Chapter Text
Tomorrow was Harry’s twentieth birthday, and he was absolutely dreading it.
Not for the reasons one might think, though. Twenty was a good age to be, he supposed. Old enough to be considered a (semi) capable adult by most—not that Harry felt particularly capable or very adult-ish. Old enough to drink. Yeah, that was certainly a perk. Old enough to confidently say he had a solid foot in the door that was life, with hopefully many more years to come. The beginning of an adventure, so to speak. Not that Harry hadn't already had enough 'adventures' to last a lifetime.
Plus, ever since he'd moved out of Privet Drive, birthdays equaled parties which equaled get-togethers, and Harry hadn't seen everyone in so long that that something worth celebrating all in itself.
He smiled up at the ceiling from where he lay sprawled across the couch. The old Hogwarts gang, back together again at last. It sounded nice.
It sounded terrifying.
Mind you, Harry loved his friends. Harry had missed his friends. Harry had been looking forward to seeing them again for ages now. But Harry also knew his friends, and some of them (read: most of them) could be a bunch of little shits when they wanted to be.
Especially when it came to Harry's nonexistent love life.
Of course, none of his friends were struggling with their respective love lives. No, they were all paired up and in love and perfectly happy. Hermione and Ron, Seamus and Dean, Neville and Luna. Harry was pretty sure Parvati was seeing someone, too, and Lavender was, well, Lavender, and Ginny—
Harry grimaced up at the ceiling, and then immediately felt horrible for doing so. Ginny. It was a subject everyone tried best to avoid, even Ron. Especially Ron. Not that Harry and Ginny were on unfriendly terms, exactly. It was all just…very complicated indeed, and Harry decided there really was no reason to torture himself with such thoughts, not when tomorrow was his bloody birthday.
So, yeah, while pointed glares and switching topics usually saved him from too many awkward conversations and less-than-subtle attempts to set him up with Seamus' sister's boyfriend's ex or whoever it was this time...well, suffice to say Harry knew none of that would save him tomorrow.
Not when he'd soon have tangible, physical evidence that, for a perfectly healthy, comparatively well-adjusted man of twenty years, his love life was just not where it ought to be.
Harry lifted his right hand above his face and peered up at his wrist, as if he might be able to see signs of...something if he squinted hard enough. The skin there was still perfectly bare, just as it had been his entire life. Tomorrow, though, that would change.
And Harry had faced many daunting situations before in his life. He’d faced an entire childhood of living with the Dursleys, faced dragons and dementors and basilisks and about a hundred different monsters that'd have a grown man cowering in fear. For Merlin's sake, he'd faced bloody Voldemort more times than he could count! And yet, even then, he couldn’t remember any of them being quite so…scary.
Thing is, Harry had never wasted much thought on his love life, not when there was the ever-present threat of Voldemort looming over his head. Now that the war was over and Voldemort was nothing but dust, well…Harry was out of his depth. There. He’d admitted it. It was one of the reasons the mere mention of Ginny’s name made him wince instinctively.
Harry often wondered whether the war had broken him, on some level. Because, after everything, he simply hadn’t had the energy to be with anyone, not even Ginny. And if he couldn’t find it in him to want to be with Ginny Weasley, one of the most amazing, fierce and all-round incredible people he’d ever met… How could he possibly be with anyone else, ever?
He wasn’t ready for this, despite what Hermione might think. He wasn't ready to become someone's 'one and only'. He wasn't ready for a god-damn soulmate.
Harry was rudely wrenched from his own self-pity, when a knock sounded on the door of his apartment, followed by a familiar voice. “Harry,” Hermione said through the wood, her voice far too cheery for his current mood. “We brought Thai.”
Right, Harry decided, already gracelessly rolling off the couch—self-pity could wait, at least until after dinner.
He made his way out his bedroom and across the living room and opened the door to be greeted by the smiling faces of his two best friends—and the heavenly smell of Thai. Ron immediately strode past Harry into his apartment and, after traversing the room, plopped down on one of the armchairs by the fireplace, giving a long, weary sigh as he did.
“Blimey, Hermione, we could have just Apparated instead of walking here all the way from the Thai place.” The redhead groaned. “My feet feel like they’re about to fall off.”
At the door, Hermione and Harry traded looks, and although she was obviously trying very hard to keep a serious face, Harry could tell Hermione was holding back a grin. “Honestly, Ronald,” she said and wordlessly thrusted the takeout into Harry’s open arms. “You’re so melodramatic. It was only a few blocks.” Following the example of her fiancé, she strode across the room without a second glance back at Harry, the latter of which shut the door again, amused, and placed the Thai on the kitchen counter, before joining his friends in the living room.
“A few blocks,” Ron muttered darkly under his breath. “It was far more than a few blocks.”
Hermione rolled her eyes, but the grin pulling at her lips betrayed her. Ignoring her boyfriend’s indignant huffs, she shifted her dark eyes to Harry. “So, Harry, how are you feeling about tomorrow?” To anyone who didn’t know Hermione Granger all that well, it might sound like a casual question. But the concern lacing her words gave her true intentions away, and Harry had to repress another grimace.
Sighing, he plopped down on the armchair opposite of Ron’s. “We’ve been over this, Mione. I think all this is complete and utter bollocks and I wish I could just stay nineteen forever, if only to never have to put up with having an actual soulmate.”
Ron frowned at that. “But nineteen’s a bloody awful age to be forever. In the States, you can’t even drink yet until you’re twenty-five.”
Hermione, again, rolled her eyes. “Twenty-one, Ronald, not twenty-five.”
Ron simply waved a dismissive hand, frown still focused on Harry. “Same difference. What I’m trying to say is, mate, I know you're all weirded out by the idea of soulmates, but there's really nothing to worry about.” His face suddenly turned very serious indeed, which really was an odd look on Ron. He reached out for Hermione’s hand, whose frustration in turn promptly melted away. “Me and Mione, we were lucky. But even if I hadn’t met her on the train when we were eleven, I still would have found her one day, and she would have found me. Because we were meant to be together.”
Now, just to be clear, if anyone other than Ron or Hermione had said that, Harry would have thrown up at the sheer amount of sappiness. However, he'd had to learn the hard way that Ronald Bilius Weasley, contrary to what one might expect, was the biggest sap in existence—a character flaw that had only been amplified when he and Hermione got together. In the years since he'd had to endure many sappy looks, cheesy words and adorable yet sickening kisses, but he'd endured it.
Because—and Harry would never admit this to Ron, though he strongly suspected the redhead already knew—Ron and Hermione really were perfect together, and he couldn't be happier for them if he tried.
Plus, Harry really didn't like getting kicked.
Any hint of Hermione’s previous frustration was now replaced by a look of sheer adoration, and Harry smiled at his two best friends. The only reason he wasn't totally repulsed by the whole soulmate-business was the two of them. How good they were together, and for each other. He’d known that even before their respective names appeared on each other’s wrists.
Ron squeezed his fiancée’s hand, but his gaze was still on Harry. “You understand what I’m trying to say? These things have a habit of working themselves out. And if they don’t, so be it. But that doesn’t mean you can’t try. What’s the worst that could happen?”
Never actually finding his soulmate. Or having found them, but never falling in love with them and thus never knowing it was actually them. Or, even worse, finding them, loving them, and then losing them, and living the rest of his life alone, miserable and broken. Harry had been close to breaking enough times in his life already, and he wasn’t sure how many times more he could mend the cracks before restoration became impossible.
But Harry didn’t say any of that. Instead, he smiled, and said, “Fine, you two, enough of this horrible sentimentality. I’m starving, so if you two don’t mind, I’m going to get me some Thai.” Ron grumbled something, but when Hermione plopped down beside him (read: basically on his lap), he promptly shut up.
“So,” Harry called from the kitchen, all the while shovelling a big heaping of Khao Phat Gai onto his plate. “How’s the wedding planning going?” At this, two identical groans were his response, and Harry smiled down at his fried rice.
Harry’s chest warmed every time he thought about the night Ron had finally popped the question. If there was any guarantee Harry’s soulmate would fit so perfectly with him as Hermione and Ron did, then he’d probably be excited rather than fearful of what tomorrow might bring.
The moment Hermione had turned twenty, an R had materialized on her wrist, which promptly turned into Ronald Bilius Weasley not ten seconds after having first appeared. Six months later, on his own twentieth birthday, Ron had acquired a matching Hermione Jean Granger on his wrist. And that was that. Harry’s two best friends were soulmates—well, no surprise there.
And then Ron had asked her to marry him, not a month after his soulmark appeared, saying there was no need to wait since they’d have the rest of their lives together anyway. It had all been very romantic, Harry had to hand it to his best mate; they’d all had dinner at the Burrow, and everyone had been there, even Bill and Fleur and Percy and his new girlfriend, Audrey. After dessert, Ron had gotten down on one knee in the middle of the living room and given the most heart-wrenchingly sweet proposal Harry had ever heard. Hermione had cried—as had nearly everyone else, Harry included—and immediately thrown herself into her soulmate’s arms, blubbering ‘yes, yes, yes’ for five minutes straight.
Again, Harry was happy for them. But that did nothing to reduce his own fears. Because, unlike Ron and Hermione, he hadn’t met his soulmate at age eleven, promptly becoming inseparable for the rest of their lives. And there really was no guarantee Harry would ever meet someone like that, someone who was his better half and he theirs. So Harry’s stomach constricted tighter every time his thoughts started to wander in that direction.
“Oh, don’t get me started,” Ron grumbled as Harry handed them each a plate of Thai. The redhead immediately began shovelling the rice into his mouth, even as he spoke. “Mum’s decided the wedding’s going to be at the Burrow. At the Burrow, mate. Sure, Fleur and Bill’s wedding was great, minus the whole Death-Eater-attack-thing, but me and Mione don’t want to get married at the Burrow! Good luck trying to convince Mum of that, though.”
Harry scooped up his own spoonful of rice to hide his grin. “So, you already have a date in mind?”
This time Hermione answered. “We’re thinking of a spring wedding. Winter’s too cold, obviously, and there's still far too much planning to get through to host it this autumn. Plus, I’d love to hold the ceremony outdoors, so the weather has to be perfect. Perhaps May.”
Harry nodded along to her words. “Sounds brill. And I’m sure you’ll get Molly to agree eventually. It’s your wedding, after all.”
Ron huffed and stabbed at his chicken. “Try telling her that.”
“How’s everyone else doing, then? Are Bill and Fleur enjoying Egypt?” Harry hadn’t seen the two of them since Ron’s proposal.
“’Course,” Ron replied through a mouthful of rice, and Hermione slapped her fiancé’s arm lightly. He made a show of swallowing before speaking again. “Bill says Fleur’s a natural. Saved his sorry arse twice now, from what I’ve heard. Can’t say I’m surprised.”
Harry chuckled. “No, me neither.”
“George is really throwing himself into his work,” Ron continued. “But it’s better than how he was directly after the war, so I’m not complaining. Percy’s still Percy, obviously, and Charlie’s just started training this new dragon race. You see, they’re especially dangerous, because not only is their breath fiery, but their tails also have these venomous barbs. Wicked.” The dreamy look on his mate’s face had Harry and Hermione trading another exasperated look. “And you know all ‘bout Ginny. My ickle baby sister, flying for the Holyhead Harpies.”
And just like that, Harry’s smile fell. He didn’t think Ron noticed, seeing as he was still digging into his Khao Phat Gai as though it were his last meal on earth, but Hermione definitely did. She offered him a small, sad smile in response.
“Harry,” she said. “I know you don’t want to talk about it, but you really ought to stop worrying so. Everything will turn out fine. Besides, just because you’ll have a soulmark doesn’t mean you can’t be with anyone else. It’s all still up to you.”
Harry wasn’t so sure about that. He couldn’t be mad at Hermione or fault her for simplifying matters just because her situation had been so, well, simple. But it was still frustrating to know his two best friends simply thought he was overreacting when tomorrow could very well change his life.
No, he thought and his stomach dropped. Scratch that. Tomorrow would definitely change his life.
He just hoped said change would be for the better.
Just to be clear, Draco was not a creepy stalker, nor was he, contrary to what Pansy always said, mindlessly obsessed with Harry Potter.
Plenty of people—who had far less business knowing Potter’s birthday than Draco did, mind you—knew tomorrow was the day the Saviour turned twenty. Every media outlet in wizarding Britain had been endlessly gushing about it for weeks now, how tomorrow the first letter of Harry Potter’s soulmate would appear on his wrist. If Draco cared at all about the git, which he didn’t, then he’d likely feel sorry for him, seeing as whatever plans Potter had for his birthday, they’d definitely be disturbed at some point by hungry reporters hoping to get a shot of that horrid soulmark.
Everyone wanted to know who the soulmate of The Boy Who Lived Twice was. Everyone, that is, except Draco.
He already knew.
His own twentieth birthday a month before had been far more pleasant than Draco had expected it to be. Pansy, Blaise, Theo and Greg had taken him out for lunch to some brand-new restaurant in Diagon Alley, and the food there had been surprisingly good. What’s more, no one had bothered the group of former Slytherins; there had been no muttered insults, no evil glares, no scathing remarks spoken just loud enough for them to hear. They’d been left entirely alone.
For one afternoon, Draco had allowed himself to relax. He’d listened to Blaise’s stories of all the outlandish maladies he’d encountered so far during his apprenticeship at St. Mungo’s, let Pansy rant about the French designer she was currently apprenticing under and how horrid his temper was, followed Theo’s explanations of the invention he was currently working to perfect, and inquired about whichever magical creature Greg was busy working with over in Scotland. It had been an afternoon of catching up with friends he’d not seen for quite some time now, seeing as, after the war, they’d all made sure to stay well out of the limelight.
Well, most of them.
It had taken a lot of consideration and weighing up of options, but in the end, Draco had decided he would not hide in the shadows for the rest of his life. It was what the world expected him to do, to lock himself up in Malfoy Manor and be silently grateful he’d escaped the fate of his father. And perhaps he would have, were it not for his mother.
For Draco had known from the moment Lucius was found guilty for his crimes and sentenced to a life sentence in Azkaban that the future would not be easy on him, but most of all, it would not be easy on Narcissa. Without his father, the hallways in Malfoy Manor were too quiet, and the whole house was more of a hollow shell than an actual home, unseeable ghosts and memories haunting every nook and cranny. Draco had never in his life known Narcissa Malfoy to be afraid, not of anything—for the longest time, she’d been the bravest person he knew, not even intimidated by Voldemort himself when he was living under her own roof. But now, with Lucius gone and the war having ended so abruptly, she was looking more frazzled every day, the perfectly put-together Lady Malfoy suddenly seeming a lot less unbreakable and a lot more broken.
And Draco could simply not allow that.
So, he’d made a decision. After all, it was high time he took matters into his own hands. Even though Draco had fought against Voldemort in that final battle, it still did not accost for everything that had been done. That he’d done. And therefore, he’d decided the only way to right his wrongs, or at least even out the scales, was to help in the only way he could.
It had caused much uproar when Draco Malfoy had joined the Aurors, but with time even the harshest critics had stopped spewing their ridiculous conspiracy theories about how Draco was trying to worm himself into the Ministry to one day murder them all in traditional Death Eater fashion. But Draco did his job well, very well, in fact, and even the wariest had realized that eventually.
Being a Malfoy no longer held the same glory it perhaps once had, before the war, before Voldemort. But at least it no longer warranted a handful of death threats a day owled to the Manor.
So, he’d been able to enjoy a quiet afternoon with his best friends, had been able to talk and laugh and joke and do all the things normal twenty-year-olds did when out and about.
Until, that is, halfway through the second course, his right wrist had started burning and a single, cursive H had appeared on his previously bare skin.
An H that had, seconds later, morphed into the three words Draco had tried his entire life to avoid thinking about. The name he’d somehow, deep, deep down, known would appear on his wrist that day, a name he’d heard so often over the past nine years any rational person should be sick of it by now. Except Draco was known to oftentimes be quite irrational.
He’d expected it, and yet expecting didn’t make it any less horrifying when the name Harry James Potter permanently etched itself into his skin.
He’d done very well indeed the past few years avoiding Potter, even though they both worked as Aurors in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and their paths were bound to cross every once in a while. He’d done so, so well to keep his head down and only ever give a stiff nod if their eyes met across the hallway.
Now this.
Draco had panicked. There, he admitted it. And in his panic, he perhaps hadn’t behaved entirely sensible. Instead, he’d jumped up from his chair, almost knocking it backwards, and bounded out the restaurant, ignoring the worried exclamations from his friends and the alarmed cries of the other restaurant-goers, only to Disapparate the moment he was outside.
His mother had been confused, to say the least, when a frantic, wide-eyed Draco clutching his right wrist as though it might fall off at any second sprinted through the Manor and into his room, not offering a single word of explanation before barricading himself in.
It had taken his mother and friends an entire hour of comforting and coaxing to get Draco to unlock the door and let in his mother, and only his mother. He’d silently held out his wrist for her to read, still feeling far too nauseous to utter a single word. But he hadn’t needed to. She’d taken one look at the clumsily written name and proceeded to envelop him in a bone-crushing hug the likes of which Draco hadn’t even been sure his mother was still capable of, whispering again and again that it was alright, he’d be alright, everything was alright.
When Draco had then let his friends in, the reactions had been more vocal, but, much to Draco’s everlasting gratitude, all in all just as comforting as his mother’s. Not a single one of them had been disgusted or horrified or angry, and Pansy had gone as far as saying they really shouldn’t be surprised, what with Draco’s painfully obvious crush on Potter during their time at Hogwarts, which had in turn made Draco blush furiously and mutter under his breath that he had not had a crush on Potter. Which, of course, was wholly pointless, seeing as the full name now written on his wrist begged to differ.
And just like that, Draco’s worries had been appeased, at least for the time being. The people that mattered hadn’t minded the name now tattooed across his wrist, hidden 24/7 underneath either long sleeves or a leather band.
But tomorrow, Draco knew, was Potter’s twentieth birthday. And, just like that, all those worries resurfaced again.
Because, while Draco sincerely doubted Potter would wake up tomorrow to find the name Draco Lucius Malfoy engraved in his wrist—after all, the single letter only ever turned into a full name if there were, err, feelings there—Potter would likely still find a D where there had been nothing but bare skin the day before. And, though unlikely, there were many ways he might accidentally find out Draco sported his name. And, knowing Potter, his reaction to that was bound to be explosive.
And then there was the second option. That Potter’s soulmark would not be a D at all. Draco had done the research; while very, very rare, unrequited soulmates did exist. Draco would never ever admit aloud, but he despised said second option with every fibre of his being.
Long story short, Draco was nervous. And just a tad scared. And, fine, maybe just a little, tiny, miniscule bit excited. Which was, of course, ridiculous. All of this soulmate-business was bound to end in one great big mess, and it would ultimately be Draco who’d have to clean up the pieces.
And yet.
At least it was the weekend, Draco mused as he waited more or less patiently for Pansy to finish trying on clothes. He’d been waiting outside the fitting room for what seemed like hours now, and while his patience was far greater than, say, a certain Gryffindor’s with messy hair and a lightning scar, sitting there with nothing to do but stare at the dresses Pansy had thrown out and try to determine just by looking at them which was the most expensive pushed even his tolerance.
“Are you nearly done?” he called. “I promised Mother I’d be back by six, and it’s almost seven already.”
A rustling sound sounded from inside the changing cubicle, followed by an indignant huff, and then the door opened, revealing Pansy, who stood clad in a black dress so tight it was a wonder she was even breathing in it. Oh, wait, scratch that. Judging by the painful set of her mouth, she likely wasn’t breathing at all.
Draco uncrossed his legs and raised an eyebrow at his best friend. “Not that you don’t look marvellous, darling, but I’m not sure it’ll do you much good if you can neither move nor speak nor breathe.”
Pansy scowled at him, her thick lashes darkening her eyes further. “Oh, sod off, Draco. I can speak just fine. Move, too, with a little bit of effort. And breathe…well, who needs to breathe when you can look like this instead.”
Draco chuckled. “Touché. Is that the one, then? Not that I’m not immensely enjoying sitting around with nothing to do, it’s just, you know, I’m really not. And I really did promise Mother—”
“—you’d be home by six. Yes, yes, I heard you the first time,” Pansy quipped, smoothing out her black bob as she studied her reflection in the mirror, eyes narrowed critically.
Draco took pity on his friend and stood, repeating, tone softer, “You really do look great, Pans. Honest. I pity whoever you set your eyes on next. They won’t even know what hit them.”
Pansy grinned mischievously. “What can I say? I’m just too good at this.” But then her eyes found Draco’s through the mirror, and that grin turned into a concerned frown. “How are you holding up, by the way? You know, what with tomorrow being you-know-who’s birthday.”
“Why, Pansy, don’t be ridiculous,” Draco drawled. “Voldemort’s birthday isn’t until December.” But that half-arsed attempt at humour only earned him another narrow-eyed glare from his fellow Slytherin.
He huffed, plopping back down into the armchair in a very undignified, non-pureblood fashion. “Well, how am I supposed to be holding up? I don’t know, Pans, truly. Am I nervous? Yes. Am I likely making a big deal out of nothing? Also, yes. Will he probably never realize the D stands for my name, seeing as he certainly doesn’t have any feelings for me? Yes, yes and yes.” He groaned. “Why can’t I just be in love with you like a sane bloke.”
At that, Pansy’s face lifted again, and she hurried over to give Draco a quick peck on the cheek. “Oh, chin up, lover boy. It’ll all work out, just you wait.”
Irrational or not, Draco certainly hoped it would. But fate had never been kind to him for any prolonged periods of time, so he wasn’t counting on it.
He just hoped nothing too bad would happen.