Chapter Text
Draco gazed north as he leant his slender frame on the marble railing of his bedroom balcony. A gentle breeze ruffled his chin length hair and he closed his eyes as he savoured the feeling of freedom. Immense gratitude swept through the tall boy as he waited for midnight to greet his eighteenth birthday. He had a very different feeling as he stayed up for his birthday last year; he didn’t think he’d live to see this day, let alone be able to witness the river of stars in the Milky Way as they glimmered over the gardens of his ancestral home rather than the looming walls of a prison cell.
In an astonishingly swift show of bureaucracy, Draco’s family was tried by the Wizengamot just six days following Harry Potter’s defeat of the Dark Lord. Lucius was the first of the Death Eaters to face justice and Draco was relieved that no one but the Malfoy family solicitor spoke in the bastard’s defence. Draco’s father was now serving a life sentence in a dementor-free, slightly less morally reprehensible Azkaban. Apparently the creepy blighters had also been prisoners and when there was no longer entrapment or incentive from the Ministry or the Dark Lord, they left their oppressors and any places inhabited by people en masse and no one actually knew where they had ended up. Moral improvements notwithstanding, Azkaban was still a miserable, chilly rock in the middle of the sea and a lifetime there was no less than Lucius Malfoy deserved in Draco’s humble opinion.
Narcissa Malfoy, née Black, had fared much better than her husband. She was sentenced to five years of house arrest with no visitors except those expressly permitted by the Minister for Magic, and while Draco knew that his sociable mother would struggle with the loneliness this would entail once he left for Hogwarts, he shared her gratitude for the mercy that kept her from prison or exile. Draco smiled to himself, thinking of her now as she rested safely in her well-appointed suite of rooms just one floor below his.
Draco was pleasantly surprised by Potter’s testimony before the Wizengamot on Narcissa’s behalf, although he was floored by the revelation that mother had lied to the greatest Legilimens of their times in the Forbidden Forest for his sake; he and she would definitely be discussing that little tidbit at some point this summer. He had been so relieved by the knowledge that mother would be safe, would get to live, and that father was finally getting his just desserts. Draco naturally assumed that he would also be taking a small, rickety boat to Azkaban for an indefinite period and only hoped he wouldn’t be housed anywhere near Lucius.
So Draco was completely gobsmacked when Potter took the witness stand on his behalf. The other boy glanced over at Draco with sheepish green eyes, his intense gaze slightly unfocused as usual behind his puerile round glasses. Potter’s face was too thin and he blushed beet red which made the iconic AK scar that bisected his right brow stand out all the more.
Draco stared at Potter, goggle-eyed and gaping like a fish, until he heard the internal version of mother’s gentle voice admonishing him: “Show some decorum, Draco. An open mouth catches doxies.” He swiftly broke eye contact with the messy-haired boy as he clamped his mouth shut and turned back to eye the stern, but not unkind, faces of Minister Shacklebolt and the rest of the Wizengamot.
Potter’s perspective of Draco’s past behaviour somehow included not only recollections of Draco’s brainwashed, bigoted beliefs and general shittiness toward Potter and his friends in school, but also his more “admirable” character traits: loyalty to his family and not being able to kill another person, which Draco thought was kind of a low bar.
Potter also highlighted Draco’s supposed “small acts of bravery.” This list seemed to include, bafflingly: Draco’s craven refusal to identify Potter and friends at the Manor and instead to practically hand him a wand on his way out the door which unwittingly made Potter the master of the Elder Wand, Draco’s pathetic, futile attempts to stop Vince from casting Fiendfyre like a fucking idiot in the Room of Hidden Things, and Draco’s refusal to fight in the Final Battle, not even on the side that had won.
Potter actually said that he couldn’t have defeated Voldemort without Draco’s help. Draco’s entire body had prickled with shame at that; trust the saviour to see the silver lining after so many heinous mistakes on Draco’s part. It was mortifying.
It was strange to be saved by what he couldn’t bring himself to do, when for the past two years he had feared only the worst would come of his inability to take action, what he considered his cowardice. Overwhelmed by humility and gratitude, Draco felt a tear track down his cheek as he stared down at the heavy chains wrapped around his thin arms and he heard his mother softly weeping behind him.
He had received one year of probation with quarterly Ministry visits for a wand check. He was also required to return to Hogwarts in September to retake the ruined seventh year of his education and sit his NEWTs. Draco was no longer interested in becoming a Ministry toady as had been Lucius’ ambition for him, but lately he’d noticed a deep restlessness within himself that he knew would need to be directed toward some form of employment after school, even if he didn’t need the money.
He wasn’t sure what prospects could possibly await him with his Marked arm and cursed family name, but he was going to try. Perhaps he could pursue a potions mastery in France? He could practically hear Severus’ exasperation at the idea of Draco swanning about Place Cachée in his apprenticeship robes and a dry huff of laughter escaped his lips.
Draco even had his wand back! He smirked. Potter had blushed like a maiden as he looked up at Draco through long, dark lashes in the hallway outside the Wizengamot. Potter’s trembling right hand presented his holly wand, hilt toward Draco, in an extremely public and unexpected show of trust, or, more likely, reckless Gryffindor idiocy. The knuckles of Potter’s left hand were white where he gripped Draco’s hawthorn wand. Draco hadn’t known what to do and had nearly begun to giggle nervously with the absurdity of the situation until Potter calmly said, “Take my wand, Malfoy. Disarm me.”
Draco couldn’t help but think back to the last time he and Potter had really duelled which was probably during their second year. Severus’ takedown of that fool Lockhart had been spectacular, but the silky sound of parseltongue emitting from twelve-year-old Potter’s mouth and the look of concern on his round little face as he talked to the snake Draco had conjured would always hold the central focus in Draco’s version of that memory.
While cameras flashed and reporters murmured, Draco slowly, gingerly took Potter’s wand in his right hand, felt the surprising yet undeniable flicker of magical resonance there, and whispered the spell the Potter had used to defeat the Dark Lord, and therefore, likely the most recent spell Draco’s own wand had been used to cast:
“Expelliarmus.”
Draco’s throat emitted an embarrassing strangled noise of relief at the feeling of the familiar length of wood as he caught it with his dominant left hand. Draco dazedly handed Potter’s wand back to him, pale fingers briefly brushing tan ones with a small jolt of energy. He managed to mumble a barely-heard “Thanks,” before Potter turned around and stalked away, followed shortly by Granger and Weasley, who each spared Draco a brief, unreadable glance before following their friend. Draco hadn’t even realised they were there; he had eyes only for Potter.
Straightening from his position on the balcony, Draco laughed aloud into the fragrant air of late spring, moments before midnight. He was free! Free of the Dark Lord and his posse of insane lackeys, free of father and the hideous, crushing weight of his expectations and punishments for Draco’s perpetual shortcomings, free from imprisonment and wandlessness; free, free, free! He spun around in the moonlight, childlike giggles spilling out of his throat, silk dressing gown swirling around him.
Draco gleefully contemplated growing his hair out over the next several months now that father was no longer around to stop him. He was certain there was some sort of hair lengthening potion he could brew. The thought of it being long enough to plait with ribbons ignited a vicious sort of hope deep in his core.
He heard the deep bong of the grandfather clock in the conservatory as it chimed the midnight hour. He listened intently in anticipation, ready to be the first to wish himself happy birthday, like always. But right before the twelfth toll, Draco doubled over with sudden, overwhelming agony and unconsciousness swept over him.
He awoke to the cool touch of mother’s hand on his forehead. “Draco, darling. Are you awake?” His whole body felt like it was on fire and he moaned. His tongue was thick with the taste of blood and the fading bitterness of a pain reliever potion. “What happened?” he managed to grunt, groggy and confused. He tried to open his eyes but the light in his room was too bright and he hissed. “Oh my sweet boy, I’m so sorry.”
Mother must have drawn the curtains as the brightness behind his lids receded. He heard her sigh. “Libby found you passed out on your balcony early this morning and immediately came to get me. We brought you inside and tried to make you comfortable, but it was clear how much pain you were in. I should have known this would happen.”
Draco shouted hoarsely as he was seized by full-body cramping again. Gentle fingers opened his jaw and helped him gulp down another dose of pain reliever and then he tasted Dreamless Sleep. He barely had time for What the hell? to cross his mind before he fell back into the darkness.
The curtains were open again when he awoke the second time. Judging by the angle of the sun, it was late afternoon, but whether it was the same day, Draco didn’t know. The agony he remembered before no longer held him but his body was pervaded by an unprecedented soreness. His bones ached. And he was fucking starving. He had barely been awake for a few moments before a gentle pop announced the arrival of Libby, bringing with her the familiar scent of baby powder and fresh-baked bread.
“Oh, Master Draco, you is awake! Mistress Cissy is sending Libby to check on young master. How is Master Draco feeling? Is he needing more pain reliever potion?” To her credit, Libby seemed to be moderating her usual piercing voice in an effort to save him from sensory overwhelm, although he could tell from long years of knowing the elf that she was worried about him. “Libby,” croaked Draco, “What day is it?”
“It is being Master Draco’s birthday, sir! Happy Birthday!” Draco’s stomach growled audibly and Draco emitted an embarrassed chuckle. “Thank you. And what time is it? Did I miss dinner?”
“Oh, no, sir! You is awake just in time. Is you wanting to eat in bed or join the mistress downstairs?”
“Give me some time to freshen up and I’ll be down to join mother for dinner. Thank you Libby.” Libby smiled brightly at him, relief clear on her face, and she curtseyed smartly before she went away with another champagne bubble pop.
Draco shook his head ruefully at the tender concern of the elf who had helped raise him. He missed her brother, Dobby, with an ache in his chest that hadn’t eased in the months since the elf’s death. Dobby had been his childhood playmate, and even after Potter had “accidentally” freed him, Dobby had made it a point to check in on Draco when at Hogwarts from time to time. Draco always felt he hadn’t deserved the kindness but Dobby still showed up with his favourite dessert or a cup of cocoa when Draco felt the loneliness and terror most acutely during the past several years.
He huffed as he laid back on the pillows, deftly shoving down thoughts of loss, and carefully stretched his limbs to try to ease the soreness as his joints popped. Draco couldn’t put his finger on it, but something felt off about himself. He supposed it was due to passing out the night before and sleeping all day which was liable to make anyone feel strange.
Draco leant over, picked up his wand from the nightstand, and padded barefoot to the ensuite. He busied himself with ablutions and resolved to take a long soak in the bath later when his eyes caught on his reflection in the long oval mirror above the sink. His eyes grew round with shock and his breath caught in his chest.
His chest, which had always been rather on the slender or downright scrawny side, had been covered in long, silvery scars since sixth year, and a downy furring of ash blond since last year. This morning, his chest was, well— it wasn’t scrawny anymore by any stretch of the imagination; in fact, he observed a significant increase in muscle mass, although the scars from Potter’s spell still graced it and had stretched to fit the newly expanded surface area. Moderately defined pectorals framed pink nipples which hardened in the slightly chilly air. His shoulders, while not exactly wide, were certainly broader than they had been the last time he’d checked.
At the juncture of his neck and shoulder on the left side of his body Draco saw an area of slightly raised skin in the general shape of an oval. He brushed a finger over it and gasped as the sensation went straight to his cock. He gulped. What the fuck was that?
As his gaze continued to roam Draco became even more alarmed. His formerly spindly, lightly toned limbs were thicker and stronger-looking, though not overly muscled. Alas, the Dark Mark still stood out starkly against the pale skin of his left inner forearm, so no change there. He shook his head as if to clear out the thoughts always brought on by the Mark and returned to his self-perusal.
Draco was definitely taller. At seventeen, he had already stood at a properly Malfoyish height of 187 centimetres, all the better to look down his nose at the common people, naturally, but it seemed like he had gained nearly ten centimetres. He shucked off his black silk pants and curiously examined his half-hard cock. It, too, was a little longer and thicker than it had been when he had tossed one off the night before in the shower. Draco sucked in another breath and let it out, slowly, trying to calm himself. Again, he thought, What the fuck?
Mother definitely had some explaining to do.
After attaching small silver hoops to his earlobes, Draco dressed himself in simple grey slacks, a diaphanous pale blue blouse, and a cream-coloured cashmere jumper. Each piece was part of a self-indulgent owl order purchase in the weeks since the trial as he began to stretch his fashion wings for the first time since he was a very small child.
Draco wandered downstairs to the dining room and found his mother sat at the head of the long table on the far end of the room with a novel in one hand. She was radiant in periwinkle robes that set off the simple plait of her golden blond hair. Draco inhaled slowly and smelled the delicate English rose perfume he brewed for her and the underlying scent of mother, milky and comforting. He absently noted the strangeness of this; Draco didn’t think it was normal to be able to smell another person from across a room.
At his entrance, she looked up at him and graced him with a small smile. She set down her novel and stood to meet him partway. She grasped his shoulders as if to test their breadth, then reached up to cup his face with both elegant hands and stroked his cheekbones with gentle thumbs. Narcissa studied her son carefully with a guarded, uncertain expression that he rarely saw in her. She was always so composed, so sure of herself, and to see the almost anxious look in her eyes was disturbing. “Mother,” he said cautiously, “What happened to me?” He felt a small spike of irritation as she pulled away and returned to her seat, obviously stalling for time to answer him.
She sighed. “Dragon, I think it’s best for you to have something to eat, and then I’ll do my best to explain everything. Libby, we’re ready.” Draco resigned himself to wait and sat down in the ornately carved ebony chair to her right as food and wine appeared on the table. Remembering his manners in spite of his ravenousness, Draco draped his serviette in his lap and then did his best not to wolf down the courses as they came.
In spite of his trepidation and annoyance at his mother’s reticence, Draco felt significantly better by the time they reached dessert and he steeled himself for the information he knew would be forthcoming about the changes he had undergone overnight. His mother straightened herself even further than her usual perfect posture and looked over at him with an unreadable expression.
“You are familiar with the stories of ancient magical beings called lycans, yes?”
Draco nodded and gestured for her to go on, so she continued, “Many centuries ago, a witch named Ariadne met and fell in love and bonded with an Alpha lycan named Lyra. The children they bore began the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Over the centuries, inheritance of those traits has become increasingly rare, though I’m not sure why that would be. However, from time to time, a child is born and comes into their inheritance sometime after the onset of puberty. It is my belief that this is what happened to you last night. This has not occurred in the Black family for at least three generations. The last was your great grandfather’s sister, Cassiopeia Black, who presented with omega traits.”
Draco started to interrupt her to ask a question, but she silenced him with a stern look. He quailed and motioned for her to continue. There would be plenty of time to sate his curiosity later.
“While the rumours of lycan inheritance have been passed down through family lore, there was little concrete evidence until I discovered several of Cassiopeia’s diaries in our family library when I was thirteen years old, home from Hogwarts over Spring holiday. I was initially disgusted but gradually became more intrigued as I read her personal accounts. She was a remarkable woman with incredible resilience of spirit, but she was terribly lonely,” she paused and Draco saw a pang of sadness cross her face on behalf of her relative.
“I can’t imagine what it was like for her to try to hide her inheritance in the face of her family’s obvious hatred for magical creatures. I recognised the hypocrisy in those beliefs at the time but kept those ideas to myself. I always feared I would present with lycan traits, but when I never did I assumed— well. I thought it was very unlikely to happen to you.” She winced apologetically at his blank expression.
She studied him, searching for his reaction as he slowly absorbed this information. Of course he had heard snippets here and there about the Black family’s wolfish traits early in his childhood when in the company of his maternal grandparents, his great aunt Walburga, and Aunt Bella, but he had dismissed the stories as pure myth with no relevance to himself. He was also familiar with the tales of lycans; all magical British children were. Draco knew a little about the wolf-human hybrids but had always assumed they represented a fantasy version of werewolves from a time long past.
“Alright,” he finally said. He wasn’t sure what to think or how to feel. It all seemed surreal still, like he was watching this conversation happen from above. “What does omega mean?” He felt a small thrill travel down his spine at the unfamiliar word.
“‘Omega’ is a type of secondary sex characteristic that may be developed by lycans and other magical creatures. The term is also used to describe the people who develop those characteristics. Omegas can be born male, female, or intersex, but when they present with their secondary sex, they develop the ability to conceive and birth children regardless of the sex they were born with. There are other characteristics that may differ from person to person, as well, but the ability to bear children is the universal trait that does not vary.
“Omegas tend to be more nurturing, gentle people, but do not mistake that gentleness for weakness, my son. Omegas fiercely protect their children, if they have any, and other members of their communities and they are extremely magically powerful. Omegas tend to seek out and bond with an Alpha, another type of secondary sex characteristic a person with lycan traits may exhibit. Cassiopeia never found a bond mate, which I think was part of why she was so lonely and died rather young. Lycans who don’t present as omega or Alpha are called betas. While they carry some of the enhanced instincts of lycans, they do not exhibit any of the special secondary sex traits and tend to be less magically powerful than omegas or Alphas.
“Of course, lycans can reproduce with their human counterparts, wizards and Muggles, but are much likelier to conceive and carry a successful pregnancy to term with another lycan, especially an Alpha/omega pair. I suspect this is why male and intersex omegas were gifted with the ability to conceive and why it has continued to appear in lycans over the centuries; the greater number of members of a community who can feasibly fall pregnant, the higher the likelihood of continued existence.”
At this point, Draco was pink with the embarrassment that came from hearing one’s mother discuss reproduction. Draco also thought that the ability of lycans to have children together, even two males, if one was an omega, was quite a boon for homosexual lycans, though he didn’t mention this to mother.
He let out a breath with the intention of asking her how all of it applied to him, but Narcissa interrupted him gently with a pat to his hand where it rested on the surface of the table. “You, my dragon, are showing classic Alpha lycan physical traits. I will need to do some more research to help you know what to expect beyond appearances, as Cassiopeia recorded very little on the subject in her diaries.”
Draco nodded thoughtfully, still feeling numb. He mentally thanked Severus for ensuring that Draco became a skilled Occlumens which enabled him to temporarily evade the effects of strong emotions. A twinge of irony wriggled its way to the forefront as he imagined what his horrified 13-year-old self would have thought of himself becoming a magical creature, a half breed like Remus Lupin or Rubeus Hagrid. “Thank you mother. I would like to help with the research if I can. Are lycans at all similar to werewolves? I would imagine so, given what you’ve shared and what I’ve read about them.”
“In some ways, yes, they are quite similar, however lycans do not carry the disease of lycanthropy, which means they generally do not undergo any sort of transformation unless they become an animagus, and more importantly lycans cannot infect others and do not have to take any potions to maintain control of their senses, even during a heat or rut period. But that’s a fine idea, Draco - I’m sure there is much more information about werewolves in the library than about lycans, and their social structures and secondary sex characteristics appear to be similar.”
Draco smiled faintly as dread bloomed in his gut. He had only heard of heats and ruts in passing in connotation with animal husbandry he had learned from Lucius and during Care of Magical Creatures. He suspected this would be an aspect of his condition that would be less than pleasant.
“Thankfully,” Narcissa began, “We have the summer to learn more and prepare you to cope with the changes when you return to Hogwarts.” Draco blanched. “Will I have to tell the headmistress?”
Narcissa grimaced with a measure of dignity. “Most likely. But only she and the matron should need to know to make sure you are comfortable during ruts and can recognise what’s going on if anything untoward occurs. It isn’t necessary for anyone else to be aware of your traits unless you decide to share the information. It is private and only affects you and your future bond mate.”
Draco’s curiosity was piqued again. “When you say ‘bond mate’ do you mean a soul bond? Is it just one person? If I bond with someone, is it permanent?”
“I’m not sure. Bonding is the part of lycan lore about which I am least familiar. I do know you will likely begin to experience dreams or fantasies about an intended mate shortly before or during your first rut, and those will intensify gradually until you bond with that person, or until your magic decides they are no longer a suitable mate. Cassiopeia had them starting with her first heat. She described it as a relentless mental itch that something was missing from her life, a yearning for a mate and a family that became all-consuming during heat cycles.”
Draco’s cheeks grew hot with embarrassment as he contemplated her words. His wanking fantasies and wet dreams had almost always revolved around one specific person but there was no way those could be considered mate dreams. He supposed he would find out soon. Narcissa cleared her throat expectantly so Draco hummed his acknowledgment and absently ran his tongue over a canine. He flinched as the coppery taste flooded his mouth. Exhausted by all the unexpected changes and new information, Draco heaved a great sigh.
Narcissa was still giving him her full attention, but her mask of decorum was firmly back in place so it was harder to read her. However, because she was his mother, he could still see her care and concern for him, along with a protectiveness that settled his nerves. Draco and his mother had survived two tyrants in their home and came out stronger; they could probably do anything together. He wouldn’t let this change hold him back from his hopes for the future.
Narcissa reached out to gently squeeze both of Draco’s hands. “I know it has been painful so far, but happy birthday, darling. I will never forget the joy I felt the day you came into the world. You are so precious to me and I’m so sorry I didn’t protect you from what was to come. But I’m glad we are here, together now, and safe at last. I love you, Draco.” Draco returned the squeeze and ducked his head bashfully at the unusually affectionate words. “I love you, too, mother.”
x
It wasn’t until later that evening after he’d gotten into the bath that Draco’s mind really allowed him to process his experiences of the past twenty four hours as he let his mental shields fall. The scent of eucalyptus bath salts was soothing but, as always, it brought to mind his godfather’s Calming Draughts and he felt an enormous wave of grief rise up to meet confusion and fear over the changes to his body. Severus would have known what to do.
He had been the one to give Draco advice from the first day he came crying about having to marry a witch someday. Severus had stroked six-year-old Draco’s hair soothingly as Draco wailed until he fell asleep in his arms, comforted by his godfather’s anise and eucalyptus scent. When Draco woke up, Severus was there to gently and sternly talk him through his feelings and assuage his worries about the future.
It was Severus Draco first told about his proclivities at age twelve, and Severus who told him there was nothing wrong with being gay, but that he would need to be discreet. “To avoid your father’s ire” was left unspoken. Severus was amongst a very small group of adults who knew the true extent of Lucius’ control over Draco and his mother; he had healed many wounds on Draco’s back from beatings over the years. Draco always wondered if he hated his father’s cane or his crucio more because at least the wounds from the beatings led to comforting time with Severus. The torture curse left no visible marks.
But Severus was gone, killed by the great bloody snake Longbottom later did the world a favour by decapitating.
The Potions master had been the second most skilled Legilimens of their time and had trained Draco in Occlumency from a young age, as soon as Draco’s need for privacy became clear. Draco eventually requested Severus share his thoughts with Draco directly via Legilimency from time to time in order to maintain that privacy. Reluctantly, Severus had consented, with the understanding that Draco should carefully shield anything he didn’t want his godfather to see, and need only ask for Severus to leave. This meant that as long as Draco could find Severus’ eyes with his, Severus could know what Draco thought, and Draco could hear Severus’ biting wisdom.
As the Death Eaters in swirling black cloaks and shiny silver masks began to Disapparate to Hogwarts for what would be the Final Battle, Severus had looked at him, black eyes fierce. Draco thought hysterically: Severus! I don’t want to fight! I can’t fight. What should I do?
Severus’ ever calm tone, laced with arid humour, came through even in thought: “Hide. When we arrive, go to the castle, find your mother and your friends, and hide. Stay away from the fighting. You must survive this, Draco. Think of your mother. Think of your future! You have so much to offer our world, vain boy. Don’t squander it by dying in a foolish act of so-called bravery.
“Promise me, Draco. Promise me you’ll keep yourself safe, no matter what you hear, no matter what happens. I can’t bear it if I know you are in danger while I’m trying to see this through to the bitter end. Acts of bravery from men such as ourselves may never be seen for what they are, but I assure you, they are bravery nonetheless. It takes courage to live, Draco. Keep living.”
Draco choked out a sob as his tears joined the warm bathwater as he contemplated Severus’ last words to him. He suspected that Severus had probably known these would be his last words to Draco. Severus must have always known his status as a double agent would lead to his untimely death, as it was almost guaranteed that his betrayal of the Dark Lord would eventually be revealed one way or another. And he was right: No one would ever know the sacrifices he had made to defeat their former master.
Draco tried to do exactly as Severus ordered, although perhaps finding his friends shouldn’t have been his first act since that led to Crabbe and Goyle following the Golden Trio into the Room of Hidden Things, which had led to Fiendfyre. And Potter. He was stymied again as he thought about it. Potter had saved Draco, even after everything he’d done. He’d done it in the Room, he’d done it when he finally ended Riddle, and he’d done it again before the Wizengamot.
Draco hugged his knees to his chest as the fear of death overtook him and shame wrapped around his spine. He sat in the tub and shook, hyperventilating. He could feel the deadly flames licking at his heels, smoke stinging his eyes, his grip white on Potter’s waist, his nose buried in Potter’s untameable nest of black curls. He still couldn’t bring himself to get on a broom for fear of falling off in a state of panic.
This is how Draco’s baths usually went these days: Eucalyptus. Severus. Fiendfyre. Potter.
Potter, Potter, Potter. The Gryffindor Golden Boy, saviour of magical Britain, scarhead. Fuck.
Almost as soon as the flashback subsided, Draco’s attention was drawn to his prick, which had begun to swell at the thought of his former Quidditch rival. Even through the searing heat and smoke as they flew out of the Room, broomstick clamped between their legs, Draco had been able to detect Potter’s apple-scented Muggle shampoo, the woodsy scent of his scalp, and the earthiness that surfaced with the sweat beading along the nape of his neck that stirred something primal within Draco. He could almost smell it now and it only encouraged his hard on.
Well.
On to the final movement of his bath time concerto: rubbing one out to thoughts of vibrant green eyes, rough, bronze fingers, and apple-scented raven curls. He had long ago given up trying to fight the images that arose when his bed curtains were spelled shut, when he was in the showers, when he was, well, anywhere alone really. And sometimes even when in company, much to his chagrin.
Draco’s obsession with Potter was long standing before he realised his sexual attraction to the other boy. The fixation began in Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions, was intensified by rejection in favour of a Weasley and every subsequent antagonistic encounter, and it had culminated during their fourth year at Hogwarts as Potter faced the Hungarian Horntail and Draco sat in the Slytherin section of the stands, at first jeering and then gasping with terror. As soon as it was clear Potter was safe, Draco had fled to a hidden alcove in the Slytherin courtyard where he let the tears and self pity come. Severus had found him there several hours later with a steaming cup of earl grey and comforted him. “Idiot boy. The Potter whelp is safe. You have nothing more to fear. Calm yourself, Draco.”
Draco’s breath began to deepen as he shut his eyes to avoid looking at the Mark and began to tease back his foreskin with one hand while grazing his balls with the other before probing a finger lower, rubbing his perineum. With a whispered Lubrico Oleum, one of a few extremely useful wandless spells he had mastered, he slicked his fingers and circled his entrance before probing in gently with one finger, thrusting in and out slowly until he was in above his first knuckle. He added a second finger, craving the feeling of fullness, and sought out his prostate. As he grazed the bundle of nerves, he gasped and began to stroke his cock in earnest, occasionally reaching down to lightly tug his balls.
Salazar, it felt incredible; the warmth of the bathwater added to the fullness from his fingers and the pressure from his trusty left hand as he wrapped it around his aching prick. He couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to sink his cock into Potter's gorgeous arse, or hell, have Potter bugger him, Draco wasn’t picky.
He picked up the pace, filling the ensuite with groans and mewls. Thank fuck for the silencing charms built into his rooms. It was the thought of Potter’s flushed face and long, dark lashes as he handed Draco his own wand in a devastating show of completely unearned trust that sent Draco over the edge as he came, hard, into the water. He fucked himself through his orgasm, milking his prostate, until he shuddered at the sensitivity and withdrew his fingers carefully.
Draco’s head thunked back on the lip of the tub as his body filled with the usual post-orgasm warmth and euphoria, quickly chased by a little shot of shame. Draco was pathetic. Even if Draco had embraced his sexuality now and no longer had to hide that he was gay, Harry Potter would never want him that way. Potter was as straight as they came and he was with the Weaslette. It was with this hopeless thought that Draco vanished the water from the tub and stepped into the shower, washing the remnants of his cum and intense emotions down the drain as he once more raised his mental shields.
x
Draco, mother, and Libby spent the following months cleaning and redecorating the manor, anxious to make new memories in each room that had been tainted. They also drifted in and out of the manor’s various libraries where they persistently researched his condition and read all the myths and legends about lycans and werewolves they could find. While he was a bit worried that he hadn’t yet had his first rut by the end of August, Draco felt he had enough information now to handle it when he returned to school, and mother seemed to share his confidence.
Draco sent an owl to Headmistress McGonagall which explained his situation as delicately as he could and she replied in her typical no-nonsense fashion that she and Madam Pomfrey would meet with him at the start of term to discuss logistics. He breathed a sigh of relief at her professional response and hoped it meant he was to be received in the same manner by other Hogwarts faculty in September.
As the new Lord Malfoy (ugh) Draco made a trip to Gringotts and met with his solicitor and financial advisor to review his family estate and investments. He uncovered a lot of shady dealings that his father has maintained and Draco did his best to carefully extricate himself from them. Atticus and Gorlak were quite helpful once they understood Draco’s concerns and goals for his wealth. He also set up a few anonymous funds for various causes which included support for children who lost parents to the war and medical treatment for those who had been injured.
After a browse through Slug & Jiggers to top off his store of potions ingredients, Draco made an order of aconite and a number of other specialty ingredients. Severus had taught him to brew Wolfsbane when Greyback moved into the manor and Draco knew it like the back of his hand. Fear was apparently a great motivator for him in this instance, though he’d always had an aptitude for Potions; he wasn’t first in his house and second in his year by favouritism.
Draco found he had a new sense of kinship with werewolves since his inheritance and all the studying he and mother had done. His heart went out especially to the survivors of the numerous attacks by Greyback’s pack, in no small part because of Draco’s own guilty conscience for using the vanishing cabinets to let Greyback into Hogwarts, no matter how unwittingly. He knew from Severus’ tutelage that quality Wolfsbane was expensive and hard to come by since it was quite complex and time consuming to brew. Draco reasoned that, perhaps if folks had easier access to the potion they wouldn’t have to turn to someone like Greyback for succour.
Mr. Jigger the apothecarist was a Ministry-approved dealer of highly regulated potions such as Polyjuice and Wolfsbane and an old associate of Severus’. It just so happened that his young niece was infected with lycanthropy during a raid on her family’s home last winter. He agreed to act as a middleman for Draco’s home-brewed Wolfsbane so people wouldn’t have to worry about consuming a potion made by a Death Eater. It was all above board, of course, with the proper paperwork filed discreetly at the Ministry in the Department of Magical Plants and Controlled Substances.
After Mr. Jigger carefully inspected a few samples of the potion Draco presented to him, the kindly, rotund little man promised Draco that he’d make sure all the people he knew affected by lycanthropy would have free access to it and hoped the knowledge would spread by word of mouth to those he didn’t know.
“It’s a good thing you’re doin’ here, Lord Malfoy. That was a nasty business with your father and You-Know-Who, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so. Your lady mother must be proud of you for tryin’ ta help so many people after all that. Master Snape taught you well.”
Draco’s mother did not know about this, and if he had it his way, no one would ever know. At least he knew Severus would be proud. So Draco just smirked genteelly at him and thanked him for his willingness to help. They would make further arrangements for how the potion would be transported to Diagon once he returned to Hogwarts, but for now their business was complete.
Summer’s glory began to wane. Draco and mother had picnics in the gardens, went for walks in the woods and surrounding fields, and even laid down on a blanket in the grass and gazed at the stars as he drifted off to sleep to the soothing sound of mother’s voice recounting the myths behind each constellation. It felt like they were gradually getting to know one another again after years of separation.
The hair-lengthening potion turned out to be an epic success and Draco spent several blissful hours with mother and Libby learning how to care for the elegant fall of hair that now tumbled down to his shoulder blades where it waved slightly at the ends. He never thought he’d derive so much pleasure from learning to plait.
As they sat quietly reading together in the main library the night before he was to return to Hogwarts, Draco couldn’t help but recall his earliest and happiest memories, before Lucius had put a stop to Narcissa’s “coddling” of their son.
In his mind's eye, Draco sat in front of mother’s vanity as he looked at himself in the mirror. He was probably five or six years old. His long hair fell in ringlets over his little shoulders and framed limpid grey eyes. Mother always said he looked like a fairy prince.
In mother’s rooms, there was always soft classical music playing on the phonograph. She stood behind him at the vanity and plaited his hair with pretty ribbons or painted a delicate rouge on his cheeks just like hers. They played dress-up, she spritzed him with her specially brewed rose perfume, let him wear her elegant slippers, draped him in her jewels, and they danced to the gentle music, swaying and giggling together.
He remembered clearly, painfully, the day Lucius overheard them and opened the door to find Draco and mother in ecstasies of dress-up and waltz. Lucius’ cruelly be-ringed hand struck mother’s porcelain cheek where it bloomed ugly red and Draco watched her face shutter. Not a single tear escaped to betray her inner state, but Draco immediately began to bawl.
He was caught up in strong, unwanted arms and wrestled through the door, away from the sanctuary of mother’s rooms. In Lucius’ study, which was permeated with the suffocating scent of too-sweet brandy and old pipe smoke, Draco’s plaits and ribbons were painfully yanked out, the lovely rose-tinted robes ripped off to reveal his thin white vest and his favourite pants with fluttering snitches on them, and the rouge roughly Scourgified from his delicate cheeks. His long ringlets were severed with a thoughtless Diffindo. All the while, Lucius’ cruel voice thundered in Draco’s sensitive ears: “No son of mine will shame this family with unnatural tendencies. You are never to behave this way again, do you understand me?” His face had been white with fury and Draco wailed for his mother as he tried to return to her loving arms.
Lucius jerked Draco’s head back by his newly shorn hair to force him to look into his cold eyes which were like chips of dirty ice, and screamed, “You will do your duty as a Malfoy heir to this family Draco! Never forget that your only purpose is your duty. You will marry a pureblood witch and sire an heir on her, and you will continue our proud traditions. These indiscretions shame the Malfoy name and will not be tolerated!” He had received his first beating from Lucius’ cane that day, and mother was very careful never to betray how much she loved him again in father’s presence or hearing, while Draco was careful to always play the role of perfect pureblood heir.
From that day forward, Draco dressed in sombre colours, kept his hair short and slicked back, and always attempted to wear the sober mask of indifference and condescension. This last was very difficult given Draco’s highly emotional and dramatic nature, for which his Black ancestry was most certainly to blame, and led to fits of intense pique when his control slipped.
He began to use surnames only, not only for adults but also for peers; they were only political or business allies, after all, not friends. He taunted and bullied Potter and his friends to hide seething envy, jealousy and an aching need for approval, belonging, and freedom behind a façade of blood purist ideology and arrogance. Draco showed fealty to father, his colleagues, and then finally to the Dark Lord when he returned and drove the final nail into the coffin of his childhood.
Draco never again permitted himself to play, laugh, dance, cry, or exhibit any kind of weakness or defiance in the presence or hearing of Lucius or adults other than Severus. And when he wasn’t completely numb, Draco hated himself for it. Draco’s personality fractured between two different selves: the fiercely loyal goofball he could be at times with his godfather and closest housemates in the sanctuary of the Hogwarts dungeons where he knew his deepest secrets would be protected, and the vicious peacocking parody of Lucius he felt he had to present to the rest of the world in order to protect himself and mother.
He feared if he failed again too badly, mother would be taken from him entirely. And that had almost occurred when the Dark Lord threatened to have her killed if Draco refused to take the Mark and complete his tasks to murder the headmaster and let Death Eaters into the school. Draco would never forget the terror he lived in each moment of that year leading up to Dumbledore’s untimely death at Severus’ hands; constant fear of losing mother motivated him like nothing else ever could.
It had happened before, that day Lucius removed Draco from mother’s rooms. He couldn’t take anything like that ever again, couldn’t watch her face crumple with agony or betrayal or shame. Draco had to protect her.
Draco wondered if he should be angry with mother for not protecting him from Lucius, but he just didn’t have it in his heart to blame her. He couldn’t stand up to Lucius - the Dark Lord’s second, his number one bootlicker, threats of cruelty and promises of violence spilling from his thin lips as easily as words of devotion for his lord - why should Draco expect her to be able to? Despite it all, he knew of the steely silk Narcissa Black was made of and he held close all the ways in which she had been able to love and protect him, even when there was no hope on the horizon and everything around them was steeped in misery and ignominy.
He had seen moments of mother’s love peek through throughout the years: at formal balls when he was permitted to dance with her and they could share a few secret smiles, through their correspondence when he was at Hogwarts, and in the taste of each of the delicious French chocolates she sent him.
During a lull in conversation on his sixteenth birthday which he and Severus celebrated alone in his professor’s chambers at Hogwarts, Draco asked the Potions master to show him how to brew mother’s perfume. His efforts were rewarded upon his arrival home at the end of the month by Narcissa’s suspiciously glassy eyes when he surreptitiously slipped a little satin bag containing an ornately carved glass phial of the finished product into her hands under the dinner table. It was her birthday, but the Dark Lord didn’t celebrate birthdays.
His hands shook with terror as he held his Occlumency shields as tightly as he could, desperately trying to avoid the notice of the snake-faced fascist who was sat just at the other end of the long dining table. Narcissa stole into his rooms later that night and caught him up in a rare hug, her small frame gripping him with surprising strength before she smiled softly at him with fear and apology in her eyes and fled to her own rooms.
And now? Now, Draco and mother were finally free. She had already begun to demonstrate all the love she had built up for him within herself over the years she had been restrained from giving to him. It was wonderful. It was time for Draco to be honest with her about his love.
Draco set down the scroll he had been perusing and wiped his dusty hands on his trousers. He glanced over at mother who was reading in her own favourite chair, her spun gold hair glowing in the moonlight and flickering firelight as she was silhouetted against the windows overlooking the grounds. He stood up and waved his wand at the phonograph and grinned as the strains of an old favourite of theirs floated through the room: Debussy’s “Clair de Lune.”
“Was this what we danced to?” he asked her shyly as he held out his hand. He knew she would know what he meant, when he meant. The time before Lucius came in and made every attempt to steal their joy twelve years ago. Narcissa looked up at him with glossy eyes and a quivering lower lip and nodded, a slow smile breaking across her face like the dawn after a long, dark night. She took his hand and they danced by the light of the moon, holding one another, and laughing, and banishing evil shadows for good.
“Mother,” Draco murmured a little while later as the denouement approached. “Yes, my son?” She must have felt him tremble in her arms because she grasped his shoulders a little more tightly, bolstering him with her strength for what he wanted to tell her next.
“I think I’m in love with Harry Potter.”
“Oh! Of course you are, darling. Isn’t it wonderful, being in love?” Draco eyed her sharply, watching carefully for any dissembling, and was astonished and pleased when he found none. Draco supposed she must have been in love with father at one point, perhaps in the early part of their arranged marriage or when Draco was very small. It was hard to imagine Lucius being loving, even toward mother, but it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility.
“Yes, it is wonderful. And terrible. He’s courting the Weasley family’s daughter and they’re sure to live happily ever after with a phalanx of ginger babies. Even if he were single and interested in men, to say nothing of the complication of my lycan status, or what the public would think of their saviour with a Death Eater, I don’t know how he could ever feel for me what I feel for him.” Narcissa nodded for him to go on with such compassion in her eyes that Draco’s eyes began to sting.
“We have so much painful history that would likely be impossible to overcome even if he could ever return my affections. I have been trying to let this go for a long time now, but it has only intensified. And, while I no longer care to perpetuate the Malfoy name, I do long for a family of my own someday, to become the father I always needed. I’m not sure how I will obtain that with another man, but I know I can’t bond myself to a witch. It seems like an insurmountable challenge. I don’t know what to do. I hope you can forgive me.”
“Oh, Dragon.” She paused their movements and looked at him, her azure eyes clear and determined. “There is nothing to forgive, my darling. I am so glad to know that you will not make the same mistakes that I did. I assumed that if I followed the expectations of my family and fulfilled society’s requirements of me that I would be happy. That’s what I was told, after all, at my mother’s knee. I deeply regret that you received the same messages, although I can see you’ve already begun to overcome them. And, while I have been sorely disappointed in my marriage to your father, I have never regretted that it brought me you.”
She gently grasped his chin and tilted his head down to make sure he was focused on her when she said her next words. “Draco, I need you to hear this from me: You can create a family and be true to your heart. Whether the Potter boy returns your feelings or not, you are deserving of the highest degree of love and devotion.” Draco rolled his eyes lightly at this clearly biased statement and she tutted at him.
“Your mate is out there, somewhere, waiting to meet you, lycan or not. You just have to be ready for him and time will bring him to you. You are very persistent and clever, my love! I have no doubt that if you decide you want a child of your own someday that you will bring that dream to fruition. That is a delightful problem for you to address years from now with the help of your mate. We will cross that bridge arm in arm when we get to it.”
She released his chin and gave one cheek an affectionate pat. A mischievous twinkle came into her eye as she crossed her arms and squared her shoulders. “My advice is to focus on the present, for now, on what you can control. Understand your inheritance and its implications. Work hard at your studies and rebuild relationships with your peers. Think about what you want to do with your time after you sit your NEWTs. I think you might be surprised by what awaits you. I believe there is a beautiful future in store for you, dear one.”
Draco shook his head fondly before he returned his mother’s devotion and faith in him with a gentle kiss to the crown of her head. He had never so openly shared his fears or dreams with anyone, not even Severus; it had never been safe to do so. But evidently it was safe now, and he felt something within him expand to hold the great ocean of love that buoyed him.
Draco would board the Hogwarts Express tomorrow with his classmates with his head held high. He would see Potter and greet him genially, even if his feelings for the other boy could never be returned. He would rise above any aspersions cast upon his character. He would study hard, obtain his NEWTs, and plan for his future, which was rich with possibilities. Draco would wait patiently for his mate and trust in their ability to create a family, one way or another. He was the son of Narcissa Black and the godson of Severus Snape, and he would live a beautiful life and make them proud.