A/N: I know I said I wouldn't be posting new content anymore, but it turns out I lied. My bad. I'm so glad you found your way here.

Disclaimer (PLEASE READ): The characters and world aren't mine—they are JKR's. The main plot is not mine—Soulmates AU is a well-worn trope. Even specifics of this particular story aren't mine—I borrowed a LOT from BlueSimplicity's "How to Fuck with (and Feed) Your Soulmate", including whole situations, and even some dialogue. That's right, this whole idea was not mine (just like the rest of it). There are so many wonderful stories in other fandoms, and this particular tale just felt like it had Dramione vibes... so I adapted it. In fact, the only things that are really "mine" (a term to be used extremely lightly) are some of scenes, subplots, characterization choices, and dialogue. This is a HOT MESS, and it is essentially fanfiction of a fanfiction. Reader discretion is advised. If you are interested in reading the original fic, you can only find it on AO3 under the penname and title I mentioned above.

"You've got me to do some crazy things over the years, Draco, but I am not windsurfing with you. I don't even understand how those Muggles are doing that without magic."

Tearing his eyes away from the distant view of four boards with sails elegantly twisting through the ocean even as they were buffeted by waves, Draco tilted an eyebrow at Blaise. "I don't remember asking you to come with me in the first place." Scratching at an itch on his shoulder, he grinned and added, "Wuss."

Just as Draco said this, one of the windsurfers misjudged a wave and went tumbling off her board and into the ocean. Blaise looked at his friend expressively and flicked some ash from the end of his cigarette onto the ground. "Looks like a good way to get killed, if you ask me."

Draco rolled his eyes, his grin broadening.

"So of course you must do it."

"I'll be fine. But I'll do some protective spellwork if it means getting you off my back."

"There isn't a spell to keep a shark from ripping off your leg," Blaise deadpanned. His dark eyes continued to scan the south Oregon coastline, where two of the windsurfers, including the woman who had fallen, were now beginning to head back to shore. "I never understood your need to chase an adrenaline rush."

With a snort of derision, Draco fixed his companion with the most sarcastic look he could muster. "Are we pretending I haven't seen the parade of people leaving your rooms in the mornings? You just prefer your own kind of adrenaline rush and you know it."

Blaise took a final drag of his cigarette and stomped it out with his boot. He vanished the butt with an Evanesco. "If you're referring to the incident in Lagos, I'd like to remind you that I didn't actually fuck all those people."

Laughing, Draco scratched at his shoulder again. Blaise's eyes briefly fixated on the motion, so Draco quickly ceased. "I was actually thinking about Agadir."

"That was four years ago, Draco—"

"And we haven't been back since!" he crowed, thinking back to the rushed scramble both wizards had gone through to hustle out of Morocco as quickly as possible, while three different witches had been fighting over Blaise. The situation had escalated alarmingly; Draco still loved to tease Blaise about it. "Just like we haven't been back to Prague—"

"Alright, alright."

"—or São Paulo—"

"I get it!"

"—or Vladivostok," he finished smugly.

"Fine, I prefer sex. You prefer nearly killing yourself by jumping off of things or freediving on broomsticks." Blaise cast an accusatory glance out at the beautiful expanse of beach. "Or windsurfing. Makes sense."

Draco gave another snort. The sea was steely blue, the sky clear, and the sun was moving out of high noon. There was a smattering of evergreens, all sparse from the sea winds, that had managed to grow between the craggy rocks that lined the shoreline. The last two windsurfers were also heading in to shore now. "I think I saw an advertisement back at the hotel for someone that will give a lesson."

"Whatever, Malfoy. I'll still have to tell your Mum when you get killed: 'Hello Narcissa, your only son and heir has died.'" He paused for dramatic effect. "'How did he die you're asking? Well let me tell—'"

"Fuck off, Blaise," Draco interrupted, scratching at his shoulder again because he just could not help himself. "Muggles do it without magic all the time and aren't hurt. It can be my twenty-sixth birthday present to myself."

"Conveniently a few weeks early, so that by the time your actual birthday rolls around, you'll have a renewed need to get something else for yourself."

Grinning, Draco flipped him the bird and made ready to Apparate back into town. "I'll see you back at the hotel later."

Blaise stopped him, suddenly serious. "Hey."

Draco paused.

"It's happening, isn't it?"

Frowning at the sudden turn in the conversation, he searched his companion's face to find him grinning widely, and focused on the place where Draco's left hand was still scratching at his right shoulder blade. Ah, so we're having this conversation now.

"You've been scratching at your Fatemark for the past two days at least." Blaise reached for the pack of cigarettes in his pocket and selected one. He offered one to Draco as well. "It's started, hasn't it?"

A Fatemark, as many of the legends called it, manifested at birth as an amorphous patch of shimmery-white skin somewhere on the body of a chosen few. In the Greek myths Draco had read as a child, it had been revered as the Touch of Psyche. There were other names as well, but no matter whether you were magical or Muggle, or which corner of the world you were from, everyone knew what it meant. Having one meant that somewhere out in the world, there was a person with a matching Fatemark—your soulmate. Someday, a Sense would guide you to them and that person would fill your life—and a portion of your skin—with color.

Draco had begun noticing the itching when he woke up three days ago, and had been working extremely hard to pretend he wasn't flooded with nervous delight. Instead of answering, he took a cigarette, cast an Incendio and lightly held the tip of his wand against the end.

"How long has it been going on?" Blaise pressed, producing his trademark silver lighter from his pocket.

"A few days now. Itches like crazy."

"Do you think that means your soulmate is somewhere near here?"

"Who knows."

"Has it changed? Do you have any colors?"

"No."

"Have you gotten a Sense yet?"

Draco shook his head.

"Fine," Blaise grumbled. The windsurfers were packed up by now; the four of them were chatting by their cars in the distance. "Pretend this isn't a big deal if you want. But you can't act like we both haven't been waiting for this to happen."

Draco snorted.

"Seriously, you aren't excited?"

"For Agrippa's sake, will you piss off already?" But secretly, he was pleased.

Blaise fixed him with a condemning look. "You know the stories. Everyone does. Antony and Cleopatra? Merlin and Nimue? Hadrian and Antinous? More recently, Ivan Macmillan and Romola Faye-Winter from two years ahead of us at Hogwarts—remember that? Need I go on?"

Draco's nose wrinkled tellingly but he said nothing. Of course he knew the stories. Only a small percentage of people had a Fatemark, but the stories were usually explosive. It added a lot of pressure to the so far boring experience of having one. Dragging his eyes away from some waves crashing against offshore rocks, he took a particularly long drag of the cigarette, thankful for it.

"You're not curious?" Blaise pushed.

"About?"

"Who your soulmate might be."

Am I curious who my soulmate might be? he inwardly repeated with no small amount of incredulity. He had spent his adolescence wondering who they could be, what they would look like, and when he would meet them. There had been numerous times during his travels over the past six years when he had been alone, reflecting on his life, and had pressed his hand to the silent Fatemark on his right shoulder blade, wondering, Where are you right now?

"Of course I'm curious. But I don't have anything yet other than the itching."

Blaise waved this away. "What if your soulmate is a man?"

With some hesitation, Draco replied, "Well, I would prefer if they weren't, but I suppose there's a chance of that."

"Men can make excellent lovers."

"How many times have I asked you not to come on to me?" he joked.

"You would be so lucky," Blaise sneered. "Maybe your soulmate is a Muggle."

With a grimace, Draco thought back to the contingency plans his father had drafted a decade ago. There was a plan of action for every conceivable scenario based on who Draco's soulmate might turn out to be; some of those plans were dire. Even though Lucius had been sentenced to life in prison and Draco was therefore not bound by his father's rules anymore, he still didn't like to think about it too much. On the other hand...

"It might be easier," Draco answered, tapping his left forearm where the Dark Mark had faded a great deal since the moment its binding magic had died with the Dark Lord. "They wouldn't recognize this."

Blaise's eyes narrowed somewhat. "Wouldn't you have to explain it anyway?"

"Stories aren't as bad as living it." Finishing his cigarette, Draco stomped on the butt and vanished it. "I'm just going to have to wait and see what happens." Jabbing his thumb in the direction of the ocean, he said, "Meantime, I'm going to go look into getting out there."

Blaise cast the distant ocean a dark look. "Fine, get yourself killed before you even meet your soulmate."

Not wishing to waste any more time on the argument, Draco threw his hands into the air in silent surrender before Apparating back into town.

.

.

Within the week, the initial high spirits he experienced due to his suddenly itchy Fatemark wore off. After six days of frequent scratching and no other results, Draco awoke on the seventh day more annoyed than excited.

Breakfast had been delivered to the suite, as ordered, but for once he was not eating it. Noticing almost immediately, Blaise excitedly asked, "Are you having a Sense?"

Draco glared. "No."

"Still nothing?"

"Just all this—" he paused briefly to scratch harder at his shoulder, "—infernal itching."

"Let's go somewhere else, then." Blaise took a sip of his customary morning cappuccino. "The timing is obviously getting close but maybe you're in the wrong place."

After thinking up several witty retorts, Draco was forced to concede that Blaise's hypothesis was as good as any. "Where would we go?"

"How do we ever decide? Let's see where the Portkeys are headed."

In that fashion, their next stop ended up being Melbourne. Though they had left Oregon after tea time, the 17-hour time difference dropped them directly into breakfast the next morning—a discomfiting experience, no matter how many times Draco went through it. Per their usual arrangement, since it was Blaise that chose Melbourne, he procured lodgings for them, securing two private suites at a Muggle hotel.

That evening, after they had properly sampled the city and retreated to their separate quarters, Draco was finally left to his own devices. He halfway-unpacked and then showered, and when he was finished, he wrapped a towel around his waist and spent above a half an hour examining his Fatemark in the bathroom mirror. As far as he could tell, it still had not changed at all: just a ghostly white mark on his already-fair skin.

Disappointed, he drew the curtains and casted a light-blocking spell, then got ready for bed and settled under the covers without much thought. Time changes were tiresome, and he was looking forward to closing his eyes, when his mouth began to feel... strange.

That's odd. He smacked his tongue across the roof of his mouth before bolting upright in bed.

He was feeling his Sense for the first time: taste. After nearly twenty-six years of waiting, he had a way to communicate with his soulmate!

Except something was wrong.

As he sat there in bed, rolling his tongue around in his mouth, he came to the conclusion that whatever he was tasting was not a delicious piece of chocolate, the crisp snap of a fresh apple, or the juicy sweetness of a good roast. Whatever it was, was moderately crunchy but also somehow chewy as well. But it tasted like... nothing.

He thought back to everything he knew about Fatemarks. At the beginning, the Sense was supposed to be spontaneous and slowly increase in frequency as two soulmates began to search for one another.

Perhaps flavor comes on more gradually than texture, he hoped, lying back in bed and wondering how he would ever get any sleep now. He had always had a secret wish that his Sense would be taste. Now that the reality of getting to introduce himself to his soulmate through food was setting in, it felt too good to be true.

He and Blaise ate well no matter where their whims took them, but Draco had loved to eat long before he had begun traveling. His mouth watered as he thought of the meals of his childhood. When Narcissa Black became Lady Malfoy, her dowry had famously included one of her family's kitchen house elves. Lucius, meanwhile, came from a scrupulous line of eaters that had employed a Parisian-trained chef for the past fourteen generations. First-rate fare was tradition at Malfoy Manor, whether the occasion called for hearty stews or elegant soups, roasted game meats or delicate seafood.

Draco finally did doze off, dreaming of the treats that had come carefully transported by his owl from the Manor's kitchens to Hogwarts when he was a boy. But by the next morning, he had already formulated a plan.

There were a few things he could cook very well, and one of those things was his family's flavorful coq au vin recipe. He had grown up eating it, and had learned to make it himself before moving out. That evening, he assembled all the supplies he had picked out from the nearby market and spread them out across the countertop of the small kitchen area that came with his suite. The hotel's equipment in it was definitely sub-par, but it would do. What he was about to cook was a classic in part because it was relatively simple.

As he waffled over which wine to cook with and which to drink, he pulled a pot out of the cabinet, examined it with disdain, and transfigured it into exactly the shape and heft of the pan he would prefer to cook with.

He examined his wandwork. "Nice."

The scent of simmering garlic soon filled the entire suite. Once he stepped back to let the chicken simmer, Draco fetched his wireless radio from his travel bag and spent some time acquainting himself with the magical channels in Melbourne. Eventually choosing a station that seemed to play a variety of music, he set up a table for himself by the window overlooking the Yarra River.

He had done this before, many times... faced other hotel windows in different cities around the world with a wine glass in one hand and something delicious on the table. For a few seconds, he could have been anywhere, in front of any riverside cityscape, about to enjoy a meal.

As solitary as ever. But maybe not.

After he had whisked some butter and flour into the cooking wine, he poured the resulting velvety sauce over the chicken, mushrooms and onions. With a couple flicks of his wand, a glass of wine began to pour and the crusty French bread he had purchased earlier began to slice itself. He levitated the results of his labors to the table.

The city lights twinkled just outside the window as Draco took his first hearty bite. He lingered on each flavor: the juiciness of the chicken, the crispy pieces of bacon, the subtle undertones of tomato, and the savory earthiness of the mushrooms.

Hello, he thought as he took his second bite. Immediately feeling stupid, he swallowed then tried again: I can't wait to meet you.

But there was nothing. Draco scratched at his shoulder.

An idea struck him, and he took several more bites of coq au vin. Then, pressing his hand flat against the locus of his shoulder blade, he focused intently on his Fatemark. "I'm here."

Still nothing. He was not entirely sure what he expected to happen, but it had not simply been... nothing. Frowning, he reasoned, If I'm going through this, they must be too. Right?

Only the sounds of the city outside and the singer on the wireless answered him.

.

.

An opportunity presented itself only two days later for Draco's second attempt at communication when he sought out an establishment that sold Citrigoh. The last time he had been to Melbourne, he learned it was a magical beverage made only in Australia that was local to the area. Curious, he and Blaise had both tried it, only to find that while it had good flavor, it had also been magicked to come back up out of your mouth in a series of bubbles that floated around the room. The feeling had been entirely weird—but hopefully that would only make it the perfect device for letting his soulmate know he was trying to contact them.

Blaise had discovered that if you drank it and kept your mouth closed, the bubbles would come back out your nose instead, and he therefore highly disapproved of the beverage. So when Draco purchased an entire case and asked if Blaise wanted one, he fixed him with a stern look and asked, "Why the hell would I want to do that to myself again?"

Draco shrugged, heading back to his suite to drink some. "Suit yourself."

"I'm coming."

Rolling his eyes, Draco held the door to his suite for his friend, who followed him in. Resting the case on the kitchen counter, he selected a bottle and pulled the cork.

Blaise watched as Draco took a long swig from the bottle, then said, "I was thinking of touring a couple of the art museums tomorrow."

Draco nodded noncommittally, taking another long pull from the bottle of highly carbonated grapefruit-flavored soda. He followed it up with another, then another—with Blaise abandoning whatever he had been about to say to watch on in horror as Draco downed the entire half-litre and set the empty bottle back down on the counter.

Soon enough, the room was full of small, pink-orange bubbles that lingered around the room and occasionally popped. Draco was now drinking his second bottle. "Sure you don't want one?"

Blaise made a face. "No thanks."

"Oh come on," Draco replied, burping. "It's not—" he burped again, "—so bad."

But Blaise was spared responding when his companion then burped so long and loudly that a huge, pink bubble appeared before him and refused to pop for thirty whole seconds.

"Actually, that is a little gross," Draco admitted.

More importantly, there was still no response from his soulmate.

.

.

The week following the Citrigoh incident was filled with plenty of feedback through Draco's newly shared Sense, none of which seemed to be any indication that his soulmate had noticed their bond. Every time, it was just more crunchy blandness with what was perhaps a hint of wet cardboard taste. Once, he got excited by the taste of something new, but it turned out to be what he thought was a salad made mainly of lettuce and with barely any dressing. This, at least, confirmed that his Sense was coming in loud and clear after all.

It made him angry. After the coq au vin he had so carefully prepared, it was actually insulting. Even an entire litre of Citrigoh had to be better than what his mystery soulmate was eating.

After a week of trying to be patient, Draco was finally tired of it. "I want to go back to Chengdu."

Blaise's eyebrows raised. "Why?"

"I'm craving hot pot."

"There is no way you're getting me to eat that stuff again. It scorched my damn tastebuds off."

"You don't need to come with me, but I'm going."

"Why the rush?" he queried, frowning, before becoming suddenly intrigued. "Is this a Fatemark thing?"

Draco exhaled deeply through his nostrils as he glared.

"Does that mean you're getting a Sense?"

"Yes, fine, it's taste. Are you satisfied?"

"Mostly, except for one more question. Why the hell do you want to subject your soulmate to incendiary soup?"

"Because I'm tired of being ignored!"

Thirteen hours later, Draco and Blaise were sitting at a table in a familiar, crowded hole-in-the-wall with a heavy atmosphere full of the wet heat of constant cooking.

"The air in here is making my eyes water," Blaise muttered, barely audible over the din of chattering patrons.

Draco rolled his eyes; he considered his companion to be a primadonna when it came to spicy food. He, on the other hand, adored it—the spicier the better, so long as flavor was not sacrificed. He had eaten incendiary jerk chicken in Jamaica, real wasabi in Japan, raw habaneros straight off the vine in Mexico, and loved them all.

Soon enough, they were asked for their order. Blaise, a polyglot, was able to use the Sichuanese he had learned the last time they were there, just similar enough to Mandarin for him to communicate.

"He wants to know how spicy you want it," he translated to Draco from across the table. The man with the notepad waited expectantly for an answer.

"I want to feel my soul leave my body."

Blaise gave a long-suffering sigh before doing his best to interpret the request.

After delivering Draco's soup, the waiter hung around, interested to watch him eat it and probably to laugh at him. The broth was thin, practically boiling, and an alarming red color. Heat seemed to roll off it in waves.

Calmly, Draco added a few vegetables and some shrimp into the steaming cauldron in the center of the table and let them cook for a few minutes. By the time they were ready, Blaise had pushed his chair as far back from the table as he could against the wall and had buried his nose and mouth within his shirt, only his watering eyes showing above the collar. Two of the cooks and another of the waiters had crowded around their table, waiting for Draco to eat some.

It was the hottest thing he had ever put into his mouth.

But… There! After only four spoonfuls of hot pot, Draco finally got a response: the distinct Sense of someone gulping down water, along with very clear sensations—not his own—of both shock and panic.

Despite the tears streaming down Draco's face from the intense and overwhelming heat of the broth, he smugly thought, Finally noticed, have you?

A/N: Three massive heaps of glitter. One for Witches-Britches. One for sarenia. One for iwasbotwp. There is nothing like the friends you find in fandom, and especially the friends who encourage you not only to do the thing you said you wouldn't, but to help you make that thing better. Thank you, my friends.

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