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Harry sat at Hermione’s bedside, elbows pressing into his knees, hands steepled at his chin as another rejected suitor left the suite.
They’d been at St. Mungo’s for nearly three weeks now, various family and Order members keeping watch over their Golden Girl as she slumbered, lost to the Soulmate Death Curse.
Only under a heavy dose of Veritaserum and hours of questioning had Marietta Edgecomb revealed the curse, along with its only cure: her Soulmate’s Kiss of Life.
Soulmate magic was an old, powerful magic. True Soulmates were rarer than Squibs or Metamorphmagi. According to their research, true Soulmates hadn’t been seen in over 200 years.
There was debate amongst scholars whether they’d naturally evolved out of existence, or been hunted into extinction for their power.
The Soulmate Death Curse had been created in the Founders’ era, some speculating that Salazar himself had either lost or been spurned by his own Soulmate.
Others speculated that the curse originated with Dementors, harkening their Kiss of Death to that of the Soulmate’s Kiss of Life. As there were so few true Soulmates noted across history, there simply wasn’t enough known about them.
Healers had worked tirelessly to engineer a potion or spell to counteract the curse, with no success. Hermione remained in her slumber, awaiting the only known cure.
Marietta had been interrogated relentlessly. She blamed Hermione for branding her as a SNEAK and ruining her prospects. She claimed not to know the identity of Hermione’s Soulmate, though they’d discovered that she’d had herself obliviated.
The Aurors hadn’t found the wizard who’d obliviated her, and further investigation had only resulted in one hopeful clue: Hermione had met her Soulmate before.
In every case where the cursed witch or wizard had died in their sleep, their Soulmate had interacted with them before their curse.
Time was running out. Hermione’s body and magic were deteriorating. They kept her comfortable as she slept, but they couldn’t prolong the life that the curse was stealing.
Only her Soulmate could save her now.
The plea for suitors had gone out in every magical outlet they could think of, with daily releases sent out in the hopes that her Soulmate could be discovered.
Harry held Hermione’s hand, rubbing it slightly to try and warm her cold fingers. The curse had robbed her of her warmth, making her skin sickly and pale.
Harry barely greeted the next suitor to enter, waving her to proceed. His breath halted for a moment when the young witch kissed Hermione, his heart faltering as she did, but there was no change. She remained asleep.
Harry shook his head, shooing the young hopeful away.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of faces, some more familiar than others. Tracking down every witch and wizard she’d ever encountered – at school, on holiday, during the war, and through her work at the Ministry after leaving Hogwarts – was a task in and of itself. There might not be enough minutes in the day to account for every possible Soulmate in the time they had left.
The thought of losing her broke Harry’s heart, nearly as much as it had broken Ron’s that he wasn’t her Soulmate.
A sharp rap at the door made Harry look up, ready to wave the next suitor on, but when he met a pair of cold, grey eyes, he nearly dropped Hermione’s hand in shock.
“Malfoy?”
The blond wizard sighed, holding his hands up defensively. “Trust me, Potter, I’m as thrilled to be here as you are to have me here. Just doing my duty.”
Harry gazed at his former rival. The two had made peace after the war, but still kept to their circles both personally and professionally. He no longer hated the wizard that stood before him, but that distrust would always remain.
“I’ll leave if you wish, Potter,” Malfoy offered, though his tone was hesitant. At the very least, it seemed he didn’t relish the thought of Hermione dying. He was here, after all.
Harry shook his head. “No, we can’t eliminate anyone without knowing for sure. Hermione’s life depends…” he trailed off, swallowing down a lump of emotion.
Malfoy nodded, stepping into the room. He glanced down at the slumbering witch in the bed, his eyes surprisingly soft. “It’s unsettling seeing her like this,” he admitted, putting his hands in his pockets and then removing them again, as though he were unsure where to put them. “She could be sleeping.”
“She’s not Hermione like this,” Harry replied.
Malfoy’s eyes fell on her hair, strewn limply across the white pillowcase. His fingers reached out, shifting a stray curl away from her cheek.
Harry felt Hermione’s hand twitch in his, as though a current had run through her. She felt warmer. Was she waking up?
Malfoy’s hand fell away, and he seemed to take a step back, as though unsure of himself.
Harry looked at the man in front of him, noting the changes from their youth. He was still tall, but didn’t carry himself with the same pretentious air he always had. His blond hair was loose, no longer slicked back into oblivion. His eyes looked down at Hermione thoughtfully, no trace of his former derision or prejudice.
Malfoy sighed loudly, seeming to psych himself up, before muttering, “Don’t slap me if you wake up.”
Malfoy braced one hand against the bed, leaning down and bringing his face near hers.
Harry’s breath stilled as he watched Malfoy pressed his lips against Hermione’s.
The kiss was soft, far more tender than Harry would have expected from Malfoy, and he knew, even before the other man had opened his eyes and pulled back, that it had worked.
The colour began returning to her skin, her fingers warmed beneath his, and her chest rose with a deep, fulfilled breath before her eyes slowly opened for the first time in weeks.
“Malfoy?”
“Well,” the blond replied, staring back at her with wide eyes, “this changes some things.”