On The Skin Of A Soulmate | Drarry

{02} - Pansy is Harrys Filler Mom

Harry sighs again and rolls over. After that, he's too tired to close his mouth, so Harry lies there, open-mouthed against his pillow. He closes his eyes and breathes out.

If someone had told him a year ago that the post-War glow would eventually turn into a rotten, chaffing thing that would eat up his insides, Harry's sure he would have paid a first-class ticket to the Janus Thickey Ward.

Now, Harry just wants to die alone, and in peace. He opens his eyes, ignores the image of dead bodies floating in pools of blood still swimming in front of his vision. He'll have to pick up his last batch of Dreamless Sleep, soon.

Then, Parkinson waltzes into his bedroom with a barely disguised, "What the fuck," and a bag full of what Harry presumes to be pastries from the bakery next door. She smells of expensive Parisian perfume and dark chocolate - something light and feminine that sort of reminds Harry of Ginny.

"What the fuck have you done to yourself, Potter?"

Harry only watches her through half-lidded eyes. He lets out a groan and watches her grimace unpleasantly. "Go'way," he mumbles, stifling a yawn.

Parkinson snorts and smooths down her dark bob. She places the bag on Harry's bedside table and sits gingerly beside him on the bed - it sags slightly under her lean frame.

"I most certainly will not 'go'way', Potter. You're filthy and depressed, and I'm not sure which is worse."

Parkinson's crimson nails drag across his duvet, and she fixes her dark eyes on Harry. He tries not to squirm, which is ridiculous. Parkinson shouldn't intimidate him - and she doesn't.

It's the thought that he's seen more of her in these last two months than Harry's seen his friends that makes him feel all tangled up inside. It's not a good feeling.

"You really are a miserable old fuck, aren't you?" She whispers, placing thin fingers on his bare arm. Harry - surprisingly - lets out a bark of laughter. It's rough from not enough use, but Parkinson still smiles at the sound. "No word from your soulmate, I see."

At that, Harry's mood deflates real quick. He shrugs and places his arm out for Parkinson to inspect. He hasn't checked in over a week - at this point, he's sort of scared, scared of what he won't find there.

"I never knew you were talented, Potter." She quips, and Harry looks at her. "Right here, see. It's a pretty drawing, too, of jasmine plants."

Harry's never drawn a day in his life, and here Parkinson is, telling him that there is a patch of jasmine plants on his wrist. Harry rips his arm from his grip and blinks, chewing on his lip. He's stalling, yes, but he doesn't... doesn't want to be disappointed.

But then again, Harry's made it so far through life being disappointed by everything that happens in his life, and Harry closes his eyes for a moment. He brings his wrist to his face and opens his eyes.

Panic grips at Harry's heart in an unyielding grip and his breath falters. Harry licks his lips, throat suddenly dry.

"...What?"

Parkinson opens her bag from the bakery and pulls out a donut. "What, didn't you draw that?"

Harry shakes his head. She pauses, donut halfway to her open mouth, and suddenly her eyes widen. "Oh, fuck."

All Harry can do is nod. His whole body feels numb, numb with the realisation that his soulmate actually exists. That they aren't dead. That they are, indeed, very much alive, so much so they draw beautiful flowers on their wrists in ballpoint pen.

But then Parkinson is jabbing him with a pointy object. "Quick, you idiot, take my quill and fucking write back." She waves a self-inking quill at him. Harry reaches over and grasps it in trembling, unsure hands. He tries to breathe, tries to go through exercises Luna had him learn.

They don't help.

"What do I write?" He asks.

For the first time in forever, Harry hates how gruff his voice is from not speaking to anyone for a good few weeks. But, Merlin, his soulmate is a fucking artist. One who's never seen fit to write to him - on him? - before. He tells Pansy this, but she only shrugs, seemingly bored with his idiocy.

"Maybe they finally have something to be happy about. Maybe they're free. Maybe they just wanted to fucking draw in the middle of a business meeting, I don't know, Potter. Just write something back!"

Harry ignores her, heart pounding, sweat pooling at the base of his back. He feels something stir inside him - something he had sworn not to allow to resurface, ever again - but he's powerless to stop it. He licks his lips and writes a 7/10 underneath the drawing. Really, it's brilliant, but he feels the need to annoy whoever the fuck it is on the other side.

"Is that all you're writing?" Parkinson huffs and chews on her donut. It's jam, and the red goo almost spills onto her fingers when she bites into the sugar pastry. "You're a terrible flirt, Potter."

He snorts. "You asked your soulmate if she was 18. Everyday. Until she responded."

Parkinson chooses to ignore him, which Harry is fine with. He's soon absorbed into his own little world, eyes glued to the spot underneath his comment.

Is that all you're giving me? Fucking Wanker.

Harry sucks in a breath. His heart pounds in his chest like an idiot, and he's not sure why his whole body is convulsing. Fight me, you tosser, he writes.

I would if I could find you. I'd punch your bleeding teeth out.

The thing in Harry wriggles in approval, and his toes curl up. Fuck! He has a soulmate. A cheeky one, but still.

Harry draws a dick on his palm, complete with childishly drawn cum spurting out from the tip. He doesn't notice when Parkinson quietly takes her leave, his eyes are too busy roaming over his conversation with his soulmate.

'I would if I could find you.'

Had that been an invitation or just an addition to the mock-threat?

Harry breathes through his nose, draws his arm in close, and allows himself to spiral into his odd thoughts.