A/N: (before i say anything else, i would like to put a notice that this is rated m purely for language. i didn't want to take out the swears and make them more censored, but i figured rating it t might be pushing it on this site.)okay, so basically, this is the first drarry fic i've actually gotten far enough into to call it an actual drarry fic. i would love any and all feedback. i'm mostly posting on this site as something of an experiment (i've also posted this on ao3, and i plan to see which site it progresses further on, if it really goes anywhere at all). so, yeah, feedback is much appreciated! i hope you enjoy!
They say that not everybody is born with a soulmate, but those that are have had the same soulmate for all eternity. Through life, through death, and springing into the seeds of rebirth. It's a cycle, see; it never ends.
It's an ancient magic, one that comes from the beginnings of time. Nobody knows where, exactly, magic itself comes from, and it's similar to the age-old war of gods and humanity. Somehow, it happened, and the magic of soulmates was a part of the package, sealed tight with a pretty little bow.
Rebirth isn't something every witch or wizard believes in, but it's a thing that's been passed through generations. Nobody has proof of anything, and yet so many believe in it.
Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy, however, have great reason to believe in the theory of rebirth.
When their son, Draco, was born, it was a shock to see a tiny, hardly noticeable at all, white crescent moon in the centre of his right hand. This was hardly a normal birthmark, with the placements and the shape and the way it sometimes glowed while Draco slept. It took research, but they found the story behind it.
Soulmates, born with a distinct marking of one thing opposite their soulmate's, will be Bonded when their dominant hands touch and their marks react with each other.
Lucius wasn't pleased with the information, and this much was apparent to any and all who saw him.
"What of marrying a Pureblood?" he asked Narcissa angrily. "We cannot have a proper heir is this "soulmate" turns out to be a Mudblood."
"Not everyone who falls in love must wind up married," Narcissa reassured. "A contracted marriage wouldn't be impossible to set up."
Her husband was silent, and Narcissa wondered if maybe she wouldn't mind seeing her son fall in love with someone that was "perfect" for him. After all, it's a chance not many get to have. Goodness knows she didn't. Of course, she loves Lucius—she did then and she does now-but they aren't exactly a match made in heaven. Anybody could tell you that. Love is a silly thing, tossing you and turning you and pushing you to fall. She wants this for her son, the boy she watches as he sleeps and feels a surge of warmth flow through her. This is her family. She chose it, and she loves it, and she wants happiness for it. Even if that happiness comes from some fabled soulmate
Draco was seven when he learnt the entire truth behind being one half of something so special. His mother who always told him stories to fall asleep and remember, looked down at his tiny hand and smiled sadly.
"My cunning little dragon," she said quietly, "this birthmark is very special. Do you know why?"
Draco had leaned forward in excitement, but at his mother's question, it quickly dissipated and was replaced by a look of immense confusion. "No," he said honestly.
Narcissa traced it gently with her finger, shuddering a bit from the feeling of cool magic flowing in and around it. So young, yet so powerful. She could hardly imagine how powerful Draco would be as he grew older.
"Somewhere out there, another person has a birthmark similar to this one," Narcissa explained gently. "We don't know who just yet, but I'm certain you'll find them someday."
"Why does it matter?"
Narcissa smiled at her son. "Because, darling, that person is your soulmate."
Draco blinked, then furrowed his eyebrows. "Soulmate?"
Narcissa nodded, and launched into a brief explanation of soulmates, how one day Draco would find a person with a birthmark just like his and they would react, how it was a powerful type of magic and it was special.
"This is our secret, though, Dragon, right?" she asked, moving slim fingers over the pale cheeks of her child.
Dazed, he nodded.
And he kept quiet as well as he could.
At first, it was because his mother asked him not to. As he grew older, though, he found he just didn't want to believe it. By age thirteen, he had decided it was probably just a story. After all, they never had spoken of it again.
Draco's sixteen now, and he has bigger things on his mind than some silly soulmate. It's a wonder he still even contemplates the idea from time to time. His mother is being held at wandpoint and he's hoping for someone that's meant to be his other half. It's wrong, really.
The scariest part about the situation he's in right now is that he's doing it when he had decided that his father being put in Azkaban was good for him, and that he would turn it around from there. After all, once the source of a problem is removed, the problem can be dealt with swiftly.
Until a new one arises, that is.
They weren't supposed to go after Narcissa. She had told him herself when he confessed he didn't want to follow Lucius's path. They would watch the remaining Malfoys more carefully, because Lucius had messed up, but they wouldn't punish them severely for his mistake.
That was Narcissa's mistake.
Looking back on it, it may have been a terrible lie and not a mistake at all. Narcissa should know well the tactics of the Death Eaters, having been amongst them for many years. Draco doesn't, and he had taken his mother's words in stride, and gone about changing things. It was a practice thing, he found. If you want to take a word out of your vocabulary, you need to practice not using it. And Draco didn't want to slip up. Now, he thinks it was a small, unimportant thing, anyway. If he has to be a follower of the Dark Lord, then what use is it to try and not use slurs?
It was mid-July when they took Narcissa away, an ultimatum was given, and they left him entirely alone.
"Bring me Harry Potter," the Dark Lord had requested, voice high and cold, eyes piercing, "and you shall have your mother back."
So, of course he agreed. What did Potter mean to him, anyway?
But as he said he would, his stomach turned. He had always hated Potter. It was a simple thing. Why feel guilty over bringing him to the Dark Lord?
Because you don't want him to die, a voice in his head offers, and he shakes himself.
Of course, he doesn't want anyone to die. It's just that this feels more like he wants to put Potter above his mother, and he can't do that. He can' needs his mother. He does not need Potter.
It's been a week since he came back to Hogwarts, and things have been awful so far. Something's up with Potter, and this he knows from one glance at his glazed eyes and his slumped shoulders. And Granger and Weasley seem to be unsure of how to approach him, as if he's dangerous,and Draco wants to laugh at the thought of it.
But it's obvious that something's happened. This worries Draco, and he figures it must be because if there's something wrong with Potter, getting close enough to get him to the Dark Lord will be beyond difficult. There's no other reason. There can't be.
Draco spends his time in the library, away from prying people. Particularly Slytherins, but there are many students in general that read the article about Narcissa Malfoy going missing. How word got out at all, Draco doesn't know. Because he didn't tell, and surely no Death Eater did.
He stayed the rest of his summer with Bellatrix. It was easiest, most convenient. He didn't have to leave the Manor, and it wasn't something that would arouse suspicion if she was found to be there by anybody that wasn't supposed to know what happened to Narcissa. Keep the secret about Narcissa and Draco's mission. Nobody should know.
Yet so many do.
Draco didn't even know about this article, hidden deep within the Daily Prophet until a frowning Pansy shoved it in his face to clear up his confusion. Nobody bothered to take any action with it, to change or correct it, even though it's the most inaccurate thing Draco has ever read. The article states that Narcissa left willingly, and the columnist speculates that it may be because "her home reminds her entirely too much of her Death Eater husband." It then says that Draco is staying with family, which, yes, is entirely true, but also not, because in the article it's worded as "extended family," and not his convicted criminal of an aunt.
Pansy is his study partner, and has been for years. She's also the only person he's ever told about his birthmark and the story his mother told him about it. She had nodded solemnly when he said this, then told him, "I've heard of that. It's very rare. Not everybody gets a soulmate."
Draco knows she was jealous, and maybe she still is, at least a little bit, but he also knows that she doesn't think it's his fault.
The thing about Pansy is that she very much admires Draco, and he finds that sometimes it's a bit overwhelming. She isn't as bad, now, though, since Draco told her to back off a little over a year ago, at the end of their fourth year. But she's determined, and she's fighting a losing battle. She knows it by now, but a Slytherin doesn't just give up.
"I wonder what happened to Potter," Pansy says under her breath, watching the three Gryffindors as they come into the library, led by Granger.
Draco scowls. "Perhaps the paper didn't praise him enough throughout the summer for his great bravery at the Ministry."
"You shouldn't say that, Draco," Pansy says softly. "It looks like he's grieving, wouldn't you say? Perhaps you don't show the same outward signs when you're in pain, but someone like Potter would."
Draco stares at her. "Good grief, Pansy, don't tell me you feel sorry for him."
"I do, a little." She shrugs. "I don't think everything you dislike has to be entirely bad."
"He had my father put in Azkaban," Draco hisses. "He's the reason my mother's gone. That's no reason to pity someone."
"Blaming him won't do you any good, Draco. You realize that he didn't put your father in prison, right? Your father went to the Ministry on his own accord that night, and he paid the price for it. I'm not saying I believe in everything Potter does, but I do think that he's an entirely bad person; And he's very clearly not right. He probably needs someone who understands." Pansy gives Draco a pointed stare, and it all clicks together. Of courseshe would know. Her father wouldn't hide something like that from her.
"You think that me befriending Potter will help my situation," he says.
"It will weaken his defences. You don't form attachments easily, so you won't feel bad doing it, right? It'll take time for him to trust you, but he will eventually. He's a Gryffindor. They're all entirely too trusting."
"He hates me."
Pansy eyes Potter for a moment, then shakes her head. "No, he doesn't."
Draco doesn't know what to say.
Draco makes it his personal mission to get on Potter's good side. This won't be easy, but he knows Pansy's right. So, he's going to try. If it doesn't work out, it doesn't work out.
It won't work out.
Draco doesn't care, though, if he's perfectly honest. He's going to try. It's for his mother. For his mother, who will die if he can't do this.
It has to work out.
"Potter!" he calls from behind, halting all three of the inseparable Gryffindors. Draco has to stop himself from scoffing at Potter's two tag-alongs and the way they flank him, like he's some kind of god or something.
They turn to face him, Weasley and Granger openly hostile.
But Potter—he looks terrible. Draco knew he looked bad before, but up close it seems more like he's not even alive. How long has it been since he last slept? His eyes are sunken and hollow, and he's disgustingly skinny.
"What do you want, Malfoy?" He sounds exhausted, too, to match his appearance.
Draco palm burns slightly, and he starts. Turning his hand to his face, he's amazed to see a faint outline around the crescent moon on his palm. He shakes himself, then looks back up at Potter and his friends, a tiny bit confused.
"I'm not going to stand here all day, Malfoy," Potter says, eyes narrowed. "What is it you want to say to me, exactly?"
Draco blinks, and before he can stop himself, he says, "You look awful."
Potter raises and eyebrow, and then three Gryffindors are walking away, and Draco feels like he's swallowed an entire orange.
Well, fuck, he thinks.
It won't work.
Plan B comes in the form of a note.
Draco doesn't remember what he wrote, and he doesn't want to know, because if he reads it, he'll just throw in the fire or something. Besides, he trusts that the him from the night before that wrote it was smart enough not to say anything stupid.
He's a Malfoy, after all; Malfoys don't say "stupid" things.
So when he walks past Potter and Granger in the library, he drops the note at Potter's feet. Then, he makes his way to the table Pansy is sitting at and waits.
"You're really not any good at this, are you?" She smirks, and Draco glares, but he doesn't say anything. He's holding his breath, wondering what that note says, and really wishing he had at least thought this through a bit more.
Potter folds it open curiously, and his eyes scan the paper, then he doubles over in hardly concealed laughter.
"What did you write?" Pansy hisses.
"I don't know," Draco admits, still watching Potter closely.
Potter looks up and their eyes lock, and Draco's hand sears but he can't tear his eyes away. Potter has never looked at him, and not with such a shining brightness that are in his green eyes now. They were so dull, and now they gleam with laughter and somewhere deep within his stomach, Draco knows that he brought about this glow in Potter.
"I think," Draco breathes, finally moving his gaze away, "that it worked, though."
"You stupid arse," Pansy mutters, but she's hiding a smile. "I still would like to know what you wrote."
Draco finds Potter again, and he's whispering to Granger. The note lies cast aside on the table, and Draco, too, wonders what he wrote.
Hardly realizing he's doing, he rubs his palm to ease the sharpness that ensues whenever he looks at Potter.
That night, he dreams of a man that looks disturbingly like Potter. He's saying something, but Draco can't hear it, and he's too far away to see the way his lips move. Draco calls out, reaches an arm, and so does the Potter look-alike. Their hands clasp, and light surrounds them, and Draco wakes up.
He's angry, suddenly. At Potter. This is Potter's fault. His mother would be safe if not for Potter, his father would be home if not for Potter, the Dark Lord wouldn't have it out for Draco's family if it wasn't for Potter.
And now he's dreaming about the boy?
Draco glares at the ceiling, and he wonders why it has to be him. Of all the potential people for this job, it had to be Draco. Of course Draco knows why, but it doesn't lessen the aggravation he feels at it all.
He traces the crescent moon on his palm, and a sharp pain explodes in his chest. He misses his mother. He's never had to live without his parents, and it's not an easy thing. Bellatrix is a terrible guardian, and, frankly, Draco's a bit afraid of his aunt. She's merciless, cruel, and doesn't give a damn about tearing families apart.
Neither does Voldemort.
Lucius followed the Dark Lord because he thought it was right. Because he believed in the purity of blood and wanted to see the end of Muggleborn witches and wizards.
But the Dark Lord will spill pure blood to see that he's in power, will tear apart the roots of Pureblood families and erase everything that might be a threat to him. And Draco thinks this might be something bigger than the purity of blood.
The older Draco gets, the more faults he sees with his father's ideals. He loves his parents, and his parents love him, but he doesn't need to agree with them on everything to love them. He did agree with them, once, but now he has his own experience. And he can't deny that Granger is better at magic than him, or that there are fantastic Muggleborn students within the walls of Hogwarts that Draco wouldn't even guess come from Muggle lineages.
Too many people view Slytherin House in a bad light. Draco knows Slytherins that are half-bloods, and don't care that one of their parents is a Muggle. Slytherins are not inherently Dark, and Draco thinks that things would have been so much easier if people understood this.
Draco can't do Dark Magic. He's tried, for years, and yet he's never been able to do any Dark spells that people like his father could do when he was sixteen. He knows it's awful, and that his father isn't pleased by it in the least, but he also thinks it could be better this way. Unable to perform the spells the Dark Lord wants him to will without a doubt land him away from any type of "field work."
Except for this. Because Potter is his to take, to watch crumble. Draco always thought he wanted to see Potter's fall, because all his life he watched a looming tower build up before him, and when he was finally faced with the legendary thing, he had to realize that it stood higher than he could ever reach.
But as he watches Potter, ghosts swirling in his emerald eyes, Draco wonders if it's safe to tear down a haunted tower. To tear down something sacred, and watch every memory that molded history itself scatter unto nothingness.
Draco sighs. Now he's making excuses, and he has no real reason for doing so.
He thinks he might be growing hysterical. It's getting out of hand. He keeps imagining that the birthmark that is supposed to lead him to his "soulmate" is prickling, and he's dreaming about Potter, and he really would love some kind of advice on what to do, but to whom does he turn with both his parents gone?
And in this moment, he finds his tough walls shattering, and a lonesome tear falls down his face. He can't do this. He can't.
Potter-watching is something that Draco has done for a long time, he decides as he scrutinizes the other boy from across the Great Hall. Years, maybe. Because he knows exactly the way he smiles when he's not slept well and doesn't want anybody to know, the way he eats everything slowly, as if he expects it all to be a dream. It's the way his fingers twist so elegantly around his quills and the look of deep concentration he gets on his face as he stares down at a piece of parchment. It's the way he does little things and momentarily grows very obviously panicked. The way he breathes when he's frustrated and the way he laughs through clear pain.
Potter-watching is something Draco has never meant to do before now, but his horror grows as he recognizes each little thing Potter does and only registers it with nonchalance—the "oh, yes, he's always done that" that keeps playing through his head refuses to leave. He should be surprised by the little things, these odd quirks that make Potter more human than just a name.
And yet . . . he's not.
It's terrible, really. He's not supposed to be admiring Potter. So why the fuck is he?
His parents taught him well how to keep his emotions in check. He's a fantastic Occlumens. So why is this so difficult?
"When are you planning on making your move, anyway?" Pansy asks, arching an eyebrow curiously.
Draco's gaze darts to his friend, and he scowls. "There's no move to make. I need him to come to me. Why trust a lowly Death Eater who comes and asks to be your new best friend?"
"Show him you're not the same as you once were."
"I'm exactly the same as I was, Pansy, there is absolutely no—"
"No," she says softly, "you're not." She smiles at him a bit. "I think you've learned something, and you've taught it to me with grace. You shouldn't be quite so hard on yourself. You aren't your father."
Draco says nothing, and turns his gaze to Potter once more.
Potter is pretty. It's not something that really is overly shocking, because Draco's known this for quite a long time. But so many people view him as scruffy, maybe a bit unkempt, and Draco isn't convinced it's entirely true. Potter's eyes dance with something that gives him such a radiant aura; he exudes charisma. People are attracted to him by the way he walks and the way he talks and the simple way he can look and smile without even lifting his lips. He's magnetic, and Draco always attributed that to being famous. But last year, when everybody was turned the other way, he still managed to draw everybody to him.
Draco thinks it might be beginning to pull him in as well.
Abruptly, he stands up. "I think it might be best if I spoke to him," he says.
Pansy beams. "Good!"
Before he can change his mind, Draco begins his walk over to Potter, who has also stood up. He's almost out the door, and Draco catches his shoulder with a slender hand.
Potter turns, mouth open to say something, then his eyes narrow. "What do you want, Malfoy?"
Draco's mouth goes dry. He didn't plan far enough ahead. This is why he's not a fan of spontaneous action.
"What did that letter say?" he blurts, and immediately wishes he hadn't.
Potter snorts. "Don't you know, Malfoy? You wrote it."
"I was, er, passing it along for . . . Pansy," he says, stumbling over the lie. It's got far too many holes, and Pansy isn't going to be overly pleased with how she was dragged into it without so much as a second thought.
"Really." Potter hums a bit, then reaches into the pocket of his robe and extracts a piece of parchment. "Well, this says, and I quote"—he folds it open slowly—"'Potter, you really do look awful. Perhaps you need to sleep more?'"
"That's all?" Draco asks in disbelief. "It's not—signed or anything?"
"No, but if you think simply leaving a letter unsigned is going to make me believe Parkinson wrote this, then I think you're about as mental as this little note implies."
"Well, it's not untrue, is it? You do look terrible.'
"Why, Malfoy," Potter says coldly, eyes narrowed, "I'm almost of the belief you care."
"At least give it back. It wasn't meant to . . ." Wasn't meant to what? Draco doesn't know, and as he trails off, he grabs for the parchment in some move of desperation. He's not only made a giant fool of himself in Potter's eyes, they're also beginning to draw a crowd.
Their skin brushes, and for a moment Draco forgets where he is. He remembers, clearly, the face of the raven-haired man in his dream, who had smiled and reached out for him. And the words had fallen between them like it might connect them somehow.
"I love you," he had said, and he had sounded so earnest, so real, that Draco had believed it. He had reached his hand out, and the crescent moon had hit sunshine before blue flames engulfed them.
Jerking his hand back, Draco stares at the birthmark on his palm.
The crescent moon had hit sunshine.
He inhales sharply, then turns back to Potter, who looks slightly stunned.
"Did you just—," Potter begins, but Draco sneers at him, suddenly beyond angry.
"What I did and did not do or none of your business, Potter," he hisses.
The note lies on the grounds between them, dropped from Potter's hand in the sudden shock of whatever had happened. Draco bends to retrieve it and glares at Potter before turning to make his way down the dungeons.
His heart is pounding, and those blue flames won't go away. His entire head is filled with dancing azure lights, flying majestically around him, not hot but oh-so beautiful.
"Malfoy!" is called after him, exasperated and confused, but Draco ignores it. He's messed it up. He thinks he messed it up a long time ago.
He wishes he could apologize, but his parents are so far gone. It seems like he'll never see them again, never get a chance to be part of something as large as a family again. Maybe he took it all for granted while he had it, but now he understands And he wants it back.
The thing, though, it that he was never meant to succeed. It was a request given to him in hopes of finding an easier way to Potter, but there is no "easier way to Potter." He's just . . . the pawn. The sacrifice. The naïve sixteen-year-old who just wanted to see his family again. It was used against him, his own father's actions held at his throat like some kind of weapon.
Taking a deep breath, he steels himself. No, he won't just give up. It's not a lost cause. Potter is still reachable. This is what he has to do, and he'll be damned if he doesn't deliver.
But somewhere, deep in his mind, he sees a raven-haired man surrounded by blue flames, smiling at him as if he is the only thing left in the world. And somewhere even deeper, he knows that he smiled back.