Work Text:
Soulmarks were supposed to be a blessing. They were supposed to be something worth celebrating. Soulmarks were cherished, loved, and proudly displayed.
Draco’s soulmark was killing him.
It was ugly, pulsing, and slowly eating him alive.
Soulmarks only form when soulmates touch. Growing up, he had devoured every book on soulmates that he could. Draco had been obsessed with how they worked, when he would get his, and how to take care of the mark. Soulmarks thrived when the individuals did. The sign of a true match was reflected in the mark. His parents weren’t soulmates. His mother didn’t have a mark, she never met her match. His father, though, had a mark, and his was well cared for.
Draco didn’t like the significance of that. His heart ached for his mother. What did she think when she looked at it? His heart also ached for his father. Why not choose love? Why not choose his soulmate? The mark wasn’t thriving, but it was a sign of a good match. Which meant his father regularly interacted with his soulmate, and everyone knew it.
High society was messy. Arranged marriages were put above the heart, were put above the well-being of those involved. Draco refused. There wasn’t a chance in hell that he was going to go along with an arranged marriage. It didn’t matter what was threatened; he didn’t have to be the Malfoy heir to make it in life. His grandfather on his mother’s side had left him a vault in his will. Money that neither of his parents could touch. Not to mention his mother sent him a stipend every month that was swiftly transferred to his own vault. They could take his status, but they would never take his freedom.
They could never take away his chance at meeting his soulmate.
Only… it didn’t exactly go as planned.
Draco had met his soulmate.
Harry fucking Potter.
Draco knocked his head against the side of the bed from his position on the floor. His sleeves were rolled up as he hoped that fresh air would cool the burning mark that was tearing into his flesh.
The spark. No, the spark. The soulmate spark. Draco had felt it at the end of their fifth year when Potter had attacked him on the train—there had been the briefest of moments where they touched, hands just barely grazing each other. Despite the pain of the flying hexes, Draco had felt the spark, felt the way his entire being lit up for one brief moment before he closed it. He fought tooth and nail to shove the soul bond down as far as possible, locking away the chance of it forming completely.
Actions have consequences, only no one told him what would happen if he didn’t allow one to form.
Nowhere in any of the books did it mention it. There were warnings of meeting your soulmate, the bond forming by first touch, and then possible rejection. The bond would sever, and the marks would fade away into nothing. But Draco didn’t have it in him. He couldn’t face rejection.
Draco hadn’t waited his whole life just to be rejected by Potter. He didn’t want to be the punchline of their jokes as the Gryffindors all got a good laugh at him before the bond was severed.
No.
He had wanted romance, love, and passion. Wanted to be understood. Wanted to spend his life with someone who was his other half. Draco wanted the love that his parents didn’t have. Wanted to know that if he had children, they would only ever know a true match. Soulmarks that thrived, soulmarks that glowed with the happiness that he felt. Something they could look forward to.
Not this.
Draco didn’t want this.
This was a mockery, a sham. This was hell. This was pain.
Maybe he should have let it form, maybe he should have allowed himself to be rejected. A severed bond only hurts once. But this? This was never-ending, and he knew that it was killing him. He could feel it poisoning his entire body. More and more of his energy was disappearing day by day. He’d be surprised if he lasted another year.
Was it better to have lived a short life with pain than to live an entire life without love?
It wasn’t as simple as a one time decision. He had to actively make the decision every single day. Draco could feel the mark trying to form despite his wishes, and he knew that if he allowed it to, that the pain would fade. That everything would go back to how it had been before. Only, not really. Not when he’d have a mark on his arm, a soulmate that hated him, and now a severed bond.
Proof that he wasn’t lovable. Proof that the person who was created with them in mind couldn’t even love him. Draco would rather die than do that to himself. Even if it meant he lived in delusion. Even if it meant he’d never know what his mark was supposed to look like. Even if it meant he’d never get the chance to see it reflected in his soulmate. Even if it meant he didn’t know what love felt like.
Even if.
Maybe he wouldn’t have to suffer for long. Maybe death would be quick. Maybe it would be painless. Maybe it would feel like falling asleep.
Maybe.
Soulmates.
Harry didn’t know too much about them. In the Muggle world they weren’t that common, but that didn’t stop the world from obsessing over them. Every piece of media featured soulmates of some kind. Whether it was in the background, mentioned in passing, or the main attraction.
There were only a handful of people that he knew that had met their soulmate, but they were all older. Like Dumbledore, whose mark had faded and wasn’t taken care of. There were rumors, of course, but Harry didn’t like to listen to gossip. Not when he knew what it felt like to have lies spread about him. If Dumbledore wanted him to know the tragic backstory of his soulmate, he’d tell it to Harry himself.
Soulmates were celebrated, that much Harry knew. It was seen as a blessing to have found the one you were meant to be with. Part of Harry wanted to scoff. Who was the one to decide that? Was there a higher being out there laughing at the humans who chased a mark on their skin? But he couldn’t deny that he wanted one.
Maybe it was a byproduct of his childhood. His aunt and uncle might not be soulmates, but they loved each other. Even if they were wretched, cruel, and miserable people, they still found love. If that was what normal love was, then what would the love feel like between him and his soulmate? Was it special? Was it different?
Harry wanted to find out.
The spark. It was supposed to be unique, something indisputable and instantly recognized. People tried to explain what it felt like in books and movies, but it wasn’t always the same. Electric shock, a surge of energy, a feeling that something had changed—that something was different.
Harry thought he had felt a spark of something last month, but it had been so fleeting and magic had been flying left and right on the train that he wasn’t certain what it was. There had been so many D.A members that helped him face off against Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle, and several of them had terrible aim. Friendly fire was always an option, but he had thought, for one brief moment, that just maybe it was a soulmate bond forming.
With whom, he didn’t know, and maybe that was a good thing. He wasn’t sure how he felt about any of the people who had been there. He liked the D.A members well enough, but for a soulmate? He couldn’t fight a grimace there. Not to mention the others. He would sooner jump off a cliff than have a bond with Goyle or Crabbe. Then there was Malfoy, who was, well, Malfoy.
Malfoy got under his skin unlike anyone else. It was uncanny and a little unnerving. In most cases, Dudley was worse than Malfoy, even if they both lived to make Harry miserable. Dudley was easy to ignore. Malfoy, though? Malfoy occupied far too much of his thoughts, and he hated it. Most of the time Harry forgot about him, could go through his day without ever once thinking of the git. Unfortunately, there were plenty of days when it was the complete opposite. He’d hear someone say something stupid, and he could almost hear the scathing reply that Malfoy would have given if he’d been there. He’d trip over something and think that it was a good thing that Malfoy hadn’t seen it, as if he would have cared in the first place. He’d get a spell right on the first try and think, hah, eat that, Malfoy.
Ron said he had a problem. And maybe he did, but it wasn’t as if he could stop it. He’d tried. There was something off about Malfoy. Even at their first meeting, there had been something off about him. They hadn’t even known each other’s names, and there was still a pull. It was like his brain was trying to warn him, alert him. As if he needed the warning. It became painfully obvious what his mind was trying to tell him.
Malfoy was a prick.
Harry gave as good as he got, and he’d never turn down an opportunity to go head-to-head with Malfoy. He was the only one who was on his level, the only one that could compete.
Still, there was something strange about Malfoy.
Harry didn’t know what it was, but one day he’d find out.
One day.
The pain was unbearable. Draco’s pain tolerance was rather high, and the fact that the pain was slowly increasing day by day was not a good sign. His arm throbbed. He tried not to look at it too often, didn’t want to see how far it had progressed. Soulmarks weren’t large, only a few inches, but his bastardized version was growing.
Living in never-ending pain ensured that his days blended. Summer was flying by, and he’d never been gladder for it. School would be hell, but it would be a different kind. He’d have access to far more supplies than he had at the Manor. Maybe he’d be able to brew a strong enough pain cream to help. Or maybe he’d be able to do some research on soulmarks. There was no way he was the first person to not allow the bond to form. There would have to be answers; there would just have to be.
His mother was too busy wallowing over his father’s imprisonment to pay him much mind. She didn’t notice that anything was off with him. No, the one that paid the most attention was Bellatrix.
The aunt he never knew.
There weren’t ever any stories, either. His mother rarely ever talked about her childhood, and when she did, it was only ever about her parents. One sister was a blood traitor, and the other one had been in prison. Not too many happy memories to spread about.
Bellatrix was off. Whether Bellatrix had always been like that, he wouldn’t know. She was a bit mental, and he would like to chalk it up to being imprisoned for so many years, but the other Death Eaters that had been released were not like her.
No.
There was a ruthlessness to Bellatrix that was alarming. She talked to herself often, repeated nonsense at the strangest times, and had a sixth sense for when the Dark Lord was being discussed. There was a difference between being a follower and being a fanatic. Bellatrix took her obsession with the Dark Lord to another level. She needed help, professional help.
“The next round of initiations is next week,” Bellatrix said for the third time that day. Neither his mother nor he had responded to her attempts. It was a hint, not even a subtle one.
“The Malfoy name could redeem—”
“No.”
Draco looked up from his soup that he had been pretending to eat, occasionally moving the spoon with a flick of his fingers. He had hoped that he’d be excused soon. If his father wasn’t in Azkaban, he’d have been excused ten minutes ago.
“No,” his mother said again. Her eyes were on the table, but her posture was rigid. “If Draco wishes to join the Dark Lord, he may do so when he is of age.”
Bellatrix narrowed her eyes. “After Lucius’ blunder—”
“Lucius’ mistakes are his alone.”
“Until the rest of the family is forced to bear it.”
“You are not a Malfoy,” his mother said, tone harsh in a way that Draco had never heard her use before. “I know that you wish you had been, but life isn’t very fair, is it?”
When Bellatrix snarled and leaned forward in her seat, Draco subtly withdrew his wand from his holster.
“You don’t know what you speak of.”
A scoff. “Your memory might be addled due to Azkaban, but mine is not,” his mother said, matching Bellatrix’s posture as he leaned forward. “When Abraxas approached father, it was not you who was chosen, despite your tears and tantrums. It was me. Not you, who begged pathetically at their bedroom door when it was announced. It was me. Not you, who ran away with Rodolphus even though he was to betrothed to Regulus.”
Draco gasped, unable to hold it in. He didn’t even care that Bellatrix’s angry snarl was now directed at him. He was reeling at his mother’s words. Part of him wanted to tell someone, anyone, because what?
When his mother turned to look at him, he nearly raised his hands in surrender. He didn’t want his personal matters aired at the dinner table too.
“You are excused; go to your room.”
“Yes, Mother.”
Part of him wanted to linger near the entrance, but when he looked over his shoulder, it was to see her already watching him, eyes narrowed in warning. If it had been his father, he’d have pushed his luck—knowing that his father wasn’t as strict—but his mother? His pace increased, and he was quick to leave after that.
It wasn’t until he was in his room that he let out a slow breath. His mother’s earlier words were still lingering in his mind, but he was distracted by the relief. The idea of becoming a Death Eater was the furthest thing from his mind. The fact that he was dying was pretty prominent as well.
He didn’t want to become a Death Eater, never had. That was his father’s life, that was his mother’s ideals, that was them. Not him. No, Draco wanted to find his own way in life, one that had nothing to do with warring sides. He didn’t want to be shoved into a box and told that he couldn’t deviate from it. Dark Wizards, Light Wizards, Dark Magic, Light Magic. What did it matter?
There were merits to both sides, to all magic. He could understand Light Magic and appreciate what it could accomplish just as easily as Dark Magic. There were spells that were designed for particular needs, and he shouldn’t worry over whether he’d be deemed as immoral just for using it. Humanity took basic concepts and warped them with their societal views and terrible politics.
Draco wanted no part of it.
At this point in life, he just wanted to survive. He just wanted to live to see another birthday. The concept of growing older sparked jealousy deep inside him. What he wouldn’t give to one day have wrinkles, to see laugh lines appear, and to touch the lines in his forehead as he allowed himself to become expressive over the years. He wanted that, wanted to grow old, make shitty decisions, find love, kiss with desperation, have sex, and just live.
As he stared at his soulmark, watching the black lines pulsating from the now charred hole in his arm, he knew that he’d never get that. He’d never get to see another summer, he’d never get to laugh with friends on holidays, he’d never get to travel, he’d never get to live.
He was destined to dream for wishes that would never come true.
The true karma for the last Malfoy heir. A dying pedigree. Perhaps the prejudice would die with him. Perhaps the hatred of his ancestry would cease to exist the moment he did too.
Perhaps.
Something strange was going on. Harry’s arm itched, and it was difficult to ignore. The itching was centered on a small spot, no bigger than a few inches. Originally, he thought perhaps a bug had bit him. Grimmauld Place wasn’t exactly the best place to live, and he had fought off several bug-like creatures that he couldn’t identify. Only, there was nothing there. No mark, no redness, no raised skin, no irritated skin.
Nothing.
There was nothing to show for the itchiness.
Sirius said it was the stress of the fight at the Department of Mysteries, but that didn’t make sense. The itchiness didn’t start then; it started the first day of summer. If it was stress related, would it really have been delayed? Remus recommended a Mind Healer, as if Harry was going to do that.
Not when Voldemort was already in his head. The last thing he needed was to spill his guts to someone that might not be trustworthy, someone that would fold under a few galleons or the promise of an insider scoop. Even if they could be trusted, one well executed Imperius Curse is all it would take for his secrets to become public knowledge.
Soulmates weren’t a topic that was brought up often. Not with Sirius never finding his, and Remus’ soul bond was severed as a child. It wasn’t exactly a heartwarming topic of conversation. Part of him wanted to bring it up, maybe relate it to the itching, but he knew that it was of no use. Itching wasn’t a symptom of a soulmark. At best, they’d tell him it was wishful thinking.
Maybe it was.
Was that such a bad thing? To have hope? Harry wanted it to be the start of a soul bond, wanted to wake up and find that the itchiness had faded and in its place was a beautiful soulmark that he would cherish for the rest of his life. Did that make him foolish?
Was it foolish to want love?
Maybe it was.
At the time, his mother’s words had been comforting. Being given the freedom to not become a Death Eater was almost cruel in a way, for it had been taken away just as quickly as it was given. Words weren’t needed. The explanation was simple.
Bellatrix.
Draco had been summoned. With his father in Azkaban, his mother having never taken the Dark Mark, there should have been no reason he was summoned. Draco was not a Death Eater, nor did he have any desire to become one. The fact that he wasn’t going to live much longer further strengthened his resolve.
“Young Draco.”
It was purred but threatening at the same time. The Dark Lord was on an elevated platform with a chair in the center. Red eyes were locked onto his as a wand was delicately caressed through unnaturally long fingers. The room was silent, save for a few loud breathing Death Eaters that were in attendance. When entering, he had briefly inspected his surroundings. The number of Death Eaters meant it was only the inner circle.
What purpose could he serve for an inner circle meeting?
“It has come to my attention that you would like to make up for your father’s mistakes.”
Draco’s eyes closed briefly, cursing Bellatrix’s existence. His mother should have refused her entry after the Azkaban breakout.
“I have a special task for you, should you accept it. It’s an honor, one you should be grateful for,” the Dark Lord said, eyes glinting in a dangerous manner. The words were sweet, but the tone promised pain.
No, this was revenge. This was a punishment. The Dark Lord was not pleased with his father, and it showed.
Whatever it was that the Dark Lord wanted him to do would not go well.
“You are grateful, aren’t you?”
There was the briefest of pauses, and by the way the Dark Lord leaned forward, it did not go unnoticed.
“Yes, M’Lord.”
“Dumbledore has long been a pain in my side, thwarting my plans and causing delays. You will put a stop to it. You will find a way to best him. For I will only accept his last dying breath as a justified reparation for what your father has cost me.”
… What?
Draco’s mind blanked as he tried to rationalize what the Dark Lord was saying. He was to kill Dumbledore? His sixteenth birthday had only been a few months ago, and yet, he was to go wand to wand with Dumbledore? Draco might not care much for the old man, but he wasn’t blind, he wasn’t stupid. Dumbledore, the Dumbledore.
Was the Dark Lord out of his mind?
Dumbledore could kill him with a blink of an eye, and yet Draco was to be the one to get rid of him? He was to do something that not even the Dark Lord had accomplished? How could he expect—
Clarity hit him when the Dark Lord smirked.
It was a farce.
A joke.
A bloody joke. Draco wasn’t meant to kill Dumbledore; he wasn’t meant to do anything but make himself a target. The Dark Lord wanted him to fail, wanted this to be a true punishment. If he hadn’t been so cynical and expecting death around every corner, he might have played into the ruse. The Dark Lord had a way with words. The honeyed tone as he pronounced it an honor, the purred tone that suggested this might be a reward should he be able to prove himself. It wasn’t just about making up for the mistakes of his father, it was about doing better, being better.
It was as smart as it was cruel, and he could plainly see how it could have worked otherwise. Only, it couldn’t. It wouldn’t.
“You present me with a task that I cannot complete,” Draco said, knowing that there was a fifty percent chance that his death would end at the hands of the Dark Lord. “For I will be dead before the end of the new school year.”
Whispers broke out, and one of the masked Death Eaters took a half step before correcting themselves.
The Cruciatus Curse hit him before he was done talking. There was no point in defending himself, not while under the curse. The pain was unimaginable but familiar. It was not the first time he had been on the receiving end of it, nor would it be the last. His father always did like to emulate the Dark Lord.
At some point, he realized he was on the floor. The pain of the curse was stronger than his awareness and his comprehension skills. All he could focus on was the way his muscles were seizing and the way his head constantly thrashed as the curse took away everything except for the sheer mind-numbing pain that was all consuming.
He might have screamed, he wasn’t sure. If he had been at least a little aware of himself, he’d have withheld it as a fuck you. The only resistance he was capable of, but he wasn’t aware enough. He couldn’t feel his limbs, let alone try to think a coherent thought.
When the curse was lifted, he almost wasn’t aware of it. The aftershocks of the pain were still there, his muscles hadn’t quit seizing, and his mind throbbed as his body ached. It took him far longer than he’d have liked to sit up, and even that took far too much effort. Part of him wished the Dark Lord hadn’t stopped. Maybe living out the rest of his life as a shell of himself would have been preferable to the reality he was living through.
“You will explain yourself before I kill you.”
It wasn’t an idle threat. Draco knew that without looking up. He didn’t have to see the anger in the Dark Lord’s eyes to know that he meant it. He didn’t have to see the wand pointed at him to know that he was seconds away from death.
He almost longed for it.
“I’m dying,” Draco said, slowly lifting his sleeve so that not only the Dark Lord could see it, but so could the inner circle. “It’s a curse I stumbled across without thinking. It’s killing me.”
Someone made a sound, but he didn’t try to look. The masks prevented him from identifying any of them. Only the Dark Lord knew who was in his inner circle; everyone else was to remain in the dark. He knew that if his father was not in Azkaban, he’d be there too. As was Bellatrix, somewhere.
Draco held his head high, but he did not meet the Dark Lord’s eyes. He would not have his secret come to light. He would not allow the Dark Lord to ever know that it was a soulmark that was killing him. He would not be the reason that the Dark Lord would have access to Potter.
He was a lot of things, but he would never cause his soulmate harm.
Draco would rather die than let the Dark Lord use him. If Potter were to perish, it would not be due to him. Draco would not allow his soulmate to fall into the hands of the Dark Lord.
“The Malfoy line will die with you,” the Dark Lord said, tone amused and lips slightly curled. If it had been under different circumstances, Draco would have been amused too. The irony was not lost on him. His parents should have tried for another heir.
“You are no use to me.”
Thank fuck for that.
Draco did his best to stand, albeit a bit wobbly, as he bowed to the Dark Lord in an attempt to stay alive. The words were true. Draco was of no use to him. What good was a Death Eater that was going to die before a year was up?
“My Lord, I might be able to save him.”
Draco recognized the voice, and he nearly staggered. Of all the people to come to his aid, he wouldn’t have expected Snape. Sure, he was his head of house, but it wasn’t as if they were friendly.
“For what purpose?” the Dark Lord asked with a scoff. “He is of no use now, and should you heal him, he will be of no use then.
It was an admission. Not that he needed it, but it was the proof that Draco hadn’t been needed at all. The Dark Lord was admitting that he wouldn’t have been able to do it. That he wouldn’t have been able to kill Dumbledore.
“He could be the eyes and ears of the next generation of Death Eaters.”
It sounded weak to him; it wasn’t as if he was well liked. Even among the Slytherins. His father’s status had been the only reason he was surrounded by other children of Death Eaters. They didn’t actually care for him. Now that his father was in Azkaban, he would be bypassed for someone else. That was how the hierarchy worked.
“A chance to spread our message to those that we wouldn’t normally be able to reach.”
Now that was a stretch. It took everything Draco had not to let his face show his disbelief. If he wasn’t well liked with other Slytherins, he was definitely not liked outside his house. The idea that he could use social circles to spread the Dark Lord’s message was laughable.
The Dark Lord looked thoughtful, and part of him was flabbergasted. Perhaps from a leader’s perspective he could see the merit to Snape’s words, but the reality of them didn’t quite match. Draco had nothing that the Dark Lord could use.
“If I allow you to care for Draco, then it will be you who will take on his task for him.”
Draco inhaled sharply, eyes widening.
“Should you fail to kill Dumbledore by the end of the school year, you will meet the same fate as Draco should you not be able to heal him.”
Snape did not move, not even a twitch. There was a pause, and he wished that the masks weren’t in place. He wanted to see the reaction, wanted to know if Snape was already regretting speaking up for him.
“Understood, my lord. I will not fail you.”
“See to it that you don’t. I am not a forgiving lord”
Even as they were excused, and Snape was holding on to Draco’s shoulder tightly, he couldn’t fathom the why. Why would Snape interfere? Why would Snape help him? Would he be able to follow through with it? Would Snape be able to kill Dumbledore?
Why?
Why?
Harry was impatiently waiting for the time to go by. An Order meeting was soon, less than thirty minutes, and it was the first one that he was allowed to attend, much to the indignation of his friends.
As Harry’s guardian, Sirius allowed him to join despite being underage after standing up to Dumbledore after the Department of Mysteries. ‘It does us no good to keep the one person Voldemort is after in the dark. We tried it your way, and it didn’t work. We do it my way, or we walk. I’ll take Harry from here and flee; don’t think I won’t.’
Dumbledore took Sirius’ anger in stride and made changes. The Order was still full of secrets and didn’t really share information, but Harry was now allowed to know what was being planned, and he could offer his own suggestions too. Sirius had a point. It was Harry whom Voldemort was after. It was Harry who should have a say in what happens going forward.
“They should be trickling in soon,” Dumbledore said from the head of the table, not looking up from a pile of letters.
“Will Snape be there?”
“Professor Snape.”
Harry rolled his eyes. It wasn’t like they were in school. “Will Professor Snape be there?”
“No, he was called to a meeting.”
Harry wasn’t the only one who sat up straighter—so did Sirius.
“Do you know what about?”
Dumbledore spared Sirius a look. “Only speculation.”
When nothing more was said, Harry slumped in his seat. Just because Dumbledore was more forthcoming didn’t mean he let them know everything.
Crack.
The sound of an apparition had them all turning to stare at the entrance to an empty pantry closet. The only spot in the house Sirius allowed people to Apparate to was the closet. It could only be opened from the outside as an added protection.
“State your name,” Sirius demanded, one hand on the door and the other lifting his wand.
“Severus Snape.”
Harry narrowed his eyes. If Snape was supposed to be at a Death Eater meeting, there could only be two explanations for him being in Grimmauld Place instead. Either something had happened, or it wasn’t Snape.
“Tell me your most embarrassing memory.”
“That’s not how that works, Black,” Snape said dryly. “You’re supposed to ask me something we both know.”
Sirius shrugged sheepishly when Remus nudged him. “It was worth a shot.”
“What did you tell me on my first day of teaching?” Remus asked, standing next to Sirius.
“That you’d be a dismal teacher.”
Sirius and Harry scowled, but it was Remus’ curled lips that had him blinking a few times. It was almost fond.
When Remus opened the door, he did not expect to see Snape in his Death Eater uniform—mask and all—but he actually choked a little when Malfoy stumbled out with him.
“Apologies,” Malfoy said, face pale and bloody, hands trembling as he leaned against the door. He lost his balance and wound up sliding to the floor, head lolling to the side. “I fear I am in need of medical attention.”
All hell broke loose.
“—hat happened?”
“What do you mean—”
“—ying? From what?”
“Can’t possibly be true,”
“Dying?”
Draco couldn’t piece together what was happening around him. He could feel that he was being carried, and he winced with every jostle of his body. The aftereffects of the curse had not faded, and all he wanted to do was fall asleep and never wake up.
“Start from the beginning.”
“My parents had sex—”
“Not you. Severus, what happened?”
Proof that Gryffindors had no sense of humor.
Draco blinked several times as he tried to see where he was. A ratty and rundown kitchen. When Snape had said the headquarters of the Order—and was still reeling with the fact that Snape was a traitor—he expected something a little more grand. Who would have thought that the resistance movement was being held in a decrepit kitchen that was falling apart? There was a hole in the ceiling.
Surprisingly, there weren’t many people in the room. Dumbledore was to be expected, Potter too. His cousin, though, that one surprised him. He hadn’t really considered what Black would do after breaking out of Azkaban. Lupin was a surprise too. He hadn’t thought of the man since their third year.
“The Dark Lord wanted to punish Draco for the disaster at the Department of Mysteries.”
Someone gasped, it took a moment for him to loll his head the other way to realize it was Potter. It hurt looking at him, but he couldn’t look away. If he was going to die, it was going to be looking into the green eyes he once hated. Such a pretty color.
“Punish how?” Black asked, and Draco flinched when hands moved his face until he was looking at Lupin, who was running a medical scan on him—the light green color emanating from the tip of his wand giving it away.
“He was tasked with killing Dumbledore.”
Several gasps this time, and he was amused. Was it so surprising that the Dark Lord wanted Dumbledore dead? Or was it because of his age?
“Draco refused.”
Draco blinked twice, trying to clear the fog from his mind. Snape was lying. He had denied the Dark Lord, but it was not out of defiance. He had not thrown the Dark Lord’s words in his face and refused the request. That would have been suicide.
There was a brief silence, as if they were trying to wrap their minds around that, and he couldn’t drum up the energy to be offended. If he hadn’t been dying, he probably would have accepted, just to remain alive. One does not tell the Dark Lord no and live to tell about it.
Unless you are Potter, of course.
“Because he’s dying.”
“What?”
Draco would have looked at Potter, but Lupin’s fingers on his face tightened. When Snape lifted his sleeve, Draco forced his head in the direction of Potter. He wanted to see it, wanted to see the horror on Potter’s face when his eyes met the mangled soulmark on his arm. He knew that none of them would know what it was, but that didn’t stop him from wanting Potter to see it.
“Merlin’s saggy balls,” Black swore, eyes wide as he leaned forward. “What is that?”
“It’s eating me alive,” Draco said, eyes half-lidded as exhaustion and pain hit him full force. A pain potion right about now would be nice. Said so too. Lupin and Snape rifled through their supply of potions to find him one.
“But what is it?” Black asked again, helping Lupin uncork a particularly tight vial.
“A curse,” Draco said, only partially lying. It wasn’t a real curse, but it was a metaphorical one. A soulmark curse, the curse of love, the curse of being who he was.
A curse.
“It’s killing him,” Lupin gasped, wand lowering as it shook.
“I did say that.”
“Yes, well, I wanted to confirm it,” Lupin said, standing up straight as he glared at Snape. There was a slight curl of Snape’s lips, and Draco was curious. Those two had history of some kind.
“What kind of curse is it?” Potter asked, flushing when all eyes were on him. The pink hue to his cheeks was also a curse. Draco wondered if Potter flushed often, and if whether he could ever cause him to flush.
Draco closed his eyes, leaning into his exhaustion to try and avoid talking. He’d have to lie, that much was clear, but what was he supposed to—
“Mister Malfoy, we require clarification.”
At Dumbledore’s voice, Draco’s eyes opened. He didn’t meet his eyes, staring at his chin instead. He wasn’t stupid; he knew that Dumbledore was like Voldemort. Used Legilimency when they shouldn’t.
“Ritual gone bad,” Draco said, wanting to smirk when Snape inhaled sharply. “Didn’t meet the requirement.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
Draco locked eyes with Potter. “I was performing the Dark Arts, Potter, do keep up.”
Potter scowled. “Why? What could you possibly gain from the Dark Arts?”
“You know nothing of what you speak,” Draco said, meaning it. “Dislike the Dark Arts all you want, but at least know what you’re vilifying.”
“Voldemort—”
“Is a terrible example,” Draco argued. “Do you know what cruelty I could do with only Light Magic? I could devastate this house, turn it into nothing but rubble, but because I am a Dark Wizard, your assumption is that it’s Dark Magic that’s to blame. There are life saving methods that came from Dark Magic, Potter. Do you know the origins of potions? Dark Wizards. There is an entire genre of magic that you are condemning without knowing the first thing about it.”
“I’ve faced off against Dark Magic before,” Potter snarled. “Don’t tell me that I don’t know what it’s like.”
“Tell me the first property of the Dark Arts.”
Potter’s head jerked back. “Huh?”
“Did you know that it took me seven times to get a blood offering right?”
“Blood offering?” Potter looked a little ill at that, and Draco shook his head at his naivety. It was a little disappointing.
“What about rituals? Did you know that the first ever Dark Arts ritual was to ask for rain? Did you know that Wizard survival depended on Dark Wizards back then? Crops would have failed, famine was rampant, and death was inevitable.”
“Dark Magic is—”
“Is what?” Draco asked, leaning forward, only to have to place his hands on the table for support as he swayed slightly. “Evil? I can name three healing rituals that would rock the medical industry, but they won’t hear of it because it’s Dark Magic. I can create anything, be anything, do anything with just enough faith. Because the Dark Arts are all around us, whether you want to live in ignorance or not. Dark Magic is not evil, it’s not bad, or the villain in your story, Potter. Dark Magic will always exist, it will always thrive. Because it is nature. It is everywhere.”
Honestly, it was rather sad that Potter was so unaware of the Dark Arts. He didn’t deny that there were evil Dark Wizards, it was unfortunately rather common. But that did not mean that the Dark Arts were bad, or that Dark Magic in general was evil.
“If it’s so good, then why is it killing you?”
Draco licked his lips, looking away. “Sometimes, the price is too high. Sometimes, the offering doesn’t go as planned.”
“What did you offer?”
“It’s none of your business,” Draco said, glancing at Dumbledore for a split second. “I’m going to die, and there’s nothing that can be done about it.”
Dumbledore leaned forward, taking a glove off his right hand. Draco and Potter gasped. The hand was black and clearly rotting.
“I, too, am dying,” Dumbledore said. His tone was somber, but his eyes were sparkling. Draco never understood Dumbledore. How a man could walk around so lighthearted and so positive astounded him.
“I, too, won’t last a full year. Ironic, isn’t it?” Dumbledore said, eyes closing as he smiled. “Voldemort’s goal is upon us, and no one will have to lift a wand to accomplish it.”
It was rather ironic, and it had his already foggy head hurting just thinking about it. If the Dark Lord knew, everything would have changed.
“What did you do?” Draco couldn’t help but ask. For Dumbledore to have such an injury, it could only have one explanation.
“Dark Magic isn’t always bold. Subtlety is beautiful, but deadly..”
Ah. So he had been fooled. For Dumbledore to have overlooked Dark Magic, he must have been after something important.
“An artifact?”
Dumbledore’s eyes were twinkling again.
“Your intellect exceeds tests and assignments.”
A compliment? Draco hated the pleased sensation filling him, disliked the way he knew his cheeks were now as pink as Potter’s had been.
“What kind of artifact?”
When Dumbledore looked at him, Draco put up every ounce of Occlumency that he could, would not allow Dumbledore to enter his mind.
“When you tell me what happened to you, I will do the same in return.”
It was an olive branch, a show of acceptance. Draco appreciated it but knew that he would not accept it. He would not allow everything to unravel for the sake of knowledge. He had come too far to back out now.
“Should there come a day that I do, you will know,” Draco said, hoping it came off as respectful, for that was how he meant it.
“That’s it?” Potter scoffed. “He gets away with not explaining anything? He gets to just die.”
Dumbledore blinked once before his attention was now on Potter.
“I do not believe those were my words, Mister Potter. We are all entitled to our personal secrets. Mister Malfoy is no different. If he does not wish to disclose how he got into this predicament, who are we to force him?”
While his respect for Dumbledore grew, it was Potter’s plain incredulity that amused Draco. Potter was an open book, so expressive, so genuine with his emotions. It was something to marvel at, or at least admire from afar. They were so very different but held just enough similarities that he was reluctantly intrigued.
Potter had interested him from the moment they met. A nervous boy in a robe shop had pulled Draco to him instantly. There had always been something about Potter that had him fixated. Originally, he thought it was the disrespectful denial of friendship, the years of banter, and petty fights. But now it made sense.
Soulmates.
What Draco wouldn’t give to let the mark form, let them have a bond, but the pain of a severed bond scared him. How could he offer his entire being—not just his heart—on a silver platter just to get tossed aside?
He couldn’t do it.
He wouldn’t do it.
“Regardless, I will help you,” Snape said, leaning over the table, palms pressed to the surface. “The both of you.”
When Dumbledore glanced at him, he knew the truth.
There was no helping them.
Having Malfoy living with them was a strange experience. Harry didn’t know what to think. Malfoy was oddly polite, and Remus said that was his upbringing, but Sirius had a similar upbringing, and he wasn’t polite.
Malfoy went out of his way to avoid Harry, and in the beginning that had been preferred, but now he was starting to take offense. Sirius and Malfoy liked to gossip about the lives of the rich and weird. Remus and Malfoy liked to discuss books and the proper way to brew Wolfsbane. Snape and Malfoy liked to talk about the Dark Arts. But what about him?
Why was he excluded?
Ron said he was being stupid. It was a good thing that Malfoy didn’t want to talk to him, and while he partially agreed, he couldn’t help but think, why not?
When Harry next came across Malfoy, it was rather late. He had a nightmare, another night of his scar hurting, another night of little sleep. Malfoy was on a loveseat, reading a book with no title. All of the books Malfoy read were like that, never giving away the contents. He was a little suspicious. Especially as more and more of Malfoy’s time was spent in the library. He was looking for something. History told him that whatever Malfoy might be interested in wasn’t a good thing, but then again, Malfoy was dying.
Maybe he was trying to find a way to heal himself.
As gifted as Snape was supposed to be when it came to the Dark Arts, it didn’t help. None of the healing spells, potions, creams, and solvents worked. They had even contacted two different healers, but it had been of no use.
Malfoy really was dying.
And Harry didn’t know what to think about that.
The idea that next school year would be one without Malfoy. That he’d never graduate, never pick a career, never get to grow up. It was difficult to wrap his mind around; he couldn’t imagine what Malfoy was feeling. Part of him didn’t want to think about it at all. What Malfoy went through didn’t concern him, but his stomach twisted whenever he thought about it.
He didn’t like to think about why that was either. Sometimes, ignorance really was bliss.
“Wotcher.”
Malfoy glanced up, barely glancing at him.
“Evening, Potter.”
“You’re up late.”
“Well spotted.”
Harry was running out of things to say. He gingerly walked to the sofa across from the loveseat. “What are you reading about?”
“Magic.”
“How vague.”
“When battling the nosy, it is well used.”
“I’m not being nosy,” Harry frowned. “I’m trying to strike up a conversation.”
“Oh,” Malfoy said, surprised. “Well, don’t.”
A heavy sigh as Harry slumped down. Malfoy was always so damn difficult. It was annoying.
“Why is it that you can talk to everyone else but me?”
When Malfoy smirked over the top of the book, Harry wanted to hex him. He was regretting leaving his wand in his room. Sirius wouldn’t care if he used one spell, would he?
“Why, are you jealous, Potter?”
Harry huffed. “’M not jealous, just pointing out a fact.”
The book closed with a snap as Malfoy regarded Harry carefully. He didn’t like it. He felt open and vulnerable.
“What would you like to talk about?”
Of all the times. Harry’s mind was blank, absolutely empty. He fidgeted when Malfoy arched an expectant brow.
“Right,” Malfoy began, placing the book on the couch as he moved to stand. “Enlightening conversation, Potter. Let’s never do this again.”
“Wait!” Harry blurted, mouth moving before his mind did. Now there was an expectant look to match the expectant brow. “Stay.”
Malfoy appeared to be struggling to decide, and he couldn’t help but feel hurt. It should be the other way around. It shouldn’t be him having to fight for a simple interaction. It should be Malfoy begging for his attention. After all of the shit he put up with over the years, their roles should be reversed. It wasn’t fair.
“Please.”
Malfoy’s eyes closed briefly before he sat back down. A hand lingered on the book, as if for security, and Harry didn’t know what to think about that. He still felt offended.
“What is it you want to talk about?”
“I don’t know,” Harry said honestly. “Everything is different now, and nothing makes sense.”
“A notion I am familiar with.”
Harry grimaced. “I know we’ve never seen eye to eye before, but maybe we could try?”
Malfoy looked away, forehead creasing before his face twisted in pain. Harry knew that the curse was actively hurting Malfoy, but he had thought that the stronger pain potions Snape had brewed were working. Guess not.
“What are you suggesting? We become best friends? Paint each other’s nails? Share private journals?”
“Perhaps a bit smaller,” Harry hedged, trying to blink away the images Malfoy’s words brought forward.
“Friends?”
“Smaller.”
Malfoy’s lips twitched. “Acquaintances?”
“Okay, I like the sound of that.”
A snort, and the lips were still twitching. Harry counted it as a win.
“What exactly does being your acquaintance entail?”
“Conversations,” Harry blurted, flushing a bit when Malfoy arched a brow. “I don’t know. For you to stop treating me like the villain of the house, hiding whenever I come by.”
“I don’t hide, Potter. It's a strategic retreat.”
“Which means I’m right, you are avoiding me.”
Malfoy’s shoulders slumped. “It’s not personal.”
“Feels pretty personal.”
“Bury your emotions then.”
“Malfoy.”
Malfoy sighed, not looking at him. Harry wanted to know what it was about himself that was keeping Malfoy at bay.
“I’ll work on it.”
That was something at least. “Anything I can help with?”
Malfoy shook his head, looking a bit lost. When he stood to leave, this time Harry didn’t stop him. He followed suit and made his way upstairs as well. As Malfoy got to the fifth stair, he tripped on a piece of wood that always stuck out. Harry stretched his arm out, trying to—
“Don’t touch me!”
It was clearly supposed to be a snarl, but it came out panicked and scared. Harry nearly stumbled down a step in response and had to hold onto the rail to remain upright as Malfoy scrambled up the steps at an alarming pace.
“What just happened?” Harry asked himself as he slid down the railing and sat on a step. Everything had seemed to be okay, and then Malfoy just—
“You were rejected.”
Harry was startled to see Sirius’ mum calmly watching him from her painting. He was used to her screams and rude attitude.
“Pardon?”
She shrugged. “In my day, you only touched those that you hoped would be your soulmate.”
“I wasn’t trying to—I was just trying to help.”
Harry tried to ignore her words, wanting to brush it off as nonsense, but he couldn’t. Was that the issue? Malfoy didn’t want to touch him because the idea of being his soulmate was so unwelcome? Or was it because it had been the injured side? Or maybe Malfoy didn’t want to appear weak.
He didn’t like any of the options.
Draco liked Grimmauld Place, which was a horrifying notion. It was falling apart and deserved to be condemned, but it was also safe. Not only was it unplottable, but it was under the Fidelius Charm. The Dark Lord would not be able to find him, nor would his mother. He sent her a letter letting her know that he was okay but stressed to her that he would die and that he was sorry to have not told her sooner. He debated about sending a letter to his father but chose to leave that up to his mother.
Sirius was unlike any relative he’d ever met. He was carefree, smart but silly. Sirius was a child who never grew up, but was also never given the chance to. In some ways, Sirius brought a sense of family, and Draco liked that. When he died, it wouldn’t be alone like he had feared, he would be with someone who was at least related to him.
Remus was quiet. Barely spoke unless he had something to say, and it was usually something sarcastic or a dig at Sirius. It reminded him a lot of Snape, and the more Snape hung around, the more he realized that the two of them did have something going on. He wondered if Sirius had figured that out yet. If not, when he did, the explosions would rock the entire house.
Snape was… confusing. Draco couldn’t figure out why Snape cared so much about him, but he did. It was clear in the stressed postures and tired eyes as Snape read book after book in an attempt to figure out a way to heal him. He always shoved the guilt way down whenever he caught sight of Snape falling asleep in places that he shouldn't: at the table, at the brewing station, the stairs.
Potter was, well, Potter. And yet, at the same time, he wasn’t. Where Snape had been confusing, Potter messed with his mind in ways he couldn’t articulate. Just being near Potter made his arm throb. The desire to let the bond form grew exponentially every single day, and it took everything he had in him to not let it grow.
Every joke. Every smile. Every laugh. Every brightness to his eyes.
It taunted him, haunted him. His entire being ached to be near Potter. He desperately wanted to touch him, hold him, kiss him. Draco just wanted with a ferocity that scared him. The age-old, ‘Would I want him if we weren’t soulmates’ circulated, but he didn’t care. Not when it didn’t matter. They were soulmates; they were meant for each other.
And yet…
Harry had a problem. A big one. A Malfoy shaped one.
Malfoy didn’t mind touching people. Harry would know; he’d been watching for it ever since that night a few weeks ago. Malfoy would let Snape help him up and down the stairs, because that’s where they were now, Malfoy needing help to move. Day by day he was getting weaker, and that year projection was looking more like months at this rate. Malfoy would let Remus hand him tea, fingers brushing across each other. Malfoy would let Sirius feed him when it got rough and his hands couldn’t hold the spoon.
Malfoy refused Harry’s touch time and time again.
Despite what Malfoy liked to say, Harry did take it personally. Malfoy clearly despised him. What other explanation was there? Being acquaintances was clearly a lie. Malfoy wanted nothing to do with him, and he still couldn’t figure out why.
The curse was spreading. The black lines that had once been on Malfoy’s arms were now over his entire body, not quite reaching his face but getting closer every day. Part of him wanted to know what Malfoy had been doing when he was cursed, but at the same time, it didn’t matter. What mattered was a cure, and Snape was supposed to be finding one, but clearly his abilities had been exaggerated, for Malfoy was still dying.
Just the idea of it had his chest hurting, and he refused to think about that either. That, also, didn’t matter.
“What’s with you?”
Harry blinked a few times, clearing his head as he peered at Malfoy, who was frowning at Harry’s arm. It took him a moment to realize that he had been itching it.
“Itchy.”
“The whole arm?”
Harry shook his head as he lifted his sleeve to show Malfoy the now red area from his nails.
“Itches, always itches.”
Malfoy’s eyes were wide, and he looked a little pale, but then again, he always looked pale these days. There was very little color to his face, and that was worrying enough.
“Since when?”
He closed one eye, thinking back. “Since the first day of summer.”
Malfoy let out a shaky breath, and he wondered if he was about to go into a coughing fit again. He looked around for Snape or Remus, but they were alone in the kitchen. Something about Sirius needing assistance with a locket he took from Kreacher.
“Have you tried any creams?”
“Nothing works.”
Snape had been rather scathing after Harry claimed his itching solution wasn’t brewed very well. Snape had suggested rather rudely that perhaps Harry’s brain had been a bit addled after all the years of sharing the space with Voldemort.
Maybe he had a point.
The itching was getting worse, and he couldn’t rule out the fact that it very well could be all in his head. Maybe Snape was right, maybe he was crazy. Maybe Sirius was right, maybe it was stress. Maybe Remus was right, maybe he did need rest.
Maybe.
Malfoy looked around the room, biting his lip before he whispered, “What is your opinion on soulmates?”
It was Harry’s turn to double check that they were alone. He didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings, mainly Remus’.
“Have you ever wanted something that was unobtainable?” Harry asked instead. “Have you ever wanted something so bad, but you know it won’t ever happen?”
Malfoy’s eyes closed, and when he opened them, they were glassy. Harry instantly regretted his wording. He couldn’t imagine what Malfoy was going through. Wanting to live, but knowing that there was nothing that could be done about it.
“Soulmates don’t seem real, you know. They seem fake, something that happens in books, love’s imagination.”
“But you still want one?”
“I know you’ve heard bits and pieces of my childhood,” Harry said softly, fists clenching. Sirius liked to make threats against the Dursleys every time Harry said something that he didn’t realize was rather telling. “My aunt and uncle, well, they don’t like me.”
Something flashed across Malfoy’s face, but it was gone so quickly.
“I always knew that. Even if I didn’t understand why, I always knew that I wasn’t welcome, wasn’t wanted. Soulmates are the fantasy of love, the famed true love, and as a kid in that damned cupboard, I used to think that maybe if I got out, ran away, that I could find them. Because surely, I wasn’t meant to be hated for the rest of my life.”
“And now?”
He had half a mind to tell Malfoy that it wasn’t any of his business, but the expression on his face had his mouth opening, unable to deny him.
“Now I think, who was I kidding? My life is not what my soulmate deserves. I’ve got a madman who wants me dead, and I don’t have the power that everyone thinks I do. I’m sixteen and scared of the future. I’m sixteen and get barely above average scores. I’m sixteen and don’t know the first thing about the Dark Arts. You were right, how can I fight what I don’t understand? There is an entire genre of magic that I know nothing about, while Voldemort knows both. I’m going to die, Malfoy. Voldemort will kill me, and when he does, what happens to everyone else? What happens when the hope vanishes? Why bring a soulmate into that?”
As much as he wanted a soulmate, it wasn’t fair to them. He wanted the love, attention, and care that he had dreamed of, but at what cost? How could he be so selfish?
“What if they didn’t care?” Malfoy asked, eyes on the table. “What if they didn’t care about the fame, the name, or the danger? What if they wanted to be there.”
Harry’s breath caught. It was cruel to think about it, and part of him wanted to hate Malfoy for even mentioning it because that tiny sliver of hope that he had been trying to suffocate was slowly emerging. Regardless of what he told himself, there would always be the tiny what if in the back of his mind.
Damn Malfoy to hell and back.
“I think you’ve been reading too many romance novels,” Harry said, wishing the conversation would end. He felt a little too raw, and open.
“You haven’t read enough.”
Maybe.
Maybe Malfoy was right. But if he let hope blossom, he’d never be able to get rid of it. He’d always hope for the unobtainable, and that would only ever let pain flourish.
Harry was used to pain, but hope?
That burned.
The pain wasn’t getting worse, but he was getting used to it, and that wasn’t a good sign.
“I wish you’d tell me what curse it was.”
“It wouldn’t help you.”
The sound of a book closing with a harsh snap had Draco peering at Snape, who was looking more and more stressed as the days went by.
“Most curses have a cure, Draco. Even ones that don't, there are remedies that can at least help.”
“There’s no cure for this,” Draco lied, knowing that if he even hinted at the possibility of rectifying the illness, that no one in the house would let it continue as it was.
“There has to be!”
So much emotion that it startled him. Draco’s head tilted as he looked at Snape. There was something pained there, as if the thought of Draco dying was hurting him.
“Why do you care so much?”
Snape’s shoulders slumped, eyes closing, and it had Draco sitting up straighter. He had never seen so much emotion from Snape before. Not even when he was angry and handing out detentions left and right.
“Draco—” Snape cut himself off, gripping his right arm tightly. “Your father never wanted you to know, but I find myself not caring anymore.”
His father?
“Wha—” Draco gasped, mouth parting when Snape lifted his sleeve to show a soulmark.
A very familiar soulmark.
It was a book surrounded by runes that signified knowledge. Draco had always thought that the mark never quite fit with who his father was, but staring at it on Snape’s arms made sense.
“You’re my father’s soulmate.”
Snape’s eyes were a bit wet, and Draco’s heart ached. Because while his father’s mark had always been well cared for, Snape’s wasn’t. It was faded, cracked, and raw looking.
“Your father has a way with words,” Snape began, eyes on the soulmark. “Always an excuse for why we couldn’t be together. Marriage contracts mean nothing if there’s a soul bond. We could have been together.”
And yet, he still married his mother.
“I didn’t understand it, but I respected his decision. Soulmates don’t have to be romantic.”
“But yours was,” Draco said, not needing Snape’s slow nod of acknowledgment. Draco had seen the evidence of his father’s soulmate even if he had never met them before. His father liked having a soulmate, liked the bond enough to let it flourish, but Draco only now realized that it didn’t go both ways.
“He took from you,” Draco said, eyes closing as he tried not to cry. “He took your love, and gave you nothing in return.”
No wonder the mark was in bad shape.
“I’m sorry,” Draco said with a little sob. “I’m sorry you ever had to face his cruelty.”
“Me too,” Snape said, voice hoarse. “I’m sorry you had his cruelty too.”
Draco’s head snapped to Snape, eyes a bit wide at the understanding reflected in such dark eyes.
“I’ve always felt a pull to you. I knew it was partially due to my bond with your father, and I wanted to hate you. The proof of his choices, and now I was supposed to teach you? Look at you and be reminded of the both of them.”
Heart both beating quickly and breaking, Draco reached out to lay his hands on one of Snape’s.
“But you didn’t,” Draco whispered. “You always treated me with kindness. You were my favorite teacher.”
Snape was strict, mean, and sometimes cruel, but he was a good teacher. Well, to some. Potter would have a differing opinion, but right now Potter didn’t matter.
“You hold all of his best qualities, and none of his worst. I couldn’t despise you, Draco. Even if looking at you sometimes hurts, it’s worth it. To know that someone as bright as you exists despite him.”
It was a struggle to stand, and he had to hold onto the table, but he managed to get to Snape anyway, and when he was pulled into an embrace, Draco let his tears fall.
“You deserve so much more than this,” Draco said, placing a hand on Snape’s soulmark. “I think it’s time you put yourself first.”
Never, not once, did Draco ever consider the idea of rejecting a soulmate being the best option. Looking into Snape’s devastated face, he knew that it was true. That sometimes, love wasn’t enough. That sometimes, being soulmates wasn’t what was best.
“You could be happy with someone else. A werewolf, perhaps,” Draco teased, grinning when Snape glared at him. It was enough, though; the mood wasn’t so somber now, and he felt that he could breathe again.
When Snape looked at his soulmark, it wasn’t with emotion, it was a pensive expression, and that was enough for Draco. The seed had been planted.
And a week later, when Snape rolled up his sleeves to make Potter a stronger itching solution, there was no mark—just a bare arm, a stark contrast to the marks littering his throat. Draco had never been as proud as he was in that moment. The lack of a soulmark was a blessing, and he knew that despite everything, Snape would flourish with Remus. They would be good together; they’d be happy. They would be better than soulmates.
“Remus getting laid before me is a horrifying nightmare; someone please wake me up.”
“Black, do us a service and refrain from speaking. It’s ruining the afterglow.”
“Oh, Merlin. I’m going to fucking puke. You’ve ruined my breakfast. Kreacher! Please kick Snape out, he’s overstayed his welcome.”
When Draco looked around for Kreacher, he caught Potter’s gaze, and felt his face flush. There was an intensity there that he didn’t know what to do with. That kept happening between them, and it scared him.
Potter absolutely scared him, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.
Harry tried to spend as much time as he could around Malfoy. He was still ignoring all the reasons as to why. They discussed all sorts of topics, even uncomfortable ones.
‘I was hurt. I wanted to be your friend. I didn’t even know who you were.’
‘I didn’t realize. I was lonely, just wanted a friend, any friend. You insulted the first one I made.’
‘I wanted to make a good impression.’
‘I would have been your friend.’
Sometimes, they played games. Harry taught him how to play Muggle ones, and in return, Malfoy showed him how to play Wizard ones. It was fun. He enjoyed talking to Malfoy. His sarcasm was another language, and he was just starting to figure out how to translate it.
“I don’t think we can be acquaintances anymore,” Harry said from his position on the floor, staring at Malfoy, who was as close to the fireplace as possible—he grew colder nowadays, requiring all sorts of heating charms throughout the day.
“Are you breaking up with me?”
Harry snorted, throwing a Muggle marble at Malfoy, who lazily flicked it away with his wand.
“I just think it’s silly when we’ve been friends for some time.”
Malfoy sucked in a sharp breath, eyes on Harry, who wouldn’t quite meet them.
Harry moved closer to Malfoy, holding out his hand in a gesture he knew that Malfoy understood. It was a new beginning, a new start.
Only…
Malfoy’s face shattered, eyes filling with tears as he scooted backward, head shaking in an attempt to get away from him. His blanket caught fire, but Harry couldn’t see anything past the hurt. He turned away, not stopping when Malfoy yelled after him.
Malfoy would rather catch on fire than touch him.
Who was he kidding? They weren’t friends.
They weren’t anything.
Draco was miserable.
It wasn’t the pain, it wasn’t the soulmark, it wasn’t his surroundings.
It was his heart.
Being near Potter wasn’t good for his health or his heart, but he couldn’t stop the desire to be near him. Draco wanted Potter, wanted him more than was healthy, but he couldn’t.
“Tell me something,” Sirius said, sitting next to him near the fireplace, holding up Draco’s hand to inspect it. The black lines were growing darker and expanding. They covered his face too, and he knew that he didn’t have too much longer. Maybe a month.
“Why do you hurt him when you clearly like him?”
If it was anyone else, he’d have tried to play dumb, pretend he didn’t know what Sirius was talking about, or get angry and snap, but nothing ever fazed Sirius. Probably a byproduct of Azkaban.
“I’m dying, Sirius. What point is there when it can only end in heartbreak?”
Sirius put an arm around his shoulder and pulled him into an awkward side hug.
“Would you rather die wondering what if or die knowing what love felt like?”
Draco’s breath caught. “Potter doesn’t love me.”
“But he could, if you let him.”
The words were exactly what he wanted to hear, but he didn’t know what to do. He was so confused. Nothing was going as planned. Originally, he was going to die in the Manor, not having said a word to his mother. He was going to die alone, and no one would ever know why or what had happened. It was going to be the talk of the town for a few weeks, and after his funeral he’d already be old news. People would talk about how life had taken the Malfoy heir too soon, but it would only be talk.
Draco would have been forgotten in time.
And he was okay with that, he was; only now everything had changed.
Draco was accepted into Grimmauld Place. He had made friends with people he would have sooner sneered at a year ago. Snape was quickly becoming something more than a teacher to him. A mentor, a friend, and in another life if he were to live, maybe he’d even become a parental figure.
Remus was a joy to talk to. He was so smart, and his intelligence was widespread into several fields, and Draco always learned something from every conversation; it was something he cherished.
Sirius was the relative that he had always been warned about. The example of what not to be, a lesson his parents never wanted him to repeat. But Sirius was like the sibling he had always wanted. He was stupid, reckless, and an absolute delight to be around. Sirius really did light up a room with his presence. He knew the right thing to say, and was never afraid to back up his opinions.
Potter was everything. His smile made Draco’s cheeks flush, his sarcasm matched Draco’s, and there wasn’t a single conversation where he didn’t find himself having fun. Potter let him rant or vent, let him discuss his interests, let him explain the Dark Arts, and he was actively listened to. Potter asked questions about him, and cared about the answers. Potter was attentive and kind, so kind it ached because the world wasn’t. The world would eat him alive and spit him back out battered, but Potter would still get up and fight because that’s just who he was. Draco wanted to protect him.
Draco wanted to be there.
And that scared him.
Because what was it all for? Draco had spent so long keeping the soul bond from forming, and now hope was trying to claw its way into his heart, and make him reconsider.
It was too late, wasn’t it?
“I’m scared.”
“Good,” Sirius said, his hold on Draco tightening. “Be scared, but still do it. Don’t let fear hold you back, or you’ll never know what you missed out on because of it.”
Maybe Sirius was right. He was scared, but why did that have to stop him?
The sound of laughter had Draco grimacing. Another Order meeting was scheduled for today, and he had hoped that no one would arrive early, but luck had never been on his side. It wasn’t just Dumbledore that showed up twenty minutes too soon; it was the Weasley brood too.
“—elling you, you should have seen their shop, Hermione. It was packed—so many people. They’re going to be rich!”
The sound of Weasley’s voice ruined whatever appetite he’d had. A quick sandwich had been what he was after, but not if it meant interacting with the Weasleys.
Technically, he wasn’t supposed to be alone. Sirius had ensured that there was a rotation, that someone would always be with him, but Draco had used that to his advantage, and often got away with telling Potter that it was Remus’ turn and not his, letting him have an hour of freedom.
Sirius had made an odd contraption that allowed Draco to walk with assistance. It floated in the air, but allowed him to put his full weight on it. Potter had said it resembled a Muggle walker, whatever that was.
Draco had made it to the bottom of the staircase without running into anyone, and that’s where his luck ran out. Weasley had been playing an indoor version of Quidditch—where brooms weren’t allowed—with his sister, Granger, and Potter when the smaller than normal Quaffle knocked against his walking device, and for a horrifying moment, Draco swayed on the step before losing balance and falling.
Someone yelled, and it might have been him, but it was for naught, as strong arms wrapped around him.
“I’ve got you,” Potter whispered, maneuvering Draco into an embarrassing bridal fashion so that they could look at each other.
Draco didn’t know what to say, he was a little lost in Potter’s eyes. He knew it was rude to not have already thanked him. His mother would have been ashamed. He opened his mouth to—
Potter gasped. “Your lines are disappearing.”
Oh, no.
“Let me go.”
When Potter watched Draco’s face, he knew that the lines were rapidly leaving; he could feel the way his arm throbbed less and less.
“Put me down. Now!”
Potter hastily dropped him, and even despite the panic clawing at him, he noticed that it was done with care. Damn Potter and his bleeding heart.
“They’re returning!”
Draco glared at Granger as he tried to move up the stairs but found them blocked by Snape, who was staring at him and then Potter with narrowed eyes.
“What’s happened?”
“Nothing, I’m just going to—”
“Malfoy fell, but when Harry touched him, the lines started to fade.”
Panic had him trying to go around Snape anyway, but his wrist was caught by Potter from behind, and by the astonished expression on Snape’s face, he saw firsthand what Granger had meant.
The longer they remained in contact, the more Draco’s ability to hold the bond back was slipping. He felt stronger, could breathe easier, and he used it to his advantage. Without thinking, he jumped over the banister, landing a little rougher than he’d have liked, but it got him closer to his destination. All he had to do was make it to the door—
Sirius blocked his exit, eyes narrowed like Snape's, and Draco knew there was no getting out of this.
“Harry, when did your arm start itching?”
Granger’s words had Draco dropping to his knees, giving up completely. If Granger was suspicious, then there was no way out for him. She’d never let it go, she’d be unable to not know something.
It was over.
“The first day of summer holiday.”
“Draco, when did your curse start?”
When he said nothing, Snape said in a harsh tone, “Draco!”
He shook his head, eyes welling with tears. Maybe if he said nothing, they’d let him—
Dirty trainers were in his line of vision, and he gasped, head shaking harder. No. No. Not Potter. No.
Potter knelt on the floor with him, thumb under his chin, forcing their eyes to meet.
“The first day of summer holiday,” Draco said, watching the way Potter’s face twisted in pain, grief, and something raw.
“That day, on the train—” Potter cut himself off, closed eyes clenching. “When we fought—”
“You touched me.”
Someone gasped.
“But I don’t—” Potter paused, staring at his arm. “There’s nothing there.”
“I’m fighting it,” Draco whispered, hating that Potter’s eyes were glassy. “I’m stopping the bond from forming.”
“Why?” Potter cried, wiping at his eyes. “You’d rather die than be my soulmate?”
“I’d rather die than have you reject me,” Draco said, wiping away Potter’s tears. Now that they were touching, he didn’t want to stop, he didn’t want to separate. “I don’t want you to sever the bond. I wouldn’t be able to take it.”
“What about me?” Potter yelled, hands coming to hold Draco’s to his face. “How do you think I’d have felt, watching you die? To see the mark form when you take your last breath only just to watch it fade. To know that you were my soulmate and I watched you die. Do you have any idea what that would do to me?”
“I wasn’t supposed to be here! It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” Draco said through sobs, hating the pain on Potter’s face. “I was supposed to die alone, in the Manor.”
“I don’t want you to die,” Potter said, forehead coming to rest against Draco’s. “I want you, Draco. I want this bond. I want to be your soulmate.”
“What if you don’t? What if you grow tired of me? What if you sever it? What if—”
“That’s the risk you take with love,” Pot—Harry said. “I’d rather have loved you, and it go wrong, than to never have loved you at all.”
“I’m scared, Harry.”
“I’m not.”
It was whispered near his lips, not quite touching, but close enough that he wanted them to. Close enough that it was all he could think about.
“Let’s start over; let’s start new.”
“Together?” Draco asked, hating how insecure he sounded, knowing that they were being watched by a group of nosy arses that couldn’t have let them have an ounce of privacy.
“Together.”
And this time, it was whispered against his lips before they were kissing. There was cheering in the background, but that was easily ignored. Draco leaned into the embrace, placing his arms around Harry’s neck and holding on. He never wanted to let go, never wanted to stop, but when the lines were gone and the bond was able to form, they both gasped, leaning away to stare in awe at the soulmark that was now on their arms.
It was an hourglass, but both sides were full.
“Time,” Harry murmured, caressing the mark with a small smile. “It’s full, we have all the time in the world together.”
It was a sweet way of looking at it, and Draco found himself endeared. He knew his future was going to be rough, but it would also be full of silly Gryffindor sentiment. It would be full of laughter, smiles, and far too many bad jokes.
It would be full of love too.
And that’s all that he could ask for. All that he ever wanted. Draco wanted Harry, and Harry wanted him back.
Harry was right, they were going to start new, they were going to start better.
Together.
Silly bonus scene
Another ball.
Draco was rather sick of them at this point. How many celebrations were required? The Dark Lord had died six months ago, and he was forced to attend one of these annoying functions once a month since.
“—rying to petition the Ministry to see the potential in making a deal with Merpeople. The ocean is rich in materials, and if we—”
An arm wrapped around his waist, and Draco relaxed into Harry’s hold, smiling softly when a kiss was pressed to his cheek. Their bond thrummed happily. He didn’t have to look at their arms to know that their marks were thriving. Sometimes, one side of the hourglass was fuller than the other on one of their marks, but that was normal. The give and take of a relationship wasn’t always equal, but it always mellowed out.
Being a soulmate wasn’t a one and done solution. It wasn’t a fate like he used to think. Being soulmates meant actively choosing to be with Harry every day, and he did. Draco would choose Harry over and over until his last breath.
And he knew that Harry would do the same.
They loved each other, were in love, and were happy. So happy.
Someone cleared their throat.
“Apologies,” Draco began, lips curling in a smirk that had Harry shifting nervously, as he should. “Let me introduce you to the love of my life, my soulmate. He’s also my acquaintance.”
A groan.
“Quit introducing me like that,” Harry complained, voice quiet enough that the woman he had been talking to leaned forward to catch it. “Acquaintance? I’ve been inside you.”
The woman gasped, and Draco was unable to hold in his laughter as she clutched at her chest and hurried away.
“My hero,” Draco said between small chuckles. His smile turned into something soft, something private as Harry placed his hands on Draco’s waist.
Their foreheads touched, and he didn’t even care that they were in public, that Skeeter was somewhere in the corner taking photos of them and coming up with nasty lies to spread around when their infamy faded.
“Are you still scared?”
Draco’s eyes crinkled with how wide his smile was. It was their thing. Harry checked in with him, ensuring that Draco was still okay, that they were still okay.
“Not even a little bit.”
He was rewarded with a kiss. It was soft, gentle, but quickly turning into something else. And when they were politely asked to leave and not come back, Draco was relieved.
Hand in hand they walked through the halls, and he knew that it didn’t matter what life had in store for them, they’d make it out unscathed.
Together.