soulmates//a drarry story

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      Minerva McGonagall stood on the cool stone floor, staring at the body of naive teenagers who's eyes bored into her lightly dusted robes. She froze, fixated on the scarred boy of eighteen at the leftmost table. 

      Harry Potter listened intently to the 'new' headmistress, patiently waiting to see just how well she could manage a crowd of children. "Welcome home, everybody." The woman began cordially. "Congratulations to those who have returned after facing great loss, to which I am sorry." Harry glanced at the Gryffindors sitting beside him. It was against their nature to be paying attention to the start of year's speech rather than chat among themselves. "That was... Besides the point, as some of our seventh years, particularly the returning, should listen as of now." Intrigued, Hermione sat increasingly straighter, her bushy locks obscuring the view of students behind her. They said nothing, as the professor's stoic nature drew in all attention immediately. 

      "What's she on about?"

      "Approximately a single year past a wizard reaches maturity, they start to develop a rune or symbol on the wrist, deemed present by a rash on the area. The idea is that the design is unique to one and one's spiritual companion." Her lips pursed.

      "I think she's talking about finding our-"

      "In other words, you will be finding your soulmate."

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      Harry flopped onto the velvet duvet of the wooden four-poster he'd slept on for seven years, which had moved to a newly transfigured room labeled 'Eighth Years'. "It's not bloody fair!" Ron threw his long arms up, hitting the canopy frame in a fit of rage. He'd done a great job at containing his frustration in the hour before.

      "Shut the hell up, Weasley. At least you've got an idea of what to expect. What about us singletons?" Seamus roared from the other side of the room. 

      "Yeah, but we still can't be sure."

      "Oh, shove off him." Harry rubbed the creases of his eyes through the lenses of his characteristic round glasses, adorned with spellotape and scratches. Ginny or not Ginny?

      Ginny or not Ginny?

     The inquiry echoed through his mind, his anxiety overriding on the idea of his true desires. He dreamt of how her flaming hair flowed down her petite, slender, flowery-smelling body, the way her eyes smiled with her pink lips, her freckles dusted everywhere like a painting, the way her-

      Harry's eyelids began to droop at first, continuing the splendid visions of her, allowing them to burn with passion. After all, a boy could only hope and wish.