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Draco’s fingers are covered in soulmarks that no one will ever see. There’s a little flower on one of his pinkies, a lizard on the other thumb, a little cross on one of his ring fingers. He feels them itch sometimes, flickering with sensation. In the warm light of his bedroom lamp, they shimmer softly; some nights he stays up just to watch them twinkle. Usually he doesn’t, though. If he keeps the lights on, Astoria can’t sleep, and with her pregnancy she needs all the sleep she can get.
Astoria has been pregnant for seven months, the appropriate amount of time; too developed and people would speculate that they’d conceived out of wedlock, too short and people would assume their marriage was loveless. It’s not like they’d be assuming wrong, Draco thinks. Their marriage is loveless. It was never intended to be a marriage of love, just a marriage of convenience. Astoria needed a pureblood heir and Draco needed a pureblood heiress. Now they’re married.
They’re not soulmates. It’s strange how people navigate that. Two poor little muggleborns marrying outside of their soulmate bonds would be ostracised from polite society. Two rich purebloods like Draco and Astoria get a lot more grace about it. People like to turn the other way and pretend that they are soulmates so that no one has to think about some disgusting, uncultured mudblood far away getting soulmarks from a pureblood. Draco has that mudblood’s soul on his fingers, and he can never tell anyone.
He imagines his soulmate sometimes, and they don’t look like Astoria. They have olive skin and curly black hair. He can imagine spending hours running his fingers through it like he does to Astoria’s blonde locks. They have a beaming smile, and kind eyes; they do magic that he’s only ever seen in his dreams. Their fingers are marked by Draco’s own soul and he would do anything to meet them, to hear the cadence of their voice as they say they love him in whatever language comes most naturally to them. He dreams of them at night. Draco wonders whether that’s magic trying to nudge him onto the right path; as if he could give up now. He has sunk too much time and energy into the facade of the Malfoy family, and he can’t turn that all on its head for love, no matter how perfect. He would do anything to preserve the Malfoy line and their place at the top of society; these two options are mutually exclusive.
When Draco was seven, he went to a ball with his mother. It was one of those fundraising galas that purported itself to be ‘open to the public’ but was really quite exclusive. His robes had been tailored weeks in advance, his etiquette practiced for years.
The hall was enormous and overwhelming. Draco had stared at one chandelier for a few minutes trying to count how many diamonds were on it, but the amount of light shining from it was like staring at the sun. He bowed to the right people, and nodded to others.
His father left them after an hour to stand by the bar with some of his acquaintances and talk business, so Draco’s mother pulled him over towards the tables where a group of mothers with their young children were lounging around. Draco could see Theodore Nott there with his mother and older sister, Millicent Bulstrode too, and the Fawley children sitting around a table talking to the Padgett twins. Draco moved to go talk to Theo, but Narcissa dug her nails into his wrist so that he wouldn’t run away.
“Genevieve,” she greeted another woman who was lounging at one of the tables with a goblet of wine, “How lovely to see you!”
“Narcissa!” said the other woman, standing, “Oh, I do so agree. Why, we haven’t talked since the Macmillian benefit in October!”
“It’s been a while,” agreed Draco’s mother, “How are you, and the children?”
“Oh, getting by,” sighed Mrs. Greengrass, and Narcissa laughed politely. “You?”
“As well as can be expected,” she replied, “Draco here has recently turned seven years old.”
“Then My Daphne is your Draco’s same age!” Mrs. Greengrass noted amiably, “Speaking of Daphne, some joyous news! Our families have reason to believe that she is marked by young Mr. Flint.”
That’s the way the purebloods talk about marks, like they are brands of ownership. They don’t mean love or forgiveness to them, just control. Daphne is a chess piece that can take down the Flint family, and vice versa. Mudbloods are problems because they do not obey the rules of the pureblood chess game.
“Oh, indeed?” Narcissa inquired politely, “And your two families are… in agreement?”
“Quite so,” confirmed Genevieve. Draco, wracking his mind for his etiquette lessons, figured out that that meant Daphne Greengrass and Marcus Flint were betrothed now. It was a great celebratory thing to be soulmates with another pureblood, much less another member of the Sacred 28. Mother had seethed when Draco described his first two soulmarks to her, proclaiming that he would never achieve such a perfect match with the signs they were being given. Draco had cried that night. He was so good all the time, so polite and gracious and refined, and he didn’t want his soulmate to be a stain on his perfect record.
“My Draco has not been quite so fortunate,” Narcissa confided, and Draco knew that was a huge expression of trust. Outwardly discussing weaknesses in the family line was not something one did lightly; based on Mrs. Greengrass’ face, she recognised that.
“Neither is my Astoria, unluckily,” the other woman said, beckoning a small girl to her side. She looked about five, the picture of a sweet little girl with big brown eyes and curly bronze hair. Narcissa nodded, pushing Draco forward.
“Pleased to meet you,” said Astoria, extending her hand. He leant down and kissed it, smiling politely.
“The pleasure is all mine.”
Mrs. Greengrass laughed, high and amused, and his mother joined in. “Oh, Draco, you’re so sweet.”
“His etiquette is immaculate,” Narcissa said, and Draco nodded because it seemed like the right thing to do.
“Oh?”
“Yes, he is quite the little gentleman.”
Both of them laughed. Draco smiled hesitantly, and so did Astoria. They locked eyes, but neither of them said anything.
“Perhaps when they’re older…” Narcissa said. It was all she had to say.
“I suppose we’ll see,” Mrs. Greengrass replied, sipping her wine, and that was that. That was how betrothals happened, in the middle of bustling ballrooms filled with people who would rather cut their own hands off than shake hands with a muggleborn. The band in the corner came to the end of their song and applause rang out across the room, and Draco sat at a table next to the girl he’d marry in fifteen years and drank fruit punch with her. It was decided. All throughout their Hogwarts years, that was that. Draco went to the Yule Ball with Pansy because her soulmate went to Durmstrang and his was too weak to dance. Draco walked during the Battle of Hogwarts because the Malfoy name wouldn’t survive it if he was arrested. Draco got a quiet administration job at the Ministry and is working his way up towards the Wizengamot because his whole life has been devoted to fixing his parents’ mistakes and reestablishing the Malfoy name as something noble and worthy of respect. Love doesn’t factor into it, just duty.
Draco doesn’t love Astoria, but he’s built a life with her regardless, just as he was meant to do.
They’re going to have a baby in two months. Astoria can be sickly sometimes, so Draco has taken some time off of work to take care of her. Their appearances out in public have dropped off a cliff, which is how Astoria prefers it, and Draco is alright with it because he likes his wife happy and healthy. It would be easier to reestablish the Malfoy name if they could appear in public, but that can come later. They have years to rebuild their families’ legacies; today can be a lazy day in.
Next to him, Astoria makes a soft, sleepy noise and blinks her eyes open. Draco sits up and turns to look at her, smiling comfortingly.
“Oh, good morning, dear,” his wife says, yawning, “Did you sleep well?”
“As well as can be expected,” he replies, never one to say exactly what he’s feeling. “You?”
“Badly,” she shrugs, “My ankles are sore again.”
She can be a lot more blunt than him.
They get out of bed a few minutes later. Draco picks out clothes for Astoria so that she doesn’t have to trek to the closet and puts her shoes on for her because she can’t bend far enough down. He kisses her stomach as he gets up and she smiles softly at him.
“Help me up, dear?” she asks. He grabs her hand, and the soulmarks on his fingertips burn with sensation. To anyone else, his faint grimace would appear to be from the strain of pulling his heavily pregnant wife to her feet, not the residual tingling of the magic of the universe trying to bring his attention to his soulmate. He doesn’t let it divert his attention; Draco is never going to meet his soulmate, and he doesn’t care. He has made peace with the life chosen for him.
His fingertips prickle. Draco tightens his grip on his wife’s hand as if the pressure would alleviate those unwanted sensations.
“Of course, darling,” he smiles, and he helps Astoria to her feet.