Chapter Text
Fwump!
A stack of parchment hit Percy’s intray like an incoming meteor, sending the Apparition permits he'd been working on flying.
“Oi!” Percy shouted, thumping his fist on his desk to punctuate his annoyance, but the gum-snapping, yawning temp just shrugged and shuffled back the way she came, leaving Percy’s office door wide open.
Rude.
She’d have to be removed as soon as he could hire a permanent replacement. Her attitude alone made her downright unpleasant to train in the bureaucratic art of clerical work, and he would not be writing her reference letter at the end of this arrangement.
Percy stared into the corridor outside his door, where a familiar poster was plastered to the wall.
Every day, he had to look at it.
Every day, he felt the bottom of his stomach swoop out from under him, the memory of his first day as Junior Head of the department coming back, clear as one of those Muggle television pictures his father was so fond of.
… “And here’s your new office, Mr Weasley. You’ll be working under me. Forgive the expression; I’ve been told it is rather offensive to the—ah, less disciplined factions of our society. But for a solid Beta like you, it should be no trouble taking on the duties of a leader and training to be my replacement someday,” Madam Edgecomb smiled at him, her eyes sparkling as if at some private joke they shared.
She smelled like nothing but cheap rosehip and elderflower perfume—a Beta, just like him.
Except that Percy was no Beta. He was a sheep in man’s clothing, trying to appear as wolfish as possible in the uncomfortable restrictions of their complex world.
Madam Edgecombe delivered him to his office, where the poster glared down at him while she fumbled with the keys.
Beta-led Abnegation Rules Our Nation!
…Alphas and Omegas are the beating heart of the wixen world, the invaluable components that keep the magical bloodlines strong…
…We must do our part to preserve the status quo, to protect that precious legacy by governing their baser instincts…
…If you see something, say something. Contact Wixen Resources if any concerns arise…
…A safe workplace is a productive and happy workplace…
Percy flicked his wand to close the door and, by doing so, snapped the lid shut on his Pandora’s box of anxiety.
Voldemort and his Omega Eater army were destroyed years ago. However, the unfortunate vestiges of retaliatory legislation following his downfall still held an iron grip on the fearful minds of those who remembered the horrors of a world rampant with sex-fueled violence and unchecked displays of public rutting.
No matter that the more liberal faction of the Wizengamot was doggedly attempting to enact anti-discriminatory laws in the workplace, Percy still lived in fear of the day he would be discovered.
Percy fixed the toppled permits and set himself to the suddenly more urgent task of finding himself a new secretary within the pile of applications he'd been collecting ever since the last one hadn't work out.
First, he weeded out the applicants with A or O circled on the Secondary Gender Designation survey. Until that anti-discrimination law passed, Madam Edgecombe required him to discretely dispose of unsuitable applicants.
Percy felt his stomach twist with every O he discarded. It felt like a betrayal. A twisted form of self-flagellation meant to remind him just how much of a fraud he was.
Still, the few who were stupid enough not to lie about their designation would eventually learn ways around this system. Lying about designation was one of them, but there were also Heat suppressants and scent blockers, most of which were only sold on the black market.
If they were lucky enough, they’d get a strong enough dose to get by on months before getting caught—because getting caught was inevitable. Whether it was one month, two, six, or a year, something would happen— An Alpha or Omega would slip up. Forget to take their pills. Let something suspicious slip to a loose-lipped co-worker. Lose track of their dealer because the Aurors finally caught up with them. Take one too many Rut or Heat leaves and set the gossip mill churning. Conversely, if they overdid the suppressants and waited too long to take the necessary leave, they were more at risk for a volatile and uncontrollable release of pheromones in a way that was impossible to conceal from even the less-developed Beta noses.
Percy had a secret weapon none of the others did. He had George, and because of George, he’d sat in this chair for six years.
Six years of solid service and a shoo-in to Department Head whenever Madam Edgecombe decided to retire.
Which led him to the tricky business of selecting the right secretary. Percy had been through three in the last year alone—one was outed as an Omega two weeks after she started (not by Percy. He’d have warned her to keep her mouth shut if he’d known), and the other two had been too stupid for the job.
He had to skew stupid for his own safety, but there was an art to choosing someone who leaned that way but with a grit and independence that motivated them to complete such mundane tasks as stamping stationary and indexing completed broomstick manufacturing inspection forms for hours on end without complaint.
Kenneth Towler… Gryffindor, Gobstones Enthusiast, Entrepreneur.
Nope… his bravado indicated an annoying streak of independence and would probably ‘do things his way’ just because he believed he was smarter than his boss.
Patricia Stimpson… Hufflepuff, Team player, History Buff.
Not her, either. Her enthusiastic gushing about being friendly with all her co-workers put Percy off immediately. Anytime he’d employed a more sociable secretary, they'd attracted the majority of office gossip. He didn’t want any spotlight put on him that might call into question the secret he’d kept for so long.
Marcus Flint… Slytherin, Retired Quidditch Pro, Hard-worker.
Percy paused, drawn to the third application, curiosity piqued. He’d known Marcus at school. He’d been a bully at the worst of times and a stubborn but driven prick at the best. Marcus’s name had come up a few times over the years, bounced from department to department, but not because he was a bad worker. Percy suspected Marcus's unfortunate family associations had something to do with his transient CV.
Marcus couldn’t help that his father had been one of the Omega Eaters, arrested and executed at the end of the war like the rest of the rabid Alpha filth that had poisoned everything.
Besides, there it was on his form—Beta.
Percy felt a pang of inexplicable sympathy. If people knew what Percy was, they’d underestimate him the way they’d done to Marcus. For years, Unspeakables had studied the Alphas and Omegas and determined the former to be volatile and power-hungry and the latter to be weak-willed and incapable of leadership.
Percy had proved them wrong. Perhaps Marcus deserved to be given a chance, too. It didn’t hurt that he was the right kind of stupid and possibly desperate enough that he’d work under Percy despite their history.
Percy grabbed a sheet of blank stationery and began to write.
George looked up from counting the till of his jokeshop when Percy arrived later that night, utterly exhausted as he shuffled over the threshold.
One look and George’s cheeky grin slid to a concerned frown as he rushed around the counter to catch his brother mid-stumble.
Icy hand to forehead, then neck.
“Shit. You’re burning up, Perce. Let’s get you upstairs.”
The room spun off its axis as Percy allowed himself to be half dragged up the stairs.
It was late.
Too late, if the restless itch settling around his tailbone was any indication.
“We’ve talked about this,” George hissed, anger rising to eclipse the notes of panic from earlier. “You need to stop working so late—the dose is only strong enough to get you through a regular workday. If you get yourself caught by being a workaholic prat—”
“I won’t. ‘M sorry.” Percy slurred, head lolling.
George slapped his cheeks. “Stay with me, Perce. Here, swallow.”
He shoved a bitter, gritty pill onto Percy’s tongue, with no water to wash it down with.
Percy grimaced, swallowing the unpleasant, cakey sensation down his throat. He felt the pill stab his throat as it went down sideways, scraping a burning trail down his oesophagus.
Within seconds, the world righted itself, but Percy was no less exhausted. He let George lead him to his bedroom, where he collapsed, fully dressed, onto his pillow and knew no more.
When Percy woke, it was to a tapping on his window.
Bleary eyes cracked open to see a Ministry owl hooting at him through the glass, a letter clutched in its talons.
Percy rubbed his eyes and sat up, fumbling for the sash while he retrieved his glasses with the other hand.
“Thanks,” he said before grabbing the envelope.
Percy,
I’ve reviewed your proposed applicant. Normally I'd advise against an applicant like him, but he has an impeccable record, and his background check turned up no brushes with the law. I deem him to be an appropriate fit (despite his undesirable parentage). He’s coming in for an interview with us this morning at 9:00. I look forward to seeing you shortly.
Maralyn Edgecombe
Head of the Department of Magical Transportation
Percy darted a glance at his clock. It was ten minutes to nine, and he hadn’t showered or eaten, and there was something very wrong—
Sticky and hot, trickling between his cheeks, and the reek of himself.
“Oh no…” Percy whispered, clenching his cheeks together to stem the flow. “No… this can’t be happening!” He lept to his feet, face burning as he turned to face the waiting owl. It was a good thing messenger animals couldn’t talk, or else he’d be in trouble. “Hang on, I just need to pen a reply.”
Percy flipped the parchment over, and with shaky fingers, he scribbled out,
Madam Edgecombe,
I apologise for my lateness this morning. I seem to have fallen ill and must stop by the apothecary for a remedy. I will be in as soon as possible, feel free to start the interview without me.
-Percy Weasley
The minute the bird was gone, Percy changed his pyjamas and shorts, trying to dab at the wetness that had leaked out of him with the crumpled fistful of ruined clothes.
It was laced with pheromones.
When was the last time he’d taken leave?
Easter, for sure. His parents had graciously let him use the Burrow while they went on to Shell Cottage to visit the grandchildren. Bill had been an Omega as well, though he’d mated with Fleur early enough that she’d been able to secure a respectable curse-breaking job while he stayed home and took care of the kids. As Mum always said, ‘A mated pair is a sated pair!’ and that was far more acceptable than being an unattached hormonal time bomb, a.k.a. menace to society.
At that point, it had been almost six months since Percy's last heat. Percy had arrived by floo desperate, stuffing himself with any phallic thing he could find—a zucchini in the kitchen cupboard, a hairbrush handle he found in the bathroom, the neck of an empty butterbeer bottle, the buttery-sweet scent of it mingling with his gushing arousal as he fucked himself to completion once, twice, three times, all night long, crashing into walls and sofas, snarling up the bedding and covering everything with his scent in a desperate attempt to breed…find me, fuck me, take my throbbing cunt and pound it into submission…
“You need to find a mate, Percy,” his mother had said when they got back to see a ragged, discomposed Percy frantically scourgifying every inch of the ramshackle house. “The longer you wait, the more in danger you are of being discovered and fired or taken against your will in an alley on the way to work.”
Percy heard all this before, and he dutifully nodded in agreement. But the truth was, Percy had no desire to be an Omega. He’d always grown up believing he’d be a great leader, not a submissive relegated to fathering the next generation of wixen the way his mother had done.
On his eighteenth birthday, Percy had woken up and known, just like his parents warned him he might, and that had been the start of a tough, uphill climb to hide who he was and change his destiny.
During his last heat, it had taken him a staggering nine days to subdue his hindbrain.
The experience had shaken him enough that he promised himself he’d take time off again during the summer, but now that he thought on it… They’d had an influx of Apparition tests to get through, with a batch of Hogwarts sixth years clamouring for licensure in mid-June. A late outbreak of Wixen Flu meant half of the department was out on sick leave. Percy had cancelled plans at the last minute to pick up the slack.
Which meant it had been over eight months since Percy had taken heat leave.
Eight months was the longest he’d ever managed, and he needed a break soon, or he'd ruin everything.
Percy couldn’t take time this week, though— he had a secretary to hire and train.
Two weeks. He could make it that far… right?
A knock on the door.
“I can smell that, you know. Pretty soon, all of Diagon Alley will realise I’ve got someone up here ringing the dinner bell, and then we’ll have more company than we know what to do with.”
Percy wrapped a towel around himself, opening the door a crack to snatch the pills from George’s hand.
He dry swallowed them and waited for his beating heart to slow and for his mating gland to stop throbbing.
“Perce, I’m worried about you,” George murmured through the door.
“Don’t,” Percy snapped. “Two weeks, and I’ll take an extended holiday. Haven’t had one since Easter, so it shouldn’t be too suspicious.”
George nodded. “You promise?”
“Yes.” Percy bobbed his chin and made to close the door.
“Oh! Wait, here’s the scent blocker,” George passed a fresh tin of the ointment through the door. “Made a few adjustments to this batch since you said the citrus came off a bit strong. Added some bergamot oil. I hear it's supposed to be... irresistible.”
Percy narrowed his eyes. “Are you trying to pair me off or something?”
George smirked. “Maybe. I might be tired of sharing the flat with my pigheaded, pompous big brother.”
Percy slammed the door in his brother’s laughing face and set to work, rubbing the blocker meticulously into his erogenous zones.
Behind the ears, neck, armpits, lips, nipples, wrists, ankles, inner thighs… groin. George was right; it did smell irresistible.
The suppressants were in full swing now, making the task simple today—barely a hard-on to contend with as he finished off rubbing the soothing concoction into his scrotum.
He made a mental note to ask George to mix it like this for next time while he dressed, and then he was off.
Good as Beta and not a hair out of place, Percy sailed into the office at half-past-nine with an apology on his lips the moment he rounded the corner of Madam Edgecombe’s office.
“Percy! Lovely to see you this morning—”
Percy caught a whiff in the air that stopped him dead in his tracks.
“—And not to worry about the late start; you work too hard, Percy. I’d like you to meet—”
Him. It was him.
Troll face carved as if out of a block, thick eyebrows, slightly crooked teeth, fathomless black eyes, and a leering smile on his lips as he took in Percy’s immaculate appearance in the doorway.
“—Marcus Flint, your new secretary. I've decided he's up to scratch. What’s better, we can get him cleared to start work right away.”
Percy's nostrils flared. Marcus wore a blocker so fragrant, it was a marvel even the dull-nosed Beta Madam Edgecombe couldn’t smell it on him.
Marcus was hiding his designation, but he may as well be wearing a bell around his neck.
The question was… Omega or Alpha?