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At midnight on his eighteenth birthday, Harry Potter wakes up to find a thin red string tied around his left pinky finger, pulled taut and finished with a bow. Ron and Hermione are asleep next to him in bed, wrapped around one another, their hands joined. From their pinkies shines a golden light, the red strings they’d talked about endlessly. Theirs is much shorter than Harry’s, red loops of thread binding them to one another.
Some ugly feeling in his chest makes itself known when he looks at them. They’d taken to sharing a bed at Grimmauld Place after the war, the comfort of knowing they were all safe next to each other invaluable after the experience they shared together. But sometimes, just sometimes, he hates that they have this thing that he can’t have with them. He loves them both like siblings, nothing more, but his two best friends have that extra level of closeness that’s simply unattainable to him that makes the worst part of him come forth. He’s happy that they’re happy. He is.
It’s only… they’re Ron and Hermione, now. Harry’s Just Harry, again. Alone while surrounded by friends.
Harry rubs his face. He slips out of bed, grabs the clothes he wore the day before and goes to the bathroom to get dressed so as to not wake Ron and Hermione. He looks at himself in the mirror as though he’s looking at a stranger: the patchy stubble on his jaw, the dullness of his green eyes, the bags under them. He didn’t have much opportunity to look at himself during the time they were on the run, so looking at himself and seeing a man rather than a confused boy is unsettling, to say the least. He puts his clothes on and leaves to fetch his wand from his nightstand.
Hermione’s already rolled over to cover the bare bit of mattress Harry left, the arm Ron has locked around her waist pulling him with her. Harry sighs. He loves them so much. He knows they feel the same about him. They’d hate knowing he feels left out by their relationship, but he doesn't think he can tell them. He knows it would be better to. But he won’t. He’s just a little messed up.
Harry quickly scribbles out a note so they (mostly Hermione) don’t panic if they notice he’s gone, dropping it in place of his wand and tip-toeing back out of their room and downstairs. He puts his trainers on then walks out their door into the night air. Harry takes a deep breath and disapparates with a loud crack that scares a fox and clears a tree of birds.
✂
Harry stands outside the Burrow for a while, playing with the red string on his finger that is pulled taught, shooting off into the surrounding fields. The summer breeze musses Harry’s hair and he has to push it back from his glasses several times. He has a moment of delirium where he wonders if Ginny’s taking a walk to calm her nerves before bed, and if he follows his string he’ll find her sitting cross-legged in the circle of short grass simply breathing in the night air. He gives it a little tug. No response. Then, a light turns on upstairs, and it illuminates Ginny’s red hair when she runs her brush through it. Her hands are bare. Her pinky, more importantly, is bare. And he knew all along it wasn’t her, that things would be too easy if it was, but he can’t help the sick feeling that rises in his throat and the anxiety rolling in his stomach.
They could make it work. They could. People marry those who aren’t their soulmates all the time. Sometimes people don’t even get their string. They could get married and have kids and be that perfectly picturesque family everyone expects them to be.
But who is Harry kidding? He’d never do that to her. She’d never do that to him. They’re both hopeless romantics and Harry could never deny Ginny her happy ending like that. It’d tear them apart and everyone would be miserable.
Harry sighs, running his untied hand through his hair. The movement must catch Ginny’s eye, as she turns, looking startled a little at his presence. She gives him a small wave which he returns with less enthusiasm. Her brow furrows a bit before she lifts up her pinky and wiggles it at him: a question. He nods, lifting up his own and wiggling it back at her. She smiles a little, but Harry can tell even from this far that she’s nervous. He doesn’t know what he would’ve done if the string connected to her, but he’s pretty sure they wouldn’t be having a conversation through mime if she was his soulmate.
Ginny bites her lip, then points to herself. ‘Me?’ he thinks she mouths.
Harry shakes his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he mouths back.
She laughs, hanging her head. Harry thinks he sees her wipe a tear away, but she’s so high up and her head is turned so he can’t be sure. His throat starts to sting at the sight of it, though, and he scuffs his trainers on the ground to stave off the feeling.
When he looks up again, the blind is down on the window. Harry trudges deep into the fields for god knows how long before disapparating.
✂
This time, Harry focuses on the instinctual pull of the string to take him to where he needs to go — never mind if he doesn’t necessarily want to.
Imagine his surprise when he turns up at the gates of fucking Azkaban. The sky looks as though all the stars in it are hiding from the big monstrous prison: it’s clearer than he’s ever seen it on his birthday. It’s only then does it hit him that he’s doing this in the middle of the night. Merlin, he’s tired. But he’s long past caring, so he can’t be bothered turning back now. Besides, maybe whatever criminal is his soulmate will be asleep, and he can look at them, acknowledge their existence, and then go home and find some way to cut the string from his finger.
“Great, bloody fucking great,” he mutters to himself, climbing the hill up to the main entrance. “My soulmate is some murdering lunatic. Lovely!”
The Aurors guarding the entrance look beyond confused to see Harry Potter casually strolling up to their prison at one in the morning. He wants to say ‘I have no idea what I’m doing here either’ but that’s not true and they’d probably think he’s more insane than the Daily Prophet is making him out to be already.
“Hi,” he says instead. With another little wave. Because he’s in the mood for those tonight, apparently.
“Mr Potter?” one Auror asks, looking to his friend for confirmation he isn’t going insane from being near dementors, Harry expects. He’s tall and has what looks like dyed pink hair.
“What are you doing here?” the other, a woman with a blonde bob, questions.
Here goes. “I’d like to visit someone.”
The Aurors look at each other again before the woman replies. “I’m afraid it’s past visiting hours, Mr Potter. If you’d like to come back during the day–”
“It’s important. Please.” Harry puts on the best begging face he can, then rubs at his scar for extra leverage. What good is his trauma if he can’t use it to get him places?
“We really must insist. This is Azkaban, as you’re well aware,” says the man. “Security is–”
“It’s my birthday, okay?” Harry bursts out. “My 18th. I think my soulmate is–” He gestures up at the towering prison in frustration. “Can I go see whoever it is?”
The two look at each other for a third time, and it’s only then he notices the red string joining their hands. “You don’t know who your soulmate is already?” the woman asks, with a soft lilt to her voice. She pities him, clearly. Your soulmate isn’t Ginny Weasley?
“No.” Harry stares her down, daring her to say anything more. “Will you let me in so I can go find them?”
The man sighs deeply, then leans over to whisper something in his soulmate’s ear. They have a small discussion which Harry pretends not to hear (Kingsley’s name is definitely brought up once or twice and he barely restrains himself from rolling his eyes) and then turn back to face him.
“Alright. Just this once,” says the man, pointing a finger in Harry’s face like he’s a child. “Follow me.”
The man, who Harry finds out is called Rufus, leads him through a foyer that looks similar to what Harry imagines the reception to hell looks like. He gets odd looks from the processing staff who take his wand, some of whom gape at the sight of him, others confused, and Rufus shrugs his shoulders when one of them asks.
“Let me get this straight,” Rufus starts, when they’re walking along a dark hall to one block of cells. “You have no idea who you’re here for?”
“No, not really,” Harry says. He tugs on his string. “I assume there aren’t a lot of people my age in here?”
“Nah, only a few. We have a bunch who were on the wrong side at Hogwarts, though, you know the drill. Coupla’ Death Eater kids awaiting trial.” Rufus nods at him. “You’re testifying at those, right?”
“Yeah.” All of a sudden, Harry feels a little dizzy. “Yeah, I am.” He pauses and rubs at his head.
Rufus slows to a stop too. “What? You okay?”
“Are–” Harry swallows. “Are the Malfoys being kept here?”
“Yep, all three.” Fuck. “They wanted to wait in their big fancy manor till the trials happened, but there was no way the Ministry was letting Lucius out of their sight again. He’ll flee the country the first chance he gets.”
“Yeah, probably,” Harry says, but he isn’t really paying attention to anything other than the pounding of his heart in his chest and the red string in front of him. He sets off after it, walking quicker as it takes him around a corner. Then he stops again. The string turns off into a cell near the end of the hallway, and the nausea he felt back at the Weasleys’ hits him again.
“Bingo,” says Rufus. Harry wants to sock him. “Go ahead. I have to stay here for security but if you whisper I probably won’t hear you.”
Wow. They really recruit the best of the best to the Aurors.
“Thanks,” he says. He is grateful, of course, but, god. He walks down the hallway without looking in any of the other cells. It’s rather quiet besides some snores so he assumes they’re all asleep, but Harry would rather not risk someone blowing up at him because he’s the one who landed them here.
There’s the sound of chains clinking coming from his soulmate’s cell. When he looks down at the string, his hands are shaking. He really hoped he– they would be asleep so he didn’t have to deal with this right now. Give it some time to sink in before he speaks to them. But, again, that would be too easy. The universe has other plans. So, he takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and stops outside of the cell. Harry knows who’s in there before he even looks.
Draco Malfoy is curled up in the corner of his cell, chained hands hanging between his drawn-up knees, red string attached to his left pinky finger. Harry gives his own an experimental tug, and Malfoy’s finger moves ever so slightly. He wants to throw up.
“Malfoy,” Harry says, the name having to claw its way out of his throat.
Malfoy lifts his eyes, but not his head, and his grey irises bore into Harry. The circles under his eyes look even darker than the bars of his cell, his eyelids red raw like he’d been crying, or scratching at them. His Dark Mark is visible even with the way Malfoy’s arms are turned inwards with the ugly grey set he has on doing nothing to hide it, or how skinny he’s gotten.
“Hello,” Harry tries again. “What are you doing up?”
“Can’t sleep in this place.” Malfoy smiles slightly, and Harry can’t help but be a little creeped out by the way his lips curl. “I’ve finally went fucking insane, then?” he asks, every word posh and delicate and slow, like he’ll break something other than silence if he raises his voice too much.
“Er, then I guess I have too.” Harry lowers himself to the floor so he can sit cross-legged in front of the bars. “It’s my birthday.”
“I figured. What a present this is.” He laughs a hollow laugh, bringing the back of his hands up to rub at his eyes. “A Death Eater who you’ve spent the last seven years hating.” Malfoy spreads his hands as best he could, another manic smile spreading across his gaunt cheeks. “Happy birthday!”
Harry swallows the bile that’s risen in his throat, and has to turn away to cough. “Thanks,” he says, looking back at Malfoy despite how unsettled he is. “I’m testifying at you and your parents' trials next week.”
A shuddering exhale comes from Malfoy. “I’m well aware. I spent my 18th here waiting for the Ministry to decide when you’d be fit to.”
Harry runs his tongue over his teeth. “I’m sorry. That sucks.” It isn’t the most eloquent thing he’s ever said but it’s true. “I won't take long.”
Malfoy’s knees drop to the side, and for a moment Harry is distracted by how flexible he seems to be, before he’s brought back to the present by the chains attached to Malfoy’s wrists dragging along the floor as he crawls towards the bars.
“I don’t want your fucking pity,” Malfoy snarls, now up in Harry’s face. There’s something about his proximity that rushes over him in a weird, warm wave. Malfoy shivers, and Harry wonders if he feels it too.
“You don’t bloody have it,” Harry whispers back, lips curling around his teeth. “I’m going to tell the truth, because nobody deserves to be locked away for shit they didn’t do. Don’t act like it’s some personal favour, because it’s not.”
Malfoy reels back. He stares at Harry for a moment, before mirroring his cross-legged position on his side of the bars. “People will think it is,” he says quietly.
“What?” Harry furrows his brow
Malfoy lifts his pinky. “This. If they know.”
“Oh.” Harry didn’t think about that. “Right. Well, fuck them, then. It’s in writing that I agreed to testify like, a month ago. I couldn’t have known.”
“No?” Malfoy asks. His eyes look like twin hurricanes.
Harry’s heart skips a beat. “Did you?”
Malfoy laughs, and if Harry’s not mistaken, there’s a little bit of fondness in it. “It would never have been anyone else other than you. I practically fused chasing after you into my personality.”
He can’t help himself; Harry snorts. He shakes his head, like it’ll make the nervous ball in his stomach dissipate. They’re really doing this. “I don’t know if I was any better. Sixth year?”
Malfoy does the thing where he raises only one eyebrow. “In your defence I was actually doing something borderline evil.”
“Well, against my defence I was borderline stalking you, so.” He sniffs. “I had a map that told me where you were and I used to watch you walk around the castle before I fell asleep.”
“Seriously?” Malfoy asks, scooting a bit closer. Harry’s unsure whether the light is playing tricks on him or if Malfoy’s dark circles have lessened slightly. “That is fucked up. Perv.”
Oh, god, it’s as if they’re roommates gossiping on their beds. “Exactly. Maybe I should have known. Maybe I did.”
“You didn’t want it to be me.” It’s not a question, though Malfoy’s looking for an answer.
“No,” Harry agrees. “I wanted it to be Ginny and then everything would be simple.”
“But it’s me. And it’s complicated.”
“Understatement of the century.”
The two of them are quiet for a short moment. It should be uncomfortable, the silence loaded with the history between them, but it feels natural. Harry’s sure it’s their bond, he’s heard enough from Ron about how Hermione simply existing next to him relaxes him to the marrow of his bones. They were going to have to talk at some point, so Harry supposes this ease in each other’s presence is a good thing. Surprisingly, Malfoy breaks the stillness first.
“So what’s your plan, Potter?” It’s the first time Malfoy’s said his name. It does something complicated to Harry’s insides. He wants him to call him Harry. He doesn’t want that at all. But he’d like to call him Draco. He can’t. Not yet.
“I have no idea what to do with myself, if I’m honest,” Harry admits, playing with his fingers. “My head is a mess.”
Another raised brow. “Regarding me or the general fuckery you attract like a moth to a lamp?”
Harry blows out a breath of air. “All of it. I’m only eighteen but I feel like I’ve done everything I needed to do. What now when there’s no monster to fight?”
“You’re Harry Potter,” says Malfoy. There’s contempt, there. “You can do anything you want.”
Harry huffs out a laugh. “That’s the problem. I don’t want to do anything at all.”
Malfoy shrugs. “Then don’t. Hole yourself up somewhere and live off the Black family fortune. It’s what I’d do. No one has a right to you.”
“Except, you, apparently.” Harry lifts up his pinky finger, giving their string a little pull. This time, he feels it like he’s pulling on his own heartstrings.
Malfoy swallows. “If you see it that way. Does anything feel different, now you’re here?”
“No. Yes.” I feel whole, he wants to tell him. But that’s sickening. He’s his own person. But Malfoy feels like a reunion and a goodbye all at once. It’s sick. “Better,” he says, “you?”
“Like I can finally sleep.”
Harry tilts his head. “Would you like me to leave?”
“No!” Malfoy draws back a little at his own outburst, embarrassed and looking a little frustrated with himself. “Not yet.”
“Okay.” He doesn’t want to go yet, but he’ll not give Malfoy the satisfaction of saying that. After a small pause, Harry shifts on his bum. “Does something feel off to you?”
Malfoy blinks slowly, a bit like a cat. “A little.”
“Is it the string?”
“Maybe.”
“Do we need to–”
“What?”
“Complete the bond… or something? Is that how this works?”
“Perhaps…” Malfoy trails off, the space between his eyebrows creasing. “Can I– May I touch you?”
Harry raises both of his eyebrows, because he can’t do the thing. He gets a good glare for that.
“The string– just your pinky. Don’t be obtuse.”
Harry smiles. “Alright.”
Harry holds his pinky up level to his face. There’s a slight tremor to it he couldn’t hide if he wanted to. The nausea returns for a brief moment before he dispels it with a deep breath.
“Okay?” asks Malfoy. A lock of white hair falls across his face; Harry has to resist the urge to tuck it behind his ear.
“Okay,” he says.
Malfoy sticks his own pinky through the bars and joins it with Harry’s.
Relief surges through his body like a wave cresting on a beach, and he has to close his eyes against the force of it. A surprised chuckle bursts from his throat, and he can see the golden glow of the string from behind his eyelids before he opens them to watch it shimmer. Malfoy’s face is lit up, the angular features Harry’s become accustomed to staring at further heightened.
Malfoy looks at him wide-eyed, his mouth agape. Then, he presses his mouth against his fist and closes his eyes, and he starts to cry, his shoulders shaking with the effort of it. Sniffles build up into long, drawn-out sobs that make Harry’s gut twist. He doesn’t know what to do.
“It’s real,” Malfoy gasps. “Oh Salazar, it’s real. I thought I was dreaming.”
Harry takes Malfoy’s hand as fully as he can through the bars and gives it a reassuring squeeze. “I’m here,” he says. It comes out choked. “It’s real.”
“It’s real,” Malfoy repeats. “You’re my soulmate.”
“No takebacks,” jokes Harry, but his voice cracks. “We’re the Potter-Malfoys now.”
“Piss off.” Using his free hand to wipe at his eyes, Malfoy composes himself with a shaky breath. “I hate you, Harry.”
Tears spill down Harry’s cheeks when he laughs. “I hate you too, Draco.”
Malf– Draco laughs too, then presses his forehead against the bars of his cell. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Harry says, running his fingers over Draco’s knuckles.
“No, I mean—”
“I know.” He sighs, letting his forehead meet Draco’s as much as it can. “We’ll have that conversation later. I want to enjoy this.”
It’s the afterglow of them completing their bond that makes them so amenable to one another. They’ll fight and scream and swear later, and meet together in an angry mess of tears and maybe blood. But that’s not for today. Today they can be soulmates without any of the baggage Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy have accumulated over the years.
Draco pulls away first after a while, and Harry blinks his eyes open like he’s waking from sleep. It feels nice to know the puffiness of Draco’s eyes has come from this, and not him crying himself to the point of passing out alone in his cell. “Come back tomorrow?” Draco asks, his voice pleading, almost as if he expects Harry to shun him, even now.
Finally, Harry indulges himself and tucks the stray lock of hair behind Draco’s ear. “Do you mean today? It’s probably like two in the morning now.”
Draco rolls his eyes. “Yes, today then. Will you?”
“I’ll come back tonight.”
“Don’t ruin your sleep for me, Potter,” he says, but his last name is used to tease.
“Fuck it,” breathes Harry. He stares at Draco, eyes flickering down to his lips. “I really want to kiss you right now.”
“And I you.” For a moment, Harry thinks Draco’s going to do it; he leans in almost subconsciously. Draco licks his lips. “We should give it time.”
“Time.” Harry nods. It’s sensible. He goes to stand, and Draco follows him up, hands still clasped together. “My voice of reason.”
“I wouldn’t go that far. I’m very unreasonable. And not very good.” It’s a quiet warning. Will you have me as I am?
“That’s alright. Who defines what good means nowadays anyway?”
“I’ve no idea.” Draco gives Harry’s hand one last squeeze before letting go and winding his hand around the bars of his cell. “I’ll see you tonight, Harry?”
Harry nods, taking a step back. “Tonight, Draco. I’m looking forward to getting to know you.”
“I share your sentiments entirely.” Flowery twat. They sound like lovers already, and look like them too, with the soft way Draco’s smiling at him. “Goodbye.”
“Sleep well,” says Harry, and he turns to walk down the hallway, his red string dutifully following along.
A tuft of pink hair peeking around the corner reminds him of Rufus’ presence at the end of the hall; he must’ve shifted to give them more privacy. Harry had forgotten he was even meant to be there. After he collects his wand, Harry thanks him for letting him in. Rufus doesn’t say a thing, not when he escorts him back out of Azkaban and not when he’s walking down the winding path to disapparate.
(Harry misses the whispers between Rufus and his soulmate, whose name, Nina, he would’ve found out if he asked, ‘The Malfoy kid, really?’, ‘Yeah, can you believe it?’, ‘Sort of. Always heard rumours about them two.’. But he wouldn’t care even if he’d heard.)
✂
Hermione’s perched against the kitchen table in her dressing gown with a cup of tea when Harry gets back to the house. She looks at him in exasperation, gearing up for a lecture, and Harry can practically hear the sigh she hasn’t sighed yet when her expression softens. “Did you find them?” she asks.
Harry could kiss her. “Yeah,” he says, taking the space next to her. She grabs his hand in hers before he can even get settled. “Is Ron still asleep?”
Hermione raises her eyebrows. “You know him. He’d sleep through getting eaten by a bear.”
He nods, smiling nervously. There’s quiet, while Hermione waits for him to speak, but he can’t keep it in for very long. “It’s, er– it’s Draco. Malfoy. My soulmate.”
“Oh.” She puts her tea down. Her grip loosens slightly, as startled as he was, he imagines, but she doesn’t let go. She’s quiet for a moment. “How are you feeling?”
It’s not her moment. It’s his. And this is why he treasures Hermione so much. For all she likes to talk and reason, she knows when to be silent and let others say what they need to say. It’s definitely a quality she’s improved on over the years.
“Good,” says Harry. He’s not lying at all. He feels really good. “It’s gonna be hard, but it’ll work out. We have some talking to do.”
“Oh, I can imagine you do. Are you really alright?”
“Yeah, I am.” He rubs at his nose. “Are you? Like, are you okay with this?”
“Of course. He’s your soulmate,” she says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like she wasn't tortured in the Malfoys’ dining room, like she doesn’t have a scar from his aunt’s knife on her neck.
Harry grimaces at the memories. “He’s still Malfoy.”
Hermione shrugs her shoulders. “Draco’s not all bad. I can grow to like him.” She gives his hand a squeeze. “When he’s not being a right arsehole he’s actually really intelligent. And in sixth year I could’ve sworn you were falling in love with him with how much you talked about him.”
Harry flushes, hanging his head, and Hermione practically cackles. “Not fair.”
“I’m kidding. Mostly.”
“Okay moving on–” Harry swipes a hand over his face. “You’re fine with this?”
“More than fine. I’m happy for you, Harry.” He looks over to Hermione. She’s got this big smile on her face, and all of a sudden, he’s being bundled into a tight hug, and he gets a face full of curls. “Oh, I was so worried when I woke up!”
Harry laughs, swaying them back and forth. “I left a note so you wouldn’t stress–”
“Like that would ever be enough.” She pulls back, holding him by the shoulders; her eyes are glistening. Then leans in again to give him a peck on the cheek. “I’m so proud of you.”
“For what?” Harry laughs again, but his stomach does a nice flip. “‘Mione, soulmates are pre-determined. I didn’t have to like, slay a dragon to find him or anything. He’s literally chained up in Azkaban, he wasn't going anywhere.”
“Well, you never know. Breakouts seem to happen there a lot.” Hermione giggles a little and bumps her shoulder against his. “Seriously, though, I’m always proud of you. Happy birthday.”
Harry finds himself becoming choked up again. He wraps his arms around her and buries his face in the crook of her neck. “Thanks, ‘Mione,” he says, muffled.
“Anytime, Harry. I love you lots.”
A mix between a sob and a laugh comes from Harry’s mouth. “I love you too.”
They break away with both of them wiping tears from their eyes. “Want a tea?” Hermione asks, moreso sniffles, already on her way to fill up the kettle.
Ron wanders in five minutes later, rubbing at his eyes like a child being woken up from a nap. “Why are we having a party in the kitchen at 3am?”
“It’s a ‘Harry found out who his soulmate is and I needed to make sure he knows we still love him’ party,” Hermione remarks from her chair.
“Right,” says Ron, nodding in that confused way that makes it look like it’s not right at all. “Well, first of all, Happy Birthday mate, I love you as well. But second, is it not Ginny?”
Harry flicks out his wand to pull a chair out for Ron. “You’re going to want to sit down.”