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“Malfoy is up to something. I know it.”
“Mate, no.” Ron heaves a sigh and gives Hermione a meaningful look. She returns it.
So far, Harry’s eighth year is filled with meaningful looks, and not a single one is directed at him.
“Really, Harry, he’s perfectly acceptable these days. Quite clever with privacy charms and disguises. He’s been working with me on scent-cloaking charms, which are really quite—”
“Bit weird if you ask me.” Harry frowns. “Why would a Beta fool around with that sort of magic? They all smell like soap.”
“Like soap? That’s terribly rude. Betas smell like a great many things. Their natural aromas do tend to… blend. But they can be quite complex up close.”
“They smell like a Muggle laundromat. Or those white bars of soap little old ladies keep in the loo.” Harry shrugs. “Whatever. You’re trying to distract me from—”
“No,” Ron says. “Stop.”
“—Malfoy skulking around, looking suspicious. I saw him sniffing my pillow two days ago. My pillowcase is missing. Coincidence? Definitely not. And he’s not been at breakfast—and he missed lunch today—and I can’t find my scarf.”
“Don’t be a boorish Alpha stereotype, sniffing around and scowling. Just ask him about it, Harry, if you’re curious. Honestly.”
Like it’s that simple. Like he can go up to Malfoy and stare into his grey eyes and search for the hidden complexity in his soapy Beta scent and say, ‘You’re acting like a weird little freak. Are you serving any new Dark Lords I should know about?’
“Ron, what do you think?”
“I think you’re a muppet.” Ron leans against Hermione’s shoulder and presses his nose to her neck, openly breathing her in. He puts a hand on her hip, possessive. “And Malfoy’s a tosser, but he’s harmless.”
Harry rolls his eyes and shuffles off to the room he shares with Ron and Seamus. He’ll go for a fly around the castle, then maybe actually do his potions work instead of thinking about that stupid, ugly git with his stupid face and stupidly broad shoulders and his horribly lithe frame and the rose petal hue of his lips.
He rummages around in a drawer for his favourite Weasley jumper. But it’s gone. Along with his Gryffindor hoodie, his favourite Weasley-made socks, and his Quidditch kit from fifth year.
Harry knows it’s Malfoy. When he leans close to his drawer, he can even smell that fakey-floral scent that follows him everywhere. He stomps into the common room and makes a show of leaving without acknowledging Ron and Hermione’s long-suffering sighs.
He’s never had what they have; that bone-deep connection. Hermione isn’t the sort to roll over and submit, but she does for Ron. Best feeling in the world, he says. Better than flying. Better than magic.
With Harry’s preferences being what they are, it’s not likely he’ll find an Omega girl for his happily ever after. It’s just as well. He has other problems: namely, Malfoy.
***
Being an Alpha is weird, but not without its perks. Once he hones in on Malfoy’s scent, he follows it down the hallway, past the Gryffindor common rooms, down the stairs and back up again. There’s something bugging him about the scent by the time he passes the library; it has an edge that makes him think of bees and hives and pollen. Then: the almost obscene pleasure of biting down on a piece of honeycomb, bursts of sugar on his tongue until there’s nothing left but a lifeless piece of wax.
They’d found hives a few times when they were in the forest. They’d all been so hungry, they chewed on the wax for hours. Harry had always swallowed it; a little secret filling the hollow of his belly.
The more he follows the wax-and-honey trail, the more his mouth waters. He swallows his spit and thinks of the forest, when he’d first presented as an Alpha, left alone to ride out his rut in their spare Muggle tent while Ron took Hermione to the other side of the creek, where Harry couldn’t smell her. Ron needn’t have worried. Hermione smells warm, like cinnamon and marzipan, but it doesn’t do anything for Harry. Harry had tried with Ginny, thinking it might be more exciting with her athlete’s build and pretty red hair, but it was the same: nice, but not exciting.
This honey, though, even mixed with the drudgery of the soapy floral, sets his blood to simmer. This honey belongs to a boy; Harry knows it.
Harry follows the scent to a blank hallway. No windows, no doors, no staircases in sight. The sconces flicker dimly; their crackling is the only sound. But Malfoy is near; he can smell hand soap and—Merlin—that honey. He must be with someone else; it’s an Omega scent, too sugary for a Beta. It puts Harry’s teeth on edge, a sensation of pulling in his fingers as he feels along the bare wall, like it’s dragging him in.
Malfoy. He has to concentrate on that slimy git who’s been stealing his things.
He leans his ear against the wall and—there—he can pick out the thrum of Malfoy’s blood, the beating of his thieving, wicked heart. Harry’s mouth is watering overtime now, blood swishing rhythmically in his ears. He barely stops himself from falling to the ground and licking the floor, where the scent is fullest.
Strange. There’s no second heartbeat.
His senses have never been this keen before. He’s like a hound following a rabbit’s trail; nose to the ground, ears perked for the rustle of leaves.
When he moves his hand along the wall, a bit of magic catches on his fingernails. When he tugs at it, the stone vibrates like a string being plucked. The magic responds warmly, the stone humming like Harry’s an expected guest, and a door shimmers into existence. It swings open slowly, quietly, a pillow of magic dampening the sound.
The room is even dimmer than the hallway, small lanterns flickering on the walls. He blinks and breathes in, teeth bared to better catch the heavy essence in the air. The screechy floral soap hits him—that’s Malfoy, alright—but there’s something bigger and broader behind it, something that draws him forward, like it’s aching to bleed through.
The door snicks shut, and the lanterns flare, casting shadows along the dark stone floors. There’s a broad white pallet in the centre of the room, loaded with pillows and gauzy fabric, and fairy lights hanging from the ceiling above. A figure lies on the pallet, squirming and letting out a mewling cry as Harry steps closer.
In the air: soap, then wildflowers, spring, hives bursting with life.
Harry clenches his jaw and blinks. The room seems to tilt for a moment before righting itself. In the bed, another desperate noise. A sound that signals submission. Spread legs. Warm thighs.
“Malfoy? Are you with someone?”
A shimmer hangs around the bed—some sort of protective spell, obscuring the bed, making the air wavy, like Harry’s looking through glass. Harry touches it and feels the shape of the magic.
“Hiding under a bunch of spells? Coward.” Harry plunges his hand into the magic and pulls and pulls; it’s like sticking his hand in a spider’s web, the fibres clinging to his hand. When it snaps, the rebound nearly knocks him off his feet.
That’s when it hits him, the real scent, bursting through the room like it’s been begging for release. Ten times stronger than the trail that led him here; thick as treacle, heavy in Harry’s lungs. It’s like stepping into a bakery, tucked away amongst cosy little shops—shortbread in the oven and chocolate croissants in neat rows along the countertop.
“Like a bloody Bludger,” the Malfoy-shaped pile on the bed says miserably, “ripping through—gods—every spell. Go—leave—get out!”
Harry swallows and swallows, gasps like he’s trying to catch his breath. “Malfoy—what are you...”
The lights flare, and the full scene comes into view. Draco Malfoy, buried in a huge bed, blankets draped along the posts and tacked to the ceiling with magic. Among the blankets are flashes of burgundy and gold.
It’s Harry’s pillowcase, draped over Malfoy’s body, the corner of it clutched in his hand. His pyjamas that went missing two weeks ago are tangled into the fabrics hanging from the ceiling. Harry’s pants peek out from beneath a pillow.
“You nicked all my things.” Harry’s stomach lunges. It’s more than indignation or anger or the vindication of finding Malfoy in a pile of his belongings. It’s a base sort of excitement, a twitch in his cock, a tug in the lowest part of his gut.
“Needed them,” Malfoy croaks. “Mother said—mother said no more—no more blockers. You should leave.”
Harry’s cock is swelling, making his jeans terribly tight. He absently unbuttons them and presses his thumb right beneath the tip, rubbing the stiff denim right into the sensitive crease.
The pile moves, and Malfoy rises from the covers, blond hair staticky around his face, his mouth a rosy, irritated moue, and his wand, pointed right at Harry. His hand shakes. “Go away. You can’t be here.”
“Is that my—” Harry’s cock jumps beneath his hand. “You’re wearing my Quidditch shirt. And my fucking socks.”
Harry should be angry; he should be livid. From the looks of it, Draco has been stealing things from Harry’s room for months. He tries to pull up righteous indignation, even a little hint of annoyance. Instead, all Harry finds is a sickly pleasure at seeing Malfoy like this; wide-eyed, helpless, all on display like a pile of ripe, bursting fruit.
The fragrance thickens, and Harry is dimly aware that he’s grabbing his cock now, making odd growling noises that he’s never made before.
"You’re in heat.”
"I’m—I’m a beta.” Malfoy’s voice is soft as a kitten’s mew, his cheeks slapped-pink. “I’m a Beta. I’m just—having alone time.” He coughs, high and breathy, like he’s trying to pass off the damp sheen of sweat on his neck as a fever. He clutches the blanket, drags it higher, but it does nothing to mask the smell pouring off of him.
It’s more than just honey now. The scent blooms; like a kaleidoscope transforming simple shapes into jewel-toned fractals. Sweetness gives way to warm musk: sweat-slicked skin after Quidditch, a boy in the showers tugging himself off, alkaline come splattered on the wall.
Harry’s nails dig into his palms. A small voice pipes up in the back of his mind: Leave. Now.
Instead, he plants a knee on the mattress.
Malfoy shakes his head weakly. “I’m a Beta.” His knuckles are white, his breath rapid. “I am.”
“No, you’re not.” His voice sounds almost—dangerous, now. But he doesn’t stop. He can’t. “You’re an Omega.” Harry grabs his blanket and tugs it away with ease so he can see those pretty legs again.
Malfoy flinches like he’s been hexed. He presses his thighs together in a way that makes Harry’s head swim; it’s clear Malfoy is trying to hide the slick-dark stain on his briefs. Spreading, soaking into the fabric.
Harry lets out a sharp exhale and jerks back, raking a hand through his hair. His skin is burning. His jaw is locked so tight his teeth ache.
You should go.
He shouldn’t be here, looking at Malfoy spread out like a centrefold in one of Ron’s dirty magazines, smelling of sweat and Omega slick.
“You should have told me. I can help. That’s what I do. I help people.” Harry’s voice sounds so foreign now, it’s like it’s coming from a different person.
“You can’t help!” Malfoy’s voice is unsteady. “You’ll need to—need to—and I’ll beg you for—” He swallows, throat bobbing, legs trembling.
“My knot?” Harry feels it; the heavy sphere of sensation in his hips, the need to drive forward and fuck, to breed. The voice in his head is vanishingly small now, insubstantial as mist.
Instinct coaxes Harry forward, into the nest, into his own scent mixed with Malfoy’s honeyed musk. When he touches Malfoy’s calf, traces the H on one sock with his finger, Malfoy’s thighs part to let Harry in.
“I can’t take a knot until I’m married.”
“But you want to. You need to.”
Malfoy whimpers, his breath a rapid rise-and-fall. His storm-grey eyes are nearly all pupil.
“You want my knot.” Harry’s voice is a raspy, low, nasty thing. He squeezes Draco’s thigh. “That’s why you nicked my things, isn’t it?”
Malfoy’s lips part; goosebumps erupt on his thighs, on the bare slice of his belly. Harry’s hand moves higher, nails raking through the dark blond curls peeking out of Malfoy’s pants, one finger running along the stitches of the seam.
“You—you smell like flying.” Malfoy’s voice is a whisper. “Like cold air and sun and—magic. Like magic.” He touches Harry’s hair, light as the breeze itself. “I couldn’t help it—I needed it.”
The last silver of Harry’s resolve breaks.
He surges forward, one hand fisting the shirt Malfoy stole, the other braced against a pillow Harry’s been missing since the first day of eighth year. Malfoy keens, his fingers grasping at Harry’s arms, his breath coming in broken pants. A flash of panic crosses his face. His lips part, but any protest is lost when Harry kisses him, scrapes his teeth over that plump lower lip, licks into the warm hollow of his mouth and feels the velvet of Malfoy’s tongue.
Harry groans at the relief of it; the warm, trembling pile of boy beneath him, cheeks and neck rosy pink. It’s invitation enough: enough for Harry to ruck up Malfoy’s shirt and trace his fingers over the thin, silver scars, to pinch his nipples until they pebble beneath his fingers, to cup the little bulge in Malfoy’s pants. When Harry’s hand wanders lower, he feels it: the warm wet wicking into soft cotton.
“You’re soaked.” Harry pulls the crotch of Malfoy’s little briefs aside, revealing a rigid cock no bigger than Harry’s thumb. Beneath his little bollocks, it’s all wetness: slick and shiny and sweet-smelling, like silk between Harry’s fingers.
“Yes.” Malfoy’s voice is vague and distant. His arms drape around Harry’s neck, his body gone languid and easy. There’s no protest when Harry lifts his hips and takes off his pants, when he flings them to the floor.
“Your cunt got all wet from my scent.” Harry licks into his mouth, and Malfoy kisses him back this time, whimpering when Harry’s finger slips between his cheeks and sinks in, sucked into the silken-hot softness of him.
Malfoy’s body speaks for him: his hips shift, and his heels fall into place at the small of Harry’s back. “I was touching myself. Thinking of you.”
The next breath is nothing but honey and heat and rightness—Malfoy beneath him, his back arching as Harry slips a second finger inside, the easy stretch of his muscles and the welcoming throb beneath his skin. Harry can taste, can hear, can smell, can breathe it—he could bite into all this wanting and swallow it down.
Harry undoes his flies hastily and shoves down his trousers and pants, just enough to free his cock. He makes a choked sound when it hits the air; it’s so full, the stretch of his skin is painful. The head is deep purple, the base starting to flush red.
Malfoy makes a wrecked little noise, his breath hitching, his body offering itself up, slick and open and his.
Harry lines himself up, his hands trembling, as he guides his cockhead to Malfoy’s hole. Malfoy watches him with wide, dark eyes, pupils huge, lips wet and swollen.
“Need it,” Malfoy whispers. “Please, Harry.”
Harry pushes in with a groan. “Fuck, Draco.”
Harry’s eyes roll back in his head; the hot, pulsing grip of him, the frictionless slide pulling him in. Harry cants his hips and thrusts for real, spurred on by Draco’s little cries. Harry swears and grabs the headboard of the bed, angling himself so he can get deeper, can hit the deepest part of Draco. Harry’s fucked toys before, and he’s had a few Alpha and Beta boys suck him off, but nothing compares to fucking an Omega in heat. The primal urge to fuck him full; the sucking, clenching heat of his hole; his soft, needy sounds. This hard, bitter boy turned wet and pliant, all for Harry.
Draco babbles between his little, hitching breaths and moans. Harder, more, and just there, I’m close, I need—I need you—need you.
It’s a jolt to Harry’s system when Draco comes, his cock shooting milky liquid onto his belly, his muscles clamping so tight around Harry it’s hard to move. And, dear Merlin, the scent of him. The winding, wrapping threads of honey-and-sex hit him as he fucks into Draco—more! and just there!—and Harry can taste it when he sucks on Draco’s lips, his tongue. That’s when the first wave of release hits Harry, a tug behind his navel, a growing, thrumming pull at the base of his cock.
“I’m gonna knot, oh—fuck, Draco.” Harry pulls out and slams in hard, fucks him deep and brutal, as the base catches on Draco’s rim, and his knot expands until he’s fit to burst.
Draco’s legs tremble, and his chest hitches. “Hurts,” he manages, body wracked with shivers. “Too full. I can’t—” Draco’s abdomen tenses, and his hole grips Harry so hard that it hurts him, too. But Draco is coming again, and Harry can feel it, massaging his knot, milking him, making him tender and sensitive, making his hips hitch in staccato bursts. Then it hits him; a wave of roiling tension and the first tide of release as his cock swells and spills. Right where Draco needs it, where his body is begging for Harry’s seed.
The pleasure lasts and lasts, surging with each spurt and settling for a few moments—while he kisses and kisses Draco, tears in his eyes—before it hits him again. Harry’s teeth hurt, worse with each wracking wave of bliss. He grinds them hard. He needs to bite, needs to clamp down as the endless climax builds and releases again. But Draco is too beautiful, too precious—
“Here.” Draco tilts his head and tugs away the loose collar of the shirt to reveal the oily, pink-tinged mating gland above his collarbone. The voice, the one that had spoken before in Harry’s mind and told him to stop, to wait, tries to say something, but it’s lost in another tide of pleasure as Harry sinks his teeth in and tastes oil and sugar and blood.
There’s another sticky rush between them, another squeeze around Harry’s cock. Draco is shaking, desperately seeking out Harry’s mouth, sucking on his tongue and lips, making deliciously sated sounds as his arse clenches around Harry’s knot.
There’s a touch of blood on Draco’s lips, and Harry kisses it away, moaning. He nuzzles into Draco’s neck to smell more of him and licks over the puncture wounds on his gland. He tastes so sweet that Harry’s teeth ache. After a while, Harry rolls them to their sides and pulls Draco on top of him, so he can rest easy with Harry’s knot inside him.
“We’ll be married,” Draco whispers, then kisses Harry’s ear. “In June. For my birthday.”
“Married,” Harry repeats, his mind foggy. He tries to grasp the meaning of the word and has a terrifying vision of Malfoy Manor, dripping with white roses; Lucius and Narcissa dressed in summer-blue robes in front of hundreds of people. “Fuck.”
“Mother can’t say we’re not a match anymore. We’re mates. Fated. Like I told her when I was fourteen.” Draco touches the wet, red patch on his neck. Harry instinctively puts his mouth on it again and sucks until Draco is moaning. “You can move into my room. We’ll submit the forms after my heat.”
“The forms?”
“Betrothal forms. Then we can live together.” Draco squeezes his thighs and sends waves of pleasure through Harry’s knot.
“But Ron’s my roommate.” Panic grips Harry, and he tries to sit up. “I don’t want to change—”
Draco pushes him down with a firm hand. “Don’t worry, darling. I’ll take care of everything. And you can have me like this, every single morning. Fuck me til my belly is full with it.” He nuzzles Harry’s ear. “Don’t you want to know” —his teeth sink into Harry’s earlobe— “how I taste?”
Harry makes a choked noise. “Fuck, yes. Yes, I—” His cock is still hard, but the base is returning to normal. He fits his teeth into Draco’s mating bite, for the satisfaction of it, for the sugar on his tongue and the fragrance of honey. He slips out of Draco’s hole and flips him so his puffy, ruined hole is right where he can see it. He presses a kiss above Draco’s tailbone. “I’m going to find out right now.”
Harry grips Draco’s thighs and licks until the little rim opens for him, and his tongue slips inside. Spit and slick and come drip down his chin, and his mind slides away until there is only Draco. His taste, his smell, the delicate flutter of his hole. His mate will need to be knotted again soon; he can tell.
Harry will worry about everything else tomorrow.