Chapter Text
Harry was pissed. He’d been pissed ever since he was dumped back at Privet Drive, since he’d blown up his aunt, since he’d gone on the run, since he found out another murderer was targeting him. All the pissiness was affecting his magic too, making it volatile. His spells had too much power, and his hands kept throwing off sparks. It was like being a kid again. Ron told him that his nightmares were making everything in the dorm shake.
He couldn’t even show that he was pissed because everyone was expecting him to be pissed, so he stubbornly maintained a neutral facade. Well, as much of one as he could manage. Hermione seemed doubtful.
Lupin stepped in front of him to keep the class from being confronted by the imitated form of Lord Voldemort. Harry’s hands shook at how close they’d come to seeing his uncle instead. Vernon Dursley. 5’ll and a solid 320 lbs. One would have thought that all that bulk would have slowed the man down, but Vernon had retained the quick reflexes and startling strength of his boxing days. He still practiced with Dudley on the weekends, and Harry would have felt sympathy for the way his cousin was consistently flattened by that padded fist if he himself hadn’t often been on the end of the bareknuckle one, usually with his cousin snickering in the background.
Of course, Malfoy caught wind of the incident.
“Poor Potter,” he crooned, pouting in fake sympathy. He leaned against the wall of the empty corridor. It should have looked sloppy. Instead, Harry couldn’t help by notice how it made his legs look even longer, somehow elegant and aristocratic even when slouching. “Our professor had to save you from a simple boggart. What would have been, you think? A room without any of your adoring fans? A reporter asking you to comment after you lost a quidditch match?”
“Sod off, Malfoy,” he muttered, not in the mood to discuss the boggart any longer. He’d already had to fend of Ron’s righteous indignation on his behalf, pretending (somewhat unconvincingly if Hermione’s side eye was any indication) that he was just as insulted.
Malfoy pushed off the wall to block his path as he tried to pass. “That’s it?” he asked, raising a blond eyebrow. Harry glared at the opposite wall, unwilling to even attempt eye contact, knowing he’d have to look up several inches to do so. Not for the first time, he cursed Petunia’s stinginess in sharing food with the nephew she unwillingly took in.
“Come on, Potter,” he whispered, leaning down. Harry willed down the blush that rose to his cheeks. Thank James Potter for his dark skin. “Fight with me.”
Harry’s temper snapped, and he whipped his head around to glare (up, goddammit) into silver grey eyes. “I said, sod off!” He slammed his palms into Malfoy’s chest to forcefully shove him out of the way. His palms slipped on the other boy’s expensive silk robes, skating off and sending Harry stumbling forward to collide with a startlingly solid chest.
Malfoy let out an oof of surprise at the sudden armful of Harry Potter, taking a step back to steady himself. Unfortunately, his foot caught on the hem of his robes, sending him teetering backwards, instinctively grabbing and dragging Harry with him.
They landed in a heap of robes and awkward adolescent limbs, and Harry was so done with today. For a moment he just lay limply, face smooshed against vanilla scented fabric. Everything—the boggart, lying to his friends, the new murderer who was after him—all of it just seemed so heavy and for a second he just let himself stop moving, let the tears sting his closed eyes.
A cool hand cupped the back of his neck, and Harry startled, shoving back to see the disheveled, slightly pink face of Draco Malfoy staring up at him. Harry stopped paying attention to that though when an intense burning erupted where Malfoy’s hand had been.
“What the hell?” He grabbed at the back of his neck, expecting the skin to be flaking off, to be blistered and disintegrated. Was this how Quirrel felt? He shoved himself off Malfoy completely as the burning suddenly migrated, sliding down his neck to circle his ribs.
“What the hell did you do to me?” He ripped his robes open, yanking his shirt up to find the source of the pain. His heart stopped when he saw emblazoned across his ribs, in fancy script and scar tissue, the words Draconis Lucius Malfoy.
He barely had a moment to process before the pain increased abruptly, cutting off any further demands as he gasped, doubling over. At least he had an excuse now for the tears in his eyes. He barely managed to make out the blurry form of Malfoy curling in on himself as well.
“Potter,” Malfoy gasped. “Come here!”
“Fuck you!”
Malfoy swore virulently, dragging himself closer to Harry. “You stupid Mudblood,” he groaned, grabbing Harry’s wrist and yanking him closer. Harry fought the iron grip for a few seconds before the pain lessened so suddenly that he went limp.
Malfoy had grabbed the back of his neck again, clutching Harry’s hand in his free one.
For a second they just lay there panting. Then Harry’s senses came back to him, and he scrambled to get off.
Malfoy fought him, fingers digging into Harry’s skin. “Stop it, you idiot!”
“Get off me!” Harry was panicking, breath coming fast and hot.
Malfoy’s grip on his hand slipped, and Harry just barely caught the panic on his face before the boy slapped him.
It was far from the worst hit Harry had ever received, but it was crisp and well-delivered, the stinging pain immediately engulfing his cheek.
He didn’t even have time to process before Malfoy’s eyes went wide in what could have been horror. “Shit,” he breathed. “Shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—” He had grabbed Harry’s hand again. “I just need you to stop and listen to me okay?”
The hit had been enough to send the tears he’d been holding back spilling over his cheeks. Malfoy went white. “Merlin, are you--?”
“I’m fine,” he denied, swiping at his face with his free hand and flinching slightly as he accidentally scrubbed the fresh mark. “What the hell just happened, and why won’t you let go of me?”
“Okay,” Malfoy breathed out. “The first thing you have to realize is that the Potter’s were purebloods.”
Harry’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that got to do with—“
“Shut up,” Malfoy hissed before visibly stopping himself. “It’s relevant. Old pureblood families like the Potters, like the Malfoys, almost unilaterally practice ritual magic. Old magic. Magic that—today—gets labeled Dark, even though that is a gross oversimplification.”
Harry resisted the urge to interrupt. Malfoy seemed a little relieved. “An old tradition in ritual magic, especially when a family was in danger of dying out, was to petition Magic for a protector. They would ask Magic to bless their child, usually their heir, so that when the heir was most in need they would find someone who would be their balance. Someone who could fill in where they were lacking and vice versa. They would be bound for life.” Malfoy’s eyelids slid shut. “They would carry each other’s names on their skin.”
Harry stared. Malfoy still hadn’t opened his eyes. After a few minutes of silence, Harry managed, “You’re mad.”
Grey eyes flew open, narrowed in a glare. “And you’re ignorant. This is rare magic, sacred magic. It deserves your respect.”
“And what?” Harry snapped. “You expect me to believe you’re my other half or something? My protector?” His laugh bordered on hysterical. “You want me dead!”
“For Merlin’s sake, of course I don’t want you dead!” Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Could you be anymore dramatic?”
“Let me be perfectly clear,” Harry said, voice harsh, “I. Don’t. Want. This.”
Something flashed in Malfoy’s eyes, too fast for Harry to decipher.
“And why are you still clutching me like your favorite blankie?” Harry said, yanking at Malfoy’s still tight grip.
Malfoy sighed like Harry was a tantruming child. “The bond is still settling in place. That’s why it hurt. We need to be touching for it to finish.”
“So if we let go, it’ll stop binding us?”
“No,” Malfoy snapped, jerking Harry closer like he’d make a run for it right then. “It would just be incredibly painful and then devour our magic. So stay. put.”
Harry shrugged. “I can handle a little pain.”
“Merlin’s beard,” Malfoy muttered. “You have no self-preservation. Always Dumbledoree’s little martyr, aren’t you?”
They glared at each other.
“You might be willing to be turned into a muggle and probably die, but I am not.”
“Well we can’t just keep sitting in the hall like this,” Harry sighed. “It’s a miracle no one has walked past yet.”
Malfoy glanced around. With a grimace, he nodded to a nearby door. “There’s a broom cupboard we could hide out in.”
The dread that washed over Harry felt like it replaced his organs with ice water. “No.”
Malfoy sighed. “What? The great Harry Potter can’t handle a little cupboard? Afraid a prefect will see us and think we snuck away for an afternoon snog?”
“I just don’t want to, you prat!”
“Well tough luck,” Malfoy sneered. “There’s nothing else nearby, and it’s going to be even worse if somebody walks by while we look like we were rutting on the bloody floor.”
Harry closed his eyes, jaw clenched. He was right. Their current position looked damning, fingers entertained, Malfoy’s hand cupping the back of his neck like he was going to pull him in for a kiss.
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
They shuffled toward the cupboard, careful not to let go of each other. Harry barely had a moment to prepare himself before Malfoy yanked him through the doorway, slamming it shut behind him.
The shadows seemed darker than they should have been, the ceiling impossibly low. Through the rush in his ears he heard Malfoy swear. When the hand around the back of his neck pulled him into a firm chest, he didn’t resist.
…
This was an actual nightmare. One second he’d been bullying Potter (aka flirting, there was something absurdly attractive about the raw rage the boy tried to conceal from everyone else), the next they were caught in a storybook kind of magic that only showed up once every few decades.
Draco really hadn’t expected Harry (he couldn’t think of him as anything else now that they were bonded—the word filled him with elation, possessiveness and protection. Harry was his) to have this reaction to the cupboard. He’d thought he was just being stubborn and ornery as he was wont to be, digging his heels in to try and claim some measure of control over the situation.
Instead, he’d watched the color drain from Harry’s face, eyes growing dull and vacant behind his glasses even as his breathing sped up. Then the emotions hit him—panic, dread, anger, hopelessness.
It took Draco a minute to realize that they weren’t his, to realize that the bond was still settling between them, transferring emotions (and later, pain, he remembered) back and forth. Instinctively, he pulled Harry into his chest, letting go of his hand for the briefest second to slide his arm around the shorter boy’s lower back instead, slipping under his ratty t-shirt to make sure they never lost skin contact.
He hadn’t expected Harry to cling to him immediately, hands grabbing at whatever bit of Draco they could find, squeezing him like a stress toy, even as Draco guided them back to sit against the wall. Regret sat heavy in the back of his throat as he registered the tremors shaking the arms around him, when he remembered Harry’s shocked face when he’d slapped him. Draco was sure he’d be haunted by the twin silent tears that slipped down his cheeks afterward.
Draco really hadn’t meant to. He’d been panicking too, terrified that Harry would run off, leaving them both to die in agony as the magic was stripped from them. Still, he regretted.
He started to hum a French song his mother had sung to him, brushing his fingers over warm skin.
“Ne me quitte pas
Il faut oublier
Tout peut s'oublier
Qui s'enfuit déjà
Oublier le temps
Des malentendus
Et le temps perdu
À savoir comment”
The secondhand terror suffusing him eased as the hard lines of Harry’s body relaxed. Another day, he would ask Harry. He would ask if it was claustrophobia or fear of the dark, or what. But not today.
As they sat in the small, dim room, Draco wracked his brain to remember everything he could about this form of magic. He hadn’t told Harry what it was actually called. He had a feeling the boy would have spit in his face.
It was Soulmate magic.
It didn’t have to be romantic, even if Draco knew his stupid infatuation would make it hard to view any other way. But it was the binding, the linking of two compatible souls. More often than not, the two became romantic partners. It was difficult for any other relationship to compare to that level of intimacy.
Draco grimaced as he remembered how obsessed he’d been with this kind of magic as a child. He’d demanded to know why everyone didn’t perform it. As his mother explained, it was volatile magic, difficult and expensive if you weren’t able to perform it yourself. It was also a form of blood magic which had been outlawed for decades.
All of this wouldn’t have stopped most pureblood families. But the last century had seen an uptick in arranged marriages as blood purity took center stage in everyone’s minds. Not only was there a high risk of bonding with someone of an unfortunate bloodline, but bonded pairs tended to be resistant to arranged matches.
All of this, his mother explained, made the practice fairly unpopular and played a role in why they had decided against doing so for him.
Ironic, he mused, that he would end up bonded anyway and to none other than Harry Potter. Merlin’s beard. He swallowed hard as it sunk in. He was soul bonded to Harry Potter.
A shiver of dread ran down his spine. What would his father say? Draco didn’t know if he’d be pissed that Draco had ended up in this position or thrilled with the leverage he now had over the savior of the wizarding world. Both options made him want to puke.
He pulled Harry a little closer. Did that make him a bad son? Should his first thought also be how to leverage this, the power he now exerted over the Boy Who Lived?
He closed his eyes, helpless to the warm weight on top of him. No, this was Magic’s blessing, he reminded himself. It was sacred, and he was right to honor it.
Almost as though that were the trigger, he felt the bond snap in place fully, a subtle tugging on his rib cage connecting him to the boy in his lap. Harry was calmer now, almost asleep if Draco had to guess.
He’d looked wrecked when Draco had first seen him in the hall. That was part of why Draco had needled him so. Harry did best with something to fight, and Draco found being his target more than a little addictive.
“Harry,” he murmured, reluctant to give up their current position. Merlin above, they were cuddling. But he didn’t actually want to subject his bondmate to the cupboard any longer than he had to. “Harry, I think the bond has settled. Sit up, and we’ll test it.”
Harry let out a growl that vibrated against Draco’s chest. Draco squirmed a bit. That was itchy. “Get up, you ponce, or I’ll start thinking you like me.”
“Fuck you,” Harry muttered, voice hoarse.
He shoved off Draco, and Draco felt the instant spike of anxiety mirrored in his own chest. Like pulling of a bandage, Draco yanked his hand off of Harry’s bare waist, involuntarily bracing for pain.
Harry yelped, grabbing at him. “What the hell—?!” He stopped, seemingly noticing he wasn’t in agony. “It stopped?”
Draco rolled his eyes. “Yes, Harry, I already said that the bond had settled.”
“It wasn’t clear that meant the pain would stop too!” Harry glared at him. “And why are you doing that?”
Draco raised an eyebrow. “Doing what?”
Harry scowled. “Calling me Harry.”
Draco snickered. “Our souls are literally bound together. Your name is burned onto my actual skin. I think I should get to use it.”
“Well stop.”
“Hm, no.”
“Malfoy, I swear to God—“
“Ew, don’t do that,” Draco scrunched his nose. “It makes you sound like a mudblood. Swear to Merlin or Magic herself. Although only swear on Magic if you’re serious.”
Harry pushed back away from Draco with a look of disgust. “Don’t use that word.”
Draco sighed. “It’s just a word. You’re the one attaching such significance to it.”
“It’s a word with significant meaning attached,” Harry argued. “Otherwise you wouldn’t wield it like a weapon.”
“Can’t we agree to disagree?” Draco suggested reasonably.
“Not when you’re being a racist, bigoted prick.”
Harry looked two seconds from walked out the door. Draco decided it might be best to shelve this conversation for another time. There were still some things to work out.
“Harry,” he sighed and realized he’d done that a lot in the last half hour.
“Malfoy.”
“Harry,” he emphasized. “This isn’t going to go away. And we can’t tell anyone.”
“Obviously,” Harry rolled his eyes. “Like I would tell anyone I was bonded to you.”
Draco ignored the stab of hurt. “I’m serious. If my father found out…” he trailed off grimly. “It just wouldn’t be good.”
Harry nodded, matching grim expression. “Yeah. Yeah, that makes sense. What else?”
“The bond—it’s for life, and it has real consequences.”
“Like what?”
Draco considered what information was too priority. “Our emotions are linked. We will feel echoes of each other. For instance, I can tell you’re anxious and angry. It’s making me a little itchy.”
Harry frowned. “I don’t feel anything.”
“That’s because I’m superior to you in every way.”
When Harry opened his mouth to yell at him, he raised his hands, snickering, “Joking. I’m an occlumens,” he admitted. “I’m probably subconsciously blocking the bond on my end.”
“An oclu-what-now?”
Draco resisted the urge to call him a mudblood. Maybe he did use the term too often. It was becoming unoriginal.
“Occlumency is a form of mind magic that focuses on defense and control of one’s own mind. Legilimency, the ability to enter another’s mind, is its counterpart.”
Harry paled, and Draco winced at the fresh stab of anxiety. He really should see someone about that. “There are mind readers?”
“A bit reductionistic, but essentially.”
Harry rolled his eyes, even through his terror. “Swot.”
“Imbecile,” Draco said pleasantly.
“Arsehole. So other than the creepy feeling sharing, what else should I look forward to?”
Draco hummed. “Shared pain. We will likely feel some level of each other’s pain, although not to the full extent. A small burn from a cauldron on you might feel like an ant bite to me.”
Harry’s jaw clenched. “Can that be blocked too?”
Draco hesitated, suddenly uneasy although he couldn’t have explained why. “Technically,” he said slowly. “It’s not recommended to block the bond for long periods of time though. It will strain both of our magic.”
Harry nodded sharply. “Fine. Yeah, this is…fine. I’m going to dinner now.”
Draco blinked, caught off guard by the abrupt exit. “Wait, Harry, there’s more…” the door swung shut, “you should know,” he finished to empty room. “Stubborn prick.” Despite himself, that last bit was rather fond.
…
Harry didn’t actually go to dinner. For one, dinner would be nearly over, which was probably why no one had stumbled onto them before. Also, his hands were shaking too much to even attempt gripping a fork in front of other people.
Bonded.
To Draco Sodding Malfoy.
He let out a mirthless laugh. Of course, of course, this would happen. This was what always happened. He’d think he gotten his bearings for one second and the magical world would throw another shit storm his way.
Magic school? Violent psychopathic tried to kill you as a baby and is now your defense professor.
You’ve got a year of magic under your belt? Well now you have to fight a giant snake with a sword and your eyes closed!
Manage that? Well there’s another murderer on the loose and you’re at the top of his list! Bonus points: we’re going to bond you forever to someone who hates your guts and thinks you’re scum and can now feel all your emotions and pain and knows exactly what to use against you!
Harry screamed, a ragged, guttural sound that bounced around the dusty abandoned corridor. He’d discovered that the professors never boarded up the forbidden third floor corridor, even after all the traps and enchantments were removed. Now, it was just a isolated place where Harry could lose his shit without hurting anyone.
Away from prying eyes, he just barely loosened his grip on his magic. Like a wild animal like a monster it surged forward, barely restrained as it threw itself at the stone walls, fire that crawled and scorched, ice sinking greedy claws into the stones beneath him. The sheer weight of it forced him to his knees, a sharp pain as they collided with the ground.
His breathing spread up, matching the thundering of his heart as he slammed his fist against his thigh, just trying to ground himself, to stay in control enough not to bring the castle down around them.
He didn’t know how much time had passed before his magic slunk back inside him like a kicked dog. Harry collapsed onto the still cool flagstones, every bit of him throbbing. For a moment, he could have sworn his heard his name. But when he opened his eyes to squint down the hall, there was nobody there.
…
“Harry!” He’d barely managed to drag himself through the Gryffindor portal before his friends’ voices assaulted him. He winced. He always had a massive headache after losing control.
“Hey,” he gave a halfhearted wave. “What’s up?”
Hermione frowned at him, taking in his haggard appearance. “Where were you? You didn’t come to dinner.”
“Oh,” he shrugged. “I didn’t feel like being around a bunch of people, so I just ate in the kitchens.”
Ron groaned. “I bet they still have food down there. Maybe we can get a snack before curfew.”
“Ronald,” Hermione scolded. “It’s barely been 20 minutes since dinner!”
“Yeah but it’ll be ages before breakfast,” he moaned, slumping into an armchair.
Hermione rolled her eyes. “So that’s it? You were just in the kitchen?”
Harry nodded. “Hermione, have you studied ritual magic? Like, pureblood stuff?”
She frowned. “Like what?”
“Like, bonding. And souls and stuff.”
Ron snickered. “You mean like soulmates? You been sneaking off to read romance chapter books?”
Hermione huffed at him. “Don’t be ridiculous. Soulmates aren’t real.”
Ron frowned. “Yeah they are.”
“But you were literally just making fun of—“
“Yeah,” he waved off, “most of those are bullshit. Uber romanticized. But if you’re talking bonds and pureblood stuff like Harry said, that’s real.”
Hermione and Harry gaped at him.
“What?”
“How do you know that?” Hermione asked, baffled.
Ron actually looked a little peeved. “Look, people forget it because of the whole blood traitor thing but I actually am a pureblood. Plus this is pretty common knowledge. Not commonly done, granted, but most wixen know about it at least.”
Harry swallowed. “So it’s really rare? Why?”
“Well it’s kind of dangerous,” Ron said, frowning. “For one, soul magic is difficult. Really difficult, and there’s usually some kind of sacrifice involved, and most sacrifices are considered Dark magic. Hogwarts doesn’t teach dark magic and loads of it has been outlawed, so it’s kind of died off.
“Plus soulmates can share magic between them. Which can be great if one needs a boost or something. But imagine you were bonded to a death eater. Oh yeah, you can’t really choose these bonds,” he added. “Magic chooses. So you never know who you’ll be bonded to. So say Hermione bonded with a death eater right? Well that’s forever. And he could theoretically drain her magic through the bond. Plus there’s other weird stuff with emotions and junk.”
He frowned. “Why did you even want to know?”
Harry freezes. “Oh. I heard some Slytherins talking about it. I just figured whatever it was, I probably wanted to know about it before ending up on the wrong side of it.”
“Oh,” Ron shrugged. “Kinda surprising. Usually everyone is pretty tightlipped about it all. But anyway, you don’t have to worry about it. Your parents would have had to hire someone to do it when you were a baby. Or do it themselves if they were powerful enough. People have attempted it as adults…” he wrinkled his nose. “It doesn’t work out very well. Something to do with how your magical core develops.”
“Right,” he nodded. “Well I’m off to bed.”
“Already?” Ron asked, disappointed.
“But Harry, your homework!”
He waved them off, already headed up the stairs. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”