Chapter Text
Hermione stretches languorously in her cosy four-poster bed, allowing herself a few extra minutes in the warmth of her blankets. It is her birthday after all, so she figures that she deserves it.
Crookshanks meows plaintively from the floor and bats at his empty food dish, clearly unwilling to recognise the significance of the day.
“Oh all right, I’m getting up! No need to shout,” Hermione says, sitting up and swinging her legs out from beneath the duvet. Glancing over at her roommates’ beds, she sees that Lavender is still sleeping but Parvati must’ve gone down to the Great Hall already.
After filling her familiar’s bowl with his breakfast, she gathers her wand and her toiletries and heads to the bathroom for her morning ablutions.
Lifting her eyes to the mirror, Hermione drops all of her belongings in shock and lets out a startled yelp. Her hair is in the same plait that she puts it in every night, but there’s one major difference from the previous day. She’s blonde. Actually, she’s not just blonde, but the blondest of blondes—her hair so light that it’s practically white.
She pulls the elastic from her plait and shakes out her hair. It’s still the same curly mop that she’s used to, so at least that hasn’t changed. Both fascinated and horrified, she brings a singular curl closer to her face for inspection.
Picking up her wand, she tries finite incantatem, but her hair remains stubbornly platinum.
“What the actual fuck?” she whispers to herself. If the Weasley twins hadn’t graduated several years ago, she would suspect this was their handiwork. Perhaps it was someone else pulling a birthday prank?
A knock on the door draws her from her racing thoughts.
“Hermione?” Lavender calls through the door. “Is everything okay in there? I thought I heard something.”
“Erm, you can come in,” Hermione says. “I need your help.”
“Are you going to let me give you a makeover for your birthday?” The door swings open and Lavender enters with a grin on her face, her jaw dropping to the floor once she sees Hermione’s hair. “OH MY GODS. What have you done?!”
“Nothing! I don’t know how this happened!” Hermione cries in protest.
Her roommate approaches her cautiously, as if she were a wild Erumpent about to combust. She reaches out, fingers gently raking through the ends of Hermione’s hair.
Lavender frowns, brow furrowed. “Well, it doesn’t feel damaged from bleaching charms. Do you think it’s a prank? Did you try finite?”
Hermione bristles in irritation but refrains from snapping at the other girl. Lavender may be her only hope of returning her hair to its normal state. “Yes, I tried. No effect.”
“The only other thing I can think of is—” Lavender shakes her head and laughs softly to herself. “You’re going to think I’m crazy.”
“Tell me,” Hermione begs. “I’m willing to accept any and all theories if it means I can find a solution.”
Lavender smiles wryly, clearly not believing her. “It’s not as common any more, but if someone has a soulmate, when they reach their magical majority, some of their features change to match their partner. Sometimes it’s eye colour, a birthmark, the shape of your nose… For you, it’s obviously your hair. Supposedly it’s meant to help you find your other half.”
Hermione stares at her, waiting for Lavender to start giggling and admit that she came up with that utter tosh to mess with her.
When no laughter is forthcoming, Hermione splutters, “But that means… That means… My soulmate is—”
She stops, unable to choke out the words.
The other girl nods, eyes wide as galleons. “Your soulmate is Draco Malfoy.”
Hermione sits at the end of the Gryffindor table, forcing herself to eat something despite the feeling of rising nausea. She stops to check her hair every other minute, paranoid that the glamour Lavender taught her will wear off when she least expects it. She had explained that the charm is often used for a temporary colour change, usually wearing off when the caster falls asleep.
She’s not quite sure that they got the colour exactly the same shade as her normal hair, but it’s close enough that no one should notice.
Her eyes dart to the Slytherin table, and despite the clumps of students along its length, there’s still no sign of her supposed soulmate. Lavender had assured her there was no way that he’d know they were soulmates—at least, not until his birthday in June. Hermione had narrowly avoided a meltdown when she realised she’d have to keep up this charade all year unless she found a more permanent solution.
A bleary-eyed Ginny Weasley drops into the seat across from Hermione, obstructing her view of the Slytherins. “Morning,” she greets, yawning widely. “Happy birthday!”
“Thanks, Gin,” Hermione replies with a small smile, happy for the distraction. “Late night?”
“Yeah, you know how Harry is about practice. Almost as fanatical as Wood, in my opinion. He kept us an extra hour running drills and then I still had a Charms essay to finish.”
“You can borrow my old notes sometime if you need extra help,” Hermione offers.
“This is why you’re my favourite,” Ginny declares. Suddenly, she tilts her head to the side, a quizzical expression on her face. “Say, did you do something different with your hair?”
Hermione freezes, panic rising. Her voice sounds a bit higher and breathier than usual when she asks,“What do you mean? Why do you ask?”
Ginny shrugs. “Just looks like maybe you styled it today. For your birthday?”
“Oh,” Hermione says lamely. She feels her shoulders relaxing as relief hits her in a wave. “I let Lavender help me a bit this morning.”
Her redheaded friend’s brows jump up in surprise, but her lips tilt up into a smile. “It looks nice.”
She murmurs her thanks but finds her attention elsewhere when a certain blond Slytherin finally enters the hall. Her eyes track him all the way to his seat; he doesn’t even glance her way.
Pushing away her half-eaten meal, Hermione fights the urge to sprint as far away as possible.
“I'm going to the library,” she tells Ginny.
“M'kay,” the other girl mumbles, mouth full of food. She waves good-bye as Hermione gathers her bookbag and strolls from the Great Hall at a carefully measured pace.
As soon as she’s through the doors, Hermione increases her speed, itching to get her hands on any books in the library about soulmate magic.
Armed with a list of potential leads from the card catalog, Hermione peruses the aisles of the Hogwarts library. She trails her fingers over the leather-bound spines and breathes in the comforting scent of old books, a panacea for her frazzled nerves.
Spotting Soulmates: Fact or Fiction? on the shelf below, Hermione reaches down and plucks it from the stacks.
One down, four to go, she thinks.
In the next aisle she finds both Fated and Mated and Ye Mysterious Olde Magicks – Soul Bonds.
She idly flips through the pages of the latter as she turns the corner, fascinated by some complex-looking diagrams, walking directly into someone coming the opposite direction.
“Oof!” Hermione grabs onto the arm of the other student to keep from toppling over, but drops her books in the process. “I’m so sorry!” she apologises, any further words dying on her lips as she looks up, straight into Draco Malfoy’s stare. She releases her grip from his person as if burnt.
“You’re a walking hazard, Granger,” he says, smirking. Malfoy bends down and picks up one of her books and inspects the title, one pale blond brow lifting in surprise. “Didn’t peg you as someone who would be interested in soulmates.”
Hermione feels herself flushing, cheeks hot with embarrassment at being discovered by the absolute last person she wanted to know about her new private research project.
“I’m not. I mean…not usually,” she stammers, mind racing to come up with an excuse. “It’s for…for our Arithmancy project!”
“How so?”
“Well,” she starts slowly, “ if magic can predetermine that two individuals are soulmates—perfectly compatible in every way—it stands to reason that compatibility is a measurable outcome.” Her voice gains strength as she reasons through it. “The incidence of soulmates in the general wizarding population has decreased over the centuries, but if the right variables can be determined and written into an arithmantic equation, then perhaps it can be used to predict interpersonal compatibility. Not just for romantic relationships, but business partnerships, Quidditch team dynamics…”
“Interesting,” he murmurs, brows furrowed, considering. “We’re selecting partners in class today—may I join your project?”
Dumbfounded, Hermione blurts out, “But…don’t you hate me?”
Malfoy blinks, clearly taken aback. “Why do you think I hate you?”
“Because I’m Muggleborn?”
He frowns, a flash of disappointment flickering across his face. “I don’t hate Muggleborns. My uncle is Muggleborn and he’s the closest thing I have to a father figure.”
“Oh,” Hermione says faintly, ashamed at her erroneous assumption. “I apologise. I appear to have misjudged you.”
The side of his mouth tilts up in a small half-smile. “I confess to not being overly fond of Gryffindors and finding myself frustrated at being consistently ranked second in the class, so I understand how you got that impression, though it was nothing to do with being Muggleborn.” The half-smile widens into a full grin. “You can make it up to me by agreeing to partner with me.”
Backed into a corner, Hermione sees no way to refuse politely. “O-okay,” she concedes, eyes wide.
“Excellent.” Malfoy hands the book back to her and turns to go. “See you in class, Granger.”
Once he’s out of sight, Hermione slumps against the bookshelf and closes her eyes in defeat. Did she really just agree to work on a year-long project studying compatibility with her soulmate?
She pinches her arm hard, pain blooming bright. Nope, not a nightmare, then.
Bloody buggering hell.