Archive of Our Own

“A  what ?” Draco asks. His voice comes out more shrill than he means it to, but he thinks that, considering the situation, it’s not his biggest problem.  
 

“A soulmate bond,” McGonagall says, matter-of-fact. Draco honestly doesn’t understand how the  fuck  she can be so calm, because he’s honestly freaking the fuck out.  
 

“But we’re not,” Potter says, blinking. He pushes his glasses up his nose - his stupid round glasses that make Draco want to kiss his stupid handsome face - and makes a face that Draco  hates  because it makes him notice Potter’s jaw. Potter’s very, very attractive jaw. “Soulmates. Right?”  
 

McGonagall’s lips tighten. “The bond has to have a certain -  chemistry.  Very intense feelings, from both parties. It wouldn’t have worked otherwise. It’s why it bonded you to Mr. Malfoy, instead of anyone else in the room.”  

The stupid spell had been triggered by accident; they’d been studying cursed objects and identifying the curses -  without  getting cursed - in Defense Against the Dark Arts class, until Potter - the bloody unbelievable moron - had had to  touch  one of them.   

“Right,” Potter says, unbelievably calm about the whole thing. “Alright. So, whatever, right? Nothing changes.”  
 

“Not quite,” Professor Lupin says. Draco won’t quite say it, but he’s glad Lupin’s returned for eighth year. He’s one of the best professors they’ve ever had. “It’s a very particular spell, Harry. If you spend too much time apart, one of you will begin to hurt.”  

“Which one of us?” Draco asks, because he can somehow tell this isn’t going to go well for him.  

“The one who didn’t trigger the curse,” Lupin says, looking at Draco apologetically. “Historically, it’s been used to keep unhappy spouses from leaving, so the ones who triggered the curse didn’t have any consequences for themselves.”  
 

Obviously , Draco thinks sarcastically.   

“Right,” Potter says, and Draco’s beginning to hate that word. “Alright. How much time?”  
 

“We can’t know.” McGonagall tells them. “I’d suggest you don’t try to figure it out.”  
 

“How far apart?” Draco asks. “Is this a ‘ we have to be in the same room’  type of situation, or ‘ we have to be in the chair’  type of situation?”  
 

He’d been about to say ‘in the same bed’, but he can’t imagine him and Potter in the same bed without going red, so he avoids it at all costs. He’s already a little worried about how often he thinks of Potter - and okay, they’re not  enemies  anymore, but they’re not really friends either and Draco shouldn’t be fantasizing so often about anyone, much less about Potter - and he doesn’t want Potter to find out. He’s been keeping it a very carefully guarded secret.  

 
“Closer to the second one.” Lupin says. “Hopefully, you’ll be able to be a couple meters from each other without any trouble. Being in the same room should do it, but some of these involve physical touch, and we can’t really know until you’ve experienced it.”  
 

“You’re already dorm mates, so we won’t have to move your sleeping arrangements.” McGonagall says. “But you’ll have to spend all your time together, even outside of classes. We won’t take more than a few weeks to figure out how to disarm the curse, hopefully, but we’ll need to call in Curse-Breakers.”  
 

Draco sinks back on the chair, trying to figure out how the fuck he’s going to get through two weeks of constantly being with Potter, when he can’t be around him for more than a few minutes at a time without feeling like he might make a fool of himself.  

*  

Draco wakes up with a gasp of pain.  

“Fuck,” he chokes out.  Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.  It hurts,  so  much, a knot of pure pain deep in his bones, feeling like it’s stabbing its way outwards, and he can’t, he can’t, he can’t-  

He reaches out for something, anything, and hears the clatter when he knocks something over. He doesn’t care, he needs the pain to stop, anything to make it  stop-  

“Draco?” Potter is turning the lamp on. “ Shit ,”  

He stands from his bed quickly, putting on his glasses, and crosses the room, kneeling by Draco’s bed. The moment he grabs Draco’s face, the pain begins to subside.   
 

It’s a few minutes until Draco feels like he can breathe again, and another few until he can move.  

“Fuck,” He says.  
 

Potter is frowning worriedly down at him, one hand still cupping his face, and Draco - if it were any other moment - is sure he’d be bright red. As it is, his bones still feel like they’d been crushed, so he doesn’t have the ability to be quite embarrassed.  

“Are you okay?” Potter asks. “I’m sorry. I didn’t - I thought it’d be fine, sleeping in the same room.”  
 

“It’s not,” Draco says. His voice sounds hoarse and his throat is way too dry. He feels like he’s been run over. He closes his eyes. “I -  fuck .”  
 

There’s a moment of silence, and then Potter asks, “Which bed do you want to sleep in?”  

Draco opens one eye. “What?”  

“We’re going to have to sleep in the same bed,” Potter points out. “So which bed do you want to share, yours or mine?”  
 

This  cannot  be happening.  

“Yours.” He says, because Potter looks like he’s expecting an answer.  
 

“Alright, Draco.” He says, softly, and helps him stand up.  
 

That’s  changed. A lot of things have changed in eighth year - especially about Potter - and they’re all important. Potter’s newfound height and muscles - because of appropriate nutrition, probably - his newly irresistible face and hair, his  eyes . Maybe his face and hair haven’t changed, but Draco’s feelings for them certainly  have  changed, because he cannot look away, more often than not.  

But what  has  changed, definitely changed, is that Potter calls him  Draco.  All the time. In front of  everyone . It’s... a little confusing, if Draco’s honest.  

They get into Potter’s bed - Potter’s  bed  - and Draco’s body seems to remember that it has the ability to react to embarrassment, because his cheeks and ears are suddenly burning. He’s glad Potter’s turned out the light, though he wouldn’t be surprised if his face were glowing enough for Potter to see it anyway.  

“Good night,” Potter says, and then he’s asleep, just like that! That’s another thing that’s changed. Potter seems to care about absolutely  nothing . No embarrassment, no apologies, nothing. He’s flirting with everyone, left and right, snogging people - girls  and  boys - generally enjoying his life, wherever it goes, and Draco was not raised to handle that, alright? He was raised by two stuffy, uptight purebloods - and, arguably, turned into a stuffy, uptight pureblood himself - and he doesn’t know how to react when people or things aren’t  proper,  which this situation isn’t.  
 

Sharing a bed with someone he’s not married to is not  proper , even if it were  just  a friend - and Potter’s not even a friend, he’s someone Draco has feelings about. Feelings  about , not feelings  for , thank you very much, because he doesn’t  like  Potter that way.   

He just - feels funny, sometimes, when he thinks about him. And yes, Potter’s incredibly handsome, but Draco’s most definitely not the only one who thinks that. That’s just - him having eyes. And if sometimes, very late at night, Draco thinks about what it could be like if Potter looked at him lovingly, and held him in his arms, and let him sit in his lap and kiss his cheek and share chocolate by the fireplace, well. That means nothing at all.  

“Don’t think too much,” Potter tells him.  Not asleep then . And then - and  then -  he throws a hand over Draco’s waist.  
 

Draco  definitely  won’t make it through two weeks.  

*  

They figure out that, unless they’re touching, it doesn’t matter how close or far they are, Draco ends up hurting. They take to walking the halls holding pinkies - which is not something Draco  ever  thought he’d do - and when they sleep together at night, Draco usually has an arm around Draco’s waist, or their legs end up tangled together, or - somehow - they end up spooning, Harry’s hard chest against Draco’s back.  

Draco’s spent the entire time red in the face - Potter actually asked him if he had a fever once - and he thinks that, the more time he spends with Potter, the harder it is to convince himself that he’s not in love with the prat.  

“Will you quit it?” Potter murmurs one night, when Draco had been watching him, because he thought he’d been asleep.  
 

“Quit what?” Draco asks, looking away.  
 

“ Thinking  so much,” Potter opens his eyes and looks down at Draco with a raised eyebrow. “Don’t you tire yourself out?”  
 

“Evidently  you  don’t,” Draco says, cheeks heating. “Seeing as you hardly think at all.”  
 

Potter’s lips quirk - and Draco doesn’t know why he  amuses  Potter instead of annoying him - and he shakes his head in a way that, if Draco didn’t know any better, he’d call  fondly .  

“I do think,” Potter informs him. “I’ve just stopped caring about things that don’t matter.”  
 

“Who you snog doesn’t matter?” Draco asks, and then immediately regrets it.  
 

Potter  laughs , the bastard. “No, it doesn’t.”  

Draco gives him a  look  that Harry can practically  hear .  

“Does it?” He asks in return. “The second we’re out of Hogwarts you think it’ll matter who we snogged, who we didn’t?”  
 

Draco, at a loss of anything better to say, says, “It’s not -  proper .”  

“Proper?” Harry sounds amused. “Is this proper?”  
 

And he puts a hand on Draco’s thigh.   

Draco’s brain might’ve stopped working.  

“Or this?” His hand runs higher, to Draco’s hip, squeezes lightly. He presses a kiss to Draco’s forehead, then to his cheek, to his nose, to his chin.  
 

“Tell me I can kiss you.” he murmurs.  

Draco swallows. He can’t look away from Harry’s mouth. “I don’t - want to be another one of your  conquests , Harry. I’m not - I don’t do that.”  

“You’re not.” Harry says, and it’s honest. “I want you to be more.”  
 

Draco thinks he might not be breathing then.  

He isn’t sure he cares.  

“Kiss me, then.” He breathes.  
 

There’s a hand on the back of his neck, gentle, and then Harry brings their lips together.