Chapter Text
“Do you smell that?”
The light breeze is barely tangible through the open window, but Draco nonetheless reaches out as if he can touch it.
“Hmm?” Blaise pays him no mind, his attention wholly occupied by the book in his hands. Theo is off fucking about somewhere this morning and running predictably late, so it’s only the two of them in Draco’s otherwise empty flat.
“That—” Draco stands, suddenly restless. “There. It’s sweet.”
It’s light, almost. Fresh and familiar, yet somehow still warm and inviting. Just the faintest touch of… something. What is that?
He can’t quite put his finger on it and steps closer to the window. His mind swims and his mouth waters. His breakfast grows colder by the second, but it no longer holds any appeal.
When Blaise doesn’t respond, Draco twists back around and snatches up the book before sending it sailing out the open window.
“What the fuck?” Blaise snaps, sitting up.
“Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to read at the table? It’s rude.”
“You’re rude, you righteous prick,” Blaise mutters, then summons his book back with a wave of his wand. “And we both know my mother was more concerned with life insurance policies than table manners. Not all of us could be nurtured by—”
Draco lifts a brow. “Keep my mother’s name out of your mouth, Zabini.”
Blaise settles back into his seat, reopening his book with a flourish. “Tell that to Theo. He’s the one with the penchant for older witches.”
Theo who, at that very moment,sweeps in unannounced. Wearing no less than three bruises on the side of his neck and what appears to be last night’s robes.
“Morning, tossers. What did I miss?”
“I believe Draco is having a stroke,” Blaise fills him in before flipping to the next page.
An ages-old urge makes Draco want to stomp his foot, but he’s no longer a child. Even if he does, on occasion and for very good reason, toss books out windows. This frustration, however, is so much worse than the kind he used to harbour. This is…
Oh. Oh.
Well, now, that makes more sense.
“It’s an Omega,” Draco observes, leaning on the windowsill. His fingers curl around the edge as he pulls another deep lungful of air into his chest. And gods, she smells good.
Better than anything, or anyone, Draco has ever smelled since presenting as an Alpha seven years before. It staggers him, even from a distance. How are they not smelling her the same way?
That’s all it takes to gather Blaise and Theo’s attention. They press at Draco’s back, but the sudden intrusion in his personal space has his ire flaming to life. Suddenly, he doesn’t want them to smell whoever she is after all. He grinds his jaw together, pressing his molars so tight they ache, and reins in his instinct to shove them both away.
“Stand down,” Theo says lightly, bumping Draco’s stiff shoulder with his own. “Smells like some kind of fruit to me. Pleasant, but not my preference.”
“Cherries,” Draco corrects, taking another breath. It’s still too faint to properly describe, and growing more distant by the second. “And…vanilla?”
“Almonds.” Blaise turns away and goes back to his breakfast without another word, tucking in with a suspicious amount of disinterest. “It’s quite nice.”
Another breeze floats through the window, but the scent is nearly gone. Judging by the waning strength, she’s likely only in the beginning stages of her heat. She has weeks to go before it hits fully, when the hormones will call to every Alpha she passes by.
The thought of other Alphas scenting her, ones he isn’t close friends with and can’t scare off, makes his skin grow hot. Aggressive territorialism comes with the, well, territory of being an Alpha. It’s on the ever-growing list of traits that only become more heightened the longer he goes without finding a suitable mate. His disdain for sharing was already a core tenet of his personality long before he presented, unfortunately. That one can’t be blamed on being an Alpha, though it has gotten predictably worse.
Blaise, on the other hand, chews his food slowly, taking his time while an urgency grows inside Draco’s chest. It claws beneath his ribcage, desperate to get out, to chase and hunt and find. Surely he’ll have lasting scars on the flesh of his lungs. If he manages not to ditch his breakfast plans for an impromptu stroll outside, he’ll likely be coughing up blood by noon.
“You good?” Theo catches Draco’s eye as they sit down, though the food on the table could have been spoiled and rotten for as much appeal as it holds.
Still, Draco unfolds his napkin and drapes it across his lap, putting up the charade. Every second that passes affords him more control. “Of course.”
Theo snickers at the residual stiffness in his voice, but Draco ignores him.
“If you’d like, I can send you the details for a lovely little Omega I met—”
“Absolutely not,” Draco cuts him off. What Theo prefers to do with his knot is his own business, and Draco doesn’t have any interest in following his example.
Though attitudes on Alpha and Omega relationships have begun to evolve over the last several years—with Alphas much like Theo offering to serve as stand-in mates for the duration of a heat while using their own suppressants to ensure no accidental bonds—Draco is, unfortunately, still very much a Malfoy. No matter how much time has passed, or how many lessons have been learned, or even how different the wizarding world is compared to the one of his youth, he is still the Alpha he was raised to be, and he will always want the one thing that he was told awaited him.
His mate.
Okay. Perhaps he’s being a smidge dramatic. He certainly feels out of control, as if all of his emotions and instincts are doubling and tripling on top of each other like paper origami. And all from just a quick scent. What might she smell like up close? Or in a few weeks, in the thick of heat? Thank goodness he’s no longer standing, because even the thought is enough to make his knees feel weak.
“You have no interest?” he challenges Blaise, still unconvinced. How anyone could deny that scent? They must be mad.
Blaise appears predictably unaffected by Draco’s aggressiveness. But that’s who he is—guarded, secretive Blaise. If Theo is an open book, Blaise is a rumour. Nothing tangible to be found, only whispered speculations that follow his shadow. Draco is lucky to have him as a friend after all they’ve survived, and yet…
“She smells lovely, but—” He emphasises his next words before Draco can send his book out the window again. “I am not particularly drawn to her, no.”
The scent has all but faded from the room, and Blaise’s assurance is a wave of relief. It clears the fog of Alpha hormones that had begun to creep around the edges of his vision. Much like Omegas, Alphas have their own troublesome set to deal with.
It’s the nature of their world that most purebloods ended up presenting as one or the other upon reaching adulthood. It’s considered a distinction—no, a title— to be proud of, though one that was historically kept under wraps and only discussed in the privacy of family homes. Even after the war, when reform had come and reparations had been made to witches and wizards and muggles and creatures alike, it could still be considered somewhat…gauche, at times, to acknowledge the more base instincts that come with the designation.
It’s why most Omegas, even mated ones, use hormone suppressants to keep their scent from catching the interest of passing Alphas. Some Alphas, if desperate enough, can use their own scents to call to an Omega. It comes in handy when courting, but could be disastrous if done at the wrong place or time.
Thankfully, his family prepared him for what was to come. Taught him what to expect and how to manage his own responses for not only his safety, but the Omega that would eventually become his mate. Once bonded, it would be for life. And every instinct he has in his body is designed to take care of her.
“Let me guess, you’re going to try to find her,” Theo offers, taking a bite of his toast. “I’m surprised you’re not already out the door.”
A small smile lifts Blaise’s features, but he says nothing.
“It would be remiss of me not to try.” The cutlery is cool in Draco’s palms, and the act of bringing food to his lips feels like a charade. While he chews, his thoughts tumble around. Too many, all at once, a lingering effect from the overwhelming Alpha response. Something that, if left unchecked, would drive him to his truest, wildest self.
“Blaise, do you think…” Theo trails off, but his tone is clearly teasing. “No, no. That would be silly, wouldn’t it?”
“His reaction was certainly strong,” Blaise replies, speaking as if Draco isn’t seated between them. Or that they both aren’t in his bloody flat. “It does make you wonder.”
“My goodness, that would make for a sticky situation, wouldn’t it?”
They laugh at the easy innuendo, but Draco can feel the heat slashed across his upper ears like a stinging hex. They dance around the truth of the matter, and the reality they all live with.
That even if any of them manage to find a scent match—a bond that is both precious and rare—the likelihood of whoever she is accepting a former war criminal and disgraced pureblood as her mate? It’s even less likely. So much so that it’s literally laughable.
It’s why Theo sleeps with any witch or wizard who shows him interest, Omega or not. It’s why Blaise brews his own suppressant potions at double strength, and keeps his instincts buried so far down that one day they might never return. Or so he hopes.
In the emptiness that her scent left behind, a familiar bitterness takes root. One that’s kept him company for years now. The odds are stacked against him. He knows it, his friends know it, and it would be silly to entertain any ideas otherwise.
🔥
Theo and Blaise taunt him when they leave, poking fun at his parchment-thin reasons why he’s suddenly disinterested in their standing plans. But he’s stuck in an in-between kind of torture, wanting more while knowing he likely can’t have it.
So he’ll take what he can get. And what he can get is a ghost of a scent that drifts through his flat, haunting him for the remainder of the day. Every so often, he catches a whisper of her when he least expects it. Like when turning a corner, or reaching up for something off a high shelf. Never as strong as that morning, despite keeping every window in his flat wide open.
Once, in the kitchen, he smells her again for the briefest of moments. He casts a rudimentary cleaning charm, one he’s still not quite mastered after living so long without the assistance of house elves, and freezes when the scent reaches him. It takes several seconds to decipher if it’s actually her, or some residual smell coming from the pantry, or perhaps a hallucination of some sort. Maybe he’s been alone long enough now that he’s actually going mad.
That afternoon, he busies himself writing a letter to his mother. After the war, they had to figure out how to rebuild their lives separately, though he knows she appreciates being kept apprised of the happenings in London. With Lucius sentenced to The Kiss, his mother was only slightly spared. Stripped of her wand and exiled from society, she chose to settle in a cottage in the south of France. It’s far from the world in which she raised him, but at least she’s safe.
While the Manor was seized by the Ministry, the Malfoy fortune was left largely untouched. Stained by blood, he’s sure, so it was understandable that no one wanted anything to do with it. While stuck on house arrest for three years and probation for another two, he’s spent time investing in causes to help rehabilitate his name.
It has, predictably, aided very little. Yet still he tries.
He tells his mother about the potions lab that Blaise has been investing in and expanding, as well as the accompanying research for stronger and longer-lasting hormone suppressants. He details the donation he made to St. Mungo’s the week before, and the old jewellery he cleaned out from their vault. He touches briefly on their former family friends—those that remain both alive and free from Azkaban, that is—and packages a few books for her to read. It’s all a sad excuse to keep from thinking about whatever Omega could be nearby, and he almost succeeds. Almost.
It’s right as he finishes tying the package to the leg of his owl, poised right in the open window of his living room, that he smells it again.
Her.
He’s out his front door and nearly tripping down the front steps to the pavement before his mind catches up to the instinct he’s been fighting all day.
It’s not just cherries and almonds anymore. It’s the warmth of a summer sun on a clear afternoon. It’s almost as if it’s conjured up the physical memories of sweet, ripe fruit bursting on his lips and juice dripping down his fingers. Tasting the smooth, salted flesh of—
He’s closer than ever, yet still too painfully far away. Draco spins, desperately seeking more, but the scent has vanished amidst the noise of the city.
In his heightened state, he can’t seem to sort out left from right. There’s too many smells swirling around him, getting tumbled up in a fresh breeze that sweeps between the buildings. People mull around, dipping in and out of the shops at the end of the street. He heads in the direction of the corner market, slipping inside with a quick smile and a polite smile towards the familiar cashier that belies the urgency that’s reawakened in his stomach.
Inside it’s a mix of sweat and perfume, topped off with stale cardboard and vegetables that have sat out for a touch too long. This neighbourhood has been his home for years now; a quiet, private reprieve from the rest of the wizarding London. No one asks questions. No one acts out.
Which means that if he does, if he goes off the deep end entirely and starts knocking down shelves to find his mystery Omega, he’s sure to be the talk of the street. At this point, his sense of self-preservation is just as strong as his Alpha instinct, and it’s the only thing that manages to reinstate a sense of decorum to his demeanour as he strolls through the aisles.
He takes his time pretending to shop, though he barely glances at any of the items he picks up, inspects, and puts back. But she’s not there, nor do any of the shop patrons seem to notice the scent of her either. Outside, he takes a deep breath, drawing in air through his nose until his sinuses burn.
Nothing.
“Fuck,” he bites out a curse, pushing his hair back as he weighs his next options. There’s a pub just down the street, and a bookshop not far off past that. Maybe he’ll do one quick lap, just a trip there and back, to be safe. Then he’ll head home. Yes. That seems reasonable.
He nods a hello to the few neighbours he recognises, keeping his distance while his senses are still so heightened. No one here knows he’s an Alpha—it’s not something he was interested in announcing, especially when finding a place to live after the war was already difficult—but at this point in the day he’s sure it’s written all over his face. Especially when he feels so wild, stalking around the neighbourhood like a predator.
Which, he supposes, is exactly what he is. He grew even taller after presenting and managed to put on a bit of bulk, though he’s still otherwise lean and lithe. It helps him now, his strides growing longer, as he makes a quick sweep of the little gathering of tables outside the restaurant.
He doesn’t catch the scent of her, but what he does catch sight of stops him in his tracks completely. Tucked away at a table near the door are two of the last three people he wishes to ever see again.
Harry Potter and Hermione Granger.
Though it’s been years, they’re still recognizable, if not for the sheer fact that their faces have been plastered on every magazine and newspaper since the war ended. If not for their actions, then their achievements. It’s quite annoying, really, how everyone still seems to be so obsessed with them. The Great Golden Gryffindors, out to save them all.
Draco can’t help but roll his eyes, even to himself.
They sit across from each other, chatting with their heads down over untouched baskets of food. Faces drawn, demeanours looking rather tired, if he had to measure. It gives him at least a pinch of satisfaction to see it. It’s the first time he’s come across any of his former foes since his trial, and especially in this area of town. A kernel of annoyance takes root that they’ve invaded the small corner of London he considers his.
It’s quite the conundrum. They haven’t spied him yet, too wrapped up in their own selves to notice anyone else, and getting closer means risking an uncomfortable confrontation. Because knowing Potter, that’s all it can be. The bookshop is down that way as well, leaving him little choice on whether to cross the street to get a closer look at the other patrons, or to give up entirely.
Before he can decide, the door opens and a waiter pushes through, floating trays of fish and chips through the air in front of him. The sudden smell of sour grease and fried fish is nearly enough to make his stomach turn, overwhelming his heightened senses like a bludger to the face. Instead he steps back, turning the way he came, and holds his breath until he’s far enough away to find fresh air.
It’s not worth it. He’ll try again tomorrow.