a/n: all right, first of all, huge thanks for the reviews on the last two chapters. you're a wonderful person, and, yes, i've been feeling a lot better lately! thank you for the concern. secondly, apologies that it's rather short. i'm hoping to delve more into the finer details of their relationship soon, but for now it's all about building up the plot. thank you, and i hope you enjoy! (reviews/favourites/follows are greatly appreciated!)
The next time Draco sees Potter, he can't help but notice how alive his eyes look, burning with a kind of fire that hasn't been there for . . . years, Draco thinks. Of course, Draco wouldn't really know; watch Potter sometimes he may, but it's not as if he cares about Potter.
So far, Weasley's theory hasn't proven itself to be correct. Not that Draco expected it to. Or hoped it would.
He shakes his head slightly, and takes a deep breath. It's only been a day, hasn't it? If Weasley is right, Draco doubts it would take such a small amount of time for the magic—or whatever it is—to work.
"Are you going to tell me what has you so tightly wound today?" Pansy asks casually, and Draco shoots her a glare.
"Hey, it was just a question." She pauses, and puts a hesitant hand on Draco's. "But you don't have to keep everything bottled up, you know. I know you know I'm trustworthy. I wouldn't just leave you."
Silence wraps around them for a count of three before Draco exhales slowly. "I know," he says. "I do trust you, it's just . . . not easy to say." His mouth twitches, and he wants to frown at the words he has just spoken. It's not like him to talk about anything he's feeling.
"Is this about your mother?" Her tone is cautious, as if she expects him to yell. He wouldn't yell in the middle of the breakfast, of course, but . . . okay, maybe he would. But not about this.
"No," he says, biting his cheek. Thinking about it for a second, he amends, "A bit."
"Potter?" Pansy guesses.
"Do you remember when I told you about the birthmark on my hand?" Draco says abruptly. "My mother told me not to tell anybody, but I told you. And you have to keep it a secret, Pans. Do you understand?"
She blinks, alarmed. "Yes, I understand. Why are you so worried? I thought we'd figured it was a coincidence, anyway."
Draco puts his hand on the table, flat in front of her. The crescent moon glows with a dull blue. It hasn't stopped pulsing like this since everything that happened the day before, and Draco wishes he could just smother it.
Pansy's eyebrows knit themselves together, and she glances up at Draco again. "What does it mean?"
Draco stares at the tiny blue light flickering on his skin. "It means," he says bitterly, "that it's not just a coincidence."
"Who is it?" Pansy asks, hushed, excited. Draco almost wishes he could share her excitement.
Draco drums his fingers against the table, not meeting her eyes. "Fucking guess," he says, and maybe he sounds angry, because Pansy coils back a bit, but he doesn't care. If she can help him sort out this issue, he'll be more than thankful.
"Well, I don't know who it could be!" she snaps. "Just tell me. Merlin, you're terribly moody, aren't you?"
Sighing, Draco grabs her hand gently. "Sorry," he says, and he means it. "It's just . . . not who I would have chosen."
Pansy raises an eyebrow. "It's not Granger, is it?"
"Think a bit bigger, Pans," Draco suggests.
"Weasley?"
Draco winces. "No, definitely not Weasley. Look—"
"I don't want to guess anymore," Pansy says, huffing loudly. "You're terrible at this."
"It's Potter," Draco hisses, and Pansy drops the glass she had just picked up.
"What?"
Draco looks down at the broken glass sourly. "I'm fairly certain you heard me. It happened yesterday, by the lake."
"Who saw it?" Pansy's eyes are still as wide as the plates on the table in front of them, and Draco wants to scoff, but he can't seem to force the expression onto his face.
"Everyone there?" He laughs, and it hurts his chest a bit. It's not a human laugh. This laugh sounds like desperation, tears that won't be released. It's angry and perhaps it's a touch sad, but either way, Draco hates it, hates the weakness in it, the way it feels in his throat.
Pansy swallows and places a soothing hand on Draco's arm. "But it was you and Potter. Surely nobody would . . ."
"Well, I'm certain most simply left it alone and decided it was just a fight. But, Pans, there's no spell that. Somebody would have realized that."
Pansy starts at the use of the comfortable nickname, and Draco realizes suddenly that he hasn't called her that in year. She smiles gently. "You can't exactly make it a secret, Draco. But . . . what, exactly, did happen? What kind of magic was it?"
"Flames," Draco says, voice soft. "Blue ones. Everywhere. They were beautiful."
She inhales slightly and stands up, Draco hurrying to join her. "Wow. It really is a different kind of magic, isn't it?"
The words or quiet, and Draco doesn't know whether they're meant for him or not. But he answers anyway, his eyes seeking out Potter, rather against his will. "Yeah," he says, and he can't help the way his voice grows softer when Potter's gaze meets his. "I suppose it is.
By the time classes are over on Monday afternoon, Draco is feeling more than a little anxious. It's his stomach twisting and his eyes watering and he can't explain the why, exactly, but he thinks that he might have a small idea. But if he's right—and Merlin help him if he is—he doesn't even want to think about what will happen after.
And his hand aches to a point that he can hardly move it at all. Never in all his life has he hated Potter more than he does right now. So why should he be feeling this awful pull in his gut?
"You look like you're going to throw up," says Pansy, amused.
He turns and glares at her, but falters when he sees that she's not alone. Blaise stands beside her, and Draco is suddenly struck with the realization that he's hardly seen anybody except Pansy since the beginning of the year. Well, there's Potter, too, but Potter isn't someone he would call a "friend."
"What's the date?" Draco asks, and Pansy blinks in confusion.
"The . . . seventh?" She frowns. "Why do you ask?"
"Of October?" Draco says, startled.
"Well, yeah," Pansy says, sharing a look Draco can't see with Blaise. "What's up with you?"
"As if you have to ask." Draco scoffs.
"You know," Blaise says slowly, "your mother's probably fine. They can't really do anything to her." The yet hangs in the air, coiling around the three of them tensely.
"Potter's pretty gullible, isn't he? I'm sure you'll manage to sway him," Pansy says, but her voice is too tight.
"I'm not worried about that," Draco says, waving his hand dismissively.
"Oh," says Pansy, and Blaise opens his mouth to say something, but Pansy beats him to it: "Are you coming to dinner with us?"
Draco stands up, and he thinks that Potter will most likely be in the Great Hall, too. But he can't exactly stay in the Slytherin common room forever. The feeling will pass, he tells himself. It's entirely temporary. If it's not love, then it can't be that difficult to endure. Give it time. It's all he can do.
Pansy grabs his arm and pulls him close enough to hear her whisper, "Are you going to tell me what's actually wrong?"
Blaise turns back to them when he realizes they've trailed behind. "Pansy, if you would stop doing . . . that, it would be much appreciated. I'm rather hungry, you know."
Pansy looks from Blaise to Draco, and Draco gives her a small nod before she releases herself from his arm and catches up to Blaise, flinging an arm upwards to wrap around his shoulders. She has to stand on her toes to keep her arm there, and Draco thinks it looks ridiculous, but neither of them make an attempt to remove her arm from where it sits.
Draco's missed this kind of exchange. He's been so wrapped up in getting Potter to the Dark Lord that he hasn't given himself time to remember that there are other things he cares about.
Upon entering the Great Hall, Draco is hit with the sudden feeling that he might actually throw up. He grabs the wall for support, and grabs Pansy's shoulder with the other hand.
She whirls around, and her face instantly turns to a look of concern. "What's wrong? You look terrible."
"It's Potter," Draco hisses, his head beginning to pound. "He's in here."
"The magic is trying to bring you together," she whispers, eyes widening. "It won't go away until you're close enough to him, will it?"
"Then shouldn't it lessen the closer I get?" Draco grumbles, but he feels faint.
"Where is he?" Pansy asks, glancing around at the students in the hall. "He must be having a similar reaction, right?"
"Whoa," Blaise says, approaching them again. "What did you do?"
"Find Potter," Pansy demands, and Blaise frowns.
"What?"
"Find Potter," she repeats. "Just do it. Ask your questions later."
Draco takes a deep breath and slowly turns back around to go out the door of the hall. He aches in such a way he can't explain, in such a way he's never felt. It's awful. His hand is searing. If this is what Weasley meant would draw them back together, then Draco very much regrets not having listened to his warning. Had he anticipated something like this happening, he never would have taken Potter's hand in the first place.
He takes a deep breath and slides down the wall, so he's sitting as comfortably as he possibly can. Being angry about it won't help anything, he reminds himself. He wishes he could tell himself something better, something his mother might say in this situation. She's always been good with words, always known what to say to calm a person down.
"Hey!" Pansy's voice snarls from nearby. "I didn't say you could—"
"Maybe if he had listened to me this wouldn't be happening." Is that . . . Weasley? What in the world is he yelling at Pansy for?
"Well, I wouldn't say you're the most reliable source for information!"
"At least—"
"Would you at least be civil for a moment?" This one is Granger, and she sounds angry. She pauses for a second, then asks, "Where is he?"
"I would assume outside the door. But it's not your business, Granger. I asked for Potter, not his annoying tag-alongs."
"It might come as a shock to you, Parkinson, but a tag-along tends to go wherever the person they're following goes," Granger says coldly. "It's not like you could stop us, anyway."
Pansy says something else, but Draco doesn't hear it, as his ears have focused, instead, on the footsteps coming towards him. Two sets of feet, he thinks. He hopes one of them is Potter, but immediately shuts that thought down. He won't rely on Potter. He can't.
"You look awful," says Potter, smirking, and there he stands above Draco, perfectly fine, not in any visible pain.
"You don't," Draco remarks shakily.
Potter eyes him curiously, and Draco wants to snap at him to do something, anything, to ease this awful pain, but he won't let himself say those words, won't let himself seem so desperate.
Noticing Weasley beside Potter, Draco asks, "Did you know it would be like this?"
Weasley raises an eyebrow. "Does that really matter? I didn't, but it's not like you would have done anything differently."
"Well, do you know how to stop it?"
"I'm guessing it's linked to the birthmarks," Granger says, coming up behind Weasley and Potter, a confused Blaise and a fuming Pansy trailing behind her.
"So, were we to touch hands again . . ." Potter trails off, looking to Granger.
She nods. "That's what I would say. You're standing pretty close, so I imagine it would have stopped by now had it been sensitive to where you were."
Potter squats down in front of Draco and gently grabs Draco's left hand, flipping it over to find his birthmark. He presses his palm against Draco's, and the relief is instant. Draco gasps and blinks, and he stares at Potter, who is glowing slightly blue.
Potter exhales, and his hand falls out of Draco's. He stands up, slowly, and Draco can't help but notice how drained he looks.
"I've never seen magic like this before," Granger mumbles as Draco stands.
"Of course you haven't." Pansy scoffs. "None of us have."
"Is that better?" Potter asks Draco, and he sounds genuinely concerned.
"Yes," Draco says, "but I don't understand why I . . ."
"I've felt off all day," Potter offers. "Not like that . . . maybe a fifth of what you were feeling, but definitely . . . off."
"What's going on?" Blaise interupts, voice surprisingly calm.
Pansy cuts herself from whatever she was about to say to Granger, turning to face Blaise. "Right," she says, glancing back at Draco. He gives her a small nod, and she continues: "Soulmates."
"Soulmates? I thought that that wasn't a real magic, Pans." Blaise frowns.
"Well, it is," Pansy says. "We just don't know the . . . details."
Blaise shakes his head. "I don't get it. How can they be soulmates? They hate each other. They always have."
"It's not like we chose," Draco says shortly. He faces Potter again, eyebrows furrowed together. "What do you mean, you've felt off all day?"
Potter shrugs. "Just, not the same. Achy, my hand's been hurting. I've felt a bit like something was missing." He pauses, then flushes, his words sinking in. "Not you, but something I've had all my life."
"Something you've— Potter, what do you mean?"
Granger and Pansy exchange a grim look, but Draco pays it no heed. He's focused on Potter, on Potter's words.
"Something important to me. I feel like I really miss whatever it is, but I can't place what it might be. But it's only a small thing, just kind of . . . in the back of my head, I guess."
"Draco," Pansy says, "you don't think—"
"And the . . . achy feeling?" Draco demands.
"It's gone, now, but it was a . . . discomfort, pain. Like I was nervous almost."
"That's the same," Draco mutters. "But not as painful? And it's gone now?"
"Yeah. But, er, why does it matter?"
Pansy shifts on her feet. "Draco, I think it's probably just a part of the magic. I doubt it's what you're thinking."
Draco sighs. "You're right," he says, but he's not convinced that she is.
Granger crosses her arms. "What, pray tell, were you thinking, Malfoy? Because, if I didn't know any better, I would say you don't seem to believe Parkinson."
Narrowing his eyes, Draco says, "And what makes you think that, Granger? You don't know me better than my own friends do, even if you think you know everything."
She rolls her eyes. "I'm fairly certain everybody could tell you're lying. So, explain."
He raises an eyebrow at her, but doesn't press her the same way she's pressing him. "Fine," he says. "I thought that maybe it might be some kind of Bond. My mother"—he coughs, feeling ridiculous for the way his throat wants to close up at the word—"told me about a Bonding process with it, but she didn't know what it was. I wondered if maybe . . ."
"Your mother," Pansy whispers, "of course. He felt like he missed someone."
"Yes, well, I would appreciate if you wouldn't say it exactly like that, but that's what I thought." Draco scowls, his cheeks flaming. "Anyway, Blaise said himself that she's probably fine, so that's not what really matters, is it?"
"Well, if it is a Bond, I suppose there isn't anything we can do about it, is there?" Granger says. "But what if it were to happen again?"
"Then we do the same thing," Draco says. "It's not like it was overly difficult." He pauses. "Well, maybe for Potter."
"I wouldn't want to do that every day," Potter agrees.
"It might not happen again," Blaise points out.
"It's been three days since the Bond would have started," Weasley reminds them. "So . . ."
"So if it happens regularly, it's going to be every third day," Pansy says venomously. "As if that's any better than every day!"
Granger scoffs. "What do you want to do, then, Parkinson?"
"Take it to Dumbledore," says Potter calmly, and everyone turns in surprise.
"Are you—," Granger starts, but Draco cuts her off.
"No way, Potter. I'm not going to fucking Dumbledore to sort this out. This is my issue just as much as it is yours, and I can deal with my issues on my own. You don't get to decide."
"It was just a suggestion, Malfoy. Merlin forbid I might actually not want you to feel pain because of something I did."
"Or maybe it's because you have to feel my pain?"
"I'm not a foul, lying Slytherin like you, Malfoy," Potter hisses. "I wouldn't think something so selfish."
"Oh, yes, you're so fucking noble, aren't you, Potter? The Chosen Gryffindor hero! At least I—"
"What is going on here?" says a voice behind them, and Draco whirls around to see McGonagall. He curses his luck. Of all the potential staff members to call them out for fighting, it had to be the head of Potter's house.
"Sorry, Professor—"
"Miss Granger, I've come to expect a lot from you three over the years, but I see no reason behind needing to make a scene in front of the Great Hall."
"It was my fault, Professor," Draco says before he can stop himself, and then he wishes he could take it back. But the words continue to slip out, slippery like water on river rocks, "I needed Potter's assistance with something and I rather allowed myself to grow frustrated when it didn't seem right."
McGonagall purses her lips, and Draco holds his breath. She nods, small and curt. "Very well," she says. "Just see that it never happens again."
"Why did you—?" Potter tries, but Draco pushes past him.
"Maybe next time you'll think twice before telling me I'm foul and a liar," Draco spits, eyes narrowed. "And I hope that you don't mind partial truths too much."
He whirls around and walks away, and he knows that Pansy and Blaise follow behind him. But so do Potter's eyes, confused and calculating. And Draco thinks that maybe he doesn't mind the way it feels at all, to know that Potter's watching him so closely.
Narcissa taught Draco to draw when he was young. It was a spectacular thing, the way she could make something seem so real when it wasn't. Maybe he was most impressed because it was an entirely Muggle technique that she used.
Draco could never dream of being as talented as his mother, but he knows the basics behind the art. It's just . . . he doesn't enjoy it. Art is beautiful, he thinks, but he's always preferred to watch his mother make something beautiful than to create it himself. Maybe he's always preferred to watch beautiful things than to be beautiful himself.
However, there is some kind of power in being beautiful, in creating beauty from your hands, in seeing beauty seep from your fingertips. It's the type of power that people don't realize they have until it's pointed out to them, but once that happens, it's entirely too easy to become drunk on.
Draco doesn't want power. He wants something easy, something that won't let him become like his father. His father is not him, but how many times has he heard it? "You're just like you father." Small, simple words, and yet, somehow, someway, they're devastating.
So Draco strived to be more like Narcissa, who held the world at her fingertips in a much, much different way than her husband did. It was in the way she stood, the way she poured ink onto a page and made something straight out of the most amazing dream you've ever had, the way she smiled when she knew she had won.
Never has he felt more like his mother than in this moment, because from the simple brushes of ink on parchment is her, surrounded by the rose bushes she so loved, the drawing illuminated by only the tip of Draco's wand.
His chest aches, like there's something so important missing. And there is, he thinks. His mother is the most important thing to him, and all he wants is to get her back. Even if it means sacrificing Potter.
As long as they get Potter, they won't hurt her. As long as they get Potter, she'll be safe.
And that's all that matters.