Chapter Text
“And then sleep again as nothing’s wrong. Lord I am not worthy, not worthy to receive you.”
- Final prayer, AlicebanD
Harry Potter learned early in life that his dreams were safer than his reality.
He's come to appreciate the warmth of his cupboard after he finishes his daily chores, after Vernon and Petunia lock him back in that small, cramped space. He didn't mind it, not anymore. The cupboard was small and dark and warm. When the house settled at night the pipes behind the wall hummed slowly, and Harry liked to pretend the sound was someone breathing nearby. It left not much else to do other than to drift off into a peaceful sleep and dream.
Harry did not know when the dreams had started. He only knew that when the smell of dust in his cupboard began to fade into the background, sleep brought something entirely new to Harry—comfort—and that one day the wisps and whispers of warmth began to fade into more solid, more tangible.
At first he couldn't see the boy. But he could feel the boy's presence, like someone was with him in the dark, a second heartbeat along with his.
"Hello?" Harry whispered tentatively, his voice too small even inside of a dream. He waited for shouting—for the soft moment to twist into Uncle Vernon's voice, angry that he had spoken when he wasn't allowed to.
There was a pause, the boy not saying anything for a moment. Harry thought maybe he was just imagining things… that he really wasn't worthy of—
"Hi," The boy said, stepping out of the darkness. He sounded a little nervous, like Harry.
Harry's chest tightens with something he doesn't have a name for yet. Relief, maybe. Or the sudden, dizzying realization that he's not alone. The boy didn't sound mean or scary. For the first time in his life, Harry felt safe. He curled up instinctively, bracing for something, anything, but the warmth doesn't retreat.
"I'm not meant to be here," he says, because that's what he's come to learn about most good things. He's not normal. A freak. He doesn't deserve anything nice.
The boy makes a sound that might be a scoff. "That's stupid," he says, not unkindly. "You're supposed to be here."
No one's every said that to Harry before. Harry stared at him in shock, waiting for him to laugh or take the words back. But he didn't. And he had said it with so much conviction in his voice—as if there was no other possibility in the world—and Harry finds himself believing him. That belief lodges itself somewhere deep in his chest, glowing faintly with a newfound hope that refuses to go out even after the dream begins to fade.
When Harry woke up, it was to his Aunt Petunia banging on his cupboard, screaming at him to get up and do his chores. He found that it didn't affect him nearly as much as normal. He felt like maybe, just maybe, everything was going to be okay. He wasn't alone anymore.
His days continued as normal. Screaming, bullying, chores. But each new night gave him faintest glimmer of hope. Sometimes when Vernon shoved him into the cupboard and slammed the door, Harry pressed his forehead to his knees and whispered a quiet hello into the dark, counting down the seconds until nightfall.
Once, after something strange had happened in the garden—something Aunt Petunia called freakish in a tight, horrified voice—the Dursleys had dragged him to church. Harry hadn’t understood most of what the man at the front had said, but he remembered the pictures in the tall stained glass windows: bright figures with wings and shining halos watching over the people below.
Angels, the man had called them.
They protected people. Stayed with them through dark times.
He begins to think of the boy in his dreams as his saviour, his angel.
Draco Malfoy remembered the day he first met his soulmate clearly.
He had woken up with his heart racing, the dream clinging to him in a way the others never have. He felt happy and scared at the same time. For a long moment, he laid very still, afraid that if he moved too quickly the dream would slip away. He did not want to forget the other boy, his soulmate.
He pressed a hand to his chest, over the strange ache that's settled there.
Draco swallows.
He slips from bed, quietly making his way down the corridor to his mother's sitting room. Narcissa is already there, graceful and elegant even in the early hour, a teacup warming her hands. She looks up the moment Draco enters, sharp eyes softening knowingly at the sight of him.
"You dreamed," she states.
Draco nods, climbing onto the chair opposite of her, legs dangling above the ground. "I met him," he says quietly, understanding the weight of his words.
Her face stills. Not with anger—never that— but with something careful and grave. She reaches across the small table and takes Draco's hands in hers, cool and steady.
"Draco," she says softly. "You musn't tell your father that." Her fingers tightened around his just softly, as if someone might hear this quiet conversation even in the morning hour.
The words landed heavy, even though Draco had known them already. He knew of the expectations put upon him. They did not want him to be different. They wanted him to uphold the Malfoy name. To produce an heir. He nods again, throat tight. "I won't, mother."
They sit like that for a moment, Narcissa's hands clasping his tightly in reassurance.
"He was… sad," Draco starts suddenly, the memory pressing deep and sharp against his ribs. "And lonely. And he was…" His face scrunched up, trying to find the words. "Cold? But on the inside."
"Then he needs you," she says, voice firm in a way that makes Draco straighten. "That doesn't mean you have to fix everything for him."
She lifts his chin gently.
"But soulmates… they're supposed to meet each other where they are. And sometimes," she adds, "One of them is carrying more hurt when it happens."
Draco's eyes sting. "I want to help him," he says, fierce and earnest. "I don't want him to be sad anymore."
"And you will," Narcissa tells him, expression softening into something proud and afraid all at once. "Sometimes the only thing you can do is stand there without walking away. You already are helping him, just by being there. Be kind to him. Be patient. Make him feel safe."
Draco nods, determination setting deep in his bones. He felt like he could do it, like he could make a difference in his soulmates life. He slid off the chair, small shoulders squared with purpose as he head out towards the corridor. Narcissa watched him leave with a pained expression, regret seeping in as she looked at the figure that was far too small for the weight he was about to carry.
Children should not be asked to carry other's pain, should not be made to hide a part of their soul from someone meant to love them unconditionally. And yet—what choice does she have? She could not protect him, and the bond does not wait for adulthood.
Narcissa knows of the consequences. She has lived them.
She too had been young when she first met her soulmate in the dark—too young to understand how dangerous honesty could be. Her soulmate was a girl. She was happy and innocent, her presence like a shining light amidst the darkness. She told her parents, far too trusting and foolish, believing that love would be enough.
It wasn't.
Her parents were angry. There had been screaming and shouting and fighting. A marriage arranged when she was only 5 years old to a proper, pureblooded man. But worst of all had been the ritual—old, cruel magic meant to sever her end of the bond. The stone floor had been cold beneath her knees as they forced her into submission, candle smoke thick in the air while ancient words she knew not stripped something vital from her soul. Narcissa could no longer be seen. No longer heard. Yet the connection was not wholly gone.
For a time, she still felt the other girl.
She felt her confusion first, then her grief, her loneliness deepening night after night as she dreamed into silence, screaming into a void that could not respond. Narcissa bore it in secret, helpless, until one evening the ache flared sharp and unbearable—and then, abruptly, there was nothing at all. Her soulmate had died.
She closed her eyes and exhaled.
Draco, at least, would not be silenced. Not by her. If she could not give him a world that would accept him then she would give him the chance to choose someone that would.
It is not protection, perhaps.
But it is something like love.