleared and had some good reputation under his belt. He’d been in England for a year, sometimes consulting the DMLE’s potion unit because of his extensive knowledge of muggle drugs, poisons and his vast understanding of potioneering. They say that the prissy omega was now an eminent potions master and French muggle-wixen liaison. 

And yeah. The tosser was indeed an omega. 

He was always careful with his pheromones when he was visiting the DMLE. Most of the Auror forces were testosterone filled alphas and betas, so it made sense. His scent was often just a subtle hint, much like perfumes the muggle women wore. Ron had caught a whiff of roses with white flowers and something sweet and musky. 

It was alarming; Ron’s alpha was carefully curious about the icy omega. 

“You look awful,” the git said, arching one of his neatly trimmed ashy brown eyebrows. Ron gave him a grim nod and Malfoy snorted softly, turning his head to Harry who was glued in his seat, looking like a deer in the headlights. He didn’t even have decency to try to hide his expression from the omega and Ron had to roll his eyes. 

Because this is how the universe works nowadays: Malfoy waltzed in at random intervals, like a bloody storm, making sure that they never had time to build up immunity to him. The blonde flicked his hair, batted his eyelashes at Harry, threw in some prickly insults for good measure and then left the poor sod panting like a dog for the rest of the day. And who had to deal with that ? Ron, of course.

That was ridiculous in so many ways. Harry was still, after all these years, as obsessed with Malfoy as he was when they were in school and their unresolved sexual tension was making Ron feel uncomfortable. He really started to hope that those two would finally make this endless dance around each other to stop. 

But also the fact that Malfoy’s silver eyes seemed to linger on him too. That made him more alarmed. Ron could practically feel when the omega’s gaze swept over him like a cool silk. It never lingered, but went from top of his head down to his shoes in one smooth brush and he was always shivering after.   

Without waiting for any answer, Malfoy stepped in and made a beeline to Harry. Ron watched as Malfoy threaded his fingers through his hair just so , shaking it over one shoulder as he closed the distance between him and Harry. But then he flicks his hair, just when he passed Ron, and the long silken strands brushed across his face. 

Ron inhaled before he could stop himself and he caught once again that delicate mix of roses and amber, wrapped up in sweetness and something deep. His alpha stirred up, intrigued. 

Ron’s entire body locked up. Heat crawled up to his neck, shameful and unwanted. His fingers twitched where they rested against the now cool mug, like his body was trying to reach for something before his brain could shut down. 

Nope. Absolutely not.

Ron buried his face in his hands, so he could stop this madness and focus on the matter in his hands. But the worst thing was that Malfoy didn’t even notice. He didn’t smirk, he didn’t glance back. He kept walking and speaking about something that possibly went over both of them heads. Ron felt like he was toyed and he didn’t like it at all. 

Malfoy, with his air of professionalism, stood by Harry’s desk and gently snatched the files from his hands. With a frown he started to read the papers, skimming through them until he finally found the autopsy report with a list of identified potions.

Ron stood up from his desk. He knew that in a matter of seconds Malfoy wanted to see the potions that were taken from the scene and used as evidence. Quick look at Harry told Ron that he wasn’t capable of helping out. The dark haired alpha rested his chin against his propped hand and looked at Malfoy. He had a bit of glazed over look in his eyes. That was a good sign: Harry had overcome his panic. But that meant that Harry didn’t hear a word the ferret said, therefore it wasn’t a good sign. 

Malfoy continued with his speech, pointing out something from the files and then turning his sharp focus on Harry. 

“Honestly Potter,” he said breezily. “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said this whole time? Unbelievable! And Merlin…!” The omega gasped, scandalized, when he saw the potions Ron was offering. He was sure that if Malfoy had some pearl necklace he’d clutch it. 

“What happened?” Malfoy hissed and took the bag of potions like Ron had given him something decaying. “Is this the state of DMLE’s practices? You barbarians! Toss everything in one evidence bag and hope for the best! How is this even possible, what…you!”

For a moment Malfoy looked completely lost. His cheeks had a crimson red shade of anger and he turned his gaze from the evidence bag to Ron. The pure disbelief in those stormy eyes was raw and genuine. 

“Absolute beasts you lot!”

Malfoy’s outrage barely registered. 

Harry blinked, forcing himself to focus, but all he could do was stare at the way Malfoy’s fingers curled around the bag like it was something contagious. His lips were moving; fast, sharp, outraged, but the words blurred together. 

Harry knew he should pay attention. Really, he should. This was important. Malfoy was their consultant, and the case was still active even if they were closing the finish line. It was active as long as there weren’t signatures on the papers. Just moments ago Ron had done a weird thing and almost checked out, so Harry really should be stepping up. But instead, all he could do was prop his chin against his hand and look. 

Draco.

Not Malfoy, not the ferret, not their insufferable consultant. Just Draco, standing there, completely in his element, tearing them apart for their lack of procedure with his ridiculous, haughty dramatics. He talked with his hands animatedly, fearlessly scowling at Ron who had a cold look on his face, hands crossed tightly around his chest. 

Draco’s sweet scent creeped into Harry’s consciousness, making something coil in his stomach. Something tight and warm that had nothing to do with the case and everything to do with how unfairly good Malfoy looked when furious. 

It must have been obvious. Because the next thing he knew, those steely eyes snapped to him. 

“Potter!” Malfoy scoffed, hands on his hips now. Harry’s eyes followed the shape of the curve where waist turned to hip, that slope was delicious…

“You oaf! Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said the whole time?”

Harry blinked again, his mouth open just a bit. 

Busted. 

And somehow, instead of doing literally anything else, his brain, his treacherous, horny and cursed brain, short circuited and spat out: 

“Your waist is really small.”

Their small office went silent. 

Malfoy’s brows furrowed, confusion flickering over his aristocratic features. Ron, still with his arms crossed, turned his head slightly, as if to determine whether Harry had actually spoken or not.

Harry, who was now locked in a very real internal crisis, belatedly realized he’s said that out loud. In front of witnesses. 

“Oh my sweet Circe…” Ron whispered, his arms uncrossing so he could rub his face in his hands instead. 

Malfoy, still frowning, looked down where he still had his hands on his hips. And Harry, who up until this moment had been a well adjusted and fully functional human being, felt how all of his blood seemed to start to rush through his body, curling around his navel at the sight of it. 

Oh. 

Oh no. 

His ears burned. He forced himself not to look again, not to track the way Malfoy’s stance made his waist look even more…

Oh no. Absolutely not, stop, STOP IT NOW!

“Excuse me?” Malfoy demanded, looking a bit faint. 

Harry’s pulse was pounding. His hands curled into fists against his desk, because he was not about to discover the horrific new personal truth right here, right now in the middle of their office, with Ron of all people standing witness. He tried to sit up more straight, keeping his lower half hidden away under his desk. 

But then Ron lifted his head again, exhaling sharply through his nose and oh, that face, that sheer unimpressed authority of…

Harry’s stomach made a flip when Ron was looking at him like that. His arms were back across his chest, shoulders taut, he was standing stiff and broad like a disappointed alpha.

Fucking hell. Harry had a thing for that too. 

Another wave of heat rolled through him. Jesus , this is a problem. 

Malfoy scoffed sharply, bringing Harry out of his horrific revelations.

“What is wrong with you?”

Harry swallowed, he needed to recover and not just sit here, blushing like some desperate alpha barely out of his first rut. 

“I just mean…it’s proportional,” he squeaked, his voice a little too high, a little too quick. “Like, to your whole…um, everything?”

Ron blinked slowly and let out a long, suffering breath.

“Harry, mate. You need to shut the hell up.”

Malfoy had his mouth slightly open, just a fraction, just enough for him to get Harry focused on his lips. The blonde looked like he was still trying to catch up. 

“Wait, wait,” he motioned between his own waist and Harry’s entire existence, baffled. “What are you saying right now?”

Harry wanted to die and stay dead.

Or be completely at their mercy. 

One of the two, possibly both.

Ron scoffed, unimpressed. 

“Oh, now you’re self-conscious? After that ?”

Harry just made a strangled noise. His brains were currently occupied with dying and not dying at the same time, so he had no rebuttal. 

Malfoy, on the other hand, looked one word away from combusting. His lips parted again and then pressed into a thin, furious line. And then suddenly he moved. He turned, fast and decisive, like a man who had made up his mind about something. 

No. Absolutely not.  

Draco Malfoy was not staying in this room one second longer.

Not when Potter was sitting there, pink-eared and breathless, staring at him like that. Like he was a feast, set in front of a starving man. Not when Weasley, who barely tolerated him at best, was looking at him like he was something interesting instead of something annoying.

Not when he, Draco Malfoy, a fully grown, fully functioning adult omega with impeccable self-control, had just spent the last thirty seconds wondering whatever Potter had meant about his waist and…

No.

Get out. Now.

He spun on his heel, ready to flee with dignity, but then at the last second his hands betrayed him.

It was stupid. Insane. The worst decision he’d ever made in a lifetime full of horrible decisions. 

But as he stepped past Weasley, his fingers twitched and before he could stop himself, before his brains could catch up, he reached out and brushed the lapel of Weasley’s auror robes. 

It was a slight touch, barely there. As if some part of him, some very deep and uncontrollable part of him, felt the need to fix it.

As if he had any right. 

The room went dead silent. 

Draco snatched his hand back like he’d been burned. Weasley stilled completely. Potter’s sharp inhale was like a crack of a whip in the air. 

And Draco, who had spent years mastering the art of composure, who had survived the war and exile and the utter destruction of his old life, bolted.

Not casually, not subtly, not even remotely gracefully. 

It was a Merlin honest and unfiltered escape. Because if he stayed in that room even a moment longer, he was going to have a meltdown. 

He didn’t look back when he tried to school his face into a neutral mask and power walked towards the Ministry lifts. His heart was pounding so loudly he was afraid it would break some ribs. The blood was rushing in his ears and he just wanted away. Dignity being damned, he wanted out of here, right this instant!

When he finally managed to slip in one of the lifts, he could let out a breath he was holding. With a groan Draco rubbed his face. What the everloving hell that was?

Potter acting like he was touched in the head wasn’t really anything new. It was always a bit nerve wracking when he met with Scarhead. The Savior was an unpredictable alpha and his mooning over Draco was half amusing, half concerning. 

Weasley has been growing into his features too. The redhead was always scowling at him and he couldn’t even blame him; Draco’s nothing if not aware what kind of resentment the ginger alpha carried on towards him. So Weasley looking like he could strangle him in any second was the new norm.

So why the hell did he touch him? Really? 

Draco scowled down in his hands and considered ripping those away. Or maybe he should just get himself into some kind of examination; if he’s losing his common sense finally? Maybe this is a war trauma; touching people who definitely don’t want it and being a general mess all the time.

When the lift opened with a sharp ding, he bolted out and swiftly marched to the next apparition point. He never stopped, never even dared to slow down. He needed some support and had exactly the right person in his mind: Astoria Zabini née Greengrass.

With a flourish of his wand and sharp crack he was gone. 

By the time Draco’s feet touched the ground of the Zabini estate in Berkshire, he wanted to die. 

Not literally of course. He had suffered too much, endured too much, to let one stupid, insignificant encounter with Potter and Weasley ruin his entire life. But his skin burned with humiliation and there was a real, genuine concern that he might never recover from this.

With sharp, irritated movements he adjusted the cuffs of his robes, straightened his shoulders and set off toward the manor. 

Astoria would fix this.

Astoria always knew how to fix things. 

The elegant white manor loomed ahead, tastefully grand but never ostentatious, a humble home for Greengrass standards. The sides of the building were framed with the leafy ivy that made its way around the corners, creeping towards the rooftops. It was the kind of place where pureblood legacies flourished, fortunes thrived and no one, ever, under any circumstances, made an absolute idiot of themselves in the Ministry. 

The elegant double doors opened before he even reached them, likely an overeager house elf sensing a crisis, and Draco swept inside. He barely made it past the marble foyer when a cool, knowing voice reached him. 

“Draco.”

Astoria was standing there, in a sunroom’s doorway, like a vision of effortless grace. By the looks of it she was having her afternoon tea when Draco had the guts to burst her peaceful moment. Her silver threaded robes draped elegantly over her frame, her deep brown hair styled in a simple but tasteful chignon. Her expression was the precise mix of mild amusement and exasperated fondness that set draco’s nerves on edge. 

She assessed him with one sweeping glance and sighed.

“You look like you’re seconds away from setting yourself on fire.”

Draco narrowed his eyes and huffed. 

“That’s absurd. I am perfectly fine.”

Her brow arched. “I see. And which Gryffindor was it this time?”

Draco exhaled sharply. “ Both of them.”

Astoria waved him to follow her into the sunroom and sit down one of the loveseats. When Draco shed his outer robes and sat down with a tiny bit more calm mind, she offered him a cup of tea and clicked her tongue.

“Draco, you have to stop meeting them in enclosed spaces.”

“It wasn’t my bloody fault,” Draco barely held in a snarl when she sat down across from him and took her cup in her hands. “Potter was being…” he made a strangled gesture as if that could encompass whatever Potter was doing in that godforsaken meeting. “...Potter. And then Weasley was there too and then I just…”

His throat closed. 

Astoria set her teacup down and folded her hand in her lap, eyes sharpening with intrigue. “Go on.”

Draco exhaled through his nose, like a man who was about to confess a murder.

“I touched him.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Potter?”

“Weasley!” Draco burst out, as if that made it better. “I…for some unfathomable, horrifying reason, fixed his lapel. Like some kind of…I don’t know, deranged spouse!”

Astoria blinked. Once. Twice. And then, like a ruthless, traitorous wretch she was, she grinned. 

“Oh, Draco,” she murmured, eyes sparkling. “You are so…”

“Do not say fucked,” he hissed.

“...fucked.”

Draco groaned and leaned back in his chair, pressing his fingers into his temples like he could physically erase the memory from existence.

“You don’t understand,” he muttered. “Potter was there. Breathing. Saying uncouth things like some sort of…” he waved his hand wildly. “...unhinged predator.”

Astoria hummed. “That does sound like Potter.”

“He was…looking at me” Draco continued, voice rising. ”Like I was some kind of prize roast.”

“Ah,” Astoria nodded sagely. “The starving alpha look.”

Draco flinched. “Do not phrase it like that.”

“You must admit, it’s a bit funny.”

“It is not funny,” Draco stood up, his tea completely forgotten. “It’s deeply, deeply unsettling! I spent years cultivating an image of complete untouchability, and in some catastrophic moment of weakness, I not only broke it; I shattered it! In front of the two people least capable of keeping their mouths shut!”

Astoria tried to hide her smile behind her teacup.

“Surely it wasn’t that bad.”

“They both looked like I’d just committed some unspeakable act!”

The brown haired omega considered it a moment and then nodded. “Well, you did.”

“I just brushed the lapel of his robes!”

“Exactly,” she said, eyes gleaming. “That’s basically mating behavior for alphas.”

Draco choked. Astoria sipped her tea, looking far too pleased with herself. 

“Astoria,” he whispered. “I have to leave the country. I need move back to France.”

She just sighed and set her teacup down. “No, darling. You need to get a grip.”

Draco leaned back and closed his eyes, exhaling sharply. A grip. Yes, he would get a grip, he would recover. He would restore order. 

It was only Monday after all. By Friday he would be fine. Wouldn’t he?

Chapter Text

If Draco hadn't suffered enough yesterday, it was evident that today was the day. 

He had been called back to the Zabini estate under the ruse of having afternoon tea. So, there he was, lounging in the sitting room, not making any eye contact. 

Astoria was perched on the opposite chaise, flipping through a magazine. That was actually a muggle magazine as far as Draco could tell: Vogue, possibly. He didn’t dare to take a closer peek and risk catching her eyes.

Blaise was slouching next to her: legs crossed, looking vaguely entertained. 

It had been barely twenty four hours since the incident and Draco was not going to talk about it. 

Astoria cleared her throat. “So,” she started with a tone that immediately made Draco tense. “How’s our favorite pair of Gryffindor?”

Draco did not look up from his untouched tea. Apparently he was forced to talk about it. Ostensibly Astoria was going to talk about it.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Blaise snorted. “Oh, come on Draco. Even I heard about it.”

Draco’s eyes snapped up, full of horror. “Heard?” He squeaked. “From who?”

Blaise just shrugged. “Let’s just say that the Auror department was buzzing.”

“Buzzing?” The blonde made a choked sound. “What does that even mean?”

“It means,” Astoria said, looking pleased. “That Potter and Weasley have already told someone.”

Draco’s soul left his body. 

“No.”

“Oh yes,” Blaise smirked and took a sip of his water. “Apparently Potter spent the rest of the Monday looking deranged and Weasley was caught staring at his robes like they had been violated.”

Astoria gasped and then let out a delighted laugh. “Oh, Draco, he really believes you scented him!”

“I did not!” Draco practically yelled, offended. “It was…I told you, it was just a lapel adjustment! Not a…not a courting display!”

He spat the last words out like they were poison and Astoria just laughed louder, wiping a fake tears from her eyes. 

“Draco, darling. You should know that to a Gryffindor, that was a courting display.”

The thing is, there was no recovery from this. Draco had been thinking about the situation all night and there were no other options: he had to let the talks just die down themselves and suffer for the time being. 

“I have to kill them. Or obliviate. I have to vanish into obscurity.”

“Again?” Blaise raised an eyebrow. “Getting a bit repetitive, don’t you think?”

Draco just ignored him and Astoria sighed dreamily, leaning against her husband like a heroine in those ridiculous romance novels. 

“At least you’re finally making progress with your little Potter problem.”

“My what?”

“Oh don’t try that trick with me,” she waved her hand dismissively. “Potter’s been obsessed with you for years. I mean, at school he was practically stalking you and now? The first time he saw you being back here and working occasionally for the DMLE, he lost all his coherent sense. And you,” she continued, pointing at Draco with one elegant finger. “You have been avoiding that fact like a particularly annoying howler.”

He didn’t want to even stop and think about their sixth or seventh year, so he skipped those memories in his head easily enough. Potter had been testifying for him and his mother in trials. And about six months ago when he came back to England, he had been consulting the DMLE’s potions unit from time to time. 

It wasn’t like he had a need for a job or money. But he wanted to do something while having his sabbatical so why not use his extensive knowledge of potions and muggle drugs in good use?

But the fact that Potter was always acting like he was just a drooling Neanderthal around him because the alpha might like him, sounded outrageous and presumptuous. It was more plausible that Potter, being raised by those horrid muggles, just didn’t know how to act accordingly. Maybe it was some kind of childhood or even war trauma. Or maybe Potter just was like that: a complete creep and there was no remedy for that.

Draco scowled. Astoria was a gentle person, balancing between the fine line of being helpful or being utterly not helpful. Maybe she had read one too many of those bodice ripper books. Blaise should control his wife a bit better. 

“That’s ridiculous.”

Blaise, ever the instigator, tilted his head. “Is it?”

“Yes!” Draco huffed like everyone else had lost their minds. “Potter is not obsessed with me! After everything that has happened between us, it’s outrageous to think that he could ever be obsessed about me!”

Astoria looked at him with a level and unamused look. 

“Sweetheart, he looks at you like you invented the fire.”

“You’re wrong and ridiculous and I don’t even know why I consider you as my friends.”

When Blaise and Astoria seemed to stay in their own giggling bubble, Draco rolled his eyes and stood up. He straightened his trousers and light jumper, both muggle made, and sniffed. 

“I’m leaving. I have more important matters to attend to than continuing to be a laughingstock for you two idiots.”

“Like what?” Astoria asked, completely amused and resting her head against Blaise’s shoulder. “You don’t even work full time, honey.”

“I have family obligations,” he muttered bit petulantly and patted his sleeve just to make sure he had his wand still in there, safely tucked in his arm in a simple holster.

“Since when?” Blaise asked, eyes narrowed in suspicion. 

“Since I decided that I decided to be a worthy cousin to Edward Lupin,” Draco deadpanned and Astoria let out a delighted gasp. 

“Teddy Lupin! Draco, I knew you’re getting soft! He’s such a cutie, please bring him with you someday?”

“No. I’m leaving.”

When Draco stepped out of the Zabini mansion, he felt just a tiny bit better. And his mood was improving rapidly when he, without a second thought, apparated away with a sharp crack and puff of leaves.

In seconds he appeared in front of his aunt Andromeda’s door and after a knock, he entered the house. 

Draco took a breath so he could announce his arrival, when he heard sounds of running and in the same moment something small forcefully smashed into him, making him fall onto his ass with a gasp. The bludger was laughing loudly and suddenly aunt Andromeda stepped into Draco’s view smiling. 

“Oh, you’re here. I’ll put the kettle on.”

Ron was frowning at his plate of food, deep in thought. Harry was closing up the Cliffe-case and there was no reason for them both being there, so he had opted to go to have lunch right away.

Not that he tasted anything. His mind has been all over the place since yesterday when Malfoy was in their office. First he was laying it thick, playing with his omega allure and reducing Harry into a moron. Like a mercury, the next moment he had turned around and started to tear Ron a new one, when he’d been ruffled by the state of the potions. 

When Harry’s unhelpful and totally unsolicited compliments of Malfoy’s waistline came out, of course the situation spiraled out of control: Harry didn’t had an ounce of shame, Ron himself couldn’t even believe his ears and Malfoy seemed to short circuit for a moment. 

He shouldn’t be surprised. Harry barely managed to string two words together when he was too close to Malfoy but this must be a new low.

Surely.

But apparently him being pissed off at Harry wasn’t enough. Now he’d been wide awake late in the morning hours, his mind bouncing between Harry and Malfoy. When Malfoy fixed his lapels, it hardly counted as a touch. It was just a light whisper of the long fingers brushing over the fabric, leaving a hot spot in the wake. Ron remembered the gasp that Harry had let out, the way Malfoy had snatched his hand back like Ron was trying to sever it off. How the grey eyes looked up to him; confused, shocked and scared, before the blonde just fled the room and eventually the whole building without looking back.

Somehow that frustrated him to no end. It wasn’t like he was going to hurt Malfoy, what the hell was that when he looked at Ron so afraid? They are all professionals here, it was a bit too dramatic for Malfoy to run away from the Ministry after that. Sure, the touch was surprising and all but. Maybe it hurt Ron’s heart to see that the ferret would be really afraid of him. Even if the rational part of him was happy about the fact that the insufferable creature was careful around him, he never didn’t want to seem like a monster or threat. If Malfoy just kept his mouth shut and didn’t act like a tosser, it would be enough. 

Granted. Ron didn’t have a lot of experience as in fraternizing with omegas but that really didn’t seem to be normal omega behavior. 

With a huff he pushed his plate away from him and stared at the bustling people who were walking around the atrium. Rationally, Ron knew he needed to talk about this all with someone. But Hermione was in Australia meeting her parents: she had this project to restore even some of their memories. Apparently her research and theories have been fruitful. She had mentioned that one Unspeakable has been interested in her work and promised to help her out. 

So now she wasn’t there to help him. It was hopeless to even think about “what would Hermione do”. Because right now Ron’s brains didn’t offer him anything but the endless loop of pictures about Malfoy. Long ashy brown lashes, the flash of shock and fear in those silver eyes. And then one reckless thought came in without a warning: what if Ron had read the situation all wrong? What if the look in Malfoy’s eyes wasn’t fearful, but something like…maybe something like fluster? 

No way! 

But Ron’s alpha seemed to preen a bit for that thought. But that didn’t mean much: he’s having a bit of a dry spell at the moment. Maybe his alpha preening to every omega they met was a sign of something.

Like an acute need to get laid?

Would Malfoy look like that, shocked and flustered if pushed to his knees, lips parted and those hands hovering over Ron’s thighs unsure. He could get a good grip of that fucking hair, it was long enough, and get it messy just because it was always also pristinely styled. Malfoy was repeatedly swanning around with an air of untouchable confidence and Ron would love to see when it all was tossed away and he’d be forced to be a humble little omega. 

Something told Ron that Malfoy wasn’t that easy to tame though. But who has decided that Ron isn’t up to the challenge? 

His thoughts drifted into explicit images: Draco Malfoy, utterly debauched, pale skin marked with hickeys and bite marks, his pristine hair mussed beyond recognition. The arrogant omega, fucked pliant and boneless beneath him. The mere idea sent a rush of heat straight to Ron’s cock.

It was almost poetic thought in a twisted way: generations of rivalry culminating in him having the honor of fucking that prissy little Malfoy into the mattress. What kind of sounds would he make? Would he be loud? Would he whimper and beg?

Ron’s cheeks went hot and he felt shivers going down his spine, and then suddenly: Harry. All casual and smiley, flopped down across from Ron at the table like he hadn’t just been in the middle of a wildly inappropriate daydream. 

Ron blinked, his stomach twisting uncomfortably. If nothing else, Harry’s presence helped kill his raging hard-on. But it didn’t quite ease the lingering heat under his skin, nor the small burning jab of guilt. Because Malfoy had always been Harry’s best and worst fantasy, hadn’t he? Always hovering somewhere in that hazy, unspoken space between obsession and hatred. 

And now Ron was the one thinking about Malfoy like that. His jaw clenched and suddenly he was irritated. 

No, he was furious. 

“Jeez Ron, what’s up with you?” Harry asked, eyeing him over his sandwich. “You look like you’re going to explode.”

Ron barely reeled himself in. Apparently he had finally hit his breaking point. Because Harry’s flippant, casual and carefree attitude towards everything started to piss him off.

“You,” he snapped. “You are the problem, Harry.”

“What the hell, Ron?” Harry blinked at him, startled.

“You act like everything is bloody peachy when it’s not!”

Harry snorted. “Peachy? Seriously? Who even says that?”

That only made Ron’s temper spike higher. 

“You think you’re the center of the bloody universe, but maybe, just maybe, people don’t actually want to be around you!”

Harry had the audacity to laugh. “You’re so full of shite. Everyone wants to be around me, I’m delightful!”

Ron saw red. “You're a reckless alpha with no care for anyone else but yourself! You act like a slut and treat Grimmauld like a whorehouse. That’s my home too, if you don’t remember.”

For a moment Harry was speechless and he just stared at Ron. 

Then his jaw tightened, his expression darkening. He leaned closer to Ron, eyes flashing behind his glasses.

“Didn’t realize you cared so much about my sex life, mate,” he muttered, voice low and edged with something dangerous. 

Ron didn’t back down. He couldn’t back down now.

“Fuck off,” he spat. “You go through people like sweets, not even thinking…”

“Oh, so now you’re my mother?” Harry snapped and sat back. “I didn’t realize I needed permission to have a little fun.”

“Fun?” Ron let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “That’s what you call it? Having your dick in people who are just willing enough…”

Harry slammed his hands down on the table with a sharp crack, rattling the plates and silverware.

“You don’t get to judge me,” he growled and Ron shot him a cold and unimpressed look. 

“Oh, I bloody well do,” he said, voice scathing. “You’re just a silly whore who doesn’t think about anyone but himself…!”

Harry saw red. They were both on their feet now, inches apart, tension vibrating between them like a live wire. 

Someone somewhere whispered something about a betting pool and then…

Ron shoved Harry, hard, setting Harry stumble back into a few chairs, eyes blazing.

Harry grinned, wild and reckless and shoved Ron right back, nearly knocking over the table. 

“That’s all you got, Ron?” Harry taunts, rolling up his sleeves. Ron growled and reached for his wand when suddenly Blaise Zabini was there. 

Looking both extremely bored and mildly exasperated, he walked in like king arriving fashionably late to his own party. 

“What,” the dark skinned Italian drawled, looking between both of them, “is this utter spectacle I’m walking in on? A lover’s quarrel in the middle of the Ministry? How unconventional.”

Ron bristled immediately. “Fuck off, Zabini.”

Harry, rubbing his jaw, smirked. “Yeah, this is a private fight, mate.”

Zabini arched a slow, cold brow. “Oh please, it stopped being private the moment Weasley started screaming about your rakish tendencies in front of the entire Ministry, mate,” he gestured vaguely to the very invested audience of Ministry employees watching the show.

There was a brief silence where Ron looked around and saw that indeed, everyone was watching. His ears turned bright red and he was sure that he would die in embarrassment. Harry, the arrogant bastard, just dusted off his robes. 

“He’s got a point Ron.”

But Ron had enough. He just stormed away, knocking his shoulder against Harry’s while making his hasty exit.

It wasn’t satisfactory enough and Ron stormed out of the cafeteria, stomping his way to the direction of the nearest apparition point. His hands shook in anger when the adrenaline rushed in his veins making his ears hum, while his skin prickled with humiliation.

He hoped that Harry stayed behind, never mind the fact that his heart twinged when his wishes came true. 

It was horrible. If Harry had followed him, Ron was sure he’d throttle him without hesitation but on the other hand…

Yeah, fuck that. 

Something painful and burning churned in his stomach when he apparated away, just so he could land in the middle of Grimmauld’s living room. The dust arose in small clouds around him and Kreacher’s incoherent muttering was coming closer from the hallway. Not going to wait around, Ron stormed out of the living room, up the stairs, and into the safety of his own room. 

Suddenly he didn’t have enough air to breathe, his skin felt too small for him. Tears of frustration and confusion tried to escape his eyes and he just ripped the Auror robes off of him, throwing the garments in a messy puddle in the middle of the floor. 

It was like some kind of dark creature was after him. With sharp tugs and swift movements he dressed himself more comfortably: muggle jeans, trainers, white t-shirt and brown overshirt. He had grown out his red hair, usually tying it back in a haphazard bun to keep wild, wavy strands out of his eyes.  

Sometimes he thought the longer hair would make him look rugged like Bill or Charlie but that illusion didn’t last long. Lately it has been pure laziness. 

Now he tugged it tightly with a hair tie into a messy knot to the back of his head. Final check; wand: in its holster, wallet: in the back pocket of his jeans. 

He practically ran out of the Grimmauld and jogged to the first alleyway: his instincts drove him out of the wizarding areas, he moved like a madman, just to find himself in the muggle London. 

The sounds of the cars and buses filled his ears and when the first shock wore off, Ron took a deep, shaky breath. 

Now what? 

If Ron was completely honest with himself now, when he took first hesitant steps toward the bustling streets of the muggle side of London, he never before even dared to think about it. Crossing the line, that is. 

Harry was too comfortable living his life in a magical world and Ron understood that wholeheartedly; Harry didn’t exactly have the nicest memories of his life in the muggle world. Hermione still moved between worlds like nothing, of course she did.

If they’d been together longer, maybe Hermione would have shown him around. But they hadn’t, and they never ventured into muggle territory together. 

And now Ron was here, she wasn’t and he didn’t know what to do. 

Of course he could go back: just one wave of his wand and he’d be home. But then again…

Ron exhaled sharply, shoving his wand into his pocket before stuffing his hands in after it. The flashing lights of the city felt foreign for him, but the sound of laughter from a group of young women nearby spurred him into motion. They were dressed in a mix of styles, some in little more than wisps of fabric, others in casual jeans and tops. He wouldn’t know what was normal; the muggleborns he knew didn’t dress like this, but here it seemed ordinary. 

The muggle world felt strangely muted. Without secondary genders, Ron caught only the faintest traces of perfume and the warm, distinctively human scent of passing strangers. The air was different too: a heady mix of petroleum, food, sweat and the sour tang of rubbish left too long in the heat. 

He’d been wandering for a while, pushing away the lingering frustration of his catastrophic Tuesday. Ron really wasn’t in a mood to dwell on that stupid fight with Harry or the real reasons behind his own short temper. No; he’d shut it all down. A change of scenery, that’s what he needed. 

Crossing another street, he was weaving through the crowds until something, someone, made him stop. 

Ron wasn't sure how long he’d been walking. Probably a few hours; the sky had turned into a dusky shade and people were slipping into jackets and light sweaters against the cooling air. 

Ahead of him, a small corner shop glowed gold in dimming light, casting warm streaks onto the pavement. And next to it, leaning casually against the wall, stood a figure. 

Ron couldn’t say what, exactly, caught his attention. In any moment he would have walked past: just another muggle on the street. 

But this wasn’t just any muggle. And he wasn’t a muggle at all. 

It was Draco sodding Malfoy. 

Something was wedged between his shoulder and his ear, one arm folded across his chest, the other holding a cigarette. He was smiling, his lips moving in a low murmur; not to himself, Ron noticed, but into slim, rectangular contraption in his ear.

A mobile phone. 

Ron’s brains went into full panic mode. 

He needed to leave. Turn around, get the hell out of here. But instead he edged forward, slowly and carefully, heart pounding so loudly it nearly drowned out the city noise around him. 

Suddenly the wind shifted. Malfoy’s scent hit him, stronger than he’d ever noticed before. It was rich and sharp, just like the flowers and the amber he’d noticed before, threaded with the cigarette smoke and something inherently him, and it sent a thrill through Ron’s chest. The excitement that was dark, dangerous and impossible to understand.

Then Malfoy turned and their eyes met, silver locking onto blue and the thrill in Ron’s chest tripled. Malfoy smiled. He didn’t smirk, he didn’t sneer. It was a small, knowing smile, and then the git waved. 

It was just a small movement of his fingers, casual, private and utterly flirty and Ron felt his ears heat. 

Malfoy’s eyes gleamed with mischief and curiosity as he took one final drag of his cigarette and ended the call. He dropped the butt of his cig in the ground and stepped on it.

Somehow, Ron wasn’t even sure how, he was suddenly standing right next to Malfoy. Too close by any normal standard. But then again, when did anything about Malfoy being normal? 

The blonde let his gaze drift over Ron, slow and unashamedly taking him in like he had all the time in the world. A shiver ran through Ron’s spine and trust that Malfoy would notice that. His smile didn’t falter, if anything, it deepened. Smug bastard. Clearly he’d recovered from Monday’s episode quite well. 

Ron forced himself to really look at Malfoy. The fussy menace had let his hair down, loose and longer than Ron had ever seen it. Silky waves spilled over his shoulders, reaching the middle of his back. And his clothes, Merlin’s balls, what was he wearing? 

A fully muggle outfit. And it was altering Ron’s brains. Slim black jeans, tailored just right, and oversized, lightweight jumper in icy blue and sleek black moccasins. Casual and effortless, but Ron knew the price tag on those clothes had to be obscene. 

His gaze caught the bare skin peeking from the wide neckline of Malfoy’s sweater, the fabric falling off of his shoulder. Showing the delicate juncture of his neck, the sliver of his collarbones. 

Ron’s stomach flipped. 

Shameless.

Malfoy was a pureblood omega. Should he even be out here looking like that? What the fuck was he playing at? The most fastidious, posh and arrogant git Ron had ever known, was standing in a muggle part of the city, in muggle clothes, using muggle contraptions and smoking muggle cigarettes. There had to be a catch. 

There was no bloody way that Draco Malfoy, the blue blooded heir to an old, supremacist family, was suddenly at ease here. Among the very people he’d been taught to hate and avoid since his birth. 

Ron got barely his thoughts in order before Malfoy made a small movement, leaning a fracture in Ron’s space.

“Ronald,” the omega purred, arching a single eyebrow, his voice all smooth silk and lazy amusement. “To what do I owe the pleasure.”

Suddenly Ron didn’t know where to look, so he let his gaze drop. He saw the long fingers playing with the small, rectangular and silver colored thing, mobile phone, with ease. His curiosity took over and before he could stop himself he found himself asking:

“Why do you have that?”

Malfoy’s smirk turned into something a bit predatory and he schooled his face into feigned innocence. 

“Why, of course, to stay in contact with my muggle paramours,” the omega replied, his voice making Ron’s skin go all goosebumps. “Haven’t you heard? They don’t have secondary genders and their endurance is something otherworldly.”

Ron groaned and rubbed his heated face in his hands. 

“Just. Stop. I didn’t want to know that.”

“What, exactly do you mean?” Malfoy gave a thoughtful hum and tapped his nail against the sleek metal of his phone. “Their endurance or that fact that I know about it firsthand?”

Ron couldn’t possibly turn any redder in his face. “Merlin, Malfoy…!”

Malfoy’s smile turned positively wicked. “Oh Ronald, are you blushing?” He tilted his head in curious movement. “Are you even legally allowed to be here in muggle London? Should I call an escort? A guard dog? Maybe a…”

“That’s it,” Ron lifted his hand in front of Malfoy’s face so he could stop his nonsense. “I’m leaving.”

Of course meeting with Malfoy would be like this. Malfoy always flaunted his sharp way of words, wielding it like a sword and was always ready to poke Ron with it. It was a never ending cycle. 

When he was ready to turn away, Malfoy scoffed exaggeratedly loud. “But of course you are,” the bastard had the nerve to say. “I suppose it is a little overwhelming, isn’t it?”

Don’t take the bait.

Ron stopped and looked over his shoulder, frowning. 

“What is?”

Malfoy gestured around vaguely. “Muggle London,” he said like it was crystal clear what he meant. “Culture shock, I imagine. Now howlers, no hovering plates of whatever desserts you want. No mum sending your jumpers via owl,” he sighed, wistfully dramatic. “It’s perfectly reasonable that you’d be oh, what was the word…intimidated.”

Don’t take the bait. 

Ron turned around to face Malfoy again. “I’m not intimidated!”

Malfoy grinned victoriously. “Excellent. Come with me then. One drink, I’ll pay. Unless of course you don’t trust yourself alone with me.”

“What?” Ron blinked. He had missed the jab about his mother, he had let slide the comment about him being untrustworthy in Malfoy’s company but…

“One drink? Why would I do that?” He had to ask. Malfoy leaned closer, voice lower and smoother. 

“Because you’re dying to know why I’m here, why I’m doing this, how I know more about this world than you do and because you’d hate yourself if you walked away without finding out,” he smirked and winked. 

Ron gritted his teeth. Fucking Malfoy, he’s right. 

“Fine,” he finally muttered, clenching his jaw and crossing his arms over his chest like he was sulking. “One drink.”

Ron didn’t know what possessed him to make that decision. It was also an unnerving sight to see Malfoy smirking at him like a smuggest bastard alive. With a whirl the omega turned around and sauntered towards the end of the street without looking back.

And Ron had no other option than just scamper after him. 

It didn’t take long for them to arrive in front of a muggle building that looked for Ron a bit like a forgotten industrial building with its tall windows and red brick walls. He looked the building up and down suspiciously, but nothing revealed anything about it and it made him feel a bit uneasy. Malfoy looked excited; never a good sign. 

Before Ron could say anything, long fingers curled around his bicep and suddenly he was dragged between the two buildings. The fact that it was Malfoy who was manhandling him to a narrow alleyway wasn’t as alarming as the warm, jittery feeling that was shooting through him. And the burning feeling where Malfoy’s hand was touching him, even through the fabric of his sleeve. 

In the alleyway Malfoy made a beeline to a narrow, heavy looking metal door and opened it. The blonde didn’t say a word, just shot Ron a knowing smile before stepping inside. Ron exhaled sharply, closing his eyes for a second and followed. He didn’t feel any wards or traces of magic so the property had to be muggle. 

“Oh do relax Ronald,” Malfoy grinned as they started to ascend the metal stairs. The omega sounded more delighted than anything and his voice lacked the usual bite. When Ron just huffed, Malfoy continued with a cheerful tone: 

“You should be flattered, Weasley. I don’t usually bother luring Aurors into my dens of debauchery, bad for business. But you? I simply couldn’t resist!”

“You’re not helping, Malfoy.”

Finally at the top of the stairs, they stepped onto a clearing. Ron looked around a bit nervously: the room wasn’t especially large. The bar had dark walls, some metal accents around it, dividing the one room into smaller, cozier spaces. The tables were high, the dimly lit lamps were hanging low. On Ron’s right there was a one long bar with two bartenders. There were quite a lot of customers. Some upbeat, not disturbing muggle music was playing in a sensible volume. 

Malfoy swanned his way to the bar and nodded Ron to follow him. With hesitant hands he took the offered menu from the Slytherin and started to read it: the liquors were foreign and the drink names weren’t helping him either. 

In the wizarding world it was easier. Sure, there were options in beers, liquors and drinks overall, but at least there he knew what he would have if he asked for an ale and a tumbler of firewhiskey. 

Tall muggle man, not much older than them, leaned forward with a friendly smile that reached his dark eyes.

“What can I get for you?”

And the spotlight was on him. Ron shifted uncomfortably and took a deep breath, words in the menu blurring. For him, the quiet moment just dragged on, but then Malfoy relented and smiled pleasantly at the muggle.

“I’ll take your Sancerre Sauvignon blanc and he’s going to get your Samuel Smith’s pale ale and Macallan 18, neat.”

The bartender nodded and started to get their drinks ready while Ron let out a quiet breath. Malfoy nodded towards the closest booth that was just a high table with two stylish bar stools cramped in one corner.

“We’re going to sit there,” the blonde said. He’ll bring the drinks for us.”

When Ron sat down, his back to the bar, the silence made him even more nervous. The tension between them was palpable. Malfoy sat across from him, crossing his fingers in front of him on the table. He had a bored expression on his face, the silver eyes scanning curiously Ron and his surroundings. 

The bastard was completely at ease and that was infuriating. The omega wasn’t going to break the tension, and stubbornly Ron was keeping his mouth shut too. 

Their drinks arrived and when the bartender set down a pint of beer and the tumbler of whiskey in front of Ron, something snapped in him and he downed the amber liquid like a cheap shot. It burned his throat pleasantly and the spicy oak tingled in his mouth, making him feel warm. 

Malfoy just arched an unimpressed eyebrow. 

“Weasley, tell me you didn’t drink that whiskey like an utter cretin,” he drawled, not completely hiding his judgemental tone.

“Malfoy, I’m begging you,” Ron gritted back. “Between the two of us, I am the commoner. And I don’t have the patience for your posh nonsense right now.”

Malfoy just looked at him. For Ron, it felt like the brat was really, honestly looking at him for a second, before he turned his focus back to the bartender. Ron flinched: he hadn’t even noticed the bartender was still standing there. 

“Get him another one, will you?” 

Ron should feel some semblance of shame, for acting like an uncivilized brute in front of Malfoy, but Malfoy was right now getting his nerves and Malfoy is a prick anyway, so there’s that. 

When the new tumbler of whiskey was set in front of Ron, Malfoy leaned forward, eyes locked with the redhead’s.

“Sip. Like a cultured man.”

Ron did what was ordered. It was delicious: deep, warm, rich. Curious, he took a sip of his beer and the flavors balanced surprisingly well. 

Trust Malfoy to know his liquor pairs. Posh brat. 

The heat of the whiskey had already settled in his chest, softening the sharp edges of his thoughts. Across the table, Malfoy watched him over the rim of his wine glass, expression unreadable. Waiting. 

Maybe it was the whiskey, or maybe it was the dim light, the quiet hum of conversation, the way the muggles didn’t give a toss about them. Whatever the reason, Ron found himself relaxing. Malfoy wasn’t actively being a git. He wasn’t goading him. And without that sharp, immediate need to stay on guard, Ron could lean back a little, twirling his tumbler in his fingers.

“So,” he started casually. “Tell me: why are you back in London? I thought you had a whole life in France.”

“And I still do,” the omega replied, pleasant as ever before taking another sip of the wine. “I worked hard to get my name cleared. At least enough to be tolerated in certain circles. Got my potions mastery, fast-tracked my master’s in muggle forensic toxicology, consulted for the Bureau de la Justice Magique. And now I’m here.”

Malfoy smiled, actually smiled, and waved his hand in the air, as if here meant something vague and abstract, rather than in a dark muggle bar with a suspicious Auror.

“The muggles call it a gap year. I call it a sabbatical. I missed my friends and family.”

Ron frowned and took a gulp of his beer. “But I thought your mother lives in France too?”

“She does,” Malfoy said smoothly and then tilted his head, expression just amused enough to be infuriating. “She’s not the only member of my family.”

Ron squinted at him. There was something in Malfoy’s voice, something measured and deliberate. And the git let him hear it. 

It was a challenge, left on the table like an unspoken dare. Ron sat up a little. 

“Who, then?”

Malfoy only took another sip of his drink, clearly enjoying himself. “You’re the Auror, Weasley. You tell me.”

Ron exhaled sharply through his nose, already irritated. “You know, it’s exhausting talking to you sometimes.”

“Oh I know”, Malfoy murmured, almost affectionate and set his glass down. Then, just like that, he pivoted the topic. “So, tell me Weasley. What’s it like? Playing Auror. Investigating the dangerous underbelly of wizarding society. Does it make you important?”

And like that, the genuine and maybe a bit vulnerable moment was gone. Malfoy had successfully redirected the conversation, amusement flickering in his eyes. Ron knew he lost the moment to get more questions in. 

“You're a really taxing company, Malfoy.”

Malfoy just beamed at him.

Ron just huffed, lifting his beer and taking a deliberate sip. For a moment neither of them spoke. The bar hummed around them, low chatter, clinking glasses, the faint thrum of the music in the background. 

Malfoy was difficult. He had dropped some breadcrumbs around himself and his life after the war. But nothing really stood out; they mostly confirmed what Ron already knew. He shouldn’t be surprised about Malfoy being a swot and working his ass off to get a better light on his name. The fact that he had family here in London still was unanticipated; friends Ron understood well. But who are the family members then? If Narcissa was in France and Lucius in Azkaban and Bellatrix dead… 

Ron’s musings came to an abrupt stop when new thought came to his mind. He smirked and tilted his head.

“Speaking of taxing; do you want to tell me what the hell that was yesterday?”

Malfoy’s fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around his wine glass.  

“Yesterday?” He echoed smoothly. “You’ll have to be more specific, Ronald. The DMLE is taxing every day I walk in there.”

The alpha gave him a slow, knowing look. “Oh, come on. You know what I’m talking about.” He tapped a finger against the side of his glass. “Harry. You. That absolute scene in our little office.”

Malfoy’s lips pressed together for a half of a second, just enough for Ron to see it, before the mask slid back into place. 

“I fail to see what was so remarkable about it,” the blonde said airily. Ron let out a short laugh and shook his head. 

“Malfoy. You fled the building. You touched me, fixed my robes. Do you know how bad that had to be for you to lose your head like that?”

Malfoy made a tiny, sharp sound that was something between a scoff and incredulous huff and with an irritated flick, he tossed his hair over his shoulder like a particularly skittish unicorn. 

“I did no such thing.”

Ron snorted. “You did exactly such a thing.”

“It was a reflex. And I did not run…”

“You bolted,” the alpha interrupted. “Like the bloody building was on fire.”

Draco narrowed his eyes dangerously. “Don’t be ridiculous. If anything, I needed to exit with efficiency. You both were acting too strange and whatever transpired between you and Potter, I didn’t want to witness.”

Ron just gave him a long, unimpressed look before taking a swig of his beer. “Right. Efficiently bolted.”

Draco just huffed, his fingers still curled tightly around the stem of his wine glass. His cool gaze stayed on Ron before he just shook his head. 

“Honestly Ronald. If you’re this fixated on one fleeting moment of physical contact, I shudder to think how you handle actual intimacy.”

“Well, that’s rich, coming from a man who practically combusted over brushing my lapel.”

“Oh Ronald, you’re definitely thinking about yourself too highly here. How predictable and not even surprising.”

Their evening was full of surprises after that. Even if Ron had started out lost in an unfamiliar muggle world, hia only guide Draco Malfoy, he had to admit,  begrudgingly maybe, that he’d actually enjoyed himself. Malfoy knew his way around, understood the currency, the customs, the shortcuts throughout the city. And for all his sharp tongue and quick wit, he had been a steady presence, making sure Ron wasn’t completely out of his depth. 

Now, as Malfoy led him into a dingy alleyway tucked between two buildings, Ron was still in a good mood. A bit tipsy maybe, but still aware enough to arch a brow when Malfoy muttered quiet spell and summoned a soft glowing blue flames between them. 

“You do remember that I’m Auror, right?”

The omega blinked at him before smirking. 

“And I’m a Death Eater. My evil plans are to blind all the muggles with my wandless bluebell flames.”

“That is impressive wandless casting,” Ron conceded with an emphasized nod and then asked dryly: “Are you going to levitate me to bed too?”

“If you ask nicely.”

Ron huffed a laugh, but Malfoy was already stepping ahead, stopping in front of a battered old phone box. In the dim light, Ron could see the peeling black paint beneath the rust, the cracked glass squares, the way the door barely hung onto its hinges. 

“What’s this?”

“This alley is charmed. You didn’t notice when we stepped in. But the alley is owned by an old wizard.” Malfoy patted his pockets as if looking for something. “I don’t go into the wizarding world much anymore, you know, being barely tolerated at best and all that. But this way, you can enter Diagon Alley and use Leaky’s floo to get home.”

Ron squinted at him. “Why can't I use your floo?”

Malfoy turned, expression sharp, stepping just a little too close. “Curious to see my humble abode, Weasley? Wanting me to tuck you in my bed, hm?”

Ron gaped, heat creeping up his neck. Malfoy, the absolute git, always managed to turn things back on Ron. 

“Didn’t think so,” the Slytherin murmured, sounding almost disappointed as he stepped away and gestured to rhe phone box instead. 

“Step in, put the receiver to your ear like you’re making a call. Drop these in the slot and wait. The floor will open and you’ll land on your feet behind the Flourish and Blotts.”

Malfoy held out two sickles. Ron reached for them, and as their hands brushed, something warm rippled through him, sending a  little shiver down his spine. 

Malfoy didn’t react, or maybe he just ignored it. His mask was firmly in place.

And suddenly Ron realized that their night had come to an end. There was a twinge of disappointment in his heart. His alpha was definitely worried; he didn’t remember the last time he had this much fun. 

Malfoy smiled, just a small and fleeting but real one. 

“Thank you for the evening. It was…interesting,” he said and Ron wanted to say something, anything, but he had lost his voice. So he just curled his fingers around the cool coins and nodded. 

Malfoy have him a one last look.

“Owl me.”

And then he was gone. 

Ron stood there, gripping the sickles, long after Malfoy had disappeared into the darkness, taking the balls of light with him. The warmth of his touch had faded, but something else lingered; something heady and strange. It was curling in Ron’s chest like smoke. It was safe to say that Malfoy had this kind of effect on him.

It wasn’t just that Ron had a good time and that he could completely forget the petty fight with Harry. It wasn’t even the fact that Malfoy had been tolerable. It was the way the night unfolded, the way Malfoy had pulled him into something unexpected and unfamiliar. 

Malfoy was…he was bright.

Not like Harry, who burned hot and fast, all reckless fire and furious warmth. Not like Hermione, whose brilliance could illuminate an entire city if you let it. 

No, Malfoy’s light was different. It was sharp and wry, like a flash of Lumos in the middle of the night, revealing what was hidden, what was waiting to be found. It was knowing smirks, steady hands. It was quiet confidence and effortless grace. 

And well. 

Ron had liked it. 

That thought alone unsettled him more than anything. 

With a shake of his head, he stepped into the phone box, pressed the receiver to his ear and dropped the coins into the slot. He took a steady breath as the floor gave out beneath him.

He landed on his feet, barely steady. And as he made his way toward the Leaky Cauldron, Malfoy’s words still echoed in his mind. 

“Owl me.”

Chapter Text

The spiteful part of Harry wanted to go about his day like nothing was wrong, but the louder, more volatile part of him ached to let go: to see his magic crackle and tear through the Atrium.

Granted, Harry knew he could be dense. Intricate, barely there social clues? They flew over his head without fail. 

But he had noticed how tense Ron had been lately. He looked more tired, movements a bit more sluggish than usual. But when it was just the two of them, there weren't any issues. What happened? Ron’s sudden irate behavior has almost blindsided him. 

Harry’s thoughts ran back to school years despite himself: Ron’s sulking in the third, his jealousy in the fourth, the bristling defiance that came with it all. Was this another cycle?

His racing thoughts went to an abrupt stop when someone moved in his periphery and with a slight jolt Harry came back to the present. For a second he thought he was already left alone, but apparently he was wrong. 

Blaise Zabini was still standing there, looking Harry up and down, dark eyes full of curiosity. The Unspeakable seemed to weigh something before his expression shifted into something genuine and almost open. It startled Harry. He wasn’t even sure Slytherins were capable of looking that…human. 

“Are you okay, Potter?”

The question surprised Harry even more in its sincerity and he had to frown. 

“Yes?”

“Are you asking me?” Zabini smirked and Harry just rolled his eyes. There it was, the cheeky nature of snakes. 

“Uh,” Harry had to swallow and shrug. “No. I’m okay. Thank you.” 

Zabini looked at him one last time with a strange impression and with a nod, left. Harry looked at his retreating back and barely noticed how the rest of the audience started to scatter around in a hurry. He shot an ugly glare at the escaping crowd, making some of them bow their heads. 

Harry exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. His magic coiled under his skin, restless and bitter, like a storm rolling on the horizon, refusing to break. He needed to move, he needed to get out before he did something stupid. The walls of the Ministry felt suffocating and with a frustrated hiss he turned in his heel and stalked towards the exit.

People scampered around him, making him way while trying to not look too guilty. 

He stormed out of the Ministry by the main doors, and took a good lungful of air first thing the door closed behind him. 

The summer sun warmed his face, but it didn’t touch the cold knot of anger and sadness twisting inside him. Something ugly twisted deep in his ribs, cutting and clawing. Harry didn’t know what to do with himself and after a deep breath he closed his eyes and focused on the location in Cotswolds. 

The moment he landed outside Andromeda’s house, he barely took in the picturesque garden or the winding brook nearby. His magic was still coiled tight, his breath was unsteady; he felt like he wanted to scream. 

With a huff he closed his eyes, trying to calm himself down. 

A delicate chime of the wards announced Andromeda about the arriving guest. She took a sip of her tea, relishing the rare quiet of the early afternoon. The house was never truly silent, not with a lively young metamorphmagus around, but the momentary stillness was a small comfort. She was just about to call Teddy inside for lunch when the front door was opened and urgent, heavy footsteps carried from the hallway. Then, a bit frayed looking Harry was standing in her kitchen doorway, his Auror robes still settling around him. 

Andromeda’s first instinct was to worry: of course Harry was more than welcomed to visit her and Teddy whenever he was able to, but Harry often came on Sundays. Has something happened? 

She took in the young alpha in front of her, carefully giving him a firm once over: eyes wide behind those glasses, hair all wild, cheeks red like he had run through the forest. The boy vibrated with restless energy, his magic gently rattling the cupboards. 

Oh, she’s seen Harry in that same frazzled state before, now it all makes sense; presumably her unruly and capricious nephew has something to do with Harry’s current mood. She had already once gently suggested that Draco wouldn’t antagonize Harry too much, but apparently her suggestions had fallen for deaf ears.

“Harry,” she said, setting down her own cup of tea, her voice steady and calm. “You look like you’re about to hex my oven. Please, sit down before you do something you regret.”

A bit out of breath Harry’s shoulders sagged and without any grace he slumped across from her in the free seat, dropping his head against the table. With a gentle sigh Andromeda stood up from her seat and went to get one cup of tea for Harry too. She knew to wait: Harry would start his rants any minute now. 

The silence was palpable in the airy, butter yellow kitchen that was even brighter in the afternoon sun. Harry’s right knee was bouncing and when he finally sat back straighter, he started to fidget the sleeves of his crimson red robes. Andromeda frowned a bit; Draco’s a menace by his own accord, but surely Harry wouldn’t get into such a turmoil just solely because of Draco’s needling. 

When she set down a fresh cup of steaming tea in front of Harry, she sat down and just took a delicate sip of her own tea. Harry sighed deep and bit his lips. Andromeda followed his fidgeting, thinking what kind of awful spat he and Draco might’ve had, when suddenly Harry spoke up:

“Ron has been acting weird lately. And we had a fight.”

Andromeda frowned in surprise: Ron Weasley? Harry’s best friend and roommate?  

“He’s been on edge, all irate and snappy and snarky and apparently we’ve now reached a breaking point. He started to spew some nonsense at me at lunch, in the middle of the Ministry cafeteria, can you believe it?” Harry continued, not noticing how Andromeda’s dark eyes narrowed a bit. “I mean…fine, maybe I’ve been a little…busy. Maybe I haven’t spent every waking moment catering to Ron’s feelings but that doesn’t justify him going full on screaming match with me, broadcasting my relationships to everyone! He just snapped!” Harry threw his arms out, almost smacking his teacup. “In the Ministry! I can't go to work anymore! And the worst part? I have no idea why he did that. None! It just came out of nowhere!”

Fascinated, Andromeda leaned in, folding her hands on the table. She gave a small humming sound, unimpressed. “Did it?”

Harry shot her a scandalized look. “Yes, Andromeda, it did! You think I wouldn’t notice if my best mate was about to lose his mind over my sex life? And then, then, of all the people, Zabini jumps in. And not to make it worse, oh of course not, because Slytherins never do the obvious thing, he actually broke up the fight! Do you know how terrifying it is when Blaise Zabini agrees with you? He asked if I’m okay!” Harry groaned and ran his hand through already messy hair once again. 

“I Imagine it would be unsettling,” Andromeda agreed easily and nodded as if to emphasize. 

“‘You are the problem Harry’, ‘Grimmauld is a brothel, Harry’, ‘you’re just a silly tramp, Harry’, Merlin!” He muttered bitterly and took a small gulp of the tea. “And speaking of Slytherins…!”

She lifted a brow. Ah. There it is. 

“...I saw Malfoy yesterday and he’s only getting worse, what a fucking muppet that one is. Made myself a fool once again in front of him! But I mean, what’s with that, looking just like…What I mean is that as if I don’t have enough shit to deal with: Ron has lost his mind and Zabini’s playing a moral compass and I swear to Godric, I’m being targeted!”

While Harry continued his rant, Andromeda let his voice fall into the background for a moment: she needed to think. 

Harry wasn’t exactly subtle when it comes to his dalliances with adoring fans and what Andromeda had gathered, the dark haired alpha took every given advantage he was bestowed upon. She had heard some sly gossip about Harry and his long line of lovers, every single poor heart kicked out after one night without any hope of second chances. 

This was the first time she’s ever heard him have a tirade about Ron. Andromeda herself was surprised by the fact that two young alphas were capable of living together without any issues for four years. Granted, there were some growth pains at the beginning, but then again, the war had just ended so some complications were expected. 

She didn’t really know much about Ron Weasley. Harry had decided to keep meetings with Teddy coveted and in a sense she could understand it. Harry’s life has been more or less public from every possible aspect so if he wants to keep his godson as private matter as possible, so be it. For that reason, when Andromeda had met the red haired alpha, it had been just in passing; they’d exchange some pleasantries and that’s the long and short of it. Harry didn’t even breath a bad word about Ron, so she had this belief that they managed just fine. 

Her thoughts slipped to her nephew; the pale omega was after all always possessed that distinctly Black-family way of needling people, not out of true malice, but simply because he could. It wasn’t real antagonism; it was Draco being playful, teasing and snarking when he was comfortable. She has lost her count for the times when poor Harry had groaned and moaned about Draco and his inconvenient return from France. First she was worried that England was far too small for the two of them, but the more Harry was bemoaning about Draco’s antics, the more sure she was that they wouldn’t be tearing each other apart any time soon. 

She tuned in, just in time to hear how Harry was still raving about something utterly ridiculous, probably about her nephew:

“...And honestly, if I die from sheer frustration, I want to put it on record that it is all bloody Draco Malfoy’s fault…” 

She had to narrow her eyes and let her gaze roam over that frantic young man across from her. Harry still had this nervous aura around him, his movements jittery and sharp when he talked with his hands. There was a red hue on his cheeks, creeping closer to his ears that peeked underneath that ruffled hair.

Andromeda had to let out a quiet, understanding hum. It made all sense now. How had she not seen it sooner? The restless energy rolling off Harry in waves, the way his magic stirred the air like a brewing storm. That deep red color in his golden skin. Oh Circe.

There have been some incidents in the past, when she has been arriving to Grimmauld and from a safe distance had she witnessed some walk of shames: there was this time when she saw how auburn brown haired young man sneaked out from the Grimmauld’s front door to the street, and another time where she saw how willowy young witch apparating away in the closest alleyway. Normally Andromeda wouldn’t pay any mind for such a thing, but the girl had long, platinum blonde hair: for a second Andromeda had to wonder if it was her nephew…or perhaps Luna Lovegood. 

But apparently, neither. 

Amused, she tried to get a word in between Harry’s ranting, when suddenly a stomping sound interrupted them both and blue haired Teddy was standing in the kitchen doorway, smiling brightly at his godfather.

“Harry!” The boy exclaimed and gave a wide smile that missed a couple front teeth. The tension on Harry’s shoulders eased instantly when he saw the blue haired boy, the air in the room getting lighter and he leaned down to pick Teddy up in his lap with a oof. 

“You’re getting heavy!”

Teddy laughed, a delighted sound and nodded grinning. “Gran says I’m getting taller and taller. But why are you here, Harry? It’s not Sunday yet. And why are you upset with cousin Dae?”

Harry froze in his place and looked at the boy with wide eyes. He felt like his heart stuttered in his chest and his breath hitched a bit. There was a creeping feeling in his mind. Who the…Oh no, Teddy can’t mean….! 

Andromeda saw how Harry quickly went through a complicated myriad of emotions, settling finally on confusion, his large hands grabbing a bit more tightly around Teddy, mouth parted and eyes blinking when he tried to process what Teddy had just revealed. She leaned back in her seat, taking another sip.  

“Cousin Dae?” Harry repeated with a bit of a faint voice. “Oh, I don’t…I had a silly fight with Ron and I was talking about that with your Gran.”

“No,” Teddy wrapped his arms around Harry’s neck, blue eyes scanning Harry in curiosity. “You said my cousin’s name. Dra-co,” the metamorphmagus said slowly and carefully, testing the syllables in his mouth. Then, in a blink, his face lit up again. 

“Guess! He took me into our forest one night! Can you believe it? You’re supposed to sleep at night! But cousin Dae woke me up and said we’re going to adventure and guess what, Harry! We found some unicorn babies! We weren’t far from home, Dae said that we needed to be quiet as a mouse and we were and they came so close and I petted one on the nose!”

Harry felt it first in his gut, then his chest, and finally thick in his throat: a slow, suffocating mix of disbelief, jealousy and sheer shock. His magic started to thrum underneath his skin restlessly, his scent curling up around him. It was sharp, bittersweet and possessive.

Andromeda clicked her tongue. “Harry,” she said mildly, but it wasn’t a name, it was a warning. 

Harry barely heard her. Teddy, wholly oblivious to the way Harry’s grip tightened slightly around him, suddenly twisted in his arms to beam at Andromeda. 

“They were the prettiest! You should've seen them, Gran!”

Andromeda, who had the audacity to laugh, simply nodded. “That must’ve been quite a sight.”

Harry just stared.

Teddy giggled and wriggled himself free from Harry’s grip, exiting the room in a flash. 

There was a strange buzzing in his ears. His chest felt tight, his breaths had turned a bit shallow. This is not  real. This has to be a fever dream, a prank, some kind of sick cosmic joke at his expense. But no, Teddy’s laugh echoed in the hallway, Andromeda was still smiling and Harry was just left there with a horrible realization that Draco bloody Malfoy had somehow wormed his way so deep into his godson’s life that he was out there, taking Teddy on moonlit strolls with baby unicorns.

That stinging sensation in his gut? Oh, that was his pride, alright, lying broken and pathetic on the floor. 

Trust Malfoy to slither in unnoticed, to wrap Teddy around his pale little finger, to already be part of his family’s private world while Harry had believed firmly that this was his family. And the worst part? The most stinging detail of the betrayal? 

Cousin Dae. 

Teddy had called him “Harry” the second he had figured out how to roll his R’s properly, but Malfoy got a nickname? Draco, who had spent seven years and now additional six months being the bane of Harry’s existence, got a term of endearment while he, Teddy’s actual godfather, got Harry?

His scent turned more sour. 

“Honestly,” Andromeda sighed with the kind of long-suffering patience Harry recognized from Molly Weasley when dealing with particularly dense children, “you’re acting ridiculous.”

Harry’s head snapped up, appalled. Ridiculous? Him? After hearing all this?

“Oh don’t give me that look,” she chided, sharp and unimpressed. “You’re an alpha, not some sulking pup. Fix your scent before Teddy comes back and notices.”

Harry gritted his teeth, forcibly reigning in the way his scent was spilling into the kitchen. It was humiliating how quickly Andromeda sized him up, but she was a Black, an older alpha and worse, much worse, she was looking at him like she could see the tantrum brewing inside him.

And then she said, cool as anything: “Draco is my nephew, Harry. I expect you to treat him accordingly.”

The resistance was futile and a strangled sound escaped Harry’s throat. This has to be a set-up or some kind of curse. His cheeks warmed: he had ranted about Malfoy and Slytherins for so many times before to Andromeda who had listened to him patiently. Listening every time how he has bad mouthed her nephew. The mere thought made Harry feel a bit wonky.

Draco. Malfoy. Nephew.

There was no way Malfoy got to saunter back into the picture, rebranded as a beloved family member, taking his godson on unicorn adventures and winning over Andromeda. And Harry just had to accept it?

Yeah, fat chance. 

Andromeda arched a knowing brow. “Whatever it is you think you’re going to do, don’t.”

Harry, against all odds, managed to keep his mouth shut. Andromeda narrowed her eyes in suspicion when suddenly Teddy bursted back in the room, waving something in the air victoriously. When the young Lupin climbed back to Harry’s lap, he saw that there was a small, shiny bundle of long, silvery hairs. For a fraction his thoughts surged towards the haughty nephew, the words tasting like acid in his mouth. But he forced his face to relax and melt into a curious smile when he looked down to the offered unicorn hairs. He cleared his throat and adjusted his hold on Teddy before saying far too casually: 

“Well, since I’m coming this Sunday anyway, Malfoy can be there too.”

Andromeda’s lips twitched. Twitching was bad, twitching meant that she knew what he was doing. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, forcing an easy shrug. “Since we’re all family now.”

Andromeda hummed noncommittally but didn’t argue. Harry took it as a small victory and shifted his focus back to Teddy, mentally preparing for battle. If Malfoy thought he could just waltz back in London and steal some godfather points right out from under Harry’s nose, he had another thing coming. 

Joyful Teddy seemed to think that Harry wasn’t yet off the hook. He reached over the table, towards Andromeda, offering the unicorn hairs to her and then suddenly Harry had an arm full of incoherently mumbling Teddy with a white blonde hair. 

The sight felt like a hex in the ribs. 

When finally Harry had managed to get home, many hours later, he was in a much better mood, all things considering. Andromeda’s and Teddy’s bitter betrayal stinged somewhere in his chest. Before taking his leave, he had told bluntly Andromeda that she owed him a thorough explanation about “cousin Dae.” For that, he had earned a raised eyebrow and a cool smirk. 

When he stepped into Grimmauld’s living room from the floo, the house seemed empty. There was a small light gleaming from the kitchen and suddenly Kreacher was standing in front of him, looking unimpressed as ever. 

“Master Harry comes in late and alone?” The elf looked at him up and down, his watery eyes flashing in surprise. “A shame. Master Ron was in a nasty mood when he left. But what does Kreacher know, Kreacher is only an old elf.”

Harry just groaned. “Kreacher, please. Is Ron back yet? Do you know where he went? Has he been long gone?”

The elf just gave a slow hum and trotted to the kitchen. 

Harry sighed and rubbed his eyes behind his glasses; he needed a shower. And maybe to accept the fact that Kreacher, for all his loyalty, still enjoyed twisting the knife when given the chance. At least this time he wasn’t creeping around the house while muttering about mudbloods and blood traitors, so Harry counted it as progress. 

It was late night when Ron arrived. Right after midnight, to be exact. Harry was in the kitchen, preparing one last cup of tea for himself. The fresh feeling of betrayal was settled in his heart as a dull continuous pain and the indignation of his fight with Ron has turned into a regret. The pettiness in him encouraged him to keep on a silent treatment and sulk back in his own room before Ron could see him. But for some reason he wanted to stay up, rooted in the spot where he was standing, staring with unseeing eyes at the kettle. 

There was suddenly a soft whoosh of fire and heavy footsteps from the living room. Harry could recognize those steps anywhere: it was Ron. 

For some reason Harry felt his spine straightening and shoulders getting tense. His heart started to beat a bit faster, anxiety creeping in. He didn’t dare to turn around or say anything when the steps came closer and then stopped. Ron’s warm spicy scent reached Harry in a gentle wave, filling the corner of the kitchen.

The silence stretched and Harry was ready to snap: he took a sharp breath, geared up to test the atmosphere, but then he heard a soft sigh and shuffling sounds. 

“You’re still up?”

Harry just nodded at the kettle. A thump revealed that Ron had sat down at the kitchen table. 

“Listen mate,” the slightly slurring voice said softly. “I can’t believe I lost my mind like that. I can’t make any excuses for my behavior. I’m sorry, Harry.”

The water started to boil and Harry focused on his task, the clink of the kettle grounding him. He glanced at Ron; his best friend slumped at the table, chin resting on his hand, arms folded. He looked back at Harry serenely, like he hadn’t just changed the course of his entire night. 

Harry exhaled through his nose. “You really broadcasted my dirty laundry in front of the whole Ministry,” he muttered, the bitterness creeping in despite himself. “You know that people are always sniffing around and twisting things and now this,” he cut himself off, the anger bubbling again, the unfairness pressing against his chest. “If you have issues with me, I’d expect you to talk to me, privately. Not to start some schoolboy drama in our place of work.”

Harry turned fully now, expecting some kind of excuse. Ron at least had the decency to look ashamed. He twiddled with his hair, opening it from the bun and ran a hand through the wild, newly freed strands. His eyes darted away for a moment before he sighed. 

“Yeah,” he admitted. “That was…not my best moment.”

Harry let out a humorless laugh. “No shit.”

Ron rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. “I just…fuck, Harry, I don’t even know. It’s not the fact that you’ve been sleeping around, or that you always drag them here though if it’s a part of it. You’re just…you’re my best friend and I hate watching you burn through people like it doesn’t matter. Like you don’t matter.” He rubbed his face. “I shouldn’t have said what I said. Not like that.”

Harry blinked, caught off guard by Ron’s honesty. “Ron…”

“Nah, let me finish,” Ron said, looking up at him. His expression was tired and open. “I don’t want to fight with you, mate. I just want to see you happy. And if I overstepped…I’m sorry.”

Harry turned again back to the stove, turning it off and staring at it like it might tell him what to say.

After a beat, he grabbed two mugs, setting one in front of Ron with a quiet “yeah, alright.” It wasn’t forgiveness, not completely, but it was something. 

Ron’s mouth twitched and he nudged the mug with his finger. “You made me tea? That means you still love me.”

Harry snorted. “Shut up.” But the fight was over. 

They busied themselves with the tea and Ron cradled the mug between his hands. He still looked a bit sheepish, but the tension between them had settled into something manageable. Harry leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching him. 

“You’re still an arse,” he muttered without any real heat. 

Ron just smirked and blew carefully on his tea. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m sorry.”

Harry rolled his eyes. The reconciliation smoothed the jagged lines of irritation. It was fine now. They were fine. And with that settled, he pushed himself away from the counter and finally sat down across from Ron. The heat of Ron’s scent curled faintly in the air: amber and cinnamon and a little smoke from whatever pub he’d stumbled out of. And then something else. A trace of something sweet and familiar, just barely there under the alcohol. 

Harry frowned, fingers tapping against his mug. He almost asked where Ron had been, but something about the way Ron was watching him, lazy and loose limbed from a night out, made him bite his tongue. 

Harry’s brain, traitorous as ever, found a new energy to latch onto the thing that had been haunting him the whole evening. So he huffed a breath. 

“So,” he said, leaning forward. “After our petty fight I went to Andromeda’s place. Just so I could meet with Teddy and focus on something more productive. But you never guess what I learned.”

Ron blinked, a bit too quickly. “Yeah? How are they? What did you learn?”

Harry set his jaw. His irritation and jealousy flared.

“Apparently Draco fucking Malfoy has weaseled himself into Andromeda’s good graces. The bastard has met Teddy without anyone telling me anything! And on top of that, Teddy has given him a nickname! Nickname! The muppet is cousin Dae! And I am just a chopped liver!”

He looked at Ron, expecting an agreement, outrage, something. Instead, Ron’s eyes widened in surprise and then, just as quickly, he flinched. The reaction was small and fleeting, but Harry saw it. Ron’s fingers curled around his tea mug tightly, and he hurriedly looked down, swallowing hard. 

“Oh,” the ginger said. 

Harry squinted. “What?”

Ron let out a breathy chuckle and shook his head, lifting the mug to his lips. “Nothing, nothing. That’s…just surprising, that’s all.”

Too surprised, a tiny and annoying voice in Harry’s head pointed out. But Ron was tipsy, Harry was all worked up and he wasn’t in a mood for starting another fight. So, with some effort, he let it go. For now.

The next day at the DMLE started with a pleasant meeting with the Head Auror, where they both got their arses handed to them by Robards. Saviors or not, they hadn’t had any good reason to leave their office in the middle of the day and if it wasn’t for their status and their successions, they'd have been sacked for some time. Ron was a bit sullen by that whole situation, but Harry took it with stride: he had more important matters to deal with anyway. 

Harry was vibrating with nervous energy: he kept on lounging around the DMLE, looking like he was doing something, not staying too long in the confines of their office. He was refilling his tea or patrolling the hallways at a slow pace. Ron had followed this, whatever this was, and rolled his eyes. Harry whipped his head around every single moment he thought he’d seen a blonde hair flashing in his peripheral vision. Apparently the wounded pride of the godfather ran deeper than Ron had anticipated. 

“Harry, mate.” He tried to get Harry’s attention when the dark haired alpha huffed restlessly at their office doorway. “You’re scouting for Malfoy? Why don’t you call him after work? You don’t even know if the prat is coming in today. You know how it is: he’s only here if someone calls him in.”

Harry just tsiked at him and gave a disinterested side eye, folding his hands across his chest and leaning against the doorframe. Ron frowned at him. 

“Go away, Harry. I mean it. You don’t know if he arrives here today at all and I need to look these papers through,” he waved his hands, pointing the files on his desk. “And since you’re not going to help me, but are just being a complete mess, go make yourself useful: fetch me some tea or something from the cafeteria, will you? Walk off that energy of yours: you’re making me and my alpha irritated.”

With a huff Harry stalked away, as if Ron was just an inconvenience for his master plan to stalk Malfoy. 

Ron tapped his quill against the desk, his thoughts drifting back to last night. Muggle London had been fun: definitely more interesting than another night at the Leaky or another new place in wizarding London. And Malfoy…well, Malfoy wasn't a bad guide at all. Actually he was…

Ron blinked and shook his head. Never mind that. Work first. Friday, thought? Maybe…

Harry stepped out of the DMLE and was walking towards the lifts when he noticed how on his right in one of the alcoves stood Zabini in his Unspeakable robes. The tall alpha was leaning forward, head bowed, when he was speaking to someone. 

And there it was; the flicker of that long, bright hair that was tossed over the shoulder: Malfoy. 

The two Slytherins were standing close together, having a conversation in a low voice, snickering and gossiping like schoolchildren. Zabini, ever the picture of an alpha in his ink-black robes, leaned in, his hand gesturing lazily as he spoke. But it was Malfoy who caught Harry’s eye, annoyingly, infuriatingly so.

Trust Malfoy being dressed like he was about to be painted in oil and framed in some manor sitting room: flowy white sleeves, a smart waistcoat in deep green and black trousers tailored to fit just right. The absolute poncy git. 

Something hot and white rushed through Harry’s veins. Definitely the anger about the whole situation with Andromeda and Teddy. Nothing else. Nothing about the way Malfoy tossed his head back when he laughed, revealing that pale long neck, or how Zabini, smug and self satisfied bastard, was standing far too close. What was his deal anyway? Wasn’t he married to that Greengrass girl? And what the fuck was Malfoy laughing about? What was so funny?

With a couple long strides he closed the distance. Zabini noticed him first, and his smirk twitched, just slightly, into something more displeased. Before he could open his mouth, Harry reached out and grabbed Malfoy’s upper arm in a firm grip, heat seeping through the fabric of that white shirt.

“Excuse me,” he muttered darkly to no one and dragged the omega with him. Malfoy let out an indignant squeak, his heels skidding against the polished floor. He didn’t resist, though he shot daggers into the back of Harry’s head the entire way.

Blaise arched his brow, watching as Potter wedged himself into Draco’s space with all the entitlement of an overgrown Gryffindor. He almost stayed, just to see how this would go. But then Draco let out a sharp breath, already settling into his icy composure and Blaise nodded, as to himself.

Right, not his problem. Potter was being a bullheaded idiot again, to no one’s surprise. 

With a lazy shrug he turned and walked off, back to his own corridors, like he had infinitely better things to do.

The moment they were out of earshot, Harry turned, crowding Malfoy against the wall. 

“Potter, what the hell is wrong with…”

“What are you planning?” He growled, trying to stay calm and failing completely. 

Malfoy didn’t even look at him, but straightened his clothes and flicked his hair irritated before the stormy grey eyes locked with Harry’s.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” the prat said in a low tone, speaking slowly like Harry is the one who has issues with comprehending spoken language. “You have to be more specific, Auror Potter.”

The calmness didn’t help Harry who was practically vibrating with his own turbulent emotions. 

“I don’t know how or why you think it would be appropriate to be near Teddy?”

“Edward Lupin,” Malfoy answered haughtily like a little lord he was. “Is my cousin. I didn’t know that because you'd been chosen to be his godfather, I’d had to do some kind of official request to meet him.”

“You really believe that you can just swan in my godson’s life? You aren’t even staying in England! What right do you have to be this favored cousin and long lost family member? You have no right!”

“No right? No right for what?” Malfoy’s eyes flashed dangerously. “You have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about, so fuck off Potter. You have this fallacy that everyone is just going to do whatever the fuck you want to like a mindless sycophant. For your information: I don’t care. Aunt Andromeda has graciously granted me permission to be with Edward as much as we both like to,” the blonde leaned in, his face hard as stone. “And there’s absolutely nothing you can do or say, Saint Potter.”

Harry sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, the sound almost like an angry hiss. Before he could think better of it, his hand slammed against the wall next to Malfoy’s head, caging him in. The blonde flinched and rewarded Harry with a deathly glare. For a fleeting moment Harry felt it himself: the alarmed feeling that he was going overboard but he couldn’t stop.

“You should care,” Harry said, low and unsteady, his voice rough with something he definitely didn’t want to name. “Because if you’re going to play house, you’re going to play it with me.”

There was a flicker of something sharp and knowing in Malfoy’s gaze but Harry barreled forward, unwilling to acknowledge it.

“You don’t get to just…waltz in here, acting like you belong, like you’re some wholesome cousin,” Harry spat the words out, his magic cracking in the air. It felt like a static charge moments before the storm, it’s heavy weight blanketing both of them. 

Harry was spurred on by his inexplicable jealousy and fear. Maybe it was fear of the unknown or fear of losing something, who knows. He was spiraling, he knew that much. And if he tried to reel him in, win back the control of himself, he failed every single attempt. 

“Teddy isn’t yours. You don’t get to sneak off with him in the middle of the night, dragging him into Merlin knows what! You’re not…” he cut himself off, teeth clenched so hard his jaw hurt. “What did you even say to Andromeda? What sob story did you spin to get her calling you ‘nephew’ all of a sudden?” His fingers curled against the wall. “What the fuck are you playing at?”

Malfoy had a stubborn set in his jaw, he had his cheeks flushed and Harry caught a feel of Malfoy’s magic thrumming in the air. It was a delicate, breezy and prowling feeling, like an icy feline beast circling around its prey. 

It was evident that the omega wasn’t going to back down, and Harry, well, he never believed for a second that Malfoy would give up without a fight. His heart jumped with glee and a curious thrill went down his spine. 

“Why don’t you ask about that for Andromeda, hm?” The blonde drawled. “And just so you know: I don’t have any sob stories as you so eloquently said. I don’t need sob stories, I’m more than capable of handling myself. And also: you have no right to dictate who Edward is going to meet and what he’s going to do because last time I checked it’s Andromeda, my maternal aunt, who’s the sole guardian for Edward Lupin, not you,” Malfoy’s voice was steady and full of venom, his face was turned into a sneer and a short, sharp omega’s canine was showing. “There’s nothing you can say about me and use it as a weapon; I’ve said those exact things two inches away from my own face. And if I can be a living, breathing cautionary tale to Teddy, so be it. Now get out of my face.”

There was a short pause, where Harry’s mind was completely blank and all the smart remarks were dying in his mouth. He tried to keep his posture as commanding and overpowering as possible, his magic electrifying the air, his scent becoming more oppressive. And all he got back was a bared, sharp canines and whip-like words.

His alpha was elated: omega who didn’t show any kind of fear interested the beast in him, making Harry feel more agitated and angry.

“Trust The Savior to defy the pack structure like the wild animal you are,” Malfoy continued with an eye roll. “You don’t seem to trust Aunt Andromeda and her ability to make the right decisions for her grandson? Bold and ignorant but that’s to be expected. No respect, at all.”

“I don’t defy Andromeda,” Harry gritted, his rage burning inside his chest like a Fiendfyre. “It’s you that I don’t trust. You can try to use your dirty little tricks, trusting Andromeda to be a good person and taking advantage of her.”

“It’s not your trust that I’m interested in,” Malfoy growled too, leaning closer so the tips of their noses almost touched. His breath came sharp and quick, his chest rising and falling like he was holding something back. His magic prickled against Harry’s skin, ice cold and biting. For a fleeting second he looked like he wanted to say something else, but then his lips curled into a sneer. “Now you take your alpha ego and get the fuck out of my face.”

 Harry sucked in a breath, thick and uneven, and his lungs filled with Malfoy’s scent. Sweet fruits and white flowers. A sharp, delicate musk beneath it, something unmistakably his.

His alpha surged in response, demanding, whining and clawing at him to get closer, to breathe deeper. He gritted his teeth, his jaw flexing against the pull. It felt like stepping too close to the edge of the cliff; one wrong move and he was gone. It wasn’t necessarily the worst thing to happen, but they were in the Ministry and Harry had just spend time for bullying Malfoy. 

Merlin, he needed to get a fucking grip.

A heavy hand slammed onto Harry’s shoulder, fingers gripping firm and unyielding. The sudden weight knocked him out of his haze, his breath hitching as Ron’s voice cut through the tension like a blade.

“Easy now, Harry,” Ron said, his tone edged with a quiet warning. “Leave Malfoy alone.”

Ron handled Harry to step back, creating some space between the two of them and patted Harry on his chest while keeping a hold of his shoulder. The redhead looked at Malfoy, his face showing some genuine concern. 

“Are you okay?”

Malfoy seemed to freeze up for a second and genuine surprise went through his face before he just nodded and huffed. “Perfectly fine. Thank you, Weasley. You better keep your partner on a tighter leash.”

Before Harry could even catch the jab, he was forcefully dragged away, pushed back to DMLE. Ron had this urgent energy around him, and maybe Harry was losing all of his composure, so he didn’t even resist the way his partner was shoving him towards their unit. 

Behind Harry’s retreating back, Ron hesitated, his hand tightening at his side like he was debating saying something. He searched Draco’s face for something, but whatever it was, he either found it or gave up looking. 

Draco arched a brow, his lips quirking; not quite a smile, not quite a smirk. A flicker of something passed between them, something old and unspoken. Then, with a barest tilt of his head, Draco dismissed him. 

Ron exhaled sharply and then turned back to Harry as if nothing happened. 

When both Gryffindors were finally gone, Draco sighed and leaned back against the wall. A small, disbelieving laugh escaped him: of course Draco’s ties with Andromeda and Teddy would’ve been revealed sooner than later and it was almost surprising how long it took for Potter to find out. Not exactly Sherlock Holmes, was he? 

Trust Potter to go insane when he learned the truth about him and Teddy. Even the thought of that bright, young boy made him feel better, overpowering the weary feeling Potter had caused. 

He looked over the empty hallway: lunch time was approaching and he really had some work to do. It wasn't a good look to stand idle in the empty corridors, so with nifty movements he straightened his clothes, brushing the invisible lint off of his waistcoat and patted his hair, making sure that there were no wayward strands. 

The DMLE graciously reserved for him a small office room where he could work on his projects as a visiting lecturer, in the back of the DMLE unit. Head Auror Robards was also considerate enough to tweak the wards of the room: if Draco wanted, he could lock himself in the room and use a small floo as an exit if needed. Only he could enter the room without a key if it was locked. But now he let the door stay ajar, as a sign that he was available if needed. 

The room was smaller than his bedroom in Mayfair, hardly the standard of living he was accustomed to, but then again, the Ministry was never known for its generosity. He managed to cram in there an acceptable desk, a sufficient chair, one narrow bookcase, one narrow filing cabinet and a cloak stand. 

With another sigh he looked over and saw a small package with a French DMLE seal. Absentmindedly he ran his thumb along the edge of the package. 

Draco wasn’t particularly concerned about Potter’s temper; if nothing else, it had always been predictable but the last thing he needed was an overeager, self-righteous Auror breathing down his neck and micromanaging his time with Teddy. Annoying, that.

He sat down at his desk and reached for the package when suddenly a Ministry mandated, purple paper plane flew over him in a wide curve and landed on top of the desk and not a second later, another one sliced through the air at full speed, barely stopping in time.

Peculiar thing, that. Interested, he took the first missive and frowned: the handwriting was barely legible and he needed to read the message carefully. The realization dawned on his face and Draco let out a pleased hum: the missive was from Ronald:

“Malfoy,

I don’t know if I said it already, but last night in the muggle London was really nice. I had a great time, so thanks for that. So, uh, if you’re up for it, want to do it again this Friday after work?

Oh and about Harry. You know how he is. Teddy’s his soft spot and well, yeah. 

R.W”

“You are a strange man,” Draco had to mutter out loud when he took another missive in his hands. 

He wouldn’t believe it; the handwriting was even worse chicken scratch than Weasley’s was, but the illegible letters were more familiar. Draco’s heart made a weird little jump when he focused to make some sense in the message. Apparently Ronald and Potter decided to reach out to him at the same time. Coincidence? Unlikely. 

As expected, Potter tried to get on his nerves with his arrogant way to bark orders around like some kind of big shot:

“Malfoy, 

because apparently we’re now family, I’ve scheduled a meeting with Andromeda and Teddy this Sunday, two o’clock. Don’t be late.

H.P”

Draco felt how his eye twitched, but then he smirked to no one, crumbled Potter’s message into a tight ball and with a flick of his wand, turned it into ashes and vanished the mess. Then he leaned forward: he had a missive to respond to and a mysterious package to inspect. 

Chapter Text

Five hours later Ron stormed into Grimmauld Place like a man possessed. 

He stepped out of the floo, practically tore past Kreacher, thundered up the stairs, and slammed his bedroom door with a bang that echoed through the old house. 

His head thudded against the wood, once, twice. His chest heaved like he’d sprinted all the way from Knockturn. His magic sparked off his skin, restless and raw.  

If he closed his eyes, he could still feel it, feel them.

Harry, in his all thunderous glory. Draco, meeting him head on, without any hesitation. The tension between them had coiled so thick in the air, Ron had felt it in the back of his teeth. It wasn’t like a duel, not quite. But it could’ve been something else, something worse. Or better? 

His stomach flipped and heat churned low. 

Ron slapped hand over his face. The other slid down by an instinct, pressing against the insistently straining cock in his trousers. 

He didn’t want to do this. Not now.

But fuck, the way Harry had looked; dangerous, furious, all sharp lines. And Draco, tilting his chin just so, like he wanted to dare Harry to try and intimidate him.

With a groan Ron yanked at his outer robes, tossing them aside. 

It wasn’t just lust. Not just confusion; it was panic. At work he wanted to stop Harry, but at the same time he did want to see what would happen if he didn’t. He was staring at Malfoy and realizing he didn’t even hate the prissy prick anymore. 

His hands clenched. He grit his teeth. “Not happening,” he told the room. 

His body continued to ignore him and his mind gave him no mercy. The pressure started to be a tad painful, his trousers turning tighter and tighter.

He saw Harry’s mouth, taut with anger. Malfoy’s eyes, sharp with disdain. The way they looked at each other. Always drawn to each other. Like flames and oil. 

And Ron? He couldn’t stop watching. 

A sound escaped him, half groan, half laugh. 

“Brilliant,” he muttered bitterly. “Have a crisis and a hard on over your best mate and the world’s prettiest arsehole.”

What the hell was happening to him?

Then it hit him: hard and unrelenting. 

This wasn’t just arousal. 

This was infatuation.

It curled hot under his skin, pressed into his lungs like smoke. His pulse thudded into his ears. 

He was in love with Harry. 

Oh. Oh fuck. 

Had it always been there? Festering under all the years of friendship, loyalty, nights in the tent, looks he pretended not to see? Had it been hiding behind Ginny, Lavender, every other girl and the thousands of jokes he told to keep things easy? 

Of course it had. 

Of course there was a reason he got pissy when Harry brought someone home. It was this exact same reason why he lingered in doorways too long. Why he looked away when Harry looked at him. 

He should’ve seen this coming. 

He kicked his boots next to the door, yanking the rest of his clothes off with the same desperation that was clawing at his chest. His shirt hit the floor. Getting undressed didn’t help; the shame stuck there, thick in his lungs, wrapped tightly in his ribs.

This wasn't the rut kind of heat. It wasn't a desperate need in the usual way. It was darker, wilder, more humiliating.

He dropped onto the bed, the mattress giving a thump of protest. His hand hovered for a breathless moment, suspended like hesitation might stop this from happening and then dropped, clutching hard between his legs. 

A hiss ripped through his teeth. 

Trousers showed down in an impatient twist, boxers dragged along with them. Just far enough to wrap a rough hand around his aching cock. 

Finally.

His eyes fluttered shut. A few tentative tugs. And the images came instantly, almost violently.

Malfoy, of course. Because Ron’s brains were broken. Malfoy with that smug smile like he knew things Ron hadn’t even admitted to himself. Pale, taunting. Gliding across every room he stepped in like he owned the world. Ron imagined grabbing him: by the hips, by the throat, by the smugness and hauling him in. Spreading his legs wide on his desk, spine arched. Successfully wiping that pretentious expression right off his face, turning Malfoy into a begging mess. 

That was fine. That was allowed. Malfoy was an omega. Fantasizing about him didn’t mean anything. 

His hand moved faster, grip slick and rough. 

Against his will the pictures turned bolder, crueler. 

And then Harry was there. 

He didn’t even try to picture him. Didn’t even want to. But there he was anyway, like a sodding truth. 

Harry’s scent first; warm and sharp and something so him underneath it all. Then the hands: broad, calloused and familiar. The way Harry brushed past him in tight spaces, always so casual, and when his chest would press Ron’s back, Ron would stop breathing. 

“Fuck.”

His hand moved faster, the grip rough and wrong and perfect. He wasn’t savoring it; he was outrunning it. Outrun the image of Harry pushing him down, bracing over him, panting in his neck. The scratch of his stubble against Ron’s skin. That low laugh that meant trouble. 

His breath got caught, coming in desperate little gasps. The kind you only make when you’re both falling and pretending you’re not. 

A voice in the back of his head told him to get some lube from somewhere but the stronger part of him welcomed the raw sting. Something about the punishment felt honest. 

He could feel the tension snapping taut in his stomach, feel the sweat gathering in his temples, the muscles in his thighs twitching. He was close, closer than he meant to be. 

Harry pressed up behind him, his chest to Ron’s back, one arm holding him still across his chest, the other tightly bracketing Ron’s hip.

Stop overthinking, you’re so good for me. I’ll take care of you. 

That Harry’s voice, kind and wicked in equal measure undid him. 

Ron bit down on his own lip until he tasted blood. He was whimpering: he couldn’t stop, he didn’t even want to. He rutted into his hand like he was chasing something bigger than release. His knees spread more open on an instinct, like submission lived somewhere in his bones.

He could feel Harry behind him, holding him open, grounding him with broad hands and filthy promises. Pushing in. 

And just as his spine started to arch, as the fire coiled in him ready to snap…

And then, Malfoy again. Slithering out of the shadows of Ron’s mind like a ghost dressed in silks. 

The omega crawled forward, slow and deliberate, like he’d been invited. 

He sank to his knees between Ron’s legs, eyes dark and gleaming, cool cheek pressed against Ron’s inner thigh like it was his place. He nuzzled in, right where Ron’s scent clung the thickest, the musk of heat and denial and something ancient and awful. 

Malfoy looked up at him with his pale eyes, wide and hungry, his lips parted; like he’d be ready for mouthing at the skin, like he wanted to mark Ron from inside out. 

Harry’s breath at his ear, Malfoy’s face in between his legs. And Ron; he was crumbling. 

He came with a muffled cry, burying his face in the crook of his arm. His body jerked, muscles twitching as the orgasm ripped through him; hot, relentless, too much. His release splattered across his stomach and chest; a few drops catching near his jaw. 

He laid there, shaking, breath sawing through his throat. Sticky fingers, chest rising, head spinning. He couldn’t remember the last time it felt that good. Or that awful. 

His hand was still wrapped around his softening cock. The room stank of sex and regret and definitely not the good kind; the kind that clung like guilt. 

And still, the image burned behind his eyes: Harry, all rough edges and coaxing words. Malfoy, breathing him in. Looking up at him like he knew.

With a groan he rolled onto his side, trying to see where his wand had landed. 

The unfairness of it all: the delicious orgasm, the mess, the feelings, bubbled out in a helpless laugh. With a clean hand he scrubbed his face and flinched when he hit a patch of dried come on his jaw. His skin was tacky and raw. 

Just like he felt inside. 

“Brilliant, Weasley,” he muttered. “Wank yourself stupid over your best friend and your worst nightmare. Top fucking form.”

His heart was still thudding as he dragged himself upright, grabbing the discarded shirt to wipe off the worst of it and his wand right next to it. He tried a cleaning charm but it fizzled out, half-arsed and lazy like everything in his life right now. 

Why them?

Why couldn’t he want someone with an easier personality? Someone softer? Someone who already wasn’t everything to him? Or be a sodding thorn in his side?

He sat there for a second, on the side of his bed, looking down at himself. Shirtless, rumpled, trousers half undone. 

What was wrong with him? 

It wasn’t the being into men-part. He’d always kind of known that a lump of himself was…a little bent. An occasional curious glance in the locker rooms. The way he’d stared at Victor Krum’s hands in Yule Ball and before. 

He’d buried that side of himself under jokes, girls and trying not to think about it. But this thing…Harry wasn’t just about sex. That was the terrifying part. And Harry was an alpha, just like him. 

That was the bit that made his stomach twist. That was what made his skin itch and mind race. Alphas didn’t look at each other like this. Wanting another alpha like this wasn’t just a taboo, it made you lesser. 

And then there was Malfoy. 

That omega had been needling Ron for years, crawling under his skin and never leaving. Ron had spent years chalking it up to hatred. Schoolboy rivalry and generations old family feuds. But maybe he had grown out of that. Maybe it had never been like that. 

He stood up, tucking himself into his pants. He barely had time to right himself before…

Knock! Knock! Knock!

“Master Ronald! Dinner is almost ready. Master Harry has returned home too,” Kreacher’s raspy voice cut through air like a hex.

Ron’s stomach dropped like a stone. 

“F-fuck off, Kreacher! Busy! Studying! Important!”

A low, judgemental grumble echoed from the other side of the door. Ron winced; of course the nosy little bastard could smell it. The shame and the sex. The odd elf probably thrived on it. 

His fingers shook as he fumbled with his wand, trying desperately to cast some refreshing charms to purge the heavy scent of sex and need from the room, but the charm stuttered out with weak spark. His magic was still frayed, unruly, useless. 

“Brilliant,” he muttered again, shoulders slumping as he turned towards the en-suite. “Absolutely fucking brilliant.”

The rest of Harry’s afternoon passed in a fog.

He sat through his meetings. Filled out his reports. Nodded when expected. But his head wasn’t in it. Every time he blinked, he saw it again: Malfoy’s eyes like cut glass, the sharp set of his jaw, the flash of canines.

And the pull. That dangerous, magnetic hum still vibrating in Harry’s chest. 

He flexed his hand absently, almost expecting a jolt of leftover magic. Or to see bruises from punching the wall just inches from Malfoy’s defiant face.

He told himself it was nothing. 

Just old grudges and territorial instincts about Andromeda and Teddy, rubbing raw because of stress and lack of sleep. 

Except…the energy between them had always felt more personal. More pointed.

And Ron, solid and steady Ron, had been the one to pull him back. One touch, one look and Harry had come back to his senses. He couldn’t even be annoyed. Not really. 

By the time he left the Ministry, Harry was running on fumes. He barely noticed the crowd in the Atrium as he stepped into the floo, soot clinging to his robes. He stumbled into Grimmauld Place, dark and musty as ever, and thought vaguely about tea. Or bed. Or both. 

He made as far as the upper landing before he stopped. His breath hitched.

The scent attacked him like a whirlwind: thick in the air, clinging to the wallpaper, hot and restless and intimate.

Familiar. 

Harry inhaled before he could stop himself and it filled his lungs, tangling around his ribs.

Underneath the heat he noticed it: the scent was unmistakably Ron’s: amber and cinnamon and sun warmed spices. But now it was richer, more ripe. Threaded with something heavy and sharp, like want. Like need.

Harry swayed on his feet a little. 

Ron’s door was shut and the scent was pooling around it, thick as a fog. Buzzing with magic, positively humming. 

His heartbeat picked up.

What the hell had happened here? 

Harry stood frozen, staring at Ron’s door. His fingers twitched uselessly at his sides. Every instinct in him bristled: restless, sharp edged, crackling under his skin. The alpha in him stirred, pushing forward to check, intervene. Claim.

He shook his head hard. 

Ron could handle himself. He always had.

But still…

It wasn’t just the pheromones flooding the hallway, that heavy, intimate press of scent. It was what they didn’t spark. 

Harry’s instincts wouldn’t settle. That same strange protectiveness, old and stubborn, pressed against his ribs. The same pressuring feeling that twisted in his chest whenever Malfoy looked at him. The same itch that left Harry wanting to hex the omega or hold him still and demand answers. 

Except this was different. Softer and messier. It left him feeling unmoored.

The realization rocked him, making him grab the bannister to steady himself. 

In all the years they’d lived together, worked together, Harry had never noticed Ron’s scent like this. Sure, it has always meant home: warm, grounding and familiar. But this was different. Ripe, loaded, saturated with something new and exciting.

He’d never even thought about it before. About how easy it was, living like this: two unmated alphas under the same roof. When it had been unbearable between Ron and Hermione, once. 

So why was it different with him?

Why could he breathe easy beside Ron, and not beside Malfoy? Why did the air between him and Malfoy feel so charged, ready to strike?

Why did it feel like every tether in Harry was starting to fray?

Before he could chase the thought too far, Kreacher appeared with a sharp pop, materializing from the shadows with a pointed grin.

“Master Ronald had a very…strenuous afternoon,” the elf said sweetly. “Kreacher was instructed to leave him be while he tended to… personal matters.”

Harry blinked, frowning. “Does…Ron have a visitor?” He asked, uncertain. 

Kreacher gave a sly smile, a horrid little thing. 

“Master Ronald doesn’t seem to need any assistance,” the elf said, bowing low in mocking. 

Harry flushed scarlet, choking on nothing.

Kreacher vanished with a pop, and Harry was left standing there, wide eyed and heart racing. 

He turned towards Ron’s door and listened. 

The floorboards creaked gently under his feet. He held his breath. 

Silence. And then…

A low sound, soft and barely there, the kind of noise that wasn’t meant to be heard. A gasp,muffled by the walls and years of shared comfort. 

Harry’s heart slammed into his ribs. 

It could’ve been anything. A yawn. A groan from sore muscles. It could’ve been nothing. 

But Kreacher’s cryptic words that echoed in Harry’s ears and that treacherous hope that punched through his chest said otherwise. 

He stood there like a statue, staring at Ron’s door like it might open and pull him inside, like he’d find something behind it he hadn’t dared name until now. His ears strained in the stillness. 

Nothing. 

No footsteps, no lock clicking open. No sound at all.

And yet the scent still lingered, raw and golden and stupidly hopeful. It wrapped around Harry, like a warm blanket. 

He clenched his fists and finally turned away, his heartbeat dragging behind like a stubborn ghost. 

He shouldn’t want this. 

He shouldn’t even think about this. 

But the thought still caught him off guard; soft and greedy and full of impossible hope:

Let it be me. Let it be me he was thinking about. 

The dinner was an awkward affair. 

Kreacher had laid the table with smug precision, practically humming with victorious malice. The roast was perfect. The napkins were ironed. The mood was excruciating.

Harry sat, trying not to stare. But Ron looked like a man barely surviving: cheeks faintly flushed, hair damp from what was definitely not a leisurely bath. He moved around like someone recovering from the impact. 

Ron slumped into the chair across from him and nearly knocked over his water.

“Lovely evening, isn’t it?” Harry said lightly, nudging the potatoes closer, trying not to smirk. 

Ron flinched. The red deepened across his cheeks and he didn’t even look at Harry. 

“Did anything…interesting happen before I got in?”

Ron stuffed a piece of bread into his mouth like it might plug the rising flood of shame. 

Harry leaned back, watching him closely. He wasn’t imagining it: Ron was squirming, off balance, jaw too tight, eyes anywhere but here. Something has happened and whatever it was has left Ron looking like he’s going to combust at any moment. 

Ever since he’d caught that thoughtlessly spilled cloud of Ron’s scent, warm and frayed with want, Harry hadn't been able to stop thinking about it. The image of Ron, flushed and breathless for him, had taken a root in his brain. 

“You’re awfully quiet tonight,” Harry went on casually, scooping food onto his plate with no intention of tasting any of it. “Usually you don’t shut up about our cases. Or how the Ministry is slowly going to hell.”

Ron made a strangled noise that might’ve been a laugh. Or a sob. “I’m just tired,” he muttered, eyes locked on his plate like it held the secrets of the universe.

Harry hummed and let the silence stretch. He watched the way Ron shifted, the way his ears stayed red, his fingers were shaking. It was endearing and suspicious. 

It was driving Harry absolutely insane. 

Without thinking, he nudged his socked foot across the floor. Slowly and gently, until his foot brushed against Ron’s ankle, right at the spot where the sock met the trouser hem. 

The reaction was immediate. 

Ron let out a squeak, an actual squeak, and jolted back so violently he smacked his knee on the underside of the table, making the silverware jump. His chair scraped loudly as he lurched to his feet. 

“I forgot, I- I have a report due tomorrow,” Ron stammered, voice cracking. “I can’t stay.”

“Oh, really?” Harry asked, cocking his head, chin resting in one hand. “That’s a shame, I was hoping we could’ve had some tea. I have…questions.”

“Good night, Harry!” Ron yelped, already halfway out of the room.

Harry watched him go, listening to his heavy thud of retreating footsteps and then the unmistakable slam of the bedroom door upstairs.

Oh yeah, he thought. This is going to be fun.

Kreacher reappeared like a smug little demon with a tray of treacle tart and arched brow. 

“Master Ronald is very spirited tonight,” the elf remarked. “If Master Harry would like, Kreacher can prepare one Mistress Walburga’s courting tonics: she always said they worked wonders on stubborn alphas.”

Harry snorted softly into his glass of water. 

Draco let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Across the kitchen, Aunt Andromeda arched a brow at him; half curious, half amused, as she poured steaming water into a moss colored tea pot.

“Surely you’re not nervous about seeing Harry?” She asked, her voice light, but with that soft edge of knowing he couldn’t mishear.

He schooled his face into polite neutrality: the kind of expression that had once kept Aunt Bellatrix at bay. It had always been a delicate balance: not catching her attention, not making himself a target. 

Draco reached for the teacup Andromeda nudged toward him and blew lightly on the surface of the brew, letting the steam cloud his face like an armor.

From the hallway came a muffled giggle.

Teddy stood half-hidden at the door, blue curls tousled, cheeks pink with mischief. Draco’s lips twitched before he could stop himself, and he gave the boy a wink. 

Teddy let out a delighted squeal and vanished down the corridor, no doubt to plot something dangerous and sticky.

Draco watched the empty doorway for a second longer, his smile fading. 

Was he nervous about seeing Potter? 

Surely not. 

He’d seen The Chosen Git at work plenty enough. That little spat in the Ministry hallway had been nothing more than Potter throwing an overblown alpha tantrum. And honestly, self centered alphas weren’t exactly a novelty in Draco’s life.

He’d survived worse. Right? 

In some ways Draco did feel exposed. 

He’d been meeting with Teddy and Aunt Andromeda regularly for six quiet, uneventful months. But now with Potter’s eyes inevitably on him, it felt like something sacred was snatched away. 

It was bound to happen, of course. Potter was Teddy’s godfather, it was only a matter of time. But now Draco felt like he was standing on thin ice again. Maybe this time, Andromeda would decide he wasn’t worth the effort. Maybe Potter would turn Teddy against him with nothing more than a scowl. Maybe he’d be sent back to the start: to prove himself all over again. 

He hadn’t touched his tea. 

“Stop thinking in circles,” Andromeda said, not looking up where she was slicing apples for Teddy’s snack. “Harry won’t take anything from you, unless you hand it over to yourself.”

Draco blinked. 

“And even then,” she added, her tone sharp as the knife she wielded. “I’d simply take it back for you.”

That startled a breath of air from him, almost a laugh. 

She finally looked up. “You’re my nephew, Draco. You came back and you stayed. Don’t forget who chose whom.”

Her gaze didn’t waver.

“And yes. I know you two have a…colorful history. But maybe you’re not the only one who’s done some growing up?”

Draco let out a soft hum, smoothing the front of his cashmere jumper with one hand. 

Potter arrived to find Draco sitting on the carpet in Andromeda’s sitting room, legs folded nearly under him while Teddy lined up toy dragons around his knees like he was building a fortress. 

Teddy was babbling about his next great adventure; this one involved centaurs, cursed chocolate coins and a secret tunnel under an orchard, when Draco suddenly heard voices from the front door. 

“…and you brought biscuits?” Andromeda asked, bone-dry. 

“Those are for Teddy,” Potter’s voice muttered. “It's called manners.”

“Cousin Dae, you’re not listenin’!” Teddy accused, jabbing a chubby finger into Draco’s chest.

“I am listening!” He said, mock offended. “You just said the chocolate coins are cursed and the curse breaks if you sing to them.”

“Nooo!” Teddy groaned and collapsed over his lap like a victorious niffler. The blue haired boy grinned up at him, eyes shining. “I like that you are here with Harry. I want you both here.”

Draco didn’t answer right away. He just smiled and gathered Teddy into a hug. His throat felt too tight for words. 

A pause followed. Then someone cleared their throat. 

Draco and Teddy looked up at the same time.

Potter stood in the doorway. 

He looked the same as ever; annoyingly disheveled, wind tousled from apparition. His eyes flicked first to Teddy, softening, but then landed on Draco and something shifted. 

Something passed across his face, jaw clenching. Draco’s heart knocked once, too hard. 

Teddy was still sprawled in his lap. Draco held Potter’s gaze out of sheer pettiness. 

So he’s monitoring me from the start, he thought bitterly. 

But Potter’s eyes lingered, just a moment too long. And the look in them… wasn’t quite suspicion. Not revulsion, either. Maybe recognition?

Draco tried to read it, but then Potter blinked, and the expression vanished. It was replaced with something tighter and guarded. Almost professional. 

“Harry!” Teddy launched himself across the room like a bludger. 

Potter dropped to one knee and caught him in a hug, nearly knocked off balance. 

Draco stayed perfectly still. 

He hadn’t even noticed Teddy had wriggled out of his lap. 

“Hey, pup,” Potter murmured into Teddy’s curls. “Missed you.”

Teddy pulled back, beaming. “We made lemonade and I told cousin Dae to save you a glass, but he drank two already because he’s a thief!”

Draco’s lips twitched into a smirk. “I regret nothing.”

Potter’s eyes flicked to his and it was like being hexed: stark and searching and a bit too bright.

“Malfoy.”

“Potter.”

The air in the room tightened just for a second. Then Potter’s gaze darted to Teddy. 

“I need a drink,” he muttered, already turning on his heel toward the kitchen. 

Teddy blinked after him. “Is Harry angry at you?”

Draco very nearly answered honestly; that he didn’t know, but it was entirely possible. Instead he let a slow, sly smile bloom, the kind that always made Teddy light up like a lantern. 

“Potter doesn’t know anything anyway. If he is, let him stew.”

“Like a potato?”

“Exactly like a potato,” Draco grinned. He stood, scooping Teddy over his shoulder in one smooth motion, carrying him out toward the sun drenched garden, the boy giggling the whole way.

Harry stood at the sink, both hands gripping the edge. 

His reflection shimmered in the warped stainless steel, blurry and distorted. His jaw was clenched and his chest was tight; jealousy and some strange, unwelcome nervousness churned into his stomach. 

It had been his idea to invite Malfoy here. Out of spite and pettiness, mostly. Leftover venom from that spat in the Ministry hallway. Harry had practically sneered as he wrote the missive: “Since apparently we’re family now, I’ve scheduled a meeting with Andromeda and Teddy. Don’t be late.”

Malfoy hadn’t even dignified it with a reply. 

And now? Now Harry couldn’t even get the image out of his head: Malfoy sitting on carpet, Teddy in his lap, wouldn’t leave him alone. The two of them looking up at him with the same expression: that open, curious gaze. The faint, crooked curve of their mouths. 

Maybe it was something in the shape of their eyes. Or the angle of their brows. It was uncanny, the mirror between them. 

It made Harry feel off balance. Like the floor had been shifted and he’d landed in someone else’s life. 

Teddy was his godson, his responsibility. 

But Malfoy… was already something to him. Woven in. Familiar and trusted. 

Harry hated how much it got to him. 

He inhaled sharply: lemon, bergamot and apples. The kitchen was too warm.

He didn’t even flinch when Andromeda stepped beside him. 

“So,” she said, not unkindly. “Still think this was a brilliant idea?” 

Harry said nothing, eyes still fixed on the sink. 

Andromeda didn’t sigh but it was close. “Did you already see them together?”

His jaw ticked. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Andromeda leaned against the counter, drying her hands with slow, deliberate motions. “Why didn’t I tell you,” she echoed mildly. “You mean, why didn’t I mention that Draco’s been spending time with his own family? Or that Teddy adores him?”

Harry said nothing, lips pressed into a thin line.

“You’ve been ranting about my nephew for six months, Harry.” She folded the towel with crisp precision. “Frankly, I thought you were keeping score.”

Harry huffed, a sound between scoff and a groan. “It’s not…that’s not what it is,” he snapped and trailed off, too flustered to land a proper lie. 

Andromeda arched a brow. “You’re worried about Teddy?”

“I’m not…” he scrubbed a hand down his face. “I just didn’t know they’re that close. You could’ve…”

“Told you?” Her voice was quiet, but firm. “So you could what, scowl about it? Talk me down? Tell me I don’t know my nephew like you do? Growl in Ministry hallways? Convince yourself this is all some conspiracy to rob you of your godfatherhood?”

Harry stiffened. 

Andromeda clicked her tongue softly. “You’re not really angry. You’re scared. And maybe your ego’s a bit bruised because Teddy likes him. Because they’re good together. Because Draco’s been, if I may say, an excellent influence.”

Harry turned to her, all defense, defiance and something deeper: hurt. “You really trust him?”

“I do,” she said, without hesitation. 

The silence stretched between them, taut and loaded.

“You’re not the only one who’s changed, Harry. The war left marks on all of us. And Draco’s not trying to replace you as Teddy’s godfather,” her gaze didn’t waver. “You know that.”

“I know he’s still smug arse and a total fucking muppet.”

Andromeda laughed.  “He's a Black, what do you expect?” 

He gave her a look, startled into a small, reluctant laugh.

She smiled, sharp and warm all at once. “It’s going to be alright. I trust you both. Now go outside, before they start making potato jokes about you.”

And then, more gently: “And Harry; talk to him. He might surprise you.”

Harry let his feet lead him towards the sun drenched garden: out of the kitchen, across the sitting room, through the tall, white framed French doors, and into the opulent sprawl beyond. The air was warm and sweet, thick with the scent of cut grass and honeysuckle. Massed hedgerows marked the divide between garden and wild forest, and a small white gate peeked through the greenery like a secret.

He stuffed his hands into his pockets, Andromeda’s words still ghosting through his mind like a half heard tune.

A happy laugh broke the quiet off to his left. Squinting against the light, Harry spotted Teddy in the middle of the lawn, shining with delight, while Malfoy was crouched beside a semicircle of charmed garden stones. 

The stones had become small, round ducks, waddling in a crooked formation. Each one shimmered in a different hue; ruby red, periwinkle blue and deep topaz. They quacked out of sync and bumped into each other like clumsy toddlers. 

Malfoy held his wand loosely, long fingers curled around the delicate wood like it was an afterthought. Teddy squatted beside him, wide eyed and gleeful, clapping every time a duck flopped over with theatrical flair. 

Then, above Malfoy’s palm, a shimmer bloomed; a faint silvery haze curled upward, resolving into a tiny Niffler. It was more of an illusion than a true Patronus. It sat on its haunches, snout twitching. When Teddy reached for it, the creature darted away like a hummingbird, trailing a swirl of gold behind. 

Harry stopped mid step on the stone path. He just stood there, watching.  

It wasn’t that Malfoy was snowing off, though of course he was. But it was more than that. There was something elegant about the way he used magic. It wasn’t forced or flashy. It poured out of him like light through water; instinctive and effortless. As if no one had ever told him magic had rules. 

It was unusual. Harry had never seen Draco Malfoy like this; this lighthearted and easy, even kind. There was grace in him. A strange, steady warmth. He kept his focus on Teddy, guiding without crowding. Never drawing attention to himself. 

Teddy soaked it up like a little sponge.

Maybe I’ve been a bit unfair, Harry thought, the realization curling sharp and unfamiliar in his chest. He’d never doubted Malfoy’s abilities: he was too good at too many things for that. But being this steady and gentle with children? It was almost disarming.

Harry remembered only the boy from school: sharp edged, bitter and cruel. And after the war, the haunted wreck with wild eyes and hollow stare.

In Harry's mind, Malfoy had never been someone you trusted with someone like Teddy. 

And yet. There he was. 

Harry’s jaw tensed. The ache of exclusion reared its head, sharp and familiar. It took him by surprise, how sudden it was. He hadn’t thought about this kind of pain in years. 

It dragged him back to the cupboard under the stairs, being the ghost on the wrong side of glass. 

And maybe, just maybe, he would like to be there, with them.

While Teddy was still giggling at the Niffler, Malfoy stood and tilted his head back in the sunlight. Eyes closed, a faint smile on his lips. The sun lit his long, pale hair so it looked nearly white, spun from finest silks. 

Harry looked away. He shouldn't even notice things like that. He should be annoyed, irritated, maybe even indifferent.  

But no. He really wasn’t. 

Of course there was always something with Malfoy. The alluring scent. The expressive eyes, always veiled by that perfect pureblood mask. The hair. The smirking. 

Harry’s stomach gave a traitorous twist. The feeling was hard to name; familiarity disguised as irritation? Or was it something softer: uneasy fondness? 

The stone ducks let out chaotic quacks and Teddy burst into laughter so bright it hurt something in Harry. The boy ran after the silvery Niffler. 

The illusion dove into a nearby honeysuckle shrub and vanished in a glimmer of light. Teddy gasped and looked up at Malfoy, wide eyed and hopeful. 

Malfoy smiled, brushing his hands against the legs of his pants and murmured something in a low tone. 

Harry knew he should’ve stayed in the shade. He should’ve let Malfoy have his moment. But the wand was already in his hand.

Suddenly, to their amazement a ripple of cool air stirred through the garden. From the edge of the path, a silver blue light burst forward, smooth and bold as it began to take form. 

A stag. 

Draco’s breath stuttered when the glowing animal trotted towards them with a slow grace. It stopped right there in front of them, lowering its head into a gentle bow. Teddy reached out, instinctively, fingertips brushing near its nose and the Patronus pulsed, warm and humming with barely contained power. 

“Woah,” the little boy whispered. 

Malfoy looked up sharply, frowning. He scowled when he saw Harry step into the sun, all casual. Too casual. 

“Didn’t want the Niffler getting all the attention,” he said, shrugging, as if it worked as a form of explanation.

Teddy spun around, beaming. “Harry! Did you do that?”

“Of course I did,” Harry ruffled his hair with a smirk. “It’s called Patronus. I’ve been practicing,”

He glanced at Malfoy, just a flick of the eyes, expecting a jab or some cutting remark. A quip. 

But Malfoy hadn't said a word. He stood with arms loosely crossed, wand now tucked behind his ear. At first his expression was tight, like he was annoyed. But then Harry saw it. 

Something flickered in those eyes. A glint. The corners of his mouth twitching upward, like he caught the scent of challenge. Like he wanted to take the bait. 

Harry saw it clearly; oh you want to play?

But then Teddy darted back toward the Patronus, chasing its misty edges across the grass. Malfoy’s shoulders eased and he turned to watch the boy again, that inherently Black smirk still tugging at his mouth. 

Harry’s heart gave one sharp, startled thump. 

Right. Right, alright, this was going to be interesting. 

And maybe he wasn’t on the outside anymore. 

The sun had started to color the sky with vibrant pinks and deep oranges by the time Potter moved into the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, quietly cleaning the dishes from Teddy’s light supper. The boy had tired himself out with enthusiasm only four years olds possessed, especially ones fueled by chocolate frogs and a promise of flying lessons. 

Andromeda was already fussing over her sleeping sprout, brushing curls from his damp forehead, but it was Draco who lifted Teddy in his arms. The boy snored against his collarbone, all warm and trusting, and Draco held him more tightly than necessary on the way to his bedroom. 

He lingered for a moment after tucking Teddy in, smoothing covers and adjusting his pillow twice. Three times. There was a tug in his heart, the quietness and dim lights turned the room into a safe and soft cocoon. The atmosphere soothed his mind too, giving his body time to breathe in and notify that he was bactually quite tired.

With a great effort, he managed to finally step back. 

The house was quiet when he returned to the sitting room. One of the French doors was still open, so the golden light sneaked in. He could hear some footsteps from the kitchen. Possibly Potter’s or Andromeda’s. 

He let out a soft sigh and leaned against the doorway, gaze falling on the sunlight spilling on the floor. There was this ridiculous tightness in his chest that made his heart leap a tiny bit. For no reason, this was all but Sunday evening, helping out with family. 

Andromeda walked out of the kitchen, and gave him this knowing, cool look of hers. 

“Impressive,” she said when Draco stepped beside her. “Might be a new record for not vexing Harry. He didn’t even glare once.”

Draco had to arch her a brow. “You wound me. I was trying to be an excellent example for the imp. And now you’re mocking me for my maturity.”

Andromeda gave him an amused smile and pulled him into a brief, surprisingly firm hug. Her scent was herbal and sharp. Not like mother’s. Not soft. But grounding and safe. 

“I suppose you’ve gained permission to come back next week,” she murmured near his ear. 

He huffed a laugh. “I’ll think about it.”

“You better,” she pulled back, her dark eyes lingered on him, unreadable. “Teddy is always over the moon when you visit us. You’re good with him.”

Draco blinked. Before, he never really cared about children. He never felt this so-called omega’s maternal instincts. He never had any desire for the family nor did he dream about carrying pups, birthing babies. And maybe that was his way of living. Maybe Teddy was the exception to the rule. 

He tried to clear his throat, as if that might unstick the feeling lodged there. “He’s easy to be good with.”