Chapter Text
The first time Harry touches the abomination—the babe—it is over Cedric Diggory’s still-warm corpse.
He had been crouching over the older boy’s slack form, grey eyes staring up at him, the handsome set of his face frozen, mouth parted as if in surprise.
And why wouldn’t he be?
What crime had this seventh-year Hufflepuff committed? A mere boy—what had he done but be in the wrong place, at the wrong time—trying to help Harry.
A good boy. A brave, charming boy—dead. For no reason.
Kill the spare.
Wormtail's movements were still jerky– the slight man was shaking all over the place, the bundle of robes in his arms precariously balanced. Wormtail held it in a strange manner, cradled close like it's fragile but trembling–like it's a muggle nuke and he wants to drop it and run far, far away.
Harry is disoriented with grief, with adrenaline. He blinks and he's tied. Bound to something cold and hard. A tombstone, he registered.
Wormtail was dragging a stone cauldron over the overgrown weed, in front of Harry. It sloshed, like it was full of water. As Harry watched, dizzy, confused- the bundle seemed to squirm in Wormtail's trembling, inexperienced hands. It looked–alive. Alive and discomforted.
Then, it happened. Perhaps inevitably, with all the shaking Pettigrew had been doing while holding a presumably fragile bundle– he knocked his foot against the cauldron and slipped.
The bundle slumped dangerously sideways and Harry's fingers twitched on instinct–but he was tied, unable to move an inch–even as he watched the swaddled shape fall, fall–
A thud against his awkwardly bent knees–the swaddle of robes fell onto his lap.
It was the ugliest sight Harry had ever seen in his entire life.
A mix of slime and limbs, hairless and wrinkled skin— a grotesque imitation of a crouched human child, Harry realised.
For a moment–everything seemed to stop. Stop. Stop. Stop.
The humanoid shape turns in its swaddle, eyes meet Harry. Red. Red. Red. Red as blood, red as iron and just as cold. The eyes looking too aware, misplaced on this child–like form.
“Wormtail !” An angry, cold voice barked. It came from the baby, Harry realised with slow horror. “Wormtail, pick me up this instant, you clumsy blithering fool !”
Wormtail let out a high pitched squeal of distress. Harry's nose prickled with the acrid scent of pure fear Wormtail was emitting. It upset Harry's senses–Wormtail’s fear smelt like stale piss.
The beta scrambled to obey, picking the child up from Harry's lap.
Harry blinked. The child–monster–baby–thing was still talking, snapping at a cowering wormtail– who was still settling up the ritual, the cauldron–dropping the babe in it– gently, do it gently–
The spot on his folded knees, where the babe fell–and was taken away– felt cold.
Harry couldn't concentrate. His scar– his scar picked up a throb unlike never before. It slashed across his forehead, his skull– pulsing rapidly– it called to something.
Somehow, the message was clear to Harry. It longed for the babe to be back in his lap. It longed to hold the ugly, grotesque tiny creature in his arms. His tied hands and fingers twitched with the force of this foreign instinct.
“Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son.”
–who was Voldemort's mother ? Harry wondered. Did she hold him, cradle him–tell him she loves him–what would she think of her son being a megalomaniac psychopath?
“Flesh of the servant, willingly given, you will revive your master.”
–Harry could no longer stay cognizant. The throb escalated from a dull pulse to searing pain– he wished he could move, break free–his growing Alpha fangs bared like a cornered, tied up animal. Harry is still unpresented, late among his peers–owing to many days of childhood spent in a cupboard, lacking nutrition.
But the signs were there, obvious to anyone. Canines, still tender growing, the boyish crack in his voice promising a deep Alpha growl, quick to anger, a temper. A deep, masculine scent.
It chafed at being bound like this–helplessly before his enemy. An omega would have been quick to cower, bare throat– avoid anger and pain. Harry's Alpha instincts, unrealised as it was– railed and growled, wanted to lash out–
“Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken, you will resurrect your foe.”
– Harry wondered if Voldemort had loved his mother, at least. She gave her own flesh and blood to make him, afterall. Or was she just as insignificant as any other life, to him ?
He knew she didn't raise him. Tom Riddle grew up an abandoned orphan, like Harry. Would it have changed him ? To be raised with a mother's love, under her soft touch?
A dark figure rises from the cauldron, shrouded in shadows–pale and wrinkled and sickly. Like a corpse, a malnourished, unfed monster with crazed red eyes. Born again with the bones of his father, the flesh of his servant and the blood of his enemy.
“I can touch you now.”
Touch. A mother's touch. That is what he needs. No man raised under a loving mother would ever turn into a monster. Voldemort was never coddled, held close to his dam’s bosom, never fed on her milk, did not soothe himself upon her nipple–
Maybe that's why he was so hungry now. So angry, so crazed. An unfed infant will throw tantrums. Distantly, his scar pulsed. He stopped baring his fangs–why raise it at a hungry child ?
Snake-like limbs being examined. A clawed hand extends–touches him as promised. Harry's world erupts in pain.
For a moment, the pain overrides his instinctual daze, breaking it. The world sharpens with agony. Harry screams, his fangs extend further, instinctual need to bite, stave off the pain, eliminate the threat—
The rest of his time in the graveyard passes in a confusing mix of cold fear. Familiar anger and unfamiliar…urges.
The death eaters come when called, forming a scared, half reluctant, worshipping semi–circle. Voldemort berates them, calling them disloyal and only fearful.
To Harry, it sounded like a child complaining about his fickle friends– Shh, Shh. It's okay. You are such a charming boy, Darling. You can make all the friends in the world.
But thankfully, by the time he's under the cruciatus– the pulse of his scar fades, all that remains is the pain of an unforgivable and his own alpha anger. He lets the rage consume him, duels the serpentine monster.
By the time his parents come, Harry is a pup again, his mouth watering with need to hide his face between Lily Potter's bosom, to bury himself inside James Potter's strong arms–mama, daddy– this evil man took you away from me. Made me an orphan like him, unfed, unloved child.
_____________
Harry was watching Malfoy again–as per usual for his sixth year. He was so quiet this year– a stark contrast to last year's strutting and prattling under Umbridge. Quiet and wandering around with a haunted, guilty look in his grey eyes. He's definitely guilty of something–Harry is convinced.
Even now, the blonde was scurrying around, head twitching left and right–honestly– how obvious can he be ? Wearing the look of naughty guilt like that on his face.
Harry followed him quietly. He didn't even need his invisibility cloak to tail Malfoy like this. They rounded an empty corner and Malfoy abruptly stopped. When it looked like he wasn't going to anything else but slump in a corner and breathe heavily–Harry chose to reveal himself.
“Malfoy.”
The blonde startled violently. His Alpha scent deepened with confusion and his fangs dropped, growling a warning. Harry snapped his own teeth instinctively.
“W-what are you doing here, Potter ? Do you plan on stalking me everywhere?”
“You are up to something.”
Malfoy sneered, “ yes.Of course. I'm going to the loo next– want to follow me there too ? To make sure I don't do anything nefarious to the toilet seats with my prick ? ”
Harry stepped closer. From this vantage point, Harry was looking down on the blonde curled up in the corner–the control pleased his own instincts and he knew Malfoy’s was railing at having been cornered by a fellow alpha–his rival.
What was he doing in this empty corridor alone, looking like he's about to cry anyway? Harry wouldn't put it past Malfoy to be up to something bad, all alone without watching eyes–everything about him screams suspicious.
Malfoy’s nose twitched with confusion as Harry stood over him. He sniffed once, looking bewildered. Then, his expression cleared, going back to a sulking glare. “Leave me alone, Potter” he grumbled. “Go back to cuddling your little girlfriend or whatever.”
Harry blinked. “ I don't–what–don’t change the topic !”
Malfoy narrows his eyes, “ No ? Does Saint Potter shag and roll around with omegas without at least claiming them first? You reek.” said with a mean smirk.
Harry has no idea what the hell Malfoy is talking about. He decides he can't be bothered, and turns to leave Malfoy to his moping. He'll come back with his invisibility cloak later to tail the blonde properly.
Draco, glad to see that Potter was finally leaving him to his brooding misery in peace–frowns for a moment, nose still prickly.
That scent…. Draco's smelt it plenty before. On Pansy, when she was presenting– her milky pup scent blooming into omegan sweetness, honeyed and tempting, leaving Draco and every other boy in the Slytherin common room into a dazed frenzy.
He remembers it vaguely, from the distant memories of nursing from his mother, milk and honey–swaddled and held against her……
Draco shook himself out of it, where would Potter find himself a nursing omega ? They were all teenagers here. Unless he was fucking a professor–which Draco highly doubted, Potter was too noble for that.
____________________
It happens on a random, unassuming day. Harry was glad it was merely History class with Professor Binns droning on– the ghost unconcerned with any scent or his teenage students presenting dramatically in his class.
Harry doesn't think he could have handled the mortification of it happening in– Snape’s DADA or even during Slughorn’s potions.
Harry himself felt nothing more than the impossible warmth under his skin– it didn't burst in scent and instinct like his dorm-mates describe presenting. When Ron presented Alpha, the ginger’s blue eyes had been swallowed by black pupils, canines extending past chin and he had almost bitten off Harry's arm.
Harry's presentation hadn't exploded. The heat merely creeped upon his skin, making him feel unbelievably hot and itchy under his robes. He had this overwhelming urge to loosen his gryffindor tie so he did it, putting down his quill.
Sweat trickled the back of his neck, his spine. Hot, hot, hot, hot, hot, hot—-
His tear ducts watered. Glands swelled and lower body felt like it was on fire– something shifted, something broke, his body felt like it was internally rearranging and it hurt.
Nobody told him that presenting hurts.
Around him, Harry can vaguely register the shocked scramble and panic of students. What were they so panicked about? It's just a presentation. They've seen enough of it last year, one person presenting every class, in the dorms, at the dinner table.
Harry was a bit late in the presentation but not unheard of.
Warm hands clamped around his arm, vice–like grip.
“Harry–Harry, up. Let's go. We. Need. To. Go.” Hermione. Her voice calmed him, her beta scent of mild earth and parchment cooling a tiny amount of heat in Harry. He sagged against her. “ ‘moine–hurts–” he croaked out.
“Shh. It's okay. Come, we need–we need to leave–” and he was being tugged along.
Harry could see the rest of the room distantly, from the corner of his eyes. Shocked faces. Some boys and girls clutching at their own responding scent glands–many covering their noses to block out scent. They all seemed a bit too shocked than particularly necessary. Why ?
Harry noticed that even Ron was standing a safe distance away– his eyes looking wild and panicked and confused all at the same time. Harry wanted to laugh at the bewildered look on his best friend's face, if he could.
“--Ron–” he muttered at Hermione, who was still pulling him out of the classroom.
“--he can't come near you, Harry. It isn't–look, we are at the infirmary. It's okay now.”
Madame Pomfrey took one look at them– and nodded. Weary but no more reaction beyond that. She's seen a hundred thousand entries like this in her many years.
Later, lying curled up in his makeshift nest of infirmary blankets–high on heat medicine and calming draughts, Harry took stock of himself.
He wanted to laugh, to scream. Of course. Of course. Nothing can ever be simple for Harry Potter, fate’s favourite fuck up.
He can't die like he's supposed to, can't live normal like he's supposed to, can't save everyone's lives, like he's supposed to, can't be the proper hero he's supposed to be–He can't even be Alpha like he was supposed to.
The signs were all there. Set in stone. Boy-who-lived. Savior. Brave, handsome– he had growing canines. The deepened scent, the growl in his vocal cords, the beginning of Alpha command. All that was missing was the rut. Everyone thought it was coming late, owing to childhood negligence.
Of Course not. Harry Potter had to defy fate once more.
Omega. Unmistakably.
__________________
His scar picked up the pulse it left behind at the graveyard– this time in tandem with the throb of his lower parts. It was so hot, Harry melted into the infirmary bed. He longed to move, to gather soft linen and silky blankets, build a nest– for–for–
Harry whined, distressed. Where–where was his pup ? He wanted his babe, his tiny baby–it won't last without its dam, need to feed it, hug it close– his baby must be scared and lonely ! Where was Harry's pup ?
His sobs picked up, wretched. The slit that split open below his genitals throbbed, throbbed– he was empty everywhere– in his womb, in his arms, on his nipples, in his sopping wet, shiny new cunt–
No mate to fill his cunt, no babe to fill his arms– Savior, what savior ? Harry Potter was a failure.
___________________
The grotesque pup was wailing in his arms. Harry was bouncing it against his chest, cooing at its ugly, deformed face– Shh. Shh. I love you, my child, my babe– mum will take care of you.
“Harry Potter–useless, weak, I killed your father– I killed my own father, you cannot save anybody, I will destroy you–” the pup promised him, nestled against him– its voice a cold dissonance.
Milk trickled from Harry's nipples, wetting the bed beneath him.
___________________
“--he’s milking” Madame Pomfrey was telling Professor Mcgonagall.
The professor’s face was set like stone. Her eyes were hard.
“Where could he even–why would he ? Professor, was there a child in his muggle home ? Some lower year student he imprinted on in school ? I checked him–he’s–he’s not carrying or anything. Then why….” The infirmary madame continued, her voice cracking with disbelief of the situation.
“ –we must wait until he rides it out safely. The headmaster will be informed.” Was all Professor Mcgonagall would say.
____________________
Harry's patronus was his father's stag–it represented his strong ties to familial instinct, to love and his ability to form tight knit, unshakable attachments. Loyal to a fault and unable to see any ounce of fault in his loved ones.
By the time Harry Potter sees Dumbledore’s memories of Tom Marvolo Riddle’s complete childhood– his heart was set, the seed rooted.