Chapter Text
It was a spring night, the weather beginning to warm as the last traces of winter faded into memory. A gentle breeze drifted through the towering, arched windows of the grand ballroom, stirring the golden curtains and carrying in the scent of blooming jasmine from the enchanted gardens beyond. It mingled with the heady perfumes worn by the guests, the subtle tang of wine and magic in the air, and something else—something deeper, older. The kind of night where anything might happen.
The ballroom was pure wizarding grandeur. The ceiling had been enchanted to reflect the midnight sky, constellations gliding by just slow enough to make you wonder if time had stopped. Charmed crystal chandeliers floated above, scattering golden light over marble floors so polished they nearly gleamed. Everything reeked of old money and older names—pureblood tradition wrapped up in prestige and sharp smiles.
This was the Annual Spring Ball, a gathering reserved for the oldest, proudest magical families. The ones with names carved into Ministry walls and vaults deep in Gringotts. The gowns shimmered, the suits were cut to precision, and every movement on the dance floor was a calculated display of wealth and power. Silks and velvets spun in time with the orchestra’s haunting waltz. Goblets drifted lazily through the crowd, refilling themselves with aged elf wine, while platters of delicacies floated by in a slow, glittering procession.
Harry Potter stood at the edge of it all, just barely inside the ballroom’s opulence—close enough to blend, far enough to hide.
He wore deep green robes that fit him like a second skin, soft and clinging, the color dark enough to fade into the crowd, the fabric chosen especially not to stand out, but somehow he did anyway. His features were soft in a way that made people stare a little too long. Delicate , some whispered, though never where he could hear. His skin was pale, almost pearlescent under the crystal light, a contrast to his hair that was a mess of dark curls, loose and unbothered, brushing the collar of his robes like it had never met a comb it liked. But it was his eyes that made people stop. Green, impossibly green—bright and sharp, like something alive. They didn’t just look at you. They saw you. And they held too many secrets for someone his age.
He looked out at the crowd, pretending to be just another name on the guest list. Pretending to belong.
But inside, every part of him was coiled tight.
Because Tom Slytherin was here.
The Minister of Magic stood at the heart of the ballroom, an undeniable presence even among the elite. He was dressed in robes of midnight black, embroidered with silver threads that caught the light with every movement. Power clung to him like a second skin, as natural to him as breathing. His sharp features—high cheekbones, a strong jaw, piercing obsidian eyes—were unreadable, as though he had mastered the art of keeping his thoughts a mystery to all but himself. He was speaking with a group of high-ranking officials, the barest hint of a smirk on his lips as he listened to their words, but Harry knew better. He had spent far too long watching Tom, memorizing the flicker of emotions in those dark eyes, the subtle shifts in his stance that most overlooked.
He was an alpha. The kind of alpha that made the room tense without saying a word.
And Harry—Harry was an omega.
An omega werewolf with no right to stand where he stood, let alone breathe the same air as someone like Tom.
In most circles, omega werewolves weren’t permitted to practice magic. It was tradition—old, outdated, cruel. Omegas were expected to be submissive, quiet, useful. They were lower, lesser. A wizarding omega with a wand was already an anomaly, a dangerous one. Harry knew most in the room would see him as a curiosity at best, an affront at worst.
But that wasn’t the real reason his throat was tight, or his hands curled into trembling fists at his sides.
The real reason was scent.
The first time he caught Tom’s scent—months ago, in a fleeting brush as they passed at a Ministry event—Harry had nearly collapsed from the force of it.
He had been ambushed by it.
It was power and stormwinds and burning cedar. The kind of scent that wrapped around his ribcage and held on tight. That filled his lungs and set his blood on fire.
That scent had told him everything: this one is yours.
It was instinctual. Irrefutable. Soul-deep.
And Tom hadn’t noticed a thing.
Of course he hadn’t. Harry wore scent blockers—expensive, almost undetectable suppressants omegas used to avoid unwanted attention. Especially from the alphas.
He had walked past Harry with nothing more than a courteous nod, entirely unaware of the chaos he left behind.
Harry hadn’t been the same since.
He watched Tom now—the way people moved around him without even realizing it, like planets pulled into orbit. Like he was gravity itself. Every glance, every word, every shift of his shoulders drew eyes. He didn’t even try. He didn’t have to.
And Harry ached.
Because Tom didn’t know.
Because Harry couldn’t tell anyone.
Not his parents—not the celebrated Potter heroes who’d led the charge against the darker corners of the wizarding world and never hid their opinions about alphas like Tom. Not his friends. Not Dumbledore. Not a single soul.
It would ruin him.
A low, dark laugh drifted across the room.
Harry froze.
Tom was laughing, lips curved in that dangerous smirk, his head tilted just enough to catch the light against his sharp cheekbones. And then, his gaze swept across the room—and landed on Harry.
Just for a second. No longer than a breath.
But Harry felt it. The burn of it.
And for the briefest moment, Tom’s brow furrowed. Not in recognition, but in a flicker of confusion—like something didn’t quite make sense.
Then it was gone. His face smoothed over, cool and unreadable again. Like it had never happened at all.
He looked away.
Harry’s heart pounded.
He should walk away. He should turn his back and disappear into the shadows of the ballroom and forget this foolish, dangerous feeling.
But his feet wouldn’t move.
Because he had already caught the scent once.
And no matter how carefully he masked his own, no matter how many barriers stood between them…
Some things couldn’t be denied forever.
Harry barely had time to gather his composure after Tom’s gaze swept away from him when he heard the familiar sound of his mother’s voice behind him.
“There you are, sweetheart,” Lily Potter said warmly, slipping through the crowd with her husband at her side. Her arm brushed lightly against Harry’s as she came to stand beside him, her green eyes—so like his—scanning his face with quiet concern.
James Potter was just behind her, his usually messy hair tamed for the evening, though a few stubborn strands still defied gravity. His expression was a mixture of relief and subtle tension as he glanced between his wife and son. “We’ve been looking all over for you,” he said. “You disappeared on us again.”
Harry offered a small smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Just needed a bit of air. It’s… a lot.”
“It is,” Lily agreed, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “And it’s going to be more before it’s less, I’m afraid.”
They looked tired beneath the shine of their robes. Still the heroes of the Light, sure—but worn down, edges dulled by too many battles and too little peace. Whispers of renewed dark activity had been circling for months—scattered pockets of resistance that had never really gone quiet, even after the last major purge. And now, with Tom Slytherin in power, the pressure was rising all over again.
James glanced around the ballroom before leaning slightly closer. “We’ve been hearing things,” he said, voice low. “Movements. Plans. The Minister has been meeting with some very old families. Some of the worst ones.”
Harry tried not to look toward the center of the ballroom again—where Tom stood like a shadow-crowned king, surrounded by his loyal followers.
Lily’s eyes narrowed, her tone soft but firm. “He’s dangerous, Harry. You know that, don’t you?”
Harry swallowed. His throat felt tight. “Yes.”
“People think he’s charismatic,” Lily continued, “that he’s clever and capable. And he is . But that’s what makes him terrifying. He doesn’t just want power—he believes he deserves it. That kind of thinking never ends well.”
James added, “Dumbledore warned us years ago. If he were still in charge, this kind of rot wouldn’t be happening. The Ministry wouldn’t be dancing with dark sympathizers under starlight like this.”
Harry nodded faintly, but his thoughts were elsewhere—drifting, as they always did now, back to him . To the moment his nose had caught that scent. That firewood-and-storm magic smell that seemed to settle into his bones and never leave. That instant knowledge that Tom was his.
And he could never tell anyone.
Not even his parents.
Especially not them.
Lily placed a hand on Harry’s arm, drawing his attention back. “You’ve been so quiet lately. I know things are… complicated. But I wanted to talk to you about something.”
His stomach twisted.
Here it comes.
“We’ve been speaking with the Longbottoms,” James said gently. “Their son, Neville. He’s a good lad. A light alpha, smart, well-connected, and he’s always respected the boundaries between castes. He’s never said a cruel word about omegas in his life.”
“He’s asked after you,” Lily added with a smile that was meant to be encouraging. “More than once, actually. And… well, we thought, maybe—just maybe—you’d like to get to know him.”
Harry blinked, heart hammering. He opened his mouth, then closed it again.
“We know you’re not ready for a bond,” James said, “and we’re not pushing you. But Neville’s safe. He’s kind. And he’d never treat you like property.”
Lily’s voice softened further. “And he’s not like the ones on that side. He’d never stop you from seeing us, or force you into politics, or—”
“—take your magic,” James finished quietly.
Harry froze.
Because that, more than anything, was the knife between his ribs.
His parents had broken laws for him. Quietly, carefully. They’d taught him in secret, behind closed doors, where the Ministry couldn’t see. He learned wandwork by candlelight, hid spellbooks beneath loose floorboards. They’d trusted him with that gift—not because it was safe, but because they believed in him. Because they knew he was more than just an omega. Not the way the world tried to define him, anyway.
But if he married… if he bonded…
He would lose it.
The law was clear. Every omega forfeited the right to practice magic, for their “protection.” It was one of the many laws Tom had not repealed, despite his promises of “progress.”
The idea of putting his wand away forever—of feeling that part of himself wither and die—made his stomach churn.
But how could he say no? His parents were trying to help. They wanted him safe. Happy. Free.
Even if their version of freedom was a golden cage.
Harry managed a careful smile. “I’ll… think about it.”
Lily beamed, but her eyes were searching. “That’s all we ask.”
“We just want you to have choices,” James added. “The right ones.”
They kissed him each on the cheek and moved back into the crowd, off to mingle and be heroes again.
Harry was left standing there, alone once more, surrounded by too much light and far too much weight pressing down on his chest.
He should be grateful. He was grateful.
They had loved him when the world didn’t. Protected him. Taught him. Defended him.
But they didn’t know.
They couldn’t know.
That his every breath was filled with the scent of a man who would never approve of him practicing magic.
A man who, by every law of nature and society, shouldn’t have been his.
And yet—he was.
Fated. Known. Claimed.
Harry’s eyes found Tom again, like they always did. Like the tide finding the moon.
The pull never faded.
He didn’t think it ever would.
He would never stop wanting him.
And if Tom ever knew—if anyone ever knew—what then?
He couldn’t say.
Only that the world would never be the same again.
The orchestra had slipped into something slower now—soft and lilting, the kind of tune that felt like it had always been playing in rooms like this. It clung to the air like perfume, winding through the crowd, soaking into silk robes and half-finished conversations.
Harry kept to the edges of the ballroom, moving from one cluster of people to the next with easy smiles and polite nods. It was second nature by now—knowing how to exist in a room full of people who didn’t really see him. Not unless they needed something. Not unless they could turn the fact that he was an omega into a conversation piece.
He’d been trained for this—how to speak without saying anything, how to fade into the background without disappearing. It wasn’t hard. Not here.
But Ron and Hermione—weirdly, wonderfully—were different.
“Finally found you,” Hermione said, slipping past a pair of elderly witches to reach his side. Her brown curls were pinned up in an elegant twist, though a few strands had escaped to frame her face. She looked regal in soft lavender robes lined with runes, the kind of scholar’s robes that announced her intelligence even at a formal gathering. Her scent was calm, grounding, and distinctly alpha.
Ron was right behind her, tall and warm with that golden, easy energy he always carried. His dress robes were navy and cut well, if a bit rumpled, as if he’d already pulled Hermione into a dance or two and had no regrets. His bondmark glowed faintly at the hollow of his throat, just visible where his collar dipped. It matched the mark nestled above Hermione’s heart.
Harry tried not to stare at it.
“Didn’t know you two were coming,” he said with a small smile. “Last I heard, you were on assignment.”
Hermione shared a glance with Ron, the kind of glance people only exchanged when they didn’t need words anymore. It was the same bond-deep look that always felt like salt in a wound Harry never let anyone see.
“We were,” Ron said casually. “Still are, technically.”
Hermione nodded, her tone light but clipped with careful secrecy. “We have something to handle later tonight. But we couldn’t miss this. You know how important it is to… show face.”
Harry’s brow furrowed. “Something to handle?”
They exchanged another look.
“You’ll find out,” Hermione said cryptically, sipping from her floating goblet of wine.
Ron grinned. “You’ll be surprised. Hopefully in a good way.”
Harry tried to laugh, but it came out too thin.
They were keeping something from him. Something important.
He didn’t blame them. They were higher-ranked in the Order, trusted with plans Harry was only occasionally allowed to overhear. And as an omega—even one far more powerful than anyone realized—he was rarely invited into the war room. His magic was a secret, even among allies. Something to be used sparingly. Quietly. Hidden beneath the careful mask of a good, obedient son.
Still, it stung.
Especially now, with the weight of everything pressing on his chest and the bond pulling at his core like a thread spun too tight.
He looked at Ron and Hermione—how their arms brushed without thinking, how they moved in sync without even trying—and felt a sharp twist of envy that knocked the breath out of him. Their bond was complete. Solid. Safe.
They had no idea what it felt like to smell someone and know , to feel every cell scream that they belonged to a man who might never acknowledge them. Who would be disgusted by what they were. Who stood on the opposite side of everything.
They had no idea how lonely it was to carry something so massive inside and never, ever say a word.
“You all right?” Hermione asked gently, reaching out to brush her fingers across his sleeve.
Harry nodded, smiling too quickly. “Fine. Just a little tired.”
“You should rest when this is over,” Ron said. “And maybe eat something. You look like you haven’t slept in days.”
Harry’s smile turned rueful. “That’s because I haven’t.”
They laughed softly, then excused themselves a few minutes later, disappearing into the crowd with murmured goodbyes and another cryptic “You’ll see soon.”
The ballroom glittered around him, alive with laughter and the soft rustle of expensive robes. After Ron and Hermione slipped off into the crowd—off to whatever mission they weren’t allowed to tell him about—Harry found himself standing alone beneath a gilded arch near the refreshment tables, trying not to notice how the loneliness was creeping in again, cold and familiar.
He took a slow sip from his floating goblet, letting the spiced wine sit on his tongue a moment too long, then fixed his gaze on the room without really seeing any of it.
He didn’t notice Draco Malfoy approach until the scent of bergamot and arrogance curled around him.
“Potter,” came the familiar drawl, slow and barbed. “What a surprise to see you all alone. I would’ve thought your blood-traitor lapdogs would be chained to your side by now.”
Harry turned slowly. Draco stood a pace away, wineglass in hand, his silver-blond hair gleaming under the chandelier light. His robes were deep emerald and fitted perfectly to his slim frame, embroidered in swirling patterns of silver serpents that seemed to move when he did. His expression was the same as always: bored, superior, sharp around the edges.
“I see you’re still mistaking obsession for wit, Malfoy,” Harry said coolly. “You’ve got to be running out of material by now.”
Draco’s smile widened, cold and sharklike. “Oh, I’ve got plenty left. Especially when it comes to you. You do make it easy, you know. An omega Potter. The light’s golden boy—reduced to a pretty pet for some ambitious alpha. And yet… here you are. Still unclaimed. Still unsorted .”
Harry’s jaw clenched.
Draco stepped closer, swirling the wine in his glass lazily. “What’s wrong, Potter? No takers? Or do the alphas find you a little too… tarnished for their taste?”
Harry’s lips curled into something between a smile and a warning. “You seem awfully interested in my status, Malfoy. Jealous you weren’t born an omega yourself? I’m sure you’d enjoy being told to sit and look pretty.”
Draco laughed, the sound low and bitter. “Oh, I don’t need to be an omega to be admired. Unlike you, I don’t have to hide behind my parents’ names to get a seat at the table.”
That hit the nerve Draco had been aiming for—but Harry didn’t flinch. He stepped closer instead, his voice low and cold.
“My parents fight for what’s right. They don’t scheme in the shadows and lick the boots of whoever’s winning this month. Unlike yours.”
Draco’s smile faltered. Just for a second.
“They let you use magic, don’t they?” he said, eyes glinting with something sharp and mean. “Even though it’s forbidden for your kind. Is that what you do at night, Potter? Lock the doors and pretend you’re someone else?”
Harry’s heart thudded, but he kept his expression still.
“You’re wrong,” he said quietly. “I don’t pretend. I am someone you’re not.”
He took a slow step forward, and for once, Draco didn’t step back.
“I’ve seen what your world looks like up close. The hierarchy. The cruelty. The way people like you smile while you’re holding a knife behind your back. You want power, Draco, but all you’ve ever done is inherit it.”
He leaned in, his voice just loud enough for Draco to hear.
“You don’t scare me.”
For a moment, the only sound was the soft clink of glasses and the orchestra swelling in the background.
Draco’s smile flickered, tight at the corners.
“You should be scared,” he whispered. “Especially with who you keep looking at.”
Harry froze.
Draco tilted his head toward the Minister, still surrounded with an admiring crowd.
“Interesting choice of view, Potter,” he said, voice smooth and cutting. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were interested . But that would be insane, wouldn’t it? The Minister of Magic doesn’t exactly go for pathetic little rebels.”
Harry didn’t move.
Draco’s voice softened. “He’d crush you.”
But Harry’s gaze didn’t waver—it burned, steady and unreadable. “Maybe. But at least I’d stand for something before he did.”
Then he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving his wine behind, heart pounding in his chest.
Behind him, Draco stayed frozen. Lips slightly parted, like he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or spit out a curse. His eyes narrowed, calculating.
But Harry didn’t look back.
He didn’t have to.
He couldn’t waste another second pretending he was just another well-mannered omega in silk robes and silence.
He wasn’t.
He never had been.
The music swelled. People danced. Light glimmered.
Harry turned away from the laughter and warmth and let his gaze drift back to the center of the ballroom.
Back to him .
Tom Slytherin stood in the heart of a swirling storm of power and politics. The men and women who surrounded him leaned in too closely, laughed too loudly, desperate to court his favor. But he didn’t seem to hear them anymore.
Something was… off.
Harry narrowed his eyes.
Tom’s stance had shifted. His posture was still straight, but too stiff—his spine locked in a way that screamed discomfort. His normally sharp eyes, always scanning the room, seemed unfocused now, like he was trying to blink something away. His brow was furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line as one of his advisors spoke into his ear. He barely responded.
And then—
A flicker of movement. Tom stepped back from the group, a murmured apology falling from his lips. The crowd parted for him like water. He didn’t look at anyone. He moved with purpose, but it wasn’t the usual commanding stride he carried.
It was off-balance. Urgent. Wrong.
Harry watched as Tom moved past the gold-edged pillars, past the velvet curtains, and pushed open the tall glass doors leading out into the gardens.
His heart thudded once. Twice. Then faster.
What’s happening to him?
Without thinking, he moved. Quiet steps across marble, weaving past gowns and cloaks, slipping through the open doors and into the night.
The garden was drenched in moonlight, the soft glow painting the stone pathways silver. Blossoms perfumed the air—lilac, rose, night-blooming orchids—and the faint sound of music drifted from the ballroom behind him. But Harry barely noticed any of it.
All he saw was Tom.
The Minister’s shoulders were hunched now. One hand braced against a column, the other pressed to his temple. His breaths came short and uneven, misting faintly in the night air. His elegant robes were slightly askew, the silver embroidery catching moonlight like broken stars. He staggered once, nearly collapsing against a marble bench.
Harry took a step forward before he could stop himself. “Tom?”
The name left his mouth like a secret, soft and terrified.
Tom didn’t respond. His head was bowed, hair falling into his eyes, his entire body trembling ever so slightly.
“Are you—” Harry swallowed hard. “Are you all right?”
Still nothing. Just that raw, barely-contained magic radiating from him like a storm breaking apart at the seams.
He’s in pain. He’s not okay.
Instinct surged through him—omega instinct, mate instinct. Every fiber of Harry’s being screamed to help, to soothe, to reach out and touch .
He crossed the space between them in a heartbeat.
Just as Tom’s knees gave out.
Harry caught him.
The moment their bodies touched, it was like lightning through his veins.
His hands grasped Tom’s arms, steadying him, pulling him upright before he could fall completely. And gods—the scent. It hit him like a wave, unblocked and unfiltered, all-consuming. Thunder and dark spice and cold fire. His knees nearly buckled.
It was him.
His alpha.
For the first time the bond sang .
Every nerve in Harry’s body lit up. His heart pounded so hard it hurt. Something deep and ancient inside him howled in recognition.
He touched Tom’s face, cradled it between trembling hands. “Tom, look at me. Please.”
The alpha’s eyes fluttered open. Glazed, unfocused—but they found Harry’s. For a second, just one, Harry thought he saw clarity.
And then—
Shadows moved.
Harry spun around, acting on instinct before he could even think. He stepped in front of Tom, putting himself between him and the figures coming toward them. His heart pounded, muscles tight, every nerve in his body on high alert. A quiet growl rose in his throat—not loud, but strong enough to say: stay back . It was protective. Maybe even possessive.
Shapes stepped out from the far end of the garden. Dark cloaks. Wands at the ready. Their faces were half-lit by the moon, and even in the dim light, Harry knew them.
Order members.
He recognized at least four of them—strong witches and wizards, trained fighters. Their wands were already raised halfway, and their eyes were full of suspicion.
“Potter?” Marlene’s voice rang out, sharp and cold. “What are you doing?”
Emmeline took a step closer, her voice like ice. “Are you with the task force? Were you told to capture him?”
Harry didn’t answer. He couldn’t.
The Order hadn’t told him.
Ron and Hermione hadn’t said a word.
And yet here they were—here he was—caught holding the man they were supposed to bring down.
His hands remained on Tom, steadying him, shielding him. The Minister's body was still slack against him, his breath labored, jaw clenched with effort. Harry could feel the alpha’s heartbeat—erratic and fast under his palm.
He hadn’t let go. He didn’t want to.
But what was he doing?
This was the enemy. This was Tom Slytherin—the man who ruled the dark side with terrifying brilliance. The man his parents opposed. The man Dumbledore swore must be stopped.
And yet… he was Harry’s mate.
Even if Tom didn’t know it.
Even if he would never accept it.
Even if scent blockers dulled the bond beyond recognition.
He couldn’t let them take him.
What do I do now?
The moment was slipping, spiraling toward something inevitable.
And Harry didn’t know whose side he was standing on anymore.
But he knew—he knew—he could not let go.
The air thickened with tension, every heartbeat thudding like a drumbeat in Harry’s ears.
He had questions. So many questions.
Had Dumbledore ordered this?
Did his parents know?
Was this the task Hermione and Ron had mentioned with such careful vagueness?
Harry's heart twisted violently. They hadn’t told him. Not even Hermione, who knew every truth before he could even think to speak it. Not even Ron, who was supposed to be his brother-in-arms.
He looked at Tom again. The Minister's head was bowed, body still trembling from whatever invisible curse had seized him. His robes were damp with sweat, clinging to his spine. He looked small for once, not like the unshakable figure who commanded rooms with a glance, but like a man—broken, vulnerable.
And Harry felt the pull again. That ache .
His mate.
Even if Tom didn’t feel it. Even if he never would , Harry knew .
Every fiber of his being was pulled toward the man crumpled in the grass like a fallen star.
“Stand down, Harry,” Marlene said, voice lower now, edging toward something dangerous. “Step away.”
Harry didn’t move.
His eyes flicked to her wand. It was rising. Emmeline’s was already lit with a spell on her lips.
He could already see it, the pale light of restraint magic coiling out. Ropes that would burn, charms that would shackle.
No.
What would his parents say if they saw him now?
If they saw him protect the man who led the opposite side of the war?
Would they be disappointed? Horrified?
Would they be ashamed ?
Would Lily’s voice lose all warmth when she spoke his name? Would James look at him like he was a stranger?
Would they stop trusting him with magic? Would they stop seeing him as their son and start seeing him as a risk?
Would they call him a traitor?
He didn’t know. He didn’t know anything anymore.
Except this: he couldn’t let them take Tom.
Even if Tom never looked at him the way Harry did.
Even if this ended in ruin.
His alpha was here. And Harry was not going to watch him fall.
He barely heard himself whisper, "I'm sorry."
Then—he moved.
Faster than thought, he flicked his wrist, and the world cracked open.
A flash of gold. A shockwave of force. Emmeline’s wand wrenched from her grip and vanished into the shadows with a snap of displaced air. Sparks flew as Dedalus reeled back, his footing lost. Every spell died on their tongues in stunned silence.
Harry stood tall.
The Order froze.
Time itself seemed to freeze with them.
Magic crackled around him like a live wire. It shimmered golden and hot, alive with intent. His sleeves had pushed up during the movement, exposing bare arms that pulsed with heat and energy.
Wandless magic.
He had never done it in front of anyone before.
Never dared .
Omegas weren't even supposed to hold a wand, let alone do what only the most powerful spellcasters could achieve.
“You—” Emmeline’s voice was shocked, shaking. “You did that without a wand .”
Dedalus took a step forward, disbelief painted across his face. “But you're—you're an omega.”
“Yeah,” Harry said, calm and sharp. “And?”
No one said a word. Even the garden felt like it was holding its breath.
The air around him shimmered, his magic restless—alive and sparking against the stillness of the night.
The bond thrummed inside him, steady and insistent, like a second heartbeat.
Tom stirred behind him, groaning faintly.
Harry dropped to one knee, catching him gently, cradling his head. Tom blinked up at him, eyes glazed but confused. His lips parted. “You…”
“You’re safe,” Harry murmured. “But we need to leave. Now.”
The Order was still too stunned to move.
Tom blinked again, trying to sit up. “Why… why are you helping me?”
Harry hesitated. His heart pounded like thunder.
“Because I have to.”
Tom’s eyes narrowed, suspicion flickering back into his expression, the instincts of a predator reawakening. “What’s your angle, Potter?”
Harry shook his head. “There isn’t one.”
Tom’s breath shuddered.
He was too weak to fight back.
But even now, even trembling, he wasn’t helpless. His eyes locked with Harry’s, sharp and searching.
Then, slowly, Harry felt it.
A brush.
A push.
Legilimency.
Gentle, searching. Testing him.
Harry didn’t resist. He dropped every wall, every shield.
He let Tom see.
The scent. That day in the Atrium. That first, jarring moment—when Harry had stopped dead in the corridor, overwhelmed by the sharp, magnetic pull of the Minister’s scent. The world had tilted, his instincts roaring with recognition. His knees had buckled. His magic had swelled. His heart had broken open with truth.
Tom’s lips parted. His pupils narrowed.
“You knew,” he whispered.
Harry nodded. “I knew. And I didn’t tell anyone.”
Tom stared. A thousand thoughts flickered behind his eyes. But then—hesitantly—he reached forward.
His fingers brushed Harry’s wrist.
The contact was small, but it was enough.
Images flowed from Tom to Harry like water down a stream. A vision—sharp and vivid. A hidden place. A stone cottage in the hills, surrounded by a circle of birch trees. Layers of protective wards coiled like mist around it. A room with a low fire, a worn couch, a desk covered in parchment and maps.
A safe house.
Tom let him see it.
Harry exhaled.
The Order stirred again behind them—spells flaring back to life.
“No,” Harry said firmly.
Magic bloomed at his feet, sparking gold, wild and alive.
He wrapped an arm around Tom.
The Order shouted.
And then—
Crack.
The garden exploded into silence as the two vanished in a thunderclap of displaced air.
They were gone.
The air tore around them as the Apparition ended, sharp and frigid, only the scent of scorched magic and jasmine remained behind.
They landed hard—Harry stumbled but didn’t fall, his arms locked tight around Tom as they appeared in a shadowed clearing surrounded by white-barked trees. The cottage stood in the center like something from an old fairytale, its weathered stone walls veined with ivy, small windows glowing faintly gold with protective runes. Wards prickled at Harry’s skin the moment they passed through the invisible boundary—complex, ancient, but not aggressive. They knew Tom. They let him in.
Tom sagged against him, nearly limp now, only half-conscious.
“Come on,” Harry whispered, hauling him up more firmly against his side. “Just a little more. We’re here.”
The cottage door opened with a nudge of Harry’s shoulder, revealing a warm but austere interior. It smelled faintly of parchment, old wood, and something herbal and sharp—potions, maybe. The furniture was sparse but elegant: a leather couch near the hearth, shelves lined with times and vials, a single armchair with a half-folded blanket draped over it. No signs of other occupants. This place was clearly meant for one man—and it hummed with Tom’s magic in every corner.
Harry guided Tom to the couch and gently lowered him down. The moment he released him, Tom slumped into the cushions with a choked gasp, eyes rolling back as he finally gave in to unconsciousness.
“No, no, no—Tom.” Harry dropped to his knees beside the couch, his hand instantly moving to Tom’s neck to feel his heartbeat. It was still there—fast, erratic, but strong enough. Sweat beaded along Tom’s temple, his skin clammy and pale. He was burning up.
Harry's own pulse thundered in his ears, the panic clawing at the edges of his thoughts. He tried shaking Tom gently, brushing the damp hair from his forehead.
“Tom, what hit you? Was it a curse? A potion? Dammit—say something…”
But Tom didn’t stir.
He’d burned through the last of his strength just getting Harry there. The realization sat heavy in Harry’s chest, cold and cutting.
He sucked in a deep breath and forced himself to still.
Panicking won’t help. He’s alive. You can help him.
You’re the only one who can.
He pushed himself up, hands steadying. His instincts were shrieking inside him—fix him, soothe him, help him—but instincts alone wouldn’t be enough. He needed information.
He needed a wand.
Tom’s was somewhere on him, Harry was sure. Gently, with trembling hands and apologetic murmurs, he searched him.
“I’m sorry, I just— I need to borrow it. I hope you don’t mind.”
He was careful not to touch more than he had to, mindful of Tom’s space even in his unconscious state. The scent coming off him—faint now, muted under illness and damp with fear and pain—still clawed at something primal in Harry. His own body trembled from the force of not responding to it, from not just curling around him and letting instinct take over.
He found the wand tucked into a hidden inner pocket of Tom’s robes. The magic inside pulsed faintly when he touched it.
“Hello,” Harry whispered to it, ridiculous as it was. “Don’t blast me. I’m trying to help your master.”
He stood slowly, lifting the wand. It felt strange in his grip—not wrong, but unfamiliar. It wasn’t meant for him, but it would listen, for now.
“Revelare,” he murmured, the diagnostic charm tumbling from his lips with more confidence than he expected.
The spell shimmered in the air and hovered above Tom’s body, forming delicate lines of magical script and symbols. Harry narrowed his eyes, deciphering them. His education hadn’t been formal—no school allowed an omega werewolf with magic, after all—but his mother had taught him. And Harry had learned well.
He squinted, reading fast.
Acute curse trauma. High-level offensive magic.
Targeted neurological disruption. Origin: external.
Dark spellwork consistent with immobilization or mind-compulsion hex.
Secondary affliction: poison. Magical in nature. Introduced via spell or proximity-based agent. Fast-acting. Metabolic interference.
Harry's stomach turned.
Someone had done this to him.
Whoever it was hadn’t just wanted to hurt him—they’d wanted to control him. Maybe even kill him.
The Order.
He reached out and brushed the sweat-soaked hair from Tom’s brow again, his fingers lingering this time.
“You don’t even know, do you?” he whispered. “How much I’ve seen. How long I’ve watched. How badly I wanted just one moment like this… and now I have it, and you’re barely conscious.”
His voice cracked. He bit it back.
He couldn’t break down.
Not now.
There would be time for that later—if there was a later. If Tom made it through the night.
Harry forced himself to breathe, to move, to do . He carefully set the wand aside on the small table near the sofa and scanned the dim cottage, trying to catalog the supplies available. The small kitchen was simple but well-kept, clearly used more than once. Wooden cabinets lined the walls, and a potion cabinet stood tall in the corner, each vial meticulously labeled in a precise, elegant script.
Harry opened it with trembling fingers. Bottles clinked softly together. The glow of preservation charms shimmered faintly against the glass. He scanned the rows: a blood-purifier, an anti-curse tincture, a calming draught. There were healing salves, a fever reducer, even a magic stabilizer.
He hesitated for a moment.
“I hope these aren’t poison,” he muttered to himself, checking the vials for telltale signs of tampering. The liquid in the blood-purifier gleamed a clean amber. The anti-curse tincture shifted to a soft violet when touched with his magic—a good sign. The calming draught smelled faintly of lavender and chamomile. Nothing seemed corrupted. The date runes were intact. No magic-souring. No residue of compulsion.
Harry cradled the vials gently in both hands and returned to Tom.
He was still unconscious—head tilted slightly, sweat dampening the collar of his robes, his breathing shallow and uneven. His skin had gone alarmingly pale, with a faint blue cast near his lips.
Carefully, Harry lowered to his knees beside the couch, setting the potions on the floor in front of him. He took Tom’s wand back into his hand and whispered a soft spell. “Ingestio lenis.”
The blood-purifier hovered first, then tilted, golden liquid flowing gently between Tom’s parted lips. Harry guided the spell with a trembling hand, ensuring the potion bypassed the throat and settled directly into the stomach—no risk of choking. He waited, watching for any reaction. There was a slight twitch of Tom’s fingers, then nothing more.
He repeated the spell with the anti-curse tincture. It shimmered as it poured in, sinking into Tom like a silken thread of relief—Harry could only hope it would begin breaking apart the malignant magic coiled in his system. Finally, the calming draught—gentle and quiet, meant to soothe the worst of the internal strain while the other potions worked.
When the last vial was empty, Harry wiped Tom’s brow with the sleeve of his robe. Then, he stood slowly and crossed the room again, grabbing one of the soft wool blankets draped across the armchair.
He brought it back and tucked it around Tom carefully, cocooning him with slow, delicate movements. He couldn’t stop his fingers from lingering for a moment—on the edge of the blanket, on the curve of Tom’s shoulder, on the pulse at his neck, still fluttering too fast.
His mate.
Tom was his mate.
And now he was lying unconscious in a cottage no one else knew about, poisoned and cursed by people Harry had trusted—by people he still loved.
Harry sank into the armchair and stared at the fire, heart aching in too many places to name.
He had no one to turn to.
No one who knew.
Ron and Hermione probably knew by now. The Order surely did. The moment they returned to headquarters without the Minister, without Harry , there would’ve been panic. Confusion. Maybe even accusations.
He’d destroyed something tonight— derailed something.
A mission planned for months, probably. A long, coordinated effort to take down one of the most powerful alphas in the wizarding world. And he had just—interrupted it. Shattered it. Protected the very man they wanted restrained.
What would his parents say?
Lily—her disappointment would be quiet, piercing. That silence she used when she didn’t have the words, when she didn’t want to scream. That silence that had always hurt Harry more than yelling ever could.
James—he’d shout. He’d demand to know why. He’d accuse. “You chose him over us?” he’d say. “You don’t even know him!”
And Harry… Harry would have no answer that made sense to them.
He couldn’t say “He’s my mate.” That wouldn’t be enough. It would only make it worse.
Omegas weren’t meant to feel that kind of bond so strongly. They were meant to submit, to follow the choices their families made. His parents had spent his whole life reminding him he was different—but only in secret . They let him learn magic behind closed doors, but only if he promised never to use it where someone might see. They protected him, yes—but it was a cage, too.
Now, he’d done the unforgivable.
Would they even let him come home?
Would he ever get the chance to explain?
Or was this it?
Was he branded forever now?
Traitor. Defector. Dark sympathizer.
He buried his face in his hands and exhaled shakily, his voice cracking on the edge of a whisper. “I just wanted to help.”
The fire snapped softly, casting long shadows across the walls. Tom didn’t stir.
Harry looked at him again.
He looked… smaller somehow. Even in sleep. Like the poison and the curse had peeled something back, stripped away the armor.
He wasn’t the powerful Minister now. Not the sharp-eyed alpha who commanded armies and filled front-page headlines.
He was just a man.
And Harry loved him.
That terrifying, beautiful truth burned beneath his skin.
He hadn’t asked for this. Tom hadn’t asked for him , either. And now… now he knew . Harry had let him see it. Let him in . The moment their minds touched through Legilimency, he’d seen the flicker of recognition in Tom’s eyes.
What would he say when he woke up?
Would he be furious?
Would he hate the idea of being bound to an omega from the light side?
To Harry Potter ?
He would probably push him away. Refuse the bond. Reject him.
And Harry didn’t know if he could bear that.
He pressed his hand gently to Tom’s wrist, checking his pulse again. It was still there. Still beating. Still fighting.
“Please get better,” he whispered, barely audible. “Just get better. And then you can hate me all you want.”
He leaned back into the armchair, eyes fixed on Tom’s face, and let the silence settle around them like a second blanket.
Outside, the night pressed in, quiet and close. But in here, with the fire casting flickering light across stone and shadow, Harry waited—hope and dread knotted tight in his chest.
He was holding vigil for the one person who could ruin him.
Or save him.
Maybe both.