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Chapter Text

The afternoon sun spilled lazily through the Burrow’s crooked windows, casting warm light across the mismatched rugs and scuffed wooden floors. Hermione sat cross-legged on the couch, a pile of neatly folded robes beside her, while Harry stood in the middle of the room, staring at his half-open trunk like it might bite him.

“Harry,” Hermione said gently, “you’ve been standing there for ten minutes. You need to start packing.”
“I am packing,” he said, even though he clearly wasn’t. His socks were still in a sad, mismatched heap and none of his books had made it into his trunk.
“You’ve put in exactly one sock,” Hermione pointed out. “And it’s not even yours.”
Harry blinked. “That’s not mine?”
“No,” she said, already reaching to help. “It’s one of Fred’s. It says ‘Mischief Dealt’ on the toe.”She held the ankle part like a particularly gross bomb before carelessly flinging it behind her right into Ron’s yawning mouth ignoring his muffled “OY!”
Harry groaned and flopped back onto the edge of the trunk. “It’s just… too much. Every year I say I’ll start earlier, and then it sneaks up on me again.”
“You did start earlier,” Percy called as he passed through the kitchen archway, levitating his own trunk with perfect ease. “Or rather, you meant to. Charlie and I showed you that packing charm two days ago.”

“I remember the wand movement,” Harry muttered. “Not what it was actually supposed to do.”
Hermione gave him a small smile. “It’s okay. I’ll show you again.”
Across the room, Ron lay sprawled on the couch, a Chudley Cannons magazine over his face. He peeked out, muffled, “You lot are no fun. We’ve got one day of summer left, and you want to spend it organizing socks?”
“Some of us prefer not to have a crisis at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters,” Hermione replied primly remembering the time Ron hadn’t even folded his clothes causing his overfilled trunk to spill out on the platform, she shuddered at the memory as she reached for her wand. “Besides, we’re not just packing—we’re practicing. Prioritizing, Ron. It’s called multitasking.”
Ron groaned. “Multitasking is for people who aren’t still on holiday.”
Harry shrugged. “I don’t mind doing it... I think it’s a good idea. It just gets really overwhelming.”
Hermione’s face softened. “And that’s why we don’t mind helping you so you don’t have to do it alone.”

She flicked her wand. “Ordo Truncus.”
Harry’s textbooks soared into his trunk in tidy stacks. He watched, a little wide-eyed.
“See?” she said, brightening. “One charm, less stress.”
“Can we do that again, like, five more times?”
“I was planning to,” she said, already eyeing his chaotic cauldron pile.
Ron shifted, pushing himself up to lean against the doorframe as Ginny, George, and Fred wandered in, laughing quietly between themselves. Bill and Charlie followed shortly after, bringing an easy warmth into the room.
Harry settled cross-legged on the floor, chuckling softly. “I’m mostly packed... thanks to Hermione and Percy.”

He didn’t say it aloud, but part of him liked the rhythm of it—wand swishes, soft chatter, things falling into place. He really liked being able to sit and chill and laugh with the Weasleys. He felt like he was part of something. Not just a guest, not just passing through.
Harry’s eyes drifted to the corner of the room, where the nest he, Bill, Charlie, and George had made the day before still lay. The soft blankets, the familiar scents—it was the first place he’d ever truly felt comfortable. The thought of leaving it behind tightened something in his chest.
He reached out, fingertips brushing the edge of the nest, then pulled back. He knew better than to ask if he could take it with him. That would be rude. Selfish. And Harry wasn’t a thief.
“Mate, you’re obsessed with that thing,” Ron said from the doorway, a smirk playing on his lips as he watched him. “What, you gonna be an omega or something?”
Harry’s cheeks colored. “It’s not like that. It’s... just nice. It feels safe.”
Hermione, folding robes nearby, spoke gently, “It makes sense. Harry’s a pup. He’s not used to all these new scents and spaces. That nest helps him feel grounded.”
Ron raised an eyebrow, but before he could say anything else, Ginny, George, and Fred exchanged knowing looks with Percy and Charlie. Bill caught their silent communication and glanced toward Harry with a quiet understanding that even Hermione missed.
Hermione shrugged, unaware of the unspoken tension. “Pups cling to comfort. It’s normal.”
Harry smiled faintly, grateful for her kindness, but the glance between the Weasley siblings lingered—a silent question hanging in the air, hinting that there was more to Harry’s place in their world than even Hermione realized.

“Harry, dear!” Mrs. Weasley called from the kitchen. “Would you mind running out to the orchard and picking up the last of the laundry from the line? Hermione, love, give him a hand, won’t you? And Ron—take the basket.”
Ron groaned but shuffled after them, muttering about being used as free labour.
Once the trio disappeared down the steps into the warm garden haze, a thick silence settled over the sitting room

Once Harry, Hermione, and Ron had headed out to help, the living room at the Burrow settled into a rare moment of quiet. Fred flopped dramatically across the couch, tossing a cushion up and catching it again.
“So,” he said lazily, “we taking bets on what Harry’s classification will be, or what?”
Ginny perked up immediately. “Switch,” she said, too quickly. “I mean—he’s independent, good under pressure, and he’s not exactly soft.”
Fred snorted. “You fancy him being a switch. You want him to tie you up and tuck you in.”
“Shut up, Fred.”
George grinned. “Omega’s not off the table. Kid’s got nesting instincts, whether he knows it or not.”
Percy looked up from his book but didn’t say anything. Charlie raised an eyebrow, amused.
“Could be a gen,” said Bill, thoughtful. “He reads the room well. Quiet, keeps the peace. That’s more gen energy than anything else.”
“I still think he could be a dom,” said Ginny, folding her arms. “He’s just—he’s figuring it out.”
There was a pause.
Percy and Charlie glanced at each other—brief, wordless, but deliberate. Neither said a thing.
Fred didn’t miss it. “Alright, spill. You two are being weird.”
Charlie only smirked, leaning back in his chair. “Let him find out on his own.”
“Yeah,” Percy murmured, turning a page. “It’s not about what we think he should be.”
Have you seen the prophet though
“I mean,” Ginny said cautiously, “he’s not an alpha. Anyone thinking alpha needs their eyes checked.”
“Right,” Fred agreed. “But Ron thinks he will be. Acts like it’s a sure thing.”
“Ron’s got a blind spot the size of Hogwarts where Harry’s concerned,” Bill said mildly. “He assumes Harry’s going to be exactly like him, just because they’re close. But the kid’s already halfway into a nest like his life depends on it.”
Charlie crossed his arms. “That wasn’t just a nap. That was instinct. He curled right in the middle and didn’t even flinch when George elbowed him.”
George grinned. “And I elbow hard.”
“Did you see his reaction when Hermione mentioned scent comfort?” Percy added quietly. “He didn’t say a word. Just went still.”
“He’s not scent-literate yet,” Bill agreed. “It’s like his whole body’s trying to figure out what feels safe and what doesn’t. That’s not a dominant pattern.”

“Have you seen the Prophet, though?” Fred cut in suddenly, tossing the folded newspaper at George who ducked and snorted as it hit Ginny in the face before turning the paper towards them all.
A hush followed.
Charlie glanced at the front page but didn’t reach for it. “Doesn’t matter what they say. Classifications aren’t PR campaigns.”
Percy nodded slowly. “They’re internal. You can’t spin instinct

Percy and Charlie exchanged one of their too-calm, too-knowing looks. Again.
Fred groaned. “Oi, knock it off. You two teaming up is a lethal combo. Makes my hair stand on end.”
“I don’t like it either,” Ginny said sharply. “You’re both being weird and smug, and I hate that you won’t just say what you’re thinking.”
“We’re not being smug,” Charlie said, with the exact expression of someone being smug.
Percy didn’t even glance up from his book. “It’s not our place to say. He’s not there yet.”
“Not where?” Fred asked. “You think he’s a sub or something?”
“Definitely not an alpha,” Ginny muttered. “Though Ron’s convinced he is. Just because Harry takes charge sometimes doesn’t mean he’s a dominant person .”
“Exactly,” Bill said, calm and steady. “Harry’s not independent the way Ron thinks. He’s independent because he has to be. But give him a safe space?”
He looked toward the garden. “He asks for help. He lets people help. That’s not dominance. That’s trust.”
George nodded slowly. “Yeah. Like with the packing. He could’ve flailed on his own—but he didn’t.”
“And the nest,” Percy added. “He didn’t just tolerate it. He melted into it. That’s not someone posturing for status.”
Ginny frowned, crossing her arms. “So what are you saying?”
Charlie gave her a small smile. “That there’s more to him than what he lets most people see. And Ron... might need to adjust his expectations.”
George shrugged. “Look, it’s not just that he used the nest—it’s how he did it.”
Charlie nodded. “He didn’t just lie in it. He curled right into the middle, relaxed like he’d been doing it for years. That’s instinct, not imitation.”
“And he didn’t even twitch when I elbowed him,” George added. “You only do that if you know you’re safe.”
Percy looked up from his book finally. “Exactly. That wasn’t just him being tired. That was his body saying, this is home.And that kind of comfort? It’s not a dominant response—it’s something else.”
Ginny raised an eyebrow. “So he’s not acting tough because he is tough. He just doesn’t know what safety feels like yet.”
Bill gave a small, thoughtful nod. “And now that he does… he’s showing us who he really is.”

Ginny was quiet for a beat, twisting a loose thread on her sleeve. “Okay… but if he’s that drawn to the nest, and the comfort, and he melts the second someone helps him—doesn’t that scream omega to anyone else?”
Fred pointed a finger. “See, I was thinking the same thing! I didn’t want to be the first to say it, but—”
“Don’t,” Bill warned, eyes narrowing.
Too late.
“He’s totally an omega,” Fred and Ginny said at the same time, triumphant.
Percy sighed, already closing his book like he knew what was coming.
Charlie looked skyward. “Brilliant.” He sighed knowing they be like a dog with a bone.
But just then, the kitchen door swung open, and the trio walked back in, arms full of clothes and and bags of pegs from the washing line. Harry was laughing at something Hermione had said, looking lighter than he had all day.
Everyone froze.
Harry blinked. “...Did we miss something?”
Fred shoved a biscuit in his mouth. “Nope. Totally normal. Just chatting about… gnomes.”
Ginny cleared her throat and smiled far too quickly. “Definitely gnomes.” Harry blinked before asking “Gnomes?”Tilting his head like a puppy”..cool. Wait Ron I’ll come help.” He said chasing after him tripping up one of the stairs giving Billy a mini heart attack but Harry just stabilised himself and started running again. Fred snorted quietly. “Definitely not an alpha.”

“Not exactly screaming dom either,” Ginny (begrudgingly) added.
Percy shook his head. “Couldn’t even be a beta with those instincts.”
Hermione, overhearing from across the room, shook her head gently. “It’s because he trusts you.”

Harry was sitting on the low stone wall just beyond the back garden of the Burrow, knees pulled to his chest, chin resting on them. The garden was quiet, just a few birds flitting through the hedges and the faint sound of Fred and George laughing indoors.
He wasn’t sulking, exactly. Just… thinking. Avoiding. Bracing.
The party yesterday had been fine, honestly. Loud and confusing and full of sugar. But there’d been that one moment, right after he’d made a stupid, curious comment about Arthur — “So what about… generals? Like Arthur? Where do they fit in all this?— and Bill had gone still. Too still. Then the low, unmistakable growl.
And Harry had frozen like something small and caught.
Now, the air shifted behind him. He knew that presence. Knew the heavy tread and the particular way Bill waited before saying anything, like testing the mood.
“I’m not hiding,” Harry said quietly, not looking.
“Didn’t think you were,” Bill answered, and to his credit, sat down a full arm’s length away. Respecting the space.
They sat for a bit. Bill let it breathe.
“I came out here,” he finally said, “because I needed to apologise. Properly.”
Harry didn’t reply.
“I was in pre-rut,” Bill went on, “but that’s not a good enough excuse. You said something — something I didn’t expect a bit of a sore spot I’ll admit — and I growled before I even thought. You’re not a stranger, Harry. You’re pack. You were asking a question, not challenging me. I forgot that. I forgot you.”

Harry swallowed. The words landed in that soft, sore place under his ribs. The part that had folded in on itself every time someone asked, "What do you think you’ll be?" like it was a trick question he’d fail.
“I didn’t mean it as an insult,” Harry said after a long pause. “About Arthur. I was just surprised. I didn’t know people could be… nothing. Not yet.”
Bill huffed a quiet laugh. “Gen, yeah. It’s rare. And yeah, people make ‘jokes’, but Dad’s not ashamed. He just… doesn’t fit the boxes, and that’s okay. I should’ve said that, not growled at you.”
Harry picked at the frayed edge of his trouser hem. “You scared me,” he admitted, small and honest.
Bill looked over, expression tightening with guilt. “I know. That’s what’s been keeping me up. You’re already dealing with enough — classification hanging over you like a bloody axe. The last thing you needed was your pack treating you like a threat.”
“I didn’t even know you were in pre-rut or what that um is,” Harry said. “I mean, I should’ve guessed. You were all bristly and bossy yesterday.”
Bill gave a mock wince. “Was I that bad?”
“You growled at Fred for touching the biscuits,” Harry said, raising an eyebrow.
“That wasn’t even alpha stuff. That was just bad manners on my part.” Bill’s voice softened. “You’re not the only one nervous about classification, you know.”
Harry blinked. “You were nervous?”
“I wasn’t always proud of mine. Took me a while to feel comfortable in my role — and in the pack.” Bill looked up at the clouds. “And now I’m the oldest, supposed to have it together. But I mess up too.”
Harry was quiet again, then finally murmured, “I don’t want to be anything that makes you growl at me.”
Bill turned sharply to face him. “You could turn out to be anything you could be a bossy posturing alpha, Harry, and I’d still have your back. That growl? That was about me, not you.”
Harry bit his lip.
Bill leaned just slightly closer, voice gentle. “You’re already pack, pup. You’ve been pack for ages. Classification’s not going to change that. You hear me?”
Harry finally nodded, slow but real. “Yeah.”
Bill smiled. “Good. And hey — just for the record? You can have the last biscuit next time and I won’t growl.”
Harry’s eyes lit up just slightly. “Even the custard one?”
Bill groaned. “Alright, now you’re pushing it.”
And when Harry finally laughed — a small, snorting sound — Bill let out a relieved breath, nudging his shoulder gently against Harry’s

Molly paused her knitting spell, thinking of what her pups would be.
Harry — an up-and-coming dom, she thought — quiet but strong. Ginny? A sweet little… or maybe a sub. She hesitated.
Ron’s a sub, she admitted silently. Stubborn but loyal.
If he ever heard her actual guess, she’d never hear the end of it. So she kept it to herself.

Ginny smiled to herself.
Harry’s definitely an omega — that nest means everything to him. But maybe he’ll have dom tendencies... hopefully. Or maybe I can dom him into domming me, she thought with a grin.
Hermione? One of the only girls she’s met who could wrangle both Ron and Harry without breaking a sweat — and Ron actually listens. Definitely an alpha.
Ron? Dom — loud, confident, protective. Or at least trying to be.

Fred grinned.
Harry’s an omega. No doubt. Ginny’s a switch — no question.
Hermione? Alpha, absolutely — always bossing the boys around.
Ron? Beta. Loud, but no real leadership.

Bill mused.
Harry’s somewhere between a sub and an omega — needs comfort, but he’s got his own strength. Ginny’s a dom or switch — fiery and determined.
Hermione... maybe a sub — intense but not always leading.
Ron? Dom with beta tendencies — wants to protect but not always in control.

Charlie quietly smiled.
Harry’s a pet — a puppy for sure. Needs comfort, he’s still learning and rather innocent. That nest was instinct, not thought.
Ginny? Switch or dom.
Hermione? Omega — caring, devoted, not dominant.
Ron? Sub — loyal and strong, but emotional control? Not quite there yet.
Percy frowned thoughtfully.
Small, clever, still figuring things out. Ginny’s a switch, leaning dom.
Hermione? Alpha — organized, in control, stands up for the two idiots but doesn’t let herself get pushed.
Ron? Beta — dependable, but not assertive.

George chuckled he had it all worked out.
Harry’s a beta with omega instincts.
Ginny? Switch.
Hermione? Sub — helpful, quietly guiding but not demanding but still stern and no nonsense.
Ron? Sub, maybe. He’d never say it out loud, but Harry’s not the only one being led here.
Arthur pondered.
Harry? Gen or sub — still finding himself.
Ginny’s a switch, maybe dom.
Hermione? Omega — passionate, loyal, but not trying to control.
Ron? Sub — fierce, yes, but not a leader.

The Burrow was a mess of motion and noise the morning they were meant to leave for King’s Cross.
“Ginny, where are your shoes?” Molly’s voice rang over the clatter of footsteps. “Not the dragon hide boots, the sensible ones!”
“I don’t know!” Ginny called back, head half-buried in the sofa cushions. “Ask the gnome that keeps stealing my things!”
Upstairs, Ron was yelling something about his broomstick, thudding around like a baby troll while George emerged from the loo with his hair half-wet and a toothbrush still in his mouth.
“Has anyone seen my left sock?” Fred shouted from the hallway, hopping on one foot.
Harry blushed realising he was talking about the one he’d accidentally packed yesterday he had no idea where it ended up though. “The green one! No, not that green, the other green!”
Percy, fully dressed and polished, stood calmly at the kitchen table with his wand cleaning his glasses, watching the mayhem unfold like a silent judge. Hermione sat beside him with her arms folded and her bag neatly packed at her feet, her expression hovering between amusement and disbelief.

“They had all summer,” she muttered, sipping her tea.
“I know,” Percy said primly. “I’ve given up trying to make sense of it.”
Harry stood with his trunk by the door, slightly overwhelmed but packed and ready, shifting his weight anxiously. He flinched as Bill and George crossing paths barreled past him hearing as Bill muttered, “I told Ron to shrink his cauldron last night…”
Charlie ducked as a rolled-up Quidditch jersey came flying down the stairs.
“Honestly, this is what happens when you’ve got too many dominants and caregivers under one roof but no one to actually care for,” he grumbled, catching it midair and tossing it back. “Without someone to look after, no one’s really looking after anyone—not even themselves.”
“You’re one to talk,” Bill called from the landing, dragging a bag with his teeth while trying to button his shirt.. “Did anyone feed the owl? Or George?”
“I’m not a pet!” George snapped as he stormed by, tripping over a shoe that definitely wasn’t his.
“Technically,” Charlie muttered, smirking.
Ginny called after George with a grin, “Hey, don’t look at me—you were great at the pet task.”
George just rolled his eyes and kept going.

Molly floated toast across the kitchen while simultaneously trying to tie a scarf around Ginny’s neck. “Where’s your trunk? Merlin’s beard, you didn’t even start, did you? I told you mummy could do it for you but you insisted”
“I’m not calling you mummy! And I’ve been thinking about starting!” Ginny said defensively. “It was organised procrastination I work both ways, thanks. Just not when people tell me to that’s when I switch it up .”
Fred slid in on the wood floor like a rogue Bludger. “Did someone say switch? Forge? I mean I wouldn’t know as I’m judged George or an I Fred? That’s me, right? Or am I just chaos?”
“Definitely chaos,” Percy said without looking up.
“Thank you,” Fred beamed.
Hermione rolled her eyes. “You lot are lucky Harry, Percy, and I packed early or we’d miss the train.”
Harry just gave a sheepish smile, still watching Ron tear through the pantry.
“He’s been like this all morning,” Hermione said gently. “Classic anxious-sub energy.”
“I heard that!” Ron barked. “And I am not!”
“You’re also not packed,” Percy pointed out.
In the distance, the sound of a chicken crashing into a bucket echoed, followed by a yelp.
At the table, Harry blinked down at his plate—Percy had quietly placed a croissant there, and without thinking, Hermione began tearing it into manageable bites. She knew too much food at once overwhelmed him.

Fred and Ron were already working in tandem like a well-oiled chaos machine, laying out an entire spread in front of Harry. Billy leaned over casually and tucked one of the jars into the top cupboard.
Harry frowned, puzzled—until he realized it was probably spiked.
Before he could process that, Ron had scooped a giant spoonful of chocolate spread straight from the jar and was holding it out to Harry like a trophy. Hermione looked like she was about to object, but was too busy spreading a much more reasonable amount on Harry’s croissant pieces.
“Ron, sugar bomb at this hour?” Charlie chided, frowning.
Without breaking eye contact, Ron scooped an even bigger spoonful just to make a point, clearly trying to distract Charlie from the fact that Harry was already eating the first spoon fall—and loving it.
Harry burst into laughter, his mouth full and eyes shining. The gesture touched him more than he expected.
Bill, unimpressed, smacked Ron on the back of the head with the rolled-up newspaper. “Don’t encourage him.”

Molly finally clapped her hands. “Right! Five minutes! Trunks, cloaks, shoes, now or I’m leaving without you!”
Everyone froze for a beat—then chaos resumed tenfold.

A pop echoed through the Burrow’s cramped hallway—followed by an explosion of shimmering gold and purple glitter that rained down like enchanted snow.
Fred and George froze mid-sprint, their faces slowly contorting in horror as they turned to see the now thoroughly sparkling form of Percy Weasley. His robes, shoes, and hair glinted with every movement. Even his Prefect badge looked like it had been dipped in fairy dust.
“Oh... no,” George whispered. “That was supposed to go outside.”
“I thought you rigged it to the doorframe,” Fred muttered.
“I did. Just... the wrong one.”
The glitter drifted down gently—some of it settling on Harry, who looked startled and dazed from the noise halfway through a cautious bite of croissant which he didn’t want to stop eating less he waste food or seem ungrateful Fred clocked that instantly and, with a sharp gesture, nudged George. The two moved in sync, spinning the enchanted glitter bomb casing and muttering a redirect charm. The next sputtering pop sent the remaining glitter fizzing in the opposite direction—away from Harry entirely.
Squarely onto Percy... again.
Percy stood stiffly, his jaw clenched, his voice tight. “Brilliant. I’ve been ready for hours, I’ve repacked everyone’s ink bottles, labelled all the snack containers, and now I have to change—again.”
“Perce…” Fred started, but Percy held up a hand, glitter cascading from his sleeve.
“I needed today to go smoothly,” Percy said quietly, his eyes flicking to the corner where Harry was now laughing quietly with Ron who was distracting him from the tension, unaware of the argument unfolding. “Just once I wanted to enjoy the hogwarts send off morning. And instead—”
“We’re sorry,” George said quickly, his tone softening. “Really. That wasn’t meant for you. Wasn’t meant for anyone,actually. It was just—supposed to be a bit of send-off sparkle. Y’know, tradition.”
Percy exhaled sharply, not quite willing to forgive, but not storming off either.
Fred offered a tissue—completely ineffective for glitter, but the gesture counted.
George added, “We’ll fix your badge.”
“And your robes,” Fred added.
“And your… dignity.”
Percy sniffed, brushing a glitter-flake from his collar. “Good luck.”

Before Percy could stalk off entirely, a gentle hand landed on his shoulder.
“Hold still,” Bill said calmly, raising his wand with a faint smile. “I learned this in Egypt—curse breakers hate getting covered in tomb dust.”
With a quick flick and a quiet incantation, the glitter lifted from Percy’s robes like reverse snowfall, swirling neatly into a jar Bill conjured in mid-air. Even Percy’s badge gleamed properly again—no sparkle, just polished brass.
Percy blinked, disarmed by the precision—and the care.
“Thanks,” he muttered, smoothing down his robes, still a bit stiff..
Bill gave his shoulder a light squeeze. “You’re allowed to be annoyed, but it’s not the worst way to remember the day, is it?”
Fred and George, standing sheepishly nearby, nodded with matching hopeful grins.
Percy rolled his eyes. “Just don’t do it again.”
Fred raised a hand. “Swear on George’s life.”
“Hey!” George protested.
Bill chuckled. “Fair compromise.”

Molly stood on the platform, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. She lifted her handkerchief, trying to perform the familiar mum smudge on some imaginary dirt on Ginny’s cheek.
Ginny, catching the gesture, stepped back briskly. “Mum, stop it. I’m not a little pup, remember?”
With a small, sad smile, Molly watched Ginny rush off, her heart quietly aching. She had no other children to wait for — no one else to watch grow and be classified like this.
Her gaze shifted to Harry. Hunching down slightly , she pulled him into a gentle hug.
Harry stiffened at first, unused to such physical contact, but slowly, the tension in his shoulders melted away.
Molly whispered softly, “Look after them. Percy. And you two,” she said, nodding at Fred and George. She pressed a tender kiss to Harry’s head.
Harry blinked rapidly, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.
Fred and George stepped forward, each grabbing an arm to hook him up onto the train — Harry’s short legs barely reaching the gap.
He hurried inside but then stopped and turned back, running to Charlie and Bill with surprising speed. Both wore equally shocked and concerned expressions before Bill got an arm full of Harry at his waist giving him a bone crushing hug and running to Charlie to do the same, practically flinging himself at both of them before blushing realising what he’d done
The two older brothers embraced him back just as fiercely (well not quite he was still tiny). Any one could see their genuinely touched expressions and the great fondness and love they held for him.
“We’ll write, promise,” Bill said quietly.
Harry beamed, then dashed back to Fred and George, who helped him up again and ruffled his hair with fond grins.
The train whistle blew, and as it pulled away, Molly wiped her eyes, smiling through the bittersweet ache of letting go began.

Chapter Text

Students leaned across compartments, passed notes, and shared crumpled copies of the latest Daily Prophet special edition:
“The Boy Who Lived… but What Will He Be?
Dom? Alpha? Or something out of character? Experts speculate on Potter’s true classification.”
Inside, there was a full-page spread: magical experts debating posture, tone, school photos (some not even of Harry), and "pack energy." One column claimed his eyes screamed omega. Another said he gave off “undeniable dom-in-training energy.” A third suggested, bafflingly, “mild beta with bonded instincts.”

None of it meant anything, but it didn’t stop the train from buzzing.

Harry, who hadn’t seen the paper yet, was seated with Hermione and Ron, and a few others they were friendly with in their year picking apart a pumpkin pasty as it was too much to handle all at once. Hermione carefully unwrapped a napkin for him.

“I’m telling you, people are staring,” Ron muttered, glancing toward the corridor where two third-years practically collided trying to peer into their compartment.
“They’re not staring,” Hermione said, clearly lying.
A group of Ravenclaws walked past and one of them loudly whispered, “He’s obviously a dom. Did you hear about the way he handled that basilisk?”
Neville, poking his head in to say hi and join the rather fill compartment , added unhelpfully, “My gran says he’s probably a sub who doesn't know it yet. She’s very intuitive.”
Dean Thomas said he’d heard Harry was actually a gen or a beta, “but, like, a really intense beta.” Lavender thought he was an omega pretending not to be probably inspired by her romance novel obsession. A few first-years whispered he was probably a pet—after all, he’d flown on a broom like a bat out of hell chasing a Snitch, which obviously meant animalistic tendencies.

Harry blinked. “Is everyone guessing what I am?”
“Yes,” Hermione said flatly. “It’s apparently the national pastime now.”
Someone claimed they’d heard him purr. Someone else said they'd seen him curled up in a nest in the Griffindoor common room. That was news to Harry who’s only ever been in a nest a few days ago.
Dean snorted, “He tripped over his own shoelace in Charms last term. Not exactly Alpha of the Year.”
Seamus shrugged. “I dunno. He does kind of command a room.”
Harry finally caught a glance at the paper and sighed, rubbing his eyes. “Brilliant. This year’s going to be just peachy.”
Ron handed him a chocolate frog wordlessly.
Harry took it, grinning faintly. “Thanks.”
Behind them, a group of fifth-years had started a betting pool.

As they passed a group of older students in the corridor, one particularly dramatic seventh-year paused and gave Harry a slow, scrutinizing once-over.
“I dreamed you were a dom,” she said with full sincerity, like this was a divine revelation. “There were wolves. And moonlight.”
Harry blinked. “Right. Well. Thanks for… sharing.”
Ron leaned in as she walked off. “Do you think she tells everyone that?”
“She told me I was a spoon once,” Neville said from the corner, unwrapping a sandwich.
Hermione looked up from her book. “Honestly, I'd take spoon over a moon-wolf dom prophecy.”
Fred and George appeared at the compartment door just then, both wearing mock-serious expressions and holding out makeshift badges:
“Team Omega”
 and “Future Dom of the Year”
“What is this?” Harry asked.
“Campaign merch,” George said. “We’re launching a full promotional tour. Buttons, banners, and—if necessary—fireworks.”
“I’m not even classified yet,” Harry groaned.
“All the more reason to get ahead of the branding,” Fred grinned. “No one wants to be the last to declare a take.”
“Pretty sure I should get to declare my own take.”
“Hmm, that’s adorable,” George said, pinning a badge on Ron distracting Harry by looking behind him and placing his pin on when he turned. “But no.”

As the train rolled on, Harry leaned his head against the window, badge still stuck half-crooked to his jumper thanks to Fred, who had somehow enchanted it to cycle between classifications based on badge sales. Whenever there was a surge in Alpha badge purchases, the “A” lit up in smug crimson. When Omega sales rose, it flipped to a delicate silver script with a big “O”. For a few minutes, it had boldly read PET? in sparkly lettering — apparently a joke that had caught on.
Harry didn’t even ask how Fred had that data.
Laughter echoed behind him as Ron and Hermione argued with Dean and Seamus about alpha stereotypes (something about antlers and posture). But Harry barely heard it. He watched the trees blur by and rested his forehead on the glass.
If this was what it was like before classification, he had no idea how he’d survive after. And Snape — oh god, Snape — was going to have a field day.

If this was what the week before classification was like, he wasn’t sure he’d survive the actual thing. Everyone had an opinion. Everyone had a theory. And none of them were quiet about it.
He groaned quietly into the glass.
He could hear snapes grating insults now about his ‘popularity’.
And the Sorting? Merlin. He was going to combust on the spot. Everyone would be staring at him for at least a week — especially if he wasn’t what they thought he was.
Which, considering The Prophet was adamant he was some kind of alpha-dom hybrid prodigy, seemed highly likely.

Unbearable.
The whole week — month — year, maybe — was going to be completely, unavoidably unbearable.
And somehow, that still felt like the best-case scenario.

Looking down, Harry noticed a sticky bit of pumpkin juice on his hands. Bored and mildly grossed out, he wiped it on his jumper before instinctively sucking one finger clean — only to glance up and see hawk-like eyes locked on him. He shuddered at Heroines look.
He sighed and stood to go wash his hands properly. Of course, that’s when he saw him — the twitchy blonde figure half-lurking down the corridor.

Harry tried to pivot away, but Draco Malfoy was suddenly in his space, posture rigid and sneer in full effect.
“Potter,” Draco spat, “you think you’re so tough. Flashing that braggart badge, riding the Prophet’s hype train. Everyone thinks you’re something special.”
He took a step closer. Too close.
“I wish you were an alpha — just so I could break you down. Turn you into a little bitch. Submissive. To me. Us Malfoy’s are proud of our alpha heritage, and I dare you to challenge that.”
Then, with a sudden yank, Draco grabbed the back of Harry’s robes and shoved him into the corridor wall—just as the door behind them slid open.
Harry instinctively jerked his collar away and stepped back, eyes wide.
“Harry?” Percy’s voice was sharp and cool. “Is there a problem here?”
“There’s no—” Draco started, but Percy cut him off.
“I wasn’t asking you.” His voice dropped, steely and sharp.
Then, softer, more protective: “Harry?”
Draco scoffed, already turning away.
“Hey—you can’t just—” Percy stepped forward, but Harry stopped him.
“It’s fine, Perce. I don’t want him back. Not so soon.”
Percy turned back to Harry, eyes narrowing as he scanned his face. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you? I can report him. Now.”
“No, Percy. He... he only threatened me.”
Percy froze. His expression shifted—quiet, lethal fury creeping across his normally composed features.
“He what?”
“It’s okay. Really.”
“It’s not,” Percy said quietly, voice tight. “And we’ll talk about this later.”
Then—without warning—Percy wrapped his arms around Harry and pulled him into a firm, oddly comforting hug. He rested his chin on top of Harry’s head, holding him close for a few long seconds.
Harry blinked, stunned. He had no idea what was happening.

He returned to the compartment, now mercifully emptier—Dean and Seamus having wandered off—and barely got seated when Fred pounced.
“Hey! No fair—we agreed not to scent you! You get all dopey when that happens—wait.” Fred sniffed. His brows snapped down. “Someone scented you!”
“What’s scenting?” Harry asked, confused.
That made Fred growl.
“Alright, big tiger,” Ron muttered, half amused, “we get it.”
“No. Someone scented our pup, and he didn’t even know it. That’s—nope. That’s not on.”
“It’s okay, Fred. It was Percy.”
Fred froze. “What was Percy?”
“He helped me. Malfoy was just being... Malfoy. He was only a little—handsy. Percy saw it and wanted to... protect me, I guess.”
“Malfoy threatened you?” Fred said, eyes flaring. “Malfoy touched you?!”

Yeah this was going to be a long week.

Chapter Text

The lift doors slid open with a metallic groan, revealing the familiar dark oak corridors of Level Five: the Department of Classification and Developmental Magic. Ornate plaques lined the walls, proudly displaying historic classifications of witches and wizards from centuries past.
Albus Dumbledore stepped out alone, his vibrant robes muted under a glamour that made him appear smaller, older, and less… conspicuous.

He hated being here.

The receptionist barely glanced up. “Name and business?”
“Ambrose Diddleton,” he answered smoothly, adjusting his spectacles. “Private petition regarding a fourth-year student’s classification at Hogwarts.”
The receptionist snorted softly and waved him through. “Room 5C. If they throw you out, don’t take it personal. They’re in a mood today.”

Dumbledore entered the hearing room with the careful poise of a man long used to wielding influence. Three officials sat at the crescent desk, quills hovering above parchment: Director Cresswell, sharp-eyed and all bones; Senior Analyst Vaith, who looked more like a bouncer than a bureaucrat; and Madame Althea Knox, head of Child Developmental Oversight.

“Ambrose Diddleton,” Knox drawled, glancing at the file. “Request to delay classification for one Harry James Potter. Fourth-year. Hogwarts. Marked as a priority case due to name recognition.”
Dumbledore didn’t correct the alias. Instead, he offered a charming half-bow. “Thank you for seeing me. I come with concern for the mental and magical wellbeing of one of my students. The classification process is known to be… stressful. In certain rare cases, delayed onset—”
“Spare us the thesis,” Vaith interrupted. “You want to delay Potter’s classification? Why?”
“He is—how shall I put it—highly scrutinised. A child burdened with expectations far beyond his years,” Dumbledore said smoothly. “I worry that a premature classification may lead to complications that affect not only his education, but his role in… wider matters.”
Cresswell raised a thin brow. “Is that a veiled reference to You-Know-Who?”
“I make no direct assertions,” Dumbledore replied mildly. “I simply believe a brief postponement, until say, the end of his sixth year—”
Knox let out a laugh, sharp and humourless. “You want us to delay a Ministry-mandated magical maturity rite by two years? For the Boy Who Lived? The most monitored adolescent in the country?”
“It’s for his safety,” Dumbledore insisted, gaze level. “If his classification proves disruptive—”
“You mean, if it doesn’t align with your expectations,” Cresswell said coldly. “Let me guess. You’ve raised him to believe he’s an Alpha.”
Dumbledore’s fingers curled.“I’ve raised him to believe he has a destiny.”

Vaith gave a short, barking laugh. “You’re here to stop us from classifying the boy because you’re afraid he’s not going to fit into your tidy prophecy-shaped box.”
“I’m here because he’s not ready,” Dumbledore said tightly.
Knox leaned forward. “Headmaster Dumbledore—don’t bother with your alias. We know who you are, and frankly, we’re tired of these games. Potter’s classification is scheduled with the rest of his year. There are no grounds for delay, no legal loopholes, and no exceptions—not even for you.”
Dumbledore’s jaw tightened. “Surely you understand the implications—”
“The only thing we understand,” Cresswell said sharply, “is that a child’s identity should not be dictated by a Headmaster’s agenda. This conversation is over.”
With a flick of Knox’s wand, the dismissal stamp thudded down on the petition parchment.

REJECTED — NO GROUNDS FOR EXCEPTION.

“You’ve made your interference quite clear. Good day, Headmaster.”
Dumbledore stood stiffly, nodding once, then turned and swept from the room.
As the door clicked shut behind him, Knox muttered, “He knows something’s coming. That boy’s going to upend everything.”
Cresswell sighed. “And about time too.”

Chapter Text

Blame it on the train’s momentum — the gentle sway, the rhythmic clickity-clack lulling him like a lullaby. Blame it on the way Percy, Fred, and George had all scented him before he could protest. Blame it on Hermione’s fingers threading softly through his hair. Harry could blame it on a lot of things. Either way, he was very much asleep.

"Harry… time… get up… kind of… nearly there… come on?"
The words filtered through the fog of sleep, half-muffled and only half-processed. Harry blinked slowly, blinking again as he realised his head was firmly in Ron’s lap. Ron, who was clearly trying not to laugh as he nudged Harry again, this time a bit more insistently.
Harry squinted blearily up at him. “What?”
That one word sent the whole carriage into peals of laughter.
Still half-asleep, Harry frowned, confused. He straightened, blinked again, then sat up with as much dignity as he could muster and declared, “Yes. Of course.”
That just made them laugh harder.

Ron, breathless and red-faced, finally explained between wheezes, “I asked if you expected George to carry us both up to the castle since you wouldn’t wake up.”
Harry scowled, affronted. He was not a morning person — or a waking-up-from-naps person — especially not when everyone was laughing at him. But before he could start grumbling, George tossed a neatly folded pile of robes into his lap.
“Alright, grumpy pants. Your robes. Go change. We hijacked the loo for you about five minutes ago,” George said with a wink.
Harry paused, trying to decide whether this was another prank. But then he noticed the small details: the robes were neatly folded — his, from last year — and there was an “Out of Order” sign taped to the toilet door just down the corridor.

He blinked. George had done that for him — because he knew Harry hated changing in front of others. Knew about the scars. Had remembered, ever since first year, when Harry had nearly cried trying to change after Quidditch practice.The scowl slipped away, and a smile bloomed across his face.
“Thanks, Forge,” he said, genuinely touched.
George saluted with mock pride. “All part of the service.”
Of course, the train had more than enough loos to go around. No one would be inconvenienced. But it still made Harry feel cared for — seen. He slipped into the reserved toilet, pulling on last year’s Hogwarts uniform with its slightly oversized shirt and too-long trousers. He hadn’t grown much, to his great annoyance.
As he buttoned the final button and adjusted his collar, he found his chest tightening. Maybe he was still a little dazed from the nap — or maybe it was the lingering pheromones in the compartment — but he felt… overwhelmed. He had friends. A family. Weasleys. Hermione. People who knew him.
His eyes welled unexpectedly.
Before he could stop himself, he darted back into the carriage, found the first person he saw — Hermione — and threw his arms around her in a bone-crushing hug.

The entire carriage froze.
Harry Potter, initiator of physical affection?
Hermione, quick to recover, smiled into the hug and returned it gently. Harry practically melted into her.
“Geez,” Ron said, around the last bite of his pumpkin pasty, “those pheromones really get to you, huh?”
Fred snorted.
“Shut up, Ron,” Hermione and George said in perfect, exasperated unison.
Ron raised his hands in surrender, wisely choosing not to push further.

Harry pulled back slightly, face flushed, and tried to explain, “I just— I really love you all, and I—”
“Shh,” Hermione hushed him softly, a hand on his arm. “We know, Harry. It’s okay.”
Harry hadn’t even realised he was crying until George gently ruffled his hair and murmured, “It’s okay, Sprout.”
Then, with dramatic flair — and somehow still complete sincerity — he leaned in and kissed Harry’s forehead.
Fred and Ron exchanged a look of sheer confusion.

Okay…
maybe the pheromones were still affecting him, Harry admitted to himself, especially when he stood and immediately stumbled.
“Right, time to escort the royal prince,” Fred announced, as he and George each looped an arm under Harry’s.
With theatrical pomp, they led him down the corridor to the carriages.
Harry, nestled between the twins and trailing a faint blush, couldn’t help but grin at his bewildered best friends. Percy walking passed stopped them but only to adjust Harry’s tie muttering “Here you’ll want your tie straight.” With a soft smile completely ignoring the twins theatrics.
Even as Fred kept up the performance and George dissolved into more laughter — mostly at their own antics — Harry just felt warm.

Happy. Safe. Home.

Chapter Text

The Great Hall buzzed with excitement, but beneath the usual chatter, Harry felt the weight of dozens of eyes on him. Not a single soul knew exactly what to make of him — and that made the atmosphere thick with silent speculation.
He lingered just inside the towering doors, hoping to slip quietly through, but he could feel the shifting glances, the murmurs that rippled like a low tide.

“Who do you think he is?” a voice whispered nearby.
“Doesn’t look like an Alpha. Maybe a Beta?”
“A handler, maybe? He seems calm enough.”
“I heard Snape’s already furious.”
“Apparently Dumbledore didn’t even want him classified.”
“I don’t know. He’s so small and quiet. Maybe a Caregiver?”

Harry lowered his head, trying to disappear in the shadows, but every whisper made his skin prickle. He shuffled forward, but the Great Hall suddenly felt like a crowd of strangers all peering at him, trying to unravel some puzzle they didn’t quite understand.

Then, like a shield forming around him, his group appeared. Hermione stepped up beside him, steady and determined, her presence a wall of calm authority.
Percy, spotting them, moved in close, eyes scanning the crowd with a quiet fierceness.
Ron slid in at his other side, already bristling with protective energy.
Fred and George flanked him, their usual mischievous grins tempered by guarded stances, ready to leap at the slightest threat.
Even Neville stood nearby, making it clear he was ready to step in if needed.
Hermione slipped her hand into Harry’s, grounding him amid the sea of whispers and stares.
Ginny marched just ahead, shooting warning looks to anyone who lingered too long.
“Stay close,” Hermione whispered softly.
Harry nodded, biting his lip as a gnawing guilt settled over him — he wasn’t meant to be the center of attention tonight. The Sorting was for the first-years; they deserved the spotlight, not him. His eyes flicked nervously around the hall, catching murmurs and sideways glances.

Ahead, the line of first-years fidgeted by the Sorting Hat, glancing nervously at the whispering crowd—and, occasionally, at him. One tiny girl stared with wide eyes until a prefect gently nudged her forward.

Harry even noticed Draco’ icy glare directed at him a sneering snarl etched on his face as though growling at him.
He swallowed hard, his voice barely above a whisper “I didn’t mean to... steal the attention. Tonight’s supposed to be about them, not me.”

Hermione’s fingers tightened gently around his hand as she met his gaze with steady reassurance.
“Harry, you’re not stealing anything. People are just curious—that’s all. It’s not your fault, and you shouldn’t carry that weight.”

Ron’s jaw clenched, his voice low and fierce, protective and unwavering.
“No one here gets to say how much attention you should get. You belong here just as much as anyone. Don’t blame yourself blame the nutters staring at you.”

Ginny’s eyes softened, but her tone was firm.
“We’ve got your back Harry. You don’t have to carry this alone.”
Percy’s quiet strength settled over him like a shield.
“You’re not the one causing all this fuss. It’s just how people react. That’s not your burden to carry.”
Fred and George exchanged a glance, smirking before George added,
“And honestly? If anyone’s stealing the show, it’s us making sure no one messes with you.”
Harry felt warmth flood through him at their words, a steady reassurance that he wasn’t alone—even if the whole hall was whispering.

Slowly, Harry let himself be led toward the Gryffindor table, the protective circle moving like a living shield, deflecting the curious stares and whispered guesses.

No one knew what Harry was — not yet.
And maybe, for now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

It was late afternoon and the soft clink of teacups echoed in Professor Sprout’s greenhouse office, enchanted to stay toasty and dry despite the drizzle tapping against the windows. The Heads of House had settled in for their fortnightly “leadership meeting” — an official-sounding name that disguised what was essentially tea, biscuits, and well-informed gossip.

“Well,” Flitwick said cheerfully, dangling his legs from a puffed-up cushion, “classification week is upon us.”
Sprout beamed. “My Hufflepuffs are buzzing. I’ve had at least three try to guess everyone’s outcomes — like a Sorting Hat pool.”
McGonagall sniffed, though a hint of amusement tugged at her mouth. “It’s not a competition.”
“Of course it is,” Flitwick said, sipping his tea. “And I, for one, have bets.”
“Oh, not again,” Sprout groaned. “You still owe me two galleons for thinking Lavender Brown would be a caregiver.”
“She still might be!” Flitwick said, indignant.

Snape, arms folded and eyes narrowed, cut through the chatter. “Let’s get on with it. If I have to endure this charade, I’d rather do it quickly.”
Sprout rolled her eyes fondly. “Alright then, Severus. Predictions. Who’s what?”
“Granger?” Flitwick prompted, nibbling on a sugared scone.
“Dom,” Snape said flatly. “No mystery there. Overbearing, rule-oriented, insufferably nurturing.”
“Agreed,” McGonagall said, though a faint smile tugged at her lips. “Though she’s softened, especially this year.”
“She might be a submissive,” Flitwick mused aloud. “That need to please, to earn approval... it’s not just academic.”
Snape gave a slight, thoughtful nod. “Perhaps.”
“Ronald Weasley,” Sprout offered next.
“Alpha,” Snape said before anyone else could. “Hot-headed. Needs to posture. Thinks with his fists.”
“Protective,” McGonagall corrected, though she didn’t entirely disagree. “A soft alpha — if such a thing exists. Or perhaps a dominant, a gentler one. He’s only volatile when guarding someone.”
Flitwick chuckled, swirling his spoon. “Definitely alpha,” he said. “He’s been circling Potter since first year. That’s not just friendship — that’s instinct.”
Snape smirked. “If we’re being honest, he’s halfway to Potter’s handler already. Always bristling, always hovering. If the boy could growl, he would.”
“That is what handlers do,” Sprout said, amused. “Guard, anticipate, challenge threats.”
“Exactly,” Snape said. “And somehow, Ronald Weasley has appointed himself Harry Potter’s personal perimeter security.”
McGonagall snorted into her tea.

“Handler by proximity,” Flitwick added with a laugh. “Now there’s a classification Hogwarts hasn’t seen.”
“Potter’s orbit does strange things to people,” Snape muttered, though without his usual venom
Sprout leaned forward with a grin. “Alright since you’ve mentioned him. Potter?”
Snape snorted into his tea. “Alpha. Clearly.” But it was rather begrudging.
Flitwick raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
McGonagall glanced at Snape with quiet amusement. “I’m surprised, Severus. You’ve spent years calling him impulsive, arrogant, a rule-breaker…”
“And so are most alphas,” Snape said dryly. “Everyone expects him to be one, and Potter thrives on expectation. Spotlight obsession.”
Flitwick tilted his head. “He does have presence, I’ll give you that. But I’m not convinced. He’s too—” he paused, choosing his words carefully, “—wary of power. There’s a deep-rooted fear of being in control.”

“Look at the evidence,” Snape continued. “Defiance. Authority issues. Constant need to insert himself into leadership roles. He’s reckless, stubborn—”
“He’s also terrified of disappointing people,” McGonagall cut in sharply. “He doesn’t seem to enjoy leading in fact he leads begrudgingly it seems and half the time he doesn’t even realise when people are watching him-” She sips her tea and nibbles a custard cream before continuing “Which seems to be most of the time, he doesn’t seem to enjoy the attention.”
“He could be a sub,” Sprout said softly. “Something gentle. Vulnerable.”
“That child is not gentle,” Snape snapped.
McGonagall raised an eyebrow. “No? I’ve seen him tend to his friends like they were eggshells. He’s the first to shield, the last to speak. There's something…” she hesitated, “tender about him.”
Snape didn’t answer, but his silence spoke volumes.
“Well,” Flitwick said with a shrug, “he’s certainly not easy to place.”
McGonagall’s lips pressed into a line. “He’s hard to read. Always has been.”
Flitwick leaned back in his chair. “Too guarded. Too performative. He acts like an alpha, but only when people are watching. My guess? He doesn’t know himself yet.”
Sprout gave a sympathetic frown. “Poor thing’s been raised to survive, not to feel. His classification could swing wildly.”
“Exactly,” Flitwick said. “Could be a dominant. Could be a submissive.”
“I’m almost hoping he surprises us,” Sprout said with a smile. “It’d serve the Prophet right.”

Flitwick hummed thoughtfully. “I always assumed he’d be a beta. Or perhaps a submissive. He doesn’t seem to thrive on control — more on connection.”
“He’s quiet when he’s not performing,” Sprout added. “And he does respond very well to structure when it’s gentle. He clings to the older Weasleys like ivy on a wall.”
Snape scoffed. “He clings because he’s manipulative. He’s playing weak to stay protected.”
“Or he’s been through more trauma than any child should endure,” McGonagall snapped. “You of all people should recognise survival behaviour.”
A tense pause settled over the group.

Flitwick cleared his throat delicately. “Well. What classification would you say you think he’ll get, Minerva?”
McGonagall hesitated, then said slowly, “If I had to guess… perhaps submissive.”
“Whatever he gets the prophet will do a paper on them being ‘surprised’.” Snape scoffed.
“Speaking of surprises,” McGonagall said, “what about Miss Weasley?”
“Handler,” Snape muttered.
“Dominant,” Flitwick said at the same time.
They all paused, then chuckled.
“She’s a bit of both,” McGonagall admitted. “Fierce. Intuitive. Could be a tamer, honestly. She has that... restraint. That control.”
“She’s got her brothers’ fire,” Sprout noted. “But she’s more focused with it. Like a dragon under glass.”
“Whatever she is,” Flitwick added, “I wouldn’t want to be the one who crosses her.”
“I’ll be very interested to see her dynamic with Potter,” McGonagall mused.
That earned a round of raised eyebrows, but no one spoke.

“Neville Longbottom,” Sprout said suddenly, more softly.
“Caregiver,” Flitwick said at once.
“Beta,” Snape muttered, but not unkindly.
“I think he’s still becoming himself,” McGonagall said thoughtfully. “The boy who walked into first year and the young man now—those are two different people.”
Sprout beamed. “He’ll be brilliant, whatever he is.”
“He’s got strength no one sees until they have to,” McGonagall said. “That kind of quiet makes people underestimate him.”
Snape gave a short, approving nod. “Exactly.”
A quiet pause fell over the room, the warm hush of four people collectively realising that whatever happened in a few days, it was going to change everything.

Sprout leaned forward, clearly enjoying herself now. “Alright then, let’s get onto the snakes.”
“Draco Malfoy,” Flitwick said, grinning mischievously. “Go on, Severus.”
Snape didn’t even blink. “Dominant. Obvious posturing, inflated confidence, and an absolute refusal to be beneath anyone — even when he clearly is.”
“Compensating,” McGonagall added dryly. “Though I admit he’s steadied somewhat in the past year.”
“Handler potential,” Sprout suggested thoughtfully. “He’s a bit too obsessed with keeping control, and that can swing toward the protective with the right pack.”
“Handler or dominant,” Snape agreed. “But never an alpha as much as he wants to be. He’s too reactive.”
“Blaise Zabini?” Flitwick prompted.
There was a pause.

“Sub,” Snape said finally. “But a very independent one. He won’t show vulnerability unless it’s earned — and even then, only in private.”
“Highly self-possessed,” McGonagall agreed. “I’ve seen him quiet an entire corridor just by walking through it.”
“People underestimate how powerful a calm sub can be,” Sprout murmured. “Especially one who refuses to be owned.”
“Precisely,” Snape said. “He doesn’t yield. He allows.”
“What about Pansy Parkinson?” McGonagall asked next.
Snape’s lips twitched. “Caregiver, ironically.”
Flitwick’s eyebrows rose.

“She clutches her friends like possessions,” Snape continued. “Constantly adjusting, managing, correcting. Underneath the dramatics, it’s all about control and protection.”
“Very maternal,” Sprout said, clearly surprised. “In a bossy, dramatic kind of way.”
Flitwick chuckled. “So a sharp-tongued mother hen, then.”
Snape gave a slow nod. “Exactly.”
“Theodore Nott?” McGonagall asked, more softly.
That got a brief flicker of hesitation from Snape.
“Beta,” he said finally. “Observant. Cautious. He sees everything but rarely acts unless pushed. A strategist. He’ll never lead, but he’ll hold a pack together in crisis.”
“Quiet strength,” Sprout murmured. “We need more of those.”
“Crabbe and Goyle?” Flitwick asked, half-grinning.
Snape actually rolled his eyes. “Alphas. Brute ones. Zero subtlety. They follow Draco because it’s easier than leading, but their instincts are raw and aggressive.”
“Do you think they’ll ever bond with a proper pack?” McGonagall asked.
“They’ll need guidance,” Snape said. “Strong handlers, or they’ll latch onto anyone who offers structure.”
Sprout nodded. “The kind of alphas who imprint hard and fast.”
“And often on the wrong person,” Snape muttered.

There was a pause, then McGonagall leaned back with a sigh. “Merlin help us when these classifications come in. There’ll be chaos.”
“Oh yes,” Flitwick said brightly. “But at least it’ll be interesting chaos.”

Chapter Text

The dungeons were unusually cold that morning, the chill biting more than usual as the fourth-years filed in. Harry kept his head low, eyes fixed on the stone floor, heart thudding too hard for such a simple class.

Please don’t mention it, he thought, sliding onto his stool beside Hermione. Please, just one normal lesson. No Prophet. No whispers. Just potions.
But hope rarely survived long under Snape’s scrutiny.

“Settle down.” Snape’s voice cut across the room like a blade. “Today we’ll be brewing Calming Draughts. Not, I should note, that most of you are capable of handling your own emotions—though some of you are making quite the public career of it.”
Harry flinched. He knew about the prophet. Of course he knew and worse he was going to use it as ammunition. Hermione stiffened beside him, her quill clutched tightly in her hand.

Snape drifted down the aisle, his gaze like poison. “Interesting,” he said softly, stopping behind Harry, “how the Prophet is so fascinated with classifications these days. Alpha this, hybrid that, speculation about high-profile students. Some believe we’re all entitled to the full truth, no matter how delicate. Or embarrassing. And believe me it is embarrassing.”
A few Slytherins snickered. Malfoy smirked openly.

“Alpha heartthrob Harry Potter has another side to him — a dominant streak, sources suggest, that raises questions about his true classification.” Snape quoted.
Snape added with a sneer: “A fascinating blend of arrogance and uncertainty. How very... Gryffindor.”
Harry’s face flushed hot. His throat felt tight. He wanted to look up, to say something—but Hermione, without turning, gave a barely perceptible shake of her head. Her hand found his under the table and gave it a firm squeeze.

Malfoy gave a low laugh, flicking a glance at Harry like he was something pitiful and wild.

Snape circled to the front again, his tone casual but laced with cruelty. “I, for one, find the idea of a... hybrid classification most amusing. Imagine: the burden of dominance with none of the control. Or worse—of care without the instinct. No wonder some find themselves overwhelmed. Fragile. Confused.”
That broke something. Usually Harry was able to verbally spar with Snape in fact sometimes he looked forward to it but after a week of constant scrutiny and everyone once again treating him like a ticking time bomb just like second year Harry was feeling sensitive. His head bowed further, and despite himself, his eyes stung. He blinked hard. A drop hit the back of his hand. God he was being such a baby and he really hopes the floor will swallow him before someone sees him crying. Which for god sake would support all the insults Snape’s just called him.
Ron stood. Loudly. With the grace of an injured hippogriff (which is to say none at all) but standing just as proud
“Professor.”
The room went still.
“If you’ve got a problem with Harry, just say it. Stop hiding behind gossip and snide little games.”
Snape turned slowly, danger glinting in his eyes. “Ten points from Gryffindor, Weasley.”
“I don’t care.”
Another voice, quieter but firm “Neither do I.” Neville said shocking everyone. Hands clenched at his sides, jaw set.
Harry looked up, startled. Hermione reached for him, but he pulled gently away, eyes wide and glassy as he tried pulling himself together smiling in thanks to Ron and Neville.

Snape’s eyes narrowed. The silence was no longer passive—it crackled, taut as wire.
"Another ten points." He drawled.

Silence.

But a heavy one. The kind that spoke of more to come.
Snape sniffed disdainfully and turned back to the board.
But the damage had been done

Chapter Text

Harry sat by the window of the common room, bag packed beneath his chair. He’d waited until the tower was mostly quiet, until the noise of everyone buzzing about Classification Day had dulled into distant echoes.

He couldn’t do it.

He couldn’t face the entire school knowing. Not when he barely understood what he was feeling himself. Not when the Prophet had already had a field day guessing — alpha heartthrob, dominant mystery, possibly unstable hybrid. They didn’t know him.

But what if... what if they were right?

He glanced at the bag again, then out at the stars. If he left tonight, he might make it to Hogsmeade. From there, he didn’t know. Just... somewhere not here.
“You’re not as quiet as you think, Harry,” came Hermione’s voice gently behind him.
Harry jolted, guilt already rising, but Hermione didn’t look angry. She stepped closer, glanced at the packed bag, and sighed.
“I figured,” she murmured, sitting beside him. “The way you’ve been avoiding your reflection. Not eating. Not sleeping. We noticed.”
Harry looked down. “I just... I don’t know who I’ll be after tomorrow. And I don’t know if I want everyone else to know before I do.”
Hermione gave him a moment. Then, “Okay. So maybe... let’s figure that out together.”

Before he could argue, the portrait hole creaked again. Ron entered, dragging his own pillow under his arm.
“I told her not to try to talk you out of it,” he said. “I brought snacks. In case we need to sit here all night or make a great escape.”
Then came Ginny, Percy, Fred and George, Neville — each of them entering like it was planned. Like they knew what he needed before he did.
“You’re not leaving us behind that’s for sure.” Ginny said guiding him to the sofa and placing her legs over his as if to physically keep him from running.
Fred threw a jumper at him. “We’re not letting you run, mate. But we are going to sit with you until the morning. You won’t face it alone.”

Harry blinked fast. He hadn’t expected this. He’d expected outrage this was worse — understanding. The warm kind that breaks you.

Neville and George started placing their blankets down whilst Percy transfigured them into cozy soft mattresses. Everyone claimed beds around him whilst Hermione dragged him to one to share with her next to Ron on the right and the twins on the left making it clear there was no ‘great escapes’ to be had tonight. That made his mind up then and there he could never leave them behind not that they’d let him, they made it clear if he ran they followed.

Hermione nudged him. “You don’t need to run, Harry. But if you’re scared of the names they’ll give you... maybe you get to choose what it means. Maybe we help you decide that.”

Chapter Text

Oh God, Harry thought. Today’s the day.

For a brief, desperate moment, he wondered what would happen if he just... hid. Maybe curled up under his bed and pretended to be asleep until the whole thing was over. But then he imagined the fallout — the headlines, the whispers, the inevitable accusations of attention-seeking. He'd already tried to run once and well he won’t try again not after being reminded of what or rather who he'd leave behind h not that they’d let him go alone anyway).

He couldn’t run for ever and if or rather when he was spotted it’d be seen as a bit publicity stunt.
Worse still, he could practically hear Snape’s drawl in his head: ‘Ah yes, Potter. Theatrics as always. How very predictable.’
Yeah. Absolutely not.

At least someone with common sense had, years ago, petitioned to make Classification Day a full-day event. No classes, no lessons interrupted by hushed summons and jittery returns — just a streamlined, miserable process from start to finish. It was the sort of efficiency Hogwarts rarely bothered with, but here, it somehow stuck.

Harry, was tucked somewhere near the end of the list, and as such had a bit of time. Time to pretend it wasn’t happening. Time to bury his head in the sand and savour the last fleeting hours of being unclassified — undefined. Just Harry.

“Harry?”
He flinched as the knock came — not at the dorm door, but his bedpost his slightly open curtains meaning the wards weren’t up. He hadn’t drawn them tightly enough, apparently.
“Go away,” Harry muttered into his knees.
“Absolutely not,” came Percy’s crisp voice. “This is a sibling-level intervention.”
Before Harry could argue, the curtain lifted and Percy ducked inside, crouching awkwardly. His tie was already straightened, and he smelled faintly of ink and lemon oil but his hair wasn’t as neat as usual a few hairs out of place (but for Percy that was akin to not bothering combing his hair at all)— clearly he'd already had a nervous morning of his own.

“Come to lecture me on punctuality?” Harry said miserably.
“No,” Percy said, settling onto the edge of the bed with more gentleness than Harry expected. “I came to remind you that hiding under the bed never works. Believe me. I once tried it before my Transfiguration OWL. My foot stuck out. Professor McGonagall turned it into a cautionary visual aid for prefects—she still brings it up.”

There was a rustle, and suddenly two more bodies flopped down — one on either side of the bed.
“Aw, Percy, did you start without us?” Fred moaned, shoving Harry’s pillow dramatically behind his head. “You were meant to wait until we could deliver our patented Big Brother Encouragement Speech.”

“I’m still editing the part where we threaten to hex anyone who mocks you,” George added. “Do you prefer itching powder or exploding quills?”
Harry let out an ugly snort before he could stop it. “You lot are ridiculous.”
“True,” Fred said cheerfully, “but we’re yours. Unfortunately for you.”
Percy shifted slightly, lowering his voice. “You’re not alone in this, Harry. Classification doesn’t define you — but it does open doors. And you’ve already walked through harder ones.”
Harry ducked his head. “It doesn’t feel like that.”
“I know.” Percy touched his shoulder briefly, then withdrew before it could overwhelm. “But I think you should call Bill.”

Harry blinked. “Why?”
“Because,” Percy said simply, “you trust him and you’ve gotten close lately. And I think you still need to hear that he’s proud of you no matter what. Even if you already know it. Sometimes it’s the saying that matters.”
“I’ll mess it up I’m terrible at conversations when I’m nervous I’ll be all awkward.” Harry muttered from under the blanket, clueless when George had sneakily draped it over him.
“Then we’ll be right outside your door,” Fred offered. “Ready to burst in with matching cloaks and confetti cannons.”
“Or we’ll just wait and hold your hand after,” George said. “Or both. We’re multi-talented.”
Harry’s throat tightened. For a second, all he could do was nod, biting the inside of his cheek to stop from crying.
Then quietly “Yeah. Okay. I’ll call him in twenty minutes—eight o’clock should do it. He’s bound to be awake by then,” Harry said from under the blanket, trying to sound decisive while barely peeking out. Even delaying it by twenty minutes felt like a small victory—after all, calling Bill would be a step closer to facing his classification, and Harry definitely wasn’t ready for that yet.

Fred and George slipped quietly into the common room where Ron was sitting alone, staring at the floor. His hands clenched and unclenched nervously, though he tried to look like he didn’t care.
“Oi, Ronnie,” George called softly, sitting down beside him.
Ron glanced up, forcing a half-smile. “Doesn’t really matter what I get, does it? Just another label.”
Fred plopped down on the other side. “That’s the spirit. You don’t need a fancy classification to be you.”
George grinned. “Besides, you’re not the type to let some label define you. You’ve always been in your own lane.”
Ron’s smile faltered a little. “Yeah, but sometimes it feels like you two get all the attention or Ginny and if she’s a little it’ll be like I don’t exist. Everyone expects stuff from you all- goblin friend dragon tamer, beta genius, genius twin entrepreneurs and the youngest not to mention how Ginny commands the room. I’m just... me, I’m not the youngest I’m not a girl I’m not a genius I’m not an entrepreneur I don’t know how to talk to goblins or tame dragons or settle disputes like Percy does I’m just me.”

Fred leaned closer. “What do you mean ‘just you’? You’re Ronald Bilius Weasley—brave, loyal, strong. The Ron who follows friends into danger, faces chessboards, Dark Lords, and heaven forbid… spiders… all because you care. The Ron who flew a car all the way to Scotland, facing Mum’s wrath—which, let’s be honest, is worse than taming dragons or talking to goblins—and you did it because a friend was scared. You don’t need to be a genius, a leader, a twin, or anyone else. You’re Ronald Weasley: a brilliant brother who, even though we terrorised you, never ratted us out to Mum and Dad, the most secretly caring brother, the one who puts his neck on the line for his friends, who always looks out for us, and let’s not even get started on how strong or protective you are and -without inflating your ego too much- are strategic smart and kind. You’re not just Ron—you’re the Ron Weasley.”
George grinned, giving him a friendly shove. “Exactly. Stop thinking about what the world thinks all that matters is you. And don’t worry, we’ve got your back no matter what you get you could get pigeon and we’d still be there.”
Ron looked between them, a little of the knot of worry loosening. “Thanks, you two,” he muttered, still uncertain, but touched. Ron blinked. “Since when are you being nice to me?”
George huffed dramatically. “Since forever! I’m constantly nice. You just don’t notice.”
Fred shot him a mock-snooty look before snorting. “You know, I bet you’d make a great pigeon. Obsessed with food, no clue how to build a nest, permanently confused… “ Fred couldn’t help but let out a snort “You’d make a worse letter carrier than Pig ever did—and that little git once delivered a letter straight into a cauldron of stew.”
Ron huffed throwing a pillow at the git. “There we go. Back to normal.”

The early morning light filtered softly through the small dorm window. The castle was still waking up, but Harry sat on his bed, fidgeting nervously. Percy stood nearby, leaning casually against the wall, holding one of his two-way mirrors.
“I want to tell you something,” Percy said, voice low, almost like he was sharing a secret.
Harry looked up, curiosity replacing some of his tension.
“When I was your year — fourth year — Classification Day hit me like a ton of bricks,” Percy began. “I was sure I was going to be a dom. Had it all planned out in my head.”
Harry blinked. “Really?”
“Really.” Percy smiled faintly, shaking his head. “I was so convinced I was going to be the top dog, you know? Thought I’d lead, command, have all the responsibility.”
He paused, eyes serious now.
“But then I got classified as a beta.”
Harry watched him carefully.
“At first, I was crushed,” Percy admitted quietly. “I thought it was a mistake. I begged for a retest even.”
Harry’s fingers twitched his eyebrows raising a bit belying his shock he couldn’t think of Percy being anything but a beta.
“Then dad found me one afternoon about a week after, just sitting in the shed, looking miserable,” Percy said. “I tried to act like I was fixing something, but he knew better. Sat down beside me and said, ‘Percy, I always knew you were a beta. That’s a good thing. You see things others don’t. You have patience, loyalty. Those qualities? They matter more than being a dom.’”
Harry felt a little warmth in his chest.
“He told me I’d be the best beta the world’s ever seen. I didn’t believe him at first, but I do now.”
Percy stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Trust me, Harry. Being a dom isn’t for everyone. I’d have burned out trying to be one, stressed to the point of collapse.”
He smiled softly. “Being a beta means I can lead when it counts, but still take care of myself. It suits me.”
Harry swallowed. “What if I hate what I get?”
Percy gave him a gentle nudge. “Then you tell me. We’ll work it out together. No matter what, you’re still you. And we’ve got your back.”
Harry blinked, surprised by how much better he felt just hearing

Percy reached into his bag and pulled out three sleek, black-framed two-way mirrors. He held one out to Harry.
“These are connected to Bill and Charlie,” Percy said quietly. “They’re at the Burrow, waiting to offer support during classification day. You can talk to them anytime if you need.”
Harry took the mirror carefully, the weight of it somehow grounding.
With a deep breath, Harry held the mirror up and whispered, “Bill?”
The glass shimmered, and moments later Bill appeared, calm and steady, his usual confident air softened by a kind smile.
“Harry,” Bill greeted warmly. “I know this day’s a big one for you.”
Harry swallowed, nodding.

Percy took over. “Bill, could you tell Harry a bit about your classification? It might help.”
Bill nodded. “Of course. When I was your age, I thought I’d be a general. Everyone told me I was meant to be like dad. But then I found out I was an alpha. That part was expected well at least to me. What wasn’t expected was the reaction of someone I trusted, who told me I’d embarrassed my dad with my classification. That stung.”
Harry’s eyes widened.

Bill sighed, voice softer. “I thought dad would be disappointed, but he just pulled me in for the biggest hug and said he was proud of me. That support made all the difference.”
Harry blinked, the knot in his chest loosening just a little.
Then Charlie’s face appeared in the mirror, grinning. “Hey, Harry. Heard you needed some extra encouragement.”
Harry smiled faintly.

Charlie continued, “When I got classified, there was a rumour I had to be an alpha to work with dragons. I wasn’t. I was so crushed, thinking I’d never be able to live my dream.”
“But then Bill talked to me and I realised it was nonsense. The reserve doesn’t discriminate, and my caregiving nature actually helps me with the dragons more than brute strength ever could.”
Harry let out a shaky breath, feeling lighter than he had all morning.
Bill leaned closer, tone firm but gentle. “Harry, whatever classification you get today, it doesn’t define you.”

Charlie nodded, grinning. “Even if you turn out to be a cocky alpha like the Prophet thinks you’ll be—we’ve got your back.”
Percy gave Harry’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “You’re not alone. We’ll all be here. No matter what.”

Harry looked at the two-way mirrors, feeling less scared and more ready.

Chapter Text

Hierarchy

Alphas & Caregivers – Share top influence; Alphas hold social dominance, Caregivers provide calm authority and guidance.
Doms, handlers and betas – Leadership and support roles- doms assert control, handlers manage dependents, betas stabilise the pack, linking upper and lower members, smoothing communication, and making sure everyone’s needs are accounted for

Gens – Neutral and often overlooked, occupy a middle social position.
Switches – Flexible in roles, capable of leading or following depending on circumstances.

Omegas – Protected class, socially and biologically vulnerable but caretakers in their own right.
Subs – Submissive, capable, but socially perceived as vulnerable.
Pets – Rare, unique, dependent, and fully protected.
Littles – Highly dependent, usually under full protection, considered them the least likely to lead.

Caregivers and Alphas share a similar standing in the hierarchy, with Alphas technically placed slightly higher due to their role in maintaining group control. However, in many situations Caregivers are regarded as the default leaders — their calm authority and steady presence often carrying more weight. Power struggles between the two are rare, as both roles tend to be mature and cooperative, often compromising when decisions arise. While Alphas may direct the pack as a whole, they frequently turn to Caregivers for guidance, reassurance, and their stabilizing influence, deferring to them when needed. Leadership between the two roles is therefore flexible, with authority shifting depending on context. Instinctively, Alphas are inclined to keep Caregivers content, driven by pack biology and the needs of pups, Littles, and pets. At the same time, Caregivers can openly challenge an Alpha’s decisions, since they are understood to speak in the best interest of the pack — a challenge the Alpha does not view as undermining their authority.”

Dominants can vary greatly depending on their type — whether soft Dom, hard Dom, tamer Dom, and so on. In general, they tend to be patient and gravitate toward leadership roles. Doms value control and stability, and this extends beyond intimate contexts into everyday life. While they can be nurturing and capable of raising children, their style often involves different expectations and boundaries compared to Caregivers. They may not be as naturally attuned to children as Caregivers are, nor do they hold the same innate authority or abilities as Alphas. However, this does not lessen their leadership, capability, or authority — it simply manifests in a different but equally valuable way.

Handlers are usually seen as a dom and caregiver mixed together however their caregiving and dom skills are a lot less concentrated and more centralised for ownership of pets and handling skills.

Betas are typically seen as the middle ground in the hierarchy — placating, diplomatic, and often acting as mediators. They rank below Alphas but above Omegas, and are sometimes expected to guide or assist Omegas while still deferring to Alpha authority. Though similar in some ways to Gens, Betas retain distinct instincts. They can detect other scents, but not as strongly or sharply as Alphas or Omegas. Betas cannot perceive their own scent, and if they have one, it tends to be faint and neutral compared to the commanding presence of Alpha scents or the sweeter, more noticeable scents of Omegas.

Switches are relatively rare, but they are unique in their ability to both lead and be led. They can form relationships with Doms or Subs, and depending on the individual, may also pair with another Switch. Switches are capable of experiencing both Dom and Sub space, though this duality can sometimes create challenges. Their authority may be undermined because of their submissive qualities, and they often find strictly Dom- or Sub-focused relationships monotonous, as these do not allow them to express their full range. For this reason, Switches often feel most at ease in polyamorous dynamics or with partners who are also Switches, where both aspects of their nature can be explored

Gen stands for ‘General.’ Unfortunately, prejudice against Gens is common, with many people regarding them as odd or out of place. Some patronize them, comparing them to unpresented pups who need protection, while others mock them outright, believing they shouldn’t be allowed to marry outside their class. Although Gens are not currently a protected class, there is ongoing debate about whether they should be. Opinions within the community itself are divided: while some Gens welcome the idea of protection, others reject it entirely, seeing it as limiting or unnecessary. As a result, the question of how society should treat Gens remains a complex and contentious issue

Subs are an interesting class due to the sheer different types of sub classes, whilst some subs find joy in complete submission there are of course some on the other end of the spectrum where some prefer to lead and have their submission earned. Subs of course are strong and capable and aren’t constantly in sub space however they are seen as vulnerable due to their submission. Culturally different countries/states allow subs different rights due to different opinions of them. Britain is neutral and somewhat progressive as they’re are a protected class. Subs are allowed to live ordinary lives, pursue work, and also refuse employment if the role conflicts with their comfort or boundaries. This flexibility acknowledges the diversity within the class, including those who wish for complete freedom from responsibilities.

Omegas often share a natural kinship with Subs and, like them, are recognised as a protected class. They are widely perceived as vulnerable due to their heats, their instinctual need for packs and nests, and their role in raising pups, pets, and Littles. If neglected, placed under extreme stress, or after the loss of a pup, an Omega may develop Omega sickness — a condition that, if left untreated, can be life-threatening. For this reason, Omegas are afforded strong political and social protections, with other classes instinctively inclined to support and safeguard them. Beyond vulnerability, Omegas are also valued caretakers. They regularly build nests and enter nesting heats, which differ from sexual heats; nesting heats are instinct-driven, while sexual heats occur only two to four times a year and last about a week.

Pets are a rare and complex class, holding a unique and protected position in society. Each Pet embodies a set of animalistic instincts and behaviors aligned with their type—Puppies are loyal, social, and eager to please; Kittens are playful, curious, and independent; while rarer types like Cows, Cats, and Lions bring traits of gentleness, sensuality, or dominance, respectively. As some animals are naturally stronger or more dominant, they take on different roles within social structures—a lion, for example, may act as a protector, while a pet cat may exist in a more passive or ornamental role. Some Pets prefer a twenty-four-seven lifestyle, fully immersed in their identity, while others use petspace as a form of emotional regulation, a coping mechanism that allows them to manage stress while still maintaining careers and responsibilities. They may choose to have Handlers or Owners, though not all do, and those who act in such roles are expected to meet a high standard of care. Pets are a protected class, however, despite their legal protections, many Pets still face social assumptions and pressure, and may find themselves struggling under the hierarchical structures, especially when Alphas or Caregivers become overly protective or controlling, leading some Pets to feel coddled, stifled, or misunderstood.

Littles are the most protected class in society, with every other class feeling an inherent, almost biological, need to safeguard them. Littles vary in their age ranges and levels of regression, and while not all are in headspace twenty-four-seven, most find deep comfort and emotional fulfillment when they are. In this world—especially in Wizarding society—Littles are viewed as both delicate and sacred. They are strongly encouraged not to work, as stress has an especially negative effect on them. Though Littles are rare, everyone looks out for them, from peers to strangers, and even non-human companions. They are deeply affected by the pheromones of Alphas, Caregivers, Handlers, and Omegas, (handlers to a lesser extent) which can soothe, calm, or regulate their emotions. While technically any class can care for a Little, the most fulfilling and stable bonds tend to form with Alphas, Omegas, and especially Caregivers, whose instincts allow them to anticipate a Little’s needs almost effortlessly. Their scents are often enough to ease a Little into calm or comfort.
Some Littles—particularly older ones—can struggle with the constant coddling, feeling stifled or underestimated, but most appreciate the freedom from responsibility and the profound sense of safety they’re afforded. In magical society, Littles are more than just cherished—they are considered blessed by Mother Magic herself, believed to carry deeper or more potent magical abilities. Harming a Little in this world isn’t just a crime; it’s viewed as a sacrilege against Mother Magic, often resulting in the death or exile of the abuser. When a Little is part of a pack, they are unconditionally protected—every pack member, including unpresented pups and Pets and even in the animal kingdom, will defend them without hesitation.
————————————————————————

Weasley family
—————————

Arthur is a Gen — short for ‘General.’ I picked this classification for him because it fits his steady, understated nature. Gens are rare and often fly under the radar, which is funny when you consider he has kids who are loud, dominant and chaotic.Including an Alpha son. Naturally, this sparks plenty of whispers and sideways glances, because society loves to comment when a quiet Gen produces powerhouse children. It’s a subtle kind of prejudice, but it also says a lot about how classifications shape perceptions — and about Arthur’s quiet resilience in the middle of it all.

Molly is a Caregiver.
She is mother.
She loves having a big family as it means that she’s able to constantly caregive. Being a mother suits her perfectly — she loves a big family because it gives her endless opportunities to care, fuss, and organise, she really hopes that at least one of her kids will be a little as she doesn’t want an empty nest any time soon.

Bill
Is an alpha. People insult Arthur by bringing this up especially in the ministry due to Bill being higher in the social hierarchy it’s a point of tension for the family. Bill is a rather calm alpha who feels no need to posture being the eldest his leadership qualities are unmatched his confidence helps him work with even the meanest of goblins.

Charlie
Charlie Weasley embodies the Caregiver classification with his gentle, firm, and patient nature. He quietly takes on responsibility for those in need—whether it’s smuggling a dragon back to safety cough cough Norbert or watching over his siblings during difficult times. Charlie’s strength lies in his steady, nurturing presence, offering protection and guidance without demanding the spotlight. His care is both practical and emotional he balancies a deep respect for those he protects with a calm confidence that reassures everyone around him. Great skills for a dragon tamer, hes able to use his caregiving instincts in his work. As a Caregiver, Charlie is the steadfast guardian who leads through quiet strength and unwavering support a great staple for the pack calming the chaos (a bit.)

Percy
Percy Weasley fits the Beta classification with his strong sense of responsibility, adherence to rules, and focus on order. He isn’t naturally dominant or submissive but serves as a dependable stabiliser who values hierarchy and duty. While capable of taking charge when necessary, Percy’s leadership is formal and structured rather than impulsive or nurturing. His Beta nature makes him a reliable, if sometimes rigid, member of the pack who prioritises organisation and protocol over chaos or emotional flexibility. At first, Percy felt a twinge of disappointment upon receiving his classification, worrying it might make him overlooked or turn the family into an easier target for ridicule. But as he began to embrace it, he felt more connected to the pack. Determined to be the best Beta he can be, he attends caregiving classes and leadership seminars, preparing for every scenario and quietly taking pride in being competent, prepared, and indispensable

Fred
Fred Weasley fits the Dom classification not through traditional patience or quiet authority, but through his bold presence, instinct to lead, and drive to stir action. He thrives on reaction, pushes boundaries, and takes control of situations with confidence and charisma. Fred isn’t submissive or passive—he acts first, challenges rules, and draws others into his momentum. While more impulsive than methodical, his dominance comes from his ability to command attention, create movement, and influence his environment. He’s a dynamic, high-energy Dom who leads through instinct, confidence, and fearless engagement with the world around him. The kind to bursts into a room and immediately take charge. He thrives on chaos, pokes every bear, and somehow convinces everyone around him to follow along, whether they like it or not. Impulsive? Absolutely. Methodical? Not so much. But Fred’s dominance isn’t about rules or structure — it’s about presence, confidence, and getting everyone caught up in his momentum. High-energy, fearless, and impossible to ignore, he influences with pure instinct and style.

George
George Weasley fits the Caregiver classification through his steady presence, emotional intelligence, and quiet instinct to protect and support those around him. While more reserved than Fred, George isn’t passive—he guides with intention, notices what others miss, and steps in gently but firmly when needed. He has a strong sense of boundaries, is quick to recognise when something has gone too far, and often serves as the voice of reason in chaotic situations especially with reigning in Fred at times. His Caregiver role shows in how naturally he nurtures, reassures, and creates space for others to feel safe and seen. George is a calm, intuitive Caregiver, offering quiet strength, emotional depth, and the kind of support that never demands attention but is always felt.
He’s not very stereotypical or traditional he’s a Caregiver in his own laid-back style — calm, intuitive, and quietly supportive without ever making a fuss. He’s not the most responsible of the bunch, more like the fun uncle who keeps everyone laughing — though the laughter is often just a clever distraction while he slips food onto your plate. But don’t let the jokes fool you — when things go sideways, George jumps in, fixes it with flair, and somehow makes it look like part of the fun.

Population breakdown-
Alpha: 20%
Beta: 15%
Omega: 10%
Gen: 2%
Caregiver: 20%
Dom: 10%
Sub: 8%
Little: 5%
Handler:5%
Pets:5%

Chapter Text

The Ministry atrium was already bustling with movement—Ministry workers darting between lifts, floo fireplaces sparking, owls soaring with urgent memos. But as Arthur Weasley stepped in, briefcase in hand and tie slightly askew, the energy shifted just slightly—like the room had paused to remember who he was.

A gen. The only one in his department. Unclassified.He was used to the stares.

“Arthur,” drawled a cold, unmistakable voice.
Arthur sighed internally before turning. “Lucius.”
Lucius Malfoy was pristine as always, cane in hand despite no need for it, a hint of smugness curving his lips.
“Bit early, aren’t you?” Lucius asked silkily.
“I like to be on time,” Arthur replied, calmly.
Lucius’s eyes glinted. “Yes, I imagine punctuality becomes a... comfort when one’s contributions aren’t exactly hierarchically valued.”
Arthur gave him a tight smile. “Some of us value substance over symbols.”
“Of course,” Lucius said, voice dripping. “Still, it must be... disorienting. Having a son like William—a proper alpha—towering over you in the pecking order. Must make family dinners delightfully awkward.”

Arthur didn’t respond. He’d learned long ago not to let Lucius see what stung. But his fingers tightened slightly on his case.
“Speaking of progeny,” Lucius continued casually, “any early guesses on your youngest sons classification? Surely Ronald can’t be a gen. Though I suppose it would be... poetic. Genetic, even.”
Arthur tilted his head. “Ron’ll be whatever he is. And I’ll be proud either way.”
Lucius’s smile twitched. “And he’s bonded already, I hear? With the Granger girl? And—Merlin help us—Potter?”

Arthur’s eyes sharpened.
“Yes,” he said. “Harry’s under our care. As pack.”
Lucius gave a soft laugh. “How generous. Welcoming strays.”
That did it.
Arthur stepped closer—just one pace, but enough that Lucius shifted.
“I don’t care what you say about me, Lucius,” Arthur said, voice low but steady. “Call me gen. Call me nothing. Doesn’t matter.”
“But if you insult my pups—any of them, blood or bond—you’ll find I’m not quite so neutral.”
Lucius’s brows rose.
Arthur smiled faintly. “Hierarchy doesn’t define strength. And titles don’t make you loyal in fact sometimes they don’t matter one bit.”
Lucius scoffed, straightening his posture as though that could disguise the faint edge of unease creeping in.
Arthur stepped closer, gaze sharp and unyielding. “Mess with them, and you’ll regret it.”
For a long moment, Lucius remained perfectly still, his mask of composure hiding the quickening pulse beneath.

Then, just as suddenly, the tension melted. Arthur straightened, tipped his head in a cheerful nod, and added with his usual warmth, “Well, duty calls. Don’t mind me!”
And with that, he turned and walked away, leaving Lucius blinking and momentarily off-balance.

Chapter Text

Percy cleared his throat, looking very official. Harry’s shocked he isn’t wielding a clipboard “Right. Harry’s been reassured. Ron’s been reassured. I think it’s time we… tackle Ginny.”
Fred’s grin spread dangerously. “Ah yes, the youngest Weasley. The family’s tiny terror. Someone’s got to prepare her for the horrors of…classification life.”

George nodded solemnly. “A sacred duty. Fail, and risk eternal guilt. Or worse Ginny’s outrage.”
Ron shuffled on the spot, tugging at his robes. “I… I don’t know what to say. What if I mess it up?”
“You’ll be fine,” Percy said, stiff as a board. “Just speak from the heart.”
Ron took a shaky breath. “Ginny… uh… whatever your… parchment… says, you’ll still be… brave… and… smart-ish… and… um… bossy ..in a good way ..and… uh mean in like a kind of a good way?”
Fred snorted. “Mean in kind of a good way? That’s your rallying cry?”

George leaned over, grinning. “And don’t forget ‘brave-ish.’ Perfect, Ron. Honestly, I’d hire you as a pep talk professional… for animals you want to get rid of. Why not practise on Pig your pep talk will make him want to leave Hogwarts and actually deliver a letter for once.”
Fred barked a chuckle as he started calling out “Pig! Piiiig! Come have a pep talk Piig!”
Percy waved a finger at Ron. “Remember last time, when she left for Hogwarts? Or during the end of year exams? You gave her a pep talk then. Base it on that.”
Fred snorted. “Ah yes, the legendary ‘Don’t die in the first corridor’ pep talk. Truly inspiring.”
George leaned in, grinning. “And let’s not forget the ‘try not to trip over your own robes’ edition. Classic Ron.”

Ron groaned, tugging at his robes. “I thought it helped!”
Fred and George exchanged a look. “Helped? Maybe. Traumatized? Definitely. If nothing else I’m sure it entertained our dear sister of ours.”
George leaned closer, voice softening as he tried not to smile at Ron’s plight. “Anyway, just do your best. Ginny’s terrifying anyway; she’ll survive your stammering. Probably laugh at it too.”

Ron startedl muttering about what he’d say to Ginny as he stood, squaring his shoulders like he was heading into a duel. Fred clapped him on the back while George ruffled his hair. “Older brother duty,” Fred declared solemnly. “A sacred art.”
George nodded gravely. “Requires nerves of steel, infinite patience, and the ability to dodge hexes when our dear little sister tells you to sod off.”
Percy sniffed, adjusting his glasses. “It’s about responsibility and setting a steady example.”
Ron rolled his eyes. “It’s about not making a complete fool of myself. And making sure Ginny doesn't know how terrifying she is.”
“Then you’re doomed,” the twins chorused.
Ron was still muttering under his breath about what he’d say to Ginny as he stood, squaring his shoulders like he was heading into a duel. Fred and George clapped him on the back this time together, one of them promising to “translate his stammers into real words if he failed.” Ron rolled his eyes and stalked off. It was pretty funny to the Weasley brothers move as a unit a bit like a military operation as they all started to rehearse what to say.
A pang twisted in Harry’s chest. Ron had the easy sort of courage—the kind that came naturally when it was for family. Harry wished he had that same steadiness.

His eyes drifted to Hermione across the common room, curled in her favourite chair by the fire with a book. She looked calm. Too calm. Which, in Harry’s experience, meant she was wound tight beneath the surface. He thought about how many times she’d steadied him—through Quidditch nerves, through nightmares, through everything with the Triwizard Tournament.
Maybe… maybe he could return the favour.
Even if his own hands wouldn’t stop trembling.
Before he could talk himself out of it, Harry pushed up from the sofa and crossed the room, trying to look less like he was on his way to the gallows and more like he had something important to say.

Harry dragged himself to Hermione sitting cross-legged on the common room sofa, parchment in her lap, quill tapping idly against it. She looked perfectly composed—focused, almost serene. Too serene.
He swallowed, hands twisting together. “Er—you know, whatever your classification is, it’s not going to… you know… change anything. You’ll still be Hermione. Smartest witch in the year, bossiest when you’re annoyed, terrifying when you’ve got a point to prove—”
Her head tilted, amusement sparking in her eyes. “Harry, are you… trying to reassure me?”
Harry flushed scarlet. “Well, I mean—yes? Because it’s important? And you might be worried—”
She laughed softly, the sound light and genuine. “Harry, you look like you’re about to be sick, and you’re fussing over me? Honestly.”
“I’m fine,” he said quickly, far too quickly. “Perfectly fine. Not terrified at all.”
Hermione gave him that look—the one that saw straight through him. Then she reached out and squeezed his hand. “I appreciate it. But I promise, I’m not frightened. Whatever the parchment says, it won’t change who I am. And it certainly won’t change how you and Ron put up with me.”
Harry’ laugh surprised him. “We don’t put up with you. We’d be lost without you. Probably literally—we’d never get out of the library.”
Hermione chuckled again, shaking her head. “You’re a dreadful liar, Harry. But thank you. It means more than you think.”

Percy cleared his throat, adjusting his glasses in that way that usually meant a lecture. Fresh from reassuring Harry (and Ron’s pep talk making skills) and firmly in big brother mode he sat next to Ginny. 
“Now, Ginny, there’s no need to feel nervous. If you’d like, I could send word to Bill and Charlie—they’d be more than happy to offer their support in fact they just got off the mirror call with Harry and if you need any reassurance they’re there for you. I can of course talk to you and if you’re feeling scared we’d all be happy to share our own classification stories.Or, if you’d rather, I can prepare a calming draught. Nothing elaborate, just something to take the edge off—”
Ginny rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t stick.
Ron, eager to prove he could be as supportive as the twins had just been for him, blurted out, “Yeah, Gin. No matter what you get, you’ll still be… you know… brilliant. Brave. Loyal. All that stuff. Doesn’t matter what the parchment says.”
Fred swooped in next, grinning. “Exactly! You’ll always be the best little sister we’ve got.”
George slung an arm around her shoulder. “And don’t worry—whatever you get, we’ll be right there cheering. Even if it’s a pigeon.”

Ginny finally dropped her arms with a sharp huff, foot tapping against the floor like a drumbeat. She looked from one brother to the next, unimpressed.

“Are you all quite finished?”
All four brothers blinked speechless.

“I don’t need your reassurance. I don’t care what the parchment says. I already know who I am.” Her eyes flashed dangerously. “And if anyone tries to pat me on the head or act like I’m fragile, I’ll hex them into next week. Including you lot.”
Fred immediately clutched his heart. “Wounded. Mortally. Struck down by my own sister.”
George gave a mock sniff. “She’s grown so cruel.”
Ron muttered, half-proud and half-worried, “See? Terrifying.”
Percy adjusted his glasses, a little pink in the ears. “Well… I suppose that uh settles the matter, then.”

Ginny smirked, tossing her hair. “Good. Now sod off and bother someone else.”
The brothers exchanged a look as she marched off.
“She’ll be fine,” George said with certainty.
“She’ll be better than fine,” Fred agreed.
Percy straightened his robes. “She’ll be impossible.”
Ron grinned despite himself. “She already is.”

Chapter Text

Hermione had wanted to be ready for this moment ever since she first entered the wizarding world. She’d known from the beginning that classifications carried far more cultural weight here than among Muggles. Growing up, she’d seen categories and labels used in everyday life, but never with this level of consequence. So she’d studied. Night after night, she devoured books, memorised regulations, and traced the legal implications of every possible outcome. If anyone could walk into this morning prepared, it was her.

And yet, as she stood outside the classification chamber, parchment clutched like a shield at her side, Hermione’s palms were still damp. She hated that it mattered so much—that one word could shape the way people saw her for years. Still, anticipation curled inside her like a question she already knew the answer to but needed marked by someone else.

The process itself was quiet, clinical. The room smelled of parchment, polished wood, and something faintly medicinal. A charm read her magical signature, her physicality, her scent markers, her aura. She answered a series of reflective prompts. Nothing surprised her. She was prepared.
When the slip was handed to her, Hermione found herself staring at it longer than intended.

Classification: Caregiver.

Not a shock. Not really. She’d read stories of people breaking down in tears or stumbling away in disbelief, but for her it was like looking into a mirror.
Confirmation rather than revelation. She’d suspected as much, though a part of her had wondered if there might be something else woven in. Perhaps a trace of sub—not weakness, but a respect for structure, for trust, for the order she so often leaned on. Or even a flicker of dominance, sharp and unyielding, for the way she fought when someone she loved was threatened.

But there was only one word.

Caregiver.

And it felt… right. Not soft, not safe, not simple. But strong. The kind of strength that held people together when everything else cracked. The kind that stitched broken pieces back into something whole.

She folded the parchment—no hesitation now—and tucked it neatly into her sleeve. Exhaled. Stood straighter.
She drew a deep breath as she stepped out of the classification room, keeping her face carefully neutral. All around, fourth-years lingered like vultures, craning their necks as if her classification had been stamped on her forehead, silently hoping for some dramatic display—tears, a flinch, anything worth gossiping about.

Ron was waiting just outside, leaning against the wall like he’d been there for ages.
“All right?” he asked simply.
She nodded.
Ron’s shoulders eased. “Good. I’m glad.”
She smiled, a wave of relief washing over her that he didn’t press, didn’t pry. Just asked. Just saw her.
“’Cause the twins are trying to distract Harry and, uh—” his mouth twisted wryly, “—they’ve got hold of a batch of potions they mislabelled. It’s complete chaos in there. If you’re feeling up to it, I reckon they could use your stern mum voice before something explodes.”
She couldn’t help but bark a laugh and shake her head. “Come on then lead the way.”

Chapter Text

Blaise took the parchment without a word, the proctor barely getting a glance as he did. He waited until he was out of the hall before he slipped into an empty alcove and opened it with a practiced flick of his fingers.

Alpha.
Of course.

He let the word settle into the silence. He hadn't doubted it, not really — he’d always moved through the world with a quiet kind of confidence, had always drawn attention without trying. He didn’t need to bark orders or posture like some others. His influence came from presence, not volume.

Still… there had been a part of him, small and private, that wondered if his detachment — his distance — might suggest something else. A beta, perhaps. Maybe even something more complicated. But no. The parchment was clear.

He folded it neatly, slipped it into his robe, and looked out the window at the grey morning light filtering across the lawn. No reaction. No smirk. No swagger.
Only a cool, inward nod.
Expected or not, Blaise Zabini never let the world see him shaken. He adjusted the cuff of his sleeve and moved on - composed, polished, and entirely in control.

Ron sat on the edge of the empty corridor bench, the folded parchment tight in his palm. The buzz from outside the room felt distant, almost like another world. Slowly, carefully, he unfolded the slip and read the words:
Alpha - Second in Command

For a long moment, he just stared.

Alpha? Him? Second in command?
Surprise flickered through him, quickly followed by a quiet smile. He hadn’t really expected it — thought maybe he’d be something else, something less… official. But the truth was, it made a strange kind of sense.

He thought of his family — fiery, fiercely loyal. The Weasleys weren’t subtle about who they were, and he’d always felt like a protector, even if he sometimes stumbled over how to show it.
He remembered how Harry looked to him in tough moments, how Ginny trusted him without question, how he had this odd knack for stepping up when things got rough.
Maybe this was what that felt like — the responsibility, the push to lead when needed but also to support.

Ron folded the slip carefully and slipped it into his pocket, a little more sure of himself than before.

Chapter Text

Draco walked into the classification chamber like it was a courtroom and he’d already won the case.

His robes were perfectly pressed, his spine arrow-straight. He didn’t hesitate as he approached the examiner, gaze sharp, chin lifted. This was just another formality. Another tick on the path already paved for him.He was a Malfoy. An alpha. Obviously.

He had imagined the parchment more than once — bold black letters, Alpha, underlined with authority. Maybe they'd note his potential. His readiness. His bloodline. Father would be proud. As would Draco himself. The kind of pride alphas have that meant power, inheritance, doors opening before he even knocked.

The parchment passed into his hand. Cold. Crisp. He stepped away from the desk, jaw tight, unrolling it with the care of a coronation scroll.

Beta.

He stared.
The word didn’t change.
He read it again. Again. His pulse roared in his ears.
No.

There must be a mistake. It wasn’t possible.
Betas followed. They supported. They weren’t the figurehead, the leader, the dominant presence in a room. They were... neutral. Settled.

He folded the paper sharply, fingers shaking despite himself. His lips pressed into a thin line.
His mind had already started spinning — appeals, re-evaluation, re-testing. He’d demand it. Father would demand it. He was meant to lead. This was beneath him.
“Beta,” he hissed under his breath. The word felt like an insult in his mouth.
He left the chamber with the same posture, but his movements were too precise — practiced control just shy of cracking. Anyone who knew him would see it in his eyes.
He didn’t speak to anyone on the way out didn’t look at a soul. But he was already planning his next move.

Chapter Text

Pansy sauntered into the classification room with the kind of confidence that wasn’t entirely real — but looked it. Her skirt swished just right, her expression unreadable and cool. She didn’t glance at the staff, didn’t flinch at the quiet click of the door behind her.

She had ideas, of course.
Everyone did.

Probably alpha, like Draco, or maybe even handler — something with command, something elegant. She was always the one who noticed things first, who knew how to read the room, how to cut through people with a look or a whisper.

But deep down — where she rarely let herself go — she wanted it to make sense. She wanted her classification to see her clearly. Not just the polished smirk or the curated sneer, but the way she sat up with Daphne at 2am when she couldn’t sleep. The way she instinctively found cracks and either covered them or widened them — depending on who she was dealing with. The way she watched people like she was waiting for them to fall, but also how she reached to catch them if they were hers.

The parchment was handed to her.
She read it.

Caregiver.
Pansy blinked. Once. Twice.
Then she smiled. Small. Surprised.

It wasn’t what she expected — not exactly. But it didn’t feel wrong.
She stepped out of the room with a little less armor on. Still herself. Still sharp. But… steadier, somehow.

Let people raise their eyebrows. Let the whispers come. She had nothing to prove to anyone — and that had always been the most dangerous kind of power.

Ginny tapped her foot as she waited outside the classification room, arms crossed, back straight. She looked calm — bored, even — but inside she was running through every possible outcome like a pre-match strategy. She wasn’t nervous, not exactly. Just… keyed up. Like she always was before flying.

She’d heard it all.
That she was a firecracker. That she had too many brothers to be anything soft. That she had a temper, a backbone, a mouth on her.

Most people expected alpha.

Mum, though, had (not so) quietly wondered if she might turn out Little—baby of the family and all that. And her brothers, so used to circling around her like guard dogs, half-joked she’d end up a sub, just so they’d never have to stop being overprotective. Not that they’d stop even if she was the most commanding lethal alpha in the world.

Ginny didn’t know what to expect. She didn’t like boxes, even the neat ones people praised. She knew who she was — fiercely loyal, scarily observant, always ten steps ahead if you weren’t paying attention. She looked out for people. She knew people. She didn’t command a room, but she could quietly run it from the back row.

The parchment came smooth and warm in her hand.

Handler.

Her eyebrows rose. Not what she’d expected — but also? It clicked.
The subtle control. The emotional intelligence. The ability to read the temperature of a group and know exactly what to do about it. It wasn’t loud. It didn’t have to be.
She smiled. Just a little. A knowing smile.

When she stepped out, Fred and George were pretending to take bets like auctioneers .Ron was pacing. Hermione looked up from her book, already clocking Ginny’s mood. And Harry — poor Harry — was white-knuckled and pretending he wasn’t.

Ginny walked right up to them, knocked Ron’s shoulder, and said dryly, “Handler. Try not to make it my full-time job, yeah?”
They laughed. Even Harry managed a grin. And just like that, she’d slotted into place.

She didn’t need to be the loudest in the room. She just needed to be the one they trusted when everything else went sideways. Which given the antics of the golden trio and the terror twins (Hogwarts named of course) she was well used to it already.

Chapter Text

The waiting chamber was thick with tension. Crabbe was cracking his knuckles like it might hurry time along. Goyle had his arms folded, staring blankly at the floor. Theo sat slightly apart from them, silent, legs crossed, one hand drumming lightly on the edge of his chair.
They weren’t close friends — not really — but they were all Slytherins, and all part of the same year. Same year, same queue. Same unease curling behind their ribs.

The door opened.

“Nott, Theodore.”

Theo stood slowly, brushing invisible dust from his robes. His face didn’t shift much — it rarely did — but his fingers twitched once at his side. He didn’t look at the others as he entered.
He emerged five minutes later, face unreadable.

Crabbe tilted his head. “Well?”
Theo hesitated, then said quietly, “Sub.”

Crabbe blinked. Goyle frowned. Theo just shrugged one shoulder. “I thought maybe I’d get beta. I… sort of hoped. But this makes sense.”

He didn’t say anything more. He just sat back down. There was no shame in his posture — just a kind of acceptance. He hadn’t been raised to see sub as weakness. Subtlety, patience, and watching the room — those were skills, and he had them in spades.

“Crabbe, Vincent.”
Crabbe rolled his shoulders and walked stiffly inside.
When he came out, his face was red. Not angry — surprised. Maybe a little pleased.

“Sub,” he said, like the word was still new in his mouth.
Goyle stared at him. “Seriously?”
Crabbe nodded. “Yeah. I don’t really… get it. But they said it’s instinctual. And it felt right.” He glanced at Theo. “Guess we’re not so different after all.”
Theo gave him a rare, amused smirk. “Don’t push it.”

“Goyle, Gregory.”
Goyle didn’t say anything. Just stood, walked in, and returned with a paper in his hand and a strange gleam in his eye.
“Dominant,” he said simply.
Theo looked at him with raised brows. “Well. That explains the sulking.”
Crabbe laughed — really laughed — for the first time all morning.
Goyle just huffed but didn’t argue.

“I always thought I’d be one,” he muttered. “Mum said it’d suit me.”
“And I’m sure your five-word vocabulary really seals the deal,” Theo deadpanned.
But it wasn’t cruel. They were… alright. Settled, somehow.
Three boys. Three results. And not a single one what others might’ve expected.

Neville Longbottom sat alone in the small chamber, the parchment trembling ever so slightly in his hands. His fingers were calloused from Herbology, steady from years of repotting venomous plants—but now they curled just slightly, hesitant.

He’d expected this to feel like a test. Something he could fail.
But it wasn’t.

When he finally dared to read the word etched in bold, magical ink, it settled into him like earth after rain:

Alpha.

His breath caught—not from surprise, but from the quiet confirmation of something he’d never dared to hope for. Not because he craved power or authority. But because maybe, finally, this meant others would stop seeing him as that nervous boy who used to forget his toad or stammer through spells.

Still, something in him waited for more.

And there it was—beneath the dominant designation, a second note, handwritten by the assessor:
Caregiver tendencies noted. Strong protective instincts. Nurturing disposition.

Neville didn’t smile—not yet. Instead, his mind immediately wandered to the ward at St. Mungo’s. To the soft way he wiped drool from his mother’s chin, the way he read aloud even when she didn’t respond. To the steady way he helped his gran in and out of bed on bad days. How he'd memorised every name of every healer on his parents’ floor, just in case one day they needed an advocate.

Alpha, sure. But the kind that brewed tea and held hands in silence.The kind that even though absolutely terrified would still stand up for what was right even when it was difficult.
The kind that stepped forward not to dominate, but to defend.

He returned straight to the common room as he stepped in someone—maybe Ginny—asked softly, “What’d you get?”
Neville didn’t puff up or make a show of it. He simply nodded once, then said quietly, “Alpha. With some… caregiver bits, I guess.”
Hermione’s eyes softened. Ron clapped him on the shoulder. And Harry—Harry gave him a look that was pure understanding.”

Figures,” said Ron. “Who else would tell us not to go on a death mission, scared out of their mind, and still actually try to stop us?”
That made Neville laugh, small and real. For the first time in a long while, he felt like he fit.
Not just who he was.
But who he’d always been becoming.

Chapter Text

Harry had never heard Hogwarts this quiet before. Maybe it was his own pulse in his ears downing out some noise or maybe the classification chamber was charmed but it felt quiet. Not an eerie silent but a nice calm in the middle of the storm.

He stood in the centre of the stone circle, alone.

The magical parchment floated in the air before him, pulsing faintly with the light of his magic, waiting to seal his identity. if he was dramatic hed think it’d seal his fate but well his fate was manipulated years ago and he’s not sure being classified would change it.

His palms were clammy. Not because he feared being something bad—whatever that meant—but because he honestly didn’t know what he was.

People had opinions, of course. The Prophet churned them out weekly. "Alpha hero,” “dominant presence,” “powerful lineage.” Half the school probably thought he’d march out of here wearing a crown.

He didn’t feel powerful.
He felt he was trying not to throw up.

The parchment glowed brighter, responding at last to the quiet storm inside him. Then, slowly, two words appeared, clear and undeniable.
Little. Headspace 0 years and 0 years to 2 years 0 months (approx.)
*Please note that headspace can vary by up to two years younger or older, so this is an approximate estimate. Your headspace falls within a 0–4 year range.

His breath hitched.

He stood there for a full ten seconds, just staring. Waiting for the words to change. But they didn’t flicker. Didn’t correct themselves.

Magic didn’t make mistakes.

He wasn’t an alpha. Not a dom. Not even a hybrid.

The parchment had read him perfectly ‘You are safest under someone else’s care. You were made to be cared for.’

A lump caught in his throat. He wasn’t embarrassed, not really. But the sheer difference between who people thought he was and who he actually was... that was heavy. He didn’t quite know how to feel about it , it felt like who he was. The real him. Not the version the public assumed. Not the bloody Prophet. Not the idiots who pretended they knew him.

He wasn’t some posturing alpha, not a dom barking orders. Not a sub, a diplomatic beta, or a pet. Not some rare lion, dog, or cat. Not a rare dominant hybrid not some motherly caring omega.No—he’d lost his childhood once to the Dark Lord, to the Dursleys. And he’d be damned if anyone’s judgment tried to steal it from him a second time.

When he finally stepped out of the chamber, it felt like someone had paused the castle.
The hallway beyond was packed—students still waiting, pacing, joking nervously. Then silence fell. Conversations stopped mid-sentence. Heads turned.

Harry’s footsteps were quiet, almost hesitant, as he stepped out of the classification room. His heart thudded painfully in his chest, palms slick with sweat. The hallway felt impossibly long, the eyes of his group like spotlights burning into him even before he spoke. He let himself be guided to a quiet alcove that somehow fit them all.

He swallowed hard, voice barely above a whisper.
“I… I’m a Little. A baby headspace. Like, zero to four years old.”
The words hung awkwardly in the air.
Hermione blinked, then gave the smallest smile, picking up a stray parchment nearby and pretending to study it, as if processing the news by diving into something new.

Hermione watched Harry carefully, her sharp mind quietly piecing things together over the last few days. “I started noticing a few things,” she began softly, her voice steady but gentle. “Like how you’d nap sometimes, even when it seemed like the middle of the day. Littles often need more sleep, and you seemed to need it more than most.”
She paused, choosing her words carefully. “And then there’s how you sometimes get shy or quiet when the attention’s too much — like at the Sorting, or when everyone was looking at you just now. That nervousness, it reminded me of some littles I’ve read about, who feel overwhelmed and want to hide a little.”

Hermione’s eyes searched his face, looking for any sign of discomfort. “You’re smaller than most of us, and that’s nothing to be ashamed of. I think I realized… maybe. You have a little headspace. But I didn’t think you’d be so young..”
Harry’s eyes widened, cheeks flushing hot, but Hermione smiled gently. “It’s okay, Harry. It doesn’t change who you are. It just means you need a bit more care, and that’s fine. In fact it’s rather well… ahhh” she tries to stop herself from making a cooing noise but her excitement wins and she ends up letting out a squeel “it’s extremely cute.”

Harry’s cheeks flamed red, his gaze darting to Ron.
Ron’s mouth fell open, jaw literally dropping, eyes wide as saucers. He looked like he’d been hit by a blast of magic. Then—almost like an instinct—he launched forward, wrapping Harry in a massive, protective hug. “Mate, that’s… that’s amazing. Doesn’t change a thing. You’re still Harry.”
Fred and George slid in on either side, their usual mischievous grins softened into something warmer. “Careful with the squeeze, Ron,” Fred teased lightly, “don’t crush him.”
Ron blushed “Sorry I’m uh getting used to my strength.”

Ginny nodded, one hand firm and steady on Harry’s back as he helped him out of the hug. “We’ll keep you safe, Harry. No one’s going to mess with you.”
George grinned, ruffling his hair in that familiar way that made Harry’s cheeks flare with warmth and a little embarrassment. “You’re officially the littlest member of the pack. Honestly, this’ll balance us out perfectly.”

Percy’s brow furrowed, lips parting as if he’d argue with the parchment itself. He had been so sure—so utterly convinced—that Harry would be a pet. It was the logical fit, wasn’t it? But the longer he looked at Harry, the clearer it became that the parchment had read him better than Percy had.

He stepped forward, straightening his shoulders with unusual warmth in his voice and a smile he didn’t feel he needed to hide. “Well then. That’s wonderful, Harry. It suits you. You’ll have all the care you need - and all of us making sure of it. Honestly, I think this makes our pack stronger than ever.”

The moment hang for a minute, the Weasleys, quiet in a happy way, a rarity. Then the mood seemed to shift into something sharper. They all started to think about what it meant as happy as they were they had to think about the circus it’d create. The prophet, the public even the death eaters and Voldemort.

Ron was already pacing, energy firing off as he started rattling ideas. “We need to call home, let Mum and Dad know — they’ll want to handle the Prophet before it gets worse. Maybe there’s some little-rights protections we can use to keep all this nonsense off your back.”

“Yeah I uh think I want to keep it secret for now at least until I can’t any longer” Just thinking about Hogwarts finding out made Harry feel overwhelmed let alone the prophet.
Percy stepped forward, voice calm but resolute. “I’ll reach out to the Ministry contacts. They’ll understand the importance of keeping classifications private and safe. We can’t let anyone weaponise this. We’ll keep you unregistered until we’re ready with a plan to deal with the media.”

George nodded in agreement, hands clenched but steady. “And if anyone tries to bully or push, we’ll step in. No exceptions. Harry’s your not just part of this group -your family. We protect family.”

Hermione’s hand found Harry’s again, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “You’re not alone in this, Harry. You’ve got us. We’ll keep you safe Harry that’s what we do.”

Harry couldn’t help his goofy grin he knew they’d never leave him they’d always saw him for who he was and not what people thought he should be. His nervousness slowly melted away under their care, thoughts of the prophet the rumour mill everything left him ignored, as a gentle warmth spread through him like sunlight breaking through clouds. He felt like a cat basking in the warmth of his friends. His family.

For the first time, he allowed himself to feel something new — not shame or fear, but belonging. Truly belonging.

Chapter Text

Just around the corner from the classification room sat a quiet antechamber off the Great Hall, cordoned for faculty and administrative access only.

The air was thick with magic, charged, shifting. The castle hummed like it always did during classification week, restless and expectant.

Professor McGonagall stepped out from the private intake chamber where the final classifications were being recorded and filed. A sheaf of parchment hovered behind her, marked with the names and magical signatures of every classified student.

Albus Dumbledore stood waiting near the window, eyes twinkling—though today the gleam felt sharp, not warm.
“Any updates?” he asked casually, folding his hands into the sleeves of his robe.

McGonagall gave him the look “You’ll see them when every other teacher does.”
“I merely wish to ensure the transitions are… properly managed. Especially for certain students.” He smiled. “Harry, in particular.”

Minerva hesitated.
Dumbledore’s smile tightened. “Minerva.”
With a sigh and a flick of her wand, she summoned a single parchment from the stack and passed it over. “It’s still sealed. You didn’t get it from me.”
He took it with a nod and turned away from her. As the seal broke with a pulse of magic, the runes unfolded.

The moment he saw the classification—
Classification: Little.
 Headspace age:2 years 0 months
Pack-Affinity: Weasley.

His hand trembled.
A noise escaped his throat. Half gasp, half snarl.
“No,” he muttered.

He read it again.

“No, no, this is wrong.”
Little.
Dumbledore staggered a step back, parchment still in hand. The magic on it pulsed again—true, confirmed, final.
“Not him,” he whispered. “He was meant to be… he was supposed to be...”
McGonagall, still nearby, turned. “Albus?”

He composed himself at once, straightening. “Thank you, Minerva. That will be all.”
“You’re not going to speak to him?”
“No,” he said shortly. “I have… plans to adjust.”
She frowned. “He’ll need guidance-”
“And he’ll receive it,” Dumbledore interrupted. “From the correct sources.”
She stared, but he didn’t clarify. Instead, he turned and swept out of the chamber, leaving her behind.

He locked the door.

Pulled down the privacy wards. Laid the classification report on the desk like a snake waiting to strike.

“Little,” he said aloud, as if the word itself might transform if spoken differently.

He began pacing. The room felt too small.

“This complicates things,” he muttered. “Very well.”
He took a deep breath.

“We amend the narrative. Tell Sirius and Remus he’s a dom. Submissive dom, perhaps. That they mustn't disrupt his core development. Let them believe he’s adjusting to leadership under strain.”
He scribbled a note for himself. "Build pack structure around him. Weasley placement useful. Caregiver-heavy dynamic and loyal to order. Prevent reliance on Lupin."
Another pause.

He looked back down at the parchment and felt it again—rage, frustration, confusion.
“He was meant to be strong,” he hissed. “Meant to stand. To fight.”
Dumbledore’s hands gripped the edge of the desk. His voice cracked with emotion. “He was supposed to save us all.”

The flames in the hearth flared high behind him, reacting to the swell in his magical aura.
He stood there, panting softly, then closed his eyes.
“No,” he whispered again.

“It’s not wrong. It’s… balance.”
And there it was. That strategic voice. The one that had justified a thousand choices.

Tom Riddle was made of hunger and control. Harry Potter must be built from vulnerability. Where Tom took, Harry gives. Where Tom dominated, Harry yields. It is poetic.
The suffering was necessary. It shaped him.
 He had to be alone. Had to hurt. That’s why he’s different. That’s why he’s the one.His equal.

He swallowed, the words dragged from him like thorns.
“Perhaps… it went too far,” the words dragged from him like thorns. Perhaps… it went too far,” the words dragged from him like thorns. “I tempered him too quickly—sharpened without enough time to cool, never allowing the rest between edges that any weapon requires. If I had altered the design sooner- allowed him longer to recover between trials, offered steadier supports…” His jaw tightened. “But if Mother Magic made him a Little, then perhaps she saw what I would not. She intervened. She shielded him before he broke beyond repair.

His gaze grew distant.

“Yes. That must be it.”

“She gave him the protection he would need to face what lay ahead, protection no one else could give. Protection he’ll need to face what lay ahead. Of course. She was helping; she saw what I’m doing was right, granting him the magic and strength he’d need when the time came. She helped me, she saw that I’d pushed him too far.”

Dumbledore nodded slowly to himself. “Yes. Yes, it all makes sense. It’s not failure. It’s evolution.”
He smoothed the parchment flat with one hand.

“No one else needs to know. Not until I’ve shaped it.”

Chapter Text

The warm green flames flickered to life in the Burrow’s hearth as the Floo Call connected Percy’s prefect bedroom to the cozy kitchen. Arthur, Molly, Bill, and Charlie stood waiting for the call to finish processing, anticipation thick in the air. Moments later, Ron, Percy, Ginny, Hermione, Fred, George, and Harry appeared, grouped tightly together, ready to share what they’d learned.

Ron stepped forward, clearing his throat. “So… we’ve all been classified. Turns out, most of us got something totally different than we expected.”
Arthur raised an eyebrow, curious, while Bill’s arms folded across his chest.
Hermione spoke first, calm but steady. “Ron’s an Alpha. That part wasn’t too surprising.”
“Yeah, I’ll be in charge and lead the pack.” Bill and Arthur looked up at the same time and in the same tone were quick to respond with “You will not.” Ron just laughed amused at his own joke the atmosphere becoming a bit less charged.

Molly’s eyes flicked to Ginny as her daughter shook her head, smiling gently. Molly’s expression shifted slightly, a flicker of something unspoken crossing her face before she forced a smile.
Ginny noticed and bit her lip, but said nothing.
Ron carried on. “Ginny’s a Handler.”
Molly’s smile tightened, and she swallowed. Inside, a wave of disappointment pressed down on her, but she carefully folded it away, not wanting to dampen Ginny’s spirits.

After a beat, Molly pulled in close to the floo call giving Ginny a quick, quiet virtual hug, whispering, “I’m so proud of you.”

“I’m a caregiver,” Hermione said softly, almost to herself. “I thought I might be a hybrid, maybe mixed with sub… but nope. I’m a caregiver.”

Molly’s face softened almost immediately. “That makes sense, dear,” she said with a small smile. “You’ve always been the one to keep the boys in line.”
Ron groaned. “Mum—”
But Ginny nodded firmly. “She’s right. It fits you, Hermione.”

As the others spoke about the surprising results, Molly lingered in a quiet corner, just out of view of the floo, her voice low but sincere as she confided in Arthur and Bill.
“I always hoped at least one of my children would be a Little,” she said softly, eyes distant. “I think… I wanted that smallness in the house. To care for someone so tiny and vulnerable. I don’t like the house feeling empty.”
Bill placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, understanding but silent, a quiet sort of comforting. Molly’s lips curved in a small, wistful smile.

“But I’m glad,” she whispered. “Glad I’ve raised my daughter strong enough to follow her own path. Even if… I’ll miss being able to fully mum in the way I thought I might.”

Ron continued, “Draco’s all smug ’cause he’s an alpha—but so’s Blaise.””
Fred chuckled. “Now that will cause some fireworks.”
“Wait,” Harry cut in. “How do you guys even know?”
“Oh, please,” Ginny snorted. “They practically shouted their classifications in the halls. We didn’t even need the rumour mill for this one.”
Hermione added matter-of-factly, “Crabbe and Goyle are a Sub and a Dom.” “I’m still working out who’s who.” Ron muttered Percy gave a prim nod. “Pansy Parkinson’s a Caregiver. That was… unexpected.”
Charlie’s eyebrows lifted at the detailing of other year members and leaving a particular classification out exchanging looks with Bill.

Ron’s voice lowered. “And then… Harry’s a Little. A baby headspace. Supposed to be uh two but the parchment said that really means uh zero to four.”
The room fell silent for a heartbeat. Molly’s fingers curled against her skirt, barely containing the surge of protectiveness and bubbling excitement rising in her chest. She caught Harry’s shy gaze on the screen and softened, offering only a gentle, steady smile. Her voice, when it came, was warm but measured—brimming with feeling, yet carefully reined in so as not to startle him “Oh, Harry love, that’s wonderful news.”

Bill’s jaw clenched, his voice heavy with guilt as he muttered to himself. “I growled at him a few weeks ago… before pre-rut started. I was harsh. I’ll be more careful. Protecting him now is everything.”

Arthur nodded thoughtfully. “We’ll need Ministry contacts on this. Percy, do you think you can help?”
Percy’s voice was steady. “Yes. We have to keep this private, especially from the Prophet. There are protections we can try to enforce.”
Molly’s voice softened, but her resolve sharpened. “Harry will need caregivers. Someone to watch over him, to keep him safe.”

Hermione’s eyes brightened with quiet determination. “I’ll be there for him.”
Charlie crossed his arms, nodding firmly. “Count me in. Littles need patience.”
George grinned. “We’re all responsible. Harry’s family.”
Harry swallowed hard, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t want to be a burden.” Molly’s lips curved into a more genuine smile, gratitude warming her eyes. “Oh, sweetheart—you’re not a burden. Never. You’re ours.”

As they planned, the group’s chatter grew focused — shifts, protections, keeping the pack united. The shock of unexpected classifications was fading, replaced by fierce loyalty and care.
Together, they prepared to protect their youngest member — their baby — no matter what.

Chapter Text

The buzz of the Great Hall swells as word spreads student classifications have finished every fourth year has now been classified. Clusters form by dynamic types, forming packs, whispers and stares trail after anyone who seemed surprised by their results.

Near the Slytherin table, tension simmers as Draco Malfoy rises from his seat, chin lifted, posture textbook aristocratic.

He’s waited all morning for the right moment — an audience large enough to matter, but intimate enough to control.
Draco flicks his fringe from his eyes and steps forward, his voice loud enough to cut through the surrounding chatter.

“Well,” he drawls, “for those still wondering — I am, of course, classified as an alpha. Not that anyone should be surprised.”
A few Slytherins glance up. A few Gryffindors openly scoff. Theo Nott stops chewing.
There’s a brief, awkward beat.

Across the hall, Blaise Zabini, actual alpha, pack leader, and Draco’s oldest friend, looks up from his plate. He doesn’t say anything. Just watches.
Draco catches the look and, for a fraction of a second, something flickers in his expression — guilt? Uncertainty? But then it’s gone, replaced with a smirk. He leans a little toward a group of curious third-years.
“Honestly, they said my presence was intimidating to the sorting team. Poor souls didn’t even need to finish the tests.”

Soft laughter spreads, more nervous than amused. The confidence doesn’t land the way it used to, it seems different. Charges. Almost desperate.

At the far end of the bench, Pansy Parkinson crosses her legs and raises a perfectly plucked brow. “Bold of you,” she murmurs just loud enough for Draco and Blaise to hear. “Lying in front of your alpha.”
Draco stiffens, but doesn’t look at her.
Blaise finally speaks. His tone is mild, unreadable. “Let him have his moment, Pans.”
Pansy’s mouth twists, but she falls silent. Blaise returns to his lunch.

To everyone else, the moment passes — no one challenges Draco, and most even seem to buy it. But beneath the table, Draco’s hand tightens on the wood. He can feel Blaise’s attention like a weight across his back.
Later, he knows, there will be a reckoning. Maybe in private. Maybe not. But for now, Blaise lets it slide.

Because they both know the truth. Draco Malfoy was classified beta.
 And it’s eating him alive.

Chapter Text

The soft drip of rain pattered against the greenhouse windows as the Heads of House settled into their chairs, a faint tension threading through the normally cozy space. The recent results of Hogwarts’ student classifications lay before them - an official sheet that turned what usually amounted to gossip into cold, immutable facts.

After all these years they turned classification results into something akin to a game, mixing up the files and choosing random ones instead of a monotonous grouping of houses. Whoever had the correct amount of predictions from the previous year got ‘first glimpse’ privileges allowing them to hold the files and read it before the others. Unsurprisingly Snape had the privilege this year.

Flitwick, cleared his throat attempting to mask his excitement, tapped a finger on a random sheet. “Ah - Ronald Weasley. Let’s see if our guesses were correct.”

Snape’s lips twitched in what could almost be called a smile. “Alpha,” he said, flatly. “Second in command. Protective, impulsive… exactly what we expected.”
McGonagall nodded, her expression approving. “It fits. He’s always been vigilant with Potter, more than a friend - a sort of… second line of defense.”
Sprout murmured, “Handler by proximity, indeed. Though now as a proper alpha, he’ll need to learn some restraint. Otherwise he could easily overpower weaker peers.”
Flitwick chuckled. “Yes, the fiery little Weasley - he’ll be fascinating to watch in action.”

He flipped to another sheet at random. “And… Pansy Parkinson.”
Snape raised a brow, his tone dry. “Caregiver. Ironically, for a Slytherin, but entirely in character. She manages, protects, fusses — she treats her friends like prized possessions.”
Sprout’s eyes squinted slightly in a happy sort of way. “That… actually makes sense. I thought about how maternal she could be under all the drama.”
McGonagall nodded slowly. “She’s the sort who anticipates problems before anyone else even notices them. Very sharp.”

Flitwick grinned, tapping the next sheet. “Now this one - Hermione Granger.”
Snape snorted. “Caregiver.”
Flitwick nearly dropped his tea. “Caregiver?” he echoed, incredulous. “I thought she’d be a sub — or maybe a dom, at least!”
Sprout blinked. “Caregiver?” Her voice had softened in surprise. “Really?”
McGonagall’s brow furrowed as she leaned over the sheet. “It… actually does fit. She’s always been fiercely protective of her peers, always anticipating their needs, supporting them… not about dominance or submission, but about keeping everyone safe.”

Flitwick leaned back, frowning thoughtfully. “I never would have guessed. I always assumed all that rule-following and organization would signal a dominant streak.”
Snape gave a flat, almost smug nod. “No. She’s nurturing, meticulous, focused on others rather than herself. Dom or sub? She doesn’t fit either. Caregiver is exactly right - and a strong one at that.”

Sprout let out a small laugh. “Well, Hogwarts has a way of surprising us, doesn’t it?”
McGonagall exhaled, a mixture of exasperation and approval. “Indeed. Between Weasley as alpha, Pansy as caregiver, and Granger as caregiver… the dynamics will be… very interesting.”
Flitwick tapped his fingers on the table. “Caregiver versus caregiver mirroring of packs… could be tricky. And with an alpha like Ron in the mix, there will be sparks, no doubt.”
Snape’s eyes narrowed slightly, voice low. “Unchecked, yes. But if handled properly… efficient. They’ll keep each other in line, Granger and Weasley, whether they realise it or not.”
Sprout smiled wryly, glancing around at her colleagues. “Merlin help us. Hogwarts is about to get a lot more… organised.”

Flitwick shuffled through the sheets again, humming thoughtfully. “Next… Blaise Zabini.”
Snape raised a brow, his expression unreadable. “Alpha,” he said flatly.
Flitwick nearly choked on his tea. “Alpha?! That’s… unexpected. He’s always so calm, so composed… I would have sworn he’d be a sub!”
Sprout blinked. “Alpha? Blaise Zabini? I always thought of him as independent, yes, but… quiet, reserved… not the type to assert dominance openly.”

McGonagall leaned forward, frowning thoughtfully. “Perhaps that’s exactly why he’s an alpha. Reserved, composed, and self-possessed - an alpha who doesn’t need to boast or posture. Dangerous in a subtle way.”
Snape’s lips curled into a faint smirk. “He doesn’t need to announce himself. Control quietly, command respect. That’s a different kind of alpha - far more effective than loud, brash types like Weasley or Crabbe and Goyle.”
Flitwick shook his head, still staring at the sheet in disbelief. “I… I never would have guessed. He’s been underestimated for years.”
Sprout nodded. “This will change the Slytherin dynamic completely. Blaise as alpha… suddenly others will fall in line differently than expected.”
Flitwick tapped the next sheet, curiosity piqued. “Speaking of Slytherins… Draco Malfoy.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed, and his mouth pressed into a thin line. “Beta,” he said, flatly.
Sprout gasped softly. “Beta? Draco? Surely you mean… dominant?”
McGonagall raised an eyebrow sharply. “Beta. That’s… surprising. He’s always been so eager to assert control, to posture, to take charge - I assumed dom at least, by default the amount of posturing he does.”

Snape leaned back, arms crossed. “Posturing is not leadership. Draco craves dominance, yes, but he doesn’t truly have the instinct to guide or protect a pack. In fact he’d make a terrible alpha and I don’t think he has the characteristics of a good dominant. He’s too emotional. Reacts well under someone strong, yes, but left alone? Unreliable. Beta suits him.”
Flitwick let out a whistle. “So Blaise is quietly leading, and Draco is… following? That’s a complete inversion of what we expected.”
Sprout chuckled, shaking her head. “It’s going to cause friction, isn’t it? Draco doesn’t like being second to anyone.”

McGonagall exhaled slowly. “He’ll need to learn to respect Blaise — and quickly — if the Slytherin pack is to function. Otherwise, chaos is inevitable.”
Snape’s voice was low, almost contemplative. “Exactly. Subtle power struggles, posturing without authority… fascinating to observe, but dangerous if mismanaged.”
Flitwick clapped his hands lightly. “Oh, Hogwarts never ceases to surprise. Blaise quietly commanding, Draco bristling in second place… I must admit, I didn’t see that coming.”
Sprout smiled wryly, swirling her tea. “Well, at least it will keep things… interesting. Chaos and order, side by side.”
McGonagall leaned back, her eyes narrowing. “We’ll have to watch them closely. One wrong move, and the whole house pack structures could implode.”
Snape only nodded, his expression unreadable but sharp. “Alpha and beta — misaligned in expectation, but… perfectly aligned in effect, if managed correctly.”

Flitwick shuffled the sheets with a flourish. “Now… let’s see what’s happening with Crabbe and Goyle.”
Snape didn’t look up. “Crabbe - Dom. Goyle - Sub.”
Sprout blinked, tilting her head. “Oh! I would have expected both of them to be… similar. Brutes, yes, but the opposite types. Interesting.”
McGonagall raised an eyebrow. “Dom and sub pairing… that explains why they function together. One leads with raw force, the other follows — instinctively.”
Flitwick chuckled. “That is subtle… in a very unsubtle way.”

Snape gave a dry nod. “Crabbe has the instincts, Goyle has the compliance. They’ll be efficient together, if nothing else. Dangerous, if unchecked.”
Sprout laughed softly. “Dangerous indeed. That sort of pairing always creates… drama.”

Flitwick waved the sheet dramatically. “Speaking of drama… Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan.”
Snape’s lips twitched. “Dom and Sub. And, predictably, as always very unsubtle about it.”
Flitwick leaned back, eyes wide. “So not only are they dom/sub in personality… they’re practically broadcasting to everyone, as always? I’ve had my fair share of prefects traumatised by their antics.”
Sprout smiled knowingly. “Yes. Bold, public, and very confident in their roles. I suppose it suits them — they’ve never been shy.”

McGonagall let out a small sigh. “Well, at least they’re honest. It may ruffle feathers, when they practically eat each others faces in the corridors all the time but at least there’s no ambiguity.”
Snape’s voice was low, sharp, but almost approving. “Dom and sub, aligned naturally — yet conspicuous. Risky, but functional. They’ll hold their packs together… unless they become distracted.”
Flitwick clapped his hands. “Hogwarts never ceases to amaze. Dom and sub pairings everywhere, unsuspected alphas, caregiving alphas… I feel we’re entering uncharted territory.”
Sprout sipped her tea, smirking. “Yes, and the chaos will be delicious to watch.”
McGonagall’s eyes narrowed slightly, lips pressing into a line. “Delicious, yes… but we’ll need to intervene carefully. Packs with overlapping dominants and subs, or very public relationships, can destabilise if left unchecked.”
Snape leaned back, expression unreadable. “Exactly. It will be fascinating… if we survive the fallout.”

“Speaking of surprising combinations… Neville Longbottom.”
Sprout leaned forward, peering over the table. “Ah… he’s always been so quiet…Dom?”
Snape’s eyes narrowed, and after a brief pause, he set Neville’s sheet down on the table with a deliberate clack. “Alpha,” he said, voice flat. “With… caregiver instincts.”
Flitwick nearly choked on his tea again. “Caregiving alpha?! That’s… extraordinary. I… I didn’t see that coming at all.”
Sprout smiled, a little softly. “It actually makes sense, in a way. He’s protective, strong when needed, and still nurturing. A quiet alpha who keeps his pack together…”
McGonagall leaned forward, expression thoughtful. “Yes. He has authority without needing to dominate. Surprising, but effective. Perhaps more effective than some of the louder alphas we’ve seen.”
Flitwick shook his head, marveling. “So… the child we’ve underestimated for years is quietly commanding and caring at the same time. Incredible!”

Snape didn’t respond immediately, his dark eyes fixed on the sheet. Then, with a slight exhale, he muttered, “He’ll be competent. Dangerous not if provoked but when protecting others. But… yes. Caregiver alpha. I acknowledge it,” and he put the sheet down decisively, almost as if conceding the point physically.
Sprout chuckled. “It’s nice to see even you admit it, Severus.”
Snape’s lips twitched, but he said nothing further. The room fell silent for a moment, each of the Heads of House quietly considering the implications. Neville Longbottom — alpha and caregiver — would shake up expectations in ways they hadn’t yet imagined.
Flitwick leaned forward eagerly. “And with that, Hogwarts’ dynamics just became far more… interesting. Who’s next?”

Flitwick flipped through the sheets with a flourish. “Ah, Theodore Nott. Quiet, cautious… what did we predict again?”
Sprout murmured, “Beta, wasn’t it? Observant, holds a pack together in crisis…”
Snape’s eyes flicked to the sheet. “Sub,” he said flatly.
Flitwick’s eyebrows shot up. “Sub? Really? But he’s always so reserved, so… strategic. I assumed beta.”

McGonagall leaned forward, her expression thoughtful. “Perhaps that’s the point. He’s careful and observant, yes, but he allows others to lead, supports from the background… Sub fits him better than beta.”
Sprout nodded slowly. “Yes… he won’t step up to lead, but he’ll follow loyally, contribute quietly, and support his pack without needing the spotlight. Very subtle strength.”
Flitwick clapped his hands together, still looking slightly incredulous. “A sub in plain sight — clever, understated… Theodore Nott, you’ve surprised us all.”

Snape’s mouth twitched in what might almost be approval. “Subtle. Efficient. Perfectly aligned with his personality. Observant, yes… but only to know when to act, never to command.”
Sprout smiled wryly. “He may be quiet, but he’ll be a stabilizing force in any pack. Strong, without needing dominance.”

McGonagall gave a faint nod. “Indeed. And quietly, he’ll command respect just by being reliable. A sub like that can sometimes be more influential than an alpha who brags.”
Flitwick leaned back in his chair, shaking his head in wonder. “Hogwarts is full of surprises. Each classification seems to defy expectation in some delightful way.”
Snape simply set Theodore’s sheet down with a deliberate tap. “Subtlety,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Exactly as I suspected… just not in the way I expected.”

Flitwick picked up the next sheet with a flourish, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “Now… Ginny Weasley.”
Sprout leaned forward, curiosity sparking. “I wonder… dominant? Handler? She’s… strong, but controlled.”
Snape’s dark eyes scanned the sheet. “Handler,” he said flatly.
Flitwick blinked, startled. “Handler? Really? I thought… maybe dominant. Or at least a forceful presence.”
McGonagall’s lips pressed into a thin line, though her eyes softened. “Handler fits. She’s intuitive, fiercely protective, knows when to step in and when to let others take the lead. Subtle, but commanding in influence rather than authority.”
Sprout nodded slowly. “Yes…She’s strong but not overwhelming, not forceful. She has that fire, but knows how to direct it carefully. She’ll manage her pack — particularly Potter’s orbit — without being overbearing.”

Flitwick leaned back, tapping his fingers on the table. “So not a dom, not a beta… but a handler. That’s… elegant, in a way. Strong, but not imposing.”
Snape’s lips twitched faintly. “She has control, yes. Quiet, efficient. Protective when necessary, but never reckless. Exactly what a handler should be.”
Sprout smiled wryly. “I expect she’ll keep Potter and his… entourage in line better than any lecture could.”

McGonagall let out a small sigh, a mix of exasperation and approval. “Yes. A subtle leader, one who directs through action rather than words. That will make her very effective -and formidable.”
Flitwick clapped his hands lightly. “Handler, protective, precise… Hogwarts never ceases to surprise us!”
Snape set Ginny’s sheet down with a soft thud, expression unreadable. “Handler. Efficient. She’ll do her pack more good than she realizes.”
Sprout chuckled quietly. “And probably better than we ever will.”

Sprout leaned back, swirling her tea slowly, and let out a small whistle before continuing. “Well… looking at the Weasleys as a whole, I see a pattern.”
Flitwick nodded eagerly. “Yes! Alpha, handler, caregiver,… practically the entire pack is top-tier leadership and protection.”

Snape’s dark eyes flicked around the table. “Ron - alpha. Ginny - handler. Hermione - caregiver. That makes for three caregivers, two alphas, a dom and a handler in that pack. That’s… highly unusual.”
McGonagall’s brow furrowed. “And very unbalanced. One beta, no subs, no omegas, no Littles. It’s almost a hierarchy without followers.”
Flitwick clapped his hands together. “Exactly! Normally, packs need balance. Betas, subs, omegas… those roles create stability. Here, everyone’s either leading, protecting, or caregiving.”
Sprout laughed softly. “It explains why they can be chaotic together. So many strong personalities, all accustomed to having influence or responsibility. There’s hardly anyone to temper them.”

Snape’s lips twitched faintly. “It’s efficient in some ways - everyone knows what to do, everyone steps up. But it’s fragile. One misstep, one clash… and the pack could implode. I believe they’ve been substituting non dominant pack members with the youngest pack members but they’ve now receivers their own dominant classes.”
McGonagall nodded, frowning slightly. “It will require careful oversight. The lack of naturally submissive members means conflicts are inevitable, and they may struggle to coordinate without strong external guidance.”

Flitwick leaned forward, twinkling with curiosity. “Still… fascinating. A pack like this could achieve remarkable things if they learn to balance themselves. But it’s risky. Very risky.”
Sprout grinned wryly. “Yes. Hogwarts may survive -barely - if they don’t spend more time bickering than protecting each other.”
Snape set his cup down deliberately. “Unbalanced. Fragile. But potentially formidable. That pack will either dominate or collapse spectacularly.”
McGonagall let out a long, quiet sigh. “Merlin help us, indeed. We’ll have to watch them closely.”
Flitwick chuckled. “Unbalanced, alpha-heavy, caregiving-heavy… it’s practically a Weasley trademark. It seems that we’ll have to keep an eye on everyone this year almost everyone needs to be monitored.”
Sprout laughed. “At least it’ll never be boring.”

Flitwick reached for the final sheet. His cheerfulness faltered when he saw the name at the top. “Ah. Harry Potter.”
The table quieted immediately. Even Snape’s habitual scowl seemed to sharpen, bracing for something controversial.

McGonagall’s voice was low but firm. “Most assumed alpha. Some suggested beta. He has leadership qualities, but…” She hesitated, her lips tightening. “…he resists authority. It could go either way.”
Snape’s dark eyes narrowed, flicking across the parchment. He froze. His grip on the page tightened, and for the first time that evening, his composure slipped.
“…This has to be an error.”

Sprout leaned forward, puzzled. “What is it?”
Snape all but spat the word. “Little.”

The room fell into stunned silence.

Flitwick blinked rapidly, his mouth opening and closing like a goldfish. “Little? But… no, surely not. He faced Voldemort at eleven. Littles can be resilient, yes, but they’re not-”
Sprout cut him off gently, though her face was pale. “They are not weak, Filius. Littles can endure extraordinary hardship… sometimes because they must.”

McGonagall pressed a hand to her mouth, her composure breaking just enough to show real shock. “A Little. All this time… I thought—well, I thought at the very least a dom. He has carried so much weight.”

Snape slammed the parchment onto the table, his voice tight with fury. “Impossible. This boy thrives on reckless independence, flaunts rules, defies authority-”
“-All coping mechanisms,” Sprout interrupted softly. “If he truly is a Little… he has never once had the safety or care to be what he is. He has been forced to mask it, to survive.”
Flitwick’s expression turned grave. “That… explains rather a lot, doesn’t it? His erratic behaviour, his exhaustion, his need for constant companionship.”
McGonagall’s lips thinned into a white line. “A Little in an alpha, caregiver, handler and dom heavy pack… That imbalance will pull him apart unless they realise what he needs.” Trying to change the subject slightly.

Snape’s hands curled into fists on the table, his voice cutting through the silence like a whip. 
“This is nonsense. A misfiled parchment. Some clerk’s error. Potter is no Little.”
Flitwick flinched at the sharpness, but his tone was calm. “The process is precise, Severus. There are no errors. The readings are magically bound.”

Snape’s lip curled. “Then the process is flawed. I have watched that boy strut through this castle for five years- arrogant, defiant, reckless. Littles are soft, dependent, fragile. Potter is none of those things.”
Mcgonagal put her tea down just as her mouth opened, Sprout’s gaze hardened, though her voice was steady. “Or perhaps he is all of those things, Severus… and you have mistaken his armour for arrogance. Children forced to fend for themselves often mask vulnerability with defiance when they don’t feel comfortable. Sometimes you choose to see the worst in him, when he walks, you call it a strut. When he defends himself, you label it bullying. When he refuses to bow to you, you call it pride. But maybe he knew if he bowed one more time for some tone mistreating him he'd break.”

The silence that followed was heavy, the truth of her words pressing against the room like roots breaking through stone. Flitwick swallowed, his usual cheer subdued. McGonagall’s eyes softened almost imperceptibly, though her chin remained sternly lifted.

Snape said nothing at first, his expression unreadable, as though her words had struck somewhere unguarded. But then, with a sharp turn of his head, he muttered, “You are far too charitable, Pomona.”
Mcgonagal scoffed her eyes hardening into a glare which Snape turned his head to ignore.
Her answer was quiet, but resolute. “No. I simply choose to see the child beneath the armour, Severus. You, of all people, should remember what armour costs.”

Snape’s chair scraped sharply against the stone as he pushed back from the table, standing rigid. “You expect me to believe that the so-called Boy Who Lived- the child paraded as a saviour since infancy-is some simpering, needy-”
“Enough.” McGonagall’s tone snapped like a whip, silencing the room. Her eyes flashed as she met Snape’s glare head-on with her own. “You will not speak of him that way. Not here.”

Chapter Text

The firelight flickered, warmth travelled across the room as voices layered over one another (in true Weasley fashion),parchment was flying magically from hand to hand (but not across the floo of course), ink quills darting and note-taking as the pack buzzed in planning mode.

Charlie was sketching out a list of needs to be seen to (eventually), so far he’d written down ‘covert pediatric appointment?’, ‘shopping trip’, ‘support group?’. For the near or likely distant future.
Bill had taken over the Prophet suppression plan from Percy and Arthur.
Ginny and Hermione were seated shoulder to shoulder, rewriting the care calendar George kept sabotaging what Molly had dubbed ‘the flow’ with snack breaks and games.

It made for a very interesting (forced game) of indoor broomless quidditch (which went about as well as you’d expect) before Bill (and Percy of course) realised that even telling George off was distracting him and exactly what he wanted. It’s not his fault he wanted to dull the tension. Even if he did add one more smashed china keepsake to his tally, something Percy wouldn’t be letting go anytime soon given his eye twitch directed at him. Why Percy wouldn’t keep a muggle egg cup in his room he’d never know.

Harry was in the side room of Percy’s dorm a small space that was probably once a walk in wardrobe space made redundant by an actual wardrobe. There was just a bit too much noise, too much talking, too much everything. Mione had checked on him earlier, murmured something about the noise being a lot, and it being a bit overwhelming she’d listened to him calmed him down ruffled his hair gently, and left him with a glass of squash and a blanket over his knees.
But now Harry returned back into the floo’s line of sight , slow and quiet, hovering just inside.

No one noticed at first.
Then he asked, voice hesitant
 “So… when does it start?…Being a Little?”
They all looked up.

Hermione tilted her head. “Start?”
Harry nodded, looking uncertain. “I don’t feel any different. Is it supposed to, like… switch on? Or something?”
Hermione rose slowly from her chair. “Oh, Harry…” she gave a small, fond sigh. “You already are.”
That earned a blink from Harry.

Percy adjusted his glasses. “We’ve all seen it. We just didn’t realise what it was until now.”
There was a pause. Then, like a dam breaking, the stories started coming.
“I thought you were a kitten,” Percy offered. “The way you wanted help with little tasks, or looked to one of us before making decisions. But now — now I realize you weren’t just shy. You needed reassurance. You wanted guidance. That’s not kitten uncertainty… it’s dependency. That need to be led? That was baby Little.”

Charlie chuckled low. “You remember the feeding challenge? You didn’t mind at all me feeding you that bottle.” He gave a mock scandalised look. “And then Percy’s too. You finished them like it was the most natural thing in the world.”
George leaned forward, grinning. “And the nest. The trial one, during the games — you didn’t want to come out of it once it was built. I swear I saw you fall asleep holding Ron’s hoodie.”
“Then you asked me to build one for you at Hogwarts,” Ginny added. “First night. You didn’t even pretend it was for studying, you said it felt… ‘safe.’ ”
Harry’s cheeks flushed. “It did,” he mumbled.

“And that night it stormed?” Fred chimed in. “You got up and came to our room without saying a word. Climbed right between us and curled up like a kitten under a towel.”
George elbowed him. “Not a kitten. A baby, clearly.”

Hermione smiled gently. “And you nap. A lot. Always in the afternoon, and if anyone wakes you—”
“You practically growl,” Ron said, laughing softly. “You grumped at me like a toddler last week just 'cause I nudged you awake.”
Bill’s voice was quieter, rough around the edges. “I thought you were testing limits,” he admitted.

“That morning at the Burrow — when you brought up Da’s classification. I growled at you. I assumed you were a young alpha pushing boundaries. But you just froze. Eyes wide, like I’d hit you. Merlin, Harry… I feel sick about it now.”
He raked a hand through his hair. “You weren’t challenging me. You were curious. Just… asking questions like a baby trying to understand the world.”
“You didn’t know,” Molly murmured, placing a gentle hand on Bill’s arm. Her eyes were already on Harry.

“There was that morning,” Molly said softly, her voice almost hesitant. “At the Burrow. Ginny came to find me because you'd been in the bathroom for a bit too long… and when I got there, you were trying to wash the sheets under the tap. Using hand soap. Crying so hard you could barely breathe.”
Harry stiffened, the memory hitting like a slap.
“I’m sorry-” he blurted, taking a step back, panic rising in his throat. “I didn’t mean to- I didn’t know-”
But Molly was already moving. She crossed to sit in the floo in a heartbeat, arms open for a semi virtual hug her presence close but not overwhelming, voice gentle but unwavering. “No, Harry. No. You don’t apologise. Not for that. Never for that.”
Her hands stayed open, an invitation. “It wasn’t the accident that broke my heart, love. It was how scared you were. How alone you looked. Like you expected punishment.”
“I thought-” Harry’s voice cracked. “I thought you’d be angry. The Dursleys-if I had-they’d lock me in the cupboard.”

“Oh, sweetheart…” Molly breathed, wrapping him in the gentlest hug she could through the floo. “No one’s ever going to punish you for your needs here. Never again.”
Arthur cleared his throat, stepping closer. “We should’ve seen it sooner. It’s not about you hiding. It’s about us missing it.”
“Your scents changed too,” Charlie added. “I didn’t notice what it was until now, but there’s a… softness to it. Littles, especially baby ones, have calming pheromones.”
“And you always respond to ours,” Hermione said gently. “You lean into it. The way you melt when Mrs Weasley or I run a hand through your hair? You go quiet. Like you’re being rocked.”

Ron grinned, proud. “He lets me carry him sometimes, you know.”
Harry turned scarlet. “I do not.”
“You fell asleep on me twice last week,” Ron said smugly. “One time while eating toast.”
The whole room chuckled.

And Molly shuffled forward once more kneeling close to the floo now
“I always hoped,” she said softly. “That one of my children would be a Little. Just one. I wasn’t upset about Ginny, truly - I was just… sad. I thought maybe I’d never get to care for a baby again.”
She glanced at Harry, voice thick with something deep and maternal.
“But now I do.”

Harry didn’t say anything. But he stepped into her again, leaning his forehead against her shoulder eland though it was virtual it didn’t feel like it.

And for once, he didn’t feel embarrassed. He didn’t feel stressed or overwhelmed or desperate or in danger.
He felt safe.

Chapter Text

Snape paced the room, eyes flashing with barely concealed fury. “This is an utter farce. Potter swindled the test, no doubt. Some stunt, some trick. There is no way he’s actually a Little. That arrogant little toe-rag, he’s been daring to deface the entire Little community with this nonsense.”

Professor McGonagall’s expression tightened. “Severus, enough. Your insults do nothing but distract from the facts.”

Snape scoffed. “Facts? These ‘facts’ are a mockery. Potter is manipulating us all. He’s not a Little, and I refuse to believe otherwise.”
McGonagall’s voice sharpened, the steel beneath her calm emerging. “The truth is that you refuse to open your eyes. You don’t want to accept it because it forces you to confront your own failings. You’ve bullied a Little-classed student for years — and now that reality is staring you in the face, you’re scrambling to deny it.”
Snape’s jaw twitched, denial etched into every line of his face. “I have done no such thing.”

Professor Sprout stepped forward, calm but firm. “Severus, do you remember how Harry always had to be paired with Neville during Herbology lessons? The plants - particularly the more sensitive ones - respond to his Little energy. Yet Harry has no instinct for handling them; he lacks the sense of safety that comes naturally to others. It’s not weakness. It’s a sign.”
Flitwick nodded in agreement. “And let’s not forget the times he’s shown distress when left alone, the naps he takes I can’t count the number of times I’ve found him in an alcove, his reaction to stress, the way he shuts down when overstimulated - all signs of a Little’s needs being ignored. It’s social suicide to challenge a Little, Severus.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t care about social suicide. He’s not truly a Little. Not even I believe that.”
“You’re the only one refusing to accept it,” McGonagall said pointedly. “I won’t allow you to undermine his classification or harm Harry with your bitterness.”
Snape ground his teeth, but the fight drained from his posture. He sank into his chair with a reluctant sigh. “Fine. Perhaps he may show signs of being... a Little. But don’t expect me to coddle him. That does not mean I will be nice to him.”
McGonagall’s gaze softened, but her voice remained firm. “Acceptance is the first step. How you proceed from here is your choice.”
The room settled into a tense silence, the weight of the revelation lingering but at least now, the staff were aligned in protecting Harry, even if one among them still struggled with the truth

Professor McGonagall cleared her throat, steering the conversation forward. “Now that we have the classifications confirmed, it’s essential we consider what accommodations are necessary to maintain harmony and support all our students.”
Professor Flitwick nodded. “Starting with seating arrangements in lessons - alphas and dominant students should be seated apart from each other to minimise tension and avoid power struggles, especially in high-stress classes like Potions and Defense.”
Professor Snape muttered, “That should be obvious.”

McGonagall pressed on. “We also need to think about how Harry’s Little status impacts his learning environment. He will require a safe space - somewhere he can retreat to if overwhelmed.”
Professor Sprout added, “It’s been a while since we’ve had a little so our protocols are rusty. We should provide nesting materials and designated quiet zones in the common rooms and classrooms. Littles crave these safe, enclosed spaces.”
Flitwick pulled out a parchment, jotting notes. “Additionally, for Littles like Harry, we might consider softer, more tactile learning aids — things that can help with focus and grounding, like fidget items or weighted blankets.”
Snape grunted but didn’t object.

Professor McGonagall looked around. “We must also address how we handle social interactions. teachers and house staff need to be vigilant for any bullying or exclusion, especially toward Littles and subs. Perhaps assigning mentors or buddies to those students?”
Sprout nodded eagerly. “I’ll coordinate with the Caregivers to ensure they’re equipped to support Harry and others who might need extra care.”
Flitwick chimed in, “And on a practical note, our nesting supplies are looking rather tired and sparse, we’ll need soft blankets, pillows, calming scents and need them readily available. For pack stability especially as we have so many we need to look out for this year hopefully this will help with making them all a bit calmer. ”

McGonagall smiled faintly. “Very well. I’ll of course authorise the budget for these supplies. Let’s also create a discreet signal system so Littles like Harry can indicate when they need support without drawing attention.”
Snape, still grumbling, allowed a reluctant nod. “Fine. But let’s be clear- accommodations don’t mean lowering standards. Harry will be expected to meet the same academic requirements as anyone else.”
“Of course,” McGonagall assured him. “Support, not coddling.”

The meeting wound down with a clear plan forming. The staff would work together to adjust the environment — ensuring safety, respect, and dignity for every member of a pack, especially those like Harry who needed it most.

Chapter Text

Just as Harry got to the common room he realised he left his favourite quill in the dungeons. He swore under his breath realising he’d have to go back and get it. He let Hermione and Ron know and assured them they didn’t have to come and he’d be fine, given Hermione wanted to study and Ron wanted to play chess with someone from his new chess club, he knew asking them to come with would be selfish anyway. They both kept asking if he was sure he’d be okay, they finally let him go but asked him to go straight there and back. He felt a bit like red riding hood. Both having the same shade of hair, both having special cloaks, and overprotective families. He couldn’t help but laugh a bit as he started walking.

Draco was much too pure blood to ever use the word ‘pissed’ but if it wasn’t so uncouth boy would he use it. Three times he was retested and each time came back the same as the last. They said if he wanted any more retests he’d have to wait a year.
A YEAR as a BETA.

He knew it was wrong and that soon the results would change, father was sure about that, but that didn’t stop him from being pissed. Then he hears about potty potter and him not wanting to register his classification yet, the rumour mill was flying.
How dare Potter get alpha and he was stuck as a stupid meek little beta he wouldn’t allow it. He warned him on the train not to flaunt his little status. Not registering it was purposeful of course, a strategic decision to shake up drama and get more attention before revealing his alpha status. A ridiculous ploy to help him flaunt his alpha status and rub it in everyone’s face. Well, he wouldn’t be flaunting by the end of today oh no. Draco had a plan that short skinny thing wouldn’t stand a chance against a real true alpha, like himself and thus he would win in a challenge and show those testing idiots he was no beta.

Harry made it to the dungeons lost in his head his head now stuck on muggle fairy tails and what Hermione and Ron would be.
Ron, obviously, was Goldilocks - though Harry doubted he’d fuss over lumpy porridge or cold porridge. He’d eat the lot, probably with seconds. His alpha side, Harry thought absently, was likely the reason he’d been bulking up for years, taller and broader almost without noticing. And in true Ron fashion, he wouldn’t bother with the three chairs at all. He’d go straight to bed.
Hermione, though… Hermione would be the mummy bear. Not at all shocked to find a stranger in her house, just ready with a sharp lecture about how rude it was to eat someone else’s food and take their bed - all while remaking the porridge and setting aside a bowl for him anyway.
Harry’s lips twitched.

In fact, Harry could picture it even clearer- she’d have probably found him on her walk, scolding Invisible Cloak Riding Hood for looking much too skinny, then dragging him home by the cloak with no room for argument and giving him his own steaming bowl. He couldn’t help but grin, even in story land they were friends. Harry kept walking trying not to step on any of the castle cracks on the ground, it was a bit like hopscotch. He was really good at it, really focused. Too focused, focused enough he didn’t see the threat from behind.

The corridor was heavy with silence as Draco closed in on Harry, anger tightening his chest. His hand shot out, grabbing Harry’s collar, but just as his grip tightened, something subtle but unmistakable floated in the air.

Blaise and pansy were just leaving the entrance of the common room wanting to study in the library and grab a snack respectively when Blaise’s nostrils flared, and Pansy’s eyes narrowed sharply. They both froze for a heartbeat, catching the faintest trace of a little-in-distress scent- a fragile, trembling pheromone signalling fear and vulnerability. Their noses guided them around the corner and down an unused corridor and were horrified by where the scent was coming from as they took in the scene of Draco strangling Potter who was letting out a little in distress scent so strong they could taste it.

Pansy hissed under her breath, “That’s him.. Potter’s a little?”
Blaise’s jaw clenched, his alpha instincts flaring. He moved closer, gaze flicking between Harry and Draco. “Let him go.”
Draco’s eyes narrowed, confused. “What are you talking about? That’s nonsense.”
Blaise’s tone hardened. “You can’t smell it. Betas can’t. But caregivers and alphas can. That’s why you don’t know. Let go!”

Draco’s hand faltered as uncertainty flickered in his eyes. He hesitated.
Harry’s breathing grew shallow. His eyes fluttered, his face paling more and more.
Suddenly, Harry sagged forward, unconscious.
Draco panicked and not knowing what to do started to let go.
Pansy gasped, rushing to catch him before he hit the cold stone floor. “He’s passed out!”
Blaise’s voice was urgent but controlled. “Draco, you hesitated too long. You didn’t listen and now you’ve strangled a little half to death.”
Draco’s face drained of colour. “I- I didn’t know.”
Pansy cradled Harry gently, her caregiver instincts blazing. “This isn’t a game. Littles need constant care when they’re distressed like this.”
Blaise nodded grimly. “This is why respect and understanding matter. You put him in danger.”
Draco looked between them, shame and panic swirling. “What do we do now?”
Blaise took charge. “We get him somewhere safe.”
Pansy didn’t look away from Harry’s still form. “We’ll keep him calm, keep him warm. He’ll need a nest, quiet, and someone watching him closely.”
Draco swallowed hard, stepping back as the (-his-) caregiver and alpha gathered around Harry with immediate, tender care. He felt useless, exposed, and more than anything -worried.
Blaise shot Draco a hard look. “You owe him your respect. And your protection. Start acting like it.”

Chapter Text

Pansy’s hands tightened protectively around Harry as his shallow breaths rattled softly in the quiet corridor. Blaise knelt beside them, eyes narrowing as he watched Harry’s fragile chest rise and fall.

“You don’t understand,” Blaise said coldly, standing to face Draco. “Harming a little isn’t just a bad idea. It’s political, social, and physical suicide.not to mention how this reflects on the pack this could be seen as a massive challenge.”
Draco swallowed hard, guilt and fear twisting inside him.

Pansy’s voice was low but fierce. “Littles are fragile. You could have made him seriously ill- or worse. That kind of damage doesn’t just heal overnight.”
Blaise stepped closer, tone sharp as a blade. “We have laws, protections, and enforcers for a reason. You mess with a little, you’re risking your whole life here-prison, exile, your reputation gone. Not to mention what caregivers would do to you if they ever found out they’ve killed for less.”
Draco’s jaw clenched, but his eyes flicked nervously between them.

Harry stirred weakly, his voice barely more than a cracked whisper. “I… I won’t tell. I promise.”
Draco’s frown eased into something more neutral as he glanced toward Blaise and Pansy, silently searching for their approval.
“If he says it doesn’t matter…” Draco began hesitantly. “I feel terrible, Blaise. I’m not used to my class. I didn’t realize this would challenge your authority. And Pansy… I didn’t mean to trigger your instincts-especially not with Potter. But I swear, I’ll keep it quiet, so it won’t reflect badly on us.”

The words had barely left his mouth when Pansy’s eyes flashed with sharp anger. “You really think that matters? That he stays quiet so you can just get away with it?”
Blaise’s voice rolled through the room like thunder shock and horror on his face as he processed. “You’re more worried about us being mad than about the baby you just strangled.”
Draco’s face drained of colour, that they felt this way, his eyes wide with a swirl of shock and panic.

He didn’t exactly care that potter was a little not that he believed he was anyway but he cared how his pack saw him and how this would reflect on them all and if they wanted him to show shame he would as he was a good alpha. He made sure to look down and away, a submissive gesture. It would help smooth things over. What could he say sometimes being an alpha is about sacrificing for the pack and being diplomatic. He was truly sorry to upset them of course he didn’t realise they’d take him harming Potter as an offence to their instincts.

Blaise crossed his arms, shaking his head in disappointment. “You’re not ready to be part of this pack if you can’t protect the littles like they’re your own blood.”
Pansy’s tone softened slightly, seeing Draco’s ‘shame’ but her words remained firm. “Harry needs Madam Pomfrey now. That means people will know. Secrets don’t survive something like this.”
Draco’s gaze dropped further, words caught deep in his throat as the weight of his mistake settled fully. He couldn’t allow a runt like him to ruin his life, he thought of his reputation and his packs reputation hed have to find a way to keep this under wraps. The quiet sound of Harry’s labored breaths filled the tense silence.

Blaise settled Harry carefully in his arms, his brow furrowing as he took in just how light the boy was. “He’s so light,” Blaise murmured, almost in disbelief. “Like holding a feather.”
Pansy’s eyes narrowed as she crossed her arms, stepping closer. “Frail,” she said softly but with steel underneath. Her voice shifted, dropping into a low, soothing coo as her instincts went into overdrive. “Look at him… he needs more care than any of us realised.”

She glanced sharply at Draco, ignoring his tense posture entirely. “And if you so much as breathe the wrong way around him again, I swear I’ll make you regret it.”

Draco’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond.
Harry’s voice came, weak and shaky, barely above a whisper. “P-please… no hospital wing. No one can know I’m… little.” Harry and the pack had planned to leave his class under wraps until the media injunction was in he didn’t want to ruin their plans and he didn’t want the whole school to know yet as then all of wizarding Britain would know too.

His words tumbled out in a jumble of babbling panic, pleading, “I-I’m okay, really… don’t tell… not a little…”
Draco let out a sharp, exasperated sigh. “Honestly, Potter, you’re overreacting.” Venom clear in his voice.
Harry breathed, eyes wide and trembling and he tried but he couldn’t stop the whimper from leaving his mouth.
The sigh he got in response was like a spark in dry grass.
Pansy’s hand shot up, a sharp slap connecting with Draco’s cheek.
Blaise’s lips curved into a dangerous, slow smile as his teeth lightly grazed Draco’s throat—a silent but extremely deadly alpha threat. “You will shut up, Draco. Or you’ll regret it.”
Draco swallowed hard, the room pulsing with the fierce protection of the pack. Harry, still trembling in Blaise’s arms, felt the unspoken promise: here, he was safe.

Draco’s face twisted with frustration and bitterness, his voice sharp and defensive. “I’m an alpha. He’s just a runt, a pathetic little runt. And he’s not even in our pack. So why are you all defending some outsider over me?”
Pansy’s eyes flashed, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl-soft but lethal. “Because he’s a little, and you just strangled him.”
The growl cut through the room like a blade. Draco blinked, taken aback by how fierce and protective she sounded. He swallowed hard but didn’t back down.

Blaise stepped forward, calm but cutting. “Also Draco, you might have ‘forgot’ again but you’re a beta not an alpha. If he were an alpha like you thought. You-being a beta-would have no chance against him. You can’t even begin to match his strength.”
Draco’s jaw tightened, his eyes blazing. “I don’t care. He’s not pack. And I won’t let some little outsider come between us.”

Pansy’s voice dropped even lower, the growl thick with warning.
“You’d better watch yourself,” Pansy said low, her voice hard and warning. “Littles are fragile. You nearly broke him. The only reason I’m holding back from killing you and yes I mean kill you is because unfortunately your in my pack” she spat the word ‘pack’ out like an infectious disease.
Blaise crossed his arms, his gaze cold and unyielding. “Good thing Harry’s not an alpha. Because if he were-and you treated him like that- you wouldn’t still be standing. You thought attacking him and challenging him would turn you into an alpha. It won’t. If you challenge any alpha you’d be killed as much as you may want to hide from it your a beta alphas are stronger for a reason. If you insist on pretending to be an alpha then at least pretend to think things through, not to mention an alpha who hurts Littles and pups isn’t an alpha at all. There’s a reason you’re a beta, and I’m thinking this is exactly why.”
He stepped closer, voice dropping into a razor edge. “It’s one thing to challenge my authority out of your own insecurities. But to challenge a little, and show no guilt afterward? Merlin’s balls, Draco, all you care about is how we feel, how this reflects on us. Not one shred of concern for the baby you just hurt.”
Harry whimpered weakly in Blaise’s arms, voice cracked and barely audible through his tears. “Please… no hospital… no one find out… I’m okay. It was just an accident.”
Draco forced himself to hold back the instinctive “it was not” for Pansy’s sake.
He sighed, exasperated.

Harry’s voice dropped to a trembling whisper. “Please don’t tell anyone I’m little.”
Draco’s eyes gleamed suddenly, a cruel smirk pulling at his lips. Perfect. Blackmail. No one would ever find out what happened tonight.
Pansy’s eyes flashed with fury, and before Draco could react, she slapped him sharply across the face for a second time.
“Don’t you dare,” she hissed.
Blaise leaned forward, baring his teeth in a threat sharper and darker than any growl he'd heard before.“You’re more worried about us being mad at you than about the little you just strangled.”
Draco’s face drained of colour, he hasn’t me at to be as transparent as he was he made sure to pull a shame filled face.
Pansy’s tone softened slightly but stayed firm. “Harry needs Madam Pomfrey. People will know. Secrets like this don’t survive.”
Tension erupted between the three of them Draco insisting he was fine Blaise and Pansy insisting the opposite, voices overlapping, but Harry fought to hush them all.

“It was an accident, I’m okay” he sobbed. “Please… please.” He didn’t want to ruin his packs plans or worse have them be disappointed in him he tried to reassure he was fine but he knew it wasn’t confident or loud enough he couldn’t help the tears pooling and soft sniffling and he luckily found a place on Blaise shoulder where he didn’t have to see a familiar sneer which he knew would be on Draco’s face.

He started feeling weird and disconnected it didn’t help that he could smell Blaise rosemary and cedar calming and mature with a comforting powerful musk but given he was annoyed the rosemary was slightly spicier then more powerful then the cedar. Harry could tell however he was trying to control his scent to calm Harry which he really appreciated. Harry didn’t feel safe enough to drift too much into the fuzziness, just to slightly disconnect from the tension and the silence around the arguing pack attempting, to ignore the panic and awkwardness he felt.

Chapter Text

The heavy oak door of the hospital wing swung open with a soft creak, and Madame Pomfrey looked up sharply from her potions as Blaise carried Harry in his arms. Pansy and Draco followed close behind, their faces tight with worry and tension.

“Set him down here,” Madame Pomfrey instructed briskly, eyeing Harry’s pale, flushed face.

Blaise lowered Harry gently onto one of the beds. “He’s so light… I can’t believe how fragile he is.”
Pansy knelt beside Harry, her voice dropping to a soothing coo. “There, there,your okay. You’re safe now.”

Harry blinked up at her, eyes glassy and not quite focused. Faint pats landed on his back and butt, though he wasn’t sure from whom -he just felt the warmth and the softness, and for a moment, the crushing weight of fear eased.

Madame Pomfrey bustled around, checking his pulse, inspecting his neck, and scanning his breathing. “Now, what happened here? I need the truth, Potter.”
Harry’s voice was small, cracked, but firm enough. “It was an accident.”
“An accident?” Pomfrey raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure? This isn’t a scratch or a bruise. This was caused by… strangulation.”
Harry swallowed hard. “I-I think it was a spell. Maybe a hex. Something went wrong.”
Pomfrey’s eyes narrowed, clearly unconvinced. “A hex? On yourself?”
“It was an accident.” Harry defended

Pomfrey’s brow furrowed. “Accident or not, strangulation is serious. You accidentally..strangled..yourself. That’s extremely unlikely.Did someone do this to you?”
Harry hesitated, swallowing hard.

Before anyone could respond, she waved a firm hand. “I’m the healer here. I need to assess him first, and no one is making accusations. Once I’ve done that, I’ll decide what happens next.”
She turned away briskly, preparing her potions and bandages, clearly sending a message that she was in charge and would handle it on her terms.

Blaise’s jaw tightened as he watched. When Pomfrey wasn’t looking, he snapped quietly to Draco, “We need to call on his pack and beg for forgiveness. Your not coming with us it’d be an insult if you did as unrepentant as you are” Blaise scoffed. “So maybe you should floo your parents given this could destroy you in so many ways, if Harry presses charges, and the school finds out about this incident, it could ruin everything for him-and for you.Have a word with your father—ask him what he thinks about Littles.”
Draco paled, blinking rapidly, caught between guilt and uncertainty.

Harry’s gaze began to glaze over, drifting off into that strange middle space-neither little nor big, somewhere in between. He felt warm, the gentle pats on his back grounding him still, soothing and steady, though he wasn’t sure who was offering comfort. Somehow, in that fragile moment, he felt something like okay. He tried to pull himself back from the fuzziness. The world has never felt this muffled before, it’s nice but it’s not safe, he knows it’s not safe right now.
Like being wrapped in a nice soft warm blanket. He didn’t want to hide in the fuzziness too much without knowing that he was completly safe though but just enough to be comfortable.

Pansy’s voice was low but firm, eyes locked on Draco. “You don’t get to decide who’s protected. Not anymore.”
Blaise folded his arms, expression dark. “If you think this won’t come back on you, you’re mistaken. Harry’s status isn’t just some label - it changes everything. And you need to understand that.”

Chapter Text

The room hung heavy with tension, the unspoken consequences pressing down like a curse on all of them.
Blaise didn’t waste a second- he stormed out, heading straight for the Gryffindor common room. There, waiting, was a practically battle-hardened alpha, legendary for newly helping in leading one of the most ferocious, protective packs Hogwarts had ever seen. Not to mention all the golden trio shenanigans and dramatic feats he’d survived.

Draco had chosen the absolute worst target- the most vulnerable, the smallest pack member, the one everyone instinctively wanted to shield. Now Blaise was about to grovel, beg forgiveness, and pray his own head wouldn’t be served on a platter.

And that wasn’t even the half of it. He’d have to face off against the smartest witch in their year-who wasn’t above resorting to physical violence when riled up, Ginny Weasley whose wrath was enough to make even seasoned fighters flinch. Then there were the terror twins, masters of chaos and retribution, and Percy, who could ruin someone’s career with a single, icy glare and he had contacts everywhere, so many contacts. That’s not to mention the members he'd heard whispers about a dragon minder and *shiver* someone up close and personal to goblins. GOBLINS for Merlin’s sake.
This was going to be… perfect. Is it too late to say he minds being an alpha now?

Blaise and Pansy stood outside the Gryffindor common room, nerves taut. The castle walls felt colder than usual, pressing in as the weight of what had just happened dragged at them like chains.
The portrait opened. Hermione and Ron stepped through, mid-conversation, but stopped short when they saw Blaise and Pansy- faces pale, serious, and visibly shaken.

“We need to talk,” Pansy said softly, her voice unnervingly calm for someone who looked seconds from spiraling. Her eyes went straight to Hermione. Blaise’s gaze locked on Ron.
Hermione’s brow furrowed. “What’s happened? Where’s Harry?”
Pansy stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “He’s in the Hospital Wing. There was an incident. He’s okay-he’s breathing-but it was bad. Really bad.”
Hermione’s eyes went wide, her whole posture shifting-protective, sharp, alert. “What do you mean bad? What happened?”
“Draco,” Pansy said flatly. “He attacked him. Thought Harry was an alpha, couldn’t handle his own status as a beta. Strangled him.”

Hermione didn’t even respond- she spun on her heel and broke into a sprint down the corridor.
Pansy followed immediately, her own caregiver instincts lighting up like fire.

Ron’s head snapped toward Blaise, nostrils flaring. “He what?”
Blaise raised both hands, palms open. “I came to tell you. Not to excuse him. I know what this means.”
Ron stepped forward, chest high, a growl almost forming in the back of his throat. “He touched my pack. My little. Do you have any idea what you’re walking into?”
“I do.” Blaise’s voice didn’t waver. “That’s why I’m not fighting you.”
Ron blinked, thrown off. “What?”
“You’re the lead alpha in Harry’s pack. I’m not challenging you. I'm not defending him.I’m yielding.”
Ron’s shoulders stiffened. Alphas didn’t just yield. Not without cause.

Blaise continued, gaze steady. “Draco’s not in control of himself. I gave him too much room, and now I’m trying to clean it up. What he did wasn’t just wrong- it was a betrayal. Of your pack. Of mine. Of mother magic. I don’t want dominance. I want peace. I want Harry safe.”

Ron’s jaw clenched, but the storm behind his eyes softened by a hair. “You’re damn lucky you said that.”
“I know.”
“Because if you hadn’t-if you’d stood there trying to defend him-I don’t care what class you are. I’d have dropped you.”
“I’d have let you.”

The two stood in silence for a moment—tense, thick, but not hostile. Just… loaded.
Then Ron turned, already walking after Hermione and Harry.
“I’m not done with Draco,” he muttered.
“I wouldn’t expect you to be,” Blaise replied, following quietly behind

Chapter Text

Harry’s lip trembled. “Please, it really was just an accident.”
“Accidents happen,” Pomfrey said, her tone softer, “but we need to understand what led to it.”

Madame pomfrey was a caregiver who used her instincts to help her in her healing it drove her in her day to day life and made her more in tune and empathetic to her patients needs. She was not a caregiver who had a little as much as she once wanted. Her caregiving skills were certainly not targeted enough to care for an infant. But she currently had a patient trying to stop themselves middling but clearly needing to, in front of her and she’d picked up a few tricks over time and thus she held him and pat him just so.

Harry’s gaze glazed over more, drifting further into that middle space—neither little nor fully grown, suspended in a quiet zone where words and worries faded.
Warm, reassuring pats landed on his back again. He wasn’t sure what to make of these new feelings, it felt a bit like being under a weighted blanket underwater, but not struggling being able to breathe still, but everything being fuzzy movements delayed, processing slow. He actually didn’t mind this weird state, he didn’t mind just being. Not aware of the world around him and not sinking not swimming but floating just a bit.

Madame Pomfrey made sure to charm Harry’s hospital bed to keep him safe and comfortable as she saw to a student who had the unfortunate victim hood of annoying Peeves.

Hermione however had faced across Hogwarts, as a prefect she’d of course tell anyone else off for running in the corridors but given her squeaky clean record (everything shes done has been of the record as no one expects her or it’s Dumbledore sanctioned illegal dangerous of defensive measures.) she thought she more then enough lee-way and brownie points to see to a Harry emergency. Her little brother in all but blood. In a timely manner, and no it wasn’t hypocritical..okay the ethics can wait for another time. She knew she was trying to rationalise to stop herself from panicking but acknowledging didn’t stop it. She tried to reclaim some of her lost breaths and breathe deep quickly to calm down in more ways then one, before opening the hospital wing door.

Harry sat slumped, lost somewhere far away, his breaths shallow and uneven. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, and Hermione’s heart lurched at the sight. She dropped to her knees beside him so fast she nearly knocked over the chair.
“Harry, it’s fine, you’re safe, you’re here,” she babbled, hands fluttering uselessly before she seized his wrist and pressed it against the cool stone floor. “Grounding, grounding, yes—uh—five things you can see, four things you can touch, three things you can hear—oh, Merlin, I read this in three different texts on magical stress responses and little regression patterns—there are actual protocols—Harry, you’re not listening, oh why aren’t you listening—”
Her voice cracked. She clutched his sleeve and half-scolded, half-begged, “This is in Haversham’s Guide to Magical Developmental Variants—do you know how hard that book was to find? You have to focus, Harry, you have to—because if you don’t then—then—” Her words dissolved into tears, and she bent her head, shoulders trembling.

“Granger.”
Hermione blinked, startled, as Pansy Parkinson crouched down opposite her. There was no malice in her face, no smug curl of the lip. Just quiet exasperation and—strangely—calm.
“I don’t condone what Draco did,” Pansy said firmly, her gaze flicking to Harry before settling back on Hermione. “I want you to know that.”
Hermione sniffed, still holding Harry’s sleeve like it was an anchor. “You—don’t?”
“Of course not. He crossed a line. He wanted to prove himself, but this—” Pansy shook her head, something hard flickering behind her eyes. “Littles aren’t toys. You don’t test your insecurities on them.”
Hermione stared at her, a strange lump building in her throat. “You… sound like a caregiver.”
“I am one,” Pansy admitted, her voice dropping lower. “No one believes me, because I don’t exactly look the part. But it doesn’t matter what they think-I know what my instincts are.”
Hermione let out a wet, hiccupping laugh. “Tell me about it. Everyone thinks I’m just bossy.”
“That’s because you are bossy,” Pansy deadpanned. “But you’re also a caregiver. And right now, Harry doesn’t need you quoting textbooks. He needs you to breathe and anchor yourself so you can anchor him.”

Hermione flushed, stung but… grateful. For once, someone wasn’t dismissing her instincts. And as Pansy reached over and gently placed a blanket around Harry’s shoulders, Hermione felt the smallest flicker of unexpected understanding between them.
For the first time all day, she didn’t feel completely alone in this.

The door banged open.
“WHAT THE HELL DID HE DO—”
“RON!” Hermione snapped, leaping up like a furious hen defending her nest. “Not now!”
Ron, red-faced and stormy, froze mid-step. His fists were clenched, his chest heaving like he’d sprinted the entire way. “Where is Malfoy? I’ll—”
“Ronald Bilius Weasley, if you so much as breathe in the wrong direction right now— Harry need grounding. G-R-O-U-N-D-I-N-G. Not you coming in like a bull in a china shop” Hermione began, her tone sharp enough to cut steel.
Harry, drifting in his haze, actually snorted. The image of Hermione lecturing (hypocritically), while still blotchy from tears, Ron trying to puff himself up like an avenging bear, and Pansy of all people looking like she was watching a soap opera—it broke through the fog a bit. He gave a weak, raspy laugh.
All three froze.
Hermione instantly softened, crouching again. “Harry? You’re back with us?”
“Barely,” Harry murmured, still chuckling faintly.
Ron, finally breathing, scratched his head awkwardly. “Well… if he’s laughing, that’s something.”
Hermione glared at him. “Sit down.”
For once, Ron obeyed without argument.

The room had just about settled—Harry wrapped in a blanket, Hermione fussing, Pansy watching with sharp calm, and Ron twitching like a caged wolf—when the door creaked open again.
Blaise Zabini stepped inside. Cool. Collected. Composed. At least, at first glance.
Then Ron stood up.
Blaise’s poker face cracked like glass under a hammer.

“You,” Ron said, voice low, dangerous. “Better start explaining.”
Hermione hissed, “Ron, sit down—”
“No, no,” Blaise interrupted quickly, raising both hands in what was meant to look like elegance but came off as outright begging. “He has every right. I’ll explain.” His eyes darted to Harry, still dazed. “I should have stopped Draco sooner. I didn’t. That’s on me.”
“Damn right it is,” Ron growled, taking a step closer. Blaise retreated a step back, graceful as ever but looking distinctly like he’d rather be anywhere else.

Pansy rolled her eyes. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake, Weasley, sit down. Blaise isn’t the enemy here.”
“Yet,” Ron muttered, but he obeyed, collapsing back onto his chair like an oversized thundercloud.

Blaise let out a breath. “Draco’s… insecure.”
Hermione arched a brow. “That’s putting it lightly.”
“No,” Blaise insisted, “you don’t understand. He’s a beta. And when the results came back, he—” Blaise hesitated, actually looking pained for once. “He… declared himself an alpha instead.”

Ron blinked. “..He did what?!”
“Stood in the Great Hall,” Blaise said flatly, “in front of half the school. Pronounced it like it was fact.”
Hermione gasped. “That’s—”
“—unbelievably stupid,” Ron finished.
Pansy pinched the bridge of her nose. “It’s not just stupid. It’s a direct insult to his actual alpha. Publicly disrespectful in the worst way.”
Ron’s eyes widened in slow-motion horror. “You mean… he did that… with you sitting right there?”
Blaise gave a stiff, miserable nod. “I thought I was being merciful letting him get away with it. I thought I was protecting him. Now…” His jaw clenched. “Now I realise all I did was make it worse.”

Silence fell for a moment, broken only by Harry’s soft chuckle.
Ron whipped his head around. “What’s so funny?”
Harry blinked up at him, delayed, lips twitching. “Draco Malfoy… beta…’tending to be alpha….Sounds like Fred ..n George ..did..bad joke.”
Even Pansy smirked at that. Blaise groaned into his hands.
Hermione just shook her head, muttering, “This year is going to kill me.”
Ron couldn’t help but softly laugh before abruptly stopping and excusing himself to wand call each (hogwarts) Weasley pack member.

Harry’s soft laugh didn’t last. It broke into a weak, shivery sound, and then his body sagged further against the pillows. His eyes glazed, half-lidded, staring but not really seeing.

Hermione’s breath hitched. “Oh-oh no, he’s going further under-”
“Middle-space,” Pansy supplied quickly, kneeling at Harry’s side. “He’s not gone, but he’s not here either. Littles drift like this when they’re overloaded.”
Hermione’s hands fluttered like startled birds. “Right, yes, I read about this in Care Strategies for Developmental Regression. Page seventy-two, middle states, halfway between cognitive baselines. There are grounding strategies. Pressure, rhythm, familiar sounds-” She reached out, patting Harry’s hand awkwardly. “Harry, um-two plus two is four. You know that, right? Rational recall stabilises—”
“Granger,” Pansy cut in flatly, “this isn’t a bloody maths test.”
Hermione flushed crimson. “I know! I was trying to help—” Her voice cracked, panic rising again.
Harry whimpered, small and lost, and that sound snapped both girls back into focus.
Pansy leaned closer, tone softening into instinctive cooing. “Shhh, baby, it’s alright. You’re safe. You don’t need to think right now, just breathe.” She smoothed a hand over his hair, grounding him with calm, steady touch.

Hermione swallowed hard, hugging herself. “I just… I don’t understand how you can do that so naturally.”
Pansy glanced up at her, something uncharacteristically gentle flickering across her expression. “Because I am a caregiver. Same as you. We just… show it differently.”
Hermione’s lips parted. She’d never thought of Pansy as anything but sharp edges and insults. Yet here she was, soothing Harry with the same instincts Hermione felt clawing at her chest. For a moment, something like recognition passed between them again as they shared another smile.

The fragile quiet shattered when the door slammed open.. again.
“WHAT HAPPENED TO HIM?!”
Ron barreled in like a raging bull, eyes locked on Harry’s pale, half-conscious form, Harry looked worse then when he saw him a few moments ago. His magic flared hot and protective, making the very air tremble.
“Ronald!” Hermione snapped, voice shrill. “Calm down!”
“Calm down?” Ron rounded on her. “Our little is out of it and you want me to—”
“Yes!” Hermione shouted back, hands on her hips. “Because yelling isn’t helping him, and if you scare him one more time, I swear—”
“You’re yelling too!” Ron retorted-still yelling.
They both froze, realising at the same moment.
From Harry’s limp form came the tiniest huff of laughter.
All four now froze, staring at him.

Pansy tilted her head. “Well. At least we found something that grounds him: watching you two argue like an old married couple.”
Ron sputtered. Hermione went scarlet. Harry giggled again, the sound faint but real.
Relief washed through the room.

“Alright, Harry,” Hermione said briskly, forcing steadiness into her voice. “Time to get on your feet. We need to get you back to Gryffindor—away from the Hospital Wing.”
At the word Hospital Wing, Harry whimpered, a soft, broken sound that stabbed right through Ron’s chest.
“Easy, mate,” Ron murmured, crouching beside him. “It’s okay mate we’re leaving now.”
Harry seemed to recognise ‘leaving’ and whined getting the wrong end of the stick thinking Hermione and Ron were going, and ‘leaving’ him.
“Don’t worry Harry we’re all walking together.” Hermione said trying not to glare at Ron for his mistake. She moved close to help urge Harry up.

Pansy and Blaise moved in closer too, each offering arms, steadying hands, little reassurances. Between them all, Harry was gently urged upright, coaxed like a skittish foal taking its first steps.
For about five seconds, it almost worked.
Then Harry’s knees buckled before he was even fully standing. His body folded, trembling and boneless, collapsing against Ron as though his legs had forgotten the very idea of walking. His breath hitched, shallow and uneven, a soft whine escaping as his head drooped against Ron’s shoulder.
Ron caught him without hesitation, placing Harry back on the bed. His voice was low, but it carried a steel edge. “He can’t walk.”
Hermione’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “Then we carry him.”
The room stilled. The choice had been made.

Ron charged forward then, the force of his instincts taking control. He picked up a rather limp noodly Harry.“Stand still, Harry! I’ve got you!”
Hermione threw up a hand sharply. “RON! Calm down!”
“I am calm!” he growled, eyes flaring with protective heat. “This is instinct. You don’t understand-”
“I do understand, you giant idiot!” Hermione shot back. “Just… stop screaming for two seconds!”
Harry blinked up at them both, confused, lost in middlespace, and a tiny, cracking giggle escaped again. It was brief, but it broke some tension. Having his friends arguing over silly little things always made him laugh a bit especially because for all their posturing and arguing they were very rarely ever truly mad at each other. It really was like a nice married couple. When he was in middlespace he didn’t feel any of the complexities he usually did but he heard their funny exaggerated voices and found these hilarious, the shrill the gruffness, it was like someone reading a story and doing the voices.

Blaise moved in closer silently, expression unreadable at first, but his eyes narrowed as he assessed the scene. “Petty arguments aside,” he said quietly, tone lethal, “we need to move him. He can’t walk. You’re not dragging him, Ron. You’re carrying him -properly.”
Ron’s eyes widened, half at the tone, half at the audacity, and maybe a little bit of respect at Blaise being terrified (and definitely having every right to be) but still being firm, and correcting him, his jaw set. “Got it.” He slid his arms under Harry, cradling him like a fragile doll, careful not to jostle him.

Pansy matched their pace, pacing alongside like a wolf circling a cub. “Keep him stable,” she instructed softly, voice low and precise. “Do not let him sense panic.”
Harry’s head lolled slightly against Ron’s shoulder, breaths uneven, a distant glazed look in his eyes. He murmured, “Safe… you’re… all safe…”
Hermione’s hands hovered over him, every fiber of her body tense. “We’re here. You’re safe. You’re protected. Don’t drift too far,” she murmured, voice cracking slightly.

The group began the slow, tense trek toward Gryffindor Tower, Harry cradled against Ron, Hermione fussing at every micro-movement, Pansy pacing with measured precision, and Blaise’s gaze never leaving the corridors ahead. Every footstep, every corner of the castle felt amplified with danger and instinct, a symphony of hyper-alertness and unspoken loyalty.

Harry, drifting further into middlespace, found the chaos strangely comforting. He didn’t fully understand what was happening — didn’t have to — only that he was surrounded by people that would move mountains to keep him safe, no matter what.
And for a moment, cocooned in their collective instinct and care, he let himself simply exist.

Chapter Text

Ron was in full alpha mode, and everyone felt it. Everyone had ignored his wand call thinking it was another reminder about pack time or to make sure to eat. Thinking it unimportant. There was a muggle tale about that the boy who cried about wolves or something and the villagers not doing what they should. Or something? He rembered dad telling him it ages ago. He thought about it, using it as something to distract him, to help him calm down slightly. Hermione said it would or Percy it didn’t matter. Deep breaths also helped him not track down a horrid ferret who should definitely be meeting the end of his fists right now.

He tracked down Ginny by the Quidditch pitch, Percy in the library, and found the twins in the corridor dragging what looked suspiciously like a stolen suit of armor.
“Pack meeting. Now,” Ron said to each of them, refusing to elaborate, not stopping his stride.

“Bit dramatic,” Fred muttered.
“Bet he’s about to give us curfews,” George said, grinning.
“Maybe he’s going to announce his first decree, are we starting with a bed time?” Ginny added, catching up with Ron’s power walk.
“I was trying to study you know?” Added Percy not wanting to be left out but wanting to remain respectful
But one look at Ron’s face shut them up.

Ten minutes later, the pack was gathered in Percy’s much too small bedroom. Fred and George lounged in conjured chairs like nothing could touch them, Ginny was pacing with the kind of energy that usually preceded a duel, and Percy sat perched on a stiff-backed chair, already frowning in concern.

Hermione was next to the hearth, perched beside Harry- who looked too pale, too still. He wasn’t speaking, eyes distant and glassy, a blanket draped over his shoulders. He had been like that all afternoon, floating in middlespace, not quite Little, not quite Big.

Fred glanced at him, brow creasing. “He alright? He’s looking a bit off”
“Which is why,” Ron said, stepping forward, “we’re having a pack meeting.”
That got everyone's attention.

Ron looked tired. Not in the usual too-many-homeworks, Prefect-duties kind of way. This was bone-deep, tight-jawed tired. Alpha tired. The kind that came with knowing things your pack didn’t—and having to tell them.
“We’ve got a problem,” he said. “Something happened.”
Ginny narrowed her eyes, moving to stand beside Hermione. “What do you mean?”
Ron didn’t drag it out. “Harry was attacked.”
The silence was instant and suffocating.
“What?” Fred asked, voice sharp.
“Who?” Percy said at the same time, already half-standing.
“Draco Malfoy,” Hermione answered, each syllable icy.
“He-” Ron swallowed hard. “He strangled him. Pinned him. So tight he couldn’t even call for help.”
Ginny looked like she’d been punched. “He what?”

“He’s not an alpha,” Ron continued, jaw set. “He’s a beta. Insecure. Stood up in the Great Hall, right in front of his alpha, and announced it. He thought hurting Harry… challenging him… would make him an alpha. If he’d actually tried that against a real alpha, he’d be dead. Even if he somehow won, he’d still be a beta it’s impossible to change a classification of course. But Harry… Harry got strangled so hard he passed out.”

Hermione’s hand hovered near Harry’s shoulder but didn’t touch him yet. “He’s been middling ever since. Barely speaks. Barely moves.”
“Madam Pomfrey’s treated him,” Ron added. “But this is serious. We’re lucky he didn’t get seriously hurt. Or worse.”
George was already halfway to the fireplace. “I’m calling Mum and Dad.”
“No—I’m calling her,” Ron snapped, grabbing the Floo powder. “Ginny sit down. You’re not storming in there like a banshee. Or going on a wild goose chase.”
“You want to bet?” Ginny hissed.
“Sit down, Gin,” Hermione warned. “We need to handle this properly. We’ll all call back to the burrow. If we go off half-cocked, it could hurt Harry worse.”
Percy’s hands were clenched white in his lap. “He’s unregistered. If this comes out publicly… Merlin. Draco’s in deep.”
“Good,” Fred muttered. “Hope he rots.”
Ron turned to the fire and tossed in the powder. “The Burrow.”

On the left, Arthur and Molly stood in the Burrow’s kitchen, Molly’s apron still dusted with flour. In the center, Bill leaned in from Gringotts housing, sleeves rolled to the elbow, wand clutched tight. On the right, Charlie had clearly just come in from the dragon enclosure-his heavy coat flung half-on, and soot streaking his cheek. Both workplaces offering a programme for health of packs allowing them to work in the day but come home in the evening so that they can support younger newly classified members for a week, even allowing them a week off if they opt for it. Both Bill and Charlie however love what they do and so didn’t choose the time off.

In Percy’s prefect bedroom, Ron stood with his arms crossed, face set hard. Fred and George flanked him, unusually still. Ginny was kneeling beside the sofa where Harry lay curled under Hermione’s cloak, cheek pillowed against her thigh, thumb ghosting near his mouth. Percy hovered behind them, posture stiff, hands twitching like he wanted to take notes but knew this wasn’t the moment. Hermione sat protectively by Harry’s head, fingers gently patting his back.

“We’ve had an incident,” Ron said, without preamble. “Malfoy attacked Harry.”
Molly gasped. Arthur’s expression didn’t change, but his hands curled against the countertop.
“What do you mean, attacked?” Charlie asked, voice deceptively calm.
“He went for his throat,” Ginny snapped. “Choked him. Full weight, full grip. Harry passed out. It wasn’t a scuffle. It wasn’t an accident.”
“And it wasn’t just dominance posturing,” Percy said sharply. “It was a challenge. And Draco knew exactly what that meant he attempted to replicate an alpha challenge he couldn’t handle his own insecurity of being a beta. ”
“Blaise and Pansy pulled him off,” Ron added. “Stopped it. After he passed out.”
Harry shifted in his half-sleep, a whimper escaping. Ginny’s fingers were instantly at his hair. Hermione started rubbing circles between his shoulder blades trying not to tear up herself. Fred passed her a tissue without thinking.

“He’s alright now,” Ron said. “Physically. Madam Pomfrey’s treated him. But… he slipped in middle space.”
Molly’s eyes welled. “Oh, sweetheart. His first time semi dropping shouldn’t have been like this.”

“He didn’t even know it was happening,” Hermione whispered. “He just… went soft. Went still.”
“And Blaise?” Arthur asked tightly.
Ron nodded. “I confronted him. Challenged him. He yielded.”
That drew surprised looks on all sides of the fire.

“He what?” Bill said.
“Yielded,” Ron repeated. “Didn’t even hesitate. Didn’t try to defend Draco, didn’t posture, didn’t argue. Just said he wouldn’t stand by what Draco did.”
“Yielding to an outside alpha,” Percy murmured. “That’s not just rare. That’s a message.”
“Exactly,” Ron said. “He’s cutting Draco loose.”
“That’s something,” Arthur said. “Still-this was premeditated.”
“It was,” Ginny hissed. “Draco thought Harry was an alpha. That he could provoke a response. And he went for his neck. That’s not a scuffle. That’s... that's pack law violation, betas can’t challenge alphas.”

Charlie was already pulling his coat back on.
“Don’t,” Ron said quickly. “Don’t come storming in. Yet. We’ve got control right now.”
“Barely,” Hermione muttered.
“I’ll write to Lucius,” Arthur said quietly. “Tonight.”
“Want me and Perce to draw up the Ministry angle?” Bill offered. “Gringotts will support if this goes legal.”
“Good,” Ron said. “It might.”
From the couch, Harry shifted again. “Love... my pack...” he mumbled, still lost somewhere soft.

“You’ve got us, darling,” Molly said, voice cracking. “Always.”
No one on the call said anything for a long while. But they didn’t need to. The Weasley pack stood strong- across flames, fields, and thresholds-ready to protect what was theirs.

Chapter Text

The emerald flames of the Floo roared to life as Draco knelt in front of the fireplace in the Slytherin fourth year room common space. Well knelt was generous, as the floo was designed to ensure dignity remained in tact and thus was aimed higher allowing the caller to sit in a chair and look down slightly. Unlike in other houses Slytherin was overrun with space and as such had both a main common room and year specific common rooms, all fitted with floos. Draco had to bribe manipulate and threaten (never beg that was much too uncouth) to get everyone in his year to steer clear of the fourth year common room. He told them he had a private personal engagement.

His hand still trembled slightly, but he brushed it off.

It was fine.

Potter had made a scene-again. Everyone would forget it in a day or two. He just needed his father to smooth things over.

The green fire flared as it finally connected and solidified into the stern, chiseled face of Lucius Malfoy.

“Father,” Draco said, attempting a confident smirk. “Small issue here at school- overblown, really.”
Lucius’s eyes narrowed instantly. “Explain.”
Draco shrugged. “There was… a bit of a scuffle. Potter got in my face, things escalated. He passed out, but he’s fine. Just being dramatic.”
Silence. A long, dangerous silence.

Then Lucius spoke, voice calm and razor-edged. “You strangled Harry Potter.”
Draco’s smirk faltered. “Well-I wouldn’t say strangled-”
The fire blazed brighter. Narcissa’s face now appeared beside Lucius’s, pale with horror.
“You laid hands on his throat?” she whispered. “Draco—Draco—do you understand what that means?”

“It’s not a big deal!” Draco protested. “He was being insufferable, as always. It’s not like anyone important saw-”
Lucius cut in, voice now thunder. “You attacked a Little. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
Draco flinched. “Wait, how do you-”
“Because Blaise Zabini and Pansy Parkinson reported it. Because your actions triggered a full medical response. Because he passed out, Draco. You could have killed him!”
Narcissa’s hand covered her mouth. “I always defended you,” she said softly, heartbreak etched into every word. “Even when the teachers said you were arrogant. Even when your classmates said you were cruel. But this-”
“It wasn’t that serious!” Draco snapped. “Besides, everyone’s overreacting because they think he’s fragile. They’re acting like he’s-like he’s pack. He’s not. And Blaise is just being dramatic, trying to make it about him-”

“You challenged your alpha?” Lucius hissed.
Draco stilled. “He’s not—he’s—”
“You’ve been calling yourself an alpha. Without formal declaration. Without bond. While undermining Zabini?” Lucius’s voice dropped to a deadly hush. “You’ve not only assaulted a Little- you’ve committed a dominance breach within your own rank. Do you even realise the insult you’ve just thrown at your alpha? That’s the gravest faux pas there is. He’d have been within his rights to end you the moment you diminished his title. And then-then- you had the audacity to claim his place. To stand in front of him and declare yourself the alpha of your pack? Shameful doesn’t even cover it.
And as if that weren’t enough, you defied his orders outright. No strategy. No thought. You went straight for the most protected member of the deadliest pack Hogwarts has ever seen-with all the grace and subtlety of a wild hippogriff. If he had truly been the alpha you claimed to see, you would be dead. If your own alpha were not so indulgent-so merciful-you would be dead. And no amount of money, politics, or the Malfoy name could have saved you. Because you chose to ignore the fundamental laws of our society, the rules that have been drilled into your skull since birth.”

“I—” Draco faltered. His father his mother had always supported him, this was completely new and uncharted territory and left him feeling completely unanchored, confused. He felt bewildered, ashamed and shocked.

“You have ruined yourself,” Lucius spat. “This isn’t a schoolyard spat. This is a diplomatic incident. Do you understand who you assaulted? Potter is pack-bonded to the Weasleys. That’s a war pack, Draco. Protective, ruthless, dangerous. They don’t forgive. They feud.”

Narcissa, tears in her eyes, whispered, “We trusted you to follow everything you’ve been taught. You broke that trust. Hurting a little is sacrilege. Mother magic could strip you of every spark. Not to mention you hurt a young child tonight. ”
Draco swallowed hard. “It wasn’t supposed to get that far. I didn’t mean—”
Lucius didn’t soften. “You will apologise. Publicly if needed. You will call me the moment you are summoned. And you will pray to Merlin that the Weasley pack does not call a formal feud, because if they do, Draco… you won’t win.”
Draco looked between his parents, one livid, the other devastated and for the first time, the weight of what he’d done began to settle into his chest.

Chapter Text

The air in Lucius Malfoy’s study was still, thick with quiet tension. The fire crackled softly, a decanter of untouched brandy on the sideboard. Narcissa stood near the window, arms crossed, her gaze unfocused as she stared out at the grey sky.
An owl tapped at the glass.

Lucius rose from his chair immediately, already unsettled.
The Floo call had ended over an hour ago, and he had endured the wait with all the thrill of a man marching to Azkaban. He knew the family was in deep trouble, but the worst part was not knowing how much. The waiting.

No amount of smooth talking or bribes would save them now. Against a war pack, such things were shallow, useless—laughable. Lucius found himself regretting every barbed word he had ever thrown at Arthur Weasley, because the truth was bitter and undeniable- if the pack chose to, they could kill Draco. Legally. Publicly. With society’s blessing.

They wouldn’t even need to duel him. One declaration was all it would take to trigger a public ‘challenge’. Sanctioned murder dressed in ceremony. And if they wished, there wouldn’t even be a duel at all. All of them, wands raised, against Draco unarmed, for his transgression. Worse still, they could extend that challenge to the entire Malfoy line. One word, and the family name could be gutted in an afternoon. Though it was a traditional practise it didn’t mean only those following the old ways used it after such a large affront. He was praying to Merlin, mother magic and Salazar Slytherin his bloody self that they wouldn’t enact a challenge. He couldn’t loose his son. His idiot son.

This wasn’t them running out of hors d’oeuvres at a soirée.
This wasn’t a social misstep, like the time Draco wore an out-of-season over-robe neither parent had noticed before they left.
It wasn’t even like when Draco, still a child, asked a visiting diplomat if he was pregnant because “Mummy can’t get pregnant.” The man had simply been overweight.
No, this was worse than any mortification Lucius had ever endured. This wasn’t a blunder to be smoothed over with charm or coin. This was ruin. The kind that could end them all—literally, and figuratively

No owl came to Malfoy Manor at this hour without purpose. He opened the window, and the bird swooped in, bearing a scroll sealed with deep red wax—the Weasley crest stamped clear as blood. This wasn’t the purple or green unpolished seal he received from them at Yule (as seemingly every ministry worker seemed too). No. It was a deep crimson. With surgical precision. An omen. A threat.
Narcissa turned. “Arthur?”
Lucius nodded grimly and broke the seal.
He read in silence at first, eyes scanning quickly. Then again—slower. His jaw tightened, his expression darkened, and the edge of the parchment crinkled slightly in his hand.
He passed it silently to Narcissa.

The Letter from Arthur Weasley read;
Lucius,
You know me well enough to recognise I do not use threats lightly.
So understand this letter is not a courtesy—it is a final opportunity for you to handle your son before this becomes something more.
Your heir strangled a classified Little. He rendered Harry unconscious in a dungeon hallway. The only reason this hasn’t already reached the Ministry is because Harry, despite everything, is too kind-hearted and too terrified to want his classification made public yet.
Your son knew none of this, and that’s exactly the problem. He acted recklessly. Without thought, without honour. He raised a hand to a vulnerable unaccompanied Little, and in doing so, endangered a very delicate situation that Blaise Zabini and Pansy Parkinson worked hard to contain.

If I hear so much as a whisper that you’ve tried to manipulate the outcome-through the press, the Board, or your usual channels- I will ensure this becomes a matter of magical law.

And for the record -I don’t need a classification to protect my pack. I don’t need one to end a threat, either.

Your son will apologise. Your son will not speak of Harry’s classification. And your son will not challenge his alpha again, verbally or otherwise. You may think Blaise Zabini untested, but I assure you, he has more restraint and honour than many grown men. You should be grateful he yielded to my son’s challenge rather than responding in kind.
Handle this, Lucius. Don’t let your boy’s arrogance become your legacy.
—Arthur Weasley
 General of the Weasley Pack —

Narcissa read the letter, eyes wide, hand trembling slightly at the words classified Little, unconscious, and final opportunity.
“Oh Merlin,” she whispered. “He could’ve died.”
Lucius sat down heavily, steepling his fingers. “Arthur was holding back.” His voice was low and even despite his heart rate. “That wasn’t a threat. That was a warning. One I intend to heed.”
He looked toward the fire. “If Blaise had responded as an alpha might’ve- Draco would be in St. Mungo’s. If Harry had been an alpha he would be dead.”

It was silent save for the crackling of the fire.
“Do you think the Weasleys will press charges?”
“No,” Lucius muttered. “But not out of mercy. Out of strategy. If they wanted blood, they’d have called for it already. This-” he gestured to the letter “is Arthur making it clear they hold the power.”
Narcissa folded the parchment neatly, carefully, as if afraid to rip it. “I’ll write to Harry. I need to know he’s alright.”
Lucius didn’t argue.

Chapter Text

The Weasleys stormed into Professor McGonagall’s office, their urgency impossible to ignore. McGonagall set down her teacup with a quiet clink, eyes narrowing as she took in their faces.“Explain. Now,” she commanded, her tone sharper than usual.

Ron took a deep breath. “It’s Draco Malfoy. He attacked Harry. Strangled him. Harry passed out.”
McGonagall’s gaze hardened. “Strangled? Are you certain? This is far more than a quarrel.”
Hermione stepped forward, voice steady but grave. “Draco openly defied Blaise Zabini his alpha. Called himself an alpha too, which is a direct challenge to Blaise’s authority. Didn’t even care about Pansy’s growling.”

McGonagall’s jaw clenched. “He called himself an alpha?” Her voice rose. “He ignored Blaise’s command? Ignored Pansy Parkinson’s caregiver growl? Did he show any remorse?”
Ron’s voice was firm. “None. Didn’t apologise to Harry. Didn’t care even after finding out Harry’s a little.”
McGonagall’s face darkened, her voice dropping low but trembling with anger. “To harm a little is to disrespect Mother Magic herself.” She closed her eyes briefly, gathering her limited calm. “Especially Harry. Sweet Harry- my favourite student.” She blinked “Not that I said that.”

Her gaze snapped back to the Weasleys, voice icy but laced with fierce protectiveness. “You lot are a war pack. Tell me—have you killed him?”
Ron blinked, taken aback. “No. We haven’t. Thought it would have saved Harry a lot of trouble.”
McGonagall’s lips twitched into a grim, almost grateful smile. “Thank Merlin for that. I cannot encourage such actions, but I will stand by you if it comes to it.”
She rose from her chair, pacing now, her voice rising with each word. “I will inform all heads of house immediately. This matter demands the highest confidentiality and the full weight of consequences.”
Her eyes bore into them. “Malfoy has crossed an unforgivable line. I assure you, justice will be served.”

The room pulsed with the heat of her rage and resolve.
Ginny swallowed hard, awed by McGonagall’s rare and formidable fury.
Ron nodded, voice steady. “We just want Harry safe.”
McGonagall’s glare softened slightly, but the fire in her eyes remained. “Then we will see to it. No one will harm him again.”

Chapter Text

Harry’s head lolled gently against Hermione’s shoulder as she carried him through Percy’s room. His breaths came soft and uneven, he was still middling, caught between little and big, and it was clear his fragile headspace was unraveling.

Suddenly, Hermione stiffened, a flash of alarm crossing her face. “Oh no, Harry—”
An accident. It was so normal in this headspace, but still it hit them all with a pang of helplessness. Hermione’s caregiver instincts surged as she carefully adjusted her hold, murmuring soothing words.
George was immediately at her side, hands steady and calm. “Don’t worry. We’ve got this.” He hustled toward the trunk where they kept their emergency supplies, they managed to ‘borrow’ from the classification Ed classroom storage unit. Desperate times call for desperate measures and all that. He started pulling out bottles and soft blankets with practiced ease not having enough time since being classified to even request personalised supplies.

Percy appeared almost immediately, his sharp eyes scanning the scene. “As a prefect I know there’s an unused dorm with a bath just around this corner. l’ll find a nappy Harry won’t hate waking up in tomorrow,” he said firmly, already moving toward the Gryffindor classification storage unit for (hopefully) more discreet, better-fitting supplies.

Hermione after enlarging the bath, turned on the taps, filling the basin with warm water that steamed gently in the cool air. “Alright, we need to be really careful,” she said, already crouching beside the tub. “Harry’s too little to sit up by himself right now.”
Ron’s face tightened. “I don’t mind holding him, but I’m not keen on getting drenched.”
Ginny rolled her eyes. “Ron, it’s a bath if you’re going to hold him in it, I’m going to go out on a limb and say you’ll get a bit wet. You’re going to get drenched whether you like it or not. You’re going to get splashed too. Might as well just accept it.”
Ron opened his mouth to protest but was cut off as Ginny shrugged off her outer cloak and climbed in, fully clothed in her uniform, splashing into the water with a dramatic “There! Now I’m committed.”

Ron scowled drenched—but then, Harry let out a small giggle and Ron started not to mind that he’d somehow ended up just as soaked as Ginny.
Harry was boneless in Hermione’s arms, tiny and floppy like a rag doll. Trying to lower him into the water was a struggle. His head kept tipping forward, causing three pairs of hands to all dart towards him until he supported his head again. Every so often, Harry would have a sudden burst of energy, flailing his arms and sending warm water splashing all over Ron’s sleeves and lap. Ron’s scowl deepened with every droplet, the very picture of alpha authority—or at least, that’s what he thought. To everyone else, it looked more like a grumpy Kneazle denied its dinner. His “scary” frown only made Harry giggle harder, with Hermione trying not to laugh and Ginny outright cackling.

Harry’s bursts of energy didn’t last long. Soon he grew more boneless in the water, his splashes turning weaker, becoming more and more boneless.

Hermione’s voice softened, full caregiver instincts taking over“Easy, Harry… I’ve got you.”
Harry blinked up at her, eyes half-lidded, the warmth pulling him toward sleep even as he kept slipping forward.
Ginny chuckled. “He’s definitely loving it, though. Look at that little face.”
Ron grumbled, wringing out his soaked sleeves. “I swear, I’m getting more wet than he is.”
Hermione gently washed Harry’s hair, humming softly as she worked, her focus absolute.

Eventually, Harry gave up the fight entirely. He dropped his head onto the nearest arm—Ron’s, as it turned out—and promptly drifted off to sleep, mouth slightly open, still half-draped in bubbles. Naturally, that was the exact moment Hermione decided he was “all clean.”

Percy carefully laid out the nappy he’d found, a faint proud smile tugging at his lips. “Found the right size—won’t embarrass him too much tomorrow.”
George grinned from across the room, cradling a bottle he’d concocted with more magic than skill. “Improved the mix. Should keep him settled longer.”
Nearby, Fred fussed over blankets and cushions, expertly building a nest on the floor from mattresses pulled off unused beds. “Honestly, those challenges the other week? Made this all a lot easier. Who knew we’d be so good at this?”
The others nodded in agreement, the pack was working like clockwork, each playing their part without fuss.

When Hermione gently helped a still asleep Harry from the bath, his skin rosy and warm, he looked smaller than ever — and utterly safe. Ginny and Ron followed, both dripping wet. With a flick of their wands, they quickly dried themselves, sharing a playful glance.
Hermione wrapped Harry in fresh clothes with tender care, her caregiver instincts fully engaged.
“We’re taking over this dorm tonight,” George announced, gesturing to their cozy nest on the floor. “Mattresses off the beds, everyone. It’s the safest spot.”
Ron exchanged a glance with Ginny, then nodded firmly. “We all sleep here. Pack sticks together.”
A warm, protective silence settled over the room, the pack was together and comfortable, ready to keep Harry safe through the night.

Chapter Text

The door to the staff room shut with a muted click, sealing in the heavy silence. McGonagall, Sprout, Flitwick, and Snape took their seats around the table, the tension in the room thick enough to slice with a wand.

McGonagall’s lips were pressed into a tight line. “Thank you for coming. We have a situation involving one of our students—several, in fact. An assault occurred in the corridors yesterday evening. The victim was Mr. Potter.”

Flitwick blinked. “Harry Potter? What sort of assault?”
“Strangulation,” McGonagall said grimly. “By Mr. Draco Malfoy.”
Professor Sprout inhaled sharply. “Mother magic…”
Flitwick set down his teacup. “That’s—more than just bullying. That’s targeted violence.”
McGonagall nodded once. “Mr. Malfoy disregarded a direct command from his alpha, Blaise Zabini. He also ignored Miss Parkinson’s caregiver signals and proceeded to physically dominate a peer, who he did not yet know was a little.”

There was a sharp inhale, then silence.

Then Sprout asked, “He touched his neck?”
Snape, who had been standing stiffly at the window, turned at that. His voice was flat. “He left bruises. And Potter lost consciousness.”
Flitwick paled. “He passed out?”
“Didn’t even realise what he’d done,” Snape muttered. His expression, usually a fortress, cracked faintly at the edges. “Didn’t stay to help. Zabini and Parkinson brought Potter to safety. Malfoy… floo-called home, utterly unaware he’d triggered a diplomatic-level pack incident.”

Sprout let out a long breath. “And the Weasley pack?”
McGonagall’s mouth twitched, though not in amusement. “Did not kill him. Which, frankly, I commend them for. But they are furious.”
Snape exhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate. “As they should be.”
The others looked at him, surprised. Snape’s tone had taken on something raw—vulnerable. He glanced away quickly.

“I... I say we punish Potter—” He stopped. Froze.
A beat.

“I meant Draco,” he said lowly, the words like ash. “We punish Draco.”
McGonagall gave him a long, steady look. “I understand, Severus. He is your godson.”
“That doesn't make this acceptable,” Snape muttered. “He called himself an alpha, ignored his actual alpha, assaulted a vulnerable student. And not just any student—him.”
“The Boy Who Lived,” Flitwick murmured. “The magical world will hear of this, if we’re not careful.”

Sprout looked toward McGonagall. “What steps are we taking?”
“I’ll be speaking to Draco personally. In the meantime, this remains strictly confidential. But we must begin internal consequences immediately. Suspension is likely. I’ll liaise with Zabini and Miss Parkinson. And I’ll ensure Mr. Potter is receiving the care he needs.”
Snape finally met her eyes. “If I may... I’ll speak to Draco..I will of course handle his punishment too. I will not defend him ”
“Good,” McGonagall said, eyes steely. “Because there’s nothing left to defend.”
McGonagall pressed her fingertips together, voice calm but edged. “I’ll be speaking with the Weasley pack tomorrow morning. I intend to offer them one of the unused dormitories as a private pack room.”

Sprout tilted her head. “That’s… rather generous, Minerva.”
“It’s not generosity,” she replied, tone clipped. “It’s insurance.”
Flitwick blinked. “Against what, exactly?”
“A murder,” McGonagall said flatly. “Not that I’d call it that, of course. But if the boy’s lungs suddenly gave out or he happened to ‘accidentally’ fall down a flight of stairs—well, let’s just say I prefer preventative diplomacy. I prefer disciplinary paperwork to student death paperwork.”

Snape pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “Merlin help us all.”

Chapter Text

The soft morning light filtered through the curtains, casting gentle patterns on the makeshift nest where Harry lay curled up. Slowly, his eyes fluttered open. For a moment, he didn’t quite register where he was. He felt a warm and not just from being tucked in a duvet either, the warmth of being around his family.

It wasn’t often Harry woke up happy, more used to grumpiness at the world and not being able to think properly for the first half an hour -at least. But today felt.. different. Happy. The warmth, the closeness of his family, all still asleep, Fred squashing Ron, George elbowing Percy who’s some how managed to almost fall of the floor bed, Hermione and Ginny sharing a duvet (a generous term given Hermione had hogged it making it as affective to Ginny as a paper towel). The blankets had obviously all been scented as well, he looked over at the rather messy table having been personalised with clutter already, Ginny’s jewellery, Percy’ book, Ron’s chess set with a cleaning set on top (that obviously hadn’t been used yet judging by the crumbs all over it), a prank planner from Fred, with George’s overly colourful pens on top (that hurt to look at), Hermione’s various schedules and lists all in a binder (and of course colour coded), and that’s when he saw it, a bottle and that was the moment it all came flooding back.

His cheeks flushed hot as he realised the truth -he was still in the nappy Percy had insisted on bringing, wrapped snugly in blankets, surrounded by his pack. He’d fallen asleep like that—middling, helpless, and utterly exposed.

He hid under his blanket for a moment letting himself feel the embarrassment in private just in case someone woke up.. before he relaised how childish he looked and threw the blanket off the bed. Given the mattress was on the floor it didn’t go very far and so he had to awkwardly pick it up to throw it again.
Harry’s gaze drifted downward, then to the small, delicate envelope resting beside him. Carefully, he unfolded the note inside, not recognising the neat, elegant handwriting immediately.

Dear Harry,
I was heartbroken to hear of what happened to you. No child—no little—should ever be harmed by those who are meant to protect them. Please know that you have my deepest sympathy and support.

Draco’s actions were unforgivable, and I assure you, they will not go without consequence. I am arranging for Severus, or as you know him Professor Snape, to intervene and ensure Draco understands the gravity of his mistake and the punishment he deserves.
I can only offer my deepest apologies on his behalf and apologise for my own mistakes in raising him. I truly wish you feel safe despite my son’s actions, and please know I will try my best to ensure this never happens again and send my best wishes in your recovery.

You are not alone. We will do everything in our power to keep you safe.
With all my care,
 Narcissa Malfoy nee Black

His face burned deeper, torn between gratitude and humiliation. Middling had its vulnerabilities, and Harry now lucid felt painfully aware of every one of them, especially after last night. But beneath the embarrassment,it was nice to know that he was cared for. Yes the circumstances that led to middling weren’t very nice but when he remembered bits and pieces he could help but be grateful he’d put his trust in his pack.

Chapter Text

Draco however, did not wake up like Harry did. He used to the ambiance of a boatman to wake him subtly using classical music and bird songs, just as the manargerie at home was instead abruptly awoken by a horrible screeching from Fathers taloned bird -although with the mood Draco was in it was generous for him to call it a chicken. He had fallen asleep in the private fourth year common and his abrupt awakening wasn’t the only symptom of his horrid morning, oh no he woke up with a crook in his neck and as he used his magic to open the window for the loud obnoxious..thing. His magic seemed hesitant and dulled. He couldn’t help but scoff at the combination.

He decided to completly ignored the horrible nuisance at the window for a bit longer and took himself to bed. He needed privacy. He wasn’t hiding. Of course not that would not be befitting of a Malfoy heir. Simply allowing his business to remain confidential and ignored. He couldn’t help but lash out at his pillow absolutely mutilating it when his magic seemed suddenly overpowered making his slight leviosa absolutely chuck the pillow and somehow it bounced of his own face before shredding itself. He couldn’t help but grab the tatters of his pillow and rip them some more.
He was in a truly dour mood. Luckily his wards were up and no one heard his outburst..that of course never happened. Ever.

Draco decided to go back to sleep for another hour and hopefully he’d wake up in a better mood -befitting the heir of Malfoy.

It was almost exactly an hour later when Draco stirred in his bed, the dawn’s pale light filtering through the curtains. He turned and immediately got a face full of mutilated pillow that was promptly thrown -regally of course- anywhere but near him. He closed his eyes, once more debating whether he could find a time turner, investigate if his parents were imperiod or polyjuiced, or join a cult to get out of the wreck that was his life. But his father seemed much to like himself for any spell or potion and had said much to much about the Malfoy line and image, that it couldn’t be anyone but him. He felt breaking into the department of mysteries would probably lead to him getting into more trouble criminally and parentally then strangling poxy Potter. He thought of the cult then promptly realised his parent had been there done that and did not recommend. He sighed, a long suffering sigh.
Looking at his dorm mates to see who was asleep and who he’d need to manipulate.

His eyes snapped open wide when he noticed the folded parchment lying on his desk. He knew the stupid bird had come earlier but he’s not seen a letter. Then again he wasn’t exactly in a ‘noticing’ mood earlier. With a flick of his wand, he summoned it over and broke the seal, the weight of the letter already settling on his chest.

Draco,
Your reckless behavior has not only endangered Harry Potter but has also created a diplomatic incident that threatens our family’s standing and the delicate balance of power within the magical world.
I have contacted Severus to oversee your punishment. You will learn what it means to respect your pack—and the consequences of overstepping your bounds.
Understand this- if Harry Potter had been an alpha, your actions would have been fatal. Blaise’s restraint was mercy. You are no alpha, and your challenge to Blaise’s authority has only worsened your position.
You will write to Harry to formally apologise, and you will accept the punishment laid out. Failure to do so will have consequences far beyond your imagination.
Consider this your final warning.
Father

As he read his father’s words, the cold fury in them burned hotter than any spell. His grip tightened, fists clenched so hard the parchment crinkled beneath his fingers.
“Reckless behaviour …” “Diplomatic incident…” “Not an alpha…” The insults stabbed at his pride, but worse was the unmistakable tone of finality. Father wasn’t just disappointed—he was enraged.
Draco’s jaw twitched as he read about Severus being called in to oversee his punishment. A cold shiver ran down his spine. Snape’s strictness was legendary—and now Potters stupid pack were involved.

“If Harry had been an alpha, your actions would have been fatal. Blaise’s restraint was mercy.” The words echoed in his mind like a verdict. Draco’s eyes narrowed. He had tried to assert himself, to claim strength, but now it was clear the cost had been far greater than he’d imagined.

His father was angry, his mother upset, and he had the strictest godfather ever, overseeing his punishment.
A bitter twist of resentment filled him, but beneath it was a grudging recognition- he had seriously crossed a line. Writing that apology to Potter would not come easy, but refusal was unthinkable.

That didn’t mean he couldn’t play his trump card however.

He folded the letter carefully, his mind already racing through the consequences ahead. Whatever else happened, Draco knew this was far from over.

Chapter Text

The dungeon was cold, shadows stretching long across the stone walls. Severus Snape stood stiffly behind his desk, his dark eyes sharp but betraying a flicker of unease as Draco Malfoy paced confidently before him.

“You must understand, Professor,” Draco began smoothly, knowing calling him ‘uncle’ in this mood wouldn’t end well, “I didn’t want to escalate things. I was protecting my pack. Harry’s deception threatens all of us.”
Severus arched an eyebrow, lips pursed. “Deception? You endangered him.”
Draco’s smile was thin. “On the contrary. He’s the one deceiving everyone. I have evidence.” He pulled a folded parchment from his robes and placed it deliberately on the desk. “Forged notes from his own hand- claims that he’s a Little. Yet there’s no registration of a little in the classification data base. I know better. He’s a Dom. He’s been using that status to manipulate and extort sympathy from those around him. Real Littles aren’t getting support because of his lies.”
Snape’s eyes flickered to the parchment, then back up, unread but absorbing.

“I’ve seen him,” Draco continued, lowering his voice. “With a bottle of pheromones—Little pheromones—that he sprays on himself to make others believe he’s vulnerable, to gain influence and control. Protection.’” He spat that last word with no short amount of venom. “It’s all a ruse.”

Severus’s expression darkened slightly, the faintest trace of a shadow crossing his usually guarded face. “If this is true, Potter’s manipulation runs deeper than I thought.”
Draco took a step closer, voice almost a whisper. “You understand the delicate balance in pack politics. If this isn’t addressed, it undermines the very order that keeps us safe. I did what any loyal person would—protect my family, my pack.”
Severus’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of something unspoken. “I know what it is to hide a status the world misunderstands. But I will not let that blind me to truth.”
Draco grinned slyly. “Then you’ll want to be the one to expose him. Imagine the chaos if the truth came out from anyone else.”

“I knew he was no little but no one would hear of it they think I’m bias but I’ve always been able to see through potters lies.” He muttered under his breath, he didn’t even know what potter he was talking about, but then again he didn’t need to differentiate.

Snape’s gaze hardened. “You will still face consequences for your reckless behavior. Challenging Blaise’s authority cannot be tolerated.”
Draco’s smile didn’t falter. “Understood. But remember sometimes, it’s more dangerous to stay silent and let injustices go.”
Severus’s voice was quiet but firm. “Punishment stands. Detention for a fortnight, plus a full report on the dangers of undermining pack hierarchy.”
Draco inclined his head, already plotting his next move beneath the surface.

Chapter Text

The Great Hall buzzed with noise as Draco Malfoy approached the Gryffindor table, flashing a seemingly conciliatory smile. He cleared his throat, rather excessively, making sure enough ears nearby caught his words.

“Sorry about the incident yesterday, Potter,” Draco said smoothly. “It’s so hard to determine what people are when we haven’t received classification bracelets yet, isn’t it? I’m sure everyone’s been wondering yours. I never realised that being... what you are could make someone so vulnerable.”

He let the words hang in the air just long enough before continuing, voice dipped to a casual murmur. “It’s always tricky when people don’t fit where they’re supposed to be and get something..unexpected. I suppose some are affected more than others, of course.”
Harry’s stomach twisted, but he told himself Draco wasn’t trying to stir anything deliberately. Blaise and Pansy standing nearby as they had been since the moment Draco had entered, however, exchanged sharp looks, their faces tight with barely contained anger.
Ginny, sitting just a few seats away, watched Draco closely, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. She could feel the undercurrent of manipulation and uncertainty gnawing at her. Part of her wanted to warn Harry, but another part hesitated—worried it might just hurt him more.
Draco gave a slight smirk, stepping back as murmurs started spreading around the hall, just enough to keep the question alive without ever naming it.
Harry forced a smile but couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t as innocent as it seemed.

Blaise’s voice was low but sharp as he cornered Draco near the staircase. “That wasn’t an accident, Malfoy. You were deliberately stirring up whispers about Harry’s classification. Trying to unsettle him and everyone else.”
He blinked with all the conviction of a niffler pretending it hadn’t just swallowed all your coins, an oh so ‘innocent’ blink that looked more like he'd got something stuck in his eyes.

Pansy folded her arms, eyes narrowed. “Playing coy won’t save you. You’re toeing a dangerous line, pretending you’re concerned, but it’s all calculated. You want chaos.”
Draco’s smirk faltered, but he shrugged. “I’m just pointing out facts. People are confused, and Potter’s keeping secrets. I’m trying to protect my pack’s interests.”
Blaise’s glare intensified. “Protecting our pack doesn’t mean undermining others. You owe Potter more respect or at least some decency.”
They sighed as they turned away, Draco making a sharp exit up the stairs, snubbing them both.

Luckily as they turned they’d saw Ginny and Harry coming out the great hall, probably after the whispers became too much.
He was saying something to Ginny though they made them both freeze, “It’s just I know he was apologising and I should be grateful for that but I think it went wrong..maybe. Maybe he’s just not used to giving them.”
Pansy’s tone was softer but firm. “Harry, Draco’s apology was anything but accidental. He was deliberately trying to stir rumors about your classification — keeping it vague so he won’t be pinned down, but it was a calculated move.”
Blaise nodded. “He wants to unsettle you, maybe provoke a reaction. Don’t let him. You’re stronger than that.”
Ginny looked at Harry with a mixture of concern and frustration. “He was testing you. We all noticed. If you need help dealing with it, we’re here.”
Harry’s chest tightened, a flush creeping up his neck. “I… I didn’t realise. I thought maybe he just didn’t think before he spoke.”

He swallowed hard, aware of the subtle shift inside him — the flicker of pheromones signaling distress, the part of him that felt too small, too vulnerable. But he forced himself to steady his breathing, to keep control.
“I’m okay,” he said, voice steady but quiet. “I’ll handle it.”
Pansy gave a small, approving nod. “You don’t have to do it alone.”

Chapter Text

The morning had started off badly for Harry, and it only seemed to get worse.

Ron and Hermione found him just outside the Great Hall waiting for them, looking pale and distracted. They were still fresh from the prefect meeting when Hermione blurted out, “Harry, there’s a history quiz today. Professor Binns gave no warning.”
Harry’s stomach twisted. “A quiz? Today?” He tried to force a smile but barely managed it.
“My essay for herbology is still on my desk in the common room so are my history notes,” he admitted quietly. “I forgot to grab it this morning.”
Hermione’s eyes widened. “Oh Harry…”

The group arrived at the drafty classroom where the ancient portraits and dusty chalkboards awaited. Harry was seated beside a broken window rattling in the wind, the cold biting at his neck.
Professor Binns shuffled in, his ghostly voice droning on, but Harry’s focus was shattered. Ron offered to switch seats so Harry could move away from the cold window, but Binns firmly refused as his monotone voice kept repeating “There will be consequences for any cheating.” Over and over.

Harry could never focus in these lessons due to his seat and Binns didn’t make it any easier. His voice was alway drab and dry and he started lessons from random chapters from different History textbooks, one week about goblins in the 1500s then the centaurs treaties of the 900s. It wasn’t even in chronological order. He tried focusing on the quiz, about yet another Goblin rebellion, of the 1200s? Or something. He swears Binns never taught this chapter. It didn’t help that his focus was fried. The rattling of the window was starting to get really frustrating, every scratch of the quill he could hear was so grating they may have well been writing on him instead of their parchment. Not to mention the cold air targeting him made him freezing. He sighed. When Hermione asked for four sheets of extra paper he couldn’t help but sigh more.

As they moved toward the Herbology greenhouses, Harry’s foot slipped into a puddle of water left by the recent rain. His socks soaked through instantly, the cold seeping into his bones.
“Great,” he muttered under his breath, wiping his shoe on the stone path to try and get the mud off, this of course seemed to make it worse.
Then, glancing down, Harry noticed his shirt buttons were uneven you could see the first couple peeking out his jumper, he realise every single one was misbuttoned— one was crooked, another seemingly missing entirely, hid by another. He tried to fix it but his fingers fumbled; the fiddly buttons were impossible to manage alone. He knew he could ask but he didn’t feel like talking after the disaster that was his morning, he also didn’t want to admit he's too stupid to button up his own shirt. He got the impulse to just rip the shirt down the middle. Screw the buttons. Then he realised how much of a bad idea that would be and so tried to hide them more with his jumper and cloak. He huffed realising he now was able to feel the clothes on his skin, and how starchy his shirt felt and uncomfortable it was having some of the buttons dig into his stomach. That got him thinking about his wet socks. As he thought about his shoes he realised how far away he was from the rest of the group and had to run to catch up leading him to get more wet and all out of breath.

It was a miracle he wasn’t late, or maybe he was as he was the last to enter but he didn’t get in trouble. Somehow. He had to take a minute to get his breathe back. He was not great at running, it always made his chest hurt for ages after and he always got a stitch. He went to sit with Hermione and Ron but at Sprout’s rather pointed look he moved to sit with Neville.

The plants always acted strange around him some of them would be really friendly, sometimes too friendly. Neville was great with plants though, and he usually seemed to be able to counteract them from being too overwhelming. If they liked Harry they were besotted with Neville.

Once Harry had finally gained back his breathe he joined in helping the plant a bouncing bulb, out the soil with more then a little help from Neville due to its energetic shuffling. It reminded him of a little dancer hopping about, it seemed so excited hopping in front of them both, somehow it didn’t want to escape like the others seemed to. He followed what Neville did and gave it pets like it was a cat, he couldn’t help but think about how he was finally getting the hang of this. The bulb seemed to jump into his arms before hopping around the table and then demanding more pets. Harry’s smile quickly fell however, when he turned around to see an army of bouncing bulbs flooding his and Neville’s desk swarming for pets from them. Leading to outraged Hufflepuffs and amused Gryffindors and one very overwhelmed Harry. One bulb was sweet, cute even but thirty all attempting to get in your space and hopping over you became extremely overstimulating. He tried to step back only for thrm all to follow him anyway. He couldn’t help but let out a groan forced to stand like a scarecrow as Neville and Ms Sprout dealt with handing out rather disappointed bulbs out to other students to be repotted.

Harry had, of course, forgot to bring his homework and though Professor Sprout didn’t scold him, Harry felt the weight of her disappointed glance.

As he left, whispers and sideways glances followed him like a shadow, making him shrink inward.

He was having a terrible day, he knew how we there was a light at the end of the wand, he just had one lesson left before he had a free period. He could have a break then, a long lunch. Where he could have a nap and get out his wet socks, and his stupid shirt, and have a much needed nap.

One hurdle left, one more lesson. That didn’t sound so bad until he realised that the final hurdle was Potions. The cold stone dungeon chilled him to the bone as he trudged down the stairs, every step heavier than the last.
Ron and Hermione flanked him now, trying to offer silent support, but Harry’s mind was a tangle of exhaustion and frustration.

The dungeon was colder than usual. The damp clung to the stones, and Harry’s still-wet socks squelched faintly with every step as he moved to his usual station. He kept his head down, hoping to go unnoticed.
Professor Snape entered with his robes sweeping behind him like a storm cloud, as always. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes found Harry immediately.
“Today’s lesson will involve delicate, scent-reactive ingredients,” Snape began, his gaze never quite leaving Harry. “I advise any student wearing fragrance to remove it. Now.”
A few students looked confused. One Slytherin quietly wiped their wrists on their sleeves after performing a quick augmenti, obviously wiping off some perfume.
Snape didn’t even look at them however. His eyes were firmly stuck on Harry.

Harry froze. His blood ran cold. Was Snape implying something?
Snape stepped closer to the center of the classroom.
“There are, of course, more... subtle scents. Not all potions react to cologne. Some respond to deeper truths.” His tone turned silky. “To identity.”
There was a long pause. The class went quiet. Too quiet.

“So,” Snape drawled, pacing now, “if a student were, say, presenting a misleading classification to gain sympathy—or power—it would be most unwise to test me in this classroom.”
Harry’s heart thudded in his ears.
Snape stopped near his cauldron. “Potter. You don’t seem prepared. Or... are you simply distracted?”
“I’m fine, sir,” Harry said quickly.
“Fine,” Snape echoed. “Of course. Just tell me, for the record—your classification?”
Harry took in a sharp breathe as he hesitated. “That’s private.”
Snape arched an eyebrow. “Is it? You’ve certainly made it public enough in practice. Or was that all performance?”

He stepped even closer, lowering his voice for the class to still overhear. “If you are, in fact, what you claim, you won’t mind confirming it aloud. Unless you’re not, Potter.”
Something heavy settled over the room.
“I’m not... lying,” Harry said, voice thin.
Snape’s expression was cold, lips curled in disdain. “So you are a Little, then. Unless you care to correct me?”
Harry flushed, every nerve in his body screaming. His mouth opened—but no sound came out.
“I—I—”
“Very well,” Snape said, tone sharp, “Then we proceed as if that is true.”
Harry gripped the edge of the desk, blinking fast, doing everything in his power to keep from shaking. Snape turned sharply, sweeping away to lecture about the day’s potion, leaving silence and stiff tension in his wake.
Ron stared at him. Hermione looked horrified.
Across the room, Draco smirked.
And Harry just wanted to disappear

Snape’s voice cut through the tension like a blade. “Of course, if you are indeed a Little, we must take that into account.”
Harry blinked, throat tightening. The classroom had gone deathly still.
Snape paced back toward the front, folding his arms with deliberate calm. “A sensitive classification requires... sensitive handling. I would hate to assign you a task that overwhelms your capabilities. After all, how could I possibly trust a Little with a cauldron full of volatile materials?”
A few students snickered but it wasn’t humour filled, they snickered nervously.

Harry’s ears burned.
Snape looked back at him. “Unless, of course, you're not a Little. Are you, Potter?”
Harry felt the trap closing. Either he admitted what he wasn’t ready to share, or denied it and played straight into Snape’s hand. He hesitated—then shook his head slightly.
Snape’s eyes gleamed. “Ah, I see. So the Little act is just that—an act.” He conjured a small silver cloth with a flick of his wand and tossed it onto Harry’s desk. “Then I’m sure you won’t mind removing that... conveniently applied pheromone spray.”
Harry stared down at the cloth, blood draining from his face.
“Go on,” Snape said smoothly. “If you’re not a Little, it should come off easily enough. A bit of warm water and a cleansing cloth.”
“I—I don’t use spray—”
“Then you won’t mind proving it.” Snape raised his eyebrows. “Unless your ‘sensitive skin’ would react poorly?”

Harry looked down, then dipped the cloth in water, pressing it to his wrist.
It stung.
He bit his lip and kept scrubbing.
Snape watched, arms crossed, silent.
The cloth grew damp, then raw against his skin. Red marks bloomed.
Still, the scent didn’t change.
His hands trembled.
More water. More pressure. He scrubbed harder.
It wouldn’t come off.
A sour note crept into the air.
A shiver ran down Harry’s spine—because he knew that smell.
Distress.
A Little in distress.
The room seemed to tilt as his scent rolled off him in waves—soft and confused and hurting.

Hermione gasped the only noise she could make her whole body had been frozen, the shock making it impossible for her to move. Ron stood sharply.
Snape flinched.
The professor’s face twisted, horror dawning behind the mask. Because now there was no denying it.

Harry Potter was a Little.

And Snape had forced him to prove it by shaming him in front of the entire class.
Snape opened his mouth—then closed it. He looked pale. Shaken. The truth hung heavy in the air, undeniable, thick with panic and shame and the unmistakable sour sweetness of a Little pushed too far.
Harry couldn’t look up.
He didn’t want to see their faces.
Didn’t want to see Draco’s Cheshire smile.
Didn’t want to see Hermione’s pity or Ron’s rage.
He just wanted to disappear.

Snape’s face twitched, the realisation crashing in. He took a sharp step back, as if distance could reverse what had just happened.
“Get out,” he snapped suddenly, voice clipped and too loud. “Out of my classroom, Potter.”
Harry blinked, the world tilting around him. “What?”
“I said get out!” Snape barked, eyes avoiding him now. “Take your pathetic display and go.”
The sour-sweet scent of distress thickened, and a couple students shifted uncomfortably in their seats. It was too much—too obvious now.
Hermione shot up from her seat, furious. “Professor—”
“Miss Granger, sit down.” Snape’s voice cracked like a whip. “Unless you would like to draw more attention to this spectacle.”
Hermione sat, but her jaw clenched hard enough to hurt.
Harry’s breathing stuttered. His cheeks were wet—he hadn’t even realized he was crying. He turned to leave, head ducked low.

“Potter.” Snape’s voice followed him, low and venomous. “Don’t think this performance has changed anything. If anything—” he turned, eyes cold and sharp “—you’ve made it worse.”
A sharp gasp from Hermione. A rustle from Ron who at some point Snape had silenced with a spell Ron was undoing.
And then, Snape pivoted slightly toward Draco, eyes like a thundercloud. “And you, Mr. Malfoy—expect to remain after class. You’re in more trouble than even your imagination can stretch to.”
Draco paled, but said nothing.
The door slammed behind Harry as he fled.

Chapter Text

Ron after managing to stop the strong silencing spell and the sticking charm forcing him to stick to his chair, shoved back his stool, the screech jarring in the tense silence.

“I’m going with him.”

“Me too,” Hermione added, already gathering her things, eyes bright with fury and something close to panic.

“No,” Snape snapped, turning sharply toward them. “You will remain where you are.”

Ron looked like he might argue, jaw set in that stubborn Weasley way—but Hermione laid a hand on his arm. Her eyes, though, didn’t leave Snape’s.

“You’ve made your point,” she said icily. “A shame it was so loudly delivered. Now let us go.”

“I will not.” He said firmly unaffected by the icy glares he received across the classroom not just from the Gryffindor side either, but to allow them to go would undermine his authority completely not to mention his reputation.

Snape’s lips thinned, but he didn’t speak again. He turned his back on them entirely, unwilling to meet anyone’s gaze not before using a spell to lock the door however.

He hadn’t meant for it to go so far. He had set the trap carefully, with every intention of forcing Potter to fumble, to confess, to let slip whatever deceit Draco insisted the boy was weaving. It was supposed to be a power move—sharp, efficient, a reminder that Snape saw what others missed.

But he’d been wrong.

Spectacularly, catastrophically wrong.

The scent that filled the room wasn’t one of trickery—it was raw, instinctive distress. And Potter’s face, usually so full of defiance, had crumpled with such honest confusion and shame that it made Snape feel… sick.

He’d seen Littles struggle before. He’d cared for one.

And to humiliate a Little like that, in front of a full classroom, knowing now that it had been true—the bile rose before he could stop it. He swallowed hard. He couldn’t take it back. Couldn’t undo what he’d just shattered.

The corridor outside the Potions classroom was buzzing—half the students whispering, the other half still in stunned silence from what had happened. Harry’s scent lingered faintly in the air, raw, shaken, sweet in the worst kind of way. The Gryffindor pack had of course gone after him. Hermione had stormed out first, muttering curses under her breath. Ronald had practically growled at the door before shoving it open.

Blaise waited. He didn’t go after Harry. Not yet. Because he wasn’t finished.

Sure enough, a few minutes later, the classroom door opened again. Draco stepped out, eyes sharp, expression carefully neutral—but there was a smugness behind it, a gleam in his eye like he still thought he’d won something. Blaise didn’t say a word. He simply reached up, grabbed the pack emblem from around his neck—a thin chain with the etched obsidian disc that marked him as Alpha and marked his pack—and snapped the chain clean off. Gasps rippled around them.

Draco stopped mid-step. “Blaise—”

Blaise held the chain in one hand. Then turned to Draco, and with deliberate, cold precision, tossed the pack emblem to the floor between them. It clinked as it hit the stone. A slow, echoing sound. Final.

“You’re not one of us,” Blaise said, voice quiet but hard as steel. “Not anymore.” Draco’s face twisted, but he didn’t move. He blinked, calculating—his expression morphing into something more wounded, more contrite. “I didn’t know Snape would take it that far,” he said, stepping forward. “You know I—”

“Don’t,” Blaise said, raising a hand. “Don’t twist it. Don’t try to spin it. I watched you, Draco. You set it up. You let it happen. You smiled.”

Draco’s jaw tightened. “It’s not like you actually care about Potter—”

Blaise moved. A wandless blast of magic hit Draco square in the chest and sent him flying backward into the stone wall with a thud. Not enough to break anything—but enough to sting. Enough to humiliate. Gasps turned to shouts.

“Blaise—!” Draco choked. Blaise stepped forward, towering now, eyes dark and full of fury. “You challenged me this morning again,” he said quietly, for only Draco to hear. “You undermined me in front of the pack. You manipulated Snape into humiliating a Little. You knew Harry was vulnerable. You did it anyway. That’s not dominance. That’s cruelty.”

“I didn’t—!”

“I told you not to test me again.”

Draco went silent. Blaise turned, leaving Draco crumpled where he’d landed, and picked up the discarded pack emblem off the floor. He held it for a long moment in his hand. Then, with sharp control, he snapped it in two, the chain breaking like thread.

“Draco Malfoy is no longer a member of this pack,” he announced flatly to the watching students. “And if anyone here thinks they’d like to follow his example—try me.” And with that, he turned and walked away, not sparing Draco another look.

Chapter Text

The office door slammed open before Snape could settle, and Hermione stood framed in the doorway, eyes blazing.

“You don’t get to write this off as a ‘spectacle’,” she snapped. “Outing Harry as a Little like that wasn’t a lesson—it was a public humiliation.”
Snape looked up, pale but scowling, voice clipped. “Miss Granger, this was not my doing. Potter chose deception. I merely called his bluff.”
Hermione’s glare sharpened. “You called it because you wanted to believe Draco’s story. It’s not deception to not want to be public with a classification. You let your bias cloud your judgment—because you hate Harry’s father and you’ve been waiting for a reason to punish him.”

He flinched but said nothing.

“You humiliated a student who was already struggling,” Hermione continued. “And all because you assumed he was some manipulative dom using pheromone sprays to control the room. Never mind that he’d just been strangled. You never stopped to consider he might just be trying to keep it together trying to hide it for a reason.”
Snape’s eyes flickered, but his jaw remained tight.

“Do you even realize what you’ve done?” Hermione pressed, voice lowering but fierce. “You forced Harry into a corner where he had no choice but to break. You made him prove himself in a way no one should have to. And now, every student in that room knows a secret Harry wanted to keep private.”

Snape’s stare darkened. “He was lying.”
“Or he was scared,” Hermione said. “You don’t know what it’s like to carry that fear around every day, never knowing where the next threat will come from. You don’t know how hard it is to pretend to be strong just to survive.”

She took a step closer. “You owe him more than silence and scorn, Severus. You owe him respect.”
Snape’s face tightened, but there was no retort.

Hermione turned to leave, voice sharp over her shoulder. “If you want to teach him, do it with care—not cruelty. Otherwise, you’re no better than the ones who left him alone to suffer.”
The door clicked shut behind her, leaving Snape alone with the weight of his mistake.

Chapter Text

Snape’s office door was halfway shut when Blaise knocked once and pushed it open without waiting for permission.

The professor looked up, still pale from the classroom disaster and then a dressing down from a teachers pet no less, the shock of the discovery may have left him pale but his usual scowl had fully and firmly now returned. “Zabini. If you’re here to berate me like Miss Granger attempted, I suggest you don’t waste either of our time.”

“I’m here to correct you,” Blaise said evenly, stepping inside. “So you don’t make the same mistake again.”
Snape raised an eyebrow, voice clipped. “Mistake? Potter was the one who chose to mislead his classmates. I treated him as he presented himself.”
“You humiliated a Little in front of an entire room of peers,” Blaise said flatly. “You cornered him into outing himself. That’s not ‘treatment’—that’s exposure. And if you’d paid any attention to his classification beyond your own assumptions, you’d know just how badly you messed up.”

Snape narrowed his eyes. “He’s a Little. I know that much..now. The reaction was... regrettable, but you’re being dramatic about it. He’s hardly the only student to be rattled by pressure so what if I force a crying teen out my classroom it wouldn’t be the first time.”

Blaise let out a breath through his nose. Controlled. Almost too calm.
“Harry isn’t a Teen Little.”
Snape blinked. “What?”
“You heard me.” Blaise stepped closer, voice low but slicing. “He’s classified as a Baby Little. Lowest independence rating. Youngest regression. Highest emotional fragility.”

Snape’s face paled again. “No. That’s not—he’s always—he presents—”
“He presents as older and responsible because he has to,” Blaise cut in, anger finally breaking through. “Because people like you assume he’s faking whenever he has bad days. Because every time he acted too young or too dependent, he was punished for it. Even in first year, he was expected to be braver, stronger, older than everyone else. He’s been performing the hero since he was eleven, and it’s still not enough. His pain, his sadness, the fact that he’s just a kid—it all gets ignored. I’ve seen it. I observe. And when he doesn’t meet your impossible standards, you dismiss him, you insult him. You don’t even notice when he’s hurting. Or care. And today, you pushed him so far his body had to scream it at you. You forced him to prove his own distress.”

Snape sat back slowly in his chair. “A Baby Little.”
Blaise nodded. “He came into class already close to middlespace. You shoved him the rest of the way. You didn’t just humiliate him. You sent him spiraling.”
Snape’s expression faltered. “I thought—Merlin. I thought he was a Teen.”
“You thought wrong,” Blaise snapped. “And now half the school knows what he didn’t want shared yet. And that scent he gave off at the end? It wasn’t embarrassment. That was fear. It was pain.”
Silence hung between them.

Finally, Snape’s voice came out low. “I didn’t know.”
“No,” Blaise said, turning for the door. “You didn’t care enough to find out.”
And then he was gone, cloak sweeping behind him.

Chapter Text

Harry didn’t remember how he got there. One moment he’d been pushing blindly through the cold, stone corridors, heart pounding and vision blurring, and the next… the echo of the entrance sliding shut behind him swallowed the world whole.

The Chamber of Secrets was still and dark, just as he remembered—damp air curling around him, the ancient smell of stone and time pressing close. He didn’t cast a Lumos. He didn’t need to see. He just needed to not be seen.

He stumbled toward the statue of Salazar Slytherin, crumpling at its base with a choked sound. His arms wrapped tight around himself, trying to hold something in what had already started slipping loose.

The day had been too much.
The whispering students. The lies. Snape. The scrubbing. The way it had felt to be outed—and worse, disbelieved. Harry had never wanted this, had never asked to be classified at all, let alone be treated like a problem for it. He with great difficulty stood and took of his wet shoe and sock. He felt like a flamingo, and not a very good one at that. He’d only ever seen them once, and he’ been rushed through the exhibit. Dudley didn’t find them very interesting. But he thought they had much better balance than he did. He finally threw off the offending wet items of one foot. Before repeating the process on his other one. He couldn’t quite manage it on this foot, his laces felt impossible he couldn’t get them open so he just pushed as much as he could. Trying to take deep breathes as he did.

He stumbled forward on his unsteady legs, finally dragging the other wet shoe fully-off behind him and gripping a soggy red sock in his fist like a lifeline. When he again stumbling reached the base of the giant statue, he crumpled there with a tiny, pitiful sound. His thumb found its way to his mouth almost like reflex before he stopped it. His eyes burned

He let his forehead rest against the cold stone floor. His thoughts were mush. His fingers kept twitching, restless and uncoordinated. His limbs felt heavy, fuzzy. Like someone had turned the dial down on his whole body and mind.
His headspace was creeping in—fast, stubborn, inescapable. Not middling this time. Full.
“Not now,” he whispered hoarsely. “Please. Not now.”
But it didn’t listen.

Above him, Salazar Slytherin’s portrait stirred to life, eyes glinting in the gloom.

Chapter Text

It began with Hermione running into the Great Hall, pale and wild-eyed. Ron followed, clearly shocked but trying to hide it. She didn’t even make it to the Gryffindor table.
“He’s not on the Map,” she blurted, breathless. “He’s not anywhere.”
The silence that followed felt like the world exhaling.

Ginny shot to her feet, despite her having only just sat down, knocking over her pumpkin juice. George froze mid-bite. Fred’s eyes narrowed like a hawk. Percy, alarmingly calm, stood and said one word
“Who?”
“Harry,” Hermione said, voice cracking. “He’s gone.”

The castle seemed to hold its breath. The whispering hadn’t stopped since Draco Malfoy made “accidental” comments loud enough to stir the pot and make everyone question Harry Potter’s classification. Now whispers had turned into full chaos of conversation after the potions disaster— proof of the Harry Potter being a Little, of Snape exposing him. After Hermione’s declaration, conversations stopped, fell away to pure fear.

For once even the gossip mill was holding its breathe in fear. A now confirmed little was just outed, and now missing.

Within minutes, the Heads of House were assembled in an antechamber. Blaise and Pansy arrived uninvited but unchallenged, expressions stormy.
“He wouldn’t just run,” Ginny snapped. “Not unless he was really scared. Or—worse.”
“And we all know who scared him,” Pansy added icily, thinking of Draco and Snape with a glare that could peel paint.
Snape didn’t defend Draco or himself.

Instead, he stood stiffly, arms folded, jaw tight. “He disappeared after my lesson. I..miscalculated.”
“Miscalculated?” McGonagall’s voice was ice and fury. “You deliberately goaded a Little—my student—into distress in front of a full the class, outed him and now he’s missing.”
“I didn’t know—”
“You did. You let yourself be manipulated.You should’ve known and not only because you saw the file.” She snapped. “You’ve taught him for five years, and still you let your bitterness blind you. You let Malfoy steer you.”

Snape stiffened, eyes flicking with something dark and volatile behind them. “He lied to me. Forged evidence. Spun a tale of manipulation—”
“Because you wanted to believe it,” Fred said coldly. “You wanted an excuse to punish Harry for existing.”
“Enough,” McGonagall barked. “This ends now. Find him. Every hallway, every stairwell. If he's slipped into headspace, he may not even know he’s lost. He may not come when you call.”
“But the Map—” Ron’s voice cracked. “He’s not on it.”
Percy paled. “That means he’s somewhere off-grid. Hidden or—” He stopped himself. “He needs us.”

Ginny’s hands were clenched at her sides. Her magic crackled faintly around her, echoing the storm in her heart. “We will find him,” she said, low and dangerous. “And when we do— Draco and Snape better pray they’re not in the same corridor.”
The teachers scattered to coordinate the search.

The pack—Ron, Hermione, Percy, the twins, Ginny—marched toward the last known sighting with expressions like drawn blades. Everyone in the corridors moved aside.Every student had enough awareness to steer clear the mere aura of each of them was terrifying, let alone a group. In fact everyone was terrified of them all, how they marched as a unit, how their eyes promised vengeance at any inconvenience, how they looked at every corner, every corridor, every person as though they were ready for a threat or a reunion.

They were all terrified of this war pack, turned sniffer dogs, in fact a large amount of students chose to go back to their dorms and steer completely clear lest they end up an inconvenience, knowing they’d end up on the wrong end of a wand.

If Harry Potter was truly a Little, then he was a missing little. A missing little that had a pack.
And that pack would stop at nothing until he's found.

Chapter Text

The green flames spat and flickered, casting eerie shadows over the four faces gathered. Severus stood rigid, jaw clenched, eyes dark and stormy. Narcissa trembled, clutching her hands as if to steady herself. Lucius’s gaze was sharp, cold as winter ice, while Draco lounged with a twisted smirk, unrepentant.

Severus broke the silence, voice raw with frustration and shame.
“Potter was in my class. I thought he was a manipulator. I was convinced to out him during my lesson. I forced him to scrub his skin—thought it was pheromone spray. I yelled. I told him to leave. I thought… I thought he was.. anything but a little. Something dominant. I thought he had committed forgery.”

His gaze flicked sharply to Draco, venom creeping into his tone.
“But it was all lies. Manipulated. I was a fool. Draco pushed me, twisted everything. And I fell for it.”
Draco’s smirk deepened, eyes gleaming cruelly.
“I thought Father would be proud. Potter’s secret was already bleeding out. I just accelerated it. Potter even forgave me—can you believe that? Twice. Didn’t even realised when I was socially manoeuvring his ‘apology’. Stupid, blind to the game.”

Narcissa’s face crumpled, tears spilling down. Her voice cracked, breaking the brittle silence.
“A little… a child forced to scrub himself, yelled at, humiliated outed—because of this? Because of you.”

Her sobs choked her as she looked away, unwilling to meet her son’s cold gaze.
“Draco, what have you done? You’re supposed to protect him.”
Lucius’s expression darkened, rage barely contained.
“You’ve endangered everything. Arthur warned us—control your heir or risk a pack feud. And now you’ve done exactly that.”
Draco sneered, defiant.
“I’m done obeying Blaise. I’m done playing safe. If being alpha means breaking the rules—then so be it.”

Lucius stepped forward, voice icy and unforgiving.
“Listen well, Draco. There is no alpha without loyalty. No strength without control. You threaten more than yourself. If you don’t stop, you’ll lose everything.”
Severus’s hands trembled, voice shaking with a mix of anger and despair. 
“And now… I’ve just learned the worst.”
All eyes snapped to him. Severus swallowed hard, voice dropping to a grim whisper.
“Harry’s headspace. It’s zero to two. A baby. I believed he was a teen little when I found out. I yelled at him to save face. He..ran.”

The weight of that realisation hit like a hammer. Silence fell, heavy and suffocating.

Narcissa’s tears flowed freely, voice barely a whisper.
“How… how could you do this to a baby?!”
Lucius’s rage twisted into a bitter, protective fury.
“This isn’t just about control anymore. This is a disaster. If word leaks… if the pack finds out what Draco’s done…”
He clenched his fists, voice trembling with barely restrained fear.
“We’re looking at war. A feud that could tear everything apart.”

Draco’s defiance faltered, but only for a heartbeat.
“Then let it come. I’ll be ready.”
Narcissa’s sobs filled the room as Lucius stared down his son, the full weight of his failure pressing down.

Chapter Text

The moment Narcissa’s figure vanished in the flicker of green flames the sound of her sobs stopping as she left, the room’s tension exploded.

Lucius’s face twisted into something Draco had never seen before — pure, unfiltered rage. His voice thundered, shaking the walls.
“How dare you. How dare you throw your recklessness like a dagger into everything we’ve built! A baby—our blood—thrown into chaos because of your selfish pride!”

Draco’s bravado faltered under the weight of that fury, the harshest punishment he’d ever known. Lucius’s eyes burned, wild with disappointment and fury.
“You think this is a game? This is war. And you—” he jabbed a finger into Draco’s chest “—have already lost it before it even began.”

Severus stood silent, worn and weary, guilt plain on his face. Lucius turned to him, voice harder but edged with pain.
“And you… I warned you about your bias against Potter. You know better. And now because of all this… you risk losing your position. You friendships.”
Snape’s mouth tightened, unable to meet Lucius’s eyes.

Lucius’s voice softened only slightly, the hardness replaced by bitter regret.
“I don’t know how I’ll fix this… but Draco must be reined in. You will do it. I will do it. But you’re both out of control.”

Narcissa’s voice echoed suddenly from the doorway, cold but resolute.
“I’m not searching. The pack would destroy anyone tied to Draco if they even appeared. I’ll help Harry in the only way I can—gifts, letters, anything to remind him he’s not alone.”
She met Lucius’s furious stare, eyes fierce.
“You deal with Draco. I cannot even look at him right now.”
With a final, sharp glance at Snape, she hissed,
“Severus, you let your hatred for Harry blind you. You failed him today, and now we pay.”
Before Lucius could reply, she was gone. The silence she left behind was heavy, almost suffocating.

Lucius took a deep breath and then exploded again, voice shaking with raw, terrifying anger 
“Draco, this ends. Now. You don’t just risk yourself—you risk your family, your future, everything.”
Draco swallowed hard, feeling the full weight of his father’s fury for the first time.

Lucius’s voice dropped, harsh and pleading all at once.
“You don’t understand what this means to your mother… to me. She’s lost so much—miscarriages, infertility—you know how this hits her. You’ve broken her heart. Babies are an extremely sensitive subject for your mother and Harry is currently a baby you’ve made suffer.”
Turning away, Lucius’s shoulders slumped with exhaustion and sorrow.
“And I… I am so sorry, Severus. For dragging you into this mess. For putting your career on the line.”
Snape nodded silently, knowing the cost was more than just his job—it was a fracture in more then one fragile alliance.

Chapter Text

Professor Sprout entered, her usual calm shadowed with concern.
“I saw Harry today in Herbology,” she said quietly. “He stepped in a puddle on the way in… forgot his homework. I gave him a disappointed look.” Her voice cracked slightly. “I regret that now.”
McGonagall’s eyes sharpened. “What else happened?”

Snape swallowed hard, rubbing his temples before speaking.
“The dungeon was colder than usual. Harry kept his head down. I confronted him—accused him of using a pheromone spray to manipulate others. I forced him to scrub his skin to remove it.”

Sprout’s face paled. “Why would you confront him?”
Snape looked away, tension rigid in his frame. “It was a mistake. I thought I’d out him as a liar but I outed his true classification publicly thinking it was necessary.”
McGonagall’s gaze was ice. “I thought you were trying to see sense with him, Severus. But you never do.”

“I didn’t realise that Potter could be..was..is a little — a young one, with sensitive skin. I know now the scrubbing could make him seriously ill.”
Flitwick gasped quietly.

Snape continued, rubbing his face wearily.
“I outed him to the class. I thought he was a dom masquerading as a little. I thought I’d out him as a liar but I outed him as a little. To save face I yelled at him to go. And when Potter fled, I wouldn’t let Weasley or Granger follow him. I thought Potter was a teen little—old enough to handle himself.”

He glanced at the floor, voice heavy.
“He’s not a teenage little like I thought... he’s between zero and two years old.”
At that Sprout was immediately getting her mustard cardigan on, she’ have left immediately Fi it wasn’t for Minerva grabbing her arm. A sign that she knew by now meant that she’d have left then two minutes to wait, but there was serious unfinished business to be confronted.

McGonagall’s eyes narrowed, sharp and cold.
“Is that because of your guilt? Or because you couldn’t bear to think he wasn’t a teen little after what you put him through?”
Her voice grew quieter but no less firm.
“Or maybe because you don’t want to admit Potter is anything like five-year-old Lilly.”

Snape said nothing.

McGonagall took a breath and said tightly,
“We will talk about this once Potter is found. Right now, we focus on finding him.”
She gave Snape a pointed look before turning to the others.
“Search parties. Every corridor. Grounds. We leave no stone unturned.”

The room hummed with urgency — Potter’s safety was paramount, but the cracks in trust were clear.

Chapter Text

Salazar Slytherin had encountered many things in his time—duelling dragons, deceiving politicians, negotiating with fae. But he had never expected to find a snot-nosed, red-eyed three-year-old? He doesn’t know how old? Baby curled up under his portrait in the Chamber of Secrets, thumb in mouth, tear-streaked cheeks glowing pink with distress and exhaustion.

At first, he’d assumed the child was a hallucination. Or worse, a prank engineered by that miscreant Peeves.

"You," Salazar began, voice low and suspicious, "are not supposed to be here. How in Merlin’s name did you get in?"
The child blinked up at him, wide green eyes round with confusion—and then giggled. A tiny, wet, hiccupy sound that echoed disturbingly in the vast stone chamber.
“I don’ member,” the boy mumbled, curling tighter into the nest of Harry-sized jumpers and blankets he’d somehow scavenged.
Salazar narrowed his eyes. "You can't even speak properly. Of course. Portrait magic. Or the Room of Requirement. That must be it. Some enterprising soul dumped you here through trickery."
Harry frowned, then sleepily muttered something around his thumb. Salazar caught only one word: ‘snake’.
“What did you say, child?”
A pause. Then the little boy sat up slightly, popped his thumb from his mouth, and declared in a delighted lisp - Ssnakie man sssss!"
Salazar froze.
That... that was Parseltongue.

The boy cackled, pleased with himself. He thumped his heels on the floor, apparently thrilled that the funny painting man had gone all still and weird.

Salazar’s expression shifted from suspicion to something closer to astonished curiosity.
“...You're you,” he breathed. “You’re him. The heir. Or—well, the heir’s magical equivalent in this idiotic modern era.”
Harry beamed, thumb drifting back toward his mouth.
Salazar pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’ve had a bad day, haven’t you.”
Harry nodded solemnly, lip wobbling.

Salazar sighed. “And so you came here. Of all places… my Chamber. The coldest, dampest, most dangerous corner of the castle.” His tone gentled despite himself. “Hardly fit for a Little. Still, when the world is unkind, one hides where it cannot follow. Even I can’t fault the instinct.”
He studied Harry more closely, voice lowering. “I’ve heard much of you from the other portraits, and I witnessed your defiance in battle. I thought I would not see you again—you were rightly traumatised when you left last, and I had been silenced before I could speak. Yet I commemorate your actions. I support what you did to protect others, yourself, and Hogwarts. The portraits tell me often how my heir defies expectations—” his expression softened, almost wry, “—but this is not what I imagined.”
Harry, meanwhile, wasn’t listening at all. He was chewing thoughtfully on the edge of his own robe.
Salazar blinked, a flush of mortified realisation creeping in. He had just delivered a speech worthy of the Wizengamot… to a toddler.

I sound a proper saddle-goose*, letting my mouth run afore my mind.” Then with all the sternness he could muster (which was not a lot.. at all, he added- just in case to appease his instincts.) “Mind you don’t go repeating such words young one. It is most foul tongued.”

The child hiccupped again, clearly not understanding a word, but comforted by the steady tone.
It was silent for a while the only sound was of dripping taps and light water currents streaming.

“Well,” Salazar muttered. “This is… not what I designed the Chamber for.”
Harry didn’t respond. He’d slumped fully onto his side now, sniffling quietly, one socked foot twisted beneath him, the other dragging his dragon-print slipper half off. He’d obviously gone to put it back on and forgot what he was doing half way through. His other hand fumbled at his jumper sleeve like he couldn’t remember why it wasn’t his blanket. His cheeks were blotchy and pink, and his magic pulsed low and confused around him.

Salazar watched in uneasy silence. Then, clearly forcing it out- “You… ought not be on the floor. You’ll catch a chill.”
Nothing.
“...Children require warmth, do they not? Blankets. Toys.” He squinted, then summoned a conjured green serpent-shaped plush. It slithered to life beside Harry, curling protectively around him. Harry barely blinked.
Salazar cleared his throat. “You are in distress. That is… evident. I— I am not accustomed to comforting Littles, you understand. My own children were... spirited.” He frowned. “And I did not often see them in such states.”
Harry let out a small whimper and flopped onto his back, now tear-streaked and murmuring a garbled, “Wan go home…”
Salazar flinched. “Ah.” He stared for another beat, then, with a resigned sigh, conjured a faint glow from the torch sconces and shifted the magic in the air to be warmer—cozier, like a nursery with no furniture. Salazar Slytherin sighed again. “You are impossibly small.”

It was quiet again before Harry took a deep breathe and as he flicked off his shoe (again) finally broke his silence.
"I sad.” Harry confessed
“I suppose that’s why you’re in my Chamber,” Salazar muttered. “Of all places. And that explains the pheromones. Merlin’s beard, you’re an emotional sponge. No wonder you’ve short-circuited.”
The child hiccupped again, clearly still not understanding a word that was uttered, yet not upset.

“Well, Potter,” Salazar sighed, smoothing his robes with exaggerated care, “if you’re to leave here safely, you might as well learn how to use my network you can go across the school with just a word. I did build them for people like you.”
Harry blinked. “Tunnuws?”
“Yes basically anyway I think in the modern day the equivalent would be a floo. But first, you’ll need to remove that thumb and speak properly.”
Harry immediately stuck both thumbs in, gave a dramatic yawn, and flopped into his jumper pile again.

Salazar huffed. “Marvelous. I am being emotionally manipulated his by a toddler version of the Boy-Who-Lived.”

Salazar Slytherin had once bartered the loyalty of dragons. He had debated Merlin himself on the ethics of blood magic and won. But none of that had prepared him for the intricate negotiations of one toddler Harry James Potter.

“Harry,” Salazar said slowly, crouching down in his portrait frame to appear less... towering. “Wouldn’t you like to go somewhere warmer? Maybe with your pack?”
Harry blinked up at him, one thumb still jammed in his mouth and the other clutching a threadbare red sock like a talisman. “My fens?”
“Yes, your friends,” Salazar said, voice syrup-smooth. “They’re all very worried. And you can’t stay here forever.”
Harry looked around the echoing chamber with wide eyes. “I wike snakesss.”
“I’m aware,” Salazar muttered. “But the snakes don’t have snacks. Or blankets that don’t smell like mold.”
Harry frowned. “You smell mold.”
Salazar exhaled through his nose. “Charming.”

He softened his tone. “If you use the tunnels I made—just for Heirs, like you—you’ll be home in no time. A nice room. Fireplaces. Hot chocolate.”
Harry tilted his head. “Fwuffy blankie?”
“Yes, fluffy blanket. Probably twelve of them. You’re in Gryffindor, yes?”
Harry nodded proudly after delayed processing, then gasped and said, “Noo can’t tell!”
Salazar blinked. “It’s... not a secret.”
“Uhuh” Harry said, crossing his arms and promptly sticking his thumb back in.

Salazar sighed deeply, then tried again. “How about this—you go to your Gryffindor room. And you oath—promise—you’ll come visit me again.”
Harry squinted at him with great suspicion, then slowly stuck out his pinky. “Pinky pwomise.”
Salazar hesitated, having not one idea what this strange ritual was, but he was prepared to commit sacrifice for his heir and he as a man of his word. He solemnly pressed one painted finger to Harry’s. “Pinky promise.”

A few moments later, Harry was toddling toward the open tunnel entrance, a red sock clutched in one hand and a look of brave determination on his little face.
Salazar watched him go with something like fondness, before muttering to himself smugly, “Godric’s spawn would’ve stayed just to be dramatic.”

Chapter Text

They had to be convinced -read forced- to take a break. They had kept searching every corner every tree every possible place Harry could be. They somehow had managed to keep their emotions tightly kicked down, not because they weren't’ absolutely terrified, but the opposite. They knew the moment one or them let our a single tear, said a single thought they were all thinking, allows their themselves to be anything but put together they knew they’d all follow suit and then they wouldn’t be able to put their all into finding Harry.
They’d practically been hexed to one of the common room sofas. The common room was of course completly empty long before they returned, everyone hightailing it out of there wanting absolutely nothing to do with any terrifying pack members right now.

They sat in silence a tense long silence. Attempting to sit just long enough for Mcgonagal to leave before sneaking out again. They’d been there for five minutes already. Communicating subtly and silently their next search plans.
Ron caught it first, hearing a faint creak and a portrait started opening.

It wasn’t a portrait anyone in the Gryffindor Moon Room recognised—old stone, unmarked, no House colours. Just enough to slide open and let a tiny figure emerge.
Harry appeared like a ghost—red-faced, sweaty, tear-damp, and so very little. Thumb in mouth. Barefoot. Jumper trailing behind like a surrendered flag. His shirt misbuttoned, he looked completly soggy. Wet socks over one hand, jumper somehow not dropped yet (by some miracle) in the other. He blinked around, took two steps in, and stood there with the kind of quiet daze that only came after something enormous.
It was Ginny who gasped first.
“Harry—?”

That was all it took.
Hermione was on her feet instantly, rushing forward. Ron vaulted over the edge of the couch, nearly tripping in his panic. Fred and George stood like they’d been electrocuted.
“Harry! Merlin—what—how did you get here?”
Harry, still sucking his thumb, only said quietly, “Portwit let me.”
“Portrait?” Hermione crouched down, eyes scanning him for bruises, fever, injury—anything. “A portrait let you through?”
He nodded solemnly and added, “Snake was nice. Sok wet,” he murmured softly, his voice high and small.

She had to allow herself to breathe for a minute of two as she checked him over head to toe for pain or injury. Her heart was racing. As she evaluated Harry she knew how fragile Littles were in headspace, especially with their first experience with headspace. With one last calming breathe to settle her heart, she had to lock away everything she felt and focus on calming Harry and making sure he was safe and regulated, as well as find out where he’d been. “Oh, Harry, your sock’s wet? That’s no good, is it? Where have you been love? Are you hurt?”

She, of course did every injury evaluation charm she could think of for the past few hours, broken bones, infected cuts, and attack characteristics all came back negative. 
For Harry, it took him a while to process the question, so long that once shes finished reading he only just started slow blinking before shaking his head.

Hermione’s brow furrowed faintly, confused, relived, half way to a heart attack and half way to ecstatic he was okay. The waves of emotions she felt overlapped and overwhelmed but the primary emotion was relief. She was terrified and now she felt so glad he was okay, her terrible habit of overthinking made these last few hours torture. To find him here safe, uninjured and somewhat stable. It was practically a miracle. She knew she needed to create a calm environment and so she didn’t push. “Okay, sweetheart. You’re safe now.”

Harry didn’t say more—he’d noticed Ginny and reached for her. She swept him into her arms without hesitation, tucking his head under her chin. He let her. Soft, small, pliant with exhaustion. Immediately she started practically burying him in blankets.

Ron stared at the strange portrait. “I’ve never seen that one before. Did he—did he come through the walls?”
“The castle must’ve let him travel,” Hermione murmured. “Somehow.”
“Still doesn’t explain the portrait,” George muttered.
“Or why it worked for him,” Fred said, glancing uneasily toward the still-open frame. “That’s not a Gryffindor Portrait.”

The room’s hush was broken only by Harry’s soft hiccups and the rustle of blankets .

McGonagall arrived moments later, sweeping in with purpose, her tartan cloak still shifting from the Floo. She stopped cold when she saw them—Harry curled up, safe but shaken.
Her eyes softened for a moment.
Then hardened again.
She crouched beside Ginny, her voice low. “I just came from contacting Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. They’re on their way. Mr. Weasley is—well. He’s not calm.”
“He shouldn’t be,” Ginny said fiercely, rubbing Harry’s back. “He’s tiny. And someone let this happen.”
“I am inclined to agree,” McGonagall murmured.

Behind her, Severus Snape entered, drawn by the commotion. He froze on the threshold when he saw the child huddled in Ginny’s arms.
Harry peeked up, blinked, and gave a small whimper sound through his thumb. His fingers joining his thumb as he tried to offer himself more comfort.
Snape stiffened.McGonagall’s head turned slowly. She stared at Snape with an expression that could’ve stripped paint.
“Not now,” she said, too softly. A dangerous soft.
Snape said nothing. But he lingered. Watching.

His shoes were gone, his jumper soaked through, his shirt ripped and buttoned all wrong, his tie never even worn that morning. Damp trousers clung to his legs, his hair dripped cold into his eyes, and his face was blotchy with tear tracks. But what made her ache wasn’t the ruined uniform. It wasn’t the missing robe, or the fact that the only reason his jumper clung to him was because it had gotten stuck in a sleeve.

It was the socks.

The single thing he’d clutched like a lifeline through all of it. One red, one green, “Mischief Managed” stitched on the toe. Fred’s socks. Out of all his belongings—his fine robe, his dragon hide shoes, his school bag of books and homework he’d spent hours on. None of it was deemed important—Harry had saved the socks. Because they were Fred’s.

Harry shifted uncomfortably in his wet clothes before he mumbled (muffled by his hands in his mouth), “Green eyes on the wall.”

Hermione looked sharply at him. “Green eyes?”

Harry nodded, too tired to explain further.

McGonagall stood, smoothing her skirt, and turned fully to Snape now. “You and I will speak. But not here. Not in front of him.”
Her voice didn’t rise, but every syllable was a cut-glass warning.
Snape inclined his head slightly, unreadable. Then, without a word, he turned and swept from the room.

Ron finally broke the silence. “He’s going in the nest room for however long he’s like this. I don’t care who objects.”
“No one will,” McGonagall said firmly. “Take him. Now. He needs rest.”
Hermione passed Ginny another warm blanket. Fred summoned his softest jumper. George conjured a starry night light that glowed soft gold.
As the pack guided Harry away, McGonagall stared at the strange portrait still creaked open.
Her mouth was a tight line.

Her gaze lingered on the common room door long after Harry had been swept into the pack’s protective huddle. Her jaw was clenched, her hands white-knuckled around her tartan sleeves.
She knew who had driven him to run. Knew exactly who had humiliated him, cornered him, hurt him.
Her voice was soft when it came—but it struck like steel.
“Godric help those who harmed my cub today,” she said coldly. “Because if his pack shows mercy. I will not.”

Chapter Text

McGonagall bit her lip.

She’d done this before—called Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. The sweet, unassuming couple. Honorary Hufflepuffs, she’d always said. This wasn’t the first time, far from it. In fact she doesn’t think there Every few terms since Bill attended Hogwarts shes had to call home about something. For Bill it was for swearing and purposefully confusing his teachers in gobbledegook, duelling, and taking many rules as suggestions. Charlie being obsessed with dragons had many many defensive dragon themed charms in his dorm. He didn’t just use them as protection, he’ use them as distractions allowing him to ‘defend his and his families honour’ and start a brawl. He also smuggled a dragon egg into Hogwarts and gave himself away due to the sheer amount of scotch marks on his -and his dorm mates’ clothing.

There was the time Percy got himself stranded on a support beam during Apparition drills. The many occasions he went “missing,” only to be discovered in some forgotten corner, studying in blessed silence. And then there was the infamous library takeover—when Percy devised a token-based system to “ensure fairness.” Fifth- and seventh-years were granted priority access to key texts, while younger students found themselves bartering tokens or waiting hours for a book. It was logical, organised, and very Percy—until, of course, it went spectacularly wrong. The less studious upper years promptly began selling or trading their tokens, which so confused the sentient library that it nearly locked everyone out entirely, save for Madam Pince (who, in her own words, was -absolutely not paid enough to intervene-). The staff, meanwhile, required headache potions in bulk.

Ron driving a flying car to Hogwarts had warranted a phone call. Enough said.

Ginny’s homesickness in her first year several more, and her infamous Bat-Bogey Hex—and even more infamous right hook—certainly another. But given they were defensive rather then offensive often completly prompted by insults rudeness insults of her many brothers and sister she decided that she’d call once to cover her backside then leave it at that.

The golden trio? Not a single call. One might think she’d have been glued to the Floo for their antics, but she had decided long ago she wasn’t getting within six feet of that particular hornet’s nest.

The twins. Warranted many, many, many calls. None of which had led to so much as a dent in their mischief.

She was on a first-name basis with Molly and Arthur by now. With the combination of helping raise their… wonderful, adventurous children, and calling Molly and Arthur at least once every term she was practically family. Which only made -this- Floo call harder.

Arthur, for all his humility, kindness, and tolerance—of which he had a seemingly inexhaustible supply—had two absolutes in his life. His wife. And his children.

Molly, with her vast reserves of motherly love—so much she could divide and still never run out—would kill for her brood, blood or adopted. And upsetting her meant upsetting Arthur. And nothing in this world, or the next, mattered more to Arthur than his family.

To tell them now… to tell them that their Little, so recently attacked, had been goaded, entrapped, and outed by a teacher—by a Head of House, no less—was unthinkable.
Because packs were protective. You didn’t hurt a vulnerable member. You didn’t challenge a pack without expecting to face all of them. And you never, ever harmed a Little.
Even preclassified children knew that much. Littles were sacred. They needed patience, gentleness, care. Stress could wound them as surely as any curse. To harm one was akin to harming a unicorn foal.

And what Snape had done today? Publicly goading, humiliating, and cornering Harry until he broke—
It wasn’t simply cruel. It was a grave, dangerous violation.
And now joy of joys McGonagall had to tell Molly and Arthur Weasley. She’d rather break her second favourite tea pot

McGonagall knelt before the Floo, straightened her tartan dressing gown, and muttered something sharp under her breath. Her hand hovered far too long over the pot of powder before she finally threw a pinch into the fire.
“The Burrow!” she called, voice clipped.
The flames roared green and, mercifully, Molly Weasley’s face appeared almost at once. Her eyes widened in alarm. “Minerva! Is everything all right? It’s not one of the children—”
“In a manner of speaking,” McGonagall said, lips pressed tight. “Molly, I need both you and Arthur present for this.”

Arthur’s face soon (almost immediately) appeared beside Molly’s in the fire. He looked rumpled, as though dragged from bed, but his gaze sharpened at once. “Minerva? What’s happened?”
McGonagall drew a long breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I regret to inform you there has been… an incident at the school today. Concerning Harry.”
Molly’s knuckles whitened against the hearthstone. “Harry? What kind of incident?”
Arthur’s voice was calm, but only barely. “Minerva. Please be plain.”
McGonagall swallowed. Arthur’s stillness was worse than Molly’s rising fury—like the hush before a storm.

“Harry was… challenged. By Professor Snape.”
Both Weasleys stiffened.
“Not merely challenged,” McGonagall continued, the words like stones in her mouth, “but pressed, publicly, and—Merlin help me—outed. In front of his peers. He was humiliated, entrapped, and driven into distress. He was forced to leave the classroom.”

Molly gasped, her breath sharp and uneven. Arthur’s jaw locked tight.

Molly’s breath came sharp and fast, her face paling, then blotching red. “Outed—? Minerva, do you mean to say—he forced Harry—?”

McGonagall went on, determined to strip the doxy right from the nest, her voice lowering. “He went missing. We only just found him. He was drenched, his uniform torn, and—” she swallowed hard, “—it was his first drop. Forced out of him by fear and stress. His headspace was broken into instead of welcomed. You both know how sacred a first drop is meant to be, how gentle… and instead, it came in shock.”

Molly made a sound somewhere between a sob and a snarl. “He was alone? Out there, like that—”
Arthur’s voice stayed low, but his fury burned in it. “Where is he now?”
“With his pack. They have him. He is safe in body,” McGonagall said quickly, though her hands clenched against her knees. “But he was forced into something that should have been protected. And I cannot —will not forgive it.”
Molly’s face was blotched red, her lips trembling with rage and grief. “A Head of House—doing this to a Little—Minerva, how could such cruelty be permitted?”

“It was not permitted,” McGonagall said sharply, though her voice wavered at the edges. “Severus acted beyond all reason. That is why I am telling you directly. You deserved to hear it from me, before any rumour could wound you further.”
Arthur’s hand rested on Molly’s shoulder, steadying her though his own face was pale with anger. His eyes burned, blue fire in the hearthlight. “Thank you, Minerva. But we’re coming.”
“Arthur—”
“We are coming,” he repeated, final as stone.
The Floo sputtered closed, leaving McGonagall staring into empty flames. She had faced Dark Lords with composure. But tonight, she had to face Molly and Arthur Weasley—two parents whose child had been broken in the most sacred way.

Chapter Text

The pack room was warm—so warm—and buzzing with too much sound. But also not enough, a kind of nervous buzzing. Everyone afraid to raise their voices. Speaking in short rushed bursts then a return to silence. A hum of something. Not noise exactly, but tension- wordless, dense, and alive. Around Harry they sat. Well some sat. Percy and Fred stood, George was half up half down, and Ginny moved every three seconds. There was this charge to the room. The kind of thick, protective energy that made wolves bare their teeth and cubs curl tighter into nests. Everyone still felt wired.

Yes Harry was back and they were so relieved but it’s as though all of them were waiting. Preparing for another threat? For something. For the other shoe to drop. It made them all feed this tension, this pressure to move, to protect to.. do something. Yet they stayed, only shuffling about and then reshuffling and then checking on Harry..again..and again seemed to alleviate the need to prepare to shift to..do what their instincts demanded.

Harry had been bundled into a pile of soft things—blankets, jumpers, arms. Ron was pressed to one side of him, long and solid and murmuring reassurances. Hermione had one of his tiny hands tucked against her chest like it was the most precious thing in the world. Percy stood stiffly near the fire, his eyes scanning constantly between Harry and the door, wand in hand though he hadn’t noticed. The twins flanked the couch like sentinels, still and silent, smiles long gone leaving shallow husks, which was somehow worse than their chaos. Even Ginny, who’d been wiping Harry’s cheeks with a gentle hand, had her jaw tight and her eyes blazing in a way that made first-years scatter when they passed in the corridor.

Then the Floo roared green and Arthur stumbled out, Molly right behind him, her shawl halfway slipping off her shoulders.
“Oh—Harry,” she breathed, hand to her mouth. Her voice shook. “Oh poor darling —”
Harry turned toward her, blinking owlishly from where he sat bundled in Ron’s hoodie. His lip wobbled. And then, with a tiny hiccup, he broke.
“Mama Molly,” he squeaked, reaching out a hand that trembled.

And just like that—he slipped even younger. No longer two. Somewhere earlier, fuzzier. A baby in pure distress, undone by safety finally arriving.
Molly didn’t hesitate. She was on the floor in a heartbeat, gathering him into her arms as he melted against her. Her fingers threaded through his hair, her cheek pressing to his temple.
“I’ve got you now,” she murmured, rocking gently. “You’re safe, darling. We’re here. Nothing will hurt you again.”
Arthur stood behind them, one hand resting on Molly’s shoulder, the other clenched at his side. He looked paler than usual, and older, his eyes heavy with both sorrow and a restrained, simmering fury. Seeing Harry in this state and knowing what caused it caused him to take four deep breathes attempting to calm himself.

“Where was he?” he asked, voice quiet and strained.
“We don’t know,” George answered softly. “But… not alone. A portrait helped. That’s all we know.”
Arthur closed his eyes. Molly’s rocking didn’t stop. She didn’t even blink.

“I’m going to ask Minerva what happened. The details. Every detail.” Arthur said at last. “And if what I’ve heard is even half true—”
“You won’t need to,” Molly said tightly, pressing another kiss to Harry’s curls. “Minerva already told us all she knows. I think it’s clear she feels the same as we do.”

The pack didn’t speak. They didn’t have to. The protective energy in the room sharpened like a drawn blade.

Harry let out a tiny, contented sigh and curled tighter in her lap, thumb back in his mouth, the old red sock clutched tight in one fist. Safe. Finally.
And for a moment, no one moved. They just sat with him,—all of them—surrounding him, protecting him, like the precious thing he was.

Chapter Text

Arthur sat. He didn’t speak. Not at first. For a long while he gathered his thoughts, breathing. Shoving all his fury down.

He looked around the room —at Ron and Ginny flanking the couch protectively, at Hermione’s red eyes, at Percy’s tight-lipped fury in the corner, at the twins whispering furiously over a set of Floo powder jars.

And then he turned to Harry.

The sight of the red marks around Harry’s wrists -from scrubbing too hard -stopped him cold.
Arthur’s hands curled into fists.

“Who did this?” he asked, voice low.
“We think Snape. But Draco started it,” Percy said. “Manipulated him. Called Harry a liar. Said he was using pheromone spray. Snape forced him to scrub it off.”
Arthur closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, they were hard as steel. “Right. We need to inform the others.”
“We’re prepping the Floo,” said George grimly.
“Bill first,” Fred added. “Then Charlie.”
Arthur turned to Ron. “Call them. Let them see him. They deserve to know.”

Ron nodded and dropped to his knees by the hearth.
Arthur looked at Percy knowing Percy would want to help him organise the practical side and appreciate the directness of a plan. Knowing telling him would help calm him. “Tomorrow morning, I want a private meeting with McGonagall and Snape. No media. No students. Just them and us.”

“And Lucius?” Percy asked.
Arthur’s jaw flexed. “Lucius is getting a meeting. But not in the castle. I want it neutral. I want it official.”

Molly was still rocking Harry, murmuring quiet reassurances into his hair. “You don’t need to be brave anymore, darling. Not for anyone. You’re just our little darling. That’s all.”
“He’s regressing fast, too fast.” Hermione whispered to Ginny. “We need to ground him — sensory kits, familiar things.”

“I’ll get them,” Ginny said. “I’ll raid the dorms.”
Arthur turned to look at Harry one last time. “This…” His voice cracked. “This was an attack. Against a Little. Against our pack. There will be consequences.”

The fire was low in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the red and gold furniture. The Weasley pack was gathered in a tight semicircle, some sitting on overstuffed chairs, others cross-legged on the floor. The tension was thick—no one had really spoken since Harry had finally curled up in the pack room, safe but small, barely older than an infant.

It was quiet. With them all only saying what needed to be said. No quips no jibes no jokes. Just a clinical sort of speech. Efficient. Cold. Furious. Percy had taken charge of securing the Floo wards. Ron had paced holes into the rug. Ginny was curled up on the arm of a chair, arms crossed tightly. Hermione sat with a sleeping Harry, now swaddled against her chest, Molly’s knitting charm still humming softly nearby. Attempting to calm Harry by acting calm herself. Arthur stood now in front of the fireplace, jaw tense. Finally organising his thoughts to talk again. “The Malfoy boy nearly started a pack war.”

“He did start one,” Ron growled, eyes like flint. “If Harry had been seriously hurt—”

“He was hurt,” Ginny cut in, voice sharp. “Just not the way most people expect. Do you know what it does to someone that young to be humiliated and forced to scrub his skin off like he’s dirty?”

Hermione made a soft noise, rocking Harry gently. “And Snape forced him to walk out. Wouldn’t let us follow. He looked so distraught so..small by the time he got to the corridor…”

“I’ll be seeing McGonagall and Snape first thing tomorrow,” Arthur said grimly. “We’ll discuss sanctions, options. And I’m requesting that Draco be there. If he wants to act like an adult alpha, he can face the consequences like one.”

“He doesn’t get to be an alpha, he’s not an alpha. No one should even pretend. ” Ron said coldly. “Not after this. He ignored Blaise, lied to Snape, and—he hunted a Little. That’s not alpha behavior. That’s predator behaviour.”

“Lucius will be there too,” Arthur added. “I expect him to understand the gravity, but that doesn’t mean we’re letting this go. A formal challenge between packs is off the table—for Harry’s sake—but that doesn’t mean the Malfoy's walk free.”

Ginny’s eyes narrowed. “And Snape?” Hermione looked up. “He thought Harry was a teen Little. That doesn’t excuse it, but… he wasn’t trying to break a baby.”

“It still broke him,” Ron snapped. “I saw it happen.”                                                            Molly’s voice was quiet but firm from behind them. “We focus on healing Harry first. The politics come after.”

Arthur nodded. “Tomorrow, I’ll speak to Lucius privately before the larger meeting. We’re not looking for blood—but we are looking for acknowledgment. And change. If that doesn’t happen, then yes, Ginny—we’ll escalate.” He looked around the room at each of them in turn. “This pack is not prey. Not anymore.”

Hermione’s hand stroked Harry’s hair. Calming him as he slept.  “He needs to know that, when he wakes up.” Ginny stood, eyes brighter. “Then let’s make sure he does.” It started to feel a bit calmer now with a plan to put into action. Pacing feet faltered. The sentences spoken were longer. Arthur even sat down albeit hesitantly and with the purpose to calm his children. Just as it started working, just as a calm started to spread, that was of course, when the Floo burst green once more as Bill’s voice called through, a shout, sharp with panic “Is it true? What happened to Harry?”

Chapter Text

The fire roared to life again, flaring green as Bill stepped through the Floo. Charlie followed a second later, wild-eyed, hair windblown and cloak thrown on in haste.

The second their boots hit the floor, both froze.

Harry was in Molly’s arms, his head lolling slightly against her chest, eyes fluttering but not quite tracking. His fingers twitched now and then, trying to clutch at the edge of her cardigan and failing. The regression had gone so deep he couldn’t even hold his head up anymore.

Bill stared. “What the hell happened?”
Charlie’s voice was sharper. “Is he—? Is he breathing properly? Merlin—Mum—”

“He’s alright, love,” Molly murmured, rocking slowly. “Just very, very little. Couldn’t hold his head up a few minutes ago. Poor thing’s exhausted. But safe. He’s safe now.”
Harry made a soft mewling sound and tried to nuzzle closer. His limbs were too floppy to coordinate.

Hermione knelt nearby with a warm blanket. “He slipped fast. I think the moment he felt safe. He’s probably somewhere between six months and a year now, give or take. He… couldn’t even hold up his own bottle when we tried.”

Molly chuckled softly, brushing a kiss over Harry’s curls. “He’s a puddle, aren’t you, sweetheart? You don’t have to do anything now. Not a thing.”
Hermione couldn’t stop smiling through her tears. “He’s… adorable. He’s never dropped like this..”
“Because he never felt safe enough. Littles only drop when they feel safe..but he didn’t he dropped because of..,” Ginny said quietly, appearing with a pacifier and small plush. She tucked the plush into Harry’s arms.

Charlie dropped to a crouch, running a gentle hand over Harry’s back. “Snape did this?”
“Draco started it,” Percy said from across the room, voice clipped. “Snape enabled it.”
Bill’s nostrils flared. “What did Lucius say?”
“We haven’t had the meeting yet,” Arthur answered. “Tomorrow. But Draco crossed a line. Lucius knows it. This is basically a declaration of pack hostility.”
Charlie growled low in his throat. “You don’t go after a baby. You don’t humiliate someone like this. There are rules.”

Bill stood, posture rigid. “We’ll back you at the meeting, Dad. No one touches him again.”

Behind them, Harry gave a soft coo and let out a hiccup.
Molly smiled. “That’s your big brother,” she whispered to him. “He’s got you, my love. We all do.”
Harry didn’t respond, too little to understand—but his hand curled instinctively tighter into her jumper, mouth working sleepily around the pacifier Ginny had just offered.

And despite the fury simmering in the room, for a moment everything stilled.
Because Harry was safe. And breathtakingly sweet.And that made it all the more unforgivable what had been done to him.

Chapter Text

The silence in McGonagall’s office was not peace. It was pressure. It sat thick between them as Snape stood stiffly near the hearth, arms folded too tightly, black robes more wrinkled than usual.

The scent of guilt clung to him like ash.

McGonagall, seated behind the desk, wasn’t looking at him yet. She was flipping through a file with deliberate calm, her mouth tight. Every movement of hers felt restrained. Chosen.

Then, finally “Sit, Severus.”
He did, warily. The chair creaked beneath him.

“I’ve read the report,” she said, voice crisp. “I’ve read the witness statements. And I’ve heard directly from two Heads of House, including Pomona, who is convinced she ruined Harry’s day by frowning at him for missing homework and him stepping in a puddle.”

She looked up sharply. “But it wasn’t the puddle, was it?”
Snape said nothing. He looked like a man aging by the minute.
McGonagall set the file down. Her hands were steady, but her voice—her voice was ice. “You humiliated a child in front of his peers. You in a position of authority decided to humiliate your fourth year student due to a long standing grudge against his father. You accused him of falsifying his class and forced him to scrub himself raw.”

His jaw clenched.

“You tried to force a confession out of a Little. You drove him into middlespace in front of a classroom of peers. And when the truth became undeniable, you expelled him from your classroom like he’d offended you personally.”
“I—” Snape began, then faltered. His throat worked. “I thought he was a teen Little. That he was—manipulating sympathy, perhaps. I was misled by Draco. He said—he said Potter was using spray.”

McGonagall raised a single brow. “And you believed him? Draco Malfoy. Over Harry Potter.”
His silence was answer enough.

She rose slowly. “I do not intend to fire you. You know why. We need you. Albus would say the same. But do not mistake necessity for tolerance.”
He looked at her, sharply.

She stepped around the desk, tone quieter but no less pointed. “You hated James Potter. I understand that. But Harry is not his father.”

Snape flinched, just barely.

“Harry,” she said firmly, “is all Lily.”
The air in the room seemed to shift.
McGonagall continued, gently now. “Every time he looks at you, he looks for something kind. He’s never once used her name to gain favour. Never thrown it in your face. And still, every time you see her eyes, you turn your spite on him. Well—no more.”
Snape’s voice cracked. “I didn’t want him to be her.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Why? Because if he is, it makes what you’ve done unbearable?”
He said nothing, gaze lowered.

“I believe you care about him in some buried, broken way. But if you do… let him help you heal from her, Severus. Don’t let your guilt be the reason you poison what she left behind.”
Silence stretched.
Finally, McGonagall stepped back and straightened her robes. “You will apologise to him.”
“I don’t think he’ll want—”
“I didn’t say he had to accept it,” she snapped. “I said you will apologise.”
Snape bowed his head. “Yes. Deputy headmistress.”

She sighed, some of the tension easing. “He’s staying with the Weasleys tonight. You’ll wait until he’s stable, but it will happen. I’ll inform Arthur. That’s all.”
Snape stood, shoulders stooped. “Minerva…”
She looked up.

He swallowed. “I never meant for it to go that far.”
Her eyes, for a moment, softened. “I know. But intention means very little when a child’s broken under your watch.”
He nodded stiffly, then turned and left.
And only once the door shut behind him did McGonagall allow herself to lean heavily against the desk and breathe.

Chapter Text

Draco stood stiffly before the hearth, jaw tight, eyes rimmed red but dry now. Narcissa hadn’t come down. She hadn’t spoken a word to him since the night before. It was worse than yelling.

It was cold.

Lucius, meanwhile, was measured and cruel in the way only someone deeply disappointed could be.
“You’ve jeopardised a child’s safety. Embarrassed your House. Undermined your alpha.”
Lucius’s voice was as sharp as cut glass. “And for what? Pettiness? Envy?”

Draco flinched.

“You declared war on the Potter pack without our knowledge, and worse—you used manipulation to target a Little. One currently so regressed he cannot hold his head up without help.” Lucius's sneer twisted. “Your mother has not slept. Do you understand what you've cost us?”
“Yes, sir,” Draco muttered.

Lucius stepped forward, voice low and lethal. “You are hereby forbidden from joining any pack while at Hogwarts. You have proven you cannot respect the hierarchy, or your betters. You will walk alone until you earn the right to follow.”
Draco looked up, stunned. “You can’t be—”
“I can,” Lucius snapped. “And I am. You will write a letter of apology to Blaise for undermining his authority. And another to Potter—not to be sent yet—but to be written, thoroughly. Sincerely.”
“I—”
“You will also attend a meeting tomorrow at Hogwarts if Arthur Weasley requests your presence.”

Lucius’s face twisted. “If they don’t demand your expulsion, it will only be because they pity your parents.”
Draco lowered his eyes, silent.

Lucius turned to the window, expression thunderous. “If you ever compromise our name again with this kind of recklessness, I will pull you from school and see you homeschooled in Siberia.”

Chapter Text

The pack room was quiet. Shadows stretched long across the floor as the fire flickered low in the hearth. Most of the pack sat in varying degrees of tension. Hermione curled protectively around Harry, Ron silent and still, Percy standing stiffly by the wall.

Ginny stood apart, arms wrapped tightly around herself.

Harry looked impossibly small in Hermione’s lap. His knees were drawn to his chest, his hands twitching slightly as if searching for something familiar. Hermione rubbed his back in slow, steady circles. He didn’t speak. He barely moved. A Little stuck in middle space —helpless and soft in a way Ginny had never imagined he could be.

And suddenly, painfully, it all clicked.

She'd grown up on stories of Harry Potter—the Boy Who Lived, the brave orphan, the one who had faced down Voldemort and survived. When he saved her in the Chamber of Secrets, it had felt like a fairy tale; the hero, the damsel, the near-death rescue.
She’d wrapped herself in that narrative like a warm cloak, letting it shape how she looked at him… and how she let others look at her.

She’d made herself smaller for him. Gentler. More helpless. She’d told herself it was love.
But it wasn’t. Not really.
She’d never truly known Harry.

And standing there now—watching the boy who had suffered so much curl into himself like a frightened child in Hermione’s arms—Ginny felt something shatter… and something settle.
He wasn’t her hero.

He was her pack.

She blinked hard, trying to swallow the knot in her throat. She wasn’t in love with him. She’d been in love with the idea of him. With the story. With the rescue.

The truth was, after the basilisk and Tom Riddle, she’d secretly hoped Harry would save her again. That one day, he’d turn around—eyes blazing, voice steady—and tell her he’d loved her all along. She’d stayed in damsel mode, softened her edges, waiting for it.

But that wasn’t Harry. Not at all.

He wasn’t some grand hero playing to the crowd. He was a survivor. A boy who risked life and limb not for glory—but because it was right. Because he couldn’t not.
And all this time, she’d failed to see it.

He’d been pressured to save the world, save her, save everyone—from Voldemort, from dementors, from the darkness. So much darkness.

But he’d never had anyone saving him.
No one had watched his back. No one had shielded him.
He was always forced to be his own hero.
And Merlin, he was just a boy.
A soft, scared boy with too much weight on his shoulders and nowhere to set it

And Harry?
He didn’t need a girlfriend. He needed safety. Steadiness. Space to be small.
And she could give him that. Not as the girl who waited in the shadows for him to notice her—but as his sister. His family.
His fiercest shield.

Hermione looked up and caught her gaze. No judgment. Just understanding.
Ginny gave a small nod and took a step closer—not toward Harry, but toward Ron, who opened his arm without a word, letting her lean against him as she finally let the story unravel.
She didn’t need to be the girl who got the hero.
She could be the girl who protected him instead.
She allowed herself to get her thoughts together in Ron’s arms for a moment before stepping away and taking deep breaths.

“Someone has to challenge him,” Ginny suddenly and finally snapped, voice low but seething. “He targeted Harry. He manipulated the whole room and smirked. If that’s not an act of war—”

In the centre of the room, Hermione was curled protectively around Harry, who hadn’t quite woken this morning. His eyes were open and he slowly blinked but hadn’t spoken, hadn’t made any noise at all. He was so small now—regressed and withdrawn, curled into her lap with his thumb half in his mouth, and his other fist clinging to the hem of her jumper.

He looked impossibly young. Frightened. Raw.

“We can’t let this go,” Ginny hissed finally, voice low but shaking. “He strangled Harry. He smirked when he did it. That wasn’t just some schoolyard spat. He targeted him, he outed him, and then he tried to break him in front of everyone.”

She turned sharply, glaring at Bill and Charlie. “Let me come. To the meeting. I know how to hold my ground. I’ll wear the red. I’ll fight for him if you won’t.”
“You’re not going,” Percy said, voice clipped.
“You don’t get to decide that,” Ginny snapped.
“No,” came Ron’s voice—surprisingly firm.

Everyone turned.
He hadn’t moved from the fireplace, but his gaze was lifted now, steady and hard as stone.
“You don’t get to decide that, Ginny.”
She blinked, startled. “Excuse me?”

Ron stood, slow and deliberate. His shoulders were hunched with exhaustion, but there was steel in his posture.
“You want to fight? Fine. Go duel Malfoy behind the Quidditch pitch or hex him in the dungeons. But don’t you dare suggest throwing down a formal pack gauntlet while Harry’s like this.”

Ginny opened her mouth, but Ron kept going.

“He’s curled up in Hermione’s lap, he’s two or even younger. He hasn’t said a word in hours. His magic’s so frayed it’s probably cutting him. You think a pack challenge won’t make it worse?”
“No one’s saying we want Harry to fight,” Fred said quietly.

“But you’re still making it about the war, not him,” Ron snapped. “You’re all angry, I get it. I am too. But Harry doesn’t need more noise and fire and fury. He needs us calm. He needs us safe. He needs to know we’re not going to use his pain to pick a fight and call it honour.”
“He needs us to hold him,” Hermione whispered, stroking Harry’s hair. “Not avenge him.”
Ginny’s mouth trembled, but she said nothing.

Percy exhaled stiffly. “A formal challenge would put Blaise in the middle anyway, and he's not the one who failed. Or his parents. We saw who let that room turn into a trap.”
Bill’s gaze darkened. “They have a reckoning coming—but not through some Gryffindor pissing match.”

Just then, the door creaked open.
Arthur stepped in, dressed in pressed Ministry robes, pinstripe vest, wand holstered. His face was drawn tight—controlled, but tired.

He came and say down taking in whether Bill and Charlie were ready.
Bill, already wearing his red tie of leadership, and Charlie, whose robes were slightly wrinkled, sleeves shoved up to the elbows. But with a determined face. Evidently seemed prepared. He let out a slight sigh. Of relief. Of anguish that this was happening. Before he started his next battle.

“I’m glad you didn’t challenge him,” Arthur said quietly, eyes sweeping over the room. “Because that’s not how this gets solved.”

“There are consequences,” Bill added grimly, crossing his arms. “But they come from above.”
“And we’re the ones who’ll deliver them,” Charlie said with a grim smile. “In a way that won’t drag Harry through more of this mess.”
Hermione nodded slowly. “We need to act, but we act with sense. Not with claws.”

Arthur sat, dressed impeccably, face unreadable. Bill next to him—tie knotted, sleeves rolled. Charlie was behind him, face tight with barely leashed fury. A united front. Ready for a high stakes pressure fuelled meeting room.

“We’re handling it,” Arthur said firmly. “There will be no pack challenge.”
Ginny looked like she wanted to scream.
“We’ve got a better way,” Bill added, rolling his shoulders. “A more permanent one.”
“And a lot scarier,” Charlie muttered with a grim smile
Ginny bit her lip, tears pooling in her eyes now. “But he hurt him. He really hurt him.”
“I know,” Arthur said, crossing to her and wrapping his arms around her. “And I promise, Ginny—we will make sure that boy never touches Harry again. But right now, what Harry needs isn’t revenge. It’s protection.”

“Revenge is a show,” Charlie said softly. “Protection is a promise.”
Ginny turned away into Arthur, eyes wet but voice silent.
Ron sank slowly back to the hearth, his voice barely above a whisper as he stared into the flame again.“We can fight when he’s safe. Right now, we need to be safe for him.”

And around them, the room slowly quieted again—held steady by that unspoken oath.

Chapter Text

The room Arthur had arranged was small, high-walled, and magically silenced.

Lucius arrived first, pristine as ever, silver cane clicking against the floor. He looked prepared—controlled. Composed even.

Until Arthur stepped in.

The door shut behind him with a gentle click. Arthur didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t scowl.
But Lucius paled sheet white.

His smile..wasn’t there?
Every single time they’ve met, Arthur has greeted him with a smile. Even if he knew Lucius was preparing to torment him. He’d given Lucius the opportunity for polite conversation for years. After death eater attacks, after insulting his classification, after insulting his figure, his clothes, his department. It didn’t stop Arthur greeting him with a smile, Every conversation.

Now? That smile was gone. Replaced by a frown. Not the snarls Lucius was used to, not even anger, no a detached dangerous frown. Gone was the jolly bubbly aura replaced with a contained fury. The composure was more dangerous. It promised long term suffering if this went outside of his packs favour.

No it wasn’t a loud threat. It was a silent promise. 

“Mr. Malfoy,” Arthur said smoothly. He was usually polite—though some people enjoyed calling him a “blood traitor” or “Muggle lover,” claiming he flouted wizarding customs. Of course, this wasn’t true; he adhered to protocol and used proper titles when necessary. Refusing to call Malfoy “Lord” now, after his son’s actions, made his deliberate disrespect all the more pointed.
Lucius inclined his head. “Of course. I assume this is in regard to the... incident involving your..charge and my son.”

Arthur finally smiled. It was not kind. It scared Lucius more, he decided he preferred the frown. 

“Oh, incident doesn’t quite cover it. Let's call it what it was; a targeted psychological attack, enabled by an adult you placed great trust in- your pack adjacent member, against a vulnerable packmate of mine. A child, my child I might add.”

Lucius tensed. “There was—misinformation. Severus believed—”
“Severus was manipulated,” Arthur said sharply. “By your son. This is not the first time my son was attacked by yours. I warned you. I sent messages, his pack warned him publically, you warned him and instead of correcting his behaviour your son doubled down. Severus was manipulated by him until he outed a Little in a classroom full of mixed dynamics. Do you know how dangerous that is?”

Lucius opened his mouth.
Arthur raised a hand.

“I’m not here to trade excuses. I’m here to tell you what will happen next. Your son will attend today’s meeting. He will offer a formal apology to Harry—in front of the pack. And then he will step down from any pack involvement for the remainder of the school year including your own.”
Lucius blinked. “You expect—”
“I expect you to manage your house. Or we will.”
Arthur stepped forward once.

“I’m a gentle man, Lucius. But I’ve defended my family from worse than smug aristocrats and arrogant teenagers. Do not mistake my calm for weakness. I know your secrets. I know where your allies keep theirs. And I know how the whispers around Hogwarts will grow, if the Malfoy heir is seen as a predator.”
Lucius went very still.

“I imagine you’ll find a way to spin that. But I’d suggest finding a way to stop it instead.”
He turned to leave. “We’ll see you shortly.”

Chapter Text

The office was tense before anyone spoke.

McGonagall looked tired, a stack of reports at her elbow. Snape stood near the bookshelves, arms folded, face pale and unreadable.

Bill didn’t sit.
“I’m going to be direct,” he said. “This school has failed Harry. Repeatedly.”
“Mr. Weasley—” McGonagall began.
“No,” Charlie said. “Let him finish.”

“You didn’t take him shopping. You didn’t ensure he had the basic items Littles are entitled to in mixed-status institutions. He has no nesting space. No access to heat regulation. No Littles curriculum. No sensory-neutral rooms. You let Snape throw him into a class with scent-reactive ingredients and no support.”

McGonagall blinked. “We were following standard Hogwarts protocol—”
“Which is forty years out of date,” Bill snapped. “Every major European school has adapted for pack-aligned learners. But here? You’re still pretending everyone can just… blend. No dom rooms. No heat retreats. No care-specific classes. And now we’re seeing the results.”

Snape looked visibly ill. “I was misled. I believed Potter to be a teen Little—”
Bill’s stare cut him off. “You humiliated him in front of his peers. You made him scrub his skin raw, knowing it might harm him. You knew he was sensitive, even if you got the classification wrong.”
“I made a mistake,” Snape said quietly.
“No. You made a series of them,” Charlie said. “And it nearly broke a child.”

McGonagall finally spoke, quieter now. “What do you want us to do?”
“We want policy change,” Bill said. “We want oversight. We want an external caregiver coordinator to be assigned for all classified Littles, and we want Harry’s accommodations met immediately. No more pretending he's just another student.”

“And we want an apology,” Charlie added, gaze on Snape. “From you. Face-to-face. And honest.”
Snape swallowed. “...He may not want to see me.”
“Then he doesn’t have to,” Bill said flatly. “But you’re going to try. This can’t —won’t happen again. It’s just horrible that Harry always has to be the martyr at this school.”

Chapter Text

The atmosphere in the room was tight. The office McGonagall had prepared for the meeting had a fireplace, a long table, and only six chairs—but it felt too small, too warm, too filled with barely leashed restraint.

Arthur sat at the head of the table, posture perfectly calm, his wand resting on the wood—not threateningly, but noticeably.
Charlie leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, jaw tight. Bill sat with one ankle on his knee, silent but radiating restrained fury.

Snape was opposite them, pale and tight-lipped, and McGonagall stood at the other head spot of the table, between them all, like she was trying to contain a forest fire with parchment.
“I understand the emotions involved,” Snape was saying, his voice cool, but fraying slightly at the edges, “but I’d like to remind you I was misled. I had no way of knowing Potter was a full Little—he behaves erratically and often seeks attention—”
There was a sound like stone cracking.
Arthur hadn’t raised his voice. He hadn’t moved.
But something in the air shifted.
Charlie straightened. Bill tensed.

Arthur looked up at Snape, very slowly, eyes like glass in a snow storm.
“Let me be exceedingly clear, Severus.”
The room went still.
“If you ever imply again that Harry asked for what happened, that his fear and regression was anything but a direct result of the cruelty he suffered at your hands and the malicious targeting by Draco Malfoy—I will bury you.”
Snape’s mouth opened.

Arthur’s voice dropped to a whisper. Deadly. Cold.
“I don’t care about your excuses. I don’t care about your grief. If you ever endanger one of my pack again—especially a Little under my protection—I will burn every ounce of goodwill I have. I will strip you to the bone with a smile, and you will never teach again. Not here. Not anywhere. Because you won’t be able to. I don’t care if Dumbledore himself demands I leave you alone. I will Hunt. You. Down.”
The silence after was deafening.

Even McGonagall didn’t move.
Snape looked like he’d been punched. His hands trembled slightly, hidden beneath the table.
Then, with chilling ease, Arthur smiled.

“Now,” he said pleasantly, voice once again light and warm, “it’s time for Mr. Malfoy to join us.”
He turned to the door. “Minerva, if you’d be so kind?”
McGonagall blinked, then nodded quickly, gesturing toward the door.
Lucius entered, silver cane tapping gently, with Draco behind him. Draco looked furious, but uncertain. Lucius looked... alert. Like he’d felt the shift in temperature from down the hall.

“Lucius,” Arthur greeted smoothly. “Welcome. Let’s discuss how your son is going to fix this mess.”
Lucius’s eyes flicked toward Snape, who looked pale and damp with fear.
Bill’s gaze pinned Draco the moment he stepped in. There was no warmth in it. No forgiveness.
Charlie didn’t even acknowledge either Malfoy’s existence.

Draco took the empty chair beside his father—and flinched when Arthur looked at him dead in the eyes.

“We’ll start with the apology,” Arthur said. “Public, this afternoon. After lunch. You will attend. You will mean it. You will look Harry in the eye and show the decency your title fails to reflect.”
Draco opened his mouth.
Bill’s wand twitched.
Lucius placed a hand on Draco’s shoulder without looking at him.
“You’ll do as instructed, Draco,” he said softly.

Arthur nodded. “Good.”
“And after,” Arthur continued, “you’ll be removed from Hogwarts pack listings. You won’t be permitted to join or form a pack on school grounds for the rest of the year. You’ll also undergo empathy training. Weekly. With oversight.”
“Those sessions will be... made available,” McGonagall said, a bit stiffly.

Arthur didn’t look at her. He never looked away from Lucius.
“You will support this fully, or I will call for a full investigation into the Slytherin pack’s structure and discipline.p, and of course your own.”
Lucius gave a tight nod. “We will comply.”
Arthur leaned back.

“Excellent. We’re in agreement.”
Then, softer, without losing the blade-edge of his tone:
“My pack is not to be targeted, challenged or attacked. Let today be your reminder of that. Be glad that I was as polite and diplomatic as I could be. And I mean that.”
Snape had been silent throughout couldn’t help but flinch as Arthur calmly walked out trailed by two hulking sons. An alpha goblin liason a scarred dragon tamer. He shuddered. Unsure of who he was more afraid of.

All three turned in unison, their gazes cutting through the room as if weighing every soul. Terror gripped every occupant, convinced they had reconsidered diplomacy and might declare war on the spot. Then, slowly, they turned away, leaving in unison. The threat was—momentarily—abated. Yet Severus still exhaled shakily, unable to shake the lingering dread. He decided to forget the idea he was ‘most afraid’ of one of them. He was absolutely terrified of all three.

Chapter Text

It was only when the room had started to calm jaws, retracting from the floor. This peace dissipated quickly as all three terrifying Weasleys re entered the room however.
Mcgonagall couldn’t help but groan.

Arthur folded his hands over his wand and let the room settle. Again.
They all just stared for a long moment. Time seemed to still.
Draco was trying very hard not to fidget. Bill’s stare hadn’t moved from him, and Charlie still hadn’t blinked.
Lucius, stiff-backed and silent, seemed to be weighing something behind his eyes.

Arthur’s voice was calm again. Almost mild.
“One final condition,” he said. “Draco will volunteer—every weekend—for the remainder of the term at the Littles Nursery in Hogsmeade.”
Draco jerked. “What?”
“You heard me,” Arthur said smoothly. “You’ll help with bottle prep, story hour, cleanup. You’ll learn what it means to care for those more vulnerable than yourself. Supervised, of course.”
Charlie snorted into his hand muttering to Bill. “He’ll last two days.”
Arthur didn’t react.

McGonagall gave Arthur a sidelong glance, as if to say ‘really?’—but she didn’t interrupt.
Draco turned toward his father. “You’re not seriously going to—”
“I accept,” Lucius said immediately.

The room stilled.
Bill’s eyes narrowed. Charlie looked up, surprised. Even McGonagall raised an eyebrow.

Lucius gave Arthur a slight nod. “We will ensure punctuality and full compliance.”
Draco gawked at him. “Father—!”
“You will not speak,” Lucius said sharply, then turned his gaze back to Arthur. “I understand the lesson. I assume the nursery will report to you directly?”
“They’ll report to McGonagall and the nursery lead,” Arthur replied. “But I’ll hear if he misses a shift. And I’ll know if he’s disrespectful.”

Lucius inclined his head.
“Very well. Is there anything else?”

Arthur gave a small smile—one that didn’t reach his eyes. “Not at this time. But rest assured, I will not hesitate to revisit terms if I feel the lesson hasn’t sunk in.”
Draco sank into his chair, pale and furious, but wisely silent.
Snape hadn’t moved since Arthur’s earlier threat. He still looked shaken, his hand curled tightly around the chair’s armrest.
Arthur stood, calm and collected again. “Then we’re done here.”

Chapter Text

The drawing room in Malfoy Manor was quiet.

Too quiet.

Draco sat stiffly on the velvet chaise, hands folded, eyes darting between his parents and his godfather. He’d been stewing in shame since the meeting ended, but now, sitting under the weight of their silence, it began to curdle into something else entirely.

“Well,” Lucius said finally, his voice low. “That went about as well as I could have hoped. Which is to say catastrophically.”

Snape stood by the hearth, arms folded, gaze far away. He hadn’t spoken since they’d returned. His jaw was clenched tight.

Draco tried to lighten the mood. “At least he didn’t hex us.”

Lucius shot him a sharp look. “No,” Snape said bitterly, “just humiliated us. And in your case, Draco, quite deservedly.” Draco stiffened. He was about to snap back when his mother, who had been sitting quietly by the window, finally turned to face them.

Her expression was unreadable—but her eyes were glassy. Wet.

“You’re to volunteer at the Littles nursery?” she asked softly.
Draco swallowed. “Yeah. Every weekend.”

She said nothing. Not good. Not serves you right. Not even we’ll speak about it later.
She just looked at him. And in that silence, Draco felt something inside him shift. Her hands were folded in her lap, fingers twisting slightly in the lace trim of her robe—something she did only when she was deeply upset. And she wasn’t looking at him like he’d made a mistake. She was looking at him like she didn’t recognise him.

“Moth—” he began, but her lips tightened, and she looked away again. “I tried to raise you better,” she whispered. “With empathy. With the understanding that power means responsibility. That our name meant we were meant to protect, not shame.”

Draco’s breath caught. Lucius closed his eyes briefly, then straightened his cuffs, as if needing a distraction from the tension he took a measured breath before he spoke “You’ve put our entire standing at risk. The Weasleys may not press further, but Arthur was… clear. If you do anything else to that boy, they will all come for you. ”

“Or me,” Snape added grimly. “And I have very few allies left as it is.”

Draco looked at all of them, really looked—at the haunted crease in Snape’s brow, the edge of fear behind his father’s cool mask, the quiet disappointment in his mother’s every gesture. And for the first time, it truly sank in. He hadn’t just humiliated Potter. He’d endangered everything. His parents’ reputation. Snape’s protection. The fragile truce between pureblood families. His own pack’s stability. And a little’s Harry’s health and dignity.

He swallowed hard.

“I didn’t mean—” His voice cracked. “I didn’t think it would go that far.”

“No,” Narcissa said, eyes back on him. “You didn’t think at all.”

Lucius sat beside her but didn’t reach for her hand. That alone made Draco’s chest ache. Snape turned fully toward him. “You manipulated me, Draco. Lied to me. Used me as a weapon. Against a child.”... “A Little.”

Draco dropped his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely. No one replied right away. But when he looked up, he caught the briefest flicker of something in Narcissa’s face. Not forgiveness. Not yet. But hope. It was enough to make his throat tighten. And for the first time since Harry fled that classroom, Draco Malfoy felt something real.

Remorse.

Chapter Text

The Weasley pack room was warm, filled with the soft sounds of blankets shifting, parchment rustling, and the occasional pop from the fireplace. The mood was tense, but Molly was trying to fight it the only way she knew how.

“Eat something, please,” she fussed, setting down a plate of buttered toast in front of Hermione and a small stack of cheese rolls near Ron. “You’ll all feel better with food in your stomachs, and Harry—oh, love, you need something.”

She bustled back over to Harry, who was now settled firmly in a two year old headspace and nestled comfortably in Percy’s lap on the floor. Molly knelt with a proud little grin and held up a bag of soft, baby-safe crisps.

“They’re carrot and parsnip,” she said, tone bright. “Crunchy, but not sharp. Perfect for little fingers.”
“Assuming the fingers cooperate,” Fred muttered with a smirk.
Harry reached for the crisps with intense focus, his tongue poking out in determination. He managed to get one between his fingers—only for it to crumble just before reaching his mouth. A few flakes drifted down onto Percy’s pristine robes.

“Oh dear,” Molly said, but smiled.
Harry frowned, concentrating harder. He reached again, grabbed another crisp—this time he got it all the way to his nose before it wobbled and bounced off his lip, flopping onto Percy’s chest.
George snorted. “So close, mate!”
Fred whispered dramatically, “Tense moment here in the final round. Will he go for the parsnip crisp next?”

Percy didn’t flinch, though his expression was pained. He carefully brushed crumbs from his -previously pristine- robes with one hand while using the other to support Harry’s wobbly torso.
“Some of us,” he said flatly, “remember when dignity was a value in this family.”
“Oh hush,” Molly said, gently placing another crisp into Harry’s hand.

This time, with great effort and a little tongue peeking out of the corner of his mouth, Harry managed to get it into his mouth.
George and Fred raised their arms in silent victory, mouthing “He scores!”
Harry blinked wide eyes at them, confused but delighted by the attention, and gave a wobbly giggle.
Even Percy smiled, just a little.
Molly beamed. “See? You’re doing wonderfully, sweetheart.”
Hermione leaned back against Ginny, the two of them watching with soft expressions.
“For a moment,” Hermione whispered, “it’s like none of it happened.”
Ginny nodded. “He deserves that.”

Just then, the door creaked open—and the atmosphere shifted in an instant.
Charlie stepped in first. Bill behind him. Then Arthur.
The pack straightened.

But as Arthur glanced around and saw Harry sitting proudly in Percy’s lap with crisp dust on his chin and a look of serious concentration as he tried to grab another, his expression softened.
“Looks like we missed something important,” he said warmly.
“We did a family breakfast,” Molly said, trying not to sound too nervous. “To keep everyone grounded.”
Arthur nodded approvingly.

“Good,” he said. “Because after what happened…Never mind. I think breakfast was a wonderful idea.”

Chapter Text

Harry sat on the thick rug in the centre, knees wobbling slightly. He was alert and curious—but still soft in his limbs, his head tipping gently to one side as he blinked up at the returning adults. Percy was beside him, guiding a wooden stacking toy. Hermione and Ginny were on either side, vigilant but smiling. Ron hovered close, jaw tight, protective even when Harry was content.

“We’re back,” Charlie said softly.
Bill’s expression was grim, though he offered a small smile in Harry’s direction. “Hey, bug,” he murmured, crouching briefly to ruffle the toddler’s already messy hair. Harry giggled faintly, but leaned into Ron again, still unsure.
“How did it go?” Hermione asked, not even pretending to ease into the question.
Arthur sighed. “Long morning. Let’s sit.”
They all gathered—Percy pulling Harry gently into his lap again, where the toddler curled like a sleepy kitten—and dozed.

Arthur stood, hands clasped behind his back, gaze sweeping across them all.
“Lucius was… contained,” he said. “We had a private conversation before the formal meeting. He understands how serious this is. You have nothing to fear from the Malfoys—at least not officially. Not after today.”
Ron gave a dark scoff, but Bill shook his head at him. “Let dad finish.”
Arthur nodded his thanks. “Lucius has agreed to let Draco face the consequences outlined by us. Publicly, he’ll say it’s for reputation’s sake, but privately—” his voice dropped, eyes flicking to Ginny and Hermione, “—he’s rattled. Genuinely. I think even he wasn’t prepared for what Draco started.”

Charlie leaned against the wall, arms crossed and huffed. “Snape’s another matter.”
Hermione bristled. “He’s still teaching?”
“For now,” Bill said. “McGonagall won’t sack him—he’s too embedded in other… roles. But she tore him down in private. Made it clear Harry isn’t to be touched again. Not with a word, not with a look.”
Arthur nodded. “And I added to that. Strongly.”
Charlie gave a grim half-smile. “Snape won’t cross this pack again. Not if he values breathing freely.”

The room was silent for a beat.
“Good,” Ginny said finally.
Percy glanced down at Harry, who had begun mouthing the hem of his shirt. “He hasn’t asked about Snape. Not once.”

“No reason he should,” Arthur said softly. Then he turned toward the group again. “We meet with the Malfoy pack this afternoon. Lucius. Narcissa. And Draco.”
That made several people sit straighter.
“You’re letting him come?” Ron demanded. “After what he did—”
“I requested it,” Arthur interrupted firmly. “Because what Draco needs right now isn’t just discipline. He needs to see exactly what he’s affected. He needs to sit in front of this pack, look Harry in the eye, and understand that this isn’t a game.”

Hermione nodded slowly. “That’s fair. It won’t undo anything, but... it might start something.”
Bill looked around the room. “We’re not asking any of you to forgive him. Not today. But we are asking you to stay calm. Because Harry’s still Littled, and he needs safety right now—not another shouting match.”
Ron grunted, but didn’t argue.

“Can we all agree?” Arthur asked, tone gentler now. “The priority this afternoon is Harry. And the pack. We show strength, yes—but unity first.”
One by one, they nodded.
Even Percy.
Even Ginny.

And slowly, Harry looked around too—his eyes clear, uncertain but watching. When he reached up toward Arthur, the room melted a little.
Arthur crouched to lift him gently. “We’ve got you, little one,” he whispered. “Let’s finish this.”

Chapter Text

The sun filtered softly through the tall windows of the Malfoy Manor drawing room, but the light did little to warm the tense air inside.

Draco sat stiffly on the edge of a settee, his posture perfect, but his eyes flickering with unease. He had been spoken to in furious sentences since they’d returned from Hogwarts or worse hurt short bursts. By his father, by his godfather, but worse by far was the pain in his mother’s eyes.

Lucius stood at the window, hands behind his back, silent for so long it was beginning to make Draco sweat. Narcissa sat beside him, tea untouched in her hands, eyes unreadable.
Finally, Lucius turned. “You’ve embarrassed this family,” he said, voice low and clipped. “And you’ve jeopardised alliances that took generations to build.”

Draco clenched his jaw. “I did. I thought—”
“You didn’t think,” Lucius snapped. “You reacted. Emotionally. Publicly. You challenged Blaise in front of half the school—and worse, you endangered a Little.” His voice went colder. “You insulted the Weasleys, and Harry Potter.”
“I didn’t know he was that little—”
“You didn’t care.”

That stopped Draco short.
He swallowed hard, looking toward his mother. She hadn’t said a word.
Lucius stepped forward. “Because of you, I spent the morning being eviscerated by Arthur Weasley and forced to agree to terms I’d never have accepted under normal circumstances. You’ve been removed from pack eligibility at Hogwarts. You’ve been removed from pack eligibility at home.”

Draco’s breath caught. He knew about the pack eligibility at Hogwarts. But at home? His own family pack?

Lucius didn’t soften. “Arthur’s demand—and I agreed, because frankly, it’s the least you deserve—is that you volunteer every weekend at the Littles’ Nursery in Hogsmeade. Starting this Saturday.” Draco looked between them. “Why would you agree to that?”
Lucius’s voice was like steel. “You will do it. You will show the Weasley pack you are capable of empathy, of correction, of shame. Or you’ll never be permitted in another pack again—not at Hogwarts, not in Britain.”
Draco turned toward his mother. “Mum…?”
It was only then that she looked at him. Not with her usual calm grace. Not with pride. But with something Draco hadn’t expected.

Tiredness. Disappointment. Hurt.
“I held you in my arms when you were little,” Narcissa said softly. “Just like Molly holds Harry now. You were small, and trusting, and bright.”
Her voice didn’t tremble, but it cut. “And today I had to sit in a meeting and hear that my son caused another child to run, unsupervised and unprotected, into the castle because he was scared.”
Draco's stomach dropped.

“I’ve always defended you, Draco,” Narcissa continued. “Even when others didn’t understand you. But I will not defend cruelty. And I will not watch you become a man who cannot see the people in front of him.”

There was a silence that made the room feel smaller.
Draco stared at the carpet. His voice, when it came, was quiet. “I didn’t mean to hurt him.”
Lucius stepped back, finally allowing a breath. “Then show that. Not with words. With action.”
He moved to the sideboard and poured himself a drink with slow precision. “You’ll apologise. Sincerely. To the pack, to Harry, and to Blaise. And you’ll listen more than you speak. You’ve lost your place as a leader, Draco. Now earn the right to be trusted at all.”

Draco glanced at Snape, who had been sitting quietly by the fireplace this whole time, cloaked in shadows. His godfather looked almost… fragile. Tired.

“I disappointed you too,” Draco said, barely more than a whisper.
Snape didn’t speak for a long moment. Then, voice hoarse, he replied, “Yes. But that doesn’t have to be the end of the story.”
Draco sat straighter. The shame was still there—but now, under it, something else was forming.
Resolve

Chapter Text

Draco Malfoy stood stiffly in the centre of the Gryffindor common room, pale but with two bright patches of colour high on his cheeks. He tried not to fidget his etiquette lessons failing him as he shuffled from foot to foot.

His parents flanked him—Lucius like a storm cloud, Narcissa cold and sharp as ice she looked anywhere but at her son.

The Weasley pack loomed on the other side, a wall of red hair and burning tempers. Harry sat tucked into an armchair between Bill and Molly, knees drawn up, Fred’s mismatched socks in his hands. He looked small, quiet, his eyes fixed on the wool rather than Draco. Around the arm chair in varying states sat and stood his pack like sentinels.

“Go on,” Narcissa prompted, her voice clipped.
Draco swallowed, glancing once at his father’s warning glare before forcing the words out.
“I… apologise.” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. “Potter—Harry—I was wrong.” He shifted uneasily trying not to flee. “For strangling you. For—” his hand twitched against his robe pocket “—for saying you were using a spray. For manipulating Professor Snape. For everything.”

The silence was thick.

Ron bristled like he was about to leap across the room; Ginny’s fists curled tight. Fred and George were already whispering about new hexes. Only Molly’s steady hand on Harry’s shoulder kept the pack still.
Harry peeked up from where he was hiding in Molly’s arms, at Draco, wide-eyed, before looking back down at his socks. His voice was tiny, hesitant.
“You hurt me.”

That landed heavier than any shouted accusation. Draco flinched. His mother’s eyes narrowed, her fury restrained only by the setting. Lucius’s hand twitched around his cane, grip tight.

“I know,” Draco whispered. “And I shouldn’t have. I won’t again. I swear it. ”
Harry’s fingers tightened on the socks, and he leaned further into Molly’s side, not answering.

It was Ginny who broke the silence, voice sharp as a blade.
“You’re lucky he’s even letting you say this. Don’t think one apology fixes it.”
Draco nodded stiffly, gaze dropping to the floor. He looked smaller than Harry for once, caught between the crushing disappointment of his parents and the burning wrath of the Weasleys.

Arthur’s voice finally cut through, steady but edged with steel.
“That will do for today. Mr. Malfoy, if you want your apology to mean anything, you’ll prove it with your behaviour. Words are wind.”
Draco gave a jerky nod, muttered, “Yes, sir,” and practically fled the room.
Harry let out a tiny sigh of relief, almost lost in Molly’s robes. The pack shifted closer, protective, while across the castle Draco Malfoy knew he’d never forget the weight of that quiet “You hurt me.”

“Now that Mr. Malfoy junior has apologised, it seems perhaps things will be—” McGonagall began, but she stopped short as Arthur Weasley’s voice cut across hers.
“You think this has been okay?” His tone was soft, but the kind of soft that made every hair on the back of the neck stand. “That the school hasn’t failed my child again and again? That essential paperwork hasn’t gone missing?”
He leaned forward slightly, eyes steady and unblinking. “It’s remarkable what a prefect can discover when he starts asking questions. Remarkable what two troublemakers with house-elf friends can uncover when they decide to dig.”
McGonagall’s lips thinned. “Arthur—”
“No.” He shook his head once, controlled. “I’ll tell you plainly, Minerva. I will sue this school if I must. I don’t care if I spend every last knut I own to see it through. My child was harassed, humiliated, left without the basic protections he is owed. Permissions ignored, essentials denied—this is not something you can sweep aside with an apology.”

McGonagall’s composure faltered; the measured mask of a head of house slipped into something closer to panic. “Mr. Weasley—please—of course, we will make this right.”
Arthur did not speak, but the weight of his silence demanded she continue.
“As an immediate gesture,” McGonagall forced herself to go on, “the school will establish a fund for Harry’s essentials. New robes, clothing, whatever he requires that was denied when his pack could not leave. The school will cover it. That is nonnegotiable.”
Arthur’s eyes remained cold, so she pressed further. “And we will begin formal planning—tonight. A panel of staff, parents, pack representatives, anyone with experience of Littles. We will write protections into policy. No other Little will be put at risk like this again.”
Only then did Arthur’s shoulders ease, just slightly. His voice was still iron. “Good. Because Harry is not your problem to manage. He is our son.”
McGonagall inclined her head, humbled. “I know.”

Chapter Text

Narcissa kept her eyes fixed firmly on the floor as her son mumbled his apology. She did not look up even as Arthur Weasley’s calm, cutting words laid bare the prejudice of the school—but in her heart, she agreed with every one of them. When at last the meeting broke, she allowed herself one glance toward the boy at the centre of it all.

She looked at Harry. Really looked at him. The sharp breath caught in her chest before she could stop it. Regulus.

Harry wasn’t Regulus, of course. But the resemblance—the tilt of his head, the haunted brightness in his eyes—was enough to make her ache. Her darling cousin. Her baby, once, when she had cared for him as though he were hers. He had stood up for what was right in the end, and the price had been his life. Harry bore the same defiance, the same fragility that made her want to gather him close.

Lucius’s hand found hers, steadying. He brushed away the tears she could not quite hide. “Dearest… he isn’t Regulus.”

“I know,” she whispered, voice thick. “I know. But—he’s still such a darling.” Her gaze wavered as memories pressed heavy. After the war, she had accepted that no Little would ever set foot in Malfoy Manor. The risk was too great, and the Ministry would never approve them for adoption after Lucius’s choices. But she had loved before. She had mothered before. She still missed it, missed him. She turned away, eyes burning, as Lucius drew her subtly into his side. And then—unexpectedly—Molly Weasley looked at her. Really looked, the way Narcissa had looked at Harry. “Would you like to come with us, dear?” Molly asked softly. “I’m sure we’ll need some extra hands with the shopping. It’s a mother’s job to worry about these things.” She winked, warmth crinkling the corners of her eyes. For a moment, Narcissa couldn’t speak. But she nodded, grateful in a way she had not been for a very long time.

It was an unusual sight.

The entire Weasley pack—with Narcissa Malfoy walking gracefully among them, Lucius a quiet but present shadow, and Harry Potter toddling between them like the crowned prince of chaos.
Arthur, having quite publicly torn through Hogwarts’ neglect of Little provisions, had forced their hand.

The school had not only offered an apology—but a tidy fund marked specifically for “essential developmental resources.”

“Translation,” Bill had muttered, “we’re allowed to go shopping and Hogwarts is footing the bill.”
And Narcissa, to everyone’s surprise, had been accepted asked even by Molly to accompany them. Molly usually enjoyed solo mothering, was possessive even of her children, of her mothering. But she’d offered not just a shopping trip but a role up on a silver platter.

Narcissa wanted to be sure she hadn’t misconstrued.
“I’d like to spend a little time with Harry,” she said, glancing between Molly and Arthur. “If that’s alright with you.”
It was Molly, perhaps moved by the softness in her voice, who smiled and looped an arm through hers. “Of course, dear. You’re helping care for the boy now too, aren’t you?”

Lucius, in contrast, looked like a man who’d wandered into a dragon den by accident but was determined to act like he meant to be there. He hovered near Narcissa and kept close to the storefronts, as though proximity to baby shops might stain his robes.

Harry, of course, was far too focused on the sparkly things in the window displays to notice. He was currently gripping Percy’s finger like a lifeline while Hermione bent beside him with a toddler leash harness ready just in case. Not wanting to put it on him just yet due to how hastily it was transfigured.
“Alright, Harry,” she said. “You can help pick out your toys today. Maybe some things for your nest.”
Harry gasped. “Nest?”
Fred gave an exaggerated wink knowing ‘nest’ was one of Harry’s favourite words.“Yeah, champ. Gotta have the best nest in Gryffindor Tower.”
That was enough—Harry immediately wriggled free of Percy and bolted toward the shop, only to trip on the welcome mat and fall forward with a dramatic flop.

“Oh no!” cried Narcissa, immediately kneeling. “Darling—did you hurt yourself?”
Harry blinked up at her, stunned—but then saw the sparkle in her brooch and poked it with awe. “Shiny.”
Narcissa laughed softly and brushed his hair back, then gathered him up with the confidence of someone who’d once soothed Little-Regulus through falls and tantrums and everything in between. “Yes, it is. Shall we go inside and find you your very own shiny?”
He nodded seriously and settled in her arms like he belonged there.Lucius watched, strangely unreadable.

It was..calm.

Inside the shop however, chaos reigned.
Fred and George were attempting to convince Ron that Harry needed a glittery crawling tunnel “for psychological enrichment,” Hermione was organising the shelves herself out of secondhand frustration, and Charlie was testing the weight of several padded floor mats like a dragon handler prepping for battle.

Arthur calmly handed the shopkeeper a Hogwarts-funded voucher.
“I believe we’ll be needing a bit of everything,” he said mildly.
Narcissa was less concerned with the actual shopping. She was watching Harry carefully explore a plush dragon that squeaked when hugged and rattled when shaken.

He hugged it. He squeaked. He gasped. He dropped it. Then reached again with all the grace of a drunken pixie.
Narcissa picked it up and tucked it under his arm.
“For you,” she said gently.
Harry’s mouth made a perfect little ‘o.’
“Mine?”
“Of course.”
He pressed his face into it. “Fank you.”
Molly, watching from a display of blankets, quietly dabbed at her eyes.

“Sweet Merlin,” muttered Lucius behind her. “She’s already nesting him.”
“I heard that,” Narcissa said sweetly. “And yes, I am.”
Lucius coughed and adjusted his cuffs, but he didn’t move away. When Harry reached a hand out from Narcissa’s arms to grab Lucius’s sleeve and pat it with approval, the man went rigid… then—awkwardly—pat Harry’s tiny curls.
The Weasleys didn’t miss it.
Fred nudged George. “Look at him he has no idea what to do with a baby.”
George nodded nudging him back. “Neither did we a few weeks ago. Plus Narcissa makes up for it. But Malfoy is clearly succumbing to the Baby. Harry wins everyone over.”
Arthur, at the counter, smiled to himself.
This… this was how things shifted. Slowly. One toy dragon, one safe little moment at a time.

Chapter Text

The trolley was massive. Enchanted, bottomless, and possibly held together by hopes, dreams, and Arthur’s quietly muttered expansion charms. They’d barely crossed the threshold of Cub and Cubbin’s Care Emporium before the pack exploded into a whirlwind of purposeful chaos.

Percy, clipboard in hand (he’d brought his own), beelined toward the “Developmental Growth & Cognition” aisle. “We’ll need fine motor skill toys, soft logic puzzles, and this Montessori-style busy board,” he said, muttering under his breath. “Merlin knows he’s behind on coordination milestones…”

Moments later, he returned and loaded a carefully arranged box labeled ‘Advanced Infant Enrichment Kit: Age 1-3’ into the cart, then glared as Fred dumped something on top of it. “Seriously?”
Fred just grinned. “Nesting fluff, dear Percy. Vital for neurological and emotional security.”

Fred, officially in charge of the nest, had somehow acquired three types of velvet-backed nesting cloth, enchanted twinkle lights that simulated sunrise, and an entire section of feathered padding in Weasley red and gold. “This one’s mood-responsive,” he announced, stroking a soft pillow that purred. “Changes temperature if the Little’s overwhelmed. Can’t have our cub freezing out because someone bought ‘enrichment toys’ instead of feather-fluffed corner cushions.”

George, meanwhile, stood triumphantly beside what looked like a brewer’s cauldron modified with a bottle rack. “It makes and warms up to six bottles at once,” he said, tapping the lid. “Pre-programmable. We’ve had him on feeds every hour when he’s tiny. I want to sleep sometime before Harry graduates.”

“You just want a potion brewer for your own weird midnight snack blends,” Fred quipped. George didn’t deny it.

Ginny, arms full of reins in dragon prints, star shapes, and one suspiciously styled like a Quidditch harness, marched over. “I’m getting all of them,” she said. “He thinks reins are cool and I’m not chasing him across a corridor again. Also—” she brandished a glittery helmet “—safety first.” She dumped the whole load in the cart and gave Harry, currently sitting in Narcissa’s lap testing a teether, a thumbs-up.

Ron, who’d wandered in looking vaguely confused, returned with a pack of extra-soft towels, a collapsible toddler bath, and a magically self-rocking cradle. “What? He drools and crashes everywhere. And I’m not getting in the bath again.” He paused, then quietly added a pack of dragon plushies to the stack. “That one looks like Norbert.”

Hermione, ever practical, had summoned a mini-library’s worth of toddler books—picture guides for identifying emotions, magical bedtime tales, and even a cloth-wrapped ‘Little Rights and Autonomy in Magical Society’ primer. “We’ll read them together,” she said firmly, glancing at Harry. “And then we’ll discuss.”

Arthur took a turn and returned with sensible storage trunks, emergency calming potions, and self-replenishing snack pouches—one of which he tucked in his own pocket.

Molly, in true Molly form, had vanished and returned with three extra Weasley jumpers in toddler sizes, six packs of baby-safe snacks, and a rotating self-stirring porridge pot. She’d also found a rather large rocking chair and baby carrier harness as she explained the benefits of skin to skin and how she swore by the carrier and the chair when they were all younger.

She looked ecstatic to be able to buy them again She tried feeding Harry a biscuit again—he eagerly tried to bite it, missed, and smacked Percy’s robes instead. “Darling, here, let me—” Molly adjusted the angle and cooed as Harry finally got a nibble.

“Triumph!” Fred and George cheered in unison. Percy examined the crumbs on his shoulder with a long-suffering sigh. “Why am I always the designated victim?”

“You’re..tall?” Ron offered. Charlie, who’d stayed quiet so far, returned with weighted security blankets, a Little-sized dragon hoodie (“for bonding”), and a thick pack of spare clothes for all pack members. “If we’re nesting properly, no one’s going to want to leave,” he said simply. “Be ready for the long haul.”

Lucius stood awkwardly beside Narcissa as the trolley groaned under the collective enthusiasm. “Is this… normal?” he asked, voice quiet. Narcissa beamed. “It’s love, Lucius. In chaotic, overstuffed, practical form.”

As they finally rolled toward the counter—trolley overflowing, Harry gently snoring in Narcissa’s arms with his new dragon plush—Arthur stepped in with the Hogwarts voucher, smile warm but sharp-edged. “Let’s make sure this one never goes without again, hmm?” And no one disagreed.

Lucius perked up when the checkout went relatively smoothly, he offered to help get the bags back to the castle through magical means of course he wasn’t some ape or silly muggle. 
“Don’t be silly Lucius” Lucius couldn’t help his sigh of relief he'd managed to come out of this process relatively unscathed his heart stopped however when Arthur added completely nonchalant “This is only shop one.”

Chapter Text

The second half of the shopping trip was no less chaotic than the first—perhaps even more so now that the Weasley pack had split into strategic subgroups, determined to stock up on supplies for both classification maintenance and emotional survival.

The new cart had already expanded again. Twice.

Percy, ever focused, had found a beta-specialty kiosk and was quietly muttering as he browsed through slim volumes titled “Boundary Setting Without Burnout,” “Beta Roles in Large Packs,” and “When Your Alpha is a Prat.” Not that Bill was of course buy it helped with stressful packs and chaotic dynamics .He also tucked in another book on Littles and caregiving—though he pretended not to notice that George saw him do it. “Knowledge is prevention,” he sniffed, returning to the cart with his arms full. “And considering the current climate, one of us has to read the actual manuals.”

Charlie, wandering the communication section, eventually picked up a magical orb that pulsed faintly with warm amber light. It was a packstone—rare, old magic designed to connect pack members even over long distances. It hummed once as he held it. “Even if I’m not here, he’ll know I’m thinking of him,” he said, slipping it into the cart beside a dragon-sized plush he’d definitely bought for himself.

Bill, brows furrowed, combed through defensive enchantments designed for domestic spaces. “A protection ward keyed to pack scent,” he murmured. “And maybe a self-renewing perimeter shield… just to keep the worst away.” He added both to the cart, along with a soft-edged ward token meant to clip onto a toddler’s clothes. “I’m not always going to be here,” he said, almost to himself. “So he should have layers. I’ll set them myself.”

Ginny, with uncharacteristic hesitation, lightly held a handler collar guide. The display shimmered with examples—some flashy, others soft and symbolic. One day, she thought. Instead, she selected a subtle, silver-threaded collar box and a book titled “The Art of Gentle Direction: A Handler’s Handbook.” She grinned when she found enchanted lead reins that transformed into charm bracelets when not in use. At Percy’s raised brow she added “I’m not dragging him everywhere,” she said. “Just where I say so.” Making the twins crack up.

Hermione, of course, was reading. She didn’t even bother with the basket—just had five books floating beside her: “Caregivers and Littles in Pack Systems,” “Healing from Transitional Stress,” “Caretaking Through Transfiguration,”and two dense legal texts on Pack Rights and School Obligations. She only looked up when Harry tugged her braid from Narcissa’s arms and babbled. “Yes, sweetheart?” she asked sweetly, passing him a soft teething charm as she added two more books with a flick of her wand.

Arthur, quietly observant as ever, returned with a series of enchanted family bracelets—each linking to the others, warm to the touch when a member was stressed or in need. He slipped one onto Molly’s wrist without comment and held one out to Harry, who grabbed it immediately and tried to gum it. “Perfect,” Arthur chuckled, handing the rest out. “Oh, and Fred—socks,” he added mildly. Fred froze mid-prank-potion reach. “Wh—how do you know?” “You’ve been muttering about ‘cold toes of injustice’ for days.”

Molly had a different mission. She returned with baby care storage shelves, wand-sterilising baskets, and extra robes for everyone—including two sets for Harry in “Fawnling Brown” and “Tiny Tiger Orange.” She also added a charm designed to gently draw a Little toward a caregiver’s scent when distressed. She slipped that quietly into her apron pocket.

George, holding Harry awkwardly (Narcissa had gently shoved him the baby after declaring “try again, dear”), looked as if he were holding a flobberworm dipped in drool. “I don’t even know where his neck ends,” he whispered to Hermione. “You’re doing fine,” she said, not looking up. “Am I?” He clutched the pack’s newest parenting book “So You Accidentally Became a Caregiver: Surviving the Toddler Apocalypse” and loaded three copies into the cart—one for himself, one for Fred, and one for emergencies.

At the end of the aisle, Lucius Malfoy stood extremely still, watching as his wife cradled Harry against her chest (putting Fred out his misery), swaying gently in place while murmuring an old lullaby she hadn’t sung since Draco was two.

“He’s the boy who lived,” Lucius hissed under his breath, more to himself than anyone else. “We cannot simply imprint on the boy who lived. He’s not a normal baby, Narcissa. This is a diplomatic incident. There are treaties. Bloodlines. Histories. Just because he looks like Regulus you cannot imprint on him.”
Narcissa didn’t even look at him. “I don’t care if he’s Merlin reborn,” she said quietly. “I am not bonding with him due to his appearance. I don’t care if he looks like regulus or like something the troll dragged in or even like Albus Dumbledore himself. He is a baby. A traumatised baby. He smells like fear and marshmallows. And he needs someone.”
Lucius watched her brush a curl off Harry’s forehead with a mother’s touch and felt a sharp pang somewhere uncomfortable. Draco had caused this. The pack had forced them to face it. And yet, Lucius—brilliant, polished, calculated Lucius—stood there with his hand resting gently on Harry’s dragon plush as if anchoring himself.

He cleared his throat. “I suppose we could… offer donations. Or nursery support.” Narcissa smiled. “You can buy him the pram, dear”.

Lucius Malfoy stood stiffly by the entrance of the nursery aisle, arms folded, eyes flicking anxiously toward Narcissa cradling Harry like he was the most precious thing in the world.He duelled with himself at war with his instinct to make his wife happy or to protect he knew what he had to say wouldn’t be appreciated but as much as he hesitated he knew he did indeed have to say it.

“Cissa ,” he said quietly, voice tight, “I fear… if you continue like this, you will imprint on him. And with the current tension between our packs, it could break your heart.” Narcissa didn’t look up. “He needs someone, Lucius. I will be there for him.” Lucius ran a hand through his hair, exhaling.

“I only want to protect you—from that pain.” Before Narcissa could reply, Molly Weasley appeared, smiling gently but firmly, her presence warm like a hearth.
“Imprinting’s a risk,” Molly said kindly, “but you’re not alone. Arthur and I will support you. You can babysit him, be in his life, and still stay safe.”

Arthur nodded solemnly behind her. “That’s right,” he said. “We’re a pack. We look out for each other.Perhaps this will..limit the tension between us. We don’t mind if someone wishes to care for Harry in fact I feel a lot more people need to.” Narcissa’s lips twitched into a grateful smile. “Thank you.” She didn’t know what else to say. She was so scared that due to Draco’s actions today would be it, she’d be able to meet him, really meet him and have to say goodbye. She couldn’t help the grin on her face a real one not the one trained into her in gruelling etiquette lessons. And when they smiled back just as genuine she couldn’t help the warmth that spread across her chest. 
They reached the check out for the superstore. And Lucius her poor husband looked hopeful th day had ended she couldn’t help but giggle into Mollys arm as she handed over Harry a moment as Arthur upbeat interjected ‘Right onto the next shop.’ 

Pram Shopping was next.

The four men—Lucius, Arthur, and Bill—stood slightly overwhelmed by the shelves of magical prams, enchantments, and endless accessories.

Lucius sniffed. “How does one even… begin?” Arthur shrugged, equally clueless. “We’ll figure it out.”

The moment they attempted to pick a pram, Percy swooped in like a general taking command. “First, we must consider enchantments. Protective wards, temperature regulation, scent locks. The pram needs to be modular—adjusting for a new baby in headspace and a two-year-old toddler. Most importantly, it must pass Harry’s seal of approval.”

Lucius blinked. “Seal of approval?” Percy gave a tiny smile. “You’ll see.”
Molly, Hermione,Charlie, and Narcissa quickly joined, and the pram aisle transformed into a strategic operation center. Charms floated from wands, wires of light linked various parts, and soft pillows and nesting materials were carefully arranged inside.

Bill muttered, “I’ve read about wards like this, but never used them hands-on.” Lucius bewildered nodded. “I didn’t think pram shopping could be this complex.” Lucius hovered nervously, while Narcissa focused fully on Harry, who was crawling around on the floor, his little fingers exploring every shiny part.

The shop hummed with a quiet buzz as two groups sat nearby, worlds apart but connected by the same mission: caring for little Harry. On one bench, Lucius, Bill, Arthur, Ron, Fred, and Ginny exchanged bewildered looks as they watched the caregivers fuss over the prams, charms, and endless options.

Arthur shook his head with a tired smile. “Honestly, who knew prams came with this much... enchantment?”
Bill chuckled. “Right? It’s like they’re assembling a spaceship.”

Fred grinned. “Classic caregivers, though. Always taking things to the next level.”

Ron laughed softly. “Caregivers, am I right? Obsessed with every detail.” Ginny nodded fondly. “Same pram, but apparently it needs three different forms just to get it right.”

Lucius, looking slightly lost but amused, muttered, “I suppose this is what love looks like.”

Meanwhile, just a few yards away, the caregivers were deeply engrossed in debate. Narcissa held up a pram frame adorned with twinkling charms. “This one can shift between a flat bassinet, a toddler seat, and a car-seat base with just a flick of the wand.” Molly smiled, eyes bright. “It grows with him— magically, without being too overt lest it sets of his magical sensitivity.”

Hermione flipped through her notes. “And it can be enchanted with protective spells, temperature control, even a calming aura for Harry’s middlespace.”

Charlie grinned. “Practical and powerful. Perfect.”

Suddenly, from their bench, a low, menacing growl cut through the air as Lucius and the others instinctively guarded their pack. A scruffy, somewhat dodgy-looking man wandered a little too close, drawing sharp stares and not so subtle warnings.

Charlie smirked quietly. “Alphas, am I right?” To which the caregivers snorted.

Ginny just whispered to Fred as she laughed softly. “Caregivers and alphas—both weird in their own ways.” Percy, darting between the groups, heard both jokes and couldn’t help but grin. Same joke, different tone, he thought.

The caregivers glanced over at the alphas, then exchanged amused looks among themselves. “Alphas,” Narcissa murmured with a small smile. “Always on guard.”

“Caregivers,” Bill started warmly. “Always fussing.”

After hours of measuring, debating, and charm-testing, the pram was finally ready—a masterpiece of enchantments and design that could shift form to suit Harry’s needs as he grew. Headspace wise and physically. 

Back at the pram, Harry finally toddled up and clumsily tried to climb in. He wobbled, giggled, and then gave an enthusiastic babble that echoed like a tiny yes.

Percy nodded solemnly. “That’s it. He’s accepted.”

Narcissa’s eyes shone as she gently lifted him out and held him close.

Lucius breathed out slowly, relaxing for the first time all day.

Molly smiled proudly at Arthur. “See? This is why caregiving magic is its own kind of power.” Arthur just grinned. “And why you’ll never let them forget it.”

The pram, now fully enchanted and Harry-approved, was wheeled toward the checkout with all the trappings of a magical nursery on board—temperature-controlled, scent-secure, and ready for any toddler meltdown.

Lucius gave one last wary glance at Narcissa cradling Harry but said nothing. For now, he would watch, and wait, and hope. Amidst stacks of colourful toys and softly glowing charm-infused baby gear, Lucius and Narcissa stood aside, letting the pack pass by as they pulled Arthur over for a quiet chat.

Lucius sighed, eyes fixed on the assortment of prams and accessories. “Seeing Hadrian today... it’s worse than I thought. Draco’s actions—this isn’t just about pride. He’s hurt someone innocent.”
Narcissa’s gaze softened as she watched a small child toddle past, tugging at a parent’s hand. “Harry... he reminded me so much of Regulus when he was little. It breaks my heart.”

Lucius glanced at her, voice low and heavy with meaning. “We want to help. At least, I want to pay for this pram. It’s the least we can do.”

Arthur, steady and firm, replied, “We appreciate the offer, truly. But Harry is family. We’re not here for charity.” Narcissa met Arthur’s eyes, nodding thoughtfully. “I’ve looked into the Littles’ nursery. There are jobs—cleaning, maintenance, organising—that Draco could take on, on top of his volunteering of course. He can work to pay for this pram. It’s only fair, given everything.”

Lucius raised his brows, then quickly gave a slight nod of agreement. After a pause, the pack’s voice softened. “If Draco is willing to do that and take responsibility, we accept. It’s right he makes amends in his own way.”

Narcissa’s smile was full of relief. “Then it’s settled. Draco will earn this, and we move forward together.” Lucius looked around the busy aisles, then back toward the pack, a faint hope in his voice. “This has to be the first step.” Narcissa squeezed his arm gently. “It must be.”