Chapter Text
We're never done with killing time
Can I kill it with you
'Til the veins run red and blue?
We come around here all the time
Got a lot to not do
Let me kill it with you
For the first two weeks of school, Draco had little to do with Harry Potter.
They shared double potions on wednesday and a period on thursday, they ate in the same hall and occasionally passed each other in a corridor. When this happened, Draco made clear that he disliked Potter just as much as the other seemed to dislike him. He didn’t stare at him across the tables, he definitely didn’t feel his mark twinge at the sight of him.
He pretended not to notice Potter’s popularity, how every boy and girl in their year - even some in the years above - flocked to him like moths to a flame. Consistently he was spotted with a Weasley, mostly the youngest, Ronald. Draco only knew his name because he knew the names of everyone in their year, of course.
He definitely didn’t think every shaggy head of dark hair he saw was Potter’s.
And he most certainly hadn’t told anyone that his soulmate was Harry Potter.
Honestly, he began to doubt Potter had any care for the notion of soulmates at all. He didn’t seem to care when every witch and wizard whose hand he shook walked away slightly disappointed that their mark hadn’t sparked. He made no attempt to acknowledge the matter to anyone, let alone Draco.
Potter did not care to know his soulmate at all. Draco understood that on the Hogwarts Express. He didn’t need Potter to make matters any clearer.
So, Draco entertains himself by messing with red-faced Neville Longbottom, effortlessly succeeding in potions (with thanks to his godfather), and spending his days practicing his spellwork with Pansy and Blaise.
Vincent and Greg, now called by their surnames, seemed to sink into the role of the poverty of the Slytherin house, alongside pimple-faced Millicent Bulstrode. They, the boys, accepted not only the elder students' commands but also Draco’s, and, well, if they weren’t inclined to stand up for themselves, Draco would take everything he could get from them.
Blaise easily took to charms and Pansy was apt at transfiguration, so between the three of them, Draco was confident they had all the skills required to pass their first year. Not that he was thinking of exams yet.
His mother and father owled often, and Draco pretended he didn’t feel a thrill at seeing Ares’ tawny wings swooping into the great hall at breakfast. He would sigh to his friends and shake his head, moan about his mother’s worrying and his father’s insistence he work hard. But he would savour the sweet treats they sent and he kept their letters in his bedside drawer. His own letters, of course, did not entirely reveal his sentimental feelings. Mostly, he kept them short and sweet.
In the third week of school, he spotted Snape pinning a notice on the common room board.
Flying lessons would begin. Initially, Draco was bored at the thought. He had been flying practically his whole life. He had no need for lessons. But, upon reading the smaller script at the bottom of the notice, lessons would take place with the Gryffindors. Meaning, they would take place with Potter.
Whatever Draco had hoped to happen by proving his skills on a broomstick, did not. Somehow, he ended up with a week of detention and Potter ended up being the youngest seeker in a century.
Draco,
I hear Harry Potter has managed the Gryffindor Quidditch team. That is the type of brilliance we expect you to muster at Hogwarts.
Severus says you’re succeeding in potions. Keep it up.
We want you to be the very best.
- Father
It’s the shortest letter Draco had received from his parents thus far. He opens it at breakfast and the words sink into his stomach like a stone. He feels his hands begin to tremble in anger and has the urge to rip it up.
But Pansy is watching him from across the table, so he folds it neatly and slips it into his pocket.
“No sweets today, Malfoy?” Blaise pipes up next to him, disappointed.
“When did your mother last write?” Draco shoots back. He means his words to be harsh, for them to hurt. He knows Blaise’s mother hasn’t written once.
Blaise snorts, it’s rather undignified for someone of such prestige. But he shakes his head. “I won’t indulge you by arguing,” he says.
Draco looks away, saying nothing, it’s better to not speak than embarrass himself further.
He casts a tripping jinx at Longbottom as he leaves the hall after breakfast. He drops herbs in Potter and Finnigan’s potions. Potter’s face goes red in frustration as the contents of their cauldron turns neon pink and Finnigan gets Gryffindor's points docked for yelling at him in front of Snape. It’s rather satisfying.
He spends three days avoiding Blaise, which proves to be difficult as they share every lesson together plus a bathroom and beds next to one another. Draco has breakfast with Crabbe and Goyle. He talks and talks to them but doesn’t seem to get much conversation back. It’s as if he’s talking another language to them. Every night he closes his curtains on Blaise.
What makes it worse is that Pansy ignores him too. Draco has the sneaking suspicion that she and Blaise are soulmates, why else would she take Blaise’s side over his? They’ve been friends since birth.
He spots them in the library together, bowed over their parchment. He watches them on the grass outside, Blaise conjuring flowers to put in her hair. Pansy always seems to be laughing at him, girlish and high pitched. It’s childish fancying.
Draco isn’t lonely in the face of their absence, they have been at Hogwarts for under a month, but there’s routine in their company. And, Crabbe and Goyle’s smarts can’t compare to Blaise and Pansy.
The end to his ignorance of Zabini is ignited by Potter’s acceptance of a Nimbus 2000. If Draco didn’t respect the making of and magic inside racing brooms, he would find a way to snap it in half.
“It’s really thanks to Malfoy here I’ve got it,” Potter tells Flitwick as he confronts them in the hallway outside the Great Hall.
Draco feels his face go red in fury, and he feels something akin to hatred settle in his stomach. How dare Potter embarrass him like that? How dare his soulmate treat him like that?
He turns on his heel and stomps his way down to the dungeons, and into the first year Slytherin boys’ dormitory. His bed is the last on the wall and he has the window next to it looking into the Great Lake. He sits on his bed, drawing the curtains to the rest of the room, and looks out of the window. The water is so dark and murky that he can’t see any creatures, but he watches the waves move.
Draco skips his morning classes, alternating between laying on his back and thinking and flipping through his books, sometimes waving his wand in the motion of spells, just like he had done as a child, before Hogwarts.
He’s practicing wingardium leviosa, determined to be the first in their year to make Flitwick’s feather float, when he hears the dormitory door open. He hears it slam shut, the great dark wood door too heavy to do anything but make a racket, before he hears, “Draco?”
He sighs, hidden behind his curtain.
“Draco? Are you here?” Blaine asks, his voice sounds bored and drawling. But Draco knows better.
He flicks his wand and the curtains open, Blaise is standing closer than he thought, almost at the foot of his bed. Blaise crosses his arms and stares at him, waiting.
Draco huffs. “I apologise,” he concedes.
The other nods and pulls a little napkin-wrapped package out of his satchel. “I brought you this from lunch.”
Draco reaches forward and takes it, unwrapping a perfectly preserved, unsquashed, croissant.
“Are you coming to charms?”
He nods and takes a bite out of his pastry.
(Draco is the first wizard in his year to successfully perform wingardium leviosa. Flitwick is proud and sends a letter of congratulations home to his parents. Draco’s pride is slightly diminished upon hearing muggle-born Gryffindor Hermione Granger succeed the period after him.)
10th October
Dear Mother,
My soulmate cares not to acknowledge me and it leaves a bitter taste in my stomach.
Halloween is approaching, which means soon Yule will follow. I can’t wait to return to the manor and to my broom and to you and Father. I know Father would call me childish if he heard my longing for home, so I address this letter to you only.
As said before, the Hogwarts students are welcoming. Everyone in Slytherin has settled into their places, and you must be proud I’m not at the bottom of the food chain. I’ve furthered my acquaintance with Blaise Zabini, who is rather intelligent at charms and herbology.
Pansy wishes me to tell you she is well and succeeding at transfiguration and she is excited for our annual yule gala. I, too, can’t wait.
When you and Father discovered you were soulmates, did you immediately acknowledge it? If so, were the feelings reciprocated? What happens when a bond is acknowledged but not fulfilled?
Reply soon.
Love, Draco
The rest of October passes without unusual fanfare. He notices Potter get impossibly closer with the Weasel; Susan Bones interrupts him on his way to herbology and he has the awkward pleasure of telling her their acquaintance is to be no more (she sorted Hufflepuff, much to Draco’s disappointment); classes continue as normal, Draco mentally competes with Hermione Granger, despite knowing his blood makes him inherently stronger and smarter; he does not linger on thinking about Harry Potter.
The weather gets impossibly colder and Draco and his friends have to move from hanging out in the courtyard to hanging out in the Slytherin common room. Which, while warm, lacked the relaxation and entertainment they desired.
The older Slytherins seemed cold, although none were outright mean or spoke of their dislike for the new first years, Draco didn’t find his house welcoming. The majority were pure-blooded, or, half-blooded but didn’t acknowledge their muggle side. To acknowledge that sort of lack of purity in the dungeons was social suicide. In that aspect, Draco had nothing to worry about.
But still, the dungeons didn’t make for a homely atmosphere. Everyone was always trying to one-up each other or rise the social ranks. Draco doubted the other houses were like this.
Halloween of 1991 falls on a Thursday and so classes are suspended until the following Monday.
The older Slytherins are playing a wicked game of trick or treat with the younger years, which Draco immediately dodges on his way out of the common room to breakfast, after a self-indulgent lay in. To which he exits to find the Bloody Baron, reciting embellished tales of his violence in life. Even Nearly Headless Nick had a role in the play.
(Draco thinks the Bloody Baron had been Nick’s executor. It would be awful to spend the rest of eternity with your killer.)
He’s halfway to the Great Hall when, looking out a window, he spots a shaggy head of black hair sitting outside alone. It’s rare to find Potter alone, so Draco diverts from his route and exits the castle.
Potter is sitting on the frosty grass looking out onto the Quidditch pitch where a couple of older Ravenclaws are tossing a quaffle back and forth. His hair is, as usual, a mess and his glasses are wonky on his nose.
“Finally come to your senses, Potter?” Draco taunts as he approaches. “Got rid of that Weasel?”
Potter turns to look at him, his already frost bitten cheeks reddening further in rage.
“Go away, Malfoy,” Potter grunts, but even Draco can tell it’s half hearted.
Draco sighs, and crosses his arms, partly out of defiance, partly to try and warm himself up from the cold. Potter looks away and Draco takes the defeat. It’s no fun bothering his soulmate when he doesn’t get a reaction. He turns to head back inside.
But then, “Wait-Malfoy-” Potter is spluttering. It’s the closest Potter has ever come to properly acknowledging him, so Draco stays, begrudgingly indulging his need for his soulmate’s attention.
At Potter’s silence, he arches an impatient eyebrow. His stomach really is grumbling for breakfast.
Potter’s biting his lip, clearing mulling over his words, before he comes out with, “Do you know a lot about history?”
“History?” Draco repeats, speechless. “You want to know about history? I’m sure you know where the library is, Potter.”
Potter blinks. “No- well, yes, I know where the library is. But you know - about the war?”
“Yes,” Draco says, still baffled. “I know about the war.” And then, before Potter does something foolish like ask Draco to teach him about the war, he says, “I’ll write you a list of history book recommendations.”
He heads back inside then, without Potter trying to stop him. He realises as he reaches the Great Hall that his heart is beating faster than usual and his stomach, somersaulting, is no longer in any condition for breakfast.
(It only occurs to him later, after the feast had been interrupted due to Professor Quirrel yelling of a troll being in the dungeons, and the students had all been sent back to their common rooms, that Potter’s parents died on Halloween. And his parents’ death marked the end of the war.)
13th October 1991
Dear Dragon,
You are allowed to be sentimental with me. You are allowed to miss home, I certainly did during my first year. You are allowed to call Blaise Zabini your friend, you are allowed to have fun whilst at school, just keep your grades up.
We certainly miss you at home, even if your Father won’t say so over owl, I know he does. Your room is kept clean and waiting for you.
With a soulmate like yours, you’re in a tricky situation. For your Father and I, it became known when I was an infant and our future was arranged by our Lords.
It’s difficult to place your soulmate’s views, without knowing his upbringing. Muggle raised wizards tend to be more skeptical. Tread carefully.
With love,
Your Mother, Lady Narcissa Malfoy
18th October 1991
Mother,
The sentiment is nice and your advice was unhelpful. However, I require books on the War, specifically anything regarding the Potters.
Your son, Draco
The season starts changing and Harry realises he has spent almost three months at Hogwarts. An almost unbelievable fact.
Three months ago, his life had been completely different. For one, he had been with the Dursleys, whom he adamantly chooses not to think about. Two, for the first time in his life he had real friends.
He had Ron, who was his best friend of them all. He spent the majority of his days with Ron, sitting together when they could in lessons, at lunch. Harry took to waiting for Ron to get up in the mornings so they could go down to breakfast together. By waiting, he meant pelting the rolled up pairs of socks from Ron’s drawer at his bed, until by the time Ron woke his drawer was emptied out at the foot of his bed.
Every morning, Ron said he would learn a locking charm. He had yet to do so.
Then, there was Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan, who always seemed to be closer to each other than they were to anyone else. Seamus had a tendency for explosions and Dean, like Harry, came from a muggle family. It felt like they were learning the most together a lot of the time.
Finally is Neville Longbottom, who was possibly the kindest-hearted Gryffindor boy in his year. Neville was round faced, always a little pink in the cheeks and always forgetting something. He was a little mindless, but he was kind and funny.
He also seemed to always be on the end of Draco Malfoy’s wand.
Harry’s friendship with Neville is solidified when Neville accompanies him and Ron, and Hermione Granger, to the midnight duel with Malfoy. Which turns out not to be a duel and to be a set up to get Harry and Ron in trouble with Filch.
Cunning, Harry remembers, is Slytherin's strongest quality.
“So, what do wizards do for Halloween?” Harry asks around a mouthful of eggs at breakfast.
Ron shrugs, “Not much. At home we’d trick-or-treat with the Lovegoods and Ollivanders, the Selwyns if they’re in the country.”
“Ollivander?” Harry asks, “Like the wand-maker in Diagon Alley?”
Up the table Hermione Granger snorts. “He’s not just the wand-maker in Diagon Alley,” she starts, turning her nose up at his ignorance. “He’s one of only three wand-makers in the UK and he’s the best out of them all.
Ron opens his mouth, but before he can speak Dean says, “you don’t carve pumpkins or anything?”
“Pumpkins?” Fred and George say in unison, baffled. “Why would we carve pumpkins?”
“I’m surprised you’re celebrating Halloween, Harry,” Hermione says. “Since it’s their anniversary and all.”
Their part of the table goes quiet, and everyone turns to look at Harry, who doesn’t understand. Ron pats his shoulder comfortingly.
“What? Whose anniversary?”
Hermione’s mouth falls open in shock and everyone looking at Harry suddenly looks away awkwardly.
“Well?” Harry demands looking between them, first at Fred and George and then Ron and then even Dean, who somehow knows more than he does. “Tell me.”
His eyes end up connected to Hermione’s. She looks down at her half eaten plate of food, “Your parents,” she says, “they were killed on Halloween.”
Harry’s breath is taken away from him as he realises how little he truly knows.
He’s been gathering information since coming to Hogwarts, hoarding every fact he can find about them, from James’ trophies in the trophy room to his mother’s maiden name, Evans. He knows how they died, how his father welcomed Voldemort at the door, how his mother died standing in front of his crib.
But he had never thought to ask when.
He stands jerkily from the table, slightly tripping over his legs as he goes to step out of his spot on the bench. He hears one of the twins tell Ron to give him space.
He ends up sitting on the quidditch pitch, feeling the chill of the grass seep into his trousers, making them uncomfortably wet. He draws his robes around him and his knees to his chest, and sits in the feeling.
Ten years ago, his parents died on this very day. He wonders what halloween would have been like with his parents alive, he wonders where they lived, if his mother could cook like Aunt Petunia, if they would have let him eat sweets. Surely, his dad would have.
These thoughts are swirling in his head when he is approached by Malfoy and has the politest conversation they have ever had in their brief history. Malfoy doesn’t stand close, nor is he there for long, but Harry is left with his smell long after he is gone.
It’s sticky and sweet, oddly so for a sour boy like Malfoy, but it lingers in the air, wherever he’s been. Sometimes Harry thinks he can see little green flecks where Malfoy once stood, but that would be crazy.
That night at dinner, Hogwarts is attacked by a troll and Harry and Ron find themselves rescuing bushy haired Hermione Granger. After the event, the three of them are escorted back to the Gryffindor common room by Professor McGonagall. The walk is mostly silent, heads down, occasionally Harry catches Ron or Hermione’s eyes and his lips twitch up in a small grin.
It feels good to be a little reckless.
They reach the portrait and McGonagall ushers them inside. She doesn’t follow them in, but Harry knows that she’ll know if they leave. The other Gryffindors are immediately upon them, asking and asking questions that none of them know how to answer.
They look at the crowd of people, the three of them cornered against the portrait, before looking at each other and bursting into laughter, then Hermione is pulling Ron and Harry into a three way hug.
They pull apart and Harry is distracted trying to answer Neville’s questions of, “Did you kill it? How tall was it? Are they really green and carry bats?” and laughing as the Weasley twins spell a paper crown onto his head, calling him the slayer of the trolls.
He turns back to Ron and Hermione to pull them into his retelling, but they are looking at each other rather oddly. Hermione, for once, is silent and fiddling with the hem of her skirt, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet. Ron’s eyes are wide and slightly watery, and he’s red from his cheeks to the tips of his ears.
Ron catches him staring and surges forward, his fingers wrapping around Harry’s wrist, tugging him through the crowd of people and up the stairs to their dormitory.
“What are you doing?” Harry protests halfway up the stairs, but Ron seems unable to do anything but breathe.
Ron slams the dorm door shut behind them and collapses against it.
“She’s my soulmate,” he breathes, but Harry is still confused.
“What?”
“Hermione Granger, that bossy know-it-all is my soulmate,” Ron says, looking at Harry like he is supposed to offer him something.
Harry scratches his head awkwardly, “I don’t understand. Soulmates aren’t real.”
“You what?” Ron looks just as confused as Harry, who is quickly realising he has missed out some incredibly important information, feels. Ron moves away from the door to sit on the edge of his bed. Tentatively, Harry sits next to him.
Ron shrugs off his robe and unbuttons his shirt whilst Harry looks away feeling awkward and confused. His mind is racing, what the hell is a soulmate? Well, he knows in theory, in a fairytale kind of way, but what are they in real life?
“Look, here,” Ron says, turning his chest to face Harry. In the centre of Ron’s chest is a flower, etched into his skin. It’s fine, dark brown lines look perfectly natural, unlike a tattoo. It looks as natural as Ron’s freckles.
Harry, slightly breathless, reaches forward without thinking and runs a finger over a petal.
“This is my soul mark,” Ron says quietly. “It’s just a picture until you meet your soulmate, everyone has one. And then when you meet your soulmate and touch them,” he looks slightly green at the thought of touching Hermione, “touch them for the first time, it burns, like a lot. And then, it can do things.”
“Do things?” Harry echoes.
He feels like his heart and his head are sinking into his stomach. He feels the sadness of this morning, his loneliness felt when he was sat in the cold thinking of his parents has returned.
“Yeah watch.” Ron’s eyes flutter closed and Harry watches the flower on his chest. Slowly, the leaves start to move, swaying along Ron’s skin as if caught in a breeze.
“Wow,” Harry breathes.
Ron opens his eyes and the flower stills, returning to its original position.
“What kind of flower is it?”
“My mum says it’s an iris,” Ron answers. He rises from the bed and walks over to one of the two full length mirrors in the room. Harry watches his face in the mirror as he looks at his chest. “It means wisdom and trust. Sometimes hope.”
“Wisdom is definitely Hermione Granger,” Harry nods at him, somewhat absently.
“What’s yours then?”
“Ron,” he starts meekly, “I don’t have one. I told you, I didn’t even know soulmates existed until now.”
“Of course you have one,” Ron turns to him, “everyone has one.”
“But I haven’t seen it,” Harry shrugs. It’s just another thing that makes him different, freakish compared to everyone else.
“Take your top off,” Ron commands, ignoring Harry’s noise of surprise. “Come on, it’s got to be somewhere.”
Harry does what he says and soon he’s stood in the centre of the room in nothing but his boxers as Ron walks circles around him. It’s almost clinical, the way Ron searches Harry’s skin.
Harry can’t help but feel embarrassed, at the thinness of his body, how despite having put on weight since starting Hogwarts and eating regular meals, his ribs still seem to stick out and his legs and arms don’t have the fat the other boys’ do.
He crosses his arm over his chest, frowning.
“It must be somewhere,” Ron mutters.
Harry huffs, “Maybe the soulmate fairy forgot to sprinkle me with her magic dust.”
Ron rolls his eyes as Harry petulantly sits down onto the floor. Ron pats his head, consoling, and Harry looks up at him.
His mouth stretches into a grin. “Your hair!” He exclaims. “It’s under your hair! It must be!”
Ron leaves Harry on the floor and charges out of the dorm, Harry huffs, running his hand through his hair, feeling for… well, anything. But there’s no odd bumps, nothing that feels like it could symbol a soulmark. Ron is quick and returns barely five minutes later with a muggle electric razor in his hand.
Harry holds a hand up as Ron makes towards him, “Where did you get that?”
“Lee Jordan,” Ron waves a vague hand, walking past Harry on the carpet and towards the bathroom door at the opposite end of the room. “Come on,” he beckons, turning the knob on the door and flicking his wand to make the light bulb brighten.
Harry rises, looking between the grin on Ron’s face and the razor in his hand. Petunia had shaved his head once, and she hadn’t been gentle nor kind about it.
But, she had taken one look at Harry’s bald head and demanded he wear hats until his hair grew back. Which hadn’t been long as he woke the next day with a head full of hair. He had never questioned why she was so alarmed by the sight of his head.
“Alright,” Harry says quietly, following Ron, he thinks if he really despises the haircut Ron is about to give him, he’ll make it grow back like he did before.
Ron, lanky and all legs, didn’t need Harry to sit down to be able to get to his head easily. So Harry stood at one of the three sinks, Ron behind him, looking into the mirror.
“Never trust a Weasley with a haircut,” the mirror shines slightly as it talks.
“Oh shut up,” Ron grumbles, looking at the razor in amazement. “Right, I guess I just press the on button.”
Harry shrugs. “Just get on with it.”
Seconds later, the razor is buzzing against Harry’s scalp as Ron swipes it in gentle but wonky lines.
“Do you see anything?”
Ron meets his eyes in the mirror, and there’s a mischievous grin on his face.
“You do, don’t you!” Harry’s grinning, anticipation bubbling in his stomach.
Ron hurries through shaving the rest of Harry’s head, until he’s left with a buzzcut, hair sticking up in different lengths at different patches of his head. But he forgets about the state of his hair when Ron is holding up a mirror behind him and his mark is revealed.
There are three or four flowers, various lengths on the back of his scalp at the base of his head. Their stems start at the top of his neck, one of the flowers is short and drooping low enough that it probably would have peeked out of his hair if Harry hadn’t always had it so long and wild. The red fine lines are darker in the centre of the flowers, giving Harry the impression that they’re a different colour to the outside petals.
Ron reaches out and touches it gently and the flowers start to sway, as if caught in the wind.
“Wow.” Harry breathes, running his own fingers over the mark. “I never want my hair to grow back.”
Ron laughs, patting him on the top of the head and cringing at the feel of his buzz cut.
“Ron? Harry?” Neville’s voice calls out from the main room. “Lee Jordan thinks you’ve stolen his - razor?” Neville seems to run out of breath as he rounds into the bathroom and sees Harry’s new haircut.
Potter has a buzzcut and everybody is thinking about it. Everybody is talking about it.
Draco watches as the Weasley twins and Jordan run their hands over Potter’s scalp, as Professor McGonagall pauses when she walks past him, as Professor Dumbledore winks at him from the head table in the Great Hall, as Snape calls him attention seeking just like his father. He watches everybody else’s interactions with Potter’s new haircut, but can’t quite bring himself to react.
Because Potter is blatantly showing off his soulmark. He’s taunting Draco, he’s shoving the fact that he doesn’t want him in his face and in everybody else’s.
Students start shaving their head and the buzzcut becomes a trend around Hogwarts. Even Susan Bones shaves her head. So do Crabbe and Goyle, to Draco’s disapproval.
He’s forced to confront Potter’s new cut just before he leaves for the holidays. He’s dragging his trunk through the dungeons, Crabbe and Goyle somewhere behind him, Pansy and Blaise way ahead, when he almost crashes straight into Potter.
“Lost your balance with the loss of your hair?” Draco rights himself, absently smoothing his robes. He won’t look Potter in the eye.
Potter rolls his eyes, scratching at the nape of his neck.
“What are you even doing down here?”
“Detention with Snape,” Potter shrugs and Draco tuts.
Potter watches him warily, but Draco doesn’t say anything more. Turn around, he’s thinking desperately. Turn around and let me see the back of your head.
A moment passes, where they just stare at each other, then Draco comes back to himself and barges past Potter, purposefully bumping shoulders. As their shoulders touch briefly, he feels his breast pocket burn as the note written inside moves from him to Potter.
He keeps walking, heart thumping in his chest and he doesn’t look back at Potter.
In between trying to figure out who Nicholas Flamel is, what’s hidden on the third floor and if he’s already met his soulmate, Harry finds time to read through most of the list Malfoy sent him.
He reads through the pages greedily looking for mention of his parents, and although the Potters feature, the majority of the books are just rundowns of the events of the war. He does find pictures of them, pictures which he cuts out of the pages and hides away in his trunk.
He imagines his aunt and uncle’s disappointment if he was to stick them on his bedroom wall back at Number 4 and decides that he must find some sort of spell that means they can’t be taken down.
At night, when he sneaks out under his cloak, he sees the reflection of his parents’ in the mirror. He sees many of the Potters beyond his parents and he yearns to know their names, to know if they’re still alive.
He knows the names Fleamont and Charlus, from the history books, but what of his grandmother, did he have any aunts or uncles?
In the mirror however, there’s a vague empty space beside him, as if another person should be there. He wonders who, and why he can’t see them.
A week after everybody has returned from Christmas holidays and the routine of the castle has returned back to normal, Harry wakes up to find a small wooden book at the end of his bed.
He picks it up and turns it over in his hands. On the underside of the box is a coat of arms, black and green, two serpentine creatures coming out of the side, a cursive M in the very centre. Opening the box, by lifting the little latch on the front, he finds a note sat atop little vials of light blue liquid.
Harry,
Dreamless sleep to help with the nightmares. Use sparingly.
There is no signature and Harry has to wonder who could have sent him this. For nobody knows of his nightmares, beside himself.
Green light, a high pitched cruel laugh, his parents smiling at him in the mirror. Could that even be considered a nightmare? Nonetheless, Harry finds himself thankful for something to keep the dreams away.
Even if he doesn’t know who has sent it.
9th January 1992
Darling Draco,
It was so lovely to have you home for Christmas. Three weeks is certainly not long enough, I miss you already. It feels you have grown up so much in the past three months, that by summer, you’ll be a different person.
I hope classes are going well for you. Your father wishes me to remind you of your grades. Personally, as long as they don’t drop below an Acceptable, I will be pleased with you. It’s only your first year, you have plenty of time for Outstandings.
On the topic of your soulmate, are you doing as we discussed? Are you trying to show kindness? I know it is hard when feeling rejected, but I think your soulmate just needs to get to know you better. If they knew you truly, they wouldn’t think to not be your friend.
Write soon,
Love your mother, Lady Narcissa Malfoy
14th January 1992
Mother,
I miss the manor as much as you miss me being there, but I can’t say it isn’t good to be back at Hogwarts. It’s been nice to reunite with Blaise, who didn’t go home for Christmas. Tell father not to worry about my grades, he should know I’m always trying to make him proud.
More importantly, the topic of my soulmate. I attempted to be kind through a gift, but he has not acknowledged it, nor me. I watch him fly during matches. I'm trying to take your advice and be less jealous, but it’s not as exciting as tormenting his friends. My kindness does not need to extend to them.
I don’t understand why you’re so adamant on keeping his identity secret. I won’t write his name, but I’m not going to write in riddles. If father, or anyone else, figures it out then so be it.
Draco Malfoy, Heir to the House of Malfoy
17th January 1992
Darling Draco,
It’s imperative your father doesn’t know your soulmate’s identity. Draco, you must swear not to tell anyone who it is. I dread to write this in a letter, but there have been whispers - from people your father used to work with, from the darker side.
Promise me you will proceed with caution,
Your mother, Lady Narcissa Malfoy
Harry begins to find notes everywhere he goes. In the bottom of his cauldron in potions, with wispy handwriting of add the wormroot before the mustard, simple wishes of have a good day on his plate at dinner. An unknown owl begins sending him treats once a week at breakfast - cookies, brownies, pumpkin pie. It’s all delicious but he has no idea who it's all from.
Something in him longs and fantasises for it to be his soulmate, but Harry doesn’t believe himself to be so lucky. Still, he keeps them to himself, and finds himself waiting for the notes to pop up wherever he goes.
1st March 1992
Mother,
I know you’ll disapprove, but I’ve been spying on Harry Potter, and I’ve discovered he’s helping the gamekeeper keep a dragon (!!) at Hogwarts. I must stop this before it gets out of hand. He has a plan to send away the dragon at the end of the week with Weasley. I must get the gamekeeper and Potter and Weasley in trouble with Dumbledore for harbouring a dragon.
Keep any detention letters out sight of Father,
Draco Malfoy, Heir to the House of Malfoy
2nd March 1992
Draco,
What are you doing? Must I write to Severus and get him to stop your trouble? Be responsible. I will not be hiding anything from your father.
Your mother, Lady Narcissa Malfoy
Dear Lord and Lady Malfoy,
We hope this letter finds you well.
On the 4th March 1982, your son/daughter was found wandering the halls part curfew. As a result, they will serve detention this coming Saturday. Hogwarts does not take kindly to students breaking the set rules.
Sincerely,
Hogwarts’ Vice Principal,
Minerva McGonagall
9th March 1992
Mother and Father,
Detention was awful, you must get that oaf of a gameskeeper fired. And the caretaker Filch. They took us - myself, Harry Potter, Neville Longbottom and that Hermione Granger - into the forest.
It was terribly traumatic and I shall never recover from watching a hooded figure drink the blood of a dead unicorn. It was dark and horrible out there. I have never been so scared in my life. I can’t even find it in me to be mad that Potter got me in this situation.
You must fix this.
Your son,
Draco Malfoy, Heir to the House of Malfoy
10th March 1992
Darling Draco,
We were horrified upon reading your last letter.
I promise you that Hogwarts is the safest place for you to be. Stay out of the forest, away from Potter and keep your eyes on your studies. Spend some time with your friends and put this experience behind you.
Your father is in contact with the Board of Governors and is calling for a meeting with Dumbledore as I write.
We love you.
Father and Mother,
Lord and Lady Malfoy
20th March 1992,
Mother and Father,
Sorry it has taken me so long to get back to you, but I’ve done as you asked. I’ve stayed away from Potter (and the rest of his band of Gryffindors) and spent the majority of my time with Pansy and Blaise.
Dumbledore announced last night that detentions would no longer be allowed to take place in the Forbidden Forest, the boundaries upon which students are allowed to go have shrunk. Much to the dislike of certain students from the years above. I find myself to be relieved.
Pansy and Blaise have revealed themselves to be soulmates. It will be a profitable marriage for Lord Parkinson, perhaps a disappointment to Countess Zabini.
From your son,
Draco Malfo, Heir to the House of Malfoy
Harry finds himself occupied by a study schedule, made by Hermione.
Most of the time, he finds himself alone with Ron and Hermione. Before Christmas it had been awkward, but now the two seem to dislike each other as much as they had before finding out they were soulmates. Although Harry thinks a lot of it is for show and that bickering is their way of communicating, Ron and Hermione disagree. He is relieved, however, that he doesn’t find himself feeling like a third wheel, that their connection to each other outweighs their friendship to him.
Between the library and classes, Harry explores Hogwarts. Sometimes with his friends, sometimes without. Every now and then, he bumps into Professor Dumbledore. Or rather, Dumbledore comes across him, out of bed after curfew with his cloak on, but sometimes missing a foot or he sticks his arm out by accident.
On one of these occasions, he finds himself sat beside Dumbledore in a window seat, in an alcove towards the top of one of Hogwarts’ many towers.
Harry’s trying to think of which tower it is that he’s in and how he got there, when Dumbledore settles in next to him. Resigned, he pulls down his cloak.
Dumbledore doesn’t look at him, but Harry looks at Dumbledore. He thinks, suddenly, that he’s never heard of the headmaster’s soulmate. Surely, if he had one she would live at Hogwarts with him?
“Sickle for your thoughts, Mr Potter?”
Harry scratches his head mindlessly, thinking. “Do you have a wife, professor?”
Dumbledore chuckles, surprising Harry, who feels his face flush from embarrassment. “A wife was never written in the stars for me.”
“You don’t have a soulmate?”
“I do,” Dumbledore says quietly, almost sadly. Harry finds it strange to hear such emotion on his headmaster's face.
But then Dumbledore is standing, gracefully, his robes sweeping out behind him. Tonight, they’re a deep pink, fuschia, with a green floral pattern. “You should return to bed before I must take points, Mr Potter.”
Harry jumps to his feet, jostling his cloak until his elbows are visible. “Yes, professor.”
Dumbledore rights Harry’s cloak while Harry looks around for any sign of what part of Hogwarts he’s stumbled across.
“You’re in the Headmaster’s tower,” Dumbledore tells him. “My office is that way.”
And after Harry’s head is fully covered, the headmaster steps away and walks in the direction of his office. He leaves Harry to go the opposite way, to find his way back to the Gryffindor tower without getting caught.
It’s only once Harry has tucked himself into bed, for real this time, that he thinks he understands what Dumbledore was trying to say. Or rather, didn’t say.
Dumbledore’s soulmate is a man.
(Harry wonders if his soulmate is a boy. If all of the girls he’s categorised between has touched, hasn’t touched, unsure are all going to be useless anyway. His soulmate could be a boy. A voice akin to Vernon Dursley's starts in his head. Freak, it says. Fag, it says.)
Exams start and Draco focuses on little else. He knows what his mother said, but Draco was smart and ambitious and would make his parents proud. He spent a lot of time in the library, crowded around a table with Pansy and Blaise, and Crabbe and Goyle who were hopeless.
He rarely saw Potter, whose buzzed head was often in cahoots with Weasley and Granger. Potter still didn’t acknowledge him, nor the gifts or the notes.
Exams pass easier than he thought they would. The only real struggle was transfiguration. He thinks potions and charms went the best, defence was fine, but it wasn’t Draco’s favourite (although maybe the professor had more to do with that than the subject). Herbology wasn’t difficult but the questions were niche.
The Slytherins are all in high spirits as they take the lead of the house cup.
I’m going to kill you tonight, Quirrel-Voldemort says. I’m going to kill you tonight.
Harry is tied up in ropes watching Quirrel-Voldemort watch the mirror. He talks and talks at him, question after question, anything to distract him getting the stone. Anything that means he won’t have to beg please don’t kill me, please don’t kill me.
He feels more fear than anything he has ever felt in his life looking at the reptilian face on the back of Quirrel’s head. He wonders if this was how his parents had felt before they died.
Then he burns Quirrel-Voldemort’s faces. He feels the skin sizzle beneath his hands, feels nothing but the will to survive. He burns and burns beneath him and then Harry remembers no more.
Potter and Weasley end up in the hospital wing. Professor Quirrel’s last classes are covered by McGonagall because he’s dead. Of course, it’s not officially announced. But Marcus Flint says he saw Dumbledore levitating a body bag alongside Potter’s unconscious body.
Draco throws up when he hears the rumours. Guiltily, he thinks he should have known. He should have known something was wrong with Potter, that he was in danger. He’s his soulmate, how didn’t he know?
He finds himself in the hospital wing after curfew on the second night of Potter’s stay.
He looks down at Potter on the bed and suddenly hates the buzzcut, which doesn’t hide the pale, green tint of his face or his lightning bolt scar which is inflamed and crusted with blood. He looks so small beneath the hospital sheets that Draco feels Potter could be years not months younger than him.
He sits carefully in the seat next to Potter and reaches for his hand. He thinks it’s a kind thing to do. His mother always holds his hand when he’s ill or upset.
Potter’s hand is limp but warm and Draco cradles it between both of his.
“Malfoy? What are you doing? Get away from Harry!”
Draco drops Potter’s hand in shock, it hangs off the edge of the bed. He turns around and Weasley, in the bed opposite, is looking at him furiously. His face was as red as his hair with rage.
Draco opens his mouth, not really sure what he’s planning on saying, but before he can speak Pomfrey is busting into the Hospital Wing in her nightdress. Draco is kicked out before he can explain.
That’s the last time He sees Potter before they go home for the holidays.