A/N: This is a seventh year fic, making all characters of age. Voldemort has been defeated by Harry previously and will not play much of a role. Also, just…unless I say someone's dead, just assume they're alive haha.

This is my first-time doing a work in progress, so here goes haha. But this will definitely get finished, and within a reasonable period of time, hopefully.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own anything, please don't sue.

WARNINGS: Slash? Creature!fic, bonding/mating, soul mates, sub!Draco and Dom!Harry, if any of these offend you or make you uncomfortable, please do not continue to read.

If additional warnings are necessary, they will be provided at the beginning of the applicable chapter, if not, these warnings will be applicable throughout the entirety of the story.

HE BURNS…

He tastes like…

Spices in the hot breeze dancing yellow, orange, gold.

He feels like…

Apple green and chemical and wild and in control.

He burns like…

Hotter, faster, harder, pink and red and hot and cold.

He tastes. He feels. He burns.

'Mr. Malfoy, do I have your attention?'

Draco sat up at his desk, pulled from his stupor by Professor McGonagall's voice.

'I'm sorry, Professor, I was-'

'Daydreaming. I will not have it in my class. Five points from Slytherin.'

'Yes, Professor.'

Draco ducked his head as the neighbouring Slytherins glared at him. He didn't understand what was happening to him. He was sleeping and eating fine, but ever since the 31st of July, he would suddenly find himself drifting away, caught up in the sensations of his imagination. Now, almost two months later, it was getting tiresome. He shook his head to clear it and forced himself to focus until the end of the lesson.

That night was the first night Draco found the place in his dreams. He was suspended in space, surrounded by grey clouds. Well, they were a little blue, but purple if you looked at them right. Almost green if he squinted.

Draco gasped when he felt the now familiar waves of pleasure roll over him, so much more intense when he was sure he wouldn't be interrupted. He realised he was naked, the soft clouds caressing his heated skin. He was being touched all over, stroked, caressed.

He touches like…

Soft and blue and timid but steely, steely grey.

He aches like…

Wheat and summer sunshine and barley, cream and clay.

He burns like…

Silver knives and crystal and thin and sharp and stay.

He touches. He aches. He burns.

'Draco, it's time to get up,' said Blaise, opening the hangings.

The boy pulled back when Draco growled and whipped his hand out from under the sheets. Draco scowled at Blaise and wrenched the curtains closed.

He'd gone to the place in a dream. His memory was just a haze of colours and sensations but it had felt so good. He was almost moaning with the memory of it and his cock was hard and aching. A quick tempus revealed he had no time so he was forced to endure a freezing shower and stormed off to breakfast in an even fouler mood.

'Dray will you pass me the salt?' asked Pansy.

He burns…

'What?'

'Salt, Draco. Pass it.'

Draco grabbed the nearest condiment and thrust it at his friend. Burns…

'I didn't ask for mustard. What's gotten into you lately?'

'Or maybe it's who,' chimed in Blaise.

Draco finally managed to pull himself back to reality and stared at the two.

'What?'

'Well come on, who's this week's conquest?' said Blaise.

'I don't know what you mean.'

'We're not stupid, and something's certainly got you all worked up,' said Pansy.

'Be that as it may, I hardly ask you about your exploits with Goldstein.'

'Excuse me?'

'What?'

'Oh Pansy, please, it's been weeks, let me live vicariously through you, tell me about Anthony's big, hard, co-'

'Okay!' cried Draco, interrupting Blaise. 'Alright, I'll tell you, but…this isn't some guy it's…Well, it's weird, yeah?'

'Lucky we've got a spare period then,' said Pansy, standing and pulling the two boys with her.

Draco and Blaise allowed themselves to be tugged back to the common room where they warded themselves in the seventh-year boys' dormitories. When they were all sitting on Draco's bed, Pansy pulled out an apple.

'Alright, spill.'

He breathes like…

Sandy ovens, open fires, furnace huge and black.

He burns.

'Draco. Draco, tell us what's going on.'

'He burns…'

'What?'

Draco brought himself back into the room and looked around. Blaise had his wand out and had cast a series of simple diagnostic spells. Pansy had one hand on his wrist and was shaking it.

'Dray, what's going on. You spaced out there but I can't see anything wrong with you,' said Blaise.

'Who's burning?' said Pansy.

'I…It keeps happening.'

Draco stood up and paced for a moment, gathering his thoughts.

'Whenever I'm even slightly unfocussed I get…pulled to this…other place. It's all just colours and feelings and he's burning. I don't know what's going on.'

Pansy grabbed Draco's hand as he passed and pulled him back onto the bed. He leaned heavily on her while Blaise massaged his shoulders.

'Now why didn't you tell us this straight away? We can help you, Dray, it's always better with more people. We'll get through this alright? The three of us.'

Draco smiled gratefully at Pansy and relaxed into Blaise's hands.

A week later and the three were at their wits end. The visions were more and more frequent and more and more potent. Draco could barely function. His teachers were complaining, his other friends were complaining. He could only be glad his parents had been killed in the war because they had refused to turn with him and could not complain as well. He was about to finally concede and visit the matron when he was summoned to Dumbledore's office.