Chapter Text
“You’re making me nervous with all that fidgeting.”
Harry rolls his eyes. “How on earth am I making you nervous? You have this in the bag.”
“Yes, well.” Hermione shrugs. “Stranger things have happened.”
“Not like this, no.”
Hermione’s hand settles on top of Harry’s intertwined fingers to still them. His legs still shake despite her soothing touch.
“I don’t know if this is the best idea for me, ‘Mione, I should probably just go home and think it over a bit. I’m not sure I’m ready—”
“Harry,” Hermione says, fixing him with a very familiar look, equal parts kind and stern. “You’re going to regret it if you don’t.”
“But it’s not like I have to do it right now,” Harry says, taking off his glasses and rubbing at his eyes uncomfortably. It’s still far too early in the morning for him to be thinking straight, let alone doing this. He’s been holding off for almost a year now, and really had no intention of ever coming in.
“If you can look me in the eye and promise me it won’t drive you crazy until you do, then we’ll leave,” Hermione says.
The door swings open and someone else enters the waiting room. Harry feels entirely relieved that it’s not one of the assistants waiting to take them to the back office. The witch regards him and Hermione with an expression of awe before settling into her seat. She seems excited, but Harry only feels his stomach turn over restlessly in reaction.
Harry glares at the flickering sign above the receptionist’s desk. The waiting room itself is clean and sterile, and reminds him of a Muggle hospital, though he considers that he’d rather be there than here at all. Britain’s Premier Corepairing glints on the wall, and Harry feels a bit sick every time he sees it.
“I don’t want a soulmate. This is stupid.”
“Harry, you know it’s not like that.”
And Harry knows it isn’t. Because, well, he wouldn’t be here if it was.
In the years after the war, and in an effort to boost rapidly declining birth rates, it wasn’t unusual that the Ministry had made an effort in reviving the soulmates program. When Harry had first heard about it, he had been skeptical that such a thing could even exist, likening it to a Muggle matchmaking service. Ron, surprisingly enough, had quickly shut down such an idea.
“You don’t understand,” Ron had said dismissively. “This isn’t something like dating. It’s literally being able to find out who pairs to your magical core.”
“Magical core?” Harry wrinkled his nose. “That sounds odd.”
“Well you know how you and Voldemort had twin cores in your wands. It’s kind of like that, but with people.”
“Oh, well that makes it loads better, doesn’t it?”
Hermione cleared her throat uncomfortably. “I think what Ron’s trying to say is that this is something that runs deep within your magic. Wizard cores can only match with a single other core. There is, well there always has been, a person out there who was made specifically for you.”
Harry snorted, maintaining a guarded, suspicious look on his face. “I’m not sure I’d even want to know who it is.”
“Don’t say that,” Ron said. “Of course you do. You have to.”
“Well if it’s so important to know, why are they only just now bringing this program back now? What happened to it in the past one hundred years, did everyone just forget they had a literal soulmate out in the world somewhere and decide not to care?” Harry’s voice was bordering on crazed, and he could feel his face turning a bit red and hot. He wasn’t sure why the idea of a soulmate could fluster him so much and why he felt the need to be so defensive, but he wasn’t really sure he needed an adoring fan to become someone he would have to spend the rest of his life with. Or even better, knowing his luck, he’d be the only wizard without one.
“It’s a fair question,” Ron shrugged. “From what my parents have told me, there were issues during some of the first wizarding wars, and people began to use soulmates as leverage. I guess taking them hostage or killing them or something. I think it’s hard to survive without one of them, especially once you know who they are. You can always feel their magic.”
“The Ministry decided it was best, and safest, to stop the practise. Usually soulmates found each other anyway,” Hermione explained. “I would bet a fair amount that Molly and Arthur share complementary magical cores.”
Ron nodded in response.
Harry knew that the only reason Hermione knew so much about the program was because the second she’d found out about it, she had gone and purchased an entire shelf of books to familiarise herself with the concept. He often wondered if maybe he should’ve done a little more research on the subject too. If anything, so he wouldn't seem so clueless on the matter.
“Do you think you two do?” Harry said thoughtlessly, before catching his mistake. The last thing he wanted to do was bring up something they had probably worried about already.
Ron smiled though, hooking his arm casually around Hermione’s waist. “I’m sure of it.”
Hermione looked back up at him with so much love in her eyes that Harry would have cried right there out of sheer loneliness. He didn’t, though, and left their home quickly after that.
Now, sitting back into his chair and digging the palms of his hands into his thighs, Harry feels nervous and dizzy and like he doesn’t even care to know who his soulmate is at all. He’d rather just spend his time in Grimmauld Place with Claude, the terrible long-haired cat that had strolled onto his front porch and made himself at home three years ago and had never left.
“Morale is low,” Hermione says, paging listlessly through a copy of Witch Weekly. “This is helping.”
“Like hell it is,” Harry grumbles.
“Just because you’ve been avoiding doing this doesn’t mean everyone else has, you know. You can’t tell me that Luna and Neville are a mistake. What about Ginny and Blaise? Are those people who would have ever gotten together without the system?”
Harry averts his eyes. “Well, maybe Luna and Neville might have.”
“Don’t just focus on one aspect of my point,” Hermione says narrowly. “They are happier, you can't argue that.”
“But their lives are so much more complicated.”
“God, you’re stubborn.” Hermione shakes her head. “Complicated doesn’t necessarily mean bad.”
Before Harry can respond, he hears his name being called from the doorway, and his heart drops through his ribs and out of his stomach.
“Do you want me to come with you?” Hermione asks, her forehead instantly creasing with worry in response to the expression on Harry’s face. “You look a bit pale.”
“Er.” Harry considers for a moment. It might be nice to have a shoulder to lean on if it happens to be someone he does know, or doesn’t particularly like, but it’s far more likely that he’ll get a stranger. “I’ll be fine on my own," he decides. "Let me know how yours goes, yeah?” he says instead.
“It’ll be Ron,” Hermione says, the corner of her mouth twitching up into a smile. There’s no reason why Hermione needs to get her core checked, but with work she’d been quite busy and hadn’t been able to. Ron had already had his consult, and it, of course, matched with Hermione. But she’d put it off for whatever reason—likely because Ron already knew, and it would be rare that she wouldn’t register as his pair.
“It always is, isn’t it?” Harry says before following the woman into the back.
“Right this way, Mr. Potter,” she says brightly, leading him down a hallway just as sterile and empty as the waiting room. In a strange way, it reminds him of King’s Cross Station on the night of the battle. All white.
She leads him into a room that’s bare, with a simple desk and two chairs in the middle. Piled high on the surface are large, though neatly organised, stacks of paperwork filing themselves gently into cabinets that sit to the far right of the space. The woman raises her wand, and the flying papers still. She motions forward for Harry to take a seat as she crosses to the other side and comfortably settles into her chair.
“My name is Ethel,” she says, with a sweet and reassuring smile pasted upon her features. Harry doesn’t feel comfortable around her, though her expression indicates that he probably should.
“Harry,” he says unnecessarily, shifting uncomfortably in his chair.
“I’m assuming, since you’re here, you know at least the bare bones of this program,” Ethel says warmly. She waves her wand and a large, ancient-looking leather book appears on her desk. She licks her finger before heaving it open and turning a few pages.
For some reason, Harry notices, she seems to be reading words on a page that he can’t see. The entire length of the book that is visible to him is one long and suspicious blank page.
“I know a little bit about it,” Harry says, feeling guilty for not caring enough to know more.
He’d avoided learning who his soulmate was for one whole year. Various adoring witches and wizards, armed with Amortentia, suggestibility potions, and sometimes the stray Felix Felicis had landed on the steps of the Ministry in hopes of convincing Harry that he was, in fact, their soulmate. He wonders, at times, if he sent them away too quickly because it isn't entirely impossible that one of them might actually be telling the truth. But it was too much work to discern honest people from all the liars, and Harry wasn’t particularly in the mood to meet his soulmate in such a fashion. A large part of him liked the idea of being able to choose who he spent the rest of his life with. It hardly seemed fair that this would be another choice snatched from him without a second thought.
Still, although everyone seems to know that Harry hasn’t found his match yet, it worries him more than he’s willing to admit.
“Well, allow me to preface by saying, you don’t necessarily need to be romantically involved with your pair if you choose not to be. Becoming close friends, confidants, or lovers all constitute safe and healthy ways to go about this process,” she says.
Harry’s shaking leg slows beneath the desk. “So, once I find out, I don’t necessarily have to tell the person, or talk to them?”
“No, Mr Potter, that’s not what I mean,” Ethel’s face becomes serious. “Let me be clear: once you know who the person is, over the course of a few days you’ll begin to feel their core, their magic in your body. It’ll be subtle, but you will be aware of another presence there. After knowing a specific name, your core will fight back if you try to push it away.”
“I’m not sure what that means,” Harry says nervously. “Like it’ll get angry?”
“Magical cores are akin to living things,” Ethel explains, wonder in her eyes at the subject. “They have desires, likes, dislikes, passions, if you will. If your core knows its pair, and you refuse to give it what it wants, it’ll destroy you.”
“My own magic will betray me?” Harry asks, his voice going a little higher in pitch than he’d like.
“Yes indeed, and it could kill you,” Ethel says sternly. “It wants to protect you, but it would undoubtedly protect itself first. Please do not take this lightly, Mr Potter. I know how challenging it can be for those raised in the Muggle world to come to terms with something like this. I’ve been working here and matching people since the Ministry opened the program back up, and I've studied soulmate magic for several years. Things can either go very right or very wrong.”
Harry swallows, feeling his throat tighten with worry. “Do you have any water?” he asks hoarsely.
“How about tea,” Ethel offers kindly, her features softening at the anxiety in Harry’s tone.
He nods, and she goes to the corner table to busy herself with the kettle and cups.
“I know this can be incredibly stressful,” she says into the silence. The soft bubble of the kettle has been replaced by emptiness, and Harry can hear nothing but unpleasent buzzing in his ears. “But this is a good thing.”
Harry can hardly agree. Between balancing his hectic career as an Auror, embarrassingly obvious lack of a social life, and questions from his friends due to both of those things, the last thing he really needs is to add fuel to the flames. But Hermione had also insisted that this would be a “good thing,” and Harry had become increasingly irritated by the barrage of harassment from suitors attempting to claim him as their soulmate. If he publicly acknowledged that he had found his, there was no need to be woken every morning at the crack of dawn by a peeping Tom. So really, he’s trying to convince himself that he’s doing this for pure reasons. If the reality is that there’s a lingering curiosity as well, Harry chooses to ignore that aspect entirely.
“What if it’s someone I don’t know?” Harry asks, mostly to himself.
“It usually isn’t,” Ethel says. “Soulmates tend to find their way to each other no matter what. It’s very rare that paired cores are complete strangers. In a fascinating way, magic will bring people together without them even realising it.”
“I think that makes it scarier,” Harry says, flushing at the admission.
“It probably does, but you’re meant to be a part of this person’s life. It can be scary, but it can also be deeply fulfilling.”
Ethel brings two cups of tea back to the desk, setting one in front of Harry. He thanks her and takes a tentative sip, burning his tongue immediately on the hot liquid. He’s never been one for patience.
As the anticipation builds, he finds his head clearing just a bit. It feels better to know that he won’t need to force a romantic relationship if he doesn’t want one, but he’ll have to maintain a friendship at least. He hopes it’ll be someone nice, someone sensitive to his reservations too.
“I think I’m ready to find out now,” Harry says.
“Alright.” Ethel takes a final sip of her tea before setting the cup down onto the desk. It clatters roughly against the wood and, for a moment, Harry wonders if the liquid will spill over. “Best to get to it quickly. Just sit still for me, please.”
Harry does, feeling an uncomfortable pressure intensify in his chest as Ethel begins a set of incantations foreign to him entirely.
“You’ll just feel a slight twinge—”
“Ah! Fuck—” Harry cries out unexpectedly, gripping the sides of his chair until his knuckles are snow white.
There’s a sharp pain blooming behind his ribs, and a soft crackle of energy, as something glowing orange and stringy emerges from the middle of his chest and floats itself to Ethel. Harry stares, mesmerised as the coil of light hovers just above the large book.
“This is a small portion of your magical core, Mr Potter. I’ll just send it in to the book here, and it’ll come back to us with its partner.”
The coil disappears silkily into the parchment before returning just seconds later, wrapped around another. The second coil is significantly smaller, glowing much softer than Harry’s own, and more of a faded and dim yellow to his burning orange.
“Is it supposed to look like that?” Harry asks through gritted teeth. His body feels a bit uneasy, even with just that small portion of his magical core removed.
Ethel frowns for a moment before schooling her expression back into professionalism. Still, she hesitates for a moment too long, and Harry takes notice. “All wizards have unique cores,” she says, but doesn’t offer more than that.
Harry feels a bit like he’s being drained of energy and neglects to question her any further.
She thumbs through a couple more pages, clicking her tongue as she reaches what is presumably the necessary one. Scanning her index finger down the page, she stops just a hair from the bottom. Her eyes widen almost comically, and she looks up at Harry with an indiscernible expression. Quickly, she waves her wand, muttering a soft incantation, and Harry’s core shoots back into his chest with a force that leaves him feeling as though he’s been punched in the stomach. Doubling over on the desk, he forces one breath and then another.
“Mr Potter,” Ethel says nervously, “I think it would be wise to have Ms Granger in here with you.”
“Why,” Harry coughs out, despite his healthy physique, heaving as though he’s run a marathon. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong,” Ethel squeaks. “I’m just going to fetch her, give me one moment.”
Harry takes another sip of tea, too overwhelmed and confused to go after her or really even wonder why she’s bringing Hermione in. It’s only a minute later that Hermione enters, wide-eyed and wary. Ethel effortlessly transfigures a stepstool into a chair for Hermione, who takes a seat next to Harry.
“Is everything alright?” Hermione whispers.
“I don’t know,” Harry says, bewildered.
“Mr Potter.” Ethel closes the book in a single, sweeping motion. “I’m going to cut to the chase here. Although I wish the circumstances were different, and someone as noble and important to our society was matched with someone of the same stature, it doesn’t always work out like that. Magical cores are rooted in fate and destiny, two words plenty of wizards like to pretend do not exist.”
Harry can practically feel Hermione roll her eyes next to him, and Ethel huffs.
“Okay,” Harry says cautiously. “So, who is it?”
“Mr Draco Malfoy bears the complementary magical core to your own,” Ethel says reluctantly. Harry thinks he must be hallucinating. “If I could change the fact that your soulmate is a Death Eater, it would be the first thing that I would do.”
There’s an unpleasantly loud silence in the room as Harry struggles to come to terms with what has just been said. He must be going crazy.
“There’s definitely been a mistake,” Harry finally says. He’s too calm and casual for it to be normal, but he just knows this is wrong. It’s all wrong. “Try again.”
“Mr Potter, I unfortunately cannot try again. To reach back into your magical core would be too dangerous at this point. I am certain of the name.” Ethel fidgets against the desk, as though she’d rather be anywhere in the entire world than in the room with Harry.
Hermione has neglected to speak, seemingly stunned into silence, and Harry looks to her for direction.
“Hermione, this is a joke, there must have been an error in the system. Help me out here,” Harry pleads, frowning at the two of them.
“I don’t think it’s a joke.” Hermione’s voice is barely above a whisper as she speaks it, but she looks guilty enough that Harry feels his chest swell with rage.
“Absolutely not.” Harry shakes his head and a small, uncomfortable laugh escapes his lips. “This is, no—definitely not.”
He stands quickly, the chair rattling against the floor as he pushes it aside, and a crazed laugh escapes his lips.
“Harry—” Hermione says, moving to catch his hand in her own.
Harry pulls away, feeling suddenly suffocated by the space. He forces himself to walk, not run, and leaves the office with a stinging feeling in his chest. As he re-enters the waiting area, the receptionist gives him a warm smile and a thumbs up. The witch who had gawked at him and Hermione earlier is still seated, excitement and nervousness plain on her face. Harry wishes he could tell her not to get her hopes up, but he stays silent as he passes her to the exit.
When he’s finally Apparated into the foyer of Grimmauld Place and hung up his raincoat and umbrella on the rack to dry, he puts a hole through the wall in the hallway. His fist comes back brown and bloody, and Harry feels guilty just looking at it. His hand hurts as he flexes it experimentally, but he doesn’t much care to make use of a Healing Charm. The constant throbbing feels like a familiar friend, especially in his line of duty.
A soft meow from the kitchen pulls his attention, and he heads in the direction of the pantry. While he’s not quite hungry enough for a proper breakfast, something in his stomach might soothe the ache there.
“Claude,” he says, with a nod of his head toward the cat sitting unassumingly on the countertop.
Claude licks his paw, eyeing Harry and his bleeding hand warily.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Harry says, washing his purpled knuckles under running water. “You would’ve done the same thing if you were in my situation.”
Claude cocks his head to the side as if to say, no, I most certainly would not have.
There’s the distinct woosh of the Floo from the parlour, and Harry doesn’t bother turning around as he hears Hermione stumble into his foyer and then into the kitchen.
“Harry, you just left,” she says crossly, though the frustration quickly disappears from her face. “What in Merlin’s name did you do to your hand?”
“Biscuits,” Harry asks instead, pulling a plastic container out of the cupboard and placing a few on a plate in front of them. He waves his wand, and the kettle pours scorching hot water into a Chudley Cannons mug courtesy of Ron.
“No,” Hermione says warily. “Thank you.”
Harry pulls up a barstool at the island, and Hermione stands across from him, her arms folded over the length of her torso.
“We need to talk about this,” she says after a few moments of silence.
Harry takes a tentative sip of tea, and then dips the edge of a custard cream into the liquid. He chews slowly and deliberately before forcing himself to swallow.
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“You can’t ignore what just happened,” Hermione argues, leaning her hips up against the counter.
“I’m not going to ignore it,” Harry says listlessly, “I’m just not going to think about it.”
Hermione groans, putting a hand to her forehead. “Harry that's the same thing. You are going to make your life, and Malfoy’s, hell if you don’t sort this out somehow.”
“Did you get Ron?” Harry asks, meeting her eyes after a long while.
Hermione nods, and Harry feels his heart clench painfully in his chest. It's not an entirely fair or true thought and is one he'll never voice aloud, but he often wonders why things always seem to be so easy and straightforward for them when they can be so painfully hard for himself.
Harry sighs, brushing a stray strand of hair away from his face. He’s due for a haircut, as Hermione will soon be pointing out.
“Listen,” Hermione says, pulling out the barstool next to Harry and taking a seat. “I will never be able to force you to do something you don’t want to do, but this isn’t a choice. This is a matter of life and death here. Even if you never explicitly tell him you’re soulmates, your body will still need to be around him, and you have to honour that.”
“But what if I don’t want to,” Harry replies stubbornly.
“It’s not a question of whether you want to or not. I hope you know that.” Hermione shakes her head. “Things in life have never been easy for you, Harry. You’ve survived so much. Don’t let this be the one thing that ruins all of that.”
“This is Malfoy we’re talking about here; you do realise that, don’t you?” Harry protests. “I cannot, no, I will not spend the rest of my life around the git just to satisfy some ancient wizarding practise. That hardly seems fair.”
“It’s not fair.” Hermione shrugs, pity layering her tone. “You’ve sacrificed so much, and now this too. I can’t imagine how you feel.”
“I don’t feel great.”
Hermione is silent then, and Harry offers her a custard cream. She accepts it with a small smile.
“This isn’t the end of the world,” she says. “You don’t need to be romantically involved, just on good terms.”
“Good terms?” Harry gives a scornful laugh. “I’m not sure how that’s ever going to happen.”
Hermione fixes him with a stern gaze. “You’re going to have to make it happen if you hope to live for the next however many years.”
Harry rolls his eyes. “At this point, I’m not even sure where the hell I’m supposed to find him.”
“Well, his home would be a good start.”
“I should just knock on the door and ask for Narcissa to take me to his room?” Harry asks incredulously. “I can’t just do that!”
“Harry,” Hermione groans. “You don’t have to tell him he’s your soulmate. You just need to patch up your relationship and become friends. That’s not the hardest task in the world.”
Harry’s eyes narrow. “We don’t even have a relationship to start with. He’ll just throw me back out onto the doorstep with the rest of us impure half-breeds.”
“Things aren’t like that anymore. You testified for them,” Hermione points out.
“I thought it was the right thing to do,” Harry says, his statement losing some of its fire and becoming quiet.
“There must have been a reason that you thought it was the right thing to do then, don’t you think?” Hermione says softly as she takes his hand in hers.
“I know,” Harry squeezes her hand reassuringly. “It’s fine. Everything will be fine.” He seems to be saying it more to himself than to Hermione at all.
“I think you should go see him,” Hermione implores.
The thought of even going to the Manor sets Harry on edge more than he’d been the entire morning. There’s something still so visceral and raw that he remembers about the place. Too many terrible memories living within its walls.
“It’ll be a cold day in hell when I go to Malfoy Manor again,” he says, with a pained expression on his face.