Chapter Text
Harry had assumed he was a beta. Well, he had after someone explained the absolute nonsense of secondary genders in mages to him.
Sometimes, he wonders if having magic is worth the ridiculous surprises and pitfalls it brings to someone raised as a Muggle. Only sometimes, but now is certainly one of those times.
Because, at the age of sixteen-and-a-half, years after most people present, Harry’s body decides it’s now an omega. It did not consult the rest of him and he’s frankly a little miffed.
He’d been a little preoccupied by the voices in the walls and petrifactions in second year to pay attention to the one-day “gender seminar” led by Madame Pomfrey, and he hadn’t thought anything of it because he was twelve and wasn’t convinced gender was all that important when there was a decent likelihood he’d die before he left Hogwarts.
This held out until people started sniffing each other and having embarrassing reactions in public over the next couple years. Then Hermione had to take him aside in one of her how-does-she-have-time-for-a-break breaks (answer: casual time-travel) during third year and explain what the hell was happening. No matter how much she took to information like a duck to water, even she seemed a bit baffled by this whole secondary gender system that they’d never heard of or encountered in the Muggle world.
Once he’d spent a couple days being horrified, it kind of drifted to the back of his mind, because Harry continued to deal with a lot more attempts on his life and person than the average student (or the average auror, really). There were several times during fourth and fifth year where he’d find himself looking for a silver lining and settling on, “Well, at least I’m not suddenly growing new body parts or leaking. Or becoming a sex maniac.”
It was a grim couple of years.
Newly presented alphas and omegas were given “So you’re a ____” pamphlets with specialised information and a designated staff representative to speak to about any gender-related issues. Nothing really changed for the betas, as they were functionally the same as Muggles with the addition of a vestigial gland in their necks that allowed for the simulation of “mating.” Because that’s apparently a thing that mages can and want to do, and not some strange, niche roleplay fetish.
Then he’d hit sixth year, and it had seemed like all of those surprises for him and his peers were done. No one’s dynamic had changed during the four months since term began.
But Harry had forgotten his Potter luck.
Which is why he’s stuck in a small room in the Hospital Wing with Madame Pomfrey, who is clinically detailing the joys of his new biology to him.
His face contorts in an expression of mortified disgust once he hears about how he can now “self-lubricate” with “slick,” and that about sets the tone for him. He’s going to ooze uncontrollably? Marvellous.
“Now that you’ve presented, you’re likely to go into your first heat in the next few weeks.”
“Heat?” he asks with growing trepidation. “Wait. First heat?”
“Yes, Mr. Potter, heat. A period of heightened sexual desire and fertility in omegas.” She ignores his flinch and dropped jaw. “They occur approximately every four months in most omegas, though heat suppressants can take that down to once every year or so, depending on the prescription.”
“You mean I have to–” He doesn’t want to say it. “Once a year?!”
“Yes. You’re welcome to ask an alpha to assist you during your heat, though there are some rules we require you and your partner to follow to ensure everyone is safe and consenting.”
Harry’s afraid he might start hyperventilating. He puts his focus on trying to stay calm, rather than listening to Pomfrey reveal that students are sanctioned to have sex at Hogwarts like she’s listing the ingredients to a calming draught.
When she asks if he has any questions, he stiffly asks, “What if I don’t want to ask an alpha?”
“Hmm. Well, it’s a bit unusual, but we’ll let you use one of the heat rooms and provide you with supplies.” Ah, the crimes against Harry’s sanity hidden in the word ‘supplies.’
“Not to generalise, Mr. Potter, but you are a teenage boy. It’s perfectly natural to have these urges and act on them. I know you were raised with a Muggle family and this is all rather new, but spending your heat with an alpha is completely normal – even recommended,” she says with the blasé confidence of someone who’s had variations on this talk with reluctant, embarrassed teenagers for years. “We just want you to be informed and safe in doing so.”
Ah, yes, perfectly natural urges for a teenage boy. That he’s never felt. Making him unnatural.
(A freak.)
Everyone who’d ever felt the need to comment on Harry and his dating or sex life (or complete and utter lack thereof) had assured him he’d have those feelings someday; that one day he’d look at a person (or parts of them) and suddenly feel a raging desire to touch them and be touched. To press his lips to theirs, his hands to their skin, his dick– well. In short, he’d want to be with someone, carnally.
They’d say he’s just a late bloomer; he just hasn’t found the right person; maybe there’s something wrong with him.
Only Hermione had begun to listen to his silence when the topic inevitably came up, to send him a searching look that read his lack of attraction to others as something other than a flaw or temporary.
He knows he doesn’t want sex, and prior to this he hadn’t thought it would change. But who knows what being an omega is going to mean for him.
“Right,” he says numbly. “Thanks.”
Now he just. Waits around for his body to betray him.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
—
Harry has discovered that people stink.
While he’s been of this opinion generally for years in the figurative sense, he now means it literally. People – specifically people he knows to be alphas – have an offensive aroma that makes him feel vaguely nauseous. He’s guessing this is an omega thing, but when he asks Hermione about it, she’s perplexed.
“I would understand some changes in perception due to your newly heightened sense of smell, but the literature is pretty clear that alphas usually smell pleasant, even enticing, to omegas,” she says, frowning pensively. “I’ll visit the library tomorrow during our free period to see if there are any cases like yours.”
Hermione is lucky enough to be a beta, as is Ron, so neither of them can provide any experiential words of wisdom.
Unfortunately, she doesn’t find anything new in the library.
Lavender is the only other omega in sixth year Gryffindor, and she looks at him pityingly when he says alphas smell bad.
“Oh, Harry, that’s so unfortunate,” she whines. “Alphas all smell so good to me! Like, Michael Corner smells almost like Earl Grey tea – citrusy and a little bit malty. Or Blaise Zabini, who has this spice and floral thing going on. Ooo, or Roger Davies, who smells like smoke and–” That’s about when Harry stops listening. He’s been around each of those boys, and they all smelled kind of repulsive to him in a way he can’t really describe.
He starts having to cast a spell that eliminates his ability to smell during Quidditch after he almost falls off his broom for the third time during a practice. He’s sorely tempted to use it permanently, but being able to smell Malfoy and his cronies is handy for keeping Ron and him out of detention.
It’s also helpful for avoiding the sudden abundance of posturing alphas. If one more of them tries to carry his bag or give him food or their scarf or touch his shoulder, he’s going to lose it. Bat-bogey hexes for all of them.
He resents the implication that his dynamic changing means he’s now a helpless, fainting maiden; that he’s no longer the same person and ought to be coddled and cooed over. He’s still Harry. He’s no more attractive or interesting than he was last month, when no one was particularly into him and that was just fine, thanks.
(One night, he vents to Ginny about this and she just looks at him incredulously. Later, he hears her mutter under her breath, “Unbelievable. How can someone be so dense?”
He wonders who she’s talking about, but doesn’t want to bother her by asking.)
—
Someone is stealing Tom’s things.
He thought he’d demonstrated to his peers, over the years, how… inadvisable a course of action it was to take from him. Clearly that message hadn’t fully sunk through the thick skulls of those wastes of space.
(Tom hasn’t ever tolerated trespasses against him, but he’s always felt a particular ire for people taking his things. It’s probably a result of being a possessive bastard and having so few things in his possession, growing up at Wool’s.)
It started a couple days ago, when he noticed his preferred quill had disappeared. Inconvenient, but it was almost time to replace it anyway and he had a few spares.
The next thing to disappear was his scarf – a much-needed item for being outside during the Scottish winter. And inside for that matter, what with his inability to keep warm in the dungeons. He’d set it down on the bannister and, in the time it took to remove his outer robe, it had vanished. He started keeping an eye out all the time, even more paranoid than he usually was.
(It’s not paranoia if they’re really out to get you, as they say. And in Slytherin, even if you’re at the top of the pecking order – especially if you’re at the top – they’re out to get you.)
When someone walks off with one of his two robes, he sees red. Those things are bloody expensive and it would be such a waste to buy another one when he’ll be graduating in less than six months.
This stops now.
—
Something smells good.
Harry’s caught traces of it a few times over the past couple weeks, but hasn’t figured out what – or, he supposes, who – the scent belongs to.
Whatever it is, it smells like cloves and tart cherries and tobacco. It smells like things he’s never had but thinks he wants, warm and maybe a little dangerous. He wants to wrap himself up in that scent and take a really self-indulgent nap.
He’s back in the common room and his classes have finished for the day, so perhaps he’ll take that nap just for kicks. There’s time before dinner.
“Oi, Potter,” one of the seventh-years calls. “The Head Boy wants to speak with you.”
“He does?” His brow furrows as he tries to think what he might be in trouble for. No one should know about the singed tapestry yet… “Where is he?”
“Upstairs in the sixth-year dorm, he said.”
Well that’s not good. “Thanks!” he calls over his shoulder as he runs up the stairs to his dorm room, where the door is already open, and.
Tom Riddle is standing by his bed.
Tom Riddle, Head Boy, Hogwarts super-student, and untouchable alpha, is standing by his bed and smells amazing.
[For the longest time, Riddle didn’t tell anyone what his dynamic was. It’d probably still be a mystery if he hadn’t been called out earlier that year to help discipline some students in the middle of the night and forgotten to refresh his scent blockers.
(Harry wishes more alphas used scent blockers.)
There were enough people involved in the incident that Riddle couldn’t dismiss the rumours, and shortly thereafter he quietly confirmed his status as an alpha.
When Harry’s dynamic was first made public, Lavender and a few other omegas cornered him to gossip about which alphas at Hogwarts were worth boning, and Riddle’s name came up with wistful sighs. Apparently, after they found out Riddle was an alpha, omegas offered to share their heats with him constantly, and Riddle – politely yet firmly – refused every single one. Lavender seemed convinced he’d be good in bed, for some reason, even if she had no evidence. The other omegas seemed to want Riddle all the more because he'd turned them down.
Harry had blocked a lot of that conversation from his head – he never wanted to hear about knotting again – but he remembered the bit about Riddle. It was comforting to know he wasn’t the only one going against expectation.]
“I believe you may have something – well, several somethings – that belong to me,” Riddle says.
“I do?” Harry asks, uncertain what the other boy is talking about.
Riddle gives him an unimpressed look. “Yes. Would you open your trunk for me?”
Harry fidgets. Did he leave any of the not-exactly-allowed items at the top of his trunk? “Do I have to?”
“Unless you’d like me to call your Head of House in, who will make you open it anyway.”
Harry’s not sure what Riddle’s up to, but he definitely doesn’t want McGonagall involved, so he opens it. And stares, gobsmacked.
Where on earth did that Slytherin scarf come from? When did he start hoarding blankets? What the hell is all this?!
Even through his minor breakdown, Harry can feel Riddle’s eyes on him. “It would appear you’re nesting. Unknowingly, from the look on your face.”
“Ne–” He might throw up.
And Harry feels the fear and frustration he’d felt when Pomfrey told him he was an omega all over again. If he can squirrel away half of a linen closet without realising it, what else is he going to do? He’s almost certain he doesn’t want to have sex ever, but what if being in heat changes that? He has no desire to become some mindless, insatiable cockslut, bad omega stereotype or whatever. He doesn’t want his body to betray what he has known about himself for years just because of some instinctive biological imperative.
He will hex someone’s face off if they try to put a baby in him, and what the hell is his life for that to be a real sentence. Muggles don’t have to deal with this bullshit, no one prepared him for this, and he’s bitter as all hell about it.
He’s tempted to tell the Dursleys about this just to see their disgusted expressions.
“Should I call one of your friends here for you?” Riddle asks, and Harry realises he’s hyperventilating. He slowly regains control of his breathing, trying to stop his racing thoughts.
“I’m guessing that’s your scarf,” Harry says, voice a little hoarse. Riddle nods. “I took other things from you?”
“A quill and a robe are all I’ve noticed.”
“I’m sorry,” Harry says sincerely. “I didn’t know I was doing… that. You can have your things back.”
But when Riddle reaches for his scarf, something in Harry goes tense and he – there’s no other word for it – growls at the other boy. He didn’t know the human voice could make that sound. The growl cuts off short in his shock, and then he’s burying his face in his hands, completely mortified.
“It looks like they’re staying here for now,” Riddle says, bemused.
“Oh god, I am so, so sorry. I don’t know what the hell’s happening.”
Riddle gives him a dubious look. “Someone must have explained nesting and heats to you.”
“Ye-es, but I didn’t really listen. I’m still denying this is actually happening to me.”
“You have a trunk full of illicit proof otherwise.”
Harry can’t deny that, much as he wishes he could.
“This is all so ridiculous,” he says, dragging a hand through his hair. “I have no idea why I took your stuff. Do you?”
When Riddle realises he’s serious, he explains, slowly and with a hint of mockery, “Omegas construct their nests with materials that bring them comfort and familiarity – that, I’m assuming, would be the blankets you have in your trunk – and materials from a person with whom they want to share their heat–”
“I don’t want to have sex with you,” Harry blurts.
Riddle stares at him for a moment, then his whole body relaxes. “Oh.”
“I didn’t even know they were your things.”
“Well then.”
“I’m sorry I’m holding them hostage–”
Riddle cuts in, “As long as you return my belongings to me – cleaned, mind you – then I’m willing to let you borrow them.”
“Wait,” Harry says, fumbling for words. “I– you– Uh. I want you in my n-nest, too! Shite. I mean. I wouldn’t be opposed? If you wanted to?”
Oh, if only the floor would swallow him up. Where did that come from??
“You want me in your nest,” Riddle says slowly, eyebrows raised.
“Uh huh,” Harry says, muffled by his hands hiding his burning face. In for a penny…
“But you don’t want to have sex with me.”
“Bingo.” Realising that may come across as a little insulting, he adds, “Ah, but that’s not a ‘you’ thing – I don’t want to have sex with anyone, in general. And actually, you’re the only alpha who smells nice to me,” Harry says, fidgeting. “The rest smell… unpleasant.”
Riddle spends several long – endless – moments giving Harry a measuring look, and he wishes the other boy would just put him out of his misery and say no, like he always does. Then Harry can forget this lapse in sanity and pretend it never happened.
But apparently Riddle’s out to surprise him.
“I’ll admit, I’m curious – I’ve never heard of a sexless heat. I’m in,” he says easily, like this isn’t a sharp deviation from his usual answer. The world has ceased to follow any logic Harry understands; it’s probably time to just roll with it.
They discuss the details – as much as they can when so little is certain – and Harry asks too many times if Riddle is sure he wants to do this, which results in Riddle sending a pinching jinx at him, but eventually they have the makings of a plan and Riddle leaves.
When Harry gets back to the common room and flops onto a couch beside Ron, he’s still in shock. This is actually happening. What even.
“What’d Riddle want, mate?” Ron asks, focused on trouncing Seamus at chess, as he does every time they play. This is how Harry knows Seamus is a masochist.
Harry’s too preoccupied to watch his words. “He’s going to share my heat.”
Lavender falls out of her seat with a shriek. “He what?!”
—
Tom hates being an alpha.
The slight boost in status among the Pureblood crowd isn’t worth all the biological messiness and increased interest from other people. He wants them to worship him for his power and cunning, not because he smells a certain way or because his cock occasionally has a strange protrusion.
He’s aware that sex can be used as a tool, but it’s one he’s chosen not to use. He can flirt if the situation calls for it, but he’s certain he can find a solution to any problem that wouldn’t necessitate letting other people touch him and think themselves worthy. And if he wouldn’t sleep with the imbeciles around him normally, why would he let himself lose control and fuck one because they threw themselves at him and smelled somewhat enticing?
He makes sure to keep a firm grip on his instincts at all times, refusing to let them dictate who he is and how he acts.
He’s never wanted an omega (or anyone else), and he doesn’t really want Potter. At least, not like an alpha is expected to want an omega.
The other boy’s political clout, as heir to the Potter and Black Houses, is certainly an incentive to play nice. Harry Potter would make a fine addition to his collection of powerful people who owe him a favour.
Potter smells like a summer storm – ozone and soil and rain on hot concrete. It’s exhilarating, heady. Most omega scents have a saccharine quality to them; Potter smells like power, like the thunderstorms he used to love watching from under the gazebo in the park closest to Wool’s. Free entertainment and solitude – a rare pleasure.
And, most attractive of all: Potter’s not asking for sex. The boy is horrendously earnest, and he seems as dismayed by these quirks of magical biology as Tom is. He didn’t seek Tom out as a heat companion (at least, not consciously). He would accept it if Tom says no, has even given him outs in case he changes his mind at any point.
(It’s also rather flattering to be the only alpha that doesn’t repel Potter. He’s always been much more fond of having his ego stroked than… Well.)
As far as invitations to share a heat go, he can’t imagine a more appealing offer.
—
When they go to Pomfrey’s office to sign the consent forms – because they’ll force him to participate in a death tournament while underaged, but Merlin forbid he have not-sex without explicit, written consent – she clucks at him with a knowing smile. “I’m glad you changed your mind about spending your heat with an alpha, Mr. Potter.”
He smiles tightly back at her, signs the paperwork as quickly as he can, and pretends her smug assumption doesn’t piss him off.
And she’s far from the only person who treats him like he was being childish for not wanting to have a week-long sex marathon, full stop, but also with someone he barely knows.
He flips them all the bird when they’re not looking and tries not to care. It helps that Tom sends a low-grade tripping jinx at whoever he hears making those comments.
—
When Harry feels his temperature start to rise and the world starts to go a little fuzzy around the edges, he packs up his nesting materials, some clean clothing, and a few books at Hermione’s insistence, lets his friends know to tell Pomfrey, and goes to get a few snacks from the house elves before holing up in the Head Boy’s room. Luckily Tom is there, not having any classes this morning, so after a quick message is sent to confirm he’ll be unable to attend for a few days and a quick change into comfortable clothes, they’re ready.
Theoretically.
“So, uh. What do we do now?”
Tom gives him a look. “Why are you asking me? You’re the omega, this is your heat.”
“We’ve established I am bad at being an omega,” Harry says.
“Well, what is your body telling you to do?” Tom says, mildly exasperated.
“Erm… Nothing particular, at the moment. But I don’t think the heat has fully started. If it has, I don’t know what other omegas are talking about.”
“You do realise you’re currently piling blankets and my clothing on the bed.”
He is. “Fucking hell.” His nesting urge is out of control. “Well, I guess this is what we’re doing.”
“Do you want me to help?”
“Uh, do you have any other pillows?” Harry asks absently, arranging the blankets and the majority of Tom’s wardrobe according to some unwritten organisational plan. He knows when it feels right, though.
“Harry. We’re wizards,” Tom says. “I may not have more pillows, but I can make them.”
“Then make me three big, fluffy ones.”
Tom does. The pillows are perfect – exactly what he wants. A part of Harry that he’d rather not acknowledge crows about how well he’s chosen his mate.
Once he places the pillows where they’re meant to be, Harry feels a warm satisfaction deep in his bones. He climbs into the nest without conscious thought and rolls around to make everything smell a bit more like him. After that, he goes almost limp with bliss.
Okay, this is a part of being an omega he can get behind. This is awesome.
—
Harry is – dare he say it – cute, sitting half swallowed-up by the heap of fabric and pillows.
“Do you like my nest?” Harry asks him, looking dreamy and somehow shy.
Tom fights the urge to laugh at him. “Yes, Harry, it’s a very good nest.”
And at that remark, Harry’s eyes slip closed and a rumbling sound starts up from his chest. Oh. Oh. He’s purring.
When Tom had read that extremely content omegas might purr, he’d thought it sounded absurd. Now, as he feels his cheeks grow pink, he understands why people try so hard to achieve this. It’s like something he hadn’t realised was tight and knotted in his chest unwinds, and he’s sure his face is doing something foolish, but he can’t bring himself to care right now.
“Come here?” Harry asks, cheeks flushed and pupils visibly blown even through his barely open eyelids.
“Yes,” Tom says.
He joins Harry on his bed, careful not to disturb the nest’s arrangement lest he be kicked out. As soon as he starts to sit down, Harry begins pulling and prodding him into place. He almost slaps the other boy’s hands away, but Harry must have him situated where he wants, because he stops poking at Tom and looks very pleased with himself.
And then Harry drapes himself over Tom and sticks his face against Tom’s throat, where he knows his scent is strongest.
If Harry was purring before, Tom’s not sure what this is. It feels like the whole bed is vibrating. Tom feels almost drunk. Surrounded by his clothes and his magic, and with Harry against him, fever-hot, purring up a storm and emitting happy heat pheromones, Tom feels warm and relaxed and it’s wonderful.
—
When they surface from their stupor a couple hours later to eat something, Harry asks, deliberately casual, “So, any urge to have sex with me?”
“None at all,” Tom says. “You?”
With a shy grin tucked into his folded arms propped on his knees, Harry says, “Nope.”
It makes him feel silly, but he thinks it’s safe to try this here, in this liminal space with Harry, so Tom holds up a hand. Harry stares at it for a couple seconds before understanding dawns, and with a bright laugh he completes the high-five.
When they head back to the nest, Harry’s heat-fever returning, Tom quips, “I think it’s my turn to be on top.”
Harry thwacks him with a pillow, and Tom laughs, and Harry can’t manage to hold his disapproving look, a smile sneaking across his face.
(Tom gets his way and lays on top of Harry this time; Harry finds he enjoys being a bit squished by Tom’s weight.)
—
Harry spends the next three days dozing in his nest, cosy and content and curled up with Tom in any configuration they care to try. His fever gradually recedes, but aside from having extremely strong feelings about pillow placement, he doesn’t really experience any of the other heat symptoms he’d twisted himself into knots over. He doesn’t have to deal with slick (which Tom eventually explains is a response to sexual arousal); he never gets aroused, let alone loses his mind with the desire to be filled and bred.
(This would lead him to think those things only happened in the racier omegan romance novels people talk about, but he’d heard far too much from Lavender and the group of omegas who kept oversharing with him. He’s the outlier, and he’s never been happier about it.)
He’s still himself, still Harry, just with his unacknowledged desire to be warm and held by another person and sleep as much as he wants in a safe place cranked up to eleven. It’s…
It’s okay, being an omega. He doesn’t have to change.
Tom quickly gets bored of lying around and spends much of Harry’s heat reading. In his occasional moments of lucidity, Harry teases Tom for being an overachiever who can’t unwind. After Tom learns that Harry can be rendered into a human puddle when his hair is played with, Harry loses all ability to mock the other boy.
—
When his heat ends, a lot of people ask Harry how it was (“Really great,” he replies with a soft, secret smile), and how he convinced the untouchable Tom Riddle to join him (he gives no response to this aside from a shrug). Alphas start pestering him about his next heat, but Harry gets on the long-term suppressants – he’s not going through this at the Dursleys, no fucking way – and he’s seen often enough with Tom that they assume he’s taken.
Harry doesn’t tell them otherwise; they can assume whatever they want.
(The part of Harry that decided Tom is a good mate still feels that way, and after the few days they spent locked in a room together, the rest of Harry is in agreement.)
—
When Harry’s heat ends, Tom is swarmed by a newly reinvigorated bevvy of omega suitors (whom he declines as he always has) and a glut of people asking what Harry’s like in bed (if they use polite language he simply glares at them until they leave; if they’re rude or crass, he curses them undetectably).
He starts spending more time with Harry to further cement a connection between them in the public mind, and slowly the hopeful omegas start to dwindle in number. He’ll have graduated by Harry’s next heat, and who knows whether he’ll still be interested at that point, but Tom thinks… He thinks he might be.
(A part of him wants all of Harry’s heats, but Tom is back in control of his instincts and he’s not listening. Not now, at least.)
((But the next time Harry’s heat comes around, Tom’s there.))