"Soulmates," Harry scoffed, rolling his eyes, fingers tightening around his cup. “What a load of rubbish,” The tea was lukewarm, bitter, and did nothing to fill the cold void in his chest.
Across the table, Hermione sighed, stirring her own cup with slow, deliberate circles. “Just because you haven’t found yours doesn’t mean it isn’t real for everyone else, Harry,” Harry felt his cheeks warm, knowing he'd hurt her feelings with his dismissive remark.
“That’s the thing, isn’t it? I’m not going to find mine. I’d have one by now if I did,” He huffed, leaning back in his chair. The Auror office was quiet, the usual shuffle of boots and murmur of voices dampened by the late hour. Ron didn’t look up from his paperwork, but the hand resting on the table—the one with Hermione’s name scrawled delicately across his wrist—twitched slightly, as if responding to her voice without him even realizing.
Harry looked away. It wasn’t just Ron and Hermione—it was Dean and Seamus, it was Parvati and Lavender, it was so many others, all of them marked for each other, all of them granted the comfort, the luxury.
He had always envied them, the way they fit together so easily, the way their lives had been entwined from the start. It was unfair, really. Their love was something the universe had written into their very skin.
Harry’s skin stayed blank. Always. No grand cosmic declaration that he belonged to someone, that someone belonged to him.
He used to check, in the years after the war, fingers ghosting over the same spots, waiting for something—anything—to appear. But there was nothing. No name. No mark. No sign that fate had ever intended for him to be loved. He would run his fingers over his wrists, up his arms, trace over his ribs, his shoulders, anywhere it could be, hoping maybe—maybe—he had missed it. That it was just waiting for the right time to appear.
But it never did.
Eventually, he stopped checking. And eventually, he convinced himself he didn’t care.
"You're being dramatic," Hermione murmured, flipping a page.
"I'm being realistic," Harry corrected, shrugging. "Not everyone gets a soulmate, right? Some people just… don't. Like me."
Hermione hesitated. Then, carefully, "There’s still time."
He snorted. "Time for what? It’s been years. If I had one, I’d know."
Maybe," Hermione said softly. "Or maybe universe is waiting for the right time, You don't need a soulmark to love someone, Harry."
Harry frowned. There was something about the way she said it, something about the way her gaze flickered, just for a second, with something unreadable. But before he could question it, a voice called from the entrance of the Auror office, sharp and impatient.
"Potter!"
Harry turned, already half-smiling, already preparing for whatever sarcastic remark was about to come his way.
Draco Malfoy stood in the doorway, arms crossed, expression severe, though his mouth curled slightly like he was biting back a smirk. His grey eyes flicked over Harry, taking him in, assessing, before he rolled his eyes with exaggerated exasperation.
"Let's go," he said, flicking a hand toward the door. "Some of us have actual work to do."
"Patience isn’t in your vocabulary, is it?"
Draco arched a brow. "Patience is for people who aren’t forced to babysit you on their day off."
Hermione cleared her throat pointedly, not even looking up from her book. "Both of you are supposed to be working today, Malfoy."
Draco ignored her and rolled his eyes. "Are you coming or not, Potter?"
Harry muttered a curse under his breath and pushed himself up from the chair.
Another case. Another mission. Another long day spent side by side with Malfoy, bickering their way through it like it was just muscle memory at this point. They have been doing this for 4 years now.
Harry didn’t know when it had started—this thing between them. This sharp-edged, dry-witted, impossibly charged thing that neither of them ever addressed, never put words to. A constant push and pull, a game of daring each other to cross a line neither of them had ever been brave enough to breach. But whatever it was, it was… familiar. Comfortable, even.
And as they stepped through the Ministry halls, shoulders brushing just slightly too often to be accidental, Harry ignored the small voice in his head that whispered, "Maybe this is enough."
Maybe he didn’t need a name on his skin. Maybe he didn’t need fate. Maybe this—this—was as close as he would ever get to belonging to someone.
And maybe that was okay.
---
The mission was supposed to be routine. A simple mission. Just another Auror case, another investigation into remnants of dark magic.
They had done this before—investigate reports of dark magic, track down any lingering remnants of the war, make sure nothing dangerous was left behind. Harry didn’t think too much about it when Draco had scoffed at his caution. Didn’t think too much about it when Draco had rolled his eyes and called him paranoid.
But then Draco had gone off alone—of course he had, the insufferable, reckless, impossible prat—
Harry only realized something was wrong when the silence stretched too long.
"Malfoy?" he called. Nothing. His stomach clenched. A feeling like ice crawled up his spine.
"Malfoy," he said again, sharper now, stepping forward, hand inching toward his wand. "If this is some kind of stupid joke, I swear—"
Then he saw it. A flash of blond, crumpled on the stone floor.
The world tilted.
Harry’s body moved before his mind could catch up, his breath tight in his throat, his pulse a violent rhythm in his ears— And then— "Fuck," Harry choked, dropping to his knees beside him.
Draco was on the ground, his fingers slick with his own blood. His robes were torn, his face pale, too pale, and his eyes... those piercing blue eyes that had once been filled with so much spite and anger, now held only pain and a flicker of fear.
His eyes fluttered open, just barely, unfocused and dazed. His lips curled, faintly, at the edges. “Potter,” he rasped. “Took you long enough.”
Harry’s hands hovered uselessly over him, mind racing, breath hitching. “You stupid—you absolute—what the fuck did you do—?”
But Draco just laughed, breathless and wet, his mouth curling like he wanted to smirk but didn’t have the strength to. He was shaking, his body convulsing with every shallow breath, his eyes glazing over.
Harry's mind raced. He had to do something, had to save him. He reached for his wand, fumbling through his pockets, his hands shaking. He muttered a string of healing spells under his breath, desperation lending strength to his incantations. But with each spell, Draco's condition only seemed to worsen. The crimson stain grew larger, seeping into the fabric of his robes.
"They don't work," Draco gasped, his voice weak. "It's dark magic, Potter. It won't—"
"Shut up," Harry snapped, his voice sharp and desperate. He hadn't meant to, but the words were out before he could stop them.
Draco's eyes fluttered shut, a pained smile twisting his lips. "Always had to be the hero, haven't you?" The room grew colder, the air thick with the metallic scent of blood. He knew Draco was right; the wound was too severe, the magic too dark.
"I called for backup," Harry said, his voice strained. "A medic's on the way." He had to keep him talking, keep him alive. Just a little longer.
Draco coughed, wet and broken, but his fingers curled weakly into the fabric of Harry’s sleeve. “Hate to break it to you,” he muttered, voice barely there, “but I don’t think I’m walking away from this one.”
“No.” Harry shook his head, frantic, pressing his hands down on the wound, trying to stop the blood. “No, shut up. I called for backup. Just hold on.”
Draco’s body jerked slightly at the pressure, a pained exhale slipping past his lips. “Fuck, Potter. You have the worst bedside manner.”
“Stop talking,” Harry snapped, trying to focus, trying to force his hands to stop shaking. “Just—just stay with me.”
Draco let out a breathy chuckle, barely more than a whisper. His lashes fluttered, his breath coming in stuttered, uneven gasps.
Harry swallowed hard. “Don’t you dare close your eyes.”
Draco hummed, like he wanted to argue, but then—
A pain like fire tore through Harry’s wrist. White-hot, searing, unbearable pain.
It ripped through his wrist, like fire burning beneath his skin, like something was being carved into him— Harry gasped, his free hand clutching at it, his entire body going still as the world around him blurred.
And when he looked down— A name.
Draco Malfoy.
Clear. Permanent. Burned into his skin like it had always been there, just waiting—
Harry realized, in that moment— The universe had just played the cruelest joke of all. Draco Malfoy was dying in his arms. And the universe had just confirmed, in the cruelest way possible, that he was the only person Harry was ever meant to love.
The name burned into Harry’s wrist as if it had been there all along, just waiting for this very moment to reveal itself. Written across his skin, appearing for the first time in his entire life in the moment Draco was slipping away to finally reveal the truth—his soulmate had been right beside him all along. The moment it was too late. The universe was laughing at him.
Harry had spent his entire life believing he wasn’t meant for this, that soulmates were some pretty little lie the universe told people to give them hope. But now, with Draco’s name carved into him like a signature on fate’s dotted line—
He wanted to tear it off. Wanted to scream.
Wanted to turn back time and punch the universe in the fucking throat.
"Draco," he gasped, his whole body trembling as he clutched at him, at the blood-soaked fabric, at anything to keep him here. "Look at me, please—"
Draco's eyes cracked open, glassy and unfocused, flickering between Harry’s face and the name seared into his wrist. Then—his lips parted, something like a laugh slipping out. Soft, breathless, so damn resigned.
“Oh,” Draco whispered. His fingers twitched against Harry’s sleeve. "It’s me." His voice was so small. So fucking wrecked.
He laughed, as if the irony was actually funny. As if his whole life, he’d been waiting to be proven right about the fact that he never got to have nice things.
Harry couldn’t speak. His breath hitched, panic clawing at his ribs, shaking his entire body.
It’s you. It’s you. It’s you. It had always been, Draco.
"Draco," Harry pleaded, shaking him, desperate, feral. "You can't—not like this, not when I just—*" He broke off, throat closing up around the words, around everything he had never let himself feel until now.
Draco was staring at his name, at the ink branded onto Harry’s skin. His lips parted, breath faltering, chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow gasps. "Fuck," he murmured. "That’s—hilarious. Of course it’s you.”
Harry let out a choked noise—something between a sob and a curse. "Shut up," he snapped, because if he let Draco talk like he was already gone, he was going to lose it.
Draco’s eyes flickered back up to him, dazed and distant, but something else was there too—something that made Harry’s chest ache. "You're not fucking dying," Harry rasped, pressing harder against the wound. "You're not."
He swallowed, breath trembling. "Not how I imagined finding out."
"Shut up," Harry said, voice shaking, rage and desperation curling in his throat. "You are not dying, Draco, do you hear me?"
"At least it was you," Draco whispered, voice barely a breath. "That’s not so bad."
The words hit Harry like a fucking curse. Harry’s hands trembled. His throat burned. Draco smiled faintly, the harsh edges of his face blurring. Like he had already made peace with this.
Like he knew—long before Harry had even realized—that this was always going to be the end of the story.
"Wish I had more time," Draco murmured, voice barely a whisper. His fingers twitched against Harry’s arm, like he wanted to hold on but didn’t have the strength. "I really—" He swallowed. "I would have loved you, you know, Harry."
He let out a sharp, broken noise, his vision blurring as Draco’s breath hitched—one last inhale. "Please." His voice cracked. "Please, don’t leave me here alone." The world gave no answer. Draco gave no answer. Only the silence stretched on, vast and endless, swallowing Harry whole.
Silence. Stillness. Draco's hand went still in his grasp, the pulse beneath Harry's thumb fading into silence. He looked down at Draco’s face. He looked, even though he didn’t want to, even though every inch of him screamed not to. He already knew what he would see—Draco’s eyelashes dusting pale cheeks, his lips slightly parted, his body resting against Harry’s like he was just asleep.
For a moment, Harry didn’t move. Couldn’t move. His hands were still pressed against Draco’s body, but it was quiet now. Too quiet. And Harry just sat there.
Blood on his hands. Draco’s name on his skin. The room was spinning around Harry, the only anchor being the cold, heavy weight in his arms. There was too much. Too much pain, too much loss, too much of Draco in his hands and not enough of him anywhere else. His shoulders shook, his fingers digging in, curling tighter and tighter as if he could keep Draco here through sheer will alone.
Harry let out a broken sound, something raw and unformed, something he didn’t even recognize as his own. His body curled forward, forehead pressing against Draco’s shoulder, fingers still tangled in fabric that no longer held warmth. He hadn’t even had the chance to tell him. To say his name the way he had always wanted to. To love him the way Draco would never know he was meant to be loved.
Fate had never been on Harry's side since the start. That fate had spoken, and it had spoken in past tense.
Draco Malfoy. His soulmate. His too-late. His never-again.
The name stayed. Even though Draco was gone, even though his body was still in Harry’s arms—the name stayed.
Because soulmarks don’t fade when someone dies. They stay, forever. Like a cruel, permanent reminder.
So Harry sat there, shaking, tears slipping down his face, as Draco’s name burned into him like a scar.
And the universe did nothing.