The moment Draco stepped through the doorway of 12 Grimmauld Place, he felt suffocated.
The house was dark and cold, a heavy air of old magic pressing against his skin. He’d grown up in similar grand halls, surrounded by wealth and tradition, but there was something different about this place. The Malfoy Manor was just as dark, yet this house—Sirius Black’s home—felt like a graveyard of it.
Draco straightened his posture, unwilling to let his discomfort show. Beside him, Harry nudged the door shut with his foot, shaking snow from his shoulders.
"We're home!" Harry called out, voice echoing through the halls.
A moment later, hurried footsteps pounded from another room. Sirius Black emerged at the top of the stairs, grinning in a way that didn’t quite reach his sharp grey eyes. “Harry, welcome. Took you long enough, I thought you changed your mind.”
Sirius Black leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, his gray eyes sharp with amusement and something else—expectation. He didn't speak right away, just took his time looking Draco over, gaze sweeping from his pale hair to the careful set of his shoulders, to the tension in his jaw. The man was tall and had a strong aura to him.
Draco had been scrutinized before—by professors, by fellow Slytherins, by his father most of all. But this was different. This wasn’t the judgment of a stranger or the disdain of a rival. This was something deeper, the man was trying to read him through.
He was exactly as Narcissa described him.
"Sirius used to notice everything," She had said one day, when he was a child, stroking Draco's hair. "Regulus too, but he was more oblivious. He noticed things but couldn't decipher them. You take more like him in that manner, like Regulus."
"You going to stand there all day, Malfoy?" Sirius drawled, tilting his head. "Or do you know how to properly greet family?"
Draco’s fingers twitched at his side, but he forced himself to keep his voice level. “Black.”
Sirius snorted. “Please. No need for last names. Just call me Sirius.” His tone was light, but something in his gaze was calculating.
Draco didn’t respond. He had no intention of treating this man as family, no matter how much blood they shared (He knew he had to, despite his own wishes).
Harry, standing at his side, didn’t intervene. He was watching, waiting, curiosity gleaming in his eyes. Of course he was curious. Draco had never spoken much about traditions—not out of secrecy, but because Harry, for all his immersion in the wizarding world, would never understand them the way Draco did. Not to mention, Draco was barely mated to Harry for more than 2 weeks.
Sirius straightened slightly, unfolding his arms. The room felt small and Draco wanted to run away. He wanted to sneer, to say something sharp and biting—That’s rich, coming from a Black who ran away from his duty. But he didn’t. He couldn’t.
His chest rose and fell in a steadying breath before he finally, reluctantly, tilted his chin upward and bared his neck.
Sirius’ smirk deepened, but his gaze darkened with something that wasn’t quite amusement anymore. He took a step forward, close enough that Draco could feel the heat of his presence. The moment stretched, heavy, before Sirius leaned in and—breathed him in, scenting him.
Draco's shoulders locked as Sirius' scent curled around him, instinctively pressing against his skin like an Alpha’s presence should. It wasn’t invasive, but it wasn’t gentle either. Draco fought the instinct to stiffen further. It wasn’t like scenting was foreign to him, but the last time an Alpha had done this to him, it had been his father. Harry didn't count, not really.
Sirius lingered just long enough before pulling back, exhaling through his nose. His eyes, when they met Draco’s again, were unreadable.
"Well," he murmured, almost to himself. "At least some things weren’t lost in that Malfoy upbringing."
Draco swallowed, forcing himself to keep his posture composed, his expression neutral.
Harry, for his part, was watching the entire exchange with barely veiled intrigue, green eyes flicking between them as if he was mentally filing away everything. The way his hand twitched told Draco they would be having a conversation about this.
Sirius smirked. "You’re stiff as a board."
Draco scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Forgive me if I’m not in the habit of offering my throat to a man who once tried to kill my father."
Sirius grinned. "Interesting, you’ve got a spine. Just so you know, it was your father who attacked my godson first," He clapped a hand on Draco’s shoulder, ignoring the way the blond snarled at him. "Welcome to Grimmauld Place, then. You can thank me later for not tossing you out on your arse."
“I told you,” Harry muttered, tugging off his gloves. Draco didn't understand but it was obvious the words were meant for Sirius.
Sirius hummed but didn’t argue. Instead, he stepped down from the staircase and circled them slightly, his gaze flickering over Draco as if sizing him up.
“Still. Bit of a shock, isn’t it? You lot have been at each other’s throats for years. Harry's told me loads about the fights you two have had. Now, you're mates.” He let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Life’s funny like that.”
“Well, I do apologize for the shock,” Draco drawled, voice edged with sarcasm. “But I didn’t exactly have a say in it, did I?”
Sirius grinned at that, flashing teeth. “No This is what the stars had written for you two. Young love.”
Harry blushed a deep shade of red and sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "It’s freezing, and I don’t feel like standing in the doorway all night.”
Sirius waved them in. “Yeah, yeah. Come on, then. Let’s get the two of you settled.”
Draco lingered for only a second before stepping forward, forcing himself to match Harry’s pace as they followed Sirius deeper into the house.
"What was that?" Harry asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Draco sighed, straightening again as if nothing had happened. "How Pureblooded Omegas greet Alphas that are family," he muttered, not meeting Harry’s gaze. "By allowing them to scent us."
Harry’s brow furrowed. "Scent you?"
Draco huffed, annoyed but resigned. "It’s not—don’t make it weird, Potter. It’s not some intimate thing." He finally looked at him, expression carefully neutral. "It’s a show of trust. A sign of respect. Pureblood families are built on hierarchy, and Omegas—especially ones from old bloodlines—are expected to acknowledge Alphas of their house."
Harry frowned deeper, processing that. "So… you just let them?"
Draco clicked his tongue, irritation flashing in his eyes. "It’s not like I’m throwing myself at their feet, Potter. I don’t do it for just anyone. But Sirius is Black by blood, the head of the house, and my mother’s cousin. It would be—" He hesitated, as if the word tasted bitter. "It would be disrespectful to deny him that courtesy."
Harry shifted in his seat, his instincts prickling. He didn’t like the idea of anyone scenting Draco. Yet, it did not make him feel jealous when Sirius did it.
Draco must have caught the look on his face, because he rolled his eyes. "Oh, for Merlin’s sake. It’s not like he’s going to bite me, Potter. It’s just tradition." He paused, then added begrudgingly, "You would’ve known that if you were actually raised in a proper family."
That thought settled in Harry’s chest, warm and possessive. It was one thing for Draco to tolerate Sirius because he had to, but this? This was different. This was voluntary. This was Draco—proud, stubborn Draco—choosing to acknowledge Sirius as an Alpha of his bloodline.
And Harry liked it.
Draco caught him staring and arched a brow. "What?"
Harry shrugged, hiding the small smirk tugging at his lips. "Nothing."
Draco huffed, clearly unimpressed, but Harry didn’t miss the faint pink dusting his ears.
"I should like to be greeted like that." Harry said after a moment.
"You wish." Draco snapped, though his face was a deep shade of red.
Sirius led them into the dining room, where a long, dark wooden table stretched before them. It was set with a modest spread—nothing as extravagant as the feasts at Malfoy Manor, but enough to be considered proper. The candlelight flickered, casting elongated shadows along the aged walls, which bore the lingering remnants of the Black family's past.
Sirius, already pulling out a chair, turned his head and called, "Kreacher!"
There was a sharp crack, and the aged house-elf appeared, his large, bat-like ears twitching as he took in the room. His bulbous eyes swept over Harry with disdain before settling on Draco. Something in his expression shifted—an almost imperceptible softening.
“Master calls for Kreacher,” the elf rasped, bowing low.
“Yeah, yeah," Sirius waved a hand. "Make sure everything’s set, will you? And maybe bring out the wine—”
“Kreacher does as Master wishes,” the elf muttered, already shuffling toward the table, adjusting things with meticulous care. But his gaze lingered on Draco as he worked.
Draco didn’t react at first, but he noticed the way Kreacher’s gnarled fingers smoothed out the napkin at his place setting, how the elf placed the finest silverware directly in front of him—subtle, but deliberate. He put more care into Draco then he did the others.
“Kreacher sees Master’s guest is of the Noble House of Black,” the elf murmured under his breath, almost reverently. “And of the old Malfoy line… honored blood…”
Draco’s grip on the edge of his chair tightened, but he didn’t acknowledge it.
Harry, on the other hand, raised a brow. “Honored blood?” he repeated, glancing at Sirius.
Sirius let out a huff. “Kreacher’s still clinging to old traditions. He used to worship my mother and Regulus—”
Kreacher flinched at the name.
“—and apparently, he’s got a soft spot for any purebloods that fit into his ridiculous, outdated worldview.” Sirius shot a pointed look at Draco. “Guess you tick all the right boxes.”
Draco gave him a flat look. "Glad to know I have a fan."
Kreacher, however, didn’t seem to mind the jab. He finished his work, stepping back to eye Draco one last time before bowing.
"Does Master Draco want anything from Kreacher?"
"No. Thank you."
"Kreacher is only a call away from Master Draco." Then, with another crack, he disappeared.
Draco exhaled through his nose and picked up his utensils.
“Alright,” Sirius clapped his hands together, leaning back in his chair. “Let’s eat.”
The clinking of silverware filled the dining room, accompanied by the occasional low murmur of conversation. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting a warm glow over the long wooden table where the three of them sat. The meal itself—roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, and rich, spiced wine—was Kreacher’s finest work. He seemed almost pleased, sparing an approving glance at Draco every now and then when he poked his head from the kitchen.
Sirius leaned back in his chair, swirling the dark red wine in his goblet before taking a sip. "So, how’s life at Hogwarts, then? Aside from the usual Voldemort nonsense."
Harry exhaled through his nose. "Same as ever. The Prophet’s still printing garbage about me, Slughorn’s being Slughorn, and McGonagall looks like she wants to hex me half the time."
Sirius smirked. "McGonagall always looks like she wants to hex someone. That just means she likes you."
Harry huffed a laugh, cutting into his roast.
"So, Malfoy," he said after a moment, lazily twirling his fork between his fingers. "Has Harry been keeping you entertained?"
Draco gave him a flat look. "Oh, positively thrilled."
Sirius grinned, baring teeth. "That’s what I like to hear."
Draco rolled his eyes and returned to his meal.
The conversation drifted into lighter territory—Quidditch, the sorry state of the Ministry, Kreacher’s improved attitude. Sirius prodded Harry about his last match, and Harry, despite himself, started getting into the details, his hands moving animatedly as he described a particularly brutal save he’d made against Slytherin.
Draco scoffed. "Please, you only caught the Snitch because our chaser fumbled his pass. If he hadn’t, you’d have been eating dirt."
Harry scowled. "It was still a clean win."
Draco smirked behind his goblet.
Sirius watched them with interest, something unreadable flickering in his expression. The easy way they bickered—it was familiar. Almost… natural.
But the lightness in his eyes dimmed slightly as his gaze dropped—to Draco’s neck.
"Hm, I never noticed this earlier," Sirius began after taking a bite of meat. "Where is your collar?"
Draco froze, his fork pausing just before his lips. His eyes flicked up, narrowing at Sirius, who lounged back in his chair who leveled him with a harsh glare.
Harry’s brows knitted together. "What?"
Sirius didn’t take his eyes off Draco. "He’s not wearing a collar." His tone had shifted—not exactly cruel, but no longer lighthearted either. His fingers drummed against the table once before he reached for his goblet again. "You, of all people, should know better."
Harry tensed beside him. He could feel Draco bristling, feel the sharp spike of indignation rolling off of him.
Draco placed his fork down with deliberate slowness, expression perfectly schooled, feigning innocence, but his voice was like cut glass. “Excuse me?”
Sirius lifted a brow. “A collar,” he repeated, taking a lazy sip of his wine before continuing. “You, as a pureblooded Omega, should know better than to go without one.” He tilted his head.
Draco's breath hitched. His grip on the table edge tightened.
Harry shot Sirius a glare, but the older man merely shrugged. “Oh, don’t give me that look. I’m saying the truth.”
Draco’s pulse pounded in his ears. A collar. It wasn’t that he was unaware of the custom—of course, he knew. Pureblood Omegas from respectable families were expected to wear them, a visible sign of their bond and submission to their Alpha. But no one had mentioned it since the bond was forced upon him, and Draco never mentioned it either. He thought everyone would let it go.
Draco sat back, arms crossing over his chest, chin tilting up in defiance. “My Alpha hasn’t asked for one.” he said, in hopes of avoiding the topic.
Sirius let out a low breath, shaking his head. "Your Alpha didn't ask for one because he wasn't aware. Maybe if you were some lowborn Omega with no family name to uphold, it'd be okay. But you’re a Malfoy. And yet you’re sitting here, bonded, without even the courtesy of acknowledging it properly?" His voice dipped, not quite angry, but disappointed in a way that cut deeper. "Your father would be ashamed."
Harry glanced between them, sensing the shift in tension. "Sirius, it’s not—"
"It is," Sirius interrupted, eyes still locked on Draco. "An Omega without a collar is an insult to his Alpha. Either it means he’s rejecting the bond, or worse—he’s allowing others to question it."
Draco’s breath hitched, his mind racing. He hated that Sirius knew exactly which buttons to press. But worse—worse than all of it—was that Sirius was right.
"I didn't reject the bond." He muttered.
A Malfoy Omega was supposed to know better.
Harry, who had been watching the exchange in tense silence, finally spoke. “He doesn’t have to wear one.” His voice was even, but there was something beneath it, something taut. “I don’t need a damn collar to know he’s mine.”
Draco’s stomach twisted at the possessiveness in Harry’s voice, at the unspoken but you want him to, don’t you? lingering in the air.
Sirius turned his attention back to Draco. “Is that so?”
Draco wanted to snap back, to tell Sirius to go to hell, but the weight of both their gazes on him was suffocating. He swallowed hard, his pride warring against the ingrained instincts that had been drilled into him since birth. A collar wasn’t just a leash—it was a symbol. A mark of belonging. Of submission. Of trust.
His mind flashed back to the bitter moments with his father—Lucius had made it clear that wearing the collar was not a choice, but required.
Draco sat stiffly in the study, trying to mask the discomfort building in his chest. His father, Lucius, stood across from him, posture rigid, eyes narrowed as he lectured on the importance of presenting oneself as an Omega. The heavy atmosphere in the room was thick with the weight of generations of pureblood tradition and the constant reminder of Draco's place in it all.
"An Omega doesn't walk around bare-necked," Lucius began, his voice cold and sharp, a look of disapproval creeping into his features. "You wear the collar as a symbol of respect, of your position. You will not go around with a bare neck like some... street whore." His words were biting, and Draco’s face flushed with indignation.
Draco shifted uncomfortably, barely holding back his own frustration. "But Father, if I don't wear the collar, it's not—"
Lucius’s eyes darkened in an instant, and before Draco could brace himself, the sting of his father's slap echoed across the room. The harsh sound rang in Draco's ears, his cheek burning as his father glared at him, fury building in his expression.
"Do you think your mother and I raised you to be some shameful thing?" Lucius snarled, voice low but full of venom. "Are you influenced by those mudbloods at Hogwarts? Is that where this nonsense is coming from? I’ve taught you better than this. You are not a degenerate!"
Draco swallowed hard, words failing him as the sting on his cheek matched the sting of his father's words. The last thing he wanted was to disappoint Lucius.
Lucius shook his head, his disappointment palpable. "You will wear the collar, Draco. You will act with dignity, as a pureblooded Omega would. You will not embarrass this family. Understand?"
Draco blinked, his thoughts swirling as the idea settled into his mind. Harry did want it, and there was something about the thought of submitting to him that felt strangely comforting, even if it was difficult to admit. It symbolized Harry’s claim, his protection, and in a way, Draco’s own need for that connection
Draco swallowed again and turned back to Sirius. "...I’ll wear it."
Sirius sat back with a smirk. "That’s a good boy."
====
The fire in the drawing room had burned low by the time Sirius pulled Harry aside. The house was quieter now, the tension from dinner giving way to something calmer, almost settled. Draco was in his room and Sirius didn’t have his usual smirk or teasing glint in his eye as he led Harry toward one of the old cabinets tucked away in the corner.
"I wasn’t sure if I was going to give this to you," Sirius admitted, running a hand over the aged wood before pulling open a small drawer. He hesitated for half a second before retrieving something from within and turning to face Harry.
It was a collar. Deep brown, worn but well-maintained, with intricate silver etching along its edges. The Potter family crest was embedded in the metalwork, but the real detail was in the clasp—a small but unmistakable engraving of a stag.
Harry inhaled sharply.
"This was my dad’s," he said, not a question, just fact.
Sirius nodded, watching him closely. "James had it made for Lily when they bonded. He insisted on doing it properly, the way the old traditions called for. She didn’t have to wear it all the time, obviously, but… it meant something to them." He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "I know this isn’t what you expected, but when I saw the way you looked at him tonight—" He met Harry’s gaze, something softer in his expression. "You should have it."
His fingers brushed over the worn leather as he held it out, tracing the delicate engravings absentmindedly. "He had this crafted by a private artisan—someone he trusted. He wanted it to be special, something that would last. A promise, not just a symbol."
Harry swallowed. He didn’t trust himself to speak, just reached out and took the collar, running his fingers over the old leather. He thought of his dad, of his mum. Of Draco.
"W-would he allow this?" Harry asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "Dad?"
"Harry," he said, his voice steady, "your father would be incredibly happy to know that you're using this collar. He’d want you to have something real, something with meaning. He wouldn’t care about bloodlines or feuds or anything else, so long as you chose it." He nodded toward the collar in Harry’s grasp. "So long as it was right."
"And Mum?"
At that, Sirius paused, gazing into Harry's eyes. He seemed to observe him, take in every detail of his face before speaking up. "Lily wanted to give you everything she had. This would honor her."
Harry’s chest tightened. He forced himself to swallow the lump in his throat, nodding once.
Sirius clapped a hand on his shoulder, grounding him, his grip warm and reassuring. "You’re doing right by him," he said simply.
And just like that, the moment passed.
Sirius stepped back, giving Harry the space he needed. "Go on," he said, voice lighter now. "Before your Omega starts thinking you ran off."
Harry didn’t need to be told twice. Without another word, he turned and made his way upstairs, fingers tight around the collar as he approached Draco’s room. The room belonged to Regulus and the door was slightly ajar, candlelight flickering against the walls. He knocked once before pushing it open.
Draco was sitting at the edge of the bed, already dressed down for the night. He had silky gray pajamas on, ones that were wide and revealed his collarbone. The dim lighting of the room cast soft shadows against his pale skin, making the sharp lines of his face look almost delicate. Scattered around him were parchment papers, a few still in his hands, his brows slightly furrowed as he read. But the moment Harry stepped inside, Draco’s focus shifted. His eyes flickered to the collar in Harry’s hands, then back up to his face.
No words were exchanged between them in the beginning.
Draco inhaled slowly before standing. There was no hesitation as he stepped toward Harry, only something resigned, something knowing. He reached for the collar, fingers brushing over the leather, and Harry could see the moment he recognized the craftsmanship.
"This is Potter-made," Draco murmured, tracing the edges. "This belonged to—" He stopped, lips pressing together, before meeting Harry’s gaze. "Your father’s?"
Harry nodded. "He gave it to my mum."
Draco was silent for a long moment, staring down at the collar. Then, without another word, he lowered himself to his knees.
Harry felt something shift inside him, demanding he take his Omega at that instance.
Draco’s chin lifted, exposing his neck, pale and vulnerable in the candlelight. There was no sneer, no sharp words, just quiet acceptance. Submission painted Draco well, softening all his edges and keeping him relaxed.
Harry stepped closer, the weight of the moment pressing down on his chest. His fingers brushed against Draco’s skin as he brought the collar around his throat, fastening it carefully, making sure it sat just right. Draco leaned into his touch, chasing after the sensation of Harry's fingers around his neck.
The clasp clicked into place.
Draco exhaled, eyes fluttering shut for the briefest second before he looked up at Harry again, his gaze was soft, unfocused, as if the world had dimmed around him. Harry’s heart skipped a beat at the change in Draco, the way he seemed to settle into the collar, like it was more than just a piece of jewelry. He reached out, his fingers brushing softly against Draco’s jaw, guiding his face up a little more.
"Are you okay?" Harry asked, voice low and steady, watching Draco’s every move carefully.
Draco nodded slightly, a soft, breathy sound escaping his lips, but his eyes remained distant, as though he was lost in the weight of the collar, the mark of submission that had shifted the balance between them.
"Mm."
Harry ran a thumb over the leather, lingering at Draco’s pulse point. "Fits," he murmured.
Draco hummed along, barely there. "Of course it does."
Harry let his fingers linger a second longer before pulling back, stepping away just enough to take in the sight of Draco wearing his father’s collar—his collar now.
Draco’s eyes flickered up to Harry, a spark of something desperate there. His hands trembled slightly, reaching out as if he couldn’t quite stand being apart, as if the air was too thick between them. Harry’s gaze softened, heart pounding. He stepped forward, cupping Draco's face with gentle hands.
"Harry…" His voice was quieter than usual, needy in a way that Draco wasn’t accustomed to, as though the collar had unlocked something deep within him, something raw and vulnerable.
Harry, sensing his need, reached down, taking Draco’s hand gently, and pulling him towards the bed. “You’re alright,” Harry murmured, guiding him down carefully, his voice a soothing constant.
Draco, still a little disoriented from the shift, let himself be lowered into the bed, the cool sheets pressing against his skin as Harry sat next to him, his hand resting against Draco’s head. Harry’s touch was steadying, almost protective, and Draco, despite the chaos swirling inside, felt the tension in his body slowly release.
"You’re mine," Harry whispered, his voice almost a command, but it was laced with tenderness as he watched Draco’s unfocused eyes. “Say it, Draco. Let me hear you.”
Draco swallowed, his throat dry, but the words came anyway, as natural as breathing. “Yours.”
Harry’s eyes darkened, his lips curling into a small, approving smile. He leaned down, brushing a soft kiss to Draco’s forehead, soothing him with his touch. "Good," he murmured. "Rest now."
Draco exhaled slowly, closing his eyes as sleep overtook him, the warmth of Harry’s presence wrapping around him like a blanket.
(When Draco woke up the next morning, he cringed at how utterly submissive he'd been the night before, rolling his eyes and cringing at the thought. Of course, he wouldn’t admit it aloud, but avoiding Harry and Sirius was definitely high on his agenda.)
