A/N: Written for Assignment 10, Religious Education, Task #10: October, Hunter's Moon: Write about falling (in any sense of the word)

Soulmate!AU

Draco traces a finger over the name on the inside of his wrist, right over the spot where his pulse pounds beneath his skin. The handwriting is still the blocky scrawl of youth, but he suspects his own is similar. He hasn't quite perfected joint handwriting yet, his cursive leaving much to be desired.

But he'll get there, as, he imagines, will she.

.oOo.

Her handwriting changes so subtly Draco hardly notices it. Her lines become thinner, neater, more legible. She can't be more than a few years younger than Draco is.

He traces his finger along the curve of the first letter, watching the goosebumps raise on the sensitive skin of his wrist, trying to imagine what she might be like in person.

Strong, he thinks. That's a given. And of course she'll be smart, but will she be funny? Draco hopes so. He finds he doesn't care so much about what she'll look like when they finally meet, his only wish is that she'll like him.

.oOo.

His parchment is covered in repetitions of her name, copies of her handwriting. Draco is good at drawing — it's one of the few talents he's actually proud of; something that's his because he enjoys it and not because it is expected — but he cannot do her writing justice.

There is a flick, a flourish, at the end of her letters that Draco cannot quite perfect but she seems to do so effortlessly.

That won't stop him from trying, though. From putting quill to parchment and inking out her name until there is no room left on the page. Until he has committed her current handwriting to memory, even if he cannot quite render it perfectly.

.oOo.

He covers her name carefully with his sleeve. He wants it to be for his eyes only, for her to be his secret.

He feels as though he has gotten to know this girl over the years simply through her ever-changing handwriting, and it's nice, he thinks, to be going into Hogwarts with a friend already made. Even if she won't be in his year, even if there's no guarantee she'll be in his house — though he'd never utter that thought to his parents — she will be there eventually, and that is enough.

.oOo.

His pulse fluttering beneath the mark on his wrist, her name beating in time with his heart.

Her name had been called — her name had been called! — and Draco finds he doesn't want to look, he cannot look.

He has imagined this moment so often, the moment their eyes first meet, he has built up this first meeting in his head into such a momentous occasion. But how many people meet their soulmate during the Sorting? Too many. Draco wants their first meeting to be special. To be theirs.

And, underneath it all, there is the ever-present fear. What if she doesn't like him?

He keeps his eyes down resolutely at the golden knife and fork set before him, stubbornly refusing to look at her, even as he hears her walk up to the Hat and near-instantly the yell of her House — "Gryffindor!"

.oOo.

His wrist has been itching all day, right above his pulsepoint, but he hasn't had a chance to check it until now. And he finds his fingers are shaking as he tries and fails to bring himself to pull back his sleeve.

But this is one thing he can't stand not knowing, and so, even as acidic bile rises up in his throat and threatens to choke him, he pulls back his sleeve with trembling fingers, his eyes fluttering shut.

Releasing a steady breath, and counting to ten, and then counting to ten again, Draco opens his eyes. His eyelashes stick together, and he might be crying, but that doesn't matter. Nothing matters, apart from her.

Because her name is fading.

Her beautiful handwriting, still not fully matured, is slowly disappearing from his wrist and Draco doesn't know what to do.

.oOo.

Her name is just the faintest shadow on his wrist, it has been for months, but Draco still hasn't worked out what to do.

He wants to show his mother, his father, anyone who might be able to help. But what if they decided she was too weak for him? What if they decided he needed someone they deemed better? No, he couldn't risk that.

Draco hasn't even met her yet, but he cannot imagine a life without her.

.oOo.

The letters slowly darken, slowly gain more prominence upon his wrist, but they are still muted. And Draco knows, without a doubt, that he will approach her at the next opportunity.

Even if he's scared — that he won't be good enough, that he isn't who she'd been expecting, that she won't like him — he can't risk losing her like this. He can't risk her fading away.

There is nothing worse he can imagine.

.oOo.

He sees her, and he knows it is her. He has known who she is for a while, for at least a year, but he has avoided this first meeting, allowing his fear to take over.

She seems so alive, so vibrant, and far too good for him. She is always surrounded by friends, a fact which does not surprise him in the slightest; she is just as fiery as her hair, and has the ability to draw people to her in a way Draco might envy if he didn't understand it so much. For he cannot imagine anyone more perfect than she is.

Too good for him, he thinks.

But her name is still there, faded but growing in clarity every day, right over the pulse of his heart.

So he steals his nerves, pushes aside his fear, and approaches her, keeping the mark on his wrist at the front of his mind — Ginevra.