AU where flowers bloom in places where your soulmate is wounded.
Harry lives in a small flat in the centre of London and guess who moves in the flat across the landing? No other than Draco Malfoy and he has no clue how to take care of himself.
After the battle, before eight year in Hogwarts.
Warnings for self-harm and violence.
Inspired by a Tumblr post, if you want to see google "au soulmates wounds flowers", the first link is it.
Harry was running again. It helped with managing his thoughts and nightmares. Not so much his sleeping schedule, but it was better than lying in his bed reflecting or waking up because he was screaming his head off again.
Light was just breaking above London as he run up a bridge, shadows from the lamp posts skipping past his vision. His headphones were threatening to fall off again so he adjusted them over his black mane of hair. He passed a row of closed shops and kept running, sensing that the clear morning will soon become an unfathomably scorching day. All the way he was mouthing lyrics of the song.
– All the other kids with the pumped up kicks
You'd better run, better run, out run my gun
All the other kids with the pumped up kicks
You'd better run, better run, faster than my bullet –
A month till I can go back to Hogwarts…
Now it was strictly only the renovation team. One part of him couldn't wait, the other dreaded the nightmares getting worse. But when had he slept peacefully ever? At Hogwarts at least it didn't seem like he needed to make a thousand decisions that will permanently determine his future.
His steps were even in the clear vibrant morning as the dusk of the night was whiffed away by a gust of warm wind. Surprisingly this morning he even could see the Sun, usually he only noticed that it had changed from night to morning when other people started to appear. That was also the cue that he should probably start running in the direction of his flat.
It was small, to be honest, Harry wouldn't have minded if it was bigger, but it had been the first one that was available and didn't look so much like a drug addicts cave. In addition, the landlord didn't ask questions and allowed owls or any other animal. Harry didn't have one, but still.
Hermione had helped with shielding spells and sound-proofing, Ron had practically dragged Harry shopping for furniture, after that it looked almost homey. Third floor, three rooms and an attic, filled with junk that previous owners hadn't taken with them.
He made a turn and narrowly avoided a girl that was running as well by flattening himself against the wall, she didn't even notice anything. Running with disillusionment charm was a good idea, he thought, if you didn't forget that other people will try to walk through you.
Reaching his street he slowed down and started to stretch his arms, letting his heartrate slow and his lungs fill with the clean air of the city of London. Harry zipped his jacket's pocket open on his doorstep as he looked at the names of his neighbours.
Somebody has moved in the flat across from me.
Somebody called D. Martin.
Harry pushed the key into a key hole and pulled the doors open. As they fell closed behind him he surveyed the stairs, he was alone. He shed the disillusionment and started climbing to his doors. When his feet hit the middle step of the first flight he heard a door banging closed, he looked up. The stairs were empty.
Reaching his floor he saw that the landing was full of boxes. It wasn't like there were fiveteenish boxes. There were boxes in stacks going to the ceiling. About three metres up, the landing was two by two meters – all filled to the brim by boxes. Barely enough space to open the other flat's doors, his couldn't even be seen.
At the first glance he thought the boxes had been sent by post, but then he read the label.
Approved to move by the Auror Department Death Eater section.
Ministry of Magic.
The realisation settled in. He now had a wizard living next to him.
And an ex-Death Eater at that.
Sighing Harry wondered if he would have to move, if his location would be leaked by whoever D. Martin was. He squeezed past the first stack of boxes that wobbled dangerously, took one more step forward, only then realising that his doors were unreachable. The heaps were neatly stacked all along the wall.
Ripping his headphones off Harry strolled back to the stairs and leaned over the railing listening for other neighbours. Still nobody. The song was now crashing out of the small speakers into the murky stairwell.
– once asked could I spare some change for gas?
I need to get myself away from this place
I said yep what a concept
I could use a little fuel myself
And we could all use a little change
Well, the years start coming and they don't stop coming
Fed to the rules and I hit the ground running –
With a quick flick of wand he moved the stack of boxes across the landing. After unlocking his flat he entered, leaving the door open. Throwing his keys on the counter, he slanted over the half wall that divided the hallway and kitchen, snatching up the notepad he kept on the worktop. Pushing off his left shoe he spent about thirty seconds looking for the pen, still half on top of the half wall, his feet dangling in the air. After he had found the pen and secured the cap between his teeth, he absentmindedly wrote a couple of words and walked back on to the landing.
Ripping the message out of the notepad he pinned it to one of the boxes in front of the others flat. Feeling done socialising for the day, he walked back into his den. As he was opening his fridge to have a snack before jumping into the shower, he heard the beautiful sound of boxes collapsing. He snickered and almost laughed when three seconds later a single clear word followed.
Harry only realised that his guilt was pretty much undeniable, when he registered that he had left his doors open. Well, Mr D. Martin shouldn't have put boxes in my damn way. Before Harry could spell his doors closed a rumpled paper flew in and landed in his hallway.
He opened it up and read.
Ring my bell if you need help moving :)
Ring my bell if you need help moving :)
Harry winced at his own stupid wording and stepped outside of his flat. The other was dressed in an oversized hoody and dark jeans, a green kerchief tied around his neck but Harry couldn't see the stranger's face as his hood was tugged way over it. The man's hands were lean and pale, his moves equally annoyed and graceful as he pointed his wand to the box that had retched its contents on to the floor.
"I'm just offering," Harry said, wondering how the man wasn't boiling in his clothes. "You have a lot of boxes."
The stranger was bluntly ignoring him.
"Fine. Sorry I asked," Harry said preparing to close the door behind him. Before he could, the man on the other side of the landing turned his head, meeting Harry's eyes. Next second Harry's doors were agape once again as he stared into the silvery eyes of no one other than Draco Malfoy.
The brain under the wild black hair had encountered an obstacle and all it could do was mull one thought over and over.
Draco Malfoy is moving in opposite me. Draco Malfoy is moving in the flat opposite me. Draco Malfoy is putting his things in the flat that is just a few steps away. Draco Malfoy is mov…
Malfoy's face was blank, wand still in his hand.
Harry's body betrayed him and with an electricity-like jolt he shut the door, slowly retreating.
Draco's mouth formed a thin line and held in the desire to flip off the closed door. He made do with violently flinging his boxes into his new home.
It was degrading that the best his contacts could do was this little hole in the ground. The Manor was off limits because 'Ministry reasons' and his other heritage could only be accessed when he was 21 or if he went to talk to his mother which he couldn't.
Punching the light switch he grimly looked over his new living quarters. He almost found himself missing Hogwarts, it at least wasn't as tiny as a matchbox. But it was full of people, so no, he wasn't missing the castle after all.
Thoughts about the fact that he would have to go back to the school made him nauseous. Draco slumped on the counter, letting his wand roll out of his hand on to the dented stone. Legs giving out he collapsed, his back to the drawers and eyes uselessly jumping around the room. He could see the other side from here. Bedroom was just a thin wall away and the bathroom on the other side. There was no space, the boxes were suffocating him, his nails dug into his palms and he pushed himself up, grabbing for his wand.
An hour later he had unpacked his things and furniture and he hadn't burnt the bloody shack down, by his accounts that was a success. He slumped to the bathroom angrily and looked in the mirror.
Just as the day before. His slender fingers grabbed his wand tighter and he bit his lip regarding his hands.
Potter. Saint Potter. What was he doing here?
"One the other hand! I don't care! I have never cared! I don't feel…" he growled at the mirror, pulling off his kerchief and rolling up the left sleeve of the hoodie. "…anything."
"Stupid snake. You despicable being! Couldn't you at least make the stupid gang tattoos not look like stupid gang tattoos?" he snarled at the grim marking. Draco's wand was in his hand and he pointed it to his forearm. Only thing that kept him from blasting his whole arm off was the fact that he knew the tattoo would just appear on his other arm.
He slammed his hands down on the edges of his sink and banged his head against the mirror, letting tears fall from the corner of his eyes into the sink.
As if being in Azkaban wasn't bad enough, now he had to endure living in this tiny hell-hole, in the midst of muggles. No wizards would risk getting their hands dirty. Draco understood, he wouldn't either. If he could, he would abandon himself too.
Other slanders rung in his ears, echoing from the inside of his skull. This had been a great start to his first day living alone. Only reason why Draco had moved in this ungodly hour was because he had hoped he would get to do everything and barricade himself inside the flat not encountering anyone. For his efforts he had gotten another image burnt in his eyelids.
Draco had heard somebody ascending and hid in his flat. He had thought it was just some muggle, but when he exited the flat again it was clear that no muggle could move a stack of boxes so quietly, quickly and annoyingly. The note was just asking to be burned along with the scrappy handwriting that Draco's brain had refused to recognise.
Then the wizard dared to show his face. Draco didn't look at him, he didn't want to confirm what his ears were telling him – that that content, familiar voice was indeed his school nemesis. A second before he should have, he had turned, just to steal a glance and that had been a grave mistake. He had seen the precise moment that Potter jumped up to speed, his eyes widening, hand clenching the doorknob, no doubt, wishing it was his wand. Draco already regretted looking, but now it couldn't be helped, so he tried to be civil, Harry's surname came out before he could think. It was something he was used to doing.
See Potter – call him 'Potter' and then comment on something that's amiss. Potter answers with something no doubt childish – comment on his friends. Potter leaves – pretend you did a good job.
It was a rhythm, it was easy. Potter wasn't supposed to look like Draco murdered his whole family and then slam the doors in his face. That. Was. Not. Supposed. To. Happen. But it had, and now all Draco could see was the winded man staring at him like he was the second coming of Grindelwald.
And all the while his throat was hurting. He had caught some kind of disease while in prison, and he shouldn't have been surprised, the place was mostly draft, stones and Dementors. Now he was out, but he hardly felt much better. No, scratch that, he did feel better, just the general picture still seemed as depressing and chaotic.
If he could just forget Potter's eyes…
His hair had been standing up in all directions like a stray lightning bolt had just happened to bolt through it, his jacket been tied around his waist like some kind of joke that Draco couldn't wrap his mind around as much as he tried. His Quidditch hands had been holding that stupid note that Draco had so ruthlessly thrown into his apartment. He looked like a lion out of a zoo, startled by a dragon on the corner of a street. Dragon that had killed his family. The change of Potter's pose was what made Draco almost cry then and there.
Despite Potter saving his life, despite Potter speaking up for him at the trial, despite Potter seeing to his mother being pardoned, Potter still hated him. Nothing had changed. Potter was still the Golden boy that couldn't be touched.
What is he doing here?
Draco's head was spinning. He slurped up some water in his palm and forced his neck to down it, ignoring the pulling of his skin beneath the tattoo.
You haven't changed. Why should Potter think that you have? He just thinks you are up to something again. He might be here to kill you if he thinks you have done something bad again.
Draco wasn't up to much more than lying on the cold floor and reminiscing about his stupid, stupid youth, if anything, he was up to absolutely nothing. He felt tired and angry and…. hungry.
Grunting he stomped into the kitchen regarding the cutlery tartly. A pan, a kettle a box of suspiciously smelling tea. Despite not finding any forks or knifes he found a single dirty spoon.
He dropped the spoon back into the drawer as he realised that, even if he was morally ready to attempt making food, he didn't have any. That sorted, he took out a book from the bookshelf he had freshly put together with just a couple of swipes of his wand and slumped down on the divan to read in the sharp sunlight that was beaming through the window.
Three pages in he couldn't lay still any longer, his every muscle tense, Draco got up and grabbed his head in his hands trying to even his breath. Book had fallen to the ground forgotten, Draco's eyes dug into the floorboards as he scratched his tattoo. He looked at the hateful thing with glassy eyes and dug his fingers into his soft flesh, ripping open the closed wounds. Three slashes down to his elbow and he felt like he could breathe again.
The pale-faced man fell back breathing heavily as blood trickled down his fingers on to the ground and on to the pages of the book he was never going to finish. His eyes were wet and he dully stared at the room thinking nothing until all the blood had dried and his head felt appropriately empty.
Harry was trying to wash off his surprise, he already felt a twinge in his gut because he knew he acted like a dick-head, snapping the doors like that. Even if D. Martin was actually Draco Malfoy disguised to ruin Harry's life.
The hot water was somewhat helping his strained legs, but not his head. His brain refused to cooperate and kept replaying Malfoy saying 'Potter' again and again and again.
Harry spent twice the amount of time as usual making sure every patch of skin was as clean as possible and even shampooed his hair twice. That only made them completely impossible to tame so he just stood under the hot water preparing himself for an apology.
Well, Malfoy didn't do anything. He just said my name. I ought to be the grownup here.
Before Harry could turn off the tap, he noticed an alien feeling on his left arm, sprinkling water drops everywhere, he got hair out of his eyes and looked down.
"GAH!" he said very clearly and grabbed his forearm with his right hand. Struggling he pushed the water off with his hip and hobbled out of the shower into a better lighted area of the compact bathroom. In three neat rows on his forearm a flock of soft cornflowers had bloomed.
Harry knew what this meant. His soulmate was hurt. Every wizard that had turned eighteen and then met his soulmate got the privilege of knowing when they got hurt. He had seen Seamus bloom daisies when Dean busted her ankle, he had seen Ron's hand erupt in water lilies when Hermione had burned her hand with a potion. During the Hogwarts battle he had seen men and woman covered in flowers from head to toe, fighting like they had nothing to lose.
He just hadn't registered that it meant he potentially would get something like that too. And now he had and he had no clue what to do.
I mean, thank you for letting me fucking know that they're hurt, but might we be so kind and point me in their sodding direction?
Harry's hart was racing. When had he turned eighteen? He exited the bathroom hot vapour mingling around his bare legs and looked at the date.
After this concerning realisation he recalled who he had met today.
Against all odds he had met him. Harry shook his head violently, looking at the deep blue flowers still growing, curling around his hand. The flowers had started at his wrist and went down to his elbow, Harry wondered what caused injuries like this.
Three seconds later with a sinking feeling in his stomach he realised what. Putting his fingers to the places where the stems joined his skin and gently moving down his forearm, he formed the thought.
There was no way Draco was his soulmate, he thought with a twinge of sadness at the back of his throat. But… he had met another person today – that dark-haired girl that almost swept him from his feet. Must have been her.
And she was digging her fingers into her flesh and tearing it apart for some reason. Harry clenched fists in anger and stomped to his bedroom to put on some clothes.
In ten minutes he was out the doors and in twenty more he was back at the street corner he run into the girl on. Straining his memory he recalled which way she had gone and set off to the hopeless quest to find his soulmate.
Harry dragged his tired body upstairs, the flowers had whittled and disappeared without a trace a while ago, his skin now unblemished. Running out on a ghost-chase without having breakfast and a good night's sleep plus not knowing anything more than a single variable in the girl's life was pretty dumb, he admitted now. On the other hand, if he could go back in time he would do that all over again, because how could he stay at home, his hand blooming with flowers as his soulmate carved on her own skin?
He grabbed a bowl and made himself porridge, sprinkling it with banana and jam. He dragged his hot body to the table and tore another piece of paper from his notepad, whisking up a message to Hermione. He teleported to the closest owl station and sent the note to her, then he was back in his flat once again.
It was well past midday and it was scorching. Harry was boiling in his own skin and nothing helped, he passed the time wobbling around his flat covered in nothing more than a wet sheet. Next time he will make sure his flat has AC, he swore. This is unbearable. But in other news, no more flowers.
Finally he settled on the couch with a vase (so he wouldn't have to get up all the time) of orange juice with ice and a box of mint-chocolate ice-cream, to watch some movies. The afternoon passed and soon it was the middle of the night, Harry jumped awake, one hand in the almost empty ice-cream box, feet still asleep from sitting cross-legged. It took him a moment to understand why he had woken up. In the changing light of the movie he saw his arm explode with same blue flowers again, soft stems twirling around his veins, encircling his fingers.
"Please, don't –" his voice broke as the flower rows doubled. "Please…." his voice dissipated in the empty room and he couldn't go search for her because he had no clue where to start.
He was helpless.
"Please, just stop…"
First one - Pumped Up Kicks by Foster The People
Second one - All Star by Smash Mouth
(I hope you knew that though)