a/n: wow, i'm just flabbergasted by the reviews here! i can't believe that you guys are enjoying this! i'm just so-wow! thank you so much! you're absolutely wonderful! :D
This time it takes two days, but Draco recognizes it instantly.
Pansy does, too, he thinks, from the sideways glance she gives him in Transfiguration. And when she nudges Blaise and whispers to him, Draco thinks he knows, too.
By the time McGonagall dismisses them, Draco's decided that maybe he should let Potter talk this time. Clearly, it won't be going away anytime soon, and Draco doesn't exactly fancy having to live with this kind of pain for the rest of his life.
"Think of it as an advantage," Pansy whispers as they make their way to the Great Hall. "It gives you a chance to get closer to Potter, doesn't it?"
She's right, of course she is, but Draco doesn't want to think about what might happen if he got too close to Potter. That's the point of the magic, isn't it? To push them together, to make them close. Soulmates are meant to be in love forever. That's how the story goes; how the story has always gone.
He's easy enough to spot at the Gryffindor table, with his ridiculous black hair, seated between two gingers and across from a frowning Granger.
"Good luck," Pansy says from behind him as they enter.
Draco blinks. "Wait, Pansy—"
But she simply winks at him and walks away to the Slytherin table with Blaise, who turns and gives Draco an apologetic look.
Some friends they are, Draco thinks, scowling, but he doesn't follow them like some part of him wants to. Instead, he takes a deep breath and approaches the Gryffindor table, wincing from the pain each step towards Potter causes.
It's Granger that spots him first, pointing and saying something in a hushed voice, and the two Weasleys and Potter turn around to face him. Other Gryffindors are staring, dumbstruck, and Draco scoffs. They really aren't subtle, are they?
"What do you want, Malfoy?" spits the Weasley on the left, and Draco glares at her.
"Nothing to do with you, Weaslette."
"I thought you'd be coming along soon," Potter says thoughtfully.
"You could have found me," Draco tells him, and his voice is bitter. "It would have saved me having to be scrutinized by your housemates."
Potter raises an eyebrow. "If I didn't know better, Malfoy, I would almost think you cared."
"Of course I care," Draco spits. "If someone were to—" He stops himself and flushes at the thought. What a ridiculous thing to think. His father is in Azkaban, Death Eaters have his mother, and his aunt probably wouldn't care at all. And how would it gets back, anyway, that he were "fraternizing with the enemy," so to speak?
What had happened to the overconfident eleven-year-old, the one who knew who was supposed to be and was already halfway there?
Potter eyes him curiously. "Were to what, Malfoy?"
"It doesn't matter," he says dismissively and he tries to sound cool and collected, but his voice trembles with a mix of anxiety and pain that he can't seem to shake. "Are you going to help me or not?"
"People are going to start to think I like you," Potter grumbles, standing up.
The Weaslette blinks. "What's—"
"Ginny, drop it," Weasley says tiredly.
Potter turns to make his way out of the Great Hall, and Draco, irritable that he refuses to do anything where everyone can see them, follows.
A few students are trickling out of the hall, and other are finally making their way in, but Potter pays them no mind as he reaches for Draco's hand. When they touch, bright blue flashes behind Draco's eyelids, but it's gone as soon as it's there.
"Better?" Potter asks softly, and Draco notices that his eyes look exhausted, as if this one bit of magic has drained everything from it. And maybe it has, Draco thinks.
"Yeah." He pauses. "Are you okay? You look like you're going to be sick."
Potter looks up at him, surprise etched on his face, and Draco, too, is surprised by the gentle tone of voice, the genuine concern. He's never spoken like that to anybody. What might force him to talk to Potter, of all people, in such a way?
"I'm fine," Potter says, but he coughs and it sounds too weak. "I think I might need to sit down, actually."
"I think you need to go to the hospital wing," Draco corrects him. "And I'm going to take you there. Because I'm not about to let the Chosen One or whatever it is you are die on my watch."
"Bad for the Malfoy name?" Potter guesses.
Draco scoffs. "As if I could dirty it more than it already is."
Potter doesn't say anything else as they make their way up the stairs, and at the top he stops and takes a couple deep breaths. "Why d'you suppose it works like this?"
Draco ponders it while Potter catches his breath, and they're off again towards the hospital wing. "Maybe it's as if we're . . . one? Our magical cores are a part of us, and when we Bonded, they connected? So being far away for prolonged amounts of times . . ."
"Would cause physical pain and exhaustion." Potter coughs again. "Sometimes you do say things that make sense, Malfoy."
A sharp comeback lies on Draco's tongue, but he swallows it when he recognizes that Potter sounds playful. Not as if he's trying to insult Draco, but as if he's trying to get along. Draco and Potter have never "gotten along," but . . . Potter seems to be trying. Trying to make the most of the situation, to make it seem a lot brighter than it is.
Fucking Gryffindor.
Entering the hospital wing, they see Madam Pomfrey. She turns to face them, and she blinks.
"Mr. Potter, Mr. Malfoy," she says, composing herself quickly. "What can I do for you?"
"It's Potter," Draco tells her, pushing the other boy towards the patron. He turns and glares when he stumbles, but Draco's not entirely focused on him. "He's, ah . . ."
"Exhausted?" Potter supplies, but he doesn't sound entirely sure.
Madam Pomfrey frowns. "I'm not certain I'm seeing the problem here, boys."
"Well, it's . . . magical exhaustion, I suppose." Draco sighs. "I'm not entirely certain how to explain."
"And the cause?"
"Er, well . . ." Potter glances at Draco, and Draco looks down. They'll have to do something about it, anyway, won't they? Talk to Dumbledore . . . Potter was right about that, but it doesn't mean that Draco has to like the idea.
"Soulmate magic," Draco says, turning his eyes to Madam Pomfrey's.
"Soulmate magic? Mr. Malfoy, that's absurd. That kind of magic is a myth."
"I wish it were," Potter mutters, stifling a yawn, and Draco hides a small smile.
"It's not like I asked for you, either," Draco says, rolling his eyes. "My mother told me that whomever it was would be wonderful, and look who I got stuck with."
"I don't care that it's you, but I'm a bit sick of the magic itself." Potter shrugs, sitting down on one of the beds. He turns to look up at Madam Pomfrey, smiling apologetically. "We think we were Bonded by it," he explains. "When our hands touched last week."
Madam Pomfrey seems to be at a loss for words, and Draco thinks he understands at least a little bit her confusion over it, so he says, "We have matching birthmarks on our hands, and when they touched, the magic, which I assume previously lay dormant, sprung to life. In blue flames. Since then, it seems like we've been Bonded. While away from Potter for too long, I feel physical pain, which only stops when our birthmarks touch again, but it exhausts Potter to do."
"I'm afraid this may be a bit beyond my treatment, but I may have a potion that will help. But, boys, I would suggest taking this to the Headmaster. It's not particularly healthy for you to continue on in such a manner."
She turns around to find the potion she spoke of, and Potter and Draco exchange a glance. Potter looks for too triumphant for Draco's liking, and he scowls.
"Well, there's a chance it won't work, but it's always best to try these things, wouldn't you say?" Madam Pomfrey says, coming back with a vial of potion that Draco can't see. She hands it to Potter, and he looks at it for a moment before quickly swallowing it.
Draco watches Potter curiously, but nothing seems to change.
Madam Pomfrey frowns. "Give it time," she advises. "For now, I would suggest speaking with Professor Dumbledore on what you should do."
Draco bites his tongue. So far, this entire thing has been a disaster. Bringing him closer to Potter though it may be, but how long will it take before someone figures out why he's even bothering?
"Right," Potter says and he turns to face Draco. "Er, are you—?"
"I believe you know your way best," Draco says stiffly, trying his hardest not to sound too bitter, but he imagines he's not succeeded. At all.
"Right," Potter repeats, softer this time. He stands, smiles at Madam Pomfrey. "Thank you," he says.
"Of course," she replies. "Good luck, boys."
Draco nods to her as he steps out of the room, Potter following behind him.
"Are you feeling better?" Draco queries, but it's not as if he particularly cares.
"Yeah, I'm fine," Potter assures, but his gaze is focused elsewhere, his voice distracted.
"Potter, what—"
"I'm fine," he says quickly, look to Draco with earnest eyes. "Honestly. Let's go." Then, under his breath, "Get it over with."
Draco frowns, then Potter's words hit him like a slap in the face. He can't help but laugh, the feeling boiling in the pit of his stomach and bursting upwards from his chest. And maybe he shouldn't have, but he's not sure he would have been able to stifle it. He doesn't think he's been able to stifle anything with Potter, ever.
Potter turns, alarmed. "Malfoy, what are you laughing at?"
"Merlin, Potter, don't tell me you're afraid. Afraid for people to know that your soulmate is me?" He shakes his head. "What a dent that must be on your public profile as the Boy Who Fucking Lived. Destined to kill the Dark Lord and yet, here you are, tangled up in this mess with a convicted Death Eater's son. It's going to be awful for you, won't it?"
"Malfoy, that's— How are doing that?"
"Doing what?" Draco scoffs. "Reading your tone of voice? You aren't exactly the type to keep your emotions locked up tight, Potter."
"No, it's just . . . of course, the thought crossed my mind, but it was brief . . . How can you say it like that? You've never exactly been—"
"It's what anybody would think," Draco says, glowering at his feet. "You're supposed to save the world, aren't you? How, pray tell, are you expected to do that with a Malfoy trailing after you?"
"I—"
"It doesn't matter at this point, though, does it?" Draco raises an eyebrow. "We're going to talk to Dumbledore."
"Yeah, okay," Potter says, and his voice is doubtful but he lead Draco throughout the corridors anyway.
Draco wishes he could rewind to three months ago. Go back to the rose bush and the simple sadness and the aching hole in his heart that his mother normally filled. But instead he's here, losing all of his careful filters and being too easily unravelled by Harry Potter.
It was easy when he was eleven and the word Mudblood slipped off his tongue as if it were ice and he could stick his nose in the air at anything or anyone and never have to feel the consequence of it. When he could flaunt his name and his money to get whatever he wanted and he had someone to aspire to be.
They stop before a gargoyle statue and, hesitantly, Potter says, "Acid Pops."
The gargoyle leaps to the side, opening up the passage to stairway. Draco blinks, surprised. "Why do you know the password to Dumbledore's office?"
"He, uh, told me?" Potter says feebly and Draco furrows his eyebrows but figures he'd best not push it.
Ascending the stairs, they reach a door. Potter turns to face Draco, amused. "You need to calm down, Malfoy," he whispers.
"What are you—?"
Potter points to his hands, where fingers are tapping rapidly against his thigh, and he flushes.
"Right," he mumbles. "Sorry."
Potter rolls his eyes and turns to rap on the door, which opens as his hand returns to his side.
Dumbledore stands inside the room, and he smiles as they enter. "Madam Pomfrey told me she had sent you, although she was very adamant you two explain the situation." He looks at them over his glasses, and Draco glances away. Dumbledore is a Legilimens, he thinks. A powerful one.
It takes two deep breaths before Draco feels confident enough to look up again and meet the Headmaster's gaze. Dumbledore considers him carefully, and then the eye contact is lost.
"So," Dumbledore says, "I invite you to share your thoughts."
"We think we've been Bonded," Draco says simply, arching an eyebrow. "By soulmate magic."
Dumbledore looks to Potter, who coughs awkwardly and rubs at his hand. Then his gaze returns to Draco, intrigued. "Soulmate magic?"
"Yes, sir," Potter speaks up, looking sideways at Draco almost helplessly. "Madam Pomfrey suggested we come to you because . . ."
"Being apart from Potter," Draco fills in bitterly, "causes me physical anguish. And only he can take that pain away."
"And when I do it exhausts me."
"We assumed it used up too much of his magic," Draco says. "That it was most likely a system in which we were forced to vie for one another's magic."
"And I can feel vaguely what Malfoy's feeling," Potter adds. "Physically and emotionally."
Dumbledore ponders this for a moment, then turns to sit down, gesturing for the two of them to sit across from him. They quickly follow the hand movement and watch the Headmaster carefully, and Draco can't help but think that he's not going to like whatever comes next.
"I suspect the best thing to do would be to keep the two of you together," Dumbledore finally says. He pauses, then asks, "How long does it take before coming into effect?"
Draco frowns, exchanged a look with Potter. "Two days, give or take?"
"Perhaps," Dumbledore muses, "if you were to spend your days together, the magic would be satisfied? I must confess, I know very little of this particular branch of magic. It's highly uncommon. However, that is not to say I'm not willing to adjust the current situation to assist you in any way possible."
"Sir, we don't share the same classes," Draco says, throat slightly dry.
"I'm certain, should we explain the situation, your professors will be understanding and allow it. As for your classmates, I suppose that's your story to tell."
"And during meals and breaks?" Potter queries.
"Of course, it will take some getting used to, but I believe you can both grow accustomed to it in time."
"So that's it?" Draco says, a mix of anger and bafflement boiling in his stomach. "You expect us to just drop everything and get along? To change up our lives as they currently are, just like that?"
"What did you expect, Malfoy?" Potter scoffs. "I know you're used to things going your way, but—"
Draco laughs harshly. "I don't know what you think, Potter, but it's never been about me. You don't get to tell me how my life has gone. At least you get the comfort of knowing your parents died heroes! My father's in prison, and my mother . . . Don't pretend like you're the only one who's had a difficult life, because you most certainly aren't."
Potter winces visibly, and something cold flows down Draco's spine at the sight.
"Sorry," he says quickly, and immediately wonders why.
Dumbledore looks between them curiously, and Draco shrinks away. He'd almost forgotten the old Headmaster was even sitting there during that exchange.
"You mentioned that part of the Bond was emotional?
"Yes," Potter says, eyes on Draco. "Do you think that . . . ?"
"My thought," Dumbledore says gently, "is that that portion of the Bond forces you to share your heavier emotions. It would, so to speak, eliminate filters in what you say to each other."
Draco blinks, chilly realization creeping up his neck. "So, say we were to tell a lie . . ."
"Most likely the magic would force the truth out." Dumbledore's gaze flicks over him curiously, and he meets the blue eyes with confidence. "But only time will tell for certain."
"Right," Draco says, his voice perhaps a tad bit hollow, and he just would really like to rewind to before all of this had happened, when he and Potter had exchanged only insults and didn't need each to do something as simple as live.
He takes a small breath in and out. It's not as if the topic will ever come up, right? Besides, he doesn't have to talk to Potter, simply spend time with him . . . So why be concerned over it?
"I'll alert your professors of the arrangements," Dumbledore says cheerfully. "For now, I would suggest working with your own schedules to make things easier for you both."
"Yes, sir," Draco mutters, going to stand up. Potter stands beside him and gives Dumbledore an easy smile.
As they step out of the office, Draco releases some air he didn't realize he was holding in. It's ridiculous, he tells himself. They won't talk. They've never been much for talking, have they?
"I suppose it'll be interesting," Potter says quietly.
"What?"
Potter smiles a bit at Draco. "Changing everything for you."
And he doesn't say anything else, doesn't decide to elaborate. Somehow, Draco thinks that he doesn't need him, too. Because something in his tone hangs in the air, like some promise lost long ago, a muttered apology when it was broken, returned by a warm embrace of trust, of forgiveness. Closer than that, Draco recalls an outstretched hand, two boys pretending to be people they knew they weren't, knew they never could be.
Maybe, Draco thinks, they've changed everything for each other before—and they'll keep doing it, for as long as they both will exist.