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It all starts with a pair of chilly feet under Harry Potter’s bum.

“Move your scrawny arse, Pans,” Draco says absent-mindedly, his nose buried in a thick tome on lust potions. “My feet are cold. Bloody castle, always freezing,” he mutters as he slides his feet under the warm body next to his.

Draco thinks for a moment that Pansy feels extremely bony tonight, that perhaps he should recommend that she starts eating more, but then he’s too busy trying to finish his book, and he struggles with finding his appetite lately, so he just snuggles a little closer and sighs in delight at the warm body next to his. Circe, it feels nice.

He manages to get to the end of the chapter before he realises something is off.

Pansy would have normally started protesting by now, saying that Draco should cast a sodding Warming Charm, and that she’s not his personal hot water bottle. So, when Draco turns to check on her, he freezes as he finds an extremely flustered Harry Potter staring back at him.

“Err…” Potter mutters with his usual eloquence.

“What in Salazar’s name are you doing here?” Draco blurts out, pulling his feet back and observing in alarm as Potter’s face turns from red to puce. Draco thinks that colour is probably a bad sign, and he doesn’t want to be accused of killing the Saviour, not after he nearly escaped an Azkaban sentence by pure luck (and also because said Saviour testified in his defence). So, he quickly slides his feet back under Potter’s bum and watches his expression go from embarrassed to mortified to something Draco can only describe as flailing miserably.

“She’s probably already asleep,” Potter mumbles nervously, and that’s when Draco realises that Pansy, the cow, went to bed half an hour ago and was replaced by Harry fucking Potter and his deliciously warm derrière.

“Sorry, I thought you were Pansy,” Draco confesses, deciding that honesty is probably the best approach for the time being. “My feet were cold.”

“They were,” Potter confirms. He scratches the back of his head, ruffling his unruly curls even more, then he grabs a Quidditch magazine from the low table in front of him in a mechanical move and starts reading it. It’s upside-down, but Draco doesn’t say anything.

Well, Draco thinks, since their relationship has taken an odd angle after their return to Hogwarts, some sort of awkwardness was probably to be expected.

They called a truce at the beginning of September, after Draco’s extremely stiff but heartfelt apology and Potter’s confession that he was too exhausted to fight, that he’d had enough of the war and arguing and just wanted to have a normal school year.

They have classes together and share a Common Room and a bathroom. After McGonagall’s announcement that the Eighth Years were going to have a table of their own in the Main Hall, they also end up eating next to each other occasionally.

Draco has learnt a lot of interesting things about Potter in the past few months.

Potter stuffs his face at every meal, but not because he lacks any table manners (well, he kind of does), but because he’s still subconsciously terrified he won’t get another chance to fill his stomach. Granger tactfully reminds him in a whisper that no one is going to take the food away from him, and Potter always blushes up to his ears and looks extremely self-conscious.

Potter sings in the shower, odd Muggle songs that Draco’s never heard of but always wants to hear—not because of Potter’s debatable singing skills, but because he has a lovely voice and seems to enjoy singing so much.

Potter has nightmares, loud and scary ones that make him scream at the top of his lungs and then stumble out of his room in the middle of the night, disrupting Draco’s already frayed sleep and forcing him to join Potter in the Common Room to get some silent company until they both stumble back to bed in the small hours of the morning.

Now that he has a very embarrassed Potter sitting on his feet, Draco decides he’s going to wait for Potter to go to bed, and then he’s going to call it a night too and drag his now toasty feet to his own room.

The problem is that Potter doesn’t seem to want to move. 

Potter comes to his senses and realises after a good ten minutes that the magazine is upside-down, but he still stays there, bum cheeks pleasantly warm on top of Draco’s toes. 

Oh, well, Draco thinks, at least they’re the only two people left in the Common Room.

“Did you know that in Norway, people use the word ‘Texas’ as a slang for ‘crazy’? It’s rather fascinating,” he tells Potter, who finally turns to look at him.

The second time it happens, Draco is absentmindedly leaning into the person sitting next to him on the small sofa in front of the fire. He needs to fiddle with something because it helps with his anxiety, and this bloody essay is driving him insane. So, he lifts his hand and threads his fingers through Theo’s curls, marvelling with a contented sigh at how soft they are. 

“Have you changed the conditioner you were using?” Draco asks, one hand busy taking notes on a piece of parchment while the other sinks further into that ridiculously soft mane.

The indecent moan he receives in reply makes Draco freeze. 

He stops in his tracks and turns very slowly to find an extremely sheepish Harry Potter, his eyes closed and lips parted as his eyebrows crease when Draco’s fingers start moving again, of their own accord, massaging his scalp and wrapping around the thick whorl of curls at the nape of his neck. Potter moans unabashedly when Draco does that, and Draco’s own face heats up at the realisation that he is the cause of that reaction.

He just made Potter feel good.

“Fuck, there,” Potter murmurs under his breath, a barely-there whisper that makes Draco’s blood boil. So, Draco can’t stop—he simply can’t. Not when Potter’s hair feels so perfect, and definitely not when Potter seems to come undone in such a beautiful way under Draco’s hands.

Potter obviously looks extremely embarrassed ten minutes later. He garbles something unintelligible when an owl taps on the window of the Common Room and startles them both. Draco’s hand remains frozen in mid-air when Potter springs up and excuses himself, running back to his room.

Draco is a firm believer that trouble always comes in threes, so he knows the incident is bound to repeat itself.

What he’s not expecting is for it to happen a fourth, then a fifth, then a tenth time in the leadup to the Easter holidays alone. Potter seems to hover around him after dinner at first, sitting down next to Draco as soon as the other Slytherins go to bed. But then he grows reckless (or desperate—Draco isn’t sure) and starts sitting next to Draco in class, pressing their hips together with a soft sigh. He leans against Draco in the changing rooms after an Eighth Year friendly Quidditch match, whispering in Draco’s ear that he was really good and fast today. Draco moves his hand almost automatically, placing it on the small of Potter’s back and spreading his palm, earning a raised eyebrow from Weasley. Potter even takes Draco’s hand under the table at lunch and holds it in his trembling palm for a good five minutes before Draco points out matter-of-factly that he can’t cut his steak with only one hand. He still takes Potter’s hand back into his after he’s done slicing his steak into smaller pieces and holds it until it’s time to go back to the Common Room.

Pansy is suspicious. Theo smirks at him and wiggles his eyebrows, most likely to imply that Draco is fucking Potter.

But the truth is that Potter is simply touch-starved and really desperate for someone to put their hands on him, to treat him kindly and make him feel warm and wanted. And his fellow Gryffindors are a bunch of morons who don’t even realise how much their Saviour needs some human contact after what he’s been through. 

The poor man has faced a war and was even dumped by his girlfriend at the end of it (at least, according to the Prophet). Draco has to do something about it. He’s a reformed criminal, after all.

“Always the good Samaritan,” Pansy teases with an eye roll.

“I bet he has ulterior motives,” Theo points out with a smirk.

“Potter’s as straight as they come,” Draco announces, and the groans he receives from his fellow Slytherins make him shake his head and go back to the sofa in front of the fire, taking Potter’s feet into his lap and massaging them while Potter melts and lets out the most perfectly undone little whimper. 

“I’m gay,” Potter confesses one morning while they’re having breakfast, after Draco simply asked him to pass the cereals. 

“All right,” Draco comments, unsure what he’s supposed to say but realising the Prophet does publish a load of bollocks, as Potter likes to repeat. “I’m gay, too.”

“Good,” Potter comments, his ears turning red.

“Great,” Draco adds, still waiting for the cereals.

“Fantastic,” Potter breathes out, his voice cracking, so Draco rubs his shoulder soothingly and slides his fingers through Potter’s amazing curls until he’s going loose and pliant again, the nervousness melting under Draco’s touch as Potter’s eyes glaze over.

“Do pass me the cereals, please,” Draco reminds him, and Potter complies with a contented sigh. “Did you know that if you see a double rainbow, the colours are inverted in the second rainbow?”

Draco knows he was probably the most logical choice. It’s common knowledge that he’s rather touchy-feely and is constantly threading his fingers through Theo’s hair or rubbing Pansy’s feet when she unceremoniously dumps them in his lap.

That’s just the way he is. He craves human contact to settle his nerves.

But Potter.

Potter is an entirely different matter.

He melts in Draco’s arms, letting out the most helpless and indecent sounds every time Draco touches him. Draco can’t help but wonder how beautifully vocal the man must be in bed, but then he reminds himself he needs to keep his wits about.

This is not a sexual thing for the Gryffindor.

Potter simply needs a bit of comfort, and Draco is a redeemed man.

He wants to show that he has changed, that he is willing to help. That he is good enough for Potter, to be his friend (former nemesis? Touch-buddy? Whatever).

This feels nice for Draco too, at the end of the day. 

He should consider himself lucky.

But why contain himself to chaste and innocent touches when he could have a little more? 

Draco makes Potter lie down on his bed without his top on and runs his finger down his spine, tracing the vertebrae one by one, slowly, and watching Potter’s gorgeous skin erupt in goosebumps as he whimpers underneath him.

“Feels nice, doesn’t it?” Draco murmurs with a smile.

When Potter emerges from his room in the morning, all sleep-rumpled and with hair sticking in every direction, Draco presses a kiss to Potter’s cheek and whispers against the sensitive spot under his ear that he smells really nice.

“You’re driving the poor man nuts,” Pansy comments with an appreciative glance.

“Nicely done,” Blaise adds, uncrossing his legs in a feline move and tipping an imaginary hat to Draco.

“I’m just giving him what he needs,” Draco argues, and it’s actually the truth. If he’s also getting what he wants and craves at the same time, it’s just convenient, isn’t it?

But then Granger corners him, arms folded over her breasts and a murderous expression on her face, demanding to know what kind of sick game Draco is playing, what kind of evil plot he has in mind.

“You lay one finger on him,” she starts, but Draco scoffs and rolls his eyes.

“That’s exactly the matter,” he points out. “Potter needs my hands on him. How fucking blind are you, Granger? I thought Potter was the one requiring glasses.”

She glares at him and storms off, and Potter seems more bashful when he approaches Draco that evening, but then he melts in his arms like usual, letting Draco slide a hand under the hem of his Muggle t-shirt and stroke his skin until Potter is practically purring next to him.

“Oh, look. The Manor’s getting repossessed,” Smith announces one morning over breakfast with a sadistic little glint in his eyes. The morning edition of the Prophet is open in his hands, a picture of the Manor on the front cover. “Where are you going to live after school ends, Malfoy? Found a bridge already? Perhaps you could join daddy in Azkaban.”

Draco pales, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

He knew this was a possibility, and Mother said he could always move to France with her, since their house in Provence hasn’t been touched by the Ministry’s sentence. But then his mother decided to find herself a new beau while Father was rotting in Azkaban, and Draco doesn’t fancy being a third wheel in the remote French countryside, merci beaucoup.

“He’s coming to live with me,” Potter announces before Draco can come up with a reply.

Draco turns to look at Potter, eyes wide as he wonders what the fuck the Saviour is smoking, his surprise mirrored by Weasley’s frown and Granger’s scowl.

“Getting yourself a new pet, Potter?” Smith comments acidly, but Potter just shows him his middle finger and takes Draco’s hand, dragging him out of the Main Hall before Draco has actually managed to grab himself some breakfast.

“I’ve been thinking about asking you for a while—it’s not just because of the Manor,” Potter blurts out as they leave the school building to walk in the sunny grounds. Summer is so strikingly close that Draco realises he barely has any time to find a solution to his housing problem. “You don’t have to come, of course, but I have lots of rooms at Grimmauld Place, too many. Sirius left it to me, even though I have no idea how to look after it because it’s a wizarding house. And I’m not a Black, so I’m not sure it likes me. But I want you there, Draco, and you have Black blood, so it’s kind of rightfully yours, too—”

“I’m coming,” Draco replies before he can get cold feet and change his mind. “I’ll move in with you, if that’s what you want.”

There’s a part of him, the shred of pride still alive in his heart, that wants to tell Potter that he doesn’t need his pity. There’s another part that doesn’t want to let go of Potter, that has been secretly anxious and depressed at the thought of what was going to happen at the end of the school year, when they were all going to move on with their lives. 

Who was going to touch Potter and make him feel good and wanted?

Who was going to look after him?

But this…

This is a chance Draco needs to grab with both hands and hold on tight.

Potter pauses, fingers still interlaced with Draco’s, and he looks at him with a spark in his eyes and a radiant smile blossoming on his face, something so rare these days that Draco is startled by it. He wants to commit it to memory to cherish it later, when he’s all alone in his room and doesn’t have to put on a façade anymore.

“It’d make me really happy to have you there,” Potter confesses, always so disarmingly honest that Draco’s stomach does an unpleasant little backflip and leaves him feeling dizzy.

“Okay,” Draco says. 

“Good,” Potter replies.

“Marvellous,” Draco adds. “Did you know that otters hold hands when they sleep so that they don’t drift apart and lose each other in the water?”

So Draco moves in with Potter.

And Potter becomes Harry.

Grimmauld Place seems to like Draco very much. It perks up as soon as he walks through the door, and then all it takes is a bit of elbow grease and months of work on the weekends and in their free evenings to turn it into a lovely home.

Granger and Weasley come to visit almost every day, since they both moved back with their respective families but still can’t seem to stay apart from Harry for more than twenty-four hours. Harry needs them anyway, especially since he has no clue what to do with his future.

“Have you checked the pamphlets I gave you the other day?” Granger asks, Summoning them from the drawer Harry has stuffed them into as soon as she’d left.

“Mate, you’ve always wanted to become an Auror,” Weasley replies with a helpless shrug.

Draco has tried to stay out of it, because it’s really none of his business, and it’s not like he’s Harry’s best friend, but he simply cannot stand seeing him so anguished any longer, so he clears his throat and announces, “I don’t think you should join the Aurors, Harry.”

Weasley gives him a mulish look, but Harry’s green eyes open wide, full of hope as his bare foot touches Draco’s under the table.

“No?” he simply asks.

“Nope,” Draco confirms, popping the p. “You've been through enough shit already, and you’ve spent too many years fighting. All you need now is time to recover. You still have awful nightmares and terrible memories, and the sense of guilt is practically eating you alive. Why put yourself through that on a daily basis as part of your job? You’ve done enough for the rest of the Wizarding World. Now it’s time to look after yourself.”

“But…” Harry starts, his voice small and insecure as he stares at his hands and munches on his bottom lip. “I’m not good at anything else…”

Draco’s heart threatens to crack, and he wishes they were alone, to take Harry in his arms and soothe the sorrow away with his hands, but instead, he tilts his head and waits for Harry to look into his eyes again.

“Harry,” he says gently, “that’s not true. You’re good at so many things! You are a brilliant cook and an excellent teacher. You’re great with children, and you’re still the fastest Seeker Hogwarts has ever seen. Besides, maybe this is the time you finally get to explore the things you would like to do. To learn new skills.”

“I hadn’t thought about that,” Harry admits, visibly cheering up.

“Take me, for example,” Draco announces with a flourish. “I was top of our class in Potions,” he says (take that, Granger), “extremely good at Transfiguration. And I’m going to work in the Ministry Archives, instead. Who would have thought?”

“That’s because no one else wanted to give you a job, and McGonagall put in a good word for you,” Weasley, the bastard, points out.

Draco decides to ignore him.

“I am very much enjoying this unexpected change of plans,” Draco tells Harry, tapping his foot on top of Harry’s and keeping it there. “And maybe you will also find something you really like where you least expect it.”

“Malfoy is right,” Granger announces, her expression solemn.

“Is he?” Weasley asks, looking dumbfounded.

“Am I?” Draco also enquires, because he didn’t think this moment would ever happen. He makes a mental note to buy a Pensieve as soon as he’s got enough savings.

“Yes,” she confirms, taking Harry’s hand and patting it gently. “I think you need to give yourself time to heal and to just enjoy life like you’ve never really had a chance to before. You have a house and enough money to survive for a good while without work. Why not try different things to see what you truly want to do?”

Harry smiles tentatively, his eyes locking with Draco’s, so bright and lovely that Draco’s stomach does that odd little somersault again.

Maybe he should see a Healer.

“Did you know that goats have excellent long-term memory?” Draco asks as he feels something warm in his chest threatening to make his heart beat out of his mouth.

“Goats?” Weasley asks with a funny face.

“Tell us more,” Harry says with a smile, summoning a packet of crisps to share.

Draco was not expecting to catch feelings for him, but he reckons that falling in love with Harry was rather inevitable.

How could he possibly resist when Harry is so sweet, so disarmingly lovely and protective towards Draco, trying to curse anyone who hexes him when they venture out in public together? How can Draco not fall more in love with Harry with every day that goes by when they spend every evening cooking and chatting and confessing embarrassing things to each other by the light of the fire?

All of Draco’s awful war crimes have been unearthed by the trials under Veritaserum, but he still manages to find little snippets of cruelty or cowardice to share with Harry. It’s like he has the masochistic need to show Harry how awful he can be (not that Harry hasn’t already seen his fair share of Draco’s nastiness in the past), so that Harry can change his mind and tell him to leave. Draco knows he doesn’t deserve to be here, living under the same roof as Harry Potter, touching him and learning from him how to cook and to be good. 

This is not the life he deserves. Draco must be stealing some other wonderful bloke’s place.

Karma will eventually come and bite his arse spectacularly.

But Harry doesn’t change his mind. He simply takes Draco’s left arm, rolling up the sleeves of his robes. He traces the lines of his Mark with his fingers, pressing them there, as if trying to push it back inside Draco.

“It’s never going to go away,” Draco murmurs, knowing it deep inside his bones. If Harry decides to keep him here, then he needs to know that the Dark Mark is unfortunately part of Draco, for the rest of his days.

“Do you want it to?” Harry asks, looking into his eyes.

“Every single day of my life,” Draco replies through clenched teeth. “But it needs to stay there to remind me of what kind of terrible mistakes I’m capable of.”  

“You’re no longer that scared sixteen-year-old who had been brainwashed by his parents,” Harry comments, and then he kisses Draco’s marked skin, making the tattoo tingle in the most wonderful way and leaving Draco speechless.

Draco confesses all sorts of things to Harry in the late hours of the night, and yet his heart is not strong enough to resist the onslaught of Harry’s childhood memories. Draco didn’t know—he simply had no idea. And he’d been such an utter shit to Harry in the past about his family.

“I don’t even have any photos of me as a child,” Harry confesses with a sigh, sinking into Draco's arms and eventually falling asleep there. And Draco can’t possibly move. What if Harry wakes up and finds him gone? What if he thinks he’s alone again in a tiny, dark cupboard?

Draco ends up taking a day off work the following week and locates the Dursleys. He points his wand at Petunia the moment the front door opens, figuring he’s not breaking the Statue of Secrecy since the Dursleys know about magic.

“Who the fuck are you, and what do you want from my wife?” a terrible man shouts at Draco, practically spitting in his face as he moves towards him, reaching with his hand to grab Draco’s wand.

“Petrificus Totalus,” Draco casts lazily, flicking his wand to open the door of the cupboard under the stairs. He vanishes all the contents and stuffs Vernon inside, closing the little door behind him with a soft click. “Muffliato.”

“What have you done to my husband?” Petunia shrieks, her hands shaking. 

“Petunia, be a darling and make me a cup of tea. Milk, no sugar.” Draco announces with the sweetest smile, following the terrified woman into the kitchen after shutting the front door behind his back. 

The rumbling sound of someone running down the stairs makes Draco lift his head to look at the big man entering the kitchen and standing there, staring at him in confusion.

“Where’s dad?” the brute asks Petunia. 

Ah, that must be Dudley. 

“I sent him to the naughty corner before my hand slipped and I accidentally castrated him,” Draco replies serenely, showing his wand with a smile.

“Are you a friend of Harry’s?” Dudley replies, looking wary as he takes a seat in front of Draco at the kitchen table.

“Yes,” Draco replies proudly. “Indeed, I am Harry’s friend.” 

“Why are you here?” Petunia finally asks, her voice trembling as she deposits a cup of tea on the kitchen table, spilling half of it with her shaking hand.

“I want pictures of Harry as a baby,” Draco announces. ”Any photos you can find of him growing up. I want his first day at school, his toothless grin, that summer you took him to Cornwall and he learnt how to swim; anything you have. Old toys, books, baby clothes. Dig out the stuff, Petunia, or we'll be digging your husband’s grave.”

Petunia looks like she’s about to faint.

“Alright, alright, chill out,” Dudley says, and he storms up to the loft. 

It takes hours. The photos need cropping, because Harry’s in the background in most of them, but the ones Draco chooses are actually okay. Harry is even smiling in a few of them. Dudley manages to find Harry’s old teddy and some books, saying that they used to belong to him originally, but he had loads and Harry stole them without him noticing. Draco feels like hexing him really badly, but the Muggle has been useful, and Harry doesn’t seem to hate him that much. 

Before Draco leaves, Petunia retrieves the blanket Harry was wrapped in when he was left by her front door. She pushes it in Draco’s hands and looks the other way.

“This belonged to my parents,” she explains. “They left it to Lily, of course. It’s a family heirloom.”

“Before I go,” Draco says, holding the soft blanket in his hands, ever so carefully, trying to imagine Harry’s face when he sees it. “I’m going to extract all the memories you have of Harry’s parents. Think about when they announced they were getting married, or when Lily told you she was pregnant. I want the lovely memories, okay? None of your jealous shit, Petunia.”

Harry won’t stop crying when he opens his Christmas present that first Christmas together, and Draco feels his heart filling with love, about to crack and burst with it.

He never thought he would get to be this happy. He never thought he would be so desperately in love.

“Thank you,” Harry murmurs wetly for the tenth time. “Thank you so much, Draco.”

“You’re very welcome,” Draco simply replies. “Did you know that every year, millions of Christmas Island red crabs migrate to the sea, all at the same time, to lay their eggs in the ocean? It’s utterly fascinating.”

Draco thinks he can keep on living like this, quietly loving Harry from a close distance, letting him rip his heart to pieces every time that he leans closer or silently asks for a cuddle that Draco is always ready to give.

He can do it.

It’s breaking his heart little by little, day by day, but he can do it.

This is karma biting his arse, but Draco presents both cheeks.

And yet, shit hits the fan on Draco’s twentieth birthday.

Harry refuses to play spin the bottle.

Draco refuses to play truth or dare.

But trouble comes in threes.

“I have a special potion we can all try,” Lovegood announces cheerfully, extracting a vial from her colourful handbag, and Draco groans. 

“I’m not taking drugs,” he declares, but Pansy and Theo shush him as they listen to what Lovegood has to say about her concoction.

“It’s not a drug. It’s a soulmate potion,” she explains calmly, and the room falls silent in anticipation. “If you take it, your soulmark will appear somewhere on your skin, and it will match the one of your soulmate.” 

“What kind of nonsense is that?” Granger asks with a huff, already a bit tipsy as she shakes her head in amusement.

“It’s true! I brewed it myself,” Lovegood explains. “You can check the instructions here.”

She extracts an old tome from her bag and hands it to Granger, who studies it for a few minutes with her bottom lip between her teeth.

“It looks innocuous,” she declares with a shrug. “It probably won’t do anything.”

“I’m still not taking it,” Harry says quickly, but Ginevra elbows him roughly and tells him to stop being a spoilsport. Then, someone summons shot glasses, and Lovegood is suddenly pouring the bright turquoise potion around, and both Harry and Draco end up with a glass in their hands.

“At the count of three,” Ginevra shouts, “One, two, three!”

They all down it, and Draco looks at Harry who gets elbowed again, by Finnegan this time, and Harry groans before he drinks his potion. Draco does the same, his hand moving automatically, thinking that it won’t even work—this stuff never does. There’s no such thing as a soulmate potion. Draco would have read about it in the books he devoured in Eighth Year—

“What the fuck is that?” Weasley asks, pointing at the dark blue ivy-like shape appearing around Granger’s wrist. She stares at it with open eyes, looking dumbstruck, while Weasley checks his own wrist and finds nothing.

“Ron,” Ginevra says feebly, pointing at her brother’s legs, “check your calf.”

There’s a bright red splotch of ink there, the shape resembling that of a horse. 

“Fuckety, fuck, fuck, fuck,” Pansy mutters under her breath, taking Blaise’s calf between her hands and revealing the exact same red horse. “Blaise!” 

Blaise seems frozen for a moment, but then his eyes lock with Weasley’s blue irises. Blaise smiles, open and delighted, looking at Weasley, who turns a deep shade of red before he looks at Granger, then at Blaise, then at Granger again before he Disapparates with a loud, “Shit!”

“Interesting,” Lovegood says airily before she lifts the sleeves of her puffy blouse to uncover a green seashell just above her elbow. 

Ginevra looks at her, blinking a few times, before she lifts her own top, showing Lovegood and the rest of the room the exact same seashell on her skin.

“Oh, god,” Finnegan blurts out. “It works, then.”

“Lovely,” Lovegood whispers, taking Ginevra’s hand and kissing it, her gaze fond as she smiles at her friend.

Draco doesn’t dare to look.

His body is fully covered despite the warm weather because he never shows his scars. 

Everyone starts removing or lifting clothes to look for a mark, but Harry and Draco sit still, staring at each other, until Draco can’t take it anymore and excuses himself to hide in his bedroom.

Draco takes his top off.

Nothing.

He looks at his back in the mirror, checking under his armpits, lifting his long hair to uncover his neck.

Still nothing.

He removes his trousers, then his socks, and his underwear, checking the soles of his feet, between his toes, under his balls, between his bum cheeks.

Absolutely fucking nothing.

He’s already crying when Harry timidly knocks on the door and enters without waiting for Draco’s reply. Harry looks startled and shuts the door quickly when he realises Draco is naked.

“Hey, are you alright?” Harry asks, moving closer but not daring to touch him, eyes roaming all over Draco’s body as his cheeks flush.

“It’s not there!” Draco nearly shrieks in panic. 

“What?” Harry asks, clearly confused as he looks down, then up again, staring back into Draco’s eyes. 

“The soulmark,” Draco explains through the tears. “I don’t have one.”

“Oh,” Harry breathes out, then a frown appears on his face. “Are you sure? Do you want me to check? Maybe it’s under your hair or something.”

Harry steps closer, blushing furiously when confronted with Draco’s complete nudity, but then he threads his fingers through Draco’s hair, checking carefully with knitted eyebrows, behind his ears, at the nape of his neck, under his hair. 

“There’s nothing,” Draco mutters forlornly. “No soulmark.”

“I’m sure there’s a logical explanation,” Harry mutters, taking Draco’s slim wrist and lifting Draco’s arm gingerly to check the underside. “Or the potion was faulty. I wouldn’t trust Luna with this kind of thing. I mean, she’s great at Potions, but the book she used was probably a bunch of nonsense.”

“Did the others all have one?” Draco asks, looking straight in Harry’s eyes.

Harry blinks a few times, biting his lips, then he nods.

“Only Luna, Ginny, Ron and Blaise had matching ones,” he explains. “All the others had random marks that didn’t match. But I wouldn’t wor—”

“Do you have one?” Draco abruptly asks, dreading to find out that Harry’s mark is something beautiful that will match with someone out there—someone perfect for him.

Harry stares at him for a long moment before he shrugs.

“I haven’t checked,” he simply replies, making Draco’s hopes lift and crash at the same time.

Draco stares at his own feet, bare and bony on the soft carpet. They chose it together, a light blue that Harry said went well with the birch furniture Draco picked for his own room, something calming that reminded Draco of the sky.

He wonders if he will have to move out once Harry finds his soulmate.

He probably will.

Harry moves, taking Draco’s hand in his and squeezing it. Draco squeezes back, the words lost somewhere, stuck in his throat. 

There’s a loud knock on the door that makes them both jump.

“Harry, you alright in there, mate?” Finnegan calls. “Everyone is freaking out.”

“We’re having a serious conversation,” Harry replies. “Leave us alone!”

“Well, that sounds gay—” Finnegan replies before his voice gets cut off by Harry’s Muffliato.

“It’s because of the Dark Mark,” Draco blurts out, and Harry’s grip tightens on his hand. “It’s because I sold my soul to the Dark Lord, so I don’t get to have a soulmate.”

“Nonsense,” Harry argues, shaking his head and pulling Draco closer, wrapping his warm hands around Draco’s back and pressing them there, solid and comforting. “Besides, he forced you to take the Mark. You didn’t willingly give him anything.”

Draco realises that he is fully naked. And in Harry’s arms.

There’s something pressing against Draco’s thigh, but he’s paralysed and cannot move a muscle, not when he has Harry wrapped around him and breathing hot against the sensitive skin of his neck.

“I’m all wrong,” Draco sniffles pitifully, closing his eyes and wishing he could disappear before he finds out what Harry’s mark looks like.

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Harry argues, pulling him even closer, and that’s when Draco realises that Harry is hard.

Harry’s erection is pressing against Draco’s naked skin.

Draco opens his eyes, blinking a few times as his heartbeat starts racing, pounding louder and louder in his ears until he locks gaze with Harry, and the green of his eyes is almost gone, reduced to a thin ring.

“I…” Draco starts, never thinking he could have Harry like this, never in his wildest fantasies imagining Harry could want him.

He thought all Harry wanted was friendship. Gentle touches and comforting hugs. A friend to spend his free time with. A shoulder to cry on when the world or his memories became too much.

Draco knows he’s not ugly—judging by the number of witches and wizards who try to bed him on a regular basis, he’s probably quite the contrary. But the others never mattered to him.

“I’ve never seen you naked before,” Harry mumbles, eyes wandering down again, lingering on the awful scars on Draco’s chest, the ones he’s constantly trying to hide. “You always took a shower really early in the morning or late at night back at Hogwarts. And at home you’re always fully dressed.”

Is Draco sensing some regret behind Harry’s words?

“I didn’t want to put you off…” Draco starts, then shakes his head when Harry’s gaze moves further down, to the stiffening cock between Draco’s legs. Draco’s cheeks catch fire when Harry lets out a little groan and unconsciously pushes against him, pressing his erection against Draco’s, who lets out a startled moan. 

“Merlin, you look so beautiful,” Harry mutters, and then looks back up, at Draco’s lips this time. “How could I possibly be put off? You’re so gorgeous…”

“Shall we find out what your soulmark looks like?” Draco asks, because he’s a bloody masochist, and apparently a self-sabotaging bastard as well. But he needs to know.

He can’t just let this happen and then regret it later, when Harry realises it was all a colossal mistake.

What is Draco going to do when Harry leaves him for his perfect match? 

“I want to kiss you first,” Harry confesses, and Draco’s lips part in surprise. “Draco, I need to, please. Can I kiss you?”

All of Draco’s resolutions crumble like a house of cards, and he simply leans forward, his mouth parted as Harry presses against him, his tongue licking the seams of Draco’s lips almost instantly, tasting him tentatively. It’s all too much and not enough at the same time. Draco places his hands on Harry’s chest and gasps when Harry does it again, licking inside his mouth this time. Draco was expecting a chaste kiss, something soft and hesitant, because Harry is always so shy when it comes to physical contact, always on tiptoes when asking to be touched. 

This time, though, he takes and takes and takes.

He deepens the kiss with a whine, running his fingers through the soft hair at the nape of Draco’s neck, nestling his fingers there and tugging gently to make Draco tilt his head and open his mouth wider so that Harry can lick inside him.

Harry kisses him with a fervour that is threatening to burn Draco alive, pulling desperate moans from him, making him hard and wet, leaking precome into the fabric of Harry’s t-shirt and making the red darker as Draco ruts against him. 

“Harry…” Draco pants, feeling Harry’s hands all over him, in his hair and down his back, digging into the flesh of his buttocks, pulling him closer.

“Need you,” Harry mutters, moving them towards the bed, so eager that his hands flutter against Draco’s skin, nervous and possessive while he claims Draco’s mouth again and again, as if he could never have enough of kissing Draco.

There’s a part of Draco’s brain that is screaming at him about the soulmark, about the fact that Harry’s could be just there, in plain sight, a stark reminder of the fact that he is not meant for Draco, but then Harry is taking his t-shirt off in a swift move, his mouth immediately back on Draco’s as soon as the items of clothing start piling on the floor, one by one. 

Draco lands on the bed, his naked back hitting the soft duvet, and Harry peels his socks off, revealing more immaculate skin, not a trace of strange drawings or ink to stain it. There’s a scar in the middle of Harry’s chest, and Draco remembers what left it there. There are smaller burn marks on his arms, left by the pots and pans he used to cook for the Dursleys. A Stinging Hex that hit too hard on his ribcage. The faint lines left by the elastic band of his boxers before they were removed in a haste. 

Harry is all naked and hard and breathtakingly beautiful, and there’s no mark on him.

Draco keens when Harry presses down, the overwhelming feeling of skin against skin making Draco close his eyes and arch his neck, his lips parted on a gasp. Harry licks his Adam’s apple, a slow drag of his tongue from Draco’s throat all the way up to his lips, as if he could feel Draco’s moan vibrate through his skin.

“Fuck, I want you so badly,” Harry groans, rocking his hips against Draco, and the friction is amazing. Harry is so hard and big, his cock ruddy and wet at the tip as it slides along Draco’s, their foreskin catching for a moment and leaving them both breathless.

“I’ve never done this before,” Draco confesses, feeling embarrassed but not wanting Harry to believe the rumours about all the Slytherins being sluts. “Harry, I’ve never—with anyone.”

“Me neither,” Harry blurts out with an easy smile, a relieved laugh escaping his lips before he captures Draco’s mouth for another wet kiss. “You feel so good. I’ve wanted to do this for so long, Draco…”

“You have?” Draco asks when they part for air, but then Harry claims his mouth again, rutting against him and pulling a low, long moan from Draco, swallowing his needy sounds as Harry wraps his hand around them both and starts pumping their cocks together. “Fuck—wait, Harry, wait…”

Harry freezes instantly, his eyes widening in panic, but Draco smiles up at him, his body pulled taut like a cord but mind syrupy slow as he reaches for his bedside drawer to pass Harry a vial of lube.

Harry exhales, and Draco reaches for his face, stroking his cheek while Harry pours some lube onto his palm before wrapping it again around them. They both feel it, the perfectly delicious friction that makes them cry out at how earth-shattering it feels to be so close, so utterly close that Draco feels like his head is swimming, swimming, swimming.

“Draco…” Harry calls his name, again and again until his eyes squeeze shut and he stills for a second before he comes, hard and fast, his breath stuttering while he spills his come all over Draco’s belly, covering his cock with it. Draco watches him, enraptured, drinking in that perfect sight and wanting to engrave it in his memory. He shakes with it, with the realisation that he’s made Harry come, that they’ve been so intimate that Harry is now stroking Draco’s cock, using his own come as lube. 

“Oh, fuck…” Draco sobs, his legs trembling and stomach clenching as he feels it, the pleasure building inside him, making his toes curl while Harry watches him, his eyes so green. Draco has to press his eyelids shut and then finally gives in to the pleasure. He tips over the edge with a startled cry, Harry’s name between his lips as he lets Harry milk him to completion, stroking him until it almost becomes too much. Draco is oversensitive with it but still keeps his eyes closed and lets Harry stroke away his sanity with his come-soaked fingers.

“Merlin, you’re amazing,” Harry mumbles, leaving a trail of kisses down Draco’s neck, making a mess of them both while Draco is still trying to catch his breath, still shuddering through the last waves of his orgasm. “So hot. So beautiful. You’re a dream come true, Draco. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this with you.”

“You…have?” Draco breathes out in disbelief, and Harry laughs against his skin, kissing a scar that he follows with his tongue all the way down Draco’s chest.

“God, yes,” Harry replies, kissing his mouth and pressing a smile against Draco’s lips.

Draco takes his time exploring Harry’s body afterwards, touching and kissing every inch of skin, secretly looking for the mark and never finding it, not knowing how he’s supposed to feel about it. Relieved? Elated? 

“Are you worried that it’s not there?” he finally dares to ask Harry, who hums at him, lying face down on Draco’s bed while Draco kisses his way down Harry’s back, spreading his legs and moving southwards, startling Harry with a kiss at the very base of his spine. Draco’s breath is hot against Harry’s furled hole, wanting to touch it, to swipe his tongue on it. 

“What?” Harry asks, his words slurred, face pressed in Draco’s pillow that he said smelled divine. “Oh, fuck, there…”

Draco closes his eyes and runs his tongue from Harry’s balls all the way up, lapping at his rim until Harry is a whimpering mess under him, his fingers clenching and unclenching as he grips at the pillowcase and creases it. 

Draco takes his time, relishing the feeling of having Harry fall apart under him.

“Hmm,” Draco hums, dipping his tongue inside him and making Harry cry out in pleasure. Draco lifts his hips, then moves his hand to the front, stroking Harry lazily while he still licks and kisses his hole, until Harry comes again, painting Draco’s bedsheets with his release and calling his name with a broken voice. 

Draco is hard again, but he contents himself with watching Harry come down from his high, spent and undone under his hands, whimpering at the feeling of Draco’s fingers over his skin, featherlight and delicate.

“I love the way you touch me,” Harry confesses, his eyes still closed and his long eyelashes fanning his cheeks prettily, almost curling at the ends. Draco notices the first freckles appearing on Harry’s skin, knowing that his face will be blossoming with them by summer. He sinks his fingers inside Harry’s thick curls, humming in delight, still in disbelief at what they’ve just done.

The day is growing dark, and the house has gone silent.

It’s probably just the two of them left, but Draco doesn’t want to leave the safe cocoon of his bedroom, dreading to pop the bubble of happiness he’s suddenly found himself inside of.

“You don’t have the soulmark,” Draco repeats softly after casting a Cleaning Charm on his mouth. Harry’s eyes finally flutter open, his eyelids hooded as he stares at Draco, moving his hand to stroke Draco’s thigh and pull him closer.

“I don’t care,” Harry replies. “It’s probably because I died and I had a piece of Voldemort’s soul in me.”

“I…” Draco starts, blinking a few times and wondering if that’s the truth. It would make sense. Draco still has a residue of the Dark Lord’s magic inside his body, which is probably why he doesn’t have a soulmark.

“I didn’t want it, anyway,” Harry admits serenely. “C’mere.”

Harry kisses him unhurriedly, taking his time to make Draco unravel again, pulling at his cock while he drinks in the sight of Draco panting and moaning and coming all over himself.

They end up having to change the bedsheets and jumping under the shower together, Harry’s hands warm and careful as they wash Draco with so much tenderness that Draco feels his heart might shatter from it. 

“Can I sleep in your bed tonight?” Draco asks, a mere whisper in Harry’s ear.

“Yes,” Harry replies, still so eager to have him close, his grip tight on Draco’s slender waist. “Want you near me.”

Draco wakes up the following morning wondering if it was all a dream, finding Harry asleep next to him, an arm wrapped around Draco’s waist and Harry’s sleeping face so peaceful that Draco thinks he might cry.

He doesn’t dare to move for a bit, basking in the feeling of Harry’s warm body pressed next to his; watching the rise and fall of his chest. Draco’s wand vibrates, startling Harry awake with the morning alarm, and for a moment his face looks confused and his eyes unfocused, so green without his glasses.

“Wassematter?” Harry mumbles, wiping his face with his hand and then making a soft, pleased sound at the back of his throat as he snuggles closer and presses a kiss to Draco’s naked shoulder. Draco releases a breath he didn’t realise he was holding, feeling a warmth spread through his chest when Harry kisses him on the lips, morning breath and all, pulling him even closer and wrapping his legs around Draco.

“We need to get up soon,” Draco reminds him between kisses. “Mr Ollivander won’t be happy if you turn up late again for your apprenticeship. You’ve been doing so well.” 

“Five more minutes,” Harry begs, running his hands over the scars on Draco’s chest and reaching for his lips again.

They end up being late, but Draco doesn’t care for once, too stupid with happiness as he kisses Harry goodbye before he leaves, something warm and fluttering making his chest almost sore.

He spends his day in a daze, thinking about Harry, about his lips on him, about his warm skin and the lack of soulmark on it. Draco spends his lunch break flicking through dusty volumes in the archive, looking for mentions of soulmates and potions to reveal them. By five o’clock he’s worked himself into an anxious mess, and he figures there’s only one person who can give him an answer or at least help him understand if it’s all because of the Mark on his arm.

Draco Floos to the Three Broomsticks and then walks all the way to the castle. The Headmistress receives him with a surprised look on her face, offering tea and biscuits and looking taken aback when Draco refuses them.

“I’d just…” Draco starts, swallowing loudly. “I just need to speak to Professor Snape, if that’s okay with you.” McGonagall raises a questioning eyebrow. “In private, if you don’t mind.”

The woman looks up at the portrait of Draco’s old mentor, and he nods at her, his expression grave as usual. 

“Very well, then,” she says, lifting her skirts as she stands up. “Let me know when you’re done and I can use my office again.”

Draco waits for her to shut the door before he finally turns to look at Severus, who stares back at him with a little smile on his thin lips.

“Draco,” he says, his voice deep. “To what do I owe the honour of this visit?”

“Severus,” Draco greets him with a nod after a moment. “There’s something I need to ask you.”

“Let me guess. Is this about Potter?” Severus asks, looking mildly amused, but Draco huffs in consternation and feels his cheeks heating up. Dumbledore beams at him, waving his hand cheerfully, but Draco ignores him. He’s still mad at the Headmaster for leaving Harry with the Dursleys for so many years, but he doesn’t have time to give him a piece of his mind right now.

“Do you think a soulmark revealing potion would not work on me because of the Dark Mark?” Draco asks, cutting to the chase. Severus’s eyebrows go up in surprise, and several other portraits seem to be suddenly awake and extremely interested in their conversation.

“Explain,” Severus instructs with a frown, and Draco does.

He tells him about the potion, about the marks appearing on other people’s body but not his. He rolls up his sleeve and shows Severus the mark, fading but still there, ugly and stark against Draco’s milky-white skin.

“Is it because of this?” he asks.

“Have I taught you nothing?” Severus asks imperiously. “You should never take any potions from strangers, especially dubious concoctions that promise to do stupid things like revealing a soulbond!”

“I’m sorry,” Draco mumbles, feeling like an eleven-year-old again and lowering his gaze. “Everyone took it, but it was just me and Harry who had no mark.”

“Aha!” Severus cries out triumphantly, making Draco jump. “I knew this had to do with Potter!”

“Severus,” Draco pleads, but his old professor sighs, shaking his head.

“I need to see the ingredients and instructions Lovegood followed,” Severus says matter-of-factly, pulling his sleeves up like in the old days. “And then we need to test more potions. We need a sample of subjects to cross-reference our results. If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do it properly. Chop-chop, Draco, there’s no time to waste. And next time, say no to peer pressure!”

By the time Draco gets home that evening, exhausted but hopeful, he finds Harry waiting by the fire, sitting on the floor cross-legged with a worried expression on his face.

“Thank god, you’re back!” he calls when Draco appears through the Floo.

“Sorry, I’m late,” Draco replies, kneeling down in front of Harry and noticing the creases on his forehead, his red, puffy eyes and bitten lips. “Hey, are you okay? What happened?”

“I thought you didn’t want to come back home,” Harry mumbles sheepishly, then he gasps when Draco pulls him into his arms, melting against him. “I thought you had changed your mind about us, that you…”

“No,” Draco says a little desperately, shaking his head in the crook of Harry’s neck. “No, Harry. Never.”

He feels like utter shit for making Harry worry, for making him doubt the strength of his feelings. So, he cups Harry’s cheeks with his cold hands and kisses him on the lips, long and meaningful, until Harry relaxes in his arms, his breathing slowing down and mouth turning languid against Draco’s. 

“Missed you,” Harry confesses when they part for air, and Draco’s heart clenches in his chest. “What took you so long?”

“I…” Draco starts, unsure what to say. He doesn’t want to lie to Harry, but he can’t explain this. Harry doesn’t care about finding his soulmate; he made that clear the day before. But Draco—Draco simply cannot let it pass. What if one day Harry’s mark appears? What if he finds someone who is perfect for him, and Draco’s left behind with his shattered heart? Maybe it’s better to find out now that things are still so new and fragile between them. Maybe there’s a chance they will still be friends if Harry dumps him now. So, Draco guiltily says, “I just had some work to do.”

“Okay,” Harry replies with a smile. “I made you that Moroccan tagine you really like.”

Draco feels a pang in his chest at the thought of Harry cooking for him, knowing full well that he only does it for the people he truly loves; that sometimes he can’t even be bothered to cook for himself but somehow always finds it in him to do it for Draco.

“Thank you,” Draco says, kissing Harry’s hand before he takes him to the kitchen.

That night, he lets Harry put his fingers inside him, slow and careful. His green eyes are open wide as Harry takes him all in; Draco coming undone under him, the helpless little noises Draco is making, the way he clenches desperately around Harry’s slick fingers.

“Fuck, look at you,” Harry murmurs, pushing deeper, watching Draco arch his back and moan as Harry slides out, then in again, the noises so indecent that Draco’s cock leaks in anticipation of what’s to come. “So perfect. Draco…”

Harry can’t seem to pry his eyes from him, and Draco keens, closing his eyelids as Harry starts moving faster, stroking his cock hard, until Draco comes with a startled moan, letting Harry milk him until he’s oversensitive with it, whimpering under him. Harry’s fingers stay there for a little longer, his mouth finding Draco’s to kiss him, wet and open and desperate. 

Draco goes down on his knees for him, letting Harry take his pleasure from his mouth, hands buried in Draco’s fine hair. He tugs at it gently, moaning as Draco takes him deeper and hollows his cheeks. 

“Hmm,” Draco hums around Harry’s cock, closing his eyes as he bobs his head. He doesn’t know if he’s doing this right, and he’s terrified of doing something wrong, but Harry is making the most indecent sounds, so Draco continues.

“I want to fuck you so badly,” Harry confesses, and Draco uses his hand and his mouth to tell Harry that there’s nothing he would like more, that he loves Harry so much that his heart is about to burst. “Draco—”

Harry comes, hard and deep down Draco’s throat, filling him with his release, making him feel loved and cherished as Harry’s fingers thread through his hair, tenderly, his thumb tracing the lines of Draco’s eyebrows and nose, stroking his cheek.

Draco feels so happy and knows, deep down, that this can’t last. He always spoils the good things in his life, so there must be a catch somewhere.

He decides it’s probably the soulmark.

“Draco, darling,” Pansy says over her cup of coffee. “Remind me why the fuck we have to meet up this early on a Saturday morning?”

“It’s eleven o’clock,” Lovegood remarks serenely, but Pansy glares at her.

“Some of us have a life, Lovegood,” she replies acidly. “Some of us came home at two in the morning and now have a terrible hangover,” she continues, but Theo elbows her and points at the cauldron sitting in the middle of their kitchen table. 

“What’s cooking, good-looking?” he asks Draco with raised eyebrows.

“Soulmate potion,” Draco simply replies, and they all stare at him. 

“So, you woke me up at the break of dawn to make me take another potion that probably tastes like stinky socks,” Pansy sums up, her eyes narrowing into a murderous look.

Draco can’t really confess that the potion was finally ready and Harry was out with Teddy and Aunt Andromeda, so this was the perfect moment to try it.

“You have been carefully selected as the best candidates to help me prove if Lovegood’s potion actually worked or not,” he announces with flourish instead. Theo shrugs and summons a few glasses from the counter. Pansy leans back into her chair and raises an eyebrow.

“Is this about Potter?” she asks, making Draco groan. “Did your soulmarks not match? You got your knickers in a twist lately, darling. Tell Pansy what happened between you and the Saviour.”

“No comment,” Draco replies. 

He’s not going to tell anyone they’re together. At least that will save him the pity (or piss-taking) when Harry eventually breaks up with him.

No, Draco is going to treasure the time they spend together, enjoying every single minute of it while Harry is still his.

“I’m only doing this if I get to try the potion on the bloke I’m seeing,” Pansy announces, and Draco frowns.

“Who are you seeing?” he asks, and she bats her eyelashes at him.

“I’ll tell you my secret, if you tell me yours,” she replies. The cow.

“Drink up,” Draco comments sullenly. “You can have all the leftover potion you want.”

Lovegood doesn’t protest and downs her glass without a question, and then Draco sees the marks appear on their skin. Lovegood’s seashell, exactly in the same position as last time. Pansy lifts her pyjamas to reveal a purple snake coiled around her navel. Theo tilts his neck and shows Draco an orange daisy under his right ear. 

“Are they all the same as last time?” Draco asks, his heart beating faster and faster as they nod and stare back at him. “Could you excuse me for a moment, please?”

He hides in the bathroom and checks everywhere.

Nothing.

“Darling, are you alright in there?” Pansy calls a moment later, knocking insistently on the door.

“Fine!” he replies, panic leaking from his voice. “Marvellous. Just give me a moment.”

Draco takes deep, steadying breaths, pressing his forehead against the cold bathroom tiles.

It’s not like he was hoping for a different result.

He knew this was going to happen.

And yet…

“Okay,” he says when he finally finds the courage to emerge from the bathroom. “The experiment is over for today.”

The marks are slowly fading, and Lovegood looks at him with worry in her eyes, as if she could read through him.

“Are you okay, Draco?” she asks, and he nods, doing his best to look nonchalant.

“Never been better!” he announces. “I’ll let you know when we can meet up again.”

“Wait, what?” Pansy asks. “Darling, if you think I’m going to wake up early again just to prove that you and Potter are meant to be—”

“Did you know that you’re more likely to be killed by a cow than by a shark?” Draco asks before he Disapparates.

“We’re going to try this next,” Severus says, pointing at the book in Draco’s left hand. “That looks more stable. The potion you found in the French essay doesn’t seem genuine to me. I have a feeling they missed out something.”

“Okay,” Draco replies, checking the instructions again. It will only take five hours to brew it, and he can probably get away with preparing it while Harry is at work.

“It would be interesting to find out if the marks that appear are the same,” Severus comments, clearly sounding excited about the experiment but barely showing it. 

“Yes,” Draco comments with a grimace. “Interesting.”

“I’m not drinking that,” Weasley comments, scrunching up his nose.

“I’m sorry, but who invited you to our house?” Pansy asks with a raised eyebrow.

“I was asking Ginny to come along,” Lovegood explains calmly, smiling at her girlfriend, “and Ron was there when we were talking, and in the end he decided to tag along! Isn’t that lovely?”

“Shall I call Blaise?” Theo asks, and Weasley goes from pale to pink to tomato red in less than ten seconds, which scares Draco shitless and makes him wonder if Weasley is about to pass out as he starts furiously shaking his head and spluttering a series of no, dear Merlin, please don’t, absolutely not.

“I reckon Ronnie here wants to find out if the first potion was a fluke,” Pansy says with a devious smirk, and Draco swears Weasley’s ears are fuming. 

“Let’s drink this crap so that we can go back to our Quidditch match,” Ginevra says, and she quickly drinks her potion.

The soulmarks appear, exactly the same as the previous time, all in the same position.

“Fuck,” Weasley groans, covering his freckled face with his hand and letting out a low, pained sound. “I’m screwed.”

“Ron!” Blaise calls out, suddenly appearing by the kitchen door in his pyjamas, a radiant smile on his face. “Have you finally decided you want to come on a date with me? You got me a bit worried after you ignored my last five owls.”

“Merlin save me,” Weasley mutters under his breath, letting Blaise come closer and take his hand, leading him upstairs without a protest as Blaise starts telling him about the Cannons tickets he managed to get for them. 

“Interesting,” Pansy says, sipping on her potion and smacking her lips loudly. “I like this one, Draco. It tastes like strawberries.”

“If you’ll excuse me for a moment,” Draco says before disappearing to have another small panic attack in the bathroom.

“I love the way you look right now,” Harry whispers against his lips, his breath hot on Draco’s skin.

“Ah…” Draco moans, stilling for a moment and letting his eyes drift shut as he gets used to the overwhelming feeling. He can’t believe Harry is inside him. “How—how is that?”

“You look so gorgeous,” Harry says, tracing Draco’s top lip with his tongue, pressing a little deeper inside and making Draco whimper. He’s so fucking big, so hot and hard inside Draco. Harry moves, drawing his cock almost all the way out before he sinks back in with a gasp. “You look like you’re about to fall apart.” Draco whines, biting on his bottom lip as Harry moves again, hitting a particular spot that sets Draco alight and makes him cry out in pleasure. “You look absolutely perfect.” Draco feels like he’s going to come in a second if Harry keeps on fucking him like that. “You look mine.”

He wants to tell Harry that he is his. That Draco wants to belong to him. That Harry can take all of him and keep him for as long as he wants. But all that comes out of his mouth is Harry’s name and a moan and a shuddered gasp as he comes all over himself, quickly followed by Harry, who sinks his face in the crook of Draco’s neck and whimpers.

If only this could last…

“Come here,” Harry says, still lying on top of Draco after he’s slipped out of him. They’re a sticky, sweaty mess, and Draco feels a little sore, but he still huffs out a laugh and pats Harry’s bum playfully.

“I’m already here,” he points out. “Where else am I supposed to go?”

“Here,” Harry says, casting a quick Cleaning Charm and pulling Draco even closer, until their bodies are pressed so close that Draco almost can’t tell where Harry starts and he ends. Harry’s skin is so warm and soft, his body so familiar that Draco thinks he might start crying any moment now. “I want to hear your heartbeat.”

“Need to check if I’m a vampire?” Draco jokes, and Harry bites him on the shoulder, making him yelp.

“Here, feel mine,” Harry says, taking Draco’s hand and pressing it under his jaw, where his heart is beating hard and fast. 

Draco goes very still and just feels it for a moment. The life pumping inside his love.

“You make me so happy,” Harry murmurs, listening to the mad thump thump thump of Draco’s heart.  

“Did you know,” Draco asks softly, closing his eyes and letting all the love he feels wash over him. “Did you know that squids have three hearts?”

“Draco?” Harry asks softly.

“Yes, darling?”

“I love you.”

Draco thinks that if he had three hearts, they would all still beat just for Harry.

“This one smells vile,” Ginevra says with a grimace, peering at the thick, green potion in her glass. “Can I pass on it?”

“I think Draco would be terribly upset after he spent over two months brewing it,” Lovegood says kindly.

“Screw Draco and his feelings,” Pansy announces, pushing her glass away.

“Come on, Pans,” Theo encourages her. “Don’t you want to find out if that new bloke you’re dating is your soulmate? You’ve dumped the last three men you were seeing. Maybe this is the one. By the way, where’s Weasley? He wasn’t here last week either.”

Pansy points at the ceiling, at the rhythmic thumping coming from above their heads.

“I think he’s too busy getting fucked by Blaise,” she announces, and Ginevra spits all of her potion all over the table with a loud noise, making Pansy shout, “Gross!”

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me Ron was upstairs having sex with Zabini!” Ginevra accuses, the familiar seashell appearing on her freckled skin.

 A loud moan comes from the room above them, and Luna smiles happily.

“Aww, Blaise must have found Ron’s prostate,” she declares. “I’m so glad for him.”

“Ugh, kill me now,” Ginevra says, her forehead hitting the table.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Draco says.

“You look happy,” Granger whispers while she’s flicking through a thick volume on elvish magic. 

Draco passes her another book, taking the ones she discarded and placing them back on the shelves where they belong.

He doesn’t say anything to her, partly because there are other people in the Archives and it’s his job to be quiet, but also because he doesn’t really know what to say.

He is happy. 

More than he ever thought possible.

He gets to go home to Harry every evening. Harry, who dotes on him and buys him little presents to show him how much he cares. Croissants from Draco’s favourite bakery, cups of hot chocolate on cold winter days, a new book that looks just perfect for him, a pair of lacy panties that make Harry go mad with want. 

Harry, who started smiling and laughing in new ways that fill Draco’s heart with so much love he thinks it will overflow. 

Harry, who touches him with a sense of renewed awe every time they tumble in bed together. 

He even let Draco sink inside his perfect heat last night, and Draco didn’t know what to do with himself afterwards, lying awake at night while Harry snored softly in his arms.

“You look alright,” he finally replies, noticing Hermione’s playful smile.

“You mean I don’t look heartbroken,” she says, finally meeting his eyes.

The news of her breakup with Weasley was all over the papers months ago, but Draco never got to speak to her about it. She always seems surprisingly fine every time she comes by to visit Harry, smiling as if her life hadn’t been upended.

Draco would die if Harry broke up with him.

“I mean…” he starts, unsure what to say.

“Things weren’t working between us, anyway,” she says calmly, passing him a dusty volume and taking her notepad out of her bag. “We wanted different things. I—I didn’t want to have sex…”

“Oh,” Draco breathes out, surprised by her answer.

“I still don’t,” she admits with a shrug. “With anyone. I loved Ron, but…”

“Did he put pressure on you or—” Draco asks, feeling suddenly overprotective, but her eyes widen, and she shakes her head.

“Oh, no,” she quickly says. “He was an absolute gentleman about it. I just…it didn’t feel right, staying together when we wanted different things from our relationship. And you know, I feel better now. It was such a relief when our soulmarks didn’t match.”

Draco stares at his hands, at the dust covering his fingertips and dirtying the hem of his robes.

He thinks about the potion he asked Harry to try, at the way he just drank it without asking him a single question, probably assuming it was just one of the vitamin potions Draco always brews for him. He thinks about Harry’s perfect skin, not a mark in sight when Draco got to kiss it and touch it later, mapping it with his hands and lips.

He felt so guilty about giving Harry the soulmark potion that he stopped his research for months, avoiding Severus and causing a few inquisitive raised eyebrows among his friends. 

He thinks about the life that lies ahead; the choices he can make.

“Thank you for making Harry happy,” Granger says before she leaves, leaning forward to kiss Draco’s cheek. “Thank you.”

“If you’re not going to try any more potions, then I’m afraid there’s only one thing left to do,” Severus announces, folding his arms in front of his chest and staring at Draco.

“Not that,” Draco says feebly, taking a step back. “You know I can’t.”

“You need to get a Death Eater to try one of the potions,” Severus says, his gaze burning a hole through Draco. “That’s the only way to find out if it’s the Dark Lord’s magic that is preventing the soulmark from appearing on your body and possibly Potter’s.”

“I can’t go to Azkaban and ask the guards to let me try the potion on one of the prisoners,” Draco argues, shaking his head and thinking Severus has lost his mind. 

“Not all of them are in Azkaban,” Severus argues, his eyes narrowing when Draco freezes. “Goyle was released last month, wasn’t he?”

Draco feels the colour draining from his face, his palms getting clammy and cold as he stares at his feet and avoids his old mentor’s stare.

He can’t ask Greg.

Not after all the stupid things Draco made him do. Not after the trouble he got him into over the years.

Not after Greg had to spend months in Azkaban when Draco got away with a year of house arrests at Hogwarts just because Harry spoke in his favour. 

“I can’t,” Draco declares feebly, his voice cracking.

“Yes, you can,” Severus says, a little more gently. “I know you, Draco. You’re going to spend years living in doubt, asking yourself if things could be different if you had a stupid mark on your body. What if something’s wrong with me? What if Potter deserves better? It’s going to eat you up from the inside and make you miserable. You have a choice, Draco. Either you accept reality as it is, or you find out the truth.” 

“Look at that cloud,” Harry says, pointing at the sky as they lie in the grass. “It looks like a dick, doesn’t it?”

Draco lets out a little laugh and snuggles closer.

There’s a gentle breeze, and the air is starting to smell like spring, like flowers and new life. Draco stares at the expanse of blue above him, at the clouds moving lazily above their heads, feeling Harry’s fingers idly playing with his hair, his warmth seeping through Draco’s skin.

He wants this.

Draco wants this to last so badly that he feels like every cell of his body is a desperate little magnet drawing him towards Harry. 

“Did you know that the average cumulus cloud can weigh more than a million pounds?” Draco asks, fingers interlacing with Harry’s, bringing his hand to his lips.

“Wow,” Harry breathes out in awe. “That heavy?”

“I know, right?” Draco says, looking at the soft tufts floating above their heads.

“Would you like to visit my parents’ graves with me tomorrow?” Harry asks, his voice going a little faint towards the end, his hand squeezing Draco’s, almost involuntarily, as if dreading a no for an answer.

“Of course,” Draco replies straight away, turning to look at Harry’s face and finding his cheeks flushed and his eyes bright and happy.

“I’d like to introduce you properly,” Harry comments to the sky, then he bites on his bottom lip and finally turns to look at Draco. “And I’d like you to come to the Burrow for Sunday lunch.”

“Oh,” Draco says, because he wasn’t expecting that.

He knows Harry told his family and friends months ago about him—about them. 

Their friends know. Well, everyone does after the Prophet published a photo of them on the front cover after they were caught kissing at Kew Gardens.

But this…

This is different.

This is Harry saying something Draco wasn’t expecting.

He nods, heart beating madly in his chest. Harry smiles, learning forward to steal a kiss that leaves Draco a little breathless and lightheaded. 

“Thanks,” Harry mumbles against his lips, and Draco decides he needs to find his courage, too.

“Draco,” Greg mutters, staring around the kitchen with a worried look on his face. The pipes groan, and Grimmauld Place seems to shift and make place for the new guest.

Harry is out on an errand, and Draco shifts in his chair, feeling like a criminal for doing this, but burning with the need to know, to find out the truth.

Is he faulty?

Could he possibly be the right person for Harry, even though he doesn’t have a soulmark on him?

“Thank you for coming,” Draco says awkwardly after clearing his throat a couple of times.

Greg hums, his face looking drawn, dark circles under his eyes. He has lost so much weight, has changed so much since the last time Draco saw him. Months in Azkaban have made him a shadow of the boy he used to be.

“What’s that cauldron for?” Greg asks, pointing at the potion on the table. Draco counts to five, then decides to go up to ten before he replies.

“I need a favour from you,” he starts, torturing the hem of his robes, his fingers going white when he presses the fabric between them. “And I know I’ve been shit to you in the past, and you probably hate me, but you’re the only person I can ask, and I’m going mad over this.”

“What is it?” Greg asks tiredly, as if resigned to help him no matter what, as if too exhausted to fight.

“It’s to find out if you have a soulmate,” Draco explains nervously, checking the minute changes in Greg’s face for a reaction. “I…I don’t have one. Everyone else seems to have a soulmark, but—I think it’s because of the Dark Mark. I think the Dark Lord’s magic spoiled something inside me and prevented me from having a soulmark, but the only way to find out is if—” 

“Is this about Potter?” Greg asks point-blank, startling Draco.

“No,” he replies, but Greg shakes his head and looks at him, pity in his eyes.

“Draco, is this about Potter again?” he asks. “I’m done fighting him. If this is actually a potion to get some kind of revenge, then you’ve got the wrong man for the job.”

“No, Greg,” Draco argues, moving his hands furiously, standing up to pace around the room. “I don’t want to hurt him. Quite the contrary, actually. You see, Harry and I a-a-are…”

“Draco, spit it out,” Greg booms, finally looking like his old self, bigger and stronger and angrier than Draco remembered him.

“Di-di-did you know that in Mexico there are tiny bunnies that live on volcanoes?” Draco blurts out, and Greg groans loudly.

“Enough with your stupid facts!” he cries out. “You’re always coming up with odd shit when you’re nervous. Tell me the truth, for once!”

“What’s going on here?” Harry suddenly asks from behind Draco’s back.

Draco freezes.

He watches Greg deflate, like a balloon that has lost all the air and is sinking onto itself.

“Potter?” he asks, and Harry crosses the room quickly, placing his warm hand on the small of Draco’s back and rubbing soothing circles there, making shushing noises when he notices Draco is crying and shaking like a leaf.

“What happened, my darling?” Harry asks, taking Draco into his arms and kissing his forehead, then wiping Draco’s wet cheeks with his thumb. “Hey, speak to me, love. What’s the matter?”

“I royally fucked up,” Draco confesses through the tears, and Greg stands up, staring at them with wide eyes. 

Harry glares at him, probably jumping to the wrong conclusion.

Greg makes a faint noise and then grabs the ladle that Draco carefully placed inside the potion and brings it to his lips, drinking a big sip of it with a grimace. 

“Tastes like shit,” he comments, scrunching up his nose in disgust. 

Draco stares at him, at his body that seems unchanged. Greg peeks under his summer robes with a grunt, then turns around to unbutton his trousers and takes a good look between his legs. He takes his shoes off and peels off his socks, but there’s nothing.

Nothing.

Harry looks confused, staring between Draco and Greg, then finally realises what’s happening.

“Draco,” he starts, his mouth opening and closing a couple of times before he speaks again, “is—is this about the soulmarks?”

“I think I ought to go,” Greg mutters with a sigh, sorting out his clothes. “Draco, send me an owl. We can meet up for a cup of tea and have a—err, chat. Bye, Potter.”

Greg disappears with a loud crack, and the kitchen is quiet again.

Draco stands there, looking at his feet and feeling little, stupid.

What is Harry going to say?

Is he going to get mad?

“Draco?” Harry murmurs again, his tone soft as he cups Draco’s cheeks and waits for him to find the courage to look up. “It’s been a year, darling. Please tell me you haven’t been worrying about this for a whole year.”

“It’s just…” Draco starts, biting on his bottom lip and finally looking into Harry’s green eyes. He’s always loved them so much. That emerald hue that makes his heart beat faster every time he gets to have it all for himself; every time Harry looks at him like this, full of affection and desire.

“You know I love you,” Harry says tenderly, kissing the very tip of Draco’s nose and watching him blush. “And that I would go to the moon and back on a broomstick for you.”

“I love you, too,” Draco murmurs wetly. He’s learnt how to say it, just for Harry. It was so hard at first, so bloody difficult to say those tricky little words to someone for the very first time. It made him feel like he was cracking his heart open and leaving it there for Harry to destroy. But Harry’s always taken care of it, with a tenderness no one has ever shown him before, as if it were something precious and fragile. As if it were a treasure. 

“I don’t care if you’re my soulmate or not,” Harry says, his eyes staring into Draco’s with so much determination and love.

“But what if one day we find a potion that works for you?” Draco asks, his voice still wet and pitiful but getting braver as he finally asks Harry the question that has been burning a hole through him for so many months. “What if you find your perfect match?”

“I already have. Draco, you are my perfect match,” Harry insists with a smile. “Because I chose you, and I still choose you every day of my life, over any other person on the planet. And not because of a stupid mark on my skin or on yours, but because I love you. Because you’re perfect for me, exactly as you are.”

Draco’s heart threatens to beat right out of his chest, but then it eventually settles into a calm thrum as he looks into those green eyes and finally understands. 

“Even if I’m rubbish at baking and always make a mess of the kitchen?” he asks, watching Harry’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles.

“Yes,” Harry confirms. “Even if you always make me clean after you demolish the kitchen.”

“Even if I’m scared of Mr Weasley and his Muggle car?” Draco continues, watching Harry’s gaze soften. “A-and even if I always forget to clean the sink after I shave?”

“I always forget to do that, too,” Harry says with a wink.

“Even if I’m always coming up with stupid random facts?” Draco finally asks.

“I love your facts!” Harry declares, looking taken aback. “And they’re not stupid at all.”

Draco finally smiles, kissing Harry fully on the lips and wrapping his arms around Harry’s neck as he rests his forehead against his.

He thinks about how this started, about that cold evening in the Common Room.

“Did you know that when the Portuguese introduced chilli peppers to Japan in the 16th century, Japanese people put them in their socks to keep their toes warm instead of eating them?” he asks, and Harry laughs, that beautiful sound that never ceases to make Draco’s heart expand. 

“Tell me more.”