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If you had asked Draco when he was younger what he imagined his soulmate would be like, he would have scoffed at the very notion. He would’ve proudly told you that families like the Malfoys didn’t waste time on mushy concepts like soulmates. No, what he wanted was a partner; someone his equal in status and wit who he could advance with. A powerful, well-connected pure-blood. The specifics didn’t matter to him much; his parents would arrange it. But he supposed this person would be like all the people in his life: distinguished, resourceful, polished, and…distant.
To be fair, the man huddled in his lap under a tree in Hyde Park had a couple of those qualities. Defeating the dark lord certainly deemed someone powerful. The final battle had even seemed to heighten his magical prowess. Sometimes Draco could just feel the strength of it crackling in the air around them like electricity. When him and Draco were lounging around their flat in London’s magical district, he used wandless magic to do mundane things like open the blinds or shut the telly off without even a thought and it made Draco sweat. A little bit.
He was well-connected, too. Saving wizardkind tends to make you pretty popular. He couldn’t go anywhere without being showered with gifts and praise and having babies foreheads to kiss shoved in his face. Not to mention all the various charities and activist groups that wanted him to be the face of their campaigns. He, unlike Draco, however, didn’t like the limelight. Instead he just sent money to all the charities who asked and silently donated the various properties he inherited to orphans and homeless youths with no press or anything, like the noble sap he was.
He wasn’t bad-looking either. Draco had always thought beauty was structure: a clean-shaven face, slicked back hair, pressed black robes with impressive labels. But his beauty was different: wild and unpretentious. His unruly black hair always looked artfully disheveled, without him even trying. Draco knew for a fact he never combed it. No fashion sense, either. He just threw on whatever he first got his hands on in his (absurdly disorganized) dresser. But his natural beauty shone no matter what and so it became of no consequence what he was wearing.
Even right now, with the sunlight spilling onto them from cracks in the tree branches, Draco didn’t notice how ratty his green jumper was, or the holes in his faded jeans. What he noticed were his long lashes casting wispy shadows on his cheek and how the jumper brought out the green of his eyes and made it feel like Spring again. Draco pushed his hand through Harry’s thick hair for what was probably the thousandth time, running his thumb along the arch of his brow and smoothing it into place from where it was furrowed in concentration. Harry subconsciously pushed back into the touch and smiled, but didn’t take his eyes off the book in his hands: An Anthology of Late Eighteenth Century Potion Theory. He really was determined to learn everything he’d missed out on seventh year. Hermionie must have been rubbing off on him.
But as it turned out, just like the pure-bloodedness, those things didn’t truly matter to Draco. Harry was different from this imaginary person in all the important ways. He was warm: warm brown skin, warm green eyes, warm laugh that made his head roll back, warm hands rubbing Draco’s back as he fell asleep at night, grounding him to the moment, making him feel safe.
He was also dirtier than he imagined. That Draco could, quite frankly, live without. Sometimes he came back from quidditch practice muddy, skin glistening with sweat, and smelling to high heavens, crowding Draco against the counter for a snog. “You’ve lost your mind!” Draco tells him haughtily, trying to squirm away from where he’s trapped between Harry’s arms. But he still smiles when Harry grabs his neck and gives him a swift peck on the cheek anyway.
But most importantly was what he taught Draco. Growing up, he hadn’t known kindness. He didn’t realize what it could do, how healing it could be, until the trials after the War. Harry had shown him forgiveness. For the first time, Draco had someone believing in him. He made Draco want to be a better person, so he could prove Harry right. That’s why he felt compelled to thank him after the trial. And why he took him out for coffee after that. And why he hasn’t stopped bothering the poor bloke since. His energy was addictive. It humbled Draco to realize that even after everything Harry had been through, he still believed in people’s inherent goodness. He wasn’t pure-blooded, no, but he was pure.
Draco leaned down without warning and planted a passionate kiss on Harry’s lips. Harry sputtered in confusion before quickly getting on board. His book fell to the ground as he ran his fingers along Draco’s scalp, pulling him down and mussing up his meticulous hair. Several minutes later, they were rolling around under the tree before Draco pulled back with a smack, gasping for air and wearing a satisfied smile.
“What was that for?” Harry asked incredulously, blushing crimson red. His eyes were shifting self-consciously beneath his askew glasses to see if anyone had noticed their tryst.
Draco rolled onto his back and gazed at the canopy of red maple leaves above their heads as he answered. “Oh, just saving you from the extreme boredom of trying to study. I thought if you furrowed your brow anymore your forehead might crack open.”
Harry rolled on his side to glare at him. “Study this,” he said, flipping the bird right in Malfoy’s face.
Draco grabbed the affronting hand and held it to his chest, laughing as he thought, ‘Thank God I didn’t get what I wanted.’