Drarry One Shots

Soulmate Marks

A/N A bit of angst and usual fluff

Harry Potter certainly survived the Battle of Hogwarts. The Wizarding World, at large, knew that. And afterwards... yes, they set him upon a pedestal: their hero; a king amongst men; an idol to be worshipped en masse. They called him fanciful names in the press, like 'Saviour' or 'Master of Death' or 'The Vanquisher'. The public clamoured for daily interviews and wanted photographs of their shining star.

Despite public appearances, Harry hadn't come out of the battle unscarred or unchanged. Yes, he was dealing with grief and guilt and loss, but there were, at least, some positive changes too. The most significant of which, the one that everyone came to know about, was that Voldemort's unwittingly-made Horcrux was no longer lodging in his head like an unwelcome squatter. It made a considerable difference to Harry; day-to-day living was no longer an anguished fight and his temper almost dissipated completely. He could smile more readily, though that latter factor was probably aided by the knowledge that he never had to go back to the Dursleys, ever again. So, Harry Potter smiled for the cameras and benignly accepted the questions but those who knew him well enough saw, as time wore on, that the smile never quite reached his eyes.

As days crept into months, he found he didn't much feel like smiling. He began wondering if there was some deity out there whose sole purpose was to cause Harry Potter yearly, if not daily, torment. There was, you see, another significant change that occurred during the battle. That torment came in the form of his Soulmate Mark which had appeared at some moment during the final Battle.

The Marks appeared, as everyone knew, when an exchange of significance happened between two people meant to be together. Touch was important, whether accidental, fleeting, purposeful, or prolonged. But there could be no denying it once it happened, both parties would be aware of that exact moment.

Even though they'd taken long enough to actually act upon it, Hermione and Ron's Soulmate Marks had appeared in the sixth year. It was after Ron had been behaving so foolishly about Lavender Brown and then Romilda Vane and ended up in the hospital wing after drinking the poisoned mead. The gentle touch was unconscious as Hermione sat by his bedside and two of Ron's fingers rested lightly on Hermione's wrist as he muttered her name in his sleep. The magical mark had bloomed painlessly over the next few hours. That evening, Hermione showed Harry the little black and white Crup puppy that was leaping around an open book with a conjured feather quill floating and twirling above the open pages of the book. It was small, delicate, and discreet; the whole thing was about the size of a galleon coin. And Ron's matched, though his was somewhat larger and heavier in the design.

Hermione's Soulmate Mark was, Harry thought, beautiful. Especially when the little Crup curled up around the book, almost spooning it protectively. It was funny too, but didn't that just describe his bestmate? The little dog had a way of looking contrite or rolling on its back foolishly. The whole time that Ron was away, when he'd deserted them while they were on the run, the little dog remained lying down, its paws on its nose and its tails still. It looked utterly ashamed while Hermione's book was definitely slammed shut with the quill trapped between its pages. Yes, the book was equally as expressive. During that time, the book would often shift away from the puppy but the Crup would follow sheepishly, always lying a little way apart as if it didn't dare come closer. It was heartbreakingly sad. It was, perhaps, the reason they knew Ron utterly regretted his brash decision that was fuelled by the locket Horcrux and not his normal logical thinking.

Harry hadn't felt his Soulmate Mark appear or didn't notice it until long after the battle but then he was rather preoccupied with other matters; like destroying Horcruxes and dying and duelling with Voldemort. But he could guess exactly when it happened. Nor was it as delicate or subtle as Hermione's and Ron's. The Mark was two black scaly dragons, each the exact size of the hands that had clutched him desperately around his chest. The dragons circled and twisted around each other, 'courting' he supposed. Or fighting, more like. They appeared to be taunting each other, egging each other on in their unending flight. The dragons never stilled; they were as unsettled as Harry was, often using his body as a battle field as they wove and dived across his torso and twisted around his thighs. During calmer times, they remained on his bicep like a half-sleeve tattoo, but they constantly writhed around each other in a tangle of wings and claws like they were trapped and wanted to break free.