On The Skin Of A Soulmate | Drarry

{06} - Found You

"And you couldn't have rubbed one off in the shower, without including this soulmate of yours?"

Harry lets out a long, pitiful sigh. He knows he shouldn't have told Pansy what happened that night, with the lavender fields and the best orgasm he's had in a while, but he couldn't help himself. Pansy's grown to be one of the most important people in his life, and it had felt wrong to skirt about with her for a few days before he'd caved in.

Now, though, Harry is starting to regret his life choices. He pushes his hair back and grabs the hair bobbin Pansy holds out for him to tie his hair back into a messy bun as he tries to think of the right words to say.

"Well, no, because he was fucking painting near his dick and I could feel his arousal if that makes sense."

Pansy shoots him an odd look, her dark eyes narrowed in disbelief. "Why won't you just admit you like him, Harry?"

He blinks. "Because I don't even know who he is. I can't just - just fall in love with someone I've never met all willy-nilly." He huffs and holds out a hand. "Accio leather jacket." The jacket in question flies off the rail by the door and Harry shoves it on, glancing at himself in the hallway mirror.

Pansy had insisted on helping him get ready for his Healer appointment as afterwards he'd go out with her and Hermione on a dinner date and he had to be 'more presentable than a Hippogriff, Harry, honestly.' Harry thinks he looks too much like the gay Wonder-Boy the Prophet exposed him as, rather than the stylish, coltish manly male Pansy insisted he looks like.

"Who said anything about falling in love with him?"

Harry opens his mouth to tell her that she just bloody did, five seconds ago, and promptly closes it again. Because that's not quite true, is it? Pansy had only asked why he couldn't 'like' his soulmate. Harry scowls at his reflection. "Fuck off, Parkinson."

Pansy squeals delightedly and shoves him out of the way to comb through her dark bob with her newly manicured nails. "I don't know why you won't admit you're head over heels, darling. Every time I look at you, you're always smiling at something or other that he's said right. Drop your 'holy-than-thou' act, Harry, and go find him and fuck the life out of him."

With that, the bint nods briskly and pats Harry patronizingly on the head. "Keep in touch, darling. And for Merlin's sake, don't scare the Healer any more than you need to."

She apparates with a sharp crack and a slightly mad giggle, and Harry is left in his slightly dark exit hallway, a deep frown etched on his face. He smoothes out his features - because Pansy's right, he can't afford to frighten Healer Sineád more than he has done - and does a bit of apparating of his own.

Screw Pansy, she doesn't know what she's talking about. How can someone even possibly think of liking someone they've never talked face-to-face with? For all Harry knows, his soulmate could be a 40-year-old perv, just aching to find him and swallow him up. Harry snorts as he lands in the dingy alleyway by his Healer's office, dusting down his jacket and peering up into the early afternoon sky - fall in love, indeed.

He tucks a stray tendril of hair behind his ear and starts down the street. It's entirely Muggle, as Harry's Healer is a big fan of their 'way of life', as she put it. Personally, he doesn't understand how anyone could live so far away from where they were born and bred, but then again, he's been locked up in a cupboard for half his life.

Something twangs in Harry's chest, and he realises that he's so tense that his shoulders are practically by his ears at this point. He lets out a tired breath, closes his eyes, and opens them. No use dwelling on the past, as Pansy told him after one of his really bad relapses back into depression, it doesn't solve your problems, does it? Only creates more of them. Harry tries not to remember the fact that sometimes Pansy is smarter than him, Ron and Hermione combined.

The day is still young, with cirrus clouds drifting freely across the grey expanse of British skies, and Harry wouldn't have it any other way. He shoves his glasses up the bridge of his nose and watches the row of Georgian townhouses running along his left for that faint shimmer. Despite her claims to want a Muggle lifestyle, Sineád still Fidelius Charms her office, and she's allowed to do whatever the fuck she wants because she only specialises in people like Harry - those who are famous, and don't care the amount they have to pay for confidentiality.

Harry's sure she makes a quick million, in Muggle money, if she'd bother to convert all her galleons.

The shimmer happens around number 23 and 25, and when Harry blinks, number 24 Downing Street stands tall and proud, the ornate sign above its doors gleaming. Healer Mhic Gormáin - Private Practice, it says. It had taken Harry a good 3 sessions to actually remember how to pronounce the foreign, Irish name.

Harry smiles to himself and jogs up the stairs to the front door and opens it up to a dark hallway. He takes one last glance back outside - at the lovely, fresh air he'll leave in favour of that 'I deal with mental illnesses' smell that Healers always have going on - before he shuts himself in. He makes his way past ominous ink-blot pictures designed to test the state of your mental health - they're moving in the most unnerving ways.

The waiting room is a small, white room at the end of the entrance hallway, lined with uncomfortable plastic chairs and piled high with old copies of Quidditch, Weekly and the Daily Prophet. Harry doesn't bother to look at anyone else there and checks his watch - for the first time in, maybe forever, he's early by around 15 minutes. So he sits down and closes his eyes, trying to steady his erratic nerves.

He doesn't open them, even when someone passes him to sit on the chair across from his. Harry hasn't had a proper sleep in days, always busy with this, that and the other. Pansy'll be furious with him, of course, but Harry can't find it in himself to care. His mind drifts, idle and wandering, and he wonders where his soulmate is. He has a quill, he thinks, somewhere in his jacket pocket, and it'd pass the time quicker to talk to whoever they are...

By the time Harry's managed to retrieve a Self-Inking quill, his mind is already made up. He goes to scribble some self-deprecating joke on the skin of his arm when something catches his eye. A delicate lavender flower is drawn on the inside of his wrist, and as he watches, two words materialise that make his throat clog up.

Found you.

Frantic, and heart beating so loudly Harry hopes to Merlin that all of England can't hear it, he glances up to the seat across from him. Draco Malfoy quirks his lips and waves. A quill is tucked behind his pointed left ear, there's an ink smudge on the bridge of the man's nose and his fringe falls softly over one eye. The other one winks at Harry, and he swears his heart stops.

"Malfoy?" Harry tries to whisper but his fucking traitor vocal cords sound like a frog's croak. "Malfoy...Draco - fuck. Shit."

Draco's eyes blaze with something fierce, something that sends tendrils of tender heat straight through to Harry's crotch. He inclines his head, as though inviting Harry outside. Harry is more than happy to oblige, even if he feels both vaguely sick and like his dreams have come true, simultaneously.

Because...fuck, Draco Malfoy is his soulmate. Beautiful, gorgeous, sexy, pointy, stupidly attractive Draco Malfoy.

They don't even make it outside before Harry's hands spread across the expanse of Draco's chest, hidden underneath a soft cream jumper and grey scarf. Merlin, Draco feels so warm and so pliant beneath Harry's fingertips. "How did you know where I was going to be?"

The blonde bends his head, and Harry inhales the scent of almonds and lavenders, his head swimming with lust and confusion and so much bloody want. Draco noses the underside of his jaw, and Harry extends his neck, inviting more - more kisses, more sucking, more, more, always more.

"Unsurprisingly, Potter, you write little memos to yourself on your hand. I simply followed the trail." Draco smirks wickedly.

Harry snorts. Later, he'll ask about things that have happened months, years ago, and Draco will ask about something irrelevant that they'll end of fighting over, but now...Now Harry has a face - a beautiful face - to the fantasy man in his head.

And God he wants to test so many things out, so many bruises and hickeys and claims, all on the skin of his soulmate.

Fin.