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Dare Seize the Fire	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 6529 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I am making no money from this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Dare Seize the Fire
- 2-Part Two
- 1
- 2
Title: Dare Seize the Fire
Title: J. K. Rowling and associates own these characters. I am writing this story for fun and not profit.
Pairings: Harry/Draco
Rating: R
Warnings: Alpha/beta/omega dynamics, angst, present tense, bonding
Wordcount: This part 5100
Summary: After the war. Sometimes Harry thinks his entire life has been spent trying to get there. And now he is there, and he’s an omega, and Draco Malfoy is an alpha, and apparently everyone else knew about this all the time, and why does he have to deal with this?
Author’s Notes: An Advent fic for kitty_fic, who requested: Would you possibly consider a Harry/Draco Omegaverse (ABO) theme with the other aspects of the trope such as defined biological roles based on a hierarchical system, mating/heat cycles and soul bonds (not including mpreg)? This will be in two parts, the second one to be posted tomorrow. The title is from William Blake’s poem “The Tyger”: “On what wings dare he aspire?/ What the hand dare seize the fire?”
Dare Seize the Fire
            “You could have asked more questions.”
            “Yes, that would have been so wonderful and easy to do when the Dursleys had taught me not to ask them.”
            “But no one was telling you that you couldn’t ask them once you came to the wizarding world—”
            “Oh, no. Just not volunteering things about my parents, even things that they would probably have known I wanted to know. Or keeping secrets because they hated my father. Or telling me cryptic shit because they couldn’t bear to tell me about the prophecy and the Horcruxes before I was fifteen. Or—”
            “All right, all right, I take your point.”
            “Good. Because consider the ways I can actually make it in your skin now.”
*
            Harry sighs and touches the back of his neck, rubbing slowly. It seems to feel good and cool when he touches himself there, which is a relief. Otherwise, the burning sensation of a low-grade fever moves under his skin everywhere.
            Of course it does. Only a few days after September 1^st, into the new term that’s meant to replace their lost seventh year, and Harry’s sick. He would be, he supposes, in the one time that was meant to be relatively stress-free, compared to the summer of funerals and trials and rebuilding the school.
            “Are you all right, Harry?”
            Harry gives Hermione a tired smile. They’re in Slughorn’s class, surrounded by bubbling cauldrons and green smoke and purple fumes. The potion they’re making isn’t a complicated one, at least not according to Hermione. Harry supposes he should be concentrating more, but the heat under his skin is a constant, niggling distraction.
            “I’m fine,” he responds, and tosses a handful of powdered leaves into his cauldron. He’s lost track of what plant they’re from or what potion he and Hermione are supposed to be brewing right now. The important thing, he thinks, while his jaws part around a yawn, is that the instructions said he was supposed to toss them in right then.
            “I think you ought to go to Madam Pomfrey.”
            Harry shrugs. “There’re no symptoms.” He doesn’t even feel as if he has a fever, when he thinks about it closely. Not the serious kinds of fevers he had and could ignore at the Dursleys. Then he got chills and his head ached and he knew he was sick because there was a flush in his face, which always got hotter than anywhere else. This time, his face is the same temperature as his feet and his arms and the back of his neck.
            “Hmmm.”
            That means Hermione will be looking things up and foisting books on him before too long. Harry honestly doesn’t mind that much. He shivers, yawns again, and blinks his eyes at the cauldron in front of him. He might worry about ruining it, but when he and Hermione are partners, she always does everything right.
            “Malfoy’s staring at you again.”
            “How nice for him,” Harry mutters absent-mindedly. Really, he doesn’t see why Hermione has to keep bringing it up. Harry made a private vow that he was going to stay away from Malfoy this year, not stalk him or worry about him, and Hermione nodded when he told her that. But now when she mentions Malfoy all the time, she’s—what? Testing Harry’s commitment to his vow? It makes no sense.
            Harry can, in fact, feel Malfoy’s eyes like nails being shot into his back. That only makes him all the more determined not to give the bastard the satisfaction. He didn’t say thanks when Harry returned his wand, only looked at him and made a little sniffling sound with his nose. He didn’t say thanks for Harry testifying for him and his parents, to ensure that Lucius is only under house arrest and he and Narcissa are free to do whatever they want. That’s when Harry decided Malfoy’s only got quieter since the war, not changed in any real way.
            Hell, for all Harry knows Malfoy still hates him, and only refrains from attacking him in the corridors because it wouldn’t be politically expedient to attack the Boy-Who-Lived right now.
            But the point is, Harry doesn’t know because he’s staying away from him. And he wishes Hermione would stop remarking on Malfoy’s every little move.
            “All right there, Mr. Potter?”
            Professor Slughorn stands over him with a jolly look on his face. He wasn’t pleased when Harry started demonstrating lesser skills in Potions this year without the Prince’s book, but he’s back to normal now. “Yes, Professor, thank you,” Harry says, and smiles at him, and waits until he moves away before he turns to Hermione’s nudge. “What?”
            “Malfoy is coming over here.”
            Which means Harry is going to get his resolve tested. He scowls into the cauldron and says, “Isn’t there anything that needs shredding? Or crushing?”
            Hermione pushes over a cube of some kind of pink meat and a tiny silver hammer. Harry snorts and picks up the hammer to crush the cube. He vaguely wonders why the hammers weren’t part of their Potions kits before this year. Probably because it’s fun to smash the hammer into the table and Snape didn’t want them to have too much fun.
            “Potter.”
            Malfoy’s voice feels like nails scraping along the back of his neck, too, and the small coolness Harry has managed to put there flares up again into itchy heat. Harry closes his eyes and continues crushing the cube with his hammer. No need to turn around. Malfoy will give up and go away when he sees that Harry’s ignoring him.
            “Potter.”
            Now Malfoy is leaning down near him, and Harry can literally feel his breath on the back of his neck. He shoots Hermione a glance that asks for help, and she’s smart enough to read it. She rises to her feet with her hands on her hips in her best bossy manner. “Go away, Malfoy. Harry is busy with his potion.”
            Malfoy ignores Hermione as if she’s the one he’s trying to pretend doesn’t exist. “Potter,” he says again, somewhere between a grumble and a sigh, which is a weird sound any way you try it, and places one hand on the back of Harry’s neck.
            Harry gasps and hunches forwards. It’s as though the heat under his skin turned a corner and suddenly Harry saw it for the full, magnificent fire it really is. The itchy feeling is gone. Instead, the fire blossoms up into glowing, crawling color. Harry stares down at his arms. They’re turning red, flushed. There are actual white and blue lines pointing down to his fingers, as though there’s a fire blossoming under his skin in all truth.
            “What is going on?” Harry asks, and he doesn’t care if his voice is high and shrill. After Voldemort’s death, he thought he was done with shit like this.
            “Harry! Oh no!”
            Harry wheels towards Hermione, because in her voice is knowledge, and that’s what Harry needs more than anything right now. But Malfoy gives another grumble-sigh that turns into a roar, and leaps over the table to land between Harry and Hermione. Harry tries desperately to shove his way around Malfoy, even opening his mouth to yell, because fuck his ignoring Malfoy policy if this is what happens—
            And then darkness is what happens, the heat swelling to unbearable proportions. The last things Harry sees before he passes out are a flash of fire, and Malfoy’s eyes, glowing with the reflection of that fire.
*
            “You should have asked me right away when you woke up.”
            “Why?”
            “Because I was the one who had the answers you needed.”
            “How was I supposed to know that?”
            “Anyone raised in our world would have—”
            “Not raised in the wizarding world, remember? And no one ever told me about the effect a war has on alphas and omegas.”
            “Please let me kill them.”
            “I don’t even know where the Dursleys are.”
            “I could find them. All it would take would be sniffing your scent until my nostrils are full, and then looking all across England for echoes of that scent. Your aunt must smell the same, she’s got your blood in her veins—”
            “Yeah, aside from the fact that I’m never going to let you do that, there’s the little problem that every time you get a nose full of my scent, you end up wanting to pin me to the bed.”
            “…Point.”
*
            Harry shifts slowly to the side. His arm hurts as though he’s broken it playing Quidditch again.
            Skele-Gro? He thinks the words vaguely, drifting through what feels like a very hot sleep. Maybe he did have a fever after all. Maybe the manifestation of fire he had in Potions class is the first symptom of some rare wizarding disease. It wouldn’t be the first time something near-impossible has happened to him.
            “Mr. Potter, can you hear me? Mr. Malfoy!”
            That’s Madam Pomfrey’s voice, but the words she’s speaking and the snarl that follow them both make no sense. Harry moans a little in pain and opens his eyes, unwillingly letting the heat take him. Now it combines the worst aspects of both fevers, the itchy feeling from before and the real heat—including more blue and white lines under his skin—that happened after Malfoy touched him.
            He’s lying on his side in a too-familiar hospital bed, and his arm is pinned beneath him. At least that means it isn’t broken. At least, Harry is fairly sure.
            When he sees Malfoy standing hunched over in front of his bed, arms spread and raised as if he’s Goyle deciding to catch a broom, Harry thinks that might be the only good piece of news he’ll get.
            Madam Pomfrey hovers over near the infirmary wall, holding a whole tray full of potions, her wand, and something that looks like a feather duster with a soft plume of fire blooming from it instead of feathers. She catches Harry’s eye and frowns.
            “I must check Mr. Potter out, Mr. Malfoy. This is his first heat. The signs of fire are so advanced that he’ll probably need a full mating now.”
            “Mating what?” Harry snaps. He’s already decided that he’s not interested in that kind of thing this year, and not just because the papers would immediately pounce on any rumors of him even dating someone. It’s as though the desire he had when he kissed Ginny died an ignominious death sometime this summer. That’s the main reason he never got back together with her.
            “Mr. Potter,” Madam Pomfrey says, and manages to catch his eye and smile reassuringly even as Malfoy’s growl climbs higher and higher. “You are a rare subspecies of wizard called an omega. That means you go into heat when you need to mate, among other things. Malfoy is a subspecies called an alpha. They’re meant to mate with and protect omegas.” She frowns at Malfoy then. “An omega’s first heat can be dangerous until the mating actually takes place. I’d like to examine you, but Malfoy seems to have chosen you and won’t move out of the way. Can you calm him down?”
            Harry lies there staring for an instant, then starts to laugh hysterically.
            Malfoy and Madam Pomfrey are both trying to talk to him, but honestly, Harry can’t listen. He just rolls over and holds his stomach and laughs on. Even the heat brewing under his skin doesn’t bother him as much as it did earlier.
            Of course this would happen to him. Of course. He would end up as something rare, and only Malfoy would have the power to cure him or whatever, and he would end up with a partner who’s not of his choosing.
            I should have started dating Ginny when I had the chance.
            That thought calms the laughter, and Harry rolls over, wipes some of the foam off his mouth, and speaks as rationally as he can to Madam Pomfrey, ignoring Malfoy just like he’s been doing all year. “Why haven’t I heard of this before?”
            Madam Pomfrey has taken the chance to ease nearer the bed, but she pauses when Malfoy whips around to her and growls. She answers, “Usually, in times of intense stress like warfare, omegas and alphas don’t show their innate traits until it’s over. I don’t really understand why, but there are lots of theories—that omegas and alphas inherently require peace to express their soul-bonds, for example, or that it would be too easy to kill a lot of wizards simply by taking their soul-bonded one away and torturing them to death from a distance.”
            Harry’s abruptly sober. “So if Malfoy gets hurt, I’ll feel it?”
            “Not in the sense that you’ll feel every little scrape and stubbed toe.” Madam Pomfrey laughs, then looks warily at Malfoy when his growl ramps up. “But intense pain would indeed come through to you, like a broken bone. And if Mr. Malfoy is tortured to death, you would die too.”
            Harry’s sense of the hilarious comes back again. He turns to Malfoy and shakes a finger at him. “No professional Quidditch for you. What would happen if you fell from your broom or something and I died?”
            Malfoy turns to face him. His own skin is white and cold, as if he has frostbite. “And no Auror work for you,” he says. His voice is deeper than usual, and he sounds a little detached from the words, as if he isn’t really thinking about what he’s saying. “I’m not having my mate in danger.”
            Harry stares at him for a second. Then he leans around Malfoy to look at Madam Pomfrey, ignoring the way Malfoy immediately tries to move so he’s in the center of Harry’s line of sight. “Is it normal for alphas to be overprotective arseholes?” he asks.
            Madam Pomfrey looks like she wants to tell him off for language, but maybe gets the impression from Harry’s wide and staring eyes that it’s not a good idea. “Yes, it is,” she says. “At least, overprotective by the standards of wizards without the traits of either subspecies, who are usually called betas.”
            Harry sighs. “And those would be the people without soul-bonds and destined mates and heats and all the rest of it?”
            Madam Pomfrey nods. “Yes. I am a beta.”
            Harry sighs again. “Let me guess. This is something that wizarding families usually tell their children about? And I missed out on it by not being raised in the wizarding world.” A shudder goes through Malfoy when he hears that, but Harry has had about enough of Malfoy and his tantrums. “How common is it?”
            “As common as a combination of blue eyes and left-handedness, is the way I’ve heard it put,” Madam Pomfrey says promptly. “I’ve heard that in some countries and communities, it is rather more. For example, supposedly the incidence of omegas is higher in Bulgaria, and the incidence of alphas in Spain. But it’s not something people can easily study.” She hesitates, then continues, “Among other things, alphas are likely to hide their omegas away from attempts to study them.”
            “That isn’t happening, blondie,” Harry tells Malfoy at once. “Just so you know.”
            Malfoy looks at him, and reaches out and puts his hand on Harry’s cheek.
            Harry shivers and moans. Suddenly the sensation of heat is all concentrated in his face, and it’s changed again. Harry feels the urge to lift his legs and lie back and quiver in desire, and let Malfoy do—whatever he will do. Whatever an alpha wants to do. Harry still isn’t sure.
            “You’ll let me do whatever you want when I’m touching you like that,” Malfoy promises in a guttural voice. “Omegas can’t resist their desire.”
            And that sparks a deep, contrary idea in Harry, one that goes even deeper than the heat, one that goes back to long evenings of lying there and learning not to cry, and feeling hungry and enduring it, and falling off his broom with his arm broken and not shedding a tear, and facing down Voldemort even when he thought he was dying.
            Harry grits his teeth and sits up. He sees Malfoy’s astonished expression, and that makes it all worth it. He turns around to face him and grins a little.
            “Here’s one omega who can,” he says.
            “That’s—not possible.”
            Malfoy is still staring at him with chill eyes. Harry wonders if the alpha equivalent of the heat is cold. He says, “Where have I heard that before? Oh, right, when people wondered how I could survive the Killing Curse,” and he turns and looks at Madam Pomfrey. “Can you tell me where I can find some more information on this?”
            “I—” Madam Pomfrey looks just as flustered as Malfoy does, without the frostbite thing. She clears her throat. “I’m afraid that part of what he says is true, Mr. Potter. When he’s claimed you, he does have a legal right to you.”
            “What does this claiming involve? Sex?” Harry counters. He does have to bend double when a particularly eager hot leap in his belly follows that word. Malfoy groans and starts towards him. Harry sits up again.
            “You can’t—resisting their heat hurts an omega.” Malfoy is still staring at him.
            “So? It’s just pain.”
            Malfoy gapes, and Harry doesn’t think he’s going to find the sight of his tonsils attractive no matter what kind of bond supposedly prevails between an alpha and an omega. “Anyway,” Harry continues, and he’s gasping a little as he forces down the heat and the agony and turns to look at Madam Pomfrey, “he’s not having sex with me until I say so.”
            “He touched your neck, Mr. Potter.” Madam Pomfrey is almost wringing her hands. “He drew out your heat. That means he has first claim to you.”
            Harry snorts. “It’s not like I’m intending to run out and shag the first person I see.” Then he groans, because apparently he shouldn’t have said that, because his head rings and his hands move underneath his legs. He wants to lift them, spread them, show off—
            Madam Pomfrey is still here.
            That’s what saves him. Harry’s embarrassment at the thought of doing that is worse than the pain at the thought of not doing it. He shakes his head and yanks himself roughly back to the real world. “Fine. Can you show me some of the written information you give students who find out they’re alphas and omegas? There must be some, right?”
            Madam Pomfrey nods, her face still pale and anxious. “Yes. There are pamphlets I send to the parents of Muggleborns who show up as alphas and omegas. But—”
            “Then I’ll take them and be going.”
            Harry starts to hop down from the bed, but Malfoy crowds him in a second close to the bed, his head lowered as he sniffs at Harry’s throat. His breath provides the touch of coolness that Harry’s hand did earlier. Harry finds himself lowering his head and twisting his neck to the side, letting Malfoy close.
            He’s not bloody getting closer until he mends his manners.
            Harry shoves back against the instincts and the pain, both, and stands upright again. Malfoy hovers next to him, looking lost. Harry gives him a grimacing smile and says, “I need to find out more. Then I’ll decide what to do about this.”
            “Mate with me.” Malfoy’s response is instant as he slides closer, his skin turning an even clearer and more translucent white. “Let me take care of you for the rest of your life. That’s what alphas are for, Potter. That’s a truth that’s more important than anything you’ll find in any of your readings. Alphas are there to shield and protect omegas and give them pleasure and anything else they want.”
            Harry hesitates. He has to admit it sounds tempting, especially after some of the times that he’s spent working alone, running for his life, fighting for his life.
            But there has to be more to it than that, or Malfoy wouldn’t have blocked Madam Pomfrey from coming near him. She only wanted to help him, and Malfoy should care that Harry gets healed and checked out after the heat, shouldn’t he? But he didn’t want to let her near.
            Alphas are probably possessive bastards, Harry concludes. He hasn’t really experienced any of his fans or friends being possessive over him, but he knows the emotion, or can imagine it, from being in Voldemort’s head. Voldemort was possessive of everything, from his Horcruxes to his plans to his Death Eaters.
            And Harry’s temptation withers and dies at the thought of being an object of that interest. He’s not a Horcrux anymore.
            “Let me go, Malfoy.”
            “Potter—”
            “Let me go read about it.”
            “Potter! Let me love you!”
            Harry feels the blast of hot air across his face, and feels the urge to roll back over and spread his legs and let Malfoy touch him all over until he’s calm and quiet. Anything to make his alpha happy—
            Except that Harry catches himself in the middle of leaning back on the bed, and feels his body spark with betrayal.
            “So loving,” he tells Malfoy, with an undercurrent in his voice he’s never heard before. “To scream in my face like that.”
            Malfoy abruptly leans away from him, standing so he almost vibrates on his feet. Harry watches him, silent. For all he knows, Malfoy can make Harry act in accordance with his stupid omega instincts if he pushes things.
            But Malfoy just bows his head and whispers, “Stay safe, then. And don’t touch anyone else,” before he walks out of the hospital wing.
            “That was remarkable, Mr. Potter.” Madam Pomfrey’s voice is soft. “I’ve never seen an omega handle an alpha like that.”
            Harry sighs and leans back on the bed. “Can you give me the potions? And make sure you don’t touch me,” he adds. “Since Malfoy seems so insistent about it.”
            He grimaces a little at how right those words feel in his mouth. But he doesn’t want Malfoy to take his mood out on Madam Pomfrey, who was only trying to help him, or anyone else.
            “A good idea,” she agrees at once, and begins to float Potions vials across to him. “Do you think you can handle this, too, dear?” She holds up the feather duster. “It measures the level of your heat.”
            Harry has no idea how to use it, but he reckons she’ll tell him. The potions do nothing other than reduce the streaks of fiery colors on his skin a bit. The feather duster, on the other hand, which Madam Pomfrey tells him to take and position next to his ear, throbs and sends a hot blast through Harry’s head.
            Harry tenses, thinking about Malfoy feeling that and rushing back here, but it’s over in a second, and Madam Pomfrey winces when she sees the numbers that show up in front of her. Harry stares at them. Unlike the numbers on a Muggle thermometer, he has no idea what’s normal and what’s not.
            “I’m afraid, Mr. Potter,” Madam Pomfrey says, her voice gentle, “that your plan has to suffer one modification.”
            “What’s that?” Harry tries not to cross his arms and pout, but he really, really wants to.
            “You’re in such high heat, if you go out of here, some other alpha is going to try to mate with you,” Madam Pomfrey tells him. “Mr. Malfoy is the one who can make first claim; he’s the one who noticed your heat, which not all alphas would. But now they will, and unless you want…” She trails off.
            Harry can guess. Yeah, he can just bloody guess.
            “Fine,” he says, and flops back on the bed. “Then will you please get a message to Hermione Granger and ask her to bring me all the books she can find in the library on this? And give me those pamphlets? Thank you,” he adds.
            Madam Pomfrey scurries off to do his bidding. Harry closes his eyes and just drifts for a little while.
            So much for a normal life.
*
            “You would probably have accepted it a lot more easily if I hadn’t fought with you for the past seven years.”
            “And on the opposite side of a war. And against my friends. And if you hadn’t insulted Hermione. And if you hadn’t decided that insulting Ron for being poor was worthy of—”
            “Yes, yes, I get the point.”
            “I resented that more than you knew.”
            “Which part?”
            “The last part. I grew up poor. Or, I mean, I was poor, even if the Dursleys weren’t. They gave me Dudley’s old clothes, and told me I was taking money out of their mouths when I fed me. They didn’t even bother buying my glasses new...Draco, you’re growling.”
            “I want to find them and bite them into tiny pieces and—”
            “They wouldn’t taste good. Save your mouth for my neck.”
*
            Harry reads all the books that Hermione sends in (along with having a visit from Hermione and Ron where they stay on the other side of the hospital wing and he has to talk Hermione out of going to the Ministry of Magic and Ron out of finding and beating up Malfoy). It’s a lot of information.
            It’s also depressing information. Once they mate and bond, then Malfoy has the legal right to Harry, yes. He decides where they live, he decides who Harry can be friends with, he decides whether Harry can have money or own property, he can even face down someone who wants to touch Harry. He’ll fight other alphas who want to claim him. He can get away with slapping or biting a beta, apparently.
            It sounds, to Harry, like going back to the cupboard for the rest of his life, even though the books try to make it sound better by gushing over what wonderful, pampered, decision-free lives most omegas have.
            The pamphlets that Madam Pomfrey gives him are a little more cheerful. They’re meant to reassure Muggleborn parents whose children suddenly turn into something else that they’re still human, only a little different now.
            Omegas have heats every six, twelve, or eighteen months depending on the strength of the bond…submissive to their alphas…alphas as strong protectors…lack of equality ingrained and natural…legal right of an alpha to his omega lasts until the omega dies…omegas cared for because they hold their alphas’ hearts in their hands and can always crush them…dream of every young wizard to be an omega or alpha, so they can find true love…heats dangerous if omegas are left unclaimed for too long…alphas suffer from the cold if they can’t claim the omega they love…
            The soul-bonds apparently let them feel each other’s pain, just like Madam Pomfrey said, and ensure they love each other, and make the sex better. Harry sighs and shakes his head. He’s not sure that a lifetime of good sex is payment for a lifetime of slavery. In fact, he’s sure it’s not.
            Malfoy comes by several times, prowling up and down the corridor outside the hospital wing, sniffing, letting Harry see him. Each time, the heat is worse, although it’s not that bad as long as Harry can’t see another alpha. Each time, he wants to lie back and let Malfoy just take him. Each time, it’s harder to send Malfoy away.
            But this afternoon, something is nagging at Harry. He flips through the pamphlets again, frowning. He knows he’s missing something, skipping over something. Something that could be his, could help him, if he just thought a little more about it.
            The pamphlet resting on his stomach right now is one of the Muggleborn-parents ones that explains the legal constrains of the heat again. Harry picks it up, ignoring the slight charred corner where it came in contact with his skin, and flips through it again.
            (He knows Madam Pomfrey is getting more and more concerned, from the way she looks at him, but Harry still refuses to rush into something he’ll regret for the rest of his life).
            The pamphlet brags that faint echoes of the idea of alphas and omegas passed down to Muggles, who used them as the legal basis in some societies for husbands owning wives. Harry snorts. He doesn’t see why that’s something to be proud of.
            He skims through the pages, thinking he’ll know what he wants when he finds it.
            And then—there it is, a sentence he’s read before, but last time it didn’t seem to leap off the page the way this does.
            The legal right of an alpha to his omega lasts until the omega dies.
            Harry’s eyes open, and he cackles. He can almost feel Malfoy coming to startled attention somewhere across the castle.
            Harry gets out of the bed, and dances. Madam Pomfrey walks in and eyes him sideways. Harry thinks she probably thinks he’s gone mental, or maybe this is some new manifestation of his heat.
            “Mr. Potter? Do you need me to get your alpha?”
            Yes, she does. It doesn’t matter. Harry spins around and smiles at her.
            “He could have owned me!” Harry announces cheerfully. “Until the omega dies. But he doesn’t!”
            “Mr. Potter, if you are suicidal, then I’m afraid—”
            “But he can’t,” Harry laughs at her, and winks. “Because I’ve already died!”
            Madam Pomfrey’s eyes widen. She doesn’t immediately say anything to refute him, and Harry thinks that’s the best evidence so far that what he says has to be a real means of changing the bond.
            “So, yes, call my alpha,” Harry says, and leans back against the bed, and beams. “Tell him he’ll have to court me like anyone else who wants to get into my pants, because he can’t just assume a legal right to me.”
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Dare Seize the Fire