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The boardroom of One Direction Global Holdings smelled like expensive cologne, hairspray, and the tears of a thousand interns. Shane was just a timid little omega who was in deep shit. He was officially in trouble now.
He stood at the end of a mahogany table that was so long it had its own zip code. At the head of the table sat the Board: Harry, Niall, Liam, and Louis. Zayn was there too, but he was just a holographic projection coming from a smoke machine in the corner.
"Look, babe," Harry said in the most British accent ever, leaning forward. His rings clinked against a golden calculator. "You owe us. You bought the life-sized, animatronic cardboard cutouts of us that sing 'What Makes You Beautiful' in Gregorian chant. That wasn’t cheap to manufacture."
"I was in a dark place!" Shane pleaded, clutching his threadbare cloak. He was on the floor crying; he was quite pathetic.
"We own your soul, your debt, and your Spotify Wrapped," Louis snapped, sipping tea from a cup shaped like a microphone. "But we’re generous. We’re sending you to the Morning Glory Milking Farm. It’s high-stakes, high-yield, and highly... damp."
"The client is a bit of a diva," Niall added, munching on a Nando’s wrap. "He’s a Dragon Shifter. Name’s Ilya. He’s a billionaire, a philanthropist, and currently, he’s backed up like a clogged sink. If we don’t get that medical-grade gold milk out of him by Friday, the pharmaceutical market crashes and we can't afford our custom silk jumpsuits."
---
Shane didn't just arrive; he was delivered via the Gucci x SpaceX "Loverboy" Trebuchet. He was strapped into a velvet-lined pod shaped like a giant tube of lip gloss. With a thwip and a glittery trail of pink smoke, Shane was yeeted across the Morning Glory county line, screaming a high-pitched "C-sharp" that shattered the windshields of three passing tour buses.
He landed face-first into a pile of artisanal, organic, lavender-infused silk-hay. It didn't even hurt; it just smelled like a spa day and corporate greed.
When he shook the glitter out of his hair, his face was still tear-stricken, but he was staring into a nostril the size of a walk-in closet. Ilya was in full Dragon-Billionaire mode. His scales weren't just scales, they were individual Swarovski crystals that changed colour based on the stock market (currently a bullish, aggressive neon pink). On his massive, curved horns sat a pair of Beats by Dre x Hello Kitty headphones, pulsing with a bass-boosted lo-fi remix of "Starships."
"Are you the new 'Extraction Specialist'?" Ilya boomed. The sound didn't just vibrate Shane's marrow; it literally rearranged his atoms into a more 'submissive and breedable' configuration.
"I-I’m Shane," he squeaked, accidentally letting out a little Omega "huph" sound. "I’m here to... troubleshoot the blockage? One Direction told me if I didn't, they’d revoke my access to the group chat."
Ilya let out a huff of smoke that smelled like marshmallows and Expensive gasoline. It singed Shane’s bangs into a perfectly trendy micro-fringe.
"You do look pathetic enough for the job. The last guy tried to use a mechanical industrial pump," Ilya sneered, his reptilian voice dripping with disdain. "I didn't just incinerate his Prius; I turned it into a very ugly, very flat keychain. I am an Alpha-Billionaire-CEO, Shane. My anatomy is a temple, not a fracking site. I need finesse. I need... vibe-matching."
Shane sighed, his Omega instincts kicking in with the force of a freight train. He rolled up his sleeves, revealing his "Property of 1D" temporary tattoo, and pulled out his phone, which was encrusted in googly eyes.
"Okay, big guy," Shane cooed, his voice going soft and sweet like a poisoned cupcake. "Are we doing a 'Cocomelon' sensory video with the dancing fruits, or is this a 'Baby Shark' high-intensity interval training session?"
Ilya’s massive, diamond-slotted eyes dilated until they were just huge, wet, adorable black orbs. He let out a tiny, high-pitched mewl that shook the barn rafters.
"Put on the 'Bath Song,'" Ilya whispered-roared, leaning his massive head down to nuzzle Shane’s chest, nearly crushing his ribcage with affection. "The one where the little shark gets his fins scrubbed. And Shane?"
"Yeah?"
"If the tweezers aren't warmed to exactly 102.5°F, I’m going to make Harry Styles eat his own shoe."
---
Later that afternoon, after a gruelling three-hour session that resulted in twelve gallons of glowing, iridescent liquid, Shane and a human-form Ilya (who was now wearing a silk robe and looking suspiciously like a GQ model) headed to the local Starbucks: High Fae Edition. Ilya had asked him to go there after begrudgingly admitting he did a good job, which had caused Shane to blush a violent shade of red.
"I'll have a Venti Oat Milk Latte with extra cinnamon," Ilya ordered, his draconic tail twitching under his robe.
"And for you?" the barista (Kip) asked Shane.
Before Shane could answer, a leather-clad blur dropped from the ceiling. A man, or a creature, was hanging by his ankles from the menu board. He had massive, damp bat wings that kept slapping a nearby teenager in the face.
"I AM THE NIGHT," the bat-thing hissed. It was Rhysand. He looked like he hadn't slept since the Second War. "I AM THE LORD OF THE NIGHT COURT. DOES THIS ESTABLISHMENT CARRY STARDUST-INFUSED ESPRESSO?"
"Sir, this is a Starbucks," the Kip sighed exasperatedly.
Rhysand flipped upright, his wings knocking over a display of "You Are Here" mugs. He looked at Shane, his violet eyes glowing with unhinged intensity. "You... you smell like dragon lactose and destiny. We must go to Jackson Wang’s volcano. Tonight. There will be flashing lights. There will be... fated mating."
Ilya growled, his eyes turning slit-like. "Back off, Bat-Man. This Omega is under corporate contract."
"Oh, please," Rhysand scoffed, picking a piece of lint off his doublet. "I’ve survived the Weaver’s cottage; I can survive a boy band’s legal team. See you at the volcano. Don't forget your heat suppressants, or do. I don't care, I'm a shadow singer."
He then proceeded to try to fly out the door, hit the glass, and had to be let out by a sympathetic grandmother.
The volcano was vibrating. Not because of tectonic plates, but because Jackson Wang was playing a bass-boosted remix of "100 Ways" that was literally melting the stalactites.
The guest list was a disaster. There were K-pop idols, Fae warriors from the Night Court, and at least three of the One Direction boys trying to sell "Morning Glory" branded merch in the VIP lounge. Rhysand was currently hanging upside down from a disco ball, occasionally dropping glitter on people and whispering about "inner circles."
Shane was leaning against a basalt pillar, trying to look cool in a faux-leather harness Ilya had bought him, when it happened. A wave of heat rolled over him that made the lava pits outside look like a walk-in freezer.
His knees buckled. His scent, which usually smelled like lavender and high-interest debt, suddenly exploded into the scent of Freshly Baked Cinnamon Rolls and Desperation.
"Oh no," Shane whimpered, sliding down the pillar. "Not here. Not during the drop."
Before he could be trampled by a group of Shifters doing the Cupid Shuffle, a pair of incredibly well-moisturised hands grabbed his shoulders. He looked up into the perfectly symmetrical face of Jackson Wang.
"Hey, hey, look at me," Jackson said, his voice a gravelly, soothing rasp. "Breathe. You’re glowing, and not in the 'I used a 7-step Korean glass-skin routine' kind of way. This is a hormonal crisis, man."
"I... I’m in heat," Shane gasped, clutching Jackson’s expensive silk blazer. "And I'm sold to a boy band. My life is a mess, Jackson!"
Jackson quickly grabbed Shane, shoving him into a bathroom and promptly sat down on the floor of the volcano, ignoring the dust on his designer pants. "Listen to me, Shane. Magic, dragons, boy bands, it’s all noise. What matters is the barrier. Your skin barrier and your emotional barrier. You’re letting the stress oxidise your soul. You need to hydrate, exfoliate the toxic people out of your life, and find a partner who treats you like a limited-edition collaboration."
"That’s... that’s beautiful," Shane sobbed.
"I know," Jackson whispered, handing him a gold-flecked sheet mask from his pocket. "Wear this. It’ll soothe the inflammation while your biology tries to rewrite your DNA."
The moment was ruined when the door literally burst from the hinges. Ilya, in full crisis mode, with smoke coming out of his nostrils, his eyes, red orbs glowing angrily.
"WANG!" Ilya bellowed, smoke billowing from his nostrils. "UNHAND MY LICENSED MILKER!"
"He was giving me a heart-to-heart about toner, Ilya!" Shane yelled, his voice muffled by the mask.
"I don't care if he was giving you the secrets to eternal youth!" Ilya snarled, stepping over a cowering Niall Horan. "Your scent is hitting the magma, Shane! You’re coming with me before I incinerate this entire guest list!"
Ilya scooped Shane up, over his shoulder like a sack of magical potatoes.
"Wait!" Jackson called out, tossing a small bottle at them. "That’s a pH-balanced cleanser! Use it after the... you know... the fated mating! It prevents breakouts!"
Rhysand fell off the disco ball and landed on a tray of sliders. "I SEE THE FUTURE!" the bat-thing screamed. "IT IS LOUD! IT IS BLONDE! IT HAS A VERY SMALL WAND!"
---
9 months later…
The delivery room was less "medical suite" and more "international summit of chaos."
It was located in the penthouse of the Morning Glory Milking Farm Headquarters, mostly because Ilya refused to let a regular doctor touch his mate, and also because One Direction had secured the exclusive streaming rights to the birth to pay off their remaining pyrotechnics debt.
Shane was propped up on silk pillows, sweating profusely. Jackson Wang was there, dedicatedly dabbing Shane’s forehead with a chilled, snail-mucin-infused cloth.
"Breathe, Shane. Visualise the pores opening. Visualise the toxins leaving the body," Jackson whispered, looking impeccable in a custom hazmat suit.
"I AM TRYING, JACKSON, BUT THERE IS A LITERAL DRAGON-HUMAN HYBRID TRYING TO EXIT MY SPINNING SOUL," Shane screamed, accidentally crushing a bedrail made of solid titanium.
In the corner, a heated argument was breaking out. Harry Styles was draped in a feather boa, clutching a tiny Gucci onesie.
"I should be the godfather," Harry insisted. "I have the most experience with curls. Look at the sonogram, that child has volume."
"Absolutely not," Louis snapped, checking his reflection in a surgical tray. "I’m the scrappy one. The kid needs a street-smart influence, not a man who dresses like a botanical garden."
"I HAVE THE SIGHT!" Rhysand shrieked. The bat-thing was currently hanging from the IV pole, its leathery wings occasionally knocking over bottles of antiseptic. "I have seen the child’s future! He will join a house named after a snake! He will have a very stressful sixth year! He will say 'My father will hear about this' at least four thousand times!"
Suddenly, the room began to shake. A golden light erupted from Shane, smelling faintly of expensive parchment and hair gel.
Ilya, who had spent the last three hours in dragon form pacing the roof and accidentally melting the chimney, burst through the window in human form. He was wearing nothing but a "World's Best Dad" apron and a look of pure, primal terror.
"SHANE!" Ilya roared. "IS THE ASSET SECURED?"
With one final, earth-shattering scream that shattered every window in a five-mile radius (and caused Niall to drop his Nando’s wrap in shock), the baby arrived.
The room went silent.
The infant didn't cry. Instead, he let out a sharp, judgmental huff. He had a shock of platinum-blonde hair that stayed perfectly in place despite being seconds old. He looked around the room, spotted Liam Payne, and immediately curled his lip in a sneer that suggested he found the 2012-era haircut "pedestrian."
"He’s... he’s beautiful," Shane gasped, leaning back in exhaustion.
"He looks like he owns a manor," Ilya whispered, poking the baby’s cheek with a clawed finger. "And like he’s about to demand a meeting with my lawyer."
"What shall we call him?" Jackson Wang asked, already preparing a celebratory skincare gift basket.
Shane looked at the baby, then at the bat-thing hanging from the ceiling, then at the dragon-man standing over him. "His name... is Draco. Draco Lucius-Ilya-Wang-Styles-Morning-Glory... Malfoy. Just for the vibes."
The camera zoomed out as Zayn’s hologram reappeared to sing a high-pitched lullaby. Rhysand began weeping shadow-tears into a Starbucks cup. Draco reached out his tiny hand and snatched Harry’s rings.
The "on crack" prophecy was fulfilled. Somewhere in the distance, a volcano erupted in celebration.
Epilogue:
The preschool suspension was, quite frankly, the best thing to happen to Draco’s social calendar. He marched into the Morning Glory penthouse, his tiny designer cape fluttering behind him, and slammed his juice box onto a marble coaster.
"I’m in love," Draco declared, his voice high-pitched but dripping with the dramatic weight of a Shakespearean lead. "And I’m tormented. It’s a tragedy, really."
Shane, who was currently being facial-steamed by a high-tech drone, blinked through the vapour. "Draco, you’re four. Did you flip the hamster again?"
"No! I met him," Draco sighed, collapsing onto a velvet chaise lounge. "His name is Harry. He has messy black hair, glasses that are perpetually broken—which is a choice, honestly—and a scar that I find ruggedly handsome. He shared his organic applesauce with me. It was a fated encounter. I felt the 'orbs' connecting."
Before Shane could explain that preschoolers don't have fated mates (usually), the balcony doors didn't just open; they vanished into a void of purple energy.
In stepped a man with hair as white as Draco’s, wearing a blindfold and a grin that suggested he knew the ending to every movie ever made.
"DID SOMEONE SAY FATED ENCOUNTER?" Gojo Satoru shouted, teleporting instantly to the kitchen island to steal a mochi. "Because as the Godfather of this household, I simply cannot allow a wedding to happen without a Domain Expansion!"
"Gojo!" Shane yelled. "When did you become the godfather? I thought the Bat-Thing was doing it!"
"Rhysand got stuck in a chimney in the Night Court," Gojo waved a hand dismissively. "I won the title in a game of Rock-Paper-Scissors against the One Direction boys. Anyway, I’ve already analysed the kid. This 'Harry' boy has a strange energy signature. Very 'chosen one' vibes. Very, I have a prophecy about me.' I like it. It’s chic."
Jackson Wang burst out of the walk-in closet, clutching a blueprint that was ten feet long. He and Gojo locked eyes. The air crackled with the sheer power of two men who refuse to have a bad hair day.
"Gojo! You’re late!" Jackson snapped, clicking his gold pen. "I’ve already mapped out the floral arrangements for the Draco-Harry nuptials. We’re doing 'Infinity' blue hydrangeas and 'Limitless' white roses."
"Needs more floating lanterns," Gojo suggested, leaning over the blueprints. "And I can use the Six Eyes to make sure the lighting is always hitting Draco’s good side. Which is all of them, obviously."
"Wait!" Shane shrieked. "They are FOUR. We are not planning a wedding for toddlers!"
"Shane, babe, stay in your lane," Jackson said, not looking up from his iPad. "This isn't just a wedding; it's a merger. Imagine the branding! The Dragon-Omega-Exorcist-Boy-Band-Wizarding alliance! We’re booking the volcano again, but this time, I want the lava to be dyed pastel pink to match Harry’s blush."
Ilya walked in, still half-shifted with a few gold scales on his jawline, carrying a massive crate of medical-grade breast milk for the black market. He looked at the chaos: his son pining for a wizard, a blindfolded sorcerer eating his expensive snacks, and Jackson Wang trying to budget for an "Infinite Void" photo booth.
"Does the Harry boy have a dowry?" Ilya growled, though he was already pulling out his phone to check the Potter family's net worth.
"He has an invisibility cloak, Father!" Draco beamed. "Think of the tax evasion possibilities!"
Ilya paused, his draconic eyes widening. "He’s the one. Jackson, book the choir. I want the hologram of Zayn to sing the processional in Japanese."
"On it!" Gojo chirped, throwing a peace sign. "I’ll handle the security. If any Death Eaters try to crash the reception, I’ll just hit them with a 'Hollow Purple' before the appetisers are served."
“We need to invite Sukuna”, Jackson screams.