The smell of lemon polish and old parchment was the only thing that felt real. My hands, rough and chapped from years of scrubbing floors at the Ministry, ran the damp cloth along the edge of the Restricted Section. Another day. Another shelf. The grandeur of the Hogwarts library was just another place I serviced, another reminder of the life that had passed me by. The Boy Who Lived, they’d called me. Now it was The Man Who Cleaned.A sharp thwack broke the silence. A heavy, leather-bound tome had pitched itself from the highest shelf, landing spine-up on the Persian rug. I sighed, kneeling to pick it up. The cover, embossed with a serpentine ‘T.M.R,’ was torn, the pages within fluttering as if gasping for air. My thumb brushed against the ragged gash in the leather.The world didn't spin so much as it lurched. The high, vaulted ceiling of the library melted away, replaced by the intricate molding of a gilded, sun-drenched boudoir. The scent of lemon vanished, overtaken by the overwhelming, cloying sweetness of roses and… milk.My head throbbed, a phantom pain echoing the shift. I was on my knees, but now on a plush, cream-colored carpet. My worn janitor’s uniform was gone. In its place, a soft, silk robe the colour of emeralds, tied loosely at my waist. And the weight… there was a new, heavy, aching weight on my chest.A small, mewling sound came from a bassinet beside the four-poster bed. Instinct, deep and unfamiliar, coiled in my gut. I pushed myself up, my body moving with a unfamiliar grace, and looked down. The robe gaped open.Two soft, full breasts. A traitorous part of my mind, the part that had survived Dudley’s fists and Snape’s sneers, screamed in denial. But the ache was a palpable throb, a physical demand. The baby’s cry pitched higher. Without my conscious consent, my hands moved, untied the robe, and I lifted the small, warm bundle to my chest.The sensation was a lightning bolt of pure, shocking rightness. The pull of the infant’s mouth, the release of pressure, the deep, primal satisfaction of nourishing another life. I swayed gently, a motion my body knew by heart, staring out the window at manicured gardens I’d never seen.The door opened with a quiet click. Two women in simple black dresses and white aprons entered, their faces a heartbreakingly familiar constellation of freckles and bushy brown hair.“Master Harry,” the one with the hair whispered, a tremor in her voice. “You’re awake. We heard the baby.”“’Mione?” The name was a croak on my lips. The other one—Ron, it had to be Ron, though her hair was long and braided—shot a worried glance at her companion.“He’s still disoriented after the last… episode,” Not-Ron said softly.Hermione—it was her, her eyes held the same fierce intelligence—approached me slowly. “It’s alright, Harry. You’re safe. Little Elara is happy, see?” She gestured to the contentedly nursing baby. “The Matron’s tonic must have finally worn off. You’ve been asleep for a day.”My mind reeled. Omega. Wife. Mother. The words were a nightmare.“Where… where is…” I couldn’t say his name.“The Minister is home,” Ron said, her voice hushed with a reverence that made my skin crawl. “He’s been inquiring after you every hour. He’s been… concerned. It’s been three days since you’ve…” She flushed, looking at her shoes. “Since you’ve required his attentions. Your distress is affecting him, my Lord.”A cold dread, entirely separate from the warm bubble of the nursing child, seeped into my bones. Tom Riddle. The Minister for Magic. Not the twisted monster of my world, but the absolute ruler of this one. Rich. Powerful. Serious. Everything I’d failed to become. And according to these two, my… my husband. The source of the very sustenance my new biology craved.The door to the chamber opened again, and the air itself shifted. It grew heavier, charged with a dark, spiced scent that made the breath catch in my throat. My body responded before my mind could, a warmth flushing my skin, the low ache in my core intensifying into a distinct, needy throb.He stood in the doorway, tall and immaculate in a ministerial robe of black and deep plum. His hair was perfect, his posture regal. But his eyes—those were the same intense, dark eyes that had haunted my school days. They scanned the room, dismissing Hermione and Ron with a mere flicker of a glance before landing on me. On me, holding his child to my breast.“Leave us,” he said, his voice a low, smooth command that brooked no argument. My friends—my maids—scurried out without a sound, closing the door behind them.He crossed the room, each step measured and silent. I stood frozen, my heart hammering against my ribs. I saw his gaze travel over the curve of the baby’s head, down to where she fed, then up to my face. There was no cruelty in his look, only a possessiveness so deep it felt like a physical weight.“Harry,” he murmured, my name a soft caress on his tongue. He stopped just before me, so close I could smell the sandalwood and bergamot of his skin. “You are well? The Matron assured me the fatigue would pass.”I could only nod, my throat sealed shut by fear and a horrifying, traitorous flicker of attraction sparked by his proximity.He reached out, and I flinched. His hand stilled in the air for a heartbeat before he continued, his long, elegant fingers gently brushing a stray strand of hair from my damp forehead. The touch was electrifying.“You are still trembling,” he observed, his voice dropping even lower. His thumb stroked my temple, a slow, hypnotic rhythm. “The need is building again, isn’t it, my love? I can scent it on you. That sweet, aching distress.”He leaned in, his lips hovering just inches from mine. His free hand came up to cradle my jaw, his thumb stroking my cheek. This is Riddle. This is your enemy. But my body arched infinitesimally toward him, seeking the alpha scent that promised relief.“It has been too long,” he whispered, his breath warm against my lips. “Let me care for you.”His mouth met mine.It wasn’t the harsh, demanding kiss I had braced for. It was devastatingly tender. A slow, searching press of his lips that spoke of familiarity and… devotion. His other arm slid around my waist, pulling me gently against the solid, unyielding plane of his body, careful of the baby between us. I was drowning in his scent, in the shocking softness of his mouth, in the way his tongue gently traced the seam of my lips, not demanding entry, but asking, promising.My mind screamed in protest, a cacophony of old hatred and fresh terror. But my omega body sang, every nerve ending alight, the empty ache within me clenching around a void only he could fill. I made a small, broken sound against his mouth, a sound of pure confusion.He pulled back just far enough to look into my eyes, his own dark with a warmth I had never seen in them. He brushed his nose against mine in a gentle nuzzle.“Hush, my heart. I am here,” he whispered. “Let me in.”

The Man Who Cleaned, Harry, was suddenly transported from the Hogwarts library to a luxurious boudoir, where he found himself as an omega, nursing a baby, and surrounded by familiar faces—Hermione and Ron, who were now his maids. Tom Riddle, the Minister for Magic and his husband in this reality, entered the room, and despite Harry's fear and confusion, his omega instincts responded to Riddle's presence, leading to a tender kiss between them.

The smell of lemon polish and old parchment was the only thing that felt real. My hands, rough and chapped from years of scrubbing floors at the Ministry, ran the damp cloth along the edge of the Restricted Section. _Another day. Another shelf._ The grandeur of the Hogwarts library was just another place I serviced, another reminder of the life that had passed me by. The Boy Who Lived, they’d called me. Now it was The Man Who Cleaned.

A sharp _thwack_ broke the silence. A heavy, leather-bound tome had pitched itself from the highest shelf, landing spine-up on the Persian rug. I sighed, kneeling to pick it up. The cover, embossed with a serpentine ‘T.M.R,’ was torn, the pages within fluttering as if gasping for air. My thumb brushed against the ragged gash in the leather.

The world didn't spin so much as it _lurched_. The high, vaulted ceiling of the library melted away, replaced by the intricate molding of a gilded, sun-drenched boudoir. The scent of lemon vanished, overtaken by the overwhelming, cloying sweetness of roses and… _milk_.

My head throbbed, a phantom pain echoing the shift. I was on my knees, but now on a plush, cream-colored carpet. My worn janitor’s uniform was gone. In its place, a soft, silk robe the colour of emeralds, tied loosely at my waist. And the weight… there was a new, heavy, _aching_ weight on my chest.

A small, mewling sound came from a bassinet beside the four-poster bed. Instinct, deep and unfamiliar, coiled in my gut. I pushed myself up, my body moving with a unfamiliar grace, and looked down. The robe gaped open.

_Two soft, full breasts._ A traitorous part of my mind, the part that had survived Dudley’s fists and Snape’s sneers, screamed in denial. But the ache was a palpable throb, a physical demand. The baby’s cry pitched higher. Without my conscious consent, my hands moved, untied the robe, and I lifted the small, warm bundle to my chest.

The sensation was a lightning bolt of pure, shocking _rightness_. The pull of the infant’s mouth, the release of pressure, the deep, primal satisfaction of nourishing another life. I swayed gently, a motion my body knew by heart, staring out the window at manicured gardens I’d never seen.

The door opened with a quiet click. Two women in simple black dresses and white aprons entered, their faces a heartbreakingly familiar constellation of freckles and bushy brown hair.

“Master Harry,” the one with the hair whispered, a tremor in her voice. “You’re awake. We heard the baby.”

“’Mione?” The name was a croak on my lips. The other one—Ron, it had to be Ron, though her hair was long and braided—shot a worried glance at her companion.

“He’s still disoriented after the last… episode,” Not-Ron said softly.

Hermione—it _was_ her, her eyes held the same fierce intelligence—approached me slowly. “It’s alright, Harry. You’re safe. Little Elara is happy, see?” She gestured to the contentedly nursing baby. “The Matron’s tonic must have finally worn off. You’ve been asleep for a day.”

My mind reeled. _Omega. Wife. Mother._ The words were a nightmare.

“Where… where is…” I couldn’t say his name.

“The Minister is home,” Ron said, her voice hushed with a reverence that made my skin crawl. “He’s been inquiring after you every hour. He’s been… concerned. It’s been three days since you’ve…” She flushed, looking at her shoes. “Since you’ve required his attentions. Your distress is affecting him, my Lord.”

A cold dread, entirely separate from the warm bubble of the nursing child, seeped into my bones. _Tom Riddle._ The Minister for Magic. Not the twisted monster of my world, but the absolute ruler of this one. Rich. Powerful. Serious. Everything I’d failed to become. And according to these two, my… my _husband_. The source of the very sustenance my new biology craved.

The door to the chamber opened again, and the air itself shifted. It grew heavier, charged with a dark, spiced scent that made the breath catch in my throat. My body responded before my mind could, a warmth flushing my skin, the low ache in my core intensifying into a distinct, needy throb.

He stood in the doorway, tall and immaculate in a ministerial robe of black and deep plum. His hair was perfect, his posture regal. But his eyes—those were the same intense, dark eyes that had haunted my school days. They scanned the room, dismissing Hermione and Ron with a mere flicker of a glance before landing on me. On me, holding his child to my breast.

“Leave us,” he said, his voice a low, smooth command that brooked no argument. My friends—my maids—scurried out without a sound, closing the door behind them.

He crossed the room, each step measured and silent. I stood frozen, my heart hammering against my ribs. I saw his gaze travel over the curve of the baby’s head, down to where she fed, then up to my face. There was no cruelty in his look, only a possessiveness so deep it felt like a physical weight.

“Harry,” he murmured, my name a soft caress on his tongue. He stopped just before me, so close I could smell the sandalwood and bergamot of his skin. “You are well? The Matron assured me the fatigue would pass.”

I could only nod, my throat sealed shut by fear and a horrifying, traitorous flicker of attraction sparked by his proximity.

He reached out, and I flinched. His hand stilled in the air for a heartbeat before he continued, his long, elegant fingers gently brushing a stray strand of hair from my damp forehead. The touch was electrifying.

“You are still trembling,” he observed, his voice dropping even lower. His thumb stroked my temple, a slow, hypnotic rhythm. “The need is building again, isn’t it, my love? I can scent it on you. That sweet, aching distress.”

He leaned in, his lips hovering just inches from mine. His free hand came up to cradle my jaw, his thumb stroking my cheek. _This is Riddle. This is your enemy._ But my body arched infinitesimally toward him, seeking the alpha scent that promised relief.

“It has been too long,” he whispered, his breath warm against my lips. “Let me care for you.”

His mouth met mine.

It wasn’t the harsh, demanding kiss I had braced for. It was devastatingly tender. A slow, searching press of his lips that spoke of familiarity and… devotion. His other arm slid around my waist, pulling me gently against the solid, unyielding plane of his body, careful of the baby between us. I was drowning in his scent, in the shocking softness of his mouth, in the way his tongue gently traced the seam of my lips, not demanding entry, but asking, _promising_.

My mind screamed in protest, a cacophony of old hatred and fresh terror. But my omega body sang, every nerve ending alight, the empty ache within me clenching around a void only he could fill. I made a small, broken sound against his mouth, a sound of pure confusion.

He pulled back just far enough to look into my eyes, his own dark with a warmth I had never seen in them. He brushed his nose against mine in a gentle nuzzle.

“Hush, my heart. I am here,” he whispered. “Let me in.”

Harry Potter, once an orphan and now a janitor, finds himself transported to an alternate universe where he is the omega wife of Tom Riddle, the Minister of Magic.

Harry must navigate his new reality, where he is expected to nurse their children and depend on Tom Riddle's attentions to sustain his new omega biology.

Harry struggles with his past hatred for Tom Riddle, while also dealing with his newfound attraction to him as his body craves his alpha touch.

Harry's two best friends, now his maids, help him adapt to his new life, as he grapples with his conflicting emotions and the physical needs of his omega body.

Harry's journey explores themes of submission, breeding, and sensual kissing as he learns to coexist with Tom Riddle in this new world.

Bound by the Alpha's Tender Claim

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